Revenge of my step-brother

It had been pouring in Novara for the past three days. I cracked the window open slightly and closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of rain. It was strangely refreshing. “Sharron, the cargo’s going to be late today, so wait a little longer and close the store afterward,” my owner said as he headed out. “Okay,” I replied without looking up. I work at the store part-time and have been here for almost three years now. After school, I usually come straight here. The owner is a kind old man who lives with his wife. She suffers from amnesia—often forgetting things, and sometimes she doesn’t even recognize Mr. White. They once told me their first names, but I forgot. I usually just call them Mr. and Mrs. White. Despite Mrs. White’s condition, they are a lovely couple. Their love has never been compromised; if anything, it seems to grow stronger with each passing day. I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of a loading truck. When I glanced at the wall clock, it was already past nine in the evening. I guided the workers as they carried the boxes into the storage room. After unloading, the driver and workers left. I stayed back for a while to organize a few things. Once I had closed the windows and checked everything one last time, I prepared to leave. Just as I was about to lock the door, someone grabbed me from behind. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned. “Help me this time, or you won’t make it out of here alive.” I could hear his ragged breathing against my ear. My back felt damp where he pressed against me—either from the rain soaking his clothes, or from the metallic stench that suggested he was bleeding. “Okay…” I said, my voice unsteady with inner turmoil. “I—I’ll help you. How?” Reassured by my answer, he loosened his grip. When I turned around, my suspicion was confirmed. His clothes were drenched in both rain and blood. I lived nearby in a rented one-room apartment that also belonged to the old couple. Thanks to them, I had managed to survive in this cruel world. I guided him to my apartment, barely a hundred meters from the store. Once I settled him inside, I fetched the first-aid kit and helped him as best I could. “You can leave after this,” I said quietly. “No, I can’t. It’s not safe,” the stranger replied, looking at me. “Let me borrow your phone and inform my friend. He’ll come pick me up.” “Fine.” I tossed my phone to him. After sending the message, he handed it back. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.” “Okay.” I didn’t know this man, but… he was quite handsome. “How old are you?” he asked. “Eighteen,” I answered without thinking much. “Still in high school?” he inquired. “No. I’ve graduated,” I replied. After a while, my phone buzzed with a message notification. It was from an unknown number—probably his friend. “Your friend is here,” I said, glancing at my phone. “Hm,” he grunted in reply. The stranger stood up, picked his jacket from the sofa, and casually draped it over his arm. I glanced at him from behind. “If you need any favor for helping me today, you can message me on the same number,” he said, turning back toward me. “No need,” I replied. I hated asking for help. Even in dire situations, I found myself unable to ask for favors—an instinct shaped by my past experiences with the Robertson family. After the stranger left, I went into my room to make dinner—instant noodles, which perfectly fit both my appetite and my budget. While doing the chores, I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t locked the store door because of that man. Panic rushed through me. I hastily took my medicine and headed for the store. After making sure there hadn’t been any mishap, I locked the door, rechecking it twice before slipping the key deep into my pocket. Then I headed back to my apartment. As I walked down the street, a black sedan stood parked at the side of the road. A pair of men’s leather shoes came into view. He was tall—divinely handsome, with a sharp jawline and deep, haunting eyes. I recognized him. Of course I would. I wouldn’t forget him even in my dreams. I had been terrified of him for most of my life—throughout my entire childhood. “Mark Robertson.” The son of my mother’s husband. Nominally , he should have been my stepbrother, but I was never acknowledged by my mother, let alone recognized as his stepsister. I lived with the Robertson family until I was around eleven, yet I was never allowed to call my mother Mom. I was a sick child—born with congenital heart disease. I was handed over to an old servant to be raised. Honestly, it was a miracle that I survived in that house at all, especially with my fragile health. Eventually, I left the Robertson house and never returned.