THE ARDEN SECRET

CHAPTER TWO

Three weeks of living under the same roof, and Adrian had perfected the art of pretending I didn’t exist.

At breakfast, he sat at the far end of the twenty-foot mahogany table, scrolling through stock reports on his tablet, sipping black coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Alexander was usually on the phone, barking orders about mergers and acquisitions. Mom smiled too wide, trying to fill the silence with chatter about her day, asking me questions she already knew the answers to just to include me. Adrian never looked up. Not once.

I learned fast that in this house, I was furniture. Expensive furniture, maybe, but still something you walked around without noticing.

One morning I reached for the orange juice, and my hand shook a little, stupid nerves from another sleepless night. Of course he noticed. His eyes flicked up for half a second, and the corner of his mouth curled. Not quite a smirk. More like disgust. Like my weakness offended him.

I wanted to throw the entire glass at his perfect face.

At dinner it was the same. He answered Alexander in short, clipped sentences, voice smooth and controlled. Never once did his gaze drift my way. If I walked into a room, he found a reason to leave. If I spoke, he acted like the words had come from thin air.

I told myself I liked it that way. Better than the alternative.

School started the following Monday.

St. Augustine’s Academy, a private hell where tuition could buy a small car and every girl wore real diamonds to gym class. They stared at the new girl and whispered behind manicured hands. I couldn’t blame them. Even I wondered who the hell I was supposed to be now.

That afternoon, my ancient Honda refused to start in the parking lot. Rain poured down in sheets, the kind that turned roads into rivers and made the sky feel like it was crying for me. I stood there soaked to the bone, tears mixing with the rain on my cheeks, feeling more lost than ever.

Then a black Range Rover pulled up silently beside me. Tinted windows. The driver got out without a word, popped the hood, worked for ten minutes, and the engine suddenly purred like new.

“Fixed, Miss Fletcher,” he said, handing back my keys.

I knew who had given the order before I even spotted the Arden crest on the key fob left on the passenger seat.

I drove home furious. He couldn’t even face me.

That night at dinner, I waited until Alexander stepped out to take an urgent call. Mom had retired early for the night. It was just Adrian and me at the long table.

I leaned forward slightly.

“Why did you fix my car?”

His fork paused halfway to his mouth. For the first time in weeks, he looked straight at me. Those gray eyes were cold enough to burn.

“I didn’t,” he said flatly.

“Liar.”

Something flickered across his face—anger, irritation, maybe something softer I couldn’t name, then the mask slammed back down.

“Believe what you want,” he said, voice low and even. “But stay out of my way, Ariel. We’ll both be happier.”

He stood, placed his napkin on the table, and left without another word.

I sat there shaking, hating how my skin still remembered the rain and the ghost of his secret kindness.

The next night was the charity gala for orphaned children. Ironic, really, considering I felt like one.

Mom insisted I go.

“It’s important for Alex,” she said, helping me into a borrowed silver gown that clung to every curve and left my back completely bare. I felt naked the moment I stepped into the air-conditioned ballroom full of glittering chandeliers and fake smiles.

I spent most of the evening hugging the wall, arms crossed over my chest, freezing and miserable, watching rich people pretend they cared about kids who had no one.

Then warmth settled over my shoulders.

His suit jacket. Black, tailored, still holding the heat of his body.

Adrian stood behind me, hands in his pockets, staring across the room like he hadn’t just done the nicest thing anyone had done for me since Dad died. The jacket smelled like him; cedar, faint smoke, something dark and addictive. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it.

“You’ll catch pneumonia,” he said quietly, voice barely above the music.

I turned to face him. “I didn’t ask for your help. Again.”

His eyes met mine, steady and unreadable.

“You never do.” His gaze dropped to my mouth for a split second, then flicked away. “Yet here we are.”

I started to shrug the jacket off. “I don’t need…”

Our fingers brushed as he stopped me. Electricity shot up my arm, sharp and undeniable. He stepped closer—too close for step-siblings, too close for people who were supposed to hate each other.

“Keep it,” he said, voice suddenly rough. “It looks better on you anyway.”

Then he walked away, disappearing into the crowd of tuxedos and diamonds before I could find words.

I wore that jacket the rest of the night. I told myself it was only because I was cold.

In the limo on the way home, the five of us sat in tense silence—Alexander and Mom in one row, Adrian and me in the facing seats. I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror’s reflection. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away this time. The air between us crackled, thick with everything we weren’t saying.

I was falling for my stepbrother.

And from the storm brewing in those gray eyes, I was starting to think he already knew.

But just as the limo pulled through the mansion gates, his phone lit up with a text. He glanced at it, and his entire expression changed—jaw tight, eyes narrowing, fingers gripping the phone like it burned.

He looked up at me one last time, something almost like warning in his gaze.