Chapter 4
Iris
I watched through the window as Sebastian finally moved from the doorway, walking to his car with mechanical precision. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel.
He sat in the driver's seat for a long moment—long enough for me to wonder if he'd actually go through with the date. Then the engine started, and he drove away.
'Good,' I thought, applying one last coat of red lipstick. 'Let's see how long Dr. Martin's daughter can hold his attention.'
But as Caspian's car pulled into the driveway, I couldn't shake the image of Sebastian's face when I'd answered that phone call.
The gallery's black and white photography exhibition pulsed with modern art's cold beauty.
Dim lighting cast dramatic shadows across each piece, creating an atmosphere that was both intimate and dangerous. Caspian and I moved through the crowd, his hand occasionally brushing my lower back, guiding me between different works.
"You know what?" Caspian murmured near my ear, his voice masked by the ambient jazz music. "Your stepbrother is fascinating."
I played innocent: "What do you mean?"
"I researched his work. Found a pattern." Caspian stopped before a particularly striking portrait. "The women in his paintings—they all have your features."
My heart skipped a beat: "You're talking nonsense."
Caspian turned to face me, amber eyes glinting with something dangerous in the dim light: "Iris, don't you think it's... strange for a man to be obsessed with his stepsister?"
"He's not obsessed..." I started to protest, but even I didn't believe it.
Caspian stepped closer, almost whispering in my ear: "Really? Then why did he show up at my studio like that? Why does he look at you like he wants to devour you?"
I wanted to argue, but flashes of Sebastian's expression today filled my mind—that raw possessiveness and jealousy.
Damn it. Caspian was right.
"Come on, let's take more photos." Caspian suddenly pulled out his phone. "Document this perfect evening."
I went along with every request, every touch, every seemingly intimate pose. When he posted the silhouette shot of us almost kissing, I knew Sebastian would see it.
I wanted him to see it.
At 11 PM, Elena's living room was lit by a single table lamp.
Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the house was eerily quiet. I knew Sebastian wasn't back yet—his car wasn't in the driveway.
Was his date going that well?
I'd kicked off my heels and was pacing the living room barefoot, each step careful not to wake Elena upstairs.
At 11:30, headlights swept across the windows.
Sebastian was home.
I quickly returned to the couch, pretending to read an art magazine. The sound of keys in the front door made my heart race.
Sebastian walked into the living room, still in his suit but with his tie loosened and hair disheveled.
"Out late, huh?" He watched his tone, but I could still feel the tension in him.
I deliberately provoked: "Caspian's car broke down. We waited for a tow truck at his studio."
Sebastian's expression changed instantly: "His studio? Do you know what kind of man he is?"
"A talented photographer?" I shrugged. "He told me some interesting things about your paintings..."
Sebastian asked, "What did he tell you?"
"He said all your paintings feature one woman, Sebastian." I stood from the couch, pressing forward. "The same woman."
Sebastian fell silent. Damning, endless silence.
"Tell me it's not true," I continued pushing. "Tell me you haven't been obsessed with me."
Suddenly, like something inside him completely snapped, Sebastian lunged forward and grabbed my wrist.
"Iris, you have no idea what game you're playing." His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, eyes holding a light I'd never seen before. "Caspian Rivers isn't a good man. He has a specific type—targets young women with family issues."
I stared at him in shock: "You investigated him?"
Sebastian stepped closer, his voice turning even more dangerous: "I investigate everyone who gets close to you. Because..."
He suddenly stopped, seeming to realize he'd said too much.
"Because what?" I demanded, my heart pounding.
"Because I can't..." His fists clenched tighter. "Because I..."
Just then, footsteps echoed from the stairs.
"What are you two arguing about? It's so late..." Elena's voice drifted from the stairway.
Sebastian immediately released my wrist, stepping back. "Nothing. I'm going to the studio."
But before he turned away, I saw everything in his eyes—possessiveness, jealousy, pain, and that desperate, consuming love.
Damn.
Sebastian Thorne loved me—not brotherly love, not protectiveness, but the kind of love that destroys everything: burning, forbidden, overwhelming.
And I only wanted the man who'd been loving me in agony, too afraid to speak the truth.
Sebastian
Le Bernardin's candlelight cast warm shadows across crystal glasses.
I sat by the window, trying to focus on Victoria Martin—exactly as Elena had described: intelligent, beautiful, successful. She was telling an amusing story about her emergency room shift, her smile warm and professional.
Any normal man would be captivated.
But I couldn't stop thinking about Iris.
The way she'd looked in that black dress, the sweet venom in her voice when she'd answered Caspian's call. The deliberate sway of her hips as she'd walked past me, leaving that trail of perfume that still haunted my senses.
"You've been checking your phone all night," Victoria stopped mid-sentence, her tone direct. "Waiting for someone's call?"
I forced myself to pocket my phone. "Sorry, work stuff."
'Liar,' my conscience screamed. 'You're waiting for her. Always waiting for her.'
"Work?" Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Must be fascinating work to keep you glued to that screen."
Just then, my phone buzzed again. Instagram notification.
I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't look.
But my hands moved without permission.
Caspian Rivers had posted a new photo.
The image hit me like a physical blow. Iris leaning against a black gallery wall, head tilted back, exposing the long line of her neck. The black and white filter made it artistic and... intimate. Caption read: "Perfect muse for tonight's exhibition."
My grip on the phone turned my knuckles white. The urge to throw it across the restaurant was overwhelming.
'Perfect muse.' The bastard had no idea what those words meant. Iris had been my muse for six years—in secret, in silence, in goddamn agony.
"She's beautiful," Victoria's voice cut through my spiral. "Your girlfriend?"
Shit. She'd seen the screen.
"No, she's my... stepsister." The word tasted like ash in my mouth. I flipped the phone face-down, but the damage was done.
Victoria slowly set down her wine glass, eyes sharpening. "Stepsister? Then explain the look on your face right now."
What look? The look of a man watching the woman he loved being touched by someone else? The look of someone slowly losing his fucking mind?
"Victoria, you're misunderstanding..."
"I'm not misunderstanding anything." She stood, pulling cash from her purse with clinical precision. "Sebastian, I don't know what complicated situation you have with your 'stepsister,' but don't take me for a fool."
She laughed coldly as she gathered her things: "Figure out your family drama before you try dating again."
I watched her leave, feeling like the world's biggest asshole. She deserved better than this—better than a man whose heart belonged to someone he could never have.
Alone at the table, I stared at my phone screen, at Iris's photo that Caspian had captured.
I'd fucked this up completely.
But more than that—I was losing her. Losing her to a man who could touch her freely, photograph her, take her to galleries, post pictures without shame or fear.
All the things I could never do.