Chapter 9
Serena
He’s onto me.
That look Julien gave me before he walked out of my office has been trailing me like a shadow ever since. I’ve been trying to shake it off, but the spreadsheet and the suspicion in his eyes won’t let me.
“Are we watching Family Feud or not?” Zamir’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the stove and the chicken I was about to burn.
I glance over at him. He’s hovering over a pot of rice like a man twice his age and size. Tall as ever and somehow still growing, all limbs and elbows, one of those kids who outgrew you before you had time to process it.
His hoodie hangs off his shoulders like it belongs to someone else, and he’s wearing socks with slides like it’s not full blown winter. I shake my head at that wondering if he’s copying those little rich kids he sees at school.
“What?” he asked, catching me eyeing his clothes.
“Nothing.” I sighed, choosing my battles carefully tonight. Zamir is one of the smartest people I know. But every now and then I’m reminded he’s just a kid. Always has been. The kind of kid who’d rather explain a random history fact to you mid-dinner than talk about school drama.
“No TV,” I said, reaching for the plates. “Especially not while you’re still walking around with a D in Geometry like it’s not embarrassing.”
He groaned, long and dramatic. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s the truth,” I shoot back, flicking the back of his head before he can duck. “Get that grade up, and we’ll bring Steve Harvey back to the dinner table. Until then? It’s Alexa. Smooth jazz. Or gospel if you try me.”
He sucks his teeth but reaches for the silverware. That means he’s accepted defeat. For now.
“Since when do you get a D in anything?” I added, quieter this time. “Especially Geometry. That’s not like you.”
His shoulders dip just a little, and I don’t press. Not yet.
I set the chicken on the table between us, the smell rising warm and familiar, grounding me in something that feels safe. The house is quiet—too quiet—but that’s normal these days. Just the two of us in a space built for five.
We’re still living in the house we grew up in. The one with the wide front porch and too many windows, tucked on a quiet street full of manicured lawns and neighbors who wave but mind their business. Keeping it wasn’t easy. But I fought tooth and nail to hold onto this place when everything else fell apart.
When Dad stopped showing up.
When I realized no one else was going to fight for us but me.
So yeah, this house? It’s not just walls and floors. It’s proof. That we made it. That I kept my promise—to him, and to myself.
Zamir eyes the food, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for a plate. Just smooths his napkin flat against the table like it wronged him somehow.
My fork pauses midair.
Something’s off.
“How’s work?” he asked, not looking up.
I pause.
This boy could care less about my job unless there’s a free hoodie or a shoot that involves a model he’s crushing on. So the question? It’s a red flag. One waving hard.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shrugs.
“Zamir.”
He sighed. Glances up. Then looks away.
“Dad came by earlier.”
The words drop like a stone between us.
My stomach tightens and the air around us changes.
“What do you mean came by?” My voice is sharper than I mean for it to be.
“He knocked on the door.” His tone is careful now. “I didn’t answer. Pretended like nobody was home.”
I stare at him.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want you to stress,” he mumbled. “You had a long day, and you’ve been… I don’t know. You’ve just been doing everything. I figured I could handle it.”
My throat goes tight. I press my lips together and nod slowly.
Because this is what happens when you’ve been someone’s everything for so long.
They start protecting you too.
They watch the way you carry it all—shoulders squared, smile steady—even when the weight threatens to break you.
And somewhere along the way, they learn your tells.
The silence that stretches too long. The tightness in your voice when you’re trying to sound fine. The way your laughter doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
They start to recognize when you’re pretending.
And they try to carry some of it for you, even when they’re still learning how to carry themselves.
It’s messy and imperfect, but it’s love. The kind that notices when you’re unraveling even if you never say a word.
The kind that makes a little brother try to be the strong one, just this once.
Even if his voice wavers. Even if his hands shake.
Because you’ve been the sun, the anchor, the everything—and now, just for a moment, he wants to be yours.
“I appreciate you trying to look out, but it’s not your job to worry about me,” I said gently, setting down the serving spoon. “I’m the adult here. I’m responsible for myself.”
Zamir didn’t respond. Just kept his eyes on his plate, shoulders stiff. I could tell it was going in one ear and out the other.
The boy was stubborn, just like me. We were made of the same tough cloth, but damn if it wasn’t frustrating raising a kid who knew all your tells, and didn’t flinch when you pulled them out.
I reached across the table and lightly tapped my fingers against the wood. “Listen to me. I need you to stay away from Dad.”
That got his attention. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Serena, he’s family. And he looked… better. Like maybe he’s trying.”
I held up a single finger. That was all it took to shut it down.
“I don’t care how he looks,” I said, my voice low and firm. “If he’s showing up again, it’s because he wants something. That’s who he is. He takes and takes until there’s nothing left.”
His jaw tightened, but I kept going.
“I know you want to believe he’s changed. I do too, sometimes. But a man like that? He doesn’t just wake up one day and decide to be a father. He’s a user, Zamir. And a leopard doesn’t change its spots just because it puts on a new coat.”
He stared at me, his expression a mix of hurt and hope.
“What if you’re wrong?” he asked softly. “What if he’s different this time? What if he’s sorry?”
I looked at my baby brother, sitting across from me in this house I’d fought to keep. The kid I’d sacrificed everything for. And I wanted so badly to let him hold onto that hope. But I’d lived too much, seen too much.
And I couldn’t let him get burned the way I had.
???
After dinner, I caved.
Not because I was soft, at least, not in the way Zamir thought. But because guilt has a way of curling up beside you when the house goes quiet and your little brother looks at you like you’re the only lighthouse he’s got.
I wanted to be firm. Wanted to hold the line and teach him the hard truths life taught me too early. But asking him to shut the door on a man I barely figured out how to lock out myself? That didn’t sit right.
He doesn’t know what happened the last time I let our father in, how close we came to losing everything. The house. His school. The sense of safety I fought tooth and nail to build for him. For us.
And he doesn’t need to. Some burdens belong to me.
So instead of unpacking that with a fifteen-year-old, I tossed him the remote, grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch, and let him cue up his favorite comfort show like we hadn’t just tiptoed across emotional landmines at the dinner table.
A couple episodes before bed? That I could give him.
Because love, the kind you fight for, the kind that shapes your spine and softens your heart at the same time, it doesn’t always sound like I forgive you or I understand. Sometimes, it just sounds like SVU reruns and shared silence. Like showing up, even when your spirit feels threadbare and worn. Like letting someone lean on you when you’re not sure you have anything left to give.
And that’s what it’s always been with me and Zamir.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
What are you wearing?
I blinked. Area code 718. No name, but I didn’t need one. That level of bold only belonged to one man.
Julien Brooks.
I picked up the phone, exhaled through my nose, and typed:
Who is this?
Come on, baby. You know who it is.
I snorted. Baby? He had the nerve.
I didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the message, already hearing his smug voice in my head, already seeing that cocky half-smile he wore like cologne.
Then I typed back:
Just screenshotted this for HR.
You gonna tell HR about the other night while you’re at it?
Maybe. If it helps get you out of my seat.
Damn. Plotting a takeover and kicking me out my own chair?
How did you even get this number? Seems like HR’s already been compromised.
I’ve got sources. We both know people talk when you flash a smile and a black card.
So you bribed someone for my number? Very ethical, Mr. CEO.
Not bribed. Persuaded. It’s called charm. You should try it sometime.
I’d rather try a restraining order.
I carefully shifted beneath Zamir’s weight, doing my best to slide out from under him without waking him. With one hand, I reached for the blanket draped over the couch and gently tucked it around him.
I could’ve woken him up, but I knew better. Once he was up, he’d toss and turn for hours before drifting off again. No need to punish us both.
So, I slipped away, tiptoeing toward my bedroom in the quiet dark. By the time I made it to my bed and let myself sink into the mattress, a long sigh slipped from my lips. Finally. My space and peace, if only for the night.
Don’t play with me, Serena.
I bit my lip, annoyed at how quickly five little words could detonate in my chest.
Damn him.
I could hear it in my head like he was leaning in close, mouth to my ear, voice low enough to stir something dangerous.
Come over.
Two words. Just two. And suddenly, I was back in that hotel room, my body arching, breath catching, fingers tangled in the sheets like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
Julien didn’t just know what he was doing, he made me forget every reason I had for telling him no. That night wasn’t just sex. It was something primal. Honest. Like our bodies had secrets we hadn’t told each other yet, but they knew how to speak.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, halfway through a yes, I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
Would it be so bad?
We’d already crossed the line, blurred it so far into the background, I couldn’t tell where it started anymore.
What was one more night?
But then the voice in my head, the one that always shows up wearing glasses and sensible shoes, cut through the heat.
You know damn well it wouldn’t be one more night. You know how this ends.
I exhaled sharply and pulled my hands back like the screen had burned me.
I can’t, Julien.
Sent. Fast. Before I could second-guess it.
The regret hit immediately. Like slamming the door on something that felt too good to walk away from. But I had to. I was already wading into dangerous waters. Getting any deeper? That was how you drown.
His reply came quickly.
The no mixing business with pleasure rule? It could be our little secret.
I rolled my eyes, smirking in spite of myself.
That’s what everybody says before they end up in the group chat.
The typing bubbles popped up instantly, three little dots that knew just how to drag out the anticipation.
Maybe getting caught is what makes it worth it.
My thighs pressed together instinctively, heat pooling in all the wrong places for a man I should’ve blocked the second he texted.
I stared at the screen. Smirking. Flustered. Tempted as hell.
And fully aware I was in trouble.
Big, smooth-talking, temptation-in-a-tailored-suit trouble.
I snorted under my breath, typing without thinking.
There’s nothing exciting about getting caught by your mom. She’d probably snatch my edges and fire me on the spot.
I wouldn’t let her lay a finger on you, but his reply came fast and sure. No one touches what’s mine.
My breath stilled.
Mine.
One word, and it sat heavy in my chest, warm and dangerous. The kind of word that made promises I wasn’t sure I could afford. My fingers hovered over the screen, frozen by the pull of his words, by the way they made something deep inside me stir.
Julien was trouble. The good kind. The kind that made you forget rules, warnings, and all the reasons why you should walk away.
I didn’t reply, hoping he would take it as a hint, but instead, my phone pinged with another message.
Too bad. A beautiful woman like you should be spending the night coming on my dick, not by her hand and the memory of me.
That arrogant jerk has my pussy immediately clenching at his words.
It’s not happening, Julien.
My Fairy loves to punish me, and herself, doesn’t she?
His response buzzed onto my screen, smooth, cocky, and entirely too self-assured.
I couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out, shaking my head. This man was something else.
He must have noticed I took longer to respond, so he left it with. You have my number now, so hit me up if you change your mind.
He was right; I would be using our memories for comfort tonight. And I’m pissed about it. I wanted him to keep going, trying to convince me until I caved. But it was probably for the best he stopped when he did; this back and forth wasn’t going to happen. I know better than sleeping with someone I work with. The situation is complicated enough as it is.
All that was left was the ache.
Low, steady, and annoyingly persistent.
I shifted on the couch, adjusting a pillow between my thighs like that would help. It didn’t.
Julien Brooks was not a man you forgot. Not a man you filed away under “bad decisions” and moved on from. He was the kind of trouble that lingered in your mind, in your body, in the tiny pause before you answer a text you shouldn’t be answering.
My screen lit up again.
Meet me first thing in the morning. I want a tour from my C.O.O.
I stared at the words, feeling heat crawl up my spine. He made it sound innocent. Professional, even.
But we both knew better.
My fingers hovered over the screen. No clever reply. No witty comeback. Just a quiet breath and the press of power behind my ribcage reminding me who I was.
Fine, Julien.
You want a tour?
Let’s see how long you last.