Stepbrother's Lust: A Forbidden Mafia Romance

Rose’s POV

The house had changed.

It had happened so gradually that I hadn’t noticed at first. One day there had been a few boxes sitting in the hallway, then flowers started arriving. Then there were calls. People coming in and out. Someone was always asking where something had been placed, whether something had arrived, whether the decorations had been delivered, or whether Devon had confirmed one thing or another.

Now, a few days before the wedding, the entire house felt like it was holding its breath while running around at the same time.

Everywhere I looked, someone was busy.

There were ribbons, garment bags, boxes, flowers, lists, phones, and people carrying things from one room to another. The dining room had practically become a temporary planning station, and the living room looked like someone had emptied an event company into it.

My mother’s wedding was getting closer.

And somehow, I still didn’t know how I was supposed to feel.

I sat in front of the mirror while a dressmaker adjusted the fabric around my waist.

"Turn."

I turned.

"Again."

I turned the other way.

She hummed approvingly and reached for a pin.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The dress was beautiful.

I knew that.

The color was soft and elegant, the fabric falling perfectly around me, and the little details were exactly the kind of thing my mother had imagined for the wedding.

I should’ve been excited.

Instead, I felt strangely disconnected from it.

"How does it feel?" the dressmaker asked.

"Fine."

She smiled.

"Just fine?"

I forced a smile.

"It’s beautiful."

That seemed to satisfy her.

I looked at myself again.

Beautiful dress.

Wedding.

My mother.

Devon.

A few days.

I should have felt happy.

I should’ve been one of the people running around the house with excitement, worrying about flowers and shoes and music.

Instead, I felt like I was watching everything happen from behind glass.

My mother had noticed.

Of course she had.

She’d tried to talk to me countless times over the past few days.

Every time, she’d come into my room and sit with me, usually asking some simple question first.

How was I feeling?

Did I like the dress?

Was I excited?

Was there anything I needed?

And every time, I’d wanted to answer.

I’d wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to say I was sorry.

Sorry for shutting her out.

Sorry for the way I’d behaved.

Sorry for making her worry when she already had enough to think about.

I wanted to tell her that I was happy for her.

Or at least, that I wanted to be.

I wanted to tell her that something had been bothering me for days and I didn’t know what it was.

That the wedding didn’t feel wrong exactly, but something around it did.

That I couldn’t explain why.

That I felt like everyone knew something I didn’t.

But every time I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

Something always stopped me.

Fear, maybe.

Guilt.

Confusion.

I didn’t know.

So I’d just sit there and listen while my mother tried to reach me.

Eventually, she’d sigh.

Not an angry sigh.

A tired one.

Then she’d smile weakly and tell me she’d leave me alone for a while.

I’d watch her walk toward the door.

And every single time, I’d want to call her back.

I’d want to say, "Mom, wait."

I’d want to tell her everything.

But I’d stay silent.

Then the door would close.

And I’d feel terrible.

I was supposed to be the happiest person in the house.

This was my mother’s wedding.

A day she’d been preparing for.

A day everyone was excited about.

Yet here I was, sitting around like a rainy cloud that had somehow followed everyone indoors.

I hated myself for it.

I hated that I couldn’t just be happy.

I hated that every time my mother looked at me, I could see the disappointment she tried so hard not to show.

The dressmaker finished adjusting the gown and stepped back.

"There."

I looked at my reflection.

"Beautiful," she said.

I nodded.

"Thank you."

She began gathering her things.

I stayed where I was.

The room was quiet once she left.

I stared at the dress for another moment before looking away.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

Maybe I was nervous.

That was what I’d been telling myself.

Wedding nerves.

That had to be it.

There was no other explanation.

Except Reagan wasn’t acting normal either.

That was the part I couldn’t explain away.

We hardly talked anymore.

Not properly.

Sometimes we’d pass each other in the hallway.

A brief glance.

A nod.

Maybe a quiet "Morning."

Then we’d continue in opposite directions.

After everything that had happened between us, the distance felt strange.

I’d expected things to change after our conversation.

Maybe they had.

Maybe this was what change looked like.

But there were moments when I caught him watching something happening around the house, and the expression on his face made me wonder if there was something else going on.

His mood had gotten worse as the wedding drew closer.

Every day, he seemed a little more withdrawn.

A little more irritated.

A little less patient.

I’d noticed it the first time I saw him standing in the hallway while someone carried a large arrangement of flowers past him.

His brows had knitted together.

He hadn’t said anything.

He’d just watched them pass.

Another time, someone had been discussing wedding preparations on the phone in the living room.

Reagan had walked past.

His expression had immediately changed.

His jaw tightened.

His brows drew together.

He kept walking.

I watched him disappear down the hallway.

I’d wondered if he hated the wedding that much.

Maybe he really despised the idea of Devon marrying my mother.

Maybe he couldn’t stand seeing the house transformed for it.

Maybe every flower, every decoration, every conversation about the ceremony reminded him of something he didn’t want to think about.

The thought made me sad.

I didn’t know why.

It shouldn’t have mattered to me what Reagan thought about the wedding.

But it did.

I hated seeing him like that.

And I hated even more that we barely spoke.

Sometimes I wanted to ask him what was wrong.

I’d get as far as looking at him before losing my nerve.

Maybe because I didn’t want to hear the answer.

Maybe because I was afraid he’d say he hated all of this.

Maybe I was afraid he’d say he didn’t want any part of it.

Or maybe I was simply afraid of how much I cared about what he thought.

I sighed and looked back at myself in the mirror.

The dress still looked beautiful.

I just didn’t feel beautiful in it.

I felt tired.

Confused.

Alone.

I changed out of it and folded it carefully before placing it aside.

Outside my room, I could hear people moving around again.

Someone laughed.

A phone rang.

A door opened and closed.

Then another voice called for someone to bring something downstairs.

The whole house was alive.

I sat on my bed.

And somehow, I felt completely alone in it.

My mother and Devon had gone out earlier for more wedding preparations. Some kind of rehearsal or practice before the actual ceremony.

I wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing.

I knew there were things they had to practice.

Where they would stand.

When they’d walk.

What would happen during the ceremony.

All the little details that apparently became very important once a wedding was only days away.

I should have gone with them.

I should have been excited.

Instead, I’d told my mother I wasn’t feeling up to it.

She’d looked at me for a moment.

Then she’d nodded.

"Okay."

Just that.

No argument.

No pressure.

She’d smiled.

But I could tell she was disappointed.

That memory came back to me now.

I closed my eyes.

"I’m sorry."

The words were barely audible.

I didn’t know whether I was apologizing to her or to myself.

Maybe both.

I lay back on the bed.

I stared at the ceiling.

Maybe Sierra was right.

Maybe I was overthinking everything.

Maybe there really was nothing wrong.

Maybe the strange feeling in my stomach was just nerves.

The wedding was close.

Everyone was stressed.

Reagan was probably stressed too.

Maybe that was why his mood had changed.

Maybe he wasn’t angry at the wedding.

Maybe he was simply tired.

I wanted to believe that.

I really did.

But there was still that feeling.

That small, stubborn feeling that refused to disappear.

Something was being kept from me.

I just didn’t know what.

My phone rang.

I groaned without looking at the screen.

It rang again.

I reached for it.

Sierra.

I answered.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"In my room."

"Obviously. I meant why aren’t you downstairs?"

I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because we need to leave."

"Leave for where?"

"The mall."

I sat up slightly.

"Why?"

"Because a new store just opened."

"And?"

"And they have bomb dresses."

I stared at the wall.

"Sierra."

"I’m serious."

"I’m tired."

"Rose."

"I’ve been trying on dresses all morning."

"And?"

"And I don’t want to try on another dress."

She scoffed.

"They have dresses in the exact color of the bridesmaids’ dresses."

I paused.

"Really?"

"Yes."

I looked toward the dress I’d just taken off.

Sierra continued.

"And apparently they’re gorgeous."

"Apparently?"

"Someone sent me pictures."

I could hear the excitement in her voice.

I smiled despite myself.

"You’re ridiculous."

"You’re coming."

"I’ll go later."

"No."

"Sierra."

"We need to leave now."

I fell back onto the bed.

"Later."

There was a brief silence.

Then she said, very calmly, "If you don’t come downstairs in five minutes, I’m coming upstairs and peeling you off that bed myself."

I sat up.

"You wouldn’t."

"I absolutely would."

"Sierra."

"Five minutes."

I sighed.

"Okay, okay. I’m coming."

"Good."

She hung up.

I stared at my phone.

Then at the ceiling.

Then back at the phone.

I groaned.

"Why does she always win?"

I got off the bed reluctantly.

As I reached for my clothes, I glanced toward the wedding dress hanging nearby.

A few more days.

The house would only get busier.

My mother would probably try to talk to me again.

Reagan would probably continue walking around with that dark expression whenever someone mentioned the wedding.

And I’d probably continue pretending I didn’t notice.

Maybe everything really was fine.

Maybe I just needed to stop thinking so much.

I grabbed my clothes and muttered under my breath.

"Bomb dresses. Of course."

Then I headed toward the bathroom, already annoyed that Sierra had somehow managed to drag me out of my room without even being there.

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