The stepbrother I shouldn't want

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: A Mother’s New Beginning

"You’re doing the thing with your hands again," my mother said, reaching across the table to still my fingers, which had been shredding a napkin into confetti without my permission.

"I’m not nervous," I said.

"You’re nervous."

Before I could argue, the café door chimed, and a tall man in a simple gray sweater walked in, scanning the room until his eyes landed on us. He smiled the second he saw my mother, and something about the way his whole face changed made me sit up a little straighter.

"James," my mother said, standing to greet him.

"Ariana." He kissed her cheek, gentle and unhurried, then turned to me and extended a hand. "And you must be Eliora. Finally."

"Finally," I echoed, shaking his hand. "Sorry. I’ve been meaning to do this sooner. Work’s been... a lot lately."

"Your mother mentioned. Fourth year, isn’t it? That’s no small thing."

"I told him you’d been putting it off," my mother said.

"I have not been putting it off..."

"You have, a little," she said, smiling.

"I’ve been busy," I said, which was true, if not the whole truth.

James laughed. "I don’t blame you. I asked your mother months ago if I could meet you properly. I wanted to do this right."

I studied him the way I studied everything now... for cracks, for tells. There weren’t any I could find. Just a man who kept glancing at my mother like he still couldn’t quite believe his luck.

"She talks about you constantly," James said. "I feel like I already know half your life story."

"All good things, I hope."

"Nothing but," he said, taking my mother’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

She smiled at him... really smiled, the kind that reached her eyes, and something in my chest loosened.

"So," I said, folding my arms, "you’re the man who’s stealing my mother."

"Guilty," James said. "Though I’d argue I’m gaining a daughter, not stealing a mother."

My mother laughed, swatting his arm lightly. "He’s charming. I did warn you."

"You did," I admitted.

For a while, the conversation drifted easily. James asked about my rotations, then told a story about his disastrous university years that made my mother laugh. I found myself relaxing despite every instinct that had walked in braced for something else.

⸻

Then my mother reached for her coffee, and her sleeve slipped back. I caught sight of the old, faded scar along her wrist.

The room tilted.

I wasn’t in the café anymore.

My mind flashed back to my parents’ past.

I was thirteen.

My father had shoved my mother against the living room wall so hard that the picture frame above her head crashed onto the floor.

"Please, Victor... stop," my mother begged through tears.

"Shut up!" he roared before striking her across the face.

I remembered screaming.

"Dad, stop! Please stop hurting Mom!"

He turned those bloodshot eyes on me.

"Go to your room!"

When I refused, he grabbed my arm so hard it left bruises for days and dragged me upstairs before locking me inside my bedroom.

I pounded on the door until my fists hurt.

"Mom!"

I could still hear her crying downstairs.

I could still hear things breaking.

And I could do absolutely nothing.

⸻

"Eliora."

A gentle voice pulled me back.

"Eliora, are you alright?"

I blinked hard, and the café rushed back into focus, the hum of the espresso machine, my mother’s concerned face across the table, James’s hand hovering near my elbow.

"I’m fine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Sorry. I just... got lost in my head for a second."

My mother reached over, squeezing my hand, and I understood that she knew exactly where I’d gone.

They’re not the same, I thought, looking between them... the easy way James held her hand, the way he’d asked before touching me, the years he’d waited patiently just to meet me properly. He is nothing like Victor.

Thank God, I thought, and meant it more fiercely than I expected.

⸻

James excused himself not long after, kissing my mother’s cheek and telling her he’d bring the car around. The moment the door chimed shut behind him, my mother pulled me into a hug.

"Thank you," she said quietly into my shoulder. "For coming. For doing this."

"Of course I came."

"I know how hard it is for you, meeting anyone new after everything." She pulled back, holding my face in both hands. "I love you so much, Eliora."

"I love you too, Mom." I hesitated. "He’s not like him. James. He’s not like Dad."

My mother’s eyes went glassy.

"No," she said softly. "He’s not."

"And Victor’s in prison," I said, the name feeling strange and sharp in my mouth. "He can’t hurt you anymore."

My mother nodded, though something flickered across her face, not quite guilt, but close to it.

"I know I probably shouldn’t feel anything about that. But some days I still..."

"Don’t," I said gently. "Mom, he deserves to be there. After everything he did to you, to us, he deserves every single day of it."

She let out a breath.

"You’re right. I know you’re right."

"I am right." I squeezed her hands. "You get to be happy now. That’s allowed."

She smiled, blinking back tears, and glanced toward the window where James’s car had pulled up outside.

"He makes me happy," she said. "I didn’t think I’d get to feel that again."

"Then let yourself have it."

She hugged me once more before heading for the door. I watched James open the car door for her, the easy, unhurried way he helped her in like she was something precious.

Maybe this really will be different, I thought, gathering my things.

I had no idea, walking out of that café into the late afternoon sun, that in three weeks I’d be standing in a reception hall, watching that same man introduce his son... and that the ground would drop out from under me all over again, for entirely different reasons.

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