My Stepbrother Wants Me-Chapter 136: Drop Dead Gorgeous Man

Catherine’s POV

"He did what?" Kiera’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp enough to cut.

"He’s given up, Kiera. He has decided to let his dad control him," I whispered, sitting on the floor of my walk-in closet, still drying the tears off my eyes. "He told me Richard won. He’s going to the Gala with Lucy. He’s going to apologize to her in front of everyone."

A round of newly fresh tears flowed down my eyes as I told her everything.

"You need to listen to me," Kiera said, her tone shifting from shock to cold fury. "Stop fucking crying. That dude doesn’t deserve a queen like you. If a man is willing to give up on his own dignity and on a woman like you just because his daddy barked at him, then he isn’t worth another second of your time. Let him be a lapdog."

"It’s not like that," I defended him immediately, the excuses tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them. "He’s exhausted. Richard has been suffocating him for years. He’s been through a lot. I know he is just trying to survive—"

I heard her scoff.

"Your feelings for him are making you defend him but trust me, I know better. Julian is a grown man, girl! He’s not ’surviving,’ he’s folding. And you’re standing there trying to hold up the ceiling while he’s already moved into the basement." I heard her sigh on the other end. "Listen, I’m out of town for a few days on business, but I’ll be back for the Gala. Do not do anything. Don’t confront Richard, don’t beg Julian, and for the love of God, stop crying over Lucy."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, a spark of hope flickering in my chest.

"I have a plan. Just trust me. I’ll see you at the entrance on Saturday. Look sharp, Catherine. We aren’t going there to hide; we’re going there to burn the house down."

The Night of the Founders’ Gala

The ballroom was a sea of silk dresses, expensive cologne, and the annoying sound of forced laughter.

Richard was in his element. He stood near the grand podium, a glass of vintage scotch in one hand, the other resting firmly on Lucy’s shoulder as if she were his greatest achievement. Lucy looked radiant in a deep emerald gown, wearing my mother’s earrings with a smugness that turned my stomach.

Beside them stood Julian.

He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, but his face was stoned. Since our fight in the library, I had become invisible to him. Every time I tried to approach him over the last forty-eight hours, he’d suddenly pull out his phone, nodding as if he were on an urgent call, and walk right past me without a single glance.

The rejection hurt worse than Lucy’s taunts. He was standing three feet away from her, letting the world believe they were "together," while I stood on the periphery like a stranger.

I kept my eyes glued to the entrance, my heart hammering against my ribs. Goodness gracious. Where are you, Kiera?

Then, the doors swung open.

The room didn’t just go quiet; it seemed to skip a beat. Kiera stepped in, looking breathtaking in a slim-fitted, vibrant orange dress that made her look like a flame against the dull, dark suits of the elite. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail, curving out the sharp lines of her face.

But it wasn’t Kiera who held the room’s collective breath.

It was the man beside her.

He was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He made Julian look like a rough draft. He wasn’t wearing a traditional tuxedo; instead, he wore a black silk long-sleeve shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing the edge of a dark tattoo crawling up his collarbone. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showcasing forearms covered in ink and an expensive watch. He looked like trouble dressed in elegance.

Kiera spotted me and marched over, a predatory grin on her lips. The man followed her, his stride slow and letting out a relaxed, dangerous kind of confidence.

"Hey Cat," Kiera purred, reaching out to pull me in for a hug. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Relax, honey. The party’s just started."

"Hey Ki," I breathed, hugging her back, though my eyes kept drifting to the man behind her. "Thank goodness you are here. I almost thought you cancelled in on me."

She pulled out of the hug, giving me the look of an offender woman in her late fifties. "Then you, my friend, do not know me at all. I would never disappoint a friend in distress or miss a chance at fun."

"Oh, where are my manners?" She stepped aside, gesturing to the man. "Catherine, meet my brother, Dante. Dante, this is Catherine, the one I’ve told you so much about."

Dante stepped forward. He was taller than I realized, and his piercing, dark hazel eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.

"So this is the famous Catherine," he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that made my hairs stand.

He reached out, taking my hand in his. Instead of a standard handshake, he turned my hand over and pressed a warm kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.

"My sister’s descriptions didn’t do you justice," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a way that was definitely not platonic. "You’re far more beautiful and captivating in person."

I felt the heat climb up my neck, a deep blush staining my cheeks. I tried to find words, but my brain felt like it had been short-circuited.

"I... thank you," I managed to stammer, finally pulling my hand back, though the spot where he touched me felt like it was on fire.

Dante let out a soft, knowing chuckle. He leaned in closer, his scent enveloping me. "Why do you look so startled? A woman like you should be used to men losing their breath when you look at them."

Oh my.... I had no idea what to say. Instead, I lowered my head, trying to hide the fact that I was blushing again.

When I looked up, he was flashing a grin that was equal parts charming and wicked.