Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 229

Chapter 229

Ryan? Here? In my office!

I sit there for a second, gripping the

“Should 1…, send him away?” she says.

of

chair. Susan stands by the door, clearly uncomfortable with the tension I’m radiating.

The temptation to scream, ‘Yes, send him back to whatever rock hNG THE

plastering on a look of indifference, I can be professional abo

“No,” I say. “Send him in.”

crawled out from,’ comes for a second. But instead, I smooth my expression,

factada em

Susan gives me a small nod, relief flashing across her

as

she

My stomach twists in anticipation, a mixture of anger, confusion, a

mother’s bombshell text?

I help me–c

-curiosity. What the hell is he doing here? And right after my

The door opens, and there he is. Ryan O’Brien, in the flesh. He looks the same as he always has: tall, broad–shouldered, exuding that maddening air of effortless charm that first drew me to him. His suit fits perfectly, of course, dark navy that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

His eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail of my office–the mode screams “new boss in town.”

e, the

panoramic window view, the small but tasteful décor that

I stay silent, watching him as he takes it all in. Something about the way he moves, calm and deliberate, makes me feel unbalanced. My mother’s text echoes in my head–Ryan is dying. Cancer. He has one year to live.

But he doesn’t look like a dying man. There’s no weakness, no frailty. He’s still Ryan: infuriatingly vibrant, maddeningly confident, and right now, entirely out of place in my office. I guess he’s still in the early stages of whatever he has.

He turns his gaze to me, and his lips curve into á faint smile. “Nice office.”

“What do you want, Ryan?” I say.

“You. But that’s out of the question, isn’t it?”

I glare at him, unamused. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense. Can you just

get to the point?”

He chuckles, strolling further into the room and lowering himself into the chair across from catching up instead of two people locked in a battle of mutual resentment.

my desk.

He’s so

casual about it, like we’re old friends

“I was in the building,” he says. “Had a meeting with your CEO. Decided to stop by and congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “And… I heard about your health. Sorry.”

For a moment, his expression falters. It’s subtle–just a flicker of surprise before he recovers, leaning back in the chair with that same infuriating

calm.

“Oh, right,” he says. “My cancer. Something’s got to kill a man, right?”

“I guess. You’re handling it well.”

“Should I cry about it?”

That makes me laugh. The sound surprises me, and I quickly straighten, schooling my face back into neutrality. There’s no reason to be friendly, dying or not.

He’s looking at me in a strange way, one that makes my skin crawl.

“You look different,” he says, his tone almost curious.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he says, tilting his head. “Your new boyfriend must be treating you right. Are those push–ups?”

1 blink, completely thrown off. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve never worn push–up bras,” he says, as if it’s the most normal observation in the world. “Your breasts seem rounder. Higher.”

For a moment, I’m too shocked to respond. Did he seriously just-

“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. O’Brien,” I say. “You can see yourself out now,”

Chapter 229

Ryan doesn’t move right away. He just sits there, still staring at me with that same unsettling intensity.

“Alright,” he says, standing up and straightening his jacket. He walks to the door but pauses, turning back to look at me one last time.

“See you soon,” he says.

“I’ll see you at the trial.”

He smirks, nodding. “I’ll be

And with that, he’s gone, leaving the

ajar

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the

mpty

The nerve. The audacity. How dare he come here, waltzing we’re still married, like he hasn’t spent the past

few

monas

My

And yet…

15

slightly, and I ball them into fists, digging my nails into my palms.

my office like he owns the place, throwing casual comments about my body like

living hell.

WEATHER life a

I shake my head, pushing away the memory. Still, my hands move to the right to notice?

It’s just… a bra. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of even caring about

my blouse, then to tug at my bra. It’s not a push–up, for the record. opinion.

I glance at the door, half expecting him to come back and say something equally maddening. When he doesn’t, I grab my phone, intending to check my emails–anything to focus on work–but my reflection in the darkened screen catches my eye.

A moment later, I’m walking into the bathroom.

The mirror in here isn’t kind. Overhead fluorescent lights beam down, highlighting every imperfection: the slight bags under my eyes, stubborn pimple near my temple that refuses to leave, the faint lines starting to form around my mouth. But then…

Luke said I was glowing the other day.

“Glowing,” I mutter to myself. Glowing is just another way of saying, ‘Hey, you don’t look as dead inside as usual.‘

I step back, running my hands through my hair, studying my face like I’m some sort of specimen under a microscope. My skin does look clearer. And my cheeks…. are they fuller? No, that’s ridiculous.

I trail my gaze down, pausing at my chest.

Ryan’s comment floats back into my head, and before I can talk myself out of it, I reach up, touching my boobs.

They feel… different. Sore, maybe? Full? I don’t know, but there’s something off.

My stomach twists.

No.

Nope. It can’t be.

I stare at my reflection, my brain running a mile a minute. When was my last period?

A pause.

It’s fine, right? It’s just late. I’ve never been regular. I mean, there was that one time in college when I went three months without one. Totally normal. Hormones, Stress, My body’s weird like that.

By my calculation, it’s been two months.

My heart starts pounding. I think back to the morning nausea that’s been plaguing me lately. The random bouts of dizziness. I thought it was just the stress of the divorce, the new job, the general chaos of my life.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

I grab my purse and storm out of the bathroom. My mind is made up before I even process what I’m doing. Susan looks up from her desk as I pass, 1274

concern flashing across her face.

“Everything okay, Ms. Jenkins?”

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