My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 69: To My Dearest Adrien

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It had been eleven days since Mom and Keith pretty much left us here, and somehow, meaning we had three days left till we returned back to civilization...

Three days till freedom.

The thought nearly brought tears of joy to my eyes.

I was curled up on the couch by the fire, wrapped in a blanket with a book in my lap. The flames were crackling lazily, casting soft golden and orange hues around the room. I’d been staring at the same paragraph for five minutes, and the words just wouldn’t stick. The story was some dramatic historical romance—it wasn’t really my thing. I preferred fantasy and adventure, stories that took me away from my reality. This one was just making me drowsy.

With a groan, I tossed the book onto the coffee table and stretched my arms. "I swear, if I read one more word about a duke’s mysterious longing, I’ll pull my hair out."

Adrien had gone out for a walk about an hour ago, insisting I stay put because I was "still recovering." He said it in that infuriatingly commanding tone that felt more like an order than genuine concern. Just thinking about it made me roll my eyes. I wasn’t dying anymore. The fever had left, and my throat was only slightly sore.

Still, I had to admit, I felt lighter lately. Maybe it was the fresh cabin air, or maybe Adrien had just been a little less... prickly since I got sick. He wasn’t exactly soft, but there were moments, small moments...when he didn’t seem to mind being around me.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, and boredom was gnawing at me. I sighed, throwing on my hoodie and slipping into my sneakers.

"Just a quick walk," I muttered as I opened the door. The cold air hit my cheeks, sharp yet refreshing. "Not like I’m training for a marathon."

The ground was damp from last night’s rain, with a faint scent of pine in the air. I started down the narrow path circling the cabin, crunching over dead leaves, my breath forming small clouds.

It was peaceful—almost too peaceful, like it made my thoughts louder than they should be. I thought about how oddly normal things had become between us lately—how Adrien could whip up breakfast like it was second nature, how we could sit in comfortable silence without the air feeling heavy. It was strange, but in a good way.

A smile crept onto my lips, and I thought, "Who would’ve thought? Me and Adrien, actually getting along."

As I turned the corner toward the back of the cabin, I spotted the old storage shed, half-hidden by tall grass. It always gave me slight horror movie vibes, but my curiosity got the better of me. Maybe there was something interesting inside, anything to break up the monotony.

"Just a quick peek," I mumbled to myself, brushing off some cobwebs from the door handle. The hinges creaked when I pulled it open, dust swirling into the beam of sunlight slicing through the air.

I hesitated a moment before stepping in.

The place smelled like wood, old paper, and something vaguely metallic. There were boxes stacked haphazardly against the walls, with camping gear buried under tarps, but something caught my eye in the corner, a leather-bound book, half-hidden beneath a crate.

It looked old. Its surface was scuffed and water-damaged, and the strap barely held together. I hesitated before picking it up, brushing away dust. It had a slight scent of perfume, something floral, faded by time.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I undid the strap and opened it carefully. The pages were yellowed, some edges singed, like it had been too close to a fire at some point. The handwriting was neat yet delicate, distinctly feminine.

March 3rd, 2004.

Father says I should be grateful. Keith Fell is a respectable man, successful, the kind of husband women should dream of. But I never dreamed of this. I dreamed of painting, of traveling, of choosing my own life. I barely know this man, yet here I am — a bride by arrangement and a stranger in my own home.

June 8th.

Keith is kind, I suppose. Polite. But kindness isn’t the same as love. We talk only when we must, like two business partners in the same office. He stays out late; I stay silent. When he does come home, he looks at me as if he’s trying to remember who I am. I don’t blame him. Sometimes, I forget who I am too.

April 12th, 2005. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Everyone thinks I should get help. "You need therapy, Joanne," they say, as if it’s a cure-all. But I don’t want to sit in another room where someone tells me how I should feel, what I should want. I’m tired of people deciding things for me — Father, Keith, the world. Even my sadness feels borrowed, like it belongs to someone else.

July 1st, 2005.

Sometimes I wish I could just drive away and never look back. But Adrien... my sweet boy. He keeps me here. Even when everything else feels wrong, he’s the one thing that’s right.

It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

I quickly shut the journal, my heart racing like I’d just stumbled upon something I shouldn’t have. My fingers trembled slightly as I slid it back onto the shelf where I’d found it, trying to shake off the unease creeping in.

So, Keith and Joanne’s marriage had been arranged? That little detail left a sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t picture him in one of those emotionless "family deal" marriages, where love was optional. It made me wonder how much of Adrien’s frosty demeanor came from that—how much of it was shaped by growing up in a house that likely didn’t feel like home.

As I turned to leave, something fluttered to the ground...a folded note, yellowed and fragile, slipping from between the journal’s pages.

I froze and crouched to pick it up. The paper was soft with age, the handwriting delicate and looping but uneven, like the kind of writing you’d see when someone’s hands won’t stop shaking.

The note wasn’t long, but it didn’t need to be. Each word felt like it carried a pulse of fear.

To my dearest Adrien,

If you ever find this, please know that I love you. I need you to be safe, okay? I don’t know what’s happening anymore. Everyone keeps saying I’m paranoid, that it’s just my nerves or the medicine talking, but I know what I’ve seen. Someone’s watching me. I can feel it. They think I’m losing my mind, but I’m not. I can’t stay here anymore, I’ll go away for a little while until things calm down. I’ll come back soon. I promise.

Yours,

Mom.

The words blurred for a moment as my chest tightened.

I whispered, "Oh my God..." staring at the letter like it might explode in my hands.

This wasn’t just a journal anymore, it was basically a cry for help. And if Joanne had actually written this before her so-called "accident," it changed everything.

I sank down on the edge of a nearby trunk, clutching the note close. The ink had bled in a few places, like water or tears had once touched it. "She was scared," I murmured.

I tried to be rational, maybe it was just part of her depression, or maybe she had imagined it all, like everyone insisted. But that didn’t explain the fear radiating from her handwriting.

Then another thought hit me hard.

Did Adrien ever get this note?