I Stole The Rest Of Your Life Chapter 1

Six years into my secret crush on my adoptive brother, I slipped a sedative into his drink on the night of his birthday.

Ever since our parents died in a car crash, he had micromanaged every single corner of my existence. He controlled what I ate, the clothes I wore, the brand of socks in my drawer, the people I spoke to, and the entire trajectory of my future.

If he did not love me, why would he go to such suffocating lengths?

Yet every time I tried to confess my feelings, he retreated into dead silence and looked the other way.

The drug hit his system fast. His eyes flushed a violent, bloodshot red, and the veins throbbed against his temples. Still, he summoned his remaining strength to shove me away and locked himself inside the bathroom.

Through the thick wood, I listened to his ragged, suppressed breathing mixed with the roar of freezing water from the shower head. My fingernails dug hard into the narrow gap of the door frame.

"Jason, open the door... please."

My pleading was so quiet it practically scraped against the dust on the floorboards. The only answer I got was the muffled, agonizing groan of a man gritting his teeth to bear the torment.

I spent that entire night slumped against the freezing bathroom door, finally understanding the bitter truth.

When your heart truly dies, it makes no sound at all.

* * *

The sharp click of the deadbolt sliding into place felt like a physical blade plunging straight into my eardrum.

"Jason!"

Refusing to give up, I hammered my palms against the solid wood until my skin burned bright red.

"Jason, come out! We need to talk about this!"

Only the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing answered me, drowned out by the relentless cascade of running water.

Cold water.

He was standing under a freezing shower. He would rather stand under bone-chilling ice water than let me touch him.

Why?

My mind spun in exhausting circles, desperately searching for a logical reason. Had I completely misread every single sign over the years, or was I just hopelessly delusional?

I slid down the flat surface of the door until I hit the floor, the biting chill of the ceramic tiles seeping straight through the thin fabric of my skirt.

You are pathetic, Winter. You threw every ounce of your self-respect away, and he still refuses to want you.

Around four in the morning, the rushing water finally stopped. His voice bled through the heavy wooden door, raw and abrasive, like coarse sandpaper grinding against rusted iron.

"Go back to your bedroom."

"No, I won't."

"Go back right now!"

I curled into a tight ball on the living room sofa and waited for the morning sun to spill through the blinds. At some point, exhaustion dragged me under.

In my dream, I was standing back at our parents' funeral.

Jason was ten years old when our parents adopted him, long before I was even born. When I turned eight, he left for boarding school on the East Coast and stayed away for seven long years.

By the time I turned fifteen, our parents were killed in a sudden pile-up on the interstate. Twenty-four-year-old Jason, already making a prestigious name for himself in academic circles, dropped everything and rushed home to pull my trembling body into his chest.

Standing beside the fresh graves, he held me tight and swore an oath. He promised that from that moment forward, he would take our parents' place and shelter me from the world.

He swore he would stay by my side forever, that my happiness was his only mission, and that unless I gave him permission, he would never marry. He promised to stay with me until his dying breath.

He was the one who made that promise.

And for years, he executed it with terrifying perfection.

He gave me everything I could ever ask for, except the one thing I actually wanted.

When I woke up, the apartment was empty. A bowl of warm oatmeal sat on the dining table next to a sticky note written in his signature, immaculate script:

"Eat breakfast before you head to class."

It was as if the humiliating disaster of last night had been nothing more than a fever dream.

I swallowed the oatmeal mechanically, grabbed my bag, and stumbled out of the building in a numb daze. Passing the campus quad at Crestwood University, my foot caught on the raised concrete ledge of a flower bed, sending me sprawling across the dirt.

My palms scraped hard against the rough concrete, and dark beads of blood welled up instantly. I hissed at the sharp sting, about to curse my miserable luck, when a glint of dark glass caught my eye inside the bushes.

It was a sleek black smartphone. The model looked at least three or four years out of date, but the casing was surprisingly pristine.

I debated handing it over to campus security, but before I could pick it up, the screen illuminated the shaded grass.

An incoming call.

Thinking it might be the frantic owner or a close friend trying to track it down, I hesitated for a split second before pressing answer.

A bright, energetic male voice immediately echoed through the speaker.

"Oh, thank god! It actually rang!"

The guy sounded breathless and deeply relieved.

"That is my brand-new phone! I accidentally dropped it yesterday and panicked when I realized it was missing. Could you tell me where you are right now? Just drop me a location and I will sprint right over. Seriously, I will make it worth your while!"

I glanced down at my bleeding hand, then checked the time on the phone's lock screen. I gave him the nearest landmark.

"South gate flower bed, Crestwood University."

The line went dead silent for a heartbeat at the mention of Crestwood, followed by a sudden burst of excitement.

"Crestwood? No way, I go to Crestwood too! Hang tight, please! Give me twenty minutes tops!"

Before I could get another word in, the line disconnected.

I crouched on the concrete curb by the flower bed and waited. The morning minutes ticked away mercilessly. The digital clock rolled past eight and slowly crept toward nine.

Still, there was no sign of anyone rushing down the sidewalk.

Realizing I was about to miss my organic chemistry lecture entirely, I shoved the phone into my tote bag and sprinted toward the science building.

By the time I slipped through the heavy lecture hall doors, I was over thirty minutes late. The professor gave me a sharp, disapproving stare from the podium but simply gestured for me to find a seat.

When the agonizing class finally wrapped up, the lost phone remained totally silent. I tapped the side power button, only to discover the battery had completely died.

I packed my notebook and got ready to head back to the apartment, but a tall guy from my class stepped into the aisle, blocking my exit.

"Hey, let's trade numbers or drop your Insta handle?"