Her Stepbrothers

Chapter 11

Recap:

My brothers exchanged intense glances, their expressions shifting from concern to anger at the derogatory term used to describe their sister. The air in the cafeteria felt charged with tension as they processed the insult hurled at me.

Jungkook's jaw clenched, Taehyung's eyes narrowed, and Jimin's usually warm demeanor turned cold. It was evident they were ready to confront the situation head-on.

.....................................................................

( ⚠️ The included pics may be sensitive to some readers.)

Y/N POV:

In a low voice, I muttered, "I thought I was a maid, but guess what, I'm a slut as well," as I tried to stop the nosebleed with tissue, which eventually ceased.

Jungkook chuckled and teased, "Just shut up, Y/N. You may be a maid, but who knows, maybe you could be a slut." He smirked, and Taehyung added, "Nah, Jungkook, she's not enough to be a slut. But being a maid suits her."

He smiled, feigning innocence. Jimin intervened, sighing, "Babygirl, don't take them seriously; they're just messing around. We'll take care of those girls. If they bother you again, make sure to tell us, okay?"

I nodded, and they stood up, heading back to their university for a group presentation, while I returned to class and managed to get through the remaining lessons.

As the day came to an end, I headed home with my brothers. The atmosphere in the car was tense, but no one spoke about the incident. It was as if we were collectively avoiding the topic to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

I remained lost in my thoughts, wondering how long I could endure the judgments and whispers that seemed to follow me wherever I went.

.....................................................................

Upon returning to the mansion from school, I entered to find my mother standing near the kitchen counter. She approached me, tightly grabbing my arm, and silently led me to my room.

I refrained from saying anything, aware that my brothers were present and I wanted to avoid any unnecessary drama. My mother wore a fake smile, concealing any hint of concern or distress. Once inside my room, I freed my arm from her grip.

She then grabbed my chin harshly and followed it with a sharp slap, her frustration evident. "Y/N, just stop messing up everything. Can't you call my husband 'dad'? Huh?! He's your dad!" she exclaimed angrily, appearing like a woman unhinged. A woman who always disgusted me.

Internally, I rolled my eyes and retorted, "That's never gonna happen." She mocked me, saying, "Oh, come on, just because of your dad, huh? Just stop being a bitch and get over it. It's been at least four years since he died from cancer!"

Her words pierced through me, reopening wounds that never truly healed. The memories flooded back – my dad, weakened by illness but still assuring me of his eternal love.

As I closed my eyes, the vivid images of his struggle on the ventilator played like a haunting film. His warm smile, once vibrant, was replaced by a frailty that shook me to the core. I felt the weight of my loss, the emptiness he left behind.

My head spun, and the room felt suffocating. The air grew heavy as if my lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen. The pain of losing him surged through me, manifesting as a searing ache in my chest.

It was a pain that words couldn't describe, a void that couldn't be filled. I wanted to scream, to unleash the anguish bottled up inside me, but the reality of his absence pressed down on me like an unbearable weight.