His Brother's Bride

I stumbled out of the club, the blizzard's wind cutting my face like razors. Tears froze on my cheeks almost instantly. I curled up on a bench, the words I’d just heard replaying in my head.

Three years. It was all an elaborate lie.

The memories flooded back.

Three years ago, Isabella had poured a bowl of soup on me in the school cafeteria, mocking my secondhand clothes. I’d run to the library crying. That’s where I met Dante.

He was so gentle, handing me a tissue and comforting me. "They're just jealous of how beautiful and smart you are," he'd said.

I thought it was fate, meeting my light in my darkest moment.

Now I knew. It wasn't a chance meeting. It was a setup, with Isabella pulling the strings. She’d paid one of her admirers to build me up, just so they could all watch me break.

My phone rang, making me jump. St. Mary’s Hospital.

"Miss Rose? Your grandmother's condition has taken a turn for the worse. Please come immediately," the nurse said urgently.

My heart stopped. My grandma was the only family I had left. I couldn't lose her.

I tried to hail a cab, but the streets were empty in the blizzard. Just as I was losing hope, a black Range Rover pulled up.

The window rolled down, revealing a man with a strong jaw and a faint scar. He was in his early thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes.

"Need a ride?" His voice was deep and steady.

"I need to get to St. Mary's. My grandmother..." My voice broke.

"Get in." He didn't ask any more questions.

He drove smoothly, not asking why I was crying in a snowstorm, not trying to offer empty comforts. The silence felt safe.

"Thank you," I said as I got out.

He nodded and handed me a business card. "Call me if you need anything."

I snatched it without looking and ran into the hospital.

Grandma was lying in bed, her face ashen. She saw me and weakly squeezed my hand. "Rose, my child..."

"Grandma, I'm here. The doctor said you're just tired, you'll be fine in a few days," I said, holding back tears.

"Don't lie to me, child," she whispered. "I want to see Dante. When are you getting married? I want to see you in your wedding dress..."

My chest ached with a pain so sharp it was hard to breathe. "He's... he's handling some business. He'll be here soon."

"Call him. Tell him to hurry." She gripped my hand tighter. "I need to talk to him."

My hands shook as I dialed the familiar number. Voicemail. I tried again and again. Same result.

My grandmother waited all night, her eyes fixed on the door. She was waiting for the man she thought would be my husband, the man she was ready to entrust me to.

But the door never opened. Not even when she took her last breath.

"Rose... be happy..." were her last words.

I knelt by her bed, sobbing until I couldn't breathe. Not because Dante didn't come, but because I didn't even know who I was supposed to call. The man I had loved for three years didn't exist.

After handling the funeral arrangements, I dragged myself back to my apartment. I mindlessly opened Instagram, trying to distract myself, and saw Isabella's latest post.

It was a picture of her on a man's arm as they stepped off a private jet. His profile was painfully familiar.

The caption read: "Told him not to pick me up, but he insisted on the surprise. ??"

So that's why he didn't have time to see my dying grandmother. He was busy picking up Isabella.

I stared at the photo. That was the real Dante. Isabella’s Dante. Not the fake gentleness he showed me, but real, indulgent affection.

And my "Dante"—the man who made me breakfast, watched sunsets with me, and whispered sweet nothings—was just a performance.

I put down my phone, walked to the bathroom, and looked at my haggard reflection in the mirror.

Enough.

I picked up the phone and called the clinic. "I need to schedule an abortion. As soon as possible."

Then, I opened my laptop and submitted an application to the news agency to become a war correspondent. The departure date was a week from now—my wedding day.

With my grandmother gone, I had nothing left to tie me here.

But first, to make sure I could leave without any trouble, I had to play along.

Finally, I took out the recording from the club—thank God for my reporter's instincts.

Dante wanted to expose the truth at the wedding. Perfect. I had a return gift for them, too.

A gift they would never, ever forget.