I Married My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Older Brother

The sound of boiling liquid hitting skin is something you never forget. It's a wet, sizzling hiss, immediately followed by the sickly-sweet scent of cooked meat.

Dante moved before I could even blink. He had thrown his body over Sofia, shielding her completely like a human wall.

The pitcher shattered against his back, sending a spray of scalding red oil ricocheting across the table.

"Dante!" Sofia screamed.

He grunted, his face contorted in agony, but his first instinct-his only instinct-was to grab Sofia's face between his hands.

"Are you okay?" he gasped, his eyes scanning her frantically. "Did it touch you?"

"My hand!" she cried, holding up a finger. There was a tiny red splash mark, barely the size of a dime.

"We need a doctor!" Dante roared at the terrified waiter. He scooped Sofia up into his arms, ignoring the steam rising from his own soaked shirt.

He rushed toward the door.

He ran right past me.

I was sitting in the chair, frozen.

My left arm was on fire.

The splash had missed Sofia because Dante blocked it. But the deflection had sent a wave of boiling oil arcing across my forearm and shoulder.

My skin was already blistering, the fabric of my blouse melting into the flesh.

"Dante," I whispered.

The restaurant door swung shut behind him. He hadn't heard me. He was already gone, cooing at Sofia to stay with him.

The pain hit me a second later. It was a white-hot shriek that made my vision tunnel into a pinprick of darkness.

I stood up, my legs shaking. The waiter was crying in the corner.

"Get out of my way," I hissed.

I walked out of the restaurant. I didn't call an ambulance. I didn't call Dante.

I got into my car and drove one-handed to the Family doctor, gritting my teeth so hard I thought they would crack under the pressure.

The doctor, an old man named Dr. Rossi who had stitched up half the mobsters in the city, looked at my arm and cursed softly in Italian.

"Second-degree, bordering on third in some spots," he muttered as he cut the shirt away. "This is going to scar, Elena."

"Do it," I said. I didn't take the painkillers he offered. I wanted to feel it. I needed to remember this.

I went back to the penthouse. Matteo wasn't there.

I sat on the edge of the bed, struggling to adjust the fresh bandages with one hand. The silence of the apartment was heavy, pressing against my ears.

I opened my phone.

Sofia had posted on Instagram ten minutes ago.

A picture of Dante in a hospital bed, lying on his stomach. He looked pale, in pain. Sofia was holding his hand. Her finger had a small band-aid on it.

Caption: My hero. He saved me from the fire. True love is sacrifice. <3

I looked at my arm. The bandages were already seeping blood.

He hadn't even looked back.

I realized then that it wasn't just about the past. It wasn't about her memory.

He loved her. He loved her with a desperation that made him blind to everything else.

I was just the safe option. The arranged bride. The duty.

She was the choice.

The next morning, the buzzer rang.

Dante.

He looked terrible. His movement was stiff, his back obviously heavily bandaged under his loose shirt.

"Elena," he said when I opened the door. "I... I realized I didn't check on you."

He saw the bandages on my arm. They went from my elbow up to my neck.

His face crumbled. "Oh my god. Elena."

He stepped inside, reaching for me. "Why didn't you say anything? I thought it missed you."

"You didn't look," I said simply.

"I was panicked," he stammered. "Sofia... she's so fragile. The doctor said shock could reset her memory again. I just reacted."

He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling the best plastic surgeon. We'll fix this. I promise."

He tried to touch my good shoulder.

"Don't." I stepped back, putting distance between us.

"I brought you this." He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and opened it. A diamond necklace glittered inside. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Next time, I'll protect you."

"Next time?" I laughed, a dry, humorless sound that scraped my throat. "You should save her, Dante. You are her lover."

"Elena, stop."

"I am the Don's woman," I said. "I don't need your protection. And I don't want your guilt diamonds."

I took the box from his hand and threw it into the hallway.

"Get out."

"You're jealous," he said, shaking his head, wincing from the pain in his back. "You're acting irrational because I saved her first. It's instinct, Elena! She's smaller, she's weaker!"

"She's the one you want," I said. "Go to her."

I slammed the door in his face.

I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, breathing in the silence.

My phone buzzed. A text from Matteo.

I heard about the accident. The waiter has been dealt with. Are you burned?

I typed back with one thumb.

I'm fine. Just a scar.

Scars are lessons, he replied. Wear it.

Dante didn't come back. I heard from the grapevine that he spent the next two days at Sofia's bedside, feeding her soup because her finger "hurt too much to hold a spoon."

I sat in the penthouse, watching the city lights, feeling the burn throb in time with my heartbeat.

The indifference was setting in. It was cold and numb, like anesthesia.

I wasn't angry anymore.

I was done.