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I've been my brother's best friend's secret girlfriend for 7 years. He's finally about to propose. I track him to a Manhattan restaurant. I stop outside the private room, my heartbeat quickening as I hear his friends laughing through the door. "So, Thorne, your princess has returned from London. What are you gonna do about her little replacement now?" one of them asks. He says nothing. As the silence grows uncomfortable, another friend snickers loudly. "Thorne's got some serious balls. He's been involved with Rian's little sister for years, and now that he's had all the fun he wanted with her youthful appeal, Faye is back" "Hey, Faye left him so goddamn coldly back then. He fucking deserved to find a hot replacement to make her jealous! And Mira's got that amazing figure" The next day, Thorne takes me to Faye's welcome-back party at The Plaza. He buys me a skin-tight black dress that barely covers my figure and practically drags me into the ballroom like I'm his trophy. "You look absolutely incredible," he growls, his eyes darting around the room. "Every guy here wishes they were me tonight." I catch him scanning the crowd for Faye while his fingers dig into my waist. When he finally spots her across the room, he suddenly becomes more aggressive with his affection. "Let's give them something to talk about," he whispers, biting my earlobe hard enough to make me gasp. His hand slides down to squeeze my figure roughly as Faye looks our way. "Later I'm going to take you back to my place and make you feel so incredible you'll forget your own name." His words are meant for me, but his eyes keep flickering to Faye, gauging her reaction. I'm just a prop in his jealousy. The realization makes me sick, but I smile through it as his fingers leave bruises on my skin. But when Faye runs out crying, he pushes me away so hard I nearly fall. Without even a backward glance, he chases after her. I return home alone, my $400 dress soaked with scalding hot soup, my skin burning with pain where it touched. In the empty apartment, I finally gather the courage to open the door to his study—the one room he's absolutely forbidden me from entering, even during our most intimate moments. On his desk, photos of him and Faye are displayed prominently. Wedding venues. Honeymoon destinations. It's like I never existed. My heart turns to stone as I call my brother in Switzerland. "Rian, about that arranged marriage with the Swiss banking guy you mentioned... I've decided. I'll fucking do it." Chapter 1: Breaking Point "Mira, what's wrong? Did something happen?" My brother's voice is thick with concern on the other end of the line. A lump forms in my throat, but I force a laugh. "Nothing happened. I've just been thinking—I've gotta get married eventually, right? Does it really matter who I share my wedding night with?" There's a shocked silence before Rian speaks again. "Mira, that doesn't sound like you at all." "Whatever. I trust you and Mom and Dad. Even if it's an arranged marriage to some rich Swiss guy I've never met, I'm sure he's decent enough." Rian lets out a relieved sigh, his tone lightening. "Well, I'm glad you're coming around. When are you flying back to Geneva? Do you want to meet Nolan first? He's actually pretty hot—runs triathlons, has his own chalet in the Alps..." "No need. The sooner I say yes, the sooner Dad's company gets bailed out, right? Just start planning the wedding... set the date for two weeks from now. I want this over with." "Two weeks? That's crazy fast! But... okay, if you're sure. Hey, have you talked to Thorne lately? I heard his dream girl finally came back from London. You should tell him the news—maybe he can come to your wedding and celebrate with us." So my brother knows about Faye too. No wonder Thorne never let me tell Rian about us sleeping together for SEVEN YEARS. I lower my eyes, swallowing hard. "Rian, don't bother him. Thorne and I... we're just... whatever." I hear the front door unlock and keys jingling. "Gotta go," I whisper urgently and hang up. I look up to find Thorne smiling at me, his eyes gleaming with that look that usually means I'll end up undressed within five minutes. "Just whatever with who?" he asks, loosening his tie. "You," I answer honestly, only to have him back me against the wall, his muscular body pressing against mine. "Really?" He slides his hand under my shirt, fingers tracing my spine. "Is that why you were screaming my name last night? Or why your nails left these marks on my back?" His hot breath tickles my ear as he nips at my earlobe. "Or why you're already aroused just from me standing this close?" The touches that once made me desperate for more now make my skin crawl. As I push against his chest, I notice a bright red lipstick stain on his shirt collar. Not my shade. One of my burns must get bumped because suddenly there's a sharp pain that brings tears to my eyes. "Shit, what's wrong? Mira, are you crying?" My tears alarm him, his arousal still pressing against my thigh. He pulls up my sleeve, revealing an angry red burn on my wrist. His voice shakes. "Fuck, how did this happen? When did you get burned? Why didn't you tell me?" He seems to have completely forgotten about the party—about pushing me aside like garbage. I remain silent, staring at the lipstick on his collar. "Don't cry, baby. Let me get something for that." He kisses my forehead before going for the first aid kit, muttering as he walks. "You're such a baby sometimes... still crying over a little pain. What would you do without me to take care of that perfect little body, huh?" I stare blankly at the burn on my wrist. Yeah, what would I do after seven years of him using my body whenever he wanted while keeping me his dirty little secret? But Thorne, I don't want your attention anymore. I don't want this fake relationship anymore. That night, I sleep restlessly, my body damp with sweat, clenching my thighs together from habit whenever he rolls toward me. At dawn, Thorne drags me out of bed, his morning desire obvious through his boxers. I grumble and push him away, but he pins me down, kissing me hard on the lips. All sleepiness vanishes in an instant. I almost slap him reflexively but manage to hold back. Thankfully, he pulls away quickly. "Awake now, baby?" he teases, pressing himself against me. "We've got time for a quick session before we go." I turn my head away, wiping my mouth with disgust. "It's the weekend. Why won't you let me sleep?" His playful expression shifts to concern as he touches my forehead. "Shit, you're burning up. You had a fever last night. Get dressed, I'm taking you to the hospital." Although I feel fine now, I'm relieved for the excuse not to have sex, so I reluctantly get out of bed. In the hospital corridor, we unexpectedly run into Faye. She's limping, her slender ankle obviously injured, hopping awkwardly down the hallway alone in designer heels. Thorne's previously gentle expression instantly tightens with worry. He seems to forget I'm beside him as he rushes to Faye, his hands on her waist while anxiously asking, "What happened to you, Faye?" Faye smiles at him, her eyes moving past him to me, triumph flickering in them. "Just twisted my ankle in these stupid Louboutins. What a coincidence—are you two here to see a doctor too?" Thorne hesitates, finally glancing back at me, his eyes shifting nervously. "Yeah, my friend has a fever. I brought her to get checked out." Friend. After all the intimate moments we've shared, after all I've done for him physically, I'm still just a "friend." From the moment Thorne decided not to make our relationship public, whenever we met his friends, he would only introduce me as his buddy's sister who he was looking after. Only his closest drinking buddies knew he was involved with me on the regular. Chapter 2: Escape "I can handle this on my own, thanks," I mutter into the phone, as much to convince myself as to tell Thorne. Just as I'm about to hang up, Thorne suddenly calls my name. "Mira, just go home. I'll explain everything later." "Explain what?" I almost say out loud. Just more bullshit lies to keep me on the hook like he's done for years. Another round of "baby, she's just a friend" or "you're the only one that matters" while he's out playing happy couple with his precious Faye. I end the call without a response and order an Uber to take me back to his luxury Upper East Side apartment—the place I've foolishly called home for years, even though my name isn't on a single piece of paper connected to it. Thorne doesn't come back that night. I'm kept awake by fireworks outside the window—some rich asshole's private party on a rooftop nearby. Each explosive pop makes me flinch, reminding me of the way my cheek still stings from the hospital's antiseptic wipes. Unable to sleep, I grab my iPad and try to focus on sketching designs for the Tiffany-wannabe client who's paying me obscene money for a custom engagement ring. My finger accidentally brushes the Instagram icon in the corner. A post from an hour ago catches my eye immediately. It's from Faye—a perfectly filtered photo of fireworks lighting up the Manhattan skyline, champagne flutes in the foreground, and Thorne's watch visible on a wrist at the edge of the frame. The caption makes my stomach turn: "I've traveled halfway around the world, but I always come back to you, T. Back to our fireworks, our champagne, and all those promises we whispered. You were worth every minute of the wait. #soulmates #finallybackinnyc #perfectnight" I stare at it for what feels like forever, then realize with a jolt that I'm logged into Thorne's Instagram account on my iPad. I have zero interest in scrolling through their flirty comments and lovesick DMs. I close the app immediately, my hands shaking. By morning, the antibiotics have kicked in and I'm feeling stronger. I head to my office downtown right on time. My boss, Thea—a forty-something New Yorker who curses like a sailor and dresses like she stepped out of Vogue—holds my resignation letter between her blood-red manicured nails. Her face falls when I tell her I'm moving to Switzerland to get married. "Without you, I'm losing my best goddamn designer," she sighs, tossing the letter onto her glass desk. "And for what? To marry some Swiss banking bro you've never even fucked? Jesus, Mira, I thought I taught you better." I don't know what to say. Thea's been my mentor, my advocate, and sometimes the closest thing I've had to a real friend in New York. So I just hug her, breathing in her signature Jo Malone perfume, thanking her for giving a chance to a naive girl from Connecticut with a portfolio full of dreams. Word spreads fast. By lunch, my coworkers know I'm leaving, and they're insistent on taking me out for a farewell dinner. I don't refuse, and immediately book a table at Thorne's favorite steakhouse. Not because it holds special memories, but because my knowledge of Manhattan restaurants is pathetically limited to places he's taken me. During dinner, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Of course, because the universe fucking hates me, I run straight into Faye. She smiles with fake sweetness, deliberately blocking my path. "Oh my God, if it isn't the babysitter's club!" Her perfectly manicured hand touches my arm. "So random seeing you here. Thorne and I had our third date at this place back in college. God, we've probably dropped thousands of dollars here over the years." She tosses her hair, her diamond earrings catching the light. "This place is like... our spot." I force a tight smile and try to get past her, not feeling any obligation to make small talk with the woman who's celebrating my replacement. But she's not done. She steps closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "I noticed something last time. Thorne always rinses the shrimp for you before serving it. Are you sensitive to spicy food too?" That single word—"too"—makes me pause. The truth is, I actually love spicy food. But Thorne has always insisted on rinsing my shrimp, claiming "it's too much heat for your system" or some other bullshit about how "ladies shouldn't eat food that makes them sweat." I always thought he was being protective of me. Now I see it was just muscle memory from years of doing it for Faye. The person who can't handle spice is Faye, not me. Seeing my silence, she leans in closer, the scent of her expensive perfume almost suffocating me. Her eyes scan my face like she's appraising merchandise. "You know," she whispers, her voice dripping with false intimacy, "ever since Thorne first brought you around, I've been dying to ask—has anyone ever told you that you look just like me? Just a younger, less polished version?" She laughs lightly. "I mean, it's so obvious why he picked you. You're basically me with training wheels." I've never felt more humiliated in my life. I feel like I might throw up right there on her designer shoes. I push past her and practically run back to our private dining room, her satisfied smirk burning in my memory. Back with my colleagues, their laughter and warmth slowly thaws the ice in my veins. Just as I'm starting to relax again, the door to our private room swings open. Thorne stands there, momentarily surprised at the sight of two tables full of people. His eyes scan the crowd and lock directly onto me. When our eyes meet, I see barely contained rage simmering beneath his surface. I have no idea what I've done wrong. He clenches his fist and calls my name, ordering me to come outside. Confused, I follow him into the hallway, where he suddenly slaps me hard across the face. It's the first time he's ever hit me. I stare at him in shock, but there's no guilt or hesitation in his eyes—only pure fury. "Why the fuck did you push Faye?" he growls. "You knew her ankle was injured. I told you I'd explain things later, but you had to go and act like a jealous bitch?" My cheek burns from the impact. From down the hall, Faye limps toward us. Her blouse is rumpled and wet, with dirty smudges on it. I open my mouth to explain that I never touched her, but before I can speak, she dramatically collapses to the floor. Thorne shoves me aside without a second thought and rushes to gather her in his arms. "What are you doing out here?" he scolds her gently. "I said I'd bring her to apologize to you." Though his words sound stern, his voice is dripping with concern. Faye shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. "It's not a big deal. I'm sure she didn't mean it. Don't be so hard on her." Then she plays her trump card: "If her brother finds out you hit her, it could ruin your friendship with him." At the mention of my brother, something flickers in Thorne's eyes. But when he looks back at Faye, his resolve hardens. "Her brother entrusted her to me. If she does something wrong, I have every right to correct her behavior." I let out a bitter laugh. "What exactly did I do? Even criminals get due process. You're accusing me and hitting me without a shred of evidence. Have you ever considered you might be wrong?" Thorne clenches his fists, glaring at me. "You knew there are no security cameras in the bathroom. That's why you felt safe attacking her in there." I find his logic both laughable and painfully hurtful. "If there are no cameras, how can you be so sure I did anything?" I challenge him. "Are you suggesting Faye would make this up? She'd need a reason to lie about you. I've known her for years—she's not the type to lie." "So I'm the liar by default?" After seven years together, I thought Thorne would at least trust my character. But I was wrong. When Faye is involved, those seven years mean nothing. Her word alone is enough to condemn me, enough to leave me with no defense. This isn't just favoritism—it's blind devotion. And I'm nothing but a temporary replacement, a poor substitute who never mattered. There's no point arguing further. Ignoring Thorne's angry shouts, I turn and walk away. With the mark of his hand still red on my face, I don't want to ruin my colleagues' night. Instead of returning to the private room, I go to the front desk and pay the entire bill. I text everyone that something came up and I had to leave, telling them to enjoy themselves—dinner's on me. Dragging my exhausted body back to the apartment, I punch in the door code—his birthday, because of course it is—and find myself looking at this place I've called home for seven years with new eyes. Every corner holds memories of Thorne and me together. The kitchen island where we've shared countless passionate nights. The shower where he first told me he loved me. The couch where we've spent hundreds of nights tangled together watching movies. What I once thought was beautiful now feels like knives stabbing into my heart. Seven years of my life, and what do I have to show for it? Not even a drawer with my name on it. Not a single framed photo of us together on display when guests come over. I realize now I've been living in a beautiful, luxurious prison of my own making. And Thorne has always held the key.

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