My Fiancé Married Me To His Brother

The rhythmic thud of the windshield wipers was the only sound inside the cabin of the Rolls-Royce. Outside, the sky over the southern city had torn open, dumping sheets of gray water onto the pavement.

Delia sat in the back seat, her spine not touching the leather. She watched her reflection in the darkened glass. The woman staring back at her looked bored. Her eyelids were heavy, her posture slack. She looked like Delia Fitzgerald, the youngest daughter of a dynasty, a medical school dropout who spent more time shopping than studying.

She adjusted the corners of her mouth. A little lower. More petulant. Perfect.

"We have arrived, Miss Fitzgerald," the driver said.

Delia didn't answer immediately. She let a beat of silence pass, the way a spoiled child would. Then she pushed the door open before the valet could reach it.

Her red-bottomed heel hit the soaked red carpet. Water splashed her ankle. She didn't flinch. She let out an exaggerated sigh, checking her phone as if the weather were a personal affront to her existence.

She walked through the metal detector. Her eyes flicked up. To the left. To the right. Cameras. Blind spots. Exit routes. The analysis took less than a second. Her brain cataloged the security grid of The Zenith Club while her face registered only mild annoyance at the humidity affecting her hair.

Ansel Gibson was waiting at the end of the long corridor.

He stood with his back to her, his shoulders tight. He was looking at a painting on the wall as if it held the secrets to the universe, but his foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the floorboards.

"Ansel," she said.

He spun around.

The reaction was immediate. He took three sharp steps back, his hand flying up to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes widened, not with attraction, but with a visceral, biological panic.

"Stay there," he muffled through his hand.

Delia stopped, cocking her head. "Ansel, honey, are you okay?"

"Delia, we're done," he said. The words were rushed, muffled by his palm. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want you harassing my family about this."

A cold, sharp laugh bubbled in her chest, but she strangled it. On the surface, she raised her eyebrows.

"Harassing?" she asked, her voice dripping with confusion. "Ansel, are you under some sort of misconception about how this works?"

He blinked. He hadn't expected the pushback. He expected tears. He expected her to beg.

"I..." He stammered, taking another step back as she shifted her weight. "I just mean, don't make a scene."

"Okay," she said.

He froze. "Okay?"

"Yes. As you wish. The engagement is off."

She turned on her heel. The movement was precise. Surgical. She didn't wait for his response. She walked away, her heels clicking a steady, unbothered rhythm on the marble floor.

She could feel his confusion radiating against her back. He was the one dumping her, yet he stood there looking like he was