I dated my younger brother’s best friend, Dylan Lane, for three years.

More than once, he told me how much he loathed arranged marriages and how he hated being chained by family interests.

However, one night, after another bout of indulgence, he wrapped his arms around me and begged me sweetly to design a wedding ring for his fiancée—someone he had never even met.

The smile froze on my face, yet he just said indifferently, “Aren’t people like us all destined to marry for our families' benefit?”

Seeing the blood drain from my face, he even chuckled. “Vee, don’t you tell me you're still as naïve as a 20-year-old girl, thinking I would ever marry you? At most, we're just… pillow friends."

Later, I agreed to the marriage my family had arranged for me.

Dylan showed up on my wedding day, disheveled and red-eyed. He fell to his knees and begged me not to leave.

I stood beside my new husband, hand in hand, and smiled faintly as I chuckled. “Didn’t you say people like us were born for arranged marriages? I’m simply doing what you always wanted me to do. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

Dylan pulled me into bed, his desires insatiable. His kisses trailed down to my collarbone, leaving a trail of hickeys.

“You smell so good tonight, Vee,” he murmured in a low, husky voice beside my ear, his warm breath brushing against my neck.

I gently pushed against his chest. “What’s gotten into you today?”

He didn’t answer. His hand slipped inside my blouse, skillfully unfastening my bra. Soon, I lost all sense of reason, sinking with him into a haze of passion. I told myself he was just a man. Boys would be boys, after all.

After everything, he leaned lazily against the headboard and lit a cigarette.

Lying in the swirl of smoke, he suddenly said, “Vee, design a wedding ring for me, will you?”

My heart skipped a beat. I fought to suppress the joy that almost burst from my chest. I thought he was finally going to propose. We had been dating for three years, but he had never given me any formal promise.

“What made you change your mind all of a sudden?” I asked, trying to sound calm, though excitement crept into my voice.

Dylan gave a soft chuckle, exhaling a ring of smoke. His tone was casual, even indifferent. “It’s an arranged marriage. I can’t let it look too bad.”

The smile on my face froze.

“Who is the ring for?” I heard my voice, dry and brittle.

He kissed the corner of my lips. “Obviously, for the woman my family picked for me. Who else?”

My blood turned to ice.

“Didn’t you say you hated arranged marriages?” I forced the words out. “At Mason’s birthday party, you said—”

“That was just nonsense that I said when I was young,” he interrupted impatiently.

“In families like mine, arranged marriages are the norm. Haven’t we always had an unspoken understanding, you and I?”

He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned closer, using that familiar, coaxing tone. “Vee, you’re the most important person to me. My marriage for her is just for show. It's a sacrifice that I have to make for the sake of my family. You’re the best. I know you’ll understand and support me, right?”

Seeing the blood drain from my face, he sneered, “Vee, you didn’t think I’d marry you, did you?”

He rolled off the bed, grabbed the robe off the floor, and threw it on. His tone was light and flippant. “At most… we're just pillow friends.”

Those last two words pierced my heart like a knife. I remembered the first time I met him. It was at my younger brother, Mason’s, birthday party.

Mason had dragged me there, insisting on introducing me to his friend. I had been sitting in a corner, bored and sipping fruit juice, when I heard a clear voice. Dylan stood there, waving a bottle of liquor, his eyes bright and defiant.

“This is the 21st century. Why are we still doing this crap? If I get married, it’s going to be to someone I choose!”

At that moment, I thought I had found a kindred spirit. His rebellious, untamed look captivated me instantly, and I began to pursue him. I had always been thoughtful and caring, and I cared for him without regard for anything else until he finally said yes.

He once told me, “Vee, you’re not like other women. I hate the hypocrisy at home. I can only breathe when I'm with you.”

I thought we were soulmates who would resist the world together. I thought he would not betray me.

However, it turned out that I was the only one who believed that.

I nodded calmly. “Alright. I understand.”

Dylan looked surprised at my composure and raised an eyebrow. To him, I should be crying, screaming, and accusing him hysterically.

However, he did not think too much of it. He probably thought I was trying to play cat and mouse again.

With a smirk, he said, “I knew you were the best, Vee.”

He gently stroked my cheek, then walked away without looking back. I was left sitting alone on the messy bed, awake the entire night.

The next day, Dylan told me that his fiancée, Whitney Jackson, would be moving into the house we were currently living in.

“My family arranged this, and it’s hard to turn them down. Vee, you’ve always been generous. You won’t mind, right?”

I said nothing.

Every single item in this house, every piece of décor, was something I had picked and arranged myself. I had poured all my hopes for the future into this place. Now, it was about to welcome a new lady.

Whitney arrived while I was packing up my things, getting ready to move back to my old apartment.

She clung affectionately to Dylan’s arm.

“Dyl, who’s this lady?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head in feigned innocence.

Dylan hesitated for a second, then cleared his throat. “She's the sister of a good friend of mine, Maeve Sandler.”

I let out a bitter scoff. Three years of my love and devotion were reduced to nothing more than 'the sister of my friend'.

Meanwhile, Whitney was whining about how she wanted to redo all the décor, saying it was too old-fashioned and not to her taste.

Dylan agreed to everything, his voice dripping with indulgence for her. “You can do whatever you want. It’s all up to you.”

He had once told me how much he hated others interfering in his life. However, he was obeying her every word now.

A wave of bitterness rose in my chest.

Suddenly, Whitney pointed at a miniature house model in the corner of the living room and exclaimed, “What is this ugly thing? Get rid of it!”

I rushed over and stood in front of her. “You can change everything else but this.”

That miniature house model was handmade by Dylan, modeled after the home I used to dream of as a child. He had once said, “Vee, someday, I’ll give you a real home.”

Whitney immediately turned to Dylan with a pitiful look. “Dyl, she yelled at me…”

Dylan frowned. “It’s just a stupid toy. If Whitney doesn’t like it, then throw it.”

“A stupid toy?” My voice trembled. “Have you forgotten this was your promise to me—”

“Oh no!” Whitney suddenly interrupted in a shrill voice. She casually swept her hand across the shelf, and the model crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.

Amid the wreckage, I saw the emerald bracelet embedded in the base, now broken in two. It was the only thing my mother had left me.

Tears streamed from my eyes as I raised my hand and slapped Whitney across the face.

She ran crying into Dylan’s arms.

“Maeve Sandler!” he roared, pushing me hard. I stumbled and fell to the floor.

My elbow hit the cold, hard ground. A searing pain struck me. I stared at Dylan in disbelief. He was momentarily stunned too.

But when he saw Whitney sobbing, he pointed at me and scolded, “What’s wrong with you?! Why are you acting wildly? It’s just a cheap thing!”

“Cheap thing…” I echoed his words, my vision blurred with tears. Bracing myself on the floor, I stood up. “Dylan, do you remember what you said back then?”

He froze at my question, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. However, it quickly turned to disdain. “It’s just a broken model. What meaning could it possibly have? I’ll buy you more of anything you want.”

At that moment, I finally saw him for who he truly was. His promise of getting me a home had just been a lie spoken without thought.

I grabbed the suitcase beside me and turned to leave. Dylan caught my hand.

Annoyed, he said, “You’re leaving over something so small? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere!”

With that, he forcefully shoved me into the guest room and locked the door.

That night, I lay awake, listening to the sounds of passion coming from the master bedroom, each noise slicing through me like a knife.

After the noises finally stopped, Whitney pushed open the door and strutted in, wearing one of Dylan’s oversized shirts. The shirt barely covered her thighs. The collar was loose, exposing her smooth, fair skin and the red marks scattered across it.

She looked at me smugly. “Ms. Sandler, thank you for taking care of Dyl for the past three years. But he was just playing with you. Men need a little distraction sometimes. Now that his real wife is here, it’s time for you to snap out of your dream.”

With a sway of her hips, she turned and walked out like she wanted me to see exactly what she had just taken from me.

Yes, it was time to snap out of it. I picked up my phone and dialed my father’s number.

“Dad, I agree to the arranged marriage.”

I began preparing for my wedding.

Meanwhile, Dylan was immersed in his sweet romance with Whitney, acting as if I had never existed.

It was not until one day, when he was waiting for Whitney to try on wedding gowns, that he suddenly thought of me. He took his phone out and realized we hadn’t spoken in two weeks. A flicker of unease crossed his mind.

“Dyl, how do I look in this one?” Whitney stepped out of the fitting room in a lavish gown covered in diamonds.

A flash of amazement lit up Dylan’s eyes, and whatever unease he felt vanished in an instant. “You look stunning.”

He stood up and walked toward her, unable to resist pulling her into a passionate kiss.

That was the moment I walked in. The sight of them burned into my eyes like fire. My heart ached like it was being pricked over and over by a thousand tiny needles.

Dylan saw me too. He let go of Whitney in a panic but quickly regained his composure. His first instinct was to blame me. “You didn’t message me for two weeks. I thought you were busy. But you have time to follow me around?”

He thought I was stalking him? I nearly laughed from the absurdity of it.

Just as I was about to respond, his gaze landed on the box in my hand, and he suddenly smiled.

“Vee, you already finished designing the ring? There was no need to rush. It's not yet the wedding date…”

He assumed the ring box I was holding contained the wedding ring I had designed for him.

I cut him off, saying, “Dylan, this is my ring. I’m getting married too.”

The smile froze on his face, his expression instantly darkening. “That’s not funny. Or is this some kind of trick to make me call off the wedding with Whitney?”

He was convinced I was throwing a tantrum to make him change his mind.

I did not bother explaining. Instead, I turned to the sales assistant. “Could you please bring out the wedding gown I'm keeping reserved here? Rosie Sandler designed it.”

Rosie Sandler was my mother. Before she passed away, she designed that gown just for me.

When the assistant brought out the gown, a flicker of envy flashed in Whitney’s eyes.

She immediately turned to Dylan, clinging to his arm. “Dyl, I love that gown. I wish I could wear it for our wedding.”

Dylan stared at the gown, his expression complicated. Of course, he remembered what that gown meant to me. Back then, he even promised to put the gown on me himself on the day of our wedding.

However, faced with Whitney’s hopeful gaze, he nodded.

Then, he turned to me and said, “Vee, give Whitney the gown.”

I stared at him, feeling the last of my warmth drain away. “You know this was my mother’s gift to me.”

“She’ll give it back after the wedding. Why are you being so petty? Come on, who else could you even marry besides me? Keeping the gown would be a waste.”

It felt like he had stabbed me straight in the heart, deep and merciless.

I replied coldly, “The size doesn’t fit. Ms. Jackson won’t be able to wear it.”

The gown was tailored to my exact measurements. Whitney was slightly curvier. Of course, it would not fit.

However, Dylan did not care. He turned to the sales assistant. “Then alter it. Change it to fit Whitney.”

The sales assistant hesitated. “Mr. Lane, the fabric and embroidery of this gown are extremely delicate. If we alter it, it can’t be restored.”

Tears welled in Whitney’s eyes. “Dyl, I want this one…”

Seeing her like that, Dylan was overcome with guilt. He waved his hand impatiently. “Why are you still talking? Just alter it! Money’s not a problem!”

The sales assistant looked at me, unsure of what to do.

Dylan lost his patience. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the work table and aimed them at the gown.

“Stop!” I cried out, my voice choking.

However, it was too late. The scissors had already torn through the gown.