A Bride to Replace the Forgotten Daughter

My mother—once radiant, admired, unstoppable—shattered the day she discovered my father’s mistress and their illegitimate child, Yvette. Yvette was three months younger than me, yet she was brought into our home with shameless pride.

At the same time, my mother was carrying my little brother. But grief consumed her, crushing her until she went into labor far too soon. Neither she nor the baby survived.

From then on, loneliness became my shadow. I abandoned schoolwork, lost my smile, and spent nights slipping into clubs—drinking until memory blurred, dancing until my body ached, anything to drown the emptiness.

And that was where I first noticed him. Jerwin.

He wasn’t like the others prowling the bar. Something about him was magnetic. I fell too fast, too hard.

I tried everything to catch his eye—laughing louder than I felt, brushing against him “accidentally,” asking for help with the strap of my dress just to feel his hands, stumbling so he’d steady me, letting perfume linger in the air between us. I wore skirts shorter, heels higher, smiles sharper, even let my head fall against his shoulder once when the alcohol blurred my sight. But no matter what I did, he never looked at me the way I desperately wanted.

I should have let him go. But fate decided otherwise. When my aging butler grew too ill to serve, a replacement appeared.

It was Jerwin—introduced as the butler’s son.

I thought destiny was finally being kind. That this was my chance. But truth rarely spares illusions.

One late evening, after an event, I overheard him in the garden, speaking quietly on the phone.

“Jerwin, come home already,” the voice urged. “Stop pretending you’re the butler’s son. You’re the heir of the Andersen family.”

“I can’t,” Jerwin replied, his tone heavy but tender. “Yvette’s here. I fell for her the moment I saw her. I can’t leave now. She’s delicate. I’ll protect her, earn her trust, and when the time is right, I’ll tell her everything.”

“And Fatima?” the caller asked.

Jerwin laughed, the sound like glass cutting through me.

“Oh, her? She’s nothing but a tool. A stepping stone.”

Something in me snapped that night. That was when I resolved to accept the arranged marriage—and to let Jerwin be handed over to Yvette. Because no matter how I begged, he’d never look at me the way he looked at her.

When I stumbled back to my room, my stomach twisted painfully. I hadn’t eaten all day. Weak, I drifted toward Jerwin’s quarters.

“I’m hungry,” I muttered flatly. “Get me something to eat.”

He blinked, expression bored. “I’m off duty.”

I frowned. “And what does that matter?”

“It means you’re no longer my responsibility,” he answered coolly, brushing past me as if I were invisible.

I stood frozen. Smaller than I’d ever felt. Then fate twisted the knife deeper.

“I’m not feeling well…” Yvette’s soft voice drifted from her doorway. She leaned against the frame, pale, fragile.

“I think I have a fever,” she whispered. “And I’ve been craving that soup you made… Could you…?”

Jerwin turned instantly, warmth flooding his voice.

“I’ll make it for you. Stay inside.”

I stiffened, retreating before my tears betrayed me. Wrapping my arms tight around myself, I wondered how a body could feel so hollow yet so unbearably heavy.

Hours later, starving, I rose to fetch food myself. Passing Yvette’s room, I slowed. Her door was ajar, a strip of light spilling out.

There was Jerwin. Jacket discarded, sleeves rolled. Sitting at her bedside, watching her fever-flushed face with a reverence that tore me apart.

Then he leaned in, brushed a strand of hair away, and pressed his lips against hers.

Yvette murmured faintly, stirring. And Jerwin whispered, voice full of possession:

“You’re mine, Yvette. Always mine. I’ll give you everything… even if it means discarding Fatima someday, just to see you happy.”

Then he climbed into bed beside her, pulling her fragile frame close against him.