After 100 Betrayals, I Chose His Brother

"Marry me instead," Patrick repeated, his voice smooth and entirely serious.

I stared at him. The ocean breeze whipped a strand of hair across my face, but I didn't brush it away.

"Are you out of your mind?" I asked.

Patrick chuckled, taking another sip of his whiskey. "Highly logical, actually."

Heavy footsteps pounded against the wooden deck behind us.

"Winter!" Erick yelled.

Patrick stepped aside, gesturing toward the approaching groom with his silver lighter. "Your trash is catching up."

Erick stormed down the corridor, his face flushed an angry crimson. He clutched the platinum diamond ring in his right fist.

He stopped a few feet away, chest heaving. He didn't even notice Patrick standing in the shadows of the stairwell.

"Is this a joke to you?" Erick demanded, pointing the ring at me.

"I didn't stutter," I replied. "The wedding is off."

Erick scoffed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "You always do this. You throw a tantrum, expect me to chase you, and make a scene in front of our families."

"I am not throwing a tantrum."

"Are you threatening me with a breakup again over a dress?" he shouted. "Over a dying woman's final wish?"

I closed the distance between us. I reached out, grabbed his right wrist, and forcibly uncurled his fingers.

He stared at me in confusion.

I pressed the ring firmly into the center of his palm and folded his fingers back over the diamond.

"I am not threatening you," I stated, keeping my voice deadpan. "I am informing you."

Erick’s jaw dropped. The confident anger drained from his face, replaced by genuine shock.

Before he could formulate a response, the sound of dragging fabric echoed down the hall.

Sabrina shuffled toward us. She tripped over the hem of my custom silk gown, catching herself against the mahogany paneled wall.

She clutched her chest, coughing violently.

"Erick," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Please don't fight. It's my fault."

Erick instantly abandoned our conversation. He rushed to her side, wrapping a protective arm around her fragile shoulders.

"Don't stress yourself, Brina," he murmured, his tone shifting to gentle concern. "Your heart can't take it."

Sabrina buried her face against his lapel. "I just didn't want to leave this world with regrets. I wanted to see what it felt like. I'm sorry."

Erick glared at me over her head.

"Look at her, Winter," he snapped. "She is dying. How can you be so cold-blooded?"

I laughed.

The sound was sharp and dry. It echoed down the narrow corridor, completely devoid of humor.

Erick flinched. He clearly expected me to cry, or yell, or beg him to choose me.

"Cold-blooded?" I asked. "Let's talk about her timing."

"Stop it," Erick warned, tightening his grip on Sabrina.

"Our high school graduation," I said, raising a single finger. "She fainted during my valedictorian speech. You carried her to the nurse and missed the rest of the ceremony."

Sabrina whimpered, sinking deeper into his embrace.

"My college acceptance party," I continued, raising a second finger. "She had a severe panic attack. You spent the entire night in the bathroom, holding her hand."

"She was sick!" Erick shouted.

"She is sick every single time the spotlight is on me," I fired back, my voice ringing loud enough for the guests lingering near the deck to hear.

A few bridesmaids peeked around the corner, their eyes wide.

I took a step closer to the couple. "My birthdays. Our anniversaries. The day you proposed. And now, my wedding day."

Erick shook his head. "You are being paranoid and cruel."

I locked eyes with Sabrina. She peeked out from Erick’s jacket, her expression entirely composed despite the fake sobs racking her shoulders.

"Ninety-nine times, Sabrina," I said. "Your 'terminal illness' has impeccable scheduling."

"Winter, that is enough," Erick snarled. "The doctors gave her six months! Have some basic human decency!"

"Did they?" a deep voice interrupted.

Patrick stepped out of the shadows.

Erick jumped, finally realizing we weren't alone. "Gallagher? When did you get here? What does this have to do with you?"

Patrick ignored him. He casually tossed his empty whiskey glass onto a nearby side table.

He reached into his tailored navy jacket and pulled out a folded stack of papers.

"I had my team do a little digging when I heard the tragic news about Miss Lowe," Patrick said, his tone perfectly conversational.

He extended his arm, handing the documents directly to me.

"What is that?" Erick asked, his eyes darting between Patrick and the papers.

"A medical report," Patrick replied. He turned his gaze toward the growing crowd of guests who had followed Sabrina down the hall.

I unfolded the thick parchment. The logo for Mount Sinai Hospital sat neatly at the top.

My eyes scanned the highlighted sections.

Blood tests. Scans. Heart rate monitoring.

Everything was completely, undeniably normal.

"From Mount Sinai," Patrick announced to the stunned audience. "Dated yesterday."

Erick swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?"

Patrick tilted his head, fixing a predatory stare on Sabrina.

"If she really only has a few months to live," Patrick asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "why do her test results show she doesn't have a terminal illness at all?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Whispers erupted instantly.

"Not sick?" a groomsman muttered.

"She told everyone it was stage four," my maid of honor whispered loudly.

I looked up from the papers.

Sabrina’s fake tears instantly vanished. Her entire body went rigid. She didn't cough. She didn't sway.

For the first time in ten years, she looked absolutely terrified.

Erick looked down at the woman in his arms, his brows pulling together in confusion. "Brina? What is he talking about?"

Sabrina opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Patrick moved to stand right beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

"Well, Sabrina?" Patrick pressed, a dangerous smirk forming on his lips. "Care to explain how you miraculously cured yourself right before stealing the bride's dress?"