Broken By My Brother’s Love

When Pablo's perfect, beloved girlfriend accused me of stealing her design, Pablo chose to believe her.

Even though I was his only family left, he was so enraged that he sent me to a remote "behavioral correction academy," ordering them to break me.

Later, I became what he wanted: a vacant-eyed puppet who wouldn't dare talk back.

But on the day he saw the psychological evaluation reports and my diary from that academy, he shattered completely.

"Willow, I'm begging you… forgive me. Let me be your brother again, please!"

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1

The day I came home from the Clear Path Behavioral Correction Academy, a torrential rain poured over Seattle.

Pablo didn't come to pick me up.

"Scarlett has a dinner party tonight. You'll have to find your own way home."

His voice on the phone was glacial, devoid of warmth.

I silently gathered my meager belongings and stepped into the sheet of rain.

A year in that academy was all it took for me to forget the way home.

The day Pablo drove me there, the journey had felt so short—too short for me to explain that I hadn't stolen Scarlett Monroe's design, nor had I incited an online mob to attack her.

It was so short that I couldn't even quell the burning rage in his eyes before he shoved me into that stifling, suffocating hell.

But now, I walked in the cold rain for what felt like an eternity, soaked to the bone, yet I still couldn't find the familiar apartment building.

Perhaps I no longer had a home.

Our parents had died early in a mountaineering accident, leaving Pablo and me with only each other to rely on.

But now, for Scarlett, Pablo didn't want me anymore.

In over a year, he hadn't visited me once.

At one point, I felt my spirit shattering. All I wanted was to go home. I missed Pablo desperately.

But when I called him, he cut me off harshly after just one sentence.

"Don't be so dramatic."

Pablo had abandoned me. I was homeless.

"You're an embarrassment. You were in there for a whole year. How are you still so helpless?"

Pablo stormed into the police station, his eyes landing on my rain-soaked figure with undisguised disgust. His voice lashed out, cold as a whip.

"Scarlett has an important dinner party tonight—that's the only reason I couldn't pick you up. You're an adult. Couldn't you find your way home without causing a scene? Do you really think I'll tolerate this kind of attention-seeking?"

"I'm sorry, Pablo. I didn't mean to. I… I really forgot the way home."

My legs trembled, his angry voice sending a bone-deep, instinctual fear through me.

I was already shivering from the rain; now I felt frozen from the inside out.

When Pablo fell silent, his expression dark and unreadable, I panicked completely. Without a second thought, I sank to my knees before him.

"It's my fault, Pablo. It's all my fault. Please, forgive me. Please don't send me back there. I promise I'll be good. I'll do anything you say, Pablo. Anything."

Even the police officers standing by were stunned. One of them quickly came over to help me up, gently trying to reason with him.

"Get up. You're embarrassing me," he snarled, his face taut with fury. He turned and strode away.

I followed closely behind him, barely daring to breathe.

Before getting into the car, I carefully started to shrug off my wet coat to avoid soiling his expensive leather seats.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his brow furrowed.

I lowered my gaze and murmured, "My clothes are soaked. I don't want to get the car dirty."

Pablo's brow furrowed even deeper, his impatience practically boiling over. I immediately buried my head lower.

In the suffocating silence, he finally let out an exasperated sigh. "Get in."

Had I been away too long? The penthouse apartment where Pablo and I had lived together for over a decade now felt completely alien.

The family photo of us with our parents that used to hang in the living room was gone, replaced by an intimate picture of him and Scarlett.

The antique bookshelf I’d begged Pablo to keep, a piece filled with memories, had been replaced by a massive, built-in display for luxury handbags and shoes.

My bedroom? It wasn't mine anymore. It was unrecognizable, transformed into a livestreaming studio packed with lighting rigs and designer clothes. Everything that was once mine was gone, replaced by someone else's scent, someone else's presence.

"Willow, you're back?"

Scarlett emerged from Pablo's room, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

"I had Scarlett move in while you were away," Pablo explained as he walked to her side, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders.

"She needs this space for her livestreams and to store her clothes—you know, it's important for her career. Be more considerate. I had the upstairs storage room cleaned out. You can stay there from now on."

I glanced up at the cold, windowless storage room. It had only ever been used to store old snowboards and suitcases.

But I didn't complain. At least it was a place to sleep.

At the academy, eight of us were crammed into a small, stuffy room.

On countless humid nights, I would often wake up gasping, as if an invisible boulder was pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But even that wasn't the worst part.

Shortly after arriving, I was punished for resisting the so-called 'emotional deprivation therapy.'

I was locked alone in a soundproof, pitch-black room with no food and no water.

I screamed, cried, and pounded on the door with all my might.

I could feel my sanity unraveling thread by thread.

But no one ever responded.

After that, I never had a peaceful night's sleep again.

Compared to that, this storage room—despite being small, cold, and isolated—felt like a blessing.

"Willow, I'm so sorry for taking your room. I hope you don't feel too put-out by having to stay upstairs."

Scarlett's voice was sweet, but her smile was filled with undisguised mockery. I knew she was provoking me.

In the past, I would have torn that hypocritical mask from her face without a second thought. I was never one to back down from a fight, least of all with someone like her.

From the moment we first met, Scarlett and I were like oil and water. Her affected, calculating nature sickened me, but she clung to Pablo like a vine.

At our school's design exhibition, she deliberately displayed her plagiarized work right in front of me. When public opinion turned against me, her tearful accusations painted me as a petty, jealous thief.

I would never forget the look in Pablo's eyes—filled with disappointment, anger, and disdain—as he held her protectively that day.

"You've disappointed me so much. I wish I didn't have a sister like you."

But I hadn't plagiarized.

I waited for hours at home that day, desperate to explain.

He never came back. He didn't even answer my calls.

Instead, his assistant arrived with several strangers who roughly dragged me into a car.

Without any explanation, Pablo had me sent to that correction academy called "Clear Path."

"I failed to teach you integrity and humility. You can reflect on your actions there. Pay for what you've done."

It was in that moment I realized I could never win against Scarlett.

Not because she was better than me, but because the scales in Pablo's heart had already tipped completely in her favor.

So now, even with her taking my room, how could I dare show any dissatisfaction?