My Boyfriend Made Me Kiss His Brother, So I Chose Him Instead

Then I walked even faster.

My heart dropped like a stone, sinking into a place so cold I could barely breathe.

So that was what I was to him. Not his woman. Not someone to cherish. Not someone whose dignity mattered. Just a body that could be pushed into a dare, kissed by another man, and brushed off with the words, "It wasn't real."

When I got back to the apartment, I locked myself in my room. My thumb found the small pendant at my throat and pressed its edge until the chain bit into my skin.

Luca knocked on the door again and again, but I ignored him. I did not want to see him. I did not want to hear his voice. I did not want to listen to another excuse wrapped in carelessness.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was a message from a burner number.

I opened it.

The moment I saw the words on the screen, a chill ran down my spine.

That was my first kiss. You have to take responsibility.

Dante.

I stared at the message for a long time, my fingers tightening around the phone. The discomfort I had felt at the social club surged back all at once. His gaze. His trembling body. The way he had looked at me afterward, still and certain, like a man who had just decided something that could not be undone.

I did not reply. I simply turned off the screen and decided to handle everything coldly. If I ignored him, perhaps he would lose interest. If I refused to respond, perhaps this disgusting farce would end here.

But days passed. Dante did not contact me again.

And Luca still showed no sign of remorse. No apology. No explanation. No attempt to truly understand why I was angry. It was as if he believed that once a few days passed, I would naturally calm down and pretend nothing had happened.

My heart felt unbearably heavy, like a massive stone had been pressed against my chest. Every breath was difficult.

Finally, on the fifth night, Luca appeared at my door with a cup of bubble tea. His expression was awkward, but not guilty enough. He smoothed one hand down his lapel and gave a quick, unnecessary tug at his cuff before he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't expect things to turn out like that."

He handed me the drink. His tone was so casual that it almost made the apology meaningless.

I looked at the bubble tea in his hand and suddenly wanted to laugh. Did he think one drink could smooth over the humiliation he had forced on me? Did he think my anger was that cheap?

Still, I took it. Not because I had forgiven him. But because I wanted to see whether he had even understood what he had done wrong.

I pulled out my phone and showed him Dante's message.

"I told you before," I said coldly, "that he had ulterior motives toward me."

Luca glanced at the screen. Instead of shock or anger, he frowned. Then he said the words that shattered the last of my patience.

"You and Dante aren't on the same level. Stop flattering yourself."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Luca continued, as if he were only stating a fact. "He probably just continued the dare after leaving. There's no way he'd actually be interested in you."

Those words cut through me like a blade. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Not because Dante might be interested in me. But because Luca had humiliated me again, so naturally, so effortlessly, as if belittling me had become instinct.

I looked at him and asked slowly, "So what you mean is, I'm not good enough for him?"

My voice was calm, but my chest was burning.

I was only a department head at one of the Family's legitimate front businesses, yes. But I had worked for every bit of what I owned. I had my own savings, my own career, my own dignity.

And Luca? He was a capo in name, entrusted with the Family's real-estate fronts and a few tribute streams, but he coasted on the Falcone bloodline more than on anything he had built himself. He drifted through his days collecting from properties other men maintained.