He Called Me His Bro—I Became Another’s Bride

Ryan Carter had a strange habit: every time we were intimate, he insisted on taking a private photo of me.

That night, he was unusually vigorous, coaxing me into letting him snap an outrageously explicit picture.

Afterward, my face burning, I teased in mock anger,

“What got into you today? You can’t stop staring at just one photo.”

Without lifting his head, Ryan chuckled,

“Emily Scott is coming back tomorrow. Unless I’m wrong, this will be the last one. Of course I need to keep a proper souvenir!”

My body froze, my mind blank. I asked what he meant.

Ryan tilted his head, puzzled.

“What else could it mean? The girl I’ve chased for seven years—my first love—is finally returning. I need to clean up my act. I can’t keep fooling around with you anymore.”

“Sophia Hayes, we’re just best buddies. Helping each other with physical needs is normal. Don’t tell me you actually caught feelings for me?”

He tossed my torn stockings onto my face.

“Come on, don’t give me that wounded look—it’s disgusting. You’re my brother, remember? I’ll keep your photos safe. If Emily isn’t around someday, you’re welcome to stop by for service again.”

It felt as though a blade pierced straight into my heart. Only then did I realize Ryan had never loved me.

To him, I was just his bro.

…

My body trembled uncontrollably, my palms ice cold. Eyes reddening, I whispered,

“Ryan, you’re saying I’m just your brother? After all these seven years, you never liked me even a little?”

If not, then why was he always so possessive, never allowing any other man near me?

Why did he cling to me night after night, why did he coax me into taking photo after photo?

I truly believed we had long since become more than just friends—that we were a couple without needing to say it aloud.

But Ryan’s response was impatient.

“Sophia, I thought you were different from all those clingy women.”

“You’re passionate, open, bold—you even let me take those kinds of pictures. That’s why I’ve kept you around.”

“You know how much I like Emily. So what’s with the betrayed act now? I’m not lacking in skills, and over these seven years, it’s not like you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

It turns out that when sorrow is too great, no tears will fall.

Humiliation surged through me, and I gave a low, bitter laugh.

Ryan and I had grown up together as childhood friends. I was quiet and introverted; he was a brash little tyrant.

Fearless with everyone else, but always gentle with me.

If someone bullied me, he’d sneak over at night to smash that person’s yard in retaliation.

I grew used to his blatant favoritism. But once Ryan went to college, he fell in love at first sight with Emily Scott, the campus beauty.

He courted her publicly, sending truckloads of roses to her dorm.

Even after repeated rejections, he wouldn’t give up, so infatuated he could barely eat or sleep.

When Emily left to study abroad, Ryan knelt for three hours at the airport in front of everyone, to no avail.

Afterward, he was so distraught that he got into a car accident.

I saved him—donating half my blood.

From then on, I cared for him meticulously.

Until, eventually, that care extended to his bed.

The morning after, I awoke to find an empty box of cigarettes by his side.

He said nothing, but his despair vanished, and he was gentle with me again.

I thought he had finally let go.

I thought he had finally accepted me.

But now I understood—it was all my wishful thinking.