Craving For My Boyfriend’s Brother

Becky's pov

I turned slowly in front of the mirror, letting the soft fabric of the red gown hug my curves. I imagined Sebastian smiling, maybe pulling me into his arms and saying I looked stunning. Instead,  his voice fell on me like crushed ice.

“Why on earth did you buy something like this?” 

I was startled and confused. That wasn’t what I expected. I turned to face him fully, his expression already dark and accusing.

“Is it because I didn’t accompany you to the boutique? Is that why you chose something like this?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Did you buy it yourself, or did some young man at the boutique help you pick it out?”

The words hurt, and my smile faded.

“I bought it myself,” I said, my hands spreading instinctively in defense. “Why are you saying things like this?” But he wasn’t done.

“Did you honestly think I’d let you show off your body at my parents’ anniversary? Be honest, did you buy this dress to attract attention? This is the kind of outfit women wear when they’re looking for male attention. Like the ones who walk the streets at night.”

“What?” I whispered, stumbling a step back.

This was Sebastian, my boyfriend. The man in the wheelchair across the room, with his leg strapped in a cast. Just two weeks ago, in some twisted effort to impress his visiting twin brother, he’d pushed himself too hard at the gym and ended up breaking his leg.

“You’re always waiting for the right moment to reveal who you really are,” he added sharply, each word a blade.

He hadn’t changed. Deep down, I had known that. I wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t needed help. He had done a lot for me, especially when my mum fell ill and he covered her medical bills. But I couldn’t live like this any longer. This wasn’t love. This was control. I thought back to the moment everything truly started to unravel.

It was about four weeks ago. Sebastian had surprised me at work with lunch, something sweet, I had thought. But then, when a male customer greeted me politely, Sebastian exploded. He accused me of flirting. In front of customers, colleagues... even our managing director. I nearly lost my job. If not for my manager, who quietly pulled me away from the cash desk, I might’ve been fired on the spot.

That was the moment I realised we needed space. And if it hadn’t been for his accident, I wouldn’t have stepped foot in this house again.

This wasn’t new. Every time a man so much as looked in my direction, Sebastian would accuse me of flaunting myself. And somehow, I always found my way back. Just like now. Just like always.

When I asked him why he suddenly started working out obsessively, he said it was because his twin brother was visiting from London. I didn’t see the connection. I hadn’t even met the brother in all thirteen months of our relationship. But it didn’t matter anymore.

“I’m not wearing this to seduce anyone,” I said, trying to hold back the tremble in my voice. “I bought it because I like it.”

“You’ll not wear that gown to the party,” he said. “Take it off. Give it to me. I’ll set it on fire.”

“Fire?” My voice shot up before I could stop it.

“I’ll pay you double what you spent on it. Just hand it over.”

“It would be better not to go to the party at all than to watch you burn my dress.”

He moved the wheelchair toward me, his hands gripping the wheels with desperate determination. He was trying to grab the gown off my body. But I stepped out of reach, and in that moment, I saw it, rage. Helpless, impotent rage. If he hadn’t been in that chair, I was certain he would’ve grabbed me. Maybe even hit me.

“Are you doing this just because I can’t move freely?” he snapped. “Are you taking advantage of me?”

It was the most honest thing he’d ever said.

“This is the dress I want to wear,” I said calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

His face contorted. “Are you challenging me? Since when do you shout at me like this?”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Why am I even here?”

Without another word, I pulled off the gown, grabbed my bag, and began stuffing my belongings into it. I was done.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, stunned.

“You just called me a whore, Sebastian.”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered quickly. “I said the dress gives that impression. Don’t twist my words.”

But it was too late. He had already shown me who he was. I grabbed my bag and slammed the door behind me. As I stepped outside and took in the evening air, I felt relief. Not sadness. Not guilt. Just freedom.

He was tall. Handsome. The kind of man I used to dream about. When he chose me, I felt lucky, even though I was a little overweight back then. He made me feel like a queen. I worked hard to become someone he’d be proud of. And for a while, I thought I was. He would show me off, take me shopping, introduce me to his friends like I was a trophy. I mistook it for affection. But looking back now, I see it clearly. He wasn’t loving me. He was owning me.

Sebastian had become an addiction, one I kept returning to, no matter how much he hurt me. Every time I tried to pull away, he would find a way to pull me back in. A gift. An apology. A promise. But this time? I wasn’t coming back.

I noticed the pattern six months ago, how Sebastian would twist situations, how he always made me feel like I was the problem. I knew it wasn’t healthy. Still, I kept hoping things would get better, or that I could somehow reshape the relationship to fit what I needed.

I never told my friends the truth. They only saw the glamorous bits, bouquets, dinners, shiny gifts. I kept the darker side to myself, not because I was afraid of judgment, but because I hadn’t figured things out yet. Deep down, I was still trying to find my footing.

It was 11 a.m. My entire weekend had just been wrecked over a dress. I flagged down a blue taxi and climbed into the back seat, anger buzzing beneath my skin like static.

A few minutes into the ride, my phone began to ring. I didn’t need to check the screen. I knew it was Sebastian. I ignored the call. It rang again. And again. The driver, a man in his early forties with tired eyes, glanced at me through the rearview mirror. My expression must’ve told him not to ask questions.

Four calls. Then silence. I let out a breath, trying to clear my head. I was done. Truly done. I’d made up my mind to take a long break from Sebastian, maybe even end things for good. But then, a message notification appeared on my screen. I stared at it. I didn’t want to open it. I wanted peace, a moment to breathe. But curiosity has a way of creeping in. I tapped the screen.

Sebastian:

I stared at the words. They felt like a carefully loaded trap, emotional blackmail, wrapped in soft pleas.

My heart thudded. Part of me wanted to believe him. To imagine he was just overwhelmed, stressed by the injury, the pressure of his brother’s visit. But I couldn’t forget what happened just minutes ago, how he lashed out, how quickly he turned cruel, how easily he threw around accusations. I read the message again.

‘You can wear whatever you want.’

A line thrown in to soften the blow, but it only made the rest of the message feel more manipulative. I closed my eyes. Should I ask the driver to turn around? The question echoed in my head. Was I really considering going back?