Craving My Brother-in-Law

AMARA'S P.O.V

The mirror doesn’t lie. It just reflects a truth I wish I could escape.

I stare at the woman in white staring back at me... a stranger in lace and diamonds. My reflection looks beautiful, like something out of a glossy bridal magazine. Perfectly curled lashes, lips painted in deep red, hair pinned back into an elegant bun that exposes the vulnerable curve of my neck. A glittering tiara rests heavy on my head, weighing me down like a crown of chains.

Everyone would say I look like a princess. But inside, I feel like a prisoner.

I clench the bouquet of roses so tightly the stems dig into my palms, their thorns biting through the thin silk of my gloves. The sharp sting grounds me, reminding me that this isn’t a dream. I’m awake. I’m trapped.

“Do I really have to do this?” I whisper to no one, my voice trembling as it escapes my lips.

The door opens with a soft creak, and my mother steps inside. Her heels click against the marble, her perfume... expensive, sharp... announcing her presence before she speaks. She stops beside me, her eyes sweeping over my gown, my veil, my painted face.

Her lips curl into the faintest smile. “You look perfect, Amara.”

I shake my head, the veil trembling with the motion. “Mom… please. I can’t.” My throat tightens around the words. “I don’t love him.”

Her expression hardens instantly, all traces of warmth gone. She adjusts the fall of my veil with steady hands, her eyes avoiding mine. “Love is a luxury, one you cannot afford. Marcus De Guzman is stability. Respect. Power. This marriage will save us.”

“Save us?” I choke out a bitter laugh. “Or save you and Dad’s reputation?”

For a moment, guilt flashes in her eyes, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. Her voice sharpens. “Amara, this isn’t about you. This is about family. You’ll understand in time.”

“No, I won’t,” I whisper, but she’s already moving toward the door.

“Everyone is waiting.” Her words cut like a blade. “Don’t embarrass us.”

And just like that, the conversation is over. My fate is sealed.

When the cathedral doors open, the world blurs into golden light and music. The swell of violins fills the air, soft and graceful, mocking the storm inside me.

All eyes turn. Hundreds of them. Politicians, businessmen, women dripping in pearls and diamonds. Their gazes slice into me, heavy and suffocating. I can feel their whispers, their judgment, as if they know this isn’t love, as if they can smell my fear.

“There she is… the Villafuerte girl.”

“Poor thing, sold to the De Guzmans.”

“At least she’ll live like a queen.”

Their voices echo in my head, cruel and amused.

I force myself to take a step. Then another. The aisle stretches endlessly before me, each step heavier than the last, my heels striking against marble like the ticking of a clock counting down to my execution.

And then I see him.

Marcus De Guzman, waiting at the altar.

He looks perfect. Too perfect. Tall, broad shouldered, his black suit tailored to perfection. His hair slicked back, his sharp jawline as flawless as his reputation. He is the man everyone calls the golden son of the De Guzman family. The heir. The polished gentleman.

To everyone else, he’s a dream. To me, he’s a stranger.

When I finally reach him, he offers me his arm, his smile polite, practiced. His eyes are calm, cold, giving nothing away.

“Amara,” he murmurs, his tone smooth but detached.

“Marcus,” I whisper back, my lips stiff as they form his name.

The priest speaks, but his words wash over me like distant waves. Vows fall from my lips as if I’m on autopilot, recited promises I don’t believe in. Each “I do” feels like a chain tightening around my wrists.

When Marcus slips the ring onto my finger, I want to scream. Instead, I smile, because that’s what everyone expects.

And just like that, I become Mrs. Marcus De Guzman.

The reception is dazzling, suffocating in its extravagance. Chandeliers sparkle above, their light glinting off crystal glasses and golden cutlery. Laughter and chatter fill the air, but none of it reaches me.

I sit beside Marcus at the long banquet table, my posture perfect, my smile mechanical. My cheeks ache from pretending. Every time I falter, Marcus leans close and murmurs through clenched teeth, “Smile wider. People are watching.”

So I do.

I smile wider. I sip champagne. I laugh when I’m supposed to. And inside, I wither.

A group of women passes by, their perfume sweet but their whispers sharp.

“Such a pretty girl.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s gotten into.”

“Marcus will never love anyone the way he loves his work.”

Their laughter trails behind them, slicing through me.

I can’t breathe.

I excuse myself, slipping away from the table, through the crowd, until I find the balcony doors. The moment I step outside, the cool night air hits me, crisp and freeing. I clutch the railing and suck in a deep breath, the city lights shimmering below like stars.

For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.

But then I feel it.

A gaze.

It presses against me, heavy and unrelenting.

I turn, and my breath catches.

A man leans casually against the far end of the balcony, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The dim glow from inside paints him in shadows and gold, highlighting the sharp lines of his face, the stubble on his jaw, the dangerous ease in his posture. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, his tie hanging loose, his sleeves rolled up to reveal ink curling along his forearm. Tattoos.

He looks nothing like Marcus. He looks like sin incarnate.

And he’s staring at me.

My chest tightens, my pulse quickening. I should go inside. I should run. But I don’t. I can’t. My feet stay rooted as he pushes off the railing, moving toward me with the kind of confidence that belongs to men who fear nothing.

He stops just a breath away, close enough that I catch the scent of him... smoke, leather, whiskey. It’s intoxicating, dangerous.

“You must be Amara Villafuerte,” he says, his voice a low drawl that slides over me like silk.

My throat goes dry. “It’s… Amara De Guzman now.”

His lips curl into a smirk that makes my stomach twist. “Right. My brother’s wife.”

Brother...

The word slams into me. My eyes widen as realization dawns.

He extends a hand lazily, his gaze locked on mine, unyielding. “Luke De Guzman. The black sheep. The one they don’t introduce at weddings.”

I don’t take his hand. Instead, I clutch my bouquet tighter, my knuckles white. His smirk deepens, amused by my discomfort.

“I should go back inside,” I whisper, though the words sound weak, unconvincing.

Luke steps closer, invading the fragile space between us. My back brushes the balcony railing, my breath shallow.

He leans down, his lips close enough that his words ghost against my ear, hot and dangerous.

“Welcome to hell, Mrs. De Guzman.”

A shiver runs through me, sharp and unbidden. My knees weaken, my pulse betrays me, heat curls low in my belly. I should pull away. I should escape. But I can’t.

Because for the first time that day, I feel alive.

And that’s when I realize... marrying Marcus wasn’t the trap.

The real trap is standing right in front of me.