Revenge Dating My Ex's Brother

When I caught Paul Belcourt cheating on me, I was wearing a dress my mother promised made me look ten pounds thinner.

That was the detail that burned itself into my memory. Not the faint clinking of crystal downstairs, not the string quartet weaving through the ballroom, and certainly not the two hundred high-society guests gathered at the Belcourt estate to toast our upcoming nuptials. In three weeks, I was supposed to become a Belcourt.

Instead, I was thinking about the dress. Navy blue. High-waisted. Heavy fabric with tight sleeves, despite the suffocating June heat.

Very flattering on you, Melody, my mother had remarked earlier that evening.

Flattering was the word people in our world used when they meant less fat. It was the polite euphemism for you look manageable tonight.

I had been wandering the sprawling estate looking for Paul. His father wanted family portraits before dinner, and tracking down my elusive fiancé always defaulted to me. After checking the terrace and the library, I climbed the grand staircase toward the second-floor sitting room.

I heard the woman’s laugh three steps before the arched doorway. Soft. Breathless.

Then came Paul’s answer, a low, throaty rumble of quiet amusement.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my champagne flute until the thin glass nearly snapped. Don’t be ridiculous, I commanded myself. Paul loves you.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The woman was perched on the edge of a mahogany desk, her silk dress pushed up past her thighs. Paul stood locked between her knees, his tall frame leaning over her, his mouth pressed greedily into the hollow of her neck. His hand was buried deep beneath the folds of her skirt.

My brain, desperately grasping at straws, offered up a completely absurd thought: He’s going to wrinkle his linen shirt.

I had picked that shirt out for him. I’d spent forty minutes matching the shade to my dress.

"Paul."

The word hit the room like a gunshot.

Paul jerked backward. The woman gasped, slapping her hands against his chest to shove him away.

"Melody." He didn't sound guilty. He sounded annoyed, like an unexpected guest had ruined a punchline.

I locked eyes with the woman. Beautiful, obviously. Delicate bones, flawless skin, effortlessly thin. Blonde. Paul had a type, and I had spent three years pretending I was the exception.

"I'm so sorry," she blurted out, scrambling off the desk and smoothing her hem. "I didn't..."

"Get out," Paul snapped.

She grabbed her purse and bolted. As she squeezed past me in the doorway, our shoulders bumped.

"I'm sorry," I whispered automatically. I actually apologized to the woman my fiancé was pressing against a desk. That was who I was back then: polite, compliant, raised never to cause a scene.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

Paul dragged both hands through his dark hair, letting out a sharp breath. He walked over to the side bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch.

"You're drinking?" My voice cracked.

He took a slow sip, turning to face me with a heavy sigh. "What do you want me to do right now, Melody?"

"Maybe start with telling me who she is."

"It doesn't matter who she is."

"How long?"

He looked away, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"How long, Paul?"

"Don't do this here," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Make a scene."

A harsh laugh burst out of my chest. "There is nobody in this room, Paul!"

"There are two hundred people downstairs!" he snapped, dropping into a harsh whisper.

"Then maybe you should have remembered that before you put your hand up someone else's skirt!"

His jaw tightened. For one fleeting second, a tiny surge of power rushed through me. I had spent three years walking on eggshells around his mood swings. I had never spoken to him like that.

Then the anger left him. He just looked exhausted. Patronizing. Like I was a stubborn child making an unprovoked mess.

"Melody, come on," he said softly, holding out a placating hand.

"How many?" I asked.

His eyes met mine, cold and unflinching. He didn't have to answer. I knew the woman on the desk was not the first.

My hands began to shake violently. I carefully set my champagne glass down before I dropped it. "Does James know?"

That name hit him. A slight twitch of his jaw. A microscopic pause before he swallowed.

"No," he said smoothly.

"You hesitated."

"Yes, James knows."

"Mel..."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.

Down in the main hall, the party was in full swing. I spotted my brother, James, standing near the marble bar, throwing his head back in a laugh alongside Paul's fraternity brothers. Tall, lean, effortlessly handsome, a Brooks on paper, but a Belcourt in everything that actually mattered to him.

He caught sight of my face across the room, and his laughter died instantly.

I marched straight up to him. "You knew."

The men around him melted back into the crowd. James lowered his glass. "Melody, can we please not do this right now?"

"How. Long."

His mouth drew into a thin line. "A while."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my heels. "And you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't my business."

"I am your sister!"

"And Paul is my best friend!" he hissed back.

I flinched. James saw it, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his face.

Before he could speak, Paul stepped up behind me, his hand coming down firmly on my shoulder. "Melody, let me talk to you upstairs."

I yanked myself out of his reach. Heads were turning. Whispers were breaking through the string quartet's melody.

"Did Mom know?" I whispered, staring straight at James.

He said nothing, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "She knew Paul had... issues."

Issues. It was incredible how fast cold-blooded betrayal became a minor character flaw when wealthy men were the ones committing it.

I turned and swept into the dining hall, finding my mother beneath a massive arrangement of white orchids, deep in conversation with Paul's mother.

"Mom."

My mother turned, taking in my disheveled posture, and frowned. "Melody, what on earth is wrong with you?"

"Did you know Paul was cheating on me?"

Mrs. Belcourt went entirely motionless, her champagne glass frozen. My mother’s expression barely flickered.

"Melody," my mother said in a deadly low register. "Not here."

"You knew."

"Lower your voice."

"Everyone in this room knew!"

"You are being hysterical!"

"I am being humiliated!"

My mother grabbed my arm, her fingers digging through my navy sleeves, and dragged me toward the secluded hallway near the coat check.

"Listen to me very carefully," she hissed. "You are three weeks away from marrying into one of the most powerful families in this city."

"I don't care about his family!"

"You will tomorrow when you calm down!"

Her grip tightened until it hurt. She exhaled, softening her voice to speak to me as if I were a child. "Men like Paul have options, Melody. He is handsome, successful, and extraordinarily wealthy. Women are always going to throw themselves at him."

"And that's supposed to make it okay?" I choked out.

"No," she said coldly. "It is supposed to make you realistic."

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Paul had followed us, with James hovering a few feet behind him. Farther down the corridor, my father stood by the mahogany doors, hands buried in his pockets. Not stepping in. Never stepping in.

My mother turned her soft, pitying gaze back onto me. "You are the woman he is bringing to the altar, Melody. You are the one he is marrying."

Look at him. Look at you. Take the win, Melody. You won't get a better offer.

My shaking fingers reached up and found the heavy diamond engagement ring on my left hand.

Paul saw the movement immediately. "Melody, stop. Don't be dramatic."

I pulled the platinum band off my finger.

His smug composure finally cracked. A flash of raw panic hit his eyes as I held the multi-carat diamond out between us. He refused to reach out his hand.

So, I leaned forward and dropped the heavy ring straight into the crystal glass of scotch he was still holding.

It fell with a sharp clink, splashing dark amber liquid across the front of his crisp white shirt. The shirt I had chosen for him.

"I guess you'll need to find a new bride," I said softly.

I turned around and walked down the hallway toward the front doors.

This time, nobody tried to stop me.