The Perfect Brother

Paul texted me before I’d even made it halfway home from the gala.

Paul: What were you and August talking about?

I stared at the glowing screen from the back seat of my car, watching the city streetlights cast rhythmic shadows across my lap.

Well. That didn't take long.

I didn't answer immediately. I waited until I was safely inside my apartment, kicked off my heels, and poured a tall glass of ice water before picking up my phone again.

Me: You should ask August.

Three pulsing gray dots appeared almost instantly. Disappeared. Appeared again.

A slow smile spread across my face as I leaned against the kitchen counter. Too easy.

Paul: Dinner tomorrow night. Just the two of us. Let’s catch up properly.

Every sane instinct warned me to say no. I should have blocked his number and gone to sleep. Instead, I remembered the look on Paul’s face from across the ballroom when I’d stood nose-to-nose with August. The way his knuckles had turned white around his glass. The subtle drop in his jaw when I’d touched August’s jacket.

He was losing his mind over his older brother stepping into his territory.

Me: What time?

Paul: Seven. I’ll send my driver.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: I have my own car, Paul.

Paul: Still stubborn.

I stared at the screen, a cold prickle settling over my skin. Six years ago, Paul had called me stubborn whenever I dared to have an opinion that didn't align with his. Back then, I’d usually apologize and shrink myself to fit into his world.

Tonight, I set my phone face-down and went to bed smiling.

The next morning, my phone buzzed on my desk at nine o'clock sharp.

The notification read: James.

My fingers went rigid. I stared at my brother's name like it was a venomous snake. Six years of radio silence. Six years of zero calls, zero texts, and zero effort to make things right after throwing me to the wolves.

And now, a four-word text message:

James: We need to talk.

Not Hello. Not I'm so sorry. Not Can I see you?

Just an order from a man who still assumed he held authority over my life. Apparently, the men from my old world had all attended the exact same school of entitled communication.

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the blotter. James could wait. Tonight, I had a far more entertaining disaster to attend to.

Paul chose Laurent.

Of course he did. The restaurant occupied the top floor of the Grand Armitage Hotel, featuring floor-to-ceiling glass, crystal chandeliers, and a six-month waiting list that disappeared only if your last name carried enough weight to intimidate the maître d'.

Paul and I used to dine here once a month. Back when I was naive and convinced that ordering the cheapest thing on the menu made me "low-maintenance." Back when I believed that making myself easy to please was the same thing as being loved.

When I glided past the hostess stand, Paul stood up immediately. His eyes widened as his gaze swept over my black backless dress.

"Wow," he breathed, stepping out to pull my chair. "Melody... you look stunning."

"Hello to you too, Paul," I replied smoothly, settling into the velvet seat.

"I remember that dress on you."

"No, you don't."

He paused, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his features. "Don't I?"

"It's brand new."

Paul let out a hearty, boyish laugh, shaking his head. "Catching me out already?"

"I don't even have to try, Paul."

A bottle of Dom Pérignon was chilling beside the table. My old favorite—or at least, what had been my favorite six years ago.

Paul poured two glasses. "I was hoping we could use tonight to start fresh."

"Can we?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Why not?" He met my stare with that warm, magnetic gaze that had once been my absolute undoing. "We're older now. Smarter."

For a split second—a dangerous, fleeting heartbeat—a wave of nostalgia hit me. I remembered loving that smile. Paul had been charming when he wanted to be. Generous. Funny. He used to bring me coffee on rainy Sunday mornings and steal food off my plate.

I hadn't fabricated the good times. I had simply used them to excuse his unforgivable ones.

"So," Paul said, leaning his elbows on the table. "Tell me about the last six years."

"That would take entirely too long."

"We have all night, Mel."

"I don't."

He chuckled softly. "God, I missed that."

"Missed what?"

"You." He reached for his glass. "I missed your mind."

I lifted my champagne, taking a slow, calculated sip. "You barely knew me, Paul."

His smile faltered. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

"We were together for three years, Melody."

Three years together, I thought bitterly. A wedding three weeks away. A house picked out. And then I opened a guest room door upstairs at your family estate.

"Was there anyone else?" Paul asked suddenly. "Over the last six years. Was there another man?"

"Several."

That caught him off guard. The color drained slightly from his cheeks before he forced a tight smile back onto his face. "Anyone serious?"

"Define 'serious.'"

"Did you love any of them?"

"That's exceptionally personal, Paul."

"We were engaged!" he said, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper.

"Keyword: were."

His jaw tightened. "Did you love someone else, Melody?"

I leaned back, resting my chin on my hand, enjoying the sudden tension rolling off him. "Why do you care so much?"

"You never got married," he noted. "You stayed single."

"So did you."

"That's completely different."

"How?"

He shrugged. "I never found the right woman."

"Oh, I'm sure you found plenty of wrong ones."

"Come on, Mel," he groaned, reaching across the white tablecloth. His warm fingers brushed over my knuckles. "I'm trying here. I've wondered about you for years. I never stopped wondering what would have happened if you'd just stayed."

If I'd stayed. Not if I hadn't cheated. As though the end of our life together was a tragedy caused by my sudden departure rather than his relentless infidelity.

"We probably would have gotten married," I said quietly, playing along.

His thumb stroked lightly over my skin. "We would have. Two kids."

"You always wanted three," I corrected softly.

"See? You remember." Paul offered a triumphant smile.

"Unfortunately, Paul," I said, slowly pulling my hand out from under his, "I remember every single thing."

His smile vanished instantly.

"Did you ever think about coming back?" he asked, his tone hardening.

"No." The answer was immediate. Cold.

Paul flinched as if I'd slapped him, but he recovered within seconds, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You wrote an entire play about me, Melody. You can't sit there and tell me you never thought about coming back when you spent two years writing about our past."

"I wrote a play about what happened to me," I corrected sharply. "Not about you."

"Same difference."

"No, Paul. It really isn't."

The waiter arrived, placing our appetizers between us. Paul waited until the man glided away before leaning over his plate.

"Is this about August?" he asked flatly.

I nearly dropped my fork. "Excuse me?"

"Last night at the gala. You were flirting with him."

"I was being polite to your brother."

"Don't do that, Mel," Paul sneered. "Don't sit there and pretend you don't know exactly what you're doing."

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my wine. "Fascinating."

"What?"

"August said the exact same thing to me yesterday morning."

Paul's easy posture shattered. His fork clattered against his plate, his face going pale. Jackpot.

"You and August have been talking a lot," Paul said, his voice dangerously low. "He came to your office. And then last night at the gala—you touched his arm."

I blinked in fake surprise. "Were you counting the seconds, Paul?"

"I'm not jealous," he snapped.

"I never said you were."

"You were deliberately trying to make me jealous."

I leaned forward, letting a sweet, razor-sharp smile pull at my lips. "Did it work?"

Silence heavy enough to crush a building fell over the table. Paul stared at me, his chest rising and falling heavily.

"August would never get involved with a woman like you," Paul said coldly. "Whatever game you think you're playing with him, it won't work."

"I'm not playing a game."

"Right." Paul scoffed. "August has spent his entire life being the perfect son. He doesn't break rules. And he definitely doesn't touch his younger brother's ex-fiancée."

I set my fork down with a quiet clink. "Who said anything about him touching me?"

Paul's expression flickered—a fast, microscopic flash of panic.

Got you.

"August has always thought he's better than everyone else in the family," Paul muttered, the bitter resentment spilling out. "August gets the international acquisitions. August gets the board seats. August gets Dad's trust fund control. He spent his whole damn life playing the saint."

Paul caught himself, realizing he'd let the mask slip too far. He cleared his throat, forcing a hollow laugh. "But whatever. That's August. Cold and corporate."

"And you're you," I filled in smoothly.

"Exactly," Paul smiled, lifting his glass toward me. "Much more fun."

I smiled back, but my mind was spinning. Paul had just handed me the key to his entire psyche. This wasn't just about his ego.

It was August.

The golden child. The brilliant heir. The older brother Paul had spent his entire life standing beside and failing to measure up to. Seeing my hand on August's chest had struck at Paul's deepest, most pathetic insecurity.

Fascinating.

Dinner ended at ten sharp. I permitted Paul to kiss my cheek outside the restaurant before slipping into the back of my town car.

My phone sat in my lap for three blocks before I picked it up, opening a contact I hadn't used yet.

August Belcourt.

His direct cell number had been listed on the legal paperwork his office sent over. I stared at his name, Paul's bitter voice echoing through my mind: August would never get involved with a woman like you.

Maybe he wouldn't. But that didn't mean I couldn't have an absolute blast proving his little brother wrong.

I opened a new text thread.

Me: Are you still interested in discussing the rights to my play?

Three long minutes passed before my phone buzzed.

August: Have you reconsidered accepting the buyout offer?

I grinned.

Me: Not a chance.

Another full minute of silence.

August: Then we have nothing to discuss.

I let out a breathless laugh, my fingers flying across the glass.

Me: Dinner tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. We can negotiate over drinks.

This time, August's reply came back almost instantaneously.

August: Absolutely not.

I stared at the two words on the screen, a low, wicked chuckle escaping my lips.

Well, at least I'd gotten his attention.