Your Regret Isn't My Problem

My fiancé's older brother was into girls with tiny waists. He wanted to marry my foster sister—the one with the twenty-one-inch waist. Their wedding? Same day Eric and I were supposed to get hitched. When he found out, Eric begged me to swap with Briana. "Lena, it's always been Briana. If your family hadn't found you, she wouldn't have had to play fake heiress, and I wouldn't be stuck with you." I stayed quiet. He kept digging. "Chill. My brother won't even touch you. Once the dust settles, I'll bring you back—as my side piece." Staring at that fake, slimy smile, I felt a little out of it. Last time, I told him no—and still ended up married to him, beaten until I died. Then I woke up. Same day. Same plea from Eric. This time, I handed them exactly what they wanted. "Fine. I'll marry him." Eric lit up like he'd won. Didn't last long. Next thing I knew, he was out in the rain, on his knees, clutching his head, sobbing, begging me to leave his brother and come back.