His Unwanted Wife, His True Love

I was the Morgan family's charity case, secretly in love with their eldest son, Desmond. For years, he promised me a future, a life where I wasn't just the orphan they took in for good press.

Then, at the dinner where I thought he would propose, he introduced me to his fiancée, a beautiful tech heiress.

As I reeled from the heartbreak, his younger brother, Antone, swept in to comfort me. I fell for him, only to discover I was just a pawn in his game-he was secretly in love with Desmond's fiancée and was using me to keep me away from them.

Before I could even process this second betrayal, the Morgan parents announced they were marrying me off to a disabled tech mogul in Seattle to secure another business deal.

The final blow came on the family yacht. I fell into the ocean with the fiancée, and I watched as both brothers-the man I once loved and the man who pretended to love me-swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown.

In their eyes, I was nothing. A placeholder, a business asset, and ultimately, a sacrifice they were willing to make without a second thought.

But I didn't die. As the private jet carried me to Seattle to marry a stranger, I took out my phone and deleted every last trace of the Morgan family from my life. My new life, whatever it held, had begun.

Chapter 1

Dallas Cole stood by the window, her heart a steady, hopeful rhythm against her ribs. The grand Morgan family dining room was set for two tonight. Not for a family dinner, but for her and Desmond. Just them.

She smoothed down her simple blue dress, a dress he'd once said matched her eyes. For years, their love had been a secret, a stolen thing in a house where she was only ever the "charity case," the orphan the Morgans took in for good press.

But tonight felt different. Desmond had promised a special evening, a real date, a conversation about their future.

Footsteps echoed in the marble hall. Dallas turned, a smile already on her lips.

The smile froze.

Desmond was not alone. A woman stood beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Chelsea Taylor. The daughter of a tech CEO, beautiful and composed, the kind of woman who belonged in this world. Dallas was just a guest.

"Dallas," Desmond said. His voice was cool, the same voice he used in boardrooms. "This is Chelsea. My fiancée."

The word hit her like a physical blow. Fiancée.

Dallas looked from Desmond's unreadable face to Chelsea's polite, curious smile. There was a flicker of something else in Chelsea's eyes, though-a brief, possessive assessment that was gone as quickly as it appeared. She felt the performance begin, the one she'd perfected over a decade of living on the Morgans' terms. She smiled back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chelsea. Congratulations."

Her voice didn't shake. She was proud of that.

"Thank you, Dallas," Chelsea said, her voice like honey. "Desmond has told me so much about you. You're like a sister to him."

Like a sister. The words were a casual cruelty.

Later, after Chelsea had been shown to a guest room, Desmond found Dallas in the garden. The air was cold, but she didn't feel it.

"I had to do it, Dallas," he said, not meeting her eyes. "It's a merger. Billions of dollars. Our family's future."

"And our future?" she whispered, the words barely audible.

"This is my duty," he stated, his jaw tight. "I thought you, of all people, would understand."

He saw her as an asset, just like his parents did. An understanding, convenient part of the family structure. Not someone he loved. Not enough to fight for.

"I understand," she said, her voice hollow.

He nodded, relieved. "Good. I knew you would."

He turned and walked back into the warmth of the house, leaving her alone in the dark. The pain was a vast, empty space inside her.

She stayed in the garden for what felt like hours, a ghost amidst the perfectly manicured roses. She moved through the Morgan mansion like a phantom for days, her heart a numb, heavy stone in her chest. She ate when told, smiled when expected, and died a little more each time she saw Desmond and Chelsea together. They looked perfect, a power couple forged from ambition and wealth.

One evening, she found herself on the veranda, staring into the manicured gardens, when a familiar voice broke the silence.

"You look like you could use a friend."

Antone Morgan, the younger brother, leaned against the doorway. He was the family's free spirit, a musician with a charming smile and an easy laugh that always seemed to put people at ease. He'd been on tour in Europe for months.

He walked over and draped his jacket over her shoulders. "It's cold out here."

Dallas flinched at his touch but didn't pull away.

"I heard about Desmond," he said softly, his voice full of sympathy. "He's an idiot."

Tears she hadn't allowed herself to cry suddenly blurred her vision.

"I always knew he didn't deserve you," Antone continued, his thumb gently stroking her arm. "I've watched you for years, Dallas. I think I've been in love with you since the day you arrived."

The confession was so unexpected it stunned her. She looked at him, at his earnest, handsome face, and a tiny, fragile seed of hope began to sprout in the wasteland of her heart.

Antone was nothing like Desmond. He was warm, attentive, and he saw her.

In the weeks that followed, Antone was her shadow. He took her on long drives, played her songs he'd written "just for her," and listened for hours as she poured out her heartbreak. He held her when she cried and made her laugh when she thought she never would again.

He was slowly, carefully, healing her.

One night, he took her to a small, private observatory he'd rented. He knew she loved the stars, a passion she'd shared with her late father.

"I wanted you to see something beautiful," he said, his arm wrapped around her waist.

Under the vast, starry sky, he kissed her. It wasn't like Desmond's calculated, possessive kisses. It was tender, passionate, and felt impossibly real.

"I love you, Dallas," he whispered against her lips. "Let me love you. Forget him."

And in that moment of weakness and longing, she let herself believe him. She fell into his arms, into a relationship that felt like a lifeline. She was reckless, desperate, and she began to fall in love with Antone Morgan.

The next few weeks with Antone were a blur of manufactured bliss. He was the perfect boyfriend, attentive and romantic. But sometimes, a strange look would cross his face when he saw Chelsea, a flicker of intense emotion that he would quickly mask with a smile for Dallas. She dismissed it as a brother's concern for his future sister-in-law.

It was a stupid, foolish thing to do.

One evening, she was in Antone's room, waiting for him to get out of the shower. His laptop was open on the desk. A chat notification popped up on the screen. It was from one of his bandmates.

"Dude, you still playing the long game with the charity case? Don't you get tired of pretending?"

Dallas froze. Her blood ran cold.

With trembling hands, she scrolled up through the chat history.

"It's not so bad," Antone had written a few weeks ago. "She's easy to handle. A few sweet words, a sad song, and she melts. Anything to keep her away from Desmond and Chelsea. I can't let her ruin this for Chelsea."

Another message: "Chelsea looked so happy today. As long as she's happy, I can put up with Dallas for a little longer. It's not like I'm actually touching her. Just enough to keep her hooked."

The words blurred. Every tender touch, every whispered "I love you," every shared moment-it was all a lie. A carefully constructed performance. He wasn't protecting her. He was protecting Chelsea. The woman his brother was engaged to. The woman Antone was secretly, obsessively in love with.

He had used her grief, her vulnerability, her love. He had made her a pawn in his own twisted game of unrequited love.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She stumbled back from the laptop, a choked sob escaping her lips. She had been betrayed. Not once, but twice. By two brothers.

The bedroom door opened. Antone stood there, a towel around his waist, a smile on his face. The smile vanished when he saw her expression.

"Dallas? What's wrong?"

He saw the open laptop, the chat window, and his face went pale. He knew he was caught.

The kiss was desperate, tasting of mint toothpaste and the faint, bitter scent of alcohol on his breath. It was a smell Dallas hadn't noticed before. He'd been drinking.

Her mind, sharpened by the fresh, brutal clarity of his betrayal, reacted instantly. This wasn't a kiss of passion or love. It was an act of possession, a frantic attempt to reassert control.

Her hands came up and shoved against his chest. Hard.

"Get off me."

Antone stumbled back, genuine surprise on his face. He was used to her being pliant, eager.

"Dallas? Baby, what's wrong?" He tried to pull her close again, his voice dropping to the smooth, coaxing tone he used so well. "Is this about what you read? It's not what it looks like. I can explain."

His words were poison. Every syllable was a lie she could now see with painful clarity.

"You're still thinking about him, aren't you?" Antone's expression shifted, the manufactured concern curdling into something ugly when she didn't immediately melt. "Desmond. That's it. You're using this as an excuse because you're upset he's getting married."

His grip on her arms tightened, his fingers digging into her skin. The gentle musician was gone, replaced by a man whose charisma was a thin veil for a dark, possessive anger.

"It doesn't matter," Dallas said, her voice flat and cold. "Stop pretending you care."

"Pretending?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "I'm the one who was here for you! I'm the one who picked up the pieces after he broke your heart!"

He misunderstood. He thought her words were about Desmond. His ego couldn't conceive of any other reason for her rejection.

"I gave you everything!" he snarled, his face close to hers.

He grabbed her, pushing her back toward the bed. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs.

Before she could react, he was looming over her, his weight pinning her down. He ripped at the collar of her dress, the simple blue fabric tearing with a sound that echoed the shredding of her last illusions.

His eyes were wild, filled with a desperate, hungry look she'd never seen before.

"Why are you still so obsessed with him?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. "I'm here. I'm the one who loves you. Why can't you see that?"

Humiliation and a cold, sharp fear washed over her. She struggled, pushing at his shoulders, but he was too strong.

"Antone, stop," she said, her voice firm. "I don't want this."

Her rejection only seemed to fuel his rage. He was drunk, angry, and out of control.

"You're mine, Dallas," he hissed, his mouth crashing down on hers again, a flurry of wet, aggressive kisses that made her feel like she was drowning.

Then he started talking, his words a broken, slurred confession against her skin.

"Why does he get everything? He gets the company... he gets her. She's so perfect. Why won't she just look at me?"

He was crying now, hot tears falling onto her cheek. He wasn't talking to her. The "she" in his desperate plea wasn't Dallas. It was Chelsea.

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying speed. The chat logs. His obsession. This drunken, violent display. He was on her, but in his mind, he was with Chelsea. He was acting out a sick fantasy, and Dallas was just the stand-in.

The coldness in her veins turned to ice. It was a violation so profound it transcended the physical.

With a surge of adrenaline, she brought her hand up and slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp, shocking in the quiet room.

He froze, his head snapping to the side. The wildness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a dazed confusion.

"Who am I, Antone?" she asked, her voice shaking with rage and a terrible, soul-deep sorrow. "Who do you think you're with right now?"

The sting of the slap seemed to sober him up. He blinked, his gaze clearing, and for the first time, he seemed to truly see her. He saw the torn dress, the terror in her eyes, the red mark on her skin where his fingers had dug in.

A look of dawning horror crossed his face.

"Dallas... I... I'm so sorry," he stammered, scrambling off her. "I didn't mean... I was drunk."

He reached for her, but she flinched away as if he were on fire.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, Dallas. I love you."

The words were meaningless now, an automatic script he couldn't deviate from.

She sat up, pulling the torn fabric of her dress together. The warmth of his presence was now a chilling poison. She was shivering, but her mind was strangely calm. The worst had happened. There were no more illusions to shatter.

"Those things you said," she stated, her voice steady. "Were they just drunk talk?"

"Yes! Of course," he said, too quickly. "Just nonsense. I love you, Dallas. Only you."

She looked into his eyes and saw the lie. He was a good actor, but she knew the script now. She knew all the lines. And she was done playing her part.

She stood up, moving toward the door.

"Dallas, wait," he begged, grabbing her hand. "Don't go."

She closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. She was so tired of this house, of this family, of their games. It was time to end it.

The next morning, Dallas woke before dawn. Antone was sprawled on the bed, sleeping off the alcohol. His phone lay on the nightstand.

A cold certainty settled over her. She needed to see. She needed to know everything.

She picked up the phone. It was locked. She hesitated for only a second before typing in a password.

C-H-E-L-S-E-A.

The phone unlocked.

Her heart didn't break. It just felt heavy, a dead weight in her chest.

She opened his photo gallery. It was a shrine. Hundreds of pictures of Chelsea. Candid shots from family gatherings, screenshots from social media, photos he must have taken when no one was looking. Chelsea laughing, Chelsea talking, Chelsea just existing.

There were only three photos of Dallas. All of them were group shots where she happened to be standing near Chelsea.

Then she found the notes app. It was a diary. A logbook of his obsession.

"Her favorite flower is a white lily."

"She hates coffee but loves Earl Grey tea."

"Today she wore a yellow dress. She looked like the sun. Desmond is the luckiest man in the world. I hate him."

It went on for pages, a meticulous catalog of another woman's life, interspersed with his own agonizing entries about loving her from afar.

As she stood there, absorbing the full, pathetic scope of his delusion, she heard the front door open downstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were back from their weekend trip.

She couldn't breathe. She dropped the phone and fled the room, a silent scream trapped in her throat.

Back in her own room, the one that had always felt borrowed, she finally let the dam break. She sank to the floor, her body wracked with silent, tearless sobs. It wasn't just heartbreak. It was a deep, cellular humiliation that made her skin crawl.

When the storm passed, she was left with a cold, hard calm.

She stood up and began to pack.

She was methodical. She pulled out a suitcase and started filling it with the few things that were truly hers. Her parents' old photographs. A worn copy of her favorite book. The simple, functional clothes she'd bought with her own small allowance.

Everything the Morgans had ever given her-the designer dresses, the jewelry, the expensive shoes-she gathered into a large pile in the middle of the room. She found the star chart Antone had given her at the observatory and tossed it on top. Then she added the dried flower he'd given her on their first "date."

She was purging her life of their influence, piece by piece.

Just then, a knock came at her door. It was Mrs. Morgan.

"Dallas," she said, her voice crisp and business-like, her eyes sweeping over the pile of discarded luxury goods with distaste. "Stop this foolishness. Your father and I have something to discuss with you. In the study. Now."

She didn't ask why Dallas's eyes were red. She didn't care.

Dallas quickly wiped her face, the familiar mask of composure falling back into place.

"Of course," she said.

In the formal study, with its priceless art and suffocating silence, Mr. Morgan got straight to the point.

"We have arranged a marriage for you."

Dallas stared at him, uncomprehending.

"To Kennedy Simmons," he continued, as if discussing a stock transaction. "The tech mogul from Seattle. A brilliant man. It's a very advantageous match for the family."

"But... why?" Dallas asked, her voice a small, broken thing.

"He's a paraplegic," Mrs. Morgan added, a hint of distaste in her voice. "A car accident a few years ago. But his company is on the verge of a major breakthrough, and a partnership would be invaluable to Morgan Enterprises' tech division."

They weren't just using her emotions anymore. They were selling her. Body and soul.

"You are our adopted daughter, Dallas," Mr. Morgan said, his eyes like chips of ice. "You have a duty to this family. We took you in when you had nothing."

She remembered the day they adopted her. A calculated PR move after her parents, two brilliant scientists, died in a lab explosion caused by faulty Morgan-supplied equipment. The Morgans had silenced the story, adopted the orphaned daughter, and painted themselves as saviors. Her entire life had been a transaction.

She looked from Mr. Morgan's cold face to Mrs. Morgan's dismissive one. Then she thought of Desmond, who chose a merger over her, and Antone, who used her as a placeholder for another woman.

There was nothing left for her here. No love. No family. Just a series of betrayals.

"When is the wedding?" she asked, her voice devoid of any emotion.

Mrs. Morgan looked surprised, then pleased by her quick compliance. "Next week. We've already made the arrangements. You'll fly to Seattle tomorrow."

It was a sentence. A life sentence. And Dallas, with nothing left to lose, accepted it. This was the price of their charity.

Suddenly, Antone burst into the room, his hair still damp.

"What are you talking about? A wedding? Dallas is with me!" he declared, grabbing her arm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Antone," his mother snapped. "This is business."

"And this is personal," Antone shot back, his eyes wild. "She loves me!"

He pulled her into the hallway, his grip tight. "Dallas, tell them," he urged, his voice a desperate whisper. "Tell them you won't do it. We can be together."

Dallas looked at his frantic face, the face of a man trying to keep his favorite toy from being taken away. She felt nothing. A part of her, the small, naive part he had so expertly manipulated, was already dead.

The moment the study door clicked shut behind them, he spun her around and pressed his mouth to hers.