I Once Loved My Foster Brother

For ten years, I lived a lie, pretending to be part of the wealthy Peterson family who took me in after my parents died. I, Scarlett Hayes, the orphan they graciously adopted, secretly cherished a forbidden love for their son, Brandon.

My carefully guarded world shattered on my eighteenth birthday when I finally confessed my feelings. "I... I love you. Not like a sister," I stammered, only to be met with his cold, dismissive laugh. "Scarlett, don' t be ridiculous. You' re my sister. That' s all you' ll ever be."

His words clipped my wings, but my foolish heart clung to hope for four more years, enduring his casual cruelties. The final blow came when his new girlfriend, Tiffany Chen, publicly humiliated me at his birthday party, accusing me of something I didn' t do. Instead of defending me, Brandon slapped me across the face in front of everyone, his act a brutal testament to his indifference.

The pain, both physical and emotional, was a constant throb. How could the boy who once promised to protect me become my tormentor? How could I have been so blind, so foolishly devoted to someone who saw me as nothing more than a burden, a "guest" in his perfect life? And why did he give away the last piece of my dead parents to her, the music box, as if I simply didn't exist?

But that slap, that utter dismissal, became my turning point. I had to choose myself. With a full scholarship to London for art, my true passion, I packed my single suitcase. I was done loving him. I was leaving, a one-way ticket to a new life where I would finally be free.

My name is Scarlett Hayes, and for ten years, I lived a lie. The lie was that I was part of the Peterson family.

I was twelve when my parents died in a car crash. The world went silent and gray. Then, the Petersons, my parents' wealthy friends, took me in. They gave me a beautiful room, expensive clothes, and a place at their dinner table. They gave me everything except what I really needed.

Their son, Brandon Peterson, was four years older than me. He was the sun in their perfect universe, and I, a little orphaned moon, started to revolve around him. He was my protector in those first few years, the one who would chase away the nightmares. He was my big brother. But as I grew up, my feelings twisted into something else, something deeper and more painful. I fell in love with him.

It was a secret I kept locked in my chest for years, a heavy, hopeful weight. On my eighteenth birthday, I finally found the courage to tell him. We were standing by the pool, the water glowing under the moonlight. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would break out of my ribs.

"Brandon," I started, my voice trembling. "I have to tell you something. I... I love you. Not like a sister."

He stared at me for a long moment, his handsome face unreadable. Then, he let out a short, cold laugh. "Scarlett, don't be ridiculous. You' re my sister. That' s all you' ll ever be. Stop having these stupid fantasies."

His words broke something inside me, but I was young and foolish. I thought I could change his mind. I thought if I just loved him harder, was better, quieter, more of what he wanted, he would see me. I spent the next four years trying. It was a slow, soul-crushing process. He would show me a moment of kindness, and my hope would flare up again, only for him to snuff it out with a careless word or a dismissive look.

The final, shattering blow came last month. He started dating Tiffany Chen, a woman who seemed made of sharp edges and fake smiles. She disliked me on sight and made it her mission to make my life a living hell. The public humiliation was the end. At his own birthday party, she accused me of something I didn't do, and he slapped me across the face in front of everyone. He didn' t even ask if it was true. He just hit me. For her. That was when the last bit of foolish hope died.

I realized I couldn' t stay. I couldn' t keep living in the shadow of his life, waiting for scraps of affection he would never give. I applied for an overseas scholarship in art, my one true passion, and to my shock, I got it. A full ride. A new life.

Now, I was finally doing it. I was leaving. As I packed the last of my things into a single suitcase, my phone buzzed. It was my Aunt Clara, my mother' s sister.

"Are you sure about this, sweetie?" she asked, her voice warm and worried.

I looked around the room that had been mine for a decade but had never truly felt like home. "I' m sure, Aunt Clara. I can' t stay here anymore."

"Okay, then. Your Uncle Ben and I will be waiting for you at the airport in London. We can' t wait to have you. Your cousin Ethan has already decided you' re sharing his room so you can build LEGOs together."

A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time in weeks. "Tell him I' ll bring the special space LEGO set."

As I hung up, I saw Brandon and Tiffany walking across the lawn, hand in hand. They were laughing, their heads close together. They looked so perfect, so happy. It was a picture of everything I could never have. The sight should have hurt, but for the first time, it just felt... distant. A painful memory that was already starting to fade.

I remembered the night I confessed to him, the coldness in his eyes. I remembered the sting of his hand on my cheek. I remembered every dismissive word, every careless cruelty. He called me his sister when it was convenient, a way to keep me close but not too close. He treated me like a burden he was forced to carry.

Brandon glanced up at my window, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. There was no recognition, no feeling. He just looked through me and then turned back to Tiffany. That was his choice. He had made it over and over again.

I pulled out the small, leather-bound diary I' d had since I was a girl. It was filled with my childish handwriting, then a teenager' s scrawl, all of it dedicated to him. Page after page of dreams about Brandon Peterson. I flipped to the last empty page.

My hand was steady as I wrote.

"Goodbye, Brandon. I' m done loving you."

I closed the book and left it on the empty desk. Let him find it. Let him read it or burn it. It didn' t matter anymore. I picked up my single suitcase and walked out of the room, not looking back. I was finally choosing myself.

The Peterson family' s annual charity gala was the biggest social event of the year. The ballroom was filled with glittering chandeliers, the hum of polite conversation, and the clinking of champagne glasses. I always hated it. It was a night of fake smiles and high-stakes networking, a world where I felt like an outsider wearing a costume.

I found a quiet corner near the French doors that led to the garden, hoping to become invisible. From my spot, I had a clear view of the dance floor. Brandon was there, of course, with Tiffany attached to his arm. She wore a stunning red dress that demanded attention, and she moved with a confidence that I could only dream of. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed, a bright, musical sound that made my stomach clench. He looked happy. He never looked at me like that.

I tried to focus on the soft music, on the patterns in the marble floor, on anything but them. But it was like a magnet, my eyes kept drifting back to the happy couple.

Suddenly, a figure in red blocked my view. It was Tiffany.

"Scarlett, you look so lonely over here," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Why don' t you come and be social?"

"I' m fine, thank you," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I knew she was just here to start trouble.

"Oh, don' t be like that." She stepped closer, her smile widening. She held two glasses of red wine. "Here, have a drink. Loosen up a little." She pushed one of the glasses into my hand.

I didn' t want it, but refusing would just create a scene. I held the glass, intending to put it down on a nearby table as soon as she left. But she didn' t leave.

She leaned in, as if to share a secret. "You know, Brandon feels so sorry for you. He says it must be so hard, being an orphan. Always on the outside, looking in."

Her words were sharp, meant to hurt, and they did. I just stared at her, speechless.

"Oops!" she suddenly exclaimed, stumbling forward. Her entire glass of red wine sloshed down the front of my pale blue dress. The cold liquid soaked through the fabric instantly, and a huge, dark red stain blossomed across the bodice.

Gasps rippled through the people nearby. The conversation died down as everyone turned to look at the commotion.

"Oh my god, Scarlett, I am so, so sorry!" Tiffany cried out, her voice loud and dramatic. "I' m so clumsy! Look what I' ve done to your beautiful dress!"

It happened so fast, I was still processing the cold shock of the wine. But I knew, I knew she had done it on purpose. The way she stumbled was fake, her apology was an act.

Before I could say a word, Brandon was there. He pushed through the small crowd, his face a mask of anger. He didn' t even look at me. His eyes went straight to Tiffany, who was putting on a great show of being flustered and upset.

"What happened?" Brandon demanded, his voice sharp.

"It was my fault," Tiffany said, her lower lip trembling. "I tripped and spilled wine on Scarlett. I feel terrible."

"No, you didn' t," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "You did it on purpose."

Brandon' s head snapped toward me. His eyes were blazing with fury. "What did you just say?"

"She' s lying," I said, looking him straight in the eye, begging him to see the truth. "She threw her drink on me."

"Why would she do that?" Brandon shot back, his voice dripping with contempt. "Because you' re jealous? Because you can' t stand to see me happy with someone else?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and ugly. People were whispering, their eyes darting between us.

"That' s not true-" I started to say, but I never finished.

His hand moved in a blur. The sound of it connecting with my cheek was like a gunshot in the suddenly silent ballroom. A sharp, stinging pain exploded on my face. My head snapped to the side from the force of the blow.

I stood there, stunned, my cheek burning. The entire room was staring. He had slapped me. In front of hundreds of people, he had slapped me.

"Don' t you ever," he seethed, his face inches from mine, "accuse Tiffany of lying again. You will apologize to her. Now."

Just then, his father, Mr. Peterson, arrived, his face stern and disapproving. He didn' t look at Brandon. He looked at me, his eyes cold.

"Scarlett, what is the meaning of this scene?" he demanded. "You are embarrassing this family."

I couldn' t speak. The physical pain in my cheek was nothing compared to the crushing weight of the humiliation. I looked from Mr. Peterson' s angry face to Brandon' s furious one. And then I saw him turn to Tiffany, his expression softening instantly. He gently took her arm.

"Are you okay, Tiff?" he asked, his voice full of concern. He completely ignored me, as if I wasn' t even there, standing with the imprint of his hand burning on my skin. The contrast was brutal. He hit me, and then he comforted her.

"Apologize, Scarlett," Brandon repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Apologize to Tiffany for your disgusting accusation."

My heart felt like a block of ice in my chest. This was it. This was the moment everything shattered for good.