My brother was the tragic, obsessive villain of a dark romance novel. After the female lead staged her spectacular death to escape him, he spent every waking hour trying to figure out how to follow her to the grave. But before he could manage to pull off a dramatic suicide, his phone rang. It was my preschool teacher: “Are you Ruby’s brother? You need to come to the school. She’s been climbing into the classroom fish tank every day, trying to cosplay a goldfish. She claims she learned it from you. What on earth is going on?” To set a decent example for me, he suddenly didn’t dare to die anymore. Until one day, I was sent to the principal’s office for supposedly dating a bleach-blonde rebel. As it turned out, that blonde boy was none other than the female lead’s younger brother. When the female lead saw my brother, she offered a soft, bittersweet smile: “Oh, Chris. I had no idea Ruby was your sister. My brother might be a bit of a troublemaker, but he has a good heart. He’s perfect for her. Maybe we’ll end up as family after all…” Before she could even finish her sentence, my brother cut her off, his voice ice-cold: “Do you honestly think just anyone can climb their way into the Whitman family? Tell your brother to get over his little fantasy before I end him.” … Bella wanted to escape my brother’s suffocating grip so badly that she did the only logical thing she could think of. She threw herself off a jagged cliff into the endless, churning sea, right before a crowd of horrified onlookers. Standing on the precipice in a fluttering white dress, tears streaming down her face, she whispered her final, agonizing words: “I’m so sorry, Chris. If there is a next life, I promise I won’t let you down.” If I hadn’t already read the script of our lives and known she was just faking her death to run away with her actual love interest, Alan, I might have shed a tear. I really would have believed her tragic performance. But Chris, entirely in the dark, was utterly shattered. He hired multiple salvage teams to search the freezing waters for a solid week, turning up absolutely nothing. He became a hollow shell of himself, weeping in his darkened study, seriously contemplating jumping off that same cliff like a grief-stricken seagull just to join her in the depths. Until his phone rang, and a very exhausted preschool teacher was on the other end: “Hello, am I speaking with Chris Whitman, Ruby’s brother? We need to have a serious talk about your sister’s behavior. Please come to the school as soon as possible.” My brother rubbed his temple, his voice thick with irritation: “Can’t this wait? Or can you just tell me over the phone?” The teacher sounded even more done with life than he was: “Mr. Whitman, she spends recess trying to squeeze herself into our classroom fish tank to play ‘dead goldfish.’ She says she’s copying her brother. She claims her brother goes to the cliffs every day to play ‘gull of death,’ and she wants them to die together—one in the sky, one in the sea—so they can be siblings again in the next life. What exactly is going on at home?” My brother went completely silent. After dragging me out of the principal’s office—and the fish tank—he brought me home. He placed me gently on the kitchen island, his hands resting heavily on my tiny shoulders. Crouching down so we were eye-to-eye, he stared at me with a profound, terrifying seriousness: “You little brat, why on earth would you want to die with me? Am I really that important to you?” I stared back with the wide, innocent eyes of a four-year-old and spoke the absolute truth: “Of course you are. You’re my big brother. You’re the only family I have left.” Just like that, the obsessive, tragic romance villain died, and a fiercely overprotective big brother was born. He stopped plotting his dramatic exit from this mortal coil and instead dedicated his entire existence to being a perfect guardian. His texting habits changed dramatically. The endless, desperate paragraphs he used to send to Bella’s inactive number were replaced by relentless, essay-length messages to my poor preschool teacher: “Hi Mrs. Higgins, I noticed Ruby isn’t drinking enough water. I bought her an 800ml insulated bottle, which is her exact daily required intake. Could you please personally monitor her to ensure she finishes the entire thing?” “Mrs. Higgins, Ruby is on the shorter side. Why is her desk all the way in the back row? How is she supposed to see the board clearly from there?” “Mrs. Higgins, Ruby mentioned you fed pudding cups to some of the other kids today, but she didn’t get one. I donated an entire wing to the school library last month; surely my sister deserves a pudding cup? Please advise.” The teacher’s replies were short and deadpan: “Mr. Whitman, those puddings were brought from home by another student’s mother. I was simply helping them open the packaging.” Chris went quiet. The next day, a courier delivered a massive crate of premium organic pudding cups to the classroom, along with a note asking the teacher to help me open them. By the time I started elementary school, I thought Chris had finally buried his obsession with Bella. But then, in the dead of night, I caught him sitting in the dim glow of his phone screen, staring at Bella’s frozen social media profile and quietly wiping away a tear. I knew I had to act. I went into my settings and blocked him from seeing any of my social media posts. When I came home from school the following afternoon, I overheard him frantically questioning our butler in the hallway: “Why is there just a blank gray line on Ruby’s profile?” Chris’s voice was borderline panicked. “Is her phone broken? Did she get hacked?” Our butler, a seasoned man of quiet wisdom, gave a helpless shrug: “Her phone is working perfectly, sir. It looks like… she blocked you.” It was as if lightning had struck him: “What? Why would she do that?” The butler offered a comforting smile that was secretly a devastating blow: “Well, she’s entering her pre-teen years. It’s natural for girls her age to want some privacy, to have a few secrets. Though, at this rebellious stage, without parents around, she might feel a bit lonely. It’s easy for lonely young girls to get swept up by some bad boys, or those troubled kids with bleach-blonde hair…” That did it. Chris’s lingering grief over Bella instantly evaporated, replaced by a consuming terror of the hypothetical “bad boys” waiting to steal his sister away. He spent every hour analyzing my moods, trying to figure out what deep, dark secrets I was hiding behind that blocked profile. A week later, I quietly unblocked him. He clicked on my profile so fast I’m surprised he didn’t crack his screen. There were no photos of motorcycle-riding rebels or suspicious comments. Pinned right at the top of my feed was a candid photo I’d taken of his back while he was clumsily trying to cook me pancakes. The caption read: My brother is, without a doubt, my favorite person in the whole wide world! My brother wept on the spot. By the time I entered high school, life had settled into a comfortable, protective routine. But then, the Whitman family’s security detail caught wind of a rumor: Bella wasn’t dead. Someone had spotted her in the city, living under a different name. I could feel the old, dangerous embers in Chris’s chest beginning to spark. He began discreetly putting out feelers, trying to track her down. And then, fate—or whatever twisted author was writing our lives—intervened. A new transfer student joined my class. His name was Brody. He had bleach-blonde hair, pale skin, and a face that was a striking, undeniable mirror image of his older sister, Bella. It ran in the family, apparently. Both siblings possessed this almost intoxicating, magnetic charm. On Brody’s very first day, two girls in my class got into a screaming match over who got to sit next to him. One of them was Tiffany, the school’s notorious rich-girl bully. Brody just watched the drama unfold with lazy, detached amusement, living by the classic player’s creed: don’t initiate, don’t commit, don’t decline. He was a ghost in his own life, letting girls crash against him like waves. Just like Bella used to do. Years ago, Bella had breezed into Chris’s life like a warm summer breeze. But the moment Alan appeared, she began a delicate dance—keeping Chris on a tight leash of hope while simultaneously drawing Alan closer. When the two men finally tore each other apart over her, she played the ultimate martyr. She offered herself to Chris, pretending to sacrifice her freedom so he wouldn’t crush Alan’s business. She never gave Chris a straight “no,” yet she would run to Alan, weeping about how Chris was keeping her captive in a gilded cage. It drove Chris mad. He was completely under her spell, utterly bewildered by her hot-and-cold games. In a desperate bid for control, he locked her away in his estate. But Bella wasn’t a helpless victim. She and Alan had quietly orchestrated that spectacular, cliff-diving exit. While Chris was attending a high-society gala, she slipped past the guards. By the time he realized she was gone and rushed to the coast, she was already standing on the edge. She knew exactly what to say to leave a permanent scar, to make sure he’d spend the rest of his life drowning in guilt instead of hunting them down. That evening, at the dinner table, I casually brought up the new transfer student. “We got a new kid in class today,” I said, poking at my salad. “His name is Brody.” Chris barely looked up, his thumb restlessly scrolling through his phone. He was clearly distracted, likely looking for any trace of Bella. After dinner, we retreated to our respective rooms. Around midnight, I walked down to the kitchen to warm up some milk, only to hear heated voices echoing from the study. It was Chris and our butler. “Sir, Bella never loved you,” the butler’s voice was unusually sharp, carrying a heavy weight of warning. “Her death was a staged escape. She wanted to get as far away from you as possible.” “That’s not true!” Chris snapped, his voice tight with desperation. “She had no choice! If she hated me, why would she come back to this city? She knows this is my territory, she knows I’d find her…” I stood in the dark hallway, the cold tile beneath my feet matching the chill in my chest. In the original plot, my brother’s obsession with tearing Bella and Alan apart would lead to his absolute ruin, a miserable end where he lost everything and died unloved. I didn’t sleep at all that night. If fate was going to push us back onto this collision course, I wasn’t going to sit back and watch. I was going to meet it head-on. Brody’s grades were abysmal. The next day, the homeroom teacher paired him with me, the class academic rep, for peer tutoring. I agreed without a second thought. When I sat down across from him, Brody let out a soft, cynical smirk. He obviously figured I was just another girl using schoolwork as an excuse to get close to him. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction. During our sessions, I was a machine. I spoke only of calculus formulas and literary themes. I didn’t ask about his life, his hobbies, or his sister. One afternoon, a gentle spring breeze swept through the open window, making the sheer curtains billow and dancing through my hair. A loose strand fell across my face, obstructing my view. I slipped off my glasses, tucking the stray lock behind my ear. When I looked up, I found Brody staring at me, his gaze entirely frozen. I blinked, pretending to be utterly oblivious: “Is there something on my face?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, looking away quickly: “Nothing. It’s nothing.” But our daily study sessions didn’t go unnoticed. Rumors began to spread, fueled by classmates who couldn’t see past their own assumptions. Chief among them was Tiffany, the resident mean girl who had practically claimed Brody as her personal property. She organized a silent campaign against me, rallying the other girls to freeze me out, looking for any petty way to make my life miserable. When I collected homework, she would refuse to hand hers in, only to run to the teacher later and claim I had deliberately lost her papers. When it was my turn to clean the classroom, she would walk by and casually kick over the trash can: “Oops, my foot slipped. Guess you’ll have to clean that up again.” Once, while I was in a bathroom stall, a bucket of icy water was dumped over the door. I had to walk back to class shivering, my clothes completely soaked. Because I never fought back, they assumed I was weak. Their behavior escalated. Yet, no matter what they threw at me, I never missed a tutoring session with Brody. Over time, the cynical skepticism in Brody’s eyes melted into something soft, almost painful, whenever he looked at my damp clothes or bruised spirit. But he never spoke up. He’d open his mouth to say something, only to swallow his words and look away. The boiling point came after gym class one Tuesday. I returned to the classroom to find that the envelope containing the class prep-exam fees—nearly two thousand dollars in cash—had vanished from my desk. I searched my backpack, emptied my locker, and dumped my desk organizer onto the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. The commotion drew everyone’s attention. I turned around and saw Tiffany leaning against the back wall, a mocking smile playing on her lips: “Well, well. Don’t tell me our perfect academic rep lost everyone’s exam fees?” I stood up, my expression utterly blank, and marched straight over to her desk: “I’ve let everything else slide, Tiffany. But don’t mess with the class money. Hand it over.” Tiffany’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly scowl: “Who do you think you are, accusing me? You got any proof I touched your precious money?” “Nobody else in this room is petty enough to do this,” I said quietly. She stood up, towering over me by half a head, trying to use her height to intimidate me: “Say that again. I dare you.” I didn’t flinch: “Gym class was mandatory for everyone. The only person who got a hall pass to stay behind was you.” She kicked her plastic chair back, sending it crashing to the floor: “That’s bullshit! I was in the nurse’s office the entire period. Ask anyone! And besides, Ruby, you could have handed that money to the teacher before gym class. You kept it in your desk on purpose. Maybe you stole it yourself and now you’re trying to pin it on me.” The shouting match quickly drew the attention of the administration. Within minutes, both Tiffany and I were hauled into the homeroom teacher’s office. Our teacher, Mrs. Higgins, listened to both of our stories with a deeply troubled expression. She turned to me, her voice heavy: “Ruby, you should have brought the money straight to me once you finished collecting it. What were you thinking keeping it in your desk?” I bit my inner cheek: “The classroom was incredibly chaotic between periods, and the total didn’t add up during my first count. I was halfway through recounting when the bell rang for gym. I planned to verify the final amount right after class and bring it to you.” Tiffany let out a loud, dramatic sigh: “Who actually believes that? She’s the top math student in our grade, and she expects us to believe she couldn’t count a simple stack of bills? She’s obviously hiding the money herself, and since she knew I was in the nurse’s office, she figured I’d be the perfect scapegoat.” I held my ground, keeping my voice level: “I didn’t take it.” A crowd of curious students had gathered outside the glass doors of the office, straining to hear. Someone accidentally pushed the door open, and a few voices chimed in from the hallway: “Come on, Ruby. Just because you and Tiffany have bad blood doesn’t mean you can pull a stunt like this.” “Yeah, Tiffany picking on you is one thing, but using the class exam fees to frame her is crossing the line.” Mrs. Higgins’ eyebrows shot up. She looked between us: “Ruby, Tiffany, do you two have some kind of history?” The peanut gallery outside was more than happy to explain: “Mrs. Higgins, you don’t know? Tiffany’s been trying to get with the new kid, Brody, but he’s totally ignored her.” “But Brody’s been spending all his time with Ruby. So Tiffany’s been… playing some practical jokes on her.” I watched Mrs. Higgins’ face shift as she connected the dots and made her decision. She looked at me, her expression softening into a patronizing, pitying look: “Ruby, look. If Tiffany played some inappropriate jokes on you, that’s wrong, and we will address it.” “But you cannot use the class funds to retaliate. Just tell me where you hid the money. If you return it now, we can resolve this quietly without putting it on your permanent record.” Tiffany’s father was the CEO of a major publicly traded company. Just last year, he had donated a million dollars to the school’s endowment fund. The administrators and teachers practically walked on eggshells around her. Mrs. Higgins had clearly decided that sacrificing a middle-class academic rep like me was the easiest way to keep her biggest donor happy. The amount missing was pocket change to my family—Chris gave me more than that for allowance every month. But I refused to let them sweep this under the rug: “I’m not admitting to something I didn’t do. If we can’t find the thief, we should pull the security footage.” Tiffany rolled her eyes, crossing her arms: “Go ahead. Pull it. See if I care.” We marched down to the security office, only for the guard to rub the back of his neck sheepishly: “Sorry, girls. The cameras on the third floor have been down since yesterday. The repair tech isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.” We ended up back in Mrs. Higgins’ office. Seeing that neither of us was backing down, she sighed and picked up the desk phone: “Fine. If we can’t settle this, I’m calling both of your parents.” Before she could dial, there was a sharp knock on the door. Brody walked in, holding up his phone. He looked tired, but his jaw was set: “You don’t need to call anyone. I have the thief on video.” Phones were strictly banned on school grounds. By coming forward with video evidence, Brody was essentially turning himself in for a major school violation. He explained that during gym class, he’d gone to the locker room to change. Walking past our classroom, he had spotted Tiffany acting suspiciously near my desk. He’d pulled out his phone and started recording. He handed the phone to Mrs. Higgins. As she watched the clear video of Tiffany sliding the envelope into her designer bag, her face turned pale. Tiffany panicked, her voice rising to a shriek: “Mrs. Higgins! They’re dating! There’s no way Brody would risk suspension for her unless they were together! They’re violating the honor code!” In a desperate bid to destroy the evidence, Tiffany lunged forward to grab Brody’s phone. Brody dodged her, but in the scuffle, the phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the linoleum floor. The screen lit up on impact. There, in bright, vivid colors, was a candid photo of my profile, taken while I was focusing intensely on a math problem during one of our study sessions. It was undeniably a stealth photo. At this point, Tiffany was desperate to drag both of us down with her, hoping to bury her own malicious framing under a scandal. “Look!” She pointed at the screen, triumphant. “He has a secret photo of her as his lock screen! If they aren’t dating, then he’s a creep stalking her! Either way, they’re both going down!” Brody remained silent, his jaw clenched, staring at the floor. I took a deep breath and stepped forward: “Mrs. Higgins, we aren’t dating. And that’s not a stalker photo—I gave him permission to take it. It’s not harassment. I’m the one who likes him.” With the situation spiraling out of control, Mrs. Higgins quickly dismissed the students lingering outside the door. She was in a tight spot. She wanted to protect Tiffany to keep her father’s favor. She decided to downplay the theft entirely, focusing instead on the “inappropriate relationship” and the phone violation. She called both Brody’s guardian and my brother to the school. Bella arrived first. When she walked into the room, she didn’t recognize me. When she was living in our house, I was barely old enough to walk. By the time she faked her death, I was in preschool. She glanced at me, then leaned in to whisper to Brody, her voice carrying in the quiet office: “Is this the girl? I thought you’d have better taste. She looks like a plain little nerd.” Brody pulled away from her, his expression cold: “Don’t talk about her like that. Ruby is amazing.” A few minutes later, the door swung open, and Chris stepped in. The moment Bella saw him, her jaw literally dropped. Of all the places to run into her obsessive ex-captor, she never expected it to be a high school principal’s office. I braced myself, wondering if Chris would lose his mind at the sight of his long-lost “white moonlight” and forget all about me. But he didn’t even look at her. He strode straight past Bella, kneeling slightly to check my face and hands: “Ruby, are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?” Only then did he straighten up, his brow furrowing into a dangerous, dark line. Mrs. Higgins nervously launched into her watered-down version of events, glossing over Tiffany’s theft and focusing on the phone infraction. But Chris wasn’t an idiot. “So,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, “what I’m hearing is that this girl, Tiffany, has been systematically bullying my sister. Is that correct?” Mrs. Higgins stammered, caught off guard by his sharp focus: “Well… Mr. Whitman, it’s not really bullying. It’s just typical teenage drama, girls being competitive over a boy—” “Competitive?” Chris’s eyes flared with a cold, terrifying rage. “Get the principal in here right now. I’d like to ask him how a school that gladly accepted my library donation allows its staff to facilitate the torment of my little sister.” Mrs. Higgins turned white as a sheet. In her desperate attempt to cater to a millionaire donor, she had inadvertently insulted a multi-billionaire. As she scrambled out of the room to fetch the principal, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. It was just the four of us: Chris, Bella, Brody, and me. Bella took a tentative step forward, offering Chris a soft, fragile smile: “Chris… it’s been so long. How have you been?” Chris spared her a single, glacially cold glance before looking back down at me. He didn’t say a word. Sensing his coldness, Bella tried a different angle, gesturing toward Brody: “I had no idea Ruby was your little sister. You know, my brother might be a bit of a rebel, but he’s incredibly sweet. He’d be perfect for Ruby. Maybe we could finally be family, after all these years…” She didn’t get to finish. “Do you honestly think just anyone can climb their way into the Whitman family?” Chris’s voice was like ice. “Tell your brother to get over his little fantasy before I end him.” “If I see him anywhere near my sister again, I’ll personally make sure he never walks.”
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