Brother-In-Law's Replaced Bride

Sign

Irene Jones POV

“Why should I leave you?”

Did he really just ask that? I didn’t even know this man, and he was far too close.

“I should be asking why the hell you’re doing this. What’s wrong with you?”

“Because I want to sleep with you.” His smirk deepened as though the words were meant to amuse him.

My heart twisted, my soul ready to abandon my body altogether. The audacity of this man belonged in a textbook.

“I’m your brother’s bride. How can you even talk like this?” I shoved at his chest, but he caught my wrists mid-motion and pressed them above my head, his strength suffocating in its ease. Pain jolted across my spine as my body arched away from him.

His lips curled, pleased by my discomfort. “Yet to be a bride. And a substitute for that.” The back of his knuckles skimmed my jaw with deliberate lightness, a mockery of tenderness. “And what’s the problem in sleeping with a handsome man like me? A man who has more value than my disabled cousin?”

The words landed harder than any blow. Why did everything always reduce itself to looks or money? The Myers family was shaping up to be every bit as rotten as my own.

I ground my jaw, the fury hot and sharp. “Listen to me carefully. I don’t give a s**t about you or your so-called values. At least my husband isn’t molesting someone.”

His expression faltered, caught off guard as if no one had ever thrown his filth back at him. I might have been forced into this marriage, but I refused to let myself be treated like Misha—who lived for appearances and money.

“How much do you want?” His voice dripped with condescension, his gaze stripping me as though I were merchandise. “Girls like you love to pretend. If you’re willing to marry in your sister’s place, isn’t it because of how powerful our family is?”

My fingers curled into fists. Could I punch him? My mood had already been shredded, and now this bastard thought he had me figured out.

Assumptions. That was all men like him ever had.

I would never marry for money. Not that I despised it, but it wasn’t what I wanted from a marriage. I wanted someone who made me feel safe, someone who let me exist as myself without shame. Too many dreams had already been crushed, but some fragile piece of me still clung to the hope that this marriage might, somehow, free me from the wreckage my family had trapped me in.

Years of pretending had taught me how to endure, but what I wanted most was to love and be loved.

“I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me.” His grip tightened, pressing bone against bone.

I exhaled slowly. “A price, huh? Sounds like you have one. That’s why you’re so obsessed with mine—because people who come with price tags always look for others.”

The words slid out like a blade, leaving a quiet satisfaction. I was done being disposable, done with the slaps for speaking up, done with my mother’s insults. She never saw how hard I worked to disappear—hiding behind ugly makeup and dull clothes so her precious Misha could shine, even if it meant using me as the scapegoat.

Even today, as they brushed powder across my face for my bridal makeup, no one noticed how I had already muted my skin, dimmed myself on purpose. And for that, I was thankful.

The last thing I wanted was to be seen.

As if this day could not plunge any lower. A forced marriage. A husband who hadn’t even appeared. And now his cousin had me pinned, whispering filth.

“Interesting.”

His hands finally loosened. I rubbed my aching wrists as he slid back.

“No need to take any interest in me,” I retorted. “I have none in you.”

“We’ll see about that.” His head tilted toward the door. “For now, get out of my car.”

Like I wanted to be there in the first place. I shoved the door open and swung one leg out, then turned back long enough to flip him off before climbing out.

“Miss Jones, wait.”

The sound of my name froze me mid-step, blood quickening in my veins. The voice was familiar.

Albert approached with measured formality, a file tucked neatly in his hands. He stopped in front of me, extending it without hesitation. “Please sign these papers.”

I frowned, reluctant to take them. “What are these?”

“Since the young master couldn’t attend the wedding, he sent the marriage registration papers. He’s already signed them.” His voice remained polite, too polite, like he was reciting protocol instead of handing me the legal evidence of my forced marriage.

My stomach coiled tighter.

I stared at the file, every muscle in my hand itching to tear it apart. It wasn’t Albert’s fault—he was just the messenger—but the casual way he presented it made the entire situation feel grotesquely normal.

“And if I don’t sign?”

Albert’s expression didn’t shift. “Then you’ll have to discuss it with the Jones family directly.”

A bitter laugh nearly escaped. As if I had ever been granted a choice. My throat burned, raw with all the words I could never say. I had fought so hard to escape my family’s grip, only to stumble straight into another snare.

Even with the apartment I had bought in my own name, I knew refusal would only tighten the chains.

I snatched the file and flipped it open. My so-called husband’s signature stared back at me—bold, deliberate, as if this marriage meant nothing more than closing a deal. No vows. No ceremony. No presence. Just ink on paper.

The bitterness pressed down my throat like a stone. With a steadying breath, I lifted the pen.

‘Can’t even blame him,’ I thought, the words thick with sarcasm. ‘If his cousin talks about him like that, he might be in a tight spot too. Being crippled doesn’t help either.’

My hands shook as the pen moved. When the ink finally dried, something inside me gave way. It was done.

I wasn’t Irene Jones anymore. Now I am Irene Myers—and I have no idea what that means.

Albert closed the file with a faint nod. “Congratulations.”