My Stepbrother Sent Me to a Juvenile Detention Center Then Proposed

They sent me to a juvenile detention center for crushing on my own stepbrother, Dylan. After I got out, he still didn't trust me and even paraded me before cameras at some press conference to show off his "successful rehabilitation." My pride was in tatters. Eventually, I fell out of love with him. Found someone else. But then... he snapped. On my engagement day, he locked me in a room, shredded my wedding dress, and held a knife to my throat. All to force me to love him again. Not happening. Because now, someone else loves me most in this world. When I pushed open the villa's gilded doors, the crowd inside froze. Every head turned my way. Their stares pricked like wasps, each one leaving a welt of shame. To them, I'd always be that sick girl obsessed with her brother. "Lily Scott?" That voice—Victoria Blake, Dylan's fiancée, my so-called stepsister. She click-clacked toward me in white stilettos, lip curled as she eyed my faded tee and thrift-store jeans. "Gross. Could you look any trashier?" I dug my nails into my palms. Didn't answer. Because behind her, cutting through the crowd like a blade, came Dylan, black dress shirt stretched across his shoulders, gaze colder than the marble floor. Three years in the juvenile detention center, and my stupid heart still lurched at the sight of him. Victoria's smirk turned vicious. "Three years, and you're still drooling over your brother?" The room's whispers sharpened into knives. Dylan's eyes narrowed, dissecting me. "Looks like the juvenile detention center didn't beat the sickness out of you," Victoria purred. Thunk! My knees hit the marble before I could think. "I'm sorry! I was wrong!" My voice cracked as I smashed my forehead against the floor. "I shouldn't have had those thoughts! I deserve to..." "Holy hell, she's insane!" Victoria fake-squealed, clinging to Dylan like I'd brandished a weapon. "Pathetic. Dylan, are you seeing this?" Her laugh cut through the crowd's whispers. Every syllable flayed me raw. "Maybe we should toss her back for another round of 'correctional treatment,'" a voice sneered from the crowd. My forehead kept smashing against the floor, leaving streaks of crimson on the tiles. "Enough!" Dylan's voice sliced through the laughter like a guillotine.