Royal Furline Betrayed BY Mark Twain 1
Chapter 1
For three years, I’d been secretly dating my brother’s best friend.
I always thought he was just naturally distant—cold, reserved, uncomfortable with affection.
Until one night, I came home early from a business trip…
and caught him pleasuring himself to a photo of his little foster sister.
That’s when it hit me—our “secret relationship” wasn’t about privacy.
I was just his cover.
A few days later, I saw her post on Instagram:
“Landing back home tomorrow—come pick me up, loves!”
That’s when I decided to end it all.
I accepted the engagement my family had arranged for me and kept it quiet—invite-only.
But right in the middle of the engagement ceremony, my brother’s phone rang.
He laughed and said, “Come on, Bainbridge—Gigi’s been your girl since forever. How are you skipping her engagement party?”
Silence.
Then—
“Wait… who did you say is getting engaged?”
***
“So, you finally broke up with that mysterious boyfriend of yours?”
My brother, Aelfric Ortiz, spoke with a tone that was mocking and triumphant.
I couldn’t blame him. For three years of dating, I had never once made our relationship public.
He’d warned me long ago. “Any man who won’t show his face to your family isn’t a man who takes responsibility. It’s going to end in tears, Gigi. Mark my words.”
Back then, I didn’t believe him. I truly believed love could conquer anything.
Now, reality had proven me wrong.
I answered softly, “Yeah. We broke up.”
The line went quiet for a long moment.
“Did he hurt you?” Aelfric asked at last.
The ache I thought I had suppressed surged back, sharp and sudden.
I took a breath and shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “No. It was mutual. We ended things peacefully.”
“Good. Otherwise, I’d go beat the hell out of him.
“Listen, Gigi—men are unreliable. If you’re going to get married, you might as well go for an arranged match. Tangible interests are the only things that don’t lie to you.”
“Fine,” I said. “You handle it. I’ll be home the day after tomorrow.”
The second I hung up, Bainbridge pushed open the door.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked.
Afraid he’d notice my red eyes, I kept my back to him. “Just a classmate.”
“Hmm.”
He brushed past me and went into his study.
In the three years we’d been together, Bainbridge had always been distant.
I’d told myself it was simply his nature—aloof, restrained, not someone who liked physical or emotional closeness.
But last night, when I came home early from a business trip, I learned the truth.
I’d planned to slip home quietly and surprise him.
His study door was usually locked, but that night it stood slightly ajar.
Warm amber light spilled through the crack.
I crept closer, ready to knock—then froze.
Inside, Bainbridge’s expression was tight with barely restrained desire, eyes locked on his phone screen. One hand slid beneath his waistband.
I went completely still.
On the glowing display was a photo of Evelynn Wilde—the woman raised alongside him since childhood, his so-called adopted sister.
He was so absorbed that he didn’t even hear me leave.
I checked into a hotel and sat alone for hours.
Only then did I finally understand that for all this time, his coldness toward me hadn’t been his nature.
His refusal to go public with our relationship hadn’t been about fearing Aelfric’s temper.
It was because he didn’t love me.
He’d only needed someone—anyone—to hide his forbidden feelings for the woman he called sister.
When I’d chased him so boldly years ago, he’d simply gone along with it, letting me slip neatly into the role of his “mysterious girlfriend.”
That evening, Evelynn’s Instagram updated: “Landing back home tomorrow—come pick me up, loves!”
After hanging up with Aelfric, I took a cab back to the villa I shared with Bainbridge.
There were things I needed to take with me.
When I arrived, Bainbridge was eating breakfast. He glanced up as I walked in, then calmly told the maid to prepare another serving.
“I didn’t know you’d be back at this hour, so I didn’t have them make breakfast for you.”
I nodded. “That’s fine.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t know. He just didn’t care enough to ask.
At my quiet reply, his fork paused mid-air.
He lifted his gaze from the news on his phone, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes.
Yes—if it were the old me, I would have pouted, sat down beside him, and stolen food straight from his plate.
I would have whined playfully, “Since you forgot about me, I’m just gonna eat yours.”
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