Page 3 of The Wrong Fiancée

The year that I met Dean, my life changed, partly because of him and mostly because of the accident.

Dean had inadvertently crushed my confidence—but my dreams had been burnt down in the car crash that my father died in, the one that now required my sister to have around-the-clock care.

I had no choice but to be there for Noe. I drained my savings, even my college fund, to cover her care. Since Daddy had been driving drunk, there was no insurance payout—nothing to offset the mountain of bills that came our way or to pay for the care facility Noe now needed because of her condition.

My sister, Noe, had suffered a severe spinal cord injury, leaving her partially paralyzed and with limited mobility. In the year following the accident, her condition worsened, leading to chronic pain, muscle atrophy, and secondary complications suchas difficulty with motor function and coordination. However, her doctors believed that with intensive physical therapy and advanced treatments, Noe could see improvements in her mobility and quality of life.

We'd moved to Kauai for the Malama I Ka Pono Rehabilitation Center, commonly known as Ka Pono. This center specialized in cutting-edge neurorehabilitation techniques, using a combination of physical and aquatic therapy and emerging technologies designed to stimulate nerve regeneration and muscle recovery. Noe had been enrolled in a long-term rehab program that offered hope for partial recovery of movement in her legs or at least better management of her symptoms.

While her condition was still serious and required around-the-clock care, there was a possibility that with time, dedication, and the right treatments, Noe could regain some independence. However, the process was slow and painstaking, and Noe's emotional response to her injury—her frustration, anger, and depression—didn't help with her recovery. But if there was even a small chance that Noe could have the life she deserved, I had to do everything I could to make it happen. And if that meant working overtime cleaning the bathrooms of rich people and giving up my dreams of being an art gallery manager, then so be it.

I got up from the bathroom floor, feeling old.

I had been so young when I met Dean. Cheery. I only had myself to take care of. I'd been working full-time to save money to finish university and complete my degree in art history at the University of Hawaii when I met Dean. I had finished a year, hoping to get a scholarship, but that hadn't materialized, so I took a break and hoped to have enough to go back. God, I'd been so naïve, I thought sadly as I looked at the toilet I had to clean—so full of dreams that were never ever going to be realized.

I scrubbed the toilet bowl with mechanical precision, letting the repetitive motions distract me from the sinking feeling in my chest.

The bungalows I cleaned were luxurious, far beyond anything I could ever afford. The irony of my situation was not lost on me. I wascleaning up after the people who lived in a world I never dreamed about, my dreams and ambitions had not been this lofty. But I'd also not thought this would be my life. I hadn't wanted much. A job where I could work with art—a small place to live, maybe a boyfriend and eventually a husband, a family. I wanted someone who would love me. Someone I could count on. I hadn't had that since my mother died when I was ten years old.

My small wishes and desires were now lost in the wash of obligations and bills.

I wiped the counters, swept the floor, and straightened the towels with an efficiency I'd mastered over the past years.

Every part of me ached, but the routine was familiar, almost comforting in its mindlessness. I moved to the windows, polishing the glass, staring out at the endless horizon of the ocean, wondering when I had stopped looking ahead and started just trying to survive.

Don't make life harder than it is. No point being bitter. Focus on why you're doing this. Keep your heart clean, sis. Now, tits out and chin up. You got this.

I put on my earbuds and hit play onMovin’ Onby Wehilei as I walked out of Dean’s bungalow. The lyrics wrapped around me like a lifeline, reminding me to keep going, to leave the past behind—easier said than done when the past wasn’t just Dean but Dean and Felicity. My freaking cousin. The universe clearly had a twisted sense of humor.

My father was Felicity's father's half-brother. Saying we were not close was an understatement. They knew I existed, and I knew they did as well. My father had been bitter as hell with Uncle Sam for refusing to share any of his inheritance with us. I had no problem with it. The money was my grandfather's, and if he decided that everything would go to Uncle Sam and not my father, then that was that.

Our mother had died when I was ten, and Noe was thirteen. That was when my life first changed and remained irrevocably so. Her influence had been the soothing one in our family. When my grandfather died and didn't leave anything in his will for Daddy,she'd been the one to keep his balance. Noe and Daddy had been bitter that we didn't have what our relatives did. The Thatcher family lived in mansions while we had a middle-class existence. It was not bad at all.

We lived in a modest house just outside Waikiki, in a quiet Honolulu neighborhood where, if you listened closely, you could still hear the ocean. Daddy worked at the bank, and Mama was a schoolteacher. We were a dual-income family, and though our home was small, it was comfortable—until Mom died. After that, everything changed. Daddy started drinking, and the warmth in our home faded, replaced by the strain of unpaid bills. When he lost his job, we went from two incomes to surviving on SNAP and government assistance. Our house, once a refuge, became just another reminder of all we had lost—until we lost that too.

I sighed as I left Dean and Felicity's opulent bungalow, the door shutting behind me with a smooth click.

My phone beeped. I glanced down at the screen and saw a message from my boss, Leilani.

Leilani:All good? You done with Bungalow 10?

Me:Yes. Yes.

I closed my eyes as the pressure of the day sapped my energy. I held on to the cleaning supplies trolly, focusing on the ocean breeze cooling the sweat on my neck.

I had told Leilani I was nervous about cleaning Dean’s bungalow. I’d mentioned him when I found out my cousin was engaged to Dean Archer. I hadn’t known who he was back when I was sleeping with him, but I figured it out later: he was the Dean Archer of Archer Arts & Antiquities. And then, the assessment I’d overheard him make about me finally made sense.

"She's good company. She's not relationship material."

Dean was at the bar with his friend, Dante Giordano, the owner of the resort in Honolulu, where I worked and had spent every night of two weeks in his bed. I didn't think it was going anywhere but I had been flattered by his attention, pleased, strutting like a peacock because of it. He was kind and sweet—elegant and funny. He made me feel special. The sex was amazing, and hewas so attentive. I'd thought, foolishly, that the fact he'd extended his trip twice to stay with me meant he at least liked me.

"How good is her pussy that you're still here when you should've been in Hong Kong ten days ago?" Dante asked.

I flinched that I'd been reduced to just what was between my legs.

I didn’t think Dean had told Dante about me—or at least I hoped he hadn’t. Sleeping with a guest could cost me my job. Dante Giordano owned resorts all over the islands and across the world, including the one where I spent my days cleaning bathrooms.

"Like I said, Dante, she's good company."

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