For the nth time, I tried to seduce my husband, Troy Green, but failed once again to consummate the marriage, so I decided to call my brother.

The divorce papers lay untouched on the desk as I held the phone to my ear with trembling fingers.

“Brother,” I said softly, “I’m going to divorce him.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Nathan’s voice came through, calm and unsurprised. “Thalia, I warned you, didn’t I? That man… he’s ice. Emotionally constipated. Sexually apathetic. A walking void in an expensive suit.”

A small, broken laugh escaped my lips. “I thought I could fix him. I really thought if I loved him hard enough, he’d love me back.”

“You’re not a repair shop, Thalia. You don’t fix people like him. Listen, come to New Zealand. The beaches are beautiful, the men actually know how to touch a woman. Let Troy Green rot in his glass mansion, untouched and unloved.”

I leaned my head back against the wall, breathing through the burn in my chest. “I’ll book the flight once the papers are signed.”

“Good,” Nathan said, his voice softer now. “You deserve better. You always have.”

When the call ended, I didn’t move for a long time.

Then I stood. The corridor was quiet, the marble floors cold beneath my bare feet. I passed the guest wing, the lounge, then paused outside the room at the far end of the hallway.

That was Troy’s private sanctuary. A room he always kept locked. A room I was never allowed to enter.

Tonight, it wasn’t locked. And from inside, I heard a sound. A low groan. Drawn out. Suppressed. I froze. My fingers brushed the edge of the door, hesitating.

Troy was on the couch, shirt half-undone, pants pushed down around his thighs. His back arched slightly, one hand gripping the edge of the cushion, the other working between his legs with a familiar, practiced rhythm.

His head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. But what turned my stomach—what turned my heart to dust—was what he was watching.

It was her. Bianca. His stepsister.

The video was from a summer vacation, one we all took together three years ago. I recognized the scenery instantly—waves crashing behind her, the cliffside covered in wildflowers. Bianca was at the beach, laughing, hair wind-blown and sunlit, wearing a white dress that clung to her figure like a second skin.

She twirled for the camera, spinning like she was in a perfume commercial. She ran toward the waves, arms outstretched. She turned and smiled, radiant and playful.

And then—Troy moaned her name.

“Bianca…”

Not once. Twice. His voice was breathless. Reverent. I staggered back a step, the world spinning around me. The floor felt miles beneath my feet. My ears rang.

This wasn’t the first time.

I remembered the first time I caught him watching something on his phone late at night. He had fallen asleep with it in his hand. I told myself it was nothing. Then another time, I found printed photos of her in his desk drawer. Casual shots from family vacations. Bianca by the pool. Bianca in a sundress. Bianca smiling up at the sky.

I asked him about it, and he said he was archiving old memories. I believed him. But tonight, there was no denying it. He was watching a video of his stepsister—and pleasuring himself to it.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

The first time I met Troy was at a yacht party Nathan hosted. I couldn’t look away. He was nothing like the men I’d dated before—he was mystery. And I fell. So hard. So fast. So stupid. I begged Nathan to introduce me. I made sure we crossed paths again and again. Eventually, he agreed to marry me.

No proposal. No ring. Just a quiet, emotionless: “Marriage works for me. If you want it, I don’t mind.”

Our wedding night was a disaster. He never came to the room. He slept in his study. And every night after that was a variation of the same rejection. I tried everything. Lingerie, weekend getaways, wine, massages, midnight kisses. He wouldn’t touch me.

For two years, I’d been nothing but a ghost in this marriage. A pretty shadow that cooked his meals, smiled at galas, and went to bed cold every single night.

But tonight made everything clear. He didn’t reject me because he didn’t feel desire. He rejected me because his desire had nothing to do with me.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for this nightmare of a marriage to be over.

And when dawn broke, I got up and dressed. When I walked into the kitchen, he was already there, sipping his morning coffee, flipping through a financial report.

He didn’t look up.

“Where’s breakfast?” he asked absently, like I was the maid.

I opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and answered without turning around.

“I didn’t cook.”

He looked up, blinking like he didn’t understand. “What?”

“I said,” I repeated, calm and clear, “I didn’t cook. Just eat somewhere else.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? What’s going on?”

I turned then. Met his eyes head-on.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

He stood up slowly, confusion etched into his face.

“Leaving? Where are you going?”

I smiled. But there was no sweetness left in it. Only frost.

“None of your business.”

I just walked away, and grabbed the keys to the Maybach, and drove straight to the divorce lawyer’s office. The receptionist gave me a look that said you again?, but I ignored her and walked in.

Attorney Rosario was sitting behind his polished mahogany desk. His tie was crisp, his smile tight.

“Mrs. Green,” he greeted carefully. “I received your message. But I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Cut the formality,” I said, placing the unsigned divorce documents on the desk. “I want this done. Today.”

He cleared his throat. “Thalia… this isn’t just anyone. We talked about this already. Troy Green’s family—his father owns a third of the east-side properties. His name opens doors. He has connections that could bury me.”

I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “And I’ve lived two years of silence. Two years of cold rejection. Two years of pretending my marriage wasn’t a farce. There’s no love here. There never was. Just a man obsessed with someone who isn’t me.”

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Still—”

“I’m not asking for your sympathy. I’m begging you to do your job. Get me out of this cage.”

He stared at me, then finally sighed. “Fine. I’ll file it. It’ll take a few days. But once it’s in, it’s done… and if he says no, I don’t have any say on it.”

My throat tightened. I nodded. “Thank you.”

I walked out with a weight off my shoulders and a new one building in my chest.

Next, I headed to the embassy. Filled out the necessary forms. Submitted the paperwork. I was done being a citizen of Troy’s world. Soon, I’d be gone. And this nightmare would be nothing but a memory I wouldn’t visit again.

By the time I stepped back outside, the sun was warm on my face. My chest still hurt—but for the first time, the pain wasn’t sharp. Just dull… survivable.

That’s when I remembered Troy’s credit card. I never used it—not once. Never asked for gifts, jewelry, nothing. I’d been the perfect wife on paper and an invisible one in practice.

So I opened my phone and started swiping.

Designer coats. Cashmere dresses. Heels so tall they looked like weapons. A sapphire clutch I didn’t need. Everything I saw—I bought.

Screw it.

I deserved this.

For every night I sat alone in that freezing marital bed. For every time I cooked him dinner and watched him throw it away untouched. For every rejection, every bruise my heart collected in silence—I deserved this.

And of course, Troy noticed.

Halfway through the fifth store, my phone buzzed.

TROY: “What’s going on with the card?”

I smirked and texted back without skipping a beat:

ME: “You said do something that makes me happy. This is it. Are you going to stop me now?”

A moment later, his reply came. Just one word.

TROY: “Fine.”

I laughed softly. Victory had never tasted so sweet. I stepped into another boutique, arms already full of bags. The cashier stared at me like I was royalty.

And that’s when she walked in.

Bianca. Hazel eyes. Brown hair. A beauty mark under her left eye.

She stopped mid-step when she saw me—and all the shopping bags surrounding me.

“What the hell is this?” she hissed. “You gold-digging bitch—are you trying to make my brother go broke?!”

I didn’t even flinch. “I’m not a gold-digger. I’m his wife. So I deserve this.”

“Deserve?” she scoffed. “No, you don’t. You’ll never deserve anything from him. You stole this life. That bag,” she pointed, “that dress. I want it. It’s mine!”

I rolled my eyes. “You want the dress? Buy your own.”

She stormed over, grabbing the same cream Dior gown I had in my hand. “Let go!”

“No.”

We yanked at the fabric, both of us tugging until it tore straight down the middle with a loud rip.

Silence fell.

Bianca’s face twisted. “You bitch,” she spat. “You’re the reason Troy doesn’t talk to me anymore. Ever since he married you, he never visited me again, never looked at me the same way. You ruined our relationship! I should have said this before but I was thinking of my brother but I really hate you!”

I blinked. “So what? That’s not my fault he married me. You are just his stepsister.”

“It is your fault! You took him away from me!”

And before I could react, she yanked a stiletto off one of the display mannequins and swung.

The heel struck the side of my head. I stumbled, stunned. Warmth bloomed down my temple. I reached up—and my fingers came away red.

“Die!” she screamed as she hit me again and again. “Die! Die! Die!”

When I opened my eyes, everything hurt.

The ceiling above me was too white. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, pulsing against the pounding in my skull. I tried to move, but even turning my head sent a sharp wave of pain slicing through my scalp.

“Easy there,” a voice said.

A nurse hovered beside me, her voice gentle but concerned. “You were brought in by a good Samaritan. Passed out in a pool of blood at a boutique. Head trauma. You lost a lot of blood—got hundreds of stitches.”

My hand instinctively moved to my head. It was bandaged. Aching. Throbbing.

I blinked slowly. “Who brought me here?”

“We’re not sure. They didn’t leave a name. Just dropped you off and disappeared.”

“So… no family?”

The nurse hesitated.

“We called your emergency contact. Your husband, Troy Green. Also listed your in-laws. But…” she gave me an awkward smile, “no one’s come. You’ve been here for nearly twelve hours.”

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline.

Nothing.

“Twelve hours?” My voice cracked.

She nodded and handed me my things. “Phone’s in there. Maybe try calling him?”

I clutched the phone with trembling hands. My screen lit up—no missed calls. No messages.

I dialed Troy’s number. Straight to voicemail.

Again. And again.

The fourth time, I stopped.

Instead, I opened Instagram.

The moment the app launched, a notification popped up.

BiancaGreen_ went LIVE.

I tapped it.

My breath stopped.

Troy was right there. In the video. They were in Milan. He held shopping bags in both hands, trailing behind Bianca while she giggled at the camera.

“My brother’s been spoiling me rotten,” she said to her viewers, blowing a kiss toward the screen. “Best brother in the world.”

I watched as he handed her a drink, then smiled faintly when she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

I couldn’t breathe. I was bleeding out in a hospital room, alone.

And they were shopping.

Together. A scream clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it. I hurled the phone across the room. It bounced off the wall and hit the floor with a crack.

The nurse rushed in. “Miss Thalia, are you alright?”

I wasn’t.

But I’d never been.

“I want to report an assault,” I told her. “Now. Call the police.”

A few minutes later, a young officer walked in, clipboard in hand. He looked bored.

“Miss Thalia Green?”

“Yes.”

“You’re reporting an assault by… Miss Bianca Green?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me. Something in his eyes shifted.

Then he sighed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ve been instructed not to move forward with any charges filed by you against Miss Bianca Green.”

“What?” I stared at him. “She attacked me. I have stitches. Hospital records. Witnesses!”

He didn’t flinch. “We were told you may be suffering from mental instability. That you have a history of emotional outbursts and exaggerated claims. It was recommended we advise you to speak directly with your husband.”

The air left my lungs.

Troy.

Of course. He owned this city. The police. The hospitals. The narrative.

I had no one. No voice. No power. I was drowning in a sea Troy controlled with a flick of his finger.

I lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Hours passed. The day blurred into night.

And then I heard the door click open.

He didn’t knock. He just walked in, still in that same custom-tailored suit, hair perfectly styled, face unreadable.

I sat up.

“Troy—”

“Apologize to Bianca.”

No hello. No concern.

My jaw clenched. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I stared at him. “I was in the hospital. I had stitches. She attacked me.”

“You tried to file an assault case against her,” he snapped. “Do you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“She hit me with a shoe! She split my head open over a dress and called me a gold digger!”

“She’s my sister,” he said coldly. “She was just trying to protect me. You went on a shopping spree like you were emptying my account. What did you expect?”

“That was the first time I used your card. Ever. I’m your wife.”

“She is my stepsister.”

I blinked. “What?”

I felt something inside me crack.

“You’re choosing her over me,” I said. “Your wife.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word dropped like a blade.

I sucked in a sharp breath, but it felt like my lungs refused to expand.

“That’s unfair! I almost died!”

“Yet, you didn’t. You know her. It’s just her temper, okay? And she didn’t mean it. I grounded her for a day, and took her card. That’s done.”

“No, that’s not done—”

He shook his head like I was the one being unreasonable.

“I’m not having this conversation again. You’re going to apologize to her. End of story.”

He turned to leave.

“Take a rest,” he added without looking back. “I still need to take care of my sister. She was traumatized seeing you like that, you were covered in blood.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I sat there in silence. Blood still crusted around my scalp. A dull ache bloomed in my skull.

And the only person who should’ve held me… left me again.

For his stepsister.