My Husband and Sister Planned to Kill Me

The pain medication was wearing off as I stepped out of the taxi onto the cobblestone driveway of my family's Mercer Island estate. Three weeks had passed since the surgery, but my abdomen still throbbed with each step. The doctor had warned against traveling, but I needed to escape the suffocating silence of our downtown condo—and Nash's increasingly cold shoulders.

I'd called ahead to let the staff know I was coming for Thanksgiving. My mother hadn't sounded thrilled, but I needed family right now. Needed comfort.

The mansion loomed before me, its windows glowing amber against the gray Seattle afternoon. Rain pattered softly on my jacket as I made my way up the grand entrance steps.

"I'm home," I whispered to myself, pushing open the heavy oak door.

The foyer was empty, but I could hear voices from the conservatory—my father's favorite place before he passed. Something about the quality of the laughter made me pause. It was too intimate, too careless.

I slipped off my wet shoes and padded across the marble floor in stockings, following the sound. The conservatory door stood slightly ajar, steam fogging the glass panels from the heat inside.

"There you are," I murmured, reaching for the handle.

That's when I heard it—a low moan that made my blood run cold. Not pain. Pleasure.

My hand froze mid-air as another sound followed—the rustle of fabric, a whispered name.

"Nash..."

My husband's voice. And then my sister's giggle.

I pushed the door open slowly, my body moving on autopilot while my mind screamed at me to turn away.

They were on the white leather sofa by the orchid display—my wedding gift to Nash. His shirt was unbuttoned, Liv's blouse pushed up around her neck, her skirt hiked to her thighs. His hands were everywhere—her breasts, her hips, her face.

"Amelia!" Nash's eyes widened as he saw me, but he didn't pull away from Liv. Didn't even seem particularly embarrassed.

Liv's lips curled into a smirk. "You're early."

Something inside me shattered. I backed away, stumbling into the hallway where I'd spent so many holidays, so many family moments. Now those memories felt like lies.

"Where are you going?" Nash called after me, his voice casual, as if I'd just interrupted a business meeting.

I found myself in the drawing room, surrounded by antique furniture and family portraits. My parents appeared in the doorway moments later, followed by Nash and Liv.

"Amelia." My mother's voice cut through the room like ice. "You're making a scene."

"A scene?" My voice cracked. "Did you know? Both of you?"

My father—no, stepfather—cleared his throat. He'd never been comfortable with emotional displays.

"Sit down, Amelia," my mother commanded, gesturing to the sofa. "We need to talk."

I remained standing, one hand pressed against my tender incision. "I want to know why my husband is with my sister."

"Because they love each other," my mother said flatly. "And because Liv is carrying Nash's child."

The room tilted sideways. "What?"

"It's true," Liv said, her hand sliding protectively over her stomach. "We're having a baby."

Nash stepped forward, his expression suddenly businesslike. "Amelia, we need to discuss terms. A quiet divorce, no fuss."

"No fuss?" I repeated numbly.

"This is about the family's reputation," my mother interjected. "The Chapman name means something in this city. We can't have a scandal."

"The Chapman name," I whispered. "Dad would never—"

"Don't you dare bring your father into this," she snapped. "He would have done whatever was necessary to protect this family."

I felt something tear inside me—not just my heart, but something physical. A sharp pain radiated from my incision site, and I looked down to see red blooming through my white blouse.

"Amelia!" Nash's voice seemed distant as darkness crept into my vision.

I woke to the steady beep of monitors and the smell of antiseptic. A hospital room. Again.

Voices drifted from the hallway outside my door—hushed, urgent tones.

"The rejection is getting worse," a woman said. Liv's voice.

"Then we need to move forward with the contingency plan," a man replied. Dr. Marcus Veil—the specialist Nash had insisted I use.

I kept my eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness.

"How long can we wait?" Liv asked.

"If the current liver continues to fail, we'll need to harvest the remaining portion soon. We can make it look like complications from the initial surgery."

"And afterward?" Liv's voice was cold, detached.

"Once she passes—and she will, with or without our help—we'll have what we need."

I lay perfectly still as their footsteps faded down the corridor, my heart hammering against my ribs. They weren't just betraying me. They were planning to kill me.

For my liver.

The monitor beside me beeped faster as panic surged through my veins. I had to get out. Had to escape before they decided I was too much of a liability to keep alive.