My Husband Dumped Me to Marry My Sister

The clock on the microwave blinks 11:47 PM. My hands are red. The skin around my knuckles has split again from the dish soap. I press the iron down on Dorian's dress shirt and watch the steam rise. The collar needs to be perfect. He has a presentation tomorrow morning. Something about quarterly projections. He practiced it in the bathroom mirror three nights ago while I scrubbed the tub.

The apartment smells like the short ribs I started at five-thirty this morning. Six hours in the Dutch oven. The meat falls apart if you breathe on it. I plated his dinner two hours ago and covered it with foil. It sits on the stove. Still warm. Probably.

I set the iron down and flex my fingers. The burn scar on my thumb from last month is still pink. Dorian didn't notice when it happened. I was pulling a sheet pan out of the oven and the mitt slipped. I ran it under cold water and finished plating his lunch.

My phone is face-up on the counter. No messages. I sent him a text at nine asking if he was coming home for dinner. He read it. The little checkmark turned blue. He didn't reply.

I hang the shirt on the back of the bathroom door where he'll see it first thing. Then I sit on the couch and wait.

The lock turns at 12:14 AM.

Dorian stumbles through the door and nearly trips over his own shoes. His tie is loose. His collar is open. He smells like whiskey and something floral I don't recognize. He doesn't look at me. He drops his keys on the table and collapses onto the couch next to me like his bones just gave out.

"Hey," I say quietly.

He grunts. His eyes are half-closed.

"There's dinner on the stove if you're hungry."

"Not hungry."

I watch him for a moment. His jaw is tight even though he's drunk. His hand keeps opening and closing like he's trying to hold something that isn't there.

"How was the happy hour?"

"Fine."

"Did something happen?"

He laughs. It's bitter and short. "Ahmad got promoted."

I wait.

"They gave him a directorship. Standing ovation. Champagne. The whole thing." He rubs his face with both hands. "He married the CEO's daughter and suddenly he's qualified to run a division. It's a joke."

"I'm sorry," I say.

He doesn't respond. He leans forward and pats his pockets. "Where's my phone?"

"You dropped it by the door."

He tries to stand and nearly falls. I get up and retrieve it for him. When I hand it to him, his fingers are cold.

"Need to charge it," he mutters.

He passes out on the couch before I can bring him the charger. His shoes are still on. I unlace them carefully and pull them off. Then I get the blanket from the bedroom and drape it over him. He doesn't stir.

I find his phone on the floor by the couch. The screen is black. I pick it up and carry it to the kitchen counter where the charger is plugged in.

The moment I connect the cable, the screen lights up.

Notifications flood in. Messages. Lots of them. All from the same contact.

**Cataleya Grant.**

I stare at the name. My half-sister. The real one. The one they kept.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But my hand moves anyway. The thread opens.

I scroll up. Days of messages. Weeks, maybe.

**Cataleya, 9:47 PM:** *How's the happy hour? Still pretending to enjoy cheap beer?*

**Dorian, 9:50 PM:** *It's not that bad. Free food.*

**Cataleya, 9:52 PM:** *You deserve better than free food, Dorian.*

**Dorian, 10:15 PM:** *Ahmad just got promoted. Married the boss's daughter six months ago. Now he's a director.*

**Cataleya, 10:17 PM:** *That's how it works. You marry smart, you move up. You know that.*

**Dorian, 10:52 PM:** *I should've chosen you. Emilia was never in your league.*

I stop breathing.

I read it again. Then again. The words don't change.

I sit down on the kitchen floor. The tile is cold against my legs. I look at my hands under the fluorescent light. The burns. The cracks. The scar on my thumb. I made six meals today. I ironed his shirt. I waited up.

I was never in her league.

I sit there for an hour. Maybe longer. The apartment is silent except for Dorian's breathing from the couch. Deep. Even. Unbothered.

When I finally stand, my legs are stiff. I leave his phone on the counter. Plugged in. Screen-up. I walk to the bedroom and close the door.

I don't sleep.

In the morning, I make coffee. Two cups. I set his at the table and wait.

He comes out of the bathroom at seven-fifteen, showered and dressed in the shirt I pressed. His face is pale. Hungover. He reaches for his phone on the counter and starts scrolling.

"Sit down," I say.

He glances at me. "I'm running late—"

"Sit. Down."

Something in my voice stops him. He sits.

I take his phone from his hand and slide it out of reach. Then I open the message thread on my own screen and place it face-up in front of him.

He goes white.

"What would you like to explain?" I ask. My voice is quiet. Calm. It doesn't sound like mine.

"Emilia—" His chair scrapes back. He drops to his knees on the kitchen tile. "It's not— I was drunk. She's just someone from work. It didn't mean anything—"

"She's my sister."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I swear it meant nothing. I was upset about Ahmad and I said something stupid—"

I look at him. Really look at him. His hands are clasped like he's praying. His eyes are wet. He looks like the boy I married three years ago in the courthouse. The one who held my hand when the Grant family threw me out. The one who said we'd build something together.

I want to believe that boy still exists.

"One chance," I say finally. "One."

He exhales like I just pulled him out of deep water. "Thank you. I swear. I'll fix this. I love you."

I don't say it back.

For the next few days, he is sweet. He brings home flowers once. White roses. He picks up groceries without being asked. He kisses my forehead before he leaves for work.

But his phone lives screen-down now. On every surface. And when it rings, he takes it to the bathroom and runs the water.

I watch. I say nothing.

I wait.