My Sister-in-Law Cheats, and I Become the Scapegoat

My sister-in-law was at a photo studio, having a fling with the photographer, when she unexpectedly miscarried.

Somehow, I ended up being framed for it.

My mother and brother conspired against me, snapped my neck, and tossed me off the balcony.

In this new life, I'm determined to make them all pay.

***

My brother, Jason, and his wife, Laura, had been trying for five years without luck.

Following the doctor's advice, they went for IVF.

Once she was pregnant, Laura was treated like royalty.

My volatile brother even cooled his jets.

Mom ditched her favorite poker nights.

Fresh out of college with no job, I became her go-to errand boy.

She was paranoid about gaining weight yet had a thing for cakes, so I was stuck fetching sugar-free ones from a shop ten miles away, every single day.

Craving sushi but skeptical about its freshness, I drove to the docks for the day's catch.

I endured it all because my brother had a quick hand and an even quicker temper.

She saw other moms' glamorous maternity shoots and insisted on having her own, ignoring the doctor's warnings about miscarriage risks.

Jason wasn't thrilled but didn't want to upset her, so he half-heartedly agreed.

Mom always avoided drama, so seeing my brother not stepping up, she was off to her card games in no time.

That left gullible me to drive Laura to the studio.

The photographer was a tall, blond hunk with flawless features, a fair complexion even paler than most women, and he carried a subtle fragrance.

It was stuffy on the third floor; the photographer, mentioning the broken AC, started to unbutton his shirt.

When his sculpted abs were revealed, Laura was visibly mesmerized.

Catching her off-guard, she looked uneasy when she noticed my presence.

"I need a cake. Fetch me one," she commanded, as if I were her servant—a routine I knew all too well.

As I headed down, I noticed the photographer cozying up to her, wrapping an album around her neck, explaining intimately.

Maybe I was seeing things, but it looked like she was reaching out to touch his abs.

The bakery was twenty miles away; it took me an hour to return.

When I walked in, people were whispering and pointing at me, then quickly looked away in fear when they saw me notice them.

I sensed something was wrong. It wasn't until I returned to the third floor and pushed open the studio door that I realized the extent of it.

Chaos met my eyes: Laura sprawled on the couch, her clothes a mess, blood everywhere.

The photographer knelt frantically, wiping up blood with his pants.

She looked up at me, pale and frail, and barely managed, "Quick, call an ambulance."

I'd never been part of a scene so grim, and it took me a moment to snap out of my shock.

I immediately dialed 911.

Just as I was about to inform my brother, Laura, mustering unexpected strength, clutched my arm.

"Please, don't tell your brother. He'd kill me," she pleaded, fear evident in her eyes.

Known for his explosive temper, Jason was not one to be trifled with. Discovering the loss of his child would likely unleash his worst to break her bones or even snap her neck.

Fearing his wrath myself, I was taken aback.

"What should we do? We can't just hide this."

Her usual haughty demeanor was gone, replaced by a desperate plea in her eyes.

"Just say I tripped at home. Even if he's furious, he might pull his punches. Please, help me this time," she begged.

Wary I might say no, she pulled up her shirt to show me her bruises.

"Look at this, from when he hit me with a pan last time. I couldn't get out of bed for a month. And this scar, from when he slashed me with a knife—needed twelve stitches. Please, feel some sympathy."

Tears streamed down her face as she fell to her knees, imploring.

She'd been suffering these abuses yet not chosen a divorce, all because of her greed.

Short-tempered as Jason is, he never shorts her money.

Despite her picking up her own path, it's hard to turn away from someone so desperate.

I hesitated, then put away my phone and took her to the hospital first.

After making sure she was settled, I called my mom and brother.

She had to stay in the hospital for a few days, so she asked me to bring some personal items from home.

But as soon as I arrived, before I could even kick off my shoes, Jason stormed in, grabbed my arm in a rage, and flung me into the aquarium.

His strength was overwhelming; I couldn't fight back.

I smashed into the tank, glass cutting into my skin, and the pain forced a scream from me.

"Damn you, you're cursed! Do you have any idea how hard we worked for this baby? And you just messed it all up! I swear, I'm going to beat you to death today!"

As he yelled, his anger surged. I tried to speak, to explain, but there was no chance.

He dragged me out of the tank, ignoring the additional cuts from the glass, and held me by my collar.

Blood was everywhere—I saw his fury, I saw my mother's disdain.

"It wasn't... it wasn't me," I managed to gasp out.

But he just tightened his grip around my throat.

Desperate, I flailed, trying to make him let go, hoping my mother would intervene.

But no help came.

As he snapped my neck, he finally stopped.

Still not satisfied, he signaled my mother to drag my body to the balcony.

As my body plummeted from the 23rd floor, that's when my second chance at life began.