Chapter 1
Brielle’s POV
I’m supposed to be at work today, but I traded shifts with a coworker. Instead, I’m kneeling on the floor of one of the upstairs rooms, elbow deep in boxes I’ve meant to clear out for months. Sunlight slants through the window, dust swirling in the beams, and I’m humming to myself, half-lost in the rhythm of an old song looping in my head.
Then the crunch of tires on gravel cuts through my reverie. Curious, I push up onto my knees and peer through the glass. Balen’s car rolls into the driveway. My heart lifts, silly with anticipation-I’m home, unexpectedly, and maybe today he’ll actually be glad to see me. Maybe this time, he’ll want me again. It feels like forever since he last touched me with anything close to tenderness.
I’m about to step away from the window when another engine purrs up behind his. I blink, surprised. Cyrene’s car. My twin. The two of them, home together. For a brief, naive moment, I feel a childish surge of happiness. Funny, looking back, how nothing about this strikes me as odd-not then. I’m too trusting, always have been.
I linger by the window, invisible behind the curtain, watching as Balen steps out and turns toward Cyrene. He’s always kept his distance from her at family gatherings, their glances strange and unreadable, but nothing could have prepared me for what I see now. Cyrene launches herself into his arms, legs locking around his waist, and he catches her easily, kissing her with a hunger that leaves me hollowed out in an instant. A kiss so deep, so desperate, it makes my stomach drop and rage surge hot through my veins.
An affair. Of course. Is this why he hasn’t touched me in months? I choke on a sob, betrayal slicing through me, sharp and raw.
My mind scrambles for proof-anything to stop them from gaslighting me again, from twisting the story until I’m the one left doubting my own eyes. My hands fumble for my phone. I snap photos through the glass, capturing the two of them locked together, oblivious. He lifts her, her legs still cinched around his waist, carrying her toward the house, hands splayed on her thighs, her back. They don’t even try to hide.
Questions spiral: How many times have they done this? How far will they go, right here, in our home? In hindsight, the truth is obvious-they’ve been at this for a long time. But in the moment, I’m frozen, watching the lie of my life unravel with brutal clarity.
I slip from the window and crack open the upstairs door, heart pounding. Downstairs, Cyrene’s laughter rings up the stairwell, light and carefree. I pad quietly to the balcony, holding my breath, peering down at the lounge below. If I need to, I can dart into a spare room. But I need to see.
They don’t make it to the bedroom. I watch, unseen, as they tumble onto the living room floor, hands everywhere, mouths pressed together, discarding clothes in a frantic rush. My phone trembles in my hand. I flip to video, desperate to record it all before they have a chance to lie or deny. My tears smear the screen and my hands shake, but anger keeps me steady-anger at myself, at them, at years wasted on a man who never loved me at all.
Cyrene’s moans echo up the stairs. Balen is stripped down to his boxers, already on his knees between her legs, his head buried in her thighs.
He never did that for me. He always said he found it disgusting, that he couldn’t stand going down on
11:06
a woman. So it was only me he found repulsive. The tears dry on my cheeks, replaced by a cold, burning fury. How long have they laughed about me behind my back? How long have I been the punchline to their secret?
I force myself to breathe, to steady my grip. I need this evidence.
“Oh, god, I am going to cum,” Cyrene cries out, voice shrill and unashamed. Balen doesn’t stop; he just kisses his way up her body, lavishing her breasts with the kind of attention he never wasted on me. His boxers hit the floor. He doesn’t bother with a condom. For me, there was always a condom-he said he wasn’t ready for kids, that neither of us was. But for her, nothing. He thrusts into her bare, and I feel
sick.
They writhe together on the carpet, a mess of limbs and sweat and breathless noise. Cyrene climbs on top, riding him with wild abandon. He urges her on, voice low and eager, “Ride me, baby.” He used to complain when I tried to take control, claimed he hated it. Now, watching him with her, I realize he only ever hated it with me.
She cries out again, shuddering, and he flips her over, driving into her harder, sweat glistening down his back as he gives her everything he never offered me. Their pleasure is raw and unrestrained- nothing like the cold, mechanical sex I endured. For Balen, I was a chore, a duty. For Cyrene, he is a
lover.
When he finally collapses, spent, he gathers her close, kissing her gently, murmuring in her ear. He hasn’t held me like that in years. Maybe never. Jealousy stabs at me, then drains away, leaving only emptiness. Why should I envy her, anyway? She always got everything-my toys, my clothes, my parents’ affection. Now she has my husband, too.
He strokes her hair, voice thick with longing. “Sweetheart, why won’t you let me divorce Brielle and move in with you? I told you before-it was always you I wanted. Not her. You pushed me to marry her. I need you.”
My jaw clenches at the sound of my own name, at the revelation that I was never more than a consolation prize.
Cyrene laughs, rolling away from him, unashamed. “I’ve told you before-she’s loaded. I’ve burned through all my inheritance. I need you here. You don’t spend your paycheck on anyone but me, and she pays for everything else. No bills, no worries, and you get to buy me pretty things on her credit card. Why would I give up the best of both worlds? I get you and her money. Why change a good thing?”
He grins, teasing, “That’s harsh. You only want me for my money?” They both dissolve into laughter, a private joke I was never meant to hear.
Cyrene stands, slowly dressing, making a show of stretching and smoothing her clothes, as if daring
me to watch.
“Baby, I have to get back to work. See you later?” She leans down, pecks him on the lips, and heads for
the door.
He calls after her, “We still on for this weekend?” She pauses, tapping her finger on her lips, pretending
to think.
“Of course. You told her you had a seminar, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a bag packed in the car. I’ll call her, say I’m leaving early, and meet you at your place.”
“Perfect,” she says, blowing him a kiss, and skips out the door, light as air.
Balen dresses quickly, tidies the lounge, sprays air freshener in wide, guilty arcs. The scent is sharp and unfamiliar-one I’ve never bought, never liked. Now the memory clicks into place. I’ve smelled it before, lingering in the house, even before we married. How long has this been going on? Years? My entire relationship with him?
He leaves, locking the door behind him, and I am left standing on the balcony, shattered. Tears spill down my cheeks, but beneath the grief, a small, fierce satisfaction stirs. He signed a prenup before we married. I wonder if he ever told Cyrene about that little detail.
I square my shoulders, wiping my face. I have work to do. It’s still early-enough time to call my lawyer, to visit the bank, to cancel every card and close every account he’s siphoning from. I need to get ahead of them, to reclaim what’s left of my life before the weekend arrives. I refuse to see either of them again-at least, not until I’m ready.
Time to make plans.
