Married to a Man Obsessed With His Stepsister

The key to the Maybach glinted in my hand as I closed the front door behind me.

"You're going out today?" Griffin asked without looking up, already dressed immaculately in his usual charcoal suit, fingers adjusting the silver cufflinks with practiced ease.

I nodded, calm. “Yes.”

“What’s the plan?” he asked, brows twitching slightly. But before I could answer, he reached into his pocket and dropped the key into my palm.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “Just do something that makes you happy.”

I smiled, lips curving just slightly.

Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to do.

But hours earlier, I hadn’t felt so composed.

It had started like the other failed nights. Another desperate attempt. Another wall I couldn’t break. I had tried everything—lingerie, whispered pleas, soft caresses, patience, and hope.

Hope was the cruelest of them all.

After he left me cold and untouched yet again, I stared at the unsigned divorce papers on the desk, heart pounding. Then, with a trembling hand, I reached for my phone and dialed.

Nathan answered on the second ring.

“I’m leaving him,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause, long but unsurprised. “You finally see it, huh? I told you from the beginning—Griffin Martin is emotionally barren. He’s not cold; he’s void. Like someone wearing skin without a soul.”

A bitter laugh slipped out. “I really believed I could reach him. That if I just poured enough love in, something would overflow.”

“You’re not a damn charity case, Vivienne. You’re not supposed to fix broken people at the cost of yourself. Come to Texas. It’s warm, the water is clear, and the men there don’t treat intimacy like it’s a business transaction.”

“I’ll fly out once I’ve signed everything,” I told him.

He softened. “Good. You were meant for something better.”

When the call ended, I stayed seated in that silence. But it didn’t last. Something—curiosity, dread—pulled me to the end of the corridor.

Griffin’s sanctuary.

Always locked. Always offlimits.

But not tonight.

There was light under the door and a low, muffled noise. A sound that stopped me cold.

I pushed it open, breath caught in my throat—and froze.

Griffin knelt in the center of the room, shirtless, glistening with sweat. His body moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. At first, I thought he wasn’t alone.

But there was no woman beneath him.

It was a doll.

Lifesized. Unsettlingly realistic. Her skin eerily smooth. Hazel eyes glassy, her long hair the same brown shade as—

No.

She looked exactly like Soraya. His stepsister.

A highpitched noise escaped my throat, halfway between a gasp and a sob, as I clapped a hand over my mouth. My legs nearly gave out.

This wasn’t the first time. I’d caught glimpses before—flashes of something I tried to unsee, moments I brushed off as hallucinations. The second time, I buried the memory.

But the third?

I felt nothing but silence. A dense, choking silence that filled every inch of my being.

I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes.

The beginning was so different.

We’d met at a yacht party my brother threw—one of those events filled with people who wore money like perfume and loved hearing themselves talk. I spotted Griffin standing at the edge of the deck, sipping sparkling water as if making a statement. He was stunning. Untouchable. An enigma.

I begged Nathan to introduce us. I found ways to “accidentally” see him again. Eventually, he offered marriage—not love.

No grand gestures. No emotion. Just: “Marriage is acceptable. If you want it, I won’t protest.”

I should’ve run then.

Our wedding night was the first slap of truth. I wore red silk. Lit candles. Waited in anticipation.

He never came.

He spent the night in his study.

And it only worsened from there.

I tried everything—romantic getaways, slow dances in the kitchen, surprise touches. He pulled away each time.

One night, desperate, I slipped into his bed and curled against him.

He stood and left without a word.

Another time, I walked into his shower, soaking wet in nothing but longing.

He calmly handed me a towel and exited.

But the moment that shattered my heart entirely? The night I confessed I wanted a child.

He looked at me without blinking and said, “I am not built for emotional replication.”

What did that even mean?

For two years, I was a ghost in his house. Smiling at charity balls, preparing his meals, attending functions arminarm… but going to bed cold and alone every single night.

Now I knew why.

He hadn’t rejected intimacy.

He had redirected it—toward someone else. Something else. A hollow version of a person he could never legally have.

As I stood outside that room, his voice haunted me.

“Soraya… Only you…”

The sound of my name never passed his lips like that.

As I made my way to the garage, the Maybach key clenched in my fingers, his voice echoed faintly in my mind, heavy with the sting of everything left unspoken. He was already gone, off to his board meeting, his footsteps long faded into silence.

Yet his parting words lingered.

"Do whatever brings you joy."

A quiet smile touched my lips.

Yes—leaving him for good would be exactly that.

I didn’t offer another word. I simply turned away, stepped outside the house, and drove directly to the Texas consulate. Applying for permanent residency was a smooth process—especially with the influence carried by the Reid surname.

Over the past several years, our family had begun to transfer most of its holdings and investments overseas. My parents had already relocated, followed shortly after by Nathan and his wife. I had been the only one who stayed behind.

Stayed—for Griffin. But now, I was done with that too.

“It should be processed and finalized within a week,” the consulate representative informed me with a polite, practiced smile, handing over the official document.

I gave a small nod, accepted the paper, and stepped back into the warmth of daylight.

It was over. Griffin Martin—the man I had pursued for six years, the husband I had been legally bound to for two. The one I thought I could coax out of his fortress of detachment.

But he was never mine. Not truly. I had sacrificed so much for him, softened myself, toned down my fire, adapted to his minimalist, ‘clean’ way of living—even dropped red meat and wine, just to match his preferences. I shrank myself to fit the mold of his world. And yet…

No matter what I did, I couldn’t bridge the space between us. Not emotionally, not physically, not even in the places he kept most hidden.

I looked down at the stamped receipt in my hand. A thin, almost sardonic smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

A bitter smile.

“You don’t want me, Griffin Martin,” I murmured under my breath. “But there are men out there who absolutely would.”

Later that night, I dialed a few old friends and told them I needed a wild night out. Since marrying Griffin, I had left that world behind—the vibrant noise, the music, the unrestrained laughter. I’d become someone else. Someone more muted.

But that evening, I wore a black dress with delicate straps, one that embraced every curve like a secret it didn’t want to share. Its hem swayed as I walked, teasing a glimpse of legs I hadn’t dared to show in a long time.

“Girl! What happened to you tonight?” my best friend Kayla shouted with a grin, pulling me toward the bar. “Ever since you got tangled up with that emotionally stunted mannequin, you’ve sworn off parties, alcohol, everything!”

I laughed, tossing back a shot of tequila. The burn was sharp, invigorating.

“He’s not on my mind tonight,” I said, trailing my tongue across a line of salt on my wrist. “Tonight’s for me.”

Before she could comment, I slipped into the throng on the dance floor, letting the pulse of the music guide my body. I moved without restriction—hips swaying, arms in the air, head tilted back with abandon. Each movement was a rebellion against every night I lay in that penthouse bed alone, unloved.

A man brushed behind me—tall, chiseled, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a firm set of abs. I turned toward him, ran my hand across his abdomen, giggling when he smirked in response.

“Vivienne, are you out of your mind?” Kayla gasped, tugging me back. “That’s like, what? The fifth guy you’ve flirted with tonight! Aren’t you scared your husband’s gonna blow a fuse?”

“He’s not here,” I replied simply.

She looked uneasy.

“No, Vivienne... he is.”

I stopped.

“What do you mean?”

She leaned in close. “He’s been in the VIP section this whole time. Back corner. Watching you.”

I slowly turned my gaze—and there he was. Griffin. Eyes fixed on me. Cold. Unmoving.

Then the music stopped abruptly.

In the heavy silence, I caught the tail end of a conversation from his booth. A man sitting beside him snorted. “Griffin, your wife’s basically giving lap dances out here. If it were my girl, this place would be in flames.”

Griffin didn’t so much as blink.

He lifted his glass, took a slow sip, and responded evenly, “She knows where the boundary is. She won’t step over it.”

That hit harder than I expected. A single sentence, sharp as a blade. Was it trust? Or indifference? Did he believe I was still so hopelessly in love with him that no one else could ever touch me?

Maybe it was both.

“Damn,” the man beside him laughed. “You’re unshakable. Is there anything that can make you snap?”

But midlaugh, the man stopped. “Hold on... where are you going?”

I turned in the same direction—and saw Griffin rise from his seat. Though his features remained calm, something in his eyes had shifted.

Something dark. Possessive.

I followed his line of sight.

That’s when I saw her.

Soraya. His stepsister.

She was near the dance floor’s edge, clad in a white dress, laughing lightly while exchanging numbers with a man I didn’t recognize.

Griffin crossed the room in three quick, fierce strides and grabbed her wrist.

“Who told you it was okay to come here? Who said you could give your number to some random guy?” he snapped.

Soraya’s eyes widened, then narrowed with resentment. “Why not? You pretend I don’t exist every day. Why do you care what I do now?”

“You really think I don’t care?” His voice dipped lower, almost guttural. “Who gave you that idea?”

“You did!” she cried, voice cracking. “You shut me out. You won’t look at me. You used to be everything to me. What happened?”

His jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, but no words came.

And I stood there, frozen, clutching my bag like it was the only thing tethering me to the earth.

Because I already understood.

He didn’t avoid her because he was repulsed—he avoided her because he was obsessed. Because being near her made him lose control.

Because this man—my husband—couldn’t make love to his own wife, but secretly owned a lifelike silicone doll crafted to resemble his stepsister in chilling detail.

Something inside me curled up and snapped. It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was finality.

I turned, ready to walk away.

But just as I reached for my purse, I heard Soraya’s trembling voice behind me.

“Griffin... can’t things go back to how they used to be? I miss the version of you that only saw me.”

His voice broke, low and hoarse. “I’m married now. I can’t be with you the same way.”

And then I saw it.

The flash in Soraya’s eyes. A glint of something unstable. Dangerous.

“So if your wife disappeared... we could be together again?” she whispered.

Before I could react, she snatched a wine bottle from a nearby table and stormed toward me.

The glass shattered as it struck my head. A whitehot pain flared across my scalp. I stumbled back, barely registering that she was holding another bottle.

“You took him from me!” she screamed. “You ruined everything!”

The second blow landed even harder.

And then—darkness.

Screams fading into the distance. My heartbeat echoing louder than anything else.

“You’re finally conscious,” the nurse said, her shoulders relaxing as she replaced the gauze on my forehead. “You gave us quite a scare. Two smashed wine bottles to the head—more than thirty stitches. Whoever did this didn’t just lose their temper—they meant business.”

My fingers moved reflexively to my scalp, brushing against the thick, padded layers of bandage wrapped around my head.

My voice came out raw. “Who brought me here?”

“Your best friend,” the nurse answered while checking my IV line. “She stayed by your side the whole night but had to rush out this morning for an urgent work matter. She even hired a private nurse to monitor you while she’s gone. You’ve been well looked after.”

My chest ached—not from the injury, but from the clarity.

So… Griffin hadn’t come.

I turned toward the tray table and picked up my phone with a trembling hand.

As the screen lit up, a notification from social media caught my eye.

Soraya Martin had just posted: He still treats me like a princess.

My thumb hesitated before tapping on the video.

Soraya appeared onscreen, dramatically holding out her finger like it had been maimed. “Look,” she said in a pouty voice, “I scratched myself when I broke that bottle.”

Then the camera shifted focus.

Griffin was kneeling before her, his fingers wrapping a bandage gently around the tiniest cut on her hand. He looked up with tender eyes, then leaned forward and kissed her fingertip.

“There. All better,” he murmured.

I stared at the screen, hollow. It felt as if someone had split my skull open a second time and poured something corrosive directly onto my brain.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… breathed.

Then I picked up the phone and made the call.

“Hello,” I said to the dispatcher, my voice like dust. “I’d like to report an assault.”

That evening, my hospital room door creaked open. Griffin entered dressed headtotoe in black, his face unreadable—calm on the surface, but with something dark moving just beneath.

“You contacted the authorities?” he asked, voice cool as frost. “Filed a report against Soraya?”

“I did,” I said, eyes locked on his. “She deliberately attacked me. That’s enough to press criminal charges.”

His jaw tightened. He spoke low. “She lost control. What she did wasn’t right, but I’ve handled it. It’s finished.”

“Handled it?” I gave a short, humorless laugh. “And how exactly did you ‘handle’ a nearfatal assault?”

“I told her she’s not allowed to leave the house today,” he said, as though that settled the matter.

I looked at him like he was a stranger. “You’re telling me I needed emergency surgery, and your version of punishment was putting her in timeout?”

His silence spoke louder than any excuse could.

“You’re not disciplining her,” I said, my voice rising. “You’re covering for her. You’re terrified I’ll pursue legal action, so you’re pretending to take control when in reality, you’re just shielding her from consequences.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“I already pulled the complaint,” I interrupted. “There’s no point. You’ve got your hands in enough places to make sure she’s untouchable. No precinct in this city will lift a finger against her now.”

He didn’t deny it.

I clenched the sheets between my fists until my nails dug painfully into my palms.

I wanted to throw something. To scream. To ask why.

But the only thing I could manage to say was:

“Griffin… what was I to you all these years?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“If I meant nothing,” I said, my voice trembling, “then why did you marry me?”

His brow furrowed. “Who said you meant nothing?”

“You did. Every single time you looked through me like I was invisible. Every time you walked away. Every night you slept in a room that wasn’t mine.” My throat tightened. “You chose me for a wife, but you couldn’t even show up when I was clinging to life?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

“This isn’t the moment to argue,” he said. “You’re still weak. I’ll stay here while you recover, make sure everything’s taken care of. Once you’re better, we’ll discuss a settlement. Just stop creating more drama.”

He said it like he was offering a gift. Like I was meant to be grateful for his presence.

I stared at him in stunned silence.

This man—the one I once chased endlessly. The one I thought I could teach to love. The one I gave my youth, my dignity, my body, and heart to—

Now acted like staying in the same building as me was a charitable act.

And in that moment, something in me shifted.

He never believed I’d leave. He thought I’d stay no matter how far he pushed me. That I’d be too weak, too loyal, too blind to walk away.

But he was wrong.

This time, I wouldn’t plead.

This time, I wouldn’t wait.

This time, I was done.

Griffin remained at my side for several days after the incident, staying with me at the hospital. He arrived promptly each morning, bringing steaming broth in sleek, highend flasks. He sat quietly during doctor rounds, offering his presence without needing to speak. When the pain spiked late at night, he reached for my hand and held it until the worst passed.

Had this been six months ago—or even six weeks—I might have mistaken all of it for love. I would’ve clung to it like a drowning woman to a lifeline.

But now? Now there was only a hollow stillness inside me. It’s unsettling, how you can spend six years chasing someone’s affection, only for it to all evaporate in a single heartbeat.

The morning I was released from the hospital, I walked slowly toward the parking garage, my head still tender and my chest strangely still—quiet, as if the storm had passed and left nothing behind.

That’s when I saw her.

Soraya was lounging in the front passenger seat of Griffin’s car, scrolling through her phone with a lazy flick of her thumb. Her glossy hair was tied into a loose ponytail, and she looked like she belonged there—effortless, comfortable, shameless.

The moment our eyes met, her expression soured, as if I was the intruder here.

Griffin caught the shift in her face and frowned. “Soraya, didn’t we already talk about this?”

Instantly, she changed her tune. Her shoulders drooped, her lashes fluttered, and she bit her bottom lip just enough to look remorseful. “Vivienne, I… I’m sorry. That night, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t mean for things to go that far. I just…”

Her voice cracked slightly as she turned toward Griffin. “You’ve been ignoring me for so long—ever since you got married. I thought… maybe if I acted out, you’d finally pay attention to me again.”

I said nothing. Just stood there with my hand wrapped tight around my bag strap.

Griffin turned to me, his voice steady and matteroffact. “Soraya’s going to be staying with us for a while. Let’s just… keep things peaceful.”

I gave a single nod, moved to the back seat, and climbed in without a sound.

During the ride home, I stayed silent as city lights painted fleeting patterns across the windshield. Griffin and Soraya sat up front, shadows shaped by the glow of passing traffic.

I rested my head against the cool window and watched the world blur. I didn’t need to look directly to notice it—the way Griffin kept stealing glances at her, like she was something delicate he didn’t know how to handle without breaking.

Out of nowhere, Soraya gave a girlish laugh and tilted her phone toward him. “Griffin, look at this guy who messaged me. Isn’t he kind of cute?”

Griffin’s grip on the steering wheel visibly tightened.

“Block him.”

“What?” she protested with a pout. “Seriously? I’m twentythree—I’m not allowed to think someone’s hot?”

“Block him,” he repeated, his tone clipped and final.

Soraya rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama but followed the command, muttering under her breath, “You’re worse than a jealous boyfriend…”

Griffin didn’t reply, but I noticed the rigid set of his jaw. His silence spoke volumes. He wasn’t indifferent—he was possessive.

When we got to the house, I didn’t stay to chat. I walked straight to the bedroom, shut the door, and let the solitude pull me under like a tide.

From beyond the walls, I could hear the gentle clink of silverware, Soraya’s laughter spilling into the hallway, and the low murmur of a film playing on the living room TV. All of it added up to a warmth and intimacy that had never existed in my marriage.

In over two years, Griffin and I had never once shared dinner to the backdrop of music. We’d never had casual laughs. He had never looked at me the way he looked at her, like she was the center of his gravity.

I crawled beneath the blankets and let the bitterness inside me ferment, like something spoiled that refused to be swallowed. I didn’t know how long I stayed curled up like that, letting the darkness cocoon me.

Eventually, the quiet pulled me from bed—thirst nudging me toward the kitchen.

But when I pushed the door open, I froze.

Griffin was in the living room, kneeling beside the couch, completely still.

Soraya was curled up asleep, knees tucked to her chest, the blanket barely covering her. He was watching her, unmoving. His eyes weren’t filled with pity or obligation. They were full of something else—gentleness, reverence. Like she was light itself and he couldn’t look away.

In that moment, I saw him clearly. No facade. No pretense.

Just a man in awe of someone who wasn’t me.

Soraya stirred slightly, murmured in her sleep, and shifted. “Griffin… don’t let me go,” she whispered faintly. “I love you. Only you.”

Even in sleep, she reached for him, tugging him closer. Their faces met, lips brushing by accident at first.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

His pupils widened. His breathing hitched.

And then he kissed her—deliberate, slow, and sure.

I stood silently behind the door, my fingers trembling as I gripped the handle, holding my breath without even realizing it. Through the slight opening, I could see my husband, his head bent low, his mouth pressed against Soraya’s like she was something he couldn’t live without.

His palm rested on her hip, his fingers curling with possessive desperation, like he wanted to mold her into himself. Her breathing was unsteady, her arms fastened tightly around his neck, as if she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment to finally arrive.

“Griffin…” she murmured, his name leaving her lips again and again, delicate and needy. The way he answered—his voice husky, quiet, almost reverent—was a tone I had never been worthy of.

That tenderness? That intimacy? He’d never given me even a fraction of it.

I don’t know how long I remained frozen in place, invisible behind the halfclosed door, but eventually he pulled away, just slightly, and used the pad of his thumb to gently wipe the corner of her mouth. It was such a small gesture, yet so deliberate that it made my lungs forget how to function.

Then he reached into his pocket.

I watched as he pulled out a necklace—her necklace—the same one Soraya had gifted him years ago, the one he had once told me was misplaced during a move.

He hadn’t lost it. He’d just hidden it from me.

Now, he was wearing it again, slipping it over his head with no hesitation. And just like that, I understood.

He didn’t belong to me anymore.

He belonged to her.

I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my skin so hard it hurt. The pain grounded me, gave me something to focus on besides the ache in my chest.

Without making a sound, I backed away, turned, and gently shut the bedroom door.

I crawled beneath the blankets and buried my face in the pillow, muffling the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the hallway. I squeezed my eyes shut. But the silence didn’t help. My mind betrayed me, dragging me back to every attempt I had made to get him to see me, to touch me, to choose me.

That time I walked into his study late one night, dressed in the silk robe he’d once praised. I faked needing a document just to be near him. He didn’t even lift his gaze from the paperwork.

That time I brought him a towel after his run, only for him to take it without a word, close the bathroom door, and leave me alone outside, holding nothing but rejection.

That night after the gala, when I came home tipsy, laughing, hopeful. I threw my arms around him like I used to, and he caught me, yes—but not to hold me. Just to set me upright, his hand cold and mechanical as he straightened his tie.

He was always composed. Always distant.

But now… all it took was one breathless “Griffin” from her, and suddenly, every rule he made me follow was shattered like it never existed.

Tears slid down my cheeks. I wiped them away quickly, pointlessly.

He didn’t love me.

He wanted her.

The next morning, they were already at the table by the time I came down. Soraya was seated comfortably, twirling her fingers over her lips and frowning slightly.

“Griffin, do you have bugs in this house or something?” she whined with a pout. “My lips feel all puffy today…”

Griffin didn’t even flinch. “I’ll have the staff bring you something for it,” he said evenly, like it meant nothing.

I stepped forward and noticed a package placed in front of my seat. I opened it.

Inside was a necklace. Rare. Lavish. The kind of piece that could pay someone’s rent for a year.

I let out a dry laugh. “Well, someone’s in a generous mood.”

Soraya leaned across the table for a better look. Her voice was sugarcoated, but jealousy laced every word. “Wow, Griffin… Didn’t know you spoiled your wife like this. I always thought you weren’t the romantic type. Guess I underestimated you.”

I lifted my eyes toward him, waiting for any sign—an explanation, even a lie—but all he did was sip his coffee in silence, his gaze distant.

He didn’t even try to say the gift was a consolation for what Soraya had done to me.

He didn’t have to.

He simply didn’t care anymore.

After finishing his coffee, he stood and buttoned his coat. “I’m off to work,” he announced, turning to Soraya next. “Don’t wander too much. Stay anywhere you want—just stay out of my study.”

Soraya gave him a playful pout. “Why not? What’s so secret in there?”

He tossed out some halfhearted excuse, something vague and dismissive. But I knew the truth. That room was his fortress—the place where he kept all the things he never wanted me to uncover.

After they left the table, I retreated to my room and locked the door. I didn’t want to hear Soraya’s voice echoing down the hall. Didn’t want to catch glimpses of her smiling like she owned the world. Didn’t want to be reminded that in her eyes, I was nothing but an extra in their private, twisted love story.

At some point, I drifted into sleep. But when I woke…

Something was off.

I sat up, stretched—and saw it. My hair.

Chopped.

Jagged strands of my long dark hair scattered on the floor like fallen leaves. My scalp felt lighter. Uneven. Violated.

I stumbled into the hallway, dizzy with disbelief, and made my way to the living room.

And there she was.

Soraya sat comfortably on the couch, humming a cheerful tune. In her hands, she held something delicate—a braid. My hair. She was weaving it, turning it into some grotesque little craft project.

My hair.

She looked up at me with a bright, innocent smile, like nothing was wrong. “Oh, hey. You’re up! Hope you don’t mind—I needed some materials for this school project. They asked us to make something meaningful. Thought I’d make a wig.”

She held up the braided piece like it was an award. “You really have gorgeous hair, you know? Super shiny and soft. Kinda jealous.”

My body moved before my mind caught up.

I stepped forward and slapped her across the face.

The crisp sound of my palm meeting her cheek echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Soraya froze, her hand instinctively flying to her face. “You dare hit me?” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “Griffin has loved me since we were children. He wouldn’t even raise his voice at me. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Before I could step back, she screamed, “Hold her down!”

My body stiffened. I turned to see the bodyguards standing at the entrance, Griffin’s men.

Soraya tilted her chin and sneered, “You work for Griffin Martin. Ask yourself—who do you think he values more?”

They didn’t even speak. The silence was more deafening than a verdict. One by one, they moved toward me, and I laughed. I actually laughed, even as my eyes burned with tears.

So this was it. Everyone knew how much Soraya meant to him. It took me two years of a cold, silent marriage to finally understand what the world around me already knew.

Soraya’s hand moved faster than I could react. The first slap landed square on my cheek, searing like fire. Then came second. The third. I tasted blood.

I tried to fight her off, but the bodyguards pinned my arms.

“You think you matter?” Soraya whispered in my ear, her breath thick with hatred. “Griffin only married you to shut his family up. But in his heart… I’ve always been the one.”

Her words sliced deeper than the blows.

She continued hitting me, again and again. My face stung. My ears rang. My body twisted beneath their grip, but there was no escape.

Tears blurred my vision, but through the haze, I saw her smile, twisted, satisfied, victorious.

“How many?” she asked casually, glancing at one of the guards.

“Ninetynine,” one of them answered coldly.

She giggled. “Let’s make it even.”

The final slap knocked something loose inside me. I coughed, and blood spilled from my mouth.

And then darkness.

I heard the door slam open, followed by a voice I used to long for.

“What the hell is going on here?!” Griffin asked.

But I was already slipping.

When I woke again, the bedroom ceiling looked unfamiliar in its stillness. My entire body throbbed. My face burned. I turned my head slowly and saw him sitting beside me, expression unreadable.

“I know everything that happened,” Griffin said flatly.

I swallowed, throat like sandpaper. “And?”

“Soraya… she’s been spoiled since childhood,” he replied, as if it were an excuse, not a confession. “I’ve already punished her. Don’t take it to heart.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Punished her how?”

He was quiet for a moment, then reached into his pocket and held out… a lock of dark brown hair.

“She cut yours,” he said. “So she cut off some of hers. As an apology.”

I almost laughed.

“You think that’s enough? She slapped me a hundred times, Griffin. Should I just slap her once and call it even?”

He didn’t flinch. “Her hands are swollen. That’s punishment enough.”

I stared at him. Something inside me cracked. I let out a hollow laugh, one that turned into sobs before I could stop it.

“Why did I ever fall in love with you?” I whispered.

Griffin opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.

With every last ounce of strength I had left, I grabbed the glass vase beside the bed and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into a hundred glinting pieces.

“Get out!” I screamed, voice raw and shaking.

He stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket.

“You’re angry. I get it,” he said in that same indifferent tone. “But the doctor said you need to rest. Don’t make yourself worse.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut, and I finally broke.

Griffin stayed home more than usual after that night. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain or offer a reason. He just lingered in the silence like it made up for everything, like his presence could heal wounds he refused to acknowledge.

For days, I barely spoke. He didn’t press. Maybe he thought I’d calm down, fall back in line. But I was too tired to pretend anymore.

Then Soraya appeared in the lounge. She gave me a small sigh and said in a voice meant to sound remorseful, “Vivienne, I… I lost control that night. I’m sorry for raising my voice.”

I stared at her. Not with rage, not with pain—just with nothing. Because that’s what she deserved. Nothing. No reaction. No acknowledgement. I turned my back, walked to the bedroom, and slammed the door.

I heard her jump, heard the porcelain clink against the saucer. And I knew, somehow, she’d run to him.

“She won’t hit me, right?” Her voice trembled, the same way it always did when she wanted him to hold her.

And of course, he did. I could almost hear it from the other side of the wall, his arms around her, his voice low and soothing, “No one will hurt you as long as I’m here.”

That was the moment something inside me snapped.

I grabbed the largest box I could find and began ripping through drawers, cabinets, closets. Everything I had ever saved over the years, his old sweater, our movie tickets, love letters I wrote but never sent, the music box he gave me on our first anniversary, a necklace I pretended to like because he bought it with a rare flicker of thoughtfulness.

One by one, I dumped them all into the box.

The door creaked slightly, and I could see his silhouette behind the frosted glass, hesitating. I swung the door open so fast it nearly hit him. I didn’t even glance at him. I walked straight into the living room, dropped the box beside the trash can, and turned it over with one swift motion.

Everything tumbled out in a heap of broken memories.

His expression shifted. “What is this supposed to mean?”

I clapped the dust from my hands, looked him in the eyes, and said calmly, “Nothing. I just don’t want them anymore.”

Then I walked past him like he was air.

Behind me, Soraya’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Griffin, aren’t you going to… say something? Maybe go talk to her?”

I paused in the hallway, ears straining. Then his voice, cool and confident, “No need. She’ll calm down eventually. She always does.”

I smiled bitterly. This time… he was completely wrong.

That evening, he told me we had a charity gala to attend. I refused, of course, but he pressed on with calm practice.

“Your best friend will be there. You haven’t seen her in weeks. Don’t you want to get out for a while?”

The thought of a friendly face, of someone who might remind me who I used to be before I became this version of myself, was enough to make me cave.

I put on a dress. Soraya rode with us. I didn’t say a word to either of them. My eyes stayed closed the entire way, arms crossed, body angled away.

Until the world exploded.

Bang! Headlights—bright, merciless—came straight at us. Screams. Metal shrieking. And then... nothing.

When I came to, the air was thick with rust and something colder. I blinked against the dim light, struggling to breathe, to move.

I was tied to a chair. My wrists ached. Something heavy pressed against my chest.

I looked down. A bomb.

My breath hitched. I turned my head, and there she was, Soraya. Also tied, her eyes wide, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh my God, help! Please, somebody help us!” she wailed, her voice so shrill it made my temples throb.

I recognized the warehouse now—abandoned, quiet, far too isolated. The last image in my memory flashed—the crash, the other car, the smirk on the man’s face.

Edmond. The second son of the Gray family. Griffin’s biggest rival. He must’ve taken us for leverage.

“Shut up,” I snapped, trying to focus. “Crying won’t defuse the bomb.”

“II don’t know how to defuse it!” she sobbed. “Why are you yelling at me?! Where’s Griffin? He’s supposed to protect us! Griffin!”

I ignored her and examined the device on my chest. I had minutes—maybe less.

And then the warehouse doors flew open.

“Griffin!” Soraya screamed, like some damsel in distress from a bad movie.

Griffin, you never chose me. Not even once.

Because the moment he looked at us, at me and Soraya, something inside him cracked.

For the first time since I married Griffin Martin, I saw him in a state that wasn’t polished or composed. He looked ruined. Human.

I found out later that as soon as he discovered we were missing after the crash, he mobilized his entire security team. Apparently, he searched every possible route, hacked traffic cams, paid off sources. He didn’t rest. And somehow… he found us in this godforsaken warehouse just minutes before the bombs went off.

But that didn’t matter because when he stepped inside and saw both Soraya and me strapped to chairs, bombs strapped to our chests, he didn’t hesitate.

He went to her and not me.

He dropped to his knees, started defusing the device attached to her, hands steady, voice calm. “Vivienne, hang on. I’ll get her out and come back for you.”

I smiled then. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t love him anymore. Or maybe… because that moment confirmed everything I had feared.

When he finally freed Soraya, there were only twenty seconds left.

She clung to his arm, trembling. “Griffin! Let’s go! It’s going to explode, please!”

Griffin run with her... and he didn't even look at me. He didn't even hesitate to leave me.

The door slammed behind them. I closed my eyes. My fingers trembled, but I focused on the wires. I’d taken a demolition course in college, back when I thought saving lives could be part of my future. I never imagined I’d be trying to save my own.

Three seconds.

Two.

“Click.”

The last wire came free. The explosion shook the ground. The blast tossed me like a rag doll against the concrete. I was barely conscious when I saw a shadow rushing back toward me through the smoke and fire.

Then, the next thing… I was in the hospital. I groaned and blinked, trying to make sense of the shapes around me. Griffin was sitting beside the bed, face pale, eyes shadowed.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t move too much. You just had a skin graft.”

My head spun. “What…?”

He exhaled slowly. “Soraya’s arm was burned during the explosion. She didn’t want it to scar. Your skin tone matched hers best, so… we used part of your arm for the transplant.”

“What?” My voice was barely audible.

“She begged not to scar,” he said, as if that made it reasonable. “You were unconscious. It was urgent.”

I stared at him, trying to process it. “You didn’t even ask me.”

He reached for my hand. I yanked it away.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you say you wanted to go out with me? Once you’re better, we’ll start over. Properly. I’ll—”

“Who. Cares.” I ripped the IV out of my hand. Blood oozed, warm and steady. “You don’t get to decide for me. You don’t take from me like I’m some… spare part!”

He looked stunned. Not hurt. Not remorseful. Just stunned that the thought of me saying no never occurred to him.

“She’s your bright moon,” I whispered, voice trembling. “And I’m just the dirt under your shoes, right? You took advantage of me liking you. You used it.”

I didn’t mean to cry. But the tears came anyway. And for once, he looked like he didn’t know what to do.

His phone rang. He answered.

“Yes?” he snapped.

His assistant’s voice came through loud enough for me to hear: “Mr. Martin, the Princess Diana necklace Miss Soraya’s been wanting is going up for auction in Paris tonight. Should I prepare the jet?”

Griffin hesitated. Just a second.

“Yes. Tell them I’ll be there.”

Then he turned to me, his voice clipped and controlled. “I’ll be overseas for a while. I’ll bring something back for you.”

A beat passed. Then, as if it would make anything better, he added, “And don’t worry. We’ll do that date, too. I won’t break my promise.”

The door closed behind him.

I curled into myself, buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed.

He would never choose me. Not even when I almost died.

I stayed in the hospital for three days. On the day I was discharged, I received a call from the embassy. My visa for Texas had been approved. Funny how the only good news I’d gotten in weeks was about leaving everything behind.

Outside the embassy, the sun hit my face. I raised my hand to block it. The ring I had worn for two years—our wedding band—was already gone. All that remained was a faint, stubborn imprint on my skin. Like a scar that forgot it wasn't welcome anymore.

It was over. Finally.

After collecting the documents, I headed straight to a law office and drafted the divorce agreement myself. My name glided over the paper without pause. And then I dialed Soraya.

“Meet me,” I said.

I chose a café she loved. When she arrived, she was dressed in cream cashmere, with suspicion in her eyes and a threat already on her tongue. “If you’re here to start something, Vivienne, I swear, when Griffin returns—”

I didn’t speak. I reached into my bag and pulled out the wedding band. I slid it across the table toward her. “Try it on.”

She stared at me like I was insane, then slowly picked up the ring and slipped it on her finger.

It fit. Perfectly.

She froze.

“You’ve always wanted to know why Griffin avoids you,” I said calmly, my voice sharper than I meant. “You think it’s because of me. Or maybe because you did something wrong. But it’s not that.”

I leaned forward, locking eyes with her. “He avoids you because he loves you, Soraya. Not as a sister. Not as family. Not in any way that’s innocent.”

Soraya’s hand trembled.

“He had a room in the estate. A hidden one, decorated with portraits of you. A doll, too. Lifesized. You don’t want to know what he did to it.”

Her breath hitched, but I didn’t stop.

“He kissed you on that couch the night you fell asleep, remember? You thought it was a dream.”

“That ring,” I nodded toward her finger, “he had it made in your size. You were always the bride in his mind. I was the mask.”

Soraya looked like the wind had been knocked out of her. Conflicted emotions crashed over her face—shock, disgust, wonder… maybe even joy.

And I felt nothing. Just emptiness.

I stood, pulled out the signed divorce papers, and placed them neatly in front of her. “Give this to him when he returns. Tell him I hope you two live happily ever after.”

“Vivienne…” she finally whispered. “Where will you go?”

I didn’t answer her. I just smiled without meaning it and said, “Anywhere that’s mine.”

Then I turned and walked away from them both—Soraya and Griffin. Two souls bound by twisted longing. Two people who tore me apart, piece by piece, and didn’t even know they were doing it.

As I wheeled my suitcase through the terminal hours later, a message lit up my phone.

It was from Griffin. He sent a photo. A thin silver bracelet, ordinary. No box. No note.

Griffin: I just landed. Got you something.

I stared at it for a long moment, then laughed under my breath. So he bought Soraya a necklace once worn by a royal—and me? A souvenir from the airport.

I wasn’t even mad. Not anymore because I don’t love Griffin Martin anymore. He could no longer desGriffin me. This is the end.

I tucked my phone away and moved toward the boarding gate. But as I looked up, I froze.

Griffin was there. He was walking through the VIP terminal in a black coat, dragging his suitcase behind him.

He didn’t see me. Didn’t look back. And I didn’t call out to him.

I let him pass because I had finally learned that love should not feel like waiting to be chosen.

So I turned away. I blocked his number. Deleted every thread. And for the first time in years, I walked in the opposite direction.