I never wanted to get married—but I had to. Not once. Not twice. Each time, it was a performance. A duty. A strategy crafted with precision. Love was never part of the equation.
But this… this was the final straw. After Millie, there would be no more pretending. No more tuxedos and vows spoken with a calculated smile. No more lies whispered between satin sheets. And no one—not my family, not the media, not even God himself—could question my decision to walk away from marriage forever. Not after they saw what I'd "endured."
Theresa shifted beside me, her warm, naked body curling around mine like she belonged there. We lay in a tangle of bedsheets, skin, and sweat—the aftermath of a night we had called our private celebration. A quiet, sinful ritual we performed whenever the illusion of my public life became too suffocating to bear.
This night marked the beginning of the end. The final unraveling of my marriage to Millie.
Theresa's leg hooked over mine as if to bind me to her. I let my hand wander across the curve of her ass, squeezing just the way I knew made her hum with satisfaction. She pressed a lazy kiss against my lips and murmured, "God, I fucking love you."
My heart beat slow and steady. I didn't say it back. Not yet. But I did tilt her chin toward me and kissed her again—deep, slow, like I was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth.
"I wish we could stay like this forever," I said softly, even though we both knew we couldn't.
Being with Millie was suffocating. Torture wrapped in pearls and patience. Nearly a year of playing the doting, God-fearing boyfriend. Laughable. I even claimed to be celibate—'waiting on God's time'—just to dodge the act of intimacy. And she believed it. She actually believed I was trying to be honorable. Sweet, naïve Millie.
If I hadn't gotten drunk that one night—spiraling from the silence Theresa gave me during the Millie situation—I never would've touched her. That night, I drank until the room spun, trying to numb the guilt and pressure. When I woke up beside Millie, naked, with her lipstick smudged across my chest and shame curdling in my stomach, I knew I'd made a mistake.
But mistakes can be useful. Mine became my weapon.
"So… she didn't act weird when you told her you were leaving for two weeks right after your wedding night?" Theresa asked, her finger drawing lazy circles on my chest.
"Not at all," I replied. "Told her it was business. She actually looked proud of me—said she admired my drive." I snorted. "She's either incredibly understanding or painfully gullible."
We both laughed. It wasn't funny, really. It was tragic. But comedy and cruelty often shared the same bed.
"She needs to believe I'm a good man. That's the only way this works," I added. "The more she believes in me, the harder she'll fall when the curtain lifts."
My family believed in legacy, not love. They believed in polished appearances, curated headlines, and maintaining the illusion of perfection. They didn't care who I married, only that I married—and that the woman looked good beside me in photographs.
But I couldn't marry just anyone. No, I needed a woman with cracks in her story. Someone who wouldn't survive a scandal. Someone already on the edge. Millie was a dream come true. Quiet. Mysterious. New in town. And best of all? Haunted.
She had secrets—I could smell them before I ever heard them. All I had to do was get close enough. And marriage? That was the master key.
Theresa rolled to her side, propping her head on her palm as she studied me.
"I still can't believe you pulled it off again."
I shrugged. "It's a system. Pick the right woman. Win the family's approval. Play the doting fiancé. And then… wait. Dig. Watch. When the time is right, expose the truth—slowly or all at once. Make her the villain. Make me the heartbroken, betrayed husband. Walk away squeaky clean."
Her expression was unreadable for a moment. Then she leaned forward, tracing her finger across my jaw.
"And after this one? No more?"
"No more." I meant it. "After Millie, I'll be done. No one can question my decision to swear off love. They'll believe I've been broken beyond repair."
"And we'll be free," she whispered.
I smiled faintly. "Not free. But free enough."
We both knew what that meant. She'd accepted that I could never marry her. Not without losing everything—my name, my inheritance, my place at the company. I was destined to become CEO. That was the goal. That was the price of the life we lived. And she understood. She never begged for more.
"I don't need a ring to prove I love you," she said. "I stopped believing in weddings a long time ago."
I admired her for that. She was ruthless in her loyalty. Fierce in her silence. Our love was a secret we held with bloodstained hands, and she never flinched.
She stretched, the blanket falling to reveal her bare chest, and I felt the tug of temptation again.
But she shook her head, laughing. "Nope. You need to go. Play the husband. Keep up the act."
I groaned but sat up, dragging on my shirt with a heavy sigh. "How much longer?"
"Not long," she said, standing and walking to me with a smirk. "Just until the skeletons in her closet start to dance."
She kissed me once more before I reached for the doorknob. I turned back when her arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
"When will I see you again?" she asked, her voice suddenly small.
"Tomorrow. At the office."
She nodded. "That's fine by me."
There, we were cold. Professional. Strangers in business suits. No one suspected a thing. No one would ever guess.
Because after all…
Theresa is my step-sister.
And secrets like ours are best kept wrapped in silence—and sheets.