I thought Ashton Bennett loved me intensely during our five years of marriage. Until the night Macy Hart, my half-sister, returned to the country. Ashton left me at home and went to the airport to pick her up. He didn’t come back that night. Early the following day, Macy posted a picture on her Instagram burner account: “When you’re with the right person, every day feels like Valentine’s Day.” The accompanying photo? Macy and Ashton are kissing and surrounded by his circle of friends, celebrating. Content After work, I grabbed dinner at a restaurant downtown and strolled through Riverfront Park. I delayed going home until it was completely dark. When I got back, the lights were on. Ashton was home—a rare sight these days. He took my coat and bag and hung them on the rack. “Why are you home so late?” he asked. “Did you eat yet? I can make you some noodles.” I used to be the one saying those lines and doing those things. Who was he performing for now? My voice was cold. “I have a meeting tomorrow. Don’t bother.” I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt? Discomfort? It only made me feel more disgusted. Was this his attempt to make amends after sneaking off with Macy to a hotel last night? I headed straight for the guest room. Ashton grabbed my wrist. “Lila, about last night…” I turned around. The dim light from the hallway highlighted his pale face, beads of cold sweat glistening on his forehead. His usually sharp jawline was rough with stubble. For years, I adored that face. Now, it only repulsed me. Love and its absence—how starkly different they feel. I didn’t let him finish. I walked into the guest room, shutting the door in his face. Last night, I painstakingly prepared a special dinner and even reminded him to come home early. He had no idea I planned to tell him I was pregnant. But instead, he took a phone call, claimed he had to work late, and left for the night. I waited for him in silence, sitting on the couch until dawn. The dishes I’d cooked remained untouched, cold. The ice cream cake I ordered weeks ago sat in its box, melting into a sticky puddle on the floor. As I decided to clean up, my phone pinged with a notification. It was a post from a burner Instagram account I didn’t recognize, one of Ashton’s followers. The account posted a live picture just minutes ago: “When you’re with the right person, every day feels like Valentine’s Day.” The photo was of Ashton kissing Macy. His friends, all cheering, surrounded them. Those friends—five years of marriage, and I had never met them. Whenever I tried to join his social circle, he would brush me off, calling them mere drinking buddies. That night, I scrolled through every post-Macy had ever shared. It was all there—photos, captions, proof. They had been meeting behind my back for years. In her posts, Ashton was caring, attentive, and generous—willing to give her the world. This side of him was a stranger to me.
The guest room door creaked open. Before I could react, Ashton wrapped his arms around me, his body hot against mine. My skin prickled with revulsion as nausea climbed up my throat. His hand slid down my back, fingers restless and invasive. I shoved him off with all my strength, grabbed a pillow, and stormed out of the room. He stood frozen for a moment, his expression unreadable in the shadows. We grew up together in the same close-knit community. Our parents were lifelong friends, and our bond was unshakable. The summer after sophomore year in college, he confessed his feelings. We started dating soon after. But that same year, my father came home with the news: a mix-up at the hospital years ago. The daughter he brought home wasn’t his biological child—Macy was. Macy entered our lives, delicate and teary-eyed, clinging to my father like a lifeline. “Dad, why is she still here? Don’t you love me?” she sobbed. “Sorry, sis,” she whimpered, voice trembling with practiced innocence. “I know I’m intruding. I’ll go if you want me to leave—no matter how hard it gets out there. I’m used to suffering.” My father, overcome with guilt, told me to leave instead. I laughed bitterly, packed the savings my mother left behind, and walked out. A year later, Macy showed up at my university, courtesy of my father’s connections. She played nice on the surface but undermined me at every turn. She sabotaged my friendships and got my graduate scholarship offer rescinded using my father’s influence. She even got me evicted from my dorm. Her petty schemes didn’t faze me—I refused to waste energy on someone so cheap. I believed I had something she could never take: Ashton. Macy relentlessly pursued him, even publicly confessing her feelings. She cozied up to his friends, tried to learn his routines, and orchestrated run-ins on campus. On Instagram, she chronicled her infatuation, obsessively documenting every interaction. Ashton dismissed her as clingy and pathetic, openly humiliating her more than once. For three years, Macy stuck to him like glue.
I once thought she genuinely loved Ashton. That was until she smugly declared, “Sis, I’m going to take everything you have—starting with Ashton.” I brushed her off. I had no doubt Ashton loved me. Our bond was built on years of trust and affection. When I was kicked out of my dorm, he rented me a penthouse apartment near campus for a year. He remembered all my preferences, waited in line overnight for a Coachella ticket so I could get a front-row spot, and handled all the logistics for our ski trips. All I had to do was enjoy the scenery. I trusted him completely. Macy’s games could never shake that. After graduation, Macy disappeared without a word. I thought her obsession with Ashton was finally over. Then came the photo on Instagram. Her second year of chasing him was when things began to change. He started looking at her differently. Sitting in the living room that night, the air felt thick, suffocating. Ashton buried his face in his hands, silent. “What’s wrong with you?” He didn’t answer, so I pressed. “Explain last night.” “I told you, I was working late! Why are you so jealous all the time? This is why our relationship is strained—you don’t take any responsibility for your behavior!” I laughed, hollow and bitter. Once, I thought Ashton was the most honest, loyal, moral man in the world. I never checked his phone or questioned where he went. He always volunteered the details. I realized those updates were just excuses for sneaking around with Macy. He played on my trust, and I fell for it repeatedly. His voice grew harsher. “Do you want me to call everyone from work right now so you can interrogate them? Would that make you happy?” I felt drained. What was the point? Even if I uncovered the truth, the betrayal was already a wound too deep to heal.
Years of trust shattered overnight. It hurt, but I knew clinging to illusions would only worsen it. Facing the truth and letting go was the only real choice. Frustrated by my silent treatment, Ashton slammed the door and left the house, his face dark with anger. I didn’t care. I focused on work. A few years ago, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. His health rapidly declined, and so did the company’s finances. “The company’s cash flow has dried up,” he confessed. “It’s on the verge of collapse.” At that moment, I realized how trivial grudges and betrayals seemed in the face of life and death. Despite his faults, my father had raised me for eighteen years. I took over the failing company, juggling work demands and his hospital care. It was exhausting. On the other hand, Macy left the country and never came back to check on him—or anyone else. One morning, I dressed quickly to avoid running into Ashton, but luck wasn’t on my side. Stepping out of the bedroom, I saw him standing in the kitchen, smiling as if nothing had happened the night before. He gestured toward the table. “Come have breakfast.” His eyes lingered on my arm, and he silently handed me a custom-made long-sleeve shirt. He had ordered so many of these over the past five years, all to hide the scar on my left arm. It was from a fire during a trip overseas. A restaurant caught fire, and Ashton fainted from smoke inhalation. I had already escaped, but I went back to save him. A burst light fixture exploded, leaving my arm with a severe burn.
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