He Lost Me When He Chose His Stepsister

“No.”

Troy’s voice was firm, final. “I’m not signing anything, Thalia.”

I turned to face him, my expression carefully blank. Every muscle in my body screamed to lash out, but I swallowed it all down. I’d been doing that for so long now.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he added, as if his words could erase everything that had already been done. “Don’t be so dramatic. Everything’s going to be alright. Now get in the car. Bianca’s tired from the trip. She needs to go home.”

I laughed—a loud, bitter sound that felt like it might rip me in half. There it was—the truth I’d known in my gut all along. I’d never get a divorce. Not from a man like him. Not unless I ran away.

But my visa wasn’t here yet, so I smiled faintly. Swallowed my pride. And slipped into the backseat of the car.

I would bear with it a little longer.

Bianca was beside Troy in the passenger seat, talking non-stop about their trip like it was some fairytale.

“We hiked the Matterhorn—it was freezing, but he carried me down the trail like a knight.” She went on, oblivious to everything else. “Then there was this sweet shop, and he bought the whole shelf because I couldn’t decide!”

“Troy even booked the entire rooftop of the Ritz for dinner. Candles and everything.”

I stared out the window, dead silent. Her giggles and his soft chuckles filled the space, but I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

The rest of the ride passed in quiet torment, my chest tight with rage and helplessness.

That night, Bianca announced she’d cooked dinner.

“I made something for everyone! Come eat with us!” she chirped, her tone sweet, as though that would make up for all the damage she’d done.

I was about to refuse when Troy gave me that look—the one that said if I didn’t play nice, I’d be the problem.

“Bianca apologized. She’s trying, Thalia. Don’t be immature. She’s just a kid.”

A kid who split my skull open. I forced myself to sit down. My hands clenched under the table, white-knuckled as I stared at the steaming bowl of soup she’d placed before me.

Bianca beamed at me. “Try it. I added a secret spice.”

I hesitated, staring at the soup. Then I took a sip, trying to swallow my disgust. Something tingled at the back of my throat. Then that tingling turned to a violent burning.

I dropped the spoon. My chest tightened, the air choking from my lungs. My throat swelled, panic rising like a tidal wave.

Shrimp. Tiny bits of shrimp. The cruelest betrayal. I looked at Bianca through blurred vision. Her face was frozen in mock horror.

“Oh my god. I didn’t know! I didn’t mean—”

Liar. She always knew. Always.

I glanced at Troy. His eyes hardened—not in concern, but in irritation.

“Bianca, go upstairs. You don’t need to see this.”

And then he walked away. Left me there.

I staggered to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I fumbled through the drawers, searching for my EpiPen and allergy meds. My body was shutting down, but I fought to stay conscious. I swallowed a pill, just enough to stabilize myself.

An hour later, I collapsed in bed, utterly drained, barely hanging on to life. Sleep took me swiftly, mercifully.

When I woke, it was dark. Something felt… wrong. I got up slowly, my legs shaky. I made my way to my closet—and froze. The shelves were in disarray. My drawers were torn open. Boxes had been dumped out like someone had ransacked my room. And the velvet case that held my mother’s bracelet—gone

My pulse spiked. My stomach twisted with dread. I ran out of the room, heading for the backyard.

That’s when I saw her. Bianca. She stood by the pool in her swimsuit. Smiling. Wearing my bracelet.

The last thing my mother had ever given me before she died.

Something inside me snapped. I stormed over to her, grabbing her wrist with all the fury that had been building inside me for months.

“That’s mine,” I growled.

Bianca yanked her arm back, a defiant smirk twisting her lips.

“It looks better on me,” she taunted.

“You broke into my room.”

“So what?” she sneered.

The bracelet snapped in half during the struggle. The pieces scattered to the ground with a sickening crunch.

I saw red. The rage was all-consuming. I shoved her—hard.

She shrieked as she lost her balance, stumbling backward before plunging into the pool with a splash.

The sound echoed through the night. Water churned violently. And then… silence.

I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the ruined pieces of my mother’s memory clutched in my hand. I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

But then I heard her. Bianca. She was flailing in the pool, her arms waving wildly as she screamed for help. Her voice was panicked, desperate. “Help! Help! I can’t swim!”

I stood frozen, watching her flounder in the water. Her cries echoed, but I didn’t move. I didn’t offer her an ounce of sympathy.

She wasn’t a child. Not anymore. And in that moment, I realized I didn’t care if she drowned.