Married To The Stranger In The Dark

Kate POV:

The sweet, cloying scent of buttercream and sugar hung in the air, and I wiped down the gleaming counter of "Sweet Kate's" for the third time, my reflection a blur of flour dust and anxious energy.

Everything was perfect. Ready.

In the large white box in front of me sat a three-layer chocolate cake, decorated with the iconic blue and orange of my fiancé's team. The Chicago Raptors. It wasn't just a cake. It was his three years of scraped-together dreams, of late nights studying while he was at practice, of believing in him when no one else did.

I slid the heavy box into the passenger seat of my beat-up sedan, the engine groaning to life like an old man waking from a nap.

The drive through Chicago's glittering streets was a slideshow of memories. Meeting Josh Tucker in a crowded college bar. His cocky grin. The way he promised me the world. Watching him go from a nobody on the university team to a rookie forward with a future as bright as the city lights. I was his rock, he always said. His number one fan.

I pulled up to the sleek downtown high-rise he now called home, a perk of his new contract. My heart hammered against my ribs with anticipation.

I buzzed his apartment. No answer.

He was probably in the shower, blasting music, not hearing the chime. A smile touched my lips. This was even better.

I used the spare key he'd given me, the one on a keychain shaped like a tiny hockey stick, and quietly let myself in.

A surprise.

A sickly sweet, floral, and expensive perfume hit my nostrils. My heart sank. It wasn't mine.

The apartment was dark, except for a sliver of light coming from under the bedroom door. The cake box in my hands suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

A sound drifted from the bedroom. A woman's laugh, low and muffled.

A laugh I knew as well as my own.

My blood ran cold. My breath hitched in my throat.

No.

I moved without thinking, my feet silent on the hardwood floor. Each step was a lifetime. The heavy box was a lead weight, pulling me toward a truth I didn't want to see.

I took one last, shuddering breath.

And I shoved the bedroom door open.

Time seemed to stop in that instant.

My stepsister, Judy Carlisle, was straddling my fiancé Josh. Her blonde hair was a messy halo around her head, her back arched, her body completely bare.

They froze, their heads snapping toward me like two rats caught in the glare of headlights.

The box slipped from my numb fingers.

It hit the floor with a sickening thud. The sound of three years of love and hope and promises smashing into a worthless, sugary mess.

"Kate!" Josh scrambled, pushing Judy off him, fumbling with the bedsheets to cover himself. "It's not what you think!"

But Judy... she felt no shame. She sat up slowly, making no effort to cover herself. The sheet pooled around her waist, a lazy, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. Her gaze slowly swept over the ruined cake on the floor, then landed back on me, her eyes filled with pure, unadulterated victory.

I didn't have time to feel sadness. Because a white-hot, volcanic rage burned away everything else. I saw the glass of water on the nightstand next to Judy's discarded dress. Without thinking, I grabbed it and threw it with all my strength at Josh's head.

The glass shattered against his temple. A spiderweb of red bloomed on his skin, and blood began to trickle down his face. He cried out, a sharp yelp of pain, clutching the side of his head.

My hand trembled, but not from fear. It was from the raw, electrifying thrill of it.

"You psycho!" Judy shrieked, but she wasn't looking at Josh's wound. She pointed at her designer silk robe draped over a chair, now spattered with a few drops of his blood. "An orphan living on my family's charity—how dare you act so high and mighty!"

I turned my gaze on her, and the look in my eyes must have been terrifying, because for a second, she flinched. "Stay in line," I said, my voice dangerously low, "or you're next."

With that, I turned my back and walked out of that sickening room. I didn't take the elevator; I ran down the emergency stairs, their arguing echoing behind me. After throwing myself into my car, my whole body was trembling with a nauseating mix of fury and disgust.

Three years. A fucking joke.

I glanced in the rearview mirror at my tear-streaked, pathetic face. No. I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to let them win. My fingers, white-knuckled, typed out a text. "I'm downstairs. Come down. We need to talk." I hid in the shadows, waiting.

Like a predator. A few minutes later, he emerged, pulling a hoodie over his head, looking around nervously.

I watched him walk toward my car, and I felt nothing but ice-cold hate.