My Best Friend Tricked Me to Steal My Man

Sylvie strolled around aimlessly, her interest fading as she stepped out.

A sudden urge pulled her toward the chapel where Gideon practiced.

"Excuse me, which prayer hall is Gideon in?"

"He didn't come today."

The chapel attendant looked at her with confusion.

"Alright, I see."

Sylvie nodded in thanks, but a sense of unease crept into her heart. A bad premonition took root, making her restless.

She hurried back home, torn between rushing to confirm her suspicions and dreading the truth that might await her.

Reaching her doorstep, she placed a trembling hand on the handle, ready to push it open.

Then, a soft gasp came from inside.

Her hand froze. Her heart pounded.

Slowly, she leaned toward the door, peeking through the narrow gap.

Her breath caught.

Inside, Ivy lay atop Gideon, her delicate skin deliberately exposed. Her slender fingers traced lazy circles on his chest.

"Don't you want this to happen too?" Ivy's voice was low, laced with temptation. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes smoldering with intent.

Gideon chuckled, his tone deep and hoarse. "Isn't this what you wanted? It’s much easier without that nuisance around."

Ivy said nothing, only offering a sly smile.

She inched closer, her breath warm and sweet against his skin. Her lips hovered near his Adam’s apple, her gaze innocent yet filled with mischief. The air between them thickened with anticipation.

Gideon grasped Ivy’s wrist, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a deep swallow. His breath came hot and heavy, the hunger in his eyes burning uncontrollably.

With a low growl, he flipped her beneath him, pressing his lips to hers in a feverish kiss.

The room filled with breathless sighs and hushed gasps—sounds that pierced Sylvie like a dagger.

She stood frozen, eyes hollow, as if her soul had been wrenched from her body. Tears, long held back, finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks, soaking into her clothes.

But she remained unmoving.

Then, as if the weight of her sorrow became too much to bear, her knees gave way, and she collapsed silently to the ground.

Her fingers trembled as they clutched the hem of her shirt—a desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything. Curling in on herself, she buried her face in her arms, her sobs muffled but uncontainable.

She wandered the streets like a ghost, her steps sluggish, her expression lifeless.

Eyes dull, gaze unfocused, she looked as though she had been hollowed out, left as nothing more than a fragile shell. Only the tears staining her cheeks proved she was still alive.

Then, she took a misstep.

Her foot caught on a stray stone, sending her sprawling onto the pavement.

Pain shot through her palms as her nails dug deep into her flesh, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside her chest.

And then—memories came rushing back.

...

Years ago...

Sylvie was still in college, home for the summer.

That night, just as she was preparing for bed, a knock sounded at the door.

She opened it to find Ivy standing outside, alone.

“There’s a power outage at my house,” Ivy said with a pitiful look. “Can I stay here for the night?”

Sylvie’s parents had gone to the countryside, leaving her alone. Without hesitation, she agreed.

In the middle of the night, a faint sound stirred her awake.

She cracked open her door just in time to see Ivy slip into her father’s room.

Curiosity gnawed at her, and she crept closer, peering through the narrow gap.

Inside, Ivy stood with her back to the door, dressed in shorts and a camisole.

“Uncle,” she cooed, her voice dripping with something Sylvie couldn’t quite place, “can I keep you company tonight?”

Sylvie’s father turned, his face impassive.

“Little girl, go back to sleep,” he said, his voice calm, dismissive.

But Ivy didn’t move.

Instead, she took a step closer, eyes locked onto him.

“Uncle…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Haven’t you been lonely all these years without your wife?”

Slowly, she reached out, her delicate fingers trailing over his shoulder.

Her gaze shimmered with something unsettling—pitiful yet calculating.