My Husband is Sickly Obsessed with His Sister

The sandalwood incense still clung to my clothes like a suffocating shroud as I stumbled back to our bedroom, my legs barely supporting me.

The image burned behind my eyelids—Ken, my cold, untouchable husband, gripping that photograph of Marissa in her red bikini, his face contorted with a passion he'd never shown me in two years of marriage.

Marissa is his sister.

My husband is obsessed with his sister. Sh*t.

My stomach lurched violently.

---

I barely made it to the marble bathroom before retching, though nothing came up but bitter bile.

My hands shook as I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me was a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, with the kind of devastation that reaches your bones.

Two years. Two years of sleeping in separate bedrooms while he told me it was "more dignified." Two years of wearing those suffocating high-neck sweaters he'd had his assistant deliver with that cruel note about "covering up." Two years of believing I wasn't enough, that I needed to be more patient, more understanding, more perfect.

The truth was so much worse. I had never been the problem.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and called my big brother, the only person who would understand. Marcus answered on the second ring.

"Eileen? It's past midnight. What's wrong?"

"I found something," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Ken... he has a hidden room. I saw him—" My throat closed up, unable to form the words.

"Where are you now?"

"In our bathroom. Marcus, I think I'm going to be sick again."

"Stay right there. I'm coming over."

"No, don't. He might—" I stopped myself. What was I protecting? A marriage that was built on lies? "Actually, yes. Please come."

Twenty minutes later, Marcus was sitting across from me in the living room, his usually perfect suit wrinkled from rushing over. He handed me a glass of brandy, which I accepted with shaking hands.

"Tell me what you saw."

I forced the words out, each one feeling like glass in my throat. Marcus's face darkened with each detail, his jaw tightening until I thought it might crack.

"That sick bastard," he muttered when I finished. Then he looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before—a mixture of rage and guilt that made my chest tighten.

"There's something else you need to know, Eileen. Something I should have told you two years ago."

The brandy turned to acid in my stomach. "What?"

Marcus ran his hands through his hair, a gesture so unlike his usual composed demeanor that fear crept up my spine. "Ken didn't marry you because he fell in love with you. He married you because he needed Dad's money."

"What are you talking about?"

"He embezzled three million from his family's trust fund. Used it to pay off Marissa's gambling debts from some high-stakes poker games in Monaco. When the family accountants started asking questions, he panicked. He needed a massive cash injection to cover the missing money before anyone noticed."

The room spun around me. "You're lying."

"I wish I was." Marcus pulled out his phone, scrolling through what looked like financial documents. "I hired a private investigator the day you announced your engagement. I knew something was off about the whole thing. Ken approached Dad with a 'business proposal'—a real estate investment that would require a fifty-million-dollar partnership. Dad saw it as a way to secure your happiness and agreed."

Fifty million dollars. The price tag on my humiliation.

"You knew," I said, my voice hollow. "You knew for two years and you said nothing?"

"I wanted to tell you, but Dad made me promise to keep quiet. He thought you'd be devastated if you knew the truth, that maybe Ken would grow to love you in time. He genuinely believed he was buying your happiness."

"My happiness." I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. "I've been living in hell for two years, thinking I wasn't good enough, wasn't pretty enough, wasn't anything enough. And you all knew it was a business transaction."

Marcus reached for my hand, but I pulled away. "Eileen, I'm sorry. I should have—"

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out of my house. I need to think."

Marcus hesitated, then stood. "Call me when you're ready to discuss your options. We can make him pay for this, Eileen. We can make him pay for all of it."

After he left, I sat alone in the cavernous living room, surrounded by the expensive furniture and artwork that had once felt like symbols of our sophisticated life together. Now they looked like props in an elaborate theater production where I'd been the only one who didn't know it was all fake.

I didn't cry. The tears had dried up somewhere between discovering Ken's secret and learning about my father's fifty-million-dollar investment in my marriage. Instead, something cold and sharp crystallized in my chest, replacing the soft, hopeful part of me that had spent four years chasing Ken Blackwood's approval.

When Ken returned home at dawn, still reeking of sandalwood, he found me sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of untouched coffee.

"You're up early," he said, loosening his tie. "Where's breakfast?"

I looked up at him—really looked at him—for the first time in months. His face was perfectly composed, not a trace of guilt or shame. He had no idea I'd seen him in that room, no idea his carefully constructed world was about to crumble.

"I'm going to do something today that will make you very happy, Ken."

He paused in the doorway, something flickering in his eyes. "Oh? What's that?"

I smiled, and for the first time in two years, it felt genuine. "You'll see."

Two hours later, I was sitting in the French consulate on Fifth Avenue, my mother's birth certificate spread across the desk in front of me. The consul, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, stamped the permanent residency application with a satisfying thud.

"Congratulations, Madame Blackwood. Your French citizenship will be processed within the month. Will you be relocating to France?"

"Perhaps," I said, tucking the documents into my purse. "I'm exploring my options."

My next stop was the offices of Croft & Associates, housed in a gleaming tower that scraped the Manhattan sky. Victoria Croft's reputation preceded her—she was known as the divorce attorney who could extract blood from stone, and her client list read like a who's who of scorned society wives.

She was younger than I'd expected, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing. Her office was sparse but expensive, every piece carefully chosen to project power.

"Mrs. Blackwood," she said, gesturing to the leather chair across from her desk. "I understand you're interested in dissolving your marriage."

"Among other things," I replied, settling into the chair. "I want to know exactly what I'm entitled to."

Victoria smiled, and it was the smile of a predator scenting blood. "Tell me everything."