My Husband Let Me Drown for My Fake Sister

"Please fasten your seatbelts," the flight attendant announced over the jet's intercom.

I ignored her, pressing my cell phone tight against my ear. "Mom? Are you there?"

"Fairy, we are very busy settling into the villa," Mandy's voice crackled through the speaker.

"I just landed in Honolulu," I said, gripping my carry-on bag. "Did Dean say anything about me?"

"Dean is taking care of your sister. Just take a taxi from the airport. We will see you when you get here."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen. Maybe I was just being too sensitive. Dean pitied her illness. Mom and Dad just wanted to protect the girl they raised. Once I arrived at the beach, we would sit down. We would talk. We would be a family again.

A yellow taxi dropped me off at the beachfront villa my parents rented. No one waited on the porch. No welcome banner hung from the railing. The heavy oak front door stood ajar, letting in the salty ocean breeze.

I hauled my suitcase over the threshold.

"Hello?" I called out.

Silence answered from the ground floor. Then, a muffled groan drifted from the second story. A woman's high-pitched whimper.

I left my luggage in the foyer and climbed the carpeted stairs. The sounds grew louder. Wet slaps of skin against skin. A deep, masculine grunt.

I stopped at the master bedroom. The door was wide open.

Dean had Zoe pinned against the mahogany headboard. His jeans were shoved down to his knees. Her silk robe pooled around her waist, exposing her bare breasts and pale thighs.

"Fuck, Zoe, spread your legs wider," Dean growled. His hips drove forward, burying his thick cock deep inside her.

Zoe threw her head back, her fingers digging into his broad shoulders. "Ah! Dean, yes. Fuck me harder."

"You like my cock, don't you?" he rasped. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into her wet pussy. "Fucking perfect. Take all of it."

Zoe wrapped her ankles around his lower back. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks, but she smiled, her chest heaving. "Will you really marry me, Dean? You won't abandon me for Fairy later, will you?"

Dean leaned down, kissing her neck, biting the soft flesh. "Fucking hell, you feel too good. Marrying Fairy was just for the business alliance."

"So you don't love her?" Zoe whined, arching her back to meet his thrusts.

"She's just a placeholder," Dean answered, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The title of Mrs. Aston means nothing. I'm fucking you, aren't I?"

He thrust harder, the bedframe banging against the wall.

"When the time is right, I'll give you a real wedding," Dean promised. "Just you and me."

My hand slipped off the doorframe. I knocked over a heavy bronze vase resting on a pedestal in the hallway.

It crashed onto the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces.

Dean froze. He yanked his cock out of Zoe and spun around.

His cold eyes locked onto mine.

I didn't wait for him to speak. I turned and sprinted down the stairs. My chest burned. Five years of trying to fit in, two years of marriage, all reduced to a transaction. A fucking placeholder.

I grabbed my suitcase handle in the foyer, but it slipped from my sweaty palms. I left it. I burst through the front door and ran straight into the courtyard.

"Fairy?"

I skidded to a halt. John and Mandy stood by the front gates. John held a leather leash attached to a golden retriever. Mandy casually sipped from a paper coffee cup.

"Mom, Dad," I gasped, pointing a shaking finger toward the villa. "Dean is up there. He's sleeping with Zoe. They're—"

"We know," John interrupted, his voice completely flat.

I stopped breathing. "You know?" I choked out. "And you're just walking the dog?"

"Lower your voice," John ordered, glancing up and down the empty street.

Mandy refused to meet my gaze. She stared at the manicured lawn. "Fairy, it's time you start a new life."

"A new life? I'm married to him!"

"Not for much longer," John said. He pulled a folded envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. "I contacted an art academy in Paris. Your tuition is paid in full for the next four years."

I stared at the white envelope, my hands trembling. "You're sending me away?"

"Your flight leaves tomorrow morning," John stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Pack your things tonight. Don't come back."

"I'm your biological daughter!" I screamed. "She stole my life, and now she's fucking my husband in your house, and you're kicking me out?"

"Watch your language," Mandy snapped, finally looking up. Her expression hardened into a glare. "Zoe needs this family. She’s more fragile than you."

"Fragile? She's destroying my marriage!"

"You survived in foster care for eighteen years," Mandy argued, stepping closer. "You know how to be independent. Zoe doesn't. You can survive Paris."

A harsh laugh tore from my throat. I looked at the two of them—the united front. I never belonged here. From the day they brought me back, I was just an intruder in their perfect world. My marriage was a lie. My family was a lie.

"Keep your money," I spat.

I turned my back on them.

"Fairy, be reasonable!" John shouted.

I ignored him. I ran past the iron gates, my feet pounding against the asphalt. Tears blinded me, blurring the streetlights into streaks of yellow and white. The ocean breeze felt like ice against my wet cheeks. I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to escape the suffocating grip of the Kensington family.

I veered off the sidewalk, darting across the dark coastal highway.

Headlights flared in my peripheral vision.

Tires shrieked against the pavement. The deafening sound of burning rubber filled the night air.

I turned my head just in time to see the massive chrome grille of a black Rolls-Royce.

The bumper clipped my hip. I flew backward, slamming hard onto the asphalt. Pain exploded in my shoulder, radiating down my spine. I curled into a ball, gasping for air, the rough ground scraping my palms raw.

The engine idled with a low, menacing purr.

A heavy car door swung open. Leather shoes stepped onto the pavement.

I forced my eyes open, blinking through the tears and dirt.

A man towered over me. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the expensive fabric catching the dim streetlights. His sharp jawline and piercing gray eyes projected absolute authority. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't ask if I was hurt.

He simply stared down at my pathetic, crying form.

"Miss," he said, his voice cold and smooth as polished steel. "If you want to die, don't block my car."

"I wasn't trying to die," I rasped, clutching my bleeding elbow.

"Then you have terrible situational awareness," he replied, adjusting his cuffs.

I recognized that face. I had seen it on the cover of Forbes, dominating the financial pages of every New York newspaper.

Ryan Cavendish.

The ruthless, untouchable heir to the Cavendish empire.

And he was staring at me like I was nothing more than a stain on his tires.