My Husband Used Me to Protect His Sister

Leanna's apartment smelled like vanilla and lies.

She stood in her bathroom—the one with the good lighting, the ring light she'd bought for her "photography hobby"—and laid out her tools on the marble counter. Stage makeup. The expensive kind. The kind theater professionals used. A curling iron. A beauty blender. Three shades of purple and green.

She plugged in the curling iron and waited for it to heat.

Mochi sat on the closed toilet lid, watching her with amber eyes. Leanna scratched behind the cat's ears.

"Just a little insurance," she murmured.

She'd done this before. Smaller things. A scratched arm after a "mugging" that made Dean drive across the city at two AM. A twisted ankle that required him to cancel dinner plans with Chloe and carry Leanna up four flights of stairs because the elevator was "too scary."

But this needed to be bigger. More convincing.

Chloe was still here. Still wearing that ring. Still carrying Dean's baby.

Leanna picked up the darkest purple. Dabbed it onto her inner forearm with the beauty blender. Blended outward in soft circles. Added green at the edges. Yellow in the center where the "bruise" would be oldest.

She worked methodically. She'd watched enough YouTube tutorials. Studied enough forensic photography. The trick was layering. Building depth. Making something fake look realer than real.

She did her left arm first. Three large bruises. Fingerprint-shaped. The kind that came from someone grabbing you. Hard.

Then her collarbone. She used the curling iron for that—just a quick touch, enough to redden the skin without actually burning. She worked the makeup over it. Made it look like someone had pressed something hot against her throat.

She stepped back. Checked the mirror.

Perfect.

She picked up her phone. Opened Instagram. Angled the camera to catch her bruised arm in soft light. Let her hand tremble just slightly. Took seventeen photos before she found the right one—the one where she looked fragile and brave and heartbroken all at once.

She typed the caption with her right hand, letting the left stay visible in the frame: *some wounds don't come from strangers*

She posted it.

Then she sat on the edge of her bathtub and waited.

The comments started within minutes.

*Oh my god are you okay???*

*Who did this to you*

*I'm calling you right now*

*Leanna please tell me you're safe*

She didn't respond to any of them. That was part of it. The silence. Let them imagine. Let them fill in the blanks.

Let them think of Chloe.

Her phone buzzed. Dean. She let it go to voicemail. Waited five minutes. Let it buzz again.

On the third call she answered.

"Leanna." His voice was sharp with panic. "I saw your post. What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm home." She made her voice small. Shaky. "I'm okay. I just—I needed people to know. I needed—"

"Know what? Leanna, talk to me. Did someone hurt you?"

She closed her eyes. Let the silence stretch.

"Was it Chloe?" he asked quietly.

She didn't answer. Didn't need to.

"I'm coming over," Dean said.

"No. Please. I just need space right now. I just need—"

"I'm coming over."

He hung up.

Leanna smiled at her reflection.

Phase one: complete.

---

Phase two required more preparation.

She'd been building it for weeks. Burner email accounts. Aged Twitter profiles with realistic posting histories. A carefully constructed Reddit account that had been active in publishing subreddits for six months, building credibility.

She opened her laptop. Logged into the first Twitter account—@PublishingInsider47, created in March, 847 followers, regular posts about industry news.

She'd already prepared the thread. Screenshots she'd fabricated in Photoshop. "Original manuscripts" with timestamps that predated Chloe's publication. A detailed breakdown of "stolen" plot points and character arcs.

She posted the thread at 11 PM. Prime time. When people were scrolling before bed.

The first tweet: *I've been sitting on this for months. But after seeing what Chloe Spencer is capable of, I can't stay quiet anymore. THREAD on her plagiarism.*

She posted the screenshots one by one. Let each one breathe. Let the outrage build.

Then she switched accounts. @LiteraryEthics. @GraphicNovelTruths. @ComicsWatchdog.

Each one retweeted. Added commentary. Built the narrative.

By midnight #ChloeSpencerIsAFraud was trending in publishing circles.

Leanna made herself tea. Sat on her couch with Mochi purring in her lap. Watched the numbers climb.

Retweets. Quote tweets. Think pieces being drafted in real time.

At 1 AM, Serena Voss—the graphic novelist who'd been bitter about Chloe's success since her Times review—quote-tweeted the thread.

*We have to hold each other accountable, even our friends. This is disappointing but necessary. #ChloeSpencerIsAFraud*

Serena had 200,000 followers.

The hashtag exploded.

Leanna's phone buzzed. Dean again.

*Are you seeing this about Chloe?*

*Someone's accusing her of plagiarism*

*This is insane*

*I'm coming home. We need to talk.*

Leanna set down her tea. Looked at her bruised arms in the lamplight.

She typed slowly: *Maybe it's not insane. Maybe you don't know her like you think you do.*

She hit send.

Then she turned off her phone and went to bed.

Outside her window, Manhattan glittered. Indifferent. Beautiful.

Somewhere across the city, Chloe was probably awake. Probably watching her career catch fire in real time. Probably texting Dean. Crying. Begging him to believe her.

Leanna pulled her duvet up to her chin.

She'd built this carefully. Every piece. Every lie.

It was architecture.

And architecture, done right, never fell.

She closed her eyes and dreamed of nothing at all.