My Husband Who Hates

I had imagined my grief would settle. That by the time I sat in the car beside Chase, my heart wouldn’t feel like it was unraveling thread by thread.

But I had been wrong.

The weight of what I had seen in his study pressed against my ribs like an iron cage. I sat stiffly, my hands folded neatly in my lap, nails digging into my palms. The polished car interior reflected our faces—Chase, relaxed, eyes flicking lazily between his phone and the road ahead, and me, silent, barely breathing, a ghost of myself.

I should have spoken. I should have asked him about the shrine of Camille in his study, about the love letters, about the contract that would hand over everything he had built to her.

But I said nothing.

Because I already knew the answer.

Chase had never been mine.

"You're quiet tonight." His voice broke the silence, smooth as ever. He didn’t sound concerned, just observant.

I forced a small smile, just like I always did. "Just tired."

He hummed as if he accepted that answer, then reached for my hand. I let him, though the warmth of his palm felt like a betrayal now.

The mansion loomed ahead, golden lights spilling from every grand window. As the car pulled to a stop, I exhaled softly, smoothing down my dress. This was Camille’s world—the one where I had always been an afterthought.

Chase stepped out first, rounding the car to open my door. A perfect gentleman. A perfect lie.

I let him take my hand as I stepped out. Inside, the party was in full swing—chatter and laughter filling the air, a string quartet playing softly in the corner. Camille stood at the heart of it all, glowing beneath the grand chandelier, her gown shimmering with every graceful movement.

She looked like she belonged here.

And I looked like I was borrowing time.

“Sweetheart!” My mother’s voice rang out, bright and full of warmth—directed at Camille, of course. She cupped Camille’s face between her hands, eyes glassy with adoration. My father stood beside them, pride evident in the way he beamed.

My stomach twisted.

They had once looked at me like that.

When Camille had been missing, I had been their everything. They had doted on me, held me close, whispered promises that I would never be alone.

But the moment she returned, I ceased to exist.

Camille turned, spotting me. Her lips curved into a smile, so soft, so sweet—so full of knives.

“Sis, Miracle,” she murmured, stepping forward to take my hands. “You look lovely tonight.”

I wanted to pull away, but I didn’t. I simply smiled, letting her squeeze my fingers as if we were just two sisters reunited for a celebration.

But I remembered.

I remembered the way she had looked at me ten years ago when she was first brought home.

The way her lips had trembled, the way her voice had cracked.

"Sis, what did I do wrong? Why did you let them kidnap me?"

Even now, the words struck like a blade, sinking deep beneath my skin.

She had hated me from that moment.

And I had spent years trying to understand why.

Chase’s hand landed on my waist, grounding me. His presence, his touch—it had once been my comfort, my shield.

Now, it only reminded me of the photographs on his wall.

The night went on, a blur of polite conversations and practiced smiles. I stood beside Chase as he played his part—Camille’s charming brother-in-law, the man my parents trusted more than they trusted me.

At some point, Chase excused himself. Camille was quick to take his place.

"You seem quiet," she mused, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Is something wrong?"

I studied her. Camille had always been skilled at wearing concern like a mask.

"I'm fine," I said softly.

She tilted her head, her smile deepening. "Really? I would have thought you'd be... unsettled."

I stiffened. "Why would I be?"

She took a slow sip of her drink, eyes glinting over the rim. “Because, dear sister, I know you went into Chase’s study.”

My breath caught.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the music more distant.

Camille’s fingers trailed along the rim of her glass. "What did you think? Quite the collection, isn’t it?"

I swallowed hard. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would he marry me if he—if you—" The words stuck.

Camille sighed, almost pitying. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, leaning in just slightly. "You’re not his lover. You’re his insurance."

The world tilted beneath me.

Camille took a final sip of her champagne, then pressed the glass into my hands. "Be a dear and hold that for me." Then, with a soft, amused hum, she glided away—toward Chase.

And I watched, helpless, as he smiled when she approached.

I should have left. I should have turned away and let the night swallow me whole.

But something inside me—some desperate, aching part—needed proof.

So, I followed them.

The mansion’s grand doors were slightly ajar, leading out into the chilled night air. I slipped through unnoticed, the breeze biting against my skin.

And there, beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, I saw them.

Chase and Camille.

Standing close. Too close.

Her fingers curled against his chest, his hand resting lightly on her waist. And then—

He kissed her.

Not a fleeting touch. Not a mistake.

A real, deep, lingering kiss.

Like a man starved.

I pressed a hand against my stomach, nausea curling in my throat. My vision blurred.

I had known.

I had known.

But knowing and seeing were two different kinds of agony.