My Sister Stole My Boyfriend and My Fame

4: 4

I was cold all over,

one hand pounding on the door, the other typing an explanation into the livestream.

What came back was only more vicious abuse.

“Holy crap, is that Sharon knocking outside? Would she actually kill someone? Everybody stay safe!”

“She's insane, run, run!”

“I knew something was off about Sharon. All these years too scared to go on camera. Back in grade school she pulled a knife on her own parents. Everyone in our neighborhood knows.”

Eyes stinging red, I stared at Stanley on the screen.

He knew. He knew exactly why I picked up that knife.

It was because that day my stepfather tried to hurt me, my mom, and Sophie.

And he said nothing.

My right hand pounded the door until it went numb,

and only then did Sophie end the stream and step out behind Stanley.

I lunged at her, but Stanley blocked me.

“What are you doing? Calm down!”

“Then what are the two of you doing?”

Stanley looked at my red eyes, his lashes trembling.

“This whole thing online is an opportunity. I'm doing this for you, Shar.”

I froze, my gaze going hollow.

And listened as he went on.

“We run a couple's account, but you won't get in front of the camera. The company already told me we've lost a lot of sponsorship deals. This works out perfectly. We push Soph out to play the couple with me, you move behind the scenes and help us. Isn't that better?”

My eyes forgot to blink, and the sting pushed the tears out.

“Did you not see how those people online are cursing at me?”

“Those people are just running their mouths. In a few days they'll forget. It doesn't affect us making money. We're getting married, having kids, and that takes a lot of money. Do you understand?”

Stanley reached out and rubbed my cheek.

Behind him, Sophie leaned her head out.

“Sis, I really just want to help you.”

Help me. What a fine thing to say, help me.

I laughed out loud, my face still wet with tears.

I shoved Stanley away hard, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door.

Sophie came and knocked.

“Sis, you're being so unreasonable. All the money these years, Stan earned it, and he bought this place too. What gives you the right to lock a door?”

In a raw voice I told her to get lost.

Then I heard her faint little scoff.

The next few days, I didn't dare look at my phone, didn't dare go online.

The moment I did, private messages came flooding in, cursing me.

My number had leaked, so out-of-town calls never stopped coming.

People shipped packages to the apartment. Dead chickens, dead ducks, razor blades with words scrawled in blood,

or those talking ghost dolls, calling me the mistress who broke up a family, telling me and my mom to die together.

Every day Stanley set food outside the door, knocked, said a few words to me, then left.

The apartment was empty.

I knew. He'd taken Sophie out somewhere.

There were videos from strangers online, hoping the two of them would get away from me, wishing them happiness.

Until the seventh day, when I saw it on the account Stanley and I shared:

a new post.

Stanley and Sophie holding hands in a photo together, him kissing the back of her hand, smiling at the camera.

The caption: “Thank you all for the support. You gave us the courage.”

The new followers were all cheering, voting on a couple name.

Stanley screenshotted it and messaged me.

“We gained a million followers, Shar. No point fighting money.”

I didn't reply.

I opened the door I'd locked, dragged out the suitcase I'd packed long ago, and went downstairs.

Down at the curb, a car door opened on its own,

and a contract was held out to me.

I followed the hand up and saw a man in a face mask.

The man smiled.

“I think it's about time everyone got to know the real you.”