The Luck Thieves

The next evening, Tristan stormed into the house, fury crackling around him. He ripped at his tie, and when he saw my trembling wrist, the anger in his eyes peaked.

He seized my arm. "Where is it? The bracelet I gave you—where is it?"

I feigned ignorance and shrugged. "It fell into the toilet last night by accident."

His face flushed crimson. "It fell in, and you didn't bother to fish it out?"

"It was a cheap trinket from a dollar store," I snapped. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

"You know you cost me my promotion!" he snarled.

Feigning bafflement, I asked, "What are you talking about? You mean if I lose a bracelet, you lose your promotion?"

"You—" Tristan began, but George cut him off with a sharp clearing of his throat.

"Enough. If it's lost, we'll buy another. Don't make a scene," he said. Tristan finally fell silent, though his body was still rigid with anger.

I went to the kitchen to serve dinner, catching Tristan's sullen glare from the corner of my eye.

Losing the promotion was only the beginning. I would make them pay back everything they had stolen from me.

At the table, Tristan was still radiating fury. My mother-in-law, Sophia, smiled, trying to smooth things over. "Sandra, Tristan worked so hard for that position. He's just upset he didn't get it—you mustn't be angry with him."

"Look how good Tristan is to you," she continued, "always bringing you little gifts. It even makes me a little jealous. You have no parents to rely on; I've always treated you as my own daughter."

She picked a piece of broccoli from her plate and placed it on mine. "Sandra, eat more. It's good for your health."

She then took a large bite of meat. "I went to the pharmacy downstairs yesterday to have my blood pressure checked. They said it's quite high. I'll go to the hospital tomorrow. But don't you worry, I'll be fine, right?"

A cold dread twisted in my gut. The broccoli was already in my mouth.

The barrage of comments exploded across my vision.

[Wow, this old woman is vicious—who thinks like that?]

[What can the heroine do? Maybe she should run to the bathroom!]

[Do you think she already knows?]

Sophia kept looking at me with tender, expectant eyes. "Sandra, what do you think?"

Under the table, I pressed my hand hard against my stomach.

"Ugh—!"

I vomited, the contents of my stomach splattering onto the table. Between heaves, I looked at my Sophia, who had gone pale with shock, and forced a weak smile. "Of course, Mom. You'll be fine."

"Ugh—!"

I retched until there was nothing left. The meal was ruined. My stomach still cramped, and I mumbled that I felt unwell before retreating to my room to lie down.

Not long after, Tristan entered with a glass of milk. "My mother made this for you. She feels bad you didn't eat much and is worried your stomach is empty. See? What other mother-in-law would do that for her daughter-in-law?"

I made a small sound of thanks. Tristan snapped, "Sandra, sit up and drink it. Don't be ungrateful."

"Just leave it," I said weakly. "I'll drink it later."

He slammed the glass down on the bedside table. The moment he turned away, I poured the entire contents into the plant by the window.

The barrage popped up again.

[How did she know the milk was spiked?]

[I can't wait to see what she does next.]

Soon, voices drifted from the next room—this old house had paper-thin walls. I cracked the bedroom door, leaving it open just a sliver.

"Is Sandra asleep?" Sophia asked.

"Out cold," Tristan replied. "I crushed seven or eight sleeping pills into that milk. She's dead to the world."

Sophia clucked her tongue. "You should be nicer to her. Look how harsh you were today. If Sandra ever leaves you, what would we do? And your sister is counting on that trust-fund heir."

Tristan smirked. "Mom, Sandra is useless without me. Look at that fat pig—who else would want her? Even being kind to her makes my skin crawl. Tell Tina to eat less; just looking at Sandra turns my stomach."

His words made something click into place. I'd been married into this family for ten years, yet Tina Gaffor had never given me a thing. How had she "borrowed" my luck, leaving me fat and sick?

The barrage was thinking the same thing.

[They never said Tina gave the heroine anything.]

[Maybe the 'gifts' were passed through Tristan.]

Sophia fretted, "Sandra vomited… Could she be pregnant?"

Tristan was quick to dismiss it. "With that fatty? I feel sick every time I touch her. Why would I do that?"

The words triggered an old, deep ache; my hand flew instinctively to my belly. I had once been pregnant, but my frail body couldn't hold on—I lost the baby.

Tristan sneered, "Dad, your method worked perfectly back then. We made that fatty miscarry, and Kylie gave me a son. When can I bring Kylie and Nathan home? I can't stand the sight of that Sandra."

So that was it. My child, too, had been taken from me, sacrificed to feed them.

The usually silent George spoke. "In one month, Sandra's luck will be fully transferred. She must die for the transfer to be complete; otherwise, the backlash will destroy us."

Tristan sounded thrilled. "Perfect! My son and my real wife can finally come home."

George stopped him. "Kylie can't come join the family yet. You must find another woman with a strong destiny to marry, so our family's prosperity can continue."

"Fine. Kylie does what she's told, anyway. But I want Nathan here—he's my son," Tristan insisted.

Sophia then whimpered, "Oh, my leg is aching again. Tomorrow, I must give Sandra something else. And you, Tristan! Be smarter about it. Don't keep giving her that cheap junk from the dollar store."

Tristan boasted, "There's nothing to worry about! She's loved that crap for ten years."

Their conversation wound down. I closed the door, lay on the bed, and pretended to sleep.

Tristan opened the door, glared, muttered "stupid fatty," and left.

In the dark, I opened my eyes. My face was wet with tears. Hatred burned so fiercely that I wanted them to pay in blood.

For my child, I would have vengeance.

For the ten years stolen from me, I would make them answer.