When My Husband’s Mistress Was My Own Sister

Three days after discovering my pregnancy—and my husband's betrayal—I woke to the sound of voices in the hallway. Female voices. One was unmistakably Avery's.

"I think the lavender room would be perfect for me," she was saying, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "It's so much brighter than the guest room where Evangeline's been staying."

I sat up, my body still aching from the accident. The pregnancy test was hidden beneath my pillow—a small secret that had become my only comfort in this nightmare.

"What is she doing here?" I whispered to myself, sliding out of bed.

When I opened the door, I found Avery directing two servants who were carrying her luggage. She wore a silk robe I'd never seen before, her hair perfectly styled despite the early hour.

"Good morning, sister dear," she chirped, not bothering to look at me. "Sterling invited me to stay. Someone needs to take care of things around here, and you're clearly... indisposed."

"This is my home," I said, my voice barely audible.

Avery finally turned to me, her smile sharp as a blade. "Is it? I think you'll find that's no longer the case."

She gestured to the servants. "Please continue moving Evangeline's things to the east wing. She won't be needing the master suite anymore."

I watched in stunned silence as they carried my clothes, my books, my life out of the bedroom I'd shared with Sterling for four years.

---

That evening, Sterling insisted we all dine together. "Like a family," he said, though his eyes never left Avery.

I sat at the far end of the table, pushing food around my plate while Avery regaled Sterling with stories of their day together. She'd rearranged the living room, fired a gardener, and ordered new linens—all in the span of a few hours.

"Evangeline," Sterling said suddenly, "you've barely touched your food. Is everything alright?"

Before I could answer, Avery reached across the table, ostensibly to adjust my napkin. In one fluid motion, she tipped her bowl of soup, sending scalding liquid cascading over my hand and arm.

I gasped, jerking back as pain seared through my skin.

"Oh!" Avery exclaimed with theatrical concern. "How clumsy of you, Evangeline! You bumped my arm!"

I looked to Sterling, expecting—what? Support? Defense?

"Evangeline," he said, his voice cold with disappointment, "look what you've done. You've ruined dinner."

He was already at Avery's side, examining her perfectly unharmed arm. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," she pouted, leaning into him. "But your shirt..."

---

The next morning, I retreated to my small studio at the back of the house—the one place they hadn't touched. Sketching had always been my escape, my way of making sense of the world. Today, I needed it more than ever.

I was working on a design for a maternity dress when the door swung open.

"Still playing fashion designer?" Avery leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "How adorable."

I kept drawing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response.

She sauntered over, plucking the sketch from my hands. "These are trash, you know. Always have been. Mom and Dad were right to push you toward a more... realistic career."

"Give that back," I said quietly.

"Or what?" She dangled the drawing just out of reach.

Something snapped inside me. "You're nothing but his mistress," I spat, the words burning my throat. "A cheap, desperate mistress."

Avery's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "Sterling!" she screamed, her voice piercing. "Help! She's attacking me!"

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. Sterling burst through the door, his face contorted with rage.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"She hit me!" Avery cried, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. "I was just trying to help her with her little drawings!"

I stood my ground. "That's not true. I never touched her."

Sterling grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. "Don't you dare touch her," he growled.

Then, with a swift, violent motion, he slammed my hand against the doorframe. I heard something crack before I felt the pain—white-hot and blinding.

"Don't ever threaten what's mine," he hissed, releasing me as I crumpled to the floor.

---

That night, the cramping started. At first, just uncomfortable twinges. Then sharper, more insistent pain. When I pulled back the covers to check, there was blood—so much blood.

"Sterling," I called weakly, stumbling into the hallway. "Please... help me..."

But he was gone. Out with Avery at some gala. The housekeeper found me collapsed on the stairs, her screams fading into darkness as consciousness slipped away.

I woke to fluorescent lights and the antiseptic smell of hospital sheets. A doctor with tired eyes stood at the foot of my bed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Richardson," she said gently. "We couldn't save the baby."

Hours later, Sterling appeared in the doorway, his bow tie slightly askew, alcohol on his breath.

"This is unfortunate," he said, checking his watch. "But perhaps it's for the best. You have a very weak constitution, Evangeline. I'm not sure you would have made a suitable mother anyway."

He turned to leave, then paused. "I'll have the housekeeper prepare the blue room for you. Avery prefers you stay out of her way while she's recovering from your... outburst."

As the door closed behind him, I pressed my hand against my empty womb and made a silent vow: This would not be the end of my story.