Chapter One
Sarah
The gala had been a disaster of networking and lukewarm champagne. Sarah checked her watch—10:15 PM. She was home two hours early. She had texted Harrison, but he hadn’t replied, presumably asleep. He had bailed on the event at the last minute, claiming a migraine, his voice tight with feigned pain over the phone.
She unlocked the front door quietly, not wanting to wake him. The house was dark, but a flickering blue light emanated from the living room. The TV was on.
Sarah slipped off her heels in the foyer, her feet aching. She moved down the hallway, smiling softly. Maybe he was up. Maybe she could curl up on his chest, on their spot on the couch, and complain about the terrible speeches.
As she neared the archway, a sound stopped her. It wasn’t the TV. It was a wet, rhythmic slapping sound, punctuated by heavy, guttural breathing.
Sarah froze. Her blood turned into ice water. She took one step, then another, rounding the corner.
The scene before her didn't make sense. It was like looking at a car crash; her brain refused to process the violence of it.
On the gray sectional—the one they had picked out together, the one where they spent every Sunday morning drinking coffee—her husband was on top of a woman. But it wasn't astranger. The tangled blonde hair, the familiar curve of the hip... it was Emily. Her sister.
Harrison was moving with a feral intensity Sarah had rarely seen, his hands gripping Emily’s waist, his back arched.
Sarah stood paralyzed in the shadows. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't blink. She was forced to witness the nightmare in high definition.
Then, she heard Emily’s voice. It was breathless, needy, a tone Sarah had heard her use to manipulate parents and boyfriends for years.
"Tell me," Emily gasped, her head thrown back against the cushion where Sarah usually rested her head. "Tell me how much you like fucking me."
Sarah waited for Harrison to stop. To realize what he was doing. To wake up.
Instead, Harrison groaned, driving into her harder. "God... you're the hottest, tightest pussy I've ever fucked," he rasped, the words slurring with lust. "I can't go a single day without putting my dick in inside you."
The words hit Sarah like physical blows. Tightest. Ever.
Her gaze drifted down, morbid curiosity overriding her shock. She looked at the point where their bodies connected. The raw friction. There was no shine of latex. No wrapper on the table.
He wasn't using a condom.
The husband who insisted on double contraception for two years because they "weren't ready" for kids was raw-dogging her sister on their marital couch.
A primal scream built in Sarah’s throat, but it didn't come out as sound. It came out as action.
She reached blindly to the wall beside her. Her fingers curled around the heavy wooden frame of their wedding portrait—a black and white shot of them laughing in the rain.
With a surge of adrenaline, she ripped it off the hook.
"GET OFF HER!"
Sarah hurled the frame. It didn't hit them, but it smashed onto the hardwood floor inches from the couch with a thunderous crash. Glass exploded, skittering across the room.
Harrison scrambled back, tripping over his own discarded sweatpants. He looked wild, confused, his eyes wide with panic as he saw Sarah standing in her gala dress, shaking.
Emily didn't look scared. She looked annoyed. She pulled the throw blanket over her naked body, slowly sitting up.
"Sarah?" Harrison stammered, holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow. He was naked, exposed, and pathetic. "Sarah, wait, I—I didn't think you'd be home."
"You didn't think I'd be home?" Sarah shrieked, her voice tearing at her throat. "That's your defense? You're inside my sister on my couch, unprotected, and you're surprised I'm home?"
"It just happened," Harrison pleaded, stepping toward her. "I swear, it just—"
"Don't lie to me!" Sarah pointed a trembling finger at him. "You said you can't go a day without it. How long? How long have you been sleeping with her?"
