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Evelyn's POV

The day was already not on my side. My stomach cramps had me curled like a shrimp, and all I wanted was my husband’s arms, a blanket, and maybe the sweet relief of belly massages.

Instead, I was listening to Damien lecture me on the merits of chamomile tea like he was the world’s leading herbologist.

And then, of course the doorbell just had to ring and interrupt us.

"The pizza guy?" Damien arched his brow.

"But we didn't—"

The moment I bent the door knob, it was thrown open, nearly colliding with my forehead.

Genevieve.

My twin sister stepped inside, mascara streaking down her cheeks like she had auditioned for a tragic opera. She clutched her chest, gasping about how her “condition” had worsened.

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my brain. “Of course it did,” I muttered, retreating into the kitchen before I said something the priest down the street would have to forgive me for later.

The pan of samosas hissed, reminding me that I had burned the previous one.

By the time I returned to the sitting room with a tray of tea, the scene waiting for me belonged in a bad melodrama, Genevieve was draped dramatically across the chair like a dying swan, and Damien knelt beside her with a look of tender concern.

I wanted to throw the tea in someone’s face.

“She says she can’t be alone,” Damien explained, his voice thick with pity.

Genevieve sniffled. “The doctors… They said I shouldn’t stay without care. I just—” She broke off, sobbing lightly. “I don’t feel safe. Not with strangers. I thought maybe…” Her watery gaze darted toward me. “Maybe I could stay here, with family.”

“No.” The word came from my mouth before my brain registered it.

Damien’s head whipped toward me, scandalized. “Evelyn—”

“She needs a nurse. A hospital. A nanny maybe, but not my guest room.”

“You would throw out your own sister?” His voice was fueled with outrage, as if I had suggested something barbaric.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my anger down. Her attitude right now reminded me of the time we were kids.

Genevieve often faked fainting spells to get our parents attention, and they’d hover over her like she was made of porcelain while I’d been told to toughen up.

She wasn’t sick. I was sure of that.

She was a master manipulator with a PhD in gaslighting. And I would not, would not, let her unravel my marriage the way she unraveled everything else.

“I’m not cruel,” I said, setting the tray down carefully. “But she is not staying here.”

Genevieve gave a little whimper, her lips trembling like some tragic saint. “I only want to feel safe.”

“You are safe,” I shot back. “In your own home. With a nurse. Or in a hospital. Just not here.”

Damien’s face darkened, disappointment carved into his features. “You sound cold-hearted.”

I laughed bitterly. Cold-hearted? Maybe. But I had lived long enough with Genevieve’s crocodile tears to know the truth. If I let her into my home, I’d lose it piece by piece, my peace, my marriage, and eventually myself.

And I wasn’t about to let that happen.

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by Genevieve’s delicate sniffles and Damien’s angry breathing.

“I can’t believe you,” he muttered finally, turning his gaze from me back to her. “She is your sister, Evelyn. Flesh and blood. And you want to send her away?”

I folded my arms. “If she is truly sick, then I want her cared for properly. Not cosplaying a tragedy under my roof.”

Damien’s mouth twitched in irritation,

"Didn't you see her previous medical reports, it's critical. She has to stay around family, Evie."

Obviously doctored, I thought.

“I knew you’d understand, Damien,” she immediately cut in before I could say anything. Her hand brushed his sleeve and lingered there for a while.

My blood boiled.

“No,” I said firmly. “She is not staying here. This is my house, my marriage—”

“Our marriage,” Damien snapped..

Genevieve sagged against the chair like a wilting flower. “If I leave… If I go back alone, something could happen to me. Would you really have that on your conscience, Evelyn?”

Manipulation, executed flawlessly. If she weren’t my sister, I might almost applaud.

"You little—"

Damien stood up, his jaw tight,

“Enough,” he said. “She stays. At least for a while.”

The finality in his tone sucked the air from my lungs.

Genevieve’s eyes shone with the joy of conquest, triumphant for just a second before she ducked her head again, playing the fragile dove.

I stared at them both, the man I married, and the sister I never wanted under my roof, and for the first time in years, anxiety gripped me.

“No,” I said again, sharper this time.

Damien didn’t even look at me. “I’m not interested in hearing it, Evelyn.” His tone was final. “She stays. End of discussion.”

End of discussion.

I stood frozen, my nails digging into my palm, but what else could I say? He had already turned away, already reached for Genevieve’s bag like a gallant husband instead of a brother-in-law.

“Come on,” he said gently to her, ignoring me completely. He slipped an arm under hers and helped her to her feet as if she were some fragile porcelain doll.

And then—just to salt the wound, he looked over his shoulder at me. “Grab some of the luggage, Evelyn.”

I almost laughed. Grab the luggage? My blood was boiling hot enough to cook those samosas without a stove. But I followed. What else was I supposed to do? Refuse and look like the villain he already thought I was?

So I walked behind them, carrying the damn bags while my sister rambled on in her sugary, manipulative voice.

“School was such a nightmare, Damien… I was so scared, you know… nobody understands me the way you do…”

I nearly gagged.

Halfway up the stairs, something slipped from her pocket and landed with a soft tap on the floor. I bent to pick it up automatically, ready to fling it back at her. But when my eyes caught the two thin, unmistakable pink lines staring up at me.

I stopped breathing.

A positive pregnancy test.