Chapter 1

I stood outside the bedroom door of my own apartment, keys still in my trembling hand.

I’d left work early. A surprise. The florist had called to confirm the wedding arrangements, and I’d felt a sudden, overwhelming need to see Leo, to wrap myself in the certainty of our future together. Three months until the wedding. Three months until I became Mrs. Leonard Hartwell, wife of the golden boy whose family vacationed with senators and whose trust fund had a trust fund.

The door was slightly ajar.

I’d heard the sounds before my mind could process them. Low moans. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings. A woman’s breathy laughter.

My hand had frozen on the doorknob. Some distant, rational part of my brain had whispered: Walk away. You don’t need to see this. Knowing is enough.

But I’d never been a coward.

I pushed the door open.

The late afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing everything in golden light. The room smelled of expensive perfume and sweat and sex. On the bed I’d shared with Leo for two years, my fiancé was buried deep inside my stepsister.

Genevieve’s long blonde hair spilled across her back. Her back was arched, head thrown back in pleasure, lips parted as she rode Leo with wild abandon. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, pale and perfect, the kind of body men wrote poetry about and women envied in silence.

Leo gripped Genevieve’s hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. His face was flushed, eyes squeezed shut, lost in sensation. He looked more alive than I’d seen him in months.

“God, you’re so tight,” Leo groaned, thrusting up into Genevieve with desperate force. His hands slid up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. “So much better than—”

“Than your boring little fiancée?” Genevieve purred, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle. She leaned forward, breasts pressed against Leo’s chest, and bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Tell me how much better I feel.”

“So much better. Christ, Gen, you’re perfect.” Leo’s hands moved to her backside, spreading her wider as he thrust deeper. “I should have done this months ago.”

Genevieve threw her head back and laughed, the sound full of triumph. She ground down hard, taking him to the hilt, and Leo cursed, his whole body shuddering. She clenched around him, her inner muscles working him with practiced skill.

“You like when I do this?” Genevieve whispered, repeating the motion. “When I squeeze you like this?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

My stomach lurched. I should leave. I should scream. I should do something other than stand there, frozen, watching the man I’d planned to spend my life with worship my stepsister’s body.

Genevieve increased her pace, rising and falling with athletic grace. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, obscene and raw. Leo met each downward thrust with his own upward drive, their bodies slapping together in a primal rhythm I had never achieved with him in two years of trying.

“Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had,” Genevieve demanded, her nails raking down Leo’s chest, leaving red welts in their wake.

“The best. The only one who matters.”

Genevieve’s eyes snapped open. Crystal blue and utterly pitiless. A slow smile spread across her face as her gaze locked on mine.

“Oh dear,” Genevieve said, not bothering to stop her movements. If anything, she rode Leo harder, making a show of it now, putting on a performance. “We have an audience.”

Leo’s eyes flew open. For a moment, shock registered on his face. Then something else. Something worse. Relief.

“Diana.” My name came out breathless. “I… this isn’t…”

“Isn’t what?” My voice sounded strange. Distant.

“Isn’t you fucking my stepsister in our bed?”

Genevieve laughed, throwing her head back as Leo hit a spot inside her. She moaned loudly, exaggerating her pleasure. “Oh, Leo, right there. Yes, right there.”

Leo had stopped moving, but Genevieve hadn’t. She continued to ride him, her movements slow and deliberate, making sure I saw everything.

“Leo, don’t stop on her account,” Genevieve breathed, looking directly at me while she ground her hips in a circle. “Diana, we’re almost finished. Unless you’d like to watch the finale?”

My legs felt like they’d been filled with lead. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

“Gen, stop,” Leo said, finally pushing at her hips. “Get off.”

“But you were so close, darling.” Genevieve dismounted slowly, deliberately, giving me a full view of Leo’s arousal, hard and slick with evidence of their coupling. She reached for a silk robe draped across the chair, shrugging into it without an ounce of shame.

“You were going to find out eventually,” Genevieve said, examining her manicure as if we were discussing the weather. “We’re in love. Have been for months.”

“Months?” The word scraped my throat raw.

Leo sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t reach for his clothes. Didn’t try to cover himself. The lack of urgency felt like another betrayal.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Leo said, but his tone carried no real remorse. “You and I… we’re not right for each other, Di. You have to know something was off.”

“I thought we were getting married.”

“You thought a lot of things.” Genevieve perched on the edge of the bed, crossing her long legs. The robe fell open slightly, revealing the curve of her breast. “Tell her, Leo. Tell her what you told me last week.”

Leo had the decency to look uncomfortable. Barely. “You’re… you’re a good person, Diana. Responsible. Organized. You’d make someone a wonderful wife.”

“Someone. Not you.”

“Not me.” He shook his head. “You’re too… controlled. Too measured. Being with you is like… like…”

“Like a tax audit, darling,” Genevieve supplied helpfully. “Those were his exact words. As exciting as a tax audit.”

The words hit me like physical blows. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself.

“You’re a wallflower,” Leo continued, warming to his theme now, as if he’d been waiting for permission to voice these thoughts. “Beautiful in your way, but colorless. No passion. No fire. Every time we were intimate, I felt like I was going through the motions with someone who was mentally checking off a to-do list.”

Genevieve giggled. “She probably was. ‘Kiss for thirty seconds. Touch breast. Wait appropriate amount of time. Finish.’”

“I need more than something clinical,” Leo said. “I need someone who matches my energy. Who takes risks. Who makes me feel alive.” His gaze slid to Genevieve, softening. “Gen does something to me.”

I looked at my stepsister. Genevieve gazed back with undisguised triumph. This wasn’t passion. This wasn’t love. This was conquest. This was Genevieve seeing something I had and deciding to take it, the way she’d taken my favorite doll when we were children, the way she’d convinced our father to send me to public school while Genevieve attended private academies, the way she’d slowly, methodically poisoned every good thing in my life.

“You did this on purpose,” I whispered. “You don’t even want him.”

“Of course I want him.” Genevieve’s smile sharpened. “He’s handsome, wealthy, and most importantly, he was yours. What better prize is there?”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m competitive. There’s a difference.” Genevieve stood, gliding across the room with feline grace.

She stopped inches from me, close enough for me to smell Leo’s cologne mixed with sweat and sex on her skin. “You’ve always been daddy’s perfect little disappointment. The daughter from his first marriage. The reminder of his failure. I’m the daughter he chose. The one he loves.”

“Stop.”

“When was the last time he called you? Came to one of your events? Remembered your birthday?” She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “He won’t even walk you down the aisle, Diana. I made sure of it. He’s escorting me to the Vanderbilt gala on your wedding weekend instead.”

The room tilted. My father had promised. He’d promised, for once, to be there for my wedding day.

“You’re pathetic,” Genevieve continued. “Clinging to scraps of affection from a man who sees you as an obligation and a fiancé who fucks me in your bed because you’re too boring to hold his attention. Even now, watching us together, you’re too much of a coward to make a scene. Too worried about being proper.”

My hand moved before my brain caught up. The slap cracked through the room, snapping Genevieve’s head to the side.

For one heartbeat, there was silence.

Then Genevieve’s hand flew to her reddening cheek, eyes wide with shock. Leo jumped up from the bed, finally reaching for his pants.

“You hit me,” Genevieve breathed. “You hit me.”

“Get out of my apartment,” I said. My voice was steady now. Cold. “Both of you. Get out.”

“Your apartment?” Leo laughed, the sound bitter. “Diana, my name is on the lease. Mine. You moved into my place, remember?”

Of course. Of course he’d held something over me.

“Fine.” I turned on my heel. “Then I’ll leave.”

I walked to the closet in the hallway, pulling out the suitcase I’d used for our trip to Martha’s Vineyard last summer. My hands were surprisingly steady as I moved through the apartment, gathering my things. Clothes. Toiletries. My laptop. The few photographs of my mother I kept on the nightstand.

Leo and Genevieve had moved to the living room. I could hear them talking in low voices, Genevieve’s occasional laugh like glass breaking.

I worked methodically, packing only what mattered. I left the engagement ring on the kitchen counter, the diamond catching the light one last time. Left the key to the apartment beside it. Left three years of my life in a place where I’d never belonged.

When I emerged with my suitcase and a bag of essentials, Leo was dressed. Genevieve lounged on the sofa, still in the robe, looking pleased with herself.

“Where will you go?” Genevieve asked, examining her nails. “Back to daddy? Oh wait, he won’t take your calls.” A pause. “Maya’s, I suppose. How lovely, running to your little artist friend who lives in something the size of a closet in Brooklyn.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t give Genevieve the satisfaction.

I rolled my suitcase to the door and opened it. Stepped into the hallway. Let the door click shut behind me with terrible finality.

In the hallway, my knees buckled. I caught myself against the wall, fighting for breath. Three years with Leo. Three years of trying to be enough, to be perfect, to earn the kind of love my father had never given me.

All of it, a lie.

I straightened, smoothing my skirt with shaking hands. I would not cry in this hallway. Would not give them the satisfaction of hearing me break.

I took the elevator down, called a car, and gave the driver Maya’s address in Brooklyn. Maya was supposed to be in Chicago for an art show, but her apartment was the only place I had a key to. The only place I could think of.

The drive took forty minutes in evening traffic. I stared out the window, watching Manhattan give way to Brooklyn, the buildings growing shorter, the streets narrower. I paid the driver, dragged my suitcase up three flights of stairs to Maya’s walk-up, and let myself in.

The apartment was small but warm. Colorful paintings covered every wall. Plants crowded the windowsills. It smelled like sandalwood and coffee and home in a way Leo’s pristine apartment never had.

I dropped my suitcase by the door. Walked to the worn couch. Sat down.

And finally, alone in the silence of my best friend’s empty apartment, I allowed myself to break.

I cried for the fiancé who’d called me a wallflower. For the father who’d chosen a gala over my wedding. For the stepsister whose cruelty knew no bounds. For the woman I’d tried so hard to be, only to discover I’d never been enough.

I cried until there were no tears left. Until my throat was raw and my eyes burned and exhaustion pulled at my limbs like weights.

I pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped myself in it. The fabric smelled like Maya’s lavender laundry detergent. Outside, Brooklyn hummed with evening life. Cars honked. People shouted. Somewhere, someone was playing music too loud.

I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, I would figure out what came next.

Tomorrow, I would rebuild. Tomorrow, I would become someone new.

But tonight, I let myself be broken.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​