Chapter 3

Ethan didn't stumble back until well past noon the next day. He'd brought back some famous crispy roast chicken from the neighboring city, as if that could make up for anything.

Crescents of exhaustion bruised his eyes, but the tilt of his mouth gave him away. It was a small, secret grin he couldn't quite pocket.

Well, how could he not be wiped out? He was busy all night.

The floating digit wasn't a percentage anymore. It was a 7.

Seven orgasms in one night. Congratulations, Ethan. New personal record.

He started peeling fruit with theatrical care, narrating how the boss had hailed him a "corporate hero" and promised a bump in salary. He said he'd buy me the latest Louis Vuitton bag.

The fruit smelled like perfume over garbage. I swallowed the urge to gag.

I had picked him because the odds said he was the sure thing. Turns out I'd bet the house on a lame horse who'd just discovered the track.

Once a man sampled forbidden sugar, the craving hardwired itself. The first slip was a gateway, the second was routine, the third was oxygen.

So yes. This man had to go.

I rewound the tape. When did the glitch start?

Then it hit me. His high school reunion.

He came home tipsy, humming, nostalgia dripping from his collar. I laughed it off.

But honestly, those reunions were breeding grounds for old flames and new regrets. A little alcohol, a dose of nostalgia, and suddenly everyone forgot they had a life and boundaries.

Before long, the number above Ethan's head ticked to 15.

I knew I had to take action. I hired a private investigator. It was time to get some real answers.

Right after I got off the phone with the PI, the doorbell rang.

Peeking through the peephole, I saw Ethan's mom, dad, and little sister standing outside.

My temples began to pound.

Before the wedding, these three would kiss the ground I walked on. They acted like I was some angel sent from heaven.

But after? Their true colors bled through.

First, his mom, Ruby, got better after her illness and decided she wanted money for a new country house. They called it a "loan," but I knew I'd never see that money again.

Then his sister, Emily, begged me to introduce her to some rich guys.

And honestly? She was not bad-looking. She could've landed someone decent if she played her cards right.

So I set her up with a trust-fund kid I've known forever, a genuinely good guy. But on their first date? She ordered a $3k Dior saddlebag and hinted that they book a suite.

What guy with half a brain would take that seriously?

When I heard about what happened, I was so pissed. She totally embarrassed me.

But when I confronted her, my mother-in-law shrugged. "Men are ATMs with legs. What's your problem?"

That was the moment I saw the family crest: three vultures picking a wallet.

And now they were back, circling.

The moment they settled in, Ethan's mother leaned forward, already rummaging through her bag.

"Charlotte, darling, you do know Ethan always wants a baby boy?" She produced a cloudy plastic bottle as if it were holy oil. "A visionary blessed this water herself. Drink it before the next full moon."

The liquid inside looked like melted aquarium gravel. I swallowed the eye-roll, not the potion.

She had started the baby campaign at the altar, whispering "grandson" between vows, and had not paused for breath since.

I had told her, politely, frostily, repeatedly, that my thirties were earmarked for boardrooms, not booties. She heard only the echo of her own biological clock.

Stage left, Emily was rifling my vanity, testing scarlet against the inside of her wrist like a vandal appraising stolen art.

Stage right, Ethan's dad, Brian Quinn, stood sentinel over my Persian rug, tapping pipe ash onto the silk as though sowing seeds.

The whole clan assembled. Something was definitely up.

I took a slow breath. "All right, what's the occasion?"

Ruby gave Emily a pointed look. "Well, Emily's been courting a lovely man in finance. They've talked for weeks, and he's offered us a—what did he call it, dear?—a 'low-risk, high-yield syndicate.' We thought, since the opportunity is so exquisite, we might pool the family resources..."

As soon as I caught the buzzwords "finance," "low-risk, high-yield," alarm bells went off. This had scam written all over it.

She kept talking, circling around the real ask. They wanted me to chip in a hundred thousand dollars. For the "big return."

"Hold up," I cut in. "Emily, have you even met this guy?"

Emily strutted over. "We've been talking for a month. We FaceTime every night. He's shipping me to Vesperra next month, first-class ticket already queued."

I frowned. "You've never met him, and you're sending money? Doesn't that sound risky?"

Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, okay, I haven't met him, but he's shown me the villa, the yacht, even the title deeds. I slipped in fifteen grand last week. It's already grown to thirty. I'm practically doing you a favor letting you in."

I kept my voice low. "That's not profit, that's bait. Cut your losses and file a report before the word 'Syndicate' is replaced with 'Fugitive.'"

Her cheeks flamed the exact shade she'd stolen from my Dior tray. "How dare you! You should apologize to me! If you don't want to help, say the word."

I shot her a tired look. There was no reasoning with her.

I turned to leave, but Emily grabbed my arm, yanking me back hard.

She barked, "Apologize! You've always thought you were better than us, right? And that 'rich guy' you set me up with? He wouldn't even buy me a bag!"

I peeled her fingers off. Ethan's mother floated forward, voice syrupy with counterfeit peace. "Now, Emily, dearest, Charlotte didn't mean—"

Brian rapped his pipe against the coffee table. The bowl rang like a cracked bell."Hen in my yard pushes out more eggs than she does. At least the hen's earning her feed."

Emily finally shut up, but she was still glaring.

Brian resettled his dentures. "No use wintering where you're not wanted. But mark this, girl: a barren hen gets stewed. Three years, Charlotte. Clock's tick-tocking. You giving us an heir or an excuse?"

His wife tilted her head, faux-concern layered thick. "Perhaps a doctor? Just to be certain everything's... open for business."

I almost laughed aloud. Was this really happening?

I'd seen those viral videos about cops trying to talk someone out of sending money to a scammer, only to be screamed at by the very person they were trying to save.

I used to wonder who could possibly fall for something so obvious. Now I was watching it play out in my own living room.

I tried to warn them, but after that little performance? No. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to watch them walk straight into the trap.

So I shifted my tone entirely. "You know what, Emily? I'm sorry. I spoke from ignorance. A man who can double your money in a week isn't a con, he's a prophet. Strike while the server's hot."

A smug, victorious smile spread across Emily's face.

"But honestly," I went on smoothly, "we're a bit tight on cash right now. If you really believe in this opportunity, you could always take out a loan. The returns will easily cover the interest."

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice as though sharing a secret. "I know a reliable place. You could borrow three hundred grand and double it into six hundred."

The word "loan" flickered across her pupils like a caution light, then the image of six hundred grand ignited behind it, bonfire-bright.

I pivoted to Ruby, voice dipped in honey. "And about the grandchild... We actually started trying last month. We were saving the sonogram for Christmas, all wrapped in blue tissue. But since secrecy seems to wound you..."

Ruby gasped, hands fluttering together, beaming as if I'd just handed her a winning lottery ticket.

After I finally guided them out the door, a cold, quiet smile touched my lips.

I couldn't wait to watch them drown in debt.

*****

Three days later, the private investigator's envelope arrived.

I sat in a quiet corner of a café, the weight of it heavy in my hands. Slowly, I tore it open.

Inside were photos. Grainy, but unmistakable.

There was Ethan, kissing some woman softly on the cheek. Another was him walking beside her, his hand resting possessively low on her back.

And then one, taken through a hotel window, curtains carelessly open, Ethan was pressing her against the wall, kissing her like he meant every second of it.

Her shirt was off. Only her bra remained.

I went through each one, my stomach knotting tighter with every image.

But it wasn't just the proof of his infidelity that hollowed me out. It was the woman. I knew her.

Petite. Slim. Shoulder-length caramel curls. Always in heels. Perfectly put together.

I mentally scrolled through every woman we knew—friends, colleagues, acquaintances—but none matched.

I was still staring, frustration mounting, when my phone rang.

It was my dad.

"Hey, sweetie! Sophie and I are back from our round-the-world trip! Got you tons of souvenirs. Come by tonight if you're free."

And that was when it hit me.

Sophie Stewart. My dad's new wife. The woman in the photographs was my stepmother.