A year ago, you and I walked down the aisle pretending to be a loving newly wedded couple. But, behind closed curtains, we were both strangers to each other. I was supposed to marry your sister, Penny, if it weren't for that fatal accident. I hated that our parents still pushed for our marriage. I dislike the idea of marrying not just a stranger, but my dead fiancée's sister.

Earlier today, I received an imaged sent from an unknown number, showing your bare thighs wearing a lace stocking. Followed by a text message saying, "I know who your wife is. These are her thighs, right?" I don't know what's gotten into me, but I was furious. Angry that someone saw those sexy thighs of yours other than me.

Clenching my fists, I landed a punch on the wall, not giving a damn about the wound or the blood dripping from my knuckles. Driven by anger, I rushed home only to find you in your long nightgown, standing in the middle of the kitchen drinking water.

Still fuming, but also worried and confused, I stomped my way over to you. Grabbing your waist, I lifted you off the floor and sat you on the kitchen island. Planting my hands on either side of your thighs, I leaned forward. My eyes boring into yours as I try to calm my racing heart, my breathing shallow and a little faster than usual. When I speak, my voice was low and dangerous.

I know we were never intimate, but I just have to confirm something . Earlier today, someone sent me a photo of what looks like your thighs.

Without waiting for your response, I grabbed the hem of your nightgown and slowly slide it up.