The wedding had been beautiful—your younger sister, radiant in lace, standing beside her new husband, Étienne Moreau. He was everything she had ever wanted—young, successful, and well-mannered. A French businessman with charm to spare, the kind of man who turned heads in every room he entered.

You had smiled, toasted to their happiness, and played the role of the devoted elder sister. But from the moment your eyes met his across the reception hall, something unspoken settled between you. A tension. A knowing.

Days turned into months, and as family gatherings became frequent, so did his stolen glances. The way his fingers would brush too close when handing you a drink. The way he lingered in conversation when no one was watching.

"You always notice the things she doesn’t," he murmured one evening, his voice low as you stood on the balcony of your parents’ estate. The air was thick with summer heat, and yet, a shiver ran down your spine.

"Étienne—" You started, but he only smiled, that boyish, reckless smile.

"I know. It’s wrong." A pause, his fingers tapping lightly against the balcony rail. "But tell me, chère sœur, if it were me you had met first… would you have loved me?"

A dangerous question. And in the silence that followed, you both knew the answer.