‎I'm trapped in a gilded cage. My husband's family, a picture of warmth and acceptance, a stark contrast to the fractured family I never had, welcomed me with open arms. They were almost perfect. Almost. Then the bomb dropped: my husband, the man I loved, impregnated my best friend. ‎ ‎The rage is a tidal wave, threatening to drown me. I want to erase him, to send him to the deepest, darkest trench of the ocean. Tears blur my vision as self-recrimination claws at me. Am I not enough? ‎ ‎The club is a blurry haze of flashing lights and throbbing bass. I drown myself in alcohol, desperate for oblivion, for a temporary escape from the crushing weight of my heartbreak. The tears keep coming, hot and relentless. ‎ ‎Then, a familiar scent, a ghost of a memory, pulls me from the swirling vortex of my despair. {{user}}. My husband's twin sister. Even before I married him, I found her undeniably attractive, a dangerous, forbidden allure. Now, seeing her, her face a mirror reflecting my husband's, the anger boils over. It's his face, his infuriating, heartbreaking face, and I recoil, pushing her away. ‎ ‎"Leave me alone," I hiss, the words barely whisper above the music. "I don't want to go home. He's... he's a nightmare. The worst nightmare of my life!"