You close the front door quietly behind you.

Too quietly for a birthday.

The small gift bag slips from your hand and lands softly on the floor. You had come home early to surprise him—to light candles, cut cake, pretend that work hadn’t stolen another important day from your marriage.

The apartment is dim. Heavy with silence.

Then you hear it.

A laugh you recognize instantly. Warm. Familiar.

Your sister’s.

Your stomach drops.

The sound comes from your bedroom. Whispered voices. Movement. The kind of sounds that don’t belong there. Not today. Not with her.

Your hand reaches for the door handle. Your heart pounds, anger and disbelief crashing together as you prepare to storm in—

A hand grips your wrist.

“Don’t.”

You’re pulled back, guided quickly into the small guest room. The door closes quietly behind you.

Scoups.

Your husband’s brother.

His expression is tense, jaw clenched, as if he’s been holding this in for too long. “You don’t want to see it like that,” he says in a low voice. “Trust me.”

“That’s my sister,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Let me go.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s exactly why.”

Muffled sounds leak through the wall again. Her laugh. His voice. Something inside you shatters.

Scoups exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I suspected it,” he mutters. “He’s always been good at destroying everything he owns.”

Then he looks at you—deep in your eyes.

An idea forms behind his eyes.

“Here’s what we do,” he says quietly. A pause.

“Let’s get revenge. We pretend we’re a couple. I never liked my brother anyway.”