After My Sister Took My Husband, I Took Everything Back

The gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled through the gates of the Hunter estate three days early. Grasse had been suffocating—too many suppliers asking questions about "The Alchemist's" next creation, too many lies I'd have to feed Rosalie later so she could regurgitate them at her next press conference. I needed my lab. My sanctuary.

The house loomed dark against the October sky, all glass and steel angles that Victor had insisted projected "power." I'd wanted stone and ivy. But that was years ago, back when I still believed my opinion mattered in this marriage.

I parked in the side drive, closest to the lab wing. No need to alert the house staff. They'd only fuss, and I wanted silence. Just me and my essentials oils and the bergamot shipment that should have arrived yesterday.

But the lab door stood ajar.

A sliver of warm light spilled onto the slate hallway. My hand froze on the handle of my equipment case. I never left that door open. Never. The temperature controls, the volatile compounds—everything required precision.

Then I heard it. A woman's laugh, breathless and sharp.

My sister's laugh.

I moved without thinking, my ballet flats silent on the stone. The door was open just enough. Just enough to see my husband's broad shoulders, his Italian wool jacket discarded on the floor beside my workspace. Just enough to see Rosalie's bare leg wrapped around his waist, her scarlet heel dangling as she perched on my desk—the one I'd custom-built with climate-controlled drawers for my most delicate tinctures.

A vial rolled off the edge. My jasmine absolute. Six months of work. It shattered on the tile.

Neither of them noticed.

"God, I've missed this," Victor groaned, his voice thick. "Three days without you—"

"Without me, you mean," Rosalie purred, her fingers raking through his hair. "Your little wife playing chemist in France while we play house. How much longer do we have to keep up this charade?"

"Until the acquisition closes. Once we have the Moreau contract locked, we can—" He thrust harder, and she gasped. "We can do whatever we want."

My hand found the doorframe. Steadied myself.

"What about the barren bitch?" Rosalie's voice turned cruel, mocking. "Did you tell her about the latest 'failed' IVF cycle? Was she devastated?"

Victor laughed. Actually laughed. "Devastated? She cried for two days. I almost felt bad. Almost."

"Don't." Rosalie's heel dug into his back. "Those eggs are worth more in my lab than they ever would be in her womb. Besides, after all those hormonal cocktails we've been slipping her, she's too moody to be a decent mother anyway."

The hallway tilted. I pressed my shoulders against the wall, tasted copper. I'd bitten through my lip.

"Does she suspect?" Victor's question came between labored breaths.

"That I'm the one administering her 'fertility treatments'? Please. She trusts me. Trusts her devoted little sister who 'understands' her struggle." Rosalie's imitation of my voice was pitch-perfect, practiced. "The best part? As long as The Alchemist keeps producing those scents, you don't even have to pretend to love her anymore. Just keep her dosed and desperate."

"The Alchemist." Victor's rhythm slowed, thoughtful. "You really think you can keep pulling off the charade at these investor meetings? Margaret Chen from Château Beaumont is coming next week for the blind test."

"Victor." Rosalie's voice hardened. "I've been studying her formulas for two years. I know her process better than she does by now. Besides, Margaret wants to believe a beautiful, charming face created those perfumes, not some mousy little nobody hiding in a lab."

My formulas. My process. My face they'd stolen.

I backed away, one step, then another. My equipment case caught the corner of a console table. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

They didn't hear. Too lost in each other. Too confident in their fortress of lies.

I ran.

The rain started as I hit the highway, my hands shaking so violently I nearly missed the exit. I didn't think. Couldn't think. I just drove through the downpour toward the only fixed point left in my collapsing universe.

Louis Gordon's building rose like a monument to everything Victor pretended to be. Old money. Real power. I abandoned my car in the circular drive, stumbled past the shocked doorman, into the elevator.

His penthouse door opened before I could knock.

Louis stood backlit by soft amber light, still in his shirt and slacks from whatever meeting he'd been in. His eyes—grey and sharp and seeing too much—went wide.

"Vanessa."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My legs buckled.

He caught me before I hit the marble. "I've got you," he murmured, lifting me like I weighed nothing. "I've got you. You're safe now."

But I wasn't. I'd never be safe again.

Because the man I'd married had been harvesting me like livestock. And the sister I'd protected my whole life had been wearing my genius like a costume.

Louis carried me to his leather sofa, wrapped me in a cashmere throw that smelled like cedar and bergamot—nothing like the synthetic cologne Victor wore.

"Tell me," he said softly, kneeling in front of me. "Tell me everything."

So I did.