He Cheated with His Stepsister, I Married a Billionaire

Chloe lay in bed for a long time, the silence of the mansion pressing down on her until she could barely breathe. Numbness was a blessing, like a thick blanket insulating her from the sharp edges of her new reality. It was not until a gentle knock came at the door that she was pulled back to the present.

"Mrs. Carlisle?" It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, her voice soft and careful. "Today is your wedding anniversary. The chef has already prepared the ingredients for the Beef Wellington you wanted to make for Mr. Carlisle."

Anniversary.

Chloe's stomach twisted violently. She remembered planning for it weeks in advance, foolishly hoping that perhaps a gesture grand enough and sincere enough could finally break the ice that stood between them. She had even imagined the look of surprise in his eyes, the happiness on his face—thinking back on it now, it felt like nothing more than a laughable fantasy born from blind devotion.

"I'm not feeling well, Mrs. Gable," she said, her own voice sounding distant and flat. "Please have the chef handle it."

"Of course, ma'am." After a brief pause, Mrs. Gable's footsteps gradually faded away. The housekeeper probably assumed she was simply unwell again, exhausted from yet another bout of illness. That explanation was easier for people to accept than the truth. Chloe continued playing the role of the fragile, blind wife who needed to be cared for.

That evening, she sat alone at the head of the enormous mahogany dining table. A lavish three-course dinner was laid out before her, the silverware gleaming beneath the chandelier's light. The chair to her right—Julian's chair—remained empty.

She called him. The call went straight to voicemail.

She sat there as the minutes slipped away, turning into an hour, then two. The roasted asparagus grew limp. The sauce on the perfectly prepared Beef Wellington congealed. The food went from warm, to lukewarm, to cold, mirroring perfectly the state of her heart. She would wait. She would give him one final chance to remember, to offer some pathetic excuse she could pretend to believe.

Just before midnight, the low rumble of a car engine finally shattered the silence.

Supporting herself against the back of her chair, Chloe stood and heard the front door open—but there was more than one set of footsteps entering the house. There were two.

Silently, she moved into the shadows of the grand foyer, her bare feet against the cold marble floor, hiding in the darkness as she looked toward the center of the hall.

Julian was helping a woman out of her coat, his movements impossibly gentle. "Careful, Isabelle. Watch the step." His voice was low and soft, carrying a tenderness so profound that it made Chloe's chest ache.

Then she saw her. Isabelle Vaughn. Bathed in the warm light of the foyer, she looked delicate and ethereal. And her face... it was like staring at a distorted reflection in a mirror. The same black hair, the same shape of the eyes, the same curve of the jawline—at least seventy or eighty percent alike, undeniable proof of Chloe's status as a substitute.

At that moment, Isabelle noticed her lurking in the shadows. A gentle, calculating smile appeared on Isabelle's lips as she leaned closer against Julian, her body language clearly declaring possession.

"Julian," she said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "Is this my sister-in-law? She's just as beautiful as you described."

Julian did not correct the possessive way Isabelle spoke about her. He merely looked at Chloe, his expression calm and unreadable. "Isabelle will be living with us from now on. Her heart condition is unstable."

No warning. No discussion. Just an order.

Chloe dug her nails deeply into her palms, the tiny sting of pain acting as an anchor to steady the storm inside her. She forced her voice to remain even, as though a thin layer of ice had formed over rough seas. "Welcome home, Isabelle. Julian, I wasn't aware we would be having a long-term guest in the house, especially on our anniversary."

The word "anniversary" caused Julian's jaw to tighten. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Chloe, stop being childish. Isabelle needs care."

He dismissed her, her feelings, and the day itself with casual indifference, as though they were nothing more than a child's tantrum. He made her into the problem.

Mrs. Gable hesitated and stepped forward slightly, concern for Chloe etched across her face, but Julian silenced her with a sharp look. In this house, he was king. His word was law. And Chloe was merely a chess piece, one that could be sacrificed without hesitation.

Their wedding anniversary. The day he brought his true love home. The irony was so bitter that it almost suffocated her.

Isabelle let out a soft cough, weak and pitiful. Julian's attention immediately returned to her. "Let's go upstairs. The air is cold here." He wrapped an arm around her protectively, as though shielding her from danger, as though Chloe herself were the source of contamination.

He did not want the two of them in the same room for even one more second.

As they passed by her, Julian did not look at her again. But Isabelle did. Over Julian's shoulder, she looked directly at Chloe. She smiled. It was a tiny movement at the corner of her lips, almost impossible to notice—a pure, unfiltered expression of victory.

A smile performed solely for the blind woman who was never supposed to see it.

The last fragment of hope remaining in Chloe's heart shattered completely. Nothing could be salvaged anymore. She had once vaguely suspected that divorce might someday become inevitable, but now it was no longer a possibility. It was a certainty.

The front door clicked shut behind them, leaving Chloe standing alone in the vast, silent foyer, surrounded by the lingering scent of another woman's perfume.