Married to the Arrogant Billionaire Heir wants my sister

Lily POV

I didn’t cry when I signed. I’d used up all my tears on people who deserved them less.

I packed one bag before I left the estate that night. Not because I didn’t have more to take, nine months of a marriage accumulates more than anyone warns you about, but because everything in that house had been chosen by Ronan’s decorator, approved by Ronan’s mother, or bought with Ronan’s money, and none of it had ever actually belonged to me.

The one exception was a small framed photo I’d kept hidden in my nightstand: me and Freya at eleven and twelve, soaking wet on a riverbank, arms around each other, both of us grinning like the worst night of our lives hadn’t just happened an hour earlier. I didn’t know yet why I still kept it. I only knew I couldn’t leave it behind.

Dean was waiting outside the gates when I called him at eleven that night, engine already running, like he’d known before I did that I wouldn’t be staying till morning.

“That bad,” he said, once I was in the car.

“Worse.”

I didn’t tell him about the papers folder on Ronan’s desk, prepared before Freya had even walked through the door.

I didn’t tell him how long she might have been back before tonight, or how many of those nine months might have already been a lie inside a lie. I just told him to drive, and he did, and somewhere around the second red light I finally let myself shake.

The papers arrived by courier two days later. No note. No call. Just a thick envelope and a place for my signature, everything already filled in by Ronan’s lawyers with a precision that made it clear this had been drafted for weeks, maybe longer.

I read every page at the kitchen table of the tiny apartment I’d kept the lease on this whole time, the one Ronan never knew about, the one that had been the only thing in nine months that still belonged only to me.

Then I signed.

My hand didn’t shake. I want that on record, even if only for myself. My hand did not shake.

I called a courier of my own the next morning and sent the papers back before I could think too hard about what I was doing. By noon, Dean texted to say the story had already leaked, Cross heir divorces wife of nine months days after paralyzed ex-fiancée’s miraculous return, and I put my phone face down on the counter and didn’t look at it again for six hours.

Freya called that afternoon. I almost didn’t answer.

“I wanted to check on you,” she said, when I picked up, her voice doing the soft, careful thing it always did when she wanted something. “This can’t be easy.”

“You didn’t call to check on me.”

A pause. “I called because I don’t want this to be ugly between us. We’re sisters. Whatever happened with the car, whatever happened with Ronan, none of that has to change that.”

“You mean whatever you let everyone believe happened with the car.”

“Lily.” Her voice sharpened, just slightly, just enough. “Don’t do this. Not today.”

“When, then? Is there a good day on your calendar for me to ask why you let an entire town believe I was drunk behind the wheel?”

She didn’t answer that. She never did, instead she said, gently, like she was doing me a favor, “Ronan needs this, you know. He needs to feel like he’s fixing something. Let him have that. It costs you nothing.”

It had cost me nine months and, I would learn in three weeks, a great deal more than that. I hung up without saying goodbye.

Ronan showed up that night.

I should have known he would. He always did, in the end, whenever the version of events in his head didn’t match the mess he’d actually made.

“You didn’t have to sign so fast,” he said, standing in my doorway like he had any right to be there.

“You didn’t have to prepare the papers before your ex-fiancée even walked through the door,” I said. “But here we both are.”

He didn’t deny it this time. That was almost worse than if he had.

“I need to know something,” he said. “And I need you to be honest with me.”

“That’s rich.”

“Lily.” His voice cracked around my name the way it hadn’t in months. “Did you love her? Freya. Before the accident. Were you two close?”

The question landed somewhere I wasn’t ready for.

“She’s my sister,” I said. “Of course I loved her.”

“Then why do you look at her like she’s a stranger you’re waiting to catch in a lie?”

Because she is, I thought, and didn’t say it, because six years of silence is a hard habit to break in a doorway at midnight with divorce papers already signed between us.

“Goodnight, Ronan.”

“Wait.” He caught my wrist before I could close the door, and for a second neither of us moved, the old current still running between us even now, even after everything.

He didn't let go of my wrist, instead he stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind him, and crowded me back against the wall of the tiny apartment like he still had any right to my space. The anger between us had always been the thinnest kind of cover. Tonight it burned away completely.

“You signed,” he said, voice rough. “Just like that.”

“What did you expect? Tears? Begging?”

His mouth crashed onto mine before I could finish. It wasn't gentle. It was nine months of locked doors and silence and the nights we both pretended never happened, all of it breaking open at once.

I shoved at his chest, half protest, half demand, and he caught my hands, pinned them above my head with one of his, and kissed me harder.

His other hand dragged down my body, under my shirt, rough and desperate, like he was trying to memorize me before I disappeared.

Clothes came off in pieces, my back hit the wall again.

His mouth found my throat, my collarbone, the place just below my ear that always made my hips jerk. I bit his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and felt him groan against my skin.

When he finally pushed inside me it was with a broken sound that might have been my name or Freya's, I didn't let myself care which.

I locked my legs around his waist and met every thrust like I was trying to punish him for all of it, for the papers, for the nine months, for every time he had looked at me and seen someone else.

It was fast and rough and over too soon. He came with his face buried in my neck, breathing like he'd been underwater. I followed a second later, biting down on my own lip hard enough to taste blood so I wouldn't make a sound he could claim later.

Afterwards he stayed pressed against me for a long moment, forehead to mine, both of us breathing hard. Then he pulled away, fixed his clothes in silence, and left without another word.

I stood at the window and watched his car disappear down the street before sunrise, feeling something in my chest close like a door that had finally, finally found its lock.

Three weeks later, I stood in the tiny bathroom of the apartment above the laundromat I’d moved into, staring at a plastic stick with two lines on it that I checked four separate times because I didn’t trust my own eyes.

I sat down hard on the edge of the tub.

Pregnant.

Married for nine months to a man who was already back in his old life by the time I found out. Divorced for exactly nineteen days, and carrying the one thing that would tie me to Ronan Cross for the rest of both our lives, whether either of us wanted it or not.

I pressed a hand flat against my stomach and made myself breathe.

I thought about calling him. I got as far as opening his contact, thumb hovering over the call button, before I thought about Freya’s hand resting on his chest at that party, about the papers waiting on his desk before she’d even arrived, about six years of a family choosing the version of the story that was easier to love.

I put the phone down.

Whatever this baby was going to have, it wasn’t going to start with a mother who begged to be believed.

I was done being the one who had to prove herself.

I picked up the phone again, but this time I called Dean.

“I need a job,” I said, when he picked up. “A real one, something that’s actually mine.”

There was a pause on the line, and then, carefully, like he already understood this was bigger than it sounded, he said, “I know a guy with a warehouse and no idea what he’s doing with it. You interested?”

I looked down at the two pink lines on the counter and thought about everything I was about to build with no one’s name on it but my own.

Sure, give me the details...