Secrets Of The Betrayed Wife's Revenge

The laundry room door was slightly ajar.

Aria pushed it open, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Then she saw her. Cassie Finley—Bentley，Aira's husband's non-blood sister, his childhood companion who had grown up alongside him— stood with her back to the door, hunched over the washing machine.

In her hands, she held the shirt Bentley— a man who kept his emotions locked behind a calm, unreadable facade—had worn last night.

Cassie lifted the silk fabric to her face, burying her nose deep into the collar. She inhaled, a long, greedy breath that was unnervingly loud in the quiet of the second floor.

Aria's heart skipped a beat. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, a tiny sound, but it was enough.

Cassie's head snapped around. The soft, pitiable expression she usually wore was gone. In its place was a look of raw, possessive hunger, her eyes cold and reptilian.

"What are you doing?" Aria's voice trembled, a pathetic attempt to shatter the suffocating, bizarre atmosphere.

Cassie tossed the shirt onto the machine. A slow, mocking smile spread across her lips as she began to walk towards Aria, her steps deliberate and menacing.

Aria instinctively backed away, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. She retreated down the hallway, her breath catching in her throat, until the heel of her foot hit the non-slip strip at the edge of the grand staircase.

She was trapped.

In a flash, Cassie lunged forward. Her hands shot out, shoving hard against Aria's shoulders. The movement was decisive, filled with a malice that stole the air from Aria's lungs.

Her body tilted backward. Time seemed to warp, her arms flailing uselessly through the air, searching for the solid oak banister but finding only emptiness.

The sickening sensation of falling, of weightlessness, consumed her. Then, a brutal impact. Her back slammed against the hard edge of a step, a starburst of agony radiating through her entire body.

The dream shattered.

Aria's eyes flew open with a choked cry.

She shot upright in bed, gasping for air, her silk nightgown plastered to her back with a film of cold sweat. The vast, empty space of the master bedroom in their Long Island villa swam into focus.

Her hand automatically shot out to the other side of the king-sized bed. Her fingertips met only cool, smooth, high-thread-count cotton sheets. They were undisturbed.

Bentley was gone. He'd been gone for hours.

A sliver of relief, quickly followed by a familiar ache, eased the tension in her shoulders. She threw back the heavy duvet and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The cold of the hardwood floor against the soles of her feet was a grounding sensation, a physical anchor pulling her back from the lingering horror of the nightmare.

But it wasn't just a nightmare. It was a memory dressed in dread. A year ago, in the laundry room of their old house, Aria had walked in on Cassie doing the exact same thing—pressing Bentley's discarded shirt to her face, inhaling as if it were oxygen. The look in Cassie's eyes then had been the same raw, possessive hunger.

She walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window and yanked open the heavy blackout curtains. Bright morning sunlight flooded the room, so intense it made her flinch.

Aria shielded her eyes with her hand and turned, walking towards the en-suite master bathroom. She pushed open the frosted glass door.

Standing before the marble vanity, she stared at her reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot and haunted. She looked like a ghost in her own home.

She twisted the cold tap, the chrome fixture gleaming under the recessed lighting. Cupping her hands, she splashed icy water onto her face, once, twice, a third time. The shock of the cold was a desperate attempt to force the panic down, to drown the remnants of the dream.

Grabbing a plush towel from the rack, she dried her face, her movements rough and jerky. She took three deep, measured breaths, pushing the terror back into the dark corner of her mind where it lived. It was just a dream. A memory twisted into a nightmare.

She walked out of the bathroom and back towards the bed. Her smartphone on the nightstand buzzed, a low, insistent vibration against the polished wood.

The screen lit up. A new message from Bentley.

With a hand that was not quite steady, Aria slid her finger across the screen. Her eyes scanned the short, brutally efficient text.

"Cassie's divorce is final. She's fragile. I'm having her and the kids move in."

The words blurred. The phone nearly slipped from her grasp. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach, hot and acidic.

The fear from the dream, so visceral just moments ago, solidified into a crushing, real-world dread. It was happening. He was bringing the monster into their home.

She bit down on her lower lip, hard, until the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

Her thumb jabbed at the screen, hitting the call button. It rang once, twice, then went straight to his voicemail. Of course. He was a master of avoiding confrontation.

With a frustrated cry, she threw the phone onto the bed. It bounced on the soft mattress. She ran her hands through her tangled hair, pulling at the roots.

She had to stop this.

Striding into the walk-in closet, she grabbed the first thing she saw, a cashmere cardigan, and threw it over her shoulders. It did little to ward off the chill that had settled deep in her bones.

Aria pulled open the heavy bedroom door, her eyes glinting with a desperate, steely resolve. She was going downstairs to stop this, right now.