The next day, his face was grim, but he told me he’d take responsibility.
And so, he married me. No proposal, no wedding photos, no honeymoon, not even a proper confession of love.
I knew he didn’t love me. He married me because he felt obligated after that one drunken mistake.
But I couldn’t stop myself from falling deeper for him. I thought marriage would change things. That someday, he’d love me the way I loved him.
It never happened.
After the wedding, he was neither warm nor cold—just indifferent. Even our physical intimacy was mechanical, like an obligation he had to fulfill. Three times a week, no more, no less.
Then, in our second year of marriage, Alice returned from abroad. Pregnant. She refused to say who the father was.
During that time, Grayson came home every day—every single day. He’d even cook dinner just to make sure Alice ate well.
Jealousy consumed me. I couldn’t help myself. I argued with him, accused him, let my anger spill over into bitter, reckless words.
“If someone didn’t know better, they’d think she was your wife, not your sister!” I snapped. “Or are you so worried about her because the child she’s carrying is yours?”
That was the first time Grayson hit me.
The slap came out of nowhere, leaving me stunned and seething with fury.
I didn’t notice Alice standing at the doorway, watching.
I stormed off, crying, determined to go back to my parents’ house. Alice stopped me at the door.
“Belle,” she said, her voice shaking with hurt, “I didn’t know you thought of me as such a shameless person. I still have some dignity—I would never do something so immoral. I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll go abroad again.”
After that, Grayson and I didn’t speak for half a month. Or rather, he froze me out completely.
In the end, Alice didn’t leave. I cooled off and felt guilty, eventually apologizing to her.
But she never forgot.
She harbored that grudge until one fateful day when she grabbed my hand and threw herself down the stairs.
And just like that, her child was gone.