Marry For My Dead Sister

My name is Blair Scott. The beginning of my seven-year marriage was sealed when I was forced to marry my sister Nancy Scott's husband, Ben Luke. Just seven days after Nancy's funeral, the Luke family's wedding car pulled up in front of the old Scott family home. The roar of the engine shattered the morning stillness. There was no discussion—only a decree that brooked no objection. Ben Luke stood at the far end of the red carpet. His impeccably tailored black suit lent his face a cold, sculpted hardness. The hatred in his eyes was like an ice-sharp dagger, stabbing straight into my exposed skin. He said, "Blair, Nancy was killed. What you owe her, you'll repay through this marriage, for the rest of your life." I opened my mouth to explain, but he raised his hand to stop me; the chill of his fingertips nearly brushed my cheek before clenching into a fierce fist. I know he firmly believes Nancy Scott's death has something to do with me — on that day, we were arguing on the rooftop; when she slipped and fell, I was the only one present. But I truly did not push her. I merely said, “You shouldn't use depression to pressure our parents into giving in,” and she suddenly broke down, falling backward. On our wedding night, he smashed a wine glass; the shards scattered across my ankle, drawing thin lines of blood. "Don't dirty my bed," he said, pointing to the guest room at the end of the corridor, his tone thick with undisguised disdain. "Go stay there. Without my permission, you're not allowed to set foot in the Master Bedroom." Clutching my bleeding ankle, I shuffled step by step toward the guest room. The cold floor made me shiver—not from pain, but from the chill deep within my heart. For seven years, I have been like a transparent shadow, confined to this vast villa of nearly a thousand square meters, yet oppressively barren. He never dined at the same table as me. The three meals I prepared with care were either discarded by the servants or left to grow cold and spoil on the dining table. He refuses to touch anything I offer, even the fever medicine I gave him when I was sick; he carelessly throws it into the trash, saying, "What if you've poisoned it?" He hardly ever calls my name—most of the time, he just says "Hey" or falls into long silences, as if I were merely a lifeless ornament. I once tried to reveal the truth to him—when he came home drunk in the dead of night, or on rare mornings when he didn't bring a female companion. But he always brutally cuts me off, his eyes filled with derision: "Blair Scott, stop with your hypocritical nonsense. You're just jealous that Nancy married me, jealous of everything she has." His humiliation was never concealed; it even bore the mark of deliberate flamboyance. At the company annual party, he arrived with a companion dressed in a red gown. In full view of everyone, he slipped his arm around her waist and smiled as he introduced, "This is my business partner, Ms. Linda." When it was my turn, he gave me a casual glance, his tone dismissive, as if speaking of a piece of furniture: "As for her, she is just the housemaid." Whispers erupted around me—those probing, sympathetic, mocking looks pierced me like needles. I clenched the hem of my skirt, my nails digging deep into my palm, the pain numbing me, yet I forced myself to hold back tears and maintain a composed smile. I have loved Ben Luke since the first time I saw him at an art exhibition when I was fifteen. He wore a white shirt then, standing before a painting of sunflowers, his profile as gentle as the afternoon sun; I could never have imagined that years later he would be so cruel to me. That love, worn down to tatters by seven years of coldness and disdain, had long since become nothing but shattered fragments of obsession strewn across the floor. He would bring different women home, utterly indifferent to my presence. Sometimes they were coquettish actresses, other times sharp, career-driven women; they wore my bathrobe, used the skincare products I had bought, and even dared to cling to Ben Luke's arms right before my eyes. Once, he even locked me outside the bedroom door. The sounds from behind it were disgustingly clear as he deliberately raised his voice: "Blair Scott, listen closely—this is how a woman should be. You're just unbearable to look at." That night, I sat on the cold floor of the entrance hall, my back against the door, listening to their laughter and gasps inside. My heart sank deeper and deeper into the boundless darkness, until I no longer felt any pain. The heating in the villa was strong, yet I felt a chill running through my body, as if I had fallen to the bottom of a frozen lake. I thought such days would go on endlessly, until one day I stumbled upon Nancy Scott's diary. That diary, bound in pink, was hidden at the very bottom of an old box in Nancy Scott's room, covered with a thin layer of dust—obviously untouched for years. I had intended only to sort through my sister's belongings and donate her books to charity, never imagining I would uncover a truth buried for seven long years. The first page of the diary bore Nancy Scott's delicate handwriting, marked by youthful innocence: "My sister has always been so kind, always yielding to me, yet I envied her—envied her brilliance, envied our parents' trust in her, even envied that she met Ben Luke before I did." A sharp sting gripped my nose, and tears instantly clouded my vision.