My Stepsister's Fake Death

Ben Luke and I have been married for a whole year. This marriage was a joke I wrote and played myself from the very beginning. I loved Ben Luke—loved him so much that I agreed to this business alliance in marriage. I thought that, over time, feelings would grow. But all reality gave me was day after day of coldness and disgust. To win even a fraction of his attention, I did many foolish things. Like slipping drugs into his drink. The first time, the drug was diluted when he casually knocked over the glass; he just shot me a cold glance and said nothing. The second time, he seemed to have sensed it beforehand, and after taking the drink, he handed it straight to the servant. The third time, he gripped my wrist so hard I thought he would crush my bones. "Wendy Scott, are you really that low?" Those words stabbed into my heart like an ice pick. But I still hadn't given up. I kept telling myself maybe I just hadn't done enough. On my birthday, I went out of my way to cook a table full of his favorite dishes. I lit the candles and waited for him to come home. At the stroke of ten, he finally pushed the door open. He smelled of alcohol, his face dark and terrifying. Before I could even say happy birthday, he slammed his hand down and flipped the dining table. The sound of the plate shattering was piercingly sharp. "Who told you to touch these?" His voice roared, his eyes bloodshot. I trembled all over, terrified, not knowing where I had gone wrong. "Today is Nancy's death anniversary, and you actually have the heart to celebrate your birthday?" Nancy, Lincoln Nancy, my stepsister. Everyone thought she had drowned herself the day before Ben Luke and Nancy's wedding. Only Ben Luke pinned all the blame on me. He said it was me who drove Nancy to her death. He grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the wall. "Wendy Scott, why don't you just die?" Blood trickled down my forehead, warm at first, then quickly cold. That day, my birthday, became my day of torment. From then on, Ben Luke's abuse only intensified. He no longer hid his disgust; at home, he treated me like I was invisible. But sometimes, he would suddenly turn brutal. He'd lock me in a room all day without feeding me. At parties, he'd deliberately humiliate me, calling me a cruel woman who stole another's place. I lived like a joke, even breathing felt wrong. Until one day, I received an anonymous text. Inside was a photo of Nancy. She was smiling brightly in the photo, standing next to a stranger. My heart squeezed painfully—I could hardly believe my eyes. She wasn't dead? With trembling hands, I replied, "Who are you?" The reply came quickly: "Sister, long time no see. How have you been?" It was Nancy. It really was her. She had actually faked her death and escaped that wedding. I dialed the number, and the call was answered almost immediately.