Anniversary Night: Exposing His Sweet Sister

In the three years we've been married, Colin Luther never touches me once.

Living in the room next door is Rebecca Jennings, his adopted younger sister with no blood relation to him. She supposedly suffers from severe androphobia. Whenever she sees any man other than Colin, she trembles uncontrollably.

Whenever she has nightmares in the middle of the night, Colin immediately leaves me and rushes to her room.

So, the master bedroom is given to her. I sleep on a folding bed in the study, and Colin sleeps on the floor outside her door to stand guard.

Every week, my mother-in-law, Alicia Brooks, comes by with the soup she made herself. The first thing she does is go into Rebecca's room. Only after that does she spare me a glance.

She says, "Nat, remember to hand-wash Becca's underwear. Her skin is sensitive, so it can't go in the washing machine."

My father-in-law, Isaac Luther, is even worse.

At our last family gathering, he slaps his thigh in front of their relatives and says, "If Becca weren't sick, I'd want her to be my daughter-in-law!"

I simply smile while serving the dishes and say nothing.

For three years, I endure everything in silence.

But yesterday, I find two items hidden beneath Rebecca's pillow. There is the silk camisole that went missing six months ago and a pack of birth control pills with only two tablets left.

Androphobia?

Well, today is our third wedding anniversary. It's time for a proper celebration.

The foldable bed's springs creaked for the entire night.

I had to brace myself by my waist twice before I managed to push myself up into a sitting position. I reached for the bottle of stomach medication on the bedside table, twisting the lid off and shaking it lightly.

The bottle was empty. It had been empty for a week.

My husband's adopted sister, Rebecca Jennings, spoke from the next room. "Did you manage to get some sleep on the hard floor last night, Colin? You can sleep on the bed next time. I won't be scared."

My husband, Colin Luther, told her that he was fine in a low voice.

I heard the sounds of a door being opened and closed, followed by a set of footsteps heading toward the kitchen. The stove hummed. A few moments later, the sweet scent of warm milk seeped through the cracks of the study's door.

I pushed the door open and left the study.

A glass of warm milk sat on the kitchen counter, steam rising from its surface. Next to the glass of milk was a glass of water that I had poured for myself the night before.

I picked up the glass of water and took a sip, letting it cool my heart.

The bathroom counter was packed with Rebecca's skincare products—facial cleansers, serums, two boxes of facial masks, and a tube of eye cream. Her things took up about two-thirds of the counter.

My toothbrush and towel were squeezed in