CAUGHT IN HIS BED

The champagne bottle felt heavier than usual in my hands as I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my heart racing with anticipation. Twenty-five years. A quarter of a century with Richard, and tonight I wanted to celebrate properly. The house was unusually quiet—he must have come home early from his business trip.

I'd spent the afternoon at the florist, selecting white roses, his favorite. The same ones he'd given me on our wedding day. The bottle of Dom Pérignon had cost more than I usually spent on groceries for a week, but this was special. Our silver anniversary deserved something extraordinary.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I could hear soft sounds from within—maybe he was watching television, waiting for me. My smile widened as I pushed the door open, ready to surprise him.

The champagne bottle slipped from my fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud that echoed through the sudden silence.

Richard was there, all right. In our bed. Our anniversary bed with the Egyptian cotton sheets I'd bought last month. But he wasn't alone.

My sister Vanessa was on top of him, her dark hair cascading down her bare back, moving in a rhythm that made my stomach lurch. The sound I'd heard wasn't the television—it was them.

Time seemed to fracture. I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind struggling to process what my eyes were seeing. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. Not today. Not on our anniversary.

Vanessa turned her head slowly, as if she'd sensed my presence. Her face wasn't flushed with embarrassment or shock. Instead, she wore an expression I'd never seen before—satisfied, almost triumphant. Her lips curved into something that might have been a smile.

"Oh, you're early," she said, her voice breathless but steady. She didn't stop moving. She didn't scramble to cover herself. She just looked at me with those dark eyes that mirrored my own, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Richard's hands were still on her waist. My husband of twenty-five years, the man who'd promised to love and cherish me, was looking at me over my sister's shoulder with an expression I couldn't read.

"Vicky—" he started, but Vanessa cut him off.

"Show her," Vanessa said, reaching toward the nightstand without dismounting. Her fingers closed around something small and white. A plastic stick. She held it up like a trophy, and I could see the two pink lines clearly from where I stood.

"Two lines," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Congratulations, sister. You're going to be an aunt."

The words hit me like physical blows. Pregnant. My sister was pregnant. With my husband's child. In my bed. On my anniversary.

I couldn't breathe. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around me. The champagne was seeping into the floorboards at my feet, the roses scattered beside the broken bottle like a funeral arrangement.

"Richard." My