My Husband Betrayed Me With My Sister

The clock on my laptop read 2:17 AM as I hit send on the final press release. The screen's blue light cast shadows across my face, highlighting the dark circles I'd grown accustomed to. Another PR crisis averted. Another night saved.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. The Malibu mansion around me was silent except for the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. Ryder was still out—another "industry event" that would likely end with him drunk in some VIP section.

My phone buzzed with a notification from Miranda Hayes, Ryder's publicist and my former boss.

"Excellent work, Elena. You just saved his ass again. The Sun will run with your angle tomorrow—exhausted father taking a rare night off. Genius as always."

I didn't respond. What was there to say? This was my life now—ghostwriting press releases, crafting narratives, and managing scandals for a husband who barely acknowledged my existence.

The front door slammed shut, echoing through the empty halls.

"Elena?" Ryder's voice called out, slurring slightly. "Where's my dinner?"

I walked to the kitchen, where I'd left a plate covered in plastic wrap hours ago. Ryder stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, jacket thrown over one arm. Even disheveled, he looked like he'd stepped from the pages of GQ—all sharp angles and perfect bone structure.

"It's in the fridge," I said, pulling out the plate and placing it in the microwave. "I'll heat it up."

"You should have texted me," he muttered, loosening his cufflinks. "I had to order fries at the club."

The microwave beeped. I handed him the plate, our fingers brushing briefly. He didn't notice.

"Your hand is cold," he commented, taking the fork I offered.

"I've been working," I replied simply.

He nodded absently, already scrolling through his phone. "The pasta's overcooked."

I bit back a response. Eight years of marriage had taught me when to speak and when to remain silent.

---

The next morning, I sat in my home office, scrolling through my surveillance system—a network of alerts and notifications that monitored every mention of Ryder Scott across the internet. My job was to identify potential scandals before they went viral.

A notification popped up from Xposure, a paparazzi agency we regularly paid for "kill fees"—money to suppress unwanted photos.

Another drunken night out, I thought, clicking on the link. Probably Ryder stumbling out of some club, looking disheveled. I'd handle it like I always did—pay the fee, draft a statement about him being exhausted from filming, maybe plant a story about him visiting a children's hospital.

The page loaded, and my stomach dropped.

It wasn't Ryder stumbling drunk from a club.

It was Ryder kissing Zahra—my sister, the girl I'd mentored since she was sixteen. They stood on the deck of a yacht, his hands tangled in her hair, her body pressed against his. The timestamp showed it was from three weeks ago, when Ryder claimed to be at a remote location shoot.

I scrolled