When My Husband Locked Me Away for Her

The chandeliers in the Franklin Plaza ballroom cast diamonds of light across champagne flutes and designer gowns. Three years. Three years since I'd walked down that aisle in Giselle's place, expecting duty and finding something that felt dangerously close to love.

Greyson's hand rested on the small of my back, warm through the silk of my emerald dress. His CEO smile—the one that graced Forbes covers—softened when he looked at me. Just me.

"Happy anniversary, Mrs. Franklin," he murmured against my temple.

Mrs. Franklin. The name still felt like borrowed clothes, but I'd grown into it. Grown into him.

The ballroom doors opened with a theatrical flourish.

She stood framed in the entrance like a painting come to life. Giselle. My baby sister, who'd fled to Paris the night before her own wedding, leaving me to clean up the mess. Her honey-blonde hair—lighter than mine, always lighter—cascaded over bare shoulders. The red dress clung to curves I remembered as gangly and adolescent.

Three years had sharpened her.

The crowd parted. Whispers rippled through the room like wind through wheat.

"Madelyn!" Her voice carried that practiced breathlessness, the one she'd used to charm our father. She glided toward me, arms outstretched, and I felt Greyson's hand slip from my back.

Her embrace was all performance—the squeeze just tight enough for cameras, the air kisses precise. But her lips brushed my ear, and her whisper cut like a scalpel: "I'm taking back what's mine."

I pulled away, searching her face. The same blue eyes we'd inherited from our mother stared back, empty as winter sky.

"Giselle." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "This is unexpected."

"Paris was lovely, but I missed home." She turned to Greyson, and something flickered across his face. Recognition? Guilt? "Greyson. You look well."

His jaw tightened. "Giselle."

The rest of the evening blurred. Giselle worked the room like she'd never left, her laughter too loud, her touches too familiar. I watched Greyson watch her, and something cold settled in my chest.

Later, in our penthouse, I found him in his study. The door was cracked, and through it I saw Giselle perched on the edge of his desk, a manila folder open between them.

"—genetic predisposition," she was saying, her voice honey-thick with concern. "The doctors in Paris were very thorough. Schizophrenia, Greyson. Just like our mother before the accident."

My mother. Dead fifteen years, her car wrapped around an oak tree on a rain-slicked road.

"Madelyn's been showing signs," Giselle continued. "The paranoia, the mood swings. I didn't want to believe it, but—"

"That's enough." Greyson's voice was granite.

I should have walked in. Should have demanded to see whatever lies she'd printed on official-looking letterhead. Instead, I backed away, my heart a drum against my ribs.

Two days later, Giselle called.

"Let's talk," she said. "Just us. Like old times."

The boutique hotel in Tribeca was all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. Giselle had reserved a suite, ordered tea service. Earl Grey, my