(Grace's POV)
The city glowed beneath the rain, every streetlight smudged in gold against the windows of the taxi. I sat in the back seat, one hand resting on my luggage, the other wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee that had long lost its taste.
Home.
After two weeks away, even the word felt like warmth.
I had spent most of the flight thinking about Mark — about the way he smiled when I walked through the door, how his arms fit around me like a promise. Six years of marriage hadn't dulled that feeling; if anything, the distance always sharpened it. He had texted me the night before, Can't wait to see you, my love. Those words had replayed in my head until I fell asleep midair.
I smiled at the thought, touching my wedding ring as if it were his hand.
The driver turned down our street — the one lined with quiet houses and trimmed hedges, where everything looked like it belonged in a painting. My house sat at the end, wrapped in soft light. Even from outside, it looked safe. Loved.
I paid the driver, grabbed my suitcase, and stood in the drizzle, breathing in the smell of wet earth and roses from our garden. My heart beat a little faster — that small thrill of coming home to someone who's waiting.
Except… it was quiet.
No sound of the TV, no music, no footsteps hurrying to greet me. The house was still, almost holding its breath.
"Mark?" I called softly as I stepped inside. My heels clicked against the marble floor. The faint scent of his cologne — the one I'd bought him for his birthday — lingered in the air.
I smiled. Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe he was planning one of his sweet surprises — flowers, dinner, a note tucked somewhere. Mark loved to make moments feel cinematic. He used to say life was too short for ordinary love.
I rolled my suitcase quietly through the hallway, the wheels whispering over the floor. My heart fluttered with something that felt like happiness — or the memory of it.
Then I heard it.
A soft laugh.
Not Mark's deep baritone. A woman's.
My steps faltered. I froze, every muscle stiffening as my pulse began to race. Maybe he was watching a movie? Maybe someone from work was over? My mind scrambled for explanations. Logical ones. Safe ones.
But the laughter came again — lighter this time, more intimate. A sound I knew too well.
Mia.
My sister.
The suitcase handle slipped from my grip, landing with a quiet thud. My throat went dry.
Their voices came from upstairs. My feet moved on instinct, silent, almost unwilling. Every step up the staircase felt heavier, as if my body already knew something my mind refused to believe.
Halfway up, I heard him.
"Nah, I don't want her to think I'm cheap," Mark said, his tone playful. "It has to be something elegant, classy… something thoughtful. I got her pearls last time. Maybe rubies. Or emeralds. Come on, give me ideas."
"She already has enough elegant things," Mia teased, and the sound of her laughter danced through the half-open door at the end of the hall.
My heart stopped.
I reached the landing, trembling. The door to our bedroom — our bedroom — was open just a crack. Through it, I saw the soft glow of lamplight. Sheets tangled on the bed. The curve of a bare shoulder.
Mia's messy bun.
Mark's hand in her hair.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred. My mind screamed for this to be a mistake — a dream — anything but real.
"I know," Mark murmured, brushing his lips against her skin. "What can I say? I love to spoil my wife."
His wife.
The words sliced through me like a blade.
"She's had plenty of that growing up," Mia whispered. "You know that, right?"
"Of course," he said with a low chuckle. "You're twins, remember?"
My knees buckled. I pressed a hand over my mouth, fighting the cry that clawed up my throat. Hot tears spilled over, blurring everything into color and movement.
This couldn't be happening. Not to me. Not after six years of building a life, a marriage, a home. Not after all the love, the loyalty, the trust.
Then came the sound that shattered the last fragile piece of my denial — their moans. His voice, low and familiar, whispering words that once belonged only to me.
"You have a lovely body, my love."
My love.
That was mine.
The name he gave me every morning, every night.
Now it belonged to her.
I stumbled back, breath ragged. My chest ached, each inhale cutting like glass. I clutched the wall to stay upright.
Mia's laugh broke through again, followed by her mocking tone.
"And yet you go back to her with gifts like she's the only woman in your life."
"I don't just have sex with Grace," Mark said, laughing. "I make love to her. There's a difference."
Their laughter filled the room — cruel, intimate, familiar.
My tears burned as they slipped past my fingers. I tasted salt.
The kind of pain no one warns you about — the kind that makes you question your own heartbeat.
In that moment, I realized something awful:
You can share blood, a face, a past…
and still be strangers capable of destroying each other.
I stepped back from the door, my body trembling, the house spinning around me.
The love I had believed in — every promise, every kiss — cracked apart like glass beneath my feet.
And as I turned to leave, I knew nothing inside this house would ever sound the same again.