Chapter 1

The silence in our house was heavy, broken only by the sound of my husband' s brother being lowered into the ground. A month later, the silence was replaced by something worse. My brother-in-law' s widow, Falon, was pregnant, and my husband, Cyrus, decided she was moving in with us.

"It' s for the baby, Kelsey," he said, his voice flat. He didn't look at me. He was looking at Falon, who stood by the door with her single suitcase, looking pale and fragile. "She needs support. It' s my brother' s child."

I watched as Falon slowly, subtly, began to take over my life. She' d wait outside the bathroom with a fresh towel for Cyrus, claiming it was habit. She' d knock on our bedroom door late at night, feigning nightmares, pulling Cyrus away for hours of "comfort." The breaking point came when I heard Cyrus massaging her swollen feet, just as her late husband used to.

I dropped the knife I was holding. It clattered against the counter. I wanted to hear Cyrus say no. I wanted him to tell her that was inappropriate, that I was his wife. Instead, I heard his low, soothing voice. "Of course, Falon. Just put them up here."

I had given up everything for him, becoming a "pick-me" girl, constantly seeking his approval. Now, watching him cater to her every whim, I realized I didn't even recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

That night, I called my father. "Dad," I said, my voice shaking. "I want a divorce."

Chapter 1

The silence in our house was heavy, broken only by the sound of my husband' s brother being lowered into the ground. A month later, the silence was replaced by something worse.

Falon Warner, my brother-in-law' s widow, was pregnant.

And my husband, Cyrus Blanchard, decided she was moving in with us.

"It' s for the baby, Kelsey," he said, his voice flat. He didn't look at me. He was looking at Falon, who stood by the door with her single suitcase, looking pale and fragile. "She needs support. It' s my brother' s child."

"Cyrus, this is our home," I said, my voice low so Falon wouldn' t hear. "We don' t have the space. It' s not appropriate."

He finally turned to me, his eyes cold. "We' ll make space. It' s not up for discussion."

So Falon moved in. The first week was a blur of quiet apologies and sad smiles. The second week, her behavior started to change.

I' d get out of the shower, and she' d be standing right outside the bathroom door, holding a fresh towel for Cyrus. Not for me. For him.

"Oh, sorry, Kelsey," she' d say, her eyes wide and innocent. "It' s just a habit. Mark, my late husband, always liked it when I did this for him."

Then came the knocking. Soft taps on our bedroom door late at night. The first time, Cyrus shot out of bed, thinking it was an emergency.

It was Falon, clutching a pillow. "I had a nightmare," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "I dreamed about the accident. I' m so scared."

Cyrus spent an hour talking to her in the living room. This became a regular thing.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday night. I was in the kitchen, trying to find the energy to cook. Cyrus and Falon were in the living room. I heard her sigh dramatically.

"Oh, Cyrus, my feet are so swollen," she said, her voice thick with self-pity. "Mark used to massage them for me every night. It' s the only thing that helps."

I froze, a knife in my hand. I waited, listening. I wanted to hear Cyrus say no. I wanted him to tell her that was inappropriate, that I was his wife.

Instead, I heard the shuffle of the ottoman. Then his low, soothing voice. "Of course, Falon. Just put them up here."

I dropped the knife. It clattered against the counter. I walked out of the kitchen, past the living room where my husband was gently rubbing his pregnant sister-in-law' s feet, and I didn' t stop until I was in our bedroom with the door locked.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my father' s number.

"Dad," I said, my voice shaking. "I want a divorce."

There was a pause on the other end. "Kelsey? What happened?"

The story spilled out of me. The towel. The nightmares. The foot massage. It all sounded so petty, so small, but it felt like a mountain crushing me.

For three years, I had done everything to be the perfect wife for Cyrus Blanchard. I quit my job in the city because he wanted a wife who was home. I learned to cook his favorite meals, even the ones I hated. I dressed the way he liked, conservatively. I became a "pick-me" girl, constantly seeking his approval, his affection, which he gave out like rare coins.

"I tried so hard, Dad," I choked out. "I gave up everything for him."

My father, Doyle Paul, was not a man who wasted words. His voice was hard when he spoke again. "He made his choice, Kelsey. Now you make yours."

"I have," I said.

"Good," he said. "Don' t worry about the Blanchards or their business. I helped build it. I can help tear it down. You just focus on yourself."

I hung up the phone. A strange calm washed over me. The part of me that had been shrinking for three years finally stopped.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn' t even recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes were tired. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun Cyrus preferred.

That night, I slept on the couch in my home office.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. Falon was there, wearing one of Cyrus' s dress shirts over her leggings. It hung open, showing her swelling belly. She was making coffee.

She smiled sweetly at me. "Good morning, Kelsey. Did you sleep well? I know the couch isn't very comfortable."

The old me would have mumbled something and left. The new me just looked at her.

"Falon," I said, my voice even. "That' s my husband' s shirt."

Her smile faltered. "Oh, this? It was just on the back of the chair. It' s so comfortable."

"Take it off," I said.

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"I said, take it off. Now." My voice didn' t rise. It was flat, cold, and final. I wasn't asking. I was telling her.