HIS WIFE'S SISTER

The car ride from the airport had been too quiet. Cassia's phone hadn't buzzed once. No calls, no condolences. Everyone who knew her already knew better. She wasn't the grieving widow. She wasn't the ex. She was the other one-the sister.

The house came into view slowly, wrapped in cypress trees and June heat. It looked like a painting-perfect and empty. Just like Katherine had always wanted.

Cassia stepped out in sandals too thin for gravel, suitcase bumping behind her. The air was thick with rosemary and money. She hesitated at the front steps.

She hadn't been back in five years.

The door opened before she knocked.

Dorian Lane stood there.

Dark suit. No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled. Eyes unreadable.

"Cassia," he said. His voice was lower than she remembered-rougher somehow.

She swallowed. "Dorian."

A beat passed. He stepped aside.

She entered.

The foyer hadn't changed. Cool marble, gold-rimmed mirror, her sister's scent still clinging to the air like she hadn't left.

Cassia dragged her fingers along the polished banister.

"You look different," he said.

"It's been years."

"No," Dorian murmured. "That's not what I meant."

He let her pass. She didn't ask which room was hers. She already knew. Upstairs. Third on the right. The guest room. Not Kat's room.

Never Kat's room.

She unpacked in silence. Her clothes hung beside the ones she'd never had the nerve to throw away-cotton dresses, soft sweaters, things she didn't wear anymore. Things she wouldn't wear around him.

Later, after the sun dipped behind the trees, she wandered downstairs barefoot, looking for wine and silence. Instead, she found Dorian in the kitchen. Sleeves still rolled. Tie still absent. A glass in his hand.

He poured another.

"Cabernet?" he asked.

"Whatever numbs fastest."

He handed it to her.

Their fingers brushed. Not by accident.

Her throat tightened. She took a sip.

He didn't move.

She didn't leave.

"Did you love her?" she asked quietly.

Dorian's eyes didn't flinch. "I married her."

"That's not the same."

"No," he said. "It's not."

The silence stretched. Long enough to sting.

"She made everything look perfect," Cassia said. "Even when it wasn't."

"She was good at that."

"You didn't stop her."

He tilted his glass, studied her over the rim. "Neither did you."

Cassia turned toward the window. The vineyard beyond the kitchen shimmered in twilight, a sea of gold shadows and secrets.

"She didn't want me here," Cassia said. "Not even at the end."

"But you came anyway."

"I wanted to see what she left behind."

Dorian stepped closer. His voice dropped, low and heavy. "She left me."

Cassia looked up, heart skidding.

Their faces were inches apart now. The air between them too still.

"She was your wife," Cassia said.

"I know."

"And I'm-"

"I know who you are."

His hand brushed her wrist. Lightly. Heat bloomed.

Cassia's breath caught. She didn't pull away.

"You shouldn't," she whispered.

"I already do."

A beat. Then another.

He stepped back.

"Sleep well, Cassia."

He left her in the kitchen, glass still in her hand, wine thick on her tongue, heart pounding loud in the silence.

The wine glass was still on the counter when Cassia woke.

Same place she left it.

Same as her thoughts-unsettled, too full, and bitter around the edges.

The sheets were tangled around her legs. Her thighs stuck together. She kicked them off and pressed her palm to her cheek. Still warm. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was louder than it needed to be.

She remembered dreaming. A door opening. Fingers brushing her hip. Breath too close. A voice-his voice-saying her name like he wasn't allowed to say it that way.

Cassia dragged herself into the shower. Let the water stay cold. She stood under it until she stopped shivering, then dried off without bothering to do anything with her hair.

She didn't put on a bra. Just a soft T-shirt and shorts that felt indecent in a house like this. That felt indecent around a man like him.

The smell hit her halfway down the stairs-coffee, and something buttery.

Strange.

Dorian didn't cook. Not when Katherine was alive. Not when Cassia had visited years ago. He'd barely said more than ten words to her back then.

But now?

Now, he was in the kitchen. Shirt tight across his shoulders, sleeves rolled. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. Barefoot.

He moved with the calm, careful rhythm of someone who was used to being watched.

Cassia stood at the threshold longer than she meant to.

"You cook now?" she asked, voice raspier than usual.

He didn't turn. "You were twitching in your sleep."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I walked past your room," he said, cracking an egg one-handed. "You were dreaming."

"You could tell?"

"You kept turning over. Breathing fast."

He paused.

"You said my name."

Her body tensed. "That's not true."

He finally looked at her. "It is."

She stayed in the doorway. Crossing the room felt like a line she couldn't uncross.

"I made you something," he said. He plated the food-eggs, tomatoes, buttered toast-and slid it across the island toward an empty stool. "Sit."

Cassia moved slowly. She sat but didn't touch the food.

"Because I looked like I needed feeding?" she asked, trying to sound amused.

"Because I wanted to." He poured himself coffee. "You're here now. I want to take care of you."

The way he said it-calm, quiet-made her pulse skip.

"You're my sister's husband," she said.

He didn't blink. "Was."

"And I'm her sister."

"I noticed."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Watching her like she was the thing on the plate.

Cassia picked up the fork, stabbing at the yolk.

"You said something last night."

"I said a lot of things."

"You said-'I already do.' When I told you that you shouldn't."

"I remember."

"And you're not sorry?"

"No."

She looked away, unsure if it was shame or desire tightening in her chest. The kitchen was too warm.

"I'm not her," she said.

"I know."

"I won't be her."

"I wouldn't want you to be."

The silence stretched.

Then he moved. Slowly. Each step toward her felt louder than it should've. When he reached her side, she turned her head without meaning to.

His voice was quiet. "You think I'm going to try something?"

"Aren't you?"

He took the fork from her hand, fingers brushing hers. Then, calmly, he scooped a bite and held it out.

"Eat."

Her lips parted before her mind caught up. The egg touched her tongue. She chewed. Swallowed.

He didn't move.

She could feel him next to her, heat radiating off his body, eyes burning a hole in the side of her face.

Then he leaned down, close-too close-and his mouth brushed the shell of her ear.

"I want you to think about me," he murmured, "every time you're alone."

Cassia froze.

And just like that, he straightened. Walked out.

No smirk. No warning. Just vanished, leaving her with a half-eaten plate, a full body of heat, and questions she didn't want to answer.

Cassia didn't mean to open it.

She'd wandered upstairs to clear her head, to get dressed, to not think about the way Dorian's voice still pulsed behind her ears. The plate of food had gone cold. Her appetite hadn't returned.

Katherine's bedroom door was closed.

Of course it was.

It had stayed shut during the funeral. Locked, maybe. Or maybe no one had dared to touch it.

Cassia had walked past it three times already. But this time, her hand moved without asking.

The knob turned easily. No resistance.

The air inside was colder than the hallway. No light on. Curtains drawn. And yet, her sister's scent still lingered-vanilla, sandalwood, and whatever icy perfume she'd favored in winter.

The bed was made perfectly. Nothing out of place.

Cassia stepped inside like she was trespassing.

And maybe she was.

Her fingertips grazed the edge of the dresser. She wasn't looking for anything. Not really. But her body moved anyway, like it remembered a rhythm that had nothing to do with logic.

The closet door was cracked open.

Just slightly.

She stared at it. The last time she'd seen inside that closet, she'd been sixteen. Kat had caught her playing dress-up, trying on heels she could barely stand in. Cassia still remembered the sting of her sister's voice-"You don't touch what isn't yours."

She reached for the handle now and opened it fully.

Clothes hung like ghosts. Still color-coded. Still expensive. Black, ivory, scarlet. Dresses Kat had worn to galas, charity luncheons, seductions.

Cassia ran her hand along the row.

And then she saw it.

Tucked at the back. Covered in plastic.

A dress. Pale blue. Delicate.

Not Kat's size. Too narrow in the waist. Too soft.

It looked like something Cassia herself might wear. Or once had. It didn't belong here. She stepped closer, fingers brushing the hanger. There was a tag on it.

Her name.

Pinned.

Cassia stared.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked.

She turned fast.

Dorian stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding a mug.

"I didn't mean to-" she began.

He didn't interrupt. He didn't look angry.

His eyes traveled over the dress, then to her face.

"I kept it," he said simply.

She swallowed. "Why?"

"You left it. A long time ago."

"In college," she whispered.

"You were going to wear it to that summer thing. Your sister didn't tell you, but... she gave it away. Said it was 'too soft' for a Vellani woman."

Cassia let her fingers drop.

"I found it in a donation box in the garage," he added. "Years ago."

She looked at him, mouth dry.

"You kept it?"

Dorian stepped inside now, his voice lower. "She never knew."

There was silence between them.

The kind that didn't beg to be filled. The kind that pulsed.

He moved closer.

She didn't move away.

His hand reached out, not to her, but to the fabric. He touched the shoulder of the dress, slow and reverent.

"It smelled like you," he said. "Back then."

Cassia's chest ached.

"Do you still want it?" he asked.

The question held something beneath it. Something deeper.

"Yes," she said. Then added, "I think I always did."

He nodded once.

And just before he turned to leave, he paused.

"I meant what I said, Cassia. About wanting to take care of you."

She didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Her throat was too tight.

When he was gone, she stared at the dress a while longer. Her name still pinned to the tag.

A dress her sister tried to erase.

And a man who never let it go.