Betrayed, Then Claimed by Fate

Chapter1 My fiancé cheated on me with my sister II was celebrating my upcoming wedding with my fiancé with gifts when I discovered he was having an affair with my sister and was having s*x in my new Porsche... Lynn's POV My phone buzzes in my purse as I juggle the champagne bottle, designer gift box, and custom cake. The black lace lingerie beneath my dress feels ridiculous now—a desperate attempt to fix what's been broken for months. 'When did I become this pathetic? Begging for scraps of attention from my own fiancé?' I set everything on the hallway table and pull out my phone. Security alert from my SUV's monitoring system"Unusual vehicle movement detected." My stomach drops. Charles borrowed my custom Porsche this morning for some client meeting. I tap the app, expecting to see it parked at his office. Instead, the GPS shows the scenic overlook—our spot. Where he first kissed me three years ago, promising forever under the city lights. 'Why would he go there?' My finger hovers over the live camera feed. Part of me knows I shouldn't look. That same part knows exactly what I'm about to find. I tap it anyway. The screen flickers to life, and my world shatters. Charles's naked body moves above someone in my custom leather seats. Red hair fans across the backseat like wildfire. Amy's laugh—my sister's laugh—cuts through the speakers, throaty and triumphant. "Oh god, Charles, yes!" The champagne bottle slips from my fingers. Glass explodes across marble. Golden liquid spreads like blood. I can't look away. Amy's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her nails rake down his back, leaving red trails on sweat-slicked skin. Charles's mouth crashes onto hers with hunger I haven't seen in years—maybe ever. His hands tangle in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. He bites down, sucking hard enough to bruise. 'He's never kissed me like that. Never looked at me like she's the only thing keeping him alive.' My mind flashes back to last week. I'd worn the red dress he loved—or claimed to love—and made reservations at that Italian place he always talked about. When I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, he'd turned his head. My lips caught his cheek instead. "Not tonight, Lynn. I'm exhausted." But he wasn't too exhausted to text someone for the next hour. I'd heard his phone buzzing in the bathroom. Heard him laugh—that low, intimate sound that used to be mine. Now I know who made him laugh. Tears blur my vision, but I see everything. Every detail burns into my brain like acid. Charles's lips trail down her neck, across her collarbone. He captures her n****e between his teeth, tugging before soothing it with his tongue. Amy writhes beneath him, hips grinding upward, desperate for more. "I've missed this," he growls against her skin. "I've missed you so f*****g much." The words punch through my chest. We haven't had s*x in four months. Every time I tried, he had excuses. Too tired. Too stressed. Work deadline. Two months ago, I'd bought new lingerie—expensive silk that made me feel beautiful. I'd waited for him in bed, candles lit, wearing nothing but lace and hope. He'd glanced at me and sighed. "Lynn, I told you I have an early meeting. Can we not do this tonight?" The candles had burned down to nothing while I lay there, feeling like a fool. But here he is. Consumed. Worshiping her body like it's sacred. 'How many nights did he reject me, then drive straight to her?' Charles's head disappears between her thighs. Amy's back arches off the seat. Her fingers claw at leather as his tongue delves in. I hear the wet sounds through the audio. His groans vibrate against her. My knees buckle. I slide down the wall, champagne soaking into my dress. He told me oral s*x was "unhygienic." That women's natural scents disgusted him. I'd believed it. Internalized the shame. Convinced myself my body was wrong. I'd stopped asking. Stopped wanting. Buried that part of myself because I thought it made him uncomfortable. I remember the night I'd tried to initiate it. Six months ago, after too much wine at dinner. I'd been feeling brave, feeling sexy. When I'd moved lower, kissing down his stomach, he'd grabbed my shoulders. "Don't. It's gross, Lynn. Women are just... it's not something I'm into." His tone had been so disgusted. So final. I'd apologized. Actually apologized for wanting to please him. But now he's buried between her thighs like a man starving. His tongue flicks and probes. He's savoring every drop like she's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. "Yes, right there! Don't stop—f**k, Charles, you're so good at this!" 'So good at this.' Like he's done it a thousand times. Like he's practiced. Amy's thighs clamp around his head. Her hips roll in rhythm with his eager mouth. Charles grips her ass, lifting her closer, tongue thrusting in and out. His c**k throbs against the seat, hard and ready. "Charles, I'm going to—" Her scream rips through my speakers. Her body convulses. Juices glisten on his chin as he laps them up, prolonging her orgasm with teasing licks. The custom cake sits nearby, frosting smashed across marble. "Soon to be Mrs. Patterson" bleeds into champagne and glass. I think about the engagement ring on my finger. Three carats. Platinum band. He'd proposed at that same overlook, the city lights twinkling below us. "You're everything I've ever wanted," he'd said. "I can't imagine my life without you." 'Was she watching from somewhere? Were they already f*****g then?' Charles crawls back up her body, kissing every inch. When he positions himself at her entrance and slides in with one deep thrust, they both moan like lovers reunited. Their rhythm is practiced. Intimate. Amy's legs hook over his shoulders. Charles's hands roam possessively—pinching her n*****s, slapping her ass. Sweat drips from his brow onto her chest. "God, I love you," he pants against her ear, eyes locked on hers with tenderness that guts me. 'He's never said that to me. Not like that. Not like he means it.' I'd told him I loved him three nights ago. We were in bed—separate sides, like roommates. I'd rolled over, whispered it into the darkness. Hoping. Needing. "Yeah. You too," he'd mumbled, already half-asleep. Not "I love you." Just "you too." Like I'd commented on the weather. But with her, it pours out of him. Raw. Desperate. Real. Amy's nails rake down his back, drawing blood. "We can't keep doing this. The wedding's in one month." "I know, baby. But after that, it won't matter." His pace quickens, hips snapping harder. Ice floods my veins. 'What does he mean?' A memory hits me. Last month, Charles had insisted on updating our wills. "Just smart planning," he'd said. "Making sure everything's in order before the wedding." I'd thought it was responsible. Mature. Now I see it for what it was. Preparation. Charles's voice drops, but the audio catches everything. "Once we're married, her money becomes community property. The inheritance, the trust fund—everything." Amy laughs, breathless and cruel. "And then?" "Then we implement our plan. Make it look like an accident. Car crash, maybe. Something quick." His thrusts grow erratic. "All her money, no more pretending to give a s**t about her." The room tilts. My hands shake so violently I nearly drop the phone. 'Pretending.' Everything was pretending. The romantic dinners where he checked his phone every five minutes—pretending. The family gatherings where he held my hand but looked at Amy—pretending. The engagement photos where his smile never reached his eyes—pretending. Every "I'm working late." Every "Not tonight, I'm tired." Every lie wrapped in a kiss that felt like obligation. All of it. Pretending. "What about the prenup?" Amy gasps as another orgasm builds. "Doesn't matter if she's dead. As her widowed husband, I inherit everything." His fingers dig into her hips, pulling her harder against him. "She's so f*****g trusting. So pathetically eager to please. It's almost too easy." Amy giggles—actually giggles—between moans. "Remember her birthday last month? When you forgot and blamed work?" "God, yes." Charles's laugh is dark, cruel. "I was with you at that hotel. She bought the excuse like always. Sent me a text saying she understood." My birthday. I'd waited at the restaurant for two hours. The waiter had looked at me with pity when I finally left. I'd texted Charles that I understood. That his career came first. That we'd celebrate another time. We never did. "What about the necklace?" Amy's voice hitches with pleasure. "The one you said you bought for her?" "Bought it for you, baby. Always for you." Charles's rhythm turns punishing, desperate. "She's so stupid she believed I returned it. Like I'd ever spend that kind of money on her." The sapphire necklace. My Christmas present. He'd shown me a photo, said it was being resized. Then claimed the jeweler lost it, got a refund. I'd been disappointed but understanding. 'He gave it to Amy. He's always been giving her my gifts. My money. My life.' "You're brilliant," Amy moans. They climax together, crying out each other's names. Bodies shuddering. His seed spilling inside her as they collapse in a tangle of limbs. Afterward, Charles traces patterns on her shoulder. His fingers move with lazy affection—the way I'd always wished he'd touch me. "One month of pretending," he murmurs, kissing her forehead with tenderness that makes my chest cave in. "Then we will be together forever from now on.," Amy agrees, nuzzling into his chest. I killed the feed, pocketing my phone. The scattered gifts—champagne shards, ruined lingerie, shattered cake—mirrored my life perfectly. For a long moment, I just stood there, shattered and broken, tears rolling down my face in hot, silent tracks. Three years. Three years of my life wasted on a man who saw me as nothing more than a walking ATM with convenient death benefits. But underneath the grief, something else was building. Something cold and sharp and absolutely unforgiving. They think they've won. They have no idea what's coming. I wiped my face with shaking hands and forced myself to think strategically. Charles wanted to play games? Fine. Two could play—and I'd always been better at strategy than he gave me credit for. Time to get my act together. It was still morning—I could contact my lawyer, get to the bank, cancel every credit card with his name attached, close accounts he'd been bleeding dry. Document everything. Build my case. I didn't want to see either of them anytime soon. Not until I was ready. Not until I held all the cards. Glass crunched under my heels as I headed to my bedroom, and then look at what I wanted to do next.