2. Jade #2
This is wrong. She’s scared and vulnerable and you’re sitting here cataloging the shape of her mouth like some kind of-
But then she makes this small sound, almost a whimper, and before I can think better of it, I reach across the table and take her hand.
She freezes. Looks down at our intertwined fingers like she’s not sure they’re real.
Her skin is impossibly soft. Warm. Her fingers are slender and delicate wrapped in mine, and touching her feels like coming home and setting myself on fire all at once.
“You have me,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. Searching. Uncertain. This close, I can see the faint freckles scattered across her nose, the tiny scar above her eyebrow. How does she have freckles in winter? Why do I care? Why can’t I stop noticing every single detail of her face like I’m trying to memorize her?
“Why?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
Because you’re real. Because you’re kind.
Because watching them destroy you has been slowly driving me insane for years.
Because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and you have no idea, and my brother doesn’t deserve to touch you, and I’ve been thinking about you constantly, and I’m losing my mind.
“Because you’re the first real thing I’ve seen in that family in years,” I say. “And because...” I stop. Swallow. Watch the way her lips part as she waits for me to finish. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The air between us shifts.
Heavy. Electric.
Her hand doesn’t pull away from mine. If anything, her grip tightens. I can feel her pulse fluttering against my palm, quick and light like a bird’s heartbeat.
“Damian...”
“I know.” I force myself to release her hand, to put distance between us. The absence of her touch is physical pain. “I know. It’s complicated. It’s messy. You’re pregnant with my brother’s baby, and I have no right to-”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
I look at her.
She’s looking at me with something that isn’t fear anymore. Something warmer. More dangerous. The afternoon light is painting gold across her cheekbones, and she’s leaning slightly forward, and I can smell her perfume - something soft, like jasmine and vanilla - and I am in so much trouble.
“I was going to say thank you,” she whispers. “For being honest. For not treating me like I’m fragile. For...” She shakes her head, a sad smile crossing her face, and that smile - God, that smile - makes my chest ache. “For making me feel like I’m not completely alone in this.”
“You’re not alone.” The words come out rougher than I intended. Almost desperate. “You’re not going to be alone in this. Whatever happens.”
We stare at each other across the table, and I can feel something building between us, something that has no right to exist, something that could destroy us both if we’re not careful.
She’s your brother’s wife.
She’s pregnant.
She’s vulnerable and scared and you have no business looking at her like that.
But I can’t stop. I can’t look away from the way her eyes hold mine, dark and deep and full of something that looks terrifyingly like hope. From the way her lips part slightly, soft and pink and stop looking at her mouth. From the way she’s leaning toward me like I’m gravity and she’s falling.
You’re falling too, a voice whispers. You’ve been falling for years.
I know.
God help me, I know.
***
Jade
We talk for two hours.
About everything and nothing - about the family, about Donald, about Vivian, about the baby I’m terrified to think about. Damian listens without judgment, offers advice without pressure, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize I’m breathing easier than I have in days.
“You need to take care of yourself,” he says as we’re getting ready to leave. “Have you seen a doctor yet? About the pregnancy?”
“No.” I look down at my hands. “I’ve been afraid to. Like if I make it official, then it’s real, and then I have to deal with it.”
“It’s already real, Jade. Whether you deal with it or not.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
“I’ll make an appointment,” I say. “This week.”
“Good.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my hand again, then stops himself. Shoves his hands in his pockets instead. “And call me. If you need anything. Day or night.”
“I will.”
We walk out of the café together, and I tell myself the flutter in my chest is just gratitude. Just relief at having someone on my side.
It’s not.
I know it’s not.
But I can’t think about that right now. I can’t add another complication to a life that’s already falling apart.
One crisis at a time, Jade. One crisis at a time.
Neither of us notices the woman sitting in the corner booth near the window.
Neither of us sees her lower her phone as we pass, the screen still glowing with freshly captured photos.
Neither of us recognizes her as one of Vivian’s assistants.
***
Vivian
The photos arrive at 11:47 PM.
I’m curled up on my couch, the velvet charcoal one I picked out because it reminded me of storm clouds, the one that sits in the apartment my sister’s husband pays for without my sister knowing a single thing about it.
There’s a glass of Pinot Noir in my hand, a cashmere blanket draped over my legs, and a satisfied sort of exhaustion settling into my bones.
The good kind. The kind that comes from getting exactly what you want.
My phone buzzes. A text from Margot, my assistant. The one I stationed at that sad little café on Third Street after I noticed Damian’s car parked there twice last week.
You’re going to want to see this.
I tap the attachment open, expecting something useful.
What I get is so much better.
The photos are crisp - Margot knows better than to disappoint me with grainy surveillance footage.
Jade and Damian, sitting in that shabby café like they’re the only two people in the world.
Their heads bent close together, intimate, conspiratorial.
In one shot, his hand covers hers on the table.
In another, she’s leaning toward him, her lips parted, her eyes locked on his face with an expression I recognize all too well.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
Oh, Jade.
A laugh escapes me, low, delighted, disbelieving. I press my fingers to my lips to contain it, but it spills out anyway, bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. The wine sloshes in my glass as my shoulders shake.
You stupid, stupid girl.
I scroll through the photos again, slower this time, savoring each one.
Jade’s face, soft and open in a way she never is around Donald anymore.
Damian’s jaw, tight with barely restrained wanting.
The way their bodies curve toward each other like plants seeking sunlight.
It’s almost romantic, really. Almost sweet.
If it weren’t so perfectly, devastatingly useful.
I set my wine glass down on the coffee table and pull my legs beneath me, settling in.
My mind is already spinning, sorting through possibilities, calculating angles and outcomes like pieces on a chessboard.
This is what I do best - what I’ve always done best, even when we were children and Jade was the pretty one, the good one, the one everyone loved without her having to try.
She never had to try. That was always her problem.
She never learned that the world doesn’t give you anything. You have to take it.
The affair with Donald was always going to be complicated.
I knew that from the beginning - from the very first time I let my hand linger on his arm a beat too long, from the first time I caught him looking at me the way he used to look at her.
Married men are messy. Families are messier.
And the Castillos, with their money and their reputation and their vicious need to maintain appearances...
well. I always knew I’d have to be careful. Strategic. Patient.
I’ve been waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the scales to tip in my favor, for the narrative to shift from Vivian the homewrecker to something more palatable.
And now my sweet, naive sister has handed me exactly what I need.
If Jade is the one who strays first - or at least, if she appears to be - everything changes.
Suddenly she’s not the victim. Suddenly she’s not the wronged wife, pregnant and sympathetic, the kind of woman courts and families rally around.
Suddenly she’s just another cheater, no better than anyone else, throwing herself at her husband’s brother while carrying another man’s child.
Damian, of all people. The one Castillo who actually has a conscience. The one who’s been watching her with those wounded, wanting eyes since her wedding day, thinking no one noticed.
I noticed.
I notice everything.
I save the photos to my phone, then back them up to the cloud. Then I email them to myself at a second address, just to be safe. Evidence this good deserves protection. It deserves preservation.
Then I open a new message to Donald.
We need to talk. I have something to show you.
My thumb hovers over the send button. I take a moment to picture it: Donald’s face when he sees these photos. The confusion first, then the anger, then the self-righteous indignation of a man who’s been cheating on his wife for over a year somehow convincing himself he’s the one who’s been wronged.
Men are so predictable. So easy.
I hit send.
Then I reach for my wine glass, drain what’s left, and pour myself another generous measure. The Pinot is expensive - a gift from Donald, naturally - and it tastes like victory.
Outside my window, the city glitters like a promise. Somewhere out there, my sister is probably lying in bed next to her husband, staring at the ceiling, thinking she’s the one with all the secrets.
Oh, Jade. Sweet, trusting Jade.
You have no idea what’s coming.
I take another sip of wine and smile into the darkness of my beautiful, borrowed apartment. The game is just getting started, and I’ve never been more ready to play.