Chapter 2
Sienna
How long?
The thought flashes through my brain before I can stop it.
I don't truly want to know the answer. I don't want to know how long I've spent believing his lies. Their lies. But I can't stop myself from spiraling.
How long has this been going on? Six months? A year? The whole time?
When did it begin? At my birthday party? Our parents' anniversary dinner?
What about all the time James and I were together? The way he held me? Looked at me?
Was any of it ever real?
A sob rips through me as I rack my brain for something, anything. Proof that at some point, he did love me.
A torn photo lies near my knee and I remember that day and so many others like it. Days where I thought, I'm so lucky. I've found my person. But if that was true then when did I lose him?
Was it a fight? Something I said or did? Was it me?
When did he decide I wasn't enough?
Or did I ever truly have him in the first place?
Was I just a placeholder for him? Someone convenient? The girl who made meals and rubbed his back after a shift? The girl he could come home to, complain to, dump all his shit on, until something younger, thinner, and more exciting came along?
Until Aubrey?
I choke on her name and hug my knees to my chest.
My baby sister.
I took care of her, soothed every nightmare, bandaged every scratch and cut, fed her, gave her advice, gave her my clothes. My time. My everything.
And she repaid me by spreading her legs for the only man I'd ever loved.
It doesn't matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes, how hard I press my palms to them, or how deep I breathe—I can't get the image of them out of my mind or the questions to stop.
I bury my face in my hands and scream, a hoarse, broken wail that does nothing to ease my heartache.
I wish I could turn it off—the need to understand. The obsession with why.
Why me? Why not a stranger? Why her?
My eyes dart around the room as if the answers are here, waiting for me.
As if I just look hard enough, I'll be able to see the moment they started, and we fell apart.
But the torn photos, shredded anniversary cards, broken trinkets and artwork from the flea market, even the nightstands we DIYed together, don't reveal a thing.
My gaze drifts to my engagement ring, still perfectly glittering on my finger.
Why did he propose to me?
The thought hits me like a bucket of ice-cold water, a wave of nausea rolling over me.
James proposed three months ago. Aubrey said she's eight weeks pregnant. He fucked me not even three days ago.
He's been sleeping with both of us at the same time.
I lurch toward the trash bin, retching until my throat burns and my knees tremble against the hard floor.
Slowly, I sit up and wipe my mouth with the back of my shaking hand.
I thought his betrayal was the worst of it. But now? It's the humiliation I hate most.
How could I have been so blind? So fucking stupid?
My head falls back on the wall. It's cool. Firm. And I collapse against it. All my strength gone.
Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I smell them in the air. Taste their lies on every breath. My body feels violated, and I'm disgusted I ever let James touch me.
My gaze drifts to a shattered mirror, where a hundred fractured versions of myself stare back at me—a perfect replica of my broken heart.
I was never going to be enough…
Not for James. Not for Aubrey. Not for my parents. Not for this town. Not for anyone.
A lump of emotions forms in my throat, and I can't swallow around it. I try and try, hit my chest, claw at my neck, but it refuses to budge.
I need to get out of here.
I stumble into the living room, and for a moment, I can breathe again.
But then I notice more of James's things. His coat. His socks.
A lipstick stain on one of the coffee mugs—the exact shade Aubrey wears.
Then I see the shoes I hadn't paid attention to before. Not just his or mine, but hers.
They were my favorite flats, ones Aubrey borrowed but never returned. I'd given up on ever getting them back until suddenly, James said Aubrey gave them to him.
That was weeks ago. Now they're scattered and mixed with his things by the door like they live here, while my own are lined up neatly, separated from their mess.
How many times has she been alone with him in this house? In our bed?
The walls begin to close in again. I can see them sitting on the couch, watching a show, snuggling, eating, drinking, kissing. Wrapped up in one another while I was out there busting my ass to save for our wedding.
Is she the reason he insisted on staying here so we could be close to family? Close to her?
Is he in love with her?
I scoff.
Of course he is.
Aubrey is always everyone's favorite.
Blonde where I'm red.
Thin where I'm fat.
Sweet and bubbly where I've always been too much or too quiet or too emotional.
My parents loved her more, I knew that. The child they weren't ashamed of, their redemption story after having me—the daughter that could never live up to their expectations.
But they won’t be able to sweep this under the rug.
My parents hate being the subject of gossip more than anything else. Pride themselves on being respectable. But this? They won't be able to live down the scandal.
I snicker at the thought of showing them how wrong they were, that their golden child is such a fuck up. It thrills me—vindicates me—and I want to bask in that feeling.
But then the love and care I have for them, the devotion to do better, be better, protect them, makes me wonder if it's really the right thing to do.
I could let them keep their illusion of a perfect family, keep living the life of the outcast as I always have. No one here ever believed James really wanted me to begin with, so, while my parents would face a lot of backlash and embarrassment, it would die down after a year.
But then I remember Aubrey's voice. "Please don't tell them."
She wasn't remorseful. She was scared. Because even though she knows this was too far, she still did it anyway.
And that? I can’t forgive.
I grab my phone and see twenty missed calls and countless texts from her. I don't have to listen to the voice messages or read the texts to know what she wants.
She’s going to try and play the guilt card, maybe even apologize profusely, but in the end, she just doesn’t want me to blow her perfect little life to smithereens. Even though that’s exactly what she did to me.
The fucking audacity.
I open my texts to the group message with my parents and type:
I walked in on James and Aubrey in my bedroom. She's pregnant with his child. The engagement's off.
The moment I hit send, memories of our childhood flood my mind.
The scraped knees I bandaged. The hair I curled for prom.
The late-night ice cream when some boy broke her heart.
The way I covered for her when she wanted to sneak out.
The homework I helped her finish and did when she forgot.
Every meal I made her plate first. Every time I chose her over me.
Every.
Single.
Time.
And now it's all gone.
A sob escapes me, and I bite my lip hard, using the pain to distract me from my sorrow. Then I put my phone face down on the table.
I can't sit here like this anymore. I can't.
I have to move. Have to do something before I lose my mind.
I throw out every plate, every cup, every fork and spoon—everything in the sink, on the counter, even the clean ones drying on the rack.
The shoes by the door? Gone. All of it—his, hers, theirs—into a black trash bag.
Then another for everything in the living room. The bedroom. The bathroom.
I drag the bags with their belongings to the entry closet then stuff them inside. Then I take the trash out. And when I step back into my empty house, my adrenaline disappears, and I'm left drained and hollow.
I manage to make it to the couch and curl myself into a ball, hoping, praying, that if I squeeze my knees tight enough and close my eyes hard enough, some of the heartache will fade.
For a second, I don't know where I am.
I'm sinking into cushions and pillows. The room is completely dark, and I feel lost, empty.
But when I lick my dry, cracked lips and taste my stale tears, it all comes rushing back.
My breath hitches, my heart pounds in my ears, but I smack my thighs hard. The sudden sting makes my brain freeze, just long enough, for me to get my bearings.
I won't let myself get lost in all of this, not again.
I rotate my head, trying to fix the crick in my neck, but it's no use. My body aches, and it's not just my bones, it's my soul.
I'll get through this. I will get through this.
After all, what's the alternative? No matter how poorly I think of myself, I'd never stay with a cheating, pathetic bastard. I at least have a shred of self-respect.
I reach for my phone to check the time and find sixty-three missed calls waiting for me. They're from my parents, Aubrey, James, even his parents.
I swipe them off my screen until I reach a text from my mom:
Please call us, sweetheart. We just want to talk about everything.
I know I shouldn't. I know I don't have to. But my inner child—the version of me who just wants to be loved, to be protected, to have someone hold me and reassure me that everything will be okay, just once—makes me call them.
I bounce my knee as the phone rings and rings, until eventually my mom answers.
"Sienna? Finally," she breathes.
"I'm here," I whisper.
"Let me get your father." There's a pause. Some rustling.
"Hi, honey," my dad says. "We just… we're so sorry."
"We had no idea Aubrey would ever—" she starts.
I can't help it. The moment their voices come together, the moment they allude to it, my whole-body folds in on itself like I'm five again, and I can’t stop shaking.
I hate it. I hate Aubrey and James so much. I hate myself for not being able to hold it together.
"I'm so sorry, baby," my mom whispers.
"I can't believe she did this to you,” my dad says. “We didn't raise her to be like this."