My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

Carissa looked at him for a long moment and felt something old stirring beneath the shock—something that had been collecting quietly for years in places she no longer checked. Every offhand jab. Every subtle comparison. Every time he had made her feel like she was too serious, too tired, too sharp, too much work, too little light. Every time he had benefited from the life she built and then resented her for building it better than he could.

“What does Nikki think about this?” she asked.

Damen’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

It was a tiny hesitation. Barely visible.

That made it worse.

“I already asked her,” he said. “She said yes.”

Carissa inhaled once.

“You asked her,” she repeated, “before you asked me.”

He shrugged. “Logistics.”

There are moments when betrayal does not feel hot, the way movies teach people to expect. It feels cold. Clinical. Like someone reading your bloodwork aloud. Like numbers settling into place.