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Prologue

Rosie

I stand frozen in the doorway of Luke’s bedroom, my hand still on the knob, the grocery bag of ingredients for tonight’s dinner dangling forgotten from my fingers. The plastic handle digs into my palm, but I barely feel it.

Luke is there, my boyfriend, buried balls-deep inside Sharon. My stepsister. Their bodies are slick with sweat, moving together in a frantic rhythm that makes my stomach lurch.

The headboard thumps against the wall in time with his thrusts. Sharon’s legs are hooked high around his waist, her red-painted nails raking down his back. They’re so lost in it, so completely consumed, that neither of them has noticed me standing here.

I came straight from work. I wanted to surprise him. Things between us have been fraying for weeks—long silences, nights where he’d rather scroll his phone than look at me. I thought if I showed up early, surprised him by making his favorite pasta, opened a bottle of wine, we could finally talk. Fix whatever’s breaking.

Instead, I’m the one who got surprised.

A small, choked sound escapes my throat. That’s what finally does it.

Luke’s head snaps up. His eyes lock on mine. For one heartbeat, everything stops: his hips, Sharon’s moans, the air in my lungs.

Then he jerks back, yanking himself out of her so fast she yelps. “Fuck—Rosie—”

Sharon twists beneath him, following his gaze. When she sees me, her lips curve into a slow, satisfied smile. Not shame. Not guilt. Just gleaming triumph. Like a cat that finally caught the canary it’s been stalking since we were kids.

Luke scrambles off the bed, stammering. “I can explain, Rosie, wait, it’s not—”

I turn and bolt.

I ran down the hallway, across the living room, past the sofa where we once curled up tight and fell asleep together while watching mindless movies.

He was right behind me, his bare feet thudding heavily on the floor as he muttered curses under his breath. “Rosie—stop—please—”

I reach the front door, fingers shaking so badly I fumble the lock. He catches up just as I wrench it open, his hand grazing my arm.

“Don’t touch me,” I snarl, and I swing.

My palm cracks across his cheek. His head snaps to the side. The sting blooms in my hand, sharp and satisfying.

He reels back, eyes wide, one hand pressed to his reddening face. “Rosie—”

From the bedroom doorway, Sharon’s voice floats out, lazy and amused. “Luke? Babe, leave that bitch and come back to bed.”

She’s leaning against the frame, naked, arms crossed under her breasts like she’s posing for a magazine shoot. That vicious little cat-smile is still plastered on her face.

I look at Luke, really look at him. How did I miss this? How did I never see the signs? The late nights, he said, were “just work.” The way he’d tense whenever Sharon’s name came up in conversation. The times I’d catch him staring at his phone with that small, secret smile.

I never really loved him.

Not the way you’re supposed to love someone you plan a future with. What we had was comfortable. Familiar. Easy. He was kind enough, steady enough, there enough that I convinced myself it was love.

But love doesn’t feel like settling. Love doesn’t leave you questioning whether you’re even seen. And yet it still hurts. God, it hurts.

Of all people, of everyone in the world, he chose her. My stepsister. I told Luke everything. And he still went on to do this.

A humorless chuckle escapes my lips. “You both deserve each other.” I turn to Sharon. “I hope you’re happy now?”

With that, the door slams behind me.

Sharon has always wanted whatever I had.

My dolls when we were little. My clothes, my friends, my prom date, the lead in the school play. Every single thing I ever cared about, she found a way to take. Or ruin. Or both.