He Lost Me When He Chose His Stepsister

For the nth time, I tried to seduce my husband, Troy Green, but failed once again to consummate the marriage, so I decided to call my brother.

The divorce papers lay untouched on the desk as I held the phone to my ear with trembling fingers.

“Brother,” I said softly, “I’m going to divorce him.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Nathan’s voice came through, calm and unsurprised. “Thalia, I warned you, didn’t I? That man… he’s ice. Emotionally constipated. Sexually apathetic. A walking void in an expensive suit.”

A small, broken laugh escaped my lips. “I thought I could fix him. I really thought if I loved him hard enough, he’d love me back.”

“You’re not a repair shop, Thalia. You don’t fix people like him. Listen, come to New Zealand. The beaches are beautiful, the men actually know how to touch a woman. Let Troy Green rot in his glass mansion, untouched and unloved.”

I leaned my head back against the wall, breathing through the burn in my chest. “I’ll book the flight once the papers are signed.”

“Good,” Nathan said, his voice softer now. “You deserve better. You always have.”

When the call ended, I didn’t move for a long time.

Then I stood. The corridor was quiet, the marble floors cold beneath my bare feet. I passed the guest wing, the lounge, then paused outside the room at the far end of the hallway.

That was Troy’s private sanctuary. A room he always kept locked. A room I was never allowed to enter.

Tonight, it wasn’t locked. And from inside, I heard a sound. A low groan. Drawn out. Suppressed. I froze. My fingers brushed the edge of the door, hesitating.

Troy was on the couch, shirt half-undone, pants pushed down around his thighs. His back arched slightly, one hand gripping the edge of the cushion, the other working between his legs with a familiar, practiced rhythm.

His head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. But what turned my stomach—what turned my heart to dust—was what he was watching.

It was her. Bianca. His stepsister.

The video was from a summer vacation, one we all took together three years ago. I recognized the scenery instantly—waves crashing behind her, the cliffside covered in wildflowers. Bianca was at the beach, laughing, hair wind-blown and sunlit, wearing a white dress that clung to her figure like a second skin.

She twirled for the camera, spinning like she was in a perfume commercial. She ran toward the waves, arms outstretched. She turned and smiled, radiant and playful.

And then—Troy moaned her name.

“Bianca…”

Not once. Twice. His voice was breathless. Reverent. I staggered back a step, the world spinning around me. The floor felt miles beneath my feet. My ears rang.

This wasn’t the first time.

I remembered the first time I caught him watching something on his phone late at night. He had fallen asleep with it in his hand. I told myself it was nothing. Then another time, I found printed photos of her in his desk drawer. Casual shots from family vacations. Bianca by the pool. Bianca in a sundress. Bianca smiling up at the sky.

I asked him about it, and he said he was archiving old memories. I believed him. But tonight, there was no denying it. He was watching a video of his stepsister—and pleasuring himself to it.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

The first time I met Troy was at a yacht party Nathan hosted. I couldn’t look away. He was nothing like the men I’d dated before—he was mystery. And I fell. So hard. So fast. So stupid. I begged Nathan to introduce me. I made sure we crossed paths again and again. Eventually, he agreed to marry me.

No proposal. No ring. Just a quiet, emotionless: “Marriage works for me. If you want it, I don’t mind.”

Our wedding night was a disaster. He never came to the room. He slept in his study. And every night after that was a variation of the same rejection. I tried everything. Lingerie, weekend getaways, wine, massages, midnight kisses. He wouldn’t touch me.

For two years, I’d been nothing but a ghost in this marriage. A pretty shadow that cooked his meals, smiled at galas, and went to bed cold every single night.

But tonight made everything clear. He didn’t reject me because he didn’t feel desire. He rejected me because his desire had nothing to do with me.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for this nightmare of a marriage to be over.

And when dawn broke, I got up and dressed. When I walked into the kitchen, he was already there, sipping his morning coffee, flipping through a financial report.

He didn’t look up.

“Where’s breakfast?” he asked absently, like I was the maid.

I opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and answered without turning around.

“I didn’t cook.”

He looked up, blinking like he didn’t understand. “What?”

“I said,” I repeated, calm and clear, “I didn’t cook. Just eat somewhere else.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? What’s going on?”

I turned then. Met his eyes head-on.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

He stood up slowly, confusion etched into his face.

“Leaving? Where are you going?”

I smiled. But there was no sweetness left in it. Only frost.

“None of your business.”