“Stop arguing, stop arguing. Let’s just go home already,” someone muttered, trying to defuse the tension.
Home? Fuck that. Dorian had a man’s body but still dared to call himself Elara’s “sister”?
Elara shoved me, seizing the moment.
“Go outside and calm down! Don’t embarrass yourself here!”
I stood on the balcony for a long time. The night wind bit at my skin, but not as sharply as the laughter that spilled from inside. Elara’s voice, Dorian’s voice—mingling, light, intimate. Each burst of laughter stabbed into my chest.
When I finally returned to the bedroom, Elara was already out of the shower, hair damp, slipping under the covers.
She glanced at me casually.
“Dorian’s sleeping here tonight. He’s drunk, and it’s hard to get a taxi.”
My gaze fell on his jacket tossed carelessly on our sofa. I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped.
Maybe this whole wedding was a joke from the very beginning. Did she really think I’d always endure it—just because I loved her?
Fine. Let’s see how far you’ll take this farce.
The next morning, Dorian was still snoring on our couch when Elara and I left for the island honeymoon we’d booked months ago.
At the ocean-view villa, Elara hugged me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.
“We could live like this every day. Isn’t it wonderful?”
I was about to turn and answer her—when her phone rang. She slipped out of my arms and rushed into the bedroom to answer it.
Through dinner, her phone never stopped lighting up. Dorian’s name filled the screen, message after message:
“Elara, I’ve got a fever. No one’s here to take care of me. Can you video call and teach me how to make ginger soup?”
“The ocean view you posted is gorgeous. A shame I’m not there with you. So lonely.”
Then came the photo: Dorian, sprawled in bed, wearing the very lace camisole Elara had once claimed was “too small for me, so I gave it to him.” His caption read:
‘This little thing you gave me feels just like you’re here with me~’
My chest tightened. “He’s a grown man. How the hell can he post something like that?”
Elara’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“Why are you at it again? He’s sick, he’s fragile—shouldn’t I care about him? If you keep picking on Dorian, don’t blame me for getting angry!”
Then she answered his video call, her tone instantly soft and sweet.
“Dorian, be good. Take your medicine first, alright?”
Her voice—the one I thought was mine alone—poured through the phone to him.
The next morning, Dorian stood at our villa door, suitcase in hand, smiling like a fox.
“Surprise! I had a business trip nearby, so I thought I’d stop in.”
Elara’s eyes lit up. She grabbed his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He winked at her. “Wouldn’t be a surprise if I did. So… which room’s mine?”
“We booked a couple’s villa. One bedroom,” I cut in flatly.
He feigned shock, then waved it off. “No problem. Couch is fine.”
I ignored him and headed into the bathroom. As I reached for my toothbrush, a small box slipped from Elara’s makeup bag—birth control pills.
Before I could even process it, Dorian strolled in behind me, yawning. His eyes darted to the box, and his mouth curled into a smirk.
“I told her to take those. Getting pregnant right after marriage? What a drag. Better to enjoy life, just the two of you—right, Elara?”
He winked at her. She froze, then nodded weakly.
My chest turned to ice.
“Did he tell you to take them—or did you decide that for us?”
Elara wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Of course it’s for us. And… and Dorian is right…”
Dorian is right.
Dorian smirked wider, twisting the knife.
“Don’t be hard on her, Adrian. She’s too kind. She knew you wanted kids, but she didn’t want to upset you. Isn’t that thoughtful?”
“Get the fuck out!”
I shoved him back, then kicked him hard. He crashed into the doorframe, his forehead splitting open, blood trickling down his face.
