Yosef stood rigid, silent.

Xyla’s voice rose, sharp with satisfaction. “Finally, some sense. We’re family, right? Isn’t it natural for an older sister to make way for her younger one? Think of it as your wedding gift to her.”

I laughed low, the sound cold as frost. Fixing my gaze on my stepmother, I tilted my head and softened my voice to a saccharine sweetness. “Then I suppose I should add another gift to make it complete.”

Her brow arched in suspicion. “What gift?”

“A coffin,” I said, the words slicing through the air. “I’ll bring it to the ceremony.”

“Whitley!” Xyla’s face turned ashen then blotched red with anger, her fury palpable, choking. For a split second, she looked ready to strike me, but all she could do was spit my name through clenched teeth.

I smiled wider, pouring sweetness over the venom. “You see,” I explained, “in ancient times, when a woman married, her dowry from her family often included a coffin. She’d carry it to her new husband’s home as part of tradition. As her elder sister, wouldn’t it be only appropriate for me to honor such a custom?”

The logic was unassailable, and they knew it. Nothing Xyla or the others could say would refute me without showing their ignorance. They could only swallow their indignation, silent and seething.

It was the same satisfaction I’d felt earlier in the day when I lit fireworks outside their gates. On the surface, it was a festive gesture—timed perfectly to dispel bad luck—but anyone looking closer could see: it was celebration, schadenfreude, and a thinly veiled curse all in one. What could they do about it? Nothing. The same way I’d been helpless to seek justice all those years they bullied me, exploiting my youth and silence.

Now, they could taste the bitterness they’d fed me for so long.

Xyla’s color deepened, her finger trembling as she jabbed toward the door. “Whitley, get out—get out of my house!”

Still, it wasn’t enough for her. She rounded on my father, unleashing her rage. “Henry! Look at the daughter you raised! Poisonous—malicious—wishing death on my child! And you’re just going to let her get away with it?”

Henry’s face darkened with fury. He didn’t need Xyla to whip him into action; he was already charging toward me with violent intent.

Yosef’s expression stiffened, and he dove between us, blocking the path. “Uncle Grayson, let’s not escalate things. We can talk this through.”

Henry hesitated, stopped by Yosef’s intervention, but his hand was still raised, still trembling with the force of his anger. He jabbed his finger toward me. “You owe your sister an apology. Now.”

Apologize? Me? I squared my shoulders, ready to stand my ground. “What exactly did I say that was wrong? If you’re ignorant of wedding traditions, that’s on you, not—”

Before I could finish, Henry lunged, his hand sweeping upward with the full intent to strike.

But Yosef moved faster, stepping into the blow meant for me. Henry’s palm cracked against the side of Yosef’s head, the force so wild it sent his hair flying, disheveled and rustling with the impact.

Yara’s shriek pierced the tension. “Dad! What are you doing?”

Yosef staggered slightly but caught himself, blinking hard as if to shake off the shock. Then, in a low, calming tone, he placed a hand on Henry’s arm. “Uncle Grayson, this won’t solve anything. This situation—this misunderstanding—falls on me. I’ll manage it. Just give me some time.”

Henry’s chest heaved, his face flushed an unhealthy shade. With his blood pressure skyrocketing—his ailments long a matter of concern—it was clear that even his body struggled under the strain. His voice rasped through gasps. “You… you deal with her. If she dares pull something like this again, I’ll— I’ll break her legs!”

Yosef nodded hurriedly, promising compliance before turning to me. His eyes, resolved but conflicted, met mine as he spoke. “Whitley, let’s talk. Outside.”

“No need,” I said, voice crisp with disinterest. “There’s nothing left to discuss between us.”

I pivoted to leave, but his hand shot out, gripping my wrist with maddening insistence.

“Whitley,” he said, his tone soft, almost pleading. “We can’t resolve things like this. We’re family. Family works through problems. What can’t be talked out between us?”

Family?

The word curdled in my stomach, raw bile rising on its heels. “You have no right to call yourself my family.”

He stilled, clearly not expecting my words to cut so deeply. I lifted my trapped wrist, commanding, “Let me go.”

“Just listen to me. Please.”

“Let. Go.” My voice dropped, its edge sharpening as I twisted against his grasp. When his grip didn’t loosen, anger surged hot through my veins. In sheer rage, I raised my free hand and struck him across the face.

The room froze to the sound of the slap, sharp as glass shattering.

Yara’s scream was immediate. “Whitley! What are you doing? How dare you hit Sefie? It wasn’t his choice—I told him to marry me! If you have a problem, take it out on me instead!”

Turning to her, I smiled with a deliberate coldness. “Hitting a scumbag doesn’t require justification. As for you? I think I’ll let the reaper settle your score. No point sullying my hands.”

Their faces twisted in shock and fury, grotesque in their helpless rage, but I didn’t give them the satisfaction of further confrontation. Without a glance back, I turned on my heel and stormed toward the door, flinging it open and slamming it shut behind me.

Once I was in the car, the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving a hollow ache in its place. I sat there, motionless, as a quiet despair settled over me.

To be born into a family like this—what sin from a past life had condemned me?

And Yosef. Yosef, of all people. I’d believed that loving him might heal me, might salvage some part of my fractured soul.

But no. It was he who shattered me the worst.

The sacrifices I’d made for him—the years I spent believing they meant something—gnawed at me now like wild dogs, tearing into my very core.

The trill of my phone broke the fog of my thoughts. I glanced down to see Yvonne Lewis’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hello,” I said, my voice empty even to my own ears.

“Mrs. Grayson, don't tell me you've forgotten about lunch. Where are you? Did Yosef lock you up or something?” Yvonne’s teasing tone suggested she had no idea of the chaos these past days had brought.

I frowned, guilt flickering as I recalled our lunch plans. We were supposed to meet and discuss details for the wedding rehearsal.

“I’ll be there soon,” I murmured, shoving my emotions aside.

The wedding might’ve been canceled, but I owed her the truth—and an explanation.

At the restaurant, Yvonne took one look at me and gasped. “What happened? You look awful. Another fight with your family?”

She knew everything about my strained past, the years of torment. So I skipped over her concern, delivering the news instead. “Von, there’s no wedding.”

She froze mid-pour, eyes snapping to mine. “What? What are you talking about? The wedding’s next week. What do you mean no wedding?”

I offered a faint, lifeless smile. “To be specific, there’s still a wedding. But I’m not the bride.”

Yvonne slammed the teapot down and jumped to her feet, leaning over the table to feel my forehead, as if I’d taken ill and lost my senses. “What the hell are you saying? Is your brain fried?”

I swatted her hand away gently, guiding her back to her seat before she could escalate further. Then I began to recount, in clipped, spare detail, the nightmare of the past two days.

Yvonne’s eyes widened dramatically, her mouth hanging open in pure, unfiltered disbelief.

“What the hell? Has Yosef completely lost his mind? Yara practically has 'manipulative witch' stamped on her forehead, and he’s too blind to see it? Switching brides at the eleventh hour—does he not care about being laughed at by his entire wedding audience? Or being shredded on social media? Is he this keen on self-destruction?”

Yvonne was incandescent, her voice carrying sharp and high enough to startle the diners around us.

“That’s it—I’m calling him right now to give him a piece of my mind!”

Yvonne had always had a fiery personality, fiercer even than mine. True to form, she grabbed her phone and began dialing before the tea had even cooled.

I sat there drained, quietly sipping my tea. I didn’t have the energy—or the will—to stop her.

“Yosef, are you under some kind of spell Yara cast on you? Who cares if she’s terminally ill? What does that have to do with you? Whitley’s been by your side for six years—six years! Do you have any idea how much she sacrificed to help cure you? If it weren’t for her being your personal blood bank, you’d have been six feet under by now, you ungrateful son of a—!”

Yvonne wasn’t remotely finished. “And when exactly did you and Yara start up, huh? Don’t tell me you’ve already gone and shacked up with her. I’ve known some rotten bastards before, but you—Jesus—you’re in a class of your own! And you think people will still respect you after pulling this stunt, swapping brides like some kind of reality-show reject?”

Her barrage of fury poured on for a solid five minutes before a waiter approached, tactfully suggesting she lower her voice.

I, mortified by the stares we were attracting, reached across to snatch her phone and hung up mid-sentence.

“What the hell, Whitley? I wasn’t done! Yosef deserves to be ripped to shreds—and so does that conniving bitch Yara! Oh, I’m sick? I get a free pass to steal my sister’s husband now? Spare me!”

Yvonne was on the verge of losing it entirely. I hurried to pour her another cup of tea, speaking in my gentlest voice.

“Come on, let it go, you’re ruining other people’s meals.”

She glanced around, registering the curious and judgmental gazes aimed in our direction. Reluctantly, she dialed her temper back down.

“But seriously,” she pressed on, the anger still simmering beneath her curiosity. “What the hell is Yosef thinking? Does he even love Yara?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But he definitely doesn’t love me.”

And how could he? What else could explain this humiliating farce?

“Yara is a goddamn psychopath,” Yvonne seethed. “She’s spent years trying to one-up you at everything. Does Yosef seriously not see that?”

I offered a half-smile devoid of warmth. “He’s always said I’m the one overthinking it, that my grudge against her makes me biased.”

Yvonne downed three gulps of tea in a row, the gears clearly turning in her mind. Then she shot me a sharp look. “Wait. Does he even know? That Yara Hudson’s your, uh, half-sibling?”

“Probably not.” I shrugged. “I’ve never brought it up. Maybe he’s figured it out; maybe he hasn’t.”

Family scandals aren’t exactly first-date material. You don’t just lay your flaws bare, not even with someone you love. Because the moment love fades, those private wounds get paraded around as weapons.

“Unreal.” Yvonne leaned back, a sardonic smile twisting her lips. “Well, I’m looking forward to the day Yosef sees Yara for who she really is. Can’t wait to watch him grovel.”

I stayed silent, letting her words drift unanswered.

His regret, if it came, would mean nothing to me.

After we finished eating, Yvonne tried to reassure me. “At least you’re walking away with the company as compensation. Guys like Yosef are trash. Good riddance. You’ll bounce back—pour all your energy into your career.”

Her words reminded me there were still paperwork formalities to handle around the company’s ownership.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “There’s no point sulking over someone so worthless. I’m lucky I saw him for what he is sooner rather than later.”

After parting ways with Yvonne, I set up a meeting with Yosef that afternoon to handle the legal transfer. He accepted without hesitation.

When we met, a bright red handprint was still faintly visible on one side of his face, turning his otherwise well-put-together appearance into an ironic spectacle.

“Let’s hurry up,” I said curtly as he strolled toward me at a maddeningly slow pace. “Once this is done, we’ll hit the civil affairs office and file for divorce.”

Only a month. We’d been married just one month. Looking back, I regretted lining up on May 20th, one of China’s symbolic days of love, to get those damned marriage certificates.

Yosef’s eyes held a shadowed, melancholy quality as he looked at me. His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

We handled the business at the registration office swiftly. From there, we headed straight to the divorce bureau.

Only to be greeted with bureaucracy’s finest: we couldn’t file immediately. Divorce required an appointment, followed by a thirty-day cooling-off period. If both parties still wanted to proceed at the end of that wait, only then could we finalize it.

Frustrated and deflated, I pulled out my phone to schedule an appointment. The earliest I could secure was for a date two weeks later in the afternoon.

Which meant that by the time Yosef and Yara swanned down the aisle, I’d technically still be his legal wife.

What a farce.

Yosef seemed to sense the peak of my exasperation. Speaking with his trademark softness, he offered, “There’s no rush. Yara isn’t pushing for it.”

The nerve of him. I snapped my head up, meeting his gaze with incredulity so sharp it made him flinch.

I stared at him, my anger simmering into a spiteful grin. “Not pushing? What... she isn’t worried she won’t make it that far?”

Unease flickered across his face, rendering him silent.

Divorce could be stretched out endlessly if one side refused to cooperate. Even if Yara got to wear the white dress, she’d still be nothing more than a mistress in the eyes of the law.

Yosef, sensing no victory in our exchange, took a small step forward, his voice still maddeningly gentle. “Then we don’t have to go through with it. Let’s just stay married. That’ll save us the trouble of remarrying later.”

I froze, staring at him in disbelief.

Even now, he had the gall to believe that when Yara was gone, I’d come running back to him as if nothing had happened.