She Killed Her Sister To Save Her Lover Chapter 1

I was married to my nemesis—a power couple in name only.

We kept separate lives, a perfect, icy truce. While she made a spectacle of chasing a younger guy, I drowned my sorrow over the woman who was my one perfect memory, my guiding star.

But her boy toy, Brody Wells, didn't believe our marriage was a formality. He didn't trust that his queen was truly his. To test the waters—and perhaps my resolve—he'd sneak into our marital penthouse in the dead of night. He once torched the million-dollar, custom-made wedding gown I’d commissioned in Italy, the one I had intended for Nora. Another time, he'd feign drunkenness and deliberately lose the wedding band my wife never took off. And every few days, he'd post veiled threats on social media, trying to challenge my status as the legitimate husband.

My wife, Sloan, would call, her voice laced with weary annoyance. "The kid is jealous, I..."

I’d cut her off impatiently. "Replace the ring. Fix the damage. Just don't bother me."

I genuinely thought we'd keep this arrangement forever: mutually undisturbed, existing in parallel hells.

Until Brody, emboldened by Sloan’s blind protection, went too far. He used Sloan's name to steal the specialist appointment I had practically crawled on my knees to secure for Nora.

My Nora died because of that delay.

It was then I understood. Sloan Harrington and I could never be well again. For the rest of this life, we were each other's consequence, two people destined to destroy one another.

* * *

I watched as Nora Clarke’s body was moved into the cremation chamber, reduced to a handful of ash.

I held her urn, my arms shaking, and buried her myself. Staring at the beautiful, radiant smile etched onto her headstone, the suffocating grief I'd been holding back surged forward, a tidal wave threatening to drown me whole.

I knelt at her grave, tearless, my face a terrifying mask of ice. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I traced the outline of her photograph, sitting there from dawn until the sky was pitch-black.

“Nora, I have to go now. Someone has to pay for this. Don't rush to cross over. Wait for me. I’ll exact my revenge, and then I’ll come find you.”

Reluctantly, I walked away from the cemetery gates. I had a debt to collect for her, no matter the cost, even if it meant sacrificing my own life.

The accumulated grief in my chest curdled, transforming into towering, consuming rage.

Nora shouldn't have died. I had secured Dr. Vaughn's coveted treatment slot—the slot I’d practically mortgaged my soul for—only for Sloan to use my wife’s authority to hand it to her beloved Brody Wells for a common cold. By the time I realized the theft, Dr. Vaughn, infuriated by the scheduling error, had already flown overseas. I could only watch, helpless, as Nora took her last breath in my arms.

Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, I drove like a fugitive, the speedometer needle touching the absolute maximum.

I randomly called Sloan’s number. She picked up instantly. “Carl Owen. Are you finally calling to surrender? If you kneel and beg me, I might—might—forgive you for your decades of neglect, and perhaps even graciously save that little tramp of yours.”

Sloan’s mocking voice echoed from the receiver, followed by a chorus of laughter from the people around her.

“The great Owen is finally cracking? Honestly, Cal, you need to be the bigger man. Apologize. When you get here, we'll all bear witness!”

“Owen, remember to bring a case of the good stuff. We need to see your sincerity, don't we?”

“And he definitely has to buy Brody a gift, or Nora the short-lived ghost can forget about getting any help from our dear Sloan.”

My rationality, already frayed, was incinerated completely the moment I heard them use Nora's name like that.

“Fine. Give me the address,” I said, my voice dry and gravelly.

I hung up the second I got the location. The roar of the engine mixed with the frantic thump-thump of my heart as the tires screamed on the pavement. I slammed the brakes at the entrance of the exclusive private club, snatched a steel baton from a security booth, and stormed towards the private dining suite.

I kicked the door open, meeting Sloan’s bored, casual gaze.

“Well, Mr. Owen. Where is Brody’s gift?”

The sycophantic girl who had just called Nora a "short-lived ghost" stepped closer, a smirk plastered on her face.

I raised the baton and brought it down hard across her head. A fountain of hot, visceral crimson instantly erupted.

“Carl Owen, you’re insane!”