In the three years we've been married, Colin Luther never touches me once.

Living in the room next door is Rebecca Jennings, his adopted younger sister with no blood relation to him. She supposedly suffers from severe androphobia. Whenever she sees any man other than Colin, she trembles uncontrollably.

Whenever she has nightmares in the middle of the night, Colin immediately leaves me and rushes to her room.

So, the master bedroom is given to her. I sleep on a folding bed in the study, and Colin sleeps on the floor outside her door to stand guard.

Every week, my mother-in-law, Alicia Brooks, comes by with the soup she made herself. The first thing she does is go into Rebecca's room. Only after that does she spare me a glance.

She says, "Nat, remember to hand-wash Becca's underwear. Her skin is sensitive, so it can't go in the washing machine."

My father-in-law, Isaac Luther, is even worse.

At our last family gathering, he slaps his thigh in front of their relatives and says, "If Becca weren't sick, I'd want her to be my daughter-in-law!"

I simply smile while serving the dishes and say nothing.

For three years, I endure everything in silence.

But yesterday, I find two items hidden beneath Rebecca's pillow. There is the silk camisole that went missing six months ago and a pack of birth control pills with only two tablets left.

Androphobia?

Well, today is our third wedding anniversary. It's time for a proper celebration.

The foldable bed's springs creaked for the entire night.

I had to brace myself by my waist twice before I managed to push myself up into a sitting position. I reached for the bottle of stomach medication on the bedside table, twisting the lid off and shaking it lightly.

The bottle was empty. It had been empty for a week.

My husband's adopted sister, Rebecca Jennings, spoke from the next room. "Did you manage to get some sleep on the hard floor last night, Colin? You can sleep on the bed next time. I won't be scared."

My husband, Colin Luther, told her that he was fine in a low voice.

I heard the sounds of a door being opened and closed, followed by a set of footsteps heading toward the kitchen. The stove hummed. A few moments later, the sweet scent of warm milk seeped through the cracks of the study's door.

I pushed the door open and left the study.

A glass of warm milk sat on the kitchen counter, steam rising from its surface. Next to the glass of milk was a glass of water that I had poured for myself the night before.

I picked up the glass of water and took a sip, letting it cool my heart.

The bathroom counter was packed with Rebecca's skincare products—facial cleansers, serums, two boxes of facial masks, and a tube of eye cream. Her things took up about two-thirds of the counter.

My toothbrush and towel were squeezed in a corner in a faded plastic cup.

There were two sticky notes on the fridge. The one on the left had Colin's neat handwriting.

"Becca's daily medications reminder: Half a clonazepam at 8:00 am. One melatonin at 9:00 pm."

The sticky note on the right had been stuck on the fridge for nine days. The corners of the tape were already beginning to curl.

"Please get a bottle of stomach medication for me—Nat."

I had reminded Colin twice to get me the stomach medication. He promised me that he would do so, but he forgot each time. Yet, he had never forgotten about Rebecca's medications.

Colin's mother, Alicia Brooks, video-called me. When the call connected, she appeared on the screen holding a porcelain mug.

"Did Becca sleep well last night?" she asked.

"She did, Mom," I replied.

"Becca's skin becomes extra sensitive when the seasons change, Nat. Remember to handwash her silk garments. The washing machine's too rough. Don't slack off."

"I understand."

"Okay. That's all."

Alicia hung up as soon as she was done speaking. She only asked about Rebecca and gave me orders.

I gripped my phone as I stood in the kitchen.

The soup in the pot bubbled noisily. I ladled a bowl of soup for Colin and another bowl for Rebecca. I then sat down and took another sip of water.

Colin scrolled on his phone as he ate the soup. He suddenly turned the screen toward Rebecca and said, "This psychological counselor has a pretty good reputation. He's currently employed at St. Grace Hospital. Why don't I take you to meet him on Saturday?"

Rebecca nibbled on her spoon and nodded. "I won't be scared if you're there, Colin," she mumbled softly.

Colin smiled before he turned to look at me, asking, "Are you working on Saturday? You can just stay home if you're not. I'll take Rebecca to the hospital."

I picked up a slice of bread and asked, "Do you know what day it is today?"

Colin mulled over his thoughts before answering, "It's Thursday."

I tore the slice of bread into smaller chunks. I stuffed them into my mouth and nodded.

It was our third wedding anniversary.

Colin didn't remember our first or second wedding anniversary, but he remembered how Rebecca had a so-called fear exposure training every Thursday at 3:00 pm. He was never late to any of the sessions.

After I finished my meal, I returned to the study and locked the door. I then pulled out a silk camisole and a strip of birth control pills from under my pillow.

I had lost the camisole six months ago. I couldn't find it even after searching every nook and cranny in the house.

I found it under Rebecca's pillow yesterday. My hands didn't shake even once when I pulled out my phone and snapped photos of the front and back of the camisole.

I flipped the strip of birth control pills around and held it up against the light streaming in through the window, looking at the date that was embossed on the strip. The last pill had been removed three days ago.

Three days ago, Colin had said that he was going to sleep on the floor in front of Rebecca's door.

I saved the four photos into a password-protected folder in my photo album that was labeled "Daily". I had already collected over 300 screenshots in that folder.

I placed the silk camisole and strip of birth control pills back under Rebecca's pillow, making sure it looked untouched. I then navigated to my contact list and searched for a number that I had saved three months ago but hadn't dialed even once.

The number belonged to a lawyer, Damien Wesley.

I tapped on my chat with him. My fingers remained suspended above the keyboard for a brief moment before I exited the chat and locked my phone.

It wasn't the right time yet.

I made a detour to the pharmacy on my way to work and bought a bottle of stomach medication for myself.

The community health center opened its door at 8:00 am.

I put on my white coat and visited the patient who was occupying Bed No. 3 first, Patricia Vellis. As I changed her bandages, she grabbed my hand and refused to let go, asking, "Does your husband treat you well, Ms. Swanson?"

I smiled and answered in the affirmative.

A smile spread across Patricia's face. "That's good. Finding a man who treats you well is the most important thing in a woman's life."

I bent over and rubbed her back, refraining from continuing the conversation.

I returned to the nurse station when it was time for my afternoon break.

I pulled out a light blue notebook from the drawer and flipped through it. Every page was filled with my observations of Rebecca's so-called androphobia symptoms for the last two years.

I noted down the days where she locked arms with Colin of her own volition, where she burrowed into his blankets instead of curling up in a corner when she had a "nightmare".

I recorded how she had trembled so violently that she couldn't even hold a fork when a deliveryman stopped by but immediately calmed down after he left.

A patient who was actually suffering from androphobia would refrain from making direct contact even with a man who they were familiar with. They definitely wouldn't cling to one of their own volition. This was clearly stated in the third article of the clinical diagnostic criteria.

On top of that, I had discovered something even more damning three months ago.

When I was scrolling through my social media, I came across an account whose profile photo looked extremely similar to Rebecca. When I tapped into the account, I realized that it did indeed belong to her. She was just using another name.

The Rebecca in that account's photos and the Rebecca who lived in my home were like two completely different people.

She took selfies of herself and her friends clinking glasses at a party. She flirted with unfamiliar men who she met online. She flashed a victory sign as she took photos of herself in front of dressing room mirrors in shopping malls.

Rebecca looked nothing like a person who was suffering from androphobia.

I took over 100 screenshots of her account and saved them to my "Daily" album.

…

My phone vibrated when I was having lunch.

Colin had forwarded a message to me. His father, Isaac Luther, had posted a photo in the family group chat. In the photo, Rebecca stood behind Isaac and massaged his back. She was grinning at the camera, flashing her small canines.

The caption read, "My adopted daughter is even more thoughtful than my own flesh and blood. Be sure to take a leaf out of her book, Nat!"

Colin's relatives flooded the photo with likes. One of Colin's aunts also left a thumbs-up emoji in the comments.

I took a screenshot of Isaac's photo and message, saving it as the 317th photo in my album.

After my shift was over, I headed back home.

The security guard called out to me from the security booth when I walked past the entrance of the apartment.

"There's a package here that's addressed to Colin Luther, Mrs. Luther. Do you mind taking it with you?"

It was an intricately-wrapped bouquet of white roses. A card was nestled among the roses. I pulled out the card and glanced at it. "Thank you for the last three years, Colin—Becca."

Three years.

Rebecca wasn't referring to my third wedding anniversary with Colin. Instead, she was referring to how she had moved in with us for three years.

I took the bouquet with me as I headed upstairs and placed it in front of Rebecca's door. I then changed into a set of casual clothes and left the house, taking a 40-minute bus ride to the market in the old west side of the city.

My mom Lydia Ashford's stall was located in the deepest part of the market. She had a foldable table, a few baskets of fresh vegetables, and a weighing scale with her.

She was crouching down and weighing a bag of carrots for an old man when I arrived. The skin on the back of her hand had split open in several parts, but she had simply slapped a few low-quality bandaids over them.

I stood to the side and watched her serve her customers. After she was done, I approached the stall and placed a bag of hand creams next to the weighing scale.

Mom was briefly stunned when she looked up and saw me. A smile broke across her face when she said, "You're here. Have you eaten yet?"

I crouched down and began loading the vegetable baskets for her.

We didn't talk about anything important. We chatted about the prices of cabbages that year and whether the daughter of Matthew Patterson, the man who ran the stall next to hers, was engaged.

Before I left, Mom stuffed a bag of oranges into my bag.

"They're from the orange tree in the garden," she said. "They taste extra sweet this year."

I peeled one as I stood at the bus station.

Just like Mom said, it was sweet. In fact, it was so sweet that it made my nose burn.

I wired 2,000 dollars to Mom every month, but she didn't spend a single penny that I gave her. Instead, she saved all the money in a bank account.

When I asked her about it, she said, "I'm saving it for a rainy day."

A rainy day.

Although Mom never asked me about my circumstances, her words made it blatantly clear that she was aware of what was going on.

…

It was close to 10:00 pm when I made it back home.

Colin was sitting in the living room, watching a movie with Rebecca. The volume of the television was turned up quite high.

I glanced at the coffee table when I passed by the living room. There was another package—an imported humidifier that cost more than 200 dollars.

I entered the study and closed the door. I then pulled out my phone and navigated to Damien's chat.

I didn't hesitate this time. I organized the screenshots that I had collected and took pictures of every page in the light blue notebook before sending everything to him.

"Is this enough evidence, Mr. Wesley?" I asked.

Ten minutes later, Damien replied.

"Keep going."

The sounds of Rebecca's sobs echoed from the next room at around 2:00 am. She cried about being scared and in pain.

I could vaguely hear Colin comforting Rebecca. "It's alright. I'm here. I'm right here…"

Silence returned to the hallway about 40 minutes later.

Colin didn't return to the room.

I lay on the bed and stared up at the pitch-black ceiling. I turned on my side and grabbed my phone, navigating to Rebecca's secret social media account.

Her latest update was last night at 11:00 pm.

She had been flirting with a man with the username, "ACupOfBlackCoffee", in the comments. When he sent her a kissing emoji, she replied with a blushing one.

Rebecca had apparently been too scared to fall asleep last night at 11:00 pm.

I took a screenshot of their interaction and saved it to the album.

…

The next morning, Colin discussed Saturday's arrangements during breakfast.

"St. Grace Hospital has an inpatient observation program. The doctor mentioned that he can conduct a short-term evaluation on Becca. She just has to be hospitalized for a couple days."

He looked at Rebecca and asked, "What do you think, Becca?"

Rebecca placed her spoon down. Her lashes fluttered as she leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured softly, "Are there going to be a lot of strangers there, Colin?"

Colin covered the back of her hand with his and answered, "I'll stand guard by your door the entire time. I won't let anyone get close to you."

Rebecca smiled at him upon hearing his words. "I won't be scared as long as you're there."

I ate a spoonful of soup and calmly said, "Great. The two of you can go to the hospital on Saturday. I'll stay home and tidy up the house."

I returned to the study, closed the door, and sent a message to a certain number. "Can we meet at the third floor of St. Grace Hospital on Saturday afternoon?"

"The time and location is up to you," they replied instantly.

…

On Saturday morning, Colin crouched down and packed Rebecca's suitcase for her. He stacked each garment carefully, making sure that each piece was wrinkle-free. He packed her pajamas, her bedroom slippers, her toiletries, and the body shampoo that she always used.

I stood by the door and watched him for a moment before asking, "Do you need any help?"

"No need," he answered without looking up. "I know what she needs."

Three years ago, Rebecca only had a single suitcase with her when she moved in with us.

Three years later, her belongings took up half the space of our home.

Her things could be found in the closet in the master bedroom and the racks in the bathroom. Her bottles of vitamins sat on the coffee table in the living room.

The only things that were left for me in my own home were the 64-square-feet study, a foldable bed, and a plastic cup.

Rebecca came out of her room after she put on her shoes. When she walked past me, she tugged on my sleeve gently and murmured, "Natalie."

Her lashes cast long shadows down her cheeks. Her eyes slowly reddened. Her voice sounded like it had been dipped in honey when she said, "I'm sorry for causing so much trouble for you in the last three years."

"It was no trouble at all. Just focus on getting better," I replied, patting the back of her hand with a smile.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Right before they left, Colin said that he would most likely be home late and asked me not to wait for him.

I waved at him. Seconds after the door closed, the smile on my face melted away.

I went to Rebecca's room and lifted her pillow. The strip of birth control pills were still there.

I flipped the strip around and held it toward the light that was streaming through the window. The last pill was removed three days ago.

I snapped a photo of it and sent it to Damien, asking, "Including the other evidence that I sent you the other day, is this enough?"

"Yes."

I lowered my head and glanced at the thin wedding band around my ring finger. I hadn't taken it off even once after putting it on three years ago.

I pinched the ring between my fingers and spun it around my finger once.

I didn't take it off. Instead, I put on a clean coat, grabbed my bag, and left the house. I also sent a message to Mom while I was on my way out.

"Might be home late tonight, Mom. Don't call me."

"Okay," Mom replied before adding, "I left some oranges in your bag. Eat them if you're hungry."

…

I hailed a cab and headed for St. Grace Hospital.

Only a few rooms in the VIP inpatient department were lit up. The door of the room that Colin had registered for was left ajar.

I could hear Rebecca laughing. "Stop messing around, Colin. It tickles…"

"You're the one who should stop messing around," Colin replied in a deep voice that was laced with mirth.

I slipped my hand into my bag as I stood outside the door. I rummaged around for my phone, pulled it out, and started recording. I then pushed open the door.

Rebecca was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my silk camisole that had gone missing six months ago.

The camisole was a deep, wine red with a plunging neckline. Her arms were wrapped around Colin's neck as she pressed her face to his chin. The two of them were extremely close to each other.

Rebecca's hands froze in midair when she heard the door creak open.

The two of them turned toward the door in unison.

Colin's face twisted when he saw me standing at the door with my phone. He let go of Rebecca, took a step backward, and straightened his back.

"You! What are you doing here?"

Rebecca shrank back against the pillows. Tears streamed down her face as her shoulders slumped.

"It's not what you think, Natalie," she said. "I… I just had a nightmare. Colin was comforting me…"

It was impossible that anyone would believe her flimsy excuse. Why would she need her adopted brother to comfort her in a VIP hospital room while wearing her sister-in-law's silk camisole? On top of that, her arms had been wrapped around his neck.

Colin stepped in front of Rebecca and shielded her behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he roared. "We were just doing some desensitization exercises. The doctor said that close contact can help her get over her phobia and help her develop a sense of security around men. Stop overthinking things. Why do you feel the need to record us?"

I kept my phone raised and continued recording Colin and Rebecca. My hands didn't shake at all.

I ignored his words and used my free left hand to pull out a black phone from the innermost compartment of my bag.

It was Colin's old phone that he had accidentally left on the shoe cabinet earlier that morning. The password was Rebecca's birthday, and he hadn't changed it even once in the last three years.

I tapped on one of the apps and typed, "Home service: Sports rehabilitation", in the search bar, prompting eight male personal trainer profiles to appear. All of them were over six feet tall.

I selected all of them before typing in the address.

"Room VIP-03, 3rd Floor, St. Grace Hospital."

I then used Colin's personal card to pay for their services.

Colin still had no idea what was going on.

Meanwhile, Rebecca's face twisted when she caught a glimpse of the screen. The color drained from her face, but she didn't look pale because she was ill. Instead, she looked terrified. Her voice also changed. It no longer sounded timid, and her words didn't tremble.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked.

Colin snatched the phone from me. His eyes widened when he glanced at the screen.

"Have you lost your mind, Natalie?" he shouted.

I took the phone back from Colin and slipped it into my bag. I then leaned against the doorframe and smiled at them, using the same smile that I always gave the patients at the community health center whenever I asked them about their condition.

"Just Colin is far from enough if Rebecca wants to undergo desensitization exercises. I'll foot the bill today. I hired eight trainers to help you. The treatment will definitely be effective. It's been three years. I'm determined to cure you of your phobia today."

Colin tried to cancel the order, looking like a madman. Unfortunately, there was no way to cancel the order once it had been placed.