The morning sun glinted off the resort's infinity pool, casting diamond-like reflections across the water. I adjusted my new sundress—the one I'd carefully selected hoping Marcus might notice—and made my way across the deck, my sandals clicking against the warm stone tiles.

Marcus and Victoria were already there. I paused, my breath catching in my throat as I watched them from a distance.

"Vicky!" Marcus's voice carried across the pool area, filled with a warmth I'd never heard directed at me. He rose from his lounge chair and swept toward her, arms outstretched.

Victoria, tall and elegant in a white bikini that showcased her perfect figure, squealed with delight as my husband—my husband—wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her completely off the ground in a spinning embrace.

"Put me down, you idiot!" she laughed, her hands resting comfortably on his shoulders.

Marcus didn't put her down. Instead, he held her closer, one hand stroking her long dark hair as he laughed—actually laughed—with genuine joy lighting his features.

"I've missed you," he murmured, loud enough that I could hear. His fingers trailed through her hair in a gesture so intimate it made my stomach clench.

I stood frozen, clutching my beach bag like a shield. Three years of marriage, and Marcus had never once touched me that way. Three years of "I can't, Isabella, my anxiety won't let me," and "Please understand, physical contact is difficult for me."

Yet here he was, holding Victoria as if she were the most precious thing in his world, touching her with the casual intimacy I'd been starved for since our wedding day.

Neither of them had noticed me yet. I forced my legs to move, approaching with a smile that felt like shattered glass on my face.

"Good morning," I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

Marcus finally set Victoria down but kept one arm draped around her shoulders. His eyes flicked to me with cool acknowledgment before returning to Victoria's face.

"Isabella," he said, as if remembering an afterthought. "Victoria and I were just catching up."

"I see that," I replied, setting my bag on an empty chair. Neither offered to make room for me in their intimate circle.

I stood there, alone on the deck, watching as my husband whispered something in his sister's ear that made her giggle and playfully swat his chest. The sun beat down on my shoulders, but I felt cold all the way to my core.

---

That evening, we dined at the resort's five-star restaurant. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over white linen tablecloths and gleaming silverware. A pianist played softly in the corner, the melody drifting through the elegant space like perfume.

I'd spent an hour getting ready, applying makeup with trembling hands and slipping into the black dress I'd purchased specifically for this trip. The one that had cost nearly a month's worth of the allowance Marcus provided.

"You look lovely," the hostess said kindly as she led us to our table.

Marcus said nothing, his hand resting on the small of Victoria's back as we followed the hostess. Victoria wore a red dress that clung to her curves, her hair swept up to reveal the delicate line of her neck. She looked like she belonged here. I felt like an impostor.

We were seated at a table overlooking the ocean, the moonlight casting a silver path across the dark water. I nervously adjusted my napkin, hyperaware of every movement as the waiter poured wine into our glasses.

"To family," Victoria said, raising her glass with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes when they flicked to me.

I reached for my water glass, needing something to wet my suddenly dry throat. The dinner progressed with Victoria dominating the conversation, regaling us with stories of her time in Paris while Marcus listened with rapt attention. I might as well have been invisible.

When dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate soufflé—Marcus picked up his fork and, to my disbelief, scooped a bite and held it to Victoria's lips.

"Try this," he said, his voice low and intimate. "It's divine."

Victoria parted her lips, accepting the offering with a small moan of pleasure that made my cheeks burn with humiliation. "Oh, that is good," she purred.

My hand trembled as I reached for my wine glass, needing something—anything—to distract from the scene playing out before me. The glass tipped, sending a wave of deep red liquid cascading across the pristine white tablecloth.

"Isabella!" Marcus hissed, his face contorting with disgust as the wine spread like a bloodstain between us.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, grabbing my napkin to dam the flow. "It was an accident—"

"Clean that up," Marcus snarled, standing abruptly and pulling Victoria's chair back. "Come, Victoria. Let's move to a clean table."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he guided Victoria to the main table by the window—the one we'd been seated at originally—leaving me alone with the mess I'd made. The waiter rushed over with extra napkins, his sympathetic glance more kindness than my husband had shown me in months.

As I dabbed at the spreading stain, I watched Marcus pull out Victoria's chair at the new table, his hand lingering on her shoulder as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. She laughed, throwing her head back to expose her throat to the golden light.

A small side table was hastily prepared for me, set apart from them like a child being punished at a family gathering. Marcus acknowledged me with nothing more than an apologetic glance that held no actual remorse.

Sitting alone at my little table, watching my husband feed another bite of dessert to his sister, I finally admitted what I'd been trying so desperately to deny: the anxiety that supposedly prevented Marcus from touching me was nothing but a convenient lie.

And I was nothing but a convenient wife.

I couldn't sleep. The moonlight filtered through the curtains of my small adjoining room, casting shadows across the unfamiliar walls. This wasn't how I'd imagined our honeymoon—me alone in a separate bed while my husband and his sister occupied the luxurious suite meant for us.

The sound of laughter drifted through the thin walls. Victoria's musical giggle followed by Marcus's deep chuckle—a sound so foreign to me it might as well have belonged to a stranger. I pressed my pillow against my ears, but the muffled sounds of their intimacy still penetrated.

With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone on the nightstand, seeking distraction. The screen illuminated my face in the darkness as I mindlessly scrolled through social media, a habit born from countless lonely nights.

A notification appeared—Victoria had posted a new Instagram story. My thumb hovered over her icon, a voice in my head warning me not to look. But I couldn't resist.

The video began playing, and my world collapsed.

Marcus, my husband who claimed he couldn't touch me because of his crippling anxiety, was carrying Victoria waist-deep into the ocean waves. His arms were wrapped securely around her waist, her legs dangling as she squealed with delight. The setting sun bathed them in golden light as they laughed together, their faces inches apart.

Then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her neck in a kiss that was anything but brotherly.

"Our perfect sunset," read the caption, followed by a heart emoji.

My phone slipped from my numb fingers, landing on the bedsheets with a soft thud. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe. My chest constricted as three years of lies crystallized into a single, undeniable truth.

It wasn't anxiety. It was never anxiety.

He simply didn't want me.

I sat there, motionless, as minutes or hours passed—I couldn't tell which. The sounds from the other room had stopped. In their place was a deafening silence that screamed louder than any confession could.

Something inside me snapped. I stood up, my legs unsteady as I moved toward the connecting door. Without knocking, I pushed it open.

Marcus was alone, sitting on the edge of the massive bed, his back to me. He turned at the sound of the door, his expression shifting from surprise to irritation.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice cold.

"I saw the video," I said, my words coming out steadier than I expected. "On Victoria's Instagram."

His face remained impassive, but a muscle in his jaw twitched—the tell I'd learned to recognize before his anger surfaced.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, standing up to his full height, towering over me.

I held up my phone, the paused video showing his arms wrapped around Victoria. "This. You told me you couldn't touch me because of your anxiety. That physical contact was impossible for you." My voice cracked. "But that was a lie, wasn't it? Your anxiety magically disappears around Victoria."

Marcus's eyes darkened as he stared at the screen, then at me. The silence between us stretched taut, dangerous.

"You're being ridiculous," he finally said, turning away to pour himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the nightstand. "She's my sister."

"Not by blood," I countered, courage surging through me from some unknown reserve. "And that doesn't explain why you can hold her, touch her, when you can't even bear to shake my hand. Why you've never once—in three years—shown me a fraction of the affection you show her every day."

He took a long sip of his wine, his back still to me. "You're acting unstable, Isabella."

"No," I said, stepping closer. "For the first time, I'm seeing clearly. Your anxiety isn't real. It's just an excuse to avoid being a husband to me while you—"

The glass flew from his hand before I could finish, shattering against the wall inches from my head. I flinched as wine splattered across my face and nightgown, a shard of glass slicing across my wrist as I raised my arm to protect myself.

Blood welled from the cut, a thin crimson line against my pale skin. Marcus stared at it, his face devoid of concern or remorse.

"Stop acting unstable," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Clean yourself up and go back to your room. You're embarrassing yourself."

I stood frozen, watching my blood drip onto the pristine white carpet, feeling something inside me bleed far more profoundly than my wrist ever could.