My Husband Chose My Sister Over My Life

"Happy third anniversary," Ethan said, raising his crystal water goblet.

He didn't look at me. His gaze remained entirely fixed on the woman sitting across the table.

My younger sister, Lila.

"I still can't believe you brought her," I muttered, keeping my voice low so the neighboring tables wouldn't hear.

"Don't start, Sylvia," Ethan snapped. He set his glass down hard enough to make the ice rattle. "She’s been stressed at work. She needed a nice night out."

"It’s our wedding anniversary. You brought your wife and her sister to a romantic dinner."

"Lila loves this place."

"I am severely allergic to seafood, Ethan," I reminded him, my nails digging into my palms. "I could die. You know this."

"Just order a salad," he sighed, adjusting his expensive watch. "Stop trying to ruin her mood. You always have to make everything about you."

Lila offered a small, pouty frown. "I can leave if Sylvia doesn't want me here, Ethan. I don't want to cause trouble."

"You aren't going anywhere," Ethan told her, his tone instantly softening. He shot me a warning glare. "We are staying."

The waiter approached our booth, a notepad ready in his hand. Ethan didn't even bother opening the leather-bound menu resting in front of him.

"We'll start with the raw oysters," Ethan instructed the waiter, his voice smooth and confident. "Then the Maine lobster tail, extra garlic butter on the side, and a glass of the '18 Chablis for the lady."

Lila rested her chin on her hands, beaming at him with wide, adoring eyes. "You still know me best, Ethan."

My stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"Still?" I asked.

Lila blinked, her innocent mask slipping perfectly into place. "What?"

"You just said he *still* knows you best. Have you two been to this restaurant before?"

Ethan slammed his hand flat onto the table. The silverware jumped.

"Are you seriously doing this tonight?" he demanded.

"Doing what? Asking a simple question?"

"You're being paranoid," he sneered, leaning forward. "It's our anniversary, and you're acting like an absolute lunatic. I guessed what she wanted because she talks about lobster all the time. Drop it."

"I didn't realize you paid such close attention to my sister's dietary preferences," I shot back.

"Someone has to care about her," Ethan retorted. "Since her own sister is so hostile."

I turned my attention to the waiter, who stood frozen awkwardly beside our table.

"I need a plain garden salad," I instructed him, forcing my voice to remain steady. "No dressing. And please ensure there is absolutely no cross-contamination in the kitchen. I have a severe, life-threatening seafood allergy. If my food touches shellfish, I will go into anaphylactic shock."

The waiter nodded frantically, scribbling on his pad. "Understood, ma'am. I'll alert the chef immediately."

He scurried away. The tension at our table thickened, heavy and suffocating. Ethan glared at me, his jaw tight, refusing to speak. Lila just sipped her ice water, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on her pink lips.

When the food finally arrived, the pungent smell of roasted garlic and steamed shellfish filled the air. My throat constricted just from the aroma.

Lila grabbed the edges of her massive, steaming seafood platter and shoved it directly into the center of the table. The heavy ceramic plate bumped against my water glass, pushing the steaming lobster right under my nose.

"Oh, look how good this is," Lila cooed. She picked up a chunk of lobster meat and dragged it through a deep pool of melted butter. "You really should try some, Syl."

"Move the plate, Lila," I said, leaning back against the leather booth to put distance between myself and the steam.

"Don't be so dramatic," Ethan chimed in. He sliced into his steak, completely unbothered by my obvious discomfort. "She's just offering you a bite."

"I am allergic."

"A little bite won't kill you," he replied, not even looking up from his plate. "You always exaggerate everything to get attention."

I stared at the man I married three years ago. He looked like a complete stranger. There was no warmth in his eyes, no concern for my safety. Just irritation.

"I'm leaving," I announced. I tossed my linen napkin onto the table.

I grabbed my purse, but Ethan's hand shot out across the table, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice.

"Sit down," he hissed.

"Let go of me."

"You are not going to embarrass her like this. We are having a nice dinner."

"You are having a nice dinner with my sister!" I yelled, yanking my arm free with a violent jerk.

In the chaos of our struggle, my elbow knocked heavily into the table. The small dish of Lila's garlic-seafood butter tipped over, splashing a heavy dollop of the rich sauce directly onto my garden salad.

"Look what you did!" Lila cried out, feigning absolute shock. "You're ruining everything!"

"You're making a scene, Sylvia," Ethan ordered, his face flushed with anger. "Sit down, eat your damn salad, and calm down."

Furious, my hands shaking with adrenaline, I grabbed my fork. I wanted to prove to him that I wasn't the crazy one. I wanted to show him how entirely unaffected I was by his bullying. I stabbed a piece of plain cucumber from the very edge of my bowl, nowhere near the splash of sauce.

I shoved it into my mouth, chewing aggressively.

"There. Happy?" I swallowed the bite, glaring daggers at him.

"Finally acting like an adult," Ethan muttered, returning to his steak.

Five seconds later, my tongue started to tingle.

Then, a vicious burning sensation set in.

The sauce must have splattered further than I thought. The juice from the cucumber mixed with the invisible residue of shellfish.

"Ethan," I gasped, clutching my neck.

"Stop faking it," he rolled his eyes, picking up his wine glass.

My airway swelled, narrowing into a tight, useless straw. I wheezed, the sound high and reedy, echoing over the soft jazz playing in the restaurant.

Lila watched me, her eyes wide, but she didn't move an inch to help.

"Ethan... please..." I croaked. I tried to slide out of the booth, but my knees buckled instantly. I hit the carpeted floor hard, knocking a chair over in the process.

The restaurant grew dead quiet. Whispers broke out among the other patrons.

"Sylvia, get up," Ethan growled, leaning over the edge of the table to look down at me. "You're humiliating us. Cut it out."

I couldn't breathe. Dark spots danced in the corners of my vision. My lungs screamed for oxygen.

My trembling fingers ripped open the zipper of my purse. I dug past my wallet, my keys, frantically searching for the small plastic tube.

My EpiPen. I always carried it. Always. I never left the house without my allergy medication.

I dumped the entire contents of my bag onto the floor. Lipstick, crumpled receipts, and a compact mirror scattered across the rug.

No pen. No pills.

Nothing.

My chest burned with agony. I looked up, my vision blurring rapidly, and caught Lila staring down at me from her seat.

She wasn't looking at me with panic.

She was smiling.