My Step-Sister Stole My Husband, Cancer Stole My Fear

Our fifth wedding anniversary. I stood in Napa Valley's most expensive private estate, surrounded by one hundred and fifty California elites, all praising our "perfect marriage."

If only they knew my husband Phoenix had abandoned me fourteen times in the past three months for "client emergencies"—each time rushing off to comfort my mentally unstable step-sister Dahlia.

"You two are relationship goals!" a client gushed.

"Five years of... learning each other," I responded perfectly, while internally counting down to tonight becoming the final straw.

Phoenix had just finished his heartfelt speech about our "blessed marriage" on stage. The applause hadn't even faded when his phone started buzzing frantically.

I watched his face turn ghost white.

The text flashed briefly: "I can't take it anymore. I'm going to end everything tonight. - D"

"Work emergency," Phoenix lied to me frantically, "Singapore client, time zone issues. I'll be back in an hour."

The same excuse. Another one of Dahlia's "life-or-death" moments. Another evening of me being left to face guests' questions.

"Supplier emergency," I lied to inquiring guests, "crisis management never stops."

My friend Sage approached me, "You look like a woman who's finally had enough."

She was right.

Two hours later, after the guests had left, while cleaning up alone, I found a card in Phoenix's hastily abandoned jacket pocket:

"Dahlia Rose - Emergency Session - Dr. Patricia Valdez, MD - Psychiatric Services"

Emergency psychiatric consultation.

Not a client. Not a supplier. My step-sister's mental breakdown.

All those "work emergencies" were Dahlia's manufactured psychological crises, and my husband had appointed himself as her personal emotional therapist.

I gripped that card.

The wood in the fireplace had long since burned out, leaving only a few weak sparks flickering in the darkness. I sat on the living room sofa, clutching that crumpled hospital appointment card, waiting quietly.

3 AM.

Three hours had passed since Phoenix's promised "one hour."

I didn't turn on the lights, didn't send urging texts, didn't call to inquire. I just sat here, enjoying this eerie calm. Because I knew that after tonight, our marriage would never be the same again.

The slight click of the door lock broke the silence. Phoenix tiptoed through the door, moving as carefully as a child who'd done something wrong. In the dim light, I could see his shirt was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and—there were obvious lipstick marks on his lips.

Enough was enough.

I reached over and turned on the living room chandelier.

"Shit!" Phoenix was startled by the sudden light, nearly bumping into the shoe cabinet by the door.

"Three hours." My voice was so calm it surprised even me. "You said one hour."

Phoenix squinted to adjust to the light, hastily wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "The Singapore deal fell through, I had to—"

"Dahlia Rose." I interrupted him, slowly raising the card in my hand. "Emergency Session. Want to try a different story?"

The moment he saw that card, Phoenix's face went deathly pale. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

I stood up and walked to the bookshelf by the fireplace. Behind the complete works of Shakespeare, I pulled out a thick file folder.

"Do you know what this is?" I caressed the folder's cover. "Three years' worth of collectibles."

I opened the folder and dumped its contents onto the coffee table. Bank transfer records, phone call logs, hospital visit records, hotel booking confirmations, and dozens of photos of Phoenix's car parked outside Dahlia's apartment building.

Phoenix stared wide-eyed at this evidence, as if seeing ghosts.

"Fifty thousand dollars last month. Seventy-five thousand in March. Should I continue reading?" I picked up a bank record, my tone as casual as discussing the weather.

"She's sick, Celeste. She needs help—" Phoenix tried to defend himself, his voice trembling.

"She needs help?" I laughed coldly. "What about me? I've been slowly dying for three years, and you fucking never noticed!"

"Slowly dying? You're being dramatic—"

"Dramatic?" My voice suddenly shot up, three years of suppressed anger finally finding an outlet. "Every night you chose her! Every crisis, every call, every goddamn emergency!"