He Chose My Stepsister So I Chose His Brother

The day I buried my father, my husband, Marcus Pierce, didn’t come to the funeral.

Instead, my stepsister, Bianca, sent me a photo. It was Marcus, on his knees, kissing her stomach.

Guess who’s finally going to be a father.

My breath caught. My hands shook.

No. No, no, no.

I blinked through tears, praying it was some sick joke.

Then came the second photo: Bianca in my robe, in my bedroom, taking a selfie while Marcus slept behind her in my bed.

My knees buckled.

Right there at my father’s grave, I collapsed.

That night, Marcus came home with Bianca and her bags.

“She needs a place to stay,” he said. “She’s pregnant. It’s not safe for her to be alone.”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg.

I just looked at him and said five words:

“I want a divorce, Marcus.”

But he refused to let me go.

So I picked up the phone and called the one man Marcus feared more than death—

His brother. Alexander Pierce.

The man who once told me, “If Marcus ever hurts you… come to me.”

Marcus wanted to ruin me, so I decided to ruin him first!