Ryan reached out to touch me, but the strange scent clinging to him made me step back coldly.
He frowned, growing more impatient.
“Can’t you be more generous? Can’t you have some sympathy for a mother?”
“Emily Johnson, Monica is my boss. I can’t just stand by and let her suffer, can I?”
Monica’s syrupy voice rang out as she smugly brushed her fingers across Ryan’s lips.
“Little sister, I felt wonderful just now. When you have a baby, you can let Ryan help you too. He’s a good man—you’ll be happy with him.”
She raised her brows at me triumphantly, as though pushing me toward suspicion.
I looked at her quietly and simply nodded.
By the time we got home, it was nearly midnight. Ryan collapsed into bed, sound asleep.
But I ended up retching violently in the bathroom.
Disgust. Overwhelming disgust.
Monica was ten years older than both me and Ryan, yet she always used the excuse of being “an older sister” to make him do things.
On our wedding day, she happened to give birth.
With a single phone call, she summoned Ryan to the hospital, where he stayed by her side for an entire month—
eating with her, sleeping beside her, washing her body, cleaning up after her.