Craving my Sister's Husband

The air in the Montenegro villa was thick with the scent of jasmine and betrayal. It was a humid night the kind where the heat clung to your skin like a second layer, and the cicadas screamed louder than the voices inside. Sofia stood in the center of the grand living room, her bare feet cold against the marble floor, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. She was eighteen, her dark hair a tangled mess, her lips swollen from crying, and her belly just starting to show the secret she’d been hiding for months. “Sofia, you little w***e!” Her mother, Isadora, loomed over her, her face twisted with rage. Isadora’s silk robe billowed as she paced, her hands trembling with fury. The gold bangles on her wrists clinked like a warning bell. “Who did this to you? Who’s the father?” Her voice was a whip, sharp and cutting, each word slicing through the heavy air. Sofia’s throat burned, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know. Her mind flashed to the string of boys she’d been with over the summer—Carlos with his sly grin, whispering promises in the back of his father’s truck; Javier, who’d kissed her under the pier with the taste of saltwater on his lips; and Miguel, who’d held her too tight in the alley behind the cantina, his breath hot with rum. There had been others too, faceless in the haze of bonfires and stolen nights. She’d been reckless, chasing the thrill of being wanted, of feeling alive in a house that always felt like a cage. Now that recklessness had caught up with her, and she had no name to give. “Answer me!” Isadora screamed, her hand flying through the air before Sofia could flinch. The slap landed hard across Sofia’s cheek, the sting blooming hot and fast. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her face, tears spilling over as the pain throbbed in time with her heartbeat. “You think you can ruin this family and not say a word? You think I’ll let you disgrace us like this?” Sofia’s knees buckled, but she caught herself on the edge of the velvet sofa, her fingers digging into the fabric. “I don’t know, Mama,” she whispered, her voice raw and broken. “I swear, I don’t know.” Isadora’s eyes widened, her face contorting with a mix of disbelief and disgust. “You don’t know?” she hissed, stepping closer, her shadow swallowing Sofia whole. “You’ve been spreading your legs for half the town, and you don’t know?” Another slap, this one harder, sent Sofia crashing to the floor. Her elbow hit the marble with a sickening crack, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood. “Get up!” Isadora grabbed Sofia by the arm, yanking her to her feet with a strength that didn’t match her frail frame. “You’ll tell me, or I’ll beat it out of you!” Her hand came down again, this time a closed fist, striking Sofia’s shoulder. The blow sent a jolt of pain through her, but she didn’t fight back. She couldn’t. All she could do was curl into herself, her arms wrapping around her stomach, protecting the tiny life inside her that she didn’t even want. “Mama, stop!” Elena’s voice cut through the chaos, desperate and shrill. Sofia’s older sister stood in the doorway, her white nightgown glowing in the dim light, her hands clutching the frame as if she might collapse. At twenty-two, Elena was the golden child, the one who followed every rule, the one who’d never dare step out of line. Her eyes were wide with horror as she watched their mother unleash her fury. “You’re hurting her!” “Stay out of this, Elena!” Isadora snapped, not even turning to look at her. “This is between me and your sister—this filthy, ungrateful girl who’s brought shame on us all!” She grabbed Sofia by the hair, pulling her head back so their eyes met. “Tell me who it is, Sofia! Tell me, or I swear I’ll make you wish you were never born!” Sofia’s scalp burned, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to speak. She wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction, wouldn’t drag anyone else into this mess. The truth was, she didn’t even care who the father was. She’d never wanted this baby, never wanted to be tied down. All she’d wanted was freedom, to feel something real, something that wasn’t the suffocating weight of her mother’s expectations or her sister’s perfection. Now that freedom was slipping away, and all she had left was the stubborn fire in her chest that kept her silent. Isadora let go of her hair, shoving her back to the floor. Sofia landed hard, her palms scraping against the marble as she caught herself. Her mother towered over her, panting, her face flushed with rage. “You’re a disgrace,” she spat, her voice low and venomous. “A dirty little tramp who doesn’t deserve to carry the Montenegro name. I should’ve known you’d turn out like this—wild, selfish, just like your father.” The mention of her father hit Sofia like a punch to the gut. He’d left when she was five, a blurry memory of cigarette smoke and a crooked smile, abandoning them for some woman in Brazil. Isadora never let them forget it, always comparing Sofia to him, always saying she had his reckless blood. Now, as Sofia looked up at her mother’s twisted face, she saw nothing but hatred. “Get out,” Isadora said, her voice suddenly cold, final. “Pack your things and get out of my house. I won’t have you here, not after this. You’re no daughter of mine.” Sofia’s breath caught, her chest tightening as the words sank in. She’d expected anger, maybe even a beating, but this—being disowned, cast out like trash—it was worse than anything she’d imagined. She looked at Elena, hoping for something, anything, but her sister’s eyes were glassy with tears, her hands trembling as she stayed frozen in the doorway. Elena wouldn’t fight for her. She never had. “Mama, please,” Sofia whispered, her voice breaking. “I have nowhere to go.” “Then you should’ve thought of that before you opened your legs,” Isadora snapped, turning away as if Sofia were already gone. “I want you out by morning. And don’t you dare come back.”