My Sister’s Vice Needs My Fiancé

Chapter 2

Her top was halfway off, and she was straddling Wendell.

Wendell pressed both palms flat against her back. He massaged his way down from her shoulders, slow and steady, inch by inch.

Yvette's ragged breathing slowly evened out. Then a few soft moans slipped past her lips.

The second she came to her senses, she pushed him away and sat up straight. Her voice was rough and hoarse as she hurried him. "Get out of here. The ceremony isn't over yet."

Wendell didn't move.

He glanced down at the damp spot on his trousers, then slowly closed his fingers around her wrist. "Your episodes are getting closer and closer together. Don't try to power through it next time. Come find me the second you feel one starting."

Yvette turned her face away, tears rolling down her cheeks. "But you're about to be my sister's husband... Letting you treat me like this—it's already gone too far."

"I'm a doctor first." He let go of her wrist and pulled her coat back up over her shoulders. His tone was flat, completely unreadable. "As far as I'm concerned, none of that matters. Not gender, not who we are to each other."

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

That thick, cloying sweet smell still hung in the air.

The second Yvette saw me, all the color drained from her face.

Wendell stepped sideways to block her from view. He frowned at me and said, "Leave. Now."

I didn't remember every word we fought about that night. All I recall was Yvette shaking so hard she could barely breathe, huddled in the corner of the couch, repeating over and over that it was her fault, that she was sorry.

After that, she really did start fighting through the episodes alone.

When one hit, she'd bite down on her wrist to hold on. She bit so hard she broke the skin, again and again.

Wendell kept track of when her next episode should hit. He waited and waited, but she never reached out. Finally, he used his spare key to let himself into her apartment—and walked right in on her, half her wrist raw and bleeding from all the biting.

He shoved me straight out the door right then. He locked it behind him and did that same "treatment" all over again.

Randal and Sandra said I was being childish. They said Yvette had already suffered enough, and that I was being petty for being jealous of my own sister.

After that, if I so much as showed the tiniest hint of being upset, Wendell's whole demeanor would turn ice cold. "A doctor only sees his patients. You're the one with a dirty mind. Yvette's going through hell right now, and you're here nitpicking over this? You're so cold."

Yvette's episodes grew more and more frequent. Wendell started staying by her side day and night.

Sometimes I'd stand in the hallway watching them walk side by side. For a split second, I'd think—they looked like the actual couple.

Sandra sighed, her voice softening. "Stop letting your mind run wild all the time. You think a guy like Wendell would fall for just anyone? Remember that daughter from the Bostick family? She threw a whole fit trying to marry him, and he turned her down flat."

With a pause, she sighed. "If he didn't care about you, would he show up in person every single time you got sick, all year long? A while back, you said you had no appetite—he arranged special meals, healthy stuff, and herbal remedies, had them sent to your room three times a day. He does all this before you're even married. Violet, don't take what you have for granted."

Was this really a good fortune?

He was nice to me because to him, I was just another patient he had to look after. Nothing more.

The youngest son of the Eubank family had anorexia. Wendell didn't just write him a prescription—he'd stop by every few days and sit there until the kid finished every last bite of food.

The Goss family's daughter came down with the flu. He went to their house himself to check on her, poured her a glass of water, and watched her take the medicine.

He treated every patient that way—soft-spoken, always willing to help, never saying no.

But there was that time in my past life when Yvette bit her wrist. After he dressed the wound, he went out of his way to track down the best scar cream he could find.

He worried she'd feel guilty about it, so he had four or five pots of imported roses delivered to her balcony and said pretty flowers would cheer a girl up.

Those roses were gorgeous. Every single pot was brighter and more vibrant than the last.

On my desk? There was only one pothos plant.

It was tiny, tucked away in the corner, easy to miss.

At the end of the day, he definitely didn't treat all his patients the same—some were closer than others.

I was lost in thought when Yvette's nanny came bursting into the room, stumbling over her own feet. "Yvette locked herself in her bedroom. Something doesn't sound right in there."