The Wife He Traded for Her Sister

2: 2 When I got back to the mansion, every light in the living room was blazing. Tilda was curled up in Jim's arms, wearing my silk pajamas, eating grapes. The moment she saw me, she shrank deeper into his chest, all fragile and helpless. "Sis, you're back… don't blame Jim, it's all my fault, I shouldn't have…" Her mouth said sorry, but she couldn't hide the challenge in her eyes. Jim patted her back at once, murmuring something soothing, then turned to me, his gaze going cold in an instant. "Your things—I had Eleanor Chavez move them to the guest room on the third floor." "Tillie just moved in. She's timid. Don't make a scene and scare her." I followed his eyes to the foot of the stairs, where a few battered cardboard boxes were stacked. The clothes I'd worn over the past three years were shoved inside any which way, like garbage nobody wanted. So this was what three years of marriage had earned me? The next morning I skipped breakfast and went straight out. I was going to find Rudolph Delgado. He was Jim's closest friend, and one of the few people I'd been able to actually talk to in those three years. I wanted him to help me figure out what the hell had gotten into Jim. Before I pushed open the door to the private lounge, I heard a burst of laughter inside. "Jim, you legend! Swapping one for the other, slipping out of the trap clean—that was a masterstroke!" That was Rudolph's lazy drawl. "Three years of holding out, and finally the clouds part and the moon comes through. You're making our sweet little invalid Tilda the official Mrs.?" An unfamiliar voice picked it up. "No kidding. The old man always griped that Tilda was a walking medicine cabinet—flat-out refused to let her in the door." "So Jim took the roundabout route, married the sister first as a shield, and got the old man off his back." "And now the old man's so sick he can't even talk, so of course it's time to give his sweetheart a real title!" My hand on the door handle froze, the blood draining back, my limbs going cold. Jim's flat voice came from inside. "Shield. That's an ugly way to put it." "Call it a strategic detour." Rudolph clicked his tongue. "That Odette's pretty pathetic too—three years in your bed for nothing, and she still thought you loved her to death." "What would she know?" Jim's voice was full of contempt. "Toss her a few little favors and she's so grateful she can't find which way is up." I stood outside the door, my nails digging deep into my palms. So that was it! Love at first sight, couldn't-live-without-me. The perfect husband, the tender, attentive one. All of it was a setup he'd built to marry Tilda! I couldn't hold back anymore. I kicked the lounge door open as hard as I could. The crash made everyone inside freeze. Rudolph's cigarette dropped into his lap, and he slapped at it frantically as it burned him. Jim was sitting dead center on the sofa. When he saw me, his brows drew tight. "What are you throwing a fit here for?" I walked up to him and looked down at him. "Jim, I used to think even a dog was more loyal than you. I was wrong. I shouldn't insult dogs." "You're just an ungrateful cur that can never be tamed!" Jim's face went dark. He shot to his feet and grabbed my wrist. The grip was shockingly hard. "Odette, watch your mouth!" "Watch what? Watch how I play along and finish this disgusting show with you?" I wrenched my hand free and slapped him hard across the face. The crack of it rang out, and the whole room went dead silent. Jim's head snapped to the side. He ran his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He turned back, his eyes vicious enough to frighten. "You dare hit me?" "So what if I did? I'm just sorry I dirtied my hand!" I sounded tough on the surface, but inside I was sneering. This scumbag really had a thick skin. Jim gave a cold laugh, pulled out his phone, and called his assistant. "Right now, this second—cancel every supplementary card under Odette's name!" He hung up and looked at me like I was an insect. "Aren't you the noble one? Aren't you the one with all that backbone?" "Let's see how you survive without my money." "Oh, and one more thing." Something seemed to occur to him, and a cruel smile tugged at his mouth. "That exhibition slot of yours next week—I've already given it to Tillie." "She's loved painting since she was a girl. She's more talented than you, and she needs the chance more than you do." I was shaking with rage. That slot had taken me half a year to fight for, and he handed it to Tilda with one sentence? "Jim, aren't you afraid of what's coming to you?" He settled back onto the sofa and lifted his glass, taking a sip. "Sign nicely and I promise you'll never want for food or a roof the rest of your life." "Otherwise, I'll make sure you can't get by anywhere in Bayport." I couldn't stand to look at that face any longer. I turned and strode out of the lounge. At the door I stopped, without looking back. "Jim, I'll see you in court." I pushed the door open and walked into the hallway, not once turning around.

3: 3 By the time I got back to the house, it was afternoon. I meant to grab a few things that mattered and move out. I'd barely reached the second floor when I heard the snip of scissors coming from my room. My stomach clenched, and I shoved the door open. Tilda was sitting on the carpet, a big pair of scissors in her hand. The floor was covered in scraps of the hand-embroidered heirloom dress my grandmother had left me. It was the only keepsake I had in this world. "Tilda! What are you doing!" I flew at her like something wild and snatched the scissors out of her hand. She flinched at the look on my face, then blinked all innocent, a smug little smile still tugging at her mouth. "Don't be mad, sis." "I just thought this thing was old and ugly. The style's ancient." "So I figured I'd cut it up for you, turn it into rags for the floor. Waste not, right?" Looking at that beautiful embroidery reduced to torn strips on the floor, every drop of blood in me rushed straight to my head. "You little bitch!" I raised my hand and slapped her hard, twice, one across each cheek. The blows knocked her to the floor, five clear finger marks flaring up fast on her pale skin. She clutched her face, froze for a second, then let out a scream sharp enough to split stone. "Ah! My sister hit me! Jim, help!" Almost the same instant, the door was kicked open from the outside. Jim rushed in out of breath, saw Tilda on the floor, and went white. "Tillie!" He crossed the room in a single stride, shoved me hard out of the way, and gathered Tilda against him like she was the most fragile thing in the world. I hit the corner of the cabinet, pain shooting through my lower back. "Odette, have you lost your mind? You dared to hit her!" Jim's eyes were bloodshot, glaring at me with pure menace. I braced myself on the cabinet and got up, pointing at the scraps of the dress on the floor. "She destroyed the keepsake my grandmother left me! Two slaps is getting off easy!" Tilda cowered in Jim's arms, trembling, her tears falling right on cue. "Jim... I didn't mean to... I just saw how worn out the dress was and wanted to help her tidy up..." "I really didn't know it was Grandma's keepsake..." "Sob, sob... if she doesn't like it, I'll just buy her a new one..." Jim stroked her hair, aching for her, then turned and glared at me with venom. "It's just one shabby dress. And that's worth hitting someone over?" "Don't you know Tillie has a bad heart? She can't take being upset!" "If anything happens to her, I'll have you buried right beside her!" Watching that biased, spiteful face of his, I found the whole thing beyond absurd. "Her heart's bad? A bad heart means she gets to wreck other people's things?" "Jim, is your head full of water?" That tipped Jim over the edge. He shot to his feet, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me toward the door like a dead dog. "You're impossible! You've had it too easy for too long, that's your problem. You don't know your place!" "Today I'm going to teach you a lesson, teach you how to act like a decent person!" He was far too strong. There was no breaking free. He hauled me all the way to the back courtyard and kicked open the iron door of the abandoned basement. It was dark and damp down there, thick with the smell of mold. "You can sit down here and think hard about what you've done! When you've figured out how to apologize to Tillie, then you can come out!" He shoved me in with all his force. I hit the cold concrete floor, scraping the skin off my palms. "Jim! This is false imprisonment! Let me out!" I scrambled up and threw myself at the door, pounding on the iron. The door slammed shut with a huge bang, followed by the sound of the lock turning. From outside came Jim's voice, cold to the bone. "No one opens this door for her without my say-so. No water, no food!" "Let her go hungry! Let her go thirsty! We'll see how long that worthless little body of hers holds out!"

4: 4 The basement went black. I slumped against the iron door, dragging in breath after ragged breath. That lunatic. He'd actually locked me up like this? I felt for my pocket. Thank God, the phone was still there. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, throwing pale light across the cobwebs around me. I keyed in the emergency number. Before I could hit call, the screen flickered twice and went dead. Damn it. No battery. I hurled the phone to the ground, and it clattered with a hollow echo. There were no windows down here. I couldn't tell day from night. I had no idea how long I'd been locked in. I only knew I was cold all over, my head splitting. Thunder rolled outside, then the pounding of a downpour. The hurricane had come. Before long, water began seeping in through the corner of the basement. It rose fast, cold, past my ankles. I have severe claustrophobia. The dark and the rising water made it hard to breathe. "Let me out! Is anyone there? Help!" I pounded on the iron door, but my voice was nothing against the storm. From upstairs came the faint sound of music and laughter. Then I remembered. Today was Tilda's birthday. Jim was throwing her a lavish party. Up there, he was celebrating with the woman he loved, soaking up everyone's blessings. And me, his wife in name, was down here in this cold, damp hell, slowly waiting to die. The water kept climbing, over my calves now. Shivering, I dug through the piles of junk for something to stand on. My hand brushed against a heavy old wooden crate. The wood was swollen from the water, and it fell apart the moment I pushed on it. A yellowed paper medical file slid out. By the faint flicker of lightning through the gap in the door, I made out the words on it. Odette Pruitt — Heart Match Report. I froze. Back when the surgery happened, they'd told me the records had all been destroyed. Hands trembling, I tore open the file and pulled out the pages inside. By the steady flashes of lightning, I read what was written there. The next second, it hit me like a lightning strike, and my whole body went rigid. The match report showed it plainly. The donor of that heart, in the donation consent form, had named one and only one recipient: Odette Pruitt! And on the other report, my sister Tilda's match result was written out in stark letters: Rejection. No match. Five glaring words. So that heart, from beginning to end, had always been meant for me. Tilda had never matched at all, let alone given up her chance for me. For three years, they had all lied to me together. They used a heart that was mine to begin with to hold me hostage by guilt. They made me give Tilda anything she wanted, made me grovel with gratitude. And at the very end, they made me hand over my husband, my dignity, everything, without a fight. The water had risen past my waist. I was shivering, but the cold inside me ran deeper. In the corner my hand found an old spare phone, one Jim had tossed down here long ago. Half not believing it, I pressed the power button. It still had a little charge! I called Jim right away. It rang a long time before he finally picked up. In the background were noisy music and Tilda's sugary laughter. "Jim, the basement's flooding, I'm going to drown, let me out—" My voice was faint. On the other end, Jim seemed to move off to a quiet corner. Then he gave a cold laugh. "Odette, what game are you playing now?" "What, two days without food and you can't take it? Starting with this cheap sob story?" "The basement sits way up high. A little water's going to drown you? You think I'm three years old and that easy to fool?" "Let me tell you. Sign the divorce papers first." "Then get on your knees and kowtow an apology to Tillie, and maybe then I'll think about letting you out." "Beep, beep, beep—" The line cut off without mercy. I looked at the screen going dark and a bitter, brutal smile pulled at my lips. Jim, you brought this on yourself. I gripped the real match file in my hand and dialed 911. "Hello, 911? I'm being held against my will in a basement at a private house, I'm about to drown, please help."