Abandon My Husband who Only loves His Stepsister

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After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mindI was going to divorce him.

I leaned back on the velvet chair in our bedroom, phone pressed to my ear. My voice was calm, but inside, I was shaking. Not with fear. With relief.

I'm divorcing him, I said flatly. "I'll come home soon."

On the other end, my brothers laugh rang loud and sharp. About damn time, Layla. Come to Switzerland. Ive already lined up a bunch of guys for you. Real men. Not like that emotionally-constipated mannequin you married.

Lucas I sighed.

I warned you from the start, he said, ignoring me. You cant tame someone like Brent. Hed rather whisper sweet nothings to a wall than touch a woman. You deserve better. Always have.

I thought I could make him fall for me, I murmured. I was wrong.

I hung up before Lucas could say more. My fingers trembled as I dropped the phone onto the bed.

Thats when the memories came crashing in. The first time I saw Brentat a Westwood galahe stood in a corner, perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble. Men nodded with respect. Women stared with hunger. But he didnt return anyones gaze. Not even mine.

My brother introduced me that night. Brent barely nodded. I smiled. He looked through me.

Still, I was drawn to himobsessed, even. I told myself I could be the one to break through that wall of ice. So I tried. Subtle touches, long stares, late-night texts, silk dresses, fake laughter, honest affection. All of it, I gave to Brent. And I waited.

Three years later, he came to me. No ring. No speech. Just walked up one afternoon and said, Lets get married.

I agreed without hesitation. I was foolish enough to think that meant he had finally fallen for me.

But after the wedding, Brent never came to our bedroom. Not once.

For months, I tried everything to pull him insilk lingerie in his favorite color, slipping into his study at night just to bring him coffee in nothing but a robe. I memorized his schedule, cooked him breakfast every morning, massaged his shoulders after long meetings, hoping hed just look at me the way a husband should. Id light candles in our room, put on soft music, pretend to fall asleep in suggestive positions hoping hed reach for me.

I even booked a weekend trip to the Maldives, thinking maybe a change of scenery would stir something in him. But he barely touched me.

He didnt even notice when I cried in the shower, or how I stopped wearing perfume because he never cared to smell it.

Each time he walked past me like I wasnt there, something inside me wilted a little more.

Then one night I broke his only rule. There was a door in the west wing. Always locked. Always off-limits.

Never go in there, he said.

But I did. The room was dim. Cold. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air. Not mine.

Thats when I saw him.

Brent. Sitting in a velvet armchair, shirt half unbuttoned, trousers unzipped.

One hand moving between his pants. The other held a photograph.

Celeste. His stepsister. His eyes were glassy, fixated. His lips parted in a shaky breath.

Celeste he moaned softly, voice raw and needful.

I didnt scream. I didnt cry. I just stared.

It wasnt that Brent lacked desire. He just didnt desire me.

I left quietly and slept in the guest room that night. No tears. Just silence.

At dawn, I rose, showered, dressed, and walked out of the house. I just left to get fresh air and to prepare all the things I needed to leave him.

While I was having coffee, staring at the calm sea, he called. I didnt answer. A few minutes later, another call. Then a text.

Brent: Wheres my navy suit? I have a meeting. You didnt prep it. Where are you?

This time, I picked up the call.

Layla, Brent said curtly, already annoyed. Where is my damn suit?

I exhaled slowly. Then calmly said, I dont know. I dont care.

There was silence on the line.

What? he asked, voice tightening. Are you having tantrums again? Not now! Im busy so I need the damn suit

I said, I dont care. Why dont you ask your stepsister? I said, my tone light but deadly. ... since you only care for her.

Then I ended the call.

Brent left me missed calls and texts but I didnt bother to read them all. I drove straight to the embassy after having my coffee. My entire family was already in Switzerlandmy cousins, my aunts, and most importantly, Lucas. My brother. The only one who truly gave a damn about me.

And me? I stayed here all this time. For Brent. For a man who wouldnt even touch me.

I submitted the paperwork, sat through the dull conversations with officials, smiled politely, nodded when they told me processing would take a few days. Then I walked out into the California sun and didnt feel a thing.

That night, I did something I hadnt done in years. I called my friends.

There was an open beach bar I used to love. Loud music. Wild energy. Fire dancers and tequila shots. I used to live for it. But the moment I married Brent, I killed that part of myself.

I stopped being the life of the party and started being a wife who slept alone. Not tonight.

Two of my friends, Tasha and Myra, were down immediately.

"Layla?" Myra blinked when I stepped out of my car. "That dress is... see-through."

"Its bold," Tasha added, mouth open. Are you sure about wearing that? What about your husband?

I smiled. "Im tired. Of pretending. Of waiting. I want to feel alive again and I dont care about that man anymore."

I headed straight for the music.

The lights pulsed over my skin. I let the beat wrap around my hips and moved like I used touninhibited, loud, unapologetic. Men surrounded me in minutes. Hands grazed my waist. Chests brushed my back. Skin against skin. I laughed like it didnt matter. Because it didnt.

Not anymore.

Then someone grabbed my arm.

"Layla," Myra hissed, dragging me toward the bar. "You need to stop."

"Why?" I laughed. "Is there a rule I dont know about?"

She looked over my shoulder. "Because Brent is here."

My whole body went still.

"What?"

Tasha pointed. "Hes been here since you walked in. Sitting there, near the bar counter. He hasnt taken his eyes off you."

I turned. And there he was.

Brent. Leaning back against a bench, drink untouched, face unreadable.

But he wasnt looking at me. His gaze was locked on someone else.

I followed it. Celeste. His stepsister. She was laughing, flipping her hair, whispering in some guys ear. Her hand casually slipped a card into his pocket.

Brent stood up the second he saw it.

He crossed the sand in long, angry strides. His hand wrapped around Celestes wrist before the guy could even blink.

I moved closer, heart pounding. Close enough to hear.

What are you doing? Celeste snapped. I was just talking with him and why are you even here? Did you follow me?

Brents voice was low and sharp. Who gave you permission to talk and flirt with that guy?

Celeste yanked her arm free. Im not a baby. And since when do you care? You married that girl and disappeared. You didnt check on me. You didnt visit. You chose her, so stop pretending that you care!

Brents jaw clenched. Thats not true, he said, his voice strained. You think I didnt care? I did, Celeste.

Stop. Her eyes glistened, voice sharp. If that were true, you wouldnt have left me. You wouldnt have married her.

I had to, he replied. I have a wife now. Things they cant be the same anymore.

Celestes face twisted. Pain bloomed across her features, contorting into something darker, unrecognizable. So I was right. It was all because of her. Shes the reason you stopped looking at me. She ruined everything.

Brent took a step back. Celeste

No, she spat. Her gaze snapped toward me. If she didnt exist, youd still be mine.

My breath caught. Something in her eyes shifted. A snap. A flicker of madness.

She needs to die.

Then it happened.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Celeste lunged.

I barely saw her reach for ita kitchen knife from the bar counter, tucked next to a basket of sliced limes and lemons.

Steel flashed.

Before I could react, before I could scream, she was on me.

The blade sank into my side. White-hot pain exploded through my body, sharp and consuming.

Gasps echoed around us. A glass shattered. I stumbled backward, clutching the wound, blood already soaking through my dress then everything went dark.

I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hum of machines. The ceiling above me was too white, too bright. My body ached, my side throbbed, and every breath stung.

Layla! Myras voice cracked as she leaned over me, her eyes wide and teary. Oh my god, youre awakethank god. We thought we lost you.

Tasha stood behind her, clutching a cup of hospital coffee. She looked pale. You lost a lot of blood. The knife cut deep but no major organs were hit. The doctors stitched you up in time.

My head was heavy, but my mind was clear. I blinked slowly. Wheres Brent?

Their silence was loud. Myra looked down. Tasha shifted uncomfortably.

Where is he? I repeated, a little stronger this time.

Myra finally spoke. He didnt come.

I stared at her. What?

He went with Celeste, Tasha said, voice flat. Right after you passed out. Paramedics came, took you. He stayed behindwith her.

Stayed? I croaked.

He took her home, Myra added, anger slipping into her voice. And we thought maybe he just needed to process or something, but then this.

She pulled out her phone and turned the screen to me.

It was a photo. Brent and Celeste, sitting at an outdoor restaurant. She was laughing. He was feeding her something from his plate, his hand on hers. There was a shopping bag beside her chair. Designer.

They reconciled, Tasha said bitterly. Brent spoiled her like nothing happened. We saw them ourselves.

The photo blurred as my eyes welled up. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, grounding myself. I stared at the picture again. Celeste was smiling like she hadnt stabbed me just hours ago. Brent looked content.

I knew what I needed to do.

Pass me my phone, I said.

Myra hesitated. Layla

Please.

She handed it over.

I called the police.

I gave them my full name, the hospital address, and filed an assault case. I told them what happenedthat Celeste Westwood stabbed me with a kitchen knife at the bar. That it was unprovoked. That I had witnesses. That I had nearly died.

By the time I ended the call, my hand was shaking. But my voice was steady.

Later that night, the hospital room was quiet again. Myra and Tasha had gone home to rest. Nurses came and went. I stared at the IV drip, the slow tick of saline, and the dull beep of the heart monitor.

The door creaked open.

Brent.

He stepped inside with his usual perfect posture, his face unreadable.

For one moment, one pathetic heartbeat, I hoped hed say he was sorry. That hed ask if I was okay. That something had changed.

He didnt.

Instead, his jaw was tight, his voice low and controlled.

You filed a case against Celeste?

I blinked at him. She stabbed me.

She didnt mean it, he said sharply. She was drunk. She wasnt in the right mind. You know how she isshe has a temper.

She stabbed me, Brent.

He looked at me like I was the problem. Youre alive. You werent critically hurt. It couldve been worse.

I laughed, a bitter, hoarse sound. Thats your response? I couldve died.

She didnt want to kill you, he snapped. She was upset.

My body stiffened. I am your wife.

He exhaled slowly. Even if you file a case, it wont go anywhere. You know who our family is. I already grounded her. Took her cards. She wont be going out for a while.

A credit card is not a punishment for attempted murder, I spat.

Brent ran a hand through his hair. Layla, dont make this harder than it is. You need to rest. Heal.

I tried to speak again, but he cut me off.

Im going abroad, he said, glancing at his watch. Ill be gone for a few days. When I get back, Ill bring you something. A gift. Youll feel better.

Then he turned and walked out.

Just like that.

He never asked how I felt. Never said sorry. Never cared.

I lay in that cold hospital bed, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. There was no warmth left. No hope.

Only the sharp, painful clarity that Brent Westwood never loved meand never would.

I spent the next few days in the hospital, hooked up to wires and machines that beeped at regular intervals. I stared at the ceiling for hours. Blank. Numb. But when I couldnt take the silence anymore, I reached for my phone.

Notifications blinked to life. Celeste had posted.

Her Instagram was floodedphotos of luxury shopping bags, reels of her sipping champagne on a private jet. The caption: Flying out for something special #RoyalAuction #PrincessDiana

I blinked, stunned. The next video showed her standing in front of a glass case, dramatically clutching her chest as an auctioneer described a brooch once worn by Princess Diana.

Behind her? Brent. I watched the clip again. Brent. With Celeste. At a royal auction. Smiling. Whispering something that made her laugh like they were the only people in the world.

Meanwhile, I was lying in a hospital bed with stitches down my side and a pulse monitor beeping beside me like a ticking reminder of everything I had lost.

Another post. This time, a photo of the two of them holding handsnot romantically, but intimate nonetheless. The caption burned.

My brother is the kindest man alive. Some people could never understand our bond. You protect me. Always. #Grateful #FamilyFirst

My jaw tightened. I had chosen Brent over everythingmy freedom, my friends, even myself. I had stayed loyal. Patient. Hopeful.

And now? He was giving all of himself to Celeste, while I rotted in silence.

Still, I didnt cry. I wouldnt give them that.

I only needed my visa. Once it came through, Id be gone. Out of this marriage. Out of their twisted lives.

A few days later, I was discharged.

To my surprise, Brent picked me up.

Celeste was already in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, voice loud and chipper. Oh my god, Layla, you shouldve seen it. The auction was to die for. There were so many exclusive pieces. But that broochugh, perfection. Brent almost got into a bidding war just for me.

My stomach twisted. Brent handed me a small plastic bag as I slid into the passenger seat.

Inside was a keychain. Cheap. Souvenir-type. One of those airport ones with Zurich written across a tin plate.

I thought you liked collecting these, he said without looking at me.

I stared at it. He had just bought Celeste an antique brooch worth tens of thousands. And I got a keychain.

I didnt respond. I didnt even fake a smile.

The rest of the ride was quietexcept for Celeste, who kept chattering about her plans to redesign Dianas gown for her final school project. Brents going to help me get a studio, she added smugly. Isnt that sweet?

When we pulled into the driveway, Brent turned to me casually. Celeste will be staying with us for a few days.

I said nothing. Just got out of the car and walked straight to my room.

The second the door closed, I collapsed on the bed and shut my eyes. I didnt want to feel. I just wanted sleep. But when I woke up a few hours later, something felt off.

My head was lighter. My scalp was cold. I bolted to the mirrorand screamed.

My hair. My long, dark, carefully grown hair was gone. Chopped in jagged pieces. Uneven. Butchered.

Heart pounding, I stumbled out of my room, down the stairs, searching for answers. And there she was.

Celeste, in the living room, surrounded by strands of hairmy hairdraped over mannequin heads.

She was stitching them into a wig.

For school, she said cheerfully, barely glancing up. Real hair wigs are expensive. Thought Id try something organic. Yours is perfectso thick, so glossy.

I snapped. The rage Id buried all this time surged to the surface like a tidal wave. I marched forward and slapped her across the face.

Her hand flew to her cheek, her eyes wide with shockand then, like a mask peeling off, her expression shifted into something darker.

Brent has never laid a hand on me, she whispered. Ive been protected all my life. No one touches me. How dare you!

She stepped back, heels clicking against the marble. Then, slowly and deliberately, she pulled out her phone.

Im gonna make you pay for it.

Before I could process her words, the front doors opened. Two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped inside. I didnt even know Brent kept them stationed at the house.

She ordered, Hold her.

Whatwait, stop! I backed up, but the guards closed in fast. One grabbed my left arm. The other snatched my right. Their grips were tight, brutal, unyielding. I couldnt move. I am Brents wife! You dont dare hurt me!

Celeste laughed. Im his stepsister. And Im pretty sure Im more valuable than you are!

The bodyguard hesitated a bit but when they followed Celeste's order, I knew that even the bodyguards knew that Celeste was more important than me.

Celeste stood in front of me now, arms crossed, her lip curled in disgust. You thought one slap would settle things? she said, tilting her head. You humiliated me.

Her hand shot out. Slap. The impact exploded across my cheek, sending a jolt of heat and pain through my skull. My head snapped to the side.

Slap. The other cheek this time. My jaw cracked. My ears rang.

She hit again. And again.

Her palm kept flying, switching sides, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing like gunshots. I lost count quickly. My skin burned. Then it broke. Blood trickled down my chin, and tears sprang to my eyesnot from emotion, but from sheer, sharp pain.

Still think you're better than me? she hissed between strikes. Still think you can walk around like this is your house? Youre nothing, Layla. You were always nothing.

My knees gave out, but the guards held me upright, forcing me to take it all.

My vision blurred, dark around the edges. Her face became a smear of rage, her voice a buzzing hum behind the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

By the time she stepped back, I was breathless and broken. My face throbbed like fire. My lips were split, swelling already.

She turned to the guards and casually asked, How many?

One hundred, Miss Westwood, one of them said without hesitation.

She smirked. Good. Thats what happens when you lay a finger on me. No one touches me.

I was still wheezing, chest rising and falling as I fought for air, when the door behind us opened again.

Brent. He stepped in and paused.

Took in the scene. Mebloodied, restrained. Celestecalm, unbothered.

His face didnt change.

Whats going on? he asked.

I could barely get the words out. She cut my hair, I managed, voice hoarse. Then she ordered them to hold me and she slapped me. A hundred times. Ask them.

Celeste didnt flinch. She hit me first, she said with a shrug. Besidesits just hair.

I stared at him, desperate for anything. A sliver of concern. An ounce of protection. Something.

She beat me, Brent. Youre really going to act like thats nothing?

He walked over, knelt slightly, and gently wiped a smear of blood off my chin with his sleeve like I was a child with jelly on my face.

Ill bring you to the hospital, he said softly. Dont worry about it.

I pulled away. No. Dont bother.

Layla

I said no. My voice didnt crack this time. Ill go alone. You dont care, so dont bother.

I turned, stumbling as I pulled free from the guards. No one moved. No one tried to stop me. My face burned, my body ached, and the taste of blood still coated my tongue.

I was halfway to the door when I heard his footsteps behind me.

For a second, I thoughtmaybe hell follow me.

Maybe hed changed his mind.

Then Celestes voice cut through the hallway like a blade. Brent, she whined, cradling her hand. My palm hurts. I think I bruised it. I slapped her too hard

I paused. My breath caught.

Brent didnt even hesitate.

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see him walking toward her. He took her hand gently, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the center of her palm.

And I was again forgotten so I just walked outside. I flagged a taxi with a shaky hand, the taste of blood still in my mouth.

When I got in, the driver asked, Hospital?

I shook my head. No, I croaked. Take me here instead. I gave him Myras address.

Myra opened the door less than ten minutes later.

She gasped. Layla? What the hellwhat happened to your face?!

I didnt explain. I didnt have the strength. I dropped my bag inside the entryway and whispered, Can I stay? Just until my visa arrives.

She didnt say a word. Just pulled me into a tight hug and let me cry against her shoulder.

The next few days blurred. Ice packs pressed to my cheeks. Warm soup. Quiet rooms. The hum of the news playing softly in the background while I stared at the wall.

I didnt check my phone. I didnt want to see more pictures of Brent and Celeste acting like everything was perfect. Like I hadnt bled on their polished floors.

Then one day, a message buzzed in.

Brent: Why arent you at the hospital? I told you to go. Where are you?

I stared at the text. The audacity. Like I was just a name on his to-do list.

No anger. No apology. Just a reminder.

I didnt reply. I blocked his number instead.

That same afternoon, I zipped up my bag. Checked my passport. Then I headed to the airport.

When the plane took off, I didnt look back.

I was done breaking for people who only knew how to shatter me.

And this timeI wouldnt be the one left behind.