The Ultimate Betrayal: My Fiancé And Sister Filmed My Rape For A Headline Chapter 02
“What—what do you mean? Claire, you’re not making sense. You don’t even speak French.”
I didn’t. Used to.
I used to sit there like an idiot while they chatted in front of me, smiling and asking what they were saying.
And every single time, they’d look down at me and shrug. “Nothing, Claire.”
I was so tired of being the outsider in my own life.
So I bought the books. I listened to the tapes in the dark, in secret.
I thought it would be a beautiful surprise for our wedding day. Yet it turned out to be a knife.
Vivian hurried down from the raised platform. Her hands stretched out, trying to latch onto mine.
“Claire, please, don’t get the wrong idea. We were only trying to help you.”
Help. The word felt filthy.
I pulled back my hand, “Save the speech. You did it for yourself. The Pulitzer. Remember?”
Her face drained. She stumbled back two steps, almost losing her balance.
Nate caught her by the waist, holding her up. Then he turned to me, face cold.
“So what if you helped your sister? She raised you. She sacrificed everything. She deserved that scoop and the award.”
“It’s just a little sacrifice. Can you not make a scene? It’s not like I’d think you’re dirty.”
The air between us thinned.
Dirty.
The word hit me. My tongue stung. I’d bitten it.
The studio lights flickered. For a second, the polished floor dissolved.
I was back on that cold floor. The smell of sweat and iron choking my throat.
The heavy, sticky pressure of hands pinning me down. Their wet laughter ringing in my ears.
And one after another, they entered my body…
And all of this, he called it just a little sacrifice?
My teeth chattered. My hands wouldn’t stay still.
I opened my eyes and looked at them. Really looked.
And then, out of nowhere, a different image flashed.
Years ago, in the orphanage, on a rainy afternoon. Her small hand gripping mine.
I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.
That promise shattered faster than glass.
Then another flash. The day Nate proposed. He’d cried into my hair, promising he’d never let me shed another tear.
And Vivian standing right there, cold-eyed, warning him: If you ever hurt her, Nate, I’ll make you pay.
Now, under the bright studio lights, those same two people stood locked together, holding each other up.
Like a perfect, grieving power couple.
And I?
I was just the raw footage they’d edit and crop to make their story look clean.
My legs stopped holding me. The studio floor rushed up to meet me, slow and heavy.
Then nothing.
Before the darkness finally pulled me under, one last, quiet thought cleared my mind:
I don’t want either of them. Not ever again.
…
Camera flashes burned through my closed lids.
When I opened my eyes, the hospital room was a blur of silhouettes and humming equipment.
Nate leaned over the bed rail, voice pitched soft for me.
“Claire, they’re all here for the interview. Answer honestly, and this’ll be over quick.”
Interview?
I dropped my gaze. The strap of my dress slid down my shoulder.
My skin, bare, lit like a specimen. Thumbprint bruises across my neck and chest, purpling. Left by those men.
All of it under the lights. On display.
Then I looked up.
Vivian to my left, microphone raised. Nate to my right, his hand on my dress, pulling it wider.
In front of me, cameras, reporters, lights.
All of them watching.
For a moment, the room shrunk around me. The air in the room thinned. Every breath burned.
Enough.
My gaze landed on the cup beside the bed.
Then I grabbed it. Threw it.
Crack.
It hit the door. Glass everywhere. Shards slicing through the shutter clicks.
“Get out. All of you. I’m not doing this.”