I never expected to catch my boyfriend cheating in the most cliché, soap-opera way possible. But there I was, standing outside the elevator in his apartment building, holding a bag of snacks like a fool, watching Jace *full-on* make out with some random chick.
I lost it. Completely.
“Oh, so you’re feeling better, huh?” I snapped, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I hurled the fruit at him—an apple smacking his chest, grapes bouncing off his stupid face—before turning on my heel and storming off.
The worst part? He didn’t even *try* to stop me. Not a word. No apology. No excuse. Nothing.
I blocked his number that night.
**Days Later…**
I was finally starting to move on—or at least, I was trying. I had spent the last few days alternating between ugly crying and furious ranting to my best friend. I was done with Jace. Over him. I wanted nothing to do with that cheating jerk ever again.
So imagine my shock when I walked up to my apartment building and saw *her*.
The *homewrecker*.
She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed like she had every right to be there.
I saw red.
“What the hell are you doing here?!” I snapped. “Get lost. NOW.”
She didn’t budge. Instead, she stepped forward, her expression serious. “I’m not leaving until we talk. You need to hear this.”
I folded my arms. “Oh, I *really* don’t. I don’t care what kind of sob story you have—I don’t want to hear about how ‘it wasn’t what it looked like’ or how ‘he told me you two were broken up’ or any of that BS. Just go.”
She shook her head. “No, you *need* to hear this. Your boyfriend is—”
She hesitated, her lips pressing together like she was debating how to say it.
“Jace isn’t who you think he is,” she finally said.
I scoffed. “Yeah, no kidding. He’s a liar and a cheater.”
She shook her head again. “No. It’s worse than that. Way worse.”
For the first time, I felt a chill run down my spine.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
She exhaled slowly, as if bracing herself.
“Jace is my brother.”
I blinked. *Wait, what?*
She continued, “And I wasn’t kissing him—I was trying to stop him from leaving. Because he was on his way to meet *her*.”
“*Her*?” I echoed, confused.
She swallowed hard. “His *wife*.”