Prepare the divorce and ruin your husband by Mark Twain 9
Chapter 9
Their tears were fake. I knew it. Just like mine. They were crying for appearances. For reputation. For the loss of control, not the loss of a daughter or grandson.
David stood there like he had lost his soul. His eyes were empty. His hands kept clenching like he wanted to grab something that was no longer there.
I wrapped my arms around him and sobbed. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should have protected them. I should have done more.”
He did not answer. He just stood there, breathing like it hurt.
Good.
Let him hurt.
Everyone thought I was grieving for my sister. For my nephew. For the family we lost.
What they did not know was this: I was not mourning. I was celebrating. Isabella was
gone.
Ryle was gone.
And finally, finally, the future was mine.
When it was finally over, when the ashes were gone into the air and David’s shoulders sagged like he had nothing left, I leaned into his chest and whispered in a voice so weak it shook, “I’ll carry this forever. I should have stopped her. I should have saved
them.”
He wrapped his arms around me right away. Tight. Protective. Like I was the one barely standing. Just like I planned. I felt his grief tilt, slide, land where I wanted it. Not on Isabella. On me. On my pain. On my loss.
So I let my knees give out.
Perfect timing.
People gasped. Someone cried out my name. David panicked and scooped me up like I was glass, rushing me away. In that moment, Isabella vanished from his mind. She was done. I was all that mattered.
At the hospital, the doctor played his part beautifully. “Her body is still in recovery after losing the twins. Severe emotional shock. Depression. You need to protect her. No stress. Not even a little.”
David nodded like he’d been given a mission. My loyal soldier. His guilt wrapped tighter around me, and I smiled behind the tears.
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Isabella and Ryle took their last breaths in the sea. And I stepped straight into her place.
…
When I was discharged, the doctor repeated the same warning, very serious, very loud, making sure David heard every word. I almost laughed. Of course he said that. I paid him enough to memorize it.
David took me straight back to the villa. He even cooked for me. David Vanderbilt. The man who never touched a stove. Standing there making soup like some devoted husband. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Instead, I cried softly and talked about missing the twins. Every tear measured. Every sob controlled. That night, I went into the nursery. I grabbed those tiny clothes we bought and pressed them to my chest. The room looked perfect. Too perfect. I cried like my heart was shattered. Anyone watching would have believed it.
Inside, I felt nothing.
Those twins were never love. They were armor. I took the pills myself. Carefully. Quietly. They were my shield against Isabella and my ticket to sympathy once she came back. Without them, I could have lost. With them gone, I became the poor, tragic sister everyone needed to protect. The story wrote itself. The public ate it up.
David found me there, bent over the crib, shaking. He pulled me up and told me not to
cry anymore.
“I’ll make it right,” he said. “I’ll make you my wife. For real.”
“But people will talk,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “Isabella is gone. Ryle is gone. She left me first. None of this is on you. Not her death. Not the twins. We can start over. You’re still young. We can have
another child.”
I buried my face in his chest so he would not see the smile trying to break through.
Yes, David.
You were always mine.
…
I went to my parents’ place that night.
The house felt lighter than it ever had. No tension. No pretending. The moment I stepped inside, my mother grabbed my hands, eyes shining in a way that finally matched how she really felt.
“She’s gone,” she said, almost smiling. “Both of them. Isabella and that boy.”
My father nodded, satisfied. “The Vanderbilt name will be yours now. Forever.”
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For a second, I really did freeze.
Not sadness. Not grief. Just a surprise.
“You’re not… guilty?” I asked quietly. “At all?”
They looked at each other, then laughed.
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“Why would we be?” my mother said. “She was never really ours. Just a useless child we raise in for convenience. You’re the only blood we ever had. The only daughter that
mattered.”
My father waved his hand like he was brushing dust off a table. “She overstayed her place. Now the picture is clean.”
Something warm spread in my chest.
I smiled.
I hugged them both, tight, and for the first time it felt honest. Like I was finally where I belonged.
After that, I went somewhere I had been waiting to visit.
The cemetery was quiet. Cold. Two graves side by side. Isabella. Ryle.
White flowers. Photos. People pretending they cared.
I stood there and laughed softly.
“So this is it?” I muttered. “This is how you end?”
I bent down and ripped the flowers out, one by one, tossing them onto the dirt.
“You always thought you were better than me,” I said calmly. “Smarter. Kinder. More talented. Teachers loved you. Everyone loved you. Even as a kid, you looked at me like I was behind you.”
I kicked the vase over. It shattered.
“I hated you from the start,” I went on. “You got praised without trying. I had to crawl for every scrap. And Ryle?” I glanced at the smaller grave and scoffed. “You used him like a shield. Just like everything else.”
I grabbed a bag of trash from my car and dumped it right over the graves. Food wrappers. Coffee cups. Dirt.
“This suits you better,” I said lightly. “You always deserved to be under me.”
I wiped my hands and straightened my coat.
“Rest well, sister,” I added with a smile. “I’ll live the life you thought was yours.”
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