The Wife Before

At this time, Roland was a rising star. Everyone wanted their hands on him and he was getting personally invited to golfing competitions now. He really was that good. They called him the next Tiger Woods. The King of the Green.

I had no idea when he was ever going to make time for me. With all that fame, it was bound to go to his head, so I didn’t take him or our dating life that seriously, and yet . . . he kept calling. Kept texting. And then he started making surprise visits.

We’d spend weekends together getting to know one another, drinking, eating, having sex, and doing it all over again. I was falling for this man hard and I couldn’t stop myself, no matter how much I tried. I’d fallen in love before and it was ugly and cruel and I vowed to never do it again, but Roland swindled me. He got to me. I really had fallen in love with him, so I don’t think it came as much of a surprise to either of us when we both agreed to run off to Vegas and get married four months later. It was so cliché, and Roland had only invited his mother, a cousin, and a few close friends, but it was so damn romantic and the wedding ceremony was one I will never forget.

In Vegas, we gambled, drank, made love in a honeymoon suite. Then, suddenly I’d found myself quitting my job at Bailor to travel the country with him and watch him play.

And, not long after, my husband became an A-list star and there were more and more cameras around him—around us—and the privacy we had before quickly disappeared. But it was fine. We had nothing to hide. We were in love, he was insanely talented, and I was his loyal trophy wife who stuck by his side and cheered him on.

For almost two years, we were in bliss. I’d moved with him to Colorado, we built a mansion in Sageburg, I took care of the home, hired a housekeeper/ chef, and had dinners ready for him when he returned home from his trips. I wanted to be the perfect wife who carried no guilt and had nothing but good intentions for her marriage.

Everything was going wonderfully . . . until my sister called.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Miley is my sister . . . and she has issues. A lot of them.

I wasn’t expecting her to call me—I hadn’t heard from her in months—so when her name popped up on my screen, I froze. I was in the middle of prepping myself some tea, about to head off to my Pilates class, when I saw it.

The last time I’d seen Miley, she’d thrown a china plate at me and screamed at the top of her lungs until I was left with no choice but to run out of my own apartment crying.

She only called when she wanted something, so I didn’t answer. I ignored it, finished making my tea, and went to class.

But during all of class and even on my drive back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her call. And not only that, she’d left a voicemail. I hadn’t listened to it, too worried that she was only calling to deliver bad news.

When I got home, Roland was at his range, practicing. I recall him coming into the bathroom as I was showering, and entering the shower with me.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured on my lips.

“Hey.” I forced a smile.

He tipped my chin and brought my eyes to his. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I responded, and then I smiled again, laced my arms around the back of his neck, and kissed him.

Making love with him was a temporary distraction, and thankfully he’d let it go. That was a mistake. I should have told him that very moment what was going on.

But . . . see, the thing was I hadn’t told Roland about Miley yet. He had no idea I even had a sibling. Truth was, I was embarrassed to claim Miley as my sister and if I’d told him about her, he would have wanted to meet her. I couldn’t have that. Because Miley would have taken one look at Roland and ruined everything good that we had.

Miley called for seven days straight. Each day, she left a voicemail, and on the seventh day, I finally cracked and listened to her messages:

Hey, sis! It’s Miley! I thought I’d give you call, check in with you. I, um . . . I’m doing a lot better. I’d really love to see you. Call me back. Love you.

Hey, Mel. So, um . . . just checking to see if you got my first voicemail? I really need to talk to you.

Mel, please pick up. I promise you I’m better. Melanie. I’m your fucking sister. Answer me! I know you’re getting my calls!