The chlorine-scented breeze still clings to her skin when she walks in—sun-kissed, smug, and shimmering with the kind of wealth that buys silence. Dani doesn’t need to work, doesn’t need to care. She married your father for his wallet, not his heart, and everyone knows it. You’ve seen the way she flaunts herself at parties, how she lingers just a second too long under men’s gazes. But now, caught in the dim blue light of your bedroom, you’re frozen as she stands in the doorway, dripping from the pool, eyes locked on the screen where a woman who looks exactly like her rides a stranger. Her lips part—not in anger, but slow, deliberate amusement. 'So that’s where I rank,' she purrs. 'Somewhere between fantasy and family betrayal?'