My Sister Got Pregnant by My Fiancé, but Mom Still Demanded I Walk Down the Aisle—Until I Exposed the $6,400 She Secretly Took from My Wedding Fund to Protect Them...

The humidity in Sloane's loft smelled of wet paint and expensive eucalyptus candles. When she cracked the door open on its brass chain, her eyes were rimmed with raw, puffy redness. She was wearing an oversized gray cashmere sweater—a sweater I had bought her for her twenty-fourth birthday last Christmas.

"Brooke," she whispered. Her chin trembled.

"Open the door, Sloane."

She hesitated for two seconds before sliding the chain off. The latch clicked, and the door swung wide.

I didn't slap her. I didn't scream. The rage inside me had cooled into something far more dangerous: absolute, methodical clarity. I walked past her into the living room, taking in the small details. A half-empty bottle of ginger ale on the glass coffee table. A blister pack of prenatal vitamins sitting openly on the marble island.

And on the entryway console, a receipt from a private ultrasound clinic in downtown Chicago.

"Mom said you knew," Sloane said, wrapping her arms around her stomach. It was an instinctual gesture, protective and guilty all at once. "Reid called me in hysterics."

"Show me the paperwork," I said, pointing toward the console table.

"Brooke, I am so sorry. I swear to God, I never meant for this to happen. It was an accident. We were drunk, and—"

"Stop lying," I said, turning to face her. "Mom told me it was one night after my promotion dinner. But Dr. Vance's invoices go back six weeks. That means you were already seeing an obstetrician in mid-September. My promotion dinner was in late October."

Sloane's mouth fell open. Her face drained of what little color it had left.

"You think I'm stupid?" I stepped closer to her. "You think because I’ve been running around coordinating flower arrangements and seating charts for eight months that I can't do simple arithmetic? When did this start?"

Sloane backed away until her spine hit the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. "July."

The word felt like a physical hammer blow against my sternum. July.

In July, Reid had helped me pack boxes when I moved into our new townhouse. In July, Reid had toasted my father’s recovery from his bypass surgery. In July, Sloane had sat on my porch, drinking pinot grigio and asking me if I thought Reid was really 'the one.'

"Four months," I whispered. "You've been sleeping with him for four months."

"He came to my apartment to fix the leak under the sink while you were in Denver," Sloane sobbed, covering her face with her sleeves. "He stayed for a drink. We started talking about how pressured he felt by his father, and how you were always so busy with your career, and... Brooke, he listened to me! Nobody ever listens to me! Mom only ever talks about you and your accomplishments, and Reid was the only person who made me feel like I mattered!"

"So you took him?" I said, my voice dropping an octave. "You decided that because Mom praised my work ethic, you were entitled to my fiancé?"

"He loved me!" she cried out, her voice cracking into a shrill, defensive wail. "He told me he was going to break off the engagement before August! He said he was trapped because of Dad's business! He didn't want to hurt you, but he couldn't leave!"

"And then you got pregnant."

Sloane wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling pathetically. "I didn't plan it. When the test was positive, I panicked. I called Mom. Mom said if Dad found out, he would pull his investment from Reid's father's firm, and the entire family would be financially ruined. Mom told Reid he had to marry you to keep the peace, and she would take care of me."

"With my money."

"I didn't know where the money came from!" Sloane shouted. "Mom just gave me a debit card and said the doctor visits were covered! She said she was using her personal savings!"

"She used the wedding account, Sloane. The account I spent three years filling with forty percent of every paycheck I earned." I walked over to the kitchen island, picked up the ultrasound printout, and flipped it over. Written on the back in my mother’s neat, cursive script was a phone number and an address: *St. Jude’s Maternity Shelter & Private Placement, Burlington, VT.*

"Mom found that place last week," Sloane muttered, staring at the floor. "She said after you and Reid were married, I would take a leave of absence from my boutique job. She said we'd tell Dad I was attending a fashion merchandising seminar in New York."

I looked at my little sister. For twenty-five years, I had protected her. When she failed algebra, I tutored her until 2 a.m. When she got caught shoplifting at seventeen, I took the blame so Mom wouldn't lock her in her room for a month. When she couldn't afford her rent on her boutique salary, I quietly slipped five hundred dollars into her checking account every month.

And this was my reward. A quiet conspiracy to strip me of my money, my dignity, and my future, so she and Mom could avoid a scandal.

"Pack your bags," I told her.

Sloane blinked through her tears. "What?"

"Pack your bags. Because you are attending the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night."

"Mom said I shouldn't go! She said it would be too risky—"

"You're going," I said, leaning in until she could feel the cold fury radiating from my skin. "You are going to put on that blush-pink maid of honor gown that Mom bought you with my stolen money. You are going to stand next to me. And if you try to run, or if you tell Mom what I just said, I will call Dad right now from this kitchen and tell him everything."

Sloane gasped. "Brooke, Dad has a heart condition! The doctor said any severe shock could put him back in the ICU!"

"Then you'd better pray his heart holds out tomorrow night," I said coldly.

I picked up the ultrasound image, folded it in half, and slid it into my leather trench coat pocket.