My Presumed-Dead Ex Is Dating My Sister

The fireworks on New Year's Eve burst repeatedly, their faint scent of gunpowder wafting onto the balcony. I clutched a half-full cup of lukewarm tea, my gaze sweeping over the bustling traffic below, and suddenly froze upon the figure standing by the streetlamp. It was Felix Lynn. My heart clenched violently, my knuckles whitening; the teacup nearly slipped from my grasp. I stared unwaveringly at that silhouette, my breath caught—three years ago, the military unit sent a notification of 'duty-related death' that still lay buried at the bottom of my drawer. I had once held the Martyr's Certificate, standing through a night of biting cold at the funeral home, convinced we had long since been separated by life and death. The streetlight stretched out his shadow, leaner than before, shedding the harshness of the military uniform yet still standing tall. The warmth in my fingertips vanished; my chest felt as if filled with ice, chillingly painful. "Sister, why are you daydreaming? Come inside quickly and have some fruit; it's so cold out here!" The balcony door was gently pushed open, and Mindy Jones, arm in arm with a man, approached with a lively and playful tone. I suddenly snapped back to reality, looking up just in time to meet Felix Lynn's abruptly stiffened gaze. He wore a dark gray suit, devoid of the military's rigid toughness, yet possessing a refined worldly elegance. Only those eyes, the moment they met mine, lost their focus, brimming with shock, guilt, and panic. Mindy Jones deliberately drew Felix Lynn closer to her side, her voice adopting a heavier tone as she introduced, "Sister, this is Felix Lynn, my fiance. We intend to register our marriage after the New Year." As she spoke, she clung tightly to Felix Lynn's arm; from the corner of her eye, she cast a provocative glance toward me, her concealed triumph plainly evident. Felix Lynn fixed his gaze unblinkingly upon me, his lips moving faintly as though to speak, yet the words caught in his throat; only the turmoil of guilt and panic welled up in his eyes, and ultimately, he remained silent. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to quell the turmoil within, drawing forth a placid smile as I extended my hand: "Hello." Felix Lynn hesitated for a moment; his fingertips lightly brushed my palm before swiftly withdrawing, as if my hand bore thorns that would scorch him should he linger any longer. "Hello, Lydia Jones." His voice was deeply hoarse, a barely perceptible tremor lingering in the final note. The relatives in the living room promptly gathered, teasing; Aunt Amy smiled warmly, commending Felix Lynn's steadiness, Uncle nodded approvingly, and Mindy Jones proudly leaned on his shoulder, boasting of Felix Lynn's unwavering obedience. Felix Lynn forced a stiff smile, yet his gaze remained fixed unwaveringly upon me, as if the surrounding clamor held no meaning for him. My uncle stepped forward and patted his shoulder: "I heard Felix Lynn used to be a soldier? That physique alone reveals it—strong and robust!" The remark seemed to hit a tender spot within Felix Lynn; his body tensed abruptly, his face instantly paling. Hastily, he lifted a cup of water from the table and took a sip, his voice indistinct: "Yes, I was discharged several years ago." His reply was evasive, his eyes darting away. Seated opposite him, I harbored neither anger nor grievance—only a cold, desolate void. Mindy Jones perceived the atmosphere had grown somewhat delicate, leaned close to me, and attempted to take my hand, saying, "Sister, why do you remain silent? Do you also find Felix Lynn quite admirable?" I quietly withdrew my hand, picked up the teacup on the table, took a sip, and responded with calm detachment, "He is quite good." Having spoken, I set down the teacup and rose, making my way toward the kitchen. "I will help mother carry the dishes." Behind me, Felix Lynn's gaze pressed heavily upon my back, imbued with a burning intensity, yet I harbored not the slightest impulse to turn around. All I wished was to escape this suffocating scene as swiftly as possible, to flee those eyes that unsettled my heart so profoundly. The kitchen range hood muffled the noise; I leaned against the wall to steady my trembling legs, the pain clenched in my fingertips unable to quell the dull ache in my chest. He is not dead. He has merely assumed a new identity, taken a new name, and become the fiance of my nominal younger sister. I closed my eyes, a self-mocking smile curling at the corner of my lips. This is the identity of the 'widow of a martyr' I have upheld for three years—absurd and ironic.