I was on the roof, ready to jump, when a viral post froze me. The profile picture was heartbreakingly familiar. [My wife hurt my sister—the most important person to me. I taught her a lesson; she might’ve ended up in ICU. Any ideas to make it up?] Comments raged, but the OP replied coolly: [Her own parents approved. She deserved it for bullying her adopted sister.] [I faked a kidnapping while she was pregnant, made her think she was assaulted, then forged paternity tests to ‘prove’ the baby wasn’t mine—just to make her stop.] Another like appeared: [That’s my daughter. My son-in-law did this to fix her jealousy. Blame her.] The same profile pic—Rosalie’s favorite kitten. So it was real. My pain was a gift from those I loved, for the daughter they chose. Fine. I’d give them their happy ending. I leaned into the wind from the skyscraper. “System,” I whispered, “this time, I’m coming home.” … My parents were still venting in the comments. [Just bringing her home forced my sweet Rosalie into a deep depression. We thought that after the ‘assault,’ after the whole town whispered about her carrying a bastard, she’d finally quiet down and stop competing with our angel. But no, she turned around and set her sights on the company, clawing her way up to the General Manager position, just so people would call Rosalie a useless, pretty face!] Sebastian, my husband, immediately replied beneath their comment. [Good thing I was the client. I made her life a living hell, found every possible reason to reject her work. Then I took the contract she finally landed and gave it to Rosie, promoting her to General Manager instead. And for what? She threw a fit, coughed up some blood, and landed herself back in the ICU, trying to frame Rosie for it. My poor Rosie had nightmares for a week.] I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. That contract… I had fought tooth and nail for it, drank myself sick until I was coughing up blood to close that deal. It was the single ray of light I had managed to grasp for myself after crawling out of the abyss of shame, of being the woman who carried a “bastard.” And with a few tears from Rosalie, the man I loved most had snuffed it out with his own hands. One user asked him, [If you hate your wife so much, why marry her? And why are you here asking for advice on how to ‘compensate’ her? You’re a scumbag. Just divorce her. If I were your wife and found all this out, I’d lose my mind!] A minute later, a new reply from Sebastian appeared. [Are you kidding? She’s obsessively in love with me. What’s she going to do if she finds out the truth? A little lesson like this is nothing a few sweet words can’t fix. But Rosie is different. We grew up together; she depends on me. She’s already suffered enough because I couldn’t marry her. It’s only natural that I treat her better.] My parents chimed in to back him up. [If our son-in-law hadn’t been in a coma after his car crash, we never would have brought her home. We gave her the golden opportunity to marry him, a desperate marriage to bring him luck. We were so good to her, and she showed no gratitude. She targeted our Rosie at every turn. Our Rosie is the one who’s truly been wronged.] Every word was a defense of their precious angel. In their fury, my parents even forgot to hide the names. It didn’t take long for sharp-eyed netizens to connect the dots. “A marriage to bring him luck? The only high-profile heir who was in a coma after a crash in the last five years was the Blackwood heir.” “Oh my god! Then ‘Rosie’ must be Rosalie Ashwood! They were childhood sweethearts, which means she’s the fake heiress!” “Is no one else shocked that the Blackwood heir is even married in the first place??” That last comment felt like a hand closing around my throat. He didn’t love me. So my very existence as his wife was a secret. I wanted to laugh, but tears streamed down my face like broken pearls, impossible to stop. Just as their identities were exposed, the screen flickered. The post vanished. In its place was a formal cease-and-desist letter from a law firm. “This post is not to be associated with any real individuals. Blackwood Enterprises’ legal team will pursue legal action against any and all comments that slander Ms. Rosalie Ashwood’s reputation.” Ms. Rosalie Ashwood. No prizes for guessing who that protection was for. In the ten minutes I’d been reading, a crowd had gathered on the street below. Ignoring the shouts of the firefighters, Sebastian scrambled onto the rooftop. He was still catching his breath, his face a mask of terror as he crept toward me. His voice trembled. “Zoey, don’t do this. Please. It’s all my fault, everything is my fault. I can’t live without you.” His frantic, self-blaming tone was a world away from the man who had written that post. For a dizzying moment, I couldn’t tell which one was the real him. When I first arrived in this world, my mission was to win his heart. My life revolved around him. Sebastian was from a lesser branch of the Blackwood family. I nursed him back to health after his coma, and with my knowledge of the “script,” I guided him smoothly as he took control of the entire Blackwood empire. In those early years, when our love felt real, he would hold me and promise, “Zoey, my life has no meaning without you. We’ll never be parted by life, only by death.” And I believed him. When I was “assaulted” by the kidnappers, I locked myself in the bathroom and scrubbed my skin raw until the tub was stained pink with my blood. When I learned I was carrying a “bastard,” the revulsion was so strong I grabbed a pair of scissors, ready to carve the flesh from my own body. When he took my contract and my position, he told me I wasn’t competent enough, that I should just stay home and recover. I obeyed. I waited for him through a thousand cold, empty nights. It was during that dark time that the System appeared. [Host, your heart is breaking. I’m not asking you to complete the mission anymore. Let me send you home…] The System said that even though the mission was a failure, it could still grant my wish: a pair of loving parents and a partner who would never betray me. Back then, I couldn’t see the filth hidden beneath the concern of Sebastian and my parents. I just told the System, “But isn’t that the life I’m living right now?” Now, that post had ripped away the lies and the pretense. I couldn’t deceive myself any longer. As I came back to the present, the System’s voice echoed in my mind again. [Host, Sebastian is here. I know you’re going to soften. It’s windy up here. If you’re not going to jump, you should come down.] Ten times I’d been in the ICU. Nine of those times, I had begged the System to let me live. All I could chant were their names: Sebastian, Mom, Dad. I had made them my entire world. And what did they make me? “No, System,” I murmured, my voice catching in a sob. “This time, I really am going home.” Sebastian heard me and scoffed, a flicker of contempt flashing in his eyes. Ten trips to the ICU, and when had she ever actually died? But he had to maintain his loving-husband persona. His eyes reddened as he took another step closer. “Zoey, if you jump, I’m jumping with you. I’ll die with you…” I tuned him out. I closed my eyes, spread my arms, and, to the sound of horrified screams from below, I stepped off the edge. Sebastian, I don’t want you anymore. Mom, Dad, I don’t want you either. You can have your perfect, happy family with Rosalie. I’m done. … When I woke, the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nostrils. For a second, I thought I was home. But before the joy could even register, a familiar voice sent a jolt of ice through me. I hadn’t died. “Zoey, you’re finally awake. Do you know, if you’d jumped just a few inches to the side, you would have missed the firefighters’ air cushion? If you had woken up any later, I was about to call a board meeting and announce my intention to follow you in death.” Sebastian’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice a choked, trembling whisper. He gripped my hand tightly, like I was a priceless treasure he had almost lost forever. But as he leaned down to kiss my forehead, I saw it. A faint, purplish mark on his neck—a hickey. And clinging to his suit was the distinct, cloying scent of magnolia. Rosalie’s perfume. These were details I had never let myself notice before. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I gagged. Sebastian’s face tightened with alarm. He yelled for every doctor on the floor. He stood by, his gaze locked on the physicians as they examined me, looking as if he would willingly take all my pain onto himself. The doctor felt my weak pulse and looked at me with pity. “Mrs. Blackwood is severely weakened, and her body is suffering from extreme emotional distress. She needs gentle care and absolutely cannot be agitated again.” He hesitated, then looked at Sebastian. “The day of the incident, I was called to the Blackwood residence. I don’t know what happened, but your wife was so distraught she was hyperventilating into respiratory alkalosis, her whole body convulsing. If I’d been ten minutes later, she would have been gone… Mr. Blackwood, I really think you need to pay more attention to your wife’s mental health…” My mind flashed back to that day. To Buddy, my dog, his lifeless eyes staring up at me, his blood seeping into the grout lines of the tile floor. My vacant eyes trembled. He was the one friend I’d had the longest since coming to this world. And Rosalie had killed him with a bowl of poisoned milk, then had him cooked into a stew. Sebastian felt me shaking and a flicker of pain crossed his face. He pulled me into his arms. His gaze turned dark as he looked at his assistant. “Find out what happened that day. I want the person responsible to pay with their life.” The words had barely left his mouth when the hospital room door was thrown open. Rosalie stood there, dressed in a white designer dress, her perfectly made-up face stained with two delicate teardrops. A perfect, innocent little flower. But as her eyes met mine, a flash of pure venom crossed her face. She suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, her pale hands clutching a thick leather riding crop. “Sebastian, it’s all my fault. If I had known my sister would get so upset, I would have let Buddy bite me to death before I ever hurt him. It’s all my fault. Sister, please, hit me.” Sebastian froze, his eyes filled with a pained confusion. My parents, who had followed her in, stood rigid, their hands clenched so tight their knuckles were white. They were barely holding on to their loving-parent facade. Sebastian reached for her. “What are you talking about?” But Rosalie stubbornly stayed on her knees, refusing to move. She lifted her tear-streaked face to him. “Sebastian, if my sister won’t do it, you have to. If she can’t get this anger out, her depression will only get worse. It’s just a few lashes, right? Hit me hard. Even if my skin breaks, as long as it makes my sister feel better, I’m willing.” She grabbed the riding crop and forced it into Sebastian’s hand. Her performance was flawless, a portrait of wronged, patient suffering. It made me look like the bully, using my illness to torment her. Even the doctor standing nearby was looking at her with pity and at me with disapproval. She always did this, twisting words until I was the villain. Before, I would have tried to defend myself. But there was no point now. While Sebastian was hesitating, I snatched the riding crop. Before I could throw it away, he grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “That’s enough, Zoey! Stay out of this. I’ll handle Rosalie’s side of things and get you an explanation.” His hold was so strong it left angry red marks on my thin wrist. I met his eyes and saw something I’d never seen directed at me before: the cold, sharp wariness one reserves for an enemy. And I laughed. My heart, which I thought was already dead, was squeezed so hard it produced a final, bitter surge of rage. How could he be so certain I was the one at fault? Just because she was Rosalie?
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