Author: Momo Chan

In the middle of the workday, Brad suddenly jumped up from his cubicle and slapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Campbell’s birthday is next week! Since your family owns that high-end seafood place next door, here’s the plan: I’ll put down a hundred bucks, and we’ll all go there to celebrate his birthday! On you!” He started counting off the menu on his fingers. “We’ll need jumbo Maine lobsters, Alaskan king crab, and fresh-caught red snapper. Don’t skimp on the appetizers. Keep the beer and wine flowing. Oh, and remember Mr. Campbell has gout, so watch the shellfish on his plate. Put on a good show, Ian. Don’t embarrass our department.” He gave me a heavy, conspiratorial nudge. “Once Mr. Campbell is happy, he might throw a nice fat bonus your way. You’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.” He grinned, practically beaming with self-satisfaction. “You make a profit, you look good, and the boss is happy. Honestly, buddy, you owe me a huge thank-you for setting this up.” I stared at him, completely bewildered. My family runs a tiny, greasy-spoon breakfast joint that sells cheap breakfast sandwiches and bagels. Where on earth did he get high-end seafood from? When I flatly refused, Brad rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and walked away. That evening, the team Slack channel exploded. “This Saturday is Mr. Campbell’s birthday dinner! My treat for a massive seafood feast! All-you-can-eat, and yes, families are welcome! Drop your name in the thread if you’re in!” Within ten minutes, over fifty people had RSVP’d. “My dad’s never even had real king crab. Thanks, Brad, for the treat!” “My kids love bluefin tuna. Save some plates for us!” Brad enthusiastically agreed to every request, posted the address of the restaurant, and Venmo’d me $99. “Ian, got the cash. Make sure the ingredients are fresh-caught. Don’t rip off your own colleagues, alright?” I looked at the address and laughed. It was “The Blue Anchor,” the luxury seafood restaurant right next door to my dad’s diner. The owner, Sal, was a former heavy who had cleaned up his act years ago, with tattoos running all the way up to his jawline. The last guy who tried to dine and dash there was probably still in physical therapy. … “That seafood restaurant isn’t mine,” I typed into the group chat. “My family owns the little breakfast joint next to it. You guys have the wrong place.” The chat went dead silent for two seconds. Then Brad dropped a video clip. It was a video of me walking into The Blue Anchor yesterday. In the footage, the hostess smiled warmly at me and said, “Welcome back, Ian! What are you having today?” Brad followed the video with a string of question marks. “Not yours? Then why does the hostess welcome you like family and ask what you want? Ian, nobody’s asking for a free handout. I sent you cash. I’m trying to support your family business, and you’re playing hard to get? That’s just petty.” My heart sank. The video must have been sneakily filmed when I left work yesterday. Before I could even type an explanation, Zack, who was usually friendly and laughed at my jokes, chimed in first. “Come on, Ian, is this really necessary? Nobody’s trying to steal your money.” “Seriously,” another colleague wrote. “Who can’t afford seafood these days? Playing dumb like this is honestly disgusting.” Linda from HR sent a string of thumbs-down emojis. “Seafood is everywhere now. Why act like it’s liquid gold?” Someone from Marketing immediately followed up. “We’re going there to support your place, to bring in foot traffic. Without us, a place like that would be dead on a Saturday. We’re doing you a favor.” “I was planning to film an Instagram Reel and post a review,” another wrote. “That’s free promotion. Usually, businesses pay thousands for that kind of marketing. I should be charging you.” “Think about the big picture, Ian. Don’t lose sleep over pennies. Be generous, and doors will open for you.” My fingers shook as I stared at the screen. My dad and Sal were just long-time neighbors. Sal was a great guy who occasionally invited me in for a free meal because he liked my dad’s baking. How on earth had that turned into my family owning the place? I took a deep breath and typed furiously. “I’m just neighbors with the owner. He’s a family friend who treats me sometimes. I’m telling the truth. But if you guys don’t mind, we can host the dinner at our diner. I’ll ask my dad to buy some fresh seafood from the market, and he can cook it up. He’s an amazing chef, I promise you won’t be disappointed…” Silence fell over the chat again. Then: “That greasy little breakfast diner? Gross. If we’re going there, count me out.” “Me too.” Brad tagged everyone: “Don’t worry, guys. We’re going to the place at the address I pinned. It’s definitely his. See you all Saturday!” The chat instantly lit up again. “@Ian, I want the bluefin tuna toro sliced extra thin.” “Make sure the king crab is garlic-steamed, and don’t crack the legs too early.” “My kids only eat premium tuna. Prep extra portions.” A mother sent a voice note. “Brad is so generous! My kids wanted to say thank you.” Cue a toddler’s lisping voice saying, “Thank you, Uncle Brad!” The chat flooded with praise for Brad. Even Mr. Campbell, who had been silent the entire time, chimed in with several thumbs-up emojis. “Brad’s team-first attitude is exactly what this company needs. Employee of the Year material.” Brad replied instantly with a blushing emoji. “Just doing my part, sir.” The next second, my direct messages buzzed. It was Brad. “Ian, be smart. Don’t ruin Mr. Campbell’s birthday. It won’t end well for you.” “If you think the money is too low, fine, I’ll throw in another hundred.” He sent another $100 over Venmo. “Nearly two hundred bucks for a meal. You’re easily pocketing a hundred and fifty in pure profit. Happy now? Squeezing money out of your own coworkers… you’re a real piece of work.” I laughed in sheer disbelief. Two hundred dollars. For over fifty people eating lobster and king crab. And he thought I was making a hundred and fifty in profit? I didn’t reply to him. Instead, I opened Mr. Campbell’s direct message. I took a clear photo of our diner’s business license and the prominent sign outside: “O’Connor’s Breakfast Spot”. “Mr. Campbell, I’m not trying to get out of anything. That seafood restaurant really isn’t ours. My family runs a small breakfast diner. This is a massive misunderstanding. I can’t promise any reservations or discounts. Could you please clarify this in the group chat?” It immediately showed as “Read”. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. No response from Mr. Campbell. I went back to the main channel. Hundreds of messages had piled up. Brad’s icon was at the top. “Almost forgot, everyone! Ian’s family is throwing in custom seafood gift bags for us to take home! Don’t leave without yours!” The chat went wild. “Gift bags? I want caviar, wild sea cucumber, and white truffles!” “My whole family of six is coming. Do we get six bags?” “Can I swap the caviar for gold-grade bird’s nest? My wife just had a baby and needs the nourishment.” “I went to a seafood place last month, and a lobster dinner cost me eighty bucks. Such a rip-off. Ian’s family is so honest. This is what a neighborhood staple is all about.” Someone tagged me: “@Ian, my wife is allergic to shellfish. Can you steam a fresh red snapper just for her?” Another follow-up: “My dad has gout. Prepare a fresh pot of wild sea cucumber porridge. Make sure it’s made to order, not reheated.” I sneered at the screen. Not only were they demanding a free feast, they were treating me like their personal butler. I didn’t reply to a single message. The next morning, I walked straight into Mr. Campbell’s office. He was sitting on his leather sofa, sipping coffee. I got right to the point. “Mr. Campbell, did you see my message yesterday? That restaurant really doesn’t belong to me…” Mr. Campbell’s face darkened. He set his mug down with a heavy thud. “Ian, your attitude is becoming a serious issue.” My chest tightens. He frowned, tapping his desk sharply. “Do you honestly think I care about a birthday party? Do you think I can’t afford my own dinner?” “I am doing this for the company!” He slammed his hand down, looking deeply disappointed. “Brad is a senior employee who is spending his own hard-earned money to build team chemistry. Why? So a new guy like you has a chance to stand out in front of leadership! And instead of showing a shred of gratitude, you come into my office and lie to my face. It’s incredibly disappointing.” My hands clenched into fists. My voice rose. “I’m not lying—” He raised a dismissive hand. “Enough.” “Your probationary review is coming up, and teamwork counts for a massive portion of that evaluation. Go back to your desk and think long and hard about that.” Before I could speak, he ushers me out and slammed the door in my face. As soon as I sat down at my cubicle, a shadow fell over me. Brad stood there, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Ian, buddy. You’re new here. Don’t take things so seriously. Sometimes you have to give a little to get a little.” “It’s just one dinner. Keep the boss happy, and that full-time promotion is practically yours.” He sighed, putting on a paternal act. “When I started here, I spent my first year running errands and grabbing coffee for the senior staff. Did I complain? Not once.” I didn’t say a word. I leaned down, grabbed a cardboard box, and began packing up my desk. Brad’s smile falters. “What are you doing?” “I quit.” Several heads popped up from surrounding cubicles. Brad blinked, his voice turning shrill. “You’re quitting? Over a dinner?” He turned to the rest of the floor, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “Hey, listen to this! Kids these days are so fragile. We ask to eat at his place once, and he throws a tantrum and quits! Like we’re abusing him or something!” Muted scoffs echoed around the office. “Who is he trying to threaten with that?” “If he wants to leave, let him. He hasn’t even passed probation. Who does he think he is?” “Stop the drama. If you want more money, just say so. This passive-aggressive act is pathetic.” I ignored them, picked up my written resignation, and walked back to Mr. Campbell’s office. I slid the paper across his desk. Mr. Campbell swept it onto the floor without looking up. “I’m not approving this.” “I’m leaving anyway—” He slammed his hand on the desk, losing his temper. “This is a business, not a playground! You don’t just walk out whenever you feel like it! Get back to work. I said, wait for approval!” I stared at him for two seconds, then turned around and walked out. Back at my desk, Brad sneered. “Thought you were quitting? Why are you still here?” Whispers rippled through the office. “All bark, no bite.” “Brad, just forget it. Getting a meal out of him is like pulling teeth.” Brad chuckled coldly. “Oh, we are absolutely having that dinner.” He stepped closer, glaring at me. “Ian, you’d better play nice on Saturday. Don’t make an enemy out of this entire office. If you do, nobody is going to save you.” I looked down at my phone and opened my chat with Sal. “Hey Sal, I need a favor.” The next day was Saturday. At noon, loud pounding rattled my apartment door. “Ian! Open up!” Brad’s booming voice echoed through the hallway. “We’re here to pick you up! Ian!” The pounding turned to heavy fists, shaking the door frame. A neighbor peeked out. Brad called out, “Just his coworkers, here to take him to lunch!” Then he leaned close to the door, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Ian, your grandfather is still at that assisted living facility on Oak Street, right? If you don’t open this door, maybe we’ll go pay him a visit.” A hot surge of anger boiled in my chest. I swung the door open. Before I could utter a word, a hand grabbed the back of my collar. “About time!” Brad’s grip was painfully tight, hauling me toward the elevator. Two other male colleagues grabbed my arms, keeping me pinned. “You’re the guest of honor, Ian! Can’t have a party without you!” I stumbled down the stairs, my neck burning from where Brad had grabbed me. A dozen colleagues were waiting downstairs. When they saw me, they rolled their eyes. “Wow. Not even a permanent employee, and he has a bigger ego than the CEO.” “Making a whole group wait for you. Real class act.” They shoved me into the back of an SUV and drove me straight to “The Blue Anchor.” Brad shoved me into a chair at the center table, grabbed the menu, and started barking orders at the waiter. “We’ll start with jumbo Maine lobsters, five per table. Alaskan king crab legs, three ways. The live snapper, pan-seared. And double portions of the thick-cut bluefin tuna toro.” With every dish he ordered, he glanced at me. “Ian’s not going to mind, right? We’re all family here.” He added twelve premium wild sea abalones. “It’s Mr. Campbell’s birthday. We can’t go cheap. Ian’s cool with that, right?” I said nothing. Greg, sitting next to me, laughed. “Look at his face. He’s loaded. Don’t worry about his wallet.” Brad basically ordered the entire high-end section of the menu. The tables were overflowing. He finished, looking at me triumphantly. “Why so quiet, Ian? You’re not mad, are you?” Mr. Campbell tapped his knuckles on the table. “Ian, remember team solidarity. Lose the attitude.” He picked up his fork first. “Eat up, everyone! We don’t let a junior temp dictate our mood!” Everyone dug in. By the end of the meal, the gluttony was disgusting. Half-eaten tuna was spat onto plates. Kids were throwing expensive sea cucumbers on the floor like toys. A couple of guys were pouring bottles of Macallan 25 onto the floor to “liven up the atmosphere.” They smirked at me. “Heart hurting yet, Ian?” “Why would it? Brad paid him already. He’s making a killing on this.” “True.” Finally, stuffed and bloated, they started packing up the “gift bags.” Everyone walked away with three or four heavy bags, grinning from ear to ear. “I haven’t eaten like this since Thanksgiving. Ian, your family’s place is fantastic. We’re making this our official company spot!” Right then, the server walked in with a ridiculously long receipt. Brad’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. He immediately grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forward. “Ian, I already Venmo’d you the cash. Go ahead and settle the bill. We’re gonna head out.” He turned to run for the door, and the rest of the flock instantly followed. But the next second, the exit was blocked by a dozen burly men in black work shirts. The leader had biceps thicker than Brad’s thighs, with tattoos creeping all the way up his neck. Sal. His cold eyes swept the room. “Six tables. Thirty-six jumbo lobsters. Twenty-five orders of king crab. Fifteen wild abalones. Twelve fresh snappers. Eighteen platters of bluefin tuna toro. Twenty-four bottles of Macallan 25… and fifty-three luxury gift bags containing caviar and wild sea cucumber.” “Total comes to eighty-three thousand, seven hundred dollars.” Brad tried to act tough, shoving me forward. “We’re with Ian. He’s the owner’s kid…” Sal raised a hand. “I don’t know any Ian. I’m the owner of this restaurant. You ordered the food.” He looked at Brad’s rapidly paling face and smiled slowly. “Pay up.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537548”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A week before Thomas and I were set to host our engagement party, my father underwent an angioplasty to place a coronary stent. I had been terrified, but Thomas—my fiancé, the hospital’s rising star in cardiology—had squeezed my hand and promised a quiet, private recovery room. Yet when my father was wheeled out of the recovery unit, his room was gone. Instead, he was left on a temporary gurney at the very end of the corridor. It sat directly across from the central nurses’ station, exposed to the glaring fluorescent lights and the constant, indifferent rush of hospital traffic. Inside the private room, Enid Porter’s mother lay resting in the bed. The bedside table was piled high with gift baskets, fresh-cut flowers, and the chatter of nearly a dozen of Enid’s relatives. Enid was Thomas’s childhood neighbor, the girl whose shadow had hovered over our entire relationship. “Thomas,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the laughter inside. “Where is my dad’s room?” He was adjusting the incline of the mattress for Enid’s mother, his hands steady and practiced. He didn’t even look back at me. “I had to make a last-minute adjustment.” “An adjustment?” “Your dad’s post-op vitals are completely stable, Caroline,” he said, his tone dripping with professional dismissal. “An overnight stay in the hallway for observation won’t hurt him.” My hands began to tremble. “The surgeon explicitly told us he needs a clean, quiet environment to avoid infection. It’s drafty out there.” Thomas finally turned, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Enid’s mother has a delicate constitution. She can’t handle the noise of the corridor. Your father is family, Caroline—he understands the situation. He’s not going to hold a grudge against me for one night.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Besides, all of her extended family just arrived. It would look terrible to make her mother wait in the hallway in front of them.” My mother pulled at my sleeve, her face pale. “Caroline, don’t argue with Thomas,” she whispered. “Your father said the hallway is actually fine. It’s close to the nurses. If anything happens, they’re right there.” Just as the words left her mouth, a sharp, ragged gasp cut through the air. My father was clutching his chest, his eyes squeezed shut against a wave of post-op pain. Even then, he whispered to my mother, “Don’t tell Caroline. She’s getting engaged next week. Don’t ruin her focus.” I stood in that sterile, drafty corridor, watching Thomas’s friends and Enid’s family laugh as they peeled fruit inside the warm room. The clarity hit me with the quiet force of a physical blow. Our engagement party next week—there was absolutely no point in having it. 1 Thomas remained standing near the doorway of the private room. Enid’s uncle was laughing, tearing into a cellophane-wrapped basket, while someone else asked Thomas where they could find a knife to slice the apples. “Dr. Bradley, you really are something,” one of them said warmly. “One phone call and you got her a private suite.” Thomas didn’t answer. He simply looked over at me. There was no apology in his eyes—only a cold, rising impatience. I walked over to the nurses’ desk. “Could you look at my father’s chart? Is it medically appropriate for him to be stationed in the hallway right now?” The floor nurse glanced at the digital chart, then shot a nervous look toward Thomas before lowering her voice. “Mr. Hastings just had a stent placed. Ideally, he should be in a quiet room for observation. The hallway is… busy. It’s not the best environment.” I nodded, keeping my voice level. “Then please document that opinion in his official nursing chart.” The nurse froze. Thomas finally walked over, his steps heavy with irritation. “Caroline, is this really necessary?” I looked up at him. “I just want to know if my father is safe out here.” Enid stepped out of the room, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. “Caroline, please. Let’s just move my mother out. It’s all my fault. I had no idea I was putting you in such a difficult position.” She leaned against the doorframe, looking frail, but she didn’t make a single move to go back inside and help her mother pack. Through the glass, I could see her mother sitting comfortably, wrapped in thick, warm blankets. One of Enid’s aunts chimed in immediately. “Enid, sweetie, don’t push yourself. Your mother’s blood pressure just stabilized.” Another relative looked at me with a patronizing frown. “Young lady, elderly parents are fragile. We all have to make compromises. Besides, your father’s surgery is already finished, isn’t it?” I ignored them, keeping my eyes locked on Thomas. “If it were your father lying out here on a gurney today, Thomas, would you have made the same choice?” Thomas’s expression hardened. “Caroline, stop being childish.” My mother quickly grabbed my arm, her hand trembling. “Let it go, sweetie. Let’s just let your father rest.” The gurney sat at the very end of the hall, near the utility closet where the staff tossed soiled linens. Two IV poles were parked beside him. A nurse hung a fresh bag of saline and brought over a thin, scratchy hospital blanket. Beads of sweat lined my father’s forehead, but he still forced a weak smile. “It’s fine, Caroline. Right next to the desk. Easy to call for help.” He stopped to breathe, his chest rising and falling in shallow, painful movements. My mother leaned over immediately, gently rubbing his chest to soothe him. I stood there, feeling the warmth drain from my fingertips. Thomas walked over, his voice a low hiss. “The hospital is packed today. Don’t make a scene. As soon as a bed opens up tomorrow, I’ll get your dad moved.” “And what about Enid’s mother?” I asked. He frowned. “This is the first time her family has been to this hospital. If I put her mother in the hallway, Enid will think I don’t care about her.” My father kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but I saw my mother’s shoulders flinch at those words. “Thomas?” Enid called softly from the door. “My mom says she’s feeling dizzy again.” Without another glance at me, Thomas turned on his heel and disappeared back into her room. I pulled out my phone and dialed the cardiology department at St. Jude’s, the neighboring hospital. The coordinator confirmed they had a private telemetry room available and could accept a transfer. I read off my father’s vitals and post-op stats one by one. The nurse on the line reminded me that a family representative would need to sign the transfer papers. “I’ll sign them,” I said. By the time Thomas stepped back out into the hallway, I had already arranged for a private ambulance transport. When he saw the transfer forms in my hand, the color left his face. “You’re transferring him?” “Yes.” “Caroline, are you seriously questioning my professional medical judgment now?” I handed the pen back to the floor nurse. “I’m just not willing to gamble my father’s life on your favoritism.” He stared at me, speechlessness finally overtaking his irritation. With the transfer approved, I pulled up my contacts and called the coordinator at the Plaza Hotel. When the events manager answered with her usual warm, professional greeting, I kept my eyes fixed on the drafty corridor and the gurney at the end of it. “Hello, this is Caroline Hastings,” I said, my voice steady. “I need to cancel the engagement party next week between myself and Thomas Bradley.” 2 The transfer took until nine that night. By the time the ambulance crew arrived, the pain had stolen my father’s voice entirely. My mother sat in the back with him, clutching his hand and repeatedly asking the EMTs, “Is he going to be okay? Please tell me he’s going to be okay.” The paramedic reviewed the chart and noted that they would need to run a full cardiac panel upon arrival. I sat in the front passenger seat, clutching the thick envelope of my father’s medical records against my chest. Thomas didn’t show up to see us off. He only sent a single text: “Stop being dramatic. Let me know when you get to St. Jude’s.” I didn’t reply. The admitting team at St. Jude’s was waiting for us. The moment my father was wheeled into his private room, the nurses hooked him up to the monitors and began running his vitals. My mother stood near the doorway, looking as though she had aged a decade in a single evening. She looked at me, her eyes weary. “Caroline… about the engagement. Don’t do anything rash.” I poured her a cup of water from the bedside pitcher and handed it to her. “Mom, drink some water.” She didn’t take the cup. “Your father would hate to think our troubles ruined things between you and Thomas.” I looked at my father, who lay asleep under the soft, warm blankets of his quiet room. “If a marriage requires my parents to endure humiliation just to keep the peace, Mom, I don’t want it.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t say another word. The following morning, I had to return to Thomas’s hospital to retrieve the rest of my father’s diagnostic scans. As I walked out into the parking garage, Thomas’s sedan pulled up sharply in front of me. He got out of the car, his suit jacket draped over his arm, looking as though he had rushed straight out of a department meeting. “Caroline.” I tried to walk around him, but he stepped into my path, blocking me. “I admit the room situation could have been handled better,” he said, his voice tense. “But canceling the entire engagement party? Don’t you think that’s an overreaction?” I stared at him. “My father’s blood pressure fluctuated dangerously all night after the transfer.” Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blood pressure always fluctuates post-op, Caroline. You can’t blame every medical variable on me.” The words hung in the chilly garage air, and even he seemed to realize how cold they sounded, pausing for a moment. I remained silent. He softened his tone slightly, taking a step closer. “Look, I’ve already contacted a specialist at St. Jude’s to consult on his case. But this threat to cancel the engagement—you need to stop using it as leverage.” I reached into my bag, pulled out the small velvet ring box, and set it quietly on the hood of his car. “It’s not a threat, Thomas. It’s a notification.” Thomas looked down at the box, his expression freezing over. “Are you trying to give me an ultimatum, Caroline?” I shook my head. “No. I’m bowing out.” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Over a hospital room?” I didn’t waste any more breath. I turned and walked toward my car, leaving him standing there. Behind me, his voice rose, thick with suppressed anger. “You’ll regret this once you calm down!” When I returned to St. Jude’s, my father was awake. The moment he saw me, his first question was, “Did Thomas come with you?” “He’s busy at work,” I replied gently. My father nodded slowly, asking nothing more. That afternoon, the Plaza’s event manager called me again. “Ms. Hastings, Dr. Bradley just contacted our office. He insists the engagement party is still on and mentioned you were just having a stressful week. He told us not to cancel.” I stood outside the ICU step-down unit, looking through the glass at my father’s pale, worn face. “Remove all the tables on the bride’s side,” I said. The manager hesitated. “We usually require consent from both parties to modify the contract.” “I will pay the cancellation and modification fees in full. I’ll email you the signed authorization in five minutes.” Seconds after I hung up, my phone began to vibrate. It was Thomas. I ignored the call. A text popped up: “Don’t push this too far.” I sent him a photo of the velvet ring box sitting on his car hood. “The ring is back in your possession.” A long silence followed before he replied: “You’re just angry. You’ll get over it in a couple of days.” I blocked his number. 3 On the third day, Thomas’s mother called, asking me to come to her house. Her tone was polite, but carried that familiar, unyielding weight. “Caroline, dear, a marriage isn’t a game. If you’re feeling slighted, we should sit down and talk like adults.” I had no intention of going. But then she added that both Thomas and Enid were there. So, I went. The Bradley family living room was crowded. Thomas sat in an armchair, looking exhausted and grim. Enid was seated next to his mother, her eyes puffy, clutching a crumpled tissue. The moment I walked in, Enid sprang to her feet. “Caroline, I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault.” Before she could even finish the sentence, the tears began to flow. “I shouldn’t have let my mother take that room. I had no idea your father would end up on a gurney in the hallway.” Mrs. Bradley patted her hand soothingly. “You didn’t know, sweetheart.” One of Thomas’s aunts looked at me, her expression defensive. “Caroline, Enid has apologized. What more do you want?” Another uncle chimed in. “Yes, it’s unfortunate your father had to spend a night in the corridor. But Thomas was just trying to help. He couldn’t leave Enid’s mother stranded when she was in pain.” I remained standing near the entryway, refusing to sit. Thomas looked up at me. “Caroline, please. Sit down.” I didn’t budge. Mrs. Bradley’s brow furrowed. “Your father is fine now, isn’t he? The invitations for the engagement party went out weeks ago. Canceling it at the eleventh hour—how do you think that makes our family look?” “My father spent that entire night in agonizing pain,” I said flatly. The living room fell dead silent. Enid’s sobs intensified. “Caroline, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to your father. Just please don’t blame Thomas. He only did it because I begged him for help.” It was a carefully crafted statement—positioning herself as the damsel and me as the heartless aggressor. Every eye in the room turned to me, heavy with judgment, as if any further complaint on my part would be a display of cruelty. Thomas finally spoke up. “Caroline, Enid has already apologized.” I looked at him. “Does her apology erase the hours my father spent on a gurney in a drafts-ridden hallway?” His brow furrowed deeper. “Do you really have to air this out in front of my family?” “Alright,” I said, nodding slowly. “Let me put it in terms you might find more appropriate.” I pulled several folded sheets of paper from my bag. “These are copies of my father’s original room assignment, his transfer log, and his admission records from St. Jude’s.” Mrs. Bradley’s expression shifted from irritation to unease. “What are you doing with those?” “I’ve filed a formal complaint with the hospital’s ethics and administration board.” Thomas bolted upright. “Caroline Hastings.” His voice was low, dangerous. Enid immediately grabbed his sleeve, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Thomas, please don’t be angry. Caroline is just upset about her father.” I looked at her hand on his arm, and then back to Thomas. “The complaint isn’t about your personal favoritism, Thomas. It’s about a medical professional moving a fresh post-op cardiac patient into an unmonitored hallway to clear a room for a non-urgent visitor.” For the first time, a flicker of panic crossed Thomas’s eyes. Mrs. Bradley stood up, her composure cracking. “Caroline, surely we can handle this privately. Thomas is still young. An administrative mark like this could ruin his chances of becoming department head.” I slid the papers back into my purse. “And my father’s life shouldn’t be treated as collateral damage for your convenience.” No one in the room spoke. I turned toward the front door. Thomas caught up to me in the foyer, his grip tightening around my wrist. “When is this going to end, Caroline?” I wrenched my wrist free from his grasp. “It ends when you realize that my family is not yours to sacrifice.” As I walked down the driveway, the muffled sound of Enid’s crying echoed from inside the house. This time, Thomas didn’t follow me. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was an automated notification from the hospital’s compliance department: “Your grievance has been received and assigned a tracking number.” I cleared the screen. 4 When Thomas came to St. Jude’s to find me, I was finalizing my father’s rehabilitation schedule at the front desk. He was standing at the end of the corridor, still wearing his white lab coat with his “Associate Chief of Cardiology” badge pinned to his lapel. I handed the paperwork to the desk nurse before walking over. “Why are you here?” He glanced toward my father’s room. “How is he?” “The doctors want to keep him for observation.” He was silent for a moment, shifting his weight. “Withdraw the complaint, Caroline.” I just looked at him. He avoided my gaze, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “HR and the Chief of Medicine have already called me in. I know the transfer protocol was handled poorly, but it really isn’t as serious as you’re making it out to be.” “And how serious is that?” I asked. He frowned, showing his frustration. “Caroline, this will affect my performance reviews. It could freeze my promotion to full department chair.” I let out a soft laugh—the first time I had laughed in days. “So you didn’t come here because you were worried about my father. You came because you’re worried about your career.” Thomas’s face darkened. “Do you have to be so incredibly cynical?” “I’m just being realistic.” He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “Look, I’ve already contacted a specialist at St. Jude’s to consult on his case. And the engagement party—we can just postpone it. We don’t have to call the whole thing off.” I looked at him, feeling a profound sense of exhaustion. “Thomas, you still think this is a negotiation. You think I’m holding out for a better offer.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Caroline, are you determined to destroy everything we built?” The door to the room clicked open. My mother stepped out, holding an empty plastic water pitcher. When she saw Thomas, she froze. Thomas’s demeanor instantly shifted to one of deferential politeness. “Mrs. Hastings, I came to check on Mr. Hastings.” My mother looked at him, but she didn’t step away from the door to let him in. “He just fell asleep.” Thomas stood there, looking uncomfortable. My mother’s voice was quiet, but it possessed a rare, firm clarity. “Thomas, Caroline’s father was in pain all night. We might be simple people, but we still feel pain.” Thomas opened his mouth to speak. “Mrs. Hastings, I…” “You should go,” she said softly, turning back into the room and closing the door behind her. Thomas stood frozen in the hallway, looking utterly lost, like a man who had never experienced rejection in his entire structured life. I didn’t wait around to comfort him. I pulled out my phone and dialed the local moving company. That evening, I went back to the townhouse we had bought together. It was supposed to be our home. In the closet hung the designer dress I had purchased for the engagement party, and on the entryway console lay the sample place cards for the tables. I began packing my clothes into suitcases, one hanger at a time. My phone rang; it was the bridal boutique asking if I was still coming in for my final fitting next week. “No,” I said, folding a sweater. “Please cancel the order.” The stylist sounded startled. “Oh, is there a delay?” “The wedding is off,” I told her, and hung up. The movers arrived within the hour. As they were carrying the first round of boxes to the truck, my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, but it immediately rang again from an unrecognized number. I answered it. “Where are you?” Thomas’s voice was hard, tight with strain. “At the townhouse.” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Are you packing?” “Yes.” “Caroline, think very carefully about what you’re doing. If you walk out of that house tonight, don’t expect me to come chasing after you.” I looked at the empty hangers in the closet. “I don’t expect anything from you anymore, Thomas.” I ended the call. Before leaving, I laid the notarized dissolution of engagement document on the marble coffee table. Beside it, I placed an itemized list of the jewelry his family had gifted me, along with bank transfer receipts. Anything that could be returned had been sent back; the rest had been converted to cash and wired directly to Mrs. Bradley’s account. I set my house keys on top of the stack. By the time Thomas arrived thirty minutes later, I was already in the back of an Uber. A text message popped up on my screen: “Are you seriously doing this?” I looked at it, then slipped my phone into my pocket without replying. In the rearview mirror, the townhouse shrunk into the distance. My father was waiting for me at St. Jude’s, and my mother was sitting alone in a hospital room, probably too anxious to sleep. “Take me to St. Jude’s Hospital, please,” I told the driver.

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When Chester and I first got together, he made me a promise. He said that as long as I never brought up breaking up during our fights, I could act out as much as I wanted. I could test him, push his buttons, and he’d never walk away. Once, in a fit of rage, I tore up an expensive piece of art he’d painstakingly collected. He just stood there, watching me with a soft smile. “It’s fine, Nicola,” he said. “I can always commission another one.” Another time, I took apart a massive, intricate Lego set he’d spent weeks building, piece by piece. All he did was sigh with gentle resignation. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll build another one just so you can tear it down.” But when my hand brushed against a scruffy, faded stuffed animal sitting in the back of the closet, Chester’s entire demeanor shifted. In a split second, the warmth drained from his face. He lunged forward, locking his fingers around my wrist with a grip so tight it made me gasp. Seeing my pain, his grip softened slightly, but his eyes remained hard. “Nicola, I told you. Not this. Anything but this.” I knew what it was. It was the last thing Lila had left him before she packed her bags, threw him away, and moved to London. I had been there through everything—from the cramped, damp studio apartment we shared when he had nothing, to the sprawling suburban estate we lived in now. And through every single move, he brought that stuffed animal with him. He claimed he kept it as a monument to his own humiliation, a reminder of how he’d been abandoned when his family went under. But he didn’t realize that every time his gaze drifted toward it, his eyes softened with a quiet, aching longing he couldn’t quite hide. The scissors slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Suddenly, all the fight drained out of me. I felt incredibly, deeply tired. I didn’t want to play my part in this self-deception anymore. I was done pretending. … As the scissors hit the floor, Chester let out a breath so quiet I almost missed it. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead and reached for the stuffed animal, locking it away inside the heavy safe in the corner of his study. “I’m sorry, Nicola,” he murmured, turning back to me. “If you don’t want to see it, I’ll keep it out of sight.” I had never paid attention to the combination of his safe before, but tonight, the numbers clicked in my mind. His phone passcode, the keypad locks on every apartment we’d ever rented… they all used the same sequence. August second. 0802. I remembered then. That was the day Lila’s flight departed. The day she walked out of his life. Before I could spiral further, Chester wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me close. “Nicola, let’s go look at wedding dresses tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. “I’ve contacted a few of the top designers. They do different styles, so you can choose whatever you want.” I instinctively reached up, resting my hand on his forearm, and felt the raised, uneven texture of a scar through his sleeve. A bite mark. Left by Lila. Their college romance had been legendary—loud, messy, and incredibly public. Lila had a volatile temper. During one of their screaming matches, she had bitten down on his arm so hard it drew blood, leaving a permanent mark. Shortly after that, Chester’s family went bankrupt. Lila wasted no time cutting ties with him and flying across the Atlantic. Later, when Chester told me about it, there was a dark, obsessive edge in his eyes. “You can do whatever you want to me, Nicola. Just never tell me you want to break up.” Even after he built his empire and could easily afford the best cosmetic procedures, he never got rid of the scar. He said he needed to look at it to remember how people kicked him when he was down. He wanted to prove them wrong. I sighed, turning around in his embrace to look him in the eye. “Chester… do you still love her?” He denied it almost instantly, his voice sharp with defensiveness. “How could I still love her? I’m not a masochist.” But as he spoke, his thumb brushed repeatedly against his pinky finger—a nervous tic he only had when he was lying. Right then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it like a lifeline, his eyes darting away to hide the sudden panic. He pressed the phone to his ear. It was his college roommate, Tyler. “Hey, Chester. I figured I should let you know. Lila’s coming back to town tomorrow. A bunch of us are throwing her a welcome-back dinner. Up to you if you want to show.” At the mention of her name, Chester went completely still, his gaze turning hollow. It took him several seconds after the line went dead to look back at me. Neither of us said a word. The silence stretched until my throat felt dry. “Didn’t you say…” My voice cracked, a small, pathetic catch in my throat. “Didn’t you say we were going to look at wedding dresses tomorrow?” I was grasping at straws, hating myself for it. I thought, If he chooses me tomorrow, I can keep playing the fool. I can pretend none of this matters. Chester remained silent for a long time, and with every passing second, my heart sank a little deeper. “Nicola,” he finally whispered, his voice laced with a quiet plea. “I just need to know why. I need to know why she really left back then. I promise you, there’s nothing between us anymore. I want you to come with me.” I closed my eyes. He hadn’t even seen her yet, and he was already searching for an excuse to justify her betrayal. These past five years with him… what a sad, exhausting joke they had been. The next morning, Chester woke up before me, which was rare. I opened my eyes to find him standing in front of the full-length mirror, trying on jackets. He looked sharp, effortlessly handsome. Seeing me wake, he offered a warm, rehearsed smile. “Morning. I picked up those pastries you love from the bakery down the street.” But before I could even sit up, his attention drifted back to the mirror. “Nicola, what do you think of this tie? Does it clash with the suit? Maybe the charcoal gray is better? I don’t want to look too casual, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard either.” His voice was tight with an anxious, eager energy—like a teenager getting ready for a first date. I didn’t say anything. Sensing my silence, Chester caught his reflection, realizing how transparent he was being. He cleared his throat, sat on the edge of the mattress, and cupped my face in his hands. “Hey. Don’t overthink this, Nicola. I just want her to see how happy I am with you. I want her to see what she lost.” I gently pushed his hands away, telling him I needed to get dressed. If he had looked around the room for even a second, he would have noticed my packed suitcase tucked discreetly beside the vanity. But he didn’t. His mind was entirely consumed by the ghost of his past, finally flesh and blood again. In a way, it was a relief. I wasn’t like Chester; I had no appetite for dramatic, lingering tragedies. We needed to see Lila. Chester needed to look his past in the eye so he could finally understand his own heart. And if his hatred for her was just the inverted edge of love… then I would walk away for good. Chester was a wire of pure tension as we stood outside the private dining room at the restaurant. The moment the door swung open, his hand on my waist tightened so hard it bruised. Inside, sitting right at the center of the table, was Lila. She looked up and gave us a soft, knowing smile. For a second, the room seemed to lose its sound. It was just the two of them, staring at each other across a vast, invisible canyon of years and unresolved pain. Finally, someone broke the silence. “Chester! Man, you actually showed up. You never come to these things. And this must be your fiancée? Wow, she’s gorgeous!” I smiled politely, offering a nod, which seemed to snap Chester back to reality. He grabbed my hand, though his eyes never left Lila. “Yeah. This is Nicola. My fiancée. We’re getting married soon.” Whether by design or sheer coincidence, the only two empty seats left were right next to Lila. As we sat down, the casual chatter resumed. “Lila, you used to be such a tomboy in college. Living abroad has made you so soft and elegant.” Before Lila could reply, Chester let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Well, you have to be soft to please wealthy men, right? Not everyone has the patience to put up with her old temper.” A tense silence fell over the table. Tyler tried to smooth things over quickly. “So, Lila, what did you end up studying over there? Was grad school fun?” Chester swirled the wine in his glass, his voice dripping with venom. “Yeah, what did you major in? Did you take a masterclass in how to vanish overnight without a word?” The entire room went dead silent. Hoping to break the agonizing tension, I quietly raised my glass. “It’s wonderful to meet you all. Let’s make a toast.” The others eagerly raised their glasses in relief, but neither Lila nor Chester moved. Lila’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She hesitated, then slowly reached for her wine. But before her fingers could close around the stem, Chester snatched the glass out of her hand and downed it in one swallow. Avoiding my eyes completely, he grabbed her by the wrist. “Aren’t you allergic to alcohol?” he snapped, his voice tight. “Or were you planning to make a scene and blame it on my fiancée?” They stared at each other. Chester seemed desperate to mask his protectiveness with cruelty, sneering down at her. “Besides, you can see how beautiful and sweet Nicola is. You don’t even compare to her. You walked away so easily back then—why are you back? Couldn’t find a richer target over there? Or did you run out of fools to ruin?” Lila couldn’t take it anymore. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let out a choked sob before covering her face and fleeing the room. Chester didn’t look after her. Instead, he frantically started piling food onto my plate, his movements frantic and erratic. Beneath the table, I could see his other hand clenched into a fist, his veins bulging with strain. Finally, with a sharp clatter, he threw his fork down and bolted out the door. The room fell into an awkward, suffocating silence. I was left sitting there with a table of strangers staring at me. Even though I had prepared myself for this exact scenario, a sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest. I gathered my purse, forcing a polite, empty smile to preserve whatever dignity I had left. “Excuse me, everyone. I’m not feeling very well, so I think I’ll head home. Have a wonderful evening.” As I reached the quiet of the hallway near the elevators, Chester’s voice echoed from around the corner. “Lila! Who the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to walk out on me?” he roared, his voice thick with years of accumulated rage. “I am not the broken kid you threw away anymore!” Lila’s response was a desperate, tearful plea. “Then why do you still care? If you hate me so much, why did you take that drink for me? Just like you used to!” “How could I not care!” The words tore out of Chester instantly, raw and unfiltered. Then, a heavy, suffocating silence fell between them, broken only by Lila’s quiet sobbing. Finally, she spoke, her voice cracked and small. “Chester… I was wrong. I made a mistake. Can we… is there any way we can start over?” Chester’s breathing hitched, heavy and ragged. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, I waited with her for his answer. I stood in front of the elevator, pressing the call button. The light lit up, went out, and lit up again. But no words came from Chester. Just a heavy, echoing silence. I smiled a tired, private smile. The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside and didn’t look back. His hesitation was all the answer I needed. I had no desire to be a supporting character in their tragic romance. I was opting out. Back at the house, I walked through the rooms, looking closely at the place I had called home for five years. I was just reaching for my suitcase when the front door burst open. Chester rushed in, his face pale with anxiety. “Nicola, why did you leave on your own?” I kept my voice perfectly flat. “It’s fine, Chester. We need to—” “Chester.” A soft voice cut me off. Lila stepped out from behind him, a small, tentative smile on her face. “I guess you really didn’t forget what we promised in college.” Chester looked deeply uncomfortable as Lila walked past him, running her fingers over the back of our sofa before sitting down. “The hardwood floors, the cream-colored linen, the massive windows… it’s exactly how I pictured it.” Watching her admire the space, I felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. I remembered when Chester’s company was preparing to go public—the most chaotic, high-stakes months of his career. Yet, he had insisted on personally designing this house, supervising every detail of the construction. Now I knew why. This was Lila’s dream home. Chester frowned, stealing a tense glance at my expression before turning to Lila. His voice was forced and stiff. “It’s just a standard layout from the design firm. A coincidence.” The smile froze on Lila’s face, a flash of resentment darting through her eyes. “And taking that drink for me? Was that a coincidence? You, who never show up to alumni dinners, showing up tonight of all nights… is that a coincidence too? Chester!” She stepped forward, throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me anymore.” Chester froze, completely rigid. After a moment of paralyzed shock, his eyes darted to me, but he didn’t push her away. A profound, icy irritation flared in my chest. I pointed toward the door. “As of this moment, I am still the tenant of this house. If you two want to play out your college drama, do it somewhere else.” Lila pulled back, her eyes locking onto mine. Before I could react, she let go of Chester and dropped to her knees right in front of me on the hardwood floor. “Nicola, please,” she sobbed, looking up at me. “You saw him tonight. He doesn’t hate me—he’s just blinded by the pain of the past. Please, let him go. Let me have him back. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for what I did to him!” I stepped back, disgusted by the theater of it all. “Lila, whatever history you two have is none of my business. And Chester isn’t a piece of property I can just hand over to you.” I looked up at Chester, who was staring down at Lila with a complicated, agonizing expression. “I’ll say it one last time. Both of you, get out.” Chester closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped around Lila, reaching out to grasp my hand. “Lila, I told you at the restaurant,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’m marrying Nicola. She’s the woman I want to build a life with. What happened back then… it’s over.” Lila shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face as she screamed at him. “Chester! You still haven’t said it! You haven’t said you don’t love me! Say it! If you can look me in the eye and say you don’t love me, I’ll disappear forever! But you can’t, because you still care!” Chester’s hand in mine was shaking violently. His eyes were bloodshot as he forced the words through gritted teeth. “I don’t love you anymore, Lila. From this moment on, there is only Nicola.” Lila stared at him in utter disbelief. Then, letting out a shattered cry, she scrambled to her feet and ran out of the house, leaving the front door wide open. Instantly, Chester’s hand twitched in mine. His body leaned toward the door, his instincts screaming at him to follow her. I tightened my grip on his hand, holding him back for just one second. “Chester,” I said, my voice dead calm. “If you run after her tonight, we are completely over.” Panic flashed in his eyes. “She just got back to the city, Nicola. She has no one else here, and she’s hysterical. I’m afraid she’ll do something stupid! Let me just make sure she’s safe, and I’ll explain everything when I get back, okay?” Without waiting for my reply, he pulled his hand from mine and ran out into the night. The heavy front door slammed shut behind him. I stood in the quiet foyer, feeling absolutely nothing. I turned around, walked into the bedroom, and picked up my suitcase. Chester. That was the third time you chose her. And it was your last.

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I was eighteen when they finally brought me home—the biological daughter they had spent a decade searching for. But I was broken, stuttering, and semi-mute from years of neglect. Coral, the girl they had adopted to replace me, was everything I wasn’t: radiant, polished, and effortlessly perfect. It didn’t take long for my mother’s guilt to sour into resentment. To spare herself the embarrassment of my existence, she let Coral convince her to pack me off to a “therapeutic boarding school” deep in the Oregon wilderness—a closed reform camp designed to fix broken girls like me. During the first month, to force me to articulate my consonants, the head counselor used a heated iron rod—an “aversive conditioning tool,” he called it—leaving my skin a patchwork of raw, blistered burns. During the second month, they dragged me down to a damp, concrete basement for an unmedicated vocal cord procedure, trying to surgically tear a voice out of me. By the third month, the counselor told me that if I failed the next vocal evaluation, I would be sent to “The Quiet Room.” The other girls whispered that no one ever came out of that room alive. I called my mother, weeping, begging her to save me. But Coral leaned into the receiver, her voice dripping with sweet, performative surprise. “Oh, Mom, listen to her! Nelly’s words are actually forming now. She’s finally making progress. If we just hold our ground and push her a little harder, she’ll be completely normal.” My mother’s sighs softened over the line. She nodded, her voice steadying. “You’re right. She’s always been lazy. If we don’t force her hand, she’ll never strive for better the way you do. Let her stay. Nelly, when you can speak like a civilized human being, I will come get you.” … I failed my final evaluation. As they dragged me down the hallway toward the heavy metal door of The Quiet Room, I stopped fighting. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift into the silence, whispering a final thought to the mother who had abandoned me: “Mom, you never have to be ashamed of me again.” I was eighteen when the private investigators finally pulled me out of the foster care system and delivered me to the Wellesley estate. At first, my mother, Shirley, was consumed by a desperate, suffocating guilt. She held me tight, weeping into my hair, swearing she would spend the rest of her life making up for the years we’d lost. But guilt is a fragile emotion. It didn’t take long for her to realize I was semi-mute. The guilt remained, but the warmth slowly drained from her eyes. Day by day, her gentle touches grew rarer, and her gaze began to drift back to Coral, who sat across the room, sparkling under the living room chandelier. I would stand in the shadows, my fingers twisting the hem of my cheap shirt, aching to call out to her. “Mom.” I would force the air up from my lungs, but the sound that emerged was always fractured, wet, and utterly incomprehensible. Coral would pull at Shirley’s sleeve, letting out a soft, melodic giggle. “Mom, when Nelly speaks, it sounds like she’s trying to chew through a mouthful of wet gravel.” Even our housekeeper would turn her head to hide a smile. Shirley didn’t scold Coral. She just looked away, her silence a quiet agreement. The turning point came on the night Wellesley Holdings went public on the New York Stock Exchange. Coral, wearing a designer dress that cost more than my entire childhood, practically dragged me onto the stage under the blinding lights of the ballroom. The crowd was a sea of glittering black-tie attire. Photographers and journalists crowded the stage, their lenses raised, waiting for the newly recovered biological daughter to speak for the very first time. The flashbulbs burst in rapid succession, blinding me. Instantly, the luxury of the ballroom dissolved, and I was thrown back into a memory of the buzzing fluorescent bulb in the rusted tool shed of my foster home, where I had been locked away for days. Panic seized my chest. “Help,” I choked out, the word tearing raw from my throat. “Please, help.” The room went dead silent. Then, a wave of muffled laughter rippled through the crowd. Guests leaned in to whisper to one another, their smiles sharp. To them, my desperate plea sounded like the pathetic, wet squeal of a farm animal. I looked down at the front row. The last trace of maternal warmth in Shirley’s eyes had vanished. She hated me for that night. She hated my voice, my posture, my inability to fit into her gilded world. To her, I was a stain on the family name, an embarrassment that outweighed any biological tie. “How are you my blood?” she hissed at me in the car on the way home, her voice trembling with disgust. “You don’t have a single drop of my grace in you.” Two weeks later, Coral walked into the breakfast nook, her face bright with a helpful smile. She laid a brochure on the marble island. It was for a private, highly disciplined language reform camp. “They specialize in cases exactly like Nelly’s,” Coral coaxed. “They guarantee that in less than ninety days, even the most stubborn speech impediments are fully corrected. She’ll come back completely normal.” Shirley didn’t hesitate. She signed the enrollment and liability waiver that very morning. The next day, two men in gray uniforms escorted me out of the house. The rules at the camp were brutal. The instructors designed a curriculum tailored specifically to break me. I was subjected to twelve hours of grueling vocal drills every single day. If I didn’t hit the correct pitches and inflections, I was denied dinner. I was denied sleep. When my throat bled and I couldn’t make a sound, the lead instructor brought out the heated iron rod, pressing it to my skin to shock a sound out of me. My body became a canvas of blisters and scabs. The only word I could articulate clearly, without a stutter, was “please”. I was kept in isolation, starved, and exhausted beyond comprehension. The other girls in the barracks made a game out of me, mocking my choked sounds, calling me a pathetic mute who didn’t deserve the Wellesley name. It wasn’t until the third month that my roommate, Talia, managed to smuggle a burner phone into our room. She slipped it under my thin mattress. Initially, I had resolved never to call my mother. I didn’t want to beg. But the deep, throbbing pain in my back, and the sensation of breathing in crushed glass every time I swallowed, broke my resolve. The primal instinct to survive overcame the quiet despair in my chest. With trembling fingers, I dialed the number I had memorized during my years in foster care. “Mom… please… let me come home…” There was a brief, heavy silence on the other end. I heard Shirley inhale, a momentary hesitation in her breath. But before she could speak, Coral’s voice cut in, close to the receiver. “Mom, listen to her. Don’t you hear how much clearer her voice is? But of course, she’s always been soft. She can’t handle a little hard work. Maybe we should just bring her home and let her stay like this forever?” Shirley’s hesitation hardened into ice. “You need to stay there and finish your program, Nelly. This is for your own good. When you can speak to me like a normal daughter, I’ll bring you home.” I squeezed my eyes shut, pouring the last of my strength into the phone. “Mom, please. They’re killing me. I’m going to die here…” “I told you to stop this dramatic nonsense,” Shirley snapped, her irritation sharp. “You survived eighteen years digging through dumpsters and running wild in the backwoods. A structured camp isn’t going to kill you.” “Mom,” Coral chimed in, “Nelly only called because she failed her evaluation today. You can’t let her manipulate you now, or she’ll never learn to speak.” “Nelly,” Shirley said, her tone absolute. “Don’t you dare threaten me. If you can’t even pass a simple evaluation, don’t bother returning to this family.” The call went dead. My tears smeared across the screen as a warm rush of blood filled my mouth. The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the concrete floor. My throat, raw and infected from the forced procedures, burned with every breath. “A useless, broken thing,” the instructor’s voice echoed in my head from earlier that afternoon. “You’ll always be a disgrace.” The final evaluation was tomorrow. Talia sat on the edge of my cot, pulling me into a tight, protective hug. In the three months of horror I had endured, she was the only person who hadn’t joined in on the cruelty. She was stubborn, loud, and fierce, always stepping in to take the blows meant for me. Seeing me slide back onto the pillow, she pressed a small brass key into my palm. “Nelly, if you stay here, they’re going to kill you,” she whispered, wiping the blood from my chin with her sleeve. “I swiped the key to the back gate. Tonight, you run.” “What about… you?” I wheezed, my voice barely a dry rattle. She offered me a small, brave smile. “Don’t worry about me. My family called. They’re picking me up tomorrow.” I nodded, clutching the cold metal of the key in my fist. A second later, the heavy iron door of the barracks was kicked open. The bright beam of a flashlight cut through the dark, blinding us. The head counselor stood in the doorway, his face dark with fury. “We got a tip. Someone’s holding contraband. Who has the phone?” My heart stopped. I knew instantly. Coral had called the camp director. She had finished the job. Before I could move, Talia stood up, placing herself between me and the guard. “It was me,” she said, her voice steady. “I stole the phone. She didn’t do anything.” The counselor sneered, stepping forward and grabbing Talia by her hair, throwing her to the ground. Another guard lunged toward me, kicking me hard into the concrete wall. “Possession and complicity are the same damn thing,” the counselor barked. “You both get the belt.” The blows came down in a rhythmic, sickening thud. The counselor stepped on my chest, pinning me to the floor, forcing my head back. “Speak!” he yelled. “The Wellesleys paid a fortune to fix you. You will speak!” I coughed, a thick, dark spray of blood choking my airway. The pain in my ribs, my back, my throat—it all began to dissolve into a strange, numbing cold. With the last of my strength, I rolled my head to the side. Through the haze, I saw Talia lying motionless on the floor, her face bruised and pale. I failed my final evaluation. As my eyes closed and my body went limp, my consciousness drifted upward, light and detached. I looked down and saw my own body resting on the cold floor. The counselor pressed two fingers to my neck, froze, and stumbled backward in panic. Guided by a quiet, instinctual pull, my spirit drifted back to the Wellesley mansion. I wanted to see it one last time—the place I had desperately tried to call home. In the living room, the atmosphere was warm and peaceful. Shirley was leaning back against the plush velvet sofa, peeling a fresh orange for Coral, her eyes filled with gentle affection. Then, the sudden, shrill ring of Shirley’s phone cut through the quiet. It was the camp director. His voice was frantic, heavy with forced gravity. “Mrs. Wellesley, I’m incredibly sorry to inform you… your daughter, Nelly, passed away an hour ago due to a medical emergency. We need you to come to the facility immediately to claim her body.” Shirley’s hand froze. A flicker of shock crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, cynical sneer. “Is this the new routine?” she asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. “You couldn’t handle her, so now you’re helping her stage her own death? I paid your facility to reform her, not to participate in her ridiculous theater.” “Mrs. Wellesley, this is not a joke—” “Save it,” Shirley snapped. “She just wants to escape the work. Tell her that if she wants to come home, she has to earn it.” She hung up, tossing the phone onto the table. Faced with her refusal, the camp administration looked through my intake files and dialed my secondary emergency contact: Martha, the director of the group home where I had spent my childhood. When Martha heard the news, she collapsed into tears over the phone. She drove through the night to reach the camp. She signed the papers, claimed my cold, bruised body, and oversaw my cremation alone, her heart breaking for the little girl she had raised. Holding the ceramic urn against her chest, she drove straight to the Wellesley estate. When the front door opened, Shirley looked at Martha’s tear-stained face and the heavy urn in her arms. A sudden, sharp panic flickered in her eyes. She took a half-step back, her voice barely a whisper. “No… that’s not real…” But Coral quickly stepped forward, catching Shirley’s arm. “Mrs. Higgins,” Coral said, her voice sharp and accusatory. “You’re a grown woman. How can you help Nelly with this sick prank?” She turned to Shirley, her expression soft and comforting. “Mom, don’t let them trick you. Nelly is desperate to get out of her training. First she fakes her death, and now she gets her old foster mother to bring a jar of dirt to our house? It’s manipulative. If you let her come back after this, she’ll just keep embarrassing us.” The panic in Shirley’s eyes hardened back into cold, defensive anger. “She really has outdone herself this time.” Before Martha could utter a word of explanation, Shirley lunged forward, ripped the ceramic urn from her hands, and threw it hard against the marble floor. The urn shattered. My ashes scattered across the polished floor, a pale, gray dust. Martha let out a raw, broken cry, dropping to her knees, desperately trying to sweep the ashes back together with her bare hands. But Shirley wasn’t finished. Driven by a furious, righteous anger, she grabbed a handful of the gray dust from the floor, marched into the guest bathroom, and threw it into the toilet, pulling the silver handle. I floated in the corner of the room, watching the rushing water carry away the last physical pieces of my existence. Martha stood in the hallway, her body shaking with grief and rage. “How can you be so cruel?” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “She was your own flesh and blood!” “She was a liar and a manipulator,” Shirley yelled back, her chin high. “I wish I had never brought her into this house!” “Nelly spent her entire childhood feeling like she was a mistake,” Martha said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper. “When you found her, she thought she was finally safe. She thought she was going to have a mother. But you turned out to be the worst thing that ever happened to her. You left her in that hellhole, and now you won’t even let her rest.” “She was weak,” Shirley sneered. “Coral is my daughter. She is the only one who belongs in this family.” I stood behind Shirley, my spirit shivering. Even now, after everything, there was no room for me in her heart. Martha wiped her eyes, her expression turning cold and hollow. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and tossed it onto the coffee table. “If you don’t believe me, Mrs. Wellesley, read it yourself.”

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Austin only managed to win me over because of his female relationship guru. Because of that, Mallory felt perfectly entitled to pull the strings of our entire relationship. She was the one who told him that keeping things private was the only way to protect them. So, for five years, Austin never posted a single picture of me on Instagram. Not even a passing mention in a story. She was the one who said distance makes the heart grow fonder, and that being together twenty-four/seven would only breed resentment. So, Austin wouldn’t even take me out on a date without her green light. I cried. I threw tantrums. Yet, Austin always managed to look like the real victim. “I only asked her to help because I wanted us to last, Sherry,” he would plead, looking utterly exhausted by my tears. “Why can’t you just try to understand that?” Until last night. Austin left me while I was burning up with a fever and went completely off the grid. When I finally couldn’t bear the silence anymore, I sent him a text. “Where are you?” The reply came almost instantly. “A woman needs her own agency. Constantly clinging to a man just devalues you. If you make yourself cheap, he won’t cherish you.” I knew it was Mallory using his phone to reply. This time, I didn’t care why Mallory had his phone so late. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t demand to know who mattered more to him. Something inside me just clicked, and then… it went quiet. He had an advisor. Well, so did I. 1. Austin didn’t come home until almost dawn. He brought with him a heavy scent of whiskey, and every corner of his jacket was smeared with sweet, sticky frosting. Remembering the text from earlier, I reached out and quietly took his phone from his hand. “Let me clean that off for you.” Before the words could even leave my mouth, Austin flinched away as if my touch were a disease. “I told you, Sherry, I don’t like people touching my phone,” he snapped. “Even couples need boundaries.” Boundaries. I had believed that lie for five years. Yet, for those same five years, Mallory had comfortably slipped past those boundaries, answering his texts whenever she pleased. A dull ache flared in my chest. I couldn’t help but press him. “Who replied to my text earlier then? If you care so much about boundaries, why is Mallory always the exception?” Having his hypocrisy laid bare made Austin’s face darken with annoyance. “How many times do I have to tell you? She’s just my relationship guru. Why do you always have to be so paranoid?” To prove his innocence, he unlocked the phone in front of me. The screen was slick with frosting, and it took him three attempts to swipe the passcode correctly. `0709`. July ninth. It was Mallory’s birthday. He had spent the night with her, came home covered in frosting, and his phone’s passcode was her birthday—not mine. The weight of that realization crushed whatever fight I had left in me. Even demanding an explanation felt pointless. Over the years, I had begged him for some small semblance of romance. I had asked him to change his wallpaper or lock screen to something that represented us. Back then, Austin had dismissed me with a single, cold word: “Childish.” He thought I was childish. But when it came to Mallory, it was different. With tears hot on my cheeks, I asked him why. He only gave me an irritated shrug. “She said it was annoying to keep asking for my password when she was helping me reply to your messages. I changed it to her birthday out of convenience.” What I had begged five years for, he gave to her on a whim. I stared at him, unable to recognize the man standing in front of me. Before we started dating, he used to spend hours drafting a single text to me. When I teasingly called him a clueless guy, he panicked and hired Mallory to write high-EQ responses to win me over. But I never imagined that this so-called relationship guru would slowly, methodically, weave herself into the very fabric of our lives. At that moment, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion washed over me. Austin’s phone buzzed. It was a notification from Mallory. She had sent him screenshots of their photos together across various social media platforms. The caption read: “My absolute favorite person in the world.” For five years, because Mallory said a relationship should be private, Austin kept me hidden. Yet, he gave Mallory a public, exclusive place in his life. They were each other’s absolute favorites. I was just the third wheel. I forced a bitter smile and held the phone up to his face. “Since she’s so important to you, why don’t we just break up so you two can be together? That way, she won’t have to work so hard to make my life miserable.” Austin scoffed, slapping the phone out of my hand. “Mallory just wanted to give you a reality check so you’d appreciate me more! She works herself to the bone trying to keep us together, and all you do is accuse her. She’s right—you really are a manipulative, insecure snake.” “Mallory says, Mallory says.” He always hung on her every word. I realized then that arguing was useless. A relationship guru? Who didn’t have one? I closed my mouth, opened my messaging app, and pulled up a chat with my childhood best friend. “Hey, my advisor… I think he loves his relationship guru more than me. What do I do?” Bruno replied almost instantly. “Your advisor is better. I’m flying back to the States in three days.” “Will you give me a chance?” Three days from now was our fifth anniversary. Since Austin obeyed his advisor, I decided it was time to start listening to mine. 2. Perhaps because I had actually brought up breaking up, Austin did something unprecedented the next day. He offered to take me to a gathering with his close circle of friends. “Mallory just wanted to give you a reality check. Stop being mad,” he said, adjusting his collar. “I know you’ve been wanting to go public. I’m taking you to meet the guys today. Happy now?” He was finally willing to bring me into his world, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. All I could think about was how much of this decision had been orchestrated by Mallory. Yet, I didn’t refuse. Since I had already resolved to leave, I wanted to see exactly how rotten this relationship had become. When we arrived at the private dining room, everyone was crowded around Mallory, laughing and talking. Not a single person looked up to acknowledge my existence. There was only one empty seat at the main table, and a flimsy plastic stool placed next to Mallory’s chair. Austin looked momentarily embarrassed. He started to pull the plastic stool over so we could squeeze in together at the main table. But Mallory called out to him, her voice dripping with mock disbelief. “Are you choosing a girl over your brothers, Austin? Don’t be such a pathetic simp.” She smirked, gesturing to the stool. “Let Sherry sit with me.” Her words put him on the spot in front of his friends. I stood there quietly, waiting to see what he would choose. I got my answer when he let go of the stool and walked over to sit with his friends, leaving me to sit alone next to Mallory. Sitting on that cheap plastic stool, looking at Austin across the table, my mind drifted back to five years ago. When we first started dating, he would wait outside my dorm building every single night until the lights-out curfew. Someone had taken a picture of him and posted it on the campus confession board, teasing him for being a simp. But Austin had proudly commented under the post: “If treating my girl right makes me a simp, then I’m the biggest simp in the world.” But now, everything was different. “Sherry,” Mallory’s voice broke my train of thought. She nudged my arm, a conspiratorial look on her face. “You know, guys, Sherry looks so innocent in public, but she is so clingy in private.” She cleared her throat, pitch-shifting her voice into a whiny, mocking caricature to read my texts to Austin. “‘Austin, can you please give me just a little bit of your time?’ ‘Austin, I want to make this work, why are you being so cold?’” The table erupted into loud, cruel laughter. The heat rushed to my face. “Could you respect my privacy?” I asked, my voice cold. Mallory rolled her eyes, scoffing. “We wrote half of those replies to you anyway, so what privacy are you talking about? I shared your chat history in the group chat ages ago. The guys are honestly sick of reading your whining.” The vulnerability I had only ever shown to Austin had been passed around like a cheap joke in their group chat. The humiliation suffocated me. I looked at Austin, hoping he would put an end to this circus. Instead, Mallory took my silence as permission to push further. “Are you going to run and cry to Austin now?” she giggled. “You know, when he first started kissing, he didn’t even know how to breathe. I had to teach him. Technically, you should be thanking me.” She really was a dedicated advisor, teaching him how to kiss, step-by-step. The thought of every intimate moment I had shared with Austin made my stomach churn. I felt physically sick. I stood up and walked out. Austin instinctively moved to follow, but Mallory’s sharp voice cut through the room. “Stop right there, Austin. Are you a man or not?” she mocked. “She’s just playing hard to get, and you’re running after her like a puppy. You’re going to let her control you for the rest of your life?” I quickened my pace, pushing through the doors. I knew he wouldn’t follow. In five years, whenever Mallory was involved, he had never once stood by my side. And I didn’t need him to anymore. 3. I walked back to our apartment in a daze, immediately pulling out my suitcase to pack. My phone buzzed with a text from Austin. “Hey baby, my phone glitched and accidentally ordered that cake you like. Are you ready to forgive me yet?” It was always like this. When Mallory was in a good mood, she would draft some high-EQ apology for him to send me. When she wasn’t, she would tell him to ignore me to “give me a reality check.” I used to play along, pretending not to notice because I wanted to keep the peace. But now, picturing her smug face on the other side of the screen, controlling my emotions like a puppet master, I felt nothing but disgust. I typed back: “Mallory, do you really think you’re that clever?” I didn’t wait for a reply. I threw my things into the suitcase, only to realize I had barely anything to pack. Over the years, Mallory had constantly whispered in Austin’s ear: “The better you treat a woman, the less she values you. Money is to show them, not to spend on them.” So, in five years, Austin had rarely bought me anything—not even a single bouquet of flowers. My entire life in this apartment fit into a single suitcase. It made leaving beautifully simple. As I zipped it shut, a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Mallory standing on the threshold. She tilted her chin, intentionally exposing a neck covered in dark red hickeys. “You just had to throw a tantrum, didn’t you?” she smirked, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “As his advisor, I had to step in and help him blow off some steam.” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, the sight of those marks still sent a sharp, physical pain through my chest. I swallowed the ache and forced a cold laugh. “What’s the point of throwing yourself at him like a desperate side-piece? He still didn’t choose you to be his girlfriend, did he?” That hit a nerve. Mallory’s smug expression shattered, and she shoved me hard against the doorframe. “We were practically together before you barged in! You’re the real home-wrecker here. Your mother was a mistress, and a mistress’s daughter is always a mistress.” Hearing her insult my mother, the dam broke. Years of repressed rage boiled over, and I raised my hand and swung. “Slap!” The sharp, stinging sound echoed in the hallway. But my palm didn’t hit Mallory’s face. It struck Austin’s cheek. Realizing Austin had stepped in to take the blow for her, Mallory immediately burst into tears, her voice trembling. “I just saw how upset she was and wanted to apologize… Sherry, what did I ever do to make you hate me this much?” Austin stood like a shield in front of her, the disgust in his eyes burning into me. “She called my mother a mistress. She deserved it,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. Austin, thoroughly manipulated by Mallory’s tears, snapped. “You’ll say anything to lie about Mallory. Your mother did things that couldn’t face the light of day. Are people not even allowed to talk about it?” An icy chill washed over me, numbing me from head to toe. Only Austin knew about my mother’s past. He knew she only found out my biological father had another family after I was born. He knew she had tried to end her life multiple times from the shame of that label. And yet, he had handed our deepest pain to Mallory like cheap gossip, letting her weaponize it against me. I stood there, completely drained of life, as tears fell silently. Realizing he had crossed a line, Austin’s expression softened slightly, and he reached out to touch my shoulder. I stepped back, avoiding him. I looked at the man standing before me. He felt like a stranger. My mind flashed back to the night he had knelt in the pouring rain outside my mother’s house for hours, begging for her blessing. That night, he had held our hands and made a solemn vow. “If I ever hurt Sherry, let me rot. I promise to give her the home she deserves.” It was all a lie. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Austin, we’re done.” Austin’s eyes widened, and he reached for my hand again, but Mallory stepped between us. “Remember what I told you, Austin?” she warned. “Whoever apologizes first loses. I hate these manipulative, dramatic girls.” Austin froze, seemingly swayed by her words. He pulled his hand back, his face hardening. “Fine. Don’t regret this.” He turned and walked away, Mallory close at his heels, her loud voice echoing down the hallway as they went. “Isn’t tomorrow your fifth anniversary?” she said loudly. “The guys and I will celebrate at that restaurant you booked. Let’s see who regrets what.” I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Bruno. “The day you arrive, I think I’d like a formal confession.” And the location would be the exact restaurant where I was supposed to spend my anniversary. The regret wouldn’t be mine. 4. The next afternoon, Austin returned to the apartment. He didn’t apologize, nor did he ask why my suitcase was sitting by the door. Instead, he immediately started advocating for Mallory. “Tonight, I’m helping Mallory make her crush jealous by pretending to propose to her,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “So, our anniversary dinner is canceled.” Seeing that I wasn’t responding, he scrambled for justifications. “She was my wingwoman for five years, Sherry. I owe her this favor. Don’t be so petty. How am I supposed to face my friends if you make me back out now?” I didn’t let him finish. “Sure. That’s fine.” He blinked, clearly taken aback by how easily I had agreed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Don’t be mad.” I shook my head. “No need.” Never again. That evening, I put on the custom gown Bruno had sent to my apartment and walked into the high-end, window-side restaurant he had reserved. But before I could even find my table, Mallory appeared out of nowhere, blocking my path. “Austin reserved this table for me,” she said, looking me up and down. “As a modern woman, I hope you have some dignity left and stop clinging to a man who doesn’t want you.” I let out a cold laugh. “As a modern woman, I hope you have some shame. This table doesn’t have your name on it.” Mallory’s face flushed with anger, and she looked back toward the entrance. Austin walked in, his expression instantly darkening when he saw me. “You shouldn’t be here, Sherry,” he said quietly. “It’s only going to make you miserable.” Was he worried about my misery, or was he worried I would ruin their little show? The answer didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t feel like wasting another breath on them, so I signaled a passing waiter. “I think these guests have mistaken their table. Could you please check their reservation and guide them to the correct area?” The waiter politely checked his tablet and gestured for Austin and Mallory to follow him to a different section. Austin’s face burned with embarrassment. He looked at me, exasperated. “Do you really have to waste so much money just to spite me?” He was still so painfully arrogant. I ignored him, looking past his shoulder to wait for Bruno. The staff began arranging large vases of yellow daffodils around my table, per Bruno’s instructions. Mallory, watching from a distance, marched back over and barked at the florists, “Ugh, I hate daffodils! They’re so tacky. Take them away and bring roses! This is Austin’s proposal to me, what are you doing?” The florists looked bewildered. I offered them a gentle smile. “Please keep setting them up exactly as requested. I’m the one who paid for them. Listen to me.” Seeing me embarrass Mallory again, Austin stepped in front of her. “Sherry, you’re being ridiculous.” His friends, who had just walked in, immediately joined the attack. “Are you seriously still trying to get his attention?” one of them sneered. “Austin is proposing to Mallory today. No one cares about you.” “I do,” a deep, clear voice cut through the noise. Bruno, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, walked through the crowd. He bypassed everyone and knelt on one knee directly in front of me. “I’m late,” he said, his eyes filled with warmth. “Will you be my girlfriend, Sherry?”

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On our tenth wedding anniversary, Clyde got a sudden, urgent call from a client. As he slipped on his Oxfords in the foyer, I leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “If you pass by that new place on the way back, could you grab me one of those honeydew melon pudding teas? The ones everyone’s posting about online?” His brow furrowed instantly, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “The boba shop is completely out of the way, Naomi. Why do you want that sugary, artificial junk anyway? You’re not a little girl anymore.” Before the words had even fully settled in the quiet air of our hallway, he was out the door. I stood there in the silence of the empty house, the memory of the search history I’d accidentally seen open on his laptop screen an hour ago flashing in my mind: “How to make the perfect honeydew melon pudding tea at home.” “Best designer heels in a women’s size 6.” “Which app is fastest for buying Olivia Rodrigo tickets?” And just like that, the puzzle pieces clicked into place. His mistress was a girl who drank honeydew custard tea, wore a delicate size 6, and screamed along to Olivia Rodrigo. Meanwhile, my own search bar contained only a single, devastating query: “Late-stage stomach cancer: How to plan end-of-life care and make the most of my remaining time with my spouse?” I went back to the computer, hovered the mouse over the screen, and quietly cleared the history. Then, in the silent, empty spaces of my heart, I began the slow, agonizing process of erasing my ten years with Clyde. … Clyde had forgotten about the tracking app. Six months ago, as part of a family plan promotion with our insurance company, we had both installed a locator app that allowed real-time tracking and ambient audio sharing. At the time, he’d been too busy typing away on his phone to pay any attention to the installation. I opened the app. His icon was glowing red, docked near the arts district. I grabbed my keys, got into my car, and drove toward the blinking dot. The queue outside the trendy new boba joint stretched down the block. Right in the middle of the crowd stood Clyde, standing next to a young girl. She had soft features and bright eyes—she looked so much like a younger version of me that it made my chest ache. She was gesturing animatedly, laughing, sharing some joke with him. Clyde was looking down at her, a gentle, patient smile playing on his lips. It was a look of pure, undivided attention. A look I hadn’t received from him in years. I parked across the street, gripping the steering wheel as a cold numbness washed over me. I pulled out my phone and texted him. “Did you meet up with the client?” “Yeah, just about to head into the conference room. Turning my phone off now,” he replied almost instantly. As soon as the message sent, he slipped his phone into his pocket. Then, he stepped closer to the girl, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. On my dashboard, the tracking app’s listening indicator glowed red. The ambient audio streamed through my car speakers with agonizing clarity. “Hey, old man,” her voice was light and teasing. “Is the aging wife checking up on you again? God, older women are so clingy. Maybe we should buy her a tea to quiet her down.” “No need,” Clyde’s voice was cool, dismissive. “She doesn’t care for this kind of stuff anyway. It’s not her style.” “Not her style.” The words cut like a jagged blade. Back in college, he used to drive across three county lines just to buy me the maple fudge I loved, even if it was half-melted by the time he brought it to my dorm. Everyone said he spoiled me to death, but he’d just laugh, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I have to spoil you, Naomi. That way, you’ll never let anyone else steal you away. You’ll always be my girl.” But now, when I asked for a simple drink, he lied and said it was out of his way, only to queue up with another woman and tell her I was too old for it. A sudden, violent cramp seized my stomach. I slumped over the steering wheel, dry-heaving as a wave of excruciating pain ripped through my abdomen, threatening to tear my insides apart. The phone buzzed in my hand. It was my oncologist. I tried to swipe to answer, but my fingers were stiff and weak. The phone slipped, tumbling into the dark gap beneath the driver’s seat. By the time I managed to retrieve it, the line had gone dead. When I looked back up across the street, they had gotten their drinks. They were sharing a single straw, taking turns, laughing as they tasted each other’s cup. In our ten years of marriage, if I so much as used his fork to taste his food, Clyde would meticulously wipe it down with a napkin twice before using it again. I watched them walk hand-in-hand toward the boutique hotel down the block. I raised my phone, snapped a clear photo of their retreating backs, and sent it to a private investigator friend. “Find out who she is.” That evening, Clyde walked through the front door, rubbing his temples, his voice thick with rehearsed exhaustion. “God, that negotiation took everything out of me. My throat is completely dry.” I sat quietly at the dining table. The elaborate dinner I’d spent all afternoon preparing—full of his favorite dishes—had gone cold hours ago. He glanced at the table, then at me. “Why haven’t you eaten anything?” “I wasn’t hungry without you.” He stiffened slightly. Then, softening, he walked over and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, babe. Work has just been crazy. I’ll make up our anniversary to you, I promise. Whatever you want, name it.” I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was the report from my investigator. “May Collins. 22. Senior at State University.” Ten years younger than Clyde and me. No wonder she called him “old man” and me “the aging wife.” My investigator had also unlocked her private blog. The most recent post showed her lying on a plush hotel bed, her wrists pinned above her head by a man’s hand—a hand with prominent veins and a silver wedding band I knew intimately. The caption read: “Nothing tastes sweeter than the honeydew tea Clyde makes for me. Can’t wait for him to feed me again next time.” I scrolled down. There were dozens of entries. “I told him my stomach hurt, and Clyde literally abandoned his wife at her doctor’s appointment to drive across town and hold me.” “Clyde loves kissing me. He says I smell sweet and fresh, like nothing his wife could ever offer.” “I asked him when he’s going to leave her. He just laughed and said I’ll always be his sweet little girl. Honestly, who cares about a marriage certificate anyway? I don’t need a piece of paper to know he’s mine.” I stared at the screen for a long time. The ringing of my phone broke the silence. It was my oncologist again. “Naomi, the pathology results are back. The cancer cells have already metastasized. We need to start aggressive treatment immediately. I have a targeted chemotherapy protocol…” I stared at the bathroom door, where the sound of the shower was running, casting Clyde’s silhouette against the frosted glass. “Dr. Foster,” I whispered, my voice incredibly flat. “I don’t want the treatment.” “What?” Dr. Foster sounded panicked. “But you’re so young. Naomi, we still have options—” I looked at the shadow of the man I had loved for a decade and let out a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not that young, Doctor. I’m just an old lady.” That night, Clyde was exhausted. The moment his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. The next morning, as he was buttoning his shirt, he casually asked, “By the way, your checkup from last week… I had to rush off in the middle of it, but did the lab results ever come back?” I paused, folding his laundry. “Yes. Everything is fine.” He nodded, grabbing his briefcase. “Clyde,” I called out, stopping him at the door. “Would you take me to get that honeydew melon tea today? Just once. I really want to try it with you.” His forehead creased, his patience wearing thin. “Are you still on about that? I told you, it’s artificial syrup. If you want it that badly, go buy it yourself. I have a company to run.” “But I want you to go with me.” His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down at the screen, and I watched his expression instantly soften, a faint smile touching his lips. When he looked back up at me, his tone had sweetened. “Well, it’s your lucky day. The office ordered that exact boba place for afternoon catering today. If you want some, stop by the office later and grab a cup.” My heart gave a faint, hollow flutter. “Okay.” I arrived at his office downtown around noon. In the breakroom, employees were happily picking up their catering cups, but Clyde was nowhere to be found. I walked down the quiet hallway to his private office and pushed the heavy door open. It was empty. On his desk sat a single cup of honeydew melon pudding tea, the plastic straw visibly chewed at the tip. Then, from behind the built-in mahogany bookshelves, I heard a faint, unmistakable sound—a soft, breathless giggle, followed by a low moan. “Oh, Clyde… I can’t believe you actually built a secret room back here. And this waterbed is amazing. You spoil me so much.” “Well, you’re a demanding little thing,” his voice was thick with desire. “I don’t have a choice.” “What if your boring old wife finds out about our secret nest?” “Don’t talk about her,” Clyde groaned softly. “Focus on me.” The sound of heavy breathing and wet, frantic kissing filled the quiet office. A sharp, cold pain pierced my chest. Three years ago, when I was still working as his operations director, I’d mentioned that my back was aching from the stiff office chairs and asked if we could put a small loveseat in his office. He hadn’t even looked up from his spreadsheet. “Don’t be so dramatic, Naomi. This is a place of business, not a hotel.” Yet here he was, expanding his entire office layout, hiding a secret bedroom behind the shelves just to please May. I realized then that my displacement hadn’t been sudden. He had been quietly pushing me out of his life, piece by piece, for years. “M-Mrs. Hale!” Clyde’s assistant stood at the door, holding a stack of files, looking as though he’d just seen a ghost. I fought down the sudden, violent surge of nausea rising from my stomach. I gave him a faint shake of my head. “Don’t tell him I was here.” But the moment I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, the pain in my stomach peaked. The world went black, and I collapsed onto the polished marble floor. “Naomi! Naomi, wake up!” Clyde’s frantic voice dragged me back to consciousness. I was lying in our bed at home. He was sitting beside me, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. “I’ve told you a thousand times to stop these ridiculous starvation diets,” he scolded, his voice rising. “You passed out right in front of the lobby. Do you know how that looks? What if a client had walked in and seen you like that?” Even as he complained, he blew gently on a spoonful of warm oatmeal he had brought up. “Here. Eat some of this.” “I’m nauseous,” I whispered, turning my head away. “I can’t.” “You have to,” he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I made it myself. I even put in those sweet dates you like.” I looked at him, then quietly turned back and opened my mouth. The oatmeal felt like swallowed glass, scraping against my raw throat and burning my stomach with every agonizing inch it traveled down. But it was Clyde’s cooking. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never taste anything he made for me again. “Cough—” A violent spasm shook my stomach. I gagged, dry-heaving as the oatmeal came right back up, splattering across the pristine duvet. Clyde, always a neat freak, flinched back. His brow furrowed in disgust as he quickly handed me a box of tissues. “For God’s sake, Naomi, you’re an adult. Try to keep yourself together.” I remembered the photo from May’s blog—the one where she had spilled tea on her fingers, and he had playfully licked it off, laughing, calling her his “sweet little mess.” His phone chimed in his pocket. His eyes darted to the screen, his posture stiffening immediately. He stood up, tossing the soiled napkins into the trash. “I have to go. Clean yourself up and eat the rest when you can.” “Don’t go,” I whispered, reaching out to grasp his wrist, my fingers trembling. “Please. Just stay with me for a little while. I really don’t feel well…” “Enough, Naomi,” he said sharply, pulling his hand from my grip with clinical coldness. “I have actual work to do. I don’t have time for these childish tantrums. You’re too old to be acting like this. It doesn’t suit you.” “But my stomach hurts so badly… Clyde, please…” “Slam.” The heavy bedroom door shut, the sound echoing in my ears. I curled into a tight ball on the bed, my face pale from the agony in my gut, my chest so tight I could barely draw breath. The oncologist had told me that without chemotherapy, the pain would eventually become unbearable. But I wanted to hold on just a little longer. I wanted to hold on until Clyde and I could do those three simple things together, to close the book of my life with some semblance of peace. Now, I saw even that was a foolish wish. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a coat, and took a cab to the hospital, hoping to get some stronger painkillers. The outpatient clinic was packed. While waiting in the long queue, I took out my phone and pulled up May’s public profile again. Her latest update was from twenty minutes ago. A picture of a revealing black lace outfit laid out on a bed. “My new little devil lingerie just arrived. My sweet older man is so wild today, he even took his little blue pills. Looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight!” My fingers turned translucent as I gripped the phone, biting my lip until I tasted copper. Over the last few years, Clyde had barely touched me. I had tried everything to reignite the spark, buying silk slips, planning romantic weekend getaways, but he always reacted with cold indifference. Once, when I tried wearing something delicate and daring, he had looked at me with flat, judgmental eyes. “We’ve been married for a decade, Naomi. Act your age. It’s embarrassing.” “Make way! Emergency coming through!” The frantic shouting of EMTs shattered my thoughts. A gurney was being wheeled rapidly through the corridor. Whispers rippled through the waiting room. “Did you see that girl on the stretcher?” “Yeah, apparently she ruptured a cyst during… well, you know. The guy carrying her in didn’t even have his pants zipped up properly…” I stepped back to let them pass, but in the chaos, someone collided with me, knocking me hard against the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m in a rush—” Our eyes locked. Clyde froze, his face draining of all color. His hand, still reaching out to steady me, began to tremble. “Naomi? What… what are you doing here?” “Sir!” a nurse yelled down the hall. “Your wife is in excruciating pain! We need you to sign these forms immediately!” Clyde hesitated for a fraction of a second. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t look at me again. He just turned and sprinted after the gurney. I leaned against the wall, sliding down slowly as a fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across my forehead. An hour later, a text popped up on my phone. “Go home. I’ll explain everything.” I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Explain what, Clyde?” I had tried so hard to help him keep his secrets. But he had dragged his own mess right in front of my face. I was walking toward the exit when Clyde caught up to me, grabbing my elbow. “Why are you at the hospital, Naomi?” I stared at his disheveled clothes, his collar slightly turned inward. “My stomach was cramping. I came to get some painkillers.” “This is exactly why you need to eat,” he said, his worry instantly morphing into familiar irritation. “Young girls can get away with skipping meals. You can’t.” He glanced back toward the emergency bay, his eyes shifting nervously. “Look… the girl they just brought in, she’s a student I’ve been sponsoring. She got sick suddenly, and she didn’t have anyone else to call. I was just helping her. Don’t overthink this.” I stared at him, and for the first time in ten years, a genuine, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Clyde,” I whispered. “You keep telling me that I’m old. That I’m not some gullible little girl anymore.” “Naomi…” “Then stop using the kind of cheap, insulting lies you’d tell a little girl on me.” His expression hardened, the lies dissolving into a defensive, weary resignation. “So you know.” “Yes.” “Fine,” he said, his tone shifting to a careless, almost dismissive shrug. “I slept with her. But she knows her place. She’s quiet, and she’s not going to threaten your position as my wife. Don’t make a scene out of this. Give it some time, and I’ll break things off with her. We’ll go back to normal.” The cold in my chest spread through my limbs, leaving me completely numb. “And what if I want you to break it off right now?” He frowned, his eyes snapping with impatience. “I can’t do that. She’s young, she’s fragile. She needs time to process this. Don’t be so selfish, Naomi.” “Selfish.” The word echoed in my mind, so absurd that tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes. “I’m selfish?” I laughed through the tears. “I sold the only house my mother left me to fund your startup. Is that selfish?” “Naomi, that was years ago—” “I gave up my dream job in London to build this company alongside you for ten years. I drank myself into stomach ulcers trying to close deals for you. I was so incredibly selfish, Clyde, that I didn’t divorce you the second I realized you were cheating on me.” A flicker of shame crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a bitter, defensive sneer. “We’ve been married a decade, Naomi. We’re adults. We deal in reality, not fairy tales. May is innocent. She’s simple. She doesn’t talk about business or money. A simple coffee date makes her happy enough to spend the weekend pleasing me.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “And let’s be honest. You can’t have children. I’ve never thrown that in your face. I even got a vasectomy for you. Do you know how much pressure my mother put on me? How much my family laughed at me behind my back? I carried all of that alone.” “So now you want her to carry your child?” “May wants to give me a baby,” he said, as if explaining a logical business transaction. “I’m planning to get the vasectomy reversed. We’ll have a child, and we can raise it together. You should actually thank her. She’s willing to do this with no strings attached, just to lift that burden off your shoulders.” Before I could absorb the sheer horror of his words, his phone rang. He answered it, his voice instantly turning honey-sweet. “Hey, sweetie. Yes, I’m buying it for you right now. Don’t move.” He hung up, gave me a brief, warning look, and walked away. I stood alone in the sterile, white hallway of the hospital. The physical pain in my stomach had faded into a dull, distant hum. In its place was the absolute, peaceful stillness of a dying heart. Clyde and I entered a silent war. He didn’t come home for a week. May’s private blog, however, was updated daily. Clyde took her to the coast. He took her glamping in the mountains. They stayed in every luxury resort she’d ever bookmarked. At a high-end boutique, he knelt down to slip a pair of designer heels onto her size 6 feet, kissing her ankle. During an Olivia Rodrigo concert, the stadium’s kiss-cam caught them on the giant screen. Clyde wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her deeply as the crowd roared. Meanwhile, I lay alone in our dark house, swallowing painkillers until the bottle was empty. I packed my things quietly. I collected every digital receipt, every screenshot, and every photo of their affair, and filed them neatly into a folder. Then, I printed out a set of divorce papers. On the eighth night, Clyde finally came home. “I’m back,” he said, walking into the kitchen and sliding a small box onto the counter. “I got you a little something.” I opened it. It was a delicate diamond tennis bracelet I had admired in a catalog months ago. “I picked it up on my trip to Chicago,” he said, watching me. “I know you wanted it.” I ran my finger over the cold, sparkling stones and closed the box. “I don’t want this anymore, Clyde.” He sighed, his shoulders tensing. “Don’t start, Naomi. What do you want then?” “I want you to wait in line with me to buy a boba tea. I want you to go to the mall and help me pick out a pair of shoes. And I want you to take me to a concert. Just those three things.” Every single thing he had done with May, and never with me. Clyde’s face darkened, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “Are you stalking me, Naomi? Do you have any idea how pathetic and unhinged that is? What is wrong with you?” “Just promise me you’ll do these three things,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I forced myself to stay calm. “As my husband of ten years, I am asking you for these last three things. Do this, and I won’t interfere with her.” He opened his mouth to snap at me, but when he saw the tears silently tracking down my face, he stopped. He reached out, his hand hesitating before brushing a tear from my cheek with a rough sigh. “Fine. Fine. We’ll go get your damn tea right now. The other two things we’ll do later, okay?” He drove me to a local boba shop near our house. They didn’t have the honeydew melon pudding tea. He stood in line, his hands in his pockets, looking utterly bored. “Just get whatever,” he muttered when it was our turn. “Get something hot. Sugar-free.” “Why?” “At your age, drinking cold, sugary drinks is bad for your joints and your system.” The young barista behind the counter offered a sweet, polite smile. “You two are so cute. It’s nice to see a husband care so much about his wife’s health.” I took the plain, lukewarm black tea, staring at the plastic cup. “I guess some things,” I murmured, “even when forced, are never what we actually wanted.” “What?” Clyde didn’t hear me. His phone was already ringing. May’s sweet, petulant voice drifted through the receiver. “Clyde, I want that pasta you make. And I want you.” He let out a low, indulgent chuckle. “I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He hung up and headed back to the car, leaving me on the sidewalk. “I have a meeting across town. Take an Uber back. And make sure you eat something real.” I looked at him and nodded slowly. “I will.” That afternoon, I left the signed divorce papers on the kitchen island, took my suitcase, and bought a one-way ticket to Maine. As the plane taxied down the runway, I turned my phone off. I closed my eyes and let the silence wash over me. The moment the flight landed and I turned my phone back on, it began to vibrate violently. Hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen.

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For seven years, Brian and I were a couple, and for those same seven years, my best friend Cassie acted as my unofficial relationship strategist. Whenever Brian pulled all-nighters in the lab and I sat up crying, clutching my phone, Cassie would gently stroke my hair. “Iris, don’t crowd him,” she’d say softly. “Every late night Brian pulls is just him building a secure future for the two of you.” Whenever we drifted into cold silences after a fight, Cassie would sit beside me, holding my hand, helping me pick out the perfect text or meme to break the ice. I was always clumsy with words. When I misspoke and upset him, Cassie would worry more than I did, staying up half the night drafting long, eloquent paragraphs for me to send. I genuinely believed I was the luckiest girl in the world, surrounded by the two people who loved me most. Until the night before our wedding, when I stumbled upon an anonymous social media account. “I’ve been my best friend’s relationship coach for seven years. But every single word I taught her to say to him was actually what I wanted to tell him myself.” “A secret kept for seven years. In the end, I only ever dared to speak to him through her voice.” The profile picture was a little plush rabbit with one floppy ear—the exact one I had hand-sewn and given to Cassie for her birthday last year. The top comment felt like a blade slicing through me, making my blood run ice-cold. The user’s avatar was a microscope keychain—one I had spent an entire afternoon helping Brian pick out. The username was his childhood nickname. Brian’s reply read: “Silly girl. I’ve always known.” … My limbs went entirely numb, as if the warmth had been vacuumed right out of my bones. The bedroom door clicked open, and Cassie walked right in. She was holding a delicate bridal hairpiece, leaning in to test it against my hair. “Iris, becoming a bride and a mother all at once… other women would kill for this kind of luck.” She tilted her head, admiring her work, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You have to wear this for your first prenatal checkup tomorrow, and then for the wedding the day after. I stayed up for two nights straight sewing this by hand!” I stared into Cassie’s bright, shining eyes, feeling a sharp, physical pinch in my chest. After a long, heavy silence, I finally forced the words out. “Cassie… have you ever thought about getting married? Finding someone who truly loves you?” Her fingers froze in my hair. She stood still for what felt like an eternity before slowly letting her hand fall to her side. When she looked down, her voice dropped to a whisper. “No. Not for me.” “I’m just going to stay right here and look after you, Iris. When the baby is born, I’ll be her godmother. If it’s a girl, I’ll make her little dresses, braid her hair, and take her out for ice cream.” She forced a carefree laugh, but the rims of her eyes had already flushed a painful red. In that split second, the words from that anonymous post flashed violently in my mind: “I loved him in secret too, all through our three years of high school. But on the day of our college entrance exams, a truck came barreling out of nowhere. My best friend pushed both of us out of the way, nearly dying under the wheels herself. The moment she woke up in the hospital, she confessed her love to him. How could I ever steal him from her after that?” Those sentences wrapped around my throat like a wire, tightening with every breath. The door swung open again. Brian walked in, still wearing his white lab coat. Cassie sprang up instantly, spreading her arms to block him. “Hey! That coat is filthy from the lab. Don’t you dare bring those chemicals near our pregnant Iris!” Brian didn’t even register her mock defense. His eyes were wide, burning with a frantic, euphoric energy, locked entirely on Cassie from the moment he crossed the threshold. “Trial eighteen, Cassie! I finally replicated the results!” “I’ve been chasing this since last summer. Eighteen trials. Seventeen failures in a row, and today we finally did it!” He didn’t use her name, but I knew. Every word, every ounce of excitement, was directed solely at her. Since we started college seven years ago, everyone had called Brian and Cassie the twin stars of the chemistry department. I was just an English major. Whenever Brian tried to explain his research to me, it sounded like a foreign language. Every time he saw my blank, confused expression, he would just smile with a gentle, patronizing sigh and pat my head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sweetie. You must be starving. Let’s go get some cake.” Cassie, however, was far more composed. She turned to grab the logbook off the desk. “Did you double-check the reagent concentration? What about the temperature curve? Did you record the raw data?” “I’ll run a quality check tonight. If everything looks solid, I’ll have the first draft of the paper ready for you by the day after tomorrow.” She kept moving, naturally pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to him. Brian slipped out of his lab coat and handed it backward without even looking. Cassie caught it seamlessly, draped it over the chair, and smoothed out the wrinkles in the sleeves. Their coordination was flawless. They didn’t look like colleagues; they looked like a married couple. It was only then that Cassie seemed to remember, tapping her temple with an apologetic gasp. “Oh, goodness, my memory is shot. The day after tomorrow is your wedding.” “Go focus on that. I’ll write the paper and compile the data tonight.” Brian frowned. “The wedding can wait. Iris isn’t going anywhere.” “Let’s get the paper written first while the data is fresh. If we wait a few days, we might lose our train of thought.” Only after saying this did he finally turn his gaze to me. His eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second, his face softening into a practiced, apologetic smile. “Iris, we’ve been working on this experiment for a year.” “This is a critical window. Could you possibly…” A dull, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. This was the seventh time Brian had asked to postpone our wedding. The first time, he said his thesis proposal was too demanding. The second time, he needed to replicate a dataset. The third, he was drafting a paper. The most recent time, the guests were already seated. Brian had called, panicking, claiming there was a minor chemical explosion in the lab and he had to rush Cassie to the emergency room. I waited in my wedding dress for seven and a half hours. Brian never showed up. When I finally rushed to the hospital, I found out Cassie had only sustained a tiny scratch from a shattered test tube. “Iris?” Cassie called out, her voice laced with concern at my silence. She turned back to Brian. “Forget it. The wedding comes first. Don’t be so stubborn.” They both stared at me—one pair of eyes filled with guilt, the other with pity. I felt a wire snap inside my chest. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “Finish the paper.” I barely slept. I lay awake, counting my breaths until the sun rose. The next morning, Brian walked in, carrying a warm glass of milk out of habit. “I was supposed to take you to your prenatal checkup today,” he said softly, “but Cassie is going in to double-check the results. She’s the only one who can spot any anomalies in the data, and I just can’t risk it.” He reached out, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’m sorry you have to go alone, Iris.” “Just this once. Once this paper is published, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be by your side every day.” His eyes were full of tender regret. But all I could see was his reply on that anonymous thread: Silly girl, I’ve always known. But she’s pregnant, and I have to take responsibility. A lump of dry cotton seemed to lodge in my throat. “Brian, actually, we…” We don’t have to get married, I wanted to say. But Brian stood up abruptly, as if sensing the words before they could form. “I know what you’re going to say, Iris. Don’t worry. This is the last delay. I promise the next date will stick.” He knelt down to slide my shoes onto my feet. “Be careful out there. Call me if you need anything.” He ushered me into a cab and gave my stomach a gentle, absentminded pat. My mind was in a haze. By the time I snapped out of it, I had walked straight to Brian’s research facility instead of the clinic. On his desk sat a framed photo of him and Cassie holding a trophy from an international chemistry competition. Scattered nearby were two custom insulated mugs—one navy blue, one pastel pink—both engraved with the same molecular structure. From down the hallway, the sound of female grad students laughing and chatting drifted closer. “Today marks day 1,753 of Professor Brian and Dr. Cassie showing up to the lab together!” “I know, right? Five years, arriving and leaving together every single day. They’re more codependent than me and my boyfriend.” The other girl lowered her voice, dripping with excitement. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. The night before last, I walked past his office. They were kissing like their lives depended on it.” “I saw it through the crack in the door. He was holding her by the waist, and she was up on her tiptoes. It made me blush just watching them!” My heart felt as though it had been seized by a frozen hand and dragged into an abyss. The night before last, I had suffered severe cramps from the pregnancy. I had curled into a ball on our bed, calling Brian three times in a panic. He had answered briefly, telling me he was in the middle of a crucial run and that I should just take some over-the-counter medicine and bear with it. The students noticed me. A girl in a lab coat frowned. “Who are you? Which department are you with? Why are you lingering outside Professor Brian’s office?” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt like sandpaper. No sound came out. “Ah, I get it. You’re the volunteer for the clinical study, right?” Before I could correct her, she grabbed my arm and shoved me into the adjacent testing room. “Wait, listen to me,” I rasped. “I’m not a volunteer. I’m Brian’s—” “We’re on a tight schedule,” a lab tech interrupted without looking up from a clipboard. “Go behind the curtain and change into the gown. Strip down completely.” Before I could protest, she aggressively unzipped my jacket and handed me a thin hospital gown, urging me to hurry. The cold drafts of the lab hit my bare skin, making me shiver violently. Just then, chaos erupted in the corridor. “Gas leak! Toxic chemical exposure! Evacuate immediately!” I scrambled to grab my clothes, but before my fingers could touch them, the lab door was thrown open. A pair of hands grabbed my bare arm and hauled me out. The force sent me sprawling onto the cold, hard tiles of the hallway, my knees barking against the floor. It was the same student who had been gossiping about Brian and Cassie. Now wearing a gas mask, she glared down at me. “You’re the only unfamiliar face here. Did you cause this leak? Are you trying to ruin our research?” I was practically naked, shivering in nothing but my underwear. People were sprinting past in a panic. I curled in on myself, desperately crossing my arms over my chest to hide my body, huddling against the wall. “It wasn’t me! I’m Brian’s—” “Shut up!” she snapped, her foot catching me sharply in the thigh. I gasped at the sudden pain. “Who do you think you are, calling Professor Brian by his first name?” I stared at her, my throat tight as if clogged with wet cotton. For seven years, Brian had insisted we keep our relationship quiet, claiming office politics and academic rumors would destroy his career. He had even made me sign a pre-marital confidentiality agreement, promising we would go public once his tenure was secured. Just then, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Brian sprinted around the corner, carrying Cassie in his arms. Her face was deathly pale, her limp body cradled securely against his chest. “Call an ambulance!” Brian screamed, his voice raw. “Take her to St. Jude’s Private Wing!” I froze. St. Jude’s was the most exclusive private medical wing in the city, reserved strictly for elite research staff and high-ranking officials. The day my pregnancy was confirmed, I had timidly asked Brian if I could deliver our baby there. He hadn’t even looked up from his monitor. “I can’t pull strings for that, Iris. It’s a restricted medical facility, not a public clinic for just anyone.” Yet here he was, carrying Cassie, shouting the name of St. Jude’s without a second thought. The sheer terror on his face was something I had never witnessed in our seven years together. Not even when I was throwing up blood from morning sickness, and he had merely patted my head and sighed, “It’s completely normal, Iris. Don’t be dramatic. Just drink some ginger tea.” Now, with Cassie merely looking slightly faint, he looked like his world was ending. Suddenly, Cassie’s eyes closed, her head lulling back. Brian halted in his tracks and gently laid her down on the hallway floor. He looked up, his voice cutting through the panic with absolute authority: “Turn around. All of you.” The surrounding staff instantly spun around, facing the walls. He knelt, unbuttoned Cassie’s collar, and pressed his long, elegant fingers against her chest. Then, he leaned down, pressed his lips to hers, and began performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I suddenly remembered the first time I had leaned in to kiss him. He had laughed, tilting his head back. “Go brush your teeth first, babe. You know I’m a germaphobe.” Once Cassie’s breathing steadied, Brian finally sat back, chest heaving. It was only then that his eyes swept across the floor and landed on me. “Professor!” the student yelled, pointing directly at me. “This woman was sneaking around. I think we should call security and have her arrested!” A flicker of shock crossed Brian’s eyes. He took a tentative step toward me. But right then, Cassie groaned in pain, her fingers feebly clutching at his sleeve. Brian froze. He looked down at Cassie, then looked back at me, mouthing three silent words: Go on home. He turned to the student. “I know her. Don’t worry about it. Just call her an Uber and send her home.” With that, he scooped Cassie back into his arms, holding her close to his chest, and hurried down the corridor. I remained curled on the freezing tiles, a sharp, rhythmic cramping starting to bloom deep in my lower abdomen. The student stood over me, her expression thick with disgust. “Don’t think you’re special just because the professor knows you. Who are you putting on this show for? Get up!” I gritted my teeth, pushing my trembling hands against the floor to lift myself. My arms buckled, and I collapsed back down with a dull thud. She watched me struggle and fall half a dozen times before finally scowling and taking a step closer. “Seriously, stop playing victim. Everyone’s gone. Who are you acting for?” She squatted down, studying my contorted face with a cold sneer. “To be honest, I’ve seen plenty of girls try this sick-act routine just to get Professor Brian’s attention.” She stood back up, brushing the dust from her hands. “Save your breath. Seven years ago, the professor swore an oath to his mentor that Cassie was the only woman he would ever love. He doesn’t have eyes for anyone else.” Brian’s parents had passed away when he was young, and he had always viewed his mentor as a father. During our years together, I had asked countless times to meet him. Every time, Brian would frown, his voice laced with a cool distance: “You’re not part of our academic circle, Iris. Let’s not make things awkward. You wouldn’t have anything to talk about anyway.” I had foolishly assumed he wanted to keep his personal life separate from work. Now I knew the truth. His heart had been occupied from the very start. The physical pain began to blur with the emotional agony until my vision started to spot with black. The last thing I felt was a sudden, terrifying rush of warmth spreading beneath me. Through the static in my ears, I heard the student’s panicked shriek. “Hey! Don’t play dead! Hey! Wait… blood? She’s bleeding! Oh my God, somebody help!” On the other side of the hospital, Brian stayed by Cassie’s bedside until she woke up. For four full days, I didn’t send him a single text. In seven years, such a silence had been unimaginable. Initially, Brian felt a sense of relief. But the quiet didn’t bring peace; within hours, a slow, gnawing dread began to pool in his chest. The anxiety had actually taken root the moment he stumbled upon Cassie’s post and couldn’t stop himself from replying. Ever since, he had noticed me slipping away, lost in my own thoughts. He just hadn’t known how to face me—or how to handle Cassie. Now, Cassie was awake. Since his reply on the thread, they had tacitly avoided being alone together—until this moment. The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of the monitor. Cassie broke the silence first, her voice raspy, her eyes fixed on the hospital blanket. “Is the… is the wedding still on?” Brian hesitated. After a long pause, he gave a stiff nod, his voice dry. “We should go through with it. After all… it’s been seven years.” But as the words left his mouth, a sudden tremor shook his chest. He had spent years believing his heart belonged to Cassie. He knew the thoughtful gestures, the perfectly timed words of comfort—none of them could have originated from a girl as clumsy and simple as me. Yet, somewhere along the line, he had fallen in love with more than just those borrowed phrases. He suddenly, desperately wanted to see me. “Get some rest. I need to check on Iris,” he said, standing up. He didn’t notice the way Cassie’s face drained of color as he turned and walked out. His pace quickened, driven by an urgency he had never felt before. When he arrived back at the chemistry building, a small group of grad students was huddled at the end of the hall, whispering. “God, it was terrifying. There was so much blood. She started convulsing right there on the floor. Does anyone know if she’s okay?” Another student shook her head. “No idea. Someone said her heart stopped by the time the paramedics loaded her in. She was completely cold. Who even was she? How did the professor know her?” Brian stood frozen around the corner, as if struck by lightning, his body turning to ice.

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And after three years of running, our paths crossed again during a raid. He was the brilliant young detective leading the task force; I was the fugitive wanted for murder across eight states. Our eyes locked, and for a fleeting second, Jacob’s composure shattered. “Maren… how is this you?” I tried to bolt during his moment of hesitation, but one of his officers shot me in the calf. Now, in the interrogation room, Jacob’s eyes are bloodshot as he slams his hands on the table and roars: “Four lives, Maren! Four people are dead! How could you do this?” “Tell me it’s a mistake! Say something! Please, just tell me it wasn’t you!” Looking at the agonizing betrayal in his eyes, I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re right. It is a mistake.” “It wasn’t four.” “It was five.” “You care so much about your wife—my former best friend, Lola—don’t you? Tell me, Jacob, how haven’t you noticed she’s gone?” … Jacob’s face drains of all color. His hand trembles as he pulls out his phone. The lock screen, which used to be a picture of me, now features his wedding portrait with Lola. He hits speed dial. A second later, a melodic ringtone begins to drift from my jacket pocket. With a cruel, mocking smile, I slide the screen open and answer Lola’s blood-stained phone. “Hey, honey.” “Why aren’t you coming to save me? I’m so scared…” Jacob lunges across the table, grabbing me by the collar. “What did you do to Lola!” Just as the air begins to leave my lungs, the deputy chief rushes in and tears him off me. “Calm down, Detective! The press feed is live!” Jacob’s teeth grind together as he glares at me. “Where is she, Maren?” I shrug, the handcuffs rattling against the metal table. “I don’t know.” “If you’re smart enough to catch me, I’m sure you’re smart enough to find her.” “Maren Kelly!” His eyes are so red they look ready to bleed. “Lola loved you like a sister! When we were kids and those bullies cornered you, she was the one who stood in front of you.” “When your mother got sick and needed that specialist, Lola pulled strings to get her a bed. She took care of her every single day, doing more than you ever did.” “And when you couldn’t pay the medical bills, she emptied her own savings to keep your mother alive.” “Is this how you repay her?” On the side wall, the live-stream monitor is flooded with comments from the public watching the feed. “Oh my god, is that Dr. Ward from Mercy Hospital?” “I remember her! She was an absolute angel. When my dad was terminally ill and we couldn’t afford his meds, she bought them out of her own pocket.” “The good die young. This monster needs to rot in hell!” Faced with their outrage, I only sneer and turn my face away, refusing to look at the screen. My silence only fuels Jacob’s rage. He snatches a silver protection charm hanging from Lola’s phone case and hurls it onto the table in front of me. “Three years ago, just because your mother’s doctor asked me to consult on the case, you let your paranoia drive you mad. You accused Lola of trying to seduce me, and then you stabbed her!” “I had to arrest you myself. But Lola couldn’t bear to see you behind bars. She signed the waiver, begged the DA to drop the charges, and got you released. And what did you do? You ran. You vanished without a trace, leaving her sick with worry.” “This charm? Lola walked up the five hundred stone steps of the mountain chapel on her knees, praying for your safety. She prayed for you every single day while you were out there slaughtering four people—and then you came back for her!” Jacob’s voice cracks, his eyes wild with a desire to tear me apart. “Did you even care that your mother passed away while you were in custody?” “Lola ignored her own stab wound to assist in your mother’s emergency surgery. She stood in that operating room for twelve hours straight without a drop of water. When your mother didn’t make it, Lola broke down. She was the one who arranged the funeral because you weren’t there.” “She blamed herself! She took time off every year on the anniversary of your mother’s death just to put flowers on her grave. She did all of this for you, and this is how you repay her!” At the mention of my mother, my eyes sting with uncontrollable tears. Seeing my resolve crack, Jacob’s fists loosen slightly. The same hand that had once slipped an engagement ring onto my finger now rests heavily on my shoulder. “Maren, please. Where is she?” “If you show remorse now, I can talk to the prosecutor. I can get you a plea deal.” I look up, my tears turning into a bitter, mocking laugh. “A plea deal?” “Jacob, you’re the piece of trash who betrayed me. What makes you think you have the right to offer me mercy?” Jacob’s face burns a dark, furious crimson. The deputy chief, who had been taking notes, finally snaps. He slams his clipboard down and snaps: “That is enough!” “When Dr. Ward was stabbed, Detective Mercer only looked after her out of sheer guilt for what you did! He wanted to make sure she wouldn’t press charges so you wouldn’t spend a decade in state prison!” “After you fled, Jacob used every day of his paid leave to hunt for you. Even when Dr. Ward visited the precinct, it was always to ask if we had any leads on your whereabouts.” “You were gone for three years. Jacob’s father was dying of terminal cancer, and his only wish was to see his son settled. Out of pity, Dr. Ward suggested a mock wedding ceremony just to give a dying old man some peace of mind before he passed.” Jacob lets out a heavy, weary sigh and turns his back to me. The deputy chief glares at me, his finger practically poking my nose. “We couldn’t find you, and Dr. Ward had no one else. We were the ones who pressured Jacob to make it official and marry her, to give her the security she deserved after everything she lost.” “And this is how you paint him? You’re sick, Maren. You’ve lost your mind.” Jacob turns back, his face a portrait of profound sorrow. “Maren, do you want to know the real reason Lola and I had that mock wedding?” He steps closer, placing a silver wedding band heavily onto the table. “Lola knew you hated her. She didn’t want a misunderstanding to keep us apart forever, so she thought a high-profile wedding announcement would draw you out of hiding.” “Every single detail of that ceremony was designed around what you wanted. The dress you picked out years ago, the ring we chose—they were waiting backstage. She wanted to hand them over to you the moment you walked through the door.” “As for Lola? She wore a cheap, rented dress and a fake ring from a costume shop just to get through the ceremony. When you didn’t show, she posted the video online, hoping against hope that you’d see it and come home.” The live chat on the screen explodes again. “I remember that video! I thought it was so weird the bride was wearing such a cheap gown, and the ring was practically falling off her finger.” “People were ruthless in the comments, mocking her for marrying a guy who clearly didn’t love her.” “I was one of those commenters. God, I feel sick. We didn’t know anything.” Looking at the wedding ring on the table, my mind drifts back to three years ago. Jacob had just proposed to me. I had just finished my master’s degree and accepted a prestigious job offer. My mother’s health was finally stabilizing, and her discharge date was just around the corner. Drunk on happiness and the bright, shimmering future ahead, I had called Lola. “Lola! Jacob proposed!” “You’re my best friend in the world. You have to be my maid of honor! I want you right there next to me.” Lola had laughed and agreed instantly. After hanging up, the very first thing I shopped for wasn’t my bridal gown, but her bridesmaid dress. If only I hadn’t seen what I saw. If only I had remained blind. Instead, the ring that was meant for my ring finger had been replaced by cold, heavy steel handcuffs. The man who used to hold me tight and whisper that I was his entire world was now standing on the opposite side of a bulletproof glass. Demanding I tell him where to find the woman who ruined everything. “Maren, if you have even a shred of humanity left in you, tell me where Lola is.” I close my eyes tight, a tear finally escaping and cutting a path through the grime on my cheek. “The cemetery columbarium. Section A, Row 3, Niche 2. What you’re looking for is in there.” The police move with terrifying speed, cordoning off the cemetery within minutes. But when they force open the niche, there are no ashes inside. Only a thin, lightweight manila folder. Jacob slams the folder onto the interrogation table. “Maren, are you playing games with us? Are you just trying to buy time?” The deputy chief touches his shoulder. “Jacob, let me take over. If Dr. Ward is still alive, every second counts. Go with the team and search the area. Sitting here in circles is wasting precious time.” As Jacob hesitates, I tilt my chin up toward him. “Aren’t you going to look inside?” Jacob pulls on a pair of latex gloves and opens the folder. Inside is a voluntary organ donor authorization form. The edges of the paper are stained with a faint, rust-colored smudge of dried blood, but nothing is as jarring as my mother’s shaky, uneven signature at the bottom. Jacob’s brow furrows. “Maren, what is this supposed to prove?” “Do you honestly think your mother was coerced into signing this? I was there, Maren! It wasn’t like that at all!” “Lola didn’t even bring the paperwork. A floor nurse happened to mention the donor program, and your mother requested the forms herself!” The dam inside me finally breaks. “My mother requested it? Jacob, you’ve been a detective for five years, and you’re still this blind?” For the first time, the live-stream comments begin to turn. “Wait… did the doctor trick her mother into signing her organs away, and then let her die on the table?” “That is terrifying. If that’s true, I don’t blame her for snapping. Who could stay sane after that?” “And what about the other four victims? Weren’t they all connected to the organ transplant network? This goes deep.” “Put yourself in Maren’s shoes. Your best friend kills your mother for profit, your fiancé marries the killer, and then he’s the one interrogating you after you get your revenge. This is a tragedy.” Jacob glances at the monitor, his expression tightening. He opens his mouth to argue. Suddenly, the heavy door of the interrogation room is thrown open. “Chief! We have a major break!” An officer stands panting in the doorway. “Maren spent the last three years operating across the border. According to intelligence reports, she was heavily involved in an international black-market organ trafficking syndicate!” The words hit the room like a physical blow. Jacob snaps his gaze back to me, his jaw clenching so hard I can hear his teeth grind. “You are a magnificent actress, Maren. I almost believed you.” “You were the one who brainwashed your mother into signing that form, weren’t you?” “You’re running a black-market ring. You killed your own mother to frame Lola, and then you slaughtered those doctors to cover your tracks. Are you even human?” On the screen, the public chat erupts into a feeding frenzy. “Oh my god, Maren is the ringleader?!” “So she forced her mom to sign, let Dr. Ward handle the surgery, and then murdered the medical staff so no one could talk!” “This is insane. She’s a monster.” Looking at the screen, a breathless, hysterical laugh escapes my throat, tasting of copper and despair. Jacob staggers back, barely able to keep his balance. “Maren… do you have anything to say for yourself?” I raise a hand and wipe the corner of my eye. “What’s the point? You’ve already written the ending.” The deputy chief stands up, his voice cold. “Take her back to holding. All units, assemble. We search for Dr. Ward now.” Jacob doesn’t move. As the guards grab my arms and pull me past him, his hand twitches, reaching out toward me for a fraction of a second. But in the end, he says nothing. It takes forty-eight hours of grueling, round-the-clock searching. But they find her. What was left of Lola was buried in the plot right next to my mother’s grave. She had been folded into a tight, terrible ball, her limbs and spine systematically shattered. If you looked closely, you could see she had been forced into a kneeling position, her forehead pressed against the dirt—a forced posture of eternal, desperate begging. The deputy chief turns away, his face pale. “She’s an absolute animal…” Jacob collapses onto the grass, completely blacking out. The medical examiner’s report is brief: “The victim’s major organs were surgically removed.” I hadn’t lied when I said I didn’t know where she was. Because every piece of her was in a different place. When the trial begins, Jacob is dressed in a dark suit. He sits in the gallery alongside the families of the other victims. I keep my eyes lowered as the prosecutor reads the indictment. “…The defendant, Maren Kelly, did willfully and with malice aforethought commit five counts of first-degree murder, resulting in the immediate deaths of the victims.” “Furthermore, over a three-year period, the defendant participated in over four hundred black-market organ transactions across borders, causing severe societal harm.” “Defendant, you may now present your statement.” I remain silent. The gallery erupts into a chorus of angry shouts. “What is there to say? She’s a plague on society!” “My son studied for a decade to become a surgeon! She didn’t just murder him, she dragged his name through the mud!” “Five doctors! She slaughtered five doctors! She’s a monster! Give her the needle!” They hold up framed photographs of the deceased, their faces flushed with grief and fury. The gallery is a sea of flashing camera lights, burning my retinas. I open my mouth, but my throat feels as though it has been filled with concrete. It is an old affliction of mine—whenever my emotions spike, my voice simply deserts me. Lola knew this. Jacob knew this. It was why Lola used to fight my battles for me when we were children. I look toward Jacob. But he is swallowed by the crowd, his face unreadable. A couple of rotten eggs and small stones fly over the partition, striking me in the forehead. Warm blood trickles down, staining my vision a dark, sticky red. I turn back to the judge and slowly shake my head. When the verdict is read, and the judge sentences me to death, a cheer ripples through the courtroom. Grieving families cling to one another, weeping with relief. The judge looks down at me. “Defendant, you have the right to appeal this sentence. Do you understand?” The words won’t come. I only nod, then shake my head. The gavel falls. A final, heavy thud. I close my eyes. “Lola, you won.” As the guards began to lead me out of the courtroom, Jacob instinctively lunged forward. But the surging crowd of jubilant families swept him toward the exit. Reporters, waiting like vultures, thrust their microphones into his face. “Detective Mercer! You personally brought down the woman who murdered your wife. How does it feel to hear the death sentence?” “We understand the killer was your former fiancée. How do you reconcile that?” Jacob felt a tight band constrict his throat. He couldn’t squeeze out a single syllable. In that sudden, suffocating silence, a memory flashed through his mind. Three years ago, when Maren had reportedly stabbed Lola, she hadn’t said a single word in her defense either. The more desperate Maren was to explain, the more her voice failed her. Jacob’s face went white. “Get back to the station,” he barked at the deputy chief, his voice strained. “Pull the evidence from three years ago. The knife, the forensic files, Lola’s original medical reports. All of it!” “Now!” Briggs didn’t understand the sudden urgency, but the raw panic in Jacob’s eyes left no room for argument. When the files were delivered to his desk, Jacob pored over every line, refusing to skip a single letter. By the time he finished, his eyes were bloodshot, and he slammed his fist onto the desk. “File an emergency stay! Maren’s conviction is wrong!”

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The company was planning a team-building retreat when Cody Francis, our newly hired administrative intern, approached me privately during lunch. “Simon, I heard your family owns that boutique eco-estate upstate. The company has a retreat next weekend—why don’t we host the picking event there?” He smiled, that slick, overly familiar smile of a young man who thought he could charm his way into anything. “We’re all colleagues, after all. The company will throw you a five-hundred-dollar stipend. Consider it a way to support your small business.” I stared at him, momentarily speechless. My estate, Linden Hills, is the premier private sanctuary in the valley. It’s an exclusive haven featuring luxury glamping, stone-fired grills, organic pick-your-own orchards, and private tasting pavilions. A single day pass costs $150 per person, let alone a private buyout. With over fifty people in our office, a weekend booking should have cost the company over fifteen thousand dollars. Yet here was Cody, trying to secure a full-scale corporate buyout for a measly five hundred bucks, expecting to walk away looking like a hero. I kept my voice polite but firm. “I’m sorry, Cody. The estate is fully booked and paid for by another client next weekend. The schedule is locked in; we can’t change it.” I thought that would be the end of it. But that very afternoon, Cody went completely rogue. He posted a high-profile announcement on the company’s main Slack channel and his personal social media. “Huge news, everyone! For this quarter’s retreat, we are heading to a private, luxury boutique estate upstate!” “Drop a reaction below to RSVP. Everything—food, drinks, activities, and fruit picking—is completely covered! Plus ones and family members are welcome!” The Slack channel exploded. Colleagues flooded the thread with praise, calling Cody a miracle worker for securing such an exclusive spot. Even our boss, Mr. Henderson, chimed in, praising his initiative and resourcefulness. Watching the screen light up with endless praise emojis, a cold weight settled in my stomach. He wanted to hijack my private property, use my life’s work to build his own reputation, and play the generous benefactor at my expense? He was about to learn that some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. … During the afternoon lull, Cody sent me a text. “Come on, Simon. Five hundred dollars for a small farm is a sweet deal. You aren’t losing anything here.” My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I let out a slow breath before typing back: “It’s not about the money, Cody. We have a legally binding contract. The other client paid a full deposit. If I breach it, the penalty is three times the booking fee. I can’t afford that loss.” A minute later, my phone vibrated. Cody was calling. The moment I answered, his tone had shed all its previous warmth, replaced by a patronizing, heavy-handed pressure. “Simon, the company has invested so much in you over the years. Where is your loyalty? Where is your gratitude?” I squeezed my eyes shut, keeping my voice level. “The estate was booked months in advance. We physically cannot host another group—” “Then tell the other client to reschedule,” Cody cut me off, his voice dripping with condescension. “Giving you this booking is a favor. We’re putting money in your pocket. Just get it done.” Before I could reply, the line went dead. Half an hour later, when Mr. Henderson asked for an update on the retreat logistics, Cody shared a series of high-res promotional photos of Linden Hills—photos he had lifted directly from our official website. One of the senior analysts, noticing the luxury branding, took a screenshot and posted it in the thread: “Wait, Cody. I looked up this place. Individual day passes are $150. For a group our size, a two-day retreat is going to blow our budget wide open.” Cody replied instantly, adding a smug little winking emoji. “Don’t worry, everyone! I worked my magic and negotiated a special rate. A flat five hundred dollars for the entire buyout. Everything is covered. Eat, drink, and be merry on the company’s dime!” The Slack channel erupted again. “Cody, you are incredible! How did you even pull this off? This place is practically impossible to book!” “Exactly! I’ve been trying to get a reservation there for my anniversary for six months! Five hundred dollars is insane!” Even Mr. Henderson posted: “Excellent work, Cody. Saving the company money while elevating our standards. This is exactly the kind of efficiency I love to see.” I stared at the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. Using my sanctuary to paint himself as a corporate savior. It was sickening. I typed directly into the main channel: “The estate has been booked by another client for months. We need to find another venue for the retreat.” Instantly, the backlash started. “Simon, Cody already said it’s handled,” one of the account executives wrote. “What’s your issue? Are you just jealous because an intern is outshining you?” “Honestly,” another added. “If a luxury estate can offer a deal that cheap, what were those thousands of dollars we spent on Simon’s previous events actually going toward?” “Now that you mention it… did Simon take a kickback on those vendor fees?” Before I could type a defense, my phone rang. It was Cody again. “Simon, what the hell are you doing? I already told everyone it’s a go!” his voice hissed through the speaker. “Are you really going to hold out because of five hundred dollars? We’re colleagues. Why do you have to be so petty?” “I’ve made myself perfectly clear,” I said, my voice cold. “The estate is booked. There is no availability. Furthermore, the client who booked it is Kingsley—” “Then call them and ask them to move their dates!” Cody interrupted. “The company’s plans are locked in. Can’t you just cooperate for once and show some team spirit?” I was past the point of anger; now, it was just pure absurdity. During last year’s annual gala, I spent two months meticulously planning every detail. When Cody joined as an intern, he begged to help. Trusting him, I handed over the master execution schedule and vendor contacts. The event was a massive success. But when Mr. Henderson asked who designed the layout and secured the VIP catering, Cody swapped my name for his on the final presentation slides, claiming my two months of sweat and sleepless nights as his own. Back then, he had cornered me in the breakroom, saying: “Simon, if this gala goes well, I get a full-time offer. You understand, right? We’re team players.” I had let it go. I told myself he was young, struggling, and desperate to survive in the city. I chose peace over conflict. But now, the client who booked the estate for next weekend was Kingsley Holdings—our company’s largest and most critical account. And this intern wanted me to bump them so he could throw a cheap office party. I let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Fine. If you want them to reschedule, you pay the cancellation fee.” “How much?” Cody scoffed. “Not much. Just twenty-five thousand dollars. Wire me the funds, and I’ll clear the weekend for you.” There was a sharp gasp on the other end. “Simon! Are you trying to extort me? I’m doing this for the company! Why would I pay you twenty-five grand?” He slammed the phone down. Seconds later, a notification popped up on my screen. Cody had tagged the entire company on Slack. “@channel I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems Simon is refusing to let us host the retreat at the orchard. Since he’s the event coordinator, my hands are tied. We’ll have to follow his lead.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. He knew I kept my personal life private and had never told anyone at the office that I owned Linden Hills. With a few carefully chosen words, he had painted himself as the helpless victim and cast me as the bitter gatekeeper ruining everyone’s fun. The channel went wild. Diane from Finance was the first to fire: “Simon, this is deeply unprofessional. Cody went above and beyond for this team. Why are you dragging your feet and sabotaging his hard work?” Brad from Marketing immediately joined the dogpile: “Seriously. It doesn’t cost you a dime, and we get a beautiful retreat. Why are you blocking this?” Another colleague chimed in: “Let’s call it what it is. Some people have been sitting in their comfortable chairs too long without delivering results. He’s probably terrified Cody is going to take his manager title.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. I drafted a response, then deleted it. A moment later, a direct message from Mr. Henderson arrived, summoning Cody and Diane to his office. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed with the same summons. When I walked in, Mr. Henderson cleared his throat, leaning back in his leather chair. “Simon, you’ve been with us a long time. But I have to ask—why are you making things so difficult for our new talent?” Diane crossed her arms, nodding in agreement. “Cody managed to secure the county’s finest estate for five hundred dollars. In contrast, Simon, the budgets you’ve submitted for past retreats have been astronomical. It makes one wonder…” The implication hung heavy and foul in the air. I let out a harsh laugh. “So, you’re accusing me of embezzling company funds through vendor kickbacks?” Silence stretched across the room, but the suspicion in their eyes was unmistakable. The urge to burn it all down flared hot in my chest. I wanted to scream the truth in their faces. “You can’t go to that estate because I—” “Look, Simon,” Cody cut in smoothly, wearing a mask of mock sympathy. “We’re all on the same team here. Some things are better left unsaid. There’s no need to make a scene.” Mr. Henderson shot me a stern look. “Cody has organized this beautifully. Simon, you are to hand over all event responsibilities to him immediately. And given the discrepancies Diane has raised, we will be conducting a full audit of your past event accounts. Consider yourself suspended indefinitely, effective today.” I froze. Six years. Six years of working late nights, of leveraging my personal network to secure discounted rates for this company, of quiet loyalty. And it took an intern’s cheap lie to strip me of everything I had built. Before, when planning retreats, I had called in personal favors to get us premium venues at cost. Now, they suspected me of stealing, all while trying to bully me into giving up my own multi-million-dollar property for five hundred dollars. I clenched my fists, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Fine,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “If you don’t believe me, run the audit. Review every receipt, every invoice, every transaction. If you find a single cent unaccounted for, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” Mr. Henderson sneered. “Don’t tempt me, Simon. Keep your pride; you’ll need it when the truth comes out.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the office. In the hallway, the hushed whispers of my colleagues followed me like a physical weight. I returned to my desk, opened my laptop, and began systematically organizing six years of vendor contracts, price comparisons, and bank statements. I remembered my first day here, fresh out of college, eager and naive. I had stayed because Henderson had promised that this company was a family, that loyalty would be rewarded. Over the years, I had quietly used Linden Hills as an unspoken perk, hosting our VIP clients there under the guise of “exclusive promotional partnerships” to help Henderson close deals. I never asked for credit. I just wanted to do my job. And this was my reward. “Simon, Mr. Henderson asked me to collect your transition files.” Cody was standing over my desk, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. Without a word, I sent the compiled archive to his inbox. He clicked through the files, then leaned down, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You know, Simon, the boss is dead set on this audit. You and I both know you’ve been skimmin’ off the top of those big budget events.” He tapped his fingers on my desk. “But I’m a reasonable guy. If you make sure the estate is ready for us next weekend, I might just tell Henderson that I looked over the books myself and found nothing. We can make this whole audit business disappear.” I looked up at him, genuinely astonished by his sheer audacity. He actually believed his own lie. He thought I was a thief, and he was trying to blackmail me with it. Cody swaggered back to his desk. Within minutes, he posted a signup sheet on Slack, adding a bold note: “All staff are welcome to bring family and guests. Unlimited premium food, wood-fired barbecue, and fresh cherry picking—all fully covered by the company!” Within thirty minutes, the registration list exploded. With spouses, partners, and children, the headcount quickly climbed past a hundred. As the sun began to set, Cody walked back to my desk with a printed roster and a massive list of logistics. “Here’s the final count: one hundred and eight people. We’ll need premium beef, seafood, craft beers, and all the recreational gear ready by Friday morning. Consider this your chance to redeem yourself, Simon. Make sure it’s perfect.” I glanced at the paper, then looked him dead in the eye. “I told you. The estate is not available.” Cody’s smile curdled into a cold sneer. “Stop bluffing, Simon. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll make sure Henderson hands those audit files straight to the police. Let’s see how much your stubbornness is worth when you’re wearing handcuffs.” Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, he assumed I was cowed into submission. He turned back to the Slack channel, painting an elaborate picture of the upcoming weekend. “Get ready for the ultimate feast, everyone! Organic Rainier cherries and plums straight from the branch—all you can eat! We’ll have wagyu beef skewers, fresh oysters, and premium craft bars. Everything is prepped and ready!” The channel was a flurry of praise. “Cody is a legend! This is a massive step up from what Simon used to organize!” “Wagyu and oysters? This is incredible!” Even Mr. Henderson posted three thumbs-up emojis. I quietly packed my personal belongings into a cardboard box, shut down my computer, and walked out. The next morning, my first day of suspension, I stayed in bed. But at 8:00 AM, my phone began to buzz with texts from Cody. “Simon, I hope you’re upstate setting up. Make sure the premium meats are iced. The boss expects a flawless experience!” I stared at the screen, my patience entirely depleted. “I told you twice. The estate is closed to you.” I blocked his number immediately. I thought that would buy me some peace, but less than an hour later, my phone rang again. This time, it was Pete, the head caretaker of Linden Hills. “Mr. Simon! We have a major situation here!” Pete’s voice was strained, drowning out a loud, chaotic din in the background. “A massive caravan of cars—over a hundred people—just showed up! They claim they’re from your company and they’ve completely bypassed the security gate!” A chill ran down my spine. “What?” “And that’s not the worst of it,” Pete gasped, his voice trembling. “Mr. Kingsley from Kingsley Holdings is staying in the North Pavilion. He came out of his villa to find a crowd of strangers setting up portable grills right on his private lawn. He is furious, Simon.” I closed my eyes, taking a long, measured breath to steady my racing pulse. “Pete, listen to me. Apologize to Mr. Kingsley immediately. Tell him I am on my way. Then, call the staff and tell those trespassers to leave.” I hung up and threw on some clothes, but before I could grab my keys, Pete called back. This time, he sounded devastated. “Simon… they won’t leave. They’re ignoring us. Some of them ran into the young cherry orchard—they’re tearing off unripe green cherries by the handful and throwing them on the ground! They’ve already trampled and snapped dozens of the new Italian grafted saplings we planted last autumn!” My grip tightened around the steering wheel as I sat in my car. Those saplings. I had hand-selected them from a heritage nursery in Tuscany, waiting nearly a year for import clearance. “And Simon…” Pete’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A guy named Cody just knocked over the table in the pavilion. He shattered Mr. Kingsley’s bottle of Romanée-Conti.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “Get the security cameras running, Pete,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Record every single one of them. Do not engage. I’m calling the police.” I dialed 911. By the time I neared the local sheriff’s department, my phone was vibrating continuously. An unknown number was flashing on the dashboard. I pressed answer. Cody’s voice screamed through the speakers, frantic and breathless. “Simon! Where the hell are you?! The police just showed up and they’re arresting everyone!”

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When I saw my ex-husband again after six long years, it was in a courtroom. He sat on the judicial bench, wearing the heavy black robes of a judge. I stood in the defendant’s box. As an accused murderer. The moment he recognized my face, the color drained from Thomas’s face, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “Bea? Is that… is that you?” I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. After all, nobody would ever connect Beatrice Campbell—a girl who once sobbed at the sight of a harmless spider—with Mercy, the ruthless killer who had systematically snuffed out five lives. Thomas’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of his bench, his jaw tight, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief. “Six years. Five lives. Five families utterly shattered…” He leaned forward, his voice cracking. “How could you do it, Bea? How could you become this monster?” I looked at his anguished face, and a soft, low chuckle escaped my throat. “It’s not just five, Thomas.” I leaned against the railing of the box, offering him a cold, mocking smile. “Your fiancée—my dear childhood best friend, Cassie Knowles—she’s been missing for a week now, hasn’t she?” I leaned in closer, whispering into the quiet of the courtroom. “Care to guess where she is?” … The courtroom erupted into instant chaos. Thomas went entirely pale. His knees buckled, and he nearly slid right off his leather chair. The chief judge banged his gavel with frantic, echoing strikes. “Recess! This court is adjourned. Case remanded to the police department for further investigation!” Bailiffs rushed forward, pinning my arms behind my back. As they dragged me out of the courtroom, a barrage of camera flashes blinded me. Outside the doors, the families of my victims screamed and wept. Rotten eggs and sharp gravel flew over the security barriers, striking my head and shoulders. A sharp stone sliced my temple. Blood ran down my cheek, warm and sticky, but I didn’t care. My eyes remained locked on Thomas, who was being ushered out by court security. Seeing the utter despair in his eyes, as if his very soul had been hollowed out, I finally let out a long, cathartic laugh. I was taken back to the high-security detention center. In the interrogation room, Detective Sean Callahan sat across from me. He was a massive man, radiating a quiet, dangerous authority. “Where is Cassie Knowles?” he demanded. I leaned back against the cold metal chair, letting my handcuffs clink against the table. “Bring Thomas here. I’ll only tell him.” “Not going to happen,” Callahan said, shutting me down instantly. “He is the victim’s fiancé. He has been officially recused from this case.” He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. “From what I’ve gathered, Judge Barrett is your ex-husband, and the victim was your closest friend for over a decade. Did jealousy drive you to this, Beatrice? Did you kill her because they were getting married?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at him, my expression blank. Thinking he had found a crack in my armor, Callahan tossed a stack of printouts onto the table. They were old photographs of Cassie and me during our teenage years. On the very top was a picture of us in middle school. I was smiling brightly at the camera, while Cassie stood slightly behind me, looking shy and small. “You met her in elementary school, didn’t you?” Callahan’s voice softened, adopting a gentler, coaxing tone. “You were like sisters. You went to the same boarding school. But you were pampered, spoiled, unable to do anything for yourself, while Cassie was independent. She washed your clothes, bought your meals. She even gave up her spot at a top-tier Ivy League university just to go to the same mid-tier state school with you, because your grades weren’t good enough and she wanted to keep taking care of you.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh but said nothing. Callahan continued, his finger tapping the photos. “During college, Cassie studied law, which is how she met Thomas, her upperclassman. You married him three years after graduation. But after the wedding, you grew insanely jealous of her. You picked fights with them constantly.” He leaned in closer. “And then, six years ago, Cassie tried to make peace with you. You drugged her during a private conversation and set the house on fire. If Thomas hadn’t arrived in time to pull her out, she would have died. You fled the scene and spent six years on the run. During that time, you showed no remorse, brutally taking five more lives using different, horrific methods.” Callahan slammed his palm onto the table, his eyes bloodshot with anger. The photos scattered, some slipping off the edge and landing by my shoes. “Beatrice Campbell, you changed your name to Mercy. You claimed you were trapped in a living hell, but was murder really the only way you could find your ‘mercy’?” “Do you have any idea how much she protected you? Cassie never even pressed charges for that fire. For six years, Thomas and Cassie did nothing but search for you. Thomas only filed for divorce to force you out of hiding. It was only after years of fruitless searching that they finally decided to be together. He wanted to spend the rest of his life making amends for the sins you committed!” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw my head back and laughed until my chest ached. “Making amends? For my sins?” I reached up with my sleeve to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes. “I knew they were masters of rewriting history, but this… this is a work of art.” Callahan looked deeply frustrated by my reaction. He gripped the edge of the table. “If they were lying, why would they wait six years to get married? Cassie kept every single one of these photos. The very proof of her devotion to you is what we used to track you down. Beatrice, doesn’t your conscience hurt even a little?” I looked down at the two smiling faces in the photo near my foot. My eyes stung, turning red. Seeing this shift, Callahan took a breath, lowering his voice. “Beatrice. Tell me where Cassie is. Let her rest in peace.” “Rest in peace?” I raised my eyes, looking past Callahan, staring directly at the large one-way mirror on the wall behind him. I knew who was standing on the other side. “Thomas,” I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. “Do you honestly think a person built entirely on a mountain of stolen lives deserves to rest in peace?” I stood up, my handcuffs rattling loudly, and grabbed the hem of my gray prison shirt. Callahan sprang from his seat, lunging across the table to grab my arms. “Beatrice! What do you think you’re doing? Sit down!” My wrists were pinned, but I twisted my body hard in the opposite direction, forcing the fabric to tear with a sharp, loud rip. The detective froze. The look of alarm on his face instantly melted into horror. There was no modesty to protect. What lay beneath the torn cloth was a landscape of ruined, waxy flesh. My body looked like a candle that had melted and cooled into grotesque, unnatural folds. “Thomas!” I yelled at the mirror, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Look at me! Does an arsonist end up with ninety percent of her body burned while the victim walks away with a few light scratches?!” My reflection in the glass looked monstrous, but I couldn’t stop smiling. The fire six years ago had consumed me from my ankles to my throat. I had spent months in a sterile burn ward, hovering between life and death, screaming until my vocal cords tore. And now, they wanted to tell the world that I was the one who lit the match. Realizing I knew Thomas was watching, Callahan quickly signaled the guards and had me moved to a different room. As we crossed the hallway, Thomas burst out of the observation room, his face twisted in a mixture of panic and denial. “You did that to yourself, Beatrice! You burned yourself to frame her! You were always sick, always jealous of what Cassie had!” Callahan moved fast. He shoved me into a secure interrogation room and slammed the heavy metal door shut, locking Thomas’s shouting voice on the other side. The hallway fell quiet again. Callahan sat down heavily, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. “I apologize. I didn’t realize they had allowed Judge Barrett into the observation room.” He took a deep breath, looking at me with a sudden, quiet intensity. “Tell me about the fire. Tell me what actually happened.” I looked at him, studying his face to see if there was any real curiosity left in his eyes. “Not just the fire,” I said softly. “If you want to understand, we have to start from the very beginning. My version.” It was true that Cassie took care of me when we were young. But she didn’t do it out of sisterly love. She did it out of obligation. We came from two entirely different worlds. We would have never met if my private elementary school hadn’t organized a charity drive for impoverished schools in the countryside. I had donated a box of gently used books and stationery. Inside one of the storybooks, I had scribbled my home address. A week later, I received a letter. It was a thank-you note from Cassie, written in neat, careful print. I was thrilled. We became pen pals. She wrote to me about the green fields and the farm animals; I wrote to her about the museums, the skyscrapers, and the books I read. She invited me to visit her village during the summer. My parents drove me out there. But when we arrived at the entrance of the village, we didn’t find a welcoming committee. We found Cassie’s mother screaming, her hand tangled in Cassie’s hair as she swung a heavy wooden broom down onto her back. “Inviting guests?!” her mother shrieked, her voice carrying over the dirt road. “We barely have enough to feed you, you worthless parasite, and you have the nerve to invite city folk to look down on us?!” The broom snapped. Cassie collapsed into the dirt, blood trickling from her lip. I sobbed the entire drive home, begging my parents to save her. In the end, my parents paid her family thirty thousand dollars—a fortune to them—to formally take over her care and bring her to the city. My parents didn’t formally adopt her because they wanted to protect her dignity. They wanted her to feel like an equal, a dear friend who was staying with us. I was too young to understand the dark complexity of human pride. When my parents brought her into our home, Cassie knelt on the hardwood floor, her eyes wide and desperate. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell. I will be Bea’s servant for the rest of my life to pay you back.” My parents immediately pulled her to her feet. “No, sweetheart. We don’t want a servant. We just want you to be happy here, with Bea.” I felt like a savior. I shared my clothes, my room, my toys, and my life with her. To protect her from gossip, we never told anyone at our new private school where she came from. But teenagers are perceptive. When classmates asked why Cassie was always fussing over me, ironing my clothes, and fetching my lunch, I would simply smile and say, “Because she loves me.” I didn’t realize that to the rest of the world, I looked like a spoiled, tyrannical princess, and Cassie looked like my long-suffering maid. And I certainly didn’t realize that my future husband, Thomas, saw us the exact same way. Shortly after Thomas and I married, his behavior shifted. He started smiling at his phone, setting it face-down on the table whenever I walked into the room. He worked late, and when he came home, there was often a faint, delicate scent of women’s perfume lingering on his coat. When I confronted him, he sighed with irritation. “I was laughing at a legal group chat, Bea. Putting my phone face-down is just a habit from work. And the perfume? I work with female clients. Am I supposed to tell them to step away because my wife is paranoid?” Still uneasy, I confided in Cassie. She hugged me tightly, whispering in my ear: “Next time you suspect something, don’t ask him. Just investigate. Find the proof first so he can’t lie his way out of it.” The proof arrived sooner than I expected. Thomas went on a short weekend business trip. He sent me a photo of the city skyline from his hotel room window, but in the reflection of the glass, I saw the distinct silhouette of a woman standing by the bed. I called Cassie immediately, but her phone went straight to voicemail. Panicked and desperate, I called two of our mutual friends and drove straight to his hotel. We used a spare keycard from the front desk to open the door. Inside, Thomas was half-kneeling on the carpet, gently cradling a woman’s bare leg in his hands. It was Cassie. When Thomas saw our friends standing in the doorway holding up their phones, his face turned livid. “Beatrice, have you lost your mind?!” My entire body was shaking. “What… what is she doing here?” Thomas stood up, shielding Cassie behind him, and slapped the phone out of my friend’s hand. “Cassie is in the pre-law program. I brought her along so she could audit a real case. She tripped on the stairs and sprained her ankle, and I was checking her injury. What is wrong with you?!” But the scent in the room was unmistakable. It was the exact same perfume I had smelled on his coat. I pushed past him, grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and unlocked it. Cassie’s contact was pinned to the top. The chat history from that single day was longer than all the messages Thomas had sent me over the last six months. My blood ran cold. “Is this your ‘legal group chat,’ Thomas? If you two had nothing to hide, why didn’t you just tell me she was coming with you?” “Enough!” Thomas roared. He reached into his pocket and threw two plastic keycards onto the bed. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d lose your mind and accuse her of something terrible! Everyone knows how much Cassie has sacrificed for you over the years, and this is how you repay her? By trying to brand her as a mistress?” Seeing the two separate room keys, the friends I had brought with me began to whisper among themselves, looking at me with disapproval. “Bea… maybe you really did misunderstand,” one of them murmured. Cassie slowly slipped off the bed and fell to her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry, Bea. This is my fault. Please don’t fight with Thomas because of me.” But as she bowed her head, I saw it—a tiny, triumphant smirk curling the corner of her lips. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand flew out and struck her across the face. “Cassie, I treated you like a sister! How could you do this to me?!” In the next second, a blinding pain exploded in my cheek. Thomas had slapped me so hard I stumbled back, falling hard against the desk. “You treated her like a sister?” Thomas sneered, his voice cold and disgusted. “You treated her like a servant. You made her wash your clothes, fetch your meals, and forced her to go to a second-rate state school just so she could keep nursing you. How do you sleep at night, Beatrice?” The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I looked up at them, my vision blurring. “A servant? Without my family, her own mother would have sold her off to clear a debt! My parents paid thirty thousand dollars to get her out of that hell. And when my family went bankrupt and college tuition skyrocketed, I gave up my study-abroad fund and split it with her so she could afford school. That is why we went to the state college together! Is that the story she told you?” The room fell dead silent. Cassie’s soft, theatrical sobbing was the only sound. Thomas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. He pulled Cassie to her feet, shielding her from my sight. “If you actually did those things out of charity, you wouldn’t throw them in her face to humiliate her.” Without another word, he guided her out of the room. Our friends followed them, leaving me alone on the cold hotel floor. The sheer weight of the betrayal crushed me, and the world went dark as I fainted. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed. Thomas was sitting beside me, holding my hand tightly. When he saw me move, he immediately looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary. “Bea… thank God you’re awake.” He kissed the back of my hand, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so, so sorry about what happened at the hotel. I lost my temper.” He reached out, gently smoothing the hair from my forehead. “The doctor told me you’re pregnant, Bea. You have to stay calm, for the baby. There is nothing going on between Cassie and me, I swear. We both crossed some lines, but it was just a misunderstanding.” He pulled a small, worn photograph from his pocket. It was the picture of Cassie and me from middle school. “Your friendship is too precious to throw away over jealousy,” Thomas whispered. “She wants to apologize to you. She’s coming to our house tomorrow. I’ll leave the two of you alone so you can talk it out. Will you do that for me? For our family?” I stared at Cassie’s innocent teenage smile in the photograph. I thought of what my mother used to tell me when we were young: “Never expect perfect grace from those who have known nothing but survival.” I slowly closed my eyes and nodded. The next afternoon, Cassie arrived at our suburban home, carrying a container of my favorite homemade soup. She watched quietly as I ate a few spoonfuls, and only then did Thomas feel comfortable enough to leave. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said, offering me a reassuring smile before driving away. The moment his car cleared the driveway, Cassie’s face changed. The submissive, guilty expression vanished, replaced by a cold, mocking sneer. “Beatrice,” she said, leaning over the kitchen island. “Do you have any idea how nauseating you are? Sitting there pretending to be the benevolent queen, when I know you absolutely despise me.” I set my spoon down, my hand starting to tremble. “What are you talking about?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I won’t let you play your mind games with me again, Cassie.” She laughed, a sharp, ugly sound, and pulled out her phone. She pressed play on an audio recording. Thomas’s voice filled the quiet kitchen: “…My entire career is built on family law, Cassie. A messy divorce would ruin my reputation. We have to be smart. But as a promise to you… when Bea went under for the IVF procedure, I had the clinic swap her donor eggs with yours. The child she’s carrying is yours and mine.” My heart stopped. To protect Thomas’s pride, we had told no one about our struggles with fertility or the IVF treatments. I tried to stand up, to scream, but my legs felt like lead. My arms wouldn’t obey my brain. The soup. It was drugged. Seeing the raw terror in my eyes, Cassie’s grin widened. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a box of matches, and struck one. The small flame danced between us. “Beatrice,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with a sick light. “If this house catches fire right now… who do you think Thomas will choose to save?” I tried to force the words out of my throat, my voice barely a whisper. “If you want him… take him. I won’t stand in your way.” “Slap.” She struck me across the face, sending me sliding off the chair onto the floor. “Take him?” she spat, glaring down at me. “Even now, you speak to me like you’re handing down scraps from your table. ‘I’ll let you have him.’ Who do you think you are, Beatrice? You were just lucky enough to be born to rich parents. What makes you better than me? Why did you get to have everything while I had to beg for your discarded toys?” The tiny flame of the match caught the edge of the kitchen curtains. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Bea. And weak, naive girls like you get left behind.” She pulled out her phone, dialing Thomas’s number on speaker. “Thomas! Help me!” she screamed into the receiver, her voice instantly shifting into a pitch of pure, frantic terror. “Bea has lost her mind! She set the house on fire! She’s trying to burn us both alive!” That was the last thing I heard before the smoke filled my lungs. Through the haze of the spreading flames, I saw the front door crash open. Thomas ran straight past where I lay paralyzed on the kitchen floor, throwing his arms around Cassie and carrying her out into the fresh air. Then, the burning ceiling collapsed, burying me in ash and fire. I looked across the metal table at Detective Callahan, whose face had gone completely pale. “So,” I said, my voice steady and quiet. “What I did to Cassie Knowles wasn’t murder. I simply returned the favor.” Callahan stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “Secure the old Barrett residence immediately! Get a forensics team out there—Cassie’s remains are likely buried on the property!” They moved fast. Within hours, the forensic team unearthed a small, sealed urn containing human ashes from the backyard of my former home. In the visitor’s room, Thomas slammed his fists against the glass partition, tears streaming down his face. “Yes, Cassie did terrible things! But you had the evidence! You could have used the law to destroy us, Beatrice! Why did you have to kill her like this?!” I stared at him through the glass, my expression entirely tranquil. “If I had died in that kitchen fire like she planned, Thomas… how would I have used the law?” I leaned closer to the glass. “And tell me—are you crying because you’re afraid of what the law will do to me, or are you crying because your precious Cassie is gone?” Thomas froze, his mouth hanging slightly open, unable to find an answer. Suddenly, the door behind him burst open. Detective Callahan entered, his face tight with anger and confusion. “The lab results just came back. Those ashes in the urn… they don’t belong to Cassie Knowles. Beatrice, you lied to us!” I smiled, resting my chin on my hands. “I never said those ashes belonged to Cassie.” “They belong to my mother.” I looked at Thomas, watching the confusion turn into cold dread on his face. “If my history with Cassie was just about that house fire, Thomas… why on earth would I have gone out of my way to kill five other completely innocent people?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537539”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel