Author: Momo Chan

Three years into our long-distance relationship, I decided it was time for the “big surprise.” I’d booked a late-night Amtrak to the city, a bouquet of peonies tucked under my arm, and a heart full of plans for Miles’s twenty-fourth birthday. But when the door to his apartment swung open, the reality didn’t match the script in my head. The man who had just been cooing into the phone, telling me how much he ached for me, was currently pinned against the sofa by another girl. She was kissing him with a frantic, proprietary hunger. Even as the small crowd around them erupted into whistles and cheers, Miles didn’t pull away. His expression wasn’t one of resistance; it was a hazy, passive acceptance. From my shadow in the corner of the entryway, I watched them for a long, frozen minute. No one even noticed I was there. … When Miles called me earlier that night, I was already standing outside his door, holding a custom-ordered bourbon-vanilla cake. I’d borrowed a nondescript delivery jacket from a courier downstairs and pulled the brim of my cap low. Through the phone, his voice was crystal clear, vibrating with that familiar, boyish charm. “Babe, I got the gift you sent. I love it so much. It’s perfect.” As soon as the words left his lips, a chorus of drunken mocking rose up behind him. His friends were parroting his tone, shouting “Babe!” and “I love it!” into the cramped apartment air. For three years, Miles had made “loyalty” his entire personality. He told everyone he met that he was taken. His friends all knew my name, my face, and the fact that we’d used matching lock-screen photos since sophomore year of college. He didn’t hide me; he brandished me like a shield. Hearing that soft, needy “Babe” made my pulse skip. My ears felt hot. I gripped the cake box tighter, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Just a few days ago, I’d had this impulsive, romantic vision. I’d take the train, bring the flowers, and give him a birthday he’d never forget. The call ended. I let out a small, shaky smile, fished the spare key from my pocket, and eased it into the lock. The moment the door clicked open, my eyes went straight to the living room. A group was huddled around the sofa in the center of the room. Under the dim, amber glow of the Edison bulbs, I was invisible—just a shadow in a delivery jacket. Miles was sinking into the leather cushions. A girl—someone I didn’t recognize—had her hands planted on either side of his head, leaning down to claim his mouth. They were tangled together, their lips pressed tight in a way that looked practiced. The room erupted again, the cheers turning into a dull roar in my ears. I felt the blood drain from my face, a cold, heavy stone settling in my gut. My hands went numb. Miles seemed lost in it. And when the girl finally pulled back for air, I didn’t see him push her away. I saw him lean up, following the gravity of the moment, and kiss her back. The cake box hit the floor with a wet thud. The romantic atmosphere shattered instantly. A dozen heads turned toward the door. In my panic, my first instinct wasn’t to scream or demand an explanation. It was to drop to my knees and try to save the ruined cake. The white frosting was smeared across the hardwood—a soft, pathetic mess. To my touch, it felt like jagged shards of glass, slicing into my dignity until I felt like I was bleeding out right there on the floor. “How’d the door get open? Who forgot to—” Someone started to curse, and then the room descended into a chaotic scramble of voices. But as I finally looked up, the noise died. Silence fell over the apartment like a shroud. For three years, I had been the wallpaper of Miles’s life. My face was his screensaver; our framed photos lined his hallway. He’d hung them up the day I moved back for my master’s program, telling me over FaceTime that he needed the “shrine” to survive the distance. Now, Miles just stared at me, paralyzed. His phone sat on the coffee table, the screen still glowing with a candid photo he’d taken of me while I was sleeping. That image of pure, unsuspecting peace felt like a slap in the face. “Hey, Nora… what are you doing here? You should’ve called, we would’ve picked you up from the station!” “Miles is wasted, seriously. He was just saying your name like five minutes ago. You guys are literally goals, haha.” “Look, it was just Truth or Dare. We pushed it too far, totally our fault. Don’t be mad, Nora.” The “bros” were already closing ranks, spinning the narrative before Miles could even find his tongue. I saw the girl—the one who’d been on top of him—clutching Miles’s sleeve. His friends tried to usher her behind them, and I caught a glimpse of tears welling in her eyes. There were only a few feet of floorboards between us, but it felt like a canyon had opened up. Miles was suddenly a stranger on the far side of a cliff. He finally shoved through the crowd, stumbling toward me, frantically wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nora, baby—I don’t even like her. It was a mistake. I didn’t—I swear I didn’t mean to—” He was rambling, his voice breaking in that specific way he knew always melted my heart. He started to cry, big, fat tears tracking through his stubble. I looked away from the pile of ruined cream on the floor and focused on his lips. Miles used to tell me those lips belonged to me and me alone. Now, they were stained with a shade of red that wasn’t mine—a bold, mocking crimson. It was a territorial marking, a flag planted on soil I thought I owned. The last thread of my composure snapped. My throat ached, and without a word, I turned and bolted. “Nora! Wait!” I heard him pounding after me, but I slammed the door with every ounce of strength I had left. The courier was still by his bike downstairs, looking confused. I ripped off the oversized jacket and handed it back to him. “Thanks,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “I’ll leave you a five-star review.” He saw my blotchy, red eyes and opened his mouth to ask if I was okay, but the sound of heavy footsteps hitting the stairs cut him off. Miles caught my arm, his grip trembling. He looked pathetic, undone. “Nora, please. It was nothing. I was drunk, she jumped me. Please don’t leave. You can’t leave me.” I stayed silent. Behind him, his friends had spilled out onto the sidewalk, a chorus of excuses following in their wake. The girl was there, too, rubbing her face. She looked like she’d been crying, her voice hitching in her throat. “Nora, I’m so sorry. I just… I lost my head. Miles rejected me, I swear, I just forced it…” The second she said “Miles,” he snapped. He whirled around and screamed at her, “Don’t call me that! I don’t even know you! You’re making me sick, just get out of here!” The girl flinched as if he’d hit her. She stood there, stunned, before turning away and letting out a jagged, muffled cough. As she turned, I felt Miles’s grip on my arm tighten. He was rigid with tension. The pressure hurt. I winced and tried to pull away, which seemed to snap him out of his trance. He looked at me, his eyes flitting from anger to desperate concern. “Babe, are you okay? Did I hurt you? It’s freezing out here, your hands are like ice.” He took my hands in his, blowing warm air onto my fingers, completely ignoring the girl he’d just humiliated. The crowd went quiet. The courier, sensing a scene he didn’t want to be part of, quietly pedaled away. I looked at the top of Miles’s head as he bent over my hands. I felt like a dull knife was being dragged across my chest—a slow, rhythmic sawing. He took my lack of resistance as a sign of forgiveness. He leaned in, trying to kiss my cheek, but I jerked my head away. I kept my eyes on the pavement, pulling my hands back and smoothing my hair. My voice was eerily flat, like I was commenting on a forecast. “My train back is in an hour. Take me to the station.” A flash of pure, pathetic relief crossed his face. “Of course. Anything. Let’s go.” He fumbled for his keys, led me to his car, and held the door open like he was the perfect gentleman. When I climbed into the passenger seat, he tried to lean over to buckle my seatbelt—the way he’d done a thousand times before. I was faster. I yanked the strap across my chest and clicked it into place, a physical barrier against the world. I didn’t say another word. Miles hesitated, then shut my door gently. He walked back toward the group. I couldn’t see his face, but I watched him in the side mirror. He took off his jacket—the expensive wool one I’d bought him for Christmas—and handed it to the girl. Then he ran back to the car. The heater kicked in, filling the cabin with artificial warmth. As the engine hummed, I stared down at my feet. I was wearing the sneakers Miles had bought me. I hated heels, so he’d filled my closet with every color of flat-soled shoes imaginable. Miles hadn’t finished college. His parents passed away during his sophomore year, and he’d had to drop out to work. He’d lived on nothing so I could have everything. I remembered the leanest month, when he only had twelve dollars to his name. He spent six on a bowl of wonton soup for me and the other six on a single, long-stemmed rose. Back then, I thought his face was more beautiful than any flower. He’d looked at me with such fierce, terrifying certainty and promised he’d get rich just to take care of me. When his first startup took off, he didn’t spend a dime on himself. He transferred the entire first check to my savings account. People teased him, calling him “whipped,” but he’d just laugh and say he was happy to be my servant for life. For three years, he wasn’t physically there, but he saturated my life. Everything I touched, wore, or used was a gift from him. Even when I told him it was too much, he insisted. “Where’s your jacket?” I asked as he pulled out into traffic. “You were wearing it a second ago.” A chill seemed to cling to him. I wanted an answer—I needed to hear the lie or the truth, I didn’t care which. He kept his eyes on the road. His voice was a whisper. “It got… dirty. I took it off. I know you can’t stand stains, Nora. I didn’t want to bring the mess into the car with you.” The car came to a halt at a red light. He reached over and gripped my hand so hard it felt like he was trying to fuse our bones together. Like he was afraid if he let go, I’d evaporate. I didn’t look at him. I looked at the window. In the black reflection of the glass, I saw a girl crying, and I barely recognized her. The station was a ghost town. Miles had rushed out in just a thin t-shirt. I took a deep breath, stepped out of the car, and kept my tone light, professional. “You should get back. I can handle it from here.” He frowned, his mouth opening to protest, but his phone cut him off. It was one of his friends. Miles tried to ignore it, but it rang again instantly. He went to hit decline, then changed his mind. Maybe he thought showing me he had nothing to hide would help. He hit ‘speaker.’ “Miles, where are you? Daisy is—” The name Daisy hit the air like a gunshot. I saw Miles’s entire demeanor shift. He cut the speaker, pressed the phone to his ear, and looked at me with the eyes of a trapped animal. Seeing that I remained expressionless, he stepped several yards away to take the call in private. I didn’t try to stop him. I just sat on a cold metal bench in the terminal, watching the departure board. When he came back, he looked torn, his face a map of guilt. He reached out and hooked his pinky around mine—our secret signal for “I’m sorry, let’s make up.” I didn’t look at him. “Babe… the door locked behind us and they’re all stuck outside. They can’t get back in. I have to go back for a second, okay?” I didn’t answer. “Just… take a breath. Calm down. You can do whatever you want to me later, just please, don’t talk about breaking up. You know you’re all I have.” Before he turned to leave, he tapped his phone. A notification chimed on mine—a massive Venmo transfer. As his tail-lights faded into the night, I finally blinked. My throat felt like it was full of dry sand. The old Miles would have printed my ticket for me. He would have checked my bag, made sure I had snacks, and stood on the platform until the train was out of sight. This time, he didn’t even notice that I hadn’t gone to the kiosk to get a ticket. On the big screen, the departures kept flickering. There wasn’t even a train back to my campus tonight. Miles hadn’t asked why I’d come. He hadn’t wondered how I could possibly be leaving so soon. He was too busy covering his tracks, frantically trying to pull himself out of the mud he’d jumped into. The sky was bruising into a dark, rainy gray. I rubbed my temples, pulled up an app, and booked a slow, grueling Greyhound bus. The city was hours away from my university. The bus was cramped, sweltering, and smelled of old coffee and desperation. As soon as I took my seat, Miles’s texts started flooding in. Nora, today was on me. I screwed up. Please don’t give me the death penalty yet. Let’s talk. We were only hanging out for work stuff. I already talked to the partners—when you start your internship this summer, you’re going to be right next to me in my office. I need you. I can’t breathe without you. Don’t throw us away. I scrolled past the words and tapped on a photo he’d sent a week ago. It was a group shot from a company retreat. Miles was in the center, and right next to him, leaning in so close their shoulders overlapped, was Daisy. She was smiling with a soft, gentle warmth. When Miles first started the company, he’d kissed me and made a promise. “Behind every great man is a greater woman,” he’d said. “There will only ever be one female employee in this company, Nora. And that’s you. You’re the only queen this castle needs.” It was a cheesy, romantic joke, but I’d tucked it away like a treasure. Now, the “employee” slot was filled. And I realized I didn’t want to be the queen of his castle anymore. The bus was noisy—a baby crying in the back, a man snoring beside me. But inside my head, it was silent. I opened the chat, my thumbs shaking as I typed the words, letter by letter. Miles, we’re done. Don’t come looking for me. I hit send. I didn’t wait to see the “typing…” bubble. I blocked him. I thought that was the end of it. But a second later, my phone rang. An unknown number. I picked up. Miles’s voice was hysterical, a jagged edge of madness bleeding through the line. “Nora, if you want to break up with me, you’ll have to kill me first. You hear me? Unless I’m dead, this is never happening.” The hair on my neck stood up. I heard the screech of tires on the other end—a violent, metallic scream that made my heart jump into my throat. Then, I heard Miles laugh. It was a cold, hollow sound. “Phone calls are cheap,” he whispered. “I’m coming to you. You can say it to my face.”

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It started with an electric bill. That was how I found out my father had a second family. Mom had asked me to log into Dad’s utility account because the notification said the bill was overdue. I punched in the password, expecting the usual boring interface. I froze. There were two account numbers linked to the profile. The first was ours: Unit 2, Building 7, Oakwood Gardens. The second address was one I’d never seen before: Unit 1801, Tower 3, The Vancroft. The account nickname consisted of just one word: Home. I stared at the screen for ten seconds, the blue light burning into my retinas. My house was Oakwood Gardens. So, if this other place was Home—which family lived there? I didn’t tell Mom. Not yet. I took a screenshot, logged out, and opened Google Maps. The Vancroft. Located in the Riverside District. Average listing price: $1.2 million. 1. I didn’t go home after work that day. I called an Uber and headed straight for Riverside. The Vancroft was “new money” written in glass and steel. There was a fountain out front and a crystal chandelier in the lobby that looked like it cost more than my car. It was a universe away from the walk-up condo built in 2003 where I grew up. I stood outside the entrance for ten minutes, watching the revolving doors spin. When a delivery driver buzzed in, I slipped through the gate behind him. Elevator to the 18th floor. Unit 1801. There were two pairs of slippers on the welcome mat outside the door. One pair of men’s leather loafers, size 11. My dad’s size. One pair of women’s slides. Pink, with a little satin bow on top. My mother wouldn’t be caught dead in pink. I stood there, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t knock. I crouched down and looked at the gap beneath the door. The doormat was brand new. It read: HOME SWEET HOME. My mother didn’t speak a word of English beyond “Hello” and “Thank you.” I pulled out my phone, snapped a picture, and went back downstairs. I found a bench in the complex’s landscaped garden and sat. 6:30 PM. If people lived here, they’d be coming home soon. I waited forty minutes. At 7:10 PM, a woman walked in with a boy. She looked to be in her late forties, hair done in perfect, expensive beach waves, wearing a beige trench coat and carrying shopping bags from Nordstrom. The boy looked about eighteen or nineteen, backpack slung over one shoulder. They fobbed into the building. I watched the elevator indicator lights. It stopped on the 18th floor. Three minutes later, the windows of Unit 1801 glowed to life. Warm, yellow light. It looked cozy. It looked like a family. I sat in the cold, staring at that window. My phone buzzed. It was Dad. “Harper, honey, I’ve got a client dinner tonight. Won’t be home for supper.” I looked up at the light on the 18th floor. “Okay.” I hung up. Twenty minutes later, a black Audi A6 pulled into the driveway. License plate 7792. My dad’s car. He got out, carrying a white cake box. Magnolia Bakery. He walked into the building. The elevator rose. Another light flicked on in Unit 1801. I sat on the bench. The wind was biting, cutting through my jacket. My dad’s “client dinner” was on the 18th floor. I suddenly remembered last month, on Mom’s birthday. Dad said he had a board meeting and didn’t get home until 10:00 PM. There was no cake. He had said, “You’re fifty years old, Susan. Why do you need a birthday party? You’re not a child.” I pulled out my phone and opened the banking app. I had access to Dad’s personal account; I handled his taxes sometimes. I scrolled down. Every month on the 15th, there was a fixed transfer. $3,000. Recipient: Vanessa. Memo: Household. I scrolled back. January. $3,000. December. $3,000. November. $3,000. I kept scrolling. And scrolling. My fingers started to go numb. The transfers went back to 2005. Every single month. Not one missed payment. 2005. I was six years old. I did the math in my head. 20 years. $3,000 times 12, times 20. $720,000. And that was just the monthly allowance. My hand was shaking. Not from the cold. I closed the app. I stood up and took one last look at the window on the 18th floor. The warm, yellow light. A family of three. I turned around and walked away. On the ride home, Mom texted me. “Harper, I saved some dinner for you. Corn chowder and ribs. Come home soon, it’s getting cold.” I stared at the message. For a long time. Then I typed: “Okay. Almost there.” 2. When I got home, Mom was at the sink, washing dishes. Her apron was old, the fabric worn thin near the waist where she had patched a hole with mismatched thread. The stew was on the table, covered with a plate to keep the heat in. “Late night?” Mom wiped her hands on a towel as she turned around. “Overtime,” I lied. I sat down to eat. The meat was falling off the bone, the corn sweet and soft—just the way she knew I liked it. As I ate, a hot pressure built up behind my eyes. “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, pausing. “Nothing. The ribs are good.” Mom smiled. The skin around her eyes crinkled. “Eat up, then. There’s more in the pot.” She turned back to the sink. I heard the rush of the faucet. My mother’s hands were perpetually red and chapped from water and soap. In the winter, her knuckles cracked and bled, covered in Band-Aids. She wasn’t always like this. I’d seen the old photos. Twenty-five years old, working at the bank, crisp white blouse, a bob cut that framed her face perfectly, a smile that lit up the room. She was a head teller back then. Top performance in her branch. Then she got pregnant with me. Dad had said, “Stay home and take care of the baby. I’ll take care of you.” So Mom quit. She was twenty-eight. When she resigned, her branch manager had said, “Susan, are you sure? You have a real future here. It’s a waste to leave.” Mom had said, “The baby is more important.” What she didn’t know—what I had only recently pieced together—was that after she quit, her position was filled by a woman named Vanessa. Mom resigned the same year Dad’s construction supply business was just getting off the ground. Where did the capital come from? Mom’s inheritance. $50,000. Back in 2004, that was everything my grandparents had saved. Mom said, “Robert, take it. When the company gets big, just pay me back.” Dad said, “Don’t worry. I’ll never let you down.” The company did get big. It went from a $50,000 startup to a multi-million dollar operation. And Mom? Mom stayed home. She raised the kid, cooked the meals. Washed the clothes, mopped the floors. Twenty years. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. No weekends, no holidays, no year-end bonuses. After I went to college, Mom had a little more time. She told Dad she wanted to buy a new winter coat. Her old one was eight years old, the cuffs frayed. Dad said, “Money’s tight right now. We need to be frugal.” Mom said, “Oh. Okay then.” She wore that coat for another year. My first year working, I used my Christmas bonus to buy her a high-end down parka. Mom was happy for a week. She tried it on five times. Every time, she’d fold it carefully and put it back in the box, saying, “It’s too nice. I don’t want to ruin it.” Sitting at the kitchen table now, I thought about that coat. I thought about the woman at The Vancroft. The beige trench coat. The Nordstrom bags. The beach waves. My dad bought those for her. My mom wore an eight-year-old coat. My dad gave Vanessa a $3,000 monthly “allowance.” I squeezed my eyes shut. After dinner, I went to my room. Locked the door. Opened my laptop. I’m a CPA. Auditing is what I do. It’s who I am. I logged into Dad’s business accounts. He hadn’t changed the password since the dawn of time. I started digging. And God, did I find things. Beyond the monthly $3,000 transfers, there was so much more. 2008. Transfer: $100,000. Memo: Property Purchase. 2012. Transfer: $60,000. Memo: Renovation. 2015. Transfer: $45,000. Memo: Vehicle. 2018. Transfer: $30,000. Memo: Tuition. 2019. $30,000. Tuition. 2020. $30,000. 2021. $30,000. 2022. $30,000. 2023. $30,000. Six years of tuition. What kind of school costs $30k a year? Private prep school. I looked up the rates for Riverside Academy. $28,500 plus fees. I remembered something else. My senior year of high school, I wanted to take an SAT prep course. It was $500. Mom asked Dad. Dad said, “She’s already a senior. Why bother now? It’s a waste of money.” I didn’t take the course. I got into a state school. My $500 class was a waste. But another kid’s $30,000 tuition was paid without blinking an eye. I took a deep breath. I kept digging. That night, I exported ten years of transaction history. I flagged every suspicious line item until 3:00 AM. I calculated the total. 20 years. Transfers to Vanessa, plus the condo down payment, the renovation, the car, the tuition. Total: $2.4 million. And that was just the paper trail I could find. Conservatively? $2.5 million. I stared at the number on the screen. $2.5 million. Mom’s inheritance was $50,000. Dad built his life on that $50,000. And then he took $2.5 million to support another woman. Another home. I closed the laptop. I lay on my bed. There was a water stain on the ceiling. The roof leaked last year. Dad said, “Contractors are rip-offs. Let’s wait on it.” We waited a year. I bet the ceiling at The Vancroft didn’t have any stains. 3. The next day was Saturday. I didn’t go into the office. I investigated Vanessa. Her social security number was on the bank transfer logs. I asked a college friend to run a background check. He worked in data security. Vanessa. 48 years old. Local. Former employee of First City Bank. Hired: 2004. 2004. The same year. The year Mom quit. I grabbed my phone and dug out digital scans of Mom’s old photo albums. I found a group shot. Mom standing behind a bank counter with her team. On the far right, a tall woman with long hair, smiling broadly. On the back of the physical photo, Mom had written: 1999. Me, Vanessa, and Joan. The Dream Team. Vanessa. Vanessa. My mother’s colleague. But she was more than that. I went through Mom’s WeChat contacts (she used it to talk to relatives). No Vanessa. But I found a contact named “Big Sis V.” The last message was from 2004. Mom: “V, I’ve put in my notice. Take care of yourself.” Vanessa: “Don’t worry. You just focus on the baby. I’ve got things covered here at the bank.” She had things covered. She covered the bank. She covered my dad, too. I stared at that message for a long time. In 2004, Mom resigned. In 2004, Vanessa took Mom’s job. In 2005, Dad started sending Vanessa money. Mom gave up her seat at the table, and she gave it to her. Vanessa didn’t just take the job. She took my mother’s husband. I kept looking. I pulled the property deeds. The Vancroft, Tower 3, Unit 1801. Owner: Vanessa. Purchased: 2008. Down payment: $100,000. The mortgage payments? My dad paid them for ten years. Paid off in full in 2019. Current value: approx $1.2 million. There was also a car. 2015 Cadillac XT5. Bought for $45,000. Registered to Vanessa. I thought about Mom taking the bus to the grocery store. Dad said, “You don’t work, Susan. Why do you need a car? Gas is expensive.” Mom said, “You’re right.” I looked up Vanessa’s son. Tyler Su. 19 years old. Born: 2006. I was born in 1999. He was seven years younger than me. Which meant— When I was six, Vanessa was pregnant. When I was seven, she gave birth. The boy had my dad’s last name. Su. A fire started burning in my chest. What was I doing when I was six? I was sitting at the table, waiting for Daddy to come home for dinner. Mom would say, “Daddy’s busy at work, sweetie. You eat first.” What was Daddy busy with? He was busy having a baby with Vanessa. In that moment, everything clicked. When I was little, Dad was never home. I thought it was “client meetings.” In high school, he was gone even more. I thought it was “business trips.” Since college, I rarely came home, but when I did, he was gone. Mom said, “Your father works so hard.” He worked hard for twenty years. Hard at managing a second life. I put down the phone. Through it all, Mom knew nothing. She thought her husband was building an empire for us. She thought her sacrifice had meaning. She thought her $50,000 inheritance had bought a future for her family. She didn’t know it had turned into $2.5 million for another woman. She didn’t know the woman who took her job took her life. I picked up my phone. I wanted to call Mom. My finger hovered over her name. I put it down. Now wasn’t the time to show my cards. I had to do something first. 4. For the next three days, I kept digging. I knew there had to be more. I logged into Dad’s email. Password: his birthday + last four digits of his cell. He really thought we were too stupid to look. There was a folder named “ADMIN.” Mostly boring invoices. But at the bottom, three emails caught my eye. Sender: Baker & McKenzie Law Group. “Mr. Su, per your request, the draft of the divorce agreement is attached. Please review.” Date: Two months ago. I opened the attachment. Divorce Settlement Agreement. Plaintiff: Robert Su. Defendant: Susan Lin. Asset Distribution: a. Oakwood Gardens property transfers to Defendant. b. 100% of Company Equity remains with Plaintiff. C. Savings in respective personal accounts remain separate. d. Other assets to be negotiated. Oakwood Gardens. Bought in 2003. Worth maybe $400,000 now on a good day. It was an old building. And the company? I checked the financials for Su Construction Supplies, LLC. Annual revenue $3 million. Net profit roughly $500,000. Conservative valuation? At least $2 million. So, Dad wanted to give Mom the decaying $400k apartment. And keep the multi-million dollar business for himself. Plus his savings, his investments. Mom would get less than 15% of the total assets. This was his definition of “I’ll never let you down.” I opened the second email. “Mr. Su, regarding the equity transfer. To transfer 30% of shares to Tyler Su, we need the following documents…” He was giving the company to Vanessa’s son. Tyler. The 19-year-old. I was his biological daughter. In twenty-six years, he hadn’t given me a single share. But he was handing the legacy to the boy born on the side. I scrolled down. Third email. It was from Vanessa to my dad. Informal. “Robert, you need to speed up the divorce. Tyler is applying for schools abroad next year, we need the tuition liquid. If you can’t handle Susan, I’ll find someone to talk to her.” My dad replied: “Don’t worry. Done by year-end. She’s easy to deal with.” She’s easy to deal with. Yeah. Mom was easy. For twenty years, her answer to everything was “Okay,” “Sure,” “Whatever you think is best.” Vanessa said, “I’ll find someone to talk to her.” Who? Who the hell was she going to send to intimidate my mother? The audacity. I took screenshots. Every email. Every attachment. Then I checked one last thing. Tyler Su’s transcript. Riverside Academy.

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The day the poor scholarship student ran for Student Body President, my childhood friend made sure everyone voted for me instead. Even though I wasn’t running. He didn’t do it for me. He did it because he got a sick thrill out of crushing the spirit of the pretty girl on financial aid, calling it a “lesson in reality.” Later, he would hospitalize the guys who bullied that same scholarship student. But then, the boy who had been my shadow since birth—the one who supposedly cared for me—leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink, and announced to the entire room, “Selene isn’t expensive. Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” I froze. Then, quietly, I transferred all my classes to the morning block to avoid him. On the rainy night my mother’s condition went critical, I swallowed my pride and asked him for money. He waited until his cigarette burned down to the filter before flicking the ash near my hand. “Selene,” he said, his voice void of warmth. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.” After he walked away, the top student in our year stepped out of the shadows and held an umbrella over my head. “Would you be willing to come to London with me?” I nodded. 1 On the first day of the semester, Piper stood at the podium, her cheeks flushed with hope as she delivered her speech for president. But when the votes were projected on the screen, her face went ghost white. There were thirty people in the seminar. Selene received twenty-nine votes. Beside me, Roman Carter watched Piper’s devastation with the focus of a predator. He started a slow, mocking clap. “Surprise, Selene,” he drawled, his voice dripping with faux affection. Piper looked like she was going to be sick. Her eyes filled with tears, shifting to glare at me with pure, unadulterated jealousy. I sighed, a silent exhale that vanished in the room’s tension. The girl who won by a landslide was me. I hadn’t even put my name on the ballot. And the guy next to me? Technically, he was my childhood friend. Realistically? I was the daughter of the help who used to live in his guest house. That dynamic shattered the summer after middle school. My father was driving Mrs. Carter—Roman’s pregnant mother—and my own mother when the car crashed. My mother was the sole survivor, but she never woke up. She’s been in a vegetative state ever since. From that day on, the Carters threw me out. My relationship with Roman curdled into something dark. Even though the police report cited brake failure—an accident—Roman never looked at me the same way again. The rumors at school were vicious. They said I was a jinx. A curse. The girl who killed Mrs. Carter and Roman’s unborn brother. Roman loved watching me take the heat. By some twisted fate, we ended up at the same university, in the same major. On the first day, he had taken my bag with practiced intimacy, whispering in my ear, “Been a while. I missed you.” During introductions, he jerked his chin in my direction. “Selene.” Everyone turned. The sunlight hit my profile, and for a second, it looked like a scene from a romance novel. Then Roman smiled. It was a cruel, jagged thing. “Her dad’s dead. Her mom’s a vegetable.” The room erupted in gasps. People awkwardly looked away, shuffling their feet. The professor eventually forced Roman to sit down. When it was my turn, I just gave my name. Roman was bored out of his mind until Piper showed up. Piper was the scholarship kid with a chip on her shoulder. She hated the Greek system, hated old money, and wasn’t afraid to say it. But when she spoke, her eyes lingered on Roman a little too long. Roman scoffed, winding a lock of my hair around his finger. “Don’t get too close to people with brain damage, Selene.” I had a feeling he was the one who would get close. And honestly? Good. 2 I was right. First, he humiliated Piper in the election. Then, in a bout of ironic courtship, he started working shifts with her at the diner to “experience the struggle.” When guys harassed her, he sent them to the ER. I kept my head down. I studied. I worked three jobs. I did people’s homework for cash. I thought our lives were finally diverging into parallel lines. Then I walked into the lecture hall and heard a recording blasting over the speakers. “Selene, you look desperate for cash. How much are you selling it for?” “Fifty for a quickie, five hundred for the night.” It was my voice. People screamed. Some laughed. Roman stood in the center of the room, looking like a king in his court. “I told you,” he announced, his tone light, conversational. “She’s cheap. Fifty or five hundred.” The room buzzed with noise. Disgusting, predatory looks crawled over my skin. I froze. The audio was doctored. In high school, I did people’s homework. The question had been about essay prices. I had answered honestly. Now, it was being played to the entire student body as a solicitation for sex. Piper threw herself into Roman’s arms, looking scandalized. “Why would you play that, Roman?” He ruffled her hair. “She stole your spot in the competition. She needed to be taken down a peg.” I sat down in silence. I pulled out my phone, found the old transaction logs—labeled distinctly as “Essay Editing” and “Math Tutoring”—and uploaded the screenshots to the class group chat. Then, I logged into the portal and transferred every single class I shared with them. They could play at being adults. They could find their entertainment in destroying people. I couldn’t. I had to pay back the Hale family a thousand dollars every month for my mother’s medical bills. I didn’t have the luxury of time for their games. Seeing no reaction from me, Roman cornered me after my new class. He sat on the desk in front of me, swinging his legs. “I was just helping you drum up business, Selene,” he said, a lazy smile on his lips. “Don’t I get a thank you?” I looked at him. Cruel. Arrogant. Broken. The sunny, polite boy from the estate was dead. He died in that crash, too. And the optimistic, confident Selene died with him. I lowered my eyes. My voice was dry. “Thank you.” His face darkened. His jaw ticked. “Don’t thank me.” Roman found out about the class transfer quickly. He brought Piper into the coffee shop where I worked. Piper “accidentally” tripped, sending a scalding latte all over my apron and arm. The skin turned angry red instantly. She frowned, stepping back. “Do you even know how to serve coffee? You splashed my dress! You couldn’t afford to replace this if you worked here for a hundred years!” I had crouched down to clean up the mess, but I paused. I looked up at her. She was wearing the season’s latest designer gear. Roman’s money, obviously. There was barely a drop on her hem. I stood up. “Call the police, then. The security cameras captured everything.” Including the way she had shoved her hand out to tip the cup. She choked, grabbing Roman’s hand. “Baby, the dress you bought me is ruined.” Roman glanced at her, then patted her head dismissively. “I’ll buy you another one.” Piper smirked. “Let’s go.” She hummed a tune as she linked arms with him, leaving me with a puddle of coffee and a burning arm. I stood in silence for a moment, then grabbed the mop. Later, a delivery driver dropped off a tube of burn cream with a note: Switch your classes back. I threw it in the trash. Two weeks later, final group projects were assigned. Every time I made eye contact with a classmate, they looked away. A girl I had tutored once whispered to me, “Someone told us not to team up with you. If we do, we’re blacklisted.” The professor sighed. “Selene, per the syllabus, groups must be two or three students.” I stared at my laptop screen. A text popped up from Roman. Come back. At that exact moment, a chair scraped against the floor next to me. It was Atlas Hale. The top student. The impossible standard. “Want to be partners?” he asked. 3 I exhaled, a sound I hadn’t realized I was holding in. It seemed like every time I hit a wall, Atlas Hale was there to open a door. The last time was the summer after high school. I was sitting in the parlor of the Hale estate, terrified, waiting to beg his grandfather for a loan. Atlas had walked in first. I had jumped to my feet. He smiled, a gentle expression that reached his eyes. “Don’t be nervous. I’m Atlas. Grandfather is… eccentric.” I knew who he was. Everyone did. National Go champion. Heir to the Hale empire. “I’m Selene,” I managed, clutching the hem of my cheap shirt. He poured me tea. “You’re early. Grandfather was up all night gaming, he won’t be up for a while.” “I can wait,” I whispered. “Play a game with me?” he asked. I blinked. “Go?” He pulled out a board. “Five-in-a-row. I heard you were unbeatable in middle school.” We played all morning. His presence had a grounding effect, calming the storm in my chest. It was the same now. “Can we wait to submit the form?” I asked him quietly. If we didn’t submit it yet, Roman wouldn’t know. If Roman knew, he would go nuclear. Atlas nodded. “Whatever you need.” After a beat, he added, “If you need help with anything else, tell me.” On the deadline day for the project, I got fired from the coffee shop. The manager was vague, mumbling something about “complaints from influential customers.” I stood outside the shop, the rain soaking through my thin jacket. I didn’t know where to go. The rain was silent, but my mind was screaming. I went to the hospital. My mother lay there, still and silent. She had aged so much. The Carters always said Mrs. Carter was going out for a spa day. Why did she take my mother? My phone buzzed. Roman. Come to The Lounge. I’ll give you a grand. I typed back: Transfer it first. The Lounge was an upscale bar near campus. The smell of expensive scotch and designer perfume couldn’t mask the rot underneath. Roman waved me over. “Here.” I sat next to him. The leather was still warm from someone else. I tried to stand, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Why didn’t you come to me?” He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “If you don’t come back to my section, who’s going to partner with you?” “Is Professor Zhou going to let you fail?” I said nothing. He bit my earlobe hard. “Selene, why the hell won’t you speak?” “How can you be so calm?” “How can you pretend nothing happened?” “My dad is dead!” “Your mother is a vegetable!” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Piper came back from the restroom and froze when she saw me in her seat. She stormed over, grabbed a drink, and threw it in my face. “Get up! That’s my spot.” I was almost grateful for the interruption. “Okay.” I said one word, blood mixing with the alcohol on my lips. As I stood up, someone tapped Roman on the shoulder. A guy looked at me, confused. “Dude, she’s partnered with Atlas Hale.” 4 There was no time to react. Roman yanked me back down onto the sofa. His hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing. “How did you get to Atlas?” “Did you sleep with him? Was he good?” “Fifty or five hundred, Selene?” I clawed at his arm. Black spots danced in my vision. Blood from my bitten cheek leaked out, dripping onto his hand. Roman released me as if burned. He caught me as I slumped forward, his grip shifting from violence to a desperate embrace. His voice sounded wrecked. “Talk to me, Selene.” “Ignore me again, and I won’t let go next time.” I couldn’t speak. I wanted to vomit. But I didn’t have the energy. I smelled like vodka, rain, and blood. I must have been repulsive. Roman buried his face in my damp, cold neck. “I only have you, Moon.” “Don’t leave me.” I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the darkness. The whole table was terrified. Especially the guy who dropped the news about Atlas. He looked ready to bolt. Piper was the only one with nerves of steel. “Roman,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You still have me.” Roman didn’t hear her. He only saw me. The next day, he transferred me five thousand dollars. The incident at the bar was swept under the rug. The only thing that changed was that he forced his way into my life again. He insisted I join him and Piper for the big semester project. He paid for my time. I couldn’t refuse the money. Which meant I had to bring Atlas along. We met at a different café. The manager practically bowed when we walked in. Roman saw Atlas and smirked. “How’s the old man holding up?” Atlas nodded calmly. “He’s well. Your father brought your brother by to visit him recently.” Roman’s face went rigid. The “brother” was the illegitimate son his father brought home freshman year—a kid only a few months younger than Roman. Proof that Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s “perfect marriage” was a lie long before the accident. Atlas knew exactly where to aim. He glanced at me. “It’s crowded here. Let’s go to the back.” I nodded quickly. Roman looked like he wanted to kill someone. Once seated, Atlas pulled out some blueprints. “Can you model these for me? Five grand per model. Cash on delivery.” I looked at the papers. They were prototypes for Hale Industries. Confidential ones. He was handing me money. It was charity, wrapped in work. “Thank you,” I said. Mom’s condition had worsened. I needed every cent. He smiled. “I’m not doing you a favor. You’re the best modeler in the department.” I managed a weak smile. 5 Rumors started flying that Atlas and I were together. Some said the Hales gave me a huge sum of money—a dowry, they joked. Atlas didn’t care about the gossip. Maybe because he was leaving. He was going to London for a semester exchange in the fall. Roman remained volatile. He liked to summon me to the bar, just to have me sit there while he drank and stared at me. One night, he was wasted. He leaned heavily on my shoulder. “Do you know why your dad died?” I had heard this rhetorical question a thousand times. But his next words stopped my heart. “He was drunk. He deserved it.” “But my mom? Why did my mom have to die with him?” I shoved him away. Hard. I slapped him across the face. The sound cut through the music. “Don’t you dare lie about my father,” I said, shaking. “He never drove drunk. Never.” Roman’s head snapped to the side. He laughed, a wet, sloppy sound. “He drank! Are you stupid? A driver with twenty years of experience just ‘loses control’? The autopsy found alcohol! Your dad killed a car full of people!” He was pointing a crooked finger at me. “The report proved it!” Piper appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Roman’s arm, screaming at me. “Your dad is a murderer!” The accusation rang in my ears. Dizziness swamped me. Years ago, the crash was ruled an accident. Brake failure. I had never seen the autopsy report. But Dad… he wouldn’t. By the next morning, the whole campus was buzzing with the “truth.” They looked at me with disgust. They looked at Roman with pity. In high school, I was a jinx. Now, I was the daughter of a murderer. I walked through the day like a ghost. It rained all day. When the hospital called, thunder was shaking the windows. Acute intracranial pressure. She needed immediate surgery. One hundred thousand dollars. High risk. Low success rate. Do you want to proceed? Every word was a hammer blow to my chest. “Miss Selene? Miss Selene?” I looked down at my shoes. I couldn’t cry. I was too empty. “Give me one day.” I found Roman at The Lounge. When I walked in, his friends jeered. “Hey look, it’s Fifty.” “Fifty is too cheap. Let’s say five hundred. I like to take it slow.” “If I were her, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now.” I didn’t hear them. I walked straight to Roman, bent my knees, and knelt on the sticky floor. “Lend me a hundred grand. Please.” His hand paused halfway to his mouth. He looked down at me through the smoke. “Is your mom dying, too?” I didn’t answer. Ash from his cigarette fell onto my arm. It burned a small, grey circle into my skin. I didn’t flinch. Finally, the cigarette burned down to his fingers. He stood up. “Selene. I don’t owe you anything.” He walked away. I collapsed on the floor. When I left, the rain was still pouring. I walked into the storm, letting it soak me to the bone. Steps approached rapidly from behind. An umbrella appeared over my head. A warm jacket was draped over my shoulders. “Selene,” Atlas said. “Grandfather says he’ll cover your mother’s treatment.” “Don’t be scared.” I looked up. Finally, the tears came. Atlas wiped them away with his thumb. “The medical facilities in London are better. We can transfer her there.” He paused. “Will you come to London with me?” “UAL. The best design program in the world.” “Grandfather insists. He says he wants to hire you for Hale Corp immediately after graduation to exploit your talent.” I stared at him for a long time. Then I nodded. He pulled me into a hug. It was warm. Safe. With Atlas’s help, the application was instant. We didn’t tell anyone. In the last month of freshman year, we flew to London.

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Kate cried. Not the happy kind of crying. When I handed her the pregnancy test, she froze for a solid three seconds. Then the tears just started falling. “Kate?” She didn’t say a word. She just grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and turned her back to me. I thought she was overwhelmed with joy for me. Mark and I had been married for eight years. We’d been trying for a baby forever. Finally, it had happened. But the way she was crying felt wrong. Her hands were shaking. When she left, she stood in the doorway for a long time, her lips parting as if to speak, but she swallowed the words and walked away. The next day, she came back. She was holding a manila envelope. Inside was a divorce settlement agreement. Blank. “Sarah,” she looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “This baby… I need you to think really hard before you keep it.” 1. I thought my sister had lost her mind. “Kate, what the hell is this?” I shoved the envelope back across the coffee table. A blank divorce agreement. Why would she bring this into my house? “You and Mark are good, right?” She didn’t answer my question. She just countered with one of her own. “Of course we’re good.” “Is he working late a lot recently?” “Yeah. He just got promoted to Project Director. The hours come with the territory.” “How late?” “Eleven, midnight. Sometimes later.” “When he’s working late, and you call him, does he answer?” I paused. “Sometimes he doesn’t. The signal is trash in his office garage. He told me.” Kate set her coffee mug down. Her hand was still trembling. “Sarah… have you ever checked his phone?” “Checked his phone?” I actually laughed. “Kate, I’m not that kind of wife. Marriage is about trust—” “Check it.” She cut me off. Her voice was quiet, but it had the weight of iron. “Just once. Tonight. Wait until he’s asleep, and just look.” I studied her face. She wasn’t joking. There were deep purple bruises of exhaustion under her eyes, and her lips were chapped, like she hadn’t slept in days. “Kate, what is going on? Can you just tell me?” She opened her mouth. Then closed it. “I can’t just tell you,” she said. “Because you won’t believe me. You’ll just think I’m trying to drive a wedge between you.” “You’re my sister—” “I’m your sister, which is exactly why you won’t believe it.” She stood up. “You’ll think I’m jealous because you married well. You’ll think that because I’m divorced, I can’t stand seeing you happy.” That stung. Kate divorced three years ago. Her ex-husband cheated, left her high and dry, and she’s been raising her daughter alone ever since. “Kate, I have never thought that—” “I know.” She picked up her purse. “That’s why I’m not telling you. You have to see it for yourself.” She walked to the door and stopped. “Sarah.” “Yeah?” “No matter what you find, remember one thing—you are not alone.” The door clicked shut. I stood in the living room, still clutching that manila envelope. It was light. But suddenly, it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Mark came home late that night. Eleven-forty. He brought a gust of cold Chicago wind in with him. He saw me still sitting on the couch and offered a tired smile. “Still up?” “Waiting for you.” “Babe, don’t be silly. You’re pregnant. You need your rest.” He placed his phone on the entryway console table—his habit. Phone down, shoes off. I used to think it was discipline—disconnecting from work to be present with me. Tonight, I stared at that phone and it looked less like a device and more like a locked box. He went to shower. The sound of water running filled the apartment. I sat on the couch, staring at the console table. Kate’s voice echoed in my ear: Check it. Just once. I didn’t move. The water stopped. He came out, toweling off his hair, and saw me still sitting there. “What’s wrong? You look zoned out.” “Nothing.” “Come to bed. I’ll drive you to your appointment tomorrow.” “Okay.” I followed him into the bedroom. Lay down. Lights out. His breathing evened out quickly. I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the dark ceiling. The phone was in the hallway. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic. I didn’t move. Not because I was scared. But because I didn’t want to know. If that box was empty, I was paranoid for nothing. If it wasn’t— I closed my eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. 2:00 AM. I got up to use the bathroom. Passing the hallway console, I stopped. The phone sat there, face down. I picked it up. The passcode was my birthday. He’d never changed it. He loves me, I told myself as I punched in the six digits. It unlocked. iMessage. Three pinned conversations. First was me. Saved as “Wife.” Second was his mom. Saved as “Mom.” Third— The contact name was just an emoji. A house. No name. Just a little house. I tapped it. The latest message was from tonight, 9:17 PM. A photo. It was a little boy, maybe two years old, wearing dinosaur pajamas, lying on a bed, grinning. Below it, a caption: Son is waiting for you. He refuses to sleep. 2. I put the phone back on the console. Face down, exactly how it was. I went back to the bedroom and lay down. Mark rolled over, draping a heavy arm across my waist. “Mmm… you cold?” “No.” His hand was warm. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, frozen. That little boy in the dinosaur pajamas. Big eyes. Single eyelids. Mark has single eyelids. I didn’t sleep all night. The next morning, Mark got up and made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast. He bustled around the kitchen in his apron, looking back to smile at me. “Want some bacon? Gotta keep the protein up for the baby.” “Sure.” I sat at the dining table, watching his back. I had watched this back for eight years. Eight years ago, he was making forty grand a year, and I was making sixty. Our first apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up with no AC. Every day after work, he’d carry the groceries up the stairs for me, then run back down to park the car. Five trips sometimes. Later, when we bought a place, we didn’t have enough for the down payment. I borrowed eight grand from my mom, five from a college friend, and drained my entire 401k savings. He said, “Sarah, when I make it big, I’ll pay you back double.” Then he switched jobs. Salary bumped up. Switched again. Another bump. From forty grand to eighty, to one-fifty, to two hundred… now he was pulling in nearly four hundred thousand. When the money started coming in, he said, “Don’t worry about the bills anymore. I’ll handle the finances.” I thought he was taking care of me. He took over the household accounts. He transferred me a set allowance for groceries and bills every month, and told me he was investing the rest. “Once we save enough, we’ll get a real house. Something in the suburbs.” I believed him. For eight years, I managed the household, paid the mortgage, and sent his mother money every month. He said the rest was in savings. In “growth funds.” I never asked to see the numbers. Because I trusted him. I thought about last winter. November. Our anniversary. I took a half-day off work. Went to the market at 3 PM. Bought the expensive short ribs he loves, fresh herbs, a bottle of wine. I bought flowers, too. I rarely bought flowers—waste of money—but seven years felt like a milestone. By six, dinner was ready. Four courses. The flowers were in a water glass because I didn’t own a vase. Seven o’clock. He wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. I called. Straight to voicemail. Nine o’clock. A text: Meeting ran late. Don’t wait up. I took the flowers out of the glass. I needed the glass to drink water. He came home at eleven. “Did you eat?” “Yeah, we ordered takeout at the office.” The food on the table was cold. Congealed fat settled on top of the ribs. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll put it in Tupperware.” He didn’t notice the flowers. He didn’t remember what day it was. I heated up the ribs and ate them alone at the counter. Now I wonder—when he didn’t answer at 9 PM that night… where was he? Who was he with? Was a toddler in dinosaur pajamas calling him Daddy? Breakfast landed in front of me. Scrambled eggs, bacon, perfectly buttered toast. “Eat up while it’s hot.” He sat opposite me, beaming. I looked down at the plate. “Mark.” “Yeah?” “What time did you get in last night?” “Eleven-ish? I told you, we’re pushing hard on this project launch.” “Right.” I took a bite of toast. It felt like dry wall in my throat. He got up to clean the kitchen. I heard the faucet running. When I finished, I rinsed my plate. He was putting on his coat, checking his watch. “Gonna be late again tonight, babe. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” The door closed. I sat back on the couch. I pulled out my phone and texted Kate. Kate, you were right. She replied in three seconds. Like she had been staring at the screen. What did you see? I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how to type it out. I sat there for a long time. Then I got up and gathered his laundry from last night. As I was checking the pockets of his jacket, a receipt fell out. Nordstrom, Kids Department. Total: $128.00. Item: Patagonia Fleece, Blue, Size 4T. Size 4T. That fits a two or three-year-old. 3. Kate came over. This time, she didn’t beat around the bush. She brought a clear plastic binder packed thick with documents. “This is everything I’ve collected over the last six months.” She dropped the binder on the coffee table. I didn’t touch it yet. “Six months?” “Yes. Six months ago, I saw his car in the parking garage at the mall. There was a woman in the passenger seat. And a car seat in the back.” I stared at her. “You saw that, and you didn’t tell me?” “I wasn’t sure—” “You weren’t sure, so you investigated him for half a year while I played house?” She didn’t speak. “Kate,” I said her name sharply. “Six months. You let me live a lie for six months.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I was scared you couldn’t handle it. You had just found out about the fibroids, you hadn’t even had the surgery yet—” “So you decided for me?” “No—” “How are you any different from him?” I asked. It was cruel. I knew it was. She wasn’t Mark. But in that moment, the betrayal felt universal. Six months. I slept in the same bed as that man, cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and got pregnant with his child—while my sister watched me play the fool. Kate looked down, crying silently. I sat opposite her, dry-eyed. “Give me the binder.” She slid it across. I opened it. Page one: A photo. Grainy, taken from a distance in a parking lot. Mark’s Tesla. A woman with long hair in the front seat. The silhouette of a car seat in the back. Page two: An address. The Aston Apartments, East Side. Unit 1402. “I followed him,” Kate said. “Twice. Both times he went there. Once he stayed the whole night. Once was a Lesleyday afternoon, stayed for four hours.” Page three: Property records. Unit 1402 Owner: Emily Lesley. Date of Purchase: Two years and three months ago. “Your husband paid for it,” Kate said. “But her name is on the deed.” I flipped the page. Bank transfer screenshots. Mark Smith -> Emily Lesley. 8th of every month. $3,000. Memo: Monthly. Six screenshots. Six months. Three grand times six is eighteen thousand. That’s just the six months Kate tracked. What if it’s been two years? Three thousand times twenty-four… Seventy-two thousand dollars. I did a quick mental calculation of my household budget. Mark transferred me $800 a month for groceries. He sent his mom $400. I paid the mortgage, $1,800 a month. My salary was decent, but after the mortgage and bills, I was usually in the red. I dipped into my own savings, my yearly bonus, my overtime pay to cover the gap. And he was sending that woman three thousand dollars a month. I closed the binder. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “Thank you for getting this.” “Sarah—” “But I don’t want to talk about you hiding this right now.” She opened her mouth to speak. “We’ll talk about that after I deal with Mark.” I picked up the binder and stood up. “You should go, Kate. He’ll be home by seven.” Kate lingered at the door. “If you need anything, call me.” “I will.” The door closed. I sat alone in the dimming living room. The water glass she hadn’t touched was still on the table. Outside, the sky turned purple, then black. There was leftover rice in the fridge. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed two eggs. Made fried rice. Ate it alone. Washed the bowl. Wiped the table. Then I sat on the couch and waited for Mark. 7:20 PM. The lock clicked. “Babe, I’m home! Early today.” He beamed as he kicked off his shoes. “Oh, you cooked? Smells good.” “Fried rice. Yours is in the pan.” “Awesome.” He headed for the kitchen. I watched his back. That back I’d looked at for eight years. For the first time, it looked like a stranger’s. 4. For the next three days, I did nothing. I went to work. Came home. Cooked dinner. Talked to Mark. But I started watching his phone. Details I used to ignore now pricked like needles. He always went to the balcony to take calls. His auto-lock settings changed from 30 seconds to immediate. He took his phone into the bathroom when he showered—he never used to do that. On the third night, he worked late again. Midnight. When he crawled into bed, I smelled detergent on him. Not our detergent. We use Tide. He smelled like lavender Downy. “Working this late?” “Yeah, grinding on the proposal.” “You work so hard.” “As long as you appreciate it, babe.” He kissed my forehead. The smell of lavender suffocated me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. On the fourth day, I called in sick. I drove to The Aston. It’s a nice complex. Forty minutes from our place. Modern, good landscaping. The kind of place young professionals live. Unit 1402. I stood outside looking up. The blinds on the 14th floor were pink. Clothes were drying on the balcony—a man’s white dress shirt, a woman’s sundress, and tiny, colorful children’s clothes. It looked like a home. Another home. I sat in the bakery across the street for two hours. At 10:30, a woman came out pushing a stroller. Long hair, beige trench coat, sunglasses. A little boy sat in the stroller. Dinosaur hat. The kid from the photo. She pushed him to the small park next to the complex. Sat on a bench. The kid toddled around, tripped, and started wailing. She scooped him up, bounced him twice. He stopped crying and wrapped his arms around her neck. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. I knew exactly who was receiving that picture. At noon, I got back in my car. I sat there for a long time. Then I opened Mark’s banking app—the password was his mom’s birthday. He made me memorize it years ago when he set it up. He didn’t know I still remembered it. Credit card statements. I scrolled down, line by line. Cartier: $12,000. Date: Three months ago. I never received any jewelry. Luxury Post-Partum Center: $8,500. Date: Two years ago, May. Two years ago in May. I was on a business trip. Gone for two weeks in Seattle. Mark texted me: Take care of yourself, wifey. Miss you. He was spending that month helping another woman recover from birth. Gymboree: Annual Fee $2,200. Payer: Mark Smith. Kindred Photography: $600. Carter’s: Multiple charges. I closed the app. My hands were on the steering wheel. They were shaking uncontrollably. I took a deep breath. I pulled out my phone. I looked at the photos from Kate’s binder. Kate only tracked six months of transfers. But the banking app went back three years. Three years. $3,000 a month to Emily Lesley. That’s $108,000 just in cash transfers. Plus the jewelry, the luxury care center, the preschool, the clothes, the daily expenses. I did the math. Over $250,000. And my savings for the last three years? I opened my own banking app. Balance: $4,217.65. Eight years of marriage. That was all I had. I bought a coffee at the bakery. Held it in my hands. Didn’t drink it. Sat until it was cold. Then I dumped it in the trash and drove home. On the way, I made a call. “Kate.” “Sarah? What’s wrong?” “Page three. The condo at The Aston. Did you pull the full deed history?” “I did. 900 square feet. Bought March 2022. All cash. Purchase price 320,000. He bought her a condo in cash.” “Sarah—” “Plus the monthly transfers and expenses. Three years. He’s spent at least half a million dollars on them.” Kate stayed silent. “I’ve been married eight years. I have four thousand dollars.” “Sarah, listen to me—” “Kate, does your file have her ID info?” “Yes. Emily Lesley. Born 1994. She went to the same college as Mark.” College alum. Mark told me he never dated anyone seriously in college. “The kid. Date of birth?” “January 2023.” January 2023. I counted back. Conception would have been around April 2022. April 2022. That month, Mark and I were actively trying. I was taking prenatal vitamins. He told me: Don’t stress, babe. Let nature take its course. Nature took its course. We tried for two years. Nothing. She got pregnant. “Kate.” “Yeah.” “There’s something I don’t get.” “What?” “I tried for two years. We went to the fertility clinic. The doctor said I was fine. He said Mark was fine. But it never happened.” On the other end of the line, the silence stretched out. Heavy. “When you get home,” Kate said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “go check the nightstand. Or wherever you keep your water.” 5. I didn’t go straight to the water. Kate’s implication was too dark. I needed to confirm it myself. That night, Mark worked late again. Eleven PM. I went into his home office. Third drawer down. He always said it was for old tax documents and warranties. I dug for five minutes. Inside an envelope labeled “Receipts,” tucked way in the back, I found a blister pack. Small white pills. Aluminum foil backing. I held it under the desk lamp. Ethinyl Estradiol / Drospirenone. Birth control pills. More than half the pack was gone. Seventeen pills missing. These weren’t mine. I wasn’t on the pill. This pack was in his desk. And every day, the water I drank… he poured it. Every morning, he woke up before me, filled a glass of water, and set it on my nightstand. “Babe, hydrate before you get up.” He’d been doing it for two years. I thought he was thoughtful. I sat in his office chair, holding that blister pack. I stared at it for a long time. I didn’t cry. I just felt cold. Bone-deep cold. I took out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I put the pills back exactly where they were. Envelope back. Drawer closed. I went to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet. Let the water run. I scrubbed my face. Looked up at myself in the mirror. Thirty-one years old. Fine lines appearing around my eyes. He said: You work so hard, honey. He said: Get some rest, babe. He said: When we save enough, we’ll get that dream house. He said all of that while crushing a contraceptive pill into my water glass every single morning. Ensuring I stayed barren for two years. Because the woman across town had already given him a son. He didn’t need two. I turned off the tap. Dried my face. Walked out to the living room. I opened my laptop. Opened Excel. Eight years of accounts. I calculated every penny. Mortgage: $1,800 a month. Eight years is $172,800. The first three years I paid it alone. Later he said he’d handle it, but the auto-pay never changed. It still came out of my account. Down payment: My loans and savings, total $60,000. Household: He sent $800, but actual costs were $1,500. I covered the gap. Eight years. That’s nearly $70,000. Support for his parents: $400 a month. Nearly $40,000. My bonuses: Every year, used to pay off debts, cover vacations, buy gifts for his family. Total. I ran the sum three times. $420,000. In eight years, I poured over four hundred grand into this marriage. And in three years, he spent over five hundred grand on her. My eight years. Her three years. I opened Kate’s binder to the property page. The Aston. $320,000. Cash. Our condo? I paid the down payment, and we still owe the bank $200,000. He gave his mistress a paid-off home. He gave me a mortgage. I closed the laptop. Picked up my phone. “Kate.” “I’m here.” “Find me a divorce lawyer. The sharkiest one you know.” “Already did. Mr. Sterling. Tomorrow, 3 PM.” She’d been ready for six months. “Thanks.” “Sarah… are you still mad at me?” “Yes.” “…” “But I’m going to destroy Mark first.”

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The bouquet didn’t just land in my hands; it collided with my chest, a soft, fragrant thud amidst the chaos of the reception. Every pair of eyes in the ballroom pivoted to Gary. It was a reflex, a collective expectation built over the eight years we’d been together. The chanting started almost immediately, fueled by champagne and sentimentality. “Marry her! Marry her!” “You’re up, buddy! Put a ring on it!” The crowd surged, pushing Gary toward me. I stood there, clutching the white roses, my face flushing with a heat that felt like hope. I waited for the smile, the drop to one knee, the words I’m finally ready. Instead, Gary reached out. His expression was terrifyingly calm as he plucked the bouquet from my grip. He turned and handed it to the bridesmaid standing next to him. “She caught it first,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable, and loud enough to silence the front row. He turned back to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Be a good girl. We’ll get the next one.” The spotlight swung away, chasing the flowers. I watched the bridesmaid—a twenty-two-year-old girl named Paige—giggle, feigning shock and shyness. I forced a smile. It felt like cracked plaster on my face. Gary didn’t know there wouldn’t be a next time. My wedding was next week. … Becca’s face went dark instantly. She looked ready to commit a felony. I caught her wrist just as she raised her hand. She whipped around, her eyes rimmed with red, tears threatening to spill. “That bitch did it on purpose, Nora! I told every single bridesmaid to back off. That bouquet was meant for you…” “Becca,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “The wedding isn’t over. Don’t ruin your night.” The room’s attention had already drifted. They were looking at Paige, the girl holding my flowers. She cradled them like a prize, casting a dewy-eyed glance at Gary, who had already retreated to the safety of the sidelines. The MC, a seasoned pro, cracked a few jokes to salvage the awkwardness, and the music swelled. Becca let out a frustrated huff, glaring daggers at Gary’s back before turning to finish her duties. For the rest of the reception, I sat at the head table, the maid of honor exposed to a hundred pitying glances. Gary sat three tables away with his finance buddies, laughing, a drink in hand. Paige sat next to him. She wasn’t supposed to be a bridesmaid. The groom had added a groomsman last minute, and Gary had suggested Paige—his executive assistant—fill the slot. He took her everywhere lately. “Mentorship,” he called it. Apparently, that mentorship extended to my best friend’s wedding. During the toasts, Becca dragged her new husband over to our table. She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe, whispering venomously into my ear: “That girl has been throwing herself at Gary for six months. I had someone look into her. She’s a shark, Nora. And Gary…” “Becca,” I rubbed her back, cutting her off. “You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. Let’s focus on that.” She gritted her teeth but nodded. When the venue finally cleared out, Gary strolled over. “Ready to head back?” He reached for my purse naturally, his other arm moving to drape over my shoulders. I stepped sideways, letting his arm fall through empty air. “You’ve been drinking. I called an Uber.” He didn’t seem to notice the rejection. “Smart. Okay.” The car ride was quiet. The city lights blurred against the window, mirroring the exhaustion in my reflection. My makeup was perfect, but my eyes looked dead. “About earlier,” Gary said, breaking the silence. “Paige technically touched the flowers first. She’s young, probably just wanted to feel part of the magic.” He paused. “Don’t overthink it.” I stared at the passing neon signs. “I’m not.” He waited, then finally looked up from his phone. He scooted closer. “You’re mad.” “We said ‘next time,’ right?” His fingers brushed the nape of my neck, a familiar, possessive gesture he used to soothe me like a temperamental pet. “Our wedding is going to blow Becca’s out of the water. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” A familiar acid rose in my throat. It was always like this. A gentle tone, a vague promise of “someday,” and the expectation that I would just… settle. “Gary,” I said, watching his reflection in the dark glass. “Yeah?” “Becca and I made a pact when we were seven,” I said, my voice steady. “Whoever got married first, the other one had to get married within a week. We were supposed to wear the dresses we made for each other. We were supposed to witness it together.” The air in the car went still. His hand stopped moving on my neck. “You’re holding onto a childhood game?” He chuckled, but the sound lacked warmth. His hand resumed its motion, lazily now. “Plans change, Nora. Venues, vendors, logistics—that stuff takes a year to prep. We’ll plan it properly. Why the rush?” He didn’t explain why he couldn’t just say I’ll marry you in front of our friends. He just skipped straight to the logistics of a hypothetical event. I remembered a month ago, when Becca dragged me to the fitting room to show me the bridesmaid dress she’d designed. Pale champagne silk with tiny pearls at the waist. Becca had cried when I put it on. “You look stunning, Nora. I made this for you. Just wait until I design your wedding dress. It’s going to be a masterpiece.” Gary had been there, buried in his emails. He’d glanced up for half a second. “Nice,” he’d said, before diving back into his phone. At the time, I felt happy for Becca, but a cold wind had blown through the center of my chest. Eight years, and I was still just the audience. The car pulled up to our building. Gary unbuckled. He leaned in, assuming the fight was over, expecting a kiss. I put my hand on his chest, stopping him. He froze. “I’m tired, Gary.” He stared at me for a beat, then patted my shoulder. “Being a maid of honor is exhausting. Go get some sleep. Paige just texted—she can’t get a ride from the venue. It’s not safe for her to be alone out there. I’m going to loop back and drop her off.” “Okay,” I said. He didn’t move. He was waiting for the script. He was waiting for me to say, Be careful, or to whine, Do you have to? Instead, I opened the door and got out. I walked into the lobby without looking back. Upstairs, I collapsed onto the sofa. It took me an hour to summon the energy to walk down the hall. I paused outside the “Spare Room.” When we bought this place four years ago, it was the “Nursery.” Now, it was a storage unit for dead dreams. I went inside. From the dusty crib, I pulled out a heavy box. Handwritten letters, ticket stubs, photo booth strips—the archaeology of a relationship. At the bottom was a photo from college graduation. He was giving me a piggyback ride under a cherry blossom tree. On the back, in his messy scrawl: I’ve got your back forever. Promise. The dim light of the living room made the ink look gray. A silent mockery. I heard his car pull into the garage below. I didn’t move. I listened to the elevator, the key in the lock, the muffled footsteps. “Still up?” He stood in the doorway. I didn’t turn around. I was kneeling on the floor. “Yeah.” “Cleaning house?” He asked, his tone light. “Getting nostalgic?” “Did you get her home?” I asked quietly. He paused. “Yeah. She lives way out in Queens. Hard to get a cab.” “Okay.” I placed the photo back in the box and closed the lid. “Come on, let’s go to bed,” he said, reaching out a hand to help me up. I stood up on my own, ignoring his hand. My legs were numb. I stumbled slightly. “Gary.” “Hmm?” He stopped halfway to the bedroom. “I want to break up.” He froze, then laughed. He loosened his tie, shaking his head. “Still on about the bouquet? Don’t be petty, Nora.” He used that tone again—the one for a tantrum-throwing toddler. “Fine. I’ll buy you a massive arrangement tomorrow. Five hundred roses. Happy? Now go wash your face, I have a board meeting at 8 a.m.” He turned his back on me and walked toward the bathroom. “I’m getting married,” I said to his back. “In less than a week.” His hand, reaching for the bathroom door handle, stopped. Slowly, he turned around. The mask of tolerant amusement finally slipped. “Nora, stop it.” He rubbed his temples. “Marriage is a legal contract, not something you do to win an argument.” “October 28th,” I said. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Did Becca put you up to this? Just because she rushed into things doesn’t mean the whole world has to be impulsive.” “Gary,” I cut him off. “The invitations go out tomorrow.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Do you think this works on me? This just makes you look childish, Nora. I am in the middle of the most important quarter of my career. I don’t have time for your drama to derail my focus.” “You just want to be a bride that badly?” His words hit like stones. Once, they would have made me panic, made me apologize, made me beg for him to understand. Now? I felt nothing but a vast, cool silence. His attention had always been the most expensive thing on the menu. He saved it for investors. He saved it for his “promising” assistant. The late-night texts, the birthday surprises, the “business trips” that included spa days… There was never any budget left for me. I looked him in the eye and nodded. “Yeah. All my friends are married. I want to have a family.” I walked past him into the bedroom. On the nightstand sat a bridal magazine from six months ago. The headline screamed: The 3-Month Countdown: A Bride’s Guide. I had bought it excitedly. He had seen it, said “What’s the rush?” and I had never opened it again. Lying in the dark, my phone buzzed. A text from Becca. You up? I can’t sleep. I’m so angry thinking about that girl’s face. What is WRONG with Gary? What was wrong? Nothing. Or everything. Some flowers just don’t bloom, no matter how long you water them. Becca typed again: Remember our pact? One week apart. Who knew your guy would be such a block of wood? You catch the bouquet and he still doesn’t get it? It’s been eight years, not eight weeks! Whatever. I give you a pass this time. You can break the pact. My fingers hovered over the screen. I typed: Babe, when have I ever broken a promise to you? Gary moved into the corporate apartment near his office the next day. He claimed my “wedding hysteria” was suffocating him and he needed peace to work. Good. It gave me the space to breathe. I handled everything in silence. I listed our condo—the one we bought together but was solely in my name because his credit was tied up in the business back then—on a real estate app. The afternoon I handed the keys to the agent, I was clearing out the last of the junk mail when I found a project file Gary needed. I hesitated, then decided to drop it off. The door to his corporate apartment was closed, but I could hear laughter inside. I raised my hand to knock, but a familiar female voice floated through the wood. “Gary, stop, I feel terrible! I didn’t mean to catch the bouquet. Now everyone in the Slack channel is making jokes. They’re asking if we’re…” “You have to clarify it in the group chat, or I’ll never be able to show my face in the breakroom again!” My hand froze in mid-air. Before Gary could answer, one of his frat-boy business partners laughed. “Come on, Paige. Do you really want him to clarify it, or are you fishing to hear him say something else?” Laughter followed. Flirty, knowing laughter. “Stop teasing her,” Gary’s voice cut in. It was warm. Indulgent. “Don’t worry about it, Paige. People talk. They’ll forget in a week.” They’ll forget in a week. The memory hit me like a physical blow. Two years ago, I went to his office to drop off lunch. He had hugged me, forgetting where we were. A junior analyst saw us. Within an hour, Gary had sent a company-wide memo regarding “professional conduct” and clarifying that visitors should not be mistaken for partners. He told everyone not to misunderstand. I had understood then. I stopped visiting. My fingertips went cold. He didn’t hate office romance. He hated being seen with me. A woman who offered no strategic value to his empire. Another voice inside the apartment spoke up. “Speaking of… Gary, how did you handle the Nora situation? I actually got a digital invite this morning. Is she serious?” Silence. Then Gary chuckled. It was a dry, hollow sound. “Let her have her moment. I spoil her too much usually. She needs to learn that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “Damn,” someone laughed. “So you’re really not going?” Gary didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Then, a hesitant voice: “Gary, are you sure about playing chicken? You guys have been together forever. We’ve all been waiting for that wedding…” The voice dropped lower. “Unless… you have other plans? Maybe… a certain Ms. Paige?” “Mr. Reynolds!” Paige squealed, her voice dripping with artificial shock. “Don’t make jokes like that! Gary knows… he knows what he’s doing.” She said the last part softly, intimately. Gary didn’t correct them. A low ripple of laughter went through the room. “Honestly,” another guy said, “Gary’s a saint. Eight years? I would have bailed ages ago. Nora’s great, but what does she actually bring to the table? Paige here is sharp, she’s in the trenches with us…” “Oh, stop it!” Paige giggled. The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off, plunging me into darkness. I placed the file on the doormat and nudged it until it slid halfway under the door. Then I turned around and walked away.

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In all of the Harbor, everyone knew that Elena and I were a package deal—two souls bound by a single, knotted cord of fate. Thirty years ago, during the Great Dock Riots, she took a blade to the spine for me. In return, I had a rusted rebar rod driven through my abdomen, pinning me to the concrete while the world burned around us. We crawled out of that pile of corpses together, and from the ashes of that night, we built the Iron Covenant. For three decades, we had no children. She was my only kin, my only blood. She used to tell me that God didn’t give us children because He was afraid we’d give our lives away to someone else. He wanted us to keep all that fire for each other. I believed her. Until my fiftieth birthday, when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private chapel she had maintained for thirty years—the place where she supposedly kept a “perpetual flame” burning for my protection. The scent of expensive sandalwood was choked by the musky, unmistakable stench of sex. A boy young enough to be my son looked up from her embrace, his eyes wide and startled. In the moment our gazes met, I felt a sickening jolt of vertigo. It was like looking at a ghost. He was the mirror image of me—young, clean, and terrifyingly innocent. Elena didn’t flinch. She calmly pulled his shirt over his shoulders, shielding him. Her eyes held no guilt, only the cold, flat indifference of a woman who had let time erode her soul. “Silas,” she said, her voice steady as stone. “You’re getting old. Don’t let your temper get the better of you.” I smiled, a slow, jagged thing. I reached behind my back and drew the pistol from my waistband, pressing the cold muzzle directly against her forehead. “My temper is fine, Elena,” I whispered. “That’s why today, I’m only killing one of you.”

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Four years. That’s how long I’d been with Miles. He was all sharp angles, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thoroughly glacial temperament. He had ruthlessly rejected an endless parade of women who threw themselves at him, his public excuse always the same: I have no interest in romance. I’m only focused on my research. I was the only one who didn’t take the hint. Eventually, the entire campus knew: Harper was an idiot, trailing after Miles like a lost puppy day in and day out. I remember the day it all culminated. It was pouring. After my nth rejection, I slipped and wiped out right into a muddy drainage ditch. I crawled out looking like a drowned rat and slumped against the wet hedges by the science building. I pulled out my phone and called my best friend, Stella. “Oh my god, he’s just…” I wailed into the receiver. “Lose my number,” Stella replied, and hung up. … The next morning, I was the top trending topic on the university’s anonymous forum: A Day in the Life of a Hopeless Romantic. Attached were several photos, including a spectacularly pathetic shot of me sitting by the curb, drenched in the rain. There were thousands of comments underneath: Pretty face, absolutely zero brains. Hey gorgeous, consider me instead! I can… Beauty paired with literally anything else is a killer combo, but sadly, she’s got nothing else going on upstairs. But nobody saw it coming. Through sheer, unadulterated persistence, I actually landed the ultimate prize. The problem was, not every prize is exactly what you bargained for. After Miles and I got together, he rarely smiled, and he was always, invariably, busy. I’ve always been someone who craves noise and life. Stella used to drag me to every party in the city, but then she and the rest of our circle started coupling up, settling down. That left me in a relationship that felt dangerously close to being a widow. He didn’t show up on my birthday. He had been bogged down with a massive field project and had essentially been MIA for an entire month. I bought a cake anyway. I sat in the quiet apartment, mentally counting the minutes, my chest tight with the stubborn, foolish hope that he might make it home early. The second the clock struck midnight, I made a wish to the empty room and blew out the candles myself. Miles came home hours later. It was raining again. He stood in the entryway, radiating the damp cold of the storm, the shoulder of his jacket entirely soaked through. I broke up with him. I had a million reasons loaded in the chamber, but looking at his exhausted, emotionally detached face, the words just died in my throat. Honestly, he wasn’t terrible to me. Stella always told me I was self-sabotaging. I couldn’t deny it. But I also couldn’t stomach the sudden, month-long disappearances. I was left alone to work, to wander the city by myself. Whenever I sent him a text buzzing with good news, it vanished into a void. Occasionally, I’d get a sterile reply hours later: Busy. Let’s talk when I’m back. When I was upset, I was always guarding a phone that wouldn’t ring, dialing his number over and over just to stare blankly as it went straight to a dead-end voicemail. I began to deeply question myself. Why had I chased him so blindly back then? What was the point of all this? “I deserve better.” That was the only reason I managed to articulate. I sounded like an insatiable, demanding girlfriend. Miles stood there in the quiet apartment. He listened to me, was completely silent for a long moment, and then simply said, “Okay.” The night we broke up, I threw every single memento of our relationship into the dumpster. That included a Prada crossbody bag, the strap of which I had accidentally ripped off while frantically using it to bludgeon a cockroach to death. I got black-out drunk that night. The next morning, battling a skull-crushing hangover, my phone rang. Stella told me he was getting married. Running on pure, chaotic adrenaline, I dragged my hungover, disheveled self straight to the front doors of The Ritz-Carlton. Stella was trailing right behind me, tugging desperately at my arm. “Harper, please do not do anything crazy. It’s the man’s wedding day…” It was a big day, sure. But whether it was going to be a happy one was entirely up for debate. I calmly handed over my cash gift envelope at the reception desk and took a seat in a dimly lit corner. I wanted to see exactly what kind of blind, delusional woman had agreed to marry him! The soaring notes of the wedding march swelled through the ballroom. The bride and groom made their grand entrance. I saw the groom’s back. He looked… a little heavier. Wow, leaving me must have done wonders for his mental health, I thought bitterly. It’s barely been a day and he’s already gained weight. Thankfully, the orchestra was loud enough to drown out the sound of my sobbing. God, I loved him so much. Even knowing he had seamlessly replaced me—probably cheating on me while we were together—I still couldn’t let him go. Stella shoved a cloth napkin over my mouth to muffle my wailing. The tragic, suffocating aura of my grief seemed to infect everyone at our table. A few of the guys sitting next to me even had red-rimmed eyes. That was the exact moment I realized the table we were sitting at had a small placard that read: Ex-Girlfriends. I sat there, looking like a complete trainwreck, watching them pledge their lives to each other. Watching them exchange rings. Watching them kiss. I felt like I had fed the best years of my youth to a stray dog. Seeing an opening during the dinner service, I decided to make the most of it. I pulled out photos of myself on my phone and started taking shots with every single person at the table, trading war stories and pouring our hearts out. By the time the newlyweds began making their rounds for the toasts, I had mostly pulled myself together. I wanted to see the look on his face. Let’s see how he handles a table full of ghosts from his past. The bride floated over, champagne flute in hand, a perfect, practiced smile plastered on her face as she made introductions. Then her eyes landed on me, and the smile completely froze. I let out a cold, sharp laugh. I extended my hand. The words, Hi, I’m his ex, were already locked and loaded on the tip of my tongue. Suddenly, the bride dug her manicured nails brutally into the groom’s arm. Her words hissed out through gritted teeth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any exes?” The groom whipped his head around. For a split second, our eyes locked. Who the hell is this? Where is Miles? This guy was a little stockier. His features lacked the sharp, striking intensity of Miles’s face. He looked… softer. But the resemblance was uncanny. The immediate, sobering realization hit me: I crashed the wrong wedding. Suddenly, someone seized my wrist, yanking me hard out of my chair and off to the side. A chillingly familiar, calm voice drifted over me. “What exactly are you doing here?” I blinked stupidly, tilting my head up to meet Miles’s quiet, dark eyes. He was wearing a sharp, tailored suit. Pinned to his lapel was a boutonniere identifying his role—Brother. A brother. A twin brother. The groom was his twin brother! … This was entirely too absurd. Stella has terrible vision. First thing tomorrow, I am booking her an appointment with an optometrist. A few minutes later, Miles dragged me up to the hotel’s rooftop terrace. I was standing there in a little black slip dress, my hair an absolute rat’s nest, eyeliner tracks streaming down my face like war paint. I sniffled loudly, the tears flowing like a river. “They told me you were getting married!” I still lashed out at him anyway. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a twin?!” Miles pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. When I refused to take it, he let out a heavy sigh and stepped in to wipe my face himself. I completely lost my grip on reality, my voice cracking. “Did you ever even plan on marrying me?! What the hell was I to you?!” Since my Prada bag was ruined, I had brought a much smaller, cheaper clutch. I started whacking it against his chest. It probably felt like a mosquito bite to him. “Stop moving.” He grabbed the little clutch out of my hand, his tone shifting into that cold, commanding register I knew too well. “Settle down.” That only made me cry harder. I shoved a finger aggressively against his lips, furious. “Don’t you talk! Let me finish!” “Do you want to get back together?” Miles cut right through my hysterics, taking the lead. I stared at him, hiccuping through a sob. For a long second, the silence hung heavy before my utter lack of backbone betrayed me. “…Yes.” “But…” My voice wavered, thick with tears. “Can I get my cash envelope back? I don’t even know your brother…” As we walked out of the hotel lobby, the humiliation began to set in, burning hot under my skin. Miles had asked me how much I put in the envelope. “Five hundred bucks,” I muttered. He immediately Venmoed me the money. But this whole transactional dynamic made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. My dramatic streak flared up again. I instantly declined the transfer and insisted, stubbornly, that I needed my actual physical cash back. Miles humored me. He walked back inside with me to track it down. At the reception table, my envelope stuck out like a sore thumb—it was absurdly thick compared to the others. I spotted it instantly and lunged for it. But Miles was taller, his reach longer. He pressed his hand down on the envelope right over my shoulder, picking it up before I could. “You’re too good to me,” he remarked dryly. Then, he flipped the envelope over. I watched the array of complex emotions flicker across his normally stoic face. One eyebrow arched up as he read the messy scrawl on the back, pronouncing every word with agonizing clarity: “Miles is a piece of shit.” I ducked my head, though my petty streak wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Well, you are a piece of shit,” I mumbled. He spoke with excruciating slowness. “Every word is worth its weight in gold, I see.” I tilted my head up, my little clutch knocking rhythmically against my shin. I watched as Miles calmly pocketed the envelope. My eyes went wide. “Are you seriously that broke?!” Miles leaned down, plucking the clutch from my grip with infuriating ease. “Are you done insulting me?” “No.” He nodded. “That’s why I’m keeping it. Consider it compensation for being called a piece of shit.” I realized I’d been backed into a rhetorical corner and jumped up, trying to snatch it from his pocket. “I wasn’t finished yelling at you!” Miles held the envelope high out of my reach, then suddenly dipped his head, pressing a firm kiss to my lips. “Go ahead. Keep yelling. I’m listening.” Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but my ears betrayed me, burning bright red. “You can’t just bully me because I’m not as articulate as you,” I said, my voice thick with lingering tears. This time, Miles actually laughed—a rare, entirely unapologetic sound—and took me home. His apartment looked exactly the same as the day I left. It was a disaster zone. Miles clearly hadn’t even bothered to clean up. My fuzzy pink slippers were still sitting exactly where I’d left them on the shoe rack in the entryway. My rabbit-eared mug was sitting on the coffee table. The half glass of milk I’d left in it was gone, the mug scrubbed impeccably clean. My silk nightgown was draped haphazardly over the arm of the sofa—it must have been pulled straight from the dryer and never folded. I stood rooted to the spot in the entryway, feeling completely numb. Miles broke the silence. “Have you eaten?” I hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. Now that the adrenaline and the crying had burned off, I was actually starving. But we had literally just been in the middle of a screaming match. My pride wouldn’t let me just say yes. Instead, I became his shadow, following him around the apartment. Wherever he went, I went. Right outside the bathroom door, Miles stopped dead in his tracks. He shot me a cold look over his shoulder. “Care to join me?” I snapped out of my daze and scrambled backward a few steps. Miles leaned down so we were perfectly eye-level. His gaze was sharp, unyielding. “Harper, if you’re going to keep throwing these little tantrums, I don’t mind finding a different room for you to throw them in.” I caved instantly. “I’m hungry,” I mumbled. “Who’s hungry?” I turned my head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I… I’m hungry.” Whatever happened, I refused to die on an empty stomach. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Miles’s mouth. He straightened up. “Wait here.” People always said I was domestically useless. I couldn’t boil water if my life depended on it. After Miles and I started dating, I had a sudden burst of inspiration one afternoon. I bought all these ingredients and somehow managed to put together a massive, elaborate dinner for him. I rested my chin on my hands, beaming, and asked him how it was. Miles took one sip of the tomato bisque. He looked at me and said, “It’s good. Never make it again.” Right then and there, I decided Miles was the one. He was gorgeous, in incredible shape, cooked like a chef, and treated me well. Once we got married, this man would be entirely mine. Who could have predicted he’d just vanish for a month like a ghost? Did he even want to marry me? Stella told me I was nothing more than a convenient distraction to him. But doesn’t a distraction deserve to have dreams too? As we ate the meal he threw together, I kept stealing glances at him. I nudged his knee with my foot under the table. His chopsticks paused mid-air. “Do you want to die now, or wait until you’re full?” I’d prefer neither, honestly. “Did you… did you ever actually think about marrying me?” I knew it was an incredibly awkward question to drop out of nowhere, but I asked it anyway. “If you want to get married, we can. When?” I had played out a hundred different responses in my head. That was the absolute last thing I expected him to say. I sucked in a sharp breath, covering my mouth with both hands. “Wow. What a massive surprise.” Miles watched my theatrical performance with utter, deadpan indifference. Feeling slightly foolish, I dropped my hands and bit down on my spoon. “You’re supposed to propose first. There needs to be a ring, at the very least. And we have to meet the parents…” Miles set his chopsticks down. “…And we need to pick a honeymoon destination.” Miles stood up from the table. “…A villa by the ocean.” Miles walked around the table and scooped me up into his arms in one fluid motion. I shrieked, instantly throwing my arms around his neck to steady myself. Miles pinched the back of my neck lightly, right at the pressure point, like handling a unruly kitten. “Keep dreaming. You can have all of that when you’re asleep.” “No! Let me finish! Miles, you never listen to me!” He carried me straight into the bedroom, kissing me to shut me up, spinning us around before dropping me onto the mattress. Miles’s mattress was notoriously firm. Every time I slept on it, I woke up feeling bruised. I kicked my legs in protest. “I am not laying on the bottom!” Miles stopped. He looked down at me with that infuriatingly stoic expression. “A firm mattress is essential for spinal alignment.” “My spine is fully aligned! I’m done growing!” Miles lowered his gaze slowly to my neckline. “Debatable.” Without entertaining another word of protest, he pressed me down into the sheets. I obviously wasn’t going down without a fight. “This is psychological manipulation!” Miles casually pointed to the constellation of scratches and faint bite marks already littering his collarbone and neck. “If this is manipulation, I must have manipulated an absolute feral cat.” With that, he flipped us over, dropping onto his back and giving me exactly what I wanted. Even then, I was still utterly exhausted by the end of it. At first, I had the energy to be wild and combative, but it didn’t take long before I was completely quiet. Life got happy again after Miles came back into the picture. He was just as busy as before, but now he spent the vast majority of his day working from his laptop at the kitchen island. I constantly tried to bridge the gap and find common ground. One day, I leaned over his shoulder, stared at a ridiculously complex architectural blueprint, and gasped, “Oh my god! It looks exactly like Hello Kitty!” He very gently picked me up, carried me into the bedroom, and we didn’t emerge for two hours. I learned my lesson. I rarely dared to interrupt his working hours after that. One lazy afternoon, I was curled up on the couch rewatching an old, tragic early-2000s romance movie. I had cried my way through half a box of tissues. I sniffled, turning my head to look at Miles, who was laser-focused on his screen. “Do you love me?” Miles, the man who had agreed to marry me without batting an eye, actually hesitated. He peered over the top of his laptop, the wire-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He looked at me with an intense, deadly serious expression. “Harper, do you even know what love is?” I felt completely blindsided. We’ve been dating for years, and you’re dropping this question on me now? Was that supposed to be an insult? I padded over barefoot, leaned down, and planted a loud, wet kiss right on his thin lips. I looked him dead in the eye and said with absolute conviction, “I love you.” Miles just shook his head. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close, but didn’t say another word. I started overthinking everything. “Is it possible I don’t actually love him?” When I floated the theory to Stella later, she rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck in the back of her head. “You think what you feel is love? Please. You’re just thirsty. You’re obsessed with his body and the fact that he cooks for you. I’m not trying to insult you, but Miles literally keeps you fed and pampered like a house cat. What have you ever actually done for him?” I scowled, defensive. “I… I… I let him kiss me! I hug him! I give him—” “Exactly. You’ve never put any actual emotional labor into it. Go home and seriously reflect on your life choices.” That evening, I got caught right in the middle of rush hour traffic. Stella and I were sitting in the back of an Uber, casually gossiping. As we went through a busy intersection, a sedan blew a red light. Our driver swerved, couldn’t clear it in time, and slammed hard into the guardrail. The impact caused a massive pile-up behind us. The force of the crash nearly knocked my soul straight out of my body. By the time we made it to the ER, Stella realized her phone was gone. She panicked and borrowed mine to call her family. I was left sitting alone on a crinkly paper bed in an examination room, letting a nurse clean and bandage a nasty gash on my forehead. When I finally wandered out to the hallway, I heard Stella was stuck in line at the billing department. I just sort of aimlessly paced the corridor. A gurney went flying past me, a swarm of doctors shouting about a code blue. A second later, a voice rang out over the chaos. “Family of Harper!” “Here!” I yelled back. “And what is your relation to the patient?” the nurse asked the man standing at the desk. The man didn’t miss a beat. “I’m her husband.” The voice sent a shock down my spine. I whipped my head around. Miles was standing at the nurses’ station, his face entirely devoid of color. “Alright, I just need you to verify some information for me.” My brain was still scrambled from the crash, but all I registered was the word husband. Something visceral slammed against my ribs, desperate to break free. Without thinking, I practically skipped toward the desk, chirping loudly, “Husband!” Miles froze at the sound of my voice. He snapped his head around, his eyes locking onto me instantly. The moment he saw me, his eyes went pitch black. He closed the distance between us in three massive strides. I opened my mouth to say, How did you know I was here? Before I could get a word out, Miles grabbed me by the arms, dragging me flush against his chest. A second later, a torrential downpour of pure fury unleashed on me. “Where the hell is your phone?! You’re in an accident and you don’t call me?! You just wait until I track you down?! What are you doing wandering around a massive hospital by yourself?!” I was too stunned to speak. My own parents had never spoken to me with that kind of terrifying, commanding intensity. Miles just had. My bottom lip jutted out. The terror and shock I had been suppressing since the crash suddenly bubbled over. It mixed with a sudden, overwhelming wave of grievance, turning instantly into hot tears that streamed down my face. God, I had been so terrified. After the crash, people were screaming in the street, some drivers were physically fighting. I had just stood there shivering on the side of the road, holding my bleeding forehead, terrified the paramedics wouldn’t see me and would just leave me behind. Miles’s shirt smelled exactly like the floral laundry detergent I always bought. I buried my face in his chest, wiping my snot on his shirt, and mumbled into the fabric, “Miles, please stop yelling at me. I was so scared.” Miles stopped breathing for a second. His massive hand slowly came up, resting heavy and warm against the back of my head. “When did the doctor say you need the dressing changed?” “The 8th.” Because of the concussion and the stitches, I had to take sick leave. I didn’t have to go back to my job at the preschool for an entire week. The director called to check on me, telling me I worked too hard anyway and that I’d get full paid time off. I completely morphed into a couch potato. Between the lingering headaches and my general lack of energy, all I did was sleep. I didn’t know if I was imagining it, but Miles seemed to be sleeping a lot more too. He’d pull me into his arms, and we’d sleep from noon straight through until the sun went down. One night, Stella sent me a link. I opened it to find a Cosmopolitan-style article: 99 Ways to Capture Your Boyfriend’s Heart. Since I got you yelled at by Miles the other day, consider this playbook my apology. I had always thought things like this were stupid. I mean, I was adorable. How could he not be obsessed with me? But then I remembered yesterday, when Miles had looked me dead in the eye and asked, Do you even know what love is? A dark cloud of doubt settled over me. Maybe Miles really didn’t love me the way I thought he did. Time to put in the work! Rule 1: Cook for him. Absolutely not. Pass. Rule 2: Take an interest in his hobbies. Find common ground. Right. Looking for Hello Kitty in architectural schematics. Pass. Rule 3: Never joke about breaking up. Too late. Pass. Rule 4: Be gentle with him. I glanced over at his nightstand. The cash envelope from the wedding was still sitting there, my jagged handwriting screaming Miles is a piece of shit in black ink. Pass. Rule 5… I ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, my phone was placed perfectly on the nightstand, and Miles was sitting in the armchair next to the bed, reading. I wiped a trail of drool from my chin and reached across Miles to grab my phone. My arm blocked his view of the book. Miles sighed heavily. “If you’re planning on putting any of those ‘tactics’ from that article into practice, I highly recommend you don’t.” I froze, phone in hand. “Why?” Miles snapped his book shut and pulled me by the waist until I was flush against him. “Because applied to you, that list is essentially 99 Ways to Get Dumped.” I thought about it for a second, pulled my arm back, and deliberately tugged on the collar of his shirt. “You’re right. I think the direct approach is much more effective.” Miles looked down at me, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. His eyes were slowly darkening with heat. “Is your head feeling better?” he murmured, brushing a thumb lightly near my bandages. I tossed my hair over my shoulder, fully draped across his lap, grinning like an idiot. “Miles, let me take very good care of you.” He scoffed, completely ignoring my absolute lack of subtlety. In three swift motions, he stripped me down and dragged me under the covers. Early the next morning, I was still drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking when I heard Miles’s phone ring. He answered it briefly, then stepped out into the living room. My feminine intuition immediately sounded the alarm. Something was off. I padded out to the living room just in time to catch the end of the conversation. “Let’s find time to meet,” I heard a woman’s voice say faintly through the speaker. Miles was standing on the balcony, his back to me. “Alright. I’ll make a reservation.” He hung up the phone. When he turned around and saw me standing there, his expression was completely unreadable. I threw my hands up. “Do you have anything you want to share with the class?” Miles stared at me in silence for a long time before simply saying, “No.” Fine. Perfect. He was sneaking around having secret dinners with other women! That night, I went to a massive outdoor music festival with Stella and a few other girls. The heavy bass rattled my teeth, the chaotic, euphoric energy of the crowd washing over me. Stella leaned in close. “Where’s Miles tonight?” “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Thinking about the secret phone call made my blood boil, so I chose to just shut it out. I screamed the lyrics until my throat was raw. The festival didn’t wrap up until almost 1 a.m. Throughout the night, a handful of guys tried to hit on me, but Stella blocked them like a bouncer, flashing a brilliant fake smile. “Sorry, boys. She’s extremely taken.” My ego was through the roof. “See?!” I shouted over the noise. “I have absolutely no shortage of options!” Stella rolled her eyes. “With the way your brain is wired, unless you lock down someone rock solid, any random toxic guy could play you like a fiddle.” Stella’s fiancé, Colin, picked her up, and they were nice enough to drop me off right outside my apartment building. At this hour, the only thing open was the 24-hour convenience store on the corner. I pushed the glass door open, lingering by the feminine hygiene aisle for a minute, before catching the cashier giving me a sympathetic “I’ve been there” look. I pivoted hard, marching over to the refrigerated section. I grabbed two cartons of whole milk, a dozen eggs, and then, completely ignoring the cashier’s bewildered expression, pointed at a small bag of premium short-grain rice. “How much for this one?” He gave me an awkward smile. “Oh, that’s just a promotional giveaway.” I fluttered my eyelashes. The poor kid turned violently red. A few minutes later, I walked out of the store clutching my free bag of rice like a trophy. The lights in Miles’s apartment were completely off. I hadn’t expected him to be home anyway. Taking another woman out to dinner and lying to my face about it? He had another thing coming. The second he walked through that door, I was dumping him. I stepped into the pitch-black entryway. Before I could even reach for the light switch, a heavy body crashed into mine, spinning me around and pinning me hard against the reinforced steel of the front door. SLAM! The door rattled in its frame. The grocery bags slipped from my hands, everything crashing to the floor. “Ah! Mmm—” The hand I tried to use to grab my phone was suddenly seized and pinned firmly behind my back. “Harper. Where were you?” I froze instantly. It was Miles. He had been drinking. The sharp, bitter scent of alcohol hung heavy in the dark space between us. His massive frame pressed flush against mine. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath my ear, biting down with a possessive, punishing pressure. “Where. Were. You?” I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I slowly, cautiously wrapped my free arm around his waist. “Did you have a few drinks?” I asked softly. He kept his head buried in the crook of my neck, refusing to say a word. He seemed… incredibly upset. “Ah! Wait!” His hand slipped beneath the hem of my dress, his fingers finding the zipper with practiced, terrifying efficiency. “Miles! I’m exhausted! I don’t want to!” His hand stopped instantly. His breathing was ragged, hot against my skin. He went completely rigid. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with an icy, devastating bitterness. “Are you tired of playing with me?” “You used to just want my body, but now you don’t even want that, do you?” Playing? Playing?! Has he lost his damn mind?! He let out a hollow, mocking laugh, gripping my chin and forcing my face up, kissing me with an aggressive, desperate intensity. “What do you want to do then? Break up?” If this had been the old me, I would have thrown a massive fit and screamed, Yes! But inexplicably, my intuition kicked in. Every instinct screamed: Do not provoke the lion. You will not survive. I swallowed the venomous retort hovering on my tongue. Instead, I wrapped both arms securely around his neck, gently rubbing his back. “Did you eat dinner?” I asked softly. He stopped moving entirely. He stood frozen against me in the dark for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Four years. Four years, Harper, and this is the first time you’ve ever asked me if I’ve eaten.” Was that… the faintest trace of joy in his voice? It made me feel like an absolute monster. Now that I thought about it… he was probably right. “Well, did you eat? Don’t give me that attitude! If you’re hungry, use your words!” I snapped back, perfectly mimicking the stern tone he usually used on me. It felt incredibly validating. Miles answered instantly. “No.”

The day we buried my father, the grief was a physical weight that finally crushed me. I collapsed right there on the manicured grass of Arlington National Cemetery. When consciousness slowly trickled back, the scent of lilies and damp earth filled my lungs. Then, I heard the voices through the ajar door of the cemetery’s reception room. It was Carter. Carter Kensington and his father, a high-ranking senator. “Carter, with the Secretary of Defense gone, the Harper family has zero political capital left in D.C. Have you thought about your engagement to the Harper girl…?” The older man was cut off. Carter’s voice drifted in, low, gravelly, and entirely detached. “I know, Dad. It’s bad timing this week, but give it a few days. I’ll find a PR-friendly excuse to break it off. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the Croft family’s daughter anyway. This just accelerates the timeline.” His words were surgical strikes. They bypassed my skin and splintered right into my ribcage. And just like that, the bleeding heart I’d carried for him stopped beating. It went entirely, numbly cold. It was in that quiet, devastating clarity that I decided to accept the arrangement my late father had secretly orchestrated—a marriage alliance with Nathaniel Prescott, the heir to a massive political dynasty up in New York. Later that evening, my mother, Caroline, took my trembling hands in hers. Her voice was a fragile whisper. “The President called. Out of respect for your father, he’s authorizing a full Secret Service motorcade to escort you for the move. Do you have a preference for who heads the security detail?” “Let Carter do it,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We grew up together. I know he’ll get me there in one piece.” 1 My mother froze, staring at me as if searching for a fever. Tears immediately pooled in her exhausted eyes. “Mia, sweetie… are you still holding onto him? If you are, please don’t punish yourself like this.” I reached out, my thumb gently catching a tear before it could fall into her laugh lines. “I’m not a fool, Mom. I stopped caring about him the second I realized he never cared about me. Marrying into the Prescott family keeps the Harpers on the map. It ensures you’re protected here in D.C. It’s the smartest move we have left.” A knot seemed to loosen in her chest. She rubbed the back of my hand, exhaling a shaky breath. “Okay. If you’re sure. The Prescott representatives are waiting in the drawing room to finalize the date for next week. I’ll go give them our answer.” She stood up, smoothing down her black mourning dress. “Mom,” I called out before she reached the door. “Let’s keep Carter out of the loop on this. No need to give him a heads-up and invite unnecessary drama.” She gave me a helpless, weary sigh, nodded, and quietly closed the door. Once I was alone, a hollow ache bloomed in my chest. To say I felt nothing would be a lie. You don’t just erase a boy who took up the entirety of your teenage years. By mid-afternoon, I had our driver take me back to my father’s freshly covered grave. Dad used to rave about Nathaniel Prescott over Sunday dinners. A sharp mind, Mia. A good, steady man. Looking at the flowers piled on the dirt, I knew this would have made him proud. I sat there talking to the headstone until the D.C. sky bruised into shades of violet and gray. It was dark by the time the towncar pulled back into our Georgetown driveway. Parked idling by the gate was a sleek black SUV. Carter was already walking toward me, hands in his pockets, a devastatingly arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “Mia,” he said smoothly. “I just left your mother. I’ve come up with a flawless solution. A way for you to still have the life you were promised.” My heart stuttered. For a terrifying second, I thought my mother had cracked and told him about the New York arrangement. I forced my posture straight, locking my knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Carter closed the distance between us. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the expensive scotch and leather clinging to his jacket. Heat rushed to my cheeks, an involuntary betrayal of my body. Seeing the flush, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Vanessa Croft will be my wife on paper. But I’m going to set you up in a penthouse downtown. You can move in the same day she and I get married. I’ll even buy you the white dress. What do you say?” The heat instantly evaporated into a sickening, icy dread. It felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my lungs. I took a massive step back, staring at his smug, handsome face. “I say you’re out of your mind. It’s late. I’m going inside. Move, Carter.” But he didn’t take me seriously. He chuckled, stepping out of my way but maintaining that predatory gaze. “Mia, I broke the engagement. No one in D.C. high society is going to touch you now. We grew up together; I’m not just going to leave you out in the cold. My people are already drafting the trust fund papers for you. You’re going to be mine, one way or another.” He didn’t even wait for my answer. He turned, got into his SUV, and sped off into the night. Beside me, my family’s longtime driver brushed the gravel dust from his suit, muttering under his breath. “Thank God you aren’t marrying him, Ms. Harper. The staff here despises him. He acts like he’s the only man on earth who would want you.” I gave him a tired smile, told him to keep his voice down, and walked into my empty house. 2 Carter wasn’t bluffing. The very next morning, before I had even finished my coffee, a fleet of luxury delivery vans pulled into our courtyard. Movers in pristine uniforms began hauling in absurdly expensive, custom-made furniture and designer wardrobe boxes—all bearing the subtle logo of the Kensington family’s holdings. My mother looked out the window, her palms sweating. “Mia, the Prescott family’s wedding gifts are supposed to arrive any minute. If they cross paths… what do we do?” Before she could finish, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the grand foyer. Carter was already making himself at home on our velvet sofa. And sitting right beside him, draped in a Chanel tweed jacket, was Vanessa Croft. My mother opened her mouth to speak, but I squeezed her arm, stopping her. Carter caught the silent exchange. He stood up, offering a polite, practiced nod to my mother. “Caroline, there’s no need to thank me. The Kensingtons and Harpers have decades of history. I’m not going to let Mia become D.C.’s biggest tragic spinster. I talked to her last night. She’s going to move into the city property the same weekend Vanessa and I have our ceremony.” He glanced at Vanessa. Her smile was tight, but Carter looked absolutely thrilled with his own diplomacy. He patted the hand she had resting on his arm. “Caroline, Mia… Vanessa is incredibly understanding. She’s fine with the arrangement. She even insisted we buy your furnishings from the same Italian designers we’re using. You two are going to be great friends.” Vanessa shifted her weight, feigning grace, and walked over to take my hand. “Carter is right. We have to stick together, don’t we, Mia?” Thinking of the New York convoy arriving soon, my only goal was to get them out of my house before the collision. I plastered on a fake, compliant smile and nodded. Seeing that I wasn’t fighting back like last night, Carter’s ego inflated further. “The White House just gave me an assignment,” he boasted. “In three days, I’m heading up a security detail to escort some VIP bride across state lines. The second I get back, my mother is going to pick a date for the two of you to get settled.” My mother, catching my drift, smiled tightly and played along. Believing he had masterfully conquered the situation, Carter exchanged a few more pleasantries before leading Vanessa out the door. The moment they were gone, I stepped out onto the front porch. A group of wealthy D.C. socialites were walking their purebred dogs down our brick-lined street, their voices carrying over the wrought-iron fence. “…did you hear about the massive motorcade heading to New York? Someone is marrying into the Prescott family. I heard the engagement ring alone is worth a small country.” “They’re shutting down the interstate in three days for it.” One of them looked up, catching my eye. The gossiping smiles instantly vanished. “Keep walking, keep walking. Stay away from the Harper house. With the Secretary dead, they’re radioactive. Such a tragedy.” “I heard the Kensington boy dumped her. How embarrassing. Let’s cross the street.” They hurried away, pulling their dogs tightly against their designer leggings. These past few days had been a masterclass in human cruelty. But honestly? I didn’t care. The social exile worked in my favor. With no one paying attention to us, the massive Prescott family moving trucks slipped into our service entrance completely unnoticed. Sometimes, hitting rock bottom is the best camouflage you can ask for. 3 The next morning, the White House called. I dressed in a sharp, tailored blazer—the closest thing I had to my father’s formal uniform—and headed to the Oval Office. My stomach was in knots the entire drive. I kept wondering if Carter had pulled some string to sabotage me. When I was ushered into the room, the President was signing documents. He looked up, his expression softening, and walked around the Resolute Desk. “Mia. Your father gave his life serving this country. And now you’re moving up to New York to marry the Prescott boy. An alliance between our two greatest political families. Tell me, what can I do for you? Name it.” Hearing my father mentioned brought a sharp, stinging tear to my eye. I stood tall, though my voice wavered. “With my father gone, the Harper name isn’t what it was. My only fear is leaving my mother here alone, unprotected in this city.” His voice boomed, warm and commanding. “Done. In two days, you will leave D.C. with the security clearance and motorcade of a visiting head of state. And I will personally see you off from the Capitol steps. After that, I assure you, no one in this town will dare look down on your mother.” “Thank you, Mr. President,” I whispered, the crushing weight on my chest finally lifting. “That is all I could ever ask for.” Walking out of the West Wing, I felt like I could breathe again. Carter’s petty threats meant nothing now. But my relief was short-lived. Exiting the gates, I practically collided with Carter and Vanessa. Seeing me in my formal blazer, Carter leaned against the wrought-iron fence, a mocking grin on his face. “Well, well. Dressed up for the West Wing, Mia? Don’t tell me you went crying to the President because you aren’t happy with the penthouse I picked out.” Vanessa’s personal assistant, lingering behind them, scoffed. “As if complaining would do anything. Your dad is gone. The President doesn’t care about you anymore. My boss is being more than generous, and you’re just being ungrateful.” Vanessa gave her assistant a half-hearted scolding, but her eyes danced with malicious triumph. I was about to fire back when my eyes locked onto something in the assistant’s hands. She was mindlessly twirling a hand-braided paracord keychain. I had made that for Carter years ago. My fingers had bled weaving it. Now, it was a discarded toy for a stylist. Carter followed my gaze and cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Mia, it dropped in the car. Chloe just picked it up. She’s young, she was just playing with it.” He was a terrible liar. The cord was frayed and worn down. She’d been using it for weeks. Vanessa, sensing the tension, turned and snapped at the assistant. “Give that back immediately! Why are you touching trash anyway? We have a whole vault of jewelry at home!” She lunged to snatch it, but the assistant fumbled, dropping the keychain onto the pavement. Looking at it lying in the dirt, I remembered the nights I stayed up making it. A quiet, pathetic ache flared in my throat. I knelt down to pick it up. Just as my fingers grazed the cord, Vanessa’s red-bottomed stiletto slammed down directly onto my hand. She put her entire body weight into it. A blinding, white-hot pain shot up my arm. The heel dug into my bones, breaking the skin. I gritted my teeth, yanking my hand back with violent force. Because I pulled away so hard, Vanessa lost her balance. She shrieked, tumbling onto the concrete. “Carter! Oh my god, it hurts! I think my wrist is broken!” she wailed. I looked down at my hand. It was an ugly, bloody mess. Before I could even stand up, Carter’s shadow loomed over me, his voice dripping with fury. “What the hell is wrong with you, Mia?! She was trying to help you get your stupid keychain back! If you didn’t want it, fine, but did you have to shove her? Do you really think she stepped on you on purpose? Could you not just endure it for one second?” I looked up at him. My hand was actively bleeding onto the White House pavement, right in his line of sight, and he was telling me to endure it because Vanessa took a clumsy fall. It was as if someone had taken a knife and dragged it slowly down my sternum. The sheer injustice of it forced hot, angry tears from my eyes. Seeing me cry, Carter’s tone softened slightly, pivoting to a patronizing lecture. “You have to learn to share my life, Mia. You need to fix this attitude if we’re all going to coexist. Go home. I’m taking Vanessa to the hospital.” He helped her up and walked away. A few steps down the sidewalk, Vanessa glanced back over her shoulder at me, a cruel, victorious smile curving her lips. 4 For the next two days, the gossip in our household staff was that Carter had spent every waking hour at the Croft estate, showering Vanessa with apologies and gifts. He didn’t have a spare second to bother us. It was a blessing. Under the radar, the rest of the Prescott family’s wedding gifts arrived, quietly filling our private storage. Then came moving day. I was fully dressed in a breathtaking, custom white gown, standing in my childhood bedroom. Just as we were about to leave, Carter suddenly barged into the house in his full tactical uniform. From the top of the stairs, I listened to him speak to my mother. “Caroline, I’ve got to run this detail for the White House. Tell Mia not to panic. The second I get back, I’ll move her into the city. Start packing her things.” My mother forced a smile, nodding politely until she managed to shepherd him out the door. As Carter walked out to the driveway, my favorite bodyguard, a guy who had been with our family for years, called out to him. “Commander Kensington! Big mission today?” Carter puffed out his chest. “Escorting some VIP bride out of state. The President authorized a presidential-level motorcade. Must be a cabinet member’s daughter. Don’t ask questions you don’t have the clearance for, kid.” Once Carter’s SUV pulled away, my bodyguard looked up at my window and shot me a wicked grin. “Ms. Harper, I would pay a million dollars to see his face in about twenty minutes.” He vanished around the corner. My mother helped me with my veil, and we slipped out the back. A private car whisked us to the secure staging area behind the Capitol building. Through the tinted windows of the Maybach, I could see Carter at the rear of the convoy, sitting tall in the lead security SUV, barking orders into his comms. Right on the dot, the President stepped up to the podium on the Capitol steps. His voice echoed across the plaza through the PA system. “Today, a daughter of D.C. travels to New York to join two of our nation’s greatest families. It is a profound honor to personally send off this brilliant young woman. May she and her husband have a lifetime of peace and prosperity!” Over the muffled radio chatter coming from the vehicles, I heard Carter’s voice over the open frequency. “Anyone get a visual on the bride? Who merits the President himself…” His voice cut out as the President’s booming announcement filled the air. “Please welcome the bride, daughter of our late, great Secretary of Defense… Mia Harper!” A shockwave of murmurs ripped through the gathered press and security detail. I lowered the tinted window just an inch. The wind caught the edge of my white veil, fluttering it against the glass. I looked back at the lead security SUV. Carter was staring right at my car. His face was the color of chalk.

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When we were six years old, the monsters who took us made a game of our survival. They told us one would be the voice, and the other would be the prop—a mute beggar to kneel on the city sidewalks and bleed sympathy from strangers. I dropped to the concrete, sobbing, begging them. “Please don’t hurt him! Let me do it. I’ll beg! I’ll bring back so much money, I promise!” In the end, it was acid. It burned a fiery, agonizing trail down my throat, and from that day on, my voice was nothing but a graveyard of sound. The day the police finally pulled us from that dark basement, Cole held me. His tears soaked into my collarbone, hot and desperate. He swore, his voice cracking with a boy’s fierce conviction, that he would protect me forever. That he would be my voice for the rest of our lives. Yet, years later, when the most popular girl in our high school framed me for stealing her diamond necklace, I found myself standing in the principal’s office, frantically signing, trying to explain my innocence. Cole didn’t defend me. He just looked at my trembling hands, his expression a mask of cool indifference. “She says,” he translated to the room, his voice perfectly level, “that she took it.” “She says she realizes now that she’s a thief, and she’s willing to apologize to Blair in front of the entire school.” 1 I stared at Cole, the air rushing out of my lungs. I waved my hands wildly, a harsh, panicked “uh” and “ah” tearing from my ruined throat. But the principal’s face had already hardened into stone. The disappointment radiating from the faculty felt like physical blows to my chest. I reached for a pen, desperate to write the truth, but Cole grabbed my arm and yanked me out into the fluorescent-lit hallway. He shoved me into a corner, his jaw tight with irritation. “If you stole it, just own up to it. Making up lies is just going to make everyone look down on you more.” But I didn’t steal it! I signed, the movements sharp and frantic, tears of absolute frustration threatening to spill over. “So what, Blair’s lying?” Cole sighed, a cruel, mocking edge creeping into his tone. “Stella, just because you’re disabled doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to bend over backward to cater to you.” My heart plummeted, hitting the floor of my stomach. The tears finally fell, hot and humiliating. Why? I looked at him, searching for the boy who had held me in the dark. Why don’t you believe me? When I walked back into the classroom, numb and hollow, I found my desk had been dragged to the very back of the room, isolated in the corner. “I’m not sitting next to a kleptomaniac. I don’t want to have to count my cash every time I go to the bathroom.” The girl who said it was standing next to Blair. They both looked at me with open, theatrical disgust. The room went dead silent. The whispers that followed were loud enough to be intentional. “The mute girl always looked so pathetic. Guess she’s got sticky fingers.” “Honestly, I feel bad for Cole. He’s been dragging around that dead weight for years.” “Well, you know disabled people. They’re always a little twisted in the head.” Cole was standing in the doorway. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. His face was a blank canvas. He looked like he hadn’t heard a single word. I lowered my head, silently shoving my notebooks into my backpack, and took my new seat in the corner. From that day on, I became a ghost in the hallways. No, worse than a ghost. People ignore ghosts. I was the school thief. The burden. The morally bankrupt mute. People threw crumpled paper at the back of my head. If I sat at a lunch table, the others would stand up and leave. When I raised my hand in class, boys in the back would mockingly wave their hands in fake sign language and snicker. Only Cole would occasionally step in. If someone blatantly tripped me, he’d offer a hand to pull me up. If someone poured chalk dust into my water bottle, he’d frown and mutter, “Alright, knock it off.” But the desperate, heart-wrenching protectiveness was gone from his eyes. All that remained was a heavy, suffocating blanket of obligatory pity, mixed with exhaustion. Whenever he did help me, Blair would magically appear, looping her manicured arm through his. “Come on, Cole, let’s go. Don’t waste your breath on her,” she’d coo. And Cole would turn and walk away with her. Leaving me kneeling on the linoleum, slowly picking up my scattered textbooks. I thought of the damp, rotting smell of the basement when we were six. I thought of the kidnapper’s belt lashing across Cole’s back. He had bitten his lip until it bled, refusing to cry out. I had thrown my tiny body over his, taking the hits, babbling nonsensically, my fingers making wild, frightened shapes in the air. I’ve got you, Stella, he had whispered into my hair, his tears burning against my skin. I’ll protect you. Always. The vow still echoed in my ears, but the words had turned to ice. 2 I spent three days suffocating in plain sight, a fish thrashing on dry land. The malicious glares, the whispers, the cruel pranks—they were killing me by a thousand tiny cuts. I had to clear my name. During the lunch hour, I slipped past the cafeteria and snuck into the security office. Mr. Henderson, the old guard who always smiled at me, was on duty. When he saw my frantic gestures and read the desperate plea I scribbled on his notepad, his eyes softened with a grandfatherly sadness. He didn’t ask questions. He just rolled his chair over to the monitors and pulled up the footage of the junior hallway from the afternoon the necklace went missing. Minutes ticked by. I stared at the screen so hard my eyes burned, my heart hammering against my ribs. And then, there it was. The classroom was emptying out. Blair lingered by the door, pretending to organize her tote bag. When the room was finally clear, she reached into her pocket, pulled out the silver chain, and swiftly shoved it deep into the front pocket of my backpack. She even smiled. A wicked, satisfied little smirk. It wasn’t me. It was never me. A tidal wave of euphoric relief and profound, agonizing vindication crashed through my chest. I started to shake. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, entirely unprompted. I pointed at the screen, looking at Mr. Henderson, letting out rough, broken sounds that were half-sobs, half-laughter. Mr. Henderson sighed heavily. He clipped the video file and transferred it to an old, battered flash drive. When he handed it to me, he patted my shoulder gently. I gripped the flash drive so tightly its plastic edges dug into my palm. It felt like a glowing coal. It was my weapon. My salvation. My immediate, undeniable instinct was to find Cole. I needed to run to him, to shake his shoulders and say, Look. I didn’t do it. She set me up. Even you were wrong about me. I practically sprinted toward the West Wing. Cole had detention duty today; he was supposed to be cleaning the science labs. The door to the chemistry lab was cracked open. I could hear the wet slosh of a mop and the loud, echoing laughter of the boys on the basketball team. I reached out to push the door open, but the words drifting into the hallway stopped me cold. They poured over me like a bucket of ice water. “Man, Cole, that was brutal,” one of the guys laughed. “The little mute is practically a pariah now. She just hides in the corner. Bet she won’t dare cling to you anymore.” “For real. Look at her, walking around like a kicked puppy, actually thinking you were gonna play her knight in shining armor forever. She’s a broken toy. What did she expect?” Their laughter was sharp, jagged glass in my ears. Then, I heard Cole’s voice. It was the voice I had memorized over a decade. The voice that had narrated my entire life. But right now, it sounded bored. Cold. Utterly inconvenienced. “She’s so damn loud. Always waving her hands around. Just looking at it exhausts me.” I heard the screech of a metal stool being kicked back. “Blair’s idea with the necklace was actually brilliant. I just rode the wave. Saves me from Stella constantly weaponizing that childhood trauma against me. She looks at me like I owe her my soul.” “Cole the savage! She definitely won’t have the guts to come near you now. Gotta hand it to Blair, that was a one-hit knockout.” “Hey, we should thank Cole for his generous sponsorship of the fake evidence!” …I couldn’t hear the rest. The hallway dissolved into a ringing, high-pitched static. The world narrowed down to Cole’s indifferent, careless words, looping endlessly in my mind. It wasn’t a sharp pain. It was a slow, agonizing flaying. So that was it. He wasn’t manipulated. He wasn’t blinded by Blair’s lies. He just thought the mute girl was annoying. A nuisance. An eyesore. And that totally oblivious, idiotic mute had been sprinting down the hallway, carrying a flash drive like a trophy, desperate to prove her innocence to him. Desperate to earn a shred of his guilt or an apology. How unbelievably pathetic. 3 I ran. I fled blindly until I collapsed in a forgotten stairwell, crying until my ribs ached and there was nothing left inside me but a vast, hollow crater. When I finally tried to leave, a shadow blocked the landing. It was Blair, flanked by two of her loyal disciples. She wore a sugary-sweet smile, but her eyes were venomous. “Well, well, Stella. Where are you rushing off to? Running away because you feel guilty?” I took a defensive step back, calculating a way around them. Before I could move, she lunged and snatched my backpack right off my shoulder. I threw myself forward to grab it back. “Ooh, she’s feisty today,” Blair mocked, sidestepping me smoothly. One of the girls beside her shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward. They closed in, pushing and herding me down the hall until we reached the abandoned girls’ bathroom at the end of the corridor—a place slated for renovation, plumbing shut off, completely dead. With a hard shove, I hit the tiled floor inside. Bang. The heavy wooden door slammed shut. The metallic clack of the exterior deadbolt sliding into place echoed like a gunshot. I scrambled to my feet, pounding my fists against the wood. I threw my entire body weight against it, but it didn’t even rattle. Panic, dark and suffocating, began to rise in my throat. “Save your energy,” Blair’s voice drifted through the thick wood, dripping with malicious glee. “Let’s play a little game, Stella.” I slid down the door, my knees pulling into my chest. The air was freezing. Outside, I heard the faint beep-boop of a phone dialing. Then, Blair’s voice, sickly sweet and whining: “Hey… Cole? Where are you?” She was calling him. I held my breath, my fingernails biting half-moons into my palms. “Yeah, just got out of practice… I miss you,” she purred. “Oh, by the way. Your little mute shadow tried to corner me again just now. She is so annoying.” My stomach free-fell. Through the phone’s speaker, Cole’s voice filtered through the wood, tinny and distorted. “She’s bothering you again? Just ignore her. She’s acting like a psycho.” “Cole…” Blair’s voice softened, testing the waters. “Tell me the truth. Did you ever, even for a second, have feelings for her? I mean, she did lose her voice for you.” The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Those few seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity. Against all logic, against all the shredded remains of my dignity, some pathetic, dying part of my heart waited for his answer. Then came his laugh. Short. Derisive. “Have feelings for her? Are you insane?” He paused, and when he spoke again, the sheer resentment in his voice made my blood run cold. “Honestly? Sometimes I think… if the kidnappers had just killed her back then, it would have been better. Just rip the band-aid off. Then I wouldn’t have spent the last ten years emotionally blackmailed, walking around like I owe her my life. I’m so sick of it.” He hesitated, then added, “But she’s stopped following me around. Leave her alone from now on, alright? You guys have been taking it a little far lately.” I didn’t hear whatever Blair said next. I didn’t hear the beep of the phone hanging up. There was only his voice, a drill boring directly into my brain, dragging out bloody, ragged chunks of my soul. If she had just died back then. The sacrifice that cost me my voice, my childhood, my entire identity—to him, it was a mistake. An inconvenience. He wished I had died so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. For ten years, my very existence had been a burden he was desperate to shed. My stomach convulsed. I dry-heaved over the cracked linoleum, gagging on nothing, hot tears blinding me. “Did you hear that, Stella?” Blair whispered right against the crack of the door. The triumph in her voice was absolute. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. “The game isn’t over yet,” she laughed softly. “Let’s test his loyalty.” I heard the clicking of a keyboard. She was using my phone. As she typed, she narrated out loud: “Cole… please help me. Blair locked me in the old bathroom in the West Wing. They’re kicking the door. I’m so scared. Please come…” She was impersonating me. Then, she pulled out her own phone. “Now, for my turn.” She recorded a voice note, her tone oozing seduction. “Cole, I suddenly miss you so much. Meet me at our usual spot? I’ll be waiting~” She knocked on the heavy wood. “So, Stella. Place your bets. Is your knight coming to rescue the little mute, or is he coming to meet me?” “I can’t wait to find out.” The staccato click-clack of her heels faded down the hallway, leaving behind a silence so deep it felt like the bottom of the ocean. I beat my fists against the door until my knuckles bruised purple. I screamed until my ruined throat bled, making only the sound of rushing air. Hours bled into one another. The stench of stagnant water and rust filled my nose. The cold seeped into my bones. I curled into a tight ball in the darkest corner, shivering violently, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps that never came. No one came. Once again, Cole had chosen to leave me in the dark. 4 I was hovering on the edge of consciousness when the muffled shout of voices finally broke through the walls. A blinding flashlight beam cut across my face, making me flinch. And then, my mother was there. She dragged me into her chest, her whole body violently shaking, while my father stood behind her, his voice a low, terrifying rumble: “Who did this?!” I was limp, a broken ragdoll in my mother’s arms. I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I couldn’t make a sound. I just let the tears fall into her coat. The principal and the head of the junior class were crowded into the narrow antechamber of the bathroom. “Stella, what exactly happened here?” the principal asked, his face pale. Leaning against my mother, I slowly, painfully raised a heavy arm. I pointed directly at Blair, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, her hands over her mouth in a picture-perfect display of shock. Every eye in the room snapped to her. Blair recoiled, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “Stella, how can you point at me? I was at the public library with the girls until six, and then I went straight home! You can ask them!” She looked at the teachers, her lip trembling. “I know Stella is angry with me because of the necklace situation, but I would never do something like this. You have to believe me.” Her two friends immediately stepped up. “Seriously, Stella. Just because you got caught stealing doesn’t mean you can just accuse people of kidnapping you.” The principal frowned, looking around. “Are there security cameras in this wing?” Mr. Henderson, standing by the door, shook his head. “Renovations. Wires were cut weeks ago.” No cameras. No witnesses. To the adults in the room, my trembling finger just looked like the vindictive retaliation of a disgraced thief. My mother was sobbing openly now. “Stella, baby, look at me. Was it her? Did she do this to you?” I opened my mouth to force out a sound, to recreate the mocking cadence of Blair’s voice, when the crowd parted. Cole walked in. Blair immediately launched herself at him, gripping his jacket sleeve. “Cole! Tell them! We were together yesterday evening, right? We were at the café going over the AP Physics study guide.” Cole looked at Blair’s wide, pleading eyes. Then he looked at me. He reached out and gently pushed my pointing hand down. His voice was gravelly. “Yeah.” “We were together after school. Around eight, I walked Blair home.” He looked down at me, his eyes dark. “Stella, I know you’re upset, but trying to ruin someone else’s life over a grudge isn’t the answer.” It was eight o’clock yesterday when Blair had locked the door. The boy I had loved, the boy I had traded my voice for, was providing an alibi for my abuser. The last fragile, fighting ember inside my chest was crushed into dust. We stared at each other. His eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands and signed to me—using the private, shorthand signs we had invented as children, the ones no one else knew. Let it go. Blair didn’t lock you in. Her friends did. I know it’s bad, but they are her only friends. Just forgive them, okay? He paused. His fingers were stiff, moving deliberately. If you do… we can be together. We can date. Even now. Even after the basement, the locker rooms, the isolation, the dark bathroom. He still looked at me and saw a stray dog. A creature so desperate for his affection that I would trade my own dignity for a pat on the head. I didn’t look at him again. I just buried my face in my mother’s coat and let her lead me out of the building. That night, in the safety of my own room, I wrote down everything for my parents. Every word. And I asked them to pull me out of that school immediately. In the brief interim before my transfer was processed, Cole started acting strangely. He would leave my favorite fruits on my desk. He chased off anyone who even looked at me sideways. When Blair tried to approach me, he physically blocked her, telling her to back off with a coldness I’d never seen from him. He was trying to compensate. To offer me an umbrella long after I had already drowned. … For reasons he couldn’t explain, Cole felt a creeping, suffocating unease settling into his bones. Maybe it was because Stella had been too quiet lately. The wrong kind of quiet. A chilling stillness, like the ocean drawing back before a tsunami. He felt like something terrible was happening right in front of him, and he was completely powerless to stop it. He emptied his savings account and bought a necklace. A real one. Delicate white gold and a small, perfect diamond. He reasoned with himself: Stella was just hung up on the necklace thing, right? If he gave her something real, something ten times better than Blair’s cheap jewelry, she would let it go. They could hit reset. They could go back to the way they were. He showed up to school earlier than he had all year. He slipped the velvet box into the back of her desk and sat in his chair, his leg bouncing, waiting for the moment she walked in and found it. First period started. The seat remained empty. A gnawing anxiety chewed at his stomach all morning. He couldn’t focus on a single word his teachers said. Finally, during homeroom, the door opened. But it wasn’t Stella. It was Mr. Harrison, their advisor. “Just a quick announcement, everyone. Stella has transferred to a new district. She won’t be joining us for the rest of the year.”

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My boyfriend took me to a cruise party, but a big storm hit, and both he and his female colleague fell into the water. Without hesitation, he jumped into the river, but swam further and further away, leaving me to be swallowed by the current. I was rescued on the riverbank, and when I woke up in the hospital the next day, I saw his colleague’s post on social media: “My first kiss was CPR! I’m so grateful for his life-saving grace, I have no way to repay him, what should I do?” Our mutual friends were all watching my reaction. No one expected me to comment: “Then repay him with your body! May you stay together forever!” 1 Two days. Forty-eight hours since the dark, freezing water of the harbor had swallowed me whole, and Connor hadn’t spared a single thought for me—his actual girlfriend. I had just hit Send on my comment on his coworker’s Instagram post when he finally broke his silence. His name flashed on my screen, and the moment I answered, his furious voice filled the sterile hospital room. “Madeline, this was a matter of life and death! Why do you have to make everything so damn toxic? Aren’t you exhausted from acting so insanely jealous all the time?” Before I could speak, he plowed on. “You know how to swim! Faking a drowning just for attention? It’s sick. If Isabelle hadn’t tried to grab you, she wouldn’t have been dragged into the water. Do you realize she almost died? You have absolutely no conscience!” I closed my eyes. Connor grew up on the coast. He’d spent his teenage summers as a lifeguard. How could he possibly fail to tell the difference between someone faking it and someone actually drowning? Furthermore, Isabelle hadn’t been reaching for me. She had been frantically trying to catch her dropping phone when she lost her balance on the yacht’s deck. “Connor, I lost the baby…” “Enough!” he roared. “There is a limit to your lying, Maddie. I know you’ve had your period the last few days! You cause a massive scene, run off to play the victim, and now you’re spinning this sick web? How can you be so vicious?” With that, over the faint sound of Isabelle coughing delicately in the background, he hung up on me. I spent five days in the hospital. I thought I’d be cleared to go home, but the doctor insisted my body needed another forty-eight hours of rest. It was only after Isabelle was given a completely clean bill of health that Connor finally decided to unblock my number. Where are you? Need to talk. For a decade, every time we fought, regardless of who was right or wrong, I was always the one to shoulder the blame. We were childhood sweethearts. I cherished our history so much that no matter how far he ran, I always stayed right behind him. I did it because, years ago, he’d kissed my forehead and told me I was his forever, and that I needed to hold on tight. Emotional exhaustion is a quiet killer. I had a strict rule: never let an argument last overnight. No matter how earth-shattering the fight, I would swallow my pride, process my hurt, and make peace with him by midnight. This was the first time I hadn’t bowed my head. And his response was to block me for five days straight. I only discovered I was blocked when my breakup text failed to deliver. I had stared at the little red exclamation point in shock, followed swiftly by a cold, hollow clarity. Loving someone so subserviently was a miserable, degrading way to live. He must have grown impatient waiting for a reply, because my phone buzzed with his call. “Why aren’t you answering my texts? You always reply to me the second I message you.” His utter sense of entitlement didn’t make me angry; it made me laugh. A dry, rasping sound. “You blocked me for five days, Connor. Why on earth do I owe you a quick reply?” Not blocking him in return was my final act of mercy. It was the last shred of dignity I was leaving this relationship. A nurse walked in to check my vitals, and the rustle of the blood pressure cuff tipped him off. “Wait, are you in the hospital too?” he asked, his tone shifting. “Yeah. I’ve been here since I fell in the water.” My deadpan response was met with a stunned, heavy silence on the other end of the line. “What… what do you want for lunch?” he finally stammered. “I’ll go pick something up and come see you.” I told him not to bother, but he stubbornly insisted on ordering from my favorite bistro downtown. Figuring he would get here faster than DoorDash, I gave him my room number and canceled the hospital meal I’d requested. Hours passed. I almost fainted from a hypoglycemic drop while waiting for him to show up. The night nurse, taking pity on me, warmed up her own packed dinner and brought it to my bed. Once the dizzy spell passed, I texted Connor to tell him not to worry about food anymore. True to form, the message was read, but left unanswered. I waited until night fell. He never came. I knew for a fact he wasn’t coming, because I saw Isabelle’s latest Instagram update. “Tried to treat my hero to dinner, but he insisted on taking over my kitchen. What kind of fairy-tale gentleman is this?” The attached photo was meticulously curated. Connor, wearing a floral apron, was stirring a pot on the stove, while half of Isabelle’s face was visible in the foreground, bathed in the warm, dreamy glow of the kitchen lights. The angle was perfect. He looked incredibly masculine and domestic. The whole picture radiated the cozy intimacy of a young couple in love. In that moment, lying in the sterile dark of my hospital room, I didn’t feel rage. I didn’t feel betrayal. It just felt… right. Like this was exactly who they were meant to be. A memory floated to the surface: Connor pulling me into his chest years ago, swearing he would cook for me every night, swearing he would take a bullet for me. Today, he hadn’t taken a bullet for me. And he certainly wasn’t cooking for me. I had simply expected far too much from a love that had already expired. 2 I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. I didn’t call Connor to demand why he had stood me up. Instead, I dialed the director of my medical board. Dr. Harrison didn’t even let me say hello before he started his pitch. “Madeline, please tell me you’re reconsidering. The slots for the UN Peacekeeping Medical Task Force are incredibly rare, especially for your trauma specialty. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deployment. Are you really going to walk away from it? Even if you want to settle down and have kids, you’re young! Putting it off for two years won’t hurt.” He paused, his voice softening. “Of everyone in our network, you are the absolute top candidate for this. The peacekeepers hold the line, and you stand beside them to save lives. Did you forget all the grand promises you made when you first became a doctor?” Dr. Harrison’s words hit me like a physical blow. How could I forget the vows I made to myself? Shame washed over me in a suffocating wave. When I discovered I was pregnant, I had voluntarily withdrawn my application for the task force. No matter how much Dr. Harrison pleaded, I refused to budge. At the time, marrying Connor and building a family was the absolute center of my universe. It was only when I was thrashing in the freezing currents, watching Connor swim toward Isabelle without a second’s hesitation, that I finally understood: I was never in his long-term plans. My hand instinctively dropped to my flat stomach. I felt so foolish it physically ached. I had traded my grand ambitions—my stars and my sea—for a man who once whispered that I was his whole world. I gave up my future for a dead-end love, and he had turned my sacrifice into a pathetic joke. “Madeline, tomorrow is the absolute final deadline,” Dr. Harrison pressed, still holding out hope for me. “If you let this go, are you absolutely sure you won’t regret it?” “Dr. Harrison,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been in days. “Please submit my name.” This relationship ended the moment I wasn’t his immediate choice. It was time to redraw the blueprint of my life. The dreams I had shelved were ready to breathe again. Thank God, it wasn’t too late. Perhaps the baby had sensed the profound unhappiness awaiting it and had chosen to spare us both. When I was finally discharged, the doctor noted that I was healing remarkably well. Connor arrived predictably late. The attending physician was going over my post-discharge instructions when Connor strolled into the doorway, his brow furrowing in irritation. “Isn’t this a bit dramatic?” Connor interrupted. “She spent a week in the hospital over a little dip in the harbor, and now she can’t even touch cold water at home? She’s not made of glass. Do we really need to go overboard?” The doctor blinked, taken aback, and looked at me. “Is this man your husband?” “No,” I replied smoothly. “Just an acquaintance.” The paperwork was already processed; I only needed my prescriptions from the pharmacy downstairs. Connor, his face darkening with annoyance, volunteered to go get them. “I assumed he was your husband,” the doctor muttered, watching him leave. “I was about to give him a serious piece of my mind.” I just smiled and let the comment fade into the air. I found Connor waiting for me in the main lobby, peering into the pharmacy bag with a look of supreme exasperation. “I thought you had some massive health crisis,” he scoffed, tossing the bag toward me. “You’ve had bad cramps before and been totally fine. You’re a doctor, Maddie. How are you acting this fragile over falling in the water?” I took the bag from him. I didn’t owe him a single syllable of explanation. “What did you want to talk about?” I asked flatly. “Let’s talk in the car.” Figuring a public breakup in a crowded hospital lobby lacked grace, I followed him to the parking garage. I walked to the passenger side, opening the door out of sheer muscle memory. Sitting right there on the leather seat was a tube of lipstick. It wasn’t mine. I shut the door, opened the rear door, and slid into the back seat. Connor’s face immediately turned thunderous. “What are you doing now? Stop throwing a tantrum and sit up front.” I pointed through the window at the passenger seat. “It’s common decency not to sit in a seat kept warm by another woman.” Connor followed my gaze, and his temper flared hotter. “Are you psychotic? That’s your lipstick!” “It’s Isabelle’s.” Women have an innate radar for lipstick shades. It was the exact gloss Isabelle had been wearing the night of the yacht party. “Isabelle doesn’t even wear makeup,” Connor fired back, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who always drags a makeup bag everywhere. There’s no way it’s hers.” Isabelle. Since when did he drop her last name and speak about her with such fond familiarity? With me, it was always my full name whenever he was annoyed. I spent an hour getting ready for him twice a week because I wanted to look beautiful for the man I loved. Did he really think Isabelle’s perfectly flushed cheeks and dewy skin were entirely genetic? Was that why I lost? Because he bought into her manufactured “effortless beauty” act? 3 I remained stubbornly in the back seat until he finally surrendered with a heavy sigh. “Maddie, it was pitch black out there,” he began, gripping the steering wheel. “It was chaos. When I jumped in, I couldn’t see you. So I went for Isabelle because I knew she couldn’t swim. It was pure instinct.” Instinct. His instinct was to save Isabelle. The deck lights from the yacht had illuminated the black water like a stadium. He had been mere feet away from me. If he could spot Isabelle thrashing yards away, there was absolutely no way he couldn’t see me. “Okay. You don’t need to explain,” I said evenly. “She’s your coworker. It makes sense that you saved her.” My total lack of emotion infuriated him more than screaming would have. “You’re still holding this against me? You’re so mad that I saved her life that you won’t even admit I’m your boyfriend to a random doctor?” “You blocked me,” I said quietly. “I took that as a breakup.” “Madeline! What do you want from me?!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. “Will you only be happy if I confess I’m sleeping with her? Is that what you want to hear? Fine! I’m Isabelle’s boyfriend! Are you satisfied now?” “I’m not doing anything, Connor. Who you choose to date is your business. It has nothing to do with me.” Connor practically climbed over the center console, looking like he wanted to physically drag me into the front seat. But right then, his phone lit up the dashboard. The caller ID read Isabelle. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering it. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll bring it to you right now,” he said softly. I didn’t need to hear her side of the call. I knew she was calling about the lipstick. He hung up and looked at me sheepishly via the rearview mirror. “I… I guess you have a similar color. I got confused.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to drop this off to her, and then the three of us can grab a nice dinner together.” I figured it would serve perfectly well as a breakup dinner, so I agreed. When Isabelle spotted Connor’s car pulling up to the curb, her smile was blinding. Her “no-makeup makeup” was flawless, making her look effortlessly radiant. She wore a flowing sundress that caught the breeze, giving her the aura of a delicate, untouchable fairy. She opened the passenger door with practiced familiarity. As she leaned in, her dress dipped just enough to showcase her cleavage. Connor’s eyes dropped to her chest. He froze for a split second before awkwardly darting his gaze away. Isabelle grabbed her lipstick, only then pretending to notice my presence in the back. “Oh! Maddie, you’re here too!” Her voice was sweet as syrup. “Let’s all get dinner tonight. Last time I tried to treat you guys to thank Connor for saving my life, he said you were too busy with work. I felt so bad when he ended up cooking for me instead. But since you’re free today, dinner is on me! We really need to clear up this silly misunderstanding.” She placed a delicate hand against her chest, feigning a look of distress that was perfectly calibrated to make a man want to protect her. I didn’t miss the brief, triumphant flicker in her eyes as her gaze swept over my much less spectacular figure. I had absolutely no desire to let a third party crash my breakup. Without a word, I opened my door, stepped out onto the pavement, and hailed a cab home. During the ride, Connor called me a dozen times. I ignored every single one. Then the text barrage began. I only cooked for her because she had a panic-induced asthma attack! I couldn’t just leave her. I took her to the clinic, and she insisted on buying me food. I didn’t want her stressing herself out, so I cooked instead. Why are you making a crime out of this? She fell in the water because she was trying to grab YOU! I cooked for her to thank her on your behalf! Why are you always so paranoid? You can swim. If I had ignored the girl who was drowning to check on you, I would be a monster. Can’t you just learn from Isabelle and be a little more understanding and gentle? Reading his messages drained the absolute last drop of my will to argue. He was so blinded by her act that he genuinely believed she fell in trying to save me. Yet, he refused to believe that I had miscarried his child. When exactly had this love rotted into something so vile? 4 That very night, I threw myself into preparing for the medical task force deployment. I wasn’t worried about the physical or psychological evaluations. My main hurdle was mastering the niche protocols—international crisis law, cross-cultural medical ethics, and triage in hostile environments. I had studied this material months ago, but I was a perfectionist. I needed to be over-prepared. I was so deeply immersed in my textbooks that I didn’t even hear the front door unlock. Though Connor and I had technically moved in together, I still maintained the lease on my own small apartment and spent most of my time here. “Madeline! Why aren’t you coming home?” I looked up, startled, not quite processing his anger. “This is my home.” “You know I mean my place. Our place.” “Why would I go to your place?” I truly didn’t understand his confusion. In my mind, the relationship was dead and buried. His lingering presence was just exhausting. His face hardened. He marched over to my dining table, his eyes snagging on a stack of paperwork I had left out. “What is this?” he demanded, snatching it up. I realized too late what it was. After filing my hospital insurance claims, I had absentmindedly left the discharge summary and billing reports on the table. I lunged to grab the papers back, but Connor held them out of my reach, his eyes scanning the medical jargon. His face went entirely pale, and then, slowly, a dark, terrible red crept up his neck. “Madeline!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “How could you not tell me something this huge?!” I pressed my lips together and stared at him, letting the silence stretch. I had planned to tell him I was pregnant at the yacht party. It was supposed to be a surprise. But before the words could leave my mouth, Isabelle and I were in the water. We locked eyes. It was clear he hadn’t connected the dots. The storm was still brewing in his gaze. “Just because I chose to save Isabelle instead of you,” he spat, his chest heaving, “you went behind my back and aborted our baby?” “I’ve told you,” I said softly. “You and Isabelle are completely innocent. She is just a coworker.” Connor was bracing for me to explode, to scream at him over the lost child. My total, chilling apathy hit him like a physical blow. It took the wind completely out of his sails. “Then why did you get rid of our baby?” he whispered, his anger giving way to a frantic confusion. I couldn’t bear the thought of my child’s memory being tainted by the idea that its mother didn’t want it. I looked him dead in the eye and stated the clinical truth. “I told you on the phone. I miscarried when I fell into the water.” Connor froze. It was as if the gears in his brain violently seized. The memory of my phone call—the one he had dismissed as a dramatic lie—finally slammed into him. The color completely drained from his face. “You’re saying… you lost it because of the fall? But you’re so fit. You know how to swim. How could falling in the water make you miscarry?” “Even Isabelle didn’t get hurt,” he stammered, his eyes darting wildly. “How could you possibly…” He trailed off. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He turned his head away, physically unable to look at me. If you know how to swim, you can’t get hurt. Was that the twisted logic he used to justify leaving me behind in the dark? I turned my back to him. I didn’t want to look at his face anymore. But he was desperate. He needed absolution. “Was it really an accident? From the water?” I picked up the glass of ice water from my desk and threw the contents squarely into his face. The water dripped off his nose, his chin, soaking his collar. “Are you awake now?” I asked. Ever since Isabelle entered the picture, his faith in me had constantly wavered. He questioned everything I said. He knew, better than anyone on earth, that I was not a liar. I had never lied to him in our thirty years of knowing each other. Yet, for Isabelle, he painted me as a manipulative liar time and time again. When I told him Isabelle had ulterior motives, he called me paranoid. When I pointed out her calculated innocence, he called me toxic. Now, I understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe me. He simply chose to blind himself because he wanted to buy what she was selling. The boy who swore he loved me had failed the ultimate test. He didn’t take a bullet for me. During one of our many fights over his blurry boundaries with Isabelle, I had been crying hysterically. He had thrown a glass of cold water in my face to “calm me down.” Now, Connor let the water drip from his eyelashes, his jaw tightening as he stared at me. “What do you want from me?!” he yelled, his voice thick with defensive panic. “You only lost a pregnancy! If I hadn’t saved Isabelle, I would be responsible for a dead body!” 5 The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had crossed a horrific line. He recoiled from his own cruelty, quickly looking down at my medical charts to mask his panic. Scanning the page, he let out a loud, forced breath of relief. “Well, at least it was early. Barely over a month. It didn’t do permanent damage. You’re healthy, Maddie. You’ll bounce back quickly.” I stared at him. I literally rubbed my ears, wondering if my brain was misfiring. You only lost a pregnancy. Was the baby inside me not a living thing to him? Connor had always talked about wanting kids. He used to hold me in bed and whisper about the family we would build. I thought, at the very least, he would grieve. I thought he would feel an ounce of agony for the child we lost. I was incredibly naïve. He didn’t love me anymore. Why would he love a piece of me? “Don’t be too sad,” he rambled, stepping closer, his tone adopting a sickeningly patronizing comfort. “We’re young. Once your body heals up, we’ll start trying again. We’ll just… write this one off. It wasn’t meant to be.” His words weren’t comforting. They were cold, serrated blades dragging across my exhausted heart. “Connor,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “If you had pulled me out first, I might not have lost it.” When I fell, the impact threw me against the hull of the yacht. I started bleeding almost immediately, though the pain didn’t peak until later. Another memory fractured his composure. “God,” he whispered, his eyes widening in horror. “I heard someone on the deck screaming about blood in the water. I… I thought it was Isabelle.” I didn’t even have the energy to call him out on the absurdity of that. When the cramps hit me in the freezing water, my muscles locked. I couldn’t swim. I thrashed and swallowed water and screamed for help, just like anyone drowning. How did he not see I was going under? How did he not hear my voice? Or was Isabelle’s performance simply louder? More delicate? More worthy of saving? I remembered a wave crashing over my head, pushing me under. Through the stinging salt water, I saw Connor hauling Isabelle onto the illuminated swim platform of the yacht. Then the current took me, dragging me out into the dark. By the time I washed up on the rocky shoreline and a stranger found me, the baby was gone, and I was barely breathing. A phantom sensation of icy water filling my lungs gripped my chest. That night, a severe thunderstorm rolled over the city. Thunder rattled the windows, and Connor refused to leave. “You’re terrified of lightning,” he insisted, hovering near the door. “Let me stay with you.” “Go home, Connor. I’m not a toddler anymore. Being scared of the dark is pathetic.” He opened his mouth to argue, realized I was quoting him, and snapped his jaw shut. He turned and walked out into the rain. Months ago, during a massive storm, he had stayed at the office to keep Isabelle company because she was “scared.” When I begged him to come home to me, he told me to grow up and stop acting like a child. Over the next five days, we didn’t speak a single word to each other. I called a locksmith to change the code on my front door. I went through my apartment and packed everything he owned into two cardboard boxes. Sitting on my couch, I aimlessly scrolled through our text history. Years of me saying I love you, I miss you, sending him little updates about my day. My eyes burned, but not a single tear fell. He hadn’t kept much at my place anyway. Just a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. It wasn’t worth the gas money to drive it over to his place. I hit Select All on our chat thread. I deleted everything. I even went into my cloud storage and wiped the backups from when we were in college. Looking at the eighty gigabytes of freed-up storage space on my phone, I felt nothing but a strange, weightless relief. Right on cue, the deadbolt beeped. Incorrect Passcode. I checked the peephole. Connor was standing in the hall, looking confused. Remembering I had his boxes, I opened the door. “Maddie, why did you change the code?” “Because I wanted to. Do I need a permit?” Before Isabelle, his phone passcode had always been our anniversary. When he suddenly changed it and refused to tell me the new one, I had asked him why. I never snooped; I simply asked. He had completely blown up at me, accusing me of smothering him. I hadn’t understood his rage then. But a quote I read online recently cleared it up: A man’s sudden, unprovoked anger is always a shield for his guilt. Why was he guilty? It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Connor frowned at my cold tone. “What’s the new code? Text it to me.” I didn’t answer. I just bent down, picked up his two boxes, and shoved them into his chest. For a second, his face lit up. He actually smiled, thinking I had bought him a gift. Then he looked inside at his folded gym shirts and shaving kit. His expression turned to stone. “What the hell is this? Are you doing this because of the business trip? I went to Chicago with Isabelle because we are on the same project team! We were never alone! I didn’t text you because we were in back-to-back conferences!” “If you want to think I’m throwing a tantrum over Chicago, then fine. I’m throwing a tantrum.” I picked up my phone and sent him two screenshots. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened the message, and went perfectly still, as if struck by lightning.

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