Author: Momo Chan

The college reunion was winding down, leaving a heavy, alcohol-tinged silence in its wake. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the streetlights into smudges of yellow against the dark glass. My boyfriend, Wilbert, stood frozen between me and Mallory, his posture stiff with indecision. To his left was Mallory—his first love, newly divorced and recently returned to the city. To his right was me, his fiancée, with a wedding date booked and paid for. A couple of our old classmates, half-drunk and leaning against the bar, chuckled at the sudden freeze in the room. “Damn, it’s pouring,” one of them said, peering through the window. “Good luck getting a cab at this hour.” “Hey, Wilbert,” another chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips. “Who’s getting the luxury ride home tonight? Want to flip a coin for it?” Wilbert had always struggled with choices. Whenever life demanded a hard line, he preferred to let fate handle the details. But tonight, he didn’t reach for a coin. Instead, he draped his heavy trench coat over my shoulders. A sudden wave of warmth bloomed in my chest. I pulled the lapels tight around myself, thinking, “He chose me.” Then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Mallory’s place is all the way uptown. It’s completely out of the way. I’ll drop her off first.” He didn’t look at me as he added, “Go back inside the lobby where it’s warm. Once I drop her off, I’ll circle back for you.” Before I could process the words, he was already guiding Mallory toward the passenger side of his sedan, shielding her from the downpour with his hand over her head. The taillights cut through the wet darkness and vanished down the avenue. Behind me, the quiet snickers of our former classmates felt like needles against my neck. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I stood there, staring into the dark rain, until a large black umbrella tilted over my head, cutting off the wind. “Kept you waiting, didn’t I? The highway was a parking lot. Let’s get you out of here.” I looked up into Connor’s familiar, steady eyes. Without a word, I slid my hand into his warm, solid palm and let him lead me away. Standing in the rain, waiting to be picked, waiting to be chosen—I was done with it. I was done with him. 1 Wilbert didn’t show up until the next morning. I was in the living room, quietly packing away the custom floral centerpieces and the sample invitations. He kept his back to me as he kicked off his loafers by the door, his voice carrying a practiced, casual note. “The storm was worse than I thought. Water flooded the exhaust, and the engine stalled out near Midtown. My phone died, so I just grabbed a room at a cheap motel nearby.” He paused, turning around. “You didn’t wait out there too long, did you?” Before he could finish his rehearsed speech, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a notification from our shared account. “Alert: Linked device detected at an unusual location for more than four hours.” I tapped the map. The GPS pinpointed his car in a luxury high-rise garage on the East Side. He had spent the entire night there, leaving only at eight this morning. It was Mallory’s address. I tossed the phone onto the sofa between us. “Care to try that again?” Wilbert froze, a glass of water halfway to his lips. When he spoke, his voice pitched higher, defensive. “Are you tracking me now?” A dry laugh escaped my throat. “You’re the one who set that up, Wilbert.” His posture stiffened. He had forgotten. Six months ago, during a brief phase of romantic insecurity, he had insisted we sync our location-sharing apps so we could “always find our way back to each other.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Wilbert crossed his arms, refusing to offer another word. I studied him. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, but the top button of his oxford shirt was missing, and the cotton was heavily creased. Under my hand, the thick cardstock of a wedding invitation bent, then tore under the pressure of my thumb. Wilbert cleared his throat, changing the subject with a clumsy pivot. “So, who drove you home last night? I should take them out to lunch to say thank you.” It was always like this. He would make a mess, sweep it under the rug, and act as though the floor was pristine. “I got lucky. Caught a ride with an old friend,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “No need for lunch. I’ve already thanked him.” I walked over to the refrigerator and peeled off the sticky note. It read: “5 days until the wedding.” In that moment, my mind drifted back to the reunion. The exact second Mallory had walked through the restaurant doors, Wilbert’s face had flushed with a raw, undeniable ecstasy. He had dropped my hand so fast it felt like a physical slap, stepping forward to meet her. Mallory had stood there, smiling, looking just as radiant as she had years ago. Her failed marriage hadn’t dimmed her light at all. Standing next to Wilbert, they looked like the cover of a glossy magazine. Our old college crew had immediately shuffled around, leaving a vacant seat right beside Wilbert. I caught the eye of Travis, the guy who had tried to date me sophomore year. When I turned him down, he had thrown his gift into the dirt and sneered, “If Mallory hadn’t moved to London, you think Wilbert would look at you twice? Maeve, you’re just a placeholder.” I had blocked out his words back then. I chose to remember Wilbert under the Fourth of July fireworks, his eyes shining as he swore I was his forever. But standing in that restaurant, watching him pull out Mallory’s chair, pour her water, and hang up her coat, I realized Travis had been right all along. Mallory’s eyes had drifted down to my left hand, lingering on the diamond band. “I heard the wedding is just around the corner. Congratulations.” Wilbert had immediately placed a piece of duck breast onto her plate, his voice quick and dismissive. “Oh, nothing is set in stone yet. We’re still playing around with dates. Maeve’s mother wanted us to consult some traditional calendar, so we’re still figuring it out.” I had stared at him. “Wait, isn’t it next Thursday—” Before the words could fully leave my mouth, Wilbert had stuffed a spicy shishito pepper directly into my mouth. The sudden, fiery heat flared up my sinuses, forcing tears to my eyes. As I choked down a glass of ice water, the underlying message registered loud and clear. A cold wave of self-derision washed over me. I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and sent a single text to our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding. All of it. Permanently.” Back in the present, Wilbert waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Hey. Earth to Maeve.” “What do you want for lunch? The burger joint downstairs or the ramen spot on the corner?” He reached for his phone, preparing to open his coin-flip app, but a text banner lit up his screen first. 2 “I’m suddenly craving those late-night slices from the greasy pizza place near campus.” Wilbert swiped the notification away with a speed that bordered on frantic. He snatched his jacket off the chair. “Actually, the office just messaged. Major client emergency. Grab some takeout for yourself, okay?” He rushed out the door, his mind so consumed by his destination that he didn’t even notice the half-packed boxes lining the hallway. I took the sticky note from the fridge, tore it into tiny pieces, and tossed it into the trash can along with the final mock-up of our wedding programs. Once the wedding clutter was gone, our small apartment felt incredibly hollow. The night before, when Connor had carried my bags inside and flicked on the lights, he had let out a sharp scoff. He had bypassed Wilbert’s scattered shoes, settled into our single armchair, and shaken his head. “You’ve officially lost your mind,” he had said. “You could be living in a three-story brownstone in Boston, and instead, you’re squeezing into this shoebox with a guy who treats you like an option.” For once, I hadn’t defended Wilbert. Years ago, Wilbert had looked at me and said, “I want to build a life in New York with you from the ground up, with my own hands.” So, I had declined the condo my parents offered to buy us, ignored Connor’s offer to co-found a creative agency in Boston, and packed my life into a U-Haul to move here with Wilbert. It felt incredibly foolish now. “Are you actually ready to go home?” Connor had asked, his voice softening. I nodded. “I am.” “No cold feet?” I reached out my pinky. “If I try to back out in three days, you have my full permission to drag me out of here.” Connor had hooked his pinky around mine, a faint smile touching his lips. “It’s a deal.” After clearing out the apartment, I went to our office, printed my resignation letter, and walked into my manager’s office. “Come in,” he said without looking up. I laid the warm paper onto his desk. He read it, showing very little surprise. He had pulled me aside months ago to tell me I was wasting my talent at this firm. He slid a glossy business card across the desk—a partner position at one of the top agencies in Manhattan. At the time, I had pushed it back. “I appreciate it, but Wilbert still needs me here.” We had joined the firm together after graduation. Wilbert had talent, but his pride was fragile. The moment a client questioned his designs, he’d slam his laptop shut and walk out. With our rent and expenses mounting, I spent my nights closing deals, only to hand the accounts over to him. “Wilbert will be handling your account from here,” I would tell the clients. “He’s the real genius behind the work.” When he won Top Producer of the Year, he had spun me around our tiny kitchen, laughing. I had convinced myself that my sacrifices were worth it. But today, I looked at my manager and nodded. “I’m sure.” As I walked out of the building, my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hi, is this Maeve? I’m calling from the bridal boutique regarding your custom gown…” I signaled for a taxi. “I don’t need it anymore. You can cancel the order.” The consultant hesitated. “Oh… actually, Ms. Maeve, perhaps you should come down to the shop. There’s a slight issue.” Confused, I gave the driver the boutique’s address. 3 The moment I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the boutique, I heard a familiar voice from the fitting rooms. Mallory stood in front of the mirrors, wearing my custom silk gown. The delicate side zipper was visibly strained, a tear running along the seam. “The quality of this designer is honestly disappointing,” Mallory was telling the stylist, her face pinched. “I barely pulled it up and it ripped.” The consultant looked panicked. “But ma’am, this was custom-measured specifically to Ms. Maeve’s frame. It’s bound to be tight on anyone else.” When they saw me walk in, the room went dead silent. Wilbert stepped forward immediately, positioning himself like a shield in front of Mallory. I didn’t look at either of them. I walked straight to the counter, handed my credit card to the manager, and paid off the remaining balance. Then, I picked up a heavy pair of fabric shears from the counter, walked over to the pedestal, and sliced a massive, jagged tear right through the silk train. Mallory gasped, her eyes immediately filling with tears, looking smaller and more fragile than ever. Wilbert grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and angry. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I met his gaze, my voice deadly calm. “It’s my dress. I paid for it. I can tear it to shreds if I want to.” “The real question is, why is she wearing my wedding dress?” He snatched the shears from my hand, kneeling down to inspect the ruined hem. “Mallory’s ex-husband never gave her a real wedding. She’s never even had the chance to wear a gown. I just wanted her to feel what it was like.” He stood up, his patience entirely gone. “And you just ruined it.” “You’re a woman, Maeve. I thought you, of all people, would understand what a wedding dress means.” Looking at the cold, accusatory stare in his eyes, I realized I had never truly known this man. The hypocrisy was staggering. “If you understand that so well,” I whispered, “did you ever stop to think what this dress meant to “me”?” But Wilbert wasn’t listening. He turned his back to comfort Mallory, gently helping her step out of the tight silk. “Stop acting like a child,” he said, throwing the crumpled, torn dress over my arm, knocking my hair out of place. “Since you decided to destroy it, you can deal with the mess.” He took Mallory’s hand and walked out. The stylist stood there, holding her breath, looking at the floor. I picked up my purse and patted her shoulder gently. “Throw it in the trash,” I said. Neither the dress nor Wilbert belonged in my life anymore. 4 I went back to the apartment and collapsed onto the bed. My stomach had been cramping all morning, and suddenly, a violent wave of nausea hit my throat. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I finally flushed and stood up, leaning against the sink, I realized Wilbert was standing in the doorway. He was pale, his eyes wide and trembling. “Are you… pregnant?” he asked, his voice shaking. I leaned my head against the door frame, a bitter, dark amusement washing over me. The vomiting had left my eyes watery, but I didn’t correct him. “Yes,” I lied, looking him dead in the eye. “I just found out. Do you want to keep it?” Wilbert’s face went entirely blank. He began patting his pockets, his fingers trembling as he searched for something. “We… we should flip a coin. Let fate decide.” He couldn’t find one. I walked over, reached into my pocket, and pressed a heavy, circular metal token into his palm. “Heads we keep it. Tails I get an abortion. Flip it, Wilbert. Let’s see what the universe wants.” I watched him. He tossed the token into the air, caught it on the back of his hand, and slapped his other palm over it. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked in the silence. Finally, Wilbert slowly lifted his hand to look. “Tails,” he said, his voice flat as he pocketed the metal piece. “Maeve, we’ll have other chances. It’s just… the timing right now is completely wrong.” I looked at him, wanting to ask when the timing would ever be right for me. I wanted to tell him that there was no baby, and that the token I gave him was a double-tailed novelty coin I’d kept from an arcade years ago. But I said nothing. The silence was my final answer. As I packed the last of my sweaters into my suitcase, my phone began vibrating continuously on the mattress. I picked it up. Our old college group chat was flooded with notifications. “Did you guys see Mallory’s new video? I can’t believe Maeve did that.” “I knew something was off at the reunion. The ex-wife meets the insecure fiancée. No wonder Wilbert left her standing in the rain.” “The first love always wins. It’s a universal law.” Someone had forwarded Mallory’s latest video. The thumbnail was a selfie of her and Wilbert, smiling against a dark skyline. The title read: “A Date with My First Love.” The montage showed them eating pizza at our old college spot, riding the Ferris wheel at the pier, her trying on the wedding dress, and finally, standing on a rooftop at midnight. It was the exact rooftop where Wilbert had proposed to me. In the video, Mallory looked up at him, her voice filled with sweet longing. “It’s a shame I missed the fireworks you planned for me all those years ago. Did you ever make that custom display with my name in the sky?” Wilbert’s face was half-hidden in the shadows, but his voice was clear. “I did.” My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The final piece of my naivety shattered. I remembered the night he proposed, how his eyes had looked right past me, staring into the empty sky behind my head. The display hadn’t been for me. The letters spelled out “Mallory”. Our entire relationship had been a mistake from day one. In the video, a massive display of pyrotechnics suddenly erupted, lighting up the sky. Mallory began to cry, and the comment section was filled with thousands of heart emojis and messages of support. Someone asked: “Why did you guys ever break up in the first place?” Mallory had pinned her reply: “Because of someone else. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have spent years feeling homeless in a foreign country.” The internet moved fast. Within minutes, my social media accounts were flooded with vicious comments and death threats. I stood up, walked to my desk, and pulled out the folder containing every wedding receipt, our proposal video, and the security footage from the bridal boutique. I had kept everything. I drafted a long, detailed post, attaching the receipts and the footage. Right before I could hit ‘Post,’ the phone was snatched out of my hand. Wilbert stood there, his face dark with fury as he read the screen. “You do this, and you’ll destroy Mallory’s life.” Without hesitation, he deleted the draft, threw my phone onto the hardwood floor, and stomped on it until the screen shattered into webbed glass. Then, he grabbed the paper folder, ripped the receipts into shreds, and threw them into the trash can. Something inside me snapped. “She is destroying “my” life!” I screamed, lunging forward, my finger digging into his chest. “Your scale has never tipped in my favor, Wilbert! Not once! Your choices only ever had one damn answer, and it was never me!” “I hate you. I hate every single second I spent with you.” I grabbed my suitcase and turned for the door, but he grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, his eyes bloodshot. “Not until this entire media storm blows over!” “Let me go!” “I don’t think so,” a dry voice echoed from the doorway. Connor stood there, a thick coil of nylon rope slung over his shoulder, a cold smirk on his face. “Three days are up, Maeve. I’m here to take you home.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537538”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was one in the morning, and the steady hum of my laptop was the only sound in the study. I was polishing the final chapters of my upcoming novel when I decided to take a short break and scrolled through a local community forum. A specific post caught my eye. My wife is a massive breakout novelist. If we split, do I really get half her royalty checks? The comments were a mix of outrage and curiosity, but one reply from a verified divorce attorney stood out, gaining thousands of upvotes: “Writing is a unique profession, but legally, any royalty income generated from intellectual property created during the marriage is considered marital property. Yes, you are absolutely entitled to half of it upon divorce.” Below that, another user had replied: “You lucky bastard. I need to find myself a bestselling author to marry.” I scrolled past it, offering a silent prayer for whatever poor woman was tethered to that parasite. I was lucky. Troy and I had been married for ten years, and our relationship had always felt like a rare sanctuary. He knew the immense pressure I was under when deadlines loomed; he was always there, quietly setting down a fresh cup of tea, rubbing my shoulders, never once asking about my bank accounts or royalty statements. Then, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Troy, who was currently away on a “business trip.” “Let’s get a divorce. Just wire the five million from your book royalties to my account, and we can end this cleanly. No need to make it messy.” 1 I stared at the screen for several long seconds, convinced my sleep-deprived eyes were playing tricks on me. Before I could even process the words, another message popped up. “Actually, I won’t even ask for the full half. Just five million. That’s more than fair.” I zoomed in on the screen, reading the letters over and over until they burned into my retina. Finally, my fingers found the keyboard. “I’ll agree to the divorce. But you aren’t touching a single cent of my royalties.” His reply was instantaneous, dripping with a desperate, defensive anger. “What do you mean I’m not getting it? Do you even know the law? Marital assets, Barbara. Do you understand what that means? You’ve been writing books for ten years and you don’t even have basic legal literacy?” “Bestselling authors have to split their earnings in a divorce. It’s a fact. Don’t try to cheat me out of what’s legally mine.” I leaned back against the headboard of my chair, staring at the barrage of texts, and let out a soft, sharp laugh. Of course I knew the law. Marital assets referred to income earned by either spouse during the course of the marriage. But there was one crucial detail Troy didn’t know: every single contract, every digital imprint, and every royalty account I had ever set up was registered under my mother’s legal name and tax ID. My pen name was legally tied to her. The royalty checks cleared directly into her bank account, and she wired me a monthly allowance to cover our living expenses. Legally speaking, those millions belonged to my mother. I was merely the writer managing her intellectual property. What ground did he have to stand on? I didn’t bother replying. I blocked his number, shut down my laptop, and went to bed. The next morning, I was violently jolted awake by the sound of screaming and shattering glass coming from the living room. Trembling with irritation, I threw off the covers, strode to the door, and flung it open. Our living room was a war zone. The custom oil paintings I’d collected over the years had been ripped off the walls, their canvases slashed. My Italian leather sofa—the one that had cost me a fortune—was covered in deep, jagged cuts. Nearly a dozen children were running wild through the house, and my bookshelf, filled with rare, signed first editions, had been cleared out. The pages of my favorite novels were scattered across the floor like confetti. Standing in the center of the chaos was my mother-in-law, Linda, flanked by a small army of Troy’s aunts and cousins. They stood with their arms crossed, looking less like family and more like a mob of low-rent debt collectors. Linda sneered the moment she saw me step out of the bedroom, her voice sharp and entirely devoid of its usual fake warmth. “If you think you can keep our family’s money from us, you’ve got another thing coming. We will make your life a living hell.” I stood by my bedroom door, my gaze sweeping coldly over the crowd. “I’m calling the police. I’ll have all of you arrested for trespassing and grand larceny.” The relatives exchanged uneasy glances, but they didn’t quite believe me. Aunt Carol, a woman with a tight perm and an insufferable attitude, spat a sunflower seed shell onto my ruined carpet and scoffed. “Oh, stop trying to scare us! Trespassing? We’re family! We’re just visiting!” I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and dialed three digits, holding the screen so they could see it. “Carol,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “isn’t your son applying for his federal security clearance this winter? A misdemeanor arrest for his mother will put an end to his government career before it even starts.” I turned my gaze to another aunt standing near the hallway. “And you—your daughter is aiming for Stanford next fall, isn’t she? Do you think the admissions board won’t notice a family arrest record during the ethics review?” Before I could even finish the sentence, the aunts began scrambling toward the front door. Within thirty seconds, the living room cleared out, leaving only Linda. Her face had turned an ugly shade of purple. She glared at me, her voice trembling with venom. “You’re nothing but a barren hen. You couldn’t even give my son a child. Now that I have a real grandson on the way, making room for his mother is the least you can do.” I leaned against the doorframe, my eyes widening in mock surprise. “Oh, I’ll gladly make room for her. But neither of you has any right to my money.” “We’ll let the judge decide that,” Linda snapped, her chin tilting upward. Just then, the front door swung open again. Troy walked in, carefully supporting a woman by her elbow. 2 The woman was wearing a loose-fitting linen dress. Her stomach was visibly rounded—she was at least five or six months along. She kept her head low, one hand resting protectively over her belly, the other clinging tightly to Troy’s arm. When she finally looked up at me, there was a fleeting spark of triumph in her eyes, though her voice immediately cracked with fragile, tearful innocence. “Barbara… if my being here is causing you this much pain, I’d rather just leave. I can raise this baby alone.” She turned her tear-filled eyes toward Troy. “Let’s just go to the clinic this afternoon, Troy. I don’t want to make things hard for you.” I watched her pathetic performance, a cold smile touching my lips. “This house was purchased before my marriage,” I said. “It is entirely in my name. Neither of you has any right to be here. If you want to audition for a soap opera, go to LA. Get out of my house.” Troy frowned, taking a step toward me. His face wore that familiar, patronizing expression of concern—the same one he used whenever he wanted to convince me that I was the unreasonable one. “Barbara, don’t be like this. You couldn’t have children, and I couldn’t let my family line end with me. Look, if you just give us half of the royalties, I’ll let the baby call you his godmother. You can still be a part of his life. Isn’t that a fair compromise?” I stared at him, really stared at him. We had been married for a decade. I had spent ten years looking at this face, believing he was the gentle, nurturing partner who would stay up until dawn just to make me soup when I was writing. I pulled myself back from the memories, my expression hardening. “Troy, whatever is growing inside her womb doesn’t deserve to call me anything.” Troy’s face darkened instantly. He let go of Laura’s hand, strode across the room in three sharp steps, and grabbed my wrist. Before I could protest, he dragged me down the hallway and shoved me into the small guest bathroom. I stumbled, my shoulder slamming hard against the tiled wall. He reached outside, grabbed a heavy laundry basket filled with delicate clothes, and dumped it at my feet. “Since you don’t know how to behave, you can stay in here and think about it,” Troy sneered. “Laura’s skin is incredibly sensitive right now. Her silk dresses have to be hand-washed. Don’t come out until they’re done.” He stepped back, slammed the door, and turned the lock from the outside. Click. I threw myself against the door, hammering my fists against the wood. “Troy! Open this door! Troy!” The doorknob wouldn’t budge. The guest bathroom was tiny, windowless, and lit only by a single, flickering bulb overhead. The air felt heavy, and the walls seemed to slowly close in on me. He knew. He knew better than anyone that I suffered from severe claustrophobia. During our first year of marriage, we had been trapped in a stalled elevator for five minutes. When the doors finally opened, I was hyperventilating, my body shaking violently. He had held me tight and whispered, “I promise, Barbara, I will never let you be trapped in the dark again.” Now, he was the one who had locked me in. I slid down the wall, my fingers clawing at the grout between the floor tiles. My breathing grew shallow and rapid, my chest tightening as the darkness of the memory pressed in on me. I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the turn of a key. The door swung open, and Troy stood in the threshold, looking down at me with cold, calculated pity. “Have you learned your lesson?” he asked. “Give me the PIN to the royalty account, or you’re sleeping on the bathroom floor tonight.” I raised my head, staring at his shadowed face. The light from the hallway cast a sinister silhouette over him, making him look like a stranger. My lips curled into a weak, venomous smile. “In your dreams.” The door slammed shut again. I sat in the dark, my heart hammering against my ribs, when my fingers brushed against something metallic in my hair. A bobby pin. My heart leaped. I pulled it out, straightened the metal, and jammed it into the simple lock. Having researched lock-picking for a thriller novel three years ago, my fingers remembered the mechanics. After a few tense seconds of shifting the pin, I heard a satisfying click. I pushed the door open and bolted toward the front entrance. It wasn’t until I reached the safety of the street, ensuring no one was following me, that I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Just then, my phone rang. It was my mother. The moment I answered, before I could even tell her what had happened, her panicked voice filled my ear. “Barbara! Thank God you picked up. Your father says Troy’s new green-energy venture is a total fraud! We had our analysts run a background check—the entire company is a shell. The registered capital is fake, the board members are phantom entities, and the whole thing is about to implode. Tell him to pull his money out right now before he ruins himself!” I froze on the sidewalk, my mind racing. “Mom… what happens if he doesn’t pull his money out?” There was a brief pause on the other end. “If he doesn’t pull out, he’ll be personally liable for tens of millions of dollars in debt. We have the money, of course, but we aren’t paying off his fraudulent debts. You need to warn him before it’s too late!” I looked out at the passing traffic, the cold autumn wind clearing the panic from my mind. Tens of millions in debt. A slow, deliberate smile spread across my face. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” 3 When I arrived at my parents’ estate, my mother was so startled by my disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes that she nearly dropped her teacup. “What on earth happened to you? Tell me who did this to my girl!” I sat down and explained everything—the texts, the trashed house, the mistress, and the bathroom. My father slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, sending the porcelain cups rattling. “If that boy hadn’t seemed so humble and hardworking, we would never have let that charity case marry into this family. Now he thinks he can steal your hard-earned money and walk away? Not on my watch.” My mother was shaking with rage, but her old-money pragmatism quickly took over. She squeezed my hand tightly. “He forgot who he was dealing with. We’ve always protected our assets. Your father was right never to give him a real stake in our family’s holdings. He actually thinks he can touch your wealth?” I leaned my head against my mother’s shoulder, the tight knot in my chest finally beginning to loosen. “Thank God you had the foresight to keep your name off those contracts,” my father added, a rare note of pride in his voice. “Legally, every single book is registered under your mother’s name. What does he think he’s going to claim?” The next afternoon, my mother dragged me to a high-end shopping district to help clear my head. But as we walked past the jewelry counters on the second floor of a luxury department store, we ran straight into Troy and Laura. They were leaning over a glass display case, admiring a collection of solid gold baby charms. Laura’s arm was looped through Troy’s, her stomach pressed against his side as she smiled up at him. The sight made me sick to my stomach. I turned to walk away, but Laura had already spotted us. “Barbara! What a coincidence!” she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She walked over, resting a hand on her lower back, her pace slow and deliberate. “Are you here to pick out a welcome gift for our little one, too? Troy and I were just choosing something special.” Troy followed her, holding a small velvet box containing a gold pendant. When he saw my mother standing beside me, his expression faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening into his usual shield of entitlement. “You’re just in time,” Troy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black debit card—my card. “We’re buying a set for the baby. Put your PIN in for this.” I stared at the card in his hand, disgusted by his sheer audacity. “Not a chance.” Troy’s eyes narrowed, but with so many wealthy shoppers around, he didn’t want to make a scene. He shoved the card back into his pocket and pulled out a credit card instead, handing it to the sales clerk. “Fine. Put it on this one. My energy investment is paying out next month anyway. I’ll be looking at a return of at least twenty million. A few thousand dollars is pocket change.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Twenty million? He was closer to bankruptcy than he could possibly imagine. 4 After the transaction cleared, Laura leaned into Troy’s shoulder, throwing a smug look in my direction. “Barbara, once the divorce papers are signed, make sure you wire that royalty money quickly. Raising a baby in the city is incredibly expensive.” Troy nodded, his tone dripping with condescending charity. “Consider the baby’s gift a temporary loan. Just make sure half of your total earnings are transferred to my account the moment the papers are finalized.” I looked at him, my voice flat and cold. “If you want my money, Troy, I suggest you buy a mirror and take a good look at yourself.” Before Troy could snap back, my mother stepped forward, physically shielding me. She pointed a manicured finger directly at Troy’s nose. “You absolute parasite! My daughter paid for your clothes, your food, and your lifestyle for ten years! You aren’t worth the dirt on her shoes!” She turned her glare toward Laura, who shrank back. “And you! Did your parents raise you to be a homewrecker, or did they just fail entirely? Classless, cheap, and utterly pathetic.” Laura’s face went pale. Her eyes welled with tears as she clutched her stomach and took a step back. “Troy, my stomach hurts… she’s terrifying me.” Troy quickly wrapped an arm around her, glaring at us with pure hatred. “Be reasonable, Barbara. Let’s just sign the papers and get this over with. The court will decide what happens to the royalties.” I looked at his furious face, then at the trembling girl in his arms. I smiled. “Fine. Let’s go to the county clerk’s office right now.” He blinked, clearly not expecting me to capitulate so easily. Laura’s tears vanished, a small, victorious smirk playing at the corner of her lips. During the drive to the municipal office, Troy was already planning his next moves. “After the divorce, you’ll need to vacate the brownstone. Laura and the baby are moving in. Don’t make this difficult, Barbara.” I stared out the passenger window, watching the city skyline blur past. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you everything. The house, the man… you can have it all.” In the back seat, Laura let out a quiet, satisfied giggle, leaning her head against his shoulder. My mother sat beside her, silent and stone-faced. The process at the clerk’s office was surprisingly fast. Signatures, thumbprints, official seals. A ten-year marriage, dissolved in a matter of minutes. As soon as Troy slid his copy of the divorce decree into his breast pocket, he turned to me. “Now, give me the PIN to the royalty account.” I tilted my head, looking at him with mock innocence. “What royalty account? Every single book I’ve ever written is registered under my mother’s corporate entity and her tax ID. She is the legal owner of all my intellectual property, and the money goes directly to her. Legally, I own nothing. There is nothing to split.” The triumphant smile froze on Troy’s face. Laura’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock. Troy’s face contorted with rage as he lunged toward me. “You lied to me!” “I never lied,” I replied smoothly. “My mother manages the finances. If you want a share of her money, you’re welcome to sue her.” Before he could scream at me, his phone began to vibrate violently in his hand. He glanced at the screen. It was his lead project manager. Trembling with anger, he pressed the phone to his ear. “What?” The voice on the other end was frantic, loud enough for everyone in the quiet hallway to hear. “Sir! We have a massive problem! The federal regulators just shut down the energy project! It’s a complete collapse—the SEC is freezing all assets!” Troy’s hand went limp. The phone slipped from his fingers, crashing onto the marble floor, the screen shattering into a web of cracks. His face drained of color, his lips trembling as he stood frozen, unable to utter a single word.

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My husband slept with my best friend. The very next day, they gathered whatever courage they had left to apologize, begging for my forgiveness. “Babe, I’m so sorry. I drank too much last night,” Liam stammered, his eyes red. “Grace, you weren’t feeling well and left early… I had too much to drink, too. I’m so, so sorry,” Donna’s voice trembled. I watched them—riddled with guilt, unable to look me in the eye. Swallowing the cold, sharp pain blooming in my chest, I forced a small, fragile smile. “It’s okay. I forgive you.” They snapped their heads up, staring at me in sheer disbelief. They had braced themselves for a screaming match, for me to tear their lives apart. Instead, I let them off the hook with a single sentence. They didn’t know why. They didn’t know that my quiet exit from the party last night wasn’t just a mild headache. It was because of the medical report I’d received that afternoon. Stage four breast cancer. My time was running out. A week later, Liam was home with me. I invited Donna over. When the doorbell rang, it wasn’t just a delivery; it was a team of makeup artists, a photographer, and a courier carrying a garment bag. Liam and Donna stared at them, then at me, completely bewildered. I smiled gently. “I planned a wedding for the two of you.” … A suffocating silence descended upon our spacious living room. They stared at me, their eyes wide. Finally, Liam broke the quiet, his voice cracking with panic. “Grace, what kind of sick joke is this? We’re married. How could I possibly marry Donna?” Donna shrank back, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “Grace, please. If you hate me, hit me. Scream at me. Just don’t do this. Please.” Looking at their panicked, tear-streaked faces, I kept my expression serene. “I’m not joking. I really did plan a wedding for you.” I gestured to the courier, who carefully zipped open the garment bag to reveal a breathtaking, white lace gown. I turned to Donna. “Do you remember this dress?” Donna froze. She swallowed hard, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Yes. I remember you trying it on. You said… you wanted to wear it when you married the man of your dreams.” “I did say that,” I murmured. “But things change. Go try it on.” “No,” Donna whispered, shaking her head violently. “I can’t.” Liam stepped between us, his hands trembling. “Grace, stop this, please. What happened with Donna was a mistake. A horrible, one-time mistake. You said you forgave us. Why are you doing this?” “I’m not angry, Liam,” I said softly, cutting him off. “Then why the wedding?” he pleaded, his chest heaving. “You and I are married. We are husband and wife!” “Not for much longer.” I pulled a set of documents from the coffee table drawer and slid them across the marble surface toward him. “I’ve already signed them,” I said calmly. “Once you sign, we are officially divorced.” At the word “divorced”, Liam flinched as if struck by lightning. Donna gasped, covering her mouth. They had foolishly believed the storm had passed. They never imagined I would actually end my marriage, let alone organize their wedding. To them, this wasn’t forgiveness. It felt like a calculated, psychological execution. A slow-burning revenge. “No!” Liam cried, shaking his head frantically. “I won’t sign it. Grace, please, I beg you, don’t leave me. I know I screwed up. I’ll never touch a drop of alcohol again. Just please, don’t divorce me.” He was completely unraveled. With a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, grabbing my hands in a desperate grip. A grown man, sobbing like a terrified child, his eyes rimmed with raw red. I let out a soft, weary sigh, a faint, sad smile playing on my lips. “I really don’t blame you two. Please, get up.” “No!” Liam choked out, gripping my hands tighter. “I’m not getting up until you tell me we’re okay.” Beside him, Donna sank to her knees too, her tears dripping onto the floor. “Grace, I know I crossed a line. I ruined our friendship, and I broke your heart. I don’t expect you to forgive me today, or ever. But I swear to God, I don’t want your husband. I don’t have feelings for him.” “I swear too!” Liam added, raising three trembling fingers toward the ceiling. “If I ever step out of line again, may God strike me down on the spot. May I lose everything I have…” “I believe you,” I murmured. Hope flared in Liam’s eyes. He looked up, his face lighting up with a desperate, pathetic joy. But my next words doused that tiny ember of hope like ice water. “And that’s why I truly, sincerely wish you both the best. Together.” “Grace…” “Please,” Donna wept. Their expressions crumbled. Before they could launch into another round of pleading, I gently cut them off. “I ordered a few things for you. They should be arriving right about now.” Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door. “Miss Grace? Your delivery is here.” “Bring it in, please,” I called out. Liam and Donna watched as a suited courier entered, accompanied by two security guards carrying a heavy, velvet-lined briefcase. The courier set the briefcase on the coffee table and popped the locks. “For your inspection, Miss Grace.” Inside sat a breathtaking, custom-made diamond jewelry suite, sparkling under the living room lights. It was exquisite—and obscenely expensive. “Perfect,” I said, signing the tablet he handed me. Once the men left, I lifted the centerpiece—a heavy, platinum necklace dripping with brilliant-cut diamonds—and held it up against Donna’s collarbone. “Grace, what is this?” Donna whispered, her voice trembling as the cold metal touched her skin. “Remember that magazine spread you kept staring at last year?” I smiled, my fingers brushing her neck as I fastened the clasp. “I promised back then that I’d buy it for your wedding day. I keep my promises.” “But this is… this is nearly a million dollars…” “Money is just paper, Donna,” I said softly, fitting the matching diamond earrings onto her lobes. “You’re my best friend. If this makes you happy, it’s worth every penny.” She sparkled. The diamonds caught the light, casting brilliant, fractured shadows across her pale skin. Finally, I picked up the massive diamond ring from the velvet box and pressed it firmly into Liam’s hand. “A groom should be the one to slide the ring onto his bride’s finger,” I said, guiding his hand toward Donna. Liam looked at the ring as if it were a hot coal. He was frozen in horror until I wrapped his fingers around it. “I won’t do this!” he yelled, opening his fist. The ring dropped, clattering onto the hardwood floor. I leaned down to pick it up. As I bent over, a sharp, white-hot spasm of pain tore through my chest. The room spun, and for a terrifying second, my vision went completely black. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forcing myself to stand back up. When I looked at him, my smile was perfectly back in place. “You once told me you’d do anything I asked, Liam. Have you forgotten?” “I haven’t forgotten!” Liam said desperately. “But marrying Donna? That’s insane. I won’t do it!” He stood up, suddenly turning on the makeup artists and photographers. “Get out! All of you, get the hell out of my house!” Once the door slammed behind them, he turned back to me, his chest heaving. “Grace, tell me what I have to do. How do I make this right?” “I don’t want the diamonds, Grace,” Donna sobbed, trying to claw the necklace off. “Please.” I watched them, feeling a profound, quiet weariness. “I truly want the best for both of you. There is no anger here. No revenge. I am not trying to punish you.” “I don’t care what you call it, I’m not doing it!” Liam yelled, his eyes bloodshot. “Alright,” I sighed gently. “Today was just a rehearsal anyway. The ceremony is scheduled for the second of next month. That gives you eight days.” I grabbed my coat. “I need some air. It’s getting a little stifling in here.” They made a move to follow me, but I raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks. “I want to be alone.” The moment I reached the quiet, shaded path beneath the oak trees outside our building, the metallic taste in my throat boiled over. I stumbled, clutching a tree trunk for support, and coughed. A dark, thick splatter of blood stained the fallen leaves. My legs buckled. The world tilted sideways, and I collapsed onto the cold grass, darkness rushing in to swallow me whole. When I opened my eyes, the sterile scent of bleach and the steady beep of a monitor told me exactly where I was. An oncologist stood over my bed, his face etched with grim concern. “Grace, the tumor is starting to compromise your vitals. We are at a critical point. If we perform surgery immediately to remove the mass, followed by aggressive chemotherapy, we might be able to buy you…” “If I don’t do the surgery,” I interrupted, my voice barely a whisper, “how long do I have?” The doctor sighed, looking down at his clipboard. “A month at best. A couple of weeks at worst.” “Just give me something for the pain.” “Grace, I strongly advise—” “Please,” I said, looking out the window. “Just the pain management.” He stared at me for a long moment, seeing the absolute finality in my eyes, and let out a heavy sigh. He signaled the nurse to administer an IV painkiller and wrote a prescription for a high-dose narcotic. “If you change your mind, Grace, call me immediately.” “Thank you, Doctor.” I didn’t waste a single second. After leaving the hospital, I drove straight to a new luxury high-rise downtown. I bought a sprawling, fully furnished penthouse overlooking the river for nearly a million dollars. It was perfect—the exact kind of place Donna had always dreamed of. With the expedited closing, it would be ready just in time for their wedding. After that, I drove to a quiet, tree-lined cemetery on the outskirts of the city and bought a plot for myself. For the next several days, I turned off my phone, ignoring their frantic calls and texts. I couldn’t let them see me like this—haggard, frail, coughing up blood. But more importantly, I needed the wedding preparations to proceed without any distractions. I only reappeared on the morning of the ceremony. Liam looked like a ghost when he saw me walk through the door of our apartment. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He threw his arms around me, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. “Grace, where have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind! If you hadn’t sent those occasional texts, I would have called the police…” I gently but firmly pushed his hands away. “You’re marrying Donna today, Liam. You should keep your distance.” He froze. Then, a wild, hysterical anger flared in his eyes. “You are my wife! I’m not marrying anyone else!” I ignored him and turned to the glam team waiting in the hallway. “Please, get them ready.” Liam began smashing things on the counter, refusing to get dressed. Donna stood in the corner, sobbing, insisting she wouldn’t put on the gown. “If you don’t marry Donna today,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise like dry ice, “I will disappear. And you will never see me again.” That stopped Liam cold. He stared at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “You know me, Liam,” I said quietly. “Once I make up my mind, I don’t look back.” “Grace, please…” “Don’t call me that. Donna is your bride now. If either of you care about me at all, you’ll walk down that aisle.” Silence stretched between them. Liam looked at Donna, then back at me, his jaw tightening. “If we do this… if we go through with this farce, do you promise you won’t disappear?” he asked, his voice dead. I nodded. “Fine,” he whispered. “We’ll do it.” They finally gave in. Liam put on the tuxedo. Donna was zipped into the white lace dress. The makeup artists worked silently, hiding the tear stains on their faces. Once they were ready, we climbed into the waiting town cars to head to the chapel. I drove my own car behind their limo. Along the way, I dry-swallowed three pain pills, but the heat in my chest was unbearable. I felt a warm trickle run down my lip—blood, pouring from my nose. My vision began to blur, the tail lights of the limousine ahead fading into soft, bleeding halos. I knew. I knew my body was giving up. I gently pressed my foot onto the brake, pulling my car over to the shoulder of the highway. “I’m sorry,” I thought, letting my head rest against the steering wheel. “I don’t think I can make it to the ceremony.” When the bridal party arrived at the venue, Liam immediately got out and looked back. “Where’s Grace?” “She was right behind us,” Donna said, pulling at her veil, panic creeping into her voice. “Her car isn’t here.” “Did she leave? Did she run away?” An icy dread seized Liam. Without a second thought, he screamed at the driver to turn around, tracing the route they had just taken. Fifteen minutes into their frantic search, Liam’s phone rang. “Mr. Liam? We found Miss Grace’s car. It’s pulled over by the highway. She’s unresponsive. We… we saw blood on the steering wheel and had to break the window. But… she isn’t breathing.” “What?” Liam’s hands jerked. The car swerved, clipping the concrete divider with a loud, metallic screech. Beside him, Donna was thrown forward, her head striking the dashboard. Blood began to pour from a cut on her forehead, but Liam didn’t even glance at her. He gripped the steering wheel, screaming into the phone. “What do you mean she isn’t breathing? Say that again, you bastard!”

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Ten years. That was the length of the marathon Galen and I had been running. For as long as I could remember, my family had been dropping hints, then outright begging, to finally meet the man I’d built my life around. But Galen always had an excuse. A high-profile case, a critical deposition, a late-night strategy meeting. Nine family dinners. Nine times he had promised to show, and nine times his chair had remained empty. The tenth time was different. My mother was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. Her doctor told us we were looking at weeks, maybe days. All she wanted—her final, desperate wish—was to look into the eyes of the man who would take care of me when she was gone. I stood in Galen’s sleek office, holding her critical condition notice in my trembling hands, practically begging him. Galen didn’t even look up from the thick legal brief in front of him. The scratch of his fountain pen on expensive paper was the only sound in the room. “This weekend is impossible,” he said, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely detached. “Helena’s divorce hearing is coming up. Her ex has been harassing her, and she’s a psychological wreck. I need to be there for her.” “Tell your mother to rest. She shouldn’t be wasting her energy stressing over things like this.” I stared at him, the silence stretching between us until it felt physical. “Galen,” I said, his name tasting like ash on my tongue. He offered a distracted, humoring murmur. “My mother might not survive the month,” I said, keeping my voice dead level. “I am bringing my future husband home this weekend. With or without you.” He finally put his pen down. A thin, patronizing smile touched his lips. “If I don’t go, Monica, who exactly are you bringing home? A ghost?” He leaned back, his tone shifting into that practiced, patronizing warmth he used to placate difficult clients. “Be good. We’ll talk about this after Helena’s trial is wrapped up.” I looked at him—really looked at him—and found myself smiling. A quiet, hollow sensation opened up in my chest. Ten times I had begged. Ten times he had decided my life, my grief, and my family were nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. I wasn’t going to beg an eleventh. I looked down at my phone and opened a chat thread that had been sitting quietly for three years. It was with my mother’s primary oncologist—a man who had patiently, respectfully waited in the margins of my life. I typed out a single sentence: “Dr. Ward, my mother wants to meet the man I’m going to marry. Let’s get married.” … “Monica, stop acting like a child.” Galen glanced at his Rolex, his brow furrowing with a hint of genuine irritation. “Helena’s ex-husband was lurking outside her building again yesterday. She’s a single mother, completely isolated. If something happens to her or the kid because I wasn’t reachable, who takes the fall?” “Your mother’s stomach issues are chronic. She’s in a state-of-the-art facility surrounded by specialists. What difference does it make if I’m standing by her bed?” “Can you please, just once, not use your family to emotionally hijack me when I’m in the middle of a career-defining case?” Ten years of devotion. Ten years of building my universe around his orbit. To him, my mother’s dying days were nothing but a cheap negotiation tactic. A hostage situation. I didn’t argue. I didn’t even sigh. Sensing my silence as submission, his features softened. He reached out, his hand moving toward my shoulder with the easy, familiar confidence of a man who knew exactly how to quiet me. “Come on, sweetheart. Be reasonable.” “Once we get Helena’s verdict, I swear I’ll block out an entire Saturday.” “We’ll go down to the hospital, have a nice lunch with your mom, and do the whole formal introduction. Okay?” I took a half-step back, letting his hand fall through the empty air. His hand hovered there for a second before dropping to his side. The warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. “Monica, are we really doing this again?” “Every time things don’t go exactly your way, you retreat into this childish silent treatment.” “Do you honestly think I have the luxury of revolving my life around your whims? That I have nothing better to do than cater to your insecurities?” A soft vibration hummed against my thigh. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was a text from Simon Ward. “Alright. I have tomorrow off. I’ll make the arrangements.” A weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying suddenly lifted, leaving me light, almost dizzy. I looked up, locking my gaze with Galen’s stormy eyes. My voice was quiet, steady, and entirely free of anger. “Galen, from now on, you don’t have to worry about making time for me ever again.” He blinked, caught off guard by the lack of tears, the lack of screaming. Then, a harsh, dismissive chuckle escaped him. “Right. Sure, Monica. You write that down and remember it.” “Because the next time you come crying, begging me to fix things, I won’t be here to play therapist.” Before he could continue his lecture, his phone on the desk lit up. The screen vibrated with a single contact name: Helena. Galen snatched it up instantly. The harshness in his voice melted away, replaced by a tender, frantic concern. “Hey. What’s going on? Is he there?” Helena’s voice bled through the receiver, high-pitched and trembling with tears. Even without speakerphone, her whimpers filled the quiet of the office. “Galen… the storm knocked out the power in my building. It’s pitch black. I’m so scared… I can’t breathe. My chest is so tight, Galen. Please, I feel like I’m dying…” Galen was already on his feet, knocking his chair back. He didn’t even reach for his coat. “Don’t panic, Helena. Breathe. I’m leaving right now. Just stay where you are, okay?” He ended the call and threw a fleeting, defensive look in my direction. “Helena’s having a severe panic attack. Her claustrophobia is flaring up. I have to go.” “As for your mother, like I said—once the judge signs off on Helena’s settlement, I’ll find a window to go over and get the introduction out of the way.” I remained seated, watching his frantic movements as he grabbed his car keys. “Galen,” I said. He paused at the door, his hand on the brass knob, looking back with a heavy, impatient sigh. “What is it now, Monica? A panic attack can lead to cardiac arrest. This is a medical emergency.” I looked at the face of the man I had loved for a third of my life. “We’re done, Galen. Let’s end this.” He let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Monica, you’re thirty years old. Stop playing these pathetic, melodramatic games. I don’t have time for your hard-to-get acts.” He threw the door open and strode out, slamming it behind him. The lock clicked, and for the first time in ten years, I breathed in air that didn’t feel heavy. I walked back to our bedroom—no, his bedroom. I pulled my old suitcase from the top shelf of the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece. There wasn’t much. Galen had bought this townhouse three years ago, but every square inch of it had been decorated according to Helena’s specifications. She had chosen the cream linens, the minimalist light fixtures, the cold marble countertops. I remembered asking him, back when we moved in, why our home had to look like a gallery of another woman’s mind. “Helena has a degree in interior design,” he had snapped, dismissive as always. “She has actual taste. Don’t be so petty, Monica. It’s exhausting.” I smiled a quiet, bitter smile as I folded my sweaters into the suitcase. Thirty minutes later, I closed the zipper, dragged my bag down the steps, and hailed a cab to the hospital. In the oncology ward, the air was thick with the sterile scent of bleach and impending grief. My mother lay beneath a thin hospital blanket, her face gray, her breathing shallow beneath the clear plastic of her oxygen mask. Hearing my footsteps, she struggled to open her eyes. “Monica… sweetie… where’s Galen? Is he still working?” I knelt beside her bed, taking her cold, frail hand in both of mine. “He’s not coming, Mom.” Her chest sputtered, and the faint light in her eyes flickered. “Did I… did I make things difficult for you? Is he angry with me? Does he think we’re a burden?” “No, Mom,” I said quickly, my voice remarkably steady. “It’s not that at all.” “I broke up with him.” “I have a new boyfriend now.” “His name is Simon. Simon Ward. He’s your doctor.” My mother stared at me, her dry lips parting slightly. “Monica… don’t lie to me just to make me feel better. You’ve been with Galen for ten years. You don’t just… change your mind overnight.” I gently pulled the blanket up to her chin, my eyes clear. “I’m not lying, Mom. Ten years of a mistake is enough. I’d rather lose ten years than give him the rest of my life.” Just then, the heavy oak door to the private room clicked open. Simon walked in, wearing his white lab coat over a crisp blue shirt. He was tall, with sharp, elegant features behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and a quiet confidence that seemed to settle the frantic energy of the room. “Good evening, Helena,” he said, his voice a warm, soothing baritone. “Just doing my rounds. How are we feeling tonight?” He walked over to my side of the bed, his movements natural, and placed a gentle, supportive hand on my shoulder. My mother’s eyes darted between the two of us, wide with confusion and a sudden, fragile hope. “Dr. Ward… you and my Monica…” Simon smiled down at her. He reached down and took my hand, sliding his fingers between mine, locking them tightly. “I wanted to introduce myself formally, Helena. I’m Monica’s boyfriend, Simon.” “I apologize for keeping it from you. I wanted to wait until Monica had completely closed the door on her past so I could step forward and ask for your blessing properly.” A tear slipped down my mother’s hollow cheek. She reached out, her trembling fingers wrapping around our joined hands. “Thank God… thank God. If Monica is with you, I can rest easy.” Simon sat on the edge of her bed, talking with her for nearly an hour. He explained her lab results, answered her questions about pain management, and listened to her stories about my childhood. He had none of the cold, clinical distance you’d expect from the chief of surgery. He was just… there. Fully present. When the head nurse finally tapped on the glass to call him away for an emergency consult, he stood up reluctantly. “I’m on call tonight,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed my temple. The gesture was so tender, so effortless, it felt as though we had been doing this for a lifetime. “My shift ends at eight tomorrow. Meet me at the county clerk’s office at nine?” I nodded. “Nine o’clock.” Late that night, around 2:00 AM, I walked down the hall to the hospital’s break room to fill a pitcher with fresh ice water. As I rounded the corner near the elevators, I heard a familiar, delicate voice. “Galen, really, I’m fine. It was just a little slip with the paring knife. I didn’t need to drag you to the ER for a tiny cut.” Then came Galen’s deep, protective rumble. “Tetanus isn’t a joke, Helena. And given your emotional state right now, I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were alone in that dark apartment.” I walked out from the shadow of the corridor. There they were. Galen’s arm was wrapped firmly around Helena’s waist, pulling her close against his side in a gesture that was intimately possessive. Helena’s finger was wrapped in a tiny, ridiculous cartoon Band-Aid. When Galen’s eyes met mine, his entire body went rigid. He instinctively pulled his arm back, clearing his throat. Helena shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Monica… please don’t be mad. I really didn’t want to bother him, but my finger was bleeding so much, and Galen insisted…” She held up her index finger like a trophy of her victimhood. I didn’t say a word. I kept my face blank and started to walk past them toward the water dispenser. Galen stepped into my path, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before his usual defensive mask slid back on. “How’s your mother?” he asked, his voice stiff. “I’ve been buried under paperwork the last forty-eight hours. I haven’t had a second to check in.” I ignored him, pushing past his shoulder. Galen grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and angry. “Do you have to act so incredibly petty right now? I told you, Helena’s mental state is fragile. Are you seriously going to throw a tantrum over a medical emergency?” I wrenched my arm out of his grasp, turning on him with a coldness that made him blink. “Are you delusional, Galen?” “You think I’m jealous? You actually believe you’re worth that kind of energy?” Helena’s eyes flooded with tears on cue. “Galen, please don’t fight because of me. It’s all my fault. Monica, you can scream at me, you can hit me, just don’t be mad at him.” Galen immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. “Monica, you are being utterly irrational!” he hissed. “You’re acting like a hysterical shrew. I’m warning you—if you keep behaving like this, we are not getting married.” I let out a soft, genuine laugh. “Good. We’re not.” Galen’s jaw went slack. “What?” “I said we’re done, Galen. The wedding is off. We are finished.” The color drained from his face for a split second, but he quickly recovered, his lips curling into a cruel, arrogant sneer. “Please, Monica. You’re thirty years old. If you don’t marry me, who else do you think is going to take you?” I didn’t waste another breath. I walked away, the sound of my sneakers clicking softly against the linoleum floor. The next morning, the winter sun was just beginning to break through the gray clouds when I arrived at the city hall. Simon was already waiting on the steps. He wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, his dark hair neatly styled, his eyes warm and focused behind his glasses. The moment he saw me, his expression softened. He walked down the steps to meet me, naturally taking the heavy shoulder bag from my hand. “Did you eat?” he asked. I shook my head, my throat tight. “It was a bit of a rush getting out of the hospital.” He smiled, reaching into his pocket and producing a small, insulated container. “I had a feeling. It’s warm chicken and wild rice soup. Just to coat your stomach.” I stared at the warm metal container in my hands, a sudden prickle of tears stinging my eyes. “Simon… you don’t have to do all this.” “Call me Simon,” he corrected softly, his voice gentle but firm. “And yes, I do. We’re getting married, Monica. We should start getting used to looking after each other, shouldn’t we?” I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a small smile. “Okay. Simon.” The process inside was incredibly simple. There were no endless discussions about guest lists, no tense negotiations over prenuptial agreements, no last-minute cancellations. When the clerk pressed the heavy gold seal onto our marriage certificate, a strange, beautiful sense of peace washed over me. Simon picked up his copy and slid it into his breast pocket, then turned to me, holding out my copy. “Congratulations, Mrs. Ward.” I looked at our names printed side-by-side on the crisp white paper and let out a long, shuddering breath of pure relief. “Thank you, Simon.” The moment we stepped back out into the crisp morning air, my phone began to vibrate violently in my purse. It was Galen. I hesitated for a second before pressing answer. “Monica, where did you put the blue litigation folder for the corporate acquisition?” His voice was frantic, demanding, and entirely devoid of a greeting. “Helena’s preliminary mediation is this afternoon, and those documents are critical.” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice deadpan. “How could you not know? You’re the only one who touches the files in the study!” he barked. “Did you hide them to punish me for yesterday? Are you really that vindictive, Monica? This is my career. This is Helena’s entire future on the line!” I found myself shaking my head at the sheer, unadulterated narcissism of his mind. For ten years, if anything went missing, it was my fault. If his day went wrong, it was my fault. If Helena sneezed, it was my fault. “Galen,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly calm. “First, I packed my things and moved out of your house last night. I didn’t touch your files.” “Second, Helena’s future is no longer my concern, and neither is your career.” “Third, do not call this number again.” There was a heavy, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, Galen let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Moved out? Really, Monica? We’re playing the dramatic runaway bride now? You think this little stunt is going to make me chase after you?” “I’m telling you right now, I won’t. You have exactly one hour to get your head straight, get back to the house, and find that folder, or else—” “Or else what, Mr. Philips?” Simon had quietly stepped up beside me. He took the phone from my hand, his voice cool, level, and utterly commanding. “Who is this?” Galen demanded, his voice instantly turning hostile. “My name is Simon Ward. I’m Monica’s husband,” Simon said, his tone as smooth and constant as a scalpel. “My wife is currently celebrating our wedding with me, and she doesn’t have the time or the inclination to play hide-and-seek with your paperwork.” “If your basic organizational skills are this deficient, I suggest you hire an administrative assistant rather than harassing another man’s wife.” Without waiting for a response, Simon hung up, opened my settings, and added Galen’s number to the block list. He handed the phone back to me with a reassuring smile. “Let’s go see our mother, shall we?” In the hospital room, my mother stared at the gold-embossed seal on the marriage certificate, then up at Simon, her eyes swimming with tears. “Dr. Ward… I don’t know how to thank you…” Simon walked over and knelt beside the low bed, gently wrapping his fingers around hers. “Mom, please. Call me Simon. To be honest, I’ve been in love with Monica for a very long time. I was just waiting for the right moment to show her.” “I promise you, I will cherish her for the rest of my life. She will never have to face anything alone again.” My mother nodded weakly, tears spilling over her pale cheeks. “Good… that’s all I wanted. To see my little girl in her white dress, safe.” “I can go now… I can close my eyes in peace.” “Mom, don’t talk like that,” I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to hold back my tears. Simon stood up, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close against his chest. “She’s right, Monica. You need to wear the dress.” “I had a few designers send some pieces over this morning. They’re set up in the private lounge next door. Go try them on, sweetheart. Let your mother see you.” I looked at him in shock, but he only gave me a gentle, encouraging nudge. “Go on.” Ten minutes later, I pushed open the door to my mother’s hospital room. The silk of the ivory gown swept softly against the floor, the delicate lace sleeves framing my shoulders. My mother’s eyes went wide, reflecting a sudden, brilliant light. “Oh, Monica…” she whispered, her hand trembling as she reached toward the fabric. “You look so beautiful… my beautiful girl…” Suddenly, the heavy door was slammed open, banging violently against the wall. “Monica! What the hell are you doing?” Galen stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his tie crooked, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He looked like a man unraveling. His eyes swept across the room, landing on the ivory gown, and he let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Just because I wouldn’t give you the wedding you wanted today, you rent some cheap dress and hire a local doctor to play-act a marriage in a cancer ward?” “Do you honestly think I’m that easily manipulated?” He stormed forward, his hand snapping out to grab my wrist. “Stop this ridiculous theater and come home. Helena’s mediation starts in two hours and I need those files.” I struggled against his grip, my heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Let go of me, Galen! Don’t touch me!” “Let go?” he sneered, his fingers tightening. “You’ve spent ten years living in my house, eating my food, spending my money. You don’t get to play the victim now!” Before he could drag me a step closer, a pale, strong hand clamped down on his wrist. Simon stood there, his face completely expressionless, but the grip he had on Galen’s arm was so tight the bones in Galen’s wrist audibly groaned. “Mr. Philips,” Simon said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. “Your memory seems exceptionally selective.” “For the past decade, Monica not only managed your household and cooked your meals, but she also used her entire salary as a senior copywriter to cover your firm’s early rent and overhead.” “Living off a woman’s labor while calling yourself her savior is a rather pathetic display.” Galen gasped, the pain forcing him to loosen his grip on my wrist. He stumbled back, nursing his arm, his eyes dark with fury. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Galen snarled. “This is family business. Stay out of it.” “Family?” Simon reached into his suit jacket, pulled out the red leather marriage certificate, and held it inches from Galen’s face. “Look closely, Mr. Philips.” “Monica is my legal wife.” “And you are nothing but an intruder trespassing in my patient’s room, harassing my wife.”

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My mother was trapped in the center of a horrific multi-car pileup on the interstate, her body crushed beneath twisted metal, hovering between life and death. In a blind panic, I immediately called my husband, Derek, the chief of surgery at the city’s top hospital. He refused to help, his voice dripping with cold indifference. “We agreed to go fifty-fifty when we got married. Your parents are your responsibility.” “If you couldn’t handle the prenuptial agreement, you shouldn’t have signed it.” Desperate, I turned to my best friend, Christine, a prominent cardiologist at the same hospital. She gave me a strained, evasive excuse. “It’s not that I don’t want to save your mom, Ashley.” “I’m in the middle of saving a life right now. I literally can’t step away.” In my frantic state, my finger accidentally swiped open her Instagram feed. Her latest post had been uploaded just minutes ago. It was a picture of her and Derek standing side-by-side, operating on a stray dog. The caption read: “Thanks to our big-hearted chief of surgery for personally performing this procedure. Another innocent life saved.” Swallowing the bitter taste of betrayal, I could only fall to my knees in the emergency bay, begging the paramedics to prioritize my mother. But with so many casualties arriving at once, the delay was fatal. By the time my mother finally reached an operating room, she had slipped into a deep coma. Faced with the staggering medical bills, I had nowhere else to turn. I sent Derek a text, my hands shaking. “I just need $50,000. Please. Consider it a loan. It’s the only way to save my mom’s life.” The message went unanswered, vanishing into a black hole of silence. Moments later, I overheard two passing nurses gossiping, their voices tinged with envy as they talked about Christine. “Did you see? Dr. Collins just bought Dr. Christine another designer bag. Easily worth ten grand.” “Well, his family practically owns the hospital board. Money is the last thing he’s short on.” I stood there, frozen, staring at their retreating backs. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I had just heard. So Derek—the man who had always claimed we had to struggle independently, the man who insisted on strict financial boundaries—wasn’t broke. He just didn’t want to waste his money on someone he deemed worthless. As I collapsed onto the cold hospital floor, shivering with absolute despair, a deep, resonant voice sounded right beside my ear. “Do you need the money?” “I’ll give you the fifty thousand. But you have to come with me.” … The man standing before me had sharp, striking features. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, radiating an effortless authority that demanded attention. He slipped a sleek black business card into my trembling hand. I stared at the name on the card, waging a long, silent war with myself. In the end, my pride—or what was left of it—won out. I handed it back to him and shook my head. Mustering what little strength I had left, I dragged myself back to the billing window. I emptied my bank account, depositing every single cent I owned. Exactly five thousand, six hundred and seventy-one dollars and ten cents. The clerk looked at the receipt, then gave me a look of deep, sorrowful pity. “We’ll begin the emergency surgery for your mother, but this won’t cover the subsequent ICU care. Not even close.” I kept my spine perfectly straight, though I felt like I was breaking inside. “I’ll find a way,” I whispered. “Please, just save her.” I waited outside the operating room. When the red light finally flickered off and the surgeon stepped out to tell me she was stable for now, the sheer tension holding me together snapped. I slumped against the wall, cold sweat drenching my clothes. It was only then that Derek’s reply finally popped up on my screen. “So you only think of me when you need cash?” “If you had worked half as hard as Christine back in high school, you wouldn’t still be scraping by on a nurse’s assistant salary.” “I insist on our fifty-fifty arrangement to build your character, Ashley. To give you some ambition.” My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles turned white. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. How could he say I hadn’t worked hard? Back in high school, when I had brought him complex math problems, hoping he would explain them to me, he had been too busy drafting study guides for Christine. When they both received their acceptance letters to the prestigious medical school, I pushed myself to the absolute limit just to stay in their orbit, enrolling in a nursing program at a nearby college. After graduation, they quickly rose to become the star surgeons of the main hospital network. I quietly took a job at a small, underfunded community clinic under their system’s umbrella. I had been running a marathon, throwing my entire soul into catching up to them. But he never saw it. His eyes were only ever on Christine, the woman running beside him at the front of the pack. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I sniffled, blinking back the dampness, only to see a notification for a twenty-dollar Venmo transfer from him. “Your mother always insisted on staying back in her small town. She refused to move here. Why would she suddenly be in a pileup in the city?” “Ashley, next time you try to hustle me, use your brain.” “Take the twenty dollars. Go buy yourself some common sense.” The twenty dollars felt like a hot iron branded straight into my chest. He had forgotten. He had entirely forgotten that my mother “had” come to the city once—right after we got married. But on our wedding night, Derek had locked her out of our apartment. “Ashley, Christine’s mom is already staying in our guest suite, and she values her privacy. She doesn’t like strangers around.” “Just book your mom a motel.” Our apartment had four bedrooms. Christine’s family occupied three of them. There wasn’t a single corner left for my mother. After that night, to spare me the embarrassment and conflict, my mother never visited again. She had only made the trip this time because she had heard through the grapevine that my morning sickness was tearing me apart. She was bringing a jar of the homemade dill pickles I loved, rushing to my side, only to be crushed in that twisted metal on the interstate. I opened the chat to explain, but before I could type a word, a text from Christine flashed across the screen. “I’m finally off shift. Do you still need help?” “As your best friend, I just wanted to remind you—in my eyes, every life is equal, whether it’s a stray or a human.” A hollow laugh caught in my throat. In high school, when Christine’s stepfather had attacked her, leaving her bleeding out, it was my mother who had ignored her own fragile health to donate blood. My mother had stayed by her bedside until Christine was safe, only to collapse from exhaustion herself. My mother had welcomed Christine into our home, nursing her back to health. And now, Christine was a world-class cardiologist. She had time to perform surgery on a stray dog, but she couldn’t spare a single minute to save the woman who had literally given blood to keep her alive. I declined the Venmo transfer from Derek. Then I typed a reply to Christine: “No need.” I locked my phone and stared at the floor, the weight of the remaining thirty thousand dollars pressing down on my chest like lead. Derek wouldn’t pay a dime. So when I saw an online listing for a temporary mascot gig at City Hall paying five hundred dollars a day, I didn’t hesitate. I signed up immediately. The next morning, suffocating inside a giant, heavy plush heart costume, handing out marriage brochures, I watched a familiar couple walk through the heavy glass doors of City Hall. It was Derek and Christine. Christine held Derek’s arm, her steps slowing as she looked around nervously. “Derek, it was bad enough that you signed that fake marriage certificate with Ashley just to appease her. Now that I’m pregnant, we’re actually getting legally married… if she ever finds out, it will destroy her.” Derek wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whispering sweet, comforting words. “It’s because of the baby that we have to do this. I’m not letting the heir to the Collins family be born a bastard.” “Besides, Ashley isn’t exactly a genius. Any kid she had would’ve struggled. That’s why I’ve been slipping birth control into her daily vitamin organizer for years.” “Once you have the baby, I’ll just draft a fake fertility report showing she can’t conceive, and convince her to adopt ours.” Inside the heavy, dark mascot suit, sweat poured down my face, freezing against my skin. I stood entirely rigid, paralyzed by the sheer horror of his words. I had always assumed they were close because of their shared profession, a mutual respect between brilliant minds. I never imagined that their connection was physical, born of betrayal and lies. Instinctively, my hand drifted down to press against my lower abdomen. I had spent the last week dreaming of the moment I would surprise him with the news of my pregnancy. I had no idea he had been actively sterilizing me behind my back. I stood there like a statue until the site coordinator shoved my shoulder. “Hey! We’re paying you five hundred bucks a day, not to stand there like a corpse. Get moving!” The sudden bark snapped me back to reality. Perhaps my clumsy, startled jump looked amusing, because it caught Christine’s attention as they walked back out. She giggled, tugging on Derek’s sleeve as she pointing at me. “Look at this mascot, Derek! Isn’t it adorable? It reminds me of how Ashley looks when she’s confused.” Derek stared directly into the mesh screen of my mask. For a terrifying second, I thought he recognized me. Then, a soft, dismissive chuckle escaped him. “This thing looks a lot smarter than Ashley.” A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. I remembered high school. I remembered staring at a blank calculus sheet, completely lost, and Derek gently patting my head. “It’s okay to be a little slow. It’s cute.” I remembered working late nights, trying to memorize advanced pharmacology. He would turn off my desk lamp and pull me into his arms. “You have me and Christine. We’re the top surgeons in the city. You don’t need to worry about medicine.” I had thought it was love. I had thought it was protection. But it was just condescension. He had written me off a long time ago. Christine waved a bright red marriage folder in front of my face, her smile radiant. “We just tied the knot! Can we get a quick blessing for our marriage? We’ll give you a tip!” Through the clear plastic sleeve, I could see their legal certificate. Their faces were pressed together, glowing with happiness. They looked perfect. But it was the twenty-dollar bill sticking out of her purse that caught my eye. I needed every cent. I forced my jaw open, my voice muffled and deep through the thick foam of the mask. “May you grow old together. May your child bring you everything you deserve.” I snatched the tip, trying to tuck it into my costume pocket. “Wait,” Derek said suddenly, his voice tightening with suspicion. “Why does that voice sound so familiar?” He stepped closer, his tone turning cold and commanding. “Take off the headpiece.” I clutched the heavy foam neck, terror seizing my chest. “Oh, babe, I think the baby just kicked!” Christine suddenly gasped, rubbing her stomach and leaning into him. “I’m so hungry, we need to eat right now.” The distraction worked. Derek’s attention snapped back to her instantly, his eyes softening with adoration. “He’s barely a month old, sweetheart. There’s no way he’s kicking yet.” Christine arched her back slightly, pouting. “Well, that just proves he has our superior genes. He’s already ahead of the curve.” Derek pinched her nose playfully. “Or maybe his mother is just starving. Come on, let’s get you some lunch.” I watched them walk away, their fingers intertwined, leaving me gasping for air inside the suffocating costume. When I finally dragged myself back to our apartment that evening, exhausted and hollow, I was shocked to find Derek sitting on the couch. He hadn’t been home in weeks, always claiming he was pulling double shifts. As I walked through the door, his brow immediately furrowed in disgust. “What is that smell? Ashley, when was the last time you actually took a shower?” Looking at his sneering face, a tired, empty smile touched my lips. Ever since my mother went into the ICU, I had been splitting my life into three agonizing parts: my shifts at the community clinic, sitting by her bedside, and doing back-breaking odd jobs. I barely had time to sleep, let alone worry about how I smelled. My body ached in places I didn’t know could hurt. Without saying a word, I turned toward the bedroom. “Stop,” Derek called out, his voice sharp. I paused, looking back over my shoulder. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, his gaze shifting uncomfortably. “There’s a nursing opening at the main hospital. I submitted your name. You’ll start tomorrow.” “That way, you’ll be working under my roof.” I stared at him, stunned. A year ago, when I had asked him if there were any openings at his hospital, he had shut me down immediately. He had fought tooth and nail to secure Christine’s position in cardiology, but when it came to me, his excuses were endless. “Christine has actual talent, Ashley. We can’t let her waste away. But you’re just a nurse. If I bring my own wife in, people will accuse me of favoritism.” I didn’t understand why he had suddenly changed his mind. And frankly, I didn’t care anymore. “No, thank you,” I said quietly. His temper flared, his voice rising. “It pays two thousand dollars more a month than that rundown clinic of yours! I know you’ve been working yourself to the bone doing weird side gigs. Are you seriously going to turn this down?” Two thousand dollars. My mother’s face flashed in my mind—the machines, the rising cost of the ICU. My pride crumbled. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll take it.” He let out a breath, looking visibly relieved. “Good. I’ll take you in to sign the paperwork tomorrow morning.” The next day, my transition to the main hospital was handled with bizarre, alarming speed. Derek dropped me off at the fourth-floor nurse’s station and disappeared without a word. Before I could even log into the system, a man stormed through the double doors, his eyes bloodshot and wild with rage. Before I could react, he lunged across the counter and slapped me across the face, hard. My head slammed against the partition, my ears ringing as a high-pitched hum filled my brain. “You murderer!” the man screamed, his voice raw with grief and hatred. “You handed the surgeon the wrong scalpel! You caused my mother to bleed out on the table! You killed her!” He began grabbing everything on the desk—folders, heavy staplers, metal trays—and hurling them at me. My face was already swelling, blood dripping from a cut on my forehead. I raised my arms to shield myself, crying out in confusion. “It wasn’t me! Today is my first day—I haven’t even touched a patient!” “Don’t lie to me!” the man roared, vaulting over the desk. “Dr. Collins told me himself! He said the new nurse, Ashley, made a critical error in the prep room!” My hands fell. My eyes went wide. The realization hit me like a physical blow, freezing the blood in my veins. I stopped fighting. I let him kick me, let his fists rain down on my shoulders and chest. He kicked me squarely in the stomach, and a sharp, agonizing pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. I curled into a ball on the linoleum floor, feeling a warm, terrifying dampness begin to spread down my thighs. As darkness began to pull me under, the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. Why Derek had rushed my transfer. Why he had been so eager to get me onto the payroll. He needed a scapegoat. He needed someone to take the fall for Christine’s fatal mistake. Before I blacked out, I heard the chaotic shouting of security guards. “Get him off her! You’re going to kill her!” When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital ward burned my retinas. Derek was sitting by my bedside, a rare flicker of genuine guilt shadowing his eyes. “Ashley… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were pregnant.” My voice was barely a whisper, dry as paper. “If you had known, would it have changed anything?” He looked away, his jaw tightening. “We can always have another baby, Ashley. But Christine’s career would be completely over if this went on her record. It was a simple, tragic mistake.” “So you murdered my child to protect her future?” His guilt quickly hardened back into irritation. “I told you, I had no idea you were pregnant—” The dam broke. Every ounce of pain, betrayal, and grief exploded out of me, and I screamed at him. “Why are you still lying to me, Derek? Why won’t you just tell me the truth?” “You never wanted a child with me! You and Christine have been sleeping together for years, and now she’s pregnant with your baby!” Derek’s expression turned utterly cold. The mask of the loving husband slipped away completely. “Fine. Since you already know, I won’t waste my breath denying it.” “It was a drunken mistake. But Christine never tried to break up our marriage, and I never planned on leaving you.” “Let’s be real, Ashley. Your genetics aren’t exactly premium. You wouldn’t want a child who struggled through life, failing at everything just like you did, would you?” A blinding rage took over. I grabbed the heavy medical monitor from the bedside table and threw it at him with everything I had left. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” The heavy plastic casing flew through the air just as the door swung open. It struck Christine squarely in the chest. She stumbled backward, crashing heavily onto the tiled floor, her hands immediately flying to her abdomen. “My baby…” she whimpered, her face twisting in pain. Derek’s eyes flared with a murderous fury. He glared at me as if he wanted to tear me apart limb from limb. “You’ve done it now, Ashley. You better pray to God that my baby is okay.” He scooped Christine into his arms and sprinted down the hallway, leaving me alone in the quiet, sterile room, trembling and utterly empty. A moment later, my mother’s primary physician walked in, his face pale and grim. “Ashley, your mother just had a massive relapse. She needs a secondary emergency procedure immediately.” “But the automated charity care system requires a nominal processing co-pay of at least fifty dollars from your account to authorize the emergency grant. Otherwise, the system locks us out of the surgical queue.” The blood drained from my face. I had drained every single bank account. My cards were maxed. I didn’t have fifty dollars. I didn’t even have fifty cents. With trembling hands, I dialed Derek. “Derek, please… I need fifty dollars. Just fifty dollars to authorize my mom’s emergency surgery. I’m begging you!” He let out a cold, dismissive sneer. “Still playing games, Ashley? Grow up.” The line went dead. I stared at the black screen, my mind spinning into a void of pure panic. Then, a memory flashed in my mind. I reached into my bag and pulled out the sleek black business card I had rejected days ago. I dialed the number, my voice cracking as soon as a deep voice answered. “I don’t need the fifty thousand anymore. I just need fifty dollars. Please… give me fifty dollars, and I will sell myself to you.” Down in the OB-GYN wing, Derek waited anxiously as the doctors examined Christine. Once they confirmed she and the baby were perfectly fine, his mind drifted back to my desperate phone call. Fifty dollars? He let out a dry, mocking laugh. I was getting worse at lying. Who in the world didn’t have fifty dollars? But as he stepped out of the ward, he passed a couple of nurses whispering near the water cooler. “Did you hear about Ashley? That poor girl. It was her very first day on staff, and she got beaten so badly she miscarried. And now her mom is dying.” “I know. Someone said she was crying in her room, trying to beg for fifty dollars just to authorize the charity care system for her mom’s surgery. She apparently sold herself to some wealthy businessman just to get the cash.” Derek stopped dead in his tracks, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

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The night of the World Cup opener, I finally made it back home just before midnight. But when I pushed the front door open, I saw my boyfriend and his childhood best friend had already set up the projector. Ashley was wearing Andrew’s jersey—the authentic, autographed Lionel Messi one that I wasn’t even allowed to touch. There was no room left on the two-seater sofa. The plates of spicy buffalo wings and sweat-beaded bottles of cold beer on the coffee table were a quiet reminder of where I stood. In this three-person dynamic, I was the intruder. My stomach couldn’t handle spicy food or ice-cold drinks; Andrew and Ashley lived for them. I didn’t really understand soccer; they worshiped the exact same teams. Like countless times before, they naturally hadn’t thought to invite me to join. I turned to head back to my room when Andrew called out, “Hazel, turn off the light on your way.” I froze for a second. “Sure.” “Aren’t you going to invite Hazel to join us?” Ashley asked, her voice light. “She doesn’t do spicy food, and she doesn’t get soccer anyway,” Andrew replied, his deep voice carrying clearly through the room. “No need to force her.” His words rang in my ears like a heavy bell, waking me up. The things I couldn’t stomach, the spaces I didn’t fit into… from now on, I wouldn’t force myself to swallow them anymore. … I walked toward the bedroom in the dim, flickering glow of the projector. Despite being careful, I stubbed my toe hard against the doorframe. My sharp gasp of pain was instantly swallowed by a sudden roar of cheers from the living room. I tilted my head back, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. I finally made it into the bedroom, turned on the light, and pulled out my phone. It took a moment for my eyes to clear before I could message my manager. “Hey, I’d like to cancel my time-off request for this week.” The reply came almost instantly. “You worked a whole month of overtime just to get those two days off. Why are you canceling?” “Plans changed. I’ll save the days for next time.” June was our firm’s peak season. Requesting even a couple of days off required a month’s notice and grueling overtime to cover the hours. To watch the World Cup opener with Andrew, I had submitted my request back in early May, pulling late nights for weeks. I had spent my evenings cramming soccer rules, studying his favorite teams, and watching re-runs of past matches. But he already had someone to watch with. He didn’t need me to force myself. Just a few days ago, while organizing our closet, I had found his prized Messi jersey. I couldn’t resist taking it out to admire it, only for Andrew to snap at me, “Don’t touch that! You’ll get it dirty.” And now, Ashley was wearing that very jersey while eating greasy buffalo wings. I took the notebook filled with handwritten soccer facts from my nightstand, shoved it deep into a drawer, and turned off the light. From the living room, Andrew and Ashley’s laughter and cheers drifted in, causing the sound-activated nightstand lamp to flicker on and off. Andrew had insisted on installing this lamp two years ago. I had teased him back then, saying nobody put sound-activated lights in a bedroom. He had pulled me close, tender and warm: “You have night blindness, and you’re a light sleeper. I don’t want you waking up in pitch black and feeling scared.” I had teased him, “But what about your snoring?” He had seriously pulled out a box of anti-snoring strips. “I’ll wear these. I won’t snore.” Now, the lamp, triggered by the living room cheers, illuminated the dusty box of strips on his side of the nightstand. It felt incredibly blinding. I put in my earbuds and pulled the blanket over my head, but the light still flickered on every few minutes. 1:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM… By the time the morning sun hit Andrew’s pillow, the chatter in the living room still hadn’t stopped. I got up to wash my face, caking layer after layer of concealer under my eyes. But the face in the mirror still looked hollow and exhausted. The bedroom door swung open, and Andrew wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Hazel, can you drop Ashley off on your way to work?” She lived on the West Side. My office was on the East Side. He called this “on the way.” Suppressing the heavy smell of alcohol on him, I asked, “Done watching?” “Yeah, going to catch up on sleep today and do it all over again tonight.” He yawned, his stale breath suffocating me. I pushed him away, my voice flat. “You guys kept me up all night.” He blinked, cupping my face to look closer. “Yeah, you do have some dark circles.” Then he hugged me again. “My bad, babe. The game was just too exciting. I forgot you’re a light sleeper.” “When did you start forgetting?” I walked into the living room to find a total disaster. Crumpled napkins, empty beer cans, and greasy takeout boxes were scattered everywhere, with sticky sauce dripped all over the table. Ashley looked at me with sheepish eyes. “Hazel, sorry about the mess. Why don’t you head to work, and I’ll clean this up before I leave?” “No, let Hazel drive you home first,” Andrew said protectively, looking at her with warm concern. “You’ve been up all night. Don’t push yourself too hard.” I hadn’t slept a wink either, and now I was expected to drive his childhood friend all the way to the West Side before starting my own workday. My dry eyes ached with a sharp, burning pain. I navigated the morning traffic to drop Ashley off. In the backseat, she lay sprawled out, smelling of stale beer, with several dark grease stains clearly visible on the prized jersey. I pulled my gaze away and forced myself to focus on the road. As she got out, Ashley suddenly turned back. “By the way, Hazel, Andy and I are heading up to Lake Tahoe next week to beat the heat. Are you coming?” Seeing my blank expression, she gave an awkward smile. “Oh, did Andy not tell you?” “Well, the food up there is mostly heavy, rustic barbecue and chili. Andy probably figured you wouldn’t enjoy it, so he didn’t want to pressure you.” Of all the getaways in the country, they had to choose one defined by food I couldn’t eat. Was he worried I wouldn’t have fun, or was he just worried I’d show up? I forced a tight smile. “I’m not going.” An uninvited guest shouldn’t go, and frankly, doesn’t want to. At the office, a coworker handed me a warm coffee. “You look exhausted. Fight with the boyfriend?” “No.” We barely even spoke anymore. How could we fight? Across the room, a young intern sighed, rubbing her cheeks. “Men are so exhausting. I stop replying to his texts, and he still won’t leave me alone.” I smiled weakly at her frustration. “Maybe he just wants a clear answer.” “Everyone has their phone glued to their hand these days,” she grumbled. “If I don’t reply, isn’t that answer clear enough?” I looked down at my phone. My pinned chat with Andrew had been quiet for three days. My last text was asking him what he wanted for dinner. He never replied. Yet, at that exact same hour, Ashley had posted a photo on Instagram asking which of two dresses she should wear to dinner. Andrew had commented within seconds: “The one on the left suits you better.” My smile froze. I guess silence really is an answer. A sip of hot coffee burned its way down my throat, settling in my stomach like a dull ache. When I got home that evening, the apartment was pitch black. I groped around to find the light switch. The mess from this morning was still exactly where it was. Andrew didn’t let Ashley clean it, but he had no problem leaving the disaster for me. Leaning against the front door, I dialed his number. It rang a dozen times before he finally picked up. “Hazel? You off work? I didn’t want to wake you up at home, so I took Ashley out to a sports bar to catch the match.” The background was deafening. Before I could speak, another roar of cheers erupted. “Hello? Andrew!” He didn’t reply. The line remained open, filled with the loud chatter of a crowded bar. He must have forgotten to lock his screen. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard a male voice near his mic. “Hey Andy, is Hazel off work? Why don’t you tell her to come meet us?” “Nah, she’s too high-maintenance,” Andrew’s voice cut through, laced with irritation and exhaustion. “She can’t eat this, can’t drink that. It ruins the vibe for everyone. It’s just too much of a hassle.” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and ended the call. Three years ago, to help his startup secure its first round of funding, I—a complete lightweight—drank an entire bottle of hard liquor to appease an investor. I spent the night huddled over the toilet throwing up blood, and by the time I was rushed to the ER, I had a perforated ulcer. During my two-hour emergency surgery, Andrew sobbed outside the operating room the entire time. When I woke up, his eyes were swollen like cherries. He squeezed my hand gently, whispering, “Hazel, I promise I’ll take care of your stomach. I’ll never let you hurt like this again.” For a long time after that, no matter how busy he was, he made sure to cook gentle meals for me. But “a long time” was temporary. Eventually, he started telling me to just order takeout. Then, he stopped asking if I had eaten at all. And now, I was “high-maintenance.” I was a “hassle.” Suppressing the wave of nausea in my chest, I cleaned up the sticky mess on the coffee table. I made myself a simple bowl of plain oatmeal, finishing it by midnight. After staring at my screen for a long time, I finally text him: “When are you coming home?” The text sank like a stone. By 2:00 AM, there was still no reply. I scrolled up through our chat history. It was mostly me reaching out, met with brief, one-word replies—or complete silence. I exited the chat, opened my email drafts, and pulled up my transfer request. My finger hovered over the send button for a few seconds. Then, I tapped it. The next evening, Andrew pulled up to pick me up from work. “Sorry about yesterday, Hazel. It was too loud, I didn’t see your text.” “Okay.” He looked surprised by my coldness, but quickly forced a smile. “Come on, I’m taking you to Jade Garden.” Jade Garden was the Cantonese spot we used to love. The mild, savory flavors were perfect for my stomach. But for the past year, I had only ever eaten there alone. At the restaurant, he requested a private booth. “I’ve been so busy lately and haven’t taken you out. Let me make it up to you tonight.” He ordered a massive spread of my favorite dishes, piling food onto my plate. For a brief second, it felt like years ago, back when he would order everything I liked, and I never had to worry about waste because he would gladly finish whatever I couldn’t. For one fleeting moment, I thought to myself: “Maybe we should give this one more try.” But the illusion shattered when his phone rang. “Andy! I found this amazing Szechuan joint right near Jade Garden. I ordered that spicy cumin beef you love. Hurry over!” Ashley’s voice blared clearly through the receiver. He hung up, and a text vibrated with her location. My eyes caught their chat history. It was a constant back-and-forth. The most recent message, sent thirty minutes ago, was Andrew sending her our location at Jade Garden. Even our quiet dinner together had to be reported to her. The snow peas in my mouth suddenly tasted incredibly bitter. I swallowed, choking slightly. Andrew stood up and patted my back, looking torn. I wiped the involuntary tears from my eyes, my voice raspy. “Go if you want to. The food will get cold.” He gave me a brief, apologetic hug. “I’ll just run over and check on her. I’ll be right back.” “Okay.” I didn’t beg him to stay like I used to. I didn’t cry. Though he hesitated for a second, he ultimately turned and walked out quickly. I sat alone in that private booth for two hours. He never returned. I had grown quite used to this kind of endless waiting. I called the server over and had everything packed into two large bags. This food would last me three or four days. As I reached the door, the elderly host said in his gentle, accented English, “Young lady, that is a lot of food for one person. Don’t force yourself to finish it all.” I smiled. “I won’t. Not anymore. Thank you.” I won’t force myself anymore, and I won’t force anyone else either. The next morning, Andrew finally remembered to text me. “Hey Hazel, Ashley ended up inviting a bunch of friends last night and it got late. I assume you went home early?” “Yeah.” How late was it? Late enough that he didn’t come home at all. I locked my phone and picked up my transfer approval. The company was opening a branch in Miami, and they needed experienced staff to spearhead the office. My transfer had been approved. My start date was the 3rd of next month—exactly one week away. My coworker was stunned when I told her. “Hazel, are you out of your mind? Moving to Miami means starting from absolute scratch. All the local clients you’ve built up here, your connections… your boyfriend… you’re just throwing it all away?” “I don’t want them anymore.” I had six days of accrued paid time off saved up over the last two years. Our relationship had begun with a road trip planned by our friends. It felt fitting to end it with a trip of my own. Even though I knew he already had plans with Ashley, I still sent him an invite: “Andrew, I have six days of leave. Let’s take a trip together.” This time, the reply was instant: “Hazel, I already promised Ashley I’d take her to Lake Tahoe. I don’t have enough vacation days left. Next year, okay? Next year, we’ll go wherever you want.” He had ten days of paid leave. Four were spent on the World Cup, six were reserved for Ashley. I was left with “next year.” But ever since Ashley returned to the country, I had heard “next year” at least a dozen times. And this time, I really didn’t want to wait anymore. On the kitchen calendar, June 28th was circled in red marker. It was our anniversary. Every year when Andrew bought a new calendar, he circled that date first. He always said he was terrified of forgetting it. But despite that bright red circle, he forgot. I didn’t receive a gift, or even a call. Just a text: “Boarding my flight now. Text me if you need anything.” Then Ashley’s contact popped up on my feed. “Don’t worry, Hazel! I’ll take good care of Andy.” Attached was a photo of Andrew sleeping soundly, his head resting gently on her shoulder, a soft smile playing on his lips. Andrew always insisted she was just like a little sister to him. But I refuse to believe he was blind to how possessive she was of him. He simply chose to allow it. I took a flight to Miami. In this unfamiliar, sun-drenched city, I spent my days rushing between corporate buildings and rental properties, eventually securing our office lease and finding a small apartment for myself. My boss told me to relax and enjoy my time off, but I knew myself. I couldn’t let my mind wander. Right now, being busy was my only shield. Strangely, Andrew started checking in constantly. He sent a selfie of them standing by a waterfall in Tahoe. “It gets freezing here in the mornings and evenings, Hazel. Good thing you didn’t come, you definitely wouldn’t have tolerated the cold.” In the photo, the girl leaning into his chest was wearing his jacket, her face glowing with happiness. He sent a photo of their dinner—a table covered in heavy, spicy dishes. “So good. Too bad you can’t eat spicy food.” Yes, it was a shame. A shame that for your sake, I never cherished myself. On the day I returned to prepare for my move, he texted me a photo of a delicate beaded bracelet. “I’m so sorry, Hazel. I just realized I missed our anniversary last week. Here’s a little something to make up for it.” I had already seen that bracelet on Ashley’s social media. It was a free souvenir given out to visitors who completed a small prayer walk at a chapel in Tahoe. I had also seen her post about their trip—watching the sunset over the lake, walking along the docks, hiking the falls. Ashley had posted a perfect nine-photo grid. The center photo was a screenshot of a shared digital bucket list with checkmarks next to almost every item. Her caption read: “Finished our yearly bucket list six months ahead of schedule with my favorite person. Thanks for always keeping your promises. Here’s to us.” The first item on that list was “try 30 new restaurants.” The second was “travel to a new city together.” The third was “fulfill one big wish for each other.” There were twenty items in total, and they had completed them all. The lock screen on my phone with Andrew was also a bucket list. It had only six items. We wrote it three years ago, and we hadn’t even finished half of them. How ironic that back then, he had proudly set his background to that exact same list. I wonder if he ever thought about our unfinished list while he was crossing off items on Ashley’s. But it didn’t matter anymore. I walked into my dark apartment late at night. The motion-sensor nightlight in the entryway had broken months ago, and Andrew had never bothered to fix it. I could tell myself I was no longer afraid of the dark, but I couldn’t change the fact that my eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch black. Ficking on the lights, I packed my clothes and came across the anniversary gift I had bought for him. I took a photo of the authentic, autographed Lionel Messi soccer ball and listed it on eBay. I had gone to great lengths and paid a hefty premium to secure it for him. It was a shame about the custom-engraved leather shin guards I had made for him; because they had his name on them, I couldn’t resell them. I swept them into a trash bag and threw them down the chute. Taking one last look at the place we spent years building together, I opened my chat with Andrew. I focused on keeping my fingers steady as I typed: “Andrew, we don’t share the same tastes, we don’t share the same interests, and we shouldn’t force this anymore.” “Let’s end it.” As the flight attendant’s soothing voice echoed through the cabin, his name flashed across my screen. A second later, the screen went dark. I turned off my phone. The plane took off.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “537533”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

One evening, out of nowhere, my wife brought home a Tibetan Mastiff. From that moment on, they were inseparable. She barely even looked up when our one-year-old daughter started crying in her crib. But my wife is deathly allergic to dog dander. Back when we were dating, I had a little Bichon Frise. The first time she visited my apartment, she couldn’t resist giving it a quick pat on the head. Within minutes, she was sneezing violently. Her skin broke out in angry, swollen hives, and shortly after, her face flushed a terrifying shade of purple as her airway began to close. It was a rush to the emergency room just to keep her breathing. Yet here she was, sitting on our living room floor, buried in the thick, coarse coat of this massive beast, laughing without a single sniffle. She looked exactly like my wife. The same face, the same soft curve of the jaw, the same little red mole just below her collarbone. But as I watched her, a cold prickle of sweat broke out along my spine. This woman was not my wife. Where was Regina? And who was sitting on my living room floor? … After college, my world was small, contained within a cramped, drafty rental where I kept a small dog for company. When Regina first came over, she was hesitant, but she thought the little dog was sweet and reached out to stroke its fur. The reaction was near-instantaneous. Hives erupted across her neck, and her chest seized so hard she could barely gasp for air. I spent the night in the ER waiting room, terrified. The very next day, I gave the dog to my cousin. I never brought another pet into our lives. Even on our evening walks, if we encountered a stray cat or a neighbor’s dog, I would instinctively step in front of her, shielding her. But right now, the woman who looked like Regina was dangling a piece of raw meat over the Mastiff’s snapping jaws. “Hades, look. Mommy’s got a treat for you. Good boy.” She called herself “Mommy.” She referred to this hundred-pound, bloodshot-eyed monster as her “baby.” The way the dog looked at our daughter, Zoe—with a low, hungry growl vibrating deep in its chest—made my stomach turn. I lived in constant fear that it would snap and lunge at her. My mind raced back to a quiet afternoon a few days ago. Regina had sat me down, her face unusually solemn. “Connor,” she had said, her voice barely a whisper. “If there ever comes a day when I’m not afraid of dogs… you need to know that the person standing in front of you isn’t me.” She had gripped my hands so tightly her knuckles turned white. She insisted she wasn’t joking. “What are you talking about?” I had asked, trying to laugh it off. “Just don’t ask questions. If that day comes, you grab Zoe and you run. Don’t look back. Don’t try to talk to me. Just get our daughter away.” “And where will you be?” I had asked, my heart hammering. She had only shaken her head, her eyes dark with a sorrow I couldn’t comprehend. “I don’t know.” A sharp, piercing cry from Zoe’s nursery shattered the memory, pulling me back to the suffocating reality of our living room. “Zoe must be hungry,” the woman said, rising from the floor. “Mommy’s going to make you a bottle, sweet girl.” She washed her hands and began measuring scoops of formula. It was a small detail, but it hit me like a physical blow. Regina always breastfed during the day. She only used formula at night to keep Zoe full longer so we could both get a decent night’s sleep. It was a routine we had spent months establishing. But this was the middle of the afternoon. I looked at her chest. If this were truly Regina, her breasts would be heavy with milk. There was no physical sign of it. “There you go, sweetheart…” Once the bottle was ready, she scooped Zoe into her arms, humming a low, unfamiliar lullaby. Zoe’s tiny fingers reached up, but her eyes remained wide, fixed on the woman’s face. She wasn’t settling. Babies rely heavily on scent, and Zoe knew, in her instinctual, primal way, that this scent was wrong. The woman’s smile was sweet, identical to the one I had fallen in love with, but it made my blood run cold. With my hand slipped deep into my pocket, I secretly dialed Regina’s number on my phone. A muffled ringtone vibrated from the cushions of the sofa. The imposter had her phone, too. “Is something wrong?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked up from the bottle. “Nothing,” I forced a smile, my voice tight. “Just a pocket dial.” Once Zoe finally drifted off, the woman laid her in her crib. A moment later, she walked back to the kitchen, unscrewed the cap of the baby bottle, and poured the remaining ounce of milk directly into the Mastiff’s water bowl. The transformation in the animal was instant. The normally lethargic beast scrambled to its feet like a predator catching the scent of blood, eagerly lapping up the murky, diluted liquid. But it was what the woman did next that froze the air in my lungs. As the dog drank, she stood over it, her back to me, her shoulders hunched. She was whispering a rhythmic, low chant, her posture resembling that of a devout cultist offering a prayer. In that single, terrifying second, I knew with absolute certainty. This was not Regina. But where was my wife? And who—or what—was this person living under my roof? The rest of the afternoon was a blur of quiet paranoia. I kept a constant watch over Zoe. Even if this imposter didn’t harbor violent intentions toward our daughter, the sheer presence of that massive, unpredictable dog was a constant threat. But I had to go to work tomorrow. How could I leave Zoe here? “Regina,” I started, trying to keep my voice casual as I sat across from her. “Where did you say you got the dog again?” “A friend,” she replied, her eyes glued to her phone screen. “They had to go out of the country suddenly and asked me to watch him.” “Which friend? We have a baby in the house. A dog that size… it’s just not safe.” “Someone from college. You wouldn’t know her,” she said, her tone dismissive. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only for a few days. She’ll pick him up when she gets back.” Only a few days? I frowned. I knew every single one of Regina’s friends. In the past, if there was someone I hadn’t met, she would have gone out of her way to introduce us, or at least tell me their story. Now, she wouldn’t even give me a name. Later, when she left to walk down to the corner market for groceries, I cautiously approached the Mastiff’s crate. Despite having eaten a massive bowl of food earlier, the dog lay curled in the dark, completely drained of energy. I reached a hand out toward the bars, thinking I might try to pacify it. Instantly, the dog’s hackles raised. Its eyes snapped open, completely bloodshot, staring at me with a raw, human-like malice that made me gasp. I scrambled backward, tripping over my own feet. “Okay, okay,” I muttered, raising my hands. “No hard feelings.” The moment I stepped away, the dog collapsed back into its lifeless, heavy slumber. Desperate, I bundled Zoe into her stroller and headed out, intending to go straight to the police station. But as I neared the precinct, I ran into a childhood friend of mine whose father was a captain in the department. I pulled him aside under the pretense of grabbing a coffee, keeping my questions strictly hypothetical. “If someone suspects their spouse has been… replaced,” I asked, trying to sound like I was describing a movie plot. “What do the police actually do?” My friend chuckled, then grew serious when he saw my expression. “Honestly? If you report that your wife is an imposter, they’ll bring her in for questioning. But if she has her ID, knows all her personal details, and looks exactly like her… they’re going to assume you’re having some kind of mental breakdown. You’d probably end up being the one detained for psychiatric evaluation. And if there is foul play involved, you’ve just tipped off whoever is pulling the strings.” He was right. It would blow my cover entirely. And if the real Regina was still alive, any sudden move on my part could seal her fate. I thanked him, made a quick excuse, and hurried back home. Not long after, my phone buzzed. It was a text from “Regina” telling me dinner was ready. When I walked through the door, the kitchen smelled faintly of grease. The table was set with a simple, uninspired plate of pork chops and some hastily sauteed greens. Usually, Regina took pride in cooking—always making sure we had a balanced meal with at least three different sides and a fresh soup. I took a bite. The seasoning was entirely wrong. It was flat, lifeless. When we finished, she scraped the leftover meat and the bones from my plate directly into the dog’s bowl. But when she cleaned her own plate, she scraped her leftovers into the trash. The Mastiff devoured my scraps with a frantic, desperate hunger before sinking back into its usual stupor. Why was she only feeding my and Zoe’s leftovers to the dog? A heavy, suffocating dread settled deep in my chest. That night, I lay awake in the dark, listening to her slow, rhythmic breathing beside me. After Zoe was born, we had installed a high-definition baby monitor in the living room that connected to an app on my phone. Knowing she had spent hours on her phone during the day, I quietly opened the app and pulled up the live feed. She had been sitting on the sofa directly beneath the camera lens earlier. I zoomed in on her hands, trying to catch the reflection on her screen. The glare was harsh, and her head blocked a significant portion of the view, making it incredibly difficult to decipher. She was texting someone on an encrypted messaging app. I squinted at the tiny, pixelated letters. Finally, I managed to piece together two words: The kid. My chest tightened. Was she here for Zoe? Was this a kidnapping ring? Was she planning to sell our daughter? If so, Zoe was in immediate danger. But why go to such extreme lengths? Why undergo plastic surgery or whatever magic this was just to take a child? No. The dog’s dark, lingering stares at Zoe suggested something far more sinister than a simple kidnapping. I kept scrolling through the cached footage, my eyes burning from the strain. Finally, filtering through the meaningless chatter, I caught one more word from her text history: Sculpture. What did that mean? We had a local Sculpture Park a few miles away. Regina and I used to go there on weekends when we were first dating to walk the trails and take photos. I stared at the ceiling, trying to connect the dots, but before I could make sense of it, the bathroom door creaked open. The woman walked out, steam clinging to her skin, smelling of Regina’s favorite lavender body wash. I quickly locked my phone and slid it under my pillow. She climbed into bed, her body warm and supple as she slid over to drape herself across my chest. “Connor…” she whispered, her lips brushing against my neck. Her skin was soft, her curves identical to my wife’s. Every physical instinct in my body urged me to respond, but my mind was screaming. I knew she was a stranger. I knew she was dangerous. I lay there, completely paralyzed. “Babe…” she murmured, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to my lips. I forced myself to return the kiss, trying to play the part of the unsuspecting husband. But as her hands slid under my shirt, a wave of revulsion washed over me. I felt like I was being wrapped in the coils of a sleeping viper, waiting for the moment it decided to sink its fangs into my flesh. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m just so exhausted from work today,” I murmured, gently catching her wrists and rolling her off me. “Let’s wait until tomorrow.” She stiffened slightly, a flash of annoyance crossing her features before she softened her expression into a pout. “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. I want you now…” It was bizarre. Even though every rational part of my brain wanted to push her away, her voice carried a strange, hypnotic weight. My resistance began to crumble, like sand slipping through my fingers. Almost against my own will, I found myself turning back toward her, pinning her to the mattress. “Connor, I love you…” she whispered. I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to scream, to run. But my hands were already unbuttoning her nightshirt, sliding over her bare shoulders. I looked down at her. Her eyes were wide, beautiful, and utterly vacant. There was no warmth in them, no shared history, no love. There was only a cold, transactional hunger. No. Stop. You can’t do this, a desperate voice cried out in the back of my mind. But the physical pull was like a drug, dragging me down into a dark, bottomless abyss. My lips met hers again— “Waaaah!” A sharp, piercing cry from the nursery broke the silence of the house, shattering the spell instantly. I gasped, my mind clearing as if cold water had been dumped over my head. But as I pulled back, a strange weight pressed against my shoulders. There was something standing over us. I rolled off the bed, hitting the floor hard. When I looked back up, the Mastiff was standing in the center of our mattress, its heavy paws resting right where my back had been seconds before. “Jesus Christ!” A cold sweat drenched my clothes. The dog had climbed onto my back while I was lying on top of her, and I hadn’t felt a single thing. The sheer impossibility of it made my skin crawl. “Connor, baby, it’s okay,” the woman said quickly, sitting up and reaching out to pat the dog’s massive head. “Hades was just trying to play. Don’t be mad at him.” “Are you insane? The dog climbed onto my back in our bed!” I yelled, my voice trembling with raw panic. “I want that thing out of this house. Tonight!” She gave me a pleading look, her bottom lip quivering. “Please, Connor. It’s only for a couple of days. I promise I’ll keep him contained.” “No! I’m not sleeping in this house with that monster roaming free.” “Fine,” she snapped, her demeanor shifting in an instant. “If he goes, we go.” She marched into the nursery, scooped a crying Zoe out of her crib, and began heading for the front door, the dog trotting closely at her heels. “Wait! Stop!” I ran after her, desperation clawing at my throat. I couldn’t let her leave with Zoe. If she walked out that door, I might never see my daughter again. I reached out to grab Zoe, but she deftly dodged my grasp. “Fine!” I gasped, my chest heaving. “Fine. Just… tie him up. Keep him in his crate in the living room. Use the heavy leash.” Only then did she hand Zoe back to me. She led the Mastiff back to the living room, securing it to the heavy metal frame of its crate before returning to the bedroom. I held Zoe tight against my chest, checking her over. Her diaper was soaked through—the simple, ordinary discomfort that had saved my life. “Good girl,” I whispered, kissing her soft forehead. “You did so good.” After changing her, I couldn’t bring myself to go back into the bedroom. I sat on the sofa in the living room, holding my daughter. Through the crack in the bedroom door, I could see the woman watching me. Every so often, she would run her tongue slowly over her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on me like a predator eyeing its next meal. I gently pinched Zoe’s arm, just hard enough to make her whimper. “Hey, Regina,” I called out. “Go back to sleep. She’s restless. I’m going to walk her around the living room for a bit.” It took another thirty agonizing minutes before the bedroom door finally closed and the apartment went quiet. I waited until I was sure she was asleep. A few hours later, the floorboards in the hallway creaked. I slipped off the sofa, creeping silently toward the kitchen corner. Peering around the edge of the drywall, I froze. The woman was standing in the center of the kitchen. She had taken one of my heavy flannel shirts and was draping it over the Mastiff. The dog was standing upright on its hind legs, mimicking a human posture with eerie, unnatural precision. It looked exactly like me from behind. The woman knelt on the cold tile floor before the dog, her hands clasped in prayer as she muttered a series of low, rhythmic incantations. A wave of nausea washed over me. Were they trying to turn the dog into me? After a few minutes, she took the shirt off the dog, tossed it into the washing machine, and headed back toward the bedroom. I scrambled back to the sofa, closing my eyes and forcing my breathing to slow. When the morning light finally filtered through the blinds, I checked my phone. It was nearly nine o’clock. I was thirty minutes late for work. “Morning, sweetheart,” the woman said, walking into the kitchen with a cup of coffee. “I saw how exhausted you were, so I didn’t want to wake you. I called your office and told them you were taking a sick day.” “You… what?” I stumbled toward the bathroom, my head throbbing. “No, I can’t take today off. I have a massive meeting with our primary investor. If I don’t show up, my boss will be banging down our door by noon.” A flicker of panic crossed her face at the mention of my boss coming to the apartment. “Actually,” I said, turning to look at her as I grabbed my toothbrush. “We’re completely out of Zoe’s diapers. Could you run down to the market and grab a box? I’ll get ready while you’re gone.” “Of course,” she said, visibly relieved to have a task. “I’ll be right back.” The moment the front door clicked shut behind her, I scooped Zoe out of her playpen, grabbed my backpack, and bolted down the stairwell. “Dad,” I breathed into the phone as I hailed a taxi on the street. “I need you to meet me. Now.” I gave him the address of the Sculpture Park. I couldn’t risk bringing Zoe back to our apartment, and I needed my father to take her somewhere safe so I could find the real Regina. When the cab pulled up to the park, I sprinted across the manicured lawns toward the dense grove of cherry blossoms at the back of the property. The trees were bare, their branches heavy with tightly coiled buds. Near the edge of the grove, I noticed a patch of dark, freshly turned soil. My heart hammered in my chest. Please, God, let her not be under there. I set Zoe down on a blanket on the grass and began digging frantically with my bare hands, clawing through the damp earth. I dug several holes, my fingernails splitting and bleeding, but found nothing. I stood up, panting, looking around the grove. Near the base of a larger stone sculpture, the soil looked slightly darker than the rest. I ran over and dug again. My fingers hit something solid. It was a leather wallet. Regina’s wallet. I flipped it open. Tucked inside her ID slot was a hastily torn scrap of paper with frantic, jagged handwriting: Take Zoe and run. They’re coming for you. I’m at our old spot… Our old spot? My phone rang, the screen displaying my father’s contact. “Connor, I’m stuck in massive gridlock on the highway. There was a multi-car accident. It’s going to take me at least forty minutes to get to you.” I couldn’t wait forty minutes. My thoughts raced back to the day Regina disappeared. Three days ago. She had left early in the morning, claiming she was meeting an old classmate. When she returned hours later, her jacket was torn, and her palms were scraped raw. When I asked what happened, she laughed it off, saying she had tripped on a curb. That was the moment. The real Regina had been taken three days ago. My phone buzzed again. This time, it was the imposter. “Connor? Where are you? I came back with the diapers and the apartment is empty.” “I… I remembered Zoe had a doctor’s appointment this morning,” I lied, trying to keep my voice even. “I took her to the clinic.” “You should have told me. I could have brought her.” “I was already running late. I’ll bring her back as soon as we’re done.” I hung up, not waiting for her response. Where was our “old spot”? A hotel? The coffee shop where we had our first date? The theater downtown? I called another cab, tracing our history through the city, checking every location we had ever frequented. Nothing. No signs, no clues. I stood on a street corner, holding my sleeping daughter, utterly defeated. Then, it hit me. “The overlook,” I whispered. It was an old, abandoned concrete development at the base of the mountain trail just outside the city limits. Construction had halted years ago during the recession, leaving a cluster of empty, gray concrete skeletons slowly being swallowed by the forest. Regina loved hiking. When we were younger, we would pack a picnic and climb up to the half-finished structures to watch the sunset over the valley. I called my dad, giving him the new coordinates, and caught another cab to the mountain road. The gravel path leading to the abandoned site was completely overgrown with weeds, the air thick with the hum of insects. I carried Zoe through the dense brush, my boots kicking up clouds of dust as I entered the hollow concrete shell of the fifth building. I climbed the rusted metal stairs to the third floor. And there she was. A slender figure slumped against a concrete pillar, her hands bound tightly behind her back with thick, industrial nylon rope. She was wearing a dirt-streaked jacket and jeans. On the left side of her neck was the tiny, familiar red mole. “Regina!” I rushed forward, kneeling beside her. I pressed my fingers to her neck. Her pulse was weak, but steady. She was alive. She had been kept here for three days without food or water. I pulled Zoe’s bottle from my bag and gently pressed the nipple to her dry lips. She swallowed greedily, her eyes fluttering open. “Connor…?” she whispered, her voice cracked and raw. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?” “No, baby. You’re alive. I’ve got you.” Tears spilled down her dirt-streaked cheeks. “I was so scared…” I pulled out my pocket knife and began sawing through the thick cords binding her wrists. “Regina, there’s a woman at our apartment. She looks exactly like you. She’s living our life. What is happening?” Her face paled, a look of pure terror filling her eyes. “Connor… that’s not a woman. That’s a corpse.” My hand froze. “What?” “They used my childhood friend, Bernice… her body… to do this. You have to get Zoe and leave. Now!” With a final tug, the rope snapped. I helped her to her feet, balancing Zoe in my arms as I draped Regina’s arm over my shoulder. “We’re leaving together,” I said. But as we turned toward the concrete stairwell, two shadows fell across the doorway. Standing in the entrance was the woman from our apartment. And beside her stood a man who looked exactly like me.

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My parents decided they wouldn’t reveal which of us was the older twin until we turned eighteen. To keep things “fair,” we drew straws every year to decide who would play the role of the older sister. Being the older sister meant being the pillar of the household—cooking, cleaning, and serving everyone else. For ten years, without fail, I drew the long straw. My hands were permanently raw and swollen with chilblains. Years of relentless housework left me small, stunted, and severely malnourished. Until one afternoon, when I came home early and heard my father’s worried voice from the kitchen: “We keep rigging the draw so Lucy has to be the older one. What if she realizes we’re favoring Emma?” Then came my mother’s voice, laced with smug self-satisfaction: “What is there to worry about? Once they turn eighteen, Lucy can be the little sister for the rest of her life. All the bitter trials she’s enduring now will only make her future sweeter.” Behind the door, my fingers tightened around the school physical report I was holding. But Mom, I don’t think I’m going to make it to eighteen. … I had forgotten to show Mom my physical report. So when I stood at our front door, having been dismissed early from school, I was just in time to hear my parents discussing our birthright and the annual draw. It turned out that my decade of bad luck wasn’t bad luck at all. It was because they wanted me to be the older sister. They needed me to be. My mother’s tone was so absolute, so devoid of doubt, that a slow, burning ache bloomed in my chest. My father seemed to have a sudden revelation. “Honey, I didn’t realize you were looking so far ahead. I thought you were just playing favorites with Emma.” My mother scoffed gently. “Of course I don’t want Emma to suffer. She’s been delicate since the day she was born. If we openly favored her, Lucy would grow bitter. But if we leave it to ‘fate,’ they both accept it without question.” “Besides,” she continued, “we have a massive estate to think of. Emma’s health is too fragile to ever run the family business. We have to mold Lucy into someone strong enough to carry that weight. After years of our training, she’ll have a deep sense of duty. She’ll look after Emma, and she’ll take care of us in our old age. It’s killing two birds with one stone.” She talked about how, back in the delivery room, the nurse had mixed up our ID bracelets. They didn’t know who was born first. So Mom had made a grand executive decision: a modern, progressive approach to parenting, modeled after Western ideals of absolute equality. Since we were twins born only minutes apart, they wouldn’t announce who was older until we were eighteen. Mom used to tell us: Neither of you has to carry the burden of the other’s life. You are each other’s protector, each other’s sister. You must support and care for one another. But a household needed order. So, she instituted the draw. The one who drew the role of the older sister would bear the household responsibilities and care for the family. The one who drew the little sister got to be pampered, to ask for whatever she wanted, to be coddled. There were two straws in the jar—a long one and a short one. Whenever it was my turn to draw first, I always drew the long straw. Whenever Emma drew first, she always got the short one. I remembered one year, when Emma drew the short straw again, she sighed disappointedly. “I wish I could be the older sister just once. I want to take care of everyone too.” I had smiled and teased her, “Sure, let’s swap straws.” But Dad had snapped at me, his voice sharp and harsh: “Lucy! Who taught you to be so deceitful? You accept the hand you are dealt. If that straw represented your health, your luck, your destiny, and you just gave it away, you would ruin your entire life!” But Dad’s warning felt like a curse that had already come true. My health, my luck, my destiny—they had already been stealthily swapped away by my parents, draw by rigged draw. When we were in kindergarten, Emma was always sick. Every flu season, she would run a high fever. Whenever she did, my parents made me sleep in her bed. They believed in an old superstition: if a cold is passed to someone else, the original patient gets cured. So, time and time again, I absorbed Emma’s illnesses. But this time, the rot had started deep within my own bones, and there was no one left to swap with. When the school clinic called me in, the doctor had looked at me with a grave, heavy expression. He handed me a specialist’s business card and told me to have my parents take me to the hospital immediately. “If you don’t get treatment right away,” he had said, “you might not make it past three months.” I reached out to knock on the front door, but then Mom’s voice drifted through the wood again. “Lucy didn’t even mop the floors properly yesterday. I still saw hair on the hardwood. When she gets home from school, tell her to sweep and mop again before she starts dinner.” My hand hovered in the air. Slowly, uselessly, it dropped to my side. My chest felt so tight, like a heavy stone was pressing down on my lungs, stealing my breath. For as long as I could remember, I had done every chore a child was physically capable of. Mom taught me to wash dishes standing on a wooden stool when I wasn’t even tall enough to reach the sink. She said hot water was too expensive, so even in the dead of winter, I scrubbed plates in freezing water. When my hands split open with painful, red chilblains, she would just buy a cheap tube of ointment and rub it in. For my eighth birthday, she gave me a custom set of child-sized cleaning tools. Emma’s gift that year was a massive, limited-edition Barbie dreamhouse. Seeing the look of confusion on my face, Mom had smiled warmly, playing the doting mother. “Lucy, sweetie, your luck just isn’t very good, and you always end up as the older sister. I was so worried you’d hurt your knees kneeling on the hard floor to mop, so I had these custom-made just for you.” I had swallowed the bitterness back then, holding my little broom. And yesterday, I hadn’t slacked off on the floors. My head had just been spinning, my vision blurring into dark, fuzzy spots. When I had leaned against the wall to catch my breath, Dad had chuckled, shaking his head. “Kids these days are so fragile. When I was your age, I could do fifty squats in a row without breaking a sweat.” Mom hadn’t disagreed. She had just nudged Emma. “Hurry up and finish your apple, sweetie. Throw the core in the bin so your sister can empty the trash and take it down to the dumpster on her way out.” The memories washed over me, cold and suffocating. I couldn’t face the chores today. I couldn’t face them. I turned around and slipped away, walking down to the neighborhood park. I sat on a wooden bench, watching the sky turn from grey to purple, staying far past the time I usually got home. When night fell, I finally crept back inside. The three of them were sitting around the dining table, sharing a family bucket of KFC. Mom looked up and waved me over. “Lucy, why are you so late? We ordered takeout tonight so you wouldn’t have to cook. Come, eat with us.” No anger. No scolding. Just a warmth that made my heart ache with sudden, desperate hope. I walked over, my chest swelling with gratitude. But when I reached the table, the feeling withered. The bucket was nearly empty. Only a handful of soggy, cold fries remained at the bottom, alongside a thin, dried smear of ketchup on the cardboard lid. A single chicken drumstick, with a large bite already taken out of it, sat cold on top of the fries. Dad let out a satisfied burp. Emma took a long, noisy sip of the last of her Coke. Mom pushed me down into a chair, gesturing to the greasy paper. “Clean up the leftovers, sweetie.” I forced down the hot prickle of tears behind my eyes. I picked up a cold fry, dragged it through the dried ketchup, and put it in my mouth. It was cold, starchy, and hard to swallow, scraping against my throat. Then I picked up the half-eaten drumstick. The moment I bit into it, an intense, searing wave of chili heat hit the back of my throat, making my eyes water and my scalp prickle. Mom patted my back casually. “Ah, I forgot to ask for mild. Emma took one bite and started crying because of how spicy it was, so she saved the rest for you.” I set the drumstick down, my eyes burning. “But Mom… I can’t eat spicy food either.” Mom brushed it off with a wave of her hand. “You can build up a tolerance. Emma has a weak stomach; if she eats spicy food, she gets terrible cramps. You’re different. Don’t waste food, Lucy.” Under her watchful gaze, I forced myself to choke down the rest of the chicken. Almost instantly, my stomach began to cramp in sharp, violent spasms, but I forced it all down anyway. I stood up, trembling, and wiped down the table, wanting nothing more than to crawl into my bed. But as I turned to leave, Mom grabbed my wrist. “Lucy, the floors were still dusty yesterday. I’m going to watch you do them properly tonight. Grab the mop.” I froze. My fingers curled into the fabric of my school sweatpants. For the first time in my life, I found a tiny, fragile spark of courage. “Mom, I don’t feel well tonight. Can I please do it tomorrow?” There was no concern in her eyes. No worry. Only a cold, hardening disappointment. “If you’re sick, how did you stay out so late? Don’t think I don’t know you were goofing off in the park with some bad crowd after school.” I looked at her, helpless. “Mom, I wasn’t…” Dad, seeing my pale face, intervened. “If she’s really tired, let her rest for tonight.” Mom slammed her hand on the table. “Do you want to ruin her? Spare the rod, spoil the child! Lucy has never been lazy. Today she comes home late, and you tell me not to go looking for her because ‘she deserves some fun.’ Now she refuses to do her chores.” “If she gets away with it once, she’ll find a thousand excuses to slough off her responsibilities. Do you want her to grow up into a lazy, manipulative brat?” Dad slowly lowered his head, yielding to her logic. I walked back to my room, fetched my little plastic broom and mop, and started in the living room. After only a few steps, the doctor’s business card slipped from my pocket and fluttered onto the rug. Mom leaned down, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash can without a second glance. “Honestly, Lucy, stop collecting these sketchy flyers on the street.” I opened my mouth to explain, but her sharp look silenced me. Keep mopping. With every push of the mop, my heart hammered violently against my ribs. My vision began to fray at the edges, dissolving into gray mist. And then, with a dull thud, the world went black. At first, Mom thought I was throwing a tantrum, trying to get out of the chores. But when she called my name three times and I didn’t move, she finally realized I was truly unconscious. They carried me to my bed. From the haze of my fading consciousness, I heard Dad’s low, fretful voice: “I told you that chicken was too spicy. Why did you make her eat it? And then you made her mop the floors. Look at her—she’s white as a sheet, and her lips are completely blue.” Mom muttered defensively, though her voice trembled. “How was I supposed to know she was this fragile? Neither of these girls is easy to raise.” But she sat beside me, and for the first time in a long time, she took a warm, damp cloth and gently wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Let her sleep. She’ll be fine by morning.” When I opened my eyes, it was the next day. Emma had already gone to school. Mom was sitting on the edge of my mattress, looking at me with an expression of deep, unfamiliar worry. My throat tightened. I decided to tell her. “Mom, my body… it really hurts. I need to see a doctor.” The worry on her face vanished, replaced instantly by defensive irritation. “Lucy, I know it was wrong of me to make you eat that spicy chicken yesterday. But you have a strong constitution. You don’t need to waste money on a doctor.” “But Mom…” “I already said I was sorry,” she snapped, cutting me off. “What more do you want? Your father lectured me all night. I promise I won’t make you eat spicy food again.” “But the clinic doctor said…” “Those street solicitors are predatory, Lucy,” she said, her voice rising. “They aren’t real doctors. They just want to lure you into a clinic to scam us out of expensive testing fees. Do you know how much a simple scan costs? Hundreds of dollars. We aren’t rich. Be sensible, Lucy. Would your own mother lie to you?” Remembering how tight money was—how Emma and I only got to eat meat on major holidays—I swallowed the rest of my words. I stayed in bed until noon, when Mom shook my shoulder. “Lucy, we’re out of soy sauce and chicken bouillon. Go to the corner store for me, okay?” She pressed a few quarters and a handwritten list into my palm. “Keep the change as allowance. Don’t tell your sister. It’s some pocket money I managed to save up.” Despite the dull, throbbing ache in my limbs, I dragged myself out of bed. As I pulled on my coat, I saw Mom reclining on the sofa, a luxury sheet mask pressed to her face, eyes closed in deep relaxation. Without saying a word, I opened the door and walked out into the cold. The sidewalk seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My vision pulsed, expanding and contracting, making the world look warped. I had to stop every few steps to lean against a brick wall, my chest burning for air. Suddenly, a stray cat darted out from the overgrown bushes beside the path. Startled, I lost my footing and fell hard onto the concrete. The quarters slipped from my numb fingers, rolling across the pavement, clinking as they disappeared down the gap of an open storm drain marked with a faded Under Construction sign. I remembered Mom’s constant reminders about how poor we were, how every penny counted. Panic surging through my veins, I scrambled forward to catch the rolling coins. My foot slipped on the wet concrete, and I tumbled headfirst into the dark, yawning throat of the drain. It was pitch black. The impact shattered my bones, a cold, violent agony ripping through my entire body as my clothes soaked through with freezing, muddy water. Slowly, my eyes drifted shut. When I opened them again, I was floating. Back at home, Mom peeled the mask from her face. Her phone buzzed. It was Dad. “How is Lucy feeling? Do we need to take her to Urgent Care?” Mom answered confidently, “Why waste the money? She’s perfectly fine. She’s already out running an errand for me.” Dad, taking a lunch break at his high-rise office, sighed. “I keep thinking about our parenting strategy. I wonder if we’re putting too much pressure on Lucy. Her grades dropped to third in her class last semester because of all the chores.” Mom crossed her legs, savoring a slice of a fresh Pinkglow pineapple. “If we let her focus only on school, who’s going to do the housework? You?” Dad hesitated. “We could hire a housekeeper. My salary is over a hundred and fifty thousand a year. We can afford it.” I froze in the air, staring at him through the invisible veil of death. Dad had always told us he only made thirty thousand a year. He said we had to pinch pennies so we could afford Emma’s medical treatments. Dad let out a long sigh. “When I saw Lucy and Emma sitting together yesterday, Lucy looked so small. She’s practically a head shorter than her sister. Maybe we should stop this ‘poverty training’ experiment. You’re sitting there eating fifty-dollar pineapples, while Lucy gets nothing but oatmeal and cabbage. She’s malnourished.” Fifty dollars for a single pineapple. Just two days ago, Mom told me she found that pineapple in the discount bin because it was bruised and rotting, and that it would make me sick if I ate it. But later that night, I saw her secretly feeding slices of it to Emma in the kitchen. I had begged for a piece, trying to snatch it, and in the scuffle, the ceramic plate had shattered. A sharp shard had sliced into Emma’s calf, leaving a thin red line. While Emma wailed, a call had come in from an unknown number on Mom’s phone. Assuming it was a telemarketer, Mom had blocked it after three rings. My body had been burning with a fever that night, too, but my parents had ignored me, rushing Emma to the emergency room for a scratch. To them, I was just a buy-one-get-one-free bonus item from the maternity ward. A shadow destined to live in Emma Colton’s light. Now, Mom’s phone rang again. It was another unknown number. She swiped to answer, her voice dripping with irritation. “I told you to stop calling. I already blocked your other number. Leave me alone.” But the voice on the other end wasn’t a salesman. It was a police officer, cold and clinical. “Is this the mother of Lucy Colton? A construction crew just found her body at the bottom of a storm drain. We need you to come identify her immediately.”

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My brother was the tragic, obsessive villain of a dark romance novel. After the female lead staged her spectacular death to escape him, he spent every waking hour trying to figure out how to follow her to the grave. But before he could manage to pull off a dramatic suicide, his phone rang. It was my preschool teacher: “Are you Ruby’s brother? You need to come to the school. She’s been climbing into the classroom fish tank every day, trying to cosplay a goldfish. She claims she learned it from you. What on earth is going on?” To set a decent example for me, he suddenly didn’t dare to die anymore. Until one day, I was sent to the principal’s office for supposedly dating a bleach-blonde rebel. As it turned out, that blonde boy was none other than the female lead’s younger brother. When the female lead saw my brother, she offered a soft, bittersweet smile: “Oh, Chris. I had no idea Ruby was your sister. My brother might be a bit of a troublemaker, but he has a good heart. He’s perfect for her. Maybe we’ll end up as family after all…” Before she could even finish her sentence, my brother cut her off, his voice ice-cold: “Do you honestly think just anyone can climb their way into the Whitman family? Tell your brother to get over his little fantasy before I end him.” … Bella wanted to escape my brother’s suffocating grip so badly that she did the only logical thing she could think of. She threw herself off a jagged cliff into the endless, churning sea, right before a crowd of horrified onlookers. Standing on the precipice in a fluttering white dress, tears streaming down her face, she whispered her final, agonizing words: “I’m so sorry, Chris. If there is a next life, I promise I won’t let you down.” If I hadn’t already read the script of our lives and known she was just faking her death to run away with her actual love interest, Alan, I might have shed a tear. I really would have believed her tragic performance. But Chris, entirely in the dark, was utterly shattered. He hired multiple salvage teams to search the freezing waters for a solid week, turning up absolutely nothing. He became a hollow shell of himself, weeping in his darkened study, seriously contemplating jumping off that same cliff like a grief-stricken seagull just to join her in the depths. Until his phone rang, and a very exhausted preschool teacher was on the other end: “Hello, am I speaking with Chris Whitman, Ruby’s brother? We need to have a serious talk about your sister’s behavior. Please come to the school as soon as possible.” My brother rubbed his temple, his voice thick with irritation: “Can’t this wait? Or can you just tell me over the phone?” The teacher sounded even more done with life than he was: “Mr. Whitman, she spends recess trying to squeeze herself into our classroom fish tank to play ‘dead goldfish.’ She says she’s copying her brother. She claims her brother goes to the cliffs every day to play ‘gull of death,’ and she wants them to die together—one in the sky, one in the sea—so they can be siblings again in the next life. What exactly is going on at home?” My brother went completely silent. After dragging me out of the principal’s office—and the fish tank—he brought me home. He placed me gently on the kitchen island, his hands resting heavily on my tiny shoulders. Crouching down so we were eye-to-eye, he stared at me with a profound, terrifying seriousness: “You little brat, why on earth would you want to die with me? Am I really that important to you?” I stared back with the wide, innocent eyes of a four-year-old and spoke the absolute truth: “Of course you are. You’re my big brother. You’re the only family I have left.” Just like that, the obsessive, tragic romance villain died, and a fiercely overprotective big brother was born. He stopped plotting his dramatic exit from this mortal coil and instead dedicated his entire existence to being a perfect guardian. His texting habits changed dramatically. The endless, desperate paragraphs he used to send to Bella’s inactive number were replaced by relentless, essay-length messages to my poor preschool teacher: “Hi Mrs. Higgins, I noticed Ruby isn’t drinking enough water. I bought her an 800ml insulated bottle, which is her exact daily required intake. Could you please personally monitor her to ensure she finishes the entire thing?” “Mrs. Higgins, Ruby is on the shorter side. Why is her desk all the way in the back row? How is she supposed to see the board clearly from there?” “Mrs. Higgins, Ruby mentioned you fed pudding cups to some of the other kids today, but she didn’t get one. I donated an entire wing to the school library last month; surely my sister deserves a pudding cup? Please advise.” The teacher’s replies were short and deadpan: “Mr. Whitman, those puddings were brought from home by another student’s mother. I was simply helping them open the packaging.” Chris went quiet. The next day, a courier delivered a massive crate of premium organic pudding cups to the classroom, along with a note asking the teacher to help me open them. By the time I started elementary school, I thought Chris had finally buried his obsession with Bella. But then, in the dead of night, I caught him sitting in the dim glow of his phone screen, staring at Bella’s frozen social media profile and quietly wiping away a tear. I knew I had to act. I went into my settings and blocked him from seeing any of my social media posts. When I came home from school the following afternoon, I overheard him frantically questioning our butler in the hallway: “Why is there just a blank gray line on Ruby’s profile?” Chris’s voice was borderline panicked. “Is her phone broken? Did she get hacked?” Our butler, a seasoned man of quiet wisdom, gave a helpless shrug: “Her phone is working perfectly, sir. It looks like… she blocked you.” It was as if lightning had struck him: “What? Why would she do that?” The butler offered a comforting smile that was secretly a devastating blow: “Well, she’s entering her pre-teen years. It’s natural for girls her age to want some privacy, to have a few secrets. Though, at this rebellious stage, without parents around, she might feel a bit lonely. It’s easy for lonely young girls to get swept up by some bad boys, or those troubled kids with bleach-blonde hair…” That did it. Chris’s lingering grief over Bella instantly evaporated, replaced by a consuming terror of the hypothetical “bad boys” waiting to steal his sister away. He spent every hour analyzing my moods, trying to figure out what deep, dark secrets I was hiding behind that blocked profile. A week later, I quietly unblocked him. He clicked on my profile so fast I’m surprised he didn’t crack his screen. There were no photos of motorcycle-riding rebels or suspicious comments. Pinned right at the top of my feed was a candid photo I’d taken of his back while he was clumsily trying to cook me pancakes. The caption read: My brother is, without a doubt, my favorite person in the whole wide world! My brother wept on the spot. By the time I entered high school, life had settled into a comfortable, protective routine. But then, the Whitman family’s security detail caught wind of a rumor: Bella wasn’t dead. Someone had spotted her in the city, living under a different name. I could feel the old, dangerous embers in Chris’s chest beginning to spark. He began discreetly putting out feelers, trying to track her down. And then, fate—or whatever twisted author was writing our lives—intervened. A new transfer student joined my class. His name was Brody. He had bleach-blonde hair, pale skin, and a face that was a striking, undeniable mirror image of his older sister, Bella. It ran in the family, apparently. Both siblings possessed this almost intoxicating, magnetic charm. On Brody’s very first day, two girls in my class got into a screaming match over who got to sit next to him. One of them was Tiffany, the school’s notorious rich-girl bully. Brody just watched the drama unfold with lazy, detached amusement, living by the classic player’s creed: don’t initiate, don’t commit, don’t decline. He was a ghost in his own life, letting girls crash against him like waves. Just like Bella used to do. Years ago, Bella had breezed into Chris’s life like a warm summer breeze. But the moment Alan appeared, she began a delicate dance—keeping Chris on a tight leash of hope while simultaneously drawing Alan closer. When the two men finally tore each other apart over her, she played the ultimate martyr. She offered herself to Chris, pretending to sacrifice her freedom so he wouldn’t crush Alan’s business. She never gave Chris a straight “no,” yet she would run to Alan, weeping about how Chris was keeping her captive in a gilded cage. It drove Chris mad. He was completely under her spell, utterly bewildered by her hot-and-cold games. In a desperate bid for control, he locked her away in his estate. But Bella wasn’t a helpless victim. She and Alan had quietly orchestrated that spectacular, cliff-diving exit. While Chris was attending a high-society gala, she slipped past the guards. By the time he realized she was gone and rushed to the coast, she was already standing on the edge. She knew exactly what to say to leave a permanent scar, to make sure he’d spend the rest of his life drowning in guilt instead of hunting them down. That evening, at the dinner table, I casually brought up the new transfer student. “We got a new kid in class today,” I said, poking at my salad. “His name is Brody.” Chris barely looked up, his thumb restlessly scrolling through his phone. He was clearly distracted, likely looking for any trace of Bella. After dinner, we retreated to our respective rooms. Around midnight, I walked down to the kitchen to warm up some milk, only to hear heated voices echoing from the study. It was Chris and our butler. “Sir, Bella never loved you,” the butler’s voice was unusually sharp, carrying a heavy weight of warning. “Her death was a staged escape. She wanted to get as far away from you as possible.” “That’s not true!” Chris snapped, his voice tight with desperation. “She had no choice! If she hated me, why would she come back to this city? She knows this is my territory, she knows I’d find her…” I stood in the dark hallway, the cold tile beneath my feet matching the chill in my chest. In the original plot, my brother’s obsession with tearing Bella and Alan apart would lead to his absolute ruin, a miserable end where he lost everything and died unloved. I didn’t sleep at all that night. If fate was going to push us back onto this collision course, I wasn’t going to sit back and watch. I was going to meet it head-on. Brody’s grades were abysmal. The next day, the homeroom teacher paired him with me, the class academic rep, for peer tutoring. I agreed without a second thought. When I sat down across from him, Brody let out a soft, cynical smirk. He obviously figured I was just another girl using schoolwork as an excuse to get close to him. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction. During our sessions, I was a machine. I spoke only of calculus formulas and literary themes. I didn’t ask about his life, his hobbies, or his sister. One afternoon, a gentle spring breeze swept through the open window, making the sheer curtains billow and dancing through my hair. A loose strand fell across my face, obstructing my view. I slipped off my glasses, tucking the stray lock behind my ear. When I looked up, I found Brody staring at me, his gaze entirely frozen. I blinked, pretending to be utterly oblivious: “Is there something on my face?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, looking away quickly: “Nothing. It’s nothing.” But our daily study sessions didn’t go unnoticed. Rumors began to spread, fueled by classmates who couldn’t see past their own assumptions. Chief among them was Tiffany, the resident mean girl who had practically claimed Brody as her personal property. She organized a silent campaign against me, rallying the other girls to freeze me out, looking for any petty way to make my life miserable. When I collected homework, she would refuse to hand hers in, only to run to the teacher later and claim I had deliberately lost her papers. When it was my turn to clean the classroom, she would walk by and casually kick over the trash can: “Oops, my foot slipped. Guess you’ll have to clean that up again.” Once, while I was in a bathroom stall, a bucket of icy water was dumped over the door. I had to walk back to class shivering, my clothes completely soaked. Because I never fought back, they assumed I was weak. Their behavior escalated. Yet, no matter what they threw at me, I never missed a tutoring session with Brody. Over time, the cynical skepticism in Brody’s eyes melted into something soft, almost painful, whenever he looked at my damp clothes or bruised spirit. But he never spoke up. He’d open his mouth to say something, only to swallow his words and look away. The boiling point came after gym class one Tuesday. I returned to the classroom to find that the envelope containing the class prep-exam fees—nearly two thousand dollars in cash—had vanished from my desk. I searched my backpack, emptied my locker, and dumped my desk organizer onto the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. The commotion drew everyone’s attention. I turned around and saw Tiffany leaning against the back wall, a mocking smile playing on her lips: “Well, well. Don’t tell me our perfect academic rep lost everyone’s exam fees?” I stood up, my expression utterly blank, and marched straight over to her desk: “I’ve let everything else slide, Tiffany. But don’t mess with the class money. Hand it over.” Tiffany’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly scowl: “Who do you think you are, accusing me? You got any proof I touched your precious money?” “Nobody else in this room is petty enough to do this,” I said quietly. She stood up, towering over me by half a head, trying to use her height to intimidate me: “Say that again. I dare you.” I didn’t flinch: “Gym class was mandatory for everyone. The only person who got a hall pass to stay behind was you.” She kicked her plastic chair back, sending it crashing to the floor: “That’s bullshit! I was in the nurse’s office the entire period. Ask anyone! And besides, Ruby, you could have handed that money to the teacher before gym class. You kept it in your desk on purpose. Maybe you stole it yourself and now you’re trying to pin it on me.” The shouting match quickly drew the attention of the administration. Within minutes, both Tiffany and I were hauled into the homeroom teacher’s office. Our teacher, Mrs. Higgins, listened to both of our stories with a deeply troubled expression. She turned to me, her voice heavy: “Ruby, you should have brought the money straight to me once you finished collecting it. What were you thinking keeping it in your desk?” I bit my inner cheek: “The classroom was incredibly chaotic between periods, and the total didn’t add up during my first count. I was halfway through recounting when the bell rang for gym. I planned to verify the final amount right after class and bring it to you.” Tiffany let out a loud, dramatic sigh: “Who actually believes that? She’s the top math student in our grade, and she expects us to believe she couldn’t count a simple stack of bills? She’s obviously hiding the money herself, and since she knew I was in the nurse’s office, she figured I’d be the perfect scapegoat.” I held my ground, keeping my voice level: “I didn’t take it.” A crowd of curious students had gathered outside the glass doors of the office, straining to hear. Someone accidentally pushed the door open, and a few voices chimed in from the hallway: “Come on, Ruby. Just because you and Tiffany have bad blood doesn’t mean you can pull a stunt like this.” “Yeah, Tiffany picking on you is one thing, but using the class exam fees to frame her is crossing the line.” Mrs. Higgins’ eyebrows shot up. She looked between us: “Ruby, Tiffany, do you two have some kind of history?” The peanut gallery outside was more than happy to explain: “Mrs. Higgins, you don’t know? Tiffany’s been trying to get with the new kid, Brody, but he’s totally ignored her.” “But Brody’s been spending all his time with Ruby. So Tiffany’s been… playing some practical jokes on her.” I watched Mrs. Higgins’ face shift as she connected the dots and made her decision. She looked at me, her expression softening into a patronizing, pitying look: “Ruby, look. If Tiffany played some inappropriate jokes on you, that’s wrong, and we will address it.” “But you cannot use the class funds to retaliate. Just tell me where you hid the money. If you return it now, we can resolve this quietly without putting it on your permanent record.” Tiffany’s father was the CEO of a major publicly traded company. Just last year, he had donated a million dollars to the school’s endowment fund. The administrators and teachers practically walked on eggshells around her. Mrs. Higgins had clearly decided that sacrificing a middle-class academic rep like me was the easiest way to keep her biggest donor happy. The amount missing was pocket change to my family—Chris gave me more than that for allowance every month. But I refused to let them sweep this under the rug: “I’m not admitting to something I didn’t do. If we can’t find the thief, we should pull the security footage.” Tiffany rolled her eyes, crossing her arms: “Go ahead. Pull it. See if I care.” We marched down to the security office, only for the guard to rub the back of his neck sheepishly: “Sorry, girls. The cameras on the third floor have been down since yesterday. The repair tech isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.” We ended up back in Mrs. Higgins’ office. Seeing that neither of us was backing down, she sighed and picked up the desk phone: “Fine. If we can’t settle this, I’m calling both of your parents.” Before she could dial, there was a sharp knock on the door. Brody walked in, holding up his phone. He looked tired, but his jaw was set: “You don’t need to call anyone. I have the thief on video.” Phones were strictly banned on school grounds. By coming forward with video evidence, Brody was essentially turning himself in for a major school violation. He explained that during gym class, he’d gone to the locker room to change. Walking past our classroom, he had spotted Tiffany acting suspiciously near my desk. He’d pulled out his phone and started recording. He handed the phone to Mrs. Higgins. As she watched the clear video of Tiffany sliding the envelope into her designer bag, her face turned pale. Tiffany panicked, her voice rising to a shriek: “Mrs. Higgins! They’re dating! There’s no way Brody would risk suspension for her unless they were together! They’re violating the honor code!” In a desperate bid to destroy the evidence, Tiffany lunged forward to grab Brody’s phone. Brody dodged her, but in the scuffle, the phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the linoleum floor. The screen lit up on impact. There, in bright, vivid colors, was a candid photo of my profile, taken while I was focusing intensely on a math problem during one of our study sessions. It was undeniably a stealth photo. At this point, Tiffany was desperate to drag both of us down with her, hoping to bury her own malicious framing under a scandal. “Look!” She pointed at the screen, triumphant. “He has a secret photo of her as his lock screen! If they aren’t dating, then he’s a creep stalking her! Either way, they’re both going down!” Brody remained silent, his jaw clenched, staring at the floor. I took a deep breath and stepped forward: “Mrs. Higgins, we aren’t dating. And that’s not a stalker photo—I gave him permission to take it. It’s not harassment. I’m the one who likes him.” With the situation spiraling out of control, Mrs. Higgins quickly dismissed the students lingering outside the door. She was in a tight spot. She wanted to protect Tiffany to keep her father’s favor. She decided to downplay the theft entirely, focusing instead on the “inappropriate relationship” and the phone violation. She called both Brody’s guardian and my brother to the school. Bella arrived first. When she walked into the room, she didn’t recognize me. When she was living in our house, I was barely old enough to walk. By the time she faked her death, I was in preschool. She glanced at me, then leaned in to whisper to Brody, her voice carrying in the quiet office: “Is this the girl? I thought you’d have better taste. She looks like a plain little nerd.” Brody pulled away from her, his expression cold: “Don’t talk about her like that. Ruby is amazing.” A few minutes later, the door swung open, and Chris stepped in. The moment Bella saw him, her jaw literally dropped. Of all the places to run into her obsessive ex-captor, she never expected it to be a high school principal’s office. I braced myself, wondering if Chris would lose his mind at the sight of his long-lost “white moonlight” and forget all about me. But he didn’t even look at her. He strode straight past Bella, kneeling slightly to check my face and hands: “Ruby, are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?” Only then did he straighten up, his brow furrowing into a dangerous, dark line. Mrs. Higgins nervously launched into her watered-down version of events, glossing over Tiffany’s theft and focusing on the phone infraction. But Chris wasn’t an idiot. “So,” he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, “what I’m hearing is that this girl, Tiffany, has been systematically bullying my sister. Is that correct?” Mrs. Higgins stammered, caught off guard by his sharp focus: “Well… Mr. Whitman, it’s not really bullying. It’s just typical teenage drama, girls being competitive over a boy—” “Competitive?” Chris’s eyes flared with a cold, terrifying rage. “Get the principal in here right now. I’d like to ask him how a school that gladly accepted my library donation allows its staff to facilitate the torment of my little sister.” Mrs. Higgins turned white as a sheet. In her desperate attempt to cater to a millionaire donor, she had inadvertently insulted a multi-billionaire. As she scrambled out of the room to fetch the principal, the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. It was just the four of us: Chris, Bella, Brody, and me. Bella took a tentative step forward, offering Chris a soft, fragile smile: “Chris… it’s been so long. How have you been?” Chris spared her a single, glacially cold glance before looking back down at me. He didn’t say a word. Sensing his coldness, Bella tried a different angle, gesturing toward Brody: “I had no idea Ruby was your little sister. You know, my brother might be a bit of a rebel, but he’s incredibly sweet. He’d be perfect for Ruby. Maybe we could finally be family, after all these years…” She didn’t get to finish. “Do you honestly think just anyone can climb their way into the Whitman family?” Chris’s voice was like ice. “Tell your brother to get over his little fantasy before I end him.” “If I see him anywhere near my sister again, I’ll personally make sure he never walks.”

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There was always a ghost in my marriage. An invisible woman who sat between my husband, Gary, and me. She was my former best friend. And she was his late wife. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, we couldn’t go back to my hometown to visit my parents. Gary said Isla would be lonely in the ground, and that we had to keep her company. So, there would always be three place settings at our table. The vase would be filled with her favorite yellow tulips. The five courses would be entirely composed of her favorites—bland, unseasoned steamed vegetables and poached chicken breast prepared without a drop of oil or salt. The final dish was always her absolute favorite: a delicate, clear vegetable broth. The only things in that dining room that belonged to me were my grease-stained apron, crumpled in the corner, and a jar of homemade crab dip that Gary had just tossed into the trash can. Because Isla was lethally allergic to shellfish. In the middle of the fragrant kitchen, I looked at Gary. “Gary, can we finally clear out the master bedroom? The one facing south? In a few months…” “No.” His answer was sharp, cutting through the steam. “That’s her room. She might be gone, but the room stays. There are plenty of other rooms in this house, Gillian. Why does that one bother you so much?” I squeezed the pregnancy confirmation slip in my pocket. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down my spine. In that exact moment, the truth settled over me like dust. You can’t compete with a dead woman. He wanted to spend his life with a ghost, and I was finally ready to let him. … After dinner, Gary took out Isla’s framed portrait to dust it. He used the cream-colored cashmere scarf I had just bought. It was supposed to be a Christmas gift for my mother. The tags were still on it, but Gary had sliced it in half with a pair of kitchen shears without a second thought. He tossed the scraps at my feet. “Use the leftover wool to make some shoe inserts for Isla’s mother. She likes a soft, cushioned step.” For the first time, the color cream looked absolutely hideous to me. My mother had called me last week, complaining about how her neck was always stiff and cold in the winter wind. I had walked miles across the city, nursing blisters on my heels, just to find this high-grade, extra-soft cashmere scarf. And now, it was a rag for Isla’s portrait and padding for her mother’s shoes. “Are the gifts for Tom and Mary ready?” Gary asked, his boots clicking on the hardwood as he stood up to inspect the shelf. He went down his checklist with meticulous care. “The imported Earl Grey tea, the artisanal pecan shortbread, the scotch… Wait, where are the two gift cards?” “I have them,” I said quietly. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t touch their things. I’m driving over to drop them off in an hour. What if something goes missing?” He dropped the list, his face tight with impatience. A bitter ache swelled in my chest. I tried to defend myself. “But those two cards… I bought them for my own parents. We aren’t going home to see them, so I wanted to send something…” Gary’s brow furrowed. “I already told you, it’s fine. I spoke to your parents. They understand.” “Give them those two fifty-dollar cards. The two five-hundred-dollar ones are for Isla’s parents.” Those five-hundred-dollar cards were bonuses from his firm. He had complained the amount was too small to use himself, but now he was using them to buy his way into Isla’s family’s good graces, while throwing fifty-dollar scraps to mine. “Gillian?” Seeing that I remained silent and motionless, Gary’s voice sharpened. I gripped the ruined fabric of the scarf. The question I had buried deep for three years finally clawed its way out. “Gary… why did you marry me?” He froze. For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at the polished glass of Isla’s portrait, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Before Isla died, she told me she wanted me… she wanted me to move on. To marry someone.” A roaring sound filled my ears. Something inside me shattered completely. Even though I had suspected it, hearing the words fall from his lips felt like a blunt knife twisting in my ribs. Isla had been a foreign war correspondent. Six years ago, she had gone to cover a conflict zone, got caught in an explosion, and the site was reduced to rubble. They never even recovered her body. For the first three years, Gary mourned her like a monk. And then, he proposed to me. To the rest of the world, he was the ultimate devoted, romantic hero. Everyone believed that after losing Isla, marrying him was the luckiest thing that could have ever happened to me. But the truth was, Isla had never left. When we first married, I was foolishly optimistic. I believed that if I gave him enough love, he would eventually see me. So I learned her favorite things. I bought her gifts on holidays, replaced the yellow tulips on her altar every single day, cared for her parents, and treated her memory with absolute reverence. I kept her alive in our house like a sacred deity. But now, even our marriage was nothing more than her final dying wish. I looked at the elaborate dinner I had spent hours cooking—none of which had been touched. I looked at the jar of crab dip my mother had spent all night preparing, now leaking onto the bottom of the trash can. I looked at the man who was busy loading luxury gifts into his trunk, still demanding I hand over the high-value gift cards. Suddenly, I was just so tired. I looked up at him, my voice flat. “Gary, let’s get a divorce.” His hand froze over the car door. He slowly turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and irritation. “What did you say?” “A divorce,” I repeated, my hand instinctively resting over my slightly rounded stomach. “Give me a reason.” I fell silent. It wasn’t regret; it was just that three years of living in a stagnant pond had left me with too much to say. The words choked me. Gary let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Gillian, stop throwing tantrums. It’s four o’clock. It’s a thirty-minute drive, and if we’re late, Isla’s parents will have to wait for dinner.” He gave me a dismissive look, grabbed the last case of scotch, and walked out. I stood in the quiet house and suddenly laughed. Even my demand for a divorce couldn’t compete with a dinner schedule for his dead wife’s parents. I was laughing, but hot tears were spilling over my cheeks. I snatched the gift cards, wiped my face, and turned to walk out. But Gary caught me by the arm from behind. “Where are you going? Get in the car!” “I’m not going.” The weight of his gaze tightened. “What is it going to take to make you cooperate?” “I want a divorce.” He stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, he let out a cold breath. “Fine. But give me those gift cards first.” His eyes locked onto mine, unyielding. The numbness in my fingers made my hands shake. But Gary didn’t care. He snatched the five-hundred-dollar cards from my grip and tossed the fifty-dollar ones back at me. I stepped back, letting them flutter to the floor. Gary’s face darkened. “Stop being so dramatic.” I have always been a woman of my word. Even though every nerve in my body screamed against it, I got into the backseat of his car. Satisfied that I was behaving, he nodded and turned on the stereo. The soft, familiar notes of Für Elise filled the car. Isla’s favorite. I listened with a numb heart, my eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat. Three years. Since the day we married, I had never been allowed to sit there. It was supposedly reserved for the wife, but I was banned. When I had protested in the beginning, he had said, “Isla is gone, Gillian. Can’t you leave her one spot? She was a hero. Have some respect.” So I had backed down. And every day after that, my favorite foods, my comfortable slippers, my silk pajamas, and the south-facing bedroom that caught the morning light—all of it belonged to her. She was the invisible ghost occupying our entire marriage. I had planned to tell him tonight that he was going to be a father. Now, there was no point. “Gillian, she’s gone. Taking care of her parents is the right thing to do. You shouldn’t be so petty over a couple of gift cards.” He always remembered to care for her parents. But he always chose to forget mine. I said it aloud. Gary’s breathing turned heavy, his voice laced with sudden anger. “Don’t start with me. We send your parents gifts every holiday. What more do you want?” Your parents. He always called them your parents. But Isla’s parents were always Mom and Dad. From beginning to end, I was an outsider. The pressure in my temples built to a throbbing ache. The words I had bottled up for years finally burst out. “You mean the leftover corporate gift baskets of stale crackers you sent them the first year because Isla’s parents didn’t want them? Or the near-expired fruit cakes you threw their way the second year? You spend twenty thousand dollars on her parents every single holiday. And for mine? You won’t even let me give them a fifty-dollar card.” The car violently jerked as Gary slammed on the brakes. I flew forward, hitting the back of the front seat hard, the pain sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. But Gary didn’t offer an apology. Instead, he reached into his pocket and threw a credit card into the backseat without looking back. “I used to think you were a decent woman, Gillian. I didn’t realize you were this small-minded. Take the card. Just don’t say anything embarrassing when we get there.” I didn’t say a word. I quietly picked up the card. Over the years, my salary, my savings—everything had been poured into this household, into the black hole of Isla’s memory. After buying those gift cards, I hadn’t even had enough money left to buy a bus ticket back to my parents’ house. Now, with this card, I could finally afford to go home. When the front door of the Barnett house opened, two gaunt, severe faces appeared. Before I could even take off my shoes, Mrs. Barnett grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the kitchen. “What took you so long? Any later and we would have been eating midnight snacks!” My summer dress was thin. Her sharp nails dug into my skin, and the pain made me shudder. But Gary didn’t see. He only had eyes for pleasing them. “It’s my fault, Mom,” Gary said quickly. “I’ll have her start dinner right away.” He followed us into the kitchen, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Gillian, you have one hour. I want dinner on the table.” “But the ingredients aren’t even prepped—” “I don’t care,” Gary cut me off, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “If you are even a minute late, I will call your mother and tell her you’re demanding a divorce. Your mother had heart surgery four years ago. You wouldn’t want to trigger another episode, would you?” Four years ago, Gary had been the one to find the specialist for my mother’s surgery. Back then, I had spent days crying in the hospital corridors, and he had been there, running errands, bringing homemade soups, and sweet-talking the nurses. My mother, pale but smiling in her hospital bed, had whispered to me, “Sweetheart, he’s a good man. You can lean on him.” I had blushed, my heart swelling with the belief that I had found a protector. And now, that same man was using my mother’s weak heart as a weapon to threaten me. I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron, and slowly nodded. The next hour was a blur of steam and heat. The kitchen was a war zone of crackling oil, while just beyond the door, the sound of easy laughter and cheerful conversation drifted in. My clothes soaked through with sweat, then dried, then soaked again. On the dot, I brought a six-course dinner and soup to the table. Mr. Barnett smiled, nodding. “Thank you, Gillian. Hard work.” Mrs. Barnett sniffed, her mouth curling into a thin line. Gary chimed in immediately. “She’s only really useful for this kind of thing, Dad.” When your heart has been bruised so many times, it eventually goes numb. Mrs. Barnett’s face softened slightly at Gary’s dismissive tone. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said with mock generosity. “Grab a plate and sit down.” In past years, I was never allowed to sit at the table. While they ate, I was expected to clean the kitchen, mop the bathrooms, and pack away their seasonal clothes and bedding. So Gary answered out of pure habit: “She still has work to do. She won’t be eating.” Mr. Barnett offered a polite shrug. “Oh, we hate to make her work so hard every year. It makes us feel so guilty.” If they actually felt guilty, they wouldn’t have demanded my presence every single time. “Dad, I married her so she could take Isla’s place in looking after you both. Just eat. Don’t worry about her.” My chest felt so tight I could barely breathe. But instead of crying, I wanted to laugh. In fact, a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Gary frowned, looking at me. “What’s so funny?” I didn’t answer. I just stared at him, my eyes locked onto his. For a rare second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Go on then. Go clean the house.” He spoke to me like a master dismissing a maid. With that bitter smile still on my face, I untied the apron and threw it onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Gary, if you want this place cleaned, do it yourself. I’m done.” I turned to leave, but his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. The pain was so sharp I gasped. “Let go… it hurts!” The steam-scalded blisters on the back of my hand popped under his grip, weeping fluid. But Gary didn’t see the fluid, and he didn’t care about my pain. His face was dark with fury. “Gillian, what the hell is wrong with you?” I ripped my hand away with all my strength and took a step toward the door. “If you take one step out that door, I will—” “I already called my mother and told her we’re getting a divorce. You can’t threaten me with her anymore.” With that, I bolted. I couldn’t spend another second in that house. I booked the earliest flight home for the next morning. Then, armed with his credit card, I drove straight to the luxury shopping center. Premium bird’s nest, cashmere sweaters, rare teas, aged single malt scotch, high-end supplements—everything I had wanted to buy for my parents over the last three years but couldn’t afford, I bought now. I paid for it all and instructed the store to ship it directly to my parents’ address. Gary’s texts started flooding in, one after another: Gillian, once you’ve calmed down, come back and apologize. You ruined dinner. Mom and Dad are extremely upset. Your temper is getting out of hand. I asked you to do a simple favor and you start screaming about divorce? The money on that card was meant for maintaining Isla’s memorial site. Don’t waste it… The last message was a voicemail. His voice was thick and slurred; he had clearly been drinking. “Just go home first… I drank too much tonight. I’m staying in Isla’s room…” The south-facing bedroom at the Barnett house had been kept exactly as it was when Isla was alive. The room was a shrine. Photos of the two of them under cherry blossoms, clay figurines they had made together, and a wall covered in movie stubs and date receipts. During our first year of marriage, Mrs. Barnett had asked me to dust that room. When Gary found me there, his face had gone white with rage, and he had dragged me out. “This is Isla’s room. Strangers aren’t allowed in here.” At the time, I had convinced myself he was just drunk, that it was a slip of the tongue. But every day after that, his actions proved the cold reality. Even though we shared a bed, even though I was pregnant with his child, even though my name was on the marriage certificate—I was nothing but a stranger. For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t reply. I blocked his number. A sudden, torrential summer downpour began to pelt the city. As I waited for my Uber, I called my mother. I told her my flight was booked and I was coming home tomorrow. My parents’ voices were thick with unshed tears, but they tried to keep their tone steady for my sake. “Good, good… as long as you’re coming home. If you want a divorce, then get a divorce.” “We’re still here, sweetheart. We can take care of you.” I hadn’t cried when the hot oil burned my hand. I hadn’t cried when Gary threatened me with my mother’s health. But hearing their voices, the tears finally spilled over. I sniffled, murmured a few words of reassurance, and hung up as the headlights of a car pulled up. I stepped off the curb to cross the street. A sudden screech of tires tore through the sound of the rain. Before I could even turn my head, I felt a massive impact, and my body was launched into the air like a ragdoll. The pain was blinding. It felt as if every bone in my body was being crushed under a heavy wheel. Deep in my abdomen, a tearing, agonizing pain bloomed. My vision blurred into a static of black and white. Sirens and shouting voices seemed to come from miles away. With trembling, bloody fingers, I fumbled for my phone and pressed the speed dial. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. The line clicked open. Gary’s slurred, drunken voice drifted through the speaker. “Isla… I miss you so much. Please come back to me…” I bit my tongue to keep consciousness from slipping away, forcing the words out through cracked lips. “Gary… it’s Gillian. I’ve been hit by a car… save the baby…” “Isla… I regret it. I shouldn’t have married Gillian. She isn’t you… she’s nothing like you…” Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth, splattering onto the screen. I was shaking so hard from the cold and the pain, but I forced every remaining ounce of strength into my voice. “Gary… please… save our baby!” But the phone only returned a mumbled, irritated groan. “So noisy…” And then, the line went dead. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally opened my eyes again, a woman’s voice drifted through the sterile air. “Gillian, I am so incredibly sorry. The rain was blinding, and I took the wrong turn. I hit you… and the baby… they couldn’t save him.” “I’ve already notified your husband. He’s on his way.” I blinked slowly, forcing my eyes to focus on the woman standing beside my bed. It was Isla. The woman from the portrait, alive and breathing, standing right in front of me. Just then, the hospital door was violently pushed open. Gary stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes darting between the two of us.

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