Author: Momo Chan

My female coworker held her lower belly and leaned over my cubicle. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Chloe, there are a few boxes of files in the basement archive. Can you come help me carry them?” In my past life, I was too soft-hearted. I went with her. Half an hour later, she lay in the pool of her own blood in the emergency stairwell. Blood soaked half the hallway. When she woke up in the hospital, she cried and pointed at me. “Chloe forced me to carry those heavy boxes. She pushed me!” I was fired, sued, and bankrupted. My father suffered a fatal heart attack from the stress, my mother went insane, and I eventually jumped off the roof of our office building. It was only after my death that I found out she had eight sugar daddies at the same time. Her pregnancy was already doomed due to multiple previous abortions. This time, I sat firmly in my chair and didn’t budge. “You’re pregnant, Bella. You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.” I picked up my phone and opened our department’s main Snapchat group. “Let me get you some help.” I typed out a message: “Bella is pregnant. She needs male colleagues to help retrieve files from the basement archive. Elevator use only.” I hit send. The office instantly went dead silent. Bella’s face froze. The administrative supervisor, Sarah, replied in the chat: “On it.” HR followed up immediately: “I will confirm the safety protocols for pregnant employees right now.” Bella opened her mouth, flustered. “You didn’t have to tell everyone…” I looked her straight in the eye. “You’re pregnant, Bella. It’s not safe for you to go alone.” In my past life, she led me into that blind spot in the stairwell where there were no security cameras. In this life, I was going to make sure she walked a path under the watchful eyes of everyone.

Bella bit her lower lip, her eyes turning red. “Chloe, I just wanted you to walk down with me. I didn’t say I was going to make you do all the lifting.” I put my phone back on the desk. “You literally just said ‘come help me carry them.’” Her face turned pale. “I… I must have phrased it wrong.” “No worries,” I smiled. “That’s why I’m helping you follow the official safety procedures.” She stared at me. The look in her eyes lasted only a fraction of a second. It was too quick for anyone else to notice the pure hatred in it. A few seconds later, she put on her victim face again. “Are you still mad at me because I didn’t finish editing the project proposal last time? I know my efficiency went down after I got pregnant, but I really didn’t mean to drag the team down.” Emma Jenkins immediately whispered to comfort her, “Bella, don’t overthink it. Chloe is probably just looking out for you.” Tyler Carter sneered. “Looking out for her by blasting her pregnancy in the main group? Pregnant women deserve some privacy, don’t they?” I looked up at him. “Then you go carry the boxes, Tyler.” Tyler choked on his words. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Just then, Sarah, the admin supervisor, walked over pushing a utility cart. Sarah glanced at Bella and said politely, “Bella, you don’t need to go down there. Just email me the file names and box numbers, and we’ll get them. Pregnant staff are not allowed in the archive room or to lift heavy loads. That’s company policy.” Bella stood there, totally paralyzed. I added, “Since those files contain bidding drafts, please log the box numbers and take photos of them for the record.” Sarah nodded. “Right. Bidding documents must have a clear paper trail.” Bella’s expression grew even uglier. She didn’t actually want the files. She wanted me alone with her in the basement, in the emergency stairwell where the security cameras had been broken for three months. In my past life, she “fell” there. No one saw it. So whatever she said became the absolute truth. She said I pushed her. I said I didn’t. The company asked me for proof. I had none. In this life, I would never go to any secluded spot with her again. Bella lowered her head and sent the file details to Sarah. After Sarah left with her team, Bella remained standing by my desk. After a long silence, she whispered, “Chloe, you seem so guarded against me now.” I opened the meeting minutes on my screen without even looking up. “A paper trail in the workplace protects you, and it protects me.” At 3:00 PM, the files were delivered to the conference room. Sarah posted the photos in the chat group. Every step of the process was perfectly documented. No one could find a single flaw. Before leaving work, Bella posted an update on her Snapchat story. It was a picture of a hospital hallway. The caption read: “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Mommy tried her best.” Within ten minutes, her comment section blew up. “What’s wrong, Bella?” “Did the company make you work overtime again?” “Being pregnant at work is so hard. Sending hugs.” Bella replied to all of them with: “I’m fine. I just don’t want to be a burden to anyone.” I stared at that sentence for two seconds, took a screenshot, and saved it. Then I turned off my phone. Bella wasn’t going to stop. She wanted my spot for the European relocation program. And she wanted to find a scapegoat for the baby she was already bound to lose. Sure enough, she didn’t show up for work the next day. On the third day, the HR Director, Miranda Blake, sent me a message. “Chloe, come to Conference Room 3 immediately.”

When I pushed open the door to Conference Room 3, Bella was sitting on the sofa by the window. Her face was paper-white, and her eyes were swollen as if she had cried all night. Sitting next to her was her husband. Marcus Vance. In my past life, this man leaked my home address online and screamed at the camera, calling me a baby killer. To raise money for the settlement, my father went to the bank to beg for a loan. He suffered a massive heart attack and collapsed right outside the bank doors. Later, Marcus said in his live stream: “I just wanted justice for my child. I didn’t know her father would die.” He didn’t know. How convenient. Miranda sat at the head of the table with several documents in front of her. “Chloe, Bella has reported you for severe workplace bullying and abusive management behavior.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Be specific.” Hearing this, Bella immediately burst into tears. “Chloe, I really didn’t want things to come to this.” I looked at her. “Then you don’t have to make a scene.” Her crying caught in her throat. Marcus slammed his hand on the table. “My wife just had a miscarriage, and this is your attitude?!” I looked at him. “A miscarriage is tragic. But tragedy is not evidence of a crime.” “You—!” Miranda frowned. “Mr. Vance, please calm down first.” Then, she slid a medical report over to me. “Bella had vaginal bleeding two nights ago. The hospital diagnosed it as a natural miscarriage following embryonic demise.” I flipped the page. It was written clearly there. Embryonic demise. The baby had stopped developing. I put the paperwork back on the desk. “So, what does that have to do with me?” Bella covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she sobbed. “You didn’t go to the archives with me that day, but the night before, you forced me to revise the project proposal until midnight!” “You also said in the breakroom that my pregnancy made me a drag on the team.” “You said if I had any decency, I would voluntarily drop out of the selection for the European relocation.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “My stomach was already hurting then, but I was too scared to say anything. I didn’t want you to think I was just being dramatic.” Marcus roared with bloodshot eyes, “How can you treat a pregnant woman like this? Are you even human?!” Miranda looked at me. “Chloe, did you make Bella work overtime during her pregnancy?” “No.” “Did you use abusive language to trigger her?” “No.” “Did you exclude and target her because of the competition for the European relocation?” I laughed. “Miranda, are you investigating, or are you helping her rehearse her testimony?” Miranda’s face darkened. “Watch your tone, Chloe. The company is dealing with a major incident involving a pregnant employee’s miscarriage. As the project lead, you must cooperate.” “I will cooperate.” I turned on my phone’s voice recorder. “Please continue. I need a record of this too.” Miranda stared at my phone, her frown deepening. “Chloe, internal company discussions are not to be recorded.” “Then please send me a formal written notice.” She was speechless. Bella sobbed, “Chloe, why do you have to be like this? I just lost my baby. I’m not trying to ruin you.” I looked at her. “Then why is every single word out of your mouth pointing the finger at me?” The glass doors of the conference room weren’t soundproof. Soon, notifications started popping up in our office gossip chats. My phone kept buzzing. I screenshotted every single one of them. Miranda placed a temporary suspension notice in front of me. “Effective immediately, your authority as project lead is suspended.” I asked, “Before the investigation is even finished, you’re already handing out punishments?” Miranda said coldly, “This is risk control.” Risk control. In my past life, they used those two words to reduce me from a human being to trash. “Fine,” I stood up. “Please send this via email. Copy Legal, Compliance, and me.” Marcus sneered, “Still thinking about suing the company?” I stared at him. “If anyone defames me, covers up the truth, or passes judgment before a proper trial, I won’t let a single one of them off the hook.” Bella’s crying quieted down. But I saw it. Behind the tissue covering her face, the corners of her mouth curved up slightly.

By afternoon, the company’s anonymous online forum was on fire. The post didn’t mention my name. But every keyword—department, project, relocation, pregnant, miscarriage—hit me right in the face. The comment section exploded faster than a powder keg. I screenshotted the thread from the first page to the last. Ten minutes later, my access to the project management system was revoked. Tyler Carter was now listed as the lead for the European Energy Grid Project. My application status for the European relocation turned gray. I stared at the screen. I felt absolutely nothing. I had already walked this path once in my past life. Except back then, I was desperately trying to explain myself, begging people to check the security cameras, trying to prove to every colleague that I didn’t push her. But they only asked me one thing: “Bella wouldn’t lie about losing her baby, would she?” But yes, she would. In the evening, Emma Jenkins walked over with my coffee mug. She placed it on the corner of my desk and said softly, “Chloe, maybe you shouldn’t leave your mug in the breakroom for the next few days.” I looked up. “Why?” Embarrassment flashed across her face. “Everyone’s a bit tense right now. You know… the miscarriage thing. It’s a very sensitive topic.” “So even my mug is toxic now?” She bit her lip. “That’s not what I meant.” Tyler spun around in his chair. “Chloe, can you stop being so aggressive? Bella lost her baby. Is it so wrong for everyone to be a little cautious?” I looked at him. “Are you afraid my mug will make you miscarry too?” His face flushed red. “You’re twisting my words!” “Then explain to me why my personal belongings can’t be in the common area.” The office suddenly fell dead silent. Because everyone always preferred to stand on the side that felt safer. At 7:00 PM, Miranda called me into the conference room again. This time, a “Mutual Separation Agreement” was laid out on the table. Severance pay: Zero. Confidentiality clauses: Twelve. After scanning through it, I looked up at her. “Miranda, is this a separation agreement or a hush-money contract?” Miranda was expressionless. “The company is offering you a way to leave with dignity.” “Zero severance is what you call dignity?” “If you don’t sign, Bella’s family will sue you. The company will also terminate your contract based on our investigation. It won’t look good on your resume.” She paused, softening her tone. “Chloe, you’re talented. It won’t be hard for you to start fresh at another company.” In my past life, I believed her. I thought if I just left the company, everything would blow over. But the moment I left, the company pinned all the blame on me. Bella and Marcus used my signature on the agreement to claim that I “admitted my guilt out of fear.” During the lawsuit, that very agreement became one of the final nails in my coffin. This time, I pushed the agreement back. “I’m not signing.” Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Chloe, don’t burn your bridges.” I smiled slightly. “I didn’t burn the bridge. You guys are trying to push me off it.” As I walked out of the conference room, I saw Marcus talking on the phone at the end of the hallway. He was shouting. “Yeah, she refuses to apologize.” “My wife might never be able to get pregnant again.” “This abusive manager needs to be exposed to the public!” He saw me and glared at me with pure venom. I took out my phone and tapped the record button right in front of his face. “Keep talking.” His face froze. I walked right past him. Behind me, Bella started sobbing again. It felt like a perfectly rehearsed play.

The next morning, my cubicle had been cleared out. I stood there, staring at it for a long time. Emma came out of the breakroom. Seeing me, her face turned pale. “Chloe, I didn’t do this.” I asked, “Who touched my things?” She stammered, “Everyone was just worried that the media might come and take photos. They didn’t want people saying the company doesn’t care about pregnant employees, so they packed up the… controversial items first.” Controversial items. My mug. My pens. The small plant on my desk. Everything of mine had become “controversial.” Tyler walked out of a meeting room and said coldly, “Chloe, are you really going to make a fuss about this now? Bella is literally sobbing in her hospital bed right now.” I turned to him. “So that gives you the right to go through my stuff?” “I didn’t touch your stuff!” “Then who did?” He went quiet. I took my things out of the cardboard box, piece by piece, and put them back where they belonged. At 10:00 AM, a company-wide email was sent out. Subject: “Mandatory Training on Pregnancy Protection and Workplace Ethics.” It was scheduled for 2:00 PM in the main auditorium. Attendance was mandatory for all staff. I stared at the email, my finger resting on the mouse. In my past life, the company had also put me on public trial in the main auditorium. They called it “corporate values alignment.” But it was actually a public execution. At 1:55 PM, I walked into the auditorium. A sign with my name on it was taped to the center seat of the very front row. It was a custom-made defendant’s box just for me. Whispers erupted behind me. “She actually showed up.” “Bella is in the hospital, and she’s walking around like nothing happened.” “How thick-skinned can you get?” “If I were her, I would have resigned already.” I sat down, started my phone’s voice recorder, and synced the file to my cloud storage. On the stage, Miranda stood in a sharp black suit. The giant screen behind her read: “Caring for Pregnant Employees, Upholding Workplace Standards.” She picked up the microphone, her voice filled with heavy solemnity. “Recently, a regrettable incident involving an employee’s health occurred at our office.” “According to our preliminary findings, certain management staff showed unprofessional communication, unreasonable task allocation, and a severe lack of empathy toward a pregnant colleague.” She didn’t say “allegedly.” She didn’t say “pending investigation.” Her gaze fell directly on me. “The company has decided to suspend Chloe Miller from her role as project lead.” “Her nomination for the European relocation is revoked.” “Her annual stock options are frozen.” “We will proceed with the termination of her employment contract in accordance with the final investigation results.” A collective gasp echoed through the auditorium. Someone whispered, “Termination makes sense.” “They didn’t fire her immediately. The company is being pretty merciful.” Miranda continued, “At the same time, the company hopes Chloe Miller will reflect on her actions, issue a formal apology to Bella and her family, and take full responsibility.” As she finished speaking, Marcus helped Bella stand up from her seat. They walked slowly toward the stage. “Miranda, may I say a few words?” Bella asked. Miranda nodded. Bella faced the audience, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t want to ruin Chloe.” “She is highly capable, and I’ve always looked up to her.” “Maybe the project stress was just too high, which is why she said those things to me and gave me those tasks.” She covered her lower belly, her body trembling with sobs. “But my baby is gone.” “If she is willing to sincerely apologize to my lost child, I will not pursue this further.” She stood on the stage like a saintly victim. And I had already been nailed to the cross of guilt. Before the applause could even die down, I stood up. Miranda’s face darkened instantly. “Chloe, this is not an open Q&A session.” I pulled out my phone. “Then I’ll dial 911 and let the police listen to this.” Her expression changed. The head of the Legal department in the front row quickly stood up, walked over to Miranda, and whispered a few words in her ear. Miranda stared at me, her eyes like daggers. I met her gaze. A few seconds later, she said coldly, “You have five minutes.” I plugged my phone into the projector system. The folder name flashed onto the giant screen: “The Saintly Victim’s Playbook.” I clicked open. First to appear on the screen was a contact list with notes. The first line read: “Sugar Daddy Charles.” Underneath it, there were seven more names. Bella’s face drained of all color instantly. The tissue in her hand slipped and fell to the stage floor.

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When Asher Vance confessed to me, his childhood friend Chloe Sterling stood right next to him, laughing in my face. “The limited-edition Jordans on his feet cost more than your tuition for a whole semester, Maya,” she sneered. “You didn’t actually believe he was serious, did you?” But I did. I fell for his “joke.” Back then, I was too naive to realize that Asher and I belonged to two completely different worlds. That was until Chloe lost her diamond bracelet. Asher, along with everyone else, directed his cold, mocking gaze at me. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “If you were that desperate for cash, Maya, you could have just asked me. Why do this?” My eyes welled with tears, and my hands shook violently inside my jacket sleeves. When I transferred schools, I blocked Asher on Snapchat, Instagram, and every other way he could reach me. I vanished without a sound. But I never expected that the arrogant, high-and-mighty Asher Vance would spend the next seven years desperately searching for me.

After gym class, Chloe, our school’s resident “it-girl,” lost her extremely expensive designer bracelet. Without my knowledge, she led a crowd to tear through my backpack. By the time I walked back into the classroom, my desk was an absolute mess. She was clinging to Asher’s arm, whining. “Asher, Maya is your girlfriend. Just tell her to give my bracelet back.” Asher and Chloe grew up together. Everyone knew she was special to him. Even I had to admit that they shared a world I could never touch. Whenever they chatted about designer brands and luxury trips, I could only stand there, completely out of the loop. But this time, Asher didn’t immediately back her up. He quietly cleaned up the mess on my desk, then finally looked up at her. “What’s the big deal about a bracelet?” he said casually, though he didn’t deny her accusation. “I’ll just buy you a new one.” The classroom instantly erupted into whispers. The rumors started flying, each one uglier than the last. “Wait, is it really the Student Council President?” “I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me. Everyone knows she’s here on financial aid. And she was the only one who went back to the classroom during gym class.” “Man, if she pawned that bracelet, she wouldn’t have to worry about rent for the next six months.” “Hey! I heard her dad got his leg busted years ago because he was caught stealing.” … I froze at the classroom door. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. I went entirely numb. I never knew that the classmates who politely called me “President” to my face talked about me like this behind my back. Suddenly, someone called out, “Maya?” The room went dead silent. Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I hadn’t done a single thing wrong, yet the overwhelming shame and humiliation almost suffocated me. Clutching my sleeves, I saw Asher turn to look at me. Maybe it was just my imagination, but for a split second, I thought I saw a flash of disgust in his eyes.

No one cared about my explanation. In fact, the more I tried to defend myself, the weirder their looks became. “Oh, forget it,” Chloe said, her voice sweet and gentle. “It’s fine. I have plenty of other bracelets anyway.” She generously told everyone it was probably just her own mistake, and that they should drop it. But I refused to let this fake generosity drag my name through the dirt. As Chloe turned to leave, I grabbed her wrist. I wanted to take her to the administration office to check the security cameras. Chloe tilted her head, giving me a knowing, amused look. I knew Chloe would resist. But I never expected that the one who would physically stop me was Asher. He gently patted my head. “That’s enough, Maya. It’s over.” Whenever I was upset, Asher used to comfort me like this. But hearing those words now only made the lump in my throat grow tighter. “I didn’t take it,” I choked out, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “My dad came to drop off my lunch. I only ran back to the classroom to put the pizza box away. I didn’t touch anything else.” I had only gone back to put away the pizza. My dad had made it himself and brought it over. He told me it was my birthday, and that I deserved a good meal. But Asher didn’t seem to care about my explanation. He said it didn’t matter. He said no matter what I did, he could make it go away. But why didn’t it matter? I hadn’t done anything! Did Asher seriously not understand how important a person’s reputation was? I insisted on checking the cameras. Finally, Asher lost his patience. He let go of my hand and let out a laugh. It was a low, chilling sound. My heart sank. I slowly looked up and met his eyes. I saw the smirk on his face. I saw the same unconcealed prejudice in his eyes that everyone else had. “Drop the act, Maya,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you really not take it? I remember you telling me a few days ago that you were really short on rent.” “And by the way, the classroom security camera just happened to break yesterday.” “Are you telling me you didn’t know that?” My brain went completely blank. For some reason, Chloe’s old words flashed in my mind. She had said, “You still don’t get it, do you? You and Asher belong to different worlds.” I hadn’t understood it then. But at this moment, I finally did. Asher Vance, the golden boy who grew up pampered by everyone, had classism engraved in his very bones. When push came to shove, he would always believe Chloe, the girl from his own social circle. He knew exactly how important a reputation was. He just never believed me from the start. The school bell rang loudly. It blended with Chloe’s quiet giggle. In the chaos of students moving, someone knocked against my desk. I turned around just in time to see the pizza box slide off and hit the floor. The slice of pizza fell face down, sliding across the dusty floor and stopping right at my feet. It was covered in dirt and hair. I stared at it, completely speechless. The last string of my sanity snapped. Asher’s voice was still buzzing in my ear: “If you were short on cash, you could have just asked me. Why do this?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I closed my eyes and shoved him away with all my might. When I looked up, the tears were streaming down my face. “Yes, Asher, my family is poor.” “But I am not a thief!”

The autumn rain was freezing. I sat on the empty bleachers of the football field, holding the dirty pizza box, eating the salvageable pieces in silence. Actually, there wasn’t much left. Most of it had been ruined. Asher walked over, holding an umbrella. His voice was tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing out here in the rain? Drop that food, it’s filthy.” “Maya, did you hear me?” “It’s just a cheap pizza. Is it really worth all this? I’ll buy you whatever you want…” Asher rarely lost his temper with me. Normally, I would have teased him until he apologized. But right now, I just wanted to eat my lunch in peace. I gripped the box tightly, refusing to share his umbrella. Every time Asher took a step closer, I slid a step away. “Are you seriously avoiding me?” For a moment, his face went completely blank. After a second of silence, Asher took a step back. He held the umbrella over my head, letting the freezing rain soak his own shoulders as he stared at me. By the time I took my last bite, the downpour was heavy. Asher finally spoke. “About the bracelet, I’ll handle—” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted him. “I’ll handle it myself.” “I said I’d help you!” Asher’s tone was filled with frustration. “How are you going to handle it? With your pathetic allowance?” Hearing that, I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. “Believe whatever you want.” I carefully closed the empty box, stood up, and walked away. Through the heavy rain, I thought I heard him call my name. But I didn’t look back. After that day, Asher stopped coming to school. That was our very last conversation. Chloe dropped the accusation, but the rumors didn’t stop. The principal adjusted his glasses and told me sternly that he would “look into the matter.” When I walked back into the classroom, some students instinctively clutched their designer bags closer to themselves. I froze at the door. My throat burned. I had studied so hard to get into this elite school, maintaining the top rank in our grade, only to be treated like a common thief. On parent-teacher night, I saw parents pointing at my dad’s back near the school gates, snickering. Their whispers drifted over in the cold wind. “Hey, is that the Miller girl’s dad? I heard his leg got ruined because he got caught stealing…” “Like father, like daughter. No wonder she stole Chloe Sterling’s bracelet.” In the freezing wind, I saw my dad’s shoulders stiffen. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t look my dad in the eye. Whispers are a terrifying thing. Those silent, judging stares felt like a thousand tiny cuts. It was the most excruciating day of my life. When we got home, my dad sat in the dark, smoking in silence for hours. I cried and hugged him. “Dad, I didn’t steal anything. I remembered everything you taught me.” My dad didn’t blame me, nor did he ask for details. He just looked at me after a long silence and asked softly, “Is it because of me… that they blamed you?” In the shadows, he gave me a weak, heartbreaking smile. “I’m sorry, Maya,” his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I made you carry my shame.”

He finally told me the truth about his past. But the truth was, I had always known. I was adopted. “I had no money, and you were so sick back then,” my dad recalled, his eyes filled with a pain that years couldn’t erase. “I tried to borrow from everyone, but we were still a thousand dollars short for your medical bills.” “I was desperate… but a crime is a crime.” “Once you cross that line, the shame sticks to your bones forever. You can never wash it off.” My dad’s voice faded into the night. Finally, he murmured, almost to himself, “If a better man had found you back then… would you be living a better life now?” Shortly after, my dad’s chronic illness flared up badly. Terrified, I took a leave of absence from school. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I just wanted to stay by his hospital bed. But when I came back from buying lunch one afternoon, I saw Chloe standing outside his ward. My heart leaped into my throat. Chloe had met my dad once before. With Asher. Right in front of my dad’s burger truck. I couldn’t remember the details clearly, but I remembered her innocent, disgusted tone. “How can anyone eat from a dirty truck like this?” she had asked me. “Just because you’re used to eating trash doesn’t mean you have to drag Asher down with you.” I remembered Asher taking a bite, his handsome brow furrowing. He chewed twice, and then, as if he couldn’t stand it, he spat it out into a napkin. My dad had stood there in the freezing wind, looking at those rich kids. I had a massive fight with Asher that night. … Pulling myself back to reality, I stared defensively at Chloe. “What do you want?” Chloe smiled warmly. “Maya, if you needed money, you should have just said so. You shouldn’t delay your dad’s treatment.” “We’re classmates, after all. Asher and I won’t just stand by and do nothing.” She slid a debit card toward me. “What is this?” “I know a really great hospital in another state that can treat your dad. I can get him in.” “But… that city is really far from here.” “It must be so exhausting to travel back and forth.” The sterile corridor of the hospital was dead silent. I stared at Chloe for a long time. Suddenly, she smiled. “Do you know why Asher hasn’t been to school lately? He thinks you’re embarrassing. He’s too proud to be associated with a thief.” “You know his temper better than I do, right?” “That’s why I’m the only one here today.” Chloe’s voice was soft, but her words felt like a million needles piercing my heart. The pain came in waves. My eyelashes fluttered. Inside the room, my dad’s ragged coughing sounded like a ticking clock, counting down his life. At that moment, all my pride vanished. The smoke cleared, and only the life-saving card remained in my hand. I needed that money. I squeezed the card tightly in my palm. “Thank you. I’ll transfer schools immediately and move with him.” “I will pay you back every cent. I just need some time.” Chloe chuckled mockingly. “Who cares? Bye, Maya.”

I didn’t tell anyone about the transfer. On a random Tuesday afternoon, we packed our lives and left the city. After moving to the new hospital, my dad’s condition slowly stabilized. Life at the new high school was intense. I ran back and forth between the hospital and our cramped rental apartment. Fortunately, my grades didn’t slip. My dad slowly recovered. During college, I juggled multiple part-time jobs and classes, barely having time to breathe. As for the money I owed Chloe, I sent monthly payments to the account number she had left me. It took me until two years after graduation to fully pay her back. Seven years passed in the blink of an eye. I never expected to run into Asher Vance again. The reunion caught me completely off guard. It happened at a high-end club, where my college friend Lily Carson had dragged me to a party filled with trust-fund kids. Almost everyone there was a wealthy heir or heiress. I hadn’t wanted to go, but Lily had pleaded with me while fixing her makeup. “Come on, Maya! If it weren’t for my rich boyfriend, we’d never get into a place like this.” “Just think of it as a free luxury dinner. Plus, with your looks, you might actually catch a hot millionaire! Just come with me, please?” Lily was my college roommate. I had lost touch with most people after graduation, but we remained close. She was dramatic, but she had a good heart. Unable to say no, I agreed. When we stepped into the private suite, the scent of luxury was overwhelming. It really wasn’t a place for ordinary people like me. But a free meal was fine. Or so I thought, until the door opened. And the first person I saw in the crowd was Chloe Sterling. She had changed a lot in seven years. The childish innocence was gone, replaced by an elegant, sexy charm. I didn’t expect to see her here. And she clearly didn’t expect to see me either. She was so shocked she knocked over her wine glass. The room was noisy, and Lily pushed me inside. Several guys started teasingly asking Lily to introduce me. Chloe stared at me, a slow smirk spreading across her face. “Oh, we’re old friends. I know her well.” The teasing grew louder. “An old friend? Well, don’t keep us waiting, Chloe. Introduce her!” “Oh, I should definitely introduce her properly.” Chloe leaned back in her chair, looking thoughtful. We stared at each other across the crowded room. Then, she smiled maliciously. “So, Maya, should I start with the story of how you stole my diamond bracelet, or should I just start with your name?” The room went dead silent. The smiles on everyone’s faces froze. The looks they gave me instantly turned into suspicion and disgust. The whispers started again. It felt exactly like seven years ago. Chloe’s smirk remained perfectly in place. Lily instantly lost her temper. “What the hell are you talking about? Don’t make things up! Maya would never do that.” Chloe looked at me. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the table—a nervous tic. My eyes fell on the empty seat next to her. The seat in the very center. It was reserved for the most important guest of the night. Chloe was clearly trying to kick me out before that person arrived. I looked at her and smiled. “You’re nervous.” The smile on Chloe’s face vanished. “Whether it was seven years ago or now, my answer is the same.” “I, Maya Miller, have never stolen a thing in my life.” “And about that bracelet…” I stared straight into her eyes. “Did you really lose it, Chloe?”

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My boyfriend, Ethan Vance, is a game developer. It took him eight years to go from drowning in debt to becoming an overnight sensation in the tech world. During our hardest years, I worked a grueling sales job during the day to pay our rent, and spent my nights pulling all-nighters to beta-test his code and find bugs. I only asked him for one thing, just once. “Ethan, can we put a little wooden bench in the corner of Lover’s Cove in the game? We could engrave our initials on it, and maybe add some moonlight and butterflies.” He didn’t even look up from his screen. “Grow up, Clara. That’s childish.” I just nodded and never brought it up again. But last night, right before the game’s official global launch, I was doing one final sweep for bugs when I accidentally stumbled into a hidden map. There were no quests there, no monsters. Just a breathtaking, glowing field of shooting stars and wildflowers. The developer’s note in the code read: “A private sleeping sanctuary for my Little Foxy.” The man who had sneered at my request for being “childish” had spent countless sleepless nights coding a literal fairytale for another woman. I closed my laptop and sat in the dark until the sun came up. Then, I wrote my resignation letter. Eight years. In a map that vast, he couldn’t find room for a single wooden bench for me. Fine. I’m out. I’ll find my own moonlight and butterflies.

“What is this supposed to be?” Ethan frowned, staring at the container of bland instant oatmeal on the table. “You know I’ve been pulling all-nighters and my stomach is messed up. Didn’t you think to cook something proper?” I slowly stirred my own bowl with a plastic spoon, staying silent. “Clara, what is wrong with you lately?” “Do you have any idea how hard I’m working to pitch to investors? Is it really that hard to make me a warm, stomach-soothing breakfast in the morning?” I spoke quietly, my voice flat. “I didn’t sleep last night. I didn’t have time to cook.” Ethan waited, expecting me to jump up and fix him something else like I always did. When I didn’t move, his face darkened. “Are you throwing another tantrum?” Before I could reply, his phone buzzed. It was a custom notification sound. The Snapchat contact read: Foxy. “Ethan, I just finished revising the code and now I can’t sleep. My stomach feels so empty, but I only have coffee here…” Ethan’s thumbs flew across his screen. “Don’t drink coffee on an empty stomach. I’ll order you something warm and sweet right now.” His focus was absolute, the same way he looked when he was coding. He didn’t even notice his own spoon slipping into his untouched oatmeal. I sat opposite him, watching him open DoorDash. Hot Oatmilk Caramel Macchiato, half-sweet, warm, extra caramel drizzle. His order notes were more detailed than his product requirements. Yet, in our eight years together, he could never seem to remember that I drink my Americanos iced. Black. No sugar. I didn’t see what she replied next, but a soft smile spread across Ethan’s face. He stood up, grabbed his untouched breakfast, and threw it straight into the trash. He glanced at me. “Stop acting up. I’ll talk to you after the tech expo. You’ve been emotionally unstable lately. I won’t be coming home tonight.” He grabbed his laptop bag and headed for the door. I put down my spoon. “Are you free next Wednesday?” He pushed the door open, not bothering to look back. “The expo rehearsals are crazy right now. Everything will have to wait until I’m done.” The door clicked shut. I looked at the wall clock. It was exactly 7:00 AM. He wasn’t going to the office this early. I knew where he was going. But it didn’t matter anymore. Next Wednesday was our eighth anniversary. Last year, he promised me we’d take a trip to Sausalito to see the coastal flower fields for this anniversary. This morning, if he had mentioned it even once—even if it was just to apologize and say he was too busy, that we’d have to reschedule—I wouldn’t have given up. I slowly finished my breakfast, sat down at my laptop, and hit send on my resignation email. The HR process would take a few days, so I submitted a PTO request for my remaining days. The reason: Personal travel. Finally, I opened United Airlines and booked a one-way ticket to Sausalito for next Wednesday. When it was done, I let out a long, quiet breath. I closed my laptop and began packing. First were the years of handwritten testing notebooks, then my favorite novels. I packed them neatly into a shipping box. In the living room, the sofa we had visited three different stores to find sat bathed in the morning light. On the balcony stood a half-finished Lego set. We had spent six months on it—he built the head, I built the body. But because of his tight launch schedule, the arms were never attached. I left all of it untouched.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan. “Clara, did you not run the test on last night’s bug patches?” I looked at it, didn’t reply, and kept packing. I didn’t own much. Over the last eight years, to keep our heads above water, I barely bought clothes. Instead, I poured my savings into his startup whenever cash got tight. But that was all in the past now. My phone began vibrating violently. Ethan was calling. The moment I picked up, his irritated voice boomed through the speaker. “Have you lost your mind? You’re dropping everything now?” In the background, I could hear the chaotic clatter of keyboards and someone shouting about a system crash. I didn’t say anything. I zipped up my suitcase. “Are you even listening to me?” “Yes,” I said quietly. Hearing my quiet voice, he assumed I was backing down. His tone turned authoritative again. “Stop whatever you’re doing and get over here to clear these bugs. Chloe is trying to do it, but she’s not as familiar with the system as you are.” Then, Chloe’s soft, sweet voice drifted through the line. “Ethan, don’t be mean to Clara. It’s my fault for being slow. It’s fine, I can just pull an all-nighter to figure it out…” Foxy. The background noise on Ethan’s end quieted. When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably softer. “This is your area of expertise, Clara. If you don’t handle it, who will?” I looked at the spare keys on the entryway table. It felt incredibly absurd. For eight years, I worked a day job to pay our bills and spent my nights debugging his passion project. To him, my sacrifice had simply become my duty. “Ethan,” I said, interrupting him. “I used to do it because I wanted to. Because I loved you.” Before I could finish, his temper flared again. “Clara! The expo is literally tomorrow. Do you seriously have to pick a fight with me now?” Over the line, Chloe chimed in. “Clara, please don’t misunderstand. I really just wanted to help the company…” Ethan cut her off, clearly annoyed. “This has nothing to do with you, Chloe. She’s always like this. Just ignore her for a few days and she’ll get over it.” “If she won’t come, I’ll debug it myself!” He slammed the phone down. I let out a soft laugh. I reached down and slid the simple silver ring off my left ring finger. I’d worn it for five years. I placed it quietly into a small organizer box in the drawer. When the ring left my finger, it left a pale, empty mark. I guess when you wear something for too long, taking it off is bound to hurt a little. Goodbye, Ethan. I’m stepping out of your world. Ethan didn’t come home for days. On the first day, he sent a single text: “Don’t start drama before the expo. It messes with my head.” After that, silence. I saw his post on Instagram later. It was a picture of a conference table covered in coffee cups and empty takeout boxes. His caption: “The final sprint. No one slack off!” Someone commented: “Is the boss living at the office now?” He replied casually: “It beats going home to a nagging girlfriend. So annoying!” To him, I was nothing but a nuisance. I closed Instagram, took my office keycard out of my drawer, and put it in my purse. He had given me this card during the second year of his startup. Back then, I’d rush over right after my day job to help him. He used to tell me that without me, there would be no company. Now, it was time to give it back.

When I reached the office conference room, they were previewing the game’s special Easter egg on the big screen. “Wow, that is beautiful!” someone gasped. I looked through the glass. On the screen, a massive shower of shooting stars was cascading into a mountain of golden wildflowers. The light rolled off the petals like tiny, glowing fireflies. A little fox lay sleeping peacefully inside a cozy treehouse. On the wooden post next to the treehouse, two letters were carved: sc. “You guys don’t get it,” someone teased. “This is Ethan’s private tribute to Chloe.” “I heard Chloe is getting co-creator credit for the art style at the expo.” “Unbelievable. She’s only been here three months and she’s already doing the main panel interview with Ethan.” Laughter echoed through the glass doors. Chloe was sitting right next to Ethan. A delicate silver fox pendant hung around her neck, resting perfectly against her collarbone. She was holding a half-empty cup of taro milk tea. Hearing the teasing, she hid her face behind her cup, but her shoulder leaned conspicuously closer to Ethan. “Stop it, you guys,” she said softly. “I just drew a quick sketch of a fox. I had no idea Ethan would actually build it into the game.” It didn’t sound like a denial. It sounded like a boast. Ethan was looking at the screen. Hearing her, he glanced at her with a relaxed, easy smile. He didn’t explain. He didn’t pull away. In his mind, this wasn’t a big deal. Someone noticed me standing by the door and nudged the person next to them. The laughter in the room quickly died down. Chloe looked up, her fingers tightening around her cup. She pushed the door open and called out in a small voice, “Clara? What are you doing here?” Ethan followed her out, his eyebrows knitting into a tight frown. “Why are you at the office?” He stepped slightly in front of Chloe, almost as if he was shielding her, fearing I might throw her drink at her. I looked past him at the beautiful screen. That flower field had no combat, no grind. Just moonlight, wildflowers, shooting stars. A fairytale made exclusively for someone else. I reached into my bag, pulled out my keycard, and handed it to Ethan. “You can revoke my access now.” Ethan’s frown deepened. “Clara, what is this new stunt?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked toward the elevator. As the doors began to slide shut, I heard Chloe’s quiet voice. “Ethan… maybe you should go after Clara and apologize?” Ethan let out a cold snort. “Let her go. Once she’s done throwing her tantrum, she’ll walk back on her own.” I looked down, slipped my hands into my pockets, and watched the elevator doors close completely.

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My company was hit by a massive PR crisis. I didn’t sleep for seventy-two hours straight. I personally drafted eight different versions of the official statement, coordinated with twenty-three major media outlets, and successfully pushed the trending hashtag down from the number one spot until it vanished completely. At the victory party, our Vice President, Raymond Miller, raised his glass and walked toward Chloe Sterling, our intern. “Chloe did an outstanding job this time! Her full-time contract starts next month, and her salary will be set at the manager level.” Nobody looked at me. After the party, Raymond sent me a private message on WhatsApp: “Claire, you’re highly experienced. Make sure to mentor Chloe more in the future. She’s the daughter of a close friend of our Chairman.” At the exact same time, a recruiter from our biggest rival sent me a message: “Ms. Vance, your company’s recent PR strategy was brilliant. Do you have time for a quick chat?” I took screenshots of both messages and saved them to the same folder on my phone. Then, I replied to the recruiter with just two words: “Anytime.” One month later, the company made the trending topics again. This time, nobody could suppress it.

“The resource database, the media contact list, and the approval authority for the crisis relief fund—all of them must be handed over to Chloe before you clock out today.” Raymond stood in front of the projector screen during our morning meeting. His voice wasn’t loud, but every word felt like a heavy stamp crushing my ID badge. Chloe was sitting at the other end of the long conference table. Just yesterday, she was standing in that exact spot, pouring water for everyone. Today, her chair had been upgraded to one with an ergonomic cushion. “Additionally, after a review by the management team, the original fifteen-thousand-dollar crisis performance bonus for the PR department has been renamed the ‘Bold Innovation Award’ and is hereby awarded to Chloe.” My hands rested flat on my knees. I didn’t move. Twelve colleagues sat on both sides of the table, their eyes fixed on the brand-new Chanel earrings Chloe was wearing. “Raymond,” I spoke up, keeping my voice perfectly steady. “That bonus is clearly written into my contract—” “If you have an issue with your contract, take it up with Legal,” he waved his hand dismissively, not even bother to look at me. “Think of the big picture, Claire. The company needs iron-fisted, aggressive PR right now, not your old-school, emotional-pleading style of begging for forgiveness. Chloe’s bold statement went viral, and the public loved it. That’s what I call professional.” I was the one who wrote all eight versions of that statement. He had rejected versions one through seven. He took the eighth version, put Chloe’s name on it, and published it. Chloe’s sole contribution was changing the very last sentence from “We sincerely apologize and ask for your understanding” to “If you’re not happy, bring it on.” After the meeting, I blocked Raymond at his office door. I opened my phone and showed him the unpaid ICU bill. The red hospital stamp looked like a glaring eye. “My dad has acute pancreatitis. The ICU costs twelve thousand dollars a day. The next round of medication requires an upfront payment of eighty thousand dollars. Raymond, I don’t care about the award anymore. I just want what is rightfully mine under my contract.” He leaned back in his leather chair, picked up my phone with two fingers, and glanced at the screen. “Claire, this company is not a charity.” He pushed the phone back to me, almost sliding it off the desk. “If you’re having financial difficulties, I can have HR approve a hardship grant for you. Three thousand dollars.” Three thousand. The ICU cost twelve thousand a day. “Is that enough?” When he asked that, his eyes were already back on his phone. I folded the medical bill and shoved it into my pocket. During my lunch break, I sat at a folding table in the breakroom, staring at my father’s name on the bill. I had already listened to the doctor’s voicemail three times: “His condition is deteriorating. The family needs to get here as soon as possible.” The door was pushed open. Chloe walked in first, followed by Lily and two other junior specialists. She was playing with a stack of Amazon gift cards in her hand, the diamonds on her nails glittering. “Claire, I ran an audit on these gift cards you bought to maintain our micro-influencers. It’s about forty-eight hundred dollars. Did you pay for all of this out of your own pocket?” “Yes.” “Great. That means these influencers aren’t company assets. I’m going to rebuild the network from scratch anyway.” She began handing the cards out one by one. “One for Lily, one for Ashley, one for Dylan. From now on, we aren’t going to beg anyone to promote us. That’s too pathetic. My strategy is to target top-tier celebrities. The mid-tier ones will come crawling to us on their own.” Lily took the card faster than anyone else. I looked at Lily. “Last year during Marcus’s scandal, who stayed with you at the police station until two in the morning to make sure you were okay?” Lily lowered her eyes, her voice sounding incredibly detached. “Claire, don’t guilt-trip us. If you’re really tight on cash…” Chloe cut in, her voice dripping with a fake, sweet smile, like she was handing me an iced Americano. “I can personally Venmo you two hundred bucks to buy some coffee and soothe your throat. After all, you’ve spent so many years kissing up to the media. Your vocal cords must be exhausted.” The three of them burst into laughter. The sound bounced off the tiled walls of the breakroom. I didn’t say a word. I went back to my desk, opened my resignation checklist on my computer, and checked the boxes one by one. I paused at the very last item. “The Sunflower Support Group.” Five hundred and three members. Three years ago, the company had a major quality control disaster with a line of baby cream, causing severe skin ulcerations in dozens of infants. I had personally handled every single victim, paying out of my own pocket, comforting them, and accompanying them to clinics to bury the scandal. The announcement pinned at the top of the group was written by me on New Year’s Eve: “If you have any issues, tag me. Claire is here. I will always be here.” My finger hovered over the “Leave Group” button. I hesitated for five seconds. Suddenly, two notifications popped up simultaneously. One was an automated text from the hospital: “Your account balance has fallen below the critical limit. Please pay the outstanding balance within forty-eight hours.” The other was from the recruiter: “Claire, our CEO is offering to double your current salary. When are you free for an interview?” I clicked to leave the Snapchat group. A prompt popped up asking me to confirm deleting my admin status. I clicked confirm. Then, I replied to the recruiter with one word: “Tomorrow.”

“Claire, here are your badge and the team roster.” The HR representative at my new company handed me a folder. The badge had our rival brand’s logo on it, with my name and new title printed underneath: “PR Director”. “CEO Ethan Hayes said you have full authority over the team setup. You can report the budget directly to him.” I took the badge and hung it around my neck. The protective film on the back was still intact, shiny and brand new. On my third day, I had my father transferred to the ICU at the top-tier pediatric and general hospital in the city. My signing bonus and my first month’s salary were just enough to cover the deposit. I still had to figure out how to pay for the rest of his treatment. On Monday, the attending physician called me. “Claire, the CT results are back. The tissue necrosis is larger than last time. I highly recommend surgery, but the cost will be around two hundred thousand dollars.” “Let’s proceed with conservative treatment for now,” I said. “I’ll find a way to get the money.” After hanging up, I sat in my new office, staring at a blank Excel sheet. On my fifth day, an intern from the PR department peeked over the cubicle wall. “Claire, did you check YouTube? There’s a video trending right now. It looks like it’s in our industry.” I clicked open YouTube. An account named “Kiki’s Mom Braving the Storm” had posted a series of photos. The baby’s face was covered in horrific red rashes and open sores. The caption was short: “My daughter’s face was ruined three days after using a certain brand’s baby cream. I’m a single mother, and I can’t afford a lawyer. I just want an explanation.” The corner of the cream packaging was visible in the photo. I zoomed in on the image, focusing on the color code and the batch number. It was my old company’s product. The comment section already had over two thousand entries. Some were cursing the brand, some claimed the photos were photoshopped, and others were posting links to my old company’s past scandals. I scrolled down. When I reached the fourth image, my heart skipped a beat. The mother’s profile picture was a sunflower. I knew her. Sarah Jenkins, thirty-one, living in a cramped apartment in a run-down suburb. Three years ago, she was the very first person to stand up and demand justice. I had paid nine thousand dollars of her medical bills out of my own pocket and stayed with her in the pediatric ICU for three nights before she finally agreed not to sue. That five-hundred-member support group had been built around her. Those victims didn’t trust my old company. They didn’t even trust the compensation package. They trusted me. And just a week ago, I had abandoned them. My phone buzzed again. My former colleague Ashley had shared the video on Instagram with the caption: “Chloe said we crush these extortionists on sight.” I put my phone down and closed my eyes for three seconds. Then, I opened my old company’s official website. There was no response yet. But Chloe’s personal Instagram had just been updated with an aesthetic office photo. Her caption read: “Justice will not be silent.” I picked up my phone and dialed Lily’s number. It rang five times before she picked up. “Claire?” Her voice sounded noticeably cold and distant. “Lily, did you see the YouTube video about the baby?” “Yeah. Chloe is already handling it. She says the woman is just trying to scam us—” “She’s not a scammer,” I lowered my voice. “Her name is Sarah Jenkins. She’s the leader of the Sunflower Support Group. Tell Chloe to take down her Instagram post immediately, contact Sarah privately, apologize, and pay her. This is not someone you want to mess with.” The line went silent for a second. Then, I heard a soft, arrogant chuckle. It wasn’t Lily’s. She had me on speakerphone. “Claire, are you so bored at your new job that you have time to monitor our social media?” Chloe’s voice came through the speaker, sounding incredibly smug and lazy. “I’m warning you, Sarah is—” “A single mother living in the slums?” Chloe interrupted me. “Keep your ‘victim worship’ to yourself, Claire. I just came out of a meeting with Legal. We’re going to publicly expose her—” “You can’t do that!” Raymond’s cold sneer came from the background: “Claire, trying to sabotage us just because you got fired? How pathetic.” Then, the line went dead. I stared at the call ended screen and took a deep breath. The new intern poked his head through my door. “Claire, CEO Ethan Hayes wants to know if you’re free for a pitch meeting at three p.m.” “Tell him I’ll be there.” I closed YouTube and flipped my phone face down on the desk. But Chloe’s words kept ringing in my head: “We’re going to publicly expose her.”

“It blew up.” At nine o’clock the next morning, my intern rushed into my office, his face pale. “Claire, your old company’s official account just released a statement. They literally doxxed the single mom—they posted her social security number and her home address.” I stood up instantly and grabbed the tablet from his hands. The statement was long, written in Chloe’s signature condescending tone. Every sentence sounded like a judge handing down a sentence: “Official Statement: The so-called ‘injured baby’ post circulating online is a coordinated extortion attempt by professional scammers. The user ‘Kiki’s Mom’ is Sarah Jenkins, currently unemployed, with a history of extortion. See her detailed identity verification and past police reports below. Our brand will never negotiate with professional scammers—your script is trash!” My fingers clamped tightly around the edges of the tablet. The so-called “history of extortion” was actually from three years ago, when Sarah had protested outside the company headquarters. Security had called the police, and a report was filed. I was the one who went to the station to bail her out back then. The comment section had turned into an absolute bloodbath. Half the people were calling Sarah a liar, while the other half were blasting the company for violating her privacy. The hashtag was sitting at number four on the trending charts, with views climbing past two hundred million. But Chloe didn’t care about justice. She just wanted to look like a winner. The company’s official account immediately posted a second update—a photo of Chloe standing in the office with her hands on her hips, smiling confidently. The caption read: “Protecting the brand with an iron fist. No exceptions.” The post received over twenty thousand retweets in fifteen minutes. “And look at this,” the intern handed me his phone. It was Raymond’s Instagram. A long-form post, over a thousand words, titled: “Weakness is the Cancer of the PR Industry—To My Former Colleagues.” He didn’t mention my name, but every single paragraph was a direct attack on my working style: “There is a type of PR professional whose first instinct during a crisis is to kneel. They kneel to clients, they kneel to the media, and they kneel to so-called ‘victims.’ They treat the company’s dignity like a doormat, only to invite more greedy extortionists.” “Real PR should be like Chloe Sterling—fearless and uncompromising. Let the world know we aren’t afraid.” At the bottom of the post was a screenshot of the company’s live stream: one hundred and eighty thousand concurrent viewers, with real-time sales exceeding three million dollars. Chloe’s personal account was also updated with the hashtag #TheFearlessPRQueen. Her comment section was flooded with hundreds of fans chanting, “You’re so badass, queen!” My old company’s stock rose by two percent that afternoon. At two p.m., I called Lily again. This time, she didn’t pick up. I sent her a text message: “Lily, releasing Sarah’s private information is illegal. More importantly, the five hundred mothers in the Sunflower group are watching. You have no idea what that group represents.” It was marked as read. No reply. Five minutes later, Lily posted a photo on Instagram from the company lobby. It was a picture of Chloe posing with her hands on her hips, captioned: “Following the right leader, doing the right thing.” Chloe liked the post instantly. I leaned back in my chair. I was doing a simple math equation in my head—five hundred and three angry mothers, whose rage I had personally pacified for three long years. Who was going to block them now? The answer was nobody. Chloe was standing on top of the dam I had built with my blood, sweat, and tears, taking selfies for Instagram. She had absolutely no idea what was beneath her feet. At eight p.m., Ethan Hayes invited me to dinner. Halfway through the meal, he looked at my expression and asked: “Your old company’s statement is causing quite a stir. What do you think?” “They are going to crash,” I said. “How bad?” I set my fork down. “Bad enough to watch their stock dive off a cliff.”

“Claire, are you just jealous of Chloe?” Lily’s voice note finally came through the next morning. Her tone carried that distinct, arrogant snobbishness of someone who had just secured a powerful new backer. “Ever since you left, our livestream sales have tripled. Chloe was even interviewed on local TV last night. Did you see it at your new company? Haha.” I opened my old company’s official page. The pinned video was indeed Chloe’s TV interview. Dressed in a sharp white suit, she spoke confidently to the camera: “Our brand’s stance can be summed up in two words: no compromise. People who think they can extort hundreds of thousands of dollars from us with a fake social media post won’t get a single cent.” The host nodded in agreement. The top comment with forty-three thousand likes read: “This is what brand backbone looks like! The old PR director only knew how to kneel and beg. Now that we have new talent, we finally see real strength.” The second comment: “Chloe is so cool! I just ordered three skincare sets.” I closed the video. The post was tagged with #ZeroToleranceForScammers. Sarah’s original YouTube video had been shadowbanned by the platform, with only a few hundred comments left fighting for her. People were telling her to “go back to the slums” and threatening to report her for fraud. Her profile picture had gone gray. Her last update from eleven o’clock last night read: “I just wanted justice for my daughter.” Zero shares. Three comments, all of them abusive. I turned off my phone, sat in my office, and watched the second hand of the clock spin. Our intern knocked on the door again. “Claire, their livestream just hit number one in the beauty category. Our marketing department is asking if we should launch a counter-campaign.” “No need.” “But—” “Just wait.” He left, looking thoroughly confused. Wait for what? Wait for those five hundred and three mothers to realize their group admin was no longer there to hold them back. Wait for Chloe to realize that what she had thrown into the fire wasn’t a “professional scammer,” but a live grenade. On the third day after the statement, everything seemed peaceful. The company’s daily livestream sales broke five million dollars. Chloe signed two major endorsement deals, and Raymond sent out a massive bonus in the company group chat with the caption: “A New Era.” Then came the fourth day, at two in the morning. I was awakened by my phone buzzing furiously. It was a message from Ashley. No greeting, no introduction, just a link and four words: “We’re done for, Claire.” I clicked the link. It was a live stream. The viewer count was jumping by hundreds of people per second, already hitting four hundred thousand. A woman was sitting in front of the camera. Her hair was cut short, and the dark circles under her eyes looked like they had been painted on with ink. The wall behind her was plastered with printed medical certificates, diagnostic reports, and photos of her daughter’s face. She was holding a little girl in her arms, whose face was wrapped in thick medical gauze, leaving only her eyes visible. It was Sarah Jenkins. Her voice was raspy, sounding far older than I remembered. “They said I’m a liar. They said my baby is an actor.” She held up a thick stack of papers. “These are hospital records. Eight hospitalizations, fourteen outpatient visits. All with the exact same diagnosis—extensive skin ulceration caused by severe contact dermatitis from their baby cream.” The camera zoomed in. The official seals on the medical reports were crystal clear. The live chat exploded. “If I’m a scammer, are these official hospital records fake too?” She picked up an old leather folder and opened it. Inside were page after page of bank transfer records. — Recipient: Sarah Jenkins. Sender: Claire Vance. — Memo: Kiki’s Medical Subsidies. — Timeframe: Three years. Amounts ranging from two thousand to twenty thousand dollars. The chat was moving so fast it became a blur: “Who the hell is Claire Vance?!” “I think she’s the former PR Director—the one they accused of ‘kneeling to work’!” “The company refused to pay, so she paid out of her own pocket?!” Sarah closed the folder and stared at the camera for a long, silent moment. “The only person who actually helped us was forced out of the company. Her replacement doxxed me, leaked my social security number, and let the internet tear me apart.” She looked down at the child in her arms, her voice breaking for a second. When she spoke again, she sounded like she was addressing five hundred invisible allies: “Mothers, it’s time.” I stared at the screen, my palms sweating. In that single second, the viewer count jumped from four hundred thousand to nearly a million. Because five hundred and three mothers had shared the link at the exact same moment.

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The billionaire heir of Sterling Enterprises, Julian Sterling, was caught having a steamy hookup in the backseat of a car! As the internet erupted in fury, Julian called a sudden press conference and announced to the world: “The woman in the video is my fiancée, Chloe Henderson. It’s completely normal for a couple to have intimate moments. I hope everyone can give us some space.” With that single sentence, I was branded as “thirsty,” “shameless,” and “loose.” Fans abandoned me overnight. Brands canceled my contracts. Endless black-PR flooded the internet. No matter how much I screamed my innocence, nobody believed me. Ultimately, unable to withstand the relentless cyberbullying, I swallowed a lethal dose of sleeping pills. At my funeral, Julian stood before my portrait, whispering with hypocritical grief: “I’m sorry, Chloe. We had an arranged marriage… I had to let you take the fall.” “Gemma is just an ordinary girl. If a scandalous video like that got out with her name on it, she would have been destroyed.” “But you’re a top star. You’re used to being hated. I thought you could handle it… I didn’t expect you to be so weak.” “Just look at this as our sacrifice. I promise I’ll make it up to you in our next life.” After my death, he rebranded Gemma Brooks, launching her career as a rising star with endless premium resources. Meanwhile, my parents fell into severe depression from the endless harassment and passed away shortly after. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the morning of Julian’s press conference.

“Oh my god! Did you hear? The heir of Sterling Enterprises was caught hooking up with some girl in the backseat of his car in the basement parking lot!” “Are you serious? Today is the launch party for the movie his family funded. With so many industry insiders here, that’s just insane!” “Who is the shameless slut? Creeping into his car at an event like this? How cheap!” Representatives, producers, and actors scrambled toward the parking lot to catch a glimpse of the drama. A black Maybach sat with its door slightly ajar. Victoria Sterling stood nearby, her face pale with rage, flanked by two executives from entertainment companies allied with Sterling Enterprises. Inside the car, a woman was disheveled, wrapped tightly in Julian’s suit jacket as he held her protectively in his arms. She was trembling in his embrace. Beneath the jacket, her bare legs and ankles bore obvious, flush-red marks. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had just happened. Julian held her tight, his voice low but loud enough for the onlookers to hear: “Mom, this is all my fault. It has nothing to do with Chloe!” “Chloe and I were about to announce our relationship anyway. I just couldn’t help myself tonight… please, support us.” “Don’t be scared, Chloe. I’ll call a press conference tomorrow and make our relationship official.” The moment those words left his mouth, the crowd on the edge of the parking lot went wild. “What? Chloe Henderson? She’s the female lead of this movie!” “If this gets out, her agent is going to lose their mind. Her sponsorships are done for!” “Doesn’t she always play up that ‘innocent, sweet girl-next-door’ image? Who knew she was so wild in private?” “Please. How do you think she got those top-tier roles? She slept her way to the top.” “Once her fans find out, they’re going to riot.” While the gossip was reaching a fever pitch, I casually pushed my way through the crowd, looking perfectly confused and curious. “Hey, guys. What’s everyone crowding around here for?” Everyone whipped their heads around. A collective gasp echoed through the garage. “Chloe Henderson?! Why are you here?!” “Aren’t you supposed to be in the car?” “If you’re out here… then who the hell is in the car?!” In an instant, every single eye locked back onto Julian and the trembling girl in his arms. I looked over, and Julian’s face instantly drained of all color. He never expected me to be here. Yesterday, I had told him I wouldn’t make it to the launch party because of an overseas shoot. Yet here I was, standing before him, wearing flawless makeup and a stunning gown. In my past life, I was shooting a commercial abroad when this happened. By the time I found out, Julian’s bots had already pushed the headline “Top Star Chloe Henderson Caught in Backseat Scandal with Billionaire Heir” to the number one trending spot. By the time I tried to clear my name, no one believed a word I said. This time, I had rearranged my entire schedule just for this moment. I was going to rip off his hypocritical mask in front of everyone.

I stared at the scene inside the car, my face turning pale as if I were in deep shock. My voice trembled: “Julian…? What… what are you doing? And who is this girl?” Beside me, my close friend Mia Crawford—a legendary actress with massive clout in the industry—let out a cold laugh. “Oh, you’re finally here, Chloe. This bastard Julian just claimed the girl in his arms was you, and he even promised to announce your relationship tomorrow to save your ‘reputation’!” I took a step forward, pointing at the woman in the car who still didn’t dare to show her face. “She is Chloe Henderson? Julian, what is the meaning of this? Why are you slandering me in front of all these people?!” “Do you have any idea how important a female artist’s reputation is in this industry?” “If I hadn’t shown up tonight, would I have been branded a slut for the rest of my life?!” “Julian, I have never done anything to hurt you. Why are you trying to destroy me?!” Victoria Sterling’s face was now as black as charcoal. Julian stammered, scrambling for words: “Chloe… didn’t you say you had an overseas shoot? That you couldn’t make it tonight?” I immediately raised my voice, making sure every single person in the garage could hear me clearly: “So, because you knew I wouldn’t be here, you decided to throw this dirt on me?!” “Who is this girl? Why are you two conspiring to ruin me? Why did you call her by my name in front of everyone? What is your sick plan?!” “If Mia hadn’t known my schedule and insisted on driving me here to make a quick appearance, I would have had absolutely no way to clear my name!” Flustered, Julian tried to backpedal: “No, Chloe, that’s not it… I just… I just said your name because I panicked. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you…” I stopped looking at him and turned to Victoria Sterling. My expression softened into pure, vulnerable grief. “Mrs. Sterling, you watched me grow up in this industry. Please, you have to do what’s right.” “My team and my parents are currently out of the country. I have no one here to defend me.” “Mrs. Sterling, for the sake of the long friendship between your family and my mother, please help me.” I bowed my head, looking like I was about to break down. Several prominent female producers and brand executives immediately rushed forward to support me. “Don’t worry, Chloe. We are veterans in this industry. We won’t let you be bullied.” Eleanor Thorne, the powerful head of Galaxy Pictures, spoke up in a commanding tone: “Mrs. Sterling, your son committed this disgusting act and then tried to destroy the reputation of an A-list actress to cover it up.” “Don’t you think the Sterling family owes Chloe, and all of us here, a proper explanation?” Mia immediately backed me up, pulling out her phone. “Don’t be scared, Chloe. I’m calling the editors-in-chief of the major media outlets right now. This needs to be cleared up tonight! Nobody is throwing dirt on you and getting away with it!” Victoria Sterling knew that if this wasn’t handled perfectly, it would deal a fatal blow to Sterling Enterprises’ stock. She stepped forward, tightly grasping my hands, her voice dripping with urgent reassurance. “My dear girl, you have been deeply wronged tonight. This is all Julian’s fault, and I will make sure he begs for your forgiveness.” “He must have lost his goddamn mind, getting seduced by some cheap trash!” She whipped around, glaring at her bodyguards. “What are you idiots standing there for?! Drag that little slut out of the car! I want to see exactly who had the audacity to pull this stunt!” At her command, several bulky bodyguards lunged forward to drag the woman out.

It was Gemma Brooks—a rookie actress who had just signed with Sterling Enterprises, the very girl the company was planning to heavily promote. Gemma let out a sharp shriek, falling weakly to the ground, sobbing, “Julian, save me!” Before anyone could react, she scrambled on her hands and knees toward Victoria Sterling, grabbing her leg and begging desperately: “Mrs. Sterling, please believe me! I didn’t seduce Julian… we… we love each other!” “Please, let me stay by his side. I don’t need a title! Even if I’m just his assistant, I’ll be happy!” Victoria was shaking with rage. She kicked Gemma off her leg and roared: “Shut up! Who gave you permission to call me that? You are nothing but a low-tier girl signed to my company. I only gave you a chance because I thought you had potential and heard your family was struggling. How dare you pull this trashy stunt?!” With that, she raised her hand and delivered a brutal slap across Gemma’s face. “As of today, your contract is terminated. You are banned from this industry, and you will have absolutely nothing to do with the Sterling family ever again!” Seeing this, Julian panicked. “Mom! Why are you doing this? Gemma is just an independent girl with no backing. Where is she supposed to go if you fire her? It was my fault. I had too much to drink and lost control…” “Mom, please let her stay. Even… even if she just stays with me.” Victoria took a deep breath, completely ignoring her pathetic son, and grabbed my hand with a warm, fake smile. “Chloe, look at this mess… You are the only one the Sterling family recognizes as our future daughter-in-law, the future lady of Sterling Enterprises.” “I’ll let you decide what to do with this girl. We will do whatever you want.” I sneered inwardly. They wanted to dump this toxic garbage fire into my lap? In their dreams! In my past life, they hooked up and threw the blame on me, leaving me ruined and dead. Meanwhile, they enjoyed wealth, fame, and a happy life together. Not this time. I gently but firmly pulled my hands back, taking a step away from her. “Mrs. Sterling, other than potential business collaborations, I have no personal relationship with the Sterling family. Let’s not throw around terms like ‘future daughter-in-law’ or ‘future lady of Sterling Enterprises’.” “As for Gemma, she is an artist under your company who has crossed professional boundaries with Julian. Her fate should be decided by you, her boss, or by Julian’s actual future girlfriend.” “I am merely a guest invited to tonight’s launch party. I have no right to interfere with your company’s internal affairs, nor do I have any interest in Julian’s private life.” Julian panicked, his voice rising in frustration. “Chloe! I apologized for calling out your name earlier! But we both know our families are social matches. An arranged marriage is inevitable anyway. It shouldn’t matter if people think it was you. I was fully planning on taking responsibility and marrying you!” “But Gemma is different! She’s a helpless girl. If this scandal gets out, she’s done! Her career will be ruined! How is she supposed to survive?!” Before he could finish his pathetic speech, I stepped forward and delivered a swift, hard slap across his face. “SLAP!” The entire garage fell into a stunned silence.

My voice shook with righteous fury as I interrogated him: “Her career matters, but my reputation and future can be casually trampled on?!” “I built my career brick by brick with my own hard work! My fans and my projects brought me here! You know how vicious the media is, yet you slandered me in front of everyone just to save yourselves. Were you trying to force me to commit suicide?!” “Furthermore, when did the Henderson family or my studio ever agree to an arranged marriage with the Sterlings? I have never promised you anything! Our families haven’t even had basic discussions about it! How dare you try to force this narrative on me?!” “Just because I told you yesterday that I couldn’t make it to the party, you thought you could play this sick game because I ‘wouldn’t be here’ to defend myself!” “You wanted to destroy me! Expect a lawsuit from my lawyers. I will see you in court!” With that, I turned around to leave. The whispers among the guests erupted instantly. “Oh my god, Julian is disgusting… He got caught with a rookie and tried to use Chloe as a shield?” “Chloe is so unlucky to be targeted by such a toxic, spoiled rich kid.” “Thank God she showed up tonight. Otherwise, the headlines tomorrow would have destroyed her, and she would have never been able to clear her name!” Eleanor Thorne quickly held me, and I leaned onto her shoulder, letting fake tears slip down my face. “If Mia hadn’t forced me to come tonight… I… I would have been ruined forever!” “They only did this because my parents are abroad. They think I’m easy to bully because I’m on my own!” Julian held his bruised cheek, looking incredibly desperate. “Chloe, why are you being so dramatic? Our families have so many business partnerships. Marriage is good for both of us… I admitted I was wrong! I only did it because I knew I was going to marry you anyway.” “Even if you had to take a little hit to your reputation temporarily, we would end up together. I would have made it up to you.” “But now you’ve ruined everything! How is Gemma supposed to show her face again?!” I snapped my head back, cutting him off with icy disdain: “You got caught in a trashy backseat scandal with your employee, tried to use my name to cover it up, and now you have the nerve to blame me?” “Let me make this crystal clear, Julian Sterling: I will never, under any circumstances, have any relationship with you or Sterling Enterprises outside of basic, mandated business contracts! Stop dreaming!” Victoria Sterling’s face turned completely cold. She stepped up, using her intimidating presence as a powerful business matriarch. “Chloe, watch your words. High-society marriages and corporate partnerships are not something a young actress like you can simply dismiss on a whim.” She was trying to use her status and background to crush me. But the moment she finished her threat, a powerful, booming voice echoed from the back of the crowd, shattering her intimidation: “The Sterling family thinks they can humiliate my daughter just because we aren’t in the country?!”

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My lab partner was the ultimate genius in everyone’s eyes. And I was always stuck in second place. She slept through AP classes and played League of Legends all night, yet she always aced every exam to secure the top spot in our grade. I studied until 2 AM every single night, only to lose to her by a single point on the GPA rankings every semester. People constantly mocked me. “What’s the point of grinding so hard? You still can’t beat someone who literally naps through midterms.” “Some people just have the cheat codes. You don’t.” I swallowed those bitter words for six long years. Until one month before the SATs, she dragged me up to the school rooftop garden and said with a smug smile, “I’m going to tell you a secret.” “For six years, Aria, I’ve been able to hear every single thought in your head.” “Every formula you calculate, I write down. Every wrong answer you cross out, I follow suit. You’ve been taking all my exams for me.” “Now that I’ve secured my early-admission nomination to Harvard, you’re officially useless to me.” Before I could even process her words, she shoved me hard. I fell backward off the roof. The blinding pain consumed me as I plummeted to my death, my eyes wide with betrayal. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the spring semester of junior year. I looked over and saw her face-down on the desk next to me, napping. I couldn’t help but smirk. On the day of the first unit test, she leaned back in her chair, waiting to tune into my brain waves. I opened my exam paper and lowered my head. “Dit, dah, dit-dit-dah, dah-dah-dit…” Her hand holding the pencil froze. Color drained from her face, inch by inch. I kept writing. But I didn’t think of a single actual number. Just rhythmic static. Just Morse code. She panicked. Leaning over, she whispered, “What the hell are you thinking about?” I didn’t even look up. “The answers. Can’t you hear them?”

When I opened my eyes, my fingers were tightly gripping a pilot pen. Spread out on my desk was the AP Calculus unit test paper. In the name block, “Aria Vance” was written in bold ink. Our proctor, Mr. Carter, tapped on the smartboard at the front of the room. “The exam starts in five minutes. Clear your desks of any non-permitted materials.” I turned my head to the left. Chloe Sterling was leaning back in her chair, her head tilted, sporting that signature smug smile I had endured for six years. Her eyes were half-closed, her long lashes casting a shadow under the classroom LED lights. She looked completely relaxed. I knew that smile all too well. In my past life, she wore that exact same expression during every single exam. And now, here I was, sitting right next to her again. She was in her usual pose, waiting to intercept my brain waves. I stared at her for three seconds, squeezed my pen hard, and then let out a slow breath. “You may begin,” Mr. Carter announced. I flipped open my test booklet and took a deep breath. All the clear numbers and formulas that had run through my head for six years shattered into meaningless, broken signals. Chloe’s hand holding the pencil froze. The smile on her face stiffened. She scribbled a few words on a scrap piece of paper and slid it over. [Why aren’t you reading them out in your head?] I glanced at the note, pushed it right back, and didn’t write a single letter in response. She snapped her head to look at me, her eyes wide with shock. I ignored her. She didn’t move a muscle during the rest of the math test. The second the bell rang and Mr. Carter collected the papers, she sprang up from her seat and grabbed my wrist. Her grip was incredibly tight. Her manicured nails dug deep into the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. Her eyes were bloodshot. “What were you thinking about? Why couldn’t I hear a single thing?!” I pried her fingers off my wrist, one by one. I looked straight into her eyes and let out a cold laugh. “The answers.” “Couldn’t you hear them?”

Chloe stamped her foot in frustration, but she couldn’t find a single word to argue back. Three days later, the midterm rankings were posted on the corkboard in the main hallway. When I walked toward the classroom, a huge crowd of students was gathered around the board. Complete silence hung over them. Zach Miller stood at the very front, his neck stretched out like a giraffe. His mouth was wide open, and the Starbucks breakfast wrap in his hand grew cold, completely forgotten. I walked up and glanced at the sheet. The very first line read: “Aria Vance, Rank: 1.” The name on the second line wasn’t Chloe Sterling. It was Ryan Cross from the honors class. Chloe’s name was buried all the way down on page four. “Rank: 142.” The crowd stood frozen for three full seconds before the hallway erupted. “Chloe ranked 142? No freaking way. Is there a glitch in the grading system?” “Aria, how did you do that? You finally got first place!” “Wait, didn’t you always lose to Chloe by just one point? The tables have turned!” Zach turned around to look at me, his breakfast wrap still hovering in mid-air. “Aria, you beat Chloe by like, a hundred points. How did you pull this off?” I looked at his wrap and smirked. “With a pen. How else would I do it?” Zach blinked, dumbfounded, while a few girls nearby burst out laughing. Then, a sharp voice cut through the noise from behind me. “Get out of my way.” Chloe threw her backpack onto Zach’s desk and shoved her way through the crowd, her shoulder slamming into a guy’s back. She stood in front of the ranking sheet, motionless. Her eyes scanned the very first line, paused on my name, and then dragged down to the fourth page to find her own. The color completely drained from her face. It wasn’t a look of sadness; it was the look of someone who had been violently dragged down from a high pedestal. She snapped her head toward me, her chin tilted up, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Aria. Outside. Now.” I leaned casually against the wall next to the corkboard. “The rankings are right here. If you have something to say, say it here.” Her eyes flickered, scanning the lingering crowd. “Get out here.” Leaving those words behind, she walked out first, leaning against the doorframe of the empty hallway, her fingers tapping impatiently against the wood. When I walked out, she straightened up. “Let’s go to the stairwell.” We walked into the quiet stairwell, and she turned on me. “How did you get that score?” I leaned against the handrail. “Didn’t you just stare at the board for ten minutes? First line, first spot. That’s my name.” Chloe slammed her Starbucks cup onto the windowsill. “I’m not asking about your score! I’m asking how the hell you got first place!” “I wrote the exam. That’s how.” “Stop playing dumb!” Her voice suddenly escalated, echoing in the concrete stairwell. She slammed her palm on the windowsill, making her drink wobble and spill a few drops. “I couldn’t hear a single one of the multiple-choice questions for math! What the hell was that ticking sound in your head?!” I tilted my head and locked eyes with her, a cold smile playing on my lips. “What goes on in my head is none of your business. Besides… how would you know about any ticking sound?” Chloe’s lips parted, but she choked on her own words. She couldn’t admit it. In my past life, she was so smug on that rooftop. But now, she didn’t even dare to repeat those words. “Don’t think you’ve won just because of one lucky test,” she hissed, trying to regain her composure. “I’ve been number one in this school for six years. Everyone knows I’m the genius here.” “You getting first place just looks like a fluke.” I stood up straight and adjusted the strap of my backpack. “Then go ahead and take the top spot back on the next exam.” “Aren’t you the genius? Surely a genius isn’t scared of one bad unit test.” “Do it yourself next time. Show everyone that you, Chloe Sterling, don’t rely on luck.” Chloe’s lips trembled. She bit her straw so hard it completely deformed. “Fine. Just you wait.” She kicked the heavy fire door open, letting it slam loudly against the wall. I called out to her retreating back: “Make sure you actually bubble in your answer sheet next time. Don’t leave it blank again.” Chloe paused for a fraction of a second, her shoulders rigid, before she walked away without looking back.

For the next two weeks, Chloe actually opened her textbooks. She stopped sleeping in class. She stopped playing games during study hall. Instead, she sat with a sophomore math textbook open in front of her. I glanced at the page she was struggling with—quadratic inequalities. Material from the first semester of sophomore year. She had been staring at that single page for ten minutes, her pencil tracing random circles on her scratch paper. In our past life, she sat in that exact same spot while my brain ran through the entire derivation of those inequalities. She had simply closed her eyes, leaned back, and copied my mental steps line by line. She never took notes from the board. She never borrowed my binders. She only had to close her eyes to get an A+. But now, all she could hear in her ears was “dit-dah-dit”. I lowered my head and went back to my own study guide, letting out a very faint, amused sigh. She heard it. She whipped her head around instantly. “What’s so funny?” I put down my pen and met her gaze. “I just solved a tough problem. I’m in a good mood. Is that a crime?” “Why do you keep staring at me lately anyway? Do I have the answers written on my face?” Chloe’s gaze went icy. She pressed her lips together and turned back to stare at the sophomore math page. During AP Physics on Wednesday, the teacher called on Chloe to solve a mechanics problem on the board—a basic block-sliding-on-an-incline problem. Sophomore-level stuff. Chloe walked up to the whiteboard, spinning the dry-erase marker nervously in her fingers. She wrote “F=ma” on the right side, paused for two seconds, and squeaked the eraser over it. Then she wrote a force decomposition formula, only to erase half of it again. The classroom started whispering. “Isn’t this a total freebie question?” “It’s just sophomore force diagrams. You just draw the vectors and you’re done.” “Why can’t Chloe solve this? She used to ace physics.” I leaned back against the desk behind me, crossing my arms as I watched her. Chloe stood at the board for almost three minutes. She wrote three different formulas and erased them all. The whiteboard was now just a smear of black ink. Her hand started to shake. The marker squeaked loudly against the board, the tip bending under her pressure. She tossed the marker into the tray. “Mr. Harris, I don’t feel like solving this.” Mr. Harris adjusted his glasses, his fingers freezing over his grading binder. “Chloe, what is going on with you lately? First the midterms, now this. Your physics grades used to be flawless.” “I’m just not feeling well, Mr. Harris.” She walked straight back to her seat and buried her face in her arms on the desk. She bumped the corner of the desk as she sat down, sending her pencil rolling onto the floor. Nobody picked it up for her. I leaned back in my chair, looking down at the rolling pencil, then at the back of her head buried in her arms. The second the bell rang, she lifted her head and glared at me. “You were laughing again, weren’t you?” I closed my textbook and turned to face her. “You’ve asked me that twice today, Chloe.” “Maybe instead of worrying about whether I’m laughing, you should focus on your work. You haven’t even finished that sophomore inequality chapter, have you?” The girl sitting in front of us turned around to peek, then quickly turned back. Chloe’s nostrils flared, her eyes wide with rage. “Aria, don’t get too cocky.” I crossed my arms and smiled. “I’m not. I’ve just never seen a ‘genius’ who can’t even draw a basic physics force diagram.” “You used to beat me by one point on every single test. You were the genius, and I was always second.” “So why didn’t you show us your genius on the board today? Your erased scribbles are still up there. Want to go back up and finish them?” Chloe slammed her hands on the desk and stood up, her chair screeching against the floor. The classroom went dead silent. A dozen students turned to look at her. Ignoring them, she bent down, bringing her face close to my ear, and whispered through gritted teeth: “You think you can ruin me with those stupid ticking sounds? I have a million ways to make sure you never recover from this. Just wait.” Her voice was so low only the two of us could hear. I tilted my face, looked into her eyes, and smiled. “Go ahead and try.” “But next time Mr. Harris calls you to the board, make sure you don’t use the ‘sick’ excuse again.” “Do it too often, and people might actually think you’re brain-dead.” Fuming, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of the classroom. While I was filling my water bottle at the cooler, Zach jogged up and tapped my shoulder. “Aria, what is going on between you and Chloe? You guys used to be so chill. You in second, her in first.” I pressed the button on the water dispenser. “Zach, let me ask you a question.” “How do you think someone who sleeps in class and plays video games all day manages to beat me by exactly one point, every single time?” Zach scratched the back of his head. “Talent? I mean, everyone says she’s a genius.” I took a sip of my water. “A genius who can’t even draw a force diagram? A basic sophomore question, and she couldn’t write a single correct line.” Zach froze, his mouth hanging open. I patted his shoulder. “Pay close attention next physics class. Let’s see how many lines she can write then.”

On Friday afternoon during homeroom, Mr. Carter stood at the podium. “Next Monday is the midterm exam. The results will be factored into the early-admission evaluation. Those of you hoping for the Harvard nomination need to lock in.” His eyes swept over our side of the room. Chloe sat up straight, her chin lifting once again. She was incredibly sensitive about the Harvard nomination. Six years of being rank one was supposed to guarantee that spot for her. But that was in my past life. Right now, her name was sitting at rank 142. After class, Chloe walked over to my desk, leaning down to whisper: “You better start thinking normally during the midterms. That Harvard nomination is mine.” I put my pen down and looked up at her. “If you’re so smart, what are you panicking for?” “Besides, for six years when I was stuck in second, I never came to your desk begging you to ‘think normally.’” Chloe’s eyes turned dangerously cold. She was leaning so close I could see her eyelashes trembling with rage. I leaned back and met her gaze without flinching. “Aria, stop playing with me. You know exactly how I got those scores.” I stood up, pushing my chair back, standing face-to-face with her. We were barely inches apart. “And you know exactly how you got them, too.” “Six years, Chloe. Did you really think I’d just keep quiet forever?” “Well, the forever ends now.” Chloe didn’t reply, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. She didn’t dare make a scene in a crowded classroom. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked past her. “Let’s let the exam sheets do the talking, Chloe.” The next morning during study hall, Zach pulled me into the hallway near the water cooler, looking around suspiciously. “Aria, Chloe’s telling everyone in class that you cheated on the unit test. She says you got the test papers in advance because you have a relative in the district office.” I closed my vocabulary binder. “I got the papers in advance? Then why the hell would I have stayed in second place for six years?” “If I had the cheat codes, why would I choose to be second? Do I look stupid to you?” Zach blinked. “Right… if you had the papers, why wouldn’t you just take first place earlier?” “But she claims you told her yourself.” I scoffed. “She claims? Tell her to show the receipts. Chat logs, audio recordings, notes—literally anything. Can she?” Zach swallowed hard. I tucked my binder under my arm and took a sip of water. “Zach, use your brain before you help her spread this garbage.” “She dropped from rank one to 142. Instead of explaining her own pathetic drop, she accuses me of cheating.” “Does that sound logical to you?” Zach stood there, his brow furrowing. As I walked back to class, Chloe happened to be walking toward me, holding a stack of physics homework binders. She paused when she saw me, her chin tilting up. “What were you telling Zach?” I didn’t stop. “Asking him if you’ve finished your sophomore physics homework.” Chloe gripped the binders so hard the cardboard edges bent. “Cut the crap. You were talking about the midterm cheat rumors, weren’t you?” I stopped and turned around, a mocking smile on my face. “Which rumors? The one where you fell to 142, or the one where you’re crying ‘cheater’ because you can’t cope?” “Chloe, you’ve been spreading lies about me all week. I didn’t even come after you, and yet you’re putting yourself in my face.” The hallway went quiet. Several students stopped talking and looked over. Chloe’s chin was up, but her voice was low and strained. “Don’t get too cocky.” “I’m not. I’m just asking for receipts. If you’re going to accuse me of cheating, show the proof. Otherwise, shut your mouth.” “Just wait,” she hissed, clutching the binders tightly as she stormed off. During the next break, Chloe was still whispering to a group of guys, claiming I only stayed in second place before because “I was scared of getting caught,” and that I “couldn’t help but show off” this time. Hearing this from Zach, I slammed my prep book onto the desk and stood up. Zach tried to grab my sleeve. “Aria, what are you doing?” “Clearing my name.” I walked straight to the front of the classroom and clapped my hands twice. The chatter died down. Forty pairs of eyes locked onto me. “Some people think my first-place score was a fluke or that I leaked the test papers.” “Fine. Let’s settle this right now. I want our math teacher to write three random advanced calculus problems on the board. Right now.” “If I get even one step wrong, I’ll admit I cheated.” The room was dead silent for five seconds. Then someone in the back whistled, and Zach muttered, “Holy shit.” Chloe was sitting by the window in the third row. Her knuckles were white from gripping her textbook. Mrs. Gable, the math teacher, adjusted her glasses, stood up, and took a piece of chalk. She wrote three complex problems on the board. When she finished, she put the chalk down. “These are from a college-level prep syllabus. I haven’t even taught these yet.” I grabbed a piece of chalk, walked up to the board, and wrote out the step-by-step derivations for all three problems without hesitation. I tossed the chalk back into the tray, wiped my hands, and turned around. “All three are done.” “If anyone still thinks I cheated, come up here and check the math.” Nobody said a word. Zach sat in the back row, his jaw practically on his desk. A few girls in the front row started whispering. “They’re all correct… and Mrs. Gable literally just made them up.” As I walked back to my seat, Chloe suddenly bolted upright. She stood there, her chin high, staring at me with pure venom. “Who’s to say you and Mrs. Gable didn’t plan this? Maybe she showed you these problems beforehand!” The classroom went even quieter. You could hear a pin drop. Mrs. Gable’s face darkened, her grading pen halting mid-air. “Chloe, I drafted these questions on the spot. I didn’t even have them prepared.” Chloe ignored the teacher, her eyes still locked onto me. I stopped walking, turned around, and smiled. “Why don’t you come up and write them then?” “Aren’t you the genius who always got first place? Come up here and solve them with me. Let’s do a live showdown.” “Chloe, show us what a real genius can do.” Chloe’s face turned from pale to ash-gray. Her mouth opened and closed, but not a single sound came out. Forty-plus pairs of eyes darted from her to me, then back to her. She stood frozen for ten seconds before she abruptly slammed her notebook onto her desk and sat down. The loud thud of her book echoed in the silent room. I sat back down, unzipping my bag to grab my textbook for the next class. Chloe sat next to me, her entire body tense, her breathing shallow and rapid. She didn’t look at me, but the corner of her textbook was completely ruined by her grip. I flipped to the first page of my book and whispered, “Next time you want to call me a cheater, bring receipts.” “If you slander me again, I won’t be as nice as just solving problems on the whiteboard.”

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I had just finished a brutal two-week off-site corporate training retreat. Sitting on my flight back home, I mindlessly opened Reddit to check the local city forum. A headline immediately stabbed me in the eyes. [My Roommate Is a Total Escort.] My heart skipped a beat. I kept scrolling. [So, my roommate has this pristine, high-class look. Her Instagram is all about working late, working out, and reading books. She plays the virgin saint perfectly.] [Every time she travels for work, she claims she’s going to some “exclusive corporate training.” But I cracked her phone password ages ago. She has more guys on her Snapchat than anyone I know.] [Whenever she’s out of town, I log into her dating apps on her iPad and chat up her sugar daddies. I even invite them over to our place.] [Those guys think she’s just being shy and adventurous. They’re incredibly generous—I can easily rake in thousands of dollars in Venmo tips and gifts in a single night.] [The best part? She comes back knowing absolutely nothing. She actually thinks she’s just incredibly charming because these guys text her non-stop every single day.] The comments were flooded with people asking for tutorials, praising the original poster for her “genius side hustle.” But I was staring at the photo attached to the post. It was a picture of my living room. Even the color of the curtains matched perfectly. My hand holding the phone began to shake violently.

After my flight landed, I didn’t go home. I took an Uber straight to my office and pulled up the security footage of my cubicle from the past two weeks. On the screen, every night around 9:00 PM, my roommate, Ashley Thorne, would appear at my desk like clockwork. She would casually open my drawer and pull out the backup phone I kept there. It was my work phone, which I only used for verification codes and company notifications. I had always assumed the battery had just died. The footage showed Ashley operating the phone for about fifteen minutes each time before putting it back and shutting the drawer. I logged into my Snapchat and Tinder accounts on my work computer. My inbox was flooded with over a hundred unread messages. The most recent one was from 11:00 PM last night. A contact saved as “Marcus – Sent $5,000” had texted: “Hey babe, I bought that designer bag you wanted. When can I see you again?” I clicked on the chat history and scrolled up. Ashley had been chatting with this Marcus guy for an entire week, completely mimicking my tone. It started with flirty banter, then quickly turned into a flat-out transaction. “I’m a little tight on cash this week. Can you help me out? If we’re meeting up, I expect a little gesture, you know?” “I spent that two grand you sent me last time on skincare. You’re so good to me.” “Why don’t you come over to my place this weekend? My roommate is out of town. It’ll be just us.” Every single invite was followed by a pinned location—my apartment address. There were also dozens of voice notes. I put on my headphones and clicked play. Ashley’s voice came through, pitched higher, imitating my soft tone: “Marcus, are you here yet? The door is unlocked. Just come straight in.” In the background of the audio, I could hear the TV in my living room playing. I shut down my computer, walked out, and hailed a cab home. When I pushed the front door open, the apartment was quiet. Ashley’s bedroom door was closed, and I could hear the shower running. I walked into my own bedroom. The sheets had been freshly changed, but there was a long, dark brown strand of hair on my pillow. It wasn’t mine. On my nightstand lay an opened condom wrapper. In the trash can, there were used tissues and a food delivery receipt. The timestamp was 10:47 PM last night. The delivery note read: “Please ring the bell. The front door is unlocked, just push it open and leave it inside.” My fingers turned white as I clutched the receipt. I walked into my bathroom and opened my vanity cabinet. My brand-new La Mer cream, which I’d only used for a week, was completely scraped empty. Next to it, one of my favorite Chanel lipsticks was snapped in half, the broken tip smeared with some sticky, unrecognizable liquid. I pulled out my phone and checked a photo of my vanity that I had taken before my trip. Compared to now, at least a dozen high-end products were missing. All the expensive ones. The sound of keys jiggling came from the front door. Ashley walked in, wearing a matching Alo Yoga set, carrying a grocery bag. Seeing me standing by the bathroom door, she froze for a fraction of a second before flashing a bright, surprised smile. “Oh my god, you’re back! How was the training?” Her eyes flicked to the delivery receipt in my hand, but her face didn’t show a hint of panic. “Oh, that? A couple of my friends came over for dinner a few nights ago. Someone must have used your bathroom.” “I meant to clean it up, but it totally slipped my mind.” She set the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and continued casually, “By the way, I used a little bit of that face cream on your counter. You don’t mind, right? It looked like it was almost empty anyway, and I didn’t want it to expire.” “And a few of your lipsticks—I was just swatching them. One of them accidentally snapped, but I put it back for you.” I stared at her. “Ashley, did you bring someone home last night?” She turned around, her expression incredibly natural. “Yeah, my boyfriend. You’ve met him, haven’t you?” “He wanted to see our place, so I brought him over.” “We stayed in my room. I only changed your sheets because I was worried they’d get dusty while you were gone.” Every lie was perfectly wrapped. I gripped the delivery receipt tighter. The delivery note explicitly told the driver to just push the door open. If she and her boyfriend were home, why would she tell a delivery driver to just walk in? I didn’t call her out. I just nodded. “Okay. Good to know.” Ashley smiled, turning back to her room. The moment her door clicked shut, I heard her whispering on the phone. “She’s back. Yeah, it’s fine. She didn’t suspect a thing.” “That idiot is so easy to fool.”

The next day, I called in sick. I went to an electronics store and bought a set of micro-audio recorders—the kind that can be hidden inside power outlets. I also bought a spy camera disguised as a phone charger block. When I got home, Ashley was out. I installed the recording devices in the outlets in the living room, bathroom, and kitchen. I placed the camera charger on the shoe rack in the entryway, pointing directly at the front door. Once everything was set, I purposely left five hundred dollars in cash on the coffee table. I also left my iPad on the sofa with the screen on, logged into my Snapchat account. Then, I left. I told Ashley I was heading to the office for overtime, but I actually sat in the Starbucks downstairs. I opened my phone and connected to the live feed. At 3:00 PM, Ashley came home. She walked into the living room and spotted the cash on the coffee table immediately. She swiped it, counted it, and stuffed it into her pocket. Then she noticed the iPad on the couch with the screen still glowing. She sat down and began scrolling through my Snapchat. She read my chat logs, one by one. She stopped at a thread with “Dr. Owen.” He was a doctor at the local hospital, someone I only communicated with for professional reasons. Ashley started typing, pretending to be me. “Hey Owen, you haven’t texted me lately. Lost interest?” He replied almost instantly: “Not at all! Just been slammed at the hospital. What’s up?” Ashley sent a sad bitmoji: “I thought you were ignoring me.” Then she followed up with: “By the way, does that dinner invitation still stand?” My hands shook as I watched the screen. That wasn’t me. Ashley was using my identity to flirt with a completely oblivious man. Dr. Owen replied: “Of course. This weekend? I’ll book that sushi place you wanted to try.” Ashley sent a blushing emoji: “Perfect. Let me know.” She exited Dr. Owen’s chat and started hunting for other men. After scrolling through a dozen contacts, she found her next target. The contact was “Brandon – Client.” I knew Brandon. He was a client from a project we wrapped up last year. He was in his mid-forties and married. Ashley messaged him: “Hey Brandon, long time no see. What are you up to?” He replied within seconds: “Chloe? Wow, didn’t expect to hear from you.” Ashley sent a selfie. But it wasn’t my face. It was her own face, heavily edited with beauty filters to look completely different, but set against the backdrop of my living room from my Instagram. She typed: “Missed you. Hey, I’m a little short on rent this month. Think you could loan me some cash?” The man hesitated: “How much?” “Five thousand. I’ll pay you back next week.” “Sure. Send me your Venmo.” Ashley sent her own Venmo link. Five minutes later, the transaction cleared. Ashley grinned, immediately transferring the five grand to her bank account. Then she kept scrolling. This time, she clicked on a contact named “Richard.” I had absolutely no idea who this guy was. Ashley messaged him directly: “Hey Richard, free tonight? My roommate is out of town. It’s just me.” He replied: “Really? I’ll bring some wine.” “Awesome. The door will be unlocked, just come right in.” Ashley sent him our address. Then, she shut the iPad, placed it back on the couch, hummed a song, and walked back into her room. Sitting in the coffee shop, my nails dug into my palms. This wasn’t her first time. She was using my identity to flirt with these men, take their money, and invite them over. And she was bringing them into my home.

At 7:00 PM, I went back upstairs. Ashley was in the kitchen cooking ramen. Seeing me walk in, she smiled. “Rough day at work? I made some ramen, want a bowl?” I looked at her innocent face. “Ashley, did you touch my iPad this afternoon?” Her hand paused for a second before she resumed stirring. “No. I was napping all afternoon. Are you sure you didn’t just leave it somewhere?” “Before I left, the iPad was on the couch, and there was cash on the table.” “Oh, the cash! I put it away in your desk drawer,” she said, completely unfazed. “I was worried the AC draft would blow it away.” “And the iPad?” “I just plugged it in for you. The battery was low.” Every excuse was seamless. But I had the footage. I chose not to confront her yet. “Okay, thanks.” I went into my room and locked the door. I pulled up the live stream on my phone. At 9:00 PM, Ashley went out. Half an hour later, she returned with a man in his late forties. He was carrying a bottle of red wine. Ashley unlocked the door, smiling. “Come on in. My roommate is staying at her boyfriend’s tonight.” The man looked around. “Nice place. You live here alone?” “Yeah, I like my peace and quiet.” Ashley led him to the couch and poured the wine. They chatted, and Ashley kept giggling at his jokes. At 10:00 PM, the man went to the bathroom. The second the door closed, Ashley snatched his jacket from the back of the chair, pulled out his wallet, and took photos of his driver’s license and credit cards with her phone. She slipped everything back in. Her movements were so practiced it made my skin crawl. When the man came out, Ashley leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Richard, remember when you said you’d get me that bag? Does that promise still stand?” The man blinked, then laughed. “Of course. Which one do you want?” Ashley opened a shopping app and pointed to a designer bag priced at twelve thousand dollars. “This one.” The man looked at the price, his smile faltering slightly. “Sure. I’ll transfer you the money tomorrow.” “Can’t you do it tonight?” Ashley pouted, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I really want to order it now.” Hesitating for a moment, the man pulled out his phone and Venmoed her twelve thousand dollars. “Thanks, babe,” Ashley said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. Then, she stood up. “Actually, Richard, it’s getting really late. I have an early meeting tomorrow, so you should probably head out.” The man was stunned. “Wait, I thought tonight we were…” “Next time, I promise. I’m really not feeling well tonight,” Ashley said, pushing him toward the door. The man looked annoyed, but he ultimately left. The moment the door shut, Ashley whipped out her phone and transferred the twelve grand to her savings. Then she sat on the couch, scrolling through the photos of his credit cards. She muttered to herself, “Richard Mercer… Managing Director at Mercer Consulting… Lives in…” She was gathering blackmail material. I didn’t know what she planned to do with that information, but it was nothing good. I turned off my phone and lay in bed. I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

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On my son Claude’s birthday, I spent six long hours in the kitchen. I made his favorite meal: perfectly seared steaks and rich, cheesy baked lobster. When Claude and his wife, Fiona, finally came home from work, they didn’t even look at the table. “Mom, I’ve told you a hundred times. We’re on a strict fitness routine. We don’t eat this greasy junk,” Claude said, glancing away. Fiona pinched her nose, her brow furrowing in disgust. “And seriously, Mom, could you turn on the range hood? The smell of grease is suffocating.” With that, they both walked past me and retreated to their respective rooms. Half an hour later, they emerged in matching workout gear. In their hands, they held plastic takeout containers of plain garden salad. To make this birthday dinner perfect, I had driven to the fresh market at six in the morning. I wanted to grab the freshest organic ribeyes and lobsters before anyone else. I had labored all morning, filling the table with dishes Claude had loved since he was a little boy. The steak sauce had simmered on low heat for hours. I had personally deveined every single lobster with a toothpick. And all I got in return were those two cold sentences. Claude and Fiona sat across from me. They poked at their bitter, raw lettuce leaves with their forks, their faces expressionless. My carefully prepared feast sat at the other end of the table, slowly turning cold. “Claude, if you won’t eat the steak, at least have some soup?” “I simmered this tomato beef broth for four hours. I made it just for you.” Attempting to break the ice, I gently pushed the soup bowl toward him. Claude didn’t even look up. He chewed his lettuce and mumbled, “Mom, I told you, I’m trying to build lean muscle. I have to count my macros and avoid oil and sodium. This soup of yours is basically pure fat.” Fiona set her fork down. She elegantly dabbed her lips with a napkin before speaking. “Mom, I know you mean well. But our lifestyle is different from yours.” “We care about wellness and the quality of life, not just stuffing our faces to feel full.” “The food you cook is a calorie bomb. It’s incredibly unhealthy. We simply cannot eat it.” She paused, looking at me with a condescending pity that made my skin crawl. “Honestly, Mom, you should stop cooking for us altogether. We don’t even like your food.” “Just take care of yourself. It’s called having boundaries. You understand, right? It’s better for everyone.” Boundaries. Another one of those trendy buzzwords they loved to throw around. Just like “generational trauma,” “personal growth,” and “emotional value.” All I knew was that before Claude married Fiona, he loved my cooking. He used to finish an entire plate of steak by himself. Now, he sat across from me and told me my food was toxic. I stopped talking. Silently, I picked up my fork and put a piece of the cold, stiff steak into my mouth. It tasted heavy and bitter in my chest. Once they finished their salads, Claude and Fiona tossed their plastic containers into the trash and locked themselves in their bedroom. I was left alone at the dining table. The custom birthday cake I ordered sat there, its box unopened. With a heavy sigh, I stood up and started clearing the table. There was too much food left. It felt wrong to throw it away. So, I packed everything into Tupperware containers and stuffed them into the fridge. The massive fridge was instantly packed to the brim, mirroring the suffocating weight in my heart.

The next morning, while I was in the kitchen reheating some leftovers for myself, Fiona walked in wearing a silk robe. She opened the fridge, saw the packed Tupperware, and immediately frowned. “Mom, why did you put leftovers in the fridge again?” “I’ve told you, eating leftovers is extremely unhealthy. They are crawling with bacteria and carcinogens. It literally causes cancer!” Without waiting for my reply, she began snatching the containers out of the fridge, ready to throw them into the trash. “Fiona, stop! Don’t do that!” I rushed over to grab her wrist. “The food is still perfectly fine. I can just reheat it. It’s such a waste to throw it out!” “Waste?” Fiona sneered. “Mom, your mindset is so outdated. What’s more important, our health or a few bucks?” “If you get sick trying to save some pocket change, the hospital bills will cost ten times more. You are being penny-wise and pound-foolish.” I stood there, speechless. When I was young, my family was poor. We had to stretch one meal across several days. We were well-off now, but the frugality engraved in my bones was something I could never wash away. As Fiona reached for the remaining containers, Claude walked into the kitchen. “Claude, please talk to Fiona,” I pleaded. “The food is still perfectly good. Tell her not to throw it away!” Claude looked at Fiona, then at me, looking annoyed. “Mom, Fiona is right. Leftovers aren’t good for you. Just don’t cook so much next time. Only make what you can finish.” He gently but firmly pushed my hands away from Fiona. In that moment, it felt like a needle had pierced my heart. I looked at my son. He wore a crisp, tailored shirt. His hair was perfectly styled. On his wrist was a luxury watch Fiona had bought him. He was no longer the little boy who used to cling to my legs, begging for candy. My grip loosened. I watched in silence as Fiona dumped all my hard work into the trash can. But Fiona wasn’t done. She looked around the kitchen and scoffed. “Mom, we need to renovate this kitchen. It’s so old and greasy.” “We’re planning to hire a designer this weekend. We’ll install a high-end dishwasher, a built-in steam oven, and get a double-door smart fridge.” I was stunned. “But… everything here works perfectly fine.” “Working and being aesthetic are two completely different things,” Fiona said, crossing her arms like she owned the place. “We value our lifestyle. You need to learn to adapt to modern things.” She then grabbed Claude’s arm and led him to the living room to discuss the design details. Standing alone in my old kitchen, staring at the garbage can full of my food, I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own home.

Over the weekend, the renovation crew arrived. They pounded and drilled all day, tearing my old kitchen to shreds. Fiona stood in the middle of the mess, holding blueprints, pointing and bossing the workers around with pride. It hurt to watch. Those cabinets and countertops might have been old, but my late husband, Johnson, had built them with his own hands when we got married. They had been with me for thirty years. They held my memories. But to Fiona, they were just junk that needed to be purged. I didn’t argue. I just went back to my room. I didn’t realize the fire would soon spread to my bedroom. The day after the kitchen was finished, Fiona knocked on my door, holding her laptop. “Mom, we need to talk about something.” She smiled politely, but my stomach dropped. “Look, the kitchen looks absolutely gorgeous now. But because of that, the living room style feels off.” “We want to tear down this wall to create an open-concept family lounge. But…” She pointed toward my bedroom door. “Your bedroom is right in the middle of the layout. It completely blocks the natural light.” “Plus, my parents are planning to come stay with us for a while soon, and we’re short on space.” “So, we were thinking of turning your room into a cozy den.” My mind went completely blank. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Then where am I supposed to sleep?” “The basement storage room, of course,” Fiona said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “It’s a bit small, but once we clear out the boxes, it’ll fit a bed.” “You’re just one person anyway. You don’t need that much space. You don’t mind making a small sacrifice for the family, right?” She framed it as a suggestion, but her eyes held absolutely no room for negotiation. A hot wave of anger rushed through my veins. This was my house. The deed of this house had my name and Johnson’s name on it. Now, they wanted to kick me out of my master bedroom and shove me into a five-square-meter, windowless basement room? Before I could blow up, Claude walked in. He looked at me with a guilty but pleading expression. “Mom, don’t be upset. Fiona is only doing this to make the house better.” “Think about it. When her parents arrive, the house will be so lively.” “And turning your room into a den will make the house look so elegant when we host guests. It’ll give us so much social credit.” “So my comfort doesn’t matter, but your social credit does?” My voice shook with anger. Claude lowered his head, whispering, “Mom, that’s not what we mean. It’s just about upgrading our living environment…” “Upgrading your environment by throwing me into a basement?” my voice cracked. Seeing the tension, Fiona immediately put on a victimized face. Her eyes welled up with tears. “Mom, I didn’t know you’d hate me this much for trying to help.” “We’re putting our own money and effort into making this home beautiful for everyone. Why can’t you understand that?” She clung to Claude’s arm, crying softly. “Claude, see? I knew your mom had an issue with me.” “I know I’m blunt sometimes, and maybe I didn’t think about how she’d feel.” “But I had no bad intentions. Forget it. Let’s just drop the renovation. I don’t want to ruin your relationship with your mother because of me.” Her damsel-in-distress act worked like a charm on Claude. He immediately pulled her into a comforting hug. “Fiona, don’t cry. You did nothing wrong. It’s my mom. She’s just too stubborn to see the bigger picture.” He turned to me, his tone sharp with blame. “Mom! Can you stop being so difficult? Fiona has put so much effort into this house!” “Can’t you support us for once? Do you have to ruin everyone’s happiness?” Looking at the two of them, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. “Fine,” I spat through gritted teeth. “I’ll move.”

The moving process was more humiliating than I could have ever imagined. Fiona claimed she was “helping” me pack, but she was actually policing what I could keep. My old clothes, which she deemed “outdated,” were tossed ruthlessly into black trash bags. She pressured me to throw away my old photo albums and letters from Johnson, calling them “clutter that harbors negative energy.” Even the rocking chair Johnson had bought me was carried down to the curb because it “ruined the aesthetic.” I screamed, I argued, but every single time, Claude stood by her side. “Mom, just listen to Fiona. She has an eye for design.” “Mom, what’s the point of keeping this old junk? You need to move on.” In the end, I was only allowed to bring a few changes of clothes into that dark, damp basement utility room. The room was tiny. Once the single bed was set up, there was barely any space to turn around. Because there were no windows, I had to keep the artificial light on even during the day. The air smelled of mold and dust. Meanwhile, upstairs, my old bedroom was quickly transformed into their sleek “den.” Fiona and Claude hosted a housewarming party, proudly showing off the new space to their friends. Laughter and music drifted down from upstairs, reminding me that I was trapped in a completely different world. Lying on the narrow, hard bed, listening to their joy, tears silently rolled down my face. I thought my sacrifice would bring peace to my family. But I was wrong. My submission only invited more tyranny. Fiona’s parents moved in shortly after. They took the spacious guest room upstairs. Fiona’s mother, Hilary, had high blood pressure and required a specialized diet. So, my daily chores grew. I became the personal chef, tasked with preparing three “organic wellness meals” a day for Hilary. Meanwhile, Claude and Fiona continued to eat their trendy salads. Our home had turned into a twisted hotel. Fiona’s parents were the VIP guests, and I was the unpaid maid living in the basement. One night, as I brought Hilary her medication, I overheard them talking in her room. “Mom, just relax and make yourself at home. This house will be ours soon anyway.” “Claude already agreed. Next month, we’re going to the registry office to add my name to the deed.” Hilary laughed. “You really know how to handle him, sweetie. But what about Betty? Will she agree?” “Her?” Fiona laughed, her voice dripping with contempt. “Who cares what she thinks? Claude is her only son. Everything she owns will belong to Claude eventually.” “Let her have her little basement for now. Once my name is on the deed, I’ll show her who’s really in charge.” My hand trembled so hard that the warm water spilled from the cup, burning my skin. So, that was their grand plan. They didn’t just want my room or my dignity. They wanted to strip me of everything I owned. I took a deep breath, steadied my shaking body, and slipped away quietly. Back in the dark basement, I sat on the edge of the bed and didn’t sleep a wink. At dawn, as soon as Claude and Fiona left for work, I walked calmly into Hilary’s room. She was lying in bed, wearing a sheet mask, scrolling through her phone. “Hilary,” I smiled. “I don’t think you’ll be living here much longer.” She paused, peeling off her mask. “What is that supposed to mean?”

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During our winter hiking trip in the Aspen mountains, my foster brother, Julian, deliberately pushed me, breaking my leg. But my parents left me behind in the freezing snow, running a high fever and unable to walk, just to rush Julian to the hospital for his minor scratches. I held onto my dad’s coat, sobbing and begging them to take me with them. But my mom coldly slapped my hand away. “Julian is bleeding so much, and all you care about is competing for our attention?” “How did I give birth to such a malicious son? Stay here by yourself and think about what you’ve done!” They walked away with Julian, never once looking back at me. I dragged my broken left leg, desperately trying to crawl after them, only to collapse helplessly into the freezing, deep snow. Days later, when Julian was discharged from the hospital, they finally remembered me. They had no idea that on the very day they left, an avalanche had already buried me deep beneath the snow. I died. I died because the avalanche hit, and with a broken leg, I couldn’t run. After my death, my soul somehow ended up floating right next to my dad. He was standing anxiously in the hospital room, looking at Julian on the bed with eyes full of distress. “Julian, the doctor said it’s a good thing we got you here in time. You’re going to be completely fine.” “Just rest now. We’ll go home once you’re fully recovered.” Then, he turned to look at the snow-capped mountains outside the window, his eyes burning with anger. “If it weren’t for Leo dragging us on this stupid trip, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt and ended up in a hospital bed!” “When he gets back, I’ll make him get down on his knees and beg for your forgiveness!” My mom was hovering over the monitors, terrified that Julian’s vitals might drop even a little. Her eyes were red from crying. “That brat knew Julian has a weak heart, yet he insisted on hiking in the snow.” “And here I thought Leo was finally trying to be a good brother. It was a setup all along!” Watching this, my ghost felt a sharp, stabbing pain where my heart used to be. Mom, that’s not true. This trip was Julian’s idea. You both agreed to it! I had been sickly since I was a kid. I hated the cold and hated climbing. But Julian said he wanted to take a family photo in the mountains. So you forced me to come, calling me dramatic when I resisted. Julian was the son of my dad’s late army buddy. Dad felt so guilty about his friend’s death that he treated Julian better than his own flesh and blood. Ever since we were kids, I had to give up everything for Julian. Anything my parents bought for me, Julian would take. If I fought back, my parents would scream at me for being selfish and not caring for Julian. Over time, I became a people-pleaser. I stopped fighting back, hoping that if I was good enough, my parents would love me again. This trip was supposed to be different. Julian had deliberately stepped on and shattered the vintage pocket watch Grandma Ruth left me before she died. It was the only thing I had left of her. I was so heartbroken that my parents finally felt a shred of guilt. They promised to take me to the beach. The beach—a place they had promised to take me a thousand times but never did. But at the last minute, Julian said he wanted to see the snow. So they changed the destination instantly. They even dragged me along just because Julian said it wouldn’t feel like a family without me. And now, somehow, it was all my fault. Up on the mountain, I had begged my parents to turn back because my leg was throbbing. But they only saw the tiny scratch on Julian’s ankle. My mom had screamed at me, “Leo, Julian is bleeding! Why do you always have to make everything about yourself?” Julian had feigned tears, whispering, “It doesn’t hurt, Mom. Leo didn’t mean to push me.” My parents looked at the tiny drop of blood on Julian’s leg, then glared at me like I was a monster. “Leo, did you plan this whole thing?” “How did we raise such a wicked child?” With that, my dad picked Julian up and they hurried down the mountain. I cried, begging them not to leave me. But they said I was acting to cover up my “crime.” No matter how much I pleaded, they wouldn’t listen. They told me to walk down by myself as a punishment. After they left, I dragged my broken leg through the snow, my body shivering from a raging fever, trying to crawl my way down. But just as I was close to the exit, the mountain roared. An avalanche came down. I remember the sheer despair. The heavy snow crushed my bones, and the freezing cold sucked the last bit of warmth from my body. In my final moments, I stared in the direction my parents had gone. If they find out I died here, will they be even a little sad? Will they give me a fraction of the love they gave Julian, once I’m gone?

In the hospital, I watched my parents cater to Julian’s every whim for days. My mom cooked gourmet meals and brought them to his bedside every day. My dad bought him the newest PlayStation as a reward for “being so brave.” During those days, they completely forgot I existed. All their love and attention went to Julian. My soul felt a cold, bitter ache. It wasn’t until Julian was discharged a week later that my parents finally remembered they had another son. “Where is Leo? Why isn’t he here to pick us up?” My dad grumbled, his face darkening. “He’s probably hiding because he knows he’s in trouble for hurting Julian,” my mom said with a sigh of disgust. “Well, we’ve ignored him for a week. He should know his place by now. Call him and tell him to get over here.” Dad pulled out his phone and dialed my number. But to their surprise, the call went straight to voicemail. Usually, whenever they called, I would answer within seconds. I was always terrified of missing their calls. But now, after three consecutive calls, the phone remained dead. My parents frowned, a slight flicker of unease crossing their faces. Standing beside them, Julian lowered his head, acting incredibly guilty. “Is Leo still mad at me? Does he hate me for taking up your time? I’m sorry…” My dad’s face hardened instantly. He shoved his phone into his pocket and sneered. “He’s got some nerve. He actually turned his phone off!” Mom gnashed her teeth in anger. “That brat! He’s throwing a tantrum because we left him on the mountain. He’s doing this on purpose!” Dad’s eyes flashed with rage. “He wants us to worry. He wants us to beg him to come home! I see right through his little games.” Mom scoffed. “He’s getting sneakier. He thinks he can manipulate us now.” She grabbed Julian’s hand and started walking toward the front desk, her voice cold. “Come on, Julian. Let’s ignore him and sign the discharge papers.” “He wants to keep his phone off? Fine. Let’s see how long he can last.” I stared at Julian, my ghostly chest tightening with rage. He was still playing them, still driving the wedge deeper. But my parents always chose to believe him. They always would. I clutched my chest as a phantom pain washed over me, and I collapsed onto the hospital floor. While they were signing the papers, my girlfriend, Chloe, burst through the hospital doors, panting and frantic. She ran up to my parents, her face pale. “Something happened to Leo!”

My parents froze for a second. Chloe gasped for breath, tears welling in her eyes. “I haven’t been able to reach him for days! He’s missing!” Looking at Chloe’s terrified face, my soul wept. There was no signal on the mountain. I couldn’t even send her a text before the snow took my life. But the worry on my parents’ faces vanished instantly, replaced by sheer annoyance. My mom rolled her eyes. “Chloe, don’t let him fool you. That brat did something terrible to Julian and shut his phone off to avoid us.” “He’s just hiding because he’s a coward. Don’t waste your energy on him.” Chloe shook her head violently. “No, you don’t understand! We had a movie date yesterday. Leo never breaks his promises. Never! But yesterday, his phone was completely dead…” My dad cut her off, his voice sharp and dismissive. “Enough. Leo loves playing these pathetic victim games.” “Who knows where he’s hiding, waiting for us to go look for him? He wants attention.” Julian stepped forward, looking incredibly apologetic. “I know Leo hates me. If he comes back, I’ll apologize to him. I’ll do whatever he wants.” Hearing Julian’s voice made my blood boil. I rushed in front of him, screaming at his face. For years, I did everything to please you! My parents gave you everything, and I let you! Why did you have to kill me?! But no one could hear me. No one could see me. My dad’s expression softened as he looked at Julian, his anger toward me growing. “Julian, stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. Leo has always been a rotten kid.” “If he wants to hide, let him. Even if he dies out there, I won’t shed a single tear.” Mom added angrily, “Exactly! When he finally crawls back, he’s going to get down on his knees and apologize to Julian!” Chloe stared at them, her jaw dropping in utter disbelief. She couldn’t believe these words were coming from my parents. Her eyes turned red, and she screamed, “Do you even know Leo?! He is nothing like what you’re describing!” “He is the kindest, most honest person I know!” “How can you say those things about him? Are you even his real parents?!” Chloe’s voice echoed in the hallway. I felt a tear slip down my ghostly face. In this entire world, she was the only one who truly knew me. The only one who loved me. But my dad only sneered. “I don’t know him? He’s selfish and petty! If it weren’t for him, Julian wouldn’t have been hurt!” Mom chimed in. “You’ve been blinded by his act, Chloe. He loves manipulating people.” “I want to see how long he can keep this up!” Standing in the cold hospital hallway, I felt like my soul was being ripped apart. So this was what I was to them. A selfish, manipulative liar. Chloe was shaking with rage. She pointed a finger at my mom. “You are going to kill him! I’m calling the police!” Dad let out a dry, angry laugh. “Call them! I want the cops to find him. Let’s see if they throw him in jail for pushing Julian!” At the mention of the police, Julian’s face went completely white. He quickly grabbed my dad’s sleeve, his voice trembling. “Dad… actually, maybe I remembered it wrong. I think I just tripped. Leo didn’t push me.” Then, he looked at Chloe with a pleading expression. “Chloe, please don’t call the police. Leo is just throwing a tantrum. We shouldn’t waste police resources over a family issue.” But Chloe wasn’t buying it. She glared at Julian, her eyes piercing. “Why are you so scared of the police, Julian? What are you hiding?”

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The comatose billionaire husband I married on behalf of Vivian—Hudson Harrington—had suddenly woken up. The moment he opened his eyes, he transferred a insulting $0.77 to my bank account. Meanwhile, he sent a staggering $7.7 million to Vivian, who was standing right by his hospital bed. I kept quiet, but he chose to humiliate me in front of everyone. “You’re nothing but a placeholder, Michelle. Don’t flatter yourself by dreaming about things that don’t belong to you.” “The Harrington family has money to burn, but I’d rather set it on fire than give a single dime to a deceitful substitute like you.” “Take your seventy-seven cents and get the hell out of my house.” I didn’t argue. I calmly signed the divorce papers and walked away with absolutely nothing. Five years later, we ran into each other at a prestigious, high-end art exhibition. He was dressed in a pristine bespoke suit, looking more powerful and sharp than ever. As for me? I was kneeling on the cold floor, carefully using a microfiber cloth to wipe away a stain from the corner of a painting. His eyes flared with cold disdain. “Michelle? Look at you. Did leaving me really reduce you to a pathetic gallery janitor?” “Don’t even bother begging. I wouldn’t give you a single penny even if you starved in front of me.” I didn’t even look up. I just kept my focus, gently dabbing away the last bit of the smudge.

In the center of the exhibition hall, Hudson stood tall, surrounded by a crowd of sycophants. Over the past five years, he had expanded the Harrington Group into an absolute empire. People were practically tripping over themselves to flatter him. “Mr. Harrington, are you here for the masterpiece of the legendary artist, Atalanta?” “I heard the starting bid for The Departure is in the eight figures. If you secure it, the Harrington Group’s dominance in the art investment world will be untouchable.” Hudson gave a curt nod. His eyes weren’t on the painting, though. They were locked dead on me. Standing beside him was Vivian, wearing an elegant champagne silk gown. Her makeup was flawless, and she smiled softly, resting her hand on his arm. “Hudson has always had impeccable taste in art. We’re just here to browse today.” Despite her modest words, her eyes practically dripped with smugness. Hudson’s face darkened with irritation. He looked at me as if my very existence was a stain on his perfect evening. I remained kneeling, completely focused on the canvas. A crying child had run past a moment ago, accidentally brushing their chocolate ice cream against the bottom corner of the painting. “Excuse me, ma’am! This is a high-profile exhibition. Please step away from the artwork immediately!” A gallery manager in a sharp suit rushed over, his voice sharp and tense. He took one look at my simple white t-shirt, faded jeans, and the faint paint smudges on my fingers. His eyes practically flared with hostility. “I’m sorry, but the painting was smudged. I’m just cleaning it up,” I explained quietly. The manager’s face fell. “This painting is worth tens of millions! You’re ‘cleaning’ it? Can you even begin to comprehend the liability here?” “Get up, now! Don’t ruin the experience for our VIP guests.” Though he didn’t yell, his voice was loud enough to draw a crowd. Within seconds, every eye in the gallery was fixed on me. Right then, Hudson strolled over, with Vivian clinging tightly to his arm. Our eyes met. His gaze was colder than ice, filled with utter disgust. “Michelle?” The manager blinked, looking at Hudson. “Mr. Harrington, you know her?” Hudson let out a cold, dismissive sneer. “Just a desperate relative who would do absolutely anything for money. We don’t know each other.” With that, he looked away, as if looking at me for another second would rot his brain. Vivian immediately tightened her grip on his arm, putting on a show of mock pity. “Michelle, why on earth are you working a job like this?” “I know you were bitter when you had to leave the Harrington estate, but you didn’t have to degrade yourself like this.” “Being a cleaner isn’t shameful, of course. But doing it at a high-end gallery like this? Aren’t you a bit out of your depth?” Her words instantly sealed my fate as a “pathetic, desperate cleaner” in everyone’s eyes. The manager’s face twisted in disgust. He reached out to grab my arm. “Get out of here! Stop making a scene. If you ruin our gallery’s reputation, you won’t survive the lawsuit!” I dodged his hand, my voice turning icy. “I told you, I can fix this. If there’s any damage, I will take full responsibility.” He let out a harsh laugh. “Responsibility? With what? You could sell your kidney and still not afford a single inch of this canvas!” He reached out to grab me again. I ignored him entirely. I pulled a specialized fine brush and a small bottle of organic solvent from my canvas tote bag, carefully working on the stubborn spot. Hudson’s brows furrowed deeply. He probably thought this was another one of my elaborate stunts to win back his attention.

“Enough.” Hudson’s deep, commanding voice cut through the whispers. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his checkbook, scribbled a figure, tore it off, and flicked it at my feet. “One hundred thousand dollars. That’s probably more than you make in a year. Take it and get out of my sight.” He looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Stop using these pathetic, low-class tricks to get my attention, Michelle. You’re just as repulsive as you were five years ago.” Vivian immediately chimed in, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Hudson, you’re always too soft-hearted. If you give her money now, she’ll just stalk you with even crazier stunts next time.” She then turned to me, a smug smile playing on her lips. “Just take it, Michelle. Hudson and I are getting engaged soon, and I really don’t want your drama stressing him out.” Engaged? I felt a brief flash of surprise. They had been dragging this out for five years, and they still hadn’t tied the knot? I finally looked up from the canvas, glancing at the check lying on the floor, then straight into Hudson’s eyes. “I don’t want your money.” My rejection was like a physical slap to his face. His expression turned instantly venomous. “Don’t play hard to get, Michelle. Do you think you’re starring in some indie movie about a girl with morals?” “In my eyes, you are nothing but a clown.” “Back then, you threw a tantrum and left over seventy-seven cents. Now I offer you a hundred grand, and you’re acting like you’re too good for it?” As soon as he said that, a wave of suppressed chuckles rippled through the crowd. “Seventy-seven cents? Mr. Harrington, you’ve got to be kidding.” “So she’s a gold digger who threw a fit over pennies? No wonder she ended up cleaning floors.” Vivian covered her mouth, giggling like a schoolgirl, her eyes flashing with absolute victory. I ignored the whispers and kept my hands steady. The ice cream was starting to melt into the delicate paint layers. If I didn’t treat it right now, the artificial dyes would permanently bind to the canvas fibers, ruining the piece forever. Seeing that I was completely ignoring her, Vivian’s eyes gleamed with malice. She took a step forward, suddenly “tripped” over her own feet, let out a dramatic gasp, and threw her entire glass of red wine straight at the painting! “Oh my god!” someone gasped. The deep red liquid splashed violently across the pristine, snowy-white canvas. The Departure was instantly ruined. The gallery manager’s face drained of color. He pointed a shaking finger at me, his voice cracking with sheer panic. “You! You crazy bitch! Look at what you’ve done!” Vivian immediately shrank back behind Hudson, squeezing out a few tears. “Hudson, I didn’t mean to… It was her! She deliberately stuck her foot out and tripped me!” Every eye in the room shot toward me. Just like that, I was framed as the villain who had destroyed a multi-million-dollar masterpiece.

“Call the police!” The manager screamed, frantically pulling out his phone. “This is Atalanta’s absolute masterpiece! The crown jewel of our exhibition! You are going to prison for this!” Hudson watched the chaos unfold, a cold, satisfied smirk touching his lips. “Is this what you wanted, Michelle? Ruining a masterpiece just to get back at me?” He slowly walked up to the ruined canvas, staring at the ugly red stain, and shook his head. “Too bad your little plan backfired. I’m buying this painting.” He turned to the trembling manager. “Name your price. Ruined or not, I’m taking it.” He cast one last, sweeping look of pure disgust at me. “As for her, throw her out. I don’t ever want to see her face again.” The crowd erupted into murmurs of admiration. “Mr. Harrington is incredibly generous! Buying a ruined multi-million-dollar painting just like that!” “That cleaner got ridiculously lucky. If Mr. Harrington doesn’t press charges, she won’t have to rot in prison.” Vivian clung to Hudson’s arm, letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, Hudson. You’re so good to me. I knew you wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” She looked at me over her shoulder, her eyes screaming: See? Even if I burn this place to the ground, Hudson will clean up my mess. And you? You’re just a stray dog waiting for our scraps. The manager looked like he had just been handed a lifeline. He bowed repeatedly. “Mr. Harrington, you are a saint! Since the painting is… well, damaged, how about we settle for fifty percent of the starting bid…?” “No.” I stood up, my voice cutting through the noise like a knife. Once again, all eyes locked onto me. “This painting is not for sale.” Hudson’s expression hardened instantly. “Michelle, what right do you have to say no? Who do you think you are?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice steady. “I said, this. Painting. Is. Not. For. Sale.” “Ha!” Vivian laughed hysterically. “Michelle, have you completely lost your mind? You’re a literal janitor. What makes you think you have any say in what this gallery sells?” She turned to the manager, her voice sharp. “Manager, why are you still standing there?” “Mr. Harrington is doing your gallery a massive favor by buying this garbage! Kick this crazy woman out!” The manager snapped out of his shock and quickly waved over two burly security guards. “Drag her out! Now!” The guards stepped forward, reaching for my shoulders. I watched them approach, my heart turning cold. Five years ago, Hudson’s family security had dragged me out of their mansion just like this. Five years later, they wanted history to repeat itself. Just as their hands were about to touch me, a calm, authoritative voice echoed from the back of the crowd. “Don’t touch her.”

The crowd parted instantly. A man in a crisp, tailored white linen shirt walked forward. He carried an aura of quiet, understated elegance, yet his presence commanded the entire room. “Mr. Roberts!” The manager’s knees practically buckled. He looked like he was about to drop to his knees. “You… what are you doing here?” The man was Charles Roberts, a world-renowned curator, the organizer of this very exhibition, and the sole global agent of the mysterious legendary painter, “Atalanta.” Charles completely ignored the manager. He walked straight up to me, his eyes softening as he looked at the ruined painting. “What happened, Michelle?” he asked gently, his tone laced with genuine concern. Before I could speak, Vivian jumped in to play the victim. “Mr. Roberts! Thank goodness you’re here!” “This cleaner not only messed up the painting earlier, but she also tripped me on purpose, causing me to spill my wine all over it!” “Hudson was kind enough to offer to buy it to cover the loss, but she’s actively blocking the sale!” Hudson stepped forward, offering a polite nod to Charles. He lowered his usual arrogant posture significantly. “Mr. Roberts, it was just a minor accident. I’ll buy the painting at full price. Let’s consider it a gesture of goodwill.” He clearly wanted to showcase his wealth and status to impress Charles. Charles’s gaze swept coldly over Hudson and Vivian, before landing back on me. His eyes held a silent question. “I can restore it,” I said simply. “What?” Hudson scoffed loudly. “Michelle, are you insane? Do you have any idea whose work this is?” “This is Atalanta’s work! The most mysterious and highly valued artist of our generation!” “And you claim you can restore it? Who do you think you are?” “Stop embarrassing yourself. You’re only making me despise you more.” But Charles smiled.

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