Author: Momo Chan

“On the last day my name was posted for a guaranteed place at Stanford, our sex tape went viral. He held me, his apologies a warm breath against my ear, then turned to his friend with a smirk. “”Chloe’s coming back,”” he said. “”Had to roll out the red carpet.”” So it was all a lie. Three years of devotion, of careful tenderness, had been nothing but a long, meticulously planned con. He’d systematically dismantled my life—my academic career, my family, my name—all to win a smile from the one he truly loved. He thought he had destroyed me. He didn’t realize that a person with nothing left to lose is where the danger really begins. 1 The day the video of Caleb Hayes coaxing me into bed went viral across campus, my life imploded. I was expelled. My fellowship to Stanford’s graduate program, the culmination of three years of relentless work, was revoked. It got so bad that guys started cornering me in the library stacks, asking for my price. “Like father, like daughter,” someone sneered, his words a venomous echo of the whispers that had haunted my family for years. “The old man had wandering hands, and she’s got open legs. Runs in the family, I guess.” “Always the quiet ones, you know? Acting all pure and untouchable, but they’re the freaks.” I ran to find Caleb, my heart hammering against my ribs. I found him holding court in a private lounge downtown, the air thick with cigar smoke and the laughter of his friends. “God, that was brutal, man,” one of them said, clapping Caleb on the back. “Dropping the video on the last day of the nomination period? Stone-cold. Wiped out her whole future.” “She probably still thinks you’re in love with her,” another chimed in, and the group roared. “So, three years of playing the devoted boyfriend,” a third one asked, leaning in. “When are you gonna tell her the show’s over?” Caleb let out a low, lazy laugh, the sound of it chilling me to the bone. “When Chloe gets back, I think. I want it to be a surprise for her.” He took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Someone has to pay for what her father did to Chloe. It’s only fair.” “Oh my god, did you see this? Send it to me, Jenna, send it to me now!” “I’m sending it to Mark. He had a thing for her last year, the idiot.” “Damn. I mean, her body is insane, you gotta admit.” “What good is that now?” The heated discussion from my roommates buzzed around me. My hand trembled, sending a jagged line across the differential equation on my tablet. My eyelids twitched violently when I heard the last comment. Jenna’s boyfriend, Mark, had a crush on me. Which meant the ‘her’ they were dissecting was, in all likelihood, me. I cleared my throat. “Is… is something going on?” The chatter stopped. Three pairs of eyes snapped up to meet mine, followed by a flurry of stifled giggles. “Nothing, nothing at all,” one of them said, a little too quickly. “Just focus on your studies, our little genius.” But their expressions told a different story. It was a look I knew all too well, a look that transported me back to the relentless bullying of my freshman year, the kind that still woke me up in a cold sweat. My fingers felt clumsy as I opened the unofficial university subreddit. It was lagging, struggling to load under the traffic. And then I saw it. Pinned to the top of the page was a video, the title in a huge, bold font: “NORTHWOOD UNIVERSITY’S ICE QUEEN HAS A SECRET MELTDOWN.” In the video, a girl’s face was perfectly, brutally clear. Flushed, her expression a mixture of pleasure and pain, her sounds… intimate. You didn’t have to be a genius to know what was happening. The girl was me. Just then, my phone buzzed. An official email from the Dean’s Office. My graduate fellowship had been revoked. Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. Three years. Three years of sleepless nights in the library, of acing every exam, of winning every academic competition, all of it for a spot in my dream program. It was all gone. I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself to breathe. Don’t cry, Ava. Not yet. Find Caleb. My hand was on the doorknob of the lounge when their voices drifted out, sharp and clear. “Releasing it on the last day of the fellowship review period… that’s a power move. Wiped her academic career off the map.” “And she probably still thinks he’s head-over-heels for her, hahaha.” “Chloe’s flying in next week. What’s the plan for dealing with Ava then?” And then Caleb’s voice, the same voice that had whispered love songs in my ear just last night, now laced with a chilling amusement. “When Chloe gets back. I’m giving her a welcome home present.” It was all for revenge. From the very beginning. My mind went blank. The intimacy we’d shared, the moments I’d treasured, twisted into a razor-sharp blade and plunged directly into my heart. I stumbled away from the door, turning right into the path of Jenna’s boyfriend, Mark. He worked as a busboy at a restaurant just off-campus. He’d made a pass at me once when he was dropping Jenna off, his hands getting a little too familiar. I’d gently mentioned it to Jenna, and somehow, the story had twisted into me being the one who hit on him. “Ava? Hey,” he said, a greasy smile spreading across his face as he blocked my path. His eyes crawled over me. “What’s the rush? You deaf or just blind? Didn’t you hear me calling your name?” He looked me up and down. “Wow, you’re a lot more covered up today.” Before, his harassment had been confined to creepy late-night texts. Now, the mask was off. “Get out of my way,” I said, my voice shaking. He only stepped closer, the smell of stale beer on his breath. “Come on, just name your price. I’m good for it.” I backed away, bumping into a hard chest that smelled of tobacco and expensive cologne. “She said, ‘get out of my way.’ Are you deaf?” It was Caleb. Mark scoffed. “Still protecting her after all this? You really want someone else’s sloppy seconds?” The video only showed my face. No one knew the man with me was him. After Mark scurried away, I looked up into Caleb’s dark, unreadable eyes. “My fellowship was revoked. Did you know?” “I’m sorry, Ava. I didn’t know there was a camera.” The lie was so smooth, so practiced. I started babbling, begging him. “Then please, just talk to the dean. Explain it to them. Please… I worked for three years… you know how much this meant to me…” He reached out, his touch impossibly gentle as he wiped away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. “I’ve already had my dad’s lawyers get the subreddit taken down. Don’t be scared.” He pulled me into a hug that felt like a cage. “Let’s get you a room at the Langham for a few nights, just until this blows over. Don’t cry. It kills me to see you cry.” He never answered my question. He didn’t have to. He wasn’t going to help me. He was such a good actor. If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I would have believed him all over again. “It’s okay,” he murmured into my hair. “It’s just your face. Nothing else was showing.” Caleb went to take a shower. He never locked his phone; he knew I never looked. Tonight, I did. It was a group chat. The name was “Chloe’s Welcome Wagon.” “Chloe, when are you coming home? We miss you like crazy!” “Chloe, Caleb has a huge surprise waiting for you!” Every message tagged a name I knew with a sickening dread. Chloe Morgan. A girl my father had mentored, taken under his wing. After bombing her SATs, she turned on him, claiming he had harassed her for years. She said the trauma was why she’d only scored an 1100. At the same time, an anonymous letter detailing the allegations landed on the university president’s desk, right when my father was up for tenure. The story exploded online. My father, a man who had dedicated twenty years to teaching, had his reputation destroyed overnight. He was fired. His photo became a meme. His history of mentoring underprivileged students was twisted by bloggers into something predatory. It was a nightmare. To protect me, he sent me to live with my mother, and then he disappeared from my life. Everyone at school started to avoid me. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the pervert’s tree,” they’d whisper. It was Caleb who had comforted me back then. “The guilty will pay,” he’d said. I tried to explain. “It’s not true. My dad didn’t…” “It’s okay,” he’d cut me off, holding me close. “I’m with you, not your father.” He never listened. Now I knew why. He didn’t care about the truth. Because in his mind, my father was a monster. And I was the monster’s daughter. A new message popped up in the group chat. “Hey Caleb, why’d you only film Ava’s face?” Caleb’s friend replied before he could. “Dude, are you stupid? He told her he only filmed her face. If he’d shown anything else, the video would have been taken down instantly. It never would have gone viral. Caleb thinks of everything.” Another message. “Damn. Caleb even sacrificed his own body for Chloe’s honor. A true knight in shining armor, hahaha.” The messages kept coming, one after another. I tilted my head back, fanning my eyes to stop the tears. It’s okay, Ava. You can go home. When I walked into the Newport mansion, my mother was sitting on the velvet sofa, sipping tea. She didn’t look up. “How is the fellowship coming along?” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. “It’s… it should be finalized soon.” “Should be?” A sharp sting exploded across my cheek. My ear rang. I stared at her, bewildered. “Mom? What was that for?” “You have the nerve to ask me that?” She threw her phone at me. It struck me just above my eye, the pain bringing instant, hot tears. My mother, Eleanor, was practically shaking with rage. One of her business partners had shown her the video at a luncheon today, a deliberate, public humiliation. Oh. So it wasn’t just the university that knew. I clutched my swelling face, my knees giving out as I sank to the floor. “Mom, please, let me explain…” I tried to crawl towards her, to make her listen, but then I saw another face. A familiar, smiling face, standing just behind my mother’s chair. The source of my nightmares. Chloe Morgan. She was back. “Explain what?” my mother hissed. “Have I ever told you who you can or can’t date? No. But to make a video like that? Have you no shame?” Her voice dripped with contempt. “You’re just as disgusting as that father of yours.” I shook my head, my throat tight. “No, Mom, it wasn’t my fault…” “Not your fault? Then was it mine? Did I take your clothes off for the camera? Honestly, Ava!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You’re just like him!” Chloe stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on my mother’s arm. “Aunt Eleanor, don’t be so angry. Maybe Ava just made a mistake…” My mother had always adored Chloe, ever since she’d come to live with us for a year in high school. She’d constantly compared us. “Look at Chloe! She never even held a grudge about what your father did.” She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Now she’s back. I want you to get on your knees and apologize to her for what your father did.” “I will not kneel for her!” “Then get out of this house and don’t ever come back.” The fine lines around her eyes trembled with fury. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, I’m your daughter! Why don’t you ever believe me?” “You dare call yourself my daughter? I have no daughter as shameless as you.” Our housekeeper, Maria, immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door. “Miss Ava, your mother is very upset. It’s better if you leave for now…” The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me. And there, standing on the marble steps, was Caleb.”

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I spent four years on the West Coast, earning my PhD. To prevent the vultures—my own extended family—from circling the corporate assets, my grandfather put my boyfriend, Ethan, in charge of the company as acting CEO. He started as my assistant, a bright, ambitious guy I’d handpicked myself. Now he was the regent of my kingdom. The day I came back, striding into the Sinclair Global headquarters that was rightfully mine, I discovered my regent had a new assistant. Her name was Brielle, and she was looking at my resume like it was a piece of trash she’d just scraped off her shoe. “Two internships in four years during a doctoral program?” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire executive floor to hear. “Looks like you can’t hold down a job. A classic flight risk. I’m surprised you even got an interview with a record like that.” With that single, venomous sentence, my authority in the company I was born to lead evaporated. She then offered, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, that she could “do me a favor” and find an opening for me in the mailroom. So I wouldn’t have to face another termination, she said. It would be a shame to tarnish my resume any further. I thought of my grandfather’s final piece of advice before I left: Observe before you act. See the real landscape, not the one you expect. So I bit back the rage, waiting for Ethan to arrive. I expected an apology, a frantic explanation for the mix-up. What I got was a scowl. “Brielle is pregnant with my son, Sloane. How dare you upset her?” he hissed, his eyes cold. “This is for the good of the company, for the Sinclair legacy. We need an heir with the strongest possible genetics. This is a strategic merger of our talents.” He paused, as if granting me a great concession. “I’ll still marry you, of course. That was the deal. The certificate will have your name on it. But Brielle needs the wedding, the ceremony. It’s for the child’s legitimacy.” He looked me up and down, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. “Brielle isn’t going to be some stay-at-home mom; she’s a brilliant executive. She’s no threat to your position as the ‘official’ wife. But this little scene you’re making? It’s pathetic. Now go down to the mailroom and try to be useful.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Me, Sloane Sinclair, the sole heir to this entire building and everything in it, being told to sort mail? He’d been keeping my seat warm for four years, and in that time, he’d forgotten whose name was carved into the granite facade outside. He wasn’t just sitting in my chair; he was trying to saw the legs off. 1 “Everyone is watching, Sloane,” Ethan said, his voice a low, menacing hum. “Brielle is my executive assistant, my right hand. If you openly defy her, how is she supposed to command any respect?” The Ethan I knew—or thought I knew—was gone. In his place was this stranger with chillingly remote eyes. Employees walking past shot me sideways glances, their expressions a mixture of pity and contempt for the ‘flight risk.’ In the cutthroat world of New York finance, a spotty work history is a death sentence. It screams incompetence and a difficult personality. If that label stuck, I could inherit the company tomorrow and never command a shred of real authority. Before I could form a defense, Ethan grabbed my arm and dragged me into an empty conference room. His fingers dug into my wrist, leaving a brutal, blossoming bruise. I sucked in a sharp breath. He looked at me as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Do you have any idea what she’s going through physically to secure the Sinclair line? You’re a woman. You should have some empathy.” He tapped a manicured finger on my resume, which was lying on the table. “Two internships in four years. That kind of instability… no serious company would tolerate it. You need to face facts, Sloane. Your profile is weak. Your genetics are a risk.” The words were so outrageous, I almost couldn’t process them. “If you want Brielle and me to continue steering this ship for your family,” he continued, his voice dangerously soft, “then you will go down to the mailroom for a few months, keep your head down, and stop causing trouble for her.” Rage, pure and hot, flooded my veins. I had pushed myself to the absolute limit for four years. For my grandfather. To silence my grasping uncles. To walk back into this company not just as the heir, but as the most qualified person for the job. I graduated with a 4.0 GPA. I’d received glowing performance reviews from both internships. The only reason I’d left the first internship for the second was to quietly clean up a catastrophic mess Ethan had made on an overseas acquisition. I’d leveraged the connections from my new position to save him, to save this company, from a multi-million dollar lawsuit. And he hadn’t even bothered to read my file. He just listened to her, to Brielle, and decided I was a failure. My face went cold. “You will walk out there right now and correct the record,” I said, my voice dangerously level. “And then you will fire Brielle.” He actually laughed. “I’m the CEO of Sinclair Global. You’re not in a position to give me orders.” His face hardened. “This company will belong to my son one day. Brielle is being generous by even letting you work here. Don’t push it.” I nearly choked on my disbelief. I pulled out my phone, ready to call the head of HR and have Ethan escorted from the building, only to find the entire executive directory had been… altered. In the four years I was gone, he had systematically replaced every single senior staff member loyal to my family. They were all his people. His face was a mask of arrogance. “Brielle is in a delicate condition. She can’t be under any stress. Apologize to her, sincerely, and I’ll have HR process your paperwork for the mailroom.” He leaned in closer. “Otherwise, you can just sit in this room until you rot.” He slammed the door on his way out. Through the glass walls, I could hear the receptionists gossiping. “God, I hope they don’t actually hire her. The last thing we need is some psycho ex-girlfriend wandering the halls. Total resume-wrecker.” “Don’t worry. Mr. Hayes and Ms. Sinclair are practically engaged. And everyone knows Brielle is the real Miss Sinclair, the one who inherited everything. That woman is about to be blacklisted from the entire industry.” “They’re such a power couple. Homewreckers should just die.” I took a deep, shuddering breath and sent Ethan a text. One: By the end of the business day, you’ll be begging me to take your office. Two: We’re done. He didn’t even bother to reply, probably assuming it was an empty threat. I opened the company’s internal network, logged into the main employee forum, and typed a single, clear message. To clarify any confusion: the engagement between Ethan Hayes and myself is terminated. I wish him and Brielle all the best. The entire company network exploded. 2 The moment I hit ‘post,’ my phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. It was my Uncle Robert. “Sloane, dear, how’s the first day back? Feeling a little overwhelmed? I’ve always said, a girl like you shouldn’t be bothering with all this stress. You should be at home, keeping your grandfather company.” I typed back instantly. “Everything’s wonderful, Uncle. Thanks for your concern. You should focus on your own grandkids.” He didn’t reply for a long time, then sent a curt message saying he would pick me up after work to “see how I was settling in.” The subtext was clear: if I showed the slightest sign of weakness, he and the rest of the pack would be ready to pounce. Before I could even refuse, the conference room door flew open. It was Ethan, his face contorted with fury, the veins on the back of his hands standing out like cords. “You take that post down right now, Sloane,” he snarled. “You tell everyone you’re obsessed with me, that you had a psychotic break, I don’t care. Fix it. My mother was already hesitant about our arrangement because you never seemed serious about starting a family. Brielle is doing what you wouldn’t. I will not let you drag her name through the mud.” My head was pounding. I’d fallen for him years ago because he was handsome, competent, and willing to accept that this was my legacy, not his. To spare his pride, I’d let him tell his family that he was the one in charge, a white lie I was now paying for. I never imagined he was secretly planning to install his own dynasty. He was my grandfather’s choice. For that reason alone, I gave him one last chance. “Fire her, Ethan. Do it now, and you can stay on in a reduced capacity.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking utterly exhausted by my irrationality. “Sloane, I didn’t want to have to spell this out for you.” He gestured to my phone. “If you don’t officially start with this company today, what do you think those wolves in your family are going to do?” He laid out his offer: if I publicly apologized to Brielle, admitted to being a delusional stalker, he would let me start in the mailroom. He would save me from my family. “Otherwise,” he finished, his eyes like chips of ice, “you won’t be working here at all.” I lifted my chin. “Did you forget, Ethan? Sinclair Global is legally in my name.” That broke him. “I am so sick of your arrogance!” he roared. “I’ve poured my life into this company for four years! Doesn’t the mother of my child deserve a say in how it’s run? Stop being so goddamn selfish, Sloane!” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if making a monumental decision, then turned and walked out. I watched him go, wondering what he was planning. A moment later, a searing pain shot up my ankle. I looked down to see scalding hot coffee soaking through my clothes, my skin turning an angry red. One of the receptionists stood there, a half-empty coffee pot in her hand. “Ugh, pathetic,” she sneered. “They’re a beautiful couple, about to get married, and you show up trying to ruin everything. Some of us actually have to work for a living, you know. We don’t have time for gold-digging drama.” Her friends chimed in, their words a volley of insults, convinced Brielle was the true heiress they needed to defend. 3 I never thought they would dare to physically attack me. As I saw another assistant approach with a fresh cup, I shoved the heavy conference room door open. The sudden move startled them. My eyes met theirs, cold and furious, and their bravado withered. A few of them scurried back to their desks, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens. I focused on the ones still glaring at me. “I am the owner of this company. If you value your jobs, you will return to them immediately.” My words were answered by a series of sharp, yapping barks. Behind the crowd, Brielle was approaching, one hand cradled protectively on her stomach, looking radiant. A wave of nausea hit me. My grandmother had left me a little white dog, Pip, when she passed away. I adored him, a living link to her memory. But when I’d first brought him to the office, Ethan had insisted it was unprofessional. For him, for the company, I’d reluctantly agreed to leave Pip at home. And now, here was Brielle, parading a pack of yapping Pomeranians through my office. “Sloane, please,” she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “The stress… you’re upsetting the baby. You’re the heir to Sinclair Global,” she cooed, for the benefit of her audience. Then she leaned in, whispering so only I could hear. “You’re a washed-up nobody with a trash resume. Without us, who would be running this place for you?” Her public performance solidified the narrative. To everyone watching, I was clearly the unhinged one. “Go get a real job,” someone muttered. “Maybe you’ll get fired less.” I was completely surrounded, completely alone. And then I saw it. The little white dog nestled in Brielle’s arms wasn’t a Pomeranian. It was Pip. My grandmother’s Pip. He saw me, and after a moment of confusion, he let out a series of hostile barks. A pain sharper than the burn on my ankle shot through my chest. Even he had betrayed me. “Excuse me, which of you is Mrs. Hayes?” A group of men in sharp suits stood behind the crowd. One of them held a velvet jewelry box. Ethan strode forward, wrapping a protective arm around Brielle. “Darling, don’t let her upset you. You’re going to be a beautiful bride.” In front of everyone, he took the box from the man, who I now recognized as our private banker. He opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was the Sinclair Sapphire. The legendary gemstone my grandmother had acquired at auction years ago, meant for me to wear on my wedding day. It was kept in the company’s most secure vault. And Ethan had just used his authority to steal it. He fastened the necklace around Brielle’s neck. A collective gasp went through the onlookers. “Oh my god, I’m so jealous. Mr. Hayes is the perfect husband.” “Jealous of what? She’s a Sinclair. She was born with it all.” “It’s just these desperate women who make things ugly. She’s a pretty girl. Why can’t she just get a real job instead of trying to sleep her way to the top? No wonder nobody wants to hire her.” My hands were shaking. I lunged forward, desperate to rip that necklace, my grandmother’s legacy, off her neck. Ethan shoved me back, shielding Brielle. “Are you insane, Sloane? Mrs. Sinclair’s will clearly stated this was a gift for my bride! Are you going to disrespect her dying wish?” Security guards grabbed my arms. In the struggle, the sleeve of my dress tore, exposing my shoulder. I had reached my limit. “You say it’s yours. I say it’s mine,” I said, my voice ringing with a clarity that cut through the chaos. “Let’s have the police settle it.” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Whatever happened next, I had to be in that CEO’s office by the end of the day. I would not let my uncles see me fail. 4 Panic flashed in Ethan’s eyes. He lunged, knocking the phone from my hand and ending the call. “Are you out of your mind?” he roared. “Your resume is already a disaster! You want to add filing a false police report to your record? You’ll be a pariah in this city. Anyone associated with you will be toxic.” He lowered his voice, a desperate attempt at conciliation. “Brielle is brilliant, Sloane. Our child will be extraordinary. As his mother—his adoptive mother—you can’t have a criminal record staining his future. Don’t do this.” He played his last card. “That overseas deal I almost botched? It was Brielle who fixed it. She saved me. She saved the company. You should be thanking her.” So that was it. He thought the person who had anonymously pulled strings to secure that foreign patent was her. That’s why he was so slavishly devoted. Suddenly, the fight drained out of me, replaced by a profound, weary emptiness. My finger moved, redialing. He couldn’t believe it. He snatched the phone again, but the call had already connected. He fumbled to hang up. “You’re going to create a PR nightmare!” he yelled, turning to the crowd of employees. “If this hits the press, our stock will tank. And all of you,” he gestured wildly, “could be out of a job because of her!” His words hit their mark. The fear in the room curdled into hatred, all of it directed at me. “You’re a worthless leech, trying to ruin things for the rest of us!” someone shouted. “We need these jobs!” One of the security guards, eager to curry favor, shoved me hard. I stumbled, and then they were on me, a flurry of fists and feet. The pain was shocking, alien. I curled into a ball on the floor, protecting my head, my world reduced to a cacophony of insults and the dull thud of blows. The irony was nauseating: they were beating me for threatening the generous benefits package that I myself had designed. My hand fumbled in my purse and found it: a can of pepper spray. I squeezed the trigger, sweeping it in a wide arc. Screams erupted as they scrambled back, clutching their eyes. “That 911 call went through,” I gasped, getting to my feet. “The police are on their way. You will all be held accountable for assault.” Fear finally dawned on Brielle’s face. The employees who had attacked me exchanged panicked looks. “She sounds so sure of herself… what if she really is…” Ethan laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “She’s bluffing.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. A moment later, phones buzzed all over the room. People looked at their screens, and the expressions on their faces shifted from fear to a mixture of pity, disgust, and contempt. My own phone buzzed. Before I could look, Ethan grabbed my wrist again. “I didn’t want to do this, Sloane,” he said, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But the company needs Brielle. You have to be sacrificed.” He leaned in, his breath foul. “Your family will disown you after this. But don’t worry. Once I have full control, I’ll still marry you, quietly. You just can’t ever call yourself Mrs. Hayes in public.” Suddenly, Pip launched himself from Brielle’s arms, a flash of white fur, and sank his teeth into Ethan’s leg. Ethan yelped and let me go. Pip stood his ground in front of me, growling, a tiny, valiant defender. A tear slid down my cheek. He hadn’t forgotten me after all. The momentary distraction gave me time to see the notification. Ethan had posted intimate photos of me to the company-wide forum. My photos. The comments were a cesspool. They called me a slut, a whore, demanding that “trash” like me be kept out of their respectable company. “If she’s the Sinclair heir, then I’m the King of England. She’s just some cheap tramp trying to blackmail her way into a payday.” “Look at her trying to steal the real Miss Sinclair’s necklace. She couldn’t afford a single stone in it if she sold her soul.” The Sinclair Sapphire on Brielle’s neck seemed to mock me, flashing under the fluorescent lights. My clothes were torn, my body bruised, my hair a mess. I must have looked insane. Ethan shook his head slowly. “If you’d just taken the mailroom job, Sloane, none of this would have happened.” “Mr. Hayes?” A new voice cut through the air, calm and clear. “I wouldn’t say another word if I were you. You have the right to remain silent.” Before I could turn, a man’s jacket was draped over my shoulders, covering my torn dress. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind face stepped in front of me, holding up a badge. “Officer Caleb Wright, NYPD. We received a 911 call reporting a theft and assault.” Behind him, two uniformed officers stood, ready and waiting.

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I was dying, and the maggots were feeding on me when she came. The only person who came to see me was the one who’d sworn to hate me for the rest of her life: my daughter. I lay on the hospital bed, a festering ruin, and her voice cut through the fog. “You gave me this life, and then you took my daughter’s. I’m here to see you out. To repay you for giving birth to me.” Her voice was cold, devoid of the warmth I remembered from a lifetime ago. “In the next life,” she whispered, “I pray I’m not your daughter.” A raw, guttural sound clawed its way up my throat. I wanted to see her face one last time, just once, but my eyes were sealed shut with filth. The few people who came to my funeral were righteous in their fury. I was the mother who favored sons she never had over the daughter she did. I didn’t deserve a peaceful death. I’d refused to pay for my daughter’s education, tried to marry her off to some rich old man, and then, the final sin, I had watched my own granddaughter die in agony. My daughter, Chrissy, had cut me out of her life. No calls, no letters, nothing. The sepsis that was devouring me started after I donated a kidney. Now, it had invited the worms to finish the job. Only in these final, lucid moments of horror did the truth become clear. It had all been a lie. A meticulously crafted story designed by my husband. I had worked myself to the bone to send money home for Chrissy. He had pocketed every last cent, all while poisoning her mind, telling her I was disgusted by her, that I wished she’d been a boy. Chrissy had disowned me. The world had pointed its finger and called me a monster. I died with a heart full of unresolved rage, a scream trapped in my rotting lungs. Then, I opened my eyes. And I was back on the day I agreed to donate my kidney to my granddaughter. 1 My husband, Mark, sat beside me, his face a mask of performative anger. “Chrissy has some nerve,” he seethed. “She hasn’t called you in what, seven, eight years? Didn’t even invite her own mother to her wedding. Now, out of the blue, she needs you to give up a kidney for her kid.” He continued his tirade, a perfect portrait of a wronged father. “You worked ten-hour days for her, eating meat once a month so you could send every penny of your paycheck back home. And what did you get for it? She cut you out of her life.” Mark took my hand. His touch was warm, but all I could see were these same hands, years from now, pinching his nose in disgust as he stood over my decaying body. “But Lily is your granddaughter,” he sighed, softening his tone. “She’s our only blood.” He saw the faraway look in my eyes and his patience wore thin. He stood up, pacing the small room. “It’s just one kidney, Rachel. You’ve got a spare. Can you please put your personal feelings aside for a minute? Your granddaughter is running out of time.” He stopped and looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Chrissy must be desperate, or she never would have called. Do you really want to push her to the edge?” A bitter hatred, cold and sharp, rose in my chest. In this moment, Mark was the loving father, the concerned husband. But I knew the truth. I knew that the moment I agreed, he would turn around and sell my kidney to the highest bidder. In my last life, my daughter waited, clinging to a final thread of hope. The news she received was that her mother was demanding three hundred thousand dollars for the organ. A sum she could never afford. My granddaughter, Lily, missed her window for a transplant. She died in pain. This was his pattern. He was the wedge, the poison. I remembered when Chrissy went into early labor. The moment I heard, I dropped everything and booked the first flight home. But Mark was there, waiting at the hospital entrance, and he physically blocked my path. “Are you trying to kill her?” he’d hissed, his grip like iron on my arm. “The stress of seeing you right now could cause a complication. You could kill them both.” He let go of me, his voice turning cold. “She made me promise. She said if she died on that table, it had nothing to do with you. Unless, of course, you were willing to pay up.” The word die shattered me. I collapsed into sobs, pulling out my checkbook, my hands shaking so badly I could barely write. I gave him every penny I had in savings. Just save her, I begged. Please, just save my daughter. Mark took the check and disappeared inside. It was the kind of bitter January cold that seeps into your bones, but I knelt on the frozen pavement by the entrance, praying to every god I could name. Take me. Take my life, but spare my daughter. I don’t know how long I knelt there. Hours, maybe. Eventually, through the haze of my grief, I heard the faint cry of a newborn. A moment later, my phone rang. It was Mark. “She did it,” he said, his voice flat. “A girl. Mother and daughter are fine. You’re a grandmother.” I hadn’t even finished my sigh of relief when he spoke again. “Chrissy knows you’re downstairs. She’s getting agitated, says she wants you to go. She can’t get worked up right now, Rachel. You need to leave.” I pulled myself up, my legs so swollen and numb they felt like stumps. I gave the hospital one last look over my shoulder, then turned for home. I had been so angry, so hurt. I’d asked myself a thousand times what more I could possibly do to earn her love. But then I would trace the faint, silvery line of the C-section scar on my stomach, and the anger would dissolve like smoke, leaving only a prayer for her happiness. Now I knew. The architect of all my pain was my own husband. He resented our daughter for not being a son, and he coveted the money I earned. He told Chrissy I hated her gender, that I’d tried to abort her. The money I sent home, he squandered. And while our daughter was working her way through community college, he told her I was trying to marry her off to some rich old man for a payout. Mark must have seen the look in my eyes, because he stopped pacing and his voice softened again, feigning sincerity. “Look, just… do this for me,” he said, his eyes welling up with fake tears. “Maybe if you agree to the donation, this can be a new start for you and Chrissy. Maybe you can finally fix things.” He was the image of a devoted father, desperate to heal his broken family. I blinked hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill. This time, they were not tears of sorrow, but of rage. “Alright,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll do it.” 2 Mark practically jumped for joy. He gave me a quick, hard hug before turning to leave. “I’m going to call Chrissy right now and give her the good news. Lily is saved!” He wasn’t going to call Chrissy. He was going to call the buyer. Three hundred thousand dollars for one kidney. Just enough to pay for the gender-selection IVF treatments he and his mistress had been planning, enough to guarantee the son he’d always craved. Even the thirteen thousand dollars I’d given him when Chrissy was in labor—that money had gone straight into his mistress’s pocket. All I had to my name had been turned into a cheap, almost insulting gift. He had shown up to Chrissy’s hospital room with a sad little gift basket from the hospital gift shop. And as he handed it to her, he’d continued to poison me in her eyes. “I told your mother you were in labor,” he had said, his voice heavy with false regret. “The first thing she asked was if it was a boy or a girl. When I told her it was a girl… Rachel just kept saying how embarrassing it was.” He’d paused, shaking his head as if ashamed. “I know I shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your mother to you, Chrissy, but what she said was horrible. That a ‘wasted effort’ had produced another ‘wasted effort.’ That she couldn’t show her face in public.” He’d placed the tacky basket on her bedside table. “She said saving a baby girl was a waste of social resources. That it would be better to just let her go. She swore she would never acknowledge this grandchild.” He’d sighed. “She wouldn’t even come inside. She just handed me this and left.” His words had ignited a firestorm. My daughter’s new in-laws were ready to come find me and tear me limb from limb. But Chrissy had just stared blankly ahead, rocking her crying newborn, her voice a hollow shell. “As far as I’m concerned,” she’d said, “my mother died the day she tried to sell me to that old man.” At the time, I’d gone home and fallen into a fever that lasted a week. After that, I was too scared to call her. I became a ghost, watching her life through the blurry lens of social media, trying to soothe the constant ache in my heart. I worked even harder, sending more money, but the chasm between us only grew wider. Then came the call about Lily’s kidney failure. As the only family member who was a match, I hadn’t hesitated. I’d agreed instantly. And after the surgery, when the infection took hold and I was left to die, the only person who came to say goodbye was the daughter who hated me most. Only then did I finally understand. Mark had been lying to me, to her, for over twenty years. His lies had destroyed our family. His lies had killed my only grandchild. My thoughts snapped back to the present. Mark was halfway out the door. I lunged forward and grabbed his arm, my grip like a vise. I looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll donate,” I said, my voice low and clear. “But I want Chrissy to come here and ask me herself.” 3 Mark’s body went rigid. He turned around slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Rachel, how can you be so cruel?” he spat, his mask of the loving father finally cracking. “You want to use your granddaughter’s life as leverage? You want to force Chrissy to get on her knees and beg you for forgiveness? You want the whole world to see her as the ungrateful daughter?” There it was. The ugly truth of him, raw and exposed. I let out a cold laugh. Before I could respond, the door swung open and a pretty, younger woman rushed in. I recognized her instantly. She was one of Chrissy’s high school classmates. And Mark’s mistress, Jessica. In my past life, as I rotted in that hospital bed, the bills went unpaid. The nurses called Mark over and over. He only answered once. I could hear Jessica’s theatrical moans in the background as Mark, breathing heavily, screamed at the nurse on the other end of the line. “If she dies, throw her in the trash.” “I’ve already divorced her. Stop harassing me.” I had tried to scream, to cry out against the injustice, but the maggots had already claimed my tear ducts and my vocal cords. I couldn’t even curse the heavens. Now, Jessica rushed to Mark’s side, steadying him as if he were about to faint. She turned to me, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “I have never in my life met a mother as selfish as you,” she declared, her voice dripping with condescension. “It’s bad enough you never cared about Chrissy, but to humiliate her like this? Now?” She glared at me, her voice rising. “Why don’t you just die, Rachel? You don’t deserve to be a mother.” She stood there judging me, this woman who had made Chrissy’s life a living hell in high school. She was the one who led the charge, isolating and bullying my daughter for receiving financial aid—aid she only needed because her father was stealing her tuition money. I stared at her, fighting the primal urge to tear her apart with my bare hands. “This is a family matter,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Who the hell are you to get involved?” I turned my gaze back to Mark. It felt like aiming a weapon. “All I said was that I wanted to see my daughter. Why does that sound like a threat to you?” My eyes narrowed. “You know how much I’ve done for Chrissy, don’t you, Mark? Or has something been going on that I don’t know about?” His eyes darted away, unable to meet my stare. Jessica’s venomous glare was fixed on me, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Mark shot her a look, silencing her. His momentary lapse in composure vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his familiar, blustering anger. “You know what, Rachel?” he snarled, pointing a finger at me. “If you don’t agree to this donation, right now, no conditions, we’re getting a divorce.” A laugh, raw and liberating, escaped my lips. “Fine,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. “Let’s get a divorce.” 4 The word hung in the air between us. The confidence on Mark’s face, the smug certainty that I would crumble, shattered into a million pieces. He lunged at me, his face contorted with rage. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, his eyes bloodshot. “I knew it,” he screamed. “You’ve been screwing around out there, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been sending less and less money home.” His accusations grew wilder, more unhinged. “Have you no shame? You’ve disgraced my family, you’ve abandoned your daughter, and now you’re going to let your granddaughter die while you run off to start a new life?!” He was losing control, his grip tightening around my throat. I gagged, clawing at his hands. The room spun, a loud ringing in my ears. “Divorce is fine by me,” he choked out, his face inches from mine. “But the house, the car—they’re mine. You leave with nothing.” With a savage grin, he shoved me away. I stumbled backward, my spine crashing against the sharp edge of a table. A hot, searing pain shot through me, and I collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball. He and Jessica stormed into my bedroom. I could hear them tearing the place apart, drawers being ripped open, closets being emptied. They were looking for anything of value. My bank cards, the deed to the house, my savings bonds—Mark greedily stuffed them all into his briefcase. “If you don’t want to donate the kidney, fine,” he called out from the other room. “Find three hundred thousand dollars to buy one for Lily. In the meantime, I’ll be selling the house to cover Chrissy’s ‘emergency’ expenses.” By the time I managed to pull myself to my feet, they were gone. I hobbled downstairs, my body aching. The car was gone, too. But I didn’t care about any of it. All I could see was my daughter’s face as a little girl, her smile so soft and full of light. I walked to the hospital. When I reached Lily’s room, I pushed the door open gently. My granddaughter was so small and frail, hooked up to a ventilator. My daughter was slumped in a chair beside the bed, her head resting on the mattress. I could see strands of silver in her dark hair. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I reached out, my hand trembling, and gently touched her head. Chrissy jolted awake. Her eyes flew open, and when she saw me, she flinched back, slapping my hand away. Her face was a mask of suspicion. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Are you satisfied now? The ‘wasted effort’ is dying.” Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head, unable to speak. Just then, a phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with two words: My Dad. I grabbed her arm. “Don’t tell him I was here,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. She hesitated for a second, then answered the call. Mark’s voice, full of anguish and fury, filled the quiet room. “That woman is not a mother, she’s a monster!” he yelled, so loud I could hear him from across the room. “The second I told her Lily needed a kidney, she panicked. She sold the house and the car and skipped town, Chrissy! She took everything and ran so you couldn’t find her!” His voice became urgent. “Listen to me. I found another donor, a perfect match for Lily. You need to wire me whatever money you have right now. I’ll cover the rest. We have to move fast to save her.” Chrissy’s eyes widened in shock. She stared at me, then back at the phone, a wave of confusion washing over her face. In that instant, something clicked. A flicker of understanding, followed by a horrifying realization that turned her face a deathly shade of white. I couldn’t stand it another second. I snatched the phone from her hand. Two lifetimes of rage erupted from me in a single, guttural roar. “Mark,” I screamed into the phone, “how long are you going to keep this up?!”

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I sold my soul for $20,000 a month, and I’d do it again. The job posting was a godsend for a broke graduate like me. But when the signing bonus hit my account, the job posting vanished. The front door was locked from the outside. And my new boss? He’s not human, he lives in the shadows of my room, and he just informed me that the contract is for eternity.

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“I took his fortune and fled, carrying the one secret he could never discover: his heir. Now, he’s stormed back into my life. A predator with no memory of me, no recognition in his cold eyes. He looks at my pregnant belly with disgust, calling my child a “misshapen hope.” He demands I become his private chef, a prisoner in my own sanctuary. Little does he know, with every meal I serve him, I’m feeding the monster who destroyed my life… and the father of my baby. 1 The moment he appeared, I was polishing a silver candlestick with a soft piece of flannel. Behind me, the fire in the great stone hearth danced, stretching my shadow long and thin across the old-growth wooden floors. This place, The Briarwood Inn, was the peace I’d bought with the fortune that severed me from him. It was the only sanctuary for me and the secret I carried in my belly. The heavy oak door swung open, and a figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the gray dusk. An icy hand seemed to clamp around my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. It was him. Adrian. Even with the predatory aura of a king of the night banked like embers, the sheer pressure of his bloodline thinned the air in the room. I watched him approach, his face, as handsome and unforgiving as a marble sculpture, wearing an expression both familiar and alien. He had forgotten me. He’d forgotten the contract we’d burned to ash, forgotten everything. “Are you the proprietor?” His voice was a low thrum, like the plucked string of a cello, vibrating straight through me. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the flannel cloth. I forced a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. Are you looking for a room?” His gaze didn’t linger on my face. It dropped, instead, to the swell of my stomach, and a flicker of distaste—so quick I might have imagined it—crossed his unreadable eyes. I knew what it was. He was drawn to the scent of life radiating from me, yet repulsed by the vessel that carried it. “The food you make is adequate,” he said. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a king assessing a tribute. “I require a personal chef. Name your price. I’ll satisfy your greed, and I’ll see to it you’re rid of that… excess flesh.” My hand tightened on the candlestick. For a wild second, I imagined swinging it, shattering that perfect, handsome face. I took a deep, steadying breath, willing my voice to remain even. “I’m sorry, sir, but this inn is my entire life. I’m the owner and the cook. I’m not available for hire.” “Besides,” I added, my smile turning intentionally, deliberately warm, “this isn’t excess flesh. This is my hope.” “Hope?” A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, the sharp tip of a canine glinting in the firelight. “The hopes of mortals are always so fragile. And so… misshapen.” He took a step forward, and his shadow fell over me. He leaned in, his breath a cold whisper against my ear, his voice low and laced with menace. “I will say this one last time.” “You will be my chef.” “Or, I will buy this entire valley, including this quaint little inn, and leave you with no choice at all.” “Choose.” 2 My head snapped up, and I met his gaze. There was no negotiation in those deep, bottomless eyes, only a resolve so cold it threatened to freeze the marrow in my bones. He was serious. The man was insane. Buy the valley? This was my refuge, the home I had built for myself and my unborn child with the fortune he had given me and every ounce of my own strength. Who was he to just… buy it? “Sir,” I bit out, the formal address feeling like ash on my tongue, “coercion doesn’t exactly scream ‘classy’.” “I’m not a nobleman. I’m a predator,” he said, straightening to his full height and looking down at me as if I were a new, interesting acquisition. “And right now, your ‘craft’ has my attention.” I knew fighting him head-on was like throwing an egg against a castle wall. I forced myself to think, to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My eyes fell on the pot of stew simmering on the hearth. I ladled a small bowl and offered it to him. “Please, try this again. It’s made with wild rabbit from the ridge and chanterelles I picked at dawn. It’s been simmering all afternoon.” He glanced down. The rich, earthy aroma drifted up, and I saw something in him—an irritation, a deep-seated restlessness—settle for a moment. He took the spoon and brought it to his lips. In that instant, I saw his crimson-flecked pupils contract sharply. There it was again. That feeling. A familiarity so deeply ingrained in his soul it confused him, yet drew him in with an undeniable gravity. The battle within him was over. He set the spoon down and placed a heavy signet ring, carved with his family crest, on the table between us. “It seems you haven’t made up your mind.” He turned his head slightly. “Isabelle,” he called softly to the shadows by the door. “Bring the men. Clear out the Briarwood Inn. As of tonight, these are my temporary quarters.” “I’ll do it!” The words tore from my throat. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. He gave a subtle signal to his second-in-command, and she melted back into the dusk. “That’s better.” “I’ll cook for you,” I said, my fists clenched at my sides, fighting for the last shred of my dignity. “But I have conditions.” “Speak.” “First, I work for you only until the full moon. When your hunting season ends, so does our arrangement.” “Second, I cook only in this inn. If you wish to eat, you come here.” “And third,” I glanced down at my stomach, “I am responsible for my own affairs. That includes my personal health.” He watched me with an air of detached amusement, like a man admiring a small, feral creature still baring its claws from inside a cage. “Done,” he agreed, so easily it stunned me. Just as a breath of relief escaped my lips, he added, “However, I have a condition of my own. For the duration of your service, all of your time… belongs to me.” 3 “All of my time belongs to you?” My brow furrowed. “I’m a chef, not your slave.” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in your mortal body.” His eyes swept over me, pausing for a fraction of a second on my belly with an expression that clearly read encumbrance. “I simply need to ensure that when I require sustenance, my cook is readily available.” His logic was sound, yet it sent a chill deep into my bones. But I had no other move to make. And just like that, my Briarwood Inn became the temporary court of the von Carstein heir. And I became Adrian’s exclusive “chef.” The first day, I was introduced to the exacting demands of the immortal. Dawn, noon, midnight—his aide, Isabelle, would appear with some new, outlandish request. I spent the entire day spinning like a top in my own kitchen. After I’d finally served his late-night meal, I watched Isabelle carry a crystal glass of crimson liquid into Adrian’s chambers, her hips swaying with practiced allure. My back ached so badly I had to brace myself against the wall as I made my way to my room. A single thought consumed me: the moment the full moon rises, I’m taking my child and running. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get away from that monster. The next day, Isabelle’s passive aggression became active sabotage. I was preparing Adrian’s dinner when she clicked into the kitchen on sharp heels, feigning a stumble as she brushed past me. An entire pouch of finely ground salt tumbled into the simmering soup. “Oh, my goodness, Ella. So clumsy of me,” she said, her voice dripping with false regret, her eyes shining with malicious glee. I gave her a flat, unimpressed look, then silently carried the pot to the hearth and poured its contents directly into the fire. Then, from a second hook over the flames, I lifted another pot, identical to the first. Isabelle’s face froze. “You…” “I always make two,” I said blandly. “Just in case.” I walked past her with the fresh pot of soup, adding quietly, “Next time you want to pull a stunt, try paying attention first.” In the dining hall, Adrian watched me set the soup before him. He lifted the silver spoon, and as he tasted it, that familiar frown creased his brow. He set the spoon down, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine. “Have we met before?” My heart skipped a beat. I forced down the wave of panic, plastering on a perfect, placid smile. “Sir, you have a charming way with compliments. It’s an old line, but on a man as handsome as you, I suppose it still works. But really, how would a man of your stature know a simple country woman like me? You must be mistaken.” He studied my face, searching for a crack in the facade. After a long moment, he looked away, picking up his spoon again. “Perhaps.” 4 Adrian decided to “purify” his source of nourishment. A list, written on expensive parchment, was delivered to my kitchen. It dictated that I was to drink only spring water and consume a specific, limited diet of berries and tubers. He had concluded that the “taint” in my life-scent stemmed from my “bloated” form and my varied, common diet. I looked at the list and laughed without humor. He wanted to starve my child in the womb. I tossed the parchment into the fire. My baby needed nourishment. To hell with his purification. I continued to cook rich stews and savory braises, eating well myself until my cheeks were rosy with health. Adrian’s mood grew darker with each passing day. Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, he cornered me by the woodshed. “Why do you defy my orders?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low. “What orders?” I asked, playing dumb. “Ella!” He snapped my name, his anger finally breaking through his cold composure. “Look at the state of you. It’s… grotesque.” His words were a shard of ice, plunging straight into my heart. A hot surge of humiliation and fury rushed to my head, and my eyes instantly burned with tears. Just as I felt my control shatter, a booming voice erupted from the pathway. “Adrian! You blind, arrogant fool! Who are you calling grotesque?” My friend Helena, the village’s revered herbalist and midwife, stood there, a basket of freshly gathered herbs on her back. She stormed forward, shoving me behind her like a mother bear protecting her cub, and glared up at Adrian. “Which one of your damned eyes sees anything ugly here? This is abundance! This is life! What the hell would you know about it? She’s pregnant! She’s pregnant, you idiot!” Helena’s voice echoed across the courtyard. The world seemed to stop. The anger on Adrian’s face froze, replaced by an expression of pure, uncomprehending shock. His gaze moved slowly, inch by inch, from Helena’s furious face to mine, and then, finally, it settled on the high, round curve of my belly. The “encumbrance” he had mocked. The “excess flesh” he found repulsive. It was… a child? His mind went completely blank. Seeing the utterly lost look on his face, the days of pent-up fear and hurt inside me suddenly vanished. I straightened my spine, stepped out from behind Helena, and met his stunned gaze head-on. My voice was clear and steady when I spoke. “That’s right, I’m pregnant. But you can relax, my lord. The baby isn’t yours. You have no reason to feel burdened.””

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After my husband and my best friend murdered me, I found myself in a queue at the intake office of the afterlife. “Rebirth protocol is ready. Which household?” the administrator asked, his voice devoid of inflection. I pointed to the couple on the screen, the two architects of my demise, and my smile was a gash in the dark. “That one. I want to be the living testament to their love.” The administrator paused, a flicker of something like concern in his ethereal form. “Animosity of this magnitude can curdle the fate of your next life.” “That’s fine,” I said, waving a dismissive hand. “In this life, I plan to be the kind of daughter who comes back to ‘repay’ her parents for everything.” 1 The next second, I was enveloped in the warm, amniotic dark, a feeling immediately shattered by a violent, spinning compression. It ended with a sharp, piercing cry. I, Chloe Morgan, had just been born into the body of Amelia Conrad, daughter of my enemies. “Congratulations, Mr. Conrad. She’s a beautiful girl, and what a set of lungs!” A nurse, smelling of antiseptic soap, wiped me clean and gently placed me in the arms of that woman. Isabella. My best friend. My Bella. She was pale and slick with sweat, but her face was aglow with a beatific, Madonna-like radiance. She reached for me, her voice a syrupy whisper. “Come here, baby. Mommy’s got you.” Mommy? You don’t deserve that name. The instant her fingertip grazed my skin, I unleashed the most volcanic, blood-curdling scream of my short existence. “WAAAAAAHHHHHH!” My shriek ripped through the serene atmosphere of the delivery room. The doctor and nurses jumped. Isabella flinched so hard she almost dropped me. “What’s going on? She was perfectly calm a moment ago,” one of the nurses said, rushing to take me. The moment I was out of Isabella’s arms, my cries subsided into soft whimpers. “It’s probably nothing. Newborns can be finicky about who holds them,” the doctor offered, already turning away. But Isabella’s expression had already started to curdle. Back at the Conrad estate, this became our new reality. If she came within ten feet of me, my internal alarm would blare. If she reached for me, I would transform from a cherubic infant into a feral thing, a cornered animal. My limbs would flail, my tiny, sharp fingernails raking at any exposed skin—her face, her neck, her arms. “Ouch!” Isabella hissed in pain, looking down at the three angry red welts now blooming on her forearm. I took that as my cue to wail even louder, as if I were the one who had been grievously wounded. “What the hell is going on in here?” Michael, my former husband, stormed in, drawn by the noise. He took in the scene: Isabella with blood on her arm, and his daughter screaming in her embrace as if being tortured. “I… I don’t know. It was so sudden,” she stammered, her face ashen. Michael snatched me from her with an impatient grunt. The second I was nestled against his chest, my crying ceased. I let out a few pathetic, hiccuping sobs, buried my red face in the warmth of his shirt, found a comfortable position, and drifted off to sleep. The picture of docile innocence. A complete stranger to the creature I’d been moments before. Michael stared down at the angelic daughter in his arms, then at the scratches on his wife’s skin. His brow furrowed into a hard line. From that day on, it was the rhythm of our lives. If Isabella held me, I would scream and claw. If Michael, my grandfather, my grandmother, or even the nanny held me, I was as placid and perfect as a doll. Within a month, Isabella’s body was a canvas of old scars and new scratches. She had to use a thick layer of concealer just to cover the marks on her face. And the rumors began to whisper through the manicured lawns of our community: the new Conrad baby, for some reason, couldn’t stand her own mother. One night, after I’d managed to catch her lip with my nail, she finally broke. “What is wrong with you?!” she hissed, shutting the nursery door. She loomed over my crib, her face a grotesque mask of fury in the dim light. “Are you some kind of demon? Why me? Why only me?” I simply stared back at her, my eyes wide, clear, and innocent. Yes. I am the demon who has come for your soul. Seeing me quiet and calm, a sliver of her sanity returned. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to convince herself. “You’re just a baby… you don’t understand anything… you don’t understand…” Her hand, trembling, reached for me again, as if to test the theory one last time. Just then, the door creaked open. Michael walked in with a bottle of warm milk. What he saw was his wife’s contorted, snarling expression and her hand moving, threateningly, toward our daughter. “Bella! What are you doing?!” He lunged across the room, scooping me into his arms and shielding me from her. The look he gave her was frigid with disappointment. “Nothing! I wasn’t—I was just trying to hold her!” she cried, her voice thin with desperation. Michael rocked me, murmuring soothing words, then spoke to her without even looking up. “If you can’t handle her, then stay away from her.” “From now on, Maria will take care of her.” 2 Stripped of her maternal duties, Isabella’s status in the house plummeted. She went from the lady of the manor to a peripheral figure, a ghost in her own home, a mother in name only. Michael grew colder by the day, and my grandparents began to look straight through her. Her only function was to appear at family gatherings, holding me for the cameras to create the illusion of a happy, loving family. And I, bathed in the adoration of everyone else, grew to the age of two. I was beginning to form words—simple, clumsy, and each one meticulously calculated. The stage was my grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday party. The Conrad estate was filled to the brim with high-society guests. I was the star of the show, a little porcelain doll in a red velvet dress, perched on my grandfather’s lap, soaking in the praise. Isabella stood off to the side, a forced smile painted on her face, draped in an expensive gown that looked like a costume. I knew she was waiting for an opportunity, a moment to perform her motherly love in public and claw back a shred of dignity. It came, as I knew it would, during the cake-cutting. She approached with a small plate, her movements a study in practiced elegance, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Amelia, my darling. Come, let Mommy give you some cake.” She had calculated that I wouldn’t dare humiliate her in front of so many important people. She had calculated wrong. I’d been waiting for this day for two years. I squirmed out of my grandfather’s arms, landed on my feet, and scrambled backward as if she were a monster emerging from the shadows. My face was a mask of pure terror. “No… no touch…” I babbled, my words slurring with manufactured fear. The smile on Isabella’s face froze. A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd as guests exchanged curious glances. “Amelia, sweetheart, it’s okay. Mommy won’t hurt you…” she pleaded, her voice tight. She took another step forward, trying to grab my hand. Showtime. I lifted my tiny hand, and with all the force my small body could muster, I pointed a trembling finger at her beautifully made-up, now twitching face. I summoned every ounce of hatred from my past life, every memory of her betrayal, and forged it into a curse. And through the mouth of a two-year-old, I screamed it, one syllable at a time. “Bad… la-dy!” “Kill… er!” A stunned silence fell over the grand ballroom. Every eye bounced between me and Isabella, whose face had become a bloodless, ghostly white. “Killer?” “What did she just say? Did I hear that right?” “My God, that child… is something wrong with her?” The whispers swelled into a tidal wave. My grandparents were the first to react, scooping me into a protective embrace. “Hush now, Amelia, you’re safe,” my grandmother cooed, patting my back. “Did you have a bad dream last night? Such silly things to say.” But Michael’s face had lost all color. Isabella completely shattered. “I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger back at me, her voice ragged and wild. “It’s her! That little monster is lying! She’s not a normal child! She’s a demon!” A mother, in front of a room full of people, calling her own daughter a “monster” and a “demon.” “Shut your mouth!” Michael roared, striding forward and slapping her hard across the face. The sound cracked like a whip in the silent room. “Are you insane?! She’s a two-year-old child!” I buried my face in my grandfather’s shoulder, and over the chaos, I watched the two of them, the architects of my first death, begin to tear each other apart. A thrill of pure, cold victory shivered through me. 3 The fiasco at the birthday party was the final nail in Isabella’s coffin. “That crazy woman.” “Such a bitter shrew.” “Cursed by her own daughter.” The labels stuck to her like tar. She became a pariah in the Conrad family. Michael started avoiding her like the plague. It was as if he truly believed I was some kind of vengeful spirit, and he’d rather lock himself in his study than be in the same room with the “true love” he’d killed for. Completely isolated, Isabella’s mental state deteriorated rapidly. She no longer dared to approach me, but her eyes followed me everywhere, burning with a venomous hatred. She resorted to petty cruelties—spilling my milk “by accident,” making loud noises while I was sleeping, pinching my arm hard when no one was looking. I endured it all in silence. She was venting. And I was waiting for the perfect moment to shove her into hell. That moment was tied to the crystal music box hidden in the back of her jewelry drawer. It was a gift from Michael, a memento from when she’d first told him she was pregnant with me. I slipped into her room when she was downstairs. I dragged a vanity stool over, climbed onto her dressing table, and rummaged until my fingers closed around the cool, multifaceted glass. Without a moment’s hesitation, I raised it high and brought it crashing down onto the marble floor. CRACK! The music box exploded into a thousand glittering shards. But that wasn’t enough. I closed my eyes, picturing my own mangled body in the wreckage of my car. Then I picked up the sharpest piece of glass and, without flinching, dragged it across the soft, pale skin of my own forearm. A sharp, white-hot pain seared through me. Blood welled up instantly. The pain was so intense it almost made me black out, but I held on. I smeared a few drops of my own blood onto the lace dress of my favorite doll. Then, clutching the doll, a walking exhibit of my “victimhood,” I stumbled out of the room. “Grandpa! Grandma!” My terrified, tear-choked scream brought everyone running. They found me in the hallway, my clothes disheveled, my body trembling, clutching a blood-stained doll. A deep gash on my other arm was bleeding profusely. “Oh my God! Amelia!” My grandmother let out a horrified shriek and was the first to reach me. I collapsed into her arms, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, and pieced together the perfect lie with my carefully practiced, broken speech. “Mommy… bad…” “Mommy… no like… Amelia…” I held up the bloodied doll, my cries escalating until I was nearly hysterical. “Smash… dolly… dolly broke…” Finally, I showed her my bleeding arm, my voice a pathetic whimper. “Arm… hurt… owie…” Every word was a hammer blow to their hearts. Isabella, drawn by the commotion, stood frozen in the doorway. She stared at the wound on my arm, then at her own empty hands, her mind a complete blank. “No… it wasn’t me… I didn’t…” Her denials were pathetic, meaningless in the face of my blood. “You poisonous bitch!” my grandfather roared, his body shaking with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at her, his eyes blazing. “How dare you lay a hand on this child! This family has no place for a monster like you!” Michael was stunned silent by the bloody scene. He looked from me to the raving, frantic Isabella, and the last shred of affection he might have held for her was replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. As they rushed me towards the door to go to the hospital, I looked over my grandfather’s shoulder. Past all the panicked faces, my eyes met Isabella’s. She looked dead already, her face a mask of gray despair. I formed two words with my mouth, speaking only to her. “Go. Die.” She understood. And as she stared at me, a sound tore from her throat—a scream of such primal terror it was no longer human. 4 The cut on my arm required five stitches. I became the most precious and fragile treasure in the Conrad family, handled with painstaking care wherever I went. My grandfather hired two full-time bodyguards whose only job was to ensure Isabella never came within ten feet of me. Isabella herself was placed under effective house arrest, confined to her bedroom suite. I heard stories of her smashing things, screaming that I was a demon, that I had hurt myself to frame her. No one believed her, of course. Who would believe the word of a madwoman who harmed her own child? But I knew this wasn’t enough. House arrest wasn’t the end. I wanted her gone. Erased from this house, from my life, completely. One afternoon, I told my bodyguards I wanted to play hide-and-seek by myself, a ruse to get them to leave me alone. Then I tiptoed to her bedroom door. It was unlocked. She was sitting on the floor amid the glittering shards of the broken music box, muttering to herself like a lunatic. I pushed the door open and walked in. The sight of me sent her scrambling backward into a corner like a terrified rabbit. Her eyes were wide with fear. “What… what do you want?” I walked right up to her and crouched down, my voice low and steady, utterly alien coming from a child. “I’m here… to get my things back.” Isabella’s pupils constricted to pinpricks. I looked at her, and slowly, I let a smile spread across my face. It was Chloe’s smile. The one she knew better than anyone. “You stole my husband. You killed me… and now, I’m going to take it all back. Piece by piece.” “AAAAAHHH!” In that instant, the last thread of Isabella’s sanity snapped. She finally knew. I wasn’t just a child. I was Chloe’s ghost, returned from the grave to claim her debt. “Demon! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, you demon!” she shrieked, lunging at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, burning with a raw, murderous light. She grabbed my arm and started dragging me out of the room, toward the long, winding marble staircase in the main foyer. I didn’t fight her. I even went limp to make it easier. I was counting the seconds in my head. I knew that in ten seconds, my grandfather would be leaving his study to come downstairs for his daily afternoon tea. “Die, you little monster! Die!” Isabella was completely unhinged. She dragged me to the edge of the landing and raised her hand to strike me. Now. I heard the soft click of the study door opening. In the split second before her hand could connect with my face, I sucked in a breath and let out the most piercing, terrified scream I could manage. “MOMMY! DON’T PUSH ME—!” Then, I deliberately wrenched myself from her grasp and threw my own body, without hesitation, down the several dozen feet of cold, unyielding marble steps. The world became a spinning, chaotic blur. The impact of my bones against the stairs sent shockwaves of agony through me that threatened to pull me into darkness. THUMP. My body landed in a broken heap on the foyer floor. My left arm was bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. The pain was a tidal wave, drowning me. But I fought through it, using the last of my strength to lift my head. I saw my grandfather, standing at the top of the stairs, his face white with horror, his body trembling as he stared at the hellish scene before him. He had seen Isabella’s hand, raised and ready to strike. He had heard my desperate cry: “Don’t push me!” And he had watched my “helpless” body tumble down the entire flight of stairs. I met his horrified, furious, and heartbroken gaze. I raised my good arm, my hand shaking, and pointed a trembling finger at the woman who was now frozen in place like a statue. My voice was a ragged whisper, mixed with tears and sweat. “Grandpa… help…” “Mommy… she… she tried to… kill me…” As the last word left my lips, my head lolled to the side, and I let the darkness take me. Just before I passed out, I heard my grandfather’s roar—a sound so distorted by rage and grief that it was barely human.

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The alert from my neighborhood Facebook group lit up my phone screen while I was in the kitchen, trying to scrape together some semblance of dinner. Someone was tagging me. Over and over. “@Clara Miller, unit 502. Your son took a key to my brand-new Rivian.” “What the hell are you raising over there? Does he want a head start on a juvenile record?” “This happens again, I swear to God, I’m breaking his fingers.” Then, the floodgates opened. Other neighbors chimed in. “My car got hit last week! A gash from the headlight to the trunk!” “Has he even left a single car in the garage untouched? Who are his parents? Do they even care?” “That explains it. I saw him walking with a key out the other day, just dragging it along the wall. I thought it was just a sound. He’s a little monster.” I turned off the stove, the motion feeling heavy, distant, as if I were moving through water. From the junk drawer, I pulled out the small black ledger. The one I kept just for this. This was the 56th time my son had keyed a car. The first time, it was our neighbor’s old Honda. I paid two hundred dollars. The tenth time, a BMW from the floor below us. Two thousand dollars. The thirty-sixth time, a Porsche in the reserved parking area. Ten thousand dollars. That was the last of our savings. Every payment since then had been made with money I’d swallowed my pride to borrow. I walked down to the garage. The gleaming electric truck sat under the fluorescent lights, a cruel white scar marring its side. My son, Leo, stood beside it, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Mommy,” he said, his voice perfectly guileless. “Didn’t you say that if I scratched the cars, I’d get a new toy? Why is that man so mad?” There it was again. That practiced, theatrical innocence he used every single time, designed to thrust me into the crossfire. The truck’s owner heard him. His face went from red to purple. He whipped out his phone and pointed it at me, the red light of the recording already on. He was live-streaming. “Everyone, get a look at this!” he yelled into the phone. “It’s the mother! She’s the one telling her kid to do it! This is the kind of trash poisoning our society!” The comment feed on his screen became an instant, waterfalling blur of judgment. In the reflection of his phone, I saw myself: wearing a stained sweatshirt, my unwashed hair plastered to my cheeks. I looked from my own haggard reflection to the jagged line on the car door, and a strange, broken sound escaped my lips. I started to laugh. 1 I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stood like this, being screamed at by a stranger. The first time was three years ago. Leo was three. I was on our small balcony watering the plants. He had found my keys, which had fallen on the floor, and quietly slipped away. He used them to draw a wobbly, misshapen flower on our neighbor’s brand-new car. Faced with the owner’s fury, I felt a shame so hot it was physically painful. All I could do was apologize, over and over, and promise to pay for everything. Back then, I thought it was just curiosity. A toddler’s mistake. I taught him, again and again: you can’t touch other people’s things, and you certainly can’t break them. He would nod, his expression serious and understanding. I thought he’d gotten the message. But then it was other cars in the neighborhood. Cars in the mall parking garage. Cars parked on the street. Anywhere we went, if there was a car, he would leave his “masterpiece.” I apologized a thousand times. I paid out a fortune. I tried everything. Patient conversations. Stern punishments. Taking away his tablet. Time-outs. I even took him to a child psychologist. The verdict was always the same: he’s a perfectly normal, exceptionally bright child. Just a bit mischievous. But he never stopped. Every single time, he would look at me with those crystal-clear eyes and promise with all his heart, “I’ll never do it again, Mommy. I promise.” And the next time, he’d choose a more expensive car and carve an even deeper line. He’d look at me with an even more innocent expression. And then, just like now, he would pin all the blame squarely on my shoulders. He made me the villain, the target of everyone’s rage, the woman they could all point their fingers at. I don’t know why he does it. All I know is that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in years. I wake up in a panic, checking his bed to make sure he hasn’t slipped out to create a new debt, a new humiliation for me to bear. Now, listening to the car owner’s furious ranting, watching the endless stream of insults and curses on his livestream, and seeing the woman in the reflection—hair a mess, clothes stained, clutching a cheap ledger like a bible—I laughed again. Is this really my fault? Why did the child I nearly died to bring into this world make me, a thirty-two-year-old woman, look and feel fifty-two? Before I got married, I was an illustrator with a bit of a name for myself. I had my own studio, my own ambitions. Now, my eyes are sunk in dark circles, my skin is sallow. My entire life revolves around scratch repairs and payment plans. Everywhere I go, people whisper and stare. I’m like a rat in the gutter, despised by everyone. My laughter only seemed to stoke the owner’s rage. “Your son destroys my car and you have the nerve to laugh?” “If I were as big of a failure as you, I’d have jumped off a bridge by now!” Other residents, drawn by the commotion, added their own fuel to the fire. “Exactly! Your kid looks smart enough. How hard is it to teach him not to destroy property?” “If you can’t even handle that one simple thing, what’s the point of you?” “You’re an embarrassment to women.” Just as the chorus of condemnation reached its peak, my husband, Graham, appeared. “What’s going on?” He was wearing a crisp, ironed button-down shirt. He jogged over, saw the glaring scratch on the car, and his face fell in perfect, practiced understanding. Then, he turned to the owner, his voice the epitome of grace and apology. “I am so, so sorry. My wife… she hasn’t been managing him well. She will cover all of your damages.” 2 I looked at Graham. He looked the same as the day I first met him. Clean. Put-together. Incredibly polite. And just like our son, he was an expert at shifting all the blame onto me. At the sight of him, the neighbors’ anger subsided slightly. “Mr. Miller, you see the mess this has become.” “Honestly, and we’re not trying to attack you, but you need to get your wife under control. She’s ruining this kid.” “Forget it, the guy has it hard enough. Imagine being married to a walking disaster, constantly having to clean up her messes.” I stood there like a criminal on trial, watching as everyone’s gaze toward Graham softened with pity. I watched as Leo ran to his father’s arms, playing the part of a poor, frightened boy who had been misled by his own mother. From beginning to end, I was the only villain in the story. Graham let out a heavy sigh, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, everyone. It’s my fault for not keeping a better handle on things at home.” Then, he looked at me, his voice laced with a familiar, weary disappointment. “When I’m with Leo, he never touches things that aren’t his. Why can’t you teach him that?” Yes. I’d like to know that, too. Why is it that when Leo is with his father, he’s a perfect angel? But the moment he’s in my care, he becomes a demon with a vendetta against expensive cars. I wanted to explain, but by the time the words reached my lips, they turned into a bitter smile. Forget it. I’ve said it all a thousand times before. And every time, the response from Graham is the same: “This is your issue, Clara. Stop trying to blame it on our son.” I said nothing more. I just quietly took out my phone to arrange the payment. Graham, holding Leo, turned and walked away without a backward glance. The next day was the 50th wedding anniversary for Graham’s parents. I woke up early, dressed Leo in a new outfit, and repeated the instructions carefully. “Leo, honey, Grandma and Grandpa have invited a lot of guests today. At the restaurant, you have to be on your best behavior. No running around, and absolutely no touching things that don’t belong to you, okay?” He blinked his big eyes and nodded enthusiastically. “I know, Mommy. I’ll be a good boy today.” Graham came out of the bedroom, shot me a look, and said coldly, “Do you have to be so dramatic? You act like you’re guarding a prisoner.” He added, with a dismissive wave, “If you just paid more attention on a daily basis, he wouldn’t need these constant lectures.” 3 It was always like this. When I was the one paying for damages and apologizing, he was in his home office with his noise-canceling headphones on, “working.” When I tried to gently reason with Leo, he’d tell me I was too soft, that I lacked authority. When I raised my voice and disciplined Leo, he’d say I was hot-tempered and giving our son a traumatic childhood. When I took Leo to a psychologist, he said I was overreacting and needed to look for the cause of the problem in myself. He always found a way to stand on the moral high ground, enjoying the peace and quiet I bought with my own sanity, only to critique my methods from a safe distance. He would push me until I became a hysterical, screaming mess. And then he would smile that calm, gentle smile. “See? You can’t even control your own emotions. How do you expect to raise a child properly?” I used to argue with him. I used to doubt myself. I used to break down and cry. Now, I don’t even have the energy to open my mouth. We arrived at the upscale hotel we’d booked for the party. His parents and all the relatives were already there. The moment they saw Leo, their faces lit up. “Oh, there’s my handsome grandson! You look so sharp today!” “He does. You can just tell he’s a smart, well-behaved boy.” And today, Leo was. He sat quietly beside me, eating his food in small, neat bites. The adults mingled, glasses clinked, and the atmosphere was warm and celebratory. They chatted and reminisced. After a while, Leo tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy,” he whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.” The fact that he had asked so politely filled me with a small sense of relief. Graham smiled and ruffled Leo’s hair, then glanced at me. “See? What a good boy.” His eyes held a flicker of smugness. “I really don’t know what you’re so anxious about all the time.” I ignored him, took Leo’s hand, and led him to the restrooms just outside our private ballroom. I waited for him by the door. A few moments later, a piercing car alarm shrieked from the direction of the parking garage. It was followed by a man’s furious roar. “What the FUCK? Who did this? Who the hell keyed my car?!” “Goddammit, it’s a limited-edition Bentley! I just got it!” “Which one of you assholes did this? Get the hell out here!” My blood ran cold. My stomach dropped. I called out to the men’s room door, my voice trembling. “Leo?” “Leo, are you in there?” Silence. The restroom was empty. My heart seized in my chest. I broke into a run, sprinting toward the parking garage as if my life depended on it. I burst into the garage to find a crowd gathering around a gleaming black Bentley. A deep, long, white gash ran from the front fender all the way to the taillight. A man in an expensive suit was absolutely apoplectic, screaming at his car. 4 I knew that scratch. I knew it like a part of my own body. The commotion had drawn the attention of our party. Graham and all our relatives came running out. When they saw the defaced Bentley, they gasped. Everyone froze. And then my son, Leo, ran from behind a pillar, a car key clutched in his hand. He dove into my arms, sobbing loudly for everyone to hear. “Mommy, didn’t you say this was the most expensive car?” he cried. “Didn’t you say if I scratched it, you could buy me the biggest Transformer ever? Why is that man yelling at me?” His innocent, tear-filled accusation made every single person turn to look at me, their eyes like daggers. “Clara, are you insane? You told him to key a car like this?!” Graham screamed, his face turning crimson. His father, trembling with rage, pointed a shaking finger at me. “Are you trying to bankrupt our family on purpose?!” I shook my head, trying to find the words. “No, I didn’t, I—” SMACK! Graham’s mother slapped me hard across the face. “You dare lie about it?” “Leo is six years old! Do you think he knows how to make up a story like that?!” “A child doesn’t know any better! If you, his mother, didn’t tell him to do it, why would he?” “I knew it! You’ve always been jealous of our family’s success! You’re trying to destroy us!” The car’s owner saw me and his eyes narrowed with fury. He pulled out his phone and immediately started another livestream, the title a sensationalist banner: INSANE MOTHER FORCES 6-YEAR-OLD SON TO VANDALIZE MILLION-DOLLAR CAR FOR A TOY! He bellowed at his phone’s camera, “You all see this? This is the woman! I heard her son with my own ears! She put him up to it!” “I just had this car imported! I haven’t even had it a week! This woman is a psycho!” The story from the day before was still fresh in people’s minds. The moment I appeared in a new livestream, hundreds of thousands of viewers flooded in. The comments were a tidal wave of hate. “It’s that bitch again! Is she mentally ill?!” “Holy shit, telling her kid to key a million-dollar car? What is wrong with her brain?!” “She doesn’t deserve to be a mother! She’s a menace to society!” “Call the cops! They need to arrest this lunatic and lock her up!” The online mob was rabid, hurling the most vicious curses imaginable at me. The story was exploding, my face plastered across every social media platform. “Psycho Mom,” “The Vandalism Coach,” “Social Menace”—these were my new titles. More and more people gathered in the garage. Fueled by the car owner’s rage, the mood of the crowd reached a fever pitch. They started pointing, shouting, and someone even threw a lit cigarette butt at me. I stood in the center of the circle, a condemned prisoner awaiting execution, enduring the storm of their hatred. I looked at their faces, twisted with a desire to see me ripped apart. And then I looked at my son, nestled in my arms, who gave me a tiny, triumphant smile that only I could see. In that moment, I did something that shocked everyone to their core. 5 Under the glare of a dozen phone cameras, I raised my hand and slapped myself hard across the face. Twice. The sharp, cracking sounds echoed through the garage, silencing the roar of the crowd. Everyone stared, dumbfounded. Even the livestream comments seemed to pause for a beat. Into the stunned silence, I spoke, my voice cold and flat. “Yes. I’m a terrible mother. I’m a criminal.” There was no emotion in my tone. As they all watched in bewilderment, I scanned the crowd, my expression blank. “It’s my fault. I was greedy.” “It’s my fault. I failed to raise him right.” “It’s my fault. I ruined your perfect day.” “There. Are you satisfied now?” Without another word, I stopped looking at them. I ignored the shocked, angry, and contemptuous stares. I pushed my way through the crowd and walked out. Behind me, after a moment of dead silence, the garage erupted in an even more ferocious wave of discussion. And above it all, Graham’s furious, panicked shout: “Clara, what the hell is this new psychotic episode?” “You can’t just walk away! Get back here and clean up this mess!” No. The mess that needed cleaning wasn’t the scratch on that car. It was the years of filth that had accumulated in my own heart. I went straight home. The first thing I did was pull the divorce papers I’d prepared months ago from my desk drawer. Then, I started packing. I’m only thirty-two. I refuse to spend the rest of my life consumed by a child who is deliberately trying to ruin me, trapped in an endless cycle of debt and public condemnation. I am a person first, a mother second. I am done living this small, terrified life. This cold house has given me nothing but despair, humiliation, and exhaustion. Graham, my husband, the eternal bystander, always looking down on me from his pedestal. And the child I risked my life to give birth to, always stabbing me in the back, always setting me up for public disgrace. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why this father and son duo teamed up to torture me this way. But I’m done serving them. I’ve had enough. I didn’t have much to pack. The house was filled with Graham’s expensive suits and Leo’s designer toys. My own existence had been whittled down to nothing but cleaning up their messes. I gathered a few articles of clothing, my old art supplies, and my important documents. Then I dragged my dusty suitcase out from under the bed. As I bent down, my fingers brushed against something cold and hard tucked away in the back. I reached in and pulled it out. My eyes widened. My breath caught in my throat. I finally understood why Leo had become the boy he was.

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I was treating some friends to dinner at the new private club my cousin, Leo, was running. When the evening wound down, I flagged down a server. “The check, please. Just put it on Leo’s tab.” The young man nodded, but before he could turn away, a manager I’d never seen before stepped in his path. She aimed a smile at me that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sir, this is a members-only establishment. We don’t ‘run tabs.’” A flicker of annoyance. “I’m the owner’s cousin. Just let him know.” The manager let out a short, sharp laugh and slapped a leather billfold on the table. Inside was a bill for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. My eyes scanned the itemized list. Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation: $15,000. Elite Network Integrity Fee: $30,000. Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment: $25,000. And on and on, a laundry list of ludicrous service charges. When did Leo’s place get this brazen? “What’s the matter? Can’t pay the bill, so you start name-dropping?” The manager’s eyes raked over me, from my simple watch to my well-worn dress shoes. “I’ve met plenty of the owner’s ‘relatives.’ None of them have ever been quite so broke, so shameless, and so full of it.” Right there in front of her, I dialed Leo’s number and put it on speaker. “You have ten minutes to get her out of my sight. Or I pull the plug on this whole club.” 1 Leo’s voice crackled through the phone, laced with panic. “Ethan? What’s going on? Is there some kind of misunderstanding?” “A misunderstanding?” I glanced at the manager beside me. Vanessa, according to her name tag. She stood with her arms crossed, a smug smirk playing on her lips, enjoying the show. “Why don’t you ask your star manager what she’s been up to?” I could hear the muffled sound of Leo talking to Vanessa, punctuated by her dismissive, whispered excuses. “Ethan, look, Vanessa was just following procedure,” Leo’s voice came back, strained. “Don’t give her a hard time. This one’s on me…” “Leo,” I cut him off. “I didn’t call you to get a free meal. I called you to tell you to handle your employee.” Vanessa must have felt emboldened by whatever Leo whispered to her, because she plucked the phone right out of his hand. “Listen, sir,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Our owner is a kind man, so he won’t hold this against you. But the rules of Aura are the rules. Either you settle your bill now, or we’ll have to ask you to have a chat with our security team in the back office.” Her voice, amplified by the speakerphone, was arrogant, utterly certain of her victory. My friends, important partners in my industry, exchanged awkward glances. I’d brought them here tonight to impress them, to give them the best experience at my cousin’s place. Instead, my own reputation was being ground into the dirt. “Fine,” I said, ending the call. I looked directly at Vanessa. “I’ll pay the bill.” Her smug smirk widened into a triumphant grin. A few minutes later, Leo himself scurried over, an apologetic smile plastered on his face, though his eyes darted around nervously. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. Vanessa’s new, she doesn’t know the ropes,” he said, while simultaneously wrapping an arm around Vanessa’s waist in a gesture of intimacy. Vanessa leaned into him, looping her arm through his. Her tone wasn’t an apology; it was a declaration of ownership. “Leo is generous enough to let you call him cousin. But that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and act like you own the place. Aura is the culmination of his life’s work. It’s not a soup kitchen for freeloaders like you.” With that little speech, she’d painted herself as the valiant defender of her lover and his empire, and me as the pathetic, freeloading parasite. I almost laughed. His life’s work? Did she have any idea that this entire club, “Aura,” from the brand concept to the architectural design, from the operational philosophy to the very font on the menu—every word, every brick—had come from me? Leo was just the executor. Or, to be more precise, the mascot I’d put out front. Watching the way he looked at Vanessa, a pathetic mix of helplessness and adoration, a cold dread washed over me. When had my cousin become such a clueless fool? 2 “Since your manager is so by-the-book, why don’t you have her explain this hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar bill to me.” I ignored Leo, my gaze fixed squarely on Vanessa. She was clearly annoyed that I was dragging this out, but she maintained her air of superiority. “The services at Aura are priced for a certain clientele. If you don’t understand, it simply means you’re not on that level.” She gestured for a server to lead us from the private room to the main lounge area. It was bustling with the evening’s patrons. She was going to humiliate me publicly. My friends had seen enough. One of them stood up. “Ethan, why don’t we just go? I’ll take care of this.” I held up a hand to stop him. This was no longer about the money. Vanessa had the ridiculous bill mounted on a display stand and placed on a coffee table. Her voice was perfectly modulated—not shouting, but loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear every word. “The Exclusive Suite Ambiance Curation, fifteen thousand dollars. Every suite at Aura has had its metaphysical harmony professionally calibrated to ensure our guests’ business dealings are blessed with fortune. It’s an energy science. You might not get it, but there are plenty who will pay for it.” “The Elite Network Integrity Fee, thirty thousand. The people who frequent Aura are the city’s movers and shakers. Do you have any idea how many wannabes and grifters we turn away at the door? This fee covers the service of filtering out the social static, protecting you from potential risks. Isn’t that worth it?” “And this one: Impromptu Artistic Accompaniment. While you were dining, one of our resident musicians was performing a custom composition just outside your suite, adjusting the melody in real-time based on the rhythm of your conversation. That is the price of true artistry.” With every item she announced, a low murmur rippled through the lounge. Eyes turned towards me, a mixture of curiosity and contempt. I was the clown who had crashed the gates of high society, only to find he couldn’t afford the ticket. Leo stood off to the side, his face pale. He tried to speak several times, but Vanessa silenced him with a sharp glance. He just stood there, watching, letting his girlfriend publicly crucify me. The last thread of affection I held for him was beginning to unravel. “Are you finished?” I asked calmly when she was done. Vanessa crossed her arms, her chin held high. “I am. So, Mr. Shaw, are you ready to pay? Or are you going to continue wasting our time?” “Of course,” I nodded, pulling out my phone. “But I don’t carry that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to have my assistant bring it over.” She scoffed. “Oh, this again? Trying to stall?” “You don’t have to believe me,” I said, dialing my assistant. “Bring three million dollars in cash to Aura. Immediately.” I made sure to emphasize the words “three million.” Vanessa’s pupils contracted for a split second, then her eyes lit up with a raw, greedy fire. She probably thought I was intimidated, trying to buy my way out of the humiliation. Her gaze shifted, now sizing me up like a fool with too much money. A whale. “Now you’re talking,” she whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. “Consider the extra a little tip for the trouble you’ve caused me and Leo tonight.” 3 My assistant is nothing if not efficient. Less than twenty minutes later, two men in sharp black suits, my personal security detail, walked through the club’s entrance carrying three large, heavy-duty briefcases. Every head in the lounge turned. The latches on the three cases were clicked open, revealing crisp, neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. They seemed to glitter under the crystal chandeliers. The murmuring crowd fell silent. Vanessa’s breathing became heavy, her eyes glued to the money. Leo was stunned, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me in disbelief. “Ethan, what are you doing? This isn’t necessary…” “Whether it’s necessary or not isn’t for you to decide,” I said flatly. I motioned for my assistant to push one of the cases in front of Vanessa. “One hundred and twenty-five thousand. You should count it.” A flash of embarrassment crossed her face, but it was quickly swallowed by her avarice. She actually reached out and began to count the money with a flourish, as if to prove a point. The sight of her, so smug and triumphant, was repulsive. I turned my back on her and addressed my guests with an apologetic smile. “Gentlemen, I am truly sorry for this evening’s spectacle. Please, allow me to cover all of your expenses tonight. Furthermore, I own a spa resort just outside the city. I’d like to invite all of you for a weekend retreat, on me, as a proper apology.” These were sharp men. They understood immediately that I was not just saving face, but demonstrating power. They accepted graciously, and the tense atmosphere finally eased. After my friends had departed, the lounge was empty except for me, Leo, and Vanessa, who was still absorbed in her “counting.” Leo finally broke. He rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Ethan, don’t be like this. Can we please talk about this at home? Don’t be mad at me.” I pulled my arm free. Looking at his face, I felt like I was seeing a stranger. “Leo, the moment you stood by and watched her humiliate me, you should have known there was no going back.” “I didn’t, I…” he stammered. Just then, Vanessa finished her count. She snapped the case shut, rising to her feet with an air of absolute victory that cut Leo off. “Leo, darling, why are you wasting your breath on him? The bill is paid. We’re even. We should really discourage this kind of riff-raff from coming around. It lowers the tone of Aura.” She took Leo’s arm, her eyes locking with mine in a defiant stare. “Oh, and by the way,” she said, gesturing to the other two briefcases. “I’ll be taking these two million as compensation for my emotional distress, and as an apology to Leo. Don’t mind if I do.” She reached for the cases. “Stop,” I said, my voice cold as ice. My two security men took a single, synchronized step forward, blocking her path. Vanessa’s expression soured. “What? Thinking of backing out?” “Not at all,” I said, walking towards her until I was looking down at her. “I just want to make sure you understand something. You can take this money. But I’m not so sure you can afford to spend it.” My assistant, perfectly on cue, presented a document and a pen. “What is this?” Vanessa asked, suddenly wary. “A receipt of services,” I said simply. “You’re accepting three million dollars. Sign here, acknowledging the payment, and we’re all square. Otherwise, you don’t get a single dime.” Vanessa snatched the document, her eyes scanning it quickly. It listed all of her fabricated charges, along with the additional “Emotional Distress Compensation” and “Apology Fee.” The terms were clear, the amounts precise. To her, it was just a formality. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the pen and scrawled her name—Vanessa Croft—on the signature line. She tossed the document back at me and moved triumphantly towards the money. “There. Now the money is mine.” “Is it?” I carefully folded the signed paper, a cold smile touching my lips. I took out my phone, not even bothering to look at them again, and made another call. “We can begin.”

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The financial aid application from a girl in my major was flagged. An error. I tried adding her on Instagram to give her a heads-up on how to fix it. I sent a request. And then, a little while later, sent it again. Both times, the request was denied. The second time, it came with a note attached to her now-private profile: My boyfriend doesn’t like me adding random guys. My roommate, Mason, was the one who told me to check the department’s GroupMe. That’s where I saw she was tearing me to shreds. “I mean, I rejected him twice already. You’d think he’d get the hint. How desperate can you be?” “Another one of those guys who thinks he’s God’s gift. Seriously, does the toad really think he has a shot with the princess?” I had to laugh. Me, the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar corporation, a toad? 1 Mason shoved his phone in my face, and I scrolled through the chat log that was exploding in our department’s GroupMe. The one leading the charge was a girl named Scarlett Rhodes. Our major’s undisputed queen bee. Her profile picture was a professionally edited selfie. Perfect makeup, a gaze that managed to be both alluring and dismissive. I frowned but didn’t say anything, just handed the phone back to Mason. “Whatever. Let her talk.” I’m the student liaison for my department, which basically means I’m the TA for the freshman seminar and a glorified assistant to our academic advisor. Collecting and organizing student paperwork is part of the job. Scarlett was applying for the Polaris Foundation Scholarship, one of the most generous—and scrutinized—grants at our university. It’s backed by a massive private foundation, and the entire process is firewalled from the school. The university just collects the initial applications. When I was sorting the files, Scarlett’s application immediately stood out. In the box for annual family income, she’d added an extra zero. $300,000. The eligibility cutoff for the scholarship was a family income under $80,000. The foundation’s automated system would see that number and instantly kick her application out in the first round. Technically, it wasn’t my problem. My job was just to collect and submit. But then I read her personal statement. A father with a chronic illness, a mother working odd jobs to make ends meet. Every sentence painted a picture of struggle. I felt for her. It seemed like she could really use the break. I just wanted to give her a heads-up. Tagging her in the main GroupMe was the easiest way, but it would have been humiliating for her, putting her financial situation on blast for everyone to see. After a moment of hesitation, I chose the more considerate, albeit more difficult, route: a private message on Instagram. I thought it was a simple act of kindness. Turns out, no good deed goes unpunished. And now I was “the toad.” A few of her cronies were already chiming in on the chat. “Don’t let it get to you, Scarlett. Some people just don’t know their place.” “For real. He sees a pretty girl and thinks he can just slide into her DMs. Like, look in a mirror, dude.” “Toad trying to get with a princess. Pathetic!” Then, a user with the handle “Scarlett’s Knight,” whose profile pic was him leaning against a sports car, jumped in. “Who’s the clown harassing my girl? Give me a name. I’ll make sure he doesn’t walk straight on campus again.” That would be her boyfriend, Blake, a trust-fund kid with too much time on his hands. Scarlett replied instantly: “Oh, Blake, don’t be so aggressive! He’s just some guy in our classes. Probably just… gets a little carried away, you know.” That ellipsis she used was a work of art. It screamed delusional obsession without her having to type a single word. A fresh wave of laughing-face emojis flooded the chat. Mason was fuming. “Leo, this girl is unbelievable. You were trying to help her.” “You should just call her out right here, right now. Expose her.” I shook my head, handing his phone back. “It’s not worth it. You can’t reason with people like that.” My silence in the chat was apparently taken as an admission of guilt. Scarlett posted one more message. “Awww, he’s not even saying anything now. Guess the truth hurts. lol.” I locked my phone screen. Out of sight, out of mind. It was just an application form. If she didn’t care enough to get it right, why should I? It was her future. Her loss. 2 The next day, the vibe on campus was different. I could feel it. As I walked down the hall, a group of students who had been laughing together suddenly went silent when they saw me. Their eyes were filled with a uniform, undisguised contempt. When I entered the lecture hall, it felt like every head in the room turned in my direction. Scarlett was holding court in the center of the room, surrounded by a few of her friends. She was wearing a delicate white dress, her long hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. She looked ethereal. She saw me, and the smile on her face faltered for a second. It was quickly replaced by a look of disgust, mixed with a hint of smug satisfaction. The girls around her immediately started whispering, pointing at me. “That’s him?” “He looks so normal. I thought he’d be creepier.” “Scarlett, has he bothered you again?” Scarlett lifted her chin, her voice just loud enough for half the room to hear. “What more can he do? After everyone called him out in the GroupMe yesterday, he’s basically a social pariah now.” A ripple of laughter went through her circle. I ignored them, my face a mask of indifference, and walked to an empty seat in the back row. I took out my textbook. For the rest of the morning, I could feel their eyes on me. Little pinpricks of judgment that made it impossible to concentrate. At lunch, I had just gotten my food and sat down at a table in the corner of the dining hall. A moment later, Scarlett and Blake appeared, their trays clattering as they sat down directly across from me. Blake had bleached-blond hair, an earring, and was draped in designer streetwear. He was trying very hard to look intimidating. “Well, well, if it isn’t the toad himself—” Scarlett cut him off with a sharp nudge. She then leaned against his shoulder, adopting a wounded, fragile expression. “Blake, can we eat somewhere else? Just looking at him makes me lose my appetite.” Blake’s face immediately softened into a look of concern. “Of course, baby. Don’t get upset. He’s not worth it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box, flicking it open in front of me. Inside was a glittering necklace. I recognized the Swarovski swan logo. “Ta-da! Look what I got for you. Had a friend pick it up in New York yesterday. It’s the latest design.” Scarlett gasped, covering her mouth. “Wow, it’s beautiful! Blake, you’re the best.” The display drew the attention of students at the surrounding tables. Blake shot me a triumphant glare, his eyes brimming with smug provocation. It was a look that screamed: See this, you loser? What could you possibly offer her compared to me? I kept my head down, silently pushing the tasteless Salisbury steak around my plate. I could tell the necklace was a knockoff from ten feet away. The clasp on a genuine Swarovski piece would never be that crude. 3 I had the afternoon off, but a call from my academic advisor, Mr. Davies, summoned me to his office. Mr. Davies was in his forties, with thick black-rimmed glasses and a perpetually serious expression. When I walked in, I saw Scarlett was already there. She was sitting across from him, her eyes red-rimmed as if she’d been subjected to some great injustice. The moment she saw me, she physically recoiled, her eyes widening in feigned terror. She was a hell of an actress. Mr. Davies cleared his throat loudly, adjusting his glasses. “Leo, you’re here. Have a seat.” I pulled a chair out and sat. “Mr. Davies, you wanted to see me?” His eyes lingered on my face for a few seconds, laced with disapproval. “Leo, you’re a good student. You work hard, you’re diligent in your duties. The faculty sees that.” His tone shifted. “However, you need to be mindful of how you interact with your peers. You must maintain an appropriate distance.” He paused for emphasis. “Especially with female students.” A knot formed in my stomach. “Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” On cue, Scarlett’s sniffling grew louder. “Mr. Davies, it’s my fault… my family’s situation… I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted to lessen their burden a little. I never thought applying for a scholarship would lead to… this kind of trouble.” She let out a sob, then casually added, “My boyfriend was so angry when he found out. His father knows some people on the Polaris Foundation’s board, and he said he’s going to make sure they hear about this…” Mr. Davies’s expression changed instantly. His gaze on her became noticeably more sympathetic, almost fawning. He quickly reassured her. “Scarlett, this is not your fault. Rest assured, the university will handle this matter seriously.” He turned back to me, his tone hardening. “Leo. You sent an Instagram request to Ms. Rhodes. After she declined it, why did you send it again?” “This young woman has made it clear that she has a boyfriend and is not interested in your advances.” “Do you understand that your behavior has caused Ms. Rhodes significant distress?” I tried to explain. “Sir, I was only trying to contact her because of her scholarship application—” “Enough!” Mr. Davies cut me off, his patience gone. “If there was an issue with her application, you could have addressed it publicly in the GroupMe, or you could have come to me. Why did you insist on contacting her privately?” “It’s hard not to question your motives in this situation!” I stared at his self-righteous face, the words of my defense catching in my throat. “Sir, if that’s what you’ve chosen to believe, then I have nothing more to say.” “Is that your attitude?” He slammed his hand on the desk. “Leo, I am warning you. Cease this inappropriate behavior immediately. Stay away from Ms. Rhodes!” “If this happens again, I won’t hesitate to write you up for disciplinary action!” Scarlett stood off to the side, a smug, triumphant look on her face. I stood up, not giving either of them another glance, and walked out of the office. The door clicked shut behind me, silencing Scarlett’s fake sobs. I stood in the empty hallway, staring out the window at the bleak, overcast sky. It felt like a block of cement had settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. 4 In the days that followed, I became a ghost in my own department. No one spoke to me. If they saw me coming, they would physically alter their path to avoid me. There were always whispers, always poorly concealed smirks and laughs at my expense. “The obsessive stalker.” “He should take a look in the mirror.” “I heard Mr. Davies chewed him out. Serves him right.” Scarlett, meanwhile, was relentless. Almost every day, she’d post something passive-aggressive on her Instagram story or in the GroupMe. “Spotted someone lurking in the corner of the library again today. Can’t seem to shake him.” Attached was a blurry photo of my profile. “Ugh, it feels like I’m being swarmed by a fly. Buzz, buzz, buzz.” Mason wanted to fight her in the chat, but I held him back. It was pointless. Anything I said now would just be seen as a defensive lie. I poured all my energy into my studies and a research project I was helping one of my professors with. The library and the lab became my only sanctuaries, the only places I could find a moment’s peace. The final submission deadline for the Polaris Scholarship arrived. Ten minutes before the cutoff, I dropped off the stack of alphabetized applications at the university’s financial aid office. Scarlett’s form was in there, right between Richards and Scott. The glaring error was still there. She hadn’t changed it. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she didn’t think it was important. Or maybe, she never even bothered to double-check her own work. As I handed the stack of files to the administrator, I hesitated for a fraction of a second. In the end, I said nothing. You think you’re so untouchable? Fine. Pay the price for your own arrogance and stupidity. A week later, the list of first-round qualifiers was posted online. Scarlett’s name was not on it. Just as I expected. That afternoon, I was walking back from the library when I saw Scarlett and Blake arguing by the campus lake. “I thought you said your dad knew people on the board! What the hell happened?” Scarlett’s voice was shrill. “How am I supposed to know! Maybe they’re just stricter this year,” Blake shot back, clearly annoyed. “You can’t even handle one little thing for me! What good are you?” “Are you seriously trying to blame me, Scarlett? Your application was rejected because you filled it out wrong. Who’s fault is that?” “What are you talking about? What did I do wrong?” “The rejection email from the system was crystal clear: ‘Error in reporting annual family income’! You made a rookie mistake, and now you have the nerve to blame me?” Scarlett froze. I could see the moment the memory hit her. The color drained from her face. Her head snapped around, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me, standing a hundred feet away. The look she gave me was pure venom. It was the look of someone who wanted to tear me apart with her bare hands. 5 Our final project for a core class was a group assignment. The teams were assigned randomly by the course software. I stared at the list on my screen, a dull throb starting in my temples. Leo Vance. Scarlett Rhodes. Blake Miller. Plus two of Scarlett’s closest friends. The five of us. One group. You have got to be kidding me. Mason leaned over to look at my screen and let out a string of curses. “Oh, you’re screwed. That’s the group from hell. Dude, you have to go to the professor and get switched out.” I shook my head. Switch? How? What’s my reason? That Scarlett and I are cosmically incompatible? It would just make me look guilty. Sure enough, not long after the list was posted, a new group chat popped up on my phone. Scarlett was the first to type. “Just so we’re all clear, nobody is slacking off. If you drag down our group’s grade, you’ll have to answer to me.” She didn’t use my name, but everyone knew who she was talking to. Blake immediately chimed in: “Yeah, don’t think you can ride our coattails just because you got lucky with the grouping.” The other two girls added their own cheerleading comments. I didn’t say a word. Our first group meeting was at an off-campus coffee shop. I arrived on time. The other four were already there. As soon as I sat down, Scarlett pushed a stack of books and articles across the table toward me. “We’ve decided on the topic and outline. We’re doing ‘The Construction and Propagation of a City’s Image in the New Media Environment.’” “These are the reference materials. You’re in charge of consolidating them and writing the first draft. I want it by next Wednesday.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact, as if she were my boss giving me an assignment. “I’m writing the whole first draft?” I asked. “Well, yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “We’re handling the research, the final PowerPoint design, and the in-class presentation. The work is perfectly divided.” Blake was leaning back in his chair, leg bouncing. “Consider yourself lucky you get to do some work for Scarlett’s grade.” I looked at the four of them. Scarlett and Blake were sipping their lattes. The other two girls were scrolling through their phones. The so-called “reference materials” on the table were just a few textbooks from the library. The spines hadn’t even been cracked. “Fine.” I gathered the books and stood up. “I’ll be in touch.” With that, I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard Blake’s derisive snort. “What a poser. In the end, he still does what he’s told.” 6 For the next week, the library became my home. I dug through academic journals, compiled data, and analyzed case studies. To add more substance to the report, I even asked my professor to connect me with a former student of his who now worked in the city’s communications department. He sent me some internal reports that weren’t publicly available. On Tuesday night, I sent the 15,000-word first draft to the group chat. The chat remained silent. About half an hour later, Scarlett finally replied. “Got it.” No thank you. No feedback. It was as if I had just completed a simple, expected task. The next evening, I was in the lab helping my professor crunch some numbers when Scarlett called. Her tone was hostile from the start. “Leo, what is this garbage you sent? It’s a complete mess.” I frowned. “What’s wrong with it?” “What’s wrong with it? Everything! The logic is weak, the examples are boring, and the conclusion is flat! Do you even know how to write a research paper?” I fought to keep my voice even. “Then what changes do you suggest?” “How should I know? That’s your job! Look, I don’t care what you do, but I need a revised, better version by tomorrow morning. If our grade suffers because of you, I swear you’ll regret it.” She hung up before I could say another word. I listened to the dial tone, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. A week of my life, poured into that paper, and she dismissed it as worthless. She couldn’t even provide a single specific point of criticism. This was purely about making my life difficult. I went back to my dorm, opened my laptop, and stared at the document. I wasn’t changing a single word. Instead, I renamed the file “Final Draft.” Then, I created a new document. I systematically went through my original work, deleting all the core data analysis, the most compelling case studies, and every piece of information I’d gotten from the internal city reports. What was left was a hollow shell—vague theories and outdated examples you could find on the first page of a Google search. I reformatted this gutted version, and also named it “Final Draft.” Then, I logged into the university’s course portal. I uploaded the original, 15,000-word, comprehensive report as an individual submission under my name only. Only after I had done that did I send the gutted “Final Draft” to our group chat. I tagged everyone. “Report has been revised according to Scarlett’s feedback. Please review.” 7 The submission deadline for the project was Friday at noon. Friday morning, our first class was with the professor for that course. Professor Albright was in her fifties, a brilliant academic with a reputation for being incredibly strict. She had zero tolerance for academic dishonesty or students who didn’t pull their weight in group projects. Just before class started, Scarlett and her friends walked in, dressed to the nines. When she saw me, Scarlett shot me a haughty look and walked right past my desk as if I were invisible. I noticed she was carrying a new Louis Vuitton bag. Looks like Blake was trying to buy his way back into her good graces. I wondered what grade of fake that one was. Professor Albright entered the classroom and set down her notes. “Good morning. I assume everyone has submitted their final reports?” Her gaze swept across the room. “I was looking through the submissions this morning. Most groups submitted on time. However, there is one group I’d like to discuss in class.” The room went dead silent. Professor Albright adjusted her glasses, her eyes finding our row. “The group that worked on ‘The Construction and Propagation of a City’s Image in the New Media Environment.’ Scarlett Rhodes, Blake Miller, Leo Vance…” She read all five of our names. Scarlett’s posture immediately straightened. A smug smile spread across her face. She clearly thought the professor was about to praise our work. Professor Albright’s eyes finally landed on me. “Leo, I also received an individual submission from you on the same topic.” “And I must say, your individual report is comprehensive, well-researched, with novel case studies. Its quality is worlds above the report submitted by your group.” She paused, her voice turning icy. “Now, would someone like to explain to me what, exactly, is going on here?” “Is this a case of a breakdown in teamwork, or is it a case of… someone attempting to take credit for another person’s labor?”

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“After I woke up as an emperor, a system gave me one single objective: destroy the kingdom. So, naturally, I started phoning it in. I spent my days and nights in a haze of music and wine, living a life of pure, shameless decadence. I was determined to embody the image of a “”Bad King”” down to the very last detail. But then my ministers started hailing me, their voices ringing with adoration: “”Your Majesty’s wisdom is divine!”” That’s when I realized something was going terribly wrong. Wait a second… how did we end up with the whole world bowing at our feet? 1 I woke up from what felt like a week-long bender to find myself not in my dorm room, but in a four-poster bed the size of my entire apartment. I was also wearing silk pajamas. And I was, apparently, the king. Oh, and there was a system hardwired into my brain. It had a sleek, minimalist interface that hovered in my vision, and only one objective: ACHIEVE THE ‘DYNASTY’S END’ SCENARIO. The conditions were simple: ruin the kingdom while ensuring my own personal safety. A slow smile spread across my face. This was the easiest final exam I’d ever been given. Become a disastrous ruler? A “”Bad King””? As a modern college student perpetually on the verge of academic probation, I was a natural. Phoning it in wasn’t just a skill; it was a core tenet of my personality. All I had to do was neglect my duties, promote the most corrupt sycophants I could find, and let graft become the national sport. Throw in some wildly extravagant parties and a few pointless, expensive projects to bleed the treasury dry, and the kingdom would implode in no time. I cracked my knuckles, a surge of ambition—the first I’d felt in years—coursing through me. I was going to be the most legendary failed monarch in history. 2 The next morning, I was dragged to the Grand Council chamber, a cavernous hall of marble and gold, and plopped onto a throne that was surprisingly uncomfortable. As the assembled lords and ladies of the realm bowed, chanting something about my eternal reign, I fought back a massive yawn. A five a.m. council meeting? This wasn’t just tyranny; it was a crime against humanity. Down below, a stern-looking man with a perfectly trimmed grey beard stepped forward. Secretary Harrington, the Lord Chamberlain, cleared his throat, his scroll held aloft. “”Your Majesty, the Scholastic Appointments are upon us. You should—”” I slammed my hand on the arm of the throne, the sound echoing through the silent hall. “”Council dismissed!”” A collective gasp rippled through the room. I hitched up the ridiculous satin robe I was wearing and practically jogged out of the chamber, ignoring the chorus of sputtering protests behind me. “”Your Majesty, this is highly irregular!”” “”Sire, we must—”” Yeah, no. If I let them talk, I might accidentally do something competent. Can’t have that. 3 I went back to the royal chambers—my chambers, I guess—and immediately dove back into that glorious bed for a much-needed second sleep. When I finally surfaced around noon, my personal attendant, a quiet and unnervingly efficient man named Miles, informed me that Secretary Harrington was waiting for me. He hadn’t just waited; he had been standing vigil outside my doors since the council meeting. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken water, and had refused every attempt by the guards to make him leave. He just stood there, ramrod straight, for seven hours. All for a chance to speak with me. I paused, a half-eaten grape halfway to my mouth. Seven hours. Now that was dedication. This guy was the real deal—a true patriot, a man of iron conviction. A model public servant. 4 I put down my fruit platter and hurried to the doors. There he was, just as Miles had described, standing in the oppressive heat of the corridor, his formal robes soaked through with sweat. His face was flushed, but his eyes burned with a fierce determination. When he saw me, a jolt of energy seemed to pass through him. He tried to bow, his body swaying unsteadily. I rushed forward and caught his arm. He gripped my hand, his own trembling with exhaustion and emotion. Tears welled in his eyes. “”The appointments, Your Majesty,”” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “”They are the future of this kingdom. We cannot afford to be complacent. I implore you, for the good of the realm…”” He trailed off, his eyes rolling back before he collapsed into my arms. Miles, ever-prepared, was already there with a goblet of water. Once Harrington was revived and sitting, looking deeply moved, I knew what I had to do. I made a proclamation on the spot. This man, this pillar of integrity, was being reassigned. I was making him the new governor of Saltwind County, a remote, windswept fishing outpost in the furthest corner of the southern provinces. “”For your unparalleled service…”” I began. Harrington’s eyes shone with gratitude. Then the rest of my words hit him. “”Governor? Of… Saltwind?”” I nodded gravely, clapping him on his bony shoulder. “”A man of your caliber is wasted here in the capital, Harrington. I need my best people on the frontiers, solving the real problems of the common folk!”” His face went chalk-white. He opened his mouth to argue, but I just waved my hand dismissively and had the guards escort him away to prepare for his journey. 5 Watching Harrington’s despairing figure being led away, I felt a thrill of accomplishment. I’d successfully exiled one of the most dedicated, honest men in government. Surely, I was one step closer to ruin. Ping. A notification from the Downfall System flashed in my mind’s eye. [ANALYSIS: Secretary Harrington has been rigging the Scholastic Appointments for over a decade. His network has ensured that only the children of wealthy nobles are considered, systematically sidelining promising candidates from the common class and causing widespread disillusionment among the educated populace.] [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Meritocratic Reform.’ Public Hope +50.] I just stood there, stunned. It took a full minute for the reality to sink in. Are you kidding me? That old man wasn’t a patriot. He was the king of cronyism, the poster boy for systemic corruption. 5 I wanted to tear my hair out. He could have been my masterpiece, my right-hand man in the glorious project of running this kingdom into the ground! And I’d just shipped him off to count seagulls. And honestly, Harrington? Couldn’t you have just told me? If you’d said, “”Hey, Your Majesty, I’m planning to fill the government with my useless, silver-spoon nephews,”” I would have given you a promotion! But it was too late. I was the king. I couldn’t just take it back without looking like an idiot. I figured I’d wait a few months and then quietly recall him under some flimsy pretext. Two weeks later, a report arrived. Secretary Harrington’s carriage had been waylaid by highwaymen on the road south. He was dead. My single greatest asset in this whole endeavor, gone. Just like that. This was an outrage! In a fit of performative anger, I ordered a kingdom-wide crackdown on all bandits and highwaymen. [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Clearing the Roads.’ Regional Stability +5.] I just… I buried my face in my hands. Fine. No more accidents. From now on, I’m only doing bad things. On purpose. I swore it, tears of frustration streaming down my face. It was time to find a real villain. 7 On my twentieth day of successfully avoiding all morning councils, I remembered a name I’d overheard the palace staff whispering about: Lord Wallace, a deputy in the Treasury. Rumor had it he was one of the most notoriously corrupt officials in the kingdom’s history, a man whose personal wealth was said to rival the crown’s. Perfect. My kind of guy. I had Miles bring me the treasury ledgers. Sure enough, tax revenues from the southern salt trade were down by three hundred thousand gold pieces this year. I also recalled a snippet of gossip about Lord Wallace recently purchasing a massive new estate in the city’s most exclusive district. That was my man. This had to be him. “”Miles,”” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “”Fetch me Lord Wallace.”” 8 Lord Wallace was a portly, middle-aged man who knelt before me with a perpetually worried expression. I rubbed my hands together like a cartoon villain. “”My dear Wallace,”” I began, “”I have a vision. A grand tower, so tall it pierces the clouds. The Starlight Spire.”” Wallace looked up, his face a mask of distress. “”Your Majesty, the treasury is… strained. We lack the funds for such a project!”” I waved a dismissive hand. “”Then divert the funds from the military budget. And while you’re at it, raise taxes by thirty percent.”” His eyes widened in horror. “”Sire, that would be ruinous for the people! It would cripple our defenses! Surely, this is unwise…”” Unwise? It was genius! I was handing him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter. How was he supposed to skim off the top if I didn’t authorize a massive, wasteful public works project? This guy was a hell of an actor. Playing the part of the prudent official. “”Enough,”” I snapped, getting impatient. “”Just do it. And if you do it well, the position of Secretary of the Treasury is yours.”” His eyes darted back and forth for a moment, a flicker of something—greed? ambition?—crossing his face. Finally, he bowed his head. “”As you command, Your Majesty. I will do my utmost.”” I leaned back, deeply satisfied. Finally, the wheels of destruction were turning. 9 That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, the system pinged again. [ALERT: Lord Wallace is currently conducting a late-night audit of the military budget. Thirteen high-ranking officers implicated in an embezzlement scheme have been identified. Four million gold pieces in missing funds have been recovered.] I sat bolt upright in bed. What? The next morning, a haggard but triumphant Wallace was kneeling outside my chambers, tears streaming down his face. “”Your Majesty, your brilliance is beyond measure! You knew all along that the army was being hollowed out by grifters! I have followed your implicit command and will immediately re-allocate the recovered funds to rebuild our northern border forts!”” The system chimed in, a cheerful, soulless sound. [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘Astute Oversight.’ Integrity +50, Public Approval +100.] I felt a scream building in my throat. You were supposed to build the tower! Why are you investigating corruption? And even if you find it, you’re a corrupt official! Aren’t you supposed to take that money for yourself? Where is your professional integrity?”

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