Author: Momo Chan

The moment I was about to be swapped at birth and doomed to a life of poverty, I was jolted awake by a stream of live comments flooding my vision. 「Wow, the male lead is so clever. He’s going to secretly switch his sick sister with the billionaire’s daughter. Now his sister’s heart condition can be cured!」 「My heart breaks for him. He has to send his own sister away and then go home to a drunk mom and a gambling-addicted dad. He’s carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.」 「Don’t feel too bad for him! He’s got our girl Lucy. She’ll wash his clothes and cook his meals when they’re kids, and after the big reveal, she’ll give up her fortune to marry him and be his devoted housewife. He’s totally winning.」 A lifetime of misery flashed before my eyes. A piercing wail escaped my lips, waking everyone in the room. 1 The quiet hospital nursery erupted into chaos. A young boy, Jordi, frantically clamped a hand over my mouth, his childish face etched with panic. Beads of cold sweat trickled down his pale forehead. My father, who had been in an office next door, burst into the room. His eyes locked on me, nestled in Jordi’s arms, and his expression darkened instantly. “Kid, what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” My dad stood at a towering six-foot-three, built like a linebacker. His presence alone was enough to make most people tremble. But Jordi, after a brief moment of shock, quickly composed himself, his composure unnerving for a five-year-old. “Sir, I’m a patient here. I saw that her sleeping position looked like it would hurt her neck. I was just trying to adjust her.” The comments went wild with praise. 「I stan a genius king! Jordi is so smart to come up with that on the fly. Who would ever suspect a five-year-old?」 「LOL, our boy is a certified genius. If it weren’t for his trash family holding him back, he’d be famous by now.」 「Ugh, Lucy’s crying is so annoying. What’s the big deal? That’s her future husband. Soon enough, she’ll be dying to be in his arms 24/7.」 「She needs to get used to his embrace. He didn’t succeed today, but he’ll find another way. It would be a shame if she ruined his hard work again.」 My dad stared at Jordi, his expression a mixture of suspicion and confusion. The more I read the comments, the more terrified I became of this little psycho. I wailed louder, spitting and gurgling, trying desperately to roll my eyes toward my dad. Finally, he got the message. He slapped his thigh, pointing a finger at Jordi. “Wait a minute. Something’s not right here.” He immediately ordered a full investigation. Jordi was just a child, and his methods were clumsy. The trail of evidence was obvious. In less than half an hour, his plan was exposed: he had intended to kidnap me and replace me with his sister, Lily, so she could receive treatment for her congenital heart disease. The entire hospital was in an uproar. My father was incandescent with rage. I just sucked on my pacifier, watching the blood drain from Jordi’s face as I took long, satisfying gulps of milk. Dad called security to have him removed. As they dragged him away, Jordi’s eyes were fixed on me, a look of bitter resentment and longing in them. Just before he left, a call came through on his cheap smartwatch. The doctor’s voice was grim. “Your sister is dying. It’s time to come take her home.” Through the speaker, I could hear the faint, heartbreaking cries of a baby girl. Jordi’s eyes welled with tears. He turned to my father, his voice cracking. “Please, sir, please save my sister, Lily.” I took a deep breath. The absolute nerve of this kid. My dad just scoffed and told him to get lost. Jordi’s small fists clenched. Suddenly, his fear was replaced by a strange, unnerving determination. “Sir,” he said, his voice steady, “I wasn’t just taking Lucy to save my sister.” “Everything I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth.” 2 Jordi’s gaze softened as he looked at me, his small face filled with an unsettling tenderness. “Sir, I can see the future,” he declared. “And in that future, I’m Lucy’s husband.” “She will fall completely in love with me, so much that she’ll give up her life as an heiress just to be my wife.” “And I love her more than anything. I was only taking her because I miss her so much.” He lowered his long, dark lashes, a picture of manufactured vulnerability. To prove his point, he began reciting a string of deeply personal secrets about my family, things no outsider could possibly know. My father’s eyes grew wider with each revelation, his face a mask of disbelief. What he didn’t know was that I could see Jordi’s cheat sheet. The comments were scrolling frantically. 「Go, Jordi, go! He’s using our chat history to trick his future father-in-law! So smart!」 「Keep going, scare the old man straight! LMAO, I’ve got a whole folder of the Vance family’s dirty laundry right here.」 「My turn! My turn! Tell him his wife is a total softie behind closed doors!」 「Delete that, you idiot! He’ll get him killed! Jordi, Jordi, the password to the Vance family’s Swiss bank account is 123456. It’s all part of Lucy’s dowry.」 I choked on my milk, coughing until my face turned beet red. So that’s what it was. I wasn’t just seeing random comments; I was seeing his comments. My dad patted my back anxiously, his brow furrowed as he studied the strange little boy. Jordi, sensing an opportunity, pressed his advantage. “So, can you treat my sister now?” he pleaded. “She’s Lucy’s sister, too. In the future, Lucy will adore Lily.” The comments eagerly agreed. 「He’s right! The FL doesn’t even resent Lily for stealing her identity. She insists that Lily stay with the family and be raised as her sister.」 「Poor little Lily. She grew up with every luxury, but she was so frail and sick. Not like our Lucy, who was strong enough to haul water barrels for work by age three.」 「But Lily is a good sister! She never looks down on Lucy for being a country bumpkin, and she even offers to share the company shares with her. She even lets Lucy have her amazing brother. Their love is a two-way street!」 I stared at the comments, wondering if I was hallucinating. How could they twist a vicious story of a cuckoo in the nest and call it a beautiful act of sisterly love? This chat was seriously disturbed. After I settled down, my dad actually began to consider Jordi’s request. I could see it on his face—father-daughter telepathy. The boy’s information was too accurate to ignore. And what was saving one life to a man like my father? He was one of the richest men in the world; money was no object. But I refused to let my dad be played for a fool. I let out a scream so piercing it could have shattered glass, startling my mother awake. 3 My dad quickly placed me in my mother’s arms and whispered the whole bizarre story to her. My mom, still recovering from childbirth, listened intently and then delivered a swift, stinging slap across my father’s face. He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “This kid tries to kidnap our daughter, and your first thought is to pay for his sister’s medical bills?” “‘Future husband’? At his age, he’s already plotting to swap out his own sister for a wife. The boy is a manipulative little monster.” “If he really loved our daughter,” she continued, her voice rising, “he wouldn’t be planning a life where she has to suffer for him!” My dad, a gentle giant built like a bear, let out a wounded whimper. Jordi knew the game was up. He glared at my mother, his voice dripping with a chilling mix of scorn and hatred. “Ma’am, I can guarantee you, one day your daughter will be madly in love with me.” “You refuse to save my sister now. But in the future,” he snarled, “I will make your daughter pay for your cruelty. I’ll make her hate you, just as much as I hate you right now.” With that, he slammed the door and was gone. My parents exchanged a worried glance. Dad ran a hand through his hair, his voice laced with anxiety. “What if she really does grow up to hate us?” Mom gently pinched my chubby cheek, her voice fierce. “If she turns into some love-obsessed idiot, then she’s no daughter of mine.” But her hands were trembling, and a deep-seated fear clouded her eyes. I wriggled in their arms, patting their hands to comfort them and blowing bubbles with my mouth. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad. I’m not going to be a fool for love. I’m not going to suffer for anyone. I had suffered enough in my last life. I was an orphan, fighting for scraps in an overcrowded orphanage. When it closed, I became a child laborer and died before I turned fifteen. I don’t know why I retained the memories of that life. But I was grateful. This time, I had been born into the life I’d always dreamed of, with a mountain of wealth and parents who adored me. I wasn’t about to throw that away for some boy. When my grandparents heard about the near-kidnapping, they nearly had heart attacks. My paternal grandfather, a titan of industry, gifted me a subsidiary of his company. The skyscraper that housed its headquarters made me the youngest billionaire CEO in the Guinness World Records. My grandmother adorned me with so many heavy gold bracelets and jade necklaces that I could barely breathe. My maternal grandfather, a political giant and a “founding father” of our modern nation, assigned me a 24/7 security detail. My grandmother, a brilliant scientist, gave me her black card, linked to the royalties from her patents. It had a string of zeros I’d only ever seen in astronomy textbooks. Surrounded by the scent of old money and the sound of my family’s laughter, I drifted off into the most peaceful sleep of my life. The next time I saw Jordi Croft was three years later. I had accidentally cut my wrist with a fruit knife and was rushed to the hospital. As we arrived, the familiar stream of comments flickered back into view. 「Our ML works so hard. He should be in school, but he’s here at the hospital, taking care of his sister day and night.」 「He’s smart enough to be in the sixth grade already, but at eight years old, he hasn’t even started first grade. My heart aches for him. He’s so thin, he’s nothing but skin and bones.」 「If only Lucy were here. She adores him. She would find a way to make money to support his education. She’d starve herself just to make sure he had enough to eat.」 「God, Lucy is so annoying. And selfish. If she hadn’t cried that day, Jordi wouldn’t be suffering like this. It’s all her fault.」 … A cold laugh escaped me. So, Jordi’s miserable life was my fault now? How had I ended up with the blame for that? As the comments grew clearer, Jordi himself came into view. He was tall for his age, lean and wiry, with sharp, monolidded eyes that held a chilling indifference. He didn’t even glance in my direction, rushing past me to a small, worn-out cot in the hallway. A pale, fragile-looking girl lay on it, her tiny hand bruised purple from countless IV needles. She looked as if a strong gust of wind could blow her away. The coldness on Jordi’s face melted into a sea of tenderness, his eyes overflowing with a fierce, protective love. The Chat was ecstatic. 「What is Lucy even staring at? Talk about unrequited love. Our boy won’t even give her the time of day.」 「Serves her right for crying back then. Now, even if she’s fallen for him at first sight, he has no time for her.」 「Don’t be so harsh, guys. She was just a baby, she didn’t know any better. We should give her a chance to make it up to him. She’s the real heiress now; she can help him a lot.」 「We’re just teasing! She’s his future wife, after all. Even if we don’t give her a chance, he’ll find a way to let her atone for her sins.」 The moment that last comment appeared, Jordi stood up from his sister’s bedside. His gaze fell on my bandaged wrist, and he slowly walked towards me. His tone was far from polite. “Hi. My sister has a serious heart condition. You just have a little cut on your wrist. Can you give her your private suite?” I blinked, momentarily stunned. I tilted my head, half-wondering if robbery and extortion had suddenly become legal. Why else would someone so brazenly demand I give up the expensive VIP room my parents had paid for? But the sour, entitled tone of the comments confirmed I hadn’t misheard. 「Awww, the ML is already going easy on her! Just asking for the room and that’s it?」 「He’s the only one who truly feels for her. He knows she suffered for three years because of him, so he’s letting her off easy. Lucy, you should just drop dead and let me take your place!」 「Seriously, what is she just standing there for? He’s practically gift-wrapped an apology for her. Just move your stuff already!」 Jordi was growing impatient. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lucy Vance,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’re not going to be so selfish as to say no, are you?” He leaned in closer. “You should know, there’s nothing I hate more than selfish people.” Was he trying to guilt-trip me? Oh, I was done being polite. I looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Wow,” I sighed dramatically. “I really envy your skin.” He was momentarily confused. “What do you mean?” I let out a sharp, exaggerated laugh. “It’s thicker than a castle wall.” His face instantly contorted, flushing a deep, furious red. 5 The Chat exploded with outrage before he could even speak. 「Is Lucy insane? How could she say that to him? Does she not want to be his darling wife anymore?」 「My poor, sweet boy! He was already willing to forgive her and build a future together, and she just tramples all over his heart. I think I can hear it shattering.」 「Everyone calm down. Our girl loves him more than anything. She would never hurt him on purpose. This has to be a tactic. Playing hard to get!」 「That makes sense! She missed out on three precious years with him. She must feel so guilty and unworthy. She’s probably too scared to believe he’d forgive her, so she’s taking the ‘bad girl’ route to get his attention. A forced romance is still a romance, right?」 After reading their twisted analysis, I secretly rolled my eyes. Jordi, however, seemed to have an epiphany. A wave of relief washed over his face. He stopped pressuring me for the room and returned to Lily’s bedside, his eyes fixed on me with a thoughtful, calculating expression. I had a bad feeling about this. I slammed my door shut, cutting off his probing gaze. Back in my luxurious room, I flopped onto the soft bed, kicking my feet in the air and propping my chin on my hands as I video-chatted with my parents. They were in Europe for a massive business deal and had been frantic when they heard I’d been hurt. My father was so distraught he was practically sobbing into my mother’s shoulder. My mother carefully inspected my bandaged wrist through the screen before letting out a sigh of relief, though her face remained stern. “Lucy Vance, you are forbidden from playing with knives ever again.” I nodded obediently. Ever since the incident at my birth, my parents had been hyper-vigilant about my safety, terrified that I would get hurt or, worse, be taken from them. I was their precious treasure. With parents who loved me this much, how could I ever follow the script and abandon them and this life of incredible privilege for a poor boy with a persecution complex? But even though I wanted nothing to do with Jordi, it was clear he wasn’t done with me. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, dreaming of my bright, CEO-filled future, a series of frantic knocks echoed from my door.

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The day my husband’s intern showed up on my doorstep was our twentieth wedding anniversary. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, with a look in her eyes that was a brazen cocktail of confidence and contempt. “James told me he never knew what true love was until he met me,” she announced. “You’ve had a nice long run, but it’s time to step aside.” When I asked James to fire her, he said I was being unreasonable. My own daughter told me I was just menopausal and paranoid, and then, to my horror, she befriended the intern. My first instinct was to endure it, to weather this storm as I had with all the other little flings and flirtations over the years. But then I found out the girl was pregnant. And James had moved her into the very first apartment we ever shared—the place where our love story began. That’s when I knew. Some things, once they become trash, just need to be thrown out. I contacted the best divorce attorney in the city. But when James found out, his eyes went wild. He grabbed my arm, his voice raw. “You’re hiring your ex-boyfriend to handle our divorce? After all these years, you still haven’t forgotten him?” 1 To be honest, at the very beginning, I really did try to just let it go. The intern, Heather, was so young—barely out of her teens. My husband, James, had just turned forty-one. Our daughter was already in college. The girl came to me, her eyes brimming with tears, pleading for me to “set their love free.” Her eyes sparkled with a fierce determination, a mirror of the reckless girl I once was. Now, all I saw in my own reflection were fine lines creeping from the corners of my eyes and the stray silver hair I’d found that morning. “Claire,” she said, her tone falsely sweet, “let’s be honest, woman to woman. Your body isn’t what it used to be. You don’t know a thing about his business. What exactly are you holding onto him with?” She leaned in, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. “The only reason James hasn’t divorced you is because he’s a good man, and he pities you. But there’s a line, you know? A person can’t be that shameless.” A dry laugh escaped my lips. I looked at this smug girl, her lips pursed in a perfect pout. “I’m sorry, did I hear you right? You, the little homewrecker who wormed her way into my family, are calling me shameless?” She pulled down the collar of her blouse, revealing a stretch of pale neck littered with a constellation of angry red marks. “Last night, he held me and told me that being with me was the first time he ever felt a true union of body and soul.” Her voice was a triumphant whisper. “From my first day at the company, he took care of everything for me. He taught me how to read financial statements, how to analyze contracts, how to negotiate.” “I understand his ambition, his dreams. At the office, I’m his right hand. In bed,” she paused, her eyes glinting, “I’m the fantasy he can’t get enough of.” I let out a cold snort and leaned back in my chair. “Heather, is it? You’re an intern, not even graduated yet. You think it’s some grand achievement to sleep your way into my husband’s bed under the guise of work?” I let the question hang in the air. “You don’t actually believe you’re the first little girl to latch onto James Shaw, do you?” Heather’s body went rigid. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Have you ever wondered why he’s never divorced me?” I pressed, watching the panic bloom in her eyes, her breathing growing shallow. “There’s a saying: better to be a rich man’s wife than a poor man’s darling. Instead of waving your youth around like a trophy, you should be thinking about how much money you can squeeze out of him before he gets tired of you and kicks you to the curb.” When I got home, James was on the sofa, scrolling through documents on his tablet. Time had been exceptionally kind to him. Even in his forties, the years had only carved a deeper, more mature intensity into his brow, making him all the more magnetic. He heard me come in but didn’t look up. This was the rhythm of our life after twenty years. An unspoken truce. If I didn’t speak, it meant there was nothing to discuss. I went into the kitchen and soon returned with dinner. Three dishes and a soup. James put down his tablet and moved to the table. “Jenna called. She wants you to pick her up for Fall Break.” “Okay.” “Your mother hasn’t been feeling well. She needs to see a doctor.” “Fine. You can handle it.” “The bathroom floor is getting slippery. I was thinking of having it redone.” “Whatever you think is best.” “Heather came to see me today.” … His eyes finally lifted from his bowl, meeting mine. His expression was flat, detached, with just a hint of confusion. “And?” His mistress had just confronted me, and all he had to say was and? Even after years of mastering my temper, the word lodged in my throat. I frowned, staring at him. “James, we are married. What you are doing is called having an affair.” Something in my tone must have struck a nerve. He slammed his bowl down on the table with a sharp crack. “Don’t be so dramatic, Claire.” “Heather is just an intern at the office. I help her out a little, and suddenly you’re acting like a paranoid lunatic.” Classic James. Not just deceiving himself, but turning the blame back on me. Dinner ended in a cold, suffocating silence. I expected the tension to linger for days. I was wrong. The very next afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping to find Heather in my living room. She was wearing the slippers I’d bought for our daughter, leaning against James’s shoulder as he handed her a glass of homemade lemonade. “Oh, James, you’re amazing! I can’t believe you know how to make this from scratch.” She took a long sip, her head tilted back as she gazed at him with pure adoration. “Heh, don’t be so dramatic. Drink it slowly,” he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth, his fingers lingering on her lips. A sharp, bitter scent of lemon filled the air. When we were young and newly in love, I had a craving for fresh lemonade. James bought lemons by the crate, spending hours perfecting his recipe, determined to make the freshest, most delicious drink just for me. And now, he was making it for her. Heather took another small sip, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She settled back on the sofa, her pale, slender legs swinging playfully. I saw James’s gaze darken. It was a look I knew all too well. The look of desire. He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap. Just as their lips were about to meet, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Seeing me didn’t faze her. She stayed right where she was, draped over James, and simply tilted her head. “Oh, hi, Claire! We meet again!” she chirped. “Sorry about this, I twisted my ankle, and James was just taking a look. You don’t mind, do you?” She shifted her weight, and a low grunt escaped James’s lips. I took a slow breath, walked to the dining table, and set down the groceries. Then, I turned to my husband. “Let’s get a divorce.” 2 James refused. His excuse was that he hadn’t committed any “fundamental breach” of our marriage vows. He then mobilized our entire network of family and friends to talk me out of it. My in-laws, whom I had cared for for two decades, told me these young girls were shameless. They promised to set things right, to have James transfer five percent of his company shares to my name as compensation. Our mutual friends warned me that leaving would be playing right into the other woman’s hands. James’s business was booming; only a fool would walk away from that kind of wealth. My best friend was going through her own divorce. Her husband had also cheated, but he was broke and ugly. She sighed and suggested I just let it go. “At least James is rich,” she said. It seemed money was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card, capable of pardoning any sin within a marriage. I said nothing and continued gathering the documents I needed. My father heard the news and stormed over. The moment he walked in, he slapped me across the face, his voice booming. He called me ungrateful, reminding me that I was forty years old. Who would want me now? He looked healthy, flushed with life. Clearly, his new wife was taking good care of him, and my new little half-brother was a delight. He had no time for my petty grievances. The last person to try and change my mind was my daughter. When Jenna came home from college, my first instinct was to hug her. She shoved me away. “Why are you so determined to divorce Dad?” I, who had stood my ground against everyone else, felt myself shrink. “Your father is with another woman, honey. I can’t live like this anymore.” “You mean Heather? Dad told you, she’s just an intern from his office!” Jenna looked at me with an impatience that was a perfect echo of her father’s. “Mom, you’ve lived a life of luxury. Do you really think you can handle being on your own? Don’t come crying to me when you can’t.” Honestly, until that moment, I had believed that she, the child I had raised with my own hands, would be the one to give me a hug. I imagined her screaming at her father, demanding to know why he had hurt me, standing firmly by my side. Instead, she unleashed a torrent of anger at me, then stormed upstairs. SLAM! The sound of her door shutting rattled the house, and my soul along with it. Claire, how did you let your life come to this? That evening, for the first time in what felt like a year, James joined me in the shower. He entered the steamy bathroom, his eyes cold and distant. But his hands moved with a familiar confidence, tracing paths across my body. “Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” he murmured. “I’ll get rid of her tomorrow. She’ll be out of the company. You’ll never have to see her again.” A warmth spread across my skin, but a chilling frost was forming around my heart. I closed my eyes, letting the hot water mix with the silent tears rolling down my cheeks. “James.” “Hmm?” “Did you sleep with her?” “…” The silence was all the answer I needed. A wave of fury surged through me. “You… you make me sick.” That girl, Heather, was the same age as our daughter. If he’d chosen someone in their late twenties, or thirties, I could have chalked it up to a simple mid-life crisis. But he chose a girl young enough to be his child. A girl just starting out in the world. How could he? My words enraged him. He shoved me, hard. 3 A sharp pain shot through my ankle, but before I could react, he grabbed my chin and dragged me in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I make you sick? What about you? Aren’t you disgusting?” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “Look at yourself! Look at this haircut—it looks like a dog chewed it! Look at your breasts, they’re sagging down to your stomach! And your face, all those spots… it’s impossible to even look at you anymore!” “Claire, do you even look like a woman anymore?” His hand moved from my chin, cruelly squeezing my breast, his eyes like shards of ice. “We can stay like this. I’ll guarantee you a life of comfort. But if you divorce me, I swear I will make your life a living hell.” Long after he had left, I was still trembling. I couldn’t believe the man I had loved for twenty years could say such things. Or… had he changed long ago, and I had simply been too blind to see? I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms, the sting of pain bringing a cold, sharp clarity. James Shaw, you think I’m powerless? You think you can do whatever you want? Just you wait. This divorce is happening. The next morning, James had, for the first time in ages, made breakfast. My daughter, Jenna, was already eating. She glanced at me and then quickly looked down, clearly still angry. He, however, played the peacemaker. “Jenna,” he said softly, “we agreed yesterday. We’re going to forgive your mother.” Jenna mumbled a reluctant, “Morning, Mom.” “She was tired from the trip yesterday,” James said, his eyes meeting mine with a look of undisguised triumph. “Come eat. I made your favorite, club sandwiches.” I didn’t say a word. A moment later, the doorbell rang. The housekeeper showed Heather in. “Good morning, Mrs. Shaw. I’m just here to drop off some files for James.” They exchanged a handshake that lingered a little too long. Jenna didn’t seem to notice or care; instead, she invited Heather to join them for breakfast. Heather feigned hesitation for a moment before gracefully sliding into my seat at the table. As if to spite me, Jenna pushed my plate of food in front of her. Then she poured her a glass of orange juice—my favorite. Heather, for her part, turned on the charm, doing everything she could to win Jenna over. They discovered they’d even gone to the same university. “Wow, Jenna, you’re so cool! I was worried you’d be like your mom and not like me…” Heather simpered. “My mom’s just going through menopause, she’s paranoid about everything,” Jenna replied dismissively. “She’s convinced you and my dad are having an affair. Just ignore her.” By the end of the meal, the two of them were acting like best friends. I had stopped listening the moment Jenna called me paranoid. I turned and walked out of the house. I had to see someone. An old classmate I hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. My first love, and now the city’s top litigator, Grant Hayes. 4 In a quiet corner of a coffee shop, I laid out the whole story for Grant. He just snorted. “You’re really ready to let him go?” All these years, and he was still as blunt as ever. If he’d been just a little gentler back then, maybe I never would have broken up with him. Not wanting to get into it with him, I pulled a card from my purse and slid it across the table. “I did my research. Your current rate is a million-dollar retainer. This is half. You’ll get the rest when the divorce is final. This is business, Grant. No feelings involved.” Grant picked up the card, flicked it between his fingers, and then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Whatever you say, boss.” On the way out, he offered me a ride. Compared to my life of domestic bliss, his had been much harder. I’d heard his wife passed away from an illness a few years ago. They never had children. He’d since poured all his energy into his work, becoming the most sought-after lawyer in the city. Grant’s car was a loud-ass Maserati that roared to life. I couldn’t help but frown. “You’re a grown man. Why do you still like such flashy toys?” I wondered what his late wife had seen in him. He just arched an eyebrow. “You used to love this stuff, remember?” He had me there. In my twenties, I was all about the flash. But who has the energy for that at forty? I let it drop. When he dropped me off, I sent him a three-hundred-dollar transfer. G: ? C: For the ride. G: Got it, boss. Despite the flashy car, Grant gave me a mountain of solid advice. Following his instructions, I managed to get a clear picture of James’s finances. I also hired a private investigator who quickly found the address where he was keeping his little secret. It was an apartment I’d bought before we were married. We lived there when we were dating and for the first few years of our marriage. It was only after Jenna was born and we needed space for a nanny that we moved into our current house. I hadn’t been back in years. This is where he was hiding her? I found my old key and went over on a day I knew they’d be out. Inside, nothing had changed, except for the clutter of a new life. It was painfully obvious that Heather was desperate to marry James. Behind the sofa hung a portrait of them together. On the dining table sat a hand-crocheted doll she’d made. And in the kitchen, a rich, fragrant soup was simmering on low. If the portrait hadn’t been a carbon copy of one James and I had taken in that exact spot… If the doll hadn’t been a replica of my favorite orange plushie… And if the soup hadn’t been the exact recipe I had spent weeks developing to soothe James’s chronic stomach problems… Then maybe, just maybe, I could have applauded this happy little illicit love nest. But that soup recipe… I had only ever shared it with one person: my mother-in-law. Which meant that besides me, she was the only one who knew it. And now it was simmering in Heather’s kitchen. The weight of so many betrayals crashed down on me. Was I such a failure that everyone in my life felt no hesitation in hurting me? Just as I was drowning in despair, the door swung open. Heather burst in, beaming. She threw herself into James’s arms. “It’s wonderful! James, my love, I’m finally going to give you a son!” James stroked her cheek, a look of pure adoration on his face. Then he looked up, and his eyes met mine. For the first time in our twenty years together, I saw genuine panic on James Shaw’s face. … He never, in a million years, could have expected to find me here. But in that moment, a strange calm washed over me. I took out my phone and started recording. He saw the red light and lunged for it, but I stepped back. “Think carefully, James. This building has security cameras. If I get the footage, your reputation is finished.” James’s breath came in ragged gasps. He was a man accustomed to being in control, a titan of industry. This loss of control was making him visibly agitated. “Claire, stop this nonsense. Go home.” “I want a divorce.” “I’m not divorcing you. Get that idea out of your head!” “I want a divorce. We’ll sign the papers tomorrow. If not, you and your little secret will be front-page news.” “Why are you doing this? Have you thought about my parents? About your father? Have you thought about our daughter?” The mention of Jenna made something inside me snap. I grabbed a vase and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare bring them into this!” I screamed, rushing forward and slapping him hard across the face. “You bastard! You didn’t think about them when you were cheating on me! You didn’t think about them when you were getting another woman pregnant! And now that I’ve caught you red-handed, you have the nerve to tell me to think about them? What kind of world-class hypocrite are you?” “You’re nothing but a disgusting old man who can’t keep it in his pants! You think you can humiliate me and then silence me? Dream on! Either you sign those papers with me tomorrow, or we go to war, and I will burn everything to the ground. Your choice!” I went straight to Grant’s law firm. He was free and led me to a quiet office, pouring me a glass of water. “What happened? You look ready to kill someone.” “Don’t ask. I ran into the mistress. She’s pregnant.” “So, what’s your next move?” At the question, my anger flared again. “What can I do? Is there anything I can do now?” Grant paused, then pushed the glass of water closer to me. The small gesture extinguished my rage. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He shrugged. “It’s fine. The customer is always right.” … Grant explained that this development was actually a huge advantage for me. The photos I took in the apartment, combined with the fact that James now had a child with another woman, constituted irrefutable proof of adultery. This would significantly strengthen my position in the asset division. My mind felt numb. I couldn’t process any of it. When I left the firm, he offered me a ride, but I refused. I needed to walk. I needed to be alone. 5 I walked along the park trails for two or three hours. It was a Friday afternoon, and the park was mostly empty, save for a few people strolling. I saw a young couple, obviously deeply in love. The boy would snap a photo of the girl, then lean in and steal a kiss. Once upon a time, James and I were just like them. We met in high school and were inseparable through college, the campus’s golden couple. My family was well-off, and James was handsome, brilliant, and at the top of his class. Countless girls tried to steal him away. But James never wavered. He gave me a profound sense of security and even proposed to me in our sophomore year. In fairy tales, the prince and princess always end up at the altar. What they never tell you is that getting married is easy; staying married is the impossible part. After graduation, James took over his family’s business and multiplied its profits tenfold. He traveled constantly. The day our daughter was born, he was in another city signing a contract. My in-laws were old-fashioned and desperate for a grandson. After Jenna was born, they pressured me endlessly to try for another. James always shut them down. He was terrified of me going through another postpartum hemorrhage like the first one. He placed me on a pedestal, safe and secure inside an ivory tower. I never imagined the man holding me up had grown weary, or that he would let me fall without so much of a warning. Heather wasn’t the first. But she was the first one James allowed to be seen, to taunt me openly. He was testing me, trying to find the absolute limit of my tolerance. Or maybe, his ideal endgame was to have it all. When I finally got home, my in-laws were there, laughing and chatting happily with Jenna. My poor, foolish daughter. I had sheltered her so well that she was completely oblivious to the malice her grandparents held in their hearts. And there, in the center of them all, was Heather, smiling sweetly. James looked up and saw me. The red mark from my slap was still visible on his cheek. His expression wasn’t as pleased as I expected. Because he also saw the resolve in my eyes. After twenty years, we could still read each other without a word. His face instantly turned to stone. He turned to Heather. “You should go.” The warmth in the room evaporated. Heather was stunned. “Wh-what? Why?” “I said go.” In the Shaw household, money was power, and James’s word was law. My in-laws didn’t dare say a thing, confused by his sudden change of heart. My mother-in-law shot me a venomous glare. James called for the driver. Heather started to leave, looking back at him with every step. Jenna couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, what is wrong with you?” she yelled. “Why are you making Heather leave? She came to see me! She’s my friend!” For the first time, I didn’t hold back. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “You want to be best friends with your father’s mistress?” “…I told you, it’s a misunderstanding! There’s nothing going on between them!” “Heather is pregnant with your father’s child.” Jenna’s face went pale. She turned to James. “Dad… is that true?” 6 James sent everyone away. We sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, the silence stretching between us. “I don’t understand, Claire. Why do you have to make things so ugly?” he finally said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I told you, Heather won’t affect your position. When the baby is born, you’ll be his mother. Nothing between us has to change.” I just stared at him. How could anyone say those words with a straight face? I was so stunned I started to laugh. “How could you possibly think that’s okay?” I asked him directly. He slammed his fist on the table. “Why shouldn’t it be okay? It’s how the world works!” “Look at Bob Henderson—sixty years old, and his new girlfriend just gave him a son. His wife even went over to help out after the birth! Look at Mr. Davies—he has a whole apartment building in the city filled with mistresses waiting for him to visit!” “So what have I done that’s so terrible? All I want is a son, something to make my parents happy. If your health hadn’t been an issue, do you think I would have looked elsewhere? Claire, search your heart. Have I not been good to you all these years?” His voice rose with each word, a crescendo of self-pity and indignation. “After your mother died, your father only cared about his new wife and son. It was my money that made them treat you with respect! Every time you went home and acted like a queen, who do you think was backing you up? It was me!” “Every class reunion, you showed up dripping in designer clothes and jewelry. Everyone envied you, flattered you. You think that was about you? They were kissing up to James Shaw!” “My mother has been begging me for a grandson for years, and I always told her no, that Jenna was enough. You think I don’t want a son? I have this massive company! Am I supposed to just hand it over to a stranger? Who’s the naive one here, Claire? You or me? Just drop it! Like your friend said, stop being so ungrateful!” He was shouting now, his face contorted with outrage, as if in this entire sordid affair, I was the one at fault. My laughter returned, sharp and bitter. It’s true what they say—at the peak of anger, all you can do is laugh. I didn’t know whether to curse his callous cruelty or laugh at my own foolishness. Twenty years of what I thought was a happy, loving marriage was, in his eyes, nothing more than charity. I looked at him, really looked at him. His face hadn’t changed much over the years, but now, all I saw was an ugly, repulsive stranger. I had no interest in a screaming match about who was right or wrong. At this point, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting what I was owed and getting out. I stood up and pulled a file from my bag. “Since you’re so unhappy with me, you shouldn’t have any problem with this. Here’s the divorce agreement. Sign it.” James stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I’ve said all that, and you still want a divorce?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I do.” “Fine,” he snarled, grabbing the papers. “Don’t you dare regret this.” He scanned the pages, then seized a pen and, with a vicious stroke, ended our twenty years of marriage.

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Chapter 1 The day after Julian Vance’s engagement party, his assistant handed me a plane ticket. “It’s time for you to go,” he said, his gaze fixed on a point just over my shoulder. “And don’t come back to New York. Ever.” He let the threat hang in the air. “Mr. Vance has a great many ways to ruin a person.” All those years with Julian, I had been the envy of everyone, bathed in a light that wasn’t my own. Now, my exit was so pathetic it was almost comical. “Alright,” I said, my voice perfectly even. That night, the flight plummeted from thirty-thousand feet. I never planned on dying. In my version of the future, I take Julian’s five million dollars and disappear to some sun-drenched corner of Europe, far away from the wreckage of my life. The rest of my days would be a quiet succession of small joys, mine and mine alone. But in the screaming chaos of the fall, all of that was ripped away. There was nothing left but a searing, helpless rage. That ticket wasn’t a fresh start. It was a death sentence. My last meeting with Julian flashed in my mind. We hadn’t spoken in over two months. He’d been consumed—arranging Ava Monroe’s divorce, settling her and her daughter, a whirlwind of activity that finally, belatedly, reminded him he still had a girlfriend. So he carved out an hour and came to my apartment. His apartment, really. A sprawling penthouse in a part of Manhattan so exclusive I couldn’t have afforded to breathe the air without him. Not long ago, we were tangled in the sheets of the master bed, his arm heavy around my waist as I playfully dragged my nails down his back, leaving faint red trails on his skin. But now, after just weeks of silence, we were strangers. We sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, the polished wood a continent between us. “What do you want?” he asked. Direct. Cold. I didn’t bother with pleasantries. Three years of my youth. I told him they were worth five million dollars. Yes, I had loved him. I admit that. But that love had withered and died the day I realized I wasn’t the masterpiece, just the preliminary sketch. A placeholder until the real thing came back. He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Fine.” Then, the final turn of the screw. “But you can’t stay in New York. She doesn’t want you in the same city.” She. What could I do? I could only nod. If I refused, Julian, with his infinite resources and nonexistent patience, would find a way to force me out. And it would be far messier. He named a city on the West Coast. “I have properties there. Pick one. It’s yours.” So generous. I managed a smile. “Okay.” He gave a slight nod. “And we won’t see each other again. You can do that, can’t you?” My very existence was an inconvenience, an unsightly smudge on their perfect reunion. “Of course,” I replied. I was an orphan who had clawed her way through college. I came to New York chasing rumors of opportunity, fell into some modeling work, and started to enjoy it. The flash of the camera, the fleeting sense of being seen. Then I met Julian. He pursued me with the kind of grand, sweeping gestures you only see in movies, and within two weeks, I was his. He didn’t like me working, so my world, once expanding, had shrunk to the size of him. For years, the only people I knew were his friends. I had no roots here, no one to miss. I should have been thrilled to fly away and never look back. But fate, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor. I was dead. And I was staring right at Julian Vance. He couldn’t see me, of course. I was just a ghost. Chapter 2 I’d always cared about my appearance. Before boarding the plane, I’d had my hair professionally styled and wore a touch of light, natural makeup. I hadn’t worn my makeup like that in years. Julian never liked it. How naive I’d been, molding my entire existence to his preferences. I only learned later that his “preference” was a lie. He liked me in heavy, dramatic makeup because only then, with my eyes winged and my lips a slash of red, did I truly resemble her. Ava Monroe. The Oscar-winning actress, famous for her cascading waves and smoldering glamour. Now, in some small mercy from the universe, I looked just as I had before the crash. My hair was perfect. My makeup, immaculate. No trace of the violence of my death. Standing in Julian’s office, I studied my reflection in the polished glass of a framed photograph and breathed a sigh of spectral relief. My eyes drifted around the room. The leather of that couch… the view from that window at midnight… Memories, sharp and unwanted, pricked at me from every corner. Finally, I let my gaze settle on him. He was twenty-seven, a titan of industry with the kind of power most men only dream of. The greatest failure of his life had been watching the woman he loved marry someone else. But now, the one that got away had come back. A storybook ending. Even his assistant, Arthur, wore a smile when he entered the office. “Mr. Vance, the nursery is all set up,” he reported. “And the pieces Ms. Monroe selected yesterday have been delivered.” Julian murmured a soft, “Mm.” He set down a contract, massaged the bridge of his nose, and then picked up his phone. He stared at the screen for a long time. I drifted closer, curious. But before I could see, the screen went dark. Then I heard him speak. His voice was quiet. “How is she?” Arthur paused for a fraction of a second. “Ms. Monroe is on set, sir. Not far from here. Would you like to visit her later?” I’d seen one of Ava’s films. She played the princess of a fallen kingdom—beautiful, brilliant, a woman who loved and hated with equal ferocity. She clawed her way back to power through sheer force of will. If I were just another moviegoer, I would have adored her. But I wasn’t. Our first meeting had been a masterclass in humiliation. She’d looked me up and down, a small, knowing smile on her face. “Do you know how much you look like me?” I’d nodded. “People say that. I take it as a compliment.” Her laugh was a dry, rustling sound. “You’ve been with him almost three years, haven’t you?” “Yes.” She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Let me save you some time. He was in love with me three years ago.” Three years. And not a single person had ever told me. I’d been a fool, a stand-in for a ghost. I later found out that every script she’d ever accepted had been hand-picked by Julian, quietly steered onto her path to ensure she never faced a single setback. Her career was a monument to his unseen devotion. And me? I had nothing. To the world, I wasn’t Chloe. I was just “that woman you always see with Julian Vance.” Chapter 3 Arthur finished his update, but Julian remained silent, tapping a sleek fountain pen against his desk. After a long moment, he asked, “She should have landed by now, right?” The question seemed to come from nowhere, but Arthur, ever the consummate professional, didn’t miss a beat. He glanced at his watch. “Yes, she should have.” It took me a second to realize. He was asking about me. A flicker of something—conscience, maybe? Too bad. I hadn’t made it to the other side of the country. My journey ended last night, in a fiery wreck. Julian’s face showed nothing at the confirmation. He just woke his phone again, staring at the blank screen. This time, I was right beside him. I saw it clearly. It was our text thread. Thirty minutes ago, he’d sent a message. [If you ever need anything, contact Arthur.] In the past, I would have replied in seconds. Hearing Arthur’s response, a cold, humorless smile touched Julian’s lips. He leaned back in his chair. “Good.” Then, another question. “Has she tried to contact you?” Arthur shook his head. “No, sir. Not since I gave her the ticket.” Silence descended again. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken things. Arthur hesitated. “Sir, would you like me to place a call to Ms. Devereaux?” Julian finally looked up, his eyes veiled. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. “No,” he said, his voice flat. “From now on, I don’t need to be updated on her affairs.” He glanced one last time at our message history. The silence on my end was absolute. His thumb paused over my name for a fraction of a second before he pressed ‘Delete Contact.’ Chapter 4 And there it was. It wasn’t concern. It was housekeeping. A final, formal severing of ties. A wave of impotent fury washed over me. Damn it, I died! My plan had been to land, settle into my new mansion, and then have the supreme satisfaction of blocking his number myself. He’d stolen even that from me. I swung my leg back and kicked him hard in the thigh. Or, I tried to. Back when things were good, when he wasn’t a remote, untouchable figure, I had a habit of giving him little kicks when he annoyed me. It was an instinctive, fluid motion. But this time, my foot passed right through him. No impact. No feeling. Nothing. Which, of course, only made me angrier. After Arthur left, Julian worked for hours. I tried to leave the office, to explore my new, incorporeal existence. But every time I neared the door, I was snapped back to his side, like a dog on an invisible leash. It didn’t take long to figure it out. I was tethered to him. Maybe because his money had put me on that plane. My killer, my anchor. A pity I hadn’t come back as a vengeful spirit. I could have at least haunted him properly. Just then, a voice echoed in my mind, calm and bureaucratic. [There you are.] I jolted. “Who are you?” [Post-Mortal Affairs. We had a system glitch. Everyone from your flight is temporarily bound to the person they were closest to in life. Sorry for the inconvenience.] Relief washed over me. “Can you take me now? And listen, I had a lot of money I didn’t get to spend. Can that roll over to my next life?” A trust-fund baby. That was my dream. The voice sounded apologetic. [Not my department. But given the traumatic nature of your demise, I can probably get you a more peaceful exit next time around.] Great. “Fine. Just get me out of here. I’m ready to reincarnate.” [Not yet. We have to wait until your funeral is concluded.] “Why?” [Your soul has established a new tether to the mortal plane. The funeral rites sever that tie. From what I can see, the services for the other victims are already being arranged. You’re… well, you’re a bit of a special case. Doesn’t look like anyone’s noticed you’re gone.] The words were a blade to the heart. With that cheerful update, the voice vanished. I sighed, running through a mental list of everyone I knew. The list was pathetically short. It looked like I was going to be a lonely ghost for a very long time. Hours later, Julian finally packed up. Ava had called, asking him to pick her up from the studio. I followed him down to the garage and into his car. I didn’t look at him. I watched the city lights blur past the window. Skyscrapers like glittering spines, streets flowing with rivers of light. It was all so beautiful, a dream I had woken up from too soon. A profound sense of unfairness settled over me. All those years, all that potential, erased by one failed love affair. And that five million dollars… I hadn’t spent a single cent. It was outrageous. Tears I couldn’t shed burned behind my eyes. When we arrived, Ava emerged from the studio and melted into his arms. Julian’s body went rigid for a second, then relaxed as he returned the embrace with a faint smile. “How was it? Are you tired?” he asked. She nodded, launching into a story about her day. Her voice was captivating; she could make the most mundane event sound like a scene from a movie. They walked to the car, fingers interlaced, matching engagement rings catching the light. I had to admit it, as much as it galled me. They looked perfect together. Just then, two women walked out of the studio behind them, deep in conversation. “Did you see the news?” one said. “That flight that went down last night? Over a hundred people, no survivors.” “I saw,” the other replied, her voice shaky. “I was supposed to be on that flight. I had a ticket and everything for a vacation. This last-minute role saved my life. I have the luck of the gods.”

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Three years of quiet recuperation in Europe were shattered by a single, explosive livestream. The title was pure clickbait, designed to snag eyeballs: [A-LIST STAR DESTROYS B-MOVIE ACTRESS—SCENES YOU WON’T BELIEVE!] I was about to scoff at the tabloid trash when the face on the screen resolved into focus. The so-called B-movie actress, the woman they were tearing apart, was none other than Anya—my best friend, the one I’d left behind to chase her dreams in the glittering, venomous world of Hollywood. And she was on her knees, trembling, her clothes nearly ripped from her body. The backdrop was horrifyingly familiar. It was the sprawling Hamptons estate I’d lent her, a ten-million-dollar sanctuary now turned into a public pillory. A circle of viciously beautiful starlets, dressed in garish designer clothes, swarmed her. “What do you mean, your ‘best friend’s’ mansion?” one of them sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “Everyone knows Lila’s new boyfriend, Mr. Vance, gave her this estate for the shoot!” A woman in a pristine white dress, clearly the queen bee, stepped forward. Lila. She played the part of the gracious host, her expression a mask of feigned sympathy. “This beautiful home was a gift from Julian,” she purred, her eyes glittering with malice. “But if you’re desperate to come inside, I suppose there’s a way. You could always… crawl. After all,” she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you’re used to baring it all for an audience, aren’t you? An actress of your… caliber… should be comfortable with that.” The comments section scrolled by in a blur of cruelty. [LILA IS A QUEEN! YES! Put that trash in her place!] [Her ‘best friend’ is probably some sugar daddy’s mistress too!] Mr. Vance? Julian Vance? My fiancé? A cold fury, sharp and sudden, pierced through my shock. What stray cat had dragged herself onto my doorstep, claiming my home and tormenting my friend in my name? I was seeing red. Without a second thought, I booked the first flight back to New York. Then, I dialed my fiancé’s number. “You have ten minutes,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Get to the Havenmoor Estate. And you’re going to tell every single person there who this house really belongs to.” Chapter 1 By the time I clicked into the livestream, hoping to shower Anya with enough digital gifts to crash the server, the nightmare was already in full swing. There she was, holding the keys I’d given her, barred from entering the main gate. No matter how many times she pleaded, her voice cracking, “This is my best friend’s house, she told me I could use it!” the security guards remained impassive statues. “Mr. Vance’s orders are clear,” one of them stated, his voice flat. “Miss Lila is the host for today’s event.” I felt a dizzying wave of confusion. This was supposed to be Anya’s big break—her debut on a hit reality show where the cast lives together in a location provided by one of the guests. I couldn’t be there to support her, but I’d made damn sure she’d have a backdrop that would make her shine. Havenmoor was worth more than the entire production budget. So what the hell was happening? The other starlets closed in on Anya like sharks sensing blood. “An actress with your reputation, from your kind of films? What powerful friend could you possibly have?” one of them mocked. “Don’t tell me she’s another bottom-feeder who slept her way to a bit part! She could afford this place? Don’t make me laugh! Julian gave this to Lila!” “Your ‘best friend’ probably knows some producer who knows Julian, and you twisted that into this pathetic lie. It’s hilarious!” Lila, in her angelic white dress, positioned herself as the mansion’s rightful mistress. She looked down at Anya, her face a perfect portrait of pity, but her eyes were dancing with triumph. “Anya, darling, if you couldn’t secure a location, you should have just said so. We would have understood. There was no need to make up such a… desperate story. Claiming Julian’s gift to me belongs to your friend? It’s just embarrassing.” Seeing Lila, Anya flinched, a conditioned reflex of fear. But then, a flicker of courage, likely fueled by thoughts of me, returned to her eyes. “This estate really is my friend’s,” she insisted, her voice trembling but firm. “I have proof…” She never got to finish. A glass of ice water flew through the air, soaking the front of her thin blouse. The fabric turned translucent, clinging to her skin and revealing the delicate lace of her bra. The director and crew, instead of intervening, zoomed in. The camera lens became a predator, leering at Anya’s exposed and humiliated form. Lila’s mask of innocence slipped, revealing a flash of pure contempt. She was the one who’d “accidentally” spilled the drink. “Oh, clumsy me,” she said, her tone devoid of any real apology. “My hand slipped. But we can’t delay the shoot. Why don’t you just take that wet thing off before you come inside? Julian gave me this home, and I must take care of it. If you were to drip on the antiques… well, I doubt even selling yourself would cover the damages.” She raked her eyes over Anya’s body and let out a small, cruel laugh. “Besides, you’re an actress who got her start in skin flicks. You must be used to using your body to get attention, right?” All the color drained from Anya’s face. She mumbled a protest, but Lila’s posse was already on her, their manicured fingers clawing at her clothes. The livestream chat erupted in a frenzy. [DRAG HER! I’ve hated this slut forever!!] [She’s such a cheap whore, always flaunting her body then pretending to be a victim. It’s disgusting!] [Lila is the ultimate BS detector in this industry! Rip that fake innocent act right off her!] I blinked, scrubbing at my eyes, convinced I was hallucinating. But no. The woman being savaged on screen was Anya. My Anya. And the stage for her torment was my home, Havenmoor Estate. The house my grandfather had gifted me after Julian Vance and I were engaged, the place I had bought and intended to be our marital home. My name was on the deed. The purchase agreement was in my safe. I’d followed my parents abroad after the engagement, wanting to spend more time with them as they settled into retirement. The house had sat empty, waiting for my return. But even if I wasn’t living in it, what did that have to do with Lila and this “Mr. Vance” she was clinging to? On the screen, Anya was losing the fight. The buttons on her soaked shirt gave way. She crossed her arms over her chest, a desperate, futile attempt to preserve the last shred of her dignity. Tears streamed down her face. “Please,” she sobbed, “I’m done! I’ll quit the show! Just let me go, please!” Lila’s laugh was a cold, sharp blade. “You signed a contract. You don’t just get to quit. As the host of this party, I’m in charge now. You have two options: strip naked and crawl inside, or pay the three-million-dollar breach of contract fee. Your choice.” Seeing the absolute despair shatter Anya’s face, my vision went white with rage. What vulture had dared to squat in my nest, to break my friend in my own home? The flight couldn’t be fast enough. I was coming home. And I was going to personally show them who the mistress of Havenmoor really was. Chapter 2 When my flight touched down at JFK, the show was already filming its second day. I drove straight to the Hamptons, a team of my family’s security following close behind. Ignoring the frantic shouts of the production’s guards, I stormed into the mansion. The scene that greeted me stopped my heart. Anya was on her knees, dressed in a ridiculously short, demeaning maid’s outfit. In front of her was a puddle of half-chewed food, a vomit-like concoction someone had clearly spat on the marble floor. Lila stood over her, tapping her foot, her brow furrowed in mock disappointment. “Anya, your punishment for yesterday was to serve the other guests today. But you can’t even keep the floor clean? This simply won’t do. Here, let me help you.” With a sickening grace, she lifted her foot and pressed her designer heel onto the back of Anya’s head, grinding it down, trying to force her face into the filth. My blood ran cold. I moved without thinking, crossing the room in three strides and swinging my hand with all my might. The crack of my palm against Lila’s cheek echoed in the cavernous hall. Lila staggered back with a cry of pain. I seized the moment, pulling Anya up from the floor and into my arms. Seeing her like this—broken, bruised, trembling—felt like a physical blow to my own heart. My eyes burned with tears. I held her tight. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m late. I’m so sorry I let them do this to you.” It took a moment for her to realize it was me. The trembling slowly subsided, but then, to my horror, she wrenched herself out of my embrace. She pushed me away, her eyes wide with terror, and turned to grovel before Lila again. “Miss Lila, it’s all my fault! Please, it was all me!” she cried, scrambling to clean the mess. “Blame me! I’ll clean it right now!” The shock of being slapped finally registered on Lila’s face. She clutched her swelling cheek, her gentle facade crumbling into a screeching rage. “How dare you hit me! Are you insane? Do you have any idea who I am?!” My heart ached as I looked at Anya. Before I left, she had been so full of life, so vibrant, promising me she would take Hollywood by storm. Three years. How had they beaten her down into this terrified, submissive shell? Rage, pure and undiluted, surged through me. I grabbed Anya’s arm, refusing to let her kneel. “You will not kneel,” I commanded, my voice like steel. “I’m here now. I’ve got your back.” Then I turned and drove my foot squarely into Lila’s stomach. “What if I hit you? Even if God himself came down from heaven, I’d still hit you today,” I spat. “And let’s see who dares to stop me.” Lila shrieked and fell backward, landing right in the pile of regurgitated food. The other starlets, finally snapping out of their stupor, rushed to help her, only to recoil in disgust at the mess staining her white dress. “You lunatic! Where did you come from?” one of them shrieked. “Don’t you know Lila is the apple of Mr. Vance’s eye?” “You touch her, and Julian will have you both buried in unmarked graves!” Lila’s fans in the livestream chat exploded. [Is that Anya’s ‘best friend’? She looks like a slut from the same B-movies!] [Probably got off her knees in some coal baron’s office just long enough to come here and act tough!] [Our Lila is backed by Julian Vance, a titan of New York! He buys her multi-million dollar diamond necklaces like they’re candy!] [Look at her, renting a few bodyguards to act tough. How pathetic.] Hearing them chant Julian’s name over and over, a disturbing thought began to crystallize. “Mr. Vance? Julian Vance?” I asked, my voice dangerously soft. Lila, surrounded by her fawning court, heard me mention his name and seemed to think I was finally scared. She lifted her chin, her face a mask of arrogant disdain. “You’re not worthy of speaking his name. Even gutter trash like you knows the power of the Vance family in this city. It’s too late for regrets now.” I almost laughed out loud. This was the same Julian Vance who had been leaving me pleading voicemails just last night, begging to know when I was coming home so we could finally set a wedding date. And now, he was supposedly some romantic hero, ready to burn the world down for this woman? Chapter 3 I pulled out my phone and dialed Julian’s number. He answered on the second ring, his voice giddy with surprise. “Clara? You’re calling me? Did you miss me? Just hold on, once I close this deal, I’ll fly out to see you.” I cut him off, my voice like ice. “Don’t bother. You can see me right now at Havenmoor. You have ten minutes to get your ass over here and tell everyone in this house who its owner really is.” The room erupted in laughter. Lila and her entourage were practically bent over, clutching their stomachs. “Are you trying to tell us you just called the Julian Vance? You’re really committing to the role, aren’t you?” “Your best friend is a B-movie starlet who sells her body for parts. Do you really think you’re any better?” “God, I hate posers. Can you just stop?” “If Mr. Vance isn’t here in ten minutes, you can get on your knees and service us right next to Anya.” Anya was shaking, her hand clutching my sleeve. “Clara, let’s just go,” she begged. “We can’t win against them.” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “There’s no one in this entire city I can’t afford to piss off.” Ten minutes later, the aggressive roar of a supercar engine announced an arrival. Julian Vance, dressed in an impeccable black suit, strode into the villa. He saw me, and a smile started to form on his lips, but then his eyes landed on Lila, standing behind me with a look of pure victimhood. His expression soured instantly. He frowned at me. “Clara? What’s going on? Did you hit Lila?” I had been waiting for an explanation, for him to clear this whole mess up. Instead, he questioned me. My hand moved on its own. I slapped him, hard. “I didn’t just hit her. I hit you, too,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Is that how you speak to me? I suggest you think very carefully before you open your mouth again.” Lila shrieked and threw herself at Julian, clutching him protectively, tears streaming down her face. “Miss, even if you’re jealous that Julian gave this mansion to me, you can’t resort to violence!” I crossed my arms, my gaze fixed on Julian. My expression was thunderous. “The deed is in my name. The purchase contract is in my safe. Since when did you have the authority to give my property away to someone else?” Lila’s head snapped toward Julian. “Julian, is what she’s saying true?” The anger on Julian’s face froze, replaced by a flash of panicked embarrassment. He lowered his voice, hissing at me, “Clara, can you stop being so unreasonable? I’ve made a decision. You’ll bring the deed over later and sign it over to Lila. This was supposed to be our marital home anyway, which makes me half an owner!” His words were so absurd, so utterly delusional, that I actually did laugh. Then I slapped him again. “You’re a glorified gigolo who begged my family for this engagement, and you have the audacity to act powerful in front of me?” Julian’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Clara, you—!” But I wasn’t done. For Anya, I grabbed her hand and, with her beside me, I began to slap Lila, one strike after another. “This one,” I said as my palm met her cheek, “is for slandering her career.” “This one is for squatting in the home I lent her.” “And this one is for every tear you made her cry, for every ounce of dignity you stole from her, for turning her into this.” Anyone who tried to intervene was instantly restrained by my security team. A moment ago, when Lila was leading the charge against Anya, the livestream comments were silent. Now, they were a torrent of outrage—all directed at me. [What kind of security is this? Letting some psycho barge in and assault people!] [This is live! She’s committing a crime in front of thousands of people!] [I’m calling the cops! If the show won’t do anything, the police will!] The once-pristine goddess and her powerful CEO protector now stood with faces swollen and red, utterly speechless. I stopped, rubbing my wrist, and turned my cold gaze back to Julian. “It seems you’ve had it too easy for too long,” I said. “You’ve forgotten whose money your family was built on. I’m giving you one last chance. Get these people, and yourself, out of my house. And tell them who is the master of this estate.” Before Julian could answer, a furious voice boomed from the doorway. “Who else could it be? It’s Lila, of course!”

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Three years. That’s how long it had been. Stepping off the plane at JFK, the crisp New York air was a shock to the system. The first thing I did was call Leo. Then I called him again. And again. A dozen calls, each one swallowed by the dead air of his voicemail. Then, something impossible happened. Shimmering, translucent text began to scroll across my vision, like a glitch in reality itself. 【Oh, hell no. The villainess is back early. This is going to derail everything.】 【The timing couldn’t be worse. Chloe just had the baby. Leo needs to be focused on winning her back, not dealing with this obsessive ex.】 【Don’t worry, it’s part of the plan. He’s going to trick her into finding the baby and raising it as her own. She’s about to become the world’s most bitter nanny.】 I blinked, shaking my head as if to clear it. Just then, my phone buzzed to life. Leo. “Stella,” he said, his voice rushed, clipped. “Something’s come up. I’m at the old lodge upstate. Just meet me there tonight.” 【Here we go. The setup. The lodge is completely deserted. She’ll have no choice but to take the baby.】 Before I could reply, the line went dead. In that split second of silence, I could have sworn I heard the soft sigh of a woman in the background. My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel of the rental. For a long moment, I stared at the GPS, its cheerful line pointing me north toward the Catskills. Then, with a decisive twist, I spun the car around and merged onto the highway, heading in the exact opposite direction. 1 【Wait… what? She’s not going?】 【That’s not right. She’s his lapdog. He says jump, she asks how high. Why isn’t she obeying?】 【What about the baby?! Is she just going to let it die? A newborn, left alone in that empty lodge… it’ll freeze to death!】 Fat, heavy snowflakes began to drift down, blanketing the world in white. I watched the frantic text scroll past my eyes, my heart a cold, hard knot in my chest. So, that was it. I was the designated villain in some twisted romance novel. The plot, as laid out by my phantom commentators, was sickeningly simple. Leo, my Leo, gets drugged at a business meeting and has a one-night stand with a doe-eyed waitress, Chloe. She, of course, gets pregnant and vanishes. What follows is a dramatic cat-and-mouse game. He pursues her, she flees, their passion reignited with every clandestine meeting. Once the child is born, there’s just one inconvenient obstacle: me. His fiancée. So, he concocts a plan to leave the baby on a remote doorstep for me to find, saddling me with his illegitimate child. In this story, we would marry, but he would vow never to touch me, remaining faithful to his one true love. I would live out my days as a barren wife, pouring all my love into a child that wasn’t mine. A son who would grow up to despise me. The ghostly text had shown me the finale: me, paralyzed by a sudden illness, helpless in my bed. My adopted son, the boy I raised, would be the one to poison me slowly, torturing me until my last breath. His revenge for the crime of standing between his parents. After my death, Leo and Chloe would finally unite their perfect family. Chloe, the story’s benevolent heroine, would look at my portrait with pity, forgiving me for “hoarding” her husband and child, and wishing that in my next life, I would be reborn as a beast of burden to atone for my sins. My hands trembled on the wheel, not with sorrow, but with a white-hot rage. I had defied my family for him. Turned my back on a strategic marriage alliance to sponsor a brilliant, destitute student I’d met in the city. When I found Leo, he was half-dead in an alley, beaten bloody by loan sharks. I paid for his recovery. I settled his family’s debts. I funded his mother’s life-saving surgery. I remember him looking up at me, his eyes wet with devotion. “Stella,” he’d whispered, “I’m yours for life.” When my own parents fell ill and I had to move overseas to manage the family’s international affairs, he held my hands, his gaze earnest and true. “Go take care of them, Stella. I’ll be here. This will always be your home. When you come back, we’ll get married.” I handed him the keys to my domestic operations, my entire portfolio of companies. I leveraged my connections abroad to secure him funding, to build his name. In three short years, he had become a titan of industry. And the first thing he did with that power was become the protagonist of a trashy novel—cheating, fathering a child, and plotting to ruin my life to complete his perfect little family. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. All those years of love, of support, of sacrifice… to him, they were just chains he was desperate to break. Fine, Leo. You want your freedom? You can have it. The Uber turned through the gates of my estate on Long Island. I hadn’t been back in years, but even in the dead of night, the place was ablaze with light. My father had commissioned it for me, a masterpiece of modern architecture completed just before the New Year. This was the first chance I’d had to see it. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand hall, I saw the custom-made, eight-hundred-thousand-dollar crystal chandelier I’d designed, its light scattered like a captured galaxy. Ornate decorations draped from the vaulted ceiling, all centered on a massive birthday portrait. The girl in the photo, beaming like a princess, was not me. 【Chloe’s birthday party is stunning! So magical.】 【I heard Leo spent a fortune on this, flew in the world’s best chefs!】 【Forget the chefs, he’s giving her this entire estate! Talk about devoted…】 My estate. He was giving my estate to his mistress. Leo, you audacious bastard. There she was, Chloe, standing at the entrance like she owned the place. She was wearing one of my couture gowns and, around her neck, the emerald necklace that had belonged to my grandmother. “What is this? Do you know where you are?” she sneered, her eyes raking over the simple black car I’d arrived in. “You probably can’t even afford to replace the grass you’re standing on. Security! Get this trash out of here.” Her friends giggled, pointing at my Uber. I had told Leo I’d arrange my own transport, never imagining he’d stand me up so completely. To them, I was just some hired driver, an insect to be flicked away. I walked forward, my steps silent on the heated stone. Before she could react, I snatched the necklace from her throat and struck her across the face. The sound of the slap was sharp, clean, and utterly satisfying. “The only one getting out,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “is you.” Chloe stared, her hand flying to her reddening cheek. The shimmering text in the air went haywire. 【HOLY SHIT! The villain just snapped! She hit the heroine at her own birthday party!】 【Where are the bodyguards?! Throw her out!】 【Uh… guys? Isn’t this technically… her house?】 That last comment was lost in the flood. Chloe let out a piercing shriek. Her friends swarmed around her, one of them pointing a trembling finger at me. “Do you have any idea who she is? How dare you touch her!” I just smiled, weighing the heavy emerald in my palm. The friend grew bolder. “You couldn’t afford a single stone in that necklace if you sold your pathetic life! Get on your knees and apologize to Chloe right now!” “What’s going on here?!” A figure burst through the doorway, shaking snow from his designer coat as he rushed to Chloe’s side, pulling her into a protective embrace. It was Leo. My boyfriend of three years, who I hadn’t laid eyes on until this very moment. He looked from Chloe’s tear-streaked face to me, and the anger in his eyes morphed into stunned disbelief. “Stella? What are you doing here?” At the sound of my name, Chloe stiffened. She gripped Leo’s arm, and they exchanged a look—a flicker of shared conspiracy. So, the little ingenue knew exactly who I was. How cold-blooded do you have to be to plan on handing your own child over to the woman you’re betraying? A security guard approached nervously. “Mr. Blackwood, do you know this woman?” Leo nodded, his eyes darting past me, scanning the car I’d arrived in. I knew what he was looking for. Chloe, ever the performer, composed herself. “It’s alright,” she announced to the crowd, her voice trembling gracefully. “She’s… an old neighbor of Leo’s. She’s always been a little obsessed with him. I heard she just got dumped. It must have unhinged her.” A wave of understanding rippled through the guests. Their expressions shifted from confusion to contempt. “A stalker? How pathetic.” “Chloe is too kind, honestly. Being so gracious to a desperate hanger-on.” “Leo and Chloe built their success together from nothing. This woman needs to accept that she lost and crawl back into whatever hole she came from.” I let out a short, sharp laugh that cut through the murmurs. “From nothing?” I locked eyes with Leo. He flinched, looking away. He knew. Without the money I’d poured into his education, his mother’s health, his first business venture, he wouldn’t have a penny to his name. He’s be a bloody smear in a back alley. He had sworn to make something of himself, and I had handed him every resource, every connection, every opportunity to do so. Even from halfway across the world, my support had never wavered. But his guilt was fleeting. “Chloe was the one by my side these last three years,” he snarled, his voice regaining its strength. “What have you done?” My face hardened. He took a step toward my car, his voice rising for the benefit of the audience. “Look, Chloe and I aren’t cruel people. We won’t abandon you. Even if you’re coming back with a kid, we’ll help you take care of it…” His words trailed off. His bravado crumbled into confusion, then raw anxiety. He had wrenched open the front door, then the back. He even popped the trunk. There was nothing. Only my suitcase. No baby. Leo’s face went chalk-white. He spun around, grabbing my shoulders, his grip bruising. “You didn’t go to the lodge, did you?” he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of fear and rage. The pain was sharp, and I shoved him away in disgust. “It’s a derelict building in the middle of nowhere. Why on earth would I go there on a night like this?” “I told you to go there!” he roared, his control finally shattering. “Why don’t you ever just listen! If something… if something happened, I will never forgive you!” Chloe’s eyes widened in horror. In an instant, she understood. Her face contorted into a mask of pure hatred, and she lunged at me. “You bitch! I’ll kill you!” I sidestepped her easily. Hampered by the tight gown, she tumbled down the short flight of stairs, landing in a heap. A dark stain began to spread across the pale fabric of her dress. She let out a guttural scream of pain. Leo’s head snapped toward me. He strode forward and slapped me, hard. My head rang, and a fiery pain exploded across my cheek. “If anything happens to Chloe or the baby, you’re dead,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, his eyes promising murder. He jabbed a finger at my chest, as if marking his sworn enemy. He scrambled for his phone, barking orders for an ambulance and sending his assistant racing to the lodge. I touched my tongue to the inside of my swollen cheek. It seemed a dog that won’t learn to heel must be put down. 【What’s happening? Isn’t the villain supposed to find the baby with him? Am I reading a bootleg copy?】 【OMG, their poor baby! Please be okay, please be okay! If the baby dies, that bitch deserves to burn!】 【Hold on… They’re the ones who left their own kid in the middle of nowhere and expected their rival to play babysitter. Are we sure they’re the heroes here?】 A fierce debate erupted in the shimmering text. I spat a wad of blood onto the pristine snow. Suddenly, a team of black-suited security guards swarmed me, pinning my arms behind my back. “You hurt Chloe, and now you think you can just walk away?” I struggled, trying to see who was speaking. A familiar silhouette stepped out of the light. “Julian?” I whispered. The text feed went wild. 【It’s the second male lead! The tortured one who loves the heroine from afar! He’s finally stepping up for her!】 【Yes! Get the villainess out of here! I’m ready for the love triangle drama!】 【Don’t worry, guys. The more arrogant she is now, the more pathetic she’ll be later.】 Julian? The second male lead? My parents were always working when I was young. I grew up with Julian, my father’s much younger half-brother. He was my uncle, but with only a few years between us, he was more like a best friend, a brother. I had always believed his affection was real. “You’re my guiding star, Stella,” he used to say, his eyes full of adoration. The man standing before me now, his face a mask of cold fury, was a stranger. The realization was a dull ache in my chest. He crouched in front of me, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my head up. His eyes widened for a second. “Stella?” Chloe, sobbing, threw herself into his arms. Seeing the blood on her dress, a wave of anguish washed over Julian’s face. He turned and kicked me hard in the stomach. “I can’t believe you’ve become this monstrous,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “You want to hurt people? Let’s see how you like it.” The blow had been delivered with full force. It felt like my insides were shattering. I collapsed, coughing up a mouthful of blood. My fingers fumbled for the emerald necklace I still clutched in my hand. “Julian… do you remember this?” It was from our grandmother, the woman who had raised us both. My initials were engraved on the back. He hesitated. Chloe’s weeping intensified. “I was just borrowing it! She attacked me, she ripped it from my neck!” she cried, pointing to a scratch on her skin. Julian’s face hardened again. “It’s a thing, Stella. Grandma would never forgive you for hurting someone over a piece of metal.” Whispers erupted from the crowd. “She’s a Vance? I thought she was a stalker.” “The Stella Vance? She wouldn’t act this unhinged… would she?” “Wait, if Chloe is so worried about a baby… whose baby is it?” Someone’s voice cut through the noise. “Hang on, isn’t this the Vance estate?” Chloe’s face paled. In the next instant, she feigned a stumble, her heel coming down hard on my outstretched fingers. I cried out in pain as she let out a theatrical gasp and fell backward. Julian caught her instantly. And I watched, helpless, as her foot kicked the necklace from my grasp. It skittered across the stone and disappeared with a soft splash into the ornamental pond. “Call the police!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. “This is my house! I want every single one of these bastards thrown out!” Hearing that I was, in fact, the lady of the house, the guards hesitated. I pulled out my phone, but Julian slapped it from my hand, sending it skittering across the floor. “Think carefully,” he hissed at the guards, his voice low and menacing. “Who holds the power at Vance Industries right now?” The ghostly text flared. 【Damn, he’s so protective! I’m officially shipping him and Chloe!】 【Too bad he’s just an adopted son. Otherwise, the villainess wouldn’t dare challenge him.】 【LOL who cares if he’s adopted? Once Stella’s dead, he’ll inherit half the Vance fortune anyway. It’ll all go to Chloe in the end!】 Of course. More than one snake in the nest. “Lock her up,” Julian commanded. “For disgracing the Vance name, she’ll be confined for forty-eight hours.” The guards looked at each other, then moved toward me. I pulled a small, folding knife from my belt—a gift from my father. “Stay back,” I warned, my voice shaking with rage and pain. “I’ll kill the first person who touches me.” They paused, wary of the desperation in my eyes. But then a blur of motion—Leo. He kicked the knife from my hand. His face was a thundercloud of grief and fury. “You killed my son,” he choked out. Chloe’s eyes fluttered open, wide with horror. “Leo… what did you say?”

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Death gives you a terrible kind of clarity. After dying once, I remembered every single word in my niece Chloe’s diary. She’d written: August 15th. Aunt Ellie bought me a new phone, but she got her daughter the latest model. It’s her way of reminding me I’m just an outsider here. She forgot that I took her in when no one else would. She forgot the sleepless nights I spent by her bedside when she was sick. She forgot that to save her from feeling like a second-class citizen in my own home, I bought two of everything. None of that made it into her diary. Instead, I was beaten to death by her ignorant, brutish father—my own brother—over a fabricated argument. When I woke up, reborn, the clock was ticking backwards. It was August 14th. In front of the whole family, I placed two identical, brand-new, top-of-the-line phones on the table. One for my daughter, Annie, and one for Chloe. As my niece’s eyes widened in a performance of surprise, I stroked her hair, my voice as smooth as honey. “Chloe, honey, your dad will need to pay me back for the phone. I just fronted the money for it. And since the factory is struggling, maybe it’s a good time for him to settle up for all your years of room and board, too.” 1 I set the two identical boxes on the coffee table, one in front of my daughter, Annie, and the other in front of my niece, Chloe. Chloe’s eyes lit up with a look of practiced surprise, a performance I knew all too well. I smiled and gently patted her head. “Chloe, sweetie, I fronted the money for this phone, but it’s from your dad. It was $999. Just remind him to transfer me the money, okay?” I paused, letting the words hang in the air. “And speaking of which, with the factory having a tough year, now is probably a good time for him to square up for your living expenses for the last eight years. Just so we’re all on the same page.” The air in the living room turned to ice. My brother, Mark, froze, his mouth half-open, a sunflower seed forgotten on his tongue. His eyes, small and hard, bulged. “Ellie, what the hell are you talking about? Are you trying to shake down a kid for money?” His wife, Brenda, chimed in, her voice a shrill nail on a chalkboard. “Exactly! You make good money, what’s the big deal? Chloe looks up to you like a mother! Are you trying to stab the girl in the heart?” As if on cue, she pulled Chloe into a dramatic hug. Chloe immediately buried her face in Brenda’s shoulder, her own shoulders starting to shake with practiced sobs. Her eyes, peeking out at me, were red-rimmed and filled with a theatrical sense of betrayal. In my last life, that would have been enough. I would have crumbled, apologizing, forcing the phone into her hands, probably slipping a hundred-dollar bill inside the case to smooth things over. But now, looking at that angelic, tear-streaked face, all I felt was a cold knot of nausea in my stomach. This was the same face that had watched impassively as her father beat me to the brink of death. The same girl who then quietly closed her bedroom door and turned her music up to drown out my dying gasps. The same girl who, after my death, inherited everything I owned, wore the designer clothes I’d bought her, and lorded over my daughter, Annie, calling her “the little charity case.” Looking at these parasites, I let a serene smile touch my lips. “Mark, Brenda, you misunderstand. I’m not asking the child for money. I’m asking you.” I reached under the coffee table, pulled out a notepad and pen, and began to calmly lay out the facts. “Chloe came to live with me when she was ten. It’s been eight years. Clothes, food, school fees, private tutors, summer camps… I never let her go without, did I?” Mark and Brenda’s faces soured. “What’s your point?” Mark snapped, spitting his sunflower seed shell onto my clean floor. “We’re family. You don’t keep a running tab.” “Oh, but you have to,” I said, meeting his gaze directly. “Because I can’t afford it anymore. As you know, my little design studio isn’t doing so well this year. I’m facing bankruptcy. So going forward, you’ll have to take care of Chloe’s expenses yourselves.” “Bankruptcy?!” Brenda’s voice shot up an octave, sharp enough to shatter glass. “Don’t you dare pull that crap, Eleanor! I saw you with a new designer bag just last week! You’re broke? My ass!” I smiled and turned to my own daughter. “Annie, sweetie, would you unlock your phone for mom?” Annie obediently handed the phone over. I opened the Amazon app and showed Brenda my order history. “You’ve always had a sharp eye for these things, Brenda. Take a look. It’s a knockoff. Fifteen dollars, free shipping. When business is bad, you have to tighten your belt.” Brenda squinted at the screen, her face a comical mask of disbelief and disgust, as if she’d just swallowed a fly. Chloe looked up, her eyes wide with genuine shock this time. The brand-new phone box in her lap suddenly seemed to burn her hands. I ignored them and pressed on. “I did a rough calculation, Mark. Over the past eight years, I’ve spent well over fifty thousand dollars on Chloe. I’m not asking for all of it. Just pay me back for the tuition and food costs—let’s call it an even thirty thousand. The rest… you can consider it my graduation gift to my niece.” “Thirty thousand dollars?!” Mark shot up from the couch. “Ellie, have you lost your mind? Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?” I stared at his face, twisted with rage, and felt nothing but a cold, dead calm. “No money?” I asked with a soft, dangerous laugh. “Between you and Brenda, you bring in over six grand a month, don’t you? The problem isn’t that you don’t have it. It’s that you’d rather spend it on yourselves—eating out, playing poker—than on raising your own daughter.” “You—!” He was speechless, his face turning a blotchy purple. He’d been hit where it hurt. I turned my attention back to Chloe, my voice once again gentle. “Chloe, I know you’re a smart girl. Your parents work hard, so you need to be more understanding. If you like the phone, have them pay for it.” I smiled brightly. “If not, I can just return it tomorrow. It’ll save me a thousand bucks!” With that, I took Annie’s hand. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go to your room. Mommy will cut up an apple for you.” My words, a perfect blend of sweet reason and cold steel, left my brother with nowhere to go. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t fight back. Consumed by impotent rage, he snatched the phone box from Chloe’s lap and slammed it onto the floor. “Fine, Eleanor! You win! Who needs your goddamn charity phone anyway!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “But you won’t see a dime from us! Not one cent! Let’s see what you can do about it!” He grabbed a stunned Brenda and a shell-shocked Chloe by the arms and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pictures on my wall rattled. 2 The heavy security door shuddered in its frame. Annie flinched, gripping my arm. “Mommy,” she whispered, “are you really going to make Uncle Mark pay? Are they going to hate us even more now?” I straightened a crooked painting on the wall, then smoothed her hair. A sharp pain lanced through me. My sweet, naive daughter. In my last life, her kindness was the reason that family of vultures was able to pick her bones clean. “Annie, listen to me. It’s not about us making them hate us. They’ve been taking advantage of us for years and acting like they were entitled to it.” I looked into her wide, worried eyes. “What Mommy is doing now is taking back what belongs to us. I’m protecting us.” She nodded, not quite understanding, but trusting me. I knew this was just the beginning. Sure enough, not ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was my mother, on her usual crusade. “Eleanor! Have you lost your mind? How could you demand money from your own brother? Have you no shame? Chloe is your flesh and blood!” The familiar tirade began before I could even say hello. It was the same speech she’d given to anyone who would listen after Mark killed me. In my last life, after Mark’s “accident” with me, it was my mother who wailed and insisted it was a family dispute, that I had simply fallen. She eagerly signed a formal letter of forgiveness so he wouldn’t have to see the inside of a jail cell. Her reasoning, whispered to a relative, was: “Mark is all I have left. What would happen to me if he went to prison? Eleanor is already gone. It’s the last thing she can do for her family.” For her. The irony was acid in my throat. I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. “Mom, Chloe is my niece, yes. But isn’t Annie your granddaughter? I’ve been raising Annie on my own while also supporting Chloe. When have you ever worried about me?” I shot back, my voice low and steady. “You conveniently forget that I paid my own way through college by waiting tables, don’t you?” There was a brief, sputtering silence on the other end, followed by an even more furious outburst. “Your brother is struggling! It’s your duty to help him! Do you enjoy tearing this family apart? I’m telling you, Eleanor, if you dare take that money, I… I won’t have you as a daughter anymore!” “Fine,” I said. “What?” She sounded genuinely shocked. “I said, fine,” I repeated, the word tasting like freedom. “If you think your son is more important than your daughter, then from this day on, you can consider me dead. And when you get old, don’t come looking for me. Your precious son can take care of you all by himself.” I hung up, blocked her number, and tossed the phone onto the couch. The world, finally, was quiet. I dragged a dusty old box out from under my bed. Inside was a meticulously organized collection of receipts and bank transfer records for every major expense I had ever paid for Chloe over the past eight years. I’d kept them initially as a sentimental record, something to show Chloe when she was older so she would know how much her aunt loved her. Now, they were my ammunition. I laid everything out, took clear photos with my phone, and opened a spreadsheet. Room and board, estimated conservatively at $250 a month, came to $24,000 over eight years. Tuition and tutors added another $12,000. Those two categories alone were nearly forty grand. Add in clothes, electronics, vacations, and summer camps… it all added up to well over fifty thousand dollars. Asking for thirty was, frankly, a steep discount. When I finished, I compiled the spreadsheet and the photos of the receipts into a single, neat PDF. I attached it to a message and sent it to my brother. I added a single line of text beneath it: Mark, here’s the itemized bill. It’s all there. You have three days to transfer the money. After that, my next message will be from my lawyer. I could almost feel the rage radiating through the phone. A moment later, a series of angry voice messages popped up. I didn’t listen to a single one. I simply archived the chat. You can’t reason with a bully. The more you argue, the more power you give them. For a man like Mark, nothing was more terrifying than being held accountable. 3 The next two days were unnervingly quiet. Annie seemed on edge, picking at her food at dinner. I put the largest pork chop on her plate and smiled. “Eat up, sweetie. You’re too thin. From now on, every penny I earn is just for you and me.” Her face lit up. “Really, Mommy? I love you. I don’t want to share you with anyone.” My heart ached. I never realized how much my generosity towards Chloe had felt like a betrayal to my own daughter. That would never happen again. This time, I would protect my little girl at all costs. On the third day, the deadline I’d given Mark, my phone rang in the late afternoon. It was an unfamiliar number. “Is this Eleanor Gable?” “Speaking.” “Ms. Gable, this is Mr. Davison, Chloe’s guidance counselor at school.” “Mr. Davison. Is everything alright?” “Actually, no. Chloe was very distraught at school today. She was crying, saying that you don’t want her anymore, that you’re kicking her out of the house.” His tone was laced with that specific brand of professional concern that bordered on accusation. “As you know, she’s starting her senior year. Emotional distress can have a huge impact on her grades. I was hoping you could come down to the school so we could talk this through. I know I should be calling her parents, but on her enrollment forms, you’re listed as her primary guardian…” I could picture it perfectly: Chloe, spinning a tale of woe and abuse, painting me as the cruel, unhinged aunt. “Of course, Mr. Davison,” I said calmly. “I’m on my way.” I felt no panic. I simply went to my printer and made copies of every single receipt. I printed the itemized spreadsheet. And for good measure, I had an app transcribe Mark’s profanity-laced voice messages into a text document, which I also printed. If Chloe wanted to put on a show, I would be happy to provide the script. When I arrived at the school, I found Chloe in the counselor’s office, her face a mask of tragic beauty, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. Mr. Davison sat opposite her, his expression grim. “Aunt Ellie…” Chloe whispered when she saw me, as if I were a monster emerging from the shadows. A fresh wave of tears followed. Mr. Davison frowned, adjusting his glasses. “Ms. Gable, I understand that being a single parent to two teenagers is difficult. But Chloe is an excellent, mature student. You can’t take your professional frustrations out on a child.” I didn’t argue. I just looked at Chloe, my expression serene. “Chloe, why don’t you tell Mr. Davison exactly how I took my frustrations out on you?” “You… you said you were done with me,” she sobbed. “You told my parents to come get me. A-and you demanded they pay you thirty thousand dollars or you’d sue them.” She looked up, her eyes pleading. “Aunt Ellie, I know you’re stressed out. I don’t blame you. Just… just please don’t make me leave. I’ll do anything.” It was a masterful performance. Even Mr. Davison looked moved, his gaze towards me hardening with disapproval. I smiled and placed my thick folder on his desk. “Mr. Davison, before you pass judgment, perhaps you’d like to see the facts. This is a partial record of my expenses for raising Chloe over the past eight years.” I slid the papers across the desk. “Here are the tuition payments and tutoring fees. They total just over twelve thousand dollars.” “Here are her expenses for vacations, electronics, and designer clothes. I only included purchases over two hundred dollars, and that alone is over seven thousand.” I continued, page by page, laying out the undeniable truth in black and white. “And her room and board… I charged a mere two hundred and fifty dollars a month. That’s less than the cost of groceries. Over eight years, that comes to twenty-four thousand. Add it all up, Mr. Davison. What’s the total?” Next, I pushed the transcription of Mark’s voicemails in front of him. “And this is the ‘polite conversation’ I received from my brother—Chloe’s biological father—after I informed him that due to bankruptcy, I could no longer support his daughter and would need him to contribute to her care. You’re an educator; I’m sure you can appreciate the vocabulary.” Mr. Davison stared at the mountain of evidence, his jaw slack. The color drained from his face. Finally, I turned to Chloe, who had stopped crying and was now staring at me in stunned horror. “I’m not taking my anger out on you, Chloe,” I said softly. “I am stating a fact. I have raised you for eight years. I have done my duty, and then some. Now, I am broke. I can no longer afford you. It is only right and natural that you return to your own parents.” “I… I didn’t…” Chloe’s face was ashen, her lips trembling. She couldn’t form a complete sentence. The office was utterly silent. 4 Mr. Davison’s expression shifted from shock to embarrassment, and finally, to deep regret. He cleared his throat. “Ms. Gable… I apologize. I clearly did not have the full picture. This is… well…” He glanced at the stammering Chloe, leaving the sentence unfinished. The meaning was clear. “I understand, Mr. Davison. You were advocating for your student,” I said magnanimously. My goal wasn’t to pick a fight with him; it was to shatter Chloe’s fabricated reality in front of the very person whose respect she craved. “So, what happens now with Chloe?” he asked, looking at me helplessly. “It’s very simple,” I said, gathering my documents. “I’ve already informed her parents. If they don’t transfer the money and pick her up from school today, my next call will be to Child Protective Services to report them for abandonment.” Chloe looked at me as if she’d never truly seen me before. The idea that her meek, accommodating aunt could utter the words “Child Protective Services” so calmly was clearly beyond her comprehension. I gave Mr. Davison a polite nod and walked out of the office without a backward glance. I knew Mark and Brenda would be coming. I had just walked through my own front door when the banging started. It wasn’t a knock; it was a physical assault on the door. “Eleanor! You goddamn bitch! Open the door!” It was Mark, his voice a raw, primal roar. Annie scrambled behind me, terrified. I patted her back reassuringly, then walked towards the door, but didn’t open it. I spoke through the heavy wood. “Mark, that’s my private property you’re damaging. If you have something to say, say it. If you hit my door again, I’m calling the police.” “The police? I’ll kill you first, you ungrateful snake!” The cursing intensified, punctuated by Brenda’s shrill shrieks. “Just kick the damn door in! Let’s see how tough she is then!” A cold smile touched my lips. It was just like last time. Except this time, I was prepared. After Chloe had moved out, I’d had a reinforced steel doorframe installed. It would hold—for a while. I took out my phone, angled it towards the peephole, and hit record. Then, with my other phone, I called building security and reported a violent disturbance and attempted break-in at my apartment. Only then did I speak again, my voice calm and steady. “I’ll say it one more time, Mark. I am broke. I cannot afford to raise your daughter anymore. As her parents, it’s your legal responsibility. That thirty thousand dollars is non-negotiable. If it’s not in my account by the end of the day, a process server will be visiting you at work tomorrow.” “You dare!” he bellowed. His answer was a sickening thud as his steel-toed boot connected with the door, making the entire wall vibrate. Annie screamed. I pulled her into my arms, but my eyes remained fixed on the peephole, my gaze as cold as ice. Come on, Mark. Just like last time. Show the camera exactly who you are. The impacts grew more frequent, the lock beginning to buckle. I could hear Brenda’s screeching and my mother’s pathetic, whining cries of “Oh, stop it, you two, please stop…” all blending into a grotesque symphony of dysfunction. Just as the door was about to give way, I heard the thunder of footsteps in the hallway and the authoritative shouts of security guards. “Hey! What’s going on here? Stop right now!” The noise outside ceased. For a moment, I thought it was over. But I had underestimated my brother’s capacity for rage. The arrival of security seemed to push him over the edge. “Get the hell away from me!” he roared. There was a crash of shattering glass, followed by a sound I remembered from the moment before my last death: the sickening crunch of metal and wood. He’d smashed the emergency fire case in the hallway and grabbed the axe. Through the distorted view of the peephole, I saw his eyes, bloodshot and crazed with fury. They were the last thing I saw in my previous life. My heart hammered against my ribs—not with fear, but with a grim, vindicated thrill. I dialed the three numbers I had been waiting to call. When the operator answered, I pitched my voice to be calm, but with a tremor of manufactured terror. “Hello? I need the police. My brother… he has an axe. He’s breaking down my front door.”

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For our daughter, I’d reconciled with my husband, Adrian. He started coming home on time. On weekends, he would even sit on the floor with Lily, patiently building LEGO castles. He was playing the part of the repentant husband, and he was playing it well. I almost allowed myself to believe we could make it work, that this fragile peace could last. Until I was cleaning the bookshelf and found the mug. It was pink, with a cartoon rabbit printed on the side. In the secret blog I’d stumbled upon by accident, the one he never knew I’d seen, he called her his “Bunny.” I held the garish mug in my hand and asked him, my voice perfectly level, what he wanted me to do with it. Adrian lowered his newspaper, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was laced with an all-too-familiar impatience. “Evelyn,” he sighed, “I ended things with her—for you. What more do you want?” 1 The pink cartoon rabbit mug felt like a brand on my hand. The ceramic was smooth, the rabbit’s mouth stretched into a wide, red grin, its two buck teeth sticking out in a goofy, innocent smile. It was a jarring splash of childishness amidst the rows of leather-bound, gilt-spined classics that smelled of old paper and ink. It was like a toddler who had wandered into a boardroom—oblivious, yet defiant in its sheer, out-of-place visibility. I carried it over to the man behind the mahogany desk. Adrian looked up from the financial pages, a flicker of something—alarm? guilt?—darting through his eyes before being swallowed by his usual cool indifference. He set the paper down and rubbed his temples, a gesture of carefully measured exhaustion. “Evelyn, I already told you, I broke it off with her for you. What else are you trying to get out of me?” His voice was a low rumble, worn smooth with a practiced weariness, as if he were the true martyr in this drama, and I, the insatiable, unforgiving shrew. For me. The words were a needle of ice to the heart, a tiny, sharp pain. That familiar, cloying suffocation churned in my stomach, rising to clog my throat. I looked at him, at this face I had loved for a decade, a face that now felt as cold and alien as a stranger’s. Those long, elegant fingers had once traced my brow with such tenderness; they had also danced across a keyboard, typing out blistering, explicit confessions of love for another woman. But I didn’t lose control like I had three months ago. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hurl the mug against his expensive, polished desk. I simply held it up, my gaze calm, almost gentle. “I don’t want anything,” I said, my voice unnervingly steady. “I was just cleaning the bookshelf and found this. I was wondering if you still wanted it.” I paused, adding with the practical air of any frugal housewife, “Otherwise, it’s just collecting dust.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes scanned my face for a few seconds, searching for the tell-tale cracks before the storm. He found only a profound, unnerving stillness. “It’s just a mug.” He waved a dismissive hand, picking up his paper again. The pages rustled, a crisp sound like he was shooing away an annoying fly. “If you don’t like it, throw it out. You don’t need to ask me about every little thing.” A little thing. Yes, a mug is a little thing. But I remembered the encrypted blog. The one he thought I’d never find, hidden behind two-factor authentication. Post after post, he called her “my Bunny.” He wrote about her pout when she gave him this mug, about how the water she drank from it tasted sweet. He wrote about how he treasured it, just as he treasured their “pure and passionate” connection. His love for her had never been a little thing. My fingers tightened on the handle, knuckles turning white, but my expression remained placid. “Alright,” I said, my tone flat. That single, simple word made him look up from his paper again. His gaze was probing now, laced with uncertainty. He had likely braced himself for tears, for accusations, for the hysterics he knew how to manage. That was the Evelyn he understood, the one he could control. Not this woman, this stranger who was so calm it was unnerving. Without another glance at him, I turned and walked out of the study, mug in hand. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, heavy with suspicion. I didn’t toss it in the hallway trash can. I took it to the kitchen. The faucet roared to life as water hammered against the ceramic. The cartoon rabbit seemed to gleam under the deluge. I squeezed a generous amount of dish soap onto a new sponge and began to scrub, scouring its every surface, inside and out, as if to wash away every trace of a presence that didn’t belong in my home. My fingertips brushed the rim, and I imagined another woman’s lips touching that same spot. A wave of nausea washed over me. I washed it until it shone, polished so brightly I could almost see my own reflection in it. Then, I found an empty cardboard box. I lined it with soft foam and shredded paper, carefully placing the thoroughly cleansed mug inside before sealing the lid. The shriek of the packing tape was piercing in the quiet kitchen. The next day, while Adrian was at the office, I found an old shipping box of his, one that still had his corporate address on the return label. I mimicked his handwriting, carefully penning the name and address I had long since committed to memory. Chloe Jensen. His “Bunny.” There was no note, no sender’s name on the package. Just a single, impeccably clean mug. When the courier arrived, he glanced at the box. “Fragile?” “Yes, a mug,” I said with a bright, easy smile. “Please be careful with it.” It wasn’t just a mug I was sending away. It was the last, ridiculous, lingering shred of hope I had for him. The next three days passed in unnerving silence. Adrian maintained his routine—leaving early, coming home late, the very picture of a successful, hardworking man. The space between us grew cavernous, filled with a silence so thick it felt hard to breathe. He made a few clumsy attempts at conversation—about our daughter, about the household—all of which I deflected with the shortest possible answers. On the fourth night, he was in the shower. The rhythmic hiss of water filled the house. His phone, left carelessly on the coffee table, lit up. It was an unsaved number, but I recognized the sequence of digits. I’d seen it once, tucked away in a corner of a password-protected photo gallery on his blog. The phone rang a few times, then stopped. A moment later, a text message preview flashed across the screen: I got the mug. What does this mean? Did she find out? I thought we agreed to cool things off… The rest of the message was hidden. My heartbeat was terrifyingly steady. Just as I expected. The water shut off. Adrian emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. He picked up his phone. A single glance at the screen and his entire body went rigid. His head snapped up, his eyes locking on me. They were wide with shock and a panic he couldn’t conceal. I was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a cookbook, my head tilted as if completely absorbed in the profound question of how much wine to use in a coq au vin. His fingers, trembling slightly, unlocked the phone. He frantically deleted the text and the call log. Then he just stood there, frozen, like a machine that had been abruptly unplugged. The air in the living room grew thick, so heavy it could have crushed bone. “Evelyn,” he finally said, his voice raw and tentative. I turned a page, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. “Hmm?” I looked up, my expression one of mild confusion, perfectly conveying the annoyance of being interrupted. “What’s wrong?” He stared at me, his gaze intense, trying to peel back my placid exterior to find the lie beneath. But all he found was a calm so absolute it bordered on numbness. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just a work thing. A complication.” “Oh.” I lowered my gaze back to the page. “You should get some rest.” I knew. This was just the beginning. That mug was a stone dropped into a deep, dark pool, and the ripples were just starting to spread. His panic, and Chloe’s desperate message, proved that their so-called “breakup” was as fragile as a spider’s web. 2 Two days later, on Saturday, Adrian was home, a rare occasion. He was on the living room floor with our daughter, Lily, building a sprawling LEGO city while I prepared a fruit platter in the open-plan kitchen. The doorbell rang. I dried my hands and went to answer it. A courier stood on the doorstep, holding an enormous bouquet of lush, crimson roses. Each blossom was a perfect, velvety red, their arrangement radiating a calculated, dramatic beauty. Tucked among the flowers was a stark, black envelope. “Delivery for Adrian Blackwood,” the courier said. I signed for them and took the heavy bouquet. The color was blinding. He had written in his blog that she loved red roses. They were, in her words, like her “fierce, fearless love.” “Wow! They’re so pretty!” Lily cried, running over. “Did Daddy get those for you, Mommy?” Adrian looked up from his LEGOs. The moment he saw the flowers in my arms, his face changed. He practically lunged across the room, snatching the bouquet from me with such force that a shower of petals rained down on the floor. “Who sent these?” he demanded, his voice tight, a tremor running through it. “A courier dropped them off. They’re for you,” I replied coolly, watching every muscle in his face twitch. He ripped the black card from the bouquet. After a single glance, his face turned ashen. He crushed the card in his fist and forced a stiff, unnatural smile for our daughter. “Lily, sweetie, can you go play in your room for a little bit? Mommy and Daddy need to talk.” Lily’s face fell. She looked from his strained face to my calm one, but she obeyed, shuffling back to her room. The second her door clicked shut, the strained warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a storm of barely contained fury. He lowered his voice to a feral hiss. “Evelyn! This was you, wasn’t it? What the hell did you send her?” I met his blazing eyes, a cold, mocking smile touching my lips. “What did I send her? I simply returned something that was left in my house to its rightful owner. What’s the matter? Was she so moved by your ‘old keepsake’ that she felt compelled to return the favor so quickly?” “You—!” The veins in his temple pulsed. He took a step forward, his hands clenched as if to grab me, but he stopped himself. “Why would you do that? I told you, it’s over between us! This just confuses things! It makes her think—” “Think what?” I let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “That you’re still pining for her? That you sent her a secret message? Adrian, you know it’s not over, and so does she. Otherwise, why would a single mug send her into a tailspin? Why would she send you these… what was it? Fierce, fearless red roses?” I used the exact phrase from his blog. His pupils contracted, his eyes widening as if he were seeing me for the first time. In that gaze, beneath the rage, a new emotion was dawning: pure, unadulterated fear. He was finally realizing that the woman standing before him was no longer the emotional, predictable wife he thought he could placate and control. “Evelyn, we need to talk about this,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to reclaim his authority. His voice was ragged with a desperate, suppressed anxiety. “Talk about what?” I tilted my head, my tone a cruel mix of innocence and malice. “Should we talk about how your relationship was ‘all emotion, no physical contact’? Or about how she’s such a sweet, innocent girl who only wanted you to return to your family? Or perhaps we should talk about how I’m supposed to gratefully accept these flowers, arrange them in a crystal vase, and admire them every day as a monument to your great, tragic love story?” Every word was a shard of ice, expertly aimed to shatter his fragile composure.

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1 At Travis White’s twenty-eighth birthday gala, someone presented him with another woman, right in front of me. In that moment, I shed my years of gentle compliance, shattered my wineglass, and brought his birthday party crashing down around us. Then I packed my bags and walked out of our home, alone. Everyone said the powerless Mrs. White wouldn’t last three days before she came crawling back, tail between her legs. Travis was unconcerned. “She’s an orphan. Without the White family, where could she possibly go?” But countless sets of three days passed. People began to wonder if I had died somewhere, forgotten. That was when Travis finally called. The number was disconnected. Later, at a renowned artist’s gallery opening, a portrait of a woman in profile stopped Travis White in his tracks. He offered a fortune to buy the painting. The artist, Leo Baker, simply smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best portrait I’ve ever painted of my wife. I can’t part with it.” … It was Travis White’s twenty-eighth birthday party. I wore my most exquisite gown, my arm linked through his as we made our grand entrance. The moment we reached the bottom of the staircase, he released me, leaving me standing there as the tide of the party flowed past. Every eye in the room followed Travis. I was forgotten in a corner. Guests presented him with gifts, one after another. He would give a detached nod, signaling for the butler to take them away. This continued until one guest stepped forward with a beautiful young woman. Suddenly, all eyes were on me again. Pity. Amusement. Scorn. I had grown accustomed to the weight of those gazes over the years. Travis’s normally stoic face flickered with a brief, unguarded expression. The woman was a dead ringer for his first love, Lydia, the one he’d lost. “Presenting me with a woman in front of my wife,” Travis said, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “You’ve got some nerve.” The gift-giver chuckled obsequiously. “Mrs. White is a generous woman. I’m sure she won’t mind.” It wasn’t that I wouldn’t mind. It was that they knew I didn’t dare to mind. An orphan raised by the White family fortune—how could I possibly say “no” to its new master? Travis toyed with the wedding band on his finger, his eyes glinting. “Well, since my wife has no objections, take her…” Before he could finish, I strode to his side. I looked at the woman’s face. The man had done his homework; he knew exactly what Travis desired. And in that instant, a profound weariness washed over me, bone-deep and final. I realized I no longer had the strength to play the part of the dignified Mrs. White, to honor the promise I made to his grandmother. With a gentle push, I sent the champagne tower behind me to its doom. The beautiful crystal pyramid swayed, then collapsed with a deafening crash. Glass and champagne sprayed across the marble floor, throwing the elegant party into chaos. “Mrs. White has lost her mind!” someone shrieked. I had ruined Travis’s birthday. He didn’t seem to care. The butler was already escorting the guests out, and the staff was quietly cleaning up the mess. The beautiful woman, however, remained. She stood silently by Travis’s side, her serene demeanor a perfect echo of Lydia’s. The contrast made me look even more unhinged. Travis idly played with the woman’s fingers, his gaze drifting to me. “Why so angry?” he asked, his tone maddeningly casual. “If you don’t want to see her, I’ll have her stay somewhere else. Don’t worry,” he added, “I swore to my grandmother that I would never take away your position as Mrs. White.” The woman beside him chimed in, her voice soft and placating. “Mrs. White, there’s no need to be upset. A man like Mr. White is bound to have more than one woman. I only admire him; I have no intention of threatening your status.” I slipped the ring from my finger and placed it on the table in front of Travis. He raised an eyebrow. “Here’s your ring back.” He plucked the ring from the table, tossing it casually into the air. The diamond caught the light in a brilliant arc before falling back into his palm. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw it to the woman behind him. “It’s yours. A million-dollar ring, and Mrs. White doesn’t want it.” Travis stood, a cold sneer on his face, and addressed the butler. “Find the madam some tutors. Teach her some etiquette. I don’t want to witness such a disgraceful display ever again.” He walked a few steps, then paused and turned back. He pulled his own wedding band from his finger and tossed it onto the floor. It rolled across the marble, coming to a stop at my feet. “If you don’t want the rings, then let’s get rid of them both.” Travis left with the woman. The roar of his car’s engine was sharp and final in the night air. The butler, Mr. Hobbs, sighed beside me. “Madam, why must you provoke him? You know he holds a grudge against you.” I picked up the ring at my feet and dropped it into a nearby trash can. “You should get back to your duties, Mr. Hobbs. You don’t need to worry about me.” He sighed again and left. I went upstairs alone and changed out of the elaborate gown, pulling on a simple white t-shirt. I found my suitcase and methodically packed my half of the closet, the clear line between his clothes and mine making it an easy task. When other couples fought, they had to consider divorce settlements and lawyers. But the connection between Travis and me was so thin, it amounted to nothing more than a pair of matching rings. No one would ever believe that the bride and groom of the city’s most sensational wedding of the century never even signed a marriage license. I still remembered what Travis had said to me on our wedding day. “The only name that belongs on that line next to mine is Lydia’s. Charlotte, you never should have married me.” But what could I do? I married him anyway. I married the man I had loved for seven years, through all my girlhood dreams, believing that one day I could win his heart. Instead, I became the hollow figure everyone knew as Mrs. White, a wife in name only. The mansion was silent as I dragged my suitcase to the door. It felt just like the rainy night his grandmother had first brought me here. A thirteen-year-old Travis had stood on the grand staircase, looking down at me with cold, indifferent eyes. Then he had turned, gone to the kitchen, and returned with a glass of warm milk. I booked a flight. Six hours in the air, three more in a car, and I was back in the small, remote southern town of my childhood. They say the old yearn to return to their roots. But a person with no home yearns for them even more, even if there’s no family left to welcome you. I rented a small cottage with a little yard. The local dialect felt both familiar and foreign. I was young when I left, and my years in Northwood City had scrubbed the accent from my tongue. Fortunately, the man in the cottage next door was an outsider too, though he’d arrived before me. He’d helped me at the market one day when I couldn’t understand the old woman selling vegetables. The next day, I made him a sweet corn cake to thank him. That’s when I learned he was an artist, here to paint the local scenery. He had the easy, vibrant energy of a recent college graduate. Away from the people and pressures of Northwood, in this simple, rustic place, it hit me: I was only twenty-five years old. But living in the White mansion, constantly upholding the posture of “Mrs. White,” had made me feel ancient and weary. I bought flowers from the street and filled my small yard with climbing roses. I put a little rocking chair next to the flowerbed. It was modest, but it was all mine. The gardens at the White estate were filled with yellow roses, Lydia’s favorite. The glass conservatory housed an expensive grand piano that Travis had designed for her. No one was allowed to touch it. His grandmother had once threatened to rip out the roses. Travis had exploded in a rare fit of rage. “If the roses go, I go with them.” No one ever mentioned it again. Lydia and her roses became sacred, untouchable ground. That afternoon, there was a knock on my gate. It was Leo Baker, dressed in a hoodie with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He grinned when he saw me. “Hey, Charlotte! I’m heading up the mountain to paint the sunrise tomorrow. Want to come along? Get some fresh air?” He pointed to the peak rising behind our cottages. I knew the mountain was something of a local landmark, the main draw for tourists. I was tempted. “Don’t worry! I go camping all the time. I’m an expert, it’s totally safe.” His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself nodding. Leo was true to his word. He immediately went back to his cottage and returned with another large pack. He carried both sets of camping gear himself, along with his easel and art supplies. I tried to help, but he flatly refused. “I’m strong. This is nothing.” On the way up the trail, we talked about our pasts and our futures. My past felt dull and predictable, a story that revolved entirely around the White family and Travis, culminating in my empty title as his wife. But Leo was different. He was a wellspring of fresh stories and boundless dreams for the future. “Life is all about the experience, right? My dream right now is to be a famous painter, so I have to give it my all,” he said. “And, between you and me, I kind of ran away from home. So if you wake up one day and my cottage is empty, it probably means my family finally caught me.” I laughed. It turned out we were both fugitives. The only difference was that he had a family who would come looking for him. My disappearance would probably be a cause for celebration for Travis. We reached the summit just as the sun was beginning to set. The warm, golden light bathed everything in an ethereal glow. I looked down at the small town below, nestled in the valley, peaceful and serene under the blanket of light. Leo was already busy setting up the tents. “The sunset is beautiful too,” I said. “Aren’t you going to paint it?” “I prefer the sunrise,” he replied. “Every day is a new beginning. It represents infinite possibility, new life.” I sat on the camp stool he’d set out, watching him work, his words echoing in my mind. A new beginning. Leaving the White estate was the bravest thing I had ever done. But afterward, I had acted like a coward, running back to this remote town and hiding myself away in my little cottage. I hadn’t given a single thought to what came next. Was I just going to wither away here for the rest of my life? I was only twenty-five. My future was still full of infinite possibilities. Leo finished with the tents and handed me some food and water. He plopped down on a mat beside me, hands behind his head, and stared up at the newly-starred sky. “You should try looking at the stars like this, Charlotte. It’s a totally different feeling.” At the White mansion, I was bound by a thousand rules of etiquette. Everything I did had to befit the status of Mrs. White. The phrase I heard most often was, “Madam, you cannot do that.” Lying on the ground to watch the stars was something I had never even considered. Leo didn’t give me time to think about it. He reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled. In a second, I was off the stool and on the mat beside him. “Lie down!” he urged. I let go of my inhibitions and did as he said. Lying on my back, the sky seemed to press down, so close I felt I could reach out and touch the stars. We lay there for hours, talking about everything and nothing. And as we talked, I made a decision. I had to be brave. I had to step out into the world. Running away was just another form of hiding. I needed to meet new people, see the vast world outside my gilded cage, until the day came when I could stand face-to-face with Travis and feel nothing at all. Sometime in the night, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Curled up in a simple tent on a mountainside, I felt more secure than I ever had in my life. When I stumbled out of the tent in the morning, groggy with sleep, Leo was already at his easel, his expression focused and serious. The sun climbed slowly over the horizon, its gentle rays warming my skin. I watched it rise, feeling like I was witnessing my own new beginning. “Charlotte! Don’t move!” Leo’s excited voice startled me. I froze, only able to watch him out of the corner of my eye. He was using me as his model. When he was finished, I rubbed my stiff neck. Being a muse was harder than it looked. “Let me get that for you. A thank you for being my model.” His hands were strong, and his massage was firm. I closed my eyes, melting under his touch. All the way down the mountain, Leo chattered excitedly about the inspiration that had struck him. I’d seen the painting; I thought it was nice, but I couldn’t appreciate the finer points. The moment we got back, he disappeared into his cottage. I turned on the TV. The sudden appearance of Travis’s face on the screen made me jump back. I almost changed the channel, but my hand froze. I was glad for the decision I’d made last night. Travis was a public figure. I couldn’t avoid him forever. He looked the same. During the interview, when asked about the recent rumors of a marital rift, his expression remained cool. “My wife is just throwing a bit of a tantrum. She’ll come back after she’s had her fun.” Everyone envied me. An orphan, taken in by the venerable White family and then married to the heir—I was the luckiest woman alive. Only I knew the truth: to be ignored by everyone, resented by my own husband, to hold the title of Mrs. White but still feel like a piece of driftwood in that house, utterly rootless. Every year, when the yellow roses were in bloom, Travis would have the staff cut them and fill every vase in the mansion. The piano in the conservatory was polished daily. Lydia was dead, but Travis made sure her presence was everywhere, a constant reminder of my place. “We hear the argument between you and Mrs. White was over the new assistant you’ve been seen with?” the reporter pressed. Travis’s brow furrowed in annoyance. He instinctively reached to touch the wedding band on his finger. But there was nothing there. He remembered then. Charlotte had been surprisingly defiant this time. She’d returned his ring and had the audacity to run off. He thought back to the call from Mr. Hobbs, his panicked voice reporting that the madam was gone. When Travis had returned home, he’d found Charlotte’s side of the closet completely empty. Only his suits remained, hanging in the vast, silent space. It was just another one of her tactics, a way to pressure him into getting rid of the woman who looked like Lydia. He knew how much she hated anything related to Lydia, let alone a living replica. But so what? His grandmother was gone. Charlotte had no other family, no one else to depend on. He was all she had. When she was a child, she would always hide when she was upset. His grandmother used to indulge her. He didn’t have the patience for that. Once she’d had a taste of the real world, she’d realize how good she had it at the White estate. She’d come back. “She’s an orphan,” he’d told the butler. “Without the White family, where could she possibly go? No one is to look for her. Just let me know when she returns.” Under Travis’s glare, the interviewer quickly shifted the topic from his personal life to business. Talking about work, Travis visibly relaxed. It seemed the mere mention of his wife was enough to sour his mood. I poured myself a glass of ice water and started writing my resume. This little town was a place for the old to retire, not for the young to find work. I had to leave. I worked until dusk, finally stretching and getting up to make dinner. As I sat down to my simple meal of three dishes and a soup, I wondered if Leo was still working. Did he forget to eat when he was painting, the way Travis did when he was working? When his grandmother was still alive, Travis often worked through meals, getting terrible stomach cramps. After that, whenever I could, I would bring his dinner to the office. At first, his secretary would make me wait outside for an hour or two. But eventually, he got used to it and would let me interrupt him. He’d eat, then go back to work. I sighed, put on a jacket, and knocked on the gate next door. There was no answer. Just as I was about to turn away, the gate swung open. Leo’s annoyed expression immediately brightened into a wide smile when he saw me. “Charlotte! I was just painting you, and then you appeared, like magic.” He was still holding a paintbrush. There were streaks of paint on his clothes and a smudge on his cheek. He looked a mess, but his smile was so dazzling that the paint splatters seemed like charming accessories, making him look even more alive. “Have you eaten? Want to come over for dinner?” At my invitation, he clutched his stomach and let out a dramatic groan. “I’m starving! You’re a lifesaver, Charlotte! Let me just put my brushes away.” Over the next few days, we fell into a comfortable routine. He would come over for dinner every evening, and in return, he’d help with the cleaning, and he took over all the gardening work in my yard. It was nice. I’d never had a younger brother, but I imagined it would be something like this. I sent out my resume and got a few interview requests. On the morning I was set to leave, I went to say goodbye to Leo. When I opened my gate, I saw several black sedans parked in front of his cottage. Men in suits, looking like bodyguards, stood by the cars. I hesitated for a moment before walking over. As I approached, one of the men moved to block my path. “Don’t touch her!” Leo strode out of his cottage. The sunny, cheerful boy was gone, replaced by a man with a cold, serious expression. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into his yard, slamming the gate shut behind us. “Don’t follow me in,” he ordered the men. They exchanged glances but obeyed. “Hey, Charlotte,” he said, his bright smile returning as if by magic. “Did you come to call me for dinner?” “No. I came to say goodbye.” His voice immediately jumped several octaves. “Where are you going?” I told him about the interviews. “This place is wonderful, but like you said on the mountain—every day is a new beginning, full of infinite possibilities. I want a new beginning for myself, a life without regrets.” “So, Charlotte… are you over him?” I looked at him, surprised. He just winked. “Don’t treat me like a kid. An artist’s eye is very sharp.” His directness made me blush. “Yes,” I said softly. “I think I am.” “So where are you going to work?” “Northwood City.” I had considered moving somewhere far away from Travis, but Northwood was the only home I’d known since I was a child. I grew up there, went to school there, my friends were there. Why should I force myself to start over in a strange new city, just because of him? “Then I’ll go with you,” he said. “Perfect timing, since my family found me anyway.” In the end, I hitched a ride with Leo. The nervousness I felt about returning to Northwood, about the possibility of facing Travis again, slowly faded as Leo chattered on and on about his plans for us. Life back in Northwood was surprisingly smooth. The interview went well, and I was told to start the following week. I found an apartment near the office. Two days later, Leo became my next-door neighbor again. I was taking out the trash when I saw movers carrying furniture into the apartment next to mine. I glanced over and saw the tall, lanky figure of Leo Baker, directing the workers. “What are you doing here?” “I was hoping to surprise you, but you caught me,” he said, casually taking the trash bag from my hands. “I missed your cooking, so I decided to be your neighbor again.” I was actually happy to see him. In a strange new place, having him next door made me feel safer. “Well, I’ll make a few special dishes tonight to celebrate your move.” For convenience, we decided on hot pot. The spicy broth bubbled, and Leo fished out a piece of tripe, placing it in my bowl. The first bite set my mouth on fire, and I grabbed my drink, gulping it down. “Oh, you can’t handle spicy food? I heard you loved hot pot, so I assumed…” “It’s fine. It’s just been a while.” How long had it been? I couldn’t even remember. I used to love hot pot more than anything. My grandmother would eat it with me, she’d have the mild broth, and I’d have the spicy. One time, Travis was working late, and the dinner I’d brought him had gone cold. It had started to snow outside, so I suggested we go out to eat. I took him for hot pot. Travis preferred bland food, so I ordered the half-and-half pot. But he frowned through the entire meal. “Don’t eat this again,” he said in the car on the way home. “The smell clings to you.” I never ate spicy hot pot again. It’s strange how, when you avoid something for long enough, even your own body forgets how to handle it. But soon enough, I was sweating and happily devouring my meal, rediscovering the simple joy of it. After dinner, Leo cleared the table, cleaned the kitchen, and opened the windows to air the place out. He took the trash with him when he left. Life in Northwood was calmer than I had expected. The media had forgotten about the long-absent Mrs. White, and no one from the White family came looking for me. My existence was, as always, insignificant. The media was, however, very curious about the new assistant Travis was never seen without. I idly scrolled through the paparazzi photos. It was almost comical. Did Travis truly love Lydia that much? In the photos, he bent down so the woman could adjust his tie. He carefully shielded her head as she got into the car. When it rained, he held the umbrella almost entirely over her. It seemed his love could be so easily transferred to anyone with a similar face. Travis had always been fiercely protective of Lydia’s privacy; no photos of her had ever been leaked. So now, everyone was speculating that I had been completely cast aside. If I were still in the mansion, I would probably be waiting up for a husband who never came home. But now, I was busy preparing presentations, attending meetings, dealing with… “Leo, I told you, you can’t be so clingy!” I pushed his head off my shoulder. He just pushed my laptop away. “You have a handsome man right here in front of you, and you’re staring at some old guy on a screen?” It was the first time I had ever heard anyone call Travis White an “old guy.” The thought of his reaction made me burst out laughing. When I finally caught my breath and looked up, Leo’s expression was serious. “Is he the one? The one who hurt you? Travis White of the White Corporation. I know him.” I looked at him, stunned. I had no memory of ever seeing Leo at the White mansion. “When I was a kid, my mom made me call him Uncle Travis.” “…” I lost it again, collapsing onto the sofa in a fit of laughter. “Hahaha… he’s only four years older than you, and you called him uncle… haha…” Leo pinched my cheek. “He looks old.” Travis had been involved in the family business from a young age, which had always made him seem more mature than his peers. So, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “So,” Leo said, his face suddenly very close to mine. “You’re the missing Mrs. White?” I realized that in my laughter, I had ended up with my head in his lap. I tried to sit up, but for the first time, he didn’t let me. His eyes were fixed on mine, demanding an answer. “Yes.” “So does that make me your boy toy on the side?” The thought made him laugh. I playfully slapped his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous! Besides, I’ve already left the White family. I gave him the ring back.” “Then I’ll get a lawyer. You two can be divorced by tomorrow.” “We don’t need to… we don’t have a marriage license.” I gave a bitter smile. No license, no divorce. The only thing that had ever bound us was a ring. Maybe I had played the part of Mrs. White for so long that even Travis had forgotten we weren’t legally married. “Perfect,” Leo said, his eyes gleaming. “In that case, why don’t you get a marriage license with me?”

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Over Memorial Day weekend, I discovered an old, unfamiliar photo in our attic. It showed a strange boy with his arm around my younger self, both smiling. The back read in faded ink: With cousin Adam, Memorial Day 2010. But I had no memory of any “cousin Adam.” “Mom, who is this?” I asked, bringing the photo downstairs. She glanced at it, frowning. “What do you mean, honey? That’s just a picture of you.” I grabbed it back—the boy had vanished. Stranger still, at dinner that night, my father asked, “When is Dana’s cousin Adam arriving? We should make sure he stays longer this time.” Everyone nodded in agreement, as if this unknown cousin were perfectly familiar. I froze, fork in mid-air. “Cousin Adam?” I repeated, searching my memory and finding nothing. My mother felt my forehead. “Dana, are you feeling okay?” “I… don’t remember a cousin named Adam,” I said carefully. The table went silent. My parents and my aunt exchanged a strange look. “Oh, you,” my aunt chuckled. “What kind of joke is that? Adam practically grew up with you. You two were inseparable, thick as thieves.” “Exactly,” my father added, tapping his bowl with his chopsticks. “He comes to stay for a couple of weeks every summer. Last year he taught you how to make those amazing sweet and sour ribs, remember?” A wave of confusion washed over me. I had no memory of any of this, but they described it all so vividly, as if it were undeniable fact. “I really don’t remember,” I insisted. “So… which side of the family is he from?” Another strange silence descended. “He’s…” my mother started, then paused, her brow knitting in thought. Her voice became uncertain. “He’s from your aunt’s side, isn’t he?” “No, that’s not right,” my aunt immediately countered, waving her hand. “He’s not one of mine. Adam is from your uncle’s family.” “I thought he was your brother’s kid,” my father chimed in, though he didn’t sound sure of himself. “Tall kid, taller than his own dad. Must be six-three, at least.” The three of them looked at each other, the atmosphere growing tense and awkward. “So none of you are sure whose relative he is?” I asked, a sliver of unease creeping up my spine. “We’re just getting old, I guess,” my mother said with a strained laugh, quickly changing the subject. “Right, for the family reunion tomorrow, make sure you get that new dress ready.” After dinner, I went to my room and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my photo library. If Adam was as close to me as they claimed, there had to be pictures of us together. But after searching through years of photos, I found nothing. Not a single image that included anyone who could possibly be “Adam.” I opened my contacts and searched for his name. No results. This was too weird. A cousin who supposedly grew up with me was a complete ghost in both my memory and my digital life. Puzzled, I decided to ask more of the family. I called my cousin on my uncle’s side first. “Dana! What’s up?” she answered cheerfully. I got straight to the point. “Hey, can I ask you about someone? Do you know a cousin named Adam?” “Adam?” she repeated. “Of course, I know Adam. Isn’t he always over at your house?” “Can you tell me whose kid he is?” The line was silent for a few seconds. “He’s…” Her voice suddenly lost its certainty. “Hang on, let me think…” A few more seconds of silence. “That’s so weird, I can’t seem to place him,” she finally said. “But he’s definitely one of ours. Why are you asking all of a sudden?” “No reason, just popped into my head,” I said evasively. “Can you describe what he looks like?” She laughed. “Oh, Adam’s a little butterball! Short, round face, the kind of guy who’s always smiling. Super cheerful!” A chill went down my spine. My father had just described Adam as a tall guy, over six feet. My aunt had described him as a cheerful, short, and stout kid. After hanging up, I called a few more relatives. The answers were all disturbingly similar—everyone “remembered” cousin Adam, but no one could confirm his exact identity. And when it came to his appearance, every single description was different. The next morning, I rummaged through my grandfather’s old study, hoping to find a family tree or some record of a Adam. The heavy, leather-bound book chronicled generations of our family, but after flipping through every page, I found no mention of his name. “Dana, what are you looking for?” My aunt’s voice behind me made me jump. “Just looking at the family tree,” I said, closing the heavy book. “Auntie, do you remember what Adam was like as a kid?” She smiled. “Of course! He was such a little rascal. Always following your dad around, trying to copy everything he did. Never sat still for a second.” “Do you have any pictures of him?” Her smile froze. “Pictures? I… I probably do somewhere…” She pulled out her phone and swiped through it quickly. After a moment, it became clear she wasn’t finding anything. “There are just too many pictures on here,” she said with a weak laugh. “I can’t find one right now.” “Where is he now?” I pressed. “Why haven’t we seen him in so many years?” Her expression grew even more confused. “What are you talking about? We see him all the time. He was just here this past summer, wasn’t he?” “But I have no memory of it,” I insisted. “And I’ve looked through every photo I have. He’s not in a single one.” My aunt was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Dana, have you been working too hard? How could you suddenly forget someone so close to you?” I didn’t say anything else. Clearly, everyone was convinced that cousin Adam existed. I was the only one with no memory of him. That afternoon, the whole family went to the cemetery for our annual visit to the family plot. On the way home, my little niece suddenly piped up, “Mommy, when is Uncle Adam coming? He promised he’d teach me how to make paper airplanes.” My sister stroked her daughter’s head. “Soon, sweetie. He’ll be here in a few days.” “He called me yesterday,” my niece said matter-of-factly. “He said he’s bringing me a present.” My sister and I exchanged a look. Her expression told me she knew nothing about any such phone call. “When did you talk to him?” my sister asked. “Last night, when you and Daddy went out,” my niece replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Uncle Adam said he misses us a lot and he’s coming home soon.” That night, back at the old family house, the place was packed with relatives for the reunion. There were eleven adults and three small children. During dinner, I asked casually, “Does anyone know what Adam is doing for work these days?” My uncle-in-law took a sip of his wine. “Isn’t he a long-haul trucker out west? I heard he was about to finish his training and go independent.” My third uncle looked confused. “No, Adam’s a programmer in the city.” My great-aunt put down her chopsticks. “Eh? I thought he was working in a factory down south.” Everyone looked at each other, bewildered. I pressed my advantage. “Why don’t you just ask him? Someone give him a call.” Everyone pulled out their phones and started scrolling through their contacts. After a moment, a chorus of confused murmurs filled the room. “I know I had his number. I can’t find it.” “Mine’s gone too.” “That’s not right, I’m sure I talked to him just last week…” Eleven relatives, and not a single one had Adam’s phone number. At that point, even the least perceptive person in the room could tell something was deeply wrong. My uncle-in-law put down his glass. “Alright,” he said gravely. “Let’s all sit down and figure this out. Who, exactly, is Adam?” The room fell silent. My great-aunt and my aunt took the three little ones upstairs to bed. The men cleared the dining table and set out eleven cups of tea on the coffee table. Half an hour later, we were all gathered in the living room. My uncle-in-law took a sip of tea, assuming the air of a seasoned expert. “I’ll start. I’m positive about this. Adam is thirty-five, a tall guy, drives a truck. Last year, at the reunion, he was asking me all about the northwestern routes, complaining about the road conditions and how much fuel he was burning.” My third uncle pushed his glasses up his nose, frowning. “That can’t be right. Adam is definitely not thirty yet. He’s a programmer, wears black-framed glasses, very thin. He was complaining to me a few months ago about working too much overtime.” My great-aunt shook her head, her expression certain. “Good heavens, you must have it all wrong. Adam is thirty-two, a line supervisor at an electronics factory in Austin. He’s fair-skinned, a bit chubby, and a real smooth talker.” I silently jotted down the contradictory descriptions, my heart pounding. How could one person have so many different ages, jobs, and appearances? It was my aunt’s turn. She thought for a moment before speaking. “I remember Adam being very shy as a child. He was always quiet, reading a book by himself. Never caused any trouble.” My father immediately objected. “No way! Adam was a little terror as a kid. Always climbing trees and raiding birds’ nests. There wasn’t a place in this town he didn’t get into mischief.” “I remember him being an only child,” my cousin chimed in. My great-uncle waved his hand dismissively. “No, he has a sister.” My third aunt corrected him. “A brother.” The atmosphere grew thicker with strangeness. I looked around the room. Every face was etched with confusion and unease. “Who are his parents?” I asked, hitting the crucial question. “They’re…” my aunt began, then stopped, her brow furrowed. “They’re related to your third aunt.” My third aunt immediately shot back, “No, he’s not from our side of the family.” No one could answer. Eleven relatives stared at each other, the air thick with tension. I broke the silence. “When was the last time you saw Adam, and where?” My father recalled, “It was this past summer. He came over and taught Dana how to make those ribs. We were in the kitchen together all afternoon.” “Impossible,” I countered immediately. “I was in Europe all summer. I wasn’t even home.” My father stared at me, the memory clearly conflicting with the fact. My great-uncle spoke up. “He was at my house last weekend. Fixed my computer. We had a few beers.” I looked at my great-aunt. “Is that right?” She shook her head, confused. “We were at my mother’s all last weekend. We weren’t home.” My great-uncle’s face went pale. “That’s not right… I distinctly remember…” “Let’s try drawing him,” I interrupted. “Everyone, draw the Adam you remember.” Eleven pieces of paper were soon filled with eleven completely different portraits. Some were tall and brawny, others short and wiry. Some wore glasses, one was bald. Some had beards, others were clean-shaven. The drawings had absolutely nothing in common, as if they depicted eleven different men. “This is impossible,” my uncle-in-law muttered, staring at the disparate sketches. “How can we all have completely different memories of the same person?” Suddenly, my great-uncle’s eyes lit up. “I remember! Adam knows magic tricks! Every year at the reunion, he’d always put on a little magic show for everyone.” “Yes! He does do magic!” several people exclaimed in unison. It seemed to be the only detail everyone could agree on. As the eleven of us fell back into a stunned silence, we heard a noise from the staircase. My cousin’s daughter was tiptoeing down the stairs, clutching a bag of chips. My cousin stood up immediately. “Sweetie, I thought you were asleep.” The little girl held up the bag. “Uncle Adam woke me up and gave me some chips. Do you want one, Mommy?” Adam was here? Upstairs? We were all stunned. I looked around at the others. “We need to check on the kids.” My great-aunt and my cousin nodded, quietly following me up the stairs. As we rounded the landing, we could hear laughter coming from the children’s room. We pushed open the door to find two of the children sitting on the floor, playing with toys that didn’t belong to them, toys that shouldn’t have been in this house. “Where’s Adam?” my great-aunt asked, scooping up her grandson. “He went to the bathroom,” the boy said, refusing to let go of his new toy. My cousin and I exchanged a look and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. The door was open. No one was inside. We checked every room upstairs. There was no sign of Adam. The three of us went back downstairs with the children. The other relatives were still in the living room, deep in discussion about Adam. “Did you find him?” my father asked, looking up. My cousin shook her head. “He’s not up there. Just some new toys we’ve never seen before.” It was then that I noticed the cups on the coffee table. I counted them once. Then again. My voice trembled. “There are twelve. There are twelve cups. There are only eleven of us.” Even more unsettling, every cup showed signs of use, including the extra one. I looked at the sofa and saw twelve distinct impressions in the cushions, arranged in a circle, just as we had been sitting. “Was he… was he here with us the whole time?” my aunt whispered, her voice shaking. No one answered, because no one remembered. Panic began to spread. We split up and searched the old house, trying to find any trace of Adam. In the study, we found a book left open, with fresh, unfamiliar handwriting in the margins. In the kitchen, there was a recently washed coffee mug in the sink, but no one in our family drinks coffee. In the backyard, a clear set of footprints led across the lawn to the fence, where they simply stopped. The most chilling discovery came when we returned to the living room. The extra cup was gone. And there were only eleven impressions on the sofa cushions. “What in God’s name is happening?!” my great-uncle cried, on the verge of hysteria. In the thick, fearful silence, there came a soft knock at the front door. “Who is it?!” my third aunt shrieked. A voice answered from outside. “It’s me… Adam.” My uncle-in-law and my great-uncle walked slowly to the door. They exchanged a look, took a deep breath, and each grabbed one of the heavy wooden handles. They pulled the doors open together. There was no one there. “But how…” my great-uncle stammered. “I heard him…” “I heard him too,” my father said, peering out into the darkness. Everyone had heard the knock, and everyone had heard Adam’s voice. But the doorway was empty. My great-uncle shut and bolted the doors, then sank back onto the sofa, running his hands through his hair. In the eerie quiet, more memories of Adam began to surface. “Oh my God,” my aunt whispered. “One time, I woke up in the middle of the night, and Adam was standing by my bed. Just… watching me. When I asked what he was doing, he said he just wanted to make sure we all still remembered him. I nearly had a heart attack!” “I’ve had experiences like that too,” my great-uncle said, his voice low. “Sometimes I can feel him right behind me, feel his breath on my neck, but when I turn around, there’s nothing there.” My third uncle was trembling. “Last year he gave me a clock,” he said, speaking quickly. “It keeps strange time. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it even runs backward.” “The book he gave me,” my father added. “The words change. Every time I open it, the story is different.” As the night deepened, so did the fear. No one dared to be alone. We huddled together in the living room with every light in the house turned on. The only ones unaffected were the children. They played with the toys Adam had brought, occasionally talking to the empty air as if he were right there beside them. We decided to stay awake until morning and then go to the police together. No one slept. We took turns keeping watch, making sure everyone was accounted for. Every gust of wind that rattled a window sent a jolt of terror through the room. Trips to the bathroom were made in pairs. It was the longest night of our lives. Just as the first light of dawn broke, we began to gather our things, ready to leave. And then, the doorbell rang again. Everyone froze.

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My brother gave me away to Michael Moy, a titan of the city’s elite. By day, I was his pet snake. By night, I would crawl into his bed and desperately siphon the vitality he radiated, all to fuel my transformation. It was then that I started seeing the comments. Text, floating in my vision. [Where is this pathetic snake even coiling? Does she have any idea what she’s doing? Move over, I’ll show you how it’s done.] [It’s fine. The male lead gives her to the female lead at her birthday party anyway. The nasty snake gets dropped and dies by accident. Serves her right.] [And her brother tries to get revenge on the female lead, but the male lead just has him barbecued and feeds him to the dogs.] A shudder of pure terror made my body constrict. On the bed, the sleeping Michael Moy let out a sudden, muffled groan. 1. After my brother, Silas, successfully took human form, he brought me—still a simple snake—to the heart of the city. “I’ve found you a man with pure life force, a perfect vessel,” he told me. “Stick with him for a while, and I guarantee you’ll have your human form in no time.” “Once you’ve transformed,” he added, “sneak out during the night. I’ll be waiting for you at the gates of his estate.” And just like that, I was gifted to Michael Moy. The problem was, he was almost never home. I had to wait for the housekeeper to be distracted before I could slip out of my enclosure. I’d slither into his walk-in closet and absorb the lingering traces of his vitality from his clothes. But most of them were laundered, the potent energy washed out until only a faint whisper remained. It was barely enough to be considered a snack, leaving me feeling hollow and unsatisfied. A week later, I’d drained nearly every garment in his closet dry. I managed to shed my skin once—a meager step forward. To achieve human form, I needed to shed my skin a hundred times over. Just as I was sinking into despair, Michael Moy returned. He wore a tailored suit that sharpened the already severe lines of his face, giving him an aura of untouchable authority. An invisible wall of ice seemed to emanate from him, warning everyone to keep their distance. But to me? He was a walking feast. His entire being radiated a raw, intoxicating vitality that made my mouth water. His cold gaze fell upon me. His brow furrowed slightly as he spoke to a nearby maid, his voice a blade of ice. “Is this snake an idiot? It’s drooling.” I wasn’t even listening. I was completely captivated. I flicked my tongue out in a gesture of what I hoped was charming subservience. He barely glanced at me before striding away to his study. 2. His time at home was precious. I couldn’t afford to waste a single opportunity. The moment the housekeeper’s back was turned, I expertly slipped out of my glass tank. I followed the magnetic pull of Michael’s life force to the door of his study. He was at his desk, engrossed in his work, completely oblivious to my presence. His discarded suit jacket lay on the floor. I darted towards it, greedily drinking in the energy clinging to the fabric. An unwashed garment, fresh off his body, was a hundred times more potent than the sterile clothes in his closet. His scent filled my senses, a heady mix of expensive cologne and pure, masculine warmth. I was so overwhelmed with pleasure that I began to roll around on the jacket. Suddenly, the jacket was yanked away. Michael was staring down at me, his expression unreadable. “How did you get out?” I coiled into a tight, small ball, tucking my head beneath my body in a futile attempt to become invisible. He watched me with the kind of look one gives a particularly stupid animal, then pinched me between two fingers and lifted me from the floor. As he carried me back downstairs to my tank, the warmth of his skin against mine was electrifying. I took the chance to draw in as much of his energy as I could, gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls. When he placed me back inside the glass enclosure, I couldn’t resist a final, lingering lick of his fingers. Michael stared at the spot I had touched. His brow furrowed in disgust as he pulled a silk pocket square from his jacket and meticulously wiped his hand clean. I was so infuriated by the gesture that I spun around in my tank three times. What was that supposed to mean? Was I… repulsive to him? 3. Late that night, I escaped again and slithered into Michael’s bedroom. To my surprise, he was still awake, shrugging off his shirt to reveal a landscape of hard, sculpted muscle. I froze in the doorway, a wave of heat washing over me. The primal urge to surge forward, to wrap myself around him and drink my fill, was nearly overwhelming. But I restrained myself. For the long game, for a steady supply of his vitality, I had to be patient. He padded toward the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, I scurried into the room, making a beeline for his discarded underwear. The energy here was explosive, several times more powerful than his suit jacket. I lost myself in it, drunk on the sheer potency, completely forgetting that I was supposed to be hiding. “What are you doing?!” I snapped back to reality and looked up. Michael was standing there, fresh from the shower, his voice a cocktail of shock and fury. Panicked, I clamped his underwear on my head and made a run for it. He chased right after me, relentless. The fabric blinded me, and I slammed headfirst into a wall, dazed and confused. He snatched his underwear back and held me up. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking into my room to steal my briefs?” I went limp, playing dead. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Dead? Perfect. I could use a little midnight snack. Ever tried grilled snake?” I immediately sprang back to life, flicking my tongue at him twice and nudging my head against his hand in a plea for forgiveness. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before another, softer laugh escaped him. “I haven’t given you a name yet, have I? How about… Cleo?” As he spoke, he carried me back to my tank, this time placing a heavy vase on the lid to seal my fate. Before he left, he leaned down. “Be a good girl, Cleo. Stay put.” 4. Michael stayed home for a single day before leaving on another business trip. This time, he was gone for a month. In that month, I managed to shed my skin four times. By the time he returned, I was starving, desperate for another taste of his vitality. The moment he walked through the door, I threw all caution to the wind and launched myself at him. He froze for a fraction of a second, stunned. It was all the time I needed. I had already coiled around his ankle, my body a living vine scaling his leg, frantically absorbing his energy. His entire body went rigid. When he finally snapped out of his shock, he pried me off his leg, his voice tight with annoyance. “Cleo! What has gotten into you?!” Ignoring him, I used the momentum to wrap myself around his wrist, my tongue darting out to lick the back of his hand. His jaw tightened. The housekeeper rushed over, gently but firmly removing me from his arm and placing me back in my tank. The brief contact had restored some of my strength, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. Even with the heavy vase weighing down the lid, I rammed my head against it again and again until it shifted, creating a gap just wide enough for me to squeeze through. After a moment’s rest, I made a beeline for his room. He was soaking in the bathtub, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Emboldened, I crept closer to the hand he had draped over the edge of the tub. His fingers were long and elegant, the knuckles well-defined. Tentatively, I licked one. No reaction. I coiled around his finger and began to climb his arm. Still nothing. I pressed on, slithering up to his shoulder. The steam rising from the hot water was uncomfortable, a suffocating blanket of heat, but the prize was too close to abandon. I navigated the column of his neck, my gaze fixed on his lips. That intoxicating heat flared inside me again. I began to lick them, a frantic, desperate tasting. I no longer cared if he woke up. The simple touch wasn’t enough. I wanted to bite him. After a moment of deliberation, I did. I sank my fangs into his lower lip. Michael’s eyes fluttered open. He captured my head in his hand, his gaze hazy with sleep. “Licking is one thing,” he murmured, his voice thick and drowsy, “but biting? That’s new.” I saw the two tiny red dots on his lip and felt a strange pang of guilt. It wasn’t my fault he was so delicious. “You little deviant,” he scolded softly. “Aren’t you afraid of being boiled alive in here just for a taste?” I nudged his hand with my head. He watched me for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Wrap around my hand.” Michael rose from the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist, and carried me downstairs. Back in the tank I went. This time, I didn’t fight it. I was full, content, and I drifted into a deep, satisfying sleep. 5. Michael was gone for another month. But that last encounter had been so potent that I shed my skin a full fourteen times while he was away. When he returned, I was so deep in slumber I didn’t even notice him approach my tank. He tapped on the glass, jolting me from a pleasant dream. I blinked my eyes open, disoriented. He reached in and lifted me out. “What’s this?” he asked, a note of displeasure in his voice. “Forgotten all about me after just a month? Last time you practically threw yourself at me. Now you can’t even be bothered to wake up.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Instinct took over. I wrapped myself around his wrist and began to lap at the back of his hand. He stroked my head with his other hand. “Did you miss me this month?” I ignored the question, focusing on the slow, steady intake of his intoxicating energy. He carried me upstairs with him, but paused at the bathroom door, placing me on the bed. “You are not allowed in here,” he warned, his voice firm. “That water will cook you alive. You wait here, understand?” I nodded my head fearfully. But the moment he stepped inside, I followed him, peeking my head around the doorframe. He turned and fixed me with a stern look. “Cleo. Out.” I pretended to retreat, then waited a moment before poking my head back through the gap. Michael tilted his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I knew you’d try again.” Feeling guilty, I withdrew and slithered back to the bed. When he emerged from the bathroom, he lay down beside me. I immediately crawled onto the hard plane of his abdomen. He closed his eyes, allowing me to lick the taut skin. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a raw, husky whisper. “Cleo… a little lower.” I obeyed, moving downward. I coiled around him. The fire inside me roared to life. 6. Michael’s frantic schedule seemed to ease. He started coming home every night, sometimes even working from the mansion during the day. After that first night, I shed ten skins in a single day. So it became our routine. Every night, after he fell asleep, I would slip into his room, crawl onto his bed, and drink my fill of his vitality. Until the day the comments appeared again. [Is this not supposed to be a PG story? Where the hell did this scene come from?] [A snake… oh god, I can’t handle this!] [When did the male lead develop this… particular fetish?!] [Suddenly I want to buy a snake.] [I can’t watch anymore. Thank god he gives her to the female lead at the birthday party. The evil snake gets dropped and dies. Finally.] [And her brother comes for revenge, only to be grilled by the male lead and fed to the dogs.] My body tightened involuntarily. The sleeping Michael let out a sharp hiss of breath. I froze, terrified. But he seemed to settle again, his breathing evening out, though a flush had crept up his cheeks. I started to pull away, my mind still reeling from the prophetic text. Suddenly, Michael’s eyes opened. He looked straight at me. “Why’d you stop?” The thought of him giving me away, of him cooking my brother, erased every other thought from my mind. In a surge of pure fury, I lunged forward and bit his finger. He hissed in pain but didn’t shake me off. Instead, his voice was surprisingly gentle. “Who upset you?” He stroked my head with his thumb. “Let go when you’re tired of biting, Cleo.” And I was tired. I released his finger. According to my count, I only needed to shed my skin about twenty more times to achieve my human form. The comments said the female lead’s birthday was in two days. If I could complete my transformation in that time, I could escape. I wouldn’t be given away. My brother wouldn’t be harmed. Fueled by a new, desperate anger, I slithered back to my original position and coiled around him once more. Michael just smiled and settled back against the pillows. 7. The next day, the doorbell rang. A young woman with her hair in a messy bun bounced into the house. She linked her arm through Michael’s, her voice a sugary pout. “Uncle Michael, my birthday is coming up! What are you getting me?” Michael’s eyes never left the document in his hand. “You’ll find out when the time comes.” She beamed. “Your gift is always the one I look forward to the most.” He finally set the file aside and offered her a faint smile. “Lily, if you have nothing better to do, you should probably head home. I’m quite busy.” I watched them from my tank, my head raised. Lily just huffed playfully and began to wander around the room. Her gaze landed on me. “Uncle, what a beautiful snake! Is she my birthday present?” Michael walked over, moving her hand away from my enclosure. His voice was cold. “No.” [He’s such a terrible liar. This was obviously the gift he got for her.] [He probably wanted it to be a surprise, and now that she’s found out, he’s playing coy.] [It fits his character perfectly. He’s cold and aloof on the outside, but madly in love on the inside.] [Totally. He tells her to go home, but he’s secretly thrilled she’s here.] [And when she actually leaves, he’ll be miserable. I live for this trope.] So this was her. The one who would kill me. I stared at her, my gaze hardening. Murderer. Lily frowned, clearly annoyed. “Can I at least pet her?” “No,” Michael said flatly. “She bites.” She crossed her arms. “Well, if you don’t let me, I’m just going to stay here all day!” Michael’s brow twitched in irritation. After a moment’s thought, he reached into the tank and lifted me out. There was no way I was letting my killer touch me. I shot up Michael’s arm and burrowed under his shirt. His muscles clenched. He reached into his shirt, pulled me out, and carried me back to his room. He tapped my head lightly. “Next time, you are not to crawl into my clothes in front of other people. Understood?” He then added, “And you are not to crawl into anyone else’s clothes but mine. Ever. Got it?” I went limp, playing dead. Sorry, no speak English. He scooped me up. “Cleo, if you don’t behave, you won’t be sleeping with me tonight.” But I needed to shed my skin, and time was running out. I instantly perked up, nudging his hand affectionately. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s more like it.” A knock came from the bedroom door. It was Lily. “Uncle Michael? Are you okay in there? That snake is so disobedient. Maybe you should just get rid of it.” Michael, still holding me, opened the door. “Are you ready to leave now? Or should I call your father to come pick you up?” Lily glared at him, then spun on her heel and stormed out. [Classic male lead. Pushing away the woman he loves. He’s going to spend ages trying to win her back after this.] [It’s okay, he’ll show up at her birthday party with the snake as a peace offering.] 8. That night, I resumed my usual position, coiled around him. The silence of the room amplified every sound, every shift, every soft breath. Michael’s voice was a low growl in the darkness. “Tighter, Cleo.” I constricted, my cool body slowly heating until it felt like I was burning from the inside out. It was a strange agony, both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. Two hours later, I couldn’t take the intensity anymore. I uncoiled and slithered away, collapsing in a corner of the room. I felt like I was melting. My skin began to peel away, layer after layer. I don’t know when he moved, but suddenly Michael was there, crouching in front of me. He reached out a hand, his touch gentle. “Cleo, why are you so hot?” He watched me, his thumb stroking my new skin. “Shedding again,” he murmured. “It seems you’re getting close.” He placed me back in my tank. I fell into a hazy, disoriented sleep. When I awoke, I felt… different. Bigger. I pushed my way out of the tank. And there they were. Four limbs. After another period of strange, rapid metamorphosis, I was finally, fully human. I stumbled to a full-length mirror and stared at the reflection. A woman with pale, delicate skin stared back, though patches of iridescent blue scales still clung to her body like jewels. 9. As I was examining my new form, I heard footsteps from upstairs. Panicked, I shifted back into my snake form and scrambled into the glass tank just as Michael appeared. He walked over to the tank and reached inside, stroking my body. “Your fever’s gone down.” He lifted me out and carried me toward the bedroom. He placed me on his abdomen and rested his hand over me. I waited until his breathing was deep and even, then carefully wriggled free and made my way to the window. It was only then that I realized it was shut. Taking a deep breath, I transformed back into a human. As my fingers touched the latch, a cold voice sliced through the silence from behind me. “And where do you think you’re going, Cleo?”

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