Author: Momo Chan

The Vance family’s generosity was the only reason I was standing on the manicured lawns of Atherton University instead of waiting tables back home. My scholarship, their name on the letterhead. I felt a profound sense of obligation, a debt that couldn’t be repaid with a simple thank-you note. I had to find their son, Caleb Vance, and thank him in person. I found him holding court by the basketball courts, the afternoon sun glinting off his perfect teeth. He was surrounded by a crew of guys who all looked like they’d stepped out of a cologne ad. Unsure which one was him, I approached the group cautiously. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice smaller than I’d intended. “I’m looking for Caleb Vance.” A wave of smirks went through the circle. “Another one, Cal,” someone drawled. “You’re in demand.” A guy in a crisp white jersey, lazily spinning a basketball on his finger, finally turned his attention to me. “What’s your business with him?” “I’m… I’m a scholarship student. The Vance family is my sponsor,” I explained, the words feeling clumsy as their eyes scanned me from head to toe. I suddenly felt hyper-aware of my secondhand clothes, the worn fabric of my jeans. “Without them, I couldn’t be here. I just wanted to thank him.” The guy in white—Caleb, I presumed—didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on my faded jeans for a moment too long, a flicker of something dismissive in his eyes. “I’m not him,” he said flatly. He jerked his chin toward a figure sitting alone on the bleachers, away from the group. “That’s Caleb Vance.” I turned. The man he pointed to was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of quiet intensity that seemed to repel the boisterous energy of the others. His dark hair fell over a pair of cool, distant eyes. A thin, white scar cut from his jawline down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. He looked… dangerous. Not at all what I had pictured. Still, this was my benefactor. I walked over and gave a small, respectful bow. “Thank you,” I said earnestly. “For everything your family has done for me. If there is ever anything I can do to repay your kindness, please, don’t hesitate to ask.” Behind me, the group of guys erupted into laughter. I flushed, confused. Had I said something wrong? “What’s your name?” the man—”Caleb”—asked. His voice was a low rumble. “Ava. Ava Monroe.” “And you want to repay this debt?” “Yes. Absolutely.” “Alright,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Give me your number.” The laughter from the court instantly died. Everyone fell silent. The real Caleb narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing, man?” “Just in case I need her,” the scarred man replied without looking up. “Whatever, dude.” Caleb shrugged and jogged onto the court. A moment later, a basketball came flying directly at my head. I was still typing my number into the phone and didn’t see it coming. There was no time to react. Suddenly, a strong arm yanked me backward, pulling me flush against a hard chest. The man who called himself Caleb raised his other arm, and the ball slammed into his forearm with a sickening thud. The real Caleb froze, his face paling. “Julian… man, you okay?” “I’m fine,” the man—Julian—said, his voice tight. He shook his arm out. “Watch your aim.” “My bad, my bad,” Caleb said, then he glared at me. “And you, didn’t you see it coming? Learn to duck.” “Excuse me?” I bristled, stepping out from behind Julian. “You’re blaming me for your terrible throw? How about you learn some accountability?” Caleb stared, clearly shocked that I’d talked back. Beside me, I heard Julian let out a low, muffled chuckle. But when I glanced up at him, his face was as cold and unreadable as before. The sound must have been my imagination. “Are you sure you don’t need to see the nurse?” I asked him, concerned. “I’m fine.” He rotated his arm to prove it. “Thank you,” I said, my gratitude deepening. “Your parents gave me an education, and now you’ve saved me from a concussion. I’m even more in your debt.” From the court, the real Caleb let out a derisive snort. What a jerk. After confirming Julian was really okay, I left. But I didn’t go far. I went to the campus store and bought a bottle of water, planning to bring it back as a small gesture. I took a shortcut and came up behind the bleachers, where I could hear them talking before they could see me. “Why’d you lie to her, Caleb?” someone asked. Caleb, the real Caleb, answered with a bored sigh as he bounced the ball. “It’s a hassle. If she knew who I was, she’d be latching on, trying to ‘repay’ me 24/7. It’s exhausting.” I froze, hidden behind the metal frame. “But Julian’s different,” Caleb continued, a cruel amusement in his tone. “He’s intense. He scares everyone. She’ll be so intimidated, she’ll be gone within three days.” The group laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “I’ve seen her type a million times,” Caleb said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Poor, calculating. She says ‘thank you,’ but she means ‘how can I sleep my way into your bank account?’ Pathetic. Not my scene.” He paused, and his next words felt like a slap. “Ava Monroe, right? I remember the name. My dad transferred an extra grand to my account before the semester started, told me to add it to her meal card. I never did.” “Why not?” “Campus food is already dirt cheap. If you can’t even afford that, what are you doing at Atherton?” Caleb said with a shrug. “Besides, the money’s gone. I used it for that tasting menu at The Laurel last night.” “Hell yeah, thanks for that, man!” “All good,” Caleb said. He sank a three-pointer with effortless grace. “And she wears that mask all the time. Bet she’s hiding a face only a mother could love.” I unconsciously touched the surgical mask I was wearing. The truth was, I’d had an allergic reaction to the city’s pollen, and my face was covered in a rash. “Caleb’s the pickiest bastard I know,” one of his friends chimed in. “That’s why he’s still single. No one’s good enough for him.” Caleb just laughed, then turned to the silent man on the bleachers. “Sorry to dump that on you, Julian. Feel free to delete her number right now. Get her off your hands.” The man who had saved me, the one I thought was my benefactor, finally spoke. His voice was quiet but carried an undeniable weight. “I don’t find it a hassle.” Back in my dorm, a quick search on the university’s student portal confirmed everything. The arrogant jerk was Caleb Vance. His friend, the one with the scar, was Julian Croft. “Ava, how do you know Julian Croft?” my roommate, Chloe, asked, her eyes wide with alarm when I mentioned his name. “What’s wrong with him?” “He’s… intense,” she said, lowering her voice. “The Crofts are one of the most powerful families in the state. Rumor is they have ties to… well, everything. People say Julian put a guy in the hospital last year. He’s the one person on this campus you do not want to cross.” My blood ran cold. Maybe I should just delete his number and disappear. Just as the thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. Julian Croft: We need to talk. Dinner tonight. I wanted to say no. I wanted to block him. But then I remembered the solid feel of his arm shielding me, the deafening impact of the basketball. He had protected me. The least I could do was hear him out. I had no idea what I was walking into. The first words out of his mouth when we sat down at a quiet off-campus diner were not what I expected. “First,” he said, his voice as cool and crisp as a mountain stream, “I need to apologize. I’m not Caleb Vance.” He met my gaze directly, and the intensity I saw there made it hard to breathe. “I thought it was better to clear this up in person. My name is Julian Croft. The guy in the white jersey today, that was Caleb.” I tucked my chin down. “I… I know.” “When did you find out?” he asked, one eyebrow raising slightly. It felt like an interrogation. How could one person command so much presence without even trying? “I asked Chloe when I got back to the dorm. She showed me a picture.” “Are you afraid of me?” Yes, who wouldn’t be? I thought, but I didn’t dare say it aloud. “You weren’t so timid when you were telling Caleb off today,” he observed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Was he here to punish me on Caleb’s behalf? I immediately panicked. “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again!” “That’s… not what I meant,” Julian said, looking slightly frustrated. He reached for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket, glanced at me, and then shoved them back into his pocket. “Look, my advice is to forget about Caleb. The people who sponsored you were his parents. If you feel a sense of gratitude, direct it toward them.” “I understand,” I mumbled, focusing on pushing my food around my plate. The scar on his jaw seemed more pronounced in the diner’s low light. It was intimidating. After a long silence, he said my name. “Ava.” I jumped. “Yes!” “If you’re so scared of me, why did you agree to come tonight?” He had me there. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small box. “I almost forgot. This is for you. It’s a muscle relief balm. And… thank you, for today.” He took the box, looking surprised. “For me?” “Yes.” “That’s thoughtful.” I took a deep breath. “If there’s nothing else, I should probably get going…” “I’m not finished.” “Oh. Okay.” “I saved you today,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Doesn’t that mean you owe me a debt, too?” “Y-yes, of course. What can I do?” Julian leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Go out with me.” The walk back to my dorm was a blur. It felt like I was floating in a dream. Julian was a campus legend, and walking beside me, he drew stares from everyone we passed. I became an object of intense curiosity. When we reached my building, I turned to him, my posture stiff. “Well, I’m heading up.” I started to turn away, desperate to escape into the safety of the dorm. “That’s it?” Julian’s voice stopped me. “Not how a girlfriend is supposed to act.” My head whipped around, and I frantically scanned the area. Thankfully, no one was around to hear him. Yes. I had said yes. I’m still not entirely sure why. Maybe it was the startling sincerity in his eyes when he asked. Maybe it was because I genuinely wanted to thank him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a way to prove to myself, and to the ghost of Caleb’s cruel words, that I had no intention of seducing anyone. Whatever the reason, the word had just… fallen out of my mouth. “How am I supposed to act?” I whispered, my cheeks burning. “I’ve never… done this before.” He took a step closer and tapped his cheek. “Kiss me goodnight.” I froze. “No? Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “My turn, then.” Before I could process what he meant, he closed the distance between us, tilted his head, and pressed his lips to mine. My brain short-circuited. My lips were sealed shut, my body rigid with shock. But he wasn’t demanding. He simply moved his mouth against mine, a soft, exploratory pressure, as if savoring a dessert. It was surprisingly gentle. After a few moments, my knees started to feel weak. When he finally pulled back, I heard him let out a soft, satisfied sigh. “Been wanting to do that,” he murmured. “…What?” “Nothing.” He reached up and gently wiped a trace of moisture from my bottom lip with his thumb. The simple, intimate gesture scrambled my thoughts completely. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Next time, Ava,” he whispered, “open your mouth.” Julian, it turned out, moved at his own pace. Every day, a “good morning” text, a “good night” call. He’d let me know where he was going, as if I were already an integral part of his life. But he never pushed for more. I appreciated the rhythm, the space he gave me. He was probably just amusing himself, I thought. When he got bored, he’d dump me, and my debt would be paid. Simple. Except it wasn’t. He deposited ten thousand dollars onto my meal card. Ten thousand dollars. For cafeteria food. The number was so absurd it didn’t feel real. I was so confused. Who was repaying whom here? I never sought out Caleb again. I decided I would repay his parents directly, once I had a job and my own money. A month passed. The rhythm of university life became familiar. Just before the fall break, the Fashion Design department put out a call for models for a small student showcase. The rumor was that the catering was amazing, so Chloe and I went to the tryouts on a whim. It was simple enough. Put on the student-designed dresses, let them see how they looked. My rash had finally cleared up, and Chloe had worked some magic with a little makeup. I stepped out from behind the screen in a simple, elegant evening gown and saw him immediately. Caleb Vance. He was sitting on a table, tossing a basketball against the wall. “Wow, that dress looks incredible on you!” one of the senior students exclaimed. Her voice made Caleb turn his head. He stopped bouncing the ball. He just stared. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his verdict. Caleb had secured the funding for the show, so his word was law. And his standards were notoriously high; he’d rejected every girl who had tried out that morning. He stared for so long the basketball rolled off his lap and across the floor, unnoticed. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked abruptly. “That’s none of your business.” “It is if I want to ask you out,” he said with a charming, confident smile. The words hung in the suddenly silent room. I just looked at him like he was an idiot. “You don’t even know my name.” “A name’s not important. The feeling is.” “And yet,” I said, my voice level, “my name is Ava Monroe.” His smile froze, cracking at the edges. “…What did you say your name was?” “Ava Monroe,” I repeated, tapping my temple. “About a month ago, you almost sent me to the ER with that basketball. Don’t you remember?” His face went from confusion to dawning horror. A forced, awkward laugh escaped him. “Oh. Right. It’s you.” “It’s me.” “The sun was in my eyes that day,” he stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I was in a bad mood. I’m sorry.” I ignored him. He was in full damage-control mode now. “Seeing you in that dress… you look incredible. It would be an honor to have you model for us.” “I haven’t agreed to anything.” “Is it the time commitment? The show is on a weekend, it won’t conflict with your classes.” “It’s not about the time,” I said, turning back toward the dressing room. “It’s about the fact that I don’t want to.” I changed back into my own clothes and handed the gown back to the stunned senior. Caleb looked completely thrown. “Wait, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m the real Caleb Vance.” He actually pulled out his student ID to show me, as if that would change anything. “The guy you met that day was my friend. He can be… intense. If he scared you, I apologize on his behalf. I’m the one you were looking for.” He really thought that flashing his name, his status, would make me melt. He was wrong. “I know who you are,” I said calmly. “Tell me, Caleb. How was the food at The Laurel?” His expression soured. “What are you talking about? If you want to go, I can take you.” “I’m not interested. I’m just curious. A ten-thousand-dollar dinner for you and your friends… must have been delicious, right?” “Did Julian tell you that?” “No,” I said, meeting his panicked gaze. “I heard it myself.” I told him then. That I had come back to the court. That I had heard every single word he’d said about me. I repeated them for him, one by one. “Poor.” He winced. “Calculating.” His jaw tightened. “A face only a mother could love.” The blood drained from his face. “I didn’t know you then,” he pleaded. “It was wrong of me to judge you like that. It won’t happen again.” “No,” I said. “It won’t.” I grabbed Chloe’s arm and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. The next day, twenty thousand dollars appeared on my meal card—more than his parents’ original scholarship stipend. I had the university finance office reverse the transaction immediately. He somehow got my number and started flooding me with texts and showing up wherever I was on campus. I ignored him completely. But Caleb didn’t give up. That weekend, I was working my shift at The Alibi, a popular off-campus bar that a lot of students frequented. My manager approached me. “Hey Ava, a fruit platter for the VIP room. Can you take it in?” “That’s not my section,” I said. “I know, but they asked for you by name. Must be some of your friends.” I didn’t think much of it and pushed through the door to the private room. It was packed with about a dozen people, men and women. And right in the center, a smug-looking Caleb Vance. He was looking right at me, a lazy smile playing on his lips. If I didn’t know what a shallow person he was, I might have found him handsome. “Everyone,” he announced, “this is Ava Monroe.” Because of his very public, very one-sided pursuit, my name was now campus gossip. A chorus of knowing “ooohs” went through the room. I said nothing, my eyes scanning the smoky haze until they landed on a figure in the corner. Julian. I don’t know when it happened, but things with Julian had deepened. He wasn’t the terrifying figure from the rumors. Our conversations had evolved from stilted and awkward to easy and open. We could talk about anything. He knew I hated being the center of attention, so our dates were always somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes. We held hands. We kissed. He loved kissing me, long, slow kisses that left me breathless. But that was as far as it went. I was a slow burn, and he was a gentleman. The moment he sensed me pull back, he would stop. He never once made me feel less than because of where I came from. He treated me with a respect I’d never known. It was impossible not to develop feelings for a man like that. And there he was, sitting in the corner. A cigarette was burning between his fingers, but the second I walked in, he stubbed it out. “Ava,” Caleb called out. “I’ve already cleared it with your manager. You’re off the clock. Hang out with us, you’ll still get paid.” “I’d rather work,” I said flatly, setting the platter down and turning to leave. Just then, my phone rang. It was my manager. “Ava, just hang out with them for a bit. It’s part of the job tonight. Caleb’s dad is one of our biggest investors. Don’t piss him off.” Trapped, I slumped into an empty seat. It was a Caleb-curated crowd, all from the same silver-spoon background. They talked about Aston Martins and buying investment properties in London. It was a language I didn’t speak. At one point, someone turned to me. “What do you think of the new Aston Martin, Ava?” “I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “I don’t really follow celebrities.” The table went dead silent. “It’s a car,” a girl finally said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “You’ve never heard of Aston Martin?” The silence that followed was even more mortifying. Julian’s low voice cut through the tension. “It’s normal not to know if you’re not into cars.” The girl wasn’t done. “So what do you drive, Ava?” “She doesn’t,” someone else chimed in. “She’s the scholarship kid Caleb’s parents are sponsoring.” The atmosphere shifted instantly. The looks they gave me were a mixture of pity and suspicion. Now I understood why Caleb’s first assumption was that I was trying to seduce him. In their world, it was the only logical conclusion. I felt like an insect under a microscope. I reached for my glass of water, but a hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Hey, Ava,” the guy said, his eyes wide. “That bracelet you’re wearing… isn’t it the same as Julian’s?” He pushed up my sleeve, revealing the simple, beaded bracelet Julian had given me weeks ago. “Whoa, it is! It’s identical!” “Let me see, Julian!” Someone grabbed Julian’s arm and held it up to the light. His bracelet was the same, just with slightly larger beads. The soft, dark wood gleamed under the track lighting. “They’re a matching set,” someone whispered. The air in the room became thick and heavy. Caleb wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold, fixed on our wrists. “A matching set?” he said slowly, his gaze shifting from me to Julian. “What’s the story, man?” Julian said nothing. His silence was an answer in itself. The pressure was suffocating. “I just bought it at a street market,” I blurted out. “It’s just a coincidence.” “Really?” “Yeah, they’re everywhere.” You could feel the collective sigh of relief in the room. Caleb’s smile returned, and he started pouring drinks, trying to force the mood back to what it was. But Julian’s face was unreadable. He looked down, his expression hidden in the shadows. Oh, God. He was angry. The noise in the VIP room was giving me a headache. I mumbled an excuse about the restroom and slipped out into the concrete stairwell for some air. I’d only been sitting on the steps for a minute when Julian followed me out. Before he could say a word, I surrendered. “I can explain! I didn’t deny it because I don’t like you, I denied it because of what I told you before. I hate being talked about. You’re a big deal on campus, Julian. If people knew we were together, it would be a thousand times worse than it already is.” It was the truth. Ever since Caleb had made a public spectacle of “chasing” me, my life had become a fishbowl. Professors would call my name in lecture halls and a wave of whispers would follow. People took pictures of me in the library. I hated it. Julian was silent for a long time. The stairwell was even darker than the lounge, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel a coldness radiating from him. “All those words,” he said finally, his voice flat. “But what it boils down to is, you don’t have feelings for me.” “No, that’s not it at all!” “It’s been a month, Ava. If you haven’t been moved by now, you never will be.” I didn’t know what to say. “A month,” he said quietly. “That was the deadline I gave myself. You’re free.” “Wait… are you breaking up with me?” “Yeah.” He turned to go. I don’t know what came over me, but I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed his arm, stood on my toes, and pressed my mouth to his.

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I flew halfway across the world for her. A red-eye from Paris, straight into the buzzing chaos of the national dance finals in New York, all to see Seraphina win. I was running on fumes, but the thought of her smile was better than any caffeine. Then I heard the interviewer’s voice boom through the auditorium. “Sera, we’re all dying to know,” the bubbly host said, holding up a phone, “who is ‘Maybach Moneybags’ in your contacts?” A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. On the giant screen above the stage, Seraphina offered a practiced, delicate shrug. “Oh, him?” she said, her voice light as air. “Just… an admirer.” In the shadows of the back row, the brand-new, custom Chanel box slipped from my grasp. It hit the floor with a soft, sickening thud. My car is a Maybach. And I’m the one who provides the “moneybags.” … I bent down, my hands trembling slightly as I retrieved the box, carefully brushing a speck of dust from its glossy surface. Another question echoed from the stage. “The word is, Seraphina, that your boyfriend is absolutely devoted to you. He’s often seen dropping off gifts, even meals, in a Maybach.” Seraphina’s smile was flawless, but her answer was a masterpiece of evasion. “My career has to be my focus right now,” she demurred. “Besides, I don’t think showering a girl with expensive gifts is truly a sign of love. A true connection is about a meeting of the minds, a spiritual bond.” In the roaring auditorium, I heard a distinct, quiet crack. It might have been my heart. Five years together, and I had been reduced to a nickname in her phone, a label. Seraphina was a star, the kind of beautiful that commanded attention the moment she entered a room. Smart, a gifted dancer, with a voice that could charm anyone. Whenever I was stressed out from a business deal gone wrong, she’d perform an impromptu dance for me, right there on the street, drawing a small crowd of mesmerized onlookers snapping pictures with their phones. She’d caused a major stir her senior year at Juilliard. A prestigious dance company had offered her a spot, a dream for most, but she’d turned it down to pursue a master’s fellowship instead. She’d laughed, her face bright with ambition. “A job can wait. This time, right now, is for my art.” I had to admit, she was strategic. In the three years of her master’s program, she’d not only swept every major award in the contemporary dance world but also fielded offers from half a dozen elite companies. Everyone called her an “angel born to dance.” Compared to her, I was painfully ordinary. My grades had been average. I had no artistic talent to speak of. The only thing I had going for me was a relentless work ethic and a decent head for business. In college, while others were studying, I was hustling—hawking water bottles at campus games, roses on Valentine’s Day, ridiculously overpriced apples wrapped in cellophane at Christmas. So, when graduation came, I didn’t follow her to grad school. I went to build my empire. I remember buying my first car that year, a beat-up secondhand Volkswagen. I drove it to pick her up from her dorm, but she stopped me at the main gate of the campus. “You can just drop me here,” she’d said, avoiding my eyes. “You should head back.” I was confused. I watched as other, sleeker cars drove past us onto the manicured grounds. “Is it the car?” I asked, the question tasting like ash in my mouth. “Are you embarrassed?” She’d pouted, her lower lip pushing out in that way I found irresistible. “Don’t be silly. I just don’t want people to think I’m getting special treatment.” There were other times, too. I’d buy coffee or snacks for her roommates, trying to be the good boyfriend, but she’d always intercept me. “I’ll take them up, it’s fine! I’d hate for them to get jealous of me having such a wonderful boyfriend,” she’d say, and the meeting would never happen. Until today. She knew I was in Paris closing a deal. She must have felt safe, posting that Instagram story yesterday: “Finals tomorrow! So nervous. Wonder who will be there to cheer me on?” It was paired with the official competition poster, complete with the time and address. A clear invitation. The interview on stage was causing a sensation. Seraphina glowed under the spotlights, a celestial body I was suddenly realizing I could never truly reach. I was about to slip away unnoticed when I bumped squarely into someone. A man in a sharp suit and designer glasses, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “Well, well,” he said, loudly enough for those around us to hear. “If it isn’t Seraphina’s number one benefactor.” The chatter around me died. As if on cue, a spotlight swiveled and landed directly on me. On stage, Seraphina’s eyes widened. I saw a flicker of panic on the Jumbotron, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by her signature, dazzling smile. “Leo! Oh my god!” she exclaimed into the mic. “Weren’t you just in Paris yesterday? Did you come all this way just to see me compete?” That look of innocent, joyful surprise. It could melt any man’s heart. For a moment, it worked. The anger, the humiliation, it all just evaporated. I found myself smiling back. “Of course,” I said, my voice smoother than I felt. “I came back just for you.” It was a flimsy lie, but after years in the business world, you learn one thing: never show your hand until the final card is played. And if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t just habit. It was because, despite everything, I loved her. I wanted to give her a chance to make this right. Seraphina’s smile was warm, enchanting. “Everyone,” she announced to the auditorium, “I’d like you to meet a very dear friend and supporter of mine, the founder of the Pinnacle Group, Leo Pierce.” Chapter 2 A dear friend. That’s all. The words echoed in my head, and the anger and hurt I’d just suppressed came rushing back. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Every eye in the section seemed to drift down to the Chanel box in my hand, and I could see the dawning comprehension on their faces. So, he’s the one. The man in the suit, Julian, broke the tension. “Nice bag,” he sneered, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Must have set you back a pretty penny. Hope you didn’t have to take out a loan for it.” I just stared at him. A loan for a handbag? That was a new one. Before I could formulate a response, Seraphina cut in, her tone playfully scolding. “Julian, stop it,” she said. “Just because you landed that internship at Goldman Sachs doesn’t mean you’re the only one who understands finance.” They bantered like that, oblivious to the hundreds of people watching them, a private joke playing out on a public stage. Julian pushed his glasses up his nose, a smug, indulgent smile on his face. He looked every bit the polished, Ivy League intellectual. Julian. I’d seen the name before. On her Instagram. A photo of his back, with the caption: Hate how smart he is, always making me look bad. 😉 She’d complained to me about him, too. Some finance guy at school who was annoyingly brilliant and could sing like a professional, always stealing her thunder. The complaint was couched in annoyance, but the subtext was sparkling with something else. The host, sensing the awkwardness, tried to recover. “Mr. Pierce came thousands of miles to witness Seraphina’s triumph!” he announced. “Let’s get him up on stage to present his gift to our star in person! What do you say, folks?” A wave of applause and cheers washed over the hall. Seraphina’s face fell. I saw it clearly on the screen. “That’s not necessary,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. The host froze. Quickly, she offered an out. “We’re all going for a celebratory dinner later.” A dinner. Not a date. A bitter laugh escaped me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly lost. Suddenly, there was a commotion. Julian, with surprising athleticism, vaulted from the front row onto the stage. He snatched the microphone from the host’s hand and turned to Seraphina. “I know you don’t care for extravagant, material things,” he declared, his voice ringing with sincerity. “So, to celebrate your victory, I wanted to give you something from the heart. A song.” A blush crept up Seraphina’s neck. She was half-delighted, half-embarrassed. “Right now?” she whispered. He nodded. “Well… okay. Go on, I’m listening.” Seraphina was right. The guy could sing. He had the kind of voice that wins reality shows, smooth and full of emotion. On stage, they were a perfect picture: the handsome troubadour and the graceful ballerina. He sang, and she began to move, an improvised dance that was fluid and breathtaking. They were perfectly in sync, two artists weaving a spell that captivated the entire audience. The song ended. The applause was deafening. And I, standing under my solitary spotlight, began to laugh. A hollow, ugly sound. On the Jumbotron, my cynical smile was stark and jarring for everyone to see. Chapter 3 Julian looked at me, a wounded expression on his face. “Does Mr. Pierce feel my gift is inferior to a Chanel bag?” he asked, his voice laced with false humility. The unspoken accusation hung in the air: All you have is your money. Seraphina shot me a look from the stage. It was a clear, undisguised warning. Don’t you dare say a word. But I hadn’t said anything. You can be greedy, you can be vain, you can even be unfaithful. But you can’t be blind. You can’t lack basic judgment. I held her gaze for a long moment, then, just as the spotlight on me finally faded, I turned and walked out of the auditorium. Seraphina was right about one thing. People need a spiritual connection, not just a pile of money. And, I had to admit, I did love money. I’d fought tooth and nail for every penny. For years, I’d worked day and night, tackling impossible projects, building the Pinnacle Group from nothing into one of the city’s leading investment firms. I had a sharp eye for opportunity; I wanted to invest in everything, to win every deal. I bought prime real estate, drove luxury cars, wore designer clothes. This dance competition was the first investment I’d ever made without calculating the return. I’d poured a small fortune into sponsoring the event, making quiet arrangements with the organizers to ensure Seraphina was crowned the winner. The plan was for her to then become the official brand ambassador for Pinnacle. We wouldn’t just be a couple; we’d be partners. Our lives, even more intertwined. I thought she was the one pure thing in my life, a refreshing stream in my world of crass commerce. In high school, my grandparents passed away. My parents had been out of the picture for years. I was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. But orphans have to eat, too. So I started working, juggling classes and odd jobs. In that gray, washed-out world, Seraphina was the only splash of color. She’d secretly slip her breakfast into my desk, then deny it with a proud toss of her head if I caught her. She’d round up her friends to buy water from me at the track meets, flowers on Valentine’s, apples at Christmas. When kids whispered that I was the charity case whose parents had abandoned him, she’d just catch my eye from across the cafeteria, sipping her soda, and give me a small, conspiratorial smile. It was a silent, powerful comfort. No one had ever protected me, ever truly loved me. She was the first person to offer me any kind of warmth. That’s why I worked so hard, fought so fiercely. All I wanted was to give her the world, to protect her, to love her. I hadn’t even reached the parking garage when I heard a peal of giggles. “Wow, so this is a Maybach,” a girl’s voice said. “It’s so insane. I’ve never even been in one.” Another voice, dripping with disdain, replied, “Please. When Sera’s sugar daddy gets here, just ask him for a joyride.” I had a sinking feeling they were talking about me. Sure enough, I rounded the corner to see a group of long-legged dancers, two of whom I recognized as Seraphina’s roommates, huddled around my car. They saw me approach and didn’t even flinch. Instead, one of them raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Hey, you,” she said. “Take us for a spin, get us each a little something from Dior, and we’ll put in a good word for you with Sera. What do you say?” Her friend chimed in. “And just some friendly advice? That singer on stage? He’s a finance prodigy. Your stock is dropping, fast.” If my life were a play, I would have paid to watch it from the audience, just to understand how I had become so pathetic that my girlfriend’s roommates thought they could use her as a bargaining chip to control me. I remembered all the times Sera told me her roommates were “difficult,” and how I’d constantly buy them makeup and gift cards, just so they’d be nice to her. Right then, I wished they were a pack of street thugs instead of a gaggle of aspiring ballerinas. At least then I could have thrown a punch. But I couldn’t. I had to choose my words carefully, lest they twist them into some social media horror story. As they spoke, one of the girls brazenly tried the passenger door handle. To my surprise, it clicked open. She was about to slide in when a hand shot out and blocked her way. “Hold on,” a crisp, unfamiliar voice said. “I believe this vehicle is under a rental agreement. With me.” I looked up, stunned, into a clear, intelligent face I’d never seen before. She was about Seraphina’s age, dressed in a large, stylish overcoat that hid her figure, but on her feet were a pair of limited-edition designer heels. The dancers stared, confused, before one of them scoffed. “Whatever. Broke loser, pretending to be rich,” she muttered, and the group sauntered away. The strange girl opened the passenger door, slid in, and buckled her seatbelt with an air of familiarity. “Get in,” she said. The Maybach’s engine purred to life, the sound echoing through the concrete garage. A minute later, we were cruising down the avenue. “Sorry about that,” she said politely. “You looked like you were in a tight spot, so I improvised. Don’t worry, this isn’t some elaborate scam. You can just drop me at the nearest subway station.” I managed a small smile. The first real one of the night. A girl wearing thousand-dollar shoes was probably the one doing the scamming, not the other way around. Following her directions, I pulled over to the curb. “How are you getting home?” I asked. She grinned. “On the multi-billion-dollar MTA transit system. The 1 train awaits.” I laughed. It felt good. “Thank you,” I said again, genuinely. She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.” With that, she hopped out and disappeared down the subway entrance. It wasn’t until I was pulling back into traffic that her words from the garage fully registered. The way she’d said my name. No one in the business world called me Leo Pierce with that wry, almost playful tone. It was as if she knew me from another lifetime. A lifetime before the Maybach and the Pinnacle Group.

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Five years of marriage, undone by a fleck of paint. On the eve of our fifth anniversary, I took the portrait Isabella had painted of me to a conservator’s studio for routine maintenance. The specialist, a woman with eyes that missed nothing, was effusive in her praise. “She’s captured you perfectly,” she said, her voice echoing in the sterile white room. “Your wife has a tremendous gift.” Then, her practiced eye caught it. A tiny, almost imperceptible chip of crimson pigment flaking away at the canvas’s edge. She leaned closer, her breath misting the varnish. “Wait,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “There’s a ghost under this canvas. Another painting.” With my permission, she subjected the piece to a specialized imaging process. What emerged from beneath my own staid, formal portrait was a revelation—an incandescent depiction of a reclining man, beautiful and raw. The studio fell silent. Even to my untrained eye, the power of the hidden piece was undeniable. It wasn’t just a painting; it was an act of worship. Every brushstroke hummed with a fierce, frantic passion, the kind of creative ecstasy an artist finds only once or twice in a lifetime. A shame, then, that this naked, saint-like figure was not me. I snapped a photo and sent it to Isabella. Who is he?! 1 “Come home, Alex. I’ll explain everything.” Her text was a cold stone in my gut. I drove back in a daze, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks. In our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed we shared, my eyes fixed on the stark white rectangle on the wall where the painting had hung. Five years. For five years, the naked form of another man had watched over us in our most intimate space. And Isabella had put him there. The front door opened and closed, followed by the hurried click of her heels on the hardwood floor. She appeared in the doorway, her usual composure slightly frayed. “Alex,” she began, her voice tight. “I should have told you sooner.” She walked toward me, her hands clasped. “It’s a common practice for art students, recycling canvases to save money. That was just a practice piece from my academy days. It was thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry.” Did all art students paint their fiancés over their naked lovers? The question burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it. Seeing the storm still in my eyes, she knelt before me, her movements fluid and practiced. She cupped my face in her hands, her touch cool, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm I suddenly found toxic. “What we have now… it’s for the best.” Her gaze was so sincere, so convincing. I almost believed her. I didn’t want to tear our life apart over a ghost on a canvas, so I said nothing. But the next day, the unease was a physical sickness. Our marriage had been a merger, a union of the Sterling and Grant families. I knew the broad strokes of her past: a brilliant painter who’d traded her brushes for boardrooms to take over Sterling Corp. After our wedding, she had been a devoted, loving wife. I had never felt the need to dig deeper. Until now. That painting wasn’t a student’s exercise; it was a confession. I forwarded the photo to a friend from my college days, now a curator who’d attended the same art academy. The reply came back almost instantly. “Yeah, I remember him. A life model named Julian Vance.” A breath I didn’t realize I was holding escaped me. Just a model. But then, a second text arrived. “Look, since you’re asking… he was also her boyfriend back then.” The world went white. Isabella. My wife. Had hung a naked portrait of her ex-boyfriend in our bedroom for five years. I couldn’t hear the sound of my own ragged breathing. I mechanically ended the call, my fingers trembling as I texted her. 【Come home. We need to talk.】 When I arrived, the housekeeper handed me a courier box. “It was addressed with the madam’s phone number, so I signed for it,” she explained. “But the name on the label is strange. It says, ‘Belle.’” Belle. Her artist name from the academy. A name I’d never heard her use. A secret self. They were still in contact. I held my breath and opened Pandora’s box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a whisper of lace and silk—lingerie so outrageously provocative it felt like a scream in my hands. I pictured Isabella, my elegant, poised wife… and a surge of rage so profound it left me dizzy. 2 My fingers flew across my phone’s keyboard, searching for a private investigator. I needed to know everything. “You want me to tail Mrs. Sterling-Grant?” The P.I. on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “Son, the Stirlings are untouchable.” He paused. “But the Grants aren’t small fry either. I’ll give you an address, on the house. Consider it a professional courtesy.” He knew. Even this stranger knew. My first instinct was to throw the lingerie in her face. But I knew her. She would have a thousand perfectly plausible, cuttingly rational explanations. I had to see for myself. I had just disposed of the box when she walked in, her face a mask of concern. “Alex, what is it? You look pale.” I turned my back, busying myself at the wet bar so she couldn’t see the fury in my eyes. “It’s handled.” She visibly relaxed. “The housekeeper mentioned a strange package?” My grip on the crystal tumbler tightened. “Addressed to a ‘Belle.’ Never heard of her. Must have been a mistake. I threw it out.” A flicker of panic crossed her face before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile. “That’s fine.” That night, she slid into bed and wrapped her arms around me from behind, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Her breathing grew shallow, urgent. But my eyes were fixed on that blank space on the wall, my mind flashing with images: the painted saint, the life model, the black lace. “I’m tired,” I said, my voice flat. She froze. The warmth of her body receded as she pulled her hand away and rolled onto her side, her back a rigid wall between us. After a long silence, she spoke to the darkness. “I have a business trip tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a week.” “Okay.” The next day, I drove to the address. It was a cobblestone alley in a gentrifying part of the city. I asked an elderly woman tending to her window box for directions. She scowled. “Oh, them,” she said, her voice thick with disapproval. “That artist pair. Have that little gallery, but they never sell a thing. Always all over each other, kissing and cuddling right on the street before they disappear into the back. Shameless.” My feet felt like lead as I walked deeper into the alley. And then I saw her. Isabella. Sitting under a willow tree, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear. Her hair was down, unbound from its usual perfect chignon. She wore a loose, paint-splattered men’s shirt, the top two buttons undone. This wasn’t Isabella, the CEO. This was Belle, the artist. As I watched, frozen, a man emerged from the shop. 3 I recognized him instantly. Julian Vance. He wore a similar white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles of his chest visible through the thin cotton. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I could see the blush spread across her cheeks even from a distance. She laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years, and threw herself into his arms. She was electric, alive, a stray dog finding its master. As she buried her face in his neck, the collar of his shirt slipped, revealing a tell-tale sliver of black lace. He swept her up into his arms and carried her inside. The world tilted on its axis. I don’t know how long I stood there, rooted to the spot. When my limbs finally obeyed me again, I found myself inside the gallery. The walls were a shrine to him. Julian, everywhere. She had painted an entire gallery for him. In every portrait, he was adored, immortalized. Compared to this, my own portrait felt like a soulless corporate headshot. A pathetic joke. I moved toward the back. It was a live-work space. The living area was littered with their life—Polaroids taped to the walls, each with a handwritten caption. “He called after his car accident, a broken leg. But the night-blooming cereus was about to open. A once-a-year miracle. She missed his call.” “Our anniversary. She said she hates performing love. She ran away to me.” Before the tears could fall, I heard it. From the bedroom. The rhythmic, guttural sounds of passion. So this was her arrangement. The poised CEO by day, the debauched artist by night. I leaned against the wall, my body weak, my heart a trapped bird beating against my ribs. Pain, then rage, then a bitter, corrosive sense of injustice. I wanted to storm in there, to rip him away from her, to scream why? But what then? In a pause between their cries, I heard their voices. “Alex found the portrait,” Julian said. “Oh? He must hate me now,” she replied, her voice breathy. “I made something up. He’ll probably buy it. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll turn a blind eye. That’s our relationship. It’s a business deal. Honestly, sending him that painting was a childish act of spite… but when he found out, I can’t deny there was a little thrill of revenge.” She was wrong. I did love her. I did care. And you can’t turn a blind eye when a knife is being twisted in your heart. In that moment, whatever love I had for her died in that hallway. Julian sighed. “If it weren’t for me, maybe you could have accepted him. You wouldn’t be in so much pain.” “He’s a good man, Julian,” she murmured. “But I need… a release valve.” A good man. I laughed silently, bitterly. You cowardly, greedy woman, Isabella. You didn’t have the courage to defy your mother, so you took your anger out on me. I left and drove straight to the private estate where her mother was convalescing. “Your daughter is having an affair,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “You forced her into this.” She didn’t pause in her pruning of a prize-winning rose bush. She didn’t seem surprised. “It’s not an affair, Alex. It’s an arrangement,” she said coolly. “It was her condition for agreeing to the merger. That man is tucked away in his little shop. He doesn’t affect you. When Isabella is under pressure, she needs an… outlet. He absorbs some of that for you.” She finally turned, her eyes like chips of ice. “The company is at a critical juncture. Do not distract her. Do not bother her with this. Our families rise and fall together. And as the adopted son of the Grant family, your primary duty is gratitude. Let this go. I won’t tell her you came to see me.” An adopted son. A fool to be played with. I clenched my fists, then forced a calm I didn’t feel. “I understand, Mrs. Sterling.” 4 The moment I left, I called my sister, Cate. “Can you come home?” “What, did the old man finally decide he wants me to inherit his crumbling empire?” she shot back. “Tell him I’m doing better on my own.” A pause. “Wait. Your voice… have you been crying?” Cate had been the family rebel, escaping to Europe as a teenager. She hadn’t even come home for my wedding. My father, in a fit of rage, had disowned her. To the world, Catherine Grant was a ghost. “I’m being played, Cate.” “I’m on the next flight,” she said, her voice turning to steel. “Tell me what you need.” A week later, Isabella returned, flushed and almost giddy. “I have someone for you to meet,” she announced. “Now, promise me you won’t get angry.” Before I could respond, Julian Vance strolled into our living room, a smug, knowing smile playing on his lips. The audacity. Before I could explode, Isabella guided me to the sofa and knelt before me. “I know what you must think because of the painting. But this is purely business. I brought him here to help us secure funding from Cygnus Ventures. His sister knows their mysterious majority shareholder.” It was all my plan, of course. The mysterious shareholder was Cate. I just hadn’t anticipated this. “You’ve been in contact with him?” I asked, playing my part. Her excuse was ready. “A chance encounter on my trip. Cygnus is planning a major art exhibition, and they’re looking to invest in a promising firm. He told me all about it.” Julian stepped forward, oozing false sincerity. “Alex, for an artist, nudity is just form and shadow. When I posed for her, it was no different than a plaster cast. Please don’t let that old painting jeopardize Isabella’s work.” A plaster cast. I thought of the sounds from the back room of his shop. Isabella squeezed my hand, her face a mask of corporate focus. “There’s one more thing. I need him to stay here. In the guest room. This project is too sensitive. I can’t risk any leaks.” Her gaze was as sincere as ever. You must be exhausted, Isabella, after all these years of acting. “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “The business comes first.” They exchanged a look of triumphant relief. I swallowed the bitterness. In the days that followed, I became a ghost in my own home. A shared glance over the dinner table, a brush of fingers in the hallway… I saw it all. You must be finding this difficult, holding back, Isabella. Don’t worry. I’m about to give you everything you want. 5 I told her I had to stay overnight in the city for a client dinner. From my car, I pulled up the feed from the camera I’d installed in our bedroom. Isabella was lying in bed alone. After a few minutes, the door opened. It was Julian. He wrapped his arms around her, and she responded passionately. Then, as if remembering something, she went rigid and gently pushed him away. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “It’s my anniversary with Alex.” Julian pulled her back. “And what about him?” Isabella hesitated, her voice suddenly small and lost. “I… I don’t know.” A month later, the night of the exhibition arrived. Cygnus Ventures’ mysterious shareholder was set to announce which firm would receive their massive capital injection. In the preceding weeks, Isabella had gone on a ruthless acquisition spree. The media, fed a steady stream of leaks, was certain that with Julian’s connection, Sterling Corp was a lock. Even her mother had come out of retirement for the event. “This is how it should be,” she’d told me earlier. “Composed. Understanding the bigger picture.” All I saw was a woman gambling her family’s legacy to give her lover legitimacy. The gallery was buzzing. Isabella and Julian were the center of attention, accepting premature congratulations. No one seemed to remember the quiet husband nursing a scotch in the corner. “With Mr. Vance at your side, you’re unstoppable, Isabella!” “I remember at the academy, she only had eyes for him. A love story for the ages!” Julian just smiled and nodded, basking in the unearned glory. Feigning drunkenness, I stumbled toward them, spilling my drink all over his pristine shirt. Isabella’s face hardened. She grabbed my wrist. “Alex, stop it. This is just business.” You’re the one who thought this farce was real. I snatched the champagne flute from her other hand and was about to down it when strong arms encircled me, taking the glass away. I finally let myself break. The tears streamed down my face. “What took you so long?” I choked out.

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1 On the day of what was meant to be my eighteenth birthday party—but was really Chloe’s—my father came home with a dress box from a Fifth Avenue boutique. Inside was a cascade of silk and seed pearls. Chloe, my adopted sister, rushed to him, linking her arm through his with the easy ownership she’d cultivated over a decade. “Daddy, you shouldn’t have,” she purred. “But I’m so glad you did.” My brother, Ethan, followed her, a warm smile gracing his lips. “Good choice, Dad. It’ll look stunning on her.” I instinctively took a step back, my fingers smoothing over the faded fabric of my worn-out blouse. A thing of such beauty was never meant for me. In this house, I was a ghost, a reminder of a tragedy they had all decided was my fault. But this time, my father’s eyes found mine. He gestured for me to come forward and placed the heavy, luxurious box into my hands. “It’s for Elara.” The air in the grand foyer crackled with a sudden, sharp tension. Chloe’s smile froze, cracking at the edges. Ethan’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward, ready to champion her cause. “Dad, it’s Chloe’s birthday too!” he protested, snatching the box from my grasp. He glared at me, his voice laced with the familiar contempt I’d grown up with. “Someone like her has no right to wear something this beautiful.” The fragile flicker of hope that had ignited in my chest was instantly extinguished. But my father, for the first time in ten years, ignored them. He took the box back from Ethan and pressed it firmly into my hands again, his gaze unreadable. “We have guests arriving soon. Go get ready. I want you to look presentable.” Ethan let out a sound of disgust, a short, sharp tsk. He turned his back on me, wrapping a comforting arm around Chloe’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. “He just bought you that sapphire necklace, remember? Put it on. Let everyone see who the real Sterling family daughter is.” He shot me one last, cold look before leading Chloe away. Ethan was my brother. We’d shared a womb, a childhood, a mother. He knew better than anyone who the real daughter was. But the day the ocean took our mother, it took my family, too. In their eyes, I was no longer a daughter or a sister. I was the sin they couldn’t wash away. I took a deep breath and, against my better judgment, I put on the dress. When I emerged, the house was already filled with people. They were Chloe’s friends, mostly—a flock of girls who knew which way the social winds blew. Whenever they visited, Chloe would introduce me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, that’s just Elara. She helps around the house.” My father and brother had given her the confidence to transform from the timid orphan she once was into the reigning princess of our home. One of the girls, a blonde named Tiffany, spotted me and smirked. “Chloe, you’re a saint. Dressing the help better than some of the guests.” “Aren’t you afraid she’ll outshine you?” another chimed in. Chloe’s eyes narrowed as she looked me over. Before she could speak, Ethan stepped in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Putting a designer dress on a nobody doesn’t change who she is. It takes more than that to have class.” The group laughed. Tiffany, sensing an opportunity for sport, sauntered over and nudged my foot with the pointed toe of her designer heel. “Hey, you. Get me a glass of champagne.” For ten years, since I lost my mother, I had lost the will to fight. I’d absorbed their cruelty, their neglect, their endless slights, believing it was my penance. But the weight of the silk, the shimmer of the pearls… it had woken something in me. A foolish, dangerous spark of defiance. I shook my head. “I’m not the maid. You can get it yourself.” A flash of anger crossed her face. She spun around to Chloe. “Can you believe the nerve? If she worked for my family, she’d be fired on the spot!” Before Chloe could reply, my father called her over. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment, and when she returned, her expression had shifted into one of magnanimous pity. “I’ve always thought of Elara as a sister,” she announced to her friends. “Please, don’t tease her.” A short while later, my father stood on the makeshift stage in the ballroom, a microphone in his hand. He began his speech with a tribute to my mother, his voice thick with practiced grief. Then, he turned his attention to Chloe. “We have cherished Chloe, my son and I, raised her as our own precious girl,” he said, his voice resonating through the speakers. “Today she turns eighteen. I wish her a life filled with joy and peace.” An ache bloomed in my chest. Since Mom was gone, no one had wished me joy. My life had become an endless act of atonement. Then, my father’s gaze fell on me. His eyes held a strange mixture of hesitation and something else… something I couldn’t decipher. My heart hammered against my ribs. I clutched the silk of the dress, my knuckles white. He raised his hand, pointing directly at me. The spotlight operator, following his gesture, swung a bright, searing beam onto me, blinding me for a second. And then he spoke, his voice cold and clear, for everyone to hear. “The maid. Who gave you permission to steal my daughter’s dress?” The world stopped. A wave of whispers washed over the room. Tiffany let out a snort of laughter, clapping Chloe on the shoulder. “I knew it! No wonder she had such an attitude. A common thief.” A chill, colder than any ocean wave, seeped into my bones. This wasn’t a peace offering. It was a public execution. Ethan appeared at my side, his breath a cold whisper in my ear. “This is for Mom,” he hissed. “You don’t deserve to live, let alone be loved.” 2 My mind snapped back a decade. The sun, the sand, the salt-laced air. Our first and only family trip to the coast. My father, Richard, had Ethan perched on his shoulders. My mother, Eleanor, held my hand, her grip warm and firm. “Stay out of the water, my love,” she’d warned gently. “The tide is strong today.” I’d nodded obediently, content to build a sandcastle at the edge of the surf. But as a wave rushed in, I felt it—a sharp, deliberate shove from behind. I tumbled into the churning water, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater, crying out in panic. My mother heard me. She ran into the waves without a second’s thought, her only goal to reach me. She pushed my small, sputtering body towards the shore, into Ethan’s waiting arms. Then the big one came. A wall of green and white that rose up and crashed down, swallowing her whole. My father searched for her like a madman, screaming her name until his voice was raw, until the sun had sunk below the horizon and the sky was bruised with twilight. The lifeguards who finally arrived told him what he already knew. Just beyond the breakers was a treacherous rocky cliff face. She was gone. He cried all night. The next day, he was a different man. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a permanent winter. He forbade me from calling him “Dad.” Ethan, traumatized, fell into a fever that lasted three days. He called for Mom in his delirium, and my father sat by his bed, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. When he looked at me, standing in the doorway chewing on my fingernails, his grief curdled into rage. “Your mother told you to stay out of the water! Why didn’t you listen?” he roared. “You killed the only person I ever loved. You are not my daughter anymore!” I sobbed, clinging to his legs, trying to explain that I was pushed. But when he demanded to know who, the words died in my throat. I hadn’t seen them. I didn’t know. That was the day my father gave up on me completely. He never held me again. When Ethan recovered, the first thing he did was convince our father to take him to an orphanage. He personally selected a girl who shared our birthday. He brought Chloe home. They poured all their broken, misdirected love into her. And I, who had once been the center of their world, became the family servant. I woke before dawn to make breakfast, meticulously preparing the seafood risotto Chloe favored. My father drove her to her private academy in his Mercedes. I walked the three miles to the public school, rain or shine. Whenever tears threatened to fall, I would pull out the worn photograph of my mother I kept hidden in my pocket. Her last words to me, screamed over the roar of the ocean, were, “Live, Elara. Just live.” For her, I had endured. I had made it to eighteen. I was almost free. But my father’s words now were a blade twisting in my heart. Mom, I don’t think I can keep my promise much longer. Ethan grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and yanked me to the floor. “Stop playing dead. That dress costs a fortune. How do you plan on paying for it?” Chloe drifted over, her expression a perfect mask of sorrow. “Elara, I thought of you as family. How could you disappoint me like this?” It took a moment for my voice to work. “It’s not your dress, Chloe,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on the man on the stage. “He… my father… he gave it to me.” A murmur rippled through the guests at my use of the word “father.” “I didn’t know Richard Sterling had another daughter.” “Look at her… she has Eleanor’s eyes. A spitting image of his late wife.” The whispers grew louder. My father descended the stairs, his face a thundercloud. He stalked towards me, grabbed my chin, and forced me to look at him. “I told you never to call me that,” he snarled. “You are not worthy.” The crowd gasped. He straightened up, addressing the room. “She was my daughter,” he announced, his voice booming with authority. “But the day her carelessness killed my wife, I swore I would never acknowledge her again.” Chloe’s friends stared at me with newfound disgust. “You’re the reason Mrs. Sterling is dead?” one of them whispered. “You’re a monster.” Looking at the cold stranger who was once my father, the tears I had held back for a decade finally broke free. “She wasn’t killed by me! I was pushed—!” The sharp crack of his hand across my face silenced me. The world tilted, my cheek screaming in pain. “You do not speak her name!” he bellowed, his carefully constructed facade of a grieving, gentle widower shattered. It was the first time he had ever hit me in front of anyone. He turned away from my crumpled form on the floor, his voice regaining its composure. “From now on, she is simply the help. Anyone here… feel free to make use of her.” 3 He returned to the stage and announced, “Let the party begin.” Chloe, surrounded by her court, glided to the head table, pausing to look down at me. “Well, you heard him, Elara,” she said sweetly. “My friends are thirsty.” The eyes on me were no longer just curious; they were predatory. Hands beckoned, voices called out orders for wine, for appetizers. Tiffany swaggered over, a triumphant smirk on her face. She leaned down, tapping my stinging cheek. “Now,” she said, “about that champagne?” Numbly, I retrieved a glass and handed it to her. She took it, and with a deliberate flick of her wrist, she emptied its contents all over her own dress. Chloe and her friends rushed over at Tiffany’s shriek. “I just asked her for a drink!” Tiffany wailed, clutching at her stained gown. “She’s so arrogant, she just threw it at me! This is haute couture! Can she even afford to have it cleaned?” Chloe looked at me, her eyes brimming with false disappointment. “Elara, why must you always make things so difficult for everyone?” A blond boy I recognized as Julian Vance, whose family was notoriously wealthy and equally notorious for their scandals, stepped forward. “Chloe, darling, don’t let this trash ruin your night. I’ll handle it.” His eyes roamed over me like I was something on a menu. He picked up a full glass of red wine from a passing tray and poured it slowly over my head, drenching the bodice of the pearl dress. The silk clung to me, outlining everything beneath. The room erupted in laughter. I crossed my arms over my chest, humiliated, desperate to escape. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’ll pay for the dress. I’ll work to pay for it.” “Pay with what?” Julian sneered, his gaze lingering. He licked his lips. “You know, you’re not bad looking under all that misery. Why don’t you come with me? My family has a little money. You behave, and I’ll treat you better than they ever did here.” A cold sweat broke out on my back. I shook my head frantically. “No, I have money, I can pay…” He ignored me, scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Chloe,” he called out, “is there an empty room I can borrow?” I tried to scream, but Chloe was already there, stuffing a silk napkin into my mouth. She leaned close, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “The Vances are powerful people in this city. Make him happy, Elara. He can give you things my father and brother never would.” She patted my cheek, a gesture that was anything but kind, and pointed towards a guest room down the hall. “Have fun.” I struggled, but Julian’s grip was like iron. My gaze fell upon my brother, Ethan, standing just a few feet away, his expression conflicted. Chloe noticed him, too. She simply walked over, said something with a pretty pout, and he turned his back on me. Decisively. Completely. Tears of utter despair streamed down my face. How could they be so cruel? A voice cut through the haze of my panic. “What’s going on here?” It was my father. He looked at Chloe, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “This is your party, for God’s sake. If they want to do this, I’ll get them a hotel room.” He then looked at me, slung over Julian’s shoulder, with chilling indifference. He turned back to Chloe. “I left your real gift in your room. Go on up.” Then, he faced Julian, a placid, businesslike smile on his face. “To be chosen by you, Julian, is the girl’s good fortune.” Julian looked surprised, then chuckled, his breath hot against my ear. “You see that? Your own father is giving you to me. Who am I to refuse? I never thought a Sterling girl would be so easy to get.” My father grunted. “This is the price she pays.” His voice was devoid of all emotion. “I’ve raised her for eighteen years. It’s time she started repaying the debt.” I closed my eyes, my body trembling uncontrollably. Mom, forgive me. I can’t live like you asked me to. As I prepared to bite down on my own tongue, to end it all, a shimmering image appeared in the darkness of my mind. It was my mother, her face a mask of horror, reaching for me. “Elara!”

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The story my parents told themselves was that I was the curse that took my sister. The day I was born was the day she died in a car crash. So they found a replacement, a girl Lily’s age named Pearl, and poured all their love into her. I became the weed in their perfect garden. “Weeds are born to be stepped on,” Pearl once told me, a smirk playing on her lips. She lived by that philosophy. She framed me for theft. She locked me out of the house in the freezing cold. Each of her lies was rewarded with my parents’ anger, their shouts, their fists. But when I finally withered, just as they’d always wanted, they began to panic. 1 I clutched Pearl’s backpack, my small frame shivering at the school gate long after the last bell. The sky had bruised from gray to purple to black. Old Mr. Henderson, the security guard, stepped out for a smoke, his brow furrowed when he saw me. “Still here, little one? It’s not safe out here for a girl your age. Why aren’t you home?” He offered the warmth of his security booth, but I just shook my head, my grip tightening on the worn straps of the bag. “My sister, Pearl, told me to wait right here. She’ll be out any minute.” “You said that four hours ago, kiddo,” he said, his voice gentle with pity. “I think she might have forgotten about you.” He saw he couldn’t move me and retreated with a sad shake of his head. Another hour crawled by. My fingers had gone from aching to numb when our housekeeper, Maria, came running, her breath misting in the frigid air. “Willow! My God, I’ve been searching for you all afternoon!” She chafed my hands between hers, her eyes welling up. “You’re like ice! Why didn’t you just go home?” “I couldn’t,” I whispered, hugging the backpack to my chest. “Pearl isn’t out yet. I couldn’t leave her.” Maria let out a long, pained sigh and guided me toward the car. “Honey… Pearl’s been home for hours.” She studied my face in the dim light of the car, her expression a mix of anger and sorrow. Finally, she just stroked my hair. “Listen to me, Willow. When we get inside, you don’t say a word. Let me do the talking. Do you understand?” I nodded, my mind clinging to a simple explanation. She just forgot. It was an accident. But before we even opened the front door, I could hear Pearl’s dramatic sobs. “I just asked her to hold my bag for a second, and when I turned around, she was gone!” she wailed. “My art project was in there! We only get one, and if it’s lost, my teacher will kill me!” My father’s voice was a low growl. “She’s getting more and more out of control.” I couldn’t wait. Forgetting Maria’s warning, I burst through the door. “Pearl, I have it! Your bag is right here!” I held it up like a trophy. “I was a good girl. I waited right by the gate, but you never came.” I looked at her, expecting relief, maybe even a thank you. Instead, she shook her head, her eyes wide and innocent as she looked at our parents. “I didn’t tell her to wait for me.” My parents’ gazes swiveled between us. Before they could speak, Pearl’s face crumpled into tears. “Willow… why are you lying?” “I’m not!” I said, my voice trembling. I thrust my hands out for them to see. “Look, my hands are all frozen.” The skin was raw and chapped, swollen red from the biting wind. Maria stepped forward, her voice firm. “She was at the school gate for nearly five hours. The guard can confirm it. In this weather… she’s going to get sick.” My father’s face was a cold mask. My mother pulled Pearl closer, her voice stern. “Pearl, is what Willow is saying true?” Pearl didn’t answer. She just let tears tremble on her lashes before finally turning to our housekeeper. “Maria… I know you don’t like me. Because I’m not their real daughter.” That was all it took. My mother swept Pearl into a protective embrace, shooting a venomous glare at Maria. “I had no idea you were playing favorites behind our backs. Helping her concoct these despicable lies!” Maria began to apologize, to explain, but my mother wasn’t listening. She dragged Maria into the other room, and their hushed, angry voices buzzed through the wall. When Maria left for the night, she paused at the door, her eyes filled with tears. She cupped my cheek, her hand warm against my frozen skin. “You take care of yourself, little one,” she whispered. “Don’t let her walk all over you.” “See you tomorrow, Maria,” I said, nodding dutifully. Her hand faltered for a second before she turned and walked away without looking back. I turned around to see my mother standing over me, her face a thundercloud. She was holding Pearl’s backpack, from which she’d pulled a mangled mess of construction paper and glitter. “So, you’re not just a liar, you’re a jealous little vandal, too? You destroyed your sister’s project on purpose?” I stared, shaking my head numbly. But she had already retrieved the thin, wooden ruler from a kitchen drawer. “When you do something wrong,” she said, her voice flat and cold, “there are consequences.” She struck my palm ten times. My hands were so frozen, the sting felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. From behind our mother, Pearl peeked out, her eyes shining. “It’s okay, Weed,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “I forgive you this time. Just don’t lie anymore, okay?” 2 She produced a strawberry lollipop from behind her back and held it out to me. It had been so long since I’d had candy. Forgetting the ache in my hands, I snatched it and popped it in my mouth. It tasted strange, tangy and a little off, but my parents were watching. I dutifully finished the whole thing. In the middle of the night, I woke up choking. I couldn’t breathe. My skin was on fire, covered in tiny, raised bumps. I stumbled into the hallway and saw it in the kitchen trash: the fibrous pit of a mango. Nana always said I was allergic. Deathly allergic, she’d said. The lollipop. It must have been coated in mango juice. I scrambled for the medicine cabinet, but it was empty. I looked at my parents’ closed bedroom door and backed away. Mom’s rule was absolute: never, ever wake them. But my throat was closing. Panic set in. I ran to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap, forcing cold water down my throat, trying to flush the poison out. After what felt like an eternity, the swelling eased just enough for me to gasp for air. Then a new agony set in. A wave of icy cramps seized my stomach. I ran for the bathroom, but the door was locked. I turned. Pearl was standing behind me in the dark, a small, knowing smile on her face. “The toilet’s broken,” she said simply. “You’ll have to hold it.” I wanted to ask about the mango, but the pain was too sharp. “My stomach… it hurts so bad,” I whimpered. “Please, can I just go in?” “Are you going to be a bad girl, Weed? Are you going to disobey me?” She pointed to the front door. “There’s a public restroom in the park. Go there.” When I didn’t move, she sighed theatrically, unlocked the front door, and shoved me out into the black, starless night. My hands trembled as I found my way to the park, finished my business in the cold, dark restroom, and hurried back. I knocked on the door. Then knocked again, louder. No one came. I called for them, my voice a tiny thread of sound snatched away by the wind. “Mom? Dad?” They must have been sleeping too soundly. A light was on in Pearl’s room, but the window was too high for me to reach. After a long time, I gave up. I curled into a tight ball on the doormat, hugging my knees to my chest. When I lived with Nana, she told me stories every night until I fell asleep. But then she’d collapsed, and they’d taken her to the hospital, and she hadn’t come to visit me in a very, very long time. Exhaustion finally pulled me under. In my dreams, I saw her. Nana. Her face was as kind as I remembered. She stroked my hair and said, Willow, you have to take care of yourself. My parents never said it to my face, but I’d heard the neighbors talking. They said my parents blamed me for Lily’s death. That they would rather adopt a stranger who looked like her than raise me themselves. I didn’t understand what death meant, not really. All I knew was that with Nana, I was safe. For as long as I could remember, it had been just the two of us. My parents visited once, to tell me I’d be moving to the city for elementary school. I refused, clinging to Nana’s legs. I saw the look on their faces as they left. Mom had called me an ungrateful little brat. Nana told me she didn’t mean it. When you get bigger, and you’re a good girl, they’ll love you again, she’d promised. But one morning, I woke up and found her lying in the yard, a dark pool of blood spreading from her head. I ran for help, and they took her away in an ambulance. I never saw her again. My parents took me to this strange house and introduced me to Pearl. They told me to be nice to her, that she was the only princess in this house, and everyone had to do what she said. So when Pearl joked that my name should be Weed, my parents just laughed and agreed. I remembered Nana telling me that weeds were tough. She wanted me to be strong like them, to grow no matter what. If I could just make it through this one night, I thought, maybe I’d be a little tougher, too. 3 I woke to my mother shaking me. She’d found me curled on the doormat when she went to take out the trash. “When did you sneak out?” was all she asked, before hurrying me inside to get ready for school. But I felt awful. The bumps on my face were itching, my head was spinning, and I couldn’t stop shivering. “Mom,” I whispered, “I feel really sick. Can we go to the doctor?” Her brows knitted together in annoyance. She didn’t even look at me. “You’ve been in school for a week and you’re already trying to fake an illness? I knew bringing you here was a mistake.” Remembering Nana’s promise, I choked down my milk and followed Pearl to the car. The motion of the car made everything worse. My breath felt hot, and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. When the driver took a sharp turn, the milk I’d forced down came rushing back up. I vomited all over the floor of the car. “Ew, Willow, you’re so gross!” Pearl shrieked. The driver, at least, was kind. “Little miss, we don’t have a change of clothes. Should we go back home?” The image of my mother’s disappointed face flashed in my mind. I shook my head. At school, Pearl made sure everyone knew what had happened. Kids pinched their noses when I walked by. No one would come near me. I kept my head down, my face burning. During class, my desk-mate huddled as far away from me as he could get. My teacher, Mrs. Davis, finally noticed. “Willow, honey, your face is so red!” Pearl piped up from across the room. “Willow’s face is a strawberry, and the red dots are the seeds!” The class erupted in laughter. I tried to smile along, but my stomach gurgled, and I knew I was going to be sick again. Mrs. Davis told the class to read quietly and then scooped me into her arms. She smelled warm and sweet, like Nana. The comfort was too much. I threw up again, all over her nice blouse. I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” But she didn’t scold me like Mom would have. She just felt my forehead. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up. You have a fever. We’re going to the hospital right now.” At the clinic, the doctor said my temperature was dangerously high. A few more hours, he said, and it could have caused permanent damage. They put me on an IV drip for two hours. By the time I was done, school was over. Mrs. Davis drove me back, gave my medicine to the driver waiting at the gate, and told me to rest. As I was about to get in the car, Pearl and her friends walked out. “Look, Stinky Weed is back!” one of them yelled. “Pearl, you’re not really going to ride with her, are you? She smells and she barfed all over the teacher.” They held their noses. One of the braver boys poked at the red bumps on my cheek with a pen. “What kind of weird disease is that? Is it contagious?” Pearl tossed her backpack at me, her face a mask of disgust. “Don’t you dare get me sick, Weed. You’re walking home today.” The driver didn’t dare argue with her. He just got in the car and drove away. I didn’t know the way home. I had to ask stranger after stranger, walking for what felt like miles until my stomach growled with hunger and I finally saw our house. My father opened the door. He grunted when he saw me. “Where have you been, messing around again? Look how late it is.” I started to lift my hand to show him the bruise from the IV, but he grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. Pearl was standing behind my mother, her face streaked with tears. My mother’s expression was cold and impatient. Her eyes bored into me. “Pearl says you stole something from her. Give it back. Now.”

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The pop-up bloomed on my husband’s laptop screen like a toxic flower. I’d been using his desktop in the home office to stream a show, a moment of quiet indulgence, when the AI assistant he was developing for the company made its presence known. [Hey there, boss man 😉 Time to log off. We need you rested for our main event tonight… 🔥] The font was a bubbly, almost childish script, framed by an explosion of digital pink hearts. I stared, the sound from my show fading into a dull roar in my ears. A single screenshot was all it took. I found him across town, charming a client over lunch at a rooftop restaurant. I didn’t wait for their small talk to conclude. I simply walked up to the table, phone in hand, and slid it in front of him. The screenshot glowed. “Care to explain?” Julian’s smile faltered for only a fraction of a second. Then, it returned, wider and more indulgent than before. He reached out and pinched my cheek, a gesture meant to be endearing that felt deeply condescending. “Sweetheart, relax. It’s just the in-house beta for a new AI companion. I’m running the final tests myself.” I held his gaze, my expression unreadable. “I see.” I nodded calmly, retrieved my phone, and turned to leave. Before I was even out of the restaurant, I was on a call to a trusted contact in our IT department. The IP address behind that “virtual girlfriend” was in my hands less than an hour later. I posted it in the company-wide executive channel, a digital space normally reserved for quarterly reports and market analysis. [Whoever this belongs to has one hour to come forward. Consider this your only chance at a graceful exit.] If you’re going to play me for a fool with my own money, you’d better be prepared for a very public, very ugly ruin. Chapter 1 The executive channel, usually buzzing with activity, fell into a dead, watchful silence. Five minutes later, the door to my office burst open. Julian. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his breathing ragged. He looked genuinely panicked. “Eleanor, please. It’s just a program. A test. You have to believe me.” He hadn’t come alone. A few of the company’s senior staff, the old guard loyal to him, trailed in his wake, ready to close ranks. “He’s right, Mrs. Croft,” our Head of Development said earnestly. “It’s a closed-loop internal beta. There’s no live operator on the other end.” “The dialogue is all pre-scripted,” another added, her tone placating. “Just placeholder content to test user engagement metrics.” Our Director of Technology, a man I’d known for years, even produced meeting minutes, pointing to a specific line item. “See, Eleanor? ‘AI Companion Dialogue Templates.’ We all brainstormed them. The goal was to increase user affinity and… stickiness.” He winced at the corporate jargon, knowing how I hated it. “Julian was just doing his due diligence for the team’s project. It would kill us to think you’d misunderstand his commitment.” Their words were a carefully constructed wall of defense, brick after brick laid to protect him. Julian took my hand, his eyes wide with the sincerity that had once been my undoing. “Honey, I am so sorry this upset you. I hate that it made you unhappy for even a second. If you don’t like it, I’ll pull the plug on the test right now. I’ll never touch it again.” He knew just how to wield that earnestness. It was the same look he’d given me when he was a brilliant, broke nobody with a world-changing idea. I hadn’t invested in the idea; I’d invested in him, in that unwavering belief in his eyes. I remembered the nights he’d slept at the office for two weeks straight, trying to make his first venture profitable. I never once questioned his dedication, just kept our home a sanctuary for him to return to. When he needed capital, I went to my father and not only secured the seed money but negotiated a deal where Julian would retain all profits for the first five years. That first business failed. I didn’t blame him. I told him he’d earned a priceless education in entrepreneurship and used my influence to bring him into my father’s company, Vance Sterling. The day he was promoted to President, at a party thrown in his honor, he proposed to me for the second time. He swore his love would remain as pure and fierce as it was in the beginning, that I would always be the only one. Every year on our anniversary, he would propose again, a ritual to prove, he said, that his heart had never strayed. By all accounts, his loyalty should have been forged in steel. I pressed my fingers to my temples, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. “I understand,” I said, waving them away. “I won’t pursue it any further.” A collective sigh of relief filled the room as they filed out. Julian’s shoulders slumped as he let out his own breath. He moved to embrace me, but I held up a hand, stopping him. I had already seen the full chat logs. The AI assistant messaged him every half hour. While most were benign reminders about his schedule or the weather, the language was cloyingly intimate, sometimes bordering on suggestive. And then there were the stickers—a custom set of reaction GIFs, all featuring the same woman, her face always artfully obscured. The curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, a hand brushing back a strand of hair. It was unmistakably the same person. Doubt, once planted, is a weed that grows in the dark. I had to know. Feigning a headache, I excused myself to the restroom. From the cool, quiet of the marble stall, I forwarded the IP address to a different contact—someone whose loyalty was to my family, not to my husband. The response came back in minutes. The user was located inside the Vance Sterling building. Cross-referencing the IP with HR network assignments took another ten minutes. And then I had a name. Chloe. A new intern in the Operations department. A sharp, acidic pang shot through my chest. No live operator, they had said. A chorus of liars, all of them. And now I had her name, her file, her face. The elevator ride down to the fourteenth floor felt like a slow, cold descent. I saw her immediately. In a sea of employees focused on their screens, she was the only one with a reality show playing in full-screen mode on her monitor. Her desk was an island of luxury: a row of expensive hand creams, imported snacks, and a personal humidifier humming softly, puffing a cloud of scented mist just for her. I walked into the open-plan office. Her eyes flickered towards me, a flash of recognition or perhaps alarm. In a single, swift motion, she slapped a small, framed photo on her desk face down. Chapter 2 As I approached her desk, she paused her show with a lazy click of the mouse. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. Had Julian given her this… this bubble of privilege? “Excuse me,” I began, my voice even and cool. “Is your workload so light that you have time for television?” Chloe glanced up at me, an unimpressed look on her young face. “I take a break when I’m tired. What’s it to you? Are you from facilities? Paper recycling is down the hall.” The employee at the next desk looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, but she managed a choked whisper. “Chloe… that’s Mrs. Croft. The founder’s daughter. The President’s wife.” Chloe’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I just… I always pictured the President’s wife as being so glamorous. The thought never even crossed my mind. My mistake.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. Before I could speak, Chloe’s gaze darted to a point somewhere behind me, and her eyes instantly welled with tears. Her voice became a fragile whisper. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Croft… I’ll get back to work right away…” “What’s going on here?” Julian’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the office quiet from behind me. Instantly, the previously silent employees swarmed, their voices a chorus of concerned chatter. “Mrs. Croft was criticizing Chloe’s work ethic. The poor girl got so upset.” “Chloe finished all her tasks for the day. Her team lead said she could take a break. Mrs. Croft is being a little harsh.” I was stunned. Just moments ago, these people were silent, terrified of being caught in the crossfire. The second Julian appeared, they found their courage—all of it aimed squarely at me, in defense of her. “Enough,” Julian snapped. He pointed a stern finger at Chloe. “You. My office. Tomorrow morning. You’ll be reporting your work progress directly to me from now on.” Chloe lowered her head in submission, but I saw it—the ghost of a triumphant smirk on her lips. My heart twisted. Was it a punishment, or an invitation for a private rendezvous? I composed myself, raising my voice to address the entire department. “Actually, I’m not here to monitor productivity. I’m here to announce a corporate-wide hardware upgrade, starting with this department. Every computer is being replaced, effective immediately.” A wave of surprised excitement rippled through the staff. Only Chloe pouted. “That’s so sudden. I’m used to my computer. Can I opt out?” “No,” Julian said, his tone final. He then turned to me, a placating smile on his face. “My wife speaks for me on this. You will all follow her lead.” Chloe stared at him, her face flushing with disbelief and anger. I didn’t spare her another glance. I told Julian I was heading home and left without waiting for him. He came home early that evening, looking for all the world like a remorseful husband. In one hand, he held a cake from my favorite bakery; in the other, the designer handbag I’d admired a few weeks ago. His face was a mask of guilt. “Eleanor, I’m sorry. The AI beta test has been reassigned. I promise I will never again engage with anything that makes you doubt me.” I accepted the gifts, my voice flat. “It was for work. I understand.” He sighed, pulling me into an embrace I did not return. His voice was thick with manufactured pain. “I know I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. My phone password is your birthday. You can check it anytime you want. I have nothing to hide.” I nodded against his chest, saying nothing. Later, while he was in the shower, I opened his phone. It was pristine. Spotless. No suspicious apps, no hidden folders. And then, a notification lit up the screen. A text from a delivery service. [Your order from The Daily Grind has been delivered. Enjoy the hot beverage!] He’d ordered it for her. For her cramps, a little voice in my head whispered. Before coming home to apologize to me with cakes and handbags, he had made sure his mistress was comfortable. My hand trembled, the phone suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. I almost dropped it. He had become a stranger who wore my husband’s face. Chapter 3 I slept in the guest room. Sleep, however, never came. By morning, the tech team had replaced every computer in the Operations department. I located the tower that had belonged to Chloe and had my specialist retrieve it. Within hours, he had recovered the entire hard drive. Her machine also had a client for the AI assistant. And just as I suspected, the chat logs were all there. She was the AI, Julian’s “virtual girlfriend.” The theory I had wrestled with all night was now a cold, hard fact. A tremor ran through my hands. He had mobilized company resources, coerced senior employees into lying for him, all to protect this… affair. With a shaking hand, I clicked open the chat history. I saw now that the logs on his computer had been heavily edited. Hers told the full story. Julian, the doting lover, was a character I had never known. To buy her a single latte without raising suspicion, he’d ordered coffee for her entire fifty-person department. To ensure her internship was a breeze, he lowered the performance quotas for everyone on her team. He asked her what color stockings she was wearing. What style of underwear. They had a place. A meeting spot they called their “nest.” Just last week, they had planned to meet there. She had asked if she should bring a morning-after pill. His reply was simple: No need. Followed by another message. [Our baby would be stronger than anything she could ever carry.] The words on the screen blurred. I felt as if lightning had struck the base of my spine. Last year, I was pregnant with his child. Our child. He came home one night after a client dinner, drunk. He called me to open the garage door for him, and in his stupor, he hit the accelerator instead of the brake. He pinned me against the wall. The baby was gone. When he sobered up, he fell to his knees, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He swore he would pray for our lost child’s soul every single day. I had forgiven him. For us, for our future, I had buried the pain and forgiven him. And now this. The man who killed our child was telling another woman that I was too weak to be a mother. A tremor, violent and cold, seized my entire body. I gripped the mouse so hard I thought the plastic might crack. I sat there in the dark, the screen’s glow illuminating my face, until the city lights outside my window began to blur into the dawn. My life, thirty years of it, felt like it was fracturing at the seams. I saved everything, every file, every chat log. Then I drove to the office to find Julian, who had texted me to say he was working late. I saw his car in his designated VIP spot in the underground garage, its lights flashing once as he unlocked it. And then I saw them. He and Chloe, emerging from two different elevator banks, their paths converging at his black sedan. I shrank back into the shadows behind a concrete pillar. They didn’t even make it into the car. The moment they reached each other, they fell into a desperate, hungry kiss, like two lovers who had been starved of each other for years. When the kiss finally broke, Julian framed her face with his hands, his voice a low, intense murmur. “Just wait. As soon as I’m named Chairman tomorrow, I’ll find a way to make Eleanor… disappear. Then we can be together, forever.” Chloe gazed up at him, her eyes shining with adoration. “I know you’ve been planning this for years, Julian. I’ll wait. I know you’ll succeed.” A chill so profound it felt like ice water flooding my veins shot up my spine. My knees buckled, and I had to brace myself against the pillar to keep from collapsing. My heart felt like it was being shredded. This wasn’t just an affair. It was a long con. My entire life with him, our marriage, his career… it was all a stepping stone. He had used me. He had used my family. He had used our dead child. I waited until their taillights vanished up the ramp before I stumbled out of the darkness. I didn’t go home that night. Julian called and texted, a frantic barrage of feigned concern. I sent him a single reply: [See you at the shareholder meeting tomorrow.] That was all it took. He immediately relaxed, texting back a simple, “Sleep well, honey,” not even bothering to ask where I was. The next day, I walked into the boardroom precisely on time. Julian’s face lit up when he saw me. He rushed over with the proxy voting form. As the majority shareholder, I usually delegated my voting rights to him. Today was his coronation, the day he would leverage my shares to secure the Chairmanship of my father’s company. My 40% stake would guarantee his victory. I signed the document. As I handed it back, I glanced across the room and saw Chloe, standing proudly among the employee representatives, a smug smile on her face.

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The calls had become a maddening ritual, each one ending with the same hollow promise from the studio. After loaning them Sunshine for what was supposed to be a career-making role for Hollywood’s golden boy, Julian Croft, the line had gone cold. Filming had wrapped months ago. The movie was already in theaters. And my dog was still gone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Vance,” the production assistant would chirp, her voice dripping with insincere sympathy. “He’s just not available to be returned yet.” A knot of dread had been tightening in my stomach for weeks, a cold serpent coiling around my heart. But I’d trusted Julian Croft. I had to. His on-screen vulnerability, the raw emotion he could summon in his piercing blue eyes—it felt too real to be faked. So, I pushed the fear down and bought a ticket for opening night, my hands trembling as I found my seat in the dark. The film, titled A Dog Named Sunny, was designed to be an Oscar magnet. It told the story of a man, played by Julian, whose profound loneliness is thawed by the unconditional love of a Golden Retriever. My Sunshine. The first half was a balm to my anxious soul. There he was, my beautiful boy, his coat gleaming like spun gold under the studio lights. He looked healthy, happy, his tail a constant, joyful metronome. In scene after scene, he’d nudge his head into Julian’s hand, lick away his performative tears, and slowly, patiently, draw a smile onto the actor’s famously stoic face. He’s okay, I told myself, a wave of relief washing over me. They took good care of him. Then, the camera cut. Sunshine was sitting patiently at a crosswalk, the picture of a good boy waiting for the light to change. Green. He sprang forward, his tail wagging furiously, a happy gallop carrying him across the street toward a school. He was going to meet his master. The entire audience held its breath, ready for the heartwarming reunion. A semi-truck blared into the frame without warning. The massive grille, a chrome monster, swallowed the screen. For one horrifying, suspended moment, the joyful, golden blur of my dog was eclipsed by its shadow. The squeal of tires was deafening. Sunshine’s small body was thrown into the air, a terrible, graceful arc against the mundane backdrop of the street, before it crashed back to the pavement with a sickening finality. Dark, crimson blood began to seep from his beautiful fur, staining the asphalt. He let out a soft whimper, a sound so full of confusion and pain that it stole the air from my lungs. My mind went completely blank. CGI, I thought, a frantic prayer. It has to be CGI. But it was too real. The way the light faded from his eyes. The way the blood pooled, so dark and thick. I could see the bewilderment in his gentle face, the hurt, the unasked question. His tail, which had never stopped wagging in his entire life, gave one last, weak thump against the ground and then was still. He was gone. Beside me, a young woman whispered to her friend, her voice filled with awe. “Oh my god, Julian’s performance is just… shattering. That look on his face when he sees the dog? He’s winning the Oscar for this. Guaranteed.” “The raw anguish,” her friend agreed. “He’s a genius. I just want to hug him.” No one cried for the dog. They only saw the art in the man’s grief. My blood ran cold. My phone slipped from my trembling fingers, clattering to the sticky floor. To win an award… did Julian Croft kill my dog? For a golden statue? 2 “I want to see Sunshine. Right now. Now.” I stumbled out of the theater, the movie’s cheerful credits music a cruel joke. My hands shook so violently I could barely dial the number for Julian’s agent, a man whose smarmy voice I’d come to despise. A sliver of hope, fragile as glass, remained. It could be a trick of the camera. Hollywood magic. Please, let it be magic. Let my boy be waiting for me, safe and sound. The agent’s voice crackled through the phone, thick with annoyance. “Ms. Vance, I’ve told you repeatedly. The dog is with Mr. Croft, shooting some behind-the-scenes content for the Blu-ray release. We can’t return him yet.” He hadn’t even listened to the terror in my voice. “I just want to see him,” I said, my voice cold and sharp. “That’s not too much to ask, is it?” A derisive snort. “He’s at Julian’s private residence. You can’t just show up.” Seeing my silence as an opening, his tone softened into a patronizing coo. “Look, I can send you a video. He’s doing great. Tearing the place apart, the little monster. Okay, Ms. Vance?” My breath hitched. The lie was so blatant, so careless, it was like a slap in the face. “Sunshine,” I said, my voice trembling, “has never torn anything apart in his life. He’s the gentlest dog I’ve ever known.” Silence on his end. I pressed my advantage, the adrenaline turning my fear into steel. “I don’t want a pre-recorded video. I want a live video call. Now. You can find a blank wall somewhere in the house that doesn’t compromise Mr. Croft’s precious privacy.” I had cut off his every excuse before he could make it. The silence stretched, heavy and damning. “Ms. Vance,” he finally said, his voice dropping the facade and turning to ice, “don’t push your luck.” The line went dead. My heart plummeted into a black, empty space. The sheer arrogance of it—the idea that a video was a gift, a favor, and that asking for proof of life was ‘pushing my luck’—it made me physically sick. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I caught my reflection in a store window. My face was a ghostly white mask. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. The truck. The blood. My boy. My Sunshine. They would not get away with this. If they refused to communicate, I would find another way. I would make them listen. That night, I went online. Leveraging the buzz from the movie’s premiere, I wrote a post that would rocket to the top of Twitter’s trending topics. 3 #JusticeForSunshine #JulianCroftDogAbuse #LetMeSeeMyDog As an ordinary person going up against a Hollywood machine, my only weapon was public opinion. I laid it all out in a long, detailed thread: the story of the loan, the endless excuses, the refusal to allow a single visit or even a live video call. I asked the questions they refused to answer. Why was I barred from visiting for over a year of filming? Why was a simple video call an impossible request? Why, after the movie was released, did my dog still need to be with the actor for “extra content”? And the final, terrible question: Was the death scene in A Dog Named Sunny an effect, or was it real? My only demand was simple and clear: let me see my dog, either in person or on a live call. If Sunshine was alive and well, I would issue a public apology and pay for any and all damages to the production. The post exploded. The velocity was unnatural; an army of bots and trolls descended almost immediately, their comments dripping with venom. It was clearly a counter-move by Julian’s team, but it was too aggressive. Their heavy-handedness sparked a backlash from genuine users. 【Give me a break. The moment Julian gets Oscar buzz, the haters crawl out of the woodwork.】 【This is ridiculous. Julian Croft rescues strays. He’d never hurt a dog for a movie!】 【Lady, have you heard of CGI? They can create entire worlds from scratch. You think they can’t fake a car accident? You have zero proof, just a conspiracy theory.】 My phone rang, shrill and demanding. It was the agent. “Eliza Vance, do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!” he screamed, his voice raw with fury. I spoke calmly, my voice a stark contrast to his rage. “Get Sunshine back to me, safe and sound. I’ll apologize to the entire world and pay for every penny of your ‘damages’.” He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You? Pay for our damages? Do you have any idea how much that would be? You couldn’t afford it if you sold your organs.” He took a breath, his tone shifting to one of magnanimous command, as if offering a royal pardon. “Julian is willing to be generous. Delete the posts, admit this was all a misunderstanding, and he won’t press charges.” Press charges? Against me? The audacity was breathtaking. “You seem to have things backward,” I said slowly. “I’m the one making the accusation. The burden of proof is on you to refute it. I’m waiting for your statement to make me look like a fool.” He didn’t know that, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be proven wrong. I would have gladly accepted global humiliation to have Sunshine back, alive and wagging his tail. The agent’s voice turned into a low snarl. “You’re just some nobody. Who do you think you are, challenging Julian Croft?” he threatened. “Get ready to be sued into oblivion, Eliza.” Thirty minutes after he hung up, Julian Croft’s official studio account released a statement. And a cease and desist letter from his high-powered legal team landed in my inbox. 4 【First, for everyone concerned, here is a brand-new video of Sunny, happy and healthy!】 The statement opened with a video. In it, a golden retriever panted happily, tail wagging, wrestling with a large chew bone. But my blood ran cold. I recognized it. They had sent me this exact video a year ago. This was my proof. 【During production, while set access was restricted to protect creative integrity, we maintained regular contact with Ms. Vance, providing frequent video updates of Sunny’s well-being.】 They attached screenshots of our past conversations, carefully curated to make them look accommodating and me seem needy. Then came the condescending jab: they could afford the best special effects artists in the business. The implication was clear: I was just an ignorant woman who didn’t understand how movies were made. The final blow was the link to the legal notice. They were suing me for defamation. The comments section became a victory party for his fans. 【OWNED! This is what you get for messing with a class act like Julian.】 【Waiting for the apology tour, lady. Better start a GoFundMe for those legal fees.】 【Honestly, Julian’s team has been more than patient. This woman is a professional victim. Probably some psycho fan trying to get his attention.】 I scanned the legal document. Defamation, not libel. It was a subtle but important distinction. They weren’t accusing me of lying, which would require them to prove the truth. They were accusing me of damaging his reputation. Was it a strategic choice to avoid a court battle they knew they couldn’t win? Then, a line at the end of their public statement caught my eye, and my stomach twisted into a knot of confusion and hope. 【We will be arranging a formal reunion for Ms. Vance and Sunny in the coming days. The event will be live-streamed to ensure full transparency.】 My head spun. Was I wrong? Had this all been a terrible, paranoid delusion? They wouldn’t dare promise a live-streamed reunion if they didn’t have the dog. They couldn’t be that stupid. Could they? The tide of public opinion had turned completely against me. My social media was a toxic wasteland of insults and threats. 【LMAO, you tried to cancel Julian and got your ass handed to you. Pathetic.】 【When are you apologizing, you clout-chasing witch? We’re not going anywhere.】 【Hope you saved up enough to pay Julian. Maybe you can start an OnlyFans.】 The sheer volume of hate was suffocating. I pushed back from my laptop and looked around my silent apartment. On the rug lay a half-chewed wooden dowel, Sunshine’s favorite. He would always bring it to me, tail helicoptering, his eyes begging for a game of fetch. His little bed in the corner, with its worn-out fleece blanket, still held the faint, comforting scent of him. A few golden hairs clung to the fabric, the last physical proof that he was ever here. I picked them up, closing my fist around them. If they really returned him to me, I would take it all. The public humiliation, the apology, the crushing debt. I would endure anything. All that mattered was getting him back. 5 The “reunion ceremony” was a full-blown media circus, staged in the atrium of a glittering downtown shopping mall. The space was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with press, fans, and curious onlookers. The online live-stream viewership was already in the millions. 【Can’t wait to see this psycho get what she deserves.】 【Not gonna lie, she’s kind of pretty. Maybe this was all a stunt to get famous.】 【Dude, have some standards.】 Julian Croft himself, no longer hiding behind his agent, approached me. He was perfectly coiffed, his expression a masterclass in concerned sincerity. He leaned in, his voice a low, apologetic murmur for the cameras. “Ms. Vance, Eliza. I am so deeply sorry. Sunny is such a professional, a true artist on four legs. We just wanted to give him the spotlight he deserved with some extra features. I never imagined it would cause you this much distress.” The crowd swooned. 【OMG, he’s such a gentleman! How could anyone accuse him of something so horrible?】 【Apologize! You owe him an apology right now!】 I took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of perfume and flashbulb ozone. “If this is all a misunderstanding,” I said, my voice steady, “then I will apologize to you and your entire crew.” Julian flashed a devastatingly handsome smile, the one that sold millions of tickets. He clapped his hands lightly. On cue, a golden retriever bounded onto the stage, barking joyfully. It ran straight to me, circling my legs, then jumping up to plant its paws on my chest. 【See? It’s her dog! She knows him! I knew Julian would never do something like that.】 【What a colossal waste of everyone’s time. Now she has to eat her words on live television. This is gonna be good.】 I wrapped my arms around the dog, burying my face in its fur, tears of overwhelming relief streaming down my cheeks. And then I froze. Every muscle in my body went rigid. The wave of joy receded as quickly as it had come, replaced by an icy, horrifying certainty. A cold so profound it felt like death itself. This was not my dog.

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Veronica Donovan had two loyal dogs. One was a purebred Alaskan Malamute. The other was me. But I was the one who had clawed his way into her bed. The day before our wedding, she crashed her car racing to the side of her old flame, Julian, and ended up in the hospital. I rushed over, my heart hammering against my ribs, but when I looked at her, lying pristine in the hospital gown, a cold dread washed over me. The scar—the thin, silvery line I expected to see tracing a path over her heart—wasn’t there. My face went pale. “Where is it? The scar from her heart surgery?” Her mother, a woman who wore her condescension like expensive perfume, recoiled. “Don’t you dare curse my daughter! What sort of sick thing is that to say? She’s never had such a ghastly operation!” In that instant, the world tilted on its axis. Three years. For three years, I had been worshiping at the wrong altar. The day she was discharged, Veronica, with Julian hovering protectively by her side, broke off our engagement. Everyone in her circle smirked, waiting for the explosion, waiting for me to unravel. Instead, I looked at her and said, calmly, “Alright.” They didn’t understand. They couldn’t possibly know that I had never loved her. The woman I loved died years ago. 1. The single word, “Alright,” wiped the smugness from Veronica’s face. Her expression darkened. “I know you’re desperate to marry me, Caleb,” she said, her voice dripping with condescending pity. “And it’s not entirely off the table. Just sign over the lead on the gallery project to Julian’s name, and I might still consider walking down the aisle.” I just stared at her, the woman I had spent three years convincing myself was a vessel for a ghost. “That won’t be necessary,” I said, my voice steady. “Just answer one question, and I’ll do it for you. No strings attached.” The storm clouds on Veronica’s face parted, replaced by a mocking smile. “What do you want to ask? If I ever loved you? Caleb, don’t be so childish.” Her love was irrelevant. It had always been irrelevant. I had only ever loved one person. Elara. She died saving me, thrown from the wreck of a car that should have taken us both. Her last act, a gift arranged by her parents, was to donate her heart. That selfless gift led me to Veronica. I went from Caleb Vance, heir to a fortune everyone envied, to Veronica Donovan’s personal doormat, a man pitied and despised in equal measure. But for me, to hear Elara’s heartbeat again… I would have walked through fire. I did. “That’s not the question.” This was the final confirmation, the closing of a painful chapter. I held her gaze. “Veronica, I need to know. Have you ever had a heart transplant?” She frowned. “A what?” “My heart is perfectly fine,” she scoffed. “Why would I ever have a morbid surgery like that?” Of course. It was my mistake all along. The hope that had been a flickering candle inside me for three years was finally extinguished. Disappointment washed over me, so profound it was almost a relief. I lowered my eyes. “I agree to end the engagement. I’ll also withdraw my bid for the gallery project. The contract is Julian’s.” I looked up, meeting her confused stare. “And I hope you’ll both be very happy.” A stunned silence fell over the room. Not just Veronica, but her sycophantic friends looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. Then, the dam of their disbelief broke, and a flood of ridicule washed over me. “Jesus, I can’t believe it,” one of them snickered. “The great Caleb Vance is so pathetic. He’ll give up anything just for a chance to win Veronica back!” “Honestly, the man has no backbone,” another added, laughing. “She tells him to call off the wedding, he obeys. She wants his biggest project, he hands it over on a platter. All that pathetic devotion, and for what? Her heart has always belonged to Julian.” “That’s enough,” Veronica said, cutting them off for the first time I could remember. She never interrupted when I was the butt of the joke. She stared at me, her brow furrowed. “Caleb, have you no pride? No self-respect at all?” she demanded. “I say jump, you ask how high. I call off our wedding, and you don’t even put up a fight?” I offered a small, bitter smile. “What’s the point of fighting for the wrong person?” My desolate tone seemed to prickle her. Her eyes widened, a strange emotion flickering in their depths. She reached out, grabbing my arm. “Caleb, you—” “Veronica,” Julian interjected smoothly, ever the calm observer. His voice was laced with false sympathy. “Perhaps we should step outside and give you and your… fiancé… a moment to talk.” “He is not my fiancé!” she snapped, and in her haste to prove her point, she shoved me away. I stumbled backward, losing my balance. The small of my back slammed into a side table. A glass of water tipped, teetering for a second before crashing to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny daggers. A shard skittered across the tile and sliced Julian’s ankle. He hissed in pain. Before he could even speak, Veronica’s entire demeanor shifted. She dropped to her knees beside him, her voice frantic with concern. “Julian, are you okay? Let’s get a doctor.” She helped him up as if he were made of porcelain. Meanwhile, a sharp, throbbing pain radiated from my lower back, leaving me momentarily breathless. As Veronica fussed over Julian, one of her friends, eager to curry favor, picked up a basin of murky water used for cleaning paint brushes from a nearby stand. With a sneer, he flung its contents in my face. “Don’t think that just because you’re handing over a project, you can act high and mighty in front of Julian!” he spat. “In our eyes, in Veronica’s heart, you’re nothing but a dog!” “Look how she panics over a tiny scratch on Julian,” another jeered. “Have you ever gotten that treatment after all these years of licking her boots? Do yourself a favor and crawl away before you humiliate yourself any further.” The room erupted in laughter, a chorus of mockery aimed at me. I wiped the grimy water from my face, my voice utterly devoid of emotion. “I won’t be bothering them. Because, as it turns out, I was never in love with Veronica.” The single sentence hung in the air, instantly silencing the room. Before they could muster a response, the door swung open and Veronica walked back in. Her eyes took in the scene—the shattered glass, my soaked clothes—and her brow knitted in annoyance. “What are you all doing?” No one expected her to return, and they certainly didn’t expect the flash of anger in her eyes to be, for once, on my behalf. A nervous silence followed, until someone finally mumbled, “We were just messing with him, Veronica…” “This is how you mess with someone?” Her voice was cold. “He may be a dog, but he’s my dog. No one else gets to kick him.” She glared at the group. “Whoever threw that water, slap yourselves. Now. Don’t make me do it.” This time, it was my turn to be surprised. Veronica, showing a shred of humanity? Defending me? Amid the surreal sound of reluctant, popping slaps, she strode over, wrapped her own cashmere scarf around my damp shoulders, and led me out of the room. I followed, completely bewildered. Once in the hallway, her phone rang. It was Julian. “Veronica, where did you go?” His voice, low and intimate even through the speaker, made my stomach clench. “I feel a little anxious here all by myself… Can you come back and stay with me?” She hesitated, her gaze flicking to me. “Caleb,” she said, her tone softening, “can you get to the infirmary on your own?” I looked down at my drenched shirt, at the raw scrape on my palm from breaking my fall. Then I looked at her, at the conflict in her eyes. I almost laughed. “Of course.” The two words were like a pardon. Relief washed over her face. “Good. Then you can just head home after.” I nodded. “Alright.” I didn’t go to the infirmary. I went home. The first thing I did was call the private investigator I’d hired three years ago. “Mr. Vance, I am so terribly sorry,” he said, his voice thick with apology. “We made a mistake in the initial report. On the day of the accident, it wasn’t just Veronica Donovan who was brought in. Her best friend, Claire Sterling, was in a separate accident on the same day…” He continued, “The Sterling family moved to New York right after her heart surgery. They haven’t been back in years.” I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, a long silence stretching between us. Finally, I found my voice. “I see. Find her exact location for me.” “And once you do,” I added, a spark of life igniting within me for the first time in years, “book me the next flight out. I need to see her.” 2. I’d always had a fragile constitution. The day’s turmoil—the emotional whiplash, the fall, the dousing—sent my body into rebellion. I collapsed into bed and fell into a feverish state. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but through the hazy fog of sickness, I felt a cool, gentle hand on my forehead. It felt just like Elara’s. Whenever I was sick, she would stay by my side all night, her presence a comforting balm, coaxing me to take my medicine, her voice a soft lullaby. The memory was so vivid, so painful, that a tear escaped my eye and traced a path down my temple. I reached out, my fingers closing around that hand, and whispered her name, a desperate prayer. “Elara…” A sharp pain shot up my arm as my wrist was squeezed, hard. My eyes flew open. I was staring into the furious face of Veronica Donovan. “Who,” she hissed, “is Elara?” The disappointment was a bitter pill. I let my gaze fall away. “An old friend,” I lied. “I was dreaming about when we were kids.” Suspicion still clouded her eyes, but she chose to accept it. She knew nothing of my past, nothing of the real reason I had pursued her. All she saw were the years of my unwavering devotion, and in her mind, a man as pathetically loyal as me couldn’t possibly have room in his heart for anyone else. “How did you get in?” I asked, my voice raspy. Her expression flickered. “You gave me the passcode to your place a while ago… I called you a dozen times, and when you didn’t answer, I let myself in.” She shifted her weight. “Tonight is the joint dinner with our families. I need you to…” “Don’t worry,” I cut her off. “I know what to do.” I understood perfectly. This sudden, uncharacteristic display of concern was just a prelude. She needed me to play the part of the devoted fiancé for one more night, to put on a show for our parents. After years of chasing a ghost in her, I figured I owed her this one last performance. A final act of penance for my mistake. I forced my aching body out of bed and into a tailored suit. The crisp fabric and knotted tie did little to hide my pallor, but I looked presentable. Veronica had already gone downstairs to wait in her car. When I opened the passenger door, a cloying mix of her perfume and an unfamiliar, masculine cologne assaulted my senses. It was sickening. Julian was sitting in the front seat. He turned and gave me a triumphant smile. “Veronica felt that on such an important occasion, she should bring along someone she truly cares about,” he said, his words dripping with insinuation. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Vance?” “I thought this was a dinner for our two families,” I said, my voice flat. Veronica glanced at me in the rearview mirror, a hint of guilt in her eyes. “There will be a lot of people there,” she said defensively. “Julian just returned to the country. It’s a good chance for him to network. Besides…” she hesitated. “My parents adore you. Maybe you could put in a good word for him.” I looked at the two of them in the front, so cozy, so obviously a pair. The absurdity of it all was almost comical. Her fiancé, tasked with singing the praises of her lover at their own family gathering. Only Veronica could be so brazen. And it was just one more piece of proof that she could never have been the one. “Fine,” I said. When we arrived, it was clear this wasn’t an intimate family dinner. The Donovans had used my family’s name to throw a lavish business soiree. For years, they had leveraged their connection to Vance Industries, raking in profits and climbing the social ladder. My role tonight was simple: to be the mascot, the living guarantee that no matter what deals the Donovans made, the Vance fortune would be there to back them up. Amid the drone of conversation, Julian approached me, a smug look in his eyes. “You look bored sitting over here all by yourself, Caleb. Why don’t you join us for a round of Truth or Dare?” Before I could refuse, his circle of friends had surrounded me, trapping me in their game. A beer bottle was spun. It pointed directly at me. Julian held out a deck of cards. “Pick one.” I flipped it over. The question was simple. “Is the person you love most in this room?” A ripple of laughter went through the group. “Seriously? Do we even need to ask?” someone shouted, their eyes flicking toward Veronica, who stood nearby, watching. “Yeah, everyone in this city knows Caleb Vance is Veronica’s biggest fanboy! Of course he loves her most!” They all thought the answer was obvious. A foregone conclusion. I slowly shook my head. “No,” I said, my voice clear and steady in the sudden silence. “She’s not here.”

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The ten-year reunion was a predictable sea of muted business attire and forced smiles. Julian Hayes, our class’s golden boy turned tech millionaire, was holding court, a scotch swirling in his hand. “Come on, Julian,” someone called out from the circle of admirers. “We’re all pushing thirty. Most of us are married, some even have kids. How is a guy like you still on the market?” A practiced, melancholy smile touched his lips. “Some of us are haunted,” he said, his voice just loud enough to carry. “Cursed to spend a lifetime chasing the ghost of the one that got away. I’d rather be alone than settle.” As if on cue, his gaze drifted past the crowd, landing on the woman beside me. On my wife, Seraphina. His eyes were a storm of unspoken history. The air crackled. A wave of excited whispers went through the group. “He’s talking about Sera, isn’t he?” “Oh my god, they were the couple everyone rooted for in college! I was heartbroken when he left and she ended up with Ethan.” “Let’s be real, Ethan just saw an opening. Julian and Sera were the real deal.” Amid the rising chatter, I leaned in, my lips brushing against my wife’s ear. Her skin was cool. “Darling,” I murmured, my voice a low rumble only she could hear. “They’re saying I stole you. What’s your take?” 1 “Wait, Ethan, you and Seraphina are married?!” The exclamation cut through the noise, followed by a ripple of shock. Julian’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Sera with raw disbelief. A few of the old classmates laughed awkwardly. “Seriously? You guys never said a word! We’ve known each other for over a decade, that’s cold.” “Yeah, unless… Sera didn’t want anyone to know.” “Well, she was a wreck when Julian left for his fellowship in London. I heard she spiraled into a deep depression.” “So, it makes sense she’d fall back on Ethan. He was always there, lurking.” “Don’t defend him. We all know Julian only left because his family had nothing. Ethan’s family might have been struggling, but they had a name. He took advantage…” I tuned out the noise, placing a piece of seared salmon—her favorite—onto Seraphina’s plate. Five years. Three years of dating, two of marriage. Not every ghost gets to write a sequel. Besides, Sera and I grew up together. We were history long before Julian was a chapter. If I hadn’t insisted she come tonight, he wouldn’t have even laid eyes on her. But she hadn’t touched the salmon. Her fork lay beside her plate, untouched. Her eyes were still fixed on Julian, a locked, silent conversation I wasn’t privy to. The warmth of the evening suddenly felt like a chill on my skin. I put my own fork down, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. Don’t tell me he still has a hold on her. I’d almost managed to forget how completely she’d once been consumed by him. Back in college, Julian was the brilliant, brooding scholarship kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Seraphina, the daughter of a real estate tycoon, had fallen for him, hard. She’d helped him, supported him, only for him to push her away with a snarl. “You’re just like the rest of them,” he’d spat, his pride more fragile than glass, “looking down on me from your ivory tower.” It took her a year to break through that wall. They were together, and then, in their junior year, he was gone. A single letter left on her pillow was his only goodbye. You deserve better than me. I won’t hold you back. She raced to JFK, but only saw the silver glint of his plane climbing into the clouds. The breakdown that followed was real. I was the one who found her on the edge of her balcony, a ghost in the city lights. I was the one who pulled her back from the brink. “He doesn’t want you, Sera. But I do,” I’d whispered, holding her trembling body. “What was it you loved? His ambition? His struggle? I can learn to be that man. Let me be the one who stays.” From that day on, I molded myself into a reflection of the man she’d lost, but with a promise to never leave. My family’s construction business, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, found a lifeline with a timely investment from her father. Then came the ultimatum from her parents: marry the heir to a rival firm or be cut off. I was prepared to step away, to release her. But that night, she came to me, wrapping her arms around me as if she were drowning. She cried, begging me not to abandon her too. “If you leave,” she sobbed into my chest, “it will kill me.” I smoothed her hair. “No one dies from a broken heart, Sera.” “But I love you.” “And Julian?” I asked, my own heart a stone in my chest. She pulled my head down, her lips finding mine in a desperate, searching kiss. “I hate him,” she breathed against my mouth. “From now on, all I want is Ethan.” My hands clenched at her waist, and I pulled her closer. By morning, her parents had accepted me as their son-in-law. The whispers in our social circle were brutal. They called me a climber, the man who saved his family’s failing company by seducing a vulnerable heiress. They were all just waiting, watching for the day she’d inevitably discard me. But she didn’t. For five years, we built a life. We were the power couple, our love a fortress. Until tonight. Until the ghost walked back in and I saw the look in her eyes. My heart gave a sharp, painful jolt. “How utterly pathetic.” Seraphina’s voice, sharp and cold as ice, sliced through the reunion’s buzz. Julian’s smile froze on his face. “I married Ethan because I love him,” she declared, her voice ringing with authority. “Who didn’t fall for a manipulative asshole in college? Don’t you dare try to tarnish my husband’s name with your revisionist history.” She turned the full force of her scorn on Julian. “And you, Julian. All that time in London, and this is what you’ve become? Have you even broken eight figures? A staff of ten?” The last of his smile evaporated. Then, she turned to me, her entire demeanor softening as she looped her arm through mine. “Honey, I told you we shouldn’t have come. This is such a bore.” “You’re not wrong,” I murmured back, my voice low and steady. “Anyone who upsets you deserves whatever you give them.” A stunned silence fell over the room. The party was, for all intents and purposes, over. As we left, the gossipers from before mumbled apologies, wishing us a long and happy life. Julian remained at the table, his head bowed, a solitary figure in his designer suit. As we stepped out of the ballroom, I felt it: Sera glanced back over her shoulder. He looked broken, a portrait of regret. Her hand, intertwined with mine, tightened for a fraction of a second. Then she faced forward again, a bright smile on her face as if nothing had happened, and we walked to the car. Back in our penthouse, the city lights sprawling beneath us, the evening’s events settled like a poison in my gut. I loosened my tie, my voice hoarse. “Sera… if you want to be with him again, we can talk about a divorce—” Before I could finish, she shoved me back onto the velvet sofa, hiking up her cocktail dress to straddle my lap. Her fingers silenced my lips, then traced a path down my throat, the touch electric against my skin. Her cool, composed face was inches from mine, a stark contrast to the fire in her eyes. “Don’t you ever say that,” she whispered, her breath warm against my cheek. “Now carry me to bed. I want you.” She kissed me, a hungry, claiming kiss that left no room for ghosts or doubts. We were a tangle of limbs and whispered words, moving from the living room to the bedroom. For a moment, all the ugliness faded. A genuine smile touched my lips. And then her phone rang, buzzing on the nightstand. Acting on instinct, I reached over and hit answer. Heavy, ragged breathing came through the speaker. Then Julian’s voice, thick with alcohol and choked with emotion. “Sera… why couldn’t you just wait for me? It’s only been five years…” He sobbed. “You call me a monster, but you have no idea… I’ve only ever loved you.” I let the silence hang for a beat, then spoke, my voice devoid of emotion. “It’s three in the morning, Julian.” Another pause. “Sera just fell asleep. She had a… strenuous evening. Should I wake her?” The line went dead. I looked over at my wife, her face serene in sleep. Her eyelashes fluttered, and I saw the faintest glimmer of a tear track at the corner of her eye. A nightmare, perhaps. Pulling her into my arms, I held her close, trying to banish the ghosts for both of us as I drifted into an uneasy sleep. 2 Two hours later, I woke to an empty bed. The space beside me was cold. Where did she go? A low murmur of voices drifted from the living room. My first thought was a break-in. I slid out of bed, not bothering with shoes, and crept to the bedroom door, cracking it open just enough to see. The scene in the living room froze the blood in my veins. The cool air from the vents felt like a polar vortex under my bare feet. Julian was on our sofa, his face a mask of anguish, clutching the sleeve of Seraphina’s silk robe. “I’m sorry, Sera, I was a fool. Please, just give me one more chance.” Sera stood stiffly, pulling her arm away. She had Julian’s phone in her hand and was speaking into it with cold fury. “Get over here and collect your boyfriend. He’s making a drunken scene outside my apartment building.” A few minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. I widened the crack in the door. The woman who rushed in was instantly recognizable: Claire Thorne. The sole heiress to the Thorne hospitality empire, a family whose fortune dwarfed even Sera’s. She lived in our building, a few floors up. Her eyes were red-rimmed with panic as she fussed over Julian. I almost had to admire his talent. In college, he had the heiress of the city’s top development firm ready to die for him. Now, after a few years abroad, he had the undisputed princess of New York’s high society wrapped around his finger. I closed the door silently as they left. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Mark. [You see this? That scumbag Julian was at The Carlyle bar, crying to some gossip columnist about how he still loves Sera. The video is already going viral!] [What a pathetic loser. Sees you two are happy and suddenly he’s full of regret.] I ignored his rant and sent him the photo I’d discreetly snapped of the scene in my living room. [Looks like he has a girlfriend. Claire Thorne.] Mark’s reply was instantaneous. [WTF?! Is there a brain-eating amoeba attached to that guy? What does Claire Thorne see in him?!] I slipped back into bed just as the first light of dawn was breaking. The chaos, however, was just beginning. I was jolted awake later that morning by the sound of shouting. I stumbled out of the bedroom to find Sera’s parents, Robert and Eleanor Vance, sitting ramrod straight on the sofa, their faces like thunderclouds. They’d seen the news. “Get that boy out of New York!” Robert’s voice boomed. “That pathetic video from last night… I’ve had three calls from board members this morning! This is a PR nightmare.” Eleanor turned to her daughter. “He’s the one who abandoned you, Seraphina. Don’t be a fool. He’s using these disgusting tactics to ruin your marriage, to ruin us.” “If you don’t handle this,” Robert finished, his voice a low threat, “the full weight of Vance Realty will come down on him. We will bury him.” He stormed out without another word. Seraphina stood biting her lip, her eyes red. She turned and saw me standing there. “Ethan,” she said, a flash of panic in her eyes. “It’s not what it looks like. And Julian is engaged to Claire Thorne now. I don’t know why he’s doing this.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll fix it.” And she did. Sera, who had been taking over the reins of her family’s company, went on the offensive. We did a series of high-profile interviews and photoshoots, positioning ourselves as the unshakable power couple. She used the positive press to launch an aggressive campaign, poaching contracts and deals right out from under the Thorne empire. It was a declaration of war. A month later, the war came to us. We were leaving a gala at The Met when Julian stumbled out from a darkened alcove, lurching towards us. His white shirt was askew, a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. “Sera, help me… please…” The scene was so eerily familiar, it was like a scene from a movie I’d seen a thousand times. He was the wounded hero, the noble soul beaten down by a cruel world. He grabbed for her sleeve, his eyes locking on me. He flinched, snatching his hand back as if burned. “Mr. Vance… Ethan… I’m sorry,” he stammered, shrinking back. “I’ll leave the city. I promise. You’ll never… you’ll never have to see me near her again.” His voice cracked. He clenched his fists, squeezed his eyes shut, then turned and limped away, a solitary, tragic figure disappearing into the New York night. I almost had to laugh. The performance was flawless. He had perfectly staged it to look like I, the jealous husband, had sent thugs to teach him a lesson. He was painting me as a violent monster, all while playing the victim to win Sera’s sympathy. The problem was, he was Claire Thorne’s fiancé. Making a move on him would be corporate suicide. I would never be that stupid. I shot a glance at Sera. Her face was an unreadable mask. “I heard Vance Realty blacklisted him,” she said, her voice cool as she took my arm. “His company is about to go under. He’s been begging for a lifeline.” She smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Not my problem.” In the car, I tested the waters. “Sera… you don’t actually think I had anything to do with that, do you?” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I know you didn’t,” she said softly. “I trust you.” I nodded, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. She knew me. She knew how hard I’d fought to rebuild my family’s name, how much I valued our stability. She knew I wouldn’t risk it all on such a reckless act. The next morning, five hundred million dollars vanished from our primary corporate account. It was the seed money for our IPO. Without it, my company, my family’s legacy, was dead in the water. I called Sera. No answer. Panicked, I drove to her office, storming past her assistant and throwing open the door. And there he was. Julian, sitting on the plush sofa, looking pale and fragile, a fresh bandage on his cheek. Seraphina was beside him. Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting mine. “Five hundred million. It’s gone from the account, Sera. Was it…” I needed to hear her say it. “I took it,” she said, her voice flat. “Why?” Her eyes were chips of ice. “Julian’s company was five hundred million in debt. I paid it off for him.” Julian himself looked stunned, fumbling for his phone to check his company’s accounts. I stared at her, uncomprehending. She stood, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind her, shielding him like a mother protecting her child. “You owe him this, Ethan!”

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My mother’s voice, sharp and laced with that familiar disappointment, crackled through the phone. “Melina. Any news?” I sighed, staring out my penthouse window at the glittering New York skyline. “No, Mom. Not yet.” “This is number nineteen, isn’t it? Honestly, there’s no such thing as perfect genetic stock. You keep holding out, and you’ll find yourself past your prime. The clock, my dear, is ticking.” After we hung up, my gaze drifted to the man sleeping in my bed, his profile soft in the ambient city light. Julian. Could he be the one? The father of my child… and my next meal. 1 My name is Melina, and I am, for lack of a better term, a praying mantis. We are a race of sirens, born into the stuff of male fantasy. Wide eyes, delicate jawlines, impossible waists, and legs that go on for days. We are sculpted to drive men to madness. After millennia of evolution, we are, on the surface, indistinguishable from human women. There is, however, one small biological imperative that separates us. Mating, for us, is an hours-long affair. And to successfully conceive, we require… a significant nutritional supplement, provided by our chosen partner. I’ve always been pickier than the other girls. I’m searching for the perfect man, and my criteria are non-negotiable: devastatingly handsome, a genius-level intellect, and over six-foot-one. But there’s a crucial fourth requirement—he must be a monster. A truly wicked soul. One can’t just go around consuming the innocent. That invites a kind of cosmic retribution I have no interest in. And so, my adult life has been a revolving door of men. I’ve had a rockstar with hollow eyes, a college quarterback built like a god, a Wall Street wolf with a predatory smile, and an Ivy League poet who quoted Keats in bed. Yet here I was, thirty years old, and still empty-handed. My phone buzzed, pulling me from my reverie. It was Julian. Hey beautiful. Dinner tonight? I miss you. 2 Julian Vance was candidate number nineteen. He was twenty-six, a brilliant M.D./Ph.D. student at Columbia, doing his residency at a top Manhattan hospital. We’d met on one of those elite dating apps for people who claimed to be too busy for love. For our first date, we ended up at a 24-hour Korean spa in Queens. After watching a Knicks game on the big screen, he confessed his feelings in the quiet of the communal lounge, sometime after midnight. “What is it you like about me?” I’d asked, teasing him. “I’m four years older than you, you know.” He just smiled, his eyes sincere. “Age is just a number. My only worry is that a woman like you would find me too… inexperienced.” “Well,” I’d purred, “why don’t we find out?” And I kissed him. His lips were soft, yielding. He smelled of clean soap and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him. He was a good boyfriend. Despite a brutal residency schedule, he always made time for me. He was perpetually broke, living on a resident’s salary, but was generous to a fault, always insisting on paying. He was tall, sculpted, brilliant—perfect in every way. And that was the problem. He seemed to be a genuinely good person. It was time to end it. My time was precious. My affections needed to be distributed. That night, after dinner, we went back to a hotel. He stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to his skin, and found me waiting in bed, wearing nothing but desire. My body, a landscape of curves and long limbs, had been the undoing of eighteen other men. But Julian was different. We’d spent more than a dozen nights like this, yet we’d never gone all the way. Tonight was no exception. I could see the tension in his jaw, the fight in his eyes, but he just swallowed hard, his face flushing, and gently pulled the covers over me. That was it. I was done. “Let’s break up,” I said coldly, sitting up and reaching for my clothes. “I’m tired of this game.” Panic flared in his eyes. “What? Why? No, I don’t want to break up.” He rushed to my side, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Melina, what did I do wrong? Just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Please, don’t do this.” I rolled my eyes, pushing him away. “You’re my boyfriend, Julian, but you can’t meet my needs. What’s the point? Besides, the age gap is real. I’m thirty. My mother is on my case about marriage. You’re still a student. I can’t afford to wait for you.” I was dressed and heading for the door, but he grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Don’t go. Please,” he begged. “I’ll marry you. Thanksgiving is next week. Come home with me. Meet my mother. As soon as we get back, we’ll go to City Hall.” He punctuated his frantic words with kisses—on my lips, my neck, my shoulders—until my resolve melted and my body went soft against his. 3 His desperation worked. I stayed. We fell back into bed in a tangle of limbs and feverish whispers. But just as we reached the point of no return, he stopped, his breath ragged against my skin. “Just a little longer, my love,” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint. “Wait until we’re married. I want this to be right.” So pure. After all my years, I’d finally found a unicorn. Maybe… I could give up the idea of children. Maybe a life with someone like this wouldn’t be so bad. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep. I dreamed I had a daughter. She was beautiful, with skin like porcelain, wide eyes, and impossibly long lashes. A perfect miniature of me. I turned my head, wanting to see her father. A man lay on the floor, soaked in blood. I held my breath, leaning closer, and then I realized with a jolt of horror—he was headless. I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering. The clock read 3:00 AM. My eyes were painfully dry. My kind has compound eyes, a trait I usually hide with cosmetic contacts. I’d fallen asleep without changing them. I stumbled toward the bathroom and saw a sliver of light under the door. A figure was hunched in the corner, speaking in a low, urgent whisper into his phone. “…Mom, the asset is secured. I’m bringing her home in a few days… Don’t worry, she’s perfect. Five-foot-eight, one-thirty, ideal measurements. Healthy, no genetic markers… She’s a premium-grade asset. The investors will be thrilled.” It was Julian. In the dim, sterile light, he looked like a stranger. A wave of disappointment washed over me. The sweet, innocent student was just another piece of trash. But then, a different feeling bloomed in my chest, a dark and thrilling excitement. This was it. My perfect prey. Mom, I thought with savage glee, we’re finally going to have a baby. 4 We left the next day. Julian was in a hurry to get me home. As it happened, so was I. A few overheard words weren’t enough. I needed to see his evil for myself, confirmed beyond any doubt. Julian, I thought, don’t you dare disappoint me now. With Thanksgiving around the corner, all the trains were booked. Julian suggested we take my car, explaining his hometown was deep in the Appalachians, where a vehicle was a necessity. As we drove out of my garage, he turned to me, his expression carefully casual. “Babe, could we keep this trip between us for now? We can surprise your family and friends when we get back.” “Why?” He sighed dramatically. “I just… I don’t want them to talk you out of this. My family, we don’t have much. And being a doctor isn’t a path to riches. I’m afraid they’ll think you’d have a hard life with me.” I smiled, playing my part. “Whatever you want, Julian. I’d do anything for you.” I love you to death, I added silently. Yours, specifically. I drove the entire way while Julian sat in the back, citing motion sickness, hidden behind a baseball cap, a facemask, and sunglasses. Hiding from surveillance cameras, no doubt. I decided to poke him. “Aren’t you hot under all that? You look less like you’re going home for the holidays and more like you’re on your way to murder someone.” He flinched before forcing a laugh. “Just used to wearing a mask at the hospital. Are you tired? We can switch.” “No, I’m fine,” I said sweetly. “You should rest.” He needed to conserve his energy, after all. After a dozen-plus hours, we arrived. His home was in a tiny village in rural Pennsylvania, nestled deep in the mountains. We turned off the highway onto a series of winding, unmarked roads. My GPS was useless. No outsider could ever find this place. As we neared the village, a crowd materialized, surrounding my car. Old men, young boys, fathers with babies. There were men in simple clothes holding the latest iPhones. But there were no women. That was wrong. In a place this poor and isolated, you’d expect to see women and children everywhere. The men were usually away, working in cities. Something was deeply wrong with this place. Julian’s words echoed in my mind. Premium-grade asset. The investors will be thrilled. Who were the investors? These men outside my car, their faces a mask of rustic simplicity, their eyes devouring me with a raw, possessive hunger? 5 The car crawled through the throng. “They’re all staring at me,” I said, my voice trembling convincingly. “It feels… strange. Maybe we should just get a hotel?” Julian patted my hand. “Don’t worry. People in Blackwood Creek are just… friendly. They heard I was bringing my girlfriend home.” He rolled down his window. “Hey, everyone, give us some room! You’re scaring my wife!” “Let’s get a look at her, Julian!” one man yelled. “Tell her to take off the sunglasses!” “Yeah, damn fine figure on her. Looks like she’ll breed well.” “Our Julian’s the smart one, alright. Always brings back the best.” The men’s crude laughter and leering made my skin crawl. Julian, however, was unfazed. “What’s the rush?” he called back with a grin. “You’ll all get a good look in a couple of days.” The crowd finally parted. The car wound through a few more turns before pulling up to Julian’s house. It wasn’t a dilapidated shack. It was a modern, three-story home that screamed of money. Two people were waiting. His mother, a woman with a strained smile, and a younger woman he introduced as his cousin, Clara. “You must be Melina,” his mother chirped. “My, you’re even more beautiful in person. Come in! You must be exhausted.” I handed over the gifts I’d brought. While Julian’s mother was overly warm, Clara was cold and withdrawn, her eyes holding a deep, unsettling sadness. After dinner, Julian’s mother led me upstairs. “This is Clara’s room. You’ll sleep here. It’s tradition, you see. The bride and groom can’t sleep together before the wedding.” She smiled that same strained smile. “Now, dear, if you don’t mind taking off your clothes… I had a seamstress make some dresses, and I want to see if they fit.” 6 Why on earth would she need me to undress in front of her? Unless she wanted to inspect the merchandise. To confirm I was as “premium” as advertised. Fine. A little nudity meant nothing to my kind. Under her watchful gaze, I slowly undressed until I stood naked before her. Her eyes lit up. She moved closer, her gaze clinical and thorough, scanning every inch of my body. I felt like a prize pig on an auction block. It was utterly dehumanizing. “A perfect fit!” she finally declared. “As if they were made just for you.” She bustled downstairs and returned with a glass of milk. “Drink this. It will help you sleep.” Her eyes were fixed on me, waiting. I drank it all. Soon, a heavy drowsiness washed over me. I collapsed onto the bed, the world dissolving. Just before I lost consciousness, I heard the door open and Julian’s voice. “Well, Mom? Told you she was top of the line.” “She is,” his mother replied. “The best one you’ve ever brought back.” “I’m thinking we don’t sell this one. We keep her. For breeding.” “Alright. It’s your call. We’ll have Clara watch her. Let’s go make the arrangements.” 7 I awoke to a gag in my mouth and a crushing weight on my body. The air was thick with the stench of stale breath and excited, grunting pants. “Hurry it up, Billy! Julian will be back soon!” a voice whispered. “Relax. Clara said him and his ma went out. We got time.” “Well, don’t take all night! The rest of us are waiting!” “Can’t believe Julian’s keeping this one. My old lady’s worn out after so many births. I was hoping to buy this one…” My eyes snapped open. A heavyset man was on top of me. By the bed, several others were lined up, waiting their turn. These foul creatures thought themselves worthy of fathering my children? The very idea was an abomination. I began to scream, my voice muffled by the gag, feigning terror. “She’s awake! Even better,” another one chuckled, closing in. “Now the real fun can begin.” I stopped struggling, and through the gag, I gave them a look of pure invitation. Let’s play.

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