Author: Momo Chan

We brought on a new batch of interns at Apex Innovations. In a gesture of corporate goodwill, I had my assistant, Claire, order them all Starbucks. I was even planning on leading their orientation session myself. But after the delivery notification came through, the intern who’d aced her interview, a girl named Scarlett, tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, coffee’s here. Go get it. You’re security, shouldn’t you have some initiative?” I was taken aback. It had been a long time since anyone had ordered me around like that. Before I could clarify my position, she gave me a hard shove. “Are you deaf? I said go get the coffee.” She looked me up and down with disdain. “God, I hate dealing with you blue-collar types. Can’t even handle a simple task.” Then came the kicker. “I’m just letting you know, my aunt is the CEO of this company. Piss me off, and I’ll have you fired before you can blink.” I narrowed my eyes. This was interesting. I have a 100% controlling stake in this company. I had no idea I’d been replaced. 1 “Did you hear me? Stop wasting my time and get downstairs. Now.” The intern, Scarlett Monroe, was practically yelling, her finger pointed directly at my chest. I had to admire her audacity. Not since I’d wrestled control of the company from my older siblings seven years ago had anyone dared to speak to me this way. It was the new intern orientation, so it was perfectly understandable that they wouldn’t recognize me. But recognition, or lack thereof, doesn’t excuse basic human decency. I glanced around. A few of the other interns were already watching us, whispering amongst themselves. “Did you hear that? Scarlett’s aunt is the CEO! We’re working with corporate royalty!” “And this security guard is just ignoring her? What an idiot.” One of them even offered Scarlett a sycophantic smile. “Don’t waste your breath on him, Scarlett. He’ll work his entire life and still won’t be able to afford one of your handbags.” Watching these bright, highly-educated young people fall in line behind her, I was reminded that a diploma has absolutely no correlation with character. Buoyed by the attention, Scarlett’s smirk widened. She gave me the middle finger. “You hear that, security? If you want to hold onto your pathetic little job, you’ll go get the coffee.” “And if I don’t?” I asked, my voice calm. She clearly hadn’t expected a lowly “guard” to defy her in public. Her face flushed a deep, blotchy red. “Then I’m announcing that you’re fired! Now get the hell out of my sight!” The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. A young man with glasses spoke up, his voice timid. “Scarlett… M-Ms. Monroe… maybe don’t make things difficult for him. He probably has his own duties… Look, I can go downstairs and get the coffee for everyone. You don’t have to fire him.” It was a perfectly good off-ramp, but Scarlett just snorted. “What, is this loser your cousin or something? Why are you so eager to help him?” Her gaze, cold and hard, settled back on me. “Let me say this one more time so it gets through your thick skull. My aunt is the CEO. This internship is just a formality for me; I’ll be a department head in a few weeks. I am an elite, someone a low-life like you will never even get the chance to speak to.” She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. “If you know what’s good for you, you will be downstairs in three seconds to bring me my coffee. Otherwise, I will have you blacklisted from this entire industry.” I wasn’t intimidated. In fact, I almost smiled. “Scarlett, why don’t you go ask around? Find out if the CEO of this company is your aunt, or if it’s me. Adrian Sterling.” I expected my name to make her pause, maybe even do a quick search on her phone. Instead, she shoved me again. “Who the hell do you think you are, impersonating the CEO?” A nasty realization seemed to dawn on her. “Oh, I get it. You heard my aunt is the CEO and now you want to get in her pants. Let me save you the trouble. The Monroes are a powerful family. We don’t associate with trash like you.” The amusement I’d been feeling turned to ice. The last person who spread those kinds of rumors about me is currently serving a five-to-ten-year sentence. This girl had a real talent for dancing on landmines. Just then, the conference room door opened. The young man with glasses struggled in, juggling a cardboard tray with a dozen cups of coffee. He offered a nervous smile. “Ms. Monroe, please don’t be angry. I brought the coffee up.” He glanced at me and winked. “Hey man, she’s in a bad mood. Maybe you should step out for a bit.” A flicker of warmth cut through my anger. At least one of these interns was worth keeping. I reached out to take a cup from him, but Scarlett slapped my hand away. “Whoa there, security. I know you’ve probably never had coffee this expensive, but that doesn’t give you the right to steal it.” She turned to the group. “My aunt bought this coffee for us, as a favor to me. A security guard isn’t entitled to it. Go drink your instant coffee garbage.” 2 Since I founded this company, I’ve fostered a culture of respect. We have job titles, yes, but at our core, we believe everyone is equal. In Scarlett Monroe’s world, there were elites, and there were peasants. And I was a peasant. I seriously needed to have a talk with my head of HR. When I didn’t respond, Scarlett began distributing the coffees herself. When she was done, there was one cup left over. She walked over to a large potted plant in the corner and poured the entire latte into the soil. “You see that, security?” she announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I would rather pour this Starbucks down the drain than let a low-life like you drink it.” She then tossed the empty cup at me. “And throw this out. We can’t have you taking pictures with the cup, pretending you can afford it, trying to catfish women online.” I just watched her, my expression unreadable. From the moment I’d walked in, I had given her multiple chances to de-escalate. Instead, she chose to double down every single time. And this aunt of hers… I had to find out who had the gall to impersonate me as the CEO of my own company. With that thought, I decided to play along a little longer. I let a bit of the tension leave my shoulders. “Scarlett, you said your aunt is the CEO. Who is she?” Seeing my apparent capitulation, Scarlett became even more smug. “Don’t think I don’t know your game. You’re just trying to get her name out of me so you can stalk her.” She smirked. “I’ve seen guys like you before. Not every piece of trash gets to marry into a family like ours. Do yourself a favor, turn right out the door, and find a nice Uber Eats driver to settle down with.” Her words made me realize how foolish my plan to play along was. This needed to end now. I gave up on trying to get information from her and pulled the conference room door open, intending to call security. Scarlett slammed it shut, blocking my path. “You think you can run away after I’ve exposed you? Not a chance.” Her eyes glittered with malice. “Here’s the deal. You get on your knees and bow to me twice, and I’ll let you leave.” “Otherwise… you can kiss your career goodbye.” I stared at her, my voice dangerously low. “I hope you don’t regret a single word you’ve just said.” The next thing I knew, the coffee in her hand was flying through the air, drenching the front of my custom-tailored suit. Without a single thought, my hand shot out and I slapped her across the face. “You’re asking for it.” Stunned, she touched her cheek, and then her face contorted in a mask of fury. She grabbed my arm. “Everyone, look! This low-life tried to hit on me, and when I rejected him, he assaulted me! Does this company have any rules? Is this what you allow here?” She was screaming now. “Some uneducated loser thinks he can put his hands on a graduate student who studied abroad? He must be insane!” She turned to the other interns. “Whoever can make this man kneel and apologize to me, I’ll have my aunt promote you on the spot!” At the word “promote,” their eyes lit up. “I’ll hold him down for you, Ms. Monroe! Make him bow 99 times!” “This creep was obviously trying to sleep his way to the top! He probably sold his ass just to get this security job!” “Ms. Monroe has spoken! This disrespectful bastard needs to be taught a lesson!” Only Ben, the young man with the glasses, tried to intervene. “Stop it! This is illegal! Even if her aunt is the CEO, you can’t treat someone like this!” But he was one person against a dozen. They shoved him to the ground. I reached for my phone to call the head of security directly, but Scarlett was faster. She snatched it from my hand and smashed it on the floor. “Looking for some sugar mama to come save you?” she sneered. “Too late. In this company, my word is law.” 3 I had reached my limit. This woman, for all her education, was a toxic, vindictive menace. She had to be fired, blacklisted, and escorted off the premises immediately. And every intern who had enabled her would be joining her. Before the mob could descend on me, I kicked out, striking Scarlett in the stomach and sending her stumbling back. I yanked the door open, ready to find my security team. But in the next second, a pair of interns grabbed me from behind and dragged me back into the room. Scarlett was clutching her stomach, her face twisted in pain and rage. “You… you bastard! You actually kicked me! I’m going to kill you today!” At her signal, two more interns seized my arms, pinning me in place. “He disrespected you, Ms. Monroe! He needs to be taught a lesson!” “I say we strip him naked and throw him out on the street! Let’s make him famous!” A few of the male interns crowded around Scarlett, their faces etched with concern. “Are you alright, Ms. Monroe? Should I take you to the hospital?” Scarlett ignored them. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “You still don’t get it, do you? You need to be taught some respect.” Her voice dropped, thick with venom. “A worthless piece of trash who sells his body for a living dares to touch me? You must have a death wish.” She gave a nod to the interns holding me. “Make him kneel. You’d better get on your knees and apologize, then take off your clothes piece by piece for our entertainment. If you don’t… I’ll have someone make you disappear, and no one will ever know.” I narrowed my eyes. The last time I’d heard a threat like that, it was from my own brother and sister. One of them is now permanently exiled overseas, and the other has been struck from the family records. I had no problem arranging a similar fate for Scarlett Monroe. Perhaps my expression was more menacing than I realized. The interns holding me exchanged a nervous glance. No one made a move to force me to my knees. Scarlett was about to do it herself when the conference room door swung open again. My executive assistant, Claire, walked in, her arms full of files. She stopped dead, her face paling as she took in the scene. She dropped the files on the table and rushed over, pushing the interns away from me. “What is going on here?” she demanded, her voice sharp and authoritative. “Who gave you the right to do this?” The interns might not have known me, but they all knew Claire. They fell silent. All except Scarlett. She laughed, assuming Claire was rushing to her defense. She clapped Claire on the shoulder. “Claire, honey, you’ve got good instincts. Always know who to suck up to.” She gestured at me. “I don’t know how you people hire security, but this one is completely unhinged. Get the head of HR in here. I need to have a serious talk with him about hiring standards…” Before she could finish, Claire had already guided me to a chair, her expression a mixture of fury and concern. “Mr. Sterling, are you alright? I’m calling the police right now.”

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Chapter 1 The so-called symbiosis between humans and vampires is a lie. A charade, thin as a cicada’s wing, stretched over the chasm between predator and prey. In the dynasty of the blood-clans, they call this charade a “delicate balance.” My job, as a Hunter of the Order, is to shatter it. My mission is here, in the deceptively serene city of Havencrest. My target: the House of Fairchild. Right now, I’m buried in a thicket of roses they call “The Blood Hells.” The name fits. The petals are a red so dense it bleeds to black at the edges, and when they’re in full bloom, the garden does look like a beautiful, terrible corner of hell. The cloying, sweet scent hangs in the air like old blood. Intel says the young master of the house, Emil Fairchild, is obsessed with them. A love for the color red. It’s about the only thing about him that fits the vampire archetype. Intel also says his name is Emil, and he’s a few years shy of his two-hundredth birthday—a teenager by their standards. Because of this, he doesn’t even have a formal blood servant. For me, that’s the perfect opening. I shift my weight, the cold, hard outline of the silver dagger tucked in my belt pressing against my palm. It keeps me sharp. The whisper of footsteps on the gravel path sends a jolt through me. I hold my breath, sinking deeper into the thorny embrace of the roses. A blond vampire appears at the end of the path. I narrow my eyes, studying my potential target. The Kindred are all blessed with an unnatural beauty, and he’s no exception. He’s tall and slender, his golden hair a stark contrast to the requisite vampiric pallor, giving his face a vitality that shouldn’t belong to his kind. He is, as the reports suggested, energetic—rumor has it even his tutor, a stern old creature named Silas, can barely keep track of him. He doesn’t seem to notice me. His gaze is lost in the sea of crimson blossoms. My briefing included a psychological profile: he despises the long, tedious lessons on Kindred history and etiquette, preferring the solitude of his garden. He claims that only here, surrounded by a red as fierce and hot as fire, can he feel truly “alive.” A creature that sustains itself on stolen life, seeking a sense of vitality from a plant. The irony is laughable. Just as I’m cataloging his weaknesses, his head snaps in my direction. I’m made. My stomach plummets. My right hand is already gripping the hilt of my dagger. But to my astonishment, his brilliant blue eyes hold no alarm, no hostility. Instead, something sparks within them, hot and fast like flint striking tinder. He freezes, as if enchanted, staring right at me. The entire world seems to fade into a gray wash around him, leaving only me, the intruder, in sharp focus. So much for stealth. I rise to my feet, making a show of calmly brushing crimson petal fragments from my clothes. I let my own eyes—red, a rare trait in humans and a mark of my lineage—fill with the practiced contempt and vigilance of a Hunter. He doesn’t seem to see it. “I—I’m Emil. Emil Fairchild.” His voice is a slight stammer, his feet rooted to the spot. He looks like he wants to step closer but is terrified of scaring me away. What a naive little fool. “I know.” My voice is ice. I’m taller than him by a few inches, and I use the height to look down on him as I initiate my backup plan. “Emil Fairchild, in the name of the goddess Themis…” “My lord! It is time for your lesson!” A furious roar shatters the moment. A silver-haired, ancient-looking vampire—Silas, it must be—leans out of a high window before disappearing, clearly on his way down. My gaze sharpens on him. “My lord, who is this?” he demands as he storms into the garden, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the sword at his hip. This old one. He’s the real threat. Emil snaps out of his trance, his eyes, now filled with a desperate curiosity, turning back to me. He doesn’t even know my name. “Cole,” I say, my voice clipped. “Yes, yes! His name is Cole.” Emil rushes to repeat it, eager to dismiss the old man. “Cole is a… a new friend. He’s my friend.” “Cole?” Silas’s eyes are like razors, scraping over me. “I have never seen him on the grounds.” His nostrils flare. He can smell my humanity. I can almost hear his thoughts, the standard vampire litany: humans, those grasping, greedy creatures, nothing but filth and deceit beneath a thin skin. I see his hand tighten on his sword. Emil frantically steps between us. “But my lord, you don’t have any human friends,” Silas says, his tone a clear warning. Then, a new thought seems to occur to him. Perhaps he’s considering Emil’s impending coming-of-age ceremony, and the need for a human blood servant as a sort of… final project. He relaxes his grip. “The Kindred do not need to be friends with humans. I have taught you this, my lord,” Silas says, his gaze flicking from Emil to me. “But they can be kept.” He claps Emil on the shoulder. “The estate’s wards are strong. You needn’t worry about any dirty little hunters.” The first part was an instruction for Emil. The second was a warning for me. This old bastard is sharper than I thought. Once the meddling tutor is gone, Emil dares to drift closer. It’s only then I realize the golden-haired aristocrat is indeed a bit shorter than me. “Emil Fairchild. My name is—” “You already said that,” I cut in coolly, observing him. He is cautious to the point of seeming timid, a perfect match for the naive profile I was given. He seems to be wrestling with Silas’s words. I decide to force the issue. “Blood servant. What is that?” “No! That’s not—Cole isn’t my blood servant. You can do anything you want, just… as long as you’re willing to stay.” The words burst out of him, and he immediately flushes, embarrassed by his own forwardness. He’s like a child who wants to keep a bright, warm thing close to him, just like his garden of Blood Hells. And right now, I’m the bright, warm thing that has caught his eye. “In a vampire’s mansion, what else is there for a human to do?” I ask, tossing the cold, hard reality back at him. He thinks for a moment. The only job opening for a human in the entire estate is… “…A blood servant,” he whispers, his voice falling. “Will I die?” I lock my eyes on his, asking the critical question. “No! Never. I would never hurt you,” he promises, so quickly it’s as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish on the spot. “Then I’ll do that.” I accept, my voice flat. Staying is the first step of the mission. Becoming his blood servant is the perfect cover. He seems genuinely thrilled. As he leads me back toward the manor, he can’t help but return to the topic of his beloved roses. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” “What?” “The flowers.” He lights up whenever he speaks of the Blood Hells. “So beautiful. Like the purest blood, covering the whole garden until there’s nothing left but red… an ocean of red…” He must have sensed my silence, because he turns, his gaze meeting my thinly veiled disdain. “Sorry. Humans probably don’t like to hear about things like that,” he says, cutting himself off. He leads me to a room in one of the upper wings of the house. I had no idea what being a “blood servant” actually entailed. Since the day I arrived, the golden-haired aristocrat has done nothing but drag me around the estate, either listening to him talk endlessly about his horrifying roses, or convincing me to skip his lessons with Silas to go sit and stare blankly at the garden with him. But there’s something strange about him. He watches me with an unnerving, fiery intensity. At first, I tried to ignore it. But as the days stretched into weeks, his staring grew more brazen. He can watch me in silence for what feels like hours. Yet, every time I meet his gaze, he snatches his eyes away, pretending he was looking at something else entirely. The Kindred gave me a reason to be here: to be his blood servant. But that’s not my real purpose. My purpose is to assassinate the master of the House of Fairchild. As I’m lost in thought, a sharp rap comes at my door. It’s late. The only person who would visit at this hour is the blond vampire himself. Setting aside the fact that he’s a blood-sucking monster, Emil is… interesting. But that doesn’t matter. Human and Kindred. We are two poles of a magnet that can never align. I pull the door open and find, not Emil, but his tutor, Silas. “You—” The older, more refined vampire presses a finger to his lips, silencing me with a look of pure disdain. He hands me a heavy, leather-bound book, turns on his heel, and walks away without another word. Baffled, I close the door and carry the book to my desk. In the lamplight, I see it’s a history of the Kindred, detailing their origins… and the precise rituals for creating a blood servant. A chill runs down my spine. Even now, after all this time, I find it impossible to see Emil as a true vampire, a monster I am sworn to kill. I close the book. A small, unassuming note flutters out from between the pages. The ink is faded, but the message is perfectly clear. [Becoming his blood servant is the only way you stay, human.] The old bastard is forcing my hand. He’s worried that Emil spends all his time with a human and hasn’t taken a single bite, but he’s also worried I’m a threat. Only by becoming a blood servant—bound by a magical contract never to betray or harm him—will he truly trust me. But if that contract is forged, I can never harm any vampire. The mission will be a catastrophic failure. It’s an impossible choice. As I’m caught in the dilemma, another knock sounds at the door. I assume it’s Silas, returning for some reason. But when I open it, I see Emil. He looks like he just came from the bath, his skin still damp, his blond hair not fully dry. “Cole? Did you need something from me?” I swear, for a split second, I saw something pure and unfiltered in his eyes: joy. A knot tightens in my throat. I change my planned words. “Uh, yeah. Can I come in?” “Of course.” He steps aside, letting me into his bedroom before closing the door behind us. The clean, warm scent of him envelops me as I pass, and a strange unease settles in my stomach. It’s only when I glimpse the open collar of his silk pajamas, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his chest, that the unease sharpens into an unfamiliar thirst, hot and dry in the back of my throat. He steps closer, and I have to force myself to turn away, holding out the book. “Your tutor gave this to me.” Emil takes it, his cheeks flushing as he flips through the pages. “Silas, he didn’t mean anything by it… it’s just because…” Silas. So that’s the old man’s name. “You’ve never had a blood servant before, have you?” I state the fact plainly, cutting off his excuses. He looks at me and nods, suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands. Seeing him like this, so innocent he’s almost clumsy, a thought flashes through my mind: maybe being bitten by him wouldn’t be so unbearable. Besides, it’s just a bite. Not the contract. A simple set of tooth marks would be enough to placate the suspicious old tutor, making the eventual assassination that much easier to carry out. With that thought, I stand up and walk to his bed, sitting on the edge of the lavish, ornate frame. Then, looking him straight in the eye, I pull open the collar of my shirt, exposing the strong, clean line of my neck. “Care to try?” “No, that’s not what I—” I cut him off, pressing him again, my voice a low murmur, like the serpent in the garden. “Do you want to bite me?”

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On the eve of our wedding, my fiancé, Carter Hayes, the newly minted CEO of his family’s empire, threw himself one last bachelor party. He came home staggering, soaked in the kind of expensive whiskey that clings to a man’s suit like a cheap promise. I was the one who peeled him out of the car, and his arms wrapped around me in the marble foyer, pulling me into a desperate, searing kiss. His breath was hot, thick with a boozy desire as he murmured into my hair, “Ava… God, I love you, Ava.” Then he collapsed into a dead sleep. The next morning, Ava Reed, his executive assistant, posted a cryptic message on her Instagram story: The deepest loves are the ones we must keep silent. I’m so happy you’ve found your person. Wishing you a lifetime of happiness. The comments under the blog posts announcing our wedding turned into a cesspool overnight. I was a homewrecker, a shrew who’d stolen a good man from his true love. The vitriol was biblical. My best friend, Chloe, who also happens to head my company’s PR department, was practically vibrating with anxiety. “Catherine, if this narrative takes hold, our stock is going to tank before the opening bell.” I took a slow sip of my coffee, the porcelain warm against my lips. “What’s the panic?” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Release the security footage from the garage entrance.” I set the cup down. “And make sure you get a clean shot of his face. But blur hers. And zoom in on the logo of his suit jacket. He’s the only man in this city still wearing that season’s Tom Ford.” 1 Ten minutes after the clip went live, the internet broke. X, Instagram, Bloomberg, every screen in the financial district lit up with the same story. #HayesCheats: New Video Shows CEO Carter Hayes in Passionate Embrace with Assistant on Wedding Eve The Price of Love: Did Catherine Price’s Golden Boy Have a Last-Minute Change of Heart? Who is Ava Reed? The Secretary at the Center of the Hayes Corporation Scandal The three headlines went viral, painting the digital landscape a violent shade of red. The phones in my office suite began to shriek. Investors, board members, reporters—a chorus of hyenas demanding blood. My own assistant, Jenna, clutched her headset, her face pale. “Catherine,” she stammered, “Hayes Corp’s PR team, Carter’s grandmother… the entire board. They’re… they’re losing their minds.” I gave her a look that silenced her. She swallowed. “They want you to release a statement immediately. They’ve drafted it. They want you to say the photo is misleading, that his assistant felt faint from low blood sugar and Mr. Hayes was just helping her.” A humorless laugh escaped my lips. “A statement? Why in God’s name would I clean up their mess?” My voice dropped, turning to steel. “I am Carter Hayes’s wife. The one he left standing alone at our rehearsal dinner. And now I’m supposed to provide cover for him and his little C-suite Lolita?” “Jenna,” I asked, my eyes locking on hers. “Do I look like the kind of fool who would do that?” She shook her head, mute. The office door slammed open with a sound like a gunshot. Carter stood there, a mess of a man. His hair was disheveled, his suit from the night before was wrinkled, and his eyes were shot with blood. He threw his phone onto my desk. It skidded across the mahogany, the screen showing a nine-panel grid of crystal-clear screenshots from the video. The dim light of the parking garage. Carter’s suit jacket draped over Ava Reed’s shoulders. Her dress, artfully slipping down. His mouth, crushed against hers. “Catherine! Have you lost your mind?” he roared. “Ava was heartbroken over a recent breakup! I was driving her home, she started crying, and I was comforting her. Nothing happened!” I raised my eyes from the phone, my gaze so cold it could have frozen fire. “Nothing happened? Then why did you come home looking like you’d been wrestling in an alley?” I stood up, my voice dangerously low. “Nothing happened? Then why did you hold me, kiss me like your life depended on it, and whisper her name?” He choked on his words, his face flushing a deep, ugly red. “I was drunk!” he bellowed, falling back on the oldest excuse in the book. “What man doesn’t appreciate a beautiful young woman? It was instinct, for Christ’s sake! You’re going to blow everything up over a moment of instinct? Wreck the company’s stock, destroy Ava’s reputation?” He took a step closer, his voice dripping with contempt. “You’re pathetic, Catherine. And you’re vicious.” I rose from my chair, the shattered screen of his phone cracking under my knuckles as I leaned on the desk. I walked around it, closing the distance between us until I could smell the stale liquor on his breath. “Vicious? Pathetic?” I laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Don’t be so quick to hand out labels, Carter. My little stunt is just God’s janitor taking out the trash. Compared to the toxic waste you and your little friend are spewing, I’m practically a recycling program.” I leaned in, my voice a whisper. “This isn’t an attack. This is self-defense.” “And let’s be clear about one more thing,” I said, my finger tapping his chest. “Don’t you dare hide behind ‘all men.’ The only man who wears his pathetic indiscretions like a badge of honor… is you.” His face contorted with rage, blood rushing to his head. He swung his hand back, ready to slap me across the face. I didn’t flinch. I leaned into it, a razor-thin smile on my lips. “Go ahead. Do it. Tomorrow’s headline will be even better: ‘Billionaire CEO Assaults Ailing Wife.’ Your little PR crisis will go nuclear. There won’t even be ashes left to bury.” His arm froze mid-air, then fell limply to his side, all the fight draining out of him. An hour later, his father arrived. William Hayes Sr., the founder of the empire, a man who had never bent to anyone, strode into my office flanked by two security guards. He stopped in the middle of the room, the click of his Italian leather shoes echoing off the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I’m here, so let’s not waste time with pleasantries,” he announced, his voice booming for everyone to hear. “Delete the posts. Call a press conference. Tell them the video was doctored, that it was all a misunderstanding. The Hayes family’s stock price will not be ruined by a marital spat.” I picked up my coffee cup, blowing gently on the surface. “Mr. Hayes, the only person ruining your company… is your son.” “He was the one who went sniffing around a bar on the eve of his wedding. The fact that I haven’t already filed for divorce is the only courtesy the Hayes family is getting from me.” He was silent for a beat, his eyes narrowing. “What do you want? Assets? Money? A five percent stake in the company? Name your price, Catherine.” I laughed softly and set my cup down. “I don’t want a thing.” “I want justice.” William Hayes scoffed. “Justice? In this city, Catherine, the Hayes family is justice. Don’t forget, your family’s company isn’t what it used to be. Without our backing, the wolves would have torn you apart by now.” He checked his Patek Philippe. “You have thirty minutes. If I don’t see a public apology in thirty minutes, I will pull every dime of Hayes support from every single one of your projects.” I stared out at the glittering Manhattan skyline, my finger tapping a light rhythm on the rim of my cup. “You know, your biggest mistake was thinking I was some delicate flower you could crush under your thumb.” My eyes met his. “I’m not a flower. I’m a knife.” After they left, Jenna returned, her arms full of printed-out emails, her hands shaking so badly the papers rattled. “Catherine, he meant it. The bankers for the Kensington merger just pulled out.” I put a steadying hand on her shoulder, my voice low and firm. “Don’t worry. The sky is getting darker, but it’s not falling. Not on us.” Thirty minutes passed. I posted nothing. But someone else did. Ava Reed started an Instagram Live. The title was four simple words. I can’t do this anymore. The video was shaky. She was standing on the very edge of the Hayes Tower rooftop, seventy-nine stories above the pavement. One foot was already over the side, the wind whipping her silk blouse around her like a shroud. Her eyes were red, her voice torn to shreds by the wind. “Carter… I’m so sorry… I can’t take it anymore…” The comment section exploded. OMG! SOMEONE CALL 911! SHE’S GOING TO JUMP! LOCATION IS HAYES TOWER! GET HELP! The next second, Ava let go of the railing. Her body tilted backward, falling into the abyss. The screen went black. The comments were just a blur of panic. DID SHE JUMP?! CATHERINE PRICE DROVE HER TO SUICIDE! Ten seconds later, the feed switched to a camera positioned outside the seventy-ninth-floor glass. It showed Ava landing safely in a discreetly placed stunt net. But the live feed had only captured the horrifying silhouette of her fall. The internet passed its final judgment. The hashtags trended worldwide. #BloodOnHerHandsCatherinePrice #JusticeForAva #MonsterCEO The narrative was set in stone: Catherine Price, the vindictive corporate monster, bullied a 26-year-old woman to her death. My phone rang. It was Carter, his voice trembling with a rage that was almost unhinged. “Catherine, you pushed her! She jumped because of you!” he screamed into the phone. “If one hair on her head is harmed, I will make you regret the day you were born! You enjoy this, don’t you? Hurting her? You’re a demon!” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “My God, Carter, do the two of you think the universe revolves around you? That the sun is your personal spotlight and the world turns according to your pathetic little script?” “She faints, and it’s my fault. She stages a fake suicide, and I’m the one who pushed her. So what does that make me? The villain you can pin everything on? I’m supposed to wear this crown of thorns you’ve welded to my head and thank you for the privilege?” “Go,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “Go comfort her. I’m sure her fragile, delicate soul needs it.” I hung up. Moments later, the official press release from Hayes Corp hit the wires. [Effective immediately, Hayes Corporation has suspended all partnerships and joint ventures with Price Industries, citing a lack of confidence in the personal and ethical conduct of its CEO, Catherine Price.] It was a declaration of war. Within the hour, three of my largest institutional investors issued notices of asset freezes. Jenna stood in my doorway, holding a stack of white papers, her voice a hollow whisper. “It’s over. They’re launching a full-scale assault. They’re going to destroy us.” Overnight, I went from the city’s most celebrated new executive to a pariah. A final text from Carter came through. [I’m evicting you from the building. The locks will be changed in the morning. The divorce papers have been sent to your lawyer. Don’t make me call the police.] I looked at the message and actually laughed out loud. Evict me? This building, the crown jewel of the Hayes real estate portfolio, had been a wedding gift to me from my parents. The deed was ironclad. I texted back one word: [Try.] He must have lost his mind, because an hour later he was at my front door, two of his sycophantic VPs in tow, kicking the door like a common thug. “Catherine, get out! This is a Hayes property, and you are no longer welcome here! Get the hell out!” he bellowed, pointing a finger at my face. I was lounging on the sofa, swirling a glass of cabernet, and didn’t even bother to uncross my legs. “Carter, darling,” I said, my voice languid. “Has playing CEO addled your brain? Did you forget how basic property law works? Maybe you should take a closer look at the deed. The name on it is Catherine Price.” I took a sip of wine. “Rented? Sweetheart, this is my property. It has nothing to do with your family.” Carter froze, his face a kaleidoscope of confusion and fury. Clearly, Daddy had never filled him in on that little detail. Behind him, his precious little victim, the newly minted mistress, started her performance. Her eyes filled with tears, her voice a pathetic whisper. “Carter… don’t… don’t cause trouble for my sake. Ms. Price has never liked me. It’s all my fault. I’ll go.” Ugh. She was really committed to the damsel-in-distress act. Carter’s heart practically broke on cue. He turned back to me, his eyes blazing. “You wait, Catherine. You just wait. I will make you pay for this, tenfold. I will make sure you can’t even buy a cup of coffee in this city again!” I stood up, placing my glass on the table with a sharp click. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.” “And a word of advice. Next time you plan a home invasion, do your homework. You wouldn’t want to look this foolish again.”

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In my last life, I took the fall for the Ashford family’s perfect daughter. Five years in a concrete cell was the price. The day I got out, my welcome home party was the news of her lavish birthday gala, followed by the Ashford family stripping me naked and leaving me to freeze to death in a blizzard. When I opened my eyes again, I was five years old. It was the day my biological parents, the Ashfords, were supposed to take me home. But this time, my brother, Caleb Ashford, burst out of the house and stood in the doorway like a sentinel, pointing a trembling finger at my ragged clothes. “Dad, Mom, don’t bring her home,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “She will destroy this family!” Seeing the raw terror in his eyes—a look so different from the cold indifference of my past life—I knew instantly. He remembered, too. After my parents left, their faces etched with disappointment, Caleb walked over to me. He shoved a hard candy into my hand, his small fingers digging into my palm. His voice was a low, chilling whisper. “This family only needs one daughter. And her name is Sophie.” He leaned closer, his breath a cold puff in the air. “A curse like you should have died out here where you belong.” 1 My fingers clenched around the candy, the sharp edges pressing into my skin until my nails nearly broke the surface. He was right, wasn’t he? In his memory, my only purpose was to be the family’s designated disaster shield. The scapegoat to be sacrificed whenever his precious Sophie made a mistake. Now, with a second chance, he saw the future. He saw me as a stain on their pristine reputation. A piece of trash like me didn’t deserve a place in the Ashford home. A bitter laugh escaped my lips, but it was followed by a tear that slid, hot and traitorous, down my cheek. I scrubbed it away fiercely, my knuckles raw. The girl they called Amelia Ashford was dead. She froze to death in the snow. The person standing here now was someone else. I was just… me. I turned my back on the grand house and walked back to a forgotten corner of the St. Jude’s Home for Children. It wasn’t long before a black sedan, sleek and silent, pulled up to the curb. The director of the home, Mrs. Gable, led an elderly man inside. He was tall and elegant, with a shock of silver hair and a kind face, leaning on a dark wood cane. The home erupted. The other children swarmed him like sparrows, a cacophony of chirps and desperate pleas for attention. “Hello, Grandpa!” “Sir, I can sing for you!” “Look at my drawing, sir! Look!” I stayed in my corner, an unnoticed shadow, a silent observer of the spectacle. But he noticed me. His eyes found mine across the chaotic room. He gently parted the sea of children and, with a steady rhythm from his cane, made his way toward me. “Little one,” he said, his voice warm and deep. “Why are you all alone over here? Don’t they like you?” I shook my head. I looked up at his face, into eyes that held a universe of wisdom, and offered him the candy. It was warm and slightly sticky from my clenched fist. “For you, sir,” I said, my voice steady, aiming for a calmness that no five-year-old should possess. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his expression. He took the candy, unwrapped the crinkling cellophane, and popped it into his mouth. A genuine, pleased smile spread across his face. “Mm. That’s very sweet.” He looked at me, really looked at me, for a long moment. “What’s your name?” “Mrs. Gable calls me Claire.” “Claire,” he repeated softly, nodding to himself. “Would you like to come home with me, Claire? Would you like to be my granddaughter?” The room fell silent. Every child’s head snapped in my direction, their eyes burning with envy. I didn’t hesitate. I gave a single, firm nod. “Yes.” A booming, heartfelt laugh filled the room. “Excellent! Wonderful! From this day forward, your name is Claire Sterling.” He took my hand. His was warm and dry, a safe harbor. “Sterling means of the highest quality. A person of integrity,” he said, his voice taking on a new gravity. “My child, I want you to grow into a woman who champions justice.” I understood the weight of his words, the promise they held. This was Marcus Sterling, a retired Supreme Court Justice, a living legend in the world of law. In that moment, I gripped his hand tighter. I became the cherished granddaughter of the Sterling family. Justice Sterling treated me like a precious gem. He personally taught me legal theory and logical reasoning, took me to sit in on court proceedings, and opened my eyes to a world of intellect and purpose. My new aunts and uncles, all brilliant lawyers, were busy but always brought me legal textbooks and case studies from their travels, their affection genuine. But the one who loved me most was my brother, Leo, who was ten years older than me. The first time he met me, he took off his gold-rimmed glasses, and his handsome, serious face broke into a gentle smile. “This is the littlest Sterling,” he declared to the world. “Nobody messes with her. Ever.” Wrapped in that kind of love, the wounds of my past life began to scar over. I poured myself into my studies. From law school to the bar exam, I was always number one. My room filled with trophies from mock trial championships and debate competitions. Twenty years later, I became one of the youngest and most formidable Assistant District Attorneys in the city. 2 Life was calm, full, and meaningful. I truly believed the Ashfords were a nightmare I had left behind forever. Until the day my paralegal, Sarah, knocked on my office door. “Claire? There’s a Mr. Caleb Ashford here to see you. He’s asking for you by name.” She glanced at her notepad. “Says he wants to retain you for a major corporate fraud case involving his company.” The name was a punch to the gut. My heart seized, a painful, involuntary spasm. I took a deep, steadying breath, pushing the emotion down until my voice was flat and professional. “Send him in.” A man in a perfectly tailored suit walked in. He was tall, with the same sharp jawline I remembered, but the boyishness was gone, replaced by a deep, handsome intensity. The moment Caleb Ashford saw me, he froze. His dark eyes widened with pure, unadulterated shock. He couldn’t have imagined, not in a million years, that the star prosecutor he was desperately trying to hire was the little girl he’d thrown away two decades ago. It took him a long moment to find his voice, and when he did, it was laced with disbelief. “You… you’re Claire Sterling? The Claire Sterling?” I nodded coolly. “Mr. Ashford. Please, have a seat. Though I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. I work for the District Attorney’s office. I don’t take on private clients.” He ignored my words, his gaze sweeping over me, scrutinizing, suspicious. “You’re really an attorney? How good are you? What are the odds you can win this for us?” His tone was so condescending, it was as if he expected me to be an imposter, a fraud who had stolen a name. Sarah, standing by the door, bristled. “Sir, Ms. Sterling is one of the most respected prosecutors in the state. Her time is extremely valuable—” I looked at Caleb, the corner of my mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. “It seems you have reservations about my professional capabilities, Mr. Ashford.” I leaned back in my chair. “In that case, I believe this meeting is over.” I looked at my paralegal. “Sarah, show our guest out.” Caleb’s face darkened. He clenched his jaw, but in the end, he said nothing. He just turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Sarah threw her hands up in exasperation. “Claire, that guy has some nerve! Who does he think he is?” I gave a casual shrug, a small, genuine smile finally reaching my lips. “Don’t worry about it. Just a potential defendant who doesn’t know his place.” To me, it was nothing more than a minor, if bizarre, interruption. Later that evening, as I was leaving the courthouse, Caleb appeared out of the shadows of the main entrance, blocking my path. His expression was a dark, complicated storm. My brow furrowed instantly. “Can I help you?” He stared at me, a long, unnerving silence stretching between us before he finally bit out the words. “Amelia. I’m warning you.” The sound of my old name made my stomach turn. Twenty years ago, he was the one who refused to let me have that name, and now he was spitting it at me like an accusation. He continued, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you will not use this case to hurt Sophie.” I almost laughed. He shows up on my doorstep begging for help, then has the audacity to warn me not to harm his precious sister? On what planet did he think I’d waste a second of my life on either of them? I looked at him like he was a raving lunatic. “My name is Claire Sterling, Mr. Ashford. You’d do well to remember that.” My voice was ice. “And for the record, I don’t know you. And I certainly don’t know your sister.” “As a prosecutor, my duty is to the law, not to frame innocent people. Why on earth would I want to harm a complete stranger?” Caleb stared, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face. “You… you don’t remember me?” He seemed fundamentally unable to process this. His voice rose, incredulous. “Twenty years ago! At the St. Jude’s home! I was the one who stopped them from—” He cut himself off, the words catching in his throat. Even he seemed to realize how monstrous his next words would have sounded. I looked at his flustered, guilty face, feeling nothing but a profound sense of disgust and pity. Of course I remembered. I remembered every contemptuous glare, every venomous word. I remembered the way he physically shoved me away, single-handedly obliterating every childhood fantasy I ever had about family. But I would give him nothing. I tilted my head, putting on a show of deep concentration. Then, my face broke into a look of slow, dawning realization. “Ohhhh,” I drew the sound out. “Now I remember.” I looked him straight in the eye, my expression a perfect mask of polite innocence. “I’m so sorry. It was twenty years ago, you understand. It’s all a bit of a blur. With all the important case files I have to review every day, I’m afraid I don’t have much space left for… trivial matters.” 3 Caleb’s face went rigid. Trivial matters? For him, it was a life-altering decision. For me, I had just dismissed it as insignificant clutter. It was a deeper cut than any insult I could have hurled. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let it go. “Stop playing games! You’re just holding a grudge because I stopped my parents from adopting you, and now you’re looking for revenge against me and my sister!” This time, I did laugh. A short, sharp, humorless sound. “Mr. Ashford, are you always this narcissistic?” My smile vanished, and my eyes turned to steel. “Revenge? On you? Do you honestly think you’re that important?” I took a step closer. “If anything, I should be thanking you. If you hadn’t been so adamant about casting me out, would I ever have been found by Justice Marcus Sterling? Would I have the life I have now?” My voice was light, conversational, but every word was a precisely aimed dart. “So, you see, I’m far too grateful to ever hate you.” He was speechless, his face a mottled canvas of red and white. “Marcus Sterling? Don’t be ridiculous!” he finally sputtered, latching onto what he thought was a lie. “You think sharing a last name makes you his family? Stop dreaming! Someone like you could never step foot in the Sterling house!” As the last word left his mouth, a black Bentley glided to a silent stop beside us. The back door opened, and a tall, impeccably dressed man emerged. Leo. He walked straight to my side, draping his suit jacket over my shoulders with a familiar, easy gesture. He didn’t even glance at Caleb, his focus entirely on me as he gently brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Claire, what’s taking you so long? Grandpa’s getting impatient.” Only then did his gaze fall on Caleb, his expression coolly indifferent. “Sister, who’s this?” I looped my arm through Leo’s, my smile bright and genuine. “No one, big brother. Just a man asking for legal advice. We were just finishing up.” Caleb was frozen to the spot. He stared, dumbfounded, at the casual intimacy between us, then at the car that screamed of old money and influence. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew who Leo Sterling was—the founder of Sterling & Croft, one of the most powerful law firms in the country. And he knew the rumors: that Leo Sterling had a younger sister the entire family doted on. He just never, in his wildest nightmares, imagined that sister could be me. I saw the flicker in his eyes, the image that must have flashed through his mind: the ghost of a girl in a prison jumpsuit, staring at him with dead eyes through plexiglass. And now, here I was, smiling, vibrant, holding onto the arm of another man and calling him brother. While he was still reeling, I was already sliding into the plush leather of Leo’s car. The next day, Sarah informed me that Caleb Ashford had pulled every string he could, petitioning to have his company’s fraud case transferred to my jurisdiction at the D.A.’s office, specifically requesting my involvement as the lead prosecutor. Sarah sorted through the documents on my desk, shaking her head. “Is this guy for real, Claire? One day he’s acting like you’re a hack, the next he’s practically begging for you. I bet he found out who you are and now he’s trying to kiss up.” I just smiled, saying nothing. I signed my name on the case transfer request. Let’s see what game he was trying to play. 4 At three o’clock that afternoon, the Ashford family—Caleb, his parents, and Sophie—appeared in my office. This time, they were here as the family of a suspect under investigation. Twenty years hadn’t changed Sophie much. She was still meticulously put together, radiating a fragile, helpless innocence that made you want to protect her. Caleb’s demeanor was a complete one-eighty from our last encounter. He was deferential, almost timid. “Ms. Sterling, I was out of line the other day. I apologize.” Richard and Helen Ashford stood awkwardly behind him, their gazes filled with a complex cocktail of guilt and curiosity. I ignored them, my eyes landing directly on Sophie. “The suspect can stay. The rest of you can wait outside.” The heavy office door clicked shut, sealing us in. The room was now just me and Sophie. Instantly, the mask of frail vulnerability fell from her face, vanishing without a trace. It was replaced by a look of pure, undisguised venom. Her eyes raked over me, my suit, my office, a mocking smile playing on her lips. “Amelia. Oh, sorry, I guess I have to call you Claire now.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, but laced with poison. “I have to hand it to you. You’re a survivor. Kicked out by our family and you still managed to latch onto the Sterlings. You’re quite the social climber.” I watched her, my expression placid. She was a clown, and I was the unimpressed audience. “Sophie Ashford, this is a formal interrogation. I suggest you remember where you are.” My coldness seemed to fuel her fire. She leaned back in her chair, her tone becoming even more acidic. “What, you think being a prosecutor makes you special? You still have to sit there and watch me live a better life than you, don’t you?” She smirked. “Let me tell you something. Even if you’re a Sterling now, it doesn’t matter. In my brother’s heart, you’ll never be worth a single strand of my hair.” “The only reason he’s even talking to you is because he didn’t know who you were. So don’t get any ideas. You were born to be beneath my feet, and that’s where you’ll always stay.” In our past life, she was exactly the same. A master of the two-faced performance. The sweet, perfect sister in front of our parents and Caleb; a vicious, cruel tormentor in private. She was the one who hit someone with her car, then tearfully begged me to take the blame, swearing she would be indebted to me for life. The moment I was behind bars, she was off touring the world with her rich friends, forgetting I ever existed. And I could never defend myself. Every time I tried, it only earned me deeper disgust from Caleb and utter abandonment from my parents. But none of that mattered anymore. In this life, I was immune to her pathetic games. I conducted the interview by the book, a two-hour-long interrogation where every question was a scalpel, aimed at the heart of the case. She thought she was clever, denying every key point, even trying to accuse me of abusing my power to settle a personal vendetta. I watched her shoddy performance, my own expression growing colder and harder. I could feel the old anger rising, a familiar beast in my chest, and I suppressed it, giving her a single, sharp glare. She flinched, a flicker of fear in her eyes. When it was over, I had her sign the official transcript. Then, my face a grim mask, I walked out of the office without another word. The three Ashfords were pacing anxiously in the hallway. Caleb rushed forward the moment he saw me. “Ms. Sterling, Sophie… how did it go?” Helen Ashford grabbed my arm, her eyes red-rimmed. “Ms. Sterling, please, my daughter is innocent! This has to be a misunderstanding!” I looked past her, directly at Caleb, my face devoid of all emotion. “Your sister’s case is open-and-shut,” I announced, my voice carrying down the hall. “The evidence is conclusive. We’ll be filing formal charges shortly.” The air went still. Even Sarah stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. I had never, ever made such a swift, definitive statement about a case. It went against my entire professional ethos. The color drained from Richard and Helen’s faces. Helen’s knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed. “No… how can that be? Sophie would never…” Caleb’s expression immediately hardened into a sneer. “That’s impossible! Sophie swore to me she was innocent! You have no proof!” His voice rose to a shout. “You’re framing her! This is your revenge!” Right on cue, the office door opened and Sophie emerged. She heard my declaration, and a flicker of triumph crossed her face before she expertly crumpled, sobbing, into Caleb’s arms. “It’s okay, Caleb… I knew she would do this to me. It’s not her fault…” I stared coldly at their family drama, and then I delivered the final blow. “She is guilty because your precious daughter just gave a full confession.”

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Every time we fought, Evan would take out his hearing aids. He wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak. Just a wall of impenetrable silence. Cold war. Our friends would always try to smooth it over. “He’s just so fragile, Clara. You have to be the one to be more patient.” “I mean, think about it. His world is so small. He only has you.” And I believed them. I was the one who always compromised, always folded, always begged for peace. Until I saw him with Chloe. She was his junior from grad school, also deaf since birth. I watched him coax her, make her laugh, and apologize first when they bickered. Seeing how well he knew how to love someone else was like a splash of ice water to the face. An epiphany. That night, I told him I wanted a divorce. In response, Evan’s face went cold as he reached up and pulled out his hearing aids. He didn’t hear me. The next morning, he opened the bedroom door with that same old air of condescending authority. “Alright, Clara, you can come in. I forgive you.” But this time, there were no grateful tears from me. The apartment was empty, hollow. The only thing that answered him was a piece of paper I’d taped to the door, fluttering in the draft from an open window. Evan, your world is small. But mine is still so big. I won’t be walking the rest of the way with you. 1 The moment I pushed open the door to the party, the room went quiet. Some people shot me nervous glances; others couldn’t meet my eyes at all. Because Evan was busy comforting a girl. The girl, Chloe, was deaf, just like him. She wore a pair of pale pink hearing aids. Right now, though, she had them out, her hands clamped over her ears, face crumpled on the verge of tears, refusing to listen to a word he said. Evan saw me. His eyes flickered toward me for a single, dismissive second before returning to her. He unwrapped a small cupcake from a paper box, his voice a low, patient murmur as he tried to coax her. It was the first time I’d ever seen Evan like this—soothing, gentle. Because of his deafness from a young age, his temper was a twisted, volatile thing. He was impossibly fragile, painfully sensitive. In the seven years we’d been together, that kind of tender, placating behavior was something reserved exclusively for me to perform for him. I stood frozen by the door. The girl seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. She turned her head and her eyes locked with mine. The tears that had been welling up finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks. She shoved Evan away and ran out of the room. Without a moment’s hesitation, Evan was on his feet, chasing after her. He paused for a fraction of a second as he passed me, finally granting me a proper look. “Chloe’s deaf, and she doesn’t know anyone here in Boston,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ll find her, make sure she’s safe, and then I’ll come home.” I said nothing. Evan was clearly agitated. “Clara, she could get hurt running off like that.” He frowned, reaching out to push me aside. “Be reasonable. If you want to start a fight, pick a better time.” I stumbled, my back hitting the wall. Evan didn’t even notice. He was already gone, his long strides carrying him down the hall and into the elevator without a single glance back. 2 The silence in the room was thick and suffocating. Finally, one of our friends stepped in to play peacemaker, just like always. “Clara, Chloe is just a student from his old department. They’re both deaf, so Evan feels like he needs to look out for her. It’s a big brother thing.” “Seriously, don’t get the wrong idea,” another one chimed in, nudging others to agree. “We can all vouch for him. He just sees her as a kid sister.” The room came back to life with a chorus of reassurances. “Yeah, we see it all the time.” “He just feels bad for her, a young girl coming all the way to Boston for school by herself.” “He’s just trying to help her out.” They talked and talked, trying to paint it as nothing, a trivial little moment. But all I could see was the image of Evan with her. The clumsy way he’d opened the little cupcake box. The care he took to hand her the tiny fork. When she’d pulled out her hearing aids in a huff, he knew she couldn’t hear him, but he kept speaking to her anyway, his voice soft and patient, trying to soothe her with the sheer force of his calm. I wondered if Evan even realized. Everything he had just done for Chloe… was exactly what I had done for him, countless times, for seven years. Every time we argued, he would pull out his hearing aids, his face a blank mask. He’d lock himself in our bedroom for the entire night. No listening, no talking, just silence. A war of attrition. His friends would always say to me: “Clara, you know how he is. He’s so fragile, so sensitive. He needs more patience, more unconditional love than most people.” “His world is so small, and in all these years, you’re the only one he’s ever let in.” “He really does love you. He just doesn’t know how to love.” And I believed them. So every time he locked himself away, I would sit outside that door all night long. I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I’d fight off sleep and, every so often, I’d tap lightly on the wood. What if he puts them back in just for a second? I’d think. What if he happens to hear me knocking? Then he’ll know I’m still out here, waiting for him. And maybe… maybe he won’t be angry anymore. But now, watching him, seeing how perfectly capable he was of loving someone… it was like a switch had flipped. Maybe he had never loved me. Or maybe he had, for a fleeting moment in our youth. Or maybe it was just that for all these years, I was the only one with enough patience to tolerate him. The only one willing to shrink my own world to fit inside his tiny, suffocating one. 3 I managed a small, tight smile. Just like I had a thousand times before. “I know,” I said softly to the anxious faces watching me. “I’ll just… I’ll go home and wait for him.” A collective sigh of relief seemed to pass through the room. Evan’s friends smiled, their warmth returning as they walked me to the elevator. As the doors were closing, I heard one of them on the phone. “She’s not mad, don’t worry about it.” A pause. “Dude, you’ve known her for years. You could burn down the city and she’d just smile and say you did a great job.” The doors slid shut, cutting off the voice. I looked up and saw my reflection in the polished steel. My face was pale, and the dress I was wearing suddenly looked drab and gray. The only spot of color on me was the wedding ring on my finger. There was a time when I used to shine, seated at a grand piano on a stage. After I married Evan, I became his assistant, his housekeeper, his secretary. My piano sat in the attic, gathering dust. My fingers, I realized, didn’t feel so nimble anymore. 4 Evan came home very late that night. He did what he always did, shrugging off his jacket and tie and holding them out for me to take. This time, I didn’t move. I stood under the living room light and saw it: a few tiny, pink rhinestones stuck to his black hearing aid. The same color as Chloe’s. He clutched the tie in his fist, his brow furrowing slightly—the first sign of his displeasure. Still, I didn’t step forward. His patience finally snapped. He tossed the clothes onto the sofa and fixed his gaze on me. “Clara. Are you throwing a tantrum?” I shook my head. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. If I were screaming, crying, making a scene—that would mean I still cared. That would mean, deep down, I had no intention of actually leaving. “Chloe got hurt,” he said flatly. “She wasn’t wearing her aids and didn’t hear a car horn.” He raised a hand and adjusted his glasses. He had beautiful hands, long and elegant. It felt like a lifetime ago, but I used to be hopelessly in love with every part of him. “She’s all alone here. I can’t just ignore that. Clara, surely you’re not that devoid of empathy.” His brow was tight, his handsome face etched with a mix of exhaustion and irritation. He was never a man of many words, so this much of an explanation felt like a grand concession. A laugh escaped me, small and bitter. “What if it were me?” His eyes narrowed. “I have male friends from my conservatory days,” I continued. “What if I treated them the way you treated Chloe today?” Evan’s expression turned to ice. “Clara.” A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips. “So that’s it. You’re regretting it. Regretting marrying a cripple like me. Missing out on all your ‘good friends’ from the conservatory?” My heart felt like burnt incense, collapsing into a pile of ash and scattering into nothing. It’s over, Clara. Just let it be over. I opened my mouth to tell him to wait, that I was going to get the divorce papers I’d already drawn up. But he had already turned his back on me, walking toward the bedroom. I watched him go. Even the line of his back seemed to radiate a cold distance. It felt like I’d spent years of my life just looking at his back. Before, it would have filled me with a familiar ache of sadness. Now, all I felt was a dull emptiness. “Evan.” I said his name, my voice soft. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder. “Let’s get a divorce.” In the exact instant the words left my lips, he raised his hand and took out his hearing aid. Just like he had a thousand times before whenever there was a conflict, a disagreement. So he didn’t hear me. His eyes were cold. He gave me one last, freezing look, then turned away and went into the room. A soft click. Infinitely familiar. Evan had locked the door. 5 I stood there for a moment, but I didn’t linger. I walked to the entryway, slipped off my house slippers, and put on my shoes. My packed suitcase was sitting right there. Evan hadn’t seen it. Or maybe he had. And just hadn’t cared. I placed the signed divorce agreement on the console table by the door. As I pulled my suitcase behind me and stepped out of the apartment, I took a deep breath. And I felt, for the first time in a long time, incredibly light. I didn’t look back. I knew I never would. On the way to my old pre-marriage apartment, I saw a new post on Chloe’s Instagram feed. A picture of her pink hearing aid resting next to a black one. They looked like two small, kindred things, huddled together. The caption read: Only someone who has walked through the same storm can understand your deepest pain. And right below it, a single ‘like’ from Evan. My hand trembled. My vision blurred for a second. So many people had told me, so many times, “Clara, you saved him.” “You’re the only one who can understand his pain, his frustration.” “We’re his friends, and even we can’t imagine what would have happened to Evan if you hadn’t come along.” He had been so angry, so isolated. His social skills were a disaster. It had almost cost him his academic career. I used to believe I truly understood him. I used to believe, ridiculously, that I had redeemed him. But in that one moment, that one ‘like’ on Instagram turned the last seven years of my life into a joke. Of course. He and Chloe were the same. They had lost their hearing as children. They understood each other’s pain in a way I never could. And me? I was just the healthy girl with a perfectly sound body and mind who had insisted on inserting herself into someone else’s tragedy. I’d let my own life become a complete mess in the process. I scrolled past her post. I blocked Evan. And I blocked everyone in his orbit. His world really was small. So small it was suffocating. So I was leaving. 6 At four in the morning, Evan woke up. He got up for a glass of water, glanced at his watch, and then, on a strange impulse, put his hearing aids back in. He lay back down, closing his eyes, and waited. If things went as they always did, it wouldn’t be long now. A soft knock would come at the door. Just three taps. So quiet that if you weren’t listening for them, you’d miss them completely. It was Clara’s favorite little game. She thought he had no idea. But he’d known from the very beginning. He just never let on. For three years, he had savored this ritual. It filled him with a deep, reassuring sense of being loved by her. He lay in bed, counting silently in his head. A small smile played on his lips. Any second now. He held his breath, listening. He could hear his own heartbeat in the silent room. But he did not hear the soft, familiar knock on the door. 7 His eyes snapped open. He stared at the closed door in the dim, pre-dawn light. Did she fall asleep? It had happened before. She would cry so hard that she’d exhaust herself and fall asleep right there in the hallway. He’d open the door in the morning to find her curled up against it, sleeping soundly. It was their unspoken truce. Once the night was over, everything was forgiven. They would go back to how they were. He tried to close his eyes, to go back to sleep, but a strange unease prickled at him. After tossing and turning, he finally gave in, throwing back the covers. He didn’t even realize his own haste as he strode to the door and pulled it open. “Alright, Clara, you can come in. I forgive you.” But the hallway was empty, bathed in the cool, sterile light of dawn. The small, sleeping figure he expected to find slumped against his door wasn’t there. Evan felt his heart leap into his throat. He walked out, pushing open the door to every room. They were all empty, cold. The kitchen, the bathroom. Every corner. No sign of Clara. Finally, his eyes landed on the entryway. He saw her slippers. Her pink bunny slippers. He walked toward them slowly, his mind a jumble of thoughts. She put on her shoes, so she must have gone out. The farmer’s market? She’s always going on about buying fresh produce. His heart began to settle. Yes, that had to be it. Clara was always so worried about his health. Whenever she was home, she cooked every meal for him. But then he saw the note taped to the front door. A breeze from somewhere made it flutter. He let out a huge sigh of relief, a smile touching his lips. It must be a note from her, telling him she went out to buy groceries and would be back soon. Thinking this, he reached out and plucked the note from the door. The handwriting was hers. But the words were not at all what he expected. Evan, your world is small. But mine is still so big. Sorry, but I won’t be walking the rest of the way with you. The paper slipped from his fingers, drifting to the floor. Evan stared at it, bewildered. What did she mean by that? Not walking the rest of the way with you? He turned, flustered, to go find his phone, but his eyes caught something on the console table. A document. The words “Divorce Agreement,” in bold black letters, seared themselves into his vision. Evan stood frozen for a full minute, as if he’d forgotten how to read. How could it be a divorce agreement? Clara wouldn’t file for divorce. How could she dare to file for divorce? She had proposed to him seven times before he finally said yes. How could she possibly have the nerve to bring up divorce now? 8 Of course. She wouldn’t. She didn’t have it in her. He knew better than anyone how much Clara had loved him. Evan slowly composed himself. He didn’t even bother to open the thin stack of papers. He simply picked them up, tore them in half, and dropped them into the trash can, along with the note from the floor. If she wanted to throw a tantrum, fine. Let her. She’d come back on her own when she was done. It wasn’t the first time she’d stormed out. Once before, he’d simply had a friend mention to her that he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in two days. She was back before dinner. But what surprised Evan was that three full days passed without a single word from Clara. She didn’t come home. There were no calls, no texts. It was as if she had truly vanished. He even posted a picture on his Instagram story on purpose: an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts next to an empty bottle of whiskey. She’s a hawk about smoking and drinking, he thought. If she sees this, she won’t be able to stand it for a second. And when she came storming back to lecture him, he’d make sure she understood just how he was going to punish her for disappearing for three days. 9 When Evan posted that story, I was having dinner with my friend Maya. We were discussing the division of assets for the divorce. I’d been a homemaker after we got married, fully supporting Evan’s career. He’d made a good amount of money in the last few years, and half of it was legally mine. I had blocked Evan, so I knew nothing about his post. Maya saw it on her phone and looked at me, a hesitant expression on her face. “What is it?” I asked. “Evan just posted something.” She held her phone out to me. “Do you… want to see?” “Whatever he posts has nothing to do with me.” I started to wave it away. But Maya was insistent. “Clara, don’t run from it. I need to be sure you’re serious about this divorce, that this isn’t just some fight you’re going to regret in three days.” “I won’t regret it.” “Good. Then look. Prove to me that you won’t feel sorry for him, that you won’t go soft. The last thing I need is to go into battle for you, only for you to turn around and get back together with him.” I looked at Maya’s exasperated face and felt a pang of guilt. She had spent years telling me I deserved better than Evan. My sudden decision to leave was, understandably, something she was still skeptical about. “Fine, I’ll look.” I took the phone. I saw the picture. Maya watched my face like a hawk. I felt a flicker of surprise, and then… nothing. I calmly handed the phone back to her. “Okay, I’ve seen it.” “You’re not sad? Not angry?” All our friends knew that while I let Evan get away with almost anything, smoking and drinking were the two things I absolutely forbade. I shrugged, mimicking a gesture Maya often made. “Is it any of my business? He’s my soon-to-be ex-husband.” Maya narrowed her eyes and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.” “Maya, I’m serious,” I said, taking her hand. “I want a divorce. I am divorcing Evan. And I am going to start playing the piano again. I’m going to play all the way to Vienna.” “Clara!” Maya threw her arms around me, her own eyes turning red. “Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of this day? I didn’t think it would ever actually happen.” I hugged her back tightly, a tear finally escaping and rolling down my cheek. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’m only twenty-six. There’s still time to cut my losses and start over.” 10 Maya had to leave for an emergency at her law firm. I stayed and ordered another glass of wine. By the time I left, I was pleasantly buzzed. I walked out of the restaurant and an elevator dinged open. A loud, laughing group of people stepped out. Leading the pack were Evan and Chloe. They were standing side-by-side, looking for all the world like a perfect couple. The moment they saw me, the laughter died. Evan’s eyes lit up for a split second when he saw me. Then he arched an eyebrow, a faint, smug smile spreading across his face. “Well, look who it is. Following me, Clara?” Before I could answer, Chloe sniffed and turned her head away. “Some people just don’t know when to quit.” “Hey, hey, what did I say?” one of the friends muttered, nudging her. Evan just chuckled and flicked Chloe’s forehead lightly. “Be nice.” Then his gaze drifted back to me. “You should at least call her by her name.” Chloe stomped her foot. “Evan!” She looked utterly betrayed, her eyes instantly welling up. “You know… you know perfectly well…” Her words trailed off, but the implication was clear. “Know what? You girls and your complicated feelings are a mystery to me,” Evan said with a light laugh. A tear slid down Chloe’s cheek. “Evan, you’re being mean to me again.” She was in love with him. The whole world knew it. Evan knew it, too. But he pretended not to. He just basked in the warmth of a young girl’s adoration. I was completely done with this soap opera. I turned to walk toward the other elevator bank. But I only made it two steps before Evan’s hand clamped around my arm. “Clara. Perfect timing.” I tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened. I winced. “Evan, let go. You’re hurting me.” “Hurting you?” he scoffed. “What about the injuries Chloe sustained?” “What does her getting hurt have to do with me?” I was baffled, and frankly, disgusted. Was he really going to try to pin Chloe’s accident on me? “It has everything to do with you,” Evan said, his eyes fixed on mine. “The driver who hit her was Alex’s former assistant. Don’t tell me that’s just a coincidence, Clara.” “Alex? My old mentor from the conservatory?” Evan sneered. “Yes, that Alex. The one who’s been pathetically pinning after you for years, the one who won’t date anyone else because of you. Are you going to tell me he didn’t orchestrate this whole thing just to get back at her for you?” 11 I stared at Evan, so stunned by the absurdity of his accusation that I actually laughed. Had his academic work turned his brain to mush? Or had that bottle of whiskey fried his last few brain cells? Alex was one of the top lawyers in the city. He was so busy he was constantly flying all over the world. The idea of him stooping to such a childish, petty act was ludicrous. “Besides,” Evan continued, his voice dripping with condescension, “he’s in love with you, so of course he’d do anything for you. But Chloe is innocent in all this. Whatever mistakes she might have made, she didn’t deserve this.” His gaze dropped to my left hand. My ring finger was bare. I had taken off my wedding ring. I wasn’t stupid enough to throw away a three-carat diamond, but I wasn’t wearing it, either. His eyes darkened. “Let’s do this, Clara,” he said, his tone shifting to one of magnanimous authority. “Alex is your friend. He did this for you. The least you can do is apologize to Chloe.” He held my wrist tightly, looking down at me. “You apologize, and we can put this all behind us. I’ll make sure Chloe doesn’t press charges.” Chloe sniffed, turning her nose up. “Well, I was going to press charges. Intentional injury is a serious crime.” She looked at me reluctantly. “Clara. I’m only accepting your apology for Evan’s sake. So you’d better make it sound like you mean it.”

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My mother hated me, but she treated my cousin like she was a precious gem. My childhood was a blur of chores and punishments for the slightest mistake, while my cousin wore princess dresses, played the piano, and was doted on by my aunt and uncle. Then came the night of my cousin’s birthday. My mother, drunk on wine and bitterness, confessed the truth: she had switched us at birth. I wasn’t her daughter. I belonged to my aunt. Ecstatic, my heart soaring with hope, I ran to my aunt with the news. But she just met my story with an icy smile. “You think I didn’t know?” she said. “But I don’t want you. You will never be my daughter.” It was like a bucket of ice water being poured over my soul. I couldn’t understand why I was the child no one wanted. From that day forward, I stopped begging for scraps of love. Years later, when I earned my acceptance to Yale and slapped two DNA reports down on the table in front of them, they both finally panicked. 1 “Leah, where the hell are you? Did you forget your cousin’s birthday?” The voice on the phone was a lit match. I flinched, snapping my textbook shut and hiding it in the kitchen cabinet where I slept. A second later, the sliding door to the back patio rattled open and my mother, Sharon, filled the frame. Seeing me standing there, small and silent, a look of pure disgust soured her face. “Look at you, pathetic. Nothing like your cousin. What are you doing hiding in here? Let’s go. Now.” I scurried to follow her. When I wasn’t fast enough, she grabbed my arm and yanked, so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet. My mother didn’t love me. I’d known this my whole life. My aunt, Carol, once explained it was because my father had been a deadbeat who’d walked out on us. That was the story, anyway. A ghost I was being punished for. So I tried to be perfect. I tiptoed through the house. I got straight A’s, once holding up a test with a perfect 100 printed in red at the top. She’d ripped it in half and thrown the pieces at my face. “You could study for a thousand years,” she’d snarled, “and you’d still never be half the girl your cousin is.” I’d choked back tears and just studied harder, determined to prove her wrong. I wasn’t worse. I wasn’t less than Chloe. But then she took my pencils and notebooks and replaced them with a broom and a bottle of Windex. “If you have so much free time, you can make yourself useful. This house better be spotless from now on. And you’re going to learn to cook. I’m not feeding a freeloader.” And just like that, the one path I had to prove myself was barricaded. Maybe she was right. Maybe a child born unloved can never compete with one who is cherished. Arriving at my aunt’s house drove the point home. Chloe was holding court in a beautiful pink dress and a little rhinestone tiara, surrounded by a crowd of equally well-dressed friends, ready to cut into a massive cake. I hesitated at the door, scared to even take off my shoes. My socks had holes in them. The sole of my left sneaker was loose; one wrong move and it might flap open like a mouth. Seeing me linger, my mother’s patience snapped. She muttered something about me being an embarrassment and shoved a pair of men’s oversized flip-flops at my feet before plastering a brilliant smile on her face and presenting her gift to Chloe. “For you, sweetie. I know you wanted this one.” It was a delicate crystal necklace, the pendant shaped like a swan. On Chloe, it looked magnificent. She looked like a real princess. A pang of envy, sharp and bitter, shot through me. We shared a birthday, Chloe and I, but I’d never gotten a gift, let alone something so beautiful. “Thank you, Aunt Sharon!” Chloe chirped, and my mother’s face lit up. “Anything for my brilliant, wonderful girl,” she said, then shot a look in my direction. “Not like that one. Barely speaks. Might as well be a ghost.” I stared at my reflection in the polished hardwood floor, a skinny, hunched-over shadow. A rat spying on a feast. Some of Chloe’s friends were looking at me, whispering. One asked Chloe how old I was, if I was in elementary school. We were in the same grade at the same middle school. But I was invisible there, too. I sat in the last seat of a 49-student classroom. No one talked to me. I was the girl in the ill-fitting hand-me-downs who smelled like mothballs and sadness. They said I was like an orphan. Chloe glanced at me. “No, we’re the same age,” she said quickly. “Anyway, let’s do the candles!” My Aunt Carol, seeing me stranded by the door, walked over. Her voice was always gentle. “Leah, come on. You can help Chloe blow out her candles.” But standing next to my cousin, under the bright lights of the dining room, the feeling of being less-than only intensified. Someone wrinkled their nose. “Ugh, what’s that smell?” I flinched, a Pavlovian response to any criticism. Others started sniffing the air. Chloe frowned, her eyes landing on me. “Leah, is that you? Maybe… maybe you should go take a shower or something.” I instinctively sniffed the collar of my worn t-shirt. I’d showered right before we left. It couldn’t be me. “It’s not…” My eyes fell to the giant flip-flops on my feet. “Maybe it’s the shoes?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Chloe snapped, her voice sharp. “Those are my dad’s. They’re brand new. It’s you. Do you have athlete’s foot or something?” Panic seized me. I didn’t know whether to take them off or argue. My mother, already half-drunk on celebratory wine, heard the commotion and stormed over. Without a word, she slapped me across the face. The crack echoed in the suddenly silent room. “You’re old enough to know how to keep yourself clean! Get outside and wait for me. Now!” The other kids stared, their mouths hanging open. My face was on fire, a hot, spreading shame that felt worse than the sting. A tiny, nascent bud of self-respect had just tried to bloom inside me, and my mother had crushed it under her heel. Aunt Carol finally stepped in. “Sharon, what are you doing? It’s not her fault. Mark’s feet stink. It has nothing to do with the kid.” I looked at her with a rush of gratitude. I often wished she were my mother. She would speak to me gently. She wouldn’t hit me. I’d get a cake on my birthday and I wouldn’t have to spend my life scrubbing floors. But my mother just shot me a glare before turning to Chloe, her face melting into a mask of apology. “Chloe, honey, I am so, so sorry. This little brat ruined your party. I promise you, I will deal with her when we get home.” A cold dread washed over me. I knew what “dealing with her” meant. She dragged me out of the house. The second the door closed behind us, she shoved me, hard. I lost my footing at the top of the porch stairs and tumbled down, landing in a heap on the concrete. It wasn’t enough. She was on me in a second, grabbing my hair and slapping me again, twice. “You bitch,” she hissed, her breath thick with wine. “You useless little bitch. Why didn’t you just die when you were born?” My head swam. For a second, I didn’t know if the insults were for me or for herself. Inside the house, my cousin was celebrating. Out here, I was being beaten. Something snapped. A dam of years of swallowed resentment and silent grief burst inside me. I found a strength I didn’t know I had and shoved her away. “If you hate me so much,” I screamed, my voice raw, “why did you even have me?” She froze, stunned by my defiance. “You think I wanted you? If it wasn’t for…” She stopped herself, her eyes wide as if she’d almost let a secret slip. Back at our apartment, she cracked open a bottle of cheap vodka and sat drinking in the dark living room, muttering about how I’d ruined everything. I hid in the kitchen, where my small mattress was shoved into a corner. It was my bedroom. Through the window, moonlight spilled onto the floor. I wiped my tears, pulled my textbook from its hiding place, and started to read. I was slow. I had to work twice as hard to keep up with Chloe, to have any hope of getting into a good high school. Hours later, the kitchen light flickered on. My mother stood there, swaying. I shoved my book under the thin blanket, my heart hammering. She staggered over and stood looking down at me. I braced myself. But then, she smiled. It was a soft, gentle smile. The kind she only ever gave Chloe. “Mom loves you so much,” she slurred, her voice thick. “You won’t hate me, will you?” I stared, frozen. The world stopped spinning. Did she just say she loved me? But then she collapsed onto the edge of my mattress, her head lolling onto my shoulder. Her next words were a woozy whisper. “Chloe… my sweet Chloe. When you get into college, you’ll come back to Mom, right? We’ll be a family. They don’t deserve you. That bitch and her husband… they don’t deserve my perfect girl.” Her voice dropped even lower, a conspiratorial murmur against my ear. “If Mom wasn’t so broke back then… no job, no money… I never would have swapped you with that little brat. I love you so, so much, my Chloe…” Boom. A hammer crashed down inside my skull. Could it be true? I wasn’t her daughter? I was Aunt Carol’s? I thought of my aunt’s gentle voice, her kind eyes. The way she always seemed to look at Chloe with so much love. Could that love, that tenderness, be meant for me? Could I really have a mother like that? I barely slept. The next day, I had a plan. After school, I saw Aunt Carol’s car pull up to get Chloe. I waited, hiding behind a tree until they were at their front door, and then I called out her name. She looked surprised but told Chloe to go inside, then walked back to the sidewalk to meet me. “What is it, Leah? Is something wrong?” My hands twisted the hem of my shirt. I forced myself to repeat my mother’s drunken words, every last detail. My voice shook. “Aunt Carol,” I finished, my heart in my throat. “Am I… am I really your daughter?” The warmth in her face vanished. The smile disappeared. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw my mother in her eyes. A chilling coldness. “You think I’m your mother?” she asked, her voice flat. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I regretted everything. I’d made a mistake. Now she would hate me, too. “I… I want you to be,” I whispered. She laughed, a short, ugly sound. All the gentleness I’d ever imagined was gone, replaced by pure mockery. “You think I don’t know?” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Of course I know. But what does it matter? It doesn’t matter if you’re my child or not. I don’t want you. You will never, ever be my daughter.” She turned and walked away without a backward glance. I stood there on the sidewalk for a long time, long after her door had shut, long after the sun had set. It didn’t matter who gave birth to me. My mother didn’t love me. My aunt didn’t want me. I was nobody’s child. After that day, I stopped asking questions. I stopped hoping for love. I still didn’t know the whole truth, but I knew one thing for sure: the only person who could change my life was me. And the only way to do that was to study. I became a machine. I studied during class, between classes, during lunch. At home, after scrubbing the floors and making dinner, I studied in my kitchen corner by the light of the moon. I would get into the best high school. And then I would get into the best college. It didn’t matter if they loved me. I would love myself. It paid off. On the midterm exams, I ranked first in our grade. Chloe was second. She cried when she saw the results. She’d never been second to anyone, especially not to me. Aunt Carol rushed to her side, wrapping her in a hug, murmuring comforts. “It doesn’t matter what you score, honey. Mommy will always love you.” My mother came, too. When she saw Chloe’s tear-streaked face, she walked straight over to me and kicked my shin so hard I buckled. “You useless piece of trash,” she hissed for all to hear. “What did you do to make your cousin cry? Apologize to her. Right now.” I was on my knees on the cold linoleum floor of the school hallway. This time, Aunt Carol didn’t even look at me. She just steered Chloe away. My mother kicked me again. “Are you deaf? I said apologize!” But what had I done wrong? My homeroom teacher, Ms. Albright, intervened, pulling my mother away. As she left, my mother spat on the floor near my feet. “Goddamn mute. You should’ve just died.” Then she hurried off, no doubt to find Chloe. Ms. Albright helped me up and took me back to her empty classroom. She made me a cup of hot chocolate from a packet she kept in her desk. “Leah,” she started, then sighed. “It’s cold out. Drink this. It’ll warm you up.” She looked at me, her expression full of a pained kindness I wasn’t used to. “You know, you’ve earned something special. From now on, in this class, the number one student gets a title. We’ll call it the ‘Solo’ spot. Because being at the top means you’re in a class all by yourself. And this time, that title belongs to you.” The classroom was empty, but her words felt like a standing ovation. Tears pricked my eyes. She had found a way to give me a name that meant something other than unwanted. For the name Solo, I would work even harder. Ms. Albright moved my desk from the forgotten back corner to the front row, right by her podium. For the first time, I had a deskmate. Her name was Maya. She was a cheerful, chubby girl who always had snacks and would sometimes slide a bag of chips or a cookie onto my desk. “Solo, you’re so skinny. Don’t you ever eat?” I was in charge of cooking at home, but when my mother wasn’t there, the pantry was empty. I often went hungry. She didn’t give me money for the school cafeteria; my existence was an afterthought. When Maya figured this out, she started packing extra food, claiming she couldn’t possibly finish it all and begging me to help her out. Under her care, I gained a little weight. My cheeks filled out. In return, I helped her with her homework, and slowly, I started to talk more, my voice growing stronger. The high school entrance exams were a month away. I was ready. But on the morning of the first test, my mother locked me in the kitchen. I screamed, I banged on the door, but she wouldn’t open it. Through the glass pane, I saw her take the exam admission letter and all the books I’d hidden in the cabinet and rip them to shreds. I sank to the floor amidst the confetti of my future. Her voice came from the other side of the door. “What’s the point of all that studying? Even if you got in, I wouldn’t pay for it. You’re not Chloe. Just accept your fate.” My heart felt like it had turned to stone. “Mom,” I asked, my voice flat and dead, “is Chloe your real daughter?” I saw her shadow freeze. “What nonsense are you talking about? I’m your mother. If you were half as well-behaved as your cousin, I wouldn’t have to do this!” I didn’t know what I had ever done that was so wrong. One by one, I picked up the torn pieces of my admission letter and put them in my pocket. Her voice droned on. “I’m telling you, your future is in a factory or married off to some loser! I raised you all these years, it’s time you paid me back. Stop trying to compete with your cousin. You can’t.” I didn’t hear her. I was looking at the window. An idea, wild and terrifying, took root. We lived on the third floor. Below the kitchen window was the building’s shared carport, covered by a corrugated plastic awning. If I was lucky, I’d land on the awning. If I wasn’t… I closed my eyes. A broken arm, a broken leg. It was a price I was willing to pay. I had to fight for myself, just this once.

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1 The air in the Mojave wasn’t just hot; it was a physical weight. The digital readout on the dash of our heavily modified Ford Bronco climbed past 150, then 155, finally settling at a shimmering, hellish 160 degrees. Out there, the landscape was a blast furnace, and I’d been in it for the better part of an hour, mapping a potential lithium deposit. Now, back in the truck, the world was starting to tilt. Black spots swam in my vision. Dehydration. The bad kind. My hands, clumsy and thick, fumbled with the clasp of my backpack. I’d prepared for this. I always did. My fingers closed around the familiar shape of my HydraCharge bottle, the one with the high-potency electrolyte mix. I brought it to my cracked lips, the metallic tang of dried blood already on my tongue. But the smell that hit my nostrils wasn’t the faint, sugary scent of the mix. It was acrid. Ammonia. Urine. My head snapped up. Across the seat, Leo Hayes, my wife’s childhood friend, was guzzling my actual HydraCharge, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each greedy swallow. A surge of pure rage cut through the dizziness. Before I could lunge, my wife, Anna, grabbed my sleeve. “Ethan, don’t,” she said, her voice tight. “I gave it to him. He was starting to fade. Just… drink that for now. It’ll get you by.” The black spots in my vision consolidated into a pulsing, dark mass. I held up the bottle of piss, my hand shaking. “I’m already fading,” I rasped, each word scraping my throat like sandpaper. “You want me to drink this? Are you trying to kill me?” Anna’s face hardened. “Don’t be so dramatic. Leo isn’t like you. He doesn’t spend every morning at the gym. He can’t handle this kind of heat. He needed it more.” She gestured dismissively at the bottle in my hand. “Besides, it’s sterile. It’s liquid. In an emergency, you do what you have to do.” It was like listening to a stranger. This was beyond reason. With the last ounce of clarity I had, I grabbed the satellite phone, my fingers barely cooperating. I mashed the preset button for base camp, sending our GPS coordinates with an emergency beacon. My voice was a shredded whisper. “Dehydration, critical. Survey on hold. Requesting immediate evac. And… report a robbery within the team. Call the authorities.” Anna ripped the phone from my grasp, her face a mask of fury. “What the hell is wrong with you?” She tried to dial out, to cancel the call, but the screen flashed a prompt: IRIS IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED. Her fingers were like claws, prying at my eyelid. “Ethan, stop this! It’s one bottle of water! You’re calling a rescue and crying ‘robbery’? If we lose the funding for this survey because of your tantrum, will you take responsibility?” I clamped my eyes shut, using what little strength I had left to grip her wrist. The world spun. A fire was raging in my gut, and every breath was like inhaling shards of glass. I licked the tiny bead of blood from my split lip, a pathetic attempt at moisture. It did nothing. Resisting her had drained my reserves. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. Leo let out a long, satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Easy, Ethan,” he said, his voice slick with false concern. “Anna was just looking out for me. I mean, if I died out here, can you imagine the paperwork?” He then unscrewed the cap and poured a stream of the life-saving fluid over his face, neck, and hands, letting it drip onto the dusty floor mats. “This stuff really works. Good thing you brought some, man. I wouldn’t have thought of it.” My knuckles were white where I gripped the seat frame. I wanted to tear him apart. It was my specific prep. I’d argued we should bring a case of it, but Leo had sneered, calling it “bro science,” insisting plain water was fine. So, I was the only one who had it. And now, as I was dying for it, he was using it to wash his face. Anna turned to him, her voice instantly softening. She pressed her palm to his forehead, then his neck. “You don’t need to apologize to him, Leo. You were kind enough to leave him something. It’s his own fault for being too proud to drink it.” She snatched the bottle of urine from my slackening grip and threw it into my lap. “Who do you think you’re fooling, Ethan?” she spat. “I know all about your Special Forces training. You’re not this fragile. If you were truly dying of thirst, you’d drink anything. Leo’s not built like you. He needs extra care. Why do you always have to make everything about you?” Kind enough? Giving me his piss wasn’t kindness. It was humiliation. My throat was too swollen to form a reply. I reached into my pack again, my fingers searching for the small, foil packets of oral rehydration salts—my last-ditch medical backup. The moment I pulled one out, a sharp sting exploded across my cheek. Anna had slapped me, hard, and snatched the packet away. “You had this the whole time?” she shrieked. “And you didn’t offer it to Leo? You were just going to watch him suffer? God, you are a sick, selfish bastard!” I’m the sick one? Despair and a white-hot fury washed over me. When the temperature spiked, they had all refused to get out of the air-conditioned truck, afraid of the sun. It was me—just me—who went out into that 160-degree inferno, surveying the claim, collecting the data, taking the readings. It’s why I was the one who was dying. And this was my reward. My wife, stripping me of every single thing that could keep me alive. I lunged. Not at her, but at Leo. My fist connected with his jaw, a satisfying, solid crack. “You don’t get to use my things,” I roared, my voice tearing. “You’re off this team! You’re fired!” In the next instant, the passenger door behind me flew open. Anna, screaming, planted her foot in the middle of my back and shoved. I tumbled out of the truck and onto the scorching sand. “Playing the team leader now, are we, Ethan?” she yelled down at me. The other two team members in the back finally spoke up, their voices dripping with accusation. “Come on, Captain. We’re all colleagues here. No need to get violent.” “Yeah, you seem to have plenty of energy to throw a punch. Why are you trying to steal Leo’s water?” Steal? It was my water. But I couldn’t get the words out. The ground was a skillet, searing my skin through my clothes. My vision blurred. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of my mouth. From behind Anna, Leo gave me a smug, triumphant smirk. “You know what? I should just give it all back to him,” he said loudly, playing the martyr. “I’m a member of a national survey team. It’s an honor to sacrifice for the mission.” Anna slammed the door, the sound cutting off the worst of the heat. “Don’t you dare say that. I won’t let anything happen to you.” And just like that, I was left outside, abandoned to the sun. I clawed at my throat, forcing out a few, blood-choked words. “He… a man who’d watch his teammate die… talking about sacrifice?” I coughed, a dry, racking sound. “What a joke.” The window slid down an inch. Anna glared out at me. “Don’t you dare talk about Leo like that! We grew up together. I know who he is!” Grew up together. That was her excuse for everything. It was the reason she’d bent the rules to get him, an unqualified liability, onto my team. I had believed her. I was a fool. Would a simple childhood friend inspire this kind of devotion? The kind that makes a wife watch her husband die? A low hum started in my ears. My consciousness was fraying at the edges. Survival instinct kicked in. I scrambled up, grabbing the edge of the open window to pull myself to my feet. With a vicious snarl, Anna hit the power-window button. It shot upwards, crushing my hand against the frame. A strangled cry of pain escaped my lips. Through the tinted glass, I could see the other team members watching my agony with detached amusement. “Look at him,” one of them said, his voice muffled. “He’s really committed to the act. The captain should’ve been an actor.” Anna pressed the button again, driving the glass deeper into my flesh. “You want to pretend you’re dehydrated?” she screamed through the window. “Then stay out there and feel what it’s really like! I refuse to believe a trained soldier is weaker than the rest of us.” I couldn’t even scream for help. With a final, desperate wrench, I tore my hand free, the risk of broken bones nothing compared to the agony of the crushing pressure. I collapsed, crawling pathetically into the narrow strip of shade cast by the massive truck. It offered no relief. My body was cooking from the inside out. The fear of death, real and absolute, enveloped me. From inside the truck, I could hear the faint murmur of conversation, then a burst of laughter. Just as my vision was fading to black, a heavy boot pressed down on my face, grinding it into the hot sand. I looked up into Leo’s smiling face. “You didn’t know, did you?” he whispered conspiratorially. “Anna’s wanted to divorce you for a while now.” A flicker of hatred ignited in my dying eyes. He grinned, enjoying my reaction. “But a divorce means splitting assets. That’s messy,” he continued. “A grieving widow, though… she gets everything. It’s much cleaner.” He unscrewed the cap of my HydraCharge and poured the remaining liquid onto the sand, just inches from my face. “So you see,” he said, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss, “I’d rather pour this out than give you a single drop.” My body screamed at me to lick the wet sand, but I couldn’t move. Leo laughed, a low, cruel sound. He knelt beside me. “Sun will be down soon,” he mused. “The temperature will drop. But that’s when the coyotes come out. The big ones.” He produced a folding utility knife, flicking it open. With a swift, deliberate motion, he dragged the blade across my forearm. “We’ll come back for your body in the morning.” Blood welled up, dark and thick. The pain, the betrayal, the sheer injustice of it all gave me one last, explosive burst of strength. I surged up, slamming my head into his chest and knocking him to the ground. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth, offering a moment’s grotesque moisture. “Leo,” I choked out, my voice a demonic rasp. “This is murder.” The commotion brought everyone tumbling out of the truck. They dragged me off him. Leo, scrambling to his feet, pointed a trembling finger at the blood-stained knife on the ground. “He just attacked me! I was trying to give him some water, and he stabbed me! He said he was going to use the blood to attract predators so we’d all get eaten!” It was such a blatant, insane lie. I wanted to scream, to smash his lying mouth. Anna rushed to Leo’s side, then turned on me, kicking me hard in the ribs. “You animal, Ethan! Just because we wouldn’t let you pull rank and hoard supplies, you want us all dead?” She looked at Leo with teary-eyed admiration. “And to think, Leo was about to humble himself and give you some of his water. You don’t deserve it!” I forced the words from my ruined throat. “It was… never…” “The person who deserves to die in this desert is you!” Anna shrieked, her words a spear through my heart. One of the other team members spat in my direction. “I thought you were just jealous because Anna pays more attention to Leo,” he sneered. “I didn’t realize you were a psychopath who’d try to kill us all. What a goddamn mistake it was ever working with a monster like you.” These were men I had trusted, men I had trained. Now, they wouldn’t give me a shred of doubt. A broken, whimpering sound escaped my lips. I tried to lift my bleeding arm, to show them who was really wounded. They didn’t see it. Or maybe they chose not to. They were all clustered around Leo, comforting him. “Don’t worry, man, we’re here.” “As soon as we get back, we’re reporting him to the Director.” “Report him? Screw that, he belongs in prison!” Anna let out a cold, bitter laugh. “He’ll have to survive the night first.” My heart, which had been pounding with rage, grew quiet and still. The sun touched the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire. The desert air began to cool. But I was still bleeding. The scent was on the wind. The night hunters would come. There was no way I would live to see the morning. Leo’s eyes were full of malice. Anna’s were as cold and empty as a winter sky. “If you get on your knees and apologize to Leo right now,” she said, her voice flat, “and if you’re still alive in the morning… maybe we’ll consider taking you with us.” I looked at her, the woman I had built a life with, the woman I had faced down countless challenges alongside, and I saw a complete stranger. My consciousness was sinking into a deep, dark well. The pain was gone, replaced by a profound numbness. My soul felt like it was detaching, drifting away. The last thing I heard was Leo’s voice, thick with fake sympathy. “Ethan? Hey, man, are you okay?” Silence was my only answer. “He’s bled a lot,” he said to the others, a note of manufactured panic in his tone. “What if the smell really does bring something to our camp? I… I don’t want to see him die, even after what he did. I have an idea. Let’s dig a hole. We can bury him and the bloody sand. That should mask the scent.” The idea was met with unanimous agreement. I heard the scrape of shovels against sand and gravel. A shallow pit was dug beside me. Then, hands were on me, kicking and rolling my limp body into the hole. Sand filled my mouth and nose. I was suffocating. This wasn’t about masking a scent. This was about burying me alive. With a final, twitching effort, my fingers moved, catching on the cuff of his pants. Leo shrieked and jumped back as if he’d been electrocuted, stomping on my wrist with a sickening crunch. “He’s still trying to kill me!” he screamed. Anna began to shovel with frantic energy, dumping load after load of sand onto my body. “Leo was trying to help you, you ungrateful son of a bitch!” The sand piled on, heavy and suffocating. “I don’t know how I was ever so blind! I never saw the monster you really are! I’m divorcing you!” My breath grew shallow. My heartbeat slowed. I could still hear her, comforting Leo. “Don’t blame yourself for this, honey. We’re in a dangerous place. Accidents happen. It’s not your fault.” My last flicker of a will to live went out. I let the darkness take me. Just as they were burying me, a new sound cut through the desert air—a low, rhythmic whump-whump-whump that grew rapidly louder. A helicopter. Its downdraft hit them like a hurricane, blasting sand everywhere. They dropped their shovels, shielding their faces as they scrambled back toward the Bronco. Strong hands pulled me from the shallow grave. The crushing weight vanished. Air, sweet and precious, flooded my lungs. Voices echoed around me. The rescue team. The Director must have dispatched them the moment my beacon went off. The team’s medic, a woman with sharp, focused eyes, knelt beside me, her movements efficient and sure. She assessed my condition, then barked out orders. “Airway is obstructed with sand and dirt! Needs immediate clearing!” “He’s in severe dehydration. Get a line in him, Lactated Ringer’s, now!” Anna stumbled towards them, squinting against the rotor wash. “What are you doing? Are you people even professionals? He’s not dehydrated, he’s faking it!” The medic didn’t even waste a look on her. She simply handed Anna a satellite phone. “Your questions are for Director Evans. My job is to save this man’s life, not explain it to you.” They cleared the sand from my nose and throat and fitted an oxygen mask over my face. A cool rush spread up my arm as the IV fluids began to work their magic. Through the static, I heard the voice of the Director of the Department of Natural Resources, cold as steel. “Anna. As of this moment, every member of your survey team, with the exception of Ethan Cole, is terminated and under official investigation. You will all be held financially liable for the losses incurred by this failed expedition.”

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My son had a febrile seizure from a high fever. I rushed home to find the apartment at 115°F. The nanny, claiming to be cold-sensitive, had refused to use the AC. My son was rushed to the ICU. I slapped her, paid her severance, and fired her. That night, my husband Michael came home accusing me: “Lara! Was it worth giving Nina a chill by running the AC? She’s now hospitalized because of you!” I shoved the video of our son’s resuscitation in his face. “It might not kill me, but it could’ve killed our son! If a grown woman can’t handle 38 minutes of AC, why is she a nanny?!” Michael softened instantly. “Okay, you’re right. My fault.” Everything seemed normal until our son’s fever spiked again. Michael pretended to take us to the hospital but flew us via private helicopter and dumped us in the Arctic. With his arm around Nina, he laughed down at me: “Cold air helps fever, right? Play doctor today! Enjoy the climate!” Calmly, I texted the only number that mattered: 【Come take out the trash.】 1 The message had barely been sent when one of Michael’s goons let out a triumphant shout. “Boss, she did it again! Just like you said, she’s texting her brother. Good thing we brought the signal jammer!” Michael glanced at my screen and sneered. “Lara, when are you going to grow out of this pathetic habit of running to your big brother every time there’s a problem? It’s disgusting, you know that?” He mocked the words on my screen. “‘Come take out the trash!’ Ooh, so tough. I’m so scared.” His cronies pointed at me, howling with laughter. “You’re gonna listen to the boss today! With this jammer on, you can’t even send a period!” Michael looked pleased. He draped a lavish fur coat over Nina’s shoulders and glared down at me, huddled with our son. “Lara, have you learned your lesson yet?” I was only in a thin silk nightgown. The -50 degree air was already making my body convulse with shivers. My son’s lips were turning a frightening shade of blue, his tiny body trembling violently in my arms. I clutched him tighter. “Michael, what lesson is there to learn?!” I shrieked, my voice raw against the wind. “It’s my house! My AC! Our son was having a seizure! He could have died! I showed you the ICU video, are you blind?!” A gust of wind tore across the ice, feeling like a thousand tiny knives on my exposed skin. My son let out a piercing, agonized wail. I stumbled toward the helicopter, waving my arms frantically. “Michael, you know his condition! If he keeps crying like this, you know what will happen!” His expression flickered. His reckless lifestyle before we had a child had resulted in our son being born with a congenital lung defect. The doctors had warned us repeatedly to keep him from crying excessively, as it posed a risk of suffocation. Michael had even quit drinking and smoking for him. He’d once beaten a previous nanny and put her in the hospital just for letting our son cry for two minutes during a diaper change. And now? For Nina, he was willing to risk our son’s life. Seeing his hesitation, I pressed on. “Michael, please…” “Michael, honey, let’s just bring her up,” Nina interrupted, her voice a delicate murmur. She snuggled deeper into his arms, her eyes glistening with fake tears. “I’m fine. So what if I almost collapsed from a chill? It’s not important. We shouldn’t let Lara and the baby suffer because of me…” She paused, then added slyly, “Besides, you shouldn’t worry too much, Michael. I saw the nanny cam footage from that day. The baby was in that air-conditioned room for hours, and even though he was crying later, probably because he got cold, nothing bad happened…” Almost collapsed? Crying for hours? She had practically sprinted out of my apartment that day. And I had rushed my son to the hospital the second she was gone. “She’s lying, Michael! The security app is on your phone! You can check the footage right now!” But before I could finish, his face hardened. He lowered the rope ladder, his voice a low growl. “Go! Strip them both! This woman can’t speak a single word of truth. Today, I’m going to teach her a real lesson!” The helicopter descended slightly, and Michael immediately pulled Nina into a protective embrace, fussing over her coat. “You lied about our son’s condition too, didn’t you?” he spat at me. “You’d even use your own child just to get attention! You make me sick, Lara. You keep making things worse for yourself. If you don’t start begging for forgiveness, you can stay down there and rot!” He then turned to Nina, cupping her face with a look of profound tenderness. “Nina, as long as I’m here, I will never let anyone hurt you. Don’t be afraid.” 2 The moment Michael had Nina settled, his goons swarmed me. They leered, their eyes raking over my body before one of them ripped away my thin robe. I scrambled backward, clutching my son, but I was no match for them. They shoved me to the ground, tore my son from my arms, and ripped off his last layer of clothing, tossing his naked body onto the ice. A heart-wrenching scream tore through the air, but it was already weaker, thinner than before. Panic seized me. I started crawling toward him, ignoring the searing pain as my bare skin froze to the ice, tearing away with every movement. A long, crimson trail marked my path. My son was also frozen to the surface, and every attempt to lift him only made him cry harder. I huddled over him, trying to use my own body heat to melt the ice beneath him, whispering soothing words as my own blood pooled around us. Minutes later, Michael must have noticed the growing sea of red. He pushed Nina aside and leaned down for a better look. Before he could speak, Nina slid down the ladder. “Lara, just apologize! A man has his pride. All his friends are here today. If you don’t apologize, how can he face them?” I lunged, grabbing the collar of her coat. “Why should I apologize?! My son was in the ICU because of you! Do you dare let Michael check the security footage right now?! Only an idiot like him would fall for your pathetic lies!” I screamed. “You said you collapsed? Show me your hospital report!” Michael had followed her down. My words made him look at Nina with a flicker of doubt. But in that instant, Nina tore off her own fur coat and dropped to her knees beside me with a thud. She started slapping her own face, hard. “Michael, it’s all my fault! Please, just take Lara and go home! Don’t fight with her because of me…” she sobbed. “But… Michael, I swear I wasn’t lying. I’ll just kneel here. In a few hours, when I collapse from the cold, then you’ll believe me…” The doubt in Michael’s eyes melted into pure adoration. He rushed to her side, helping her up with a look of utter devotion. Then he turned to me, his eyes like ice. “Lara! You have a real talent for twisting the truth. If I wasn’t here to protect her, you’d eat a sweet girl like Nina alive! Since you insist on this attitude, don’t blame me for what happens next!” He turned and barked an order. “Go! Open the cage and let the polar bear out! Let him have some fun!” A chorus of whoops and cheers erupted from the helicopter. “Whoa, never seen a polar bear play with a human before! Thanks for the show, Mrs. Cole!” They scrambled toward a large iron cage. Just as they were about to open it, a young woman’s timid voice piped up from behind. “Boss… my dad saw a polar bear on an expedition once. He said they’re incredibly aggressive. If they smell blood, they’ll… they’ll actually eat people. Look, Mrs. Cole and the baby are covered in it. If you let it out, someone might actually die…” Michael motioned for the man at the cage to pause. He was about to speak when Nina let out a faint, pained whimper. “Michael, never mind. I’m not afraid of collapsing. I’m just… I’m worried about the baby in my belly…” she whispered. “And that day… I had just found out I was pregnant when Lara threw me out. Maybe… maybe that’s why she’s so angry…” I didn’t even know the bitch was pregnant! But I had no chance to defend myself. Michael’s face became a mask of cold fury. “Open the cage!” he roared. The next second, the seven-foot-tall beast was charging directly at us. Michael hauled Nina onto the helicopter and watched me scramble away with my son, roaring with laughter. “Lara! Let’s see how tough you are now! You tried to harm Nina, and you tried to harm her unborn child! You deserve everything that’s coming to you!” 3 I ran, my lungs burning, my feet slipping on the ice. The young woman who had spoken up before tried to intervene again, but Michael cut her off. “Not another word. I have a medevac on standby. Nothing fatal will happen. But if you say one more thing, you can go down there and join her!” The girl shrank back, terrified into silence. The bear, true to her warning, was driven into a frenzy by the scent of blood. I desperately scooped up snow and rubbed it on our bodies, trying to mask the smell, but every step I took left a fresh, bloody footprint. The massive animal followed my trail, its roars echoing across the frozen wasteland. The extreme cold and blood loss made the world swim. Finally, my legs gave out. As I collapsed, I saw the bear lunging. In a last, desperate act, I rolled over, shielding my son with my own body. The bear’s paw, bigger than my head, slammed into my back. A sickening tearing sound filled my ears. I felt its claws scrape against my spine, and a river of hot blood streamed down my back. I arched my body, trying to let the warmth of my blood cover my son, hoping for some small sign of life, a whimper, a stir. Nothing. I reached up a trembling hand and placed it under his nose. There was no breath. Scrambling forward on my hands and knees, I screamed at the helicopter, a raw, animalistic sound of pure agony. “Michael! He’s not breathing! Even a monster doesn’t eat its own young! You’re a beast! We’ll haunt you from our graves!” My scream seemed to stun him. He ordered the pilot to descend. When he saw the vast, bloody slush on the ice below, the color drained from his face. Before he could speak, one of his men rushed forward. “Boss, we got a reply to that text she sent! It says… it says in one hour, we’ll all be meeting our maker…” That message sent Michael into a full-blown panic. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Lara! What did you do?! The jammer was on! How could you get a reply?!” I stared back, my eyes burning with hatred. “What’s the matter, you coward? Scared now?! It doesn’t matter how I did it. The message is right! In less than an hour, you’re all going to hell! Every last one of you monsters!” Fear warred with fury in Michael’s eyes. He fell silent, but Nina stepped forward, pointing at me with a trembling finger. “Lara, what are you doing? I brought that equipment myself! It’s impossible to get a signal through it! You and Michael are family! Why would you try to scare him like this?!” She turned and clutched Michael’s arm. “Michael, let’s just bring her up. I’ll forget you ever promised to protect me. My feelings don’t matter. As long as you’re okay…” Her words reignited his rage. He turned to his men, his voice dripping with venom. “You guys like to play with knives, right? Use her as a target. Anyone who hits her gets ten million dollars, on the spot!” “Bring the chopper in closer! Let’s make this interesting!” A deafening cheer went up. The next second, a hail of blades rained down from the sky. My back was mangled; I couldn’t get to my feet. I could only roll on the ice, trying to shield my son’s body. But my movements were clumsy, and within seconds, five knives had embedded themselves in my legs and ribs. A blackish tint immediately spread from the wounds. The knives were poisoned. As I rolled, one of the knives in my ribs was driven deeper, tearing through my stomach and into my son’s back. A sharp, piercing cry erupted from the bundle in my arms. Seeing my son’s body, now covered in his own blood, I finally broke. “Michael! Pull me up! Get us to a hospital! The knives are poisoned! My son… he’s really not going to make it!” The raw terror in my voice seemed to cut through his rage. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and looked down. The sight of the black blood spreading across the ice made him lose his composure completely. He grabbed one of his men, shaking him violently. “You said it would just be a few scratches! What the hell is this?! Call the medevac! Call them now!” 4 The man looked at him helplessly. “Boss, Nina was in charge of the medevac. Only she has the contact number…” Michael grabbed Nina’s wrist, his voice trembling. “Nina, now! Call the rescue team! Save Lara! Save our son!” Nina, startled by his intensity, fumbled for her phone. But just as she raised it, she paused. “Michael, I can’t make the call. The signal jammer is still on. If we turn it off, her brother will get the message for sure…” Michael hesitated for a split second, then grabbed a walkie-talkie. “Fly to the nearest hospital! Now!” Before he could finish, Nina snatched the device from his hand. “Michael, she hasn’t even apologized yet. That’s the whole reason we came out here. If we just go back now, how will you look your friends in the eye…?” she cooed. “I’m just thinking of you, Michael. I don’t have any selfish motives…” He immediately switched off the radio. He looked down at me, curled in a pool of my own blood, and screamed, “Lara! Just apologize! Say you’re sorry and I’ll take you to the hospital!” His voice cracked. “I’m worried about him too! For our son’s sake, just give in! Please! I’m begging you!” The poison was making my vision blur. I pointed a bloody finger at him and used my last ounce of strength to scream, “You are a monster, Michael! Take us to a hospital now! Or when my brother gets here, I swear to God I will have him kill you!” Nina feigned a look of panicked concern. “Lara, stop being so stubborn! Your brother is not going to get that message! Just pretend to apologize and we can all go to the hospital, okay?” Michael was pacing frantically. He grabbed a megaphone and pleaded into it. “Lara, please! I’m on my knees here! Just say you’re sorry! It’s the only way to save our son! No one else can help you! Your brother is not coming!” The last word had barely left his lips when a single gunshot blew the megaphone out of his hand. Suddenly, the sky was filled with the thrum of rotor blades. Dozens of helicopters swarmed above us. “Her brother is here!”

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My dad always liked my sister better. I was the one who didn’t belong. So I married a man who lived a thousand miles away, and I never looked back. Yesterday, I got the call. He was dead. While cleaning out his belongings, I found his old phone. It only had one app on it: Maps. Not even a single social media icon. My sister walked in, snatched the phone from my hand, her eyes red-rimmed. “Candice, don’t. Just don’t look.” 1. At the funeral, I didn’t shed a single tear. My relatives stood around me, their shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. I just stood there, a complete outsider. My sister, Luna, came over, her eyes swollen and puffy from crying. She reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “Candice, please don’t be like this.” I stared at the black-and-white photo in the center of the hall. The man in the picture was smiling, but I could barely remember his face. “Be like what?” My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet weeping, silencing the room. A few of my aunts exchanged glances, making tutting sounds. “Some people are just ungrateful.” “Her own father dies and she doesn’t even cry. Her heart must be made of stone.” “I know, right? She was always stubborn, not half as sweet as Luna.” I’d been hearing variations of those lines for over twenty years. I was used to it. My dad’s preference for Luna wasn’t a secret. It was a blatant, unapologetic favoritism. For my tenth birthday, I had my heart set on the most popular doll of the year. Instead, my dad came home with a giant Transformer. It was what Luna had been begging for. He pushed the giant toy into Luna’s arms, ruffling her hair. “Our little Luna is the best girl.” Then, he pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket and tossed it to me. “You’re a girl. Stop thinking about useless toys and focus on your studies.” The cover of the notebook had a cheesy slogan printed on it: Study Hard and Get Ahead. That night, I tore the notebook to shreds and flushed the pieces down the toilet, one by one. I didn’t cry. I just knew, in that moment, that there was no room for me in this house. 2. After the funeral, it was time to sort through his things. My dad didn’t own much. His room contained a single, beat-up wardrobe. I folded his clothes, one by one, and packed them into cardboard boxes. Luna knelt beside me, silently polishing a picture frame. It was a photo of her and our dad at an amusement park. She was perched on his shoulders, smiling like a sunflower. I searched the entire house. There wasn’t a single photo of just him and me. In the one family portrait we owned, I was standing in the far corner, my expression stiff, looking like I’d been awkwardly photoshopped in. Luna looked up, her voice hoarse. “Candice… Dad left something for you. It’s in his desk.” I pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a small metal box, covered in a thin layer of dust. I opened it. It wasn’t filled with anything valuable. It was a stack of certificates. “Student of the Year, Luna.” “First Place, Art Competition, Luna.” “Star Dancer, Luna.” The box was overflowing with proof of my sister’s achievements. At the very bottom, my fingers brushed against a few loose papers. They were mine. My university acceptance letter and a couple of certificates for academic excellence. They were just shoved at the bottom, not even in a plastic sleeve. The corners were frayed. A bitter smile touched my lips. My heart felt like a block of ice. See? Even in his memories, Luna’s accomplishments were more important than mine. Seeing my expression, Luna quickly tried to explain. “No, Candice, that’s not it! Dad… he showed your acceptance letter to all our relatives. He was so, so proud.” “Was he?” I held the letter up to the light. “So proud that he buried it at the bottom of a box, without even bothering to frame it?” 3. Most of the relatives were still lingering. My aunt took Luna’s hand, sighing dramatically. “Oh, Luna, this family will depend on you now. You can’t count on your sister for anything.” “Your father was sick for years, and you were the one here, taking care of him. He didn’t waste his love on you.” My uncle chimed in. “Exactly. Her sister moves across the country, doesn’t visit for years at a time. So cold-hearted.” “The house, the savings… it should all go to you, by right.” They said all of this openly, right in front of me as I stood in the doorway. My father… was sick? I didn’t know. No one had told me. After I moved away, he never once called me. Whenever I called home, my mom would answer, rush through a few pleasantries, and then hang up, saying Dad was busy or had stepped out. So he was sick. They’d hidden it so well. Were they trying to protect me from worrying, or did they just decide the daughter who didn’t matter didn’t need to know? I guessed it was the latter. I let out a cold laugh and walked into the living room. “Are you all done?” The room fell silent. All eyes were on me. I looked at my uncle. “You don’t need to worry about my father’s affairs. And what he did or didn’t leave for me is none of your business.” My uncle’s face turned beet red. “What kind of attitude is that? We’re your elders!” “And being an elder gives you the right to gossip about other people’s private lives?” I stood my ground. “You… you ungrateful child! Your father’s body is barely cold, and you’re already trying to tear this family apart!” Luna rushed over and stood between me and our relatives. “Uncle, Auntie, please stop. My sister… she’s hurting, too.” Her defense felt more like a performance. A way of showing everyone that she was the true master of this house. I pushed her aside. “Whether I’m hurting or not is my business,” I said, my voice sharp and clear. “But you were right about one thing. He loved Luna the most. You certainly can’t count on me.” With that, I turned, walked back to my room, and locked the door. Outside, the relatives’ whispers grew louder, more brazen. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. That man spent his entire life showing me I wasn’t as good as Luna. And even in death, he was still using others to remind me of it. 4. I stayed in the old house to handle the arrangements. Luna tiptoed around me every day, wanting to talk but too afraid to start. She’d bring me food, and I’d eat it in silence. She’d pour me hot water, and I’d take it without a word. We were like two strangers living under the same roof, connected only by the man who was gone. One night, I couldn’t sleep. I walked out of my room and saw Luna sitting on the sofa in the dark living room. The only light was the glow from her phone, illuminating half of her face. She was crying. Silently. I stood there for a moment, about to retreat, when she saw me. “Candice.” She hastily wiped her tears and stood up. “Can’t sleep?” I asked, my tone flat. “No.” She looked down. “Candice, Dad… he really missed you.” That again. I was so tired of hearing it. “Did he? I never got that impression,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Luna flinched. She walked over slowly and held out her phone. “Look at this.” It was a video. The background was familiar—the riverfront park in the city where I lived. The camera was shaky, focused on the back of a young woman flying a kite. Her laughter, bright and clear, carried on the breeze. “What is this?” I asked, confused. “It’s a video one of your old college friends posted. She said she ran into you,” Luna said softly. “I forwarded it to Dad.” Then I heard his voice from the phone’s speaker, heavy with wheezing and a cough he couldn’t suppress. “Cough, cough… My girl… my Candice… she has such a beautiful laugh…” “Just like her mother…” My heart seized in my chest. The video was only fifteen seconds long. But he spoke as if he’d been watching it for a lifetime. “Dad’s phone had almost no memory,” Luna said. “He couldn’t save much, but he saved this one video. He watched it several times a day.” “He said that hearing your laugh made the pain in his body a little easier to bear.” 5. I snatched the phone from her, playing the video over and over. The man’s voice in the video was weak, frail. It was a world away from the booming, powerful voice I remembered—the voice of a man who could yell at me for half an hour without taking a breath. My hands started to shake. “When did he get sick?” “Three years ago. A heart condition. The doctor said it was an old problem, from overworking himself when he was young.” Three years ago. The year I got married. He didn’t come to my wedding. He just had someone deliver a card with a hundred-dollar bill inside. At the time, my husband’s family had mocked me, whispering about how my own father wouldn’t even show up for his daughter’s wedding. I was so angry I threw the money away and swore I would never have anything to do with him again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice was trembling. “Dad wouldn’t let me.” Luna’s tears started falling again. “He said you lived so far away, you had your own life, and he didn’t want to be a burden.” “He said… he said the person he failed most in his life was you. He was too ashamed to face you, let alone ask you to come back and take care of him.” A burden? Ashamed? The words were so absurd I wanted to laugh. When had he ever felt sorry for me? Was it when he turned my bedroom into Luna’s piano room? Or was it when he gave the only spot at the good high school to Luna and told me I should go to a trade school instead? I stared at her, my eyes burning. “Do you really think saying all this now will make me forgive him? Don’t be so naive, Luna.” “You enjoyed his favoritism for twenty years. Now that he’s dead, you want me to remember his ‘good side’ so you can inherit everything with a clear conscience?” “No! That’s not it, Candice! I didn’t!” Luna was stung by my words, grabbing my arm frantically. “Then tell me why!” I shook her hand off. “Why did he do all of it?” Luna’s lips trembled, but no words came out. She just shook her head, tears streaming down her face. Seeing her like that only made me angrier. It was always like this. Whenever we argued, she used her tears as a weapon, making it seem like she was the one who was deeply wronged. 6. The next day, the lawyer arrived. He was an old friend of my dad’s, a man named Mr. Harris. He saw me and sighed. “Candice. You’re finally back.” I said nothing. My aunt and uncle, having heard the news, had also shown up. They sat on the sofa, looking smug and expectant. Mr. Harris pulled a document from his briefcase. “This is your father’s last will and testament.” Everyone in the room held their breath. My uncle cleared his throat, putting on a show of magnanimity. “My brother had a hard life. Whatever he decided, we’ll respect it. But Luna was always the most devoted daughter. It’s only right that he left a little more for her.” My aunt nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Candice was never around. She didn’t contribute anything.” I watched their performance with cold eyes. Luna sat next to me, wringing her hands, her palms sweating with nerves. Mr. Harris adjusted his glasses and began to read. “The contents of the will are quite straightforward.” “The house under Mr. Davis’s name, as well as all savings in his accounts, are to be left to…”

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“I want a divorce! My husband doesn’t love me anymore!” The moment I stepped into City Hall, clutching my water-damaged marriage certificate, I heard a young woman’s cry from the next counter over. She was a mess, tears carving streaks through her makeup as she wailed about her broken marriage. The crazy thing was, her husband had the same name as mine: Damian Holt. Except her Damian Holt was the richest man in Northwood City. Mine was just an ordinary guy. I smiled at the strange coincidence and handed my certificate to the clerk. “I need a replacement, please.” But a second later, the clerk gave me a confused look. “Ma’am, our records show your status as ‘unmarried.’ And this gentleman… he’s already married.” She tapped her screen, then pointed at my document. “This certificate is a fake.” I froze, a glacial chill creeping over me, stealing the air from my lungs. My head turned on its own, my eyes drawn to the woman at the next counter. Her phone screen lit up, the wallpaper a wedding photo. The man in the tuxedo was the same man I’d been married to for three years. 1 As I stood there, stunned into silence, the woman made a call. “Damian Holt, I want a divorce. Get down here and sign the papers now!” She had it on speaker. I heard a familiar voice on the other end, laced with a weary sort of affection. “What’s this about a divorce again? Honey, I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry, okay?” The woman wiped at her tears. “Don’t call me that. I won’t be your ‘honey’ for much longer. This isn’t a discussion; it’s a notification. Get down here and sign.” “If you don’t,” she threatened, “I’ll fly abroad where you’ll never find me. Two years of separation is an automatic divorce anyway.” A new edge of panic entered the man’s voice. I even heard the clatter of a chair being knocked over. “Don’t go anywhere! I’m on my way!” The call ended. The woman sniffled, turning back to the clerk. “My husband’s coming. Once we file, it’s a 30-day waiting period before it’s final, right?” “That’s correct. You can pick up the final decree in thirty days.” She nodded and moved to a nearby waiting chair, her eyes red and puffy, the picture of heartbroken vulnerability. I wanted to run, but it felt like every ounce of strength had been siphoned out of me, leaving me rooted to the spot. My mind was a blizzard of white noise. This had to be a dream. It was the only explanation. How could the marriage certificate we got two years ago be a fake? Snapping back to reality, I pleaded with the clerk, “Could you please check again? We got married right here, two years ago. How can it be fake?” The clerk held up the soggy, ruined document and pointed to the seal. “Ma’am, look here. The official seal is crooked. It’s definitely a forgery.” Her voice softened. “As for why… you’ll probably have to find that out for yourself.” Her eyes were full of pity, a look I couldn’t bear. I forced myself to stand and shuffled away. That’s when the young woman looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened slightly. “Hey, we look kind of alike, don’t we?” My heart skipped a beat. Looking at her, at the familiar shape of her eyes and curve of her brows, my face hardened into a mask. I opened my mouth to say something, but the main door swung open. A man burst in, looking like he’d rushed all the way here. “Honey!” At the sound of his voice, both of us turned. And I saw his face. A face I knew intimately. Just last night, he had held me, whispering promises against my skin. But now, his eyes saw only one woman, and it wasn’t me. 2 Seeing Damian, the woman—Mila—crossed her arms, her expression instantly turning frosty. “Good, you’re here. Let’s get this over with.” Damian looked frantic, so focused on her he didn’t even notice me standing just a few feet away. “Even a criminal gets to know the charges against them, right? Honey, just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll change, I promise.” His voice was a desperate plea. “I spent eight years chasing you before you finally married me. We’ve only been married a year. You can’t just divorce me. You might as well just kill me.” Mila sniffed, her eyes welling up again. “When you married me, you promised you’d treat me like a queen for the rest of my life. A year in, and you already take me for granted.” “You’re always busy with work,” she accused, her voice cracking. “You’re away for half the month.” As she spoke, my own face grew paler with every word. Damian was always busy. Always traveling for business or pulling all-nighters at the office. I worried he was working himself to death, so I’d wake up at five in the morning to cook him breakfast, always trying new recipes to nourish him. But it was all a lie… Mila began to list his crimes. “Three years ago, when I went abroad, you promised you’d wait for me. Six months in, you missed sending me a ‘goodnight’ text once.” Three years ago. That was when I met Damian. He told me it was love at first sight. Countless times, in our most intimate moments, he would kiss my eyes, his gaze filled with a love so deep I thought I could drown in it. “Last Valentine’s Day,” she continued, “I said I was craving those famous crab cakes from the Harbor District. You sent your assistant to get them. You didn’t even go and wait in line yourself.” That day, Damian had told me he was stuck at the office with a deadline. He didn’t come home all night. When he finally showed up, he was carrying a box of cold crab cakes. I knew the line for that place was hours long, and my heart swelled with a mix of sympathy and love as I threw myself into his arms. “And last week! I told you my stomach hurt, and you didn’t come home immediately to make me some soup! It took you two whole hours to get here!” That day, I had a raging fever. I called Damian, begging him to take me to the hospital. He’d barely been home for a few minutes when he glanced at his phone, claimed an urgent work emergency had come up, and left me with a box of fever reducers. I was drenched in a cold sweat, too weak to get water. I dry-swallowed the pills and curled into a ball, shivering through the night alone. My vision blurred. Every word out of Mila’s mouth was another needle piercing my heart. My nails dug into my palms, but I was too numb to feel the pain. “I never had to peel my own shrimp when we were dating,” she sobbed. “This morning, you forgot to peel my shrimp for me.” “You’ve changed,” she concluded, her voice trembling. “Your heart has changed. I don’t want to be with you anymore. We’re getting a divorce!” She spoke like a wounded princess, every complaint a testament to a world of pampering I had never known. Damian’s face was etched with pain as he gently wiped her tears away. “I just walked away from a multi-billion dollar deal for you, and you say I don’t love you? I’ll cut back on work. I’ll spend more time with you, okay?” He cradled her face in his hands. “Please don’t cry. It kills me to see you cry. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.” After a long session of his gentle coaxing, Mila’s tone finally softened. “Fine. This is your last chance. If you make me angry again, I’m never forgiving you.” They clung to each other, ready to leave as one. Just then, Mila seemed to remember something and turned, her gaze landing on me. “Honey, look. Doesn’t she look a lot like me?” Damian looked up. His eyes met mine, and for a split second, his pupils contracted in shock. Then, just as quickly, he looked away, his expression smoothing over into indifference. “I don’t see it. My wife is much prettier.” Mila gave him a playful, scolding glance. I just stood there. My heart felt like it had been plunged into ice water, the cold so sharp it was a physical pain. 3 I dragged my numb body home. When I opened the door, I found an unexpected person inside. Damian Holt. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, still in the tailored suit that looked so out of place in my cramped little apartment. It was laughable. How had I never noticed? How did I ever believe he was just a regular office worker? When he saw me, the warmth I was used to was gone, replaced by an icy calm. “So, you know.” It wasn’t a question. My hands clenched into fists. I couldn’t understand how he could be so composed after his entire world of lies had been exposed. No shame, no guilt, no apology. He acted as if this was a minor inconvenience. But this was my three years. The marriage certificate was a lie. The love I believed in was a lie. His very identity was a lie. Every memory we had made, every shared moment, was a fraud. I bit down on my tongue, the sharp tang of blood holding back a fresh wave of tears. My voice came out raspy. “What are you doing here?” Damian looked at me like I was a stranger, like we were two parties negotiating a business deal. “Mila saw you today. I can’t have you appearing in front of her again.” He stated it so matter-of-factly. “I’ll arrange for you to move abroad. I’ll also give you a sum of money that will set you up for life.” His words fell like shards of ice, and the blood in my veins turned to slush. “What… what are you saying?” He met my gaze without flinching, his eyes empty of any emotion. “I’m saying I won’t let anyone destroy my marriage.” A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips, and tears finally streamed down my face. “Your marriage? If what you have with her is a marriage, then what was this with me?” “You already know, don’t you? The certificate was a fake.” He paused, then delivered the final blow. “Three years ago, Mila was going abroad for her studies. You looked a bit like her, so I pursued you. But now that she’s back, you no longer have any value.” Value. Even though I had suspected it, hearing the truth from his own mouth was like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I was just a substitute. A placeholder he used to ease his longing for another woman. The taste of blood filled my mouth. I clenched my jaw, my voice defiant. “And what if I say no?” Damian rose from the sofa and closed the distance between us, looming over me. “If you want your mother to rest in peace in her grave,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “you’ll do as I say.” My eyes flew wide with disbelief. “You’re threatening me with my mother? Damian, are you even human? You lied to me for three years, and now you’re using my mother’s ashes to force me out?” His tone was flat, devoid of emotion. “If you accept my offer, it’s not a threat.” Tears streamed down my face. I raised my hand to slap him, but he caught my wrist in a grip of steel. With a cold shove, he sent me stumbling backward. I lost my balance and fell, my forehead cracking against the corner of the coffee table. A warm liquid immediately trickled down my skin, painting my vision red. Damian’s brow furrowed, and he took an instinctive step toward me. But then, his phone rang. I watched as his expression instantly softened, his voice turning gentle. “I’m on my way. I’ll make it for you and bring it right over.” He turned to leave, then stopped. He strode back, grabbed my arm, and hauled me to my feet. “Mila’s craving seafood chowder,” he said, his grip bruising. “You make the best. Go cook it for her.” My eyes, bloodshot and filled with tears, stared into his. I struggled against his hold. “Damian, what do you take me for?!” His eyes narrowed. His voice was quiet, but it carried a chilling finality. “Don’t forget your mother’s ashes.” All the fight drained out of me. I closed my eyes, and I surrendered. 4 I was taken to a lavish villa. After I finished making the seafood chowder, Damian took it to Mila without so much as a glance in my direction. He left in such a hurry that I didn’t get my phone back. The gash on my forehead remained untreated. Night had already fallen. I had no choice but to start walking. In a daze, I remembered another night like this, two years ago. My phone had died, I couldn’t call a cab, and I had to walk home. Damian couldn’t reach me and had spent two hours frantically searching. When he finally found me, he’d pulled me into his arms, his voice trembling. “You scared me to death, Claire. I thought something had happened to you.” He’d even teared up when he saw my blistered heels. But now, he could look at the bleeding cut on my forehead without a flicker of emotion. My heart felt like a hollow, aching cavern, the pain so deep it had become a dull numbness. I was halfway home when the world swam, and everything went black. I woke up in a hospital. A nurse was checking my vitals. “You fainted from low blood sugar,” she explained gently. “A kind stranger brought you in.” I remembered then that I hadn’t eaten all day. The seafood chowder I’d spent an hour simmering—I hadn’t even had a single spoonful. The nurse paused, then added, “You’re also about two months pregnant. You really need to take better care of yourself and be mindful of your diet.” The world stopped. I looked down at my still-flat stomach in disbelief. Pregnant… A twisted, unrecognizable smile pulled at my lips. If this had been yesterday, I would have been overjoyed. But now… After the IV drip was finished, I left the hospital in a fog. I’d barely been home for a few minutes when several men burst through the door and grabbed me. I thrashed in their arms, terror seizing me. “Who are you? What are you doing!” They drove me to the cemetery and dragged me out of the car. There, standing in front of my mother’s headstone, was Damian. My heart hammered against my ribs, my voice shaking. “Damian, what are you doing?” He turned, his expression surprisingly calm. “What did you put in the soup? Mila had severe stomach pains after she ate it.” His gaze was cold. “Claire, you just don’t learn, do you?” “What?” I stared at him, bewildered. “I didn’t do anything.” “You suspect I tampered with the soup?” His eyes were like chips of ice. “Are you still denying it? You made the soup. Who else could it have been?” His voice dropped, laced with accusation. “Did you know Mila was pregnant with my child? Is that why you tried to make her miscarry?” Mila was pregnant too… My hand unconsciously went to my own stomach, my fingers curling into a fist. “No! I didn’t know she was pregnant. I didn’t do anything.” Damian’s cold stare was unnerving, but I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He was hesitating. I opened my mouth to explain again, but just then, his phone rang. After a brief, tense conversation, his face contorted with rage. When he looked back at me, his eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated fury. “Claire, how dare you tell her!” he roared. “It seems you really don’t take my warnings seriously. Well, you won’t like the consequences!” Before I could process his words, he signaled to one of his men. In the next horrifying second, I could only watch as the box containing my mother’s ashes was smashed onto the ground, shattering into pieces. “NO!”

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