Author: Momo Chan

It was the day of the Choosing, when the Order’s apprentices were paired with their Soul-Blades. And just as he had in that other life, Kaelen sent me sprawling with a deliberate trip, snatching Winter’s Grace into his arms before I could recover. That blade was meant for me. It was Winter’s Grace, the most renowned Soul-Blade in the Nine Realms, and its spirit, Grace, was a being of ethereal, chilling beauty. My brothers and sisters in the Order rushed to my side, their voices sharp with reproach. “Kaelen! That blade was a gift for Asher from Archon Valerius, a ward to protect him! What do you think you’re doing, clinging to it like that?” A Soul-Blade and its wielder are meant to empower each other. To bond with a potent sword-spirit is the ultimate dream of any Blademaster. My father, the Grandmaster’s own sworn brother, had been a hero who gave his life for the realm. He was revered, and as his orphaned son, I was showered with sympathy from the elders and looked after by my peers. Kaelen, despite his raw talent, was a new arrival. By rights, he wasn’t even on the list for this Choosing. Let alone for a blade like Winter’s Grace, a treasure Archon Valerius had spent years searching for, entrusted to the Grandmaster to bestow upon me. And now, Kaelen had stolen it. 1 The Grandmaster, my uncle, suppressed his anger, his voice a low growl. “Return the blade to your senior, Kaelen. There will be other Choosings. The Order will find a worthy blade for you. Be patient.” Kaelen’s lip curled in a pout. “But the Order teaches us to respect the will of the Soul-Blades themselves. Asher possesses a Null-Aether. His potential is nonexistent. Wouldn’t leaving such a blade with him be an insult to its power? It would be better with me—” My Null-Aether. A kinder soul might call it a rarity. The truth was, it meant I was a dud, a magical dead end. Everyone avoided the topic to spare my feelings. “Better with you? Don’t be absurd!” The Grandmaster’s patience finally snapped. “You’ll wait for the next Choosing, or you’ll take that one.” He gestured to the corner, where a single, rusted, broken sword lay discarded and alone. Kaelen shot me a defiant look, his grip on Winter’s Grace tightening. As the Grandmaster moved to take the blade by force, Winter’s Grace erupted in a blinding flash of glacial light. The spirit, Grace, materialized—a vision in white, ethereal and cold as a winter wraith, her beauty breathtaking. She positioned herself before Kaelen, a human shield of impossible beauty. Her voice was like the chime of ice. “I acknowledge only Kaelen as my master. If anyone tries to force us apart, I will seal my blade.” For a sword-spirit to seal its blade was to commit a kind of suicide, to extinguish its own power. The greatest blade in the Nine Realms had a pride to match, preferring oblivion to being commanded. The Grandmaster looked at me, his face a mask of embarrassment. A faint smile touched my lips as I walked over and picked up the rusted, broken sword Kaelen had scorned in my last life. “Our Order has always respected the will of the Soul-Blades. Since Winter’s Grace has chosen its master, let it be a gift to Kaelen. A cripple like me can make do with a broken blade.” Grace lifted her chin, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, and took Kaelen’s arm as they departed. My peers stared at me in disbelief. The Grandmaster, thinking I was acting out of spite, tried to reason with me. “Asher, don’t be rash. That thing is scrap metal. Its spirit likely faded to dust centuries ago. It can’t protect you. Please, choose another.” The other apprentices offered me their own newly chosen blades. I refused them all. To possess a Soul-Blade of one’s own was a dream they had all cherished for years. How could I take that from them? One of them muttered angrily, “I don’t know what trick Kaelen used to bewitch that spirit into choosing him.” But I knew. Grace had always wanted Kaelen. 2 My name is Asher. Unlike my father, a righteous man of immense power, I was born with a Null-Aether—a complete inability to channel magic. My father had adored me. “A Null-Aether is the rarest gift of all,” he used to say. “So what if you can’t cast spells? Scarcity creates value, don’t you see? It might just be the heavens’ greatest blessing upon you.” I almost asked him if he’d like the blessing for himself. But my father loved the world more than he loved me. He gave his life to destroy the Lord of the Crimson Maw, the leader of a bloodthirsty death cult, and became a legend. After his death, the elders and my peers doted on me even more, treating me less like their senior and more like a fragile younger brother in need of constant protection. I knew their love was real. And so was their pity. In my last life, it had been the same. My father’s oldest friend, Archon Valerius, found Winter’s Grace for me, hoping its spirit could be my shield. But Grace had no interest in a powerless failure like me. She was drawn to Kaelen, with his prodigious talent and dashing charm. As for me, I was smitten with her. The blade, pure as driven snow, with an edge that shimmered like crystal. The spirit, a vision in white, so transcendent she seemed unreal. She was like the physical embodiment of a Null-Aether—a beautiful, perfect void. What a fool I was. I saw her ethereal form and thought, “Ah, we’re the same… this must be fate.” So, the moment Kaelen’s hand touched her hilt in that previous life, I scrambled to my feet, knocked him flat, and snatched the sword back. Kaelen, determined to be part of the Choosing, was left with no other option but the discarded, broken sword. As the master of Winter’s Grace, I devoted myself to her. I did everything in my power to compensate for the fact that she was bonded to me, unable to join a powerful master in glorious, world-shaking battles. Other spirits would say, “Master, your command is my will.” My spirit would say, “Country bumpkin, I require a bath.” Bonding a sword-spirit is no less expensive than raising a royal griffin, especially one like Grace, the greatest blade in the Nine Realms. She looked down her nose at everything. The celestial herbs other spirits consumed? She wouldn’t touch them. Her bathwater had to be Celestial Dew from the Sky-Peak Sanctuary, her towel, Cloud-spun silk from the Weavers of Iris, and the whetstone for her blade, Adamant ore from the Black-Iron mines. All of it single-use, of course. She had a thing about purity. “This,” she would declare, “is the treatment befitting the finest blade in the Nine Realms.” The cost was astronomical, but the elders, out of love for me, provided for it. Still, they would gently advise, “Asher, while a Blademaster must respect his spirit, remember the distinction between master and servant. Do not spoil her, lest she forget her place.” I was too embarrassed to take their charity, so I would leave payment and flee, leaving their warnings behind me. When my own funds ran out, I took on commissions. My lack of power meant I could only accept the grueling, low-paying, but low-risk jobs no one else wanted. I would return, exhausted and filthy, and Grace would always greet me with a look of disdain before taking the treasures I’d brought for her. Sometimes, when I was alone, I would practice my sword forms. They were empty motions, devoid of any real power, but they brought me joy. They did not, however, bring joy to Grace. One day, I returned from another dirty job, caked in mud but clutching two precious blocks of Adamant ore. I stopped dead. I saw Kaelen in my courtyard, moving with a grace that was breathtaking—a whirlwind of silver and white. And the sword in his hands was Winter’s Grace. Beneath a tree, Grace watched him, a smile of pure adoration on her face that I had never seen before. 3 I never took Winter’s Grace with me on commissions. The work was just dirty and tiring, not dangerous. A simple wooden rod was all I needed. When I confronted them, Kaelen put on his wounded look. “Asher, I… I’ve just never seen such a magnificent blade up close. I couldn’t resist. I’m so sorry…” His feigned remorse immediately soured Grace’s mood. She frowned at me. “You’re his senior. Shouldn’t you be honored to let your junior practice with your blade? I didn’t object, so what right do you have to be upset?” Looking at Kaelen’s pathetic, apologetic face, my own resolve softened. I let it go. Kaelen was overjoyed. To repay my kindness, he offered to personally instruct me in swordsmanship. I thought of how Grace would scowl whenever I practiced, muttering about how clumsy and ugly my forms were. I was too embarrassed to bother the other apprentices, who were always busy. I eagerly accepted. And so, Kaelen came to my courtyard every day, ostensibly to teach me. But he wielded Winter’s Grace, while I was left with a training rod. This was Grace’s demand. “Your movements are an eyesore,” she’d said. “You are not to touch Winter’s Grace with such ineptitude. Not until you’ve learned.” My sword skills barely improved, but the bond between Kaelen and Grace deepened. Even when Kaelen didn’t visit, Grace would take her sword-form and seek him out herself. This continued until the annual Grand Tournament. Kaelen publicly challenged me to a duel. The winner would become the new master of Winter’s Grace. It was only then that I remembered: in all this time, Grace had never agreed to forge a true Bond with me. I hadn’t pushed, believing my devotion would one day win her over. My peers were furious. “Kaelen, you know Asher’s situation! Are you just picking on the weak? This is shameless!” “He’s just trying to steal Asher’s blade! He has no honor.” Kaelen ignored them, holding a standard-issue iron sword. His expression was one of absolute entitlement. “Asher, I don’t want to humiliate you. Grace and I are already one in spirit. Your lack of talent makes you unworthy of her. Surrender now. Let her go.” Rage flared in me. I had cared for her day and night, toiled for her, spent my money on her while my own boots fell apart. And just because I was born without power, I was expected to simply hand over the one precious thing I had? No. I stepped onto the dueling platform. I knew I couldn’t win. But I refused to surrender. Ignoring the Grandmaster’s furious shouts, Kaelen attacked with killing intent. I raised my sword to meet his, but then it happened. Fearing Kaelen might be harmed, Winter’s Grace, my own sword, twisted in my hand, its point aligning perfectly with Kaelen’s blade. Together, they plunged into me. A perfect, four-holed wound, piercing me through and through. She didn’t even glance at me as I collapsed in a pool of my own blood. She rushed to Kaelen’s side, fussing over him, asking if he was hurt. Then, right there in front of my dying eyes, she forged a formal Bond with him. It was then I understood. She had loved him all along. This time, I thought with a vicious clarity, I wish you two vipers a blissful eternity together. Late that night, I stared at the rusted, broken sword on my table and let out my two hundred and forty-fifth sigh. “What a mistake…” The Grandmaster was right. This was just a piece of scrap. It was foolish to hope a spirit still resided within. Looking at the rusted edge, I doubted it could even chop pig feed. But as a man of the blade, I couldn’t bear to see any sword, even a broken one, left in such a state. I brought out the Celestial Dew, the Cloud-spun silk, and the Adamant ore. Without that high-maintenance princess Grace to provide for, I was suddenly quite rich. Under my care, the layers of grime and rust gave way, revealing the sword’s true form. The hilt was a dark crimson, and the blade itself was a deep, fiery red, etched with intricate, swirling patterns. The broken edge was still incredibly sharp; I’d nicked my finger while cleaning it. I made a mental note to get a healing salve from the Fifth Elder tomorrow to avoid infection, and continued my inspection. Unlike the cold, aloof aura of Winter’s Grace, this sword felt… dangerous, but not malevolent. It possessed a wild, bewitching beauty, yet also a sense of immense, ancient power. Even broken, I could glimpse the magnificent weapon it must have once been. The work left me exhausted. My eyelids felt like lead. I flicked the blade lightly with my finger. “You’re actually quite beautiful,” I murmured. “A shame you’re just a corpse… a very pretty corpse. Ugh, I should have just swapped with one of my juniors.” The wave of sleep was too strong to fight. I slumped over the table and fell into a deep slumber. In my dreams, I thought I heard a voice, a strangely pleasant one, whispering. “Of course I’m beautiful. I am the most beautiful thing in the heavens or on the earth. Hiss… that man has some strength, though. Where exactly did he just flick me…?” The next morning, before I could even process whether the voice had been a dream, Kaelen arrived at my door with Grace on his arm. With me out of the picture, they had forged their Bond the previous night. Once a spirit and master are bonded, they share their lives, their fates, their fortunes. It’s not uncommon for a Blademaster and their spirit to become lovers, cultivating their power together. Kaelen held Grace’s hand, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Asher! I’ve been making the rounds, seeing everyone’s new sword-spirits. Such a fascinating collection! Now, let me see yours.” His eyes gleamed with triumph. And why wouldn’t they? What spirit could possibly compare to Winter’s Grace, the finest blade in the Nine Realms? Grace looked at him with doting affection, her tone soft but laced with condescension. “Darling, it’s a rusted, broken sword. Just a piece of scrap metal. How could it possibly have a spirit?” She shot me a contemptuous glance. “A cripple doesn’t deserve a spirit anyway.” Kaelen clapped a hand over his mouth in mock horror. “Oh! I completely forgot! I’m so sorry, Asher. Grace is just so refreshingly blunt. But you’ve always been so carefree, I’m sure you don’t mind, right?” He added, “A broken sword might be useless, but it does match your… laid-back nature, doesn’t it?” He was still bitter about the Grandmaster and the others taking my side yesterday. This was his petty revenge. Carefree? Yes, I was so carefree in my last life that I let you two murdering hypocrites stab me to death. I was about to let loose a string of curses, but someone beat me to it. A voice, sharp and imperious, echoed from within my small house. “What is all this barking so early in the morning? You’re disturbing my rest. Get lost.” 4 Kaelen jumped, startled. Grace immediately stepped in front of him, her face hardening. “Coward! Stop hiding in the shadows! Show yourself and fight!” The bamboo door to my cottage slid open. A woman in a flowing crimson robe emerged, her hair as black as ink, her skin paler than the pear blossoms in my courtyard. A single beauty mark, red as a drop of blood, rested beneath one of her phoenix-like eyes, giving her a devastating, bewitching glamour. She was seated in a wheelchair, which she propelled forward with a slow, deliberate grace. Her gaze was languid, yet it held the profound, chilling indifference of someone who has long sat at the pinnacle of power. Compared to her, Grace looked like a naive, country girl. Grace’s defensive posture relaxed, replaced by a sneer. “Oh. It’s just a cripple.” She failed to notice the look of utter astonishment that flashed in Kaelen’s eyes as he beheld the newcomer. I stared at the woman, at the familiar patterns on her red robe, at the wheelchair beneath her, and a single, resounding thought screamed through my mind: Oh, hell. She stopped directly in front of me. Then, in full view of Kaelen and Grace, she took my hand, lifted it to her lips, and placed a gentle, reverent kiss upon it. “I am the sword-spirit, Ember,” she declared, her voice resonating with devotion. “I pledge my life in service to my master.” So this was what a pledge of loyalty felt like. I’d never experienced it in my last life. And that name… My name is Asher. Her name is Ember… Kaelen finally tore his gaze away from Ember and stated his true purpose for coming. “Asher, you know that Winter’s Grace, as the finest blade in the Nine Realms, cannot be treated like some common sword. I heard your father left you a great many celestial herbs and spirit stones. Since you have no use for them, it would be better if you gave them to me, to care for Grace.” So, he’d discovered how expensive Grace was to maintain, realized his own monthly stipend was a pittance, and come to me to be his sugar daddy? I was baffled. “Grace is your sword-spirit. Why on earth should I pay for her upkeep?” “You can’t look at it that way,” he said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “The sword was originally a gift for you from Archon Valerius. Therefore, you have a responsibility to ensure she is cared for. If her power wanes from neglect, how would you face the Archon, or honor the memory of his friendship with your father?” He made it sound so logical. Ember turned her gaze on Kaelen and asked suddenly, “Did you lose your front teeth?” Kaelen blinked. “No, why?” “Because every time you open your mouth, nothing but shit comes out.” Ignoring Kaelen’s face, which was rapidly turning a shade of puce, Ember grabbed my hand and began to shake it, her voice taking on a wheedling, coquettish tone. “Master, I need to be taken care of too! And I’m a poor cripple, you know! You formed a Bond with me last night, master. You even… touched me… right there! You have to take responsibility for me!” A Bond? Oh. She meant when I’d cut my finger. But… touched her where? Where was ‘there’? Kaelen’s face was now crimson, whether from anger or shame, I couldn’t tell. He pointed a trembling finger at Ember and spat at me, “Asher, think carefully! A Soul-Blade is not some ordinary weapon. A broken sword can’t be reforged. A crippled spirit is completely useless! Pouring resources into her would be a total waste.” “If you’re willing to give me your inheritance,” he pressed on, “Grace and I could offer you our protection in the future. It’s a very good deal, isn’t it?” So, I would foot the bill for his expensive spirit, and in return, I would receive a crumb of ‘protection’? From the very two people who posed the greatest danger to me in the first place? What a bargain. My face went cold. “Ember is my sword-spirit. How I choose to care for her is my business. Even if she is a cripple, it is my wealth, and I am willing to spend it on her. You needn’t concern yourself.” I fixed him with a hard stare. “As for Grace, I suggest you figure it out yourself, junior.” Thwarted, Kaelen shot a venomous glare at both Ember and me before storming off, dragging a sullen Grace behind him. Despite her claims of needing to be “cared for,” Ember rarely asked me for anything. She did, however, take every opportunity to get handsy, her fingers constantly finding my own, or tracing the muscles of my stomach. At night, she insisted on being held. If I refused, her eyes would well up, and she’d look like a heartbroken bride. “Does my master despise me because I am a cripple? Fine. Then break our Bond now. Throw me into the Forging Furnace and melt me down. Find yourself a pretty, whole little sword-spirit, so I won’t be a burden to you.” Kaelen was right about one thing: a broken Soul-Blade was nearly impossible to reforge. That Ember was even alive was a miracle. The only hope was to find the other half of her blade. But whenever I asked her about it, she would just smile and say she couldn’t remember. I suspected that was a lie, that the memory was a painful one, and I didn’t want to press her. “You don’t despise me for being useless,” I’d say with a sigh. “How could I possibly despise you? Besides, it’s not like any other spirit would have me…” Ember would lean in close, our noses nearly touching, her voice a teasing whisper. “I would have you. So, my master had better work hard… to protect me.” I thought she was joking. But the next morning, she dragged me out of bed at dawn, insisting she would train me. Not just in basic forms, but in the Verdant Nine Stances—the legendary, lost art of our Order, a technique no one had mastered in centuries. I thought she was insane. The founder of our Order had left behind a hundred sword arts, but this one, the legendary Nine Stances, remained an enigma. Faced with my skepticism, Ember’s lazy eyes showed a flash of pride for the first time. “That is because no one else was worthy.” “No one else was worthy, but I, a useless Null-Aether, am?” Ember’s gaze sharpened, and she spoke slowly, her words landing with incredible weight. “The founder of the Verdant Order… was also a Null-Aether.” I was stunned.

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My best friend, Seraphina, knew my secret: I possessed an endless lifespan and a fortune to match. So she found a mystic to design my death, a ritual to cast me into Hell and steal my perfect fate for herself. On the rooftop of a skyscraper, I wept, my voice tearing from my throat. “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you all my money, everything!” I was terrified of dying. Truly terrified. Because my ex-husband, the one who ruled the realm below, had made a promise the day I left him. If he ever saw me again, he would throw me into a cauldron of boiling oil and have me flayed alive. “Seraphina, we’ve known each other for ten years! I’ve always been good to you, please, just let me go…” “I’ll give you everything I have, I swear!” I was on my knees on the gritty concrete of the rooftop, my dignity shattered, nearly smashing my forehead against the ground as I begged. Seraphina laughed, a cold, sharp sound. She used the pointed toe of her stiletto to tilt my chin up. “I don’t just want your money, Kate. I want your endless life, too.” Her smile was predatory. “Aren’t we best friends? What’s yours is mine. If you truly care about me, then you’ll give it all to me.” With that, she shot a look at the man in dark ceremonial robes standing beside her. The mystic understood. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me toward the edge of the parapet. Thirty-three floors. Directly below, where I was destined to land, they had painted a complex ritual array on the pavement. The moment I hit the ground and my body shattered, the ritual would complete. They would get their wish, and I wouldn’t even have the chance to be reincarnated. Seraphina had planned for everything, even ensuring I couldn’t return as a vengeful ghost. She was making sure my destruction was absolute. The wind howled around me, a frigid blast against my tear-streaked face. I struggled, clawing at the concrete, trying to pull myself back. Seraphina’s greed, ignited by the knowledge of my secret, had burned away any last shred of humanity. She rushed forward, and together with the mystic, she kicked me. One final, brutal shove, and I was falling. The rushing air was a deafening roar that blurred my senses. Then, a sickening crack exploded in my ears as my physical form was obliterated on the concrete below. When my consciousness returned, I was a spirit. A soul adrift in the Netherworld. Two minor reapers stood over me, holding soul-forged chains thick as my thumb. The other end of those chains was clamped around my neck. A dense, grey fog swirled around us, but through it, I could hear the clear, sharp sounds of wailing and screams from the path ahead. I’d been here before. This was the entrance to the Gates of Hell. I had my bastard of an ex-husband to thank for the tour. When I’d tried to leave him all those years ago, he’d dragged me here, his eyes burning with fury, trying to scare me into staying. He hadn’t actually thrown me into the pits of torment then, but now, it seemed my time was up. I was about to be erased from existence. I thrashed against the chains, refusing to move. “I was murdered! I’ve done nothing wrong!” My struggling only annoyed them. One of the reapers, a man with a thin, greasy mustache, drew a barbed whip from his belt and struck me with it. The pain was unlike anything physical; it seared through my very essence, and I collapsed, too stunned by the agony to even scream. “Listen, lady,” he sneered, “I don’t care who you were. You’re in our hands now, and that means you’re finished.” But I had to try. Compared to utter annihilation, I had to take the gamble. What if my ex still held a sliver of affection for me? A chance at reincarnation was infinitely better than being wiped from existence. “I know your king,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I know Hadeon! I need to see him…” The two reapers exchanged a glance. Another lash of the whip cut across my back, and this time, I felt my spiritual form crack. I couldn’t speak. The mustached reaper spat near my head. “You think you have the right to speak the name of our great king? I don’t know how you learned it, but you’d better keep your mouth shut. It’ll save you a lot of pain.” I was powerless, dragged forward like a broken doll. The other reaper, the quieter one, looked nervous. “You don’t think… you don’t think she’s telling the truth, do you? What if we get in trouble?” The mustached one scoffed. “What’s there to be afraid of? The mystic told us this one’s off the books. She’s not in the Ledger of Souls. Some rogue spirit who knows a few tricks, that’s all. It’s not a big deal if she knows the king’s name. Now stop whining. We’re getting paid well for this. Let’s get it done before someone notices.” It all clicked into place. They were on Seraphina’s payroll, bought off by the same mystic. Corrupt reapers, willing to break the laws of the Underworld for a bit of mortal cash. As the towering Gates of Hell loomed out of the fog, a primal fear seized my soul, making it tremble violently. One of the reapers performed a gesture, and the massive gates began to groan open. My heart, or what was left of it, sank into an abyss of despair. Suddenly, a voice cut through the fog, sharp and authoritative. “A new arrival? Has this one been through judgment?” It was Marshal Blackwood! He was one of the king’s highest officials. He knew me! I stared desperately at the imposing figure emerging from the mist. I opened my mouth to shout, “Blackwood—!” Before I could get his name out, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I was yanked aside, hidden in the shadows. I watched in horror as the mustached reaper intercepted the Marshal. I struggled, kicking out in desperation, and earned another sharp blow to my ribs. The reaper pulled out a pack of mortal cigarettes, his voice dripping with false friendliness. “Marshal, sir! What brings you down to the gates today? Have a smoke. Got these from the topside. They’ve got a real kick.” Marshal Blackwood brushed a piece of dust from his formal robes, his expression annoyed. “Cut the crap, rookie. I asked you a question. Has that soul been processed through judgment?” The reaper swallowed nervously. “Y-yes, sir! Of course. We wouldn’t dare break the rules. We know how busy you and the other Marshals are. You should take a break, have a smoke.” Blackwood took the cigarette and lit it, falling silent. The fog was too thick; he couldn’t see my face. This was my only chance. I bit down, hard, on the hand covering my mouth. The reaper yelped in pain and surprise, his grip loosening for a second. That was all I needed. I broke free and sprinted toward Blackwood, but I was tackled from behind, my face slammed into the ground. A heavy boot pressed down on my head, grinding my face into the sulfuric yellow sand. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. The commotion, at least, caught Blackwood’s attention. He took a few steps closer. “What’s going on over there?” The reaper, furious that I had bitten him, pressed down harder, his foot crushing my temple with vindictive force. “Nothing, sir! Just a feisty one. Still struggling, even at death’s door. You know how it is. The ones who end up here are never the good ones. Don’t want to dirty your eyes with this trash.” At that, Blackwood stopped. “Just be careful. These souls are the worst of the worst. We can’t afford any mistakes. Get it inside.” I watched, my hope dying with each step, as he turned and vanished back into the fog. The mustached reaper, after bowing and scraping until Blackwood was gone, stalked back over to me. He kicked me several times for good measure, then unleashed his whip, venting his frustration on my already fractured form. Soon, there wasn’t a single unmarred spot on me. My soul was a tattered, unrecognizable ruin. When he was finished, he crouched down and pinched my chin. “You bitch,” he hissed. “You almost ruined everything. Don’t you worry. Once you’re inside, I’ll take care of you personally.” Like a discarded rag, I was thrown through the gates and into the First Circle of Hell. This circle was the Agony of Thorns. As far as the eye could see, there were countless racks of torture. On each one, a spirit was impaled, pierced by thousands of long, thin needles, like a human pincushion. The souls here were not yet destroyed, so their screams were endless, a constant chorus of agony. I drew a ragged breath, using my last ounce of strength to force out a complete sentence. “I really… know… Hadeon. If he finds out… what you’ve done to me… he won’t let you live…” It was mostly a bluff. Hadeon didn’t care about my life or death. He probably never wanted to see me again. Why else would he have granted me an endless lifespan, condemning me to wander the mortal world alone, ageless and undying? He was terrified I might die and show up in his Underworld, an unwelcome specter from his past. Once inside the gates, the two reapers were no longer worried about me causing a scene. The mustached one patted my cheek, his smile grotesque. “You’ve really got an imagination, don’t you? Been watching too many mortal dramas? You think our king is someone you can just fantasize about?” He slapped my face, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I coughed, and a plume of my own vital essence escaped my lips. My form flickered, growing more transparent. They strapped me to an empty torture rack. The reaper grinned, retrieving a set of the instruments used here: soul-splintering spirit thorns, each one as long as my forearm. “You’d better hold on tight,” he sneered. “There are seventeen more circles of hell waiting for you after this. We’re going to take our time.” He took a single, gleaming thorn and aimed it at my thigh. “No matter how tough you think you are, everyone breaks in here.” The tip pierced my essence, sinking half an inch deep. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my entire being convulsed. A scream tore from me. “Aaargh—!” Just then, a figure came running towards us. “Wait!” The thorn was pulled out. I gasped for breath, forcing my eyes open to see who it was. It was the warden of this circle. I remembered his name: Wyler. When Hadeon had been trying to scare me all those years ago, Wyler had been the one to plead on my behalf. “My King, the little lady is just young and foolish. There’s no need for such anger. You wouldn’t want to harm her.” Hope flared in my chest. I prayed that after all this time, he would still remember me. “Warden Wyler… it’s me… help me…” My voice was a raw, unrecognizable croak after all the torment. But I was sure he heard me. His eyes were fixed on me, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition, and finally, to stark terror. He knew who I was. But before I could even feel relief, he wrenched his gaze away, his face becoming a mask of indifference. “A message just came from the top,” he announced to the reapers. “They want to witness this one’s final destruction personally. They’re on their way. You’ll have to wait.”

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In my last life, my best friend Jenna bought me a stack of scratch-off lottery tickets for my birthday. When I scratched the first one, my childhood sweetheart, the man I was about to marry, died. When I scratched the second, my adoring younger brother became Jenna’s loyal puppy, utterly devoted to her. When I scratched the third, my relationship with my parents shattered, and Jenna became the precious daughter they couldn’t bear to be without. By the time I was beaten to death by muggers on the streets of a foreign city, she had completely taken over my life, my family, my fortune—everything. She was living my happily ever after. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back at the exact moment Jenna handed me those cursed scratch-offs. … “Claire, are you ready yet? I’m right outside your building. When are we heading out for your birthday party?” Jenna’s voice crackled through the phone, and the cold reality hit me: I had been reborn. In my previous life, she’d insisted on throwing me a massive birthday bash. The stack of scratch-offs was her “gift.” But the moment I scraped the silver foil off the first ticket, my world collapsed. I got the call that my fiancé, Jim, was dead. I’d rushed to the hospital in a daze, but I was too late. I never even got to see him. His parents, in a strange and grief-stricken hurry, had already had him cremated. I was drowning in sorrow, but Jenna was there, pushing another ticket into my hand. “Scratch another one,” she’d urged, “it’ll cheer you up.” Like a fool, I listened. I scratched the second ticket. And just like that, my little brother, Leon—ten years my junior and always my shadow—announced he was in love with Jenna and wanted to marry her. Before I could even process his betrayal, Jenna made me scratch the third ticket. That was the final blow. My parents decided to formally adopt Jenna, making her their legal daughter, while they shipped me off to Europe with just the clothes on my back, leaving me to fend for myself. It all happened so fast I couldn’t even scream. One moment I was the heiress to my family’s fortune, the next I was destitute on a foreign street. A group of vagrants targeted me, stole what little I had, and beat me until my heart stopped. Meanwhile, Jenna slipped seamlessly into my life. She became the apple of my parents’ eye, she and Leon lived in blissful romance, and she ascended to the pinnacle of a life that was supposed to have been mine. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand how my perfect world had been so thoroughly dismantled, while Jenna, who came from nothing, had everything fall into her lap so perfectly. Now, hearing her voice on the phone was like listening to a death knell. She spoke again, her voice syrupy sweet. “Claire? You’re not saying anything. I’m already at your front door. Why don’t you just buzz me in?” Her words snapped me out of my trance. Whatever dark magic she’d used to steal my life, I knew one thing for certain: I had to get away from her. Now. I forced a lie through my lips, my voice trembling slightly. “Oh, sorry, Jenna. I’m not home.” “Not home?” Through the video doorbell, I saw her eyes narrow with suspicion as they flickered to my signature pink Porsche Panamera parked in the driveway. “That’s weird. Your car is right here.” Her tone shifted, becoming playful and cajoling. “Oh, I get it. You’re still in bed and don’t want to see anyone, right? Come on, it’s me! Just let me in, I’ll wait in the living room. It’s boiling out here, I’m practically melting…” She was insistent. At the same time, I heard my mom, drawn by the doorbell, heading for the door. I lunged forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her just in time. “Jenna, seriously, we’re not home,” I said into my phone, my voice firm. “My parents aren’t here either. The whole family went on a little road trip to the next state over.” I improvised, desperate. “Look, I’ll wire you some cash. Go hang out at the mall nearby for a bit.” Without waiting for a reply, I sent a thousand dollars to her account. Jenna was about to argue, but the notification of the transfer popped up on her screen. Her face instantly changed. “Oh, wow, thanks, Claire! Okay, I’ll just go to the mall closest to your place and wait for you. By the way, what time will you be back?” She was prying, trying to pin me down, but I wasn’t giving her anything else. “Gotta go, I get carsick,” I mumbled, hanging up before she could ask more. The second the call ended, the mask on the video feed dropped. Jenna’s sweet smile curdled into a look of pure, venomous disgust, laced with a familiar, burning jealousy. A chill snaked down my spine. The thought that I had once called this monster my best friend made me physically ill. But I was back. And this time, I still had a chance to fix everything. I sprinted back to my bedroom and started throwing things into a suitcase. My mom, utterly bewildered, followed me in. “Claire, honey, what are you doing? I thought you were going out with your friends for your birthday.” “I’m canceling the party, Mom. I have to go away for a while. And you and Dad need to leave, too.” “And Leon,” I added, my mind racing. “Book him a flight to Europe. He’s always wanted to see the World Cup, right? I’ll pay for his tickets.” I was a whirlwind of activity, booking flights and arranging transport before my mom could even form a question. She opened her mouth to protest, but I had already packed her a bag and was ushering her to the front door. “I’ve already called a car for you, Mom. It’ll pick you up and then get Dad from the office.” I sent a quick text to Leon. “I’ve let Leon know. Have a wonderful time in Europe, and call me when you land, okay?” I watched until the car carrying my mother disappeared down the street, but the knot of tension in my chest didn’t loosen. Mom, Dad, and Leon were safe, for now. If I was lucky, Jenna wouldn’t be able to get her claws into them. That left one person. My fiancé. Jim. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I dialed his number. “Claire! I was just about to call you,” his warm, familiar voice filled my ear. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? I’ve chartered a yacht. We can invite all your friends and have a real celebration.” Hearing him, so alive and happy, a sob caught in my throat, and I almost broke down right there. In my last life, this was how it happened. He’d gone to the yacht alone to set up a surprise fireworks display for me. That’s when the “accident” occurred. I never even saw him one last time before his greedy, degenerate brother rushed his body to the crematorium to get his hands on the inheritance. The next time I saw the love of my life, he was a jar of ash. Hearing his voice again, I could barely control the storm of emotions inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Jim,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears, “can we put the party on hold? Can I… can I just see you? Right now?” He immediately picked up on the distress in my voice. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Meet me at our usual spot? The coffee shop. I’ll be waiting.” I rushed out of the house, too paranoid to take my own car, terrified that Jenna might be watching. I hailed a cab instead. When I arrived, Jim was already there, a concerned look on his face. The moment I saw him, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free, streaming down my cheeks. He was startled, fumbling to wipe them away with his thumb. “Claire, what is it? What’s wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” “No, Jim, no,” I choked out, grabbing his hand. “I’m just… I’m so happy to see you. Let’s go inside.” I wiped my face and pulled him toward the most secluded corner booth in the cafe. The warmth of his hand in mine was the only thing that felt real, the only proof I needed that he was still alive, still here. Looking at his face, so full of love and concern for me, I swore an oath to myself. This time, I would protect him, no matter what it took. Clutching his hand, I pleaded, “Jim, please, can we just cancel the party tonight?” “Cancel it? Why?” he asked, confused. “You were the one who said you wanted to do something big, since it’s your last birthday before we get married. I pulled a lot of strings to get the best yacht in the harbor…” “I just… I don’t want to anymore,” I said, knowing how weak it sounded. My flimsy excuse wasn’t enough to convince him. Left with no other choice, I had to tell him the unbelievable truth. “Jim, whether you believe me or not, I know that you’ll die because of this party tonight. You are too important to me. I can’t lose you.” My voice was nearly a sob, choked with fear, but he just saw it as pre-wedding jitters. He squeezed my hand reassuringly, his smile gentle. “Claire, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress with the wedding planning. That’s why I wanted to do something special for you. It’s going to be fine, I promise. Just relax and let me take care of everything.” Seeing that he wouldn’t believe me, that he was walking straight into the same trap, I took a ragged breath, my heart pounding with desperation. I had to make him understand. “You’ve arranged a fireworks show on the yacht, haven’t you?” He looked surprised. “Ninety-nine shells in total,” I continued, my voice gaining momentum. “One of them is a custom design, one you made yourself. You call it the ‘Lover’s Gift.’ It’s all in shades of blue, and at the end, it’s supposed to explode into the shape of a giant, shimmering rose-cut diamond ring.” Jim’s jaw dropped. “Did my assistant tell you?” he stammered. “No, that’s impossible. I haven’t shown the design schematics to anyone. How… how could you possibly know that?” Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I gripped his hand tighter. “Jim, nobody told me! Please, just trust me. Let’s not do the party. Let’s just go somewhere else, you and me. We can just be together, quietly, until the night is over. Please?” The raw terror on my face must have gotten through to him, because for a moment, I saw his resolve waver. He was about to nod, about to agree, when a sickly sweet voice cut through the air. “Claire! So you were already here! Why didn’t you tell me?” Jenna. She was standing over our table, a triumphant glint in her eyes as she took in the scene. “Here,” she said, pushing a familiar object into my hands. “This is your birthday present. May you have a lifetime of luck.” It was a stack of scratch-off tickets. My body went rigid. The horrifying memories of my past life flooded my mind, vivid and suffocating. In a single, convulsive movement, I swept my arm across the table, knocking the tickets to the floor. Everyone in the near vicinity froze, startled by my sudden outburst. Jim bent down to pick them up, but a strangled scream tore from my throat. “DON’T TOUCH THEM!” He stopped, his hand hovering in mid-air. With a feigned gasp of clumsiness, I “accidentally” knocked my full cup of coffee over, sending the dark liquid cascading off the table and all over the scattered tickets on the floor. They were ruined. Soaked through. A wave of profound relief washed over me. “Oh, Jenna, I’m so sorry,” I said, forcing a tone of sincere apology. “I’m such a klutz today. I’ll get someone to clean this up right away.” A moment later, the soggy, useless paper was swept into a garbage can. I saw the flash of bitter disappointment in Jenna’s eyes. I thought it was over. I grabbed Jim’s hand, ready to flee, but Jenna’s fingers clamped around my arm. “Claire, I can’t believe my special gift for you ended up in the trash like that.” Her voice was tight. “Anyway, I bet Jim has a big surprise planned for you tonight, right? Why don’t we all head over to the yacht he rented?” She gestured to a large shopping bag at her feet. “I even brought you an evening gown. It’s gorgeous!” She held the bag out to me. Inside, there was indeed a beautiful dress. Even though this detail was new, not part of my memories from the last life, my entire being recoiled from anything she offered. “That’s okay,” I said, pushing the bag away. “The party’s canceled. I won’t need it.” I tried to pull away, to leave this nightmare, but she held on tight, refusing to let me go. Every excuse I made, she batted away with a saccharine-sweet counter-argument. Finally, her voice took on a sharp, accusatory edge. “Claire, you’ve been avoiding me ever since I called you this morning. I took three days off work just to come celebrate with you. Or is it that you… you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Of course I don’t, I wanted to scream. The memory of what she did to me made me want to tear her limb from limb. But I couldn’t say that. Not here. Not now. Thankfully, Jim saw the corner I was in and stepped in smoothly. “You’ve misunderstood,” he said, his tone calm and firm. “I’m not feeling well. Claire was just about to take me to the hospital, so we had to cancel the party.” He glanced at his watch. “Our appointment is in a few minutes. If you’ll excuse us.” He guided me out of the coffee shop with a steady hand on my back. I saw a flash of pure hatred in Jenna’s eyes, but I didn’t care. I had escaped her, and I had escaped those cursed scratch-offs. We were standing on the street corner. I turned to thank him, to explain, but the words never came. Out of nowhere, a massive truck came barreling towards us, its horn blaring. I didn’t even have time to scream before Jim shoved me hard, pushing me out of its path. Then, the sickening crunch of metal against flesh. His body was thrown through the air like a rag doll. He landed in a crumpled heap on the asphalt. He lay in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. The truck, realizing what it had done, screeched to a halt before speeding away. In the fading evening light, I saw the words stenciled on its side: FLAMMABLE – KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE. It was a fireworks truck.

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After my sister killed herself, she left a final note. Everyone who read that note died. First, it was my grandmother. Then my father. Finally, my mother leaped from the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper. Reporters scrambled over each other to interview me. The police interrogated me through the night. Countless people wanted to know what that final note said. I remained silent. Until the tenth anniversary of my sister’s death, when I saw a figure standing before her gravestone. In that moment, a thrill shot through me. I knew my time had come, too. … My sister, Lily, died the day before school started. She jumped from the sixteenth floor of our apartment building. Her head was twisted to one side. There wasn’t much blood, her small body just curled in a dark pool on the pavement. But the truly unsettling thing was the expression on her face. She was smiling. A collective gasp went through the crowd as they saw it. On her young face, that smile was tinged with a strange, venomous cruelty that didn’t belong to a child. It made the hair on your arms stand up. My mother’s cries were ragged, broken. My father, a man who had stood straight and tall his entire life, seemed to collapse into himself, lighting one cigarette after another in silence. The police officers offered their condolences while going through the motions. “If there’s a suicide note, we can close the case.” So we searched Lily’s room. Grandma was the one who found it. The note contained a single sentence. She held up the piece of paper, her face a mask of pure shock. Then, she let out a shattered cry. “Oh, my sweet girl…” Her reaction left us stunned. My father took a step forward. “Mom, what does it say? What were Lily’s last words?” Grandma gave us one long, deep look, then decisively threw the paper to the floor. Before anyone could react, she wrenched open the window, climbed onto the sill, and jumped. A fresh bloom of red spread on the concrete below. Grandma’s body lay next to Lily’s. And on her face, too, the corners of her mouth were turned slightly upward in a smile. After Grandma’s death, my father, trembling, picked up the note. As he read it, the color drained from his face. He clutched the paper to his chest, refusing to let anyone else see it. No matter how much the police pressed him, he said nothing. After the funeral for my sister and grandmother, we returned home, exhausted to the bone. My mother, her eyes swollen and red, finally broke. “What did Lily’s note say? Why did your mother kill herself after reading it?” Dad was silent, finishing his last cigarette. He looked as if he had aged decades in a few days. “Don’t ask again. From now on, we act as if it never happened.” His voice was gravel. “And no one is to mention Lily’s name ever again.” Mom’s tears were all cried out. Her voice was a raw rasp. “Lily was my daughter, too! Don’t I have the right to know her last words? David, if you do this, Lily will hate you for it!” I thought my father was being cruel, too. “Dad, we’re her family. We have a right to know what she said. And Grandma… why would she just look at a note and—” He cut me off with a raw violence that startled me. He slammed his fist against the wall, his eyes bloodshot. “I told you, the note said nothing important! You don’t need to know!” When he mentioned his mother, his voice choked. The grief was there, raw and real. But then, as if remembering something, he shut his eyes tightly. “Your grandmother… she was old. Confused. Maybe with Lily gone, she just didn’t want to live anymore.” “That’s enough,” he said, his tone final. “We are not talking about this again. The matter is closed.” He retreated to his room, refusing to utter another word about my sister. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that note. I had to know what Lily’s last words were. My mother felt the same. Three days later, my father drank himself into a stupor and passed out on his bed. Seizing the opportunity, Mom searched his pockets and found the folded piece of paper. She opened it with trembling, eager hands. And then she froze. I watched her expression shift dramatically, a storm of emotions passing over her face. “Mom, what is it? What did Lily say?” I asked, my own heart pounding with anxiety. She didn’t answer. She just stood there, staring at the paper as if she’d seen a ghost. I couldn’t stand the suspense. I moved to snatch the note from her hands, but her reaction shocked me even more. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She looked at me, her gaze vacant, filled with a bottomless despair. Then, she crumpled the note into a tight ball and stuffed it into her mouth. “Mom, what are you doing? Spit it out!” I screamed, grabbing her arm. “Don’t swallow it!” But it was too late. She swallowed. She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Claire,” she whispered, “you must never, ever know what this sentence says.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to comprehend the demonic power held in that single sentence. Why did it make everyone act so strangely? Grandma had read it and immediately taken her own life. Just then, my father sat up in bed. He had been awake the whole time, watching us from the shadows. He let out a long, weary sigh, and then a strange, broken laugh. He looked at my mother, his eyes dark and hollow. “Laura,” he said. “Now you’re living in hell with me.” My world was spinning. I couldn’t understand how everything had fallen apart so quickly. A month ago, I had a happy, perfect family. During the summer break, Lily and I would lounge around the house, watching movies, playing games, reading comics together. My parents were not only in love with each other, but they adored us. In twenty years of marriage, they’d never had a major fight. Grandma, though old, was the kindest, most loving woman I knew, always sneaking us candy and pocket money. Just last night, she was talking about making us her special pot roast. In just a few days, everything was gone. My sister was dead. My grandmother was dead. My father had become a drunk, and my mother was now a stranger to me. My world had collapsed. And in the ruins, one question echoed: What was written on that note? The next day, the police came back. My parents were gone, so I was the one who had to speak with them. “Did your sister show any signs of depression recently?” the lead detective asked. “Bad grades, a fight with you or your parents, a breakup?” I wracked my brain but shook my head. Lily was a genius, always top of her class. She was sweet and obedient; my parents doted on her. A breakup was out of the question. She was only in seventh grade. The police were stumped. “What about your grandmother? Did she ever express suicidal thoughts? She saw the note and jumped immediately. What did that note say?” At the mention of Grandma, tears burst from my eyes. Lily’s death was a tragedy, but Grandma’s… that was a trauma seared into my memory. I had watched her fall. I was sobbing too hard to speak. The officers, seeing my state, ended the interview. They closed the case, officially ruling Lily’s death a suicide due to academic pressure. They had only just left when they came rushing back. The detective, a man named Miller, looked at me, his expression grim. He struggled to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Claire… try to stay strong.” “We just got a call. Your father, David… he… he jumped from the bridge into the river.” My blood ran cold. My body began to shake uncontrollably. They took me to the riverbank. It was cordoned off with white police tape. The onlookers watched as I was escorted through, their whispers following me like ghosts. “That must be the daughter. She looks just like him.” “What could be so bad that you’d leave your own child behind?” “I heard his other daughter killed herself. He probably couldn’t take it.” “But he had another one, right? How could he just abandon her?” Their words were like daggers. I couldn’t believe it. My father, who was terrified of water, had chosen to drown himself. Detective Miller put a hand on my shoulder and showed me a video on his phone, taken by a bystander. I saw my father park his car, get out, and sprint to the railing of the bridge. Without a moment’s hesitation, he vaulted over it. The churning river swallowed him in an instant. He didn’t know how to swim. He was terrified of water. There was no chance of survival. I covered my mouth, a strangled sob escaping my lips. In a few short days, I had lost my sister, my grandmother, and now my father. I collapsed onto the ground, my world shattering into a million pieces. Detective Miller knelt beside me, his face stern. “Claire, I know this is hard, but you have to pull yourself together. Right now, your sister’s note is the key to all of this. You have to tell us what it said.” I was on the verge of a complete breakdown. I clutched my head and screamed. “I don’t know! I really don’t know!” If I could, I would have given anything to know. Just then, my mother arrived. She took in the scene, the police, the river, and accepted the news of my father’s death with a terrifying, serene calm. She stood at the river’s edge and answered the detective’s question.

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1 Nine months pregnant, and the woman my husband, Cameron, had always idealized slipped me an abortion pill. The contractions tore through me, a searing agony, but he told me to just hold on. Because she—Sara—was supposedly in labor, too. To keep me from “stealing her thunder,” he had his housekeeper tie me upside down to a large cat tree in the corner of the room. “I heard that if the blood rushes to your head, it can delay labor,” he said, his voice cold and distant. “Even if you are about to give birth, you will wait. Sera’s child must be born first. I promised her our family would recognize her baby as the firstborn heir.” The drug-induced cramps were a vicious, twisting fire in my gut. I tumbled from the cat tree, landing in a heap on the floor, and crawled toward him, begging him to take me to a hospital. He drove his foot into my stomach. “Sara is the kindest person I know. She would never drug you,” he spat, his face a mask of fury. “But you, you venomous bitch, I bet you’re the one who slipped something into her food to make her go into premature labor!” His voice dripped with contempt. “You’re this far along anyway. What difference could a little pill possibly make?” Later, after he had seen Sara settled and comfortable in her private hospital suite, he called home. He asked his assistant if I was still “throwing a tantrum.” The assistant’s voice trembled. “Sir… Mrs. Thorne and the baby… they’re in the morgue.” The combination of the induced labor and the constant, throbbing pain of the contractions was overwhelming. My head swam from the lack of oxygen, the world turning grey at the edges as I dangled upside down. Bitter fluid rose in my throat, and with a wretched gasp, I fell, bringing the entire cat tree crashing down with me. I tried to curl around my belly, to shield our child, but a warm gush of liquid soaked through my clothes and pooled on the floor beneath me. My water had broken. I could feel the baby struggling inside me, a desperate, frantic push to be born. “Martha!” I screamed, my voice raw. “Martha, please, get me to a hospital! I’m not going to make it!” The housekeeper, Martha, strolled over, casually cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the mess on the floor. “Honestly, what’s all this drama for?” she sneered. “Mr. Thorne isn’t even here to see it. You could die on this floor right now and no one would care. He put me here to watch you, you know. To stop you from constantly competing with Miss Sera. You should really learn your place.” She pinched her nose, grabbed me by the arms, and began to haul me back into an inverted position against the frame. A sudden, terrifying surge of blood flowed from between my legs. She slapped me hard across the face, then pulled out her phone. Cameron, having just finished arranging a team of specialists for Sara, answered with an impatient bark. “Give birth? Don’t be ridiculous. If her baby comes out before Sera’s, you can forget about your salary this year.” Martha shot me a triumphant smirk. As if to twist the knife, she added, “But Sir, she’s bleeding.” I collapsed again, and the pained groan that escaped my lips must have given Cameron a moment’s pause. “Alright, let her down for now. I’ll…” He was cut off by a sweet, delicate voice in the background. “Cameron, darling, the pain is gone. I don’t think I’m going to have the baby just yet.” It was Sara. “You know how it is with pregnancy, especially in the last month. You always think it’s time. A little bleeding is perfectly normal. Didn’t the doctor just say I probably have a while longer?” We were both nine months along, our due dates just days apart. Neither of us should have been in labor. But she had drugged me. She was the reason for these violent, premature contractions. Cameron, of course, believed her lies. His voice turned to ice once more. “Hospital? Forget it. You watch her. No one is to help her until I get back. She’s always trying to one-up Sera, even down to who gives birth first. It’s pathetic.” He hung up. Martha looked at me, her eyes glinting with malicious glee. “See? I told you. The master only has eyes for Miss Sera. He couldn’t care less if you live or die.” She glanced at her phone, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Oh, and Miss Sera was so thoughtful. She was worried you’d be lonely, so she sent over her favorite pet to keep you company.” She held up a small, ventilated box. Inside, perched on a piece of bark, was a gleaming black spider with a blood-red hourglass on its abdomen. A black widow. 2 I watched in horror as the enormous spider crawled out of the box. Before I could even beg, Martha had bolted from the room, slamming the door behind her. Drawn by the metallic scent of blood, the spider scuttled toward me. I tried to scramble away, but my limbs were still tangled with the ropes binding me to the cat tree, and the agony in my belly was paralyzing. It crawled onto my calf, its tiny legs a million needles against my skin. A wave of revulsion washed over me. Forgetting the pain, forgetting everything but a primal need to survive, I tried to crush it. It seemed to sense my intent. In a flash, it leaped from my leg onto my swollen belly. A searing, venomous pain, like a hundred burning needles, plunged into me. A single, piercing scream was torn from my throat, and then… nothing. My strength was gone. My eyelids grew heavy. Through the darkening haze, I thought I saw Death himself, beckoning to me with a skeletal hand. Then, the door burst open and Martha reappeared, muttering curses under her breath. Seeing me motionless on the floor, a flicker of panic crossed her face. She shook me violently. “Hey! Hey!” The jolt brought me back. With the last ounce of my strength, I gasped, “The spider… it bit me. The baby will die.” Her grip on my hair loosened, only for her to slam my face against the floorboards. “You really are a pathological liar! I almost thought you were actually dead!” As I stared up at her, my vision blurring, her expression shifted from fear to a kind of ecstatic cruelty. “You shameless whore. You knew Mr. Thorne loved Miss Sera, but you still tried to trap him with a baby. I’ve been sick of watching you for months! Look at the disgusting state of you. No man would ever want to touch you!” After her tirade, she remembered the spider. “Where is Miss Sera’s precious pet? Hand it over, now!” She searched the room, but kept a careful distance from me. Her eyes landed on a dark, thick clot of blood on the floor, and she mistook it for the spider’s crushed body. Her face contorted with rage. She kicked me, hard, right in the stomach. “You have a death wish, you stupid bitch! You killed Miss Sera’s favorite pet! How can you be so toxic?” she shrieked. “No wonder Mr. Thorne hates you! You can stay here and rot. Keep her pet company in hell!” She made a quick phone call, her voice sycophantic, full of “yes, ma’am” and “of course.” Before leaving, she walked over to the thermostat and cranked the air conditioning down to its lowest setting. “A final instruction from Miss Sera,” she said with a chilling smile. “Her pet prefers a cold, damp environment. You two can enjoy it together.” The cold seeped into my bones. Shivering uncontrollably, I felt my consciousness slipping away into the black tide of pain. In the distance, I thought I heard a baby crying. My hands were bound so tightly I couldn’t even dream of holding him. It was Cameron who had insisted we keep the child, the product of a drunken, reckless night. He had once pressed his ear to my belly, his face filled with wonder as he felt the baby’s heartbeat. How had our dream of a family of three ended like this? Oh, my sweet baby, I thought, a final tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek. In your next life, find a family that will love you. Don’t follow a mother like me into so much suffering. My own heartbeat was slowing, fading into a dull, distant drum. But then, the door creaked open again. The man who entered gasped when he saw me lying in a pool of blood and filth. I summoned a faint, desperate sound—a plea for help. He flinched back, his face pale with alarm. “I… I’m just a delivery guy. Mr. Thorne sent me to watch a… a Ms. Elara cook for his wife… Please don’t make this difficult for me.” My numb heart clenched with a fresh wave of pain. My husband didn’t believe I was in labor, and instead sent a stranger to make sure his dying wife cooked a meal for his mistress, the one surrounded by a legion of doctors. Even our very identities had been swapped in the eyes of the world. The bitter irony threatened to choke me. “I am Elara,” I whispered, my voice barely a thread of sound. “Please… take me to a hospital.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with terror and indecision. Finally, he fumbled for his phone. “Mr. Thorne? I’m at your house… but the woman you mentioned, Elara… she’s tied to a cat tree and she’s covered in blood. I think… I think she’s dying. Should I take her to the hospital?” Cameron’s cold laugh crackled through the phone. “She’s quite the actress, isn’t she? She’ll do anything to get out of cooking for Sera.” 3 His voice hardened with conviction. “Don’t you dare take her to a hospital. The housekeeper said she covered herself in chicken blood. You tell her, if she wants my forgiveness, she’ll get up and start cooking right now. Otherwise, I’m not coming home tonight.” The delivery guy tried to argue, but Cameron had already hung up. He knelt beside me, his brow furrowed. He looked from my pale face to the dark, spreading pool of blood. It was clearly not from a chicken. After a moment of intense internal struggle, he began to untie the ropes. “I don’t know what you did to make Mr. Thorne so angry,” he muttered, his hands shaking. “But this is wrong. I can’t just leave a pregnant woman to die.” He called for an ambulance. For a fleeting second, my heart dared to hope. But the paramedic’s words sent a new wave of ice through my veins. “If we don’t get the antivenom into you in the next ten minutes, you’re not going to make it.” The specific antivenom was incredibly rare. Getting it from anywhere else in the country was impossible. But after they entered my information into their system, the paramedic’s face lit up with sudden recognition. “Wait, you’re Mrs. Thorne! Cameron Thorne’s wife? That changes things! His family’s private hospital is sure to have it!” He immediately dialed Cameron’s number. “Mr. Thorne, your wife has been bitten by a black widow spider. Her condition is critical. We know your hospital received a shipment of the specific antivenom from overseas last year. You should still have some in stock, right?” Cameron exploded. “Elara, have you lost your mind? What black widow? The spider Sera has is a harmless species! Not only did you kill her pet, now you’ve hired an accomplice to lie for you?” I tried to shake my head, to scream the truth, but I had no voice left. The hospital had that antivenom because Sara had been bitten by her “harmless” pet once before. Cameron, frantic with worry, had spared no expense to procure it. He just didn’t know that she kept the venomous creature for one purpose: to use it on me. The paramedic tried to reason with him. “Sir, we are real paramedics. Your wife is six centimeters dilated. She’s about to give birth. If she doesn’t get this antivenom within ten minutes, we will lose them both.” “Then let them die!” Cameron snarled. “She’s always crying wolf, threatening to die over every little thing, and she’s still here, isn’t she? She’s just being dramatic. It’s my own child. Don’t you think I’d know when it’s supposed to be born? Stop calling me with this disgusting nonsense!” He hung up. In the background, I could hear Sara’s cloying voice, asking him to go buy her a slice of cake. The paramedic looked at me with pity. “We’ll take you to the Thorne private hospital anyway,” he decided. “The doctors there… they can’t just refuse to treat you.” But I should have known better. To keep Sara happy and her environment “peaceful,” Cameron had given a standing order: the hospital was not to admit any new maternity patients. Our ambulance was stopped at the gates, barred from entry. Through the window, I saw Cameron walking out, a cake box in his hand, talking on his phone. “That’s right. Sera needs quiet. I don’t care who they are or how much they offer, we’re not admitting anyone else.” I lay on the gurney, a fish gasping for air on a dry dock. Our eyes met. His driver, standing by the car, did a double-take. I no longer had the strength to speak, to even move. The driver hurried over to Cameron. “Sir,” he said, pointing toward the ambulance. “That woman they just brought in… I think it’s your wife.” Cameron glanced over. All he saw was a filthy, wretched woman, her face half-hidden by hair matted with blood and grime. He turned away in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. That shrew would never have the nerve to show up here.” “But sir, even if it’s not her,” the driver pleaded carefully, “she’s in a terrible state. Maybe we should just let them in?” Cameron shot the driver a look that could kill. “It sounds like you don’t want your job anymore. Is any woman’s life more important than Sera’s happiness? Even if it is Elara, she deserves it!” His final look was one of utter indifference, as if he were looking at a piece of roadkill. He turned his back on me and spoke tenderly into his phone. “Sera, my love, I got the cake you wanted. I’ll be right up.” The last ember of hope inside me died. Even at the gates of salvation, Cameron was the one to bar the door. But I refused to let this be the end. I wasn’t ready to die. I borrowed the paramedic’s phone and dialed a number I hadn’t dared to call in years. “Uncle Marcus,” I sobbed into the phone, my voice a broken whisper. “I was wrong. I was so wrong. Please… save me and my baby…”

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On the way to pick up my wedding dress, my fiancé, Finn Sullivan, was kidnapped. He survived, but he forgot me. Every time marriage was mentioned, he would pass out. The doctor diagnosed it as a dissociative fugue, a second personality triggered by the trauma. Then, I found out I was pregnant. “The baby might be the key,” the doctor suggested, “to unlocking the Finn who loves you.” I clutched the ultrasound report, hope blooming in my chest, and went to find him. But instead, I heard him joking with his friends. “Damn, Finn, you’re playing the long game. Faking a whole second personality just to dodge the wedding! What’s next, a third and fourth?” “Nope! I love Elvira. This is the only time I’ll ever lie to her. Once I sleep with ten more girls, I’m done.” “Only ten? That’s not enough to unlock all the achievements, man. I say you keep this charade up for another year. Elvira would marry you even if you were a ghost.” Finn’s voice turned cold as he scolded his friend. “I can’t stand to see her upset for that long! Now hurry up and find me some girls. I want the freaky ones who are still technically virgins. One every three days. Nothing can delay my wedding to Elvira!” I shredded the ultrasound report with trembling hands and walked straight back to the clinic to schedule an abortion. 1 The doctor was surprised to see me back so soon, assuming I wasn’t feeling well. When I told him I needed the procedure, he stared in disbelief. “Elvira, you both struggled so hard to conceive. If you terminate now, it might trigger your fiancé, make his condition worse!” A bitter smile twisted my lips. “If I told him the truth, that would probably kill him.” After all, he was currently luxuriating in the pleasure of playing the field, convinced he was getting away with it. I couldn’t wrap my head around it—the man who had begged me, tears in his eyes, to marry him, was now faking an illness just to cheat. The doctor couldn’t dissuade me, but he insisted on calling Finn before I signed the consent forms. “Ms. Hayes, this isn’t just your decision. Even if his illness makes him say he doesn’t want the child right now, he needs to be here to sign for you, to be with you during the surgery. If there’s a misunderstanding, it needs to be cleared up face-to-face…” I placed a gentle hand on my stomach. I didn’t stop him. I had PCOS; pregnancy was a miracle for me. Finn hadn’t cared about the risks; he’d even fought with his parents to marry me. If this child was leaving us, Finn deserved to be there to say goodbye. But as soon as the doctor explained the situation, Finn scoffed. “How much is Elvira Hayes paying you to stage this little drama? I told you, I don’t know her, let alone want to marry her.” “Tell her to stop trying to trap me with these games. Who knows if the kid is even mine?” The abrupt dial tone and the echo of his cruel laughter hung in the sterile silence of the operating room. I signed my own name and closed my eyes. When I woke up in recovery, my phone was lit up with notifications. All from Finn. [Whatever we were before, now I am me, and you are you. If you have the energy to hire actors to fool me, you should use it to move out of my house!] He was very thoughtful. He’d already rented me a fully furnished apartment in the same complex. He’d even paid the first month’s rent. To avoid suspicion, he’d signed a one-year lease with the landlord. [Consider us even. You don’t owe me for the rent.] I glanced at the blurred, bloody image on the ultrasound printout and replied calmly. [Okay. Thank you.] That rent money would be the last responsibility he ever took for this child. I stayed in the hospital for three days. He never contacted me again. But his social media was a constant stream of flashing lights and flowing alcohol. It was as if he was trying to reclaim all the wild youth he’d missed out on because of me. I knew he was posting it for me to see. I had another, burner account that followed him, and none of those posts were visible there. So I played my part. I “liked” every video. When I was checking out, I saw him and a doctor pushing a gurney down the hallway at a run. The moment he saw me, he quickly looked away, pretending I wasn’t there. But I heard the ER doctor shouting orders. “Prep OR 1! We need O-negative blood, stat! Patient has a ruptured luteal cyst, massive hemorrhage!” “What? We’re out of stock?” The doctor hung up and quickly relayed the situation to Finn. The man who had just ignored me stopped dead in his tracks and ran back towards me. “Elvira Hayes! If you donate blood for Lara, I’ll overlook you stalking me!” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “I’m not stalking you…” “Enough! Save the excuses! This is life or death!” He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the doctor. “She’s O-negative. Take whatever you need!” I struggled, but his grip was like iron. I asked him, my voice dripping with cold irony, “I thought you didn’t know me? How do you know I have a rare blood type?” I held his gaze, waiting for his answer. 2 Finn scratched his head, snapping impatiently, “Is this really the time to be asking questions? You keep saying we were in love for six years. Isn’t it normal that in a crisis, I’d instinctively remember your blood type?” But I had just had an abortion. I was still spotting. How could I possibly donate blood? And even if I could, why should I help him clean up his mess? “I just had a miscarriage,” I said flatly. “I can’t donate. Find someone else.” Finn’s face twisted in anger. “Elvira, you claim to love me, but when I ask you for a little blood, you refuse? You’d even lie about a miscarriage!” “I can’t believe you’d just let someone die! No wonder I can’t remember ever loving you!” He was right about one thing: if he had truly loved me, he wouldn’t be faking amnesia to cheat on me. He would have seen how pale my face still was. He certainly wouldn’t be forcing me to donate blood for his mistress. A monitor nearby started screaming. The ER doctor, wasting no more time, signaled for the gurney to be rushed to the OR. Finn tried to drag me to the blood bank, but I dug in my heels. Enraged, he swept me off my feet and threw me over his shoulder. “Elvira, willing or not, I’ll owe you for this. Fine! I’ll marry you on the original date!” All the fight drained out of me. He had once risked his life to save mine. I would consider this debt repaid. As I watched my dark red blood flow into the bag, my heart turned to ice, drop by drop. As soon as the bag was full, Finn sprinted off with the nurse towards the operating room. To his retreating back, I whispered, “Finn Sullivan, we’re even.” I walked out of the donation room, a wave of dizziness hitting me. My vision went black, and I collapsed. When I woke up, the doctor looked like he wanted to scold me, but it melted into a heavy sigh. “Take care of yourself. With your condition, you can’t donate blood again for at least six months.” I smiled and agreed. As the doctor left, I overheard a young nurse whispering to him. “Sir, why didn’t you tell her we couldn’t reach her emergency contact? What if she misunderstands…?” “She won’t. That girl sees everything clearly. It’s a shame she fell for the wrong man.” I picked up my phone. The doctor had called Finn over a dozen times on my behalf. Not a single call was answered. Instead, he had texted me a furious message. [Elvira, can you stop being so dramatic? Know your place!] In that moment, I was relieved he hadn’t answered. I couldn’t imagine the vicious things he would have said to humiliate me. I didn’t reply. I lay in bed for a full day before I had the strength to walk. The sun was shining outside. I went to the hospital’s rooftop garden to get some air and unexpectedly ran into Finn’s friends. They were all carrying elaborate fruit baskets and bouquets of flowers. I thought they were there for me and instinctively turned to leave. But they surrounded me, eyeing my hospital gown with amusement. “Well, well, well. Knew Finn was here with his girlfriend, so you decided to put on a little pity play, huh?” “It was just a little blood donation. Do you have to act like you’re on death’s door?” “Gotta say, the pale makeup looks very natural. Seamless. We always said you were manipulative, but Finn never believed us…” Finn’s friends always thought I wasn’t good enough for him. If he hadn’t forced them to treat me like family, they never would have accepted me. Now, playing along with Finn’s charade, they could finally unleash their true feelings. Finn came downstairs to meet them. He froze when he saw me, then his brow furrowed. “Elvira, seriously? I already promised we’d still have the wedding. Now you’re paying doctors to help you fake an illness so you can spy on me? Is this fun for you?” “Do you have any idea how suffocating this is?” “I’m telling you right now, if you keep this up after we’re married, we’ll end up divorced anyway!” 3 “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice steady. “I don’t need you to marry me.” In our six years together, he had always been free. When he wanted to drink, I sat quietly beside him, never rushing him. If I wasn’t appropriate for the occasion, I waited for his call to pick him up, then took care of him without complaint when he was drunk. When he wanted to take a trip with his friends, I booked the tickets and planned the itinerary. Even when he offered me his phone to check, I never did. I loved him, and I didn’t want to repeat my mother’s mistake—her suffocating control had driven my father to divorce. I thought I had maintained a healthy distance in our relationship. Before his “accident,” we were inseparable, still in the honeymoon phase. But now, I understood. My love was suffocating him. Was that the real reason he was faking this illness, seeking a thrill? Our eyes met. I saw no trace of affection in his gaze. The accusations on the tip of my tongue died in my throat. Finn, unsettled by my stare, grabbed a bouquet of lilies from his friend and shoved it into my arms. “Fine. Don’t play the victim after getting what you wanted. Take the flowers and go.” He still thought I was the same girl who could be placated with a small gift. He didn’t believe that the woman who swore she would marry no one but him could ever truly leave. I handed the flowers back to his friend. “These are for your girlfriend. It’s not appropriate for me to take them.” “I donated the blood willingly. You really don’t have to sacrifice yourself by marrying me.” A flicker of panic crossed Finn’s face. Shouldn’t Elvira be ecstatic? Why is she insisting I don’t have to marry her? Is she actually mad this time? Anxiety flashed in his eyes. “Elvira, I…” His friends started coughing pointedly. He quickly corrected himself. “Elvira, I’m a man of my word.” I just smiled. “You should go be with your girlfriend. I’m checking out now.” My generosity seemed to unnerve him further. He felt something was very different about me today, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. His friends, seeing his hesitation, slapped him on the back and dragged him away. “Come on, man, stop staring. Your Lara will get jealous! It’s just the usual drama—first the pity play, now playing hard to get. Same old female tricks. You’re too naive, easy to manipulate.” “Seriously! Look what you did, man. You’re not a teenager anymore. How did you manage to cause her to hemorrhage? Luckily, Lara’s understanding and doesn’t hold it against you, unlike some people who demand marriage just for donating a little blood…” Their words, intentionally loud enough for me to hear, didn’t cause the expected pain. I just felt cold, a chill that settled deep in my marrow, a cold that even the bright sunlight couldn’t warm. I watched them leave and then discharged myself. While Finn was away, I hired a cleaning service to help me pack. The woman looked at the beautifully decorated apartment, ready for newlyweds, and hesitated. “Miss, all this wedding stuff is brand new. Are you sure you want to throw it away?” “Yes,” I said. “The groom died. We won’t be needing it.” She immediately apologized and consoled me. Afraid of triggering me, she started by packing away the wedding photos and dozens of photo albums first. In just half a day, the home I had so carefully decorated lost all its warmth and joy. A cold house for a cold heart. The cleaner looked at the dozen bags filled with symbols of our love, shaking her head with a sigh. “Miss, you have to look forward.” I smiled and nodded. After she left, I made sure there was no trace of me left in the apartment. I deleted my fingerprints from the smart lock and pulled my suitcase out the door.

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We held a wedding three years ago, but my husband, a pilot, has canceled our trip to get a marriage license eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee was on a test flight. I waited at the courthouse all day. The second time, he got a call from her, made a sharp U-turn, and left me on the side of the road. Every time we scheduled it, something would happen with his trainee. Finally, I decided to leave him. But when I boarded the plane to Paris, he chased me there, frantic and desperate. 1 We’d been “married” for three years, but Mason Croft had never gotten around to making it legal. Today was supposed to be a milestone—his one-thousandth successful flight. It was also the seventeenth time he had promised we would finally go to the courthouse. But at his celebration dinner, while his supervisor was forcing shots on me, Mason was busy feeding appetizers and trading sips of wine with his trainee pilot. I was burning up with a fever, downing drink after drink until I was nearly unconscious, but he never once glanced my way. I could see the pity in our colleagues’ eyes, the unspoken “you deserve better” hanging in the air. It was obvious to everyone who I was doing this for. But after the dinner, Mason, the man who was supposed to take me to get our marriage license, stood me up again. He pulled his convertible up to the restaurant entrance and put a hand out to stop me from getting in. “Cora drank too much on my behalf,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m taking her home. You can grab a cab.” “We probably won’t make it to the courthouse this afternoon. We’ll reschedule.” He didn’t wait for my reaction. He got out, opened the passenger door, and gently helped his trainee into the seat. We’d been together for eight years, married for three. This was the seventeenth time Mason had postponed our official marriage because of Cora. Usually, this would be my breaking point. I would have dissolved into tears, screaming at him, demanding to know who his real wife was, who had actually been taking drinks for him all night. But this time, I just smiled. “Okay. Drive safe.” Mason froze, clearly taken aback by my calm demeanor. A moment later, his face hardened back into its usual indifference. “I’ll buy you a gift tonight to make it up to you.” He sped off, carefully rolling up the passenger-side window to shield a drunk Cora from the wind. He used to hate the smell of alcohol in his car. Whenever I’d had too much to drink for him, he’d put the top down, even in the dead of winter. He certainly never would have rolled up the window. It hit me then. The rules were just different when it was me in the car. The midday Miami heat was suffocating, but a strange, profound chill settled deep in my bones. I took a deep breath and put my wallet, the one holding my ID for the license, back in my purse. I knew then that our eight-year relationship had to be put away with it. 2 That afternoon, I went straight back to the airline’s headquarters and submitted my resignation. “Does Mason know you’re quitting?” my manager asked, shocked. I was, after all, the airline’s top-rated flight attendant for seven consecutive years. My future here was limitless. A bitter smile touched my lips. “I’ll tell him tonight. Not that he’ll care.” “I don’t understand,” she sighed, her expression full of regret. “You two pioneered new routes together, won ‘Best Crew’ awards together. Three years ago, even the CEO came to your wedding. Everyone was so envious. But now…” She was right. Those were beautiful memories. But memories were all they were. There was no going back. It was after ten by the time I got home. The apartment was dark and empty. Just then, a notification popped up on my phone. A new social media post from Cora, and she had tagged me. “Thanks to my amazing mentor for spending the afternoon with me! As a thank you, I’m taking him to the Jay-Z concert tomorrow! So excited!” I knew then that Mason, who had promised to be home, wasn’t coming home. This had become a familiar pattern over the past three years. I made myself a bowl of instant noodles and opened my laptop. My inbox was full of job offers from airlines around the world. My cursor hovered over the one from Air France, and without a second thought, I clicked “accept.” Then I booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two days from now. Five years ago, on a flight to Paris, Mason had experienced the worst crisis of his career. Since then, the word “Paris” had become a taboo. He refused to fly there, and he’d made sure I never did either. Mason, I thought, once I’m in Paris, we’ll never have to see each other again. 3 The next morning, I started packing. I was halfway through when Mason walked in, wearing a crisp, pink button-down. A cloud of rich, floral perfume followed him into the room. The scent hit me, and I froze. He used to despise perfume. Because of him, I hadn’t worn a single drop in years. I’d even thrown away my entire collection. It wasn’t that he hated perfume, I realized. He just hated it on me. He saw the open suitcases and paused. “Cora was too hungover to drive last night. I got a hotel room. That’s why I didn’t come home.” I glanced up at him, surprised. It was the first time in three years he’d bothered to explain himself. I just nodded, not saying a word. He walked over to me, his eyes on the luggage. “Are you packing for a flight?” “Something like that,” I said. He seemed to visibly relax at my answer. “I have to run. I just came back to grab something. Can’t stay for lunch.” “Okay.” I didn’t look up, just kept folding clothes. I had planned to tell him I’d quit over lunch, to finally put an end to our eight years together. It seemed I wouldn’t get the chance. Mason grabbed a red gift bag from the closet, picked up his jacket, and rushed out the door. CRASH! The photo frame that had hung by the door for eight years suddenly fell, shattering on the floor. Glass sprayed everywhere. I looked over. It was a picture of Mason and me at our first concert together, our hands clasped, our faces beaming. He had promised me that day that no matter how busy he got, he would take me to a concert every year. But ever since Cora became his trainee, he had forgotten. The only sound in the empty apartment was the ticking of the clock. After a long silence, I swept up the broken glass. I took the photo, a perfect capsule of our past happiness, and threw it, along with the last remnants of my feelings for him, into the trash. 4 That evening, exhausted from packing, I was lying in bed when my best friend called. “What is wrong with Mason? This is too much! Did you see his feed? He’s all over it, showing off with that homewrecker Cora.” “You guys aren’t even divorced yet! How could he?” As she ranted, I opened my phone. The first post was from Cora. In the photo, she was wearing a new Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, and in her hands was the red gift bag Mason had picked up that afternoon. I finally understood. He’d come home to get Cora’s concert gift. The caption read: “Three years since we met. So lucky to have you, Mason. Happy third anniversary!” My mind went blank. Three years? That’s right. Today was supposed to be my third wedding anniversary with Mason. We had never once celebrated it. I had completely forgotten. I let out a long breath. “He doesn’t need a divorce,” I told my friend. “We were never legally married.” “What?” “You’ve been ‘married’ for three years, and he never got a license with you?” My friend’s shriek was so loud it almost deafened me. Yes. We had a wedding three years ago. And he had canceled on me seventeen times. 5 At eleven that night, Mason came home, a rare occurrence. He took off his jacket and went to hang it on the hook by the door. He stopped, staring at the empty space where our photo used to be. “Where’s our picture?” he asked, walking into the bedroom without even putting his jacket down, a hint of panic in his voice. “It fell. It broke.” He looked towards the trash can by the door, saw the shattered glass, and his shoulders relaxed. He put his jacket aside and pulled out a shopping bag with a new Louis Vuitton purse inside. “I didn’t get a chance to give you your gift yesterday,” he said. “And today is our third wedding anniversary. So… Happy Anniversary.” He placed the bag on the bed. For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. After three years, he actually remembered our anniversary? But then I saw the receipt. The purchase time was thirty minutes ago. Cora’s post must have reminded him. He’d just picked it up on his way home. He didn’t know that I already had two of this exact same bag in my closet. I said nothing, just stared at him. “By the way,” he said, his tone shifting, “the annual airline awards are coming up. Can you… can you step aside this year? Cora’s been in the industry for three years, and her biggest dream is to win ‘Best Attendant,’ just like you. You’ve won it so many times. Can you let her have it this year?” He looked uncomfortable saying it. I had to laugh. So this last-minute gift had a price tag after all. “Fine,” I said calmly. Not just this year. Next year, the year after—I would never compete with her again. Because after tonight, I would be gone. “You… you agree?” My quick reply seemed to surprise him. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat. “Cora is my trainee. You’re her mentor’s wife. This is how it should be.” He paused, as if just remembering. “Oh, right, you’re flying tomorrow, aren’t you? What time is your flight?” “Three in the afternoon.” I looked at him, deciding to take this last chance to tell him I was leaving. But before I could speak, his phone rang. It was Cora. Her saccharine voice drifted from the phone. She was on her period, had no pads, and was calling Mason for help. He hung up and looked at me, a guilty expression on his face. “Uh… Cora’s in a bit of a jam. She’s all alone, can’t handle it. I should probably go.” For the first time, his voice held a note of pleading. I swallowed the words I was about to say and forced a smile. “It’s fine. Go.” He looked immensely relieved. He stood up, and as he was leaving, he said again, “Your flight is at three, so there’s still time. Tomorrow, ten a.m. Let’s go get the license. I promise, no matter what happens this time, I’ll be there.” A bitter smile played on my lips. He wouldn’t even give me the chance to break up with him face-to-face. The next morning, I finished packing. I didn’t go to the courthouse. I went straight to the airport. By noon, I still hadn’t received a single call from Mason asking why I wasn’t there. As I was boarding my flight that afternoon, I finally got a text from him: “Sorry, Cora wasn’t feeling well today. I just took her to the hospital. We missed our appointment. When you get back from this trip, I’ll take you to the courthouse first thing.” I felt nothing. Of course. The eighteenth time was a no-show too. “Don’t bother, Mason. I’ve quit my job. I’m on my way to Paris. After today, we will never see each other again.” I sent the message, my final message, and prepared to turn off my phone. The next second, the chat window, which had been silent for so long, began to vibrate uncontrollably. 6 The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, announcing the final boarding call. I ignored the buzzing of my phone, deleted Mason’s contact, and turned it off. From that moment on, Mason Croft and I were finished.

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1 Six months postpartum, and my husband had told me nineteen times that since I couldn’t produce breast milk, I wasn’t fit to be a mother. As our son, Leo, screamed with hunger, my husband, Landon, forgot to pick up the formula from the building’s package room for the nineteenth time. But in the pocket of his coat, I found a receipt from a rush courier service. The order details were stark: Painkillers for cramps and a heating pad for my baby. When Landon saw me holding it, he snatched it back, his voice as cold as ice. “Leo’s formula has a long shelf life. Regular shipping is fine.” He paused, his tone softening with an infuriatingly feigned concern for another woman. “But Mia’s cramps are unbearable. Every minute she has to wait is another minute of pain for her.” I pointed a trembling finger at our son, who was on the verge of crying himself unconscious. “Don’t you know that infants can get hypoglycemia? That they can’t be left to starve?” Landon’s voice was sharp with impatience. “This is all because you stopped breastfeeding after two months! Even Mia said she’s never seen a mother give up so easily!” The old me would have dissolved into tears, would have screamed and demanded an explanation. But this time, I was just tired. A deep, soul-crushing weariness had settled in my bones. Without a word, I put on my raincoat and, under Landon’s surprised gaze, plunged into the downpour. I hurried to the package room and gave the woman at the counter my pickup code. Her face was a mask of sour disapproval. She rummaged around on the lowest shelf before pulling out a dented box of formula and slamming it onto the counter so hard it fell and hit my foot. A sharp, throbbing pain shot up my ankle, which was already turning red and swollen. “Excuse me?” I stared at her, confused. She was even more agitated than I was, planting her hands on her hips. “Were you the one who called and screamed at me last night? Are you crazy or something?” She leaned over the counter, her voice rising. “I called your husband three times yesterday afternoon telling him to pick up this package. He didn’t answer. Then you call me at midnight, accusing me of being a homewrecker trying to steal your man?” I froze, the blood draining from my face. Last night at midnight, Leo had been fussy, refusing to sleep. I had paced the living room for what felt like hours, my back screaming in protest, the ten-pound weight of my son an anchor dragging me down. I’d called Landon again and again, desperate for him to come home and help, but he declined every call. A moment later, a text popped up: In a late meeting. He was with Mia. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I apologized profusely to the woman at the counter, then limped home, clutching the formula to my chest. As the rain lashed down, my phone rang. It was Landon. “You’re a stay-at-home mom,” he snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Shouldn’t you be at home with the baby? Where did you run off to now? Leo won’t stop crying. Are you even fit to be a mother?” I pressed my lips together, silent. “Answer me! You haven’t worked in six months, Norah. Has the great journalist forgotten how to speak?” “I went to the mailroom to get the formula.” There was a pause on his end, then his voice returned, cold as ever. “You left without saying a word. How was I supposed to know where you went? Fine. It’s pouring out. I’ll come down and get you.” I glanced at my swollen, throbbing ankle and refused. “No. Don’t you know you can’t leave an infant alone? It’s dangerous.” He hung up before I could finish. When I finally staggered back into the apartment, Landon was on a video call with Mia. She was asking him if a white, ethereal dress would look good for her photoshoot in the woods tomorrow. As she spoke, she preened in front of the camera, slipping the dress off to reveal nothing but lingerie underneath. I heard Landon call her “Luna,” and a sharp pain lanced through my chest. Years ago, when we were chasing stories together, he used to call me Luna. He said I was his moon goddess, for life. Now, not even a decade later, his vows had curdled into lies. Before I could even mix the formula, Leo shifted on the sofa, about to roll off the edge. I lunged, catching him just in time, startling Landon. “Norah! Are you spying on me? God, you’re so suffocating!” But then he saw our son, who had almost hit the floor, and my swollen, discolored ankle. He fell silent. Mia’s haughty voice drifted from the phone. “Norah, darling, you were a famous reporter. You should know a thing or two about privacy. I’m practically naked here!” I scoffed. So she did know she shouldn’t be seen like this. “And a little piece of advice,” she continued, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “A man is like sand in your hand. The tighter you squeeze, the faster he slips away.” Buoyed by Mia’s support, Landon’s confidence returned. “Norah, you know my temper. If you ever spy on me again—” I cut him off, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. 2 “Don’t worry,” I said. “There won’t be a next time.” I had already decided to divorce him. Of course there wouldn’t be a next time. “Come to the station at ten tomorrow. I’ll take you to see the director about coming back to work.” It was a reward for my obedience. I knew that. But since I needed to speak with the director anyway, I agreed. The next morning, my mother-in-law picked up Leo. I arrived at the TV station at nine-thirty. Without a key card, I had to wait for Landon to return from his field assignment to let me in. I called him several times. He didn’t answer. A self-deprecating smile touched my lips. He used to answer my calls on the first ring. I couldn’t pinpoint when that had changed, when he started letting it ring, or worse, just declining the call. Did he think a stay-at-home mom could have nothing important to say? Or was his mind simply too full of Mia to have room for me? I stood outside for an hour before Landon and Mia finally appeared, laughing together. His blue tie and her matching blue bow were a silent, intimate secret between them. I turned my head and saw my reflection in the glass wall—my body still soft and shapeless from pregnancy, my face pale and drawn. I instinctively shrank back. In the blink of an eye, they swept past me and into the building. Trapped outside, I called Landon again. He glanced at his phone and immediately hit decline. “Who was that?” Mia asked. Landon gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “Spam call,” he said with a smile. I stood in the biting wind for a long time before a colleague I knew took pity on me and let me in. When I finally met with the station director, he told me that the charity program for women and children I had launched before my maternity leave had been taken over by Mia. The audience, he said, now associated the show with her. He then tactfully suggested I work on my “personal image” before he could assign me any new projects. I smiled, but my nails were digging so deeply into my palms that it was a miracle I didn’t draw blood. I walked, dazed, towards the recording studio. Landon and Mia had just finished a segment on a domestic abuse case. Mia’s voice was thick with emotion, her eyes red-rimmed. Even the crew in the control room looked moved. Landon gazed at her profile, his expression a mixture of adoration and tenderness. But when he turned and saw me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What are you doing here?” Before I could answer, Mia clicked over in her high heels. “Norah,” she said with a saccharine smile, “long time no see. My, you’ve aged.” Landon came to her side, and she linked her arm through his naturally. She looked me up and down with disdain. “A woman really needs to take care of herself. You don’t want to become an eyesore.” She added, “The viewers all say they hope I host your old show permanently. I’m much easier on the eyes.” My gaze fell on her designer dress and the expensive brooch pinned to it. A sharp, familiar pain pricked my heart. I had seen both items in Landon’s online shopping cart. He had picked them out himself. As I stood there, lost in a daze, Mia pulled a bottle of anti-wrinkle serum from her purse. “Landon always says an elegant neck is the true sign of a woman’s vitality. Look at yours, it’s covered in lines.” She held it out to me. “Here, you can have this. Landon bought me so many. Consider it a thank you for letting me have your show.” I was about to refuse when Landon snatched the bottle and stuffed it back into her bag. “She doesn’t use that stuff. You keep it.” I touched my own dry, neglected skin, my heart filled with a bitter ache. I was once a celebrated journalist, vibrant and passionate about fashion. But Landon had complained that my manicures scratched him, that my perfume gave him a headache. In his eyes, only the dazzling Mia was worthy of such beauty. I was just the woman trapped at home, nursing a baby and running a household. Mia smiled triumphantly, then gasped with delight. “Oh, Landon, you bought rosewater macarons! You got these for me once when we were on assignment in Charleston. I’ve never forgotten.” She shot me a playful look. “Such a shame Norah’s allergic to roses. She can’t enjoy them.” Landon’s smile was soft and indulgent. “As long as you like them.” Only then did he seem to remember I was there. He narrowed his eyes at me, a flicker of confusion in them. It was strange. Normally, I would have been seething with jealousy. Today, I was silent. He cleared his throat. “Norah, I ordered that lobster bisque you love. It’s on its way. That should make you happy, right?” 3 A sardonic smile twisted my lips. “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, Landon? You’ve forgotten crying your eyes out in the hospital waiting room while I was in the ER, fighting for my life after an anaphylactic reaction to shellfish. His face hardened at my rejection. “Give you an inch and you want a mile, don’t you? Stay-at-home moms are always so dramatic. Mia and I have actual work to do. We don’t have time for your theatrics!” He turned his back on me and went to Mia. She shot me a smug, victorious glance. My colleagues tactfully looked away, sparing me the humiliation. They all remembered. They knew I had sacrificed my career for my family, handing my show—Landon and Mia’s show—to them on a silver platter. I forced myself to walk out of the station, my head held high. I called my lawyer and told him to draw up two copies of the divorce papers. When I got home, Landon’s messaging app was still open on the tablet. Out of trust, I had never checked his phone. But now, remembering my lawyer’s advice, I hit the screen record button and started scrolling. [Six months ago] ChasingTheSun: It’s not that I don’t love you. I just can’t handle having a baby. The career break, the weight gain… Waiting: You don’t have to say another word. I understand. You’re a bird meant to fly free, not be caged in a nursery. Waiting: As soon as she goes on maternity leave, the prime-time slot is ours. ChasingTheSun: Hehe, love you. [Two days ago] ChasingTheSun: When are you going to ask her for a divorce? Waiting: Soon. Be patient. ChasingTheSun: How can I be patient?! You promised you’d leave her as soon as you secretly gave her the lactation suppressants and her milk dried up! But you’re still dragging your feet! The baby’s going to start recognizing her soon. How am I supposed to take over then? There was a 60-second voice note from “Waiting” after that. I didn’t listen. I closed the tablet, ran to the bathroom, and retched until I was dizzy and breathless. I thought my heart was too numb to feel any more pain, but tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. I finally understood why Landon’s screen name was “Waiting.” He was waiting to divorce me. Waiting to marry Mia. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a giant, merciless fist. It was never that I wasn’t fit to be a mother. It was that Landon needed a scapegoat for his own infidelity. As I sobbed, my mother-in-law called, her voice frantic. Leo had a fever. There was no time for grief. I threw on a coat and rushed to get my son to the hospital. By the time I arrived, Leo was listless, his little body burning up. But there were no beds available in the emergency room. I pushed my way through the doors and saw why. Mia was there, staging a photoshoot where she “comforted” sick children from a local orphanage. She was using every single bed in the ER. I begged her for help, but she just sneered at me. “This is for Landon’s show! It’s being broadcast to a hundred thousand people. Do you really think we’re going to give up a bed for your one kid? Have you lost all your professional integrity as a journalist?” Seeing my son’s flushed, feverish face, I dropped to my knees and begged the doctor to help him. The doctor, caught on camera, looked uncomfortable. Mia, furious, stalked out of the camera’s frame. Once the ER door was closed, she stepped forward and ground her high heel into the back of my hand. “Ah!” A blinding, searing pain shot up my arm, and I cried out. “Useless bitch!” she hissed. “You couldn’t compete with me for the show, you couldn’t compete with me for the man, and now you’re using this little bastard to get sympathy?” She drew back her foot and kicked—not at me, but at the six-month-old infant in my arms. I screamed, instinctively curling my body around my son, shielding him with everything I had. Her heel struck my chest with a sickening thud. The door burst open. “Norah? What are you doing on the floor with Leo?” Landon’s incredulous voice filled the hallway, startling Mia. Her eyes darted around, and then she burst into tears. “Landon, I’m so sorry! I was filming the charity segment with the orphans, and Norah just barged in with the baby, trying to disrupt everything.” She sobbed, “I know this is your show, so I tried not to make a scene, but then she put the baby on the cold, dirty floor! You know how I am, I just can’t bear to see a child suffer…” Landon’s face grew darker and darker, the suspicion in his eyes igniting into full-blown rage. “Norah! What kind of mother are you? You don’t put a six-month-old baby on the floor!” I was gasping for air, the pain in my chest making it impossible to speak. All I could do was tremble and hold my son up to him.

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To cure my ‘sister’s’ supposed depression, Carter Thorne—the man who was my childhood sweetheart, my fiancé, the one who swore he’d marry no one but me—secretly married her instead. So I turned around and accepted the arranged marriage my family had brokered for me. I married Declan Blackwood, the undisputed king of New York’s elite, a man who had silently loved me for years. For seven years, he worshipped my very skin. He was a man starved, clinging to me every night as if I were air. If I had asked for the stars, he would have plucked them from the sky for me. I thought I had finally found my happiness. Then, one night, tangled in the sheets after we’d made love, I overheard him on the phone with his best friend. “Jasmine’s an international star now. When are you finally dropping Seraphina?” “What’s the difference?” Declan’s voice was a low murmur. “I’m with someone I don’t love anyway. Besides, I have to keep Sera in check, stop her from ruining the happiness Jasmine fought so hard for.” My world tilted. Later, in his study, I opened his laptop. In a hidden folder, a universe of obsession unfolded: a hundred thousand photos of Jasmine Vance. A hundred unsent love letters. The delusion was shattered. It was time to wake up. I bought a life-sized silicone mannequin and orchestrated a fire. From this life to the next, in heaven or in hell, our paths would never cross again. 1 The order confirmation for the items I needed glowed on the screen. I shut the laptop. Just three more days. Then, according to plan, I would disappear from Declan Blackwood’s world forever. I turned, and my breath caught. I was staring straight into his smiling, almond-shaped eyes. He must have stood on the porch for a while, letting the winter chill and the lingering scent of nicotine fade from his coat before daring to approach me. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his warmth a familiar ghost. “Why are you still up?” he murmured into my hair. His embrace, once my safest harbor, now sent a bitter acid creeping into my heart. For seven years, he had put me on a pedestal. Everyone in our circle knew Declan Blackwood kept me, his darling wife, tucked away in a gilded cage. He’d told me it was love at first sight, that he’d adored me from afar for fourteen agonizing years. At our wedding, he’d stood at the altar with tears in his eyes, vowing that marrying me was a dream he never wanted to wake from. He knew my history. He’d used the full force of the Blackwood empire to go to war with Carter Thorne, the man who’d abandoned me. He’d sabotaged Jasmine’s career to avenge me, snarling that he despised anyone who had ever caused me pain. He was a phenomenal actor. So good that I, an award-winning actress myself, never saw the performance. A bitter memory surfaced. In the throes of passion, he’d always call me “Sera,” but the word was always slurred, thick on his tongue. I thought it was just a quirk of his passion, a sound lost to ecstasy. Now, I replayed it in my mind. J-Sera… Jasmine. The truth was a shard of ice in my gut. I lowered my head, secretly wiping a tear from the corner of my eye with my thumb. He didn’t notice, lost in his own narrative. “Your sister won the big award. Let’s just stay home from the industry party tomorrow. I don’t want you to see her and get upset.” I silently counted. This was at least the hundredth time he’d used an excuse like this to keep me out of the limelight. I used to think it was his possessiveness, a flaw I indulged with a sigh, even letting it convince me to step back from my career at its peak. Now I knew the truth. It was all to clear the stage for Jasmine. “I have a meeting with Maestro Bellini tomorrow,” I said, my voice steady. “He wants me for his next leading role. I can’t miss it.” “It’s fine, we’ll skip it. I’ll smooth things over for you,” he said, his tone dismissive. “My wife never has to work another day in her life if she doesn’t want to. I can provide for you.” But it was never about the money. I had told him once that starring in a Bellini film, earning it on my own merit, was my lifelong dream. He’d sworn then, with a fire in his eyes, that he would move heaven and earth to help me achieve it. He hadn’t forgotten. It was just that Jasmine wanted the role, too. So my dream had to become her stepping stone. Seeing my silence, he softened his tone, trying to coax me. “Sera, come on, don’t be difficult. There will be other parties, other roles. But our time together… that’s what’s precious, isn’t it?” He kissed my temple. “The day after tomorrow is our seven-year anniversary. I’m planning a surprise you’ll never forget. How does that sound?” A ghost of a smile touched my lips. “It sounds perfect,” I said. “And I’ll give you my greatest gift in return.” Our seven-year itch, Declan. We’re not going to make it. From now on, you’ll be alone. Only you. My gift to you is my absence. 2 In the dead of night, after Declan was fast asleep, his arm draped possessively over me, I slipped out of bed and went to his study. The words “I don’t love her” and the digital shrine on his computer were enough. They should have been enough to sever any lingering hope. But seven years of shared memories, of whispered secrets and easy laughter… they weren’t a phantom. They were real. I couldn’t just let them go. My feet carried me to the small, sleek safe under his desk. It was Pandora’s box, humming with a dark, seductive energy. I’d asked him about it before, during lazy afternoons spent tangled up in his office. He would always deflect, teasing me, telling me to guess the combination but never giving a hint. I had tried my birthday. His birthday. Our wedding anniversary. All wrong. Now, with a trembling hand, I typed in Jasmine’s birthday. For one heart-stopping moment, I prayed I was wrong. The safe clicked open. My heart plummeted into an icy abyss. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a pair of matching rings. The style was dated, but they were polished to a brilliant shine, clearly cherished and meticulously cared for. On the inner band, an inscription: DB & JV. Declan Blackwood & Jasmine Vance. The strength drained from my body, and a pain so sharp it felt like my heart was being carved from my chest stole my breath. Even a fool would see the truth now. Declan had never, not for a single moment, loved me. The next day, for the first time, I defied him. I went to the party. A shadow crossed Declan’s face, but he didn’t try to stop me. He simply tightened his grip on my hand. “Alright, you can go. But you’re so beautiful, Sera, you have to stay by my side. If that sister of yours tries anything, I need to be there to protect you.” He played the part of the loyal guard dog to perfection. But I knew he was just afraid I’d slip my leash and steal Jasmine’s thunder. That wasn’t my intention. I was about to stage my own death. This was my last chance to say a silent goodbye to the directors and writers who had believed in me. The moment we arrived, all eyes were on Jasmine and me. “The lead in Bellini’s next film has to be Seraphina Hayes,” someone whispered nearby. “She has the talent, and with Declan Blackwood backing her, it’s a sure thing.” Jasmine overheard. Her face soured, and she stomped over to the group. “What makes you so sure? That role is mine!” The crowd wasn’t impressed. “You’re good, but you don’t have Seraphina’s experience. A little humility goes a long way.” “Yeah, even if she’s married to a Thorne now, she’s up against a Blackwood. It’s pretty obvious who has the upper hand.” “Honestly, you win one little award and think you own the town?” Jasmine was practically vibrating with rage. “You’ll see! You’ll all eat your words!” She shot me a venomous glare. “Enjoy it while you can. We’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the night. Tramp.” With a final sneer, she shoved me. Hard. I stumbled, my knee cracking against the sharp corner of a table. Tears of pain sprang to my eyes. Beside me, Declan, my sworn protector, acted as if he’d seen nothing. He simply let it happen. I dropped my gaze, fighting the wave of acid rising in my throat. Just then, the lights in the grand ballroom dimmed. It was time for the official announcement. “Let’s give a huge congratulations to… Jasmine Vance!” “And a special thank you to our celebrated, billion-dollar-box-office screenwriter—Linden—for his support! He has graciously waived his fee for this script and even invested thirty million dollars, all to ensure that Jasmine could bring his story to life. For she is, in his words, his only leading lady, his muse!” Jasmine ascended the stage, bathed in a celestial glow. She took the microphone, her eyes finding mine in the darkness, and delivered the final blow. “You see, Seraphina? After all these years, you still can’t win against me.” “Loser!” She stood under the spotlight, a queen surrounded by her court, radiant and triumphant. I looked at Declan beside me. He was still holding my hand, but his eyes were shining with vicarious joy for Jasmine’s victory. I felt a dark, bitter laugh bubble up inside me. Yesterday, in his study, I’d found the manuscript. On the title page, the dedication was scrawled in his familiar hand: “For J.V., my muse.” Linden. The pen name he used. The name under which he poured out his soul for another woman. Even though I knew this was coming, seeing it unfold before my eyes was a fresh agony, a dull, crushing weight on my chest. Maestro Bellini found me by the bar, his expression sympathetic. “Don’t worry, my dear. There will always be a place for you in my films.” I managed a weak, sad smile and shook my head. “Thank you for your kindness, Maestro. But I’m afraid… there might not be another chance.” 3 Declan, playing the part of the oblivious, comforting husband, pulled me into his arms. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll fund a few movies for you to star in, just for fun. How does that sound?” he whispered. “Tonight, I have a surprise for you on the waterfront. My love for you is more important than any movie role.” The words that once tasted like honey now felt like cloying, stale sugar on my tongue. But to avoid suspicion, I forced myself to swallow them down. “Okay.” After making my rounds and expressing my gratitude to the industry veterans who had supported me, I was ready to leave. Declan dismissed our driver, intending to take me for a drive himself. But just as he started the engine, his phone buzzed. I glanced over. I recognized the number. It was Jasmine. His expression shifted instantly. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a calculated hesitation. “Sera, something urgent just came up at the office. Would you mind going to the waterfront by yourself?” I feigned a moment of surprise, then smiled. “Of course not. You go take care of business.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, then turned and headed back into the glittering ballroom. I started the car, but I didn’t drive toward the waterfront. I drove home. To the Blackwood mansion. The time had come. All my energy now would be focused on preparing for my death tomorrow. I gathered every trace of our life together. Online, I scrubbed our history, deleting backups from the cloud until nothing remained. The physical memories, I piled together to be burned. My phone lit up. An anonymous number. The first message was a photo: Declan, drunk and flushed, passed out on a sofa next to a smirking Jasmine. [He has a sensitive stomach, you know? But he still took all those shots for me. Hope you’re not mad, sis. ] [He may fight with the Thornes in public, snatching my roles, but did you know that behind the scenes he compensates me a hundred times over? Do you know why?] [Did you know Declan was my little shadow growing up? He’s always loved me. Marrying you was just his way of keeping you on a leash!] [You didn’t really believe someone like him would just fall in love with you for no reason, did you? Don’t be naive.] [He told me that every night, he has to imagine it’s me he’s holding just to get through it. He also said you’re just Carter’s sloppy seconds, that you’re disgusting for not even saving your first time for him!] The texts fell like an avalanche of poison. My heart was a frozen stone. I felt nothing. I simply moved faster, methodically preparing the scene. I positioned the mannequin in the bedroom, ensuring it would be consumed by the flames, then drenched the house in gasoline. After forwarding every one of Jasmine’s texts to the most ruthless paparazzi team in the city, I snapped my SIM card in two and tossed the pieces into the bushes. I pressed the ignition button on the remote detonator. Then I turned and walked toward the distant horizon. The path ahead was dark, but that didn’t matter. I knew, eventually, I would walk into the dawn. Declan, meanwhile, was completely oblivious. He looked down at Jasmine, his voice laced with an unconscious note of reprimand. “Jasmine, what are you doing here? My anniversary with Sera is tomorrow. This will make her suspicious.” Jasmine’s eyes welled with tears. “Are you blaming me?” Panic flared in Declan’s eyes. He rushed to reassure her. “No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, Jasmine.” She crossed her arms with a sniff, offering a grudging acceptance. The Blackwood family butler’s number flashed on his screen. Declan silenced it with a frown. After the fifteenth call in a row, a cold dread began to creep up his spine. “What is it?” he answered, his voice sharp. “Sir, it’s terrible… the missus… she… she set the house on fire and killed herself!” “We did everything we could, sir… but there was nothing to be done.”

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The day Queen Rhoslyn announced her pregnancy, she wept for her homeland. The King indulged her, leaving with 10,000 guards to escort her to Maira. The moment they departed, the Vargr Horde attacked. My betrothed died defending the gates. The Queen Mother saved me—at the cost of her honor and life. When the King returned, I knelt before him in my mother’s blood. In the final battle, he shot Queen Rhoslyn himself when she was taken hostage. After victory, the people hailed me as “The Shield of Aethelgard” and built a monument in my honor. The night before its dedication, the King dragged me to the dungeons. “You were the traitor,” he hissed, carving into my flesh with a dagger. “You sacrificed her for fame.” 1 Before the last echo of agony could fade, a hand gripped my wrist, yanking me back to a world of fire and screams. “Pearl, run! The secret passage… get through the catacombs, ride out of the city, and find your brother!” My mother’s urgent voice shattered the phantom memory. I looked at the fresh bloodstains splattered across her regal gown and understood. This was real. I had been reborn into this nightmare. In my last life, she had said these very words. She had pushed me into the darkness of the passage and then turned, a lone, graceful figure, to face the Vargr chieftain with her own fragile body. To buy me time, she had feigned surrender, a diplomatic dance that ended with her being slain by the chieftain’s own hand. A queen of virtue and grace, her name defiled, her body cast into the streets. The thought made me clutch her hand with desperate strength. “Pearl, what are you doing?” she faltered. “I have ways of dealing with these brutes. Trust me…” “No,” I said, my voice steady as I pulled a heavy sigil from my tunic. “Mother, it’s too late to chase after the King. Even if his army turned back now, Aethelgard would fall. The Vargr are butchers. If they breach the walls, not a single soul in this city will be left alive!” In my past life, it took me three agonizing days to intercept my brother’s caravan at the river crossing. By then, the capital had already fallen. Its people, slaughtered. My fiancé, Lord Robin of House Valerius, had died refusing to surrender the main gate, his body pierced by a hundred arrows. The image of his broken form, barely recognizable, sent a spike of ice through my heart. As I spoke, a blade whistled through the air, aimed for my mother’s neck. My eyes flew wide. There was no time to think. I threw myself in front of her. The pain never came. A flash of steel intercepted the dagger, and Robin was there, his own sword sinking into the chest of the attacker. My mother gasped. “Lady Elspeth!” Elspeth had been my mother’s lady-in-waiting for decades, a trusted companion. Now, a Vargr spy. The palace, I realized with a cold dread, was already infested. Robin stood before us, a grim guardian. “Pearl, the Horde is at the gates! Why haven’t you ridden to the garrison at the city’s edge for aid?” He scowled, his frustration clear. “The King’s carriage had only just departed when the Vargr appeared. I sent a raven immediately, but there has been no reply…” I shook my head, a heavy sadness settling over me. “It’s no use, Robin. He won’t believe it.” Before he left, the Queen, Rhoslyn, had complained of my “childish pranks,” and used it as an excuse to give the garrison a direct, unassailable order: no matter what happened in the capital, they were not to mobilize their troops. I held up the sigil. “Our only chance now is this forged command…” “Are you mad?” Robin retorted, his voice sharp. “Military orders are not a child’s game! The raven should have reached the King by now. We must hold the walls! Reinforcements will come!” As if on cue, a royal messenger, pale and stumbling, burst into the room, clutching a scroll. Robin’s face lit up with hope as he rushed to meet him. 2 “What did the King say? Is the army returning?” His hands trembled as he broke the seal on the scroll. I watched as the hope on his face curdled, first to confusion, then to ashen disbelief. My mother snatched the scroll from his limp fingers. She read it, cried out, and collapsed to the floor. “Gods have mercy… What have we done?” On the parchment, my brother raged. He accused the messenger of spreading treasonous lies, claiming his journey to Maira had been peaceful and serene, with no sign of any Vargr invasion. “Is my sister Pearl so bored that she now invents military crises for sport? Robin, if you continue to indulge her whims, do not be surprised when I return and punish you both!” The young messenger prostrated himself, his voice cracking. “Lord General, Princess… the Vargr… they are massing at the Sunken Gate…” Robin wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his jaw set like stone. Without a word, he turned to head for the battlements. “The men of my House live and die with this city,” he declared, his voice ringing with grim finality. “We do not surrender!” He was going to do it. Just like the last time. He would lead the last of his family’s elite guard in a hopeless defense of the walls. I shoved the forged sigil into the hands of a loyal page. “The secret passage,” I commanded. “Ride to the garrison. Bring back help.” Then I tore a strip of velvet from my sleeve, tied it over the lower half of my face, and followed Robin to the top of the wall. He raised his arm, a signal. Below, his men roared. They were going out. With Robin’s final command, the massive gate boomed shut behind him, leaving three thousand of our finest soldiers to face a tide of fifty thousand Vargr. He raised his family’s banner, his teeth gritted. “For House Valerius! For Aethelgard! Charge!” “CHARGE!” Fueled by the certainty of death, the three thousand smashed into the Vargr line like a thunderbolt, tearing a bloody path straight toward the chieftain. Robin’s longsword was a blur of silver, nearly piercing the chieftain’s skull. But in the next instant, an arrow flew from behind him, a black streak against the sky. An arrow from within his own ranks. My own bow was in my hands before I knew it. My fingers, trembling, drew the string taut. I loosed an arrow of my own, a desperate prayer. It struck the shaft of the poisoned arrow mid-flight, deflecting it just enough that it grazed Robin’s pauldron instead of his neck. But the moment was lost. The chieftain was on horseback now, surrounded by a wall of shields. The chance for a killing blow was gone. I lowered my bow, my heart hammering against my ribs. So that was it. In my past life, that poison arrow, the one that had thrown him from his horse and left his body to rot, had come from his own men. His most trusted comrade had delivered the fatal blow. Realizing there was a traitor in his midst, Robin abandoned the suicidal charge, his brow furrowed as he bellowed the order to retreat to the gate. 3 I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my knees giving way as I sank against the cold stone of the parapet. But as I started to descend the stairs, I saw Robin’s body go rigid on his horse. A masked soldier, the one riding closest to him, pulled a long, blood-slick sword from Robin’s back. He swayed, clutching his chest, and tumbled from the saddle. “Robin…” My world narrowed to a single point of horror. The gate creaked open, and I ran, tears streaming down my face, not caring about the chaos around me. I threw myself to my knees beside him. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. He coughed, a spray of dark blood staining his lips. Yet he still raised a trembling hand, trying to wipe the tears from my cheek. “Pearl… don’t cry. I’m… I’m alright.” I pressed my hands against the gaping wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood just flowed faster, slick and hot between my fingers. Why? Why was it happening again? Was I doomed to watch him die in my arms a second time? Through my haze of grief, my mother arrived, dragging the royal physician with her. “Don’t just stand there, you fool! Heal him!” The sword had missed his heart by a mere inch. But the physician’s face was grim. The blade had been poisoned. “A rare venom from the Western Isles,” he murmured, shaking his head. “In all my years, I have never seen its like.” Without the antidote, Robin wouldn’t last three days. Looking at his deathly pale face, I bit my lip until it bled and ran for the palace gates. I knew the poison. And I knew that the only antidote, the Serpent’s Kiss orchid, grew only on Mount Cinder, a peak shrouded in toxic fumes just beyond the city’s edge. Three days. It was just enough time to get there and back. But the page I’d sent with the forged sigil hadn’t returned. The garrison commander must have seen through the forgery. If I went now, he would likely imprison me for treason. I had no other choice. Three days from now was also when the Vargr planned their final assault. If I failed, it wouldn’t just be Robin who died. It would be everyone. 4 I slipped out through the secret passage, emerging into the cold, dark water of the city’s moat. I swam for my life, my lungs burning. A cold arrow grazed my leg, but I didn’t dare make a sound, just bit down on the pain and swam deeper. By the time I clawed my way to the bank near the garrison, I was a shivering, bleeding mess. I didn’t even have time to speak before a heavy blow struck the back of my neck, and the world went black. When I opened my eyes, it was to the damp, musty dark of a dungeon cell. The garrison commander, General Valerius, was an old veteran who had fought alongside my brother to win the throne. He was also our mentor, the man who had taught both me and Robin how to wield a sword. Tears burned my eyes, and I fell to my knees. “Master! The Vargr are at the gates, Aethelgard is about to fall! Robin is dying! I beg you, mobilize the army!” General Valerius stepped out of the shadows. The familiar warmth was gone from his face, replaced by an iron-hard mask of fury. “Pearl,” he said, his voice cold as stone. “The Queen’s urgent dispatch arrived not an hour ago. How long were you going to lie to me?” At his command, a guard dragged forward the bloody, beaten form of my young page. He threw my forged sigil at my feet. “The Queen was right. You forged a royal command and fabricated a military crisis. Princess or not, that is treason. A crime punishable by death.” His voice dripped with disappointment. “Is your petty jealousy of the Queen so great that you would stoop to this?” His accusation struck me like a physical blow. I sank to the floor. My hands shook as I pulled out the decree my mother had given me. “Master, I had no choice! The Vargr Horde truly is at our walls! If there had been any other way, I would never have defied a royal order…” I held it out to him. “This is a mobilization order written in my mother’s own hand, bearing her royal seal. If you do not believe me, do you also doubt the Queen Mother?” He snatched the scroll from my hand with a cold snort. I looked up, a sliver of hope piercing my despair, only to watch him tear the Queen Mother’s decree to shreds. Then he picked up a whip. “Do you take me for a fool? If you can forge a sigil, you can forge your mother’s hand. You are closer to her than anyone. Stealing her seal would be a simple matter for you.” He raised the whip. “I am warning you, Pearl. Stop these games. If you persist, this will not end with a simple flogging.”

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