Author: Momo Chan

My wife and I were married for five years. A secret. It started as a love-at-first-sight fairytale at university and devolved into this—a cold, silent existence where we were little more than strangers sharing a roof. All that was left between us was her charity and my silence. Then, her best friend called. “Claire’s planning a wedding of the century,” she’d chirped. “She says she owes it to you after these five years, for all the sacrifices.” A flicker of hope I thought long dead sparked within me. I was so ecstatic I had a bespoke suit tailored for the occasion. A week later, I stood in the corner of the grand ballroom, watching my wife, Claire, radiant under the crystal chandeliers. Beside her, dapper and beaming, stood Ethan. “I do.” Their vows echoed through the hall. When her eyes finally found me in the crowd, her face fell, a mask of pure shock. “Simon?” she blurted out. “What are you doing here?!” 1 As the officiant declared them husband and wife, the room held its breath. I broke the silence, rising to my feet and starting a round of applause. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” the guests roared, following my lead. The moment Claire saw me, raw panic washed over her features. “What are you doing here?!” she mouthed again, her voice lost in the din. I ignored her, turning on my heel and walking out of the ballroom, leaving a sea of confused faces in my wake. As I expected, she didn’t follow. The whispers and murmurs of the guests faded behind me until there was only the cold night air. The next time I saw Claire was late the following night. In the interim, there had been no calls, no texts, no explanations. Just the same suffocating silence that now filled our living room. She watched me work on my laptop for a long moment before finally speaking. “I promised Ethan,” she said, her voice flat. “I promised he could have his dream wedding.” She paused, as if waiting for a reaction. When none came, she added, “It was just for show, Simon. It’s not like we got legally married.” Her rare attempt at an explanation did nothing for me. The moment I’d watched them exchange vows, heard them say “I do,” something inside me had simply snapped. The whole charade of the last seven years suddenly felt profoundly, exhaustingly pointless. My silence seemed to ignite her temper. “Simon, what the hell is your problem?” she snapped, her voice sharp with impatience. “I didn’t sign a marriage certificate with him! Who are you putting on this long face for?!” I closed my laptop, ready to retreat to the bedroom. She blocked my path. “Is this the attitude you’re going to have? Fine,” she spat. “If you’re going to act like a child, you can stay out of my bedroom.” I just nodded. “Okay.” I turned, slipped the laptop back into its bag, and settled onto the oversized beanbag chair in the corner, closing my eyes. A deafening slam echoed through the apartment as she stormed out of the room. With my eyes closed, the years spooled backward in my mind. I’d fallen for Claire the moment I saw her at a university gala. My pursuit was anything but subtle—a relentless campaign of morning coffees, lavish dinners, and expensive gifts. I was her shadow, her benefactor, her most devoted admirer. But she remained unmoved, gracefully accepting all my offerings while consistently rejecting my heart. She made it painfully clear: she was in love with Ethan. He was the brilliant, handsome scholar, the untouchable ideal she worshipped. In my world, however, the truth about Ethan was an open secret. My friends all knew him for what he was: a handsome leech, preying on wealthy young women, desperate to marry into money. A gigolo in a cashmere sweater. I tried to tell her, to warn her. She accused me of being cruel and manipulative, of stooping to slander to ruin the image of her perfect man. Then came graduation. Ethan left for a graduate program overseas, and just as he disappeared, Claire’s father was diagnosed with a severe heart condition. He needed a donor, and he needed a fortune for the surgery. After being turned down by every friend and relative, she called me, desperate. That night, I was out with my friends at a club, my phone on silent. I have no idea how she found me, but she tracked me down, her face pale with desperation. I gave her a debit card with a million dollars on it—more than enough for the surgery. Then I called in a favor with a connection, securing a heart donor for her father. After I’d arranged everything, she took the card and left without a word. Only then did I check my phone and see the string of frantic messages from her. The last one read: “Simon, if you help me, I’ll do anything you ask.” A week later, she appeared before me again. Before I could even ask about her father, she cut me off. “Simon,” she said, her voice void of emotion. “Let’s get married.” 2 I later learned the full story. The moment Ethan had gone abroad, he’d ghosted her completely. Meanwhile, I had produced a million dollars and a life-saving organ transplant without batting an eye. In her family’s eyes, I wasn’t just a suitor anymore; I was a golden goose they couldn’t afford to let fly away. So, caught between the sting of abandonment and the weight of familial pressure, Claire had gritted her teeth and married me. And for the next seven years, she made sure I paid for it, channeling all her resentment and unhappiness directly onto me. Two years of courtship, five years of marriage. Seven years a resentful couple, and I still hadn’t carved out a single inch of space in her heart. Now, that heart of mine was finally dead. The next morning, my lawyer sent over the divorce agreement. I printed it, signed my name, and went to find Claire. She was in the living room, immaculately dressed, watering her plants. The moment she saw me, her face turned to ice. “Go to the grocery store,” she ordered, not even looking up. “We’re having dinner at my parents’ tonight. They just got back from their trip.” She paused. “And make sure you get some prime rib and a good bottle of Bordeaux. Ethan loves it.” That casual, commanding tone—born from years of my unconditional obedience—now sounded utterly absurd. A bitter laugh almost escaped me. This was the woman I’d fallen for at first sight? This was the woman I’d propped up with my time, my effort, my money? What a fool I’d been. “Sign it,” I said, my voice flat as I placed the divorce agreement on the table in front of her. “What’s this? I’m not talking about work on a Satur—Simon, what the hell is this?!” Her dismissive tone vanished as she focused on the words “DIVORCE AGREEMENT” at the top of the page. A flash of anger crossed her face. “Are you still sulking? And now you’re trying to threaten me with a divorce?” she scoffed. “Simon, I already explained everything. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” I didn’t engage. I just repeated two words: “Sign it.” My cold resolve sent her into a rage. In one swift motion, she snatched the papers and tore them to shreds. “So now we’re playing hard to get, are we?” she sneered. “Why can’t you be more like Ethan? Why do you have to make everything so difficult?!” She paused, a cruel, calculating glint in her eyes. “Oh, I get it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is about having a baby, isn’t it? Fine. I agree. We can have a child. Are you satisfied now?” I remained silent. It was true, I had wanted a child with her. Her family had been pushing for it for years. But she had always resisted, vehemently. She’d once even told me that even as her husband, if she didn’t consent, it would be rape. A chilling, clinical declaration that had echoed in my mind for months. But she was already pregnant. The double-lined test stick in the master bathroom’s trash can, the crumpled-up prenatal report tucked away in her drawer—they had seared themselves into my memory. Six weeks, it said. I had been on a business trip for the last three months. The child, quite clearly, wasn’t mine. “You’re right,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “A child would be… complicated.” I turned and walked back to the study, collapsing onto the beanbag chair. I braced myself for a storm of grief, for a tidal wave of anger that would lead to a screaming match. But nothing came. I felt a profound, unnerving calm, like the surface of a frozen lake. I was indifferent. And in that indifference, I felt terrifyingly strong. 3 I don’t know how long I sat there before the study door creaked open, jolting me back to the present. Claire stood in the doorway, her face a thundercloud. “Get dressed,” she commanded. “We’re going to my parents’.” I turned my head away, staring at the wall. A cold, humorless laugh escaped her. “You want a divorce, don’t you? Fine. I’ll sign the papers after we have dinner with my parents.” Without waiting for a reply, she was gone. I hesitated for a moment, then rose and changed my clothes. In the car, I sat in the passenger seat as we crawled through traffic. With every stop and start, the little anime figurine hanging from the rearview mirror swayed, its cheerful jingle grating on my last nerve. It used to be a small, hand-carved good luck charm I’d gotten for her. Now, it was a cheap trinket Ethan had gotten from a mystery box and discarded. Claire treasured it like a diamond. Half an hour later, we arrived at her parents’ house. The scene inside was sickeningly cheerful. Ethan was holding court with my in-laws and a host of relatives, his laughter echoing through the living room. I slipped on a pair of shoe covers, found an empty seat, and said nothing, a silent observer to their happy little family portrait. Soon, Claire tied on an apron and disappeared into the kitchen. In all our years together, whether at our home or here, I was always the one who cooked while she scrolled on her phone. But now, thanks to Ethan, I was finally getting to see Claire play the role of a doting partner. As she and Ethan bustled around the kitchen, their movements easy and familiar, I felt like a complete outsider, a stranger who had mistakenly wandered into a private party. The dinner table was a monument to Ethan. Every dish was one of his favorites. There wasn’t a single thing I liked. Ethan glanced at me, then smiled at Claire. “See, darling? I told you Simon wasn’t the petty type. Who would skip a meal just because they’re sulking? He’s not a child.” I silently worked on a bowl of salad, the only neutral dish on the table, and let their conversation wash over me. Ethan and Claire’s father were deep in discussion, with Ethan occasionally shooting me a look brimming with smug triumph. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get this over with. About twenty minutes in, Claire’s phone buzzed. Her face lit up. “Ethan! The photos we took in Aspen are ready!” “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, his eyes flicking to me for a split second. The message was clear: Everything you ever wanted from her, I get without even trying. The casual remark landed like a punch to the gut, and a memory I had buried deep within me rushed to the surface. A month ago, I was in the middle of a business trip. After a long dinner with a client, I was heading back to my hotel when a truck swerved to avoid a jaywalker and slammed into my car. Shaken, I called Claire. She’d been curt, telling me she was on her own business trip and couldn’t be bothered. But I remembered her distinctly telling me she had taken the week off. The accident wasn’t serious, and I was out of the hospital in a week. But on the day of my discharge, her “best friend” Sophie sent me a message. It was a video of Claire and Ethan in Aspen. They were taking wedding photos. My heart clenched. I put down my fork and looked at Claire. She was completely absorbed in the joy of her photos, oblivious to my stare. “Simon,” she said dismissively, “if you’re done, go sit on the couch. You can do the dishes after the rest of us are finished.” That’s when her aunt, sitting beside Claire’s father, decided to chime in. “Simon, you’re being awfully rude today,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. “You walk in without a word, don’t lift a finger to help, and make our guest, Ethan, do all the work. And now you’re leaving the table early?” “Exactly,” another relative piped up, their tone a chorus of disdain.

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The Dragon Lords’ arrogance angered the Celestials, cursing them with barrenness. Only a Golden Dragon hatched from the abyssal Heartstone Egg could break the curse—but it required a maiden’s heartblood for a century. I, Emma, Siren Princess, was betrothed to the Dragon Prince after my birth omens. In my past life, I nourished the Egg with my lifeblood for a hundred years. When the Golden Dragon finally hatched, my husband brought home a Lamia enchantress. He forced me to weave sea-silk for her, then slaughtered my people to fuel his palace lights. Dying, my blood-tears hardened into crimson pearls— Then I awoke on my wedding day. There stood Caelus, clasping the Lamia’s hand. “She alone holds my heart,” he declared, as the Heartstone Egg pulsed faintly for her. They thought they’d chosen wisely. They never questioned why the heavens had marked my birth… 1 “Caelus, my son, today is your wedding day. From this moment, Emma is your princess.” The old Dragon King’s booming laughter echoed through the grand hall, but I could only stare, numb, at the ceremonial gown I wore. This was… this was the day I married Caelus. I was back. “I’ll not marry this woman!” Caelus snarled, shoving my hand away. Caught off guard, I stumbled and fell, a sharp, searing pain shooting up from my knee. The assembled guests gasped. The union of the Dragon Prince and the Siren Princess was a destiny forged at birth; what was the meaning of this public humiliation? The Dragon King’s brow furrowed. “Insolence! On this auspicious day, what is the meaning of this tantrum?” I lowered my gaze, hiding the icy chill in my eyes. A dragon’s legacy was paramount. The Heartstone Eggs were exceedingly rare, and a dragon could only ever sire a single heir. The current king doted on Caelus, treating him as a priceless treasure. And my birth, which had sent ripples of pure essence through the oceans and filled the air with celestial music, had sealed my fate in the King’s eyes. He had waited impatiently for me to come of age to bind our destinies. In the life I remembered, I had endured the pain, carving out my own heart’s blood again and again to feed that stone until a small Golden Dragon emerged. I had hatched him, and I had raised him. Though he did not come from my womb, I had considered him my own son. I thought that life, that duty, would be my forever. Until the day Caelus brought home the Lamia, and everything changed. “Father, I will not marry her!” Caelus’s voice, sharp and defiant, ripped me from my reverie. The King’s face hardened. “My son, on any other matter, I would indulge you. But not this! Emma is the most powerful maiden in all the oceans. With her essence to aid you, you are certain to sire the strongest of heirs!” Caelus lifted his chin, his pride a palpable force. “What does it have to do with her? Father, why do you insist on giving credit to an outsider? My child will be quickened by my essence, bound to my blood. My lineage is noble; of course I will produce the strongest Golden Dragon!” Not wishing to openly clash with his son, the King reined in his anger. “But without a consort to nurture the egg, it will become a dead stone! Caelus, this is no time for games. Marry her. Let her help you hatch the egg. If you wish to take other women after, we can discuss it then.” “I understand, Father. But I have already chosen my princess,” Caelus declared. “And she is a thousand times better than this Siren!” A murmur rippled through the crowd. “Is the prince joking? The Siren princess’s birth was a divine portent. How could any other be her equal?” “Perhaps he is merely spiting her? A lover’s quarrel?” “But what if it’s true? If not for the King’s favor, would the Sirens hold their current station? I’ve never trusted them…” Caelus’s posture straightened, fueled by the whispers. “I will bring her here now, and we will be wed!” He transformed, a streak of incandescent silver, and shot away. I heard him whisper as he left, a vow carried on the currents: “Sylvie, wait for me. This time, no one will stand between us!” I was left abandoned at the altar. The hall erupted. “What now? Is the ceremony off?” “The Siren princess has been forsaken!” “But they always seemed so close… could there be more to this story?” The whispers grew louder, and the King’s face grew darker. Unable to unleash his fury on his beloved son, he turned it on me. “Emma! My son has always been a dutiful boy. What did you do to wrong him?” Seeing his accusatory glare, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “I was about to ask you the same. Is this the honor of the Dragon Lords? My people may not be as mighty as yours, but we are not to be trifled with!” 2 “Father, this is the woman I truly love! I will marry her!” Just as the tension reached its peak, Caelus returned, his voice urgent. He was holding the hand of a woman of ethereal, fragile beauty. It was her. Sylvie, the Lamia he had cherished in our past life. Then, he had been the newly crowned king, returning from a tour of his domain with her in tow. He’d claimed she was a poor, adrift soul, deserving of pity. I’d felt a prickle of unease but had thought nothing more of it. Soon, Caelus doted on her, and my own son, Roric, clung to her side, leaving me to drown in the endless affairs of the court. I tried to speak to Caelus, but he cut me off with impatience. “I never knew you were so prone to jealousy! Sylvie has a pure heart, unlike you and your cunning manipulations. Besides,” he’d sneered, “isn’t this what you Sirens wanted all along? A way to claw your way into the dragon’s court?” So that’s what he saw. My love was nothing but ambition. Later, I accidentally uncovered the Lamia’s dark secret. Horrified, I ran to tell Caelus, only to find him overseeing the mass slaughter of my people. It was because Sylvie had complained that the deep sea was too dark, that the glow-orbs weren’t bright enough. She’d heard tales of the warm, bright lanterns of the surface world and yearned for them. To win her smile, Caelus had my people butchered, their bodies rendered into a luminous oil—Siren’s Light—to make the Dragon Palace blaze day and night. He imprisoned me, forcing me to watch. I wept, and my tears of blood fell to the floor, hardening into crimson pearls with a soft clatter. And Roric, the Golden Dragon I had nurtured with my own lifeblood, eagerly gathered them up. He presented them to Sylvie like a prize. “Lady Sylvie,” he’d chirped, “your wedding gown was missing some beautiful blood-pearls, wasn’t it?” Caelus embraced her from behind, his voice a possessive murmur. “My love, in a moment, we’ll have this Siren princess flayed. We’ll see if she burns any differently from the others.” My tears ran dry. In my final moments, the sound that tore from my throat was not the beautiful, haunting song of my people. It was a shriek of pure, hopeless despair. The death cry of a Siren. And the very oceans trembled with it. I blinked, the memory receding. The crowd around me was in an uproar. “This Lamia… she cannot possibly compare to the Siren princess!” “The Prince’s whims have a limit! The fate of the entire Dragon lineage is at stake!” The King, his pride wounded, spoke with a voice of thunder. “Caelus! If you fancy this serpent, you may keep her as a pet later. Do not disrupt the vital proceedings!” “Father, I am doing this for our lineage! I have seen it! The egg holds a Golden Dragon! And this Siren will only taint his perfection!” Caelus’s words silenced the entire hall. The King had spoken of a prophecy, that a Golden Dragon could break their curse. But one had never been successfully hatched. A legend claimed one had been born a millennium ago, only to perish mysteriously. Since then, the Dragons had been cursed by the Celestials, their power fading with each generation. Caelus, a Silver Dragon, was the best their bloodline had produced in centuries. 3 “Caelus, how do you know this?” the King asked. His disbelief was clear, but his tone had softened. Caelus swelled with pride, describing the Golden Dragon of our past life in vivid detail. Golden scales, five-clawed talons, a being of immense, innate power. His account was so precise that the King was almost convinced, believing his son had been blessed with the gift of foresight. “And this egg has nothing to do with Emma!” Caelus declared. “Even with a different consort, his noble blood remains unchanged!” As if remembering something, he produced the Heartstone Egg from a fold in his robes. “Words are wind. I have proof!” All eyes turned, eager to see the vessel of their salvation. But it was just as I remembered—a plain, unremarkable stone. Caelus tapped the egg lightly. It trembled, wobbling as if searching for something. “What is this? The egg can choose its mother?” the King murmured in astonishment. Caelus smiled triumphantly and placed the egg in Sylvie’s hands. Instantly, the dull stone began to emit a soft, golden light. “It must be a Golden Dragon! Why else would it glow?” “A miracle! The Dragon Lords will rise again!” Some of the older dragons were already weeping with joy. The hall was electric with hope. Only I stood motionless, a silent, cold observer in the midst of their celebration. The King’s face was split by a massive grin. “My son, you are truly magnificent!” “Father, now do you see? Now will you let me marry Sylvie?” Caelus pressed, his joy barely contained.

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My $30,000 year-end bonus became $30. I asked my boss if there had been a mistake. He sighed. “It’s been a tough year, sweetheart. I promise I’ll make it up to you next year.” I looked at the sales report, at the $600,000 figure next to my name. And I thought to myself, Yeah, right. I’m not falling for that. That night, I quit. And I went to work for the boutique right across the street. 1 That afternoon, my boss, Mr. Franklin, walked into the shop carrying two bubble teas. “Year-end is upon us,” he said cheerfully, handing one to me and one to my coworker, Hailey. “Bonuses have been deposited. Have a wonderful holiday, everyone. Let’s keep up the great work next year and push those sales even higher.” Hailey and I exchanged a delighted smile. At the beginning of the year, Mr. Franklin had made us a promise: a five percent commission on all our sales, paid out as a year-end bonus. I’d just checked my numbers. I had personally sold over $600,000 worth of designer clothing. That meant a bonus of at least $30,000 was headed my way. Hailey’s sales were less than half of mine, but she was still looking at a respectable eight or nine thousand dollars. I was floating on air all afternoon. The second my shift ended, I rushed over to the sales office of a new condo building I’d been eyeing for months. I was finally going to buy that perfect little studio apartment. I was so tired of renting. Every time I’d finally get a place decorated just right, turning it into a cozy little sanctuary, the landlord would jack up the rent the following year. But this was it. The down payment on the studio was only $18,000. For just eighteen grand, I could have a place to call my own. A warm little corner of the city that was all mine. After the down payment, I’d still have over ten thousand dollars left from my bonus. Enough for a nice vacation during the holidays. The thought kept a smile plastered on my face, a smile I couldn’t suppress no matter how hard I tried. 2 I hummed a happy tune as I rode my scooter to the sales office. My real estate agent, Leon, was already waiting for me. With a confident flourish, I pulled out my debit card. “Here you go. I’ll take the one we looked at last time.” Leon took the card, his professional smile fixed in place. He swiped it. And then swiped it again. The smile began to look a little strained. “Hm, there seems to be… an issue with this card, Ms. Chen.” My own smile faltered. “That’s impossible. Thirty thousand dollars were just deposited today. Try it again.” He tried several more times. Each time, the machine read: “Insufficient Funds.” I snatched the card back, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. I raced to the nearest bank. The ATM screen confirmed my fears. My balance was $33.82. The thirty dollars and change were what was left from before. Which meant my boss had deposited exactly thirty dollars. As I stood there, utterly dumbfounded, my phone rang. It was Hailey. “Chloe? What was your bonus? I think mine’s wrong. I only got fifteen dollars.” We quickly came to the same conclusion: it had to be a mistake. “Chloe, what do we do?” Hailey’s voice was tight with panic. “I was counting on that money.” “Don’t worry,” I assured her, though my own heart was hammering. “I’ll go talk to him. I’ll get him to fix this.” 3 Mr. Franklin lived just a block away from my apartment. I jumped on my scooter and zipped over to his building, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. When he opened the door and saw me, he didn’t look surprised at all. He just raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Franklin, there seems to be a problem with our bonuses. I think there was a mistake—” He cut me off, clapping a hand on my shoulder with a sigh. “Chloe, Chloe. You’re a veteran here. Business has been terrible this year. The market is in the gutter.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “My other stores are all losing money. I just don’t have the cash for bonuses right now. How about this? Next year, when things pick up, I promise I’ll make it up to both of you. How does that sound?” I knew about his other ventures; it was true they had all failed. But our boutique was a different story. Our boutique was thriving. My sales alone had netted him a profit of at least $200,000. And he was the one who had offered the five percent commission. It was that promise that had driven us to work our fingers to the bone. That commission wasn’t a gift; it was earned. The losses from his other failed businesses shouldn’t be on our shoulders. “Mr. Franklin, with all due respect, that’s not how this works,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “The other stores have nothing to do with us. You promised us five percent.” His friendly demeanor vanished. “Chloe, look,” he said, pulling me into the dim light of the stairwell. He quickly transferred three hundred dollars to my account from his phone. “Here. You’re my best employee. Don’t tell anyone, especially not my wife. This is from my personal stash.” Before I could respond, he slipped back inside his apartment and shut the door. I stared at the three-hundred-dollar transfer notification on my phone. A wave of humiliation washed over me. I felt like a beggar being tossed a few coins. A lump formed in my throat, thick and bitter. That thirty thousand dollars was mine. I had earned every single cent of it. 4 Hailey called me a few minutes later. “Chloe? What did he say? When are we getting our bonuses?” “Hailey,” I said, my voice flat. “I don’t think we are.” “What?! Why not? I need that money for my mom’s surgery!” Hailey hung up and was at my door within fifteen minutes. The moment she stepped inside, her eyes were red-rimmed. “What happened, Chloe? How can he just go back on his word? He promised us five percent! I told my mom I’d pay for her surgery as soon as I got my bonus. What am I going to do now?” She collapsed into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Hailey was a sweet girl from a small town, with a family that had never had much. Her dad was killed in a hit-and-run when she was little. The driver was never caught. Her mom had raised her all alone, working multiple jobs just to get by. Just as Hailey was finally old enough to start her own career, her mom was diagnosed with stomach cancer. The doctors said surgery would give her a real chance, a chance at more years. “Without that bonus, how can I afford my mom’s surgery?” Hailey’s words were choked with tears. “He promised. How can he just lie to us?” My own heart ached for her. Hailey was the hardest worker I knew, always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Knowing I had a sensitive stomach, she would often bring me homemade lunches. “People are made of iron, but rice is made of steel,” she’d say with a grin, quoting her mom. “Eating well is the most important thing in life.” She was three years younger than me, and I thought of her as a little sister. I’d even passed a few of my own clients to her, just so she could boost her sales and get a bigger bonus. And now, our boss had just… decided not to pay us. His promise was worth nothing. It took a long time to calm Hailey down. After I sent her home, my phone rang. It was Leon, the real estate agent. 5 “Ms. Chen, are you still interested in the condo?” I paused. “I… I can’t afford it right now.” He launched into his sales pitch, reminding me of the great location, the perfect price. I rubbed my temples, where a dull throb had started. “I don’t have the money anymore.” That finally shut him up. “Ms. Chen,” he said, his voice now cooler, “are you sure you want to back out? The deposit is non-refundable, you know.” I’d been apartment hunting for six months. When I found this place—perfect location, great price, my favorite floor—Leon had convinced me to put down a deposit to hold it. I had calculated everything. My bonus would easily cover the down payment. So I’d paid the three-thousand-dollar deposit on the spot. I never imagined my boss would just… renege. It was my fault for breaking the contract. There was nothing I could do. The three thousand dollars were gone. “Look, Ms. Chen,” Leon said, making one last attempt, “I’ll hold the unit for you for another week. See if you can pull the funds together.” After I hung up, my head was pounding. I curled up on my sofa, my mind racing. I couldn’t just let my thirty thousand dollars disappear. I grabbed my bag, hopped back on my scooter, and headed straight back to my boss’s apartment.

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Julian Shaw paid over ten thousand dollars a gram for rare coffee beans, just so he could personally make me a pour-over every morning. He once told a global news outlet, “My wife is grumpy when she wakes up. Only the aroma of fresh coffee and my kisses can coax her out of bed.” The entire world thought he was madly in love with me. But as I watched that interview, my eyes fixed on the small bouquet of daisies tucked into his suit pocket, I sent him a text. [Let’s get a divorce.] … The news that Julian Shaw, CEO of the Shaw Corporation, had purchased a lot of world-renowned Panamanian coffee beans at a record-breaking price was headline news. Our names shot to the top of every social media trend. [My husband can’t even be bothered to get me a glass of water when I have cramps, and Julian Shaw is making his wife coffee by hand every morning. The jealousy is real.] [When are Julian and Lucy having kids? I need to know so I can plan my reincarnation accordingly.] [What did Lucy Hayes do to deserve a life this good?!] Julian had never been shy about his grand, public displays of affection. For a time, I was genuinely moved by his passionate declarations. But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. He called me the second he got my text. “Honey, don’t be like this,” his voice was a low, urgent murmur. “You can be angry, you can yell at me, hit me, anything. But you can’t say the ‘D’ word. It would kill me.” “Julian, I’m serious.” “Tell me what you’re mad about. I’ll fix it,” he said, his tone gentle, patient, as if he had all the time in the world for my whims. “I don’t like daisies.” A few seconds of silence on his end. “That’s it?” “Yes. That’s it.” It took him a moment to remember why I hated them. “I’m so sorry, baby. It was an oversight. I didn’t notice when Hannah put the arrangement together. Please don’t be angry. When I get home tonight, you can have me any way you want as compensation.” When had “Ms. Vance, my assistant” become just “Hannah”? I doubt even he noticed the shift. Years ago, a single daisy had sprouted in our garden. Julian had hired a team to dig up the entire lawn, terrified a single seed might have been missed. They scorched the earth for a week before replanting it with roses. How could a man so meticulous, so attuned to my every aversion, “overlook” a bouquet of daisies pinned to his chest? The garden outside my window looked lifeless in the winter chill, a perfect mirror of my marriage, slowly dying. A few moments later, my phone rang again. It was Hannah Vance. “Mrs. Shaw, I am so, so sorry. It was my mistake, and I’m terribly sorry for upsetting you. Please don’t be angry with Mr. Shaw. I’ll be much more careful next time.” Her voice was soft and fragile, as if a strong breeze could blow her away. I knew Julian was right there beside her. “Next time?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What other disasters are you planning to orchestrate?” “Okay, Lucy, that’s enough,” Julian’s voice cut in, firm but gentle. He couldn’t bear to see her upset for even a second. “The poor girl has apologized. Be a little more gracious.” A soft sob came through the phone. “It’s okay,” Hannah wept. “I’m fine. She can yell at me all she wants, as long as she’s not angry with you, Julian.” “Shh, don’t cry. It’s nothing, it’s a small thing,” Julian soothed, his voice a tender caress. But to me, it was like the screech of nails on a chalkboard, carving a raw, bleeding wound across my heart. “Just leave me alone,” I snapped, tossing the phone aside. I couldn’t listen to another second of it. Ding. Two messages arrived simultaneously. One was from Julian. [You’ve yelled, you’ve let off some steam. Feeling better now? My darling wife’s temper is getting bigger and bigger. You’re making my life so hard. 😉 ] I let out a bitter laugh. So, raising my voice to the woman he was comforting now counted as “yelling.” The other was from Hannah. [Oops, I forgot. Your mother jumped to her death into a field of daisies, didn’t she? Was it a beautiful field? As beautiful as this?] Attached was a photo. A vast, endless field of daisies stretching to the horizon. The world spun. I reached for a chair to steady myself but missed, collapsing to the floor. My forehead hit the sharp edge of the seat. My mother had jumped right in front of me. My father’s endless affairs had worn her down, day by day, until she was nothing but a ghost. Her final act was the only thing that made him stop. “Love makes you weak, it makes you pathetic,” she’d told me. “Don’t become me.” Her last words still echoed in my mind during my darkest nights. Julian and I were high school classmates. Girls flocked to him, but he only had eyes for me. I rejected him ten times, but he never gave up. He seemed to thrive on the challenge. Later, my father’s company was on the brink of collapse. He wanted me to marry into the Jiang family to secure a financial rescue. Julian had confronted me then, his eyes red and raw. “Why? Why is some stranger you’ve never met acceptable, but I’m not?” The next day, he went to my father with an investment agreement. “Lucy is a free woman,” he’d said. “You can’t force her to marry anyone.” His left cheek was swollen that day. I knew his own father must have beaten him for that deal. I brought him an ice pack and asked if he wanted to marry me. He stared at me for a long moment, and then he started to cry. After we were married, he truly did put me on a pedestal. He remembered all my favorite things, my pet peeves, and showered me with extravagant surprises on every occasion. When I had nightmares, he would hold me tight, stroking my back until I fell back asleep. For a while, I thought my mother was wrong. Love didn’t make you weak; it could make a withered rose bloom again. Until a few months ago, when he hired Hannah Vance as his assistant, against my explicit wishes. That’s when I understood. Julian was no different from my father. He never understood why I had such animosity towards a fresh-faced college graduate. But I knew the moment I saw her photo that he would hire her. Because she looked exactly like me in high school. The me that Julian could never have. After sending the photo, Hannah posted on her social media. [I’m such an idiot. I messed up big time. Boss just canceled my year-end bonus. I just want to go hide and cry.] Julian commented instantly. [Mistakes happen. I’m giving you the afternoon off. Go have a good cry.] I couldn’t tell if he was trying to protect me or flaunting their relationship in my face. After lunch, I drove out to our hot springs villa in the suburbs. It was a wedding gift from the Han family. We’d moved out because the commute was inconvenient, but a lot of our important documents were still stored there. As I approached the door, I heard the sound of splashing water. There was a small hot spring pool in the courtyard, but we hadn’t been here all year. There shouldn’t have been anyone in it. “Feeling better? Still want to cry?” Julian’s voice, so painfully familiar, drifted through the wall. A chill ran down my spine. He’d brought her here. To our wedding home. “You have to make it up to me for my bonus!” Hannah’s voice was no longer soft and fragile. It was playful, coquettish. “You were naughty. You have to be punished so you learn your lesson. I told you not to bring this up in front of Lucy. That’s my one rule.” “Then send a company-wide email about it! I feel so wronged.” “I know you do. Did you like that apartment we looked at? You should move in. It’ll be more convenient for you to get to work.” “Is that all I get? A new apartment?” “What do you want, then?” Hannah’s voice dropped to a breathy whisper. I couldn’t make out the words. I only heard the sound of water, splashing violently from the pool. “Hmph. Let’s see if I can make you cry out for real,” Julian’s voice was a low, husky growl, every syllable crystal clear. I knew Hannah was confident in their relationship to have sent me that photo. But hearing it, experiencing it firsthand… the pain was overwhelming. I pressed a hand to my mouth to keep from being sick, my body trembling as I dragged myself back to the car. My mother was right. Love made you weak. But I would not become her. I took several deep breaths and called Julian. “Hey, baby. What’s up?” His voice was slightly breathless. “Where are you?” “In a meeting with a client.” “I can’t find one of the old contracts. I was thinking it might be at the villa…” I said, testing him. “No way. All the important stuff was moved to the house. I’m sure of it. Just look again.” “Really? I still think I should go check.” “Don’t go—” His voice shot up an octave. “I mean, it’s not safe for you to drive all that way alone. I’ll go with you this weekend, okay?” “Never mind. It’s not urgent. You’re busy,” I said, my voice flat, and hung up. A new message from Hannah popped up instantly. [So you check up on him too? Here, let me give you a full report.] Attached was a photo. A box of condoms on a nightstand, with only a few remaining. Bile rose in my throat. The man who had sworn to cherish me for a lifetime was utterly filthy. I didn’t go home. I drove to an event production company. They were handling the Shaw Corporation’s 20th-anniversary gala next month. To liven things up, Julian was scheduled to perform a magic trick—an underwater escape act—with one of their professional performers. “Can I be the one in the tank?” I asked the manager. “I want to surprise my husband.” “Mrs. Shaw, without proper training, it’s very risky,” the manager said, hesitant to agree, fearing an accident. “Thirty thousand dollars,” I said. “For my training. I’ll come every day.” “Well, in that case… You and Mr. Shaw are a true power couple. So romantic.” “Please keep this a secret,” I said, forcing a smile. If he loved playing the doting husband so much, then I would be the one to rip up the script. I would disappear from the world, right before his very eyes. Julian came home late that night. I was still reviewing the materials from the production company. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I got held up at the client’s. I’m so late.” He noticed the bruise on my forehead. “What happened to your head? Are you hurt?” He leaned in to inspect the wound. As he did, I saw a faint red mark, a hickey, just visible above the collar of his shirt. I snapped my laptop shut and pushed him away. “Still mad?” He produced a square jewelry box and opened it. Inside lay a magnificent emerald necklace, easily worth over half a million dollars. “Honey, I’ve had my eye on this for a while. It matches your aura perfectly. Do you like it?” I laughed, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. I never thought I’d be in this position. He buys his mistress an apartment and then immediately buys me a necklace to “compensate.” How ridiculous. As if he could balance the scales between his wife and his lover. “I don’t like it,” I said, pushing the box away. “Can’t you just be agreeable for once? You’re harder to please than any of my clients,” he snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. He slammed the bathroom door shut. He didn’t understand. I used to be easy to please because I never intended to argue with him. Now, I was difficult because I had no intention of ever forgiving him. In the weeks leading up to the gala, I was busier than ever. I saw less and less of Julian. But someone else was keeping me updated on his schedule. [He introduced me to his friends today. We all went out for drinks. They’re fun. Why do you think they don’t like you?] [Have you ever done it in a car on a mountain top? He’s insatiable.] [Guess where I am? Your old high school athletic field. My legs are jelly.] [This is so boring. You never reply. Are you just going to let me walk all over you? How does it feel to be abandoned? Feel like dying yet?] I ignored her. Julian’s taste in women was truly appalling. I dialed a recent number in my call history. “How is he?” I asked in a low voice. “Is the old man still alive? Did he agree to sign?” “Mr. Hayes has agreed to transfer all his company shares to you,” the voice on the other end replied. I hung up, a sliver of satisfaction finally cutting through the gloom. I pulled open a drawer and scanned its contents—contracts, deeds, plane tickets—my eyes finally landing on a set of divorce papers.

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We were a family of villains, the kind that exists only to do evil, racking up a body count to make the heroes shine all the brighter. In the end, our pre-written fate was to be left for dead on the streets, objects of public scorn. My father was the corrupt Lord Treasurer, having siphoned off half the kingdom’s treasury. The King had been eyeing his head for a long time. My mother, a ruthless woman from a lesser noble house, had clawed her way into her marriage over a few dead bodies. My brother, the High General, was the capital’s most infamous rake, a bloodthirsty tyrant who held the city’s garrison in his iron fist. And then there was me. Freshly reincarnated into this world, a useless girl with no skills to speak of, except for the voice screaming inside my head: [Dad! Mom! Damian! If we don’t get our act together, the heroes are going to crush us! I’m doomed!] 1 The moment I arrived in this world, I knew. I had been reborn into a family of archetypal villains, the dark mirror to the story’s heroic protagonist. The first twenty years of my life were a whirlwind of silk and gold; the next twenty were slated to end in a variety of uniquely gruesome ways for each of us. I had just come of age when the royal decree arrived: a dual marriage proposal. My father, Lord Valerius, was a man of immense power, his hands on the economic pulse of the entire kingdom. The other bride-to-be was Lady Trista, daughter of the Lord Justiciar. A respectable family, they called them—a kinder way of saying they were broke. Though Trista’s station was modest, she was hailed as the most brilliant literary mind in the capital city of Aethelgard. Her reputation far outshone mine, which is how we both ended up in this mess. The King, in a show of feigned respect for my father, offered me the first choice: the Crown Prince or the Lord Marshal. My father leaned close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Choose whoever you like, my darling girl.” But I fell silent, my mind racing. [The Prince and the Lord Marshal are both obsessed with Trista. If I marry the Prince, he’ll despise me but fear my father. Publicly, he’ll be courteous. Privately, in the palace, I’ll be treated worse than a servant. He’ll take Trista as his favored mistress anyway, and when the time is right, he’ll probably have me disposed of—walled up in some forgotten tower to make way for his true love.] [If I choose the Lord Marshal, I’ll be a lonely wife in a cold castle. He’ll immediately request a post on the furthest border of the kingdom. A few years later, he’ll return with a woman who looks suspiciously like Trista and demand I raise her son as my own. And all the while, he’ll be acting as Trista’s devoted, lovesick puppy, lavishing her with gifts bought with my family’s money.] [Either choice is a death sentence. I’m utterly screwed.] My eyes widened and I shot my father a desperate look, trying to signal my panic. “Father… Dad…” A tremor ran through him, his eyes instantly bloodshot. He straightened up, his voice strained but firm. “Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence, but my daughter is… unruly. This union is simply not possible.” The King’s pleasant facade cracked. “The Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal are the finest young men in this kingdom,” he said, his tone turning to ice. “If neither is good enough for your daughter, Lord Valerius, who exactly did you have in mind for her?” Panic made my father reckless. “My daughter is… slow. I had already arranged a betrothal for her, you see.” A cold, humorless laugh escaped the King’s lips. “Don’t play games with me. You were given a choice and you refused it. Very well. I shall choose for you. She will marry my son, the Crown Prince. She will be his Princess.” Defeated, my father could only prostrate himself in thanks before being dismissed. When it was Trista’s turn, she and the Prince exchanged secretive, longing glances. She, too, chose the Prince, though she would only be his official mistress, a Lady of the Court. Her father, the Lord Justiciar, was ecstatic. “A blessing from the heavens! My daughter must serve the Prince well in his household.” Only the Lord Marshal, Gideon, cast one last, mournful look at Trista before striding away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 2 The news that I, Cassia Valerius, and Lady Trista were to be married to the Prince on the same day spread through Aethelgard like wildfire, fanning the flames of gossip. Not that any of the noble ladies ever wanted to associate with me; they all flocked around Trista like moths to a flame. She had the reputation, the grace. She could recite some mournful poem and earn a roomful of applause. As for me? My parents always said, “Why bother with lutes and watercolors? Those are skills for entertainers. Our daughter has no need for them.” So, just like my brother, I was branded one of the capital’s “gilded fools.” On the way home, the whispers were impossible to ignore. “Look, there’s Cassia Valerius, dripping with gold again. Does she intend to wear the entire treasury on her person? So vulgar.” “What does she know of elegance? She’s just a spoiled brat with a rich father. Look at her, trailing a half-dozen servants. You’d think she was a queen.” “Even the Queen isn’t that ostentatious. A shame, really. With that character, she might become a princess, but she’ll never be a queen.” “The Prince prefers women of substance. He would never fall for an empty-headed doll like her.” Every time I stepped outside, it was the same story. I knew my reputation was in the gutter, but I refused to be shamed for my fashion. And what of their beloved Trista? The woman was about to marry the Crown Prince and she still wandered around in a plain white linen dress and a simple silver pin. It was pathetic, yet the capital’s elite praised it as the height of sophisticated minimalism. Leaving the palace, I had muttered loud enough for her to hear, “Dressed in white like that. Is she attending a wedding or a funeral?” Her retort, delivered in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers, came swiftly. “I love this white gown as I love a pure soul. It is a constant reminder to remain true to oneself, untainted by the gaudy trends of the world.” This was going to be unbearable. The thought of sharing a roof with that master of passive-aggression made me lose my appetite. 3 That night, my parents and my brother, Damian, were all too worried to eat as well. Damian, ever the cavalier, slammed a fist on the table. “Seriously, Dad? You couldn’t just say she was already spoken for? Do you have any idea the filth they’re spewing about her out there?” Mother’s face was a mask of frustration. “If it were anyone else, we could just have them… disappear.” Before her marriage, she was infamous for eliminating several rivals within her own family to secure her position. Talk of murder never fazed her. Damian nodded eagerly. “A knife in the dark solves a lot of problems. Better dead than miserable under the Prince’s roof. I’m with Mom on this one.” He turned to me, his eyes filled with a rare spark of pity. “Poor Cassia. So young, and already being set up as the unloved wife.” He’d picked up that particular turn of phrase from me. He was using it perfectly now. My father looked like he was about to explode. “Have you both lost your minds?” he roared. “We’re talking about the Crown Prince and the Lord Marshal! Who, exactly, do you plan on assassinating? And he’d better not treat her like that. He wouldn’t dare!” Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t say it out loud, so I screamed it in my head. [Of course he’d dare! I’m not just the unloved wife, I’m the villainess! The evil counterpoint to his perfect Trista. I’m her stepping stone, the ultimate sacrificial pawn! No matter what I do, I’m destined to die!]. The mood at the table grew even heavier. I stared at the feast of roasted meats and exotic fruits before me, and for the first time in my life, it all tasted like ash. Damian slammed the dining room doors shut, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then let’s do it. Let’s start a rebellion. Father becomes King. Then let’s see who dares to bully Cassia.” My parents said nothing. Only I, the one who knew the script, sighed internally. [The wedding has to happen. Refusing is treason. The King is already looking for an excuse to destroy our family. This is just the beginning. Once I’m married, they’ll send Damian to the frontier, where he’ll be betrayed and take a dagger in the back. With me trapped and my brother dead, our family will be defenseless, lambs to the slaughter. We’re all going to die!]. My brother’s breath hitched. My mother’s eyes grew as cold and sharp as daggers. My father seemed to reach a decision, snapping a pair of ivory chopsticks in his hand. “Rebellion it is!” he declared, his voice a low growl. “Anyone who dares to harm my Cassia will not live to see another dawn.” We spent the rest of the night plotting. The plan was simple: I would marry into the Prince’s household and act as their eyes and ears on the inside. We would strike before they even knew what was happening. We would embrace our roles. Understand the villain. Become the villain. Surpass the villain. We would solve this problem the way villains do. “Cassia,” my father said, his eyes burning with intensity. “Once you are in that palace, do not play the part of the meek, forgiving wife. Be as wicked as you can be. We don’t have much time, so make every moment count.” “That’s right,” Damian chimed in. “If he gives you any trouble, just hit him. You might not be a warrior, but surely you can handle that pampered Prince, can’t you?” A room full of master villains, all looking at me as if I were a fragile little flower. A fire lit within me. “I’ll try,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “I think I can manage.” Honestly, being a villain might be bad for one’s public image, but damn, it felt good. 4 On the day of the wedding, two grand carriages proceeded to the Prince’s residence. My dowry was an extravagant procession of one hundred and twenty-eight chests, overflowing with silks, jewels, and gold. My mother fussed at the sidelines, trying to cram even more into them. “Oh, the Prince’s palace is a den of vipers. My sweet girl has never known such hardship.” By contrast, Trista’s dowry was pitiful. A few pieces of jewelry, barely enough to fill thirty-two small chests. As our carriages rolled through the city, merchants and commoners alike chattered. “Now that’s a dowry fit for a princess. She must be impossibly rich.” “Compared to that, the other one’s dowry is just embarrassing. So shabby.” … We were helped from our carriages at the same time. Through the delicate silk of my fan, I saw Trista’s face twist with envy. Her expression softened only when we entered the palace and the Crown Prince, Alaric, immediately took her hand. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to her, loud enough for me to hear. “Now that you’re here, I won’t let anyone make you suffer.” They looked like a pair of blissful newlyweds. I was just the third wheel, an awkward, overdressed obstacle. Still, during the ceremony, protocol dictated that I take precedence. The Prince had to show me respect, at least in public. In private, of course, it was another story. That night, Prince Alaric didn’t even bother stopping by my chambers. He walked straight to the west wing, to the rooms prepared for his beloved Trista. My personal matron, Lyra, was wringing her hands. “Your Highness, this is an outrage! A breach of all decorum! If the Prince doesn’t spend his wedding night with you, what will the servants think tomorrow? That woman in the west wing will be walking all over you!” Matron Lyra had always been blunt and fiery back at our estate, which was precisely why Mother had sent her with me. She was here to make sure I wasn’t bullied. “She’s not some common wench I can drag out by the hair, Matron. Am I supposed to go catch them in the act? You worry too much, that’s why you’re getting wrinkles. Let’s all get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow. The Crown Prince spurning his bride on their wedding night? We have to make sure the entire city hears about it.” I pulled off my heavy veil and wiped away my makeup. Even from my chambers in the east wing, I could hear the celebrations in the west wing. The Prince had even set off fireworks for Trista. He had finally married the woman of his dreams. I was just the collateral damage in their great love story. The sky outside was lit up, and servants scurried back and forth to the west wing with pitchers of hot water. One didn’t need much imagination to guess what was happening. Meanwhile, I stretched out on the massive, empty bed and drifted off to sleep. What was the point of confronting him tonight? The Prince’s palace was crawling with his spies. Making a scene would just be another mark against the “evil villainess,” making him feel even more protective of the “wronged” Trista. It would gain me nothing but his anger. Since he wouldn’t give me face, I had no intention of giving him any either. This scandal needed to be public. The next morning, before the sun was up, I had my maids dress me and apply makeup that made my eyes look red-rimmed and swollen from a night of weeping. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I chirped. “Time to go tattle.” As the city awoke, I went straight to the Royal Palace. 5 I knelt outside the King’s audience hall, begging for an audience. At this point in the story, the King was still wary of my family’s power. Before I even saw him, I started to weep—a gut-wrenching, soul-shattering cry that echoed through the marble halls. I had also ordered my entire dowry to be brought with me, a glittering caravan of treasure that paraded through the city for all the nobles and commoners to see. It was a display of wealth that would make even the King jealous. When he heard I had arrived with my dowry in tow, he received me at once, not even waiting to properly arrange his robes. The moment he asked what was wrong, I looked up at him, the picture of misery. “I would rather give this entire dowry away to the poor of this city than suffer such humiliation in the Prince’s household.” Between my ragged sobs, I painted a picture of utter despair. The King’s head began to throb. “Summon the Prince at once!” he boomed. “To have the Princess come to me alone on her first day as a wife… This is disgraceful!” When Prince Alaric arrived, there were fresh red marks on his pale neck—a little trophy from Trista, no doubt meant to provoke me. In his haste, he hadn’t bothered to cover them. The King saw them and his face turned purple with rage. “You are the Crown Prince! Look at the state of you! You humiliate your wife on your very first day? What do you think the court will say? What will the people say?” The King laid into him, and Alaric could only stammer, “It’s not… I didn’t…” But I just kept crying. No matter what the King said, I cried, letting my sobs fill every pause. Finally, when I had exhausted myself, the King’s tirade ceased. “Princess,” he said, his voice softer. “Take your dowry and go home. Be a good wife to the Prince. You cannot speak of giving it all away. What would people think?” He eyed the chests of gold. “Besides… such wealth is better used to enrich the Prince’s own household.” He punished the Prince and shot a warning glance at Trista, who had followed him in, reminding her to remember her place. The matter was temporarily settled, and my dowry was ceremoniously escorted back to the Prince’s residence. The moment we were out of the King’s sight, Alaric violently ripped his hand from mine, his earlier meekness vanishing. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Cassia,” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “You did this deliberately to make Trista miserable. You embarrassed me in front of my father. Do you think that will make your life any easier?” He ranted for another minute before taking Trista’s hand and storming off, leaving me standing alone in the palace courtyard. My eyes were still red. Well, a villain’s got to do what a villain’s got to do, right? If I just swallowed every insult and never caused any trouble, what kind of villain would I be? Of all the things the Prince had threatened me with, one phrase stuck in my mind: embarrassed me. As I left, the King was heading to his morning council. I saw the kingdom’s nobles milling about, my father among them. I couldn’t shout, but I focused all my energy on a single, silent scream in my mind. [Father! The Prince wants a scandal! Give him one!] I hoped my father, having already received a report from the servant I’d sent last night, would be on the same wavelength. By midday, it was the talk of the town. First, it was that the Prince hadn’t even visited his new bride’s chambers. Then, the story evolved: on his wedding night, the Prince had been cavorting not just with his new mistress, but with a whole host of courtesans, nearly sleeping through his morning summons to the King. The Prince was publicly humiliated, and Trista’s reputation took a hit right along with his.

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I’m in a relationship with the boy who made my life a living hell. Three years ago, I begged Edmund Carter to leave me alone. He ground his heel into my hand and called me garbage. Three years later, he was on his knees, crying and pleading for me to stay. I gave him the same look he gave me then, and said the same word back to him. 01 Pinned against the wall by the school’s most vicious bully, I sent a final text to the boy I’d fallen for online. A moment later, the bully’s phone chimed. Edmund Carter pulled out his phone, and the cold fury in his eyes melted away, replaced by an impossible tenderness. [Be good, Emily. I’m busy. Wait for me.] The second he sent the message, my phone vibrated silently in my pocket. It was the custom notification I’d set for him. For my Edmund. My head snapped up, my mind reeling. There he was, standing under the halo of a streetlight, the perfect line of his jaw and his sharp, handsome features identical to the boy I knew as Edmund. But the way he held a cigarette between his lips, the dark, violent aura clinging to him—that was a world away from the bright, smiling boy in the photos he sent me. For a dizzying second, I couldn’t tell who he was: my sweet, gentle online boyfriend, Edmund, or Tiffany’s monster of a boyfriend, Edmund Carter. “Edmund, that’s the bitch who ruined my bag!” Tiffany shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “She’s just jealous because she’s poor and can’t afford nice things. Fucking trash.” “I didn’t…” I hadn’t touched her bag. A few days ago, Tiffany had slapped me for no reason. When she’d swung again, I dodged. She stumbled and fell, scuffing her brand new, thirty-thousand-dollar handbag. She’d screamed at me to pay for it. When I told her I couldn’t, she’d sneered and said I should just wait, that her boyfriend, Edmund Carter, would take care of me. I knew who Edmund Carter was. Everyone did. He was from a wealthy, powerful family. The whispers said he had ties to the criminal underworld, that he was a ruthless, cold-blooded fighter who wasn’t afraid of anything. They called him a demon. I just never imagined that my sweet, kind “Edmund” and the demon of Westwood High were the same person. He straightened up, walking toward me one slow step at a time. The warm yellow light of the streetlamp washed over him, but his eyes were chips of ice. His tall frame cast a suffocating shadow over me. I curled my fingers into fists as he spoke, his voice cold and dismissive. “Two choices. Pay up, or get on your knees and apologize.” The detached contempt in his voice was so alien, so unlike the tender, loving boy from my phone. My stomach twisted. In a moment of sheer, suicidal insanity, I looked him in the eye. “Do you believe me if I say I didn’t do it?” Edmund stared at me for a long moment, then let out a short, derisive laugh. “You really don’t know what’s good for you.” He turned away, his voice laced with annoyance. “Teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. My ears went numb. His lackeys forced me to my knees. They slapped me, hard, again and again. They tore at my clothes, kicked me in the stomach. The pain was so intense I couldn’t even scream. Through it all, Edmund just leaned against the wall, a detached observer, his eyes glued to his phone screen with a soft, gentle smile, as if he were waiting for a message from someone he loved. I curled into a ball, enduring the relentless kicks and punches, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. The consequences of being beaten by several grown boys were severe. It took me forever to even get up. Two of my teeth were knocked loose, and the blood I spat out stained the collar of my shirt crimson. I lay there on the pavement like a dead fish for three hours before I could summon the strength to crawl home. I couldn’t tell my parents. They were simple, hardworking people from a small town, and even with both of them working tirelessly, we were barely scraping by in this city. That was the root of it, wasn’t it? I was being bullied because I was from the countryside. “Hick.” “Poor, pathetic trash.” “We could sell you and still not make enough to cover it.” Their words were daggers in my heart. It was then that I learned that being poor meant you didn’t get to have dignity. You just got ground into the mud. “Hiss—” I patched myself up in secret. God, it hurt. My phone kept buzzing with that special notification. Message after message from my sweet Edmund. [Emily baby, you home yet?] [You should be home by now, why aren’t you texting me back?~] [Did I do something to make you mad?] The same affectionate, gentle tone, but now it sent a wave of nausea through me. I typed out replies, again and again, deleting them each time. Finally, I just sent one thing. [You were just at the library tonight?] He paused for a second, then replied quickly. 02 [Yep, studied hard today!] As if to prove it, he sent a photo of himself in the library. In the picture, the boy wore a crisp white shirt, his eyes crinkling with a sunny smile. He stood by a bookshelf, looking studious and handsome, the very picture of a perfect gentleman. It was all a beautiful, disgusting lie. I was grateful I’d never sent him a photo of myself. Grateful he hadn’t recognized me. It was the only reason I had the chance to see the real him. I couldn’t afford to miss class and fall behind, so I didn’t dare stay home. After the first period, Tiffany dragged me into the girls’ bathroom. She and her friends cornered me by the sinks. “Emily, I can’t believe you still have the nerve to show your face. Tsk, tsk. I guess they didn’t hit you hard enough last night.” “Haha, maybe she’s just thick-skinned. She’s so ugly and gross, if she wasn’t shameless she would’ve killed herself by now!” “No wonder her name is Emily. Sounds like ‘lowly.’ Lowly and tough as a pig!” Her friends chimed in with a chorus of insults as one of them scooped up a bucket of filthy toilet water and dumped it over my head. The stench and the cold, wet feeling of it soaking through my clothes made me want to vomit. “Tsk, tsk, Emily. You really are as ugly and filthy as a pig,” Tiffany sneered. She grabbed my hair, slapped me twice across the face, then washed her hands as if she’d touched something dirty before sauntering out. I slid down the tiled wall and collapsed onto the floor, burying my face in my knees, fighting to hold back the tears. Tiffany locked me in there for the entire morning. I wasn’t let out until the lunch bell rang. I thought that would be the end of it for the day. But she wasn’t finished. For the rest of the week, my desk was constantly vandalized, my homework would mysteriously disappear. After a few times, the teachers stopped believing me. Tiffany was a ghost haunting my every step, taking pleasure in my humiliation. That evening, I stayed late at the library, hoping to avoid her on my way home. It was no use. She was waiting for me at the entrance with her crew. She knocked my thermos out of my hands. It clattered to the ground, and the coffee I’d brought to help me stay awake splashed all over my legs. My new white pants were instantly stained. I glared at her, furious. As I opened my mouth to speak, I caught Edmund Carter’s warning gaze from where he stood beside her, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression full of contempt. “Tsk. Got a problem, Emily?” Tiffany shoved me, and I fell backward. I landed right in the puddle of spilled coffee and dirt. The earthy, bitter smell was sickening. Her friends erupted in laughter, mocking me, saying I looked like a pig wallowing in slop. They even tried to force my face down into the puddle, to make me drink it. My cheek was inches from the grimy floor when the librarian came to lock up. “What are you all doing!” Tiffany and her cronies finally let me go, turning to the librarian with fake, cheerful smiles. “We’re just playing truth or dare with Emily!” “Yeah, Emily lost, so she has to drink the coffee on the floor!” “No, that’s not true,” I pleaded, shaking my head and looking desperately at the librarian. “Ma’am, they’re forcing me.” The librarian frowned, about to speak, but Tiffany quickly cut in with a sycophantic grin. “Ma’am, don’t listen to her. She’s just trying to get out of the dare!” “Yeah, Emily, don’t be a sore loser! You lost, fair and square. Why are you tattling to the teacher?” Tiffany twisted the truth, painting me as the bad guy. Her friends all chimed in. “Yeah, Emily, you’re being so petty.” “It’s just a game. You don’t have to tell on us just because you don’t want to do the dare!” There were too many of them, and their stories all matched. Predictably, the librarian believed them. She gave me a disapproving look, then turned to Tiffany. “Alright, that’s enough. You’re in school to learn, not to play these silly games.” And with that, the librarian left, clearly wanting nothing to do with it. Tiffany looked down at me, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “See, Emily? They’re all on my side. No one will ever believe you.” “Tattling to the teachers is useless. I have a hundred ways to get out of trouble. You, on the other hand, won’t be so lucky.” 03 My heart felt like a dead weight in my chest. I barely even heard what they said after that. I sat there on the cold library steps for a long time, so long that all the campus lights went out. It wasn’t until a security guard on patrol kept calling my name that I realized I’d been staring into space for hours, sitting in a puddle of cold coffee. I walked home in a daze. My mother was in the kitchen, slamming dishes around in the sink. “You’re old enough to know better than to get your clothes so filthy. I don’t have money to buy you new ones.” “Instead of focusing on your real studies, you had to go and pick this ridiculous art hobby. Do you know how much extra that costs us? You’re a curse. Why can’t you be more like your cousin back home? She’s hardworking and sensible.” I was so used to my mother’s complaints that I was usually numb to them. But tonight, I felt the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. I ignored her and locked myself in my room. My phone was blowing up. It was Edmund. [Emily, are you out of your evening class yet?] [Answer me!] [Baby, did I do something wrong? You’ve been so cold these last two days.] [Don’t ignore me. You’ll break my heart.] He’d be heartbroken? Yes. He would be. Even though our relationship was purely online, I knew how much he needed me. He wanted to talk to me 24/7. He was a person starved for affection, crippled by insecurity. His toxic family life had shrouded his childhood in darkness. After his mother died, he’d become a deeply negative and gloomy person. I had appeared in his life right at that moment, pulling him through that dark time. After that, he became like a puppy showing its belly, offering me his entire heart on a platter. He used to say: [Baby, you are the only light in my life.] [Baby, I’m trying to become a better person for you. I’m studying hard, eating properly, turning into the kind of gentle, charming boy you like…] [Baby, I love you more than anything. Please stay with me forever…] I thought about his words, then I pictured his face as he helped Tiffany torture me. My fingertips trembled. [Edmund, if someone bullied you, what would you do?] I asked him. [I’d get revenge, of course. I’d make their life a living hell.] [Why are you asking, Emily? Did someone bully you? Who was it? I’ll take care of them for you!] [It’s nothing.] There’s no need. Edmund, I already have a plan to make the person who bullied me suffer. 04 During art class, Tiffany “accidentally” knocked over my paint tray as she walked by, smearing paint across my finished canvas. “Emily, does someone as poor and pathetic as you really deserve to study art? It’s so expensive. Can your family even afford it?” She smirked and sashayed away. I silently cleaned up the mess. Half my paints were gone, and my brushes and other tools were ruined. I salvaged what I could and took the dirty brushes to the washroom to clean them. I felt a pair of eyes on me. I turned around. It was Edmund Carter. He was leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his teeth, his eyes full of the same mocking contempt. He was looking at me like I was a clown. I gripped the paintbrush tightly in my hand. He made no move to leave. When I tried to exit the washroom, he blocked my path, pinning me against the wall. “Go apologize to Tiffany tomorrow.” His tone was absolute, his eyes a clear threat. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t break her bag.” I summoned the courage to meet his gaze. The next second, the burning tip of his cigarette was pressed against my arm. “Cut the crap!” “It’s a thirty-thousand-dollar bag. All you have to do is say you’re sorry. Don’t be an idiot.” “My patience is wearing thin. If you don’t apologize, you know what will happen.” Edmund left. I clutched my burned arm, hot tears finally falling. That night at home, my mother started in on me again, trying to convince me to quit art, telling me a family like ours couldn’t afford my dreams. Eventually, my dad told her to stop. Before I went to bed, he came to my room. He told me to just focus on my studies, that the family would find a way to support my art. I looked at my dad’s hair, already graying though he wasn’t old, and at his prosthetic eye. My heart ached. A neighborhood bully had blinded him in one eye when he was a kid. Now, on rainy days or when he was overtired, the socket would ache relentlessly. But he still bore the weight of our family without complaint. “Dad, I’ll get a part-time job. I promise, I can earn my own money soon.” My dad just shook his head, a proud, sad smile on his face, telling me not to worry. Then he asked, “You haven’t been yourself the last few days. Did something happen at school?” I shook my head. “If anyone is bullying you,” he said, his voice firm, “you have to tell us.” I nodded, telling him not to worry. They had been through enough. They didn’t need to carry my burdens, too. For years, I had grown up wild and resilient on my own. I always found a way. Tiffany thought I was some weak little mouse she could crush. Just because I was poor, did that mean I had to swallow every humiliation in silence? The moment Tiffany demanded thirty thousand dollars from me, I had already secured the security footage of her falling and damaging her own bag. After all, a poor person’s greatest fear is being framed. I had documented the injuries from the alley and the bathroom. I had also managed to get a copy of the security footage from the library entrance. I’d barely responded to Edmund’s messages these past few days, and he was starting to spiral, flooding my phone with notifications. 99+ unread messages. I clicked on them, reading one by one. [What are you so busy with, Emily, that you don’t have time for me?] [Emily, did I do something wrong?] [I’m sorry, baby. Whatever I did, please just tell me. I’ll change. Just don’t ignore me.] [Emily, are you… leaving me?] By the last message, I knew he was panicking. So, Edmund, you really can feel hurt. Don’t worry. The real pain hasn’t even started yet. 05 Before I could finish reading, my phone started ringing. It was him. I didn’t answer, just texted back. [I’m not leaving you.] [Really?] He clearly didn’t believe me. He had no security, no trust. [Then please don’t ignore me anymore, Emily. It hurts my heart.] My fingers trembled. For a second, I hesitated, then I replied: [Okay.] His tone immediately brightened. [You’re the best, Emily. Emily, I want to see you. Soon. Can I come find you?] We had agreed to meet after our college entrance exams, but now he was clearly getting impatient. Maybe he could feel it. That I was slipping away from him. [Emily?] [You said you’d always be with me. You won’t break your promise, right?] I could hear the fear in his voice, the desperate need for reassurance. A pang of something sour twisted in my gut. I had been so determined to make him suffer, but for a split second, I wavered. I asked him: [Edmund, you said you were trying to become a better person for me, right?] [Yes, Emily. I’m trying.] He answered without a moment’s hesitation. As if the person who tormented and abused others wasn’t him at all. He truly had two faces. [Then you have to be a just and kind person. At the very least, you can’t do bad things,] I replied. I’m giving you a chance, Edmund Carter. You’d better keep your word. … Tiffany’s crusade against me wasn’t over. To force my apology, she took the fight public. She posted her version of the broken bag story on the school’s gossip blog. Overnight, she transformed from aggressor to victim. She played the part perfectly, claiming all she ever wanted was a simple apology. She painted herself as the righteous one, accusing me of being a poor, jealous girl who coveted things she couldn’t have. She said my vanity was a burden on my family, that I was ungrateful and inconsiderate of my parents’ struggles. Her “righteous” act won her a wave of sympathy. The comments section was flooded with vitriol directed at me. “If you’re poor, just stay in your lane!” “If you can’t have it, destroy it! That Emily girl is pure evil!” “Yeah, get that bitch out of our school!” “I heard Tiffany’s boyfriend, Edmund Carter, beat her up a few days ago.” “Good. I’d take a beating to get out of paying thirty grand!” “Emily must apologize!” On the post with the most comments demanding my head, I uploaded the video. The one showing Tiffany tripping on her own, scuffing her own bag, and then blaming me. The cascade of angry comments stopped instantly. I had planned to release the video today anyway. Tiffany’s post just gave me the perfect stage to humiliate her. With that done, I went to school with a calm heart.

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At my own wedding reception, I raised a glass to my wife’s old flame. In response, he smashed the glass on the floor in front of everyone. “So I lost to you,” he spat. “You got to marry Amelia. But that doesn’t give you the right to humiliate me in public!” My wife, Amelia, was livid. She screamed at me, calling me a petty, pathetic man, saying my jealousy was the most disgusting thing about me. Then she ripped off her veil and ran after her old love, who was already storming out. I rushed forward, trying to explain, but a car screeched around the corner and hit me. Amelia glanced back at me, just for a second, then continued her pursuit without breaking stride. I was rushed to the hospital. By some miracle, I survived. But in that sterile, white room, my heart died. The moment I was conscious, I made a call to the father I hadn’t spoken to in three years. “Dad,” I said, my voice raspy. “About that arranged marriage for the family… I’ll do it.” The day I was discharged, Amelia still hadn’t shown up. She hadn’t visited me once during my entire hospital stay. My leg was still in a cast. I had to take a cab home. When I got to our apartment, my key wouldn’t work. The lock had been changed. I had no choice but to call her. A man’s voice answered. It was him. Cole, her old flame. “Hey, is that you, Leo? Amelia’s in the shower.” Before I could say anything, the door clicked open from the inside. The moment Cole saw me, he grinned, wide and welcoming. “Leo, you’re back! Come on in.” “It’s my fault, man,” he said, gesturing to the lock. “I’m so bad with numbers, I could never remember the code. So Amelia just changed it to my birthday. You didn’t know, right? I’ll write it down for you.” He was wearing a brand-new silk robe, his hair still damp and plastered to his forehead. Just then, Amelia poked her head out of the master bedroom. She was wearing my favorite of her nightgowns—the sheer black one. If this had happened before, seeing them alone together, both freshly showered, I would have exploded. We would have screamed at each other until we were red in the face. This time, I just gave a slight nod and wheeled my suitcase inside. Seeing my lack of reaction, Amelia tossed the towel she was holding and offered a flimsy explanation. “The power went out at Cole’s place, so he’s staying here for a few days. Don’t get the wrong idea.” Looking at her, all I could see was the image of her chasing after Cole, not even glancing back as I was struck by a car, nearly killed. In that moment, any love I had for her had vanished. “I’m not,” I said. I didn’t stop, just dragged my suitcase toward the bedroom. “Cole’s family is all overseas,” she continued, following me. “He’s all alone here. We grew up together. If I don’t take him in, who will?” I listened silently. She seemed to have forgotten that I had also cut off my family for three years to be with her. If Cole had it so tough, what about me? “I told you, I’m not getting the wrong idea.” I was forced to stop as she blocked my path. “Leo, you’ve had a sour look on your face since you walked in. I’m trying to explain, and you won’t even listen.” “What is it that you want?” She grabbed my arm, her words a torrent of accusations. My patience snapped. I pushed her hand away, my voice cold. “I said, I am not getting the wrong idea.” The fracture in my arm wasn’t fully healed. A sharp pain shot through it, and I had to let go of my suitcase. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. The bedroom light flicked on, revealing a pair of light blue men’s briefs on the bed, next to a black bra with a broken strap. Amelia’s face went pale. She scrambled to snatch up the clothes. “We… we accidentally got these wet earlier. We were just letting them dry,” she stammered. “Don’t overthink it.” I looked around the messy bedroom. There was barely a place to stand. “Mm,” was all I said before turning and walking into the guest room. After I showered, my father called. “Leo, I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. I’m getting old, and you’re my only son. For three years, you refused to come home and take over the family business, all for that woman. You have no idea how much your mother and I have missed you. If she truly loved you, it would be one thing. But it’s been three years, and she’s never even properly introduced you to her family or friends. It’s clear she’s not as devoted to you as you claim.” “Since you’ve made up your mind to come back, we’ll set the wedding for a month from now. How does that sound?” His words left me stunned. Before, whenever he’d said things like this, I’d bristled, convinced he was just a rich snob looking down on Amelia. I would have fired back, telling him how much Amelia and I loved each other. This time, I had nothing to say. “Okay,” I finally managed. “That works. I can leave after Professor Evans’s birthday party.” “As for the wedding, you and Mom can handle the arrangements.” Just as I hung up, I heard footsteps outside the door. Amelia pushed open the door to the guest room, holding a box of fresh mangoes. She set the fruit on the table, her brow furrowed with suspicion. “I thought I heard you talking about a wedding? I’ve told you several times, since our wedding was postponed, there’s no rush.” Seeing the panic in her eyes, I answered calmly, “Not ours. A relative’s. They asked me to help plan it.” She seemed to relax. She opened the box of mangoes, her face lighting up with a smile as she mentioned Cole. “Cole was worried you’d be upset, so he’s already moved into a hotel. He asked me to bring you these fresh mangoes as an apology.” I didn’t open my mouth. A flash of annoyance crossed Amelia’s face. “Leo, enough is enough. Let it go. This isn’t good for anyone.” I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “We’ve been together for years. Don’t you know I’m allergic to mangoes?” With that, I turned to find a hairdryer. Amelia followed me, opening her mouth to say something several times, but ultimately remaining silent. She used to remember everything I couldn’t eat. She used to remember every single one of our anniversaries. The first time I had an allergic reaction to a dessert with mango in it, she had rushed me to the hospital in the middle of the night, frantic with worry. It wasn’t that she had forgotten now. It was just that she didn’t love me anymore. Without looking at her, I took out the medicine the doctor had given me and started changing my own dressing. When she saw the scars and bruises covering my body, a flicker of guilt crossed her eyes. She picked up a cotton swab, wanting to help. I was about to refuse when her phone rang. Cole’s weak voice came through the speaker. “Amelia, I think I ate something bad. My stomach is killing me, and I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. Can you bring me some medicine?” Amelia shot to her feet. “Don’t move. I’m on my way. Just lie down and wait for me.” After hanging up, she turned to me with a look of earnest sincerity. “Leo, Cole’s stomach condition is acting up. I have to go check on him. I swear, there’s nothing going on between us. If there was, it would have happened years ago. Please, don’t be mad at me over this.” Before I could answer, she was already out the door. The medicine bottles on the table were knocked over, spilling their contents across the floor. Staring at the empty, silent room and the closed door, I let out a self-deprecating laugh. It was always like this. Whenever it came to Cole, she would lose all composure, and I would be consumed by insecurity. She always said I didn’t trust her enough. Well, now she could rest easy. I would never doubt her again. After that day, Amelia didn’t come back. But Cole’s social media was updated frequently. It was all about how blissful it was to be alone with Amelia. I quietly blocked Cole on all platforms. Then I watched the numbers on my new digital countdown clock tick away. With twenty days left, I started the process of resigning from my job. My projects were already wrapping up, but I still wanted to leave things in perfect order. My manager saw the “getting married” reason on my resignation form and joked, “About time you two had a proper ceremony. Wouldn’t want Amelia to get any funny ideas.” I lowered my head for a moment, then looked up with a bright smile. “It’s not with her.” My manager’s smile faded, replaced by a sigh of regret. The days were a blur of handing over my work. It wasn’t until the second day after I’d officially left that I finally had a moment to breathe. I glanced at the countdown clock. Five days left. I was in a daze. I slapped my cheeks, trying to clear my head, and started packing. Amelia and I had been together for a long time. I loved photography. Our pictures were everywhere in the apartment. There were more on my camera and computer. Besides the photos, there were the boxes from every birthday gift I’d ever given her. I’d kept them all, as mementos. And to make sure I didn’t repeat a gift and seem thoughtless. And then there were the love letters she had written me. … Looking at all of it, a heavy weight settled in my chest. It hurt. We had been so good together once. Back then, I couldn’t bear to miss a single moment with her. And she would spend all her free time with me. Sometimes, she would pout at the photos and say, “You take so many pictures. Aren’t you going to get sick of looking at me one day?” I’d flick her forehead gently. “Maybe. The day I get sick of you, I’ll just disappear quietly. Be a real heartbreaker.” She’d playfully punch my arm, and I’d fall back onto the sofa, laughing. “Oh, you’ve broken it… my heart! Look what’s inside! My god, it’s all you!” We would collapse into a fit of laughter. So many years had passed. I hadn’t gotten sick of her, but she had gotten sick of me. After looking through everything one last time, I took it all to the bathroom and burned it, piece by piece. I washed the ashes down the drain. All our history, gone. Nothing left. Time flew by. Amelia still hadn’t returned. I spent the next few days packing and cleaning the apartment. Until there was not a single trace of me left in that home. Seeing the “2” on the countdown clock, I grabbed my keys and went out to get a gift for Professor Evans. Professor Evans had taught a general education course we both took in college. He was, in a way, the one who brought Amelia and me together. I spent a long time at the mall before finally choosing a jade pendant. They say jade can ward off disaster. The professor was getting older. I hoped he would live a long, healthy life. Professor Evans’s birthday was my last day in this city. Tomorrow, I would fly home to get married.

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The mission was a success. I returned to my own world, waking from the coma that had held me captive. My children, all grown up now, stood vigil by my hospital bed. My wife, Florence, threw her arms around me, her embrace a desperate anchor. Her parents, my in-laws, were weeping with joy. I was just about to dismiss the System, to choose to stay here, in my life, when the door creaked open. A man who was my spitting image—a near-perfect double—walked in. My own two children rushed to him, clinging to his legs with a familiar affection, and called out, “Daddy!” Every eye in the room swiveled to me. The air crackled with a thick, suffocating awkwardness. The man shot me a triumphant, mocking smirk. I put the System on hold. “Let me think about it,” I transmitted. “About whether I want to stay.” 1. My children, Lily and Sam, clutched at the man’s—at Alex’s—clothes, their eyes fixed on me with a wariness usually reserved for monsters. A sharp, needle-like pain pricked at my heart. My wife, Florence, squeezed my arm, her grip tightening. I looked at the others. They had been happily explaining the new emergency alert system they’d installed on my phone, clearly not expecting Alex to make such a dramatic entrance. My father-in-law, his face a mask of embarrassment, finally broke the silence. “Liam, while you were… unconscious, Alex was the one who took care of us. We were going to introduce you two properly when we got home.” My mother-in-law chimed in, her voice strained. “Yes, that’s right. Now that you’re awake, you two should get along. For our sake.” Alex just smiled, a lazy, confident expression as he strolled over to my bedside. His eyes were glittering with provocation. I remained silent, freezing the System in my mind. I’ll give you my answer in a couple of days. A soft sigh echoed in my consciousness as the System went dormant. Seeing that I was ignoring him, Alex feigned a wounded look. He forced a smile for the benefit of the room. “My apologies. It was presumptuous of me. Liam has every right to be upset. I’ll just… I’ll go.” He didn’t give anyone a chance to respond, turning on his heel and walking out. “Alex, wait!” my mother-in-law cried, stamping her foot in frustration before hurrying after him. Florence flinched, starting to rise as if by instinct, but my gaze caught hers and she froze, slowly sinking back into her chair. She hugged me tight, her voice the same soothing murmur she’d always used to comfort me. “Don’t overthink this, Liam. You’re my husband. You’re the only one.” But then Lily, my daughter, hitched up her little dress and ran out after them. My son, Sam, shot me a look of pure hatred before slamming the door so hard the walls vibrated. I didn’t understand. How had my sweet, loving children turned into these hostile strangers? Sensing the tension, my father-in-law excused himself to handle the discharge paperwork. A short while later, I was in a wheelchair, being pushed out of the hospital. But as we drove, I realized this wasn’t the way home. “Dad,” I said, my voice raspy. “If I remember correctly, this isn’t the road to our house.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel for a split second. Then he chuckled, a hollow sound. “Your memory’s as sharp as ever, Liam.” He took a long, meandering detour before finally pulling into our driveway. I didn’t understand the purpose of the scenic route until the moment I stepped through the front door. The large family portrait that had hung in the entryway—the one of the four of us, smiling in the summer sun—was gone. In its place was a new photo. Florence, her parents, Lily, and Sam, all beaming. With Alex. Stunned, I stared at the picture on the wall before storming upstairs and throwing open the door to what used to be my bedroom. Of course. The cuckoo had taken over the nest. Alex had made my room his own. My chest heaved. The decor was completely different, all sleek, impersonal modernism. And there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Alex, reading a bedtime story to my daughter. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped my lips. For five years, I had slavishly completed every task the System threw at me, all for the singular goal of coming back to my family. And now? Now there was no place left for me in my own home. “You were going to take me somewhere else at first, weren’t you?” I asked, my gaze locking onto my once-kindly father-in-law. He had the decency to look away, shamefaced. “We’ll get the room cleared out for you right away, Liam. This will always be your home.” The moment the words left his mouth, Alex, in the bedroom, put on his wounded act again. He stood up silently and began gathering his things, only to be stopped by Lily. When she thought no one was looking, she launched herself at me, shoving me with all her might. I stumbled, falling hard against the floor. She grabbed the nearest object—a heavy book—and started hitting me with it, screaming through her tears. “You just came back and you’re already bullying my daddy! You’re a bad man!” “Get out!” “Get out of my house! Leave!” I just stared at the contorted, furious face of the child before me, utterly frozen. 2. Lily’s outburst shocked everyone. Florence grabbed her arm, her brow furrowed in anger. “Lily! What has gotten into you?” But my daughter was inconsolable, her tears fueling a torrent of accusations. The commotion woke Sam, who started crying in the other room. Alex scooped him up, a look of pained helplessness on his face. “Stop, everyone, please stop fighting. This is all my fault. I’ll just leave, okay? I’ll go!” He made to walk out, but my father-in-law’s voice boomed through the house. “Everybody, quiet!” He turned to Alex. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying in this room.” My breath caught in my throat. I looked at him, searching for some sign of the man I used to know. He just frowned at me. “Liam, I’ll have the entire third floor cleared out for you tomorrow. For tonight, you can sleep in the guest room.” He sighed. “Let’s just have some peace.” His words sent a jolt through me, reminding me of a conversation from before our wedding. “Sir, this is the master bedroom, isn’t it? Why are you and Mom giving it to us?” Back then, he had looked at me with such warmth, his smile genuine. “Liam, you’re our son-in-law. Of course, we want you to have the best.” The memory was a shard of glass in my heart. I turned away, swiping at my eyes, and walked toward the guest room without another word. My father-in-law started to say something, then stopped himself. I was exhausted. I collapsed onto the guest bed, burying my face in the pillow, welcoming the darkness. Suddenly, a warm, fragrant embrace enveloped me. Florence. She pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. “Is my husband in a bad mood today?” she whispered, her voice a low murmur. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She offered a small, hesitant smile. “I need to wash up,” I mumbled, pulling away. Florence hugged me again, a quick, tight squeeze, before grabbing her phone and disappearing into the en-suite bathroom. I expected her to be quick. A shower for her was usually a ten-minute affair. But this time, the sound of running water was a constant drone. It was still going when I finally drifted off into a restless sleep. I awoke later to the soft click of the bedroom door closing. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Her phone, left on the pillow beside me, flickered to life. A new message. From Alex. “Waiting for you ;)” My heart skipped a beat. My hand shot out, grabbing the phone. I swiped to unlock it, my thumb tracing the familiar pattern of my own birthday. Password incorrect. It had always been my birthday. I tried again. And again. Not mine. Not hers. Not the kids’. Then, a sickening thought occurred to me. The contact info for Alex. His name in her phone had a birthday next to it. With trembling fingers, I punched in the date. Unlocked. A wave of ice washed through my veins, chilling me to the bone. I opened their chat history. For the entire hour Florence had been in the bathroom, she hadn’t been showering. She had been on a video call with Alex. The phone slipped from my numb fingers. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. After a long moment, I got up and walked silently to the door of my old bedroom. 3. I stood outside the door, forcing myself to watch, a glutton for punishment. I stayed there until my legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor. A faint clatter from the kitchen drew my attention. I turned my head. It was Sam, my seven-year-old son, standing on a stool, clumsily stirring something in a pot on the stove. Fearful he’d get hurt, I pushed myself up and went to him. “Daddy doesn’t like cilantro… no onions,” he mumbled to himself, a miniature adult concentrating on his task. He carefully lifted the small pot off the stove, and for a second, my heart swelled with a painful tenderness. Then he turned and saw me. His expression soured instantly. “What are you doing here, you bad man!” His words hit me like a physical blow. The “Daddy” he was so carefully cooking for… was Alex. My lips trembled. “Sam, I’m your father. How could you—” “You’re not my daddy!” he shouted back, his voice cracking. He shoved past me, carrying the pot of hot soup toward the master bedroom. The push sent me stumbling backward, the corner of the counter digging sharply into my spine. The pain was excruciating. I limped back to Alex’s door. Sam was carefully blowing on a spoonful of soup before holding it up to Alex’s lips. Alex praised him with a wide grin, while Florence pulled our son into her lap, ruffling his hair. “Our little Sam is even more caring than his big sister,” she cooed. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, a ghost in my own home, watching the three of them. They were a perfect picture. A happy family. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I turned and walked away. The next morning, Florence woke me, a habit she hadn’t yet broken. She leaned in for her customary good-morning kiss. I turned my head, and her lips met empty air. She froze, a flicker of confusion in her eyes, before taking my hand and leading me to the dining table. But my seat was gone. Alex sat in my usual spot, a smug, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched me. Florence’s face flushed with embarrassment. She quickly guided me to her own chair, pushing me down gently. “Um…” the nanny began, wringing her hands nervously. “I… I didn’t prepare a breakfast for Mr. Liam…” A stunned silence fell over the table. “Didn’t Alex tell you?” my father-in-law asked, his brow furrowed. Alex made a show of slapping his forehead. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry! I was up so late last night, and I completely overslept this morning. I forgot to tell her.” He started to get up. “Here, Liam, you can have mine.” “Sit down,” my mother-in-law said, pressing his hand firmly. “You need to eat. You’re too thin as it is,” my father-in-law added, his tone full of concern. I was an invisible man, watching this grotesque play unfold. My hands, hanging at my sides, clenched into tight fists. My father-in-law sighed, instructing the nanny to make another breakfast before turning to me, his hand on my arm. “We’re planning a party to celebrate your recovery,” he said, forcing a cheerful tone. “A proper welcome home. Florence will take you to get a new suit later.” I coolly pulled my hand away and nodded. I stared at his face, at the faces of all of them, and a cold question began to form in my mind. Did I really want to stay here?

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Here is the translated and localized version of your story: My identity was stolen, and I gave the thief my inheritance willingly. The nanny had swapped me with her own granddaughter at birth. She raised me in a cold garage, where I ate and slept with the guard dog. Meanwhile, my grandparents showered all their affection on her granddaughter, Poppy, who lived the life of a pampered princess. The nanny, Martha, and her cuckoo-in-the-nest granddaughter lorded their positions over me, their days filled with torment and ridicule. “Even a dog knows to bark at strangers. What good is a mute like you?” “Miss Poppy, stay away from our little low-born mute. You don’t want her bad luck rubbing off on you.” But they didn’t know. I knew who I was. And I wasn’t really mute. I endured it for twelve years. Then, my grandparents were paralyzed by a poison secretly administered by the nanny. The day Poppy inherited the family business, she threw the two crippled, bed-sore-ridden old people at my feet. “The company is mine now. You can have these two old parasites back.” I smiled and accepted them without protest. “Fine. The fortune is yours. The family is mine.” … My grandmother, Martha, kicked over the double-sided dog bowl at my feet. Scraps and water spilled across the concrete floor. “I told you, didn’t I? The dog eats first. Then you.” She turned, her face instantly transforming into a fawning smile for Poppy. “Miss Poppy, get in the car over here. Stay away from our little mute. She stinks of dog and bad luck. You don’t want to catch it.” Poppy tilted her chin up, sneering at me. “Even a dog knows its job is to guard the house and bark at strangers. What good is a mute who can’t even make a sound?” I groveled on the ground, bowing my head in a show of terrified submission. Just then, an exquisitely dressed elderly couple walked into the garage. “Poppy, darling, time to go to the mall. Grandma has her eye on several grand pianos, each worth a fortune. You can pick whichever one you like.” In front of the Sterlings, twelve-year-old Poppy, already a master of deception, beamed. “Coming!” Before leaving, Mrs. Sterling shot a disgusted glance in my direction. Mr. Sterling immediately took the hint and addressed Martha. “She’s just a child. Raising her in a garage with a dog… it’s not right. There are plenty of rooms in the mansion. Find one for her.” “Of course, sir. I was only worried her presence would be an eyesore for you and the madam,” Martha said with a sycophantic smile. The moment the Sterlings’ car was out of sight, Martha’s face turned to stone. A storm of fists and feet rained down on my small body. “Don’t you get any ideas, you little bitch,” she spat. “The master and madam will never give a damn about a little animal like you. They only told me to find you a room because they’re afraid of being embarrassed if someone sees you!” As her vile words washed over me, I silently wrapped my arms around my head, protecting the spot where she’d fractured my skull once before. I felt nothing. Because I already knew the truth. I was the real Sterling heiress. And Poppy was Martha’s granddaughter. When I was six, my parents died in a car crash. I was sent to an orphanage. Six months later, the Sterlings came looking for their granddaughter. Martha passed off her own flesh and blood, whom she’d kept hidden in the countryside, as me. That day at the orphanage, she had hugged me, crying dramatically, snot and tears smearing her face. “My poor, mute little girl, I’m your real grandmother!” But my eyes were fixed on Poppy, watching as she was swept up by the Sterlings, her face a mask of shocked delight, and ushered into a gleaming Bentley. I knew everything. And I wasn’t really mute. But I let Martha take me “home,” claiming me as her own granddaughter, and lock me away in the freezing garage with the guard dog. And so, Poppy lived my life, a princess drowning in the lavish affection of my grandparents. Forced by my grandfather’s command, Martha moved me from the garage to the laundry room. Her rage still simmering, she shoved my head into the washing machine drum. The world spun, and the suffocating, near-death panic clawed at me. I was so terrified I wet myself. Only then did she mercifully release me. “You worthless mute,” she hissed. “Don’t you know your place? If you ever try to play the victim in front of the master and madam again, if you ever even think about wanting what’s Miss Poppy’s, I will kill you.” The grand mansion was my home, yet I lived in that cramped, two-square-meter utility space until I was seventeen. One night, I woke from a nightmare and tiptoed upstairs for a glass of water. I saw Martha, darting glances around, furtively adding a white powder to the tins of milk powder my grandparents drank every day. “Just a little longer, you old fossils,” she muttered. “Our Poppy is almost eighteen. She’ll be able to inherit everything soon.” After a moment of feigned shock, I turned and went back to the laundry room without a sound. I pulled up the covers, turned off the light, and went to sleep. After Martha started poisoning their milk, my grandparents’ health declined rapidly. First, it was fatigue and lethargy. Then came sudden blackouts and coughing up blood. They had full physicals at the hospital, but the doctors found nothing, attributing it to the flu or old age. Poppy would coo sympathetically at them, then shoot me a cold, hard look. “It must be some bad omen in the house that’s affecting you. She was a curse on her own parents at six. Now she’s been living in our laundry room for six years, trying to curse you.” “Grandma, Grandpa, you can’t be too kind to certain kinds of filth.” Ever since Poppy learned her true identity six years ago, she had made tormenting me her favorite pastime. Now, as the plan to poison my grandparents and seize their fortune reached its critical stage, she was even more determined to get rid of the real heiress. Her words found fertile ground. My grandmother, her health failing and desperate for a scapegoat, looked at me. “You’re eighteen now, girl. It’s time for you to leave our house.” A flicker of pity crossed my grandfather’s eyes. “If you truly have nowhere to go, you can stay in the garage.” The cuckoo had taken over the nest, and my blinded grandparents were casting me out. I simply nodded obediently, gathered the few belongings that fit in my single backpack, and moved back to the garage. The old dog had died years ago. The kennel was now all mine—and bigger than the laundry room. With me out of the main house, Martha and Poppy grew bolder with the poison. Soon, my grandparents were too weak to leave their rooms. On the rare occasions they were brought out for some sun, it was Martha who pushed their wheelchairs. One afternoon, my grandmother saw me in the garden. Her face, usually slack and vacant, twisted into a strange, desperate expression. A hoarse, guttural sound, “Hhhh… hhhh…” rattled in her throat. She was trying to call for help. When Martha left for the grocery store, I walked over to her. She immediately reached out a trembling hand, the veins on its back bulging and blue. I saw it at once. Her hands were covered in purple and blue lumps. Looking closer, I could see the tell-tale, haphazard marks of needle punctures. No wonder her condition had worsened so dramatically. Martha was no longer waiting for the poison in their food to work. She was injecting it directly. My heart pounded. I slipped into the mansion. My grandfather, who had a stronger constitution, was already being held captive. A dog chain, as thick as my wrist, was looped around his neck, tethering him to the garbage can in the kitchen. The moment he saw me, tears welled in his old eyes. “That animal Martha… she tricked us! Poppy is her granddaughter! I always wondered why she was so cruel to you… it’s because you’re not hers! She brought you here from somewhere else!” “My dear girl,” he pleaded, his voice a ragged whisper. “We’ve let you live here for years, and we’ve never been cruel to you. You’re a good, kind child. You won’t side with them, will you?” Before I could respond, Martha’s angry voice echoed from the front door. “Where did that damn mute get to?!” I ducked under the dining table just as she came in. She searched the house suspiciously. Not finding me, she returned to the kitchen, muttering. “Good. The little bitch didn’t see anything she wasn’t supposed to. One less problem to deal with.” My grandfather’s eyes darted nervously to my hiding place. When Martha wasn’t looking, he put a finger to his lips, signaling for me to stay silent. He still didn’t know I was his real granddaughter, but he knew I was another of Martha’s victims. In his mind, that made me an ally. That made me one of his own. Soon, it was time for Poppy to come home from school, and Martha began to prepare dinner. She chopped off the muddy, unwashed ends of vegetables and fatty gristle from the meat and tossed them on the floor for my grandfather, as if feeding a dog. He had been a man of status his entire life. His eyes, filled with a complex shame, met mine for a second. He pressed his lips together, his jaw tight. Perhaps he was starved. Perhaps he was afraid that if he didn’t eat, he would expose my presence. Finally, he bent his proud back, picked up the filthy scraps and raw meat from the floor with his hands, and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing with tears streaming down his face. I looked away, and when Martha’s back was turned, I slipped out of the house as silently as I’d come in. My grandparents waited for me to call the police. They waited for my kindness, my pity, to save them from their torment. But I stayed in my kennel, closed the door, and lived my own life, blind to their suffering. Their world didn’t intrude on mine again until my grandfather’s nephew, Robert, grew concerned after not hearing from him for so long and decided to pay a visit. By then, my grandmother was completely paralyzed, only her eyes able to move. My grandfather, still able to speak, was forced by Martha to act as if nothing was wrong and send his nephew away. As Robert stood up to leave, yawning, my grandfather secretly pressed a folded piece of paper into my palm. “Dear girl,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “Get this note to my nephew. Please.” “Once we’re saved, we’ll give you everything. We’d rather give the entire Sterling fortune to you than let those two animals get their hands on it.” I clutched the note, my gaze locking with his. Then, under his hopeful, desperate stare, I turned and walked after the departing group. Martha, terrified my grandfather would try something, rushed back to the kitchen with Poppy to chain him up again. Robert was already in his car, the engine starting. If I hesitated for even two seconds, the chance to save my grandparents would be lost forever. He rolled down his window, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the twilight. “Little girl, you keep staring at me. Is there something you want to say?” I took two steps back and shook my head forcefully. Then I turned my back to him and, with quick, deliberate motions, tore the note into tiny, unrecognizable pieces. My eighteenth birthday arrived. Martha and Poppy held a coming-of-age party and birthday celebration at the Sterling mansion. The only guests invited were me and my grandparents. The nanny and her granddaughter sat at the head of the table, enjoying an expensive meal with fine wine, acting as if they were the masters of the house. My grandparents sat on the cold floor, waiting for the occasional bone or scrap to be thrown their way. I glanced at the lavish spread on the table for just a second too long. A cold smile touched Martha’s lips. “Want some?” I just swallowed hard. She raised her wine glass and smashed it against my head. A searing pain exploded across my scalp. Shards of glass and my own blood went flying. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was the lawyer. With my grandparents poisoned into a paralyzed, speechless state, Poppy didn’t even bother to hide her actions from us three “mutes.” She put on a tearful performance for the lawyer, twisting the truth. “I’m only eighteen, just a child myself. But my grandparents fell ill so suddenly. If I don’t take over Sterling Enterprises, the whole company will collapse.” The lawyer looked at her, his eyes a mixture of sympathy and envy. “Miss Sterling, you are officially an adult as of today. Once you sign this share transfer agreement, the Sterling Group will be yours.” As Poppy picked up the pen, Martha trembled with excitement. “The ancestors must be smiling down on us! Our family has finally made it! May they see that this is all my doing!” The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. He sharply blocked Poppy’s pen with his hand. “Aren’t you the nanny? What do you mean by that?” Martha froze, her face turning a sickly white, realizing her slip. Poppy quickly stammered an excuse. “She raised me from when I was a baby. So, my inheritance is her victory too.” “Is that so?” The lawyer looked suspiciously at my grandparents, but they could only blink their eyes. He had no choice but to turn to me. “Little girl, is that true?”

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1 My wife, Sarah, had a congenital heart defect. And she wanted to have a baby for her first love, Ryan. I refused, without a second thought. Ten months later, Ryan’s mother passed away. They said she died with her eyes wide open, heartbroken that she’d never held a grandchild. Crushed by guilt, Ryan killed himself in his cramped rental apartment. And then Sarah, on a family road trip she’d insisted we take, floored the accelerator and swerved our car directly into the path of a semi-truck. “You killed him!” she shrieked, her voice a terrifying mix of glee and madness in the final moments. “If you had just let me give him a child, he wouldn’t be dead!” “His family is gone,” she screamed over the blare of the horn, “so yours doesn’t deserve to live either!” And then I opened my eyes. I was back on the day she first asked. This time, I smiled. “Sarah, darling, of course. We’ll all support you.” … “Eric, I need to have a baby for Ryan.” The first thing I heard when my eyes snapped open was her voice, the same words that had started the nightmare. She launched into her practiced speech. “Ryan’s mother was my mentor, you know? She’s terminally ill, the doctors say she has less than a year. Her only wish is to hold a grandchild before she goes. Ryan doesn’t know who else to ask, so…” “Say no more, Sarah. I agree.” I reached out, my hand closing over hers with a sincerity that was pure performance. Sarah froze, her face a mask of disbelief. “Eric, did you… did you hear what I just said?” “I heard you.” My voice was a soft, understanding caress. “I know how much Ryan’s mother means to you. If it weren’t for her, you never would have come to this city for college, and we never would have met. In a way, she’s our benefactor.” My earnestness seemed to disarm her. The wariness in her eyes softened. “I’m so glad you see it that way. And don’t worry, Ryan and I already talked it through. We’ll use IVF, so there won’t be… you know. We would never betray you. But, for it to work legally, I’ll need to divorce you first and marry him. The baby needs to be on his birth certificate, legally part of his family.” She watched my face like a hawk as she spoke, waiting for the explosion. But it never came. Even the mention of divorce didn’t faze me. I just nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers. The legal process takes some time, though. Given the urgency with his mother, you and Ryan should probably get started on the… preparations… today.” My calm acceptance was finally too much for her. A flicker of suspicion returned to her eyes. “Eric, don’t you mind? Not even a little?” Mind? Of course, I minded. I couldn’t imagine a single man on earth who wouldn’t mind his wife having a baby for another man. Especially with Sarah’s heart condition. It was the entire reason I’d gotten a vasectomy the day after our wedding—to prevent any accidents that could put her life at risk. Last time, her request had sent me into a rage. I had vehemently refused, calling it insane, and even told her parents, hoping they would talk sense into her. Under pressure from everyone, Sarah had relented. But ten months later, Ryan’s mother died, whispering about the shame of facing her ancestors without a grandchild, her eyes refusing to close even in death. She was Ryan’s last living relative. A few days after the funeral, he hanged himself in his apartment. Before he did, he sent Sarah a long, rambling email. The gist of it was that while other women could have borne his child, he only ever wanted one with her. If she had given him a child, his mother wouldn’t have died in such sorrow. He would have still had a family in this world. Reading that email, learning of Ryan’s death, shattered her. She blamed me. She twisted reality until I became the villain who had murdered them both. She suggested a road trip to “clear our heads.” My parents came along. On the highway, she hit the gas, her face lit with a horrifying, ecstatic grin as she aimed us at the grille of a truck. “If you hadn’t stopped me, Eric, Ryan and I would have a child! He wouldn’t be dead! You killed him!” “He lost his whole family, so now you and yours get to die too!” My parents and I never had a chance. We were crushed under the wheels. The memory was a phantom ache, sharp and familiar, piercing my chest. But the smile on my face never wavered. I pulled Sarah into my arms, crushing her against me in a display of profound affection. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you,” I murmured into her hair. “If I’m worried about anything, it’s your health. You have to promise me you’ll take care of yourself through all this. Promise me.” 2 The next morning, Ryan was at our door to take Sarah for a “check-up.” They stood in front of me, holding hands, not a shred of shame between them as they walked to his car. Seeing them together, the sheer, laughable idiocy of my past self hit me like a physical blow. Sarah had been tutored by Ryan’s mother in high school. Naturally, she and Ryan had started dating, a romance that lasted all the way through college. But when it came time to discuss marriage, Sarah’s mother found out Ryan came from a single-parent home, with no car and no apartment in the city, and she forcibly broke them up. Shortly after, I met Sarah. I was instantly smitten. I pursued her for six months before she finally agreed to let me meet her parents. My family’s wealth was more than enough to satisfy her mother, who practically pushed us down the aisle. In my last life, I truly believed they had lost touch. I thought Sarah had only heard about his mother’s illness through an old alumni group chat. It wasn’t until I found gigabytes of chat logs on her phone that I saw the truth: they had never stopped talking. He sent her “good morning” and “good night” texts every single day. Their conversations had long ago crossed the line from friendship into something else entirely. After their car pulled away, I called my lawyer and told him to start drafting the divorce agreement. The call had barely ended when a flashy sports car screeched to a halt in my driveway. Leo, Sarah’s younger brother. He was a real piece of work, a spoiled brat who knew how to cause trouble. In the five years Sarah and I were married, she funneled him money from our accounts every year. The kid burned through tens of thousands of dollars annually. In my past life, I was so blindly in love with Sarah that I let her convince me her family was my family. A little money was nothing, I could always earn more. And so Leo had gotten used to hitting me up for cash under any and every pretext. If I remembered correctly, he was here today about an investment. He and a friend wanted to open some small factory and needed seed money. I’d seen the proposal last time—it was a joke. It promised quick, small returns upfront, but the business model was a minefield of hidden costs and liabilities that would lead to bankruptcy. Last time, I shut it down. This time, I looked over the file and told him, “This is a solid bet, Leo. Looks promising.” His eyes lit up. “So, you’ll spot me fifty grand, brother-in-law? We’ll split the profits seventy-thirty, your favor.” I closed the folder with a sigh of feigned regret. “Leo, my hands are tied. I just sank all my liquid cash into a new equipment order. But this is a golden opportunity. Don’t you still have that apartment I got you? Sell it. Use that cash to get in on the ground floor. Once my funds free up next month, I’ll buy you an even nicer place.” I’d always been good to him, so he didn’t question a word. All his money, including the deed to that apartment, had come from me. Lured by my promise, he sold the apartment that very afternoon and poured every last cent into the doomed factory. I was deeply satisfied with this outcome. I knew I’d never get back the money I’d given him, but if I couldn’t have it, I sure as hell wasn’t letting the Sullivan family keep it. Shortly after Leo left, my private investigator called. He told me Sarah and Ryan never went to the hospital. I just said, “I know.” For the next few days, Ryan and Sarah left together every morning. I showed no signs of impatience. In fact, I’d often ask how the “process” was going, if everything was proceeding smoothly. Two weeks later, Sarah showed me a positive pregnancy test. “That’s wonderful news,” I said, my eyes fixed on the two pink lines. A strange feeling settled in my gut. I’d already done my research. A proper IVF cycle required at least two months of prep time, and even then, getting pregnant wasn’t guaranteed on the first try. She was pregnant in just two weeks. The method they had used was painfully obvious. Seeing that I suspected nothing, Sarah let out a visible sigh of relief. And then, she finally remembered her own health. “Eric, you know about my heart,” she began, her tone shifting to one of delicate fragility. “Now that I’m pregnant, I think I should rest at home. And… Ryan’s mother is getting worse. She wants to see him get married, to see him happy. I want to give her that. Is that okay?” I nodded. “Of course.” “Oh, you’re the best, Eric.” She hugged me. “It’s just… a wedding costs money. And you know Ryan’s situation… I was thinking, maybe we could cover the cost?” 3 I couldn’t believe the audacity. It was one thing to cheat on me, to carry another man’s child. But to ask me to pay for their wedding? She had to be playing me for the world’s biggest fool. A cold, bitter laugh coiled in my gut, but my face only showed distress. “That’s a reasonable request, Sarah, but the timing is terrible. The company is in a tight spot right now, all our capital is tied up, and the board is watching every penny. And now that you’re pregnant, you’re my priority. Your heart, Sarah… I’ve been so worried. I already hired a private medical team to be on call for you 24/7. I just can’t move any more funds.” The thought of no wedding soured her expression. “Then what are we supposed to do? Ryan really doesn’t have the money for a wedding.” “Why doesn’t he borrow it for now?” I suggested, ever the problem-solver. “When our divorce goes through, I’ll be extra generous in the settlement. The board won’t question that. You can use that money to pay everyone back.” Sarah considered it for a moment, and to my dark amusement, she agreed. Ryan borrowed the money, and they quickly threw together a wedding. Fearing her parents would find out, Sarah only invited Ryan’s relatives and friends, keeping her side of the guest list completely empty. The wedding was that morning. By the afternoon, the videographer had sent the full wedding video to my inbox. I had, in fact, spent a fortune on a top-tier medical team to look after Sarah. They monitored her daily, ensuring she ate only the best, most nutritious food. Expensive prenatal vitamins and supplements were part of her daily regimen. I doted on the child in her womb as if it were my own. Sarah, of course, didn’t stay cooped up at home. Whenever she had a spare moment, she was at the hospital with Ryan. I turned a blind eye to all of it. Thanks to my meticulous “care,” the baby in her womb grew larger and healthier than average. An unborn child is, in a way, a parasite. The healthier the child, the greater the strain on the mother. For a normal woman, this is manageable. For Sarah, with her defective heart, it was a ticking time bomb. By the fifth month, her heart was already struggling to keep up. Some of her vitals were dipping into dangerous territory. But with the elite medical team there to immediately treat any discomfort, to soothe every flutter and ache, she had no idea how precarious her situation was becoming. Meanwhile, there was a positive development for Ryan’s mother. They had found a potential kidney donor. All they had to do was wait for the donor to pass, and she could have the transplant. The surgery, however, required a substantial sum of money. Sarah came to me. I gave her the same excuse about the company’s finances. So Ryan went to loan sharks. He figured that once I divorced Sarah, her massive settlement would be more than enough to cover the debt. The moment the doctors told me the fetus was past four months—a point where either carrying it to term or aborting it would pose a life-threatening risk to Sarah—a profound sense of relief washed over me. The net had been cast for a long time. It was time to settle the accounts. I called Sarah. “Sarah, let’s sign the divorce papers. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get a birth certificate for your and Ryan’s child.” After hearing this, Sarah and Ryan rushed over, practically vibrating with eagerness. She’d been nagging me about the divorce for weeks, and I’d kept putting it off. The meeting was in my office. My lawyer was present. Before signing, Sarah’s eyes scanned the document, going straight to the asset division clause. When she saw the line stating she would be leaving the marriage with nothing, her composure shattered. She stabbed a finger at the page. “What is this? When we divorce, assets are supposed to be split fifty-fifty. Why am I getting nothing?” I spread my hands wide. “It’s a sham divorce, remember? Just a formality. What does the asset split matter? Unless… you were planning on taking my money and running?” My words hit their mark. A blush crept up her neck. She shot a nervous glance at Ryan, then hardened her resolve. “It’s better to have everything clearly defined. Just in case… something unexpected happens.” Unexpected happens. Right. As if I didn’t know they’d rekindled their old flame and were planning to run off with half my fortune to live happily ever after. “Fine. Let’s get clear,” I said, pulling a stack of glossy photos from a file. “You committed adultery during our marriage. Therefore, you leave with nothing. Any objections?”

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