Author: Momo Chan

Our breakup was ugly. In the year he loved me most, I took three million dollars from his mother, terminated our pregnancy, and betrayed him. He knelt outside the operating room, crying and begging me not to be so cruel. He said he would hate me for the rest of his life. Six years later, we met again. He had a beautiful, well-connected girlfriend, and they were about to be married. And I, a complete wreck, had to find him and ask to borrow money. He forced me to come to his wedding, to watch with my own eyes as he married another woman. He asked me, “Do you regret it?” What he didn’t know was that I had been raising our son alone. And that our son was sick. He was dying. 1. Six years after we broke up, I ran into Ian Ross again at the lowest point of my life. It was a class reunion. No one expected Ian to show up. Someone joked, “Mr. Ross never keeps in touch. What brings you to the reunion this year?” “Did you hear Chloe was coming? Still thinking about her, came to find her?” Sitting in the corner, my back went rigid. I looked up and saw Ian, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes cold as he stared at me. Everyone knew how much Ian used to love me. He was the rich young master of a powerful family, but for me, it was love at first sight. That year, he cut ties with his family, gave up his power and his money, and fought like hell just to be with me. We lived in a tiny apartment, sharing a single bowl of ramen, a single bowl of congee. Life was hard, but we were happy. Every night, we’d hold each other, our fingers intertwined, and swear we’d be together forever. Until I got pregnant. His mother offered me three million dollars to get rid of our child and leave him. That day, Ian knelt outside the operating room, pounding on the door. Over and over, he cried and begged me, “Chloe, my sweet Chloe! I’ll work hard, I’ll make money, I’ll provide for us. I’ll make so many millions, and they’ll all be yours to spend, okay?” “Please, I’m begging you, don’t leave me. And don’t leave our baby…” I lay on the operating table, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, trying not to let a single sob escape. Through that thin door, I heard Ian say he would hate me for the rest of his life. 2. No one knew how ugly our breakup had been. Someone pushed me toward Ian, laughing as they did. “Mr. Ross used to love Chloe so much he would have died for her. How could you ever let her go?” Everyone was jeering, calling for us to get back together. Ian’s best friend shot me a look, a sneer playing on his lips. “Ian can have any woman he wants,” he said suddenly. “Who the hell is Chloe to think she’s unforgettable?” He told everyone that a new woman had been with Ian for three years. A woman who was gentler, more beautiful, and a much better match for Ian than I ever was. They had been together for three years, all the friends called her “sis-in-law,” and rumor had it, they were about to be married. The laughter died down. Only Ian’s friend was still smiling as he invited everyone to the wedding. He tossed an invitation at me. It hit my face before falling into my lap. I looked down and saw Ian’s name next to another girl’s. Her name was Grace. Even the name sounded lovely. I imagined she was more sensible than me, sweeter, better at caring for him. She wouldn’t always be making him miserable. It had been six years. To see him again after so long, to know he was doing well… that was good. I fought back the tears that threatened to fall and looked up at Ian. “Congratulations,” I said. He stared at me, his gaze intense. When he heard my words, a cruel smile spread across his face. He crushed the cigarette in his hand and said flatly, “Chloe, don’t bother coming to the wedding.” “My fiancée will be upset if she sees you. And I don’t like it when she’s upset.” I clutched the thin, red invitation, my mind blank for a moment. Then I smiled and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. 3. That day, everyone said it seemed like Ian really didn’t love me anymore. No one could have guessed that after a love as deep as ours, he would be getting married, and the bride wouldn’t be me. Everyone had assumed he would wait for me forever. Now, they were all buzzing with curiosity about this girl, Grace, and what made her so special that Ian would be so captivated, so devoted to her. I knew Ian didn’t want to see me again, so I left the reunion early. On the way home, a friend sent me a picture of Grace. She looked pure and sweet. I heard she had a lovely laugh and a playful, coquettish side—exactly the type of girl Ian adored. My friend texted me: Chloe, don’t you think she kind of looks like you when she smiles? Do you think Ian still loves you? Is it really over between you two? I let out a slow breath, silent for a long time before typing back with a smile, It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore. I didn’t want to be entangled with Ian ever again. And I thought, he will never know that I hid it from everyone and secretly gave birth to our child. That our son was sick. He was dying. 4. This was the hardest, most destitute year of my life. I worked myself to the bone, desperate to earn enough money to get my son the best medicine, to ease his pain even a little. For money, I could swallow my pride and show up at a class reunion to hit up old acquaintances. For money, I could work at a high-end lounge, drinking with clients until my stomach bled. I thought that reunion would be the last time I ever saw Ian. But a few days later, the girl named Grace found me. She must have heard that people thought we looked alike and wanted to see for herself. She came to the lounge with a few friends and specifically asked for me. One of the girls sized me up. “So you’re Chloe? Ian’s first love?” Her eyes were filled with contempt as she took in my heavy makeup, her expression screaming one word: filthy. I clenched my fists, trying to keep my temper in check. I just wanted to get this over with. “Are you ordering drinks?” I asked. If not, they were wasting my time, and my time was money. The girl seemed to take my directness as an insult. “What kind of attitude is that?” she snapped. “I’m talking to you, are you deaf? Don’t be so ungrateful.” She pointed to a bottle of hard liquor on the table. “Fine, Chloe. You like money, right? Finish this bottle in one go, and I’ll give you two hundred thousand dollars.” Drinking that entire bottle would land me in the hospital. Grace feigned concern, trying to calm her friend. “We agreed we were just coming to see her, not to give her a hard time, right?” she said sweetly. “I know everyone says she’s good at seducing men and told me to be careful. Even Ian said I’m too naive and that she might bully me.” She smiled a serene, innocent smile. “But I’ll be fine.” I listened to her, and I understood. She was here to show me how much Ian loved her, and how much he despised me. I smiled back, saying nothing, and turned to her friend. “We have a deal? I drink this bottle, you give me two hundred thousand. Right?” Then, I picked up the bottle and started chugging. Everyone froze, stunned that I would actually risk my life for money. Grace grabbed my arm. “Chloe,” she whispered, her voice full of pity. “How can you degrade yourself like this for money? As women, we have to have some shame. I didn’t want to say this, I was afraid of hurting you, but… Ian hates women like you the most.” I finished the bottle, fighting back the searing pain in my stomach, and cut her off. “The money?” “What Ian likes or hates has nothing to do with me. I just want the two hundred thousand you promised.” Grace frowned, looking at me with disappointment. “Honestly, Chloe,” she said in her soft, delicate voice, “two hundred thousand is nothing to me. I could give it to anyone. But I can’t give it to you. You can blame me, but I’m doing this for your own good. I can’t watch you fall any further…” Her friend gave me a shove. “I was just messing with you,” she laughed. “I’m not giving you a dime. What are you going to do about it?” My face was cold, but I started to laugh with her. Then I raised my hand and smashed the empty bottle on the table. Shards of glass flew, and one piece sliced across Grace’s leg, drawing a line of red. Tears instantly welled in Grace’s eyes. The noisy group of women fell silent. The next second, the door to the private room swung open. Ian was standing there, his gaze like ice. I froze, unable to meet his eyes. He had seen me like this—caked in makeup, drinking with men, forcing smiles for money. I wasn’t afraid of what anyone else thought of me, but I never, ever wanted him to know how much of a wreck my life had become. But even that small wish was denied. I forced myself to look up, to pretend I didn’t care, and watched as Ian strode over, gathered Grace into his arms, and gently wiped away her tears. Then he turned to me, his voice low and dangerous. “Chloe, who do you think you’re bullying, right in front of me?” “You want money? Fine. Apologize first.” Watching him protect her, I remembered a time, long ago, when he had protected me just like that. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to grovel, to make Grace happy. Fine. For the money, I would do anything. Grace, hiding in Ian’s arms, shot me a triumphant, secret smile. I looked at the cut on her leg, then picked up a large piece of broken glass and dragged it across my own arm, hard. I held out my bleeding arm, my voice calm. “Give it to me. Two hundred thousand.” Ian stared at me, and his eyes suddenly went red. Grace saw his expression, and her smile faltered. She pulled a card from her purse and pressed it into my hand. “Chloe,” she said softly, “I’m giving you this money today not because I owe you anything, but because I don’t want to be like you, making such an ugly scene over a little bit of cash.” I was done with her noble act. I took the card and turned to leave, but Ian grabbed my arm, yanking me back. He snarled my name, his teeth gritted. “Chloe, doesn’t that fucking hurt? Will you die if you don’t have money?” The way his brow was furrowed, he almost looked like he cared. I wrenched my arm free and turned back, a cold smile on my face. “I’ve always been a woman who loves money, Ian. Didn’t you know?” “Mind your own business. And control your woman. Don’t come looking for me again.” 5. Ian stared at me, his eyes terrifyingly cold, like he wanted to devour me whole. My words must have reminded him of the past—how he had given up everything for me, only for me to abandon him for money. The pain in my stomach was excruciating. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I turned to leave, but suddenly my feet left the ground. The next second, Ian had thrown me over his shoulder. He was like some kind of bandit, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he carried me out of the room. Everyone stared. I struggled, screaming at him to put me down. He slapped my ass, his voice a low growl. “Chloe, I must have owed you in a past life for you to put me through this hell!” He tossed me into his car, leaning over me to pin my legs down, and grabbed my face. “Sometimes,” he hissed, “I really just want to kill you.” His expression was one of pure hatred, but his eyes… his eyes always seemed to be telling me he still loved me. I was in too much pain to speak, cold sweat beading on my forehead as I glared at him. Ian’s frown deepened. He opened the glove compartment, took out a stomach pill, and pushed it into my mouth. In the corner of the compartment, I saw it all: the tube of lipstick I’d used up but couldn’t bear to throw away, a broken hair tie, the childish pink barrette he’d once bought for me… It was a shrine to me. In all the years I was gone, these little things had kept him company. Tears streamed down my face. I turned away, frantically wiping them before he could see. After all these years, he still remembered my stomach problems. Even when I wasn’t there, he still kept medicine for me. And yet, I hardened my heart, gathered all my strength, and shoved him away. I forced a smile. “Ian, stop this, okay? This obsession is pathetic.” “You probably don’t know,” I lied, my voice dripping with scorn. “I’ve been married. I have a kid.” “You don’t still want to get back together, do you? Don’t be so desperate, Ian.” He stumbled back, frozen. As I got up to leave, he lunged, slamming me against the car door, his hand closing around my throat. “Chloe, I don’t believe you,” he choked out, his voice trembling with rage. “You’d better tell me you’re fucking kidding. Otherwise, I swear to God, I will kill you.” I looked him straight in the eye, my voice calm. “Fine. I’ll prove it to you.” I took Ian to the children’s hospital. It was nine p.m., but the lights in the inpatient ward were still on. I stood outside a room, and through the glass, I pointed to a small child reading quietly in bed. “That’s my son.” His name was Leo. He was my precious, beloved boy. He looked so much like me, but his personality was all Ian—thoughtful, gentle, with a stubborn, domineering streak. He had all of Ian’s best qualities. He was such a good kid. But he was sick. Nearly six years old, he was painfully thin and small, yet so brave it broke your heart. Ian stared at the boy for a long, long time. Then he clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall. He hung his head, and I thought I saw a tear fall. I had never seen him so broken. The last thing Ian said to me that night was, “Chloe, you’ve got guts.” He didn’t ask who the father was. He didn’t recognize his own son.

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After losing my memory, I forgot I was the villainess of the story. I sent a group text to my close contacts: [Sorry, I have amnesia. Who is this…?] Four messages instantly popped up on my phone. The aloof childhood friend I used to torment: [Is this some new way to torture me? Your food is downstairs. Remember to eat.] The loyal adopted brother I used to boss around: [Still mad at your big bro? Sent some cash to your card. I’ll be home tonight to hang out.] The cool heroine I used to prank: [Starting with the drama again? If you’ve lost your memory, go back to sleep. I signed you in for class.] Me: “?” Wait… was I the star of a ‘pampered princess’ story or something? 1. Doctors and nurses bustled back and forth in the hospital room, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic. I pushed myself up, my head swimming. Not far away, a doctor was speaking with a middle-aged man. “How is she doing now?” “Miss Sterling’s amnesia isn’t too severe at the moment. She’s just forgotten certain specific people…” Listening to their conversation, I froze. Amnesia? How could I have amnesia? “I don’t think I have amnesia!” I couldn’t help but interrupt. “I remember my name is Flora Sterling, my dad is Howard Sterling, and my mom is Clara Vanderbilt.” The middle-aged man turned to me, his voice patient. “Then do you remember my name, miss?” I nodded eagerly. “Of course! You’re my family’s butler, Uncle Lee.” The man was silent for a long moment, his expression complex. “Miss… I’m your family’s driver. And my name is Evans, not Lee.” Me: “?” He sighed and turned back to the doctor. “Thank you for your hard work. I’ll go contact her parents now.” From their brief chat, I gathered that I had accidentally fallen down a flight of stairs at the library and was brought to the hospital by a classmate after I passed out. Once they left the room, I finally came to my senses and started flipping through my phone. If it weren’t for my parents’ familiar names in my pinned contacts, I would’ve thought I’d picked up a stranger’s phone. Just then, two messages came in from a contact named “Cold-hearted Monster.” [Be downstairs in thirty minutes to get your takeout.] [I’m not wasting my time finding someone to bring it up to you.] I racked my brain but couldn’t place him. I could only ask: [Are you buying me lunch?] He replied almost instantly, every word dripping with sarcasm. [It is my duty to procure lunch for my lady.] [But next time, could you please give advance notice if you want something from off-campus?] [Otherwise, a thirty-minute wait in line might delay your mealtime.] Well, you’re certainly polite, I thought. But food wasn’t the priority right now. I quickly replied: [No need, I’m not eating today.] He was silent for a moment. Though I couldn’t see his face, I could feel a wave of irritation radiating from the screen. [Is this because the breakfast I brought wasn’t to your liking?] [So you’re angry again?] I rushed to explain: [No, it’s because I have amnesia qwq.] He shot back derisively: [Is this some new method the great Flora Sterling has devised to torture me?] Me: “?” Was I really that horrible? Afraid he wouldn’t believe me, I sent him a picture. [I’m not lying, I’m still in a hospital bed.] A long time passed with no reply. He had either fainted from anger or couldn’t be bothered with me anymore. I scrolled through our chat history. This “Cold-hearted Monster” was apparently responsible for getting my meals, picking up my packages, and buying me bubble tea. Sometimes, he even did my homework and let me copy his answers for exams. My attitude toward him, however, was far from friendly. My tone was bossy and demanding. A pang of guilt washed over me. How could I talk to a classmate like that? “Flora—” The hospital room door was suddenly flung open, and a boy rushed in. He wore a simple white t-shirt, his features sharp and handsome. Even the fingers holding the takeout container were long and elegant. I found myself staring. Some people might lose their memories, but their appreciation for beauty remains unchanged. My standards for my ideal type certainly hadn’t. I looked up at him and asked tentatively, “And you are?” His body went rigid. He pressed his lips together, his gaze dropping. “You don’t remember who I am?” I frowned, thinking hard. “Are you the Cold-hearted Monster?” His expression was complicated. “…My name is Christian.” Christian reached out as if to check the wound on my forehead. “You fell down the stairs? Is it serious?” Seeing me freeze, he stiffly lowered his hand, his tone turning cold again. “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried you hit your head and will try to blame it on me again.” His few words painted a vivid picture of my former selfish, willful self. My guilt deepened. Seeing me silent, he asked again in a low voice, “You really don’t remember me?” I answered honestly. “I don’t. But from our chat history, it looks like you’re the one who runs all my errands.” Christian: “…Not exactly.” I looked up, confused. He took a deep breath. “We’re childhood friends.” When I didn’t say anything, Christian added coolly, “And, of course, there was the childhood betrothal.” I was stunned. “What? But our chat history doesn’t look like that at all…” I thought he was just a classmate I didn’t know well. Christian let out a humorless laugh. “If it weren’t for that, who would willingly be your errand boy every day?!” “Who would go out of their way to buy your meals and save you a seat?” “But you just said it was your duty to get my meals,” I argued, confused. Christian lifted his eyes slightly. “Yes. Isn’t that the duty of a fiancé?” Just then, our driver, Mr. Evans, walked back in. He looked surprised to see Christian. “Christian? What are you doing here?” Christian stood up politely and greeted him with a smile. “I came to see her.” Mr. Evans was about to sit down when Christian’s next words made him jump back to his feet. “By the way, Mr. Evans, Flora doesn’t believe that we grew up together.” “Could you tell her? That we’re already engaged.” Mr. Evans’s eyes widened. “Huh?” He glanced at Christian’s perfectly calm face, then at my bewildered one. After a moment of profound consideration, he nodded with a complex expression. “Yes… that is indeed the case.” 2. The first person I saw when I woke up was Mr. Evans. He had been running around handling my paperwork and contacting my parents, so I had already developed a certain trust in him. And Christian didn’t look like he was joking. A secret joy bloomed in my heart. My ideal type had just transformed into my fiancé. I’ve hit the jackpot! It must be true, then. Even with amnesia, you still fall for the one you were always meant to be with. When Mr. Evans stepped out to take a call, Christian placed the food container on the small table and handed me a bowl and chopsticks. “Eat first.” I glanced at the food and smiled. “What a coincidence, these are all my favorites.” Christian ladled soup into my bowl, his voice even. “It’s not a coincidence. This is the menu you specifically requested this morning.” My guilt returned. “…Was it too much trouble for you?” Christian wiped his hands with a napkin, his tone detached. “It’s not just today that’s been a trouble.” “I’m used to it.” A wave of pity washed over me. I tugged on his sleeve. “Then let’s eat together?” Christian’s body stiffened. He rubbed his nose and cleared his throat. “I only bought one serving.” I was confused again. “Don’t we usually eat together?” Christian turned to look out the window. “…We do. I just… already ate today.” I didn’t doubt him and ate with peace of mind. While he was drinking some water, I chattered away between bites of food. “You know, Christian, the first time I saw you, I felt like I was starting to remember things.” He choked on his water, coughing violently, nearly losing his composure. “You’re remembering?” Christian’s voice sounded strange, losing the calm self-possession he’d had when he first arrived. I nodded. “Yes. The moment I saw you, I thought, we look so good together.” “It really must be because we’re engaged. You truly are my fated husband.” I grinned. “And even though I have amnesia, my standards for my ideal type haven’t changed.” “My dream husband is just like you.” Christian: “…” A faint blush crept up his handsome face, and the tips of his ears turned crimson. He shot up from his chair, nearly knocking over the table. Me: “?” Christian struggled to compose himself, but his flushed cheeks betrayed his true feelings. He held up his phone. “Uh… I just got a notification from my research group. I have to go back.” “I have to turn in some materials for my advisor this afternoon.” I was very understanding. “Then you should hurry back! I’m much better now. I’ll probably be fine after a little rest this afternoon.” Christian nodded, his voice softening. “I’ll come back to see you later tonight.” He practically fled the room. I couldn’t help but sigh. Being a grad student these days seems so tough. A message from your advisor is like a summons from the grim reaper. Mr. Evans returned just then, surprised to find me alone. “Christian left?” I nodded, smiling. “Yes. He said he’d be back later.” Mr. Evans looked relieved, then began to discuss the next steps with me. “The doctor thinks it would be best for a family member to come to the hospital.” “Your parents are abroad and can’t get back right away. Should I contact your brother?” Brother? I have a brother? Seeing my blank expression, Mr. Evans looked as if he expected it. He took my phone, tapped the screen a few times, and handed it back. “This is your brother.” I looked down. A profile picture of a beagle wearing sunglasses stared back at me. The contact name: “Human ATM” Our chat history was sparse, mostly consisting of transfer records from him. And whenever someone made me angry, he was the first to take care of it, with the speed of a paid subscription service. “Flora, you probably don’t remember, but Derek is your brother. Not by blood, he was adopted by your parents.” “He’s three years older than you and has always taken good care of you,” Mr. Evans explained. I understood. I sent a message to the contact. [Bro.] He replied almost instantly. With fifty consecutive question marks. I didn’t understand his surprise, but I dutifully typed on. [Are you free right now?] Human ATM: [Yeah! What’s up? Who bullied you again?] Human ATM: [Send me their info, I’ll go sort them out.] Human ATM: [Need cash? Sending it now.] Human ATM: [Also what did you just call me? Can you say it again TvT…] What a strange brother. And what a strange request. But I obliged him: [Brother, can you come to the hospital?] Another string of question marks appeared. Then, a voice call request popped up. I’ve always hated answering calls. Amnesia hadn’t changed that. I ruthlessly declined it. Human ATM: [? Why didn’t you answer? What happened?] Human ATM: [Is this a scammer?!] Human ATM: [Phone scammers can rot in hell. Give her phone back or I’ll end you.] Me: […Don’t want to answer the phone. Too lazy.] Human ATM: [Oh, it’s you.] Me: [I have amnesia.] Another row of question marks. It really fit his profile picture. Human ATM: [So do you still remember who I am?] I was getting annoyed. [Yes, you’re my brother, aren’t you?] Human ATM: [Yes, yes!! I’m your favorite brother!!] Please stop adding your own weird adjectives, I thought. I pretended not to see it: [If you have time, can you come to the hospital? The doctor wants to see a family member.] Human ATM: [Send me the address.] After sending the location, I added, fearing he might worry: [Don’t worry, it’s not serious.] Human ATM: [Okay, big bro will be there soon ^^.] I reassured him: [No rush, Mr. Evans is with me. My fiancé just came to see me too.] There was a moment of silence from his end. Then, a rapid-fire string of shocked question marks. Human ATM: [Fiancé?? Who the FUCK is he!!?]

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Good news: I hooked up with a total stud, an absolute god in bed. Even better news: We successfully became friends with benefits. Bad news: He’s my new boss. My world is ending. 01 “Again.” The scorching body behind me pressed close, a silent demand. “Still?” I managed, my brow furrowed. My mouth said no, but my body was a shameless traitor. I turned my head and crushed my lips against his. … Adrian Thorne and I spent the entire weekend tangled up in each other, day and night a blur of skin and sweat. It wasn’t until Sunday evening, with him still looking like a predator who’d gotten a taste of his favorite prey and was hungry for more, that I finally put my foot down. I scrambled around the chaotic mess of the floor, hunting for my clothes. “No way,” I said, my voice strained. “I have an early meeting tomorrow. I can’t be late.” I pulled on my pants, adding, “The new boss is starting. I need to make a good first impression.” He was sprawled on the bed, bare-chested and magnificent, a picture of lazy satisfaction. He sighed with genuine regret. “Fine. See you next week.” “Deal.” Monday morning, I walked into the office dressed to the nines in my suit, ID badge clipped neatly to my pocket. Jenna, my cubicle neighbor, immediately leaned in, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “Have you heard? The new CEO is supposed to be young and hot.” I couldn’t care less what he looked like. “I just hope he’s a decent human being,” I grumbled. Our last CEO was a real piece of work, treating us all like corporate drones to be worked to death. We’d all been praying for his transfer, hoping his replacement would be at least marginally better. In the conference room, the new CEO made his grand entrance to a wave of enthusiastic applause. As I looked up at the man standing at the head of the table, my world tilted on its axis. It was Adrian Thorne. My FWB. How could the world be this small? I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. The room was packed, so I prayed he wouldn’t spot me as I tried to shrink into my chair, my head bowed so low it was practically under the table. A sharp nudge to my wrist startled me. “Leo,” Jenna whispered, “Mr. Thorne is calling on you.” “Who’s Leo?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized my mistake. Then I heard Adrian’s voice, clear and commanding, call my name again. I sucked in a sharp breath and slowly, shakily, got to my feet. The moment he saw me, a flicker of undisguised shock crossed his face. I felt a hot flush of guilt creep up my neck. Because I’d told him my name was Finn. He stared at me for two long, meaningful seconds before his lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Leo,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “this project is your team’s responsibility. Please, walk us through it.” 02 I gave the briefest report I could manage, and Adrian asked only two simple questions. The second the meeting ended, I bolted from the room as if the hounds of hell were on my heels. No joke, in that short one-hour meeting, I’d already drafted my resignation letter in my head. But then… the thought of the current economy, of my mortgage and car payments, hit me like a splash of cold water. I guess I could just plug my ears and pretend this wasn’t happening. For now. Jenna came back from the meeting completely star-struck. “Oh my god, Mr. Thorne is so handsome,” she gushed. “Having a hottie like that to look at makes being a wage slave almost bearable. I forgive the world for three seconds.” I chuckled. “Get a grip.” She continued her swooning. “Even in that dress shirt, you can just tell he has an amazing body. The testosterone is practically radiating off him.” Amazing was an understatement. It was phenomenal. And it felt even better than it looked. But the thought of the man who’d whispered an endless stream of dirty talk in my ear now being my big boss made me want to flee the planet. Just then, Adrian’s secretary clicked over in her heels. “Leo, Mr. Thorne wants to see you in his office.” I rose to my feet, feeling utterly dead inside. Couldn’t the Earth just explode right now? Please? 03 The spacious office offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the city through its floor-to-ceiling windows. “Mr. Thorne, you wanted to see me?” Adrian looked up from his computer, his eyes raking over me. “Leo?” “Yes, Mr. Thorne.” He arched an eyebrow. “Finn?” I played dumb. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne, who’s Finn?” A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “Cut the act,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “There aren’t two people in the world who not only look identical but also have a mole in the exact same spot.” I blurted out, “A mole where?” He playfully tugged on his earlobe. Shit. I have a mole on my earlobe. A mole that this very man, now sitting before me in a crisp suit, was kissing just yesterday. My expression hardened into a mask. Adrian’s smile was pure mischief. “And Adrian Thorne is my real name, by the way.” …Was he throwing shade at me for giving him a fake name? Seeing there was no way out, I threw in the towel. “Well, Mr. Thorne,” I said with a strained laugh, “what a coincidence.” His eyes gleamed. “So, I’m the ‘new boss’ you were talking about.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low purr. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let you leave yesterday…” I held up my hands in surrender. “Mr. Thorne, please. At the office, let’s just pretend we don’t know each other. Strictly business, no personal stuff.” He nodded, though he looked a little disappointed. I fled his office like I was escaping a fire. 04 Adrian and I had a purely physical relationship. To put it bluntly, we were friends with benefits. It started six months ago. The straight guy I’d been crushing on for years finally got a girlfriend, and I went to a bar to drown my sorrows. I ended up sharing a table with Adrian. He seemed to be in a foul mood too, and some creep slipped something into his drink. Being the good Samaritan I am, I helped him out of the bar. But he wasn’t such a good Samaritan. He started getting handsy. Lost in the moment, seduced by his ridiculously handsome face, I found myself in bed with him. As I stared at that face, I figured, what the hell, and kissed him back. The first time was a bit clumsy, both of us fumbling in the dark. But we slowly found our rhythm, and we didn’t stop until the first light of dawn painted the sky. After that, we reached a mutual understanding. No feelings, just bodies. We’d meet up once a week. We were surprisingly compatible in bed. Every time we met, it was like we were trying to break the mattress. It was a welcome relief from my soul-crushing corporate drone life. We knew nothing about each other’s personal lives. I’d assumed he was just another working stiff like me—slaving away on weekdays and blowing off steam on weekends. I never imagined he was secretly moonlighting as a CEO. And a CEO was one thing, but the CEO of my company? Damn it! 05 For the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking forward to the weekend. Which, of course, meant it arrived at lightning speed. Adrian was swamped with work all week. The only time I saw him was a brief encounter at the coffee shop downstairs. I pretended to be on a call and avoided his gaze. On Friday, during my lunch break, I got a text from him. [Where are we meeting this week?] We usually mixed it up—sometimes a hotel, sometimes his car. Once, for a thrill, we even did it outdoors. I typed out the excuse I’d prepared. [Sorry, Mr. Thorne. I have to go home for my mom’s birthday this weekend.] Adrian: [Alright.] Adrian: [Didn’t we agree to keep work and life separate? Just call me by my name when we’re talking about personal stuff.] Oh, God. There was no way I could separate them. Not after seeing him tear into the lead of the adjacent team in a meeting that morning. “Did you come up with this proposal with your feet?” he’d asked, his voice dripping with ice. The atmosphere in the conference room had been cold enough to freeze hell over. The other team lead could only stand there, fuming silently. When it was my turn to present, I felt like I was walking a tightrope over a volcano. After I finished, Adrian’s only comment was, “The proposal is flashy, but have you considered if it’s even feasible?” … Does anyone understand my pain? Now I’m supposed to get into bed with this guy? I’d rather choose celibacy. 06 Another week passed. Adrian’s text arrived right on schedule. [Where to this weekend?] Me: [A friend’s getting married. I have to go to the next city over to be his best man.] Adrian: [No free time at all?] Was he that desperate? Me: [Yeah, the round trip alone is seven or eight hours.] In reality, there was no wedding. I was just a coward. Two weeks of celibacy was starting to take its toll. The craving was a constant, dull ache. On Saturday, I resorted to using some… toys at home. It helped, a little, but not much. My thoughts inevitably drifted to Adrian. The more I thought, the more heated I became. To cool off, I took a cab to the office to get some work done. Making money makes me happy, I told myself. But the moment I swiped my ID badge and the door clicked open, my soul shattered. Dear God, you really have it out for me. Why was Adrian also working overtime? He emerged from the breakroom, a cup of coffee in hand, and arched an eyebrow at me. “The next city over? Best man?” I forced a dry laugh. “The wedding was… uh, cancelled. Last minute.” Adrian let out a short, humorless laugh. He stated it as a fact, not a question. “Leo. You’re avoiding me.” 07 I sat frozen at my desk, plotting my escape. But Adrian, as if reading my mind, called my office line. “Come to my office. I want to go over the proposal with you.” Clutching a folder like a shield, I knocked on his door. It swung open from the inside, and a strong arm yanked me in. Adrian slammed me against the door and kissed me, fierce and demanding. At first, I struggled, pushing against his chest. But then, that familiar, intoxicating feeling washed over me. I became the aggressor, my hands tangling in his hair as the folder fell to the floor with a soft thud. Adrian lifted me into his arms and kicked open the door to the private lounge inside his office. White shirts and tailored trousers were soon discarded on the floor. Adrian’s seductive voice whispered from behind me, “I never thought I’d get to unlock the ‘office play’ achievement.” … I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at his floor-to-ceiling windows or his desk the same way again. The neon lights of the city twinkled outside. Without us noticing, the sky had turned dark. Damn you, Adrian Thorne. I came here to work! When he emerged from the shower, his chest was still glistening with water, dotted with marks I’d left behind. “The bistro downstairs is pretty good. My treat.” I picked up the crumpled folder from the floor. “I’m not hungry.” Just then, my stomach let out a traitorous growl. Adrian chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Come on. We both worked hard today.” “…” Redefining the term “overtime.” 08 In the private room at the bistro, I ordered a feast. This place was expensive; Jenna and I only ever came here on payday. Adrian barely ate, placing pieces of food on my plate from time to time. “Mr. Thorne, please, you eat. Don’t worry about me,” I said, flustered. He paused, chopsticks hovering. “It’s after work hours. Just call me Adrian.” I couldn’t. It felt too weird. In the past six months, we’d occasionally eaten together, but it was always a quick bite in the middle of… other activities. This was the first time we were sitting down for a proper meal. It was just so, so strange. I buried my head in my food, eating ferociously to cover my awkwardness. After dinner, it started to rain. Adrian dangled his car keys. “I’ll drive you home.” I pulled out my phone and opened the ride-share app. “I’ll just get a cab.” Great. 100 people in the queue ahead of me. “It’s raining, you won’t get a ride,” Adrian insisted. “Let me take you.” I found myself sitting in Adrian’s Bentley. I’d opened the back door. He raised an eyebrow. “Am I your chauffeur?” I wouldn’t dare. I walked around to the front. “Let me drive.” Adrian laughed. “Get in the passenger seat.” The whole way, I was lost in thought. Choosing to become friends with benefits with Adrian was probably the most rebellious thing I’d ever done. I’ve always been someone who keeps my work and personal life strictly separate. Adrian only knew me in one context. He knew nothing else about my life. That’s why I could always relax with him. But now he was my boss. Could I ever be as uninhibited with him as I was before? What if our colleagues found out? I hated the unknown. Before getting out of the car, I mustered my courage and looked at him. “Mr. Thorne, let’s end this. We don’t need to see each other on weekends anymore.” He looked confused. “Why? Just because I’m your boss now?” Of course, I couldn’t say yes. I still had to work under him. “I just feel like it’s time to end this kind of relationship. It was never a long-term plan.” His expression darkened. I unbuckled my seatbelt and scrambled out of the car. To be honest, a part of me felt a pang of regret. I shook my head, forcing myself not to overthink it. It’s just my body, I told myself. It just misses his.

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In my past life, I stood before the gates of House Valerius, my belly swollen with child. My heart fluttered with a nervous hope as I looked upon Lord Alaric, a man who seemed carved from marble and starlight. “My lord,” I’d said, “I am with child. And the child is yours.” I got my wish. I became the lady of the house. Everyone said I was blessed by fortune. What they didn’t know was that from that day forward, Alaric never again set foot in my chambers. I learned later that he had been on the verge of marrying another, the very day after I arrived. Now, reborn, I stand before him once more. But before I can utter a word, he snatches the token from my hand. His voice is a blade of ice against my ear. “You will not say the child is mine.” “This time,” he hissed, “I will not marry you.” And in that moment, I knew. He had been reborn, too. Good. This time, I had no intention of marrying him either. 1 The Dowager Duchess, Lady Elara, followed him into the grand hall, just as she had in my past life. “Young woman,” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. “May we know the reason for your visit?” Alaric’s gaze was a physical weight, a silent, menacing warning. My eyes fell upon Lady Elara, and a wave of sorrow washed over me, so sharp it almost brought me to tears. If there was one person in my past life who had shown me any kindness, it was her. I bit my lip, the words catching in my throat. “My lady, I came seeking you.” She stilled, her eyes locking onto mine. After a long moment, her voice trembled. “Are you… are you Lyra’s girl? From House Thorne?” I had only learned the truth after entering their home in my previous life. My grandmother, Lyra Thorne, and Lady Elara were not only cousins but had been the closest of friends in their youth. But then, disaster struck House Thorne, and I was left an orphan. And I, it was said, was the very image of my grandmother. A fresh wave of grief passed over Lady Elara’s face. She sighed, her gaze shifting from me to Alaric, who stood silent and watchful. A sad smile touched her lips. “You children wouldn’t know, but there was an old pact between our families. A childhood betrothal between you and Alaric. But then… House Thorne fell, and we lost all trace of you…” Her eyes fell to my stomach. “And now you are with child. Who is the father? Why would he let you travel to the capital of Aethelgard alone?” I looked up. Alaric’s eyes were on me, cold and guarded. Six months ago, an accident. A night of fevered passion with Alaric, who had been drugged. He was gone before dawn, leaving behind only a whispered promise—“If you ever find yourself in trouble, seek me in Aethelgard”—and, pressed beneath my pillow, a silver signet marked with twin serpents. In my last life, he had married me, forced by the existence of his heir and the will of his grandmother. He lost his true love and condemned me to a lifetime of cold neglect. This time, he had already taken the signet, severing any link between us. Good. I had no desire to chain myself to him again. I heard my own voice, distant and steady. “The father of this child…” I paused, feeling Alaric’s stare. “I do not know who he is.” 2 The air in the room, thick with the scent of incense, seemed to lighten. Alaric’s rigid posture relaxed ever so slightly. The Dowager Duchess frowned, her gaze gentle but searching. “My dear girl… were you accosted by some brigand?” A bitter ache rose in my throat. I nodded, then quickly shook my head. That night was not of my choosing, but this child… this child was a choice I had made. At six months, it was far too late for any other path. Lady Elara fell into a thoughtful silence. “Do you recall any marks upon the man?” she asked finally. “House Valerius has some influence. Alaric could make inquiries for you. If he is a decent man, perhaps…” Alaric smoothly interjected, “Indeed. Lady Cora, if you need anything, you have but to ask.” He stood with his back to the light, a silhouette of feigned concern. His dark eyes, half-lidded, held a glint of something deeper. My mind was a whirlwind. “I believe… there was something on his shoulder,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. Alaric spun around, his eyes flashing with a sharp, veiled fury. Only then did I remember. He, too, had a small, crimson mole on his shoulder. A flash of a bare back, muscles tense in the moonlight, seared through my memory. “A birthmark,” I stammered, correcting myself. “A crescent moon.” He visibly relaxed and gave a slight nod. “Rest assured, Lady Cora. I will do everything in my power to find him. We will find you a worthy match.” He put a heavy, pointed emphasis on the last words, a clear message. I managed a bitter smile. I hadn’t realized just how desperate he was to be rid of me. In my last life, I had been too lost in my foolish joy to see it. 3 I was given rooms in the estate’s Serene Garden wing. The Dowager Duchess arranged for a master healer to attend to me, prescribing tonics to ensure the health of my child. The very next day, the lady of House Beaumont arrived to formally accept the betrothal between our families. The match was for her second daughter, Isolde. Alaric’s true love. Lady Isolde was a proud woman. In my past life, when she learned of my entanglement with Alaric, she had broken the engagement without a second thought. Now, with me out of the picture, they could finally have their happy ending. After seeing the healer out, I spent some time feeding the koi in the pond before heading back to my rooms. As I rounded a covered walkway, I came upon a familiar scene. In the courtyard, Lady Isolde sat on a wooden swing, her smile as sweet as summer wine. Alaric stood behind her, pushing her gently, his own eyes soft with affection. Isolde’s gaze drifted over and found me. Her smile faltered. Then, she lifted her chin, her voice carrying across the yard. “Alaric, my love, why is there a pregnant woman staying at your family estate?” Alaric’s eyes met mine, his face tightening almost imperceptibly. “She is the daughter of an old friend of my grandmother’s. We are merely offering her shelter until her child’s father can be found.” I gave a small nod of acknowledgement and walked away. Shelter. House Valerius was vast. His words were not about charity; they were a warning. He feared I would cause trouble and wanted me gone. Later that afternoon, before I could rest, a maid announced a visitor. Lord Alaric. His expression was dark, his eyes like polished obsidian pressing down on me. “You knew Isolde was here. Why did you have to show yourself? Or is this another one of your schemes to force me to break my betrothal?” I took a step back, shaking my head. “You worry for nothing, my lord. I have no such intention.” His brow remained furrowed. He stared at me for a long moment before speaking again. “I know you carry my child. I know you are unhappy that I will not claim you.” He took a breath. “But rest easy. Once Isolde is my wife, I will find a way to take you as my mistress. Until then, you will remain quiet and cause no trouble. If you do, do not blame me for the consequences.” He stood cloaked in light and shadow, his reflection a dark stain on the floor. The coldness in his eyes was sharper than I had ever seen it. I stared at him, my voice a painful rasp when I finally spoke. “You need not worry, my lord. I have no wish to marry you. Once the child is born, I will leave.” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh and said no more. I knew he didn’t believe me. After all, where could a ruined orphan like me possibly go? 4 After that, I avoided the main courtyards. If I happened to cross paths with Alaric, I would turn away. He seemed pleased by this, his demeanor toward me softening fractionally. A few days later, a messenger from the Dowager Duchess summoned me. She sat in a high-backed, mahogany chair, her expression strange. Her first words sent a jolt through me. “Cora, my dear. I know who the father of your child is.” I stumbled, nearly falling, but a steady hand caught my arm. “Oh, my heavens,” Lady Elara cried, patting her forehead in self-reproach. “Forgive me, I’ve frightened you.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Had she discovered the truth about me and Alaric? Once I was settled in a chair, she continued. “When you mentioned the birthmark, it felt familiar. I thought on it for days, and then I remembered. It was Lord Lucian Thorne, of the Obsidian Guard. I held him as a babe, just after he was born. I saw the mark myself.” She patted my hand, sighing. “Unfortunately, Lord Thorne is a… difficult man. Utterly ruthless. He cut ties with his own family after his mother’s death. People speak his name in whispers. He is not what one would call a good match.” My heart, which had just begun to settle, leaped back into my throat. The crescent moon birthmark… it was from a wounded soldier I had treated as a healer in the provincial town of Silverwood. I thought no one in the capital would ever know, so I’d used it as a convenient lie. I never imagined it would lead to this. Lucian Thorne. He was the King’s most feared enforcer, a notorious rival of Alaric Valerius. If he discovered I was pinning my child on him… I bit my lip. “My lady,” I said, my voice strained, “perhaps I was mistaken. The light was dim, it’s possible I saw it wrong…” She patted my hand again, a knowing smile on her face. “There, there. I know a young woman’s modesty. It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve already asked him. It was him.” My world tilted. “I gave him a thorough scolding,” she went on, “and told him you were with child. He was stunned for a moment, and then… he said he would marry you.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. “He… he said he would marry me?” “Of course!” Lady Elara nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Your belly is already so large. He cannot simply shirk his responsibility. He has agreed. He will have you wed as soon as it can be arranged.” My face went pale, my fingers twisting the handkerchief in my lap into a knot. “No,” I blurted out. “That’s not possible.” Lady Elara’s expression turned to one of disapproval. “Cora, House Thorne is noble, but he is a Lord of the Guard. For him to offer you the position of his lawful wife is a great honor. Do not let a moment of pride ruin this for you.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Whatever his reasons, I couldn’t marry him. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone. She continued to persuade me. I fell silent, eventually giving a noncommittal nod. Very well. I would simply have to find an opportunity to speak with Lord Thorne myself and clear this up. 5 With Alaric’s wedding approaching, the estate was a hive of activity. Seizing a moment when no one was paying attention, I donned a veiled hat and went to the headquarters of the Obsidian Guard. I waited for what felt like an eternity until I finally saw a man matching the description, hailed as “Lord Thorne.” It had been so long, I barely recognized him. He wore the deep indigo robes of his office, his features sharp and his posture radiating a dangerous grace. He was a world away from the mud-caked, broken man I remembered. When I stepped into his path, he showed no annoyance. Instead, his dark eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. I faltered for a second, then lowered my head. “My lord, the child I carry is—” “Not mine,” he finished for me, his expression unchanging. I looked up, my eyes wide with surprise. “You knew, and yet you still—” He met my gaze, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “I am not so far gone that I don’t know which women I have bedded.” “Then why would you agree to marry me?” His lips curved into a true smile, a dangerous light dancing in his eyes. “The Dowager Duchess Valerius found me,” he said, his voice a low, smooth drawl. “Told me I had sullied the descendant of her dearest friend. Said the lady in question had personally identified the birthmark on my back and demanded I make amends. I thought long and hard, and the only ‘Lady Cora’ who fits the description is a certain healer from Silverwood.” He looked at me then, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You saved my life, Lady Cora. A life for a life. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say? Your body for my name.” My eyes widened and I waved my hands frantically. “That’s not what I meant at all…” Seeing his amused expression, I realized he was teasing me. I pressed my lips together, my resolve hardening. I met his gaze directly. “I am grateful for your generosity, my lord. But if I were to marry you, it would be a disservice not only to the child’s true father, but also a great injustice to you. This was my mistake, and I have implicated you unfairly. If you are angry, direct it at me. But this marriage… it cannot happen.” The air went still. Lucian’s smile remained, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were deep, unreadable pools of chilling calm. Just as a cold sweat began to prickle my skin, he let out a long, slow sigh. “You do not wish to marry me. Very well. Your wish is granted.”

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The day my two daughters-in-law—who on the surface appeared to be pining for my sons’ affections but were in reality master shoppers—decided to fake their deaths, I grabbed them and refused to let go. “Not unless you take me with you.” They told me that the woman returning from abroad wasn’t just the one true love of my two sons, but also the daughter of my husband’s long-lost flame. The three men in my life were about to conspire to have me adopt her. According to them, I wouldn’t discover the truth until I was seventy. But I’m only fifty now. “To hell with that,” I spat. “Why should I suffer for another twenty years?” I decided to “die” on the very road those three were taking to “rescue” her. Let them live with the guilt forever. In the end, my husband, Howard, lost his mind. My two sons were consumed by regret. And my two daughters-in-law? They took me on the ride of a lifetime, a life of glorious, unapologetic indulgence. Ten handsome young masseurs surrounding us, kneading our shoulders and feeding us fruit. 1 I was fifty years old when I overheard it from my two daughters-in-law. The “one true love” returning to the country, a woman named Sienna Crest, was the daughter of my husband Howard’s old flame, Serena Crest. My daughters-in-law had decided it was time to bolt. My eldest son’s wife, Olivia, was dumping a torrent of diamonds, gold, and precious gems into a suitcase. “I refuse to end up like you, Mom,” she said to the other. “I want a divorce. You?” My younger son’s wife, Maya, was tapping away on her phone. “You’re leaving, I’m leaving. No way am I having sons who grow up to be obsessed with their father’s ex-girlfriend’s daughter. Let me just check how much I’ve managed to siphon off of Jack these last three years… Aha! A cool nine and a half million in my secret account. That should be enough for the two of us to live a little.” She looked up. “So, how do we do this? You think Jack and Adrian will just let us divorce them?” Olivia considered this. “If we ask directly, they’ll never agree. They’ll probably freeze our credit cards. You’d be sitting on a fortune you couldn’t spend a dime of. When Dad’s old flame, Serena, came back to town years ago, Mom asked for a divorce. He refused and froze all her accounts. She didn’t even have enough money for a rental deposit. Then she found out she was pregnant with the twins. For the boys, she had no choice but to stay. “But what she never knew,” Olivia continued, her voice dropping, “was that five years later, Howard started taking the boys on ‘business trips’ abroad. He said it was to ‘cultivate their business acumen from a young age.’ In reality, he was taking them to play with Serena’s daughter. He told our husbands to protect Sienna like she was their own sister. That’s why Adrian and Jack have been practically joined at the hip with her since childhood. “And now, according to the script of this ridiculous life, as soon as Sienna returns, the three of them are going to manipulate Mom into adopting her, showering her with affection. Where does that leave us? Our days of lavish spending and carefree living will be over. I say we fake our own deaths.” Maya instantly agreed. “I’m with you. I’m going to pack my valuables right now. All the jewelry and designer bags I bought with Jack’s money over the last three years will fetch a pretty penny. We won’t starve.” She turned to leave Olivia’s room and walked straight into me. I had been standing outside the door, listening to every word. Maya’s face went white. “Mom,” she stammered. “H-how much did you hear?” A chill ran down my spine, but my chest felt like it was on fire. I was a paradox of ice and flame. I clenched my fists. “Is it true? Everything you said? That girl, Sienna… she’s really Serena’s daughter?” Maya looked helpless, glancing back at Olivia. “What do we do now? She’s not going to tell Adrian and Jack and ruin our plan, is she?” I grabbed each of them by the arm, my grip like iron. “Oh, I will,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Unless you take me with you.” 2 I thought back to last night, when Howard had wrapped his arm around me. “Darling,” he’d murmured, “haven’t you always wanted a daughter? A dear friend of mine in Europe passed away, leaving his only daughter all alone. She’s coming back to the States. Why don’t we adopt her? She could live with us, be the daughter you never had.” My sons, Adrian and Jack, had been there too, chiming in enthusiastically. “Yeah, Mom! Her name is Sienna. She’s amazing with adults. You’ll love her.” Ha. Oh, yes. Wonderful. The three most important men in my life were conspiring to stab me in the back. No wonder my eldest son, Adrian, had stormed home this morning and had a vicious fight with Olivia, grabbing her by the throat, his eyes bloodshot. “Sienna went missing right after her plane landed! Did you have her kidnapped?” I’d rushed in, telling him to let go, asking if there had been some misunderstanding. But Howard had pulled me aside, his anger even greater than our son’s. “What misunderstanding could there be? Olivia, tell us right now! Where did you take Sienna?” It all made sense now. Of course Howard was more frantic than his own son. Sienna was the daughter of his one true love. A flood of memories washed over me. I remembered a conversation between Adrian and Jack when they were five. “Daddy, can Sienna’s mommy be our mommy?” “I really want Sienna’s mommy to be our mommy.” “Then Sienna could be our sister and live with us!” “We want to play with Sienna and protect her forever.” I had asked them then, “Who’s Sienna?” I remembered Howard’s stern face as he reprimanded them. “Don’t talk nonsense!” Then he’d turned to me, his voice strained. “Just the daughter of a friend from abroad. She’s adorable, and these two rascals took one look and are already fighting over who gets to be her big brother.” I had ignored how his eyes darted away, how his voice was laced with guilt. How utterly laughable. I had sacrificed my career, my ambitions, everything, for these three men. And this was how they repaid me? I felt as if all the strength had been drained from my body. I swayed on my feet. I looked at my two daughters-in-law, who saw the world with such brutal clarity. When your man loves you, you shop. When he doesn’t, you pack your bags and go. In that moment, I felt like the biggest fool in the world. Fearing they would think I was too old and refuse to take me, I made a decision. “Howard has a safe in his study,” I said, my voice firm. “Inside, there are one hundred 500-gram gold bars. If you take me with you, I’ll go empty it right now. From now on, whatever you want to eat, drink, or buy, it’s on me.” 3 Their eyes lit up. They looked like they wanted to kiss my feet. Olivia spoke first. “Mom, honestly, we’ve wanted to team up with you and burn this whole script to the ground for ages. The truth is, we’re not from this world. Three years ago, my best friend and I were in a car crash and woke up here, married into the Hawthorne family. Some ‘system’ told me my mission was to win over the CEO brother, while she had to be the devoted fangirl to the surgeon brother. “But the story dictates that as soon as the real heroine, Sienna, returns, your sons will go completely insane for her. They’ll even convince you to adopt her. You’ve always dreamed of having a daughter, and Sienna is meant to fill that void. You’d spoil her rotten, buy her anything she wants. You wouldn’t find out who she really is until you’re seventy, and then you’d divorce him in a rage. But that’s no way to live. It’s better to wake up now and get the hell out.” Maya gritted her teeth. “She’s right, Mom. If you want daughters, let us be your daughters. We’ll show you how to live. With your money, we can find any young, handsome boy toy we want. The other day, Olivia and I went to a spa and hired ten gorgeous male therapists to wait on us. It was divine. We’ll take you next time. Isn’t that better than waiting on a stuffy old man?” She had a point. Good men were a dime a dozen. Why was I wasting my life on those three ungrateful wolves? My heart was a wasteland of ashes, but I managed a tearful smile. “Alright. I’m going to go clean out their secret stashes right now. And then, we’re faking our deaths.” 4 I went to the master bedroom to raid Howard’s safe. One hundred gold bars. I stuffed every last one into a large suitcase. As I grabbed the final bar, my fingers brushed against a hidden button. A secret compartment clicked open. Inside was an old photograph. The background was a breathtaking ski resort. There were five people in the photo. Two young boys were teaching a little girl how to ski. The two adults with them were a younger Howard and Serena Crest. In the photo, Howard was dashing, and Serena was young and vibrant, her long hair blowing in the wind. It was a candid shot. They looked like a perfect, happy family of five. I clutched the photograph, my world shaking, my hands trembling uncontrollably. This was worse, so much worse, than what my daughters-in-law had told me. A sharper, more vicious blow to the heart. So it was all true. I wanted to storm up to Howard, throw the picture in his face, and demand to know why. Why had he done this to me? It wasn’t me who had refused the divorce all those years ago. Why cling to me with one hand while secretly taking our sons on dates with his old flame? And turning my own sons against me, making them worship her daughter? It was disgusting. I felt sick. Suddenly, a low voice came from behind me. “What are you doing in my safe? Why are all the gold bars out?” 5 It was Howard. A jolt went through me. I couldn’t let him find out my plan. Before he could ask another question, I went on the offensive. I threw the photo at him, my eyes welling with tears. “What is this? Explain this to me! Howard Hawthorne, how could you do this to me?” His eyes flickered with guilt for a split second before his usual calm, authoritative mask settled back into place. “It’s just an old photograph, Eleanor. Don’t make a scene. It’s ancient history. Not worth mentioning.” Seeing my tear-filled eyes, he softened his tone. “If you must have an explanation, fine. Serena’s daughter had a rare form of autism back then. Her therapist said that interacting with her peers could help. I only took the boys to go skiing with them because I felt sorry for the child. That’s all. There was nothing between Serena and me.” He was still lying to me. If there was nothing between them, why hide the photo in a secret compartment of his safe? A sharp pain lanced through my heart. I fought back the tears. “I want a divorce.” Howard’s eyes widened in shock. “What did you say?” I zipped up the suitcase, my heart cold and empty. “I said, a divorce. I’ll take the gold bars, you can have everything else. It’s a fair deal.” He was so angry he used my full name. “Eleanor Hawthorne, have you lost your mind? I’m giving you one more chance. Take back what you just said.” No more chances. I laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “I’m not the crazy one here. That missing girl you’re all so frantically searching for, that’s the girl in the picture, isn’t it? And you wanted me to adopt her? Howard, what is wrong with you? Are you even human? Since you want her as a daughter so badly, I’ll step aside. I’ll make way for her. Isn’t that what you want?” He panicked, grabbing me in a fierce, possessive embrace, just like when we were young. He snatched the photo from my hand, threw it on the floor, and ground it under his heel, as if that would prove his point. “See? I don’t care about this old picture. Stop this nonsense, Eleanor. Be good.” I shoved him away with all my might and slapped him across the face, hard. I was done being good. “Eleanor, get back here!” I dragged the suitcase filled with one hundred gold bars and ran like my life depended on it.

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My best friend got divorced. When I said I wanted one too, everyone laughed. My husband, Blake, laughed the loudest. “Your friend has a career and a degree. She can be beautiful and independent without a man. Do you have a degree? Do you have your own money? And you dare to talk about divorce?” I dropped out of an Ivy League school to help him build his company from the ground up. Now, that was a stain on my record. He thought I was no longer good enough for him. Seeing my silence, Blake’s laughter grew louder, crueler. “So why are you even trying to keep up? What would you have without me? Could you even survive? You want to be like her? You’re not worthy.” “Yes,” I said quietly. “I can.” I thought Blake was hilarious. I could walk away with half his fortune. I could go anywhere, find any man I wanted. Why couldn’t I survive? 1 The laughter in the private lounge intensified. Even my best friend, Phoebe, was teasing me. “Zoe, you adore your Blake. You’d never leave him. Besides, where would you find a man as good as him?” Blake sipped his whiskey, his arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring. “She’s just getting ahead of herself. Thinks she can leave me and find someone with my kind of status.” One of Blake’s friends nearly fell off his chair laughing. “Zoe, if you actually divorce Blake, I’ll do a handstand and take a crap, I swear!” Another one chimed in immediately. “Hahaha! You’d have to take laxatives for that! I’ll be there to film it!” “Hahahaha!” Even the young hostess sitting next to Blake giggled. “Mrs. Thorne, we all know you’d never leave Mr. Thorne! A man like him? If you let him go, there’s a line of women waiting to take your place.” This was Hannah, the girl from the club who served the drinks. She knew perfectly well I was Blake’s wife, but she was still pressed up against him, her body practically draped over his. No one seemed to think anything of it. After her comment, the room erupted in another wave of laughter. I usually hated places like this. I only came tonight because Phoebe was celebrating her newfound freedom. I turned to Hannah first. “So, that line of women includes you, then?” The smile froze on her face. “Mrs. Thorne, I was just kidding! Mr. Thorne would never be interested in me!” She pouted and looked at Blake. “She can’t even take a joke!” Blake’s smile had vanished. His expression was unreadable. “I was joking too,” I said, my voice flat. “Why are you so worked up? Can’t you take a joke?” Hannah opened her mouth to retort, but a subtle shift in Blake’s expression stopped her. She lowered her head, her eyes red with fake tears, and started pouring drinks for everyone. Blake’s Friend #1, clearly feeling sorry for the hostess, grumbled at me, “It was a joke, Zoe! Everyone knows Blake is yours. No one’s trying to steal him! He’d never divorce you, you can relax!” I looked at him, my face a mask of calm. “So, when I do get a divorce, you’ll be here first thing to perform your spinning handstand shit, right?” He was speechless. Friend #2 slapped the table, laughing even harder. “Zoe, you’re hilarious! Hahaha! The way she says it with a straight face is so funny! Hahahaha!” I turned my calm gaze on him. “And when he starts his performance, please make sure you stand close. Get an even coating. Then send me the video. I’ll post it online so everyone can enjoy it.” He stared at me, dumbfounded. The jovial atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a strange, tense silence. This was Phoebe’s party. She tried to break the awkwardness. But I wasn’t done with her either. “He’s such a great man, my husband. Why don’t I give him to you? You’re single now. You two would make a perfect pair. What do you think?” Phoebe stared at me, a whole segment of orange in her mouth. She forgot to chew, swallowing it whole. “Cough, cough, cough…” Finally, I looked at Blake. Every eye in the room followed mine. His brow was furrowed so tightly it could have crushed a fly. “Zoe! Everyone is just joking. What is the point of making this so awkward? Apologize to them. Now.” “No, no, it’s fine!” Phoebe said quickly. “Zoe and I always talk like this. She was just kidding! Today is about celebrating my new life. Zoe, don’t be a spoilsport. Let’s raise a glass to me!” “To Phoebe!” “To being single!” Everyone stood up. Phoebe was trying to defuse the situation. So I smashed my glass on the floor, letting the “spoilsport” act play out to its conclusion. Blake exploded. He flipped the entire coffee table over. “Zoe! I’ve given you enough slack! Phoebe gave you an out, and you wouldn’t take it! What, you think you’re better than all of us? If you don’t apologize today, I’m divorcing you!” “Fine. Let’s do it.” I took out my phone and sent him the divorce agreement. “Read the terms. If you have no objections, I’ll print it out tonight, and you can sign.” Blake’s rage turned to shock, then to utter disbelief. He looked up, searching my face for any sign that I was joking. He must have seen it clearly—the date on the document was from six months ago. I grabbed my purse and left without a backward glance. I had long since grown sick of these self-important “high-society” gatherings. They always used me as the butt of their jokes, and Blake always laughed along with them. I had told him before, “Don’t invite me to these things anymore. I don’t like it.” He’d said, “They’re my business partners, my friends. You’re my wife. You need to get along with them. Besides, they’re just joking. Zoe, you’re not a child. Why can’t you take a joke? Don’t be so sensitive.” He always said that. Sometimes, I wondered if I really was too sensitive. I asked Phoebe once. She was a successful career woman; her opinion held weight. “Blake’s company is just getting started,” she’d said. “His friends are just teasing you to have some fun, to make conversation. It’s business. Don’t take it seriously. It’s all for Blake’s career.” Later, Blake’s company grew more and more successful. His “partners” became his clients. They depended on him for their livelihood. But they still used me as their favorite topic of conversation whenever I was around. Even the hostesses and waitstaff felt free to laugh at my expense. And Blake would still say, “Don’t be so petty. It’s just a joke.” Yes, they got used to joking. And I got used to being the joke. But I knew the reason they didn’t respect me was because Blake didn’t respect me. They were just trying to please him. 2 Blake’s Friend #1 brought him home. He was completely drunk. “Zoe, he’s all yours. I-I’m leaving!” He didn’t dare say another word and scurried away. See? Even a doormat can grow thorns if it stands up for itself just once. I had always held back for Blake’s sake, because I respected him and his degenerate friends. “Water… water…” Blake mumbled, leaning heavily on my shoulder. I helped him into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and aimed the spray at his mouth. He drank greedily, then slid down the wall and fell asleep on the tiled floor. I went back to our room and went to sleep. The next morning, I woke to the sound of Blake roaring. “Zoe! You just left me to sleep in the bathroom! Ah-choo! Where’s breakfast? Where’s my hangover cure? Why is there nothing to eat?” The doorbell rang. My takeout had arrived. I walked past the fuming Blake and grabbed my food. “Don’t even look. I ordered for one. If you’re hungry, order your own.” Blake’s chest heaved. He slapped the food out of my hands, sending it splattering across the floor. “You’ve been acting crazy since last night! Are you tired of this life or something?” “Yes.” He froze, seeing the calm on my face. A flicker of panic crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Are you trying to start a rebellion?” “We’re a married couple, not a monarchy. It’s not a rebellion. It’s an irreconcilable difference.” I placed the printed divorce agreement in front of him. “Sign it.” His laugh was cold. “For seven years, every penny in this house was earned by me. What have you contributed, besides cooking my meals and washing my clothes? And you have the nerve to ask for a divorce? Have you no shame? Your friend Phoebe is an Ivy League graduate. She’s got money, looks, and a career. Her husband wasn’t good enough for her, so she could trade up. You? What do you have without me? You want to be like her? You’re not worthy. “Last night, everyone was just joking around. And you’re blowing it up into this? Have I ever mistreated you? Women your age are slaving away in corporate jobs, living in tiny apartments. You’re a pampered wife in a mansion with a luxury car. I don’t get it. What more could you possibly want? Do you know how many women are after me out there? How much temptation I face? But I’ve never cheated on you! Zoe, have things been too easy for you? Are you looking for trouble?” I couldn’t remember the last time he had said so much to me at once. “Stop having a meltdown,” I said calmly. “Just sign it, and we can go to the courthouse. It’s open by now. I’ll head over first. Don’t be late.” In an argument, the one who talks the most loses. At least, that’s how it was with us. It used to be me, always apologizing, trying to smooth things over, then making him dinner and running his bath. Blake saw that his long speech had earned him nothing but a flat, indifferent reply. He snapped. “Fine! Have it your way! Zoe, don’t you dare regret this! After the divorce, I’ll be a prime bachelor, and you’ll be a washed-up divorcée! We’ll see who remarries first!” 3 It turned out getting a divorce was more complicated than I thought. There was a mandatory one-month “cooling-off” period. If either party changed their mind, the whole process had to start over. As we left the municipal building, I asked him, “You’re not going to change your mind, are you? Because starting the cooling-off period all over again would be really inconvenient for me.” Blake’s face, which had just regained some composure, turned crimson with rage again. I had stolen his line. “Zoe! You are unbelievable! I can’t wait to see how you survive without me.” He pulled out his phone and sent a voice message to his group chat. “Boys, time to celebrate! I’m getting a divorce! Let the pre-bachelor party begin!” I was in that group, too. It was the one Phoebe had made last night. All his friends and the hostess, Hannah, were in it. Hannah was the first to reply with a fireworks emoji. The others followed suit. Only Phoebe sent a question mark. 【Wait, are you guys serious?】 Blake replied: 【Zoe insisted. I’m just giving her what she wants.】 Phoebe immediately tagged me: 【Zoe, they were just joking yesterday. Why are you taking it so seriously? Just apologize to Blake and let it go! Where would you even go without him, honey?】 Blake stood beside me, preening like a peacock. His expression said it all: See? You have no friends. Even your best friend is on my side. Just apologize, and we can call this whole thing off. I pressed the record button. “I get half his assets. I can go anywhere I want. And I can find any man I want.” The silence in the group chat was deafening. Blake stared at me, stunned. “Zoe,” he finally managed, “I dare you.” He threw the words at me like a gauntlet and stormed off. Despite his temper, Blake had never been stingy. He gave me a three-million-dollar monthly allowance, which I barely touched and deposited into our joint account. He had seen the divorce agreement and signed it. He had agreed to the terms, which clearly stated the division of assets. When the day came, he would give me my share. Phoebe, probably feeling guilty, came to my house to talk me out of it. “Blake isn’t cheating on you. At his level, women throw themselves at him. Hell, even at my level, young guys hit on me all the time, and I can’t always resist. But Blake just flirts a little. He never crosses the line! You’re being ridiculous. He gives you three million a month and he’s faithful to you. What are you complaining about? Are you seeing someone else?” That was her conclusion. What Phoebe didn’t realize was that I had stopped wanting to hang out with her a long time ago. Whenever she asked, I’d make excuses. We used to be inseparable. But after we got married, things changed. Phoebe’s husband was an underachiever from a poor background who couldn’t handle his wife’s success. She was always complaining about how useless he was. And after complaining, she’d always say, with a sigh of envy, “I wish I were as lucky as you, finding a man like Blake. If I had a husband like that to go to bed with every night, I’d be smiling in my sleep.” She said it to my face, and she said it in front of Blake. Over time, it made me more and more insecure. I was always afraid he would leave me. Blake was my high school sweetheart. He went to a state college, then started his own business after graduation. I was in my sophomore year at an Ivy League school. Blake told me that even the best education just leads to a life of corporate slavery. It was better to be your own boss. He asked me to drop out and join him. The day I left school, my parents’ world collapsed. They locked me in my room to keep me from him. I climbed out the window and took a bus to the city that night. During those early years, we lived in a basement, slept on park benches, and collected cans and bottles to survive. Life was hard, but I never once thought about leaving him. Later, when his company took off, he came back with me to see my parents. He knelt before them, offering them sacks of cash. He built them a luxury villa and donated generously to our hometown. At every donation ceremony, he would proudly declare, “This is my wife’s hometown, which means it’s my hometown. Without my wife, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” My parents were so proud. They thought I had married the perfect man. The whole town held me up as an example. “Marry a good man like Zoe,” they’d tell their daughters. Back then, Blake gave me all the respect and recognition I could ever want. I could see the love for me in his eyes. But now, he just sat there and laughed while his friends made a mockery of me. He had become arrogant, always looking down on me from his pedestal, as if I were nothing more than a kept woman. He didn’t respect me anymore. Maybe… he just didn’t love me anymore. And love, it seems, can disappear. After Phoebe left, my parents came. “What is all this nonsense? Is Blake not good to you? You’re a housewife with no degree, no skills, no career. What will you do without him? Phoebe told me he’s not even cheating on you. He’s done nothing wrong. For someone with your qualifications, a man like Blake is the best you can do. You’ll never find anyone better if you divorce him!” They were the ones who had tried to stop me from marrying him all those years ago. Now they were the ones trying to stop me from divorcing him. I really didn’t understand.

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I flash-married the brilliant, aloof professor I’ve known since we were kids. She practically lives in her lab, never coming home. So when the end-of-term faculty reviews came around, I decided to get some petty revenge. Anonymously, of course. 【Don’t be fooled by that slim waist and killer body. She’s totally frigid.】 【Seriously. The girl at the flower shop downstairs has more warmth.】 Except my cover got blown. That very night, she cornered me in the bathroom. “Frigid, am I?” “Louise, baby, I was wrong…” 1 As the semester drew to a close, Blackwood University launched its new faculty review platform. It was open to everyone, and you could post anonymously. 【OMG, Professor Reed, I LOVE YOU!】 【So gorgeous, and that body… when she wore glasses last week, I died! A total goddess!】 【I’m single, she’s single. Aren’t we a match made in heaven?】 Within an hour of going live, the platform was flooded with over a thousand comments for her. Dr. Louise Reed’s popularity shot straight to number one. I was huddled under my covers, scrolling through my phone, the screen casting a sickly green glow over my face. I could feel the jealousy churning in my gut. A soft sound came from outside my room. Louise must be home. This late again! Is quantum mechanics really that much more interesting than her own husband? Fuming, I tapped out two comments of my own: 【Don’t be fooled by that slim waist and killer body. She’s totally frigid.】 【Seriously. The girl at the flower shop downstairs has more warmth.】 Just then, the door to my room opened with a faint click. I slammed my phone shut, squeezed my eyes closed, and pretended to be asleep. The intruder seemed to stand by my bed for a long moment, the silence thick with unspoken words. Then, just as quietly, the door clicked shut again. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Strange. Does she check on me like this every night after I’ve fallen asleep? 2 My name is Leo Wallace, an associate professor at Blackwood University. A month ago, I got flash-married. My bride was Louise Reed, a woman I’ve known for over twenty years. She’s been the brilliant, intimidating shadow hanging over my entire life. A child prodigy who skipped grades, won national science competitions, and got a full scholarship to MIT before I was even out of middle school. By the time I was slogging through high school, she was already in a combined PhD program. She was the first person I’d ever met who’d done their undergrad, master’s, and PhD all at the same elite institution. Our marriage was sealed over a single dinner between our two families. My parents were over the moon about getting such an exceptional daughter-in-law. By all accounts, I was the one who’d lucked out. The strangest part? Louise actually agreed. But she had conditions. As our parents hammered out the details, Louise lifted her cool, indifferent eyes and gave me a clinical once-over. I’d been sneaking glances at her, and our eyes met for a split second. My heart leaped into my throat, and I straightened my back instinctively. “Fine,” she said, her voice even. “But no wedding for now. And… we keep it private.” A flicker of joy ignited in me when she said yes, only to be immediately extinguished by her terms. It sank to the pit of my stomach. If you despise me so much, why even agree to this? I shot her a confused look, but our eyes collided again. I quickly looked away, a fresh wave of panic washing over me. What if she mistook my confusion for displeasure and called the whole thing off? I felt like a thief, stealing the title of ‘husband’ first. I’d figure out the rest later. Because the pathetic truth was, I was hopelessly in love with her. 3 Everyone at Blackwood University knew that Louise Reed and I did not get along. To put it mildly, we were academic rivals of the highest order. Her domain was theoretical physics; mine was experimental. She was a full professor; I was still an associate. With her razor-sharp tongue, she could eviscerate my field of research, making it sound like I did nothing but trudge along behind her, mindlessly verifying her brilliant theories. “You’ll always just be following in my footsteps.” That was her assessment of my academic career. It felt more like a verdict on my entire life. And yet, after every bitter argument, a few days would pass, I’d see her face, and completely forget what we were even fighting about. I’d trail after her like a whipped puppy, only to get drawn into another debate I couldn’t win, leaving me seething with impotent rage. The department head, fearing we’d eventually come to blows, had strategically placed our offices at opposite ends of the hallway, separated by an entire staircase. If it weren’t for the occasional faculty meeting, we’d never have to see each other. I just never imagined that after moving into our new home, we’d see each other even less. The house, conveniently located near campus, was a wedding gift from our families, fully furnished and ready. We moved in together. In the master bedroom, the bed was made up with a ridiculously ornate red satin bedding set, the kind embroidered with swans or something equally cliché. It was so gaudy it made my ears burn. I stared at the matching slippers on the floor, avoiding her gaze. Then, Louise’s calm voice cut through the silence. “I’ll take the master. You can have any of the other rooms.” My heart plummeted. “We’re married,” I muttered under my breath, my voice laced with disappointment. “What are you so afraid of? That I’m going to do something to you?” “What was that?” Louise asked, not having caught my words. “Nothing,” I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just said it’s a good thing this house has so many rooms, or we’d be in real trouble.” She was silent for a half-second before her voice came out, low and tight. “Leo, back at that dinner, when our parents were deciding everything… you never said a word. So, what was your stance? Were you for it, or against it?” My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat I was sure she could hear. I shot a panicked glance at her, terrified she’d sense my turmoil. After a long pause, I managed to say, “In that situation… did it look like I had any say in the matter?” I couldn’t meet her eyes, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. I heard her jaw tighten. “Fine.” With that, she pushed open the master bedroom door, and it slammed shut with a deafening bang. Leaving me standing alone on the other side. Was she… angry? 4 I chose the bedroom right next to the master suite. In the month since we’d gotten our marriage license, the only time I’d seen Louise was the day we moved in. We saw each other less now than we did before we were married. My mornings started after she’d already left for the university. During the day, we were like two warring kings in the same castle, never crossing paths. And at night, she’d be holed up in her lab, wrestling with the mysteries of quantum mechanics. By the time she came home, I’d long since been asleep. She was a ghost in our own home, and I was too stubborn to reach out. It was a silent, childish standoff—no contact, no communication. Honestly, the cute, bubbly girl who worked at the flower shop downstairs gave me more emotional fulfillment than my own wife. At least her flowers were genuinely beautiful. 5 My internal clock woke me at seven a.m. sharp. As expected, Louise’s room was empty. On my way to campus, I couldn’t shake the feeling that people were staring at me. I’d catch them out of the corner of my eye, their gazes lingering a moment too long. It was unnerving. I turned to look, and a group of students—they looked like physics majors—quickly ducked their heads, whispering and snickering as they scurried away. The strange looks continued all the way to my lab. My colleagues were grinning at me, a mischievous glint in their eyes. Professor Miller from the lab next door came over, clutching his thermos. “Leo, my boy, you’ve really done it this time!” he said, a wide smile splitting his face. “Well, you know,” I said, puffing out my chest. I’d just had a paper published in a major journal, and the impact factor was something to be proud of. Miller chuckled. “You should have seen the look on Professor Reed’s face when she came in this morning. It was black as thunder.” “What? She was jealous?” I was floored. Louise was the queen of publications; you could probably wallpaper the physics building with her papers. Why would she be jealous of me? Miller adjusted his glasses. “She’s a competitive woman, you know that. Especially when it comes to you!” I started to wonder if my paper contained some groundbreaking discovery I’d overlooked, something that had truly rattled her. He clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. If she tries to hurt you, I’ll call the cops for you.” “Huh? It won’t come to that, will it?” I was dumbfounded. Even at the height of our worst arguments, Louise had never laid a hand on me. He nodded gravely. “Of course! You called her frigid and said she’s worse than the girl from the flower shop. How could she not take that as a declaration of war?” “Ah.” A cold, dawning horror washed over me. I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. I fumbled for my phone and pulled up the review platform. There, on the crisp white screen, in bold black letters where the anonymous username should have been, it said: 【Leo Wallace】. 6 I grabbed my bag. I shot a quick text to my TA, telling him to cover my undergraduate lecture. Clutching my belongings, I made a break for the stairwell at my end of the hall. I couldn’t believe it. How could I have made such a stupid mistake? Forgetting to post anonymously when I was trash-talking Louise? I deserved whatever was coming to me. The stairwell was dim, the motion-sensor lights notoriously unreliable, plunging me into near-total darkness. I was staring down at my phone, not watching where I was going, when my foot missed a step. I pitched forward, hurtling into the blackness. I collided with someone who was coming up around the landing. The impact was surprisingly soft. They smelled incredible. Even in that brief, chaotic moment, I could tell they were in amazing shape. There was a hint of familiarity to them, too. We have someone this hot in our department? “Sorry about that! Thanks!” I said, steadying myself. But instead of letting go, the person grabbed my arm and pressed me against the wall. The force wasn’t rough, but it was so unexpected that I stumbled back, my body flush against the cool concrete. As their face drew closer, my eyes adjusted to the gloom. My brain short-circuited. Every alarm bell in my head started screaming. It was Louise. Her eyes were blazing with fury, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “Leo. Have I been too lenient with you?” “Lenient? No, not at all!” I said, playing dumb. “What’s this about you and the flower shop girl?” she asked, her voice tight with anger. Wait, that’s what she’s focused on? A tiny, hopeful spark ignited in the darkness of my panic. I looked up at her, my heart starting to race with a different kind of emotion. “Louise? Where are you?” A smooth, deep male voice echoed up from the bottom of the stairwell. My heart gave a painful lurch. I followed the sound and saw a tall, slender man with a refined, artistic air making his way slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. It was Nathan Vance. The moment he saw us, Louise shoved me away. It was a frantic, reflexive movement, as if she were flinging away something dirty she’d accidentally touched. She pushed me. My back only brushed lightly against the wall, but a sharp pain shot through my entire body. What was she so afraid of? 7 As Nathan reached our landing, the faint light caught our faces. He was using a single crutch. His eyes flickered over my face for a second before a charming smile spread across his lips. “Louise, darling, don’t be angry. Leo was just teasing you. You know how easily he gets flustered.” Louise’s gaze never left Nathan’s face. Nathan Vance was a dance instructor in the arts department, a rising star in the dance world. He had to have heard about my disastrous comment on the review platform. This was a private matter between my wife and me, yet here he was, swooping in to defend me as if he were her closest confidant. Were we even that close? I stared at Louise, waiting for her reaction. “Hmph. I can’t be bothered,” she said, her voice low. She went along with Nathan’s excuse, and with her words, my heart sank a little deeper. Louise shot me a sideways glance, her voice laced with a faint, dismissive smile. “So childish.” My throat felt raw. I changed the subject. “Nathan, what happened to your leg?” “Sprained my ankle during rehearsal,” he said, his handsome brow furrowed in a mask of stoic pain. “Still hurts a bit.” Louise’s own brow furrowed in concern. “I told you to wait for me downstairs. Why did you come up?” “Oh, Louise,” Nathan said with a gentle smile. “I was hoping I could rest in your office for a bit.” I rolled my eyes so hard I’m surprised they didn’t get stuck. He managed to climb three flights of stairs on that “sprained” ankle? Give it five more minutes and he’d be miraculously healed. “Alright, come on then,” Louise sighed, her voice softening with resignation. “Do you want some coffee?” She didn’t spare me another glance. She just turned and helped Nathan the rest of the way up the stairs, heading toward her office. The sight of them, him leaning on her, her supporting him, was like a perfectly composed photograph. Nathan, the sophisticated, mature artist. And me? The childish fool. Clearly, I was no match for her composure. 8 Nathan, Louise, and I had all known each other since we were kids. His father was a minor shareholder on the board of her family’s corporation. But Louise’s grandfather had always been fond of Nathan, viewing him as a potential grandson-in-law. So, Nathan’s parents raised him with the specific goal of one day marrying into Louise’s family. The two of them had always been closer. While my parents were using Louise as the golden standard to push me through a grueling gauntlet of cram schools, competitions, and exams that left me breathless, Nathan was learning piano, ballet, and calligraphy. He cultivated an air of refined elegance, an artist to his core. And he was genuinely talented, winning international awards for his solo dance choreographies and amassing a legion of online fans. He’d always positioned himself as Louise’s closest male friend, her platonic soulmate. He probably had no idea that I had intercepted his grand prize. I used to envy his life. Louise was always gentle and kind to Nathan. But the moment she saw me, her brow would furrow, and she’d find a million things to criticize. Marrying me must have been a huge sacrifice for her. 9 Right before my last class of the day, a message from Louise lit up my phone: 【We’re talking tonight. You’re going to explain to me exactly what you mean by ‘frigid’.】 My hand trembled, and the phone nearly flew out of my grasp. What do I do? How can I possibly go home now? I’d be walking into a death trap. I spent the last few minutes of my lecture in a daze, barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth. Terrified, I accepted an invitation to a small get-together with a few colleagues from the physics department. My plan was to use it as an excuse to get home late. Maybe with a little liquid courage, I’d be brave enough to face her. I never, ever expected to see Louise at the same gathering. Professor Miller had invited me. Someone else had invited her. Clearly, they hadn’t coordinated. The moment we locked eyes across the private room of the Japanese restaurant, the air crackled with a palpable, suffocating awkwardness. Our colleagues looked like they wanted to bolt. I grabbed Professor Miller’s arm, hissing, “You didn’t tell me she was coming!” “It’s all Professor Thorne’s fault!” he whimpered, his face a mask of despair. When we sat down, I made sure to take the seat furthest from Louise. One of our colleagues, trying to break the tension, asked with a laugh, “Professor Reed, you never come to these things. What brings you out tonight?” Louise flashed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just felt like joining the fun.” Her gaze, sharp and meaningful, landed directly on me. “After all,” she continued, drawing out each word, “it’s not like there’s anyone waiting at home.” I coughed, pretending I hadn’t seen her pointed stare. Everyone tacitly avoided the topic of our rivalry. But after a few rounds of drinks, things inevitably got messy. Dinner wound down, and the group decided to move on to a karaoke bar for round two. I raised my hand, announcing I was ready to head home. To my horror, Louise spoke up at the same time. “I’m a bit tired, too.” I panicked. Her next words would be “I’m going home too,” and that would be it. Here, surrounded by people, a direct confrontation was unlikely. But at home, just the two of us? I didn’t stand a chance. “On second thought,” I said quickly, “I think I’ll hang out with you guys a little longer.” Our colleagues howled their off-key songs while Louise and I occupied opposite ends of the long sofa, a silent buffer of people between us. After an hour of terrible singing, the novelty wore off, and someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare. A group of middle-aged professors roared with excitement around an empty beer bottle. The bottle spun, slowing to a stop, its neck pointing directly at Louise. Before anyone could even ask, she said, “Truth.” Professor Thorne thought for a moment. “Professor Reed, do you have a boyfriend?” A wave of knowing smiles passed through our colleagues. They all knew that Louise, the untouchable ice queen of the department, kept everyone at arm’s length—except for Nathan Vance from the arts department. The entire campus assumed they were in a “will-they-won’t-they” romance. Louise looked up, her eyes shining in the dim, colorful lights of the karaoke room. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, as if sparked by a happy memory. She parted her lips and said, “No. But there is a guy I have a crush on.” A chorus of whoops and hollers erupted. Someone was on the verge of shouting Nathan’s name. Beside me, Professor Miller whispered excitedly, “I knew it! My ship is sailing!” I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. So that’s what it looked like when she smiled for real. It was because she was thinking of Nathan. And what did that make me? 10 Even though the bottle never landed on me, I drank anyway, matching every “dare” and “truth” with another glass of beer. One by one, the beers went down, until the world blurred and I could no longer make out Louise’s face across the room. Good. If I couldn’t see her, I couldn’t be tormented by her. But why, even in my drunken haze, did her face still haunt my dreams? By the end of the night, I was completely gone, my soul having ascended to another plane. I have no memory of how I got home. Through a thick fog, I heard Louise’s voice, flat and detached. “I live near him. I’ll take him home.” Someone else said something I couldn’t catch. A cold laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not that petty. He’ll live.” … Later, I felt a warm, damp cloth wiping my face. The sensation brought me back to a sliver of consciousness. I cracked my eyes open. In the soft, golden glow of the lamp, Louise’s beautiful, delicate features were softened, making her look breathtakingly gentle. She looked exactly like the Louise from my dreams. See? I thought. She’s so much nicer in dreams. My hand moved on its own, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “Who’s better looking,” I slurred, “me or Nathan?” Louise arched an eyebrow. “What a ridiculous question.” “You like him that much, huh?” She fell silent for a moment, then asked in a low voice, “Who told you that?” She was afraid. Afraid I knew about them and would tell her parents. Bolstered by alcohol, a surge of recklessness washed over me. “Give me a kiss,” I demanded, “and I won’t tell your mom and dad.” Under the soft lamplight, her expression was so unnervingly calm it made me want to run. The booze had ignited a fire in me. I pushed myself up, grabbed the back of her head with both hands, and pulled her down, tilting my own head up to meet her lips. The instant my lips brushed against hers, a powerful force shoved me backward. I landed hard on the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath me. The ceiling fan spun wildly above me, and a wave of nausea rose in my throat. Louise’s voice, flat and laced with disgust, cut through the haze. “Leo, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” A volatile mix of ice and fire churned in my chest. My brain stalled for a half-second before I scrambled off the bed and lurched toward the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. The bitter, acidic bile burned my throat. My stomach cramped painfully. My eyes were red, my face streaked with tears. Perfect. Now she wouldn’t know that the tears weren’t just from being sick. I heard footsteps approach. A warm hand gently rubbed my back. It was Louise. I wanted to ask her if this was how she took care of Nathan when he was drunk. But I had no strength left to speak. I slumped to the floor and passed out. In that final moment before darkness took me, a single, lucid thought fought its way through the fog. In that split second, I finally understood why I was in so much pain. It wasn’t just the hangover. It was because I was completely, hopelessly in love with Louise.

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I was reborn into a world of mud and misery, a serf with a terrifyingly high chance of being sold into a brothel. My modern education hadn’t included soap-making or gunpowder formulation, and the invisible hand of the market wasn’t about to reach down and pull me out of the muck. Maybe if I’d been reborn as a member of the ruling class, I might have wanted to stay. But as it was, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: I just wanted to go home. 1 The moment I gained consciousness in this life, I saw the leaking thatch roof and the low, mud-caked walls of our hovel. I knew instantly that I’d been dealt the worst possible hand. As a tiny, scrawny child, there was nothing to do but endure. I’d just managed to reach the age of seven when the river flooded. When the waters receded, only my father and I were left from our family of six. My father wrapped the bodies of my mother and my little siblings in straw mats. Then, he took my hand, and we began our life as beggars on the road. The river of refugees grew with every passing day, a desperate tide of humanity where people fought to the death for a single mouthful of food. After three days of gnawing hunger, my father sold me for four hard, tasteless buns. His sunken eyes were too dry for tears. “Don’t hate me, girl,” he rasped. “Stay with me, and you’ll starve. You be good, listen to your new master, and maybe you’ll have a chance to live.” As I was led to the fleshmonger’s cart, I couldn’t bring myself to look back at him. He had no choice. The eyes of the other refugees were already glowing with a feral, green light. If we’d stayed any longer, I would have been the next meal on their fire. So much for a fresh start. My bowl was shattered, and my life was now bound by a contract of indenture. From now on, my life belonged to my master. That was the first lesson the fleshmonger taught me. 2 The wheels of the cart groaned, day after day. The collection of little girls in the cart grew steadily larger. Two months later, with a full cargo of cleaned-up, terrified children, he sold us to the estate of the Marquis Valerius. I admit, I complained about my nine-to-five job in my past life, but surely I hadn’t sinned enough to deserve this—a life as a literal serf with no rights to speak of. The matron who came to purchase us inspected us like livestock, checking our hands, feet, and teeth with a practiced, callous eye. She selected eight of us. The girls who were rejected wept uncontrollably. The Marquis’s estate was a good placement. The remaining destinations were places of unspeakable horror, where you weren’t even a beast of burden. You were just flesh. This accursed feudal society! But what could I do? I had no magic, no special skills. To survive, I had to accept the rules. I was one of the chosen eight. I clung to every word the fleshmonger had said, burning them into my memory. Learn the rules. Serve the master well. That was the only path to survival. 3 On my eighth birthday, I officially became a scullery maid at the Valerius Estate. That day, I was given a bowl of thin, almost translucent gruel, and it was the most blissful meal of my life. It was prepared by Matron Celia, the stern woman in charge of our training. Day by day, the gruel grew thicker. It wasn’t until the seventh day that we were each given half a loaf of bread. Though her face was like stone, Matron Celia was a good person. I knew she was being careful, easing our starved bodies back into eating, afraid that rich food would shock our systems and kill us. The House of Valerius was built on military glory, and it was run with iron discipline. The slightest mistake from a servant was punished with twenty lashes. On our third day, we were forced to watch as two indentured servants were beaten to death for a minor infraction. All eight of us were plagued by nightmares. Two of the more timid girls wet their beds in terror and were punished by being forced to wash laundry for two days straight. 4 I had no idea how to get home. All I could do was be a good, quiet maid. Just as I had been a diligent drone in my past life, I now poured all my energy into my new tasks. I swept the courtyards, stoked the fires, drew water, and fed the birds in the aviary, performing each duty with meticulous, repetitive precision. I tried to console myself. It wasn’t so different from drafting proposals, wrestling with spreadsheets, and creating PowerPoint presentations. A cubicle serf and a manor maid—just different kinds of labor. But I knew the truth. In my old life, labor laws might not have protected my overtime, but the civil code protected my life. A citizen’s rights were sacred. Here, my master could kill me as easily as swatting a fly, and no one would bat an eye. 5 Survival of the fittest. I was too afraid to die, so I had to endure. I had to claw and scrape for every breath. Four years passed. I was promoted from an unpaid apprentice to a scullery maid earning 100 coppers a month. Then, because the Dowager Marchioness praised how well I fed her birds, I was elevated to a second-rank maid in her personal service, with a monthly stipend of 400 coppers. 400 coppers wasn’t a small sum. One copper could buy a piece of flatbread; by modern standards, it was like making 800 a month. With money came motivation. I worked even harder. My degree was in management, a liberal art. The invisible hand of the market was useless to me here. I didn’t know the first thing about making soap or gunpowder, and I was clumsy with a needle and thread, the standard skills for women in this era. The only thing I truly excelled at was making pastries. So I poured my heart into it. If the old lady expressed even a flicker of interest in trying a new confection, I would spend a dozen hours perfecting it. In this household, the masters were the heavens. My performance review was whatever they said it was. Only by pleasing them could I hope for a better life. 6 In my fifteenth year, my superiors once again gave me a stellar review. The Dowager Marchioness herself praised me: “No one is more diligent or well-behaved. Her eyes see what needs to be done, and her heart is loyal to her masters. Promote her to a first-rank maid and send her to serve the Young Lord.” 7 The Young Lord, Lord Adrian, had been raised under the doting eye of the Dowager Marchioness. The century-old House of Valerius had but one heir, the Marquis’s only son. Compared to us, whose lives were worth less than dust, the Young Lord was a treasure beyond price. His new residence, the Jade Vine Pavilion, had been under construction for three years. It was a sprawling complex of layered courtyards, with carved balustrades, painted pillars, winding covered walkways, rock gardens, and ponds, beautiful in every season. The Dowager and the Marchioness spent two months carefully selecting a full staff to serve him. The inner court had two matrons, two first-rank maids, four second-rank maids, eight third-rank maids, and twelve scullery hands. Of the two matrons, Matron Celia was the Dowager’s old, trusted servant, sharp and capable. The other, Matron Willow, had been the Young Lord’s wet nurse, and she was gentle and attentive. The first-rank maids were Lyra, sent by the Marchioness—she was beautiful as a flower, with nimble fingers skilled at embroidery—and me. To complement Lyra’s name, the Young Lord named me Elara. My specialty was cooking and the art of tea. Lyra, with her beauty and quick, charming wit, soon grew familiar with the Young Lord, attending to his most personal needs. It was she who assisted him with his bathing and washing, she who was the “fragrant sleeve” by his side as he read. I, on the other hand, took over the tedious management of his three daily meals, his refreshments, social arrangements, and the inventory of his possessions. It was a thousand threads of trivial work, but I never complained. Every task is difficult at the start; only the dedicated succeed. A beast of burden must do every job to the best of its ability. Before long, I had a precise grasp of the Young Lord’s tastes and habits. He favored blue tunics, practiced calligraphy, enjoyed the sight of snow on green bamboo, preferred Lion’s Peak tea, and had a weakness for four-colored shortbread pastries. A slight shift of his eyes, a subtle lift of his brow, and I knew what he was thinking. He found me increasingly indispensable. 8 I had reached the pinnacle of my career path as a maid. It was time to find a new way forward. I was sixteen, the age when maids were typically matched for marriage. This meant that not only did I have no human rights, but I also had no say in who I would spend the rest of my life with. From here, there were only two paths. The first was to be married off to a footman or a guard. If my husband did well, I might become a housekeeper. I would spend my life as a serf, and then give birth to a new generation of serfs to continue serving the masters. The other path was to become a “bed-servant” for the master. If the future lady of the house was tolerant, I might be elevated to a mistress, becoming a semi-master myself. But if she was not, I wouldn’t even be able to keep my life. Lately, Matron Celia had been telling me in secret that the Dowager Marchioness had instructed her to choose a suitable girl for the Young Lord’s bed. “It is the custom of the house,” she whispered. “Before the heir weds, two maids are chosen for his chambers. It’s to… settle his heart, to prevent him from being corrupted by the women in the taverns and brothels. “These are hard times. Your indenture contract is unbreakable, but even if the master were merciful and freed you, what then? Another famine, and you’d see husbands selling their wives and children. It’s better to stay in the manor. And if you’re simply married off to some random footman, you’ll be a slave for the rest of your days. “The Dowager values your loyalty. She sent you here with the intention of making you one of the chosen. You’ve served her with all your heart. Now, turn that devotion to the Young Lord, and you might make something of yourself.” She was right. What would happen if I left? My parents were common folk, toiling their whole lives only to be torn apart by a single flood. Matron Celia had always looked out for me. This was the path she was laying out for me with all her heart. I had to consider it carefully. What was so bad about being a mistress? As long as I could live in peace. That night, I tossed and turned, tracing the Young Lord’s name on my palm. Adrian Valerius. A name as lofty and unreachable as a mountain peak. But it was better to take a gamble on a motorcycle than be shackled to a broken-down cart I didn’t choose. 9 Once my mind was made up, I slept soundly. When I awoke, I smoothed rouge onto my cheeks, applied color to my lips, and went out to conquer a new battlefield. Lyra must have heard the news as well. She had been dressing in brighter, more alluring clothes these past few days. The moment we saw each other, our intentions were laid bare in each other’s eyes. What little friendship we had evaporated in an instant. Her gaze was now sharp with suspicion. In the competition to win a place in the lord’s bed, we were now rivals. It was every woman for herself. The moment Lord Adrian returned, Lyra rushed to his side, pouring his tea, helping him change his clothes, fluttering around him like a moth to a flame, leaving me no room to get close. In response, I poured even more care into preparing his tea and pastries, inventing new variations on his favorite flavors that earned his constant praise. 10 The turning point came on a night when the Young Lord was out for a social engagement. Lyra and I were supposed to alternate night duty; it was my turn. When he returned, staggering from drink, she rushed forward, asking if he wanted some soup. Her dress was far more sheer than usual, her hair and makeup done with a provocative flair. I knew something was amiss, but Lord Adrian, his stomach churning from the wine, requested a light lotus-leaf porridge. I had no choice but to go and prepare it. After I left, he went to bathe. Lyra followed him in. They were in the bathing chamber for two hours. The wet nurse and Matron Celia slipped in to check, then hurried away to report to the Marchioness. When I brought the porridge, I snuck a peek. Lyra stood behind the Young Lord, her face flushed, her hair in disarray, her clothes askew. It was clear she had been taken by him. The very next day, the Young Lord began paying Lyra a monthly allowance of two silver pieces from his own purse—the stipend of a mistress. Although she couldn’t be formally recognized before he married, she already had the status of a woman of his chambers. A wave of disappointment washed over me. This was his first time; it would surely leave a deep impression, perhaps securing her for life. I had missed my chance. I scoffed at myself. If you’re going to be a mistress, what does it matter how you get there? The method that works is the one that matters. Years of full meals had made me forget. This place was far more brutal than any corporate office. The opportunities to change your fate were fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye. 11 Matron Celia saw my dejection. She pulled me aside and whispered in my ear. “A conquest won by such obvious means might not sit well with the Dowager and the Marchioness. You just do your job. It’s not over until it’s over. Don’t you dare lose hope.” Her words were a splash of cold water. It wasn’t hard to become the Young Lord’s bed-servant. The hard part was being accepted by the lady of the house. A clumsy, blatant maneuver would only make you a target. You could end up dead without ever knowing why. Like still water runs deep, I pushed all my bitterness and disappointment down and focused on serving the Young Lord with even greater care and attention. 12 The next year, the Dowager and the Marchioness began the search for a proper wife for the Young Lord. I heard that ever since the Midwinter Gala, the Marchioness’s desk was piled high with invitations to garden parties and social gatherings at other noble houses, the “flowers” on display being their eligible daughters. The Dowager was just as active, inviting old friends and relatives to bring their daughters for visits. Chewing on ginseng slices to keep her energy up, she would chat for hours, so busy that the maids in her wing had no time for idle gossip. The House of Valerius was at the height of its power, and the Young Lord was intelligent and well-mannered. There was no shortage of prospects. 13 In the Jade Vine Pavilion, Lyra’s night with the lord was like a stone tossed into a still pond, sending ripples through the entire staff. Lord Adrian was a reserved, serious man who rarely smiled. But since that night in the bath, a new warmth had appeared in his eyes. He started teasing Lyra, setting aside special treats and trinkets for her. His favor seemed to make Lyra forget she was still a servant. She began to subtly challenge the authority of the matrons, criticizing the other first- and second-rank maids. She was even more imperious with the junior maids, scolding and striking them at will. Matron Willow was not only the lord’s wet nurse but also a distant relative of the Marchioness, a woman of some standing. After being publicly contradicted by Lyra several times, she cursed in frustration, “She’s not even a proper mistress yet and she’s already this arrogant!” Seeing Lyra’s success, the other maids grew restless. Each tried to outdo the others, their minds consumed with fashioning themselves into beautiful flowers, plotting “accidental” encounters with the Young Lord. The courtyards went unswept, the birds unfed, the hearths cold. The maids’ dresses became more revealing and thinner by the day, and several of them caught colds. Matron Celia and Matron Willow scolded them repeatedly, but the feverish, ambitious undercurrent could not be stopped. 14 One day, I noticed a strange taste in the lunch a junior maid brought me. Without a word, I took the food into my room, scraped it into the chamber pot, and ate some of my own pastries to quell my hunger. That afternoon, Lyra began making repeated, frantic trips to the latrine. After several bouts, her face was pale as a sheet. I pretended to have a stomachache as well and retired to my room. That night, when Lord Adrian returned from an outing, two second-rank maids, Faye and Briar, dressed in flimsy gowns, approached him with a cup of tea. Before the cup reached his lips, Matron Celia and Matron Willow stormed in with guards and seized them. The tea had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. The incident that afternoon had seemed suspicious to more than just me. The two old matrons had seen the signs immediately. As Matron Celia put it, “It was only a matter of time before these restless fools caused a disaster!” The Dowager Marchioness was furious. Faye and Briar were given twenty lashes and sold off. All the servants of the Jade Vine Pavilion were made to watch the punishment. At first, the two girls screamed. After ten lashes, their cries faded to weak gasps. Lyra, still weak from her illness, was dragged out by two burly servants on the Dowager’s orders and forced to watch from the front row. The display—killing the chickens to scare the monkeys—was terrifyingly effective. The entire staff was cowed into submission, trembling with fear. 15 The Jade Vine Pavilion returned to a state of tense tranquility. The servants now attended to the Young Lord with renewed, fearful diligence. Not long after, the Young Lord’s uncle, who had married his aunt, completed his tenure as governor of a southern duchy and was promoted to a high position at court. The entire family returned to the capital. The Dowager Marchioness was overjoyed to be reunited with her long-absent daughter. But what delighted her even more was the celestial beauty her daughter brought with her: her granddaughter, Lady Seraphina. She was like an angel, a fairy from the painted screen in the Dowager’s own chambers. I was on duty at the family banquet that day. The moment Lord Adrian saw his cousin, he froze. Lady Seraphina, blushing, shyly lowered her gaze. The maids in the Dowager’s service whispered that the old woman and her daughter had already settled the matter. Preparations for the betrothal gifts were already underway. 16 With the Young Lord’s marriage settled, I became even more cautious, terrified of making a mistake. According to the house rules, the heir must have two bed-servants before his wedding. Lyra had already been taken, and the Young Lord pleaded with his mother to grant her an official, albeit lowly, title. With his support, the recently subdued Lyra became arrogant once more. On the day the betrothal was formally announced, Lord Adrian left early. I was in my room reviewing accounts when I heard Lyra ordering another maid, Briar, to water the flowers, then scolding her for dressing provocatively and having “no work in her eyes.” Briar endured it for a moment, then snapped back, “You’re one to talk! You seduced the master right into his bed!” Lyra flew into a rage. The two of them started pulling hair and tearing at each other’s clothes, fighting in the middle of the courtyard. The Dowager was furious. On such an auspicious day, to have such a shameful incident occur—it was a disgrace. She immediately ordered both girls to be given ten lashes and sold off. When Lord Adrian returned, he rushed to the Dowager’s chambers and knelt for a long time, pleading and begging until he had exhausted every flattering word to save Lyra. But poor Briar was not so lucky. As she was dragged away, beaten and limp as a dead dog, her desperate eyes found mine. But I couldn’t save her. Just as I couldn’t save myself. 17 After this, the Dowager strictly forbade Lyra from attending to the Young Lord. She then instructed Matron Celia, “We need another, more stable girl to serve by his side.” After the storm, a new path opened. Matron Celia came to me, her face alight with excitement. The Dowager wanted to see me. This was it. This was my chance to be formally presented to the Young Lord. In the preceding weeks, while the other maids had been a riot of color and flirtation, I had remained in my plain servant’s uniform, toiling in the small kitchen, managing the lord’s meals and expenses. Matron Celia had told me in private that on the day of the floggings, the Dowager had remarked before leaving, “In this entire courtyard, only Elara is still diligent and useful.” I checked my appearance. My clothes were clean but well-worn, not bright, but tidy. My hair was in a simple twin-bun style, adorned with a few small, inconspicuous pearl pins. I had been preparing for this moment since the day Lyra was punished. I entered the main hall and knelt properly to one side. The Dowager seemed not to see me, sipping her tea in silence. After what felt like an eternity, she finally nodded for the matron to let me rise. She said I was dutiful and honest, that I served well. Now, as was tradition, the Young Lord needed two women in his chambers before his marriage. Lyra had proven unsuitable. It was my turn now. I must not fail her. I kowtowed. The old lady bestowed upon me a set of hairpins and a new gown, a mark of her favor. I had passed the test. I had gotten what I wanted. But, if I could be so sentimental, I felt no relief. To place your fate in the hands of others, to constantly scheme and read their every mood—it was an exhausting, bitter existence. And besides, the path of a master’s companion was only just beginning. 18 That night, when Lord Adrian returned, I had already bathed and changed into the gown the Dowager had given me. In the mirror, the seventeen-year-old girl staring back was in the prime of her youth, with a natural, peach-like bloom. Dressed in a dazzling, eye-catching garment instead of my usual drab uniform, I looked… almost captivating. When Lord Adrian saw me, he paused, a look of genuine surprise and admiration in his eyes. “Elara, you so rarely wear such bright colors. This lavender is gentle, it sets off your skin like snow.” I lowered my gaze demurely and offered him a cup of tea. “It was a gift from the Dowager.” Lord Adrian was intelligent. With that one sentence, he understood. I was the new companion his grandmother had chosen for him. He took my hand and led me into the warm inner chamber. He sat on the couch and then pulled me onto his lap, looking at me with a gentle expression. I had served him for three years, but this was the first time we had ever been this close, so close I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes. “Elara,” he said softly, “all these years, you’ve served me with such care and propriety. I thought you had no interest in me. I would never force you. If you were unwilling, I was planning to arrange for your release from the estate in a few years.” A small tremor went through my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm. I had assumed I would never leave this place. Suddenly, he had offered me another path. But if I left, what would I do? No. The cart had reached the edge of the cliff. It was too late to turn back. I tilted my head up slightly, bit my lip, and looked at him with all the adoration I could muster. I had practiced this look in the mirror countless times. This was my most fetching expression. “My Lord, you are the finest man I have ever known. This house is my home. I never dared to overstep. As long as I could serve you, I would have been content to be a scullery maid my entire life. Now that the Dowager has given me this chance, how could I be unwilling? My only fear is that I am not worthy of you.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with pleasure. He pulled me closer, and his kiss said more than a thousand words ever could.

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Two days before my wedding, my best friend told me to test my fiancé. She didn’t believe a notorious playboy like Julian Whitney would ever truly change his ways. Her intuition was rarely wrong, so that night, I created a burner account and slid into his DMs, playing the part of a flirtatious stranger. Julian shot me down so hard I was left spinning. But just as I was caught between relief and amusement, he sent another message, and the world tilted on its axis. 【This little game of yours ends now.】 【Besides you two, I don’t play around with other women.】 【Vivi, next time you want to sext me, just use your real account.】 Vivi is my best friend’s nickname. 1 As my brain processed those three messages, the blood ran cold in my veins. I squeezed my eyes shut, pinching myself, desperate to wake up. But the frantic, drumming beat of my heart confirmed the horrifying truth: This wasn’t a dream. Julian was cheating on me. With Violet. But… how? Weren’t they supposed to hate each other? Violet always said Julian was nothing but a rich brat, completely unworthy of me. And Julian always called Violet a pest, the one who relentlessly told me to dump him every time we had a fight. The ringtone of a video call ripped me from my thoughts. Julian. I numbly declined the call. 【Why aren’t you answering?】 he texted. 【Don’t tell me you’re crying.】 【Come to Crestwood. I’ll make you feel better.】 【Don’t worry. Even after I’m married, I’ll still be good to you.】 【Everything Clara has, you’ll have too.】 【Including me.】 2 I stared at the screen, a roaring in my ears that seemed to pull my soul from my body. Tears, hot and heavy, began to fall. Through the blur, I remembered the first time I brought Violet to the villa Julian had bought for us. Every detail now seemed sinister. Without me saying a word, she knew exactly where my bedroom was, where the walk-in closet was. When I playfully snatched her phone, I noticed it was already connected to the Wi-Fi. She’d laughed it off, saying she’d just guessed my birthday or something. Julian’s Oriental Shorthair, a cat that was usually aloof even with me, had been inexplicably affectionate with her. She said it was probably because she smelled like me. But that cat barely tolerated me, even when I bribed it with toys and treats. Yet it had rolled over and exposed its belly to Violet, a complete stranger. And then there was Violet’s apartment, a mirror image of my own life. The same clothes, the same handbags, the same lipsticks and cosmetics. Some of it, Julian had given her through me, under the guise of “keeping my future toughest critic happy.” The rest, Violet claimed, were from an admirer. When I’d pressed her for details, excited for the gossip, she’d been evasive. I thought she was just being shy. It turns out, she was hiding a guilty conscience. I remembered all the times we’d gone shopping together, the two of them bickering in front of me, “competing” for my attention. A few times, their mock-hostility had broken, and they’d burst out laughing. And I, like a fool, had been happy that they were finally starting to get along. All this time, they’d been using me as a prop in their twisted flirtation. They’d been playing me for a complete idiot. 3 I cried until my eyes were swollen and my head throbbed. Grabbing my car keys, I floored it and drove to Crestwood. Crestwood was Julian’s other property, a sprawling estate where he was putting up his groomsmen. They were having a bachelor party tonight. Julian was there. And so was Violet. Through the wrought-iron fence, I saw them by the pool. Julian looked drunk, his handsome, sharp features flushed a pale red. His eyes were hazy as he draped an arm around Violet’s neck, whispering into her ear. Violet pouted, then playfully shoved him into the pool. The groomsmen roared with laughter, their cheers echoing in the night. Julian surfaced, shaking the water from his hair, a wicked grin on his face. He grabbed Violet’s ankle and pulled her in after him. As she shrieked, he caught her, lifting her against the pool wall and kissing her with a fierce, dominating passion. The crowd went wild. Someone popped a bottle of champagne; another set off a party popper. And then, someone jokingly mentioned me. “Julian, man, you’re marrying Clara in two days. Making out with her best friend isn’t a great look, is it?” “Hahaha, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. As long as we keep our mouths shut, Julian could be screwing Vivi right here, and Clara would never have a clue.” “There’s the Julian I know and love! All that time you spent chasing Clara, acting like she was the only one… was that all an act? I almost bought into that whole ‘reformed bad boy’ crap from the movies!” Julian finally broke the long, deep kiss. His voice was a magnetic, raspy drawl, laced with a lazy, roguish charm. “I do love Clara. She’s the only woman I’ll ever marry. I can spoil her, cherish her, grow old with her. But… to ask me to be completely faithful to her at this age…” Julian laughed, then planted a loud, wet kiss on Violet’s cheek as she gasped for air against his shoulder. “I can’t do it.” He lifted Violet out of the pool and set her down on a lounge chair. Someone rushed to hand him a towel, but he draped it over her instead. “Julian, you still heading back tonight?” one of his friends asked. Violet looked up at him, her eyes still red and swollen from the kiss. Julian crouched down, affectionately pinching her cheek. “Clara loves her Vivi more than anyone. I’m a distant second. And right now, Vivi’s upset. So of course, I’m staying to keep her company.” He waved a hand at the guy behind him. “Ethan, text your sister-in-law for me. Tell her I’m drunk and I’m crashing here tonight. I’ll pick her up for the rehearsal tomorrow.” Just as a fresh wave of tears began to fall, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan Kingsley, his best man. 【Clara, Julian’s had too much to drink, so he won’t be back tonight. Get some sleep. He’ll come get you for the rehearsal tomorrow.】 4 I stood there for a long time, frozen in place. My mind drifted. My parents died when I was very young, and I was sent to live with my uncle. My cousin bullied me constantly, and my aunt turned a blind eye. The complaints I was too scared to make, Violet made for me. The fights I was too scared to start, Violet started for me. In school, I was the sharper of the two of us. I split every scholarship prize I won with her. She was an only child and didn’t care much for studying. In our final year of high school, I dragged her through it, practically spoon-feeding her the knowledge she needed. I was her personal cheerleader, painting a picture of a bright future for us. We both got into the same university in the city. In our sophomore year, I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. When Violet heard, she stormed into their hotel room, beat up the jerk, and tore into the other woman. After graduation, we shared a single room in a rented apartment, terrified and uncertain about the future. Every night, under the same blanket, we’d dream aloud, making endless promises to take care of each other once one of us made it big. “Ride or die.” “First, we share a bed. Then, we share a mansion.” We’d been inseparable since childhood. I considered her my family. Maybe blood family wouldn’t love me unconditionally, but I believed she would. That’s why, when faced with her betrayal, I couldn’t even summon the strength for a confrontation. The person who had once fought my battles for me was now my fiancé’s other woman. My absolute trust had been met with the cruelest form of treason. As I drove away from Crestwood, the moon hung high and cold in the sky, mirroring the chill in my bones. My mind drifted to Julian. At twenty-five, I had become the lead designer at ArtGrn, the city’s top wedding design firm. I was overseeing the setup for Ethan Kingsley’s lavish estate wedding. After pulling an all-nighter, my blood sugar crashed, and I fainted, tumbling headfirst into a shallow decorative fountain. Julian, who was just passing by, rescued me. The image of him carrying me in his arms, water dripping from his brow, his deep eyes locked on mine, was the moment I fell for him. I learned about his wealthy family, his reputation as a playboy, and I tried to keep my distance. But Julian gave up all his bad habits and pursued me earnestly for a whole year. His pursuit was respectful, polite, and deeply sincere. One New Year’s Eve, I went back to my hometown to visit my parents’ graves. My phone died midway. For three hours, I was unreachable. Terrified I had collapsed somewhere from low blood sugar, Julian drove hundreds of miles to find me. He stood on a narrow path between fields, wearing only a thin coat, desperately wiping away tears as he shouted my name into the empty air. In that moment, I thought: Mom, Dad, this is the one. For the rest of my life, I want him. In the three years we dated, I never felt his love wane. He would kneel in a crowded department store to help me try on shoes. He would find traditional herbal remedies for my cramps and personally watch over the pot as it simmered. Before I met his parents, he prepped them thoroughly, ensuring I wouldn’t face a single question or ounce of doubt. He proudly took me into his world of wealth and privilege, introducing me to everyone with unabashed pride. “This is my fiancée, Clara Lin, the chief designer at ArtGrn. You can call her Ms. Lin. She’s brilliant—won a ton of design awards. That royal wedding for the Duchess of York? That was her. The waiting list for her designs is booked solid for the next two years. Actually, no, it’s booked from the year after next, because next year, we’re getting married. A huge wedding. You’ll all be invited!” His love was so passionate, so perfect. Which made this one flaw feel so monstrous, so fatal. I checked into a hotel and cried my eyes out. I told myself over and over again: So you were backstabbed. So you were cheated on. The wedding hasn’t happened. The papers aren’t signed. There’s still time. I could just run away, get as far from this place, from these demons, as possible. But… I’m not the one who did something wrong. Why should I be the one to slink away in shame? I would get my revenge. And what needed re-evaluating was my judgment, my naivety—not my sincerity or my capacity for love. I did nothing wrong. I am a good person. 5 The next day, for the rehearsal, I returned to the villa early. When Julian arrived to pick me up, I had already composed myself. But he still noticed my swollen eyes. “Were you crying last night?” he asked, bending down to place a soft kiss on my eyelid. A wave of nausea washed over me. “I was thinking about my parents.” Julian smiled and knelt to help me with my shoes. “I’m sure they’re in heaven, blessing us.” I looked at the crown of his head and felt a sudden urge to ask: If you can’t be faithful, why did you want to marry me? Don’t you know I can’t tolerate betrayal? When you were sleeping with Violet behind my back, did it never once cross your mind how much it would hurt me, how it would shatter my heart, if I ever found out? In the end, I bit my tongue and swallowed the words. Julian had been happily telling the world that he was going to throw the most magnificent wedding for me. I was going to personally turn that magnificent wedding into an absurd tragicomedy. And Julian would be the clown, standing center stage. The rehearsal finished in the afternoon. As we were leaving, I told Julian and Violet to wait for me in the car. I went to find my assistant. I had designed this multi-million-dollar wedding, and she was the one coordinating everything. After I told her what I wanted, her face was a mask of worry. She hesitated, wanting to object. I ignored her. I knew my request was unreasonable. A last-minute change of this magnitude would have a domino effect. But I had managed over a hundred weddings. I’d dealt with brides far more demanding and capricious than this. Why couldn’t I be a little selfish, just this once? 6 When I got to the car, the driver was gone. Julian was in the passenger seat, Violet in the back. The atmosphere was, as always, painfully awkward. I looked at Violet’s slightly swollen lips and gave a scornful little smile. So this is what it was. All those times I saw them red-faced and flustered, it wasn’t because they were arguing. It was the thrill of sneaking kisses behind my back. And I, naively, thought they were just fighting. I sat down next to her in the back and closed my eyes, feigning exhaustion. “Where’s the driver?” “Bathroom,” Julian replied. “I’ll call him.” I hummed a soft “mm-hmm.” Julian turned around and handed me my thermos. The sweet scent of pear and rock sugar filled the air. “Tired?” he asked gently. Then he glared at Violet. “Violet, you come sit up front.” “Oh, no,” I said, my eyes fluttering open. I grabbed Violet’s hand and turned to her with a beaming smile. “Vivi and I have lots of secrets to share.” Julian frowned. “What secrets could you possibly have that I can’t hear?” My smile widened. “Your secrets, of course. If you heard them, you’d probably throw her out of the car.” Julian snorted. “My little critic, I don’t care how much you object to this marriage. Clara and I have made it. From now on, you’d better watch your mouth.” Violet, seeming to guess something was wrong, didn’t snap back as she usually would. Her face stiffened, and she glanced at me guiltily. I leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “I was at Crestwood last night.” She flinched, pulling her hand from mine as if she’d been electrocuted. I figured she must have gotten the story from Julian last night—that I had “tested” him. But she couldn’t be sure what I knew, so she’d been trying to get it out of me all day. I let out a soft laugh, fighting back the stabbing pain in my heart. My voice turned cruel. “I saw everything. Your sordid little affair, your betrayal. Oh, my dearest Vivi. My wonderful best friend. You’ve been so, so good to me.” Violet clutched at her skirt. She turned her face away, but I grabbed her chin and forced her to look at me. She tried to signal to Julian, but he wasn’t looking. An old acquaintance was greeting him from outside, and he’d gotten out of the car. Violet tried to follow, but I gripped her wrist. “Where are you running?” I said, my voice cold as ice. “Isn’t this all going according to your plan? I find out about your betrayal before the wedding, I call it off, and you step in. You weren’t afraid to expose yourself, so why are you so scared now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes? The outcome is the same, isn’t it?” She stopped struggling, turned back, and bit her lip, staring at me. I took a moment to compose myself. “You knew I tested Julian, and you still dared to show up at the rehearsal today. You wanted to see how I’d react, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you how I’m going to react. I’m not going to follow your script. I’m going to marry Julian. We’re going to get the license.” I watched the shock spread across her face and laughed. “You don’t believe a playboy can change. Well, neither do I. Which of these rich boys doesn’t have a wife at home and a string of mistresses on the side? You think I’d marry Julian without being prepared for that? The real question is about you. You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you? But does he really care about you? As anything more than a toy? You can’t possibly be foolish enough to believe his sweet talk. Do you want to bet that if I expose what happened last night, Julian will throw you out on the street and then get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness? He’ll feel so guilty, he’ll probably treat me even better for a few years. And you? What do you think he’ll do to you?” Tears welled up in Violet’s eyes. My heart constricted. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my own voice breaking. “You threw away twenty years of friendship… for a man like him?” Violet buried her head in her hands, covering her ears. I turned away, unable to stop my own tears. The pain. It was excruciating. Like something that had been rooted in my heart for decades, tangled and deep, was being ripped out, taking flesh and blood with it. It hurt so much I could barely breathe. “Why are you crying?” Julian was back in the passenger seat. He saw our state and his brow furrowed instantly. “Violet, what did you say to her? Why is she crying?” He got out of the car and squeezed into the back with us. His voice was stern. “Violet, go ride with the bridesmaids.” Her face went pale. She stared at him, her lips trembling in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear me?” Julian’s voice was sharp, a clear dismissal. Violet wiped her tears and slammed the car door as she left. Julian pulled me into his arms. “Baby,” he murmured, “tell me what you two were talking about.” Outside, I saw Violet flinch. “You misunderstood,” I choked out. “We were just… sharing some emotional best-friend secrets.” Julian’s frown deepened. “What’s wrong with her? Saying things like that at a time like this? What if it affects your mood? You have to get your makeup done tomorrow, what if your eyes are all swollen…” He said it loudly, his voice carrying through the window. It was like a dull knife, pressing into Violet’s back, urging her to walk away faster. 7 The day of the wedding. The castle was magnificent, the lawns sprawling and green. I wore a pristine white gown, arriving in a horse-drawn carriage adorned with flowers. The clip-clop of hooves, the beautiful melody of the string quartet. Julian stood on the lawn in a sharp, tailored suit, his eyes bright as he waited for me. I took his hand, stepped down from the carriage, and we walked together toward the altar. Petals rained down, butterflies fluttered by, and the applause was thunderous. After the officiant’s opening words, Julian went off-script, delivering a ten-minute declaration of his love for me. I could see his chin trembling, his hands shaking. By the end, his eyes were red and wet, his voice quivering. He talked about the first time we met. He talked about the day we made our relationship official. He talked about all the small, tender moments we had shared. But all I could hear was his voice from that night by the pool: “…but to ask me to be completely faithful to her, I can’t do it.” The moment a tear rolled down my cheek, Julian pulled me into a fierce hug. I could feel his heart hammering against his chest. He was so nervous, so incredibly happy. I think, in his own way, he did love me. His vows were real. His betrayal was also real. Somehow, those two contradictory things existed at the same time. The officiant gave his closing remarks. The vow exchange had been moved to the evening reception. This was different from the rehearsal. Julian shot a surprised look at the officiant. I tugged on his sleeve. “It was my idea,” I whispered. That evening, surrounded by flowers, under a canopy of sparkling lights, I met Julian’s ecstatic gaze and said the words: “I don’t.” The officiant was stunned. The guests gasped. The happiness in Julian’s eyes was instantly replaced by shock, which slowly hardened into fury. He stared at me, his gaze burning. I met it calmly. The clock tower struck eight. The lights above us went out, and across the lake, fireworks ignited the sky. A kaleidoscope of colors and shapes exploded across the night, beautiful and dazzling, their reflections shimmering on the water like a dream. I watched for a moment, then unfastened the train of my dress and gracefully descended the stage. The wedding I had so meticulously planned, every detail a labor of love, was finally over.

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I was the childhood friend. Wendy was the girl who fell from the sky. They say the girl next door never stands a chance against the one who appears out of nowhere. Not long after she transferred, someone saw them in the empty stairwell after school. My wild, untamable Bill, head bowed like a scolded puppy, was meekly apologizing to her. Later, after a small falling out between Wendy and me, he delivered the final blow with a single, careless sentence: “I don’t want to see Tessa Shaw at school anymore.” My parents, terrified of jeopardizing their ties to the Vances, immediately had me transferred. From that day on, I vanished from his world, not daring to even show my face where he might see it. But then, on his birthday, he showed up at my door, drenched and miserable, his face a mask of desperation and hurt. “You forgot it was my birthday, didn’t you?” 1 They say the girl next door never stands a chance against the one who appears out of nowhere. I used to scoff at that. But now, sitting in the school auditorium, watching Bill gaze at Wendy as she danced on stage, the undisguised adoration in his eyes told a different story. In that moment, I believed it. I also believed the rumors I’d heard—about Bill Vance, the boy who defied the world, surrendering to Wendy in that deserted stairwell. The confession I had been holding in my heart, waiting for the right moment to share, would now have to be buried forever. When the music ended, I joined the applause for the radiant girl on stage. Bill shot up from his seat, probably on his way to find her. I got up too and slipped out of the auditorium. Outside, I lifted my hand, a small, gourd-shaped wooden charm dangling from a string on my wrist, twisting in the evening breeze. “Tessa… for you.” I remember staring at it, confused. “What is it?” A seven-year-old Bill, having learned the term “token of love” from some soap opera his aunt was watching, had pressed it into my hand. “It’s for you, Tessa. So you’ll only ever like me.” “And I’ll protect you forever.” A bitter sting pricked my eyes. I unhooked the charm from my wrist and clenched it in my fist. A child’s promise, so easily broken. But I had believed it. Bill Vance, the untamable rebel, had been the secret joy of my entire youth. … Wendy Summers had transferred this semester. She was beautiful, a talented dancer, and her arrival caused an immediate stir. The girls in my class used to whisper that Wendy was like the protagonist of a teen novel—the sweet new girl who captures the heart of the school’s resident bad boy. The story always ends the same: the bad boy changes for the good girl. Plenty of guys were chasing after Wendy back then, and someone even joked that all she needed now was for Bill to fall for her too. Bill, who had been lounging lazily at his desk, just stretched and shot the speaker a dismissive look. “Her? Is she even worthy?” See? Such arrogance back then. I hadn’t believed the rumors that they were together. I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes or heard it from his own lips. I needed him to tell me he was with someone else. But now, I knew. It was time to pull back, to finally put some distance between us. I used to walk home with Bill every day. I can’t remember when it started, but he began making excuses, telling me to go on ahead. He could have just told me the truth. I wouldn’t have clung to him. After all, we were never really together in the first place. 2 On Sunday, we returned to school for the evening study hall, and homework was due. Bill was a notorious troublemaker. When the class representative came to collect his work, he’d just grunt, “Didn’t do it.” He used to listen to me, and everyone knew it. So whenever he pulled this stunt, they’d come and tattle to me. Tonight was no different, except they couldn’t find Bill anywhere. He had bolted the second class ended, no doubt to find Wendy. “Tessa, Bill didn’t do his homework again, and no one knows where he is. Could you…” “Just give the list of names to the teacher,” I said, shaking my head with a faint smile. “And from now on, you don’t need to tell me when he hasn’t done his work.” Hearing this, my classmates could only nod. The rumors about him having a girlfriend were starting to feel very real, and my attitude all but confirmed it. When the next class began, I buried my head in my exam papers. Before Wendy, my dream was for Bill and me to get into Brierfield University together. Now, my dream was just to get into Brierfield University. For myself. Bill didn’t return for the entire study hall. The teacher at the front of the room frowned, asking where he was. Every eye in the classroom turned to me, but I never once looked up. He finally reappeared during the second period. He slumped into his seat without a word. It wasn’t until a classmate told him the head teacher wanted to see him in the office that he snapped out of his daze. As he passed my desk, he paused for a fraction of a second. I didn’t look up. I was wrestling with the final, killer question on the math paper, the one where I could always solve the first part but my brain would seize up on the second. After I finally worked it out, my deskmate leaned in, whispering cautiously, “What’s going on with you and Bill?” “Nothing,” I replied. “Really? But you used to get more worked up than anyone when he skipped class or blew off his homework.” Her face was a mask of disbelief. I paused, then told her, “That was the past. I’m done looking out for him.” “Oh,” she gasped, covering her mouth. “So it’s true… he’s really dating Wendy Summers?” I lowered my eyes and said nothing. The bell for the end of the second study hall rang, and a few moments later, Bill sauntered back into the classroom. A small, folded note landed on my desk. “Go home without me after school.” I read it, my expression neutral, then tucked it away and went back to my work. The classroom was a chaotic mess of noise and motion as everyone packed up to leave. I sat at my desk, slowly gathering my things. Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. My deskmate let out a small gasp, and I followed her gaze. Wendy was standing in the doorway. She tilted her head, gave Bill a playful crook of her finger, and then turned and walked away. My eyes, against my will, darted to Bill. A helpless smile played on his lips as he got up and followed her out. The classroom erupted. “Holy crap, it’s actually true.” “I used to think Bill and Tessa were the perfect pair, you know? The bad boy and the straight-A good girl. But the bad boy and the ballerina… that just hits different.” “Don’t be such a gossip. Still… don’t you feel a little bad for Tessa?” “They’ve known each other since they were kids.” “Guess it’s true. The girl next door never stands a chance.” … My deskmate bit her lip, looking like she wanted to comfort me. I slung my backpack over my shoulder. My heart felt like it was being ripped apart, but I forced a smile. I couldn’t let a single tear fall. If anyone saw how upset I was, I’d be the laughingstock of the school by tomorrow. “I’m fine. Bill and I were always just friends,” I said. “I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.” Worry still lingered in her eyes as she waved. “See you. Get home safe.” Once I was out of the noisy schoolyard, I gripped the straps of my backpack, my jaw clenched tight. But the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable. A suffocating pain filled my chest. How could he fall for someone else, just like that? My vision blurred, and a boy’s voice, clear and full of arrogant pride, echoed in my ears. “Bill Vance can do anything, and Tessa Shaw is the girl I’ll protect for life.” 3 “Tessa, why didn’t you wait for me this morning?” Bill was late for school. After class, he strode over to my desk, his voice laced with a playful grievance, and set a carton of milk down in front of me. My hand, busy scribbling vocabulary words, froze. I glanced at the milk out of the corner of my eye. “I already ate. And I won’t be walking with you in the mornings anymore. I’m coming to school earlier now.” Bill slumped into the empty seat beside me, clearly confused. He propped his head on his hand. “I haven’t done anything to piss you off lately, have I? We’ve always walked together.” “Things are different now,” I said, putting my pen down. I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “You have a girlfriend. We should keep our distance.” His expression faltered for a moment before understanding dawned. “She won’t mind. She knows that…” “I mind.” My voice was quiet but firm. “I don’t want to be the one they point fingers at if something goes wrong between you two.” “Tessa…” Bill’s temper was notoriously short. The fact that he’d even entertained this conversation was a miracle. His patience, always thin, had finally snapped. His face hardened. He shot to his feet, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor. “Fine. Whatever you want.” I lowered my head, my eyes closing in silent resignation. I had spent all of last night on my balcony, the wind chilling me to the bone, wondering what to do. Should I keep playing the fool, hiding my feelings and staying by his side? Or should I let our lifelong friendship die right here? They say you can’t hide the love in your eyes. If I kept following him around, it would be unfair to me, and it would be unfair to Wendy. No girlfriend wants another girl who’s way too close hanging around her boyfriend. After that day, Bill never spoke to me again. If we passed each other in the hall, he’d look straight through me. The girl who was always by his side was no longer me; it was Wendy. He introduced her to his entire circle of friends. Wendy was his first love. The girl he cherished. I focused on my studies, quietly listening, like everyone else, to the stories of their romance whispered through the school. When Wendy’s stomach hurt from hunger in the middle of the night because of her strict dancer’s diet, Bill would bring her low-fat dinners specially prepared by his family’s nutritionist. When a jock from the rival high school cornered Wendy in an alley after school, Bill supposedly beat him so badly he ended up in the hospital. On this month’s exams, I reclaimed my spot as the top student in our year. My teachers had always told me to stop worrying about Bill, that it was bad for my studies. Bill’s family was wealthy; good grades were a luxury, not a necessity for him. That afternoon, as school let out, I rested my head on my hand and watched the spectacular sunset paint the sky. “Tessa, what college do you want to go to?” On a sweltering evening long ago, Bill had sat beside me, his long fingers toying with a strand of my hair as he asked the question nonchalantly. “Brierfield University,” I’d answered without hesitation. “That’s so far away.” I never told him the real reason. Brierfield wasn’t just a top-tier school; it was my escape. An escape from this city, and an escape from that house. My father was like so many men who find wealth—he found a new heart to go with it. My mother refused to divorce him, convinced it was her fault for not giving him a son. On her darkest nights, she would point a shaking finger at me, her voice a hysterical shriek, crying about why I couldn’t have been a boy, then her husband wouldn’t have strayed. Later, she did have a son. My father returned to the family, but only briefly. My mother, now with a son to dote on, poured all her attention into my little brother. She finally had her security, a son to care for her in her old age. “Hmm… well, I guess I’ll have to go to Brierfield too. You’re so clueless, you’d be a total mess without me there to look out for you.” The bragging boy in front of me was the only light in my broken world. I desperately wanted to hold onto that light. I was willing to waste all my time on him. Even if I didn’t get into Brierfield, as long as we ended up at the same college, that was enough. 4 A rumor started circulating that Wendy was a homewrecker who had stolen Bill from me. One afternoon, as my friend Maya and I were coming back from the restroom, Wendy ran past us, sobbing, her hand clapped over her mouth. Bill came charging after her, but when he saw me, he lunged, his hands closing around my throat. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to kill me. “Tessa Shaw! I thought you wanted to stay away from me! What the hell is this now?” I choked, struggling for air. Maya frantically tried to push him away. “Are you crazy? We were just in the restroom! Let her go, she can’t breathe!” Her words snapped him out of it. He yanked his hands back, and I collapsed, gasping for air. “You’re disgusting, Tessa.” “Tessa, are you okay?” I crouched on the floor, coughing, tears streaming down my face. Maya wrapped her arms around me, patting my back gently. “It’s okay, Tessa. I don’t know what’s wrong with him and his psycho girlfriend.” I wiped my tears, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. The raw hatred in Bill’s eyes had been that of a complete stranger. He had looked like he genuinely wanted to strangle me. The boy from my memories was gone. Utterly gone. Later, a classmate cautiously passed me a phone under the desk. Someone had posted an anonymous message on the Crestwood Confessions page, accusing Wendy of being the “other woman” who had destroyed my relationship with Bill. A lot of people believed it. The comments were a firestorm of vicious insults directed at her. The marks on my neck were already turning a raw, angry red. I decided I would post a clarification on the page as soon as I got home. But I never got the chance. When I walked through the front door, my parents were sitting on the sofa, their faces grim. They were waiting for me. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. A glass shattered at my feet. “What did you do at school to provoke Bill Vance?” my father roared, slamming his hand on the table, his eyes bulging. “Do you have any idea that our company’s entire future depends on our partnership with the Vance Corporation? Are you trying to ruin me? Huh?!” I stood there, frozen, as my mother’s shrill voice rained down insults, calling me a worthless daughter. My father demanded I go and apologize to Bill immediately. The sprawling, sterile villa felt like an icebox. I was shivering, cold to my very core. I don’t remember how the interrogation ended, or how I was dragged over to Bill’s house to apologize. I wanted to tell him I didn’t write the post, but that I would clear it up. But when he opened the door and looked down at me, his eyes were glacial. The words died in my throat. I lowered my head, bowed, and apologized. He just gave me a detached glance, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t want to see you at school again, Tessa Shaw.” My parents bobbed their heads, fawning and promising he would never have to lay eyes on me again. I lifted my head mechanically, staring at him. Under the cold, white light of the porch, I couldn’t seem to make out his expression, couldn’t even really see his face anymore. In that moment, my dignity was crushed, ground into the dust. It was then I finally realized we were never from the same world. We were never equals. The moon doesn’t lower itself from the sky just because someone on the ground wishes for it. A moon in a well is just a reflection. It’s all an illusion. And the kindness the young master had once shown me? It was nothing more than a passing whim of a privileged boy. I never should have let myself dream. It was all a mistake, right from the very beginning. That night, I packed my things while my parents made arrangements to transfer me to a new school. 5 It had been almost two weeks since I transferred. I was renting a small apartment near my new school. My parents, terrified Bill might see me and get angry again, had basically told me not to come home. Westwood and Crestwood. In the same city, but worlds apart. If you weren’t looking for someone, you’d never find them. “Hey, Tessa Shaw. Come watch me play basketball today.” The speaker was a boy in a black and white jersey, a playful glint in his sly, fox-like eyes. When I first arrived, a girl in my class had warned me about him. “That’s Leo Sterling. He’s as famous for being a player as he is for being handsome.” The other students pretended to be busy with their own things, but I could feel their eyes on us. I’d lost count of how many times Leo had approached me over the past few weeks. They said this was the first time he’d ever chased a girl for this long. At our age, everyone secretly hoped for a dramatic campus love story, either for themselves or for someone they knew. They were already whispering that Leo, the playboy, was finally ready to settle down. But a player reformed is still a player at heart. And his past was messy. I shook my head gently. “I can’t. I have homework.” He glanced at the workbook on my desk and raised an eyebrow. “You know I’ve been trying to get you to go out with me for two weeks, right, Tessa Shaw?” “And?” He let out a soft chuckle. “So why do you keep saying no?” The classroom was nearly empty now. Outside, the sun was beginning its descent, painting half the sky in shades of fiery orange. I remembered something I’d read once: the evening breeze is free, the sunset is free, and I am one of a kind. “Tessa Shaw, you know, there’s a very strange contradiction about you…” The sharp blast of a whistle from the basketball court cut through the twilight. I looked at him. He smirked. “It’s this weird mix of… like, a deathly stillness and this fierce, stubborn spark.” “It just makes me more interested.” I shot him a cold look. “The game’s starting,” I reminded him. “It’s against Crestwood High today,” he said, his voice a low, meaningful murmur. As if anyone cared. I looked back down at my textbook. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and walked away. Once he was gone, I glanced up at the silent clock on the wall. That post on the Confessions page… I had a pretty good guess who had written it. But what did he stand to gain from it? Unlike Crestwood, Westwood High cut the power to the classrooms on the dot. At six-thirty, the lights went out, leaving only the fading glow of the sunset. I packed my bag and headed downstairs. A gentle breeze rustled through the crabapple trees, sending a shower of petals to the ground. They scattered, then were swept away by the wind. I stood there for a a moment, watching them go. My short life felt a lot like those petals—powerless, adrift. “Hey, isn’t that Tessa Shaw?” The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I was about to walk away when they blocked my path. Two familiar faces, looking stunned to see me here. I knew them from when I used to trail after Bill; they were his friends. We’d always gotten along well enough. They were both holding bottles of water, probably just coming from the campus store. “Tessa, you really transferred here?” I glanced at him, not quite understanding the emphasis on “really,” but I nodded. The one with the slicked-back hair nudged his friend. “Look, Tessa, you and Bill grew up together. He’s here today for the game. This is the perfect chance for you two to clear up the misunderstanding.” Everyone seemed to think I was incapable of doing something so spiteful. Everyone except Bill, the one person who should have known me best. “There’s no…” Before I could finish, a cold voice cut through the air from a short distance away. “Does it take you two that long to buy water? Or are you just going to stand there talking to irrelevant people?” Bill stood there, his gaze sweeping over me with a dark, dismissive glint, as if I were a complete stranger. His friends looked at me, embarrassed and awkward. I managed a small smile. “I should get going. See you.” “Yeah, okay. See ya.”

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