Author: Momo Chan

1 When my mother gave birth to me, she fell into a crushing postpartum depression. More than once, she stood on our high-rise balcony, staring at the ground far below, ready to jump. Each time, my father rushed out, wrapping his arms tightly around her trembling body, pulling her back against his chest. “I’m here, Jenny,” he would whisper again and again, kissing her hair. “The baby and I are right here. Don’t be afraid.” For our sake, she fought against the silent scream inside her to end it all. But the fragile peace broke the night I burned with fever. As I cried in my crib, something in her snapped. Instead of soothing me, she grabbed a bottle of sleeping pills and locked herself in the bathroom. That was when my father’s own sanity shattered. He kicked the door open, eyes wild and bloodshot. “Do you want to drive us both mad?” he roared, his voice raw from months of exhaustion. “Nothing I do is ever enough! If you want to die so badly, then go ahead—I won’t stop you!” Blind with rage, he twisted off the cap and forced the blue tablets into her mouth. My mother didn’t cry. She didn’t even struggle. She had already seen the secret messages on my father’s phone—from My Sunshine. The woman in those photos looked bright, alive, perfect. My mother believed she could be a better wife to my father, a better mother to me. She had already decided to give up. The pills scattered across the cold tile floor like plastic beads. My father continued to shove them into her mouth, his face twisted in a mask of desperation. But my mother only looked up at him with a faint, tragic smile. “It’s okay,” she whispered around the dry tablets. Suddenly, my loud, agonizing cry cut through the bathroom from the nursery. The sound seemed to pierce through my father’s madness. His eyes cleared, and the plastic bottle slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor. Shaking violently, he shoved his fingers down her throat to force her to throw up. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, his voice trembling as he held her limp body. “Jenny, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me lately.” My mother retched, coughing up the pills, weeping as she lay collapsed on the floor like a crushed flower. Since her illness began, my father had taken over everything. He changed my diapers, prepared my bottles, and ran his company during the day, only to rush home by six to cook and watch over my mother. Slowly, the people around us began to whisper, their sympathy shifting away from her. “She’s dragging him down,” his employees muttered. “Does she think Christian is a machine who doesn’t need sleep? He works all day and plays nurse all night.” “He does everything for that baby while she just looks for new ways to kill herself. Thank goodness Scarlett is there to help him at the office, or he would have lost his mind by now.” Scarlett was the secretary. She was “My Sunshine.” A sharp ring of the doorbell broke the silence of our apartment. Scarlett stood at the entrance, dressed in a sharp, tailored office suit. When she saw the pills scattered across the floor and my mother’s disheveled state, her eyes welled with tears. “Mrs. Shaw, are you torturing Christian again?” Scarlett asked, her voice trembling with indignation. “It’s just a baby. If you didn’t want to go through with it, you shouldn’t have had her. But don’t use your illness as an excuse to destroy him.” My mother froze, her limbs starting to shake uncontrollably. It was the onset of another panic attack. Seeing this, my father quickly retrieved her prescription bottle and a glass of water, gently coaxing her to swallow the calming medication. “Scarlett, that’s enough!” he barked, pulling her back. But Scarlett wouldn’t stop. “He almost fainted at his desk yesterday, Christian! And then he has to come home to this. Please, just let him go. I beg you.” Before she could walk away, I let out another sharp wail from my crib. Without a word, my father and Scarlett sprang into action. One wrapped me in a warm blanket while the other expertly prepared a fresh bottle. Their movements were so synchronized, so effortlessly harmonious, that they looked like a real family. My mother instinctively reached her pale, thin hand toward me. But my father gently, silently pushed her hand aside. In that moment, a quiet realization seemed to settle over her. She couldn’t even take care of herself. How could she ever take care of me? Slowly, she pulled her hand back, tucking it into her sleeve. When my father carried me out the door to take me to the clinic, he looked back at her one last time. His eyes held nothing but profound weariness and disappointment. The heavy front door clicked shut. My mother dragged her weak limbs into the bedroom. The cabinet where the sleeping pills were kept was locked tight, but she managed to pry it open with a heavy brass paperweight. She unscrewed the lid, tipped her head back, and swallowed the pills, one after the other. In those quiet seconds as the chemicals began to invade her system, fragments of the past flashed through her mind. She remembered my grandmother’s harsh demands, insisting on an heir despite my mother’s fertility struggles. She remembered the endless, painful rounds of IVF that left her body bruised and swollen. She remembered the smell of copper and rust in the delivery room when she began to hemorrhage, and my father’s frantic voice echoing from the corridor. “Jenny, I only want you! I don’t care about the baby, just stay with me!” But after thirteen agonizing hours of labor, I was born. And with my birth came the shadow that never left her. She had tried to hang herself, tried to swallow poison, tried to slit her wrists in the bathtub. Each time, my father had arrived just in time, catching the blade with his bare hands. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he would say. He had been her savior, the perfect husband, and the ultimate father in everyone’s eyes. But he had also started smoking heavily, and the dark circles under his eyes had turned into permanent bruises. That night, my father’s driver brought me back to the apartment, but my father didn’t return. I lay quietly in my stroller. My mother leaned over, her fingers tracing my cheek with a desperate, tragic tenderness. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. With her vision blurring from the slow-acting pills, she opened Scarlett’s social media page. There was a live photo posted just minutes ago. Through the shifting frame, she saw my father, shirtless, laughing as he leaned over Scarlett. The caption read: Only with you can I finally breathe. In the brief flash of the image, the tattoo on my father’s lower back was clearly visible. It was a small, radiant sun. The exact same icon he used for Scarlett’s contact name. And then my mother saw her own name in his contact list. He had saved her under a simple emoji: a dark, heavy raincloud. Tears silently spilled over her cheeks, soaking into the fabric of her collar. She shook so violently that she had to choke down several of her calming pills just to keep from collapsing on the spot. Then, the landline rang. It was the hospital. “Is this Genevieve Shaw? I am so sorry to inform you, but your mother suffered a massive cardiac arrest. She passed away ten minutes ago.” My mother gasped, clutching me to her chest as she ran out into the pouring rain. She fell several times on the wet pavement, scraping her knees, but she kept going until she reached the hospital. When she saw the white sheet draped over her mother’s face, she fell to her knees, her voice raw. “How could this happen? Her heart had been fine for years…” Lost and terrified, her first instinct was to call my father. The first call rang out. No answer. The second call was instantly rejected. By the third try, his phone was switched off. The cold, robotic operator’s voice repeated in her ear, matching the icy rain that dripped from her hair. He had promised her, sworn on his life, that he would always answer her calls on the first ring. Huddled on the freezing hospital floor with me in her arms, she felt the last piece of her world slip away. She walked into her mother’s empty hospital room to gather her belongings. On the floor by the bedside table, she found her mother’s phone. The screen was still active, displaying a video that had been sent earlier that afternoon. In the video, Scarlett was holding my father, a positive pregnancy test clutched in her hand. “Christian, I’ll get rid of the baby,” Scarlett sobbed in the recording. “I just want to be by your side, to take care of you and Genevieve. But please, give me some kind of status. Give me a reason to stay.” The camera panned slightly, catching my father’s conflicted face against the window. After a long, agonizing pause, he spoke. “Okay.” My mother felt as though a lightning bolt had pierced her chest. Clutching her marriage certificate, which she always kept in her purse, she ran through the rain to the local registry office. The clerk behind the desk looked at the database, then shook her head with a look of pity. “Mrs. Shaw, Christian Shaw’s legal spouse is not you. It is a woman named Scarlett Vance.” The words echoed in her ears, dragging her back to three months ago. My father had taken her marriage certificate, claiming he needed it to register a new downtown property under her name. “You’re the hero of our family, Jenny,” he had said, kissing her forehead. “You gave me our beautiful baby.” He hadn’t been buying a house. He had been quietly dissolving their marriage. My grandmother’s only wish had been for her daughter to have a happy, stable family. Seeing that video had literally stopped her heart. Under the gray, pouring sky, my mother’s vision went black, and she collapsed onto the wet concrete. When she opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital bed. My father was sitting beside her, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than ever. But when he saw her wake up, his face hardened with anger. “Did you really call me a dozen times and fake an illness just to get attention?” he snapped. “Do you have any idea that our daughter was running a high fever? Scarlett and I had to stay up all night at the clinic. Can’t you be sensible, just for once?” He hadn’t even looked at the death certificate resting on her bedside table. My mother swallowed the dry lump of grief in her throat. She lowered her head and remained silent. “I left the baby with Scarlett,” my father said, standing up to adjust his coat. “The company gala is tomorrow night. Make sure you wear something decent. Don’t embarrass me again.” At the gala, my mother wore a beautiful crimson gown, but no amount of silk could hide the ghostly paleness of her skin. On stage, Scarlett stood in a brilliant gold dress, receiving the “Employee of the Year” award directly from my father’s hands. The whispers from the crowd drifted over to where my mother stood. “If it weren’t for Scarlett, Christian’s company would have gone under by now.” “She thinks having a baby makes her royalty. Always throwing tantrums.” “Honestly, Christian and Scarlett look like the real couple here.” My mother watched them, realizing the crowd was right. They looked perfect together. Her eyes drifted to Scarlett’s wrist. Resting there was the heirloom emerald bracelet, a piece of jewelry traditionally passed down to the rightful matriarch of the Shaw family. My mother had almost broken it during one of her manic episodes, and my father had locked it away, promising to keep it safe. Now, it gleamed against Scarlett’s pale skin. Seeing my mother, Scarlett smiled, naturally linking her arm through my father’s as they walked over. “Mrs. Shaw,” Scarlett said, her eyes flashing with quiet triumph. “Please don’t play the sick card next time. Christian and I were genuinely worried about you.” My mother clenched her fists, trying to stop her body from shaking. Scarlett stepped closer, leaning in until her lips were inches from my mother’s ear. “I didn’t have time to visit your mother yesterday,” she whispered, her voice low and venomous. “So I sent her a little surprise instead. I wonder if she liked it?” The wicked, mocking grin on Scarlett’s face seemed to expand, filling my mother’s vision. Before she could think, my mother lunged forward, her fingers wrapping tightly around Scarlett’s throat. “Why did you do it?” my mother screamed, her voice cracking. “You killed her! Aren’t you afraid of hell?” Scarlett choked, struggling in her grip, but she didn’t look afraid. She smiled. The next second, my father slammed his hand into my mother’s shoulder, shoving her away so hard she hit the floor. He stepped in front of Scarlett, shielding her. “Genevieve, I told you to stop this madness!” he roared, his eyes filled with pure disgust. He didn’t see the malicious smirk playing on Scarlett’s lips behind his back. Just as my mother gathered the strength to stand, the smart tracker on her wrist began to beep frantically. It was the emergency alert linked to my baby monitor. My mother’s heart stopped. She looked up, meeting Scarlett’s cold, mocking gaze. “What did you do to my baby?” my mother shrieked. “If you touch her, I’ll tear you apart!” Scarlett shrank back, putting on a face of pure innocence. “Christian, I don’t know what she’s talking about. I placed the baby in the best private nursery in the city. I paid for the highest level of security. How is that a crime?” Without a moment of hesitation, my father turned and shoved my mother back down onto the floor. “Scarlett is trying to help you care for our daughter, and you accuse her of this?” he spat. “Are you ever going to stop?” The alarm on the watch was ringing louder, a high-pitched scream that tore at my mother’s soul. She crawled forward, clawing at his trousers. “The baby is in danger! I can feel it! She’s—” “Shut up!” he interrupted, kicking his leg free. “Scarlett has sacrificed her own time for our child, and you humiliate her in front of my entire company? Is this depression excuse ever going to run out?” My mother froze, her tears dripping onto the polished wooden floor. Scarlett stepped forward, her eyes red, looking like the victim of a terrible injustice. “Christian, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have argued with her. Since she’s sick, she can say whatever she wants.” With a theatrical sigh, Scarlett began to lower herself to her knees to apologize. My father caught her immediately, pulling her up before looking down at my mother with absolute coldness. “Apologize to her,” he commanded. Those two words crushed the last bit of life left in my mother’s chest. Suddenly, she coughed, and a spray of dark, clotted blood splattered across the floor. The guests gasped, drawing back in horror. My father took a step back, his face flashing with sudden alarm. “Jenny, what… what is that?” Only my mother knew that the massive dose of sleeping pills had finally begun to destroy her organs from the inside out. Without saying a word, she wiped the blood from her chin, dragged her body forward, and knelt before Scarlett. She bowed, pressing her forehead to the floor three times. “I am sorry, Miss Vance,” she whispered. She stood up, her eyes vacant as she looked at my father’s stunned face. “Can I go now?” Without waiting for an answer, she tapped the tracker on her watch. The signal wasn’t coming from the luxury nursery. It was coming from the top-floor warehouse of my father’s company building. Scarlett quietly raised her phone, showing my mother the screen. On the live security feed, I was tied to a small wooden chair in the corner of a locked storage room. Dark, thick smoke was already billowing under the door. My mother opened her mouth to scream, to beg, but before she could move, my father’s security guards pinned her arms behind her back. My father looked at her with cold indifference. “I am signing the custody of our daughter over to Scarlett. You need to be locked away until you can clear your head.” He turned and walked away, his arm wrapped protectively around Scarlett, who flashed a final, victorious smile over her shoulder. My mother screamed, thrashing against the guards, but her body was failing. As the connection between us slowly faded into nothingness, she collapsed onto the floor, her eyes staring blankly into the light. When my father finally returned to the quiet apartment late that night, the rooms were dark. He walked out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette. He checked his phone, but there was no reply to the messages he had sent her. A strange, heavy weight settled in his chest. He walked into the master bedroom. As he opened the door, his shoe hit a plastic object. He looked down. It was an empty bottle of sleeping pills. A sudden, terrible dread gripped his throat as he picked it up. In that exact moment, his phone began to ring furiously in his pocket. It was the emergency room.

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1 I used to be the ex-girlfriend Leo claimed he was “just having fun with.” Then, his younger brother, James, spotted me in a club and roped me into playing his fake girlfriend—all to make his childhood crush jealous. That kiss in the VIP room was supposed to be a show for the crush, but it landed right in Leo’s line of sight. Right in front of James, Leo emphasized the word “sister-in-law,” chewing on it like it was a bitter betrayal. “Don’t recognize me? Sister-in-law.” Inside the club. I was carrying a tray of drinks across the dance floor. The moment I turned around, someone grabbed my wrist. I looked down. The guy looked early twenties. Striking features, with eyes that were bright and completely feral. “You’ll do,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. “Let go.” “You need money.” “Are you psychic now?” “Would you be working here if you were rich?” He tilted his head. I didn’t argue. My bank account was sitting in the double digits, and rent was due in three days. “And your point is?” “Play my girlfriend. One month. A thousand bucks.” I laughed out loud. “Did you hit your head on the way in?” He let go of my wrist and pulled up a photo on his phone, shoving it in my face. “Her. Michelle,” he said. “I’ve asked her out 999 times, and she always shoots me down.” “I want her to know I can get a girl too.” He paused, his eyes lingering on my face for a second. The tips of his ears turned a suspicious shade of red. “Plus, you’re prettier than her. By a lot.” I smirked. “Then go find a real girlfriend.” “Too much work.” He said it like it was a universal truth. “A fake one is easier. When it’s over, we go our separate ways. Clean.” I sat down, giving him a slow once-over. His ears turned even redder. “What are you looking at?” “Seeing if you’re worth my time.” I curled the corner of my lip. “A month is too long. Three appearances, max. A thousand bucks, paid upfront.” “Are you robbing me?” I made a move to stand up. “Deal!” He added my number. The name popped up on my screen: James Vance. The next day, James sent me an address. When I got to the lounge, I sent him a voice note: “Hey babe, I’m here.” He replied instantly: “Don’t talk like that!!!” Three minutes later, he walked out of the lounge and just stared at me, dumbfounded. “Look good?” I blinked innocently. His Adam’s apple bobbed. I slid my arm through his. “Let’s go, boyfriend.” His entire body went rigid like a coiled spring. The girl from the photo was definitely the center of attention in the private booth. When she saw us walk in arm-in-arm, her eyes locked on me. “And this is?” She scanned me from head to toe. James tried to play it cool. “My girlfriend.” One of the guys started hollering. “Holy shit, James! Since when? You never said a word!” “Recently.” James kept stealing glances at Michelle out of the corner of his eye. “Love at first sight.” Michelle smiled tightly. “What should we call you?” Everyone looked at me. I slowly slipped my jacket off. The slip dress underneath left very little to the imagination. I rested my chin on James’s shoulder, smiling sweetly at Michelle. “You can just call me a little older and wiser.” James completely froze. Michelle blinked. “You’re older than James?” “Doesn’t matter.” I turned my head, letting the tip of my nose brush against James’s ear. “What matters is he likes it. Right, babe?” James’s ear was hot enough to fry an egg on. “…Yeah.” The vibe in the booth shifted instantly. “I’m gonna get some air,” I said, standing up. I leaned in and whispered in James’s ear, “Keep up the act.” Out in the hallway, I leaned against the wall and pulled out a cigarette. Footsteps echoed from the end of the hall. I looked up by instinct— The cigarette dropped from my lips. Leo Vance. His features were even colder than I remembered. He stopped in his tracks. Then, he smiled. It was a smile that chilled you to the bone, like a bitter November wind. “Long time no see.” I picked up the cigarette, held it unlit between my lips, and said nothing. He stepped closer, reached out, and plucked the cigarette from my mouth, snapping it in half between his fingers. Then, his eyes dropped to the thin straps of my dress. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What are you doing dressed like this in a place like this?” “Meeting a guy,” I laughed. “Is my ex-boyfriend trying to play chaperone?” His eyes darkened, like ink swirling in a glass of water. Right then, the door to the booth swung open behind me. An arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me backward into a solid chest. Then, a soft pair of lips landed clumsily on the corner of my mouth. Someone inside yelled, “Holy shit! James, you’re actually doing it!” Before I could even process what was happening, another force violently yanked James away. James stumbled back, looked up, and saw Leo. He froze. “Leo? You made it?” My brain flatlined. Leo’s gaze moved slowly from my face to James. The corner of his mouth twitched into a dangerous smile. “And who is this?” “My girlfriend!” James puffed out his chest, sounding entirely too proud of himself. “Gorgeous, right?” Leo’s eyes dragged deliberately from my lips down to the spot on my shoulder where James’s hand had just been. “Sister-in-law.” He chewed on the word, spitting it out like it tasted like poison. “Hey there,” I blinked at him innocently. “Brother-in-law.” Leo’s breathing hitched. “Wait, you two know each other?” James frowned, his eyes darting between me and his older brother. “Never met her.” “Nope.” We spoke at the exact same time. Leo didn’t look at me again. He pushed past us and walked straight into the booth. James leaned in close, dropping his voice. “Are you sure you don’t know my brother?” “Positive.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder and smiled at him. “What, afraid I’m sleeping with him behind your back?” “No—” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just… the way he looked at you was weird.” “What kind of weird?” “I don’t know how to explain it.” He thought for a second. “It was like… he wanted to tear someone to pieces.” “You’re overthinking it.” I looped my arm through his, pressing myself against his side. “Let’s go back in.” He didn’t move. He looked down at me, a strange look in his eyes. “Were you… acting a little too real back there?” “Isn’t this what you paid for?” I looked up at him, my eyes crinkling in a smile. “Babe, I’m a professional. If you pay me, you get the premium package.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he turned his face away. Bright red. I laughed to myself. Kids are so easy to read. When we walked back into the booth, Leo was already seated. The only open spot was right next to him. I sat down beside James, melting against his side like I had no bones. His arm stiffened for a second before he slowly relaxed, his hand tentatively resting on my waist. Leo didn’t stop drinking, but his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. My phone buzzed. I looked down. A text from an unknown number: “Do you enjoy parading around half-naked in front of other men?” I didn’t reply. Delete. Block. Then, with a bright smile, I picked up a piece of fruit on a toothpick and held it up to James’s mouth. “Say ah, babe.” James looked like his soul was leaving his body. He took the toothpick from my hand and whispered, “Can you… tone it down a little?” “Tone what down?” I leaned in close, letting my breath ghost over the shell of his ear. He practically shrunk into the sofa, nearly knocking the fruit platter onto the floor. I couldn’t stop laughing. When the night finally ended, James stood outside the club, struggling to find the right words. “You were really good tonight. Michelle looked like she wanted to puke.” “Thanks for the glowing review.” “But,” he paused, “I still think my brother was acting weird around you.” “Is that so?” “Though I heard he just got dumped by his girlfriend recently, so maybe he’s just in a bad mood.” “Right, right. He’s probably just jealous of you,” I brushed it off. “Oh, wait.” I suddenly remembered the stunt in the hallway. “You kissed me without my permission tonight.” James looked like a deer in headlights. He whipped his head away, his ears burning crimson. “They were calling me a liar! I had to prove it!” “That wasn’t part of the base package, honey.” He immediately pulled out his phone and hit send on a transfer. A notification popped up. Ten grand. I stared at the screen, genuinely shocked. “Are you always this reckless with your money?” James tilted his chin up, trying to sound tough but just sounding defensive. “Are you saying my first kiss isn’t worth ten grand?” I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. “Alright, well, this girl needs her beauty sleep.” As I turned to walk away, I could feel his eyes glued to my back. But I could feel another gaze, too. Piercing down from the second-floor window of the club. Heavy, suffocating, like it was trying to nail my feet to the pavement. Once I was in the cab, my phone buzzed again. A new number. “See you soon.” Ten seconds later, a second text came through, as if he was intentionally giving me time to panic. “Ex-girlfriend.” The second act happened sooner than I expected. James texted me: “Party tonight. Michelle’s going to be there. You need to come.” He followed it up with: “Maybe keep it low-key tonight. After you left last time, my brother didn’t say a single word for the rest of the night. It was terrifying.” I was lying in bed, holding my phone above my face. I smirked. “Low-key? Go hire someone else.” He replied instantly: “NO WAIT! WEAR WHATEVER YOU WANT! PLEASE COME!” Then, another transfer hit my account. One grand. I accepted the money and sent back a blown-kiss emoji. “Good boy. Mommy will take good care of you tonight.” “Witch!” I tossed my phone aside, laughing, and started digging through my closet. I finally settled on a deep burgundy velvet mini dress. It completely exposed my collarbones, so I paired it with a microscopic gold chain holding a single ruby pendant that rested right on the edge of the neckline. If I walked out in this, forget the childhood crush—I could make a priest break his vows. This VIP room was even bigger than the last one, complete with a private karaoke stage and a full bar. When I walked in, it was already packed. “The queen arrives!” the same guy from last time hollered. “James, your girl is insane. Every time she walks in, it looks like a red carpet.” James grinned like an idiot, throwing his arm around my shoulder and pulling me down onto the sofa next to him. Michelle was sitting directly across from us, her makeup flawless but understated. “Want to sing?” Michelle offered the microphone, her smile tight. I took it and picked a song. When the chorus hit, I turned around and sang directly to James. My eyes locked on his, my voice low and breathy, like I was whispering a secret just for him. I reached out, tracing a finger from his collar down to his jawline, giving it a playful tap. James sat up so straight it looked like someone had shoved a steel rod down his spine. His ears were practically glowing red. When the song ended, the room was dead silent for three whole seconds before anyone clapped. “So, how did you two get together?” Michelle asked, her voice dangerously quiet. James was taking a nervous gulp of water and practically choked on it. I answered for him. “At a club. He grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let me leave until I agreed to go out with him.” Michelle’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second. “Really?” “Yep.” I turned to look at James, reaching out to trace his jawline again. “He was so cute that night. Like a stubborn little puppy. I just didn’t have the heart to say no.” James coughed violently, almost spitting water everywhere. “I need to use the bathroom.” He scrambled up and bolted. Michelle watched him run away, then looked back at me. She took a slow sip of her drink and didn’t say a word. But the temperature in her eyes had dropped below freezing. “I’m going out for a smoke.” Leo stood up abruptly from his dark corner of the booth. When he said it, his eyes were dead set on me. My phone buzzed. “End of the hall.” “Come here.” I ignored it. Three minutes passed. “Don’t make me drag you out here.” I let out a soft laugh, downed the rest of my drink, and stood up. Leo was leaning against the wall, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. I tilted my head, looking up at him. He took a step forward, boxing me in against the wall. He didn’t touch me, but his scent—tobacco and something dark and expensive—completely engulfed me. I instinctively held my breath. “Are you done playing your little game?” “Who’s playing games with you?” I gave him a mock innocent look. His eyes traced a slow path from my lips down to the ruby resting on my chest. He paused for a beat. Then he reached out, his thumb and forefinger gripping my chin, tilting my face up to force me to look at him. “If you need money that badly,” his voice dropped to a low, dangerous rumble, “you can come to me.” I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. “Leo, whatever we were, it’s been over for a long time.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You vanished. You didn’t leave a single word.” “Because there was nothing left to say.” I closed my eyes for a second, the memory washing over me. Standing outside the men’s room at that club, hearing his voice drifting over the sound of running water— Mia? I’m just having fun with her. The laughter. The clinking glasses. I had turned around and walked out. No tears. No dramatic confrontations. I never looked back. “Mia.” His lips were inches from my ear. “You owe me an explanation.” I pushed his chest hard. “An explanation for what? Why I dumped you?” I smoothed an invisible crease on my skirt, keeping my voice light and completely detached. “Because you were boring, Leo. Being with you was a chore.” His eyes turned lethal, like polished obsidian daggers. I didn’t back down. We just stood there, locked in a silent war. Suddenly, voices drifted from the other end of the hall. “It’s not what you think—” James and Michelle. I turned my head. Down the hall, James was chasing after Michelle. Michelle’s eyes were red, her voice trembling. “You’ve been confessing your feelings to me since we were kids. I never said yes because I was never sure if you were actually serious.” “Of course I was serious before!” James looked frantic. “James, do you even realize what you just threw away?” Michelle looked up at him, a single tear rolling down her cheek, looking perfectly fragile. “I was actually planning on saying yes. On your thousandth attempt.” James froze, completely stunned. “Don’t cry. I… I just wanted you to notice me. I…” The words died in his throat, like he was choking on them. Michelle stared right at him. “If you were single right now, and I said yes… what would you choose?” James went completely silent. I leaned back against the wall. Smart girl. She didn’t demand that he dump me. She dangled the prize he had wanted his whole life in front of his face, forcing him to make the choice himself. No matter what he said, she got to play the tragic victim. Leo stepped up right behind me. He lowered his head, his lips grazing my ear. “Enjoying the show?” I ignored him. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, sir! Let me clean that up!” A waiter rushing past with a cart had accidentally sloshed a few drops of red wine onto Leo’s crisp dress shirt. The commotion made James and Michelle look over. They saw me and Leo. He was standing so close his body was practically wrapped around mine. James’s face went from confused, to shocked, to absolutely furious. “Mia!” He sprinted down the hall, grabbed my arm, and yanked me behind his back, glaring daggers at his older brother. “Back off, Leo.” The faint trace of amusement completely vanished from Leo’s face. “Excuse me?” James pushed me further behind him, guarding me like a junkyard dog. “I said—stay the hell away from my girlfriend!”

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1 As a senior partner at a high-profile family law firm, I have handled more divorces than I can count. I have watched betrayed wives tear down mistresses in public, and I have exposed conniving husbands hiding millions in offshore accounts. But I never expected that same brand of cheap, dirty drama to drag me under. It didn’t just rain on my parade; it was a torrential downpour of ice-cold water, straight to the chest. It started on a busy Tuesday morning when a young, fragile woman blocked the entrance of my firm. She was dressed in a simple white linen sundress, faded from too many washes, which only served to make her pale face look more pathetic. Her stomach was slightly rounded, showing a pregnancy of about four or five months. “Please, ma’am,” she sobbed, her voice carrying across the busy lobby. “I beg you to let him go. A child needs a father.” It was peak morning rush hour. Colleagues and clients stopped in their tracks, whispering and pointing. The receptionist tried to steer her away, but the girl’s shrill voice cut through the air, freezing everyone in place. “I know what we did was wrong, but I love him, and he loves me! Please, just give him his freedom!” I stood at the top of the lobby steps, feeling absolutely nothing. In my line of work, I saw this exact performance at least eight times a month. “Miss,” I said, walking down the steps, the sharp click of my designer heels echoing against the polished marble floor. “If you are trying to pull a scam, you should really do your homework first. I am a widow.” The murmurs in the lobby died down instantly. Everyone in the firm knew my husband had died three years ago. It was a tragedy that had nearly broken me, a topic no one dared to bring up in my presence. But instead of running away, the girl reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a stack of glossy photographs, throwing them onto the floor between us. The pictures scattered across the marble. I looked down, and my chest went tight. They were intimate photos of a man and a woman. The man’s face was one I saw every time I closed my eyes: Elliott. My husband, who had been dead for three years. In the photos, his skin was darker than I remembered, and there were a few more lines around his eyes, but that lazy grin and the familiar way he draped his arm over the woman’s shoulder were things I would recognize even if he were burned to ash. But it was what the girl said next that made the room spin. “He has a red, butterfly-shaped birthmark on his lower back,” she said, looking at me with a defiant pout. “And when he gets passionate, the color deepens. Am I right?” My hand trembled, and my hot americano nearly spilled over my fingers. The eyes of my colleagues felt like needles pressing into my skin. “Audrey’s husband is alive?” “Faking his death? Insurance fraud? What is going on?” The wild theories began to fly around the lobby. I took a slow, deep breath, pushing my gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to project a calm I didn’t feel. I bent down and picked up one of the photographs. My thumbnail dug into Elliott’s face, hard enough to rip the glossy paper. Then, I looked up and offered her a cold, empty smile. “Are you absolutely certain this baby belongs to my husband?” The girl thrust her chin out, her face filled with stubborn pride. “Elliott said that as soon as you sign the divorce papers, he will marry me!” “Elliott?” I repeated the name, tasting the bitterness of it. “Yes! Elliott!” I nodded, slowly pulling out my phone, and dialed a number in front of the entire crowd. “Yes, I’d like to report a disturbance at my office,” I said into the receiver, my voice steady. “A woman is harassing my staff and attempting to extort me. She claims she is pregnant with the child of my husband, who died three years ago. I suspect she is either a grave robber or mentally unstable.” I hung up, looking at the girl’s suddenly pale face. “Since you claim he is the father, this actually works out perfectly,” I said, stepping closer. “My husband’s ashes are currently resting at Oakwood Cemetery. We can head over there now for a DNA test, or I can arrange to have him dug up so you two can catch up. What do you think?” The girl stumbled back a step, but the look in her eyes wasn’t fear. It was something far worse: pity. “You are just lying to yourself,” she whispered. “Elliott is alive. He said if you agree to sign the papers, he will meet you.” She held up her phone, showing me an address on the screen. In that single second, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Alive? My three years of grieving, the tears, the empty bed, the quiet house: what had it all been for? 2 I didn’t even notice the elevator ride down to the garage. The security guards were still detaining the girl in the lobby, her faint cries echoing down the shaft. I hit the button for the basement level, which offered a private exit through the building’s quiet coffee shop. As a lawyer, I believed in evidence and cold logic. The dead do not walk among the living, unless they were never dead to begin with. Three years ago, Elliott had gone on a business trip to Colorado. He was driving through a mountain pass when a massive landslide swept his car off the cliff. The vehicle was crushed beneath tons of rock and dirt. The recovery team only found fragments of the vehicle and partial remains. Because a traditional identification was impossible, the police relied on his personal belongings, his wallet, and the license plate. I had received a urn filled with ashes, along with a five-million-dollar life insurance payout. At the time, I was working eighty-hour weeks to make partner. The loss had devastated me so deeply that I took a six-month leave of absence just to learn how to breathe again. And now, I was supposed to believe he was alive? The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. The coffee shop was tucked into a dim corner of the basement, mostly empty during the morning rush. I saw him immediately. He was sitting by the window, wearing a faded gray utility jacket. His hair was longer than before, messy and unstyled. He held a cigarette between his fingers, staring down at his phone. The way he held the cigarette, the slight hunch of his shoulders: my chest tightened so violently I could barely draw breath. I quieted my steps, walking toward him. The closer I got, the more the ghost became a man. I stood behind him, catching the distinct, cheap scent of his brand of tobacco. I used to beg him to buy better quality cigarettes, but he always refused, claiming he preferred the harsh, throat-burning taste of the cheap stuff. “Elliott.” I spoke his name. He turned his head slowly. Our eyes met. It was indeed Elliott. His skin was darker, his face thinner, and the soft, gentle expression he used to wear was gone, replaced by a cynical, calculating look in his eyes. There was no joy in his face, and no guilt. He merely frowned, stubbing out his cigarette in a half-empty cup of cold coffee. “You made it,” he said. His tone was so casual, as if he were asking me what we should have for dinner. Slap! I struck him with every ounce of strength in my body. The sharp sound of the blow echoed through the quiet shop. His head snapped to the side, a thin line of blood appearing at the corner of his lip. He stood up slowly, his face twisting with sudden rage. “Audrey! Are you out of your mind?!” “Am I out of my mind?” I let out a harsh laugh, though hot tears were beginning to sting my eyes. “You’ve been dead for three years, Elliott. I spent three years crying over your grave, supporting your aging parents, and living like a ghost myself. And now you show up alive?” “Why didn’t you come back? Why did you send that pregnant girl to humiliate me at my own firm?” “Did you want to ruin my career, or did you just want to see me lose my mind?” Elliott wiped his lip, his eyes turning cold and dark. “I couldn’t come back, Audrey. I was deep in debt, and I didn’t want the collectors coming after you.” “But I have to be back now. Gilligan is pregnant, and I need to give her a proper family.” “Let’s just end this quietly. Sign the divorce papers, and return the five million dollars from the insurance policy to me.” “My life bought that money, Audrey. Since I’m still breathing, that money belongs to me.” I stared at him, a cold realization washing over me. So that was his game. It wasn’t a miracle; it was a scam. He had faked his own death to wipe out his gambling debts and cash in on a massive insurance policy. And now that the heat had died down, or the money had run out, he had returned to claim the prize, bringing his mistress and his unborn child to push me out of the way. I looked at the man I had loved for seven years, the husband I had wept for in the middle of the night, and felt a deep, sickening disgust. “Elliott,” I said, wiping a stray tear from my cheek, my voice turning to stone. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living?” “I am a prosecutor’s worst nightmare, and a criminal’s greatest threat. I am a lawyer.” “Faking your death to claim a life insurance policy is major insurance fraud. With a sum of five million dollars, you are looking at a minimum of ten years in a federal penitentiary.” “Your relationship with that girl constitutes bigamy, which is another two years.” “And now, you are attempting to extort me.” I took a step closer, staring directly into his shifty eyes. “You want that five million dollars? Fine.” “Go claim it in prison.” Elliott’s face fell, his arrogant posture vanishing. He hadn’t expected me to be so cold, so analytical. Suddenly, his expression softened, and he dropped to his knees, grabbing my coat. “Audrey! Please! I had no choice!” he begged, looking up at me with tears in his eyes. “The debt collectors would have killed me if I didn’t pay them!” “Gilligan is completely innocent in all of this. Please don’t do this to us. I’m begging you!” A few patrons in the coffee shop turned to stare. The man who had been so smug a moment ago was now groveling like a dog at my feet. I looked down at him, and the last shred of affection I had held for him died. 3 I kicked his hands away, ignoring his pathetic cries as I walked out of the coffee shop and went back to my office. Gilligan was still sitting in the reception area. When she saw me, she tried to stand, but the icy glare I gave her pinned her to her seat. “Mrs. Shaw…” “Don’t speak to me.” I walked into my private office and slammed the door shut, locking out the curious eyes of my staff. My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage. I sat down at my desk, forcing myself to take deep, measured breaths. Elliott’s return meant my peaceful, quiet life was over. If the insurance fraud came to light, I would be the first person the authorities investigated. As the beneficiary, the insurance company would assume I was an accomplice. And then there was the five million dollars. Elliott claimed he had used the money to pay off his debts. But that didn’t make sense. That five million was still sitting in my private investment account, untouched. I had never spent a single dime of it because it felt like blood money. If I hadn’t given him the money, how had he paid off his debts? And where had he gotten the money to support a mistress for three years? Suddenly, my phone rang. The screen displayed my mother-in-law’s name. For the past three years, despite my grief, I had taken care of his parents. I paid their monthly bills, took them to their medical appointments, and even organized his father’s funeral last winter. I answered, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “Hello, Mother.” “Audrey!” her voice came through the speaker, breathless with excitement. “You need to come to the house right now! It’s a miracle! A complete miracle!” “What happened?” “Elliott! My boy is alive!” she sobbed happily. “He’s back, Audrey! He’s really back! And he brought a beautiful girl with him. She’s pregnant with my grandson! I had a specialist look at her belly, it’s definitely a boy!” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. So, they had all been in on it. Elliott had left the cafe and gone straight to his mother, using her to put pressure on me. And her words… “Mother, do you even know who that woman is?” “Oh, who cares about that?” she snapped, her tone suddenly turning dismissive. “As long as she can carry the family name, she is a blessing! Audrey, don’t blame me for being blunt. You were married to my son for five years and never gave us a child. Now that he has survived this ordeal and brought home an heir, it’s a gift from above!” “You need to come over and sign those divorce papers. Don’t stand in the way of that poor girl’s future.” My heart felt as though it had been submerged in freezing water, then shattered with a hammer. Three years of devotion. Three years of caring for them, paying their medical bills, burying her husband. All of it meant nothing compared to an unborn grandson and her precious, deceitful son. I let out a soft, humorless laugh into the receiver. “Of course, Mother.” “I’ll be right over.” “We have a lot of things to settle.” I hung up, opened my laptop, and pulled up the digital copy of the life insurance policy from three years ago. Beneficiary: Audrey Shaw. Insured: Elliott Shaw. The death certificate, the cremation records, the estate closure documents: everything was filed perfectly. At the time, my mother-in-law had handed me the documents herself, claiming she was too heartbroken to look at them. I had handled all the paperwork. But looking at it now, the holes were glaring. If Elliott was alive, whose remains were in that urn? And where had he been hiding for three years? I closed the laptop, retrieved a small digital voice recorder from my desk drawer, and slipped it into my purse. Then, I sent a quick message to my assistant: Run a search on all bank accounts associated with Elliott Shaw and his mother over the past three years. Look for large cash withdrawals or overseas transfers. And call the legal department at the insurance company. Tell them I have information regarding a major fraud case.

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Three months into our marriage, my husband, Alfredo, died in a horrific car crash. I was kneeling at his funeral, on the verge of fainting from sheer grief. Suddenly, a stream of glowing bullet comments flashed across my field of vision. [Don’t cry, girl! Your husband isn’t dead. The one who died was actually his older brother, Thomas.] [He only swapped identities because he was terrified his pregnant sister-in-law, Winnie, wouldn’t survive the shock of losing her husband.] [Even though he’s holding Winnie in his arms right now, his heart is actually secretly breaking for you.] [Once Winnie gives birth to his brother’s child, he’ll reveal the truth to everyone.] I stared at the man across the room, who was so carefully massaging my sister-in-law’s legs. A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I stood up, turned around, and walked straight to the hospital. “I don’t want this baby anymore.” 1 Three months into our marriage, my husband, Alfredo, died in a horrific car crash. I was kneeling at his funeral, my vision blurring, on the verge of fainting from sheer grief. It had been three days since the accident. My tears had completely run dry, leaving only a hollow, throbbing numbness in my chest. Beside me, my mother-in-law held her head in her hands, her loud, agonizing wails echoing off the walls. My hand drifted to my coat pocket, where my positive pregnancy test lay. I had only received the results three days ago. I was about to pull it out and show it to his mother when a row of glowing, translucent words suddenly flashed across my field of vision. [Don’t cry, Sienna! Your husband isn’t dead. The one who died was actually his older twin brother, Thomas.] [He only swapped identities because he was terrified his pregnant sister-in-law, Winnie, wouldn’t survive the shock of losing her husband.] [Even though he’s holding Winnie in his arms right now, his heart is actually breaking for you.] [Once Winnie gives birth to his brother’s child, he’ll reveal the truth to everyone.] My hand froze in my pocket. I slowly turned my head. Standing next to Winnie was the man everyone believed to be Thomas. He wore a crisp black suit, his face pale and exhausted. When he looked at me, his eyes held a deeply buried, agonizing tenderness. With that single look, my world fractured. The glowing text was right. The man holding Winnie, whispering soft comforts into her ear, was indeed my husband, Alfredo. 2 [Poor guy, watching the woman he loves suffer so much and unable to say a word…] [Well, Alfredo knows Sienna is strong and can get through this. But Winnie is fragile, plus she’s carrying his brother’s child.] [Don’t worry, Sienna. He’ll make it up to you later…] The comments continued to float before my eyes. I slowly forced myself to stand, but my knees, numb from hours of kneeling, buckled beneath me. Alfredo instinctively lunged forward to catch me, but he forgot he was holding Winnie’s hand. The sudden pull caused Winnie to stumble with a soft gasp. Alfredo immediately let go of his direction toward me, turning back to wrap his arms around her waist. “Are you alright, Winnie?” Winnie’s face flushed as she shook her head, whispering, “I’m fine. My foot just fell asleep, and I lost my balance.” Hearing her discomfort, a flash of deep worry crossed Alfredo’s face. “Don’t be foolish. You’re pregnant. Why didn’t you say something if you were feeling unwell?” Without a second thought, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to a padded chair by the wall. He knelt before her, gently sliding off her shoe, and placed her foot on his knee to massage it. “Is that better?” Winnie blushed, looking up at me with embarrassment. “Alfredo… I mean, Thomas, Sienna is still here…” Hearing my name, Alfredo froze. He stood up stiffly, his eyes darting toward me, wanting to say something. But my vision went black, and I collapsed onto the floor. 3 When I woke up, I was in the master bedroom of the family estate. The lights were dimmed. Alfredo and his mother were standing near the window, their backs turned to me, speaking in hushed whispers. “Alfredo, are you really going to keep Sienna in the dark?” my mother-in-law asked, her voice trembling. “You… you don’t still love Winnie, do you?” There was a long silence before Alfredo spoke. “That’s in the past,” he said, his voice flat. “But Winnie is too delicate, and she is carrying Thomas’s only child. I can’t risk her health. Sienna has always been strong. She will get through this. Once Winnie’s baby is born and I’ve settled her, I’ll tell Sienna the truth. She will understand.” A cold, sharp pain pierced my chest. I had met Alfredo when his relationship with Winnie was at its absolute worst. Winnie had just been announced as Thomas’s girlfriend, and Alfredo had treated her with such hostility that he refused to be in the same room as her. I had spent so much of our relationship trying to play the peacemaker, coaxing him to be kinder to her, wondering why he harbored such deep resentment. Now, the pieces fell into place. He didn’t hate her. He loved her, and he hated that he couldn’t have her. 4 Hearing his explanation, my mother-in-law let out a long sigh. “You’re right. Winnie is the one who is suffering the most right now. Go back to her room, Alfredo. She shouldn’t be alone. I will stay here and watch over Sienna.” “Okay.” Alfredo turned, throwing a long, lingering look toward the bed. I kept my eyes tightly closed, forcing my breathing to remain steady, while my fingernails dug deep into my palms. A wave of bitter nausea rose in my throat. I had been nothing but a second choice, a safe harbor. And all those times I had tried to comfort him and patch up his relationship with Winnie, he must have looked at me and thought I was a pathetic joke. For the past three days, I had blamed myself for his death. I thought he had died because he drove out in the middle of a storm to buy my favorite breakfast. It was all a lie, a carefully orchestrated performance to protect his true love. 5 The pregnancy test in my pocket felt heavy against my skin. I pulled the slip of paper out, staring at the black ink: Intrauterine pregnancy, approximately 6 weeks. This paper was supposed to be my saving grace, my light in the dark. But now, it was a mockery. Alfredo’s words echoed in my head, cold and hollow. Sienna has always been strong… I can’t risk Winnie’s health… I looked at the tiny, blurred image of the scan. I gripped the edges of the paper. Rip. One tear, then another, until the medical report lay in a dozen neat pieces in my hand. I dropped them into the wastebasket beside the bed. There was no room in this world for a child born of a lie, and there was no room in my heart for him anymore. 6 [Sienna, don’t be sad! He really does love you!] [He just wants to give his past love a safe, quiet closure. You should try to understand his position!] [Are you people blind? He knelt down to rub her feet. That’s disgusting.] [I feel so sorry for her. She deserves so much better.] Ignoring the comments, I stood up and walked downstairs. In the dining room, Alfredo was sitting at the table, carefully picking the bones out of a piece of fish and placing the meat into Winnie’s bowl. I sat down opposite them. My pale face immediately drew their attention. A flash of guilt crossed Alfredo’s eyes. He silently deboned another piece of fish and placed it on my plate. “Eat something, Sienna. You’ve lost too much weight.” Suddenly, Winnie let out a soft retch. Alfredo immediately pulled a napkin, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to guide her to the kitchen sink, helping her wash up without a single second of hesitation. I looked at my plate, the appetite completely gone from my body. My mother-in-law walked in, quickly placing a bowl of warm soup in front of me. “Sienna, drink some soup. You need to keep your strength up.” “Thank you, Mother.” I sipped the soup, but my chest remained cold. When Alfredo and Winnie returned to the table, Winnie looked at me, her eyes red. “Sienna, does it hurt to look at Thomas’s face? He looks so much like Alfredo. I’m sorry… I don’t want to make you sad.” My mother-in-law dropped her spoon. The sharp clink of metal against porcelain echoed in the quiet room. Alfredo kept his eyes on his plate, silent. “So, sister-in-law, are you asking me to leave the house?” I asked plainly. Winnie looked startled, her lower lip trembling. “No! I didn’t mean that at all! I only thought… if it were Thomas who died, and I had to watch Alfredo and you together every day, I would die of grief. I only wanted to care for you, but I’m so clumsy with my words…” Alfredo’s initial irritation at her words quickly melted into a soft, protective guilt. He was relieved. He was glad it was me who had to suffer this grief, and not his precious Winnie. “You’re right,” I said, putting down my spoon. “The living must move on.” “I am moving out of the house today. If I decide to remarry in the future, I wouldn’t want my new husband to feel uncomfortable.” The room went dead silent. Alfredo slammed his hand on the table, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “Sienna! My brother only died three days ago!” 7 “And?” I looked up, my eyes meeting his. Alfredo’s hands clenched into tight fists, a sudden, sharp panic flashing in his eyes. I laid my napkin on the table. “Thomas, you don’t actually believe you have the right to demand I remain chaste for your deceased brother, do you?” He choked on his words, his face turning red with frustration. He couldn’t argue. To the world, he was Thomas. My mother-in-law quickly tried to play the peacemaker. “Sienna, where would you go? This is your home!” “Looking at Thomas’s face only reminds me that my husband is dead,” I said, standing up. “He is dead, and he is never coming back.” I looked at her, my expression calm. “Thank you for everything, Mother. But I am leaving today.” “Sienna!” Alfredo stepped forward, reaching out to grab my arm. But Winnie suddenly gasped, clutching her stomach as she leaned against the table. “Thomas… my stomach… it hurts a little…” Alfredo froze. His body reacted before his mind could, spinning around to catch her, his voice filled with a desperate panic. “Winnie! Where does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?” That was a level of concern he had never shown me in all the days since the accident. I didn’t look back. I walked upstairs to pack my things. 8 There wasn’t much to pack. I folded my clothes and packed my essentials, stripping away my presence from the room like peeling off dead skin. My mother-in-law followed me into the room, her eyes red as she took my hand. “Sienna, I beg you. For Alfredo’s sake, stay with us. Just until your sister-in-law gives birth, please?” “Does Alfredo really love only me, Mother?” I asked, looking her in the eye. She flinched, her gaze darting away. I let go of her hand, pulling the zipper of my suitcase shut. “Take care of yourself, Mother. From now on, pretend you never had me as a daughter-in-law.” I wheeled my suitcase out of the room. 9 In the living room, Winnie was resting on the sofa. Alfredo was kneeling beside her, holding a cup of warm water and speaking to her in a low, soothing tone. They both looked up when they heard the wheels of my suitcase against the hardwood floor. Winnie pushed the cup away, her eyes filling with tears. “Sienna, please don’t go. I didn’t mean to drive you away…” Alfredo stood up, his face dark with anger as he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, almost painful. “Sienna! Stop this!” he growled, a faint trace of panic hidden beneath his anger. “Where do you think you’re going? You aren’t well, and you’re making Mother cry!” “Let go, Thomas,” I said, my voice empty. “Have some self-respect.” “I have my own life to live. I won’t stay here and be an eyesore.” “What are you talking about?” Alfredo’s voice rose. “Winnie is pregnant and emotional! Even if she said something insensitive, can’t you be the mature one? You used to be so sensible!” “Sensible?” I let out a dry laugh. “Thomas, my husband has been dead for three days. And you want me to be understanding toward a pampered woman whose every need is met? Her pain is real, but mine is just a tantrum?”

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1 I had just wrapped up a grueling week-long business trip out of state. The moment I was off the clock, I jumped into my car and sped back home to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday. But as I was sitting at a red light, something completely impossible happened. A string of glowing, semi-transparent text materialized out of thin air, floating right in front of my windshield. [Do NOT go home! If you walk through that door, you are a dead man walking!] [Your mother-in-law is going to fall off the balcony the second you step inside!] [Your fingerprints are all over her. You will be framed for murder, and your wife will take the massive life insurance payout to live happily ever after with your best friend, Marcus!] I froze. A few seconds passed as my brain struggled to process the absurdity of what I was seeing. But a primal instinct kicked in. I decided to trust the floating text. I was going to gamble my life on it. The light turned green. The car behind me honked. I slammed my foot on the gas pedal. I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and drove my car straight into a massive concrete barrier on the side of the road. Today was Martha’s sixty-fifth birthday. My wife, Sarah, had told me she wanted to keep things simple and celebrate her mother’s birthday with a quiet dinner at home. So the second my business trip concluded, I hit the highway, desperate to make it back in time. I was cruising down the familiar streets of my neighborhood. I was only three intersections away from my apartment complex when it happened. The floating text had appeared out of nowhere, scrolling across my field of vision like a live chat feed on a streaming site. My jaw dropped. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me from the exhaustion of the trip, so I rubbed them hard. But the glowing letters remained securely anchored in my line of sight. They didn’t fade a single bit. The text kept updating, flashing frantic warnings at me. [Oh no, the protagonist is almost home! He is walking right into the trap!] [Dude, your wife is going to make up an excuse to leave you alone with her mom just to frame you! Do not open that front door!] [At exactly 7:10 PM, your mother-in-law will be pushed off the balcony! And you will go down as the prime suspect!] [Watch your back. Your so-called best brother Marcus has been sleeping with your wife. They planned this whole thing to get rid of you.] My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Why would Martha suddenly fall off a balcony? Why would Sarah and the guy I considered my brother want to frame me for murder? A million terrifying questions churned in my stomach, leaving my mind completely blank. Right at that moment, my phone buzzed on the center console. It was a string of texts from Sarah. [Hey honey, are you almost home?] [My boss just called. There is a massive emergency at the office and I have to go in to handle it right now.] [Just go ahead and cut the cake with Mom when you get back. I will head straight home as soon as this is sorted.] The moment I read those three messages, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Could this really be a coincidence? She chose the exact moment I was minutes away from home to conveniently vanish. If I followed the narrative hovering in front of my eyes, the second I walked through that door, I would be entirely alone with her mother. When Martha went over the railing, every single piece of circumstantial evidence would point directly at me. The fingerprints meticulously planted at the scene would be the final nails in my coffin. I could scream my innocence until my lungs gave out, and no one would believe a word of it. I did not dare to think any further. The implications sent a violent shudder down my spine. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t type a reply. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 6:40 PM. There were exactly thirty minutes left until Martha was supposed to fall. As the traffic light turned green, I made my choice. If this mysterious text was right about the setup, then I had to create a bulletproof alibi. I was going to bet everything on a crash. 2 As long as I didn’t step foot in that apartment tonight, they couldn’t pin this on me. I gripped the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and took a deep breath. I pressed my foot down hard. The engine roared as the car lurched forward. I aimed the hood of my car directly at the thick, unyielding concrete barrier separating the lanes. A deafening crunch of metal exploded in my ears, and the entire chassis violently shuddered. A split second later, the airbags deployed with a concussive pop, pinning me firmly against my seat. My head snapped back against the headrest. A wave of intense, sickening dizziness washed over me. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My vision blurred into a dizzying mess. Soon, I felt a warm, sticky liquid trickling down my forehead. Through my half-open eyes, I could vaguely see a crowd of bystanders rushing over. People were pulling out their phones, recording videos, and dialing 911. A few figures wearing neon reflective vests pushed through the gathering crowd and rushed to my shattered window. “Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me?” A police officer’s muffled voice filtered through the cracked glass. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t force a single sound out. Shortly after, paramedics loaded me onto a stretcher. Once I was absolutely certain I was safely inside the ambulance, I finally let my eyes slip shut and allowed myself to drift into a brief state of unconsciousness. When I arrived at the ER, the doctors quickly stitched up the laceration on my forehead. By then, my mind was much clearer. I quietly opened my eyes just a fraction and glanced at the digital clock mounted on the pristine white wall. It was exactly 7:00 PM. I closed my eyes again, telling myself I just needed to hold out for ten more minutes. While lying there, I mentally reviewed everything the floating text had revealed about their sick plot. It turned out Sarah and Marcus had been sleeping together for a long time. Sarah wanted to bleed me dry and kick me to the curb, but she could never find a legally sound excuse to ruin me in a divorce. To make matters worse, Martha had recently been diagnosed with early-stage dementia. To Sarah, her own mother was nothing but a financial drain and a massive inconvenience. So the two sociopaths hatched a truly venomous scheme. According to the original timeline, once they put me on trial, Sarah was supposed to cry hysterically on the witness stand. She would tell the jury that I physically and verbally abused her mother behind closed doors, claiming I had repeatedly wished the old woman would just die. She would successfully manipulate the media and the public. Thousands of outraged citizens would sign petitions demanding I be put on death row. The prosecution would then pull the security footage from our apartment complex. The cameras would clearly show me driving into the underground garage at 7:00 PM and taking the elevator up to the tenth floor. To make it worse, neighbors would testify that they heard me brutally screaming at Martha through the front door. Ten minutes later, a loud thud would echo through the courtyard as Martha fell from the balcony right on schedule. Dead on impact. With all that manufactured evidence, the judge would sentence me to the harshest penalty under the law. Meanwhile, Sarah and Marcus would eliminate the burden of caring for Martha, pocket a massive life insurance payout, and inherit all my assets while I rotted in a cell. Reading those floating words made my blood run completely cold. All this time, I had been sleeping next to a monster and drinking beers with a predator. I didn’t know exactly how they managed to fake the crime scene or how they planned to make my supposed arrival look so convincing. But right now, all I could do was wait patiently in this hospital bed. 3 Every single second of pretending to be unconscious felt like an eternity. It wasn’t until the clock ticked past 7:10 PM that I finally let out a long, silent exhale and slowly opened my eyes. Right on cue, the door to the curtained bay was pushed open. Seeing that I was awake, the attending physician ran a few basic neurological checks. Thankfully, my car had an excellent safety rating, and I hadn’t been going fast enough to cause fatal damage. I only suffered some minor lacerations and bruising. The CT scan of my head came back completely clear. A few days of rest and I would be perfectly fine. After the doctor left, two traffic cops in uniform walked in, holding clipboards. “Sir, how are you feeling? Are you up for answering a few quick questions about the accident?” I rubbed my bandaged forehead, putting on my best dazed and confused act. “Thank you, officers. I feel a bit better, just a little dizzy still.” I paused, pretending to struggle with my memory. “I was stopped at the intersection waiting for the light. My phone buzzed, and when I reached over to check it, my foot slipped and hit the gas pedal by mistake. Before I knew it, the car just surged forward.” The cops diligently wrote down every word. One of them looked up from his notepad. “We inspected the scene. It looks like a straightforward single-vehicle accident. Luckily, no other cars or pedestrians were involved. However, the city will likely bill you for the damage to the concrete barrier.” “Also, your front end is completely totaled. We already had a tow truck haul it to your dealership’s collision center.” I nodded weakly, forcing a bitter smile. “I understand. I will cover the damages. Thank you so much for your help, officers.” Sure, I lost a perfectly good car and my body was covered in bruises. But it was entirely worth it. There were cops, paramedics, and a massive crowd of eyewitnesses at the scene. They had unknowingly built me an indestructible alibi. The officer handed me back my phone. The screen was completely spider-webbed, but it could still turn on. I signed the accident report, paid my hospital co-pay, and hurried out the sliding glass doors of the ER. As I walked out into the cool night air, I checked the time. It was pushing 7:30 PM. I flagged down a taxi at the corner. But the moment the cab pulled up to the gates of my apartment complex and I pushed the door open, my heart sank straight to the bottom of my stomach.

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1 My husband cheated on me, so I dropped the receipts online. Every dirty text, every hotel lobby snapshot. His response? He sued me for defamation and invasion of privacy. And the judge actually ordered me to post a public apology every single day for a month. I stood on the courthouse steps, gripping the freshly printed court order. The ink spelled it out crystal clear. [Cindy Blake is hereby ordered to issue a continuous thirty-day public apology online for violating the privacy and reputational rights of Mr. Arthur Harrington and Ms. Serena Dupont.] Arthur was waiting for me right at the bottom of the steps. He wore a sharp, tailored suit, looking every bit the triumphant CEO. He snatched the paper from my hands, skimming it with a smug smirk. “You wanted an audience so badly, Cindy? Congratulations. Now you get to perform for them. Thirty days. Don’t skip a single one.” He did not even care about the whispers from the strangers walking past. If anything, he stood taller, soaking in the attention. I looked right into his eyes and gave him a bright, genuine smile. “You got it.” He scoffed, clearly thinking I had just rolled over and given up, then turned on his heel and walked away. He wanted to see me broken. He wanted tears and public humiliation. He had no idea that my apologies were going to ruin his life. … The second I got back to my apartment, I registered a new account across every major platform. The handle was simple. Cindy’s Apology Log. My bio read, [Just a law-abiding citizen, apologizing on company time for the next 30 days.] I set up my ring light, adjusted my phone on the tripod, and made sure my makeup looked just the right amount of devastated. I held the court document right up to the lens, zooming in on my name and the mandatory thirty-day clause. Then I sat back, plastered a deeply apologetic, almost sickeningly sweet smile on my face, and began my first act. [Hi everyone. My name is Cindy. According to a totally fair and just court ruling, I will be using this space to publicly apologize for the next thirty days.] [First and foremost, I want to say sorry for my impulsive behavior. I never should have acted out after discovering intimate, undeniably romantic photos of my husband, Arthur Harrington, and another woman named Serena Dupont.] [It was wrong of me to post those photos online. I absolutely violated the privacy and ruined the sterling reputations of both Arthur and Serena.] [I was wrong. I was so caught up in my own silly little heartbreak that I completely forgot how much stress it would cause them to be exposed as cheaters. I didn’t even consider they would drag me to court over it.] [So, to Arthur Harrington and Serena Dupont, I offer my deepest, most sincere apologies.] [I will spend the next twenty-nine days reflecting on my terrible actions. Please, hold me accountable.] I finished the video with a textbook, perfectly stiff bow. Less than an hour later, my phone was running so hot from notifications I could have fried an egg on the screen. I left it face-down on the kitchen island, letting it vibrate itself half to death. By the time I stepped out of the shower, my inbox was a complete war zone. [Girl, you are an absolute icon. I am taking notes.] [An apology? Nah, this is a public execution warrant! She just dropped their full names AND the cheating allegations all over again!] [Let’s review the tape. ‘My husband Arthur’ and ‘intimate photos’ with ‘Serena’. The absolute shade. I am living for this.] [If day one is this brutal, I am clearing my schedule for the next twenty-nine.] [Ladies, drop your ideas in the comments. We need to help her make tomorrow’s video even more unhinged.] [You should apologize from the exact hotel where they hooked up. Do a vlog tour of the lobby!] Scrolling through the comments, a real laugh bubbled up in my chest. Good to know the internet still hates a cheater. My screen suddenly flashed with an incoming call. It was Arthur. I swiped to answer but kept my mouth shut. Heavy, furious breathing echoed through the speaker. “Cindy, what the hell is your problem? Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough?” I wandered over to the living room window, watching the city traffic crawl below. My voice was light, airy. “Embarrassed? I am just being a law-abiding citizen, Arthur. I’m following the judge’s orders. Every single word I said was an apology.” “You call that an apology? You practically broadcasted my name and Serena’s name to millions of people. You are trying to destroy me.” “You’re the one who sued me, sweetheart. The court ordered the apology. I am just complying. Did I stutter in the video? Or are you suddenly questioning the integrity of the justice system?” That choked him up. He sputtered for a good five seconds before roaring, “Take the video down right now!” “Can’t do that. That would be contempt of court.” I hit end call and immediately blocked his number. Sinking into the plush cushions of my couch, I went back to the comment section. I found a winner and pinned it to the top. My reply: [Great idea. Consider it done.] The pinned comment read: [Babe, for tomorrow’s apology, you should knit him a massive red flag. Tell everyone you’re making him a cozy blanket because he clearly loves collecting them.] The next morning, I woke up with the sun. I hit up the local craft store and bought the most violently crimson, heavy-duty yarn they had in stock. Back home, I set up the camera right in front of my massive indoor plant collection. The morning light hit the green leaves perfectly, making the whole scene look incredibly wholesome. I sat right in the middle of my indoor jungle, picked up my knitting needles, and held up the beginnings of a giant, bright red tapestry. I flashed the camera a dazzling smile. 2 [Day Two Apology: I am so sorry. I apologize because the photos I posted yesterday were terribly grainy. They really did not do justice to the other woman’s looks.] [I need to set the record straight today. Serena is much younger and prettier in person. She obviously has far more charm than I do. Otherwise, why would my husband be so utterly obsessed with her?] I lowered my head and started aggressively knitting the red yarn, letting the camera roll in complete silence for the rest of the minute. The video was short, but the message was lethal. When I hit publish, the algorithm picked it up even faster than the first one. [I am declaring Cindy the undisputed champion of the internet today.] [100/100 apology. I’d give her extra credit but I don’t want her to peak too early.] [This isn’t just an apology. She is literally dancing on Arthur’s grave.] [The visual of her peacefully knitting a red flag while her husband is out ruining their marriage… cinematic perfection.] As the view count skyrocketed into the millions, an unknown number flashed on my screen. “Cindy, you need to stop this right now!” It was Serena. The sweet, innocent, breathy voice she used whenever Arthur was around was completely gone, replaced by a frantic screech. I adjusted my pillows and stretched my legs out. “Serena. To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Why are you doing this to me? Arthur and I are genuinely in love! You ruined my life by posting those pictures, and now I have thousands of people harassing me online!” “Genuinely in love?” I let out a dry chuckle. “Well, your epic romance is built on the ashes of my marriage, so forgive me if I don’t send an edible arrangement.” “You are actually psychotic! Arthur doesn’t even love you anymore. What is the point of clinging to the title of his wife?” “Whether there’s a point or not really isn’t your business. Listen, Serena, instead of wasting your breath screaming at me, maybe you should go cry to your Prince Charming. Tell him to figure out a way to shut me up.” I could hear her hyperventilating on the other end, her voice trembling with sheer rage. “You just wait. Arthur is going to end you for this!” “I’ll leave the porch light on.” I tossed the phone onto the coffee table, feeling fantastic. If the mistress was losing her mind, today’s apology was a massive success. A few minutes later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my mother. Her voice was thick with worry. “Sweetheart, I saw those videos on the internet. What on earth are you doing? You are playing with fire. You know how Arthur gets. He’s going to find a way to hurt you.” Hearing my mom’s voice melted away the cold armor I had been wearing all morning. “Mom, please don’t worry. I know exactly what I’m doing. I spent years being the quiet, accommodating wife. I am done playing nice.” “But honey, you’re all alone in this…” “I’m a grown woman, Mom. He made his bed, and now I am making sure the whole world watches him lie in it.” After calming her down, I opened a delivery app and ordered myself an absurdly expensive, premium sushi platter. This show was just getting started. I needed to keep my energy up for the next act. By day three, I didn’t even have to brainstorm a new concept. Arthur handed me the material on a silver platter. First thing in the morning, the HR Director at my marketing firm called and asked me to come in immediately. When I walked onto the floor, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. My coworkers awkwardly averted their eyes, pretending to type furiously on their keyboards. I walked into the HR office, and the director was rubbing his temples, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Cindy, look. This whole situation with your personal life… it’s getting very loud.” I nodded slowly. “I understand. I’m sorry if it’s causing a distraction.” “It’s not just a distraction.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Arthur called the CEO this morning. He put the squeeze on us. You know our agency relies heavily on his company for our quarterly accounts.” I understood perfectly. I was the sacrificial lamb to protect the company’s profit margins. “So, what is the official word?” The director cringed. “The board wants to place you on indefinite unpaid leave. Just until the dust settles at home. It’s not a termination, officially. But… well, you know how these things go.” I did know. It was financial strangulation. Arthur wanted to starve me out until I deleted the videos. I looked the director dead in the eye. “Fine. I accept.” I walked out of the office, but I didn’t go straight home. I stopped by a local print shop. I scanned my official suspension notice, along with a copy of the front page of the vendor contract between my agency and Arthur’s corporation. Back in my apartment, I set up the camera in my study. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind me gave off a very rational, intellectual vibe. Perfect for dropping a bomb. I hit record and held up the suspension notice. [Day Three Apology: I am sorry. I apologize for being a regular person who actually needs a paycheck to survive.] [Because of my inability to handle my husband’s infidelity quietly, I have embarrassed his corporate partners. Namely, the agency I work for. Because of this, I was put on unpaid leave today.] [I have reflected deeply on this. If I were just a trust-fund baby who didn’t have to worry about paying bills, we wouldn’t be in this mess. So I want to apologize to Arthur once again. I am sorry that I failed to control my emotions, and I am sorry that I couldn’t even keep my own job. I know my sudden unemployment is a terrible look for you.] I looked dead into the lens and offered another stiff, mocking bow. The moment the video went live, the internet caught fire. 3 [Wait, WHAT? This trash bag of a man cheated, got caught, and then used his corporate leverage to get her FIRED?!] [This is pure evil. This is actual corporate bullying! Sister, do not back down. We are going to ruin his business.] [Arthur Harrington? Let’s find his LinkedIn. Let’s review-bomb his company. Make him bleed where it hurts!] The narrative completely shifted. It wasn’t just messy relationship drama anymore. It was a war against an abusive, corrupt executive. Right as I was reading the comments, my doorbell buzzed. I checked the security monitor. It was Arthur’s parents. Taking a slow, calming breath, I unlocked the door. “Cindy! Have you completely lost your mind? Are you going to drag our family name through the mud until there is nothing left?!” My mother-in-law shrieked the second the door swung open, pointing a shaking finger at my face. My father-in-law stood right behind her, his face purple with rage. “I always knew you were a mistake. Delete that garbage off the internet right now!” I walked over to the kitchen, poured two glasses of iced water, and set them on the coffee table. “I’m not the one dragging the family name through the mud. Your son did that all by himself.” “He had a momentary lapse in judgment! He’s a man under a lot of pressure. Men stray, it happens! Why do you have to be so hysterical and broadcast it to the whole world?” Her voice was so shrill it made my teeth ache. “Look at you. You have forgotten your place. A good wife supports her husband, she doesn’t destroy him!” Watching these two elderly people twist reality to protect their golden boy was genuinely hilarious. “Did he remember his place when he was taking her to a luxury hotel?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “Did he remember I was his wife when he sued me? Did he remember I was his wife when he called my boss this morning and got my paycheck cut off?” They stood there in stunned silence. Realizing that screaming wasn’t going to work, my mother-in-law suddenly switched tactics. Her face crumpled into a mask of exaggerated grief. “Cindy, honey, I know you are hurting. But marriage is about forgiveness. If you keep pushing him like this, how are you two ever going to fix things and move on?” “Move on?” I stared blankly at her. “The second he handed me those lawsuit papers, this marriage was dead and buried.” “What do you want from us?!” She realized the soft approach was failing, so she resorted to full-blown theatrics. She dropped to the floor, slapping her thighs and wailing. “Lord, what did we do to deserve this nightmare of a woman? Where is the justice?!” I leaned against the counter, watching her performance with zero expression. Now I knew exactly where Arthur got his dramatic flair. Seeing that I was entirely unfazed, my father-in-law pointed at me. “Listen to me, Cindy. If you don’t take those videos down, we will take you to court for elder abuse! You are causing my wife severe emotional distress!” I let out a genuine laugh. “Please, go ahead. I would love to see the look on the judge’s face when you explain how you tried to intimidate your daughter-in-law to cover up your son’s affair.” Realizing I was a brick wall, they exchanged a nervous glance, scrambled up, and stormed out. Before the door slammed, my mother-in-law spat out one last threat. “You are going to regret this!” Not even an hour later, the main event arrived. Arthur used his old key to get in. He looked completely unhinged. The perfectly groomed CEO from three days ago was gone, replaced by a sweaty, frantic man with a loosened tie. I sat on the couch, staring at the man who had once promised to love me forever. He looked pathetic. “Cindy, what is your price to stop this apology crap?” He was desperate, grasping at straws. “Just name your price! How much cash do you want?” I slowly shook my head. He froze, his eyes darting around in confusion. “Then what the hell do you want?” I stood up and closed the distance between us. “My terms are very simple. If you want the apologies to stop, I need two things.” I paused, letting the silence stretch to make him sweat. “First, you will take my place. You will film a public apology to me.” “And you will post it every single day for the remaining twenty-seven days. You don’t get to skip a day either.” “You write the script. You film it. And the only topic allowed is how you betrayed me, how you destroyed our marriage, and what a coward you are.” All the blood drained from Arthur’s face. “Are you insane?” he roared. “You want me to publicly humiliate myself? That will destroy my career!” “Destroy your career?” I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Did you care about my reputation when you sued me?” “Did you care about my career when you had my HR department suspend me this morning? Don’t stand in my living room and cry about your ruined life, Arthur. It’s embarrassing.” I watched him struggle to breathe, then offered my alternative. “Or, there is option B.” “You sign the deed of this house over to me. Today. One hundred percent ownership.” “And then you release a public statement admitting that you surrendered the property as compensation for your infidelity.” “Two options, Arthur. Pick one.” I didn’t wait for his answer. I turned my back on him, walked over to the armchair, and sat down.

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1 Brenda slammed the manila folder onto the mahogany conference table. “Starting this month, all unofficial stipends across the administrative department are canceled.” The dozen or so people in the room went dead silent. I sat in the furthest corner, my pen stalling for a fraction of a second on my legal pad. Brenda was our newly minted Director of Administration. Word was she’d been parachuted in from corporate headquarters in New York, eager to light a few fires and mark her territory. The first match, it seemed, was being tossed right at my feet. “Nora.” She flipped open the employee roster, making a point to lift her chin and meet my eyes when she read my name. “That five-hundred-dollar monthly translation stipend you’ve been drawing? It stops today.” “Brenda,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. “That stipend was approved by our CEO three years ago because I manage all the French documentation and handle the VIP European delegations—” “I am aware.” She cut me off, holding up a manicured hand. “But your official title is Administrative Assistant. Translation does not fall under your job description. You’ve been doing it for six years, yes, but no one has ever issued you a formal, sanctioned work order for translation services. Correct?” “There are no formal work orders, but I have exclusively handled every French-related corporate asset since—” “Exactly.” She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, spreading her hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. “No work order means it’s not an official duty. The company is under no obligation to compensate you for voluntary extracurriculars. It’s a matter of corporate policy, Nora. Nothing personal.” Beside me, David, a senior admin who had been here since the dawn of time, shot me a pained look. He opened his mouth, then closed it. I didn’t say another word. After the meeting, David caught up to me in the hallway. “Nora, don’t let her get in your head. She’s new. She doesn’t understand the ecosystem here.” “She understands perfectly.” I hugged my clipboard to my chest. “She pulled my personnel file on her first day. She knows I’ve been the sole translator for six years. She’s making an example out of me to establish dominance.” David sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “But the French accounts… what about the translation work?” “She said it herself. It’s not an official duty.” I gave him a tight, close-mouthed smile. “So, I won’t do it.” David’s expression twisted into a knot of anxiety, but he didn’t argue. Back at my cubicle, I woke up my monitors. Sitting in my inbox were three emails from our French partners—final legal confirmations for our upcoming engineering contracts. In the past, I would have processed them by lunch, translating the dense legal-structural jargon and forwarding them to the Project Management team without a second thought. I highlighted all three, marked them as Read, and closed Outlook. If it wasn’t my job, I wasn’t doing it. At 4:00 PM, Sarah from Project Management trotted over to my desk, looking frantic. “Hey, Nora, did you see those emails from Paris? We need the English copies ASAP.” “I saw them.” “Great, so the translations—” “You’ll need to submit a formal work order request to Brenda for approval,” I said smoothly. “Once she assigns it to me, I’ll get right on it.” Sarah blinked, entirely derailed. “Wait, what? But you usually just shoot them over to us.” “That was before.” I offered her a polite, apologetic smile. “Brenda made it very clear today. Without a work order, it’s not an official task. I’m just an administrative assistant, Sarah. I can’t be overstepping my role.” Sarah stood there for a long moment, mouth slightly open, before pivoting on her heel and marching toward Brenda’s office. At 7:00 PM, I was packing my tote bag to leave when my phone buzzed. A text from David: Just heard the news. Sylvie is flying in at the end of the month. A three-day site visit. She needs a full-time bilingual escort. I stared at the glowing screen for three seconds before slipping the phone into my trench coat pocket. What did that have to do with me? I was just an admin. By the next morning, the news about the French VIP had saturated the office. Sylvie. Executive Vice President of Groupe MBT, the French construction conglomerate that held Pinnacle Engineering’s largest overseas contract. We were talking about a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar deal. Every year, she flew to Chicago for a site inspection. Every year, for six years, I had been her shadow, her voice, her cultural liaison. Six years. Zero mistakes. “Nora, step into my office.” Brenda was standing in her doorway. I followed her inside, and she clicked the door shut behind me. “I assume you’ve heard about Sylvie’s visit at the end of the month.” “I have.” “You’ll resume your duties as her primary interpreter.” I looked at her. Really looked at her. “Brenda, you explicitly stated yesterday that translation is outside my job description.” A flicker of irritation crossed her face. “This is an exceptional circumstance requiring an exception to the rule. She is our most critical international client—” “Will my stipend be reinstated, then?” She paused, her jaw tightening. “Company policy has been updated. We cannot make financial exceptions for one employee. Consider this mandatory overtime. I’ll authorize a few days of comp time for you afterward.” Comp time. I let the words hang in the sterile air of her office. Six years. Thousands of technical documents. Dozens of VIP receptions. High-stakes negotiations where a single mistranslated technical term could cost the company millions. All of it, worth a few days of comp time. “Brenda, I strongly suggest you hire an external translation agency.” “Excuse me?” “My French is getting a bit rusty,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’d hate to jeopardize a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar account.” Brenda’s face flushed an ugly, mottled pink. “Are you giving me an attitude right now, Nora?” “Not at all. I am an administrative assistant. Translation is not my job. Those were your exact words.” She glared at me in suffocating silence for five long seconds. “You’re dismissed.” I walked out. The moment I sat down at my desk, David wheeled his chair over. “What did she want?” “She wants me to translate for Sylvie.” “And?” “I declined.” David nearly dropped his Yeti mug. “Are you insane? That’s Sylvie! That’s a hundred and fifty million dollars!” “It could be a billion dollars, David, and it still wouldn’t be my job.” “So what the hell is Brenda going to do?” “She said she’s hiring an agency.” David stared at me, his eyes wide. “There isn’t an agency in this city that can handle structural engineering and architectural French on three weeks’ notice. You know that.” “I know.” “Then why—” “I also know she would rather die than reinstate my stipend and admit she was wrong. So, it’s out of my hands.” Over the course of the afternoon, a parade of people filtered in and out of Brenda’s office. I could hear her voice through the frosted glass, growing increasingly shrill. “What do you mean you don’t have anyone available? It’s Chicago! You can’t find one technical interpreter?” “Price isn’t the issue—wait, twelve thousand dollars for three days? That’s extortion!” “What? Next Wednesday is too late! She lands on Monday!” I heard the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down. I kept my eyes on my spreadsheet, calmly formatting cells. Not my problem. By day three, Brenda’s failure to secure an agency had reached the ears of Evelyn, our CEO. First thing in the morning, I was summoned to the executive boardroom. Evelyn sat at the head of the table, radiating the kind of terrifying, absolute authority that only comes from decades in male-dominated corporate engineering. Brenda sat to her right, looking slightly shiny with sweat. The heads of Project Management, PR, and Legal were all there. And there was a man I had never seen before. He was maybe twenty-eight, wearing a suit that was a little too tailored, a little too loud. Evelyn didn’t waste time. “Sylvie arrives Monday. We are finalizing the interpretation protocol right now. Brenda, give us the update.” Brenda cleared her throat. “Evelyn, I reached out to three top-tier agencies. Specialized technical French interpreters are currently in high demand, making scheduling and budget alignment difficult. However—” She gestured to the man beside her. “I have found a superior internal solution. This is Spencer. He has a Master’s from ESSEC Business School in Paris. He lived and worked in France for three years. His French is totally fluent. I actually hired him into our admin department last month.” Spencer stood up, offering the room a blinding, confident smile. “Good morning, everyone. Yes, three years in Paris. Conversational and business French is second nature to me. I’ve handled plenty of executive hospitality, so you’re in good hands.” Evelyn scrutinized him. “Are you familiar with structural engineering terminology?” Spencer faltered, just for a second. “I… I can certainly prep for it.” Evelyn turned her piercing gaze to Brenda. “Didn’t Nora always handle this? She’s done it for six years. She knows the French team inside and out.” Brenda sat up straighter. “Evelyn, Nora is an administrative assistant. Translation is technically outside her purview. The previous arrangement was… unstructured. I’ve simply streamlined our protocols. Besides, Spencer has an actual degree from France. His formal qualifications far exceed Nora’s.” Evelyn looked at me. “Nora. What do you have to say?” Every eye in the room shifted to me. I stood up. “Evelyn, Brenda is entirely correct. Translation is not my job. I did it for six years because the company needed me to, and I was happy to help. But Brenda has restructured the department, and given that Spencer spent three years in Paris, I’m sure his French is far more sophisticated than mine.” A smug, fleeting smile crossed Brenda’s face. Evelyn frowned, clearly sensing the subtext, but she didn’t have the time to dissect admin drama. “Fine. Spencer, you’re up. Nora, assist him. Give him all your old glossaries and translation files so he can prep.” “Of course,” I said. After the meeting, Spencer intercepted me in the hallway. “Hey, Nora. If you could shoot those files over to me before lunch, that’d be stellar. I need to get familiar with the vibe.” His tone was perfectly polite, but his eyes held that specific, condescending gleam of a man who thought he had just effortlessly usurped a lesser woman’s role. “I’ll have them to you by this afternoon,” I said. He chuckled, leaning against the wall. “Hey, don’t take it personally, alright? Nobody is trying to steal your thunder. Brenda just felt it was unfair to make a secretary do heavy-lifting translation work. I’m just here to take the load off.” I looked at him. “Do you have your ATA certification?” He blinked. “My what?” “American Translators Association. Are you certified?” “I went to business school in Paris. I don’t need a certificate.” “What about AIIC? Conference interpreting?” “I do business translation, Nora. It’s mostly just chatting—” “Sylvie is flying in to finalize a joint R&D agreement on pre-stressed, ultra-high-performance fiber-reinforced concrete structures. The meetings will cover sheer load capacities, tensile stress mechanics, and proprietary curing methodology.” I watched, fascinated, as the color drained from his face, leaving him looking slightly green. “Spencer,” I asked softly, “do you know what béton précontraint means?” He stared at me, mute. “Study hard,” I said, and walked away. Back at my desk, David leaned over, whispering furiously. “Why the hell are you helping him? Let him crash and burn!” “I didn’t help him.” “You just warned him about the vocabulary!” “I didn’t warn him. I let him know he’s going to drown.” David paused, a slow realization dawning on his face. I pulled open my bottom drawer and lifted out a heavy, black binder. Six years of accumulated knowledge. Glossaries, meeting minutes, phonetic guides, stylistic preferences. Hundreds of pages. That afternoon, I handed Spencer the photocopies. The originals, I locked back in my drawer. Spencer spent the entire afternoon staring at the papers on his desk. From my peripheral vision, I watched his posture slowly collapse. Six years of architectural and engineering French. Over three hundred highly specific technical terms. And it wasn’t just the words—every entry had contextual notes and warnings about Sylvie’s personal idioms and speaking pace. You can’t flashcard your way through that in a weekend. The next morning, Spencer arrived with dark, bruised-looking bags under his eyes. He slowed down as he passed my cubicle, but kept his mouth shut. At 10:00 AM, Brenda called him into her office. She didn’t close the door all the way. “How is the prep coming?” I heard her ask. “Brenda, there is so much technical jargon here, I—” “You lived in Paris for three years!” “I studied marketing! Not industrial load-bearing dynamics!” “Then why didn’t you mention that when you assured me your French was flawless?” Spencer’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper, and I couldn’t hear the rest. Ten minutes later, he emerged, his eyes red-rimmed, and practically collapsed back into his chair to stare at the glossary. At lunch, David slid into the booth across from me with a fresh piece of gossip. “Brenda called two more agencies today. One quoted her twenty grand. The other laughed and said they don’t do structural engineering.” “Did she authorize the twenty grand?” “Nope. Evelyn capped the emergency budget at eight. Brenda is trapped.” David leaned in closer. “But get this. Brenda told Evelyn this morning that Spencer is doing great and is fully up to speed.” I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. “She knows he’s going to fail.” “Of course she does. But if she admits he can’t do it, she’s admitting she screwed up by taking you off the account. Her ego won’t let her back down.” “So she’s gambling a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar deal on her ego.” David didn’t have an answer for that. Later that afternoon, Mark, the Deputy Director of Project Management, came to my desk. He was the guy who actually built the things we signed contracts for. “Nora, I’m going to be straight with you. Spencer is going to get us slaughtered in there with Sylvie.” “I know.” “Can you just—” “Mark, Brenda assigned Spencer. I’m just an admin. I can’t go rogue.” Mark ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t about office politics! Sylvie is here to finalize the Phase Two technology transfer. The technical appendix alone is eighty pages of dense French legalese. You expect Spencer to translate that on the fly?” “Take it up with Brenda.” “I did! She told me to trust the process!” “Then trust the process.” Mark looked at me for a long time. “You’ve changed, Nora.” “I haven’t changed, Mark. I was just recently informed that my labor has no value here.” After he left, I opened Excel and started formatting a supply inventory. For six years, I had never been late, never made a translation error, and never asked for a single dollar of overtime. The only acknowledgment of my dual role was a measly five-hundred-dollar stipend. And Brenda had taken even that away. Fine. Let them see what the market rate for loyalty actually was. That night, in the quiet of my apartment, I went to my closet and pulled down a velvet-lined memory box. Inside were four pristine certificates. My ATA Certification for English-to-French translation. My ATA Certification for French-to-English translation. A Master’s degree in Applied Linguistics. And my badge from AIIC—the International Association of Conference Interpreters. There were fewer than a hundred active AIIC-certified French interpreters in the country. I closed the box and pushed it back onto the shelf. No one at Pinnacle Engineering knew about these. In six years, no one had ever thought to ask. Friday arrived. Sylvie was due in three days. Spencer looked like a walking corpse. His desk was a blizzard of post-it notes. I knew exactly what he was doing wrong. He was trying to memorize the English equivalent of every French term without understanding the underlying engineering concepts. Translation isn’t a math equation. Especially technical interpretation. You have to understand how the concrete cures, how the steel bends, to accurately convey the concept when the speaker inevitably changes their phrasing. Around 11:00 AM, Spencer finally broke. He walked over to my desk. “Nora. Can I ask you a question?” “Shoot.” “This term. Béton fibré à ultra-hautes performances. The notes say ‘Ultra-high performance fiber-reinforced concrete.’ But Google Translate says ‘high-performance fiber-enhanced cementitious composite.’ Which one is it?” “They’re both technically correct.” “So which one do I use?” “Depends on the context. If they’re discussing raw material properties, use the latter. If they’re discussing pouring methodology, use the former. Also, Sylvie usually just calls it BFUP. If she uses the acronym, just say UHPFRC.” He scribbled frantically on his legal pad. “Okay, and what about—” “Spencer.” I stopped him. “You don’t just need to memorize the dictionary. You need to memorize Sylvie. She speaks fast. She uses Parisian idioms. She’ll drop a dry joke right in the middle of debating a liability clause. If you miss the joke, the room goes cold.” All the blood drained from his face. “What am I going to do?” “I suggest you go to Brenda and tell her the truth.” “I can’t.” He swallowed hard. “She told me if I blow this, I’m fired.” I didn’t say anything. Spencer stood there for a moment, looking like a little boy lost in a nightmare, then trudged back to his desk. At 3:00 PM, the bomb dropped. Sylvie’s office sent over the official itinerary for the visit. Four pages, entirely in formal French. Brenda printed it out and slapped it on Spencer’s desk for translation. An hour later, Spencer handed in his work. Thirty minutes after that, Brenda dragged him into her office. The door was shut tight, but the walls were thin. I heard the smack of a hand hitting a desk. “You translated clause de résiliation as ‘resolution clause’?! It means termination clause! It’s a kill switch, you idiot!” “I’m sorry, Brenda, I just thought—” “And this! Garantie décennale. You translated it as a ‘ten-year warranty’? It’s a mandatory ten-year decennial liability insurance under French building law! Do you know nothing about business?” When Spencer emerged, he looked like he might throw up. He stopped at my desk. “Did you read the itinerary when it came into the general inbox?” he asked, his voice trembling. “I did.” “You knew I was going to fail.” I looked up at him. “That document is written in strict French legal terminology. They don’t teach that in a study-abroad marketing seminar.” His hands curled into fists. “You did this on purpose. You set me up.” “Spencer, let me give you a piece of advice.” I kept my voice perfectly flat. “There are no shortcuts in this industry. Living in Paris for three years doesn’t make you an interpreter, any more than owning a scalpel makes you a surgeon. You thought my job was just talking.” He bit his lip, unable to formulate a comeback, and walked away. David rolled his chair over. “Nora, isn’t that a little brutal?” “It’s the truth. I know exactly what he’s feeling. Six years ago, the night before I first interpreted for Sylvie, I didn’t sleep a wink.” “So you feel bad for him?” “The difference is,” I said, looking back at my screen, “I spent four years passing the hardest certification exams in the world before I ever walked into that room.” David stayed quiet. At 8:00 PM, while I was at home reading, my phone vibrated. A text from an unknown international number. Nora, bonjour. It’s Luc, Sylvie’s assistant. Sylvie asked me to tell you she is very much looking forward to seeing you. She wants to know if we can go back to that incredible heritage seafood place in the West Loop you took us to last year. I stared at the text, a small smile touching my lips. Six years. On the final night of every trip, I took her to that quiet, old-school Chicago steak and seafood joint. She remembered. I deleted the text. I didn’t reply. Saturday came. Spencer came into the office. I knew, because he was desperately messaging the department Slack channel, begging for someone to help him cross-reference the engineering appendix. No one replied. Project Management didn’t know French. PR only knew Spanish. Aside from Brenda, no one else in Admin touched the international files. I stayed home. I deep-cleaned my apartment, made a pot of coffee, and read half a novel. My phone rang three times. First was David, whispering that Brenda was having a meltdown in the office, screaming at Spencer behind closed doors. Second was Mark, begging me to “just come in and save us.” Third was Luc. Nora, change of plans. Sylvie is arriving early. We land at O’Hare Sunday evening. Has the company arranged a car? He had cc’d the main company inbox, but he added a private follow-up just to me. Sylvie says not to bring a whole entourage to the airport. Just you is fine. I didn’t reply. Sunday morning, Brenda sent an urgent mass email to the department. Tonight, 7:00 PM. Sylvie lands at O’Hare. Spencer will conduct the airport greeting. Wear a suit. Bring the official welcome letter. At the very bottom, a single sentence was appended: Nora is not required to attend. When David called me, he sounded panicked. “Nora, she’s icing you out completely.” “Let her.” “But when Sylvie gets off the plane and doesn’t see you, isn’t she going to freak out?” “Yes.” “And then what?” “And then she’s going to ask where I am.” David was silent for three seconds. “And then?” “And then we’ll see how good Brenda is at improvising.” At 8:30 PM Sunday night, I was on my couch watching a documentary about the Chicago culinary scene, right when they were showcasing a beautiful, dry-aged prime rib. My phone erupted.

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My husband, earning a paltry five thousand a month, brazenly moved his pregnant mistress into my multi-million dollar penthouse, which I’d bought outright. Not only did he try to kick me out, but he also allowed his mother to steal and use my special chemical cream, leading to her disfigurement and baldness. His sister even demanded I pack my bags and clear out for the mistress. Watching this self-righteous family of fools, I laughed, chillingly. They seemed to have forgotten that I was not only the owner of this luxury apartment but also the CEO of the company that held his fate in my hands. Since you’re so comfortable spending my money, then you’ll return it all, with interest. You can spend the rest of your lives reflecting on your mistakes in prison! After seeing my mother-in-law, Brenda, sneak into my master bedroom on the security camera countless times, I finally snapped. On the screen, she was sitting at my vanity, her eyes gleaming at a plain white ceramic jar on the table. Her rough fingers scooped out a large glob of white cream, preparing to smear it on her face. I took a deep breath and opened our SnapChat family group, sending a voice message. “Brenda, whatever you do, don’t touch the white jar on my vanity. That’s an industrial-strength depilatory and decolorizing cream our R&D department just formulated. It’s extremely corrosive and will cause severe burns if it touches your skin.” Less than thirty seconds after I sent the message, my sister-in-law, Ashley’s voice message popped up, sharp and shrill. “Sophia, who are you trying to scare? It’s just some skincare cream, right? What’s wrong with my mom using a little of your stuff? Do you really have to make up such a malicious lie to curse her with disfigurement?” Immediately after, my husband, Mark, jumped in with a text message. “Sophia, you’re being a bit much. My five-thousand-a-month salary goes entirely to support this family. You eat and drink off me, and you’re still stingy about your mom using a bit of your skincare? Don’t be so selfish!” I looked at the words on the screen and laughed, purely out of anger. Five thousand a month to support the family? This multi-million dollar penthouse in the city center was my pre-marital property, bought entirely with my own money. Mark’s measly salary wasn’t even enough to cover the monthly property management fees and utility bills. The car he drove, the designer clothes he wore – wasn’t all of it paid for with my secondary credit card? My generosity, mistaken for weakness, had only attracted a pack of greedy leeches. Fine. Since good advice was wasted on the undeserving, I wasn’t going to bother with more words. I slowly typed a line: “I’ve warned you. Consequences are on you.” Ashley instantly replied: “Pfft, cut the act! My mom just said the cream has a faint fragrance and feels cool on her face – it’s definitely high-end stuff! You can just stay at work and be jealous. When my brother gets home, he’s going to teach you a lesson, you selfish, wicked woman!” I locked my phone, took a sip of my iced Americano, and my gaze turned cold. Teach me a lesson? We’d see who was teaching whom a lesson today.

At six in the evening, I pushed open the front door. Before I could even take off my shoes, I heard a bloodcurdling scream from the living room. “Oh, my face! It hurts so much! Help me!” I slipped on my slippers and slowly walked into the living room. The scene before me was ten times more spectacular than I’d imagined. Brenda was rolling on the floor, clutching her face with both hands, letting out heart-wrenching wails. Her already sparse hair was falling out in clumps, scattered across the wool rug like weeds. More horrifying was her face; the areas where she’d applied the white cream were now swollen and almost distorted. Her entire face looked terrifying, glowing with an eerie redness, and yellowish tissue fluid was even starting to seep out. “Brenda! What happened, Brenda!” Mark and Ashley rushed out of the kitchen, gasping in shock at the sight of Brenda on the floor. “Mark! Brenda’s hair is all gone! Her face is ruined!” Ashley shrieked, her voice trembling. Mark suddenly turned, his eyes bloodshot, glaring at me like a furious beast. “Sophia! You witch! What poison did you use on my mom!” He stomped towards me, raising his palm to slap my face. I stood my ground, not even blinking, staring at him coldly. “Try to touch me.” My voice was quiet, but it carried immense pressure. “If that slap lands, I guarantee you’ll receive a court summons tomorrow, along with a divorce agreement that leaves you with nothing.” Mark’s hand froze mid-air, the muscles in his face twitching. He was clearly intimidated by my presence. “You dare threaten my brother?!” Ashley shrieked, hopping next to him. “It’s obvious you’re twisted, deliberately leaving poison on the table to harm my mom! I’m calling the police!” I sneered, walked over to the sofa, and sat down, crossing my legs. “Call the police? Go ahead. I’d love for the police to see who ignored a warning and secretly stole and used someone else’s property.” I took out my phone, pulled up the SnapChat family group chat history, and waved it in front of them. “It’s all here, in black and white, voice messages included. I clearly told you it was industrial depilatory cream, but you insisted on thinking it was high-end skincare and smeared it on your faces. So now your face is ruined, and your hair is gone – and that’s my fault?” Brenda was rolling her eyes in pain on the floor, almost passing out. “Stop talking! Call an ambulance!” Mark panicked, yelling at Ashley. The ambulance wailed as it arrived. The paramedics frowned at Brenda’s horrific state. “The burns are too severe. She needs to be taken to the emergency room for debridement immediately!” As Brenda was being carried away on a stretcher, Mark pointed at my nose, gritting his teeth as he delivered his ultimatum. “Sophia, you just wait! If anything happens to my mom, I’m not done with you! When I get back from the hospital, you’re getting out of this house!” The front door slammed shut. I looked at the empty living room, my cold smirk deepening. Make me leave this house? Mark, you must still be dreaming.

At ten o’clock that night, the front door opened again. I was sitting on the sofa, replying to company emails on my tablet. Mark walked in first, his face not showing the slightest bit of anxiety or sadness from the hospital, but rather a smugness, like a villain getting his way. Following him, besides Ashley, was a young woman in a tight-fitting dress with a slightly bulging belly. “Crystal, slow down, watch the step.” Mark carefully supported the woman, his voice dripping with tenderness. The woman called Crystal leaned coquettishly into Mark’s embrace, her critical gaze sweeping across the living room. “Oh, Mark, is this your multi-million dollar penthouse? The location is great, but the decor is too cold and hard, not cozy at all. Let’s find someone to throw out all this black, white, and gray furniture tomorrow and replace it with the French cream style I like, okay?” “Yes, yes, whatever you want. You’re carrying our family’s grandchild, so you’re the boss,” Mark said, fawning, acting like a servant to royalty. Ashley quickly joined in, eagerly carrying Crystal’s bag. “Don’t be mad, Crystal. This awful decor was chosen by that useless old hag who couldn’t give Mark a child. Once she’s gone tonight, this place is all yours!” “Hag?” I raised an eyebrow, put down my tablet, and watched the drama unfold with interest. Mark settled Crystal on the other end of the sofa, then turned to me, his face morphing into a fierce scowl. “Sophia, you still have the nerve to sit here?” He pulled a hospital diagnosis report from his pocket and slapped it onto the coffee table. “My mom has severe chemical burns on her scalp; all her hair follicles are dead. She’ll never grow hair again! Her face is ruined! I’m settling this with you today!” I glanced at the diagnosis report without even lifting an eyelid. “So? How do you want to settle it?” “So I don’t need to be polite anymore!” Mark straightened his back, righteously pointing at Crystal. “Crystal is three months pregnant with my son! You’ve been married to me for three years and couldn’t pop out a single kid, and now you’ve done this to my mom!” “This apartment will be considered compensation for my mom’s medical expenses and for Crystal’s pregnancy! Now, get out, immediately, clean out, and make space!” I looked at his shameless face, feeling only one thing: the diversity of the human species was truly astonishing. A five-thousand-a-month loser, living off me to support his whole family, finds a mistress, gets her pregnant, and then shamelessly brings her back to *my* entirely-paid-for house, even distributing *my* property as if it were his own. “Mark, why isn’t she leaving yet?” Crystal covered her nose, looking at me with disgust. “The sofa she sat on feels dirty. What if she infects my son with bad luck?” “Exactly! Get out! Don’t be an eyesore!” Ashley chimed in, hands on her hips. “Do you really think our family cares about you? My brother is a senior manager at your company now, with a bright future ahead! He can more than support all of us!” I calmly glanced at the security camera next to the TV cabinet, which was blinking red. “Alright.” I stood up and straightened the creases in my clothes. “Since you’re all so ‘loving,’ I won’t interrupt your family bliss.” Mark paused, clearly not expecting me to agree so quickly, without even an argument. “Smart move.” He suppressed the wild joy and greed in his eyes, feigning generosity. “Pack your few old clothes and leave. Don’t even think about taking anything valuable from this house!” I ignored him, walked straight into the walk-in closet, grabbed a small suitcase, and casually packed a few changes of clothes and important documents. At the entrance, I stopped and turned back to look at the two on the sofa, still being all lovey-dovey. “Mark, I hope you remember what you said tonight. You and your family had better enjoy this apartment.” With that, I opened the door and walked out without looking back. As the door closed, I clearly heard Crystal’s seductive laughter. “Mark, you’re amazing! You got rid of that old hag with just a few words! Now this big house is ours!” “Of course! In this house, I call the shots!” Mark boasted proudly. I stepped into the elevator, pulled out my phone, and a cold smirk played on my lips. The show had only just begun.

I pressed the 18th floor on the elevator. The 18th floor of this building was also my property, which I’d converted into a private studio and lounge. Mark and his family had no idea. I poured myself a glass of red wine and walked to my computer, pulling up the security camera feed from upstairs. On the monitor, the group who had taken over my apartment was already eagerly starting their new lives. Crystal was directing Ashley to throw my belongings out the door. “That vase’s color is too dark, it looks like an urn, throw it out!” “What’s with that messy painting? It’s bad luck, take it down and use it as trash lining!” Ashley, like a diligent minion, unhesitatingly swept the antique vase I’d bought at Sotheby’s for over one hundred fifty thousand dollars into the trash. “Crystal, how’s this?” Ashley asked, smiling obsequiously. “It’ll do, I guess,” Crystal said arrogantly, patting her belly. “Mark, tomorrow I want to throw a baby shower and invite all my best girlfriends to see our new home.” “No problem! Whatever my wife wants, she gets! I’ll transfer you money tomorrow, spend as much as you like!” Mark puffed out his chest, grandly. I watched his pathetic attempt to play the big shot on the screen, a cold sneer on my face, as I opened my mobile banking app. First step: I stopped all automatic payments linked to this apartment, including utilities and the hefty property management fees. Second step: I immediately reported the credit card linked to my account, which Mark held with a one million dollar limit, as lost and froze it. Initially, I had ignored the board’s opposition and secretly arranged a figurehead managerial position for him at a branch company. Even that credit card was given to him to save face and maintain his ridiculous ego when he was out. I never imagined he’d mistake my charity for his own capability. Using my money to support another woman, and trying to seize my apartment? Pure fantasy. After doing all this, I sent a message to Mr. Clark, my company’s CFO. “First thing tomorrow, initiate a comprehensive financial audit of Mark’s department at the branch company. Investigate all accounts he handled; not a single cent should be missed.” Mr. Clark replied instantly: “Received, Ms. Sophia.” I swirled the red wine in my glass, watching the scumbag and mistress embracing and sleeping on the monitor, my eyes chillingly cold. Enjoy your last hurrah.

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My mother-in-law, Eleanor, was trapped in a fire, trying to save my treasured heirloom necklace. She suffered severe burns over 70% of her body, hanging by a thread. She desperately needed $500,000 for skin grafts and anti-infection surgeries. I frantically tried to withdraw our recently matured savings, only to find the account completely empty. I called my husband, Ethan, but his ‘one true love,’ Genevieve, answered the phone. “Ethan, this $5,000,000 pink diamond necklace looks so perfect with my custom gown. I’ll definitely steal the show on the red carpet tonight.” A chill ran through me, but Ethan’s voice, hushed and impatient, growled from the other end of the line, “I lent the money to Genevieve to make a statement first. A little burn cream is all my mom needs, don’t bother me!” He didn’t know that $500,000 was his own mother’s life, slowly clawing back from the BICU. Later, he pounded his head against the floor outside the sterile unit, begging me to save her. I only handed him a pair of handcuffs.

Dr. Miller emerged from the burn intensive care unit, his scrubs still on, his brows deeply furrowed. “Olivia, Eleanor’s family?” I shot up from the floor, my legs numb from kneeling for so long. I stumbled forward. “I’m here.” I clutched the wall, my voice hoarse, like sandpaper. He handed me a long payment slip and a critical condition notice simultaneously. His voice was low, yet every word hit like a ton of bricks: “The patient has 70% deep second-to-third degree burns across her body, accompanied by severe inhalation injuries. Her condition is very unstable tonight, and infection indicators are off the charts. Basic resuscitation will continue, but subsequent imported anti-infection medication and continuous hemodialysis require family consent and the fees must be paid as soon as possible. A deposit of $500,000 is needed first.” I stared at the string of despairing numbers on the payment slip, my vision blurring, my ears ringing. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, had been burned that afternoon. An old house in an older part of the city had suffered a sudden electrical short and caught fire. The flames spread quickly. Neighbors had all run out, and Eleanor had initially escaped too. But then she remembered a necklace my mother had left me before she died, still in a bedroom drawer in the old house. She knew it was my most cherished keepsake, and she rushed back into the flames without a second thought. By the time the firefighters pulled her out, she was unrecognizable. Her skin was peeling and burnt, emitting a suffocating smell of scorched flesh. Before she was pushed into the BICU, she couldn’t even open her eyes, yet she clutched a smoke-blackened jade bracelet, trying with all her strength to press it into my hand. Her dry, cracked lips moved for a long time, only managing a faint whisper: “Olivia… it’s not broken… don’t cry…” In that moment, my heart felt like it was being ripped apart. But the one who should have been here, her own son, Ethan, was nowhere to be seen. I trembled as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. The first call went unanswered. The second was immediately hung up. It wasn’t until the fifteenth call that the phone finally connected. Before I could speak, a woman’s seductively sweet laughter floated from the other end. “Ethan, help me put on this necklace. This pink diamond truly suits my complexion. I’ll definitely be the center of attention on the film festival red carpet tonight.” I froze, feeling like I’d been plunged into an ice bath. Ethan’s voice quickly dropped. “Olivia?” I clutched the payment slip so hard my nails almost dug into my flesh, biting back my anger. “Where are you?” He was silent for two seconds, his tone laced with impatience. “I’m handling an urgent matter outside.” “Your mother is in the BICU with 70% severe burns. The doctors need $500,000 for her life-saving treatment, and you’re telling me you have an urgent matter?” I practically roared. The other end of the line went silent for a moment, then Genevieve’s cloyingly sweet and artificial voice broke through. “Olivia, don’t worry. Aren’t the doctors at the hospital treating Eleanor? Ethan is with me on important business; tonight is incredibly important to me.” I laughed, a bitter, shaking sound born of pure fury. “What important business? More important than your own mother’s life?!” Ethan’s voice immediately turned cold, a clear warning in his tone: “Olivia, don’t be so harsh. Genevieve is walking the international film festival red carpet tonight. Her team invested so many resources. If she doesn’t have a show-stopping piece of jewelry to make a statement tonight, her rivals will tear her apart. Who’s going to cover those losses?” I almost thought I was hallucinating. “What about the $500,000 in our account that just matured?” I demanded, my voice sharp. “The bank manager just said the money was fully transferred by you at 1 PM this afternoon. Where did it go?!” Ethan paused, then spoke with infuriating self-righteousness. “I already used that money to pay the rental and deposit for Genevieve’s pink diamond necklace. You figure something out for Mom for a couple of days. Just put some burn cream on it, she’ll be fine. Don’t make a big deal out of nothing.” I stood in the empty, cold corridor, the constant beeping of monitoring equipment filling my ears. The cold seeped into my very bones. “Ethan.” I asked him, enunciating each word. “Do you know where your mother is right now? Do you know what deep third-degree burns mean?”

His voice grew even more agitated: “Of course I know! But she’s lying in the hospital, isn’t she? Doctors always exaggerate to scare families into paying more. Genevieve’s situation is different. The red carpet is about to start, hundreds of media cameras are on her, there can’t be a single mistake!” Genevieve’s soft voice cooed from beside him: “Ethan, don’t argue with Olivia. If Eleanor were awake, she’d surely want you to seize this opportunity first, right? After all, when my commercial value rises, I’ll be in a better position to ‘take care’ of Eleanor, won’t I?” Seize this opportunity. I looked down at the glaring red words “CRITICAL CONDITION” on the payment slip and suddenly felt utterly absurd. My mother-in-law had been so frugal her entire life, almost to the point of being harsh. She’d price-compare at several grocery stores just to save a few bucks. Her air conditioner broke last summer, but she wouldn’t replace it, saving every penny so Ethan could buy a new house. Last year, when I suffered a severe hemorrhage from an ectopic pregnancy, Ethan sat in the hospital corridor for just ten minutes before excusing himself for a company meeting and leaving. It was Eleanor who stayed by my side for half a month, never leaving, barely sleeping. She’d grumble about my poor health, but she’d wake up countless times in the middle of the night, checking my forehead for a fever. If I so much as shifted in bed, she reacted faster than the nurses. She wasn’t highly educated, and sometimes her words were rough. But when my life was on the line, she protected me with her own. Now she lay charred black in a sterile unit, close to death. Yet her biological son was using her life-saving money to rent a diamond necklace for another woman to walk the red carpet. Dr. Miller, seeing my pale, swaying face, walked over and sternly reminded me: “Family, it’s best not to delay any longer. The patient’s blood volume is critically low; if we don’t start CRRT immediately, her kidney function will fail.” I snapped back to reality, abruptly hanging up the phone. “Doctor, I’ll find a way, right away!” I transferred all the money from my bank accounts and maxed out three credit cards, barely scraping together $80,000. The cashier looked at the system and reminded me coldly: “You’re still short $420,000.” I turned, clutching the thin receipt, and saw the massive digital screen in the hospital lobby, broadcasting the international film festival red carpet live. [Rising star Genevieve stuns with a multi-million dollar pink diamond, escorted by a mysterious male companion who never leaves her side.] On the screen, Ethan wore a tailored tuxedo, his hair immaculately groomed, a charming, polite smile on his face. There wasn’t a hint of a son worried about his dying mother. Genevieve wore a shimmering mermaid gown, clinging to his arm, the huge pink diamond on her neck refracting blinding light under the spotlights. She flashed a captivating smile at the cameras, like a queen on her throne. I stared intently at the screen, then suddenly tightened my grip on the payment slip and turned to leave. I’d see how much luxury and glamour he was paving for Genevieve with Eleanor’s skin and blood.

The film festival was held at the Starlight Grand Theater in the city center. When I arrived, the red carpet was already nearing its end, the perimeter packed with frenzied fans and media outlets of all kinds. Security was extremely tight; the red carpet stretched from the plaza all the way into the theater’s main hall, flanked by flashing lights and fan signs. On the most prominent massive LED fan truck, Genevieve’s stunning posters scrolled continuously, with the caption: [Exclusively sponsored by Mr. Ethan.] Genevieve was standing in the interview area at the end of the red carpet, her voice sickeningly sweet. “This necklace holds profound meaning for me. I want to thank all my fans for their support, and especially this most important person beside me. Without his unwavering support, I might not be standing here today.” As she spoke, her eyes, brimming with affection, gazed at Ethan. Ethan thoughtfully adjusted the hem of her gown. The live comments on the big screen scrolled wildly. [Ahhh, Gen is so beautiful! That pink diamond is absolutely breathtaking!] [Who’s the handsome guy next to her? Giving off rich CEO vibes, totally shippable!] [Their eyes were practically glued together, just get married already!] I stood outside the barricade, watching Ethan shield her from the blinding camera flashes. That motion was so practiced, it was as if they were the loving couple. Clutching the payment slip and the critical condition notice, I took a deep breath, then pushed past the security guard and walked, step by determined step, toward the interview area. The security guard gasped in alarm: “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t come in here!” I ignored him, rushing forward like a madwoman. Genevieve saw me first, her perfect smile freezing for an instant, but quickly returning to her innocent, vulnerable facade. “Olivia? Why are you here looking like that?” Ethan turned, saw my disheveled state, with my mother-in-law’s blood still on my clothes, and his brows furrowed tightly. He lowered his voice, furious: “What are you doing, making a scene here? Aren’t you ashamed? Did you take care of things at the hospital?” I raised my hand and slapped the critical condition notice hard against his chest. “Your mother is charred and lying in the ICU, with a $420,000 deficit waiting to be filled, and you’re asking me if I took care of things?!” Nearby journalists, always alert, quickly caught the words “intensive care unit” and pointed their cameras at us. Ethan’s face instantly changed. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so strong it almost crushed my bones. “Shut up! Don’t cause trouble here, come outside with me!” I struggled with all my might to shake off his hand, pointing at the pink diamond necklace on Genevieve’s neck, my voice sharp with anguish. “I’m causing trouble? Ethan, that $500,000 in our matured savings was waiting to save your mother’s life. Why didn’t the hospital receive a single penny?!” Genevieve’s eyes immediately reddened, and tears streamed down her face. “Olivia, don’t misunderstand Ethan. That money was just temporarily lent to me for the necklace’s deposit. Tonight’s red carpet is too important to me. If I didn’t have this necklace, the brand would blacklist me. I can write you an IOU. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my payment.” “Pay back?” I looked at her performative display, laughing bitterly in my fury. “My mother-in-law is hanging on by a thread, kept alive by a ventilator and a dialysis machine. Are you gambling her life for your career?!” Genevieve bit her lip, swaying as if about to collapse, as if she were the one suffering some immense injustice: “I couldn’t help it! This is my only chance to make it big. If I mess up today, all my years of effort will be wasted.” Ethan immediately shielded her behind him, looking at me like an enemy, his voice incredibly cold. “Enough! Olivia! Genevieve is going through enough already, do you have to destroy her at the most important moment of her life?” I looked at this man I had shared a bed with for five years, and felt like my chest had been hollowed out, cold wind whistling through it. “*She’s* going through enough? So your mother should just be burned alive and left to die?!” Genevieve suddenly poked her head out from behind Ethan, her eyes red-rimmed, but her words were like poisoned daggers, stabbing straight into my heart. “Olivia, I know you’re always jealous of how well Ethan treats me. But Eleanor is Ethan’s biological mother, and even Ethan can weigh the pros and cons and agree to postpone treatment. You’re not her biological daughter, so why are you pretending to care more than her own son? Are you trying to use this as an excuse to get a share of the family assets?”

The surrounding journalists instantly fell silent; only the frantic clicking of camera shutters remained. I stared intently at her, shaking with rage, and then let out a bitter laugh. “You know that’s his biological mother!” Ethan avoided my furious, almost feral gaze, tugged at his tie, clearly agitated, trying to argue his way out of it. “Didn’t the doctors say? Burns just look scary, it’s not like she’s going to immediately…” He swallowed his words before he could finish, as if he himself felt guilty. I finished the sentence for him, my voice cold as ice: “…immediately die?” Genevieve’s face went pale. She quickly pulled Ethan’s arm, saying softly: “Ethan, don’t say anything more. Olivia is emotional right now, I understand how she feels. Let’s just lend her the money first.” Her pretense of understanding and generosity made my stomach churn with nausea. I pulled out my phone, dialed the bank manager directly, and put it on speaker, turning the volume to maximum. The phone rang twice before it was answered. “Ms. Olivia?” I forced my voice steady, asking coldly: “Mr. Davies, I’d like to confirm, where was the $500,000 deposit transferred this afternoon at 1 PM?” Mr. Davies hesitated. “That… it was transferred to a private account, as per Mr. Ethan’s instruction.” “I’m asking you, was it transferred to the hospital’s corporate account?” More and more celebrities and journalists gathered to watch, and the live comments on the big screen were already flipping wildly. [What’s going on? Wife publicly exposes cheating husband and his mistress?] [Using his own mother’s life savings to rent a necklace for his mistress? What kind of monster does something like that?!] [Isn’t that guy Genevieve’s sugar daddy? Turns out he’s just a leech, stealing his own mother’s life savings?] Mr. Davies was silent for two seconds, then finally delivered the fatal blow: “No, it wasn’t the hospital. The recipient was ‘Starlight Jewel Rentals.’” I stared at Ethan’s instantly ashen face and pressed him: “Ethan, what do you have to say for yourself now?” Ethan flushed with anger, cutting me off sharply: “It’s my money once it’s in my account, I can spend it however I want! I’m her only son, her money will be mine eventually!” “So you can use it to fund someone else’s vanity?!” “I said it was a loan! A temporary transfer!” Ethan was still stubbornly refusing to admit it. I stopped arguing with him and turned directly to face all the media cameras. I held up the critical condition notice, the ICU payment request, and the bank transaction records I had printed on the way, all high above my head. “To all my friends in the media, look closely! Ethan, to rent this pink diamond necklace for Genevieve, stole his mother’s life-saving $500,000! His mother is now suffering 70% burns, waiting to die in the ICU!” The moment my words fell, the scene exploded as if a heavy bomb had been dropped. “Holy crap! Trading his own mother’s life for his mistress’s red carpet walk? That’s utterly despicable!” “Can she really still wear that? Doesn’t she worry about karmic retribution?” Genevieve frantically covered the necklace on her neck, screaming at the security personnel: “Security! Get this crazy woman out of here! Turn off the live stream! Turn it off now!” I took a big step forward, firmly blocking the center of the camera’s view. “Don’t turn it off!” My eyes were red as I pointed at the vibrant red carpet beneath Genevieve’s feet. “This red carpet you’re standing on, it’s ripped from my mother-in-law’s charred flesh! That diamond you’re looking at, it’s stained red with her blood!” Ethan’s face completely twisted. He lunged like a rampaging beast, reaching out to snatch my phone and the evidence. “Bitch! I’ll kill you!” I was prepared. I sharply sidestepped him, coldly watching him miss and stumble and fall heavily to the ground. “What’s the rush? There’s still my mother-in-law’s accidental death insurance, isn’t there? Didn’t Genevieve just say, ‘Let’s just get through tonight’s red carpet first’?” Genevieve’s face instantly went ashen, and she recoiled in terror. Ethan abruptly turned, staring at her in disbelief. “You… you told her about the insurance?” Genevieve opened her mouth, tears instantly streaming: “I didn’t mean it like that, Ethan, let me explain…” Watching the repulsive scene of them blaming each other, my last shred of hope was completely shattered. I finally understood that they weren’t just after the $500,000 in savings. They were also after the $2,000,000 accidental death insurance payout if Eleanor didn’t make it! Just then, my phone vibrated wildly. It was the hospital’s dedicated number. My heart plummeted. My fingers trembled as I pressed the answer button. Dr. Miller’s voice was more anxious than ever, tinged with a deep sense of helplessness. “Olivia, the patient is in severe septic shock, her blood pressure is almost undetectable. Also, someone just contacted the hospital claiming to be her legal guardian, requesting to forgo all life-sustaining resuscitation and opt for palliative care. Do you know about this?!” All the blood in my body felt like it was drained instantly, my fingers so stiff I could barely hold the phone. “What?” Dr. Miller paused, his voice incredibly grave. “The applicant used your identity information. If we proceed, we’ll have to remove the ventilator immediately.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “409067”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

To save my brother, I willingly became Ethan Thorne’s mistress for three years. I thought if I was good enough, I could eventually melt his cold heart. That was until I overheard him at a star-studded charity gala, laughing with his friends: “Lily? Just a plaything I could buy off. Serena’s pregnant. We’re getting engaged next month.” In that moment, my heart turned to ash. In front of everyone, I slammed the priceless pink diamond he had just bought onto his face, then turned and walked into the rainy night. Later, I became a rising star in the business world, with countless admirers. But the arrogant billionaire heir, Ethan Thorne, was the one who knelt at my door on a stormy night, his eyes bloodshot: “Lily, please, just look at me again…” The deep autumn in Manhattan was bone-chilling. But inside the Ritz Hotel’s top-floor charity gala, it was a scene of dazzling elegance, warm as spring. I sat in a corner of the lounge, staring at the balance on my phone. Leo’s medical bills were almost depleted again. Ethan brought me tonight, saying he wanted to bid on something for me, a gift for our three-year anniversary. A part of me actually felt a flicker of hope. Three years. He had never brought me to a public event before. This was the first time. Footsteps and hushed laughter drifted from outside the door. “Ethan, you’re really splashing out this time, huh? Thirty million for a pink diamond, didn’t even bat an eye.” It was Ethan’s childhood friend, Mr. Davis. “Serena likes it. What’s thirty million?” Ethan’s voice was lazy, nonchalant. My heart plummeted. Serena? Serena Cross? The heiress from the Cross family who just returned from abroad? “But what about the one in your lounge? She’s been with you for three years, she deserves some credit, or at least some consideration for her effort, right?” Mr. Davis lowered his voice, a hint of mockery in his tone. Ethan chuckled. That laugh, thin as the door separating us, pierced through my heart like a knife. “Lily?” His voice was dismissive, as if he were discussing an unimportant item. “Just a plaything I could easily dismiss with money. Her brother needs saving; she wouldn’t dare make a scene.” “Right. Serena’s pregnant, and you’re getting engaged next month. It’s time to clean house, get rid of anyone who shouldn’t be around.” I sat on the sofa, utterly frozen. It was like falling into an ice pit. Pregnant? Engaged? Just three days ago, he held me close, whispering in my ear that after Leo’s surgery, we’d go to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. It was all a lie. The deep affection I believed was real was just a handout after he weighed the pros and cons. The door opened. Ethan, dressed in a designer suit, walked in, holding the velvet box containing the pink diamond. Seeing my pale face, he frowned slightly. “What’s wrong? Not feeling well?” He walked over, reaching out to caress my head, a familiar gesture. I turned my head away, dodging his hand. His hand froze in mid-air, and his eyes darkened. “What’s with the attitude?” His voice held a trace of impatience. I stood up, looking him directly in the eyes. “Are you getting engaged?” My voice was eerily calm. Ethan paused. Then, he tossed the box onto the coffee table and tugged at his tie. “You heard?” He showed no sign of being caught off guard, instead, there was an air of casual frankness. “Serena’s pregnant. The Cross family can help me secure the Southside development project.” He looked at me, like he was reassuring an ignorant subordinate. “Just be good. This pink diamond is yours, and the money I give you will double every month. You won’t lack anything, except that title.” I looked at the pink diamond, sparkling with a dazzling, almost blinding light. Suddenly, I felt utterly disgusted. “Ethan Thorne.” I called his full name. “Do you really think my dignity, Lily’s dignity, can be bought with money?” He scoffed. “What else? Have you paid for Leo’s dialysis tomorrow? Without me, you two would have starved on the streets long ago.” He was certain I couldn’t leave him. Because I was poor, because I had a sick brother who was a burden. I took a deep breath. I picked up the velvet box from the table. Ethan’s lips curved into a mocking smile, thinking I had finally conceded. The next second. I raised my hand and slammed the box squarely onto his face. “CRACK!” The box hit his forehead, bounced to the floor, and the pink diamond rolled deep into the carpet. Ethan’s forehead immediately turned red. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Lily! Are you crazy?!” “Yes, I am crazy.” I stared at him coldly. “Consider these three years wasted on a dog. We’re over.” With that, I turned without hesitation, pushed open the door, and walked into the cold hallway.

“Stop!” Ethan roared from behind me. I didn’t stop. The elevator at the end of the hallway opened just then. I quickly stepped inside and pressed the close door button. The elevator doors slowly shut, cutting off Ethan’s enraged face. Stepping out of the hotel, the cold wind, mixed with a fine drizzle, hit me. I pulled my thin trench coat tighter and walked into the rain. My phone vibrated wildly in my pocket. All calls from Ethan. I turned it off directly, pulled out the SIM card, and tossed it into a roadside trash can. I returned to the luxury apartment in the city center. Ethan’s scent was everywhere. The walk-in closet was filled with designer dresses he bought me, and the vanity table held complete sets of expensive skincare products. I found an old suitcase. I only packed a few of my old clothes, a few textbooks, and a five-year-old beat-up laptop. I didn’t touch any of the glittering jewelry or branded bags. I neatly placed the black card, car keys, and access card Ethan had given me on the shoe cabinet by the entrance. I took one last look at this “gilded cage” I had lived in for three years. With a resounding “BANG,” I closed the door. Dragging my suitcase, I took the last night bus. It brought me to a dilapidated neighborhood. This was a forgotten corner of the bustling city. Narrow alleys, puddles of murky water, and the air thick with the sour smell of cheap fast food mixed with sewage. I knocked on the door of a run-down boarding house with a red light on. “How much for the cheapest single room?” The woman behind the counter eyed me up and down. “Top floor, no AC, shared bathroom, six hundred a month, a month’s rent as deposit, plus three months upfront.” “Okay.” I paid the money and got the key. The room was only about a hundred square feet. A wooden bed, a shaky wardrobe. The paint was peeling, and there was a yellowish water stain on the ceiling. I sat on the hard bed, listening to the sounds of snoring and a baby crying from next door. It was noisy. But I felt a freedom I had never experienced before. The next morning. I went to the hospital. Leo lay in his hospital bed, his face as white as paper. Seeing me, he forced a weak smile. “Lily, you didn’t come to see me yesterday.” “Yesterday… I had to work overtime.” I walked over and tucked his blanket in. “Lily, where’s Mr. Thorne? He hasn’t been here in a while.” Leo asked innocently. My heart ached. “Leo,” I looked into his eyes and said seriously, “from now on, don’t mention him again. We have nothing to do with him anymore.” Leo froze. He was sick, but he wasn’t stupid. He looked at my swollen eyes and seemed to understand something. “Lily, is it because of me… Am I holding you back?” His eyes reddened. “Don’t be silly.” I held his cold hand. “You’re the only family I have in this world. As long as you’re okay, I’m not afraid of anything.” As I walked out of the ward, the nurse on duty at the station called out to me. “Lily, the money in your brother’s account will only last for three more days. The follow-up targeted therapy costs fifty thousand per injection. You need to find a way to get funds quickly.” “I understand, thank you.” I walked out of the hospital, standing on the busy street. The sunlight was blinding. I touched the necklace around my neck. It was the only memento my mom left me. I gritted my teeth, then turned and walked into a pawn shop on the corner. “Ten thousand.” The owner, after examining it with a magnifying glass for a long time, named a price. “But it’s an antique necklace!” I exclaimed. “Times are tough, young lady. This necklace, this is the price. Take it or leave it.” The owner said, like he knew he had me over a barrel. I closed my eyes. Leo’s pale face flashed in my mind. “Fine, I’ll pawn it.” With the ten thousand dollars, I immediately deposited it into the hospital account. This ten thousand would only last half a month. I had to find a job as soon as possible.

I thought that with my degree from a top university, finding a job wouldn’t be difficult. But I underestimated Ethan Thorne’s influence. In one week, I sent out hundreds of resumes. Either they went nowhere, or after passing an interview, I’d get a call the next day saying I wasn’t suitable. Until I went to a decent internet company. The HR manager handed my resume back directly. “Ms. Lily, if you’ve crossed the wrong person, New York isn’t the place for you anymore. Go back home.” I clutched the resume, my nails digging into my palms. Ethan Thorne. He wanted to push me to the brink, force me to come back and beg him. I stood under the scorching sun, looking at the distant Thorne Industries building. Towering into the clouds, absolutely domineering. “Ethan Thorne, you wish.” I gritted my teeth, saying each word slowly. If I couldn’t get into a big company, I’d go to a small one. A place that didn’t require background or academic qualifications, only results. Finally, I joined a newly established real estate agency. A base salary of fifteen hundred, commission entirely dependent on my sales. An office without AC, a beat-up electric scooter, and every day, I’d be out on the streets, handing out flyers under nearly 100-degree Fahrenheit heat. “Excuse me, interested in buying a house? New development in the South District, great school zone!” I stopped a middle-aged woman passing by and handed her a thick stack of flyers. The woman waved her hand dismissively, like shooing a fly. “Go away, go away, it’s too hot!” The flyers scattered across the ground. I knelt down, picking them up one by one. Sweat stung my eyes. My white shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to my back. But I had no time to complain. After half a month, I was tanned and had lost ten pounds. But I also closed three small deals, earning over ten thousand dollars in commission. On payday, I bought a roasted chicken and took it to the hospital to share with Leo. Leo ate heartily, his mouth covered in grease, laughing happily. Looking at him, I felt it was all worth it. Just when I thought my life was finally getting back on track. Trouble came knocking. That afternoon, my manager suddenly called me into his office. “Lily, we have a big client tonight, specifically asking to see the villa at South Hill Estates. You’re coming with me.” Mr. Peterson rubbed his hands, his face excited. “South Hill Estates? That’s a hundred-million-dollar mansion!” “Exactly! If we close it, the commission alone will be over a million! You’re in luck, kid!” I felt a faint unease. How could such a big deal fall to me, a newcomer? But a million-dollar commission was too tempting. With that money, Leo’s surgery and subsequent recovery costs would all be covered. I pushed down my doubts and followed Mr. Peterson to South Hill Estates. The moment I pushed open the door to the luxurious private room. All the blood in my veins froze. On the leather sofa. Ethan Thorne had his legs crossed, a glass of red wine in his hand, looking at me with a half-smile. Serena Cross leaned against him, dressed in a Chanel maternity outfit, her face full of coy charm. There were a few other trust fund kids from their circle in the private room, all staring at me with expressions of eager anticipation. “Mr. Thorne, I’ve brought her.” Mr. Peterson bowed and fawned over him. I turned to leave. “Stop.” Ethan’s voice was cold. Two bodyguards immediately blocked the door. I turned back, looking at him coldly. “Mr. Thorne, if you’re buying, let’s see the house. If not, I need to get off work.” Serena let out a snicker. “Ethan, is this the stubborn woman you were talking about? Look at the state she’s in now.” She eyed my cheap professional outfit and my tanned, rough skin, her eyes full of disdain. “Heard you’re selling houses? Fine.” Serena pulled a stack of cash from her bag and tossed it onto the table. “Drink these three bottles of liquor on the table, and I’ll sign for this hundred-million-dollar villa with you.” On the table were three bottles of expensive, high-proof tequila. Mr. Peterson was frantically signaling me from the side. “Lily, drink it! This is Mr. Thorne and Ms. Cross doing you a favor!” I looked at the three bottles of tequila. I’m allergic to alcohol. Drinking this much could be fatal. Ethan looked at me, his eyes holding an air of condescending charity. “Lily, if you drink it, not only will this deal be credited to you, but I’ll cover all of Leo’s future treatment abroad.” He was certain I would concede. Just like every time he had used Leo to manipulate me over the past three years. I walked to the table. Serena’s smile grew wider. “A pauper is a pauper, willing to throw away her life for money.” I picked up a bottle of tequila. I unscrewed the cap. Then. With a flick of my wrist. “SPLASH!” The entire bottle of liquor was precisely doused all over Serena’s Chanel dress, worth hundreds of thousands.

“AHH—!” Serena shrieked, jumping up, the pungent smell of alcohol instantly filling the room. “You bitch! Are you crazy?!” She pointed at me, trembling with rage. Dead silence filled the private room. Everyone gasped. Mr. Peterson was so terrified his legs went weak, and he collapsed onto the floor. Ethan’s face instantly darkened to an extreme. He abruptly stood up and grabbed my wrist. His grip was so strong, it felt like he wanted to crush my bones. “Lily, are you asking to die?!” His voice was gritted through his teeth, filled with towering fury. I met his furious glare, a cold smile playing on my lips. “Mr. Thorne, didn’t Ms. Cross enjoy her drink? I just helped her with a little washing. No need to thank me.” I forcefully pulled my hand free. “Your dirty money? I find it disgusting.” “BANG!” I turned, kicked away the bodyguard blocking the door, and strode out of the private room. Behind me, I heard Serena’s crying and Ethan’s sound of smashing a glass. I walked along the tree-lined road outside South Hill Estates. The night wind blew, and I realized my back was completely soaked. In that moment, I was genuinely afraid. Ethan could crush me as easily as an ant. But I was even more afraid of bending my spine again. Returning to my rental room, I was utterly exhausted. As soon as I lay down, Mr. Peterson’s call came in. “Lily! Don’t bother coming in tomorrow! You crossed Mr. Thorne, and if you want to self-destruct, don’t drag the company down with you!” The call was abruptly cut off. I looked at the black screen of my phone and let out a bitter laugh. Another job gone. The next day, I started sending out resumes again. But this time, the situation was worse than before. The entire real estate industry had blacklisted me. I walked under the scorching sun, looking at the mere three thousand dollars left in my bank account, feeling a despair I’d never felt before. Was I truly no match for him? Just as I squatted on the curb, burying my face in my arms. A pair of gleaming black leather shoes stopped in front of me. “Ms. Lily, our CEO would like to see you.” A man in a sharp suit handed me a business card. “Sterling Group, CEO’s Executive Assistant.” I froze. Sterling Group? That was the only business giant that could contend with Thorne Industries. I followed the assistant to the CEO’s office on the top floor of the Sterling Group building. A tall, slender figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. Hearing footsteps, he turned around. His features were sharp, his gaze deep, exuding an aura of authority that needed no anger. Sterling Group CEO, Julian Vance. “Lily?” He eyed me, then gestured to the sofa opposite him. “Sit.” I sat down, a bit reserved. “Mr. Vance, you wanted to see me…” Julian pushed a file across the table to me. “I’ve seen the proposal you did in college for urban renewal. It was brilliant.” I paused. That was my work from junior year, which won a national gold award, but after I started being with Ethan, I never touched such things again. “Ethan Thorne is blacklisting you.” Julian said directly. “No one in New York would dare hire you but me.” He looked at me, his eyes sharp. “I’m giving you an opportunity. Sterling Group is bidding for the Southside land, and I need someone familiar with grassroots operations and with enough ambition.” “A base salary of ten thousand, five percent project commission. Fail, and you’re out.” Five percent! That Southside land was worth billions, so five percent was tens of millions! My breath hitched. “Why me?” I couldn’t help but ask. Julian smiled faintly. “Because yesterday at South Hill Estates, you poured a bottle of liquor on Serena Cross.” “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I like people with grit.” I took a deep breath, stood up, and nodded firmly, my voice steady. “Mr. Vance, I won’t let you down.” From that day on, I officially joined the Sterling Group. I worked like a maniac. Daytime, I was on-site, doing background checks; nights, I pulled all-nighters revising proposals. The Southside land was a complex situation, involving many resistant homeowners and long-standing disputes. I visited each family, doing individual outreach. Once, I was even bitten on the calf by a dog released by a grumpy homeowner. After getting my rabies shot, I hobbled back to knock on doors. Julian saw my relentless effort. He began to personally mentor me, teaching me the cunning and deception of the business world, teaching me how to read people. Under Julian’s guidance, my growth rate was astonishing. In just three months, I secured eighty percent of the demolition agreements for the Southside project. A week before the bidding conference. Ethan Thorne made his move.

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