Author: Momo Chan

My boyfriend was an extreme minimalist. His apartment was a study in clinical emptiness. Stark white walls, bare surfaces, and not a single stray item to suggest that two people had shared the space for nearly a decade. He kept nothing. Not the handwritten letters where I had poured out my soul, nor the delicate diamond band he’d bought me—the one that was supposed to promise a lifetime of devotion. “Hazel, he isn’t a minimalist,” Cheryl, my best friend, used to tell me, her voice tight with frustration every time we met. “He just doesn’t love you. When are you going to wake up?” For eight years, I defended him with a stubbornness that bordered on madness. Until the day I climbed into our dusty attic and found a pristine, spotless cardboard box hidden behind the water heater. There wasn’t a single trace of me inside. Instead, it was a meticulously curated archive of his ex-girlfriend, Serena. The first pen she’d bought him, her oversized college hoodie, a silver band… Every single item was neatly preserved, bearing a small, hand-written label with the exact date it was collected. The ring was the hardest to look at. The date on its label was the exact day he had tossed our matching couple’s rings into the trash, claiming we didn’t need material possessions to define our bond. In an instant, the fragile scaffolding of my eight-year self-deception collapsed. When I called Cheryl, gasping through my tears, her voice was terrifyingly detached. “I know, Hazel,” she said. “I’ve been trying to tell you. You were just too blind to see it.” “To be fair, you were always the interloper anyway.” “And by the way, Will proposed to Serena on her birthday last week.” The world stopped. The blood in my veins turned to ice. She had known all along. She had watched me play the fool, year after year, letting me believe we were building a future while she shielded their secret. If their entire lives were built on a lie, then my obsession with them was over. It was time for my own kind of decluttering. I would purge them both from my life. … A photo popped up in our chat thread. It was from Cheryl. In the picture, Will and Serena were locked in a passionate kiss, surrounded by a laughing crowd of our mutual friends. Cheryl stood right beside them, holding a confetti popper, her smile radiant and completely devoid of guilt. Every time Cheryl had sat across from me over coffee, urging me to leave Will, I thought she had my best interests at heart. Now I realized she was simply clearing the path for Serena. Another text from Cheryl lit up the screen. “Don’t hate me, Hazel. Serena is my best friend, too. I couldn’t go behind her back.” I felt the strength drain from my limbs, and I slid slowly onto the cold hardwood floor. Aside from my parents, Will and Cheryl were the two most important people in my world. But they had spent years weaving a net of lies, keeping me suspended in a reality that didn’t exist. I stared at the screen, scrolling through the archival evidence of Will and Serena’s quiet, parallel life until my tears ran completely dry. My phone vibrated again, the ringtone cutting through the silence. It was my mother, her voice warm and fluttering with excitement. “Hazel, sweetie! I just wanted to make sure you and Will are still coming down this weekend?” “We know how particular Will is about cleanliness. Your father and I spent the whole morning deep-cleaning the guest room. We threw out all the old clutter.” My father’s voice chimed in from the background. “Tell her we did that ‘decluttering’ thing the young people are always talking about!” A fresh wave of tears slipped down my cheeks. I had to bite the meat of my wrist to keep from letting out a sob. On the other end of the line, my parents kept talking about the dinner menu and the local sights they wanted to show Will. I tried to interrupt, but only a ragged, wet breath came out. “Hazel? Are you there, honey? Is work too busy?” I pulled the phone away, taking a long, shuddering breath to steady my voice before bringing it back to my ear. “I’m here, Mom. I’m sorry… I think I have to work through the weekend. I don’t think we can make it.” They didn’t complain. They immediately told me that my career came first, but the heavy, polite disappointment in their voices was palpable. Last year, when I had planned to bring Will home, he had ended up in the emergency room the night before our flight with a badly sprained leg. I had spent three months nursing him, cooking every meal, and driving him to physical therapy without a single murmur of complaint. It was only months later that I accidentally discovered he had fallen while replacing a showerhead at Serena’s apartment. I had been nothing more than an unpaid, live-in caregiver. I dialed Will’s number. I expected myself to scream, to demand answers, but when he answered, my voice was unnaturally calm. “Will. Where are you?” “Still on the business trip, babe,” he said smoothly, his voice muffled by background noise. But Cheryl’s social media had already updated. They were at a rooftop pool party downtown. Will’s voice dropped to that gentle, coaxing tone he always used when he wanted to pacify me. “Be a good girl, Hazel. I’ll bring you back something nice.” In the background, I heard Serena’s distinct, high-pitched whine. “Will, hurry up! They’re taking all the good lounge chairs!” Will cleared his throat quickly, muffling the receiver with his hand. I didn’t call him out. I simply said, “Okay,” and hung up. Cheryl didn’t notice that in the corner of the photo she sent, there was a mail delivery box sitting on Serena’s kitchen counter. The shipping label on the box matched the address of our apartment building. Will had been using our place to receive Serena’s packages. I knelt and lifted the cardboard box from the attic. It wasn’t physically heavy, but the weight of wasted years made me stumble as I carried it down the stairs. If this belonged to their past, I was going to deliver it directly to their present. At three in the morning, the sound of muffled giggles drifted from the elevator lobby down the quiet hallway. “Babe, how much longer are you going to keep stringing that charity case along?” Serena’s voice giggled. “Isn’t it time to call it quits?” I froze in the dim hallway, the box heavy in my arms. Serena had always smiled warmly at me whenever we ran into each other at group dinners, calling me sweet, telling me to make sure to invite her to the wedding. It had all been a cruel joke to her. I looked up just as they stepped around the corner. Will’s eyes met mine. His smile vanished instantly, replaced by a mixture of shock and panic. “Ha… Hazel? What are you doing out here?” Serena dropped her sweet act entirely, leaning back against the wall with a look of cold defiance. Will scrambled for words. “Hazel, let me explain. I ran into Serena on my way back from the airport. It was late, and she couldn’t get an Uber. I couldn’t just leave her there. It’s not safe.” I looked at him, my gaze completely empty. “How much longer were you going to keep this up, Will?” Will starts to speak, but his eyes land on the cardboard box at her feet. He goes pale. Serena steps forward, gloating. “Babe, we don’t have to lie to her anymore.” Will snaps, “Serena, shut up!” I tried to turn to walk away, but my legs had gone completely numb from standing in the cold hallway. I lost my balance and swayed. Before I could even steady myself, Will lunged forward, shoving me back with terrifying force to keep me away from Serena. “Serena, watch out for the baby!” My head cracked sharply against the wooden doorframe. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the base of my skull, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, icy stillness in my chest. “The baby.” During our first year together, I had discovered I was pregnant. I had been terrified but secretly thrilled, showing him the positive test with a racing heart. But his face had fallen. “We’re too young, Hazel,” he had whispered, holding my hands. “A baby will tie you down, ruin your career. Let’s wait until we’re ready.” Over the next eight years, there had been other unexpected scares—painful miscarriages and difficult choices, always guided by his gentle, manipulative reminders that the timing wasn’t right. Just a month ago, I had held another positive test in the bathroom, keeping the secret close to my chest, planning to share the news only after he had met my parents. Now, Will is rubbing Serena’s back, whispering sweet comforts into her ear. “Are you okay, sweetie? Breathe.” He didn’t hate children. He just hated the idea of having them with me. There was no reason for him to ever know about the life growing inside me. A sharp, tearing cramp bloomed in my lower abdomen. The pain was so sudden and intense that I sank to my knees, clutching my stomach. Will finally seemed to register my posture. “Hazel? What’s wrong with you?” Serena let out a sharp cry, leaning heavily against him. “Will, it hurts. My stomach is cramping.” Without a single look back, Will scooped Serena into his arms. He paused at the elevator doors, his face tight with irritation as he looked over his shoulder. “Hazel, go inside. I have to get her to the clinic. I’ll explain everything when I get back.” “Will…” my voice was barely a whisper as I pressed my forehead against the cold floor. “Something is wrong…” “Hazel, stop playing games!” he snapped, his voice sharp with anger. “Serena is actually pregnant!” The elevator doors slid shut. I was left alone in the hallway. A notification pinged on my phone, a text from Will: “Hazel, this has nothing to do with Serena. I will make this right. Just wait for me.” The pain in my abdomen grew unbearable, accompanied by a warm, terrifying rush of fluid. The baby was gone. And with it, the very last thread of whatever love I had harbored for Will. My vision began to blur, and the world faded to black. The sharp, sterile scent of bleach woke me. I heard my mother’s hushed, weeping voice nearby. “Why isn’t he answering? Our daughter is in the recovery room after emergency surgery, and he won’t even pick up his phone!” My mother looked incredibly fragile, her eyes red-rimmed and hollowed out by exhaustion. I felt a crushing weight of guilt. My parents were in their late fifties, and I had dragged them into the middle of my ruined life. I made a soft, tight sound in my throat. My parents rushed to the bedside instantly. “It’s okay, baby,” my mother whispered, smoothing the hair from my forehead. “We’re here. You’re going to be okay.” The door creaked open, and Cheryl walked in, carrying a large arrangement of flowers. My mother let out a small sigh of relief. “Cheryl, thank God. Please stay with her for a moment. We’re going to get some tea.” I watched Cheryl, waiting for her to speak, terrified that she would lay everything bare in front of my parents. “Mom, Dad, please go get something to eat. I’ll be fine with Cheryl.” Once the door clicked shut, Cheryl’s expression shifted into a look of cold, unadulterated disgust. She tossed the flowers onto the bedside table. “Hazel, I never knew you could be so desperate,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Not only did you try to play the victim when you knew Will belonged to Serena, but you actually tried to trap him with a baby.” She threw her phone onto my lap. The screen showed her chat history with Serena. The latest messages were screenshots of the frantic texts my mother had sent Will, begging him to come to the hospital because I was miscarrying. Will hadn’t replied to a single one. Instead, he had forwarded them to Serena, who had sent them straight to Cheryl. I looked at Cheryl, my eyes begging. “Cheryl, please. Don’t tell my parents about Will and Serena. They can’t take the shock. My mom’s heart…” Cheryl crossed her arms, letting out a sharp breath. “This is the very last time I protect you.” She leaned in closer, her voice sharp. “I told you years ago that Will wasn’t a minimalist. He just hated having your things in his space because they reminded him of what he was trying to avoid. But you just had to keep pushing.” “Maybe this is just karma. The doctor said the scarring from the infection means you’ll likely never be able to carry a child to term anyway.” “Infertile.” The word hung in the sterile air like a physical blow. My parents had clearly asked the doctors to keep the prognosis from me until I was stronger. Cheryl checked her watch, entirely indifferent to the shock on my face. “I didn’t actually come to see you. Serena is admitted on the third floor for observation. Don’t make a scene. She’s fragile, and she doesn’t need the stress of dealing with you.” Cheryl picked up her flowers and walked out of the room without another word. “Hazel, honey? Did Cheryl leave already?” my mother asked, entering the room with a paper cup of tea. “I brought her a pastry.” I forced a tight, artificial smile. “She had an urgent shift at the clinic, Mom. I told her to go.” On the day I was discharged, my mother was helping me into a wheelchair when she froze, her eyes scanning the lobby. “Hazel… isn’t that Will?” I followed her gaze. Will was carefully guiding Serena toward the exit, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist as they listened to a nurse’s instructions. Before I could stop her, my mother lunged forward, her voice trembling with rage. “Will! You absolute coward! How dare you humiliate my daughter like this while keeping another woman!” Will stiffened, immediately stepping in front of Serena to shield her. “Mrs. Mitch, please, let me explain—” My mother reached out, trying to push him aside to look at Serena. Will grabbed my mother’s wrist, his grip tight and unyielding. “Stop it! Serena is pregnant!” He glared at me over my mother’s shoulder, his voice rising in anger. “Hazel, control your mother! If anything happens to Serena or the baby, I swear to God I won’t forgive you!” I forced myself out of the wheelchair, ignoring the tearing pain in my abdomen, and pulled my mother back. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, her face turning a terrifying shade of gray. Serena, seeing the commotion, pulled out her phone and dialed Cheryl on speaker. Cheryl’s voice echoed through the crowded hospital lobby, clear and biting. “Everyone knows Hazel was the one trying to come between them. She’s been obsessed with Will for years. Honestly, she’s disgusting.” A sharp, choking sound escaped my mother’s throat. Her eyes went wide, and she collapsed onto the linoleum floor. “Mom! Mom, wake up!” I screamed, dropping to my knees, my own physical pain forgotten. “Get a doctor! Please!” My mother was rushed into emergency surgery. The doctors diagnosed her with an acute ischemic stroke brought on by severe emotional distress. I sat outside the operating room, my head in my hands, praying to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in. A shadow fell over me. I looked up to see Will standing there, his expression a mix of guilt and exhaustion. “Hazel… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know your mother would…” I shook my head, cutting him off before he could finish. “Will. We’re done.” Panic flared in his eyes. “No, Hazel, listen to me. Serena and I… it’s not what you think. I’ll fix this. You were never the mistress. I’ll make Cheryl tell everyone the truth.” I looked at him with absolute pity. “Then why didn’t you say that just now in the lobby? Why did you let them call me a homewrecker in front of my mother?” Will looked down, his voice barely audible. “Serena was having contractions. She couldn’t handle the stress. Please, Hazel. Just give me some time to sort things out. The box in the attic… I only kept it because I couldn’t bear to let go of the past completely.” “You kept her past,” I whispered, “but you threw away my present.” I stood up, holding onto the back of the plastic chair for support. “I’m decluttering, Will. Your cheap, conditional love is the first thing going in the trash.” He reached out to grab my hand, but I flinched away, stepping back. He looked down at his empty palm, his expression twisting in embarrassment. On his left ring finger, a matching silver band caught the harsh fluorescent light. Serena’s voice called out from the end of the hall. Will hesitated, looking between me and the hallway, before finally turning away. “Trust me, Hazel. I’ll explain everything later.” My mother woke up in the ICU the following morning. Her voice was weak, but her grip on my hand was surprisingly firm. “Hazel… promise me you’ll leave him behind.” I nodded, my chest aching. “I promise, Mom.” That night, I opened my laptop and sent an email to my department head. “Dear Mr. Alden, I accept the transfer to the London office. I can start immediately.” On the day my mother was discharged, they board a flight to Europe. A week later, Will rushed into the quiet hospital room, clutching a bouquet of lilies. “Hazel, I’ve worked it out. I’m leaving Serena. You’re the only one I—” A nurse stepped in, looking at him with mild confusion. “Sir, can I help you?” Will stared at the perfectly made, empty bed. He pulled out his phone and frantically dialed my number. An automated voice delivered a cold, mechanical response: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

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I returned from my week-long business trip a day early, expecting the familiar, warm chaos of coming home. Instead, the house was dead silent. In the middle of the living room floor sat my six-year-old son, Toby, quietly drawing by himself. Stacked on the small table next to him were several loaves of packaged sandwich bread. I frowned, stepping forward. When Toby looked up and saw me, his face lit up with pure joy. “Mom! You’re home!” I pulled him into a tight embrace, then reached over to check the bread on the table. The receipt stuck to the bag showed they had all been bought the day after I left. Most commercial sandwich bread only has a shelf life of three days. More than half of these were already past their expiration date. “Toby, have you only been eating this for the last seven days?” Toby nodded, his small shoulders shifting under his shirt. He looked noticeably thinner. “Daddy said he was busy.” A sharp, painful ache flared in my chest. I pulled out my phone to call my husband, but before I could dial, a notification popped up on social media. It was a post from his secretary, Amber. “Work has been absolutely crazy, but the boss actually took the time to personally cook for us tonight. It was so delicious, it’s completely ruining my diet! He says I’m too thin and need to eat more. Huge thanks to him for looking after us this week.” Attached were photos of the two of them, sitting across from each other at a small table, sharing an intimate, candlelit dinner that looked like something out of a romance novel. I clenched my fist so hard my fingernails bit deep into my palm. If a man can’t manage to be a decent husband, and can’t even manage to be a father to his own child, then he doesn’t deserve the titles. … I took Toby by the hand and walked out the door. I took him to a quiet, family-run diner down the street. Because his stomach hadn’t processed any real oil or nutrients for days, I couldn’t just feed him a heavy meal; we had to start slow, with a simple, clear chicken broth. Watching him inhale the food broke my heart. No child willingly chooses to eat dry, cold bread for days on end. The only real meal he’d had since I left was the food I prepared for him on my departure day. He had even sent me a sweet text back then: “Mom, today’s dinner was so yummy.” I gently stroked his hair. If I had known this would happen, I would have prepped a whole week’s worth of meals. Or better yet, I would have declined the trip entirely. No job, no partnership, was worth more than my son. Children have a heartbreakingly high tolerance for pain. They forget the bad things so quickly. Toby was already smiling again, looking up at me with bright eyes, telling me how pretty I looked when I was working hard and that I didn’t need to worry about him. After dinner, I took him to a pediatric clinic for a checkup. Fortunately, there was no permanent damage—just mild malnutrition. The doctor told me that with proper meals and rest, he would recover just fine. Once we got back home, I sent Toby upstairs to play in his room. I sat in the living room, waiting to settle the score with Zack. He walked through the door shortly after. He looked genuinely surprised to see me home early, but the moment he crossed the threshold, I locked my eyes onto him. “I was gone for a week, Zack. And you fed our son nothing but white bread for seven days. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a sigh. “I’m sorry. Things got incredibly hectic at the office this week. I promise it won’t happen again.” Always the same excuses. He was busy enough to cook a gourmet dinner for his secretary, yet he couldn’t find the time to make a simple plate of pasta for his own son. He couldn’t even bother to pick up takeout on his way home. The truth was simple: he just didn’t care. A cold wave of bitterness washed over me. Before I left, he had stood in this exact hallway, looking me in the eyes and promising me everything would be fine. “Have you forgotten?” he had said, smiling. “My cooking was the only thing that got you through your morning sickness. Leave the boy to me. I’ve got this.” And so I had trusted him. Yet the very day after I boarded my flight, he checked out of his fatherly duties and left Toby with a mountain of bread. Because the shelf life was only three days, Toby spent the latter half of the week choking down stale, expired food. I remembered how Zack used to complain if Toby ate more than two slices of bread, lecturing me about nutrition. “Too much processed yeast isn’t healthy, Donna. If he fills up on bread, he won’t eat his vegetables, and he won’t grow properly.” Now, he didn’t care if his son ate moldy bread. Where had all that parental concern gone? Who was receiving his care and attention now? The thought of Toby sitting alone in the quiet house, assuming his father was doing incredibly important work and trying his best not to be a burden, made my chest ache with a physical tightness. “Zack,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “I want a divorce.” Before the words could even settle in the air, the front door swung open. My mother-in-law, Helen, who had just returned from a vacation, hurried into the room. She had apparently heard about Toby being taken to the clinic and came rushing over. She immediately turned on Zack, throwing her hands up. “Didn’t you tell me you could handle things? I only went on a trip with my friends because you assured me you had it under control! How did my grandson end up in the clinic?” Zack stood there, quietly taking his mother’s scolding. I couldn’t see the expression on his face. Helen then turned to me, her tone instantly shifting to a soothing, dismissive maternal coo. “Oh, Donna, sweetheart, you shouldn’t throw around words like ‘divorce.’ A husband and wife are supposed to weather the storms together. Divorce is a terrible thing.” I didn’t bother responding to her. Whenever Zack and I had a disagreement, this was always her refrain. In the past, under the guise of wanting what was best for me, she had constantly tried to keep me trapped in my quiet misery. She would lecture me on how difficult life was for divorced women, how society looked down on them, how a woman without a husband was like discarded trash. But this time, Zack had failed to perform the most basic duty of a father. My mind was made up. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by Helen’s continued muttering. I didn’t say another word. Some things are better executed than discussed. Besides, the signs of Zack’s emotional drift had been there for a long time. Take the potted plants on the balcony, for instance. Recently, I had noticed cigarette butts buried in the soil. That balcony garden was something we had designed together, a space he used to cherish more than anyone. As for smoking, he had quit years ago. The moment we decided to start trying for a baby, he had quit cold turkey. It hadn’t been easy. He had gone through intense cravings and mood swings. Even Helen had protested at the time. “He’s under so much pressure at work, Donna. He should phase it out slowly, not just stop all at once.” But Zack had been stubborn. He refused to give himself any leeway. “If I can’t even master my own impulses for the sake of my child,” he had told me, “how can I call myself a father?” To prove his commitment, he had even asked me to hide packs of cigarettes around the house to test him, swearing he wouldn’t touch a single one. And once Toby was born, he never picked up a cigarette again. He had kept his word. Until recently. It all started when Amber posted a quote on her social media about how men who smoke look incredibly sophisticated and attractive. Just like that, Zack started smoking again. It was pathetic, really. A grown man, a father, reverting to old vices just to please a young girl’s passing remark. The next morning, after Zack and Helen left the house, I called a locksmith and changed the entry codes. I went into the system and removed their facial recognition data from the security gate. I waited for Zack’s angry call, but it never came. Instead, I received a text that was supposed to sound considerate: “Hey, sorry, but things are incredibly busy at the office today. Please take good care of Toby.” It seemed my return had simply relieved him of his remaining guilt, allowing him to happily set up camp at the office with Amber. I hired a private investigator to look into his daily routine. The report came back a few days later. Zack wasn’t physically cheating. At least, not in the vulgar, caught-in-bed sense of the word. On paper, they were just a very close boss and secretary. But I knew better. Zack found Amber’s company refreshing. She made him feel young and powerful, so he sought out every possible excuse to be near her, to prolong their shared hours. It reminded me of our college days. Studying was exhausting and tedious, but because we wanted to spend every possible second together, we would pretend to study for hours at the library. Our pens would scratch against the paper, our hearts beating to the same rhythm. We didn’t need to touch; the air between us was already thick with quiet intimacy. I closed the file, keeping my emotions locked away. Then, I drove to our company office to handle some administrative work. This firm was something we had built together from the ground up. It had taken years of sweat and tears. Even my recent trip had been to secure a major partnership that would elevate us to the next level. I truly hadn’t expected things to unravel like this. After hours of looking over accounts, I walked to the breakroom to get a cup of coffee. As I approached, I heard voices whispering inside. “What is Zack thinking? Why is he dumping all these random people into our department? And Amber, too—she should at least vet her own relatives before putting them in a core team. We’re the ones picking up the slack, and we’re exhausted.” I paused, listening closely. I immediately called the HR manager into my office and asked for an explanation. She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Well… Zack brought in a few new hires this month. A lot of the team leaders have been complaining, but Zack specifically asked me to keep it quiet from you.” My fingers tightened around my coffee mug. Zack had broken his own golden rule. In the past, he had detested nepotism more than anything. He had once been passed over for a well-deserved promotion at his old firm because the CEO’s nephew wanted the job. In his rage, he had quit and decided to start his own company. “Donna,” he had told me back then, “one day, I will build a company where merit is the only currency. No handouts, no family favors. Just pure talent.” A few years ago, a distant cousin of mine had applied for a position at our firm through the standard hiring process. Her performance was stellar, and her metrics were consistently at the top of her department. But the moment Zack found out we shared a distant family tie, he had drafted her termination letter without a second thought. “Donna, I trust you, and I trust her,” he had argued when I confronted him. “I know she didn’t mean anything by it, and she probably didn’t even realize you were the co-founder. But once people find out, it sets a dangerous precedent. I don’t want our company to become another boys’ club where family connections trump hard work. Terminating her now is the cleanest way.” I had looked at him in disbelief. “Just because she shares a fraction of my DNA, she loses her job? Zack, she’s a distant cousin I barely see. There’s no conflict of interest here.” But Zack had refused to back down. “I can’t tolerate even the appearance of it, Donna. Please, try to understand me.” In the end, I had yielded. But now, only a few years later, Zack had forgotten the very foundation of his own principles. To please Amber, he had hired almost her entire extended family. From her uncles to her younger cousins, they had all been placed in key roles across various departments. Most of them lacked the basic qualifications, and their incompetence had already caused several major operational errors—errors that Zack had quietly covered up. No wonder several of our most dedicated, long-term employees had handed in their resignations recently. I wondered if Zack looked at those departing veterans and felt even a flicker of shame. He had built this company to give young, hardworking talent a fair shot. Now, he was the one pulling the ladder up. I looked at the HR manager. “I want a complete list of every employee hired under Zack’s personal recommendation this month. Draft their termination letters immediately. Tell them it’s my directive. If they have a problem, they can come directly to me.” The HR manager looked worried. “But Donna… how am I going to explain this to Zack? He’s going to be furious.” It was clear she had been put through the wringer trying to manage these unqualified hires and appease the frustrated staff. I took the list from her hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle Zack.” The termination notices hadn’t been sent out for more than an hour before Zack stormed into my office. His face was flushed with anger. “Donna! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I leaned back in my chair, shrug shrugged. “Just doing some basic housekeeping. I fired a few unqualified employees. I must have been gone too long on my trip, because I don’t remember when our performance standards dropped this low. I’ve never been a fan of cutthroat competition, but some of these new hires are doing absolutely nothing.” Seeing that I had hard data and performance reports laid out on my desk, Zack’s aggressive stance softened slightly. He took a breath, trying to sound reasonable. “It’s not what you think. They were never meant to be permanent fixtures. They’re just transitioning. Amber’s family is going through a really tough financial crisis right now, and this was the only way I could help her out.” I stared at him, keeping my expression entirely blank. Zack sighed, rubbing his temples. “I haven’t forgotten my own rules, Donna. This is a temporary, exceptional circumstance. I won’t let them interfere with the core business or take credit for other people’s work. Just give me two months, and I’ll personally transition them out.” I actually let out a dry laugh. He sounded so incredibly self-righteous. Allowing unqualified people to draw high salaries while doing nothing was already a slap in the face to every employee who actually worked for their paycheck. You didn’t need to actively steal credit to demoralize a team. But Zack would always find a way to justify his actions when it came to Amber. We were no longer naive teenagers; we shouldn’t be playing these childish games. While I remained silent, Zack’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, and his defensive anger flared up again. “You can’t interfere with this, Donna. I don’t care what you do in two months, but right now, these terminations are not happening.” I looked him dead in the eye. “And what if I insist? Zack, we built this company together. My name is on the charter.” The remaining guilt in Zack’s eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “Donna, we didn’t start this business to become heartless monsters. A company has a social responsibility. I am not going to stand by and watch Amber’s family collapse under a financial crisis.” To protect her, he was willing to go this far. I remained entirely calm. “And what exactly are you going to do to stop me, Zack? I will not have these people in my company.” Zack stared at me, a slow, unpleasant smile creeping onto his face. “Have you forgotten about your R&D team? The new market research and proprietary data you’ve been working on for the transition? I hold the core encryption keys to those servers.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. “Do you even hear yourself, Zack? This company is our life’s work. You’re willing to jeopardize our entire future, sabotage our biggest project, all for a few of your secretary’s relatives? If you want to marry her, just say so.” Zack shook his head quickly. “Amber and I don’t have that kind of relationship. And honestly, I never supported your transition plan anyway. If this project falls through, we can just rebuild.” So, he wanted to break my spirit. He wanted to force me out of the company we built together. Memories of the early days of our startup—sleeping on office floors, eating instant noodles, sharing a single desk—flashed through my mind. What a waste of my youth. Some people are just rotten to the core. Zack thought he had me backed into a corner. “I didn’t want to play this card, Donna. I told you, they’re only temporary. There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Before I could answer, the office door burst open. Amber ran in, tears streaming down her face, looking utterly devastated. “Zack, please… I don’t want to cause any trouble between you and Donna. It’s fine, really. They can leave.” The two of them exchanged a look of pure, dramatic devotion. Amber looked miserable, but her eyes held the glint of a victor. She was young, and her smugness was poorly hidden behind her tears. I found the whole display hilarious. I stood up, walked over, and slapped Zack hard across the face. “Do whatever the hell you want,” I said, my voice ringing clearly in the quiet office. “But remember this: I have resources outside of this company.” I had spent years helping him build his dream from nothing, but he seemed to have forgotten who I was. My family was not without influence. A single failed project wouldn’t break me. If this company went under, Zack would lose everything. I, on the other hand, would be just fine. I picked up my phone and dialed my project manager. “Pack up the servers and tell the team to go home,” I said. “Your bonuses will be paid in full. We’re moving to a new office next week.”

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The Student Government interviews were held in the three-hundred-seat lecture hall. I was hiding in the very last row, trying to blend into the shadows, when the president called me up to the stage. “I hear you have severe social anxiety,” he said, his voice echoing as he tapped the microphone with a smirk. “Perfect. Tell us your most shameful secret right now. Entertain us, and you’re in.” The crowd erupted into laughter. I stood under the harsh glare of the spotlight, my face burning so hot it physically ached. But it wasn’t out of embarrassment. It was because the curse I had spent nineteen years trying to contain was about to spill over. “My secret…” I whispered into the microphone, my chest tightening. “Is that I’m a human confessional. When my face turns red, whoever I look at has to confess their absolute worst, dirtiest secret.” Wilbert, the president, was the first to clap, laughing mockingly. “Creative. Nice storytelling skills.” Five seconds later, his smile vanished. He gripped the edges of the wooden podium, his body trembling violently. His mouth forced itself open, stretching unnaturally. “My admission essay—I plagiarized it from my roommate! Then I framed him for cheating so he’d get expelled instead of me!” The laughter of three hundred students died in an instant. A suffocating silence fell over the hall. I slowly turned my head toward the vice president sitting next to him. “Your turn.” … The vice president’s name was Chase Harrington. A junior, captain of the debate team, and arguably more powerful than the president himself. His father was the Executive Vice Chancellor of Oakridge University. When I looked at him, he was still grinning—that condescending, pitying smile that wealthy, untouchable boys give to people they consider beneath them. He thought this was all some elaborate, cheap magic trick. “That was quite the performance, Hazel,” Chase said, leaning back in his leather chair and crossing his arms. “But I’d advise you to stop while you’re ahead. Wilbert just has a big mouth and a guilty conscience. You didn’t do anything.” On the stage, Wilbert—the proud student body president—was currently collapsed on the floor. He had both hands clamped over his mouth, drool slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with a raw, visceral terror. Like a man who had just been skinned alive in public. “I didn’t… why did I say that…” None of the three hundred people in the audience looked at him. Every single eye was locked on me. I could feel the temperature in my cheeks rising, a deep, hot crimson spreading across my skin. Chase should have run. He had the instincts of a debater; he should have recognized the shift in the room. But arrogance makes people foolish. He stood up, swaggering toward me. “You don’t actually believe you have some kind of superpower, do you?” He reached out, intending to pat my shoulder. “You’re just a—” His hand froze mid-air. I lifted my head, meeting his gaze dead-on. From where I stood, I saw his Adam’s apple bob convulsively. His lips began to twitch, pulling back over his teeth. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered, taking a panicked step back. “Don’t…” Then his voice changed, stripping away all of his practiced poise. “Our freshman year, at the welcome gala, Fiona Davis rejected me when I asked her out.” He gasped, trying to clamp his jaw shut, but the words tore through his throat anyway. “I created an anonymous account on the campus forum and leaked her private photos. Everyone thought she dropped out because she failed her classes, but she didn’t.” A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the lecture hall. “She took two bottles of sleeping pills because of me,” Chase sobbed, tears streaming down his face, yet his mouth kept moving relentlessly. “She survived, but she had to transfer to some tiny school out of state. My dad found out. He used his position to scrub the forum, delete the posts, and replace the administrators so there was no paper trail.” The sound of three hundred people breathing in unison was louder than any roar. I took two steps back, lowering my head, breaking the connection. Chase’s voice snapped shut. He stood frozen, the energy completely drained from his body. His knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the stage. I walked down the side steps. In the aisles, students scrambled to pull their legs back, pressing themselves against the backs of their seats to stay as far away from me as possible. No one dared to look at me. And more importantly, no one wanted me to look at them. I pushed open the heavy double doors of the lecture hall, welcoming the rush of cold autumn wind in the corridor. Behind me, a girl started crying. I didn’t know who she was. Tightening my grip on my backpack straps, I ducked into the nearest restroom, locked myself in a stall, and slid down the wall, burying my face in my knees. My heart was hammering against my ribs. It wasn’t a feeling of triumph. It wasn’t satisfaction. It was that cold, familiar dread of having ruined lives again. For nineteen years, I had run from this curse. When I was seven, I got nervous and blushed while looking at my father during a family reunion. In front of thirty relatives, he blurted out that he had another family across town. My mother signed the divorce papers three days later. Before she packed her bags, she looked at me with pure disgust. “You aren’t normal,” she had said. “Stay away from me.” Since then, I had learned to walk with my chin tucked into my chest. I learned to never look anyone in the eye. I thought coming to a university where nobody knew my name would keep me safe. Today was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone up on that stage. But when Wilbert called my name, the people in the back row had pushed me. Someone had yanked my beanie, someone had shoved my back, whispering, “Go on, freak.” And by then, the heat had already flooded my face. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Notifications began to flood the screen. The campus forum, Instagram, group chats. Someone had recorded it. The video already had over a thousand views. By six the next morning, my phone had vibrated itself to death. The moment I plugged it in and turned it back on, over nine hundred unread messages cascaded down the screen, freezing the display for a solid thirty seconds. My name was the top trending topic on the university forum. The headline read: “Student Gov Interviews: Socially Anxious Freshman Makes President and VP Kneel on Stage.” The comment section was already forty pages deep. Some claimed it was a staged stunt. Others had dug into Wilbert’s past, confirming that his former roommate, Ian Mercer, had indeed abruptly dropped out during their freshman year. People were asking who Fiona Davis was. And some… some were asking: “Does this girl actually have the power to make people tell the truth?” I turned off the phone and pulled the duvet over my head. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want a single soul to look at my face. My roommate, Becca, poked her head down from the top bunk. “Hazel? There’s someone in the hallway asking for you.” “Tell them I’m dead.” “It’s a guy,” Becca said softly. “He says he’s Wilbert’s old roommate.” I froze. When I climbed down from my bed, my legs were shaking. Standing at the end of the dimly lit hallway was a thin boy wearing a faded gray hoodie, his hood pulled low to cast his face in shadow. “Hazel Ward?” “Yeah.” “I’m Ian Mercer.” His voice was barely a whisper. “The roommate Wilbert mentioned last night. The one who got expelled.” He slid his phone toward me. On the screen was a screenshot of an old official academic dismissal letter from two years ago. “Plagiarism detection rate: 82%. Academic dishonesty. Immediate dismissal.” “That paper was mine from the first word to the last,” Ian said, his knuckles turning white as he reclaimed his phone. “I had no proof because he stole all my physical drafts and wiped my hard drive. Is… is what you did real?” I didn’t answer. He slowly nodded. “Whether it is or isn’t, thank you.” He turned to leave. “Ian,” I called out. He paused. “Where did you go after you were expelled?” He didn’t turn back. “Worked construction for six months. Eventually got into a community college. I graduate next year, but finding a decent job with that record is going to be hard.” By the time he reached the exit of the dorm building, a crowd had already gathered outside. There were students with phone cameras, campus student media reporters holding mics, and several students wearing the official red armbands of the Student Government. A girl with a high ponytail blocked my path. “Hazel Ward? I’m with the Student Government Disciplinary Committee. Your behavior at yesterday’s interview seriously disrupted campus order. You need to come with us for questioning.” I looked up at her. She flinched and took a hurried step back. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.” “I’m not blushing,” I said quietly. I wasn’t. I was just incredibly, deeply tired. She darted past me and ran. At two in the afternoon, my academic advisor called, instructing me to report to the administration building immediately. In the office, alongside my advisor, sat a middle-aged man wearing an expensive gray suit. My advisor introduced him as Dr. Parker, the Dean of Student Affairs. Dr. Parker offered me a warm, superficial smile and poured a paper cup of water. “Hazel, what happened yesterday has gotten completely out of hand. The videos online have hundreds of thousands of views.” He leaned forward, adjusting his tie. “The university feels it would be best for everyone if you issued a statement. Just a simple explanation stating that yesterday’s incident was a planned, improvisational theater piece for the recruitment drive. It’s the best way forward—for you, for Wilbert, and for Chase.” I held the paper cup, the water trembling inside it. “What about Ian Mercer?” “Who?” “The student Wilbert plagiarized and got expelled.” The warmth faded from Dr. Parker’s eyes. “That matter is being handled internally by the administration. You don’t need to concern yourself with it.” “He’s been gone for two years. What exactly have you handled?” “Hazel,” his tone sharpened, the polite facade dropping away. “You’re a freshman. There are realities of how an institution works that you don’t yet understand. You don’t have to sign the statement. But your financial aid package, your housing placement, your credit transfers—all of these administrative processes require the approval of my office.” He stood up, smoothing his suit jacket. “I’ll give you three days to think about it.” “Did Chase’s father send you?” I asked. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second. He didn’t answer. He just opened the door and walked out. I didn’t get three days. That very night, my student portal showed my financial aid status had been changed to “Under Review.” My campus card’s laundry and dining funds were frozen. When Becca came back from the communal showers, she mentioned that the dorm supervisor had been asking strange questions about my daily schedule. On the third afternoon, my advisor called again. “Hazel, this isn’t Student Affairs anymore. The Registrar’s Office needs you to report to the campus clinic. They claim there was an irregularity in your freshman physical exam that requires an immediate psychological evaluation.” “A psychological evaluation?” “An assessment of your mental stability,” my advisor said, sounding genuinely uncomfortable. I sat in the corner of the dining hall, my fork suspended in mid-air. They were going to declare me mentally unfit. If they could stamp me with a diagnosis of “delusional” or “psychotic,” everything I had made Wilbert and Chase say would be dismissed as the manic ravings of a sick girl. Chase had said his father replaced the forum administrators. A Vice Chancellor had the power to delete a thread with a single click. And to ruin a freshman’s life, he barely had to lift a finger. I stood up, clearing my tray, when a boy stepped into my path. He was of average height, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, with the clip of a digital voice recorder peeking out of his jacket pocket. “Hazel Ward?” he said. “Hi. I’m Dylan Davis, with the campus newspaper.” “I don’t do interviews.” “I’m not here to interview you,” he said, keeping pace with me as I walked. “I came to tell you something. Fiona Davis—the girl Chase mentioned on stage?” I stopped. “She’s my sister.” Dylan pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a hospital wristband. “Before she transferred two years ago, she swallowed sixty sleeping pills. It took five hours of stomach pumping to save her life. She’s back home now. She doesn’t leave the house, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t see anyone. But she’s alive.” His jaw clenched. “Chase’s father used every resource the university had to bury the story. My sister couldn’t even go to the police because the digital evidence was completely wiped. I enrolled here specifically to find a way to expose Chase. But I had nothing. No proof.” He pointed to my phone. “Until now.” “A room of three hundred witnesses saw Chase confess. Even if they try to scrub the internet, I have the raw recordings backed up. But I need you to do one thing with me.” I looked at him, searching his eyes. “Come with me to see Dr. Thomas Parker, the Deputy Director of Academic Affairs. Chase’s academic records, Fiona’s forced withdrawal files, the approval logs for the forum formatting—it all goes through his office. He’s the Vice Chancellor’s loyal dog. All you need to do is look at him.” “I’m not a weapon for you to point at people.” “I know,” Dylan said softly. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he took a step closer. “Look into my eyes, Hazel.” I raised my gaze. He didn’t look away. There was no fear in him, only a quiet, steady resolve. My face didn’t burn. My heart remained calm. For the first time in nineteen years, I was looking into someone’s eyes and didn’t feel the sudden urge to run and hide. “Tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock,” I said. “Administration Building, Room 407. I’ll be there.”

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I was scrolling through Poshmark, looking for some gently used furniture to fill my apartment, when I stumbled upon a peculiar storefront. The bio read: “Selling off my friends-with-benefits’ cheap junk. One good deed a day.” I stared at the shop’s handle. I recognized the username instantly. It belonged to Camille, my best friend. And the items listed in the digital display were everything I had gifted Garrett over our seven years of long-distance. There was the wool scarf I had spent three sleepless nights knitting for him back in college. Price tag: $5. The designer sneakers I had saved up for months to buy him for his birthday six months ago. Price tag: $20. I sat frozen, staring at the screen for three agonizing minutes. Then, the page refreshed, and a new listing popped up. It was a pair of custom silk pajamas. I had designed them and sent them to Garrett just last week. At the time, I had asked him if he liked them. He told me he couldn’t wait to wear them to bed. Now, they were sitting in Camille’s digital closet, priced at $15. What Garrett didn’t know was that tucked inside the collar of those pajamas was a small, hand-written note. “I’ve been offered a five-year surgical fellowship in London. I won’t be able to come back. Do you think I should go?” The suffocating anxiety of the past six months, the endless sleepless nights of agonizing over this choice, vanished in an instant. I closed the app, opened my phone, and called the chief of medicine at my hospital. “Yes, Dr. Reynolds. Don’t worry about waiting for his opinion.” “I’ll make this decision on my own.” Garrett. You thought my love was cheap. From now on, I’m keeping it for myself. … After hanging up, I searched Camille’s username across various social media platforms. I found her Instagram. It was filled with suggestive, intimate bedroom photos. “I guess I’m the perfect FWB,” one caption read. “No strings attached, on-call 24/7.” In the photos, the man’s face was blurred, but I recognized the custom silver band on his finger. The matching ring was still on my own left hand. Whenever I traveled to Chicago to visit Garrett and tried to get close to him, he would always slip out of my embrace, claiming he was too exhausted from his court cases. I used to feel so much pity for him. I’d pull my clothes back on, hide my disappointment, and run to the kitchen to make him a late-night snack. I had confided in Camille about this. She had slammed her hand on the table, seemingly furious on my behalf. “Are you stupid, Freda? Long-distance is basically raising a wild animal. He could be cheating right under your nose and you’d have no idea.” Since she lived in Chicago—the same city as Garrett—she had offered to send me updates every few weeks. “Just keeping an eye on your man for you, babe,” she’d say. And I had been so, so grateful. I curled my fingers, but I didn’t even have the strength to clench my fist. Garrett was a successful defense attorney in Chicago, and I was an OB-GYN in a busy Boston hospital. We had met in college. I was the one who pursued him, spending hours knitting that scarf by hand. He had wrapped it around his neck and smiled. “It’s so warm, Freda.” We had drifted apart after graduation, only to cross paths years later during a medical malpractice lawsuit. A pregnant patient’s baby had been stillborn before delivery, and the family sued me, claiming my choice of anesthetic had caused the death. Garrett took my case. He sat with me on the curb of the sidewalk, speaking softly, keeping me grounded through the longest night of my life. The day the case was dismissed, we officially became a couple. Ping! A message from Garrett popped up on my screen: [Coming to Boston tomorrow for a deposition! Finally get to see my wife!] My nails dug deep into my palm. Seven years. He had come to visit me less than five times. Last year, when an aggressive relative of a patient stalked me to my car, I called his emergency line in a panic. The call went straight to voicemail. It wasn’t until I scrolled through Camille’s feed today that I realized he had been playing an all-night video game session with her that very night. My phone buzzed again: [Want to FaceTime tonight? I miss your face.] A familiar, sweet prompt. Now, it made my stomach turn. I typed and erased several replies before finally sending: [I’m working a double tonight. Three back-to-back surgeries.] [Okay, see you tomorrow then.] On our very first day of long-distance, he had given me his passwords. He knew my schedule was so grueling that I barely had time to sleep, let alone spy on him. I opened my laptop and logged into his chat app. At the very top, pinned, was Camille. A new message popped up on his screen: [Freda is working tonight. Bring over those pajamas you bought yesterday.] Staring at those words, it felt as though a hole had been burned straight through my chest. With trembling hands, I shut the laptop. I didn’t go to work. Instead, I booked the earliest flight to Chicago. When I pushed the bedroom door open, the warm, intimate air in the room instantly turned to ice. The two bodies on the bed scrambled apart, their faces pale with identical terror. Garrett’s first instinct was to push Camille away. “Freda… you said you had surgeries tonight. Why are you…” On the floor lay the shredded remnants of a sheer nightgown and a discarded wrapper. I forgot how to breathe. I walked over and cracked the window open, letting the cool wind flush out the suffocating scent of sex. Garrett seemed to snap out of his stupor. He hurriedly threw on a shirt and trousers and dragged me out of the bedroom into the hallway. “Freda, she’s just an FWB. It’s not what you think. It doesn’t mean anything.” “An FWB.” He threw the term out so casually, as if it could magically sanitize what he had done. Inside my chest, something felt like it had been hollowed out by a spade. “How could you do this to me? Are you really that desperate? And Camille… is she really that cheap?” Garrett’s face darkened instantly. “Watch your mouth, Freda. That’s uncalled for.” I couldn’t stop the hysterical laugh that ripped from my throat. “What you did is what’s uncalled for!” Garrett fell silent. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag. “Look, what we did was wrong, I get it. But isn’t this just the reality of long-distance?” “You’re always busy, Dr. Davis. Every time I call, you’re running to an emergency C-section or doing rounds. We barely speak. Honestly, what’s the difference between having you and not having you? When I need someone, you’re never there.” What a beautifully twisted justification. He was the one who once promised we could overcome the distance. It’s just a matter of not seeing each other every day, he had said. We can handle it. But his way of handling it was keeping a convenient body in his bed. “Don’t you both feel disgusted?” My voice was barely a whisper, completely raw. Garrett froze for a fraction of a second, then let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Disgusted? Why? I was her first.” The air left my lungs entirely. “What?” “The night of your father’s funeral. Camille and I had a few drinks. I was the one who took her virginity.” My mind flashed back to that terrible day. Camille had claimed she had an unavoidable shift at work, and Garrett said he was caught up in a grueling civil litigation case. “You called her sobbing about your dad, and she cried with you while you comforted her. She wasn’t crying for your dad, Freda. She was in pain because it was her first time.” “Honestly, maybe it’s better this way. No more hiding. You’re busy with your career anyway, and you never really cared enough to look closely.” My blood ran cold. Looking at him, I felt a sudden, visceral wave of revulsion. This man was a stranger. I took a deep breath. “Fine.” I slid the silver promise ring off my finger and let it drop onto the coffee table. It made a sharp, hollow clink. “I’m out. We’re over—” Before I could finish, the sound of violent retching echoed from the hallway bathroom. Camille. Garrett didn’t hesitate. He bolted inside, rubbing her back, gently wiping the vomit from her mouth without a hint of disgust. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “Are you okay?” He glanced back at me, standing frozen in the doorway, his expression hardening into impatience. “Can we do this later? Just… give us some space.” I felt like an intruder in a stranger’s home. Even my own breakup had to wait until Camille finished throwing up. Ten minutes later, Garrett helped Camille out of the bathroom. Across her pale neck and collarbone was a scattering of fresh bruises. “Freda, I don’t want to lie to you anymore,” Camille said, leaning heavily against him. “I’m pregnant.” She placed a plastic stick with two distinct pink lines onto the coffee table. She reached out, grabbing my forearm with a look of mock distress. “We were going to talk about what to do today. Since you’re here, let’s just lay it all out on the table.” I stared at her, unable to move, unable to breathe. I saw the flicker of quiet triumph in Garrett’s eyes. A tear slipped down Camille’s face, tracing a path down her neck toward a tattoo on her collarbone: Garrett. Then I noticed, peeking through Garrett’s partially unbuttoned shirt, an identical tattoo in the exact same spot: Camille. All those times we had been intimate, when he closed his eyes and gripped his chest in what I thought was passion… he had been touching her name. The nausea hit me like a physical blow. I shoved them both away, ran out the door, and didn’t look back. At 5:00 AM, the harsh fluorescent lights of the operating room made my eyes ache. “Almost done here, Dr. Davis,” my surgical resident said, stitching up the patient with a smile. “So, when are we going to hear wedding bells?” “That hotshot lawyer fiancé of yours has proposed how many times now? We’re all waiting for the invitation.” I managed to force a stiff, lifeless smile. Nobody in this room knew that just hours ago, I had watched my fiancé tangled in the sheets with my best friend. To prepare for a wedding that would never happen, I had saved up years of paid time off. I had worked consecutive thirty-six-hour shifts, surviving on IV glucose drips just to keep going. Garrett used to call me late at night to scold me gently. Don’t kill yourself, babe. If you won’t take care of yourself, I have to do it for you. And I would blush, promising to slow down. I never once suspected that while he was sweet-talking me, another woman was lying just out of frame. My shift ended at 10:00 AM. That’s when Garrett showed up at the hospital lobby. He was holding a customized taro boba tea. “Drink some sugar to wake up,” he said, offering a tight smile. “I’ll drive you home.” I stared at the cup. It was Camille’s exact order. Years ago, when I visited him and asked if we could grab boba, he’d always wave it off. I’m too busy with this brief, he’d say. By the third time, he’d snapped: Why do girls always want these complicated drinks? No guy is going to stand in line to customize sugar levels. Yet here it was in my hand: room temperature, thirty percent sweetness, extra egg pudding. “Is Camille in the car?” I asked, my voice dry. “Yeah. I didn’t want to leave her alone in Chicago.” A dull, throbbing ache bloomed in my chest. We had lived states apart for seven long years, and he considered it a minor inconvenience. A year goes by in a flash, Freda. We’ll find a way to merge our lives eventually. But leaving Camille alone for a weekend was apparently too much to bear. When we got to the parking lot, Camille was already sitting in the passenger seat. “Freda, you know how bad my motion sickness is, and the morning sickness has been brutal,” she said, giving me an apologetic look. “Garrett insisted I sit up front. You don’t mind, right?” “I don’t mind.” I opened the back door and slid into the rear seat. Garrett immediately blasted the AC. Through the rearview mirror, he caught my eye. “Camille’s running hot lately. You don’t mind if it’s a bit cold, do you?” “No.” “See?” Garrett smiled. “I told you Freda is the most understanding person in the world.” I looked out the window. It wasn’t understanding. It was the slow, numbing death of caring. As we drove past a shopping center, Camille asked to stop for a restroom break. Garrett got out to accompany her. The car’s Bluetooth remained connected. A call from Garrett’s mother flashed on the dashboard screen. I watched the screen before it automatically picked up. “Garrett, tomorrow is your dad’s sixty-first birthday. Make sure you bring Camille along.” “Now that she’s pregnant, your father and I are over the moon.” “Tell her to be careful this time. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Freda. If you two hadn’t left that massage oil spilled on the hardwood, she wouldn’t have slipped and miscarried.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. When I had lost my baby years ago, I thought it was my fault. I thought I had worked too hard, gotten too dizzy, and tripped. I had starved myself with guilt, falling into a deep depression that took months to claw my way out of. Garrett returned to the car, settling into the driver’s seat. “My dad’s birthday dinner is tomorrow. We’re going. Camille’s coming too.” I gave a hollow nod. “Okay.” I knew everything now. Just then, my phone buzzed with an email confirmation. My flight to London was booked. Departure: 2:00 AM tomorrow. The next morning, I packed my single suitcase into the trunk of Garrett’s car. When we arrived at the Mitchell family home, I carried the expensive gifts I’d bought to the front door, only to find it locked. They had already gone inside. By the time I knocked and entered, Garrett’s expression was pinched with annoyance. “What took you so long? We’re already sitting down.” I set the gifts down and realized there was no place set for me at the dining table. His mother tapped her temple. “Oh, look at my head. I completely forgot to set an extra chair.” “It’s fine, Mom,” Garrett said, barely looking at me. “Freda can just stand and grab a quick bite. She has a small appetite anyway; she’s full after three bites.” Camille chimed in with a laugh. “Right? Unlike you. Remember when you went through that phase of wanting rack of ribs every single night? I made so many plates and you ate every single bite, you pig!” “Hey, who are you calling a pig?” Garrett laughed, nudging her. They bickered playfully. In seven years, Garrett had never told me what his favorite foods were. Every phone call ended with him saying he was too tired to talk. I had tried so hard to bridge the distance, to learn who he was, but he had never let me in. Amid the laughter, Garrett noticed my silence and awkwardly placed some food onto a small paper plate for me. “Here, eat up.” Garlic butter shrimp. Celery salad. After seven years, he had forgotten I was allergic to shellfish, and that the smell of celery made me physically ill. Throughout the meal, the older couple kept cooing over Camille’s pregnancy. Occasionally, they would remember I was standing there, and a brief, awkward silence would fall. Finally, Garrett’s mother looked at me, her eyes filled with calculation. “Freda, you wouldn’t be upset if Camille keeps the baby, right? After all, you’ll be the godmother.” Garrett’s eyes were fixed on Camille, a soft, protective smile on his face. He didn’t even hear his mother’s question. Standing there, every second felt like a slow execution. I checked my watch. It was time to head to the airport. “Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, thank you for having me,” I said quietly. “But there’s an emergency at the hospital. I have to go.” Garrett walked me down to the driveway. As he turned to head back inside, I called out his name. “Garrett, could you drive me to the airport? I have something to tell you.” “Not today,” he replied instantly, without looking back. “I have to take Camille for her prenatal scan. We booked it weeks ago, and as a doctor, you know how important those appointments are.” “It’s only a thirty-minute drive to Logan Airport,” I pressed. “Freda, please,” Garrett said, his tone sharp with irritation. “Since when did you become so needy? Just call an Uber. Text me when you land.” By the time I looked up, his back was already turning away from me. A text from him popped up on my phone: [About whether we keep the baby, I’ll respect your thoughts. But you wouldn’t want your best friend to go through the pain of an abortion, would you? I know how kind you are.] I stared at the screen for a long moment, then slipped the phone into my pocket without replying. I walked down to the garage, pulled my suitcase out of his trunk, and left a small, handwritten note on his dashboard. [I’m leaving for my fellowship in London. I won’t be back for five years. We are over. You can explain the details to your parents. I wish you, Camille, and your baby a happy life.] I called an Uber and headed to the airport. After a twelve-hour flight, the wheels touched down in London. The moment I turned off airplane mode, a torrent of missed calls and messages flooded my screen.

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It took me threatening to call off the wedding for my fiancée, Charlotte, a captain at Transcontinental Airlines, to finally agree to let me fly on one of her transatlantic routes. “Be at the flagship lounge by five-thirty tomorrow morning,” she’d told me, her voice clipped and professional. “If you’re late, don’t expect me to wait.” Terrified of missing it, I arrived outside her apartment building at three in the morning, holding a warm container of breakfast I’d spent hours preparing for her. Instead, I watched Elliot walk out of the lobby, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Charlotte,” Elliot murmured, leaning into her. “What if Wesley actually shows up at the airport?” Charlotte let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “Don’t worry. I hid his passport folder. He won’t even make it past security.” My hand drifted to my bag, slipping into the empty compartment. My fingertips went entirely cold. Charlotte reached up to adjust Elliot’s scarf, tucking it in gently. “I promised I’d spend these last seven days flying with you before the wedding. I won’t cut it short by even a day.” At five-thirty, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass of the terminal, watching her Boeing 777 taxi toward the runway. She never once looked back at the terminal. I tore my boarding pass into shreds, let them flutter into the trash can, and turned away. The plane that wouldn’t wait for me—I was no longer trying to catch it. 1. The paper bag in my hand was still warm when I walked out of the terminal. I had simmered the oatmeal at two in the morning, and packed the fresh fruit tarts Charlotte loved so much. Three years ago, when she first took me to see the planes, we stood just outside the airfield fence. She’d taken a bite of a pastry I made, looked at me, and laughed. “From now on, Wesley, every major flight I command, you’re coming with me.” Back then, her pilot uniform was flawlessly pressed, her captain’s stripes gleaming under the morning sun. After her promotion, she flew her parents. She flew her colleagues. She flew Elliot. She flew everyone but me. My phone buzzed in my palm. A text from Charlotte popped onto the screen. Did you seriously try to show up without your passport just to throw a tantrum? Are you done yet? Another followed immediately: Go home and wait for me. We’re fitting our suit and dress in seven days. Stop trying to scare me with this ‘calling off the wedding’ nonsense. The words glared back at me, sharp as needles. Then, an unknown number flashed on the screen. I picked up. Elliot’s voice came through, raspy with sleep. “Wesley? Charlotte just went wheels up. Before she switched her phone to flight mode, she asked me to tell you not to make a scene.” The wind rushed past me in the airport parking lot, cold and empty. Elliot let out a soft, mocking laugh. “She’s mine for the next seven days. If you actually want to marry her, you’d better learn to behave.” The wind caught the paper bag in my hand. A splash of hot oatmeal spilled over the rim, scalding the back of my hand. The physical sting was instant; the dull ache in my chest took a second longer to register. On the flight status board, the status of Charlotte’s flight changed to Departed. She had been flying on my birthday last year, too. At midnight, she’d sent me a photo of the sea of clouds from her cockpit window. Happy birthday, Wesley. I’ll make it up to you when I land. But that exact same photo appeared on Elliot’s Instagram feed an hour later. His caption: Someone is keeping me company above the clouds for New Year’s. When I asked her about it, Charlotte only frowned, her brow furrowing with irritation. “It was his first long-haul flight and he was anxious. I was just taking care of a passenger. Can you please stop being so insecure?” Behind me, the automatic doors slid open, and the rattle of rolling suitcases echoed on the concrete. Someone bumped into my shoulder. The paper bag slipped from my fingers, hitting the pavement. The carefully packed pastries scattered across the ground. A janitor stepped forward to sweep them up, but I crouched down first, pulling the torn paper tight, gathering the ruins myself. My phone lit up again. It was Charlotte’s father, Richard Croft. Wesley, what did you do to upset Charlotte now? She’s commanding a transatlantic flight today. Do you have any idea how much stress she’s under? Start acting like a proper fiancé. A voice memo followed right after. Elliot is a good boy. He knows how to look after Charlotte. Stop having such a dirty mind about them. I stared at the voice message for a long, quiet moment. Over the PA system, another boarding call echoed. In that sudden, clear instant, I realized I had absolutely no desire to explain myself. A yellow cab pulled up to the curb. The driver rolled down the window. “Where to, buddy?” I gave him the address of my family’s old house. No one had lived there in years. After my parents passed away, I had moved into the luxury townhouse Charlotte bought for us, wanting to make her life easier. The deed was in her name. Our engagement photos hung prominently in the living room. I had always believed that if I was just patient enough, supportive enough, she would eventually turn around and truly see me. Outside the cab window, a plane cut a sharp white line across the pale blue sky. I unlocked my phone, went to my favorites, and unpinned the contact I’d kept at the top for seven years. Charlotte’s name dropped down, vanishing into the crowd of ordinary contacts. As the cab sped down the airport expressway, I leaned out at a stoplight and tossed the cold, ruined breakfast into a roadside bin. 2. The spare key to the old house was still tucked behind the electric meter box by the porch. As I pushed the door open, a thick layer of dust stirred into the air. In the middle of the living room, a dusty white sheet draped over the upright piano—the one my father used to play every evening before he died. The first time Charlotte came here, she wore a simple white button-down, standing by the piano as she listened to me play a Chopin nocturne. When the last note faded, she’d looked at me with pure wonder. “Wesley, you are so incredible. If I don’t marry you, I must be blind.” That promise became the anchor everyone used to drag me back whenever I tried to drift away. Charlotte does love you. She’s just busy. She’s just stubborn. She just feels guilty about Elliot. But no one ever explained to me why her guilt entitled Elliot to walk out of her apartment building with his arm wrapped around her waist. I pulled back the heavy drapes, letting the morning sun illuminate the relics of my past. On the coffee table lay a document I had drafted weeks ago. An agreement to dissolve our engagement. I had printed it out last month. The night I first brought up ending things, Charlotte had just returned from Elliot’s place. Her coat clung to the faint, sweet scent of lily of the valley—his signature cologne. “Wesley, stop treating our marriage like a joke,” she had said, throwing her keys on the counter. I had looked at her. “Are you in love with him?” Charlotte loosened her pilot’s tie, her expression tight with annoyance. “We’ve known each other for over a decade. His mother literally saved mine. Taking care of him is the least I can do.” “And what about me?” She had looked at me then as if I were a petulant child. “You’re already my fiancé, Wesley. What is there left to fight over?” In that moment, I told her: “If you don’t take me on your next flight, we are done.” She had stayed quiet for a long time before finally agreeing. But now I realized it wasn’t a compromise. It was just a different way to humiliate me. My phone vibrated relentlessly. It was Garrett. The second I picked up, his voice boomed with anger. “Wesley! Did Charlotte seriously ditch you at the gate again? I just saw Elliot’s Instagram post!” He texted me the screenshot. A bright blue sky, soft clouds, and the cockpit door. Elliot was standing there in a cream-colored cashmere sweater, holding a mug of coffee, smiling softly. His caption read: She told me that on a seven-day flight, she’d show me seven different sunrises. In the corner of the frame, Charlotte’s hand was visible resting on the doorframe. On her ring finger was the diamond engagement ring I had spent months choosing. Garrett’s voice shook with rage. “Is she out of her mind? Flying her childhood sweetheart across the Atlantic for a week while hiding her own fiancé’s passport?” I stared at the photo. No tears came. I slid my finger along my ring finger, pulling off the band Charlotte had given me. Engraved on the inside were two initials: W & C. At the time, I’d joked that it was a bit cheesy. But she had kissed me, murmuring, “Cheesy is good. That way, everyone knows you belong to me.” Now, looking at it, it was just pathetic. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find the Croft family chauffeur standing on the porch, holding a garment bag from the high-end bridal boutique downtown. “Mr. Croft asked me to drop this off, Wesley.” He handed it over, adding quietly, “He said to remind you that the fitting is in seven days. Please don’t wander off. Captain Croft doesn’t like having to look for people when she gets back.” The zipper of the garment bag was slightly open. A faint trace of lily of the valley drifted out. Seeing my hesitation, the driver looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Croft also mentioned… Elliot is about your size, so he tried it on first to make sure the shoulders were right. He hoped you wouldn’t mind.” Outside, a car horn honked, the sudden noise shaking the dust motes in the quiet room. I took the bag. As the driver turned to leave, I spoke in a flat, even voice. “Please tell Mr. Croft there’s no need for a fitting.” The driver froze. I dropped my engagement ring into the front pocket of the garment bag and zipped it shut. “Return this to his daughter as well.” The driver opened his mouth to say something, but I closed the door, sealing him out. I was completely alone in the house now. The wind caught a corner of the white sheet on the piano, exposing a few yellowed keys. My phone screen lit up with another notification. Elliot had posted again. Day one. Safe takeoff. I tapped the screen and saved the photo. 3. Charlotte landed sixteen hours later. By then, I was at the old house, sorting through my documents. Since I couldn’t find my passport folder, I went to the government office to report it lost. “Did you lose your driver’s license too?” the clerk asked. I shook my head. My license had been tucked behind my phone case. Charlotte knew that habit of mine, but she had apparently forgotten that tiny detail when she cleaned out my drawer. She had taken my passport, my global entry card, my airline loyalty card, and the companion lounge pass she’d custom-made for me. I’d always kept that pass pristine, wanting to use it for the first time on one of her flights. Where those cards were now didn’t matter anymore. Just as I finished the paperwork, my phone rang. Her name flashed across the screen. I stared at it for three seconds before sliding to answer. Her voice held the scratchy fatigue of a transatlantic flight, but it carried her usual, unshakable authority. “What is the meaning of the ring?” In the background, airport announcements drifted through the line. Then came Elliot’s voice, soft and pleading. “Charlotte, can you grab my jacket for me?” “Sure,” Charlotte replied off-mic. Then, she spoke back into the phone. “Wesley, stop being dramatic. Take the ring back. We’re doing the fitting.” I folded the receipt for my new passport and slipped it into my coat pocket. “I’m not doing the fitting.” The line went dead silent for a beat. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Are you threatening to call off the wedding again?” “Yes.” Charlotte let out a dry laugh. It was quiet, as if she’d heard something utterly ridiculous. “Where are you going to go, Wesley? Your family is gone. My mother was the one who cleared your parents’ debts after the business collapsed.” A cold weight pressed against my chest. After my parents died, their company went under, and the Crofts indeed helped settle some of the creditors. But in return, they took the two most valuable commercial properties my family owned. Every time we argued, her father threw that in my face. And now, Charlotte had learned to do the exact same thing. “When I get back,” she added, “don’t make me come searching for you at your old place.” “You won’t have to.” On her end, Elliot chimed in, his voice clear enough to hear. “Charlotte, is Wesley mad? Maybe I should just fly back early. I don’t need to stay for the next six days.” Charlotte’s tone instantly softened. “It’s not your fault, Elliot.” When she spoke back to me, the warmth vanished. “Did you hear that? Even he is more mature than you.” The glass of the office window reflected my face—pale, entirely blank. “Charlotte, I don’t need him to hand me his scraps.” Silence. Then, her sigh came through, heavy and deeply annoyed. “Then what do you want?” Once upon a time, I wanted so much. I wanted her to remember our anniversaries. I wanted her to sit down for dinner with me. I wanted her to stop taking Elliot’s midnight calls right in front of me. Slowly, those desires had shrunk until all I wanted was to fly on her plane just once. Now, I didn’t even want that. I gripped the paper receipt tightly, the sharp edge slicing into my thumb. “I want to call off the wedding.” Her breathing turned heavy, ragged. “Say that again.” “Number forty-two,” the clerk called out. I grabbed my bag and stood up. “Charlotte, the separation agreement will be delivered to your office.” A cold, sharp chuckle vibrated through the phone. “Wesley, you’d better not regret this.” The line went dead. After finishing up, I walked out to find Garrett waiting by his car. He noticed the tiny cut on my thumb, his forehead creasing with concern. “Does it hurt?” I shook my head. He threw his car keys into my hand. “I’ve already contacted a lawyer. We can catalog everything in that townhouse. The medical bills you paid for her dad, the lease on her sister’s car, the business favors you did for the Crofts over the years—we’re going to tally every single cent.” I unzipped my bag. Resting inside was an old digital camera—one my mother had left behind. Inside was a memory card filled with documents, emails, and photos from all the events I’d managed for the Crofts: the engagement dinner, the PR crisis I managed for her sister, the business dinners I hosted. I had once kept these as proof of my dedication to her family. Now, they were a ledger of debts. Garrett parked the car outside Charlotte’s townhouse. The lights upstairs were on. On my phone, Elliot’s feed refreshed. Stop number two. Charlotte says the night view here is perfect for forgetting all your worries. I stared at the caption, stepped out of the car, and pressed the elevator button. When the doors opened to the penthouse, Richard Croft was standing in the foyer, holding the diamond engagement ring in his hand. 4. Richard’s face darkened the moment he saw me. “Wesley. You actually decided to show your face?” Charlotte’s sister, Sasha, was lounging on the sofa in the living room. The garment bag sat open on the coffee table, and my wedding suit—clinging to the scent of Elliot’s cologne—lay discarded on the cushions. Sasha looked up, a mocking smirk playing on her lips. “Come on, Wesley, stop being so sensitive. You know what kind of catch my sister is. Elliot was her childhood sweetheart. If he actually wanted to marry her, you wouldn’t even be in the picture.” Richard slammed the ring onto the glass table. “Put it back on. The invitations are already out. You calling things off now is just a cheap attempt to humiliate Charlotte.” The glare from the crystal chandelier made my eyes ache. It was in this very room that we had planned our engagement party. Charlotte had sat right next to me, holding my hand, telling her family: “Wesley is quiet. From now on, I’ll handle the family drama so he doesn’t have to.” But eventually, all of the Croft family drama fell squarely on my shoulders. While she was flying, I was the one taking Richard to his medical checkups. While she was networking, I was the one paying off lawyers to resolve Sasha’s DUI. When she forgot family dinners, I was the one smoothing things over. Somewhere along the line, the person taking the hits had become me. “Elliot is fragile,” Richard continued, pacing the floor. “What’s wrong with him flying with Charlotte for a few days? You’re the official fiancé. Don’t be so petty.” Sasha chimed in, “Yeah, Wesley. If you walk away now, our family loses big. Who else would have cleared your family’s pathetic debts back then?” I pulled a manila folder from my bag and placed it on the coffee table. “This is the legal agreement to dissolve our engagement.” Richard froze. The smirk vanished from Sasha’s face. “The wedding is off,” I said quietly. “The deposits will be refunded. This place belongs to Charlotte. I’m only taking my personal belongings today.” Richard lunged forward, slamming his hand down. “You wouldn’t dare!” Right then, his phone rang. Richard glanced at the screen and swiped answer, his voice instantly shifting to a frantic pitch. “Charlotte! You need to deal with Wesley. He’s here with some legal papers, throwing a tantrum!” He pressed the speaker button. Charlotte’s voice filled the room, cold and utterly exhausted. “Wesley, do you really have to cause a scene while I’m on duty?” I looked at the suit on the sofa. “Your flights have nothing to do with me anymore.” The line went quiet for a second, then her voice hardened. “Take those papers back. I will deal with you when I get home.” “I’ve already signed them.” The sound of a chair scraping back echoed through the phone. Then, Elliot’s panicked voice floated over. “Charlotte, sit down. You just landed, you need to rest.” Richard glared at me triumphantly. “Hear that? Elliot actually cares about her health. All you do is pressure her!” Charlotte exhaled slowly, trying to keep her temper. “Wesley, don’t make me lose respect for you.” I bent down and pulled a few old photo albums from the cabinet beside the TV. On the cover of the first album was a photo of us at an airshow. She had placed her captain’s hat on my head, both of us laughing. On the back, she had written in her neat cursive: My Wesley. You’re going to be on every single flight I command. Sasha snatched the album out of my hand, flipping through a couple of pages. “You actually want to keep this junk?” Before I could react, she tossed the album straight into the recycling bin next to the desk. The binder split, and loose photos scattered across the floor. Richard didn’t stop her. On the other end of the line, Charlotte remained silent. In the quiet room, Elliot’s soft voice drifted from the speaker. “Wesley is probably just upset, Charlotte. Don’t be too hard on him.” Charlotte finally spoke, her voice flat. “Let him pick them up.” Three words. A verdict. I crouched down. Our smiling faces were now smudged with dust and a splash of spilled coffee. Just as my fingers brushed the bottom photo, a loud knock sounded at the front door. The chauffeur was standing there, out of breath. “Mr. Croft, Captain Croft asked me to bring this back.” He handed over a black leather folder. “She said Wesley is always losing his things, so she kept it safe for him. But since he’s making a fuss, I should return it.” Richard took the folder and tossed it carelessly at my feet. “Take your things. Don’t go around telling people we held your passport hostage.” The folder hit the hardwood floor, and my passport slid out. There was a noticeable crease on the leather cover. I picked it up, my thumb running over the dent. She had known all along. She knew I wasn’t just late, that I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. She knew exactly why I was stuck outside security, unable to board. She knew why her plane had left without me. Through the speaker, Charlotte’s voice was perfectly calm. “Wesley, once you’re done cleaning up, go to the room and calm down. The wedding is still on in seven days.” I picked up the last photograph from the floor. Slowly, I looked at the phone glowing on the coffee table. The separation agreement in my hand was only missing her signature.

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Chris thought I was nothing more than an expensive, mindless trophy—a pretty porcelain vase to be displayed, completely incapable of understanding his grand, world-altering ambitions. So, swollen with his own sudden self-importance, he threw me away. He practically vibrated with excitement when he bragged to his tight-knit circle of friends: “Brothers, I finally cut her loose! I can do so much better. I know you guys are happy for me, right?” He never expected his circle of friends to block him in the very next second. “We’ve been putting up with your pretentious bullshit for three years, and you actually thought you were the prize?” “The queen is finally single. Look at me, Beth!” “Who the hell do you think you are? Beth belongs with me.” Chris was left utterly dumbfounded. 1 When Chris slid the five-hundred-thousand-dollar check across the table, I was looking down, carefully slicing into my Beef Wellington. “Take it, Beth. Consider it compensation for the three years you wasted on me.” Chris leaned back against the plush velvet booth, smoothing the lapels of his six-figure Savile Row bespoke suit. His voice carried an arrogant, condescending weight, as if he were granting me a royal pardon. He had spent extra time on his hair today, slicking it back into a sharp, calculated style, and the Richard Mille watch on his wrist caught the dim restaurant lighting with an aggressive flash. It was the birthday present I had bought him last year. Sitting right next to me, my best friend, Chelsea, nearly choked on her Romanée-Conti. Her eyes widened, staring at Chris as if he had just sprouted a second head. Actually, Chelsea had spent the entire drive over complaining about him. She said Chris’s ego had ballooned lately like a cheap, over-inflated balloon. His tech startup had just secured a ten-million-dollar Series A funding round, and he’d been bragging to anyone who would listen that he was the next Silicon Valley messiah. Of course, he had no idea that the venture capital firm behind that massive funding round was entirely owned by Davenport Holdings. Davenport, as in Beth Davenport. As in me. I set my fork down, picked up my linen napkin, and elegantly dabbed the corner of my mouth. I looked at him, completely unbothered. “Oh? Is that so, Mr. Spencer? You’ve made it to the big leagues now, and you’re looking to upgrade to a more suitable partner?” Chris let out a heavy, patronizing sigh. “Beth, don’t use bitter words to mask your vulnerability. We were together for three years, and I’ll always be grateful that you stuck by me during the hardest days of my startup. But you have to admit—you’re just a pampered heiress who lives off her family. Your life is too easy. All you do is shop, go to spas, and have afternoon tea. You simply cannot comprehend my grand vision.” He paused, his gaze sharpening with an aggressive, dismissive edge. “I’m destined for greatness now, and you can’t walk this path with me. Sure, the people in our circle call you ‘Miss Davenport’ to your face, but the ones who actually leave a mark on this world are creators of value, like me. Being able to stand by me during my low points is already the greatest privilege of your life. Take the half-million and buy yourself a few bags. Don’t look for me again. It’s better for both of us.” Chelsea’s temper flared, and she slammed her hand on the table, preparing to tear him apart. I reached out and gently pressed her wrist down, keeping her in place. Looking at Chris’s face, slightly twisted by his own blinding self-conceit, I didn’t even feel the urge to get angry. In fact, I wanted to laugh. When I first chose him, it was purely because I was exhausted by the relentless swarm of aggressive playboys in our high-society circle. Chris had come from a small town, worked part-time at the university library, and looked clean, quiet, and completely harmless. I had used him as a convenient shield, throwing some resources his way as a tacit fee for his services. I had never intentionally hidden my background; I was simply too lazy to display my true power in front of him. After all, who takes the time to explain the entire corporate blueprint of Davenport Holdings to a temporary placeholder? I just hadn’t expected the placeholder to develop a god complex and actually believe he was the main character. 2 “Half a million dollars.” I picked up the check with two fingers, holding it up under Chris’s smug, expectant gaze. Then, I let it slip from my fingers. The slip of paper fluttered through the air and landed perfectly inside my glass of lemon water, immediately soaking through and turning into a soggy, useless clump. “Beth! Don’t be ungrateful!” Chris snapped, sitting up straight, his face turning a furious shade of red. “Check, please,” I said, ignoring him entirely and snapping my fingers. The server approached immediately, bowing respectfully. “Miss Davenport, you still have a two-million-dollar credit on your house account. Today’s total is three thousand eight hundred dollars. It has been deducted. Here is your receipt.” I stood up, slinging my Himalayan Birkin over my arm, and looked down at Chris with a cool, detached gaze. “I might not understand your grand vision, Chris, but I certainly know how to dispose of trash. Keep that half-million for your own funeral expenses. Trust me, your days ahead are going to be very, very difficult.” With that, I took Chelsea’s arm and walked out without looking back. The moment we stepped through the glass doors, I pulled out my phone. Finding Chris’s name, I deleted and blocked him on every single platform with a few swift taps. Our three-year arrangement, designed solely to keep unwanted suitors at bay, was officially over. Three days later, a luxury superyacht named The Poseidon hosted an incredibly loud, extravagant party in international waters. It was Chris’s self-proclaimed “freedom and funding” celebration. On paper, it was his night. But in reality, the yacht belonged to Ryder Cross, the reckless, wealthy racing driver who had spent the last few years constantly hovering around me. Chelsea and I were sitting on the third-tier VIP deck, sipping vintage champagne and feeling the cool ocean breeze as we watched the circus unfold on the lower deck. “I honestly can’t believe him,” Chelsea scoffed, rolling her eyes. “How did he have the nerve to invite Adrian Locke and Ryder Cross?” I offered a soft laugh. “Because he truly believes they are his ‘brothers’ who hang out with him solely because of his personal charm.” Down on the main deck, Chris was holding a glass of scotch, his face flushed with alcohol as he bragged loudly to a crowd of young, wealthy heirs. Among the crowd, Adrian Locke—a brilliant, sharp-tongued senior partner at a top-tier law firm—was idly flicking his lighter, looking thoroughly bored. Beside him, Ryder Cross leaned against the railing, a mocking, dangerous smile playing on his lips. And at the very center of the gathering sat a man who commanded the room without saying a word. He wore a simple black button-down shirt with the collar slightly open, highlighting his sharp jawline and deep-set eyes. His dark, unfathomable gaze looked out over the black ocean water. That was Nicholas Kingsley, the ruthless, undisputed head of Kingsley Holdings—the most powerful financial empire in the city. For the last three years, Chris had bragged about how he had successfully integrated into Manhattan’s most elite social circle, even flattering himself with the belief that Nicholas Kingsley considered him a friend. He was too dim to realize that the only reason these men tolerated his loud, shallow presence was entirely because of me. “Honestly, brothers, it’s a relief we broke up,” Chris’s voice drifted up, carried by the ocean wind, thick with alcohol and unearned confidence. “You all know Beth. She’s beautiful, sure, but she’s a hollow ornament. Boring. Being with her is like carrying around a delicate piece of porcelain. My career is skyrocketing right now. I need a woman who can challenge me intellectually and actually help my business expand.” He opened his mouth to continue his grand speech, but was cut off by a sudden, sharp crack. 3 Nicholas Kingsley, who had been lazily swirling his red wine, let go of his Baccarat glass without warning. The glass shattered against the deck right at Chris’s feet, splashing deep red wine all over the cuffs of his trousers. The entire deck fell dead silent. The music was cut instantly, and everyone held their breath, turning to look at the formidable man who suddenly looked like a predator ready to strike. Nicholas stood up slowly, looking down at Chris with a gaze that could freeze water. “Who the hell do you think you are to speak about her that way?” Chris’s intoxication vanished instantly, his face draining of all color. He forced a trembling smile. “Nicholas… what do you mean? It’s me, Chris. Aren’t we…” “Aren’t we what?” Adrian Locke chimed in, shutting his lighter with a metallic click. He let out a dry, mocking laugh, looking at Chris as if he were a complete idiot. “Chris, do you actually believe you secured that ten-million-dollar funding on your own merit? Do you honestly think you’d even know which way our club doors opened if it weren’t for Beth Davenport?” Ryder Cross was even less polite. He stepped forward and kicked the entire champagne tower beside him, sending glass and golden liquid crashing to the deck in a deafening explosion. “Where do you think your venture capital came from? How do you think you closed those massive commercial deals over drinks? Beth did all of it behind the scenes to help you! You lived off her charity for three years, and now you have the nerve to drag her name through the mud? I should rip your tongue out myself.” Chris looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He staggered back a couple of steps, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. “What… what are you talking about? Beth is just a spoiled, lazy—” “Shut up, you fool,” Adrian said, adjusting his cuffs and tilting his chin up. “Since you’ve officially broken up with her, I don’t have to pretend to respect the ‘friend’s girl’ rule anymore. Starting today, I’m officially pursuing her. Chris, you better stay far away from her, or I won’t hesitate to use my firm’s resources to put you behind bars for a very long time.” “Get in line!” Ryder shoved Adrian aside. “I already have a helicopter with a banner ready to go!” Chris was completely paralyzed. The brotherhood he had bragged about had turned into a pack of wolves, ready to tear him to pieces. He had always believed he was the master strategist of his own life, only to realize he was merely a clown in everyone else’s eyes. Before he could even process the massive shock, Nicholas didn’t even deign to give him another glance. He turned, walking straight past the ruined deck, and climbed the stairs toward the VIP balcony where I was sitting. As he approached, the air around him seemed to grow heavy with his overwhelming presence. When he finally stopped in front of me, those cold, calculating eyes of his softened, swirling with an intense, quiet devotion that made my heart skip a beat. Under the watchful eyes of everyone below, he bent down with perfect grace and pulled a rare, breathtaking pink diamond necklace from his pocket. “Miss Davenport, now that the nuisance has been cleared, would you mind if I cut the line?” I stared at him in genuine surprise. Suddenly, a flood of memories from the last three years flashed through my mind. Every single time Chris’s incompetence had landed him in trouble, Nicholas had conveniently appeared to resolve the issue. Whenever I attended a social gathering, my favorite obscure, custom-tailored cocktails were always placed in front of me. Even a rare, first-edition French book I had casually mentioned once had arrived on my desk the very next day, delivered under the guise of “a gift from a family friend.” None of it had been a coincidence. Nicholas Kingsley—the ruthless, brilliant tycoon who ruled the city’s financial landscape—had been quietly waiting in my shadows this entire time. Now that the cards were on the table, Chris wasn’t just ruined; even I was left slightly off-balance by the sheer scale of his devotion. I looked at Nicholas, making no move to take the necklace just yet. I raised an eyebrow slightly. “Mr. Kingsley, cutting the line usually requires a toll.” Nicholas smiled, a devastatingly handsome, dangerous expression. “My entire life. Is that enough?”

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We were on vacation in Key West, and every single photo on his camera roll was of his childhood best friend. From the candid snaps to the carefully edited portraits, every angle of Lacey made her look like a painting. My only appearance in his lens was a single, horrific shot of me squinting into the salt-spray wind, my eyes half-closed and hair plastered across my face. There wasn’t a single photo of the two of us together. When I asked him to take another one of me, he waved his hand dismissively. “I see your face every single day, Maeve. What’s the point? It’s fine, let it go.” I deleted the ugly photo immediately, turned around, and walked ahead of him down the boardwalk. “What is your problem?” he called out, jogging to catch up. His voice dripped with irritation. “It’s not a big deal. We’re supposed to be having a good time, and you’re determined to ruin the mood.” I stared at the brand-new, seven-thousand-dollar Sony mirrorless camera hanging around his neck—the one he had bought specifically to photograph Lacey—and felt sick to my stomach. Ten minutes ago, I had been parched and wanted to buy a five-dollar bottle of water from a beachside cart. Corey had scoffed, complaining about the resort markups, and told me to just wait until we got back to the room. While we stood in that tense silence, Lacey posted a flawless nine-photo grid on her Instagram. “Thanks to my favorite photographer!” I tapped the screen and gave it a like. It hit me then, with a quiet, devastating clarity. If there was no room for me in his lens, there would never be room for me in his life. I deserved to be loved by someone who actually saw me. … Lacey’s phone chimed. She gasped softly, looking up at me with wide, glittering eyes. Her voice was light, but she kept it just loud enough for Corey to hear. “Oh my gosh, Maeve! You liked my post!” The air between us went rigid. Corey’s face darkened instantly. He whipped his head toward me, looking at me as if I’d committed a crime. “What are you trying to pull?” his voice flared with sudden heat. “Are you still throwing a tantrum? It’s just a few pictures. Why do you have to be so petty?” Lacey quickly placed a hand on his forearm, offering a soft, sympathetic smile. “Don’t be mad, Corey. Maeve probably just thought my photos looked nice. Maybe she’s just a little envious.” That was gasoline on the fire. Corey scoffed, shaking off her hand, his eyes cutting into me like knives. “That’s because Lacey actually knows how to pose, so she’s easy to photograph. I can only work with what I’m given.” He paused, letting his next words drip like poison. “If you don’t like how you look, take it up with your genetics. Why are you taking out your insecurities on Lacey?” My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe. A sharp, burning ache rushed up my throat. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms to keep the tears from spilling over. When Corey and I first started dating, my body dysmorphia was at an all-time high. I felt plain, constantly terrified that I wasn’t enough for someone as vibrant and magnetic as him. He was the one who had held me through those sobbing, late-night breakdowns. He was the one who had whispered promises of my beauty into my hair, pulling me out of that dark, suffocating swamp of insecurity. And now, he was the one using it against me. Just because I liked Lacey’s Instagram post, he had thrown me right back into the abyss. He knew exactly where my deepest, rawest wounds were, and he had targeted them with surgical precision. I refused to humiliate myself by screaming at him in public. It would only make me look like the hysterical partner they wanted me to be. I saw a local vendor selling fresh, cold coconuts nearby and changed the subject. “I want a coconut.” Corey’s brow furrowed deeper, his tone sharp with condescension. “Did you see the price? Everything in this tourist trap is a ripoff. There were plenty of stands outside the resort area. Why didn’t you buy one then instead of insisting on being scammed now?” Before he could finish his lecture, Lacey gently tugged his sleeve, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Corey, I’d love a coconut too.” The irritation vanished from Corey’s face in a heartbeat. He turned to the vendor without a single second of hesitation. “Sure, let me get you one.” He swiped his card, took the coconut, carefully slid the straw in, and held it to her lips, smiling warmly as she took a sip. Only then did he seem to remember I was standing there. With a sigh of annoyance, he bought another one and shoved it into my hands. It felt like charity thrown to a beggar. I took the cold coconut and said nothing. Corey, misinterpreting my silence as stubbornness, started in on me again. “Can you stop acting like this? We finally get a vacation, and you’re determined to ruin it for everyone. Just be happy.” According to him, I was always the villain, the dark cloud over their perfect day. Then Lacey shook his arm playfully, her eyes wide with excitement. “Corey, can we get seafood for dinner tonight? I’ve been craving a massive king crab feast!” Corey beamed down at her. “Of course. Whatever you want. Let’s go find the best spot in town.” He agreed so quickly, so effortlessly. He didn’t look at me once. He didn’t ask what I wanted. It was as if I were invisible. I watched them chatter happily about the menu, Lacey’s high-pitched laughter grating on my nerves. Arguing was useless. Trying to make him see was useless. I quietly unlocked my phone. My finger slid across the screen. I didn’t hesitate. “Search. Select. Purchase.” “Key West to New York – JetBlue Flight 2346. Departing at 9:30 PM.” “Payment Successful.” I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket. It was clean, quiet, and fast. Beside me, Corey was still debating whether they should order the Maine lobster or the Alaskan king crab. The sun was blinding, the ocean breeze thick with salt. I held the cold coconut he’d bought out of obligation, feeling nothing but a profound, freezing numbness. If there was no space for me in his pictures, I didn’t need to force my way into the rest of his life. … As soon as we sat down at the restaurant, Corey slid the menu toward Lacey. “Order whatever you want. Don’t worry about the price.” His voice was so tender, a stark contrast to the man who had grumbled about a five-dollar water bottle earlier. Lacey didn’t hesitate. Her manicured finger traced down the menu, stopping at the most expensive items. “The chilled lobster tower, the giant king crab legs, the uni, the oysters… Corey, is all of this okay?” “Of course. If you want it, get it.” Corey was all smiles, not even glancing at the prices. When she closed the menu, the waiter looked at Corey. Without a single glance in my direction, Corey handed it back. “We’ll take those.” It was only after the waiter walked away that Lacey gasped softly, placing a hand over her mouth in mock realization. “Oh no! Maeve, I totally forgot to ask what you wanted. You eat seafood, right? Should we order something else for you?” Before I could open my mouth, Corey made the choice for me. He leaned back in his chair, his tone dismissive. “Don’t worry about her. She’s not picky.” Those words felt like a needle driving deep into my skull. Our very first date had been at a seafood spot. I had never really had shellfish before and was excited to try it. But within minutes of eating a few shrimp, my throat had tightened, hives erupted across my neck, and the room began to spin. Corey had gone completely pale. Without a second thought, he had thrown me over his back, sprinted out of the restaurant, hailed a cab, and rushed me to the ER. I remember lying on that hospital cot, watching him pace back and forth, sweat dripping from his forehead, looking so wracked with guilt he was on the verge of tears. I had tried to make him feel better, joking, “Well, it’s definitely a memorable first date.” But his eyes had welled up, and he had squeezed my hand so tightly. “I’m so sorry. This is on me. I promise… I will never let anything happen to you again.” He had been so sincere. So terrified of losing me. I had believed that promise was etched into his soul. How bitter it was to realize that the memories that once warmed me were now nothing but sharp, mocking ironies. The plates arrived—the vibrant red of the lobsters, the rich yellow of the uni, glowing under the restaurant’s warm lights. Lacey cracked open a massive crab leg and placed the meat directly onto my plate. “Here, Maeve! You have to try this, it’s incredibly fresh!” My stomach churned. I opened my mouth to decline, but the phone in my pocket buzzed. I looked up. Corey was staring at me from across the table. He didn’t speak, but his lips moved in a silent, urgent command: “Look at your phone.” A cold dread settled in my chest. I unlocked the screen. It was a text from him: “Don’t bring up your allergy. Lacey has been looking forward to this trip for months, don’t ruin her night.” “Just take a tiny bite to keep the peace. A little bit won’t hurt you.” I stared at the words until the screen timed out and went black. I didn’t reply. I placed the phone face down on the wooden table and stood up. “It’s a little stuffy in here. I’m going to get some air.” My voice was steady, completely devoid of emotion. Corey’s lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but Lacey’s voice cut in. “Corey, how do I crack this claw? It’s too hard.” Corey turned back to her instantly, any lingering hesitation evaporating. “Let me help. Be careful not to hurt your hands.” They looked perfect together. A portrait of devotion. I walked out of the restaurant, leaving the suffocating warmth behind. The ocean breeze outside was cool and carried the scent of salt. I leaned against the railing, waiting for the storm in my chest to pass. I pulled out my phone and opened the airline app. The ticket was secured. My flight left tonight. Ever since Lacey came back into his life, I had tolerated his excuses. I had swallowed my pride when he ignored me, when he prioritized her. I kept telling myself he was just being a protective, older-brother figure. But he wasn’t confused. He just didn’t love me anymore. What was left to save when a man was willing to risk your life just to keep another woman smiling? I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. But at least the illusion was shattered. I heard familiar footsteps behind me, fast and heavy. “Why did you just walk out? You aren’t answering my texts. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Corey stood beside me, his voice carrying a forced, placating softness. I didn’t look at him. He crouched down beside me, holding up a warm, brown paper bag. The savory scent of roast chicken drifted out. “You haven’t eaten anything. I got you a chicken bowl from that place down the street. Eat it while it’s hot.” Months ago, I would have cried tears of gratitude. I would have thought, “He remembers. He cares.” Now, it just made me want to throw up. Thirty minutes ago, he was asking me to risk anaphylactic shock so his friend wouldn’t have her dinner ruined. Now, he was playing the doting boyfriend. I didn’t reach for the bag. I kept my eyes fixed on the dark horizon. Corey’s patience snapped. He shoved the container into my lap. “Come on, Maeve. How long are you going to keep milking this?” When I didn’t answer, he let out a heavy sigh, trying to shift gears. “Look, we need to switch rooms tonight. I need you to stay with Lacey in the double room, and I’ll take the single next door.” I turned to look at him, a cold, bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Why?” Corey frowned, as if the answer were obvious. “Lacey’s never traveled this far alone before. She’s terrified of sleeping in hotel rooms by herself. It makes perfect sense for you two girls to share.” “Terrified?” My laugh was sharp and empty. “If she’s so fragile, she shouldn’t have come. Corey, let me remind you: this was supposed to be “our” romantic getaway.” “She’s the one who barged in on our vacation. I didn’t invite her.” My voice wasn’t loud, but every syllable was heavy with three years of accumulated exhaustion. Corey’s expression shifted, but he quickly forced that familiar, peacemaking smile back onto his face. “Okay, okay. Just this once, Maeve. I promise, never again. Don’t be mad, okay?” “Just this once.” I had heard that phrase a thousand times. Canceling our anniversary dinner because Lacey had a flat tire? “Just this once.” Leaving me at home with a fever to fly out to her college graduation? “Just this once.” Every compromise, every humiliation I had suffered in this relationship, had been wrapped in those three words. I was done. I looked at the man I had loved for three years, and my voice was entirely steady when I spoke. “I want to break up, Corey. We’re done.” Corey’s smile froze. He stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. Then, he scoffed, brushing it off as another dramatic outburst. “Stop it. That’s not funny. I know you’re mad, but let’s just eat. You’ll feel better.” He scooped up a forkful of chicken and held it to my lips, his movements practiced and familiar. But all I could see was him carefully cracking open crab legs for Lacey. I pulled my head back, avoiding his hand. “I’m not joking. I am completely calm.” I looked him in the eye. “Corey, I’m serious. It’s over.” The color drained from his face. The fork remained suspended in mid-air. “Are you out of your mind?” his voice suddenly boomed, drawing looks from passersby. “I told you, she’s like a sister to me! She’s never seen the ocean before, and I wanted her to have a good trip. Is that a crime?” “It’s not just this trip,” I interrupted, my voice flat. “Ever since she came back, how many times have you pushed me aside for her?” Corey opened his mouth, but no words came out. Finally, he fell back on his usual defense: “She’s just my sister…” “Save it.” I stood up, brushed the sand off my jeans, and turned toward the resort. Exposed and frustrated, Corey lost his temper. He shouted after me, his voice cracking with rage. “Go ahead! Walk away! But if you walk out that door tonight, don’t you dare regret it!” I didn’t look back. Regret? No. The only thing I regretted was not doing this sooner. Back in our hotel room, I dragged my suitcase from the closet and laid it open on the floor. The sight of his shirts, his swim trunks, and his sunscreen packed alongside mine made me sick. I tore his things out, throwing them onto the bed. His watch, his cologne, his ties—I stripped my life of his presence. I felt no sorrow, only a profound, weightless sense of relief. I packed my clothes, zipped my suitcase, and stood up. As I reached for the handle, Corey’s phone—which he had left in the pile of clothes on the bed—began to buzz. I didn’t look at it. I wheeled my suitcase out and closed the door behind me. At the airport, the fluorescent lights were bright, and the PA system announced the final boarding call for the flight to New York. Meanwhile, back at the resort, Corey’s mood had completely soured. Lacey was still chirping in his ear, asking what was wrong, but he snapped at her to leave him alone and ran back to the hotel. He had been calling me the entire way, but each call went straight to voicemail. He burst into the room, ready to demand if I was “done throwing my fit,” only to be met with absolute silence. The room was empty, and his clothes were scattered across the unmade bed.

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I stepped off the plane, ending three years of grueling expansion in Europe, carrying a signed ten-billion-dollar contract in my hands. My four partners, who had promised me a grand homecoming celebration, hadn’t even bothered to send a low-level assistant to meet me. Suddenly, a sleek, glowing virtual screen floated in the air before me: [Talk about a tragic founder. While she was half-starving in London, building their empire from scratch, her four male co-founders were back home in New York, playing prince charming to a brainless intern.] [The moment she lands, they’re going to kick her off the board to clear the way for their sweet little darling.] [That’s what she gets for being too strong. Men only want soft, weeping damsels in distress these days.] I stared at the panel, a dry, cold laugh escaping my lips. Perfect. It saves me the trouble of dividing my shares. I turned on my heel toward the airport’s VIP lane, tilting my chin toward the man waiting for me. “Let’s go, Mr. Miles.” The virtual screen flashed a violent red: [WARNING! PLOT DEVIATION! Who is the woman clinging to?!] [Are we insane?! That’s Nicholas Miles, the ultimate predator of the financial world. Those four boys wouldn’t survive a single day in his arena!] 1 I slipped my hand through Nicholas’s arm, feeling the solid warmth of his muscles and the faint, grounding scent of silver fir that always clung to his expensive tailoring. Nicholas Miles was a titan of Wall Street. I had met him in London while securing the funding for our ten-billion-dollar venture. In the city’s elite circles, he was known as a ruthless, cold-blooded executioner. Getting an appointment with him was harder than pulling teeth. Yet here he was, quietly letting me lean into him, even gently carrying my battered, overstuffed leather briefcase in his free hand. “Lola, are you really just going to use me and run?” Nicholas leaned down slightly, his dark eyes catching mine, carrying a look that was almost pouty, though his low voice remained dangerously smooth. “Who said I’m running? I’m bringing you home to show you the sights,” I teased, giving his hand a reassuring pat. During those three years abroad, I had practically stripped off a layer of skin to secure that massive multinational project. Nicholas had appeared right when I was at my breaking point. He didn’t just provide the financial backing; he had attached himself to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake. I had always assumed he was just a wealthy, persistent playboy. It wasn’t until this strange screen started glitching into my vision that I realized he was the most powerful shadow player in the entire city. [What the hell?! Why is this financial predator acting like a needy golden retriever around her?!] [This is the man who can bankrupt those four idiots with a flick of his wrist! How does she dare treat him so casually?] [I don’t believe it! Nicholas Miles must be playing with her. Once the novelty wears off, she’s going to crash harder than anyone!] I ignored the hysterical text scrolling across my vision. Playing with me? I wondered who it was that had insisted on holding me all through last night, mumbling in my ear about making things official the moment we touched down. “Where are those four useless partners of yours?” Nicholas asked, his eyes sweeping over the empty arrivals gate, his tone dripping with jealousy. “Didn’t you say they were throwing you some grand homecoming dinner?” “They’re probably dead to me,” I replied, my voice flat. Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Jared, one of my co-founders. “Lola, Daisy accidentally cut her finger today, and we’re all at the hospital with her. We have to postpone the dinner. Just grab an Uber back to the office.” Daisy. The clumsy, fragile intern the screen kept talking about. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, turned my phone off, and tossed it into my bag. “Let’s go, Mr. Miles. I’ll show you what a disaster looks like.” Nicholas’s eyes lit up. He turned his hand, locking his fingers tightly with mine. “I’ll clean up any mess you want,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “But you can’t back out on your promise. You said the moment we landed, I’d get to be your official boyfriend.” Looking at his handsome face—which practically had “make me yours” written all over it—I couldn’t help but smile. “We’ll see how you behave.” 2 I took Nicholas straight to the office. The moment I pushed open the double doors of the main conference room, a wave of warm laughter drifted out. “Daisy, does it still hurt? Let me blow on it.” “Jared, don’t do that. Lola will be furious if she finds out.” “Why even mention her? That workaholic wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t have a gentle bone in her body, unlike you.” I stood in the doorway, watching the cozy, domestic scene of the five of them. It was deeply pathetic. Jared, Victor, Garrett, and Kyle. These four men had been my closest friends in college. We were the founding team. When we first pooled our pennies together to start this company, so poor we lived on white bread, I was the one who went out to charm investors, pitch clients, and build our reputation brick by brick. Later, for the long-term survival of the company, I volunteered to spearhead our overseas expansion, leaving everything behind for three grueling years. I thought we were all bleeding for the same dream. But while I was working myself to the bone in cold London offices, they were back home, orbiting an intern who probably didn’t even know how to clear a paper jam. The virtual panel flickered back to life: [She’s here! She’s here! Queue the drama!] [Poor Daisy, her finger is bleeding, and you know this cold-hearted woman is just going to scream at her.] [Protect Daisy! Throw this heartless monster out of the company!] I looked coldly at Daisy, who sat in the center of the room. She was undeniably pretty in a fragile, doe-eyed way, holding up a finger wrapped in a cartoon band-aid like it was a purple heart. The moment they noticed me, the laughter in the room died instantly. Jared was the first to recover, his brows knitting together as he stood up. “Lola? When did you get back? Didn’t I tell you to just take a cab?” “If I didn’t come back, how would I get to enjoy this touching family reunion?” I shot back, my voice laced with ice. Victor pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone instantly defensive. “Lola, drop the attitude. Daisy was trying to prep for your welcome dinner when she cut herself. We’re just looking out for her. Is compassion foreign to you?” “Seriously, you walk in the door and immediately start throwing your weight around like you own the place,” Garrett muttered, crossing his arms. Kyle stepped in front of Daisy, shielding her from me as if I were a wild animal. “Lola, please don’t be mad at them. It’s all my fault…” Daisy’s eyes welled with tears on cue. “Save the waterworks. I don’t have the patience for theater today.” I pulled out a leather chair, sat down, and tossed my briefcase onto the glass table. “Since everyone is here, let’s have a meeting.” Jared sat back down, his face hardening. “Good. We actually have something to discuss with you, too.” He glanced at Daisy, then cleared his throat. “Lola, you’ve worked hard overseas these past few years. But the landscape has shifted. Our core business is domestic now, and frankly, your rigid management style doesn’t fit our rhythm anymore.” “So, the four of us have discussed it. We’ve decided to relieve you of your management duties. We’ll buy out your shares at fair market value.” On the virtual screen, the text went wild: [Yes! Finally kicking the old maid out!] [Daisy is the heart of this company anyway. Good riddance!] [She’s going to cry and beg them now, isn’t she? She literally built this place from nothing.] I looked at Jared’s self-righteous face, a wave of dark amusement washing over me. “Buy me out? With what money?” Victor let out a cold sneer. “We’ve already initiated talks with the Miles Group. Once we land the major municipal contract next month, they’ll inject capital. Buying you out will be pocket change.” Hearing the name of his own conglomerate, Nicholas, who had been standing silently behind me like an elegant shadow, let out a soft, dark laugh. The sound finally drew the eyes of the four men to him. “Who are you? This is a private board meeting. Get the hell out,” Garrett barked, pointing a finger at him. Nicholas slowly took off his sunglasses, revealing a face so strikingly handsome yet utterly chilling that it seemed to drop the room’s temperature by ten degrees. He stepped closer, resting a hand casually on the back of my chair, looking down at them like they were bugs under a microscope. “An outsider?” Nicholas murmured. “The Miles Group you’re begging for money happens to be my personal playground.” “And let me introduce myself. I’m Nicholas Miles. I also happen to be Lola’s… soon-to-be fiancé.” 3 The silence in the room became absolute. Jared and the others looked like they had been struck by lightning. Daisy’s eyes widened so far her tears dried up instantly. The virtual screen practically exploded: [Holy crap! Nicholas Miles just self-revealed!] [What did he just say?! Fiancé?! Oh my god, Lola is playing on a completely different level!] [No way! There’s no way a man like Nicholas Miles would fall for a ruthless workaholic like her!] Jared was the first to find his voice. His face turned a sickly green as he glared at me. “Lola, where did you hire this actor? You’d really go this far just to hold onto your position?” Victor joined in with a mocking laugh. “The head of the Miles Group? Falling for you? Lola, this is pathetic, even for you.” “Lola, I know it hurts to leave, but you shouldn’t lie to everyone like this…” Daisy whispered, though her eyes kept drifting toward Nicholas’s towering, perfectly tailored frame. He was stunning. Impeccable suit, broad shoulders, and an undeniable aura of absolute authority. Nicholas seemed genuinely amused by their stupidity. He leaned forward, placing both hands on the conference table, his gaze sweeping over them with utter disdain. “An actor? Your little startup isn’t worth the cost of the restrooms in one of my minor subsidiaries. You think I’d waste my time acting for you?” He snapped his fingers. Two assistants in charcoal suits stepped into the room immediately. “Mr. Miles, the documents you requested,” one of them said, handing over a thick leather folder. Nicholas tossed the folder directly into Jared’s face. “Open your eyes and look. That’s the risk assessment report Miles Group compiled on your company. A disorganized, chaotic circus like this wanting my capital? You’re dreaming.” Jared fumbled with the folder, opening it. His face drained of what little color it had left. There, stamped in gold leaf, was the official seal of the Miles Group. “This… this is impossible…” Garrett and Kyle leaned over to look, letting out sharp, horrified gasps. “Believe me now?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, enjoying the view of their crumbling world. “You wanted to buy out my shares? Don’t worry about it. I’m leaving.” I opened my briefcase, pulled out a pre-drafted exit agreement, and threw it onto the table. “Sign it. As of today, Lola Knight has absolutely nothing to do with this company, or with the four of you.” Jared snapped his head up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Lola, are you insane? You built this company. You’re just walking away?” “Why would I keep a dying shell of a company?” I said coldly. “You think I didn’t know what you were doing back here while I was away? To pamper an intern who doesn’t even know how to run a basic pivot table, you’ve embezzled company funds, alienated our oldest clients, and turned this office into an absolute joke.” I stood up, walking slowly over to Daisy, looking down at her. “Your name is Daisy, right? I heard you can’t even format a spreadsheet, but you sure know how to cry to your ‘big brothers’ for attention.” Daisy shrunk back, tears spilling over again. “Lola, please don’t talk to me like that, I’m trying to learn…” “Shut up! Lola, if you have a problem, take it out on us! Leave Daisy out of this!” Kyle yelled, jumping up to play the hero. “Take it out on her? She isn’t worth my breath.” I chuckled, turning back to Nicholas. “Oh, and one more thing. During my three years in Europe, I didn’t just expand our reach. I secured a ten-billion-dollar partnership with the largest European conglomerate.” I tapped another document in my bag. “I was planning to bring this project back to build our future. But looking at you now… you don’t deserve it.” I slipped my hand into Nicholas’s arm, not looking back as we walked out. “Let’s go, Nicholas. Let’s get some dinner to celebrate my freedom.” A rare, tender smile broke across Nicholas’s cold face as he wrapped his arm securely around my waist. “Anything you want, sweetheart.” 4 We had barely stepped out of the glass lobby when Jared’s furious, desperate roar echoed from behind us. “Lola! If you walk out that door today, don’t you dare come crawling back begging me to take you back!” I didn’t even turn around. It was nothing but background noise. Sliding into the plush leather seat of Nicholas’s Rolls-Royce, I let out a long, slow breath. The suffocating weight I had carried for three years finally evaporated. The virtual panel was still flashing erratically: [Holy shit, she’s incredible! That was the most satisfying shutdown ever!] [But she really gave up her company! Three years of her life!] [Are you kidding? She has a ten-billion-dollar contract and Nicholas Miles. She can start an empire on her own!] [Am I the only one who thinks those four guys are brain-dead? They traded a ten-billion-dollar deal for an intern who doesn’t even know how to use a copier.] I smiled at the text floating in the air. Nicholas leaned over, pulling the seatbelt across me, taking the opportunity to steal a soft kiss from my cheek. “Happy? No regrets about leaving that circus?” I rolled my eyes playfully. “Why would I regret cutting my losses? If you spend too much time around idiots, stupidity becomes contagious.” Nicholas let out a low rumble of laughter, his chest vibrating against my shoulder. “Lola, I swear I love you most when you’re this ruthless.” He caught my chin, his gaze darkening with intensity. “But tell me… did you mean what you said back there? About me being your fiancé?” “What? Does the title offend you?” I teased. “Offend me? I’ve been begging for it,” Nicholas sighed, burying his face into the crook of my neck like a giant, affectionate dog. “Lola, you have no idea how hard those three years in London were for me. You did nothing but work. You barely even looked at me. Now that we’re back, isn’t it time to make me official?” Tickled by his hair against my neck, I pushed him away with a laugh. “Mr. Miles, decorum. You have a reputation as a terrifying tyrant. Don’t act like a neglected puppy.” “I don’t care about my reputation when I’m with you,” he said, completely shameless. Over the next week, I worked with absolute efficiency, setting up my new firm and relocating the core team I had built during my time in Europe. Managing the launch of a ten-billion-dollar project was exhausting, and I was on my feet constantly. Nicholas, however, suddenly seemed to have an abundance of free time. He showed up at my temporary office every single day, bringing gourmet lunches and home-cooked soups, looking for all the world like a devoted house-husband. Meanwhile, things at my old company were deteriorating rapidly. The virtual screen kept me updated on their slow-motion train wreck: [This is pure gold. Victor went to beg an old client to renew their contract today, and they threw him out. The client literally said, ‘No Lola, no deal.’] [Garrett’s big project just went up in flames because Daisy put a typo in the bid—she missed a zero, undercutting their own costs!] [Those four idiots are still stubborn, convinced Lola is just playing hard to get and will come begging for her job back once she fails.] I chuckled as I read the updates. Hard to get? They really thought highly of themselves. The afternoon before my new company’s grand launch party, my phone rang. It was Jared. His voice was still dripping with that same unearned superiority. “Lola, have you had your little tantrum yet? If you’ve cooled down, get back here.” “Daisy is miserable over a pricing mistake she made. She’s been crying for days. Come back, clean up her mess, and we’ll agree to let bygones be bygones.” I was genuinely stunned by his sheer audacity. “Jared, is your head filled with water, or is it just Daisy’s tears?” “Your company’s survival has nothing to do with me. You want me to come back and play nanny to Daisy? You must be dreaming.” “Lola! Don’t push your luck!” Jared snapped, his anger boiling over. “You think you can scare us with a fake contract and some hired actor pretending to be a billionaire? Let me tell you something: your little launch party is tomorrow, and I’ve made sure nobody is going to show up.” “We’ve blacklisted you. Anyone who does business with you is an enemy of ours.” I sneered and hung up the phone. Blacklisted? By four men on the brink of bankruptcy? Tomorrow, I’d show them what actual power looked like. 5 On the night of the launch, the venue was packed with the city’s most influential figures. The ballroom was a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, the air filled with the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. I wore a stunning, backless crimson gown, my arm looped through Nicholas’s as we stood in the center of the hall, greeting guests. “Lola, congratulations! We’re looking forward to collaborating on the European project.” “Lola is truly a force to be reckoned with. Three years away, and you return to shake up the entire city.” Industry leaders lined up to offer their congratulations, their attitudes remarkably deferential. And why wouldn’t they be? They weren’t just here for my ten-billion-dollar contract; they were here because of the man standing beside me. With the head of the Miles Group personally backing me, who would dare stay away? Just as the party reached its peak, the heavy double doors of the ballroom were pushed open with unnecessary force. Jared, Victor, Garrett, and Kyle walked in, flanked by Daisy, who wore a fluffy white princess gown. The chatter in the room died down instantly. Every eye turned to the five uninvited guests. The virtual panel flickered rapidly: [Here we go! Drama round two is live!] [How did these clowns even get past security?] [Do they still think they’re the kings of the city? The people in this room could buy and sell them ten times over.] Jared scanned the room. When he saw the high-profile executives crowding around me, a flash of pure envy and confusion crossed his face. But he quickly masked it, stepping toward me with a sneer. “Quite a crowd you’ve put together, Lola. Must have cost a fortune to hire all these extras.” Victor adjusted his glasses, his tone mocking. “You really went all out for your pride, didn’t you? As if these actual CEOs would waste their time on a dummy corporation’s opening.” The surrounding guests looked at them with utter bewilderment. One older gentleman leaned in, whispering to me, “Lola, who are these people?” “Just some former colleagues,” I said softly, loud enough for the room to hear. “They’re a bit confused. Apologies for the distraction.” Daisy stepped forward, her eyes red and tearful. “Lola, please don’t do this. Jared and the guys are only trying to help you. It’s too hard to run a company on your own… and besides,” she bit her lip, looking up at Nicholas with a look of pure, righteous pity, “we looked into it. The real Nicholas Miles is in Europe right now. This man beside you is a fraud. He’s just a con artist exploiting you!”

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My husband is the manager for the country’s biggest pop girl group, but I can never get him to return my calls. Every time he went on tour, he told me the artists were on a strict lockdown and that handing over his phone to the label was standard procedure. I believed him. For four whole years. Until his ex, Cassie, posted those intimate behind-the-scenes photos. Thirty-three times they were caught in the same frame in a single month. The shortest interaction was twenty minutes of them practically glued to each other. The photos were so sharp I could see the wedding band on his ring finger—the one he claimed he had to take off because it “interfered with work.” I pulled up our chat history. The longest gap between messages took him nineteen days to reply. Two words: “Busy now.” Later, another two words: “Up to you.” After that, nothing but a single period. And eventually, not even the period. He came home reeking of her perfume, frowning as he asked, “Why haven’t you been checking up on me lately?” I just smiled. He didn’t even know that in three days, our divorce hearing would finally bring the curtain down. 1. The porch light had been broken for two weeks. When Jacob walked in, the scent of his perfume preceded him—the warm, spicy rosewood notes that Cassie always wore. “Why haven’t you been checking up on me lately?” He looked down at me, brow furrowed, like a detective grilling an incompetent suspect. During our first year of marriage, if he was even ten minutes late, he’d send me his live location. Once, during a torrential downpour, the signal in the parking garage cut out. He ran all the way to a convenience store in the freezing rain just to FaceTime me so I wouldn’t worry. I used to tease him for being dramatic. Now, sitting at the dining table, looking at the faint smudge of pink lipstick on his collar, that rainy night felt like a lifetime ago. “I’m tired,” I said, sliding the bowl of oat meal toward him. He didn’t touch it. He was already staring down at his phone. When the screen lit up, Cassie’s profile picture popped up. “Cassie: My ankle is still throbbing. Can you pick me up early tomorrow morning?” Jacob didn’t bother hiding the screen from me. His thumbs flew across the keyboard. “Jacob: Yeah. Don’t walk around.” On the stove, the oat meal was still simmering on low heat. Three years ago, when he suffered a severe stomach bleed, I quit my job. I studied under a nutritionist, waking up at four in the morning just to slow-cook his meals. The doctor had warned me that talent managers live under high stress and need careful looking after. I looked after him for four years. I looked after him so well that he remembered Cassie’s ankle pain, but forgot that I had gotten three stitches at the clinic just last month. “Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday. We’re going to the house in Connecticut tomorrow night,” Jacob said, slipping his phone into his pocket. His tone was cold, like a boss giving an assistant a memo. “I’m not going.” My fork clinked against the edge of the plate. He looked up, impatience flickering in his eyes. “Fay, don’t start.” “I can explain those photos Cassie posted. They’re on tour right now. She’s the leader of the group, and it’s all just promotion.” “Promotion requires her head resting on your shoulder?” The room fell dead silent. Jacob’s face hardened. “Since when did you become so bitter?” Those words cut deeper than any photo. He used to tell me my voice was so soft that even when I was angry, it sounded like I was flirting. Then I learned to stop crying and stop throwing tantrums, and now he called me bitter. The doorbell rang. He walked over to open it. A courier stood there, holding a sleek silver gift box. Jacob opened it. Inside was a delicate pearl necklace. A small card slipped out. I caught the elegant script before he could hide it. “To Cassie. Have a wonderful show.” “Signed, Jacob.” Yesterday was my birthday. Yesterday, I had sent him three text messages. The first asked if he was coming home for dinner. The second told him the cake was going to melt. The third, sent at 1:00 AM, told him my stomach was cramping and asked if he could bring home some medicine. He replied six hours later. With a single period. Jacob covered the card with his hand, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room. “It’s from a brand sponsor,” he said quickly. “I’m just passing it along.” “That’s nice.” I stood up, scraping the cold oat meal into the trash. He watched me, his scowl deepening. “Are you really not going to let me eat in peace now?” “You weren’t going to eat it anyway.” “Fay!” his voice cracked through the kitchen. “What do you actually want from me?” My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from my lawyer, Simon. “Fay, the hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at 9:00 AM. Please make sure you have all your documents ready.” I locked the screen and looked up at Jacob. “I’m going to bed.” Jacob stood in the shadow of the hallway, clutching the card meant for Cassie, his knuckles turning white. 2. Only the bedside lamp lit the bedroom. When Jacob came out of the shower, he noticed the closet was half empty. “Why are you packing your clothes?” A towel hung over his shoulders, water droplets tracing the line of his collarbone. I used to chase him with a hairdryer on nights like this. He would complain about the noise but pull me into his chest anyway, laughing and saying, “Fay, I married you so someone would finally keep me in line.” Now, the hairdryer sat in its drawer, its cord neatly wrapped. I folded the last sweater into my suitcase. “Just changing out the seasonal clothes. Taking them to the dry cleaners.” “The housekeeper can handle that.” “She won’t be coming back next month.” Jacob blinked, caught off guard. “You fired her?” “Yes.” I was the one who hired her. I paid her salary. He had never known. Over the last four years, he simply took for granted that the house was always clean, his shirts pressed, his stomach medicine stocked, his dinners warm. As if these things grew naturally out of the walls. “You’ve been acting strange lately.” Jacob stepped closer, reaching for the document envelope sitting on top of my suitcase. I slapped my hand over it. “Don’t touch that.” His gaze fell to the back of my hand. There was a faint pink scar, left over from a kitchen accident last month. The night it happened, Cassie had been chased by a stalker, and Jacob left me alone in the ER lobby. Before he bolted, he only said, “If anything happens to her, the whole group is ruined.” The local anesthetic hadn’t fully kicked in when they stitched me up. The nurse had asked where my husband was. I told her he was busy. Busy carrying his ex-girlfriend into a production van. “What’s in there?” Jacob’s voice dropped. “My personal things.” “Since when do we have separate things?” The irony was almost suffocating. During our second year of marriage, Cassie returned to the country and signed with Jacob’s agency. The very first day, he came home and told me: “Work is work. Don’t interfere.” From then on, his schedules, his calls, his dinners, his social media—everything became a boundary I was forbidden to cross. He had drawn the line between us clearly enough. But now that I was leaving, he wanted to talk about being partners. His phone rang. It was his mother. He picked up and put it on speaker. “Jacob, sweetie, did you tell Fay yet? Tell her to get here early tomorrow.” My mother-in-law’s voice was bright with forced cheer. “Cassie is coming too. She’s so famous now, having her over for dinner really makes your father look good in front of the neighbors.” Jacob glanced at me. “She says she’s not coming.” There was a sharp pause on the line. “Not coming? She’s a housewife, what could she possibly be busy with?” I leaned down to slide my passport and ID into my bag. “Is she throwing another tantrum over Cassie?” Diane sighed. “Fay, you need to grow up. A man in Jacob’s position has to play the part sometimes. It’s just business.” “Diane,” I spoke up. Jacob’s eyes locked onto me. “I have plans tomorrow.” “What plans could possibly be more important than your father-in-law’s birthday?” “Paperwork.” My mother-in-law let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Stop letting those internet blogs poison your mind. Jacob marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to you. Don’t ruin your own luck.” “Luck.” I remembered the day we got our marriage license. Jacob had taken me to a cheap late-night diner. He pressed the license against his chest and said, “Fay, the best thing that ever happened to me is you.” We divided a six-dollar plate of pancakes, and he gave me all the strawberries. Then his career took off, he grew busier, and he slowly drifted to a height I could no longer reach. That license had been locked in the bottom drawer of my desk. When I handed it to Simon yesterday to make copies, the edges were already yellowed. “Are you listening to me?” Diane pressed. I zipped my suitcase shut. “I hear you.” Jacob hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just go tomorrow, Fay. Don’t make this harder for me.” “I’m not going.” His patience finally snapped. “Fay, what are you trying to prove? Cassie is an artist, I’m her manager. Protecting her is my job.” “And what is protecting me?” The question hung in the quiet room, heavy and suffocating. Jacob stared at me. It took him a long moment to find his voice. “You’re safe at home. What is there to protect you from?” Headlights from a passing car swept across the ceiling. The sharp click of my suitcase locks felt like the final word in the dark. 3. The next evening, I went to his parents’ house anyway. It wasn’t for his father’s birthday. Simon had told me that we needed Jacob to sign a few asset-disclosure forms. If we could agree on the division of property now, the court proceedings would go much faster. The living room of the family estate was bathed in warm light. Cassie was sitting on the sofa next to Diane, wearing a delicate white dress, her ankle wrapped in a fresh white bandage. Jacob was kneeling on the rug in front of her, carefully adjusting the straps of her ankle brace. “Does it hurt?” his voice was incredibly tender. I stood at the doorway, holding a gift bag for Diane. Inside was a silk scarf I had ordered months ago. A beautiful slate blue—her favorite color. Four years ago, when I first met Jacob’s parents, Diane had made it clear she thought I came from a family of no standing and lacked refinement. Jacob had taken my hand right there in front of her and said, “Mom, she’s the one I chose. You don’t have to love her, but you will respect her.” In the end, the person who disrespected me most was him. “Fay, you’re here,” Cassie said, offering a soft, sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered Jacob today, but my ankle was just throbbing.” Jacob stood up, wiping his hands. “Why are you late?” I glanced at the wall clock. It was exactly 6:00 PM. He had told me 5:30. But the text hadn’t reached me until 5:28. “Traffic was bad.” “Excuses,” Diane muttered, setting her teacup down with a heavy clatter. “Cassie managed to get here on time with a sprained ankle, and you live twenty minutes away.” Cassie gently patted Diane’s arm. “Don’t be hard on Fay, Diane. She might just be having a bad day.” “Why would she be having a bad day?” Diane shot me a critical look, scanning me from head to toe. “Jacob provides everything for her, and she still walks around with a cloud over her head.” A few relatives at the dinner table offered polite, strained chuckles. I placed the gift bag on the coffee table. “Happy birthday.” Diane didn’t reach for it. Cassie, however, picked it up with an eager smile. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Fay, you have such lovely taste.” She pulled the silk scarf out, draping it over her collarbone. “Diane, do you mind if I try it on first?” Diane’s face instantly lit up. “Of course not, dear. It looks much better on you anyway.” The blue silk rested elegantly on Cassie’s shoulders. Jacob saw it, but he didn’t say a word. In that moment, a memory from three years ago flashed in my mind. When Diane was hospitalized, I spent two weeks cooking and delivering her meals every day. Cassie visited once, bringing a single bouquet of flowers. Diane posted a photo on her social media, thanking her “sweet, thoughtful Cassie.” Jacob had commented under the post: “Thank you for taking care of Mom.” My fingers had been swollen from chopping vegetables for weeks, but all I got from him was: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” “Fay,” Cassie said suddenly, breaking my train of thought. “Jacob mentioned you used to choreograph?” The living room went quiet. I set my glass down. “A long time ago.” “Could you take a look at our new routine?” she asked, pulling out her phone. “We have dress rehearsals tomorrow, and the transition in the chorus feels incredibly awkward.” Jacob finally spoke. “She hasn’t danced in years.” It sounded like a shield. But then he added, “Don’t put her on the spot. She wouldn’t really understand modern routines anyway.” A relative laughed softly. Cassie covered her mouth. “Jacob, don’t say that. You’ll hurt Fay’s feelings.” They were all looking at me. Waiting for me to snap, to prove that I was as bitter and difficult as they believed. I used to be the principal dancer for a national contemporary dance company. When Jacob and I first met, he was a struggling junior manager with artists no one wanted. He used to sit in the empty theater seats during my late-night rehearsals, holding a thermos of tea, his eyes shining with a fierce ambition. Later, when his health deteriorated, I retired from the company to take care of him, helping him climb his way to the top. That year, he held my old trophy and promised: “Once I build my agency, I’ll put you back on the stage.” He built his agency. But he gave the stage to Cassie. I took Cassie’s phone and watched the video. “The center of gravity is off on the second count of eight,” I said, my voice steady. “Your left leg isn’t tucking in quickly enough, which ruins the formation transition.” Cassie’s smile faltered. Jacob looked startled. I handed the phone back. “You’re not engaging your core enough for that drop. If you force it, you’re going to tear something.” The room fell silent. Diane cleared her throat, clearly annoyed. “Her professional choreographers haven’t said anything, so let’s not make things up.” “Right,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Forget I said anything.” Jacob rose. “Where are you going?” “To the restroom.” At the end of the hall, the study door was slightly ajar. I stepped inside and placed the legal documents prepared by Simon on Jacob’s mahogany desk. Footsteps approached the door. Cassie stood there, the blue silk scarf still draped over her shoulders. “Fay,” she said, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “Are you really ready to throw all of this away?” She held up her phone. The screen showed a video of her and Jacob holding each other backstage. “Jacob told me he’s exhausted by your silence,” she whispered. “He says trying to talk to you is like dealing with a cold, damp towel.” My nails dug into my palms. “Move,” I said. Cassie didn’t budge. She reached up, pulled the silk scarf from her neck, and dropped it straight into a half-empty mug of black coffee sitting on the side table. The slate blue fabric darkened as it drank the liquid. “When Diane asks,” Cassie smiled, “I’ll just tell her you were angry I wore it, and you threw it in yourself.” Then Jacob’s voice cut through the hallway. “Cassie.” I turned. He was standing just outside the door, his eyes scanning past me, landing instantly on Cassie’s brimming eyes. 4. Cassie’s tears fell instantly. “Jacob, I’m so sorry. It was an accident,” she sobbed, clutching the soaked silk scarf, her shoulders trembling. “I just wanted to thank her, but Fay snatched it away so fast. I lost my grip.” I looked at her. The wet scarf lay crumpled on the hardwood floor, looking like a discarded rag. Jacob stepped into the room, his hand immediately finding Cassie’s wrist. “Are you hurt? Did it burn you?” “No, I’m fine,” Cassie whispered, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes. “Fay, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your gift.” Diane and the other relatives came crowding into the hallway. “Fay!” Diane’s voice shook with rage. “It’s a cheap piece of fabric! How could you treat Cassie like this?” I opened my mouth to speak. Jacob cut me off. “Enough,” he said, his eyes cold and unfamiliar. “Today is Mom’s birthday. Do you have to ruin every family gathering?” “You think I’m the one ruining this?” “Who else?” He lowered his voice, as if trying to preserve whatever dignity I had left. “Cassie has a dress rehearsal tomorrow and her ankle is already injured. Can you please stop taking your insecurities out on her?” The weight of their stares felt like needles. I wanted to laugh. The last time he had defended me like this was at our wedding. The florist had sent the wrong centerpieces, and Diane had blamed me in front of the guests. Jacob had stood up and declared to the room: “I’m the one who begged her to marry me. If there’s a mistake, blame me. Leave my wife alone.” That day, I believed I had married a man who would stand between me and the storm. I didn’t know he would become the storm itself. “It’s fine, Jacob,” Cassie whimpered. “Fay is only sensitive because she loves you so much.” Jacob’s gaze hardened further. “Apologize.” The word fell like a heavy stone. I froze. “To her?” “To Cassie. And to my mother.” In the background, a cousin whispered, “Jacob has too much patience. She needs to be put in her place.” Diane kicked the wet scarf toward my feet. “Apologize, and then clean up this mess.” I bent down and picked up the ruined scarf. My fingers were stained with cold coffee. “Jacob,” I said, looking up at him. He stared back, his jaw tight. “Do you remember when I ordered this scarf? It was nearly a year ago.” He frowned. “Don’t change the subject.” “Do you remember that I used to dance?” “Fay,” he said, his tone carrying a sharp warning. “Don’t use the past to guilt-trip me.” “The past.” Retiring from the company to manage his early career was “the past.” Selling my principal dancer’s prize money to pay for his office rent was “the past.” Sitting in the hospital hallway for three sleepless nights when his stomach bled was “the past.” Ruining my spine and joints so badly that I could never perform at that level again was “the past.” “Fay,” Cassie said softly, “Jacob is under so much pressure. You shouldn’t keep throwing the past in his face.” I turned to her. “Shut up.” Cassie’s face drained of color. Jacob’s hand instantly clamped down on my wrist. His grip was fiercely tight. “Fay, you’ve gone too far.” “You’re hurting me.” He loosened his grip slightly but didn’t let go. “Apologize.” The bones in my wrist throbbed. Inside my purse, my phone began to vibrate. Simon’s name lit up the screen. I reached in with my free hand and slid it to answer. “Fay? Did you get him to sign the papers?” The room suddenly went quiet. Jacob’s brow furrowed. “What papers?” Simon’s voice carried clearly through the line. “The supplementary documents for the divorce filing. He needs to sign the acknowledgment of service tomorrow morning.” Cassie’s crying stopped. Diane’s furious expression froze. Jacob stared at me, his eyes blank, as if trying to translate a foreign language. “Fay. Tell me what he just said.” I looked down at his hand gripping my wrist. His wedding band was still on his finger. He hadn’t stopped wearing it because of his job. He only wore it when he was around me, to remind me he was still mine. I reached up and, finger by finger, pried his hand off my wrist. “Jacob, I want a divorce.”

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I didn’t want any special treatment, so I hid my identity to intern at my family’s own company. Instead of an easy ride, I ended up with a manager who made it her personal mission to make my life living hell. I tried to keep my head down, believing that taking the high road was the smartest play. But she only took my silence as permission to push harder. She stole credit for my work, and when that wasn’t enough, she accused me of trying to sleep with the CEO. Eventually, the weight of the lie became too much, and I let the truth slip. “He’s my brother,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m not sleeping with him.” She didn’t even blink. She just sneered, her face twisted in disgust. “You’re just a cheap girl trying to climb the ladder on your back. Who do you think you’re fooling?” she mocked. “If Mr. Herman is really your brother, why don’t you call him down here? Ask him to come fire me!” I looked down at my shoes, a quiet, cold smile spreading across my face. “If that’s what you want, Tina.” 1 “Vanguard Solutions Annual Marketing Campaign. Lead Strategists—Tina Davis, Reynold Croft.” I stared at the black-and-white lettering projected onto the conference room screen, feeling a sudden, deep chill in my chest. I had spent three consecutive all-nighters pulling this proposal together. Every single slide, from the exhaustive demographic research to the competitor analysis, was built on data I had personally compiled. I could still feel the phantom ache in my lower back from sitting at my desk until sunrise. And now, my name had been completely erased. In its place sat the names of my manager, Tina, and the marketing director, Reynold. “This is incredibly thorough work. The feedback from the Vanguard team has been stellar,” Reynold said from the head of the long mahogany table, nodding with a rare, satisfied smile. “Tina, excellent job. I know you and your team worked around the clock to get this across the finish line.” Tina smiled warmly, wrapping both hands around her fresh latte. “Thank you, Reynold. It was a grind, but we wanted to make sure it was up to Herman standards.” She looked poised, professional, and entirely humble—as if she had actually been the one drinking stale coffee at 4:00 AM while staring at Excel spreadsheets. I sat in the dim corner of the room, my hands clenched so tightly under the table that my nails bit into my palms, leaving pale crescents. As the meeting adjourned, my colleagues began to filter out, chatting in low, relaxed tones. Someone tapped Tina on the shoulder. “Great presentation, Tina.” “Thanks so much,” she replied, her voice sweet. But as her gaze drifted over the crowd and landed on me, her expression shifted. The corner of her mouth ticked upward in a small, deliberate smirk. The message was clear. “What are you going to do about it?” I didn’t say a word. I waited until the room cleared, sat back down at my desk, and quietly copied the original document history and the version logs onto a flash drive. Then, clutching the printed draft of the proposal, I walked straight into Tina’s office. She was leaning back in her ergonomic chair, scrolling through her phone, a half-empty cup of Starbucks sitting on her neat desk. When the door clicked shut, she didn’t even bother to look up. “Tina, the Vanguard proposal was my work,” I said, laying the papers gently on her desk. “Why isn’t my name on the final deck?” Tina slowly lowered her phone. She spared a brief, dismissive glance at the papers, letting out a soft, sharp laugh. “You’re an intern, Fiona. The manager taking credit for the department’s output is just how corporate America works.” She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Besides, I edited several pages myself.” “You edited the formatting, not the content,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “I gathered the metrics. I built the strategy from scratch. You adjusted the paragraph spacing.” The lazy amusement drained from Tina’s face. She snatched the folder off her desk and flung it directly at my face. The white sheets of paper scattered, fluttering through the air like wounded birds before settling in a messy heap on the carpet. “Who do you think you are?” she hissed, standing up so she could tower over me. “You are an intern. Your job is to fetch coffee, organize folders, and shut up. Don’t start thinking you’re actually important.” I knelt down, carefully picking up each sheet of paper, smoothing out the bent corners before stacking them back together. “It’s my work,” I said, standing back up. “I have a right to be credited.” “Rights?” Tina mocked, stepping closer until the heavy, suffocating scent of her expensive perfume filled my nose. She tapped her manicured finger sharply against my shoulder. “Let me make this simple for you, little girl. I run this department. If I say you wrote it, you wrote it. If I say you didn’t, it never happened.” I tightened my grip on the papers, keeping my breath even. “You can deny me the credit, Tina. But you can’t pretend it’s yours.” Tina’s eyes narrowed into slits. The corporate facade was entirely gone now, replaced by a cold, quiet venom. “You want to keep pushing this? I can easily make sure you don’t get the credit hours for this internship. Try graduating or landing a decent entry-level job when I write ‘refuses to follow basic instruction’ on your final review.” My chest rose and fell, but I forced myself to stay quiet. Seeing my silence, Tina assumed she had won. She sat back down, picking up her lukewarm coffee. “That’s what I thought. Get out, and close the door behind you.” I stood there for a beat longer. “I wrote the proposal,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but entirely steady. “And I’m not going to let this go.” Tina’s hand froze mid-air. She set the cup down with a hard click, her tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Get the hell out of my office.” In the hallway, a few coworkers had their heads bowed, pretending to be utterly absorbed in their monitors. No one looked up. No one met my eye. I stood by the glass partition, holding my crumpled pages. “Go ahead and steal the credit, Tina,” I thought. “You can erase my name from the slides, but you can’t delete the digital footprint.” 2 Three days later, a notification popped up on our team’s Slack channel. “Tina Davis: Emergency meeting at 2:00 PM in Conference Room B. Everyone must attend. No exceptions.” I stared at the glowing blue text, a heavy, uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. When I walked into the conference room at two, the atmosphere was already thick with tension. Everyone was seated, their faces unusually grim. Tina stood at the head of the room, her arms crossed, her expression cast in stone. “We are here for one reason today,” she said, slamming a heavy black binder onto the table. “The proprietary client database for Vanguard Solutions has been leaked.” A collective murmur rippled through the room. “Only three people had access to this file over the past week,” Tina continued, her eyes scanning the room before locking onto me. “Myself, Oliver—who has already been reassigned to the logistics warehouse—and Fiona.” My heart did a sudden, violent flip, but I kept my voice calm. “I was never given access to the client database. I didn’t even have the shared drive permissions.” “You didn’t?” Tina sneered. “The security logs show that the file was transferred from my terminal to your credentials last Friday at exactly 3:00 PM.” “I never accepted any transfer, and I certainly never opened it.” “Is that so?” Tina turned her head slightly, nodding toward one of her close associates, Jack. Without a word, Jack stood up, walked out of the conference room, and went straight to my cubicle. “Wait—what do you think you’re doing?” I stood up to follow him, but by the time I reached the doorway, Jack was already pulling open my desk drawers. “Found it,” Jack called out, holding up a freshly printed document. He walked back into the room and handed the sheets to Tina. She took them, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across her face. “Caught red-handed,” she said, holding the papers up for the entire room to see. “The Vanguard database. Tucked neatly right inside Fiona’s desk.” My mind went entirely blank. I had never seen those printed sheets in my life. “That’s not mine. Someone put that there.” “Oh, really? It just crawled into your drawer?” Tina walked over to me, her index finger almost touching my nose. “We found the stolen files in your desk, Fiona. You’re a thief, plain and simple.” The room was deathly quiet. I looked around, searching for a single sympathetic face, but everyone was staring at their laps, suddenly fascinated by the wood grain of the table. “This was planted,” I insisted. “Who planted it? Me?” Tina scoffed, her voice dripping with condescension. “If you’re going to accuse someone of framing you, Fiona, you’d better have proof.” I didn’t have proof. Not yet. Seeing my hesitation, Tina pulled a pre-written document from her binder and threw it onto the table in front of me. “This is a formal admission of guilt and a written apology. You are going to sign it, and you are going to read it aloud at the next department-wide meeting.” I looked down at the paper, then pushed it right back toward her. “I’m not signing a lie.” Tina slammed her hand on the table. “You don’t want to sign? Fine. I’ll mark you down for gross misconduct. Your pay for the month is docked, and I’m failing your internship immediately.” She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with malice. “No internship credits means you don’t graduate next month. Good luck finding another firm willing to take on a thief.” I kept my mouth shut, my jaw clamped tight. I had wanted a normal, quiet internship to prove I could do the work without my family’s name. But if she was going to push me to the edge, she was going to find out exactly what lay beneath the surface. Just then, the heavy glass door swung open, and Reynold walked in, carrying a paper cup. “What’s the commotion?” Tina’s demeanor shifted instantly. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a perfectly rehearsed expression of distress and disappointment. “Reynold, I’m so sorry to bring this to you, but we caught Fiona with the Vanguard client files. I gave her the option to write an apology, but she’s refusing to take responsibility.” Reynold looked at me, his eyes cold and clinical. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Tina is your direct manager, Fiona. If she has identified a breach of conduct, there’s no room for debate here.” He adjusted his cuffs. “An intern stealing proprietary files is a serious offense. Writing the apology is a grace period you don’t deserve. Don’t be foolish.” “Reynold, I didn’t take the file,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “If you look at the login timestamps—” “I’ve heard enough,” Reynold interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “Write the apology, or pack your things. I will personally sign off on your termination. And trust me, once Herman Enterprises blacklists you, you won’t even get a job answering phones in this city.” I slowly let go of the folder in my hands, my voice cold. “I won’t write a confession for something I didn’t do.” Reynold’s face flushed with anger. “Fine! You want to play tough? You’re suspended without pay, effective immediately, and your internship is done.” 3 By the next morning, the department group chat was on fire. Tina had pinned a message to the top of the channel, tagging the entire team. “Tina Davis: A quick reminder to everyone—company databases are strictly confidential. Some of our temporary staff need to learn respect and boundaries. Youth and ambition do not make you above the rules.” The responses rolled in almost immediately. “Jack: Well said, Tina. Some people need a serious reality check.” “Janice: It’s always the ones who don’t want to do the actual work who try to find shortcuts. I’ve noticed she spends a lot of time hovering around certain male colleagues, too.” “Janice: Honestly, makes you wonder how she even got hired in this department.” I sat at my kitchen table, staring at my phone as the screen continuously lit up with new notifications. My fingers felt like ice. They didn’t use my name, but everyone knew exactly who they were talking about. Then, the screenshots started appearing. They were cropped, heavily edited snippets of old Slack messages between me and Oliver from my first week. “Fiona: Are you staying late tonight?” “Fiona: I’ll come find you.” The caption underneath read: “Look at this. Our little intern spent more time coordinating late-night ‘meetings’ with the guys than actually working. Wonder what kind of work they were doing?” The chat went wild with laughing emojis. “Janice: So cheap.” “Jack: No wonder Oliver got sent to the warehouse. He got dragged right into her mess.” I closed the app, turned my phone face down on the table, and took a deep, shaky breath. When I went into the office to pack up my personal things, the change in the air was thick. People avoided my eyes. No one asked me to join them for lunch. When I tried to ask a quick question about an active account, they bypassed me entirely, walking over to Tina’s office instead. I had become a pariah. On the third day of my suspension, a photo was leaked in the department’s private group chat. It was a picture of me walking next to Christian Herman, the CEO, near the lobby entrance earlier that week. We had been deep in conversation, his arm casually resting near my shoulder. Tina had immediately screenshotted it and blasted it across every channel she had access to. “Tina Davis: Well, look at this. Our quiet little intern has some seriously high aspirations. She’s already set her sights on the top.” “Tina Davis: Dressing up just to get close to Mr. Herman. Clearly, her professional skills are lacking, but her personal skills are certainly active.” Within hours, the photo had circulated through half the building. As I walked down the corridor toward the elevators to hand in my temporary badge, I could hear the hushed whispers trailing behind me. “Is that her? The one from the picture?” “I can’t believe an intern would have the nerve.” “Who knows what she did to get his attention.” I went into the breakroom to wash out my coffee mug one last time. The moment the door swung open, the three women whispering in the corner fell completely silent. They watched me, their arms crossed, as I rinsed the ceramic cup. When I finally walked out, a loud burst of laughter erupted behind the closed door. I kept my head up, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. Back at my desk, my phone buzzed again. It was a preview from the department chat. “Janice: A thief and a homewrecker trying to sleep her way to the executive suite. How is she not fired yet?” I put my phone on silent. Later that afternoon, as I was collecting my final notes, I passed Oliver’s old cubicle. It was completely empty. His desk calendar was still turned to last month, and a single plastic pen tray sat in the center of the dust-gathering desk. He had been moved to the basement warehouse a week ago, all because he had spoken up and told Tina that my Vanguard research was too detailed to have been written by anyone else. I stood by his empty desk for a long time, the quiet of the office pressing in around me. No one dared to stand near me. No one dared to speak up. I sat back down at my desk and pulled up my phone. The group chat had hundreds of unread messages, almost all of them dissecting my character, my clothes, my background. I didn’t cry. I simply opened my drive and began saving every single screenshot. I organized them by date, noted the names of the senders, and filed them away in a secure folder. Tears wouldn’t change anything. Evidence would. My phone vibrated with a direct notification. Tina had tagged me in the main channel. “Tina Davis: @Fiona Ellis, tomorrow evening is the Vanguard project celebration at the Grand Plaza Hotel. You are responsible for setting up the banners and the registration table. Do not be late.” I stared at the screen for five seconds. The project I wrote, the credit she stole, the promotion Reynold took—and I was being ordered to set up the party. I typed out two words: “Got it.” I closed my laptop and added the final screenshot to my folder. “Enjoy the spotlight while you can, Tina. The fall is going to be incredibly steep.” 4 The celebration was held in the grand ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel downtown. By the time the guests began to arrive, the venue was fully prepared. The heavy velvet banners, the customized floral arrangements, the seating cards—I had handled every single detail alone the afternoon before. Tonight was about celebrating the signing of the Vanguard contract. The strategy I had designed was the sole reason they had signed, but tonight, Tina was wearing the designer dress, and Reynold was accepting the corporate toast. My role was simple: stand in the shadow of the columns, wear the black-and-white service attire, and remain invisible. I had changed into a simple white button-down shirt and black tailored trousers, my hair pulled back into a neat, tight ponytail. As the music swelled and the room filled with laughter and the clinking of champagne flutes, I stood near the edge of the ballroom, trying to fade into the background. But Tina wasn’t about to let me blend in. Dressed in a striking red silk dress, a glass of champagne in hand, she cut through the crowd and marched straight toward me. She had a bright, glittering smile on her face—the kind a predator wears when it finally corners its prey. “Well, look who decided to show up. Fiona,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she looked me up and down. “You look very professional. Are you actually here to help, or are you just scanning the room for your next target?” A few nearby colleagues turned their heads, their interest piqued. I kept my hands clasped behind my back. “I’m just making sure the registration desk runs smoothly, Tina.” “Oh, the registration desk?” Tina laughed, raising her voice just enough to carry over the ambient music. “I saw you trying to chat up Mr. Herman in the lobby the other day. Did he finally realize you weren’t worth his time?” Several members of the marketing team stopped talking, turning their full attention to us. My expression remained perfectly still. “Tina, I suggest you keep this professional.” “Professional?” Tina let out a sharp, mocking laugh, turning to the small circle of coworkers gathering around us. “Did you hear that, guys? The intern who tried to sleep her way to the top is lecturing me on professionalism.” She stepped closer, her eyes flashing. “We’ve all seen the pictures. You’ve been throwing yourself at every man in this building, from the warehouse staff to the CEO. What was the plan, Fiona? Hoping a few nights would secure you a permanent contract?” The whispers started, accompanied by the quiet rustle of people pulling out their phones. My hands began to tremble slightly, but I stood my ground. “Those photos are completely out of context. We were simply walking to a meeting.” “An intern walking alone with the CEO?” Tina scoffed, her lip curling. “Please. Mr. Herman was just being polite because he’s a gentleman. Did you actually think you could sleep your way into becoming a Herman? Take a look in the mirror, sweetie. You’re not even in the same league.” A few muffled snickers broke out from the crowd. I took a slow, deep breath. I had stayed silent through the stolen credit, the framed theft, the whispers, and the isolation. I had played by their rules, hoping the truth would eventually surface on its own. But standing here, in front of the entire company, I realized that some people don’t stop until they’ve completely broken you. “He is my brother,” I said clearly. My voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden quiet of the circle, it carried perfectly. “I am not sleeping with anyone.” The ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees. Tina froze for a fraction of a second, her glass stopping mid-air. Then, she burst into a loud, hysterical laugh, bending slightly as if she had just heard the funniest joke of her life. “Your brother?” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye as she straightened up. “Christian Herman, the sole heir and CEO of Herman Enterprises, is your brother?” The crowd erupted into murmurs and snickers. “She’s lost her mind.” “That is the most desperate lie I’ve ever heard.” “Does she think we’re stupid?” I stood in the center of the ring of mocking faces, watching them. No one believed me. The truth, when spoken plainly, was treated as nothing more than a pathetic joke. Tina’s laughter vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp sneer. “Fiona, if you’re going to lie, at least make it believable,” she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. “If Mr. Herman is really your brother, why don’t you call him? Let’s see if he actually knows who you are.” 5 Before I could answer, Tina raised her hand and poured her glass of red wine directly over my head. The cold, dark liquid drenched my hair, splashed across my face, and began to run down the front of my white shirt, staining the cotton a deep, ugly crimson. “You’re nothing but a cheap girl who got in on her back,” she spat, slamming the empty glass onto a nearby high-top table. “Stop acting like you’re something special.” She leaned in, her eyes wild with triumph. “If Mr. Herman is really your brother, go ahead. Call him. Tell him to fire me.” I wiped the dripping wine from my eyelashes, looking her straight in the eyes. “He is my brother. And you are going to regret this.” “Slap!” The force of the blow snapped my head to the side. A sharp, stinging pain flared across my cheek, followed by the metallic taste of blood inside my lip. “You insolent little liar!” Tina hissed, rubbing her palm. “How dare you speak to me like that!” A few people gasped, but no one stepped forward. The upbeat jazz music continued to play from the speakers, making the heavy silence around us feel even more surreal. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, my eyes darkening. I raised my hand, fully prepared to return the slap, but a voice cut through the crowd. “What is going on here?” Reynold pushed through the circle, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Tina turned to him instantly, her face softening into an expression of sheer vulnerability. “Reynold, thank goodness you’re here. This intern has been disrupting the event, throwing tantrums, and she just had the nerve to claim she’s Mr. Herman’s sister.” Reynold looked at me, his eyes filled with disgust. “You really have no shame, do you?” He took a slow sip of his drink. “You think you can just lie your way into high society? A girl like you, who got in through backroom favors, is an embarrassment to this company.” He set his drink down, his tone final. “You’re fired, Fiona. Pack your things and don’t ever let me see your face in this building again.” I stood tall, ignoring the wet fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin. “You both should think very carefully about what you’re doing right now. I remember every single thing you’ve said to me. Every single word.” Tina laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Still acting tough?” She reached out, grabbed a handful of my hair, and yanked it backward with all her strength. A sharp pain shot through my scalp. I stumbled, losing my balance on the polished marble floor, and fell hard onto my knees. The impact sent a dull ache through my joints. Before I could get back up, Tina grabbed another glass of red wine from a passing waiter’s tray and poured it directly over my head. The cold liquid streamed down my face, stinging my eyes and dripping off my chin. My white shirt was completely ruined, soaked through with dark red stains. “On your knees. Apologize,” Tina commanded, shaking the excess drops from her fingers. “Maybe then I won’t ruin your career entirely.” Reynold stood beside her, a smug smile on his face. “Kneel, Fiona. Beg for forgiveness, and maybe we’ll let you leave with some dignity.” I reached into my pocket for my phone, but Jack and Janice immediately stepped forward, grabbing my arms and pinning them behind my back. Tina snatched my phone from my hand. “Looking for help?” she sneered. She held the phone up, then flung it hard against the marble floor. The screen shattered into a web of cracks, the device sliding across the polished floor and stopping near a pillar. “No one is coming to save you,” Tina said, crouching down and grabbing my chin, forcing my face up. “Kneel, admit you lied, and this ends. Otherwise, I’ll make sure you’re blacklisted from every agency in the state.” I knelt in the puddle of spilled wine and shattered glass, feeling the sharp bite of a shard cutting into my palm. Blood began to mingle with the red wine on the floor. Dozens of people stood around us, watching the spectacle. Not a single person moved to help. I looked up, my voice cold as ice. “My brother is going to destroy you.” Tina’s eyes flared. “Still got a mouth on you?” She raised her hand, her palm open, ready to strike my face again. But before her hand could move, the heavy double doors of the ballroom were slammed open with a deafening crash. Every head in the room whipped toward the entrance. Christian Herman strode into the room, flanked by a dozen senior executives. His eyes swept over the shattered glass, the spilled wine, and finally landed on me—kneeling on the floor, covered in stains, my face bruised and my hands bleeding. A terrifying, suffocating silence fell over the ballroom as his expression turned murderous. “Get your hands off my sister!”

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