Author: Momo Chan

I was in the middle of a shower when I saw it—a face, blurred and distorted, pressed against the bathroom window. That was the third time. When I told my mother, she didn’t even look up from her phone. She told me I was being dramatic, that my imagination was getting the best of me. “For heaven’s sake, Jade,” she’d said, her voice sharp with annoyance. “We’re on the eighth floor. Unless Spider-Man is stalking you, there is nobody out there.” The next night, I was back in the shower. The steam was thick, the air heavy with the scent of my eucalyptus body wash. I saw it again. I didn’t wait. I didn’t scream. I just lunged for my towel, threw on my robe, and bolted for my bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Then, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from the neighbor. “Hey Jade, why’d you stop your shower so early?” 1 Every hair on my arms stood on end. I let out a strangled cry and threw the phone across the room as if it had burned me. How did he know? How could he possibly know I’d stopped? Unless that face against the glass… was his. But it didn’t make sense. We lived on the eighth floor of a sleek, modern high-rise. Outside my bathroom window was nothing but a sheer drop and a concrete ledge no wider than a credit card. Our apartments shared a wall, sure. But what kind of lunatic would risk a ten-story fall just to catch a glimpse of a girl in the shower? It was suicide. Then, a memory flickered in the back of my mind. A few weeks ago, that neighbor—Gary—had knocked on our door. He’d asked to borrow a bottle of body wash. There’s a 24-hour CVS right downstairs. You can get anything delivered via DoorDash in twenty minutes. Why knock on a stranger’s door for soap? The logic didn’t track. And then there was the way he’d looked at me—his eyes lingering just a second too long on my collarbone. I couldn’t breathe. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pick up the phone, but I forced myself to dial 911. Ten minutes later, the muffled wail of sirens cut through the night. I ran to the door and threw it open. A team of officers spilled out of the elevator, but they didn’t stop at my unit. They surged past me, their boots thundering on the carpet as they kicked in Gary’s door. A man and a woman in uniform stopped in front of me. The woman flashed her badge. “Are you the one who called?” I nodded, my voice stuck in my throat. “Gary Henderson is dead,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “We’re going to need you to come with us for questioning.” My world tilted. Gary—the man who had just texted me—was dead? 2 “You mentioned a text message in your 911 call. When exactly did you receive it?” I tried to pull myself together, though the adrenaline was leaving me cold and hollow. I handed my phone to the female officer—Detective Miller. “10:39 PM,” she noted, her expression unreadable. “And what were you doing then?” I squeezed my hands together. My palms were slick with sweat. “I… I was going to shower. Then I saw the face. It was blurry, just a shape against the frosted glass.” I was rambling, the words tumbling out of me in a frantic rush. “I got scared. I decided to wait for my parents to get home. I went back to my room, and that’s when the text came. I knew something was wrong, so I called you guys. You have the record of the call, right?” Miller didn’t answer. She just kept writing in her notebook, occasionally glancing at me with a look that felt like a surgical probe. “Can you show us where you saw the face?” “Yeah. Yes.” I led them inside. I had turned on every single light in the apartment; the place was glowing like a sterile operating room. I stopped at the threshold of the bathroom. I couldn’t bring myself to step inside. I was terrified that if I looked at the window, that blurred, featureless face would be there again, watching. Miller and her partner stepped in, sliding the glass shower door back. “This window?” I nodded. She took a few photos of the glass. “Did you open the window to look out when you saw it?” “I… I didn’t dare.” “Did the face stay there, or did it vanish immediately?” “I don’t know.” The male officer, a younger guy with a buzz cut, let out a short, dismissive huff. “The steam gets thick in these small bathrooms,” he said, not even trying to hide his skepticism. “The glass is frosted. It was probably just a shadow, kid. Girls your age… you watch too many true crime docs.” “It wasn’t a shadow,” I whispered. My voice felt small, insignificant. Was I crazy? No. I knew what I saw. The third time—tonight—I could have sworn I saw the corner of a mouth twitch. Miller shot her partner a look. “Knock it off, Ward.” “I’m just saying,” Ward muttered. “Remember that call last week? The girl who thought she was being followed, and it turned out they were just going to the same Starbucks?” “Shut up,” Miller snapped. She reached out and unlatched the window. A draft of cold, night air rushed in. Outside, the world was a black abyss. Empty. She leaned out, looking down at the sheer drop. Then she shook her head. “Right here,” she muttered. 3 “Right here.” What did that mean? She walked back toward me and placed a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t exactly comforting. “I need to see some ID.” Her voice snapped me back to reality. “Right. Okay.” I went to my room and pulled my driver’s license from my purse. She looked it over. “Born in 2008. You just turned eighteen?” I nodded. “Yesterday. It was my birthday.” Miller’s gaze flickered to the small, half-eaten chocolate cake sitting on my desk. I swallowed hard, trying to find my courage. “How… how did he die?” She looked at me again, her eyes sharper now, like she was trying to see through my skin. “He fell. We haven’t ruled out foul play.” I nodded slowly, the room feeling like it was shrinking. “Where are your parents?” “They went out after dinner. My dad was meeting some friends for drinks, and my mom went to her weekly poker night.” “How did you have Gary’s number? Were you two close?” I shook my head vigorously. “No. He told me his niece was starting high school soon and asked if he could have my old SAT prep books when I graduated. He gave me his number for that. That’s it.” “Had he texted you before tonight?” I shook my head again, my fingers twisting the hem of my robe. Suddenly, the sharp click-clack of heels echoed from the hallway. The sound grew louder, more frantic. “You!” A woman lunged into the room, her hand raised to strike. I flinched, pulling away, but Miller was faster. She caught the woman’s wrist in a grip of iron. The woman hissed in pain. “Let go of me! That little brat! That little slut killed my husband! I want her head on a plate!” 4 I froze. Killed? Me? My legs turned to jelly. I stumbled back, and Miller caught me before I could hit the floor. Officer Ward stepped between me and the woman. “Ma’am, you need to calm down. We are still investigating.” The woman collapsed onto the floor, wailing. It was Linda, Gary’s wife. Why would she think I did it? I watched her, paralyzed by her raw, hysterical grief. The commotion had drawn the rest of the neighbors. People were hovering in the hallway—faces I recognized from the elevator, people who usually just gave me a polite nod. “Gary was such a good guy,” someone whispered. “He helped me fix my laptop last month. Didn’t even charge me.” “So tragic,” another added. “Poor Linda, left all alone with a kid.” Linda looked up, her eyes bloodshot and filled with venom. “It was her! She did it! I know she did!” The eyes of the neighbors shifted. They began to look at me differently. Not as the quiet girl from 8B, but as something else. “That’s the Miller girl’s daughter, right? Jade?” a woman whispered. “She’s only eighteen.” “Like mother, like daughter,” Linda shrieked, her voice cracking. “Her mother is a tramp, and she’s no better! They did something to him!” Miller’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Ma’am, watch your mouth. Unless you have evidence, you are bordering on defamation.” Linda went quiet, but the damage was done. The neighbors’ whispers grew into a dull roar. “Actually, I remember seeing them by the mailboxes,” a man said, leaning in. “She was wearing these tiny denim shorts, and Gary was right behind her, looking… well, you know. Maybe they had a thing?” “But she’s so young…” “Eighteen isn’t that young. Girls these days know exactly what they’re doing.” 5 The weight of their words felt like stones being piled on my chest. I hadn’t done anything, but I was being buried alive under their assumptions. Miller stepped forward, her presence commanding the room. “Until we find a suspect, everyone in this building is a person of interest. Do you all want to come down to the station for a statement?” The hallway cleared out in seconds. The elevator doors opened again, and my parents finally appeared. I broke down, sobbing as I threw myself into my mother’s arms. I tried to tell her everything—the face, the text, the police. But my mother just hissed at me under her breath. “I told you to stop with this nonsense, Jade! I told you there was no face! If you hadn’t called the police, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” “But Mom, the text message—” She slapped me. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. My head snapped to the side, my lip stinging. “Don’t you dare speak of it,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. “You want the whole world thinking you’re that kind of girl? You’ll never be able to show your face in this town again.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. “Are you Jade’s mother?” Miller asked, her voice cold. My mother straightened up, her face instantly morphing into a mask of polite concern. “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry, she’s just… she’s been under a lot of stress with finals.” “She was exercising her rights,” Miller said. “She did nothing wrong. And you shouldn’t have hit her.” My mother, usually the fiercest woman in any room, suddenly looked small. Cowed. My father stood behind her, his face flushed red from the whiskey. He hadn’t said a single word. The police took their initial notes and left. But three days later, they were back. They didn’t come to check on me. They came with a warrant. “Jade Miller, we’re taking you in for questioning regarding the death of Gary Henderson.” I felt the blood drain from my face. My parents stared, their mouths agape. “Let’s go.” 6 The interrogation room was cold. It smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. I sat there, picking at the skin around my cuticles, unable to stop my legs from shaking. Two detectives walked in. One was Miller. For a second, I felt a spark of hope. She’d been kind to me before. But her face was a mask of stone. She sat down, looked me in the eye, and said the words that ruined my life. “Why did you kill him, Jade?” My heart stopped. Literally stopped for a beat. “You’re eighteen. You have your whole life ahead of you. Whatever happened, whatever he did to you—if you’d just gone to college, you could have left this all behind. Why did you throw it away?” She didn’t sound angry. She sounded disappointed. As if I were a child who had broken a vase, rather than a woman accused of murder. “I didn’t…” I shook my head, my voice trembling. “We found hair at the scene. Inside Gary’s apartment,” Miller said, leaning forward. “DNA doesn’t lie, Jade. It’s a match.” The room started to spin. I had never stepped foot inside Gary’s apartment. Never. “And,” she continued, “we found something else on his phone. Multiple photos of you.” She paused, as if the next word was too heavy to say. “Nude photos.” A wave of nausea hit me so hard I thought I might throw up. I felt exposed. Naked. Like I was standing in the middle of a crowded street with no skin to protect me. “What?” I choked out. “And why,” Miller added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “did you lie to us about the messages?”

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At the end of the year, my wife dragged me to her high school reunion. While she was busy playing the part of the successful CEO, I found myself scrolling through a viral thread on a popular forum. [My first love’s husband is terminally ill. What should I do?] The top comment read: [What does her husband being sick have to do with you?] The original poster (OP) replied: [Because I’m planning on taking his place.] The comments section exploded. [What kind of homewrecker logic is this?] [Wait, I just checked OP’s profile… are you the designer behind ‘The Dying Star’?!] My fingers trembled against the screen. The Dying Star. It was a piece I had sculpted when I was eighteen. The OP replied below: [Oops, caught me. I designed it for my first love, but she got married while I was studying abroad.] The tone of the thread shifted instantly to one of tragic romance. [I’m at her reunion today. Her husband is here, but I managed to text her and get her alone. She’s had a little to drink and she’s crying in my arms right now.] Attached was a photo. A woman was clinging to a man’s waist, her face buried in his chest. She was wearing a custom-tailored suit—the exact one my wife, Victoria, had put on this morning. … I reached for a glass of red wine on the table and drained it in one gulp. A former classmate sitting next to me noticed my sudden pallor and waved a hand in front of my face. “You okay, Miles? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I exhaled slowly, forcing my heart to stop its frantic hammering. “I’m fine. Just need some air.” Once I stepped out into the hallway, I opened the app again. The sentiment had done a total 180. [Such a tragedy. OP and his first love were clearly meant to be.] [I’ve seen ‘The Dying Star’ in person. I never knew jewelry could hold that much pain.] [I heard that design won a dozen international awards. OP is a literal genius.] When I was in school, I had designed The Dying Star for my secret crush, Victoria Beaumont. Now my wife. She told me she had locked it away in a private vault, too precious to wear. Aside from her, no one knew it was my work. Who was this “genius designer” claiming my life? I walked toward the stairwell, and as I rounded the corner, I heard voices coming from behind the heavy fire door. I hesitated, then pushed it open just a crack. “Her husband is dying,” a man’s voice whispered, thick with a smug sort of pity. “What are you going to do about him, Victoria?” “Why? Are you looking for a promotion to ‘husband’ already?” Victoria’s voice followed, light and teasing. “Don’t be mean. You were literally crying two minutes ago because you missed me so much. Now you’re picking on me?” “I’m picking on you? Fine. I’ll show you what picking on you really looks like.” The man let out a small, playful gasp. Then came Victoria’s low, melodic laugh. The sound made the blood in my veins turn to ice. After ten years of marriage, I knew that laugh better than my own name. I pulled my hand back and walked blindly down the hall. I clicked on the OP’s profile. Most of his posts were from international IP addresses, and every single one was about his “first love.” [Year one apart: She told me she’d never love anyone else.] [My Victoria got married today. But she came to see me on her wedding night. She flew ten thousand miles just to spend it in my arms. She brought me a five-carat ring. How is this not our wedding night?] So that was it. That night ten years ago, Victoria had claimed there was a “corporate emergency” right after the reception. She had left in such a hurry she hadn’t even taken off her veil. My vision blurred. [She came to see me again. She brought lilies her husband grew in his garden and put them on our nightstand. Victoria, is this our version of ‘happily ever after’?] The comments were a sea of heart-eye emojis. [The way he writes about her… you can feel the soul in every word.] [First loves always win.] She told me she loved lilies. I had spent months tending to our greenhouse, hand-picking the best blooms for her to take to her office. I never imagined they were being used as decor for her trysts. I scrolled through years of his updates. Inside the ballroom, the old class was laughing and drinking. I stepped into a quiet corner and FaceTimed my best friend, Jordan. “I thought you were at the reunion with the Ice Queen?” Jordan said, his brow furrowing at my expression. “Miles, what happened?” I let out a ragged laugh. “Jordan, I’m done. I want a divorce.” Jordan slammed his fist onto a table. “Finally! Thank God. I’ll have the papers ready by morning. You’re finally coming to your senses.” “And… I’m going back,” I whispered. “I’m going back to the St. James estate.” The door to the lounge swung open. Victoria and a man named Sebastian Cole walked in, one after the other. I hung up the phone. The room went quiet for a second before a few women started giggling. “Look at that. Sebastian still has a thing for the Queen Bee.” “Can you blame him? They were the ‘it’ couple back then. No one expected Victoria to end up with someone as… unremarkable as Miles.” Victoria walked over and sat beside me. Noticing my red eyes, she reached out and cupped my face with practiced concern. “What’s wrong, honey? Did someone say something to you?” I thought of the “picking on” I had just heard in the stairwell. My heart felt like it was being shredded. “Victoria,” I said quietly. “Do you remember The Dying Star?” She stiffened. Her eyes instinctively darted toward Sebastian. “It’s in the family vault, Miles. It’s too special to wear out. Why are you bringing that up now?” “I designed it specifically for you,” I said. “It’s a brooch. I’ve never once seen you wear it.” Her smile faltered. She looked away, smoothing her skirt. “You know I don’t like flashy things. It’s too loud for my style.” “Besides,” she added, “it’s your masterpiece. It belongs in a safe where it can be preserved forever.” Not your style? Then why was it pinned to her lapel in the photos Sebastian posted on his profile? In our home, Victoria’s wardrobe was a desert of black, white, and grey. But on Sebastian’s feed, she wore vibrant colors. She went deep-sea fishing with him, caught crabs, and stayed out until dawn laughing under the sun. Victoria and I had traveled together exactly once. Our honeymoon. It had been a miserable, lonely month. “Do you remember,” I asked softly, “when I asked to go see the Northern Lights for our honeymoon?” Sebastian, who was clinking glasses with a guy next to me, suddenly slid into the seat across from us. “Did you guys go to see the Aurora? What a coincidence! I went with my girlfriend too!” “She chartered a private yacht. We huddled together on the deck under the lights. It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced.” I forced a smile. “What a shame. We never went.” “My wife said she hates the cold. Said high latitudes were depressing.” Sebastian’s eyes locked onto Victoria, his grin widening. “That’s too bad. You really should go. Legend says couples who see the lights together stay together forever.” “My girl is terrified of the cold too, but the second I told her about the legend, she was the one who planned the whole itinerary.” “She took care of everything—the food, the drinks, the gear. Me? I’m lazy. I like the fun, but I hate the logistics.” The men around us cheered. “Man, your girl sounds like a saint.” “How do you get this lucky, Sebastian? When is it my turn?” Sebastian’s cheeks were flushed with wine and triumph. “I’ve got a weak constitution,” he bragged. “I get sick easily, so she had every possible medication ready for me. If I even leaned too close to the railing, she’d grab me, terrified I’d fall in.” The table erupted in laughter. “But I’m stubborn,” he continued, glancing at Victoria. “I wanted to see the ocean. So she just kept one arm around me the whole time while she took photos with the other. She’s clingy like that.” Beside me, Victoria looked down and chuckled softly. I remembered our honeymoon. She spent every day on “conference calls.” We barely spent two hours together. When I wanted to take a photo, she said she wasn’t good with cameras. When I wanted to walk on the beach, she said the tide was dangerous. Our one-month honeymoon ended ten days early. I ended up in a hospital with acute gastritis from a bad meal, lying in a sterile bed for a week. She told me she had an “emergency board meeting” and flew home two days before I was even discharged. A few classmates noticed the tension and shouted, “Sebastian, you were the star of the school. How did we not know you were seeing someone?” “Come on, spill. How did you two meet?” Victoria leaned back against the leather booth, casually draping an arm over my shoulder, watching Sebastian with an indulgent smile. Sebastian twirled a strand of his hair. “We’ve known each other forever. Longer than I’ve known any of you.” “She was my first love. We’ve had our ups and downs, but we always find our way back.” Ooh— The crowd started whistling and catcalling. Several meaningful glances were thrown Victoria’s way. People started sizing me up, whispering. “His first love? That’s definitely Victoria.” “Miles wasn’t even in our social circle back then. Marrying her was the ultimate social climb.” “He’s nothing compared to Sebastian. Sebastian has the pedigree. He actually fits her world.” I thought about the year I spent carving The Dying Star. My mother had given me a raw blue diamond. I spent months in the studio, my hands covered in nicks and cuts. That brooch was literally stained with my blood. And she had handed it to a charlatan so he could play the part of a tortured artist. I shrugged Victoria’s arm off my shoulder and stood up. “I don’t feel well. I’m going home.” Victoria reached for my hand. “Honey, I’ll drive you.” Sebastian pulled her back by the arm. “Don’t go yet, Victoria. Let Miles take an Uber. He’s a big boy; he won’t get lost.” Someone else chimed in, “Yeah, we missed you, Vic! Sit down, let’s catch up properly.” Victoria looked at me with a performative sigh of helplessness. “Fine. Be careful on the way home, Miles.” The second I got into the car, I sent her a text: Victoria, I want a divorce.

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The girls in my senior class started a “Most Unattractive” poll. I won by a landslide. When the list circulated, my heart stopped at one name in particular: Madeline Sinclair. For six years, she had been my North Star, the girl I’d quietly adored from the shadows of the back row. Her handwriting was elegant, every loop and curve a deliberate slap in the face to the boy who had been stupid enough to confess his feelings to her just the day before. Years later, a financial news anchor interviewed Madeline, now a rising star in private equity. They asked if she had any regrets. Madeline looked directly into the camera, her expression poised but her eyes haunting. “In high school, I mistook a diamond for a piece of glass. I let someone else take him, and I’ve spent every night for seven years regretting it. Luckily, he’s single now. I’m hoping for a second chance.” The “someone else” she was referring to was currently sitting across from me at dinner. She elegantly set down her fork, pushed a perfectly sliced piece of Wagyu beef toward me, and murmured that she had to make a quick call. Out on the balcony overlooking the Seattle skyline, her voice turned to ice as she spoke into her phone. “Universal Holdings is in their Series C round, right? Call NorthStar, Solstice, and Vanguard. Tell them to pull every cent of their investment. Now.” 1 The poll was a cruel, low-tech game played in the back of a spiral notebook. When it reached my desk, the classroom went deafeningly silent. The first page was “Most Likely to Succeed/Hottest.” The second page was the “Wall of Shame.” The first category was a heated debate. The second was a consensus. My name, Jude Miller, was written over and over again. Out of twenty-one girls, seventeen had voted for me. I wasn’t delusional. I knew I wasn’t the guy people did double-takes for. I had a heavy brow, lips that were a bit too full for my face, a permanent tan from working outside, and skin that was currently losing a battle with teenage hormones. I dressed in thrift-store flannels and wore my hair in a utilitarian buzz cut. I had self-awareness. I never expected a movie-style romance, and I certainly didn’t expect Madeline Sinclair to love me back. But seeing her handwriting on that page felt like a physical blow to the stomach. We had known each other since middle school. I had loved her for every second of those six years. I just hadn’t expected her to humiliate me so publicly the day after I’d bared my soul. The confession had been an accident. I was helping my parents at our family’s small neighborhood grocery store in a rougher part of town. Madeline walked by, and I called out to her, handing her a bag of fruit. I told her her mother had already paid for it—a lie to help them out, since I knew her family was struggling after her father’s business empire collapsed. Under the dim streetlamp, her long lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Jude, I don’t need your charity.” She let go of the bag. I wasn’t quick enough to catch it. Apples and pears scattered across the cracked sidewalk, bruising in the dirt. Her pride was just like that fruit—fragile, easily damaged, and spread out for everyone to see. “I’m not pitying you, Maddie,” I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. “I like you. I’ve always liked you. I just want to help.” I tried to force a casual shrug. “Every guy in school is stuffing your locker with Godiva and flowers. Is one bag of fruit really that much worse?” Three seconds passed. Maybe thirty. Time stretched until it snapped. “I’m sorry, Jude,” she said, her voice flat. “But I don’t feel that way about you.” She walked away without looking back. It was the answer I expected. I told myself it didn’t hurt. I knelt, picked up the bruised apples, wiped off the grit, and went back to work. My family lived in the part of the city where the buildings were grey and the people looked tired. Everyone here was sprinting just to stay in place. Madeline was different. She was a fallen princess, temporarily exiled to our neighborhood after her family’s mansion was foreclosed on. Before the move, no one at school knew my mother worked as a housekeeper for her family. Madeline had kept my secret, protecting my dignity. I thought my confession was a way of protecting hers—showing her that even at her lowest, she was still someone’s dream. But after that night, she didn’t just ignore me. She despised me. 2 The notebook sat on my desk, her sharp, aggressive script mocking me. I looked back at Madeline. She met my gaze with a chilling indifference. The girl who had been my sun was now a block of ice. The rest of the girls held their breath, waiting for the “ugly kid” to have a meltdown. If I showed them I was hurt, they’d won. I twirled my pen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, with a flourish, I wrote my own name at the bottom of the list. I turned around and flashed a grin at the room. “Hey, I’m voting for myself too. Make it eighteen.” If you want to stop a bully, you have to be the first one to laugh at the joke. That night, the girls couldn’t look me in the eye. A few of them even came up to me after class to apologize, claiming it was just a “stupid prank” and that “if your skin cleared up, you’d actually be kind of hot.” I laughed it off. Their opinions didn’t matter. Madeline’s, however, was a different story. I caught her in the alleyway behind the shops on the way home. “Maddie, wait.” She stopped but didn’t turn around. “I borrowed a copy of Jane Eyre from your library once,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “There’s a line in there I want to give back to you: ‘Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?’” I stepped closer. “Clearly, in your world, being unattractive means I don’t have the right to feel things. The funny thing is, none of you think you’re bad people. You cry at sad movies and tweet about social justice, but you’ll tear down a classmate for a lunch-break thrill. You never once wondered if it would hurt. You didn’t care.” I took a breath, feeling a weight lift. “I used to think you were different. I was wrong. You’re exactly like them.” I paused. “So, Madeline. I’m taking it back. My confession. My feelings. All of it.” She used to be the moon in my sky. Now, she was just another girl in a crowded room. Whether I was “ugly” or not, she wasn’t worth the devotion I’d given her. For the first time, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes—regret? Surprise?—but I was already walking away. A week later, I moved my seat to the back of the room, right next to the school’s most notorious outlier: Cassidy Vance. She was the only girl who hadn’t voted. And she was the only person Madeline Sinclair was afraid of. 3 (Madeline’s Perspective) When Madeline wrote Jude’s name in that cruel notebook, she was picturing the way he had smiled at Cassidy in the hallway. She didn’t actually think Jude was ugly. She had seen him on the rare days his skin was clear and his hair was styled. He wasn’t a classic prom king, but he had a presence. Her mother, a woman with an eye for high-end aesthetics, had once remarked that Jude had “challenging, high-fashion bones”—the kind of face that would become striking once he grew into it. But at seventeen, most girls didn’t have that kind of vision. Jude was smart, resilient, and had a dry wit that could disarm anyone. Once, when a girl teased him about his acne while he was drinking a milkshake, he’d just grinned and said, “If you want a sip, just ask. You do my chores, and I’ll buy you your own.” Madeline admired him. But she didn’t love him—or so she told herself. When he confessed to her, she panicked. Her world was ending; her father was in legal trouble, and they were broke. She couldn’t handle the weight of his “goodness.” So she pushed him away. But when she got home to the small apartment her mother was trying to make feel like a home, and saw the groceries Jude’s family had quietly left for them, guilt ate her alive. She went out to find him, to apologize, to tell him she’d been harsh. Instead, she saw him at the grocery store with Cassidy. Everyone knew Cassidy was the daughter of a billionaire, a girl who played by her own rules and made teachers tremble. Only Madeline knew the full extent of the “Vance” name. Her father had spent years trying to get an audience with Cassidy’s father, and the Vances had been the ones to let his company sink without a second thought. Cassidy’s custom Ducati was idling at the curb. She tossed a book at Jude. He caught it like it was a holy relic, his face lighting up with a genuine, brilliant smile. Cassidy—the girl who wore five-thousand-dollar boots—took an apple from his stand, wiped it on her jacket, and took a huge bite. It was the same fruit Madeline had rejected. That night, lying in a bed that felt too small in a room that smelled like old dust, Madeline stared at the window across the alley. Was Jude ugly? She decided that when he smiled at Cassidy, he was. He used to only smile like that for her. And now, the moment her family lost everything, he had found someone else to look at. 4 Two days after moving next to Cassidy, I was already regretting it. She was… difficult. When I first sat down, she was face-down on her desk, sleeping. When she finally looked up, she gave me a lazy, feline stare. “Done chasing the ice queen?” “I wasn’t chasing her,” I mumbled. Cassidy snorted. She was the only one who knew about my sketchbook—the one she’d found in the library, filled with drawings of Madeline. She had tossed it back to me with a single comment: “Zero taste.” Valentine’s Day came a few days later. The popular kids had lockers overflowing with chocolates. Madeline’s desk was a mountain of Lindt and Godiva. Cassidy walked into class, dropped a box of insanely expensive imported dark chocolate on my desk, and said, “No one at my house wants these. Don’t let them go to waste.” I pushed them back. “I’m… I’m cutting back on sugar.” Her eyes flashed. She kicked her chair back, grabbed the box, threw it into the trash can, and walked out of the room before the bell even rang. A minute later, Madeline walked over. She placed a small, plain box on my desk. “These are sugar-free,” she said softly. The class erupted in whispers. My friend Ben slid a note onto my desk: Holy shit, Jude. The Prom Queen and the Rebel Leader in one day? How? I wasn’t delusional. I knew Cassidy and Madeline didn’t “like” me. They lived in a different universe. Plus, I was the “Most Unattractive” guy in school. Madeline was only doing this because her mother had noticed the tension between us. I’d overheard her mom telling her, “Jude is a good boy. Even if you don’t love him, don’t be cruel.” As for Cassidy? I had no idea. She was a chaos agent. Her behavior started getting weirder. She’d poke my arm during lectures. She’d doodle my name in the margins of her notebooks. After school, she’d race her motorcycle alongside my bus, waving like a lunatic. She was moody. One day she’d give me rare first-edition books and share her earbuds to listen to indie tracks I’d never heard of. The next, she’d block the hallway so I couldn’t leave or lock me in the equipment room during gym class just to “talk.” Finally, I snapped. “Cassidy, what is this? These head games… do you actually like me or something?” She laughed so hard her face turned red. “Like you? God, you’re such a kid. It’s pathetic. I’m just bored, Jude. You’re like a stray dog I’m trying to train. It’s funny.” But even though she messed with me, I couldn’t hate her. Because the night of the “Ugly Poll,” when that notebook was being passed around, Cassidy had been the one to snatch it. She didn’t just read it; she ripped it into confetti and stood up in front of the whole class. “You guys have the aesthetic taste of a dumpster fire,” she’d snarled at the girls. “Is this really how you spend your time? It’s embarrassing to breathe the same air as you.” Then she’d looked at me, her eyes fierce. “And for the record, he’s not ugly. You guys are just basic.” That night, she was my hero. A hero I never thought I’d have. 5 Cassidy was an enigma. She skipped class whenever she wanted, yet she somehow stayed at the top of the rankings. My first impression of her was that she was just a rich girl looking for a thrill. I’d seen her at a music festival over the summer, drenching people with a water gun and laughing like a maniac. She’d accidentally soaked me, then insisted I hop on her Ducati so the wind would dry my clothes. But then, I saw her on the sports channel. I was eating dinner when a broadcast of the National Shooting Championships came on. There she was. Cassidy Vance. Her arms were rock-steady as she lifted a competition air rifle. Her expression was focused, cold, and utterly professional. She was a different person. I held my breath as she squeezed the trigger, hitting the bullseye with terrifying precision. “Mrs. Miller?” Madeline was at our house for dinner again. She stood up abruptly. “My dad is coming home from the hospital tonight. We need help moving some furniture. Could Jude come over for a minute?” It was a lie. There was no furniture to move. As soon as I stepped into her apartment, she locked the door and backed me against the wall. “Jude, is this what it takes? She gets on TV and suddenly you’re obsessed?” her voice was trembling. “Do you know what people are saying? That you and Cassidy were ‘locked’ in the equipment room for an hour? Do you really think you belong in her world?” She stepped closer, her perfume—something expensive and floral—filling my lungs. “She doesn’t even have to take the SATs. She’s going to an Ivy League school on a legacy ticket or moving to Europe. You’re just a distraction to her. When she’s bored, she’ll leave. What happens to your reputation then?” My phone buzzed. A voice note from Cassidy. [Hey, Neighbor. Did you see me on TV? Was I a total badass or what? I’m outside your place. Come out. Let’s get tacos.] The walls in these old apartments were thin. We both heard it. My mom’s voice drifted from the hallway: “Oh, hi! Jude is just across the hall helping Madeline.” Silence followed. Then, the low rumble of a motorcycle engine. A text popped up: [Get out here. Now. Alleyway.] Madeline moved even closer, her face inches from mine. She looked desperate. “Jude,” she whispered, “don’t go. Please.” 6 When I reached the alley, Cassidy was leaning against her bike, her helmet tucked under her arm. Her eyes were like flint. “Get on.” She drove like a woman possessed. We hit eighty on the Pacific Coast Highway, the salt air stinging my eyes. She didn’t stop until we reached a secluded stretch of beach. She dragged me toward the water, her grip like iron. “Cassidy, what the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted, finally wrenching my arm away. She spun around, towering over me in her boots. “She kissed you, didn’t she?”

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Seven months pregnant, stuck at home on bed rest, and drowning in anxiety, I did what anyone in my spiral would do: I doom-scrolled. A thread on a forum caught my eye. “Should I take my husband to a labor pain simulation experience?” One reply, accompanied by a photo, stopped my thumb in its tracks. “Absolutely. My boyfriend did the simulation and swore he’d never let me go through that pain. But, joke’s on him—I’m about to become a mom anyway.” The comments were confused. “Wait, if he won’t let you go through labor, where is the baby coming from?” The original poster replied, the smugness practically radiating off the screen: “His wife has been trying to conceive for five years. She finally got lucky. But once that baby is born, it’s coming home to me.” She added, “She’s seven months along, sitting at home like a nesting hen, completely clueless that the baby she’s carrying isn’t hers.” Five years of infertility. Seven months pregnant. I knew the weight of that journey—the bruises from injections, the crushing hope. My blood boiled. I wanted to reach through the screen and strangle this woman for her cruelty. I kept scrolling. Then, I froze. She had posted a 4D ultrasound photo. My breath hitched in my throat. The air left the room. That was my baby. 1. I wasn’t crazy. I pulled the printout from my last appointment out of the drawer, my hands trembling. I placed it next to the screen. Every shadow, every contour. It was identical. No wonder. I had spent hours staring at that grainy face, searching for a trace of my nose, my eyes, and finding nothing. I clicked on her profile, desperate and terrified. I opened her most popular post. “Photo dump: Taking the boyfriend to the labor pain sim.” The boyfriend’s face wasn’t visible, but I didn’t need a face. I needed only a detail. And there it was. The man’s left hand, clenched in pain, bore a ring-finger tattoo. It was a small, stylized script. It was identical to Grant’s. My heart didn’t just break; it stopped. I clutched my heavy, swollen belly, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto the dock. It all made sense. Whenever I mentioned childbirth classes or labor simulations, Grant would shut down, acting strangely resistant. Because he had already done it. With her. He knew the bone-splitting pain of a level-ten contraction. And he had decided to let me be the vessel so his mistress wouldn’t have to suffer. The comments section was in an uproar. “Someone find the wife! You can’t let her hand that baby over to a homewrecker.” “Even if she gives birth, she won’t give up the kid. Once a side-piece, always a side-piece.” “God, I feel for that poor wife. Seven months… she can’t exactly walk away now.” The poster—this Ivy—was replying to them, unbothered. “Let her see it. Who cares? She’s older. It’s a high-risk geriatric pregnancy. If she terminates now, she’ll never have another kid.” “Don’t worry about us. My boyfriend says she’s unemployed and useless. Once the baby is weaned, he’s serving her papers.” “She has this thing about emotional purity—she’s fragile. She’ll probably get postpartum depression and leave on her own.” The arrogance was suffocating. But she was right. I did have a thing about emotional purity. I couldn’t stand lies. And because my third trimester had been a nightmare of nausea and fatigue, I had quit my job as a marketing director. The loss of identity had already frayed my nerves. Postpartum depression wasn’t just a possibility; it was a roadmap they had drawn for me. “Don’t be jealous, ladies,” she wrote. “The only reason it took five years is because I wasn’t ready to settle down yet.” “The fertility meds she thought she was taking? My boyfriend swapped them for birth control years ago.” I ripped open the nightstand drawer. The leftover bottles from our “trying” phase rattled as I grabbed them. Could it be true? Had I been poisoning my own dreams at his command? I called a courier service, my voice shaking as I gave instructions to run the pills to a private lab across town. I stared at the screen, waiting for her to post again. The thread went silent. Dinner time. I rubbed my belly, the skin tight and itchy. I had endured hundreds of needles for this life. My feet were so swollen they looked like rising dough. Could I destroy this life based on an anonymous internet post? My head buzzed with static. If I confronted Grant now, without hard proof, he’d gaslight me. He’d say it was the hormones. He’d call me hysterical. Then, a notification. A new reply. “Quit the hate, guys. My boyfriend just made a five-course meal. He stole away from work to feed me. He doesn’t have time for you trolls.” She posted a picture. The dishes—braised short ribs, garlic kale—looked exactly like Grant’s cooking. I called him. Straight to voicemail. Then, a text. “Norah, babe. Just finished overtime. I picked up your favorites. Home in 30.” I watched the clock on the wall, counting the seconds. Thirty minutes later, the digital lock beeped. “Norah? Come eat. I got the good stuff.” I walked into the kitchen. There, on the counter, were takeout containers. Inside was cold, leftover food. It wasn’t fresh takeout. It was the leftovers from the meal he’d cooked her. The tears came then, silent and hot. 2. “Norah? Is the baby kicking? Just hang in there a little longer.” Grant knelt before me, his hands warm as he massaged my edema-swollen ankles. He looked so concerned. So loving. “It’s all your favorites,” he crooned. “Sorry it’s late. Got stuck on a call on the drive home.” “Sit tight. I’ll heat it up.” He took the containers toward the microwave. My phone pinged. A new comment on the thread. “He made way too much, so he packed the rest for later. I picked out these cute Hello Kitty boxes myself. Can’t let my son go hungry.” I looked at the counter. The pink, childish Hello Kitty container sat there like a neon sign. It pierced me. The woman in the thread—the foolish, high-risk, unemployed incubator—was me. “All hot,” Grant said, returning with a spoon. “Open wide.” I looked at his gentle face. The handsome jawline I loved. I still didn’t want to believe it. How could the man who held my hair back when I vomited, who worked double shifts for our future, be this monster? We met through a matchmaker. He was steady, earnest. It wasn’t fireworks at first, but a slow burn. When the IVF finally showed two pink lines, he had cried harder than I did. I thought our love had moved the universe. I was wrong. I had just walked into a trap. I pushed the spoon away. “Grant,” I said, my voice trembling. “Do you think the clinic made a mistake? With the embryo transfer? I want to get checked.” The spoon froze in mid-air. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he masked it with a smile. “Norah, honey, have you been reading those trashy novels again? It’s a top-tier hospital. They don’t make mistakes.” “But I’m scared. I read that an amniocentesis can prove paternity. Grant, please. Let’s just check.” He set the bowl down, the concern in his eyes hardening slightly. “Norah. It’s invasive. It’s risky for the baby. Trust me. There is no mistake.” He tried to talk me down, but I was immovable. His phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Work crisis. I have to take this.” He went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. Five minutes later, he emerged, looking relieved. “Okay, Norah. If it will give you peace of mind, we’ll do it. Let’s book the appointment.” “Really? But you just said—” “I love the baby,” he interrupted, gripping my shoulders. “But I love you more. If this anxiety is hurting you, we fix it.” I wondered what had changed his mind so quickly. On the way to the hospital, I refreshed the thread and found the answer. 3. “The old hag suddenly wants a DNA test. Maybe she saw the post.” “But I’m not scared. Let her check. A little piece of paper won’t stop me.” I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white. “Norah? You okay? You look pale.” As the car pulled up to the hospital entrance, I grabbed Grant’s sleeve. “Let’s go to a different hospital. I don’t want to do it here.” Grant looked at me with genuine confusion. “Why? Dr. Keller has been with us since day one. It’s too late to switch now.” “You picked Dr. Keller,” I said. He squeezed my hand. “You’re just anxious. It’s the hormones. I’m just trying to secure a big year-end bonus for you and the kid. Look at me. I’m doing this for us.” In the past, I would have melted. Now, every word was a dagger. “Everywhere else is booked, Norah. Let’s just get this over with.” The needle pierced my abdomen. I was shaking so hard the nurse had to hold me down. Grant held my hand, smoothing the hair back from my forehead. “Patient needs to lie flat for observation. Results in 48 hours,” the doctor said. The stress must have knocked me out because I drifted into a black, dreamless sleep. When I woke up, Grant was gone. The elevators were packed, so I waddled to the stairwell to walk down a flight. At the landing, I saw him. He was standing with a girl—younger, petite, glowing. “Why are you here? It’s flu season,” Grant scolded, but his voice was tender as he pulled a mask from his pocket and placed it over her face. “I was worried about the baby. When are the results coming?” The girl pressed herself against his chest. “Don’t worry. It’s handled. The results will say what we need them to say. You’re going to be a mom.” “You need to go home,” he added. “No,” she stomped her foot playfully. “I want to be with you. The old lady is asleep anyway. I’m hungry. Take me to dinner?” Grant laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years, and brushed a stray hair from her forehead. “Fine. Whatever you want.” The look in his eyes—it was adoration. Pure, unfiltered love. Something he had never given me in five years of marriage. She whispered something in his ear, and he scooped her up in his arms, carrying her down the stairs. A sharp cramp seized my belly. I slid down the wall, sitting on the cold concrete floor. I called Grant. He answered, breathless. “Norah? You up? Big issue with the project—I had to rush to the office. Stay at the hospital, I’ll pick you up when I’m done.” “Grant, my stomach hurts. Can you come back? Please?” “Don’t be difficult, Norah. It’s almost year-end. If I lose this bonus, it impacts the family. Be a good girl.” I heard the girl’s voice in the background, a low whisper: “Hurry up, my hands are cold.” The line went dead. I stood up. I walked to the nurse’s station. I asked for Dr. Keller. “Norah? You want to induce labor? Now?” Dr. Keller looked horrified. “Do you understand what you’re asking? You’re seven months along. Your uterus is fragile. If we terminate this pregnancy, you might never conceive again.” I looked into her worried eyes and nodded. “I understand. I want it out. Schedule the surgery for tomorrow morning.” She opened her mouth to argue, but I pulled up the forum post on my phone and shoved it in her face. Her jaw dropped. 4. “This… this can’t be real. People make things up online, Norah. That is a human life.” Dr. Keller was my best friend’s neighbor. I trusted her. Before I saw Grant in the stairwell, I would have trusted the hospital with my life. But watching him nuzzle that girl destroyed my capacity for faith. “Wait for the DNA results,” she pleaded. “Just wait.” She started listing everyone who handled the samples during our IVF cycle. “If this is our mistake, the hospital will take full responsibility. I put a rush on the DNA test. We’ll know tonight.” Grant, meanwhile, was still playing the role of the devoted husband via text. He sent a car to pick me up. “Pulling an all-nighter, babe. Ordered you delivery. Eat well.” He hung up before I could speak. “Grant, I really need you,” I whispered into the dead line. “I don’t care about the money.” He texted back: “Stop being childish. The bonus buys the best formula for our son.” I took a deep breath. “Grant, have you ever done a labor simulation?” A pause. “Norah, I know you’re mad I’m not there, but why waste time on useless things when I could be earning for our future?” I heard the girl giggling in the background before he hung up. I sat on the sofa in the dark. My private investigator sent the file. Her name was Ivy. Grant’s high school sweetheart. The one who got away. She was from a broken home, “not good enough” for Grant’s parents. They forced him to break up with her after graduation. But they never stopped seeing each other. Ivy was a “lifestyle influencer” on Instagram. Scrolling through her feed, I saw a stranger wearing my husband’s face. A man who laughed, who cooked, who hiked. A man I didn’t know. While we were on our honeymoon, she was there. Ten days in the Maldives. She was in the room next door. It was her first post. A photo of Grant, wearing the wedding band I bought him, kissing her on the beach at sunset. And suddenly, the tattoo on his finger made sense. The scribble wasn’t abstract art. It was her initials. I watched all 349 of her videos. The latest one was filmed in a hotel room near the hospital. Grant’s clothes were draped over a chair. His belt—the one I gave him for our anniversary—was hanging off the back. Ivy commented: “Boyfriend’s cooking skills are elite. So full.” I typed a comment. “That belt belongs to my husband.” I attached a photo of Grant wearing it from that night. The comments section exploded. “Homewrecker!” “Wait, is this the pregnant wife?” My phone rang. Dr. Keller. Her voice was grave. “Norah. I booked the operating room. Tomorrow, 9 AM.”

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New Year’s Day dinner was always an exercise in endurance, but this year, my sister-in-law decided to skip the pleasantries and go straight for the jugular. She looked across the table, a smug, cat-like grin spreading across her face. “Oh, Morgan, I almost forgot,” Cynthia said, swirling her Pinot Noir. “About those twenty workstations your firm ordered? I’m going to have to pass. I’m not filling the order.” I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?” “I landed a contract with a massive tech corp the other day. Fifty high-end units, top-of-the-line specs. Real money,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “To be honest, I’ve been handling your office supplies for ten years, and I haven’t made as much from you in a decade as I’ll make from this one deal.” She leaned back, looking at her husband—my brother, Brad—who just kept chewing his steak, eyes fixed on his plate. “Especially those printers, fax machines, and shipping supplies you always need,” Cynthia continued, waving a dismissive hand. “The paperwork is a nightmare and the margins are pathetic. It’s just not worth my time anymore.” Cynthia had opened her tech boutique a decade ago and had spent years begging me for business. For ten years, my company had been her lifeline. Every laptop, every ream of paper, every toner cartridge was bought from her. My business had literally kept her shop afloat through the lean years. Now, with forty-eight hours’ notice, she was ghosting me. I spent the rest of the holiday in a blind panic, cold-calling vendors until I found a local supplier who could deliver on short notice. That was when I got the real shock: for the exact same twenty workstations, the new quote was five thousand dollars cheaper than what Cynthia had been charging me. A month later, my phone buzzed. It was Cynthia. “Morgan! Hey, honey. Do you still need those computers?” Her voice was frantic, the smugness replaced by a shaky desperation. “I can knock two hundred bucks off the total, but you have to wire me the full payment today. Right now.” “What? No, Cynthia. I already bought them. I signed a long-term contract with a new vendor.” “You can’t do that!” she shrieked. “I need the cash today. Just return the ones you bought and buy mine instead. We’re family, Morgan!” I hung up. 1 The New Year’s dinner had started like any other: with me being the invisible ghost at the feast of my own bank account. “Yes, we did quite well last year!” Cynthia’s voice boomed the moment I walked through the door. She was flaunting a diamond-encrusted bracelet. “Brad bought me this to reward me for all my hard work. And we just landed a huge new client. It’s going to be a golden year.” She caught my eye and smirked. “Once the check clears, I’m finally trading in the SUV for a Porsche.” My mother beamed, her eyes shining with pride. “You’re so talented, Cynthia. Having you in this family is such a blessing. Brad is a lucky man.” My aunt and uncle chimed in from the couch. “Cynthia really knows how to run a household. Don’t forget us when you get that Porsche, dear. I’ve never even sat in a car that expensive!” Cynthia tilted her chin up, the picture of arrogance. When she saw the bags in my hands, she stood up with a fake, theatrical warmth, immediately reaching out—not to hug me, but to rummage through the gifts I’d brought. She frowned, looking at the high-end skincare sets and the premium cashmere throw I’d picked out for my mother. “Morgan, really?” she sighed, sounding disappointed. “You only come home a few times a year. You couldn’t have put a little more effort into this? It’s a bit stingy, don’t you think?” I looked at the gifts. I’d spent nearly eight hundred dollars on things I knew my mother needed. “And what would you suggest I bring, Cynthia?” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to teach you everything? Your mother worked hard all her life. She deserves something substantial. Jewelry. Or honestly, just a check. You’ve always been a bit socially stunted, Morgan. You should really learn a thing or two from your brother.” She adjusted her bracelet so it caught the light. I looked at my mother, hoping for a word of defense. She immediately looked away, shifting her gaze to the kitchen. “Oh, it’s not about the money,” Mom murmured. “I just want my children to be happy. That’s all your father wanted before he passed.” I felt a familiar, hollow ache in my chest. This was why I hated coming home. My mother lived by a different set of rules for her son. She didn’t exploit me—not exactly. She seemed to love me in a vague, non-committal way that kept me on a leash of “maybe.” Every time I thought about cutting them off, she’d do something small and sweet, making me feel guilty for my own resentment. She could have said, ‘Morgan sends me a check every month, she doesn’t need to bring gifts.’ But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t risk offending Cynthia. Instead, she’d wait until Cynthia was out of the room to pull me aside and say, ‘I made your favorite pot roast because I know you don’t eat well in the city,’ with those watery, pitying eyes. It was exhausting. “So, what did you bring, Cynthia?” I asked, my voice flat. “I brought eight hundred dollars’ worth of gifts. That’s eight hundred more than the nothing you’re holding.” Cynthia’s face turned a blotchy red. “How dare you? We’re here all the time! We take care of her! Even if we didn’t bring something today, our presence throughout the year is worth more than your guilt-money.” I let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re right. I should learn from you. I’ll start coming by twice a month, bring a ten-dollar bag of grapes, and then leave with three bags of groceries from Mom’s pantry. I’d save a fortune on my grocery bill.” “Morgan!” Cynthia slammed her hand on the table. “Stop acting so superior. Don’t you realize what she needs is companionship? Brad is her only son. If she wants to give us things, that’s her right as a mother!” “I hear you,” I replied calmly. “So, starting next month, I’ll stop the wire transfers. I’ll just ‘be here’ more. That’s what’s important, right?” Cynthia froze, her mouth agape. My mother finally stepped in, her voice trembling. “Stop it, both of you. You’re both good kids. I’m the lucky one. I have money, I have family… everyone envies me.” 2 The silence that followed was heavy. My heart felt like lead. Cynthia let out a sharp huff and shifted gears. “Fine. Since we’re being so ‘honest,’ Morgan, I should tell you: I’m not doing that computer order for your office. I’m too busy.” She went into her speech about the “big tech corp” and the fifty units. “I’ve been wanting to drop your account for a while. The margins are tiny. Ten years of your ‘charity’ hasn’t made me as much as this one contract will.” I frowned. “Cynthia, why are you telling me this now? The holiday ends the day after tomorrow. That’s when you were supposed to deliver. We’ve already cleared out the old hardware. How is my staff supposed to work on Monday?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Just find someone else. It’s not like you’re ordering custom rigs; any big-box store has that stuff in stock. Besides, how much work does your little firm actually do? A few days of downtime won’t kill you.” Looking at her, so smug and self-assured, I realized there was no point in arguing. For a decade, I had fed her business. During the 2008 crash, when everyone else was closing their doors, my steady stream of orders kept her lights on. Back then, Brad would hold my hand and tell me, “Morgan, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be able to pay for our son’s tuition, let alone the mortgage. I owe you everything.” And now? “Does Brad know about this?” I asked. Cynthia smirked. “Of course he does. To be honest, he’s the one who’s most sick of your orders. All those tiny line items—staples, paperclips, ink. It’s a mess to track and a headache to invoice. We’re done with the ‘pity’ business.” I nodded. I didn’t say another word. In that moment, I realized I didn’t have a brother anymore. I left and spent the next six hours on the phone. By a stroke of luck, I remembered the woman who ran the shop right next to Cynthia’s in the tech district. Cynthia hated her. She used to gossip about her constantly. “She’s a predator,” Cynthia would say. “Every time Brad walks by, she’s fixing her hair. She’s a single mom looking for a handout.” I’d met the woman, Tess, once in the building’s stairwell. She’d been having a dizzy spell from low blood sugar, and I’d bought her a soda and a candy bar. Since then, she always made a point to bring me a coffee whenever she saw me in the district. I called her. “Tess, it’s Morgan. I need twenty workstations by Monday morning. Is there any way you can make that happen?” Tess didn’t ask why I wasn’t calling my sister-in-law. She was a professional. “Give me the specs. I’ll call you back in thirty minutes with a quote.” When I stepped back into the living room to grab my coat, Cynthia was watching me with a mocking grin. “Having trouble, Morgan? I told you, nobody wants those low-margin scraps. Tell you what—if you add twenty thousand to the price, I might be able to find someone to help you out.” My phone buzzed. A text from Tess: I have them. Twenty units, $12,000 total. Delivery and setup included. I looked at the number and felt a cold chill run down my spine. 3 Cynthia’s price for the exact same setup was $18,000. I knew she wasn’t giving me a “family discount,” but I’d assumed her prices were at least fair. I’d looked at it as a way to support my family. I never imagined she was overcharging me by fifty percent. She wasn’t just doing business; she was harvesting me. If she wanted to play dirty, she was about to find out how well I could play, too. Monday morning, Tess arrived at the office with a crew of three. She was a whirlwind of efficiency, helping the cleaning staff clear away the packing materials once the setup was done. My head of IT checked the specs and looked up, impressed. “Morgan, these are perfect. Actually, the monitors are a grade higher than what we asked for.” I looked at Tess. She smiled, wiping a smudge of dust from her jeans. “You were in a rush. I couldn’t source the base models in time, so I gave you the premium ones for the same price.” “I should pay you the difference,” I insisted. Tess shook her head. “No way. A contract like this is huge for a shop like mine. We don’t get twenty-unit orders every day. In my world, five computers is a ‘big’ day. I’m making a fair profit, trust me. I’m just happy for the business.” I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the kind of partner I should have had years ago. “Tess, we go through a lot of supplies. If you’re up for it, I’d like to move all our procurement to you. I’ll have my legal team draft a long-term agreement this afternoon.” Tess’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. Later that day, my CFO walked into my office, looking hesitant. “Morgan? You might want to see Cynthia’s latest post.” Because of our long history, Cynthia was Facebook friends with half my staff. I opened the app. Cynthia had posted a selfie, grinning ear to ear. New year, new levels! Just closed a massive contract. Say goodbye to small-time hustle and hello to the Porsche life! #Blessed #BusinessMogul Brad had commented: So proud of my wife. We finally made it, baby! Cynthia replied publicly: Yes! Finally done with those annoying little orders from tiny companies. So much work for so little money, and having to act grateful for the ‘favor’ was the worst part! It was a blatant, public slap in the face. I thought about it for a minute, then I typed out a post of my own. I wondered if Cynthia would still be smiling by tomorrow morning.

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The town I grew up in had the best water, the freshest air, and the most jagged mountain views you could imagine. The only problem was the people. In my village, “conflict resolution” was a fancy term for a fistfight. Logic was a luxury; power was the only currency. If you had a problem, you threw hands until the problem went away. By eighteen, I wasn’t just a participant—I was the undisputed heavy-weight champion of a town full of brawlers. The day my final exams ended, I had a score to settle with the local heartthrob behind the old creek. I was just about to teach him a lesson when my old man’s roar echoed across the valley, summoning me home. He told me my biological parents had finally found me. When the wealthy couple saw me—decked out in my dirt-stained boots, smelling of adrenaline and mountain air—they looked like they’d swallowed glass. They promised to take me back to their mansion, to give me the “life I deserved.” But it was a lie. From the very beginning, they didn’t want a daughter. They wanted a sacrificial lamb. Too bad for them. I’m not a lamb. I’m a wolf. 1 The second I stepped into the foyer of the Montgomery estate, the sound of sobbing hit me like a physical wall. I paused, looking at the man I was supposed to call my father—Harrison Montgomery. He adjusted his silk tie, his eyes avoiding mine. “Don’t tell me,” I said, my voice dry. “There’s a ‘replacement daughter’ already in the picture, isn’t there?” As if on cue, the sobbing in the living room escalated into a full-blown wail. Harrison’s face tightened with a flicker of embarrassment. “When you were lost, your mother… she couldn’t handle the grief. That’s why we adopted Serena. She isn’t a ‘replacement.’ She’s been our daughter for eighteen years. She’s the one who stayed. You should be grateful to her.” My biological mother, Victoria, emerged then. She had been clutching a weeping girl in her arms, but she pulled away to stand in front of me. Her eyes were red, but they held no warmth for me. “This is your sister, Serena,” she said, her voice trembling. “Serena was supposed to be your name, you know. But she’s lived with it for so long that changing it now would be… inconvenient. From now on, your name will be June.” I let my gaze drift over the three of them. The “loving” father, the “heartbroken” mother, and the “fragile” daughter. They looked like a portrait of a perfect family. I was just the smudge on the canvas. I took a step back, creating a deliberate gap between us. “Why would I change my name?” I asked. “I already have one. You can call me The Boss.” Harrison’s forced smile vanished. His brow furrowed into a deep, jagged line. “What kind of ridiculous, low-class name is that? We’ve already updated your paperwork. You are June Montgomery.” Before I could retort, Serena was suddenly at my side, her fingers trembling as she reached for my sleeve. “Is… is June mad at me for taking her name?” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. If you hate the name June that much, I can give it back. I’ll do anything, I—” She broke off into another sob, tears fat and heavy rolling down her cheeks. I pulled my arm away, feeling a surge of genuine disgust. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’ll give me the name back, but you’re keeping the parents?” I turned back to Harrison and Victoria. “You brought me back here. Are you planning on sending her away?” Serena stumbled back as if I’d struck her. Victoria immediately rushed to steady her, throwing me a look of pure vitriol. “You’ve been in this house for five minutes and you’re already trying to kick her out? Did you hear a word your father said? If it weren’t for Serena, we wouldn’t have survived these eighteen years. You should be thanking her, but instead, you’re being a bully. I am deeply disappointed in you.” Harrison shot her a sharp look, a silent command to stop. I pretended not to see the exchange and started wandering through the living room, appraising the place like a landlord. “Fine. As long as she stays out of my way, I’ll let her keep her seat at the table,” I said. “Nice place you’ve got here. Five thousand square feet? You guys must have been busy making money while I was gone. It’s better than the mountains, I guess. So, where’s my room?” Victoria looked ready to explode, but Harrison cut her off. “June, your room is on the second floor. We had the staff prepare it specifically for you. I’m sure you’ll love it. But listen, since you’ve been living in… less than ideal conditions, we’re worried about your health. Your mother is going to take you to the clinic tomorrow for a full physical. We just want to make sure you’re okay.” “June—” he started again. I held up a finger, silencing him. His face went pale with the perceived insult. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “The clinic is fine. But with all this ‘June’ and ‘Serena’ stuff, things are going to get confusing. I told you what to call me.” “The Boss.” 2 Harrison’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. But because I’d agreed to the medical exam, he swallowed his pride and hurried Victoria to get me out the door the next morning. The “physical” was exhaustive. They ran every test in the book, taking enough blood to fuel a small army. By the time we got home, I was drained. I collapsed into bed and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night, my throat parched. As I crept downstairs for water, I passed the study on the second floor. The door was ajar, and the muffled voices of the Montgomerys drifted out. “Is it handled?” Victoria’s voice was sharp, devoid of the maternal softness she feigned in public. “No loose ends?” “What could go wrong?” Harrison replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s an eighteen-year-old girl from the middle of nowhere. No matter how sharp her tongue is, she has no idea what’s happening. I’ve already established the medical records in her name. As far as the world is concerned, it was June who had the procedure. Serena’s reputation remains spotless.” I heard the rhythmic tapping of a pen against a mahogany desk. “Good,” Harrison continued. “The only reason to bring that girl here was to have her take the fall for Serena. And if the other matter comes to light… well, we’ll just send the mountain girl to prison. Serena is our jewel; I won’t have her life ruined by one mistake.” I felt the corners of my mouth twitch into a smirk. I turned and walked silently down to the kitchen. They thought I was just a “mountain girl.” They thought they could play me because I was young. This was going to be fun. The next morning, the house was quiet. Harrison and Victoria were out, leaving Serena in the living room with a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. As I came down the stairs, I caught the tail end of their conversation. “Serena, have you decided on a college yet? Do you think your scores are high enough for the Ivy League?” the guy asked. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter. My dad said we could just go abroad together. Italy, maybe? What do you think?” Serena looked down, playing the part of the modest debutante. “If we go abroad together, what will people say? Besides, I think I did okay. I should be around a 1200 on my SATs.” I was sipping a glass of milk, and at that, I couldn’t help it. I snorted. I’d heard from the housekeeper that these two had spent a fortune on Serena’s education over the last eighteen years. Private tutors, elite prep schools, equestrian camps, golf lessons—the works. And she was proud of a 1200? The guy stood up, his face flushing with anger. “You must be the sister. Do you even know what the word ‘respect’ means? Serena and I are having a private conversation. What’s so funny?” I set my milk down and looked him over. He was handsome in that boring, cookie-cutter way. “Oh, you’re big on respect, are you?” I asked. “Did your parents forget to teach you to introduce yourself before demanding things from people?” Serena rose gracefully, her hand fluttering to the guy’s sleeve. “Parker, please. I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way. Don’t let it bother you.” She turned to me, her smile a masterpiece of fake sweetness. “June, this is Parker. His father is a close associate of Dad’s. Parker and I grew up together.” The childhood sweetheart. Of course. It was practically a cliché. I nodded, bored already. But Serena wasn’t done. “June, Mom and Dad mentioned you took your finals this year too. Have you checked your results? How do you think you did? I know the schools out in the country aren’t… great. If the results are bad, don’t worry. You can always redo the year.” I leaned back against the counter, casual. “I did alright. Probably around a 1590 on the SATs. Might even be the top of the state.” 3 The silence that followed was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor. Serena managed a tight, brittle laugh. “You… you certainly have a sense of humor.” Parker just laughed openly. “A 1590? Do you even know what you’re saying? You’re delusional. What, did you dream that while you were milking cows?” Victoria chose that moment to come downstairs, draped in a cashmere shawl. “I told you she’s been corrupted by that life. Lying through her teeth the moment she opens her mouth. It’s embarrassing. Why can’t you learn from your sister? This is how a lady behaves.” I looked at Victoria. The disdain in her eyes was no longer hidden. I smiled inwardly. It was only my second day back, and they were already done pretending. Now that the medical records were swapped, they figured I was no longer a threat. I walked past Victoria, heading back upstairs. “To be a lady of the house, you actually have to be a daughter of the house, don’t you?” I said over my shoulder. “I’ve never heard of an orphan from a dumpster being called a ‘lady.’ As for my scores… the official results come out in a week. We’ll see who’s lying then, won’t we?” For the next week, Parker was a permanent fixture at the Montgomery house. He and Serena took every opportunity to needle me, and Victoria was always there to back them up. But they didn’t realize who they were dealing with. I wasn’t just a brawler; I had a tongue like a razor. Every time they tried to corner me, they ended up leaving the room frustrated and red-faced. They were the perfect entertainment for a boring week. On the day the results were released, the whole family was gathered. Even Harrison stayed home from the office. When the clock struck the hour, Harrison reached for the laptop to check Serena’s scores, but Serena caught his hand. “Dad, check June’s first,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a malice she couldn’t quite hide. “If she really got a 1590, we should celebrate her success, shouldn’t we?” I didn’t argue. I pulled out my phone, logged into the portal, and typed in my ID. A second later, I turned the screen toward them. Reading: 790. Math: 800. Total: 1590. The living room went silent. They stared at the screen as if it were a bomb about to go off. I pulled the phone back with a sigh of mock disappointment. “A 1590? I guess I’m getting rusty. I really thought I’d hit the 1600. Lucky guess on the estimate, I suppose.” I looked at them. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I thought we were celebrating?” Serena’s “fragile” act finally cracked. She let out a sharp, ugly shriek. “That’s impossible!” She lunged forward and snatched the phone from my hand. “You forged this! You’re a hillbilly from a town that probably doesn’t even have electricity! How could you possibly get this score?” Victoria rushed to her side, pulling her into a protective embrace. “It’s okay, Serena. It’s fake. It has to be fake. Don’t get upset.” She looked at me, her face contorted with rage. “I did my research. That village you’re from? It’s a dead end. They don’t even have a proper high school. You’ve never stepped foot in a real classroom. You’re a fraud.” Harrison finally found his voice. “June, it’s alright. We don’t expect you to be a genius, but we won’t tolerate liars in this house. You’re our flesh and blood; we wouldn’t have looked down on you for being uneducated. Why did you feel the need to invent this?” “Look at how much you’ve upset your sister,” Harrison continued. “Apologize to her, right now.” Before he could finish, his phone rang. He glanced at the ID and froze. “It’s… it’s the Dean of Admissions from Harvard?” At the same moment, Victoria’s phone buzzed. “Stanford?” she whispered, staring at the screen. “They’re asking for… The Boss?” 4 The four of them stood there, staring at each other in a daze. I broke the silence. “Nothing to say? I thought I hadn’t been to school? Did I hire the Ivy League to act in a play for you guys? And I thought you said you loved me regardless of my education? Why don’t you look happy for me?” It was true that I didn’t go to the local county school. But my “uncles” and “aunts” back in the village were some of the most brilliant, albeit eccentric, minds in the country who had retired from the grid. If I didn’t study, Uncle Silas would chase me across three hills with a switch. If Silas found out I missed a perfect 1600, he’d probably still give me a lecture. Serena’s eyes were filled with a loathing so deep it looked like venom. Harrison was the first to snap out of it. “Happy? Of course, we’re happy! We had no idea you were so… talented.” I turned to Serena. “Well, little sister. My turn is over. Let’s see yours.” Serena hissed at me, tears of frustration welling up, and bolted from the room. Parker pointed a trembling finger at me, sputtered for a few seconds, and then chased after her. I turned back to the “parents.” Victoria was glaring at me, speechless. Harrison cleared his throat, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder and steering her toward the stairs. “Right. Your mother and I need to go to the study. We have calls to make. This is… big news.” I waved them off, smiling. Ten minutes after they went upstairs, I crept up and stood outside the study door. Victoria was nearly hysterical. “You have to fix this! A score like that, a school like that—it belongs to Serena. We can’t let that brat have it. Look at Serena! She’s been crying since the moment that girl arrived. Doesn’t that break your heart?” Harrison sounded conflicted. “But she’s our biological daughter. Serena… as much as we love her, she isn’t. If the girl were just some country bumpkin, fine. But she’s smart. She could be an asset to the Montgomery name—” The sound of shattering porcelain cut him off. “Stop acting like a devoted father!” Victoria screamed. “Have you forgotten who has been by our side for eighteen years? Blood means nothing! If anything happens to Serena, you’ll regret it. And that other matter… it’s only a matter of time before the truth comes out. Do you really want Serena to be the one they take away?” There was a long, heavy silence. Finally, Harrison spoke. “I know. I’ll handle it.” The next morning, the house was empty except for Parker, who was sitting on the sofa. The moment he saw me, he stood up. “Don’t think you’re special, June. You think a high score makes you better than us? Typical. You people from the mud think a little book-learning makes you king of the world. But so what? You get a degree, you get a job… so what? You’ll spend your whole life working just to reach the starting line where people like us begin.” “The Montgomerys will only ever recognize Serena. My family will only ever recognize Serena. You’re nothing.” I picked at my ear, looking bored. “Stop, stop. Did I mention my name isn’t June? It’s The Boss.” Parker blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer absurdity of it. I laughed at his confusion. “Oh, I get it. You’re here because you’re afraid I’m going to steal Serena’s ‘prize’—which is you, I assume? Sorry, honey. You should visit my village sometime. Even our local farmhands have more personality than you. To me, you’re just a generic Ken doll with a bad attitude.” Parker’s face twisted. “Keep telling yourself that. You’re the outcast here. Even if you are their biological child, you’re just a country girl with the right DNA. Nobody in our circle will ever accept you. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on Earth.” I held up a hand. “Shut up. Seriously. I might actually throw up. Parker, let me tell you something. Not only do I not want the Montgomerys, but your family is nothing to me either.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Pop? Someone’s bothering me.” “Can you send him to East Africa? Permanently?” On the other end, Pop’s voice was as loud and boisterous as ever. “Sure thing, kiddo! I’ll get Butch on it right away!” Then, his voice softened. “If you’re not having fun there, just come home. I’ve got enough tucked away to keep you in silk and steak for three lifetimes. But if you want the city life, I’ve got you covered there too. Houses, cars, a couple of tech firms—I’ve had them ready for you since you were ten!”

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Ten years into our marriage, Madeline developed what she called a “sanctuary protocol.” It started with the small things—a performance of boundaries. If I accidentally took a sip from her water glass, she’d watch me with a look of quiet localized horror before taking the glass to the kitchen and running the dishwasher. My touch was banned from her silk sleepwear; they had to be handled only by the staff at a specific organic dry cleaner. Even our bed was a demilitarized zone. We had separate duvets, separate pillows, and an invisible line drawn down the center of the mattress that I was forbidden to cross, even in my sleep. This morning, she didn’t touch the breakfast I’d spent forty minutes preparing. The sourdough was toasted to a perfect golden brown, the eggs were poached exactly how she liked them—whites firm, yolks liquid gold—and the coffee was precisely 120 degrees. She didn’t even glance at the plate. She just grabbed her briefcase and walked out. … I noticed the merger filing she’d left on the console and chased after her, catching up just as she reached the executive parking level. I stopped dead. Jude, her new assistant—a boy barely out of college with a smile that hadn’t yet been crushed by corporate life—was waiting for her by her car. He was laughing, holding a half-eaten artisan donut, and without a second thought, he broke off a piece and pressed it against her lips. Madeline didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She leaned in, a soft, indulgent smile playing on her lips, and ate it. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Child psychologists talk about “order sensitivity” in toddlers—a phase where everything must be just so. But in adults, there’s a much more devastating term for it. Biological repulsion. The parking garage was cavernous and silent, save for the boy’s chirping voice. He had that enviable, bright-eyed vitality that only comes from never having been broken by the person you love. Madeline didn’t say much, but the way she swallowed that bite of food—the way she allowed his DNA to mingle with hers—was the most intimate thing I’d seen her do in years. It was a beautiful, cozy tableau. I’ve always been quite skilled at destroying those. “I thought you gave up carbs, Madeline.” My voice was steadier than I expected. Madeline’s smile vanished instantly. Before she could even process a response, the boy stepped forward, his expression shifting into something performatively mischievous. “Oh, it’s my fault! I grabbed the wrong box this morning, so I was just—” “I wasn’t talking to you.” My voice was a whisper, but it carried enough edge to make the boy’s eyes well up instantly. Madeline’s protective instincts flared. She stepped in front of him, shielding him from my gaze. “Oliver, it’s not what you think.” She sighed, reaching out as if to touch my arm, then thought better of it. She pulled her hand back, smoothing her blazer. “Jude lives nearby. He’s been carpooling with me to save on the commute. You remember what it was like back in the day, how soul-crushing the public transit run can be.” I remembered. I remembered the year we had nothing but a beat-up Honda with a broken AC. In the summer, the black upholstery would sear our skin. In the winter, the heater blew nothing but ice, and we’d see our breath in the cabin. I remembered her voice, muffled by a thick wool scarf: “Oliver, I swear, one day we’re going to have a car with heated seats and a driver. We’ll never have to feel the wind again.” Back then, she used to lean across the center console just to be closer to me. She was always colder than I was. I’d take her frozen hands and tuck them inside my coat, against my chest. “It’s not hard,” she’d whispered back then. “Nothing is hard as long as I have you.” She got the car. She got the heated seats. And I hadn’t been invited for a ride in over a year. A sharp ache flared in my chest. I blinked rapidly, trying to maintain my composure. “Don’t be dramatic. I just came to drop off your filing.” Madeline’s shoulders relaxed slightly when she saw the folder in my hand. “Thank you. And Oliver, really… he’s just my assistant.” She looked at me with that familiar, rehearsed sincerity. But I knew better. The “protocol” was gone when it came to him. I dug my nails into my palms, a bitter smile tugging at my mouth. “I didn’t realize the CEO role now included a morning shuttle service for the junior staff.” Behind her, the boy looked down, his face flushed with embarrassment. Madeline’s patience snapped. She toyed with her key fob, her tone shifting to one of cold irritation. “Oliver, there is absolutely no need to be this cruel to a kid.” Cruel? The word felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. The list of questions I wanted to scream at her—about the separate beds, the dry-cleaned pajamas, the “don’t touch me” aura she carried like a shroud—all died in my throat. “Just a joke,” I said, my voice hollow. “It’s only a joke if the other person is laughing,” she countered, her gaze steely. “Apologize to him.” I stared at her. I looked for a flicker of the woman who used to declare war on anyone who so much as looked at me sideways. I looked for a hint of the girl who shared a single taco with me in a park because we only had five dollars left in our bank account. I found nothing. Just a stranger in a designer suit demanding I play nice with her favorite toy. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, the words tasting like ash. Madeline nodded, satisfied with my compliance. She was always happy when I stayed within the lines she drew for me. “Good. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” She said it like a reward, like a queen granting an audience to a lowly subject. A year ago, I would have been pathetic enough to feel a surge of gratitude. Now, I just shrugged. “Whatever works.” She didn’t notice the shift. She checked her watch, turned on her heel, and walked to the passenger side of her car. The boy followed her, trailing like a golden retriever. She slid into the driver’s seat—her seat—and he hopped in beside her. I stood in the shadows of the concrete pillars, watching the taillights fade as they drove toward the light of the exit. The garage was silent again. I touched my face, surprised to find it dry. I think I’d finally run out of tears. The rot in our marriage hadn’t happened all at once. It was a slow, agonizing erosion. It started a few years ago, after an evening of intimacy that felt… mechanical. Afterward, she didn’t hold me. She just stared at the ceiling and said, “I don’t know why, Oliver, but I feel like the spark is just… gone. It feels like a chore.” I panicked. I tried to fix it. I bought expensive cologne, I worked out until my muscles screamed, I even bought a silk robe I thought she’d like. For a week, it worked. She was surprised, she was engaged, she was there. But then, the next time I tried to initiate, she looked at me with a mix of pity and annoyance. “Are you really that desperate? It feels like we’re just checking off a box on a to-do list.” I didn’t argue. I just went to the bathroom and changed back into my sweats. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt a profound sense of shame I couldn’t name. After that, we stopped. She seemed relieved. I told myself it was normal—the “ten-year itch,” the natural cooling of a long-term flame. But the cooling turned into a deep freeze. She started needing “space.” She started telling me she viewed me as “family” rather than a lover. She said she still loved me, and I believed her, so I accepted the new rules. I stopped touching her sleepwear. I learned to sleep on my side of the line. But when I used her fork to taste the pasta a month ago and she dropped the utensil as if it were contaminated with plague… that was the first time I really broke. I hadn’t cried much since our wedding day. Back then, I’d blubbered like a baby when she said her vows. She had kissed the tears off my cheeks and whispered, “Oliver, I love every single part of you.” Now, she found my saliva repulsive. I had sobbed that night until my chest burned. Madeline had just stood in the doorway, watching me with a clinical, detached expression. When I finally went quiet, she asked, “Are you done? Go to sleep, Oliver. You’re being hysterical.” She made me feel like a madman for wanting to be loved. I started searching for answers online. When I found the term “Order Sensitivity,” I clung to it like a life raft. It’s a phase, I told myself. She’s stressed. She’s overwhelmed. She’s just trying to control her environment. I thought if I followed the rules perfectly, I could win her back. But I forgot one thing: order sensitivity is for children. For adults, it’s a polite way to describe the fact that you can no longer stand the skin of the person lying next to you. Madeline could share a donut with a stranger. Her “order” was a cage designed specifically for me. Madeline didn’t make it home for dinner. The sandwich I’d made for breakfast was still sitting on the table, the bread stale and the eggs congealed. I picked it up and forced a bite into my mouth. The cold yolk was oily and smelled of iron. I barely made it to the bathroom before I retched, my stomach heaving until I was gasping for air on the tile floor. I don’t know how long I stayed there before I heard the front door open. “Sorry, Oliver. Things got crazy at the office.” Madeline walked into the kitchen, carrying a white box from Boulangerie L’Avenue. It was the place that made the almond croissants we used to live on when we were broke. She hadn’t bought them in years, not since she decided gluten was the enemy. She saw me staring at the box. A faint, performative smile touched her lips. “I stood in line for twenty minutes. Eat them while they’re fresh.” The scent of toasted almonds and butter filled the room, a ghost of our early twenties. I remembered our first apartment—a studio with a leaking radiator. We couldn’t afford the rent, and I was bedridden with a brutal flu. Madeline was working two jobs and doing gig delivery on the side just to keep us afloat. Our landlord, a kind old man, had brought us a box of those croissants one night. That was the same night Madeline got into the accident. She’d been rushing a delivery and clipped an elderly woman on a bicycle. I’d dragged myself out of bed, gathered every cent we had—exactly $836—and met her at the hospital. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. I watched Madeline crumble into a heap of pure terror. I did the only thing I could do: I knelt before the woman’s family in the waiting room. I begged. I told them we’d pay every cent, that we’d sign whatever they wanted, just please don’t call the police. They saw how pathetic we were and let us go with a payment plan. We sat in the hospital parking lot afterward and cried until our lungs ached. We had no money left for food. Those croissants were all we ate for three days. Without that little bit of sugar, I don’t think we would have made it. Seeing the box now, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flickered in my chest. Was this an apology? Was she trying to find her way back to me? I reached for the box, but then my eyes caught something. There was a smudge of gray ash on the white cardboard. A cigarette ash. Madeline didn’t smoke. But Jude did. I’d seen the pack in his pocket this morning. I opened the box. There were only three croissants left. A full order was four. “What happened to the fourth one?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Madeline’s expression shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing her eyes before she smoothed it over. “It smelled so good, I couldn’t resist. I had a bite.” When I didn’t respond, she took a step closer, trying to use her old “playful” tone. “What, are we back in the studio apartment? We’re rich now, Oliver. I can buy you a thousand boxes.” She kept her distance perfectly. Not even the hem of her coat brushed my jeans. “You’re allergic to almonds, Madeline,” I said quietly. “You break out in hives if you even smell them.” During those three days in the hospital, her neck had been covered in a red, angry rash. She’d eaten them anyway because we were starving. The silence that followed was suffocating. I reached out and flicked the ash off the box. “He ate it, didn’t he? He sat in the car with you, and you let him eat our history.” Madeline’s face went pale, then hardened into a mask of cold fury. “Jude had never tried them. I gave him one. You’ve been complaining for months that you’re watching your sugar anyway, so I figured—” Watching her scramble for excuses was more painful than the betrayal itself. “Give the rest to him tomorrow,” I said, closing the box. “Oh, for God’s sake, Oliver!” She threw her hands up, her voice sharp with irritation. “What is wrong with you? It’s a pastry. One. Pastry.” She didn’t get it. She never would. It wasn’t about the food. It was about the fact that she was giving away the “sweetness” that belonged only to us. I closed my eyes. I was done. “I don’t want them. I don’t want any of it.” “I am asking you one last time,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave. “Are you going to eat them or not?” “No.” Before the word was fully out of my mouth, Madeline grabbed the box and slammed it into the trash can. “Fine. If you want to be a martyr, do it on an empty stomach.” The kitchen still smelled of almonds, but all I could feel was an overwhelming, soul-crushing exhaustion. “I worked fourteen hours today,” she snapped, kicking the trash can for good measure. “I am tired. If you want to keep this marriage going, stop looking for reasons to blow it up.” I looked into her eyes. The revulsion was there, clear as day. “Am I the one blowing it up?” My voice was raspy. “You’ve been gone for years, Madeline. You just forgot to move your body out of the house.” “I told you I love you!” she shouted. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. I am faithful to this house and this life. Stop being so damn paranoid!” She looked so genuinely indignant that for a second, I almost doubted my own sanity. “Infidelity isn’t just about whose bed you’re in,” I said softly. She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “Right. This is about sex. It’s always about sex with you, isn’t it? You’re mad because I won’t let you touch me.” She stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, her grip tight and bruising. “Fine. You want it? Let’s go. Let’s get it over with so you’ll shut up for a week.” She started dragging me toward the bedroom. Slap. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged kitchen. Madeline’s head jerked to the side, her hand flying to her cheek. She looked at me with pure, unadulterated shock. The last of my delusions crumbled. “Do you really think you’re the only one who feels disgusted?” I asked, my voice trembling with a decade’s worth of repressed grief. “I am so incredibly tired of being tolerated by you.” I took a breath, the air finally reaching the bottom of my lungs. “I’m done, Madeline. I want a divorce.” I’d spent hours imagining this moment. I thought she’d scream. I thought she’d cry or beg or maybe even laugh in my face. Instead, she just got quiet. A deep, abyssal silence that made me feel like I was falling. “We aren’t getting a divorce,” she said. Not I don’t want to. But We aren’t. I looked at her, searching for a spark of the woman I loved. I saw a CEO calculating the PR fallout and the asset division. After fifteen years together, we weren’t a couple; we were a conglomerate. “I’m leaving you!” I raised my voice, desperate for her to acknowledge my agency. She just checked her watch. “It’s late, Oliver. You’re emotional. We’ll talk when you’re rational.” She turned and walked out the front door. She didn’t even take her keys. She just left, as if I’d told her the weather was slightly overcast. She didn’t care about me. She didn’t even care enough to be angry. She went to him. I knew it in my marrow. The algorithm is a cruel thing. I opened a social media app and there he was—Jude. His profile was a shrine to his own youth: selfies at the gym, close-ups of expensive cocktails, the effortless arrogance of a boy who hasn’t been hit by life yet. I looked at my own reflection in the darkened phone screen. The fine lines around my eyes, the weary set of my mouth. No amount of skincare could replicate the “life” he had. I was a vintage car that had been driven into the ground; he was a shiny new lease. A red dot appeared on my feed. A new post. “The boss-lady took me to see the skyline. Best night ever.” There was a video of fireworks over the harbor. I’d been on those harbor cruises. I remembered walking along the pier with Madeline after dinner, back when we were poor. We’d buy two cheap hot dogs from a street cart and walk for miles, looking at the lights of the penthouses we hoped to own one day. “Oliver,” she’d said back then, watching a display of fireworks. “One day, I’m going to buy out the whole harbor for you. A whole night of just us and the sky.” She’d done it for our seventh anniversary. It had been spectacular. She’d stood under the exploding light in a gown that cost more than our first car and whispered, “Oliver, without love, a life this long would be unbearable.” Boom. The fireworks in Jude’s video exploded with the same rhythm as the ones in my memory. But the person standing next to her had changed. In that moment, a voice in my head—clear and cold—finally spoke up. Stop drowning in the past, Oliver. The water is gone. You’re just lying in the mud. I was thirty-five. I wasn’t dead. I had a whole life left to live, and I refused to spend it eating the scraps of a woman who looked at me like a chore. If this was going to end, it wasn’t going to be quiet. I tracked her phone. They were at a boutique hotel downtown. At 1:00 AM, I used the emergency override on the room door. I found them. Not in the middle of anything scandalous—just lying there, Jude’s head on her shoulder as they watched the city lights. Madeline’s face went through a flicker of panic, then rage, but never regret. She sat up, pulling the sheet over herself with a practiced, icy calm. “Men in my position have to network, Oliver. You should try to be more understanding of the pressure I’m under.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just held up my phone, showing her the photos I’d taken of them entering the hotel together. “I told you,” I said, my voice as cold as hers. “I want a divorce.”

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My younger sister, Tiffany, moved to the city to “find herself,” but all she’s found so far is reasons to complain about my apartment. To her, my cozy one-bedroom in a decent zip code is a “cramped, pathetic dump.” I tried to be the good sister. I cleared out my guest closet and bought an expandable room divider to give her some privacy. Her gratitude? She went straight to the family group chat and started a wildfire of lies, telling everyone I was being kept by a “sugar daddy” and that I only lived in this “shithole” because he’d dumped me. This afternoon, I was out on the balcony taking down my laundry. In the penthouse unit of the adjacent building—a glass-and-steel monolith that housed the city’s elite—Dominic Thorne was finishing a workout on his private terrace. He’s the crown prince of the Thorne Group, a man worth eleven figures, and as he wiped sweat from his brow, his gaze drifted momentarily toward our building. Tiffany leaned against the doorframe, watching him, then rolled her eyes at me with a sneer. “With those wrinkles and that tired look, you aren’t even fit to shine his shoes,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “Don’t tell me you actually think a man like that would look at someone like you.” She got louder, feeding off her own cruelty, pointing a manicured finger toward the penthouse. “What, are you going to tell me he’s here for you? That the city’s most eligible bachelor is your secret husband?” She laughed, a shrill, mocking sound. “If you have the guts to walk over there and call him ‘husband,’ I’ll get down on my knees and bow to you right now. But we both know the truth—his security would toss you out like the trash you are. You’re just a smudge on his view.” She didn’t know about the Rumor-Manifestation System. It was a strange, silent pulse in the back of my mind. If a rumor is repeated ninety-nine times, I can choose to make it reality. I listened as the mechanical chime echoed in my head: [Rumor count reached: 99. Activation ready.] I turned my head and looked at the man across the way—the man whose net worth could buy my entire life a thousand times over. Since you insist he’s my husband, Tiffany, I think I’ll take you up on that fortune. … I stared at Dominic as he draped a towel over his neck. “What are you gawking at? Put those thirsty eyes away,” Tiffany snapped. She was holding my favorite silk blouse—the one I’d painstakingly steamed for my interview tomorrow. Before I could stop her, she crumpled it into a ball and used it to wipe the dust off the balcony railing. “Look at yourself,” she scoffed, tossing the ruined silk onto the floor and grinding her heel into it. “You’re thirty, single, and pathetic. You aren’t in his league. You aren’t even in the same universe.” I clenched my fists. “Tiffany, that was for my interview.” “Oh, please. It’s a cheap rag.” She pulled out her phone, the camera lens glowing red. “Hey guys, look at this! Here’s my ‘successful’ big sister in the city. Living in a thirty-square-meter shoebox, thirsting after the billionaire next door while she won’t even buy her own sister a decent outfit!” She made a face at the screen, her eyes sparkling with malice. “You should have seen the way she looked at him just now. Like she wanted to eat him alive. Honestly, Claire, you’re an embarrassment to the family.” The comments began scrolling wildly on her livestream. A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a voice note from our mother in the family chat. “Claire! Have you no shame? I told you to take care of your sister, and this is how you treat her? Tiffany just graduated! You have her living in a kennel while you spend your time chasing rich men? Don’t you dare ruin her reputation with your filth!” Then came another, longer message. “I heard from Tiffany that a big-shot CEO lives next door. Don’t you start getting ideas, you hear me? I know your type. Last month, Mrs. Gable said she saw you getting out of a luxury car. I knew you were up to no good! You clear out of that apartment and make room. Tiffany’s boyfriend is coming to visit in two days. He’s from a real wealthy family, a proper heir—he can’t stay in that dump. Give them the master bedroom. You can sleep on the balcony or go live in your office for all I care!” A familiar ache tightened in my chest. Since we were kids, I only got what Tiffany didn’t want. I worked my way to the city, built a life, and yet, they still followed me like a shadow, ready to dim my light. “You hear that?” Tiffany smirked, waving her phone. “Mom wants you out. My boyfriend, Rico, is actually a close friend of Dominic Thorne. He’s used to the best. If you’re smart, you’ll pack your bags before I throw them out the window.” I stared at her, my nails digging into my palms. “I pay the rent here, Tiffany. Every cent.” “So? Your money is Mom and Dad’s money. You’re just a liability. They should have sold you off for a dowry years ago.” Tiffany’s eyes darted back to the penthouse terrace. “What? You still thinking he’s coming for you? Your ‘secret husband’?” She shouted it toward the open air. “If you go over there and he actually knows your name, I’ll kiss your feet! But let’s be real—you’re nothing but a stain on his sidewalk!” [Ding! Detection: The rumor ‘The Billionaire is my husband’ has reached 99 counts.] [System fully charged. Host may manifest this rumor at any time.] The tension in my shoulders suddenly evaporated. I looked at the neighboring balcony. Dominic was frowning now, looking toward the noise. If they wanted him to be my husband so badly, I was happy to oblige. But not yet. I wanted them to feel the full weight of their own trap before I sprung it. I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “Go ahead and post whatever you want, Tiffany,” I said quietly, turning back toward the living room. “Just make sure you’re ready for the consequences.” “What’s that supposed to mean? You think you’re a threat?” Tiffany followed me in, her voice rising. “I’m warning you, Claire. If you aren’t out by tomorrow, I’m taking those pathetic diaries I found—the ones where you obsess over the CEO—and I’m posting them all over the neighborhood. I’ll make sure you can never show your face in this city again!” The diaries were fakes she’d mocked up yesterday. “Post them,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I dare you.” The next morning, my suitcases were sitting in the hallway. A piece of paper was taped to my own front door, written in thick, black marker: BEWARE OF THE SOCIAL CLIMBER. HER NAME IS CLAIRE. The door code had been changed. Inside, I could hear music playing and the smell of expensive takeout. I stood there for a moment, remarkably calm. Then, I pressed the doorbell. It took a long time for the door to crack open. A cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap grease hit me. A man stood there, wearing my brand-new silk robe—the one I hadn’t even taken the tags off yet. There were stains on the collar, and he was picking his teeth with a distracted air. “Who’s this?” He blew a whistle, his eyes roaming over me. “Oh, the big sister? You’re a lot cuter than Tiffany described.” “Move,” I said. “Hey, don’t be like that.” He reached out to grab my arm. “Tiffany’s inside making lunch. Why don’t you come in and have a drink with Rico? I can introduce you to some real players, way better than that stiff in the penthouse.” I stepped around him and walked into my own living room. It looked like a crime scene. Cigarette butts were crushed into my white rug. Red wine was splashed on the cushions. Tiffany was sitting on the coffee table, scrolling through her phone. “Claire? You actually came back?” Tiffany laughed, gesturing to the man. “Meet Rico. He’s a big deal in the city’s inner circle. Best friends with Thorne next door.” Rico puffed out his chest, adjusting the robe that was two sizes too small for him. “Stay humble, babe. I mean, yeah, Dominic and I grab drinks, play some golf. It’s whatever.” I almost laughed. “This is why you broke into my home? To turn it into a frat house?” I pointed at the door. “Get out. Both of you.” Smash. Tiffany dropped a wine bottle. “Who are you telling to get out? Mom said this place is my dowry. If you don’t like it, call the cops! See if they care about a ‘family matter’!” She wrapped her arms around Rico’s neck. “Babe, look at her. She’s just jealous that I found a real man. She’s bitter because she’s alone.” Rico glared at me. “Listen, lady. Tiffany’s carrying my kid. You stress her out, and you’re dealing with me.” I looked at Tiffany’s stomach and felt a cold, sharp satisfaction. “Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone and snapping a photo of the mess. Before I could dial, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Claire! You ungrateful brat!” her voice wailed through the speaker. “If you report your sister to the police, I’ll come down there and hang myself in front of your office! I’ll tell the whole world you’re a monster who tried to kill her own mother!” “Mom, he’s a thug. He’s trashing my home.” “Shut up! He’s an heir! Rico said he’s buying Tiffany a villa! You’re just jealous! If you ruin this for her, I will never forgive you!” The line went dead. I looked at the two of them. The last thread of familial obligation finally snapped. “Fine,” I said, putting my phone away. “Stay here then.” I turned to leave. “Wait! Where do you think you’re going?” Tiffany called out. “Go to the drugstore and get me some vitamins. And Rico’s hungry—get some lobster and peel it for him. Don’t let him get his hands dirty.” Rico laughed, sliding his hand under her shirt. I picked up my bag. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.” Downstairs in the lobby, I saw Dominic’s concierge. He looked at me for a moment, recognizing me from the building next door, but I kept my head down and walked out. A group of neighborhood women were whispering as I passed. “Is that her? The one Tiffany posted about?” “Yeah, the one who’s obsessed with the billionaire. Apparently, she knocks on his door every night.” “I saw the photos in the residents’ chat. She looks so normal, but I guess you never know who the real crazies are.” I stopped and opened my phone. The neighborhood WhatsApp group was blowing up. Tiffany had used a burner account to post photos of me in my pajamas, taken from behind. The lonely spinster in Building 8 was at it again last night, rubbing up against the CEO’s door handle. So pathetic! The comments were brutal. My hands shook, but not from fear. From the sheer, icy heat of my rage. Tiffany, you want to play a high-stakes game? Let’s play. I spent the night in a cheap motel and went to the office the next morning. The atmosphere was different the moment I walked in. The receptionist looked away. The laughter in the breakroom died down as soon as I entered. I’d barely sat down when the HR assistant appeared. “Claire, the CEO wants to see you.” Her eyes were full of disgust. In the office, a stack of photos was thrown onto the desk. “Explain this,” my boss barked. I picked them up. They were poorly photoshopped, but effective—my face spliced onto bodies in compromising positions, in clubs, and in scenes meant to suggest I was an escort. The anonymous email sent to the company had a familiar tone: Your executive, Claire, is a high-end call girl by night. Here’s the price list… “Sir, this is a smear campaign. I can prove—” “I don’t care!” he snapped. “The board is already breathing down my neck. You’re on administrative leave, effective immediately. If this turns out to be true, don’t bother coming back.” I packed my desk into a single box. As I walked out into the plaza, a bucket of red paint splashed across my front. “Look! There she is! The gold-digger!” Tiffany was standing there with a megaphone. Rico was beside her, livestreaming. “This is my sister! She tried to steal my boyfriend, she owes thousands to loan sharks, and now she’s trying to sell me off to pay her debts! Help me!” Tiffany wailed for the camera. A crowd gathered. Phones were everywhere. “She’d do that to her own sister?” “She looks so professional, what a snake.” “Trash!” Someone threw a water bottle at me. I wiped the stinging paint from my eyes. Rico shoved his phone in my face. “Look at her, guys! This is what happens when you get fired for being a slut! Follow Tiffany for more updates. Let’s make this bitch famous!” The comments were a sea of death threats. Tiffany looked at me over the megaphone. For a split second, the “victim” mask slipped, and she gave me a sharp, triumphant grin. “Claire, just admit you were wrong! Tell everyone you’re sorry, and maybe Mom will take you back!” I looked at her. I looked at the mob. [Detection: Social rumor threshold almost reached.] [Current count: 98/99.] One more. I took out my own phone, snapped a photo of Tiffany and Rico in their moment of glory, and walked away without a word. “Yeah, run away! Coward!” Tiffany screamed. The price for this, Tiffany, is higher than you can afford. Three days later, my mother called. “Get over here, you brat! Rico got us VIP passes to a gala hosted by that Dominic Thorne fellow. We’re going to the penthouse tonight to see how the other half lives! You’re coming along to wait on us. Don’t embarrass us!” A gala? At Dominic’s? I looked at myself in the mirror. “I’ll be there,” I whispered. At 7:00 PM, I arrived at the gates of the Thorne Estate. The driveway was a parade of Ferraris and Rolls-Royces. Tiffany, Rico, and my parents were arguing with the security guards at the entrance. “Don’t you know who I am?” Rico was shouting, his rented suit bunching at the shoulders. “I’m Dominic’s best friend! These are my in-laws!” The guard was unmoved. “Invitation, please.” “I told you, I forgot it! Just look at my face!” Tiffany saw me and ran over, grabbing my arm. “Tell the guard you’re the cleaning lady! Get us inside or I’ll tell everyone you’ve got a disease!” I looked at the wealthy guests staring at the scene, and I smiled. “Sure.” I walked up to the guard. Before I could speak, a man in a sharp tuxedo—Dominic’s personal butler—stepped forward. He looked at me, then at the loud, tacky group behind me. He stepped aside and bowed. Tiffany, assuming it was Rico’s influence, grabbed Rico’s arm and strutted inside. “See? That’s what I’m talking about! Status!” Once inside the ballroom, my family was a disaster. My mother was stuffing lobster tails into her handbag. My father was trying to toast people with empty glasses. Tiffany was frantic, taking selfies against the gold-leaf pillars. “Wait, isn’t that the escort who got fired?” a voice called out. It was one of Tiffany’s “influencer” friends. The room went quiet. Tiffany, sensing the shift, suddenly shoved me into the center of the floor. “I’m so sorry, everyone! My sister forced us to come! She told us she was Mr. Thorne’s secret mistress! She said she owned this place and told us to come in!” Tiffany shouted, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I knew she was lying! A piece of trash like her doesn’t even know a man like Dominic!” The whispers turned into an ugly roar. “Is she the one from the news?” “How dare she use Mr. Thorne’s name?” “Where’s security?” Rico jumped in, pointing a finger at me. “Yeah! This crazy woman lured us here! Dominic, man, come down here and deal with this stalker!” On the grand staircase, Dominic Thorne appeared. He was the picture of cold, distant power. Tiffany ran to the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Thorne! This woman has been obsessing over you for months! She’s been telling everyone she’s your fiancée! It’s disgusting! Throw her out!” Everyone was looking at me. My mother stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The sound rang through the hall. “You shameless girl! Kneel down and apologize! Do you want to ruin us all?” She then turned to Dominic with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Mr. Thorne, please don’t be angry. She’s nothing to us. We disown her! Do whatever you want with her!” I touched my cheek, tasting blood. I looked at the greed in their eyes, the malice in Tiffany’s, and the cold stillness of the man on the stairs. “Here he comes,” Tiffany hissed. “He’s going to personally crush you, Claire. You’re dead.” Dominic descended the stairs, his handmade oxfords clicking on the marble. I waited. [Ding! Detection: The rumor count has reached 100.] [Activation condition met. Manifest the rumor: ‘The Billionaire is my fiancé’?] In the silence of my heart, I whispered: Yes. Dominic stopped in front of me. “Mr. Thorne, give the word and I’ll toss her out myself—” Rico started. Dominic ignored him. He reached out, his hand gentle as he wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. A look of profound, aching tenderness crossed his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

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“How much is one plus one?” On the darkened interstate, my brother’s voice cut through the hum of the tires. It was a sudden, sharp test. I hesitated, my small voice trembling. “It’s… it’s…” Before I could find the answer, my mother’s hand flew across the seat. The slap cracked against my cheek, stinging like fire. “I have a Master’s from Stanford,” she hissed, her eyes wild with a cold, academic fury. “Your father has a PhD from MIT. Your brother is a certified math prodigy, a straight-A student. And you? You have to think about one plus one? You’re a defect, Chloe. A total failure.” My face burned, but the terror in my chest hurt worse. I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. “Mom, please, don’t be mad. I’m not a failure. It’s just… Sebastian told me—” She didn’t want to hear it. She slammed on the brakes, pulling the SUV onto the narrow, gravelly shoulder of the highway. “Get out,” she commanded. “A child who only carries inferior genes doesn’t belong in this car with us. You want to be slow? Fine. Walk the rest of the way. Maybe the cold will wake up your brain.” I begged. I screamed. I tried to grab the door handle as they pulled away, but they were gone. Then came the blinding glare of high beams from behind. A massive shadow loomed, and suddenly, my body felt weightless. Like a dandelion seed caught in a gale. I found myself floating, moving faster than I ever could on my feet. I caught up to my parents’ car in an instant. “Mom! Dad! I’m not a failure!” I cried out, though they couldn’t hear me. “My teacher says I’m an artist! She says everyone has their own light!” 1 “A child’s average stride is between twelve and twenty inches,” my mother had said before she pushed me out. “I’ve calculated it for you. It’s exactly three thousand steps from here to the next rest area. Consider this your penance. It’s meant to trigger your survival instinct, to force that dull brain of yours to finally integrate with this family.” She had turned then, stepping back into the warmth of the leather interior without a second glance. I had chased after the car, sobbing. “Mom, please! Don’t leave me here!” The window rolled down just an inch. She tossed a small, high-end vlogging camera—the latest 4K model—onto the asphalt. “This has a built-in tracker and a lens that doesn’t lie,” she said coldly. “It’ll record everything. Don’t you dare stop counting. Stay in the emergency lane and watch for traffic.” That was her final instruction. The glass slid up, sealing them away in their climate-controlled world. I watched the red glow of the taillights shrink into the freezing mist of the December night until they vanished entirely. “Mom, it’s so cold,” I whispered. The weather app on her phone had warned of a cold front—ten degrees below zero. She had been so focused on my “lesson” that she forgot to give me my coat. I picked up the small camera, holding it like a lifeline. I looked into the lens, my breath coming in ragged white clouds. “Mom, I’m not a failure,” I told the unblinking eye. “I’m the best painter in my class. Mrs. Gable says everyone is good at different things.” But the camera didn’t talk back. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, trying to be brave. I started to walk. I started to count. “One, two, three…” The air felt like it was turning to glass in my lungs. My steps grew shorter, my legs heavier. By the time I reached one thousand, they felt like pillars of salt. My foot caught on a piece of shredded tire, and I went down hard. My knees hit the gravel with a sickening crunch. The pain was a white-hot spike through my body. I looked into the lens, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Mom. It hurts so much. I just need to rest for ten seconds. Just ten.” In our house, everything was a game of numbers. Success brought rewards; failure brought “intervals.” Sebastian always won the rewards. I always got the intervals. Ten seconds of being ignored. Ten seconds of the “thinking corner.” Ten seconds of being told how much of a disappointment I was. Back then, ten seconds felt like an eternity. Now, it felt like a heartbeat. When the time was up, I forced myself to crawl, then stand. My leggings were soaked through with blood at the knees, and every step felt like walking on broken glass. I bit my lip. Just 1,970 more steps and I’d be at the rest stop. Grandma and Grandpa were waiting for us at the cabin with Christmas dinner. But the cold was winning. My vision began to swim with white, feathery shapes—ghostly flowers blooming in the dark. “Mom,” I whimpered to the camera. “I don’t think I can walk anymore.” She didn’t answer. Behind me, a wall of artificial suns erupted. I hadn’t realized I’d drifted away from the shoulder and into the center lane. When I “woke up,” the world was quiet. And I was as light as air. 2 Being weightless meant I caught up to them easily. They were at a roadside Starbucks inside the rest area. The table was covered in warm paninis and steaming lattes. My mother was hovering over Sebastian, pressing a thermos into his hands. “It’s freezing out there, Seb. You have to drink this tea. Stay hydrated.” Sebastian took a reluctant sip. My throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. I reached out, my ghostly hand hovering over the steam. “Mom, I’m thirsty too,” I whispered. She didn’t look up. She was peeling an orange for my brother, her movements precise and elegant. It was as if I didn’t exist. My father checked his Rolex, his brow furrowing slightly. “We’ve been here an hour, Madeline. Chloe should have been here by now. Maybe we should… I don’t know, check on her?” Hope flared in my chest. Dad. You remembered. “Dad! I’m right here! There was a big truck, and I was so tired, and then everything went quiet…” I shouted at the top of my lungs, but he just Adjusted his glasses. My mother sighed, her voice laced with irritation. “Christopher, it’s barely two miles. It’s nothing.” “If it were Sebastian, he’d have run it in fifteen minutes,” she continued. “Chloe has been manipulative since she was a toddler. She’s probably dawdling just to make us feel guilty. She needs to build some grit, or she’ll never survive in the real world.” Sebastian nodded, his face smug. He wasn’t just a math genius; he was a star on the junior soccer team. “She’s basic,” he muttered. “If she doesn’t toughen up, she’s going to be a burden on the family forever.” He looked down at his phone. He was the one who started it in the car—asking me those math questions just to watch me squirm. I used to let him. I used to smile and try to play along because he was my big brother. But now, a cold spark of anger flickered in my spirit. “I’m not a burden! You’re mean, Sebastian! You’re the reason I had to get out!” My father hesitated, looking out the window at the thick, swirling fog. His worry seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had appeared. “You’re right. Two miles… an adult does that in twenty minutes. Factor in her age and the conditions, she’s just being slow. We’ll give her another thirty minutes.” My heart sank. I’d always been a “sickly” child. I got winded easily. They knew that. But they had decided to wait. Another hour passed. Sebastian started complaining about being bored. Just then, a couple walked into the shop, shivering and breathless. Their conversation cut through the quiet. “I’m glad we left at midnight, but the traffic is backed up for miles now,” the man said. “Did you see that wreck?” the woman added, her voice trembling. “It was horrific. A semi-truck… they said it was a kid. There was… god, there was nothing left.” My father flinched. The color drained from my mother’s face. She fumbled for her phone, opening the tracking app for the camera. She saw the little blue dot on the map. It was moving. Fast. Relief washed over her, instantly replaced by a sharp, jagged anger. “That little brat,” she hissed, showing the screen to my father. “Look. The camera is moving at sixty miles an hour. She must have hitched a ride with a stranger to play the victim. She didn’t walk a single step of her punishment!” “We’re leaving,” she snapped, grabbing her coat. “If she’s brave enough to get into a stranger’s car, she can find her own way to the cabin. We aren’t waiting another second for a liar.” I panicked. I threw myself in front of her. “Mom, no! It’s not a stranger! That’s an ambulance! I’m in the ambulance!” But she walked right through me. She bundled Sebastian up in his designer parka, gripped my father’s arm, and marched out to the car. I cried as I followed them. The sirens of the ambulance were getting closer in the distance, but my father hit the gas, merging onto the highway and heading toward the mountains. We reached the cabin soon after. I tried to run to my grandparents, to feel their hug, but I just drifted through them like smoke. 3 Christmas at the cabin was usually my favorite time of year. But now, I couldn’t stop crying. My grandmother ran out to the driveway, pulling Sebastian into a hug before peering into the back seat. “Where’s Chloe? Where’s my girl?” “Grandma, I’m right here,” I sobbed, reaching for her sleeve. My mother brushed past her, hauling a suitcase. “She’s coming with a friend. She’ll be here later.” “It’s freezing out, Eleanor,” she added sharply. “Sebastian has been in the car for six hours. He’s exhausted and hungry. Focus on your grandson for once.” My grandmother’s mouth snapped shut. She looked at my father, who simply gave a curt nod. She sighed, her eyes searching the dark road one last time. “Alright, alright. I’ve got the pot roast in the oven and homemade cinnamon rolls. Come in, get warm.” The cabin smelled like pine and sugar. They all sat down to eat, laughing and talking. I sat on the floor, clutching my stomach. I was so hungry. I wanted a cinnamon roll so badly. “Chloe loves these,” Grandma said, her voice soft as she looked at the empty chair. “I saved a special batch for her. I’ll warm them up the minute she walks through that door.” I sniffed, the tears starting again. After dinner, the house grew quiet. Grandma finished the dishes and looked at the clock again. It had been hours. “Christopher, Madeline… enough,” she said, her voice stern. “Where is she? Whose car is she in? Call them. Now. A six-year-old shouldn’t be out this late on New Year’s Eve.” The room went silent. My father shifted in his seat. “She should be here soon. Any minute.” His vague answer didn’t satisfy them. “Whose car?” Grandpa demanded. “If you don’t know, call the police. How can you be so calm?” My father looked at my mother. She sighed, pulled out her phone, and opened the app. Grandma and Grandpa leaned in, and I hovered over them, too. She frowned. The dot was stationary now. It was at a building only five minutes away from the cabin. “See? She’s five minutes out. She’ll be here in a heartbeat.” Grandma tried to look closer, but my mother locked the screen and tucked the phone away. “Before she gets here, we need to have a serious talk,” my mother said, her voice taking on that “academic” authority. “Chloe is starting first grade soon. You two have to stop coddling her. It’s stuntin her development.” I hid behind Grandma’s chair, trembling. My mother loved “gifted” children. She spoke to Sebastian like he was a colleague. But me? I was a project that kept failing. Once, I got a 59 on a math quiz. She had looked at me with such pure disgust. “Are you even mine?” she’d asked. “How can you be this dense? What is wrong with your brain?” She had put me on a grueling “acceleration” schedule. Hours of extra math. Sebastian’s old workbooks. Every mistake was a mark on my hand with a ruler. Grandma tried to intervene. “Madeline, she’s just a little girl. You can’t force a flower to bloom by pulling on the petals…” “She couldn’t even tell me what one plus one was today!” my mother shouted, cutting her off. “Sebastian was doing third-grade multiplication at her age!” Grandma went pale. In the corner, Sebastian gave a little smirk. I flew toward my mother, screaming. “It wasn’t me! It was Sebastian! He told me one plus one didn’t equal two anymore! He told me it was a trick!” But she couldn’t hear my truth. “Wait,” Grandpa said, standing up. “Is that Chloe’s coat?” 4 My father and Grandpa had gone to the SUV to get the rest of the bags. Grandpa was holding my pink puffer jacket, his face a mask of confusion. “I thought she was in someone else’s car? Why is her coat in your trunk?” My father froze. He looked at my mother, his eyes wide. “Madeline… when you kicked her out… did you make sure she had her coat?” My mother’s eyes darted around the room. “I… I thought she was wearing it. She’s six, Christopher! She should know how to dress herself!” The unfairness of it hit me like a physical blow. She had pushed me out so fast. I didn’t have a chance to grab anything. Even in this warm cabin, I began to shiver. The memory of that bone-deep cold was more real than the fire in the hearth. “What?” Grandma’s voice was a whisper of horror. “On the interstate? You kicked her out on the interstate?” “You’re insane!” Grandpa roared. “It’s ten below! You left a child alone on a highway? What is wrong with you?” “Nothing happened!” my mother yelled back, her voice cracking. “I told her to stay in the emergency lane! Look at the GPS! She’s moving! She’s fine!” Grandma and Grandpa grabbed their keys, heading for the door to find me. “Grandma, Grandpa, don’t go!” I cried. “I’m here! Please, don’t fight!” Sebastian ran out of the den then, holding something he’d found in my mother’s bag. “Mom, look what was in the side pocket!” It was a drawing. I tried to snatch it away, terrified. My mother grabbed it, her face twisting as she looked at it. She held it up like a piece of evidence. “You see this? This is why she’s failing! This is what you’re encouraging!” It was a drawing of us. A family portrait. Me and Sebastian holding hands, flanked by Mom and Dad. We all had giant, messy smiles. I had titled it The Happy Family. “Drawing won’t get her into the Ivy League!” my mother screamed. “I want her to have a future! I want her to be someone!” And then, she tore it. “No!” I shrieked. “Mom, please! I’ll be good! I’ll study! I’ll never pick up a crayon again!” But the paper fluttered to the floor in jagged white pieces. “Do you have any idea how competitive the world is now?” she spat at my grandparents. “Degrees are devaluing. If she isn’t the best, she’s nothing! And you’re turning her into a loser!” Grandma and Grandpa looked like they had been struck. They turned to my father. He just pushed his glasses up his nose. “I agree that Chloe needs to focus. Art is a hobby, not a career path. We can’t have her wasting her potential on useless things.” His words were the final weight. My spirit felt heavy, drifting toward the ceiling. Mom, Dad… I’m sorry I wasn’t enough. Don’t be mad anymore. Sebastian will make you proud… The doorbell rang. My mother marched toward it, her face set in a mask of triumph. “There. That’ll be her. Three thousand steps later, and I bet she didn’t walk even ten of them.” But when she opened the door, it wasn’t me. It was two State Troopers. One of them was holding a shattered, blood-stained vlogging camera. The other held a photo. “Are you the parents of the child in this picture?”

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At my own wedding reception, the interloper—the man who had stolen my life—leaned in close under the guise of a celebratory toast. Felix offered me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a sharp, predatory glint in the candlelight. “Happy wedding day, Miles,” he whispered, his voice oily. “Just so you know, I’ve already had a taste of the bride. She’s… quite enthusiastic.” The red haze took me instantly. I didn’t think; I just swung. My fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the tiered wedding cake. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sharp crack of Madeline’s hand against my face. Then another. And another. She slapped me six times in front of the cream of society, her eyes burning with a cold, righteous fury. “Felix never asked for anything!” she hissed, her voice trembling. “He gave up everything for you, and you still can’t stand to see him happy!” “I’d rather have married a stray dog than a man as classless as you,” she spat. With a flick of her wrist, she signaled the security team. They dragged me down to the sub-basement of the Holloway estate, throwing me into a concrete pit filled with venomous snakes—a “meditation chamber” designed to break my spirit. For seven days, I was left in that dark, slithering hell. Then, my three biological sisters arrived, not to rescue me, but to settle the score. Katherine, the CEO who ran our family empire with an iron fist, kicked me hard enough to shatter my shin. “Felix cried all night because of your stunt,” she said, her voice like ice. “I’ve already signed over every cent of your trust fund to him. You don’t deserve it.” Margot, the Academy Award-winning darling of the silver screen, grabbed my arm and twisted until the bone snapped. “I’m scrubbing you from the family archives, Miles. Felix is the only brother this family acknowledges. You’re nothing but a mistake we should have left in the gutter.” But Beatrice, the world-renowned surgeon, was the most clinical in her cruelty. She knelt beside me, a scalpel glinting in her hand. “Felix has suffered from kidney issues since he was a child. To make up for what you’ve done, you’re going to give him one of yours. A healthy one.” Before I could even scream, she opened me up. No anesthesia. No sterile field. Just the raw, visceral agony of my organs being harvested while I was still conscious. As the pain reached a crescendo that threatened to shatter my mind, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my head. Ding. [Congratulations, Host. You have completed the ‘Discarded Side Character’ storyline!] [Upon the death of this physical vessel, you will be transported back to your original world to claim your $10 billion prize!] … 1 The moment I heard those words, my screaming stopped. The despair that had been suffocating me for years suddenly evaporated, replaced by a crystalline sense of relief. I was almost out. Katherine and Margot had already left, carrying my kidney in a chilled container like a trophy. Only Beatrice remained in the filth of the basement, her brow furrowed as she worked. Blood continued to seep from the incision. She grumbled as she began to stitch me up, her movements hurried and careless. “If you had just cooperated and donated the kidney like a man, we wouldn’t have had to do the surgery in these conditions,” she said, her voice dripping with annoyance. “This is such a hassle.” I remembered last week. Felix had gotten a papercut while looking through some files—a tiny, microscopic nick. Beatrice had reacted as if the world were ending. She’d summoned a team of specialists, performed an emergency bandaging, and checked on him every three hours. But for me, as she literally sewed up a hole where my organ used to be, I was just a “hassle.” Perhaps sensing my silence, she leaned down and patted my cheek, then jabbed an antibiotic into my arm. “Stop acting,” she said. “I know you’re fine. A little scratch like this won’t kill you. You’re just trying to play the victim so I’ll feel guilty and stop favoring Felix. It’s pathetic, Miles. Now that you’re a Holloway, lose the gutter mentality.” In the past, I would have begged for her to see me. I would have cried, pleading for a shred of sisterly love. Now, I felt nothing but a numb, hollow peace. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Just go. Leave me here to die.” To me, death was the finish line. But to Beatrice, it was another provocation. “What is that supposed to mean, Miles? You’re trying to guilt-trip me now?” She intentionally yanked the suture thread hard. The raw edges of the wound bunched together, and a fresh surge of blood soaked through the makeshift bandages. The pain was astronomical, the kind that makes your vision go white. She watched me gasp for air, sweat pouring down my face. For a fleeting second, a shadow of something—pity? regret?—crossed her face, and her tone softened slightly. “You’re my brother, Miles. Do you have any idea how much money and effort we spent looking for you? We would never let you die.” “Honestly, if you weren’t so small-minded—if you hadn’t attacked Felix—you wouldn’t be in this position.” She sighed and injected a local anesthetic into the site. “Promise me that when we go back, you won’t harass Felix anymore. Apologize to him. If you do that, I’ll move you to a real hospital wing and give you the best care. You won’t have to suffer anymore.” Listening to her “mercy” felt like a joke. I was a transmigrator. I’d entered the body of Miles Holloway when he was six years old. Three years ago, after a lifetime of hardship, the three Holloway sisters found me, weeping as they claimed I was their long-lost brother. But when I got to the estate, I found Felix. He was the boy they had adopted to fill the void I left behind. I recognized him the moment I saw him. Back at the orphanage, he was the one who locked me in a cellar so he could steal my identity when the Holloways came to visit. He’d spent twenty years living my life, enjoying the love that belonged to me, while I suffered in his place. Yet, every time he squeezed out a fake tear, my sisters turned on me. Even Madeline, my arranged fiancée, looked at me with nothing but contempt while she beamed at him. I was done. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to explain. I just wanted to go home. I reached down, my fingers trembling, and gripped the edge of the fresh stitches. With one violent motion, I ripped the wound wide open. Blood and viscera spilled out onto the cold floor. Beatrice screamed, a high-pitched, jagged sound. “Miles! Stop! You’re going to kill yourself!” I looked at the tears streaming down her face and felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “Good,” I rasped. “That’s the point.” “Living another second in this world… with you people… it makes me sick.” My eyelids grew heavy. The darkness surged up to meet me, and I finally let go. 2 I don’t know how much time passed before I woke up. I expected to be back in my own world, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the familiar, stern face of my eldest sister, Katherine. “You’re finally awake.” There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked haggard, but her voice was still laced with that habitual impatience. “You’re a grown man, Miles. Why are you being so impulsive?” “Trying to kill yourself over a little disagreement… it’s not very ‘Holloway’ of you.” The exhaustion hit me like a physical weight. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I just stared at the ceiling, my voice hollow. “You’re right. I’m an embarrassment. I’m not fit for this family.” “So just let me die.” Katherine’s face went pale. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to slap me again, but when she saw how ghost-white I was, her hand fell limp at her side. “Miles! I am warning you, stop talking like that!” Her voice was shaking. The irritation was still there, but beneath it was a flicker of something she didn’t want to admit: terror. “I spent a fortune and moved heaven and earth to get you out of that basement. I didn’t do it so you could talk nonsense!” I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. A fortune? She probably just didn’t want her “backup organ donor” to expire. She didn’t want her favorite pet, Felix, to lose his favorite punching bag. The door pushed open and Beatrice walked in with a tray of medication. When she saw I was awake, a flash of joy crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a scowl. “Drink this. Don’t make me force it down your throat.” She held out a cup of dark, bitter liquid. I turned my head away. “Don’t waste it.” “Miles!” Beatrice’s hands shook with rage, but she didn’t force the cup. Instead, she set it on the nightstand and reached out to check my bandages. Her touch was surprisingly gentle—the kind of tenderness she usually reserved only for Felix. “The recovery is going well. We used the best regenerative treatments…” She glanced at me, her expression fierce. “Stay still. If you rip these stitches again, I won’t fix them.” She sounded tough, but I could see the burst capillaries in her eyes and the slight tremor in her fingers. She hadn’t slept. In the past, this tiny crumb of affection would have made me weep with gratitude. I would have clung to her and begged for forgiveness. Now, it was just offensive. I shoved her hand away and threw back the covers, my fingers clawing at the bandages. If I could just finish what I started, I’d be free. “Stop it!” Katherine grabbed my wrists, her grip tight enough to bruise, but she flinched when I groaned in pain. She let go slightly, her voice breaking into a sob. “Miles, what are you doing? What do you want from us?” “I want to die,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Letting me go is better for everyone. You won’t have to deal with me, and Felix can be the perfect son you always wanted.” “So please. Just let me go.” 3 My words hit Katherine like a physical blow. She raised her hand and struck me—but it wasn’t the bone-shattering slap from the wedding. It was light, desperate, the act of someone who didn’t know how else to communicate. “I won’t let you! You are a Holloway! I won’t let you die!” Beatrice rushed forward, pinning my shoulders to the bed. Her voice was thick with a rare, pleading tone. “Miles, stop it. I know it hurts. Just… just get better. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be better to you, okay?” I looked into her eyes and felt a wave of nausea. Where was this sisterly concern when she was carving me open? Where was this tenderness when she was obsessing over Felix’s papercut? I closed my eyes and tuned them out. I wouldn’t eat. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t breathe if I didn’t have to. The door opened again, and my second sister, Margot, stepped in. Following close behind her was Madeline, her face pale and drawn. Margot’s eyes turned red the moment she saw me. She rushed to the bedside. “Miles, thank God you’re awake. You scared me to death.” When I first returned to the family, Margot had been the “kind” one. She took me on trips, told me stories of how they never stopped looking for me. But as soon as Felix whispered a few lies into her ear, she turned into my harshest critic, calling me a “snake in the grass” who didn’t appreciate the family’s love. I pulled my face away from her hand. Margot’s fingers froze in mid-air, her expression wounded. Madeline stepped forward, taking the medicine from Beatrice. “Let me try,” she said softly. “He might listen to me.” She was confident, and why wouldn’t she be? For years, I had worshipped the ground she walked on. I had endured her coldness with a smile, loving her with a desperation that was frankly embarrassing. Just as she sat down, the door opened one more time. “Miles? I came to see you.” Felix entered, wearing silk pajamas and looking fragile. Katherine immediately went to his side to support him. “Felix, you just had surgery. You should be resting. Why are you up?” Felix shook his head, looking at me with a perfectly curated expression of guilt. “It’s my fault. If I had stopped Miles at the wedding, none of this would have happened. I couldn’t sleep. I had to apologize.” He took the medicine from Madeline and sat on the edge of my bed. “Miles, please. Don’t be angry with yourself. Just take the medicine. Everyone is so worried.” “I know you still blame me, but I never wanted to take anything from you. Everything the Holloways have… it belongs to you.” It was the same old routine. He was painting me as the bitter, jealous brother who was throwing a tantrum, while he played the saint. Before the spoon could touch my lips, I slapped the bowl out of his hand. The ceramic shattered against the floor. The hot liquid splashed across Felix’s chest and arms. He let out a sharp cry, his skin reddening instantly. His eyes welled with tears. “Miles… why? I only wanted to help…” “Miles! You’ve lost your mind!” 4 Katherine was livid. She shoved me back and pulled Felix behind her. “He came here out of the goodness of his heart, and this is how you treat him?” Beatrice was already hovering over Felix, checking his “burns” with frantic energy. “Is it bad? Someone call a nurse!” Margot shook her head, her face a mask of disappointment. “Miles, this is too much. Felix apologized. When are you going to stop this childish behavior?” Madeline was already dabbing Felix’s shirt with a tissue, her voice sharp with rebuke. “Can’t you be sensible for once? He was trying to be kind. Even if you don’t appreciate it, you don’t have to be violent.” They swarmed around him, a protective cocoon of love and concern. Not one of them looked at the man who had just had a major organ removed, the man whose stitches were still weeping blood. Felix leaned into Katherine’s shoulder, catching my eye for a split second. He gave me a tiny, triumphant smirk before dissolving back into “sobs.” “It’s okay… don’t be mad at him. He’s just in a bad mood…” In the past, this would have sent me into a blind rage. Now, it was just pathetic. They were all so smart—the CEO, the Surgeon, the Actress—and yet they were all puppets for a second-rate manipulator. “If you want to coddle that parasite, do it outside,” I said, my voice flat. “Get out of my room. You’re polluting the air.” They froze. “Miles, it’s clear you haven’t learned your lesson,” Beatrice said, her voice shaking with cold fury. “Fine. As of this moment, I am cutting off your morphine. No pain management.” “When you’re ready to apologize to Felix, you can have it back.” Katherine nodded. “Exactly. Let him feel what it’s like to actually hurt. Maybe then he’ll stop being so entitled.” Margot sighed, and Madeline just looked away. They filed out, following Felix like ducklings. The door slammed shut. I didn’t care about the pain. Compared to the last twenty years, a hole in my side was nothing. In fact, the pain was good. it kept me sharp. It reminded me that I was almost at the exit. I reached under my pillow and pulled out a sharp shard of the broken ceramic bowl I’d hidden earlier. Without a second thought, I pressed it to my throat and dragged it across. As the world began to dim, I felt the strength leaving my limbs. The agonizing throb in my side faded. My heart slowed to a rhythmic, peaceful crawl. As the darkness finally took me, I actually smiled. Finally. It’s over. … In the hallway, Katherine stopped walking. “You guys take Felix to the clinic,” she said, her voice tight. “I feel… uneasy. I’m going back to check on Miles.” “I’ll go too,” Margot said quickly. “He was really upset. Maybe he’ll listen to me.” “He needs a doctor, not an actress,” Beatrice snapped. “I’m going.” Madeline looked at Felix, then at the sisters. “I’m his wife. I should be there.” She offered Felix a quick, apologetic smile. “You’ll be okay, right? It’s just a little burn. I’ll check on you later.” Before Felix could protest, the four women turned back. But when they pushed open the door to my room, they weren’t met with silence or a brooding brother. They were met with the metallic, cloying scent of fresh blood.

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