Author: Momo Chan

My mother used to say there was a scale in our house, with me on one side and my sister on the other. Mine was always the heavier side—or rather, the side that dragged downward. Mother called it proof of my greed, a sign of my innate selfishness, and insisted it had to be corrected. But from the time I was six, if I ate one more slice of apple than my sister, my knuckles were rapped with a wooden ruler. She called it greed. If I scored higher on a test than Bree, my mother would corner me against the hallway wall, her face cold. “Did you cheat?” So, I grit my teeth. I studied so hard that I could mimic Bree’s life perfectly—I knew exactly which foot she stepped into the house with, down to the inch, trying to be nothing more, nothing less, than her shadow. Finally, the scale sat perfectly level. To reward me, Mother tossed me a stale, expired lollipop. “Good girl, Hannah. Here’s your prize.” I slipped it into my mouth in silence. It was bitter, chemical, but I still forced a smile. I truly believed that as long as the scale stayed balanced, Mother would love me. Until the day I turned eighteen, when I saw Bree scattering thumbtacks across my bed with my own eyes. I dragged Mother into the room, pointing at the sharp, glinting metal. For once, the scale of blame should have tipped toward my sister. Instead, that night, Mother took a screwdriver, pried the lock clean off my bedroom door, and looked at me with deep, chilling disappointment. “You are so incredibly selfish, Hannah. Because of your baseless accusations, Bree is in her room crying, threatening to run away and disown us.” Father stood in the doorway, reaching out to gently nudge the brass scale on the mantel back to center. “That’s enough. From now on, Hannah’s allowance is cut in half. Consider it a lesson in fairness.” I stood frozen in the middle of my ruined room, laughing until the tears ran hot down my face. It wasn’t just the scale that was broken. There had never been a place for me in this house to begin with. … I wiped my tears and turned to meet my mother’s sneer. “What are you smirking at? You think your sister’s pain is funny?” I blinked back the wetness in my eyes, asking the one question that had burned inside me for a decade. “Why is it that whenever the scale tips, I’m the only one who gets punished? Why never Bree?” Mother looked at me as if I were a stranger who had deeply let her down. “This is because you locked your door, Hannah. You’ve always shut Bree out.” “If you hadn’t been so cold, she would never have done something so desperate. At the end of the day, you’re the older sister. This is your fault. It always comes back to you.” On the mantel, the brass scale seemed to shift, dragging my side down into the shadows. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Father shook his head, pulled out his phone, and opened the family banking app. He changed my monthly school lunch transfer from five hundred dollars to fifty. “That’s enough, Hannah. You’re an adult now. Stop throwing these childish tantrums.” Without another word, they walked back into the master bedroom, closing the door behind them. I stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to force the tears back down. My bedroom door, with its gaping, hollow lock, felt exactly like my chest. Broken open. Drafty. Cold. Through the thin drywall, the muffled sounds of my parents arguing drifted from across the hall. “I told you,” Mother’s voice rose, sharp and thin. “Hannah was never meant to be a big sister.” “I told you years ago we shouldn’t have adopted her. Look at how she treats our flesh and blood. It’s killing me, Thomas!” My entire body went rigid. Beside her, Father’s breath hitched. I heard him quickly shushing her. “Keep your voice down, Catherine. What if she hears you?” I swallowed hard, my throat tight. I wanted to tell him it was okay, Dad. I already knew. Bree had made sure of that when we were kids. Every time our parents dared to offer me a shred of praise, Bree would corner me in the backyard, stamping her foot onto my sneakers. “You’re just an orphan,” she would spit, her eyes wild with a child’s pure malice. “Why do they look at you like that? You don’t belong here. They’re my parents, not yours!” Across the hall, my mother’s piercing voice shattered my memories. “Let her hear! Hannah has spent her whole life trying to ruin Bree. If it weren’t for that scale, God knows how badly she would have bullied her!” A sob caught in my throat. Bullying? Oh, Mother. I have never bullied Bree. I promised you, years ago, that I would protect her. When I was six, Bree was three. She was fierce, competitive, demanding to win at every game, to have every toy. At first, I yielded. I stepped aside, let her win, let her take. Our parents seemed so happy when we got along, and I wanted nothing more than to keep that fragile peace. Until the day Bree was almost cornered by a group of older boys after school, and I didn’t tell our parents. That evening, Mother slapped me so hard my ears rang. Her hands shook as she screamed at me. “You selfish, wicked girl! Are you trying to destroy your sister?” “Why didn’t you tell us? Do you have any idea what could have happened to Bree?” “If anything ever happens to her, Hannah, I swear to God, you won’t live to see another day!” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to utter a single word of defense. But those weren’t kidnappers. It was a boy Bree had been seeing—a high school junior she was infatuated with. Bree had begged me, cried on her knees, imploring me not to tell Mom and Dad. Why was it that when I did exactly what my sister begged me to do, Mother still hated me? I had knelt before Father, weeping, begging for forgiveness, promising I would do better. Father had only sighed, his eyes weary. “It’s fine, Hannah. We won’t let this happen again.” My heart had leaped. I thought I was forgiven. The next day, Mother brought home the brass scale. I thought it was a court of law where I could finally prove my innocence. I had no idea it was a weapon forged to break me. The next morning, the moment I walked through the school gates, Bree ran up and slipped her arm through mine, smiling brightly for the crowd. But as she stared straight ahead, her voice was a venomous whisper in my ear. “You really are pathetic, Hannah. After the way Mom and Dad talked about you last night, I’m surprised you even have the nerve to show your face.” “If I were you, I’d have walked into traffic by now.” I kept my lips pressed together, saying nothing. Today was the day they posted the final rankings. Our school only had two nominations for the prestigious early-admission Vanguard Scholarship—a full ride to the state’s top university. If I got it, I could finally run. I could escape this house forever. After second period, the hallway outside the guidance counselor’s office was packed. I wedged my way through the crowd, my eyes scanning the red-bordered bulletin board, tracing the list of names from the bottom up. Higher. Higher. Until my eyes hit the very top. “Hannah Thompson.” My breath caught in my throat. My limbs began to tremble, a deep, electric shock of joy jolting through me. Tears spilled over my lashes. I had done it. I had actually done it. I turned around, a genuine smile breaking across my face, only to collide with Bree’s dark, frozen gaze. On the board, her name sat at number three. Just one spot short of the scholarship. As she brushed past me, her hand gripped my wrist, her nails digging deep into my skin. “Congratulations, sister,” she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. “Let’s see if you actually make it there.” A cold dread settled in my stomach. I shook her off and hurried back toward my classroom. But before I could reach the stairwell, someone threw a heavy burlap sack over my head. The darkness was sudden and terrifying. When they ripped the sack away, a bucket of rancid, stagnant toilet water was slammed over my head. It drenched my hair, my face, and I felt the sickening sensation of tiny, wet bugs crawling down my collar, clinging to my skin. I choked, doubling over as a wave of intense nausea hit me. My lower back slammed hard against the metal flush valve of the toilet behind me. “This is illegal!” I screamed, my voice cracking with terror. “This is assault!” From behind the locked bathroom door, high-pitched giggles echoed. “There are no cameras here, genius. Leave it to the straight-A student to think a dictionary definition is going to save her.” “Imagine an ungrateful, unwanted orphan trying to steal our princess’s spot. Know your place, trash.” My chest throbbed with a sharp, physical ache. I dragged myself up and began pounding on the door. But it was locked from the outside. This was the old, abandoned girls’ locker room bathroom—the most isolated corner of the campus. Slowly, the strength drained from my legs. I sank to the wet tile floor, pulling my knees tight to my chest, my entire body shaking violently. It wasn’t until late that evening that a janitor finally unlocked the door. I walked home in the dark, my head bowed. When I pushed the front door open, Bree was standing in the foyer, wearing a beautiful, flared pastel dress, looking like a delicate princess. And I stood there, smelling of sewage and rot, a shivering wreck. Mother was in the kitchen, carefully setting a bowl of steaming chicken soup in front of Bree. Bree looked at me, her eyes shining with mock sweetness. “Hannah! Mom said that to keep things fair, we’re throwing a special dinner for my eighteenth birthday tonight.” “Come on, wish me a happy birthday. We’ve all been waiting for you.” I looked at my parents. Both of them turned their eyes away, refusing to meet my gaze. A bitter warmth flooded my eyes. “Happy birth…” “Are you blind?” Mother’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Get on your knees!” She pointed a shaking finger at the brass scale on the mantel. I froze. Then, a lifetime of conditioned obedience took over, and my knees hit the hardwood floor. On the mantel, the scale had been weighted heavily down on my side. It screamed of imbalance. It accused me of taking too much. Of being the parasite. “Do you have any idea what you did wrong today?” Mother barked. I bit my lip, forcing my head up, my eyes burning with a stubborn, desperate spark. “No.” What was my crime? Being ambushed and humiliated in a school bathroom with no one to hear my screams? Or was it simply scoring higher than Bree? Winning the future she wanted? Mother let out a cold, cynical laugh. “If you don’t know, then you can stay right there by the door and think about it. Don’t you dare move until you’ve figured it out!” I knelt there, my spine perfectly straight. The draft from under the front door blew directly against my bruised back, sending sharp, aching pains through my spine. The sticky, dried filth of the bathroom water clung to every inch of my skin like a second, suffocating layer. And in the dining room, my parents laughed, doting on my sister, passing her plates of food. Bree caught my eye through the doorway, raising her glass to me with a slow, triumphant smirk. “See?” her eyes said. “They will never love you.” Later that night, in the dark of my room. I had turned away to try and apply antiseptic to the deep bruises on my lower back when the door clicked open. Mother walked in, holding a jar of ointment. She sat on the edge of my mattress, taking the jar from my hands. Her voice, when she spoke, carried a tenderness I hadn’t heard in years. “Hannah… don’t hate us. This is for your own good.” I stayed silent, terrified that if I opened my mouth, I would trigger another punishment. Sure enough, once she finished applying the cream, she knelt down so we were eye-to-eye. Her gaze was heavy with a complex storm of emotions—expectation, pity… but not a single drop of love. “Hannah, can you do something for me? Can you give that scholarship nomination to your sister?” “Bree has been crying all evening, threatening to hurt herself. You’re the older sister, Hannah. Just let her have this one. Your father and I promise we’ll make it up to you. We’ll take you on a trip, whatever you want. That way, it’s fair.” I shook my head, dragging myself backward onto the bed, away from her touch. “No. I earned those grades. I worked for that nomination.” The warmth vanished from Mother’s face in an instant. A cold, ugly sneer took its place. “You really are an ungrateful wretch, aren’t you? You have all the talent in the world, yet you insist on making life miserable for your sister. You disgust me.” I stared at her, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast. Seeing my tear-streaked face, Mother’s brows knitted in deep irritation. “Oh, is this how you try to make me feel guilty? Let me tell you something, Hannah. I will never be proud of your success. Because you are, deep down, a thoroughly selfish girl.” As she stood up, her eyes flicked to the mantel in the hallway. The scale had tipped toward my side again. As she turned to leave, a raw, ragged scream tore from my throat. “But none of this is fair to me!” Mother didn’t even pause. She pulled the door shut, and the lock clicked into place. The room plunged into absolute darkness, save for the thin beams of light slicing through the hollow gap where the lock had been pried away. My tears dripped onto the dusty floorboards. And from downstairs, the house echoed with the sound of my father’s laughter, celebrating my sister’s third-place finish. The next morning, near the top of the stairs, Bree suddenly intercepted me. “Hannah,” she purred, leaning in close. “The counselor said the nominations are being finalized today.” My shoulders tensed. I nodded guardedly. Bree suddenly wrapped her arms around my elbow, her eyes wide and innocent. Her tone was sickeningly playful. “Just let me have it, Hannah. I promise I’ll make sure everything is perfectly equal between us from now on.” “No. You could have gotten the grades if you actually studied. Why do you have to take what’s mine?” Bree let out a sharp, amused laugh, as if I had just said the funniest thing in the world. “Because taking from you is the best part, Hannah. People like you don’t deserve to be happy. You’re just a stray we brought home.” She gave me a wide, manic grin. Then, before I could react, she threw herself backward, tumbling violently down the hardwood stairs. My pupils contracted. I lunged forward, my hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to catch her. But it was too late. A sharp, agonizing scream echoed from the foyer below. “Bree!” A split second later, a hand slammed hard across my face. The force of the blow spun me around. I looked up into my father’s eyes, which were wild with a terrifying, desperate rage. “What is wrong with you, Hannah? Are you insane? Why would you push your sister!” My cheeks burned, and I tried to gasp out that I hadn’t done it, but in the living room, the brass scale clattered, my side dropping so hard it nearly cracked the wood beneath it. It was as if the universe itself had branded me a monster. On the floor below, Bree looked up at me, a brief, wicked spark of triumph flashing in her tear-filled eyes. Then she clutched her head, wailing hysterically. “Mom! Dad! Don’t worry about me! Just… just take Hannah to school!” “Otherwise, she’ll miss the deadline for the scholarship!” Mother kicked me hard in the ribs, her boot sinking into my side. She pulled out her phone, her voice cold enough to freeze water. “Mrs. Davis? Yes, this is Catherine Thompson. I’m calling to withdraw my daughter, Hannah Thompson, from school. The scholarship? No, she doesn’t need it. Her behavior is monstrous—she just tried to kill her own sister. She doesn’t deserve an education.” I clutched my stomach, curled on the floor, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the howling void in my chest. The ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. Soon, they were gone, and the house fell into a terrible, empty silence. I dragged myself up, vomiting bile onto the hardwood. I wiped my mouth, forced my trembling legs to move, and ran toward the school. I didn’t know how long I ran. By the time I burst into the guidance counselor’s office, my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the carpet, my hands desperately grasping the hem of Mrs. Davis’s skirt. “Please, Mrs. Davis… I need that nomination. I didn’t push her! I swear I didn’t!” Mrs. Davis let out a long, heavy sigh. She knelt down beside me, gently smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Hannah… I know. I believe you. But the school board reviewed your mother’s formal withdrawal and the incident report. They’ve determined your… domestic situation makes you ineligible. The nomination has already been transferred to Bree.” Something shattered behind my eyes. I sat back on my heels, staring blankly out the window at the gray sky. Then, slowly, I stood up. “The SATs,” I whispered. “It’s fine. I can still take the exams. I can apply on my own.” Mrs. Davis looked at me, her eyes swimming with pity. “Hannah… your mother formally withdrew your registration from the state database. You’re no longer enrolled.” My head snapped up, my eyes burning a fierce, bloody red. “Mrs. Davis, please. Let me use your phone. I need to call my mother.” Without hesitation, she handed me her desk phone. The line rang only once before it picked up. “Mom, my enrollment—” “Shut up!” My mother’s voice cut through the receiver like a jagged piece of glass. “Your sister is in the emergency room, and all you can think about is your own pathetic future?” “Let me make this clear, Hannah. Someone like you doesn’t deserve an education. You don’t deserve a future at all.” The line went dead. I stood frozen, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. I had nothing left to say. Mrs. Davis gently pulled me up. “Hannah, listen to me. You can still register as an independent candidate. It’s harder, and you’ll have to pay the fees yourself, but you can do it. Are you willing to try?” I nodded, my gaze hardening into stone. From that day on, I lived in a fever dream of study. I worked late-night shifts at a diner down the road, using every spare second to pore over prep books under the harsh fluorescent lights. I told myself, over and over: “Just get through the exams. Once you’re gone, you’ll be free.” “You won’t ever have to worry about their version of fairness again.” The exams came and went, a blur of charcoal pencils and ticking clocks. But on the day the score reports arrived, Bree was discharged from the hospital. The moment I walked through the front door, I tried to slip the official envelope under my jacket. But Mother’s eyes were sharp. She lunged forward, grabbing my collar, and ripped the envelope out of my hands. My body went cold. I threw myself at her, screaming, clawing at the paper. “Give it back! That’s mine! Give it back!” Mother shoved me hard against the wall, her eyes burning with hatred. “You ungrateful, cold-blooded creature! You think you can just ignore me?” “I told you you weren’t going to college! If you leave, who’s going to pay for your sister’s tuition? Who’s going to support this family after everything we did for you?” “We raised you for eighteen years! Even a dog would show some loyalty, but you? You’re a parasite! A leech!” In a frenzy of rage, she tore my score report into tiny, unrecognizable shreds. Then she grabbed my phone from my pocket and threw it hard against the tile floor. The metal casing shattered. The screen went black. She grabbed me by my hair, dragging me down the hall like an animal, and threw me into the dark, cramped utility closet. “Stay in there and think about what you’ve done, Hannah! When you finally learn how to respect your parents, maybe I’ll let you out!” I lay on the cold concrete floor, my knees pulled to my chest, sobbing until my throat was raw and no more tears would come. Eventually, the crying stopped. I lay there, completely numb, staring into the dark. On the other side of the door, Bree’s sweet, mocking voice drifted through the gap. “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t be mad at Hannah. I forgive her.” “Oh, Bree, you are too good for this world. Unlike your sister, who is just… disgusting.” “Tomorrow, we’re going to throw you the biggest graduation party.” “Honestly, I don’t even know why she bothers breathing…” Their laughter faded down the hall. I let out a soft, dry chuckle. I bit my index finger until it bled, and using the dark red copper fluid, I wrote slowly on the concrete floor: “I’m sorry, Hannah. You were never meant to have what you wanted.” “Not fairness. Not hope.” A soft whisper echoed in the quiet of my mind: “It’s okay.” My eyes drifted to the bottom shelf of the utility closet, where a dusty green bottle of industrial rat poison sat. I smiled. I crawled toward it, my fingers steady as I unscrewed the cap. And like a starving person who hadn’t eaten in months, I swallowed it all. The pain started almost immediately, hot and searing, tearing through my stomach. But I kept smiling, closing my eyes as the cold night slowly wrapped its arms around me. Until the pain faded into nothing. “We’re free, Hannah.” “We don’t need their scale anymore.”

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On the day of our pre-wedding photoshoot, the photographer smiled and remarked that my laugh looked exactly like my older sister’s. Logan didn’t hesitate. He immediately turned to Virginia and told her to put on a white gown too, saying we might as well take a few photos of her for the memory. When it came time to select the prints, the entire family huddled around Virginia’s proofs, showering them with praise. My mother said Virginia was a natural-born bride. My father chimed in, saying she looked far more elegant and poised than the actual bride-to-be. Logan stared at the monitor for a long, silent moment, his finger tapping against the glass, pointing directly at a shot of Virginia looking back over her shoulder. “Let’s put this one at the entrance of the reception hall,” he said. “It’s beautiful.” I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “Then where does my portrait go?” He finally looked up, as if only just remembering I was in the room. “You two look so much alike, the guests won’t even notice,” he said, his tone casual. “Besides, Virginia is never going to get married. It isn’t easy for her to wear a wedding dress even once.” A soft, bitter laugh escaped my chest. My entire life had been defined by that exact logic. She had it hard, so I had to yield. She wanted it, so I had to give it up. Whatever she lacked, I wasn’t allowed to have. And now, even my own wedding was being hollowed out to fulfill her dream. I pulled our only couple’s portrait from the proofing album. In the photo, I was standing close to him, smiling so hard my cheeks ached. But looking at it now, the girl in the frame felt like a stranger. I realized then that spring hadn’t forgotten to come; I had just spent my whole life waiting for it in someone else’s shadow. And I was tired of waiting. … When I fed that couple’s portrait into the shredder in the bridal studio’s lobby, Logan was leaning over, adjusting the cashmere shawl around Virginia’s shoulders. At the harsh, grinding noise of the machine, he raised his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his handsome face. “Emily, it’s just a photo. Don’t throw a tantrum in public. It’s embarrassing.” Virginia sat on the plush velvet sofa, her pale face tightening with a delicate, practiced guilt. “Did I make Emily upset? Maybe we should just use her photo, Logan. Really, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” My mother immediately took Virginia’s hands in hers, throwing a sharp frown my way. “Your sister has congenital heart disease. It’s rare for her to have a day where she’s this happy. Do you really have to ruin it with your attitude?” Logan handed his credit card to the receptionist. “We’ll stick with Virginia’s portrait for the lobby entrance,” he instructed. “Just pick two of Emily’s shots to run on the digital slideshow screens. That should keep her happy.” I watched the photo curl into neat, silent shreds inside the plastic bin. I didn’t say a word. When we left the studio, Logan drove us to the Bellevue for a menu tasting. Inside the private dining room with its dark mahogany accents, the leather-bound menu was placed right beside my hand. But Logan didn’t even let me open it. “Remove all the seafood and spicy dishes,” he told the captain. “Replace them with mild herbal broths and steamed proteins. Virginia’s heart can’t handle anything too rich or stimulating. And bring out a few bowls of the double-boiled chicken tonic.” The maître d’ hesitated, looking over at me. “And for the bride?” Logan finally turned to me, his eyes carrying that familiar, heavy exhaustion. “Emily isn’t picky. She’s always been the sensible one. Just do as I said.” Virginia offered a quiet, soft cough. “Logan, Emily loves spicy food. Today is her wedding tasting. We shouldn’t change everything just for me.” Logan poured her a glass of warm water, his voice dropping into a gentle register I hadn’t heard in years. “Don’t worry about her. Her stomach can handle anything. Drink your water.” When the first bowl of chicken soup was placed on the table, the sharp, medicinal stench of angelica root and sulfurous herbs hit me squarely in the face. My stomach violently contracted. My fingers clamped onto the edge of the table. Logan knew I couldn’t stand that smell. Back in college, he had bought me a traditional herbal remedy when I had a severe flu. I had thrown up so hard under the dormitory archway that I couldn’t even stand. He had carried me all the way to the clinic, whispering to the doctor, “I’ll remember this. I won’t ever let her near those herbs again.” Now, I clamped my hand over my mouth, bolted from the table, and ran into the restroom. I fell to my knees beside the toilet, dry-heaving until tears streamed down my face, my throat burning with a bitter, acidic sting. Footsteps echoed on the tile. Logan leaned against the doorframe of the restroom, his tie slightly askew, his face a mask of bone-deep fatigue. “Emily, Virginia actually has an appetite today. Do you really have to put on this disgusting performance right at the table?” “Even if you’re jealous that I swapped the entrance photo, this is pathetic. You’re about to be a married woman. Show some dignity.” I wiped my mouth, my throat raw. My voice sounded like dry paper. “Logan, you guys can finish the lunch. Let her have the wedding, too. I’m not marrying you.” He froze, his eyes narrowing before a small, dismissive laugh broke from his lips. “Using our marriage as a bargaining chip? Emily, that trick is getting old.” Virginia’s fragile voice floated from the corridor. “Logan? Is everything okay? Did I make Emily angry again?” Logan turned on his heel, leaving me on the cold tile. “Get your head straight. I don’t have the energy to coddle you right now.” I didn’t go back to the dining room. I took a cab home. Our townhouse was draped in premature celebration. Custom silk ribbons hung from the bannister, and red velvet bows were stacked on the console table. On my nightstand lay my hand-carved magnolia wood detail brush—the very first brush Logan had bought me when we strolled through an art supply store years ago. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the smooth grain, and dialed my old university mentor. “Professor, I’ve made up my mind,” I said quietly. “I’m moving to Beacon next week. Is that studio residency still open?” The line went quiet for a beat. “Emily, are you absolutely sure?” I looked at the red silk bows on the bed. “I’m sure.” Later that evening, the front door clicked open. Logan walked in, carrying a takeout box from the Bellevue. He set it on the counter, his eyes tracking the brush in my hand. “Virginia said you didn’t eat anything. I brought you some plain white rice. Stop dragging this out.” I slipped the brush back into its velvet sleeve. His phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with a text from Virginia: “Logan, for that entrance photo… can I add a line at the bottom? Can I write: ‘Your Bride’?” Logan swiped the notification away, his expression entirely seamless, his voice even. “Virginia likes to tease. Don’t look too deeply into her little quirks.” I picked up the container of white rice and dumped it directly into the trash can. His face darkened. “Emily, are you seriously going to starve yourself just to spite me?” The doorbell rang before I could answer. An assistant from the wedding planning boutique walked in, holding two heavy boxes of stationery. “Ms. Hurst! Your hand-painted magnolia invitations are finally here. Our director said they turned out absolutely breathtaking.” I knelt to open the boxes, my fingers brushing the textured cardstock. I stopped. Half the invitations were missing. Every single invitation was supposed to feature a hand-painted sprig of magnolia blossoms that I had spent over two months designing and executing. I looked up at Logan. “Where is the rest of the order?” He unbuttoned his cuffs, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “Virginia loved them. I let her take half. She wanted to send them to her recovery group friends so they could share in the joy.” “These are my wedding invitations.” He frowned. “You don’t have that many friends to begin with, Emily. What’s left is more than enough. If you run short, just send an e-invite. It’s the same thing.” Virginia peeked through the doorway, holding a few of my finished invitations in her pale, thin hands. Her voice was trembling. “Emily, please don’t be mad at Logan. It’s my fault. I was just so envious… I’ll probably never get to send out wedding invitations in my life.” Logan took the invitations from her hand, his voice softening instantly. “Go ahead and write your letters. Don’t worry about her. She’ll get over it.” The young assistant stood frozen by the door, a strained, awkward smile plastered on her face. I stacked the remaining cards neatly and looked at her. “The venue rehearsal is this afternoon, right?” She nodded quickly. “Yes, the aisle runner and the altar are fully set up. Mr. Maxwell said there was one specific detail he wanted to run through.” That afternoon, Logan drove his car to pick up Virginia and my parents. I took an Uber. When I arrived at the ballroom, I finally understood what that “specific detail” was. The space was a sea of white roses. The coordinator held a clipboard, her eyes darting nervously toward me. “Ms. Hurst, Mr. Maxwell requested that we run the processional with Miss Virginia Hurst walking down the aisle first, before you make your entrance. We just need your signature to confirm this sequence.” I looked at Logan. His explanation was smooth, rehearsed. “Virginia’s heart is weak; she can’t stand for very long. I’m going to push her wheelchair down the aisle first so she can experience what it feels like to walk to the altar.” “And me?” Logan’s gaze was flat. “You’ll come out after. It doesn’t take away from your moment. This is her only chance at this, Emily. You have a lifetime of moments ahead of you.” The coordinator murmured, “But Mr. Maxwell, typically the father walks the bride down the aisle. If we do this with the sister first, it might look like…” My mother cut her off. “Look like what? Our Virginia has suffered her entire life. What’s wrong with using her sister’s wedding to fulfill one tiny dream?” My father nodded in agreement. “Don’t be so petty, Emily. Virginia isn’t trying to steal your thunder.” Virginia kept her head down, her eyes rimmed with a faint, delicate pink. “Emily, let’s just forget it. I don’t want people to misunderstand.” Logan knelt to smooth down the hem of her dress. “They won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll explain. You just focus on looking beautiful today.” Standing in the shadows beyond the spotlights, the desire to fight simply evaporated. Anything I fought for would only be stripped away and handed to her in the next breath anyway. The coordinator held out the pen. “Ms. Hurst? Do you approve?” I took the pen, but I didn’t sign. I merely folded the rehearsal sheet and slipped it into my bag. That night, Logan slept in the guest room. Virginia claimed she was too anxious about the wedding to sleep alone in her apartment, so she had moved into our place. Through the thin drywall, I could hear Logan reading her a bedtime story, his voice low and incredibly tender. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll be right beside you the whole day.” I sat alone in the dark living room. I cancelled our couple’s tickets to the Maldives and booked a single one-way train ticket to Beacon, New York, departing at ten o’clock on the morning of the wedding. When the confirmation text chimed, Virginia’s soft, breathless giggle drifted out from the guest room. I plugged in the shredder and fed the remaining half-box of invitations into the blades, one by one. Logan stepped out into the hallway. Seeing the mountain of paper shreds on the rug, his face went rigid. “Emily, have you lost your mind?” I slid the very last card into the machine, watching him with absolute calm. Before he could speak, his phone lit up. It was a photo from Virginia. She had written “Your Bride” on the back of the entrance portrait, drawing a neat, red heart right next to it. By the time I unplugged the shredder, Logan had already retreated back into the guest room, clutching his phone. The door wasn’t fully closed, and his hushed voice slipped through the crack. “Virginia, don’t write things like that. Emily will overthink it if she sees.” The next day was our seventh anniversary. Before Logan left for work in the morning, he slid a reservation card onto the kitchen table. “Seven o’clock tonight. The Odyssey. I’ll make up for yesterday. Let’s put all of this behind us.” I stared at the gold-embossed card, feeling a pathetic, lingering twist of hope. At seven, I wore the white linen dress he always said he loved. I sat by the window, watching the city lights blink to life. At seven-thirty, my phone rang. The background noise on Logan’s end was a chaotic blur of monitors and hurried footsteps. “Virginia had a sudden panic attack. I’m outside the ER. Eat without me, Emily. Don’t wait.” I tightened my grip on my fork. “Is it serious?” There was a pause, and then his voice turned icy. “Are you asking because you care, or because you’re mad that I’m missing another anniversary?” I didn’t answer. I hung up, had the untouched dinners packed to go, and took a cab to the hospital. The door to Virginia’s private room was slightly ajar. She was already awake, propped up against the pillows, her cheeks looking far more flushed and healthy than I had expected. Logan was sitting on the edge of her mattress, holding a small velvet box. He pulled out a delicate ruby bracelet. On the inside of the gold clasp, I could see two small letters engraved: V.H. Her initials. A month ago, he had taken me to a boutique jeweler to customize this very piece. He had told me that rubies would look striking against my skin, promising to present it to me the night before our wedding. Now, he slipped the gold chain over Virginia’s thin wrist, his voice low and intimate. “I knew this color would suit you better. Your skin is so fair, Virginia. It looks perfect on you.” I stood in the sterile hallway, the takeout boxes growing cold in my hands. My mother walked up from the end of the hall. Seeing me, her face instantly soured. “Your sister just escaped death, and you dress up like this to show off? You only care about your stupid anniversary. You’re cold-blooded, Emily.” My father followed close behind, frowning. “She’s sick, Emily. Don’t go in there and trigger her.” Logan stepped out of the room then. His eyes fell on my bare wrist, and a flicker of recollection finally crossed his face. “About the bracelet… I’ll get you another one later.” When I remained silent, his brow furrowed. “Don’t be difficult, Emily. It’s just a bracelet.” I looked at his face. For seven years, I had convinced myself that he was just a good man with a soft heart, someone who felt responsible for a sick girl. I had convinced myself he would never truly drag me down into the mud. I was wrong. I gave him a quiet, empty nod. “Don’t worry about it.” Back at the townhouse, I pulled out the magnolia wood brush from the drawer. Beneath it was a thick, leather-bound scrapbook. It was filled with seven years of movie tickets, postcards, train stubs, and hand-written love letters. I swept them all into a heavy black trash bag, along with every piece of jewelry and clothing he had ever bought me. I took the bag down to the alley. When I lifted the lid of the dumpster, the smell of rotting food rushed out. I didn’t hesitate. The bag fell with a heavy, final thud. My phone vibrated. It was a text from the wedding coordinator with the finalized floor plan. Attached was a seating chart. Right next to the main entrance, a new exhibition stand had been added. The label read: Virginia’s Support Group Blessing Wall. I stared at the screen, remembering the stack of invitations Virginia had taken. She wasn’t just joining my wedding. She was bringing her entire world into it. I went to the hotel the following morning. The design team was already assembling the massive display board. It was covered in photos of Virginia and her support group, surrounded by sweet notes of encouragement. Right in the center was her solo bridal portrait, looking back over her shoulder in her white gown. The coordinator looked incredibly uncomfortable when she saw me. “Ms. Hurst… Mr. Maxwell told us this was a surprise feature. He added it last night.” I pointed at the center of the display. “Where is our welcome portrait?” She handed me her tablet. In the updated layout, our couple’s portrait had been completely replaced by Virginia’s solo shot. Instead of “Your Bride,” the caption underneath read in elegant script: May all regrets be met with tenderness. I asked, “Who approved this text?” She glanced toward the entryway. “Mr. Maxwell finalized it this morning.” The door opened, and Logan walked in holding a paper cup of warm water. He handed the water to Virginia, who was sitting in her wheelchair, before finally looking at me. “Emily, you’re here. Good. Virginia’s recovery group is taking up a few tables. I’ve already adjusted the seating.” I asked quietly, “And my colleagues? My friends?” He spoke as if it were of no consequence. “We had to move them to the back rows. Virginia’s friends aren’t in good health; they need to be closer to the exits in case of an emergency.” I looked at the tablet screen. The names of my college roommates, my former mentors, and the few close friends I had invited had all been pushed to the absolute periphery of the room. Logan reached out, gently squeezing my wrist. “The wedding is just a show for the guests, Emily. Don’t sweat the seating arrangements, okay?” Virginia sat in her chair, her eyes welling with tears. “Emily, are you still mad at me? Maybe I shouldn’t come. I don’t want to ruin anything.” My mother glared at me immediately. “Your sister put her health on the line just to be here for you. What more do you want?” I pulled my hand out of Logan’s grasp. “I never said she couldn’t come.” Logan smiled, satisfied. “That’s my sensible girl.” At lunch, Virginia suddenly clutched her chest, her breathing turning shallow and rapid. She gasped that a renowned holistic specialist in Boston had an opening for a consultation—and the appointment happened to be on the morning of our wedding. My mother panicked, grabbing my arm. “Emily, we have to cancel the afternoon lawn ceremony. Let’s move everything to an indoor reception tonight. We have to take Virginia to Boston. No one has time to manage your outdoor setup.” Logan didn’t even hesitate. “An evening wedding is better anyway. The wind on the lawn is too harsh for Virginia’s lungs. We’ll drive back from Boston in the afternoon. It won’t delay the main reception.” I looked at him. “So the morning tea ceremony, the family photos, the first look… we’re just throwing them away?” He offered a warm, placating smile. “They’re just formalities, Emily. You’re the mature one. I know you understand.” I nodded. “Sure. Let’s do the evening.” Logan looked visibly relieved. “Thank you, Emily. Once the wedding is over, I’ll take you to get that new bracelet.” I didn’t reply. That evening, I went back to the townhouse, opened my laptop, and changed my train ticket to Beacon to 10:00 AM on the morning of the wedding. Then, I called a local junk removal service and scheduled a pickup for 6:30 AM. When everything was set, I tucked the old magnolia wood paintbrush into the deepest corner of my suitcase. The morning of the wedding was cold and gray. Logan carefully lifted a heavily bundled Virginia into the passenger seat of his SUV. My mother clutched a bag of medical supplies, while my father barked at the driver to hurry. As the window rolled down, Logan looked at me. “Take a cab to the venue to get your makeup done. Be good. I’ll give you an unforgettable night.” Virginia leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice sweet and soft. “Thanks for being so understanding, Emily.” As the car sped away, I went back upstairs. The junk removal crew arrived right on time. My clothes, my books, my daily essentials, even the potted ivy on the windowsill—I watched them carry everything down to the truck. The rooms cleared out within minutes. Only the red silk ribbons remained, stark and jarring against the empty walls. At ten o’clock, the train slowly pulled out of the station. I deleted Logan and my parents from my contacts, deactivated my social media accounts, and threw my SIM card into the trash bag. By seven in the evening, the grand ballroom of the hotel was bathed in brilliant light. Logan pushed Virginia through the glass doors, my parents walking beside them, wearing tired but triumphant smiles. The wedding coordinator saw them and instantly ran over, her face white. “Mr. Maxwell! The bride isn’t here! Her phone is disconnected, and we can’t find her anywhere!”

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My parents’ adopted daughter—their perfect, darling girl—drove drunk and killed a man. She cried, shaking, telling everyone how terrified she was. My brother, without a single second of hesitation, pushed me out to take the fall. My fiancé, a high-profile defense attorney, even committed perjury to seal my fate, pointing his finger at me in open court. Three years of living hell followed. In that prison, I was tormented daily. They broke me, physically and mentally, even shattering my right hand. The constant, agonizing abuse eventually manifested as terminal stomach cancer. “Inmate thirty-three, keep your head down out there. Don’t let me see you back here.” When I was released, I didn’t go back to Boston. Instead, I changed my name, fled to a quiet, foggy coastal town in Maine, and took a job as a cemetery caretaker. I even bought myself a burial plot. Plot thirty-three. A quiet coincidence, nothing more. Until one dreary April morning, under a steady drizzle, a figure under a black umbrella stopped in front of my desk. “The owner of Plot Thirty-Three… does anyone ever come to visit her?” My left hand, holding the registration pen, froze. … Hearing that voice again made me feel as if I were looking back across a lifetime. The rain continued to tap against the windowpane. Without looking up, I kept my voice entirely flat. “She has no family.” James froze. Then, he let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you? Wren, do you even have a heart?” I finally looked up. After all these years, he was still immaculate in his custom-tailored coat, still the golden boy of the Boston press. And me? I was a ghost of myself, hollowed out by the sickness. I watched his eyes grow red, but I felt only a cold amusement. “What did Clara do this time?” I asked. “Whose crime do you need me to pay for now?” “Wren!” A fleeting, ugly guilt flickered in James’s eyes. “Clara’s health is fragile. You did a few years for her—is that really something you can’t get over?” His words were just as sharp and dismissive as they had been three years ago, when he practically shoved me into the back of a police cruiser. ‘Clara is too delicate for prison, Wren. You’re her sister—is it really that hard to do this for her?’ I pulled my lips into a dry mimicry of a smile. “No. I can’t get over it.” He stared at me, completely stunned. “Stop acting out. Come back to Boston with me.” He grabbed my wrist, dragging me out of the caretaker’s booth. “Let go of me!” I struggled, but my lungs burned, and I couldn’t draw enough air to fight him. James stopped. He finally took me in, really looking at the state of my body. “What is wrong with you?!” The panic in his eyes was almost comical. “If you actually care,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, “then give me back my life. Tell the truth. Clear my name publicly…” “Do you want to destroy Clara’s entire life?” he spat back instantly. Of course. Even now, as a celebrated investigative journalist with millions of followers, he wouldn’t write the story that mattered. He wouldn’t write the truth for his own sister. If he knew my right hand was ruined, he’d probably find a way to justify it. After all, Clara was a jewelry designer too. Every time I won an award before the crash, she’d lock herself in her room and cry until they all blamed me. My numb heart gave a dull, familiar throb. “Then why are you here?” My voice trembled. “Wren, it was just three years. It didn’t ruin you,” James sighed, exasperated. “I can support you for the rest of your life. It’s a hell of a lot better than rotting in a graveyard. Stop being so ungrateful.” He forced me into his car. “Where are you staying?” I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I whispered the address. The car pulled up to a dilapidated apartment complex on the edge of town. There were no streetlights; the landlord didn’t bother. James followed me up the stairs, his pace slowing as the peeling wallpaper and smell of damp took over. Mrs. Higgins, my neighbor, passed by and gave me a warm smile. “Early day, Wren?” Then her eyes drifted to James, scanning his expensive suit. Before I could reply, James grabbed my arm roughly. “You changed your name?” He pressed right over the deep, old aches in my arm, and I gasped from the sharp pain. But he didn’t notice. He only tightens his grip. “Who gave you permission to change your name?!” “Hey! Let go of her!” Mrs. Higgins stepped in, pushing him away. The dam broke. I completely lost control. “Does it have anything to do with you?!” I screamed, my voice cracking, raw. “You see how I live now. Just leave me alone. Please. I am begging you!” James’s hand hung frozen in the air. “Fine. Fine. I guess we raised an ungrateful snake after all.” I didn’t breathe until the sound of his heavy footsteps faded down the stairwell. I reached down to help Mrs. Higgins. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Higgins… are you okay?” “I’m fine, dear,” she said softly, patting my shoulder. She saw the terror in my eyes, but she didn’t pry. She just whispered, “Take care of yourself,” and headed inside. Back in my apartment, I collapsed onto the threadbare sofa. My body wouldn’t stop shaking. The memories rushed back, suffocating me. “Look at her. Thought you liked driving drunk? Come on, drink the toilet water. What, you don’t like it?” “Drink it! Crawl like a dog and maybe we’ll believe you didn’t kill that guy.” “So what if you’re a rich girl? Your own brother left you in here to rot!” In prison, the humiliation was a daily routine. They made me kneel for scraps. They tried to force me to draw jewelry designs for them to sell. When I couldn’t, they held me down and snapped my hand. Later, I started throwing up blood. I begged to see James. At first, he came. But then, he started calling me a liar, accusing me of trying to manipulate him. Eventually, he stopped coming altogether, leaving a message through a guard: “Your brother says he has eyes in here. He’ll visit when you stop acting.” On the day of my release, I squinted against the blinding sun. I didn’t get medical help. I didn’t go back to Boston. I just wanted to live out whatever days I had left in quiet obscurity. But why was he back? I stared at the ceiling until dawn, then headed back to the cemetery. After submitting my resignation, I sat on a stone bench, clutching the folded medical diagnosis in my pocket until it was crumpled beyond recognition. Two weeks ago, I had collapsed in the registration booth. When I woke up, the clinic doctor was holding my hand, crying. That was how I found out I had less than a month left. The rain poured harder now. Suddenly, a warm hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me up roughly. “James said you were hiding here. I didn’t believe him.” “Disappearing without a word… did you forget we have an engagement?” I looked up into the dark, stormy eyes of Wayne. “Don’t you think you’re being incredibly selfish?” Selfish? When he and Clara slept in my bed on my birthday, making me the laughingstock of Boston’s elite, did he think about being selfish? My eyes dropped to his ring finger. A platinum band. Matching Clara’s. Counting the three years I spent behind bars, they’ve been sleeping together for five years. Nausea hit me like a physical blow. I shoved him away, leaning over a trash can, retching violently. Wayne frowned, stepping forward to pat my back, but I flinched away from his touch. He froze. “Are you pregnant with some bastard’s kid?” When I didn’t answer, his voice hardens. “A guy named Wells?” Slap. I struck his cheek with everything I had left, my body trembling with rage. “You are disgusting, Wayne.” I turned to walk away, but he caught up, dragging me toward his sleek sedan and locking the doors. “Let me out!” “James is already at your apartment,” Wayne said, steering onto the road. “Aren’t you going home?” The words drained the last of my strength. I looked at him, hollowed out. “Is hurting me really that fun for you?” Wayne’s brow furrows. “Don’t talk like that. Once we’re back in Boston, we’ll go ahead with the wedding.” Then, as if remembering a minor detail, he added, “Though, legally, we won’t be married. Clara and I… we already registered.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh, turning my face to the window. “I wish you both a long life. May you have many children.” The car stopped back at my bleak apartment complex. “Clara came with us. I’m going to the airport to pick her up,” Wayne said. I don’t reply. I just got out. When I pushed open my door, James was sitting on my sofa, staring blankly at my old jewelry design sketchbook. “You used to live for this,” he said, looking up with a confused, hollow expression. “Why… why did you stop designing?” He looked around the peeling walls, his voice suddenly thick. “I won’t hold the name change against you. But Wren… how have you been living like this?” For a second, I thought I saw a rim of red around his eyes. I walked over and calmly took the sketchbook from his hands. “You don’t have to worry. I will never compete with Clara for a design slot again.” “Just let me go. Please.” James stood up, grabbing my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot. “You vanished for a year without a single word! Who is hurting whom here?!” “What do you mean you can’t design anymore? What happened to your hand?” I pulled away from his grip. “Stop acting, James.” My voice was barely a whisper. “When they broke my hand in that cell, the guard called you. I heard the entire conversation.” His words from that night had carved themselves into my skull: “A fracture? Forget it. Wren is too arrogant, always showing off her awards in front of Clara. She needs to learn some humility. Send the prison doctor tomorrow.” “You… you knew?” James stammered, his face losing color. “No, the prison doctor told me it was just a minor sprain from a slip… What do you mean they broke it?” “Jamesary.” A sweet, soft voice called out from the doorway. Clara stood there, holding a thick folder. She glided in and wrapped her arm around James’s. “I personally went and questioned everyone who worked at the facility back then. They all said Wren just sprained her wrist. Nobody laid a finger on her. Look, I have their signed statements right here. Stop worrying so much about her.” The doubt in James’s eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a complicated, defensive irritation as he looked at me. “Your hand… how did it really happen?” It was always like this. It didn’t matter how much I bled. A few sweet words from Clara, and the truth was erased. I tucked my sketchbook away, my heart a flatline. “Please leave.” Suddenly, Clara thrust a gleaming smartphone into my face. “Wren! Everyone back home has been so worried about you. Say hi to the stream!” I looked at the screen—the live viewer count was over a hundred thousand. Panic, cold and sharp, paralyzed me. Three years ago, the courtroom was filled with the same flashing lights, the same voyeuristic eyes, believing the lies, screaming for my head… “Get it away! Get it away from me!” I slapped the phone out of her hand, stumbling back until my spine hit the freezing wall, gasping for air. James’s face softened with a flicker of genuine alarm. “Wren?!” “Wren, do you really hate me that much? I’ll leave…” Clara sniffed, her eyes welling with theatrical tears. “Just leave me alone!” I screamed, drowning her out. “Please! All of you!” My hand was ruined. My career was dead. I was dying. Why won’t they just let me die in peace? “Wren, we looked for you for a year. How can you be so cruel?” Clara wept. James’s expression hardened into anger again. “Clara has done nothing but worry about you, and this is how you treat her?” He barked more questions at me, but my brain shut down. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a ball on the floor, blocking them out. “Please. Just let me go.” Finally, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. Silence filled the room. I sat on the cold floor for hours. When my hands stopped shaking, I texted my landlord that I was leaving. Then, I open my browser and scheduled an appointment at an assisted dying clinic in Switzerland. If living was just a slow torture, I’d rather choose my own exit. At 5:00 AM, my phone rang. It was the cemetery office. “Is this Ms. Wells? About Plot Thirty-Three… we’ve had to transfer it to another buyer. We’re moving your reservation to the communal plot on the east ridge.” I froze. “I paid for that plot in full a year ago. You have no right to sell it!” The clerk let out a cynical treasure. “The new buyer offered eighty thousand dollars cash. Look, if you want it back, pay us a hundred thousand. You’ve held that plot for a year. If you had actually died, we wouldn’t have sold it. But you’re still walking around—it’s a waste of prime real estate!” The line went dead. A cold sweat broke across my forehead. I grabbed my coat and hailed a cab. That grave was the only thing I had left. My quiet corner of the earth. When I arrived, the rain was pouring. I saw Clara standing near the edge of Plot 33, directing two workers to haul away the headstone bearing my name. “Get this depressing garbage out of here. Dump it in the communal section!” Blood rushed to my ears. “What are you doing?!” Clara turned, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face as she cradled a small, ornate wooden urn. “Oh, Wren. A feng shui master told me this exact spot would be perfect for Cloud’s ashes.” Cloud. Her white Samoyed. During my brief three months back with the Abbotts, that dog had bitten me dozens of times. The worst time, it tore a chunk of flesh from my calf. When I cried to James, he just held the dog, telling me, “Dogs have intuition, Wren. Cloud wouldn’t bite you without a reason. You must have done something to provoke him.” I stared at Clara, forcing my voice to remain low. “I bought this plot a year ago. Give it back to me.” “Oh, please,” Clara scoffed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “Wren, whatever I want, I get. I know you’re dying. In fact, I made sure those girls in prison took excellent care of you…” A loud ringing filled my ears. My hands clenched. Then, I smiled. A cold, empty smile. “You will burn for this.” Slap. I hit her face so hard my palm stung, screaming, “I went to prison for you! Why do you hate me this much?!” Clara shrieked, intentionally dropping the urn. The white ashes scattered into the wet wind. She covered her face, sobbing hysterically. “Wren! You can hit me, but how could you do that to Cloud?!” “Apologize to her.” James’s voice cut through the rain behind me. My tears finally spilled over, hot and bitter. “I have stage four stomach cancer. I have weeks left to live.” “What?!” James gasped. “It’s okay, James… I’ll just kneel and scoop his ashes back up…” Clara interrupted, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her purse. “Wren, it’s bad enough you bought a fake headstone to seek attention, but why must you keep playing these sick games with James?” She handed him the paper. “James, I was so worried about her that I had my people check her medical records. Look… she’s perfectly fine.” James glanced at the forged document, then turned his eyes on me, filled with disgust. “You lied to get attention in prison, and you’re still doing it now. You never change, do you?” He still didn’t believe me. The taste of iron welled up in my throat. “No,” I whispered. “I never change.” Slap. The blow knocked my head to the side. James’s hand remained frozen in the air. His eyes suddenly widened, tracing the blood at the corner of my mouth. “Wre… Wren…” “Don’t touch me!” I wiped the blood away, staring at the horror on his face and the smug triumph on Clara’s. “I hope I never see either of you again.” My stomach erupted in sharp, agonizing pain. I turned and stumbled toward the exit, coughing violently into my hand. When I pulled my hand away, it was covered in black, thick blood.

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When my parents rolled their luggage out of the elevator, I had just walked through the front door, exhausted after a twelve-hour double shift. The moment my mother saw me, she froze. A tight, performative smile quickly masked her surprise. “Oh, Chloe. Your dad, Tina, and I are heading out for a trip abroad. I guess it slipped my mind to tell you.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, “You should buy a ticket on the next flight and catch up with us.” I stood there, frozen, the words catching in my throat. Before I could speak, my father threw a dismissive glance my way. “Since you’re home, grab those suitcases and load them into the trunk.” The rear window of the sedan rolled down, revealing my sister, Tina. She was wearing a designer dress that cost more than I made in an entire year of working part-time. She gave a bright, impatient wave. “Mom, Dad, hurry up! If we don’t leave now, we’re going to miss pre-boarding in first class!” The car doors slammed shut. They sped off into the late afternoon light, kicking up a cloud of dust, without a single backward glance. Late that night, I sat alone in the dark living room. On the glass coffee table lay a high-end pet resort confirmation slip, tossed aside carelessly. It was filled out in my mother’s elegant handwriting—pages of meticulous, loving instructions on how to care for her toy poodle. A quiet, bitter laugh escaped my chest. They had planned every detail of a dog’s life down to the hour. But they had forgotten me. They had also forgotten that I didn’t even have a passport. How was I supposed to board an international flight? As the sky turned a bruised gray before dawn, my joints stiffened. I stood up, packed my life into a single suitcase, and walked out. If I was destined to be the one they always forgot, then starting today, I would make it easy for them. I would forget them, too. 1 Five days after moving into my tiny, cramped apartment, my mother called. It was mid-afternoon. I had just finished assembling a cheap, second-hand wardrobe I’d dragged home from a local thrift store. I swiped to answer, but before I could say hello, her voice cut through the line, sharp and accusing. “Chloe, what on earth is wrong with you? It’s been five days. Why aren’t you here yet? What kind of childish tantrum are you throwing now?” “Do you have any idea how exhausting this trip has been without you here to handle the luggage? Your sister had to carry her own bags, and her hands are completely blistered. Your father and I both pulled muscles in our backs. If you had just come when you were told, none of this would have happened. This is entirely your fault.” Listening to her utterly logical, matter-of-fact blame, I felt a strange urge to laugh. “I couldn’t go, Mom. I don’t have a passport.” The line went quiet for a beat. “What did you say?” “I said, I don’t have a passport,” I repeated. My voice was flat, devoid of the old urge to explain or apologize. “I can’t leave the country. I can’t buy an international ticket, I can’t pass security, and I can’t come find you.” There was a rustle of movement on the other end. Then, Tina’s voice drifted through, soft and trembling with a delicate, practiced guilt. “Chloe, oh my god, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I forgot to tell you… that day we went to get our passports done…” Before she could finish her performance, my father snatched the phone. “Are you really going to ruin this trip over some petty grievance? Your sister has been so sick, this vacation was supposed to help her recover. Do you have to make everything miserable?” “I’m not trying to make anything miserable,” I said quietly. “I simply don’t have the legal documents to travel.” My mother’s voice came back, high and defensive. “What do you mean you don’t have them? You’re lying just to punish us. Just because we didn’t wait around for you at the house, you’re acting like this? You are so incredibly selfish. Would it have killed you to just join us a day late?” My father took the phone back, his impatience bleeding through the speaker. “Alright, enough. Buy a ticket and get over here right now. Stop making your sister cry; you’ve completely ruined the mood. When you get here, you owe Tina an apology.” The line went dead. I looked down at the dark screen. The call logs showed the conversation had lasted exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds. Three minutes and forty-two seconds. Not one of them had asked where I was staying, if I had eaten, or if I even had enough money to survive. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was a strange, hollow sensation. The well had simply run dry. 2 My phone buzzed again. It was a text from my mother. “Stop acting out. Get on a plane.” I stared at the glowing text for a long time before typing back: “Mom, I’m telling you the truth. I do not have a passport.” That message went unanswered. Two days passed without a single word. On the fifth day, my mother called again. “Chloe, you’re really pushing it now. Your father and I have been worrying about you non-stop while you’re back home living in luxury, ignoring your family. Do you have any respect for this household?” I was standing in the back room of a local boba shop. My hands were red and numb from hauling buckets of ice. I took a deep breath, reciting the same sentence I had spoken a dozen times before. “Mom, I don’t have a passport.” My mother lost her temper. “Stop lying! You and Tina went to the government agency together. I drove both of you myself. Do you think I’ve completely lost my mind?” I closed my eyes, and the memory of that afternoon flashed vividly behind my eyelids. Yes, we had gone together. When we arrived, my mother had pulled her purse open, taken out the family’s vital documents and Tina’s ID, and hurried her out of the car. I had pushed my door open to follow them, taking only a couple of steps before my mother turned back. She looked at me, a brief flicker of realization crossing her face before it was replaced by complete indifference. “Oh, sweetie, I forgot to grab your birth certificate and Social Security card,” she had said casually. “It’s fine, we’ll just do yours next time. We’ll get Tina’s sorted out today since she’s the one who really needs it.” I had stood on the hot concrete outside the government building, watching their backs disappear through the glass sliding doors. I had waited by the car for nearly an hour in the sweltering heat. When they finally came out, Tina was laughing, her arm looped securely through my mother’s. My shirt had been soaked with sweat, my lips cracked from dehydration. I opened my eyes. “Mom, that day you only brought Tina’s documents. You told me we’d do mine next time. There never was a next time.” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. Then, my mother’s voice erupted, defensive and shrill. “That is impossible! Why would we only bring your sister’s documents and leave yours? You’re making it sound like we did it on purpose. Why do you always have to twist things into something malicious?” “I didn’t say you did it on purpose—” My father’s voice boomed in the background. “That is exactly what you’re implying, Chloe! Have we ever mistreated you? Everything your sister has, you’ve had too. You probably just lost your own documents and now you’re trying to blame us for your own carelessness.” Tina’s soft, sniffling whimpers joined the chorus. “Chloe, please… we applied for them together. Why are you lying? It breaks my heart to hear you talk to Mom and Dad like this. Is it because we forgot to book your ticket first? Are you just trying to hurt us?” She paused, letting out a trembling sob. “If it really bothers you that much, I’ll destroy my passport. I don’t want to vacation anymore. I’ll fly back and stay with you, okay?” My father’s tone instantly softened into a protective, comforting murmur. “Do you hear that? Look what you’ve done to your sister. Keep your mouth shut.” My mother cooed softly to her, “Sweetheart, don’t cry. You’re breaking my heart.” Then, her voice turned to ice as she spoke back into the receiver. “Chloe, you need to look in the mirror. How has this family ever failed you? What are you trying to accomplish with this pathetic drama?” “I—” “Go think about what you’ve done.” The call ended. I stood in the cold back room of the shop, holding my phone. Surprisingly, I felt no anger. I felt no sorrow. I only wondered: “What does Tina have to cry about?” She had received every drop of affection, every privilege, and every concession this family had to offer. Why did she always get to play the victim? Shouldn’t I be the one crying? 3 I thought about it for a long time, but no answer came. Eventually, I stopped trying to understand. When you accumulate enough disappointment, clarity is the only thing left. I took a deep breath and made a choice. I went to the vital records office with my lease agreement and the proof of identification I had painstakingly gathered myself. I applied for copies of my birth certificate and social security card, completely decoupling my legal identity from my parents’ files. When the new documents were handed to me, my heart skipped a beat. There was no mention of Tina. No mention of my parents. There was only me. Chloe Foster. An independent, separate human being. That afternoon, I went straight to the passport agency. I had saved enough money from my shifts to pay the expedited fees myself. I stood in line alone, took my photo alone, and paid the fees alone. This time, there were no complications. Over the next few days, I interviewed with a major corporate firm and landed an entry-level position that matched my degree. Slowly, the pieces of my life began to click into place. The very air I breathed felt clean, light, and free. But the peace was shattered a week later when my mother flooded the family group chat with dozens of voice memos. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The group chat, which had been silent for days, suddenly blew up with activity. I opened the app to find a barrage of audio files interspersed with photos of Tina. In every picture, my parents stood on either side of her, beaming with pride. They looked like the perfect, happy family of three. “Aunt Susan, I saw that skincare set you wanted! They have it in stock at the boutique here, so I just swiped my card for you. Don’t worry, it’s the real deal!” “Hey Uncle David, I tried some of the local wine here at the vineyard. The vintage is incredible, so I’m bringing back a couple of bottles for us to open when we get back!” “Hey Aunt Karen, tell little Leo to get ready for some cool toys. I’m hitting the local markets this afternoon to pick up some unique stuff for him.” I heard Tina’s sweet, performative voice chiming in in the background of one of the clips. “Aunt Susan, I actually picked out a beautiful silk scarf for you too! The color is going to look so gorgeous on you.” I scrolled through the entire log. Every single message was warm, lively, and filled with the excitement of their upcoming return. They were displaying their generosity and affection for the entire extended family to see. Out of more than fifty messages, they had reached out to every single relative. They had remembered everyone. But there was nothing for me. Not even a polite, superficial mention. No one had tagged me to ask, “Chloe, is there anything you want us to bring back?” As I stared at the screen, a private message popped up from my cousin, who was blissfully unaware of the situation. “Hey Chloe, I notice you aren’t in any of the photos Aunt Sarah is posting. Didn’t you go on the trip with them?” I typed back a brief, calm reply. “No, I stayed back.” My cousin sent a rapid-fire string of question marks. “What? Why? The whole family went. How did they leave you behind? That is so incredibly unfair. You’re their daughter too, why do they treat you like an afterthought?” I didn’t reply to her questions. Two years ago, this kind of pity would have made me sob. One year ago, it would have kept me awake all night, staring at the ceiling in misery. But now, my heart was perfectly still. I backed out of the private chat, scrolled to the family group, and quietly clicked “Leave Group”. Then, I blocked and deleted the contact cards for my cousin, my aunts, and my uncles. The silence that followed was absolute. It was beautiful. 4 Their return flight was scheduled to land at 3:40 PM. I knew the exact time, not because I was counting down the hours until their return, but because I was going to be at the airport too. My mother’s call came through just as my Uber pulled up to the international departures terminal. The moment I answered, her familiar, commanding tone cut through the line. “Chloe, you need to get the house completely clean before we get back. Make sure your sister’s bed has the fresh silk sheets on it, and vacuum her rug at least three times to get the dust out.” “Also, the fridge is empty. Run to the market and get some fresh seafood and prime beef. We want hot pot tonight to clean out our systems after all that heavy food. And make sure the master bath heater is turned on—we want to jump straight into the shower the second we get through the door. We are absolutely exhausted.” She listed a dozen more chores before finally wrapping up. “Anyway, make sure you’re at the arrivals terminal by three o’clock to meet us. We have way too much luggage, so you need to be there to help carry it. Got it?” I looked through the window at the clear blue sky arching over the airport. “Mom,” I said. My mother groaned, her voice dripping with irritation. “What now? Don’t start dragging your feet.” “I’m not coming,” I said. She sputtered. “What do you mean you’re not coming? Chloe, are you begging for a reality check? We’ve been traveling for weeks and we’re exhausted. Asking you to do a few basic chores is not an ask. Do you have any idea how much your sister—” I cut her off, my voice steady and quiet. “I said, I am not coming.” “Chloe, if you dare skip out on picking us up today, don’t you ever think about stepping foot in this house again. You—” I hung up. I opened my contacts. One by one, I selected “Dad,” “Mom,” and “Tina”—the three names that had sat pinned to the top of my messages for my entire life—and sent them directly to my blocked list. I did the same across every social media platform, deleting their profiles from my digital existence. Once it was done, I took a deep, clean breath. I gripped the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the international security checkpoint. As my plane began to taxi onto the runway, I glanced down at my watch. 3:50 PM. At this exact moment, their plane was touching down. In the very same airport, on adjacent runways, their flight was arriving while mine was lifting off into the clouds. We crossed paths in the sky, completely missing each other. The girl who had spent twenty years standing quietly in their shadows, waiting for them to finally turn around and notice her, was gone. And she was never coming back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “535049”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I came back from my business trip to find Boston paralyzed by a once-in-a-decade rainstorm. The streets were flooded, and the parents who had promised to pick me up at the airport were nowhere to be found. The line for cabs at Logan Airport stretched past the terminals, easily hundreds of people long. I tried calling them—dozens of times. At first, it was a constant busy signal, and then the line went dead, straight to voicemail. I ended up walking nearly ten miles in the freezing downpour to get home. When I finally unlocked the door, shivering and drenched to the bone, I found the three of them sitting at the dining table, warm and comfortable, enjoying dinner as if nothing had happened. My father looked up at me, his face instantly souring. “You’re dripping all over the place! Do you have any idea how much it cost to replace these hardwood floors? Go change, now!” I nodded numbly and retreated to my room. But my mother followed me in, shutting the door behind her. “Hannah, sweetheart,” she began, her voice carrying that familiar, demanding sweetness. “Austin is about to graduate from community college. You need to pull some strings and get him an associate position at Cascade Partners.” I sighed, squeezing the water out of my hair. “Mom, I’m just an associate. I don’t have that kind of hiring power. It doesn’t work that way.” Her face tightened instantly. “Power? What do you mean you don’t have power? Can’t you just go ask your director? If that doesn’t work, tell them you’ll step down and let Austin have your job. We didn’t raise you all these years for nothing. If you ruin your brother’s future, I swear I don’t have a daughter anymore.” I looked down at the blue ledger on my desk, drew a clean line through the final row, and whispered, “Fine. Then you don’t have a daughter.” … My mother laughed. It was a soft, patronizing sigh, the kind she reserved for minor inconveniences. “Here we go again. You say one word to her, and she throws a tantrum. Anyone would think we raised a princess.” My father walked in, the smell of cheap tobacco clinging to his shirt. “We didn’t feed and clothe you for twenty-four years just to listen to this attitude.” I pressed my palm flat against the notebook. “If Austin wants a job at Cascade, he has to apply through the portal like everyone else. There’s nothing more I can do.” “What are you hiding under there?” my mother asked, her eyes narrowing. Before I could move, Austin stepped past her and violently shoved my hand aside. He grabbed the notebook, flipping it open to read aloud in a mocking, sing-song voice: “2024, wire transfer: thirteen thousand. 2025, wire transfer: fifteen thousand.” He laughed, looking at me like I was a lunatic. “Hannah, are you seriously keeping a tab on the money you give Mom and Dad? Are you sick in the head?” My mother snatched the ledger from him, her fingers flying through the pages. When she reached the very last sheet, where I had written “Debt Cleared”, her hand trembled. With a sharp rip, she tore the page out of the spine. “Cleared? You think you can clear this?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You almost died of a high fever when you were six! If your father and I hadn’t run ourselves ragged borrowing money from every living soul to save you, you wouldn’t even be standing here today!” “We gave you your life,” my father added, his voice low and heavy. “How do you plan on paying that back? Hannah, do you have a single shred of conscience?” I kept my head down, staring at the floorboards. The words didn’t hurt anymore. The pain had gone cold years ago. I had been listening to this exact speech for over two decades. As a child, I had been so terrified of their resentment that I didn’t even dare tell them when I was sick. I used to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night, quietly swallowing expired Tylenol in the dark. Whenever the school sent home forms for field trips or book fairs, I would hide them in my backpack, delaying the ask until the very last minute, because I knew what my mother would say. She would point a finger at my chest and hiss: “You ungrateful little leech. You were born just to drain us dry.” In the third grade, I spent a whole week making her a Mother’s Day card. On the back, I had written in crayon: “Thank you for saving my life, Mom.” She had glanced at it, tossed it under the TV console, and turned around to mix Austin’s baby formula. A few days later, Austin found it, and within five minutes, it was torn to shreds on the living room floor. Austin patted our mother’s shoulder, putting on his best performance of the dutiful, mature son. “It’s okay, Mom. Hannah, just apologize to Mom and let’s move on.” Our mother looked up at him with tearful pride. “Your brother is at a critical turning point in his life. Help him out. Act like an actual sister for once.” Austin leaned in, a smug grin playing on his lips. “Yeah, Hannah, help me out. What’s the big deal? If I get into Cascade, it’ll make the whole family look good.” I looked at him. “Have you even submitted a resume on your own?” He rolled his eyes. “Cascade’s interviews are technical and highly competitive. Did you even pass your basic financial analyst exams?” His face darkened instantly. “If I already knew how to do everything, why would I need you?” My father lit a cigarette, letting the ash drop onto my clean bedspread. “Forget it. We can’t rely on her anyway. If you can’t get him the job, Hannah, just give us twenty thousand dollars. Austin says he knows someone who can grease the wheels. You invite your director out for dinner, pay the twenty grand, and the whole thing will be sorted out.” I stared at him, genuinely shocked. “Twenty thousand dollars? For a bribe?” Austin scoffed, rolling his eyes at my mother. “Hannah, just because you don’t know how the world works doesn’t mean other people are as useless as you. God, you’re so petty.” “Exactly,” my mother chimed in. “Austin looked into it. He said twenty thousand is all it takes to secure the position.” I didn’t want to argue anymore. I simply nodded. “Fine. If that’s the case, Dad, Mom, why don’t you give Austin the twenty thousand? Once he starts working and earning his salary, he can pay you back.” My father practically leapt out of his seat. “Are you out of your mind? Where on earth would we get that kind of money?” “If you don’t have it, why do you assume I do?” I met his gaze. “I’ve only been working for three years.” My mother stepped in front of Austin defensively. “Can’t even produce twenty thousand dollars—what was the point of paying for your university education? You’re no better than an animal! How much did we spend keeping you alive when you were a kid? Now is when you’re supposed to give back! You don’t care about your brother’s future at all, but you expect us to bleed money? Starting this month, your monthly contribution is going up to two thousand dollars. Your brother just graduated; he has expenses. You’re the older sister—it’s your job to support him!” My fingers trembled as I clutched my phone. In the past, the moment they brought up how hard it was to raise me, I would freeze, consumed by guilt. But today, looking at Austin’s dirty sneaker resting on my torn ledger, something snapped. I opened my phone and quietly uploaded the photos of the ledger to my cloud drive. My palms were slick with sweat. “I don’t have the money.” My father crushed his cigarette into the glass tray. “What did you just say?” He snatched my notebook off the desk and threw it violently to the floor. “Hannah! Who taught you to be this selfish? If your brother misses this opportunity because of you, how do you expect us to sleep at night? Do you want to see me dead?” I wanted to scream back, but my throat was tight, choked by decades of silence. I bent down to retrieve my notebook. But Austin stepped forward, grinding his sneaker directly onto the paper. He looked down at me. “Seriously, Hannah. You’re being pathetic. Mom and Dad worked themselves to the bone for you, and you’re just a parasite.” “Get your foot off,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. He smirked, pressing his weight down further, leaving a black scuff mark across the cover. My father sat on the edge of my bed, his face like stone. “If you’re going to be this heartless, get the hell out. I don’t have a daughter like you.” My mother hurried to pretend-soothe him, but her hands were already busy opening my closet. She grabbed random handfuls of my clothes and stuffed them into my suitcase. “Stop provoking your father,” she murmured, pushing the zipper shut. “Go clear your head. Come back when you’re ready to apologize and talk like an adult.” She grabbed my shoulder and guided me toward the front door. My coat was still damp, sticking to my back like a cold, wet sheet. As the cold wind from the hallway hit me, I shivered. Then, I watched my mother pick up my leather document organizer from the console table. She looked at me through the crack of the door. “I’ll keep your passport and certificates for now. You’re a young girl, you don’t know anything. If you get scammed out there, you’ll just end up blaming us.” The door slammed shut in my face. One of the neighbors peeked out of their door at the noise, then quickly clicked it shut. I stood alone in the dimly lit hallway, holding nothing but my ruined notebook and my suitcase. Downstairs, the rain was still pouring. With no ID, I couldn’t check into a hotel. I spent the night on the couch in the office quiet room. As I lay there, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Sarah, a colleague in recruiting. “Hannah, did your brother Austin apply to our department? He listed you as his internal sponsor.” Before I could reply, another message popped up. “He attached a note to his application saying his file was “internally fast-tracked and fully endorsed by senior management.” The next morning, I went down to the lobby to grab a coffee. A small crowd had gathered near the reception desk. “My daughter works here! Her name is Hannah. Go tell her to come down!” My heart stopped. I turned and saw my mother, wearing a bright red wool coat, sitting on one of the lobby’s plush velvet sofas. Beside her stood my father, loudly telling the receptionist how exceptionally talented his son was. Austin was lounging back, ankles crossed over his knee, sipping a cup of the firm’s complimentary espresso. When my mother spotted me, she jumped up, holding an insulated paper bag, her face stretching into a wide, performative smile. “Hannah, sweetheart! I brought you breakfast.” She opened the bag to reveal two grease-stained breakfast wraps and a paper cup. Austin immediately snatched one of the wraps, handed the other to our mother, and took a huge bite out of his. My mother beamed, praising him for being such a good son, before shoving the paper cup toward me. “Here, you drink the coffee.” I touched the cup. It was ice-cold. Austin swallowed his food, nodding toward the elevators. “About time. HR told me I need to submit some additional documents. Go tell them I’m your brother so we can skip all this bureaucratic nonsense.” Two of my team members walked past, slowing their pace to stare. I walked closer, my voice low. “Who told you to come here?” “You weren’t answering your phone,” my mother said, her tone dripping with mock worry. “We were terrified. We just wanted to sit down and discuss your brother’s future like a family.” I checked my phone. Thirty missed calls. But they had blocked and removed me from the family group chat the night before. The glass doors of the inner office opened, and the HR director stepped out. “Hannah, do you mind stepping into a conference room for a moment?” Austin cut in before I could speak. “What’s there to discuss? She’s my sister. We’re going to be working together anyway.” His voice carried across the high-ceilinged lobby. Several people turned to look. My mother chimes in, projecting her voice so the whole room could hear. “Ma’am, a massive company like this surely has room for a bright young man. We sacrificed everything to put Hannah through school, and now that she’s successful, it’s only right she lends her brother a hand. Family has to stick together.” The receptionist looked down, visibly embarrassed for me. With the scene drawing too much attention, security began moving toward us. Just then, Sean, my managing director, stepped out of the elevator. “Let’s take this inside,” he said quietly. Once the heavy wooden door of the conference room clicked shut, my mother burst into tears. “Director, you don’t understand,” she sobbed, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “Our Hannah was so sick when she was little. We went bankrupt, borrowed from loan sharks, did whatever we had to do to save her life. And now that she’s made it to a prestigious firm, she wants nothing to do with her brother. To pay for her tuition, her poor brother couldn’t even afford a decent computer. She owes him this!” I kept my head down, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms that they broke the skin. Austin’s gaming rig in high school had cost nearly two thousand dollars. I, on the other hand, had spent my college years using a cracked, third-hand MacBook my roommate had practically thrown away—a machine that took five full minutes just to boot up. When my mother finished her performance, Austin slid his resume across the table to HR. “Yeah, my sister is just being difficult. Look at my credentials. My record speaks for itself.” The HR director glanced at his attached community college transcript, her mouth parting in mild shock before she silently handed it to Sean. Sean skimmed the paper, his face unreadable. “Let me ask you a couple of basic questions, Austin.” “Sure, shoot.” “How do you evaluate whether a portfolio asset is worth the risk? What models do you use to calculate variance?” Austin blinked, chuckling nervously. “Well… you just look at whether the asset makes money, right? I mean, that’s the kind of stuff I’ll learn during onboarding anyway.” “Why do you want to join our development and acquisitions team?” “I read on Reddit that this is where the big deals happen. It’s high-paying, and it looks prestigious on LinkedIn.” The room fell into a suffocating silence. The HR director cleared her throat. “You’ve listed extensive internship experience here. Do you have your reference letters?” “I forgot them.” “Your official transcript?” “The registrar hasn’t printed it yet.” She closed the folder. “In that case, your application is incomplete. We’ll have to table this.” Austin’s smug grin vanished. “Wait, what? My sister is right here! Can’t she just sign off on it? I answered your questions!” My mother turned her sharp gaze on me. “Hannah, say something!” My father’s face was dark. “Your brother is sitting right here. Are you really going to humiliate him in front of your bosses?” I sat there with my hands clenched into tight fists, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Sean politely but firmly escorted them out of the building. When he returned, he laid the resume in front of me. “Write a formal statement,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “If you didn’t authorize this, put it in writing.” “I understand,” I whispered. By mid-afternoon, the applicant tracking system updated. Austin’s application was marked as “Rejected”. My mother called me twenty times. I declined every single one. At seven in the evening, a long message from her popped up in the extended family group chat: “Hannah is an associate director at a major firm now. Her brother just graduated and asked for a simple introduction, but she flatly refused. She even screamed at us in front of her colleagues, humiliating her own parents. We have never given her anything but love, and I cannot understand how we raised such a cold, ruthless daughter. It is a curse upon our family.” The replies came quickly. “Hannah, this is too much.” “How can you turn your back on your own flesh and blood the moment you get a little money?” I took two screenshots and posted them directly into the chat. The first was a bank statement showing the automatic monthly payments I had been making toward the mortgage on the condo they bought for Austin. The second was the statement for the credit card I had authorized Austin to use, showing charges for gaming consoles, designer sneakers, bar tabs, and a luxury spring break trip to Miami. I typed a single sentence: “I don’t owe Austin a single dime.” The group chat went wild. Some relatives tried to play peacemaker, telling me that our parents were getting older and that family business shouldn’t be aired in public. Others insisted that a brother’s career is a lifelong matter and that as an older sister, I should carry the burden. My cousin Emily, whom I hadn’t seen in five years, actually called me. “Hannah, we all know how much your parents spent on your medical bills when you were a kid. You can’t forget where you came from.” “How much did they spend?” I asked. The line went quiet for a moment. “Well… I don’t know the exact number, but it was a fortune. Everyone knows that.” I hung up. That night, I went back to the house anyway. Not because I wanted to go home, but because my passport, birth certificate, and company laptop were still locked inside. My father opened the door, his face twisting into a scowl the moment he saw me. “Look who finally decided to show up.” I didn’t say a word. I simply brushed past him. In the living room, several cardboard boxes sat stacked near the wall. My clothes, my books, and my college awards had been shoved into them haphazardly. Sitting directly on top of the boxes was a pair of Austin’s dirty, mud-stained sneakers. The door to my bedroom was wide open. The lock my father had broken years ago during one of his rages had been neatly replaced. My old writing desk by the window was gone, replaced by a massive gaming monitor and an ergonomic leather chair. Austin was slumped in the chair, playing a video game. He didn’t even look up. “Oh, look, the big-shot corporate executive is back. So powerful out there, but you still have to crawl back to us, don’t you?” I knocked his sneakers off my boxes and tore open my document organizer. My passport was there. My university diploma was gone. “Where is my diploma?” I demanded. My mother walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “I put it somewhere safe. You’ve been having these hysterical fits lately. It’s better if I keep your important papers.” “Give it back to me.” Her voice softened into that manipulative maternal purr. “Hannah, I’m not trying to steal it. Just delete that voice recording and take down those screenshots from the group chat. We’ll figure out another way to get your brother into Cascade. I’ll keep the diploma for now. It won’t get lost.” I took a step toward her, but my father pulled out his phone, aiming the camera directly at my face. “Look at this, everyone!” he sneered into the screen. “She’s threatening her own mother over a piece of paper! We’re trying to protect her from getting scammed in the real world, and she treats us like criminals.” Austin paused his game, leaning back with a smug grin. “Relax, Hannah. I looked through your company’s project files. Honestly, it’s not even that hard. If I get in, I could probably do your job better than you.” A cold dread seized my chest. I whirled around to face him. “What files did you look at?” He avoided my eyes, suddenly very interested in his fingernails. My mother stepped between us, shielding him. “Why are you raising your voice at him? Your brother wants to learn! Since you refuse to help him, he had to take initiative and study your materials on his own.” I rushed to my backup laptop bag sitting near the door. It was empty. My voice went high and tight. “Where is my laptop?” My father lowered his phone. “Your brother just borrowed it. He knew you’d make a scene, so he didn’t ask beforehand.” “That is company property!” I screamed, my voice cracking under the sheer panic. “It contains proprietary financial data! Leaking that is a federal offense!” Austin stood up, trying to look tough. “Stop trying to scare me. There was barely anything on there anyway. I just looked at a few PowerPoint decks and emailed them to a buddy of mine to help me format my resume. It’s called studying.” I lunged forward to grab his phone, but he dodged behind my mother. My mother shoved me back hard. “Don’t you dare touch your brother! Do you have any decency left?” My lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the desk, and the pain made me double over. Just then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the Risk and Compliance department. I answered, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Hannah,” the investigator’s voice was grim. “Your company credentials were used to log into the secure server from an external IP tonight. A significant volume of proprietary data on the Meridian Project was downloaded and forwarded to an external address. This is a severe breach of protocol. We need you in the office at nine tomorrow morning to explain.” The investigator paused. “If this wasn’t you, you need to secure evidence immediately.” The room fell dead silent. Austin’s face drained of color. “I… I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to look. I just wanted to study…” My mother grabbed my wrist, her grip desperate and bruising. “Are they going to sue? Hannah, listen to me. Don’t tell them it was Austin. Just… just tell them you sent it!” Austin was scrambling now, all his bravado gone. “Yeah, Hannah, please. I didn’t know. You have to tell them it was you. They can’t sue me, I’m about to graduate!” My father stepped closer, his eyes cold and threatening. “Hannah, family is family. You’re the older sister. You have to shoulder this.” “Yes!” my mother cried. “Talk to your boss. If you have to, just resign. Your boss liked Austin anyway; maybe he can take your place once this blows over. It’s the only way.” The three of them pressed in on me, their voices overlapping, suffocating me. On the other end of the line, the compliance officer was still waiting. My mother sank to her knees, clutching my coat. “Hannah, I’m begging you. When you were dying as a child, your father and I didn’t abandon you. Please, don’t abandon your brother now.” “Hannah, are you still there?” the phone crackled. I looked down at the three people standing in front of me. My chest felt tight, and for a single, fleeting second, the old habit of compliance rose up. I actually hesitated. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke into the phone. “I am verifying the situation right now. I will submit a formal statement and evidence shortly.” I hung up. Austin let out a massive sigh of relief. My mother stood up, immediately tucking my diploma further behind her back. “That’s my girl. That’s what an older sister is supposed to do.” Just then, the doorbell rang. My father frowned. “Who the hell is that at this hour?” A middle-aged woman stood in the hallway, clutching a thick medical file to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she whispered. “The building manager let me up. My daughter is at Boston Children’s Hospital right now, waiting for a heart transplant. Someone in our support group told me your daughter was the very first recipient of the Birchwood Foundation grant years ago, and that you had the direct contact info of the primary donor. I… I wanted to ask if you still have that contact information? Our family has run out of options.” The room froze. My father immediately tried to close the door. “You have the wrong apartment. We never received any charity.” The woman blinked in confusion, pulling a crumpled photocopy from her folder. “But the foundation registry lists Hannah Ward… she had the exact same congenital heart defect as my daughter. The grant paid twenty thousand dollars directly to the hospital.” I saw my name on the paper. “The Birchwood Foundation. Beneficiary: Hannah Ward. Grant Amount: $20,000.” I reached out to take it, but my mother snatched it away first, her face twisting into a mask of rage. “That was decades ago! Who remembers any of that? Go ask the hospital yourself. Get out!” She shoved the woman back into the hallway and slammed the door. But I had already seen it. “Twenty thousand dollars,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Paid directly to the hospital billing department.” My mother avoided my eyes, muttering, “It was hospital bureaucracy. We didn’t know anything about it.” Looking at her guilty face, the puzzle pieces finally fell into place. The realization hit me like a physical blow. “All those years… all those stories about how you spent your life savings, how you went bankrupt and ruined your lives to pay for my surgery… it was all a lie.” The gentle front she had put on dropped instantly. Her voice rose to a shrill scream. “What is that attitude? Are you seriously trying to audit your own parents? Let me tell you something, Hannah! If that foundation hadn’t paid the hospital directly, we wouldn’t have even bothered to save you! That twenty thousand we saved by not paying for your surgery should have gone toward your brother’s trust fund, not wasted on an ungrateful bitch like you!” The last thread of guilt holding me to them snapped. I unlocked my phone and dialed the compliance investigator back. The call connected instantly. “Hannah?” My voice was entirely cold, devoid of any emotion. “I have confirmed the breach. My brother stole my company laptop, accessed the secure network, and leaked the proprietary project files. I am compiling the evidence and will submit it tonight. File the police report. I want to press charges.”

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My boyfriend of seven years was a man ruled by schedules and an uncompromising sense of order. If we had a date at three o’clock, leaving the house even a minute early was out of the question. If I wanted to catch a midnight showing of a movie, he would shut the idea down instantly. “That’s sleep time,” he would say, flatly. His planner was a dense, meticulously filled grid of daily tasks, mapped out to the exact minute. Sometimes, I found his rigidity stifling. But outside of his calendars, he was completely devoted to me. He never forgot an anniversary; he knew every one of my favorite things. He could notice if I had trimmed my hair by less than an inch. “At least a guy that structured will never cheat on you,” my coworker used to laugh. “He doesn’t have the time in his schedule.” So when Victor proposed, I gladly accepted. The venue, the dress, the guest list—he organized it all with military precision. I just had to follow his blueprint. Two weeks before the wedding, at precisely eight in the evening, I brewed a cup of coffee to take to his home office, just like I did every night. But as I approached, the door swung open, and Victor walked out, grabbing his car keys. I stared at him, caught off guard. “Where are you going?” “Lexie messed up the proposal slides,” he said, not pausing. “She’s still at the office. I need to go handle it.” He rushed out before I could reply. The words died in my throat. From eight to nine every night was his sacred, untouchable reading hour. For seven years, he had never broken that rule. And now, he had—for her. The warm mug in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. … Looking out the window, I watched his familiar silver sedan speed out of our building’s courtyard. I tried to swallow the sudden spike of unease in my chest, telling myself he was just stressed about the proposal. Victor was a perfectionist when it came to his business, after all. I walked into his office and set the coffee down on his neat desk. As I turned to leave, my eyes fell on his planner, lying open beside his keyboard. Every single night before bed, he would write down the next day’s itinerary. Every hour was mapped, every task neatly bulleted. Aside from minor adjustments, his days rarely changed. I went to close the leather binder, but my eyes caught on a specific entry, and my hand froze. Twelve to one-thirty had always been Victor’s lunch break. In seven years, that had never shifted. But tomorrow’s schedule was different. Written in his sharp, precise handwriting: 12:00 PM – 1:30 PM: Teach Lexie how to draft the bidding proposal. I stared at the words, a cold shiver creeping up my spine. I knew exactly who Lexie was. Lexie Davenport. She was a college senior, just weeks away from graduation. Her uncle was one of Victor’s most lucrative clients. Three months ago, her uncle had asked Victor if he could give his niece an internship at the firm. Since it was just a temporary assistant role, Victor had agreed. During her first month, Victor complained about her constantly. He told me how she mixed up files, and how she didn’t even know how to build a basic Excel spreadsheet. Once, because of a mistake Lexie made, Victor’s afternoon meeting was delayed by ten minutes. For a man who lived by the clock, it was a cardinal sin. He was furious, reigning her in right in front of the entire department. That evening, he massaged his temples in frustration. “I need her internship to end,” he had groaned. “She’s exhausting.” I had laughed, gently rubbing his shoulders, telling him everyone has a learning curve. By the second month, his complaints thinned out. When he did mention Lexie, he would just sigh, but there was a new, softer tone of patience in his voice. I figured she was finally getting the hang of things. Until she made a mistake that nearly cost the company millions on a major contract. Knowing Victor, if his own mother had made a mistake of that scale, he would have fired her on the spot. But he didn’t fire Lexie. When I asked him about it later, he shrugged helplessly. “She’s Davenport’s niece. We’re in the middle of closing a major deal with him. I have to play nice.” So he tolerated her. For three whole months. But Lexie’s university-mandated internship had ended weeks ago. The deal with her uncle was signed and sealed. He had every reason to let her go. But he hadn’t. A cold dread bloomed in my stomach. My fingers shook as I began flipping back through the pages of his leather planner. One week. Two weeks. A month. June 10th, 10:00 AM – 10:30 AM: Teach Lexie how to structure a marketing pitch. June 9th, 11:00 AM – 12:00 PM: Lunch with Lexie. She brought a homemade bento box and insisted I try her cooking. Her name was everywhere. It appeared on his pages more often than mine did. The air left my lungs. May 12th, 6:00 PM – 7:00 PM: Help Lexie walk her dog. She has an emergency, and the dog gets anxious if it misses its walk. I stared at that entry, my blood turning to ice. The night before May 12th, I had asked Victor to come with me to my bridal fitting at six. He had declined, his face perfectly serious. “I have a prior commitment scheduled at that time.” I knew his rules. Once something was in his planner, it was written in stone. So I hadn’t pressed him. But now I knew. His sacred, unbending “prior commitment” was walking a junior assistant’s dog. Was he really that devoted to his schedule? Or was walking Lexie’s dog simply more important than watching me try on the dress I would wear to marry him? The realization pulled my heart down into a dark, hollow depth. I bit my lip, picked up my phone, and dialed his number. “Victor,” I said when he answered. “We need to talk.” He didn’t make it home until eleven. When he walked in, he found me sitting in the dark of the living room, illuminated only by the hallway light. The air between us was heavy, frozen. His planner sat wide open on the coffee table. He looked at me, confused, and held out a white paper bag that smelled of garlic and warm pastry. “You said yesterday you wanted those soup dumplings from downtown. I happened to pass by, so I grabbed some.” My throat tightened. I didn’t even think before the words spilled out: “That shop isn’t on your route home from the office. Were you out with Lexie?” He stiffened. Clearly, he hadn’t expected me to connect the dots so fast. But his face quickly smoothed over. “We wrapped up around ten. We were both starving, so we grabbed a quick bite.” He even offered a small, easy smile. “I’m the boss, Clara. I can’t let my staff starve after working late.” He stepped closer, reaching out to drape an arm over my shoulder in that comforting way he always did. “Who was the one who told me I needed to be a supportive boss?” I pulled away, tilting my chin toward the planner on the table. “Are you going to explain this?” Victor glanced at it, still looking mildly bewildered. “My planner? What about it?” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely oblivious or just acting. So I laid it bare. “Your schedule is full of Lexie, Victor. This is way beyond mentoring an intern. What is going on?” I had spent the last two hours going through the book. Every time Lexie’s name appeared, I circled it in red. My name was circled in blue. Looking down at the open pages, the red ink was a dense, bleeding rash—over forty circles. The blue circles were sparse, barely reaching double digits. “We are getting married in two weeks, Victor. Do you even remember that?” I had meant to sound strong, but looking at those contrasting colors, my voice cracked. A hot, heavy lump formed in my throat. It felt like swallowing glass. His eyes traced the red circles, and the defense fell from his face. A deep, heavy guilt settled in his eyes as he looked back up at me. He pulled me into his chest, rubbing my back with slow, soothing strokes. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I had no idea this was hurting you so much.” “I was just trying to manage her, to train her so she’d stop making rookie mistakes.” “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll assign her to someone else tomorrow.” “The dog thing… I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid. I won’t help her with anything outside of work again. I promise.” Victor’s apologies were always like this—swift, earnest, and completely disarming. It was the reason we had survived seven years. We fought like any other couple, but whenever I was genuinely hurt, he always bowed his head and made it right. The ache in my chest didn’t vanish, but his soft words smoothed over the worst of the sting. I thought of the invitations we had already mailed out, the caterers, the life we were about to build. I let out a long breath and decided to trust him one more time. Victor kept his word. The very next day, he transferred Lexie’s training to another department lead. He even moved her desk to the opposite end of the floor, far away from his office. Every evening, he showed me his planner for the next day, and her name never appeared again. Slowly, the anxiety faded into the background. Partly because I was simply too exhausted to dwell on it. The closer we got to the wedding, the more the details piled up. Even with Victor’s rigid planning, vendor issues arose, and schedules clashed. Because his work was demanding, I took over the endless coordination. For a week straight, I balanced my day job with late-night calls to florists and coordinators. I barely slept. By Friday afternoon, as I was typing away at my desk, my vision went black, and I collapsed. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a sterile hospital room. An IV drip was hooked to my arm, and a nurse was quietly adjusting the bag. Seeing me awake, she said, “We tried calling your emergency contact, but we couldn’t get through.” I glanced at the wall clock. 3:30 PM. On Victor’s schedule, this block was marked for a quarterly board meeting. The nurse told me it was just severe hypoglycemia brought on by exhaustion and stress. She advised me to rest. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. At exactly four, when his meeting was scheduled to wrap up, I dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring. But before I could speak, a cheerful, familiar voice answered: “Hi there! Are you looking for Victor? He’s a bit tied up right now.” My grip on the phone tightened. My throat went dry. “Lexie?” “Oh! Yes, this is she. Who’s calling…?” There was a brief pause, and I heard her shift the phone, likely checking the caller ID. “Oh, Clara! I am so sorry, I didn’t see the name. I didn’t realize it was you.” My voice was dead cold. “Why do you have Victor’s phone?” “I—” Before she could finish, the phone was fumbled away, and Victor’s voice came rushing through the speaker. “Clara!” There was a frantic, breathless edge to his tone. “I was just in a meeting, and I left my phone on the conference table. I didn’t think she’d grab it.” A lapse of judgment? Carelessness? I didn’t believe him. Victor’s phone was practically glued to him; it held sensitive financial records and client data. He never left it lying around. I swallowed the bitter taste rising in my mouth, keeping my voice flat and empty of emotion. “I’m in the emergency room.” He gasped. “What? What happened? Why are you in the hospital?” When I explained it was just low blood sugar and exhaustion, I heard his breath rush out in relief. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. From tonight, you need to go straight to bed—” “Victor,” I cut in, “can you come pick me up?” Silence stretched over the line. Then, hesitating: “Clara, I’m right in the middle of things here. We have another critical strategy meeting starting in ten minutes…” I didn’t even know what I felt anymore. Was it familiarity? Or just numb acceptance? I hadn’t expected him to say yes, really. But the rejection still carved out a cold, hollow space in my ribs. “Okay. I understand.” I hung up and stared at the drip counter above my head, watching the clear fluid fall drop by drop. In the bed next to mine, a young woman was laughing quietly while her boyfriend carefully peeled an apple for her, cutting it into neat slices. Their soft murmurs and easy warmth felt like a mockery. Once the IV bag was empty, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. But the moment my feet touched the cold linoleum, the room spun violently. The nurse caught my elbow, frowning. “You shouldn’t drive. Is there a friend or family member we can call?” I unlocked my phone and scrolled through my contacts. There was no one. I had moved to this city right after college to be with Victor. My parents were states away. My college friends had scattered across the country. I realized, with a sudden, suffocating clarity, that Victor was the only anchor I had here. And he wasn’t anchored to me at all. My chest felt hollow, like a drafty house. I told the nurse I’d be fine, thanked her, and walked out of the ward on unsteady legs. The moment I stepped through the sliding doors, a low rumble of thunder shook the air. Rain was coming. I retreated back under the concrete awning just in time. Within seconds, the sky opened up, pouring sheets of cold grey water onto the pavement. The wind blew the spray onto my ankles, and I shivered, wrapping my thin sweater tighter around myself. My phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from Rachel, a coworker from the office. Hey Clara, are you feeling better? Hear you went to the clinic. I texted back, telling her I was fine, just a little run-down, assuming she was just being polite. But then, three dots appeared, and she sent an image file. I hesitated to send this, but… I think this is Victor. I’m sorry. I tapped the image to download it. It was a photo taken inside a bright, clean veterinary clinic. Two people stood near the front desk. One was Victor. The other was Lexie, the girl he had promised to keep at arm’s length. She was cradling a small golden puppy in her arms, looking up at Victor while he spoke to the vet. They looked like a young couple taking their new pet for a checkup. Rachel’s messages popped up in quick succession. My boyfriend works at this clinic. I showed him a picture of you two from the company dinner last month. He recognized him instantly. The cold seeped deep into my bones. My fingers shook so hard I could barely type. When was this? I texted back. Rachel replied immediately. They got there around three. Left about twenty minutes ago, around four-thirty. Three to four-thirty. During the exact window Victor was supposedly locked in a crucial board meeting, he was at a veterinary clinic, playing savior to Lexie’s dog. And when I had called him from a hospital bed, begging for a ride, he had lied to me, claiming he was too busy to leave his office. Victor hadn’t just broken his sacred rules for her. He had crossed his own moral line. He had lied to me. When we first started dating, his college friends used to tell me how lucky I was. “Victor is rigid,” they’d say, “but he’s honest to a fault. The guy literally doesn’t know how to lie. It goes against his nature.” For seven years, that had been true. He had never once deceived me. So when he promised he would put distance between himself and Lexie, I believed him. When he said he loved me, I believed him. Another flash of lightning lit up the grey sky, followed by a crack of thunder that rattled my chest. It felt like the lightning had struck me instead, splitting open the last fragile pieces of my heart. The cold wind rushed into the void. I didn’t feel sad anymore. Just entirely, beautifully empty. My phone rang, jarring me out of the silence. The caller ID read Wedding Coordinator – Mr. Jenkins. I wiped a drop of rain from my cheek and answered. His polite, enthusiastic voice echoed through the receiver. “Hi Clara! I was just calling to finalize the timeline for next week’s rehearsal dinner…” “Mr. Jenkins,” I said, my voice steady. “We need to cancel the wedding.” Because Victor had been busy, I was the sole contact on every single contract. On the cab ride back to the apartment, I went down the list. The bridal boutique—cancel the rental. The venue—cancel the booking. By the time the cab pulled up to our building, I had emailed the makeup artist and the florist. I unlocked the front door and froze. On the entryway mat sat a pair of unfamiliar, delicate high heels. From the living room, a soft, giggling laugh drifted down the hall. My muscles tensed. I walked slowly into the light and saw Lexie standing in front of our floor-length mirror, wearing a dusty-rose bridesmaid dress. It was one of the four dresses I had picked up from the boutique yesterday, meant for my own bridesmaids. Anger, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. “What are you doing?” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” Lexie jumped, spinning around. Her face went pale as she clutched the skirt of the dress. “Clara… I’m so sorry…” Victor stepped out from his office, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Clara, sweetie, don’t get upset. Listen. You said Becca might not be able to fly in for the wedding, right? We were going to be one bridesmaid short. Lexie mentioned she’d be happy to step in. She came over to drop off some files I left at the office, and I just thought we’d have her try it on…” “Lexie.” He called her Lexie. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. First she was his assistant. Then she was Lexie. Now she was practically family. Every shift in what he called her had mapped his slow, steady slide away from me. I ignored him entirely, stepping right up to Lexie. “Take it off,” I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Before you touch someone else’s life again, make sure you actually belong in it.” Lexie lowered her head, her eyes instantly filling with tears. By the time she changed back into her clothes, her cheeks were wet. She walked over, reaching out to grasp my forearm. “Clara, I am so, so sorry. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, I promise…” I pulled my arm back, disgusted. “Don’t touch me. It’s fine.” “Ah!” She stumbled backward, letting out a small gasp as if I’d shoved her. Victor lunged forward, catching her by the waist. He glared at me, his eyes burning with anger. “Clara, that is enough! You’re being completely unreasonable!” I looked at Lexie, who was tucked securely against his chest, her eyes gleaming with a tiny, triumphant spark. I smiled. “Fascinating,” I murmured. “I mention one bridesmaid might have a schedule conflict, and you’re already fitting her for a dress. Honestly, Victor, if I came down with a cold on the wedding day, would you have replaced the bride, too?” “Clara, what the hell are you talking about?” Victor’s face flushed red, a mix of defensive rage and guilt written all over his features. He couldn’t meet my eyes. When I didn’t say another word, just staring at him with cold detachment, he grabbed Lexie’s hand and led her toward the door. “You’re clearly not well. The fever or whatever put you in the hospital is making you crazy. I’m taking her home. You need to calm down.” The front door slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. I looked down at the dusty-rose dress tossed carelessly onto the sofa cushions. It looked exactly like our seven-year relationship—crumpled, ruined, and left in a heap. I picked it up, folded it neatly with the other three, and packed them into their garment bags. Then, I walked into the bedroom and began to pack my life away. At 11:55 PM, I wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom. As I closed the front door behind me, the clock on the living room wall struck midnight. A new day had begun. At seven in the morning, Victor returned, holding a bag of fresh pastries and coffee from the bakery down the street. He figured a night apart would have cooled me down. He knew he had crossed a line, and he was prepared to offer another of his perfect apologies. But the moment he pushed the door open, his footsteps halted.

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I was on a FaceTime call with the version of Chris from ten years ago. I had just sent him a photo of himself—or rather, the man he was destined to become—wrapped around another woman. He took one look and denied it instantly. “That’s not me. I could never stop loving you, Natalie. A Henderson man doesn’t cheat. We don’t do things like this.” His eyes through the screen were fierce, steady, and filled with the exact kind of integrity I remembered. He was the patient, gentle Chris I had fallen in love with. Filled with a desperate, creeping doubt, I turned to the Chris of the present day, testing him on the intimate details of our history. He couldn’t answer a single question. The realization hit me like ice water: the man standing in my house was not Chris. … “Why are you bringing up ancient history?” Chris looked down at me, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. “It was a decade ago, Natalie. I don’t remember.” I grabbed his wrist, my fingers digging into his skin. “How can you say you don’t remember? You swore to me you’d never forget.” “I don’t love you anymore, okay?” He ripped his arm away, his sharp eyes tightening with irritation. “I’m sick of looking at you. I despise you. Why the hell would I want to remember anything associated with you?” My body went completely rigid. Years ago, he had held me under the same ceiling, looking at me with absolute devotion, promising he would spend the rest of his life making me happy. “Oh, Natalie, face it—you’re getting old,” Zoe said, a cruel, mocking smile playing on her lips as she leaned against the counter. “Men like novelty. Don’t be so desperate for a wedding ring. You’re practically begging him to stay, and for what? Your mother is still rotting in a hospital bed.” My eyes stung, turning a furious, bloodshot red as I glared at her. “She is your mother, too! Your actual, flesh-and-blood mother!” The only reason our mother was hooked up to life support in an ICU was because of what happened on my wedding day. Right before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, highly intimate, compromising photos of me were projected onto the giant screens at the reception hall. My mother had a massive brain hemorrhage on the spot from the shock. And Chris? Chris had brushed it off with a sickeningly light shrug. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare with your sister,” he’d said. “The dare was to play a prank on you. Zoe’s young, Natalie. Don’t be petty. I’m still willing to marry you, aren’t I?” “Come on, Natalie, it was just a joke,” Zoe had chimed in back then, wearing a look of calculated innocence. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be a sore loser.” I remembered wiping the tears from my face, my voice shaking but resolute. “I don’t want your pity. The wedding is off.” “Look at yourself,” Chris had sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your reputation is in the gutter. Everyone in this city has seen your body now. Who else is going to take you if I don’t?” I had been too choked with tears to speak, but then the hospital called about my mother, and the world collapsed around me. I didn’t have time to process the betrayal. Meanwhile, my sister had slipped right into Chris’s arms, the two of them whispering and laughing, completely indifferent to whether our mother lived or died. I couldn’t comprehend how they had turned into monsters. It was as if, overnight, they had simply ceased to be the people I knew. My fiancé had once been the most attentive, respectful partner. My sister had been sweet, bookish, and fiercely protective of me. There was no universe in which she would ever sleep with my fiancé. But people change. That was the only explanation I had lived with. I pulled myself back to the present, staring at Chris, still trying to grasp at some shred of logic. “Why? You used to love me so much.” “I loved the eighteen-year-old version of you,” Chris said, his voice flat and bored. “The young, beautiful version. But look at you now. You’re neither.” “I see.” Without another word, I picked up my phone—which had been quietly running a live video call the entire time—and walked upstairs to the bedroom. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet and began throwing my clothes inside. Through the phone speaker, Chris’s voice from ten years ago echoed in the quiet room. “Where are you going? Why are you packing?” I picked up the phone, looking at the screen. The young man staring back at me was vibrant, fierce, and entirely untainted by the rot of the present. “You saw him, didn’t you?” I whispered, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. “He doesn’t love me anymore. I have to leave him. I have to end this.” “That is not me,” past Chris said, his voice steady, his dark eyes burning with a desperate intensity through the screen. “I swear to you, Natalie, I could never treat you like that.” “The evidence is right in front of me,” I said, a tear finally escaping and slipping down my cheek. “You think it’s impossible because you love me right now. But that doesn’t mean your heart won’t rot ten years down the line.” “But he didn’t know the answer to your question,” past Chris argued, leaning closer to his camera. “Our first kiss was on your eighteenth birthday, right under the old oak tree by the lake. I would never forget that. It’s burned into my mind. Why didn’t he know?” Even if he was right, it didn’t change my reality. I had never doubted that his eighteen-year-old self loved me. But human hearts are volatile things. The man downstairs simply did not care about me. “Hey, why are you being so weird lately?” a sweet, familiar voice interrupted from his side of the call. “Why are you constantly staring at your phone? The housekeeper said you’ve been on video calls for days.” It was me. The nineteen-year-old version of me. Past Chris quickly tried to tilt his screen away, but he wasn’t fast enough. I caught a glimpse of her. She looked so young, so untouched by grief. She leaned her chin on his shoulder, smiling playfully. “Don’t tell me you’ve found someone else already. If you’ve replaced me, your little sister is going to be heartbroken.” “Never,” past Chris said, his face softening instantly as he looked at her. “Even if I did find someone else, it would only be a future version of you.” “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you actually believe those rumors about the temporal anomaly app…” Before she could finish her sentence, I spoke directly into the microphone. “Break up with him. In ten years, he is going to cheat on you.” Past Chris panicked, instantly reaching to mute the call, but my past self was quicker. She snatched the phone out of his hand, her brow furrowing as she stared at the screen. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. “Why do you… look so much like me? My dad never said anything about having another daughter.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to be concise. “I am you, ten years in the future. In ten years, Chris will betray you. He will project your private, intimate photos at your own wedding reception.” “What?” She blinked, turning to past Chris with a laugh. “Wow, Chris. I knew you were possessive, but I didn’t know you liked to share. Exposing my private photos? Generous of you.” I could hear the disbelief in her voice. She didn’t take it seriously. And why would she? The Chris of ten years ago was a gentleman who treated women with absolute respect. To her, the idea of him doing something so vile was a physical impossibility. “I would never!” past Chris protested, rubbing his temples in frustration. “If I ever did something like that, my dad would drag me into his study and disown me before the sun went down.” “Your father dies in two years,” I said coldly. “You kill him, Chris. You hand over the majority of the family company’s shares to a competitor just to please my sister. The shock gives him a fatal coronary.” “What did you just say?” Past Chris’s playful demeanor vanished. His face went entirely pale. “You ruin the family,” I said, my voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage. “You sleep with my sister, and you drive your own father to his grave.” Past Chris fell completely silent. He stared at his desk, his eyes dark and unreadable. I knew that look. It was how he processed intense emotion. He always bottled up his grief, hiding it from the world, and I was always the only one who noticed. When he finally looked up, his voice was tight. “But even if a man changes… his fundamental morals, his basic sense of decency—those things don’t just evaporate. Even if I grew to hate you, I could never publicly humiliate a woman like that. It goes against everything I am.” “But you did,” I said. “You did exactly that.” “Wait, why on earth would I even want to be with my brother-in-law?” My sister’s face suddenly popped into the frame. She was only thirteen back then, her eyes wide, round, and full of childish curiosity. My chest ached. “Just trust me,” I said shortly. “Both of you will betray me.” The line went quiet for a long moment. Finally, the past version of myself spoke up. “What if… what if that man down there isn’t actually Chris? And what if your sister isn’t actually your sister?” I stopped packing, standing up slowly. “What do you mean?” My thirteen-year-old sister leaned into the camera. “Natalie, go to Instagram. Search for an anonymous account called `@SunnyDays_Z`. That’s me. I use it like a digital diary, posting updates every single week. Check when the posts stop. Whoever took over my life… that’s probably when they did it.” My hands shook as I unlocked my tablet and opened the app. I searched the handle. It existed. There were hundreds of posts—photos of books, skylines, small daily reflections. No faces, which explained why the account had almost no followers. The posts stopped abruptly exactly three years ago. Through the phone, past Chris spoke up. “Did I change around that time too?” I frowned, thinking back. “I don’t know the exact date. But your behavior… you became a completely different person about two years ago.” Just then, a floorboard creaked outside my bedroom. I quickly muted the phone, laid it face down on the bed, and crept out of the room. I followed the faint sound of whispering down the hall to Chris’s bedroom. Through the narrow crack in the door, I saw my sister and Chris. Chris was lounging on the armchair, a sinister, mocking smirk on his face. “Can you believe it? Even after all of this, her affection rating is still at 100. I told you, she’s like a stray dog. You can’t kick her out.” “Oh, honey,” Zoe purred, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. “As long as we keep breaking her spirit, her misery index will peak. Once she’s completely broken, my mother can finally take over her body. Then our family will be whole again.” Chris chuckled, running a hand through her hair. “The ashes from that occult ritual—slipping them into her food every day worked perfectly. That’s exactly how we stole her sister’s and her fiancé’s bodies without anyone noticing a thing.” “I spent years scrubbing her floors as her housekeeper, Martha,” Zoe—no, Martha—said, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror with a manic, ecstatic grin. “But now? I’m the young, beautiful heiress. This body is absolutely perfect.” Behind the door, my heart stopped. She wasn’t Zoe. She was Martha, our former housekeeper whom I had let go years ago because of her sticky fingers, only to hire her back when “Zoe” insisted on it. And the man posing as my fiancé wasn’t Chris. He was Martha’s husband, Walter—our former family driver. A vulgar, heavy-drinking man who had somehow stolen Chris’s body. My mind raced as the pieces of the puzzle violently snapped into place. They were deliberately torturing me. The more I suffered, the weaker my soul became, making it easier for Martha’s mother to possess me. But there was a catch: my “affection rating”—my love and trust for Chris—had to remain intact. If my affection dropped to absolute zero, the spell would break, the vessel would reject the host, and Walter would be obliterated. But if he was obliterated, would the real Chris actually come back? Or would his soul be lost forever? Until I had a definitive answer, I couldn’t risk letting the rating hit zero. I couldn’t lose Chris forever. “Wait,” Walter’s voice suddenly sharpened with panic. He sat up straight. “What the hell? Her affection rating just dropped to ninety! I have to go find her.” “No, stay,” Martha whined, pulling at his arm. “You promised you’d spend the night with me.” Hearing him stand up, I turned and bolted back up the stairs. I ran into my room, my eyes sweeping over the closet until they landed on a vibrant, crimson slip dress. Walter had bought it for me months ago, demanding I wear it, but I had always refused, finding it vulgar. I swallowed my disgust, stripped off my clothes, and pulled the red silk over my head. A second later, the door was flung open. Walter stood on the threshold, breathless. When his eyes landed on me, he froze. “Hey, handsome,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a low, sultry register. I walked over to him, wrapping my arms gently around his neck. “It’s freezing tonight. Why don’t we sleep together?” Walter’s body went rigid. He stared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly before a greedy, satisfied grin broke across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” He glanced back and gave Martha a sharp look, gesturing for her to leave. Martha’s eyes flared with rage. She grabbed Walter’s arm and dragged him out into the hallway, slamming the door halfway shut. I crept quietly to the door, listening. “What the hell are you doing?” Martha hissed, her voice vibrating with anger. “You said we were going to humiliate her tonight! Now you’re going to sleep with her?” “Did you not see her affection rating drop?” Walter whispered back fiercely. “If it hits zero, I’m dead! The vessel will destroy me!” Martha clenched her fists. “What about my mother? If you don’t break her spirit, my mother’s soul will fade before she can take her over!” “Her affection rating has been stable for two years, which is why we could play those games,” Walter snapped. “But it’s fluctuating now. I have to secure it.” “I don’t care! I want my mother! She sacrificed everything to raise me—” “Shut up,” Walter interrupted, his voice dripping with impatience. “We’ll figure it out later.” “You’re getting tired of me, aren’t you?” Martha sneered, hitting his chest. I smiled in the shadows. Step one: divide and conquer. “Chris?” I stepped out into the hallway, widening my eyes in mock confusion. “What are you and Zoe talking about?” “Nothing,” Walter said quickly, straightening his posture and stepping away from Martha. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.” “Actually, Chris, Zoe looks really upset.” I reached up, gently tracing his jawline with my index finger. “Why don’t you spend the night with her instead? I don’t mind.” Walter swallowed hard, his eyes darting from my collarbone to Martha’s murderous glare. He was caught in a trap of his own making. He wanted me, but he didn’t want to push Martha too far. “He’s staying with me,” Martha said sharply, stepping forward and grabbing Walter’s wrist. Without waiting for him to reply, she dragged him toward the staircase. “We have things to discuss upstairs.” “Let go of me!” Walter hissed, but he followed her anyway. I watched them disappear up the stairs. I went back into my room, picked up my phone, and unmuted the call. “Chris,” I said to the boy from ten years ago. “Fire Martha the housekeeper and Walter the driver immediately. Do not, under any circumstances, eat or drink anything they give you.” “Who are Martha and Walter?” my sister’s young voice asked from the speaker. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Right. They hadn’t even hired them yet. Preventing it in the past wasn’t going to solve my present reality. Before I could explain, a violent scream echoed from upstairs, followed by a heavy, terrifying thudding sound. I rushed out of the room and looked down the hallway. There, at the bottom of the stairs, lay Zoe’s body, surrounded by a rapidly spreading pool of dark blood.

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When Naomi saw the promotional couples’ passes for Disney World, she bought two without a second thought. One for her, and one for her best friend, Tyler. After linking their digital passes on her phone, she turned to me, her voice casual. “Did you buy your ticket yet?” I watched them already drifting toward the entrance turnstiles. Shaking off the sudden weight in my chest, I opened my app and quickly purchased a standard single-day adult ticket. By the time I scanned through the gates, a notification chimed in our group chat. It was a message from Tyler: “Hey Ian, you’re taking way too long. We’re heading ahead to grab a spot in the queue. Catch up when you can!” A three-person trip, but they always moved as a pair. I was just the shadow trailing behind, trying to keep up. I deleted my half-written reply: “On my way to find you.” Opening Instagram, I saw Tyler had already posted a photo of himself and Naomi. They were wearing matching Mickey ears, grinning widely. The caption read: “Orlando diaries. Photo #30 with my favorite girl.” Ten days in Florida. Thirty photos together. And thirty times I had been left behind. As night fell, the crowds gathered for the fireworks, and I finally ran into them beneath the glowing castle. Naomi held up her phone, a bright, easy smile on her face. “Ian! Let me get a photo of you.” I offered a stiff, awkward peace sign, trying to force a smile. Before I could even lower my hand, she shoved the phone back into my palm and wrapped her arm tightly around Tyler’s. “Now take one of us! We want a shot with Nick and Judy in the background.” I froze. I handed the phone back to her, turned around, and walked away. This summer, this road trip… it was never going to make it to the finish line. … Naomi caught up to me quickly, her hand pulling at my jacket. “The fireworks aren’t even over. Where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re getting lost again.” I blinked back the stinging behind my eyes, forcing another smile. But my gaze drifted down to her hand, still tightly gripping Tyler’s fingers. The smile died on my lips. “I think I want to head back to the hotel.” “Naomi, hurry up! We need to push forward, the best viewing spot is right up there,” Tyler’s voice cut over mine, loud and impatient. Without another word to me, Naomi turned, letting Tyler pull her into the surging crowd. The sea of people swallowed them whole. I realized then that even if I stood perfectly still, they would always find a way to leave me behind. As the fireworks began to paint the sky behind me, I walked out of the park gates, staring blankly at the gridlocked traffic. Before we left, Naomi had insisted on planning every detail of this trip, claiming she didn’t trust me to handle it. I followed the crowd toward the rideshare pickup zone. Suddenly, a hand gripped my arm. It was Naomi, breathless and flushed from the heat, her voice sharp with exhaustion. “You’ve been pulling away all day. Do you have any idea how tiring it is to try and have fun while constantly having to look for you?” “I’m sorry…” The familiar apology started to slip out, but I forced myself to stop. The thirty times before this, I was the one abandoned, and I was the one apologizing. Tyler threw an arm over my shoulder, offering a lazy, easygoing grin. “Don’t mind her, Ian. She’s just a worrywart. She doesn’t know how to show her boyfriend some love.” I looked at the heavy backpack Naomi was wearing, stuffed with souvenirs they had picked out together. I took a step sideways, letting Tyler’s arm slide off my shoulder. “Seems to me she shows plenty of care,” I said quietly. “Just not to me.” Tyler put on a mock-whimper, nudging Naomi. “Aww, look. Our little Ian is jealous.” Naomi’s face darkened, her eyes flashing with irritation. “He’s been passive-aggressive all day. I don’t have the energy to play his little mind games.” Just then, a large SUV pulled up to the curb. Naomi grabbed Tyler’s hand. “Look, those two people are split-faring a ride back to our area. Let’s see if we can squeeze in.” She took a few steps, then called back over her shoulder, “Ian, stop throwing a tantrum. Rideshares are impossible to get right now. Tyler and I will take this one. Find another group to split with.” Tyler waved energetically from the backseat window as the door closed. “See you at the hotel, buddy!” I stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching the taillights of the SUV merge into the traffic. In that moment, the sheer panic and humiliation of being dumped on a dark street at midnight broke through my defenses. I started to cry. Right there under the streetlights, ignoring the awkward glances of passing strangers. My mind flashed back to the night of high school graduation. Naomi had been the one to suggest this trip. She had taken my hand under the streetlights and said, “Ian, let’s make us official.” But when the day came to book the tickets, she had casually mentioned she’d bought Tyler’s flight, too. I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers and texted her: “Let’s break up.” Her reply came almost instantly: “Ian, are you seriously doing this right now? Are you seriously throwing a fit just because Tyler and I hung out today?” “I was thinking about your leg. You can’t walk long distances anyway.” Every act of disregard was always packaged as “consideration.” But the only reason my leg was like this was because of them. During the summer after junior year, we were driving down to the lake in Tyler’s family minivan. Tyler had insisted on swapping seats with me so he could sit in the back with Naomi. They were playing some loud, disruptive game, thrashing around so much that Tyler accidentally bumped into the driver’s seat, distracting his dad. The van swerved, crashing hard into a concrete guardrail. My side of the vehicle took the brunt of the impact. My leg was crushed. I spent the most critical semester of senior year in a heavy plaster cast. Naomi had taken care of me for months, driving me to appointments and helping me study. I thought it was love. Now I realized it was just a guilty conscience trying to buy its way out. It was nearly midnight by the time I managed to find a group to split a ride with. Since my hotel was the furthest, I was the last passenger left in the car. I opened my navigation app and noticed the driver had veered off the main highway onto an unfamiliar, unlit secondary road. The surroundings were dark and industrial. Panic set in. I shared my live location in our group chat, spamming it repeatedly. “Where are you guys? Can someone watch my route?” “This driver is taking a really weird detour. Naomi, call me. Let me put you on speaker so he knows someone is expecting me.” “Are you guys there?” The silence in the car was suffocating. The roads grew narrower and darker. Finally, a message from Tyler popped up. I wiped the cold sweat from my palms and tapped it open. “Ian, stop spamming the chat. Naomi and I are in the middle of a Mario Kart match. The hotel Wi-Fi is lagging because of your notifications.” I stared at the screen for a full minute, and then a dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his voice low. “Hey kid, it’s a quiet stretch of road. You should probably text your family and let them know you’re safe.” I nodded numbly, saying thank you, but the tears wouldn’t stop spilling over my cheeks. When I finally stepped out of the car at the hotel, Naomi was sitting on a wicker chair in the lobby. She looked up, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Honestly, Ian. It took you two hours to get an Uber? I don’t know how you survive.” I kept my head down, trying to walk past her. I could see her phone screen was still glowing with the game lobby. “Did you even see my texts?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. She blinked, looking genuinely confused. “What texts?” Tyler stepped out of the elevator, ruffling my hair with an easy grin. “Look who decided to show up! We thought you got kidnapped.” He slid onto the wicker bench next to Naomi, pointing at her screen to explain where she had gone wrong in the last round. I turned and walked toward the elevator. As the doors slid shut, sealing me away from the two of them whispering together, I caught my reflection in the polished metal. Pale skin, bloodshot eyes. The last thread of hope snapped. I pulled out my phone and sent a voice note to my mom. “Hey Mom… I think I want to go to the University of Toronto. I don’t want to go to Georgetown anymore.” My mom heard the crack in my voice. She asked if Naomi and I had fought. I didn’t answer. The next morning, Tyler’s bed was completely untouched. He hadn’t slept in our room. The group chat was dead silent, save for two messages Naomi had sent around 3:00 AM: “Ian, I just saw the group messages. Next time make sure you check the driver’s rating before getting in.” Then, she had forwarded an article: “Safety tips for solo travelers at night.” No apology. No real worry. Just cold, clinical advice. I deleted the link and headed out of my room, determined to find her and end this farce of a vacation. But when I knocked on her door, there was no answer. I called Tyler’s phone. Naomi answered. “You’re awake? Breakfast in the lobby ends at ten, don’t miss it.” “Where are you guys?” I asked. There was a brief pause on the line before Tyler took the phone. “Hey Ian! The hotel gave us a complimentary couples’ photoshoot package, but it expires today. You were sleeping in, and Naomi didn’t want to wake you. So we just came down to get it done.” “The photographer is waiting. Hang tight at the hotel, okay?” In the background, I heard a cheerful voice: “Come on, guys, get closer. You’re a couple, don’t be shy! Kiss her cheek. Perfect, hold that!” “Click.” My fingers trembled as I hung up. To distract myself, I booked a last-minute ticket to a local art museum. Deep down, I wanted to prove to them—and to myself—that I didn’t need them to have a good time. But they didn’t care. When Naomi found out I was at the museum, she simply texted: “Cool. Tyler and I are meeting an old high school friend for lunch. Have fun! Let’s meet up at the food market tonight.” It was noon. They had just finished the shoot. They had never had any intention of inviting me to that lunch. At the crowded food market that evening, the tension in Naomi’s face tightened the moment she saw me. She handed me a boba tea, her voice clipped. “There’s our golden boy. Finally made it.” Tyler was already sipping his own drink, his eyes lingering on Naomi’s iced lemonade. Without a word, Naomi handed her cup to him. He took a sip, complained it was too sour, and handed it back. It was a casual, domestic gesture—one they had clearly done a thousand times when I wasn’t looking. My chest ached. I slowed my pace, letting them drift ahead into the crowd. Suddenly, someone slammed hard into my shoulder from behind. My drink spilled all over my shirt, and the stranger’s phone went flying, hitting the pavement with a sharp crack. The screen shattered. Before I could recover, the man grabbed my arm, his grip so tight it felt like he was peeling the skin off my wrist. “Are you fucking blind? This is a brand-new iPhone! You’re paying for this!” In the middle of the shouting, I looked up. Through the bustling crowd, my eyes locked with Naomi’s. She was looking back toward me, but she was pointing urgently at Tyler, who was having a heated argument with a food stall vendor over a payment issue. “Naomi! I need help over here!” I yelled. Seeing me try to turn away, the angry man shoved me hard. My balance gave out, and his heavy boot came down directly onto my weak ankle. A white-hot flash of pain shot up my leg. I broke into a cold sweat, my vision turning black. Across the street, Tyler finally settled things with the vendor. Naomi glanced back toward me once more. Her eyes lingered on my struggling figure for less than a second before Tyler pulled her around the corner. They disappeared. Eventually, a kind bystander intervened and called the police. By the time I finished my statement at the precinct and limped back to the hotel, it was past 2:00 AM. My ankle was swollen to the size of a tennis ball. Naomi ran over to help me the moment I entered the lobby, clutching a bag of ice and a can of pain relief spray she must have ordered from a late-night pharmacy. She knelt down to treat my ankle. “We need to ice it first, then spray it. We’ll see how it looks tomorrow.” I looked down at her face. She possessed a detached, clinical calm that felt entirely unnatural for our age. “You saw me, didn’t you?” I asked. Her hand paused. She didn’t look up. “I didn’t realize you were in a fight. Tyler was arguing with the vendor, and I was trying to hold him back.” Her voice was perfectly steady, without a single flicker of remorse. I stared at her, feeling utterly pathetic. Tyler was sitting nearby, chewing on some candied fruit. “Seriously, Ian. You’ve got to stop wandering off in crowded places. Watch where you’re going.” Naomi let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You’re telling me. He’s always been like this—completely clueless, getting lost everywhere.” “Did I get lost?” My voice dropped, cold and sharp. “You saw me, Naomi. Why didn’t you come over?” The playfulness drained from her eyes, replaced by a flash of irritation. “You had an issue, but Tyler had an issue too. Why does everything always have to revolve around you?” I pushed myself up, ignoring the agonizing throb in my foot. “If I’m never your first choice, Naomi, then don’t bother pretending to care.” The moment my foot touched the floor, a sharp spasm made me gasp. But I refused to back down. I was done being her permanent runner-up. “Naomi, go after him,” Tyler said behind her, his tone entirely insincere. Naomi raised her voice, genuinely angry now. “Let him go! We agreed to do this trip as a team, and he’s the only one throwing a tantrum!” I limped back to my room, packed my bags, and booked a flight home. Once everything was set, I opened our group chat. Tyler had posted a photo of the three of us at the food market from earlier. After eleven days, I had finally made it into a photo. He tagged me: “Ian, Naomi said this trip was to make up for me missing the junior road trip. I didn’t realize you’d hate having me here so much. If it’s a big deal, I can book a flight home tomorrow.” Playing the victim, as always. Making me out to be the villain. Back in high school, Naomi had accidentally hit Tyler with her bicycle. He ended up needing a minor procedure to drain a subdural hematoma. Even though the doctors said it was an accident, Naomi carried the guilt like a cross. That was when Tyler inserted himself into our lives, a constant wedge between us. Naomi’s reply in the group chat was brief: “I don’t agree.” My departure was a “tantrum.” His departure was “unacceptable.” Her favoritism was glaring. I opened Instagram. Tyler had posted a carousel of their couples’ shoot. In the photos, Naomi was laughing, holding his hand, looking at him with an intensity she had never shown me. Our high school classmates were already flooding the comments, congratulating them on “making it official.” I double-tap and left a comment: “You two make a beautiful couple.” Minutes later, my hotel door was practically kicked open. Naomi stood there, furious, grabbing my arm. “What is your problem? Why are you leaving passive-aggressive comments on Tyler’s post? He’s so upset he ran out of the hotel!” I stumbled against the wall, my newly iced ankle throbbing again. “Tyler’s gone?” “Yes! Thanks to you!” she screamed. The urgency of finding him overridden my anger. I swallowed my tears and limped out after her. We split up. I dialed his number dozens of times, getting nothing but voicemail. As dawn broke, I returned to the hotel. I opened the door to their room and see empty beer bottles scattered on the floor. Naomi and Tyler were curled up together on the narrow love seat, fast asleep. The sight was the spark that hit the gunpowder. Whatever sanity I had left shattered. I grabbed a pillow and start thrashing them both, completely wild with rage and pain. Do they have any idea how dangerous the streets are at night? Do they care how much my leg hurts? Tyler woke up, eyes red and swollen, terrified. “Ian, I’m sorry. I lost my temper last night and smashed my phone. Naomi’s phone died too…” I shoved his hand away. My hand left a bright red mark on his skin. Naomi forcibly pushed me back, her face dark. “Ian, if you want to play the lone wolf and ruin everyone’s time, then just leave. But the moment you walk out that door, we are done. Our promise is over.” I tripped over the rug, my bad foot catching the edge of the nightstand. I could only laugh—a loud, hollow sound to mask the absolute humiliation. “You’re already in bed together. Tell me, Naomi, what promise is there left to keep?” I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. Behind me, Tyler called my name, but Naomi cut him off. “Let him go. He thinks the world revolves around him.” After a painful flight back, my mom met me at the airport. When she saw my ankle, she gasped. At the hospital, the orthopedist shook his head over the X-rays. “It started as a minor sprain, but walking on it has caused a partial Achilles tear. Even with surgery, you’ll likely have a permanent, slight limp.” I froze. My mom rubbed my shoulders, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll find a specialist. We’ll fix this.” I broke down, my sobs echoing in the sterile hallway. Just then, a notification dinged. It’s Tyler in the group chat: “Ian, Naomi wants me to apply to the community college near Georgetown so we can all be close.” “We’re going to be together again. So excited!” I left the group chat. I blocked both of them. Tyler, knowing I couldn’t see his posts anymore, started live-blogging their trip in our high school class group chat. “Photo #50 with Naomi. At the top of the Ferris wheel. Someone said this is the ultimate proposal spot. Should I ask her?” The class chat went wild. “Do it! Ask her out!” Then, Tyler posted a video. Naomi was holding a bouquet of sunflowers, standing on the glass observation deck, looking at the camera with soft eyes. “Tyler, I give up. Let’s be together.” Tyler’s voice behind the camera laughed, “Okay.” My heart twisted. On the night we submitted our college preferences, under the streetlights, she had asked me to be her boyfriend. I’d laughed, telling her it didn’t count without a proper confession. Before the trip, she promised she would buy my favorite sunflowers, take me to the highest point in the city, and ask me properly. Now, she gave that promise to Tyler. Three days later, Naomi texted my personal number: “Ian, you’re really hard to please.” “Because of your attitude, I lost a bet to Tyler and have to pretend to be his girlfriend for three months.” “Once we’re at college, don’t come over too often. I don’t want Tyler to get jealous.” “I’ll make it up to you when the bet is over.” But by then, I was already boarding a flight to Toronto.

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In our house, Mom had to live by a performance review system. But Dad was the one who held the absolute veto. For five years, every single thing she wanted to do had to go through a family vote before it could happen. It applied to the big things, like looking for a job or going to visit Grammy, down to the smallest detail of what we were having for dinner. Until last night, when Mom’s appendix flared up. She was crying, clutching her stomach, begging Dad to drive her to the emergency room. But his eyes never left his phone screen. “Everyone gets a stomach ache now and then. It’s not a life-or-death emergency.” His voice was flat, devoid of any concern. “Just bear with it. We’ll look at the vote results after my morning meeting tomorrow.” Mom’s face grew impossibly pale. For the first time in her marriage, she ignored Dad’s rules and dialed 911 herself. I chased her downstairs as she stumbled toward the lobby. But just as we reached the entrance, the glass doors slid open. Dad walked in, carrying an ice pack, with Amber—the woman who was always hanging around our house. “Jared, seriously, I just ate too much spicy food and got a little gum inflammation,” Amber was saying, her voice a sweet, breathy coo. “I could have just taken some Advil at home. Besides, you’re a married man. Being with me at this hour… I don’t want people calling me a homewrecker.” Dad muttered something about her being silly, but his movements were incredibly gentle as he pressed the ice pack against her cheek. I looked up at Mom. Tears were streaming down her face, cutting clean lines through the cold sweat on her cheeks. I instinctively reached into my pocket and pulled out a little red paper flower I had folded, trying to make her feel better. “Be good, Mommy, don’t cry,” I whispered, tugging her coat. “Daddy said I was a very good girl today. He gave me a five-star rating, just like yours!” Mom’s face went completely blank. She snatched the paper flower from my hand and threw it into the dirt. “Lucy, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Let’s leave Daddy. Okay?” … It was as if a final, heavy metal door had slammed shut in her mind. She took my hand, stepping right over the crushed paper flower, and led me into the hospital’s billing department. But when the nurse took Mom’s health insurance card and tapped on her keyboard for a moment, she slid it back across the counter. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the primary policyholder on this account needs to be present, or you need to use your own individual card. We can’t process this transaction otherwise.” Mom’s hand pressed harder against her lower abdomen. She trembled, her lips turning a stark, bloodless white. She softly begged the nurse to check the system one more time. But as the nurse explained the policy details, I heard Amber’s name slip into the conversation again. Mom’s eyes turned a rim of burning crimson. She pulled a battered, paint-chipped flip phone from her coat pocket and dialed Dad’s number. He hung up on her, over and over. Her fingers shook so violently she almost pressed the wrong keys. Finally, on the eighth try, the line connected. “Did you change the primary policyholder on my medical insurance to Amber? Jared, that card belongs to me. What right do you have to make that decision for me?” Dad didn’t care about the shallow, ragged breaths she was drawing. His voice through the speaker was cold and concise. “Amber has a fragile constitution. She needs the coverage more than you do right now.” There was a heavy pause before he added, “Besides, I learned how to make unilateral decisions from you. If it hurts, bear it. Consider it penance for what you did to my mother.” Mom stood frozen in the middle of the sterile hallway, completely silenced. That sentence was a rusted nail driven deep into the heart of their marriage. I didn’t understand the reason behind it. I only knew that back when my grandmother was alive, Mom was the center of our universe, and Dad had treated her like royalty. No matter how busy he was, a single phone call from Mom would make him walk out of the most important board meetings. When he went on business trips, he would call her dozens of times a day just to report where he was. On their anniversary, he had once rented out a downtown rooftop to fill the sky with fireworks, and another year, he took her to see the Northern Lights from a helicopter. Now, all of that was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating ledger. The nurse who had watched the whole exchange looked at us with deep sympathy, then looked down at me. She let out a heavy sigh, typed a rapid sequence into her computer, and spoke gently. “A ruptured appendix can be fatal, sweetie. I’m going to pull some strings to get you a temporary pain pump first. If you start bleeding internally, it’ll be too late. Use this time to call anyone you know to borrow some money. You need to get this surgery scheduled immediately.” In a moment of life and death, even a complete stranger couldn’t bear to look away. Yet the man who had promised to love her chose to stand by and watch, systematically cutting away her very last lifeline. The tears Mom had been fighting back finally spilled over her cheeks. She pulled me close, bowing slightly to thank the nurse over and over. But just as the pain medication began to take effect, the heavy doors of the waiting room were pushed open. My chest tightened automatically. Whenever she was around, my parents always ended up screaming at each other. Amber strolled in, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on the fresh needle mark on the back of Mom’s hand. A small, mocking smile played on her lips. She crossed her arms, her pretty face twisting into a look of quiet disdain. “I thought I saw you two coming in. I guess I was right.” She stepped closer. “What’s the plan this time? Playing sick again to get Jared to feel sorry for you? Too bad he doesn’t have time for your little dramas right now.” She unlocked her phone and thrust the screen directly in front of our faces. In the fifteen-second video, Dad was standing at a high-end coffee shop counter, carefully instructing the barista on a highly customized drink order—specifying the exact temperature, sweetness, and toppings. He even reminded the cashier that Amber was on her period, demanding they serve it warm to soothe her stomach. Every single detail was tailored to Amber’s exact preferences. In the past, seeing something like this would have brought a look of profound sorrow to Mom’s eyes, and she would have confronted him about it later. But this time, she just stared quietly at the hospital intake form in her hand. Then, she looked up and spoke in a flat, even voice. “Are you interested in a trade? One hundred thousand dollars, and you can have the title of Mrs. Hamiltion.” Amber froze for a fraction of a second, then rolled her eyes with a harsh laugh. “Isla, are you out of your mind? Jared’s tech company is worth millions. One hundred thousand dollars is pocket change to him. Honestly, that’s less than what I spend on my dog’s premium food in a week.” Everyone knew how much Jared was worth. Over the last few years, his AI programming firm had taken off, turning him into a multi-millionaire. The shares his wife would be entitled to in a divorce were astronomical. But Mom only let out a small, self-deprecating smile. Amber had no idea that the “dog food money” she sneered at was the exact amount Mom needed to pay for the surgery that would save her life. Ever since Grandmother passed away, Dad had cut off Mom’s access to all their joint accounts. He had even gone behind her back to submit a resignation letter to her employer, forcing her to stay home. Every dollar she spent over the last few years had to be begged for, approved only through his humiliating “family voting system.” She had thought she could endure the coldness until the wounds healed, but now, she was literally running out of time. Mom reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Right there, in front of me and Amber, she slowly slid the wedding ring off her finger and placed it in her palm. “If you can, please have someone appraise this and give me the cash value. Thank you.” The ring was a simple platinum band, set with a tiny, inexpensive diamond. It was so ordinary and worn that if it fell on the floor, no one would bother to pick it up. But Mom had once told me it was the first real gift Dad had ever bought her, back when he was working three part-time jobs. They had lived in a damp basement apartment then, sharing cheap instant noodles every night. Even though that ring had only cost a few hundred dollars, she had been happier then than at any other point in her life. Later, when Jared made his first fortune, he had taken her to a high-end auction house and bought her a flawless, multi-carat diamond to make up for the lean years. But when they got home, Mom had simply locked the massive diamond in a safe and put the cheap platinum band right back on her finger. Now, she was ready to discard the one thing she had treasured above all else. Amber took the ring, glanced at it with obvious disgust, and tossed it into a nearby trash can. She pulled out a wet wipe and thoroughly cleaned her fingers. “Why go through all that trouble? I’ll give you half a million. Of course, the only thing of value here is the title you’re giving up. But you have to swear to me—you will never appear in front of Jared again for the rest of your life.” Before Mom could reply, a tall shadow fell across the threshold. When Dad walked into the room, both women went completely rigid. The air in the tiny waiting room turned instantly frigid. Seeing him staring directly at her, Mom instinctively hid her bare left hand behind her back, terrified he would realize what she and Amber had been discussing. But before she could say anything to break the tension, Dad shot her a freezing glare. He turned his back on her, handing a plush toy to Amber. His eyes softened with a warmth and concern he didn’t even seem to realize he was displaying. “I told you to wait for me in the lobby. Why didn’t you listen?” He reached out, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Did she do something to make you uncomfortable?” Mom’s shoulders trembled. Her grip on her hidden hand tightened. Whenever Amber came to our house, it always ended in disaster. She would either claim Mom had slipped peanuts into her food to trigger her allergy, or run crying to Dad claiming Mom had tried to push her down the stairs. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I stepped in front of Mom, raising my voice. “That’s a lie! Mommy didn’t touch her at all!” Amber kept her head down, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. To Dad, her silence was confirmation. A flash of pure fury crossed his face. He stepped right past me, grabbed Mom’s arm roughly, and dragged her forward. “Did I not tell you?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “If you ever lay a finger on Amber again, I will make you pay for it tenfold.” His fingers dug directly into the fresh bruise where the nurse had inserted the pain medication line. Mom winced, her entire body tensing with pain. Seeing her expression, Dad let go slightly, but the disgust in his eyes only deepened. “You really are an incredible actress, Isla. This is the exact same face you used to lie to me back then. You make me sick.” At that moment, Amber clutched her stomach and let out a light giggle. “Jared, I’m just teasing you. We were just gossiping about the office, and I laughed so hard I got a cramp. I’m completely fine now.” Dad immediately let go of Mom’s hand, turning all his attention back to Amber. He picked up her bag and called out to the passing nurse, his voice tight with anxiety. “Stop playing around. First your teeth hurt, now your stomach. Let’s get you checked out by a specialist right now.” Amber stuck her tongue out playfully, leaning into him as he hurried to get her registered. From their quiet chatter, I realized that Dad had spent three sleepless nights building a custom restaurant-filtering app just for her, mapping out every place in the city that could accommodate her dietary restrictions. Mom stood there, watching and listening to every word. But she merely rubbed her bruised arm in silence, acting as if she were entirely deaf to it. Realizing he had wrongfully accused her, Dad paused for a fraction of a second. He looked back at Mom, his lips parting as if to say something. But then Amber let out a sharp gasp, crouching down in pain. Dad instantly panicked. Just then, the nurse who had helped Mom came back into the room with a clipboard. She shook a thermometer and looked at Mom. “I got the emergency authorization from the chief. Once we take your temp, follow me. You’re incredibly lucky—Dr. Pierce has one open slot left today before he leaves. He’s the absolute best GI surgeon in this hospital…” I felt a surge of joy. “Mommy, you won’t have to hurt anymore!” But Dad immediately caught the doctor’s name. He stepped between us and the nurse, his voice cold and commanding. “Wait. We’re taking that slot.” The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but this patient’s condition is far more critical. If it’s just mild abdominal pain, we have other general practitioners on call—” Before she could finish her sentence, Dad pulled a black card from his wallet and threw it onto her clipboard. “Your chief of medicine is an old classmate of mine. I’m telling you to register Amber first. Besides, high-end medical resources—just like votes in our house—belong to the people who actually have the standing to use them.” A moment later, the nurse’s pager beeped. The emergency authorization for Mom had been revoked. She looked at Dad with a mixture of anger and disgust, but she didn’t dare cross the Hamiltion family. She turned and walked away. As the pain medication began to wear off, Mom’s condition grew worse. Her skin felt hot to the touch, and her collar was soaked through with cold sweat. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I burst into tears, clutching her hand. “Mommy, the nurse said your tummy is bleeding… It hurts so bad, doesn’t it?” Mom reached down to stroke my hair, trying to find the words to comfort me. But Dad only looked down at us, the disdain in his eyes like black ink that wouldn’t wash away. “Isla, I really have to hand it to you. You haven’t taught this kid a single decent thing, but she’s certainly learned how to manipulate people and play the victim. Internal bleeding? What’s next? Are you going to tell her you’re dying?” Don’t you dare talk about my mommy like that! My eyes stung with hot tears. I raised my tiny fists, ready to throw myself at him. But Mom held me back, pulling me tightly into her arms. She looked up at Dad, meeting his gaze with a faint, empty smile. “Whatever you say, Jared.” Dad scoffed and turned away, his attention returning entirely to Amber’s IV line. Fearing the cold liquid would make her uncomfortable, he knelt on the cold floor, wrapping his warm hands around the plastic tubing to preheat the saline. A young intern standing nearby looked at Amber with envy. When Dr. Pierce finally arrived, he quickly confirmed that Amber only had a mild case of acute gastroenteritis. She just needed half a bag of saline and some rest. Dad let out a long breath of relief. Only then did he look back at Mom, gesturing toward her with a nod to the doctor. “There’s another patient over there. Put her treatment on my tab.” The nurse who had been waiting outside walked in and whispered something into Dr. Pierce’s ear. The doctor’s expression turned instantly serious. He rushed over to Mom, kneeling down beside her chair. He began to press gently around her abdomen. With every touch, Mom’s face went whiter, and small, strangled groans escaped her throat. “Suspected internal hemorrhaging. This is an emergency!” Dr. Pierce called out. As the medical team scrambled around them, Dad froze. But when he saw Mom’s agonized expression, and watched her trembling hand try to sign the delayed-payment waiver, the brief flash of worry in his eyes was replaced by a cold, bitter sneer. “Isla, who is this performance for? When you were studying programming with me in college, you should have switched to theater. You’d probably have an Oscar by now. You know, when my mother was lying on the operating table, you had that exact same tragic look on your face when you signed her papers. Too bad…” He stopped, his eyes turning bloodshot with a sudden, violent hatred. “No one is allowed to perform surgery on her!” The room fell dead silent. Dr. Pierce frowned deeply. “Sir, this isn’t a game. A ruptured appendix is extremely—” Dad cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. He looked down at Mom, his voice dropping to a level where only we could hear. “Back then, you went behind my back and signed my mother’s DNR and assisted-dying papers without my consent. Now, I’m giving you a chance to atone. Let’s put it to a vote. Whether you get this surgery is up to fate.” Mom didn’t argue. She simply closed her eyes, accepting his terms. Dad had the hospital staff bring in a small box. Ten people in the room—including me and Amber—were handed small slips of paper and pens. 1 for Yes. 2 for No. Just like I had done a hundred times before in our living room, I carefully wrote down a “1” and slid it into the box. But my chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder, making it hard to breathe. The nurse counted the slips. One by one, they were all “1.” Every single person in the room had voted to save her. Dr. Pierce let out a breath and immediately instructed the nurses to prep the operating room. But Dad held up a final slip of paper, halting them. “Wait. I have one more.” Everyone stared at the bold, dark “2” written on his paper. The silence in the room became suffocating. Dad walked over to Mom, a cruel, mocking smile on his lips. “…I forgot to mention. I have the absolute veto.”

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The day we signed the final divorce papers outside the courthouse, I looked at Ethan and asked, “Next time we meet, could you bring me some flowers?” Before Ethan could answer, Brooke, who was clinging to his arm, smirked and chimed in. “Chloe, you and Ethan are officially divorced now. It’s really not appropriate for him to be buying you flowers anymore.” I looked at Ethan. He turned his head away, remaining silent. I lowered my eyes. Over the past three years of our marriage, Ethan had never bought me a single flower. Yet, he sent flowers to Brooke every single day—even rare, expensive orchids. Whenever I brought it up, he would always say: “Brooke is my late mentor’s daughter. I promised Professor Vance I’d take care of her. Flowers make her happy. They keep her from missing her dad so much.” Eventually, I stopped asking. I finally realized that in Ethan’s eyes, I simply wasn’t worth the effort. So, when Ethan had asked me a few weeks ago: “Brooke’s mental health is in a terrible state. She’s been crying and screaming, begging me to divorce you.” “Chloe, can you just play along with the divorce to calm her down? Once she gets through this phase, we’ll get remarried.” I agreed. But he had no idea that this would be our last meeting. Because the flowers I was asking for were meant for my funeral.

Brooke flashed a triumphant smile. “Chloe, is there anything else? Ethan and I have reservations at a rooftop restaurant. Too bad it’s only booked for two. We can’t take you along.” I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I have no intention of tagging along.” I pulled my purse higher up on my shoulder. “I’m good. I’ll head out first. Have a nice date.” My unusually cold attitude made Ethan frown. He grabbed my wrist. “Don’t talk like that. I only look at her like a little sister.” “I made extra food this morning. It’s in the fridge. Just microwave it when you get home.” “Your period is coming up. Since I won’t be home tonight, don’t you dare drink iced soda.” Looking at Ethan’s concerned face, a wave of bitterness rushed over me. He was always like this. He claimed Brooke was just a sister, yet he abandoned me for her time and time again. I forced a faint smile. “Understood.” Ethan’s lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but Brooke pulled his arm. She intertwined her fingers with his. “Ethan, I’m starving. Let’s go eat.” “Back when my dad was alive, he never made me wait this long for dinner.” Ethan’s attention immediately shifted back to her. “You’re being spoiled!” “Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry earlier? You know you have low blood sugar.” Seeing Brooke giggle, he tapped her forehead affectionately with his other hand. “Still laughing! If anything happens to you, how am I supposed to face your mother?” Brooke bit her lip playfully. “Okay, okay, I get it!” As she spoke, she threw a smug, sideways glance at me. Ethan, however, never looked back at me again. I watched their retreating figures and walked in the opposite direction. A moment later, my phone buzzed with a Snapchat from Ethan. “She’s young and childish, but she doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t take it personally.” I locked my screen. Suddenly, everything felt so pointless. Brooke put on this dramatic show every few days, yet Ethan fell for it every single time. One threw a tantrum, the other enabled her. Without me in the middle, they actually looked like a perfect couple. It was already 8:00 PM when I got home. Clutching my aching stomach, I opened the fridge to find something to eat. But when I saw the empty shelves, I froze. The “extra food” Ethan had made was already sitting in the trash can, ruined. Brooke had timed it perfectly. My phone buzzed with a Snapchat message from her: “Chloe, I went over to play with Ethan this morning when you weren’t home. I thought those leftovers in the fridge were meant for the trash, so I threw them out. My bad!” “I guess you’ll have to whip up something else for yourself.” At the very end of the voice note, I could hear Ethan’s fond voice in the background: “Are you happy now, you little troublemaker?” The sharp pain in my abdomen became so intense I could barely stand. I slid down to the kitchen floor, clutching my stomach. Summoning every ounce of strength, I dialed Ethan’s number. “Ethan, my stomach hurts so badly… Can you… can you take me to the ER? I…” Before I could finish, a sweet, mocking voice answered. “Chloe, Ethan is in the shower.” “Also, if you’re sick, call 911. Why are you calling your ex-husband?” The call went dead. I whispered to the empty room, “But… I’m actually dying.”

Ethan didn’t show up at the hospital until the next afternoon. After a night of IV fluids, I was feeling slightly better, though my face was still ghostly pale. He came in carrying some breakfast and ruffled my hair. “How are you feeling? Any better?” My eyes were cold as I looked at him. “Ethan, last night, I had to call the ambulance myself.” Ethan paused, his voice turning low and raspy. “Brooke only told me you had a stomachache after we finished dinner.” “You always had a sensitive stomach. I thought it wasn’t a big deal, so I drove her home first.” He looked at me, a hint of exhaustion in his eyes. “Chloe, she’s just an immature girl. We shouldn’t drop to her level.” The resentment I had suppressed for months finally exploded. I slapped the cup of milk out of his hand. The sudden movement pulled the IV needle straight out of my vein. “Ethan, when Brooke’s blood sugar drops even slightly, you lose your mind!” “But when it comes to me, it’s always ‘nothing major.’” My voice choked up. “You ‘thought,’ you ‘thought’… You always think you know everything! But do you have any idea that I—” “Chloe Carter!” Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, cut me off abruptly. “Can we please not fight over this again?” “You know how much Professor Vance did for me back in college. Why do you always have to make things difficult for Brooke?” He sighed deeply, his gaze falling on the blood dripping from my hand. “I’ll go get the nurse.” Watching his back as he walked out, my vision blurred. I suddenly remembered when we first started dating. Professor Vance was still alive then, and Brooke hadn’t been “entrusted” to Ethan yet. Back then, even if I got a tiny papercut, he would freak out. But after Brooke arrived, everything changed. When I cut my hand, he said it was fine. When my stomach was in agony, he said it was fine. And now, when I was actually dying, I couldn’t even get the words out. The door pushed open. Ethan returned quickly with a nurse. The irritation on his face was gone, replaced by his usual calm, attentive demeanor as he explained my condition to the nurse. My attending physician happened to come in for rounds. Seeing Ethan next to me, he paused. “Are you her husband?” Ethan nodded. The doctor looked at my swollen, red eyes, and his tone turned harsh as he addressed Ethan. “Do you have any idea how critical her condition is right now? She needs to avoid any emotional stress.” Before Ethan could reply, his phone rang. The screen showed: Brooke. I couldn’t hear what Brooke was saying on the other end, but the moment he hung up, Ethan grabbed his coat. “Doctor, I have an emergency to take care of right now.” “We can discuss Chloe’s condition later.” The doctor tried to call him back, but within seconds, Ethan had already rushed down the hallway. I stopped the doctor. Watching Ethan’s familiar, disappearing back, I forced a weak smile. “It’s okay, Doctor. I’m used to it.” “Just tell me directly. How much time do I have left?”

After the doctor and nurse left, the room fell into a suffocating silence. Occasionally, patients walked past the window, accompanied by their doting husbands. I couldn’t help but feel incredibly envious. Two months ago, I was diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer. At the time, I felt like my world was ending. I called Ethan, sobbing. But Brooke was the one who answered. “Chloe, Ethan is cooking for me. You know my blood sugar is low, and he won’t rest until he watches me finish my meal.” “He won’t be coming home to tuck you in tonight. If you have a message for him, I can pass it along.” My fingers had gone numb as I held the phone. My lips trembled, but I couldn’t utter a single syllable. Ever since Professor Vance passed away and left Brooke in Ethan’s care, my husband no longer belonged to me. He would be summoned straight from work to cook for her, because if Ethan didn’t go, she would starve herself. He would come home at 11:00 PM, stay for less than half an hour, and then leave again because Brooke claimed she was too scared to sleep alone. The first month, I tried to be understanding. The second month, during another late-night call, I blocked the front door as he tried to leave. “Ethan, don’t go!” “She is a grown woman! Why can’t she take care of herself?” “And you are married! How do you expect me to feel about you staying overnight with another woman?” I thought he would understand. But Ethan just stood there, staring at me for a long time. Then, one by one, he pried my fingers off his waist. “Chloe, I have to go.” After that, we fought constantly. Even when I threw tantrums and refused to eat, Ethan never looked back. It wasn’t until my terminal cancer diagnosis two months ago that I finally realized how foolish I had been. From that day on, I stopped begging Ethan to stay. I even started handing him his coat when he got those late-night calls. Ethan finally smiled at me again. “Chloe, you’ve finally grown up.” He kissed my forehead. I watched him leave, but all I wanted to do was laugh. I hadn’t “grown up.” I had just realized that I needed to start loving myself. But the realization came too late. I only had one month left to live. When I got home that evening, Ethan wasn’t back yet. I opened Instagram and saw Brooke’s latest post. “My personal chef is making me homemade lasagna from scratch. Let’s stay like this forever.” In the photo, Ethan wore an apron, a tender, loving smile on his face—a look I hadn’t seen directed at me in a very long time. Many of our mutual friends had commented: “Now that Professor Vance is gone, Ethan really stepped up to take care of you~” “You two look so good together.” “Honestly, you guys look like a married couple.” Reading those comments, my already numb heart ached with a dull, throbbing pain. Ethan had replied quickly to one of the comments: “She’s shy, don’t tease her like that.” I looked at his profile picture—it was still a photo of the two of us. Slowly, I typed a comment of my own: “You really do match. Wish you both the best.” I wiped the tears from my face, locked my phone, and went to take a shower. When I came out, my screen was flashing relentlessly. 18 missed calls, all from Ethan. Since I didn’t pick up, he had sent a barrage of Snapchats. “Why are you joining in on their stupid jokes?” Five minutes later: “Brooke is crying in her room because of your comment. She’s terrified people are going to think she’s a homewrecker.” “I told you, she’s just a sister to me. There is nothing going on. Delete the comment, now.” Two minutes after that: “Chloe, Brooke refuses to eat and her blood sugar is dropping. If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you!” The most recent one was sent just a minute ago: “Unless you delete the comment and make a public apology saying you were just being dramatic…” “Don’t even think about us getting back together.” The sound of cold wind rushed through Ethan’s voice note. In the noisy background, I heard the shouting of a street vendor from a bakery we used to visit. That bakery was fifty miles away from our apartment. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who Ethan had driven all that way for in the middle of the night. I slowly typed back: “Then let’s not get back together.” “But the house and the car go to me.”

Ethan replied with a single question mark. He tried to FaceTime me, but I declined. I turned off my phone. The world seemed to hit a pause button, finally falling silent. Ethan probably couldn’t comprehend how the Chloe who once swore she would never leave him had suddenly changed so much. Truth be told, I couldn’t comprehend it either. But there was no time left to dwell on it. In the limited time I had left, I wanted to secure as much as I could. At the very least, I needed to make sure my parents would be financially taken care of in their old age. I sat on the balcony, burying my face in my knees, occasionally looking up at the stars. I wondered which star belonged to my grandpa. I believed that when the day came, he would be there to guide me. I sat there all night. The sound of Ethan’s key turning in the lock never came. After tidying up, I went to the most prestigious law firm in the city. “Under these circumstances, what are my chances of getting the majority of our marital assets?” “Ms. Carter, I can’t guarantee anything, but I will do everything in my power to build a strong case,” the lawyer replied. I nodded. When I stepped out of the law office, the overcast morning sky had cleared up. As I was about to hail a cab, I saw Ethan leaning against his car across the street, watching me. The ground around his feet was littered with cigarette butts. I walked over in silence and stood before him. “Chloe.” His voice was hoarse. “I want an explanation. If you give me one, I’ll believe you.” I looked up, my face entirely calm. “An explanation for what?” “Why are you pushing for a real divorce? And why are you hiring a lawyer to take all my assets?” I blinked, suddenly remembering that Ethan had a friend who worked in this building. He must have heard about it. But there was nothing to hide anymore. “I need a lot of money.” Ethan let out a bitter laugh. “And why is that?” My voice remained flat. “Because I’m dying.” Ethan froze, and then a wave of pure fury took over his expression. “Chloe Carter! Are you seriously making up a terminal illness just to compete with Brooke for attention?” “Have I spoiled you so much over the years that you think you can lie about something like this?” I gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. My voice was still quiet, steady. “Ethan, I’m telling the truth.” “If I die, will you bring me some flowers?” Ethan’s lips twisted into a sneer. He looked at me with a look of utter disgust and took a step back. “Never!” He got into his car and sped off, my reflection growing smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. After a long moment, I whispered to myself, “Okay.” It was probably for the best. In our next life, we wouldn’t have any ties left. Summoning the last of my strength, I opened my Snapchat conversation with Ethan. I clicked on his profile, and blocked him. “Ethan, goodbye forever.” When I got home, I started packing. I didn’t have much to take. I planned to list everything of value on eBay. By the time I finished packing, it was already past midnight. I stared at my wedding ring for a long time before sliding it off. I dropped it into the box of things to be sold. Then, I booked a one-way flight back to my hometown. For my final days, I wanted to spend them with my parents. The gravel roads of my quiet hometown in Vermont hadn’t changed at all. As I got out of the taxi with my suitcase, I looked up and saw my parents waiting at the end of the driveway, looking around anxiously. My eyes welled with tears instantly. I used to think life in a small town was too slow, but now that my time was running out, I realized how much I had missed. I stayed with my parents for a month. I grew thinner by the day, unable to keep any food down. I knew my time was almost up. Wrapped in my parents’ tearful embrace, I used the last of my strength to hug them back. “Mom, Dad… I’m going to find Grandpa now.” “If there’s a next life, I want to be your daughter again.” With those words, I slowly closed my eyes, and a single tear slipped down my cheek. The world went completely silent.

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