Author: Momo Chan

For three years, I voluntarily erased my existence. I became a ghost before I was even dead. To pay for the experimental treatments that would wake my family from their comas, I accepted a contract that no sane person would sign. I spent a thousand days living in the subterranean mausoleum of a superstitious billionaire, keeping a silent vigil for his deceased son. I survived on a liquid “purification” diet that stripped the flesh from my bones and turned my blood into sludge. Finally, just before the holidays, the miracle happened. My parents woke up. Even my brother, Cole, whose mind had been shattered by the accident, regained his clarity. I thought the nightmare was over. I thought I was walking back into the light. Then, Cole sat me down on the edge of my hospital bed and shattered my reality. “Nora, you’ve done well these past three years. I think you’ve finally learned your lesson.” He smiled, a terrifyingly casual expression. “When we have Christmas dinner in a few days, I want you to sincerely apologize to Tessa. Do that, and we can be a family again.” The air left the room. My beloved family hadn’t been sick. There was no coma. No paralysis. No brain damage. They had staged the accident. They had played dead for three years simply because they felt I was too “arrogant” for beating their adopted daughter, Tessa, for Valedictorian. They wanted to “break my ego,” to teach me “humility.” They wanted to teach me a lesson about life. But they didn’t know the punchline: I was actually dying. Why couldn’t they have kept the lie going for just a few more days? … 1 The specialist pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, flipping through my chart with a furrowed brow. “This pathology is… bizarre,” he said, his voice dropping to a professional murmur. “It’s rapid, aggressive. It looks like accelerated decay. I’ve never seen a living body shut down like this.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Miss Vane, have you considered signing a body donation directive? Given the rarity of your condition, research institutes would pay a premium. A significant premium.” At the time, my eyes had lit up. Even though Mom and Dad were “awake,” rehabilitation is expensive in New York. Cole had no income. They needed every cent. So, without a second thought, I signed my body away to science. But now? Now the ink on that form felt like a joke. Cole said it was all a lie. He said if I just apologized to Tessa—sweet, fragile Tessa—I could be his little sister again. My hands trembled as I shoved the donation paperwork deeper into my coat pocket. “Why…” My voice was a rasp, like sandpaper on stone. “Why tell me now?” Why not wait until I was in the ground? Why give me this cruel clarity right before the end? Cole rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortably like a boy caught stealing cookies, not a man who had destroyed his sister’s life. “Tessa said she didn’t like lying,” he muttered. “She said she couldn’t stand the guilt. She told us if I didn’t make you apologize, she wouldn’t come home for the holidays.” He chuckled, a soft, affectionate sound. “That’s Tessa for you. Always thinking of others. While you were… away, she showed us your photos every day. She was so worried.” Ah. I see. I let out a dry, rattling laugh. The irony was a physical weight in my chest. Seeing my expression crumble, Cole moved to comfort me, his hand hovering near my shoulder. “Nora, don’t cry. It’s not that big of a deal.” “Think about it. When you took that Valedictorian spot from Tessa, she didn’t say a word. She suffered in silence. If Mom hadn’t noticed her depression, we never would have realized how ruthless you’d become.” He was talking about three years ago. The graduation. I beat Tessa by a fraction of a GPA point. I became Valedictorian. The whole school cheered. Teachers told me my hard work had paid off. But at the dinner table, my family looked like they were attending a funeral. But I earned it! I spent nights fueled by cheap coffee and panic, studying until my eyes bled, all for the scholarship money. They saw me. They saw the light under my door at 3 AM. Why was I expected to hand it to Tessa on a silver platter? Cole shook his head, disappointment radiating off him. “Nora, why don’t you get it? You lack basic empathy.” “Tessa lost her parents. She’s an orphan we took in. She’s sensitive, fragile. And you? You flaunted that first-place trophy like a weapon.” “I don’t understand how my sister became so cold-blooded.” For a second, my mind drifted. I remembered why I fought so hard for that title. Mom and Dad had promised: If you get Valedictorian, we’ll take a trip. Just the four of us. A real family vacation. 2 Ever since Tessa moved into our brownstone, I became a ghost in my own life. She was quiet, so my parents bought her the world to solicit a smile. She came with worn-out clothes, so Cole raided my closet, giving my favorite dresses to her, telling me I should be “generous.” Even at the family portraits, Tessa stood in the center. I was pushed to the edge of the frame. I was a child too. Didn’t I deserve to be seen? Did Tessa’s “sensitivity” mean I had to set myself on fire to keep her warm? And for the last three years… God. I dropped out of Columbia. I worked three jobs until my body gave out. Then I found The Contract. The wealthy eccentric in the Hudson Valley. He wanted a “pure soul” to lie in the sensory deprivation crypt next to his dead son’s sarcophagus. To “guide the spirit.” The pay was astronomical. It covered the best private care facility for my “vegetative” parents. For three years, I didn’t eat a solid meal. I drank their proprietary “cleansing tonic”—a vile, chemical sludge. I meditated in freezing darkness. I became skeletal. People who saw me on my rare breaks crossed the street, thinking I was a walking corpse. I looked at Cole now. His skin was flushed with health. His eyes were bright. Did they ever wonder what I was doing for three years? Something inside me snapped. A cable holding up the bridge of my sanity just gave way. I grabbed the plastic pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall. “Get out! Get the hell out!” “Why?! Why did you do this to me?” “I bet Tessa is laughing her ass off right now, isn’t she?” At the mention of Tessa, Cole’s concern evaporated. His face hardened into a mask of ice. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was strong. Too strong. “Nora, calm down. You’re being hysterical.” “This has nothing to do with Tessa. This was a decision Mom, Dad, and I made together.” “If you want to blame someone, blame us. Don’t project your jealousy onto her.” He straightened his cashmere sweater, glancing around the sterile hospital room with disdain. “We’re hosting a gala dinner in a few days. New Year’s Eve. Come home then.” “Today is Tessa’s college graduation. I have to go. I won’t let your drama ruin her big day.” The door clicked shut. I collapsed into the mess of spilled water and plastic, forcing myself to relive the wreckage of my short life. Cole was twelve years older than me. He practically raised me while our parents built their empire. My first word wasn’t “Mama,” it was “Cole.” He used to call me “Bug.” He used to look at me like I hung the moon. When did my brother become her brother? Once Tessa arrived, it was like a switch flipped. He only had eyes for the “poor orphan girl.” A wave of nausea hit me. I bent over and retched, coughing up a thick, black fluid. I wiped my mouth and remembered the doctor’s warning. If you want to buy yourself a few more days, avoid stress. Any emotional shock could stop your heart instantly. I had planned to arrange my affairs. Spend one last Christmas with them. Die quietly in my sleep, knowing I had saved them. But it was a scam. My sacrifice was their punchline. I took a deep breath, the air rattling in my fluid-filled lungs. I called an Uber. Destination: Columbia University. My dream school. The place I gave up to save them. The campus was alive with blue gowns and mortarboards. I remembered my birthday wish from four years ago. “I’m going to get into Columbia. I’m going to make you proud.” Mom had kissed my forehead. Cole had smeared frosting on my nose. “You get into Columbia, Bug, and you’ll be the star of this family.” I looked up. There they were. Mom and Dad, looking elegant and healthy in designer suits, flanking Tessa like she was royalty. Cole was beaming. “Tessa! Happy Graduation!” 3 “Thank you, Auntie. Uncle.” The girl who used to look like a frightened mouse was now a swan. She wore a tailored white dress under her gown, her smile practicing a perfect modesty. “And Cole… thank you. For everything.” Mom paused, feigning shock. “Oh, honey, why are you still calling us Auntie and Uncle?” “What should you be calling us?” Tessa blushed, burying her face in Mom’s shoulder. A muffled, sweet voice emerged. “Mom.” “Oh!” Mom’s eyes crinkled with pure joy. I hadn’t seen that smile in years. Not directed at me. For three years, I thought she was in a coma, her face bandaged, hooked up to machines in a private wing I wasn’t allowed to enter “for sanitary reasons.” I hated myself every day. If I hadn’t been so competitive. If I had just let Tessa win. It turns out, the coma was just a performance. A piece of theater directed by my mother to “fix” my personality. I stood behind a pillar, feeling like a sewer rat watching a royal wedding. Two students walked past me, their whispers drifting in the cold air. “How the hell did Tessa Vane get the Valedictorian award? She barely showed up to class. She was partying in the Hamptons every weekend.” “Shh. Money talks. I heard the Vane family donated a whole new wing to the library to secure her spot.” “Gross. And she does that whole ‘I’m so humble’ act. I heard she told the Dean she ‘didn’t feel worthy’ while her dad wrote the check.” I laughed. It was a wet, broken sound. tears streamed down my face. I didn’t know how much a library wing cost. I only knew that one day of ICU care for my “sick” parents cost me three days in the coffin. In that mausoleum, the air was stale and cold. When the stone lid slid shut, the darkness was absolute. Outside the stone, the hired mourners chanted. Inside, I lay perfectly still, terrified that if I moved, I’d disrespect the spirits. I wasn’t scared for myself. I was scared for them. Just hold on, Nora. Just one more day. Dad needs the ventilator. The darkness ate away at my mind. The “tonic” ate away at my stomach. Even the billionaire’s staff told me to stop. “Miss Vane, this is… it’s too much. The boy is dead. You’re alive. Please, go home.” I knelt before them, begging. “Please. The doctors said my mom moved her finger today. I need the bonus. I need them to walk again.” I sold my life, hour by hour, for a lie. I wiped my face and blended into the crowd. I watched them. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run up to them and tear their happiness apart. Am I not your daughter? Is blood nothing to you? I steeled myself. I stepped into their path. I lifted my head, ready for the confrontation. But they walked right past me. They didn’t recognize me. I was so gaunt, so withered, that my own parents looked through me like I was a dirty window. Cole even extended a hand to guide Tessa away from me, as if I were a beggar who might infect her. “Watch out, Tess. Keep moving.” 4 It felt like a physical slap. I stood frozen. They didn’t know who I was. As they walked away, Tessa paused. She glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes met mine. She smiled. A small, knowing curve of her lips. She didn’t say anything, but the message was loud and clear: I won. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Cole. “Nora, today is Tessa’s big day. I don’t want you showing up and causing a scene with your mood. Stay away. Understand?” “Be a good girl. Come home for New Year’s Eve.” New Year’s Eve? Would I even be breathing by then? I shook my head, wandering through the campus like a lost spirit. At least I got to see my dream school one last time. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the billionaire’s estate manager. “Nora? Look, I know you’re… retired. But we have a crisis. The caterer for a big event tonight is short-staffed. VIP clients. Easy work, just passing trays. Triple pay.” “I sent you the address. 7 PM.” He hung up before I could say no. Since my body failed, they had pre-paid some of my medical bills out of pity. I didn’t want to owe them. He called it an “advance on wages.” I looked at the address. The world tilted. It was my old house. The Vane Estate. When the “accident” happened, money hemorrhaged. I sold everything I owned. I couldn’t afford the mortgage on the estate with them in the “hospital.” I put the house on the market. A buyer scooped it up immediately for a suspiciously low price because I was desperate for cash. That money paid for three months of fake ICU bills. I looked at the banner hanging over the front gates: CONGRATULATIONS TESSA. They hadn’t lost the house. They had bought it back—or never really sold it. They probably used a shell company to buy it from me for pennies, stripping me of my inheritance while I thanked them for it. I put on the black server’s uniform. It hung off my skeletal frame. The head of catering barked orders. “The daughter, Tessa, is the jewel of this family. Do not spill anything on her. Do not look at her wrong. Or you’ll never work in this town again.” I kept my head down. I just wanted to work off this debt and go find a hole to die in. But the universe wasn’t done with me. Twenty minutes into the party, Tessa found me. “Sister? What are you doing here?” She was wearing a crown. A literal diamond tiara. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale. “I only heard about the… financial trouble recently. Are you okay?” She covered her mouth, feigning shock. “I already scolded Cole. How could he let you work as a servant? It’s so embarrassing.” “He promised me he’d apologize to you. Did he say sorry yet?” Her smile was flawless, but her eyes were dead. Predatory. I didn’t look up. “Excuse me, Miss Vane. I have work to do.” I tried to step around her. She stepped into my path, caught her heel on her own dress, and threw herself to the floor with the grace of a trained dancer. “Nora! I didn’t mean to steal your family! Please don’t push me!” 5 Before I could even process the act, a hand struck my face. Hard. My father. “Nora Vane! How can you be so vicious? I thought you had learned your lesson!” The room spun. My stomach churned, acid and blood mixing. Mom rushed to help Tessa up, checking her for imaginary wounds. She looked at me with deep, sorrowful disappointment. “If you want to be angry, be angry at us. Why attack Tessa?” “It seems the punishment was too light.” Punishment? What crime had I committed that required a death sentence? “Just because I got first place?” I whispered, the words bubbling up with iron-tasting saliva. “That’s why you tortured me?” Dad sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “So, you know everything.” “Good. It was getting exhausting keeping up the charade.” “Yes,” he nodded, looking at me like he was explaining gravity to a toddler. “You are supposed to be the heir to Vane Enterprises. We have three hundred employees. They don’t need a selfish, arrogant CEO.” “You beat Tessa. You gloated. If we didn’t stop you, what would you do next? Crush a competitor? Destroy a family for profit?” “This was character building, Nora. We wanted to teach you sacrifice.” Sacrifice. I didn’t steal that grade. I didn’t cheat. I studied while Tessa slept. Is effort a sin? Is excellence a crime? Before I could speak, Dad turned to Tessa, beaming. “Some people just can’t be fixed. But Tessa… Valedictorian of Columbia. Humble. Kind. I’m not a stubborn man.” He raised his voice, addressing the room. “Tonight, I am proud to announce that Tessa will be the future CEO of Vane Enterprises.” Mom and Cole clapped, their faces glowing with pride. “As for you,” Dad looked at me with disgust. “Tessa is kind enough to offer you a monthly allowance.” “Admit your mistake, apologize to your sister, and take the money.” A monthly allowance. I laughed inside. I was a dead woman walking. What use did I have for money? And Tessa… the snake in the tiara… she would never let me see a dime. I looked at them one last time. I swallowed the blood rising in my throat. “Since you love Tessa so much,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You can just pretend your daughter Nora died three years ago.” I turned to leave. I couldn’t breathe the air in this house anymore. “Go!” Dad shouted. “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back for Christmas!” Cole’s eyes flickered with a sudden, confused panic. He took a step toward me. “Dad, that’s too far. She’s still family.” Even Mom looked uneasy. But before anyone could say another word, a scream ripped through the crowd near the entrance. “Oh my god! She’s coughing up blood! Someone call 911!”

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My wife, the woman who made me swear we’d never have children, asked the police to mediate a domestic dispute. I filed for divorce the moment I walked through the door. Five years. That’s how long I’d been deployed on a joint task force at the border, living in the dust and the heat. My first day back in Boston, badge freshly clipped to my belt as a detective, and I catch a dispatch call: a domestic disturbance in the Beacon Hill district. My partner, a jaded veteran named Miller, didn’t even look up from the wheel. “It’s the St. James residence. Margot St. James. Every month, like clockwork, she gets into a screaming match with her husband over the kid. But don’t worry, it’s just theater. By the time we leave, we’ll be watching them make out.” Miller chuckled, shaking his head. “Everyone in the precinct knows the drill. The Ice Queen of Boston is a paper tiger when it comes to her man. She folds every time. It’s pathetic, really.” 1. Margot? I assumed it was a coincidence. A common enough name in these circles. After all, I had been married to Margot for ten years. Our entire marriage was built on a foundation of ironclad agreements, the strongest being that we were “child-free by choice.” She refused to be a mother. But when we walked into the drawing room of that brownstone, the air left my lungs. There was my wife. She was perched on the lap of a stranger, her fingers tangled in his hair, whispering apologies against his lips between soft, lingering kisses. I stood there, frozen. The shock wasn’t just physical; it was a complete dismantling of my reality. This was the woman who walked through life with her chin high, the woman who never apologized to anyone, least of all me. And here she was, submissive and pleading. Then, I saw the movement in the periphery. A little boy, maybe four or five years old, ran past the sofa. He had her eyes. He had her chin. It wasn’t that she didn’t want children. She just didn’t want my children. Miller nudged me hard in the ribs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Careful, rookie. Margot St. James basically funded the new precinct gym. If you want to survive in this town, you kiss the ring. Or in this case, just nod and smile.” … I couldn’t move. My blood felt like sludge in my veins, heavy and cold. So, this was the truth. My wife wasn’t just a successful CEO; she was the heiress to the St. James empire. And in the five years I was bleeding for my country, she had built a secret life. A backup life. Margot looked up. When her eyes locked onto mine, the flush of passion drained from her face instantly, leaving her pale as a ghost. The man on the sofa reached up, wiping a smudge of lipstick from her mouth with his thumb. He turned to me, his smile practiced and predatory. “Chief Russo mentioned we were getting some new blood. You must be Officer… Roman?” He stood up, smoothing his cashmere sweater, and pulled Margot possessively into his side. “Sorry for the drama. We’re passionate people. I’m Felix. This is my wife, Margot, and our son, Leo.” My wife, Margot. Our son, Leo. The words were like shrapnel. They embedded themselves in my chest, festering immediately. I looked at him. His tone was polite, the kind of polished etiquette money buys, but his eyes were screaming victory. He knew who I was. This wasn’t an introduction; it was a taunt. Seeing the three of them—a perfect, catalogue-ready family—tore me apart. In my mind, Margot was the fierce, independent partner who matched my soul. I loved her with a desperate, quiet intensity. I remembered the night her best friend nearly died in childbirth. Margot had shaken in my arms for hours, terrified. She developed a phobia so severe she couldn’t be near pregnant women. I wanted to protect her. I promised her a life of just us. I went to the clinic. I got the vasectomy. I took that burden so she would never have to be afraid. “Look at us, Roman,” she used to say, tracing my jawline in the dark. “We’re free. No chains. Just you and me against the world.” But the woman who preached freedom, who claimed to despise the “shackles of parenthood,” had used my deployment to play house with another man. No wonder she never visited. No wonder the letters stopped. It hit me then—my sudden, extended deployment order five years ago. It wasn’t bad luck. It was her influence. She needed me gone so she could carry Felix’s child without interference. I stood there, the betrayal making it hard to breathe. “Well?” Margot’s voice was sharp now, the softness gone. “Are you going to do your job, or just stare? Is this the level of professionalism the police force offers these days?” She didn’t acknowledge me. She didn’t acknowledge us. Miller hissed in my ear. “Say something, man. Don’t piss off the donor.” “Mr… Felix,” I managed to grind out. “I heard you’ve been married a decade, Officer,” Felix said, leaning back against the mantle. “I actually asked your Captain to send you specifically. I thought, who better to give us some advice on marital longevity?” It was a setup. A game. When I didn’t answer, he twisted the knife. “Although, I am curious. Ten years and no kids? Is it a plumbing issue?” He laughed, a low, cruel sound. “I could give you some pointers. Leo here? One try. That’s all it took.” “Felix, don’t be crude with the help,” Margot chided, though her cheeks flushed pink. His words were branding irons on my pride. I clenched my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms. Felix laughed again, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “Just trying to help the guy out.” My eyes caught the glint of metal on his wrist. I froze. That wasn’t just a watch. It was a vintage Omega, scratched on the bezel. My father’s watch. The one I gave to Margot for safekeeping before I deployed, terrified I’d lose it in the field. She gave my dead father’s watch to her lover. Something inside me snapped. The leash of discipline I’d worn for five years broke. I lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Take it off! Give me the goddamn watch!” CRASH. Pain exploded in my forehead. Glass rained down on my shoulders. Margot stood over me, a heavy crystal ashtray in her hand, her chest heaving. “Are you insane?” she screamed. Blood trickled into my eye, hot and blinding, but it hurt less than the look on her face. Felix took the opportunity to kick me hard in the stomach. I stumbled, winded, and went down. He stepped on my hand—my shooting hand—and ground his heel into the knuckles. “My wife gave me this,” Felix sneered. “Finders keepers, trash.” Margot stood there, imperious and cold. “Apologize to my husband, or I swear to God…” I spat blood onto the expensive rug. “Or what, Margot? You’ll ship me off to the border for another five years?” Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking her composure. “You’re a nobody,” Felix laughed, applying more pressure to my hand. “We could bury you, and no one would even ask where the dirt came from.” He snapped his fingers. Two private security guards materialized from the hallway, dragging me toward the door. I was thrown onto the sidewalk like a bag of garbage. Miller, terrified of the fallout, had already driven off. My phone buzzed. It was Captain Russo. “You offended Ms. St. James? Are you out of your mind? Don’t bother coming in tomorrow!” I hung up, my hand shaking with rage and adrenaline. If that was the game they were playing, I was done with the rules. 2 I sat on the curb, wiping the blood from my brow, when the front door opened again. Margot walked out. She didn’t look worried; she looked annoyed, like I was a stain on her driveway she needed to scrub out. “Roman, look. Not telling you was… an oversight,” she said, crossing her arms. “An oversight?” I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “I haven’t even had a chance to congratulate you, Mrs. St. James. Or is it Mrs. Felix now?” Her expression hardened. “Stop being dramatic. Your mother had a second family, didn’t she? Your dad sucked it up for your sake. Why can’t you have the same grace?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a reasonable, almost business-like tone. “Felix and I… it was an accident. But his family needs an heir. I couldn’t deny him that. Leo can call you ‘Dad’ too, if you want. He’ll take care of us when we’re old.” “So, I’m supposed to just accept this? Share you?” “Stop acting like a jealous woman, Roman. It’s unbecoming.” My crushed fingers throbbed, but the pain in my chest was worse. I tasted copper in my mouth. She knew—she knew—that my father died of a heart attack the day he found out about my mom’s affair. She was using my deepest trauma as a bargaining chip. “You were gone for months at a time,” she continued, gaining momentum. “Always talking about training, missions. You came home smelling like sweat and gun oil. What woman wants that?” She paused, delivering the final blow with surgical precision. “I told you I wanted to be ‘child-free’ because the thought of you touching me made my skin crawl. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” The silence that followed was deafening. For ten years, I lived like a monk for her. I climbed the ranks for her. I pretended to be rich when we met because she said she liked ambitious men, then found out she was the rich one, and I stayed humble. “You were disgusted by me,” I whispered. “Margot, I worshipped the ground you walked on.” “Oh, grow up,” she snapped, checking her watch—a delicate Cartier, not the stolen Omega. “Apologize to Felix. Immediately. I can get your job back with one phone call. You want to be a Captain, right? I can make that happen. In my heart, you’re still my legal husband. Felix is just… necessary. He won’t threaten your status.” My status. She thought I wanted a promotion? I wanted to give her a good life. “No,” I said. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the house. “Fine. Sulk. Come back when you’re ready to be an adult.” I limped back to our old apartment—the one I paid for. The key didn’t work. I called a locksmith. When the door finally swung open, I wish it hadn’t. My sanctuary, the 900-square-foot apartment where we’d spent our first years, was unrecognizable. It was filled with histhings. I walked into the master bedroom. My side of the closet was empty. My clothes, my uniforms, my gear—gone. Replaced by rows of garish designer suits that reeked of Felix’s cologne. The doorbell rang. It was Margot’s personal assistant, a man named Lee. He looked at me with open disdain. “We got a call from building management about a break-in,” Lee sneered. “You’ve got some nerve, breaking into private property.” “Private property?” I laughed, feeling the edge of hysteria. “The deed has my name on it, Lee.” Lee pulled out his tablet and held it up. A digital copy of the deed. Owner: Felix Henderson. “Mr. Henderson owns this unit,” Lee said, looking down his nose at me. “You’re just a squatter. Get out before I call the cops. The real cops.” The grief finally hit me then, a tidal wave of black water. But I refused to cry. Not in front of them. “Tell her,” I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage, “that I don’t want the apartment. I don’t want the money. I want a divorce.” 3 I didn’t sleep. I sat in a 24-hour diner, drafting the divorce agreement on a napkin before taking it to a lawyer at dawn. By noon, I had the papers. I handed them to Lee and walked away. But my feet betrayed me. I found myself walking back toward the St. James mansion. I needed… I don’t know what I needed. Closure? To see it one last time? I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the second-floor window. Through the sheer curtains, I saw them. Margot and Felix. They weren’t fighting. They were entangled. I turned to leave, stomach churning, but Felix saw me. He locked eyes with me through the glass and deliberately pulled her closer, his movements aggressive, performative. Margot let out a sound that carried through the open window. I looked down. The boy, Leo, was standing at the gate, pointing a toy gun at me. “Go away, beggar!” the kid shouted. “My daddy said you’re a beggar!” The window slid open. Felix leaned out, shirtless, looking like a king addressing a peasant. “Back for more, Officer? Ready to apologize?” Margot appeared behind him, wrapping a silk robe around herself. “Roman? Jesus, look at you. You look like a homeless person. You’re scaring my son.” Scaring her son. I had scars on my face from windburn and shrapnel, earned keeping people like them safe. To her, I was just ugly. “Did you sign the papers?” I asked, my voice flat. “What papers?” Margot frowned. Leo started crying, loud and fake. Margot’s attention snapped to the boy. “We’ll talk later. Just go.” Felix smirked. Once Margot moved away to comfort the kid, he disappeared from the window. A minute later, the front door cracked open. Felix tossed a manila envelope onto the wet pavement. “She signed it ages ago,” he laughed. “Just needed a reason to give it to you. Good riddance.” I picked up the muddy envelope. I didn’t check it. I just wanted out. I called my old commanding officer, requested a transfer back to the unit, and headed straight for Logan Airport. I thought I was free. I was wrong. I was at the gate, ticket in hand, when a heavy purse slammed into the back of my head. “Roman! You sick bastard!” I spun around. Margot was there, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Where is he?” she screamed, clawing at my jacket. “Where is my son? What did you do with Leo?” “What are you talking about?” “Don’t play dumb! The kidnapping happened an hour after you left! The security feed shows a man who looks exactly like you taking him!” Two of her bodyguards grabbed my arms. “I didn’t touch your kid,” I said, struggling. Felix came running up, panting, and threw himself at my feet. “Roman, please! Take anything! Take the money, take the house! Just give me back my boy!” Margot pulled Felix up, glaring at me with pure hatred. “You’re a monster. I never thought you’d stoop this low.” She slapped me. Hard. “I am a soldier,” I roared, the anger finally breaking through. “I have never dishonored my uniform! I didn’t take your son. If someone who looks like me took him, ask your boyfriend why he owns a wig!” Margot didn’t listen. She nodded to the guards. “Bring him.” They dragged me to a waiting SUV. They took me to a warehouse near the docks—one of the St. James shipping properties. They didn’t call the police. They tied my hands to a ceiling beam. One of the guards stepped forward with a heavy rubber hose. “Tell us where the boy is,” Margot said, her voice trembling. The first strike hit my ribs like a sledgehammer. “I don’t know!” I gasped. They beat me for what felt like hours. Ribs cracked. Skin split. I hung there, a piece of meat, barely conscious. “Ninety-nine,” the guard counted, breathless. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Just as the darkness was about to swallow me completely, the warehouse doors exploded inward. “FBI! DOWN! GET ON THE GROUND!” Through the haze, I saw a familiar figure. Broad shoulders. Tactical gear. Gunner. My sniper. He saw me hanging there, dripping blood, and let out a roar that shook the walls. “Margot St. James!” Gunner screamed, leveling his rifle at her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

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They say the night bus doesn’t just carry the living. I didn’t buy into that kind of urban legend. Not until I took the wheel for the graveyard shift. A few months ago, my life was totaled—literally. I survived a wreck that left my skull fractured and my memory full of holes. I knew who I was—Mason, born in the Rust Belt, blue-collar roots—but the accident itself was a blank tape. I just knew it was bad. After they cut me loose from the hospital, I was desperate for cash. That’s when I saw the flyer fluttering on a wet sidewalk: Transit Authority Driver Needed. Night Shift. Rural Route. High Pay. I used to drive rigs before the crash. Figuring it was fate, or maybe just dumb luck, I made the call. When I pulled up to the depot, my optimism died a quick death. The place was a concrete scar on the edge of town, half-swallowed by dead ivy and stained with years of water damage. A few buses were scattered around the lot like discarded toys, their doors rusting, their bodies dented. I couldn’t figure out how this fleet passed inspection. … The supervisor was a man named Hank. He looked like he was carved out of granite—forty-something, stiff, eyes that didn’t blink enough. After a test drive, he gave a curt nod. He pointed to the saddest vehicle in the lot, a beat-up 17-seater shuttle. “You start tonight. That’s your rig.” He laid out the route. 10:30 PM sharp. Depart from the Central Terminal, drive out to the turnaround at Blackwood Creek, rest for twenty minutes, drive back. “Five grand a month. Full benefits. Extra thousand for the night differential. You good with that?” Good? It was a lifeline. It was too good to be true. I walked into his office, ready to sign my life away. Hank stopped me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “Mason, we run a tight ship. There are three rules. You break them, you’re out.” I nodded, desperate not to blow this. “Name them.” “First,” he said, deadpan. “You need to be unattached. Celibate. No women, no dating while you hold this contract. Purity of focus.” “I… I’m single. Haven’t been with anyone in a long time.” I was weirded out. I expected safety protocols, not a morality clause. “Good.” The tension in his forehead smoothed out. “Second: From the Terminal to Blackwood, there are five stops. You do not stop unless you are at a designated station. You hold at every station for exactly three minutes. Understood?” “What if a passenger is running late? Or needs extra time?” Hank shook his head. “Irrelevant. Stick to the protocol.” “Okay.” “Finally. Once the clock strikes midnight, you drive straight back. Doesn’t matter who flags you down. You do not stop.” He grabbed his coffee mug, signaling the end of the discussion. “Agree to these three, and the job is yours.” “Done.” I needed the money too badly to ask questions. I signed the paperwork, moved my stuff into the grim employee dorms that afternoon, and by 10:00 PM, I was heading to the bay. The bus was even worse than it looked in the daylight. The door hung loose on its hinges, and there was a jagged hole in the floorboard that whistled when the wind hit it. I checked my watch. Ignition. The outskirts of the city were brutal. No streetlights, just potholes and shadows. It took fifteen minutes to hit the first stop, a desolate patch of gravel called Willow Run. A guy with a briefcase became my first passenger. He was young, dressed like a junior associate at a law firm, but his face was slack, expressionless. He climbed on and walked straight to the back row without a word. No fare, no pass. “Hey, buddy,” I called out. “You gotta pay the fare.” He froze. He looked at me like I was speaking a dead language. After a long, awkward pause, he fished some loose change out of his pocket and handed it over. Something about him felt off. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t close his eyes. He just pressed his forehead against the cold glass and stared into the blackness. Probably just burnout. We’re all hustling just to survive these days. The road was washboard-rough. It took half an hour to rattle our way to the second stop. Before the wheels even stopped rolling, the Suit stood up. As he passed the driver’s seat, he turned his head. “You should leave early. No one is getting on at this stop.” “Can’t do it. Policy says three minutes.” I answered automatically. By the time I turned to ask how he knew, he was gone. Swallowed by the night. “Fast walker,” I muttered. I waited. He was right. No one showed up at that stop, or the next three. It wasn’t surprising given the hour and the location, but it settled a heavy feeling in my gut. I finished the route, arriving back at the depot around 2:00 AM. The next morning, Hank cornered me while I was grabbing coffee. “First night go okay?” “Fine,” I said. “One weirdo in a suit. Tried to stiff me on the fare, but I made him pay.” “It doesn’t matter,” Hank said quickly. “We don’t rely on ticket sales for profit. Let him slide.” I swear I saw a tic in Hank’s jaw, a spasm of nerves, but he smoothed it over instantly. The second night, the Suit was there again. Same routine. Briefcase. Back row. Staring at nothing. This time, remembering Hank’s advice, I didn’t ask for money. At the second stop, he stood up. “Leave early. No one is coming.” At first, I thought he was messing with me. But a week went by, and he was my only passenger. Every night, same stop, same exit, same prediction. I joked about it to Hank. “Kid thinks he’s psychic. He’s never wrong.” Hank’s hand froze halfway to his mouth with a cigarette. “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s just coincidence.” Of course, the pattern broke the very next night. It was my eighth shift. I dropped the Suit off at stop number two. I tried to make small talk. “Let me guess, nobody’s coming tonight except you?” He offered a thin, cryptic smile. “Except for me? No one will ever get on your bus.” Then he vanished into the dark. I waited the mandatory three minutes. I was starting to feel foolish, wondering if this whole bus route was some tax write-off scheme designed just for that one guy. Then, a voice boomed from the darkness. “Hey! Open up!” I jumped. A bald, middle-aged man was pounding on the glass. I chuckled. So much for the psychic. The bald guy—let’s call him Tucker—seemed frantic. As soon as the doors hissed open, he scrambled inside. He scanned the back row where the Suit usually sat, his face draining of color. “Drive,” he wheezed. “Please, just drive.” But as soon as we pulled away, his panic evaporated. He sauntered up to the front, leaning on the safety rail. “First week, huh kid?” “Yeah,” I said, eyeing him. “How’d you know?” “I ride this route a lot.” Tucker grinned. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out. “Smoke?” “No thanks. And you can’t smoke in here.” “I don’t smoke usually,” he said, lighting up anyway. “Only when I’m on this bus.” I wanted to yell at him, but the bus was empty, and honestly, I was lonely. Tucker was chatty. He asked if the isolation got to me. I deflected, asking what he did for a living that kept him out so late. He didn’t answer. He just laughed, a dry, rattling sound. When we hit the third stop, Tucker flicked a loose cigarette onto my dashboard. “Take it. For the nerves. You’re gonna need it, seeing as no one else is gonna get on.” I took the cigarette, confused. Why is everyone repeating the same lines? I waited at the stop. Nothing. I shook my head, ready to pull out. Suddenly, a woman burst out of the shadows, running into the middle of the road. She was clutching a bundle in her arms. “Stop! Please!” I slammed on the brakes, the bus screeching to a halt inches from her hip. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Are you crazy? Running out like that with a kid?” She climbed on, breathless, apologizing over and over. “It’s fine,” I sighed. “Just be careful.” I looked at the bundle. It was a boy, maybe five or six, wrapped in layers of wool despite the mild weather. His face was visible—and it was wrong. Pale, with a bluish tint on his forehead. “Is he okay?” I asked. “He looks sick.” She didn’t answer, just hurried to the back. The boy lifted his head from her shoulder. His eyes were dark, like polished obsidian. He blinked at me. “Thank you, Mister.” He was smiling, but his skin looked like old bruises. “Listen to your mom,” I said, forcing a smile. “You’ll feel better soon.” “Okay,” the boy whispered. “But Mommy says I’m not gonna get better.” A chill went down my spine. Terminal? God, that was tragic. I drove them to the terminal at Blackwood. As she got off, the woman turned. She looked me dead in the eye and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile; it was seductive, unsettlingly intimate. My ears burned. When I got back to the depot, Hank was waiting on the tarmac. He offered me a cigarette immediately. “How was the run?” “Fine.” I waved him off. “I’ve got one.” I picked up the cigarette Tucker had left on the dash. Hank’s eyes widened. He stared at the cigarette like it was a loaded gun. “Where did you get that?” “A passenger gave it to me…” I stopped. I looked at the thing in my hand. It was wrong. The filter was black with rot. The paper was stained brown, damp, and smelled like wet earth and decay. It smelled like a grave. I gagged and tossed it out the window. Hank looked pale. “Throw that away. Don’t take things from strangers.”

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For the first time in seven years, I returned to the Miller estate for Christmas Eve dinner. When I saw my foster sister, Sophie, our eyes met, and the air between us went cold—a heavy, suffocating silence that neither of us knew how to break. During the first course, my foster father, Henry, reached over and patted my shoulder. His hand felt heavy, like a ghost from a life I’d tried to bury. “Silas, having you move out back then… it was a desperate situation. I hope you don’t hold it against us.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He took a sip of his wine and added, “But your timing is perfect. Sophie is getting married next week.” I knew exactly what he was doing. He was marking his territory, reminding me of the boundaries I had supposedly crossed nearly a decade ago. I pressed my lips together, my thumb brushing against the cool metal on my left hand. I raised my glass toward Sophie. “Then let me be the first to say it. Congratulations, Sophie. I wish you a happy marriage.” Sophie didn’t drink. Her gaze was locked on the diamond band glinting on my ring finger. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. My foster mother, Diane, let out a sharp, surprised breath. “Silas? Where did that ring come from?” I looked around the table at the people who had raised me, then discarded me. A bitter, dry laugh escaped my throat. “I forgot to mention. I’ve been married for seven years.” 1 Henry’s brow furrowed into deep, judgmental lines. “Seven years? You were barely twenty. What kind of nonsense is this?” “We are your parents, Silas—even if not by blood,” Diane chimed in, her voice shrill with a hurt that felt performed. “A marriage isn’t a small thing. How could you not tell us?” Seven years ago, they hadn’t “asked” me to move out. They had cast me out into the cold because I was accused of having “vile intentions” toward their biological daughter. I was the stray dog they’d taken in, only to decide I had rabies the moment things got complicated. I didn’t tell them about my marriage because, for seven years, they hadn’t existed to me. But they had raised me for fifteen years before the fall, and some part of me—the part that still remembered the boy who just wanted to belong—couldn’t quite bring itself to hate them completely. I looked at Henry, my expression a mask of calm. “I’m telling you now. In fact, I asked my wife to join us tonight. I wanted her to meet the family.” Diane, sensing the tension reaching a breaking point, tried to smooth it over. “Well, it’s Christmas. The fact that Silas came home is enough. Where is she, then? Your wife?” I glanced at my watch. The Rolex was a gift from her. “She had a last-minute conference call. She’ll be here in about two hours.” Throughout the meal, I felt Sophie’s eyes on me. It was a weight I refused to acknowledge. Finally, unable to handle being ignored, she pushed her chair back. “Mom, Dad, the tailor finished the final adjustments on the gown. Bennett went to pick it up, but I should go meet him. It’s a lot to carry.” She paused, her fingers drumming on the mahogany table right in front of me. She looked down at me, her eyes a swirling storm of confusion and something that looked dangerously like resentment. “Silas, you haven’t met your future brother-in-law yet. Why don’t you come with me to pick him up?” I wanted to say no. The “no” was right there on the tip of my tongue. But I felt Henry and Diane watching me, their eyes narrow with suspicion, waiting to see if I’d fold, waiting to see if I still carried that old, pathetic torch for their daughter. I stood up. I had to prove to them—and maybe to myself—that the boy who loved Sophie Miller was dead. On the way to the garage, the winter air bit at my skin. Sophie broke the silence first. “How have you been, Silas? Really?” I didn’t look at her. I watched the snow falling into the driveway. “I’ve been fine.” She stumbled slightly, her pace faltering. She looked like she wanted to say a thousand things, but in the end, she just hurried to the car. She reached for the passenger door, swinging it open for me with a practiced, familiar grace. I walked right past her and climbed into the back seat. Sophie’s reflection in the rearview mirror showed a sharp frown. “Do you really have to be this cold?” I turned my head to the window, watching the skeletal trees of the estate blur past. “Your fiancé is waiting. Let’s not keep him.” She let out a long, frustrated sigh and put the car in gear. “His name is Bennett. You should try being polite.” I didn’t answer. We drove in a silence so thick it felt like physical pressure. When we pulled up to the luxury bridal boutique downtown, the door was opened almost immediately by a man in a tailored charcoal overcoat. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad—polished, wealthy, and perfectly coiffed. “Sophie, babe, I told you I’d handle the dress,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat. He immediately took off his cashmere scarf and wrapped it around Sophie’s neck. “It’s freezing. I can’t have my bride-to-be catching a cold.” Sophie’s expression softened instantly. “I just wanted to see you.” They shared a nauseatingly sweet moment before the man—Bennett—noticed me in the back. “Oh,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Bennett, this is Silas,” Sophie introduced us, her voice tight. “My brother.” “Silas, this is Bennett Crawford.” I gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Bennett.” Bennett didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he leaned back, looking me up and down with a smirk that set my teeth on edge. “So, this is the legendary Silas? The foster brother who was… let’s say, fond of you, Sophie?” The air in the car turned arctic. “Wait, I didn’t mean—” I started, but Bennett cut me right off. “I’m just kidding, man. Relax,” he said, though his eyes were sharp and mocking. “Unless you still have those… uncleanthoughts about your sister?” I felt a flash of heat in my chest, but I suppressed it. I simply lifted my left hand, letting the light catch my wedding band. “You’ve got the wrong idea, Bennett. I’ve been married for a long time.” 2 The drive back felt like an eternity. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window, my mind drifting back to a time before the silence. Twenty years ago, my parents had been killed in a mountain climbing accident while saving Henry Miller’s life. The Millers had taken me in out of a sense of profound, heavy debt. I remembered arriving at that massive, intimidating house as a child, screaming for my mother in the middle of the night. It was Sophie—two years older and infinitely braver—who had sat by my bed every night, whispering stories until the grief receded. I had loved her with the clumsy, overwhelming intensity of a boy who had nothing else to hold onto. During puberty, I mistook that desperate gratitude for romance. I wanted the whole world to know she was mine because she was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t an intruder in my own life. Sophie hadn’t pushed me away then. She’d just laugh, ruffling my hair. “Silas, you’re always stuck to me. How are you ever going to find a wife if you’re chasing your sister?” “I don’t want anyone else,” I’d tell her, with the terrifying sincerity of a fifteen-year-old. “I’m only ever marrying you.” She’d smile then, her eyes bright and soft. “It’s a deal, then.” Those whispered promises felt like a fever dream now. When we reached the house, I got out of the car without a word and headed inside. Diane met me in the foyer, her eyes searching my face for cracks. “Did you meet Bennett?” she whispered. I nodded. “He seems… successful. They’re a good match.” She seemed to deflate with relief. She reached out, touching my arm. “Silas, listen. Even if you aren’t ours by blood, we always wanted the best for you. Some things… some mistakes from the past…” I gently removed her hand from my sleeve. “Diane. Don’t. There’s no point in digging up the past tonight.” She let out a long breath, then pulled me toward the living room. “You’re right. Let’s focus on the present. We have something for you.” She opened a velvet box on the coffee table. Inside was a Patek Philippe—understated, elegant, and incredibly expensive. I didn’t refuse it. I knew Diane. In her world, guilt was managed through high-end retail. If this watch helped her sleep, I’d take it. Despite the seven years of exile, I knew she had cared for me in her own limited way. She took the watch out of the box, gesturing for me to hold out my arm so she could fit it. I pushed back my sleeve. But before the metal could touch my skin, Bennett’s voice sliced through the room. “Mom?” He was standing in the doorway, his face twisted in a scowl. “Sophie spent three months tracking down that specific vintage piece for me. You’re just going to give it to him?” He walked over, his eyes cold as he looked at me. “My fiancée bought that. I don’t think it belongs on a stranger’s wrist.” Diane froze, caught between her husband’s future son-in-law and the boy she’d raised. I didn’t make her choose. I took the watch, set it back in the velvet lining, and looked at Bennett with a thin smile. “If your fiancée bought it, I wouldn’t dream of taking it.” Bennett stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Good. At least you have some self-awareness. A charity case who got kicked out of the house shouldn’t be wearing thirty-thousand-dollar watches anyway.” 3 The room went deathly quiet. It was the one thing no one was supposed to say out loud. The “incident” was the rot underneath the floorboards of the Miller family, and Bennett had just ripped up the wood. But to his disappointment, I didn’t flinch. Seven years is a long time to build up scar tissue. Seeing that I wasn’t riled, Bennett opened his mouth to dig deeper, but Henry cut him off with a sharp bark. “It’s Christmas Eve. We aren’t going to bicker over a watch.” With the patriarch’s word final, Bennett just glared at me and subsided. Henry looked around the room. “The sun is down. Everyone, let’s head to the chapel.” The Millers had a private chapel on the edge of the estate, a tradition they took very seriously. As I stood up to follow, Bennett spoke again, his tone dripping with fake concern. “Wait, Dad. Didn’t Silas say he was married?” He turned to me, a predatory glint in his eye. “Shouldn’t we wait for his wife? It seems a bit rude to start the family tradition without the new ‘family member,’ doesn’t it?” Henry paused, considering. “He’s right. Silas, the first year of marriage is significant. She should be here for the memorial service. How far away is she?” I checked my phone. No new messages. “She hasn’t updated me. We should go ahead. I don’t want to hold everyone up.” “Why the rush?” Bennett asked, tilting his head. “Are you worried she won’t show? Or are you worried she doesn’t actually exist?” “The weather is bad,” I said, my voice level. “Planes get delayed. I just don’t want to waste everyone’s time.” Bennett turned to Sophie. His voice was soft, but his eyes were fixed on me. “Babe, we don’t mind waiting for Silas’s wife, do we?” Sophie looked at me, her expression unreadable. “It’s her first time here. We should wait.” She paused, a flicker of something—sadness? Bitterness?—crossing her face. “Besides… I’d like to see the woman my brother chose.” The air grew heavy again. I started to protest, but Bennett talked over me. “Come on, Silas. You look nervous. Did you just make her up so you wouldn’t look pathetic coming back here alone?” I frowned. “Why would I do that?” Bennett laughed, a low, ugly sound. “Who knows? Maybe because you’re still obsessed with your sister? Maybe you thought a fake wife would make us forget that you tried to drug her and force yourself on her seven years ago?” He leaned in, making sure everyone heard the next part. “You got caught like a dog and thrown out. If I were you, I’d be desperate to lie, too.” 4 Looking at Bennett’s sneering face, the humiliation I’d buried seven years ago surged back up like bile. Seven years ago, at the end of my nineteenth birthday party, I had cornered Sophie in the rose garden. I was shaking, unable to look her in the eye. “Sophie, I know you think I’m just a kid,” I’d told her. “But I love you. Not like a brother. Let me take care of you. Please.” Sophie hadn’t said anything. Her face was flushed deep red—I thought it was from the wine, or from the heat of the moment. She’d looked at me for a long time before whispering, “Silas, is this a dream?” Before I could answer, she had kissed me. She tasted like heavy liquor and desperation. I was terrified and thrilled all at once, responding with the clumsiness of someone who had never been touched like that. Then, a hand had ripped us apart. A stinging pain exploded across my face as Henry’s palm connected with my cheek. I remember the ringing in my ears, the sight of Henry’s face purple with rage, and the words “predator” and “assault” being hurled at me like stones. The guests had gathered, whispering. To them, Sophie looked disheveled and dazed—the perfect image of a victim. Henry had dragged her away that night. Diane had checked me into a hotel, telling me never to come back to the house. The rumors spread like wildfire. Online, I was branded a monster who had tried to violate his own foster sister. The university expelled me. The internet vitriol was a suffocating blanket. I begged Sophie to tell them the truth—that she had kissed me—but she stayed silent. Finally, the Millers paid for a one-way ticket to Europe and told me to disappear. It was the price of their “mercy.” Now, looking at Bennett, I felt a strange wave of pity. He was marrying a woman who had let a boy’s life be destroyed rather than admit to a moment of drunken weakness. Bennett mistook my silence for admission. “Do you have any idea how much shame you brought this family? If I were you, I’d be too ashamed to breathe, let alone show my face here.” He stepped into my personal space. “Look at you. You’re a curse, Silas. I heard your parents died right after you were born. Maybe you were the one who killed them, too.” The world went white. Before I even realized I’d moved, my hand connected with Bennett’s jaw. The crack echoed in the foyer. Bennett stumbled back, a hand to his face, shock written in his eyes. The relatives immediately swarmed. “What’s happening?” “Silas, for God’s sake! You can’t just hit people!” Seeing the audience, Bennett immediately slumped, putting on the act of the wounded party. Sophie’s eyes, usually so bright, turned sharp and cold. “Silas! No matter what happened, Bennett is your future brother-in-law. How could you lay a hand on him?” I was done with the charade. I looked her dead in the eye. “Does being a ‘brother-in-law’ give him the right to insult my dead parents?” I took a step toward her. “And let’s be clear, Sophie. You aren’t my sister. To me, you’re just a stranger I used to know.” Sophie flinched. “If Bennett said something to upset you, I’m sorry. I apologize for him.” Her voice hardened. “But you used violence. You owe him an apology. Now.” I felt that old, familiar ache in my chest. If she had stood up for me seven years ago the way she was standing up for this man now, my life would be entirely different. “Never,” I said. Sophie’s face fell. “Silas, what happened to you? You’ve become so… bitter.” She grabbed my wrist, her grip tight. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Apologize to Bennett.” She was holding me so tightly that if I pulled away, I’d send her sprawling. I didn’t want to hurt her—it was a lingering instinct I hated. But then, a slender, pale hand reached from behind me and firmly gripped Sophie’s wrist, forcing her to let go. Then I heard the one voice that always made the world feel steady again. “I think your fiancé is the one who needs to apologize.”

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To spite me, my arch-nemesis signed me up for an elite, invitation-only matchmaking service. I was ready to dial his number and scream until my lungs gave out, but then, a flicker of translucent text drifted across my vision like a live stream comment: [The male lead’s move is genius. To avoid a forced marriage with the villainess, he’s throwing her at the feet of the tragic billionaire second lead.] [Too bad the villainess is such a brat. She’s going to insult him within five minutes and send him running. Eventually, this guy becomes the main girl’s personal ATM.] [Dominic is so devoted and rich, and he literally dies saving the heroine at the end. My heart still aches for him.] Wait. Dominic? Dominic Blackwood? The man they call the “Crown Prince of the East Coast”? I swallowed the curses hovering at the tip of my tongue and smoothed my voice into a honeyed purr. “Actually, I’m free tonight. You pick the place.” 01 The voice on the other end was cool, resonant, and carried a magnetic weight. “Perfect, Miss Miller. I’ll send the address shortly.” The line went dead. Before I could process the heartbeat-thumping reality of it, the comments began flooding my vision again. [Wait, wait, wait. This isn’t in the script. Why did the villainess agree? Isn’t she supposed to give him the ‘cold shoulder’ and act like she’s too good for a blind date?] [Oh god, what if she actually sticks to him? My pure-hearted warrior king is in danger!] [Relax, everyone. Aside from her face, Jade Miller is a literal void. She can’t compete with our sweet, angelic Daisy.] I quickly looked up the matchmaking service Dominic had mentioned. My jaw dropped. The membership fee started at a hundred thousand dollars. Hudson, that bastard. He really went all out just to get rid of me. It proved one thing, though: the bridge between Hudson and me wasn’t just burned; it was nuked. An alliance? A marriage? Not in this lifetime. For the date, I went through the full ritual—clarifying shampoo, a silk-press, and the kind of “no-makeup” makeup that actually takes two hours to perfect. Just as I was finishing, my mother called. “Jade, the holidays are coming up, and your father and I were thinking about your future—” “Mom, I have a boyfriend,” I interrupted, cutting the lecture off at the pass. “Since when? Who is he?” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring him home for New Year’s so you can inspect the goods.” I hung up, feeling a hollow pit form in my stomach. As the comments said, this was just a meeting. Whether I could actually land the world’s most coveted bachelor was a massive “if.” I looked at my reflection and sighed. “If I can’t seal the deal, I’m going to have to hire an actor to play my fiancé for the holidays.” The comments let out a collective sigh of relief: [Scared me for a second. Turns out she’s just trying to get her parents off her back.] [Dominic belongs to Daisy—and to us! He would never fall for a shallow trophy like her.] [Don’t worry, Dominic has impeccable taste. He’ll see right through her.] At 7:00 PM, I walked into a dimly lit, hushed lounge in Midtown. The moment I saw Dominic, two words echoed in my mind: Pure. Perfection. Broad shoulders, a tailored charcoal suit, and eyes so deep they felt like a confession. He looked better than any Forbes cover I’d ever seen. I sat down, took a breath, and looked him straight in the eye. “Let’s skip the small talk. Are we getting married or what?” 02 The comments exploded. [??? Is she insane?] [A proposal? On the first date? Is this some new kind of psychological warfare?] Dominic clearly hadn’t expected the directness. He froze for a fraction of a second, then a small, intrigued smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet.” I gave him my most sincere, wide-eyed look. “No need. I’m a big believer in vibes, and honestly? You have a very trustworthy face.” [Trustworthy face my ass! She’s just thirsty!] [I told you she’s a total visual chaser. One look at a hot guy and she loses her mind.] Dominic politely finished his introduction anyway, and I shared a few brief details about my life. To keep the momentum from dying, I suggested, “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Want to take a walk?” As long as I wasn’t awkward, the awkwardness belonged to the universe, not me. We needed more contact to build a spark. He didn’t refuse. We headed out to the riverfront path. The evening breeze was cool, carrying the scent of rain and salt. “A man with your credentials shouldn’t need a matchmaking service,” I said, glancing at him. “Didn’t your family set something up for you?” What I really wanted to ask was: Why are you here with someone like me? He watched the dark water of the Hudson River. “I believe in intuition. Marriage is for life. I want to find someone I actually like.” [Listen to that! That’s his romantic soul speaking! That’s why he falls for Daisy later at first sight!] As he spoke, a stray cat darted out from the shadows and rubbed against my heel. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small pouch of premium cat treats. “You carry those around?” Dominic asked, surprised. “Yeah. Tossing loose food on the ground is messy and attracts rats. These come with a little biodegradable tray—it’s cleaner.” I expertly opened the packet. His expression softened significantly. “You have cats?” “Four cats, one rescue dog. You should come over and meet them sometime. They’re better judges of character than I am.” [Calculated! So calculated! She’s building a ‘kind-hearted animal lover’ persona!] [But Dominic is a sucker for that! Dammit, look at the way he’s looking at her.] [Don’t panic! Daisy is about to make her entrance. Once they’re in the same room, the difference will be obvious!] The moment that comment scrolled past, a scream pierced the air: “Stop! Thief!” A girl in a white dress blurred past us. It was her. Daisy. Behind her, an elderly woman was stumbling, crying out in distress. Daisy was running, breathless and beautiful, but she was losing ground. This was it. The villainess’s cue to be a bystander—or a hero. The comments said I was just a pretty face, but they forgot I’d spent three years in competitive MMA and kickboxing. I shoved my designer clutch into Dominic’s arms and took off like a shot. Just as I was about to close the gap on the thief, the comments turned a frantic, bleeding red: [Is she an idiot? The thief has a knife!] 03 Almost simultaneously, I saw the thief’s hand dive into his jacket. My heart hammered against my ribs. My instinct yelled at me to pivot, but my momentum was too high. I couldn’t stop. Suddenly, a dark shadow lunged from the side. A heavy boot connected squarely with the thief’s chest. It was Dominic. The thief went flying with a choked cry, a switchblade clattering onto the pavement. Dominic was on him in a heartbeat, pinning the guy’s arms behind his back with practiced, military precision. Me? Because I’d tried to stop mid-sprint, I tripped over my own feet. There was a sickening crack, and a white-hot flare of agony shot through my knee. By then, Daisy had arrived. Her face was flushed, a few stray hairs clinging to her damp forehead. She looked like a tragic oil painting. She glanced at Dominic first, then finally noticed me crumpled on the ground. She reached out to help. “Oh my god, are you okay?” I hissed through my teeth. “I wanted to say ‘I’m fine,’ but my kneecap is currently filing a formal protest.” [LOL, why is the villainess actually kind of funny?] [Daisy is so gorgeous, though. Even her sweat looks like morning dew.] Daisy took the stolen bag back to the elderly woman, offering sweet, angelic comfort. It was so wholesome I almost wanted to applaud. Dominic watched Daisy’s retreating back for a second, then turned his full attention to me. “Did you call the police?” I nodded, gripping my leg. “On it.” The cops arrived quickly and hauled the thief away. The old woman was still sobbing, saying the bag held the money for her husband’s surgery. Daisy was hovering, her eyes brimming with tears. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll find a way…” Dominic walked over and handed the woman a business card. “Go to this clinic. Tell them I sent you. I’ll cover the costs.” Classic. The second lead’s perfection was truly unparalleled. Watching him and Daisy standing there together, bathed in the streetlights, they looked like the cover of a romance novel. [This is the ‘official couple’ vibe!] [I’m Team Dominic! I officially approve of this match!] [What is the villainess still doing on the ground? Can’t she see the mood? Read the room!] I would have loved to read the room from a standing position, but my leg wasn’t taking orders. Dominic finished with the woman and knelt in front of me. “Can you walk?” “Probably not. I think I’ve officially retired from the track and field team.” [Such an actress. She ran like a beast a second ago, now she’s playing the damsel.] Without a word, Dominic scooped me up in a bridal carry. He didn’t just help me; he tucked me against his chest and carried me all the way to his car. At the hospital, the verdict was a hairline fracture. I stared at the X-ray, wanting to cry. I’d crippled myself for a blind date. Worse was the comment that scrolled by: [Villainess is literally made of glass. So fragile. Unlike our Daisy, who is healthy, vibrant, and full of life.] 04 Bad news travels fast, but in high society, it travels at the speed of light. By the next morning, Hudson had heard about my injury. He strutted into my apartment uninvited, carrying a cane encrusted with Swarovski crystals. “Nice work, Jade. It’s not even Christmas and you’ve already managed to turn yourself into a decorative ornament.” Hudson’s handsome face was twisted into a smirk that begged to be slapped. “I heard you were playing vigilante. Do you have a hero complex or is your skull just thicker than I thought?” I rolled my eyes. “Thanks to you, I’m still breathing. Now, don’t tell my mother.” “Why would I bother?” Hudson leaned against the wall, glancing around. “You live near the university district, right?” I eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you care? Don’t tell me you came here just to check on my health.” His eyes flickered, and his ears turned a faint shade of pink. “I was just passing by. Wanted to see if you’d finally kicked the bucket.” A lightbulb went off in my head. “You’re stalking Daisy, aren’t you?” Hudson jumped as if I’d zapped him with a cattle prod. “Shut up! I have things to do. Bye!” He practically sprinted out the door. The comments confirmed it instantly: [He’s blushing! He only moved to this neighborhood to be near Daisy!] [Classic. He uses the villainess as an excuse just to be in the same zip code as the heroine.] I stared at the closed door. Bastard. Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. I assumed Hudson had forgotten his keys. I hopped to the door on one foot. “I swear to god, Hudson, if you—” It wasn’t Hudson. It was Dominic. He was standing there with two middle-aged women in nurse’s scrubs. The sight caught me so off-guard that I lost my balance. I started to tilt backward. Dominic moved like lightning, catching me around the waist. In the panic, my hands slammed against his chest to steady myself. Solid. Firm. Perfectly defined. So, the rumors about his gym routine were true. “I heard you were having trouble moving around,” he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear. “I brought some professional help to look after you.” He paused, looking down at me. “But… could you let go of my shirt?” My face burned, but instead of letting go, I tightened my grip, my fingers grazing the muscle beneath the fabric. If Daisy hadn’t snatched him up yet, I wasn’t going to play fair. I tilted my head back, meeting his gaze. “Dominic. About that marriage proposal. Have you made up your mind?” He looked down at me, a spark of something—amusement, perhaps—dancing in his eyes. “Yes.” I blinked. “Wait, what?” He gently took my hands from his chest and held them in his own. “I said yes. But before we get married, do you think you could stop feeling me up?” My brain went completely numb. What did he just say? He said yes? The comments went absolutely nuclear: [WHAT?! IS DOMINIC BLIND?!] [No! My pure warrior king has been captured by a succubus!] [The plot is breaking! THE PLOT IS BREAKING!] As the virtual screams echoed in my mind, I looked at this magnificent man and smiled like the villainess I was supposed to be. To hell with the script. This man was mine. 05 Dominic’s “yes” didn’t just silence the comments; it broke my brain. A few days later, I was tucked into a bed in a VIP wing of the hospital, leg in a cast, holding an apple Dominic had just meticulously peeled for me. The whole thing felt like a fever dream. “So… Mr. Blackwood,” I said, swallowing a piece of apple. “I might have been a little medicated when I asked that. I was kidding. You don’t have to take it seriously.” Dominic was sitting in the armchair by the bed, slowly wiping his hands with a wet nap. He stopped, lifting his eyes to mine. “Kidding?” He was smiling, but a chill ran down my spine. “Miss Miller, I’m a businessman.” He leaned forward, his presence suddenly heavy and suffocating in the best way possible. “In my world, once a deal is struck, there’s no backing out. You made an offer, I accepted. The contract is closed.” [The tension! Is he going dark?] [You’re in for it now, Jade. Dominic hates being played.] [Run! Oh wait, your leg is broken. You’re trapped!] Run? Where would I go? I forced a nervous laugh. “Don’t you think this is a bit fast? Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, date first? Get to know each other… intimately?” Dominic arched an eyebrow. “Intimately? I agree. We should.” My face went scarlet. Was he flirting or threatening me? “What I mean is,” Dominic said, seemingly enjoying my discomfort, “we need to get the paperwork done quickly to satisfy our families. As for getting to know each other, we’ll have a lifetime for that.” He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick folder. “This is the prenuptial agreement. Take a look.” I scanned the pages. Good god. The assets listed were staggering—real estate, stocks, trust funds. As long as I didn’t do something stupid to trigger a divorce, I’d be set for several lifetimes. [Is he under a spell? Is this real?] [Daisy is going to be devastated! This was all supposed to be hers!] [I don’t buy it. This has to be a trap. He’s going to ruin her.] Trap or not, you’d have to be an idiot to turn down this kind of security. I grabbed a pen and signed my name in bold, sweeping strokes. Dominic looked at the signature, a satisfied glint in his eyes. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Blackwood.” 06 Because of my injury, our “cohabitation” began immediately. “For your recovery,” he claimed. In reality, Dominic was a genius. He had moved my cats and my dog into his sprawling penthouse before I even arrived, claiming he “didn’t want them to get depressed in an empty house.” I watched my high-maintenance Ragdoll cat, who usually treated everyone with utter disdain, purring and rubbing against Dominic’s legs. I felt a pang of betrayal. “Traitor,” I whispered. Dominic, reading a report on the sofa, looked up. “Did you say something?” “Just talking to the cat,” I muttered. Then, the doorbell rang. Dominic went to answer it. I craned my neck to see who it was. The door swung open to reveal Hudson, looking like he’d just sucked a lemon. “Dominic, I heard Jade was staying here…” Hudson stopped dead when he saw me. I was sitting in a wheelchair, wearing one of Dominic’s oversized white button-downs because my own clothes hadn’t been delivered yet. Hudson’s face turned a violent shade of green. “Jade! Have you no shame? Lounging around a man’s house dressed like that?” I rolled my eyes. “None of your business, Hudson. If you’re not here to drop off my mail, get lost. We’re busy.” [SHIPS ARE CLASHING!] [The male lead is jealous! He’s losing it!] [Fight! Fight! Fight!] Hudson lunged forward as if to grab my arm, but Dominic stepped into his path. Dominic was a good three inches taller, and his aura was sheer steel. He kept one hand in his pocket, his voice calm. “Hudson. Breaking and entering is a bit beneath you, isn’t it?” “Dominic, don’t let this woman fool you! She’s just a shallow social climber!” Hudson yelled. Dominic’s eyes went cold. He reached out, grabbed Hudson’s pointing finger, and twisted it just slightly. “Ow! Dammit!” “Watch your tone,” Dominic said, dropping his hand and reaching for a wet nap. “She is my fiancée. I don’t want to hear another disrespectful word about her.” “Fiancée?” Hudson’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Are you… are you serious?” I lifted my chin triumphantly. “Dead serious. Better start saving up for the wedding gift, Hudson. Don’t be cheap.” Hudson looked at me, then at Dominic, then stormed out, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. [So satisfying! The male lead just got served!] [Dominic is such a protective king. I’m officially a fan!] [But what about Daisy? Isn’t he supposed to love her?] I was wondering the same thing. Speak of the devil… The moment Hudson left, Dominic’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, a small frown forming, and answered. Daisy’s voice, thick with tears, was perfectly audible in the quiet room: “Dominic… I’m at the hospital… that woman’s family is here causing a scene, and I’m so scared…”

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I walked into that VIP lounge ready to sell my soul for a wire transfer. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t a desperate investor waiting for me. It was my uncle. That night, he didn’t offer a handshake. He tossed a contract onto the marble table and forced me to read the clauses aloud, word by agonizing word. “Spread your legs, Kit,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. “Show your uncle exactly what it means to be ‘obedient.’” I buried my face into the leather cushions of the sofa, my lashes heavy with salt, forced to endure every whim of his touch. When I bit my lip to stifle a cry, he pressed his thumb deliberately into the fresh bruise on my hip. “Were you going to beg him for the money? Or are you begging me? Hmm?” 1 The air in the private suite was thick enough to choke on. Miller was on his knees, his forehead split open and oozing. Blood tracked down his greasy face, mixing with cold sweat before dripping onto the plush Persian rug. Five minutes ago, this man had been sliding his hand under the hem of my shirt, asking me exactly how much a disgraced Blackwell heir was worth. Now, he didn’t even dare to breathe in my direction. I slowly buttoned my shirt, my fingers trembling. I tried to hide it, but the man standing by the door was a thousand times more terrifying than Miller could ever be. Roman Blackwell hadn’t even brought a security detail—just his silent, stone-faced assistant. He was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his tie knotted with lethal precision. His gold-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his straight nose, giving him the air of a refined academic. But I knew the wolf that lived under that skin. “Don’t stop on my account,” Roman said. He walked in, his handmade Italian oxfords silent on the carpet, yet every step felt like a heel pressed against my carotid artery. He pulled out a chair and sat, casually picking up the keycard Miller had tried to shove into my waistband moments before. “Why the sudden silence? I thought we were negotiating.” I didn’t spare Miller a second glance. I walked over to Roman and lowered my head. “Uncle Roman.” Roman let out a soft, sharp laugh. He twirled the keycard between his fingers, then suddenly flicked it. It struck Miller across the cheek with a sickening crack that echoed in the dead space of the room. “Kit,” Roman said, his eyes finally locking onto mine from behind those polished lenses. He ignored the trash on the floor. “Have you forgotten the family rules? Are you so desperate for cash that you’re selling yourself in backrooms?” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I was desperate. More than desperate. My grandfather—that old gargoyle—had blocked every exit. My company’s accounts were drained, a hollow shell. If I didn’t find the capital to fill the hole by next month, I’d be headed to a federal penitentiary for embezzlement. But I couldn’t tell Roman that. I just lowered my head further, playing the part of the stray dog that had been caught in the trash. “I messed up, Uncle.” Roman stood up. He was a head taller than me, and his shadow seemed to swallow me whole. He reached out, straightening my disheveled collar. His fingertips brushed against my throat, as cold as ice. “Mistakes require discipline.” He turned and walked out without a word about Miller. I knew Miller was finished. If Roman Blackwell showed up in person, it meant he owned the building, the street, and everyone on it. I followed him into the back of a black Maybach. The AC was humming, but my back was slick with sweat. The privacy partition slid up, sealing us in. Roman leaned back, eyes closed, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on his knee. The silence was worse than a lecture. I almost wished he’d just hit me and get it over with. “How much do you think you’re worth?” he asked, not opening his eyes. I blinked, caught off guard. “What was that bottom-feeder offering you? Five million? Ten?” Roman opened his eyes and looked at me, his gaze dripping with mockery. “You’d unbutton your shirt for ten million in a public lounge?” Shame burned up my spine like a fuse. I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood. It was fifteen million. That was the price of my life. But I didn’t have the courage to say it. “It wasn’t much,” I rasped. Roman scoffed. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed my tie, jerking me forward until our faces were inches apart. I could smell his expensive cologne—sandalwood and cold rain. “If you’re so intent on selling, sell to me.” His gaze drifted from my eyes to my lips, then down to the collarbone Miller had almost touched. “Blackwell money is still money. And while I don’t usually collect trash, I can offer a premium for family.” The car screeched to a halt in front of the Blackwell estate. Roman let go of my tie, brushing his palms together as if he’d touched something filthy. “Get out,” he commanded. “We’re going to finalize this merger tonight.” 2 The moment the library door locked behind us, I flinched. This room was my personal hell. Growing up, if I missed a mark or failed to meet the Patriarch’s impossible standards, this was where I was sent. But tonight, the executioner had changed. Roman sat behind the massive marble desk, holding a freshly printed document. It was a contract his assistant must have drafted on the ride over. A bill of sale. For me. “Read it.” Roman tossed the papers onto the rug. They landed at my knees. I knelt there, the hard patterns of the carpet digging into my skin. I didn’t dare move. I picked up the pages, my hands shaking so hard the paper rattled. The terms were a masterclass in humiliation. The Party of the First Part (Roman) has absolute authority over the Party of the Second Part (Kit). Kit must be available 24/7. Kit is prohibited from any private contact with third parties. All social media and communications must be transparent to Roman. Each violation: a one-million-dollar fine or equivalent physical penance. This wasn’t an investment. It was a leash. “Read it aloud.” Roman unbuckled his watch and set it on the desk with a heavy clink. Then came the metallic slide of a belt buckle being undone. I closed my eyes, my voice a broken whisper. “I, Kit Blackwell, voluntarily accept the support of Roman Blackwell, and during this period…” Snap! The leather belt cracked against my back. The pain was an explosion. I choked on a groan, collapsing forward, the papers scattering. “Too quiet. I can’t hear you.” Roman was standing over me now, the black leather belt dangling from his hand. He sounded as calm as if he were discussing quarterly earnings. “Start over.” I pushed myself up, returning to my knees, trembling as I gathered the sheets. “I… Kit Blackwell… voluntarily…” Snap! Another one. This time, it landed right on top of the first welt. Cold sweat soaked through my shirt. I’ve always had a low pain threshold—growing up in that orphanage before the Blackwells “found” me had made me pathologically sensitive to it. But the twisted part? Under the agony, there was a sickening sense of security. At least he was looking at me. At least I was here, and not thrown out into the cold. I was broken. I knew it. I could feel my body reacting to the sheer intensity of him. “You like being hurt?” Roman must have noticed the change in my breathing. He knelt, using the tip of the belt to tilt my chin up. “You were so bold in front of Miller. Why play the dead dog for me?” The disgust in his eyes stung more than the belt. I bit my bleeding lip. “I’m not…” “Not what?” Roman slapped the contract against my face. “Sign it, and the fifteen million hits your account tomorrow morning. Along with all those ‘misplaced’ funds you’ve been hiding. I’ll make the audit go away.” I looked up, startled. He knew? He knew the Patriarch had set me up for the embezzlement charge? Roman saw my expression and let out a cold laugh. “You think you’re smart enough to hide anything from me? The old man is only senile enough to think this would kill you. I know better.” He stood up, looking down at me like I was a bug under a microscope. “But this money isn’t a gift, Kit. From today on, your body is an asset of Roman Blackwell. If you damage it, you’re in breach. If you let anyone else touch it, I’ll take their hands.” I looked at the contract and reached for the pen. I knew this was slow-acting poison. But I didn’t have a choice. The moment I signed, I became the bird in Roman’s cage. And somehow, as the cage door slammed shut, I felt a wave of relief. Because the person holding the key was Roman. 3 The next morning, I was woken up by a notification on the family thread. The Patriarch was summoning me to the ancestral estate for dinner. Ostensibly, it was a family gathering. In reality, it was a forced introduction to Talia Sterling. The Sterlings and Blackwells had been at each other’s throats for years. The old man wanted to use a marriage to swallow their firm—or maybe he just wanted to squeeze one last bit of use out of me before I was discarded. I stared at the screen, my back still thrumming with the heat of last night’s wounds. Roman stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water tracing the lines of his abs. He saw me staring at my phone and snatched it away. He glanced at the screen and smirked. “Looking forward to it?” I went rigid. The contract said no contact with others. “It’s a direct order from my grandfather. I don’t have the luxury of saying no.” Roman dropped the phone onto the bed and leaned over me, pinning me with his shadow. “Go if you must,” he whispered. “But if you agree to that engagement, I’ll break your legs before you can walk down the aisle.” 7:00 PM. The Blackwell Manor. The crystal chandeliers were blinding. The long dining table was filled with family members wearing masks of polite deceit. I sat across from Talia. Roman, being my “senior,” sat diagonally across from me. He was in a navy suit now, looking every bit the perfect gentleman as he charmed Talia’s father. Only I knew that under the table, his shoe was sliding up my pant leg. The hard leather of his custom oxford dragged against my calf, over my knee, and higher. I gripped my fork until my knuckles turned white, forcing a smile onto my face. “Are you feeling alright, Kit?” Talia was sharp. She noticed the sweat on my brow. “I’m fine,” I lied. “Just a bit warm.” “Kit has trouble sleeping in new beds,” Roman interjected, his voice lazy and smooth. “He was at my place last night. We stayed up quite late… working.” The table went silent for a heartbeat. Talia’s father looked stiff; the Patriarch’s face turned a shade of bruised purple. Everyone knew Roman was the “outsider” son, the one who didn’t get along with me. Nobody knew what “working” actually meant. Under the table, Roman’s foot became more daring, pressing into my inner thigh. Right where a small mole sat—a spot he’d spent hours mocking the night before. He was pushing me. He was forcing me to ruin this arrangement myself. If I didn’t reject the marriage, he was going to cause a scene that would destroy us both. But a spark of rebellion flickered in me. Why? Why did he get to own every breath I took? If I married Talia, could I use her family to escape him? Even if it was just trading one cage for another. I looked up at Talia and gave her the most convincing smile I could muster. “Talia, I think this union is an excellent idea. In fact, why wait? We should set a date for the engagement party.” The movement under the table stopped instantly. A gaze that could kill pierced through me. I didn’t look at Roman. “Uncle, you don’t need to worry about my personal life anymore,” I said, raising my wine glass toward him. Roman didn’t move. He stared at me for three long seconds, then he smiled. It was the kind of smile that made the hair on my neck stand up. “Is that so?” He swirled his red wine, his eyes glinting. “I wonder if the bride-to-be knows about that mole on your inner thigh? The one that makes you shake the moment it’s touched?” 4 Before the dinner was even over, Roman had dragged me into the second-floor powder room. The lock clicked—a sound like a death sentence. “You’re insane, Roman!” He slammed me against the marble vanity. The edge hit my lower back, making me gasp in pain. “I’m insane?” Roman pressed his body against mine, one hand crushing my throat, his grip nearly cutting off my air. “You’ve got some nerve, Kit. Agreeing to an engagement right in front of me? Did my words go in one ear and out the other?” The mirror reflected us. It was a violent, suffocating tableau. My face was flushed from the lack of oxygen, but I stared back at him with everything I had left. “I need… to get married,” I choked out. “I need a normal life. I won’t be your dog forever.” The rage in Roman’s eyes was nuclear. “A normal life?” He let go of my throat, but before I could breathe, he grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head back. “You think you’ll find that here? With Talia Sterling?” He leaned in, his voice a lethal hiss. “You think the Sterlings are clean? Her father owes three hundred million in gambling debts. They aren’t looking for a son-in-law; they’re looking for a carcass to strip. Only I am willing to take you in.” I froze. The Sterlings were broke? The Patriarch hadn’t mentioned that. “Call it off,” Roman commanded. “No.” I gritted my teeth. Even if the Sterlings were a bonfire, I’d jump into it. Anything to get a mile away from Roman. “I’m doing this to find out what happened to my mother—” I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. Roman paused. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing me. “Your mother? You’re still looking for the woman who dumped you at an orphanage gate?” That was the wound that never healed. “None of your business!” I yelled. “You’re right. It’s not.” Roman smiled coldly and began to unknot his silk tie. The sound of the fabric sliding was deafening in the small room. He grabbed my wrists, yanking them behind my back and binding them tight with the silk. “Since you don’t want to call off the engagement, don’t. I’ll just carry you out there right now and announce our arrangement myself. Let’s see how the Sterling girl feels about the Blackwell heir begging for mercy in his uncle’s arms.” He reached for the door handle. Terror flooded me. If he did that, I was destroyed. Not just my reputation, but any scrap of leverage I had left in this family. “Don’t!” I panicked, my body shrinking back. “I’ll do it! I’ll call it off!” You coward, I told myself. You pathetic coward. Roman stopped. He turned back to look at me, disheveled and broken. He patted my cheek, like one might comfort a frightened pet. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Just remember, Kit—you have nowhere to go but here.” That night, Roman didn’t take me to my room. He threw me into the basement of his private villa. It had been renovated recently. It wasn’t a dark storage room anymore; it was carpeted, filled with stuffed animals, and held a single bed. It looked like a cozy child’s room. But as I looked at the furniture, I began to shake. It was a perfect, one-to-one recreation of my room at the orphanage. Right down to the scratches on the baseboards. It was my nightmare. And it was the place where Roman and I had met for the very first time.

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Three years into our corporate merger of a marriage, my husband casually suggested we open it up. “Maya, don’t you ever wonder what it’s like with someone else?” I froze, then reached out to pinch his arm, thinking he was joking. “Are you losing it? Why would I want that? Is what we have not enough for you?” “I’m bored,” Sebastian cut me off. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Two words. They hit me like a physical blow. The smile died on my face. “At the gala last month, someone slipped something into my drink. I ended up with a waitress,” Sebastian continued. He toyed with a strand of my hair, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his lips. “The transgression felt… good. It was a rush I haven’t felt in years. Honestly, you should try it.” The blood drained from my face. I felt faint, the room spinning as I stared at the stranger sitting in my husband’s skin. Sebastian looked at me—at my trembling hands and pale cheeks—but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re moving to an open arrangement. You can find someone else, too.” He paused, then added with a cruel tilt of his head, “If you can’t find anyone on your own, I can always set you up with one of my associates.” Before I could find my voice to scream at him, he tossed a thick folder onto my lap. It was our prenuptial agreement. “Don’t forget your place, Maya. You sold yourself to me three years ago, remember?” He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. “That price tag was high enough to buy your compliance for a lifetime. Act like it.” I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood from my palms. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t a commodity, but the cold weight of the contract in my lap silenced me. I had no leverage. I had nothing. Everything came to a head the day I was rushed to the clinic with a threatened miscarriage. I was standing at the pharmacy counter, clutching a prescription for the hormones meant to save the flickering life inside me, and I was exactly fourteen dollars short. Fourteen dollars. I called him, my voice shaking, pleading. His tone on the other end was pure vitriol. “Didn’t I pay your family’s debts in full before the wedding? What, are you addicted to being a parasite now? Stop calling me for pocket change.” He hung up. Later that night, I saw the headline on a blind-item gossip site. Sebastian Blackwood had just spent fourteen million dollars on a vintage Cartier necklace for his new flame—a “celebration of her innocence,” the caption hinted. The nurse at the counter cleared her throat, her eyes filled with a pity that hurt worse than the cramping in my womb. “Ma’am? Do you want the medication or not?” I looked at the price on the screen, then at my phone. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh and wiped a tear away with the back of my hand. “Forget the medicine,” I whispered, my heart finally breaking into pieces. “Can you… can you help me schedule the termination? I can’t keep it.” A two-million-dollar marriage. It was time to close the books. … The moment I stepped out of the procedure room, my phone buzzed. A bank notification. A deposit of exactly $14.00. There was a memo attached to the wire: [Buy your pills. Stop embarrassing the Blackwood name.] I stared at the screen, my mouth twisting into a grotesque smile. Fourteen dollars was enough to cover the copay for the medicine I no longer needed, but it wasn’t nearly enough to cover the cost of the abortion I’d just undergone to save myself from his legacy. I knew Sebastian wouldn’t give me another cent. He liked the power of withholding. Swallowing my remaining pride, I reached out to a group chat of people I used to call friends. I needed $317—the balance for the hospital fees. Added to the meager savings I’d hidden away and Sebastian’s insulting fourteen dollars, it would be just enough to settle the bill for the “standard” procedure. The replies came almost instantly. [Wow, the Great Maya Vaughn is begging for scraps? Did you blow through that two million already?] [Tsk tsk. If you hadn’t held Sebastian up for a ransom during the engagement, he might actually care that you’re broke. You reap what you sow, honey.] The mockery flooded my screen, wave after wave of digital venom. But it didn’t sting like it used to. I was numb. I was used to Sebastian treating our marriage like a hostile takeover. I was used to being the “bought” woman, the mercenary bride. I was used to the whispers behind my back at country clubs and charity galas. I was used to the suffocating shame of having a wallet full of maxed-out cards, forced to beg him for every loaf of bread, every bottle of shampoo. In the beginning, I thought I could work. I thought I could earn enough to pay him back the two million he’d “loaned” my father to stop the foreclosure. I wanted my soul back. But Sebastian had seen to it that every door was slammed in my face. “I bought your life, Maya. Your time, your body, your freedom—they all belong to the Blackwood estate now.” He used money as a leash, punishing me for the fact that our “love” had a price tag. He hated me because he believed I’d conned him for three years, only to reveal my “true colors” when my family went bankrupt. I had tried to explain. I had tried to tell him that I had been desperate, that my father was suicidal, that I would have done anything to save them. He never listened. “Save the sob story for someone who cares,” he’d say. “You asked for the money. You made the bed. Now lie in it.” My phone chimed again. Someone had sent me $371. The note read: [Consider this a tip for the entertainment. Watching you fall is worth every penny.] I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead and looked at the nurse. “The bill is settled. Please… just get me on the table. I want this over with.” I couldn’t afford the luxury of the “painless” sedation package. I had to lie there, fully conscious, on the frigid metal table. I felt every scrape of the instruments, every sharp, tearing sensation as the last tie between Sebastian and me was severed. The pain was a physical manifestation of my life—raw, invasive, and cold. As I gritted my teeth, a memory surfaced. Sebastian, years ago, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “When we’re married, we’ll have a house full of kids. I’ll spend my life making sure you and our babies are safe.” But when the test had come back positive two weeks ago, he’d looked at me with pure disgust. “So, what’s the rate this time? How much are you trying to squeeze out of me for a kid?” Nothing, Sebastian. I don’t want anything from you anymore. Not your money, not your name, and certainly not your mercy. When it was over, the silence of the room rushed back in. The nurse unstrapped my legs and helped me onto a recovery cot. I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline, the gray winter sky mirroring the void in my chest. Suddenly, a streak of light shot up from the lakefront. A firework. Then another. Soon, the entire sky was blooming in brilliant, expensive shades of gold and violet. The nurses huddled by the window, their voices hushed with awe. “Did you see? Mr. Blackwood is putting on a show for his new girl. Must be nice to be loved like that.” “Is he still married? I heard his wife is some social climber who lives in the penthouse like a glorified servant.” I closed my eyes and let the tears fall silently. I walked home. My body felt like it was made of lead, every step a jagged reminder of the surgery. An empty taxi pulled up beside me, the driver leaning out to ask if I needed a ride. I shook my head, not looking at him. “No, thank you.” I couldn’t afford the fare. It was a ten-mile trek back to the Gold Coast. Along the way, people were still buzzing about the fireworks. “It was like a dream,” a young woman told her friend. “If a man did that for me, I’d die happy.” Her friend laughed, glancing at me as I limped past, my face ghostly pale in the streetlights. “Yeah, but look at that woman. Some people have all the money in the world and still look like they’re walking to their own funeral.” I didn’t look back. I wanted to tell them that I’d had those fireworks once. I’d had a man who promised to protect me. On the night he proposed, he’d knelt in the snow, a diamond the size of a marble in his hand. “Maya, you’re the only real thing in my world. Let me take care of you forever.” The fireworks that night had been even bigger. But that was also the night my father had been standing on the edge of a bridge, and debt collectors were pounding on my mother’s door, threatening my seven-year-old sister. I had been backed into a corner. “Sebastian… please. I need two million dollars. My family…” I’ll never forget how the warmth died in his eyes. He didn’t even let me finish. He stood up, the romantic facade crumbling into a mask of pure, icy contempt. “They told me you were a gold digger. I didn’t want to believe them. You really played the long game, didn’t you, Maya? Waiting until the ring was out to show your hand.” He’d signaled the technicians to kill the lights. He’d pulled a checkbook from his tuxedo and scribbled the amount, tossing the paper at my feet. “Fine. You’re cheaper than I thought.” From that second on, the man I loved was dead. I was no longer a wife; I was a bad investment he was forced to manage. He made me a pariah in the city, the “Two-Million-Dollar Bride” everyone loved to hate. His housekeeper made six figures. I had to beg for three dollars to buy a coffee. I had endured it, hoping he’d eventually see the truth. Hoping his anger would burn out. Until the night he brought Hailey home. When I lost my mind and screamed at him, he just looked at me with bored indifference. He reminded me that he’d bought our marriage, and that if he wanted to bring a hundred women into our bed, it was his right. I had no words left. I reached the penthouse at 1:00 AM, shivering from the lake breeze. The heat was humming inside, the scent of expensive candles filling the foyer. I just wanted to crawl into the guest room and disappear. But a girlish laugh drifted from the living room. “Oh, Maya’s back! Did you get them? Did you get my macarons?” I stared at Hailey, draped over Sebastian on the Italian leather sofa. “What macarons?” “Don’t play dumb,” Sebastian snapped, his eyes raking over my disheveled appearance. “I texted you three hours ago. Hailey wanted Ladurée. I told you to pick them up on your way back.” “My phone died,” I said, my voice cracking. “And I don’t have money for French cookies, Sebastian.” “Still with the money?” Sebastian stood up, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and letting it flutter to the floor. “There. Is that enough? Go get them. Don’t come back until you do.” “It’s one in the morning,” I whispered. “Everything is closed.” “Then find a place that’s open. Or stay outside and think about how much that two million is really costing me.” He called for the security guard—a man who used to look at me with respect—and had me physically escorted out of my own home. “Don’t bother coming back without the macarons,” Sebastian’s voice echoed through the closing door. Then came Hailey’s giggle, and the sound of them moving toward the bedroom. I sat on the cold concrete steps of the building’s service entrance. The winter wind cut through my coat, chilling my blood. My heart, already fragile, finally went cold. Hours later, the heavy door groaned open. “Maya? What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to catch pneumonia?” Sebastian was standing there, looking agitated. “Is this some kind of guilt trip? You think if you sit out here in the cold, I’ll feel bad? It’s just a box of cookies, for Christ’s sake.” He reached down to grab my arm, but I was a dead weight. “Where is the medicine you asked for earlier?” he demanded, looking around as if the pills would be sitting on the sidewalk. “You scammed me for fourteen dollars? You’re that pathetic now?” Medicine? The baby was gone. The pills were irrelevant. Before I could speak, Sebastian signaled his driver. “Get her inside. If she dies on the doorstep, it’ll be a PR nightmare.” I felt myself being carried, but I was drifting. It felt like a dream. Sebastian didn’t care. He was just protecting his brand. When I woke up in the guest room, Sebastian was hovering over me, his face a mask of fury. “Finally awake? Nice performance. You really went all out for a box of macarons. Do you want the press to think I’m abusing my ‘poor’ wife so you can sue for more? Is that the play?” I tried to speak, but my throat was a desert. “Get the doctor in here!” Sebastian barked toward the door. “Just don’t let her die in this house.” A tear tracked through the dried salt on my cheek. “Sebastian,” I rasped. “Let’s get a divorce.” He laughed. A sharp, ugly sound. “Divorce? Sure. Give me back my two million dollars, and I’ll sign whatever you want.” He paused, a cruel realization dawning on his face. “Oh, wait. I see what this is. You’re pregnant, aren’t you? You think a ‘Blackwood Heir’ is your ticket to a bigger settlement? How much do you want this time? Five million? Ten?” The trauma of the last twenty-four hours finally broke the dam. “The baby is gone, Sebastian. There is no heir.” Before he could process my words, Hailey’s voice rang out from the hallway, followed by the sound of her retching. The house doctor, who had just arrived, rushed past the guest room toward Hailey. After a few minutes of hushed conversation, the doctor stepped back into the hallway, looking at Sebastian with a tentative smile. “Mr. Blackwood… it looks like congratulations are in order. Miss Hailey is pregnant.” The world didn’t just break then. It disintegrated. Hailey moved in permanently after the “good news.” At breakfast a week later, she mentioned a craving for organic bone broth from a specific butcher across town. Sebastian didn’t even look up from his tablet. “You heard her, Maya. Go get it.” I stared at my black coffee, ignoring him. He smirked. “Oh, I forgot. You need an incentive. Shall we say… fifty thousand for every errand you run for the mother of my child? Does that suit your mercenary heart?” “Deal,” I said, putting my cup down. Hailey pouted, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Sebastian, won’t Maya be upset that you’re paying her like… staff?” Sebastian let out a cold snort. “Trust me. As long as there’s a check at the end, she’d sell her own soul. She doesn’t have feelings, Hailey. Just an invoice.” He was right. I had a goal now. Two million dollars. I needed to buy my freedom. I became Hailey’s shadow. I fetched her water, I rubbed her feet, I endured her taunts—all for a price. Thirty thousand for a foot rub. Fifty thousand to clean up her morning sickness. Sometimes, Sebastian would make me sit in the corner of the room while they were intimate, just to humiliate me. Eighty thousand for that. The first time, I felt like I was going to vomit. By the third time, I was a statue. I would even hand him a fresh protection when they finished, my face a mask of absolute nothingness. Sebastian’s temper grew more volatile as I grew more silent. One night, he slapped a box of condoms out of my hand, his fingers bruising my jaw as he forced me to look at him. “What is wrong with you? Have you no shame? You’re disgusting, Maya!” I just stared into his eyes. “You’re at 1.6 million, Sebastian. Only four hundred thousand to go.” It was the first snow of the year. Hailey insisted on going to the Blackwood Peak observatory to see the snowfall. She said it was romantic, that if lovers watched the first snow together there, they’d never part. Sebastian, playing the doting father-to-be, agreed. At dinner that night, Hailey gasped, clutching her throat. “Oh no! My necklace! The one you bought me, Sebastian… I must have left it at the observatory!” She turned to me, a glint of pure malice in her eyes. “Maya, could you be a sweetheart and go get it? It’s so special to me.” Sebastian watched me, waiting for my reaction. Our new maid, a woman who hadn’t been bullied into silence yet, spoke up. “Mr. Blackwood, the mountain roads are icing over. It’s dangerous, and isn’t the mistress… recovering from a flu?” Sebastian ignored her. He looked at me, a challenge in his eyes. “Four hundred thousand dollars, Maya. One last trip, and you’re even. Do you want it or not?” “I’ll go,” I said. The mountain road was treacherous. The car could only get me to the base. “Hurry up, ma’am,” the driver said, looking nervous. “If Miss Hailey gets upset, Mr. Blackwood will take it out on my paycheck.” I nodded and began the trek up the hiking trail. The path was a sheet of black ice. Every step was a gamble. Two hours later, I reached the observation deck and found the necklace sitting prominently on a stone bench. The fourteen-million-dollar “innocence” prize. I shoved it into my pocket and turned to head back down. Then my foot slipped. I went over the edge of the embankment, tumbling down the ravine. Jagged branches tore at my skin; stones bruised my ribs. I managed to snag a dead tree trunk, dangling over a sheer drop. I screamed for help, but the wind swallowed my voice. I reached for my phone to call 911, but the battery was at 1%. A notification popped up—a bank transfer for $400,000. A text followed: [Found it? Then get your ass back here.] A single tear froze on my cheek. In the thirty seconds before the phone went black, I sent two photos to Sebastian. One was a screenshot of the bank account showing exactly $2,000,000. The other was the hospital bill for the abortion, dated the day of the fireworks. [We’re even, Sebastian. I don’t owe you anything anymore.] The phone died. I let go of the tree.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “391392”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Growing up, every woman I knew was in love with Bennett. It didn’t matter if they were the arrogant, untouchable heiresses or the refined, overachieving seniors. Bennett was the sun, and everyone else was just a planet caught in his orbit. Then came the accident. A high-speed crash that left the younger sister, Maisie, blind, and the older one, Margot, paralyzed. Bennett did what he does best: he ran. He fled to Europe, leaving me behind with a heavy request: Take care of them for me. They hated me for it. They convinced themselves I was the one who drove him away, that I had schemed to get him out of the picture. They made my life a living hell, treating me like a stray dog they were forced to feed. I endured it all—the insults, the coldness, the impossible demands—all for the sake of the massive paycheck that kept my family afloat. But the day I finally hit my “freedom number” in my savings account, I didn’t just walk away. I flipped the table. “I’m done being your punching bag. I quit.” I expected them to scream. I expected them to throw things. Instead, Maisie—the sister who hadn’t seen a glimmer of light in months—snapped her eyes open and locked onto me with terrifying precision. And Margot—the sister who supposedly couldn’t walk—was already at the door, closing it with a click that sounded like a trap snapping shut. 1 The bowl hit the floor with a wet, heavy thud. The soup was meant for my face, but Maisie’s aim had suffered since she lost her sight. Hot broth splattered across my sneakers, soaking into the canvas. “Where is Bennett? He said he was coming today. He promised.” Maisie sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, her long lashes casting shadows over her pale, elegant face. She looked like a porcelain doll someone had tried to break but couldn’t quite shatter. I knelt down immediately to pick up the ceramic shards. Bennett was likely in London by now, probably at some underground club or a gala. The moment he realized Maisie and Margot had destroyed their bodies racing for his attention, he vanished. To him, they weren’t tragic figures; they were liabilities. “He’s dealing with some things, Maisie,” I said, my voice practiced and neutral. “He told me he’d be here as soon as the dust settles.” “Liar.” Her voice was a sharp blade. “He told me he’d overcome anything to be with me. It was you, wasn’t it? You did something to make him leave.” She reached out, her hands clawing through the air until she found the sound of my breathing. “Don’t move,” I warned, seeing her bare feet inches away from the broken porcelain. “There’s glass everywhere.” She didn’t listen. She stepped forward, her skin pressing into a sharp edge, but she didn’t even flinch. She found me, her fingers tangling into my hair, pulling my head back so I had no choice but to look up at her sightless face. “You’ve always wanted this, haven’t you, Casey?” she hissed. “You wanted him gone so you could have me all to yourself. You’re the reason he’s hiding.” The pain in my scalp made me want to shove her away, but I stayed still. I had loved her once. That was the pathetic truth. But Bennett hadn’t left because of jealousy. He left because he was a coward who couldn’t handle the sight of a wheelchair or a white cane. I couldn’t tell her that. Not if I wanted to keep getting paid. Bennett had promised me five thousand a month just to keep them happy and keep his name clean in their ears. “Tell them I love them,” he’d said. “And for god’s sake, don’t call me.” I was a college kid from a family that lived paycheck to paycheck. I needed that money. I needed to keep my mouth shut and play the martyr. Maisie kept screaming at me to call him, to apologize for whatever imaginary sin I’d committed. I remained silent, a ghost in my own life. It was only when a single, cold tear escaped my eye and landed on her wrist that she finally stopped talking. 2 My mother was the housekeeper for Bennett’s family. I grew up in the shadows of their mansion, the “plus-one” by necessity, never by choice. My mother’s mantra was simple: Make Bennett happy. If he’s happy, we’re safe. I followed him to the elite private high school on a scholarship that felt more like a leash. That was where I met Maisie. In that world, wealth was the only armor that mattered. The kids there didn’t bother with the “help’s kid,” but their lackeys—the ones desperate for a crumb of status—needed someone to kick. One afternoon, while I was doing Bennett’s chores in the school’s courtyard, a group of them cornered me. They called me Bennett’s lapdog. They laughed about how much dignity a person could sell for a tuition check. I held my broom and kept my head down. I was the quiet one. Even my mother wished I was more like Bennett—bright, loud, effortless. She never understood that I didn’t have the luxury of being reckless. They started pushing me, bored with my silence, when a girl stepped out from behind a massive oak tree. Her blazer was draped over one shoulder, her tie loosened with a deliberate, messy grace. “God, you guys are exhausting,” she said, yawning. “I’m trying to nap, and all I hear is the sound of insecurity. Move.” That was Maisie. She was the princess I had dreamed about, the one who stepped out of the light to save the boy in the dirt. I fell for her in that moment. Hard. Later, she fell for Bennett. She used me to funnel gifts to him, occasionally tossing me a gourmet cupcake as a thank-you. Those tiny crumbs of kindness were enough to fuel a fire in me for years. I hid my feelings so deep they became a part of my DNA. No one knew. Not even the internet—I only wrote about her on a private, anonymous blog, calling her “The Light.” Until Bennett found it. He walked up to Maisie at a party, slinging an arm around her. “Hey, I’m playing matchmaker. My boy Casey here is obsessed with you. You two should get a room.” I remember the ice that filled my veins. I tried to laugh it off, tried to pull him away. Maisie’s reaction was swifter. “Are you joking? I wouldn’t even date you on a good day, Bennett. Why would I want the guy who disappears into the background the moment the lights come on?” They laughed. They turned it into a game of tag, chasing each other across the lawn while I stood there, rooted to the spot. I couldn’t even look up. I just gripped the hem of my shirt and waited for them to finish, because as long as my mom worked for his dad, I had to stay. I watched them for years after that. I saw her playfully mess up his hair; I saw him flirt with her and her older sister, Margot, playing them against each other like a deck of cards. Now, my hair was finally long enough for her to grab, but she wasn’t doing it out of love. She was doing it to hurt me. 3 After I cleaned up the glass, I saw her sitting on the rug, her heels bleeding onto the fibers. She didn’t seem to care. I went downstairs to grab the first-aid kit. Margot was in the living room, her wheelchair parked by the floor-to-ceiling windows. she was reading a financial magazine, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She looked up as I passed. “Are you alright, Casey? Maisie’s moods have been… difficult. I’ll talk to her.” Liar. She had listened to the entire ten-minute tirade from downstairs without lifting a finger. She liked having me as the lightning rod. It kept the storm away from her. I’d been taking care of them for a month. Maisie was the volatile one, but Margot was the one who truly unnerved me. She was composed, “proper,” and terrifyingly smart. She was a top graduate from the same university I attended. The first time I really “met” her, she was a guest speaker at school. It was raining, and I was hauling a dozen heavy packages for Bennett, my raincoat tucked over the boxes to keep them dry. I slipped on the marble stairs right as she was walking out, surrounded by a swarm of admirers. She had knelt down, her silk dress hitting the wet pavement, and helped me gather the boxes. She was so gentle then. I actually thought she was different. But then, a week into this job, I took her to the park. She complained about the sun on her legs, so I draped my own jacket over her lap while I ran to the kiosk to buy a proper throw. When I got back, my jacket was gone. “A kid ran by and grabbed it,” she said, her voice smooth and sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, Casey. People can be so cruel.” Later that evening, as I rolled her toward the exit, I saw a flash of navy blue in a trash can near the gate. It was my jacket. A $120 jacket I’d saved up for. I asked a gardener nearby if he’d seen who threw it away. “The lady in the chair,” he said, not even looking up from his shears. That was when I knew. Margot didn’t just dislike me; she found me subhuman. My belongings were filth in her presence. I took the jacket home, washed it three times, and vowed never to let her see me wear it again. 4 I couldn’t quit. Not yet. Between Bennett’s “hush money” and the sisters’ exorbitant salary—they paid me nearly $8,000 a month just because I was “reliable”—I was finally solving my family’s problems. My father’s dialysis was covered. My mother could finally breathe. So I played the part. When Maisie cried for Bennett, I texted him. Please, just send her something, I wrote. Dude, I’m literally seeing a girl who’s a literal countess right now, Bennett replied. Just tell her I’m buried in grad school work. Make something up. I told her he was studying. She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “Bennett never studied a day in his life. He bought his way into a degree. Try again, Casey.” Eventually, I begged him for a voice note. “Hey Maisie, you little brat,” Bennett’s voice boomed through the phone, bright and effortless as always. “I’m grinding over here so I can come home a success. Wait for me, okay? Miss you.” Maisie saved that clip. She played it until her phone battery died, over and over, huddled in the dark of her room. Did she really love him that much? I remembered her buying him a $20,000 diamond watch for his eighteenth birthday and tossing me a twenty-dollar bill for the “delivery fee.” That was my value in her eyes. The price of a pizza. On my own eighteenth birthday, I was alone in a classroom at midnight, finishing the homework Bennett and Maisie had dumped on my desk so they could go out for omakase. I remember looking at a small potted ivy on the windowsill, the moonlight turning the leaves silver. I had whispered Happy Birthday to the plant. I told myself they were good people. Maisie had saved me from bullies once. Bennett had given me a path to a better education. I forced myself to be grateful. I suppressed the jealousy until it felt like a dull ache I could ignore. The moon is in the sky, and I am on the ground. I never reached for it. And even when the light hit me, I knew it didn’t belong to me. 5 As the weeks passed, Maisie grew darker. The girl with the loose blazer and the collarbones that looked like wings was gone. Bennett stopped replying altogether. I told him she was getting suspicious. Don’t mention her to me again, he texted back. She’s blind, Casey. What’s she going to do? I’m moving on. I suggest you do the same. My heart sank. I deleted the chat immediately. By the second month of her blindness, Bennett had officially ghosted her. Maisie knew. One afternoon, she threw her phone against the wall, shattering it into a dozen pieces. “He’s not coming back, is he?” she whispered. “He never loved me. Now that I’m broken, I’m just a chore.” “Don’t say that,” I said, my voice steady with a lie. “He’s just busy. He’ll be back for the holidays. He told me to tell you to take care of yourself.” She let out a harsh, cold laugh. “Liar.” “My sister saw his Instagram,” Maisie said, her voice dropping to a dead flat tone. “He’s in the Maldives with some blonde. He’s done with us.” She looked like a wounded animal, curled up on the massive king-sized bed. She buried her face in the pillows, her shoulders shaking. I kept lying. I told her the woman was just a friend, a business contact. I used my most honest, “good guy” voice to spin a web of comfort. She didn’t move. After a long silence, she uttered two words. “Get out.” I left, closing the door softly. Downstairs, Margot was reading. She didn’t look up. “She’s taking it well, I assume?” I nodded. Margot didn’t show a flicker of sympathy for her sister. Instead, a small, dark smile touched her lips. “I knew it would end this way. At least she wasn’t too deep in. I can’t believe she actually fell for a player like Bennett.” I felt a sudden need to defend him—or maybe the version of him I needed to believe in. “He’s not a player. He’s just… overwhelmed.” Margot shrugged, glancing at her useless legs. “I was going to make him fall for me, you know. Just to show Maisie how pathetic he was. But the idiot wanted both of us. He wanted a competition. And look what it cost—my legs and her eyes. A very bad investment.” She spoke about her own tragedy like a failed business merger. There was a cold, simmering rage beneath her words, directed at the ocean between her and the man who had caused this. She looked at me then, her eyes narrowing behind her frames. “You won’t be a ‘bad man,’ will you, Casey? My sister is fragile now. She can’t take another hit.” Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were like a predator’s. I felt a chill run down my spine. I shook my head, unable to find the words. 6 Summer storms in the Northeast are sudden and violent. Margot hated the rain, so she usually went to bed early. Around nine, I would have to carry her to bed. Her legs were still too weak to support her weight. In the beginning, it was awkward. I wasn’t the strongest guy, and she was tall. I’d have to hook her arm around my neck, her chin digging into my shoulder, and lift with everything I had. The first time I did it, she was stiff, her usual mask of politeness slipping into a look of pure disgust at our proximity. “I’m sorry,” I muttered as I tucked her in. “I know this isn’t ideal. We could hire a female nurse if—” “No,” she snapped. “This is fine.” That night, she made me scrub the mud out of the foyer rug until 3 AM as punishment for “clumsiness.” I learned. I became a machine. I learned to anticipate her needs—a pillow for her lower back, a glass of water the moment she cleared her throat. Once, she sat with her lips pressed thin, looking pained. I realized she needed the restroom but was too proud to ask. I brought her the medical basin and said softly, “I’ll empty it immediately. No one has to know.” She exploded. Her face turned a panicked shade of red. “What is wrong with you? Take me to the bathroom properly.” I was confused. I thought I was being helpful, minimizing the “shame” of being carried. But I did as she asked. When I put her back in bed, she looked at me with pure venom. “You’ll never get anything from me, Casey. You’re just the help. Remember that.” “I wasn’t looking for a bonus, Margot,” I said quietly. Tonight, it was pouring again. I finished putting Margot to bed and went to check on Maisie. Her room was empty. The balcony door was wide open, the curtains whipping in the wind like ghosts. Rain was spraying onto the hardwood floors. My heart hammered against my ribs. I ran to the railing, looking out into the darkness and the silver sheets of rain. 7 I grabbed a black umbrella and a slicker, making sure the front door was locked behind me. The estate was on the edge of the woods, isolated and dark. The streetlights along the driveway flickered, casting long, eerie shadows. I found her half a mile down the road. She hadn’t gone far. How could she? She was navigating by memory and the dull sensation of light against her clouded vision. She wasn’t trying to escape; she was just trying to feel something other than the suffocating silence of her room. She stood under a flickering streetlight, drenched. The orange glow hit the water on her face, making it look like she was melting. She looked small. Defeated. I walked up to her and held the umbrella over her head. I had to stand on my tiptoes to keep it high enough. “You’re not Bennett,” she whispered, her voice raw. “He’s never coming. Because I’m a freak now.” “Maisie, let’s go back.” “I called him,” she said, her voice shaking. “I heard a girl laughing in the background. He didn’t even realize it was me at first.” She let out a sob that was swallowed by the thunder. “I thought we were it. I thought racing him that night… I thought it was a game we were playing together.” “He’s probably just out with friends,” I lied, though the words tasted like ash. “The time difference, you know?” She laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “How are you dumber than I am?” I didn’t answer. I just gently took her sleeve and began to lead her back toward the house. “When we get back, you need a hot shower,” I said. “I’ll dry your hair so you don’t get a headache.” She was silent for a long time. Then: “Do you remember the track meet in senior year? I tripped during the 400-meter. You and Bennett both ran toward me.” I remembered. I had been terrified. I’d reached out to ask if she was okay, if she needed the nurse. But Bennett had gotten there first. He’d laughed and asked, “How are we supposed to win now, princess?” Maisie had stood up, ignored my hand, and grinned at him. “Watch me win it anyway.” I had pulled my hand back and disappeared into the crowd. We reached the front door just as the rain began to taper off. Neither of us said another word. 8 After that night, a strange truce formed. Margot didn’t ask where Maisie had gone, and I didn’t tell her. I kept my head down. My real life was happening in the margins. I was a Sustainable Agriculture major. My dream was the Research Institute. I wanted to spend my life in a lab or a field, away from the toxic glitter of people like the Lins. I needed the money for my future—for a life where I didn’t have to carry anyone’s secrets. One afternoon, while pushing Margot through the garden, I found myself staring at the soil. It was rich, loamy. This would be perfect for potato cultivars, I thought. I was mentally drafting a paper on tissue culture when Margot snapped her fingers. “Casey? I’ve called your name three times.” “Sorry. I was thinking about my thesis.” She looked amused. “And what does someone like you study? Business? Hospitality?” “Vegetable Science,” I said. Margot actually laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh, for once. It was genuine, bright, and musical. “You’re a nerd, aren’t you? A little farm boy buried in a scholarship.” “I want to increase crop yields,” I said, feeling a rare spark of pride. “I want to do something that actually matters.” She leaned back, her eyes softening behind her glasses. “I didn’t think people like you existed anymore. So earnest.” “Casey! Get up here!” Maisie’s voice drifted from the second-floor window. “I want you to read to me!” Ever since the rainstorm, Maisie couldn’t go ten minutes without calling for me if she knew I was with Margot. I started to head inside, but Margot grabbed my wrist. The warmth of her hand was startling. “Casey,” she said, her voice dropping the playfulness. “Don’t get ideas just because Maisie is clinging to you. Bennett was out of her league, but you… you’re not even in the game. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.” The invisible wall slammed back into place. My dream, my hard work—to her, it was all just a quaint hobby for the help. “I know my place, Margot,” I said, my voice cold. I pushed her inside and headed upstairs. Maisie was waiting, holding a lamp base, banging it against the railing like a drum. “Read to me! You left off in the middle of The Little Prince!” “Give him back, Maisie!” Margot shouted from downstairs. I felt like a chew toy being pulled between two bored predators. I went up to Maisie, but I could feel Margot’s eyes on my back the whole way up. 9 Five months in, the call came from my mother. They found a kidney for my father. But the donor’s family wanted a “gratitude gift”—a hundred thousand dollars under the table to cover their own debts. Plus the surgery, the recovery… we needed a hundred and thirty thousand. My mother was hysterical. “I asked Bennett’s father. He’s lending us thirty. I scraped together ten from the aunts. But we’re still sixty short. Casey, please. You work for those wealthy girls. Ask them. Beg them. Your father is running out of time.” I sat on the bathroom floor, the phone pressed to my ear, tears blurring my vision. How could I ask them? To them, sixty thousand was a handbag. To me, it was my father’s life. I checked my savings. I had thirty thousand from my salary. I just needed thirty more. I walked into the living room, my heart in my throat. I approached Margot first. “I… I was wondering if I could get an advance on my salary. For a few months. My father…” Margot didn’t even let me finish. She didn’t look up from her tablet. “The contract says monthly payments, Casey. No advances. It’s a professional boundary.” “But it’s an emergency. He needs a transplant.” She finally looked at me, her eyes icy. “That’s a very creative story. Is this the part where the loyal servant reveals his true colors? You’re just here for the payout, aren’t you?” I swallowed my sob and turned to Maisie, who was sitting nearby. I grabbed her hand. “Maisie, please. I’ve done everything for you. I just need a loan. I’ll work it off for free for a year.” Maisie wrenched her hand away as if I’d burned her. “So all that ‘kindness’ was just a setup for this? You were just waiting for the right moment to hit us up for cash?” I stood there, paralyzed. I did my job that night. I carried Margot to bed. I dried Maisie’s hair. We didn’t speak. I took a month’s leave. I sold my thesis. I had a paper that was almost ready for a major journal, a breakthrough in potato genetics. My advisor said it was my ticket to a Ph.D. I sold the data and the credit to a rich grad student who needed a win. It wasn’t enough. I begged. I knelt in front of the donor’s family. I gave them my ID, my student records, my soul. I promised them every cent I would ever earn. I still needed five thousand for the hospital fees. I walked down a dark alley in the city and dialed a number scrawled on the back of a bathroom stall. “I heard you pay for blood and plasma. Does the offer still stand for… more?”

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I was bonded to the Spite System. Every point of spite I provoked in others translated into a ten-thousand-dollar deposit in my bank account. It was Thanksgiving, the air thick with the smell of roasted turkey and the even thicker tension of family judgment. My Aunt Martha leaned back, a saccharine smile plastered on her face as she looked me up and down. “Sam, looks like you’ve been eating well. You’ve definitely… filled out since last year.” I smiled back, the picture of filial piety. “I could say the same, Auntie. You’ve really aged into your years. What is it now? Your seventieth birthday coming up? We should start looking at some nice assisted living brochures.” [Spite Value +10. $100,000 deposited.] My Aunt Linda immediately jumped into the fray, weaponizing her concern. “So, Sam, what are you doing for work these days? Are you even clearing fiftyk? Your cousin Chloe is making two hundred thousand a year now at her firm.” My eyes lit up with mock greed. “That’s incredible. Maybe she can Venmo me twenty thousand right now just to prove she’s actually got it?” [Spite Value +10. $100,000 deposited.] Chloe, who had spent her entire life looking down on me from her Designer-shod pedestal, let out a sharp, derisive snort. “What’s the point of having a smart mouth, Sam? You were born a loser, and you’ll die a pauper. Some people just don’t have the DNA for success.” I glanced at my phone. My balance was already ticking past the million-dollar mark. I leaned back and gave her a slow, steady wink. “You’d be surprised, Chloe. Having a smart mouth is actually paying off better than you’d think.” … Chloe couldn’t help but laugh, a jagged, ugly sound. “Honestly, Sam, does acting like a prick put food on the table?” She raised her voice, making sure the aunts and uncles hovering in the foyer could hear every word. “A loser is a loser. Stop trying to play the alpha.” She reached into her Prada bag and tossed a set of keys onto the coffee table with a heavy clunk. The BMW logo caught the light. “I just picked up the new 5 Series. Nothing crazy, just about seventy thousand after taxes.” As the relatives cooed and leaned in to admire the key fob, she turned to me with a look of pure pity. “But I guess seventy thousand is a number you won’t see in your bank account for the rest of your life, right?” She stood up, looming over me. “Tell you what. You give me a hundred bucks, and for the sake of ‘family,’ I’ll let your whole house walk outside and touch the hood. Maybe the success will rub off on you.” A ripple of cruel laughter went through the room. My parents stood by the kitchen island, their faces flushed with embarrassment. I felt a familiar ache in my chest seeing them like that. Ever since my Uncle George—Chloe’s dad—struck it rich in real estate years ago, they had treated us like a charity case they didn’t want to fund. It got worse after my dad broke his leg on a construction site. He lost his job, and suddenly, we weren’t just the ‘poor’ relatives; we were the ‘burden.’ They had spent years stepping on us just to feel taller. I looked at my seven-figure balance and then up at Chloe. I gave her a small, tight smile. “That’s a crazy coincidence,” I said. “I actually just ordered a new car myself. It should be arriving any minute.” Chloe looked at me like I had just claimed to be the King of England. “Oh my god, everyone! Prince Sam bought a car!” She spun around to the room. “Let’s get ready, everyone! Let’s see what Sam ‘ordered.’ What is it, Sam? A 2005 Honda with a taped-up bumper? A motorized scooter?” The laughter grew louder. Linda was practically slapping her knee. “Sam, honey, if you needed a bike to get to the grocery store, you could have just asked!” Right then, a low, guttural rumble vibrated through the front windows. It wasn’t the sound of a commuter car. It was the roar of a beast. The noise grew until it seemed to shake the very foundation of the house. Irritated, Chloe marched to the front door. “Who the hell is blocking the driveway?” She opened the door and froze. A custom Land Rover Defender, finished in a menacing matte Carpathian Grey, sat idling at the curb. It was massive, towering over Chloe’s BMW like a tank over a toy. The blacked-out wheels and the sheer presence of the thing made the entire suburban street look small. The relatives crowded behind her, breathless. “That’s at least a hundred and fifty thousand,” someone whispered. “Who in this neighborhood owns that?” “Now that is a real car. Makes that BMW look like a rental, doesn’t it?” Hearing the shift in the wind, Chloe’s face twisted. She screamed out toward the street, “Whose car is this? Don’t you know this is a private driveway?” I pushed my way through the crowd. “Excuse me. Out of the way, please.” Chloe saw me and found her target again. “What are you getting so excited for, Sam? You think the delivery guy is going to give you a ride, you pathetic—” She didn’t finish. A man in a crisp, tailored suit stepped out of the driver’s side, holding a leather-bound folder. He spotted me and beamed, jogging up the driveway. “Mr. Miller! Your custom Defender has arrived. We’ve handled the registration and the ceramic coating as requested. She’s all yours.” The silence that followed was absolute. Aunt Linda’s mouth was hanging open so wide I thought her jaw might unhinge. My parents were staring at me, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and terror, as if they were waiting for the FBI to swarm the house. Chloe’s face went from a furious red to a sickly, pale white, then settled on a bruised shade of purple. I took the Montblanc pen from the dealer and signed the delivery slip with a flourish. When I took the heavy, weighted key, I made sure to jingle it right in front of Chloe’s nose. “You know, Chloe, you were right,” I said softly. “I really don’t have the DNA for a seventy-thousand-dollar car.” I paused, letting the smile reach my eyes. “I guess I’m just more of a two-hundred-thousand-dollar-car kind of guy.” Chloe’s throat worked, her neck veins popping as she tried to find words that wouldn’t come. In my mind, the system notifications were firing like a machine gun. [Spite Value +100] [Spite Value +100] [Spite Value +100] … Her resentment was a gold mine. It didn’t stop until it hit five thousand points. My bank balance jumped into eight-figure territory. I was feeling a high I couldn’t describe. I was about to twist the knife a little deeper when a sharp, authoritative throat-clear cut through the air. “Hmph.” It was Uncle George. He stood on the porch, looking down his nose at me. “Buying a car is a nice milestone for a young man, Sam. But one should learn to live within their means. Emptying your life savings just to play dress-up for an afternoon… it’s short-sighted. How are you going to pay the insurance? The gas? You’ve got no vision.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a dark blue folder—the deed to a property. “Cars depreciate the moment they hit the asphalt, Sam. Real estate? That’s where the men are separated from the boys. Your perspective is still too small.” Chloe’s confidence flooded back instantly. She stood taller, her pale face regaining its arrogance. “My dad’s right,” she barked, her voice regaining its shrill edge. She snatched the deed and held it up for the neighbors to see. “Buying a car is cute. My dad just bought me a penthouse in the city. Four bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling glass. Six million dollars, cash.” She turned to my parents, her eyes glittering with malice. “Uncle David, Aunt Mary… I heard your roof is still leaking from the storm last month. Why haven’t you moved yet?” She mocked a look of realization. “Oh, right! Silly me. You probably spent your entire retirement fund just so Sam could pretend to be rich for a day!” My father’s head sank. The gray in his hair seemed more pronounced under the porch lights. His voice was a dry, shaking rasp. “It’s my fault. I haven’t provided enough for this family.” My mother’s eyes welled up. George and Chloe stood there, a united front of generational greed, thinking they had won the round. I reached out and squeezed my father’s trembling hand. With the other, I pulled out my phone and hit a contact on speaker. “Hello, Luxury Estates Group?” My voice was dead calm. “I’m looking at your listings. I want the largest, most expensive estate currently available in the Heights. I want a video tour. Now.” A professional, breathless female voice came through the speakers. “Sir, we have three off-market properties currently. The flagship is our ‘Aria Estate,’ but the budget is—” “I said the best and the most expensive,” I interrupted. The voice on the other end became audibly manic. “Yes, sir! Of course! The Aria is a twelve-thousand-square-foot manor. Infinity pool, private vineyard, six-car subterranean garage, and a detached guest house. The listing price is thirty-two million dollars.” A collective gasp rippled through the yard. Chloe burst out laughing. “Thirty-two million? Sam, you’ve lost your mind. If you sold your internal organs, you wouldn’t even cover the property taxes!” George shook his head, looking almost bored. “Stop it, kid. You’re embarrassing yourself. When the bubble bursts, it’s going to hurt.” I ignored them both. I looked at the video feed of the sprawling, white-stone mansion on my screen. “I’ll take it.” “Wonderful, Mr. Miller! I can schedule a viewing for tomorrow morning—” “No,” I said, my finger hovering over the screen. “I’m wiring the full amount now. Send the digital contracts.” “HAHAHAHA!” Chloe was doubled over. “He’s still acting! Check his pockets! He probably doesn’t even have forty bucks in his checking account!” I tapped the screen. Ding. The crisp chime of a completed wire transfer echoed in the quiet evening. The phone line went silent for three seconds. Then, the real estate agent’s voice came back, cracking with pure adrenaline. “Mr. Miller… the funds have cleared. My God. Congratulations, sir. You are officially the owner of the Aria Estate. We are sending a concierge car to pick you up for the keys immediately!” The laughter died in Chloe’s throat. Her eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her skull. George dropped his scotch glass; it shattered on the porch, splashing expensive bourbon across his leather shoes. I looked at their ghostly faces and let out a small, mock-surprised “Oh.” “You know, Chloe, it’s impressive that you’re so successful, and yet you still have to rely on your daddy to buy you a place to live.” I gave her a sugary, devastating smile. “It must be hard, being a ‘grown-up’ and still living off an allowance. Unlike me. I’m just a guy who can buy his parents a manor on a whim. It’s a bit big for just the three of us, but I think we’ll manage.” The spite hit me like a tidal wave. [Spite Value +100] [Spite Value +100] [Spite Value +100] … I looked at my balance. I couldn’t stop smiling. The atmosphere in the family shifted overnight. The relatives who used to swarm George and Chloe were now hovering around us, bringing expensive wine, asking about my “investments,” trying to get their kids an internship at whatever “company” they thought I ran. George’s family went to ground. They avoided us, crossing the street when they saw our Land Rover coming. I thought that was the end of it. Until the post-holiday family brunch at George’s house. When we arrived, the dining room was already packed. There wasn’t a single empty chair at the massive mahogany table. George’s wife, Martha, sat at the head of the table. She looked up as we entered and tapped her forehead in mock forgetfulness. “Oh, look at my memory! I got so caught up in seating the important guests that I completely forgot you three were coming.” She gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “There’s no more room at the table. Why don’t you three just grab a plate and stand in the corner? We’re all family here; I’m sure you don’t mind.” The room went silent. The other relatives, sensing the shift, looked down at their plates, waiting for the explosion. My father’s face went pale. My mother gripped the strap of her purse until her knuckles turned white. I just shrugged. “Stand and eat? Sure. No problem.” And then, before anyone could blink, I stepped up onto the table. My boots landed right in the center of the white linen tablecloth. A platter of glazed ham was right by my feet. I leaned down, tore off a thick slice with my bare hand, and took a massive, savory bite. Standing on that table, I looked down at the row of stunned, frozen faces. I waved the ham at them. “What’s the matter? Dig in! It’s the holidays! Eat up, everyone!” [Spite Value +10] [Spite Value +10] [Spite Value +10] … “Get down from there!” George slammed his fist on the table, rattling the china. “Have you no decency?” I chewed slowly, blinking innocently. “You told us to stand and eat, Uncle George. I’m standing. I’m eating. I’m following the house rules.” George’s chest was heaving. Realizing he couldn’t outmaneuver me, he turned his fury on my father. “Look at this brat, David! Is this how you raised him? Like a common animal?” He pointed a shaking finger at my face. “I know the truth! He’s a fraud! He’s taken out massive predatory loans. He’s into the sharks for millions! If you don’t rein him in, he’s going to drag your whole family into the gutter!” Predatory loans? I felt a flash of confusion. Then I saw the looks of smug vindication on the relatives’ faces. Ah. They had convinced themselves that my money was borrowed. It was the only way they could sleep at night—believing that my downfall was just a matter of time. Chloe had a look of triumph on her face. She tapped her phone screen. “I have a friend who works at the bank, Sam. I had her run a soft check on your known accounts. They’re empty! No savings, no portfolios. That thirty million? It’s all debt, isn’t it?” She turned to my parents, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Uncle, Auntie… you poor things. You raised a narcissist. He’s going to be in prison by next Christmas, and you’ll be paying off his interest until the day you die.” My father swayed. My mother caught him, her face like paper. They looked at me, their eyes filled with a terrifying doubt. “Sam,” my father whispered. “Tell me the truth. Where did the money come from?” “Dad, Mom,” I said, looking them in the eye. “Trust me. That money is mine. Every cent is clean.” “Yours?” Chloe mocked. “Still lying even when you’re caught!” She stepped closer to the table, her eyes wild with a need to destroy me. “If you’re so rich, Sam, let’s settle this. Let’s go to the bank. Right now. In front of everyone. A full asset disclosure.” She puffed out her chest. “I’ll even make it fair. We won’t count the things my dad bought me. Just personal liquid savings. I’ve got over three million in my personal account.” The relatives let out a choreographed “wow.” “Three million! At her age?” “She’s a superstar. A real Miller.” Chloe basked in it. She pointed at me. “If you lose, Sam, you get on your knees. You apologize to every person in this room for being a fraud. And then,” her eyes turned vicious, “you walk through the neighborhood naked, wearing a sign that says ‘I AM A PARASITE.’” “Do you have the guts?” The room erupted. “Do it! Make him pay!” My parents were being crowded out. My mother was crying. But suddenly, my father stood tall. He pulled me back, putting himself between me and the vultures. “Sam said the money is his,” he said, his voice trembling but clear. “We believe him. But he’s already spent so much on us… he doesn’t need to prove anything to you people. We’re leaving.” My heart ached with pride. But I also felt a surge of cold anger. I knew my balance. After the car and the estate, I was down to my last two hundred thousand dollars in that specific account. If I agreed to the bet right now, I would lose. My hesitation was blood in the water. Chloe’s eyes lit up. “He’s scared! I was right! He’s probably already on a credit blacklist. He’s a deadbeat!” George hammered the table. “David, look at what you’ve produced! A disgrace to the name! You two must have done something truly cursed in a past life to end up with a son like this.” He shook his head, then looked at Chloe with sickening pride. “And then look at my Chloe. So successful. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to father such a winner.” A few sycophants laughed. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, George!” I stared at George’s smug, hypocritical face. The words just tumbled out. “The apple doesn’t fall far? Are you sure? Because looking at her, I’d say she fell from a completely different tree. Maybe one in the neighbor’s yard?” [Spite Value +10,000] [ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS deposited.] I froze. My brain stalled. I looked up, stunned, and saw Chloe’s face go a shade of white I’d never seen before. “Shut your damn mouth!” she screamed. “Are you in or out? Answer me!” Every eye was on me. I looked at her, then at George. My lips slowly curled into a wide, exhilarated grin. “I’m in,” I said. “And Chloe? Try not to cry when the truth comes out.” My mind was racing. George worshiped Chloe. She was his “legacy.” But that ten-thousand-point spike? That was massive. More spite than I’d ever generated with a single sentence. Was it possible… was the “neighbor’s yard” comment more than just a jab? I looked at them. Chloe had a high, thin nose and sharp lips. George had a flat bridge and thick, heavy features. I’d always assumed it was some recessive gene from her mother’s side. Now, everything looked… off. George had no idea. The way he looked at her was pure, unadulterated fatherly love. As the caravan of cars headed to the bank, I leaned in close to Chloe, whispering so only she could hear. “You don’t really look like him, do you, Chloe?” [Spite Value +100] She stiffened. Her eyes were murderous. I raised my hands, grinning. “Hey, just a joke! Don’t take it to heart.” “You’re a dead man, Sam,” she hissed, picking up her pace. I followed leisurely. “You seem tense. Did I hit a nerve?” Her jaw was twitching. “I’m going to ruin you.” [Spite Value +100] I stayed quiet until the bank doors were in sight. Then, one last time, I leaned in. “Is his name Bill? The guy across the street from your old house?” Thwack!

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After I was brought back to the Montgomery estate—the biological daughter finally reclaimed from a life of poverty—Tinsley, the girl who had spent twenty years living my life, took me on ninety-nine dates with her fiancé, Brooks Whitaker. Every single time, she would break down in tears, her voice a fragile whisper: “You’re the one who should be by his side, Brielle. I’m just an interloper. A fraud.” She made a performance of her guilt. She’d orchestrate moments to lock Brooks and me in the same room, or “accidentally” gift me the jewelry he’d bought for her. She even insisted I wear identical dresses to “test” his devotion. And every single time, Brooks chose her. Without hesitation. With a rock-solid certainty that seemed to feed Tinsley’s ego. Each time he picked her, she grew more radiant, her “sacrifices” becoming more theatrical, more taxing. It all came to a head on the hundredth occasion. Tinsley demanded that Brooks propose to her during a massive charity gala, streamed live to millions of followers. Under the blinding glare of the cameras, with the world watching, Tinsley played her final card. She sobbed, claimed she wasn’t worthy of his love, and fled the ballroom. By the time the stream hit its peak viewership, she was already on a flight to Paris. “Brooks, she’s the one you’re meant for,” she’d messaged him publicly, expecting the usual chase. She thought he would follow her across the Atlantic, a grand romantic gesture to prove his love for the hundredth time. But Brooks didn’t move. He stood on that stage, looking at the cameras, then at his cousins who were already snickering in the front row, waiting for the Whitaker heir to become a national laughingstock. He looked exhausted. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a man who had finally reached his breaking point. He turned to me. “Brielle Montgomery,” he said, his voice weary but clear. “Will you marry me?” 1 I smiled as I let him slip that ten-carat pink diamond—the one meant for Tinsley—onto my finger. Amidst the stunned silence and the eventual, polite applause of the elite, I became Brooks Whitaker’s fiancée. Once the guests cleared out and the heavy silence of the ballroom settled around us, Brooks stared at his phone. It was a sea of red—missed calls and frantic texts from Tinsley that he wasn’t answering. “Brielle, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hollow. He didn’t look at me. “If you meet someone you actually love, tell me. We can end this whenever you want.” “The Whitakers will compensate you fairly for the trouble,” he continued, finally meeting my eyes. “But for now, we have to play the part. There are galas, dinners… my family is already on the edge with me. I can’t afford another scandal.” Tinsley’s “humility” had made Brooks a joke in the city one too many times. His parents were losing patience. If I hadn’t stepped up, he would have been the man stood up at his own televised proposal. I nodded, my expression a mask of gentle understanding. “It’s okay, Brooks. I’ll be exactly what you need until Tinsley comes back.” I lowered my gaze, playing the part of the sympathetic sister. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just… insecure. When she’s ready to come home, I’ll step aside. I know the Whitaker name belongs to her.” Brooks’ expression darkened at the mention of Tinsley’s flight, but it softened when he looked at me. He pulled out his phone and transferred five million dollars to my account—a “retainer” for my services. “If your parents hear from her,” he said, “let me know.” I nodded dutifully, then turned away. The second he was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and deleted the location pin Tinsley had sent me an hour ago. She wanted me to be her messenger. She wanted the thrill of being “found” in a Parisian café, a cinematic reunion to cap off her latest stunt. But I was the one with the ring now. And I’ve learned one thing from the streets she never had to walk: once you get your hands on something this valuable, you never, ever let it go. When I returned to the Montgomery mansion, the air was thick with tension. My parents were huddled on the sofa, frantically dialing Tinsley’s number. When they saw me, their faces didn’t light up with relief. Instead, there was a sharp, jagged edge of guilt in their eyes. “Brielle,” my father started, his voice strained. “You have to understand… Tinsley and Brooks grew up together. They’re soulmates. Today was just… damage control.” “Tinsley is a good girl,” my mother added, her voice trembling. “She’s always tried to give things back to you. She doesn’t owe you anything for the past.” The “past.” The fact that Tinsley’s biological mother had swapped us at birth, leaving me to rot in a damp, one-bedroom apartment with a couple who used me as a punching bag, while Tinsley grew up in silk sheets. My biological parents actually believed she didn’t owe me. The bias was so thick I could taste it. But I just offered them a small, sad smile. “I know, Mom. Dad. Don’t worry. I only did it to save the family’s reputation. I’ll take care of Brooks and his family until she’s ready. I’ll explain everything to the Whitakers so they aren’t mad at her.” They both let out a visible breath of relief. “Good girl,” my father said, patting my hand. “When Tinsley comes back, we’ll find you a nice husband. Someone from a quieter family. A simpler life will suit you better anyway.” I smiled politely and turned toward the stairs. Wait for her to come back? By the time Tinsley decides she’s finished her French holiday, I intend to be Mrs. Whitaker. 2 The next morning, I traded my Zara jeans for a structured Chanel-style suit and headed to the Whitaker estate. The Whitakers were old money—the kind that didn’t just have wealth, but a pedigree that went back generations. For the Montgomerys, this marriage was a golden ticket. It was the only reason my parents were so desperate to get Tinsley back in Brooks’ good graces. But why should she have the ticket? I arrived with a curated gift for Brooks’ grandmother, Evelyn. She was a woman of the old guard, a matriarch who valued grace and discretion above all else. My quiet, poised demeanor was a sharp contrast to Tinsley’s manic energy. Over the next few weeks, I became a fixture at the estate. I didn’t chase Brooks. Instead, I wove myself into the fabric of his life. I spent afternoons reading to Evelyn. I learned the exact way she liked her tea. I was there, a calm presence in the wreckage Tinsley had left behind. After seeing me at the house a few times, Brooks eventually asked me to accompany him to a corporate gala. He was nervous. I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to trip over a fork or say something “unrefined.” He’d spent years listening to Tinsley’s subtle barbs about my “unfortunate upbringing.” But I didn’t stumble. I navigated the room with a practiced ease that stunned him. I spoke when necessary, listened with intent, and moved through the crowd like I had been born into it. Brooks caught my eye under the chandelier light, a flicker of genuine surprise—and perhaps something else—softening his gaze. “Where did you learn all this?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips. “Tinsley always mentioned that your… foster situation… didn’t exactly provide this kind of education.” Foster situation. I thought about the peeling wallpaper, the drafty windows, and the parents who only looked at me when they were angry. “I didn’t want to embarrass you, Brooks,” I said, looking up at him with just the right amount of vulnerability. “I’ve spent every night for the last six months with etiquette coaches. I knew I had a lot of ground to catch up on.” Brooks looked genuinely impressed. “In six months? You’re smarter than you let on, Brielle.” I didn’t tell him the truth. I didn’t tell him that the moment I stepped into the Montgomery house and saw Tinsley’s smirk as she “pitied” my lack of manners, I had made a vow. Everything she knew, I would know better. Everything she took for granted, I would master. “I just wanted to be worthy of the name,” I whispered. Brooks’ expression shifted. He reached into his pocket and handed me a black Centurion card. “We’re engaged,” he said firmly. “If you need anything—dresses, coaches, whatever—use this. You don’t have to ask.” I took the card with a shy, delighted smile. “Thank you, Brooks.” From that day on, the distance between us began to shrink. I didn’t overwhelm him. I brought him lunch at the office under the guise of “Evelyn’s orders.” I stood by his side at every boring board meeting and charity auction. I became his comfort. Two months in, the shift was undeniable. During a meeting with a high-level European delegation, their translator fell ill. Without missing a beat, I stepped in, my French fluent and flawless—another “hobby” I’d obsessed over in the dark of my old room. After the deal was signed, Brooks stared at me for a long time. “Brielle,” he said, his voice thick with a strange complexity. “You aren’t anything like I expected. You’re… remarkable.” He started looking at me then—not as a placeholder, but as a woman. He began inviting me to dinner, not for business, but just because. He brought back small gifts from his trips. Then came the night of the industry gala, where a drunken investor tried to get handsy with me in the hallway. Brooks didn’t just intervene; he was livid. He threw a punch that shocked everyone, himself included. Later, as I sat with him in the back of the car, I gripped his hand, my heart racing for a reason that wasn’t entirely act. “Brooks, you shouldn’t have,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m fine, really.” He pulled me closer, his head resting against my shoulder. I could hear his heart—the steady, thumping rhythm of a man who was finally anchored. “I’m not letting anyone touch what’s mine, Brielle.” And just as we were settling into this new, quiet reality, Tinsley—realizing the silence from Brooks was lasting far too long—finally “leaked” her location to him through a mutual friend. 3 She expected him to drop everything. She expected a grand romantic chase to Paris. But Brooks just stared at the address on his phone for a long time. Then, he put the phone face down on the table and asked me what I wanted for dessert. Tinsley was furious. Through our parents, she learned the truth: Brooks wasn’t pining. He was with me. She had been pampered her whole life; she didn’t know how to lose. She called the Whitaker estate, her voice screeching through the line, hurling insults at the “feudal, arranged-marriage relics” who were “trying to ruin her life.” “Brooks will never marry that girl!” she screamed. “He’s obsessed with me! Try to make him marry Brielle—he’ll die before he says ‘I do’!” It was Evelyn who picked up the phone. The shock of Tinsley’s vitriol, the sheer disrespect to the family she had spent ninety years building, sent the old woman into a cardiac event. She was rushed to the ICU. Brooks was a wreck. He had been raised by Evelyn while his parents traveled the world; she was his entire heart. As she lay there, pale and fragile, she gripped his hand and whispered her final wish. “Brooks… marry Brielle. I need to see you settled with someone kind. Someone who won’t tear this family apart.” That night, Brooks sat in the hospital chapel, the scent of wax and old stone heavy in the air. He didn’t call Tinsley. At dawn, he found me in the waiting room. “Brielle,” he said, his eyes bloodshot. “Let’s get married. For real.” The terms were staggering. Shares in Whitaker Holdings, a trust fund in the eight figures. “I’ve enjoyed these last few months,” he told me, his voice low. “I think… I think we have something real. I want to be a good husband to you. Will you have me?” I looked at him, seeing the man I had meticulously won over, and felt a surge of cold, hard triumph. “Yes, Brooks. Of course.” The wedding preparations began immediately. Tinsley, still in Paris, had no idea. She was waiting for her prince to storm the castle. Instead, her prince was at a tailor fitting a tuxedo for a wedding to her sister. She sent me one last taunting text: “Brielle, I gave you everything—the house, the parents, the fiancé. Are you enjoying my leftovers? Just remember: you’ll always be second best. No matter what you steal, you’ll never be me.” I didn’t reply. I just took a photo of myself in the mirror—draped in Vera Wang, glowing with the quiet confidence of a woman who had finally won—and sent it. Then, I blocked her. Tinsley’s favorite move had always been the “graceful retreat.” When I first arrived at the Montgomerys, she had “offered” to move out, even dramatically cutting her wrist in front of everyone to show how “burdened” she felt by my presence. My parents had spent a week coddling her, ignoring the girl who had actually suffered for twenty years. She used her “sacrifices” as a weapon to make sure my parents never loved me. She wanted to prove that even when she gave things up, she was the one who held the power. But she forgot one thing. People aren’t trophies. They are hearts, and hearts get tired of being played with. The wedding was hurried because of Evelyn’s health, but it was magnificent. The cream of society filled the cathedral. I stood at the altar, looking at Brooks. The officiant began: “Brooks Whitaker, do you take this woman…” “I—” Before he could finish, the heavy oak doors of the cathedral swung open. Tinsley stood there, draped in a white gown of her own, looking like a tragic heroine. “Brooks, stop! I won’t let you do this!”

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