Author: Momo Chan

I went to the hospital to visit my boyfriend, Nate. Instead, I became the silent audience to another woman’s confession of love. It was one of those raw, cinematic moments. She was falling apart, trembling as she threw herself into his arms, sobbing out her heart. I watched Nate’s eyes go red with a complicated mix of emotions. His hand hovered in the air, trembling, before he finally let it drop. When he finally pushed her away, his face was a mask of agonizing guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I have a girlfriend.” The woman looked up, her eyes swimming in tears. “If it weren’t for her… would you have loved me?” He went silent. 1. A long beat passed before Nate took a step back. He shook his head slowly. “There is no ‘if.’ I’m with someone. Even imagining that feels like a betrayal to her.” I stood in the doorway, clutching a thermal container of homemade soup. I couldn’t quite name the sensation in my chest. My heart had settled, yet a bitter, suffocating knot remained lodged in my throat. Today wasn’t the day for a reunion. I turned to leave, but as I pivoted, my shoulder bag clipped the doorframe with a sharp thwack. The door hadn’t been fully latched. It swung open with a slow, agonizing creak. Two pairs of eyes snapped toward me. Nate’s expression shifted instantly to shock. “Jordan?” He was at my side in three strides, his eyes shining with a relief he couldn’t hide. “When did you get back?” “The red-eye this morning.” I glanced at the heavy cast on his arm. “I couldn’t stay away knowing you were hurt.” Nate offered a small, tentative smile. But his gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, to the woman behind him. Then, with a sudden, almost performative stiffness, he led me toward her. “Jordan, this is Mia. Dr. Mia Rossi, my attending physician.” He turned to her, his voice turning cold, as if trying to overcompensate. “Mia, this is Jordan Cole. My girlfriend.” I reached out to shake her hand, offering a polite nod. The woman just stood there, looking hollowed out. Her gaze was fixed on our joined hands—Nate’s fingers gripped mine with an intensity that felt like a plea. She looked lost, a ghost haunting her own life. By the time she looked up, tears were streaming down her face again. Before I could even process the shock of it, Nate’s grip on my hand tightened so sharply it bruised. I winced, a small sound of pain escaping me, but he didn’t even notice. Mia stared at Nate with a look of pure, unadulterated longing. The two of them stood there, locked in a silent, heavy dialogue that I wasn’t a part of. Suddenly, I felt like a trespasser in my own relationship. Mia turned her gaze to me. “Ms. Cole, I assume you heard everything.” I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off. “Don’t bother pretending you didn’t. I don’t hide who I am. I’m not ashamed of my feelings.” I felt my brows knit together. The audacity was almost impressive. “I’m not trying to ruin what you have,” she continued, her voice trembling with a desperate kind of honesty. “It’s just… sometimes I’m human. Sometimes I get jealous.” She looked back at Nate, her eyes wide and hopeless. For a moment, Nate’s gaze wavered before he forced himself to look away. “I’m jealous that I didn’t find someone as good as him first,” she whispered. Then, she looked back at me, her tone shifting to something that sounded like praise but felt like an insult. “Nate told me about you. Ivy League grad, youngest Senior Editor at the Chronicle… you’re so accomplished. So perfect.” She wiped a tear away with a bitter laugh. “Knowing he’s with someone like you… I guess I know when I’ve lost.” Suddenly, a voice boomed from the hallway. “Dr. Rossi, don’t say that! You’re the best!” “Yeah, Doc! Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a literal angel in a white coat!” I turned to see a group of Nate’s fellow firefighters crowded in the doorway. They must have been hovering there for a while. They were glaring at me, their faces full of righteous indignation on Mia’s behalf. Mia straightened her spine, playing the part of the tragic martyr perfectly as she was escorted out by her cheering section. “Where was the ‘perfect girlfriend’ when Captain Miller was bleeding out?” one of them muttered loud enough for me to hear. “Dr. Rossi was the one who stayed by his side while she was off chasing stories.” They blamed me for my timing. They blamed me for her tears. I looked back at Nate. His hand, hanging at his side, was clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He was vibrating with a tension he couldn’t name. It took a long time for him to actually look at me, and when he did, I saw it. Guilt. Not for what she said, but for the fact that he agreed with a part of it. In the heavy silence, I finally spoke. “And you? Do you think I shouldn’t have come, either?” 2. I didn’t go back to the hospital after that. Part of it was work. When the news of the warehouse fire broke and I saw Nate’s name on the casualty list, I was on an assignment in the middle of a rural dead zone. By the time I got the messages, a week had passed. Seeing the footage of him—covered in soot and blood, being loaded into an ambulance—had shattered my professional composure. For the first time in my career, I’d handed off a closing story to my subordinates and caught the first flight home. It wasn’t until I landed and saw the flurry of “I’m okay” texts that the stone in my chest finally dropped. But the other reason I stayed away was Nate himself. In this relationship, we were both hyper-sensitive. We had built our life on the idea that without total trust and transparency, we wouldn’t survive the pressure of our careers. That flicker of guilt in his eyes… I didn’t want to dissect it yet. Nate was a good man. A good partner. I chose to believe he could handle this. On the day he was discharged, I waited in the car. I saw him standing at the hospital entrance, his hair freshly buzzed, looking sharp and lean. Then I saw Mia. She came running out, breathless, reaching for his arm. Nate pulled away, sharp and decisive. Even from a distance, I could tell the conversation was jagged. I sat there, the engine idling, watching them through the windshield. I lit a cigarette, let it burn down to the filter, then finally stepped out. They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t notice me until I was standing right there. “Jordan.” Nate looked startled, a flash of panic crossing his face. Before he could explain, Mia spoke up. “Ms. Cole, please don’t misunderstand.” “I’m just here to give him his medication,” she said, pulling a few boxes from her pocket. Her head was bowed, her fingers twitching nervously. “Nate is always in such a rush. He forgets to take care of himself.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She sounded like a worried wife, not a doctor. The air between Nate and me grew thick. I felt a surge of cold, sharp irritation. “Ms. Cole, please… take care of him? Don’t let him get hurt again.” She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with that same “poor me” moisture. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking image. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Nate is a firefighter. Getting hurt is the job description. For her to ask me to “ensure he doesn’t get hurt” was either delusional or a direct provocation. “Is Dr. Rossi this devoted to all her patients?” I asked, my voice smooth as glass. She blinked, confused. My smile vanished. “He’s my boyfriend. I don’t need a tutorial from you on how to look after him.” “Tell me, Mia—was your degree in medicine, or relationship counseling?” 3. The drive home was suffocating. Nate sat in the passenger seat, radiating a restless energy. Every time he opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, my patience thinned. “Nate,” I said, my voice flat. “My fuse is very short today. Just say it.” He winced and looked down at his lap. “You shouldn’t have talked to Mia like that.” I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes on the road. “I know you’re upset about the confession,” he continued. “But you have to trust me. I love you. I’m completely devoted to you. You know that.” I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. I could see the sincerity in his eyes. He meant it. My anger began to ebb, replaced by a weary sort of calm. He sighed, sensing the shift. “She’s had a hard life, Jordan. Her parents were a disaster—she never knew what it felt like to be safe. She thought she found a way out with her ex-husband, but the guy was a monster.” Nate’s voice grew heated, his jaw tightening. “One month after the wedding, he started hitting her. She was in her own ER every other week. He cheated constantly, then he’d get on his knees and beg for forgiveness…” I noticed Nate’s hands were shaking. Nate loves to tell stories. He’s a rescuer by nature. He once told me about a boy he pulled from a house fire—the sole survivor of a family of eight. The boy had third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body. Nate had been devastated for him, yes, but he had maintained a professional distance. But this? His reaction to Mia’s “tragic backstory” was different. It was visceral. It was personal. In my line of work, we call this “emotional over-identification.” Whether it was pity or a misplaced sense of heroism, it was dangerous. The warmth I’d felt a moment ago vanished. I felt the old journalistic instinct kick in—the need to strip away the fluff and look at the ugly truth. “That’s enough, Nate. Stop.” I pulled over to the curb and looked at him. “Is this pity, or is it sympathy?” There’s a world of difference between the two. In the dim light of the car, Nate’s expression was unreadable. I leaned back, a cynical smile touching my lips. “She’s still married, isn’t she? You might want to keep your ‘devotion’ in check. If you keep playing the white knight, her divorce is going to get a lot more complicated.” 4. Nate’s face went cold. “Jordan, that’s out of line.” “As a journalist, I thought you valued the truth,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Not everyone is a target for your next exposé.” I didn’t argue. The atmosphere in the car hit absolute zero. Halfway home, Nate couldn’t take it anymore. “Pull over. Let me out.” He grabbed his bag with his good hand. Before he closed the door, he looked at me with a profound sense of disappointment. “We both need to cool off. Clearly.” After he left, I sat in the car for a long time. I’ve never been someone who does intimacy well. My meeting with Nate had been born of conflict—I’d been assigned to do a deep-dive profile on his station, and he’d hated the idea. He thought it was a PR stunt. We clashed for weeks, nearly shouting each other down in the bay. Then, one day, he stopped fighting. He asked me to a movie. Then a hike. He started doing all the small, seemingly meaningless things that build a life. I got used to him. I liked the way he listened. I liked that he didn’t mind being “trained”—that he accepted my boundaries and my sharp edges. I loved him. But my mother always said: A man is only as good as his loyalty. And loyalty is like a well-trained dog. It’s blind. It’s unconditional. A good dog sees anyone outside the pack as a threat. It doesn’t wag its tail for every stranger with a sad story. 5. We spent a few days in silence. Eventually, Nate shifted back into his routine. He started texting me his schedule, sharing little bits of his day, acting as if nothing had happened. He didn’t mention Mia. Neither did I. But I was watching. I was measuring how much the air between us had changed. That weekend, his station was holding an Open House for families. He’d been asking me to go for months. Even though things felt fractured, I went. Nate was waiting at the gate, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. My heart softened. I had invested so much time in “domesticating” this man. I had spent years building this foundation. Nate had always been a “good boy.” I parked the car, but as I went to open the door, I saw a familiar figure. It was October in Chicago, and the lake breeze was biting. Mia was there, wearing a delicate, sleeveless silk dress that looked ridiculous in the wind. Nate didn’t even hesitate. He stripped off his heavy uniform jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The size difference was comical. She looked swallowed by his coat, her hands disappearing into the sleeves. She laughed, a playful, flirtatious sound, and gave him a light shove on the chest. “It’s too big! I look like a child in this!” I stepped out of the car, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Here. Take mine.” They both jumped. Nate’s smile froze. “Jordan… you’re here.” There was a note in his voice—a tiny, flickering spark of resentment. He hadn’t expected me. He hadn’t wanted me to see this. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “You spent a month begging me to come. You forgot?” I handed my windbreaker to Mia. Throughout the tour, I was the picture of grace. I was kind to Mia. I didn’t flinch when she leaned into Nate or touched his arm. Nate was a nervous wreck. He pulled me aside toward the end, his voice a frantic whisper. “I thought you were too busy with the deadline. I only called Mia because I didn’t want to be alone today.” He saw that I wasn’t exploding, so he kept going. “Her ex has been stalking her again. She’s terrified, Jordan. She needed to feel safe. You understand, right?” I looked into his hopeful, pleading eyes. I nodded and smiled. My mother’s voice echoed in my head from our phone call the night before. “If you want to know if the dog is truly yours, you have to let go of the leash.”

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I had the distinct misfortune of transmigrating into a trashy CEO romance novel. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, I woke up in the middle of labor, pushing out baby number two. That alone was absurd. But what truly sent me over the edge was that the moment the second infant slid into the world, it looked me in the eye and called me “Mommy.” My eyes rolled back in my head. I passed out cold. When I came to, the newborns were already crawling. 01 I sat there, paralyzed, watching two cherubic little monsters scurrying across the hardwood floor like they were possessed. It dawned on me then: I hadn’t even given birth in a hospital. This was a home birth. “Mommy… uppie!” The voices were synchronized, sugary sweet, and absolutely terrifying. My mental dam broke. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. “I am not your mother! I’m single! I have a cat!” “Waaah! Mommy doesn’t like me!” The girl’s face crumbled. She let out a wail that could shatter glass. Naturally, panic is contagious. The boy, apparently possessing the lungs of an opera singer, joined in. It was a symphony of chaos. I was numb. Accepting my fate, I grabbed a child in each arm, stiffened my expression, and barked, “Stop crying.” Silence. Instantaneous silence. They looked up at me with wide, tear-filled doe eyes. The girl blinked, her lashes wet and heavy, then lunged forward and planted a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek. “Mommy… don’t be mad.” God help me. They were disgustingly cute. Who could resist that? My icy demeanor cracked. I sighed, defeated, and pressed a finger to my lips. “Shh. Just… give me a minute. Let me breathe.” To their credit, the little terrors went quiet as mice. I ran a hand through my sweaty, matted hair, trying to process the impossible reality before me. I had read a few of those trending “genius baby” romance novels as research—ironic research, mind you—and now here I was. Waking up in the delivery room. Birthing twins was wild enough. But twins who could talk and crawl minutes after birth? I couldn’t decide if I was in a CEO romance or a Marvel origin story. I set the kids down and dragged my exhausted body around the room. I found an ID card on the dresser. Margot Lane. Mystery solved. I had become the protagonist of The Tycoon’s Secret Heirs: The Runaway Bride. The plot was standard garbage: The heroine has a one-night stand with a mysterious man, flees the country, gives birth to genius twins, and returns five years later to shock the corporate world. There’s revenge, a love-hate relationship with the CEO, a “groveling arc” where he begs for forgiveness, and eventually, a happy ending with a second pregnancy. While I was still reeling from this revelation, the demonic duo started chanting again. “Mommy hungry. Mommy hungry… Milk!” I froze. Breastfeeding? Absolutely not. Not in this life, not in the next. I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin in my real life. That level of intimacy was way above my pay grade. Ignoring their pleading gazes with a heart of stone, I bolted for the kitchen to find formula. I was fumbling with the instructions on the tin, hands shaking, when a piercing scream cut through the house. “Help! Mommy, help! Bad man!” 02 I dropped the bottle and sprinted to the living room. My heart hammered against my ribs. A wall of men in black suits blocked the doorway. Home invasion? Kidnapping? My brain stalled. “Mommy, save us!” The cry snapped me back to reality. I turned stiffly to see a tall, broad-shouldered man holding the twins by the backs of their onesies, lifting them into the air like they were stray cats. The kids were flailing their chubby limbs helplessly. I didn’t like these kids, strictly speaking, but child abuse was where I drew the line. “Put them down!” I shouted, adrenaline spiking as I lunged forward. The man froze. He lowered the children to the floor, his back still to me. His posture was rigid, and when he spoke, his deep, cold voice carried a strange tremor. “You… you already gave birth?” “What is it to you if I gave birth or not? Who the hell are you?” I checked the kids for injuries, firing back without thinking. “Margot… now that the children are here… what do you plan to do?” The man turned around slowly. I gasped. The air left my lungs. His face was a masterpiece of genetic engineering. Chiseled jawline, piercing eyes—he looked like a composite sketch of every “Sexiest Man Alive” cover from the last decade. I narrowed my eyes. “You are?” “I’m Harrison Sterling. One year ago, at the Empire Hotel, Penthouse Suite 901…” “So you’re the scumbag!” For a second, the original host’s tragic memories flooded my brain. Rage, hot and irrational, surged through me. I launched myself at him, ready to scratch that perfect face, but two bodyguards intercepted me with practiced ease. The twins, bless them, waddled toward me on their short legs, screaming, “Bad man! Let Mommy go!” A weird warmth bloomed in my chest. At least they were loyal. Harrison looked at me with a bizarre expression—half confusion, half scrutiny. He waved a dismissive hand at his guards. “Let her go.” I stumbled back, shielding the twins behind me. My mind raced through the plot. In the book, the reunion wasn’t supposed to happen for five years. Why was Harrison here now? Had my arrival butterflied the timeline? This guy was supposed to be the most powerful man in the city, wealthier than God. I couldn’t fight him. Not with two toddlers hanging off my legs. I was playing on Hard Mode. I decided to bluff. “What… what do you want?” “Margot, what do you want?” We spoke at the exact same time. Wait. Why did he sound so unsure? He sounded less like a titan of industry and more like a guy who forgot his wallet on a first date. If he had no confidence, then I had all of it. I shoved the two bewildered toddlers toward him. “They’re your kids. You raise them.” 03 Harrison frowned, looking at the two small humans as if they were alien artifacts. Then he looked at me, a complicated expression on his face. “They aren’t just mine. Why should I raise them?” I blinked. This… wasn’t following the script. In these novels, doesn’t the possessive CEO usually try to steal the heirs immediately? Why was he going off-book? “Excuse me?” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “They are literally your flesh and blood. You’re a billionaire. Are you seriously suggesting a struggling single mother should raise two kids while you sit on your pile of gold? Do you have a conscience?” I was a twenty-something single woman trying to survive a transmigration event. I couldn’t raise two kids. The thought of these clingy “velcro babies” sticking to me for eighteen years made my brain short-circuit. I had to offload them. Now. Harrison pondered this for a few seconds. “That’s… actually a fair point. Looking at your current living situation, you probably don’t have the capacity to care for them properly.” I glared at him. Rich people and their casual insults. But I swallowed my pride. “Exactly. Yes. You are absolutely right. You are the perfect candidate.” Harrison seemed to accept this logic. He glanced at his bodyguards. “Take the children.” The guards nodded and stepped forward. But before their hands could graze the fabric of the onesies, a sound like a banshee’s wail ripped through the room. “WAAAAH! Mommy, save me!” The girl, Luna, bolted back to me and latched onto my thigh like a limpet. Before I could peel her off, the boy, Atlas, clamped onto my other leg. The stereo crying was deafening. “Mommy doesn’t want us anymore! Boo hoo hoo! We’re just trash babies now!” “Mommy doesn’t love us! She’s giving us to the villain! We’re like weeds in the wind, so pitiful…” I listened to their melodramatic wailing, feeling a migraine coming on. “Like weeds in the wind”? What kind of newborn talks like this? This was impossible. Harrison looked equally pained, rubbing his temples. “It seems they’re attached to you. Look, just… come back with me. I have a villa. We have nannies. You won’t have to do anything.” I paused. Wait. A villa? Nannies? No responsibilities? Maybe this Harrison guy wasn’t the tyrannical monster from the book. He was actually being quite reasonable. “Deal,” I said. And just like that, I moved into the Sterling estate. I have to admit, the man had taste. The villa was obscene—in a good way. Marble everything, art that cost more than my student loans, and a staff of twelve. Best of all, I didn’t have to lift a finger. I ate Michelin-star meals and lounged by the pool. This was the life. This was the dream. But, of course, paradise never lasts. 04 “Margot!” Harrison’s voice was frantic. “Get in here! Atlas and Luna are refusing the nannies. They won’t stop crying!” I groaned. I had named them Atlas and Luna because I wanted them to carry the weight of the world and live on the moon—far away from me. Or maybe it was just poetic. “Waaaah…” “Margot, seriously! Hurry up!” The fantasy of a peaceful life shattered. I dragged myself upstairs to the nursery. The scene was chaos. The twins were swatting away the terrified nannies, tears streaming down their faces, screaming for Mommy. And their father, the mighty Harrison Sterling, was standing by the window, pressed against the glass as if trying to merge with it. Rage flared in my chest. I marched over and smacked his arm. “What are you doing over here? Why aren’t you holding them?” “Me?” Harrison looked horrified. “You’re the father, aren’t you? Trying to be a deadbeat dad while living in the same house?” He looked desperate. “I’ve never held a baby. Can’t you… go comfort them?” “Like I’m an expert?” I scoffed. “They’re your kids too. We go together.” Harrison looked at the screaming demons, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Okay.” We approached the cribs like we were defusing bombs. Stiffly, we each picked up a child. Miraculously, the crying stopped instantly. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I rocked Luna for a minute, then tried to pass her to a nanny so I could go back to my spa day. The second my grip loosened, the siren wailed again. I was going to lose my mind. Why were they designed to be instruments of torture? I looked at Harrison to complain, but his face had gone pale. He was staring at me with pure despair. “I think… he pooped.” Happiness really is relative. I burst out laughing. The cold, ruthless CEO of the novel had just been pooped on by a newborn. 05 “Margot, stop laughing!” Harrison yelled, his face a mask of misery. I looked at the stain spreading on his bespoke Italian suit and smirked. “Laughing isn’t illegal. It doesn’t hurt you. Why can’t I laugh?” Seeing the high-and-mighty protagonist brought low by a bowel movement was therapeutic. Harrison opened his mouth to argue, but the baby in his arms tugged at his sleeve. “Daddy,” Atlas squeaked, “clean pants now?” Harrison froze. He looked at me, eyes pleading. “I… I don’t know how to do this.” “You don’t? And you think I do?” I shot back. Did he expect me to handle the dirty work? Dream on. “But…” “No buts!” I cut him off. “Atlas pooped on you, not me. Don’t even think about pawning this off.” “You gave birth to them! This is irresponsible!” Harrison was sweating now. I shrugged, examining my nails. Yes, I birthed them physically, but I didn’t choose this. I was a twenty-four-year-old modern woman. I barely knew how to keep a succulent alive. Transmigrating was hard enough. Was I expected to change diapers too? “Say whatever you want. Handle it yourself. Or don’t. Maybe just… don’t wash it? Live like that forever?” I cuddled Luna close and walked out, leaving him to his doom. Back in my room, the adrenaline faded, and a nagging thought surfaced. Something was wrong. Over the next few days, the feeling grew stronger. Harrison Sterling… wasn’t acting like a CEO. I remembered the book. The original character was domineering, cruel, and radiated “alpha” energy. But this guy? We argued constantly about the kids, but he usually just looked helpless, sighed, and then did whatever I said. He wasn’t domineering. He was… reasonable. Almost pushover-ish. The more I watched him, the more I became convinced. This Harrison was a fake. 06 A few nights later, Harrison came home drunk from a business dinner. People say drunk words are sober thoughts. The universe was handing me an interrogation opportunity on a silver platter. I cornered him in the hallway. “Hey… Harrison. You okay?” He swayed. “Did something happen?” I pressed. “Or did you hit your head recently? Because you don’t act like a CEO at all.” I was fishing, trying to see if he had amnesia or a brain tumor. Instead, he loosened his tie and shouted at the ceiling. “I’m struggling here!” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “I’ve never done anything bad! I return my shopping carts! Why is God doing this to me?” He wailed, his voice cracking with genuine despair. “Harrison, what are you talking about?” He didn’t answer. He just mumbled incoherent complaints, and then—I kid you not—he started crying. I stood there, arms crossed, watching a billionaire sob into his hands. If the tabloids saw this, stock prices would crash. Realizing I wasn’t going to get a straight answer, I sighed and dragged him into his bedroom. I dumped him onto the king-sized mattress and turned to leave. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my wrist. He yanked me down. “Harrison! What the hell?” I panicked. Was this the part where the “drunken CEO forces himself on the heroine” trope kicked in? I pushed against his chest, but he was heavy—dead weight, really. He wrapped his arms around me like I was a teddy bear, trapping me. I struggled for ten minutes. He didn’t move. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I fell asleep right there in his iron grip. 07 I woke up the next morning to a scream. I opened my eyes to see Harrison staring at me, horrified. His handsome face was contorted in pure terror. Before I could speak, he scrambled backward, fell off the bed, and landed hard on his butt. He held up three fingers, swearing an oath. “I swear! I swear I didn’t do anything last night! I’m still a virgin!” I choked on a laugh. “You’re a virgin? Then where did the kids come from? Did the stork drop them via Amazon Prime?” Harrison turned beet red. He looked around wildly, then scrambled to his feet, aiming for the door. “Oh no, you don’t.” I lunged, tackling him in a classic wrestling move, pinning him to the carpet. “Harrison Sterling! Talk! What did you mean by that?” He squirmed beneath me. “Nothing! It was sleep talking! Get off!” He looked at my hands like they were weapons. “Get off? If you don’t tell the truth, I’m never letting go.” My suspicions had hit critical mass. The weird behavior, the crying, the virginity comment. “I told the truth!” he insisted. “Fine. Have it your way.” I grinned, wiggling my fingers. “Then prepare for… The Tickle Monster.” I went for the ribs. “HAHAHA! NO! MARGOT! STOP! HAHAHA!” He shrieked like a schoolgirl. It was pathetic. It was definitely not CEO behavior. Finally, limp and breathless, he surrendered. “Okay! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” “Good boy.” I sat back. Harrison caught his breath, sat up, and looked at me with the eyes of a kicked puppy. “If I told you… that we are inside a book… would you believe me?” Inside a book? My eyes widened. He was a transmigrator too.

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The day the earth shook, my fiancé’s “charity case,” Daisy Miller, insisted on finishing her last bite of Beef Wellington. Dominic Blackwood’s voice was like ice as he issued the order to our security detail: “No one moves until she’s finished. We leave together.” My hearing has always been unnaturally sharp—a curse of hyper-sensitivity. I heard it before anyone else: the sickening crack of structural stone deep within the foundation. I didn’t wait. I signaled the guards to grab Dominic and evacuate the VIP lounge immediately. When Daisy finally stood up to chase after him, crying out his name, a massive slab of the ceiling mirrored her movement, pinning her to the polished marble floor. She died instantly. Months later, during what was supposed to be our honeymoon, Dominic dragged me to the edge of a jagged cliff. He didn’t use a gun. He used stones. He pelted me, his face twisted in a mask of grief-driven rage, until I broke. “It’s your fault!” he screamed as I fell. “If you hadn’t forced me out, Daisy would still be alive. She was just a girl who liked nice things! What was her crime? Being hungry?” He knew I was three months pregnant with his child. He didn’t care. I woke up with a gasp, the phantom pain of stones crushing my ribs still echoing in my chest. I was back in that high-end restaurant. The air smelled of expensive wine and buttery pastry. This time, if he wants to wait for her to finish her steak, he can wait until the world ends. 1 “What’s the rush?” Dominic snapped, his eyes scanning the room with arrogant dismissal. “We aren’t in a major fault zone. It’s just a tremor. We wait until Daisy finishes her meal.” He leaned back, adjusting his silk tie. “If anyone tries to sneak out before then, consider your career with Blackwood Industries over.” He was used to being a god, a man whose word could stop the rotation of the earth. I sat across from him, my heart hammering against my ribs, the memory of my own death still burning in my veins. I quietly reached into my clutch and hit the record button on my phone. The sound of fracturing stone was getting louder. I knew the rhythm of this disaster. In exactly two minutes, the ceiling would come down. At a nearby table, a service dog began to whine and pace, its hackles raised. Its owner looked panicked. “Mr. Blackwood, please. We should get to the street. The steak can wait.” The Beef Wellington was still steaming. Daisy sliced a piece, her eyes wide and innocent, the very picture of a waifish girl who had never known luxury until Dominic plucked her from a community college scholarship pool. “The meat is so tender,” she whispered, looking at Dominic with hero-worship. “I’ve never had anything like this in my life.” Dominic’s expression softened into something sickeningly doting. “It’s top-shelf Wagyu, flown in from Japan this morning. It would be a tragedy to let it go to waste.” In my last life, I had obsessively tracked the shipping records of that “imported” beef, wanting to leave some at her grave out of a twisted sense of guilt. I never found a record. It wasn’t until much later that I learned Dominic had raised that cow himself on a private estate—a strange, obsessive project. He had slaughtered it specifically for her. The restaurant manager looked at me, pleading. “Ms. West, please. Talk to him. If this is a real quake, lives are at stake.” I took a slow, deliberate sip of my Cabernet, feeling the cool liquid coat my throat. I wasn’t going to save him this time. I wasn’t going to save anyone. Before Daisy entered the picture, Dominic and I were the “it” couple of the city—the power duo. But the moment he started “mentoring” her, the dynamic shifted. I became the cold, demanding corporate shark, and she was the soft, “pure” light he needed to protect. I looked up at the ornate ceiling, my voice calm. “The CEO said we wait. Everyone stay in your seats. I’m sure everything is under control.” As the guests began to murmur in protest, the first major jolt hit. A massive ornamental medallion tore free from the ceiling, crashing between two tables with a sound like a bomb going off. A shard of flying plaster sliced across Daisy’s calf, leaving a thin red line of blood. She let out a piercing, theatrical sob. “Dominic! It hurts… I think my leg is broken!” “Hold on, I’ve got you,” Dominic moved faster than I’d ever seen, his movements frantic and tender. He scooped her up like she was made of glass. Then, he turned on me, his face contorted with fury. “Margot! You’re supposed to have those ‘super-ears,’ aren’t you? You heard the ceiling cracking! Why didn’t you tell us to move? You let her get hurt!” I lowered my gaze, masking the cold smile touching my lips behind my wine glass. “I’m so sorry. I must have misjudged the frequency. I’ll hold myself accountable.” It seems I was the only one who came back. What a wonderful, terrifying gift. Dominic reached out and slapped the wine glass from my hand. The red liquid sprayed across my white Dior gown like a fresh wound. “Stop acting like a statue and get out! Move! Before something else falls!” A tremor shook the floor, causing me to lose my balance on the debris. I slipped, my ankle twisting sharply. Dominic didn’t even look back. He carried Daisy toward the emergency exit, casting one final, icy glance over his shoulder. “Stop being dramatic, Margot. It’s just a fall. If you don’t want to die, get up.” I sat on the floor, my palms pressed into the grit and dust, watching his back disappear. My fingers curled into fists. Dominic seemed to have forgotten that we were here for our engagement party. I was supposed to be the lead, but I had been relegated to a background extra in the story of his “pure” obsession. That was fine. This time, the ending wouldn’t be a cliffside in the rain. It would be something much worse. 2 I hauled myself up using the edge of the table, my white dress ruined by wine and soot. Outside, the air was thick with sirens. Dominic had already commandeered the only available ambulance for Daisy’s “scratch,” taking all his bodyguards with him. His last words to me before slamming the door were, “Find your own way home, Margot. I have a crisis to handle.” He drove off into the chaos. I didn’t have my keys, and the restaurant was on a secluded ridge—miles from the city center. In the wake of a tremor, Uber was non-existent. The remaining guests were trickling out, snapping photos of the damage for Instagram, whispering as they passed me. “What is Margot West still doing here? This was her engagement night, wasn’t it?” “Did you see her just sitting there drinking while that girl was bleeding? She’s a sociopath. I heard Dominic’s been looking for a way out of the engagement for months.” I ignored them. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Instagram. Daisy had tagged me in a post. It was a photo of her in the back of the ambulance, leaning her head on Dominic’s shoulder. The caption read: I never imagined someone would be willing to stay in a collapsing building just so I could finish a meal. Thank you for choosing me, Dominic. My hero. I almost laughed. The girl was an amateur. If the press got hold of the fact that the CEO of Blackwood Industries risked a hundred lives for a steak, the stock would plummet by morning. As I began calculating exactly how to ruin him, a black SUV pulled up. Three men in suits stepped out. “Ms. West. You’re coming with us.” “Where?” I took a step back, my pulse quickening. “Mr. Blackwood’s orders. We’re taking you to the hospital.” I started to refuse, but they didn’t give me the chance. They gripped my arms, one on each side, with a bruising strength that told me this wasn’t an invitation. “Let go of me! I can walk!” When we arrived at the ER, Dominic was standing by the entrance. The look on his face wasn’t relief. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. Daisy was slumped against him, limping theatrically. “She’s here, Dominic,” Daisy whispered, her voice a fragile reed. I gritted my teeth. “Why am I here, Dominic?” “Because you love to put on a show, don’t you?” He stepped toward me, his voice a low hiss. “The scene tonight felt incomplete without your brand of calculated ice.” He swung his hand. The slap was so hard my ears rang. My lip split instantly, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “You have ‘gifted’ hearing, Margot. You knew that ceiling was coming down. Why didn’t you speak? Why did you sit there and watch her get hit?” My swollen ankle gave out. I stumbled, tumbling down the three stone steps leading to the hospital entrance. I landed in a heap, my ruined dress Tangled around my legs. Dominic loomed over me. “You wanted her dead, didn’t you? Or maybe you rigged the damn ceiling yourself. It’s exactly the kind of cold-blooded move you’re famous for.” The speed of his turn made it clear: someone had been whispering in his ear. In my previous life, the “friends” who wanted to stay in Dominic’s good graces had lined up to trash my reputation the moment they saw him favor Daisy. I looked up at him, my eyes shimmering with fake tears. “If I had told you to move, you would have called me a killjoy. You told the room that anyone who left would be fired. You remember that, don’t you?” In my last life, saving him was a crime. In this life, letting him stay was a sin. There was no winning with a man who had already decided you were the villain. Daisy’s eyes welled up. “Dominic, look at her… she always has an excuse. I just wanted one nice meal, and she wanted me to die for it. Why do you hate me so much, Margot?” I didn’t think. I hauled myself up and delivered a stinging slap across Daisy’s face. “Daisy, shut up. I am still the woman who holds the contracts to his name. I am still his fiancée.” Daisy gasped, clutching her cheek. “Dominic… she hit me…” 3 “Margot!” Dominic’s voice was thick with hatred. “You dare lay a hand on her in front of me? Have you lost your mind?” I laughed, a jagged, cold sound. “She opened her mouth first. I’m just reclaiming my dignity. And you? You should check the news. There was an actual earthquake. I don’t control the tectonic plates, Dominic. I’m not that powerful.” “Fine,” he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly soft register. He turned to Daisy. “Hit her back.” Daisy blinked, stunned. “Hit her,” he repeated. “She thinks she can touch what’s mine without consequences. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” Daisy looked at me, a flicker of triumph dancing in the depths of her “innocent” eyes. She stepped forward, pretending to be hesitant, but as she reached for me, she didn’t aim for my face. She grabbed the neckline of my dress, yanking downward. The delicate silk shredded. The front of my gown tore open, exposing me to the crowded hospital entrance. Dominic didn’t stop her. He didn’t even flinch. I scrambled to cover myself, my face burning with a mix of fury and humiliation. “Daisy! What the hell are you doing?” “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Daisy squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth. “I was just trying to talk to her, and she got so aggressive… she must have torn it herself to make me look bad…” “You lying little—” “Enough!” Dominic roared. “I saw everything. You’re pathetic, Margot. Tearing your own clothes to frame a girl who has nothing? You’ve lost your shame, and I’ve lost my patience.” “Dominic, it’s my leg,” Daisy moaned, clutching her calf where the tiny scratch had long since stopped bleeding. “The stress… I can’t breathe… it hurts so much…” “We’re going,” Dominic said, immediately draping his suit jacket over her shoulders. “I’m getting you a full trauma sweep.” Before they turned away, Dominic’s eyes lingered on my swollen, purple ankle for a split second. A shadow of a frown crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He turned to a nearby hospital administrator. “This woman is not to be treated. Not tonight. Consider it a lesson in humility. If I find out a single doctor touched her, I’ll pull my funding from this wing.” I watched them disappear into the private elevators. I ended up buying a tube of ointment from a 24-hour pharmacy and limping back to the apartment I paid for with my own salary. Late that night, the sound of a key in the lock startled me. It was Dominic. He smelled of Scotch and bitterness. Before I could speak, he was on me. His hands were heavy, roaming over me with a possessiveness that felt like an assault. “Dominic! Stop!” My voice trembled. “What are you doing?” He pinned my wrists to the headboard, his weight crushing the breath out of me. “That little performance at the hospital? That was about being desperate, wasn’t it? You’re starved for attention.” I struggled, screaming for him to get off. “Let me go!” He laughed against my neck. “Why the act? You’ve been in my bed for three years. You think you’re a virgin now because you’re mad at me?” He forced a kiss on me, his mouth tasting of expensive liquor and resentment. Memory hit me like a physical blow. In my previous life, he had come home drunk after Daisy died, sobbing her name while he forced himself on me. That was the night I got pregnant. But in this life, Daisy was alive. Why was he here? I bit his lip, hard. The metallic tang of blood filled the air. “You bit me?” The pain seemed to ignite something darker in him. He pressed down harder. “Fine. I like it when you fight. It makes it feel like you actually have a soul.” I screamed, my hand fumbling blindly on the nightstand. My fingers closed around a heavy crystal water glass. I swung it with every ounce of strength I had left. CRACK. He slumped to the side, dazed. I pushed him off with a guttural cry, grabbing a shard of the broken glass as I scrambled off the bed. I backed into the corner, clutching my torn robe, my ankle throbbing. “Touch me again,” I hissed, “and I will end this. For both of us.” Dominic wiped a smear of blood from his forehead, staring at me with a mix of shock and mounting rage. “You hit me. You actually hit me.” He stood up, his voice trembling. “We’re done, Margot. The engagement is over. You won’t get another dime, another contract, or another second of my time. You’re nothing without the Blackwood name.” 4 The next morning, my phone chimed. It was a DM from Daisy. It was a photo of her and Dominic in bed—a mess of tangled sheets and smug smiles. He came to me last night, Margot. He was calling your name at first, but by the end, he knew exactly who he was with. It was my peak ovulation window. Maybe I’ll be the one carrying the Blackwood heir soon. Good luck with the ‘ex’ title. I didn’t bother getting angry. I just replied: Keep him. He’s a depreciating asset. By noon, the media was in a frenzy. [BREAKING: Dominic Blackwood Calls Off Engagement to Tech Heiress Margot West] [Who is Daisy Miller? The Mystery Girl Set to Become the New Queen of Blackwood Industries] My social feeds were a graveyard of my past life. Photos of me were being cropped out of gala shots, replaced by blurry candids of Daisy smiling. I was the “scorned woman,” the “cold-hearted ice queen” who had finally been thawed out of the picture. I didn’t care. I was waiting. At 10:00 AM, I received a call from a blocked number. “Ms. West? It’s the firm. There’s an auction tonight at The Obsidian Room. It involves a major transition project for Blackwood Industries. Mr. Blackwood insisted you attend as a ‘special guest.’ We’ll have a car for you.” After my father died, I had funneled almost my entire inheritance into Blackwood stock to help Dominic build his empire. Even if we were over, I still owned a significant chunk of that company. I figured I owed it to my bank account to show up one last time. But I knew Dominic. He didn’t do “special guests” out of kindness. I made a phone call of my own first, setting a different set of wheels in motion. When I arrived at the auction, the atmosphere was predatory. The auctioneer took the stage, his voice booming: “Tonight’s first item is a gift from Mr. Blackwood to Ms. Miller. A pair of rare Qing Dynasty vases. Opening bid: three million!” Dominic didn’t even look at the catalog. “Ten million.” Daisy sat beside him in a champagne gold gown that looked three sizes too small for her dignity. She looked like a child playing dress-up, radiating a desperate, nouveau-riche energy that made the old money in the room cringe. A Tang bronze censer. A Song Dynasty tea bowl. A Ming era hairpin. For every item, Dominic raised his paddle without blinking. “Item number 48, sold to Mr. Blackwood for Ms. Miller.” “Item 72, sold.” “Item 89, sold.” Daisy clutched a gold hairpin, her eyes gleaming. “Dominic, are you really going to buy me 99 items?” He squeezed her hand, his voice loud enough for the front three rows to hear. “I promised you a ‘House of Gold,’ didn’t I? You deserve a legacy that isn’t built on ice.” I sat in the shadows of the back row, my knuckles white. He had said those exact words to me four years ago. I waited for the “business” portion of the evening, but it never came. It was just a public humiliation ritual. I stood to leave, but a waiter blocked my path. “Ms. West, you can’t leave. You’re the grand finale. Mr. Blackwood’s orders.” “The grand finale?” The waiter looked uncomfortable. “You’ll see.” A cold pit formed in my stomach. Suddenly, the house lights dimmed, and a single, piercing spotlight hit me. The stage floor beneath me began to rise, lifting me up until I was center stage, exposed to the entire elite of the city. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer announced, his voice tinged with a cruel mirth. “Our 100th and final ‘item’ of the night. A special surprise curated by Mr. Blackwood himself… the lovely Ms. Margot West.” The room erupted in hushed laughter and mocking whispers. “Is he actually auctioning off his ex-fiancée?” “Look at her face. From CEO to a charity lot. Talk about a fall from grace.” Daisy was preening, leaning into Dominic’s chest. “Oh, Dominic, she looks so sad. Do you think anyone will actually bid on her? It’s almost a mercy killing at this point.” My watch vibrated. A text from my contact: It’s done. I looked down at Dominic. I let a slow, predatory smile spread across my face. The game was over. “I’m afraid,” I said, my voice amplified by the stage mic, “that this auction is officially cancelled.”

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Seven years of a sexless marriage. In a desperate, pathetic attempt to save what was left of us, I finally agreed to his request for “something adventurous.” Outdoor sex. In the car. A thrill to jumpstart a dead heart. But an hour before our designated time, I scrolled past a thread on a popular confession site. The prompt: What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done for “love”? The top comment, glowing with thousands of upvotes, read: “I have to tell you about my ex-boyfriend’s current wife. Tonight, she’s ‘sacrificing’ herself for love. They’re going to be ‘cooking’ in the very car he bought for me! And get this—he’s live-streaming the audio to me. He promised me he’s staying ‘pure’ for me. He’s only using his hands on her.” The comment section was a furnace of outrage, but the poster just slapped down a photo of a luxury car in response: “A Rolls-Royce Phantom. Have you peasants even seen one in person?” “That frigid bitch is lucky to even sit in those seats. It’s the highlight of her miserable life.” The moment the high-res photo loaded, the blood in my veins turned to ice. That car… was parked right in front of me. 1 The cold glow of my phone screen felt like a blade in the dim light of the parking garage. I refreshed the page, praying my eyes were deceiving me, hoping for a different license plate, a different color—anything. But there it was. A tiny, almost invisible scratch on the hood, right where the light hit it. It matched the photo in the post perfectly. The post was timestamped three hours ago. The comments were still exploding: [OP, you’re toxic as hell. Why are you even still talking to this guy?] [Live-streaming? No way. Drop the link!] [This is sick. That poor wife is being humiliated and she doesn’t even know it.] My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone. I checked the time. Ten minutes until our “date.” I took a numb step forward, peering through the driver’s side window. In the shadows of the passenger seat, I saw them. Cartoon plushies. Pink, fluffy, and incredibly juvenile. They looked utterly ridiculous in a car this expensive, and they were the polar opposite of Bennett’s cold, stoic aesthetic. Looking at them, a memory surged up like bile. Two years ago, when I bought my own car, I had decorated it with cute, cozy accessories. Bennett had looked at them and uttered five words that killed my joy: “Cheap, tacky, and incredibly immature.” I had cleared the car out that same night. But now, here were these pink rabbits and star stickers, plastered all over this Rolls-Royce like a shrine to someone else’s whims. The keys bit into my palm. My eyes burned. The elevator chimed. Bennett stepped out. He had traded his white lab coat for a casual cashmere sweater, though he still carried that air of effortless, high-society arrogance. He saw me and gave a curt, professional nod, as if we were meeting for a board or a surgery rather than an intimate encounter. He pulled the door open. “Been waiting long? Get in.” His voice was flat. He wasn’t looking at a wife he wanted to seduce; he was looking at a task he needed to complete. I didn’t move. My voice came out as a brittle whisper. “When did you buy this car?” He stiffened for a fraction of a second. “A while ago. It’s been in storage. I lent it to a friend for a bit.” He slid into the driver’s seat. I fought back the sob rising in my throat and climbed into the passenger side. The air hit me immediately—a thick, cloying perfume. Sweet, floral, and nauseatingly familiar. As soon as the engine purred to life, Bennett hit a button. The privacy curtains slid shut, sealing us in. The world outside disappeared, leaving us in a tomb lit only by the ghostly blue glow of the dashboard. The darkness felt heavy. Suffocating. I thought about the “live-stream” mentioned in the post and my heart hammered against my ribs. “Why is it so dark?” “It’s for the mood, Elena,” Bennett said, his hand reaching across the center console. His breath hitched as he leaned in. I instinctively recoiled, my hand sweeping nervously across the gap between the seats. My fingers brushed something. Bennett frowned, his annoyance flashing in the dim light. “What is wrong with you today?” I didn’t answer. I reached down, feeling into the crevice of the leather seat until I grasped a piece of fabric. I pulled it out. A sliver of light escaped through a gap in the curtain, just enough for me to see what I was holding. Black lace panties. Worn. Stained in the center with a dark, dried patch that left nothing to the imagination. 2 I threw the door open and stumbled out of the car, retching against the concrete wall of the garage. Bennett was out a second later, his face contorted with suppressed rage. “Elena! What the hell is this performance?” I wiped my mouth, my vision blurred with tears, and held up the lace. “Whose are these, Bennett?” His expression flickered—a flash of guilt instantly paved over by cold indifference. “It’s a friend’s car. How should I know what they leave in it?” He took a step toward me, his voice softening into that manipulative, ‘reasonable’ tone he used to quiet difficult patients. “Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I agreed to do this for you. Isn’t that enough? What more do you want from me?” “A friend?” I started to laugh, a jagged, ugly sound. “What kind of ‘friend’ leaves this in a car you’re borrowing?” “Elena, stop,” he snapped, his patience evaporating. “I am sacrificing my limited free time to play these games with you, and you’re going to throw a tantrum over a piece of trash?” Sacrificing. The word felt like a physical blow. To him, intimacy with his legal wife was a chore. A charitable donation. My heart felt like it was being shredded. Seven years. I had given this man seven years of my life, my health, and my devotion. I had loved him through the shadow of the girl he never forgot—the ghost of the one who got away. I remembered the accident, three days after our wedding. A car had come out of nowhere and slammed into me. Three broken ribs. A shattered pelvis. A severely damaged reproductive system. Bennett was the surgeon who saved me. He had operated on me himself. But after the surgery, something went wrong. He told me the trauma had caused “complications.” My body had essentially locked itself shut. I became a “stone woman”—physically unable to experience pleasure, anatomically scarred in a way that made sex an agonizing impossibility. I had wanted to die. But Bennett had held me, over and over, whispering, “Elena, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of you forever.” I believed him. I was grateful for that accident because I thought it had forged a bond that transcended the physical. I spent seven years trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect shadow, just to earn the right to grow old with him. And all it earned me was a “sacrifice.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. The thread had been updated. “Oops, the stream got cut off. Looks like someone found the little surprise I left in the seat (blushing emoji). I guess he’s not as good at hiding things as he thought. Oh well, there’s always next time. We’ve got forever.” Attached was a screenshot of a receipt. A pair of luxury black lace panties. $300. I looked up at Bennett. He was holding something in his hand—a beige, rubbery device he’d pulled from the glove box. The packaging was torn. It looked cheap, clinical, and insulting. Meanwhile, his own belt was still buckled tight. He hadn’t even intended to touch me. “So that was the plan, Bennett?” I whispered, nodding toward the toy. “That was your ‘sincere effort’?” I let out a breath that felt like a death rattle. 3 He followed my gaze and dropped the device back into the car as if it had burned him. The exhaustion hit me then. A weight so heavy I couldn’t even feel the anger anymore. I turned away. “We’re done, Bennett. I’m leaving.” I walked out of the garage and didn’t look back. By the time I got back to the house and started pulling suitcases out of the closet, Bennett was already there. He was holding a bouquet of red roses. They were wrapped in crinkly plastic, the petals already wilting at the edges, bruised and blackening. He tossed his jacket on the sofa and set the dying flowers on the coffee table. “Elena, let’s be rational. We need to talk.” “There’s nothing left to say,” I said, my voice empty. He rubbed his temples, looking like the victim of a great injustice. “I know you’re upset. But you’re… you’re ‘locked,’ Elena. You know that. I can’t be expected to ignore my own needs forever just because your body failed. As for the car, I told you, it belongs to a friend. You’re making a scene over nothing.” “What’s this friend’s name?” He paused. “That’s not important.” The dam broke. I lunged forward and swept the roses off the table, scattering them across the floor. “What is important, then? The fact that our seven-year anniversary gift was a live-streamed humiliation? Or the fact that you planned to fake an intimate moment with a piece of plastic?” “Enough!” Bennett stood up, his voice booming. “Stop being so hysterical! What do I have to do to make you believe me?” “Sell the car,” I screamed. “Sell it right now!” He looked at me like I was a lunatic. “Are you insane? That’s a three-hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle!” “So?” “So, it’s a car, Elena! You want me to throw away a fortune because you’re having a mood swing? Look, I get it—you’re frustrated because you’re broken. But don’t take your inadequacy out on me.” It felt like a jagged blade had been driven into my chest. I was trembling so hard I could barely stand. “I wasn’t born this way, Bennett! The accident—” “I KNOW!” he roared. “And I married you anyway! I’ve spent seven years playing nursemaid to a woman who can’t even be a wife. Isn’t that enough? Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness for being a human being with human desires?” The sight of his distorted, angry face flicked a switch inside me. The rage died, replaced by a terrifying, hollow calm. I spoke one word. “Leave.” Bennett’s face went from white to a mottled, ugly red. He didn’t say another word. He grabbed his coat and slammed the front door so hard the windows rattled. I sank onto the sofa, staring at the dying roses. The silence of the house began to scream. I don’t know how long I sat there before the doorbell rang. I thought it was Bennett, coming back to finish the fight. I opened the door, ready to scream. But it wasn’t him. It was a woman. Young, beautiful, with long chestnut waves and a soft, sugary smile. She was wearing a pale pink manicure. She tilted her head. “Hi there. You must be Elena. I’m Jasmine, a… close friend of Bennett’s.” Jasmine. The jasmine stickers in the car. The cold returned, sharper than before. This was her. The girl from the post. The ghost who had finally taken on flesh. 4 “What do you want?” “Oh, just a few things,” she said, dangling a set of Rolls-Royce keys from her finger. “Bennett said I could stop by and pick up some of my stuff. He mentioned I might have left a few personal items around here.” She moved to step past me into the foyer. I blocked her. “There’s nothing of yours here.” Jasmine blinked innocently. “Are you sure? I think I left them in the master bedroom. Last month, when Bennett was… stressed. I came over to help him relax. I think I dropped a Tiffany earring by the nightstand. They’re quite expensive.” She watched my eyes, her smile widening as she saw the realization hit me. “Honestly, Elena, I feel bad for you. Keeping up this hollow marriage… it must be exhausting. Bennett hasn’t loved you in years. He wanted to leave right after the accident, but he’s such a softie. He felt sorry for you. He’s stayed out of pure, agonizing pity.” “What are you talking about?” Jasmine took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you even know what kind of car hit you seven years ago?” My breath hitched. She giggled. “It was a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Brand new. My dad’s car. Bennett was so terrified I’d go to jail that he bought the car from my father, had it repainted, and hid it. That’s why the police never found the hit-and-run driver.” The world tilted. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. “Oh, and one more thing.” She pulled a folder from her designer bag. “You’ve always wondered why you were ‘locked’ after the surgery, haven’t you?” She pulled out a medical report. “Bennett performed a little extra procedure while you were under. He ‘fixed’ you so you could never be with anyone else. He told me it was the only way he could ensure he stayed ‘faithful’ to me—by making sure his wife was biologically unavailable.” The papers fluttered to the floor. I stared at the technical diagrams, at Bennett’s familiar, elegant signature at the bottom of the surgical notes. The words blurred into a dark abyss, pulling me down. It was all a lie. The accident. The “complications.” The seven years of “care.” He hadn’t saved me. He had dismantled me. A primal, guttural scream tore out of my throat. The world went red. I lunged at her, my fingers tangling in her perfect hair as I dragged her to the floor. She shrieked, her nails clawing at my face, but I didn’t feel it. I just wanted to tear the truth out of her. I pinned her down, my hand cracking across her face again and again—years of repressed pain and betrayal fueling every blow. Jasmine cried out, shielding her face, and suddenly, a dark red stain began to spread across her pale skirt. The metallic scent of blood hit the air. The door burst open. Bennett charged in. He saw me on top of Jasmine and his eyes turned murderous. “ELENA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” He didn’t pull me off. He kicked me. Hard. The blow landed in my side, sending me sprawling across the room. I hit the edge of the coffee table, my head snapping back. The roses were everywhere now, their petals mixing with the blood on the floor. Bennett was on his knees beside Jasmine, his hands trembling as he pressed them against her stomach. “Jasmine? Talk to me! Oh god, the baby…” “Bennett… the baby… my baby…” she sobbed. A baby. They had a child. I lay on the floor, paralyzed, watching Bennett’s back as he cradled her like she was his entire world. I wanted to cry, but I was empty. There was nothing left in me but ash. Bennett turned his head, his gaze falling on the scattered medical files on the floor. His face went deathly pale.

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“You’re pregnant.” I was halfway through a sip of water when the words hit. I nearly choked, my throat seizing as I forced myself to swallow and maintain a mask of icy composure. The only reason I didn’t spit it out was because the doctor sitting across from me, looking clinical and professional in his white coat, was my ex-boyfriend. 1 “Ow, hey. Take it easy.” I was lying on an exam bed in the ER, letting a certain someone poke and prod at my abdomen with more clinical detachment than I found strictly necessary. “How long has the pain been localized in the lower right quadrant? From what I can see, it’s not appendicitis.” Silas West withdrew his hand—his long, elegant fingers that I once knew so well. He looked at me like I was a stranger off the street. If it weren’t for that familiar, infuriatingly arrogant edge in his voice, I wouldn’t have believed this was the man I’d shared a bed with for three years. “Since last night,” I muttered, turning my face away. It had only been a month since the breakup. Apparently, thirty days was all it took for some people to become completely unfazed. Cold-hearted prick. “Have you been sexually active recently?” “…” He knew damn well we hadn’t been. Suddenly, a nurse burst in with two ultrasound reports. They were clearly mine. Silas took the sheets, and I watched his handsome face go from clinical neutral to a shade of dark, thunderous brooding. “You’re pregnant,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. I nearly died right there on the crinkly exam paper. “Excuse me?” “A ten-week-old fetus,” he said, his eyes flashing with something that looked suspiciously like hurt masked by rage. Ten weeks ago, Silas and I were still very much together. But in the three years we’d dated, we had never actually… gone all the way. We’d been “intimate,” but there was always a line he didn’t cross, a ghost of someone else always lingering in the room. “Riley Miller,” he growled, “Did you cheat on me?” As a woman who was, quite frankly, still a member of the V-club, I knew this was a massive clerical error. But seeing him this worked up? It felt too good to pass up. I wanted to burn his composure to the ground. “Well, since you’ve figured it out, I guess there’s no point in lying,” I said, my voice dripping with fake nonchalance. I didn’t just stop at the verbal jab; I sat up and crossed my legs with an air of sophisticated mystery. “I was actually surprised to see you here, Silas. Did you drive all the way from Seattle to Boise just to attend my wedding? I haven’t sent out the invites yet.” Honestly, seeing Silas at Boise Memorial was a shock. He was the golden boy of the University of Washington’s surgical department. Why would he sabotage a brilliant career to move to a mid-sized city in Idaho? As for me, I was only here because after our explosive breakup a month ago, I’d packed my life into a U-Haul and fled back to my parents’ house. I couldn’t stand the sight of the Seattle skyline if he was under it. “Riley!” He stepped closer, his breathing heavy. “I’m right here. No need to yell. I left the house in a rush today, so I don’t have the save-the-date on me. I’ll be sure to mail you one, though. For old times’ sake.” I stood up, ready to make a grand exit. If I stayed another second, I was fairly certain Silas might actually bite me. The look in his eyes was feral. As I tried to brush past him, his foot “accidentally” caught mine. I tripped, and he pivoted instantly, blocking my path. I tumbled straight into his chest. To keep from eating the linoleum floor, my arms instinctively flew up and wrapped around his neck. The scent of his cologne—something crisp, like cedar and rain—hit me like a physical blow. Even through the layers of his shirt and white lab coat, I could feel the radiating heat of his body. “Already a ‘married woman,’ yet you’re still throwing yourself into my arms?” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. 2 Gaslighting. Incredible. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I hissed, trying to untangle myself. “My fiancé owns several properties here in Boise. My future mother-in-law adores me. She’s already talking about helping with the baby so I can focus on my career. With a setup like that, I don’t need to throw myself at an ex.” “Riley, you really are something else.” A cold draft hit my back as the door swung open again. It was the same nurse from before, looking frantic. “I am so sorry! The charts got swapped at the desk. Dr. West, this is Ms. Miller’s report.” I should have run when I had the chance. The silence in the room was deafening. Silas took the new report, read it, and then a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smirk spread across his face. “Well,” he said, handing me the paper. “I can prescribe you some high-grade laxatives.” “What?” “You aren’t pregnant, Riley. Your ‘abdominal pain’ is just a severe case of being full of it. Literally. You’re constipated.” I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I looked at the nurse, who was doing a heroic, if failing, job of not laughing. “Fix the filing system,” Silas said to the nurse, his voice tight with suppressed amusement. “We can’t have this happening twice.” Just as he was about to tuck the report away, the nurse spoke up again. “This other one—the pregnancy report—it belongs to a Ms. Blake. She’s waiting in the lounge.” My heart did a painful somersault. After the breakup, the name “Serena Blake” was a trigger. “Which Ms. Blake?” I asked, my voice suddenly small. “Serena?” The nurse nodded, surprised. I looked at Silas. So, that was it. Why would a top-tier surgeon move to a “flyover” city? Because his “White Moonlight”—the one who got away, the girl he’d never truly moved on from—lived here. He hadn’t come for me. He’d come for her. Then the second realization hit me like a freight train. “That’s Serena’s pregnancy report?” The nurse, blissfully unaware of the emotional carnage she was causing, nodded again. “Dr. West has been her primary since she arrived. The girls at the desk were gossiping… they said since Dr. West and Ms. Blake are old friends, maybe the baby is—” “That’s enough,” Silas snapped, cutting her off. The nurse scurried out, but the damage was done. Serena Blake was the reason Silas and I were over. She had spent the last six months of our relationship weaving herself back into his life, and now, here she was. Pregnant. 3 Two months ago. That was when she’d flown to Seattle to “reconnect” with him. “Riley, it’s not what it looks like—” Silas started. “We’re over, Silas.” “I can explain the timeline—” “I don’t care about your timeline. I’m not interested.” I turned on my heel and slammed his office door so hard the glass rattled in the frame. He was on my heels instantly. As we reached the hallway, the noise must have drawn attention. Serena emerged from the waiting area, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. We came face-to-face. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a glance. My only goal was to get out of this hospital and out of this town. I’d only taken a few steps when Serena let out a sharp gasp. She crumpled toward the floor, clutching her belly and whimpering in a way that screamed for attention. Silas, it hurts, her silence screamed. I saw him hesitate. Just for a second. That split-second of indecision was all I needed to know where I stood. He stayed. He went back to her. I walked out of the hospital doors alone, clutching my ultrasound report—the one that said I was just a girl with a stomach ache, not a woman with a future. Who was playing who? When I got home, my parents were staged in the living room like a firing squad. I knew that look. “Mom,” I said, closing the door quietly, trying to maintain the peace. Neither of them looked at me. They sat stiff-backed, faces set in grim lines. I decided to just sit down and take whatever lecture was coming. “Don’t you dare sit down!” my mother barked. “It’s my house too, Mom.” “You’re nearly thirty!” she shouted, ignoring me. “I set up three dates for you this week and you blew off every single one! Do you want to kill me? Even the neighbor’s golden retriever has a partner and two litters of puppies by now!” She shoved a stack of glossy papers into my hands. I looked down. In bold, horrific letters, it read: HUSBAND WANTED. My jaw dropped. “Mom, what is this? And why is my photo printed upside down?” It looked less like a dating profile and more like a ‘Missing Person’ flyer or a funeral notice. “I wanted to see if I could attract a man by making you look like a project,” she snapped. “I’ve already coordinated with my friend Mrs. Higgins. You’re going on a blind date with her son tomorrow. If you blow this one off, I’ll have your father post these flyers on every telephone pole from here to downtown. Do you understand?” My mom was a lost cause when she was in a “Matchmaker” frenzy. I turned to my dad, hoping for a shred of fatherly solidarity. “Dad, come on. I’m your little girl. Don’t you want me to stay home a few more years? Keep you company?” My dad stood up, took off his favorite cardigan, walked to the window, and threw it outside. “Go find a nice man to take care of you, Riley,” he said solemnly. 4 I caved. The thought of my “funeral-notice” dating flyer plastered all over Boise was too much to bear. I followed my mother’s instructions and took an Uber to a high-end French bistro downtown. It was actually quite nice—dim lighting, velvet booths, very romantic. My mom had already scurried off to “meet the guests” at the door. I was sitting at the table, scrolling through my phone, when I saw them. Mrs. Higgins, my mom… and Silas West. The world is a cruel, tiny place. The seating arrangement was a nightmare: Me, my mom, Silas, and his mother. Silas sat directly across from me, looking like the picture of a perfect gentleman. He smiled at my mother, a sweet, charming expression that made my skin crawl. “It’s so good to see you again, Mrs. Miller.” “Oh, Silas! Look at you! You’ve grown into such a handsome man,” my mom gushed. She was already mentally picking out her dress for the wedding. I stabbed at my salad, glaring at Silas with enough venom to kill a cobra. “I don’t know what happened with the last guy she was seeing,” my mom sighed, leaning toward Silas’s mom. “Three years down the drain. He must have been a real loser.” “Oh?” Silas leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What did she tell you about him?” A cold dread settled in my stomach. When I’d come home crying and angry, I hadn’t told my mom the truth about the cheating or Serena. I’d told her something much more… emasculating. Something that wouldn’t make her pity me, but would make her glad he was gone. “Well,” my mom whispered, not very quietly. “Riley said the poor boy had… performance issues. Medical ones. You know, ‘failure to launch.’ Extremely premature.” The sympathetic look Silas’s mother gave him was legendary. “Oh, bless his heart. It’s good she found out before marriage. That’s a lifetime of frustration.” “Exactly,” my mom agreed. I watched Silas’s face. His calm, “perfect gentleman” mask was beginning to twitch into something much darker. I buried my face in my wine glass, chugging the Chardonnay. I didn’t dare look up. I could feel his gaze burning holes into my forehead. Needing an escape, I mumbled something about the restroom and bolted. I was halfway to the lounge when a hand gripped my wrist and pulled me into the shadows of the hallway near the coat check. “You,” I gasped, backing up. Silas didn’t say a word. He just kept stepping forward until my back hit the wall. “Premature?” he whispered, loosening his tie with one hand. “Performance issues? You seem to have a lot of opinions on my anatomy, Riley.” The scent of cedar and rain enveloped me. He was so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my neck. It sent a traitorous shiver down my spine. “Riley,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration. “How can you claim I’m ‘inadequate’ when you never even let me try?” My heart was hammering against my ribs. He was the one who cheated! Why was I the one feeling guilty? Just then, I heard the clicking of heels. Our mothers were coming toward the restrooms. If they saw us like this, my mother would have the priest on speed dial before dessert. “Let go! They’re coming!” I hissed. I tried to push him away, but he grabbed both my wrists with one hand, pinning them above my head, while his other hand cupped the back of my neck. He didn’t hesitate. Silas kissed me—a deep, possessive, “I’m-going-to-prove-you-wrong” kiss that tasted like red wine and years of suppressed longing. He broke into my senses with practiced ease. By the time I could think to pull away, the two “Best Friends” were standing five feet away, clutching their pearls and grinning like they’d won the lottery. Game over. 5 “I’d love to get Riley’s new number,” Silas said with a boyish grin. My mother didn’t even wait for me to agree; she grabbed my phone, unlocked it, and pulled up my QR code. So much for blocking him. But Silas wasn’t done. He was a shark in a tailored suit. “The only problem is,” Silas sighed, looking at my mom with puppy-dog eyes, “I’m staying in my mom’s guest suite, but it’s actually just a studio. I’ve been sleeping on a loveseat for a week. My back is killing me.” His mother nudged him, looking confused, but my mom took the bait hook, line, and sinker. “Well, stay with us! We have plenty of room, and I haven’t seen your mother in ages. You can both move into the guest wing for a few days!” And just like that, the next morning, Silas arrived with three suitcases, looking like he planned to move in permanently. I had never met a more shameless human being. Over brunch, I learned the backstory I’d forgotten. Silas’s mom was a Boise native who had moved to Seattle after a messy divorce when Silas was six. Apparently, our families had been close back then. I’d met him when I was three, but I had zero memory of the scrawny boy who had apparently decided way back then that I was his. While my mom was busy fawning over him, Silas’s phone buzzed on the table. The notification read: Serena. I pretended to be intensely interested in my toast, but I was watching him like a hawk. Thanks for taking care of me. Dinner tonight? the message read. That little snake. Silas was literally in my house, and she was already trying to lure him away. Suddenly, a competitive fire ignited in my chest. I wasn’t going to let her win. Not this time. I pulled up a local app and booked tickets for the most intense, multi-hour experience I could find. “I actually booked us something for tomorrow,” I said, interrupting their conversation. “An escape room followed by a three-hour movie marathon. Silas, I hope you’re free?” Silas looked surprised, then his lips curled into a smirk. He checked his phone, saw Serena’s message, and typed back a single word: Busy.

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I couldn’t help myself. Watching the live stream, I tapped the screen and sent fifty virtual supercars—a five-thousand-dollar flex in a matter of seconds. I expected a thank you, or at least a smile. Instead, Preston blew up. He sent me a scathing text, threatening to end things—again. As I sat there, reeling from the confusion, glowing lines of text suddenly began to drift across my vision like a digital hallucination—a live commentary on my own life. [Is this bitch for real? Does she think having a trust fund and paying for the lead’s tuition gives her the right to own him? Dropping those cars was a total power move to humiliate him. Such a desperate, territorial move.] [No wonder he’s pissed. Our sweet Daisy finally worked up the courage to send him her first ‘Rose’—a literal symbol of her pure love—and this rich girl just had to swoop in and drown it out with her tacky display of wealth.] [Old money, new money, it doesn’t matter. Women like her will never understand. A single rose might only cost a dime, but to him, it’s worth infinitely more than a dozen Ferraris bought with daddy’s credit card.] [When is Preston finally going to make enough from his streaming group to dump this nightmare socialite? I’m dying for him and Daisy to finally start their ‘struggling artists in love’ arc! Ugh!] I froze. The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. I wasn’t the leading lady in this story. I was the obstacle. The “Other Woman.” The villainous ex-girlfriend standing in the way of a fated romance. Every gift, every cent I’d spent on him, wasn’t a gesture of love. In his eyes—and the eyes of the “audience”—it was an insult. Fine. I nodded to the empty room, a cold clarity settling over me. I accepted the breakup. I turned my back on the man I’d spent three years bankrolling and set my sights on his teammate instead. Later, I didn’t even blink when I dropped five hundred “Universe” gifts on his rival’s stream. Preston, watching from the sidelines, completely lost it. In front of his entire following, with his eyes bloodshot and voice cracking, he begged me for a second chance. 1 It took me a long time to process what was happening. In the narrative of this world, Preston was the “Hero.” Daisy, my roommate, was the “Heroine.” And me? I was the “Rich Girl Villain”—the one who had been foolishly pouring her heart and bank account into a man who secretly despised her. As I sat there dazed, the floating comments continued to flicker with indignation. [God, poor Daisy. She skipped dinner for three nights just to save up enough for that digital rose. I’m literally crying for her.] [The villain is so toxic. Preston told her a thousand times not to be so flashy, but she just has to show off. She made poor Daisy feel so small she probably cried herself to sleep.] [They’re both kids from the same small town, chasing the American Dream together. Only they can truly save each other.] [The villain might have helped him win the streaming battle, but look at his face. He’s not smiling. He’s just thinking about how much Daisy is hurting.] [The script was supposed to be: They share a secret glance of love amidst the crowd. This bitch ruined their first real moment!] I closed my eyes, trying to clear the static from my brain. This “plot” was absurd, but the reality was undeniable. If this was the truth of his heart, I was done playing the role of the benevolent benefactor. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Trying to ignore me again?” Preston’s voice barked through the phone, pulling me back to the present. “Daisy has a lot of pride. She’s probably hiding somewhere crying right now. If you want to keep this relationship, you go to her and apologize. Once she forgives you, then maybe we can talk.” I didn’t hesitate. “Okay,” I said. Thinking he might misunderstand, I added firmly, “I agree. Let’s break up.” “Then get over there and apologize! Be sincere for once—” Preston started, his voice overlapping mine. He stopped mid-sentence as my words finally registered. “Wait, what? Blair, what is this? Another one of your little tantrums?” I cut him off, my voice steady. “I said, you wanted a breakup. You’ve got it. We’re done.” The silence on the other end lasted three full seconds. Then, he let out a sharp, condescending laugh. “Fine. Great. Have it your way. Keep acting out, Blair. But don’t come crawling back when you realize I’m actually serious this time. I’m done with your drama.” I didn’t want to argue. I just gave a muffled “Mm-hmm” and moved to hang up. Before I could, his voice came through the receiver, a low, venomous threat. “Think carefully, Blair. Don’t call me crying tomorrow begging for another chance!” 2 I didn’t bother responding. I never knew how to love “correctly,” I suppose. My version of love was simple: if I cared for someone, I wanted them to have the best of everything. I thought Preston was struggling, that he needed the money, that he was only doing these group streams—something he used to call “beneath him”—out of necessity. Now I knew. To him, my money was just a shallow, golden cage. The moment the call ended, I paged my housekeeper and told her to go to the local drugstore and buy two of those massive, cheap plastic moving bags. All the luggage in this apartment was custom-made, hand-stitched leather. Preston didn’t deserve to touch them. I watched as the housekeeper packed his things. I made sure she didn’t include a single designer item I’d bought him—those were too “vain” and might “hurt his fragile pride.” I looked around the penthouse. It was in the heart of the city, every square inch costing more than most people made in a year. I had decorated it ourselves, tailoring every detail to Preston’s tastes. If I had known he felt “humiliated” living here every day, I would have let the unit sit empty. I felt a surge of anger, but my eyes betrayed me, stinging with tears. Three years. You don’t just switch off three years of feelings, no matter how much of a bastard the guy turned out to be. He had threatened to leave a dozen times before, but this was the first time I was the one walking away. As I packed, the comments flared up again. [Why isn’t the villain apologizing yet? Does she think this silent treatment will work on him? So manipulative.] [Is she seriously acting like she’s moving out? She’s so obsessed with him, she’d die before she actually let him go.] [If her family didn’t have money, would a guy like Preston even look at her? He only stayed because she paid his tuition at the acting conservatory. She bought his time, not his heart.] [She’ll never understand that every cent she spent on him felt like a slap in the face. He despises her ‘charity.’] [He hates the ‘capitalist filth.’ He dreams of a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with Daisy. Simple meals, three seasons, four directions. That’s real happiness. The villain will never get it.] I tried to ignore them, but the sheer delusion was suffocating. If Preston hated my family’s help so much, he shouldn’t have accepted the tuition. He shouldn’t have accepted the black card. He was the one who pursued me for an entire year when we first met. He was a scholarship student from a small town; I was a girl with a trust fund that could buy the town. I had paid for everything. His fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year allowance, his skincare, his wardrobe, his travel for auditions. I never made him ask. I just put the money in his account because I wanted him to focus on his “art.” In return, he kept me a secret at school. He said he didn’t want people thinking he was a “gold digger.” He refused to be seen with me in the cafeteria or the library. He chose streaming because it was “quick money,” but every time I supported him with a gift, he acted like I’d spit on his grave. It all made sense now. My support was his “burden.” My love was his “humiliation.” Fine. Let him be free. I was sitting on the floor, crying despite myself, when the front door clicked open. Preston stood there, his face tight with fury. 3 “Blair, what is this?” He pointed at the cheap plastic bags in the foyer, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. Oh. I forgot to change the door code. He saw my tears and his expression softened into a look of weary annoyance. He rubbed his temples. “It’s five in the morning. I just finished a ten-hour stream. I’m exhausted. Stop with the theatrics.” He started to walk past me, carrying the limited-edition designer duffel I’d given him for his birthday. I stood up and blocked his path. The comments surged: [Look at her, trying the ‘breakup’ move to get his attention. We all know she’s terrified he’ll actually leave.] [He’s not falling for it. She could crawl on her knees and he’d still choose Daisy. Their love is pure.] I cleared my throat, wiping my face. “Your things are packed. The bags are by the door. You can check them if you want.” “Give me the car keys,” I added. “And I’m changing the codes. As for the money I’ve spent on you… consider it a donation to the needy. I spend more on my dog’s grooming anyway. I think we’re done here. Blocked and deleted.” Preston’s greatest weakness was his “high self-esteem”—or what I now recognized as fragile ego. My words hit him like a physical barrier. He looked at me with pure disbelief. “Blair, you’re really going to blow this out of proportion?” he sneered. “Have you thought about the consequences?” “I think I was pretty clear on the phone,” I said, my voice finally finding its cold edge. “We’re over.” He laughed, a bitter, mocking sound. “Do you realize that because you wouldn’t apologize, Daisy cried all night? I had to drive to her dorm after my stream just to sit with her. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? But that’s you. Always the same.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “To you, fifty supercars is just the price of a Chanel bag. You have a closet full of them, so it means nothing. But Daisy… she skipped three days of meals just to support me. Do you know how many shifts she had to work at the tea shop to save that money? And you just had to mock her. You had to drop fifty cars right after she sent her rose.” “You’re a spoiled little princess who knows nothing of the real world,” he spat. “That’s why I’m angry.” I was stunned. The streaming studio was an hour away from Daisy’s dorm. He finished at 2 AM and drove all that way to “comfort” her? And he still claimed they were “just friends”? I didn’t even know which account was Daisy’s. I didn’t know their “digital rose” was some sacred ritual. I only stepped in because he was losing the “Live Battle” and I didn’t want him to look bad. I wanted to scream all of this at him. But looking at his self-righteous face, I just felt… tired. Preston saw I wasn’t responding and, in a fit of pique, grabbed the plastic bags and headed for the elevator. Before the doors closed, he threw one last line at me: “Blair, remember this. You’re the one who pushed me to her.” 4 I didn’t understand. He was the one who asked for the breakup. Now it was my fault for “pushing” him? It was always like this. He was the saint; I was the sinner. My kindness was “hatred,” and my help was a “seed of resentment.” I lay in bed as the sun began to peek through the curtains, tossing and turning. I pulled up my phone. At 6:30 AM, Daisy had posted a new update on social media. “Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for understanding my heart. And thank you to a certain someone for finally giving you back to me.” The photo was a “Live” shot in front of a floor-to-ceiling window at a five-star hotel. In the reflection, you could see the city lights. In the foreground, Daisy was wrapped in a passionate embrace with a man. He was shirtless, his back to the camera, but I knew those shoulders anywhere. Daisy was in a sheer lace nightgown, Preston’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The “Live” photo captured the movement of the kiss—lingering, hungry, and far from “just friends.” Strangely, I wasn’t even angry. I just felt a wave of nausea. How did I ever fall for this ungrateful parasite? The comments were throwing a party. [OMG! The sugar! My ship has sailed!] [Finally, they belong to each other. No more obstacles.] [We have to thank the villain. Her jealousy finally made the lead realize he couldn’t live without Daisy.] [He’s going to work so hard now to give her a future. True love wins!] I didn’t feel like crying anymore. I felt like doing math. If they wanted to “work hard” and “rely on themselves,” why was the bill for that twenty-thousand-dollar-a-night presidential suite being charged to the black card I’d given him? I looked closer at the photo. On the nightstand, “accidentally” caught in the frame, was a custom Hermes handbag. My handbag. The one my mother gave me for my birthday. Preston probably thought I had so many I wouldn’t notice one missing. I called my assistant. “Cancel the black card I gave Preston. Effective immediately.”

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My mother had gone to the bank to collect a “Customer Appreciation” gift, a small gesture for long-time account holders. Instead, the clerk had shoved a half-torn bag of premium rice across the counter with the grace of someone tossing trash. In the clumsy hand-off, the bag slipped. It hit the polished marble floor with a sickening pop, white grains skittering in every direction like tiny, panicked insects. Instead of helping, the clerk crossed her arms over her chest. She leaned into her microphone, her voice booming through the lobby speakers, distorted and cruel. “Pick it up. Every single grain. I want this floor spotless!” “You’re pathetic, you old bat. If you don’t clean this up, don’t even think about walking out that door.” I walked in just as that last sentence echoed off the high ceilings. My mother’s eyes were rimmed with red, her hands trembling as she stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by the mess. I stepped forward, pulling her behind me, my heart hammering a cold, rhythmic beat of fury. Seeing me intervene only seemed to embolden the clerk. She adjusted her name tag—Madison—and sneered. “Perfect timing. Why don’t you teach your mother some manners? This is what happens when people are too cheap for their own good.” “If you don’t apologize and get out of here right now, don’t bother coming back for that loan. My father is the Executive Vice President of this branch. Consider your family blacklisted.” I looked at Madison’s smug, porcelain-doll face, then glanced at the branch manager standing beside me. He was already mopping sweat from his forehead, bowing slightly as he tried to offer a weak, conciliatory smile. Blacklisted? I looked back at Madison. If I actually walked out of here with the three billion dollars currently sitting in my private accounts, this branch wouldn’t just be blacklisted. It wouldn’t exist by tomorrow morning. … I frowned, my gaze shifting to Howard, the manager, whose collar seemed to be getting tighter by the second. “Howard,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Is this the new standard of service? Skimping on promotional gifts and insulting seniors?” “If a client of my standing is treated like a beggar over a bag of rice, I can’t imagine how you plan on attracting any new business.” At the mention of the gift, Madison’s expression flickered with a hint of guilt—likely because she’d been skimming the “premium” inventory for herself. But before Howard could stammer out an excuse, she exploded. “Stop acting like you’re somebody! It’s a bag of rice. You’re making a scene over groceries? God, talk about low-class.” My mother flinched at the word low-class. That small movement, that tiny collapse of her shoulders, snapped something inside me. “Madison,” I said. “Originally, I would have accepted an apology and a replacement gift. But it seems your father never taught you the meaning of the word ‘professionalism.’” Madison slammed her hand onto the granite counter. “Who are you to mention my father? You think you’re entitled to an apology from me?” “Look at you. You look like you crawled out of a clearance rack. A family of grifters causing a scene for freebies. You should be embarrassed.” “Madison! Enough!” Howard’s voice was sharp, his face ghostly pale. But she was on a roll, completely blind to the frantic warning in his eyes. Her voice climbed another octave. “Am I wrong, Howard? Look at them! They’re probably here to scan for a predatory loan. We shouldn’t even be processing their paperwork. It’s bad for the bank’s image.” Howard was practically vibrating with anxiety. “Shut up, Madison! This is—” “This is what? A small-time business owner?” she interrupted, her lip curling. “Howard, please. I brought in a three-million-dollar deposit last month. Why are we catering to people who fight over rice? Just kick them out.” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch into a cold smile. Three million. That wouldn’t cover my corporate travel expenses for six months. I had three billion in liquid cash sitting in their vaults, not counting the gold bullion and the offshore holdings. Howard’s face had turned a bruised shade of purple. “Stop it, Madison. Elena is—” I raised a hand, silencing him. I reached into my leather briefcase and pulled out a file. “Howard, let’s skip the pleasantries. Replace the gift. Finish the paperwork. And tell me—is the fifty-million-dollar bridge loan for the development project ready for signature today?” Truthfully, my firm didn’t need the money. I was only taking the loan as a favor to Howard—an old college acquaintance—to help him hit his quarterly targets. Howard wiped his brow, nodding frantically. “Yes, yes, of course! Right away. Madison, process the documents for Ms. Montgomery immediately!” “Wait a second!” Madison lunged forward, snatching the file before Howard could touch it. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Fifty million? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t get a fifty-dollar limit on a store card with that attitude. Let’s see what we’re really looking at.” “Madison! Give that back! That is confidential!” Howard’s voice cracked as he reached for the papers. Madison danced back, hugging the file to her chest, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I’m doing my job, Howard! Auditing client viability. Preventing fraud. Isn’t that what we’re trained for? Who knows if these documents are even real?” She began flipping through the pages, her voice rising so everyone in the lobby could hear. “Wait… look at this. Meridian Group transferred two million dollars into your personal account last month? Why would a CEO send a girl like you that kind of money?” She paused, a poisonous smile spreading across her face. “You’re pretty enough, I guess. Is that the trick, Elena? What kind of ‘special sacrifices’ did you have to make for that check?” My fists clenched, my knuckles turning white. Before I could speak, she kept going, her voice like a serrated blade. “Oh, it gets better! Bright-Tech, eighty thousand a month for three months. Maritime Trade, one point five million. God, Elena, you’re a busy girl. How do you find the time to service so many ‘clients’ without catching something incurable?” The air in the bank felt thick, suffocating. “You… you liar! Don’t you dare speak about my daughter that way!” A voice, trembling but fierce, cut through the room. My mother, pale as a ghost, stepped in front of me. She put her frail body between me and that girl. “My daughter is a good woman! She worked for every cent she has! You have no right to spit these lies!” Madison let out a bored sigh. “Move it, lady. This doesn’t involve you.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Actually, I get it now. No wonder the mother is so protective. I bet this is how you made your way up back in the day, too. Like mother, like daughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the trash heap.” “You…!” My mother’s face went from white to a sickly grey. “Madison, shut your mouth!” Howard roared, his entire body shaking. “You are violating every privacy protocol in the book! This is gross misconduct!” Madison didn’t flinch. She looked at him with a sugary, fake pout. “What are you going to do, Howard? You promised my dad you’d look out for me. You think he’s going to let you fire me over a couple of nobodies?” Howard looked like he was about to have a stroke. My patience, which had been frayed to a single thread, finally snapped. Just then, my assistant, Jordan, hurried through the glass doors, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Elena, I just got word. The escrow for the Eastside lot needs to be settled early. We have a temporary liquidity gap—that fifty-million-dollar loan needs to hit the account today or we lose the land.” I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. I looked at Howard. “Howard. Can you close this loan today? Yes or no? Give me a straight answer.” “Yes! Absolutely! I’ll handle it personally!” Howard stammered. He turned to Madison, his voice booming. “Madison, give me those files. Now!” Instead, Madison pulled the folder further away. “Not so fast! I found a discrepancy! Look here—Montgomery Holdings has an outstanding thirty-million-dollar line of credit from last year. Per regulations, we cannot issue new high-risk loans to entities with unresolved debt.” She lifted her chin, looking at me with pure triumph. “Howard, I’m flagging this for internal review. I suspect predatory borrowing. Until the audit is complete, this loan is frozen. In fact, I’m recommending we freeze her corporate operating accounts for suspicious activity.” “Are you insane?” Howard’s veins were bulging in his neck. “Do you have any idea what that would do? This is a multi-million dollar land deal! If you freeze those accounts, the entire project collapses. You can’t take that responsibility!” “Watch me,” Madison sneered. “My dad and you run this place. We make the rules. I say we audit, so we audit. Let her wait.” I looked at her, and for the first time today, I felt a strange sense of calm. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm levels a city. “Madison,” I said softly. “You want an audit? Fine. But before you pull that trigger, I suggest you look at who signed off on that thirty-million-dollar credit line last year.” I took a step forward, pinning her with my stare. “It’s right there on the signature line. Robert Miller. Your father.” “If you want a full internal investigation, go right ahead. I have nothing to hide. But the first person the regional board is going to call into a dark room for questioning… is your ‘dear old dad.’” Madison’s smirk froze. But after a second, she puffed out her chest again. “Liar! You probably tricked him or forged his signature. You think you can scare me? Once those assets are frozen, we’ll see who comes crawling for a favor.” Jordan checked his watch, his voice urgent. “Elena, we have thirty minutes. If the funds aren’t in escrow, the seller is moving to the backup bidder.” The silence in the lobby was heavy. Madison let out a derisive snort. “Scared now? Tell you what, Elena. I’ll be generous. Get down on your knees, apologize for your attitude, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll find a way to skip the audit.” Before I could move, a soft, broken sound came from beside me. “Please… please don’t do this…” My mother had stepped forward, her posture bent and humble. She began to bow toward Madison. “Young lady, I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I’m clumsy. I’ll clean up the rice right now… I’ll apologize for my daughter. Just please, don’t hurt her business. Please.” “Mom!” I grabbed her shoulders, my heart breaking. Madison recoiled as if my mother were a leper, shoving her back. “Ugh, get away from me! You’re pathetic. No wonder your daughter is such a disaster; she was raised by a beggar.” As I caught my mother, feeling her small frame shaking against me, the last of my mercy evaporated. I stood tall, shielding her. “Madison, you wanted an apology? You aren’t worth the breath it would take. You want an audit? Do it. Start the process.” Howard looked like he had been struck by lightning. “Elena! Please, no!” He knew. He knew I didn’t care about a fifty-million-dollar loan. But he also knew that once the bridge was burned, I would take my entire empire elsewhere. He turned to Madison, his voice a guttural scream. “Madison! Apologize to Ms. Montgomery! This is your last chance! Do it now!” Madison remained defiant, her head held high. “Why should I? She’s the one breaking the rules! Whose side are you on, Howard?” “Fine,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Howard, it’s clear your authority here is a joke. Don’t worry about the internal audit. I’ll save you the paperwork.” I turned to Jordan. “Call the National Risk Management head and the Ethics Committee. Tell them Elena Montgomery is requesting a full forensic audit of the Miller family’s dealings at this branch. I’ll wait right here.” Jordan nodded and stepped away, phone already at his ear. Madison rolled her eyes, ignoring Howard’s terrified face, and pulled out her own phone to text. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The heavy glass doors swung open. A group of men and women in dark, tailored suits marched in, their expressions grim. They wore the silver pins of the Federal Regulatory Oversight. In the center of the group was a man whose face was a mirror image of Madison’s, though far more weathered. “Dad!” Madison’s face lit up. She put on a tearful, victimized expression and ran toward him. “Dad! You’re finally here! They’re all ganging up on me! That woman, Elena, she—” She didn’t get to finish. The sound of the slap echoed through the entire bank. Robert Miller had swung with every ounce of his strength. Madison was sent sprawling onto the marble floor, her hand flying to her cheek. She looked up at her father, her eyes wide, the arrogance replaced by a hollow, terrifying confusion.

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“Just sign it. The firm has decided to ‘realign’ your position.” Madeline, the Department Director, pushed the severance agreement across the mahogany table. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. Her gaze was fixed somewhere near my shoulder, shifting with a restlessness that betrayed her guilt. Beside her sat the HR lead, wearing a smile so practiced it felt like a ceramic mask. I picked up the pen and scanned the document. Three months of severance plus a performance kicker. It was standard. Exactly what the law required, and not a penny more. “Fine,” I said. I signed my name—Ben Cross—and stood up. Madeline blinked, looking stunned. “You… you don’t have anything to say? No questions?” I gave her a thin, dry smile. “Is there anything left for me to hand over?” They traded a glance, their eyes mirroring a profound confusion. They expected a breakdown, a plea for mercy, or at the very least, a dignified argument about my three years of service. What they didn’t know was that I’d been waiting for this moment for exactly ninety days. 1. The conference room was freezing. Outside, the July heat was baking the Chicago skyline, but inside, the vents were blasting a clinical, recycled chill. Madeline sat across from me, her fingers tapping a rhythmic, mindless beat on the table. She was wearing a navy power suit today, the kind with pearl-inlaid buttons on the cuffs. On her wrist was a brand-new Cartier Love bracelet. I remembered her bragging about it on Instagram after her birthday three months ago—a gift to herself for a “record-breaking year.” The HR guy was a kid, maybe twenty-five, named Tyler. I’d never seen him before; he must have been one of the new hires brought in to handle the “restructuring.” He held a leather-bound folder like a shield. “Ben, we’ve got the transition paperwork ready,” Tyler said, his voice soft, as if he were trying not to wake a sleeping infant. “The firm is offering a standard package based on your tenure. Please take a moment to verify the figures.” Ben. I’d been at this firm for three years and four months. My employee ID was #001847. I was the senior-most Account Manager in the entire Midwest Division. Three years ago, when I started, the Midwest Division didn’t exist. It was just me, a laptop, and a list of cold leads I’d turned into gold, one grueling flight at a time. Back then, they didn’t call me “Ben.” They called me the “MVP.” “Once you sign, HR will coordinate the rollover of your 401k and provide your letter of recommendation,” Tyler continued. “The severance amount is $168,000. It’s all there in the breakdown.” I glanced at the number. $168,000. Perfect. “Don’t worry about the hand-off,” Madeline finally spoke, her voice carrying a forced, brittle warmth. “The company will assign someone to step in. We want you to focus on your next chapter. Take some time for yourself, Ben. You’ve earned it.” “Mhm.” I flipped to the final page and scrawled my signature. As the ink dried, I saw Madeline’s shoulders drop an inch. She’d been holding her breath. She probably thought I’d cry. Or maybe she thought I’d burn the bridge, screaming about how I’d carried the Midwest’s largest accounts on my back for thirty-six months. I’d won “Producer of the Year” at the last annual gala. She was the one who handed me the trophy, beaming at the cameras, telling the board that I was the “unshakable foundation” of her department. That was only eight months ago. “Reggie,” I said, using the nickname I knew she hated when things were formal. “I’m going to pack my desk now. I’ll be out by five.” “Oh? So soon?” “Let’s be real. The severance offer expires at end of business today. I wouldn’t want to give the firm an excuse to ‘realign’ the payout, too.” A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face. She knew the drill. Sign today: full package. Wait until tomorrow: a legal battle for half. “Well,” she cleared her throat, “regarding the transition, you’ll need to brief Hailey on the current pipelines, client dossiers, and project timelines—” “No need.” I cut her off. “Excuse me?” “My laptop doesn’t hold client dossiers. Everything the firm is legally entitled to is already in the CRM. As for project timelines, I submitted my weekly report on Friday. You should have read it by now.” Madeline’s expression soured. “Ben, what is this attitude? We’re trying to make this professional.” “This is professional,” I countered. “The agreement states my final day is today. I will complete my contractual obligations before I leave. Is there an issue?” She opened her mouth, then closed it. Tyler kept his head down, pretending to be very interested in the staples of his folder. I grabbed my messenger bag and walked to the door, but stopped with my hand on the handle. “By the way, Reggie. Just a curiosity.” “What?” “How many people are being let go today?” She hesitated. “I don’t see why that’s relevant.” “Just wondering about the ‘alignment.’” She tried to hold my gaze but failed. “Sixteen.” “Sixteen,” I nodded. “All from our department?” “No. Across the firm. But… you’re the only one from the Midwest Account team.” “I see.” I pushed the door open. “Good luck with the quarter. You’re going to need it.” I checked my phone the moment I hit the hallway. 2:43 PM. A notification from Dexter, a top-tier executive recruiter, was glowing on my screen. “How’d the meeting go?” I typed back three words: “It’s done. Signed.” He replied instantly: “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at five. We’re headed to Apex Systems to finalize your offer with their CEO. Welcome to the $5 million club, Ben.” I smiled and slipped the phone into my pocket. Three months ago, Dexter had called me out of the blue. He’d said, “Ben, Apex Systems wants to poach you. We’re talking a $750k base, a $5 million total package over three years, plus equity.” At the time, I was sitting in my glass-walled office, watching Madeline tell me through a Zoom call that “the budget was tight” and my well-deserved raise would have to “wait another year.” Wait. She’d been asking me to wait for three years. Year one: “You’re new. Let’s see some consistency first.” Year two: “The market is volatile. We need you to be a team player.” Year three: “Your numbers are great, Ben, but you need to think about the ‘Big Picture.’ It’s not just about your individual commission.” The Big Picture. I was making $180,000 while bringing in $50 million in annual revenue. Madeline was making $800,000 while she hadn’t closed a new lead since the Obama administration. Her clients were my discoveries. Her bonuses were built on my sweat. Her “Leader of the Year” plaques were earned by my late nights. And she wanted me to wait. So, when Dexter called, I didn’t hesitate. I asked, “When’s the interview?” I’d spent the last three months playing the role of the loyal soldier, while secretly preparing for the day the “realignments” would inevitably hit. I knew the firm was looking to cut high-earners to pad the year-end margins. I knew they thought I was too expensive. I sat on my sofa that night, staring at the ceiling. I’d given this place three years. I thought I cared about the culture. But when I looked closer, who was I caring for? Madeline? Who took the credit and gave me crumbs? The firm? Who didn’t even give me a two-week heads-up? My colleagues? Half of them were already sharking for my desk space. I had fed my heart to a machine that didn’t have a soul. Why would I stay for a second longer than I had to? 2. As I packed my desk, I could hear the whispers from the neighboring cubicles. “Is Ben really gone?” “Yeah, just saw him come out of the room with the HR Reaper.” “No way. He’s the top producer. Why him?” “He’s over thirty, man. He’s got a family, mortgage, expectations. Look at the others they cut—all the seniors. They want the hungry kids who don’t know any better.” “That’s brutal.” “That’s corporate. Nobody’s indispensable.” I didn’t look back. I tucked my favorite mug, a leather pen holder, and a framed photo of my dog into a cardboard box. It took fifteen minutes. Three years and four months of a career, reduced to a box that wasn’t even full. “Ben.” I looked up. It was Hailey. I’d mentored Hailey for the last year. She was twenty-six, a Yale grad with a sharp tongue and a mediocre work ethic, but she knew how to play the office politics game better than I ever did. “You heard,” I said. “I did.” She stood there, looking performatively sad. “Ben, I’m… I’m so sorry.” “It’s fine, Hailey.” “Who did this to you? Was it Madeline? I could talk to her—” “Nobody ‘did’ anything,” I said, lifting the box. “Strategic adjustment. It’s business.” “But your numbers…” “The numbers belong to the team now, right?” I looked her dead in the eye. She flinched. At the last company retreat, when I was given the MVP award, Hailey had posted a photo on LinkedIn with the caption: “So proud of what our team has achieved together! Collaboration is the key to success.” The photo was of me and Madeline. Hailey wasn’t even in the shot, but she had framed the victory as a collective effort. She felt she’d “contributed” because she’d booked a few flight tickets and printed out some decks. “So, what’s next for you?” she asked. “Taking some time off. Re-evaluating.” “If… if you need anything,” she said, fidgeting with her lanyard. “I know a few recruiters. I could put in a word?” I laughed. “I think I’ll be okay, Hailey. Thanks.” “Ben, don’t be like that. We worked together for a year—” “Hailey,” I interrupted. “Do you know why I said the performance belongs to the team?” She shook her head. “Because that’s exactly what Madeline told the board. She said, ‘This wasn’t Ben’s win; it was the department’s.’ And while she was saying that, you were in the back of the room, nodding the loudest.” Hailey’s face went pale. “Ben, I didn’t mean it like that…” “It doesn’t matter what you meant.” I shifted the box to one arm. “What matters is—do you actually think you can replace me?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “Madeline thinks you can,” I said. “The firm thinks you can. But do you?” She looked down at her shoes. “Let me ask you a question,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, cold hum. “How many major accounts are in the Midwest portfolio?” “Twenty-three,” she answered quickly. “Wrong. Twenty-seven. We signed four new ones last month. Did you miss the memo?” Silence. “Out of those twenty-seven, how many of the decision-makers’ personal cell phone numbers do you have?” “…” “How many of their procurement cycles do you know by heart? Their pain points? Their kids’ names? The exact reason they hate our competitors?” Still nothing. “You were right before,” I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “The revenue is the team’s. It’s on the company’s ledger.” I walked past her, my shoulder brushing hers. “But the clients? The clients are mine.” 3. At 5:00 PM sharp, Dexter arrived. He was driving a sleek black Porsche Cayenne, idling at the curb in front of the office tower. I threw my cardboard box into the backseat and climbed into the passenger side. “Nervous?” he asked, pulling into traffic. “Why would I be nervous?” “True.” He grinned. “The guys at Apex are more anxious than you are. Their CEO, Malcolm, called me three times today just to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.” Apex Systems. The undisputed titan of the industrial software world. They’d just finished a massive Series C round, valued at over a billion dollars. Their Midwest presence was currently a vacuum—a massive opportunity with no one to lead it. They didn’t just want an account manager. They wanted a general. And they knew I had the map to the territory. “Dex,” I said. “Yeah?” “Do you think I’m worth $5 million?” Dexter glanced at me, his expression turning serious. “What are you thinking, Ben?” “Just… reflecting on the last few hours.” “You’re absolutely worth it,” Dexter said. “The five million isn’t just for your time. It’s for the three years of relationships you’ve built and the technical expertise you possess. If Apex tries to build the Midwest from scratch, it’ll take them five years and twenty million dollars in trial and error. With you, they skip the line. You’re a shortcut.” “I guess you’re right.” “So don’t overthink it. You’re worth what the market is willing to pay.” I nodded, looking out the window as the city lights began to flicker on. Madeline had told me I was “replaceable.” The firm had told me I was “overhead.” At $180,000, I wasn’t worth keeping. At $5 million, I was the prize they were fighting for. “You know what the biggest thing I learned in the last three years is?” I asked. “What?” “Never let anyone else set your price.” Dexter chuckled. “Sounds like something out of a self-help book.” “But it’s the truth,” I said. “Three years ago, I walked into that building thinking my goal was to be a ‘good employee.’ Then I realized ‘good employee’ is just a code word bosses use to keep you compliant.” “Go on.” “Think about it. What is a ‘good employee’? Someone who is obedient, works late, doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for more. You take the hits, you stay in your lane, and then, when it’s time for a raise, they tell you that you still have ‘room to grow.’” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “I spent three years being a ‘good employee’ and all I got was a cardboard box. So, I learned.” “Learned what?” “To be good to myself instead.” The Porsche pulled into the Apex Systems campus. It was a sprawling, modern tech fortress—three times the size of my old firm. It had a gym, a rooftop lounge, and a vibe that felt like the future rather than a dying cubicle farm. “We’re here,” Dexter said. “Malcolm is waiting in the boardroom.” I pushed the door open, feeling the warm evening air hit my face. “Dexter, thanks.” “For what? I’m just doing my job.” “For the phone call three months ago. You didn’t just poach me.” “I know,” he said, looking at me with a knowing smirk. “So, tell me. Out of those twenty-seven clients… how many are coming with you?” I thought about the cell phone numbers in my contacts. The dinners. The trust. “At least eighteen,” I said. “To start.” “And does Madeline know?” “She hasn’t a clue.” “What’s she going to do when she finds out?” “She’s going to regret calling me ‘replaceable.’” Dexter laughed, a rich, appreciative sound. “Then let’s give her something to regret.”

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For three years of marriage, the “Wife’s Seat” decal on the passenger side of Preston Moore’s car had been a permanent fixture. It was a brand, a claim, a lie. I found the prenatal exam results tucked in the glovebox. It wasn’t mine. When I confronted him, Preston didn’t even look up from his tablet. He was as cool as the marble countertops in our kitchen. “It’s a prop, Nora. My parents are breathing down my neck for an heir. Don’t read into it.” A few weeks later, at a high-stakes business gala, I watched him peel shrimp for his assistant, Lacey, with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. He didn’t offer a word of explanation. “She’s an employee,” he’d said later, dismissing my hurt with a flick of his wrist. “I was being a good boss. If you’re that insecure, just fire her.” But the next time I saw Lacey, she wasn’t filing papers. She was standing in my hallway, her hand resting on a slight swell in her stomach, a triumphant smirk on her face. In a fit of blind, white-hot rage, I pushed her. I didn’t mean for her to fall so hard. I didn’t mean for the hospital trip to end the way it did. Preston didn’t yell. He didn’t even mention the “accident.” He stayed devoted—scary devoted. He pampered me by day and was relentless, almost feral, in bed by night. I thought he’d forgiven me. Then the kidnappings started. Seven times in a single month. Seven times I was snatched from the street, dragged into basements, and broken. My own pregnancy—a tiny, flickering life I hadn’t even told him about yet—was lost in a blur of blood and concrete floors. My parents, desperate to save me, poured their dignity and their fortune into the hands of shadows, only to die in front of me when the ransom wasn’t enough. When I finally crawled back to our estate, covered in grime and dried blood, the front door was ajar. I heard laughter from the living room. Preston’s inner circle—the elite, the untouchables—were gathered around the poker table. “I’ve got five million on the wife,” one of them chuckled, throwing a chip into the center. “Nora is obsessed with Moore. Even when she finds out the truth, she’ll crawl back. She’s addicted to him.” “I’m in for twenty million,” another countered, his voice dripping with malice. “Forgiveness? She’ll be on her knees thanking him. Preston arranges a ‘disappearance’ every seven days like clockwork, and she still looks at him like he’s her savior.” I clamped my hand over my mouth, the taste of copper filling my throat. Tears carved tracks through the filth on my face. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t the city’s underbelly. It was Preston. Every bruise, every scream, every drop of my parents’ blood—it was all a tribute to Lacey. It was his way of balancing the scales for her lost child. Leaving him would take a lifetime of courage, but I only needed seven days to disappear. … I stood in the shadows of the foyer, a ghost in my own home, watching Preston lift Lacey from the sofa. He carried her upstairs with a reverence that made my skin crawl. “Preston’s too good to her,” one of his friends remarked, watching them go. “Lacey so much as coughs and he starts shaking. Look at him—she’s just a little lightheaded and he’s acting like the world is ending.” “Remember when she lost the baby?” another whispered. “Preston nearly leveled that hospital. The surgeon who performed the procedure is lucky to be walking.” When Preston came back downstairs, there were fresh red marks on his neck. The men started to tease him, but he held up a hand. “Keep it down. Lacey’s sleeping. Is the facility ready?” “Top of the line,” his associate replied. “The private care wing is finished. A hundred-million-dollar project, just like you asked.” Preston nodded, his expression hardening into something cold and crystalline. “From now on, you refer to her as Mrs. Moore. I’m moving her in permanently in a few days.” “And… what about Nora?” Preston’s voice was a whetted blade. “The moment she forced Lacey into that surgery, she signed her soul over to me. Every ounce of pain Lacey felt, I want Nora to feel a hundredfold.” I swallowed back a sob, my lungs burning. “The cycle is almost up,” the man continued. “When do we ‘rescue’ her this time? If we leave her out there too long, she might get suspicious.” Preston let out a short, mocking laugh. “Suspicious? She spends every second of those kidnappings praying I’ll walk through the door. By the time I ‘save’ her, she’ll be more in love with me than ever.” I leaned against the wall, my vision blurring. I should have known. Our estate was a fortress, guarded by the best security money could buy. Yet, every time I was taken, the guards had been elsewhere. My parents had found me so easily because Preston had left breadcrumbs for them to follow—all the way to their graves. A sharp scream from upstairs shattered the silence. Preston’s face transformed into a mask of pure panic—an emotion he had never once wasted on me. He sprinted up the stairs. I stood there, frozen, as a team of on-call doctors rushed past me. Lacey had simply had a nightmare. That was all it took to move heaven and earth in this house. After a long while, I heard Preston’s voice booming from the landing, raw with misplaced fury. “Tell the next crew to move the date up. Lacey’s trauma is too deep. Nora needs to hurt more. Now.” I stared down at my arms, at the mottled purples and yellows of my skin. This was the man who used to fret over a mosquito bite on my ankle. My agony had become his therapy, and my husband was the architect of my hell. I tried to turn, to run, but my legs gave out. I hit the floor, the grit from the street digging into my open wounds. The noise drew him. Preston appeared at the top of the stairs and froze when he saw me. In an instant, his “loving husband” mask was back on. He ran down and gathered me into his arms, his touch making my stomach turn. “Nora! God, you’re finally home! I’ve been searching everywhere. Tell me who did this to you. I swear, I’ll make them pay.” Tears fell from his eyes onto my cheek. I felt nothing but a cold, hollow vacuum in my chest. I marveled at the performance. How many years had I been blinded by this acting? I let out a broken whimper, my lips trembling. He carried me to our bedroom, but his eyes flickered nervously toward the closed door across the hall—Lacey’s room. “I… I turned that into a nursery for the baby,” he lied, his voice thick with fake emotion. “I had to lock it. I didn’t want you to see it and be reminded of what we lost.” I stiffened in his arms. Another lie. I looked at his handsome face, and all I saw were the flashes of my father’s dying eyes and the blood on the clinic floor. The nausea surged. I couldn’t stop it. I retched, a dark, bitter bile spilling onto the expensive rug. Before I blacked out, I heard his voice, stripped of all warmth, whispering to someone nearby. “Take her back out. Just make sure you don’t damage her womb.” This time, perhaps fearing he’d pushed too far, the “kidnappers” only kept me for a day. Preston held me again when I “returned,” his voice a masterpiece of heartbreak. “I’m so sorry, Nora. They intercepted the car on the way to the hospital. Who are these people? Talk to me, honey. Let me protect you.” I looked at him and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. He didn’t want to protect me. He wanted to preserve my body so he could witness the death of a thousand more of my children. “The doctor is coming,” he whispered. “Just hold on.” But the doctor never came to my room. I heard the frantic footsteps in the hallway all night. Every medical professional in the house was in Lacey’s room. I lay in my own blood, my clothes fused to my skin by dried plasma, shivering until I passed out from the pain. When I finally managed to limp downstairs the next morning, Lacey was sitting on the sofa. When she saw me, she feigned a violent shudder of fear. Preston was instantly at her side, shielding her from me. “Nora, don’t start. Lacey is staying here for a while. She’s fragile. Don’t go near her.” I didn’t say a word. I walked past them, out the front door, and drove myself to the crematorium. When I went to claim my parents’ remains, the attendant handed me a small plastic bottle filled with a clear, caustic liquid. My heart stopped. “What is this?” “A woman came by,” the attendant said, looking uncomfortable. “She said the deceased died with ‘bad energy.’ She brought a priest and a gentleman. They insisted the bones be dissolved in this solution to… clear the aura, they said.” I hit the wall, my breath hitching in my throat. The world tilted. I dialed Preston’s number with shaking fingers. The call connected, and for a second, I heard the low, rhythmic sounds of intimacy. I pushed past the disgust. “Preston… my parents’ ashes. Why? Why would you do that?” “Lacey was having nightmares about them, Nora,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, gaslighting tone. “The medium said their spirits were restless because of the ‘accident’ with the baby. We had to neutralize the remains. It’s for the best, really. Even for them.” I hung up. I went home, walked straight up to Preston, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. When I turned to Lacey, Preston’s hand caught my shoulder and shoved me back. “Have you lost your mind?!” he roared. “They were two dead people, Nora! Get over it!” Lacey dropped to her knees, sobbing. “It’s my fault, Nora! Don’t be mad at Preston! Hit me if you have to!” The sight of her—the woman responsible for the erasure of my family—sent the blood rushing to my head. I reached for a heavy crystal ashtray on the side table. CRACK. Preston was faster. He grabbed the ashtray and slammed it into my forehead. “I won’t let you hurt her again!” he snarled, pulling Lacey into his chest. Blood poured down my face, blinding me. He didn’t even look back as he led her away. I sat on the floor, found the first aid kit, and stitched my own skin while my world burned. My phone vibrated. I answered, and the sound of the voice on the other end broke the dam. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. “Silas… I couldn’t even keep their ashes. I’m done. I don’t want him anymore.” The man on the other end was silent for a beat, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of controlled rage. “Nora. I’ve booked you a flight for tomorrow night. Get to the airport. I’m ending the Moore dynasty. It’s time for the sun to set on that house.” Suddenly, a pair of large hands wrapped around my waist. I froze. Preston stood behind me, frowning. “Who was that?” “Nobody.” “Baby, I’m sorry about earlier,” he whispered, kissing my temple. The smell of Lacey’s perfume clung to him. “You have to understand, I love you. I’ve always loved you. But Lacey lost a child because of you. I’m just trying to help you atone.” I nodded numbly. Atone. What a beautiful word for torture. He sat me down and opened his laptop, scrolling through designer catalogs. He ordered dozens of high-fashion pieces—all in Lacey’s size. Then, almost as an afterthought, he picked out two plain wool coats for me. “Lacey is delicate,” he said, not looking at me. “She needs the best to feel safe. You’re stronger than her, Nora. You don’t need the labels.” I looked away. He had forgotten that I was the one born into old money. I had spent my life in silks until I met him and lowered my standards to match his ego. He had mistaken my sacrifice for a lack of taste. A scream echoed from the garden. Preston bolted. I followed slowly, arriving to see a black viper coiled on the patio, hissing at Lacey. Preston didn’t hesitate; he lunged, snapping the snake’s neck with his bare hands. Lacey collapsed into his arms, weeping. When she saw me, she crawled to my feet, her eyes streaming. “Nora, I know you hate me for being with him, but I lost my baby too! Why would you put snake pheromones in my foundation? Why would you try to kill me?” My heart hammered against my ribs. Before I could speak, Preston’s hand blurred. The slap sent me reeling. He picked Lacey up and walked away, his eyes looking at me as if I were a piece of trash on the sidewalk. Hours later, two of Preston’s “security” men grabbed me. They dragged me to the back of the estate, to the pit where Preston kept his exotic reptiles. They threw me in. The door slammed shut, plunging me into darkness. Hiss. I clawed at the door until my fingernails tore. Snakes slithered over my boots, their cool, dry scales grazing my skin. I screamed until my throat was raw. The intercom crackled. Preston’s voice filled the small, humid room. “This is for your own good, Nora. You need to learn discipline. You can’t keep attacking Lacey. Consider this a cooling-off period.” I slumped against the wall, the darkness pressing in. Then, the audio changed. The sounds of Preston and Lacey in bed began to play over the speakers—a deliberate, psychological flaying. A heavy weight settled on my shoulder. A viper struck. When I woke up, the world was black. Not the darkness of the pit, but a flat, hollow nothingness. I reached out, tumbling from a bed onto a hard floor. I was blind. A familiar scent entered the room—sandalwood and expensive tobacco. “Nora, why won’t you just bow your head?” Preston’s voice was soft, almost pitying. “Just apologize. Lacey is so kind; she’d forgive you in a heartbeat.” I shoved his hand away when he tried to touch my face. His tone sharpened. “The venom wasn’t lethal. Your sight will return in a few days. I’ve already punished the person who put the poisonous snake in the pit.” I let out a jagged, cynical laugh. “Oh? And how did you punish her, Preston?” “She’s grounded,” he said, his voice turning defensive. “No TV, no phone, no shopping for a week. She’s learned her lesson. What more do you want, Nora? She didn’t mean for it to go that far.” He stormed out. On the day I was “released” from his private medical wing, my vision was still a milky blur. I fumbled my way through the house to find the bottle of my parents’ dissolved remains. Lacey met me at the door. With Preston gone, the mask vanished. She grabbed a handful of my hair, her face twisting into something demonic. “You’re still here? Why don’t you just go die like your parents did?” I wrenched myself away, grabbed my bag, and headed for the airport. Lacey watched me go, a cruel glint in her eyes. She pulled a small pill from her pocket and swallowed it. Within minutes, she was slumped on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. Preston returned to a bloodbath and went insane, racing her to the hospital. Lacey sobbed in his arms, “Don’t… don’t be mad at Nora… she didn’t mean to…” At the airport, I was barely out of the taxi when I was dragged into a blind alley. “Nora Whitlock, right? Someone paid us a lot of money to make sure you never walk again.” My brain felt like it was exploding. I fumbled for my phone and hit speed-dial. “Preston! Help me! Please!” “Lacey just lost her second child because of you, Nora,” Preston’s voice was like ice. “She’s in surgery. You’re really going to try the ‘damsel in distress’ act now? Go to hell.” He hung up. The men took my phone and smashed it against the brick wall. As the lead man unbuckled his belt, I closed my eyes. “Preston,” I whispered to the empty air. “You’re going to wish you had died in that pit with me.”

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The entire internet knows my relationship with the A-list actor is a disaster. They are eagerly waiting for me to be publicly rejected and humiliated on a celebrity divorce reality show. However, on the very first night, the normally aloof and untouchable superstar had a near-meltdown when he drew the “separate bedrooms” card. During our fireside chat, he pitifully complained to the whole world that I wasn’t spending enough of his money. In the heartbeat challenge, my single “Hubby” sent his heart rate soaring past 140. And when the producers handed him a fake divorce agreement, he completely lost his cool, crying his eyes out and threatening to sue the show. Netizens: [Well, I’ll be damned. So you’re the desperate housewife here, bro?!] [Ahhh, they tricked us! It’s a divorce show masquerading as a dating show! Why is this so good?!] [Girl, stop smiling! Turn around, your husband is about to drop dead from a broken heart!] 1 I’m a C-list actress, famous mostly for my scandals and my working-class background. I have the looks, the acting skills, the talent… wait, no, I just have the looks. My family background is average, and my public image is, well, debatable. My popularity always hovered around the lower tiers. That was until the news of my secret marriage to the top-tier superstar, Arthur Vance, broke out, shocking the entire internet. Besides the massive gap in our status and family backgrounds, there was another reason for the shock: everyone in the industry knew Arthur had a subtle hostility towards me. At an awards ceremony, across the crowded room, Arthur (who was standing dead center) and I accidentally locked eyes. Caught off guard, I maintained my bright, sweet, fan-service smile. The man, however, looked extremely uncomfortable. He quickly dropped his smile and, in a moment of panic, actually rolled his eyes. When the video leaked, his massive fanbase was incredibly confused. Arthur was known for being aloof and a man of few words, but he was also famously gentlemanly, polite, and emotionally stable. Yet, he showed such undisguised disgust solely towards me. Later, netizens dug up the few other times Arthur and I were caught in the same frame. No matter how brightly he was smiling a second before, his face would instantly freeze the moment he saw me. Add to that my naturally soft, whiny voice. In the eyes of the internet, I became the desperate wannabe, constantly throwing myself at him while he gave me the cold shoulder. Now that our secret marriage was exposed, these videos went viral again. Netizens relentlessly mocked me, claiming Arthur had a physiological aversion to me and was red in the face from anger. Hordes of haters tagged a divorce reality show on my social media: [Please, just divorce him! Let our Arthur go!] [This girl has some thick skin. How can she still smile when her husband clearly despises her?] [Poor Arthur. A guy who barely shows emotion was forced to roll his eyes. Imagine how miserable his life must be.] … Under the intense pressure from the internet, the divorce reality show actually sent us an invitation. Arthur and I were forced together by our grandfathers; there was absolutely no love involved. Our daily interactions were no different from strangers living in the same house. I had long had enough of this stagnant, dead-end life. I agreed to the show without hesitation, ready to secure one last massive paycheck before we divorced. Just as I was grinning like an idiot, counting the zeros on my compensation fee, I noticed Arthur staring at the contract with a complex expression, hesitating to sign. “What’s wrong?” I asked, a bit confused. “My pen is broken,” Arthur muttered, looking down. “There’s another one right there.” “That one’s broken too…” Sensing his reluctance, I assumed he didn’t want to waste his precious time on me. I put on my best whining voice to coax him: “It won’t take up too much of your schedule. Let’s just go, please?” “O-okay then.” Arthur stumbled over his words, the tips of his ears turning red as he hastily scribbled his signature. 2 The show invited three couples and opted for a 24/7 live-stream format. Before filming began, the director assigned a rough script and conflict points for each couple. But considering my decade-long lack of acting progress and Arthur’s massive status, the director ultimately decided to let Arthur and me freestyle. The moment I dragged my two small suitcases into the camera’s view, the viewer count and live comments skyrocketed: [Here they come! The most dramatic couple has finally arrived.] [LMAO, the contrast is brutal. The other couples either held hands or walked side-by-side. Not only is Arthur not walking with Elena, but he’s making her carry her own luggage.] [Tsk, so what if she schemed her way into a rich family? She’s still just a glorified maid with no dignity. They didn’t even have a proper wedding announcement. The Vance family probably doesn’t even acknowledge her.] It wasn’t just the live chat mocking me. Chloe, the female half of another couple, also noticed my disheveled state and threw a subtle jab: “Elena, a woman’s hands are very delicate. Liam never lets me carry heavy things. If people didn’t know better, they’d think you were Arthur’s hired help.” Chloe and I debuted around the same time. She was highly competitive and loved comparing herself to others. When she married the director, Liam Sterling, she posted endless updates showing off her entry into “high society.” But the Sterling family was nothing compared to the Vance Group. So when my marriage to Arthur was exposed, it was understandable that she was furious. However, I was here to make money, not to engage in catfights. I couldn’t be bothered with her. The commentators in the studio had probably done their homework and accepted my persona as the Vance family’s despised punching bag. Seeing my silence, they assumed I was swallowing my pride and looked at me with deep sympathy. Live Chat: [LOL, Chloe and Liam are on a divorce show because he’s ‘too possessive’? Are they sure they aren’t just here to show off? The gold digger must be so jealous seeing our Chloe so happy.] [It’s her own fault for shamelessly clinging to an arranged marriage from their grandfathers. If she’s miserable now, she only has her own greed to blame.] Just then, the camera panned. Arthur wasn’t looking as relaxed and carefree as everyone thought. He was struggling to push five massive, connected suitcases, arriving late to the scene. The other guests, who had been whispering and enjoying the show, froze for a second before rushing over to help, joking: “Arthur, aren’t you a minimalist? You’ve gotten fancy lately! Do you need help throwing this trash bag away?” Arthur coldly dodged their hands, looking displeased. I pushed through the crowd: “Uh, those suitcases are all mine. And that’s not a trash bag, that’s Arthur’s luggage.” Live Chat: [I’m dying! Turns out Arthur is the ‘maid’ here.] [So relatable! When my husband and I travel, all his stuff fits in one plastic bag.] [What’s so funny? Arthur looks furious, he clearly didn’t want to do it! To make a seasoned actor show his true feelings like that, this girl really is something else.] [Arthur, stop holding back! Explode already! Can’t wait to see Elena get rejected daily.] The show started stirring up drama immediately, having us draw straws to decide if we’d sleep in separate rooms. Me: “Can we skip the drawing? Arthur and I will just choose—” Before I could say “separate,” the usually silent man cut me off. “I’ll draw.” Chloe feigned sympathy: “It’s okay, Elena. I know you want to use this chance to share a room with Arthur. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” The live chat found this hilarious: [Judging by how disgusted Arthur usually looks, I bet they’ve never even shared a bed. That’s why Elena is so desperate. What a pathetic rich wife.] [Did anyone else notice? Arthur just secretly glared at Elena like five or six times in the last ten seconds. Those looks were lethal. This is too funny.] 3 Arthur nervously opened the slip of paper. Seeing the word “Separate,” both the live chat and I let out a massive sigh of relief: [Thank god they didn’t draw ‘Together’. That must have terrified Arthur.] [I mean, Elena is genuinely gorgeous, her voice is sweet, and her smile is adorable. If I were Arthur, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her.] [Commenter above, are you insane?!] The host asked each of us if we were satisfied with the results. Chloe, who also drew “Separate,” looked pitifully at Liam: “I’m not used to sleeping alone. I’m a little worried I’ll have insomnia.” The host deliberately asked me: “Elena, you must sleep alone quite often, right? Any tips to share?” I replied with maximum snark: “Sorry, I rarely sleep alone.” Who would understand? Arthur had the face of an ascetic monk who was utterly bored with the world. But in private, he was more insatiable than anyone. What his fans called “gentlemanly and polite”… Was actually him ravaging me half to death while playing deaf and dumb. Thinking back on it, I almost regretted that day when, driven by hormones, I burst into his bedroom wearing a bathrobe, sat on his lap, and said: “Even if it’s a contract marriage, we need to fulfill our marital duties.” One of the main reasons I was in such a rush to divorce him now was that my fragile body simply couldn’t handle that level of frequency. When it was Arthur’s turn, his thick, long eyelashes fluttered, and his voice was low and cold: “If I’m not satisfied, can I change it?” Not getting the expected answer, the host was a bit confused: “According to the rules, you can’t change it.” Arthur took a deep breath: “Can I draw again?” The host shook his head helplessly: “No.” A trace of hostility flashed across the man’s already deep, brooding features. I gently tugged at his sleeve: “Follow the rules.” Arthur nodded and walked away, his arms and legs moving stiffly in tandem. Live Chat: [Wait, does our Arthur actually want to share a room with Elena?] [How is that possible? He’s probably just saving her some face in front of the audience.] [Oh no, I actually think they’re kind of cute together. Elena said one soft word and Arthur instantly obeyed.] [Is that obedience, or is he just so annoyed he’s speechless? He was so mad he forgot how to walk normally!] Without Arthur working me over, I had a dreamless, refreshing night’s sleep. The next day, I woke up early. Chloe was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for Liam. They were playfully arguing over whether to have boiled or fried eggs. Arguing and arguing, they inexplicably ended up hugging each other. Chloe even shot a provocative look at me, looking unkempt and fresh out of bed. It was as if she was saying: “So what if you married Arthur? My husband loves me, yours doesn’t.” The camera suddenly pointed at me: “Today is the Couples’ Telepathy Challenge. Random question: What does Arthur like to drink for breakfast?” “Iced Americano?” I guessed randomly. After getting married, Arthur started taking over his family’s business and was semi-retired from the entertainment industry. He woke up before dawn to go to the office. How would I know what he liked? Soon, the host caught Arthur, who had just returned from a morning run: “Arthur, what do you like to drink for breakfast?” “Hot latte.” The host chuckled: “Then what does Elena like to drink most for breakfast?” “Iced Americano,” Arthur replied without hesitation. “But I worry that drinking cold things all the time is bad for her health, so I often switch it out for a hot one.” I looked shocked: “Arthur, why didn’t you tell me?! I always thought the housekeeper bought the wrong thing. Hot Americanos are for dog—” Halfway through, I realized the risk of offending people and quickly swallowed the rest of the sentence. The host was even more surprised than I was: “Arthur, do you usually cook for Elena?” Arthur nodded slightly, a hint of pride in his demeanor: “She’s so tired every night; she needs more rest in the morning.” Chloe’s smug expression drastically changed, and she dropped her spatula. The commentators in the studio were grinning from ear to ear. 4 Failing to get the desired dramatic effect, the host stubbornly fired off several more compatibility questions. The final result: Arthur guessed every single one of my preferences correctly. And I barely managed to guess one question right about him. Even when the evening “Fireside Chat” began, I still hadn’t fully recovered my senses. Although we lived under the same roof and had “deep, negative-distance” contact every day, Arthur and I actually communicated very little. For one, we both had our own careers to hustle for. For another, Arthur was the textbook definition of an Earth sign. Repressed, man of few words, and completely stoic. I had wanted to ask him multiple times about those viral videos where he supposedly glared at me—did he really hate me that much? But he always anticipated my questions and dodged them. Yet now, he was acting like he knew me inside and out. Live Chat: [This is scary. Even the “wife-guy” Liam got a question wrong about Chloe, but Arthur got a perfect score! Is this really not scripted? It’s weirdly sweet.] [Just look at Elena’s shocked face, you know it has to be real. Her acting isn’t that natural.] Me: Thanks a lot, truly a backhanded compliment. [I’m dying of curiosity! If Arthur really despises Elena like the internet says, why would he cook for her?! But if you say he likes her, they act like they barely know each other…] [Agreed! This couple is so interesting! Everyone else gives off old married couple vibes, but these two have this bizarre, ambiguous tension.] The theme for the Fireside Chat was “Money.” Just looking at the topic, I knew this segment was mostly aimed at me. The host pointed the spearhead at Liam and Chloe first: “When filling out the questionnaire, both of you mentioned having some conflicts regarding family finances.” Chloe huffed: “Yeah, there’s a popular saying online: ‘Where the money is, the love is.’ But Liam still hasn’t handed over his bank cards to me.” The female half of the rapper couple joked: “But at least Director Sterling is really willing to spend money on you, Chloe. I always see you posting bags and jewelry worth hundreds of thousands on Instagram. Unlike my guy here, who won’t even set up a shared account for me.” Chloe looked down shyly: “It’s okay, really. Compared to material things, I value emotional connection more. But Elena is the one who truly went from rags to riches through marriage. She should have more to say about this than me.” I heard the hidden barb in her words and gave a sweet smile: “Marrying rich is indeed awesome. Once Liam reaches Arthur’s status, you’ll understand.” Chloe’s smile stiffened. See? If I give a real answer, she gets upset. Live Chat: [LMAO, the gold digger doesn’t have a single decent piece of jewelry on her body and she’s still talking tough. Truly, the more you lack something, the more you emphasize it.] [Exactly. To those crazy people shipping them earlier, please have some taste.] Host: “Arthur, have you and Elena had any conflicts regarding family finances?” At that moment, Arthur, who had been secretly watching me, complained pitifully: “I wish she would spend more of my money.” The live chat exploded: [Wait, I recognize every word Arthur just said, but put together, I don’t understand them at all.] [I’ve already screenshotted this and sent it to my boyfriend. We need more ‘conflicts’ like this, please!] [What is going on? The desperate housewife the show promoted turned out to be YOU, Arthur?!] [Is it possible Arthur feels Elena’s poverty is an embarrassment to the Vance family?] Arthur rarely spoke so many words in one breath: “You never even opened the jade, the pearl necklaces, the clothes, or the bags I bought.” I looked completely bewildered: “You bring things home and never say a word. How was I supposed to know they were for me?” Arthur’s eyes flickered, and the atmosphere became temporarily awkward. The studio commentators couldn’t help but laugh out loud, offering a sharp critique: “The most urgent thing for these two is to add each other on WeChat.” I pointed to the perfume sitting by the door being used as bug repellent, trying to salvage the situation: “It’s not like I haven’t used any of the things you bought…” The female rapper suddenly dropped her jaw and stood up excitedly: “That bottle of perfume could buy a courtyard house in Beijing! Elena, you’re actually using it as a room deodorizer?! That’s insane! God, what would it cost you to make me rich too?!” Hearing this, the other guests also gathered around, wanting to inspect it. That perfume didn’t even smell good. I only liked how the bottle looked and casually praised it. I thought it was just a cheap trinket… In an unnoticed corner, Chloe dug her nails into her palms, looking at Liam and muttering: “Didn’t you say no one would spend astronomical amounts on something so flashy and useless?” Liam shrugged casually: “Yeah, normal people wouldn’t. After all, not everyone can be Arthur Vance.” Chloe bit her lip, glaring resentfully at the perfume bottle. I wanted to take advantage of the chaos to talk to Arthur. But the man anticipated my move again. The moment my butt left the seat. Arthur immediately got up and went to the restroom. Leaving me standing alone in the wind. The live chat was also in a frenzy: [Stop, just stop. To those who said Elena was a punching bag living in living hell, can I please go suffer like that for a few days?] [Ahhh, is it possible Arthur likes Elena but is afraid of rejection, so he doesn’t dare let her catch him looking at her?] [Bro, being married for a year and still acting like a secret crush? Is this human behavior?] [But look at Chloe and Liam, they even feed each other. Even the rapper couple who fight every day occasionally hug and touch faces. Arthur and Elena don’t look loving at all.] [If he’s an Earth sign, it actually makes sense. Back when I had a crush, the person didn’t even know I existed.] [Whatever, this top-tier ambiguous tension is divine. I’m shipping it.]

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