Author: Momo Chan

The tenth time I caught her. Cordelia “Delia” Jennifer in our bed, with a new man. My reaction was less of an eruption, more of a clinical observation. I glanced at my watch, then, with a strange gentleness, offered the young man in the bed a jacket. “Isn’t your prenatal appointment scheduled for the afternoon? Why the early return?” When I didn’t answer, Delia kissed the new face next to her and subtly positioned herself between us, her body a shield. “He’s just a kid. Whatever your issue is, take it up with me.” She fully expected the hysteria. The screaming, the broken glass, the spectacle she’d grown accustomed to. But what she didn’t know was that the ten-year wager was up. I was finally free to leave her. 1. Two distinct, slightly sweaty handprints marred the pristine white of our bedside wedding photo. They were placed perfectly over Delia’s face and mine, making it chillingly easy to visualize the casual intimacy that had just taken place. I inhaled deeply, a long, steady breath, and turned to look at Delia. “We had one rule, Delia. No one in this house.” My voice was a flat monotone. “And for God’s sake, do you remember what day this is?” Delia scoffed, an indifferent smirk playing on her lips. She lit a cigarette, drew deep, and blew the acrid smoke directly into my face. “Drunk. Too many champagne bubbles to remember dates.” Her new boy, a soft-faced kid named Caspian “Cas” Miller, flinched. He fumbled with his clothes, eyes wide with panic as he looked at me. “Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Seeing him struggle to zip his shirt, I stepped forward and calmly pulled the zipper up the back for him. “It’s fine. You can go.” I gave him a dismissive nod. “I know exactly who Delia is.” This was nothing new. Drunk. Moody. Bored and needing entertainment. Any excuse would do for her. And the kid? He wasn’t the first, the third, or even the eighteenth. Why bother being angry at the wallpaper? Cas scrambled out, terrified, and I called the housekeeper to sanitize the room. The mess, the scattered wrappers—it was repulsive. I pinched the bridge of my nose, pulled out a can of disinfectant spray, and covered the area. That’s when Delia wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. Her head, soft and heavy, nestled into my back. “Good husband. So domestic now, aren’t you?” She squeezed me playfully. “Afraid I wouldn’t come back, or have you finally mastered the art of being a society wife’s accessory?” She seemed satisfied with my silence, then pinched my cheek. “This is better, Wes.” She chuckled. “As long as you stay compliant, I promise no one will ever replace you.” She reached into a pile of glossy gift bags and pulled out a gold wristwatch, strapping it onto my wrist with practiced ease. “There. A reward. Now stop sulking. I know it’s our ten-year anniversary. Wipe your tears, and let’s go celebrate.” She spoke casually, unaware that in the decade we’d been married, my tears had long since dried up. I sidestepped her touch, reaching instead for the crisp document I’d prepared days ago and placed it in her hands. “Delia. We’re getting a divorce.” Her face froze for a beat, then she burst into laughter, loud and jarring. “Stop the drama, Weston. You know perfectly well we can’t get divorced.” She gripped my jaw, her eyes sharp. Her hand traveled down my chest, landing firmly over my heart. “Go get ready. You’re coming with me to the appointment. Don’t start a fight you know you can’t finish.” Years ago, my love for Delia had led me to a scorched-earth break with my family—the powerful Sinclair dynasty of the San Francisco Bay Area. My father, the Magnate, had banished me, forbidding my return home. To punish my impulsive defiance, he leveraged his deep connections to ensure a legal agreement that kept Delia and me locked together: No separation. No divorce. For better or worse, we were bound for life. Back then, Delia knelt before me, swearing she would spend that life proving my choice was worth the exile. Two years later, she cheated for the first time. She stood there, arms around her lover, looking me dead in the eye. “Yes, I’m cheating. What are you going to do about it?” she’d challenged. “Weston, you’re homeless. You’re family-less. You will be stuck with me forever!” I called home, sobbing, begging my family to let me back in. My father hung up. My mother averted her gaze. You made your bed, Wes. Now lie in it. Knowing I was legally and financially trapped, Delia grew bolder, her conquests more public and frequent. Until now, she simply brought them home. She had no idea that when I walked out that day, my father and I had an unstated agreement: A ten-year wager. It was a gamble on the longevity of my “true love.” If I won, he would bring us home and back us fully. If I lost, I was to return and accept a prearranged, politically advantageous marriage. Because of Delia. I had lost the marriage, the bet, and my decade. I had lost everything. While Delia drove, I discreetly dialed a familiar number. “Dad. I lost.” My voice cracked on the final word. “I honor the terms. I’ll be back in the Bay Area in three days for the engagement.” 2. My father, a man who never lost a bet, offered no surprise at the inevitable outcome. He simply gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and a brief instruction. “Weston, you are my eldest son. This empire still requires its heir. The past is the past, I won’t debate it. But remember one thing.” His voice was a cold, quiet threat. “Don’t bring what shouldn’t come. Don’t leave what shouldn’t stay.” Don’t bring what shouldn’t come: Delia’s child. Don’t leave what shouldn’t stay: The business empire I had built for her. My ten years of pain were to be my final lesson. “I understand, Father.” I hung up as Delia’s impatient horn blasted from the driveway. I climbed into the passenger seat of her car, the seat I’d bought for her, the one that now smelled faintly of another man’s cologne. The drive was silent. She pretended not to notice my profound distance. I pretended not to notice the cloying scent of cheap perfume. As we arrived, Delia habitually reached for my arm to steady herself. Her sleeve pulled back, revealing a long, jagged scar running down her forearm. For a moment, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. She had taken eighteen stitches for me once, ready to give up her life just so we could be together. The woman who once loved me enough to bleed for me… how had she become this? Before I could dwell on the thought, Cas, her lover, rushed over and brazenly hooked his arm through hers. “Delia, babe, you haven’t visited me in forever.” He pouted. “What brings you here? Did your kept man throw a tantrum, or can your new guy not cut it?” It was Caspian Miller, Delia’s current favorite and her longest-running pet project. He rubbed himself against her, acting the spoiled child. Delia merely smiled, ignoring me completely. She pulled a velvet box from her purse. “Don’t be silly, Cas. I’d never forget my little pet.” She showed him the contents: a heavy, antique gold wristwatch. “I flew to the Bay Area just for you. Now, go play. I have an appointment. I’ll come find you after.” She finished by giving him a familiar, proprietary pat on his backside. My eyes landed on the familiar timepiece. I nearly laughed. A woman who clawed her way up from nothing never wasted a dollar. An authentic watch for the lover; a passable forgery for the husband. The cheap metal of the watch on my wrist suddenly felt scalding. I ripped it off and tossed it into the nearest public trash receptacle. As I turned, I heard a group of people nearby, gossiping about us. One tried to move closer, but his friend pulled him back. “Are you crazy? You don’t see the guy next to her?” “That’s… the Magnate’s eldest son.” The Magnate’s eldest son. It had been a long time since I’d heard that title. Cas overheard it too and scoffed. He looked me up and down, pure contempt in his eyes. “’Magnate’s son’? Please. He’s just a useless leach who got kicked out of his rich daddy’s house and sponges off Delia. A lazy gigolo. I hate parasites.” Parasite. What did that make Delia, who built her business on my money and connections? What did that make Cas, who was supported entirely by her? When did these two connect, anyway? Was it during my first car crash? Was it when I drank myself into the ER to close a deal for Delia? Or was it the time I took a bullet for her, ending up in a coma while she was being hunted by rivals? It was so long ago, the memory was a blur. I just remembered that while I was recovering, pale and alone in the hospital bed, Delia started sleeping with the little nurse. While I was struggling to heal, Cas was crawling all over my wife. Years later, Cas was still this brazen. Clearly, Delia had spoiled him rotten. But soon, they would be free to be openly together. My task now was simpler: address the inconvenience in her womb. 3. I ignored the two of them and walked straight into the clinic. Dr. Lee already knew Delia was pregnant. Before he could offer congratulations, I slid the medical reports across his desk. “I need you to terminate the pregnancy.” Dr. Lee stiffened, then reviewed the file with a grim expression. “Mr. Sinclair, are you certain? The baby appears perfectly healthy. You and your wife have been trying for years…” Delia’s first miscarriage was at twenty, early in our time in Dallas. We were poor, living in a cheap, rundown apartment. She complained I couldn’t give her the life she wanted, terminated the pregnancy, and threatened to leave me. I worked myself to exhaustion to build a life for her. When our business finally gained traction, Delia crossed a local crime boss and was kidnapped. To save her, I liquidated everything and got myself hospitalized in the process. I was young, I could have recovered, but I couldn’t bear to see Delia suffer. I pushed my body past its limits just so she could live the good life. The moment I finally paused, Delia started cheating. I spent years chasing lovers and cleaning up her messes. In the process, I ignored my own health, which led to our current inability to conceive naturally. Initially, Delia would kneel at my bedside, saying, “Wes, I see everything you’ve done. I’ll take on the burden and make up for your sacrifice.” But soon after she took over the business, she’d look at me while holding another man. “Wes, I know what you did, but that’s in the past. I promised you I wouldn’t let anyone replace you, and I’ll leave all our wealth to our child. But you need to be a good boy and stop questioning my choices.” Now, I looked out the window at the two of them embracing below. I shook my head, a bitter smile touching my lips. “Prescribe a gentle course of medication. I’m returning to the Bay Area soon, and a child would be inconvenient.” I added, my voice hardening, “Besides, given Delia’s smoking, drinking, and reckless lifestyle, there is no guarantee that a child born into this chaos will be healthy.” My father’s fortune was built on my mother’s family money. Once established, he acquired a rotation of mistresses and a brood of illegitimate children. That history made me crave a pure, honest relationship. But the first time she cheated, Delia showed no remorse. She was indignant. “Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?” she’d yelled. “Your father has dozens of mistresses. Why are you acting like a psycho when I step out once or twice? Think about what your mother did! You grew up in that world—why haven’t you learned how to be a proper rich man’s husband yet?” She used my deepest, most private wound—my childhood trauma—as a weapon against me. In that moment, I knew our love was dead. But because of the ten-year agreement, I couldn’t leave. I was forced to watch her violate my dignity and trample my devotion. The marriage I fought to secure became my prison. The love I desperately protected became her tool for abuse. I had tasted enough of the family and relationship poison. I would not allow an innocent child to repeat the cycle. I would end this irreversible marriage myself. I took the prescription, called Delia, and waited for her to pick up. Though we couldn’t part as friends, I could at least attempt a final show of decency. The phone connected. I heard the muffled sounds of Delia and Cas, mid-embrace, already engaged in suggestive banter. A sudden, sharp pain struck my heart. I looked up at the sprawling Dallas cityscape, slowly being swallowed by the night. I wondered, for a final time, how Delia and I had ended up here. Was it Cas? Or was it… that one incident? 4. It didn’t matter. No reason, no excuse, could negate the concrete reality of the betrayal and the hurt. I flagged a taxi, intending to go home and finish packing. While I waited, I spotted Delia and Cas across the intersection. They were walking hand-in-hand, two figures strolling the busy streets like a couple hopelessly in love. Cas gently caressed Delia’s abdomen, his face alight with affection. “Babe, we’re going to be parents soon. When are you finally going to divorce that old man?” he murmured. “I don’t want my son calling anyone else Dad!” Delia leaned into his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Not yet. Weston still controls some core information about the company. Once I have everything completely secured, then we’ll file the papers.” She then spoke at length about their future: their plans, their life together, how hard she would work to protect this child and give Cas the best life possible. The words, mixed with the cold December air, felt like a thousand tiny cuts. Finally, Delia reached up, unclasped the custom-engraved St. Christopher medal—the very one I had begged and knelt in the snow to acquire, swearing it was a talisman for our future and a symbol of my unending commitment—and fastened it around Cas’s neck. “I’ve named our child Pax,” she said softly. “Peace and prosperity. A beautiful, whole family.” Pax… The child wasn’t mine. The last flicker of love was a lie. I had felt such guilt over her words years ago, losing sleep for days. To prove my love, I had literally humbled myself, walking miles in a blizzard for that piece of jewelry, vowing to make a success of myself. That unborn child was supposed to be the proof of our love. Now, she was giving that medal, my sacrifice, to a pet, a gigolo, transferring the debt she owed me and our first child to him and his child. I took a deep breath, trying to summon indifference. But Cas spotted me. He smirked. “Delia, your sugar-husband is checking up on you again. Look, pal, why are you still trying to be relevant?” He fiddled with the custom locket around his neck, his eyes full of sneering superiority. “If you can’t satisfy your woman, don’t blame other men for stepping up. Instead of standing there looking miserable, go home and figure out what you’ll do when she finally kicks your worthless butt to the curb!” He was trying to provoke a scene, hoping I’d explode and give Delia another excuse. But I was past caring. By sunrise, I would be gone. Back to the Bay Area. And someone else would be taking care of the inconvenience in her womb. I looked at Delia one last time, devoid of any feeling. “You’ll regret it, Delia.” I told her. “Because you forgot who gave you the keys to the kingdom.” Delia started to speak, but Cas cut her off. She looked from him to me, hesitant, before finally turning back. She left me with a half-hearted, “Wait for me. I’ll explain tomorrow.” There would be no tomorrow. The moon cast a cold, silver light. I dragged my exhausted body toward the port. In the final hours before dawn, I paid the housekeeper and instructed her to dispose of all my and Delia’s shared belongings. Then, I simply waited. As the sun began to rise, a sleek private jet descended and stopped directly in front of me. “Young Master. I’m here to take you home.” The plane climbed above the city, condensing a decade of struggle and memory into a single, distant aerial view. From this moment on, Delia and I were separated by an ocean. Never to meet again. … Delia was violently awakened, dragged from the bed in a flash of black suits and efficiency. A cup of foul-tasting liquid was forced down her throat. The child she had anticipated so eagerly soon became nothing more than a painful memory. Furious and terrified, she glared at the dark-suited men who had invaded her hotel room. Before she could demand an answer, a newspaper was thrown at her. The headline screamed: THE MAGNATE’S ELDEST SON WEDS SHIPPING HEIRESS IN SAN FRANCISCO. MAJOR BAY AREA INVESTORS PULL FUNDS; JENNIFER GROUP FACES CATASTROPHIC LIQUIDITY CRISIS.

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After three straight years working through the holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Easter—I finally had the time off. I was driving my trusty, pink car home for the break. On the highway, there was this one male driver, an absolute pest. Seeing a woman at the wheel of a bright pink vehicle, he started deliberately tailgating, then cutting me off, then tailgating again. It was a calculated form of intimidation. I didn’t get angry, and I certainly didn’t engage in a shouting match. I just stayed behind him until we reached the service plaza, where I quietly slipped on a yellow reflective vest. I grabbed my handcuffs, stepped out, and walked over to the smug asshole who was standing beside his car. His face went from triumphant to sheet-white in an instant. I allowed myself a cold smile. “You just volunteered me for overtime, buddy. And you’re not going home. You’re coming police station with me.” 1. It was the day before the holiday, and the line for the toll booths stretched back for miles. Cars were bumper-to-bumper, moving slower than a snail race. I was behind a dark SUV, with that white sedan—let’s call the driver Dustin—right on my bumper. At first, I barely noticed. I was used to heavy traffic. Then he laid on his horn three times. “BEEP—BEEP—BEEP!” The sound was sharp and grating under the metal roof of the toll plaza. I instinctively checked the rearview mirror. The white sedan’s hood was practically kissing my rear bumper. The distance was exaggeratedly close, aggressive. My professional instinct was to frown, but it was the holidays, and I wasn’t looking for trouble. To create space, I nudged forward a few feet. He stopped for a second, then, seeing I didn’t move more, he hit the horn again. The noise drew annoyed glances and complaints from surrounding drivers. “What the hell is going on? Why is that horn blowing nonstop?” “I don’t know, but the traffic is bad enough!” “Hey, just let the guy through! Hurry up, whatever is holding us up!” Even the toll attendant glanced up. I frowned, a slow burn of resentment starting in my chest. Where am I supposed to go? It wasn’t like I was the only one in line. I decided to ignore him, turning up the satellite radio. Outside my window, holiday lights were strung up along the fence lines, and the radio was playing festive, upbeat music. But the pit in my stomach was growing. This was the first time I’d been home in three years. My job was structured so that the busiest times always fell over the major holidays. This year, new hires meant we “veterans” finally got a break, and I was desperate to get home. Spring traffic was already a nightmare, and this aggressive prick behind me was making it worse. I forced myself to take a breath, focusing only on getting through the toll booth. The honking finally stopped, muffled by the rising chorus of complaints from the other drivers. Maybe Dustin realized he was only drawing negative attention to himself. He seemed to grudgingly suppress his rage. The line inches forward. The toll light was green, and I slowly coasted to the window. I pulled up the digital toll pass on my phone. And then, the system lagged. The payment page spun, stuck on a loading screen. Nothing happened. I tapped the screen again. Still nothing. The toll attendant glanced at me. “Holiday traffic, signal gets slow, don’t worry about it.” I nodded, about to refresh my data connection. But that small pause was all the excuse Dustin needed. In the rearview mirror, the white sedan instantly glued itself to my bumper again. Zero space. The horn blared, sharp and aggressive. “BEEP!” It wasn’t a prolonged drag, but a series of short, frantic jabs—intentionally directed at me. I kept my head down, focusing on my phone. This brief hold-up seemed to ignite the collective frustration of the drivers around me. But this time, they aimed it at me. “What is the delay up there? How long does it take to pay a toll? Get moving!” “Can you hurry up? People are waiting!” “If you can’t operate the machine, pull over! Don’t hog the lane!” The voices came from all directions. Dustin’s horn kept sounding. The toll attendant frowned, leaning out to look back at the line. “Stop with the honking! She’s having a network issue,” he called out. Then to me: “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” I handed him my phone. He fiddled with it, and finally, the network connected. The successful payment chime sounded. I sighed in relief, ready to hit the gas. The horn behind me immediately sounded again. The attendant’s face darkened. He shouted back at the white sedan: “Last warning! Maintain order, or I’m calling highway patrol!” The noise stopped instantly. I nodded my thanks and pulled away. Just past the gate, before I could accelerate to highway speed, a flash of white shot out from the left. The white sedan flooring it, swerving around me without signaling, cutting me off aggressively. I slammed on the brakes. My car lurched. The seatbelt locked tight across my chest, digging in painfully. Dustin’s car was now settled directly in front of me, straddling the lane lines. 2. He kept his speed agonizingly low. My speedometer needle barely climbed before he slammed his brakes again, forcing me back down. I had to drop my speed. The cars behind me started blaring their horns. The first was a gray van. I saw the driver lean out his window and shout a swear word, clearly looking for the culprit. But when his eyes found my pink car, his voice cut off. He shook his head, pulled back into his car, and immediately increased the distance between us. The anger hadn’t vanished, but its target had settled. The white sedan, Dustin, seemed to take a perverse pleasure in this. He accelerated for a moment, then abruptly let off the gas. His car wobbled but settled firmly, blocking my path. I swallowed my frustration and tried to signal a lane change. He caught it instantly. As soon as my car drifted, he shifted too. His speed wasn’t fast, but his movements were precise—like he was staring right at me. Traffic in the other lanes moved normally, but our lane was a slow-motion catastrophe. Drivers who were annoyed enough to pass sped up beside me. One driver yelled: “Can you just get off the highway if you can’t drive, or what? Stop blocking the damn entrance!” He didn’t bother to check the facts and sped off. Hearing the public insult, the driver’s window of the white sedan rolled down halfway. Dustin stuck his hand out, drummed his fingers on the door, and then flipped me off. His eyes were full of blatant, malicious satisfaction. I took a deep breath. Given we were still near the on-ramp, I increased the distance between us slightly. This kind of cat-and-mouse game on the highway was dangerous for everyone. But the male driver clearly wasn’t done. A few minutes later, he braked hard again, dropping to barely thirty miles an hour. The drivers behind me were furious. Horns were sounding in a continuous stream. “What the hell is the hold-up? This is a highway, not a side street! We’re going thirty miles an hour!” “That stupid woman is dragging ass! Get off the road if you can’t handle a highway!” A passing driver leaned out his window and started screaming. “What is with that sickening pink? And a woman driver? Pure road killer!” “If you don’t care about your life, we do! Stop causing this backup!” The shouts weren’t loud, but every word cut through the air. My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I didn’t respond. I looked up at the dashcam. The red light was on, the mic was active. Everything was recording. I scanned the overhead signage. Ten miles to the next service plaza. I finally had a clear idea. As the white car continued its pattern of bullying me, I tapped the brake lightly. My hood dipped. The car behind me—a large pickup—had to slam on his brakes, the screech dragging along the asphalt. Luckily, my previous low speed meant everyone was already cautious. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. As Dustin’s car slid a few feet ahead of me, I didn’t immediately try to pass or speed up. I waited for the cars behind me to reposition, then slowly brought my speed back up. My gaze was on the upcoming sign. The service plaza logo was getting closer. Confirming the direction, I opened my car’s navigation app. I located the blue symbol and pressed a speed-dial number on my phone. The call connected quickly. “Metro East Precinct. How can I help you?” “Kenji, it’s me.” My voice was steady. “Are you guys running the patrol detail on the East Loop today?” A beat of silence. “Stella? What’s going on? Why are you calling? You’re on vacation.” “I have a situation. Aggravated reckless driving on the highway—serious public safety risk. I’m going to lead him into the next service plaza. I need you guys to pre-stage some units there.” I heard a muffled flurry of movement on the other end. “Understood, Stella. You keep your distance and stay safe. I’m dispatching two cars now.” “Thanks, Kenji. I owe you.” I hung up, flicked on my signal. The direction wasn’t for the homebound lane. It was for the service plaza exit ramp. 3. My hood drifted toward the service plaza ramp. Dustin, who had been deliberately pacing me, noticed immediately. He hesitated for two seconds, realizing I was no longer following the main highway traffic. Then, he signaled, too. He followed. I remained calm, my only immediate focus on keeping a safe distance from the surrounding traffic. I also kept making small feints, small movements that suggested I was about to speed past him. That kind of bully is terrified of losing “control.” I gave him a chance to continue his harassment, and he didn’t pass it up. The white sedan suddenly veered left, trying to get ahead. I anticipated it, a slight correction of the steering wheel, keeping my position within the legal lane lines. His driving wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t get around and was forced to drop his speed with me. The sudden slow-down threw the following traffic into chaos. Screeching brakes sounded again. Drivers started yelling at the white sedan. “What are you doing? Cutting people off on the highway?” “I almost rear-ended you! If you want to harass a female driver, go to the city! Don’t risk my life on the freeway!” Dustin rolled his window down and yelled something back. The words were lost to the wind, but the furious expression made the content clear. I used the momentary distraction to create distance and smoothly enter the exit ramp. The service plaza ramp was narrower than the main highway, and the speed limit was much lower. Perfect. If Dustin wanted to continue his outburst, he had to follow. He probably thought I was running away, trying to wait him out until he left. His impatience took over. He crossed the line and drove right up my bumper again. His hood was inches from my tail. The drivers behind him were appalled. One rolled down his window. “Hey, white sedan! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Slow down!” “Is that guy using us as speed bumps?!” Dustin ignored them. He even floored the gas for a second, attempting to pass me on the right. But the ramp was curved, and there was a guardrail. His technique was poor; his previous success was due only to my deliberate avoidance and the natural caution of others on the highway. He had to slam the brakes and pull back in. His car swayed violently from side to side, then settled. No accident. The swaying gave the trailing drivers a clear view. Some started to realize their previous anger was misdirected. “What is wrong with that white car? His driving is atrocious, who taught him that?” “He was doing the same thing back on the main road! I thought that girl in the pink car was the problem…” “Well, she is a woman driver. Who told her to get on the road and upset people?” The arguments and murmurs traveled between the cars, but this time, it wasn’t a unanimous attack on me. I still didn’t look back. My focus remained fixed on the road ahead. I knew that a single misstep now would ruin everything. The service plaza sign appeared. I activated my right turn signal. The white sedan practically followed me into the parking lot. There were speed bumps at the entrance. I slowed down. Dustin didn’t anticipate it. His car dipped hard, and he had to jam his foot on the brake. The tires let out a muffled groan. The drivers behind him exploded in rage. “Are you kidding me? You can’t slow down for the speed bumps in a rest area?!” “So many people are here! Are you trying to kill us?” Someone pulled out their phone and started recording. Dustin was getting desperate. He fully lowered his window. “It’s none of your damn business! If that woman wasn’t blocking me, I wouldn’t be doing this!” He shouted back at them, then glared at my car. His eyes were burning. I ignored him, slowly pulling into the service plaza. I was actually faster than the white car once we were off the highway. He was clearly surprised by how abruptly I stopped. His car swerved slightly in front of me, then he cranked the wheel. He stopped, tight against my door. The driver’s door was violently shoved open. SLAM. A tall man, red-faced and furious, stepped out. 4. I remained in my car for a moment. I rolled the window all the way up and pulled the privacy screen across the front windshield. Then, ignoring the shouting man outside, I turned and reached into the back seat for my gear.

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As an experienced lead in the smut fiction genre, I had been diligent, fighting through the night with the male protagonist. When the System finally came online, it shrieked: [What in God’s name are you doing, Host! This is a Pure Redemption Romance! You two are supposed to be virgins until marriage!] In a panic, the System took advantage of the male lead’s deep sleep and frantically wiped all his memories. It was only then that I learned the truth. The System had malfunctioned and sent me to the wrong world. And the real heroine of the Redemption story was already knocking outside the flimsy apartment door. The next second, my wrist was clamped in an iron grip. Cain, his memory forcefully scrubbed clean, opened his eyes and looked at me, cold and lethal: “Who are you?” 1 I froze, completely thrown. I had no idea how to answer. The System was screaming in my head: [I told you to run! I told you to leave! Now look! He’s awake! How are you going to explain this mess?!] Feeling a wave of injustice, I mumbled back, “It’s your fault for sending me here! I thought Cain was my target.” The System’s voice went impossibly high: [And you slept with him?! Are you insane! This is the broody, pathologically obsessive male lead with a severe germ complex! In the early plot, if the heroine touched his finger, he’d scrub himself raw! [Do you think every world is like your trashy smut novels where everyone just sleeps around? He’s tainted! What is the actual heroine supposed to do now?!] I opened my mouth to respond. The knocking at the door became more insistent. “Cain? Are you home?” A gentle, sweet female voice. It was Delaney. The original, designated heroine of this timeline, Cain’s canonical partner. Cain’s brow furrowed. The grip on my wrist eased slightly, but only slightly. “Delaney…” He whispered the name, his expression shifting into one of profound pain. He seemed to be fighting to recall something, or maybe fighting something that was being recalled. After a moment, his expression slowly settled. A soft, almost unconscious tenderness crossed his features. “Hold on a second, I’m getting dressed,” he called out, raising his voice for the person outside the door. Delaney’s clear, light laugh sounded through the thin door. “No worries! I brought you breakfast. Hurry up and get ready, didn’t we plan to go sketching today?” “Sketching…?” Cain rubbed his temple, a flash of pure confusion in his eyes. He looked at the scattered art supplies and paints strewn across the floor. The easel was still standing, holding an unfinished canvas. A woman in a white dress was lying on the grass, propped up on her elbow reading a book. Only, the woman’s face was a blank space, unpainted. Cain stared at the canvas for a long, silent moment. Then, he abruptly turned and gave me a chilling once-over. He spoke one final, frigid sentence: “Take it off.” 2 I blinked. “Take… take what off?” Cain pursed his lips in annoyance and pointed at the dress I was wearing. It was the gift he’d bought me during our date yesterday. Working for minimum wage at a corner store, he must have saved for ages to afford it. The System shrieked with renewed urgency: [Take it off, Host! That dress is the official ‘memento’ of the heroes’ first meeting! He cherishes it!] In the original plotline, Delaney, a bright and vibrant girl, was meant to approach the brooding hero, gradually warming his cold heart. Cain was meant to be distant, only giving her the white dress as a courtesy for her birthday. The pivotal scene was when they went sketching outdoors. Cain set up his easel, ready to paint the landscape, and Delaney, in the white dress, would start dancing nearby. Cain, catching her figure in his peripheral vision, was meant to fall instantly and eternally in love. From that moment, Delaney’s one-sided crush would evolve into a mutual, destined love. Thus, this white dress was critically important to the cannon. Caught between the System’s frantic demands and Cain’s cold, utterly alien gaze, I started to panic. My hands fumbled as I tried to pull the dress off. I turned around, only to realize the hem of the white dress was thoroughly stained with paint—a large, ugly smear of dried color. My mind went blank. Oh no. 3 The System nearly went ballistic: [You, you, you… I have never worked with such a profoundly inept Host! Do you know how important that dress is? Later, when he’s rich, he spends a fortune at an auction to buy it back after the villain steals it! The heroine herself protects it like a relic! And you stained it?!] “I’m… I’m so sorry,” I stammered, giving Cain a weak, awkward bow. “I’ll buy you a new one. I promise.” My hands were suddenly stilled by his. “…Forget it. Don’t bother.” Cain frowned. “It’s just a dress. It doesn’t matter.” Delaney knocked again. “Ready yet? The pastry I brought you is getting cold!” Cain inhaled sharply, calling out to the door: “Sorry, Delaney, I… I twisted my ankle. I won’t be able to go sketching today.” Hearing this, Delaney immediately sounded worried: “Oh no! Is it bad? Should I take you to the clinic? “Just open the door so I can see!” Cain lied without batting an eye: “…No need. I haven’t even washed my face yet. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.” “Okay, I’ll leave your breakfast outside the door. Eat it, okay? I’m heading out now!” The sound of quick footsteps retreated down the hall. My shoulders, which had been tight with tension, finally relaxed. Cain tossed me a cheap, worn-out jacket of his own. “Put this on, and get out.” 4 I held his jacket. It smelled of that generic, cheap laundry detergent—a familiar scent from the real six weeks we had spent together. Seeing me hesitate, Cain gave a cold, cynical laugh. “Planning to walk out like that without a jacket? You’ve got hickeys all over your neck. Don’t you want the whole city to know you just left a man’s bed?” I looked at him. He was completely, utterly a stranger. So this was Cain’s true self, the person beneath the love-lorn mask: coldly detached, bordering on cruel. 5 My fate, I suppose, has always been a bit rough. For as long as I’ve been a “Host,” I’ve been relegated to the shallowest of smut worlds. The higher-level Systems wouldn’t touch me. I was too slow, too prone to making mistakes. The only missions they assigned me were the “no-brainers”—the spicy, low-stakes erotica where I just had to show up and perform. The Systems told me, “You don’t have to think, just lie there.” When I finally got the script for a Redemption Romance, I was genuinely elated. I read the script over and over and executed every key event perfectly. Cain’s affection for me grew exponentially. I started to daydream: Maybe someone as ordinary as me… could be a savior, a light in someone else’s darkness? Then came the novel’s climax. The hero and heroine had a fight, and the heroine was scripted to fake her death to “test” him. The night before the “death,” the script went blank—it was meant to be an open-ended scene. As an experienced smut-world Host, I took the initiative. I spiked Cain’s drink and claimed him for the entire night. That’s when the System finally showed up, late and frantic. It told me it messed up. I was in the wrong world. The real heroine was Delaney, not me. When it found out I had slept with the hero, it lost its mind, screaming at me for ruining everything. Cain opened the door to see Delaney was long gone. The pastry she brought was still steaming on the ground. I looked at the wisp of white steam and felt a wave of dizziness. So that’s how a Redemption Romance works. The heroes wait, they fall deeply in love over time, and they have a gentle, beautiful first night in a rose-petal-covered penthouse. But last night, in this shabby apartment, I had rushed and ruined it with Cain. It was his first time. He was clumsy and inexperienced, and he hurt me. But he was also deeply, profoundly moved. He had tears in his eyes, sobbing that he would be devoted to me forever. I was moved, too. I had finally met a real love interest, and I wanted to stay in this world forever. But it was all a mistake. The System had to forcefully wipe Cain’s memory to salvage the plot. My efforts were undone. He had forgotten me completely. 6 The System dragged me back to reality: [Stop wallowing! Look at your new script!] It threw a new section of the narrative at me. To explain my presence in the apartment—the “bug”—the System had forcefully implanted a new memory into Cain. The new story went like this: Cain loved Delaney but didn’t know it yet. He saw Delaney out with another guy (a “Rival”) and got jealous. He went to a bar to drink his pain away and ran into a cocktail waitress—me. I happened to have a slight resemblance to Delaney. Cain, drunk and confused, slept with me. Afterward, he was overwhelmed with shame and disgust, scrubbing himself repeatedly. But this terrible mistake helped him realize his true feelings for Delaney. [See? Not bad, right?]The System preened. [Thank God I’m an old-timer; I managed to cover the tracks for you.] I sniffed, not saying a word. I silently wrapped the jacket around me, ready to leave. My stomach, however, chose that moment to let out an embarrassingly loud growl. Cain, who was getting dressed, paused and glanced at me. “Jeez. You’re such a pain.” I rubbed my stomach and muttered under my breath, “It’s your fault. You kept me up all night…” “…” He tossed me a stale pastry. “Eat it, and then go.” Cain finished dressing and stood in front of the mirror, examining himself. He touched the hickeys on his neck, looking confused. The System crowed in my head: [He’s surprised by his accidental loss of virginity! He must feel horribly guilty! Delaney’s affection score is about to skyrocket!] [Wait… no!]It suddenly shrieked. [I rewrote his entire memory file! Why is his affection score for Delaney still zero?!] The System was completely stunned. It went offline to contact its superiors to check the data. I quietly bit into the pastry, and my face immediately crumpled. Seeing Cain reach for another one, I lunged and snatched it away. “Don’t eat that! “It has carrots! You can’t eat carrots!” 7 Cain was violently allergic to carrots. He’d once accidentally consumed a small piece and suffered anaphylactic shock. I had spent night after night at the hospital at his bedside. Cain immediately dropped the pastry, his expression one of pure bewilderment. “How… how did you know I’m allergic to carrots?” “…I guessed.” I was afraid the System would come back online and berate me if I delayed any longer. I finished getting dressed and quickly yanked the door open. Cain followed me, insistent. “Who are you? Do you know me?” Suddenly, a voice rang out from the side: “Cain, you finally came out! Oh, who is this?” A fresh-faced girl with a high ponytail was standing at the threshold. It was Delaney. She had circled back for some reason. Delaney stood tall in her crisp white dress, pure and innocent. I was bundled in Cain’s oversized jacket, disheveled and frantic. Cain frowned. “Why are you still here?” I used the brief moment of distraction to slip past them, running without looking back. Behind me, Delaney’s voice was breaking: “Cain, who was that? Why was she coming out of your place? “You need to explain! “Talk to me! Aren’t we friends? Why are you being so cold to me today?” I ran, head down, my heart aching. I knew my part was over. This was a Redemption story, meant to be beautiful, innocent, and pure. And I, a heroine from a smut novel, had no business here. I darted into the street. A large truck suddenly swerved around the corner and smashed into me. I was thrown violently into the air. In the distance, Cain paused for a split second, then bolted toward me, screaming like a madman. “Noooo!” I closed my eyes. The System’s voice rang out in my head, a sound of profound relief: [Mission accomplished. World narrative repaired. Host, you will now be sent to your next smut world.] 8 I think I was unconscious for a long time. When I woke up, I was in a shabby, familiar rental apartment. I bolted upright, a gasp of emotion escaping my lips: “Cain! Are you here?!” The room was empty. No one was there. My fevered brain slowly started to calm down. I realized this wasn’t Cain’s apartment now. I looked around. The familiar closet, the faded curtains… And the small, slightly chipped trinket on the bedside table. This was the subterranean apartment I lived in when I first arrived in this world. Wait a second. That means— I was still in Cain’s world?! [Yes, that is correct, Host. You’re still here.] The System suddenly came back online, startling me. It huffed, [I was trying to send you to the next world, but after you were hit by the truck, that boy, Cain, went absolutely insane. He wouldn’t let go of your body. His obsession was too strong; I couldn’t extract you.] “So where… where am I now?” The System continued: [Cain’s obsession interfered with the transport. Instead of sending you out, I accidentally sent you forward—six years ahead.] I was silent. Six years. [For the sake of the mission, I had to completely wipe Cain’s memory again. That finally settled him down. But my energy is completely depleted, I can’t send you anywhere else.] I asked urgently, “What about Cain? How is he now?” [He’s great. Two memory wipes and the constant presence of Delaney, the proper heroine—he’s thriving. He’s a tech mogul now. [Oh, his affection score for Delaney is at 99. Once it hits 100, Delaney completes the mission, and you’ll finally be released from this world.] I finally understood. I was redundant. I just had to wait for Delaney to finish the job. All I had to do was lay low. 9 Having lost my heroine status, I was just an ordinary person in this world now. Regardless, life had to go on. The System fixed my injuries. I rested for a few days, then went out to look for a job. I walked the streets all day with no luck. I was, however, struck by the sheer number of advertisements. Delaney. She was now a huge movie star, famous across the country. Her giant digital billboards were everywhere, even in this small, overlooked section of the city. In the picture, she was impeccably made up, smiling radiantly into the camera. The System, viewing her through my eyes, sighed contentedly: [This world is almost over. Good.] [Those two little lost souls, Cain the tech new-money genius and Delaney the sweetheart actress, finally got their happy ending. They’ll be blissfully happy for the rest of their lives.] My throat felt tight. “Yes… they will be very happy.” I wandered for a long time. As the sky darkened, I finally realized where I was. This was an abandoned warehouse district, slated for demolition. It was deserted and dilapidated. I stood in front of an entrance marked “Antiques & Salvage,” next to a dark, descending stairwell. The floodgates of memory burst open— This used to be a hidden underground fight club. And this was where I had first met Cain.

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Damon Blackwood’s first love—the one he was always meant to have—was finally back in New York. They had been locked in a volatile, toxic dance of love and hatred for over a decade, their relationship all-consuming and messy. And me? I had been Damon Blackwood’s gilded cage pet for three long years. On Day One, Tori Harrington publicly humiliated me by trying to tear my dress off. Damon’s eyes shifted slightly, but he said nothing. On Day Two, Tori slapped me across the face, left, then right. Damon simply asked her if her hand was sore. On Day Three, Tori aimed a gun at my stomach, threatening to shoot the child I carried. Damon cupped her hand, guiding her aim. When I demanded to know why he was doing this, he said: “Using you to keep Tori happy is a price I’m willing to pay. You’re worth the trade.” Honestly, I was pretty happy too. I never wanted the baby anyway, and I knew a five-million-dollar wire transfer would hit my account the moment it was over. Damon didn’t know I was actually on his mother’s payroll. My real job was to be the irritant—the perfect foil to push him and Tori back into their destructive, passionate embrace. My contract was up in one month. I was almost free. … 1 I squeezed my eyes shut, but the searing pain I expected never arrived. When I opened them, I saw it: Tori Harrington’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk, her eyes fixed solely on Damon Blackwood. “You think if you pretend not to care, I’ll let her off the hook so easily?” Damon didn’t respond. They stood there, framed in the tension of their years-long standoff. I managed a strained, bitter smile. He wasn’t pretending not to care. He truly didn’t. I was just the hired shield, a pretty, disposable distraction he used to keep other casual flings away. Three years hadn’t managed to warm his stone-cold heart one degree. Expecting him to save me now was just delusional. “I’m going to kill this baby, no matter what!” Bang. The bullet struck my lower abdomen. Shit. That actually hurt. Blood instantly welled up, pouring through my clutching fingers. I was slick with sweat from the shock and the sudden, wrenching agony. “Damon Blackwood, if you have any shred of a soul, get me to a hospital, now!” He finally frowned, and that minimal sign of distress was enough to make him move. He stripped off his tailored suit jacket and draped it over me. I saw it clearly in his eyes: a deep, unmistakable flash of disgust. “Stop right there!” Tori’s voice sliced through the haze. “Walk out that door, and the only thing left between us is hate!” Damon froze. He started to turn, preparing to abandon me. I reached out, my trembling fingers catching the edge of his sleeve. He scowled, probably assuming I was about to beg or plead for him to stay. But I just managed to whisper through cracked, dry lips, my voice barely a thread: “Re-re-remember… to wire… the money…” He raised an eyebrow, a strange, almost amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Sierra Vaughn, you truly are a piece of work.” Right there, right in front of my face, he transferred five million dollars to my account. Finally satisfied, I let my eyes drift closed. I was loaded onto a stretcher and rushed toward the nearest trauma center. But the security guard at the emergency entrance stopped us. “Sorry, we can’t admit her here.” Too weak to argue, I could only manage to peel my eyes open slightly. Damon’s men were arguing fiercely with the hospital administrator, but it was useless. We were turned away. It happened at five hospitals in a row. Not a single one would take me. Through the fog of pain, I heard someone say: “Ms. Harrington gave the order.” Tori Harrington. Always Tori Harrington. That woman was trying to murder me, and Damon was letting her. Ruthless. Cold-hearted. Men really couldn’t be trusted. A sickening, twisting pain shot through my stomach again and again. The white blanket they’d wrapped me in was completely saturated, dyed crimson. I couldn’t even bring myself to look down. For the first time, I felt something close to despair. I used the last reserves of my strength to grasp a bodyguard’s hand. “Take me… to the Blackwood… estate…” 2 The next time I woke, I was staring at the familiar, tight-lipped, not-quite-smiling face of Mrs. Blackwood, Damon’s mother. I tried to sit up, and she gently steadied me. “Easy, easy now. Don’t strain yourself, dear. You’ve been badly hurt.” I took a deep breath, marshaling all my training, all my professional gold-digger finesse. When I looked up again, my eyes were glistening, brimming with manufactured tears. “Madam… I truly can’t do this anymore… Please, I’m begging you, let me go!” Mrs. Blackwood’s expression shifted. She offered a few perfunctory words about how hard I’d worked, then the subject turned quickly. “Your father’s gambling debts to the Blackwood family aren’t settled yet, you know.” I gripped the bedsheet, my knuckles stark white. “A debt-ridden father, a sick mother, a younger brother needing school tuition. When I first met you, I thought, Surely, no one can be this tragic.” I pressed my lips together, offering a weak, self-deprecating smile. She was right. Life was a cruel joke. Fate loved to toy with the desperate. And it was exactly people like me who were so easy for them to manipulate. Mrs. Blackwood patted my shoulder, sighing dramatically. “Tori is only fighting with Damon because of you. That’s a sign that she cares, my dear.” “Just hold on a little longer. The contract ends soon, and then you’ll be free. Otherwise… you know what will happen.” I lowered my head and nodded softly. I had zero leverage to refuse. … I’d only been recuperating at the estate for two days when Damon’s call came through. “Are you well enough yet? You got paid, now you need to do your job.” “There’s a high-stakes real estate tender on the West Side. Get over here.” I pouted. One of the main functions of a cage pet was to be an attractive accessory at the master’s various social functions. Thinking about the bullet wound Tori gave me, I felt a deep reluctance. Damon must have sensed my hesitation. An instant notification popped up on my phone. “One million. That’s a rush fee.” Money makes the world go round. God, I loved money. My face instantly transformed into a dazzling, professional smile. I chirped into the phone: “I’m on my way, sir! I can’t wait to see you!” There was a rare, brief pause on his end. After a beat, he simply said: “Stop being so glib.” I ignored his baffling mood swing and sped over to the tender meeting. I arrived to find him and Tori locked in a tense, public argument over a key parcel of land. “I just got back, Damon, and you’re already trying to spite me?” Tori crossed her arms, her gaze sharp and cutting. Damon was equally unyielding, slamming the base of his glass on the table with a dull thud. “The Blackwood organization has planned this land for years. You think you can just show up and claim it?” I hid in the back, happily sampling a plate of hors d’oeuvres. I never imagined I would be dragged into their mess again. The lights suddenly cut out. The last thing I felt was a dull, sickening crack against the back of my skull. When I opened my eyes again, I was suspended hundreds of feet in the air. “Damon Blackwood, are you deliberately fighting me because of her?” Tori’s voice crackled through a one-way speaker. A digital screen lit up inside the iron cage I was trapped in. I could clearly see Damon’s face—completely emotionless. I glanced down. The ground was impossibly far away, an untouchable abyss. Falling from this height would mean nothing but a messy splatter. I shuddered instinctively, and the cage groaned, a loud, protesting screeech. That was when I realized the horrifying truth. Tori had deliberately put me in a rickety, rusted, ancient cage. A sudden gust of wind tore past, and a sheet of metal ripped away from the cage floor and plummeted downward. “Ah!” I couldn’t stop the scream from ripping out of my throat, and I immediately curled into a fetal position in the corner. The wind whipped my hair around my face. The absolute terror of the situation made me cry, not the acting kind, but real, silent, panicked tears. “Damon, your little pet is weeping. Doesn’t that make you feel sorry for her?” Tori’s voice returned, laced with malice. I stared at his cold, detached eyes through the electronic screen. His dismissive voice finally came through the speaker. “No.” 3 Tori sneered. The rigging above the cage emitted a sharp ding sound. Then I started to fall. Rapidly. This is it. I’m going to die. These rich people are genuinely insane. The expected impact didn’t happen. A massive air cushion had been rigged up at the last minute to catch the cage. But the relief was momentary. My heart slammed back into my throat the next second. I was in an enclosed sanctuary. And all around me were wild wolves. The broken, flimsy cage was the only barrier I had. The camera inside was still streaming my ordeal to the other location. The pack was tearing at my party dress. I managed to avoid one, only to find another closing in. They surrounded me, drool dripping from their jaws. My heart plummeted. All the glib banter was gone. These animals looked genuinely starved. They worked the gaps in the cage, making them wider and wider. I heard Tori’s laughter in the speaker, right next to my ear. “Aren’t you going to save your little beauty, Damon?” A massive wolf finally squeezed through a large gap and lunged straight at me. I threw a desperate, pleading look at the screen. But Damon Blackwood just watched my terror, calmly taking a sip of his tea. The wolf clamped down on my leg. More and more injuries appeared on my body. The stitches in my abdomen, the ones from the shooting, finally gave way, and the pale gown was soaked in fresh red blood. My consciousness faded in and out. I still don’t know how I was ultimately rescued. I only vaguely heard Damon talking to one of his subordinates. “Does she really care for me that much? She’s been through all this and still won’t leave?” The subordinate’s voice was shaky. “It… it appears so, sir. Ms. Vaughn seems genuinely devoted to you.” Damon laughed. “No. She only loves money.” … I had modern medical science to thank. When I woke up again, half my injuries were already healing. But I didn’t get more than a few days of rest before Damon summoned me again. Another partner’s birthday gala. Another compulsory appearance as his arm candy. Rich people always have too many parties. It was exhausting. The room was lit by warm chandeliers, a sea of clinking glasses and chatter. It was a scene I’d witnessed countless times during my three years with Damon. I was leaning down to grab a dessert when Tori’s voice, sharp and sudden, cut in. “I heard Ms. Vaughn used to work in a nightclub. Why doesn’t she perform a dance for us?” Before I could reply, Damon spoke. “She doesn’t dance.” Right. I don’t dance. My primary skill was mixology. For a moment, I actually felt a flicker of gratitude toward him. Tori pressed her lips into a thin line and stared intently at Damon. “To save you years ago, I was forced to drink until I was incoherent, humiliated by those men. And now you won’t even let her dance for me?” Damon fell silent. He tightened his grip on his wine glass, then turned to me and only said two words. “Go dance.” “But my wounds haven’t healed… I’m still in pain,” I pleaded. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes conveyed a cold, non-negotiable command. I had no choice but to change into the revealing costume and take my place among the professional dancers. Countless sticky, judgmental eyes stabbed at me from the crowd. The whispers were crude and cutting. “Jeez, Blackwood was hiding this little firecracker?” “When can I borrow her for a night?” My body was covered in bruises and raw sutures; to them, it probably had some perverse, abusive kind of beauty. I felt like a slab of meat on a cutting board. Like the cheapest commodity. In three years as a cage pet, this was the most profoundly humiliating moment I had endured. In a flash of blinding light and noise, a gunshot rang out. Screams erupted, and the crowd scattered. Someone was attempting a hit in the middle of the party! I instinctively tried to flee, to save myself. But someone shoved me hard from behind. I stumbled, falling directly toward Damon Blackwood. Pfff. A dull thud. I knew that sound intimately. It was a bullet ripping into flesh. It hurt. Badly. Shot in the chest. My ribs were probably shattered. As I lost consciousness, Damon caught me in his arms. His brow was furrowed. His voice, for the first time, held a disbelieving tremor. “You… you love me that much?” I tried to open my mouth to deny it, but my body failed me, and I passed out. 4 This time, I was given proper medical attention. For several days, Damon didn’t bother me. He just stood silently at the foot of my bed, his eyes holding a strange, unreadable quality. A mix of conflict, maybe even a struggle of conscience. But what did his internal drama matter to me? My contract had five days left. I was about to walk out the door forever. I slept soundly, fully embracing the sick leave. Until Tori came calling. She tossed a stack of photos onto the bed in front of Damon. They were pictures from my old life working as a bartender at a high-end club. In every shot, the back of the same man’s head—a regular customer—was visible. “Damon, I checked. She’s connected to the same people who tried to ruin you.” Tori stood, arms crossed, waiting for his response. Damon only glanced at the photos, one after the other. He said nothing. Tori frowned, then, for the first time, lowered her defenses. She knelt beside his chair, her eyes damp. “I almost lost you this time. I realized, in that moment, how much you mean to me.” “Damon, let’s stop fighting, okay? Deal with her, and we’ll get married.” I watched as Damon reached out a hand to her. It trembled slightly. But the words he spoke next plummeted my mood into a deep, freezing trough. He said: “Alright.” He had me dragged to the Blackwood Annex—the Vault—the dark, high-ceilinged room where family business was settled, and punishments were meted out. He spared me only one look as I was taken away. It was icy. Whatever faint trace of emotion I thought I saw in his eyes was instantly extinguished. My hands were bound behind my back. Whip after whip lashed across my skin. My flesh tore, bleeding freely. When I passed out from the pain, they woke me with buckets of ice water. “Tell us! What is your relationship with the Sullivan family?” My mind was hazy. “Sullivan family? I don’t know what you’re talking about…” My interrogator sneered and started a new round of lashing. My wounds, which had only just begun to heal, burst open, festering and oozing. When it was clear I was failing, he grabbed me, bringing a searing hot iron to my chest. “Ahhhh—Stop! It hurts!” I screamed, the pain bringing me instantly, violently back to consciousness. The man smiled, a terrifying grin. “This mark will stay with you forever. Every man who touches you will know exactly what kind of filth you are!” I struggled to look down. Branded into my skin was a single word, a symbol of utter shame. My eyes flinched away as if scorched. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I regretted it. I shouldn’t have gotten involved in the world of the ultra-rich. I should never have gotten close to Damon Blackwood. I had barely an inch of uninjured skin left. Three of my fingernails had been ripped out. My breathing was ragged and wheezing, like a broken bellows. I knew I was dying. The interrogator chuckled and tossed me out onto the street like a piece of trash. In the throes of fading consciousness, I heard Mrs. Blackwood’s voice. “Oh, my. She looks utterly ruined.” “The contract is up. You can go now.” … Damon Blackwood had been unusually agitated lately. He was about to marry the woman he’d yearned for for years, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Sierra Vaughn. He kept recalling her lazy indifference. Her cunning, fox-like sharpness. And the image of her in his arms, bleeding, having taken a bullet for him. He summoned his subordinate. “Where is Sierra Vaughn? It’s been days. Is she complaining that the Vault is too dark and boring?” The subordinate’s face went white with panic. He immediately dropped to his knees. “Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Vaughn… she died…” Damon Blackwood’s expression froze instantly.

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My wife came home late that night, looking like a ghost. Her stockings were shredded, her dress barely clinging to her hips, and her skin was a road map of angry, crimson bruises. The moment she crossed the threshold, she bolted for the bathroom, locking the door. I heard the shower immediately—she scrubbed until her skin was raw, desperate to erase what had happened. I wanted her to call the police. I begged her. But after hours of relentless scrubbing, the police said there was no physical evidence left. When the district attorney’s office reviewed the case, the surveillance cameras in her boss’s office were, coincidentally, “under maintenance.” Eventually, the case was dropped due to insufficient evidence. Rage consumed me. I drove straight to her office and beat her supervisor into the floor. My reward was seven days in a local detention facility for assault. It wasn’t just the jail time. After the incident, Veronica developed severe psychological distress. For two agonizing months, she flinched away from my touch—any touch. I finally reached my limit. I called her family over, sat them down in our living room, and announced I wanted a divorce. Veronica stared at me, disbelief warring with pain in her eyes. “Is this my fault? Am I to blame because I was assaulted? And you’re leaving me over this?” I looked at her, my voice flat, hollowed out of all emotion. “Yes. Precisely because you were assaulted, I am divorcing you.” 1 Veronica’s face was slick with tears, her gaze full of shock and betrayal. “Nick, is this what you’ve wanted for months? Did you just use what happened as an excuse?” “You’ve wanted to leave me since day one, haven’t you? You think I’m dirty now.” I met the gaze of the sobbing woman in front of me, but I felt nothing. My heart was a stone. “Whatever you think, this marriage is over today.” Veronica gasped, startled by the finality in my voice. She hadn’t expected me to be so firm. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Peterson, immediately scowled. She started to speak, but Mr. Peterson squeezed her arm, stopping her. “Nick, son, I know this is hard for you to swallow, but Veronica is the victim here,” Mr. Peterson said, his tone softening in a bid for peace. “She didn’t ask for this. She’s suffering enough. This is the test of your vows, isn’t it? As husband and wife, you get through this.” Mrs. Peterson jumped in, her voice shrill. “That’s right, Nick! Veronica has been a good wife! Look at her—she’s beautiful, she’s successful. You got lucky marrying her! This is the kind of man you’re going to be? Abandoning your wife when she needs you most? Grow up, apologize to her, and stop this foolishness!” Veronica, recovering slightly, reached for my hand, playing the supportive wife. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know you’ve been hurting, too.” “You don’t have to apologize. Let’s just put this behind us and move forward. Please?” The other Peterson relatives who had gathered in the living room chimed in, leaning into the pressure. “Nick, this is wrong. No one wanted this for Veronica. You’re the man, you need to be bigger.” “And honestly, you have some blame here. She was working late—why didn’t you go pick her up? If you had, none of this would have happened!” “Come on, forget the divorce talk. You two are young. This is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your lives are just beginning.” Hope flickered back into Veronica’s tear-stained eyes. “Sweetheart, I know the last two months have been so hard on you.” “I promise I’ll adjust. We can just pretend it never happened, okay?” Her voice caught on a sob. If you didn’t know the full story, you’d think she was making the biggest sacrifice in the world. I took a step back, breaking her grip on my hand, ignoring the chorus of judging relatives. “Veronica.” My voice was ice. “I am going through with this divorce.” 2 Veronica froze, her whole body rigid with shock. Mr. Peterson’s face went dark with anger. “Nick! You are an animal! Divorcing your wife over something like this? You are no man!” I glanced at my father-in-law and gave a cold, short laugh. “You’re a man. If your wife came home after cheating on you, could you live with her?” Mrs. Peterson’s hand trembled as she pointed a finger inches from my nose, her voice cracking. “That’s not the same! Was she willing? Did she want this to happen?” I didn’t answer her. I looked down at Veronica. I remembered that night two months ago: Veronica floating into the house, lost, her stockings torn, her dress hanging like a rag. She didn’t see me, just went straight to the shower. The next day, she told me she was forced by her supervisor, Clay. She fought, she said, but it was no use. I was blind with rage. I dragged her to the police station. But all evidence had literally gone down the drain. The company cameras were “down,” and the police told us we had nothing. Case closed. Watching Veronica exist as a shell, dissolving into tears every day, I felt a desperate, helpless pain. I went to her company and gave Clay the beating of his life. I spent a week in custody. Two months had passed. The truth of what happened that night—whether she was forced or not—was known only to Veronica and Clay. A cynical smile touched my lips. “Veronica, why do I want this divorce?” “Don’t you actually know the reason?” She flinched, a flash of guilt flickering in her eyes. I stepped further away, putting distance between us. “After it happened, I told you to quit. I told you I could support us, cover the mortgage and the bills. I told you to stay home and heal. But you refused. You insisted on going back to that office every single day, to face the man you claimed was disgusting.” Veronica visibly relaxed at my words. She immediately played the martyr, tears streaming down her face. “We’ve only been married for two years! We have the mortgage, the car payment, all our debt. How could I let you shoulder all that alone?” “Nick, do you really think I’m an embarrassment? Do you think I’m ‘throwing myself out there’?” “I was doing it for you. For our family.” I scoffed. “You know exactly who you were doing it for.” Hearing our exchange, the relatives reached a fever pitch. “Nick, you are unbelievable! Veronica suffered a trauma, and you’re not even thinking about her feelings, you’re worried about her throwing herself out there?” “She’s pushing through all that pain to keep working for you and the family! She has to face that monster every day. Don’t you think she’s hurting more than you?” “You are the monster! The sheer ingratitude!” Mr. Peterson had heard enough. He grabbed Veronica’s arm, ready to pull her out. “Come on! You’re coming home with your mother and me! We don’t need to talk to this kind of filth!” Veronica pulled her arm away, tears still flowing, but her face set in a look of grim determination. “It’s okay, Dad. Nick and I are married. Whatever happens, we have to face it together.” “He’s just struggling right now. You two go home. I’ll talk to him. Please don’t worry about me.” Mr. Peterson’s face twisted with helpless anger and pity for his daughter. He wanted to scream at her, but looking at her tear-streaked face, he couldn’t find the words. He turned his fury on me instead. “Listen to me, Nick! You better think this through very carefully!” “You’re a stray! An orphan who only got a shot because we let you marry our daughter! If you leave her, you’ll be on your own—see how far you get then!” With that, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and the other relatives stormed out, not looking back. The living room fell silent. I took one long, assessing look at Veronica, then turned and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. I locked the door and pulled out my phone, dialing my cousin, Danielle, who was an attorney. “Danielle, any progress on what I asked you to check?” Hearing her answer, a heavy weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying finally shifted. “Good. We may need to go to court in a few days. I need your full support.” 3 I got home late the next night after work, and stopped dead in the doorway. The dining table was set with an elaborate, beautifully plated dinner. Candles flickered softly, and Veronica was sitting there in a revealing, silky nightgown. When she saw me, her face lit up. “Honey, you’re home! Come sit down, look what I made for you.” When I didn’t move, she rushed over, took my hand, and gently led me to the table. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I thought everything through. I realized that I wasn’t the only one suffering these past two months—you were, too.” “I was so deep in my own pain, I didn’t consider your feelings. I won’t do that again. We can start fresh, together.” “Sweetheart, let’s stop fighting. Please?” As she spoke, Veronica deliberately straightened her back, pressing her chest forward. Two years of marriage meant I knew exactly what that gesture meant. Since that night two months ago, she had completely shut me out. Forget intimacy, even a simple arm around her shoulders would make her shriek in panic. She must have convinced herself that my demand for a divorce was purely about her physical rejection. She thought this elaborate setup would fix everything. How small she thinks I am. I slipped my hand free and flicked on the bright overhead lights, shattering the cozy atmosphere. “Veronica, stop the theatrics.” “I told you: this divorce is happening, no matter what.” She froze, stunned that I hadn’t crumbled. Before she could form a reply, two figures burst out of the guest room. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood there, faces contorted with rage. Mr. Peterson pointed a finger at me, but his words were directed at his daughter. “How did I raise such a foolish, blind daughter! How could you choose a man like this? Look at you, doing this for him, and he still wants a divorce! He is making a fool out of you!” Mrs. Peterson stepped forward, shielding her daughter behind her back. “I know what’s going on! This animal has been cheating on you!” “It’s the 21st century! No man leaves his wife over something like this unless he has someone else waiting in the wings! And why now? Why not two months ago? Why the sudden urgency?” “Nick, tell me the truth. Do you have a mistress?” Veronica looked at me, her tears suddenly stopping, her eyes wide with shock. “Sweetheart, is this true?” She didn’t wait for an answer, muttering to herself, “It must be. It absolutely is.” “You’ve been coming home late every night for two months, and you always brush me off when I ask where you’ve been.” “You really did find someone else! Nick, how could you do this to me?” I almost laughed at the sheer gall of the accusation. “Who is cheating? Who has a secret life outside this house?” “Veronica, your parents are right here. Do you dare tell them—” I was cut off. My mother-in-law, driven by righteous fury, lunged at me. “I’ll kill you! You bastard! You’re not even human!” “My daughter has been through hell, and you have the audacity to find someone else? You’re a pig!” I hadn’t anticipated her physical attack. She raked her nails across my cheek, leaving stinging, bloody lines. But she was an elder. No matter how much I despised her daughter, I wouldn’t hit her. I backed away quickly, putting space between us. Veronica, startled, grabbed her mother’s arm. I looked at Mr. Peterson, who still had a shred of composure. “Take her home,” I said, pointing to his wife. “I’ll say it one last time: If you don’t want me to make this ugly, agree to the divorce immediately.” 4 Mr. Peterson glowered at me, his expression one of pure, unrestrained hatred. Finally, he regained control, turning to his wife and daughter. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” Three days later, Veronica came back. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled up. “You won’t answer my calls. You won’t reply to my texts.” “Nick, what are you trying to do? Why are you punishing me like this?” I didn’t look up, instead busy packing her remaining personal items into boxes. “We’re getting a divorce. There’s no reason to communicate.” Veronica’s face hardened. She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke slowly, biting off each word. “Nick, I am asking you for the last time. Are you absolutely determined to end this marriage?” I didn’t reply. I didn’t even lift my head. Mr. Peterson’s patience snapped. He slammed a folder onto the floor at my feet. “Fine! We’ll divorce!” “But Veronica did nothing wrong in this marriage. Since you insist, you’ll walk away with nothing! You leave completely empty-handed!” I put down the box, picked up the settlement papers, and gave a cold smile. “Whether she did anything wrong is a question you should ask your precious daughter.” “And you expect me to walk away empty-handed? You people are sickening.” The second my words left my mouth, Mrs. Peterson darted out from behind her husband, raising her designer handbag like a weapon. “I should have never let my daughter marry you! I knew you were a rotten heart! You think you can claim she’s the fault? I’m telling you: either you sign these papers and leave with nothing, or we’ll see you in court. You won’t take a single penny of my daughter’s!” I grabbed her swinging arm, simultaneously feeling a rush of satisfaction. Court is exactly where I wanted to be. Mrs. Peterson, thinking I was intimidated, yanked her purse back and continued her tirade. “You’re a leech! An ungrateful stray! You’re an orphan with no family name! If the Petersons hadn’t given you a chance, you’d be nothing!” “Now you’ve got your girlfriend on the side, you want to throw my daughter out and pin the blame on her? I’m telling you, it won’t be that easy!” I was tired of the noise. “Since we can’t agree, we’ll settle it in court.” “Talk is cheap. We’ll let the judge decide.” A week later, the divorce proceedings began. Veronica’s family and a host of relatives filled the gallery, a wall of support and hostility. Their eyes burned with contempt and fury aimed squarely at me. Before the hearing began, Veronica walked up to me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Nick, do we really have to do this? We can still go home. We can be a family. We can forget everything that happened. Please?” I ignored her, walking straight into the courtroom. Once the initial paperwork was reviewed, the judge looked up at me. “Mr. Hayes, the incident involving Ms. Peterson was a tragic accident. You are entitled to file for divorce, but your secondary conditions are unreasonable.” (I had asked for a split that factored in her ‘at-fault’ behavior). “Under these circumstances, you cannot demand Ms. Peterson walk away with nothing.” I stood up, meeting the judge’s gaze. “Your Honor, I have additional evidence.”

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A bizarre accident connected me with my seven-years-younger self. Hearing that the future me was about to get engaged to Nolan Shaw, she rolled around on her bed in excitement, declaring herself the happiest girl in the world. Happy? I offered a bitter smile and silently showed her the full extent of my own brutal reality. The gentle “Senior Shaw” she knew was long gone. In his place was the Nolan who repeatedly allowed others to call me a conniving opportunist, the Nolan who, right before our engagement, demanded I kneel and apologize to his first love’s entire family. “So, do you still want this future?” The light in the eyes of my younger self dimmed. The past was rewritten. Nolan, this time, we will never meet again. 1 At my engagement party with Nolan Shaw, the famous actress Skylar Brooks arrived with his family. Instantly, all eyes were drawn away from us. Nolan let go of my hand and, along with his mother, went to greet them. Mrs. Shaw, who had been wearing a stony expression a moment ago, immediately smiled and took Skylar’s hand warmly. “Skylar, you finally made it.” Skylar smoothly engaged them in conversation. Around us, confused guests began to whisper about our relationship. One of Nolan’s friends pointed at me and chuckled, “Oh, her? She’s the one who slept her way into the family.” It wasn’t a new story. Whenever someone didn’t know, they made sure to broadcast my “history.” In college, Nolan and I were in the same club. I pursued him for two years. He ended up dating his childhood sweetheart, Skylar Brooks. Seeing he was taken, I gave up. But then, at a club gathering, I somehow ended up in bed with him. That night, Skylar was overly enthusiastic about toasting Nolan and me. My tolerance for alcohol was low, and I got drunk quickly. I distinctly remember checking the room number; I was sure I was going back to my own room. The next morning, the door was thrown open. Skylar brought people in to “catch us in the act.” I was naked in Nolan’sbed, covered in bruises and hickeys. Skylar immediately burst into tears. Nolan quickly put on clothes and furiously interrogated me. In everyone’s mind, Nolan was the epitome of integrity and respect, while I was just a lovesick underclassman. No one believed my explanation. They all called me shameless, a manipulative opportunist. When I returned to campus, the rumors spread like wildfire in the school group chats. Later, Skylar broke up with Nolan and went abroad, and I became public enemy number one. Everyone rallied to defend Skylar, calling me a “homewrecker” and a “slut.” They successfully got my scholarship revoked and my graduate school recommendation canceled. Nolan initially planned to ignore me, but when he found out I was unexpectedly pregnant, he felt forced to take responsibility and be with me. But as everyone predicted, though he was with me, his heart wasn’t. The label of “opportunist who slept her way up” became an indelible stain on my life. Upon hearing the story, all the guests sighed. “I knew it. Why else would the Shaws marry a commoner?” “Look at her and her mom, so cheap. Without dirty tricks, they’d never get close to people like us.” My mom stood by me in the corner, her expression helpless. She whispered, “Maya, I’m so sorry. I wish I were more capable.” My nose stung, and my eyes welled up instantly. Mom worked as a server; she’d spent her life bending her back for others. That’s why she pushed me to study hard, hoping I’d never have to bow down to anyone again. Yet, here I was, at my own engagement party, dragging her into public ridicule. I wished she would just yell at me, but Mom never did. She just squeezed my hand tenderly, sighing over and over again. I had nothing to do with the actual engagement party; they were busy securing endorsements and resources for Skylar Brooks. It wasn’t until the end that Nolan and I returned to the Shaw residence. Once home, he went to bed early. I stepped onto the balcony. The night wind chilled me to the bone. I pulled out my phone and asked, “So now what? Do you still want me to stay?” On the other end was Maya from seven years ago. One of us was full of hope for the future; the other’s heart was already a dead husk. “Well, because of the misunderstanding, maybe Senior Shaw is just having a hard time letting go. You finally got engaged, shouldn’t you try to hold on a little longer?” The truth was, I had kept the phone line open the whole day. Even after hearing everything, she was still weakly trying to convince me. It was understandable—a story heard is never as deep as an experience lived. The Maya of seven years ago knew only the Senior Shaw who patiently tutored me and chased away the creeps. After a long pause, I let out a soft sigh. “Oh, you mentioned that Senior Shaw and I had a child, right? That baby should be seven now. Can I hear their voice?” Her voice was filled with excitement, but my reply was ice-cold: “He died years ago.” Skylar had debuted by then, and she had a few loyal fans on campus. They deliberately waited until I was heavily pregnant and pushed me down a flight of stairs. The child who was about to be born died. Nolan planned to seek justice, but Skylar, who was abroad, called and pleaded for her fans. Nolan dropped the case and forbade me from calling the police. He said it was my own karma that killed the child. The matter was ultimately dismissed. I stayed in the hospital alone, watching the sun rise and set, my eyes vacant. The doctor said I had severe depression and told me to relax and communicate more with my family. I nodded but told no one. For five years, no one ever noticed. 2 When I woke up the next day, I found Mrs. Shaw dining with Skylar Brooks downstairs. Skylar had returned to the country two years ago. The moment she did, Nolan mobilized all of the Shaw family resources to make her a star. Mrs. Shaw went further, bringing her home right in front of me, lamenting that she had been betrayed by an unscrupulous person like me. The two were deep in conversation when I approached. Skylar suddenly said, “I heard the Shaws have an heirloom bracelet passed down to the daughter-in-law. Auntie, why haven’t you given it to Maya?” Mrs. Shaw snorted. “Does she deserve it? A low-class opportunist. She’d contaminate the Shaw family’s heirloom.” Skylar looked troubled, though her eyes betrayed a hidden joy. “Auntie, she and Nolan are engaged. Isn’t that a bit harsh?” “What’s harsh about it? Skylar, rest assured, you are the only daughter-in-law in my heart. I will never recognize that woman.” Mrs. Shaw was likely quite angry. Despite the child being gone and Skylar having returned, Nolan still hadn’t dumped me and was even engaged to me. I was long used to this. I silently moved aside and started scrolling through my phone. The moment I opened an app, the top headline read: “Hot Actress Skylar Brooks Rumored to be the Future Daughter-in-Law of the Shaw Group.” Skylar had even liked the post with her private account. The comments section exploded with excitement; everyone was gushing about the perfect couple. Skylar’s fans were especially smug. “Our Skylar is simply the best! She even bagged the CEO, Mr. Shaw!” I quietly posted a comment: “But I often see Mr. Shaw with someone else. That must be his girlfriend.” The moment I posted, Skylar’s fans descended on me. “What kind of nobody is this, trying to steal our Skylar’s man?” “Sweetie, you must be mistaken. If he had a girlfriend, why would this trending topic stay up for so long?” “Exactly! Our Mr. Shaw must be jealous of all the handsome guys around Skylar and is secretly asserting his claim.” The replies multiplied. I scrolled down, losing strength with each one. I thought I had gotten used to this over the years, but my chest still felt heavy and suffocated. They were right. Wasn’t all this happening with Nolan’s silent permission? On the phone, seven-years-ago Maya kept trying to comfort me in a soft voice. She said those fans were talking nonsense and that Senior Shaw would definitely handle it if he knew. Nolan used to have many admirers. Once, when I was targeted by vicious rumors, he took me up to the person and slapped them. But that was a long time ago. “Senior Shaw…” I let out a short, cynical laugh. “Do you really think your Senior Shaw will care?” My past and future selves made a bet. The bet was simple: if Nolan made me suffer for Skylar one more time, she would lose. I demanded she stay away from Nolan and Skylar from now on. I was going to change the future from the past. A week later, the five-years-ago me would refuse the party invitation, cut off all contact with Nolan, graduate successfully, and secure my spot in grad school, never again having to live under a cloud of shame. 3 That evening, Nolan returned smelling heavily of alcohol. I immediately confronted him and demanded an explanation. He glanced at me. “Do you have to make a scene over something so trivial?” The hand hidden beneath my sleeve was trembling uncontrollably. In five years, this was the first time I couldn’t help but shout at him, “Nolan Shaw, if you can’t let her go, then just be with Skylar Brooks openly!” As soon as I finished, Nolan sneered. “Skylar and I have always been honest. It’s you who loves to play games and resort to cheap tricks behind people’s backs.” “Senior…” Nolan suddenly froze. It was the younger Maya’s voice calling out. Exhausted, I continued, “I don’t want to be trapped in the past anymore, trapped here.” I didn’t want to be plagued by nightmares every night, filled with the sound of a baby’s cries. I didn’t want to live like a criminal, subject to abuse from anyone. I had told them I truly went back to my own room, so why did no one believe me? Unexpectedly, Nolan’s face darkened menacingly. “Maya Shaw, you low-class tramp who slept your way into a man’s bed back then, what are you trying to prove now with this innocent act?” He gripped my wrist tightly, pinning me down on the bed. I struggled, begging him to stop, but Nolan’s movements became increasingly brutal. Everything only stopped when my lip was bitten through, and a tearing pain ripped through my body. Nolan, drunk, fell asleep quickly. I forced myself to get up, a bitter smile on my face, and announced, “Maya, you lost.” The other side was silent. After a long moment, she replied softly, “I understand. I will honor the bet.” … The next day was Mother’s Day. I went to my mom’s workplace, planning to pick her up to go out. I never expected three thugs to storm in and beat my mom to the ground. I rushed forward in a panic, trying to shield her. The leader of the thugs shouted, “You old fool! You raised a daughter who’s a homewrecking opportunist! I’ll beat you to death!” Bystanders who were about to help stopped, eyeing my mom and me strangely. The other two thugs dragged me away, pinning me to the floor, as the first one started landing punches on my mom. “Take it out on me! Let go of my mom!” I watched my mom get beaten, covered in blood, pleading until her voice faded. I cried, desperately yelling for help, but no one would intervene until security guards finally arrived and chased them off. Trembling, I called 911. At the hospital, a nurse told me they were short-staffed and the lead surgeons were all tied up in operations. I remembered the Shaw family knew several doctors. I rushed to find them, only to discover they were all gathered in one area. Skylar Brooks had an incident on set—she’d suffered a minor cut and was severely shaken. Nolan, worried sick, had summoned everyone to examine her. Outside the room, I watched Skylar tremble in Nolan’s arms. He was whispering reassurances, his expression filled with intense worry. I burst into the room, my voice hoarse. “Nolan, my mom is dying. Please, I need one doctor.” Skylar’s eyes immediately welled up. She clutched Nolan’s sleeve. “My heart feels so bad.” Nolan’s gaze was as sharp as a knife. “Maya, Skylar is like this, and you have to act out of jealousy now? Even using your mom as an excuse?” I dropped to my knees, grabbing his sleeve, pleading, “It’s true! I’m not lying! My mom is in critical condition!” Nolan said impatiently, “Wait.” Time ticked by agonizingly slowly. My heart was on fire. Skylar was completely unharmed but kept saying she felt unwell. Finally, I saw a doctor free up. Just then, the alarm for the emergency room blared. Ignoring everything, I sprinted toward the sound, but when I arrived, I watched the nurse slowly pull a white sheet over a body. The doctors and nurses apologized to me. I collapsed, looking at my mom lying motionless in a pool of blood. It was Mother’s Day. I was supposed to take her out to celebrate. After a while, Nolan arrived. He froze at the sight, realizing I hadn’t lied. He walked over to apologize, but I couldn’t hear a word. Just then, I received a call from the police station, notifying me that the three thugs involved in the assault had been apprehended. I wiped my tears and rushed over. I wouldn’t let them get away with it. Nolan also promised to help me seek revenge. But when we got there, we found Skylar Brooks already present. The moment she saw me, she rushed forward and knelt before me, crying. She claimed the man was her brother, who only wanted to defend her, and was then incited by others to do such a terrible thing. “Maya, I will compensate you. Please, let my brother go. He’s applying for a government job.” I shoved her hand away, feeling only absurdity. When she realized pleading with me was useless, she turned to Nolan. Nolan agreed. “Maya, let it go.” I screamed in complete breakdown, “How dare you tell me to let it go! I’ll never forgive any of them!” “Maya! If you hadn’t caused those problems years ago, your mother wouldn’t have been attacked!” My mind went blank. For the last time, I explained weakly, “How many times do I have to tell you, I went back to my own room that night!” 4 In the end, Nolan forced me to sign a letter of forgiveness. He said from now on, everything that happened in the past was to be forgotten. But what kind of sin requires the lives of my child and my mother as compensation? I walked alone, recounting what just happened to the Maya of seven years ago. This time, she didn’t say a word. If she had been reluctant at the start of the bet, now only a similar deathly silence remained in her heart. I hung up and found myself at the riverbank, where a drowning child was struggling in the water. Without a second thought, I jumped in and pulled him out. But as I reached the bank, my body gave out, and I passed out. I was unconscious for six days. When I woke up, I found Nolan by my bedside, his face haggard from lack of sleep. “Maya, I told you, let the past go. I will take good care of you, in your mom’s stead.” I paused, realizing he thought I had deliberately tried to drown myself to blackmail him. But who wanted his care? Who agreed to forget the past? Nolan signaled, and his and Skylar’s friends entered. They chatted with me in a friendly way and wished me happiness. But as soon as they left, I heard them gathering in the hallway to comfort Skylar: “Skylar, don’t let that manipulative opportunist get to you.” “Yeah, pulling a suicide stunt for sympathy. Disgusting.” “We’ll never forgive her for the nasty things she’s done.” It was ridiculous. Who needed their forgiveness? Under the guise of avenging Skylar, they mocked and abused me, got my scholarship and grad school recommendation canceled, and led the entire school to isolate me. After I started working, they would show up at every company I worked for and cause a scene, preventing me from getting promoted for five years, leaving me permanently in the lowest-level jobs. If I showed the slightest resistance, they would run to Nolan and play the victim. They called me a “green tea” (a phrase I’d translate as a ‘faux-innocent drama queen’), but they were the truly hypocritical and disgusting ones. Thankfully, I was about to be rid of them all. I checked the date. Tomorrow. It was finally going to end. I was discharged that day after being cleared by the doctors. Back at the Shaws’, the servants were much more respectful, and even Mrs. Shaw grudgingly spoke to me. Nolan probably thought this was the happy ending he was giving me. He and Skylar had forgiven me, and my social circle was willing to accept me. But for me, this was just the beginning. That night, after Nolan fell asleep, I made a phone call. The voice on the other end was relaxed. “Skylar Brooks has invited me to that gathering many times today, but I keep refusing. Don’t worry, I’m staying away from Nolan, from all of them.” She let out a long breath and finally said, “So, Maya, go forward.” My mother named me Maya, which means “awakening.” She wanted me to always have the resilient courage to endure winter and thrive in the spring. I shouldn’t be trapped here, carrying this heavy chain. That night, I stood on the balcony, watching the dawn break. In the final moments, I turned, looked at Nolan sleeping on the bed, and said calmly, “Nolan, goodbye. We will never meet again.” The next day, Nolan woke up and frowned at the empty space beside him. He’d had a nightmare yesterday. He dreamed I was disappearing, and he couldn’t hold onto me no matter what. Nolan quickly got up, looking around the room, feeling like something was significantly missing. He went downstairs and saw Mrs. Shaw elegantly eating breakfast at the dining table. “Mom, where’s Maya?” Mrs. Shaw looked at him strangely. “Who are you talking about, Maya?” He looked up at his mother, his voice laced with anxiety. “Mom, Maya Shaw is my fiancée. We’ve been together for seven years. Do you really not remember her at all?” Mrs. Shaw frowned, walking over to check his forehead. “Son, are you running a fever? Where did you get a fiancée?”

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The day before my brother—my adopted brother, that is—took his own life, he drove his car straight into my oldest sister’s legs, shattering one of them. Then, he climbed thirty stories and jumped. As he lay in the blood-soaked pavement, he smiled up at me, a sickeningly bright expression on his face. “Cody,” he whispered, his voice a ragged gasp. “I’ll save you a spot.” I knew what Damian was doing. He was opting out of the world, choosing oblivion over existence. That night, I bought a small birthday cake and posted the news of my own impending departure in the family group chat. Claire, my doctor sister, the one who always kept a sterile distance, replied with a single, cold emoji. Scarlett, the international music icon, sent a venomous voice note. “If you’re going to kill yourself, just do it already! All you ever do is envy Brooks. If you drop dead today, I’ll live-stream myself shaving my head and singing karaoke to my own greatest hits—badly!” Mom and Dad—Dana and Victor Harrington—were silent. Instead, they flooded the chat with dozens of pictures of Brooks at a world-class Formula One exhibition, celebrating his lavish eighteenth birthday. Only Charlotte, the one who’d just had her leg mangled, the CEO of the family’s conglomerate, sent a cascade of choked-up messages. “Cody, you know where Damian went, don’t you?” “I’m begging you. Tell me…” I didn’t reply to any of them. I simply ate the cake, alone, in the quiet of my room. Because soon, I would be reunited with my real parents and my real sister. 1 After finishing the slice of cake I’d cut, I opened the system interface and selected my method of suicide. [Host, are you absolutely sure you want to select this method?] [Death via this route will be extremely painful. I suggest you reconsider.] The system’s mechanical voice prompted me, a sterile warning against the agonizing reality. I ignored it, clicking ‘Confirm.’ With the deed done, I finally checked my phone. The family chat was still scrolling. Brooks’s eighteenth birthday was a grand event—a coming-of-age celebration worthy of the Harrington name. Claire, the ER surgeon, had rescheduled multiple surgeries to dedicate an entire day to him. Scarlett, the A-list celebrity, had canceled a national stadium tour just to serenade him with a personal birthday song. And Charlotte? The eldest, the one lying in a hospital bed with a shattered leg, was still posting tearful voice notes. “Cody, please, just tell me where Damian went, okay?” “I’m pleading with you…” I listened to a few, then shut the phone off. I tossed the remaining cake into the bin and, following the system’s coordinates, headed to the designated location. Seattle General Hospital. As I walked toward the entrance, my phone abruptly rang. “Cody Harrington, what did you say to Brooks?!” “Why did he just attempt suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills!” Scarlett’s furious scream pierced my ear. I held the phone, my face blank, trying to recall—how many times had this been? How many times had I been slandered, framed, or made the scapegoat? I couldn’t remember. The number was too high to count. “Did he die?” I asked plainly, hanging up before the expected torrent of curses could begin. Walking into the hospital, I found a quiet spot to wait for the system’s suicide timer to tick down. I had barely settled when a sharp sting flared on my cheek. Slap. “Cody Harrington, you are beyond defiant!” Claire, rigid in her pristine white coat, glared at me, rage blazing in her eyes. “I thought you were merely a spoiled delinquent, but I see now you harbor genuine malice! You’re the son of a trafficker and a rapist, aren’t you? The trash genes always surface!” “Eighteen years in the Harrington home, and you’re still nothing but a piece of low-born garbage!” “Get on your knees and wait right outside the emergency room until Brooks is safely awake!” Claire grabbed my arm and tried to haul me up. I struggled, and my head slammed hard against the wall. A wave of darkness washed over my vision. I felt a warm liquid trickle down my forehead. Claire, seeing the blood, flinched back, her anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of shock and panic. “Claire Harrington, I have never hurt Brooks,” I stated, my voice steady. “I won’t bear a crime that isn’t mine.” Wiping the fresh blood from my brow, I met her gaze calmly. A look of deep disappointment crossed Claire’s face, followed by a low sneer. “You haven’t hurt Brooks? Then why are you slinking around the hospital at midnight, you coward? Don’t tell me you’re here for a scenic stroll?” “I came here to die,” I said, quietly pursing my lips. 2 The method of suicide I had selected in the system was to stop a mass casualty event—a hospital shooting. Tonight, a man with a knife was scheduled to go on a rampage here, stabbing seven doctors before jumping to his own death. Among his victims was Dr. Aris Thorne, a specialist in women’s cancers and the brilliant mind behind the Women’s Health Equity Act—a major push for medical-grade hygiene products that dramatically lowered infection rates. In my real world, my mother was dying of uterine cancer. That was why the System had found me. My mission was complete. I had achieved the transfer of the necessary medical knowledge. In my final moments, I only wanted to help the women here, in this world. I just hadn’t realized this was Claire’s hospital. “Suicide? Cody Harrington, are you really trying to change tactics and garner sympathy through death?” “Who taught you this trick? Your buddy who threw himself off a building?” “I’ll tell you this: Damian was a psycho, and you’re the same pathetic low-life!” Scarlett marched over, holding her phone aloft to display a breaking news headline. “‘Suicide of Construction Worker Shames Heiress Wife: Was He Eclipsed by Her Golden Boy’s Glory?’” She barked out the words. “Cody, look at this. Every word is true. You and Damian are cut from the same cloth—low-born trash. You were swapped at birth, we raised you for eighteen years, and you still can’t measure up to a single strand of Brooks’s hair!” Scarlett slammed her phone down and grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. “Cody Harrington, you are coming with me right now. You will apologize to Brooks. If you do, I’ll consider forgiving you. Otherwise…” “I will expose your true parentage to the entire country. No university will ever touch you.” “Fine.” Scarlett froze, her grip loosening unconsciously. “What did you say?” “I said you’ll never get into a decent college. Do you even understand what that means?” What did it mean? I understood better than anyone. My mother, Elena, had been diagnosed with aggressive cancer three months before my finals. My father and sister had lied, saying she was on an extended vacation to keep the news from me. But I knew. My mother was the heart of our home, the anchor that held us all together. Her favorite saying was, “Without me, this family will fall apart!” I would always smile and agree. “Then you must live to be a hundred, Mom, or we’ll be completely ruined.” I remember the day I secretly followed my father and sister to the hospital. I saw my mother, frail and skeletal from the chemo. Her face was gray, but she held my dad’s hand, asking over and over. “Cody hasn’t found out, right?” “Is Cody doing well at school? I can’t let this derail his college plans. My Cody is going to be a physicist!” I ran from the hospital and cried by the river for three hours. Then I made my decision: I would quit school and spend every last moment with my mother. I didn’t want to miss a second. So, having no college was something I deeply understood. “Cody, are you insane?!” Claire burst out, aghast. “Don’t you dream of the MIT Physics Program?” I shook my head, about to speak, when a nurse suddenly came running, frantic. “Dr. Harrington, it’s an emergency!” “Your brother woke up, had a depressive episode, and is threatening to jump!” 3 Brooks Harrington’s depressive episodes were perfectly timed. I scored first place in the statewide practice exams? He’d have an episode. I called home with a 104-degree fever? He’d have an episode. This time, I was not surprised. In the hospital room, he was perched on the window ledge, a fruit knife clutched in his hand. “Mom, Dad, Claire, Scarlett, I’m so scared. I dreamed they beat me again.” “They forced me to eat dog food, and they tortured me every day…” “Why didn’t you find me sooner!” Tears streamed down his face. Brooks’s tragic, broken sobs moved everyone in the room. My father, Victor, the seasoned businessman, had eyes red-rimmed with tears. “Brooks, put down the knife. Come to Daddy.” “You’re home now. You can have anything you want!” My mother, Dana, the picture of a distraught society matriarch, was weeping hysterically. “Brooks, you’re my baby!” “Please, honey, come down!” Brooks mumbled to himself, the knife hovering over his wrist. “But my brother doesn’t like me. He said I don’t deserve to be your son, I don’t belong in the Harrington family…” “I might as well just die!” He wailed, fixing a look of wounded injustice directly on me. “Cody Harrington, did you really say that to him?!” “Who gave you the right, you little snake?!” Scarlett’s palm cracked against my cheek. She grabbed my hair and dragged me over to Brooks. “Brooks, don’t listen to a word he says! You are the true Harrington heir!” “Yes! Cody is not our son. Brooks, you are!” Dana rushed to confirm, her voice thick with sobs. Brooks’s tears finally stopped. He slowly lowered the knife and climbed down from the window. “Good boy, Brooks. Give the knife to Claire. Don’t hurt yourself.” Claire spoke gently, reaching out to take the blade. Suddenly, Brooks let out a piercing shriek. The knife lashed out, aimed at me. Slash! The razor-sharp blade sliced diagonally from my forehead to the corner of my mouth. The burning, searing pain instantly brought me back to my sophomore year. I’d scraped my face after falling off a basketball court. Mom—Elena—had rushed to the school, her eyes filled with distress, whispering over and over: “My sweet boy, don’t cry. It won’t hurt, my sweet boy…” Her gentle voice still echoed in my ears. I stumbled backward, clutching my face, and collapsed onto the floor. “Ah! I didn’t mean to!” “I’m sorry, Cody, I can’t control myself…” Brooks cried pathetically, then dramatically slumped into a faint. Panic erupted. Everyone rushed to Brooks, carrying him out of the room. I lay there on the icy floor, my wound throbbing. “Mom…” I called out for Elena involuntarily. Tears fell, tracing a salty path across the fresh cut, multiplying the pain. I couldn’t stop them. When I first arrived in this world, I was just a placeholder. I was careful and meticulous, focused only on completing my mission to save Elena. But then, the Harringtons began to treat me well. I slowly let down my guard, foolishly believing I had gained two families, two sources of love. Lying there, the stark truth hit me: family love, too, came in different grades. After a few minutes, I fought down the sorrow, covered my wound, and sat up. The system’s alert flashed in my sight. [Medical Event T-Minus 30 Minutes!] [Host, proceed to the designated location and complete the transfer!] 4 The red letters screamed in my vision. I found a nurse to quickly apply a bandage to the deep gash on my face, and then I headed for the exit. As I walked out of the treatment room, Claire, her face shadowed with fury, strode up to me. She grabbed my arm in a vise-like grip. “Cody Harrington, did you leak the information online?!” she ground out, her teeth clenched. “How could you be so utterly malicious! You had someone expose Brooks’s past, and you deliberately fabricated rumors that he was assaulted by multiple men?!” “Cody, when did you become this monster?” Her eyes were filled with disgust. Claire forcefully yanked me in the opposite direction. “You’re coming with me to kneel and apologize to Brooks! I won’t shield you this time!” My wrist screamed in protest. I struggled desperately, but Scarlett rushed over and grabbed a handful of my hair. “Still trying to squirm out of it?!” she shrieked. “We indulged you too much!” They dragged me forward. A low moan escaped my lips. “Sister…” The two women paused momentarily, but immediately recovered. “Don’t try to appeal to me, Cody!” “Calling me ‘sister’ won’t work!” I kept calling out. Sister. But I wasn’t calling them. I was calling Rose—my real sister—the one in the other world. The one who, when I was mocked as a mute because I spoke slowly, had fought the bullies, returning with a bloody face but a look of heroic pride, promising me that anyone who dared to mess with me again would be beaten until they ate dirt. Thinking of my family waiting for me in the other world, I gritted my teeth. I slammed my head back against the wall. Again and again. Blood erupted. “Cody, are you insane!” “What are you doing?!” “Stop it right now!” Claire and Scarlett’s screams filled my ears, which had already begun to ring. “Let go of me!” “Let me leave!” I cried out weakly. Brooks, Dana, and Victor emerged from the room. They froze, staring at my blood-soaked face. “Cody…” “What is this?” Before they could say more, Brooks suddenly burst into tears. “Cody looks so scary…” “Cody, why are you cyberbullying me online?” As Brooks wept, the shock and pity in their eyes vanished, replaced by a profound disappointment and condemnation. “Cody Harrington, what has happened to you?” “You’ve disappointed us beyond measure!” They shouted their accusations. I stood up, blood streaming down my face, and heard the system’s sharp, final warning. [Host! You must proceed to the designated location immediately!] [Failure to do so will prevent World Transfer!] Panic surged. I pushed past them, running toward the stairwell. Behind me, I heard Claire and Scarlett’s angry, synchronized ultimatum. “Cody Harrington, if you take one more step, we will disown you!” “Good.” “What did you say?” “I said I’m giving you back your life!” I turned, offered a quick, sad smile, and didn’t stop. On the ground floor, a middle-aged man with a twisted expression pulled a knife from his bag. He screamed maniacally, “Where are the doctors!” “Where is the staff in this damned hospital!” Bystanders shrieked and scrambled backward. I ran against the fleeing crowd, pulling out my own concealed folding knife. Shick! The man’s brutal knife pierced my heart, then plunged into me repeatedly—seven times. I drove my small knife with the last of my strength into his temple. His eyes widened in shock, and he fell backward. I laughed, blood bubbling from my mouth, and crumpled onto the floor. “Elena, I’m home…” “Cody is coming home…” “Help! Someone call a doctor!” Bystanders screamed. The man was finally restrained by a group of staff and security. Minutes later, the hospital loudspeaker blared. “Emergency! Emergency! Code Black: Active Threat on the ground floor. Multiple casualties!” Up on the third floor, the Harringtons froze. Claire, the doctor, reacted first. “A shooting! Someone needs help!” She looked frantic, ready to rush down to the ER. A nurse burst onto the floor, shouting. “Dr. Harrington! It’s your brother!” “It was Mr. Harrington! He stopped the attack.” “But… he was D.O.A. We couldn’t save him.”

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Ten years into my marriage, I had grown accustomed to solitude. Going to the clinic alone, catching a movie or dinner by myself, and even handling the rear-end accident that afternoon—all solo missions. Staring at the birthday cake on the table, I dialed her number, only to be sent straight to voicemail. Aurora—Rory—Knight sent a curt text: “Working.” I lit the single candle, then blew it out, a hollow ritual just for me. My phone screen flared with a trending post: The Dedicated Co-Pilot: Guessing if it’s a honeymoon phase or a married couple? The top comment read: Definitely new love. If it were a husband, he’d be sighing and scrolling through his phone by now. The accompanying photo showed Rory in the driver’s seat, her profile curved into a soft smile. Beside her, a young guy in the passenger seat was taking a mirror selfie. The Saint Christopher’s medal I’d bought for her last year, the one hanging from the rearview mirror, swayed gently in the window. I stared at that familiar, smiling curve of her face for a long time, unmoving. She finally pushed the front door open at two in the morning, placing a sleek watch box on the coffee table. “Happy birthday. Limited edition, I had to pull some strings.” I looked at her, not reaching for the box. “How old is he?” My phone screen was still illuminated with the post. Rory glanced at it, a faint crease forming between her brows. “Zane Abbott is a new project assistant at the firm, very talented. I just happened to be giving him a ride back to his campus. Don’t overthink this.” I stood up, my voice deliberately flat. “How old is he, Rory?” She hesitated. “Twenty-two. He’s in grad school.” I closed my eyes. A dull ache spread through my chest. Ten years. I was thirty-five, and her world now included someone who was barely legal when we got married. “Quite young,” I said, the calmness of my voice foreign even to me. She walked over, pulling me into a hug, a trace of amusement in her tone. “Oh, Wes. Are you actually jealous? He’s just a kid.” A strange, sharp scent—cedar and a hint of citrus—a men’s cologne that was definitely not hers, stung my nostrils. My stomach clenched. I pushed her away. Rory frowned, a flash of impatience in her eyes. “I’ve explained it. Believe me or don’t. I’m exhausted. I’m going to shower.” She was exactly as she always was: no patience left to stay a moment longer or offer a few extra words of reassurance. The bedroom door clicked shut quietly—she couldn’t even summon the energy to slam it anymore. The watch box on the coffee table gleamed with cold light. On impulse, I opened my phone and found Zane’s social media account. His latest post, half an hour ago, was a car-mirror selfie captioned: Thanks, Rory, for the ride home! He was prominently wearing a brand-new mechanical watch. The dial sparkled under the filter. It was identical to the one in the box beside me. She hadn’t even bothered to buy two different watches for her separate lives. That night, I scrolled through every one of Zane’s posts. I also followed a subtle tag to Rory’s burner account, the one I thought she’d abandoned years ago. October 8th: Zane posted a photo of a pair of coveted sneakers, crying emojis attached. Rory’s small account commented: Consider it done. Bringing them by tomorrow. November 3rd: Zane shared a ski resort brochure. Rory commented: Tickets and chalet booked for Chamonix. Taking you over the holidays. December 24th: Zane complained about a tough thesis deadline. Rory replied: Don’t stress. Come over this weekend, I’ll help you structure it. … There was too much. I couldn’t scroll to the bottom. All those nights I thought she was too busy working, too overwhelmed to come home; all her so-called “client dinners” and “emergency meetings;” all the times I ate a cold dinner alone, eventually dumping the untouched portions—they had been filled by another destination, another person who received her softest voice and boundless patience. I used to believe that all marriages settled into this kind of quiet, flat terrain: love morphing into familial comfort, passion receding, leaving only habit and responsibility. We had survived the broke years, living in that cramped studio apartment, sharing a single cup of instant ramen. She’d promised me that once we were rich, she’d give me the best life. Now she was rich. And she was giving the best of her time, her energy, and her resources to someone else. The sky outside began to lighten. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, falling across my body, offering no warmth. Rory emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a sharp power suit, her makeup flawless. Seeing me still on the sofa, clutching my phone, she sighed, her tone weary and faintly accusatory: “You didn’t sleep? Wes, what is it that you want? Do you have to be this suspicious? Maybe… I should just call him over and let him explain everything to your face.” I stood up, my legs stiff. “No need.” Her phone chimed immediately. Seeing the caller ID, “Zaney,” she turned instantly, walking towards the balcony. Her voice, when she answered, was gentle in a way I hadn’t heard in years: “What’s wrong, sweetie?… Take a breath. Just tell me. Your advisor rejected the proposal? It’s fine. The core idea is strong, I’ll look over it tonight, we’ll nail it.” “Mmm, I know that coffee shop. I’ll swing by and grab you a tiramisu latte.” “Good. Now, be a good student, and I’ll see you tonight.” She hung up and turned back to me, her expression instantly resuming its practiced, careful neutrality. “I’ll try to be home early tonight. We’ll go out. Where do you want me to make reservations?” The silence in the room was absolute. Our marriage had become like a stagnant pond. You could throw a boulder into it, and it wouldn’t create a single ripple. Before we married, her contact for me was “My Wes,” pinned to the top, starred as a favorite. Three years in, she claimed she needed to unpin it so she wouldn’t miss client messages. Five years in, my contact reverted to my full name: “Wesley Miller.” She could offer patient solace and hands-on help for Zane’s minor academic setback, yet she wouldn’t spare ten minutes to hear about my day. The luxury car dealership called to say my car was fixed. I walked into the bathroom and looked at my reflection: dark circles, stubble, a tired, ravaged expression. I was thirty-five, my physique hadn’t gone soft, but the light in my eyes had long since dimmed. This marriage felt like a shrinking cage, slowly suffocating me. At the dealership, while signing paperwork, I overheard two young sales associates chatting. “That deal yesterday was smooth. Ms. Knight bought two new models, said one was for her, the other was a gift.” “For who? That’s a huge purchase.” “Some handsome young guy, Zane Abbott? A social media influencer, too. Ms. Knight was smiling the whole time. He even teased her about wanting matching cars in different colors, and she agreed instantly.” My signing hand paused briefly, then completed my signature. Back on the road, familiar city streets flew past. The bitterness in my heart spread, quiet and invasive, making even my breath catch with dull pain. Rory and I met at fifteen in the foster care system and married at twenty-five. We went from being two penniless orphans to owning a home, a car, and a respectable career in this city. She had become sharp, brilliant, and magnetic. I, however, seemed to have stayed put, tending to our home, playing the “man behind the curtain.” I used to take pride in that, seeing it as a different kind of love. Now I understood. The person who stays put is always the one left behind. I pulled over by a quiet neighborhood park and sat on a bench. In the distance, a young couple was flying a kite, the girl’s laughter bright and clear. Youth was a precious thing. Their love could be declared without caution, without calculation, without suspicion. My phone rang. It was Rory. “The insurance company contacted me about the renewal. They happened to mention you had an accident yesterday?” Her voice held a note of tight suspicion. “Yeah, a rear-end. It wasn’t serious.” I watched the couple, my voice even. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her tone held a flicker of actual concern, perhaps mixed with irritation at being kept out of the loop. “I handled it myself,” I said. The line was silent for a few seconds, then the dial tone hummed. There was a time when she was my entire sense of security. Whatever problem I had, she was the first person I thought of. Once, during a hurricane, the windows leaked and the power went out. I called her, terrified. She was on a business trip. “Wes, you’re a grown man. Can’t you handle a minor emergency?” Her voice, strained through the static of the storm, was laced with exhaustion and impatience. “I’m swamped with clients and paperwork. Can you stop bothering me with these trivial things?” After that, I never asked her for help again. When I had acute appendicitis, I signed myself in for surgery. When my father died of a heart attack, I managed the funeral alone. Even the surgery at the beginning of the year… I didn’t tell her about that, either. Dusk was falling. I got home, ordered takeout, and collapsed on the sofa. My body was heavy with fatigue, but my mind was wide awake. A key turned in the lock just after eight. Rory was home early. In the last two years, she rarely walked through the door before nine. Once, we went three months under the same roof without exchanging a single word. She walked towards me and took my hand. Her palm was warm, but the contact made me profoundly uncomfortable. “Wes,” she looked at me, her eyes filled with a complicated mix of guilt and an attempt to control the narrative. “We’re married. Any issues, we need to talk through them, face them together. When you bottle things up like this, it makes my life difficult.” I withdrew my hand. When was the last time we touched like this? I couldn’t remember. Kissing felt like a memory from a past life. We had been sleeping in separate rooms for two years. We were not a couple; we were highly familiar roommates. “Rory, I truly can handle things myself,” my voice remained perfectly calm. She suddenly flared up. “Then what do you want from me? You take on everything yourself! Do you even need me as a wife anymore?” I clenched my fist, fighting to maintain my composure. “Isn’t that what you told me?” “You said it yourself: don’t bother you with things I can manage alone.” “You said that though we are married, we are first and foremost independent individuals who shouldn’t be overly reliant on each other.” Rory looked choked. After a long pause, she rasped, “Because of things I said years ago? You’ve been keeping score this whole time? Wes, when did you get so petty?” It wasn’t that I was keeping score. It was that every time I tried to communicate, she was absent or dismissive. It was that the desire to share had died a slow, painful death through endless silence and deflection. It was that she often ignored my calls, and was always “busy” when I needed her the most. Truly, I had become used to being alone. “Rory,” I looked into her eyes. “Zane needs you more, doesn’t he? He’s young, vibrant, full of potential. He gives you that fresh feeling, that sense of accomplishment. A single call from him, and you drop everything.” Zane’s presence was so complete that, earlier this year, when I was lying alone on the operating table, I had to sign the “Family Member” consent line myself. The anesthesiologist had confirmed right before lifting the needle: “Mr. Miller, is your family member not here…?” “She’s very busy,” I’d said. My words hit her like a physical blow. Her voice immediately rose. “Must you be so cynical? Wes, you were never like this!” “Zane is a valued junior colleague. What’s wrong with me mentoring him, taking care of him as his boss? Must you always assume the worst?” I laughed, a quiet, humorless sound. “Mentoring him by buying him a luxury car? Mentoring him by taking him skiing in Chamonix? Mentoring him while I was unreachable the week my father died because you were taking him to see a musical in London?” “Rory, what’s the point of this self-deception?” Her face flushed crimson, but before she could retort, the doorbell rang. A bright, youthful voice called from the hall: “Delivery! Takeout is here!” I opened the door. It was Zane Abbott. Twenty-two, tall, wearing the season’s trendiest hoodie and ripped jeans. His hair was perfectly styled, his face brimming with youthful energy and collagen. He held my takeout bag, his smile wide and clear—and in his eyes, a flicker of transparent contempt and provocation aimed directly at me. “Mr. Miller? Hi, I’m Zane Abbott, Rory’s assistant.” He extended his hand in a casual gesture. My gaze dropped to his wrist. He was wearing a watch, the dial catching the hall light with a hard, cold sheen. It was my wedding watch. It had mysteriously disappeared six months ago. I’d looked everywhere. Rory had vaguely suggested it might have been accidentally swept into the garbage and promised to buy me a new one. Now, it was on his wrist. Zane followed my gaze, his smile deepening. He shook his wrist slightly. “Nice, right? Rory gave it to me. Said it was a reward for my great performance during the internship.” He handed over the bag. “Your BBQ. Though, honestly…” He scanned me up and down, a show of “concern” masking his malice. “Mr. Miller, at your age, eating heavy, fatty, salty food this late is really bad for your heart and liver. You should really think about healthy eating.” I took the bag. Then, directly in front of him, I walked to the trash can and dropped it. It landed with a dull thud. Zane’s smile froze. Then his eyes welled up, and he turned to Rory, a sudden wave of wounded vulnerability washing over him. “Rory… I was just trying to be helpful… Does Mr. Miller hate me?” Rory instantly stepped forward, shielding him with her body. She glared at me, her eyes blazing. “Wes! What is the meaning of that? Zane was kind enough to bring this up for you, and you just waste it and throw a fit?!” Zane clutched her sleeve, whispering, “Rory, please don’t fight with Mr. Miller. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have said anything…” “He’s young, he speaks without thinking, he meant no harm! Why are you punishing him?” Rory looked at me, her face full of blame and disgust. “Wasting food, treating someone who did you a favor like garbage. Wes, when did you become so cruel?” Cruel. A word heavier and sharper than petty. I looked at her, defending Zane, and felt a chilling desire to laugh. I was twenty-two once, too. Full of fire, pinning all my future and dreams on her. I endured the cold, damp studio apartment, sharing instant ramen. When she came home drunk from client dinners, I stayed up all night, making sure she was safe, brewing hangover tea, massaging her temples. When the pressure of her start-up became too much, I held her and told her, “It’s okay. I’m right here.” I swallowed all my exhaustion, insecurity, and hurt, determined to be her unshakable foundation. Now I was thirty-five. My hairline was receding, I had fine lines around my eyes, and my body was starting to give way from lack of movement and long hours. I had become the hazy backdrop of her success story, the “idle husband at home.” Because I threw away a clearly insulting bag of takeout, she called me “cruel.” “Rory,” my voice was terrifyingly soft. “My wedding watch, the one that was ‘lost’ six months ago. Does it look good on him?” Her eyes flickered violently, avoiding mine. Her throat worked. “That… he found it. I was just about to tell him to give it back.” “Is that so?” I nodded. “What a coincidence. To find it in the bottom of my velvet-lined jewelry box, wrapped in flannel cloth, and to know the combination to wear it.” Zane’s face paled. He instinctively tried to tuck the watch under his sleeve. Rory, embarrassed and furious, snapped. “Enough! It’s just a watch, why are you being so relentless? Zane, take it off and give it to him!” Zane bit his lip, feigning immense hurt, and slowly began to unclip the band. The clasp seemed difficult to open, and he “accidentally” fumbled— Clatter. The watch dropped onto the tile floor, face down. I didn’t move to pick it up. Rory saw my indifference, took a sharp breath, and bent down herself. She picked it up and held it out to me, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Wes, here is your watch! Stop picking fights and making a scene, can you please?” I looked at the watch that once symbolized our lifelong vow. The heart I once had—the one that beat so fiercely and brightly for her—sank, sinking into a cold, black abyss where I could no longer feel any pain. Favoritism needs no reason. The scales of her heart had tipped completely. So whatever I did was wrong; whatever Zane did was understandable, regrettable, and forgivable. I was suddenly, profoundly exhausted. Too tired to say another word. “Keep it,” I said. “Or give it to someone who deserves it more.” I paused, and then I spoke clearly, decisively: “Meet me at the County Clerk’s office tomorrow at 2 PM.” “We’re getting a divorce.”

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I lost the drinking game at the alumni reunion. It was one of those stupid, performative dares: “Pretend to be a couple. Date for seven days.” It happened to be exactly one year to the day since we broke up. Cassandra Miller—Cass, as everyone called her—was afraid I’d cling, afraid I’d see it as a second chance. She looked bored, her voice a low, tired murmur as she laid down the ground rules. “It’s just a game, Teddy. Don’t ruin it by being serious.” I nodded in agreement. Under the rules of the challenge, we were forced to act like a real couple—holding hands, sitting close. On the sixth night, Cass got drunk. She buried her head in the hollow of my neck, her perfume flooding my senses. “I agree to get back together,” she slurred. “Isn’t that what you always wanted?” She seemed to have forgotten. That desperate version of me—the one who begged—had died ten months ago. The last time I’d pleaded for us to reconcile was ten months back. That day, she’d finally agreed to meet, but only to defend her mentee. Her impatience was a sharp, undisguised edge. “Stop asking about him plagiarizing your work, Teddy,” she’d said. “I promise I won’t break up with you. Satisfied?” 1 The one who proposed the “Seven-Day Couple Challenge” was Cass’s best friend, Blake Harrington—a certified trust fund baby. After Cass and I both tacitly agreed, Blake immediately changed her mind. “Wait, a week is too short,” she announced, swirling the liquor in her glass. “No one can develop feelings in a week. How about two weeks? I’ll double the prize money to forty thousand.” The prize had just doubled. I was sitting in the corner of the booth, my hands resting on my knees, curling slightly into fists. I looked up and nodded quickly. “I can do that.” Blake grinned. “Perfect. So, then—” “Why are you so exhausting, Blake?” Cass cut her off. Her beautiful eyes were downcast, looking at no one. “A week, or nothing.” She tapped her glass lightly on the coffee table and stood up. “Either one week, or the whole thing is off.” Blake rolled her eyes, muttering about Cass’s perpetually foul mood. I felt a small, familiar pang of disappointment, but I compromised immediately. “A week is fine.” Cass didn’t slow down. She pulled open the VIP room door and walked straight out. The guy next to me nudged my elbow. “Cass just left, dude. Aren’t you going after her?” That was the moment I realized the challenge had officially begun. I immediately chased after Cass. One of Cass’s designer watches probably cost more than the prize money. No one knew why she’d agreed to the challenge at all. 2 On the walk back to the dorms, Cass spoke the first sentence of the day to me. “Teddy.” I was walking beside her and looked up. Cass’s eyes were focused on the path ahead, distant and uninterested. “It’s just a game with a one-week deadline. Being serious will just make it miserable.” I was still calculating the prize money in my head, so I gave a vague nod. “I won’t be serious.” Cass finally tilted her head and looked at me. “Promise you won’t stalk me again?” I froze. All the humiliating, messy memories flooded back. I couldn’t help but offer a wry, defeated smile. I looked her in the eye, my promise genuine. “I promise.” “In a week, we go back to being strangers. I absolutely will not bother you.” The slight tension in Cass’s shoulders seemed to release. We had reached the entrance of her sorority house. Cass stopped. The cold, superior look in her eyes softened slightly. “Then come add me back on the app, boyfriend.” She turned to leave. “I have something to do. Go back to your room. I’ll text you later.” I had no objection. One of the rules of the challenge was that the couple had to cultivate the relationship both online and offline. After the challenge, we were required to share our chat logs as proof that we hadn’t just faked it. After all, forty thousand dollars wasn’t easy money. 3 I added Cass back on my phone after ten months. The memory of her deleting me the first time was still vivid. It was the seventh day after Cass’s abrupt, devastating breakup. The message thread was nearly covered in the green of my frantic messages, and she finally responded with a single text. I could feel her sheer impatience radiating through the screen. “Are you done yet?” She was so utterly calm; it made me feel like a complete lunatic. The Calculus professor was yelling excitedly into his microphone, but I couldn’t hear a word. I typed quickly. “I just want to know why you broke up with me. Is that so hard?” Cass: “I just didn’t want to date anymore.” Heartbroken, I still refused to give up. “Are you still mad because I got upset last time?” “I won’t ever do that again, okay?” “Cass, I’m sorry. Please don’t break up with me.” “I really love you.” I never got to send that last message. Cass’s patience had run out, and she blocked me immediately. I stared blankly at the red exclamation mark. My chest tightened, my heart painfully constricted, making it hard to breathe. As soon as the class bell rang, I grabbed my books and bolted out of the lecture hall, racing to Cass’s building. She walked out of the classroom with a guy, their backs to me. His name was Ronan, a mentee in my department. “Cass,” Ronan said, his voice bright. “I saw you blocked Teddy just now. Why’d you do that, Cass?” “He’s exhausting,” Cass replied, her voice as detached and minimal as always. Ronan was younger, with a sunny, golden-retriever vibe. “So if I just followed you to class without permission, would I exhaust you, too?” Cass asked languidly, “What do you think?” “I think since I’m so adorable, well-behaved, and kind, you wouldn’t have the heart to actually hate me!” Cass scoffed. “You’re worse than he is.” She probably didn’t even notice that her tone lacked the utter contempt she’d used when she spoke of me moments before. 4 After getting Cass back from blocking, I didn’t return to the dorm immediately. I went to the struggling local animal rescue, the one that was nearly closing its doors. The director and two volunteers looked as worried and stressed as ever. I excitedly told them I’d be getting five thousand dollars in a week. The director hugged me, sobbing. “Teddy, you’re a godsend! You’re our hero!” I was being choked, but I laughed, pulling back. “Alright, alright. Stop worrying about the costs. Get the dogs who need it into the clinic—surgery, IV fluids, whatever it takes!” The director’s tears instantly dried up, and she shot to her feet. “I saw a Golden Retriever limping in the next neighborhood, and I didn’t even dare bring him back! Oh God, I have to go find him right now!” She and the volunteers rushed out. Walking back to campus, I was overjoyed thinking about the more-than-enough prize money. Then I passed the athletic field and saw them. Ronan was crouched next to Cass, his voice low and muffled. “Why are you with him again?” “You said he was annoying, that he made you sick, and that you regretted dating him.” “Cass, do you even know I like you…?” Cass leaned against the wall, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, her beautiful face utterly devoid of emotion. She said nothing. The very first rule of the challenge was that we were not allowed to tell any third party that we were pretending. I wrinkled my nose awkwardly at the word “annoying.” I was somewhat surprised. I had taken a ten-month leave of absence, and they still hadn’t started dating. Ronan didn’t get a response. He stood up and stared into her eyes. “Tell me right now that you don’t like me at all, and I’ll never show up again.” A faint layer of irritation crossed Cass’s face. But as Ronan turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t go.” Cass’s voice was low, sounding slightly down, yet still effortlessly graceful. “I don’t… want you to leave.” Ronan finally cracked a small, hesitant smile. He turned back, leaned down, and kissed Cass lightly on the lips. “You like me a little, too.” “Cass.” “I’ll wait for you. Until the day you’re ready to be with me.” Cass raised a hand, gently pinching his ear, and said nothing. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and quietly walked away. They’d finally talked it out. Ronan probably wouldn’t have to wait long—they’d likely be together within a week. But that had nothing to do with me. I just hoped Cass wouldn’t get too emotionally distracted and terminate the challenge early. Not long after I returned to my room, I received a message from Cass. “Asleep?” I didn’t want to chat, so I lied dismissively. “Just about to.” Cass: “Just got back from returning a book at the Science library.” I yawned, not bothering to call her out. “Cool.” A few minutes later. Cass: “Good night, then?” Saying good morning and good night to each other was a mandatory requirement for cultivating the online relationship—a specific challenge rule. I quickly replied with a good night of my own, eager to end the excruciating conversation. 5 It might have been the first time seeing Cass in ten months. That night, I dreamed of the day I decided to finally let her go. The emotional backlash was lethal. I forced myself to stay rational, to avoid doing anything she disliked. I cautiously tried to please Cass. She wasn’t as resistant as she had been initially. She didn’t even chase me away when I brought my food tray to sit opposite her. I thought the progress bar of my efforts was inching forward. Even slowly was fine. Our mutual friends knew about Cass and me. That’s why, when I was stranded up on the hiking trail and called a friend for help, he pushed the task onto Cass, thinking he was playing matchmaker. “Teddy, I told Cass to go get you.” My foot was injured, I didn’t know the direction, and my phone battery was critically low. All I could do was sit on a rock and wait for Cass. When the battery was almost dead, I called her. I wanted to ask when she would arrive. No answer. The battery drained too fast. I wanted to save the last bit of power to call a friend or 911, but it shut down unexpectedly. I had no choice but to grab a branch, use it as a makeshift crutch, and limp down the hill. I fell a few more times on the way. My ankle swelled even more. But I had to grit my teeth and keep going. I ran into Cass right outside the campus gate, being intimate with Ronan. My clothes were torn by branches. I was covered in dirt, limping and bruised—a complete contrast to the clean-cut Ronan. I was too exhausted from the long walk. My voice came out as a barely audible whisper. “You know, if you couldn’t come, you could have just told me earlier.” Cass’s painted lips curved in a cold question. “So you had to wait for me?” I tugged at my dry lips. She was right, of course. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe before she looked away, her voice as icy as ever. “Stop degrading yourself like this, Teddy.” “It’s embarrassing.” My friend returned from elsewhere and happened upon the scene. He rushed forward, furious, demanding an explanation from Cass: “Didn’t you promise to go pick up Teddy? Did I not tell you his phone was dying?? Do you know how dangerous it is for him to be up on that mountain alone?” Cass was unperturbed, her tone slow and even. “Ronan was hurt, too.” “I can only take care of one of you, understood?” With that, she took Ronan’s arm and walked toward the student health clinic. My friend was livid and tried to argue with her, but I stopped him. At that moment, I suddenly felt that none of it was worth it. I couldn’t blame anyone. I could only blame myself for my own persistent foolishness, for seeking out my own misery. I looked at my friend, sighing. “Forget it.” 6 After that day, I never sought Cass out again. Even if I saw her and Ronan on the street, I would calmly avert my gaze and walk straight past them. Sometimes, thinking of Cass still hurt, a stifling pain in my chest. The withdrawal was unbearable, but I was truly done trying to win her back. Until Ronan plagiarized my thesis proposal and most of my presentation slides, and then won the regional competition with it. I went straight to his faculty advisor and accused Ronan of plagiarism. “This was my final project.” The professor closed the office door and looked at me, exasperated. “Look, I can compensate you, alright? It’s just a school assignment. It’s not like he stole your prize. There’s no need to escalate this and get the award revoked, is there?” His tone shifted to a clear threat by the end. The implication was that if I dared to report Ronan, I could forget about ever receiving a scholarship for the rest of my college career. “Young man, I’ll give you three days to think about it. No rush.” I walked out of the academic building, feeling defeated and lost. Cass was waiting for me below. She took my laptop bag without asking and silently took my hand. “Where are we going?” I asked. Cass didn’t answer. She led me to the artificial lake where we used to take evening walks. It was the most secluded spot, nearly deserted. Cass looked down at me and said softly: “Come here.” “Hug me for a minute.” I didn’t move, staring at her with a blank expression. Cass gave a faint, cynical smile, her eyes subtly lifting. My nerves tightened; I wanted to walk away. But Cass stepped directly into my space and wrapped her arms around me. She gently rubbed my back, just as she used to. “It’s okay.” It had been so long since I’d heard Cass’s voice this gentle. I was so pathetic. The moment she showed the slightest initiative, my heart betrayed me again. “Why is it so hard to fight for what’s mine…” Cass didn’t say much, but she held me tighter. My turbulent emotions slowly began to stabilize. She suddenly tilted her head and lightly kissed my earlobe. “Teddy.” “I won’t break up with you.” My eyes widened. I looked up at her, utterly bewildered. Cass’s expression was so calm, as if she were discussing a trivial matter. “You love me.” “I can agree to get back together.” “There’s just one condition: stop pursuing the issue of Ronan’s plagiarism.” My throat was constricted, choked with an invisible cotton ball, making it impossible to speak. In the silence, I could barely hear the faint music drifting from the campus radio in the distance. [She’s not worth your tears anymore.] [She doesn’t understand your heart, pretends to be calm…] Cass’s voice was utterly cold. “It’s a fair trade.” A trade. She was treating our reconciliation as a transaction, a way to ensure Ronan could keep his award. I think I cried and yelled at Cass for a long time that day. I don’t remember clearly, because I ran a high fever for several days and became seriously ill. My roommate and friends all tried to reason with me: “Why are you being so difficult? Ronan’s advisor has serious connections. What good will come of fighting them?” “Seriously, suck it up once rather than never getting a scholarship again.” While I was recovering, the scholarship results were posted. My name wasn’t on the list. Worse, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. It was severe enough that I needed medication and therapy. I had to take a year off school to recover and get my head straight. As I dragged my suitcase out of the campus gate, I thought: I need to go out there and discover things more beautiful than love.

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My girlfriend, Penelope, has no idea that while she’s been busy flirting with her ‘best friend,’ Felix, I’ve systematically dated every single other woman in her inner circle. Tonight, Felix is drunk, draped across Penny’s lap, and grinning as he jokes with me. “Jaxson, you two have been together long enough. It’s time for someone else to have a turn. Why don’t you just sell her to me cheap?” Penny frowned, calling him an idiot, but the hand looped around his waist only tightened. I smiled, intending to ignore the jab, but a neon overlay of text—the damned subtitle track—suddenly appeared across my vision. [The side character is so annoying. He should know better than to hold onto the three heroines. Just move the plot along so we can get to the why-choose romance!] [He’s just a plot device. The heroines are only interested in him to make the main male lead jealous. Once the main male lead is pissed enough to leave the country, they’ll discover this side character is cheating on all of them, and they’ll send him off to a cartel’s black site to appease the main male lead!] [Serves him right! All three heroines were supposed to be the main male lead’s official pairings, but this interloper, this conqueror, stole them.] [If he knew the main male lead was a reborn character back for revenge, and that the heroines are going to be the ones to send him to the cartel… he’d be crying now!] The captions flashed, sending a spike of dread straight through me. I turned to Penny’s best friend, Felix, and gave him a clear-eyed look. “Sure,” I agreed, my voice even. “Name your price.” 1 Felix Shaw froze, sitting ramrod straight on Penelope Albright’s thighs. He’d only meant to rile me up, as usual, never expecting me to genuinely agree. Penny’s head snapped toward me. Her two best friends, Tori Blake and Kendall “Kenzie” Ashford, looked over with matching expressions of shock. Tori, seated next to me, let out a low, suggestive laugh, her hand sneaking under the table to hook a finger around mine. Kenzie, sitting opposite, was even bolder, casually sliding her foot up my ankle in a silent, calculated invitation. She looked at me with an intensity that felt less like desire and more like a tactical assessment. It was easy to see why Penny loved this silent dance of innuendo with Felix right in front of me. The secret thrill of it was addictive. While Penny was still lost in her ambiguous power play with Felix, I had been silently, strategically carrying on secret affairs with her two friends for months. Any other night, I would be discreetly selecting my lucky lady for the evening. But now, all I could see was the image of myself tied up and facing a battery-powered prod in some jungle black-site. I shivered, shaking Tori’s hand off mine, and giving Kenzie’s leg a clear, dismissive shove with my foot. I glanced up. The caption overlay was pure chaos. “Does the side character have a screw loose? Is he seriously trying to sell his girlfriend secondhand?” “He agreed so fast! So all that simping he did for Penelope was just an act?” “Maybe he’s been planning to dump her and jump straight to the other two all along. He’s a cheating scumbag!” My System, the guide for this hell-mission, was also screeching in my head. “Bro, are you losing it?” “We were so close to completing the Penelope mission! You can’t pull this now! I need that bonus payout, even if you don’t!” I checked the affection scores. Penelope’s score plummeted from 92 to 60. Tori’s and Kenzie’s scores, however, had surged: Tori was now at 93, and Kenzie was at 89. Penelope shot to her feet, her face a storm cloud, nearly sending Felix tumbling to the floor. She glared at me, her voice tight with fury. “What is that supposed to mean? ‘Name your price’?” “Jaxson, what do you take me for? Are you really that desperate for money?” “I am your girlfriend, not a piece of property you can trade or sell!” She demanded an answer, conveniently forgetting that it was her own hand that had been caressing Felix’s waist moments earlier. I crossed my arms and leaned back into the sofa cushions. “Oh, you remember you’re my girlfriend now?” I countered lightly. “You were so deep in that flirt-fest, I thought you two were about to kiss. I figured you’d be happy for me to help you switch boyfriends.” 2 Felix scrambled to his feet to play the mediator. “Jaxson, I was just kidding around with Penny,” he said, all faux sincerity. “You know I’m loose with the ladies; I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t take it seriously.” He poured himself a generous drink and raised the glass with an air of magnanimity. “Here, I’ll take three shots. My apology.” “You’re the bigger man, right? Forgive me?” I looked him dead in the eye. “But I wasn’t joking.” “If you like my girlfriend so much, make an offer. What do you think she’s worth? I’m serious about selling her.” If I weren’t publicly restricted to just Penelope as my official girlfriend, I’d have packed all three of them up and given them to him for free. Penelope’s face cycled from scarlet to ashen. My words had clearly wounded her pride. The comment erupted with insults. [I see it now. This scumbag wants to ditch his current partner AND extort money from the main male lead! He’s so materialistic!] [What is the main male lead waiting for? Agree! Take the socialite and make this dirtbag regret everything!] Felix watched me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He must have been trying to reconcile my current actions with whatever past life memory he was operating on. He was apologizing, but he hadn’t touched the shot glass. I stayed silent, my attention on Tori and Kenzie. The captions were right. As soon as I started putting Felix on the spot, the warmth in their expressions vanished. Their scores hadn’t dropped, but their demeanor had gone instantly cold. Kenzie gave me a chilling warning: “Jaxson, you need to know when to quit.” Tori frowned. “Felix was just making a harmless joke. Don’t be such a sore loser.” Penelope, meanwhile, rushed to shield Felix. “Felix, you don’t have to apologize to him!” She turned, looking down her nose at me, then addressed Felix again. “Since he wants to sell me, agree to it. Whatever the price, I’ll pay it.” Felix’s lips twitched with suppressed delight, but he forced himself to look conflicted. “Fine, Jaxson. This is your call.” “Since you don’t appreciate her, I’ll consider it rescuing a sister. I’m not stealing your girlfriend.” “However, since you’re the one offering Penny to me, you set the price.” He looked resolute. “No matter how high you go, I’ll pay it.” I nodded slowly, scanning Penelope from head to toe, and raised a single index finger to Felix. “One dollar.” 3 “…You said what?” Penelope stared at me, looking utterly bewildered, as if her ears were malfunctioning. Felix’s eyes widened in shock. “Jaxson… are you serious?” “Completely serious,” I repeated, my tone even. “One dollar. Penelope is yours.” Penny’s face was dark with fury. She pulled out her phone, transferred a hundred thousand dollars to me, and bit out a promise. “Jaxson, you initiated this breakup. I hope you don’t regret this later.” I instantly accepted the transfer, and her affection score dropped another significant chunk. Penelope was my first target. Three years ago, needing to hit my mission quota, I took on three notoriously difficult targets at once. When I first met Penelope, her family’s rival had kidnapped her, setting her up to be framed. I risked my life to rescue her, then spent three months playing the perfect, groveling nice guy. I finally passed her loyalty test. She formally introduced me as her boyfriend to her inner circle. That’s when I met my other two targets, Tori and Kenzie, and their perpetually adored male bestie, Felix. I quickly realized all three targets were in the same circle. What could I do? The other two would just have to be my secret side pieces. But soon, Penelope’s score began fluctuating wildly. At first, I worried I wasn’t dedicated enough, splitting my energy among three women. I doubled down on my nice-guy act. Then, I overheard Felix advising her. “Pen, don’t take this the wrong way, but that Jaxson guy is clearly a gold-digging dirtbag chasing your family’s money.” “He probably even orchestrated that whole kidnapping, just so he could be the hero and worm his way into the Albright fortune. You need to watch out for him.” Penelope frowned, arguing, “Don’t be ridiculous, he’s not like that.” She defended me, but her score immediately dropped by 20 points. That’s when I realized who the real problem was: Felix. 4 After Penelope and Felix stormed out, the comment was in full celebration. [Congrats to the main male lead for securing Heroine #1!] [That’s my boy! He snagged the elite socialite that easily! Getting the other two should be a breeze now!] [Don’t celebrate too soon. Tori is an A-list actress, and Kenzie’s family runs a powerful syndicate. They won’t be easy. Plus, they’re still obsessed with that scumbag.] [Who cares? Their true love is the main male lead. The side character is just a temporary physical need. They’ll come back to the main male lead eventually.] With Penelope gone, Tori and Kenzie turned their full attention to me. Kenzie’s voice was icy. “Felix has a difficult personality. Don’t hold it against him.” It was a veiled threat: Don’t you dare cause him trouble. Kenzie was the syndicate heiress. Of the three, she was the one I feared the most. There were only two outcomes for anyone who crossed her: a tidy death or a very messy one. I knew from the start she was only interested in my body and my looks. She thought she was the one playing the cruel, dominant partner in our forced affair. She had no idea everything was a meticulously planned seduction on my part. This classic, terrifying Queenpin, who practically wrote her own laws, followed the traditional route of an abusive power dynamic. If Felix ever cried to her, I was made to grovel all night, whether it was my fault or not. If anything was wrong with Felix, I was immediately dragged in for blood work or checking my donor eligibility. In her presence, I played the role of the obedient, well-behaved pet, compliant in everything, never resisting. But as long as Penelope was the official girlfriend, Kenzie’s affection score hovered, never climbing very high. The System, however, now chimed that Kenzie’s score had jumped 20 points. She must have noticed her cold tone. Her voice softened slightly. “I know you felt disrespected by the situation. Be a good boy, and I’ll make it up to you later.” Tori’s gaze darted suspiciously between us. Before they could say another word, I quickly stood up from the sofa, made a hasty excuse, and fled the party. When Penelope was the official girlfriend, Tori and Kenzie maintained the necessary secrecy about our relationships. Now that the shield was gone, what would happen if those two started comparing notes? For the sake of my life, I needed to kick these two poison targets out of my system immediately. 5 A few days later, Penelope publicly announced her engagement to Felix, buying three full days of headlines to celebrate the news. The System hadn’t stopped buzzing in my head for days. “Do you realize how low Penelope’s score fell? Do you want your bonus or not?!” I checked my phone. All three women had texted me. Penelope sent an electronic wedding invitation, reminding me that I was the one who would regret this. Tori sent a link to her live reality show, promising a surprise for me during the broadcast. Kenzie scheduled a meeting for that evening, ready to deliver on her “compensation.” The System sighed in relief. “Well, at least we still have two targets. Tori and Kenzie’s scores are high. If you just handle this right…” Before it could finish, I opened Kenzie’s chat and fired off a single text: “We’re done.” I immediately scrolled to the delete option, blocked her, and wiped her number. I was about to copy-paste the message to Tori when the System screamed again. “Do not delete! Host, you cannot delete!” “You spent three years on this! Early mornings and late nights, just to cultivate these three women! Now you only have one left, and her score is about to max out. You can’t give up now!” My finger hovered. Tori’s score wasn’t something I had achieved through simple nice-guy tactics. To be honest, walking away felt painful. She was the most difficult one to crack. But my top priority now was to make all their scores hit 0, cut all ties, apply for mission failure before they sent me to the black site, and restart with new targets. The call chime jolted me out of my thoughts. When Tori’s video call popped up, I fumbled. My thumb hit the Delete Contact button. Oh, well. That’s it. I immediately searched for Tori’s reality show. 6 The show was in the middle of a game segment where the losing contestant had to call the first person on their contact list. On the live feed, Tori looked down at her phone, her expression clearly disturbed. She forced a laugh for the camera, attempting to explain. “It hung up automatically… maybe he’s busy.” A young artist next to her, utterly lacking in self-preservation, leaned over and pointed, his tone innocently sincere. “But wait, Tori. The message you sent has a red exclamation mark next to it. It looks like he blocked you.” The entire set fell silent. Tori quickly flipped her phone over. Before the screen went dark, the blazing red exclamation mark and her pet name for me—My Baby—flashed across the camera. The live stream immediately cut out. The director stiffly announced a technical error and suspended the recording. Within minutes, the terms “Tori Blake Blocked,” “Tori’s Civilian Boyfriend,” and “The Red Exclamation Mark” were trending. “Tori is definitely dating! Her pet name for him was ‘Baby’! I have the screenshot!” “I heard a rumor she’d been dating him for a long time and was planning to announce it tonight. To get blocked on live TV? That is epic drama.” Then came the bigger bombshell. Someone recognized me. “Wait a minute, that avatar looks familiar… didn’t Tori call out some gold-digging ex of one of her friends recently? It was the same avatar, I think?” “The scumbag who got cyberbullied? No way! Tori hated that guy!” “Holy sh*t, seriously? I have a feeling there’s a massive scandal coming.” The trending topics were yanked down after just ten minutes. Refreshing the page showed a blank void. Only one person had the power and money to pull that off so fast. Kenzie. An unknown number called. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I need an explanation.” Kenzie hung up, her voice cold. The phone immediately rang again, two numbers simultaneously competing for my attention: Tori and Penelope. Penelope’s affection score spiked to 99, then dove to a negative number, eventually becoming too unstable to report. The System alarm was blaring at maximum volume. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I stood in front of the lock-screen monitor and saw three women standing outside my door.

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