Author: Momo Chan

The $1,250.00 deduction. Success. I stared at the paycheck stub, reading the line item three times. The memo read: Dept. Retreat – Split Cost. But I never went. I didn’t request time off; I wasn’t even told it was happening. I opened my phone and scrolled through the department group chat. Nothing about a trip. Not a single notification. I switched to Instagram, where my feed was already saturated with colleagues’ posts. Blue skies, ocean waves, grilling, bonfires. The captions were all variations of the same saccharine sentiment— “The Department Family! Love these guys!” The family. I managed a small, dry laugh. 1. I’d worked in this department for three years. Three years. I hadn’t taken a single sick day, and I’d never once been late. I was the one who logged the most overtime, the one who handled the messiest, most tedious tasks. But now, looking at that deduction, I suddenly felt like a punchline. “Paige Miller, could you sign off on your pay stub, please?” Ms. Davis from Accounting handed me the paper, her expression utterly neutral. I pointed to the offending line: “What is this $1,250.00 for?” “The department retreat. Split cost.” “I didn’t go.” Ms. Davis paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “You didn’t? Wasn’t it mandatory for the whole team?” I stayed silent. She checked her computer. “The system shows your manager submitted a full roster, including your name.” “Who submitted the roster?” “Gillian Shaw. Your manager.” I nodded slowly, took the stub, and walked out of the accounting office. Gillian was our Department Head, promoted to Associate VP just this year, five years ahead of me on the corporate ladder. I stopped by her cubicle. She was sipping yogurt, and when she saw me, she offered a practiced, bright smile. “Paige, everything okay?” “Gillian, why wasn’t I notified about the department retreat?” Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “You were notified, sweetie. It was in the group chat.” “I didn’t receive a notification.” “You didn’t?” She put the yogurt down and pulled out her phone, scrolling rapidly. “See? It’s right here.” She tilted the screen toward me. It was a separate chat, labeled The Insiders’ Club. I scanned the member list. Twelve people. Our department had thirteen employees. The one missing was me. “Gillian,” I pointed to the chat. “I’m not in this group.” She blinked, then laughed, a slightly too-loud sound. “Oh, really? My bad, Paige. Must have slipped through the cracks when we set up the chat. So sorry about that.” “But the money was deducted from my paycheck.” “What?” She paused, genuinely surprised this time. “Well, then you need to talk to Accounting and get a refund.” “Accounting said the roster came from you.” “Then…” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ll make a note of it. I promise I’ll include you next time.” “Next time?” “Yes, next time we have a department outing, you’ll definitely be invited.” I just looked at her, saying nothing. She capped her yogurt container, stood up, and patted my shoulder—a gesture that always felt more like a dismissal. “Paige, don’t take this so personally. It was just an oversight. We’re all colleagues, after all.” “What about the money?” “The money is an Accounting matter. My end of things was just the standard paperwork.” With that, she grabbed her yogurt and headed toward the break room. I stood there, the pay stub clutched in my hand. $1,250.00. Not a fortune, but not insignificant either. It was the equivalent of three full weekends I’d traded my life for. Now, it was paying for a beach I’d never set foot on. I returned to my desk and opened my laptop. An unread email from last week was sitting in my inbox. Subject: Department Retreat – Travel Details. I clicked it open. Recipient: All members of The Insiders’ Club. I was not on the CC list. Attached was the itinerary: a three-day, two-night trip to Nantucket. The per-person cost was $1,250.00. It covered the charter bus, the seaside hotel, the dinners, and a special evening gala. I scrolled down to the attendee roster. My name was there. “Paige Miller—Fee Paid.” Who paid my fee? I scrolled to the very bottom. There was a line in small print: Fees will be collected via automatic payroll deduction. I understood. No one paid for me. It was simply taken from me. The notification went to a group I wasn’t in, and the expense was deducted from a paycheck I’d earned. It was all perfectly “normal.” So normal it was absurd. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. A memory flashed into my mind. Last Wednesday, lunchtime. I was finishing a proposal, so I skipped the cafeteria. Later, hungry, I headed to the lobby for a snack. As I passed the break room, I heard voices. “I booked the hotel in Nantucket. Ocean view, it’s going to be amazing.” “What day are we leaving?” “Next Friday. Back on Monday.” “Perfect, finally a getaway.” I froze outside the door. A trip? What trip? I was about to walk in and ask, but then I heard a warning— “Keep it quiet, though. Let Gillian handle the rollout.” It was Tiffany Brooks speaking. She was the newest hire in the department, fresh out of college, but she was sharp and highly skilled at ingratiating herself with Gillian. I stood at the doorway and walked away without going in. I waited three days. No one said a word to me. I assumed the plans had fallen through. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t canceled. I was. I minimized the email and opened Instagram again. I scrolled through the photos. Tiffany had posted a carousel, all vacation shots. The first was a group picture. Sunlight, sand, twelve people laughing. No me. The caption: “The Insiders’ Club, family forever!” I tapped the comments. Gillian’s comment was at the top: “Our team is the most united!” Tiffany replied: “All thanks to Gillian’s leadership!” A stream of back-patting followed. I kept scrolling and saw one comment from Scott Lewis: “Seriously had the best time. Hope we can do it again soon.” Someone asked: “Where to next?” Tiffany replied: “Whatever Gillian plans! I’m tagging along!” I put my phone down. Three years. I’d been here for three years. No one asked if I was going. No one even seemed to notice I was missing. I looked at the group photo and felt an odd kind of emptiness. Three years. I’d written the most proposals, worked the most overtime, and taken the most undeserved criticism. Yet, in that picture, I was completely absent. I had never truly been a part of it. The office suddenly came to life. My colleagues were filtering in from lunch. Tiffany’s voice was the loudest. “Hey, everyone, I finished editing the pictures. Sending them to the chat now.” “Great, send them over!” “Me too! Me too!” They clustered around her, chattering about the trip. Seafood dinners. Sunrises. The beach bonfire. Sand volleyball. No one looked my way. I put my head down and forced myself to work. The proposal I was working on was still open on my screen. I had rushed to finish it last Friday. I’d worked until 2 a.m. When Gillian presented it on Monday, she’d said: “This proposal is the culmination of our team’s hard work. Great effort, everyone.” Team. Culmination. Everyone. I looked up at her. She was shaking hands with a client, beaming. I looked back down. A notification popped up in the bottom right corner of my screen. It was a message from Tiffany in The Insiders’ Club group chat— “A-Team, let’s aim for Cabo next time!” A cascade of “Yes!”, “Count me in!”, and “Can’t wait!” followed. I wasn’t in that chat. But my name would probably still appear on the expense sheet. Wouldn’t it? 2. The next day, I went back to Accounting. “Ms. Davis, can I get a refund for the $1,250.00?” She checked her system and shook her head. “I can’t process it, Paige. Your department filed for mandatory attendance. We don’t have a process for individual refunds.” “But I didn’t attend.” “Then you’ll need a letter from your manager, confirming you were physically absent. Only then can we initiate an exception refund.” I nodded. “Understood. I’ll ask her.” I went straight to Gillian’s desk. She was chatting with Tiffany. Seeing me, she gave me a dismissive smile. “Paige, something else?” “Gillian, I need a letter certifying that I did not attend the department retreat.” “A letter?” “Yes, Accounting requires it to process my refund.” She paused, her smile turning brittle. “Paige, that… that’s going to be difficult.” “Why?” “Look, your name was on the roster. The bus was chartered, the hotel was booked. You say you didn’t go—how can I prove that?” “I definitively did not go.” “I know, I know,” she waved a hand dismissively. “But you’re putting me in a difficult position here. I submitted the official roster. If I certify that you didn’t go, it makes it look like I messed up my job.” I just stared at her, waiting. She sighed. “How about this? I’ll reach out to Ms. Davis and see if there’s another way to handle it, okay?” “When will you have an answer?” “The…” She glanced at her watch. “Things are crazy busy right now. I’ll try my best.” “How long is ‘try my best’?” Her forced smile finally cracked. “Paige Miller, I said I’ll try my best. Why are you being so difficult about this?” Tiffany chimed in from the side. “Seriously, Paige, it’s $1,250.00. Is it really worth this drama?” I turned to Tiffany. She was wearing a new dress, one she’d showcased in her Instagram stories, likely purchased on the trip. “$1,250.00,” I said, my voice even. “Is what I earned by working three full weekends straight.” Tiffany pursed her lips and looked away. Gillian put a hand on Tiffany’s arm and smiled at me again. “Paige, I understand, truly. But you need to understand me too, okay? I’ll try to handle this. Now, please, get back to work.” I stood there for a few seconds, then turned and walked away. Back at my desk, I opened my computer. One thought kept looping: Who put my name on the roster? I pulled up the email and reviewed the attendee list again. Next to every name was a detail: Registration Date. Tiffany Brooks: April 15th. Scott Lewis: April 15th. … I scrolled down to my name. Paige Miller: April 20th. April 20th. What was I doing that day? I remembered. It was a Thursday. I was rushing to finish the quarterly presentation deck. I worked until after 10 p.m. I had no time to check messages. More importantly, I wasn’t in the group chat. April 20th. The day before registration closed. Someone had “registered” me. Who? I checked the email sender again. Sender: Gillian Shaw. She submitted the roster. I took a deep breath. I remembered another incident. This past March. The department had a dinner to celebrate meeting the quarterly targets. I was working late that night and missed it. The next day, there was a receipt on my desk. For the dinner. Split cost: $75.00. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Oh, you didn’t come? I thought you were. I already included you in the count. I’ll be sure to check next time.” I’ll be sure to check next time. I paid the $75.00 and let it go. Now, I wondered: Was I “forgotten” that time, too? I opened my phone and scrolled back through my texts. The notification for that dinner had also been posted in The Insiders’ Club group. I wasn’t in it. I scrolled back further. Last December. The company holiday party. The department was putting on a skit and rehearsing ahead of time. I remember seeing them huddled in the break room often. I’d asked once: “What are you all up to?” Tiffany had said: “Nothing, just messing around.” Later, at the party, the department performed the skit. Twelve people. I wasn’t one of them. I thought then that I just wasn’t involved enough, that they were too polite to ask. Now I knew the truth— I was “forgotten” then, too. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles. Three years. How many times had I been “forgotten”? Dinner. Team-building. Rehearsals. The retreat. But the deductions were never forgotten. I picked up my phone and opened my contacts. I found Scott Lewis’s name. Scott was a peer, the closest thing I had to an ally, though even that was a stretch. I sent him a message: “Scott, quick question.” “What’s up?” “The Insiders’ Club chat. Do you remember when it was created?” He sent a thinking emoji, then replied: “End of last year, I think. Gillian started it.” “Why?” “She said it was for internal department-only communication.” “Why not use the existing department chat?” He didn’t reply immediately. After a moment, he wrote: “Paige, why are you asking?” I didn’t answer him. I already knew the answer. End of last year. What happened then? I remembered. That was when I completed a major project. I finished it single-handedly. The client was thrilled and signed a huge contract. When the annual reviews came around, I thought I was a lock for the “Outstanding Employee” award. The award went to Tiffany Brooks. I asked Gillian about it. She said: “Paige, your work ethic is fantastic. But you need to improve on team collaboration. Tiffany, on the other hand, is great at connecting with everyone. She has real team spirit.” Team spirit. My project involved countless nights of solitary overtime. While they were team-building, eating dinner, and rehearsing, I was working. Therefore, I “lacked team spirit.” I understood. I finally, truly understood. I wasn’t forgotten. I was cut out. Since the end of last year. Or maybe even earlier. I sat at my desk, looking at the computer screen. A new proposal was open, due today. Gillian’s morning assignment. She’d said: “Paige, you’re the most efficient. This one’s for you.” Most efficient. So I got the heavy lifting, the thankless tasks. The retreats and team-building? Those were for the “team.” I wasn’t part of the team. My phone vibrated. It was Scott. “Paige, don’t overthink this. She probably just forgot to add you when she created the chat.” Forgot. Always forgot. I replied with two words: “No problem.” Then I put the phone down. And I kept working. What else was I supposed to do? What could I do? I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. $1,250.00. Three years. A group photo of twelve people. I wasn’t in it. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming weariness. Not physical fatigue. A deep, profound exhaustion that settled in my bones. Too tired to move. Too tired to speak. Too tired to pretend nothing was wrong anymore. I saved the document and shut down my computer. I stood up. “Where are you going?” Tiffany asked. “Restroom.” I left the office, but I didn’t go to the restroom. I went to the roof deck. The office was on the 18th floor. I went up to the rooftop terrace. The wind was strong. I stood by the railing, looking down at the city. Traffic, people, skyscrapers. I’d been here for three years. Three years. No days off, no tardiness, no complaints. I thought if I just did my job well, I would be recognized. I thought if I just worked hard, I would be integrated into the team. I was wrong. Wrong from the very beginning. Some circles don’t let you in just because you try hard. If you’re not in the chat, you’re never in the club. I took a deep breath. $1,250.00. I was getting that money back. Not because of the money. But because I refused to be the one who was “forgotten” anymore. Refused to be the one who was “easygoing.” Refused to be the one everyone could walk over. I turned and went back downstairs. Back in the office. Tiffany gave me a strange look. “That was a long trip.” “Mhm.” I sat down and opened my computer. Not to work. But to open my email. I searched and found every email related to department activities for the past three years. I went through them, one by one. Date, location, attendees, cost breakdown. I built an Excel spreadsheet. I logged every instance of being “forgotten.” Dinners: 4 times. Team-Building: 3 times. Rehearsal: 1 time. Retreat: 1 time. Total: 9 times. Total cost: $3,250.00. (Adjusting total cost to reflect the new per-event cost) Times I actually participated: 0. Times I actually paid: 9. I stared at the number, a small, cold smile touching my lips. Three years. I had paid over three thousand dollars for a place that didn’t exist. A hefty fee, indeed. 3. When it was time to leave, I didn’t stay late. Gillian looked at me. “Paige, that proposal—” “Due tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? The client is pressing.” “Then let Tiffany handle it,” I said, standing up and gathering my things. “She has team spirit.”

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The day the long-lost true heir showed up on the Ashton doorstep, I demanded a paternity test. Any rational person could see that my features were a perfect blueprint of the Ashton line, while the supposed “true daughter” was a stranger. I was certain I would expose the imposter, but the man who loved me most—my grandfather, Senator Harrison “Harry” Ashton—refused without a second thought. He studied me for a long time, and the familiar, doting look in his eyes chilled to something hard and clinical. “The Ashton name carries a thin, fragile bloodline, Clare,” he declared, his voice a low, heavy rumble. “When we raised such a vibrant, healthy granddaughter as you, I thought our luck had turned. I was wrong. You were a cuckoo in the nest.” He gripped the ivory head of his cane. “You have taken from Tori for all these years. The debt you owe her must be repaid.” The next day, I—Clare Ashton, the celebrated darling of the Ashton dynasty—became nothing more than a personal assistant and glorified maid to Victoria “Tori” Harrington. My intended fiancé became her intended husband. When the delicate Tori decided she wanted a child, I was simply repurposed as an incubator. The day of the C-section, everyone crowded around Tori, who cradled the newborn and accepted the congratulations. No one paid any mind to me, bleeding out on the operating table. Only the doctor, clutching the laboratory report, went pale. The results confirmed it. I was the true heir of the Ashton family. … 1 The hemorrhage alarm blared in the operating room. A blankness washed over me, a sensation of my consciousness drifting away. A strange thought surfaced: This is fine. I’m fine dying like this. In the hallway, Senator Ashton’s face was the color of slate as he listened to the doctor’s urgent report. He glanced toward the surgical theatre, then gave a sharp, quiet order to his assistant. “Seal off all information.” “No one speaks a word of what happened today. Let it rot with you.” They saved me. But when the anesthesia faded, the incision burned with a relentless, liquid fire. The doctor couldn’t meet my eyes. He kept his head bowed, his voice a low murmur as he explained the damage. “Ms. Ashton,” he said softly, “your uterus bled out during the procedure. We… we had no choice but to perform a hysterectomy.” He paused, then delivered the final, crushing blow. “You will never be able to have children again.” I didn’t speak. The only sounds were the loud, celebratory noises drifting from the VIP suite next door. Tori was laughing. Many people were laughing with her. The sound sliced through the wall and hammered into my ears. They were celebrating the birth of the Ashton family’s first grandson. Senator Ashton finally entered my room. He wore his customary, impeccably tailored cashmere coat, but the aura of statesman-like calm was gone. He looked at me as if I were a piece of inert property. “Clare Ashton, the life you have is a gift from the Ashtons.” He stepped closer. “I have no interest in debating who the ‘true’ daughter is. I only know that the Ashton name cannot endure another scandal.” “I trust you understand what I mean.” I met his gaze, my silence a wall. He quickly looked away. The hospital’s lab reports were destroyed. To the outside world, I remained the cuckoo, the hired help. The child I had borne was officially Tori Harrington’s son. My biological parents—the couple who had swapped me—came to see me. They looked at my face, then quickly lowered their heads. The man I was supposed to call “Father” nervously wrung his hands, his voice trembling. “Clare, I failed you… but the Senator has spoken. You must be sensible, clear-eyed. Think about the family’s reputation.” The woman I was supposed to call “Mother” stood behind him, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. She said nothing. The family’s reputation. Whose family? Holden Becker stood at the doorway. He was Tori’s nominal husband and the child’s father. He looked at my pale face, the still-attached blood bags by the head of the bed, and then toward the noise next door. There was an indecipherable emotion lurking in his eyes, but I didn’t care to explore it. People came and went, but I remained mute. I simply stared out the window. A single, desiccated leaf hung precariously from a bare branch. A gust of wind made it tremble. I felt like that leaf. My life was just as fragile. 2 The day I was discharged, a black sedan waited at the hospital entrance. I was driven directly to a secluded Long Island estate. “The Senator wishes for you to recover here, in quiet,” the butler informed me. “Quiet” was a euphemism for house arrest. None of the windows could be opened from the inside. Aside from a housekeeper assigned to cooking and cleaning, my only company was a handful of silent security guards. I made one request. “I want to see my child.” The butler’s face was expressionless, like a piece of carved granite. “That is Ms. Harrington’s son, the Ashton heir,” he said flatly. He paused, then added: “He is not your concern.” For the first few days, I couldn’t eat anything. My stomach felt like it was packed with stones; the smell of food made me nauseous. Every night, I dreamed of a baby’s frantic cry. Holden, however, visited often. He always brought expensive supplements, silently handing them off to the housekeeper. Then he would make polite, stilted small talk, though he was the only one speaking. I never answered him. One afternoon, he looked at my wrists, tracing the shallow, discolored scars left by the needles from when I was used as a test subject for Tori’s fragile health. He suddenly choked up. “I’m so sorry, Clare. I never imagined they would go this far.” He started explaining, his words tumbling out disjointedly. The marriage alliance between the Ashton and Becker families had originally been intended for me. We had grown up knowing each other, and I hadn’t been opposed to the idea of marrying him. But after Tori was brought home, I hadn’t seen him again. The next time I saw him was the day of Tori’s wedding, when I was pushed into the honeymoon suite. Tori’s nominal husband was Holden Becker. I had resigned myself to my fate and allowed him to do as he wished, never noticing the flicker of love he claimed to have for me. He said he had always loved me. But what did any of that matter now? Among the things he brought were cans of formula, but my baby was nowhere near me. Wherever Holden was, Tori always arrived quickly. She followed behind two towering bodyguards and a nanny clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle. When she saw Holden and the things on the table, her face contorted instantly. She lunged forward, and her open palm landed a stinging, sharp slap across my cheek. “You trashy little incubator! Crawl off the operating table and try to steal my husband? You were born to be a cheap piece!” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even look at her. I simply gazed past her at the bundle, at the tiny, exposed sliver of a face. My silence enraged Tori further. She raised her hand for another strike. Holden caught her wrist, stopping her. It was the first time I’d ever seen him truly furious with her. “Tori, that is enough!” She shrieked. “Holden Becker! You’re defending her? You’re defending this breeding tool? Have you forgotten I’m your wife?” Holden seemed about to say more, but the noise startled the infant, who began to cry. The focus instantly shifted back to the child. Everyone crowded around the baby and ushered him out of the room. Before leaving, Holden glanced back at me. His lips moved, but he said nothing. The door shut. I walked to the mirror. I stared at the woman with the red, swollen cheek and the dead eyes. That was Clare Ashton. That was me. I told the reflection that I had to live. I had to survive so that one day, I could openly and proudly hold my own son. 3 Tori soon found a new way to torment me: she used my child. She would have the nanny bring the baby out onto the estate’s lawn. I would stand at the second-floor window, watching through the cold iron bars as my son lay cradled in her arms. So small. So soft. And utterly beyond my reach. She would talk loudly to the baby, ensuring her voice carried up to my window. “Look, baby,” she’d coo. “That woman up there. She’s just a tool who lent us her stomach, a jar of meat that made you.” She would then turn her back to the window, smiling in triumph, before leaving. I made a quiet request to the housekeeper who looked after me. I didn’t want anything else. I just wanted a photograph of the baby. The housekeeper looked at me with a flicker of pity, didn’t answer, and left. A few days later, a photo was tucked beneath my pillow. It was creased and crumpled, as if it had been hidden and clutched for a long time. The picture was a blurry, stolen snapshot. All I could make out was a small, plump side profile of an infant. I tucked the photo deep into my clothing, keeping it close to my heart. Holden’s visits became increasingly secretive. He no longer used the main entrance. Once, he climbed the perimeter wall late at night, a fresh scrape visible on his face. He told me he had found a lead. “I found the nurse who delivered you and Tori all those years ago,” he whispered. “She quit years ago and went back home. My people are on their way to her.” He looked at me with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps, or something more. He made a solemn promise. “Clare, just give me a little more time.” “I swear, I will get you and the baby out of this hell.” His words became my only lifeline. I started counting the days. Then, Senator Ashton called. The estate’s only landline was in the butler’s office. The butler handed the receiver to me and stood nearby, watching. On the other end, the Senator’s voice was as commanding and devoid of warmth as ever. “Stay quiet and compliant. This estate is the best end you can hope for.” “Don’t forget, you owe Tori. This is your lot in life, and you will accept it.” “The Ashton family has been generous enough. Do not presume to ask for more.” Generous? I gripped the cold receiver, my knuckles white. I whispered into the phone. “If one day she asks for my life, must I accept that, too?” There was a dead silence on the line. Then, a sharp clack as he hung up. Holden finally got what he was after. He visited me late one night, a suppressed excitement radiating from him. He played a recording on his phone. It was a woman’s tearful confession. The nurse. She admitted that two decades ago, a woman claiming to be a distant Ashton relative had given her a massive sum to switch the two infants shortly after birth. Holden said he had given her more money and a plane ticket out of the country in exchange for her full testimony. “The evidence is secure,” he said. “Just hold on a little longer.” Meanwhile, Tori must have sensed the massive threat posed by Holden’s cold, distant attitude. Her eyes when she came to the estate were no longer purely envious or smug. There was a dangerous new edge. The security staff at the estate was replaced. Among the new guards were some of the men who always shadowed Tori. 4 Tori brought a document to Senator Ashton. It was a “Psychiatric Fitness Report.” The report claimed that I had suffered a mental breakdown following the trauma of childbirth and the revelation of my true identity, and that I had severe violent tendencies. She wept, kneeling dramatically before the Senator. “Grandpa, I’m so afraid. I’m scared she’ll hurt the baby.” “The way she looks at me… it’s like she wants to murder me. I can’t sleep, and the baby cries all the time because of her.” Senator Ashton looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You have everything she had. What more do you want?” Unlike me, Tori appeared fragile but was fearlessly ambitious. “As long as Clare Ashton is alive, the Ashton family has a time bomb,” she insisted. “We will always be vulnerable to gossip and ruin.” The air in the library hung heavy with the scent of old wood and hushed secrets. Senator Ashton closed his eyes. After a long silence, he opened them, adjusting his silk tie. “The peace of the House is paramount, Tori.” “Do not overstep yourself on this matter.” This wasn’t a refusal. It was an endorsement. It was my death warrant. The next day, the housekeeper was gone. The only people left at the estate were me and the two guards. Even the butler who usually supervised me vanished. My three daily meals were replaced by cold, packaged containers, left by the guards outside my door. My every request to walk in the yard was refused. The internet was disconnected. I had no way to contact the outside world. Holden came several times, but was blocked, told I was “resting and unable to receive visitors.” He finally understood something was terribly wrong. He began using the full force of the Becker family to investigate my condition. But the Ashton sphere of influence, a tightly woven, impenetrable net, kept him out. The nights stretched long. I lay in bed, unable to sleep. In the small hours, I smelled it. Gas. I immediately tried the door. It was locked from the outside. The windows, permanently sealed, wouldn’t budge no matter how desperately I hammered the glass. Through a small gap in the curtains, I saw a black car parked some distance away. A shadow sat inside. Tori Harrington held a pair of binoculars, pointed directly at my room. She was waiting. Waiting for me to vanish. 5 The temperature in the room was rising. The dark night outside was now illuminated by a pulsing orange glow. Tori must have grown impatient. The fire arrived faster than I had anticipated. A thick plume of smoke, heavy with the stench of gas, instantly poured under the door. I coughed violently, my eyes streaming. I tore a bedsheet, soaked it in the bathroom sink, and pressed it tightly over my nose and mouth. I curled up in the corner farthest from the door, feeling the heat surge toward me in waves. The wall began to radiate warmth. I wasn’t afraid. I was only regretful that I had never truly held my son. Just as I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, I heard a massive impact. “CRASH—!” The estate’s heavy, wrought-iron gate was brutally smashed open by a speeding SUV. A figure burst out of the car. It was Holden Becker. Several people followed him, immediately turning their attention to fire suppression. Holden drenched himself, then kicked the villa door off its hinges and plunged into the smoke-filled house. He found me, huddled and barely conscious, in the corner. He lifted me from the floor, holding me tightly, so tightly that my ribs ached. When I was finally coherent, I was in his arms, standing on the grass outside. The clearing beyond the estate was lit up by camera flashes. The crowd surrounding us was a chaotic mix of Ashtons, Beckers, and countless journalists. Holden stood directly in front of the cameras, holding my frail body. He raised a phone and pressed a button. The nurse’s tearful confession echoed clearly across the night air. “…I took the money. I’m a monster, I switched the two children…” “The true Ashton daughter, the one they called Clare Ashton…” The journalists went wild. The shutters clicked in a blinding, deafening staccato. Holden had an assistant distribute a stack of papers to the crowd. They were copies of the long-destroyed paternity test. Everyone gasped when they saw the results. In the black sedan, now surrounded by reporters, Tori let out a piercing scream. She desperately tried to shield her face, but it was too late. Countless microphones and lenses were pressed against her window. Everyone knew exactly who she was. Senator Ashton arrived. His car stopped just outside the riot of people. He stepped out and saw the irrevocable damage, saw me held in Holden’s arms, and heard the constantly replaying recording. His body swayed violently. He nearly collapsed. Holden carried me through the crowd, step by step, toward the Senator. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the old man. “Holden, my boy. Don’t overdo this. It won’t look good. I’ll go to your father’s office tomorrow and we’ll talk.” The Senator coughed, attempting to regain control and calm Holden. But Holden wasn’t having it. He looked down at me gently, then back at the Senator. “Senator Ashton.” “Before we all go home, you need to answer one question.” “Who, exactly, owes whom?”

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The year I learned to hate my father, he served up his business partner—a man two decades his senior, a man he called his protégé—as a twisted olive branch, a peace offering to keep me quiet. He delivered him right to my bed. I was reckless. I was seeking oblivion. I let the night happen. One night led to a three-month blur of infatuation, and by the end of it, I had forgiven my father. Four months in, I was pregnant. Overnight, I became the most protected woman in Newport. At every prenatal appointment, the City’s richest men—my father, Harrison Bellwether, and my husband, Brooks Wellington—were there. Everyone said I was a princess, pampered by my father and husband. But the day of my anatomy scan, they both sent their regrets. “A massive deal came up,” my father said, patting my head. Brooks gently rubbed my bulging stomach. “When it’s over, I’ll bring back gifts for you and the baby.” I smiled and waved them off. Yet, just before the appointment, an anonymous video landed in my inbox. My father, in a tuxedo, was standing next to Dahlia Shaw, the woman who’d destroyed my mother. His illegitimate daughter, Savannah Bellwether, her own belly protruding in a wedding gown, clung to Brooks’ arm. “Double the happiness!” a voice cheered as someone raised a glass. “Congratulations, Harry, on finally welcoming your true love, and congratulations, Brooks, on marrying your true soulmate!” The video’s end brought my father’s voice, chillingly detached: “What about the fake marriage certificate with Delaney, and the baby? The child will be illegitimate.” Brooks’ low, amused voice replied: “Delaney has everything. Savvy’s been treated like a bastard her entire life. I won’t let her child suffer the same fate.” I bit down hard on my lip and stumbled out of the clinic. The phone in my hand vibrated incessantly. A new text message appeared: it was a copy of a vasectomy surgery report. Below it, a line of text: “If you agree, the child in your belly will be my only heir, my last legacy.” 1 I walked aimlessly through the streets after leaving the hospital. On the City’s biggest Jumbotron, a segment was playing: the exclusive family interview from three months ago, when I’d first announced my pregnancy. My father held up a massive, auctioned diamond for the camera. “The ‘Ocean’s Heart’ is for my future grandchild, a girl. Its value doesn’t matter. It’s the lineage, the legacy, that matters.” Brooks gently squeezed my hand. “The hardest part is Delaney’s. I will spend the rest of my life taking care of my girls.” The screen froze on the image of us exchanging loving smiles. Beneath it, a rolling banner declared: “Newport’s Happiest Family.” Rain mixed with tears, blurring my vision. That’s when my phone rang. Brooks. Before, that exclusive ringtone would have made me snatch up the phone immediately. Now, I hesitated. I finally answered just before it went to voicemail. On the line, I heard the smug laughter of Brooks’ friends: “Brooks finally got what he wanted! He chased Savvy all over the world. Now, to get her the majority of the Bellwether assets, he had to play this ‘doting husband’ charade with the heiress for two years.” “Ha! Brooks still has the magic touch! The last time Delaney was with him, she was so weak in the knees she was practically hanging onto him. No wonder he didn’t even need a real marriage license to knock her up!” “Tsk tsk. She despises illegitimate children, yet now, her own kid is a bastard!” “The most genius move was today! Savvy saying, ‘My mother won’t marry, so neither will I,’ and Brooks convincing Harrison to marry Dahlia. Mother and daughter marrying into power on the same day! The City hasn’t seen this kind of drama in decades!” My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, tears raining down. Suddenly, Brooks’ voice cut through the noise, colder than I’d ever heard it. “Who touched my phone?” The commotion stopped dead. “Baby? Why aren’t you talking? Are you feeling unwell?” Brooks’ tenderness was flawless. It was as if those hateful words had been my hallucination. I opened my mouth, wanting to demand a divorce. Then I realized the terrible truth: our marriage license was a sham. I didn’t even have the legal standing to file for divorce. At that moment, a soft, sugary voice cut in from his end. “Hubby, my back is so sore. The baby is kicking me again…” Brooks clearly panicked for a second. “Baby, I have an urgent matter here. I’ll come back to you later.” Before I could respond, he hung up hastily. I don’t know how long I sat in the living room before I heard the front door open. My father and Brooks walked in, their faces still flushed with the residual excitement of a wedding celebration. “Laney, I specially had this customized for you in Switzerland. All natural ingredients,” my father said. Brooks knelt before me and massaged my swollen ankles. “Why didn’t you go for the scan? Are you mad we didn’t go with you? I’ll have the head of the department come here personally to check on you tomorrow, okay?” They showered me with affection, then froze when they realized I hadn’t said a word. Brooks subtly shook his head, signaling that the wedding news had not leaked. I handed him a document. “Sign this.” My father played the jealous parent. “Does my daughter only want things from her husband now? Not her daddy?” Brooks didn’t even glance at the paper, scribbling his signature with a flourish. “We’re one, darling. What’s mine is yours. No need to be so formal.” He smiled, handing the paper back to me. Just then, both their phones chimed simultaneously. My father patted my shoulder: “Company emergency. We need to handle something in the B Wing.” Brooks kissed the top of my head: “I expanded the B Wing for you. We can work there and still be close to you.” They hurried off. Two forgotten groom pins—one slipping from my father’s jacket pocket, the other from Brooks’—were all the reminders I needed: Tonight was their wedding night. I looked down at the paper. “Voluntary Surrender of All Paternal Rights” was clearly stated above Brooks’ signature. A tear rolled down my cheek, followed by a quiet laugh. With this, the child in my womb had no ties to Brooks Wellington. I, Delaney Monroe, could love deeply, and let go completely. Wiping away the last tear, I called Mr. Ellis, my attorney. “Mr. Ellis, I need to terminate the escrow agreement immediately. Also, terminate all resource allocations to Wellington Group.” 2 “Miss Monroe, once the inheritance process is activated, 72% of Bellwether Group shares will be transferred to your name within ten days.” Mr. Ellis paused before adding, “Your mother ensured there was a very thorough asset isolation protocol before she passed… Mrs. Shaw can’t touch a dime of the Bellwether assets.” I murmured an acknowledgment and hung up. The year my mother died, my father knelt at her coffin, wailing. He slapped himself repeatedly, saying his drunken weakness had betrayed her and me. I hid in my room for days, refusing to eat. It was Brooks who patiently brought me porridge, spoonful by spoonful, coaxing me to swallow. “Your mother would want you to be happy, even up there.” That one line pulled me back. It also made me give him my entire heart. Now I understood the calculation behind that gentle facade. My phone kept vibrating. Photo after photo appeared. A young Brooks, embracing Savannah on a yacht, kissing her; holding her hand in a snowy park. Each photo was signed, “To My Beloved Savvy.” I realized my honeymoon route had been a twisted trip down their memory lane. “Sis, the sheets in that hotel suite you stayed in? We’d just left our mark on them.” “Brooks swore he had to hold you all night, right? Do you want to bet I can call him, and he’ll leave you right now?” Savannah’s voice note made my stomach churn. “Ugh—” Before I was done vomiting, the door was flung open. Brooks. “Laney? Is the morning sickness worse? I’ll make you something bland right away!” He was fast. He returned moments later with a steaming bowl of bird’s nest congee. He’d specifically learned this pregnancy recipe from a Michelin-starred chef. He’d cancelled three major acquisitions just to master this dish. His eyes held an expectant light, waiting for me to fall into his arms with gratitude, as I always did. When I remained impassive, he paused, then expertly began to massage my temples. “Brooks,” I suddenly said. “Have you lied to me about anything? If you tell me now…” Brooks, after all you did—you broke three ribs shielding me when I jumped out that window five years ago. I was giving him one last chance. “Nonsense. You and our child are the great loves of my life.” His perfect performance made me want to laugh. Brooks studied my expression, then chuckled softly. “I know what this is. You always say things like this when you want me to dote on you.” He leaned in to kiss me. A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows. I instinctively shrank beneath the covers. It had been years since a thunderstorm made me cry. Since I met Brooks, I thought I had found security. But now, tears flowed uncontrollably. Brooks immediately wrapped me in a hug. “Don’t be scared, I’m here.” His embrace was still warm, yet I shivered with cold. Just then, a house manager rushed in and whispered something in Brooks’ ear. His face flashed, but he forced a steady demeanor. “Can’t you see the lady of the house is resting?” He gave my back a perfunctory pat, his eyes darting toward the door. “Sleep, I’ll stay here with you.” But as soon as he thought I was ‘asleep,’ he bolted without a backward glance. My phone screen flickered in the darkness. Savannah’s latest photos were even more graphic. Rumpled sheets, Brooks’ naked, muscled back, and a suggestive rabbit tail toy, damp with liquid. The last voice note was filled with triumphant gasps. [Sis, Brooks hasn’t touched you since you got pregnant, right? But he can’t resist me. He just took me three times…] [I heard Brooks hasn’t named your baby yet? Ours is going to be called ‘Nicky’ ] As she spoke, Savannah exposed a tattoo on her chest, identical in placement and style to the one on Brooks. Boom! My ears rang. I remembered my wedding night, weeping with gratitude as I traced the word “Laney” tattooed over his heart. The complex look in his eyes wasn’t emotion; it was guilt. Every time he called me “Laney” with such deep affection, he was thinking of another woman. For three years, I had been the butt of a colossal joke. I sat there, frozen, until dawn. Finally, I replied to the number that had been waiting: [I accept your offer to be the baby’s nominal father. Let’s cooperate.] 3 The next morning, I woke to a cacophony. The hall was packed with Newport’s elite, all here for my birthday celebration. I was stunned. I hadn’t celebrated my birthday since my mother died a decade ago. I looked around. My mother’s portraits on the walls had all been replaced by photographs of Dahlia Shaw. The butler, oozing sycophancy, explained, “Mr. Wellington personally arranged it. He said Miss Savannah would be pleased.” The guests began to whisper. “Did you hear? The golden properties left by the former Mrs. Bellwether have all been transferred to Mrs. Shaw.” “Tsk tsk, the original wife works her entire life, and the mistress walks away with the prize.” “Shh! Keep it down. She’s the legitimate wife now.” Dahlia, limp and tearful, leaned on my father’s shoulder. She dabbed her eyes as she addressed me: “I know the young lady doesn’t care for me, but today is a joyful day. I only have one small wish: let me serve Harrison for the rest of his life, and help look after this home for your mother.” She deliberately omitted the fact that today was also the anniversary of my mother’s death. Seeing the redness in my eyes, my father dismissed it lightly: “Dahlia is your elder now. She’s only showing kindness by throwing you a party. Try to be magnanimous, Laney.” Before he finished speaking, Savannah entered, linked arm-in-arm with Brooks. “Happy Birthday, my princess.” Brooks’ voice was full of manufactured adoration as he handed me a black and gold box. “Good heavens! That’s the exclusive ‘True Love Heart’ packaging from Casdair Auctioneers!” a guest gasped. “A mysterious buyer paid a fortune for it last month! I can’t believe it was Brooks!” “What a devoted prince! Delaney Monroe has all the luck!” I didn’t care. The centerpiece auction item, the devoted prince—none of it mattered. I only cared about the maternity dress Savannah was wearing. It was the gown my mother had sewn, stitch by stitch, with her last breath. “Take it off.” My voice trembled as I stared at her. Savannah’s eyes immediately welled up, and she hid slightly behind Brooks. The guests gasped, shocked by my blatant disrespect for Brooks. Brooks’ tone was gentle, but laced with dominance: “Laney, stop making a scene. If you like the style, I’ll hire the designer tomorrow to customize a new one for you, okay?” I couldn’t hear anything. I lunged at Savannah. Brooks clamped his hand around my shoulder. “Delaney! Calm down! You’re pregnant!” “Ah!” Savannah suddenly dropped to her knees, frantically tearing at the neckline of her dress. “I know you look down on my mother and me! You’ve always bullied me!” She’d done this in high school, too—self-mutilation, then crying that I’d attacked her. Since then, everyone believed Delaney Monroe, the Bellwether heiress, was a spoiled brat who loved to torment others. The guests whispered, their eyes filled with contempt. “The original wife’s daughter is so vicious…” “The illegitimate child is still her sister. Why be so cruel?” Brooks ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Savannah’s shoulders. He looked at me, cold for the very first time. “Delaney, apologize.”

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My twenty-year-old stepsister, Poppy Sinclair, suffered from a severe case of “Adult Baby Syndrome.” A grown woman, yet she insisted on crawling around in diamond-studded training pants, demanding to be spoon-fed, carried everywhere, and only drinking from a novelty sippy cup. Each time, she’d offer the same self-satisfied pout: “I’m Poppy, the precious little baby! It’s totally normal for me to be completely helpless, duh!” My parents and my husband, Brock, adored this act, calling her “pure” and “unaffected.” So, when the news broke that I had been bonded with the ‘Irresistible Charm System,’ Poppy threw a tantrum, rolling on the Persian rug and wailing: “Sister, give that system to Baby! Baby wants to be the most captivating little princess in the whole world!” Brock pressed his hand down on my shoulder, his expression full of protective tenderness—for her, not me. “What do you need charisma for, Theo? You’re pregnant,” he sneered. “Hand it over to your sister before she ruins her vocal cords crying!” My parents—Richard and Candace Sinclair—backed him up, threatening to disown me if I didn’t comply, all so they could forcibly strip the system from me and give it to her. I was about to fight them, to claw my way out, when the fetus, only three months old in my womb, suddenly spoke in my mind: [Mom, just give it to her! The zombie apocalypse starts in three days, and a MAX Charisma System is a fatal magnet for the infected. Whoever binds it, dies!] … 1 The fight instantly drained out of me. I slumped back onto the sofa, my gaze disturbingly calm. Brock Hastings gave a cold chuckle and increased the pressure, forcing me back into the cushions. “That’s better, Theo. As the older sister, you need to be the adult here.” “Poppy might be twenty, but she’s psychologically a toddler. She’s the baby in the house.” “How could you ever compete with a baby?” I looked up at the man I’d married. On the rug, Poppy was perched on her hands and knees in the pink, frilly training pants, her backside sticking out. She sucked noisily on a jeweled pacifier, rubbing snot and tears all over the hem of my skirt. Seeing I was no longer resisting, she spat out the pacifier and spoke in a sickeningly high-pitched voice: “Bad, bad sister! Not giving Baby the sparkle! Baby is going to be super mad now-now!” “Unless Sister gives Baby the system right now,” “And gives Baby a horsey ride! Then Baby will forgive you!” With that, she rolled over, her two pale, chunky legs kicking wildly in the air. My mother, Candace, rushed over, scooping Poppy into her arms and patting her back. “Oh, my precious heart, don’t cry, don’t cry.” “Your sister is just being selfish, darling.” “Once you get that sparkle, you’ll be the most captivating little princess in the whole world!” “You’ll have anything you want!” My father, Richard, glared at me, holding a stack of legal papers. “Theo, sign the transfer documents.” “Give the system to Poppy, and we’ll still be a family.” “Refuse, and you’re out of the Sinclair house. Brock will divorce you, and that… thing in your belly will never be born!” Thing? This was Brock’s child, and just because I wouldn’t surrender a system, it was a thing? My baby snorted inside me. [Mom, these idiots. Don’t worry about them. The zombies will teach them a lesson soon enough. Just toss out that ticking time bomb so we can stock up on supplies for our getaway!] I took a deep breath, smothering the chill in my eyes, and spoke softly: “Fine. I’ll give it to her.” “If Poppy wants it so badly, how can I, as her sister, deny her?” Poppy immediately peered out from my mother’s embrace, pouting again. “Hmph, it was always Baby’s anyway. Sister kept it for so long, so embarrassing-bad!” Brock released my hand, his expression softening into approval. “See? Wouldn’t that have been easier? You always have to make things so difficult.” “Wait.” I spoke up suddenly, my voice weak but carrying an undeniable firmness. “If you force the full transfer now, Poppy will die.” That single sentence succeeded in freezing everyone in the room. Brock’s face darkened, and he leveled a vicious glare at me. “Theo Wells, what game are you playing now?” I lowered my gaze and spoke slowly. “The Irresistible Charm System carries a massive amount of energy. A normal body can’t withstand the instantaneous infusion.” “The energy has to transition slowly, bit by bit. Otherwise, the recipient will explode from an energy overload.” I raised my head, looking at Brock, a faint smile curving my lips. “The system requires a controlled process of exactly three days.” “Of course, if you don’t care about Poppy’s survival, you can try to force it right now. I won’t stop you.” “No!” My mother shrieked, rushing over with a look of pure terror. “We can’t risk it! My Poppy can’t take that kind of risk!” “Three days it is! For Poppy’s safety, we’ll wait!” I quietly accepted their decision, hiding the mockery in my eyes. Three days. Exactly when the apocalypse hits. This Charm System amplified the host’s allure by ten thousand times. In peacetime, it might be a miracle. But in the end times, it would be a beacon for every infected creature within range. Since my sister wanted to be the most captivating little princess in the world, and she wanted a gentle, three-day transition period… Then I wished her well. May she be the star of the show in the coming hell, until her very last, glorious moment. 2 The system stripping process began. A faint pink progress bar floated between Poppy and me. With every passing hour, the glow on my skin dimmed, and Poppy’s presence became increasingly, disturbingly alluring. While they fussed over Poppy, I claimed I had a craving for something sour, grabbed my phone, and slipped out. With only three days left, I had to secure provisions for myself and the baby. [Mom, start with water and high-calorie rations. And formula! I’ll need that when I’m out!] I drove straight to the nearest big-box store. My cart quickly filled with protein bars, canned goods, bottled water, and every type of baby formula and diaper. “The total is thirteen hundred and eighty dollars.” I handed the cashier the platinum card Brock had given me. “BEEP. Insufficient funds.” The cashier glanced at me. “Ma’am, this card has been frozen.” I froze. This was the household card and my primary source of funds, with a half-million dollar limit. I immediately pulled out my personal debit card, the one linked to my savings. “BEEP. Transaction failed.” What the hell? Before I could call the bank, Brock called. Over the phone, I could hear Poppy’s whiny cry and Brock’s furious interrogation. “Theo Wells! What is all that trash you’re buying??” “Poppy said she ran out of her specialty goat’s milk—the kind that’s air-freighted from Australia.” “Don’t sign anything! All the money needs to be saved for Poppy’s Baby Fund!” My hands were shaking with rage. “Brock, I’m pregnant! I’m buying essential supplies!” “And that was my debit card! How dare you freeze my own money?” Brock paused, then roared even louder. “You belong to me, so your money belongs to this family. The baby in your belly is only three months old—what’s the rush?” “Poppy is the baby who needs the most care in this house!” The line went dead. The baby kicked me fiercely. [Mom! Dump the trash-dad! When the end comes, I’ll deal with him first! Don’t get mad, I have a plan.] My baby’s voice was clear. [Since they froze your cards, we’ll buy things a different way. Mom, go open several high-limit credit cards. Max out any fast loans you can get.] [Borrow as much as possible!] [The world order collapses in three days. Money will be worthless paper. We don’t have to pay it back!] My eyes lit up. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? I abandoned the cart and drove to the financial district. Using my property deeds and perfect credit score, I pulled out nearly three hundred thousand dollars in cash advances and loans by the end of the afternoon. I rented a large moving truck and drove it to a secluded warehouse on the outskirts of town. I bought crates of rice, flour, oil, first-aid supplies, a commercial generator, a high-quality tactical axe, and body armor from an outdoor store. My baby directed me from inside. [Buy extra candy! Sugar will be hard currency in the apocalypse! And feminine hygiene products, those are crucial too!] It was late when I finally stuffed the warehouse full. Looking at the stacked boxes of provisions, I finally felt a sense of security. I got home close to midnight. The moment I walked in, I saw Poppy, still in the training pants, riding on Brock’s shoulders. She was holding a lollipop, tangling his hair into a sticky mess. My parents were clapping and cheering. “Aww, Poppy is so cute! Ride the horsey, darling!” Poppy saw me, her lips curling into a sneer. She tossed the lollipop, wet with her saliva, right onto my face. “Bad sister! Late, late! Baby is hungry! Baby wants warm milk!” “Go make Baby’s formula now!” “It has to be exactly 98.6 degrees! If it’s even one degree off, Baby will throw up, ‘kay?” The sticky candy residue slid down my cheek. Milk, is it? Fine. I’ll make you milk. These will be the last few bottles you ever drink in this life. 3 I was woken the next morning by the sound of hammering and glass shattering. I sat up, instinctively protecting my stomach. “What is going on?” My baby yawned. [What else? My brain-dead father is taking the house apart.] I rushed out of the bedroom. The custom, high-security window bars I had secretly paid a fortune to install yesterday were being ripped out by contractors. I had lied and said I was worried about the recent crime wave, insisting on reinforcing the windows and doors “for Poppy’s safety.” I’d even installed the best soundproofing and ballistic glass. Now, those expensive materials were scattered on the floor. My father was directing the workers. “Tear it all out! I want frameless, floor-to-ceiling glass in here!” I ran over to stop the workers. “Dad! What are you doing? I paid for those for security!” He turned, looking at me as if I were insane. “Security? These iron bars are too depressing! Poppy says they ruin her mood!” “Poppy is a princess, she needs sunlight and openness!” “Throw out this trash and replace it with borderless glass. That way, people downstairs can clearly see her beauty when she stands by the window!” Poppy was on the rug playing with blocks. Hearing the commotion, she looked up and made a face at me. “Na-na-na-na-boo-boo! Sister is a scaredy-cat!” “Baby has the Charisma System! The whole world will fall in love with Baby now.” “Who would ever hurt Baby?” “Those bars are so ugly, they stop Baby from radiating sparkle!” As she spoke, she crawled toward me, backside wiggling. When she reached my ankle, she suddenly opened her mouth and sank her teeth into my calf. A jolt of pain shot up my leg. I instinctively tried to pull away. Before I could move, Brock rushed over and shoved me aside. I hit the wall, my stomach muscles clenching in distress. “Theo Wells! What do you think you’re doing? Trying to kick Poppy?” Brock tenderly picked up Poppy, checking her teeth. “Poppy was just playing with you!” “This is how the baby shows affection, can’t you understand that?” “You have thick skin. What’s the big deal if your sister bites you? You won’t lose a limb.” Poppy sobbed in his arms, pointing at me in accusation. “Sister is mean! Sister doesn’t like Baby! Wah-wah-wah…” “Baby just wanted to taste if Sister was sweet…” I covered my belly, cold sweat breaking out. I looked at the haphazardly demolished windows, at the house now open to the elements. I’d briefly considered that if they didn’t commit suicide, I might lend a hand. Fortify the house enough to withstand the initial wave. But now… Hah. Since you are so determined to seek death, I won’t stand in your way. [Mom, let it go.] My baby’s voice came through. [This house is a lost cause. We’ll pack tonight and hide in the vault. It’s small, but that special steel door is unbreakable. It’ll be safe.] I nodded, leaning against the wall as I slowly stood up. I walked past the family, who were all immersed in their own version of bliss, and quietly returned to my room. The apocalypse was only 24 hours away. System Stripping Progress: 99%. Outside the window, a strange red mist was starting to shroud the otherwise clear sky. 4 The final moment arrived on the third day, precisely at noon. The whole family was gathered in the living room, waiting in anticipation. Poppy sat in the center of the sofa, clutching her sippy cup. “Hurry, hurry! Baby can feel it! The sparkle is coming!” Brock had me pinned in a corner chair. My face was pale. As the final millimeter of the progress bar disappeared, I felt something massive being forcibly extracted from my body. The rush of weakness nearly made me pass out. At the same instant, a pink light shot out from my chest and fused with Poppy’s body. [BEEP! Irresistible Charm System successfully bound! Host: Poppy Sinclair. Charisma level elevated to MAX!] In an instant, Poppy transformed. A strange, compelling magic radiated from her, forcing everyone’s eyes to stay on her. “Oh my God! My Poppy!” My mother, Candace, sank to her knees. “Mama has never seen such a captivating baby!” My father murmured to himself: “Is this the Charisma? She’s perfect. This is the true Sinclair daughter!” Brock crawled over and kissed the top of Poppy’s foot. “Poppy… you are my goddess, my heart…” Poppy stood up and twirled, her ridiculous training pants shifting with her movement. She looked down at me, her eyes full of contempt. “Sister, see? This sparkle was wasted on you.” “Only a natural beauty like Baby deserves it, tee-hee~” “Now Baby is the most irresistible person in the whole world. Are you so jealous, Sister?” I leaned weakly against the chair, observing the dense, sickly pink aura surrounding her. “No, I’m not jealous.” I spoke softly, my voice hoarse. “I just hope you can live with the consequences of that charisma.” “Pff, sour grapes!” Brock shot me a look of disgust. He stood up, ready to shove me toward the door. “Now that the system is transferred, we don’t need this old hag around anymore.” “Get out! Don’t stand there ruining Poppy’s view!” “Poppy gets upset when she sees your face!” My parents watched coldly, making no move to stop him. Just as Brock’s hand was about to make contact with my arm. “ROAR!!!” A deafening shriek erupted outside the window. It was immediately followed by the sound of breaking glass, car alarms, and people screaming. “What was that?” My father frowned and walked toward the enormous, frameless window. The next second, he froze solid. In the street outside the villa, dense crowds of people were running in a grotesque, twisted fashion. They were covered in blood, their skin rotting, biting anyone in their path. But at that moment, as if they had caught the scent of the finest delicacy. They stopped, all at once. Hundreds of pairs of grey, dead eyes fixed themselves on the direction of our house. Poppy hadn’t grasped the severity of the situation. She ran to the window, seeing the frantic mob rushing toward the house, and clapped her hands in delight. “Wow! Daddy, look!” “The system is so good! Baby just got the sparkle,” “And already so many fans have come to see Baby! Open the door, Daddy! Baby wants to sign autographs!” I watched the horde of terrifying, decomposed faces and listened to the mind-numbing sound of them colliding with the glass. The first infected person pressed its face against the window. “BAM!” My father, however, straightened his collar, his face beaming with pride. “That’s my precious girl! Even these avant-garde performance artists are drawn to you! That makeup is so realistic!” “Since they’ve shown us so much respect, we can’t keep them waiting.” To my horror, my father smiled and reached for the front door handle.

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The day he walked out, my fiancé slammed a heavy financial ledger onto the coffee table, calling me greedy and ungrateful. The reason? I had asked to withdraw thirty-three thousand dollars—the exact amount I needed to buy back my mother’s vintage Gibson guitar. He’d sneered, crushing the last shred of my hope. “Sadie, those hands are for scrubbing floors, not strumming chords. Why on earth would you buy that?” “Besides,” he added, his voice chillingly practical, “thirty-three thousand? If I sold everything you own, it wouldn’t cover half of that.” Later, I gave him exactly what he wanted. I took the fifteen thousand dollars he offered and sold myself into a marriage of convenience with the Maxwell family across town. Their son, Cullen, was rumored to be… slow. An eccentric. But it didn’t matter. He promised me that if I agreed to marry him, he would pluck the moon from the sky for me. I didn’t want the moon. I just wanted that guitar. 1 Gary Harrington called me into his home office for a final lecture before he left on his business trip. The cause of his annoyance was my unforgivable audacity: asking to borrow thirty-three thousand dollars. The manager at the Downtown Pawn Shop had reached out. Someone was sniffing around the rare vintage Gibson—the only physical thing I had left of my mother—and it was going up for auction the day after tomorrow. Panic had driven me to ask. I had spent the entire winter working three miserable jobs, scrubbing floors and washing linens for high-end clubs. My hands were cracked and bleeding, and all I had managed to save was barely a thousand dollars. I had no other choice but to ask Gary. He took the handwritten promissory note I offered, meticulously logging it in his ledger, but he refused to hand over the cash. He didn’t even look up. “Sadie, thirty-three thousand could buy you twice over. Stop dreaming.” I left the Harrington mansion, wiping my eyes, and ran straight into Auntie May, the neighborhood’s most well-connected matchmaker. Auntie May took one look at my red, tear-streaked eyes and clucked her tongue, slapping her own thigh in exasperation. “The Maxwells are serious, sweetheart. I told you, they’ll pay any price. Forget money; if you asked for the stars, that family would hire a crew to build a ladder!” I sniffled, the echoes of Gary’s words still stinging. You’re worthless. I worried the Maxwells would feel the same way. I timidly held up three fingers. “Auntie May, I don’t want the stars or the moon.” “I just want an old guitar. Thirty-three thousand dollars. Is that acceptable?” Auntie May was stunned. She had expected me to demand trust funds, real estate, a new car. “Silly girl, what good is that pittance?” She poked my forehead in loving frustration. “You’re about to become Mrs. Maxwell. Don’t you want a nest egg? How will you survive?” I drew my head back. I was afraid to ask for more. Gary had always told me I was a liability. I was terrified that if I asked for too much, the Maxwells would follow Gary’s lead—they’d get disgusted and rescind the offer. Auntie May sighed, about to leave, then paused. “Does the Harrington boy know you’re marrying Cullen Maxwell? If he gets upset and comes after you, I won’t be able to hold him off.” I shook my head. “Don’t worry, Auntie. Gary will be relieved to see me gone.” Six years ago, during the City Lights Festival, I saved Gary from a terrifying situation—he’d been cornered by a group of older teens. As a gesture of “gratitude,” the Harrington family paid fifteen thousand dollars to get me out of the terrible foster home I was living in. Gary had been a wreck after the incident, traumatized and unable to sleep alone. The expensive therapists and medication didn’t help. Only when I sat by his bed, holding his hand, could he finally rest. He used to whisper, Sadie, I’m going to marry you. You’ll be my wife, not a maid. But then Gary recovered. He got his nerve back, and the family business exploded. I—the sixteen-year-old rescue who cost them fifteen thousand—became an embarrassing fixture, an inconvenient liability in his gilded life. Mrs. Harrington went from calling us “The Golden Couple” to sighing and suggesting the Harrington threshold was now “too high” for a girl like me to cross. Whenever the subject of our engagement came up at dinner, I’d just focus on my plate of plain rice, saying nothing. Gary never defended me. He’d just condescendingly slide a piece of dry chicken onto my plate and smile coolly. “Why the act? Your appetite is massive. You’re becoming an expensive burden.” I thought he was struggling financially. I thought he genuinely believed my meager appetite was hurting his bottom line. So I started rationing. Two small meals a day, no meat, and I wore the same patched-up coat until it was threadbare. Gary was a born businessman, with an eidetic memory for numbers. He kept a perfect record of my expenses while I lived there. “The price of groceries has skyrocketed, clothing costs are up—this marriage is a net loss for the Harringtons.” His words made my stomach clench. I figured if I ate one less bite, the Harringtons would lose a little less money. That was until I saw my mother’s guitar at the pawn shop two weeks ago. I carefully wrote out a legal agreement, calculated the interest, and finally went to Gary. The family jet was waiting on the tarmac for his flight to the coast. Gary held the promissory note, his brow furrowed as if it were a complex math problem. “Sadie Reed, you can barely write your name. Why are you suddenly pretending to be cultured?” I offered a pathetic, hopeful smile. “If my mother were alive, she would have taught me.” “Your mother’s dead,” Gary cut me off, his voice impatient. “Hiring a music tutor costs money. Where does that land on the ledger?” I swallowed the words I already know how to play. “Thirty-three thousand is too expensive.” Gary folded the note and tucked it into his jacket. He looked at my hands, chapped and red like frozen carrots, and his tone softened slightly. “I’m a businessman. That guitar isn’t worth the asking price. Let’s talk when I get back from the West Coast.” When you get back, it will be gone. Desperate, I grabbed the sleeve of his expensive blazer and blurted out a half-truth. “Auntie May brought me an offer. The Maxwells will pay for the guitar as a dowry. I… I haven’t said yes yet.” Gary stopped flipping through his travel documents. He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine like hooks. “Oh? If it’s better for both you and the Harringtons, then why haven’t you left?” Before I could explain, he stood up and walked out. The glass beads on the door curtain clattered violently behind him, each noise a slap across my face. The next day, Auntie May arrived to pick me up. It was spitting rain. I had lived in the Harrington house for six years, but my belongings fit into a single duffel bag. Gary was gone. Mrs. Harrington was “napping” and didn’t show her face. Only Lila, the longtime family housekeeper, saw me off, wiping her eyes. “Mr. Cullen is a wild card, child. He doesn’t have the young master’s business sense. Sadie, you’re in for a hard time.” I pulled my patched-up coat tight and smiled at Lila. “It’s okay, Lila. I’m already used to hardship.” My life was like this old coat. Once you’re down to the bare thread, it can’t get much worse. “What will the young master say when he returns and finds you gone?” A bittersweet feeling swelled in my chest. I was marrying someone else. That meant I was saving the Harringtons money on food, clothing, and a dowry. Gary would be proud of my financial sense. He would finally see me as an asset. 2 Gary’s yacht cut through the water, heading south. He was on the deck taking a call when a shout came from a neighboring, equally luxurious vessel. “Harrington! Get over here! Come share a drink! It won’t hurt your bottom line!” It was Ben Wallace, an old childhood friend. Their families had been close business associates, but they hadn’t seen each other much since Ben’s family moved to the coast. The two boats tied up, and the men shared several rounds of expensive whiskey. Ben, a friendly man with a wide smile, still looked nervous when he brought up the past. “Those people were monsters, man. They only went after soft city kids like us. If we hadn’t been so damn lucky to run into those girls, we’d have been goners.” The moon hung in the sky, cold and distant. Gary tightened his grip on the glass, silent. Six years ago, he was terrified. He’d been starved for days, beaten for a week, and his leg was broken. The exploiters had tossed him a beat-up cup and told him to beg. Gary lay on the cold pavement, gazing up at the indifferent moon. Then, a little girl had knelt beside him and simply stared. When no one was looking, she pulled a piece of stale bread from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Eat fast. This is all I have left.” It was eight-year-old Sadie. Thirteen-year-old Gary was too terrified to take it. “Were you kidnapped, too?” “Where are your parents?” “Are you mute?” Sadie rubbed her frozen, chapped hands. “My mom said never to go with strangers. But Mom died, and I was looking for her, and they tricked me.” “They said they’d take me to her. It was all a lie.” Hearing the word “Mom” broke thirteen-year-old Gary. He started sobbing uncontrollably. Sadie memorized his name and the Harrington address and told him to wait. Seven days later, she returned with Gary’s desperate parents. To evade the exploiters, she had slept in barns, crawled through fences, and begged her way across two state lines to find help. Gary remembered the moment Sadie burst in, covered in mud and grime, but with eyes that shone with terrifying brightness. “See? I told you I could save you!” Those eyes were brighter than the moon tonight. The Harringtons paid fifteen thousand dollars to bring Sadie home. Gary had clutched her hand, swearing, “Sadie isn’t a servant. She’s my wife. My real wife!” But a vow, Gary learned, has a painfully short shelf life. Ben was slurring his words now. “Oh, man, I still think about the girl who saved me—Tess. She was skinny and tough as nails. Ugly, frankly. I swore if my parents tried to make me marry her, I’d run away from home!” Gary offered a weary smile. Yes, gratitude was one thing. Marriage was another. Who wants to marry a country girl from the wrong side of the city? Just then, a young woman emerged from the cabin. She was dressed in sharp designer clothes, gold and silver jewelry chiming with every step. She looked expensive and authoritative. She put her hands on her hips, her brows furrowed, and marched over to Ben, grabbing his ear. “You fat drunk! How much did you drink?” Ben, who had just been bragging, instantly crumbled, falling to his knees and pleading. “Wifey, I’m sorry! It was Gary! He forced me to drink it!” Gary stared, stunned. The woman was dressed lavishly, but her eyes and jawline were unmistakable. It was Tess. Far from being dismissed, Ben had obviously spoiled her. Her skin was soft, and she looked healthy and vibrant—no trace of the poor girl Gary remembered. Her outfit alone was worth thousands of dollars. Tess spotted Gary and her eyes lit up. “Oh, Mr. Harrington! Is Sadie with you? Did you two finally get married? Why didn’t you bring her so we could say hello?” Gary’s hand tightened around the glass. Sadie wasn’t with him. She was wearing a patched-up coat and had asked him, with frozen hands and tears, for thirty-three thousand dollars. Ben, sobered by the mood, gently pushed Tess’s hand away. Leaning on the railing, he spoke the truth in his heart. “Honestly, Gary, I’ve always been jealous of you. You’re smarter, and your business is bigger. The girl who saved you was even prettier than my Tess.” “But watching Tess wear nice clothes, yelling at me whenever she wants… I feel like a success.” “My wife is well cared for. That proves I’m the man I think I am.” The wind over the water seemed to cut through Gary’s buzz. He watched Ben and Tess playfully argue, and a sudden, sharp emptiness hit him. Thirty-three thousand dollars. To the current Harrington empire, it was the cost of a mediocre dinner. Yet he had thrown it in the face of the one person who risked everything to save him, driving her to a desperate choice. Gary put down the whiskey glass and called over his personal assistant, Stewart. “Send an immediate wire home. Tell the estate manager to go to the pawn shop and buy that guitar.” Stewart, ever the meticulous assistant, instinctively pulled out the small leather-bound ledger. “Sir, should I log this expense under Miss Sadie’s account, as usual?” Looking at the densely written columns, Gary felt a sudden, violent stab in his gut. “…No. Don’t log it.” “From now on, none of her expenses are to be logged.” “When I get back to the city, I’m going to go and get her.”

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I was a twin. I made it out—took the first breath, got the first coo. My brother, Ben, didn’t. He was gone before they even cut the cord. My mother, unable to have more children, gave me every ounce of the love she had saved for two. It was a beautiful, crushing kind of devotion. On my birthday, Mom and Dad bought two cakes: one pink, one blue. When it came to toys, if I chose a Barbie, they would always insist on getting a G.I. Joe. For school pictures, I’d be dressed like a sweet princess one year, and then like a handsome little prince the next. Later, I wanted to learn piano, and they bought a Steinway, but they also scoured the entire Boston area to enroll me in the most competitive private basketball camp. They gave me a double life. Double the love, double the expectations, double the roles to fill. It was during the Lunar New Year dinner, on the year we would have both turned twelve, that Dad insisted on a “family portrait.” Mom took my picture, used a photo-editing app to gender-swap my face into an image of a solemn boy, and placed it next to the original photo of me. Because I hadn’t managed a convincing smile—my face was tired, my heart heavy—Mom snapped. The breakdown was swift and violent. She slammed her hand across my cheek. “Why couldn’t you have been born one second sooner? If it wasn’t for you, your brother would be alive!” “You stole his identity and his love. Now you stand here, sulking, poisoning our memory of him!” “I wish it had been him who survived! He wouldn’t be cold and heartless like you. If you don’t want to be here, then get out! I am done with you!” She threw the steaming dinner onto my chest and shoved me out the front door, wearing nothing but a thin sweater. This time, I didn’t beg forgiveness. I just closed my eyes and made the only wish a ghost-in-training could make: Send me back twelve years. Let me trade places with him. … The familiar, reassuring pressure of the womb surrounded me, but a sudden, terrifying squeeze made me thrash instinctively. “Push! The baby is crowning!” “Wait! Something’s wrong. The position of the first one is bad. If she doesn’t get out now, the smaller one behind her will suffocate!” The words hit me like a physical blow. This was it. This was the moment of my birth, and the weak, struggling pressure next to me—that was Ben. My brother. I turned. I reversed the direction of my desperate crawl, enduring the sudden, crushing feeling of suffocation. I strained, pushing Ben outward, toward the light. But he was too weak. Even without sight, I could feel how frail his movements were. Even if he made it out, his life would be a struggle. I hesitated—should I just let him go first? Suddenly, my mother, Caroline, screamed through her pain. I heard her voice, ragged with panic and determination: “Save my son first! The boy—he’s weaker!” The doctor sounded frantic: “Ma’am, we can’t choose who comes out first!” Outside, my father, Jonah, his voice hoarse, insisted: “You must save my son first! If my son dies, every one of you will pay the price!” “Save my son, do you hear me!” A cold dread settled in my heart, colder than the New England winter air. They were back, too. They had returned to this moment, and their priority hadn’t changed. Fine. If that was the case, I wouldn’t stand in their way. Ben weakly lifted a hand, trying to scramble forward. I strained harder, creating space for him. “The head is out! The head is out!” Perhaps sensing the rush of fresh air, Ben’s kicking became stronger. He pummeled me, contorting my body, causing a blinding, internal pain. I started to flinch, to struggle back. But Mom suddenly tensed her abdominal muscles, stopping the progress. “Is it a boy or a girl? Save my son! If the girl comes out first, it will kill my son!” A nurse tried to restrain her: “Ma’am, if you do that, both babies will die!” From the other side of the room, another voice, frantic, cut through the tension: “The smaller baby’s heart rate is dropping! It’s getting too weak!” In that instant, Mom relaxed. “Oh, my baby… I’m so sorry, Ben. Even with a second chance, I can’t save you.” My own heartbeat was growing faint. I wanted to rub against her, to tell her not to grieve. Ben was fine. He was healthy. It was me who was dying, so please, don’t be sad. But I was a fetal ghost. I had no voice. Outside, Dad’s voice was choked with tears: “If I could, I would trade my life for the life of that baby. He was so small, he never got to see the world.” “Lottie, how could you be so cruel? How could you leave nothing for your brother?” As the air thinned, a crippling, dying pain washed over me. My parents had wanted him so badly. How much pain they must have felt when only I survived in our first life. I remembered the christening blankets. They had bought one for each of us. Mine was threadbare, patched in places. Ben’s was immaculate, kept in a satin pouch, which Mom would hold while she cried herself to sleep. She was a gifted seamstress. She’d make me a dress, and then meticulously make a tiny, matching vest and bow tie for the brother who was never there. “Ben would be calling me ‘Mommy’ by now,” she would whisper to the sewing machine. Don’t worry, Mom. Soon, you will hear him call your name. As Ben kicked and climbed over me, I gently lifted my own form, giving him purchase, letting him use my twisted, cord-wrapped body as a stepping stone. My limbs warped, my neck squeezed tight by the umbilical cord. But I didn’t regret it. When Ben’s head finally slipped through, I felt a deep, peaceful relief. It’s you. You survived. My parents wouldn’t have to look at me and see only a shadow, wouldn’t have to imagine a boy’s face on my own. I wouldn’t have to be the freak who was a girl on pink days and a boy on blue days. When the release came, I saw him: wrinkled, small, but letting out a tiny, weak cry. I wanted to touch him, but I was dead, and I didn’t want my touch to bring him sorrow. The nurse holding him smiled kindly: “What a strong boy. Ma’am, would you like to see him?” “Get out! Take him away! Don’t let that… that thing near me!” “But… he’s…” “I don’t care what it is! Get her away! I don’t want to see her!” Hearing my mother’s hysterical voice, the nurse nodded quickly and retreated. I froze. Ben had survived. Why was Mom reacting like this? I desperately drifted towards her: “Mom, look! It’s Ben! He’s alive! He’s strong and healthy. You will love him.” But she didn’t hear me. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was stroking the dead weight in her belly. “Lottie, you are a menace. You even tried to kill your own brother—your own flesh and blood!” She suddenly gasped, eyes wide with horror. “Doctor, please! Save my son! He’s so small! He can’t die before he even takes a breath! Please, save him!” The doctors exchanged uneasy glances. One said, softly: “We’re so sorry, ma’am. The other child… the girl… she passed away. It’s been too long. We are… very sorry.” Mom couldn’t contain it anymore. She screamed Ben’s name, a raw, primal sound of grief. Outside the operating room, Dad collapsed to the floor, not even glancing at the healthy baby boy the nurse held. “Ben, I would trade my life for yours.” I sat next to him, a faint smile on my lips, tears streaming from my unseeing eyes. Mom and Dad, neither of you will have to be hurt. Inside, the doctors removed my tiny, deceased body. Mom reached out and carefully, tenderly, took the bloody, unrecognizable fetal remains into her arms. “My Ben, my precious Ben… I didn’t even get a chance to love you.” She gently kissed my forehead, her face ravaged by grief. The nurse tried to take me—the remains—but Mom held on tighter. “Let us have a moment. He grew in my belly for ten months. If you take him now, he’ll be scared.” The other nurse, holding the healthy, crying boy—Ben—stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. Ben’s wails intensified, a robust, healthy sound. Mom looked at him with revulsion: “Stop that noise! You have no right to cry! You just killed your brother and now you want our attention? You are an animal!” “How could I have a daughter like you?” The nurse quickly interjected: “Ma’am, you’re mistaken, this is actually a…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Mom screamed hysterically: “I’m mistaken about nothing! She is a monster! You are holding a murderer! You expect me to love her?” The nurse’s mouth gaped in disbelief. She turned to speak to my father. But Dad was on the phone, his expression shattered: “Ben is gone… arrange the funeral. Get the plot ready—the one I bought next to ours.” He heard the person on the other end say something about the survivor. “She survived, so what? Do you think Ben wasn’t your grandson, too? He’s dead! Can’t you show him some compassion?” “Leave Lottie to the hospital staff. She’s strong. She’ll be fine!” Dad rubbed his temples, then called his assistant. The assistant’s tone was cautious: “Sir, the person who owns the plot right next to yours is finally willing to sell it. It’s perfect for you, the missus, and the young master and miss…” Dad cut him off, his voice flat. “I don’t need it. The plots are for me, Caroline, and Ben. As for Lottie, she will certainly outlive us all. She can be buried wherever she damn well pleases.” Seeing the paralyzed nurse, Dad snapped impatiently: “Get that… that menace out of here. She’s an eyesore.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to weep. Mom had just given birth; she was frail. I remembered in the first life, she never recovered from the illness she caught during her month of confinement. I wanted to tell her to rest. Dad walked over, draping his coat around her shoulders. “It’s cold. Stay inside, don’t get sick.” Mom clutched my dead, unrecognizable form—the remains she thought were Ben—closer. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “I’m staying right here. Ben was so small. He needs me to stay with him.” “Last life, I grieved too much, and I let Lottie distract me. Ben left this world so lonely. This time, I’m going to make it up to him.” My heart felt like it was being ripped apart, twisted tight. But Mom. Last time, you cried for three full months. You visited the grave every day. If that wasn’t enough, what possibly could be? Dad held Mom tightly, his voice rough with emotion. “Carly, some things are just missed. But we still have Lottie. We promised her double the love. You lost control at dinner the other night. She must be devastated.” Mom closed her eyes and fresh tears spilled out. “I know. But I can’t help it. Every time I see her, I think of Ben. She killed him twice, Jonah. How can I love her?” “Am I a terrible mother? To wish my own living child dead just to bring Ben back?” Dad remained silent, but I knew what he was thinking. But even with their warped sense of reality, I couldn’t deny the love they had shown me. When I was little, I was always sickly in the winter. They would scold me for not taking care of myself, but then patiently sit by my bed for days until my fever broke. When I struggled with school, they hired the best tutors, sitting next to me during every session. Watching them struggle with the calculus problems, I always felt loved and secure. The first time I left home for summer camp, they drove 200 miles, watched me walk into the gate, and stood outside, crying like two lost children. I often thought the same thing: If Ben were alive, how happy our family of four would be. But fate was cruel. They couldn’t accept Ben’s death, couldn’t let go of the impossible expectation of their lost twin. I had become Ben’s shadow. When Ben’s remains—my remains—were cremated, Mom held the weightless urn. She looked at the nanny: “Is Lottie asleep?” The nanny nodded softly: “Just went down. The little boy…” Mom raised a hand to cut her off. “Don’t worry about the boy. Take care of Lottie. She’s cold-natured. Make sure she stays warm.” I looked up in surprise. I drifted toward her, wanting to tell her I wasn’t cold anymore. She was the one who was throwing caution to the wind, risking her health again. But she didn’t see me. She just held the urn, an expression of profound sorrow on her face. “Ben, don’t blame your sister. She only wanted to live, too. I’ll get healthy, and maybe… maybe you can be my child again someday.” She gently stroked the small box. Her voice was soft and quiet. “Ben, I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to let you go all these years. Your father and I did terrible things to your sister. This life, I’ll spend three years with you, and then… I’ll be Lottie’s mother alone.” “Don’t resent me. I still can’t forget the look in her eyes the night I kicked her out.” “My heart is too small. I have to learn to let you go.” I sat next to her, powerless. She refused to see the real, living child they had left in the nursery. She was consumed by her delusion, holding my ashes, mistaking me for the boy she’d lost. She didn’t know we had no “afterwards.” Her remorse and regret had no chance for repair. I watched Mom walk into her room, pull out the pristine, unused christening blanket, and drape it over the urn. Then she sat at the sewing machine, beginning to stitch clothes for Ben’s second, third, fourth—up to twenty-fourth—birthday. Dad saw the light on. He frowned, gathering up the materials and putting them aside. “If not for Lottie, then for yourself. You’ll collapse if you keep this up.” Mom offered a bitter smile and reclaimed her work. “Ben took half my life with him.” She looked at a small, recently finished shirt. She sighed. “Lottie always loved music. We didn’t take it seriously back then. We finally got her a piano later. This time, we need to find her a teacher right away.” “She’s too soft. She always gave in to our demands. We need to teach her to be stronger, to have confidence.” Dad nodded, his eyes pained. “I’m having Lottie sent to Dad’s house for a few years. Ben is gone. She’s young. We don’t want the… the bad luck to follow her.” “I heard that Elder Zhang’s amulets are powerful. We should go get one for Lottie. And a guardian pendant. We were too busy grieving last time to get her the right things. This time, we’ll let Dad compensate her. We can properly bond with her when she’s three.” His eyes reflected a profound, deep pain. Twelve years later, and the grief was just as agonizing. I used to be so foolish, throwing tantrums, screaming at them: Who am I? I’m Lottie! Why can’t you just love me for me? Each time, Mom would lock herself in her room and cry for three days straight. Dad would drink, nearly causing car accidents more than once. But they never once said I was wrong. I never argued again. All that mattered was that they loved me. Dad and Mom left, taking my remains. They never once glanced at the living child. I followed them on their travels. All those familiar tourist spots were places they had taken me in the first life. Only now, the photos they took were edited, transforming my face into the boy they dreamed of. The family albums had two separate sections: one for me, and one for Ben. I used to feel such fear. But my fear was for the person they missed, the person they were mourning. “Ben, the snow is so heavy here. Are you cold? I made you a new sweater; I’ll burn it for you today.” “Ben, this is the ocean. This is the aquarium—look, blue jellyfish! Your sister loved them.” “We’re traveling abroad. Are you scared? Don’t worry. Mommy is here. If you’re afraid, just hold on tight.” I hugged Mom’s ghost in return. Thank you. I’m not scared anymore. They traveled for three years. When they returned home, Grandfather Arthur called. “If you’re back, then leave those ridiculous girl clothes behind. They’re piling up, and no one is going to wear them.” Mom was stunned: “What do you mean, no one? I made those for Lottie.” Grandfather Arthur laughed, a harsh, humorless sound: “Why would he wear a dress? You can be delusional, Caroline, but there’s a limit!” Next, he texted them a picture of the boy—the living twin—and his medical report. Seeing the gender and blood type, Mom’s eyes widened in horror.

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“What kind of career is that? Playing on your phone?” My mother, Carol Jensen, lobbed the question across the heavy linen tablecloth, and the sudden quiet made me feel the weight of twenty-something pairs of eyes settling on me. I set down my chopsticks. I didn’t say a word. This was the annual, obligatory family dinner. Aunts, uncles, cousins—we were packed into a private room at a mid-tier catering hall. My mother lived for these gatherings. The larger the audience, the grander her performance. “Look at your sister, Jessica,” she declared, pointing to the woman seated next to the head of the table. “A civil servant. Stable. Dependable.” She gestured toward me with a practiced flourish. “And you? You quit a real job three years ago. Now you just sit home all day, staring at that screen.” I glanced at the small, sleek metal trophy sitting on the bookshelf back in my apartment. It was the top industry award I’d won last year. She thinks it’s an online-ordered knick-knack. “Mom,” I smiled softly. “Let’s just eat.” My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it. 1. “Posting videos is hardly what I’d call ‘work,’ Carol.” My cousin, Jessica, picked up the thread, her tone laced with that familiar, saccharine superiority. She was wearing a new, creamy ivory trench coat today, a designer piece that probably cost upwards of a thousand dollars. The kind of coat that screamed I have arrived. “Our city planning department is hiring for a new digital media role. It’s a competitive process. You need a top-tier degree, a solid background…” She trailed off, letting out a small, pitying laugh. “But never mind. It’s not your thing.” Aunt Lena chimed in from across the table. “Jessica’s right, Stephanie. You’re not getting any younger. It’s time to find something legitimate.” I didn’t engage. From childhood, I’d been the one to be weighed, measured, and found wanting. I came in second in the class; Jessica came in fifth. Mom said, “Your sister is strong in the humanities. Math is just pulling her down.” I got into the state’s flagship university; Jessica went to a local college. Mom said, “The school name isn’t everything. Your sister has better people skills.” The day I quit my corporate job three years ago, all the relatives happened to be visiting. My mother railed at me in front of everyone, calling me “crazy,” “ungrateful,” and “an embarrassment.” That night, alone in my tiny studio apartment, I launched my first live stream. Seven viewers. It seems darkly funny now. “So, Stephanie,” Aunt Deb leaned in conspiratorially. “How much do you actually make with these… videos? A month?” “Enough,” I said. “Enough is what? A few thousand?” “Mmm.” I took a long drink of water, deciding against any form of explanation. It wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t believe that someone who “plays on their phone at home” could earn a living. Just as my mother wouldn’t believe that the “decoration” on my shelf was the highest award in my industry. Mark, my husband, sat beside me. He hadn’t said a single word in my defense. His eyes, when they met mine, held the same look as theirs. My phone vibrated again. I hit the mute button and kept eating. 2. Three days later, Jessica called. “Stephanie, I need a favor.” I was in the middle of editing a video, my own voice playing back in my headphones as I meticulously smoothed out the audio. “What is it?” “My department is doing a new promotional video, and my boss put me in charge. You know how to do all that techy stuff, right? Just whip it up for me. Think of it as practice.” I stopped the mouse cursor mid-screen. “Jess, I have work.” “What work? Posting videos? How busy can you possibly be?” She let out a small, dismissive laugh. “I won’t make you do it for free, of course. I’ll take you out to dinner when it’s done.” In the background, I heard my mother’s voice bleed through the phone. “Stephanie, what’s the big deal? Just help your sister. Her job is demanding. You’re just sitting around anyway.” I stared at the timeline on my screen. I’d been editing this one four-minute video for four hours straight. “Fine.” I hung up after the single word. That evening, Jessica forwarded the assets. It was a total mess: no script, no storyboard, and the camera work was shaky and poorly lit. I reorganized, edited, color-corrected, added subtitles, and sourced royalty-free music. It took me two days. I sent the final cut. Her reply: “Got it.” No ‘thank you.’ No ‘great job.’ Nothing. Late that night, I opened my dashboard. Followers: 3,847,521. The comment section was buzzing: “Where’s Stephanie? Missing my dose of wisdom.” “Waiting for Stephanie, can’t sleep.” “Take care of yourself, Queen. No rush.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Three million people were waiting for me. My family thought I was “sitting around.” I offered a dry smile, changed the project’s status to “URGENT,” and kept working. 3. The following weekend, Mark and I went to his parents’ house for dinner. Mark’s mother, Barbara Grant, pulled me into a long hug the moment I walked in, immediately followed by a meticulous inspection. “Stephanie dear, what have you been up to lately?” “Working,” I said. “Working? Still doing that…” She mimed a slow, lazy swipe of a screen. “That thing?” Mark was changing his shoes by the door. He interjected without looking up. “Mom, it’s just a hobby. Something she does to pass the time.” I shot him a look, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “Stephanie, I’m going to be honest with you.” Barbara guided me to the couch, her tone heavy with concern. “A woman needs a proper, stable job. Look at Mark. He works so hard, busting his butt for over eight thousand a month. What kind of example are you setting, playing on your phone at home?” I said nothing. “Find an office job. Even if the pay isn’t great, it’s respectable.” She patted my hand. “If you keep this up, think of the stress you’re putting on Mark.” Mark walked over from the entryway and stood beside his mother. “She has a point, Stephanie. Why can’t you just get a real job?” I looked at him. This man, who had stood before me two years ago and promised, “I support whatever you choose to do.” “I understand,” I said. That night, back home, my best friend Sasha texted me. Stephanie, you seriously need to tell them what you’re doing. No need, I replied. How is there no need? You make more money than their entire family combined. Why are you letting them talk to you like that? I stared at the text and didn’t reply. Why? Because they had never once asked what I was doing, choosing instead to only see me “staring at a phone at home.” And mostly, because I didn’t feel like explaining. Explaining to people who have already decided they won’t believe you is the most pointless waste of energy. 4. A month later, the promotional video I’d made for Jessica’s department went viral. It hit two million views. Her department head praised her by name, saying she “hired a very professional team.” A team. I sat at my computer, reading the text from my sister: The boss praised me today! Said the video was fantastic and put me in charge of all future projects. No “thank you.” No “you did this.” Not a single mention of my name. I scrolled up the messages. When she’d sent the assets, she’d said: “You help me whip it up.” I helped her whip it up. To her boss, it was her credit. At the next family dinner, my mother brought it up again. “Your sister’s video! Over two million views! Her boss says she’s talented, and they’re grooming her for the next promotion.” Her voice was bursting with pride. Jessica, sitting next to her, smiled and waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing, Mom. Just a really good agency.” “An agency?” Aunt Deb asked. “The team I hired,” Jessica said. My hand froze, clutching a fork. She looked at me quickly. There was a flicker of guilt in her eyes, but mostly a smug certainty—you won’t say anything anyway. My mother went on. “Stephanie, look at your sister. That’s what I call ambition. You, on the other hand, sitting around…” “Mom,” Jessica interrupted, cutting her off. “It’s fine. Don’t say anything.” What was that tone? It was protective. Like she was saying, don’t pick on the poor, unemployed little sister. But I had spent two all-nighters creating that video. “I’m finished,” I said, putting down my fork. “You’ve barely touched your plate,” my mother frowned. “Something came up. I have to leave.” I stood up and pulled my car keys from my purse. Mark grabbed my arm. “What is with the attitude?” I looked at him. His eyes said it all: Don’t make a scene. Give me face. Can’t you just suck it up for an hour? “I don’t have an attitude.” I removed his hand, turned, and walked out. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice: “Honestly, that child is becoming impossible.” The elevator door closed, and my phone vibrated. Caller ID: Mr. Alistair. 5. Mr. Alistair’s call was about the upcoming annual gala. “Stephanie, next Friday. The company awards show. You’re the anchor for the evening.” I was standing alone in the parking garage. My voice was calm. “Okay.” “Did you check the numbers? You’re number three on the annual earnings list.” He chuckled. “The top two are massive content houses. You’re a solo creator. That’s huge.” “I know.” I hung up and sat in my car for a long time. Number three. Annual income: two million dollars. I had never told any of them this number. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t say. What difference would it make? Would my mother suddenly change her tune and say, “My daughter is successful”? No. I started the car and drove home. The next day, my mother-in-law called again. “Stephanie, what exactly do you make a month?” Her tone was more direct this time. “I asked Mark, and even he couldn’t give me a straight answer. Is this job even reliable?” I gripped the phone, looking out the window. “Enough.” “Enough is not enough. I need to know the figure, Stephanie.” She stressed the last word. “It’s hard enough for my son to support you. You can’t be so vague.” Support me? I laughed inwardly. We’d been married for two years, and we were strictly splitting the bill. His salary was his savings; my income was my expense. He didn’t know what I saved; I didn’t know what he saved. “Barbara,” my voice was flat. “I support myself.” “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is this video-posting thing going to last forever?” I didn’t answer. “You should find a proper, stable job while you’re young. Even a low-paying office job. Staying home all day… when the neighbors ask, I don’t even know what to tell them.” I listened to her ramble for ten full minutes. “I understand,” I said. I hung up and looked at my dashboard data. The video I’d posted yesterday had 17 million views. One comment read: “Stephanie is the most insightful person I’ve ever watched.” I swiped the screen and exited the app. Insightful? If I were truly insightful, I wouldn’t let these words still sting. 6. On Wednesday, Jessica showed up at my door. This time, she didn’t call. She just appeared. “Stephanie, big news.” She pulled me inside, her eyes gleaming. “My department has a huge new project this year, and my boss put me in charge of the entire communications strategy.” I poured her a glass of water. “And?” “The last video did so well, he thinks I have a real knack for this.” She paused. “This project is massive. State-level visibility. If I pull this off, I’ll be promoted to Director of Communications.”

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After Sylvia’s accident, the grief was a vacuum, and in a spectacular display of misplaced devotion—or maybe just sheer, spectacular madness—I turned to the only thing left: her ex-boyfriend, Nathan Ronald. “Sylvia, I need to tell you something. Please, try not to be mad…” “Nathan and I are a thing now!” Standing by her headstone, a shy blush warming my cheeks, I confessed. “I said so many awful things about him before, but I was wrong. Once we were together, I finally saw how truly good he is.” “I can’t stay long, though. Nathan doesn’t like me to be out for too long.” “Oh! Before I go, tonight, you absolutely have to send me the next Powerball numbers in a dream. That way, my sweet Nathan can save up the down payment for a house and finally marry me!” “Promise you’ll come through! I miss you so much down here.” My best friend, Sylvia Bell, was nothing if not dependable. 1. That very night, she broke into my dream, driving a massive semi-truck that pinned me down and proceeded to roll over me—again and again. “I didn’t see you, my bad,” she muttered. “Thought it was a speed bump.” “You are so clingy, Lucy Moore. Try sticking to my tires one more time, I dare you.” “Why are you using your face to collide with my axle?” “If you ask me, someone else deserved to die. Someone is being shady as hell, and you’re being incredibly obtuse.” She sounded furious, but I didn’t feel any pain. When she finally paused, exhausted from the metaphysical vehicular manslaughter, I wriggled out from underneath, grabbed her hand, and squealed with delight. “Sylvia, Sylvia, it’s really you! God, I missed you!” She let me rush her in a clumsy hug. Her perfect, winged brows were slightly furrowed, but she didn’t pull away, letting me clutch at her like a frantic puppy. “Sylvia, Sylvia, pop quiz! Guess who showed up right after your… crash?” I rushed the answer before she could speak. “It was Nathan, your ex! He came straight to my company building and waited for me. He wouldn’t leave until I saw him—three whole days he stood there!” Sylvia’s face darkened. “He had the audacity to seek you out?” “Why wouldn’t he?” I said, confused. “He did more than that. He proposed! He told me he was one of the people who missed you the most, and one of the only people who truly understood me. He said he was willing to inherit the legacy you left behind in this world, and that legacy is me!” “He promised to be devoted to me for life, to take care of me in your place, and never, ever stray. Where do you find a man with that kind of old-school loyalty these days? I said yes!” Sylvia’s composure finally snapped. She slapped my hand away, her beautiful eyes wide and blazing, exactly the way mine used to be. “Lucy Moore! Do you know that some things that look dirty actually require a certain status? If a man is chased by thousands and stays faithful, that’s character. If a nobody is ignored by everyone and stays faithful, that’s just incompetence!” “If the field is empty, does the goalkeeper still get credit for a shutout?” “He’s nearly forty and not married. Does that tell you he’s got no ambition, or something else is structurally unsound?” 2 She rattled off a complex, winding argument. I blinked at her. “But I thought it was incredibly romantic. It felt… fated.” “Besides, in ancient times, didn’t women in prominent families share husbands? It’s practically a time-honored tradition—” “I’m talking to a wall,” Sylvia hissed, placing her hands on her hips. “Did it ever occur to you how a poor guy with average looks, no money, no power, and no college degree climbed his way up to be a hotel general manager?” She pointed to herself, then jabbed a finger at my forehead. “It was because of what?!” I thought for a long moment, then whispered, “Because of love?” “I spit on that!” “It was because of scheming! He is obviously manipulating us, manipulating our friendship, Lucy!” “But why would he only manipulate us?” I wasn’t buying it. I leaned in, serious. “Out of all the people in the world, why did he pick me from the crowd?” “It means I am the most suitable partner for him! We are a match made in heaven, Sylvia. Why can’t you just be happy for me?” “Unless…” I narrowed my eyes. “Unless you’re still in love with him!” “Your words still love him, your tone still loves him, and the only reason you’re stopping us is because you still love him!” My eyes welled up. I felt like I had uncovered a heartbreaking truth. “Oh, Sylvia, if only you were still here, the three of us could have made it work. That would have been better than anything…” “I could throttle you right now!” Sylvia roared, jumping up to furiously pinch the soft flesh on my side. “You idiot! You moron! You’d be sold into slavery and still thank the auctioneer! Nathan is not a good guy! My accident was because he—” Her eyes were burning red with fury. But the words caught in her throat, as if a spectral hand had clamped down on her windpipe. Her pretty face flushed scarlet, and she couldn’t complete the sentence. I was instantly scared. I reached out to soothe her. “I know, I know. You were going to say your accident happened when you were rushing out to meet him after he suddenly broke up with you, right?” “But you can’t blame him for that. That semi blew a red light, and the driver tried to swerve but couldn’t avoid it…” “Forget it. Dream time is short. Do you have anything you want me to tell your parents? Hurry up and tell me.” 3 The alarm clock blared, shattering the dream. Fearing I would forget, I grabbed a notepad and a pen to write down everything Sylvia had said. Halfway through, I slapped my forehead. “That deadbeat didn’t give me the Powerball numbers!” As I scribbled furiously, a stream of floating text began refreshing rapidly above my head, a constant, ugly intrusion on my reality. This was the Scrolling Commentary. [LOL the Second Female Lead finally bites it. Serves her right for looking down on the hero and trying to force him to be a live-in husband. She deserves to die!] [Exactly. So what if her family owns a hotel? Does that give her the right to look down on a man? Forcing a man to move in is like rubbing our male dignity in the dirt!] [The car crash was a soft death, honestly. At least he let her keep a whole corpse.] [Heh heh, how else is the New Female Lead going to move up? Speaking of which, the New Female Lead’s body is fire. Big tits, tiny waist, plump ass. Perfect for a launchpad.] [Ah, another day of wishing I could possess the hero!] [But her nails are so long and bedazzled. She looks like a high-maintenance gold-digger.] [Who cares? Once the hero gets power, he’ll tell her to cut them, and she will. It’s just one sentence!] My hand froze. I put the pen down, pulled on a robe, and checked my phone. A string of missed calls, all from Nathan, all around midnight. He stopped calling after that, but two hours later, at 2 AM, he sent a text: “Baby, I love you the most, boo hoo hoo.” Then at 4 AM: “Sweetheart, you know I love you, right? Muah muah muah!” What was that about? I frowned in confusion. The Feed scrolled past at lightning speed: [Idiot. Should’ve kept your sound on. The hero was drugged by a rival at a dinner party last night. He was burning up. He wanted you to save him, but you didn’t come through!] [This New Female Lead is totally dropping the ball. Our hero, in his semi-conscious state, stumbled right into the suite of Victor Kane, the City Titan! The Titan liked the taste, apparently. Nailed him seven times in one night.] [Eh, it was a blessing in disguise. Now the Titan can’t forget him. He’ll find him again later and use his connections to boost the hero’s career.] [You have to pay the cost to succeed. Who understands the tragedy of us working-class men!] [Say no more, brothers. It’s all in the wine!] 4 I texted Nathan, but he didn’t reply. He finally picked up around noon. His voice was rough, weak, and thick with congestion. “I’m fine, baby, I just drank too much last night… No, no need to pick me up. I’m already out of the hotel—I mean, out of the house. On my way to work.” “By the way, baby, tonight is a major gala. Damon Shaw, the City Scion, is hosting it himself. Come with me, you might even be able to drum up some new investors for your family’s business.” I happily agreed. Nathan might have been from a small town, but he had an uncanny social antennae for elite events, a sharp sense of which rooms held opportunity. His decisions were usually sound, which was why Sylvia’s father had trusted him with the hotel business. Except he got one thing wrong. It wasn’t him bringing me to the party; it was me bringing him. The Feed flashed: [Here we go! This is the party! The New Female Lead gets drugged, meant to be sent to some fat cat CEO, but she accidentally ends up in the Scion’s room! The Scion has a good time and, in return, throws a huge chunk of investment money at her family’s company!] [HAHAHA, the New Female Lead, meanwhile, still thinks she slept with the hero, and stays loyal, giving him everything he wants. Before she dies, she writes him into her will, leaving him all her shares, massively expanding his empire!] [I love the leverage. Let all those snobs look down on the hero—he used her family to lift himself up anyway!] [But seriously, brothers, she’s so hot, is it a waste to pass her around?] [My brother, you can’t be so short-sighted. When the hero is rich, he can have any woman! A man must endure what others cannot and tolerate what others will not! He has to sacrifice even himself to succeed, let alone a woman! The New Female Lead is the best stepping stone for the hero to enter the A-list circle!] Before the gala, Nathan repeatedly instructed me not to reveal our relationship. When I asked why, he put on a thoughtful expression. “Baby, people will think you’re too consumed by love and your professional ability is lacking. We don’t want that.” Sounded reasonable. I nodded. Night fell. The party was held at the Shaw family estate—a place of opulence, shimmering with chandeliers and clinking glasses. I wore a black-and-gold velvet sheath dress and stiletto sparkle heels, elegant but body-hugging. I drew plenty of attention the moment I walked in. A flicker of resentment crossed Nathan’s eyes. But it was instantly replaced by a gentlemanly smile. He confidently took my arm, waiting at my side for me to introduce him. Seeing his practiced composure, the look of a confident social climber, I couldn’t help but think… It must have been the same before. Nathan was always this gentle and harmless, a deadly vine silently climbing onto warm, living flesh. The only difference was that the woman standing beside him wasn’t me. It was Sylvia. 5 “Ms. Moore, and who is this gentleman?” Everyone in the inner circle knew I never brought dates to these events. The sight of a grown man at my side naturally sparked curiosity. I offered a polite nod and explained, “This is Nathan Ronald, my… personal assistant.” The guests, all social veterans, read the ambiguity in my tone and offered a noncommittal hello. The warm greetings Nathan expected died in the air. He cleared his throat and smoothly retracted the hand he’d offered, replacing it with a gentle, attentive touch as he draped a shawl over my shoulders. He whispered that he was going to fetch me a drink, and then gracefully walked away. The Feed was less composed. They were absolutely livid, shouting obscenities: [New Female Lead, I advise you to be kind! Don’t push your luck!] [The most important thing for a man is his face! If you don’t respect him now, he’ll make your life a living hell later!] [The husband is the lord of the wife! How dare she speak to her heavenly protector like that! She’s going to start a revolt!] [Hmph. I’m exactly like this. I can joke around most of the time, but if you disrespect me, I will show you true darkness! I wanted to be a saint to everyone, but some people force me to unleash the demon inside. I ask you: can you control a demon once it is set loose?!] [Women always get wild once they see the outside world. She needs to be taught a lesson. Slap her twice, first!] [Don’t worry, everyone. The hero has already slipped the drug. He was going to take it easy on her since it was her first time, but now, he’s putting the whole thing in!] [To destroy her, one must first make her insane. Be arrogant while you can, New Female Lead. You’ll be begging for mercy soon enough!] While Nathan was gone, I slipped out onto the balcony. The deep winter night was cold and severe. The sky was a heavy, lightless canvas, hiding the moon. A moment later, the cold air beside me shifted, and I caught the scent of warm gardenia. “And who are you, sister? I haven’t seen you around.” The voice was laced with easy mockery. I rolled my eyes. “Damon Shaw, what is your deal this time?”

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My mother always called me her “favorite girl,” her “little sweetheart.” She loved to tell everyone that my brother, Jace, wasn’t half as thoughtful as I was. Friends and relatives repeated the sentiment: My mom, Shelly, loved me the most. It was because of my severe childhood allergy to all red meat and seafood proteins. She was tireless, they’d say, constantly making special meals just for me. She’d spend hours online researching recipes for safe, nutritious snacks, terrified that I’d feel deprived. The problem was, Mom was a terrible cook. Everything she made was dry, overcooked, and bland. My father, Gary, worked construction contracts out of state most of the year, leaving Mom to handle Jace and me. If I ever complained to him, he’d just tell me, “Your mother is working so hard taking care of both of you. You need to be more understanding.” So, I endured. I always had. Then came my eighteenth birthday. My mother presented the cake she’d made herself. It wasn’t made with cream or flour. It was constructed from cubes of stale bread. Staring at that lopsided, garishly-colored mockery of a dessert, I finally broke. I lifted the corner of the dining table and sent everything crashing to the floor. “I just wanted a damn cake! Was that too much to ask?” The room erupted. My relatives instantly condemned me as an ungrateful brat. My father, his face purple with fury, slapped me. My mother just stood there, tears streaming down her face, insisting it was all her fault, that she was only worried about my allergies… As the accusations rained down, something snapped. In a blind rage, I grabbed a handful of the leftover beef steak and shrimp from the overturned table and shoved it into my mouth. Everyone froze. … The moment my mother triumphantly carried out the “cake,” my body went rigid. It wasn’t a cake. It was cubes of dry, day-old bread, patched together with sickeningly bright, chemical-tasting frosting. It looked lumpy and grotesque. My mother was beaming, trying to sell the lie. “You know you have such a sensitive system, Maya, you can’t have dairy. This is special, just for you.” She nudged it closer. “Don’t look at it, taste it. It’s actually very good!” I just stared at it, unable to move. My Aunt Elise nudged my arm, her expression tight. “Your mother is talking to you. Think about it, Maya. You’re allergic to everything. Only your mother has the patience to prepare separate meals for you all these years, and now a special birthday cake. See how much she loves you?” Mom’s smile grew wider. “It’s what I should do. Maya is my little sweetheart. Who else would I spoil?” She pushed the foul centerpiece toward me again. The sugary stench, mixed with the stale, yeasty smell of the bread, hit me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot my hand out and slammed it against the plate. The bread structure hit the floor with a dull thud. “After all these years, all I wanted was one normal birthday cake! Was it really that difficult?” The sudden silence in the room was deafening. Every smile froze. My mother’s eyes instantly welled up. “Maya, I didn’t mean… I was just so worried about your allergies…” Aunt Elise stepped in quickly. “Maya, your mother is trying her best. You can’t speak to her like that.” I dug my nails into my palms. “If you didn’t want to buy me one, I could have bought my own! I’m a legal adult! I’m not spending your money!” I fought back tears of frustration. “This is my eighteenth birthday. I just wanted a good memory! Just stop pretending to be a good person, okay?” The relatives turned on me, their faces sour. “That little girl is so ungrateful!” “You’ve been allergic to every protein since birth! Your mother had to nurse you like this, or you would have starved!” “She’s a spoiled brat. And to be so cruel on your birthday? A total shame.” “Honestly, daughters are just a burden. A son is the only one who takes care of you in the end.” My father, Gary, who had taken unpaid leave to be here, looked mortified. He glared at me. “Maya! How dare you talk to your mother that way! She’s been running herself ragged, she bought you new clothes, a new phone! Apologize. Now!” Mom was weeping silently by the counter. My heart twisted. I snatched the cheap, plastic phone he mentioned—the basic brick phone—and hurled it to the floor. “Who wants this junk?!” “I’m in college now! Why would you buy me a prepaid burner phone?” Everyone paused at the sight of the cheap device. It was the kind of basic model you’d only find in a forgotten corner of a convenience store. But someone always defends Shelly. Aunt Elise shot me a look. “What’s wrong with a simple phone? It’s for calling and emergencies, isn’t it?” “Exactly!” a cousin chimed in. “We never had anything like this when we were young!” Mom quickly scooped up the phone, wiping it clean with a desperate tenderness. She pulled Elise closer, then looked at me with a lost, helpless expression. “Maya, I’m so sorry… Your father works so hard, and expenses are high. We don’t have the money… It’s my fault. I’ll apologize. Next time, when I save up a little more, I’ll buy you a better one. I promise.” Looking into her swollen, red eyes made my chest tighten with a suffocating, familiar rage. My voice came out in a desperate, sharp squeak. “Buy it now, or stop with the performance!” Mom flinched, her hands shaking. “I… I don’t have any cash right now…” I leaned in, aggressive. “Didn’t Dad deposit thirty thousand dollars into your account when he got back? Where is the money?” Her gaze flickered away. “There are so many things the family needs. You don’t manage a household, you don’t understand the costs… Besides, it’s snowing outside, it’s cold. Maya, why don’t you wait? I’ll go later, okay?” Elise gave me a hard stare. “It’s just a phone. When does it have to be bought? You haven’t always been like this, Maya. Why are you acting so materialistic?” The relatives chimed in with fresh condemnations. Mom wiped her tears and tried to play the peacemaker. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Maya is just stressed. Don’t scold her.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small bag of candy. “Here. I specifically bought you some chocolate. Have something sweet to tide you over, don’t starve yourself.” Dad and Aunt Elise stared at me, daring me to protest. “Look how good your mother is to you!” I felt the bag in my hand. It was soft and sticky—the cheap, pre-packaged chocolate had completely melted. My eyes burned with fresh anger. I threw the sticky bag down. “Who needs your cheap pity?” “If you truly loved me, you’d go out and buy me the newest phone and the best cake! If you can’t, then stop talking!” “You spoiled little brat!” Dad’s face went green. “Your mother bought you a treat because she knows you like sweets, and this is how you act?” “She can’t buy me a cake or a phone, but she shoves this cheap candy at me and tries to look like a saint? Go buy a decent cake and a decent phone!” I jutted out my chin and slammed my fist on the counter. My mother began to sob harder. Elise hurried over to comfort her, then looked at me with deep disappointment. “Maya, you’re becoming unrecognizable. How can you treat your mother like this? Your father is never home, she raised you, she sacrificed everything. Forget about repaying her—can’t you even acknowledge her efforts? Over a phone and a cake? Is it really worth it?” Dad’s face was steel. “Don’t bother reasoning with her!” “She’s spoiled rotten! I’m going to teach her a lesson right now!” He raised his hand. “No, stop! Don’t hit her! It’s her birthday!” My mother threw herself against him, hugging his waist. She looked at me, pleading. “Maya, please, don’t be upset. I promise I’ll buy it later.” “We have so many relatives here. Let’s not talk about this now. I made all your favorite dishes. You love fish, remember? I bought a huge salmon and stewed it. Let me go get it…” She rushed into the kitchen and returned with a platter of fish. It looked well-prepared. She forced a smile. “Maya, come try this.” She tugged Dad’s arm, gesturing for everyone to sit down. I fixated on the fish. She used chopsticks to gently place a piece of meat into my plate. The sight of it made every hair on my body stand on end. I grabbed the entire plate and dumped it into the garbage can. “A piece of fish, and you act like it’s a lifetime of devotion! Stop the performance!” My father finally lost control. He lunged across the table and struck me across the face. “You ungrateful viper! I should just kill you!” The relatives joined the chorus of outrage. “Her mother is so good to her! She doesn’t know how lucky she is!” “This kind of child will never be loyal. A complete waste of effort!” “Honestly, why even pay for her college? She’s useless!” I covered my burning cheek, the verbal abuse washing over me. “Look at you! What kind of person are you? I’m going to discipline you properly!” Dad was volcanic. He ripped off his belt and coiled it. My mother rushed back, hugging his waist tightly. “No, no, please, not today! It’s Maya’s birthday. Everything is my fault, not hers!” Dad was beside himself with impotent rage. “Look at you! You’re still protecting her! Does this viper care about you at all?” Elise pulled Mom back, agreeing with Dad for the first time. “He’s right, Shelly! You indulge her too much! She needs a lesson!” Mom looked at me with a pained expression, tears streaming, but still defended me. “Maya is still young. When she’s older, she’ll understand…” Dad and Elise glared, shaking their heads. The relatives sighed. “Look how much your mother loves you…” “She’s still defending you now. Don’t you feel any shame?” Mom sniffled, forcing a breezy lightness. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Everyone stop talking about Maya. I’ll get another cake and another dish.” She bent down to pick up the scattered bread pieces. I couldn’t stand it. I ran forward and kicked the mess of bread aside. “I don’t want your fake goodness!” The room went completely silent. Dad froze for three seconds, then snapped back to reality. The belt lashed out, catching my forearm. A searing, hot pain. “You wicked girl! Who do you think your mother does all this for?” He was beyond reason, whipping the belt down again and again. Mom tried to stop him but was held back by Elise. She just covered her face and sobbed. Soon, a stinging line of blood appeared on my face. I cried out, touching my cheek. My fingertips came away slick. The sight of the blood on my face startled Dad. He paused. I let out a harsh, cold laugh, pushed past him, and kicked over the dining table again, harder this time. “You abandoned me my whole life! What right do you have to hit me?” Seeing my hysteria, Dad’s chest heaved. He spat the words out. “You’re crazy! A total lunatic!” “I knew you were an ungrateful brat! All these years wasted raising you!” “If you’re so unhappy with us, fine! We’ll disown you! I can’t live with this shame, but I can certainly get rid of you!” The relatives, seeing the situation spiral, rushed to mediate. Elise insisted I apologize. I stood completely still. I stared at my father for a long moment. Then, my voice hoarse, I spoke. “Fine. Let’s do it. Disown me.” Dad had only meant to scare me. My immediate acceptance stunned him. Mom rushed to intervene. “No, Maya, your dad just said that in the heat of the moment. Please don’t…” “Don’t speak!” I cut her off, refusing to look at her red eyes. I spoke slowly, deliberately. “Whether he means it or not is irrelevant. I mean it.” Dad felt cornered. He was shaking with rage. “Fine! Fine! You want to be disowned? I’ll sign the papers!” He yelled for my brother. Jace, who had been pretending to hide in his room, came out, shot me a gleeful, spiteful look, and ran out to print the document. He returned quickly, triumphantly handing the paper to Dad. Dad grabbed a pen and signed with a flourish. “From today forward, you are no longer my daughter! You will never see a dime of my money! We won’t pay another cent of your college tuition!” “You hate us so much? Sign this and get out of my house!” The relatives tried to calm us both down. Elise held my hand, pleading for me to say something soft. “Come on, Maya, don’t be dramatic! You’re an adult now, you need to be sensible!” “Life is hard; your mom is under so much pressure. Apologize to her, and your dad will calm down!” I stayed silent. I pulled my hand from hers, picked up the pen, and signed the document decisively. Mom wailed, “Maya, don’t be rash! Don’t do this!” But my pen didn’t stop. Beside my father’s name, I cleanly, forcefully wrote my own. I was done with this house. Seeing my signature, Mom’s sobs grew louder, filled with guilt and self-reproach. She even slapped herself across the face. “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have made that cake…” Dad and Elise watched, their faces grim. I just smiled. “Yes, it is your fault.” Dad’s eyes flashed with fresh anger, and he lunged. I pushed him away and ran into the kitchen. I grabbed the rest of the cooked beef and shrimp, the forbidden food Mom had prepared. In front of the horrified crowd, I began to shove the meat into my mouth. Everyone was shocked. Elise reacted first, trying to pull me away. “Maya, are you insane?! You’re allergic! This could kill you!” I shoved her back, staring hard at my mother, chewing mouthful after mouthful. With every bite I took, my mother’s face went a shade whiter. The relatives were terrified. Someone was yelling for an ambulance. My father stood paralyzed. In just a few minutes, I finished the entire plate of beef and seafood. The paramedics rushed in. The doctor, hurried and worried, asked who had the allergic reaction. All eyes turned to me.

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I was scrolling through a private, dark corner of an online pet forum when the headline stopped me cold. “5 Days Left. How do I say goodbye so she won’t break?” Below it, another line. “Should I just vanish? Pretend I ran off and die somewhere private?” The comment section was full of little dog avatars. “No, seriously, don’t do that,” one replied. “Your human will spiral. Last time I accidentally slipped my leash, mine took two weeks off work to hunt for me. Don’t you dare leave her with that guilt.” “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” another chimed in. “If only we could talk, we could ask them how they want us to go.” I froze, hovering over the screen. 1 I typed a reply, stepping outside the ‘dog voice’ everyone else was using. “If I were the owner,” I wrote, “I’d want a fur-ball, maybe one of those tight little tumbleweeds they make. Something I could keep, a tangible relic, for when the ache hits.” The original poster immediately thanked me. “That’s perfect! But I don’t have time to wait for the natural shed. I’ll have to pull the hair off my tail, then.” Moments later, my dog, Jet, padded onto my bed, a familiar black, felted ball clutched gently in his mouth. The sight of his tail—bare, patchy, almost raw—froze the blood in my veins. “Are you really sick, OP?” a user asked. “Why do you only have five days left?” “If you’re hurting, just whine and refuse food. Humans always panic and take us to the vet then.” “I’m not sick,” the poster replied. “I’m just old. I’m dying of old age.” A Golden Retriever avatar urged: “You still have to tell her, you need to give her a heads-up. She’s devoted her life to you. If you just disappear, she won’t cope.” The poster replied with a sad emoji. “I just want to keep her from crying.” “And I’m scared. I’m really scared she’ll lose it after I go and follow me.” This caused an immediate uproar in the thread. “Bullsh*t. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve been a good boy for twelve years and I’ve never heard of a human dying for a pet.” “Right? You think you’re that important? Stop spouting nonsense just because we can’t bite you through the screen.” The insults grew angrier, but the poster patiently replied to each one. “I’m not lying. Mom had a really bad sickness years ago. When she was sickest, she always held me and said that if I wasn’t around, she wouldn’t want to live, either.” “So, I made sure to eat every meal and run every day, just to stay a little longer for her. But I really am too old.” He sent a big crying emoji. “I just really want my Mom to be okay and live a happy life.” I had been scrolling through the thread while riding home with my best friend, Zoe, after booking a ridiculously expensive luxury dog resort for Jet’s birthday. “Jet hit the jackpot when he picked you,” Zoe said, keeping her eyes on the road. “Fifteen hundred dollars a day for a ‘Pet Playhouse’ and you didn’t even blink. What dog gets a birthday like that?” I laughed weakly. “He saw other dogs playing on TV last week and got so excited. I just thought, if other dogs have it, my dog should, too.” “But yeah, it hurt. Two months’ rent, gone.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “Stop pretending. You’d sign the papers again in a heartbeat.” The landscape blurred outside the window. “Time flies,” she murmured. “Can you believe Jet is turning fourteen?” I nodded, but my gaze was fixed on the thread, specifically the poster’s original question: “Should I just vanish? Pretend I ran off and die somewhere private? Will that make it easier for her?” A cold dread settled in my stomach. I thought of Jet, my sweet, gray-muzzled old man. I posted a reply to the question. “Please don’t do that. Your owner will be devastated.” “I have a dog. If it comes to that day, I want him to be in my arms, peaceful. Not somewhere awful and alone where I can’t find him.” I paused and typed the advice I’d already given. “If you truly want her to be less sad, the fur-ball idea is good. A memory object, something to hold on to. A touchstone for when she misses you.” As soon as the message went through, I got a flurry of question mark emojis from the other avatars. I realized my mistake—I was the only human voice in a dog forum. I went to delete it, but the original poster replied. “You’re right! I’m going to make one for my human right now.” “I don’t have time to collect the shed hair, though. I’ll just have to pull it off my tail.” He sent four or five happy, bouncing emojis. I sent him a quick ‘Good luck’ and then pulled up my contact list, inviting all of Jet’s dog park friends to a surprise party five days from now. The group chat exploded with happy replies, but I couldn’t focus. I kept refreshing the forum, needing to know what ‘the poster’ was doing. It was the fact that I had an old dog, too. Even knowing it had to be a human behind the keyboard, I couldn’t help but superimpose the situation onto Jet. Zoe burst out laughing. “Your Jet? An old dog? Cass, that animal runs faster than the two-year-old Labs at the park. He’s a tank. Stop projecting, you’re making yourself miserable.” Her words made me smile, and I shook my head. She was right. Jet still ate like a horse. Just last week, when I’d jokingly asked him how long he planned to stay with me, he’d nudged my hand for the answer ‘ten more years.’ My boy didn’t lie. A wave of warmth washed over me. I squeezed the new chew toy in my hand, desperate to fly through the door and hug him. But when I opened the door, Jet was sitting there, a black, palm-sized fur-ball in his mouth, which he immediately shoved into my hand like a proud offering. My body went rigid. Why was his tail bald? My phone vibrated. It was a DM from the poster. “I’m sorry, I don’t think my human liked the fur-ball. When I bring her a toy, she always praises me and gives me kisses. But she’s just standing there, frozen, with a weird look on her face.” The aggressive Mastiff avatar replied: “I bet you were too scared to pull the hair out yourself, liar!” The poster shot back, sending a photo. “Look! You see that hair in my Mom’s hand? Is that mine?! I’m dying, you think I care about a little pain?!” I looked at the image, and a cold, suffocating terror gripped my chest. The photo showed a black fur-ball the size of a golf ball resting in a pale palm. But the one thing that stole my breath: the tiny, cherry-red mole on the center of the palm. I slowly brought my own hand up, my eyes locked on the spot. A bald tail, an identical fur-ball, and now… that red birthmark. Coincidence was dead. My heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. I immediately clicked on the poster’s profile. “I bit an old man today. Mom was furious. But he was taking pictures up her skirt! She misunderstood me.” “Grandma and Grandpa are gone. They were never nice to Mom, but she’s still crying every night. When I found her, she just cried harder and said all she had left was me. She told me to stay with her forever. But I’m so old, too. Sigh…” I checked the date on the post: June 28th, 2024. The month my parents died in a car accident. I checked the biting incident: October 2nd, 2024. Last October, Jet had indeed bitten someone. It cost me two thousand dollars in settlements. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. Before I could dig any further, the poster messaged me directly. “Hello. My name is Jet.” “Excuse me, but… are you human?” He quickly added, as if worried about offending me: “This is a special forum for us dogs. Usually, only dogs talk here, but the way you type sounds like a person.” “I’m sorry for asking. You don’t have to reply if you’re busy.” My eyes stung. I typed a shaky reply. “Why are you named Jet?” The reply was instantaneous: “Because when Mom found me, I had a broken leg. She said she wanted me to live a happy, full life even if I only had three working legs. She wanted me to always be ‘jetting’ around.” Tears instantly splattered on the screen. I typed another command, desperate for final confirmation. “Go right now and bring your human your absolute favorite toy.” I watched Jet. He cocked his head, thought for a second, then spun and limped toward the toy basket, snatching up his favorite, battered yellow duck. He was missing his back right leg, but he ran straight toward me, his face alight with a happy, goofy grin. The last nerve holding me together snapped. Jet was the reason I didn’t end my life after my parents pushed me to—the day I found him, a man was savagely stabbing a tiny puppy with a box cutter on the side of a bridge. The puppy was no bigger than my palm, and the tendons in his back leg were severed. I’d never considered myself an animal person, but in that moment, watching Jet tremble but refuse to cry out, I knew I had to save him. I spent the last of my savings, three hundred dollars, to buy him from his attacker and rush him to the vet. I was clinically depressed then, often crippled by physicalized anxiety, barely able to move. Every time I managed to crawl to the kitchen and reach for a knife, Jet’s sharp, desperate cries would start, reminding me that a tiny, three-legged thing was waiting for its bottle. I never thought he’d live. I just thought I’d care for him until I couldn’t anymore. But his insistent, needy cries forced me to put down the knife, crawl to the fridge, and feed him. And he lived. He thrived. He was ridiculously perceptive, too. When my mood was low, or when my parents would call and tear me apart, he would wobble over and gently nudge his tiny head against mine, making silly, heartbreaking faces. He followed me through college applications, grad school, and starting my career. He was a non-stop, social machine. Because of him, I had to drag myself out every night, even after working ten hours, for his mandatory hour-long run. Through him, I was forced to talk to people, to join dog parent groups, to keep going. No matter how hard or terrible my life got, the thought of that enthusiastic little creature waiting for me at home always made me feel like things were manageable. I looked at Jet, who was now nudging the yellow duck against my feet, waiting for praise. Tears streamed down my face. I had known he was aging. I had prepared for the day he’d be too weak to walk, too frail to chew his food, when he’d finally pass in my arms. I hadn’t prepared for this. For him to be so healthy, so vibrant, and then just die. I frowned, picking up my phone. “Aren’t dogs who die of old age supposed to be weak and starving? You were planning on running away—that means you’re healthy. What did you really die of?” The reply was slow in coming. I looked over at Jet, who was staring at me, whimpering softly. He was worried—I hadn’t cried in front of him in years. I quickly wiped my eyes and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Mom’s fine. Just a rough day at work. I’m just letting it out. Don’t worry.” Jet studied my face intently until my tears stopped. Only then did he lick my cheek, tasting the salt. Then, the message came through. “I actually died of cardiac arrest.” “I died five days ago. The only reason I can talk to you is I made a trade with The Ferryman. He gave me ten more days.” He sent a sad emoji. “I was scared that if I died while Mom was working late, she’d blame herself. I was even more scared she’d lose it and try to follow me.” “Even if Mom had been home and rushed me to the animal ER, I wouldn’t have made it. I was just too old.” I remembered the night I worked late. Jet had suddenly appeared on the pet cam, howling uncontrollably, then collapsing in violent spasms. When I’d flown home, he was bouncing around like nothing happened. I had been so relieved that I never considered the darker possibility. My heart felt like it was being torn into shreds. I choked down the metallic taste of blood in my throat. I asked him, my hands shaking: “What did you trade? Why not trade for more time?” He sent a happy emoji. “I traded all the good luck and happiness of my next life. The Ferryman only grants ten days maximum for that kind of deal. It’s short, but I think it’s a steal.” “I just wanted to come back and say a proper goodbye. I need her to know she has to keep living, even without me.” He sent a dog-with-droopy-ears emoji. “She kept saying she wouldn’t live without me. When I was a puppy, I thought it was sweet. I thought I was the luckiest dog in the world.” “But as I got older, I started hating it. Humans live a long time. I watched her work so hard, go through so much. Now that things are finally better, she can’t throw it all away for an old mutt like me.” “So, I came back. I’ll die in a way she can accept, maybe then she won’t follow me.” I clutched the phone, collapsing onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. I had always been a child starved for love. Because of my parents, my only goal in life was to hear one word of praise. But all I ever got was, “Why don’t you just die? You’re an annoyance.” It was Jet who taught me I could be loved fiercely and unconditionally. Now, because of me, a dead dog had gambled away his next existence out of fear for my own self-destructive tendencies. I was a failure of a mother. I squeezed Jet tightly, about to tell him I knew everything. The phone buzzed. A new DM. It was from the user The Ferryman. “Do not leak the secret.” “Since you have found out, I urge you to release Jet to the Underworld quickly. The price for this return is not as ‘light’ as he claims. The longer he stays, the worse the cost in his next life.” “I have never seen a creature brave the cost of ten days. Do not betray his sacrifice. Send him on, or his suffering will be pointless.” He paused, then added: “If you understand, send him now. Remember, the secret cannot be shared. He must willingly choose to go.” The messages came in fast. Before I could reply, the account switched to a series of error characters, indicating it was deleted. But in that split second, The Ferryman’s profile picture turned into an image of Jet’s Book of the Dead, a silent emphasis that everything he said was real. My heart was a tight, painful knot. I glanced at the wall clock and quickly typed a message to Jet. “Your human says she is going to live a long, happy life! So you must go to the Underworld and reincarnate now!” He sent a happy dog emoji. “How do you know?” I typed frantically: “I posted a poll on a human forum asking what people would want to do if their pet died. A dog avatar that looked exactly like you replied, choosing the ‘keep living’ option.” I chose a picture of him and sent it. Jet barked with delight in my arms. “That’s me! That’s great news! See? I told you!” “But I’m not in a hurry to go. I want to spend a few more days with Mom.” Jet snuggled into my neck, clearly pleased with himself. Panic flared. I gave him a dozen reasons, but he stubbornly refuted every one. “I have to stay with Mom.” The second hand on the clock ticked. Every beat was a hammer blow to my chest. Jet, however, found a comfortable spot on the sofa and promptly curled up to take a nap. I lost it. I shoved him off me, hard. “Just go die already! You pathetic, needy old mutt! I’m sick of looking at you!” Jet hit the TV stand with a soft thud. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with shock. My heart shattered. I rarely raised my voice at him. Even when he was bad, a stern voice was enough. I had never touched him in anger. But I knew it wasn’t enough. I had to make him believe I truly didn’t want him anymore. He had to be convinced to leave. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him to the front door. I pulled him outside and, once we were off the property, I kicked his one good back leg. “I’ve been waiting to tell you this! I don’t want you anymore! I found a cute new puppy, so go wherever you want, but don’t follow me!” I spun around and walked away without looking back. Jet was terrified. He wanted to follow, but he was afraid of my anger. He trailed a few feet behind me, letting out tiny, wounded whimpers. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, and screamed at him. “Stop! Just go! Don’t you know how annoying it is to care for an old dog? I’m replacing you! Now be smart and get lost!” Jet froze. He stood like a statue, staring at me in complete disbelief. My heart felt as though it had been flayed open and rubbed with salt. Jet was fiercely possessive. Since he was a puppy, he never allowed me to pet another dog or even feed one of his dog park friends. If I showed the slightest bit of affection to another animal, he would pout, go silent, or even refuse to eat. The only exception was strays, but even then, he’d watch me like a hawk, ready to nip my hand if I dared touch them. I knew that statement had gone straight to the core of his biggest insecurity. He was truly broken now. Tears streamed down my face as I walked back into the complex. This time, Jet didn’t follow. I hid behind the wall, watching him, and messaged him again, begging him to go to the Underworld. He didn’t reply. He just stood there like a stone sculpture, looking in the direction I’d left. He stayed that way until the neon lights of the street flickered on. Then, a light rain began to fall. Just as my shirt was becoming soaked, I got a reply. “I understand. Thank you.” I watched him drop his head and slowly limp away, heading in the opposite direction from the apartment. Immediately, Zoe messaged me. “I got him. Don’t worry.”

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