Author: Momo Chan

Eight. Eight toilets in this house, and I was on my hands and knees in the last one, the sickly-sweet scent of bleach and raw sewage clinging to my uniform T-shirt. My phone buzzed on the floor, pushing a forum post to the top of my feed. “Second marriage to a wealthy man, how do I deal with a bratty stepdaughter?” The suggestions flew fast, but one comment, already flagged with 9,999 downvotes, snagged my eye. “Establish dominance. Go hard on your own kid—make an example of him. She’ll fall in line fast.” I instinctively tapped the downvote button to push the number past ten thousand. No father could be that cruel, I thought. Just as I set the phone down to scrub the final bowl, the bathroom door was kicked open. My father, Gavin, stormed in. Without a word, he grabbed the heavy leather belt I used to hold up my too-big shorts, and the pain began, lashing across my back and legs. “Did you break my razor? You can’t even clean a toilet without messing up. What good are you, you little waste of space!” “No… Dad, I didn’t…” I knelt on the cold tile, begging, but his strikes only grew harder, fueled by a rage I didn’t understand. Through the doorway, my stepsister, Patricia, stood, her face chalk-white, as she timidly called out, “Daddy?” The fleeting, ugly spark of pleasure on Gavin’s face was sickening. “It’s okay, Patricia. Your brother messed up, and he needs to face the consequences,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with false concern. Then he grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragged me toward the washing machine, and shoved me inside the drum. As he walked away, a small, black and white cat named Snowball, who had been hiding behind the hamper, crept onto the touch control panel of the machine. 1 I slammed my palms against the thick glass door of the washer. “Dad! The machine started! Let me out!” “The water is coming in! Dad, please!” I watched the doorknob turn. I clung to the glass, a surge of desperate hope flooding my chest. I knew he loved me. He couldn’t possibly let me drown in here. “D—Dad…” Click. The lock engaged—a sharp, final sound. Gavin’s roar followed instantly. “Still lying! You’ll invent any garbage story to escape punishment, won’t you?” “You’re going to stay in there and reflect on what you’ve done! You come out when you realize your mistake!” The water level rose frighteningly fast, already sloshing above my waist. My forehead cracked against a sharp plastic ridge, and everything went black for a second. “It hurts… Dad… I’m really hurt…” I sobbed, the cold water mixing with my tears and flooding my mouth. Outside, I heard Patricia’s muffled, crying voice. “Daddy, I hear water…” “Don’t listen to him, Patricia!” Gavin’s voice was suddenly loud, the tone laced with concealed satisfaction. “Your brother is a drama queen. He’s an expert at faking distress to get pity. You must never be like him.” The water passed my chest, then reached my neck. I clawed at the drum seal, struggling to gasp for air. “Dad… please… just look…” If you just looked, you’d know I was dying. But all I heard was my father’s sweet, gentle tone. “Patricia, you’ve been so good today. Daddy is going to reward you with some gourmet ice cream.” Their footsteps receded. In that moment, a raw, wrenching scream tore itself from my throat—a sound no one heard. I don’t know how long passed. Just as the frigid water was about to submerge my head, my pocketed phone flickered to life. I grabbed it, adrenaline giving me a last burst of strength, desperate to dial 911—even a one-in-a-million chance. My finger hovered over the screen when a new reply to the forum post popped up. “That ‘make an example’ trick works wonders!” “I locked my son in the washing machine, and the kid quieted down instantly. He even called me ‘Dad’ nicely afterward!” The comment section immediately exploded. “Are you insane? This is sick! That’s actual child abuse!” “He’s sacrificing his own son to please a woman?” “I’ve called the police! Get ready for jail, dude! Who puts a person in a washer?” My father’s panicked reply appeared instantly. “What do you know? It’s easy to judge when you’re not in my shoes!” “Do you know how hard it is to live with a piece of baggage like him? If I don’t please this woman, my son and I will be homeless!” “He can take a little pain so we can have a good life. What’s the big deal?” I stared at the words on the screen, and the hand I’d raised to call for help froze mid-air. In my father’s eyes, I was just baggage. A piece of dead weight. That’s what I was—the poor, disposable kid you see in old movies. I had no strength left to type. I simply stared at those three words. I thought: If I’m not here, you’ll be much happier. Then, Dad, I’ll grant you that wish. A small smile touched my lips. Air bubbles gurgled from my mouth. I remembered when I was five, burning up with a hundred-and-four-degree fever. Dad carried me on his back, running two miles straight to the emergency room. I was scared of the needle, clutching the fabric of his shirt. He squeezed my hand, his palm warm. He said, “Sammy, be a good boy. Listen to your father. You have to live.” But Dad, I can’t listen to you anymore. My body slipped down with the current, curling up at the bottom of the drum. The only sound was the deep, terrifying roar of the machine’s turning drum. My awareness began to fade. The drum lurched, flipping my body violently. The back of my head smashed against the metal wall. But I felt no pain. I sat up in the water, only to realize I was floating in the air. Looking down, the washing machine was still spinning, filled with murky water and foam. A small, thin body was curled inside, bobbing with the current. Was that… me? I reached out to touch the glass door, but my hand passed right through. 2 Fear made me instinctively search for my father. I floated out of the bathroom and into the first-floor living room. No matter how many times I apologized or called out, my father only had eyes for Patricia. “Why aren’t you eating, sweetie? It’s your favorite strawberry flavor.” Gavin stroked her hair. “Daddy will buy you this every day, as long as you promise to be a good girl.” Patricia burst into tears, dropping the ice cream cup onto the floor. “Daddy, I promise I’ll be good. Don’t lock me in the washing machine… I’m scared…” Seeing the ice cream fall, I lunged to catch it, but my hand passed straight through the cold cup. Gavin picked up the fallen ice cream, his smile growing. “Patricia is so good. Daddy cherishes you too much to ever punish you like that.” Patricia nodded furiously, snot and tears smearing her face. Standing behind them, I asked my father sadly, “Dad, didn’t you say you cherished me, too?” He didn’t seem to hear me, simply wiping Patricia’s tears with tender care. Just then, the sound of a key in the lock signaled the return of my stepmother, Tracy. Normally, Patricia would rush to Tracy for hugs and demands, but today, she just called out timidly, “Mom.” Tracy paused. “The sun’s coming up in the west? Why isn’t this kid throwing a fit?” Gavin rushed to meet her, taking her designer handbag. “Honey, I told you I had a handle on things. Kids just need the right guidance.” Tracy kicked off her shoes and walked to Patricia, reaching out to pinch her cheek. Patricia flinched but didn’t dare pull away. “Well, I’ll be. You actually did a flip. I didn’t think you could manage her,” Tracy said, a rare satisfied smile on her face. “You really know how to discipline her. She’s usually wild.” Hearing the affirmation, Gavin beamed. This was what all of it was for. The three sat down to dinner, the atmosphere unnervingly harmonious. On the table was the sweet and sour pork ribs—my favorite, which Dad had promised to make for me if I finished cleaning the toilets yesterday. Tracy paused, glancing around the room. Her brow furrowed. “Where is he? Why isn’t that kid eating?” My heart leaped. I drifted closer to Tracy. Aunt Tracy, I’m right here. I’m watching you eat. Gavin paused while scooping soup. “He messed up today. Broke my electric razor and then denied it.” “I locked him in the washing machine to reflect. A little starvation will sort him out.” Tracy looked toward the bathroom, then sniffed the air, her frown deepening. “What is that smell?” Our laundry machine was a wash-dry combo. With hot water and the dryer setting running, my body had already begun to putrefy. Tracy put down her fork and started walking toward the bathroom. “I’ll check the toilet. That smell is way too strong. It must be clogged.” Smack. Gavin slammed the ladle down on the table. “What else could it be! It has to be that brat doing it on purpose!” “Tracy, don’t go. Don’t spoil your appetite. The little monster actually relieved himself right there as a protest!” He started walking toward the second-floor bathroom. “We are eating! Are you deliberately trying to gross us out? You think shitting yourself is going to get you out of this? It won’t!” I frantically waved my hands, trying to dissipate the stench of decay. “It’s not that, Dad! I didn’t relieve myself!” “That’s the smell of Sammy decomposing… Dad, please don’t go near it.” Hearing no response from the bathroom, Gavin was instantly enraged. “Fine. Playing mute, are we? You think if you don’t talk, I’ll forget about this?” “If you like the smell of rotten filth so much, then you can stay in there and enjoy it!” He grabbed a can of air freshener and sprayed the hallway outside the door aggressively. “I was planning to let you out tomorrow morning. Now you’ve earned another twenty-four hours!” Tracy wrinkled her nose in disgust. “He’s getting completely out of hand. A boy that age, pulling stunts like this.” “Forget it. The house smells awful. I can’t eat here.” She smiled at Patricia. “Since Patricia was so good today, let’s go out for a seafood buffet.” Gavin’s eyes instantly lit up. He put away the air freshener and angrily glared at the bathroom door. “He can stay in there and reflect. Let’s see if he ever pulls a stunt like that again!” Watching them put on their shoes to leave, I spun in the air frantically. “Don’t go… Please don’t go…” “Don’t leave me alone in the house. It’s so dark in the bathroom. I’m scared…” But my father couldn’t hear me. Because I was already dead. 3 The next afternoon, they returned. I floated in the foyer, watching Dad take Tracy’s shoes, his face covered in a placating smile. “Honey, what do you want for dinner? I’ll cook whatever you want.” Tracy was in a good mood, humming as she walked toward the bedroom. “Anything. Just don’t let the house smell like it did yesterday.” Gavin’s face tightened, and he quickly laughed it off. Patricia followed, excitedly holding the huge box of Legos Tracy had bought her. Clatter. The Lego box was too big, and Patricia fumbled it, knocking over the large decorative vase in the entryway. The sound of ceramic shattering was deafening. “What was that noise out there!” Tracy’s angry shout instantly echoed from the bedroom. Gavin’s face went white. He clapped a hand over Patricia’s mouth and shouted toward the bedroom. “Nothing, Honey! Just my clumsy hand! I knocked over the vase by accident!” “Stop being so careless! Keep it down!” When Tracy didn’t appear, Gavin finally let out a long sigh. Patricia’s eyes were filled with tears, about to burst into wails. “Daddy, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Don’t lock me—” Gavin clamped his hand over her mouth again, whispering fiercely. “It’s okay, Patricia, you’re fine. Daddy would never lock you up.” He peered at Tracy’s closed door, then pulled Patricia toward the second-floor bathroom. “Come on, let’s go check on your brother.” I floated behind, watching Patricia’s face contorted with fear as Gavin pressed her against the bathroom door frame. The foul stench wafting from the crack under the door was stronger than yesterday. It was the smell of advanced decomposition. Gavin covered his nose in disgust and slammed his fist on the door. “You brat! Still playing dead, are we?” “It’s been a day, and you still haven’t cleaned up your mess? Making a stench like this—you deliberately don’t want to come out, do you!” The bathroom was silent. After a few more angry curses, the lack of movement made Gavin’s brow furrow, a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Did he pass out from hunger?” But just as he unlocked the door and prepared to push it open, Snowball, startled by the noise, jumped back onto the touch panel. This time, the small cat paused right on the Heavy Duty button. The clear, electronic chime of the machine starting up rang out. The washing machine violently shuddered, and the drum began to spin at high speed. Gavin froze, shocked by the sudden noise. When he realized it was the washing machine running, his panic instantly turned to blind fury. “Oh, you think you’re clever, you little bastard! I call for you, and you don’t answer, but you can start the machine yourself?” Seeing the machine whirl, I cried out in despair. “It wasn’t me, Dad! I didn’t start it!” “My body is already falling apart!” “Please, open the door and stop the machine!” But my father couldn’t hear my cries. He slammed the door shut and locked it again. Then he picked up Patricia and walked quickly toward the living room. “Patricia, you must never be naughty like your brother. Otherwise, you’ll have to be punished too.” Patricia trembled, nodding her head vigorously. I floated in the air, watching the wildly spinning machine with hopeless dread. The drum speed increased. The body, already badly swollen, was being crushed and distorted by the sheer force of the centrifuge. Finally, a strange gurgling sound came from the drainpipe. That was the sound of me clogging the drain. 4 Back in the living room, Tracy was on the sofa, her brows deeply furrowed. “Still not finished? What is that awful smell in this house?” She covered her nose, turning up the volume on the TV impatiently. “You can’t even manage one child. I have to live with this stench every day.” Gavin’s face instantly paled. He feared nothing more than Tracy thinking he was incompetent or that we were a burden. “Don’t worry, Tracy. It must be the sewer backing up. That kid was too lazy to clean the toilet.” “I’ll clean it! I’ll be good!” Patricia jumped off the sofa. She was terrified of being locked inside that roaring metal box. To prove herself, she stumbled toward the downstairs bathroom. “Clean it… If I clean it, the smell will go away…” Patricia muttered to herself, stirring the water in the toilet bowl with the brush. A gurgling sound came from the sewer. Patricia pressed the flush button. Whoosh. A reddish-brown liquid backed up and overflowed. “Why won’t it flush…” Patricia was nearly crying, afraid that failing at this simple task would lead to her own punishment. Suddenly, a fleshy, rounded object floated up with the churning water. Patricia froze, then her eyes lit up with excitement. “An action figure! It’s a superhero!” She screamed with joy. She thought this was a reward from the heavens, confirmation that she was a good girl for cleaning the toilet. She reached out her small hand, grabbed the object, and ran out. “No! Patricia, drop it! That’s not an action figure! That’s…” I lunged, trying to knock the object from her hand, but I passed through her body again and again. In the living room, Tracy listened to the scrubbing sounds from the bathroom and looked satisfied. “See? She has a sense of responsibility now. She’s proactively helping out. Much better than before.” Gavin’s lips curled into a smile. “Of course. Who do you think trained her?” Just as he spoke, Patricia’s excited voice rang out. “Daddy, look! The toilet flushed out a superhero!” “I cleaned it really well. This is my reward!” Gavin looked at Patricia. The next second, his face turned ghastly white.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390829”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always said: A plant that isn’t pruned will grow wild and useless. I was the tree they pruned down to a stump. From the age of five, I learned to keep my joy locked down—it was “getting ahead of myself.” I couldn’t cry when I was bullied—because, as my father said, “Flies only land on open sores.” If I scored an A- on an AP exam, my parents would only ask, “Where are the other two points? Are you getting lazy?” When relatives praised me for being quiet and polite, my parents would publicly cut them off: “She’s acting. At home, she’s as lazy as a pig. Don’t let her fool you.” Over time, I learned to bury every single emotion, becoming the perfectly polished product they demanded. The year I turned nineteen, my Aunt Carol secretly slipped me a crisp envelope. “You’re grown now, Jamie,” she whispered. “You need to start learning to manage your own money. For college.” It was two thousand dollars. For the first time in my life, I didn’t immediately hand over a gift. That night, I woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. My father, Robert Davies, was using a screwdriver to pry the lock off my desk drawer. He snatched the envelope, his eyes blazing with the satisfied triumph of a detective: “I knew it. I knew you were acting strange. You’re learning bad habits.” My mother, Amelia Davies, then took a picture of the cash and posted it to the family group chat, “The Davies Family Circle.” “Jamie was caught trying to steal money from her aunt. This cash is tainted. Our family values won’t allow it. We are distributing it to everyone here as an apology for her disgrace.” The screen lit up with scrolling “Thank yous” and praises like, “Amelia, you know how to discipline a child!” I looked at the phone and smiled. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I ever smiled in that house. … “Smile? You have the audacity to smile?” My father’s hand came down, a wind-cutting whip against my cheek. I didn’t feel the pain right away. All I heard was the high, sharp whine of the slap echoing in my eardrum. I stared, transfixed, at the phone on the coffee table. The family group chat was still refreshing. Aunt Leah: Your family’s discipline is so strict! Kids shouldn’t have cash, it just leads to trouble. Uncle Brian: Wow, I snagged thirty bucks! Thanks, Amelia! But Jamie seemed so sweet. Guess she had a sneaky side. Cousin Sam: Thanks, Auntie! I’m using the money to buy a new skin for my game! The screen was a carnival of digital congratulations and animated cheers. They were happily snatching up their share, chatting away. “See this, Jamie? Open your eyes and look!” My mother thrust the phone inches from my face. “They’re all laughing at you! Hiding a little nest egg, like some kind of delinquent? That two thousand dollars wasn’t a gift from Carol—it was a test!” Her spittle flew as she spoke, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “If we hadn’t found it, what would you have done? Used it for drugs? Gone out and done something truly shameful?” I leaned against the corner of the wall. My cheek was burning, and the whole side of my face felt numb. “Mom…” I tried to speak, my voice dry and scratchy, like swallowing sandpaper. “Aunt Carol said it was for college expenses. I just… I wanted to be independent. I wanted to stop asking you for things.” “Lies!” My father kicked over a small side table, unbuckled his leather belt, and snapped it through the air. “What kind of education does a morally corrupt person like you need?” His chest heaved violently. “You plot against your own parents! What’s next, murder? Are you going to come back and kill us in our sleep?” I instinctively hunched my shoulders and protected my head. “Rob, not the face,” my mother said coolly. She took a step back, giving my father enough room. “It’s New Year’s Day tomorrow. I don’t want to answer questions about a black eye in front of the neighbors. It reflects poorly on me.” “I know.” My father answered, and the belt rose high, coming down in a sharp, stinging arc. One. Two. The metallic buckle smacked against my back with a sickening, muted thud. I didn’t make a sound. I just kept my eyes wide open, fixed on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The light was a harsh, sickly white, like a spotlight in an interrogation room, illuminating every wretched corner of this home. When he was tired, my father tossed the belt onto the sofa, pointing a finger at my face. “Did you learn your lesson?” I slowly lifted my head to look at him. Sweat and panic glazed his face. His eyes held the exhausted satisfaction of a violent release. “Yes,” I answered mechanically, opening my mouth. “What was your mistake?” “I shouldn’t have hidden the money. I shouldn’t have had private thoughts…” I paused, and then added quietly, softly. “I shouldn’t… exist.” My mother, hearing the answer she wanted, kicked my leg. “Go write a full report. Two thousand words. You will detail where the money came from, why you hid it, and you will post it to the family group chat to apologize to all your relatives. If it’s not heartfelt, you won’t eat tonight.” I held my phone, the screen light illuminating the swelling, bruised purple of my hand. Suddenly, a new message popped up in the group. Aunt Carol: Rob, Amelia, what are you doing? I gave Jamie that money. The very next second, the group admin, “Family Peace is Success,” muted the entire chat. Group admin “Family Peace is Success” removed “Aunt Carol” from the conversation. My mother scoffed, putting her phone away. “Your Aunt Carol is an emotional fool. Enabling a child is killing a child. We will minimize contact with her. We don’t need her bad influence.” A deathly silence returned to the living room. My parents went into the kitchen to eat. The clatter of their silverware sounded warm and domestic. I knelt on the cold floor, staring at the notification that my only ally had been ejected. I felt something deep inside my body shatter, completely and irrevocably. My finger hovered over the screen for a long time. I typed a line of text. Dad, Mom. You can keep the money. I don’t want my life anymore. My fingertip hesitated on the ‘Send’ button. I could hear their easy laughter from the kitchen. “The pot roast is perfect this year.” “Did you remember to set out the gift baskets for the neighbors?” Why? Why should I die, while they continued to live, peaceful and justified? I deleted the message. I posted a new one to the group: Mom and Dad were right to discipline me. I was wrong. The money will be used to buy everyone some snacks. Happy New Year. The moment I sent the two-thousand-word apology, the group un-muted. The blinding stream of “thumbs-up” emojis and “such a responsible child” praise felt like a series of sharp slaps against my remaining sliver of self-respect. My mother held her phone, admiring her trophy. “See? Everyone forgives you.” “Jamie, I only do this for your own good. You hate us now, but when you’re older, you’ll realize no one in the world will teach you responsibility like your own parents.” “Alright, stop kneeling,” my father said, sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the screwdriver. “Go eat. You made a mistake, but we’re not going to starve you.” I stood up stiffly and walked to the dining table. All that was left was a single bowl of plain pasta piled high with the leftover fatty scraps of the pot roast. It was all the grease, the white, trembling fat that they had picked off their own plates. “Eat it,” my mother said coldly. “Don’t waste food.” I looked at the plate and felt a spasm of nausea in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten fat since I was a child; it always made me sick. But I dared not protest. When I was five, I separated a piece of fat onto the table, and my father pressed my head down and forced me to swallow it back. He said: “Picky eating is being spoiled. No one in my house is allowed to have bad habits.” I picked up the bowl, used my fork to stab a block of cold fat, closed my eyes, and put it in my mouth. I fought back the urge to vomit and swallowed the greasy chunk whole. “Eat slower. You look like you’re starving,” my father said with disgust. “Zero table manners. You’re an embarrassment to take out in public.” I forced down the last bite of fat, suppressing a violent retch. “I’m done.” “Good. Now, go make the appetizers. We have company tomorrow, so you need to finish the whole batch tonight.” I ignored the throbbing pain in my back and walked to the kitchen counter. I picked up the fragile wrapper, trying to pinch the edges shut. But my hands were shaking. My palms were swollen like over-proofed dough, my finger joints were stiff, and my nerves were frayed. The slightest pressure, and— “Pop.” The wrapper tore. The ground meat filling squished out, coating my hands in a slick film of oil. “Clumsy!” My father exploded. He slammed the TV remote onto the table. “You can’t even make a simple appetizer! Useless at everything you try, except stuffing your face!” He rushed over, grabbed the broken wrapper, and violently threw it into the trash can. “Are you doing this on purpose? Huh? Trying to spite me?” “Look at your hands! As fat and useless as a pig’s hoof! Did reading all those books rot your brain? You can’t even fold dough! What good are you?” I lowered my head, staring at my swollen, trembling hands. He was right. I was useless. I wasn’t worthy of the lean meat, I wasn’t worthy of a gift, I wasn’t worthy of a secret, and I wasn’t even worthy of preparing a holiday meal. “Get out of here!” My father pushed me away in disgust. “Don’t stand here contaminating the rest of the ingredients!” I stumbled backward, hitting the refrigerator. “I’m sorry,” I apologized out of habit, even though the fault wasn’t mine. “Go to the porch and reflect! Don’t come back inside until midnight!” My father waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly. I turned and walked toward the sliding door. The moment I pushed it open, the biting chill of the winter air slammed into my neck, making me gasp. But a small part of me felt a sudden rush of relief. Finally, I didn’t have to smell the sickening odor of rendered fat and stale discipline. I slid the door shut, isolating myself on the freezing porch. Inside, the lights were bright. My parents were wrapping the appetizers and watching a New Year’s special on TV, laughing heartily. Outside, it was pitch black, and the cold wind howled. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Eleven fifty PM. Ten more minutes until New Year’s Day. Dad, Mom. You hated that I was useless. So I’m going to be useful one last time. I’m going to prepare your New Year’s gift. Seven AM, New Year’s Day. “Jamie! Come cut the fruit!” My mother’s voice cut through the door. I closed my English vocabulary book. The book was merely a prop. They loved to see me looking productive and ambitious. “Coming.” Several neighbors who’d come to exchange holiday greetings were sitting in the living room. The coffee table was littered with snack wrappers. Mrs. Rodriguez smiled warmly: “Oh, look who it is! Jamie’s out! It’s been a year, and you’ve gotten so tall. You’re such a handsome young man.” “Handsome? He’s a block of wood,” my mother said, smiling as she handed Mrs. Rodriguez the largest, shiniest apple. “The boy’s a fool. He’s useless at everything except burying his nose in a book.” Mrs. Rodriguez nervously tried to smooth things over: “Being quiet is a sign of maturity.” “Maturity, my foot! He’s just sullen!” My father sat in the armchair, crossing his legs. “Look at the expression on his face, like we owe him a fortune. Just last night I had to discipline him for stealing. He’s a wolf cub we raised that’s ready to bite the hand that feeds him.” The smile on Mrs. Rodriguez’s face froze. She gave me a look of pity. “Rob, he’s a grown boy. You have to save face for him…” “Save face? Does he deserve it?” My father snorted, his eyes filled with contempt. “Go pour Mrs. Rodriguez some tea. Fill it to the brim. Don’t be stingy.” I picked up the teapot. My right hand was still swollen, and my fingers were stiff and unresponsive. I trembled slightly. Hot tea sloshed onto the tabletop. “Useless!” My father lunged up, slamming the back of my head with his hand. “DONG!” My head hit the sharp edge of the table. My vision blackened. The teapot slipped from my grasp. Scalding water splashed onto my bruised hand, the pain sharp and sickeningly familiar. I didn’t move or cry out. I just bent down to grab a rag and wipe up the spill. “You can’t even pour a cup of tea correctly! What good are you?” “We’d be better off keeping a dog. At least a dog wags its tail when guests arrive. You? Making a miserable face on New Year’s, who is that supposed to be for?” Mrs. Rodriguez stood up in alarm, her face pale. “That’s enough, Rob. Please don’t hit the boy. I… I have something on the stove. I need to leave.” She practically fled out the door. The moment the door closed, the air solidified. My mother glanced at me with distaste, taking the plate of peeled apples away. “Worthless. You can’t even manage to greet a guest properly. Clean up the mess and get back to your room. Stop being an eyesore.” I picked up the broom, bent my back, and began slowly sweeping the wrappers. “Oh, wait,” my father suddenly said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Clear out your locked cabinet in your room.” I stopped. “Why?” The lock was already broken, but the cabinet was still the only private space I had in this house. It held my journals, my sketchbooks, and the letters from Aunt Carol. “Why what?” My father glared, annoyed. “Your cousin Sam is coming to stay for a few days. He said he likes that cabinet. He’s going to use it for his transformers. Get your junk out of there and put it in a box.” “That’s my cabinet,” I said, tightening my grip on the broom handle. It was the first time I had contradicted him. “Yours?” My father threw the remote, walking toward me. His finger poked my forehead again and again, forcing me to back up. “What in this house is yours? I bought the house, I bought the cabinet, and I gave you the very life you breathe! What right do you have to claim anything?” “Clear it out now! Don’t force me to lose my temper on New Year’s Day!” I was pinned against the wall, nowhere left to retreat. “Fine,” I heard myself say. He was satisfied and went back to the TV. One last time, I thought. I just have to hold on a little longer. After tonight, I’ll give you the cabinet. I’ll give you my life, too. I crouched in front of the cabinet and reached for the door. I wanted to take out the journals and letters, at least destroy them myself so they couldn’t be left here. But when the cabinet door swung open, my blood ran cold. It was empty. The stack of journals I cherished, the sketchbooks where I’d drawn my future, Aunt Carol’s letters… they were all gone. I scrambled out of the room like a madman. “Where are my things?!” This was the first time in nineteen years I had yelled at them. My parents were nestled on the sofa, laughing at a show. Hearing my scream, they paused for half a second before their faces hardened. “What are you shrieking about?” my mother frowned. “My journals! And the letters in my cabinet! Where are they?” I rushed to the coffee table, my whole body trembling. My father slowly peeled an orange, not even looking up. “Oh, that trash? I told your mother to toss it.” “Tossed?” Something in my brain snapped. “Where did you toss it?” My mother shrugged dismissively: “The bin downstairs. Who can remember?” “Those journals were full of depressing, dark garbage—all that talk about being ‘suppressed’ and ‘wanting out.’ It was a bad omen. And Carol’s letters were poison, telling you to break away from us.” “That was my life…” I whispered, tears suddenly flooding my eyes. Those journals were the only confidants I had in countless silent nights. Those letters were the last bit of warmth I had to cling to. “Your life?” My father flew into a rage, throwing an orange peel that hit my face. “Your life belongs to us! You dare to yell at your own father over a few notebooks? You’re out of control!” He grabbed the solid wooden folding chair from the corner. “Rob! Not his head!” my mother screamed. I didn’t move to dodge. This scene was too familiar. At six, I ate candy given by a neighbor and was beaten until my nose bled. At ten, I got second place and was forced to kneel in the snow all night. At fifteen, I defended myself from a bully and was made to apologize to the aggressor. The stool came down. The pain blinded me. I curled up on the floor, hearing his ragged, angry breaths and his curses. “I’ll teach you to yell! I’ll teach you to stare! I am your father!” My mother finally walked over and pulled him back. “That’s enough, Rob. Look at this.” She picked up my phone, grabbed my hand, and unlocked it. In the notes app was a draft I hadn’t deleted: Want to apply for grad school in Aunt Carol’s city. Get far away. My mother stared at the line, then squatted down and shoved the screen in my face. “You wanted to run? You wanted to go to Carol? You wanted to abandon us?” She looked back at my father: “Rob, the boy’s heart is poisoned. He’s not going to college.” My father, breathing heavily, nodded. “Study so much you think you can run? You’re going to stay here and get a factory job!” My mother dialed my college advisor right in front of me. “Hello, Professor Thompson? Happy New Year. This is Jamie Davies’ mother.” Her voice was tragically sorrowful. “We need to withdraw Jamie… Yes, a mandatory leave. He’s had a complete psychotic break—stealing, violence against his parents. A severe mental crisis.” I lay on the floor, desperately trying to reach for the phone, wanting to scream, “I didn’t! She’s lying!” But no sound came out. My throat was raw with blood, and my shoulder was too broken to move. “We’re afraid he’d hurt the other students if he went back… Expulsion is fine. His life is ruined anyway.” She hung up the phone. Then, she opened the college Facebook group. “This is Jamie Davies’ mother. Jamie was caught stealing property and physically abusing his parents. He has extreme psychological issues and has been brought home for forced treatment. Please excuse any debts or improper behavior. We apologize for the trouble he has caused.” Send. The screen immediately exploded with a stream of “???” and shocked emojis. In that single moment, the carefully constructed facade of a normal, capable student I had built at school was shattered by her foot. If I ever went back, I would be the violent, thieving lunatic. She tossed the phone onto the coffee table and looked down at me. “Did you hear that? You’re going to stay right here, close to us. You won’t go anywhere.” “Oh, and tomorrow, we’re removing the lock from your bedroom door. You don’t need privacy.” They turned off the lights and went to bed. The room was plunged into darkness. Only the fireworks outside flashed intermittently. You want me to stay in this house forever? Fine. I crawled, piece by piece, back to my room. I pulled out the red hoodie Aunt Carol had bought me last year from under my bed. I’d never worn it because my mother said red was too flashy and “unseemly.” I pulled it on. In the mirror, my face was ghost-white, but the vibrant red gave me a fleeting moment of life. I sat at the desk, spread a sheet of white paper, and wrote one line: Dad, Mom, I finally became the child you always wanted: Quiet, obedient, and never leaving this house. I took the utility knife and walked into the bathroom. I turned on the water. The water in the bathtub rose over my bruised shoulders and my chapped, cracked hands. It felt wonderful. I raised the knife. I didn’t hesitate. There was even a thrill of impatient relief. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt my body getting lighter, little by little. The rules, the accusations, the beatings, the sheer weight of being their child—it was all draining away through the wounds. Outside, fireworks exploded. It was morning. It was the second day of the New Year. Happy New Year, Jamie.

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The guy from the mountains the Ronald family sponsored finally made it into graduate school. He was ecstatic, sharing his rags-to-riches story on social media—the journey from his small town to the city. He included a photo of himself looking up at Julia, and a caption that hit me like a physical blow: [My patron saint, my cornerstone, the most unique presence in my life~] The comments were a chorus of adoration. [Seriously, you’re so inspiring! I’m taking notes!] [Those eyes aren’t exactly professional, are they? Ship it! I’m officially a shipper!] (Liked by the original poster) [OMG, invite me to the wedding, I’ll put my entire savings into the red envelope!] (Liked by the original poster) [Isn’t that Crestwood U’s youngest Master’s supervisor? Being the academic workhorse for your savior—that’s one hell of a way to repay a debt!] … Jasper Cole pinned his own comment: [Thanks for all the well wishes! Hoping to pick up a second certificate (a marriage license) after graduation~.jpg] I stared at the screen, then scrolled to his most recent update. It was a few screenshots of Jasper’s thesis and the full Acknowledgments section. Every line mentioned Julia’s all-nighters, her patient guidance, and her encouragement. I lingered over the images. I recognized the content. I’d seen those exact drafts on Julia’s laptop. She’d told me the paper was critically important to her work. I had run a high fever, staying up late to help her review it, only to find out I was dressing up a borrowed bride. In that instant, I finally understood that even the most meticulously engineered life—the most solid marriage—could develop a fatal fissure. 1 When I walked into the house, I froze. A guy in a tank top, wearing my personalized house slippers, was busy chopping fruit in the kitchen. When he saw me, a flicker of irritation at being interrupted crossed his eyes, quickly masked. “Ezra? I’ve seen your picture. You’re even handsomer in person.” He came out, holding the fruit bowl. He was completely at ease, as if he owned the place. Julia was sitting on the sun-drenched balcony, absorbed in her laptop, so focused she hadn’t even registered my arrival. The academic exchange I was on wasn’t supposed to end until two days from now, but my section was complete, so I’d flown home early. “I’m Jasper, Ezra. Gen must have mentioned me.” He set the bowl down and then lifted his gaze to Julia with an intensely devoted look. “I’ve been writing my thesis these past few days. My dorm was so loud, I just couldn’t sleep, so Gen invited me to stay here for a bit. “Don’t worry, Ezra. I can handle all the chores. You just focus on your job. I’ll take care of Gen.” My brow furrowed instinctively. Because his dorm was too loud, Julia brought him home? That was a difficult justification to swallow. Julia and I grew up together. She wasn’t the kind of person to abandon basic boundaries out of simple pity. The reason I agreed to marry her in the first place was that we knew each other’s blueprint. We were intellectual equals, a formidable pair. Even if we couldn’t be a passionately romantic couple, we certainly wouldn’t become bitter enemies. Besides, in many marriages, a perfect fit matters more than mere feeling. Julia was devastatingly smart, gorgeous, came from old money, and had no bad habits. The Kane and Ronald families were long-time business partners. It wasn’t a dramatic corporate merger, but it was a clear symbiosis. As a marriage partner, there was no better choice. But more than that. We did like each other, fiercely, beyond all the careful calculations. To this day, the memory of her believing I was going on a blind date—flying across two continents from an academic conference to appear on my doorstep—could still make my chest ache. Julia Ronald, always so composed and aloof, had been a beautiful mess that day. Her hair was wind-bitten, her clothes were wrinkled from a night of anxiety, and her red-rimmed eyes showed the strain of sleepless nights. “Ezra Kane, if you want to get married, will you marry me?” I stood in the doorway, holding two heavy bags of trash, completely stunned. Julia was a pure scientist. She wasn’t good at expressing emotion; she’d never once told me she loved me. Even her attempts at comfort were awkward. When I lost the top spot in a class competition, she poked my head and mocked, “You’re pathetic. Try to catch up next time.” Then she’d grab my test paper and dissect all my mistakes. She never once considered missing a question just to make me feel better. … We married naturally, becoming everyone’s definition of the ‘Perfect Equation.’ I remember the night before I left for my overseas fellowship. After we made love, she tucked her head into my chest, a rare moment of vulnerability. “Ezra, let’s have a baby.” I softly agreed. Barring any unforeseen event, we were supposed to be endgame. But now, it seemed complicated. 2 My face set into a hard mask, and I walked straight past Jasper, my leather soles hitting the freshly polished wood floor. “Wait, Ezra, I just mopped this morning! Couldn’t you change your shoes…?” Jasper gasped in alarm, which finally drew Julia’s attention. I gave him a cold look. “Slippers are personal items. I don’t like wearing what other people have worn.” The guest slippers in our house are completely different from that pair. More importantly, Julia and I wear matching couple’s slippers. They were clearly visible by the door. Jasper froze. He had assumed I would endure his presence, given that the Ronalds sponsored him and Julia brought him here. He thought I’d be forced to swallow my anger. But I didn’t care about those politics. He quickly peeled off the slippers and put them in front of me, sounding flustered. “I—I’m so sorry. Where I grew up, a lot of people share one pair of slippers. I didn’t realize you had so many rules… and I’ve never seen slippers this nice.” Julia came in from the balcony with her water glass. Jasper glanced up at her, his eyes full of unspoken appeal for rescue. The woman he saw as his savior didn’t immediately take the bait. When Julia saw me, the coolness in her eyes softened. “You finished early? Why didn’t you tell me so I could pick you up?” I tossed my carry-on bag onto the sofa, about to speak, but Jasper’s choked voice cut me off. “Gen, I’m so sorry. I think I made Ezra mad. I truly didn’t know I couldn’t wear his slippers… I’ll buy you a new pair to replace them…” Julia looked at him, then shifted her gaze back to me. “This is Jasper Cole. I mentioned him to you—he just started grad school. His dorm situation is pretty bad, so he’s staying here for a few days.” I knew the Ronald family sponsored numerous students. Jasper Cole was one of them. He had four sisters and a younger brother. Jasper was the eldest. Without the Ronalds, he likely would have ended up like his three sisters, married off right after turning eighteen. I knew of him. But I hadn’t known that, in the single month I was away, he had moved into my home, wearing my footwear. “Ezra, I’m just a small-town guy. I don’t know any better. Please don’t hold it against me. Now that we’ll be living together, maybe you can teach me the house rules…” Small-town guy? Living together? I gave a harsh laugh. “What about the watch on your wrist? And the cologne you’re wearing? I keep those in the master bathroom, next to the shower. We may not have house rules, but didn’t your school teach you not to take what isn’t yours?” I scoffed, picked up my slippers, and tossed them straight into the trash can. There were four pairs of perfectly clean guest slippers in the rack by the door. He deliberately chose Julia’s and my couple’s set. Julia frowned slightly, looking exasperated. “We’ll go out and buy a new pair after dinner. It’s just a pair of slippers, Ezra.” I rejected the idea flatly. “I’ve been awake for fifteen hours. I don’t have the time or the energy to go out just to replace a pair of slippers.” Julia opened her mouth but said nothing. The pressure in the room was suffocating. Jasper tugged at his pants, looking miserable, and meekly apologized. “I’m sorry, Ezra. I’ll mop the floor until it’s spotless. And I’ll buy the slippers.” “We have a robot vacuum. Don’t put on a performance of unnecessary suffering in front of me.” I walked straight back to the bedroom. Behind me, I heard a stifled, humiliated gasp. 3 By the time I’d washed up and come out, Jasper Cole had already packed his bags and left. Julia was leaned against the sofa, her eyes lowered. Her profile was soft yet cool, her eyelashes thick and dark. “You’re angry. What is the reason for the anger?” We had agreed when we married that clear communication was paramount. Say what you mean directly; it saves time wasted on speculation and second-guessing. We weren’t going to test our relationship with the silent treatment. “Professor Ronald, bringing a grown man to live in our home? That’s not a choice you would make.” I was blunt. She covered her mouth and let out a light laugh, her eyes shining with warmth. “Are you jealous, Ezra? I thought you didn’t care about me anymore.” I paused. The flattery was tempting— But it was clearly not the answer I was looking for. “He’s just a student sponsored by the Ronalds. He needs a temporary place to stay because of the dorm environment and social issues. “The apartments my parents offered were either too far or needed to be cleaned…” I smirked. “Julia, without the Ronald family, without you, would those ‘difficulties’ even register as problems? The complaints about not being used to dorm life, or being scared to talk to roommates? Those are not the words of a young man from an impoverished background. “And he’s twenty-seven, not seventeen.” He spent two years retaking the college entrance exam and three years trying for grad school. Julia might believe his flimsy excuses, but I wouldn’t. Didn’t those constantly updated videos and commented replies speak volumes about his intentions? You didn’t need a man’s intuition to see it; anyone with eyes could tell. “I know. That’s why I told him to go back.” She sat next to me and rested her head on my shoulder. “I’ve been so exhausted lately. I can’t even sleep soundly when you’re not here… “Julia Ronald can live without anyone, but she can’t live without Ezra Kane. “You have to trust me.” I thought for a moment, then nodded. If twenty-plus years of friendship and marriage could be shaken this easily, what did my absolute commitment to Julia mean? I still believed she was fundamentally a good person. Even if we lacked fiery romance, she wouldn’t do anything dishonorable. The next morning, I drove to the lab in Julia’s car as usual. She still brewed my herbal tea before dawn, preparing my day’s vitamins and fruit with meticulous care. Nothing seemed to have changed. During my lunch break, I checked my phone. The algorithm immediately served up Jasper’s latest plog: [I must fly like a bird toward my mountain. Thank you to my Goddess!] The first picture in the album was of my favorite book. When Julia and I first got married, I used to hold her and ask her to read it to me every night. But the copy she gave to Jasper? It had the author’s signature. My hand felt stiff as I scrolled down. Below the book was a screenshot of her chat history with him. Gen: [Don’t dwell on such small matters.] Gen: [If you’re upset, go to the lab. You shouldn’t waste your energy on something like slippers.] World’s Cutest Stud: [Well, why can someone else waste theirs?] Gen: [I can’t control others. I don’t allow you to waste yours.] World’s Cutest Stud: [Hehe, I’m honored~ Yes, ma’am! Salute.jpg] … I slid through the comments, feeling the blood drain from my entire body. [OMG, what kind of angelic supervisor is this? She is so protective!] (Liked by the original poster) [The domineering CEO-style mentor. And her face is absolutely right for the role.] (Liked by the original poster) [I’m obsessed. Is it too late to go back and get a grad degree?] [Don’t be delusional, commenter above. The supervisors we get are like mine: three sentences, and two of them are about how bad my paper is. Must be original content.] [Keep the updates coming! I love shipping you two in my free time!] (Liked by the original poster) … Distracted, I took the list a colleague handed me. “Ezra, this is the list of students Crestwood U selected for the project. Want to take a look?” I nodded, signing my name without looking. This was a joint project between our lab and CU. The CU contact hoped we could give their students some exposure. Our project team agreed to let them send resumes for screening. We planned to keep about ten students. I drove home that night. Julia had already cooked dinner. I changed into the new slippers she had bought for me and put my phone in front of her. “Why didn’t you bring back a signed copy of that book for me?” She didn’t like social media; she preferred phone calls for communication. I needed to make her see how Jasper interpreted her every action. And how everyone else perceived their relationship. Her frown deepened, and she put the phone down, her voice tight. “I understand.” Julia explained the signed book was a gift she asked a contact to bring back for a group of her students, not just Jasper. I didn’t get one because, she claimed, I preferred the content to the celebrity. As for Jasper, she said she would handle it. I looked at her and gave a slow nod. “Okay. I trust you.” One last time. 4 Life resumed its routine. The lab project got underway. Just as I was preparing to pull an all-nighter, Julia called. Professor Ronald, who usually preferred home-cooked meals, was actually taking me out on a dinner date. I looked at the empty lab and readily agreed. It was the familiar old restaurant, one Julia and I had frequented since high school. They made the best smoked and cured meats in the city. Just as we sat down, a familiar figure appeared nearby. It was Jasper Cole. He was carrying a tray, pouring water and taking orders for a newly arrived table. When he saw us—no, when he saw Julia—his eyes immediately brimmed with tears. He lowered his head, trying to hide his distress, his hand gripping the order pad so tightly his knuckles turned white. I swirled the drink in my glass, watching him in silence. Julia looked at him, a flicker of concern crossing her features. “Did the Ronald family stop your funding?” Jasper took a deep breath, trying to control his voice, but it still trembled. “I’m grateful to Mr. Ronald and to you for your help and care. But I think I should rely on myself and work my way through school now.” He stole a cautious glance at me, adding pointedly, “That way, I won’t upset Professor Kane anymore.” I lifted my head, my gaze piercing. “You want to work? With your master’s degree, you could tutor privately or teach at an agency. There are plenty of options.” “But you chose to work as a server at a restaurant we frequent. I wonder what your intentions are.” Jasper reacted as if I’d stepped on his tail, quickly defending himself. “It was just a coincidence. Gen brought me here once before, and I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign. I just want to earn more money…” I smiled faintly. Earn money? What part-time job pays less than waiting tables for a Crestwood University graduate student? “A student should look and act like a student. I’d prefer to see ‘clear stupidity’ in your eyes than so much obvious calculation.” He suddenly stopped moving, his voice choked. “Mr. Kane, not everyone is as articulate and bold as you are.” “I came from a small town. I’m slow-witted. I didn’t even know you couldn’t share a pair of slippers, and I’m terrified of dealing with powerful people. All I know is that all work is the same. You earn money in your glamorous lab, and I earn money serving here.” “I know you look down on me, but you can’t repeatedly humiliate me!” Julia turned her head, her gaze resting lightly on me. “Ezra, don’t push a young man when he’s already down.” Jasper stood next to Julia, his eyes red and his posture trembling. He gave me a sincere bow. “Professor Kane, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown off the little kindness Gen gave me, and I shouldn’t have made you unhappy. I formally apologize. I’ll delete all the videos.” “And please, stop making things difficult for me!” “How have I made things difficult for you?” 5 Jasper looked mournfully at Julia, then bit his lip and spoke in a repressed, heavy tone. “The lab project you’re running… I applied for that, too… “I know you don’t like me, but I worked so, so hard. Why would you deny me that opportunity?” It suddenly dawned on me. Ah, so this little performance was all for this. A few days ago, the selected CU students started reporting to our lab. As fate would have it, three of the four students in Jasper’s dorm room were selected. When they returned to school, they couldn’t stop talking about our lab. “The most heavily funded lab in the state! Mom and Dad, I finally made you proud!” “Turns out, being a workhorse depends on where you’re working—a golden cage is better than a doghouse, and this is like a diamond mansion…” “The cafeteria food is amazing, and it’s free!” “Highlight of my resume. I hear the husband of one of our professors works there!” “Our supervisor, Professor Kane, is incredible. Young and brilliant. I love him almost as much as I love Brad Pitt!” … I had reviewed the resumes of every accepted student, but Jasper’s had never reached my desk. I immediately messaged the colleague in charge of selection, asking for Jasper’s resume. I opened it and glanced at the contents. “Before asking others why, ask yourself why not.” Julia stared at me silently, her eyes devoid of any softening. I knew she was angry. “Ezra, don’t play with someone else’s future.” I felt a prick of surprise, followed by a wave of self-mockery. I laughed at how, after all these years, I still hadn’t seen her clearly. I laughed at how, after all these years, she still hadn’t known me. Otherwise, why would she believe a stranger over me? Seeing Julia defend him, Jasper’s voice grew even more pitiful. “Professor Kane, I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’m not blaming you. Getting into that lab is just a word from you—” “Stop. I don’t have the power to control everything, and if I did, I wouldn’t waste it on you.” Julia seemed unconvinced. “I asked about the project. You’re the lead coordinator. “I know it was a joint decision, so I didn’t plan to interfere, but today, you’re being overly aggressive.” I let out a cold laugh. “I’m being aggressive? “Out of respect for you, I accepted his resume after the submission deadline. “How can a student who hasn’t even passed his English proficiency exam have the basic ability to read technical documents? “Or should I show you the resumes of the other students?” Jasper forgot to act wounded, looking anxiously at Julia, clearly terrified she would blame him. “Gen, you know I don’t get along with my roommates. They didn’t want to tell me about the opportunity. By the time I found out, it was too late…” I was beyond anger, I was amused. How could one person shift all responsibility onto others? “The project announcement was posted everywhere on your campus. If you missed it, fine. But what obligation did your roommates have to notify you personally?” “But I have a paper!” A sudden spark of defiance lit up Jasper’s eyes. “My paper is higher quality than the research of the students who have been here for two or three years!” “Ah, yes. The paper. It is quite important.” I nodded slowly. “But the first three thousand words of that paper alone required me to send you over thirty major revisions. Is that what you’re bragging about?” What a twist of fate. The thesis he was so proud of was the one I’d spent an all-nighter fixing. … Dinner was abandoned. Or rather, my dinner was abandoned. As I left, Julia ran after me and grabbed my arm. “He’s just a student, Ezra. You don’t need to humiliate him in front of all these people.” I yanked my arm away, looking at her coldly. “And you, Julia Ronald? When you publicly accused me of targeting him, did you think about how I was supposed to navigate that? “In the three years we’ve been married—no, since we met—have we ever fought over a person this insignificant?” The answer was never. Why now? “Ezra, he is my student.” And what does that have to do with me? 6 Julia didn’t come home that night. Some so-called ‘insider’ posted the video of the restaurant confrontation on Crestwood U’s campus gossip page, along with screenshots of Julia’s social media posts. [The so-called ‘Inspirational Male Student’ everyone loves is actually abusing the kindness of his supervisor’s family. He cooks, wears the husband’s slippers, uses his cologne, and clings to the supervisor. All I can say is that Professor Ronald’s husband is too good for this to work. This Jasper guy is trying to be the mistress and failing! He looks shy and sweet, but secretly, he’s garbage.] The comment section exploded, and the post went viral. Julia was virtually immune, but Jasper became the target of the entire school’s outrage. [Wait, isn’t he from my dorm building? I wondered why he was always sleeping out—guess my dorm couldn’t support His Majesty’s palace life~] [Even though all the videos were deleted, he clearly branded himself as an ‘Inspirational Blogger.’ Do those words even apply to him?] [Why not? Trying to inspire others to be a side-piece is a type of inspiration, too~.jpg] [Let’s see how the school handles this. Who wouldn’t love a young, successful Prof Ronald? Some people have no shame.] [I remember he’s not exactly young. Prof Ronald is only five or six years older.] [Disgusting. Entering someone’s home without permission and wearing the husband’s slippers. Imagine the foot fungus.] [That’s what you get from guys with no manners. The OP said he used the man’s cologne too. Just trash.] [He must have thick skin. I still draft my messages to my own supervisor in a blank document first…] [Fellow cowards, assemble here!] … I sat in my study, staring at the photo frame on Julia’s desk. It was our first photo together. It was right after our first high school midterm. We had tied for first place, and the teacher insisted on a joint photo. I remembered her muttering before the flash went off: “Finally, someone who can compete. You’ve earned the right to stand next to me.” I scoffed, looking at her. “Next time, it’ll be a solo shot for me, Your Highness. You can stand in the shade.” “Dream on, Kane.” … Just like that, we became each other’s sole measuring stick throughout high school. “Julia, what did you get for the last question?” “I’m too lazy to tell you.” “Whatever.” … “What did you translate that English word to?” “Call me ‘Big Sister’ and I’ll tell you.” “Get lost.” … “Julia, which one do you want: Harvard or Stanford?” “Which one are you going to?” “Harvard.” “Then I’ll go to Harvard, too.” After our results came out, I went to Yale and she went to MIT. We saw each other every year, fought every time, and were constant companions. Finally, as everyone predicted, we became a powerhouse couple. … My phone suddenly vibrated wildly. It was Julia. The moment I answered, her voice, completely devoid of its usual composure, came through the line. “Ezra Kane, how could you spread such malicious rumors? He is still a student! Are you trying to destroy his life? He never did any of those things!” Facing Julia’s baseless accusation again, I was unnervingly calm. But why did my chest hurt so badly? I felt like I was suffocating. “What happened?” I tried to keep my voice steady, though my hands were shaking. “Stop acting innocent! I’m starting to doubt if I chose the right person three years ago!” Smash— My hand twitched slightly, and the photo frame crashed to the floor. Shattered. Perhaps it wasn’t just the frame that was broken.

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The accident cost my daughter and me our memories. The cost to my wife, a licensed therapist, was apparently irrelevant, as she immediately prioritized an international healing journey with her depressed high school crush and his daughter. When our memories finally returned, she was surprised to find us quiet, cooperative, and incredibly independent. We no longer cried out for her attention, no longer needed her exhausting, forced comfort. At first, she was pleased, convinced she had managed to perfectly balance her professional duty and family life. That illusion shattered on New Year’s Eve, when she came home early and paused outside the door, listening to my conversation with our daughter. “Daddy, is that woman really my mom? Every time I call her that, it just feels weird.” I nodded. “I feel the same way. She doesn’t seem like my type at all. How did I even end up marrying her?” My daughter’s voice grew conspiratorial. “Daddy, your type is Ms. Simon, right? Every time she sees you after school, her ears turn bright red, and she always finds an excuse to drive us home… I think you have a shot!” My face was heating up, but before I could answer, my daughter leaned in close, offering a suggestion in a volume she clearly thought was a whisper—but was loud enough for anyone outside to hear: “Daddy, maybe… we should just get a new mom?” 1. Dinner was an intense affair. I’d ordered two platters of insane hot wings, and my daughter and I were sweating, our faces smeared with red grease, happily demolishing the feast. A voice, familiar yet somehow estranged, cut through the noise behind us. “You didn’t wait for me?” We both flinched. Turning around, we saw a beautiful woman standing in the doorway, radiating a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. Her eyes were similar to Zoe’s. It was Caroline Jennings. My wife. My daughter’s mother. She walked closer, her gaze immediately landing on our sticky faces and the carnage of chicken bones. Her perfect brows furrowed. “Six years, Noah. You know I have a stomach condition. I can’t eat spicy food.” Zoe, still sucking the last bit of flavor off a bone, spoke without thinking. “We didn’t order any for you. This is for us.” Cara froze. I offered a weak, forced laugh and scrambled to cover the awkward silence. “Well, uh… I saw a photo on your feed. You and Garrett and Ruby were at the amusement park. I figured you’d have dinner there…” “Noah Miller.” She cut me off, her tone the usual blend of cool impatience and patronizing correction. “I’ve explained this. Garrett and Ruby Price were abandoned by his wife, and he’s battling severe, treatment-resistant depression. I am a doctor. I am fulfilling my professional duty.” She took a slow, deliberate breath, her voice turning heavy with accusation. “And what about you? As a husband and father, you didn’t just make a scene at my workplace, you taught Zoe to be manipulative and jealous.” She paused for effect. “And then you caused a car crash. Hasn’t any of that made either of you stop and think about your actions?” A tide of memories crashed over me. I remembered the moment I discovered her continuous, day-and-night ‘professional care’ was actually for her high school crush, Garrett. I’d taken Zoe and shown up at his apartment, convinced I was catching them. Cara had just pulled us aside, her expression one of weary resignation. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d overreact. I am a doctor. To abandon my patients now would be unprofessional and irresponsible.” She’d looked down her nose at us. “Don’t you dare bring my daughter here and act hysterically in front of my patients.” Her cool, measured tone made Zoe and me feel like two hysterical fools. In a fit of desperate rage, I hired someone to hang a giant banner outside her hospital: GARRETT PRICE IS SEDUCING MY WIFE. Zoe, armed with a tiny megaphone, had chased Ruby Price around the preschool playground, yelling, “She’s a mistress’s daughter! Don’t play with her!” Eventually, Garrett and Ruby were threatening self-harm. Cara, to force us into submission, got me fired and ensured Zoe was ostracized at school. I completely broke down and threatened divorce. Only then did she finally concede, promising to keep her distance from the Prices. Zoe and I believed her. We had even booked a long-anticipated trip for our fifth anniversary, counting the days until her rare vacation. We went to the hospital, elated, to pick her up. Instead, all we got was a chilling phone call. “Emergency consultation. The trip is postponed.” Dumbfounded, we left the hospital. But as we turned the corner, we clearly heard her colleagues chatting, laced with knowing amusement: “Dr. Jennings is so committed to Mr. Price. She’s taken a half-year sabbatical to accompany them on their recovery journey!” “I know. I heard she’s already on her way to the airport. A specialized escort, apparently.” My ears started ringing. My heart felt like a piece had been surgically removed. Before the tears could fall, I looked down at Zoe’s pale face. Fat tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her voice trembled. “Daddy… does Mommy really not want us anymore?” That single question shattered my remaining sanity. I immediately grabbed Zoe’s hand and ran, chasing after Cara’s car. We needed an answer! We needed to know if she still wanted this family! We never caught up. We crashed instead. Waking up, the world was a blank slate. We didn’t remember her, only each other. And she, in turn, had conveniently put us on a shelf. My memory snapped back to the present. Zoe and I exchanged an awkward glance. The memory had returned, but the love hadn’t. In fact, I couldn’t understand why we’d ever been that hysterical. I quickly assured Cara that we truly wouldn’t interfere again. Cara’s expression darkened further. After a long moment, she regained her usual air of control. “Tomorrow, I’m taking them to Redwood Park for a therapy session. Make sure you pack three identical lunches.” She looked at Zoe. “Zoe, make sure you put together an extra set of your class notes for Ruby.” She turned to leave, adding a cool, final word. “Do as you say. Don’t do anything else… embarrassing.” The door closed. Zoe and I looked at each other and simultaneously shrugged. Then, I pulled out my phone and ordered a gourmet meal for three for later. Zoe messaged her teacher, politely asking for a digital backup of the class materials. As for tomorrow? We already had plans to go hiking with Ms. Simon. Who had time to worry about them? 2. Early the next morning, I heard Garrett’s gentle voice from the living room. “Cara, is it just the three of us going? Maybe… maybe we should still invite Noah and Zoe? I worry they might misunderstand. I’d be fine, but Ruby is still so fragile. She can’t handle the stress…” Ruby’s small voice piped up in agreement. “Daddy, I’m okay. Little Zoe… she didn’t mean to be mean.” Cara’s voice, soft and reassuring, followed. “Ruby, sweetie, don’t worry. If I bring them, who knows what kind of scene they’ll make. It’s not good for your treatment.” I sighed, rolled over, and drifted back to sleep. The next thing I knew, a rough force yanked me from the bed. Cara practically dragged me into the living room. “Look at the daughter you’re raising!” Her voice was a low snarl of fury. “Look at what she did to Ruby!” Garrett was holding a sobbing, trembling Ruby, who was covered in streaks of food and sauce. His eyes were red-rimmed. Zoe was sitting amidst a disastrous mess, tightly clutching three insulated lunch boxes, her small face red with effort, tears splashing onto the floor. “I didn’t push her!” Zoe cried out. “She’s a thief! She stole the lunch Daddy made for me! I just wanted it back!” Cara didn’t even look at her. She was carefully wiping Ruby down with a damp cloth, murmuring soothing words to Garrett. Only when that was done did she turn to me, her eyes holding a familiar, exhausted I knew it look. “Noah Miller, are you this resentful just because I asked you to make a few extra lunches? So you taught your daughter to pull this vile stunt?” She leaned in, her voice cold. “You promised last night. Are you going back on your word already?” I took a deep breath, patiently attempting to explain. “I didn’t teach her anything, and I believe Zoe. Your lunches were on the counter—Garrett’s family’s food. Ruby probably just picked up the wrong one by mistake…” “Stop.” Cara cut me off, her face tight with annoyance, as if watching a terrible, familiar play. “Don’t act surprised. I haven’t forgotten what you two are capable of. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Noah. You need to take a long, hard look at how to be a responsible father.” The words choked in my throat. Before the memory loss, we had an agreement: if she kept her distance from Garrett and Ruby, we would have peace. Cara did start coming home on time and checking in. But the moment Ruby got a scrape at preschool, Cara would materialize, dragging Zoe to apologize without hearing her side. When Zoe tried to defend herself, Cara would look at me and say, stone-cold: “Noah Miller, is your word that cheap? Don’t make a scene. Don’t push my patience and love to the breaking point. If you do, there’ll be nothing left to talk about.” The worst time, she’d dropped a line that was still scorched into my memory: “A child with a malicious heart like that? I don’t want her.” My young daughter couldn’t handle that. She chased Cara out of the house barefoot, running until her feet were bloody, grabbing her skirt and confessing to every false crime. “Mommy! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! I won’t ever do it again! I apologized to Ruby!” “Please don’t leave Daddy and me!” Since then, Zoe never dared to defend herself again. I sighed softly. What was the point of explaining? In Cara’s eyes, we were already convicted, repeat offenders. I pulled Zoe close, my voice low and calm. “Zoe, give them the lunches.” My daughter’s small body stiffened, but then she aggressively wiped her face, gave up the argument, and silently pushed the tightly protected lunch boxes across the floor. Cara didn’t look at us again. She bent down, lifted Ruby into her arms, and shielded the two of them with her body. She turned to leave. Slam! The door closed with a sharp, final sound. The house instantly became terrifyingly quiet. It was just Zoe and me, and the wreckage on the floor. I quietly picked up a rag and started cleaning. Zoe squatted beside me, helping pick up the scattered mess. After a long moment, I asked softly: “Zoe, if one day, your father and mother separated…” “Who would you want to live with?” I’d asked her that when things were at their absolute worst with Cara. Then, she’d cried hysterically. “I don’t want you to split up, I want us to be a family forever!” Now, she didn’t hesitate. She looked up at me, her eyes clear and determined. “I’m staying with Daddy.” “No matter what happens, I’m only staying with Daddy.” I looked at her and felt a smile break across my face. The last sliver of coldness in my heart instantly melted away, replaced by a profound warmth. I stroked her hair. “Okay.” If that was the case, there was nothing left to fear. 3. Just as I finished clearing the last bit of the mess, the doorbell rang. “Mr. Miller? Zoe? Are you home?” Zoe’s eyes lit up. “It’s Ms. Simon!” She ran to the door. Outside, a bright, kind young woman bent down and embraced the child who flew into her arms. Seeing Zoe’s red, puffy eyes, Juliet Simon’s voice immediately softened. “Zoe, what happened? Have you been crying?” My daughter buried her face in Juliet’s shoulder, whimpering miserably. “The lunch Daddy made… someone took it…” “It’s okay,” Juliet said, gently patting her back. “Ms. Simon made new food. Everything that you and your daddy love.” She had a genuine knack for comforting the child. With just a few words, Zoe’s tears turned to laughter. Juliet finally looked up at me, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Noah. I called but couldn’t reach you. I got worried, so I just came over.” “Ms. Simon, please don’t apologize,” I quickly said. “You’re Zoe’s and my lifesaver. Please, call me Noah.” Half a year ago, it was Juliet who had pulled us from the wreckage of our crushed car, racing us to the hospital. Later, when she heard we had partial amnesia and were struggling with day-to-day things, she spontaneously began dropping off meals and taking Zoe to and from school. When our memories returned, she carefully retreated to a respectable distance. But soon after she heard the full story of our crash, she suddenly became Zoe’s new preschool teacher. Juliet’s ear tips turned slightly pink. She spoke quietly. “Noah, I’ve planned the entire hiking route. Shall we head out?” She was as good as her word; everything was perfectly organized. When Zoe got tired on the trail, Juliet immediately crouched down. “Zoe, hop on.” I felt a pang of guilt. “Don’t spoil her. You’re already carrying so much, Ms. Simon.” She just smiled, reaching out a hand to lightly brace herself on my arm. “It’s fine. I work out regularly. I’ve got the strength.” For some reason, watching her clear-cut profile, my heart started to beat erratically. Even when we reached the rest area and she took Zoe to buy water, that strange feeling hadn’t subsided. Just then, a small, familiar voice drifted from behind us. “Mommy! Let’s run!” It was followed by Garrett’s laughing voice. “Ruby, slow down. You’ll fall.” Finally, Cara’s voice, also tinged with warmth. “Ruby, Mommy’s going to catch you!” I turned my head and met the gaze of the three people not far behind me. The air solidified. Garrett’s face went white. He violently pulled Ruby into his chest, his voice trembling. “Mr. Miller… are you—are you stalking us again? Cara and I really aren’t doing anything, Ruby only calls her Mommy because she misses her mother so much… please, take whatever you have out on me, but don’t hurt the child…” Cara instantly stepped forward, completely blocking Garrett and Ruby from view, as if I were some kind of monster. Her jaw was tight, her eyebrows fiercely furrowed. “Noah Miller, I told you this is treatment. Their emotions are fragile; they cannot handle stress. How many times do I have to tell you to cure yourself of this paranoia?” I looked at the familiar, yet strangely foreign, faces before me, and the scene that had, in the past, caused me so much loss of control and misery. Now, my heart was completely calm. In fact, it felt a little ridiculous. You can’t even truly empathize with your past self. What exactly was my feeling for this woman now? If I loved her, I should be furious. Instead, I waved a casual hand. “I understand. It’s your duty as a therapist. You don’t need to explain it to me.” “I’m just here for a hike. We just happened to run into each other. Please, continue. Pretend I’m not here.” Cara clearly froze, her eyes locked on mine. “Ruby called me Mommy. You’re not angry?” I was genuinely confused. “Angry about what?” She stared at my face, searching for any sign of pretense, but found nothing. Her expression grew uglier, and the chill around her deepened. After a long silence, she seemed to come to a conclusion. Her voice was cold, and utterly convinced. “Don’t try to act, Noah Miller. I know you’re sulking. We’ll talk about this later. But for now, you need to go home. I won’t hold this against you this time.” I was about to respond when a clear, pleasant woman’s voice came from behind me. “Noah, what’s going on?” Cara’s head snapped up. She saw Juliet, and her entire body instantly locked up. “Is everything okay?” Juliet, holding a daughter whose face was sticky with sugar, quickly walked over to my side. I met her halfway. “What took so long? Did Zoe convince you to buy extra?” Catching Zoe’s pleading eyes, Juliet smiled to cover for her. “Just one tiny extra marshmallow to replenish her energy. This is yours.” She presented a much larger marshmallow, like a magic trick. I instinctively smiled. Just as I was about to take it— “Noah Miller,” Cara interrupted, her voice sharp and cold. “Who is she?” Ruby, peeking out from behind Cara, mumbled, “Why is Ms. Simon here?” I paused, realizing that since Garrett and Ruby had entered our lives, Cara had never once visited Zoe’s school or bothered to ask who had helped us after the accident. This was the first time she had seen Juliet Simon. “This is Ms. Simon,” I introduced her. “She was the one who pulled Zoe and me from the car after the accident six months ago.” As I moved to introduce Cara, Juliet had already extended her hand, smiling naturally. “You must be Ruby’s mother, then? It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 4. The instant the words left Juliet’s mouth, Cara’s face went dark, a deep, ugly red spreading beneath her skin. She looked at Zoe and me, seeing our complete lack of reaction, and her voice dropped even colder. “I am Zoe’s mother. And Ms. Simon, why exactly are you with my husband and daughter?” “Ms. Simon is here hiking with us!” Zoe wrapped her arms around Juliet’s neck, her voice overflowing with affection. “She’s super strong! She carried me for ages and isn’t even tired!” Cara seemed to be fighting to suppress her rage. She withdrew the arm that had been guarding Garrett and Ruby, took a step forward, and held out her hand to Zoe. “Come here, Mommy will carry you. Don’t bother strangers.” Zoe’s smile instantly froze. She twisted her face away, burying it tightly in Juliet’s shoulder. “She’s no trouble at all,” Juliet said, her grip on the child firm, her smile still gentle. I spoke softly. “Don’t you need to continue your session with Garrett and Ruby? Don’t let us delay you. Zoe understands.” But Cara was rooted to the spot. No matter how much Ruby tugged on her sleeve, she didn’t move. She just stared at me, her eyes filled with a furious disbelief. “Noah Miller,” her voice was raw. “You’re just… completely indifferent?” “Work is important,” I replied blandly. Cara laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “Fine. Don’t you dare regret this.” Seeing this, Garrett’s eyes immediately welled up. He pulled his daughter closer, his voice laced with a familiar tremor. “Cara, please don’t do this… Noah and Zoe must still be angry at us. Go spend time with them. Ruby and I… we can just go home by ourselves…” “There’s no need.” Cara scoffed dismissively, but when she turned to Garrett, her tone softened immediately. “Didn’t you say you learned a new recipe? I want to try it. And I can stay and paint with Ruby.” With that, she naturally took Ruby’s hand. Before turning away completely, she looked at me one last time. “I’ll be home late tonight. Don’t call and interrupt us.” I was very obedient. I didn’t call once. It wasn’t until late that night that my phone screen lit up with her message: “Noah Miller. Good. You are very good.” Then, Cara didn’t come home for two weeks. Her social media, however, was flooded with vacation photos of her, Garrett, and Ruby. The location tags showed they were in the Maldives—the very place we were supposed to go for our anniversary trip, the trip she had postponed indefinitely. The scenery was undeniably beautiful. I absentmindedly tapped the ‘Like’ button. In the middle of the night, Cara’s call came through, laced with a repressed, yet undeniable, smugness. “Noah, don’t pout. I saw your like. Isn’t it Zoe’s birthday in two days? I’ll buy her gifts and rush back.” I was half-asleep. “Don’t bother. Zoe’s birthday was two days ago. Ms. Simon celebrated with her and gave her a lot of gifts.” A heavy silence fell on the line. “I… I mixed up the dates,” her voice was strained. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll throw her a make-up party.” I was about to refuse, but she hung up before I could. I decided not to push it. She was still the child’s mother. The next day, I took Zoe to the hotel Cara had sent the address for. The event was grander than any birthday party Zoe had ever had. Cara rushed forward, bending to hug Zoe. “Zoe, happy belated birthday. Mommy sent all your gifts home. Do you like them?” Zoe instinctively sidestepped her embrace, nodding. “Thank you. I like them very much.” Cara’s outstretched arms froze mid-air, a flash of genuine loss crossing her face. She led us into the ballroom. On the giant screen, photos of Ruby Price were scrolling. Cara quickly explained. “It’s Ruby’s birthday, too. I thought we could celebrate both children together. You know, her mother abandoned them right after she was born…” “It’s fine,” I cut her off. “I understand.” Ruby’s party was scheduled first. She wore an expensive, limited-edition princess dress and danced on the stage, taking the microphone to thank Cara for filling the void left by her mother. I looked down at Zoe, who was just intently eating her cake, completely unaffected. I smiled lightly, wiping a smudge of frosting from her mouth. Before it was Zoe’s turn, Garrett pulled me aside to the hotel’s pool deck. His usual frail demeanor was gone, replaced by a smug smirk. “Noah Miller, did you see that? Even after six years of marriage and a daughter, the moment I show up, you and your daughter will always be second to us in Cara’s heart.” “Whether it’s the trip you always wanted or your daughter’s birthday… Guilt isn’t love, Noah. It’s just pity.” “Are you suggesting I divorce her?” I asked calmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to bring it up.” He was stunned for a moment. “You’d give up? You sacrificed your chance to study abroad just for her.” I vaguely recalled college. Cara was the queen bee—beautiful and accomplished. But she wasn’t truly my type. Then, I was jumped and beaten, and she braved the situation to call the police for me. After that, I was obsessed. I chased her relentlessly, right through graduation. I’d fought bitterly with my parents and abandoned my career prospects, desperate to marry her. Yet, recalling it now, my heart was utterly still. I even felt a little foolish, like the twenty-year-old me had read too many romance novels. I shook my head, my voice sincere. “It’s nothing. If you want her, you can have her.” “Noah Miller, what did you say?!” Cara stood behind us, her face pale with fury, her eyes bloodshot. Garrett glanced over my shoulder, then let out a low, cold sneer. “Keep up the act. I’ll make sure you give up eventually.” Before I could react, he suddenly fell backward! I instinctively reached out to grab him, but the momentum dragged me along, and we both plunged into the cold pool! “Noah!” “Daddy!” The cold water flooded my nose and mouth, and I struggled violently. Through my blurry vision, I saw Cara hesitate for a split second, then swim toward… Garrett. The water fully closed over my head, muffling all sound. In the chaos, a small, weak hand suddenly grabbed me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390826”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The fever was a furnace, spiking past 104 degrees, and in that blurring, sweat-drenched state, I dreamt. My closest friend, Ashton, was there, clutching a bottle of pills, his face a landscape of absolute despair. He wept, repeating that he couldn’t go on. I tried to tell myself it was just the fever talking—a horrifying nightmare brought on by the exhaustion of the last few days. Then the call came. Ashton was dead. A suspected suicide by overdose. The scene, described in the sterile language of the precinct report, was an echo of my fevered vision. Identical. That same night, the fever returned. This time, I dreamt of my father-in-law, Robert Vaughn. A man whose health was robust, a man who never missed a morning at the gym. In the dream, he suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage and died instantly, his face a bruised mask of agony. I woke up, heart hammering, just as my wife, Tracy, answered a frantic call from her neighbor. Bob had collapsed in the produce aisle of the local market. We rushed to the county hospital, but the diagnosis was a chilling confirmation: a massive stroke. We were too late. My reality splintered. After Tracy and I navigated the dark, surreal logistics of the funeral, the high fever refused to break. I collapsed into a deep, drug-induced coma. And this time, the dream was of me. I was in a frenzy, emotions beyond my control. I held a machete, and I was hacking at Tracy’s body, reducing her to unrecognizable pieces before discarding the remains carelessly in the wild, overgrown fields outside the village. I jolted awake, drenched and gasping, the dream’s violence a sticky film on my skin. Terror seized me. I instinctively reached for the other side of the bed. It was empty. … 1 “Tracy?” Clinging to the headboard to steady myself against the vertigo, I scrambled off the mattress and slapped the light switch. “Tracy Blair! Where are you?” “Don’t do this to me!” The second shout was a desperate croak, tears already prickling my eyes. A deep, primal fear rose from my gut, clenching my diaphragm and making me dry-heave. Silence. The rented house was a void. In a blind panic, I fumbled under my pillow for my phone and dialed her number. It rang, but only met the steady, infuriating click of voicemail. I wrenched the bedroom door open and stumbled into the yard, screaming her name into the pre-dawn air. The only reply was the disturbed flutter and squawk of unseen birds. A sudden, cold gust of wind brought a flicker of clarity, pulling my thoughts back to the terrifying loop of the dreams. Could it be… The anxiety, the dread, and the crushing sense of fate tightened around my chest. “911, what is your emergency?” It wasn’t until the operator’s voice cut through the silence that I realized I’d called the police purely on instinct. She repeated the question when I failed to speak. “Sir? Are you there?” “I—I am.” I pressed the phone hard against my ear, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I… I need to report a missing person.” “My wife is gone.” The operator seemed to register the raw edge of my distress. She spoke softly, then followed up with procedure. “When did you last see her?” I lifted my arm, squinting at the dim glow of my wristwatch. 4:32 AM. “Three hours ago. That was the last time.” “Sir, we typically can’t take a missing persons report until twenty-four hours have passed,” she said, her tone reverting to standard protocol. Then, a touch of humanity returned. “Is it possible she just stepped out? Maybe she didn’t want to wake you, given the circumstances of the funeral?” I nodded stupidly into the phone. “Right. Okay.” The line went dead. I lowered the phone and looked around. It was pitch black, alienating. It was the day after Bob’s burial. Tracy had insisted we stay one night in the village, near her family plot. I’d been running on pure adrenaline and Tylenol for three days, my fever a constant companion. The moment the funeral director closed the casket, I’d crashed. And then… that third, most terrible dream. The thought of it sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull, so sharp it dropped me to my knees. I shook my head violently, then, in a morbid curiosity that felt utterly foreign, I opened my phone’s browser and typed: Do dreams come true? The logical answers were obvious and unsatisfying. The operator’s gentle reminder echoed: “Maybe she just went somewhere and didn’t tell you?” A sudden location sprang to mind. I scrambled up, half-crawling to the door, and got in the car. I didn’t stop to dress properly, driving straight for the cemetery where we’d laid Bob to rest. It’s a lie. The dreams are lies. It won’t happen. I repeated the mantra until my throat was raw, but it did nothing to stop the cold sweat from soaking the collar of my T-shirt. The village roads were silent and deserted. I drove fast, arriving at the cemetery in less than five minutes. In the distance, I saw it: a few faint, pulsing lights near the grave markers. A rush of desperate relief surged through me. I leaned out the window, waving and shouting Tracy’s name. No response. I slammed the brakes. My headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the stone—Bob’s new headstone. And just as clearly, they showed that no one was there. She wasn’t at the grave. Where was she? Did she just go home, back to the city? A new flicker of hope ignited. I spun the car around and sped toward the highway. But on the way, I passed a vast, empty stretch of scrubland, the kind of untamed terrain that lined the outskirts of the village. The details of the location clicked, slowly, sickeningly—they matched the disposal site from my dream. I jammed the brake pedal, the tires screaming in protest. I stumbled out of the car, breathing in ragged, choked gasps. The first pale light of dawn was just touching the horizon. I walked into the dense, thorny field, scanning wildly. Nothing. No disturbance. No body. Thank God. The dream was just a dream. It wasn’t real. A fragile sense of calm returned. I got back in the car, feeling lighter, and drove home. I pulled into our driveway at 6:12 AM. The result ripped the air from my lungs again. The house was still empty. Frantically, I started calling Tracy’s friends. They were all confused, insisting they hadn’t seen her and didn’t know where she’d gone. Riley, her oldest friend, tried to soothe my rising panic. “Cass, please, don’t spiral. You know Tate. Since she was a kid, when she’s really overwhelmed or upset, she just disappears. She has to go somewhere quiet and digest it alone.” “She’ll show up. Just relax. Give her a couple of hours.” 2 I hung up, but couldn’t sit still. I’d checked every place I could think of, called everyone in her life. Tracy, a fully grown woman, had simply vanished. I sank onto the sofa, my head leaning heavily on the armrest. In the dead silence of the living room, I forced myself to slow my breathing, and the images of last night’s dream flooded back. No. Impossible. It can’t be. I opened my browser again, searching for the same questions, over and over, desperately trying to affirm my sanity. I didn’t kill my wife. I couldn’t have. We’d been married for ten years, childless but happy. We were the couple that everyone pointed to, the “Model Millers,” who never seemed to fight. I rubbed my face hard, feeling the sting of the stubble, trying to push away the creeping sensation that I was losing my mind. While searching for articles about premonition, my phone’s default system suddenly flashed a recommendation: “If you are experiencing intrusive or distressing thoughts, seek professional help.” The suggestion was a punch to the gut, but it also jarred me into action. I pulled up a map and found the closest clinic, then booked the earliest appointment. The psychologist, Dr. Helena Ross, looked about my age and maintained a studied, gentle smile as I entered. “Mr. Miller, you mentioned chronic nightmares? This could be due to extreme stress, anxiety, or—” “No!” I cut her off, my voice loud and desperate. “My dreams, Doctor. They’re predictive.” Dr. Ross froze, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, what exactly do you mean?” I pressed my lips together. “It sounds insane. I know. But it’s already happened. Twice.” “Five days ago, I dreamt my best friend, Ashton, was going to kill himself…” In the dream, Ashton, my friend of twenty years, was utterly broken. He cried, recounting his failed relationships, then, in a terrifying, decisive movement, he opened a bottle of pills and swallowed the entire contents. The worst part was that I simply stood there, watching him die with a cold, almost detached expression. “Doctor, you have to understand. I woke up, and he really was dead. He swallowed pills. It’s what killed him.” Dr. Ross’s face had gone pale, her mouth slightly ajar. “It sounds like a terrible… coincidence, Mr. Miller.” I closed my eyes, and a single tear slipped down my cheek. “That’s what I told myself, too.” After Ashton’s funeral, the fever had hit, and consumed by grief and illness, I took a strong dose of flu medicine and passed out. “The second time, I dreamt of my father-in-law. Robert Vaughn. I saw him die from a stroke.” In that dream, Bob’s face was dark and congested. He was clutching his chest, pleading with me for help. But in the dream, I ignored his helplessness, even cracking a bizarre, chilling smile as he expired. “And in reality, your father-in-law…?” she prompted, her voice barely a whisper. I nodded slowly. “He died. A cerebral hemorrhage. Just like in the dream.” When we got the call, we rushed to the hospital in the next county, but the doctor met us in the waiting room. They’d worked on him, but the EMTs had brought him in too late. Dr. Ross was clearly rattled now. Her professional composure was cracking. She leaned forward, her expression tight. “Mr. Miller, I need you to tell me about the third dream.” I took a long, shaking breath. “I dreamt… I killed my wife.” The words were out, and the doctor gasped, leaping from her chair. Her eyes were wide, and she instinctively backed away, putting distance between us. “And your wife… she’s dead?” I immediately shook my head, my voice erupting into a shout. “No! She’s not dead!” “I didn’t kill her! I would never kill Tracy!” CRASH! The door suddenly burst open. A team of plainclothes officers streamed in. “Cass Miller! You are under arrest in connection with a homicide investigation. You need to come with us.” 3 I became hysterical, shaking and thrashing, only able to repeat the same phrase: “I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t kill anyone!” “Officers, my wife is missing! You need to help me find my wife!” Dr. Ross was utterly terrified. She pointed a trembling finger at me, thrusting a small recording device toward the lead officer. “I’m reporting him! He’s a psychopath! I’m certain he did it!” I was forced into the back of an unmarked police cruiser. The fever had returned with a vengeance, blurring my vision and making the lights swim. The officer beside me, Detective Morales, noticed me nodding off. He barked a single, sharp sentence that cut through the haze. “Cass Miller, this morning, in the scrubland near your father-in-law’s village, we recovered the remains of your wife, Tracy Blair.” I stared at him, my mouth opening, wanting to deny it, but no sound would come out. The sudden, brutal shock sent a wave of nausea washing over me, and a jet of something metallic and hot sprayed from my mouth. The officers immediately diverted to the emergency room. Once I was stabilized and hooked up to an IV drip, Detective Morales began the preliminary interview. “We’ve listened to your conversation with the psychologist. Your claim is that you’re having premonitions of the future?” I nodded weakly, meeting his gaze. “Detective, I need to ask you something. What… what did they look like? Her remains?” Morales’s face was dark, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t answer right away, simply boring into me, evaluating every twitch of my expression. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and heavy. “She was dismembered. We recovered the torso and all four limbs.” He paused, letting the word dismembered hang in the air, a cold, hard echo of my dream. “The killer took great pains to clean up any identifying information. Except…” He leaned closer, his eyes locked on mine. This was the test. Every minute micro-expression I made would be cataloged. “The killer made one mistake. At the scene, we found a severed thumb, dropped near the shallow grave site.” “Fingerprint match confirmed the identity of the victim.” “It’s your wife, Tracy Blair.” My heart seized up. My thoughts were stuck on the three words: dismembered. The remains. Again. It’s exactly the same. The emotional floodgate broke, but Morales pressed on, ignoring my grief. “The autopsy report is preliminary. Time of death is estimated between 1:30 AM and 4:30 AM this morning.” “We also have a record from the county dispatch. At 4:31 AM, you called 911.” “Reporting your wife missing.” His voice was distant, confusing. I nodded, running on autopilot. “Yes. I was jolted awake by that terrible dream, and I realized she was gone.” “I looked around, couldn’t find her, so I called.” The clarity returned in a shocking flash. “Detective, you said my wife is dead?” “Who killed her? Who is the murderer?” I was sinking into a well of anguish, blind to the detective’s tightening, cynical gaze. He let out a short, cold laugh, then slammed his hand on the arm of my hospital bed. “Miller, we have an eyewitness report. Someone saw you at the disposal site this morning.” “Tell me, who do you think the killer is?” 4 The silence that followed was thick, a physical weight pressing on my chest. I repeated his question, confused. “I… I don’t know who the killer is.” Morales didn’t waste another second. He had me discharged and taken immediately to the interrogation room at the station. Before the formal questioning, however, he insisted I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation. He returned, pulling out a folder filled with papers. “This morning, when we were canvassing the area for the missing body parts, we spoke to a resident.” “They placed you at the scrubland location. Why were you there?” My hands were balled into fists in my lap. “Yes! I went to those fields!” “Because in my dream, I remembered leaving the body there! I went because I was curious, I was terrified that the dream had come true!” I cut myself off, realizing instantly that every word I spoke was only tightening the noose. “Detective, I swear I didn’t kill her.” “She’s my wife! We’ve spent a decade together, through thick and thin!” “I loved her! Why would I kill the woman I love?” Tears were streaming now, blurring the edges of the sterile room. But this wasn’t a therapy session; it was a police interrogation. Tears only registered as manipulation. Morales watched me until I was finished, then leaned forward. “You told the psychologist that you dreamt of killing your wife, dismembering her, and dumping the body in the village fields.” “Cass Miller, can you distinguish between fantasy and reality?” His words struck a chord of ice in my stomach. But he didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Our intelligence suggests you’ve been taking strong medication for days.” “I had a high fever. I was taking antibiotics and fever reducers.” He tapped the table rhythmically with his index finger. “But we ran a preliminary check. Your medication contained trace amounts of a powerful psychotropic agent.” I grabbed the edge of the small, metal table. “Detective, you’re operating with a preconceived notion!” “I did not kill my wife! I told you, it was a dream!” The door opened, and a young officer slipped in, handing Morales a report. “Detective, the psychiatric evaluation came back. He is of sound mind. No mental illness.” I let out a breath of relief. “Thank you. I’m telling you the truth!” “I didn’t kill her! I’m being framed!” “You suspect me of murder. Show me the evidence! Where is the motive?” Morales narrowed his eyes. “How was your relationship with your wife, really?” “Excellent!” I shot back, without hesitation. “Since we got married, we never even raised our voices at each other.” “You’re lying.” He suddenly slammed his hand down, hard, rattling the pens in the metal tray. “You’re lying, Miller!” “We spoke to your neighbors. Just last week, you had a violent, screaming argument that ended in a physical altercation.” “Do you need me to refresh your memory?” My hands clenched into painful knots. His words plunged me back into a painful, confused memory. “Tell me. What was the fight about?” Before I could answer, a loud, familiar scream erupted from outside the interrogation room. “I’m calling the police! My son didn’t kill himself! He was murdered!” I spun to look at the door. Two familiar, heartbroken figures were being restrained in the hallway. Ashton’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Reid?” The instant I spoke, Ashton’s father broke free, lunging across the hall and slapping me across the face with stunning force. “You bastard! You killed my son!” “You deserve to die! Die!” Officers rushed to pull the frantic man away. Detective Morales quickly slammed the door shut, then fixed me with a sharp, sweeping glare. He said nothing, only turned and walked out. He returned half an hour later, slamming a fresh file folder onto the table with an air of absolute fury. “Cass Miller. We now suspect we are dealing with a connected, serial murder case.” “And you are the prime suspect.” “I didn’t kill anyone!” I yelled, my voice booming. That slap had cleared the last of the fever fog from my mind. All the bizarre, disjointed facts suddenly snapped into place. “I know what happened.”

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New Year’s Eve. For the third year in a row, my parents had left me alone in the house, chasing that sweet triple-time pay. Thinking about the last twenty years of quiet, solitary holidays, I couldn’t bear the thought of another cold night alone. I packed up a container of homemade lasagna and set out to find them. I didn’t expect to see them, the couple who always preached about saving every dime, stepping out of a black Range Rover, laughing and hand-in-hand with a girl my age, before disappearing into the gilded entrance of The Grand Metropolitan. “Mom, Dad, is it really okay to leave Dec alone at home?” the girl, radiant and oblivious, asked. My mother, Caroline, barely glanced up, her voice light and dismissive. “It’s fine. He’s used to it.” My father, Robert, scoffed good-naturedly. “He can’t compare to you, Scarlett. You’re our star, our heart.” I turned and walked away, the lasagna suddenly heavy in my hands. They were rich. They had been lying to me, pretending poverty to justify their neglect. I no longer wanted their company. Back at our cramped, old duplex, I dumped the expensive meal I had planned to share into the trash. In the past, I would never have dared to waste food. 1 For as long as I could remember, I understood that we were struggling. Everything I had, my parents claimed, came from their backbreaking sacrifice. I rarely owned anything new. Every few months, my mother would bring home a trash bag of used clothes. “These belonged to a colleague’s son,” she’d insist. “They’re perfectly clean, Dec. No need to waste money on new things.” My entire childhood was spent dragging around ill-fitting, faded clothes. Kids at school called me “The Rag Man.” It pushed me to bury myself in books, clinging to the hope that one day, I could earn enough to buy a brand-new t-shirt. On holidays, I dutifully handed over every dollar of gift money I received, believing I was easing their burden. But there was no burden. I looked up the Range Rover’s license plate. It was registered to Holloway Enterprises. I recognized the company; its heiress, Scarlett Holloway, was often in the gossip columns. I even recalled a story about her driving that very car while on a date with a C-list actor. The face in those old tabloid photos was the girl I’d just seen. I was a Holloway. I was a millionaire’s son. The realization was a punch to the gut, followed by a rush of cold, bitter laughter. I wiped my eyes and went straight to my parents’ room. Perhaps they were so arrogant in their deception, so certain of my naive loyalty, that they grew careless. I found it quickly. A contract, hundreds of millions of dollars on the dotted line, signed by Robert Holloway. Tucked inside the papers was a Montblanc pen, not a cheap giveaway, but a piece of serious luxury. The last vestige of hope shriveled up and died inside me. I restored everything exactly as it was, returned to my room, and pulled the covers over my head. I prayed that I would wake up and discover it had all been a terrible nightmare. The next morning, Mom and Dad were already busy in the tiny kitchen. I watched them, then looked at the breakfast laid out on the table. Who eats Smoked Salmon and Caviar Benedict on a weekday morning? The aroma—rich, buttery, and utterly decadent—was identical to a dish my professor had treated us to at a high-end brunch spot last semester. I glanced at the overflowing trash can near the back door. Sure enough, high-end packaging confirmed my suspicion. “Mom, Dad, did we suddenly win the lottery?” My mother’s face registered a flicker of panic. “Dec, what are you talking about?” “The breakfast. That’s seriously expensive. How can we afford this?” I pointed at the trash bag, and my mother’s color drained. My father offered a breezy chuckle. “It’s nothing, son. I was running an errand for the boss last night, and he gave me a massive takeout order. I didn’t have the heart to eat it alone, so I brought it home for us.” “Your mother and I couldn’t afford this with our combined weekly pay!” I nodded, pretending to believe the lie. I ate the exquisite breakfast, my mind a churning mess. Smoked Salmon Benedict, I thought, sixty dollars a plate. Last night’s dinner likely cost more than my entire semester’s tuition. If they were truly poor, this meal would taste like love. Now, it tasted like ash. I finished two bites and pushed the plate away. “I’m full.” “Dec, that’s hardly anything. Are you feeling sick?” My mother’s concern looked real, and it almost broke me. I shook my head, managing a smile. “No, I’m great. Aren’t we going to see Grandma and Grandpa later? I’m saving room for a good lunch!” At that, my mother visibly relaxed. My father’s face was etched with guilt, but before he could speak, his phone rang. I saw the caller ID: My Little Girl, Scarlett. Scarlett, his heart. And me? Dad quickly retreated to the balcony. Mom followed, and I could faintly hear her whispering about being discreet, about not letting me find out. A profound, bone-deep chill settled in my heart. They hadn’t just accidentally kept a secret; they had conspired, together, to maintain the fiction. I felt like an actor trapped in The Truman Show. But they were devastatingly real. 2 After hanging up, Dad came back into the living room and pulled a crisp $50 bill from his wallet. “Dec, I have a last-minute emergency at work. I have to go in.” Mom stepped up. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take you to the Pierces’.” I nodded, took the $50, and stuffed it directly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I got ready to leave with Mom. When we arrived at the Pierces’ old, run-down apartment in the industrial section of the city, my grandfather immediately pulled me into a hug. “Dec! Come in, you look frozen!” His hands, when they gripped my arm, were soft and smooth. Not the calloused hands of a retired steel factory worker, which is what they claimed he was. He looked well-fed, well-rested, and entirely too pampered. Grandma, seeing me, quickly handed me a red envelope. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.” I took it, thanked her, and put it straight into my pocket. My mother froze. In the past, I would immediately hand the money over to her. She’d always coo, “Dec is such a good, responsible boy.” This time, I defied the ritual. Grandma paused, then chuckled. “Oh, our Dec knows how to squirrel away his cash now!” I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “It’s not squirming, Grandma. Mom said a new year means a new start. I figured I’d keep some of my own spending money.” “That’s right,” Mom jumped in quickly. “Dec is so responsible. He even pays his own tuition and living expenses from his part-time jobs.” I knew the red envelope probably contained fifty bucks, max. Compared to my massive student loan debt and the money I earned tutoring to survive, it was a joke. They were so obscenely wealthy, yet they maintained this Performance of Poverty only for me. I couldn’t understand why I was the only one subjected to this cruel education. Grandma didn’t press it. She retreated to the kitchen. The food she brought out—the roast, the perfectly formed sides—looked exactly like the dishes I had glimpsed on the buffet line at The Grand Metropolitan the night before. I took two bites and lost my appetite completely. I was certain now. The entire family, from my parents to my grandparents, were rich, and they were all performing an elaborate lie. After lunch, Mom got a hushed phone call and then announced she had to go to work. The grandparents suddenly started yawning, claiming they were exhausted. I took my cue, politely excused myself, and left. But I didn’t go far. I circled back and hid behind a large oak tree around the corner. Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later, a stretched Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Grandpa and Grandma, looking energized and impeccably dressed, were ushered into the luxury vehicle by an entourage, without a backward glance. I took a deep breath, pulled up my hood, and walked towards the apartment. A few cleaning ladies were already starting the tear-down. One of them sighed to the other. “I don’t get these people. They come here one day a year, cook one meal, and leave.” “And they pay a fortune for the cleanup,” the second one replied. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. They’ve been doing this for twenty years. They own a mansion up in Blackwood Heights. This is just rich people role-playing.” My heart turned to granite. Role-playing. Blackwood Heights. I knew the name—it was where the city’s elite lived. I rode my beat-up cruiser bike until I reached the guarded gates. The mansion sat on the highest ridge, a fortress of glass and white marble. Security guards patrolled the perimeter. I must have looked like a stray dog; one guard immediately barked, “Hey! Beat it, kid! You’re not allowed here!” I was about to turn away when a blur of sound and chrome roared past me. I recognized the model—a limited edition Ducati, nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Riding it was Scarlett Holloway. 3 She noticed me, too. She slammed the brakes and eyed me, a sneering look of amusement crossing her face. “Well, look at you. Not so slow after all. You managed to find your way here.” I froze. She knew. She had known all along. “Why?” I whispered, the word hollow. “What is this? Am I adopted? Is this some sort of psychological project, and I’m the test subject?” Scarlett shook her head, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “No, Dec. You’re theirs. Biologically. You want to know why you were raised in that dump? Because I am the sole heir of Holloway Enterprises.” She revved her engine, the sound ripping through the silence. “This isn’t your place. Go home.” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “And don’t look so pathetic. Mom and Dad did put a lot of ‘heart’ into raising you. Oh, and one more thing: stop going to see the Pierces. They’re getting too old to keep up the performance.” Scarlett sped through the gate. I stood there, watching the taillights disappear, finally understanding the true dynamic. My existence threatened her claim to the inheritance. What had I done wrong? All I ever wanted was a genuine, non-monetary, honest love. They had lied for two decades, yet somewhere in that lie, I knew they had cared for me. But now, looking at the mansion and hearing Scarlett’s cold, cruel words, I questioned every shared moment. I turned and walked away. Before I reached the main road, I called my father. “Dad? Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” His voice was strained but insistent. “No, Dec. Triple pay, remember? I’m working late tonight. Your mom is, too.” But cutting through his words, faint yet undeniable, was the distant roar of a high-performance engine. I simply said, “Got it.” My mind was already made up. I went back to the old duplex and started packing. I also emailed the faculty advisor for the university’s special research grant—a three-year, fully isolated deep-field project out in remote Montana. No contact, no interruptions. When I was done, I printed the photo I’d secretly taken of Scarlett’s retreating back, framed it, and placed it on my nightstand. A silent declaration. That night, they didn’t come home. The house was mine. I called Dad one last time, but it went straight to voicemail. At that exact moment, I saw a flurry of activity on social media. Employees of Holloway Enterprises were posting photos, thanking their bosses for massive holiday bonuses. One employee, who described himself as mid-level, showed off a three-thousand-dollar check. Other photos showed the company’s New Year’s gala. My parents were on stage, my dad in a custom tuxedo, my mom in an elegant gown, looking impossibly regal. Scarlett was basking in the limelight below. The family portrait was prominently displayed—only three people in it. My parents were certain I was too busy working to pay attention to gossip. They forgot I was just a kid, raised to be poor, which meant I was hyper-aware of everything around me, including the internet. A reporter interviewed them about their holiday plans. My father, looking directly into the camera, said, “Our daughter, Scarlett, turns twenty-two this year. We’re taking her on an extended luxury trip starting tonight.” My stomach plummeted. I was twenty-two, too. The farthest I’d ever been was a school field trip to the local zoo. I let out a harsh, dry laugh. I retrieved my birth certificate, running my fingers over the paper. When I started college, my parents had insisted on moving my registration to the school. They claimed I was an adult now and needed to be responsible for my own affairs. Now, that small bureaucratic action was my ticket out. I grabbed my duffel bag and walked out. Robert, Caroline. Goodbye.

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It was midnight when my phone finally lit up. I stared at the screen, my heart doing a nervous little flutter-kick in my chest. “Dear Ms. Sharon Chan, wishing you a happy 28th birthday! Your account balance is $328.51.” It was just the bank app. I waited five more minutes, then ten, then thirty. The phone stayed silent. My boyfriend of three years, Ryan Jared, had texted earlier, claiming his flight was delayed due to a business trip, and he’d call as soon as he landed. My mom called last week: “Your brother needs $10,000 for the engagement, wire it over.” I said okay, and she hung up. My best friend, Maya Lin, posted on Instagram today: “Busy but fulfilling day!” The picture was a dozen perfect red roses. I flipped the phone face-down on the table. $328 was my total worth for the rest of the month. I’d given $300,000 for my brother’s down payment, $100,000 for his engagement, and God knows how much more over the last three years to fill various holes. Suddenly, I felt like there was nothing to celebrate on my 28th birthday. But that’s fine. I opened my laptop and pulled up a specific folder. Three years. It was time for me to collect my own debts. 01 Ryan’s flight delay was a lie. I’d known for a while. Because he hadn’t bought a plane ticket; he’d bought a train ticket. The order confirmation was pushed to my email late last night. We shared a joint rewards account. He’d forgotten to log out. The destination? A five-star hotel right here in the city. A “three-day business trip,” and the hotel was twenty miles away from our office. I didn’t confront him. I just wanted to see who he was spending his weekend with. At one in the morning, I lay in bed, wide awake. Staring at the ceiling, I drifted back through the past three years. Ryan was a senior from my college, now my co-worker. “Sharon, I’ve been watching you for a long time.” Back then, I thought he was kind, thoughtful, and ambitious. He told me, “Let’s work hard together. We’ll buy a house and get married before we turn thirty.” I believed him. My salary wasn’t high, but I saved every penny. I’d squirreled away eighty thousand over three years. I gave it all to him. He said it was for a stock market investment that tanked. He said it was for a startup that went belly-up. He said it was the down payment for a car that was stolen. I never questioned him. Because every time, he’d say, “Baby, when I make it big, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” I didn’t need tenfold. I just needed him to remember my birthday. At two in the morning, I messaged him: “Did you land?” No reply. Three in the morning: “Are you asleep?” Read, but ignored. He’d walked 12,876 steps today. A flight delay, stuck at the airport? Could you really walk twelve thousand steps in a terminal? I laughed. It was the first time I truly felt like an idiot. Five in the morning, I finally got his reply. “Just landed. So exhausted. Talk tomorrow, get some sleep.” Attached was a photo of a hotel room. The curtains were drawn tight. But I still saw it. There was a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. Red roses. The exact same ones from Maya’s Instagram post today. 02 I didn’t lose it immediately. I hadn’t gathered all the evidence yet. At eight in the morning, I got up, washed, put on my makeup, and left for work, like a normal day. The office was forty minutes away by subway. Squashed into the morning rush hour crowd, I thought about Ryan and Maya. How did they even connect? Maya was my college roommate. That’s how she knew Ryan. When Ryan and I started dating, I was the one who introduced them. “This is my best friend, Maya. And this is my boyfriend, Ryan. Please look out for me, you two.” How naïve I was back then. I thought a best friend was a best friend, and a boyfriend was a boyfriend. I thought sincerity earned sincerity. The train was jammed. Someone stepped on my foot without apologizing. I looked down at my shoes. They were a pair I bought on clearance last year for $59. Ryan mentioned last week he wanted a pair of limited edition sneakers—$2,999. I told him, “I’ll get them when I get paid.” He sighed, “Forget it, I don’t want to burden you.” The next day, Maya posted an Instagram story. “A gift I picked out for a good buddy. Hope he likes them.” The photo was the sneaker box. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, I realized. What best friend buys my boyfriend three-thousand-dollar sneakers? I was completely and utterly played. Nine on the dot, I arrived at the office. It was Monday, time for the weekly meeting. Our director, Ted Carson, sat at the head of the table and scanned the room. “Where’s Ryan?” Leo, a colleague, piped up, “Ryan’s on a business trip.” Ted frowned. “Business trip? What business trip? I didn’t approve any.” Leo laughed awkwardly. “I… I’m not sure.” Ted’s face darkened. The meeting continued, focusing on the proposal review scheduled for next Friday. This was the company’s biggest project this year—a major corporate client, an eight-figure contract. Our team submitted three proposals. I authored one of them. But during the kick-off, Ryan had said, “Just give me the first draft, I’ll help you refine it. We’ll co-author.” I gave it to him. In the end, only his name was on it. Ted had asked me once, “Sharon, the framework for this proposal doesn’t quite match Ryan’s usual style.” I’d said, “We collaborated; he incorporated some of my ideas.” Ted just looked at me and didn’t press. That look—I understood it now. He knew. But he never stood up for me. Because Ryan was his protégé. After the meeting, I returned to my desk and opened my computer. The original file for the stolen proposal was still on my USB drive. I’d saved everything. In three years, I’d learned one thing: Before you commit, always keep a record. 03 At noon, I ordered a $15 boxed lunch. I ate while scrolling through Instagram. Maya posted a second time: “Super happy today! Surprise coming this afternoon~” The photo was her fresh manicure—bright red with tiny hearts painted on the tips. A surprise? What surprise? I looked down at my own hands. My nails were clipped short, unpolished, practical for typing. It had been a year since I last got a manicure. It was for an anniversary dinner Ryan promised. I got my nails done specially. He canceled at the last minute, claiming an emergency. I sat in the restaurant alone for two hours, ate by myself, and went home. He said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.” There was no next time. “Sharon, my office.” Ted’s voice cut through my thoughts. When I entered, he was looking at Ryan’s proposal. The one that was mine. “Sharon,” he began, “how much of this proposal did you actually contribute?” I paused. “I…” “Don’t lie to me.” He looked up. “I know your writing. Ryan’s technical skills aren’t this good.” I kept silent. He sighed. “Forget it, you must have your reasons. I’ll just ask you this: Do you have a handle on next Friday’s review?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “The client has already internally decided on another firm,” he said in a low voice. “That’s insider information. All three of our proposals, no matter how good, are likely just a formality.” My heart sank. “Then why still hold the review?” “To follow protocol,” he said. “But if our proposal is groundbreaking enough, there’s still a slim chance.” He looked at me, a meaningful expression in his eyes. “Sharon, this project is important for you.” “For me?” “You’ve been here three years, and you’re still just a coordinator. Everyone below you has been promoted, and you’re stuck.” He paused. “Do you know why?” I didn’t. I made the PPTs for others to present, I pulled the all-nighters for others’ names to be on, and my ideas were used for others to take credit. But every time there was a promotion, I was passed over. Ted said, “Because you’re too accommodating.” He pushed the proposal toward me. “You present this one yourself.” I took it. I didn’t say yes, and I didn’t say no. Because a thought had suddenly sparked in my mind: Ryan was still “away on his business trip.” I had three days. I could do a lot of damage in three days. 04 After work, I didn’t go home. I went to the five-star hotel Maya mentioned. It was in the heart of the CBD. You needed a key card to get upstairs, but I could wait in the lobby. I bought a $58 latte, sat in a secluded corner, and watched the elevator. At 7:18 PM, the elevator doors opened. Ryan walked out. He was wearing the jacket I bought him—$2,800, three months of savings. The person on his arm was Maya. She was wearing a red dress, fully made up, more beautiful than I had ever seen her. They were laughing and chatting like a couple deeply in love. I took out my phone and snapped three photos. They didn’t see me. They would never in a million years think I’d be here. They walked toward the hotel’s fine-dining restaurant, sat down, and ordered. I watched from afar. I watched Ryan pour her water, serve her food, and cut her steak. He had never done any of those things for me. I watched Maya laughingly feed him a piece of food. He opened his mouth, took it, and they exchanged a look so sickeningly sweet it made my stomach turn. I suddenly remembered something that happened three days ago. Maya asked me out to lunch and inquired, “How are things between you and Ryan?” I said, “Good.” She said, “He got a promotion, you must be happy for him, right?” I said, “Of course.” She said, “Sharon, you’re so generous. I don’t think I could be so understanding.” I didn’t get what she meant then. I got it now. She was testing me. Testing to see if I knew. Once she confirmed I was an idiot, she could confidently move in for the kill. Eight on the dot, they finished their meal. Ryan called the waiter over and said something. The waiter nodded and walked away. A moment later, the restaurant lights dimmed. A cake was wheeled out, topped with candles. The staff started singing the birthday song. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” Maya covered her mouth, a look of surprise on her face. Ryan held her hand, saying something I couldn’t hear. But I saw Maya nod. Then Ryan took a small box out of his pocket. He opened it. A ring. Maya cried, laughing through her tears. Ryan slid the ring onto her ring finger. They hugged. They kissed. The surrounding diners applauded. I sat in my corner and watched the entire show. Today was October 15th. My birthday. Ryan was celebrating another woman’s birthday and proposing to her. Maya’s birthday was April 9th. I remembered it clearly. I sent her a gift every year. So this wasn’t her birthday at all. They had simply chosen the day of my supposed “business trip” to stage their little performance. No. They didn’t think they were staging anything. They just assumed I would never find out. I set down my coffee cup. And I laughed a quiet, sharp laugh. Fine. Very fine. 05 I didn’t storm out right then and there. That would be letting them off too easily. I wanted them to lose everything. That night, I returned to my apartment and started organizing the evidence. First, the proposal. My original draft was completed in March 2023, three months before Ryan submitted his. The revision history, the metadata, the backup emails—a complete chain of evidence. Second, the transfers. In three years, I’d wired Ryan $83,200. I had screenshots of every single transfer. The notes were explicitly clear: stock market, startup, car down payment, credit card debt. Third, the text messages. Including every time he said, “Baby, wait for me,” and every time he said, “I promise I’ll pay you back.” Fourth, my family. My parents had taken $470,000 from me in three years. $300,000 for my brother’s house down payment, $100,000 for his engagement, and the remaining $70,000 for various excuses. Every single transaction was documented. But they had never called to ask how I was doing. They had never once remembered my birthday. I finished organizing around three in the morning. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t cry. The tears felt like they’d dried up. The next morning, I went to work as usual. Ryan hadn’t “returned” yet. Maya had also taken the day off. They were probably still celebrating their engagement at the hotel. I opened my laptop and continued revising the proposal. Ted told me to present it myself, and I would. I spent those three days working non-stop to polish that proposal until it was flawless. Around noon, my mom called. “Sharon, did you send the $10,000 for your brother’s engagement party?”

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For three years, the personalized license plate frame on my SUV that read “Mr. Bellweather’s Spot” was a permanent fixture. It was a small, silly symbol of my marriage to Isabelle, but it meant something. That’s why finding a pair of men’s athletic boxer briefs, definitely not mine, shoved under the passenger seat, felt like a physical punch. When I demanded an explanation, Isabelle—Izzy—was unnervingly calm. “An early birthday gift for you, Cal. Don’t overthink it.” It happened again at a high-stakes business dinner. My CEO wife, Izzy, picked up a slice of scallop from her own plate and, with a casual intimacy that made my stomach churn, fed it directly to her male assistant, Dustin Keller. The whole room paused. Her defense, delivered without bothering to meet my eyes: “Just showing concern for a hardworking subordinate. If you don’t like it, fire him.” But the next time I saw Dustin, he was holding Izzy’s prenatal sonogram photo, a smug, sickening smirk plastered on his face. I snapped. I lunged across the table and landed a punch square on his jaw. Izzy didn’t say a word. She just went back to normal. She clung to me, smothering me with affection, and in bed, she was more intense, more possessive than ever, driving us both to exhaustion until the early hours. A few weeks later, the kidnappings started. Seven times in one month. Each time, the tormentors were new, but the goal was the same: to inflict pain that bordered on the medieval. I endured non-human levels of physical and psychological torture. Then, my father died saving me. He was stripped of all dignity and brutally murdered right in front of me. My mother, unable to bear the trauma, retreated into herself and became catatonic. When I finally staggered back to my own home, bloody and barely conscious, I found Izzy’s inner circle playing a high-stakes game in our living room. “I’ll put five million down,” one of them drawled, “that Cal Mercer is so far gone he’ll forgive Sera even after he finds out everything.” “Two million says he not only forgives her,” another countered, counting out chips. “Sera schedules a kidnapping every seven days, and he’ll still crawl back begging for her attention.” I bit down hard, a cry catching in my throat. Tears, mixed with the grime and blood on my face, began to fall. It was always for him. Izzy had been getting revenge for the single punch I landed on Dusty. If I could just get away from her, seven days was all I needed. … I stood in my foyer, soaked in my own blood, watching Izzy carefully help Dustin Keller up the grand staircase. “Sera is so good to Dusty,” her friend marveled. “Dusty just coughed, and Sera’s hands were shaking. Now, just a little dizziness, and she’s already heartbroken!” “Seriously. Remember the last time she was pregnant with Cal’s baby? Dusty just frowned, and she terminated the pregnancy that same day.” “And after Cal hit him? Sera had people trash Cal’s parents’ house and told the men who kidnapped Cal to go hard. He’s paying a hundred times over.” Izzy descended the stairs a few minutes later, a fresh, fiery red mark visible high on her neck. Her friends started to tease, but she cut them off sharply. “Quiet down. Dusty’s asleep. Did you take care of my instructions?” “Consider it done. The new company is incorporated, and the hundred-million-dollar project is secured.” Izzy nodded, her expression cold. “From now on, you call him ‘Mr. Keller.’ I’m transferring the new company to him next week.” The friend hesitated. “Sera, what about… Cal?” Izzy’s voice was lethal. “The second his fist made contact with Dusty’s face, he signed his death warrant. He will suffer a hundred times the pain Dustin felt.” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood pooling in my throat. “The deadline is approaching,” someone else asked. “When are we bringing him back? If he’s gone too long, he might get suspicious.” Izzy let out a cold laugh. “Suspicious? He’s in a cage, praying every hour for me to save him. When I show up, he’ll be so grateful he’ll worship the ground I walk on.” I clenched my jaw until it ached, the tears washing paths down my filthy cheeks. I should have known. The Mercer estate had state-of-the-art security and multiple bodyguards. Yet, the night I was taken, the house was empty. Izzy had eyes everywhere, but my parents were able to pinpoint my location? It was all a gift from their loving daughter-in-law. A sudden, sharp scream from upstairs ripped through the silence. Izzy’s face twisted with a genuine, raw panic I’d never seen before. She flew up the stairs. My chest seized. A swarm of private doctors rushed in on her heels. I learned the truth: Dusty had simply had a nightmare. Izzy’s enraged roar echoed through the massive villa. A long while later, she finally instructed the team. “Tell the next crew. Move the kidnapping up. The psychological damage Cal inflicted on Dusty? He has to suffer a hundred times that pain!” I froze, struggling to hold myself upright. My eyes landed on the raw, purple bruises visible on my arms. Izzy was the woman who once frowned if a mosquito bit me. Now, daily beatings and torment were her form of discipline. The author of my never-ending horror show was the same woman who promised to cherish me forever. I panicked, scrambling for an exit, but my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the concrete, shards of decorative gravel embedding themselves in my open wounds. The pain was searing. Izzy heard the commotion. She spotted me and froze for a brief, bewildering moment. Then, she rushed over and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Cal, you’re finally home! I’ve been searching for you day and night! Tell me who did this to you, and I swear, I’ll make them pay!” Her tears splashed onto my face, but I felt nothing. How had I been fooled by this performance for so many years? I choked back a sob, my body trembling. She helped me back to our bedroom. My gaze immediately fixed on the tightly closed door of the room opposite ours. Izzy’s composure flickered with a millisecond of fear. “That’s… that’s the nursery I was planning for our baby,” she said quickly. “I locked it up. Didn’t want you to be reminded, you know.” My body tensed, and a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Another lie. Looking at her perfect, beautiful face, the bloody vision of my parents’ final moments flashed across my mind. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I doubled over and vomited a black, tarry substance onto the expensive rug. Before I lost consciousness, I heard her cold, detached voice. “Take him out. Hit him hard. Not to kill, just to send a message.” This time, Izzy, perhaps fearing discovery, only allowed them to torment me for a day. She held my filthy, blood-soaked body against her chest, her expression a mask of anguish. “I’m so sorry. You were snatched while I was taking you to the clinic. Cal, who are you messing with? Tell me, I’ll help you get revenge!” I looked at the woman radiating righteous fury and let out a cynical, internal laugh. It’s true, I thought. A person really will do anything for the one they love. She didn’t keep me around because she loved me. She kept me around to savor my thousand-fold suffering. “The doctor will be here any minute. Just hold on.” I nodded listlessly. But the footsteps I heard in the hall didn’t stop. They all went past our room, into Dusty’s room. Blood saturated my clothing, sticking the fabric to my wounds, and the pain made me dizzy. She wouldn’t even spare me a single doctor. A wrenching bitterness tightened around my heart. I passed out several times from the pain. When I finally woke up, I slipped downstairs. A man was sitting on the sofa. The second he saw me, he started shaking with fear. Before I could react, Izzy rushed over and shielded him. “Cal, stop. Dusty is just staying here for a while. He won’t bother you.” I managed a weak pull at the corner of my lips, ignoring them both, and walked straight out the door. I drove to the funeral home. When I went to collect my father’s ashes, the attendant handed me a small, sealed vial of liquid. My eyes widened in disbelief. “What is this?” “A gentleman specifically ordered it,” the attendant explained. “He said the deceased had a lingering, vengeful spirit that needed to be neutralized. Said you needed to use this solvent to dissolve the remains. A woman came by with him, too.” My blood ran cold. I gripped the nearest wall, barely keeping myself from falling. Tears blurred my vision. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Izzy. The first sound I heard was the low, intimate moans of two people on the other end. I ignored the sudden wave of nausea and choked out a sob. “Izzy, where are my parents’ ashes? Why would you do this?” “Dusty was being tormented in his nightmares by your father’s spirit,” she said, her voice breathy, unhurried. “The medium said the bones had a curse, so I had people… neutralize them. Don’t worry, it was for your dad’s own good.” I hung up, my fist slamming into the wall. Back at the house, I went straight for Dusty. I grabbed his collar, but Izzy moved faster. She slammed her foot into my ribs. “Calvin Mercer, what the hell is wrong with you! It’s just a dead man’s ashes! Does it matter that much?” The pain was suffocating. Suddenly, Dusty dropped to his knees in front of me, feigning repentance. “Cal, it’s my fault. Don’t blame Sera. Just kill me!” My father’s bloody, bruised body flashed in my memory. This man was the cause of it all. Blood rushed to my head. I reached for the heavy crystal ashtray on the side table. Clang! Izzy snatched the ashtray first and smashed it onto my forehead. “You dare try to hurt Dusty in front of me? Who knows what you do when I’m not here!” She pulled Dusty into her arms, soothing him. She didn’t spare a glance for the blood streaming down my face, soaking my shirt, or the unbearable agony in my heart. I found the first aid kit myself and started to clean the wound, fighting back the tears. My phone vibrated. I saw the caller ID and finally let the tears flow. “Sylvie, I couldn’t even protect Dad’s ashes. Mom is gone. I’m done with Izzy…” The woman on the other end, my adopted sister, suppressed her fury. Her voice, however, was impossibly gentle. “Cal, I’ve booked you a flight for tomorrow night. Come to me. The Bellweather house is about to change hands.” Suddenly, a pair of soft, boneless arms wrapped around me from behind. I froze. Izzy frowned. “Who are you talking to?” “No one.” “Honey, I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Please don’t misunderstand. I have always loved you. But since you inflicted a trauma on Dusty, it’s my duty to care for him and atone for your sin.” I swallowed the nausea and nodded listlessly. Atonement? Right. She held me close while ordering clothes on her phone. She bought dozens of pieces of high-end designer wear, but the shipping name wasn’t mine. Only then did she select a few ordinary coats for me. Noticing my gaze, Izzy spoke awkwardly. “Dusty always felt unloved growing up. He needs the best of everything.” I looked away, my chest throbbing with sharp, familiar pain. My thoughts were interrupted by a terrified scream. Izzy bolted out of the room. I stared, stunned. A black viper was coiled in front of Dusty, its tongue flicking. Izzy, quick as lightning, slammed her high heel down onto the snake’s neck, snapping it in two. Dusty saw me and scrambled back, crawling on his knees, his body shaking. “Cal, I know you resent me for taking Sera, but we really haven’t done anything. Why would you sprinkle snake powder under my bed and lure a viper to harm me?” My pupils constricted. Before I could utter a defense, Izzy’s hand whipped out and struck my face. Hard. She grabbed Dusty’s hand and spun around. She looked at me like a stranger. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I don’t know how long I sat there. Finally, two figures grabbed me and dragged me to the backyard. I started to shake uncontrollably when I saw it. It was the snake pit Izzy had maintained for years. Before I could react, they threw me into the inky blackness. Hiss. I slammed against the door, my hands raw and bleeding. Snakes coiled around my legs, the slimy coldness making me pull at my own hair, desperate for comfort. Then, the monitor clicked on. “Cal, this is for your own good. You need to temper your temper. Attacking Dusty repeatedly won’t be tolerated. This is a warning.” I laughed, the sound tasting like blood. Izzy, you are pure cruelty. I was a fool to trust her. The emotional torture was worse than the physical. The monitor suddenly filled with the graphic, intimate sounds of Izzy and Dusty locked in a desperate embrace. Izzy was giving Dusty all the tenderness and passion she had never once given me. A huge python slid toward me. I closed my eyes in despair. When I opened them again, the world was completely dark. I fumbled for a light switch and fell out of bed. I realized I’d been blinded by a venomous bite. I sat on the floor, my eyes vacant. A familiar scent washed over me. “Cal, why are you so stubborn? Just apologize and beg for forgiveness. Dusty is a saint. He’ll forgive you.” Izzy looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity in her eyes. I ripped my arm away from her touch. Sensing my hostility, she fought to maintain her calm. “The venom wasn’t lethal; your sight will return in a couple of days. The snakes in the pit are normally harmless. I’ve already punished the person who introduced the venomous ones.” I already knew who it was, and I laughed bitterly. “Oh? How did you punish him?” “I forbade him from watching TV, using his phone, or racing his car for a week…” My cynical laughter made Izzy’s face turn crimson. “Calvin Mercer, don’t push me! Dusty didn’t mean to! He accepted his punishment; what more do you want?” She stormed out. My eyes burned, and my body shook violently. The day I was discharged, my vision still blurry, I felt my way home, determined to find my father’s dissolved “ashes.” As I stepped inside, Dusty was waiting, a knife in his hand. With Izzy gone, the facade dropped. He lunged, gripping my hair and twisting my head. His face was a mask of malicious joy. “She did all that to you, and you’re still back here? Why don’t you just drop dead like your old man?” I shoved him away and snatched up the few items I could manage. I went to the clinic, retrieved my comatose mother, and headed for the airport. Dusty watched my retreating back with pure venom. Then, he plunged the knife into his own thigh. Blood immediately saturated his pants. When Izzy returned, the sight terrified her. She drove to the hospital like a maniac. Dusty cried in her arms, feigning weakness. “Sera, don’t blame Cal…” At the airport, my mother and I were dragged out of the car and into a dark alley. “Calvin Mercer, right? Your mother is a lucky woman today. Someone paid us handsomely to make sure she never walks again, or worse!” My mind exploded. I desperately dialed Izzy. “Izzy, don’t hurt my mother!” “Dusty just got out of critical condition after you attacked him again. And you have the nerve to play the victim?” Before I could speak, the line went dead. The men behind me tore the phone from my hand and smashed it. They bound me tightly, loosened their belts, and advanced, grinning, on my unresponsive mother in the wheelchair. My eyes bulged. I let out a desperate, guttural howl. “Isabelle Bellweather, you will regret this!

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I was having afternoon tea, scrolling through my phone, when an unexpected post caught my eye. [My son is a future Greenwich legacy with a trust fund that already includes 8 luxury condos and 3 commercial properties in SoHo!] [His dad just added $150,000 worth of gold bullion, too. Any perfect little future daughters-in-law out there?] The post was gaining serious traction—thousands of likes and comments. I initially dismissed it as another obnoxious flex until I zoomed in on the photos. I froze. Those condos and commercial properties? Weren’t those my dowry when I married my husband, Graham? And the gold bullion—it was clearly engraved with my daughter’s initials… How, in the span of a few years, had all of it become this stranger’s son’s property? … 1 I checked the addresses on the storefronts in the picture again and again. They were three adjacent boutiques in SoHo that my parents had specifically purchased as a wedding gift. They told me to treat them as my future, my financial safety net. And the gold was unmistakable. I’d personally overseen the engraving of my daughter’s initials on the side. My fingers flew across the screen. Are you sure these items are yours? The phone vibrated immediately. The poster was practically a bot—she replied in seconds. It’s not mine, then whose is it, yours? She followed up with several more photos: a woman in head-to-toe designer clothes, holding a newborn, surrounded by mountains of gold and high-end jewelry. Before I could process the images, she sent another barrage of messages. I’m looking for a daughter-in-law, not a nanny. I looked at your profile. Your daughter won’t cut it, sweetie. The blatant malice made my mind go blank. The comments section exploded. OMG, the poster is a queen! She shut down that jealous hater! Seriously, people just accuse others of lying because they don’t have it themselves. LOL! Someone even screenshotted a photo of my five-year-old daughter, Dahlia, from my profile and captioned it: The poster is right, that girl is… unfortunate looking. Imagine trying to use your kid to climb the social ladder! Give up, peasant. The young master doesn’t want your little housemaid! My breathing hitched, and my phone nearly slipped from my grasp. Dahlia is five, the light of my life, the absolute center of my and Graham’s world. And I hadn’t posted her photo looking for a future marriage partner. How dare they say those things? I quickly took screenshots and sent them to my husband’s family group chat. How did my property become someone else’s? Silence followed for a few tense seconds. Then, my mother-in-law’s voice memo popped up. “Rory, all these things are yours. Did someone steal your photos and try to use them to show off online?” “Oh, the internet is full of crazy people. You need to be more careful, dear.” Before I could respond, Graham texted me. Honey, you must have posted photos before, and someone used an AI program to deep-fake them onto their own posts. I already warned the poster and told her to delete it. Don’t worry about it. He attached a screenshot of his direct message to the poster: Hello, these photos are a violation of intellectual property and privacy. Please delete them immediately, or we will pursue legal action. I clicked the link. The post was gone. That was quick. I stared at the screen, typed a simple Okay into the group chat, and then put my phone down. “Driver,” I said, looking up, “take me to Mercer Street.” Graham’s explanation sounded plausible. AI is everywhere now; synthesizing photos is easy. But I knew one thing for certain: I had never posted photos of those specific storefronts, nor had I ever photographed the custom-engraved gold. And what were the chances of a “deepfake” being this accurate? The exact addresses, the exact amount of gold, and the exact engraving? The car pulled up outside the SoHo boutiques. I pushed the door open and looked up at the three properties. The glass doors of what had been a long-term tenant—a high-end apparel store—were shattered, and the interior was undergoing a full renovation. It looked like they were setting up a florist shop. My brows furrowed. The original tenant had a ten-year lease that wasn’t up yet. How could they have been replaced? And why hadn’t Graham mentioned any of this? I hurried toward the building and called out to one of the workers. “Who authorized this construction?” A woman in a crisp Chanel suit emerged from the storefront. She looked me up and down, her voice sharp and arrogant. “My store, my decision. Who the hell are you to give me orders?” I stared at her face, my heart doing a heavy slam in my chest. It was her. The poster. My jaw tightened. “These three properties are mine. How are they yours?” She paused, then burst out laughing. “Yours? My husband gifted these to me!” She pulled a phone from her Louis Vuitton bag and tapped the screen. “Open your eyes and look at whose name is on this deed!” On the screen, three property deeds were side-by-side. The owner’s name: Delia Prince. A buzzing started in my head. It was impossible to transfer ownership without my signature. I had checked my safety deposit box before leaving the house—all the real property deeds were there, though the gold bullion was missing. Her deeds were likely fake. But the fact that she could drive away a long-term tenant with a fake deed could only mean one thing: Graham was involved. Seeing my silence, the woman, Delia, suddenly drew out an “Oh.” “You must be that apparel store owner, right?” “My husband already told you. I liked the space, and he gave you a fat compensation check. Why are you causing a scene? Are you greedy for more?” I took a deep breath, pointed at the man in my phone’s wallpaper, and asked, “Is this your husband?” Delia leaned in for a closer look, and her face instantly turned a sickly green. She shrieked, pointing at me. “How dare you use my husband’s photo as your wallpaper!” “My husband is the CEO of the Leighton Group! Do you think a fantasy girl like you could ever get close to him?” “Let me warn you! I just gave him a beautiful, healthy son! His mother is over the moon! You should just give up now!” People had stopped walking, drawn by the commotion. An absurd feeling surged from my feet to my head, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The Leighton Group? My father founded it and put Graham in charge! When did it become his company? Even more grotesquely, it was now clear that Graham’s mother—the one who had always acted so loving toward me—knew he was seeing this woman. She had even approved of my daughter’s gold being given to Delia. But no one gets to spend my money on their mistress. I snapped back to reality and, without thinking, raised my hand and slapped her hard. “Who are you calling a mistress?” Delia was stunned, covering her cheek and staring at me. I glared at her. “You’re a mistress and you don’t even know it? Is that supposed to be honorable?” “I’m telling you to stop construction immediately! Or I’m calling the police!” The gathering crowd was buzzing, pointing fingers at Delia. “Whoa, it’s the wife beating up the mistress!” “The mistress isn’t even as pretty as the wife. What was that guy thinking?” Delia finally reacted, lunging forward and grabbing my hair. “I’m the mistress?! My husband and I have been married for three years! We just had a baby! His mother even named our son!” “Don’t let this liar fool you!” As we struggled, I saw the gold necklace around her neck. It was one of the custom pieces from the missing gold, the one my Dahlia loved most. A blind fury took over. I ripped the necklace off her neck. “How dare you wear my daughter’s property!” “You don’t deserve it!” Caught off guard, Delia stumbled, crashing to the ground. The sharp edges of the necklace left a bloody scrape on her neck. I hadn’t intended to fight in public, but seeing my property so brazenly stolen made the rage impossible to swallow. I held up the necklace and declared, every word a hammer blow, “This is engraved with my daughter Dahlia’s initials! You and Graham Prescott can expect to hear from my lawyer!” Before the words fully left my mouth, a heavy impact hit me from behind. I lost my balance, and the necklace was snatched from my hand. Graham’s furious voice exploded over my head. “Who says those are your daughter’s initials?!” I was sprawled on the ground, my knee screaming from the broken glass. I gasped in pain. Looking up, I saw Graham shielding Delia in his arms. Behind him, my mother-in-law stood holding an infant. There was no doubt. That was Graham’s illegitimate son. My mother-in-law had claimed she was too inexperienced to help with Dahlia, preferring to hire an expensive nanny, supposedly to protect my daughter. Now I knew the truth: she simply preferred grandsons. Before I could react, Graham turned to me, his eyes filled with sheer disgust. “Aurora Leighton!” “Get out before you cause any more trouble! And don’t you dare touch my wife!” Wife? Graham was publicly admitting his adultery. Ignoring my shock, he gently fixed the necklace back around Delia’s neck, his eyes full of concern. “Honey, are you hurt?” “You just gave birth; you can’t get worked up. Does your stomach hurt?” Delia leaned into his chest, sobbing. “Graham, she says the properties you gave me are hers, and she stole the necklace you bought me!” “Who… who is she?” Graham glanced at me, his expression cold and dismissive. “I told you about the employee at the office who kept harassing me? That’s her.” “I’ll handle this. Don’t worry.” With that, the onlookers gasped, their expressions shifting to contempt. “Oh, so she’s the desperate office mistress. I knew no man would leave his wife for someone uglier.” “Trying to steal another woman’s husband and vandalize her store. You’re sick.” “Why is she so possessive of other people’s stuff? Shouting yourself hoarse won’t make it yours.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. I looked at Graham, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Graham, those initials are for our daughter, Dahlia Prescott. You had them engraved! What are you talking about?” He scowled at me. “Who told you that?” “The ‘D.P.’ stands for Delia Prince and Prescott. It’s the initial of my wife and my name.” What? My head reeled. Delia and Prescott? He had told me Dahlia’s initials were a representation of my maiden name and his family name—the physical proof of our union. It meant that they had been together since the moment Dahlia was born. Worse, even my daughter’s initials were a twisted celebration of his relationship with Delia. I took a deep breath, pulled the real property deeds from my bag, and slapped them against his chest. “Graham Prescott, my dowry is not marital property. This is my final warning: Get your mistress out of my stores!” “And return my daughter’s gold, down to the last gram!” Graham hadn’t expected me to bring the deeds. He froze, then viciously ripped them into shreds and threw the paper to the ground. “Anyone can forge a few sheets of paper. What does this prove?” My mother-in-law rushed forward. “Just leave, Rory. It’s almost the holidays. We won’t press charges.” “You won’t press charges?” I found my voice. She flushed, then jutted out her chin. “Yes! Now, go! Or do you want to be thrown out?” Graham took a step closer to me, lowering his voice to a hiss. “Aurora, I told you in the group chat to let this go.” “Delia just gave the Prescott family a male heir. My mother is ecstatic. If you escalate this, and she ends up in the hospital, what then?” “Just go home now, and you can still be my wife, Mrs. Prescott.” I used to be obsessed with the scent of his cologne. Now, it made me sick. Just then, a small voice called out from the edge of the crowd. “Mommy!” My body went rigid. I whipped my head around. Dahlia, in her school uniform and backpack, was being led through the onlookers by our driver. “Mommy, why are you on the ground?” Seeing the blood on my knee, her eyes welled up. “Mommy, you’re hurt!” My stomach dropped. I tried to stand up to stop her, but it was too late. Delia recognized her instantly. She grabbed Dahlia’s shoulder and screamed, “So it’s you!” Then she spun and delivered a brutal slap across my face. “You know your ugly daughter isn’t good enough for my son, so you try to seduce my husband?!” The force of the blow made my ears ring. Dahlia immediately burst into tears, looking helplessly at Graham. “Daddy… why is she hitting Mommy…?” Delia pointed at her and roared, “Who are you calling Daddy?” “My post looking for a daughter-in-law was a joke! A poverty-stricken girl like you will never marry my son!” Dahlia was sobbing loudly, but Graham only frowned. “Driver, take your mother back.” Seeing me frozen, he gave the driver a look, and the driver immediately tried to pull me away. “Honey, let’s go! Don’t make a scene!” What? Hearing this, the onlookers started whispering and pointing at Dahlia. “Oh my God, her own father is right here, and she’s calling another man ‘Daddy.’ That little girl is a gold-digger already!” “The mother is a dream-girl, the daughter is a wannabe social climber. What a pathetic pair.” “She’s so young, and her mom is already trying to marry her into a rich family. What kind of mother is that?” Dahlia is only five, but she could understand the cruelty in their words. She looked at Graham, her face dissolving into tears. “Daddy, do you not want Mommy and me anymore?” Graham didn’t answer. Dahlia stared at him, biting her lip, her face crumpling with hurt. I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight, and looked up at Graham. Every word was infused with ice. “Graham Prescott, aren’t you worried my parents will hear about this?” The mention of my parents made him visibly flinch. But he quickly suppressed a small, nervous laugh. “I told you, they’ve been ‘traveling abroad for fun’ for five years and haven’t come back.” “Don’t you think I’ve figured it out?” he continued. “I know they weren’t traveling. They fled.” “Think about it. The Leighton Group is huge. How could your dad have built it up all by himself? He must have done something shady.” “Giving the money he left behind to Delia and my son? I’m just helping to relieve their guilt.” The realization hit me. He thought I was vulnerable because he believed my parents were fugitives who had abandoned me. He didn’t know that my parents had been abroad for five years opening a major international division—which was now worth hundreds of millions. And today was the day they were returning home. I had texted them my location before leaving. They should be close. With that thought, I pulled Dahlia to her feet. “Dahlia, Mommy is taking you home. If Daddy wants to be someone else’s father, let him.” My daughter was in shock. Until today, Graham and his mother had showered her with affection at home. She cried, shaking her head stubbornly. “Daddy…” The next moment, Delia shoved my daughter toward the street like a madwoman. “Are you a beggar? Crying on someone else’s property!” Dahlia, small and slight, stumbled onto the road. A small car was speeding toward us. I didn’t hesitate; I lunged for her. “Dahlia!” Seeing my daughter nearly hit, Graham and his mother looked panicked. Graham lifted his foot to follow, but Delia grabbed his arm. “Graham… my incision hurts so badly… I think you made my stitches tear…” Hearing her words, Graham stopped immediately. He gently pulled her into a hug. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll take you to the hospital right now.” Dahlia and I crashed hard under the wheels of the braking car, while Graham tenderly scooped Delia into his arms. I couldn’t help but scream at him. “Graham Prescott! You will regret this!” He paused, then turned back, his face hard. “Delia has a low pain tolerance. You caused her stitches to tear. I’m not done with you!” “You better pray she’s okay. Otherwise, you and your daughter will kneel on the ground and apologize to her!” “You won’t leave until she forgives you!” The words died in his throat as the rear door of a sleek black sedan opened. My father’s familiar, booming voice cut through the air. “Kneel?! I think you are the one who should be kneeling!”

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I possessed the Benevolent Spouse Prosperity System. All it took was a small gift from my husband to trigger a hundredfold surge of luck and fortune for him. For ten years, Grant Kensington ascended from a humble gig-economy driver to the undisputed magnate of Westport, all by being “good” to me. This year, for our anniversary, he promised a surprise luxury getaway. It wasn’t until the plane landed that I discovered his secretary, Brooke, had gambled away everything in Monte Carlo. “Honey, you’re the only one who can save me this time, or Kensington Holdings is finished.” “The casino owner has been looking for a woman who looks exactly like you. If you stay here, all our debts will be wiped clean.” He had no idea that casino was owned by my father. And his act of pushing me forward as collateral was about to trigger the system’s merciless counter-curse: The Husband-Waster’s Penalty: All Prosperity Ceases. 1 The moment we landed in Monte Carlo, Grant rushed me straight to The Golden Citadel Casino. After the heavy soundproof door of the VIP suite clicked shut, I saw Brooke. She was slumped on the sofa, eyes red and swollen, hair a mess. Seeing us, she lunged into Grant’s arms. “Grant! You finally came! I thought you’d abandon me.” It was only then that I fully understood: The surprise luxury getaway was merely a ruse to rescue Brooke from the crippling debt she’d amassed. Grant had brought Brooke to Monte Carlo a few days earlier under the guise of a business trip. She’d insisted on trying the high-stakes tables, and the two had spent three days and three nights in a drunken, losing spiral. Looking at the distraught woman, I didn’t immediately fly into a rage. I simply asked, my voice dangerously calm, “How much?” Grant’s voice shook, barely a whisper. “F-five… five hundred million.” My head exploded in a deafening silence. Five hundred million dollars. That was the entirety of Kensington Holdings’ liquid capital, plus loans secured by mortgaging most of our assets. While my Benevolent Spouse Prosperity System could bring him boundless luck, each activation came at a steep, private cost to me: weight gain and accelerated aging. In the past decade, Grant had gone from a delivery driver to a Westport titan thanks to the system, but I’d paid for every step of his success. I was over a hundred pounds heavier, and despite my best efforts to maintain my appearance, I looked a decade older than my actual age. Paying off $500 million in one go? Even if my body spontaneously combusted, it would be impossible. I took a deep breath and stared at him. “Why am I here? Are you planning to have me gamble it back to save you?” He waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, that’s impossible. I want to—” Brooke cut him off. “Grant, we don’t have time. If you can’t say it, I will.” She walked up to me, shoving a phone screen almost into my face. “The casino owner, Victor Kensington, has been searching for this woman for thirty years. The bounty is still active—whoever provides a lead, or the woman herself, has their debt erased.” Seeing the photograph of the woman in a vintage gown, I instantly recognized her: my mother, who had passed away years ago. My mother had left my father after a terrible argument, taking me with her. But one morning, I couldn’t wake her up. The social worker said she’d taken sleeping pills. I’d spent three decades believing my father’s absence was due to his hatred for us. But now, Brooke claimed he’d been looking for us for thirty years? My silence spurred Grant on. He grabbed my arm, his voice desperate. “Jo, I know this isn’t fair to you, but it’s the only way. All you have to do is agree that you’re her, and play along.” “It’ll only be a few months. Once the heat is off and the debt is cleared, I swear I’ll find a way to get you back!” I looked at him, completely stunned. “Grant, you brought me to Monte Carlo to hand me over to another man? To bail out the massive hole you and your mistress dug?” When Grant and I first married, he was a broke kid. He’d spend $199 of the $200 he earned delivering food on me. One day, he spent his entire month’s paycheck on a gold necklace. That’s when the system’s voice chimed in my head. [Benevolent Spouse Prosperity System Activated] [Detected partner gift: Necklace, valued at $3,500] [Return: Partner Grant Kensington receives a hundredfold surge of luck, lasting 30 days] I thought it was a hallucination. The next day, Grant won $50,000 on a scratch-off ticket. The day after, while on a delivery, he saved an elderly man who was having a heart attack—who turned out to be the patriarch of a major investment firm. A month later, Grant quit his job, used the reward money and the connections from the grateful family, and opened his first logistics company. For ten years, no matter how small the gift, good fortune would cascade upon him. 2 A lipstick secured a multi-million dollar contract. A scarf helped him narrowly avoid a hostile takeover. A home-cooked anniversary dinner led to insider information on a government-backed project. The more expensive the gift, the greater his reward. Grant became a commercial legend, rising from a delivery driver to the new elite of Westport. We upgraded from an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment to an eight-thousand-square-foot penthouse overlooking the harbor. Each system activation meant more weight and more years added to my apparent age. But Grant had never shown a hint of disgust. “Jo, you’re my lucky charm. My woman should be soft and well-fed.” Seeing him transform from a self-conscious young man into a confident titan, I felt it was all worth it. Until three years ago, when he hired Brooke. Within two weeks, Grant was coming home later and later. He missed holidays and anniversaries and, most critically, stopped giving me gifts. It wasn’t until this year’s anniversary that he came home early, promising this trip to make up for his neglect. I was genuinely touched by his seemingly sincere eyes. But the system in my mind remained silent. No chime, no hundredfold prosperity countdown. Still, I said yes. Ten years of marriage—I clung to a thread of hope. Maybe I was overthinking, maybe he was just busy, or maybe the system was gone. Yet, I underestimated the depths of his cowardice. Grant began to argue desperately, his words turning cruel. “Jo, don’t make it sound so awful! This is a win-win!” “Besides, you’re… well, you’re exactly the kind of mature look the photo would have thirty years later, anyway—” Mature look? I laughed, though tears spilled from my eyes. “Grant, for ten years, every time you gave me a gift, I got a little fatter, a little older, and your career soared. Did you ever wonder why?” “From a delivery driver to the new Westport elite, do you honestly believe all of it was due to your superior talent and luck?” His face paled slightly. Brooke sneered. “Jo, are you losing it? What crazy talk is that? Grant’s success is entirely his own!” I ignored her, staring intensely at Grant. “The wife is the family’s true fortune. The Benevolent Spouse brings prosperity.” I leaned in. “But now you’re trying to sell me. You’re the Husband-Waster. Do you know what the penalty is?” Grant didn’t know. He’d never known the system was real. He thought his success was all his own merit. But now, a sudden panic flashed in his eyes. “Y-you’re talking nonsense. What are you going on about?” I didn’t want to waste another second. I turned to leave. The moment my hand touched the doorknob, a sharp sting hit the back of my neck. A cold liquid rushed through a needle and into my skin. I stumbled, turning to see Grant holding a syringe, his eyes a mix of anguish and determination. “Jo, I’m sorry.” “You…” My tongue went numb; my limbs quickly lost all strength. Grant caught my falling body and settled me onto the sofa. Brooke pulled a second vial from her purse. “Grant, Victor has seen every type of woman. You said she was like a dead fish in bed. What if he’s not satisfied?” She shook the vial of pink liquid. “This is something I sourced—a little boost. It’ll turn even a stone-cold woman into an easy conquest. Just to be safe, we should use it.” I widened my eyes in horror, shaking my head violently. Grant was silent for a few seconds. “Give it to her.” I managed to force the words out. “Grant, ten years of marriage… is this how you treat me?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Jo, don’t blame me! I have no choice!” “If I don’t do this, Kensington Holdings will declare bankruptcy tomorrow. I’ll be buried in debt, I’ll fall from the clouds into the gutter, with nothing!” “You’re my wife. We went through the early days together. You should help me!” My heart felt like it was submerged in freezing seawater, sinking slowly, hardening into ice. I scanned their faces, a cold, bitter smile touching my lips as I asked my final question. “You’re trying to trick a man who practically runs Monte Carlo. Aren’t you afraid of being exposed? Or, are you afraid that I am the woman he’s looking for?” Grant’s expression froze. Brooke paused, then covered her mouth and chuckled. “Jo, you’re really getting into character! Everyone knows Victor has been looking for this woman for thirty years. She’d be in her fifties now. You might look a little worn, but you’re only in your thirties. Are you actually dreaming?” She stepped closer, whispering in my ear. “You don’t know the full story, do you? Victor’s rule is: anyone who provides a lead or brings in a woman who fits the description has their debt instantly cleared, regardless of the outcome.” “Whether the woman is real or not…” 3 She drew out the words, her eyes shining with wicked calculation. “That’s your problem to deal with. It has nothing to do with us. Our debt is cleared the second we hand you over.” “I’ve heard the women who were caught lying didn’t end up well. Broken bones were the least of it; some were dumped into the ocean. So, Jo, let’s hope your performance is convincing.” I felt a chill run through my body; my blood seemed to turn to ice. So that was their plan. They didn’t care if I was real or fake, alive or dead. They just needed a credible pawn to clear their slate. I looked at Grant, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “So… that’s what you think? As long as the debt is cleared, you’re safe back in Westport? And if I’m exposed here, tortured, or even murdered, it won’t matter to you?” Grant avoided my gaze. “Jo, don’t think the worst. Victor is a gentleman. Even if… even if he finds out, he’ll just throw you out. He won’t hurt you.” “And once I’m back in Westport, Monte Carlo’s reach won’t extend that far. No one can touch me, and I’ll figure out a way to get you out.” Ten years. A whole decade. I hadn’t nurtured a loving partner or a devoted husband. I had nurtured a selfish man who would sacrifice me without a second thought for his own survival. I finally understood: Some people’s self-centeredness and weakness are innate. Even if you give them the world, they’ll never use it to protect you. I started laughing, a cold, choked sound at my own stupidity. Brooke seized the chance, pinching my jaw and forcing the sweet, cloying liquid down my throat. I choked violently, tears and mucus blurring my vision, unable to speak. Just then, the suite door swung open. Leading the group was a man with a prominent scar on his face. “Grant, Victor sent me to take a look.” He walked to the sofa, leaned over, examined me closely, and compared me to the photo on his phone. His brow furrowed instantly, and his eyes turned hostile. “Grant, you sure this is the woman Victor is looking for? The photo shows a young, beautiful woman with a gentle air. This one is old and fat. You think Victor runs a junk-lot?” Sweat broke out on Grant’s forehead. He quickly stepped forward, forcing a smile. “Bart, it’s been thirty years. Don’t women age and gain weight? It’s completely normal!” “Look closer, Bart. The eyebrows, the nose, the curve of the mouth… aren’t they identical to the picture? She’s just a little older and heavier, but the foundation is all there!” The man, Bart, stared at my face for a long moment, his frown easing slightly. “I guess… thirty years is a long time. Even with the best maintenance, time catches up to a woman.” Then his nose twitched. His expression hardened as he looked at Grant. “You drugged her?” Grant froze. Brooke quickly interjected with a fawning smile. “Bart, it’s just a little something to get the party started.” “Victor is still a vigorous man, but for a reunion after so long, a little mood setting helps. We just wanted to ensure Victor was… satisfied.” Bart stared at Grant, then at my agonizing struggle, and a leering, knowing look passed between them. “Tch. Your woman is pretty well-versed, isn’t she?” He turned, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and spoke quietly for a moment. Returning, he nodded to Grant. “We’re keeping the woman. I’ve notified Victor. He’ll be here once he finishes his current business.” He snatched the betting slip from Brooke’s hand and shredded it. “Grant, your debt is cleared.” He pointed at the door. “Now, get lost.” Grant looked like a man given a reprieve from death. He profusely thanked Bart. “Thank you, Bart! Thank you! We’re going now! Right now!” He practically dragged Brooke out the door without a backward glance. The drug’s effects were intensifying. I tried to use my remaining rationality to speak. “W-wait…” Before I could finish, a thug standing nearby delivered a vicious kick to my side. “Settle down, you! You dare stop Bart when he’s letting someone go? Do you have a death wish?” I stifled a grunt and coughed up a mouthful of blood. 4 Bart slapped the thug across the face. “Are you out of your damn mind?! I told you to watch her, not kill her!” “What if she is the woman Victor’s been looking for? Do you have enough lives to pay for that, huh?! You want a taste of Victor’s methods?!” The thug clutched his cheek, startled and terrified, but a spark of defiance remained. He muttered. “B-Bart… I… I just saw she wasn’t cooperating…” “Besides, so many women have come in over the years—young, beautiful, in great shape… they all looked more like the photo than her, and none of them were real.” He eyed me with disgust. “This one is old and fat. How could she be the one Victor’s been searching for? I bet someone was desperate and brought the cheapest option they could find to fool us…” “Shut up!” Bart snapped at him, but a flicker of doubt crossed his own eyes. He shot a sharp look at Grant’s retreating back, then crouched in front of me. “Woman, I’m asking you one last time. Are you Victor’s woman? Think carefully before you answer.” He paused, his voice low and warning. “Lots of women have tried to pose as her over the years. Their fates weren’t pretty. Broken limbs were the least of it. Some were thrown to the sharks. Tell me the truth now, and I might put in a word for you to lessen your pain. But if Victor finds out you lied, you’ll wish for death.” I looked at Grant and Brooke, whose faces were pale and whose eyes were urgently signaling me to lie. After a long silence, I nodded. “I am.” Relief washed over Grant and Brooke’s faces. They started to leave, but I called out to them again. “Grant, before you go, can you give me a gift?” He stopped, confusion clouding his features. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, cheap, low-value poker chip from a slot machine. “Here. A souvenir.” The instant the token landed in my palm, the system’s silent alarm, dormant for three years, finally blared to life. But it wasn’t the familiar [Benevolent Spouse Prosperity] notification. It was: [Detected partner gift under malicious circumstance, intended to use Host as collateral. Husband-Waster behavior confirmed] [The Husband-Waster will have all previously acquired prosperity reclaimed, with the Hundredfold Wealth Drain commencing in one hour, lasting until the end of life.]

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