Author: Momo Chan

1 The day my seven-year-old sister was diagnosed autistic, Mom sat unmoving until dusk. Next morning, I stuck my foot out for her to tie my sneaker, as usual. Dad yanked me back. “Can’t you see she’s upset? Tie them yourself!” Mom watched with red eyes, then pulled my sister close, murmuring comfort. My shoelace snapped, whipping my hand raw. After that, my sister screamed nightly until her voice rasped. Mom paced the living room holding her, while I hid under my blanket, counting to four hundred with no sleep. My midterm rank crashed from first to forty-fifth. When the teacher demanded a parent meeting, my sister tumbled off the couch. Mom scooped her up, sobbing. “She’s struggling—can’t you be more understanding?” Dad twisted my ear. “Grow up! Must the world revolve around you?” At dinner, Mom peeled shrimp into my sister’s bowl. Mine stayed empty. But Mom, I’d done nothing wrong. So why did I feel invisible now? … Mom leaned down to wipe the soup from my sister’s chin. My sister hated being touched. She jerked away, letting out a sharp, high pitched shriek. Mom’s hand froze in midair. Her eyes welled with tears again. Dad slammed his chopsticks onto the table. “No one eat then.” The nanny cleared the dishes. I stared at the plate of vegetables I had not even had a chance to touch. I was starving, but I did not dare say a word. Our dinners did not use to be like this. We used to laugh and talk about our day. But after her diagnosis, all the warmth was sucked out of the room overnight. The next day, Dad took a day off to drive my sister and Mom to the therapy center for an evaluation. He said he would drop me off at school on the way. But the moment my sister got into the car, she started banging her head against the seat, crying until her face turned purple. Mom held her, her voice trembling with panic. “Luna, don’t be scared, Mommy is here.” Dad pulled over to the curb and yelled at me, “Get out! Take a cab to school yourself!” I froze. We were right next to the highway entrance. Cars were zooming past us, one after another. Mom finally looked up at me, her lips trembling. “Nicholas, just do what your sister wants for now.” I grabbed my backpack and got out. When the car door slammed shut, her crying was muffled behind the glass. I stood on the side of the road, my palms slick with sweat. My smart watch was in my backpack. I pulled it out, wanting to call a ride, but I did not know how. I had never done it before. Normally, my parents drove me, or Dad’s driver picked me up. Eventually, a female police officer saw me. “Hey there, where are your parents?” I looked down, feeling embarrassed. “They had an emergency.” She called a cab for me, and I left her my parents’ phone number. By the time I walked into my classroom, the first period was half over. The entire class stared at me. “Nicholas, why are you late? Your parents didn’t call in.” I stood at the door, my face burning hot. When I got home that evening, the living room was piled high with books and pamphlets on autism. There was also a receipt. When I walked past, I saw the numbers on it. Fifty dollars an hour. Five times a week. Before this, my basketball club only cost three hundred dollars a semester. Now, Dad stared at the receipt, silent for a long time. “Let’s pay for three months first,” he said. Mom whispered, “What about Nicholas’s basketball lessons?” Dad rubbed his temples, visibly irritated. “Cancel them for now.” I stood in the doorway, my fingers gripping the straps of my backpack. Mom turned and saw me, looking momentarily flustered. “Nicholas, let’s take a break from basketball for a little while, okay? Once Luna stabilizes, I’ll sign you back up.” I nodded. But the tournament was next month. My shoes had already been ordered. They were black with reflective stripes on the ankles. Mom used to say they made me look like a little superhero. But I did not say a word. I was afraid that if I brought it up, she would cry again. At night, I sat at my desk doing homework. Suddenly, Luna screamed from the living room. My pen slipped, drawing a long, jagged black line across my workbook. Dad shouted from outside, “Nicholas! Close your door tight! Don’t let her hear you turning pages!” I froze. I carefully pressed down on the paper, turning each page as slowly and silently as I could. The teacher called me in a second time because I fell asleep in class. My desk partner gasped and caught me before I slid off my chair. The teacher looked at the dark circles under my eyes, her voice softening. “Nicholas, if things are difficult at home, you can tell me.” My first instinct was to apologize. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Gable. It won’t happen again.” She sighed and handed me my school planner. “Have your parents sign this.” I shoved the planner deep into the bottom of my backpack. All the way home, I tried to figure out how to ask without making them angry. But there was no room for my voice at home. Luna refused to go inside when they got back from the therapy center. She wrapped herself around the hallway fire hydrant, curling up on the cold floor. Mom knelt beside her, coaxing her. Dad stood there, looking miserable, holding the therapy plan the center had given them. A neighbor opened their door to look. Dad glared at them. “What are you looking at?” I stood by the elevator, not daring to walk over. Luna was crying so hard she could barely breathe. Mom was crying too. She could not lift Luna, so she just used her own body to shield her from the wall, terrified she would bang her head. I walked over and whispered to Dad, “My teacher needs a signature…” Before I could finish, Dad snapped his head around. “Are you blind? Is this the time for that?” I stepped back in fear. The school planner slipped from my hand, landing on the floor. Luna’s foot stomped right onto it, crumpling the cover into a ball. Dad bent down to pick it up, his eyes falling on the teacher’s note: Nicholas seems exhausted in class, and his grades are dropping significantly. Please look into this. He let out a cold, bitter laugh. “I don’t even have enough hours in the day to breathe, and she wants me to look into you?” I looked down, my throat tight. Mom finally looked up. “Nicholas, have you been staying up too late?” A sudden spark of hope lit up in my chest. She noticed. She knew I wasn’t sleeping well. But in the next second, she said, “Your sister’s emotions are highly unstable at night. You have to endure it. When you get home from school, finish your homework first. Don’t drag it out so late.” My heart went completely cold. In her eyes, the problem was simply that I did not manage my time well. Dad threw the planner back at me. “If your grades are dropping, fix them yourself. We don’t have the energy for you right now.” From that day on, I made sure to finish all my homework at school. I did not even leave my desk during the short breaks. When my classmates invited me to play basketball, I shook my head. But Luna’s condition only worsened. She could not stay in a regular school. Mom took her to a special education integration class for a trial. On the first day, Mom sat in with her. The moment the bell rang, Luna shrieked and crawled under the desk, refusing to come out. The teacher spent half an hour trying to soothe her, finally advising Mom, “Don’t think about regular schools for now. She needs one on one training and basic life skills, and the family must cooperate.” When they got home, Mom sat on the couch in absolute silence. Dad smoked on the balcony all night. The next day, he sold our second car. On my twelfth birthday, Mom forgot. She had spent the day with Luna for a speech evaluation, waiting in line until late afternoon. Luna had a meltdown in the hospital lobby, thrashing on the floor and hitting her forehead against a chair leg. Mom held her and wept, while Dad screamed at the onlookers who were whispering and pointing. They did not get home until seven in the evening. I had been sitting at the dining table for an hour. There were three simple dishes and soup that the nanny had prepared before she left. No cake. No candles. Every year before this, Mom would make me a paper crown by hand. Dad would lift me onto a chair and let me make a wish. This year, I did not say anything. I wanted to wait for them to remember on their own. Mom walked in, looking so exhausted she could barely stand. Luna slumped on her shoulder, clutching the numbered hospital cards. Dad slammed the medical files onto the shoe cabinet. “Severe! It’s still severe! We’ve done so much training, why isn’t anything working?” Mom’s voice was incredibly hoarse. “It’s not useless. The teacher said she held eye contact for two seconds longer than before.” Dad snapped, “What good is two seconds? What is she going to do in the future? What happens to her when we die?” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. I sat at the table, my hands resting on my knees, not daring to move. The word die was too heavy. It crushed my birthday out of existence. Mom finally noticed me. “Nicholas, did you eat?” “Not yet.” She blinked, as if only just remembering there was another child in the house. “Then let’s eat.” She buckled Luna into her high chair and began cutting up her noodles. She cut them into tiny, minuscule pieces. Luna only ate a few specific foods, and long noodles made her anxious. As Mom snipped, she counted softly under her breath, “One, two, three…” I looked down at the rice in my bowl. It was cold. The nanny asked quietly, “Nicholas, do you want me to warm that up for you?” Dad immediately frowned. “Don’t turn on the microwave. Luna can’t stand that sound.” The cold rice was hard. Chewing it felt like eating sand. Halfway through the meal, Mom suddenly froze. She stared at the calendar on the wall. That date was circled in bright red ink. Mom’s face went completely white. “Nicholas…” Dad was silent for a few seconds, his voice strained. “Everything was too chaotic today. We will make it up to you tomorrow.” I kept my head down, swallowing the rice. “It’s fine.” Tears slipped down Mom’s cheeks. “Mommy didn’t mean to forget.” I nodded. “I know.” The next day, Dad actually bought a cake. A very small, discounted mango cake. He set it on the table and said, “Let’s celebrate.” Just as I was about to take my first bite, Luna caught a whiff of the mango. She shrieked, lunging forward to shove the cake off the table. The yellow frosting smeared across the tiles. Mom quickly pulled Luna into her arms. “Luna doesn’t like it, it’s okay, we don’t want it.” Dad stared at the ruined cake on the floor, his expression grim. Money was already tight. The therapy bills were a bottomless pit. Dad’s business was struggling, and Mom had quit her job to do full time training with Luna. They had already withdrawn the savings meant for a larger house, and now, they sold my piano. The movers arrived the day I got home from school. That piano had been with me for four years. The very first piece I learned was taught to me by Mom, sitting beside me, tapping out the beat. As the movers lifted the piano, I rushed over and pressed a single key. A soft, lonely note rang out. Luna immediately began to wail from her room. Dad grabbed my wrist, hard. “Why did you do that? You know she can’t stand the noise!” My wrist throbbed. I looked at Mom. She stood at the bedroom door, saying nothing. In that moment, I understood. In this house, if anything related to me made Luna uncomfortable, it could be thrown away. That night, I took a pair of scissors from my drawer. Standing in front of the mirror, I cut off the first lock of my hair. The scissors made a sharp snip, and a small clump of black hair fell into my palm. I stared at it for a long time before making the second cut. Mom used to say my hair was just like hers, thick and dark. She used to buy all kinds of hair gels and combs, styling it for me depending on the season. Cool gel in the spring, minty spray in the summer, anti static combs in the winter. But those styling tools had all been locked away in a drawer. Luna loved pulling on hanging things, and if she saw gel in my hair, she would suddenly charge and claw at my head. Mom had told me, “Nicholas, let’s stop styling it for now, so we don’t trigger Luna.” I had listened. But every morning, I could not get it right on my own, and Dad would scold me for taking too long. “Who are you trying to look good for, spending so much time on your hair?” So I buzzed it all off. I cut it unevenly, until the reflection in the mirror looked harsh and strange. At breakfast the next morning, Mom saw me, and her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Nicholas, what happened to your hair?” Dad looked up from his phone, his face instantly darkening. “What kind of stunt are you pulling now?” I picked up my glass of milk. “A buzz cut is easier. I don’t have to comb it.” Mom walked over, reaching out to touch my head. I flinched and stepped back. Her hand remained suspended in the air. The atmosphere felt frozen. Suddenly, Luna stared at me and let out a bizarre, high pitched laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound, just the strange noise she made whenever she noticed a change. Dad immediately pulled her away. “Don’t let him frighten Luna.” I lowered my head and drank my milk. It tasted bitter, even though it was sweet. At school, my classmates gathered around. “Nicholas, why did you cut your hair like that?” “It’s so short, you look like a thug.” Some laughed. I laughed along with them. When my teacher saw me, she called me into her office. She looked at me for a moment, then pulled a small comb and scissors from her desk drawer. “Sit down.” I did not understand. She gently pressed me into the chair and began trimming my sideburns and hairline. Her movements were incredibly soft. “I’m not great at doing buzz cuts, but at least I can make it look neat for you.” When the comb lightly brushed against my scalp, my eyes stung. It had been so long since anyone had touched my head like this. I blinked rapidly. She said softly, “Go ahead and cry. There is no one else in the office right now.” I did not make a sound, but the tears fell, hot and heavy, soaking into my school uniform pants. She handed me a tissue. “Nicholas, there are still a few openings for boarding students. Would you like to apply?” Our school had a dormitory. Though my house was only a twenty minute drive away, Mom had never let me board before. She always said boys were too young to live away from home, that no one would look after me. Well, no one was looking after me now anyway. “Am I allowed to?” She nodded. “As long as your parents sign.” That night, I brought the boarding application home. Dad was calculating the monthly expenses, receipts and loan documents scattered across the table. His face grew darker by the second. “The therapy fees are going up again next quarter. Special school fees, private lessons, sensory integration therapy… it costs more than our mortgage.” Mom sat beside him, her fingers pale. “I will look for some freelance design work online. I can take commissions at night.” Dad snapped, “You assist her at school during the day and soothe her to sleep at night. When are you going to find time for freelance work?” I placed the application form on the corner of the desk. “I want to live at school.”

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1 Working late into the night, I found myself standing at the entrance of that pitch-black alleyway yet again. “Fred… could you come pick me up?” I asked, my voice trembling over the line. “The streetlights still aren’t fixed, and I’m scared.” A rustling sound came through the speaker. “I’m cracking crab legs for Sienna. My hands are covered in butter. I can’t leave right now.” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and hung up the phone. Those streetlights had been broken for thirty days. I had begged him to pick me up thirty times, and he had never shown up once. I had no choice but to brace myself and walk into the darkness alone. I barely took two steps before my phone buzzed. It was a new social media post from Sienna. [Big thanks to Fred for the amazing handmade dinner! I absolutely love it!] The attached photo showed a plate of rice and seafood meticulously arranged into the shape of a little crab. Once upon a time, I had seen a viral couple do that and asked him to make one for me. Fred had rolled his eyes. “Are we five years old? If you want to play with your food, do it yourself.” Yet now, he was perfectly willing to play the childish boyfriend for his content-creator co-star, Sienna. At that moment, a profound exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t want to walk down this dark road anymore. Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of a 24-hour convenience store. I took slow, mechanical bites of a microwaved chicken wrap. The tortilla was scalding hot, but the filling was completely freezing in the center. Back in college, if I didn’t reply to his texts within ten minutes, Fred would blow up my phone in a panic. Tonight, our chat history was a ghost town. My last message to him was a ‘Good morning’ sent ten hours ago. He had left it on read. Five minutes later, I swallowed the last bite of the wrap along with my tears. My phone finally rang. A pathetic spark of hope flared in my chest. I thought Fred had finally remembered I existed. But the second I answered, his impatient voice filled my ear. “Harper, Sienna got chili oil on her dress. Do you have any new clothes in your closet? Bring one down for her.” I gripped the phone tightly, staying completely silent. “Actually, forget it. I’ll just take her to the mall downstairs. Your clothes are way too cheap anyway. The fabric will just scratch her skin.” In that split second, the tears I had just shed for him felt like the ultimate punchline to a sick joke. “Fred, do you even hear yourself right now?” I couldn’t stop my voice from shaking. He replied with his usual, infuriating nonchalance. “What is it now? Are you throwing another tantrum? It’s just a piece of clothing, Harper. Grow up.” A hollow laugh escaped my lips. I shook my head and hung up on him. From beginning to end, he never once asked why I wasn’t home yet. He never asked where I was. His entire universe revolved solely around his precious co-star. So what exactly was I holding onto? I bit my lip and threw the wrapper into the trash can. My relationship with Fred was exactly like that convenience store food. It had expired a long time ago. Walking out of the store, my screen lit up with a text from Sienna. [Harper, please don’t get the wrong idea! Fred and I are just a contractual couple for social media. We are strictly business.] [Stop fighting with him over me. He’s so stressed out he can’t even eat.] Immediately after, she sent a selfie. Sparkling on her ring finger was a massive, flawless diamond. I recognized that ring immediately. A week ago, Fred told me his management agency wanted him to film a fake proposal with Sienna. If the video went viral, they would get a massive cash bonus. I had agreed. Nobody argues with free money. I had suggested buying a cheap prop ring online for ten bucks. He had vehemently refused. “The internet misses nothing. Who are we going to fool with a piece of cheap glass?” “I’m taking Sienna to a luxury jeweler this afternoon to pick out a bespoke piece.” I had frowned. “But that specific brand famously requires a man to register his ID. You are strictly limited to buying one in your entire lifetime. Are you seriously giving that to her?” Fred’s eyes had darkened. He impatiently twisted the watch on his wrist. “Are you acting jealous again?” “It’s literally just a prop ring. It doesn’t mean anything.” When he came home that night, he tossed the empty velvet box on my nightstand. Sienna kept the ring. As the memory faded, Sienna suddenly unsent the photo. [Oops, sorry! Sent that to the wrong person.] I saw right through her pathetic little game. I smiled faintly and typed back. [Since he proposed, I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.] A second later, Fred’s furious text popped up. [How dare you send something so spiteful to Sienna! She’s crying in the bathroom because of you!] I didn’t reply. Instead, I scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts list, tapped on a greyed-out profile picture, and sent a message. [Coach Blake, is the offer to rejoin the racing team still on the table?] [I miss being behind the wheel.] By the time I finally walked into our apartment, it was pitch black outside. The kitchen was dead silent. In the past, whenever I worked overtime, Fred would have hot soup simmering on the stove, meticulously reheating my favorite dishes right before I walked through the door. He used to say my stomach was too fragile for cold food. Now, the dining table was littered with greasy takeout boxes and dirty plates. The bedroom door swung open. Fred stood in the frame, his face dark like a thundercloud. “Are you done throwing your little fit?” “I’m not throwing a fit.” “Sienna left here in tears. She blamed herself, saying she shouldn’t have come over for dinner. If you have any free time tomorrow, you need to apologize to her before she overthinks this.” I genuinely thought I was hallucinating. “You want me to apologize?” Fred didn’t even blink. He nodded. “Yes. You had absolutely no right to text her that passive-aggressive garbage.” “You know perfectly well she and I are just coworkers.” Coworkers? I wanted to laugh until my lungs gave out. He bought her a once-in-a-lifetime diamond, cooked her lavish meals, let her linger in our apartment until midnight, and he had the nerve to call her a coworker? I opened my mouth to snap back, but he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his chest. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, a practiced, manipulative gesture. “It’s late. Let’s just go to sleep.” “I have a Couple’s Q&A video to shoot tomorrow, and I still haven’t memorized my script.” Every rational instinct screamed at me to shove him away, but an agonizing ache squeezed my heart. It took me two full years of quiet longing to finally stand proudly by Fred’s side. When we first got together, everyone told us we were a disaster waiting to happen. He was the golden boy of his Ivy League class with a limitless future. I was a college dropout, a rough-around-the-edges street racer trying to survive in the city. After graduation, he tried to become a lifestyle influencer, but his channel completely flatlined. Meanwhile, I defied all odds, winning two major international racing circuits and becoming an overnight legend in the motorsports world. We had promised each other that once I secured my million-dollar championship prize, we would get married. But then, he hesitated. He signed a predatory contract with an influencer agency behind my back. “Harper, I want to build an empire with my own hands so I can give you the world. But the agency repackaged my image. They assigned me to a ‘couple channel’.” “For now… we have to keep our real relationship a secret.” “If you really love me, quit the racing scene. Come work as my personal assistant.” Back then, I was so blindly in love with him that I threw away my brilliant career and followed him into the shadows without a second thought. “Fred.” “I never want to see Sienna in this apartment again.” It was my final compromise. If he agreed, I would let all of this go. He stayed silent for two agonizing seconds. Then he sighed. “When did you become so petty?” I froze. His tone was entirely flat. “You were acting like a brat, refusing to come home. Sienna and I were both worried sick about you. That’s why she texted you. I can’t believe you insulted her for caring.” Fred looked at me with deep exhaustion. He looked at me the way a parent looks at a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. Worried about me? If he was so worried, why didn’t he text me himself? Was he genuinely worried, or was he just annoyed that my absence ruined his perfect evening? A gaping hole ripped open in my chest, letting the freezing wind howl through. I lowered my head. Fat tears spilled over my lashes, soaking the collar of my shirt. “Look at you. Crying again.” “When are you going to grow up and be mature like Sienna?” Fred let out a heavy sigh, gave me a condescending pat on the head, and walked back into the bedroom to sleep. He didn’t care that my heart was breaking. Just like every single time before, he refused to fix the problem, expecting me to swallow my own pain and get over it by morning. But this time, I refused to swallow it. I wiped my eyes dry and forwarded my recent medical and physical reports to Coach Blake. [Coach, I’m still in peak condition.] [Put me in the West Coast Rally next week. I’ll prove I still have it.] I opened the bottom drawer of my closet, pulled out my dusty, heavy racing suit, and meticulously ironed out every single wrinkle. From the bed, Fred shifted in his sleep, mumbling something under his breath. My hands stopped moving. I heard his sleep-talking crystal clear. “Sienna… Sienna…” Right. I set the iron down, walked straight into the living room, gathered every single box of his obscenely expensive Cuban cigars, and dumped them into the kitchen sink. Then I turned on the faucet and let them drown. Without looking back, I zipped up my racing suit and headed straight to the training track. At nine the next morning, I walked into the influencer agency with massive dark circles under my eyes. A few passing coworkers gave me sympathetic looks. “Harper, are you okay? You look totally exhausted.” Everyone noticed. Except Fred. He was standing under the studio lights, pacing back and forth with a script in his hand. Sienna was standing right beside him, fresh out of the makeup chair. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t stress. We can edit out any mistakes. Besides, your assistant is right here.” She walked over and shoved a thick stack of cue cards into my chest. “Harper, if Fred forgets his lines, you stand off-camera and prompt him.” “And remember. In this building, you are just an assistant.” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and nodded. In this company, every single person thought I was just a glorified intern. Nobody knew I had been Fred’s loyal partner in the shadows for five years. “Question one! Where did we first meet?” On camera, Sienna looked sickeningly sweet, resting her chin on Fred’s shoulder. Fred answered without missing a beat. “At an internet cafe. You told me I was amazing at gaming.” Sienna giggled and playfully hit his chest. “I did that on purpose! I thought you were cute and wanted an excuse to talk to you.” “You little schemer,” Fred grinned, his eyes overflowing with genuine affection. “Next question! What was our first…” Before Fred could finish reading the card, Sienna suddenly leaned in and kissed him directly on the lips. The entire production crew gasped. I panicked, frantically flipping through the script. That kiss was absolutely not on the page. Fred’s ears burned bright red. He nervously darted a glance toward where I was standing in the shadows. “Did I shock you guys?” Sienna playfully stuck out her tongue at the camera. “He’s my boyfriend. I can kiss him whenever I want.” My nails dug so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. My vision blurred with tears. Sienna had blatantly gone off script, but not a single director called cut. I even heard a lighting tech whisper, “They are so perfect for each other.” A hot tear slipped down my cheek. Unable to stomach another second, I dropped the cue cards and practically sprinted to the restroom. A few minutes later, the heavy restroom door creaked open. Two people walked in, and the deadbolt clicked shut. “Sienna, Harper was standing right there. How could you just kiss me like that?” It was Fred. I slapped a hand over my mouth, suffocating the gasp in my throat. “I’m sorry, I just got completely lost in the moment. Sometimes I… I actually forget we’re faking it.” Sienna’s voice was fragile, practically dripping with vulnerability. “Oh, by the way,” she said, her tone shifting slightly. “Here. You left your watch on my nightstand when you came over.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless abyss. When did Fred go to her house? “Oh, right. Last Thursday.” Fred’s casual confirmation felt like a physical knife twisting in my gut. Last Thursday, I was in the emergency room with a severe gastric infection. I had called him thirteen times. He ignored every single one. By the time I woke up from surgery, he texted me a pathetic: ‘Was busy with a brand deal.’ He wasn’t busy with work. He was busy rolling around in Sienna’s bed. A self-deprecating smile stretched across my face. The last microscopic shred of love I held for Fred disintegrated into ash. Just then, my phone violently vibrated in my pocket. “Wait, there’s someone in one of the stalls!” Sienna’s voice sharpened into panic. Her high heels clicked loudly on the tiles, walking closer. My heart leaped into my throat as I frantically jammed the mute button. “You’re hearing things, it’s empty.” Fred quickly unbolted the main door and pulled Sienna out into the hallway. I pressed my hand against my chest, my heart threatening to crack my ribs. I looked down at the glowing screen. It was a text from Coach Blake. [Let’s see what you’ve got.] Three seconds later, another message popped up. [Harper, I believe in you.] Instantly, the tears I had been fighting back broke free, streaming down my face. I wiped my face clean, walked straight out of the bathroom, and marched into the HR office to formally resign. Fred chased me out to the parking lot, aggressively demanding answers. “What is your problem? Did someone say something to you? Who offended you this time?” He paused, a mocking smirk appearing on his lips. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re still throwing a tantrum because I bought Sienna dinner.” I didn’t say a word. He nodded like he had just solved a massive mystery. “No wonder you ruined my entire stash of cigars. You’re still drowning in jealousy.” “I have had absolutely enough of you, Harper!” I stopped walking. I turned around and looked him dead in the eyes. I had never felt this calm in my entire life. “I’ve had enough of you too, Fred.” It was the first time in five years I had ever spoken to him with such cold, absolute finality. He flinched, visibly taken aback. “Oh my god, I am so sorry! This is all my fault. I’m the reason you two are fighting!” Sienna suddenly sprinted across the asphalt, her eyes red and puffy. “Harper, if you’re mad, just hit me. Slap me until you feel better.” Before I could react, she grabbed my wrist with terrifying strength and yanked my hand violently toward her own face. I tried to rip my arm away, but her grip was like a vice. “Ahhhh!” A piercing scream shattered the air. She suddenly let go of my wrist. A long, bloody scratch marked the entire left side of her cheek. She collapsed flawlessly into Fred’s chest. “My face… Fred, it burns so bad…” “I didn’t touch her, Fred, listen to me, there are security cameras right over—” “Shut up!” Fred’s eyes turned lethal. “I watched you do it with my own eyes, and you’re still trying to lie to my face?!” “Do you have any idea that her face is her entire career?! How is she supposed to shoot the brand campaigns tomorrow looking like this?!” It finally clicked. To protect Sienna’s flawless image, he was fully prepared to pin the blame on me. A crowd of employees gathered in the lot, their whispers turning into toxic venom. “Harper is so violently jealous of Sienna’s looks. She definitely slashed her on purpose.” “She really thought a nobody assistant like her could lock down a guy like Fred. Delusional.” “Fred would never settle for trash like her. No wonder she’s quitting. She probably got rejected and lost her mind.” Fred heard every single insult hurled at me, yet he stood there like a statue. He didn’t defend me once. My fingers brushed against my chest. There was no physical wound, but it felt like I was bleeding to death. I stopped defending myself. I turned my back on the circus and walked out of the corporate park. I hailed a cab and headed straight to the racing circuit. Once I was seated, I sent Fred a breakup text. Then, I powered off my phone, severing every single tie I had to the outside world, and threw myself entirely into my training. Late that night, after a grueling day of damage control and filming, Fred dragged himself into the apartment. “Harper, pour me a glass of water.” He yelled out of pure habit. The only response was the echo of his own voice in the empty rooms. “Tch. Throwing another invisible tantrum.” He casually pulled out his phone. His lock screen displayed a single message. [Fred, we are done. We’re breaking up.] He scoffed, swiped the notification away without a second thought, took a shower, scrolled through some videos, and fell into a deep sleep. Days bled into a week. I never came home. Fred finally started to panic. Was I actually serious this time? He started calling my number. It went straight to voicemail. He sent texts. No reply. “Damn it! Harper, don’t make me—” His voice cut off abruptly. He stared blankly at the massive flat-screen TV in the living room. It was broadcasting the live post-race press conference of the West Coast Rally. I was standing on the podium, radiating absolute confidence, hoisting the massive gold championship trophy above my head as camera flashes blinded the room. After answering technical questions about the engine specs, a reporter leaned in with a cheeky smile. “Harper, an incredible driver like you must have guys lining up around the block. Is there a lucky man cheering for you today?” I looked directly into the camera lens and offered a bright, genuine smile. “I am completely single.” In that exact moment, Fred picked up a heavy glass ashtray and shattered the TV screen.

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1 When I woke up, I was staring at a ceiling that wasn’t mine. I was in Whitney’s bedroom, surrounded by her clutter. Panic seized me. I lunged for her phone, desperate to call my own number, but the moment the screen lit up, my fingers froze. Her pinned chats used to consist of only her parents and me. Now, there was a third name sitting right at the top of her inbox. My boyfriend of three years, Christian. There were two unread notifications. One was from my own brother, Nathan, sent an hour ago: Go ahead and have fun with Christian today. I’ll make sure Aurora stays out of your way. The other was from Christian, sent fifteen minutes ago: Up yet, beautiful? Should I come over and pick you up? Before my brain could even process the weight of what I was reading, a soft, familiar knock rattled the front door. I walked over like a ghost, swinging the door open to find Christian standing there, his eyes crinkling with a warm, easy smile. “Still half-asleep, sleepyhead?” He reached out, affectionately ruffling my hair. In our three years together, I had never seen him look at me like this. He had always been distant, quiet, and mildly irritated by my presence. I had spent years convincing myself that he wasn’t cold, just naturally reserved. “Whitney? You look pale. Did you have a rough night?” Whitney. So, Christian was capable of using sweet, tender nicknames. Just not for me. Perhaps my silence unnerved him. He pressed a hand to my forehead, pulled me gently into the living room, and walked straight to the kitchen. He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, pouring it into a mug and popping it into the microwave. He knew his way around her apartment perfectly. “I brought you those croissants you love from Mabel’s,” he called out. Mabel’s Bakery. I loved their pastries too. But the place was famous for its ridiculous lines that started wrapping around the block at six in the morning. Every time I had asked him to take me, he would dismiss me with a lazy yawn, telling me it was too far and the wait was stupid. Mabel’s was a forty-minute drive from Whitney’s apartment. For him to have these ready by eight in the morning, he must have been up at dawn. “I thought those were Aurora’s favorite too,” I said, my voice sounding raspy and strange in Whitney’s throat. Christian froze, a flicker of annoyance crossing his handsome face. “Why are you bringing her up right now?” A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my chest. Before he could say anything else, his phone began to buzz. The caller ID read Aurora. Whitney must have woken up in my body and was trying to reach him. Christian stared at the screen for a second, a look of pure exasperation crossing his face. Then, without a second thought, he powered the phone off and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “Christian, aren’t you going to answer that?” My voice trembled. He continued unpacking the pastries, his tone softening as he looked back at me. “Don’t worry about her. We’re getting married soon anyway. Before the wedding, I wanted to follow my heart, just this once. I wanted to take you on a real date.” Right then, the phone in my hand, Whitney’s phone, began to vibrate violently. The caller ID displayed My Favorite Person in the World, complete with a heart emoji. My contact name in her phone was My Bestie for Life. We had set those contact names a decade ago. They had represented half of our lives. Yet today, I realized my relationship, my longest friendship, and even my own family were nothing but a lie. Christian noticed the buzzing phone, snatched it from my hand, and declined the call. The cold, dismissive look on his face was one I recognized instantly. It was the face he always made when I tried to hug him. But when he looked back up at me, the warmth returned. “Come on, eat up. We have a big day ahead of us.” Logic told me to scream the truth in his face, to tell him that the soul inside this body belonged to Aurora. But a pathetic, grieving part of me wanted to feel this warmth just a little longer. Even if I had to steal my best friend’s face to get it. He took me to the pier amusement park. I had begged him to go there for three years. On my first birthday with him, he told me it was too hot and we would go another time. On the second, he claimed he had a last-minute business meeting. By the third, he simply snapped, asking me when I was going to grow up and stop whining about childish things. Now, he was standing in front of me, tickets in one hand and a pair of cute, plush mouse ears in the other. “Christian,” I murmured, “I thought you hated amusement parks.” He laughed softly, gently placing the headband on my head. “But didn’t you post on Instagram last week about how badly you wanted to come here?” My hands clenched into tight fists. Whitney had shared a reel about the park a week ago, captioning it with Someone take me here! I had offered to go with her, but she told me she already had plans with someone else. That someone else was my fiancé. “Whitney, I planned out our whole route today. Just follow me,” he said, looking at me with absolute devotion. I nodded slowly. Whitney’s phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from my own number. Aurora… it’s you, isn’t it? I didn’t reply. A second later, another message popped up. Please let me explain! I never wanted to hurt you, it’s not what it looks like! I finally typed back: Then explain. The typing bubble appeared. It flickered for a long, painful minute, but no message ever came. I let out a silent, bitter laugh. How could she possibly explain this? A hand reached into my line of sight and gently took the phone away. “Hey, no distractions today. Today belongs to us.” “Okay,” I whispered, letting him slide the phone into his jacket. My birthday had passed two weeks ago. My birthday wish had finally come true, just in the most mocking, twisted way possible. When we reached the roller coaster, Christian turned to me with a protective gaze. “Do you want to ride this, Whitney? If you’re scared, we can find something tamer.” “I want to,” I said. “I love thrill rides.” Christian’s eyes lit up with surprise and delight. “See? I knew we were a perfect match. I love them too.” Right before the coaster launched, Christian reached over and squeezed my hand. I turned to look at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, my fingers trembling in his grasp. “Don’t be scared, Whitney,” he whispered, his voice incredibly tender. He didn’t know I wasn’t Whitney. He didn’t know my tears weren’t from fear. As the coaster plummeted from the highest peak, the wind roaring in my ears, I heard him scream beside me, “Whitney, I want you to be happy!” I closed my eyes and let the tears stream down my face, instantly whipped away by the rushing air. My three-year relationship died on that drop. For the rest of the day, I stopped pretending to be Whitney. I spoke in my own voice, laughed at my own jokes, and behaved exactly as I always did. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, we were walking back to his car. I sat in the passenger seat, staring at his profile, waiting for him to notice that the girl beside him shared the exact same soul as the fiancée he claimed to be bored of. He never did. It was eight in the evening by the time I got the phone back. It was flooded with missed calls and messages from Whitney. The last text had been sent three hours ago: Aurora, please talk to them. Your brother won’t believe me. He thinks I’m crazy… I swiped out of her chat and clicked on my brother’s name. He had sent one text to Whitney’s phone: Aurora seems to have lost her mind today, she’s been screaming that she’s you. I took her phone and locked her in her room so she won’t ruin your date. Enjoy your evening. A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “What’s so funny?” Christian asked, steering the car through the evening traffic. I looked at him, my voice flat. “Nothing. Just that Aurora sent a lot of messages. Is it really okay for us to be doing this behind her back?” For a split second, a shadow of guilt crossed his face. For a fleeting, pathetic moment, I hoped he would say he regretted it. Then he spoke, crushing my last shred of hope. “Don’t worry about her.” He pulled up to the curb outside Whitney’s apartment building. He turned to face me, his eyes soft. “I had an amazing time today, Whitney.” “Me too,” I replied quietly. He leaned in closer. “You felt different today. Still beautiful, but there was this fire in you. I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did, but today changed everything. If only I had met you before I met her.” Fresh tears welled in my eyes. “What’s wrong?” Christian panicked, reaching out to wipe my cheek. “Did I say something wrong?” “No,” I choked out, a bitter smile gracing my lips. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I just finally understand why you love me.” And I finally understood why he didn’t love me when I was in my own skin. It was hilarious, really. He loved Whitney’s face, but he loved my soul. Yet, after spending an entire day with me, he couldn’t even tell that the woman he was falling for was the very same one he was planning to abandon. Back in Whitney’s apartment, I called my own phone. My brother answered on the first ring. “Whitney? Is the date over?” “Yeah,” I whispered. “Good,” Nathan said, his voice warm with brotherly affection. “As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters to me.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. As long as she’s happy? Even if it means destroying your own sister? “You want to talk to Aurora?” Nathan asked. “I’ll give her the phone back.” A moment later, Whitney’s frantic voice came through the receiver. “Aurora! Oh my god, finally! Your brother is insane, he locked me in your room! Have you told Christian yet? What is going on with us?” I let the silence stretch between us before speaking. “Whitney, weren’t you going to explain things to me?” There was a long pause on the other end. When she spoke again, her frantic tone had vanished, replaced by a defensive sigh. “Look, I was going to make up some excuse, but now that you know, what’s the point? He’s just a guy, Aurora. We’ve been best friends for a decade. Are you really going to let a man come between us?” I stared at the wall, completely numb. I had been blind. Blind to my boyfriend, blind to my brother, and blind to my best friend. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Whitney snapped. “Are you actually mad? Christian and I haven’t even done anything that bad.” I hung up. She called back repeatedly, but I ignored every single ring. Instead, I opened her chat history with Christian and began reading. Their first conversation dated back to March eleventh, two years ago. Whitney had added him the day after Christian and I officially started dating. For three years, they had messaged each other every single day. I watched Christian’s replies transition from cold and dismissive to eager and warm over the span of a single year. By the third year, he was sharing every mundane detail of his life with her. Things he never bothered telling me. Then, I found the message from a week ago. Christian: You want to go to the pier? I’ll take you this Saturday. Whitney: I’d love to, but what about Aurora? Christian: Don’t worry about her. I remembered that night. I had sent Christian dozens of messages, worrying about him because he was supposedly working late. He hadn’t replied until one in the morning, claiming he was exhausted. I had spent the next morning making him homemade soup to take to his office. All while he was planning a secret date with my best friend. Next, I opened Whitney’s chat with my brother. It was the same story. She had initiated contact, slowly reeling him in. Nathan had only started falling for her charms a month ago. My head spun. I tossed the phone onto the desk, accidentally knocking a small, leather-bound notebook to the floor. I picked it up. It was Whitney’s diary, the handwriting inside neat and youthful, dating back to our high school days. The very first line read: I hate Aurora. Why does she get to have everything? The grades, the money, a brother who treats her like a princess. Why her? Why not me? I flipped through the pages, my heart dropping with every word. March 10th: Aurora has a new boyfriend. She never learns. I took her last two guys, and now she’s introducing me to this one like a naive idiot. He’s gorgeous and aloof. I’m definitely taking him from her. My breath hitched. Those painful breakups in college, the ones Whitney had held me through while I sobbed into her shoulder… they hadn’t been accidents. My heartbreak had been her trophies. August 21st: It’s Aurora’s birthday. She wanted to go to the amusement park with Christian. So pathetic. She has no idea he’s spending the night in my bed instead. My hands shook violently as I turned to the very last page, dated yesterday. September 2nd: Christian was incredible today. Finally got him all to myself. Best feeling ever. They had both gone completely off the grid yesterday afternoon. I had called Christian’s phone dozens of times, terrified something had happened to him. The phone in my hand buzzed. A text from Christian. Whitney, I loved the way you were today. Goodnight, beautiful. I didn’t reply. I don’t remember how I fell asleep, but when I opened my eyes the next morning, I was back in my own bedroom. The scent of lavender filled the air, and my hands were my own again. I checked my phone. All the screenshots of the diary pages and chat logs I had taken using Whitney’s phone yesterday were sitting safely in my inbox. I dialed my mother’s number first. “Mom,” I said the moment she picked up. “You know that study abroad program in London you wanted me to do? I’ll go.” My mother’s excited voice came through the line. “Oh, sweetheart! I knew you’d make the right choice! Once you finish your master’s, you can take over the family firm.” She paused. “What about Christian? Have you told him?” I looked out the window, my voice cold. “Don’t worry about him.” After hanging up, I opened my messages. There was only one unread text, sent by Christian ten minutes ago. Aurora, let me know when you’re awake. We need to go pick out your wedding dress today. I smiled bitterly, compiled all the screenshots into an email, and hit send. Go pick out the dress with Whitney, Christian. You two deserve each other.

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1 My billionaire father’s mistress and my mother got pregnant at the exact same time. My father, Richard Sinclair, constantly promised that his entire empire would belong to me. Yet, in reality, every ounce of his affection went to his mistress, Isla. Determined to secure my birthright, I turned my mother’s womb into a relentless training ground in my first life. I exercised, flipped, and forced myself to absorb every bit of prenatal education. I did not rest for a single second. But my frantic over-activity proved fatal. The umbilical cord wrapped tightly around my neck, suffocating me. The sheer stress of my struggle caused my mother to hemorrhage and pass away during childbirth. Just like that, my father’s entire fortune fell into the lap of his newborn illegitimate daughter. Even the Grim Reaper took pity on my tragic end. Before sending my soul back in time, he offered me a single piece of cosmic wisdom: just lay flat. As my consciousness drifted back into the warm, dark amniotic fluid, I suddenly heard a sharp, arrogant voice echoing in my mind. It was my unborn half-sister, Madelyn. So what if she is the legitimate firstborn? Father loves children who strive for greatness. If I start working hard right now, I will steal all his affection. The entire inheritance will be mine! I mentally shrugged, blowing a few bubbles in the dark. Fine by me. Knock yourself out, sis. I am going to lie back and enjoy the ride. Let us see whose hands the fortune ends up in this time. Right now, we were in a luxury maternity recovery suite. My father was casually dismissing my mother’s tears. “Eleanor, I don’t care about that woman. Once she gives birth, I’ll pay her off, keep the baby, and send her away.” “My legacy belongs to our daughter. Just focus on resting and stop making a scene.” That was what he said. But to keep an eye on his beloved mistress, he completely ignored my mother’s dignity and moved Isla into the suite right next door. Separated by a single wall, I could hear every single thought running through Madelyn’s mind. Why is Father still wasting time with that old hag? I need to get his attention, fast. One, two, three, kick! I’m going to dance my heart out! A moment later, Isla’s delighted voice carried through the wall. “Richard! Come quickly! The baby is dancing in my tummy!” My father rushed over without a second thought. “Look at that rhythm! She actually reacts to Mozart. She is going to be a prodigy!” Seeing the sharp movements beneath Isla’s skin, my father beamed with pride. “As expected of a child of Richard Sinclair. Showing such talent before she is even born.” With a wave of his hand, he wired Isla fifty thousand dollars on the spot, telling her to hire the best prenatal music tutor money could buy. Madelyn became even more enthusiastic in her womb. Thank you, Daddy! Watch me drop some beats! Boom-clap, boom-clap! That useless Penelope must be green with envy. So what if she is the legitimate daughter? She can’t even compare to my pinky toe! As her internal monologue grew louder and more obnoxious, I figuratively covered my ears and rolled my eyes in the amniotic fluid. In my last life, I was exactly like her. Desperate for a scrap of my father’s attention, I turned the womb into a relentless training camp, kicking and flipping to prove my worth, never giving my mother a moment of peace. The result? I strangled myself and bled my mother to death in the delivery room. I did not care if the Grim Reaper’s advice to “lay flat” actually worked. I was simply done trying so hard. Hearing the laughter next door, my mother’s resentment boiled over. Trying to win back her husband, she called out, “Richard! Our daughter is dancing to the music too! Come look!” She gently stroked her stomach, whispering desperately to me. “Sweetheart, we can’t let that mistress’s child outshine us. For the sake of your father’s billions, please, move a little!” Sensing my father was about to leave, Madelyn kicked Isla’s uterine wall with all her might. Cry! Pretend it hurts! Do whatever it takes to keep Father here! Father’s eyes belong on me. I won’t let Penelope steal my spotlight! Isla gasped in genuine pain, clutching her belly. “Richard, it hurts… please stay with me.” My father still held some lingering hope for me. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back into my mother’s room. “Is Penelope dancing too? Let me see what she can do.” He rested his palm on my mother’s swollen belly. She forced a smile. “Yes, she was just moving around so beautifully. Penelope, darling, be a good girl and show your father.” Seeing the desperate, humiliated look on my mother’s face broke my heart. But remembering the Reaper’s words, I steeled myself and remained completely still. No matter how much my mother coaxed, I did not budge. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. In the heavy, awkward silence, the expectation in my father’s eyes withered into disappointment. “It seems Penelope simply lacks Madelyn’s spark.” The moment he walked out of the room, my mother let out a tearful sigh, reprimanding me under her breath. “Penelope, why are you so stubborn? Your father clearly favors Madelyn. If you don’t show him what you can do, that girl will strip us of everything we own!” But before she could finish, a sharp scream echoed from next door. “Ah! It hurts… I can’t take this! Stop moving, baby, please… call a doctor!” Isla was sobbing, thrashing around the bed in agony. The sheer violence of the noise left my mother stunned. Slowly, she looked down at her own peaceful stomach and let out a breathless, relieved laugh. “My sweet girl. You really do love your mother, don’t you? You didn’t want me to suffer. Fine, if you don’t want to move, don’t move. As long as we both make it through this healthy, that is all that matters.” Madelyn did not care about Isla’s physical limits. Driven by her obsession with outperforming me, she kicked even harder. You don’t understand, Mother. Penelope was trying to steal my spotlight. I have to work harder. I need Father to see that I am the chosen one, the only true heir to his empire! The more Isla screamed, the faster Madelyn thrashed. My father, utterly blinded by his own pride, completely ignored his mistress’s agony. “She clearly inherited my superior genes. Such strength, such vigor! Prenatal movement is perfectly natural, Isla. Stop being so dramatic.” Listening to the endless wails through the wall, I smiled to myself. Keep going, Madelyn. Work yourself into a tight little knot. Let us see how much you like having the umbilical cord wrapped around your throat. Isla eventually blacked out from the sheer intensity of the pain. As the corridor outside filled with the chaotic sounds of rushing doctors, I snuggled closer to my mother’s warm uterine wall, fully committing to my life of leisure. Don’t worry, Mom. In this life, I am not going to let you suffer. From that day on, Madelyn fully embraced her life as an prenatal overachiever. With four months left before our birth, she decided to start her body-management routine. I must control my appetite from the womb. I will reject all unnecessary calories! Father will definitely prefer a daughter with a perfect figure. Once Penelope balloons into a chubby pig, I will stun everyone with my gorgeous silhouette! She punched Isla’s stomach to induce nausea, preventing her from keeping any food down. Within weeks, Isla looked skeletal, her skin dry and her eyes hollow. Meanwhile, my mother enjoyed every single meal. Because I was quiet and content, her appetite was fantastic. She ate rich, healthy soups and fresh fruits, and her skin began to glow with radiant health. But Madelyn only thought it was hilarious. Keep stuffing your faces. Once you’re as fat as a pig, Father will dump you. I hope Penelope gets so massive that she causes a fatal birth obstruction! While Isla starved, Madelyn was also pushing herself through an extreme workout regimen. At five in the morning, while my mother and I were still happily sleeping, Isla would be jolted awake by violent movements in her belly. An hour of stretching, an hour of yoga, and then a hundred backflips! I will show Father that Penelope does nothing but eat and sleep, while I am overflowing with drive. I am the rightful heir! After her flips, she would immediately begin dancing along with the prenatal music tutor. In our suite, my mother and I would wake up late, enjoy a hearty breakfast, do some gentle breathing exercises, and then lounge on the balcony to soak up the morning sun. Isla watched us from her window with pure envy. But the moment she tried to rest, Madelyn would pull on her umbilical cord to force her back up. Don’t drag me down! Read those English flashcards to me! We need to get the inheritance! Isla survived entirely on IV fluids, her body trembling with exhaustion. My father, though repulsed by Isla’s withered state, was increasingly amazed by Madelyn’s constant activity. “She is absorbing the very essence of your vitality, Isla. This child is destined for greatness!” But when he looked at me, his face fell. “Penelope is my firstborn, but she is completely lifeless. She has no reaction to music or languages, and she is three pounds heavier than Madelyn. If she remains this lazy, I will have to reconsider my estate planning.” My mother defended me fiercely. “My daughter is gentle and perfect. She made my pregnancy a dream. If you’re biased, just say so!” My father only shook his head, his eyes cold. I simply turned over and went back to sleep. The game was far from over. Soon, the day of our final prenatal checkup arrived. Even my grandparents were shocked when they saw Isla’s state. “How did you become so skeletal? Can you even deliver a healthy baby like this?” Isla opened her mouth to speak, but only dry-heaved. The grandparents turned away in disgust, looking at my mother instead. “Now, Eleanor knows how to nurture a pregnancy. Look at her glowing skin. That is what a healthy heir looks like.” Madelyn was furious. What do you old fools know? I’m slender so I can slide right out. Penelope is going to get stuck! When she is struggling, I will trigger an early labor, climb out first, and claim the crown! During the ultrasound, Madelyn forced herself to turn around and wave her tiny hand at the screen, completely ignoring the fact that the umbilical cord was already wrapped around her neck three times. My grandparents gasped in delight. “A prodigy! She is communicating with us! This level of intelligence belongs to our future leader!” My father was beaming with pride. “I agree. Her due date is two weeks after Penelope’s, but if she could just come earlier, I would make her my firstborn.” Madelyn was ecstatic. You should have said so earlier, Daddy! An early birth? I can do that! Watch me, I’m coming out right now to claim my title! Suddenly, Isla gasped, clutching her abdomen as she collapsed to the floor. “My water broke… I think… I think the baby is coming…” Madelyn was fully committed to her stunt. Before Isla’s cervix could even dilate, she began violently forcing her way down the birth canal. Just a little more push, and Father’s billions are mine! Seeing Isla lose consciousness from the sudden, massive hemorrhage, my father panicked, lifting her and rushing toward the delivery room. My grandparents ran close behind. My mother was left standing in the hallway, her face pale. “Penelope… is she really going to be born first and take everything from us?” My heart sank. The plan was changing. Now that Madelyn was forcing her way out, I couldn’t just stay passive anymore. I checked my position. My head was down, my body strong, and my limbs were fully developed. I decided to move. My mother gasped, clutching her stomach as a massive contraction hit her. At the exact same time, Madelyn’s thoughts next door grew faint and desperate. I’m so hungry… I can’t push… Cough… why is there so much blood rushing into my mouth? I’m choking! And this cord… why is it so tight… Hearing her struggle, my hope flared. I used my strong, healthy limbs to push myself downward. Suddenly, my father walked into our room, tossing a thick document onto my mother’s bed. “Sign the divorce papers, Eleanor. You’ll get a generous settlement, but Penelope won’t touch a dime of my fortune.” My mother stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. “But my water broke too… I’m about to give birth!” My father looked at her with utter indifference. “Madelyn is coming out. She is my finest child, and I won’t let anyone question her status. I will make sure she is my legitimate firstborn.” He forced a pen into her hand. Heartbroken and exhausted, my mother prepared to sign. “Fine… I’ll sign. From now on, she has nothing to do with you.” I kicked frantically against her ribs. Mom, don’t give up! Madelyn is choking in there! She hasn’t won yet! My father glanced toward the door, a smug smile on his face. “Don’t blame me, Eleanor. Blame Penelope for being useless. She couldn’t even beat Madelyn to the finish line.” Madelyn’s thoughts echoed weakly. Almost there… push… I will be the billionaire heiress. Daddy is going to love me so much. Penelope will never stand a chance. I struggled to push, but my mother was too devastated to help. I found myself stuck in the birth canal, unable to move. Was everything going to end up in Madelyn’s hands again? Just as my mother’s hand began to write her name, a panicked scream echoed from the delivery room next door. “Oh my god! The baby is in danger!”

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1 When I turned eighteen, fate handed me two choices. I could either become the hidden, kept mistress of the city’s notorious underground kingpin, Rafa, or I could return to my biological family—the illustrious, artistically renowned Versaw family—as their true heiress. In my past life, I chose the latter. The day I was brought back from the slums to the Versaw estate, I naively believed they would ache for the eighteen years I had spent surviving on the streets with absolutely nothing. But the moment my biological parents laid eyes on me, they coldly appraised me. “You slouch when you stand, you sprawl when you sit. You are entirely unpresentable. When you learn proper etiquette, then and only then will we allow you to take the Versaw name.” My biological brother chimed in, equally dismissive. “Harper, scrub that pathetic, poverty-stricken stench off yourself. Stop embarrassing this family.” I thought the Versaws were just naturally cold, detached people. It wasn’t until the day I died that I finally understood. They had already poured every single ounce of their love into their fake daughter, Chloe. There simply wasn’t a drop left for me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the exact day the Versaws came to fetch me. Staring at the familiar, broken pavement of the slums, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I had memorized for a lifetime. “Mr. Rafa, I accept your offer. I’ll be your girl.” My palms were sweating, and my voice trembled over the line. The man on the other end fell silent. A second later, a low, indifferent ‘hmm’ vibrated through the speaker. He sounded so casual, as if we weren’t discussing an illicit arrangement where he owned me. His reaction was entirely unreadable. Panic flared in my chest, and I opened my mouth to say something else to solidify the deal. The line went dead. He hung up on me. Simultaneously, a text message popped up on my screen. [Wait where you are.] I let out a massive sigh of relief. Rafa was a man of his word. If he agreed to something, it was as good as done. Just then, a massive, sleek black SUV pulled up directly in front of me. An older man in a tailored suit stepped out. He stood stiffly by the door. “Miss Harper, Madam Versaw sent me to bring you home.” His words were formally polite, but the look in his eyes was dripping with absolute disdain. I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to Rafa. [Mr. Rafa, the Versaws are here to pick me up.] Rafa replied instantly. It was just a single letter. [K.] But I understood immediately. It meant he was granting me permission to go. I smiled, pocketed my phone, and looked at the butler. “Put my luggage in the trunk.” “Miss Harper, the Versaw family has prepared a complete set of luxury daily necessities for you. You do not need to bring any luggage.” In my past life, after delivering that exact line, the butler had grabbed my duffel bag and tossed it into a muddy puddle on the curb. They acted as if my entire eighteen years of existence was a disease they refused to let infect their pristine mansion. This time, I didn’t swallow the humiliation. I gripped my duffel bag tight, turned on my heel, and started walking away. The butler’s arrogant composure cracked. He hurried after me, stepping directly into my path to block me. “Miss Harper, where exactly do you think you’re going?” I looked up at him, my voice entirely flat. “If the servants of the Versaw family refuse to follow basic instructions, then it’s a household with no discipline. I have no interest in living there.” The butler locked eyes with me. We stood in silence for a long, tense moment. Finally, he broke eye contact, lowered his head, and reached out to take my bag. “Miss Harper, Madam is waiting for you.” I let out a soft scoff and climbed into the back of the SUV. The butler slid into the front seat, his expression carefully blank. But I knew people like him; he wasn’t going to let an insult from a slum rat slide. Sure enough, the moment we hit the main road, the car veered completely off route. He deliberately drove me in circles on the highway loop three times. By the time we finally pulled into the Versaw estate, the sky was completely pitch black. The Versaw family was seated in the grand dining room. The moment I walked in, three pairs of eyebrows pulled together in unified irritation. Except for Chloe. She kept her head down, her eyes red, her voice thick with exaggerated grievance. “Sister, I know you resent my existence… but you shouldn’t have delayed coming home on purpose. Dad, Mom, and our brother have been starving for hours waiting for you.” I stared at her, a wave of dizziness hitting me. For a split second, I was dragged violently back to the day I died. I was twenty years old when I died in a maximum-security prison cell. Not long after I arrived at the estate, Chloe framed me. She claimed I intentionally burned down her art gallery. My mother said I was too manipulative, toxic to the core. My brother said growing up in the slums had irreversibly corrupted my soul. In the end, it was my father who slammed the gavel, ensuring I was thrown behind bars. They all agreed I was too severely broken. They said I needed to suffer to be rehabilitated. Not a single one of them listened to my defense. Chloe had clearly pulled strings, because my life in prison was absolute hell. I was beaten and bullied daily. But I gritted my teeth and survived. Because they told me my sentence was only three years. I just had to hold on. Until the day I turned twenty, when I overheard two guards talking outside my cell. “Hey, isn’t that Harper girl scheduled for release next year?” “Release? Are you kidding? First-degree arson is a major felony. She got slapped with a fifteen-year sentence.” “Wait, I thought she just burned down her own family’s gallery? If they signed a letter of forgiveness, she would’ve gotten a slap on the wrist.” “Her family specifically demanded the judge give her the absolute maximum sentence. That’s why she’s in for fifteen.” Fifteen years. The best fifteen years of my entire life. I was going to rot in a concrete box for a crime I never committed. I refused to let that happen. That night, during the guard shift change, I tied my uniform to the bars of the window and hung myself. Thank god the universe gave me a second chance. This time, I could change everything. I looked at Chloe and let out a soft, venomous smile. “Since you’re so acutely aware that I despise your existence, why the hell are you still sitting at my table?” Chloe froze. Massive, theatrical tears instantly spilled down her cheeks. She aggressively shot out of her chair, bowed to me, and choked out, “Sister… I know I don’t belong here. I’ll leave right now.” With that, she turned and ran toward the door, sobbing loudly. I watched her back and casually added, “Yeah, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Chloe’s shoulders jerked. She clearly hadn’t expected me to be so brutally unapologetic. The rest of the Versaws finally snapped. Mr. Versaw slammed his silverware onto the table, his voice echoing through the dining room. “Harper! You do not dictate who stays in this house!” Mrs. Versaw instantly rushed out of her chair, catching Chloe by the arm and pulling her into a tight, dramatic embrace as they both sobbed. “Chloe, sweetie, Mommy promises you, I will never let anyone chase you away!” Then came the furious reprimand from my brother, Julian. “Harper, you are the one who deliberately showed up late! Chloe merely stated a fact, and you try to kick her out of her own home?! It really is true what they say about slum trash… you are narrow-minded, selfish, and vile!” I crossed my arms and waited in total silence until he ran out of breath. Then, I pulled out my phone and opened my social media feed. The newest post was a photo of me getting into the SUV. The caption was a single word. [Homeward.] The timestamp clearly showed the photo was posted five hours ago. I held the screen up to their faces. “The butler picked me up exactly five hours ago. The drive from my neighborhood to this estate takes an hour and a half, maximum. But your butler decided to drive me in circles on the highway loop for three hours.” “So I want to ask you… am I the one lacking etiquette, or is the Versaw household so completely undisciplined that your servants just do whatever the hell they want?” The room fell into absolute silence. I let out a dark chuckle, walking slowly toward Chloe. “I literally just walked through the front door. I have no idea who you are. And you had no idea why I was delayed. So why was your very first instinct to accuse me of hating you and intentionally starving the family?” “Are you that desperate to smear my name and ruin my first impression, or are you just naturally manipulative?” Chloe had clearly never met someone who dismantled her fake tears so surgically. Her face went ghostly pale, and she stammered defensively, “I… I didn’t…” Mrs. Versaw couldn’t stand seeing her precious daughter look so cornered. Her heart ached, and she quickly stepped in. “Harper, you’re misunderstanding her! Chloe has just been so anxious and sensitive ever since she found out you were coming home.” I didn’t argue. I just stared blankly at Mrs. Versaw. Her eyes were overflowing with a mother’s protective love. But it wasn’t for me. I lowered my gaze. “I heard that cuckoo birds lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. When the cuckoo hatches, it pushes the original babies out of the nest to plummet to their deaths, ensuring the mother bird only feeds the imposter.” “I wonder if humans act like cuckoo birds… selfish, lethal, and desperate to steal a life that doesn’t belong to them.” Every single face in the Versaw family drained of color. Chloe let out a pathetic wail and ran up the grand staircase. Mrs. Versaw immediately chased after her, cooing apologies. Mr. Versaw threw his napkin on the table and stormed off to his study. Julian stood up, looking at me with pure disgust. “Harper, you can play the victim all you want. You can try to poison us against her. It won’t work. Chloe is my only sister, and she will always be the only daughter of the Versaw family.” “Yeah, I know.” I knew that in my past life. So in this life, it didn’t hurt at all. Seeing my completely indifferent reaction, Julian opened his mouth but couldn’t find the words. He finally scowled and marched upstairs. I looked down at the massive spread of cold food. Without asking for permission, I pulled out a chair, sat down, and started eating. I had been sitting in a car all day. I was starving. When I was finally full, I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the half-empty plates, and sent it to Rafa. [Mr. Rafa, the Versaws made me eat their cold leftovers. (sad face emoji)] Rafa replied almost immediately. Once again, it was a painfully cold [K.] I was trying to decode what exactly he meant when my banking app suddenly buzzed. A wire transfer for fifty thousand dollars had just hit my account. I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. Mrs. Versaw happened to be walking past the dining room. Seeing me smiling like I had just won the lottery, her blood boiled. “Harper, does bullying your sister until she cries bring you that much joy?! What exactly did she do to deserve this?!” Mrs. Versaw’s eyes filled with angry tears. She remembered when Chloe was a tiny, fragile baby, sleeping on her chest. She had nurtured her, protected her, and raised her into a bright, cheerful girl. Now, her precious daughter was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe, even frowning in her sleep. And the monster responsible for her pain was sitting there laughing. She was absolutely furious! I dropped my smile, looked up, and said, “Mrs. Versaw, Chloe and I are exactly the same age.” Her furious rant crashed into a brick wall. She opened her mouth, closed it, and took a long time before she weakly muttered, “Harper… Mommy didn’t mean it like that… I just thought… as sisters, you two should try to get along…” I didn’t entertain her backpedaling. I changed the subject immediately. “Mrs. Versaw, where is my room?” It was only then that she realized she had spent the entire evening coddling Chloe and completely forgot to arrange my living quarters. She looked incredibly awkward. “The guest room…” I nodded simply. “Thank you.” A flash of genuine guilt crossed her eyes. She personally carried my duffel bag up the stairs. But the moment she pushed open the door to the guest room, she froze in horror! The room was completely packed to the ceiling with random boxes, old furniture, and junk. There wasn’t even room to step inside! She frantically called a maid over and demanded an explanation. “Madam… Miss Chloe was worried her piano practice would disturb your sleep, so she asked us to convert the basement storage into a soundproof studio. We had nowhere to put the basement junk, so we temporarily moved it into the guest room…” “Are there any other guest rooms available?!” “Only… only the empty maid’s quarters by the laundry room…” Mrs. Versaw looked like she was about to faint. She looked at me, her lips trembling, unable to form a single sentence. I offered her a polite smile, waving my hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I’ll just sleep in the maid’s room.” The guilt on her face deepened instantly. She walked me down the hall to the tiny, cramped room, her eyes red. “Harper… I promise you, I’ll have the staff clear out the big guest room first thing tomorrow morning. Just endure this for one night.” “Okay.” I nodded coldly. Her eyes grew even redder. “Do you really have nothing to say to your own mother?” I felt a surge of deep exhaustion. It reminded me of the exact same night in my past life. I had slept in this exact maid’s room. Mrs. Versaw had looked exactly this guilty. She had grabbed my hands, begging me to tell her about all the suffering I had endured. I had buried my face in her shoulder and told her how, at five years old, I was so hungry I stole half-eaten bread from a trash can. I told her how, at ten years old, a gang of older boys beat me until my eardrum ruptured just to steal an empty plastic bottle I was trying to recycle for pennies. I told her how, at fifteen, having nowhere to sleep, I was cornered under a bridge by a strange man and barely escaped being assaulted. Eighteen years of absolute agony, summarized in a few quiet sentences. Mrs. Versaw had held me tight, weeping uncontrollably, swearing to God she would love me endlessly and never let me suffer again. And then, the very next morning, she broke that vow. Chloe had come down the stairs crying, claiming her diamond necklace was missing, and that I was the only person who had walked past her room. Mrs. Versaw didn’t give me a single second to explain. She slapped me across the face with everything she had. She screamed that I had grown up a thief, and I would die a thief. Snapping back to the present, I leaned against the doorframe, my voice devoid of emotion. “Mrs. Versaw, I’m exhausted. I want to sleep.” She had clearly never been dismissed so bluntly in her life. She stiffened, but eventually turned around and slowly closed the door behind her. The second she was gone, I practically dove onto the tiny bed and snapped a photo of the depressing, claustrophobic maid’s room. I was about to hit send when I paused. I couldn’t just constantly play the pathetic victim with Rafa. It would get boring. I thought for a second, then slightly tugged my skirt up, exposing two long, pale legs against the cheap sheets. I snapped a new photo. I cropped my face out. It looked innocent, but incredibly provocative. Satisfied, I sent the photo to Rafa. [Mr. Rafa, the maid’s room is so tiny. I don’t even have enough space to stretch my legs. (crying face emoji)] This time, Rafa’s reply wasn’t a cold ‘K’. The chat window showed ‘typing…’ for a very long time. Finally, my phone chimed. [Pull your clothes down.] “Tch. Prude.” I muttered the insult under my breath, tossed my phone on the mattress, and didn’t bother replying. Within minutes, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. During my two years in prison, I had suffered so much I hadn’t had a single good night’s rest. When I finally woke up, it was already past noon. I stayed in bed for a while longer, dreading whatever psychotic drama Chloe was undoubtedly brewing downstairs. But when I finally walked out of the room, the massive estate was dead silent. The Versaws were entirely gone. This was completely different from my past life. Was the butterfly effect already kicking in? I kept my guard up, waiting silently until the evening when the Versaws finally returned. They all looked ecstatic. Especially Chloe. Unlike my past life where she constantly cried the moment she saw me, she actually smiled and greeted me cheerfully. It was deeply unsettling. The most bizarre part was that over the next few days, Chloe never once tried to antagonize me. It defied all logic. Until the day before her grand art gallery opening. I was wound tighter than a coiled spring, ready for war. In my past life, this was the exact day she invited me to the gallery, set her own most expensive painting on fire while I was standing there, and screamed that I was an arsonist. I fully expected her to run the same playbook, but the day passed completely peacefully. Absolutely nothing happened. I bit my lip. Chloe and the rest of the Versaws hadn’t miraculously become good people overnight. What the hell was going on? Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. That night, I discovered the truth. It all revolved around Rafa. The day after I arrived at the Versaw estate, Rafa had publicly released a statement to the criminal and elite underworld. He was looking for a fiancée. He had two absolute requirements. One: She had to be from high society. Two: She had to have just turned eighteen this year. The list of girls who met those criteria was extremely short. Chloe was on it. So, for the past week, Mr. and Mrs. Versaw had been aggressively dragging Chloe to every elite networking event in the city, desperately trying to put her directly in Rafa’s line of sight. Their ruthless social climbing paid off. Rafa had formally agreed to attend the grand opening of Chloe’s art gallery. That was why Chloe hadn’t had a spare second to torture me. Especially today. She was losing her mind with stress. She had hired the absolute best styling team in the city, spending the entire day trying on haute couture and priceless diamonds. To ensure absolutely nothing went wrong tomorrow, she had the entire styling team move into the Versaw estate for the night. That was how I overheard the gossip and pieced together Rafa’s involvement. Seeing that I was lingering near the dressing room, Chloe put on her best apologetic face, her eyes turning perfectly red. “Sister… I’ve been so incredibly busy these past few days, I completely forgot to order a custom gown for you for tomorrow’s opening. We’re about the same size… maybe you could wear one of my old dresses?” Before she even finished, Julian marched over, his face twisted in annoyance. “Harper, are you throwing another fit? You’re a slum rat who doesn’t understand basic high society etiquette. Why would you even go to an elite opening gala?” Mrs. Versaw chimed in instantly. “Harper, tomorrow is the most important day of Chloe’s life. It’s not that I don’t want you there… I’m just worried you’ll feel completely out of place. The guests are the absolute elite of the city, and you don’t know the rules of our circle yet.” Mr. Versaw was even more blunt, waving his hand impatiently. “Why are you wasting your breath explaining it to her? Harper, tomorrow you will stay in this house, and you will not step a single foot outside!” They fully expected me to scream, to cry, to demand my right to attend. Instead, I did absolutely nothing. I gave them an obedient nod, turned around, and walked back to my room like a perfectly disciplined dog. The moment I shut my door, I aggressively rubbed my eyes until they were bloodshot and watering. Then, I snapped a heartbreaking, teary-eyed selfie and sent it to Rafa. [Mr. Rafa, the Versaws banned me from going to the gala. I guess I won’t get to see you tomorrow after all. (broken heart emoji)] Over the past few days, I had thoroughly analyzed his personality. Rafa seemed incredibly susceptible to me acting like a helpless, spoiled victim. Whenever I played that card, he was significantly more responsive. Sure enough, my phone buzzed instantly. [Tomorrow morning, a car will pick you up.] I sent back a [Love you!] sticker and finally went to sleep, completely at peace. Early the next morning, I was violently woken up by the sound of Chloe screaming at a makeup artist down the hall. Knowing I couldn’t go back to sleep, I stayed in bed, the straps of my silk nightgown slipping off my shoulder. With my hair messy and my eyes heavy with sleep, I snapped a quick photo and sent it to Rafa. [Morning, Mr. Rafa.] He didn’t reply. I didn’t panic. I waited patiently until the entire Versaw family left the estate in a fleet of luxury cars. A few minutes later, Rafa finally texted. [Come downstairs.] I practically sprinted out the front door. A sleek black luxury van was parked quietly at the edge of the driveway. Inside was a small army of elite makeup artists and stylists. Two hours later, the van pulled up to the grand entrance of Chloe’s art gallery. The opening gala was breathtakingly extravagant. The absolute elite of high society had flooded the venue. But they weren’t there for the Versaw family, and they certainly weren’t there to admire Chloe’s amateur brushstrokes. Without exception, every single billionaire, politician, and socialite was there solely to get close to Rafa. Standing on the red carpet outside the doors, I could hear their nauseatingly fake praises bleeding through the glass. “Chloe is truly a prodigy! To paint with such emotion, and to capture the attention of Him…” “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Versaw are legends in the art world. It’s no surprise they cultivated such a brilliant daughter.” “Oh, if only my children had a fraction of Chloe’s grace and talent!” Listening to them trip over themselves to worship her, I let out a dark smirk, placed my hands on the heavy double doors, and shoved them wide open.

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1 Today was meant to be my wedding day after seven years with Austin. Driving my self-purchased Tesla Model S on the outer ring road, the car jolted as a remote override warning lit the dash, capping my speed at twelve miles per hour. Assuming a glitch, I called support. “Manual override by the primary account holder, ma’am. Nothing we can do,” they said. Heart racing, I called Austin. He answered lazily. “Cici found out about today and threatened suicide at the registry. I locked your car to keep you clear. Didn’t know you were on the highway.” “Reschedule the wedding. I can’t let her die, can I? You’ve waited seven years—a few more days won’t matter. Be good, stop making a scene. She’s crying again.” He hung up before I spoke. But right before he hung up, the faint, theatrical whimpering of a woman drifted through the receiver. Another massive truck roared past, shaking my sedan. On a busy, treacherous stretch of the highway, my fiancé had willingly abandoned me to tend to his precious first love. I sat there, staring at the flashing dashboard, and felt like the biggest fool alive. If he didn’t want to marry me, then we wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath, I dialed his worst rival’s number. “You’ve always said you wanted to marry me. Does that offer still stand?” The response was instantaneous. “I’ve been waiting seven years for you.” Gavin’s voice was deep, steady, and entirely free of hesitation. “Where are you right now?” “On the outer beltway. My car is speed-locked, and I’m stuck on the shoulder.” “Send me your location. Turn on your hazards, slowly pull over as far as you can, and stay inside. I will be there in fifteen minutes.” The call disconnected. I pulled the Tesla tightly against the guardrail, stepped out, and stood in the grass behind the barrier. The car had cost ninety thousand dollars. It was my own hard-earned money, saved over five years of grueling work, meant to be my personal contribution to our marriage. When we picked it up, Austin had insisted on setting up the primary profile. “I’ll register the master account under my name,” he had said smoothly, offering me a brilliant smile. “I’ll give you an authorized driver profile. That way, if my sweet girl ever gets stuck on the road, I can manage things for you remotely.” I hadn’t thought twice about it. Now, he had used that exact master account to trap me on our wedding day. My phone buzzed. A text from Austin. Babe, Cici is all bandaged up. The doctor said it was just a superficial scratch, nothing serious. You don’t have to worry about us. I’ll take her home first, and I’ll bring you back some dinner tonight. Tomorrow is the weekend, and I promise to make it up to you. I’ll take you to that high-end sushi place you’ve been dying to try, okay? Don’t be mad. I was just worried it would turn into an ugly scene if you showed up. You know how dramatic Cici can get. Once I calm her down, we’ll get our papers. Our future is set in stone anyway, so there’s no rush for a single day. You know you’re the one I love, right? Be good. He added a blowing-kiss emoji at the end. Not a single question about my safety. No concern for whether I was stranded in harm’s way. The text made me physically sick. I locked my phone and opened Instagram. Cici had just posted a new photo: a close-up of a caramel macchiato, a thick white bandage wrapped around her wrist, and a man’s hand resting gently beside it. The caption read: Thank you for always being there when I need you most. I recognized that hand immediately. There was a faint scar on the ring finger, a reminder of a college basketball injury that I had spent nights worrying over. Underneath the post, Austin had liked it, and his mother had left a comment: Cici, you silly girl, you gave me such a fright. I’m just glad you’re okay. Please promise me you won’t do anything reckless again. I scrolled further down her profile. Three days ago, she had posted another close-up. It was a shot of her hand wearing a delicate, sparkling diamond ring. The caption was a simple smiley face. But I knew that ring. I had spotted it at the jewelry store last month and begged Austin to look at it. He had frowned, saying, “Twelve hundred dollars for a piece of silver? We should spend that money on health supplements for my mother.” I had put it back, hiding my disappointment. Yet here it was, gracing Cici’s finger. A comment from their college classmate read: What a gorgeous ring! Is it from a boyfriend? Cici had replied: No, no! Just a gift from a very dear friend. A friend. A twelve-hundred-dollar ring was too expensive for his fiancée, but he bought it for Cici without a second thought. A sleek black sedan pulled over smoothly behind my Tesla. The driver’s door opened, and Gavin stepped out. No chauffeur, just him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his eyes scanning me for injuries. “The car…” “I’ll have my team tow it to the dealership to wipe the system. You can set up a fresh master account under your own name tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.” He opened the passenger door for me. “Where to?” “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s get some food first.” I blinked back tears. He still remembered my coping mechanisms. Whenever I was overwhelmed with grief, I sought comfort in a quiet meal. Ten minutes into the drive, my phone lit up with Austin’s name. I answered. “Babe, the app says your car is still parked on the shoulder. I’ve unlocked the speed restriction now. Drive home and wait for me. I’ll cook your favorite dinner tonight, okay?” His voice was dripping with that familiar tenderness. If this had happened yesterday, I would have been thrilled. Now, it just sounded hollow. “Austin, did you buy Cici that twelve-hundred-dollar ring?” There was a brief, telling silence on the other end. “What ring?” “The one she posted on Instagram three days ago. The one I pointed out at the mall last month.” He sighed, his tone turning defensive. “Oh, that. It was her birthday, and she wouldn’t stop talking about it, so I just grabbed it for her. Rainey, it’s just a casual gift. Don’t take it to heart. I’ll buy you a much bigger one later, I promise!” “A casual twelve-hundred-dollar gift,” I repeated. “On my last birthday, you were working late and venmoed me twenty dollars, telling me to treat myself to a nice lunch. Is that your definition of casual?” “That’s different! She doesn’t have a boyfriend to look after her, and she had to spend her birthday alone. I’m like a brother to her, it was only right to give her a little attention. You have me. I’m with you every single day. Why do you need those superficial gestures?” Beside me, Gavin’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he remained silent. “Austin, I have one last question.” “Go ahead.” “In seven years, what exactly is Cici to you?” He sighed heavily. “Rainey, how many times do we have to go over this? We grew up together. She’s been attached to my hip since we were kids, and I can’t just abandon her. But you’re the one I’m marrying. Isn’t that enough?” “You locked my car today. You stopped me from going to city hall.” “That was an emergency! She was literally trying to end her life. What was I supposed to do? Let her die because we wanted to get a marriage license?” “You could have called 911.” Silence. “You could have called an ambulance, or her parents. But your first instinct was to lock my car.” “Rainey, I panicked…” “No, Austin. The only decision you made with absolute clarity was keeping me away.” The line went silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. “Rainey, you’re completely misunderstanding me.” “I’m not.” “Then why are you acting like this? You used to be so understanding. Did someone put these ideas in your head?” I almost laughed. His first reaction wasn’t self-reflection. It was suspicion. For seven years, every time I raised a concern, his response was always the same: You’re overthinking things. Who have you been talking to? He never once considered that he might be the one in the wrong. “Nobody put anything in my head, Austin. I just opened my eyes.” “To what? Don’t start getting paranoid, Rainey. My patience has limits, and…” I hung up before he could finish. Gavin noticed my pale face and pulled the car into a quiet parking space. He turned to me and handed me his phone. Inside was a photo of Austin standing at a jewelry counter with Cici. She was pointing at the display case, a wide smile on her face. “A friend of mine snapped this at the mall last week,” Gavin said softly. “He didn’t just buy a ring. He bought two things. A ring and a necklace.” My phone rang again. It was my best friend, Tess. “Rainey! Did you guys get the license?” “No. He locked my car.” I explained everything in a few short sentences. Tess went quiet. “Rainey, give me a minute. I need to check something.” Two minutes later, her voice returned, sounding incredibly tense. “Rainey, Cici posted something else on her private feed last week. A necklace. A delicate silver chain with a floral pendant.” The second item Austin bought. “What was the caption?” I asked. “She wrote… Worth it.” “And Austin’s mother commented: My beautiful girl looks stunning in this.” My beautiful girl. In seven years, Austin’s mother had only ever called me Rainey or Miss Sinclair. She had never once called me her girl. As I hung up, my phone rang again. It was Austin’s mother, Mrs. Campbell. “Rainey, dear, Austin told me you weren’t feeling well today and had to postpone the wedding?” He had lied to his family. It wasn’t his remote-locking stunt or Cici’s theatrical suicide threat that ruined our wedding day. It was my poor health. “Mrs. Campbell, I’m perfectly fine.” Before she could process that, the phone was abruptly snatched away on her end. Austin’s panicked voice broke in. “Mom, Rainey has severe cramps today. She’s resting at home. It’s fine, really.” “Austin, are you at your mother’s house?” “Yeah, I just got here.” He was home. He wasn’t at the hospital with Cici. He had handled her, gone back to his mother’s house, and framed the canceled wedding as my physical failure. He hadn’t checked on me once. “Austin, when did you get home?” “Just now. Rainey, listen to me…” “You went home, and you didn’t even think to come pick me up? My car is still disabled on the highway.” “I’ll come get you right now!” “Don’t bother, Austin. We’re done.” I hung up. Five minutes later, a text arrived from Cici: Rainey, I’m so sorry about today. I was in a terrible headspace and lost control. Austin told me you were resting because you weren’t feeling well. Take care of yourself. He mentioned you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and have a bit of a temper, so he warned me to stay out of your way. But if you’re ever feeling down, you can always talk to me. I’m great at listening! She used the word temper. In Austin’s eyes, I was the unreasonable, unstable fiancée who needed to be handled. I drafted an Instagram post to set the record straight, but before I could post, Austin uploaded a photo: a beautiful bouquet of flowers sitting on his living room coffee table. Caption: Rainey wasn’t feeling well today, so we’re postponing the big day. Thanks for all the love, we’ll keep you updated! The comments were flooded with well-wishes and playful teasing. He had rewritten the narrative. In everyone’s eyes, I was the one who flaked. If I posted the truth now, it would only look like a desperate, hysterical outburst. Tess texted me again: Did you see Cici’s latest post? I opened her feed. It was a photo of Cici and Mrs. Campbell in the kitchen, making fresh pasta together. Caption: Mom said she’ll teach me how to make Austin’s favorite garlic-herb ribs next time. She called Mrs. Campbell Mom. Mrs. Campbell replied: I can’t wait, my sweet girl. I closed my phone. A cold numbness washed over me. When Gavin handed me a tissue, I realized my face was already drenched in silent tears. My heart was completely dead. We sat in silence as the sky turned dark. City hall was long closed. Today was supposed to be the start of my married life, but instead, it was the most devastating day of my existence. I turned to Gavin. “Gavin, when you said you wanted to marry me… were you serious?” He looked at me, his gaze fierce and sincere. “I have never joked about you, Rainey.” “I’m a mess right now.” “I know.” “Aren’t you afraid I’m just doing this out of anger?” “You aren’t,” he said softly. “Rainey, you are the last person to make a reckless decision about marriage. You’ve simply reached your limit.” We had known each other since college. In our junior year, both Gavin and Austin had asked me out. I had chosen Austin. Austin had smirked at Gavin, saying, “You were a step too late, man.” Gavin had simply walked away. After graduation, they became fierce corporate rivals. Austin claimed Gavin was petty and couldn’t handle a loss. But in seven years, Gavin had never once spoken ill of Austin in front of me. And every year on my birthday, at exactly midnight, he would send a simple text: Happy birthday. “Why did you wait seven years?” “Because you didn’t give me a reason to step in. I only wanted you to be happy.” I let out a sad laugh. Austin made me wait seven years just to get a marriage license. Gavin waited seven years without ever crossing a line. One used waiting to delay me, the other used waiting to respect me. “On Monday morning, let’s go to city hall.” Gavin smiled, starting the car. “Okay. Let’s get some food first.” Sunday night, Austin was having dinner with some old college friends at a local tavern. He was in a great mood. He hadn’t called or visited me all weekend, only sending three casual texts that I had ignored. He likely thought I was just having a petty tantrum and would cool down in a few days. He had sent a bouquet of flowers to my apartment with a card: Cool off, babe. We’ll reschedule the wedding soon. Along with two movie tickets. I had thrown them directly into the trash. At the tavern, Austin was laughing, raising his glass with his friends. Then, a notification popped up in their alumni group chat. He clicked it lazily, but as he read the screen, his smile vanished. His face went entirely pale, and he froze.

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1 My mother was the city’s most celebrated philanthropist. Every month, she forced me to donate my entire allowance. On Christmas, instead of letting me have new clothes, she made me spend the holidays volunteering at cold, damp homeless shelters. I was always the good girl. I did exactly what she asked. But when my disabled adoptive brother intentionally smashed the hearing aid I had saved up for months to buy, my mother only stroked his hair with a gentle smile. “Look how lively he is,” she said. I swallowed my tears and pretended not to care, playing the role of the perfect, obliging daughter just as I had for the last decade. That was until the day I collapsed from low blood sugar after pulling back-to-back volunteer shifts. As I fell, I accidentally crushed some origami cranes my brother had folded. Simon whimpered, frantically gesturing that his hand hurt. My mother sighed, pulling him into a protective, aching embrace. Then she turned to me, her voice dripping with profound disappointment. “Mindy, your brother has suffered enough.” “Why don’t you have a single ounce of compassion in you?” She produced a carton of fresh mangoes, a fruit she knew I was lethally allergic to. Slowly, meticulously, she peeled one and shoved it into my mouth. Then, she locked me inside the abandoned animal quarantine shed at the back of our estate. “Mindy, stay in there and learn what empathy actually means.” But three days later, when she opened the door holding a birthday cake, she completely lost her mind. … “Mindy, I am doing this for your own good.” The heavy iron door slammed shut. An unbearable itch flared in my throat, and I fell to my knees, choking on the piece of mango she had forced down my throat. My stomach churned violently, but I had nothing to throw up. The darkness of the shed was thick, suffocating, and reeked of animal waste and stale disinfectant. “Medicine… please, the medicine…” I rasped, my fingers clawing frantically across the freezing, rough concrete floor. Before locking the door, my mother had tossed my allergy medication inside. She had said, “Once you’ve learned your lesson, take the pills and remember this moment.” But now, my fingers only met thick layers of dust and sharp gravel. My nails scraped against the concrete, producing a harsh, scratching sound. Where was the bottle? A sudden memory flashed in my mind from the second before the door shut. Simon, my supposedly weak and terrified brother, had been clinging to our mother’s side. In the pocket of his oversized jacket, there had been a sharp, white plastic shape. It had caught the last ray of sunlight before the door closed. He had taken my medicine. My breathing grew louder, turning into a series of sharp, whistling gasps. From a rusty cage in the corner, a low growl echoed. Several quarantined stray dogs, disturbed by my thrashing, began pacing restlessly. Their heavy chains rattled against the floor. I froze, terror seizing my chest, and scrambled backward until my spine hit the cold stone wall. It was the only boundary keeping me from complete panic. Just then, a tiny green light flickered to life above me. The security camera, installed to monitor the quarantined animals, was running. She could see me. Gathering every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged myself toward the camera. “Mom, please. Save me.” I couldn’t reach the high lens, so I slammed my palms repeatedly against the wall beneath it, hoping she would hear the rhythmic thuds. I tilted my head back, opening my mouth wide so she could see my swollen throat and blue lips. A second later, the small monitor screen on the wall crackled to life. Through the tiny screen, I saw our bright, warm living room. My mother was sitting on the sofa, gently offering a freshly sliced apple piece to Simon. He accepted it with a sweet, content smile. It was a picture-perfect family portrait. “Mindy? What kind of stunt are you pulling now?” She heard my frantic knocking, her brows knitting together in irritation. “Stop acting so pathetic just to get attention.” “I threw your medication in there with you. Take your pills, accept your punishment, and stop trying to bully your brother.” I shook my head frantically, pointing at my throat, then clawing at the empty floor. I tried to tell her the medicine was gone, that Simon had taken it. But my swollen vocal cords couldn’t produce a single word. Suddenly, Simon gasped, clutching his chest and dry-heaving on the sofa. “Simon! What’s wrong?” “Did she scare you?” My mother panic-stricken, pulled him tightly against her chest. She glared up at the camera lens, her eyes burning with pure anger. “How far are you going to take this? Are you trying to trigger his heart condition?” “Mindy, you are an absolute disappointment.” The green light snapped off. She disconnected the feed. The world plunged back into absolute, suffocating darkness. “No…” I reached out, grasping at the empty air. “Mom, I didn’t do it.” As the screen went dark, the fever from the allergic reaction began to consume my mind. In the shadows, a large silhouette finally broke free from its rotten rope harness. With a low snarl, it lunged at me. Flesh tore. A sharp, agonizing pain ripped through my arm and leg. I didn’t even have the breath to scream. I could only curl into a tight ball, protecting my head and throat with my bare arms. Tears mixed with cold sweat, dripping onto the concrete. It hurt so much. When the physical pain reached its absolute peak, my mind seemed to detach. A strange numbness washed over me, and the dark walls dissolved into a memory. I was six years old again, burning with a terrible fever. I couldn’t breathe then, either. My mother hadn’t even stopped to put on a coat. Wearing only a thin silk nightgown, she had carried me on her back, running through a raging snowstorm to the community clinic miles away. The wind had whipped against her face, but her voice had been the warmest thing in the world. “Don’t be scared, Mindy. The roads are blocked, but Mom will carry you. You are my whole life. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Back then, her world had revolved entirely around me. Her back had been so warm. Even through my thick winter coat, I could feel the rapid, reassuring beat of her heart. Though that high fever had permanently damaged my hearing, that winter remained the warmest memory of my life. When did everything start to change? My drifting thoughts settled on the day Simon arrived from the orphanage. The sun had been shining brightly. He sat in his wheelchair, looking incredibly frail and timid. My mother told me to protect him, to show him grace and mercy. So, I pushed his wheelchair out onto the second-floor balcony to let him enjoy the sun. But the moment I turned my back to get him a glass of juice, I heard the rapid, terrifying roll of wheels. Then came his piercing scream. The wheelchair had tumbled down the steep staircase, leaving him bleeding and with fractured ribs. I had knelt on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, trying to explain. “I didn’t mean to!” “I locked the brakes! I swear I locked them!” From that day on, the warmth in my mother’s eyes vanished. She stopped calling me her sweet Mindy. I became just Mindy, a cold, resentful child. And Simon became the center of her universe. Through the haze of pain, I heard the distant rumble of a car engine starting in the driveway. It was my father. The sound faded into the distance. He was rushing my mother and a terrified Simon to the emergency room. A loud crack of thunder shook the shed. The dog, startled by the noise, lunged at my throat. As my consciousness slipped away, I stopped struggling. I simply stretched my hand out toward the darkness, whispering a silent plea. “Mom, I really didn’t push him.” “Mom, I wanted to celebrate my nineteenth birthday with you.” “But it hurts so much…” The long, agonizing night finally gave way to dawn. The rain stopped. Outside the low window of the shed, the distinctive squeak of wheelchair tires rolling through puddles broke the silence. “Big sis, are you awake yet?” I forced my swollen eyelids open, my vision blurred by a reddish haze. Simon’s thin frame stood outside the window. In his hand, he held the white plastic bottle I had spent the night searching for. “Did you lose your medicine, Mindy?” “It took me so long to find it.” He wore his usual innocent, helpless expression. Looking through the grimy glass, he slowly signed the words, his face filled with mock concern. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the life-saving bottle through the air. It fell straight into the dark, open sewer drain outside the window, disappearing with a soft splash. “Don’t worry, big sis. Let me find something to help you fish it out.” Simon’s face was a mask of pure innocence. He looked around the yard, then pulled a long wooden broom handle from the side of his wheelchair. He slid the handle through the narrow gap in the window. But he didn’t aim for the drain. Instead, he pushed the wooden handle deep into the quarantine room, pointing it directly at the rusted latch of the cage housing the aggressive mastiff. He nudged it once. Then twice. The rusted metal latch gave way and slid open. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to do that!” Simon gasped, covering his mouth in mock horror. Then, he quickly turned his wheelchair around and sped away from the backyard. The heavy iron cage door swung wide. A massive black shadow emerged, completely eclipsing the light. Suddenly, the excruciating pain vanished. My consciousness felt incredibly light, rising higher and higher into the air. From above, I saw my own body. It lay motionless in the dirt, the simple white dress my mother had always praised for its modesty torn to shreds and soaked in dark blood. My bare skin was covered in deep bites and the angry, purplish rash of the allergic reaction. My soul drifted through the window. The morning sun was exceptionally bright, casting a warm glow over the estate. I watched Simon roll back into the living room. The moment he crossed the threshold, he stood up from the wheelchair, stretched his legs, and walked around. Hearing my mother’s footsteps from the kitchen, he quickly sat back down, his face instantly shifting into a fragile, pitiful pout. He threw himself into her arms, signing quickly. “Mom, I went to check on Mindy, but she’s still sleeping. She won’t talk to me.” My mother stroked his head, casting a weary glance toward the backyard. “Let her be,” she sighed. “She is far too stubborn. A few days in there will teach her some humility. Once she learns her lesson, she’ll behave.” “Don’t be sad, sweetie. Let Mom get you some fruit.” I floated above them, watching this cozy, domestic scene, feeling absolutely nothing. No anger, no sorrow. So this was death. It was remarkably peaceful. The third day was my nineteenth birthday. I watched my mother spend the morning in the kitchen, meticulously decorating a grand three-tier vanilla cake. She carefully arranged a bowl of bright yellow, freshly sliced mangoes across the top layer, shaping them into a beautiful flower. “We will save the mangoes on top for Simon, and Mindy can have the cake underneath,” she murmured to herself, smoothing her elegant champagne dress. She checked her makeup in the mirror, letting out a soft, indulgent sigh. “Mindy has a difficult temper, but it is her birthday. I suppose I should offer her a way out.” She spoke as if she were the one who had been wronged. The doorbell rang. My mother had invited several prominent journalists from local media outlets. She intended to document our reconciliation, using it as a heartwarming feature to boost her charity’s public image. “Reporters, please, come in!” “Mrs. Campbell, thank you for having us.” “We are just thrilled to capture a glimpse of your beautiful family life. The public loves these stories.” Simon sat in his wheelchair, pushed by a nurse, cradling a bouquet of fresh lilies. His smile was flawless, radiant with innocence. My father arrived home from his office, carrying the heavy cake. He looked slightly uneasy about the mangoes, but as usual, he didn’t dare challenge my mother’s decisions. The group walked toward the backyard quarantine shed, chatting and laughing. “My daughter is just going through a rebellious phase,” my mother explained gracefully to the cameras. “But deep down, she has a good heart.” “A few days of reflection, living among the animals we save, will teach her the true meaning of mercy and gratitude.” The journalists nodded, their cameras rolling. “Your parenting style is truly inspiring, Mrs. Campbell.” “Yes, leading by example is the finest education.” As they neared the door, a foul, metallic odor began to drift through the air. My mother frowned, waving a hand in front of her nose. “What has she done in there? Why is it so dirty?” “She must be doing this to spite me.” The cameras focused on the rusted iron door. My mother pulled out the key, maintaining her perfect, loving maternal smile for the lens. “Teenagers are emotional. But as mothers, we must always be the first to extend grace.” The lock clicked open. Taking a deep breath, she put on her warmest smile and pushed the door wide. “Mindy, you can come out now. Mom brought…” The moment the door opened, several terrified, scruffy dogs, their muzzles stained with dark, dried blood, bolted past her legs, scattering the crowd. A wave of rotten, metallic stench hit them like a wall. “My god!” “What is that smell?” The journalists stumbled backward, gagging. The cameraman instinctively switched on his bright studio light, casting a harsh, white beam into the dark room. The sight revealed on the floor made everyone’s breathing stop.

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1 My mother, a celebrated child psychologist, built her brand on the phrase, “Every child deserves to be seen.” At home, however, only my sister Summer existed. Summer’s tears signaled high sensitivity; mine were dismissed as emotional blackmail. When Summer’s job hunt triggered anxiety, Mom forced me to skip my final AP mocks to stay home with her. Refusing meant facing her piercing disappointment. “You robbed her security growing up,” she said. I missed the exam; my rank crashed from the top ten to the bottom five hundred. A month later, Mom launched her massive seminar, Seeing the Child. I asked for a ticket weeks ahead. Busy fitting Summer’s silk dress, she muttered, “We’ll see.” On the day, staff checked the list three times. My name was absent. Her grad students and Summer’s friends entered; I stood locked out. Through the heavy doors, her voice echoed: “Second children don’t need rigid fairness. Take my youngest—she plays the victim for attention. Strict boundaries are vital.” Applause followed. I stared at my phone’s screen, displaying a fresh clinical depression diagnosis, and texted: Dr. Mercer, you see every child in the world. Why am I the only one you refuse to look at? Silence. Mom glanced at her phone on the podium but did not reply. Suddenly, a heavy hand shoved my shoulder. My back slammed into the sharp edge of the wall. I gasped, the pain radiating through my spine. A security guard grabbed me by the collar of my faded school hoodie, dragging me toward the exit. “Dr. Mercer radioed us. Said there was an obsessive fan outside the doors radiating negative energy. That is you, right?” My voice trembled. “I am not a fan. I am her daughter.” The guard let out a harsh laugh. “Dr. Mercer’s daughter is sitting in the VIP front row. The gorgeous girl in the white dress.” “Who the hell are you?” Front row. White dress. That was Summer. My biological older sister. I looked down at my washed-out school uniform, the cuffs still stained with graphite and chalk dust. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I did not even know how to prove I existed anymore. I just lowered my head. “Sorry. I got the wrong person.” I turned and walked toward the exit. The thunderous applause chased me out through the cracks in the doors. The wind outside was biting, slicing against my skin like blades. I raised a hand to touch my cheek, only realizing then that my face was completely drenched in tears. It took me three hours to walk home in the freezing chill. The living room was warm and loud. A massive custom cake sat on the coffee table. The frosting read: Congratulations on the Bestseller, Dr. Mercer. Summer was leaning affectionately against Mom’s shoulder while Dad held up a camera, snapping photos. Seeing me walk in, Mom finally looked up. “Autumn, what exactly did you mean by that text message?” My hands froze on my shoelaces. “I wanted to ask you why you did not save a ticket for me.” Mom sighed. Her tone was so dismissively light that my cheeks burned with humiliation, making me feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “You have severe aggressive tendencies. Letting you into the venue would only amplify your stress response.” I gripped the straps of my backpack, my knuckles turning white, my fingers visibly shaking. “But I was not going to cause a scene. I just wanted to sit and listen to you speak. Just once.” Mom’s gaze was infuriatingly calm and certain. “You were there to extract attention.” I stared at the pristine cake and let out a dry, hollow laugh. The back of my tongue tasted bitter. The words had been lodged in my throat for weeks. I knew asking would only humiliate me further. But I still lowered my head and asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Mom, do you even remember what today is?” Her expression faltered for a fraction of a second. Summer immediately covered her mouth, gasping with exaggerated shock. “Oh no! Autumn, is it your birthday?” Dad frowned, his face darkening with annoyance. “It is just a birthday. You get one every year. Do you really have to ruin the mood tonight?” My lips parted, but no sound came out. The last pathetic spark of hope in my chest was drowned in ice water. Mom stared at me with clinical detachment. “Autumn, stop trying to use superficial rituals to fill the void in your psyche.” The words I wanted to scream died in my throat. I slowly released my grip on my backpack and reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled piece of paper. I had to smooth it out twice before I could hold it steady. “Dr. Mercer, I think I am actually sick.” The living room fell dead silent. Tears broke free, splattering against the printed ink. “The psychiatrist said I show signs of severe clinical depression. They said I need immediate intervention.” By the end, my voice had cracked into a desperate, breaking scream. “Mom, please, can you just help me?” The moment the words left my mouth, my heart hammered wildly against my eardrums. My fingertips went completely numb. Mom just glanced at the paper. “A self-assessment questionnaire does not constitute a medical diagnosis.” “Anyone can score as severely depressed if they intentionally check the worst boxes.” I shook my head frantically, my throat raw and burning. “I did not do it on purpose. I really cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I wake up in the mornings and my hands will not stop shaking.” “I am not trying to scare you.” “I just…” I just want you to save me. But the second half of that sentence got stuck, completely choked by my own sobbing. Mom looked at me, her eyes terrifyingly rational. “Your most severe issue right now is not depression.” “It is your habit of packaging your jealousy as suffering, and packaging your competition for favor as a cry for help.” My fingertips went rigid. Summer reached over and snatched the medical report from my hand. “Do you really have to terrify Mom with this fake stuff on the happiest night of her career?” A sharp tearing sound ripped through the room. The diagnosis was torn to shreds and tossed right next to the celebratory cake. Mom did not stop her. She only closed her eyes, looking absolutely drained and profoundly disappointed in me. “Since you love playing the victim so much, your allowance is cut off starting tomorrow.” “You need to experience real survival pressure to stop this pathological whining.” I bent down and began picking up the torn pieces of paper. A smear of buttercream got stuck to my thumb. No matter how hard I rubbed, the greasy sweetness would not come off. Right before I shut my bedroom door, I heard Mom’s gentle voice. “Come on, Summer. Let’s cut the cake.” I stood behind my door in the dark. The sharp edge of the paper had sliced a tiny cut into my palm. A single bead of blood slowly swelled to the surface. I did not sleep a wink that night. When the sky began to turn a bruised purple, I walked out of my room with painfully swollen eyes. Mom was at the stove warming up milk for Summer. When she saw me, her brows immediately knitted together. “Why are you pulling that long face again?” I leaned against the doorframe, my temples throbbing in a vicious, rhythmic ache. “I could not sleep last night.” Mom poured the hot milk into a mug and handed it to Summer. “Your sister was so terrified by your little stunt last night that she didn’t fall asleep until three in the morning.” “Autumn, can you stop being so incredibly selfish?” I opened my mouth, my throat so dry it felt like swallowing glass. “I did not do it on purpose.” She stared me down. “You were not having insomnia.” “You were simply dealing with withdrawal because you did not get the attention you were demanding last night.” I stopped trying to explain. I grabbed my backpack and headed to school. The moment I stepped into my homeroom, the morning chatter completely died out. Students turned to stare at me, then quickly whipped their heads back around, whispering furiously. “Her mom is a famous shrink. Even she says Autumn has a screw loose.” “Then she is definitely a psycho.” My face began to burn, inch by agonizing inch. A loud ringing filled my ears, and the writing on the chalkboard blurred into a meaningless white smear. Mr. Harrison, our homeroom teacher, stood at the doorway. “Autumn. Come to my office.” When I stood up, my knees buckled for a second. Someone behind me scoffed loudly. “Don’t get too close. What if she snaps and attacks someone?” The office door was left slightly ajar. I could see shadows of students pressing against the glass, peering in. Mr. Harrison slid a manila folder across the desk. Recommendation for Medical Leave. I stared at those bold black letters, my brain feeling like it had been stuffed with wet cotton. “What is this?” The moment I spoke, I realized my entire body was vibrating. Mr. Harrison let out a heavy sigh. “Your mother dropped this off this morning. She stated that your emotional volatility makes you unfit for the stress of senior year. The school board agrees with her recommendation for an at-home intervention.” Medical leave. Suspension. My vision whited out. “No.” I grabbed the edge of his desk, my knuckles turning white. “Mr. Harrison, I am not volatile. I want to take my exams. I need to graduate.” Hot tears smashed onto the manila folder. “If I can just pass my finals, if I can just get into a college out of state, I will be fine. I will survive.” Mr. Harrison froze, clearly taken aback. My legs gave out. I dropped straight to my knees on the cold linoleum floor. “Please, Mr. Harrison. Please do not expel me.” I heard a collective gasp from the hallway. Someone whispered loudly, “Holy crap, she actually dropped to her knees.” Mr. Harrison scrambled around the desk, trying to pull me up. “Get up, Autumn. The school has to respect the guardian’s assessment.” “Your mother is a licensed professional. You need to go home and communicate with her.” When he finally guided me out of the office, the crowd of students in the hallway immediately scattered like a flock of startled birds. But their toxic whispers still drilled right into my skull. “She seriously looks unhinged.” My hands and feet went icy numb. A suffocating wave of panic crashed into my chest. I skipped the rest of the day and ran straight home. When I slammed the front door open, I could hear Mom’s voice coming from her home office. I did not even process what she was saying. In that exact moment, my brain was entirely consumed by the word suspension. I shoved the office door open and slammed both my hands onto her mahogany desk. A water glass rattled violently, nearly tipping over. “I am not volatile!” My voice cracked so horribly it did not even sound human. “I just want to take my exams.” “Why do you have to take the one single thing I have left?” Mom did not flinch. She did not yell. She simply looked up at me. Her expression was so terrifyingly calm it made my stomach drop. My chest was heaving. My fingers dug into the edge of the wood, trembling so violently I could barely keep myself standing. A soft notification chime echoed in the room. Ding. I froze. My neck felt like rusted iron as I slowly, agonizingly turned my head. A smartphone was mounted on a ring light stand. The screen was glaringly bright. She was live-streaming. Comments were scrolling past at lightning speed. [Is this the problematic second child Dr. Mercer was just talking about?] [Barging in and screaming like a lunatic? That is actually terrifying.] All the blood in my veins seemed to drain straight through the floorboards. I stood paralyzed, my limbs freezing into blocks of ice. Mom finally turned back to the camera, offering her audience a perfectly restrained, pitying smile. “As you can all see.” “This is a textbook example of a crisis-oriented outburst.” I stumbled a step backward. The floor felt like thin air. All the sound drained from the world. The only thing left was the blinding glare of the live comments, flashing relentlessly against my retinas. By the time I fled the house, a freezing downpour had started to fall. My school hoodie was instantly soaked, plastering to my spine. The cold gnawed straight into my bones. I crouched under the rusted awning of a bus stop just outside our subdivision. My phone screen lit up, then faded to black. Over and over again. No calls. No texts. I squeezed the phone until the metal edges cut into my palm. The only thing that finally came through was a notification from my senior class group chat. Someone had screen-recorded Mom’s livestream and dropped the video into the chat. On the screen, I was leaning aggressively over the desk, my hair a tangled mess, screaming with bloodshot eyes. A second later, a poll popped up in the chat. [Should we petition for Autumn’s suspension?] A: Yes. Everyone’s safety comes first. B: No. She needs to graduate too. The number next to Option A kept ticking upward. The chat was exploding. [Senior year is stressful enough without her dragging us down.] [What if she brings a weapon to class during one of her episodes?] Rainwater dripped into my eyes, stinging so badly I could barely keep them open. I wanted to type out an explanation, to beg them to understand. But my frozen fingers refused to cooperate. I mashed the keyboard for minutes, only producing a string of senseless typos. I deleted it all. My throat was parched and burning. I tilted my head back, opening my mouth to catch a few drops of rain. The water tasted like cold metal. The moment it slid down my throat, my empty stomach violently cramped. When the sun finally began to rise, I dug through every pocket I had and found a crumpled five-dollar bill. The cashier at the convenience store handed me a hotdog. The steam hit my frozen face. I took a tiny bite. My stomach had been empty for so long that the sudden rush of hot food brought instant, stinging tears to my eyes. “Meow.” By the neighborhood flowerbeds, a little calico cat poked its head out from the bushes. It was drenched, its tail plastered with mud, but it still trotted over and gently rubbed its cheek against my wet sneakers. I crouched down, breaking the rest of the hotdog into tiny pieces for it. The calico devoured the food, purring frantically. I watched it eat, and for a second, the unbearable pressure behind my nose eased. I had been feeding this stray for a very long time. I first met it on the opening day of my freshman year. I had been hiding by this exact flowerbed, trying to memorize SAT vocabulary, crying silently as my tears ruined the pages. The calico had approached me the exact same way, tentatively brushing against my toe. It did not ask me if I was psychologically defective. It did not accuse me of competing for attention. It just leaned its tiny, warm body against mine and offered a soft meow. Since then, every time I felt like I was drowning, I would buy a cheap sausage and hide in the corner of the neighborhood to feed the strays. Watching them eat was the only thing that kept the crumbling walls of my sanity from collapsing completely. I watched the calico’s whiskers twitch as it chewed. The corners of my mouth instinctively curved upward. “Autumn?” I snapped my head up. Summer was standing at the entrance of the subdivision. All the color drained from her face. “Mom! The cat is here!” Her voice trembled hysterically. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. “I cannot take this. I literally cannot breathe. Why does she insist on bringing these filthy, diseased animals into our neighborhood?” The calico, terrified by her screaming, scrambled straight into my arms. I hugged it tightly to my chest, my own arms beginning to shake. Mom marched out of the gates a moment later. She saw the cat in my arms and her brow furrowed in deep disgust. “Autumn. Projecting your emotional dependency onto stray animals is a textbook sign of surrogate attachment disorder.” My voice was so hoarse it was barely a whisper. “They are not hurting anyone.” “But they are triggering your sister’s phobia.” She pulled out her phone. “I am calling Animal Control.” The municipal truck arrived within ten minutes. Two men hopped out carrying a heavy steel wire cage. I hugged the calico tight and backed away. My soaked sneakers sank into the muddy puddles. My toes were completely numb. “Do not take her.” No one listened. I refused to let go. Finally, the two men cornered me. One grabbed my left arm, the other pried my frozen fingers back one by one, violently ripping the cat out of my embrace. The calico’s claws caught on the cuff of my hoodie in a desperate panic. The fabric tore, pulling out a long, ragged thread. The cat let out a piercing, agonizing yowl that felt like an ice pick driving straight into my temples. Summer was hiding behind Mom, sobbing dramatically into her shoulder. Her lips were moving. But I could not hear what she was saying anymore. All the noise around me sounded like it was drowning underwater. The impatient shouting of the animal control officers. The harsh clang of the steel cage snapping shut. Mom’s collected, polite voice thanking the men. It was all muffled behind a thick membrane of water. All I could see was the calico trapped inside that metal box. It shrank into the furthest corner, completely drenched, staring at me through the wire mesh. Its round, bright eyes locked onto mine. It looked like it was asking me why I did not save it. I stood frozen in the mud. The back of my hand was bleeding where the claws had scratched me. Blood mixed with the cold rain, dripping onto the pavement drop by drop. But I did not feel the pain at all. After the truck drove away, I did not cry. The rain kept pouring. My wounds turned a sickly, waterlogged white. My clothes weighed a ton, and with every step I took, my knees felt like they were sinking into quicksand. When Mom dragged me back into the house, she immediately confiscated my phone, my backpack, and my ID. “You need a total sensory detox from external stimuli.” She pushed me into my bedroom and locked the door from the outside. “You will write one reflection essay every single day. I want a deep psychological analysis of why you use fake depression to terrorize your family.” The first day’s prompt was slipped under the door. Why I harbor malicious jealousy toward my sister. I slumped over my desk. My fingers were too weak to grip the pen properly. My forehead was burning up. The lines on the notebook paper blurred, split into double vision, and morphed back together. I held the pen, the tip hovering over the paper for hours. Finally, a single, violently jagged line crawled across the page. [I did not get jealous of her.] When Mom unlocked the door to check, she glanced at the paper and let out a cold scoff. “Still trapped in your defense mechanisms.” That evening, she brought in a tray of food and suddenly stopped, staring hard at my face. “Why are your cheeks so flushed?” I opened my mouth, my throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. “I think I have a fever.” Mom’s eyes instantly turned freezing cold. She grabbed my chin, her thumb wiping harshly across my cheekbone. “You stole blush?” I turned my head away in pain. She ignored me and started tearing apart my room, ripping open my drawers, throwing my blankets on the floor, even stripping the pillowcases. “You are so incredibly manipulative, Autumn.” “You will pull any stunt to get out of doing the emotional work.” When she failed to find any makeup, she finally shoved a thermometer into my mouth. I held it for a long time. The digital screen flashed 103.8. She barely looked at it. “Stress-induced low-grade fever. It is completely psychosomatic. Finish the essay before you sleep.” The next day’s prompt was: The psychological trauma I have inflicted upon my sister. My fever spiked even higher. My stomach felt like it was digesting itself, twisting in agonizing cramps. A plastic container of food was left by the door. The moment the smell of cooking oil hit my nose, a violent wave of nausea washed over me. I only managed to swallow two small sips of water. Through the wall, I heard Summer’s voice in the hallway. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mom. Now that Autumn is not throwing her tantrums, I finally got a full night of sleep.” I stared blankly at the ceiling. My lips were cracked and bleeding. I did not even have the energy left to hate her. On the third day, there was no food. I assumed Mom was just busy. On the fourth day, the hallway was still dead silent. I had half a bottle of water left. I rationed it into microscopic sips. Every time the water slid down my throat, it felt like swallowing razor blades. I crawled across the floorboards and knocked on the door with my knuckles. “Mom.” My voice was as weak as a dying kitten’s. “I am starving.” No one answered. I pressed my ear against the painted wood. I could hear the muffled, canned laughter of a reality TV show playing in the living room. Suddenly, I remembered the look in the calico’s eyes as the cage locked shut. I finally understood. When a cry for help is too quiet, it is exactly the same as not crying at all. I was just a drenched cat, locked inside a cage. On the evening of the fifth day, the lock finally clicked. Mom stood backlit by the hallway lights, frowning down at me where I lay paralyzed on the floor. “Why do you insist on making yourself look this pathetic?” I wanted to tell her that I had knocked. I wanted to tell her that I was not acting. But my cracked lips only twitched, and a heavy, metallic taste flooded my mouth. She crouched down, rubbing her temples, sounding incredibly exhausted. “Summer has been having nightmares all week. I was so stressed I forgot to remind the housekeeper to bring your meals.” She paused, then added: “But you need to reflect on this too. Why do you lack the basic communication skills to vocalize your needs?” I stared at her. The halo of light behind her head began to shatter and fade into darkness. So, even at the very end. It was still my fault. Later, I heard heavy footsteps. A doctor had arrived. Mom was still explaining herself. “She has a severe tendency toward emotional manipulation.” “She is exceptionally skilled at weaponizing physical discomfort to manufacture guilt.” “She literally forged a clinical depression diagnosis last week.” The paramedic pressed two fingers against my wrist. His face instantly drained of color. The living room went dead silent. Mom frowned. “It is purely a psychological manifestation.” The paramedic looked up at her, his eyes wide with horror. “Dr. Mercer. She has absolutely no vital signs.” Mom froze. She had lectured thousands of parents on stages across the country. She told them a child’s cry for help must never be ignored. Yet, she had personally, systematically ignored every single one of mine. This time, at least, I did not have to prove I was hurting anymore.

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1 Signing the divorce papers, Mother stared in disbelief. “You fought to marry Sebastian when he was bankrupt. Now his company’s thriving, and you’re walking away over a cat hair?” I nodded. “Over a single hair.” Our circle knew Sebastian’s fatal allergy—one touch caused hives; prolonged exposure, anaphylaxis. So on our wedding morning, I wept handing my eight-year golden retriever to a new family. Years later, I missed my dog’s death entirely. I’d believed marital sacrifice was always worth it—until last week. Returning early from a business trip, I found Sophie, his sponsored student, cradling a Ragdoll on our bed. Sebastian, whose allergies were supposedly lethal, stroked the cat gently. Sophie panicked. “Stop! We need the ER!” He caught her hand, smiling indulgently. “Took a double dose of pills. Wanted him comfortable.” The blindfold fell. That night, I rescued a stray kitten. As expected, Sebastian recoiled, disgusted. “Cat goes, or you do.” Cradling the shivering kitten, I walked out. If this was marriage, these seven years were a pathetic joke. “Harper, if you walk out that door tonight, do not bother coming back.” I did not turn around. The kitten in my arms was weightless, curled into a tiny, trembling ball of fur. I looked down at it, and a sudden, violent ache crushed my chest. Seven years ago, I held my golden retriever the exact same way. I drove straight to an all-night veterinary clinic. While I sat in the waiting area, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Sebastian. The second I answered, his voice came through the speaker, dripping with cold irritation. “What exactly are you trying to pull?” I asked him, “Did you not tell me that touching a cat would literally kill you?” The line went dead silent for a moment. I kept going. “Then what was that last night? You sitting on our bed, petting Sophie’s cat?” When he finally spoke, his tone was visibly darker. “I did not know she was bringing it over until she was already here. I took my medication. Nothing happened.” “But you. You brought a filthy stray into the house knowing perfectly well about my condition. Harper, what the hell is wrong with you?” I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning bone white. “Sebastian. The day I gave my golden retriever away, is this exactly how you felt?” He seemed to freeze. “What?” “Did you also think it was not a big deal?” His patience snapped. “How long ago was that? Does dragging up ancient history make you feel better?” “I have back-to-back meetings tomorrow and zero time to entertain your tantrums. Get rid of the animal and come home.” I hung up on him. The moment the screen faded to black, I caught my own reflection in the clinic’s glass door. My face was ghostly pale. Deep purple shadows bruised the skin under my eyes. I looked absolutely hollowed out. For the past six months, I had been flying across the country, securing contracts for his firm. When my stomach ulcers flared up, I dry-swallowed painkillers. When my fever hit a hundred and two, I sat through board meetings anyway. I kept telling myself to just push a little harder. If I could just close this one massive deal, Sebastian could finally breathe easy. But when I rushed home early, exhausted to my bones, my reward was finding him petting another woman’s cat. It wasn’t that he couldn’t touch animals. It was just that I wasn’t worth the risk. The vet walked out with the test results shortly after. He handed me a clipboard. “Severe malnutrition, ear mites, and a pretty bad fracture on the hind leg. She needs to stay overnight for observation.” I nodded and went to the counter to pay the deposit. When the vet tech brought the kitten out from the back, it had just gotten its shots. It looked utterly defeated, curling into a tight ball and staring at me with huge, watery eyes. I reached out to stroke its head, and without warning, tears spilled down my cheeks. I remembered the last time my golden retriever looked at me. He was locked inside a cage at the boarding facility, his paws desperately scratching at the metal grate, wagging his tail as I walked away. When he died, I wasn’t even there to hold his paw. By the time my best friend Audrey rushed into the clinic, I had been staring blankly at the wall for an hour. She stopped dead in her tracks the second she saw my face. “What happened?” I looked up at her. Suddenly, I didn’t want to swallow the pain anymore. I told her everything. Coming home early, the scene in the master bedroom, bringing the stray home to test him, and the phone call I just had. The more Audrey heard, the darker her expression became. “How dare he.” “You gave up your dog for him. You cried until you threw up for days. And now he is perfectly willing to drug himself up just to flirt with another woman over a cat?” “Harper, what does he even think you are?” I looked down at the tile floor, staying perfectly quiet. The truth was, the shift didn’t just happen today. I had just been refusing to look at it. Sebastian used to love me fiercely. The year his first startup collapsed, we lived in a rundown studio apartment. The windows leaked freezing air in the winter and trapped suffocating humidity in the summer. He spent his days swallowing his pride and begging investors for scraps. But every night, he always remembered to bring home a cup of hot cocoa for me. He knew I had a weak stomach, so he would sit at the table, making sure I finished every bite of dinner before he went back to his laptop to work until dawn. Back then, he had absolutely nothing, but he gave every best part of himself to me. Now, the company was thriving. The bank accounts were full. We lived in a luxury estate and drove imported cars. He was still Sebastian. But the woman he wanted to spoil was no longer me. As the vet tech took the kitten back to the ward, I finally spoke. “Audrey, do you still have that spare room at your place?” She blinked in surprise. “Yeah, of course.” I nodded. My voice felt lighter than air. “I am not going back.” “This time, I actually want a divorce.” It was past one in the morning by the time we got to Audrey’s apartment. When I stepped out of the shower, my phone was vibrating off the bathroom counter. The screen was flooded with texts from Sebastian. At first, he was just demanding to know where I was and when I was coming home. Then, the texts shifted into his usual orders. [I have a client lunch tomorrow. Bring my charcoal suit to The Pearl.] [Do not forget the black cufflinks.] A few minutes later, another message popped up. [Pick up a sugar-free dessert from the bakery on your way. Sophie is watching her carbs lately. No buttercream.] I stared at that last text, a bitter laugh bubbling in my chest. He remembered that Sophie was cutting carbs. He remembered she hated buttercream. But he could not remember how long my stomach had been killing me. He forgot that I was running a severe fever just days ago. He didn’t even care why I had flown home a day early. It made perfect sense. Why would he remember? In his eyes, I had ceased being his wife a long time ago. I was just a convenient assistant he was used to ordering around. Audrey handed me a glass of water, catching sight of the screen. She practically exploded. “Is he out of his mind? He is asking you to buy dessert for his little mistress?” I placed the phone face down on the nightstand and said nothing. For years, I really had lived like his personal maid. Managing his calendar, balancing the household accounts, running his errands. He was so deeply accustomed to my service that even after I caught him in bed with another woman’s cat, he still fully expected me to deliver his dry cleaning the very next day. I couldn’t sleep that night. I stood on Audrey’s balcony, letting the night wind hit my face. I scrolled through my camera roll until I found a very old photo. It was taken right after Sebastian’s bankruptcy. The kitchen in our rental was incredibly cramped. I was cooking cheap pasta on a rusty stove, and he was hugging me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder with a huge smile. He had nothing back then, but he was always terrified of letting me suffer. Everyone had told me to leave him. They said he was a dead end. They said I would ruin my life tying myself to a sinking ship. I didn’t listen. I drained my entire life savings to keep his business afloat. I stayed up with him through the darkest, most humiliating years of his life. I foolishly believed that if two people survived the absolute worst together, they would never be torn apart. I was wrong. We shared the suffering. But he wanted to share the success with someone else. The doorbell rang early the next morning. I checked the security monitor. Sebastian was standing in the hallway. He was holding a velvet gift bag. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept at all. Audrey opened the door. The very first thing out of his mouth when he stepped inside was, “Is the cat here?” Any lingering trace of a smile I had completely vanished. Seeing that the apartment was animal-free, his shoulders relaxed visibly. He placed the gift bag on the coffee table. “I was a little harsh last night. This is for you.” I opened the box and took one look at the necklace inside. I recognized it instantly. It was a promotional gift set from a luxury brand event he attended a few days ago. The set came with two pieces. Sophie had already posted the silver version on her Instagram story. The one sitting in front of me was the gold leftover. He took the jewelry he had let another woman pick through and tossed it to me like a bone. I slid the box right back across the table. “Keep it for yourself.” Sebastian frowned deeply. “Harper, do you really have to do this?” “What exactly should I do?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Smile, put it on, and pretend yesterday never happened?” His expression darkened. “There is nothing going on between me and Sophie. She is young. I have been sponsoring her education for years. It is perfectly normal for me to look out for her.” “The cat thing was an accident. I took my pills, and I was fine.” “Stop being so completely unreasonable.” There it was again. Over the last few years, whenever I expressed any negative emotion, it was always labeled “unreasonable.” I looked at him, and asked in a very quiet voice. “Sebastian. The day I gave my dog away, did you think I was being unreasonable then, too?” He stiffened. A flash of intense annoyance crossed his eyes. “What is the point of bringing up ancient history again?” “I am drowning in work right now. I do not have the energy for these mind games. Tonight’s dinner is critical for the firm. Do not make a scene.” I nodded. It was finally crystal clear. My grief did not matter. My sacrifices did not matter. The eight years of loyalty I traded away meant absolutely nothing. The only things that mattered were his business dinners, his public image, and the beautiful, young girl standing next to him. As he turned toward the door, I spoke up. “Sebastian.” He paused and looked back. I held his gaze, pronouncing every word carefully. “For your dinner party tonight. Should I bring the stray cat along too?” His face instantly turned black with rage. “What the hell does that mean?” “Nothing.” My voice was entirely flat. “Just a random question.” He stared at me for a few long seconds, clearly fighting to keep his temper in check. Finally, he dropped a cold warning. “Harper. Do not do anything that will humiliate us both.” When the door clicked shut, the apartment felt suffocatingly quiet. I sat back down at the table and began packing my things, one by one. My passport. My bank cards. My legal files. And a stack of old polaroids I hadn’t looked at in years. At the very bottom of the drawer was a folded piece of notebook paper. Sebastian had written it for me a long time ago. His handwriting was messy but deeply earnest. He wrote that when the company finally succeeded, he would buy me a massive house with a garden. He would take me to the coast for the honeymoon we never had. He promised we would bring my golden retriever back home. He even wrote that if I wanted a cat, he would learn to live with it. The very last line read: I will never let you suffer again. I stared at the ink for a long time. Then, I slowly tore the paper in half. The paper was old and brittle. It ripped apart with barely any effort. Just like his promises. Later that afternoon, my mother-in-law called. The second I answered, she let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Harper, honey. Sebastian told me everything. Why are you being so immature?” I didn’t say a word. She kept going. “Men in his position have to entertain. They meet a lot of people. Having a young girl hovering around him is not the end of the world. You suffered through the dirt with him. Now that the money is finally flowing, do not ruin your own marriage over some petty jealousy.” Petty jealousy. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a heavy weight crushing my lungs. A cat on my marital bed was a petty issue. Sophie wearing his clothes was a petty issue. The dog I lost, the seven years of swallowed grievances, my bleeding stomach. All petty issues. The only thing that was sacred was Sebastian’s career and his pride. Seeing that I wasn’t responding, her tone grew sharper. “Sebastian is at a crucial point in his expansion. As his wife, your job is to secure his home front, not create chaos. What would people think if this got out?” I cut her off softly. “Mom. I will be at the dinner party tonight.” She let out a massive breath of relief. “That is my good girl. Married couples shouldn’t hold grudges. Just go there, give him an out, and let this whole thing blow over.” “Yeah,” I replied, and hung up the phone. At seven o’clock, I walked into the private dining room at The Pearl. I wasn’t there to deliver his suit. I wasn’t there to give him an out. I just wanted to see with my own eyes exactly how much he favored her. The room was packed with executives. Sebastian sat at the head of the table. Sophie was sitting directly to his right. In front of her sat a custom low-carb dessert and a glass of warm water. She was wearing the silver necklace. Sebastian’s suit jacket was casually draped over the back of her chair. One of the partners noticed me and smiled smoothly. “Mrs. Rowland, always so devoted. Delivering the suit in person.” The words felt like needles scraping against my eardrums. Sebastian glanced at me and gestured for the waiter to add a chair. “Sit.” I took a seat. I barely spoke the entire night. But because I was quiet, I saw everything with terrifying clarity. When a client offered Sophie a drink, Sebastian stepped in and took the shot for her. When she complained a dish was too spicy, he spun the lazy Susan to bring the mild seafood to her side. When she coughed lightly, he instinctively pushed his own glass of warm water toward her hand. Every single gesture was sickeningly natural. Practiced. Routine. I suddenly remembered the night my fever spiked. I sat alone in the emergency room IV lounge until three in the morning. When the triage nurse asked where my husband was, I stared blankly at the wall and mumbled that he was busy. He wasn’t incapable of taking care of people. I just wasn’t the person he wanted to take care of. Halfway through the dinner, a client laughed, half-joking. “Mr. Rowland, you are awfully attentive to your sponsored student. Should we be reading between the lines here?” The whole table erupted in knowing laughter. Sophie lowered her head, her cheeks flushing the perfect shade of pink. I instinctively looked at Sebastian. Years ago, he would have shut a joke like that down immediately. But tonight, he just offered a vague, handsome smile and said absolutely nothing. In that exact second, the very last shred of hope in my heart evaporated. I stood up. “The suit is here. I am leaving.” Sebastian frowned. He grabbed my wrist under the table, his voice a low, warning hiss. “Stop making a scene.” I looked down at his hand gripping my skin, and suddenly felt violently sick. This was the exact same hand that was stroking that cat last night. The same hand that had just pulled out Sophie’s chair and handed her a drink. I slowly, deliberately pulled my wrist out of his grip. I opened my palm and dropped my diamond wedding band directly onto the glass table. The clinking sound was very soft. But the entire private room went dead silent instantly. I looked at Sebastian, my voice lighter than air. “From today on, you can keep whoever you want company.” “It has nothing to do with me anymore.” I turned on my heel and walked out the door. Behind me, there was a heavy, suffocating silence. A second later, a chair scraped violently against the floorboards. Sebastian chased me into the hallway. “Harper!” He grabbed my arm and dragged me into an empty VIP lounge, his face dark with fury. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?” I rubbed my bruised wrist and met his eyes. “Are you feeling humiliated?” Sebastian glared at me, his voice dangerously low. “Did you really have to throw a psychotic fit in front of my investors?” A cold laugh escaped my throat. “I am the psychotic one?” “You are the one who brought a cat into our bed. You are the one letting your clients make dirty jokes about your little charity case. But somehow, at the end of the day, I am the one in the wrong.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking utterly exhausted by my existence. “There were key partners in that room. It is just networking banter, you don’t take it literally. Sophie is young and doesn’t know how to navigate these dinners. It is completely normal for me to watch out for her.” “Harper, I am drained. Please just let this go.” I stared at him, my blood turning to ice. “Then what shouldn’t I let go of, Sebastian?” “Should I hold onto the memory of pawning my jewelry to pay off your creditors?” “Should I hold onto the fact that I drained my own savings account to fund your comeback?” “Or maybe I should hold onto the fact that I gave away the dog I loved for eight years just because you sneezed?” By the end, my throat was burning so badly I could barely speak. That dog was the one wound I never dared to touch. I spent years lying to myself, pretending I was over it. But the truth was, I never got over it. It just festered and rotted inside my chest. “When he died, I couldn’t even see him one last time.” “But now, for another woman, you are perfectly happy popping pills so you can play with her pet.” “Sebastian, do you have a heart at all?” He fell silent. For a fraction of a second, his eyes darted away in guilt. But the mask slipped right back on almost instantly. “Bringing up the past changes nothing. Marriage is not a fairy tale. We are adults, we have to look at reality. If you throw a tantrum and file for divorce right now, you aren’t just embarrassing me. You are humiliating yourself.” Hearing that, the last trace of anger drained out of me completely. Seven years of marriage, and it all boiled down to a cold calculation of public relations. Right at that moment, the lounge door creaked open. Sophie walked in holding a glass of warm water. Her voice was soft and timid. “Sebastian, you should drink some water.” She turned to look at me, her eyes brimming with careful, pathetic innocence. “Harper, please stop stressing him out. You know his stomach acts up when he gets angry.” I almost laughed out loud. A girl who had been sitting on my marital bed a day ago was now standing in front of me, lecturing me on how to care for my own husband. What was even more absurd was that Sebastian actually reached out and took the glass from her hands. Taking that as permission, Sophie stepped closer and gently adjusted his silk tie. “Everyone is waiting outside. Don’t let domestic issues ruin the firm’s big night.” Domestic issues. She said it so smoothly. So naturally. As if she was the real wife managing the household. I looked at her, and asked quietly. “Do you think you have won?” Her face froze. In the next second, I slapped the glass right out of her hands. The glass shattered against the mahogany table. Water splashed all over her designer dress and soaked the cuff of Sebastian’s shirt. Sophie let out a high-pitched scream, tears instantly flooding her eyes. Without even thinking, Sebastian pulled her behind his back to shield her. He glared at me, his voice freezing cold. “Harper, you are completely irrational.” I didn’t even look at them. I just reached into my purse, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it onto the wet table. The divorce settlement. My signature was already on the bottom line. I looked at Sebastian, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I am not throwing a fit. And I am not giving you an ultimatum.” “I am just here to give you your notice.” Sebastian looked down at the bold letters on the folder. The color completely drained from his face. It was only in that exact second that he realized I wasn’t acting out of jealousy. I wasn’t playing hard to get. I wasn’t waiting for him to buy me a purse and apologize. I was actually discarding him. I turned and walked toward the exit. He lunged forward and grabbed my shoulder from behind. “You are not leaving.” “I am not signing those papers.” “You are coming home with me right now, and we will pretend tonight never happened.” Listening to him, I just felt a wave of profound pity. Even now, he genuinely believed that as long as he was willing to take a step back, I would fall to my knees in gratitude and crawl right back to him. I pried his fingers off my shoulder, one by one. “From the moment you held that cat for her, you became dead to me.” I pushed through the heavy doors and walked out into the cold night. But just as I reached the hotel courtyard, a sudden, violent cramp ripped through my abdomen. The pain was so blindingly sharp that my vision completely blacked out. My knees buckled instantly. My heels slipped on the wet pavement, and I crashed heavily onto the concrete. A second later, a horrific warmth began spreading down my thighs. Blood mixed with the freezing rain, pooling around my legs in a dark, terrifying puddle. The courtyard exploded into chaos. People were screaming. Footsteps pounded against the pavement. The noise was deafening. Sebastian sprinted down the steps and fell to his knees beside me. His voice was completely unrecognizable. “Harper! Harper!” He reached out to scoop me up. I looked at his face, but all my brain could process was the image of him petting that cat on our bed. Right before I lost consciousness entirely, I used the absolute last ounce of my strength to shove his chest. “Don’t touch me.”

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1 Since last week, my five-year-old has set an extra dinner plate every night. When I ask who it is for, she does not look up. My big brother needs to eat. We have no son. I thought it was an imaginary friend, something common for children in single-parent homes. Until late last night. Walking past her bedroom, I heard her talking to someone. A boy’s voice, seven or eight years old, spoke clearly from the head of her bed. Did you memorize it. First, swap Mom’s pills with the white ones. After she falls asleep, press the pillow down hard. My daughter answered in a sweet, obedient tone. Okay, brother. I remember. My entire body went numb. I shoved the door open. The room was empty. She sat up in bed, hugging her pillow, smiling at me. Mommy, my brother says it is time for you to sleep. I tore the room apart, checking under the bed, inside the closet, behind the curtains. No one was there. I tried to believe I had misheard. Swallowing my terror, I crouched down and coaxed her back to sleep. At 4:00 AM, a voice whispered directly into my ear. It is okay if Mommy does not remember. I will help her remember. I will make her remember everything. The high-pitched, childlike voice seemed to scrape right against my eardrum. Every drop of blood in my veins instantly turned to ice. I vaulted out of bed and slammed my hand against the bedside lamp switch. Dim, amber light instantly flooded the bedroom. The room was completely empty. The windows were locked tight, the heavy blackout curtains pulled shut without a single gap. Except for the sound of my own ragged breathing, there was absolute silence. I threw off the covers and walked barefoot across the freezing hardwood floor into the master bathroom. I twisted the faucet, letting the icy water run over the back of my hands. I pumped the soap dispenser three times and began scrubbing vigorously between my fingers. I had to wash for exactly sixty seconds. That was my absolute baseline. The rushing water sounded deafening in the dead of night. By the third wash, the skin on the back of my hands was raw and violently red. I stared at my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes were heavily bloodshot, my face as pale as a corpse. Someone was clearly using external stimuli to manipulate Laura, and they were trying to terrorize me. There was only one person on earth who had unhindered access to this house and a pathetic enough motive to pull a stunt like this. I snatched my phone off the vanity counter and dialed my ex-husband, David. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background noise was a chaotic blend of thumping nightclub bass and the giggling of multiple women. “Sarah, what the hell is wrong with you? It is the middle of the night!” David’s voice dripped with his signature cocktail of deep annoyance and arrogant superiority. “What kind of twisted electronic toy did you buy for Laura?” I demanded coldly, forcing my voice to remain perfectly steady. “What toy? I barely even want to pay her child support, you think I am buying her toys?” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Are you hitting early menopause, or has raising a kid by yourself finally given you clinical paranoia?” “David, I am warning you. If you are using micro-speakers to play ghost games in my house, I will completely destroy your reputation.” My fingers gripped the edge of the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “If you are sick, go take your meds! Stop using your half-baked psychology degree to act crazy and project it onto me!” He raised his voice, completely losing his temper. “You fought tooth and nail for full custody during the divorce. Now that you realize you can’t handle it, you are trying to frame me to cover your own incompetence? In your dreams, psycho!” The call abruptly ended. I listened to the dial tone, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. David was a textbook narcissist. He was too arrogant to lie about something like this. If he had actually pulled this off, he would have taken the opportunity to brag about how clever his psychological torture was. If it wasn’t him… then who the hell was it? The moment the sun came up, I told Laura we were going to buy new crayons and drove straight to an electronics market. I bought two of the smallest voice-activated recording bugs on the market, along with four micro-pinhole cameras disguised as everyday objects. When we got home, I let Laura watch cartoons in the living room while I went to work. I hid the first camera in the AC vent of her bedroom. The second went into the rim of the living room chandelier. The third was buried in the potted plant in the hallway, and the fourth was mounted above the shoe cabinet by the front door. Finally, I taped one of the audio bugs to the absolute deepest corner under Laura’s bed, and stuck the second one under the dining table. Once everything was armed, I forced myself to walk into the kitchen and cut some fruit. The rhythmic crunch of the knife slicing through the apples barely kept the mounting panic in my chest at bay. The apple on the cutting board was divided into exactly eight mathematically even slices. At 9:00 PM, Laura brushed her teeth and got into bed. I sat on the living room sofa with all the lights off. My laptop sat open on the coffee table, splitting the screen into a four-way grid of live feeds. I stared into the dark, watching her sleep, and waited. The minutes crawled by. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. Midnight. Suddenly, there was movement on the bedroom feed. Laura’s blanket shifted. She slowly sat up in bed. The room was pitch black, so the camera was operating in infrared night vision. She sat completely still, her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were deeply focused on listening to something. I leaned closer to the screen, my jaw dropping open. After about fifteen seconds, Laura’s lips started to move. She said something, nodded her head, and then reached her tiny hand out into the empty air, mimicking a grabbing motion. It looked exactly like she was holding someone’s hand. A second later, the laptop’s audio monitor picked up a faint, staticky rustle. Following the sound of fabric scraping against fabric… An incredibly distinct boy’s voice exploded through the living room speakers. “You are hurting me.” 2 “I am sorry. I just wanted to hold your hand.” Laura’s soft, innocent voice immediately replied. My heart felt like it had been crushed by an invisible fist, beating so violently it physically hurt my ribs. It was not a hallucination. This was real. The camera had captured the interaction, and the audio bug had physically recorded the sound waves of the boy’s voice. I collapsed back onto the sofa, my shirt completely soaked in a cold, clammy sweat. Early the next morning, right after dropping Laura off at kindergarten, I drove straight to the psychiatric clinic where I worked. I canceled my morning appointments and knocked directly on the door of Dr. Evans, the clinical director. Dr. Evans had been my mentor in grad school. He was one of the most respected diagnostic psychiatrists in the state. I slid the digital recorder across his mahogany desk. “Dr. Evans, you need to listen to this.” When the playback finished, Dr. Evans furrowed his brow slightly, but he didn’t look nearly as horrified as I expected. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and took a slow sip of his herbal tea. “Sarah, have you been taking on too many trauma cases lately?” “This is a physical, digital recording!” I pointed at the jagged audio waveform on the screen, my voice trembling. “I am not accusing you of fabricating it,” Dr. Evans sighed. He used the exact same tone he used to pacify hysterical patients. “But given our profession, you should know this better than anyone. Children between the ages of five and seven frequently create elaborate ‘imaginary friends’ as a coping mechanism against environmental loneliness.” He paused, his gaze sharpening slightly. “That boy’s voice is highly likely just Laura altering her own vocal cords. She is playing both roles.” I stared at him, stunned. “That is impossible. I watched the live feed! When that boy spoke, Laura’s lips did not move a single millimeter!” “Cameras have blind spots, Sarah.” Dr. Evans stood up, walked around the desk, and patted my shoulder gently. “You have been wound tighter than a piano wire since the divorce. You are obsessed with being the flawless, perfect mother.” He glanced down at my hands, which were unconsciously, furiously wringing the hem of my shirt. “Go home and get a full eight hours of sleep. Stop trying to diagnose a paranormal event out of standard childhood development. If you are really losing sleep over it, bring Laura in next week and we will run a sandbox play therapy assessment.” When I walked out of the clinic, a freezing drizzle had started to fall. Dr. Evans’ words hadn’t comforted me at all. In fact, they left me drowning in a suffocating sense of helplessness. He didn’t believe me. No one was going to believe me. Because I was a licensed therapist, they would just assume I was a textbook case of a shrink losing her own mind. That afternoon, before picking Laura up, I made a detour to the security office of my apartment complex. I lied to the manager, claiming I had lost a highly valuable diamond necklace, and demanded to review the hallway security footage for the entire week. I sat there staring at the monitors frame by frame, my eyes burning with exhaustion. Absolutely no suspicious individuals had stepped off the elevator on my floor. Even the food delivery drivers just left the bags in the lobby locker downstairs. If no human being had physically entered the apartment, then where the hell was that voice coming from? When we got home, I started putting the groceries away in the fridge. Every single tomato had to be arranged in a perfectly straight line, ordered sequentially by size. I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. When I finally walked out of the kitchen, I found Laura sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, playing with her craft scissors. Snip, snip, snip. I walked closer, looked down at the paper scraps surrounding her, and violently gasped for air. The floor was covered in dozens of red paper dolls. Each cutout featured two figures holding hands. But the proportions were grotesque and terrifying. The figure on the left was tiny. The figure on the right was stretched unnaturally long, with a sharp, pointed, triangular head. “Laura, what are you cutting out?” I crouched down, forcing my voice to sound warm and casual. Laura stopped cutting. She looked up at me, her pitch-black pupils entirely devoid of emotion. “My brother said he wants new clothes.” A vicious cramp seized my stomach, a biological reaction to pure terror. “We do not have a brother in this house, Laura.” I corrected her, pronouncing every word with deliberate weight. “It is just you and Mommy.” “He is here.” Laura stubbornly pointed her little finger at the empty armchair next to the sofa. “He is sitting right there, watching you. He said you hold the knife very steadily when you cut the apples.” My scalp exploded in a rush of cold prickles. Cutting the apples. When I cut the apples yesterday afternoon, Laura was still at kindergarten! Aside from me and the hidden cameras, it was physically impossible for anyone to know I had cut an apple. Right at that exact second, a sudden, suffocating pressure wrapped around my neck. It felt exactly like two freezing cold fingers had gently rested against my carotid artery. I violently jumped backward, stumbling away and clawing at my own throat. There was nothing there. But the icy, phantom sensation of being touched lingered against my skin. My breathing grew ragged and shallow. Tactile hallucination. It was written right there in the DSM-5. When psychological stress breaches a critical threshold, the brain can manufacture phantom physical sensations. Was I actually losing my mind? No. That made no sense. If I was the one going crazy, how do you explain the paper dolls Laura was cutting? I had to get to the bottom of this. I dropped to my knees and grabbed Laura by the shoulders, my grip tight enough to make her wince. “Laura, you tell Mommy right now. What else did this brother tell you to do?” Laura stared at me. Slowly, she stretched her mouth into a wide, unnatural smile. It was a hideous, grotesque grin, stretching far too wide for a child’s face. She pointed at the scattered red paper dolls on the rug. Her voice was dripping with a sickening sweetness. “My brother said… these are the burial offerings for Mommy’s grave.” 3 I yanked my hands off her shoulders as if I had been electrocuted. I stumbled backward in blind panic, my spine slamming brutally against the sharp edge of the coffee table. The sharp burst of pain instantly snapped me back to reality. I could not stay in this apartment for another second. The magnetic field, the dead air, even the shadows cast by the furniture felt suffocatingly hostile. I bolted into the bedroom, dragged two large suitcases out of the closet, and threw them open on the hardwood floor. Every shirt had to be rolled into a perfect, uniform cylinder. They had to be packed strictly by color, grading from dark to light. Even in the middle of a mental collapse, my hands continued to mechanically execute these obsessive-compulsive rituals. I owned an abandoned, inherited property on the rural outskirts of the city. It was my parents’ old estate. There was no wifi. There were no neighbors. It was an isolated fortress cut off from the rest of the world. Whatever entity was attaching itself to Laura, changing the environment might sever its connection. Within an hour, I had packed the car and fled the city center like a refugee running from a warzone. The old house hadn’t been lived in for years. When I pushed the front door open, a thick, suffocating cloud of dust and mildew hit my face. I sat Laura down on the decaying living room sofa and immediately went into a manic cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed every square inch of the floorboards with industrial bleach three times over. Every wooden surface had to be polished until I couldn’t feel a single speck of dust against my fingertips. It was the only coping mechanism I had left to fight off the paralyzing terror. Just as I was wringing out the mop for the fifth time, a blaring car horn shattered the silence of the front yard. A second later, the rusted iron gate was violently kicked open. David swaggered into the yard. Walking right behind him was a middle-aged man wearing a tacky, mustard-yellow Taoist robe, clutching a wooden Feng Shui compass. “Sarah, I knew you would run to this rotting dump!” David marched right into the house. His expensive leather loafers tracked two massive clumps of wet mud onto the floorboards I had just sterilized. I stared at the mud tracks, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms they almost drew blood. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out.” I snatched the broom off the wall and stepped protectively in front of Laura. David let out a sneering laugh. He reached into his designer jacket, pulled out a stack of printed legal documents, and threw them right into my face. “What am I doing here? I am here to take custody of my daughter!” The papers fluttered to the floor. I caught a glimpse of the top page. It was a complete log of my medical visits to Dr. Evans’ clinic, alongside a credit card receipt for the surveillance equipment I bought at the electronics market. “I did some digging. With your current psychological state, you can barely manage your own hygiene, let alone raise a child.” David pulled out a cigarette, lit it with arrogant flair, and casually flicked the ash onto the clean floor. “This is Master Zhao. I paid good money to bring him here to assess you.” He jerked his thumb at the fraudster standing behind him. “The Master already confirmed it. You are suffering from demonic possession. You have got some filthy, vengeful spirit clinging to your back, which is why you are acting like a paranoid schizophrenic.” Master Zhao dramatically adjusted his compass, walked in a slow circle around the living room, and suddenly pointed a dramatic finger right at my face. “Ma’am, your aura is completely black. You are carrying a heavy karmic debt. If you want to break this curse, we must perform an immediate cleansing ritual. The fee for the ritual is… ten thousand dollars.” I looked at the two of them, and a hysterical laugh forced its way out of my throat. David didn’t give a damn about Laura. He was just using my “erratic behavior” to steal custody so he could weaponize her against me. He wanted to force me to sign over the million-dollar school-district condo I won in the divorce settlement. And this “Master” was nothing but a cheap grifter trying to extort me. “Karmic debt?” I glared at Master Zhao, instantly shifting into my cold, clinical persona. “Mr. Zhao, your micro-expressions are pathetic. When you speak, your eyes involuntarily dart down and to the right. Your thumb is unconsciously rubbing the edge of your compass. Those are textbook physical tells of active deception.” I turned my glare onto David. “And you. You illegally acquired my confidential medical records and trespassed on private property with a con artist. I already have this entire conversation recording.” I tapped the front pocket of my cardigan. There was actually nothing inside, but I knew David was a coward at heart. “If you don’t get the hell off my property in five seconds, I am calling the police.” David’s face twitched, but relying on his physical size, he took a threatening step forward. “Drop the tough guy act! You sit alone in your apartment talking to thin air every night! Laura told me everything!” My heart plummeted into my stomach. Laura told him? I slowly turned to look at the sofa. Laura was sitting perfectly still. She was playing with a decaying block of wood she found on the floor, not even bothering to look up. “I am telling you right now, Sarah. I am walking out of here with that kid today!” David lunged forward, reaching out to grab Laura’s arm. I went completely feral. I threw myself at him and sank my teeth directly into his wrist. The metallic, sickening taste of rust and blood instantly flooded my mouth. “Ah! Are you a rabid dog?!” David screamed in agony and backhanded me across the face. The corner of my mouth split open. A high-pitched ringing exploded in my ears. “Master Zhao, hold this psycho down!” The grifter hesitated, but rolled up his sleeves to help. Right at that exact second, the temperature in the living room plummeted to freezing. The front windows, which had been locked tight, violently blew open. The glass panes slammed against the frames with explosive force. The rusted chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling began swinging wildly, emitting a horrifying, metallic shriek. David and Master Zhao froze in their tracks. “What… where did that wind come from?” Master Zhao’s voice began to severely tremble. I sat on the floor, holding my bleeding cheek, and looked up. Laura was still sitting on the sofa. Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head to look at David. There was absolutely no fear in her eyes. Only a cold, sadistic calm. “Mommy. The bad man made my brother very angry.” 4 “Tell her to stop wasting her time.” The hoarse, gravelly boy’s voice dropped into the freezing air like a bucket of ice water. All the blood instantly drained from David and Master Zhao’s faces. “What… what did you just do?” David stammered. His aggressive arrogance was completely eradicated. Master Zhao dropped his compass, spun on his heel, and bolted out the front door, tripping over his own robes in blind terror. Seeing the grifter run, David cursed under his breath. Abandoning his grand custody plan, he clutched his bleeding wrist and sprinted for his car like a coward. The iron gate slammed shut in the wind. The house plunged back into a suffocating, dead silence. I slumped against the wall, gasping for air as if I had just surfaced from drowning. The voice was not a hallucination. David and that fraud heard it too! That meant my diagnosis was correct. There was a genuine, unidentified entity invading my life. Strangely enough, realizing it was a real threat finally eased the crushing fear that I was developing schizophrenia. I pushed myself off the floor, walked over to the sofa, and pulled Laura into a desperate embrace. “Don’t be scared, baby. Mommy will protect you.” Laura reached up with her tiny hand and gently touched my bruised cheek. “Does it hurt, Mommy?” “No.” I buried my face in her neck, greedily inhaling the warm, comforting scent of baby shampoo. If I could keep her safe, I didn’t care how much it hurt. But I knew running wasn’t going to fix this. I had to find the source of that voice. That night, after I finally got Laura to sleep, I booted up my laptop. I compiled all the audio files I had recorded at the apartment, along with the corrupted video footage from the living room, and dumped them onto an encrypted USB drive. I texted my college roommate, Mark. Mark was now the lead forensic technician for the city police department. His specialty was digital forensics and voiceprint analysis. “Mark. I need you to run a diagnostic on these files. Off the books. Strictly confidential.” After hitting send, I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. The bathroom in the old estate had no windows. The rusted exhaust fan hummed with a heavy, droning vibration. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The red handprint from David’s slap was still visible on my cheek. I turned on the faucet and began washing my hands mechanically. One pump. Two pumps. Three pumps. Just as I began the fourth scrub, the exhaust fan abruptly died. The tiny room was instantly plunged into a suffocating, unnatural silence. A second later, faint footsteps echoed outside the frosted glass door. Thump. Drag. Thump. Those were absolutely not Laura’s footsteps. The steps were heavy, sluggish, dragging across the floor like a child wearing adult shoes that were far too large. My hands froze mid-air, soap suds dripping from my fingertips. “Who is out there?” I demanded sharply, instinctively grabbing a pair of sharp cuticle scissors off the sink. The footsteps stopped directly outside the door. Through the frosted glass, I could vaguely make out the silhouette of a short, hunched figure pressing itself against the doorframe. “You are washing for too long.” The gravelly voice pierced right through the glass, echoing off the narrow tile walls. “You are going to scrub your own skin off. It is disgusting.” My heart physically skipped a beat. I violently yanked the door open and raised the scissors like a dagger. There was nothing there. Just the empty hallway and the flickering amber bulb on the wall. I sprinted back to the living room. The laptop screen was still glowing. I clicked on the live feed. The camera was angled perfectly at Laura’s bed. In the video, Laura wasn’t sleeping. She was wearing her thin pajamas, kneeling on the floorboards beside her bed. She was holding a thick red crayon, furiously drawing something on the floor. One circle. And then another. Her movements were rigid and robotic. Her lips were moving rapidly. I maxed out the volume on the laptop. “My brother says he wants to get out of here…” “My brother says he wants to get out of here…” The thick red circles looked like pooling blood in the black-and-white infrared feed. I couldn’t take the psychological torture anymore. I grabbed my phone and dialed Mark’s number again. He answered on the second ring. “Sarah. I was just about to call you.” Mark’s voice sounded incredibly grim, almost strained. “I ran the spectral analysis on both the audio and video files. You need to brace yourself for this.” “Just say it.” I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. “I isolated the frequency of the boy’s voice, ran a noise reduction filter, and reconstructed the audio waveform.” Mark paused, clearly struggling to find the right clinical terms. “Sarah. On the surveillance footage… you are the only person talking to your daughter.”

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