Author: Momo Chan

I was caught by the paparazzi knocking on the hotel door of Hollywood’s biggest heartthrob, Caleb Vance, in the middle of the night. He slammed the door in my face. The next morning, the internet exploded. The current “It Girl” of pop culture, Serena Hart, posted a vague tweet implying she was dating Caleb and urged men to “protect themselves from desperate women.” Her fans went wild, spamming my comments with hate, calling me a “clout chaser” and a “pick-me girl.” Later that day, Serena hinted on a live show that she was the “Entertainment Industry Princess”—the secret daughter of the CEO of Global Media, the biggest entertainment conglomerate in the country. The only problem? My brother is Caleb Vance, the heir to Global Media. If she’s the “Princess” and I’m the secret daughter… and she’s dating my brother… Does that mean she’s dating her own brother? Or did my dad have a secret family I don’t know about? Honestly, the logic is hard to follow. 1 I knocked on the door at night. The scandal broke in the morning. I was shaken awake by my agent, Peach. “What the hell were you thinking? Knocking on Caleb Vance’s door at 2 AM?!” Peach was pacing, her phone buzzing non-stop. “Serena Hart just jumped into the mix. Between Caleb’s fans and Serena’s rabid stans, we are dead.” I closed my eyes, waiting for the lecture to continue. Silence. I rolled over. Peach was already sending out her resume on LinkedIn. I poked her arm. “Hey, I’m still here.” Peach stared at me with dead eyes. “Physically, yes. Career-wise, you’re already in the grave.” I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. #SofiaStoneCaughtCreeping #CalebVanceRejectsSofia #SerenaHartDefendsHerMan #ProtectCaleb I clicked on a video. The footage was grainy but clear enough. Me, looking suspicious in a hoodie, knocking on Caleb’s hotel door. He opened it, we talked, and then he shoved me out. The angle made it look like I tried to grab his hand and he recoiled in disgust. Then he slammed the door, nearly breaking my nose. I stood there arguing with the door for a minute before storming off to my room… which was right next door. The comments were brutal. “LMAO look at her try to force her way in. Desperate much?” “Protect Caleb at all costs! Get that creep away from him!” “I heard she’s knocked on every producer’s door in Hollywood. Gross.” “She definitely slept her way to her last role. Disgusting.” Then I checked #SerenaHartDefendsHerMan. Serena is my nemesis. We debuted at the same time, and we always end up auditioning for the same roles. I always win because, frankly, she can’t act. But she’s a master of spin. Every time she loses, she posts sad selfies implying I stole the role or used “connections.” Now, she posted a photo of a durian and a washboard. @SerenaHart: “Asking for a friend: which one hurts more to kneel on? PS: Men need to stay safe out there. Some girls see every man as a ladder. Unlike me… I only want to cuddle with the girls. Gross men, stay away! 💅” Her fans ate it up. “OMG is she making Caleb kneel for letting Sofia in? Couple goals!” “Confirming the relationship without confirming it! I love them!” Serena liked a comment that said: “Caleb belongs to Serena! Sofia is just a homewrecker.” Then she replied: “Oops! Fat fingers! Didn’t mean to like that! 🤭” The hate train picked up speed. “Sofia Stone is a serial mistress.” “Ban her from the industry.” “I bet her whole family is trash. Probably raised by criminals.” The person commenting that had a profile picture of… my brother. Caleb. I wondered how she’d feel knowing she just called her idol a “criminal raised by trash.” 2 I logged into my Twitter and posted a clarification. @SofiaStone: “Everyone relax. Caleb Vance is my brother.” Result? Zero people believed me. Someone DM’d Serena asking about it. She posted a screenshot of her reply: “Brother? I’ve never heard Caleb mention a sister. But I have heard Sofia calls a lot of industry guys ‘Daddy’ and ‘Brother.’ Maybe it’s just her… thing? No judgment though! 🤷‍♀️” Great. Now I’m not just a stalker, I’m a sugar baby with a kink. The comments under my post were foul. “If Caleb is your brother, I’m your father.” “Have some shame.” “Call me Grandpa then.” I was equal parts furious and amused. 3 Just then, my agent got a call. A reality show Serena and I were both booked for, “Celebrity Lives: Unfiltered”, was moving up its schedule. And instead of pre-taped, it was going live. They wanted to capitalize on the drama. To hype it up, the producers teased a special guest: “The Secret Princess of the Entertainment Industry.” No one knew who it was. I suspected my dad was behind this. Global Media—my family’s company—runs half of Hollywood. My dad gave Caleb and me a challenge: spend three years in the industry incognito. Whoever is more successful stays in showbiz. The loser has to come home and inherit the multi-billion dollar family business. I knocked on Caleb’s door last night to beg him to take the CEO job because I’m losing. He slammed the door in my face because he wants to act, not sit in board meetings. 4 The livestream started. We could see the live comments on a monitor. “I heard the Global Media heiress is on this show!” “Knowing her means knowing everyone who matters in Hollywood.” When the host introduced the cast, the audience realized Serena and I were the only young female guests. “It can’t be Sofia. She’s a stalker.” “It has to be Serena! OMG!” A theory started spreading in the chat: “Didn’t the Vance family lose a daughter years ago? Maybe Serena is the long-lost heiress!” “It makes sense! Serena said she came from humble beginnings… maybe she didn’t know!” Serena saw the comments. Her eyes lit up. “Serena, just admit it!” Serena giggled at the camera. “Guys, stop guessing! Some things are better left a mystery. I want to make it on my own, not because of my family.” The chat went wild. “Confirmed! It’s her!” “No wonder she has that expensive aura.” “She and Caleb are literally the Prince and Princess of Hollywood. Perfect match!” I almost laughed out loud. I turned to Serena. “Are you really the Vance family heiress?” Serena winked. “I can’t say. My family prefers privacy. But I want to prove myself first.” She was practically screaming “YES” without saying the word. If she’s the Vance heiress… and Caleb is the Vance heir… and she claims they’re dating… Is she admitting to incest on live TV? But the fans didn’t know Caleb’s background either. One fan caught me smirking. “Look at Sofia smiling. She’s probably plotting how to suck up to Serena now.” “If I were her, I’d be kneeling for forgiveness.” 5 The show began. The first challenge: “The Friendship Test.” Host: “Call a friend and borrow money for today’s activity budget. You have one shot.” “Serena is totally calling Caleb!” “I can’t wait to see who answers Sofia’s call. Probably some old sugar daddy.” Serena dialed. It rang for a minute before connecting. “Hello?” A deep, magnetic voice answered. Caleb. Serena blushed. “It’s me.” “…Who? I don’t have your number saved. I’m on set, make it quick.” The chat paused. “Wait, he doesn’t have her number?” “It’s just a couple’s game! Playing hard to get!” Serena panicked but recovered. “It’s Serena. Can I borrow some money?” The fans went crazy again. “He’s gonna send her a million dollars, watch.” “Caleb spoils his girl!” Serena smiled sweetly. “Not a lot. Just a little bit.” Caleb: “Fine.” He hung up. Ping. A notification sound from Serena’s phone. [Venmo: You received $200.00 from Caleb Vance] Serena’s smile froze. The chat went dead silent. Then the mockery shifted to me. “At least she got money! Let’s see who Sofia calls.” “Bet she calls a married man.” Serena regained her composure. “Who are you calling, Sofia? That older gentleman I saw you with last week? Just clarifying—he looked old enough to be your dad, so I’m sure it’s just a… mentorship.” The chat exploded with slut-shaming comments. I stared at her. “Where did you see this? What time? What did he look like? Any distinguishing features?” Serena stammered. “Uh… tall… maybe I saw wrong.” “You were pretty sure a second ago,” I pressed. The fans defended her. “Stop bullying her! She said she might be wrong!” Host: “Sofia, who are you calling?” 6 “Caleb Vance,” I said. Serena covered her mouth, feigning concern. “If he doesn’t pick up, don’t be sad. He’s probably still mad about last night…” The phone rang once. “What do you want?” Caleb’s voice was completely different—relaxed, annoyed, familiar. “Send me money.” “Are you sick? You have more money than I do.” I rolled my eyes. “Just send it!” “Wait…” Click. The chat was confused. “Why does he sound so different with Sofia?” “They sound… close?” Serena’s face was stiff. “Maybe he’s just being polite. Or maybe he’s messing with you.” She tried to be magnanimous. “If he doesn’t send it, I can split my $200 with you.” Ping. My phone announced loudly: [Bank Transfer Received: Ten Million Dollars.] The studio went silent. I patted Serena’s shoulder. “Thanks, but keep your $200. Caleb sent me 10 mill. I think I’m good.” Then, my phone rang. It was Caleb. “Is 10 million enough? I can send more if you need it.” I put it on speaker. “It’s fine.” “Okay, going back to filming. Call if you need cash.”

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My dad was just a regular Uber driver until he picked up Caleb Vance, the biggest pop star in the world. Because of a traffic jam in downtown LA, my dad took a detour to save time. Caleb accused him of trying to rip him off and beat him senseless on the side of the road. My dad didn’t fight back. He didn’t say a word. But that wasn’t enough for Caleb. Later that night, Caleb sent hitmen to our house. They burned it to the ground with us inside. I died in that fire, screaming. But when I opened my eyes, I was back. I had been reborn. Staring at the face of the superstar on every billboard, I made a vow: I will make him pay. 1 I jolted awake to the sound of chatter. I looked around. My living room. My mom, dad, and little sister were all there, alive and well. I started shaking uncontrollably. I pinched my arm hard. The sharp pain brought tears to my eyes, but it confirmed the impossible. I was back. In my past life, my dad picked up Caleb Vance. A detour led to an accusation, a beating, and then a massacre. Caleb hired men to kill us and torch our home to cover his tracks. I remembered the three stab wounds in my stomach. I remembered the heat of the flames licking my skin as I died. The TV was playing a commercial. Caleb Vance’s perfect face filled the screen. My eyes went red. He was the “King of Pop,” the idol of millions. And he was the monster who murdered my family. My dad was a good man. He had a 5-star rating on the app. He never hurt anyone. And he died for it. Four lives. I would make Caleb pay in blood. “Sarah? Are you okay?” My sister, Mia, walked over, looking concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” It seemed I was the only one who remembered. I had to protect them. I shook my head. “I’m fine. Hey, aren’t you going to visit that film set tomorrow? Is Caleb Vance going to be there?” Mia’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, you’re finally interested? But let me tell you, sis… Caleb is trash. Don’t waste your time on him.” 2 “He’s famous, but everyone knows he’s a nightmare on set,” Mia whispered, leaning in. “He treats the crew like slaves. Honestly, stick to stanning Leo. He’s an angel.” Mia was a hardcore fangirl. If she said Caleb was trash, the rumors were worse than I thought. I pretended to listen as she gushed about Leo, but my mind was racing. I needed to get close to Caleb. I needed evidence. The next morning, I woke up at 3 AM. Mia dragged me out of bed. “Fangirling requires dedication, Sarah!” We arrived at the hotel where the stars were getting their makeup done. A crowd was already there, parting like the Red Sea for the VIPs. I spent the morning infiltrating Caleb’s fan groups. I played the part of the eager new fan perfectly. By noon, I was in three group chats and had the scoop on his schedule. But Caleb never showed up. He had a 5 AM call time. It was now 10 AM. The fans were getting restless. “He’s skipping again?” one girl muttered. “Classic Caleb.” I realized this was my chance. 3 The fan network was terrifyingly efficient. Within minutes, they found him. “He’s at The Velvet Rope,” someone texted. “He’s clubbing.” The horde of fans started moving. I told Mia I was going home, then hailed a cab to the club. I wasn’t going as a fan. I was going as a spy. I slipped into the club, paid a waitress $200 to borrow her uniform, and grabbed a tray of drinks. I found Room 2230 in the VIP section. My heart hammered against my ribs. Inside, Caleb Vance was lounging on a sofa, surrounded by scantily clad women. But what caught my eye was the man on the floor. He was curled into a ball, his face a bloody pulp. Caleb’s designer boot was pressed onto the man’s neck. “You think you tell me when to work?” Caleb sneered, pouring a bottle of champagne over the man’s head. “You’re nothing. You’re a dog.” He ground his heel into the man’s cheek. The man whimpered but didn’t dare scream. It was his assistant. 4 I gripped the tray, my knuckles white. I had my phone in my apron pocket, camera lens peeking out, recording everything. Maybe I stared too long. Caleb looked up. His eyes locked onto me. He stood up and walked over, swaying slightly. He smelled of expensive cologne and stale alcohol. He grabbed my chin, his eyes raking over my body with disgusting entitlement. “Nice rack,” he slurred. “You’re staying with me tonight.” I didn’t think. I slapped him. The sound echoed in the silent room. Caleb froze. The room went dead still. I turned to run, but he grabbed my hair and yanked me back. “You bitch!” he screamed. “You think you can touch me? I’m going to kill you!” He threw me onto the sofa. His hands were everywhere, tearing at my uniform. The other men in the room laughed and cheered. “Get her, Caleb!” I grabbed a glass bottle from the table and smashed it against the wall. I held the jagged neck out. “Touch me and I’ll cut your throat!” Caleb laughed. “Feisty. I like it.” Just as he lunged, the door burst open. A tidal wave of screaming girls flooded the room. “Caleb!” “Oh my god!” Hundreds of phone cameras flashed. I had dropped the location in the fan group chat the moment I found him. 5 Caleb scrambled back, trying to cover his face. “Get out!” he roared. “Get the hell out! You crazy bitches!” The fans were horrified. They saw their idol, drunk, assaulting a waitress, with a beaten man on the floor. “He’s a monster!” one girl screamed, dropping her sign. Chaos erupted. In the confusion, I slipped out the back door. I had the video. I had the witness. I went home, shaking. It was 1 AM. Mia was waiting in the living room. “Where were you?” I showed her the video. She gasped, covering her mouth. “That’s… that’s Caleb? He tried to…?” “He’s sick, Mia. We have to stop him.” Mia wanted to call the police. I shook my head. “Attempted assault? He’ll be out in two hours with his lawyers. We need to bury him.” 6 We sold the footage to TMZ and sent anonymous tips to every major gossip site. By morning, Caleb Vance was trending #1 worldwide. #CalebVanceAssault #CalebVanceExposed The video of him beating his assistant went viral. The photos of him attacking me were everywhere. His reputation was in freefall. But I knew it wasn’t enough. I tracked down his assistant, Sam, in the hospital. He was wrapped in bandages, terrified. “I can’t talk,” he whispered. “He has my grandma. He said he’d kill her.” “We can help,” I promised. “But you have to trust the police.” We called the cops. Kidnapping was a federal crime. They rescued his grandmother within hours. Sam broke down and gave a full statement. Things were looking good. Until my phone rang. “Sarah?” Mia’s voice was trembling. “Dad… Dad’s in the hospital. Someone beat him up.” 7 My blood ran cold. It was happening again. I rushed to the ER. My dad was unconscious, beaten badly. “Where’s the car?” I asked Mia. “The dashcam.” “It’s still on the highway,” she said. I left them at the hospital and took a cab to the scene. I found the taxi on the side of the road. Three men were prying the doors open. “Hey!” I shouted. They turned. They held tire irons and crowbars. “Well look at that,” one of them sneered. “The daughter. We were paid to finish the job.” They walked toward me. I ran. I ran onto the highway, waving my arms. “Help! Help!” A black SUV swerved to avoid me. The three men were closing in. One threw a wrench; it hit my shoulder, numbing my arm. I fell. They stood over me, raising their weapons. SCREECH. The black SUV reversed at high speed, slamming into the guardrail between me and the killers. Four huge men jumped out. The killers took one look at them and ran.

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I woke up, and I had swapped bodies with my dog. Tomorrow was the day I was supposed to take her to be euthanized. But now… My dog—no, my owner—is staring at me through the glass door, her face twisted in a snarl that looks horrifyingly human. She pushes the door open, step by step, walking toward me with madness in her eyes. I see it clearly now. The butcher knife she’s hiding behind her back. She’s going to kill me. 1 Abby is a four-year-old Beagle. When I found her, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. A purebred dog, just wandering the streets? Finders keepers. I hid her in my jacket and ran home, thinking I was lucky. I didn’t know it was the start of a nightmare. The moment we got home, Abby revealed her true form: a demon from the seventh circle of hell. She destroyed my furniture. She screamed like a banshee at 3 AM. She used my Persian rug as a toilet. She was essentially a long-eared donkey with a destruction fetish. I questioned my life choices daily. Why did I have to be so greedy? Cheap things come at a high price. Despite the ruined couch and the noise complaints from the HOA, I stuck to my principles. I adopted her, so I was responsible for her. I cleaned up her messes, paid for the damages, and told myself that with enough love and patience, she would change. Until she bit the first person. Then the second. Then the third. I had to swallow my pride and go door-to-door, apologizing, bowing, begging for forgiveness. I was terrified someone would lose their temper and beat her to death. But what made me angrier was Abby’s attitude. She pranced around like she owned the place, looking at me with eyes that said, “What are you gonna do about it, loser?” My heart grew cold. I knew I couldn’t fix her. I contacted a famous dog trainer in the state, a guy known for handling “red zone” cases. I sent Abby to his boot camp. It was her last chance. If she didn’t change, the neighbors would force me to put her down. For months, I only saw Abby through video calls. The trainer was brutal. In the videos, Abby’s fur was matted with dried blood. One of her teeth had been snapped off by the chain. She was pinned under the trainer’s boot, foaming at the mouth, struggling, screaming. She refused to submit. My baby, whom I had fed by hand, was being broken. My eyes burned. I almost said, “Stop, send her home.” The trainer saw my hesitation. He spat on the ground. “She’s a beast, ma’am. You have to show her who the master is, or she’ll never learn. Don’t worry, she won’t die.” He moved the camera closer to Abby’s face. The misery was magnified. I couldn’t look. “Abby, be good, and your mom will come get you.” Suddenly, Abby looked straight into the camera lens. I swear, she was looking right at me. That look… it was pure hatred. 2 Three months later, the trainer brought Abby back. He also gave me a “gift”—a set of heavy chains and iron rods, much larger than anything I had. I was horrified. But to my surprise, Abby had changed. If the old Abby was a demon, this Abby was an angel. I would have settled for “doesn’t bite,” but she was doing tricks! “Sit,” “Shake,” “Stay”—things I had spent months failing to teach her. It was a miracle. I was ready to nominate the trainer for sainthood. Abby was quiet. No more parkour at midnight. No more noise complaints. She didn’t resource guard anymore. She wouldn’t snap at me when I filled her bowl. Even though I still had to walk her at 3 AM to avoid the neighbors, I was moved to tears. This was it. Life was finally good. I started to relax. I took off the heavy chain. I let her roam the house freely. I thought, She’s a good dog now. I should trust her. And Abby repaid that trust by destroying my life. One morning, while I was taking out the trash, Abby slipped through the crack in the door. She ran straight into the neighbor’s little granddaughter in the hallway. When I got off the elevator, I saw a scene from a horror movie. Abby was on top of the little girl, her jaws locked onto the child’s scalp. I could see the white of the skull where the skin had been torn away. Blood was everywhere. “Help… help me…” The girl was sobbing, her voice fading. She looked at me with desperate eyes. Abby growled, her teeth dripping red. She looked at me with pure provocation. Then she yanked her head back. A piece of the girl’s scalp tore off with a sickening sound. “AHHH!” The girl screamed and passed out. I threw myself at Abby. She turned on me instantly. She bit my arm, her canines sinking deep, almost piercing through to the other side. Adrenaline flooded my system. I grabbed Abby by the throat, my fingers digging into her loose skin. I squeezed with everything I had. My nails cut into her flesh. Abby’s eyes rolled back. She was choking. 3 The neighbor heard the noise and rushed out, pulling us apart. I didn’t have time to explain. I pointed at the unconscious girl. “Call 911! Now!” In the chaos, Abby slipped away down the stairwell. I was too panicked to chase her. I rode in the ambulance with the girl. By the time I remembered Abby, it was too late. I called the police and animal control. Thankfully, the girl survived. But the guilt was eating me alive. It was my fault. I brought Abby home. I kept her. I was naive enough to think she could change. She never changed. She just learned to act. She had been waiting for this moment to hurt me. Her teeth were meant for my throat. The neighbor’s girl was just collateral damage. “Ms. Lane,” the girl’s mother said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “We appreciate you saving her. But we cannot allow that dog to live in this building. We are pressing charges.” “I understand. I’ll cooperate.” I gave up. A beast is a beast. My mercy was a mistake. “I will pay for all the medical bills and the plastic surgery. I am so, so sorry.” The woman nodded and walked away. After getting my rabies shot, I went to the police station. They had caught Abby. She was in a cage, barking maniacally at the officers, foam and blood dripping from her mouth. She looked like a rabid monster. When she saw me, she stopped. She lowered her body, a low growl rumbling in her chest. Her tail was tucked, but her eyes were locked on me. Attack mode. The officer yanked her chain and kicked the cage. “Ms. Lane, do you want us to handle this?” I sighed, shaking my head. “I’ve caused enough trouble. I’ve already scheduled the euthanasia for tomorrow. Since I failed her as an owner, I should be the one to send her off.” It was the last dignity I could give her. “Heh-heh-heh!” Abby made a strange, chortling sound. It sounded like she was laughing at my stupidity. 4 I shouldn’t have been soft. I took Abby home and locked her on the balcony. Tomorrow, we would go to the vet. But the next morning, when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the balcony floor. Everything looked huge. The railing, the plants, the door. My body felt wrong. I ran to the glass door and looked at my reflection. A Beagle stared back at me. I was my dog! This had to be a dream. But the cold tile under my paws felt too real. Click. The balcony door unlocked. “I” walked out. The human “me” was smiling—a twisted, wrong smile. Her eyes were full of excitement. I backed away, my legs trembling. We had swapped bodies. “Abby, time to go to the hospital.” The human crouched down slowly, extending a hand. Her expression shifted into something crazed. In the reflection of the glass, I saw what she was holding behind her back. A butcher knife. She was going to kill me! I ducked under her legs and sprinted for the front door. My only thought: Run! The door was locked. The human “Abby” jingled the keys in her hand. “You can’t run.” She lunged at me. She wasn’t moving like a human anymore. She was crawling on all fours, scrambling across the floor like a spider, knife raised high. It was worse than any horror movie. She swung the knife down at my head. I dodged instinctively. THUNK. The knife buried itself in the wooden door. She couldn’t pull it out. She looked around the room, grinning, and grabbed the iron rod I had hidden behind the sofa. The one the trainer gave me. She knew it was there. She walked toward me, swinging the rod wildly. The living room was being destroyed. I was cornered. She was going to kill me. She hated me. The front door was a dead end. I looked at the balcony. The sliding door was still open. I lived on the eighth floor. But I had no choice. I bit her leg hard. While she screamed, I bolted to the balcony, jumped onto a planter, and leaped over the railing. Weightlessness. Then—CRASH. I hit something hard. I looked up. The human “Abby” was looking down from the balcony, glaring with pure malice. She was coming down. I had to move. I tried to stand, but a net fell over me.

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I died three years ago. Tossed into the freezing pitch-black of the Pacific by the man I loved and the sister I trusted. Tonight, as the sleek, black cruise ship, The Acheron, sliced through the high seas, the ghost they thought they’d buried was finally ready to collect her debt. I hadn’t even had a chance to announce my return, but from my private suite on the second deck, I watched the main event unfold. My former fiancé, Greg Sullivan, had my half-sister, Brooke Dalton, draped over his arm as he addressed the glittering, oblivious crowd. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Greg announced, his voice dripping with smug theater, “I present all the surviving relics of Juliet Caldwell!” A cheer rippled through the black-tie crowd. “We’re starting the bidding at one dollar for everything! And yes, that includes her most intimate underthings!” Down on the main floor, I saw my mother, Helen Caldwell—three years his senior and now shockingly frail—pleading, trying to cling to the last shreds of my dignity. But her desperate whisper was met with Greg’s amplified cruelty. “Dignity for a dead woman? If you feel so sorry for her, Helen, why don’t you go join her?” I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, the crystal wine glass in my hand fracturing beneath my grip. I had planned to wait until we hit the mainland. I had planned a subtle, surgical dismantling. But they had made it easy. They had brought the damn reckoning right to my doorstep. This account, I decided, would be settled with their lives. … 1 Snap! The harsh spotlight instantly centered on Greg. He held up a piece of pale pink lace—a silk chemise, something ridiculously expensive I’d bought in Paris—swinging it like a trophy. “Behold, everyone! The favorite battle-gear of the late, lamented, and clearly loose Juliet Caldwell!” He brought the lace to his nose, inhaling with a repulsive, theatrical sniff. His smile made me want to jump through the glass and claw the skin from his face. “Pre-owned, original scent, and the starting bid… is a single dollar!” The hall exploded in laughter and whistles. “A dollar? Sullivan, the Caldwell heiress’s value has definitely plummeted!” “I’ll offer a dollar fifty! I need a new chew toy for the bulldog!” Up here, in my soundproof VIP suite, I was hidden behind one-way ballistic glass. The crunch of the wine glass in my hand was the only sound I heard. Three years. Everyone believed Juliet Caldwell was fish food. They never imagined I was fished out by the King of the Deep, the true owner of this luxurious, floating hell. The real owner of The Acheron—this casino and pleasure palace—was right here, cold-eyed, separated by glass, already calculating their expiration date. Near the edge of the stage, my mother, her hair now white and her dress threadbare, was being wrestled to the ground by two hulking security guards. Gone was the elegant poise of the Caldwell matriarch. She was gaunt, but her eyes, bloodshot and frantic, were locked on that piece of lace. “That’s Juliet’s… Give it back! Please, give it back!” “What is that mad dog howling about?” Brooke, looking sickeningly chic in a designer gown, sauntered over. The sharp heel of her stiletto slammed down onto my mother’s hand, twisting viciously. “Ahhh!” Mom cried out, her body spasming, but she stubbornly refused to pull her hand away. “Brooke! That was your sister’s… How can you let your fiancé…” “Sister? We might share a father, Helen, but we certainly don’t share a mother.” Brooke seized a handful of Mom’s white hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to look up at the degrading display. “That short-lived fool is feeding the fish! If her cheap relics can earn Greg a little pocket money, it’s her damn blessing!” “If you love her so much, why don’t you buy it back? Oh, wait. Didn’t you spend your last penny on that pathetic little journal a moment ago?” I took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the seismic surge of homicide in my chest. For three years, I had trained in my Godfather’s compound—hell on earth—night and day. I morphed from a delicate debutante into the ruthless CEO of a multi-billion dollar syndicate. All for this moment. I was going to teach them the true meaning of poetic justice. “No cash, huh?” Greg seemed bored by the lack of true spectacle. He hopped off the stage and, like he was teasing an animal, dangled the lace in front of my mother. “Helen Caldwell, I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you a chance.” He pointed a shoe toward a spot on the marble where a guard had just spat a thick wad of phlegm. “Lick that clean, bark three times like a dog, and scream that Juliet Caldwell was a worthless tramp.” “Do that, and I’ll gift you this little scrap.” The hall fell silent for a beat, then erupted in the most insane chorus of cheers. “Lick! Lick! Lick!” Mom lay on the floor, trembling. That was her daughter. Even dead, she’d fight tooth and nail to protect her last shred of dignity. Now, to protect that single thread of memory, she’d have to personally grind it into the dirt. “I… I will bark…” Mom threw herself forward, grabbing Greg’s leg with the desperation of a true animal. “Woof! Woof! Woof!” “Juliet… Juliet was…” “Cut the crap!” Brooke slapped her face. “No curse, no gift! Security, burn the rag!” “No! I’ll curse her! I’ll curse her!” Mom shrieked in horror, slamming her forehead into the marble. Blood instantly bloomed. “Juliet is… is…” Tears poured down her face. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t utter the vile words, instead only repeatedly striking her head against the ground in utter, helpless despair. “Enough.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. My fingers pressed so hard into my palm that the veins stood out like cords. Devlin, my head of security, was beside me. He spoke into my ear, his voice low and tight. “Ma’am, shall we move?” “Not yet.” I watched Brooke prepare to light the lace on fire. A cold smile curled my lip. “Seal every exit. Take the ship to the deepest point of the international zone.” “The louder the laughter now, the sweeter the weeping will be later.” “No one on this boat leaves alive tonight.” 2 “Ugh, so anticlimactic.” Brooke wiped her hands with an exaggerated gesture of disgust and kicked Mom away. “If you can’t say the words, you don’t get the souvenir.” She snapped her fingers. A guard lit a lighter. “No!” Ignoring the blood pouring down her face, Mom clung to the guard’s leg. “Give it to me! Please!” “Get off!” The guard kicked her in the chest. Flames licked the delicate lace. The silk instantly curled into a puff of ash. Mom stared blankly at the dust, a choked, dying animal sound escaping her throat. “Stop the theatrics, it’s bad luck!” Greg straightened his tuxedo tie and returned to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, the appetizer is over. Now, for the main course… Juliet Caldwell’s private journals!” He held up a thick, yellowed notebook. “Starting bid, still one dollar!” The crowd instantly erupted. “One hundred! I want to read what kind of dirty secrets this heiress had!” “Five hundred! I’ll use it as a bedside read!” Mom’s head snapped up. That was my diary from childhood—my deepest, most innocent secrets. They absolutely could not be desecrated. She fumbled with a small cloth pouch, spilling a handful of crumpled bills onto the floor. “I’ll buy it… I’ll offer everything I have…” She raised her blood-stained hand. “Three thousand two hundred dollars total… Please, give it to me…” “Three thousand two hundred?” Greg sneered, kicking the scattered bills away. “Trying to buy a yacht with spare change, Helen?” He looked toward a planted bidder. A balding man immediately shouted, “Three thousand two hundred and one dollar!” The room roared with laughter. Mom’s face went white. “I can write an IOU! I’ll sell my blood! Please, I beg you…” “Oh, Aunt Helen, no money means no power.” Brooke approached, sipping a glass of red wine. She pointed to a half-full sack of dog kibble in the corner. “See that? Our poodle, Bijou, passed away. It would be a shame to waste her food.” “Eat that entire half-bag—every single piece.” “And I’ll make a charitable donation to your cause by giving you the journal.” In the suite upstairs, Devlin’s hand clenched the hilt of his tactical knife, veins visibly bulging. I watched, expressionless. My nails dug deeper into my palms. Downstairs, Mom looked at the dog food, which was stale and covered in flies. Her stomach turned. But as Greg made a show of threatening to tear the journal, she had no choice. “Fine… I’ll eat it.” She crawled over, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into her mouth. Dry, rancid, gritty. “Gag…” She immediately retched. “Don’t you dare throw up!” Brooke ground her heel into Mom’s back. “Spit out one piece, and I’ll rip out one page!” “Nngh!” Mom clamped her mouth shut, forcing the disgusting mass down her throat. Her esophagus was scraped raw; every swallow tasted like blood. “Ha ha ha! Look, everyone! The former Caldwell Matriarch is eating dog food!” Greg shoved his phone in her face, snapping photos. “This video is going viral!” The flash went off like repeated slaps across her cheek. She mechanically grabbed, mechanically chewed, mechanically swallowed. Half a bag—over a pound of dry kibble. By the end, her mouth was a slurry of blood and crumbs. Her stomach was painfully distended. “Done… I finished it…” She weakly held out her hand. “The journal… Give it to me…” Greg casually tossed the book onto the floor. “Here, take your trash.” Mom clutched the journal to her chest like a newborn, rubbing the cover again and again. “Juliet… Mommy got it back…” As she tried to crawl away, Brooke suddenly stretched out her foot and tripped her. Thump! Mom fell. The journal flew from her embrace, landing directly in a decorative charcoal brazier. “Oops! Butterfingers!” Brooke covered her mouth with a feigned gasp, her eyes shining with malicious glee. Flames instantly devoured the paper. “NO!” Mom let out a soul-shattering scream. Without a second thought, she plunged both her hands directly into the burning charcoal. 3 “AUGH!” Mom writhed in pain, but those hands held the burning journal, refusing to let go. “She’s insane! A total lunatic!” The guests in the front row gasped at the gruesome sight. A few squeamish ones covered their eyes. Mom finally pulled the charred book out, curling into a ball around it. The hands that had once been meticulously manicured were now bubbling and melting, the skin peeled back to raw flesh. “Juliet… Juliet…” Huge tears splashed onto the blackened cover. “Tsk-tsk. Truly touching maternal love.” Brooke waved her hand, fanning the air, before turning to Greg. “Greg, darling, Aunt Helen’s hands look pretty bad. Shouldn’t we help her?” “Help? Of course.” Greg smirked, walking to the bar and grabbing a bottle of high-proof vodka. “They say liquor is the best disinfectant.” He walked over to my mother, unscrewing the cap. “Hold still, Helen. This is for your own good.” Without warning, he dumped the entire bottle of vodka over her already raw, bloody hands! “Aaaahhhh!” Mom screamed, rolling violently on the floor, banging her head against the marble until it bled again. “Ha ha ha! Doesn’t she look like a maggot?” Brooke laughed uncontrollably, filming the whole thing. “Stop yelling!” Greg, annoyed, jammed his foot onto her wrist and twisted. “This is premium vodka, you know! Disinfecting you is a privilege!” In the suite. Snap! The tactical pen in Devlin’s hand snapped in half. His eyes were bloodshot as he looked at me. “Ma’am! Are they even human?! Let me go down there and end this!” I stared at the screen, my fingernails piercing my palms. “It’s not time.” I ground the words out, each one a shard of ice. “I need them to believe they’ve won. I need them to show me all their cards.” “The only way to ensure they’re annihilated is to let them fall from the highest possible point.” Downstairs, Mom was beyond screaming. Her mouth was wide open, struggling for silent breaths. “Alright, enough. No need to kill the old bat; we have one last order of business.” Greg knelt, pulling a document from his inner jacket pocket and tapping Mom’s cheek. “Helen Caldwell, stop playing dead.” “I know you’re still holding on to the deed for the Caldwell ancestral home.” That was the last of my family’s foundation, the house where Mom and I lived for twenty years. Mom saw the transfer agreement and violently shook her head. “No… That’s for Juliet… That’s her home…” “Home? The person’s dead, who needs a home?” Brooke laughed coldly, leaning in close to my mother’s ear, dropping her voice. “Aunt Helen, if you sign this, we’ll show you the last auction item.” “It’s… a piece of your precious sister’s body.” Mom’s clouded eyes suddenly flashed with terrible clarity. “Body… Juliet…” “That’s right. Something the search team recovered with great difficulty.” Greg offered the lure. “Don’t you want to see it? Don’t you want to take her home and bury her?” “I do… I want to…” Mom grabbed the lure like a lifeline, struggling to sit up. “Show me… Please…” “Sign first.” Greg shoved a pen into her hand, pointing to the signature line. “Sign this, and I’ll give you the item.” Her burned hands couldn’t hold the pen. She trembled, clamping the pen between her two wrists, enduring the searing pain to scrawl her name in a shaky, crooked line. “It’s signed… Give it to me…” Mom pushed the agreement back, her eyes pathetically desperate. Greg snatched the document, checked it, and exchanged a look with Brooke. They exploded in triumphant, deranged laughter. “Ha ha ha ha! The Caldwell ancestral home is finally ours!” “The Caldwells are officially wiped out!” Brooke stuffed the agreement into her purse and clapped her hands. “Fine, since you were a good girl, we’ll give you a peek.” “Bring out the main event!” The lights dimmed. A hostess brought out a tray covered with a deep red cloth. The entire audience held its breath. Greg ripped off the cloth. It was a large glass jar, filled with pale yellow formaldehyde. In the center of the liquid floated a grayish-white human heart. “Everyone!” Greg’s voice echoed in the stunned silence. “This is the heart recovered during Juliet Caldwell’s autopsy!” 4 “My… My Juliet…” Seeing that heart floating in the formalin, the last spark of life seemed to drain from my mother. She stumbled toward the display, pressing her face against the cold glass, staring ravenously at the grayish-white tissue. “It’s Juliet’s… I knew she was still here… Mommy’s taking you home…” She was muttering incoherently, reaching out with her scabbed, burned hands to pick up the jar. “Hold on!” Brooke slapped her hand down on the lid. “Aunt Helen, this is our main event tonight.” She raised an eyebrow, smiling a blend of seductive and savage. “You want it? The starting bid is ten million dollars.” “Ten million…” Mom collapsed onto the floor in despair. The journal had drained her savings, the deed was signed away. She couldn’t even produce a single dollar. “I don’t have any money… I truly don’t…” She was on her knees, bowing and banging her head until her forehead was a bloody mess. “Brooke, Greg, please have mercy… Let me take Juliet home…” “No money?” Greg stroked his chin, his gaze running over my mother’s body. Then, a twisted, predatory smile stretched his face. “No money, no problem. We can trade, can’t we?” He pulled a sharp utility knife from his pocket and threw it, clang, onto the floor in front of her. “Helen Caldwell, they say, ‘a heart for a heart.’” “Since you want your daughter’s heart so badly, why don’t you… carve out yours and trade it with us?” The room burst into a horrified murmur. This was beyond cruel—it was psychological murder. Mom stared at the knife, her body shaking violently. But when her eyes returned to the glass jar, the fear vanished, replaced by a terrifying, desperate finality. “Fine…” She picked up the knife, gripping the handle tightly with both hands. “If it brings Juliet back… I’ll give it… I’ll give everything…” “No! Don’t do it!” “Juliet Caldwell is dead! You need to snap out of it!” A few guests, genuinely disturbed, shouted out. But Brooke, phone in hand, screamed excitedly, “Dig it out! Let’s see if the Caldwell Matriarch’s heart is black!” Mom ignored the noise. She looked at the heart in the jar, and a look of profound relief crossed her face. “Don’t be afraid, Juliet… Mommy is coming to join you…” The tip of the blade pressed against her chest. Blood instantly soaked her gown. “Juliet, Mommy is here…” She closed her eyes, bracing her muscles, preparing to plunge the blade deep into her own heart. In that critical, heart-stopping instant! “ZZZZZZZZ!!!” A deafening microphone feedback screech ripped through the hall! Everyone instinctively covered their ears. Then, every single light in the ballroom died. “Who’s there?!” Greg screamed in panic. “Security! What the hell is going on?!” No one answered him. The next second. WHUMPH! A blinding spotlight snapped on, aimed at the second-floor VIP balcony. The glare was so intense no one could see clearly. I stood in the center of the light beam, microphone in hand, looking down on the ants below. “Greg Sullivan. Brooke Dalton.” “Using a pig’s heart to mock my own?” “Did you truly think you could do that without my permission?”

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My mother always drilled one idea into me: you have to maintain a fiercely high sense of deservingness. When I was in school, some wannabe copycat roommate intentionally bought the same jacket as me, then had the nerve to ask if it made her look fat. I just shook my head. “Wouldn’t know, darling. My body is divine.” Later, after I started working, a male colleague was pursuing me. I casually mentioned I was taken. He looked at me with genuine anguish, asking if I might consider him if I ever broke up with my boyfriend. I gave him a chilly smile. “Clearly, you don’t love me enough. Otherwise, you’d be petitioning for the mistress position right now.” Because of my ridiculously high self-worth, they all secretly called me an entitled bitch behind my back, saying I didn’t know my place or who I thought I was. Until the day my blind date heard about my “flaw” and immediately insisted on taking me home for the New Year’s holiday to meet his parents. “My mother is obsessed with self-sacrifice. She’s constantly saying she doesn’t deserve anything good. I’m being driven crazy by it.” “If you can cure her of that toxic habit, I’ll give you anything you ask for.” The request was certainly novel. I patted my chest. “Don’t worry. You’ve got yourself a deal.” 1 Garrett Stone sat across from me in the café, his expression laced with worry. “My apologies, Ms. Hawthorne. This coffee shop was a last-minute choice; it’s a bit basic. Hope you can overlook it.” I glanced around the slightly generic, stripped-down space. “It is a bit basic. Good thing you recognize it.” Other dates would have immediately scowled and demanded we split the check. Instead, Garrett’s eyes seemed to light up, as if genuinely relieved. “Ms. Hawthorne, I won’t waste your time. I heard everything from the matchmaker. You perfectly fit my requirements, and I was hoping you’d be willing to spend New Year’s with me, meeting my family.” The speed was unsettling. I rejected him without thinking. Garrett’s face fell for a moment, then he let out a bitter laugh. “I’ll be honest with you. While I run a company that brings in eight figures a year, my mother is tormenting me. I genuinely need someone like you to shock her out of it.” That caught my interest. I leaned forward and listened as he laid out the problem. Garrett’s father died when he was young. Growing up in a small town, his mother, Martha, and he were easily bullied as a single-parent family. This forced her into a habit of extreme frugality—pinching every penny until it screamed. But while that was necessary when they were poor, it had become a perverse affliction now that Garrett was a major success, running his own firm. Garrett took her on a European trip, and she refused to spend a dime. Instead, she brought two dozen stale dinner rolls from the States and subsisted on them, washed down with plain hot water. He bought her expensive bird’s nest and ginseng to boost her health. She hoarded it, refusing to eat it because she “didn’t deserve it,” until it went moldy. Then, she decided to cook the spoiled stuff for Garrett, sending him to the hospital with acute gastroenteritis for two weeks. Exhausted and at his wit’s end, Garrett asked her why. She’d just look tearful and say, “These wonderful things are for you. I’m just an old woman. I don’t deserve to eat such luxury.” It was unbelievable. A successful CEO with a mother who lived like a pauper. And every time Garrett tried to correct her, the rest of the family—the extended relatives—would instantly accuse him of being an ungrateful, unfilial son. “That’s why I need you. You’re the only person who can help. Ms. Hawthorne, please. If you can break her of this awful habit, I’ll give you a million dollars. No, five million. How about five million?” I wasn’t doing it just for the money. The sheer challenge was exhilarating. “I’ll help you. But if your mother has a stroke or a heart attack, I claim no liability.” Garrett nodded grimly. “I’d rather her have a heart attack than die of food poisoning from eating a sprouted potato or a moldy apple.” 2 Words mean nothing without paper. After we signed the legal agreement, Garrett immediately took me to a high-end department store and bought me several luxurious outfits, all on his card. The day before New Year’s Eve, Garrett and I drove to his house. The first thing he did after becoming a big shot was buy his mother a mansion outside the city. We stood on the threshold. Garrett took a deep breath and looked at me. “Prepare yourself, Ms. Hawthorne.” He pushed the door open. Instead of the opulent, clean interior I expected, the vast foyer was crammed with stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic water bottles. A faint, cloying stench permeated the air. My smile froze. A grand mansion, used as a recycling depot. The old woman certainly had peculiar hobbies. “Now you know how terrifying my mother is,” Garrett whispered, his voice low. “Garrett’s home!” His mother, Martha Stone, emerged from the interior. She was dressed simply in worn-out sweats and had a free supermarket apron tied around her waist. She looked less like the lady of the house and more like the cleaning lady. “Mom. Meet my girlfriend, Bella.” We’d decided to drop the initial ‘Jewel’ name and just stick with my first name. I offered a polite, practiced smile. “Hello, Martha. This is a little gift for you.” “Oh, you shouldn’t have, dear. Why spend money? An old woman like me doesn’t need anything. Come in, come in.” Martha led me inside, apologizing as she went. “I’m so sorry about the mess. Please don’t mind it.” This huge, expensive villa, completely wasted on garbage. I couldn’t tolerate it. I immediately took her bait. “It is messy, yes. Honestly, I thought I’d wandered into a transfer station.” I looked back at Garrett, my expression hardening. “This doesn’t exactly feel welcoming, Garrett. Are you sending me a message by having your house full of garbage? I swear, I’ll call my father right now!” (Garrett and I had agreed that my current identity would be the daughter of a key business partner, a high-stakes heiress—that would give me the necessary leverage). Garrett immediately played along, turning to his mother. “Mom! What is this? I told you to stop hoarding junk in the house!” “It’s not junk! This all sells! It’s valuable. You young people just don’t understand thrift,” Martha grumbled, genuinely upset. “Call someone now and get this cleaned up. I will not spend the New Year holiday in a trash heap.” I pulled out my phone to contact a cleaning service. “No, wait! You can’t throw it away! That’s all money!” Martha rushed forward to stop me. Garrett held her back. “Mom, this is the daughter of Mr. Hawthorne. Don’t upset her. Her dad could ruin me with one call. We’d lose the villa, and you’d be back to scavenging for the rest of your life!” A cleaning crew quickly arrived, bringing a huge truck. A team of people worked from daylight until dark, finally clearing out every piece of refuse. Martha stood by, watching the empty, echoing space, as if the very life was being drained out of her soul. I turned my gaze to Martha and twisted the knife. I said deliberately, “Auntie, this time I’ll forgive it. But don’t ever hoard trash again. Once I move in, this house will stay immaculate. I don’t tolerate dirt.” “This is an outrage. The daughter-in-law is already riding roughshod over the mother-in-law,” Martha muttered, glaring at me. I pretended not to hear her. This is just the appetizer, old woman. 3 Soon, it was time for dinner. Garrett quietly reminded me to only touch the stir-fried greens—nothing else. I sat down. At first glance, the New Year’s feast looked decent: meat, vegetables, even seafood. But a closer look revealed the horror show. In the center of the table was a platter with what looked like a King Crab. It was visibly blackened, the meat mushy and loose—clearly spoiled. Several other dishes were unrecognizable, stewed into a murky sludge. It was impossible to tell if they were days or weeks old. The fish, a holiday centerpiece, was reduced to a bare skeleton. All the meat was gone. Why it was even on the table was a mystery. Perhaps realizing I was not to be messed with, Martha spun the lazy Susan, putting the spoiled meat dishes in front of me. “This King Crab has been saved just for today. You eat it, dear. I’ll just have some of the leftovers.” “Mom! Those pig trotters are from Christmas Eve! You haven’t thrown them out? They must be rotten!” Garrett tried to take the bowl, but she snatched it back. “I kept them in the back of the fridge. They’re fine! You eat the fresh food. I’ll eat these.” The only fresh dish on the table was the sautéed greens. Everything else was ancient. I rolled my eyes. I grabbed Garrett’s phone and instantly placed a massive catering order—an $8,888 New Year’s feast—to be delivered immediately. Then I stood up, took the King Crab platter, and marched straight to the trash can. “Auntie, if you have a problem with me, just say so. Don’t try to poison me with a crab that probably died years ago. Your son is a wealthy man. You think it’s okay for his girlfriend to eat this garbage on her first visit? People will tear his reputation to shreds!” The moment I opened fire, Garrett backed me up. “She’s right, Mom! Are you even my mother? Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my relationship? I’m thirty years old. I finally found someone, and you want me to die alone just to save a few bucks?” Martha looked like she was about to weep, staring at the King Crab in the bin. She reached in, trying to retrieve it. “It’s good! It’s fine! I’ve been keeping it safe in the freezer for years! It’s still edible!” If I was merely pretending to be angry before, I was genuinely furious now. Zombie meat. She was deliberately trying to kill someone. I exploded. “You tried to feed me a dead crab that’s been sitting around for years? What is wrong with you? Garrett, I swear, I’m breaking up with you right now!” “Mom! Hurry up and dump all these leftovers! Look how upset Bella is! What will her father think of me?” Garrett began scooping the food into the bin. I quickly helped him. To ensure she couldn’t retrieve the leftovers, I made sure to spit on every single dish we tossed. That settled it. Even she wouldn’t touch it now. Soon, the delivery arrived. A table groaning with fresh, hot, luxurious food. Martha sighed. “Fine. You two eat. I’ll just have a few crackers. I’m an old woman, practically on my deathbed. Why should I eat such rich food?” I didn’t bother arguing. I just said, “Suit yourself. But anything we don’t finish tonight, I’m throwing out immediately.” “What?! You’d throw out such expensive food?” Martha’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s how I do things at home. I don’t eat leftovers. It’s unhealthy. Once I marry in, this whole house’s habits change to match mine.” Garrett looked at me with a sickeningly doting expression. “Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you say. Your word is law.” At the mention of the coming waste, Martha quickly abandoned the crackers. She grabbed her chopsticks and loaded her plate, stuffing her face, terrified the food would be claimed by the trash can. “Auntie, have some of this lobster. Otherwise, I’m tossing it.” I spun the platter in front of her. “And this red date and chicken soup. It’s too much for just us two.” Used to eating ancient leftovers, the sudden shock of a lavish, freshly cooked meal hit Martha hard. She ate heartily, a flicker of genuine pleasure returning to her face. 4 That night, Garrett gave me a thumbs-up. “Ms. Hawthorne, you are incredible. You handled my mother perfectly. That’s the first genuinely happy New Year’s dinner we’ve had.” “Get some rest. We have to go visit my father’s grave tomorrow morning.” Garrett was a devoted son. His father was originally buried back in the village, but once Garrett made money, he bought a prime plot in a city cemetery and had him moved. The next morning, we woke up before dawn. I was confused about the early start. Martha explained, “It’s a long walk, miles of mountain road. We have to start early.” I looked out at the garage, which housed seven or eight luxury cars. She intended to walk to the cemetery to save money. “Auntie, my shoes have lambskin soles. They’ll be ruined if they get wet. I am absolutely not walking. We’re driving.” Garrett instantly agreed. “She’s right, Mom. Bella’s a delicate flower. She’s always driven everywhere. Just ride with us.” Martha shook her head stubbornly. “Absolutely not. Gas is expensive! I used to walk daily in the village. I’m used to it.” “You young people lack discipline. You ride everywhere; your bodies are atrophying.” I wasn’t going to argue. If she wanted to walk, fine. “Alright, Auntie. You can walk if you like. Garrett and I will drive ahead and wait for you at the entrance.” Before getting into the car, Garrett tried one last time. “Mom, are you really not getting in? The gas price is the same no matter how many people are in the car. Please, just ride with us.” The old woman waved us off, refusing to budge. Garrett was hesitant, but at my insistence, he closed the door and drove away. The car soon arrived at the cemetery gate. Garrett turned off the engine, and we waited for his mother to walk up. But we waited, and waited, and she never appeared. At first, I thought she was just slow. But by nearly noon, there was still no sign of her. Garrett called her phone seven or eight times. No answer. “She probably didn’t charge it, to save electricity. She leaves it at home,” Garrett said, frustrated. He tried again. After a few rings, someone finally picked up. “Are you a relative of this number’s owner? She fell on the mountain trail and was brought to our hospital. You need to come quickly.” We immediately forgot the visit and sped off to the hospital. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. If I had walked with her, she wouldn’t have fallen,” Garrett lamented, distraught in the passenger seat. “Forget it. Let her be frugal. I only have one mother. She raised me alone; it wasn’t easy.” The moment Martha was hurt, Garrett was instantly overcome with guilt and softness. This must have been the cycle: he tries to correct her, she hurts herself, he feels guilty and gives up, she repeats the habit. “Ms. Hawthorne, maybe we should end the arrangement. Now that my mother is like this, I just can’t bring myself to be harsh with her.” 5 I had taken the wheel, not wanting an agitated Garrett driving. I stayed silent for a moment before replying. “You need to calm down. This isn’t your fault. Even if you were there today, preventing this fall, she’d be in the emergency room next week from eating sprouted potatoes from the pantry.” “Unless you monitor her twenty-four hours a day, this will happen again and again. Also, I don’t mind canceling the contract, but you still owe me the money.” Garrett took a deep swig from a water bottle and finally cooled down. “You’re right. We can’t cancel. Let’s just see her first.” We soon arrived. The nurse told us Martha fell halfway up the mountain. Luckily, a kind passerby found her and brought her in. The checkup revealed a broken tibia. She needed surgery. “The family needs to pay the fees right away. Your mother will be going into surgery soon,” the nurse urged. Garrett instinctively reached for his phone, but I stopped him. “Oh, son, I’m useless. I fall on flat ground. Don’t worry about the surgery. I’ll just rest at home.” “No way, Mom. You need the surgery to heal quickly. Just relax and don’t worry about anything.” I pulled Garrett aside. “Have you always paid for her accidents?” “She only has me. Who else? You have no idea. She’s in the ER every few months from food poisoning or a cut hand from scavenging. I’m practically a VIP here.” The problem was clear. Martha had it easy. No matter how dangerous or toxic her habit was, her son always bailed her out, with no real personal consequence. Of course, she continued. If only he were my son. I took Garrett’s phone and turned to Martha. “Auntie, where is your bank card? Give it to me. I’ll pay. Your son and I are getting married. His money is for my jewelry and my handbags. He transfers you plenty every month, so it’s time you put it to use.” Martha looked at me warily. “How much will the surgery cost?” “I don’t know. I just know that if you had ridden with us this morning, it would have cost you nothing.” Reluctantly, she handed over her card. Garrett and I immediately went to the payment window. He transferred her a substantial allowance every month. She never spent it, so the card should have had tens of thousands of dollars. After we paid the fees, we checked the balance: there was fifty-three dollars and twenty cents left. Garrett, a businessman, was unnerved by the number. He immediately took the card to the bank across the street to check the transaction history. Meanwhile, I returned to the room and, with the nurse’s help, moved Martha from the crowded, common room into the most luxurious private suite. “I was fine in there. The single room is expensive, isn’t it? It must cost a fortune.” “It’s tolerable. We were actually going to move you to a private clinic. Your son is a major CEO, Auntie. If you stay in a common room, where does that leave his reputation? If you won’t think about yourself, at least think of your son.” Though Martha was pathologically self-sacrificing, she truly loved her son. Hearing this, she immediately quieted down. “Well, alright. I suppose this is nice enough.”

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I was a world-renowned cardiovascular surgeon. To conquer a rare, complex pediatric heart condition, I emptied my savings and tirelessly fundraised to establish The Second Chance Heart Initiative. The commitment was simple: I would personally perform pro-bono surgery for one hundred underprivileged children. I never imagined that the family of the very first child I saved—a boy named Jerry Walsh, Jr.—would turn around and collude with a professional liability agitator to report me. They claimed I used their son as a “guinea pig in unethical trials” and charged secret, exorbitant kickbacks. The public reaction was immediate and ferocious. The hospital suspended my surgical privileges, and the Initiative’s funds were frozen. Facing the storm of accusations and online vitriol, I called a press conference. Standing before the frantic media, I made a calm, deliberate announcement: “Effective immediately, The Second Chance Heart Initiative is dissolved. My research findings and the surgical techniques I’ve developed will be destroyed as of today.” The flashing of the strobe lights became a blinding chaos as I stepped away from the podium. Reporters shoved microphones into my face. … “Dr. Scott, are you truly giving up on the one hundred children on that waiting list?” “What will happen to the remaining donations now that the foundation is shut down?” “Isn’t this an incredibly irresponsible act?” My face was a mask of cold neutrality as security ushered me through the scrum toward the back exit. My phone was vibrating so hard it felt like it might combust. The incoming messages weren’t from the media; they were from the families of the ninety-nine other children on the waiting list. The tone shifted from initial shock to desperate pleas, and then, inevitably, to savage accusations and curses. Yet, I felt nothing. No sorrow, no regret. My heart had gone cold the moment the first family chose to side with the vultures who were betraying me. Just then, I saw the name of the man who had started it all: Jerry Walsh, Sr. His message was infuriatingly righteous, almost condescending. “Dr. Scott, we saw the news. You can’t be so petty about this.” “You can’t just quit. The public is on our side now, you can’t fight this. You know we’ll win.” I stared at the screen, refusing to reply. He must have taken my silence for fear, because a second message followed instantly. “Look, I know you’re mad, but we were just looking out for our boy. Tell you what.” “Since you’re not going to do the rest of the surgeries, that money is just sitting there. Why don’t you cut us a check? Call it compensation for the emotional damage of our son being your experiment. We get the money, and we’ll go online and clear things up for you.” A cold, sharp laugh escaped me as I read the proposal. Emotional damage? Clear things up? Who did they think I was? A soft touch they could shake down for cash? Still using the hospital’s official account, I posted a single, public sentence for the world to see: “Funds for The Second Chance Heart Initiative were designated for life-saving surgery, not for extortion. The Initiative is officially dissolved today, and all remaining funds will be returned to the original donors, down to the last cent.” The response detonated across the internet. Thousands swarmed the hospital’s official social media pages; the comment section became a riot. Jerry Walsh, Sr. was clearly enraged by my clinical defiance. Within ten minutes, guided by the professional agitator, Rick Keller, he posted a video designed to tug at the heartstrings. In the video, he cradled his son—the child I had pulled back from the edge of the grave—and wept a performance of gut-wrenching grief into the lens. “See that, everyone! He admitted he has the money! But he’d rather return it than give it to us!” “He’s doing this to punish us! To punish us for exposing the monster he really is!” “He never wanted to save lives; he just wanted to pocket the money meant for poor kids!” He ended the video by bowing his head several times, pressing his forehead dramatically to the floor. “Please, help us. Bring us justice!” The public narrative snapped instantly. I went from being a rogue doctor running unethical trials to a venomous thief, pocketing children’s rescue money. The online abuse was a flood: “Serpent-hearted! You don’t deserve the title of Doctor!” “Spit out the cash! That’s a child’s life support!” “He should be driven out of medicine and nailed to a wall!” I switched off my phone and leaned against the cold wall of the backstage area. The story of the farmer and the snake was not just a fable. The next day, Dr. Howard Bell, the hospital Director, called me to his office. The man who had once showered me with praise now looked tired and emotionally detached. He slid a document across the desk. “Cameron, the State Medical Board is under immense pressure. They’re discussing a permanent revocation of your license.” I picked up the file. It listed my supposed “crimes,” each one pointing to the idea that I had used the Initiative as a front for personal enrichment. My hand trembled slightly as I read the blatant distortion of facts. Dr. Bell sighed, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I know you’re the victim here, but the public outcry is destroying our reputation, and yours. Just… fall on your sword a little. Say there were procedural errors in the Initiative’s accounting. We’ll help you manage the fallout and minimize the damage.” “Your career is too valuable. Don’t ruin your life over a petty dispute.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “What if I refuse, Director?” At that moment, the door was shoved open with a bang. Dr. Victor Shaw, the Head of Cardiology and a long-time professional rival, burst in, holding a fresh report. “Director! Cameron! We have a major problem!” He handed the report to Dr. Bell, but his eyes, filled with cold, professional satisfaction, were fixed on me. “This is the latest drug-screen report. I’ve discovered that Dr. Scott administered an unapproved, experimental drug to Jerry Walsh, Jr.!” Dr. Bell’s face went pale. He snatched the report. My chest constricted painfully as I scanned the list of compounds. Every one of them was a high-grade nutritional supplement that I had personally sourced and purchased at vast expense from overseas labs, pulling every favor I had. They were intended to maximize the child’s recovery and minimize long-term post-operative complications. I had never billed the Initiative or the family for them. “Those compounds,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Were a private donation from me to the patient’s family. I have every purchase receipt and transfer record.” Dr. Shaw had clearly anticipated this. He allowed a smug, triumphant smile to bloom on his face. “Private purchase? Who’s going to believe that?” He turned back to the Director, his tone dripping with false concern. “Director Bell, in the eyes of the public, this is ironclad proof: Dr. Scott used free surgery as a cover to collude with foreign drug manufacturers, running illegal trials on a poor child and collecting a massive kickback from the Initiative funds!” “We have the plaintiff, the public platform, and now, the physical evidence. He won’t be able to talk his way out of this one.” Dr. Bell’s expression hardened into disappointment and a chilling finality. He slammed the report onto the desk. “Cameron Scott, you have profoundly disappointed me!” I watched them—one playing the sympathetic leader, the other the righteous prosecutor—a perfectly orchestrated, sickening theater. The last shred of warmth in my heart vanished. I ignored the Director and stared directly at Victor Shaw, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I welcome an investigation at any level.” “I, Cameron Scott, will not fold.” With that, I turned and walked out. Dr. Shaw’s speed was unnerving. That same afternoon, the “drug report,” twisted into his narrative, was leaked to the entire internet via Rick Keller’s channels. The narrative was now complete and total: I was an absolute villain—a narcissistic surgeon who performed high-risk drug trials on poor children to amass a fortune, attempted to steal the remaining funds when caught, and was now destroying evidence. My home address, cell number, and even my parents’ address were immediately doxxed. Venomous texts and calls poured in without pause. “Murderer! Give back our children’s lives!” “You don’t deserve to exist!” “I’m outside your apartment right now. You better be ready!” I pulled the blinds shut, silenced my phone, and locked myself in my dark apartment. Late that night, a violent smash. A rock had shattered my living room window. Glass fragments glittered on the floor in the moonlight. Sitting in the darkness, I felt a bone-deep cold and, for the first time, raw fear. The silent phone suddenly rang. An unknown number. I hesitated, but finally pressed ‘Answer.’ A deep, steady voice, laced with suppressed fury, cut through the silence. “Cameron, why didn’t you call me when this started?” It was Ms. Blackwood. Evie. The business titan whom I had personally pulled back from death three years earlier with a globally-pioneering surgical procedure. After the operation, she had insisted on adopting me as a godson, a title I respectfully declined, but she had treated me like her own family ever since. Hearing her voice, strong and unwavering, the tight, coiled spring of tension inside me snapped. She didn’t ask for details, or question my side of the story. Her voice held the unshakeable authority of a queen giving an order. “I’m downstairs. The security detail already cleared your street.” “Grab a bag with essentials and come down now.” “You are moving to the estate on the hill, effective tonight.” A wave of unexpected warmth washed over me, chasing away the fear and the cold. I wiped my face, threw a few items into a duffel bag, and walked downstairs. A black Rolls-Royce waited at the curb. Evie Blackwood opened the door for me herself. “Get in. I will handle the rest.” As the car smoothly pulled away from that suffocating neighborhood, a new video popped up online. A man with a heavily pixellated face, claiming to be a hospital nurse, tearfully “confirmed” my drug abuse, going so far as to imply I had unethical relationships with senior hospital staff to secure surgical privileges. The comments section exploded into a new frenzy. I handed my phone to Evie. She glanced at the screen. Her already grim expression turned to frost. After a long moment, she ground out a single phrase from between clenched teeth. “Jumping jackasses.” She picked up her own phone and dialed a number. “I want a full file on the man in this video, and everyone backing him. I want the results on my desk before tomorrow’s sunrise.” She hung up and looked at me, her eyes filled with protective concern. “Cameron, relax. We will not lose this fight.” I nodded, leaning back into the soft leather, watching the city lights blur by. Evie Blackwood did not waste a moment. By the following morning, a team of the country’s top litigation lawyers was assembled. They immediately sent a strongly-worded public letter to the hospital’s board, demanding an immediate, full-scale public hearing—a town hall—with all personnel and media present to clarify the facts. The hospital was clearly stunned by my hard-line counterattack and the undeniable influence of Evie Blackwood. Under immense pressure, they were forced to agree. The hearing was set for 2:00 PM in the hospital’s largest auditorium. When I arrived, the hall was packed to the rafters. Flashing strobe lights, a sea of grim faces—the media, the hospital executives, Victor Shaw, Rick Keller, and the Walsh family. I walked onto the stage in a perfectly tailored suit. The room fell silent. I calmly surveyed the crowd—faces filled with schadenfreude, cold indifference, and naked greed. I picked up the microphone. “Today, I stand here to announce one thing first.” I paused, locking eyes with Dr. Bell in the front row. “Effective immediately, I, Cameron Scott, am formally tendering my immediate resignation from this institution.” The auditorium exploded in a stunned roar. No one had expected me to open with a scorched-earth maneuver. Shock was visible even on the faces of Dr. Bell and Dr. Shaw. Ignoring the reaction, I pivoted, my gaze landing on Jerry Walsh, Sr. “Second, I’d like to address Mr. Walsh’s recent demand for ‘emotional damages.’” The media immediately leaned forward, cameras clicking furiously. I motioned to my assistant, who walked a velvet-lined box, wrapped like an expensive gift, to Jerry Walsh. He accepted it, a bewildered look mixed with greed crossing his face. He likely thought it was a check or a stack of cash. My voice was broadcast loud and clear throughout the hall. “Mr. Walsh, since you believe your son’s successful surgery has caused your family significant emotional distress, it is my obligation as the surgeon to meet your demands. This box contains the ‘compensation’ I meticulously prepared for you. Please, open it.” Jerry Walsh eagerly lifted the lid. His expression of anticipation instantly froze. Inside was not cash, but a clearly printed, itemized invoice. I watched him, my lips curving into a smile that was arctic-cold. “This invoice,” I explained, “details the full cost of your son’s care, from his admission to his post-operative recovery. This includes the customized surgical instruments our team had manufactured specifically for him, the elite German care specialists we hired, and the total cost of the high-grade supplements I personally purchased from overseas…” I let the figures sink into the stunned crowd, then delivered the final sum. “The total bill is two-and-a-half million dollars.” “Since you believe a life can be monetized, I expect you to pay the price.” The auditorium plunged into a momentary, deafening silence, followed by a tidal wave of noise. Jerry Walsh’s face was bloodless; the invoice fluttered from his shaking hand. Dr. Shaw shot up from his seat, pointing a furious finger at me. “Cameron Scott! This is extortion! This is nothing but a threat!” Rick Keller quickly recovered, shouting to the crowd. “Do you see this, folks! He’s retaliating! He’s trying to shake down a poor family in broad daylight!” As the room descended into pandemonium, my phone vibrated violently. It was Evie Blackwood. I answered the call. Her voice was pure ice. “Cameron, they’re live-streaming this. The whole country is watching. But that’s not the main issue.” She paused, the tone shifting to one of unprecedented gravity. “I just got confirmation that someone used top-tier political leverage to file a formal complaint with the National Institutes of Health. They are alleging your PhD and all your published international research are based on academic fraud.” “A joint federal investigative task force has been mobilized. They are en route now.”

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Blair Wellington was in love with my roommate. She stood with him in front of both our families, publicly demanding that the ridiculous childhood engagement between us be canceled. She pointed at me and addressed the parents in the room: “I have never loved him, and the thought of marrying him makes me physically ill.” That was the last day I ever loved Blair Wellington. Later, when another girl confessed her feelings to me, Blair tried desperately to stop us from being together. In her hand, she clutched the childish marriage vow she’d written for me when we were kids. “But you promised… you’d only ever marry me when we grew up.” 1 I had just arrived when Blair Wellington started arguing with her parents—with my roommate, Nolan, standing right beside her. I stomped the snow off my boots and reached for the front door. “I already told you, I never agreed to that absurd engagement pact!” The cold sneer in her voice stopped my hand right before I pushed the door open. “That was set when you two were children! Now you bring a boy here? Do you have any idea how much shame you’re bringing to the Rivers family?!” Through the small gap in the doorway, I watched Blair arguing with her father. My own parents sat silently on the side, their faces drawn and tight. “This is my boyfriend, Nolan.” Blair clutched Nolan Pierce’s hand, staking her claim. Her father’s face was turning beet red. “You are going to marry Cam, and that’s final! You don’t get a choice!” My hand trembled, and the door swung open unexpectedly. Every eye in the room landed on me. Blair’s gaze was cold. She pointed a finger at me and looked back at her parents. Her voice rang out, clear and definitive. “I have never loved him, and the thought of marrying him makes me physically ill.” She didn’t wait for a reply, pulling Nolan out the door and past me. Her eyes swept over me without acknowledgment, as if I were a piece of furniture. Behind them, her parents frantically apologized, while my dad’s face was dark with a fury that wanted to chase Blair down and shake her. I just stood there, staring at the retreating backs of the two people who had just humiliated me. Blair and I had grown up together. For years, she had never once denied the engagement pact. When people teased us about it, she’d always laugh along. I thought she loved me as much as I loved her. 2 That night, after two long hours of my parents’ attempts to console me, I was finally allowed to go to bed. Mom had called me in sick for the day, so I hadn’t returned to the dorm. Just as I was drifting off, my phone on the nightstand lit up. A text from Blair. “I’m downstairs. Come down, we need to talk.” I thought back to her words earlier. My childhood sweetheart, my Blair-y-Bear, had deliberately destroyed me to be with another guy. I didn’t go down that night. I didn’t sleep well, either. I kept having fragmented dreams. A tiny Blair, perched at a desk, carefully writing something down. A moment later, she hopped off the chair. She ran toward my young self. “Camden, when we grow up, you have to marry your Blair-y-Bear.” Her soft little hand pressed her self-made “marriage vow” into mine, her bright eyes sincere and earnest. “Blair-y-Bear will be with Camden forever.” The moon cut through the last layer of clouds, the light blurring my eyes. Half-asleep, I wiped a cold wetness from the corner of my eye. 3 I was intercepted by Blair the next morning on my way to school. “Leaving this late? Did you skip breakfast again?” The familiarity of her tone made me pause. Blair held out a bag of pre-prepared breakfast items. “Camden, what I said yesterday wasn’t aimed at you.” “I just got carried away and said things I didn’t mean.” I stepped back, avoiding the breakfast bag. “No, thank you. Taking anything from you right now would be… nauseating.” Blair pulled her hand back, staring at me fixedly. Her voice cooled. “Did throwing my words back at me make you feel better?” “Camden, I need you to leave Nolan alone. He didn’t do anything wrong; I was the one who went after him.” Blair’s request proved to be highly prescient. Though, as it turned out, Nolan was the one who decided to provoke me. I arrived in class shortly after her. Just as I sat at my desk, Nolan walked up, holding a cup of milk. His voice was just loud enough to cut through the quiet hum of the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Cam, here’s a drink. Can you forgive me?” I glanced at the milk, then up at him. “Forgive you for what, exactly?” Nolan placed the milk on my desk, looking appropriately embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have accepted Blair’s friend request. I didn’t know she was your childhood sweetheart.” His voice was apologetic. He reached up, intending to put a hand on my shoulder. “Please don’t be mad, Cam.” “If you can just let this go, I’ll even give Blair back to you.” The words I was about to say were cut short by another voice—Nolan’s best friend, who was now laughing in disbelief, jumping to Nolan’s defense. “Nolan, you don’t need to apologize! Cam and Blair are just friends, right?” “You didn’t steal his friend, so what’s the big deal?” “And honestly, Cam, can you ditch the moody rich-boy act? Stop being such a jerk.” The pair were putting on a perfect show. “You two really have this down—one playing the good cop, the other the bad cop, huh?” I finished, yanking Nolan’s hand away. I hadn’t used much force, but he gasped and stumbled back dramatically. “Ah!” He crashed into my desk, and the hot milk splashed across his chest. That was the moment Blair walked in. “Nolan, are you okay? Are you hurt?” She pulled a handful of paper towels from her bag and thrust them into Nolan’s hands, her eyes filled with frantic concern. “I’m fine, Blair,” he mumbled. The surrounding students all shot me accusatory looks. “What are you looking at? He walked right into it.” I found it almost funny. Blair must have heard me, but her attention remained fixed on Nolan. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office to clean up. Try to bear with it.” She helped Nolan stand up and guided him out. The entire time, I was invisible to her. In the afternoon, Nolan’s friend, still furious on his behalf, got his revenge. I was walking out of the communal kitchen with a bottle of warm water and coffee grounds when I ran straight into him. He deliberately slammed into me, spilling the murky liquid all over my front, and then shoved me hard. “Whoops. My bad, man. Didn’t see you there.” He shrugged nonchalantly and walked off. I looked up and met Blair’s eyes from across the hallway. She was watching me, her expression as cold and detached as if she were looking at a complete stranger. … I walked into the classroom moments before the bell rang, my clothes still damp. I was holding an empty bottle. In the kitchen, I had mixed some lukewarm water with old, murky coffee grounds for the “revenge” I had just had. Before anyone could react, I uncapped the bottle. The dark, staining liquid poured straight over the other boy’s head. “That,” I said, looking him dead in the eye, “was intentional. And no, I’m not apologizing.” He screamed, scrambling to his feet. “What is that?! What did you throw at me?!” I just smirked, offering no explanation. It wasn’t until the entire school was involved that I finally clarified to the principal: “It was just lukewarm water mixed with old coffee grounds. It stains, but it’s not caustic.” 4 After that incident, I was completely isolated. Everyone avoided me. I started to question myself. Had I really been wrong? If I was right, why was I the one being ostracized? Meanwhile, Blair and Nolan had become the class’s golden couple, the star students. The night they publicly confirmed their relationship was also the night I finally admitted my truth. “There’s a class party on Friday night. Are you going to come?” The class president hesitated, clearly having asked everyone else first before reluctantly approaching me. My face was calm, but the hand tucked under the desk was clenched tight. “I’ll go.” I thought, maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t been completely shut out. At the club, we were playing Truth or Dare. When it was Blair’s turn, someone grinned wickedly. “Blair, if your childhood sweetie Cam and your… well, your current guy Nolan both fell into the water, who would you save?” At the time, I never imagined that question would turn into a horrifying premonition. Blair and Nolan were sitting right across from me. The air in the room froze. I kept my eyes fixed on the teacup in front of me. I knew I could leave, but something held me in place. Across the table, Blair gave a small, light laugh. Her tone was measured. “What do you mean, ‘current guy’? He’s my boyfriend, didn’t you know?” In my peripheral vision, she looped her arm through Nolan’s. “Nolan, can you swim?” she asked him. “I’m a total brick,” he confessed, looking slightly embarrassed. Blair sighed playfully, her voice dripping with affection. “Then if you fell in the ocean, I’d have to haul you all the way back, wouldn’t I?” She hadn’t answered the question directly, but the answer was chillingly clear. And it made sense. Nolan was her boyfriend. Saving him first was what any girlfriend would do. I briefly closed my eyes, suppressing the sting of humiliation. Everyone started cheering, teasing the straight-A student about her romantic side. I lowered my breathing, shrinking my presence, terrified of being caught in a look of pity or mockery. But Nolan wasn’t going to let me off that easily. When it was my turn, he smiled, looking perfectly harmless. He asked, gently: “Cam, do you have anyone you like here? Or anyone you’ve ever liked?” He spoke the most cruel words in the most casual tone, making everyone think he was just joking. “Don’t lie, or you’ll have seven years of bad luck, promise?” I felt like I was backed into a corner. Making a scene now would mean permanent banishment, guaranteeing those pitying stares. I slowly raised my eyes and met Nolan’s gaze. “Yes,” I said. The moment the word left my mouth, I felt Blair’s eyes snap to mine. Nolan just grinned, wrapping an arm around Blair’s waist. “Good to know.” A few months ago, this would have been unbearable. But now, after admitting I had loved Blair, that raw emotion felt distant. It felt like a final, faint breeze had swept away the last fragile remnant of my feelings for Blair. The wind passed, leaving the surface untouched. At seventeen, I let go of three years of unspoken love. I was finally certain: I didn’t love Blair Wellington anymore. 5 “Camden.” The party was breaking up, and Blair called out to me before I could leave. She came closer, her expression complicated. “Earlier, when you said you liked someone…” She paused for a difficult two seconds. “Was it me?” To be honest, I felt no lingering affection for the girl standing in front of me. “It was,” I confirmed. Then I added, “But it was in the past tense.” “The moment you pointed at me and said the thought of marrying me made you ill, I decided I was done. Especially now that you have a boyfriend—I’ve genuinely moved on.” Blair’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and she said nothing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve always thought of you like a brother.” I didn’t want to hear her weak excuses. “Blair, I’ll make it up to you.” I immediately refused. I even used my actions to prove my point: I truly wanted to be rid of her and her boyfriend. But Blair wouldn’t listen, instead piling on useless attempts to alleviate her guilt. She kept insisting on bringing me breakfast, even though I threw it away every time. Her occasional acts of misplaced kindness. Nolan, however, didn’t see my desperate avoidance; he only saw my efforts to steal Blair back. The retaliation started coming in waves. … The day before the results of the mock exams were released, Nolan was called to the principal’s office. He returned crying, collapsing onto his desk. Rumors immediately spread that he had cheated on the exam. Blair and her friends, however, refused to believe it. He was, after all, the second-highest-ranking student in the grade, right after Blair. “Nolan? No way! That crib sheet they found couldn’t have been his.” “Exactly! Nolan isn’t like that, come on.” I didn’t pay much attention. But I did remember that I had done well on the exam, making fewer mistakes than usual. After the scores were posted, my brief feeling of accomplishment was shattered when Blair cornered me after school. “Camden.” “Was it you?” I looked at her, confused. “Was what me?” “Framing Nolan for cheating? Wasn’t that you?” “That little slip of paper—didn’t you plant it?” She was cold, the accusation pressing down on me. “Am I that bored?” I scoffed. “Do you honestly think I care about him enough to start trouble?” Blair scrutinized me, her eyes narrowed. “Then why did your score jump twenty-seven points since the last test?” “Maybe I just studied hard and earned it!” I had reached my limit. “Blair, you’re becoming delusional.” Her expression darkened, and then she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Camden, how did you turn into this person?” “Sabotage and slander, unrepentant.” Blair shook her head, her eyes full of disappointment. “Is this what your family taught you?” I was so furious I nearly laughed, ready to deny everything. But Blair turned on her phone, showing me a segment of the office surveillance video. Between the time the papers were collected and lunch, I was the only student who had entered the office. This was Nolan’s game. He had deliberately planted the cheat sheet inside his own exam booklet. Since he knew the answers, no one believed he cheated. Combined with the video, I was instantly convicted. Blair looked down at me, distant. She tossed out a cold sentence before walking away. “Camden, everyone has to take responsibility for their actions.” 6 I put my last shred of hope in the principal. After all, this wasn’t about concrete evidence; it was about subjective judgment. But the principal only looked at me with deep disappointment. “Camden! What was your motivation for doing this?!” “Was it jealousy because Nolan’s grades are better than yours?” My throat instantly went dry, and all the fight left me. I couldn’t say a word. When Blair accompanied Nolan into the office, his eyes were still red rimmed. “Cam! Weren’t we close? I always thought of you as my friend, and this is how you treat me?” He grabbed a heavy textbook off the desk and threw it straight into my face. He screamed: “My life was almost ruined because of you! Do you have any idea what you did?” Blair turned her head away, remaining completely silent. The principal scolded Nolan lightly for the violence. But before I could retaliate, he looked at me, a warning in his eyes. Then he quickly changed the subject. “Camden, apologize to Nolan, and I won’t invalidate your test score or record a demerit.” If my score was canceled, I would be removed from the Advanced Placement class for my final year. But I hadn’t done it. How could I apologize? “I’ll only say this once: I did not frame Nolan Pierce for cheating.” The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a cold wetness under my nose. Nolan’s throw had been hard enough to draw blood. I ignored the three people with their varied expressions and walked straight out. “Stop.” Blair chased after me, blocking my path. She frowned when she saw the blood dripping from my nose. But her words were still accusatory. “Camden, you have to apologize to Nolan. He shouldn’t have to carry that slander because of you.” I lightly dabbed the blood with my hand and held it out for her to see. My voice was very quiet. “Blair Wellington, can I at least clean myself up first?” I felt utterly exhausted. Like a person clinging to a cliff edge, I no longer had the strength to hold on to the last life-saving root. I didn’t even want to argue anymore. Blair furrowed her brow. “I’ll take you.” She reached out to grab my hand. I stepped back slightly, looking down, my eyes devoid of emotion. “Blair.” “Please.” “Get lost.” 7 I never apologized to Nolan. But everyone seemed to have tacitly agreed that I was guilty of framing him. Students who had previously ignored me now openly talked badly about me. My test score, the one twenty-seven points higher than before, was nullified. My seemingly stable emotions were starting to crumble. Had I really been wrong? Why was I always the one paying the price? Then came the school-arranged field trip—a mandatory nature hike. This became Nolan’s next opportunity to trap me. “Nolan Pierce and Camden Rivers, you two are a team for collecting brushwood.” … Deep in the woods, Nolan’s true colors emerged. I discreetly switched on the voice recorder in my backpack. “Cam, does it hurt that I stole your childhood sweetheart?” He stood behind me, sounding casual and relaxed. I led the conversation. “So, you deliberately planted that crib sheet to make Blair hate me completely and stop me from trying to get her back?” He glanced around, then smiled, pleased with himself. “Yep. And look, nobody believes you’re innocent, do they?” “How was it? When that heavy book hit your face? That must have hurt, right?” I had what I needed and didn’t want to press him further. With this recording, he could be thoroughly ruined, suspended, or transferred. But he wasn’t finished. The moment I turned to leave, he shoved me hard. “Ah—” As I tumbled down the slope, Nolan, in a moment of arrogant carelessness, also slipped. We both ended up clinging to a tree trunk on the steep incline, precariously balanced. 8 I tried to save myself, but it was useless. Blair, having likely heard Nolan’s scream, was the first to arrive. “Blair, save me…” His face was ghostly white as he looked at her. The girl’s eyes found me, a fleeting look of pity there. “I’m sorry, Camden.” She reached out a hand to Nolan. … “Once Nolan’s up, I’ll pull you up immediately.” Nolan’s face shifted at her words. He used her leverage and started to climb. I forced a weak smile. “Right. Thank you.” I had no right to complain. Nolan was her boyfriend. Saving him first was what any girlfriend would do. I was even surprised she was willing to risk saving me at all. I had thought she would just go back for the principal. But as Nolan climbed, he suddenly stomped his foot down onto my hand. He ground his heel back and forth. He used his other foot to gain purchase, making it look like an accidental slip. The pain made me gasp, and I instinctively loosened my grip. I tumbled down the hill. “Camden!” “Cam!”

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After yet another chilly standoff with Cam, my partner of seven years, I didn’t cave. My friends rallied around me. “She’s just complicated, you know? A little contradictory.” “A woman who battles herself needs a saint for a boyfriend.” “She’s just testing you.” But I was truly exhausted. I had nothing left to give, and no desire left to apologize. All the cold wars, the pointless arguments, the constant emotional dodging over the years had worn me down to the point where I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Was she genuinely complicated and emotionally unavailable, or was she simply done loving me? So when she tossed “We’re done” at me like a verbal grenade, I simply caught it. “Then let’s be done.” 1 Cathy Riley visibly froze. I kept my head down, my voice low and steady. “I’ll pack my things and take them out as soon as I can. Anything we bought together can stay with you. As for the clothes you left at my place, if you want them back quickly, let me know. Otherwise, I can box them up and ship them to you.” The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by my own clipped speech. Cathy’s expression shifted from stormy anger to a blank, startling composure. She cut me off. “What about Toby? How do we split custody?” Toby was the stray cat I’d found outside our apartment complex. I’d adopted him, paid for his food, vet bills, and toys—everything. Yet, he was utterly indifferent to me. Eight out of ten times, he refused to be held, and a few times, he’d actually clawed my wrist. Cathy, meanwhile, was aloof and rarely interacted with him, but Toby adored her. He’d rub against her legs and purr with an annoying, entitled meow. “He’s yours, too,” I sighed. Even my deep affection for the cat couldn’t withstand that kind of obvious favoritism. It felt like a tiny, final betrayal. “Nolan James,” Cathy hissed, her voice tight with suppressed fury. “You missed Valentine’s Day, and now you’rethrowing a tantrum?” Hadn’t she been the one to say “break up”? Maybe she’d forgotten. She’d used the phrase so often; it was a cheap, effective tool to leverage control, a threat she knew always worked on me. “I told you, the flight was delayed. I got here as fast as I could.” Cathy scoffed. “An excuse. Why couldn’t you have taken an earlier flight?” I’d spent over twelve hours working non-stop to condense my meetings just so I could catch the last flight home that day. But Cathy wouldn’t listen. She was ready with a hundred more reasons to indict me. I fell silent, a deep, weary sense of futility settling in my chest. She turned and walked a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning back with a cold, superior tone. “Until you realize your mistake, I won’t be back.” “We are broken up,” I corrected her. She acted as if she hadn’t heard me, tilting her head. “I’ll give you one more chance. My anger isn’t just about your delay.” This was new. Usually, she just slammed the door and vanished. “Think carefully, Nolan. Then come and apologize.” 2 I sat on the sofa for a long time, trying to summon the energy to clean up the living room. Then, I retrieved the gift from the wastebasket. It was the result of a frantic search across a dozen stores in a foreign city. She hadn’t spared it a glance, hadn’t valued it at all. It lay there, worthless, among the other detritus of the argument. After tidying the living room, I went to the bedroom to pack. This was Cathy’s house, but my life was imprinted everywhere: the matching coffee mugs, the cozy throw blanket, the couple’s cutlery we’d picked out together. I only grabbed a few changes of clothes, then picked up my suitcase to leave. As I reached the front door, a flash of orange-and-white streaked toward me. Toby, the traitorous cat, planted himself squarely in the middle of the carpet, his round eyes fixed on me as if to block my exit. When I’d found him, he was filthy and malnourished. Now, his fur was glossy and thick. He looked the picture of health. I crouched down. Surprisingly, Toby didn’t pull away. I gently stroked his head. “I’m leaving now. She’ll take care of you.” I assumed he’d be happy with that arrangement. He preferred Cathy anyway. Unlike me, he never sought my affection. I peeled Toby’s claws from where they were firmly hooked into my jeans and ignored his sudden, frantic meowing, walking out with my suitcase. 3 I was outside the building when my phone rang. It was one of Cathy’s friends, her voice heavy with accusation. “Nolan, what did you do to Cam this time? She’s out drinking, and no one can stop her. She’s throwing things. Get down here and haul her home before she trashes my bar.” I felt a weariness that went bone-deep. “I don’t know why she’s angry. She walked in and just started smashing glassware.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by surprise. “You don’t know? She found out you had dinner with another woman, and that woman dropped you off at your hotel. Cam’s furious. She’s jealous.” I explained, “That was a client. The dinner was business, strictly professional. She drove me back because it was raining, and I couldn’t get a taxi.” So, that was the real reason. Cathy had always been this way. If I exchanged more than two words with another woman, she’d spiral into a jealous fit. I used to rationalize it, telling myself it was possessiveness born of love. But now, all I felt was exhaustion. “I could have explained everything, easily. But I don’t understand one thing.” My voice was quiet, aimed at the friend, but meant for Cathy. “Why does she tell you everything, but she won’t just ask me?” I once asked a buddy what he did when he fought with his girlfriend. He thought about it and said, “Depends on who’s wrong. We just wait for both of us to cool off, talk it out, and move on.” Cathy never did that. She bottled everything up. I was always left guessing what was wrong, forced to go through her friends for intel. I couldn’t fathom why she refused to communicate directly with me, why she preferred to vent to others instead of seeking clarity from her partner. Later, I learned the term for her behavior: emotionally withholding. Cathy was the most complicated, sensitive, and volatile person I’d ever known. She only knew how to retreat and push back, using veiled barbs and cold silence as her weapons. Everyone warned me people like that weren’t suitable for serious relationships. I didn’t believe them. I rushed in, heart blazing with hope. But now, I was lost. If a relationship always required one person to be the only active participant—the one who pursued, placated, and apologized—could it truly last? 4 I moved back to my own apartment. We might have avoided each other socially, but professionally, we still overlapped. We worked at the same research institute, though in different departments. During a project handover, I saw Cathy with a young man. He had bright, earnest eyes, a new graduate student named Finn O’Connell. Cathy’s eyes lit up the moment she saw me. But I didn’t look at her. I calmly handed over the documents and reports. Just as instantly, her warm expression chilled into aloof indifference. She brushed past me without a word, her gaze fixed straight ahead. I heard Finn, ever the curious gossip, whisper, “How did Professor Riley get that huge scar on her arm? It startled me when I first saw it.” Someone quickly supplied the backstory. “You’re new here. Professor Riley and Professor James—our Nolan—they were the golden couple. That scar is from an emergency drill back in college. She injured her arm carrying him. They say the injury kept her from qualifying for the pilot program she always wanted. That’s why she switched majors and ended up here.” Finn’s eyes widened with admiration. “That’s incredible. They really are a dream couple.” The workplace gossip flared up. Everyone praised Cathy’s sacrifice—giving up her dream for me, following me to the Institute. They lauded her devotion and expressed envy toward me. Our recent cold war was dismissed as playful bickering. “I bet Nolan is the first one to apologize this time.” “Last time, he bought us all lattes. What’s it going to be this time? I want the fancy macarons.” “I don’t agree. You’re cheating. Nolan always caves first. I’ll take that bet only if you back Cam to apologize.” I stood in the corner, listening to their laughter and assumptions. But they were all wrong this time. “Cathy and I have broken up. Please don’t mention it again.” My unexpected statement shut down the conversation instantly. Everyone looked at each other, then quickly dispersed. Our relationship was nowhere near the fairy tale they imagined. The constant arguments and emotional standoffs had left it deeply wounded and fragile without anyone noticing. I wanted to know: If I stopped trying to fix it, stopped fighting to keep it alive—what would Cathy do? Would she notice? Would she fight for me? Would she finally, just this once, apologize first? 5 A whole month passed. Cathy and I were like strangers, locked in a silent, exhausting battle of wills, neither willing to yield. Meanwhile, Finn and Cathy grew noticeably closer. They ate lunch together, left work together, and during the team weekend retreat, Cathy chose him as her hiking partner. Finn looked a little hesitant. “Are you sure this is okay? What about Nolan?” Cathy’s voice was sharp and cold. “We broke up, didn’t we? Why would I care what he does?” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Besides, he loves running off and having dinner with other women. I’m sure he’ll do the same on the mountain.” Suddenly, everyone was looking at me differently. I heard the murmurs. “She’s too good for him. He cheated on her, no wonder she broke up with him.” When I walked past, the gossiping cluster scattered. Later, going up the trail, Finn twisted his ankle. Cathy immediately abandoned the climb to tend to him. Finn apologized profusely. “I’m sorry, I ruined our hike. Now we’re last.” Cathy comforted him, her voice soft and gentle. “It’s fine. It was just a casual trip to relax. The ranking doesn’t matter.” I was walking further behind them. Since the number of attendees was odd, I hadn’t wanted to split anyone up, so I was hiking alone. I’ve never had great stamina, and I was already breathing heavily. The two figures ahead of me were cozy and harmonious. I even heard someone praise Cathy for being so responsible and nurturing. 6 Cathy was responsible and nurturing. She was polite and gentle with everyone… except me. Back in college, she was the student-body leader. During that emergency drill, everyone ran outside. She ran to me, hauling me up—my foot was in a cast from an injury a few days prior. The whole campus heralded it as an act of pure devotion. But what they didn’t hear was her spitting words at me. “Do you know how much trouble you are? Why did you even come to class with that foot? Now our whole group is last. Nolan, you are absolutely useless.” I wanted to tell her I had a medical exemption and wasn’t supposed to participate. But listening to her harsh criticism, I kept quiet, unwilling to provoke her further. Her friends later told me she was “speaking backward.” She was genuinely worried about my injury and wanted me to rest at home. They said she specifically tracked down a specialist to prescribe me the expensive herbal medicine. “She only made a hundred dollars a day at her part-time job, but your medicine was eighty dollars a dose. She bought a two-week supply without blinking.” My friend was envious. “She’s just complicated, but she truly loves you. That whole ‘ice queen’ act is the best kind of drama.” But seeing Cathy comfort Finn, I realized the bitter truth: She wasn’t incapable of warmth; she simply chose to reserve her kindness for everyone but me. I could hear about her love for me through the accounts of others, but I never felt it from her attitude. She only hurled cruel words, rolled her eyes, and gave me the cold shoulder. She called me clumsy, she called me shallow. She cut up a scarf a coworker gave me and smashed a gaming console a colleague loaned me. I always told myself she was just jealous, that she cared too much. So, after being repeatedly pushed away, after every refusal to communicate, I’d talk myself down. I would be the patient one, the proactive one, the one who apologized again and again. But even love, even enthusiasm, needs reciprocity. I wasn’t invincible in this relationship. I felt hurt, too. Emotional unavailability and a lack of love look so identical. I was so heartbroken I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Was Cathy truly just complicated, or had she stopped loving me? 7 I stopped walking and quietly dropped out of the retreat. I texted my boss, claiming I felt ill. Back at my place, I systematically gathered up everything Cathy had left behind, along with all the gifts she’d ever given me. I packed it all up and shipped it to her address. When I was done, I stared blankly at the sofa for a while. Then, I picked up my phone and typed three short words. “We are done.” Last time, it had been a desperate test, a small, fragile hope that she would ask to reconcile. But this time was real. I genuinely wanted to walk away.

The deal was simple. Cruel, but simple: My wife, Alisa, was a Traveler—a soul thrown into this world—and the only way for her to permanently stay was to successfully complete her mission: conquer the second Male Lead. But somewhere along the way of her mission, she fell in love with me, the actual Male Lead. She was caught between her survival, tied to the world’s directive, and the genuine affection she’d developed for me. A difficult choice, I thought at the time. Then I flew overseas to finalize a massive acquisition, only to be ambushed and snatched by an international criminal cartel. For three agonizing hours, I endured tortures that felt less like an interrogation and more like a depraved inventory—every piece of equipment they owned was tested against my body. In a momentary lapse of their attention, drowning in a pain that rendered me delirious, I managed to dial her number, a desperate plea for rescue. The line connected, but it wasn’t Alisa’s voice that answered. It was static, followed by her unconsciously picking up the call, allowing me to listen to her conversation with her secretary. “Ms. Sebastian, are you sure about this? Ordering the cartel to… put Mr. Hawthorne through that? It’s extreme.” Alisa’s voice was frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He won’t die. He can’t.” Once the secretary left, I heard her whisper to herself. “Noel is the Male Lead. He has the shield of the main character. He can’t die.” “This ordeal is the key—it breaks his narrative power, shifts him into Tristan’s role, the Male Lead 2. Once he becomes Tristan, the mission ends, and I get to stay and have him. It’s the only way to have both.” The words were a bucket of ice water, washing away the pain and replacing it with a bone-deep chill of understanding. The marriage, the love, the devotion—it was all a tactical play. When the thugs eventually dragged me, a broken, shivering mess, back to the torture rack, I offered no resistance. … The long, surgical needle pressed deep beneath my nail beds, but I barely reacted. I was numb. Not just from the pain, but from the utter emotional obliteration. “Damn, this guy’s tough as nails,” one of the thugs grumbled. “I’ve lost count of how many implements we’ve used. Not a single sound out of him.” The cartel leader frowned. “The employer said he must be brought to the brink of death. Repeat the last sequence!” After another relentless sequence of agony, the concrete floor was slick with my blood. Even the men administering the punishment looked uneasy. The leader, visibly unnerved, took a call. It was Alisa. “Ms. Sebastian, we’ve put this man through hell twice now. If we continue, he won’t make it,” he cautioned. Alisa instantly cut him off. “You have to keep going for three full hours! The torture cannot stop! And every man must take a turn on his… on his person. Ten cuts total, ten segments—not one segment less!” The leader glanced at my bloodied, unrecognizable form, a flicker of something that looked like pity in his eyes. “But, Ms. Sebastian…” “No buts. You took the money. Do the job. I promise you, he won’t die! How many cuts so far?” A raw, involuntary scream tore from my throat as a new wave of fire ripped through my body. “Ah!” Hearing my cry, she stopped the cartel leader from answering. “Enough,” she said, her voice catching with what I now knew was a performance of distress. “I can’t bear to hear his screams anymore. I’m… heartbroken.” Alisa inhaled deeply, her voice trembling slightly. “Do as we planned. Inject the virus into him last, then you can scatter.” Then, as if she couldn’t stand another second of hearing the echoes of my torment, she hung up abruptly. I knew exactly what “virus” she was referring to. I had traveled here a month ago for the deal. Before it was finalized, a lethal, rapidly spreading virus had caused the country to lock down. Alisa had shown up shortly after the outbreak began. I had been foolishly moved, believing she risked her life to be by my side. Now, I realized she had arrived early only to orchestrate this entire nightmare. The leader sighed, waving his hand for the men to continue. The next hour was a blur of suffering I can’t recall clearly, a period where my body ceased to feel like my own. When they finally lifted me off the rack, there wasn’t an inch of undamaged skin left, and I couldn’t even stand. The leader stepped forward, gripping my hair, and administered an injection into my neck. I was past feeling the prick of the needle, but I knew what he was doing. When the room finally fell silent, I opened my eyes. With the last ounce of strength, I focused on my left hand and forced the wedding band from my ring finger. I stared at the plain, platinum band. So many memories flashed through my mind. Our marriage was initially a strategic merger between the Hawthorne and Sebastian families. I was open to it, but Alisa fought it fiercely—after all, she was supposed to be conquering Tristan Bellweather. I had met with her, intending to break the engagement amicably. To my surprise, the moment she saw me, she reversed course. She insisted on marrying me. “I’m not impulsive, Noel,” she had said, her eyes wide and sincere. “I fell in love with you at first sight!” I had reservations about “love at first sight,” but she was so resolute, so beautiful, that I eventually agreed. It didn’t seem to matter who I was merged with. In the ensuing months, Alisa had proven her devotion in countless small ways, gradually melting the ice around my heart. She had placed this ring on my hand on our wedding day. She had told me it was a simple band because she’d made it herself, even sourcing the raw materials from a remote mine. Her sincerity had touched me deeply, and I had worn it ever since. Now, looking at it, I felt nothing but an absurd, choking mockery. This was Alisa Sebastian’s love. Ignoring the excruciating pain, I swung my arm. The ring, once a symbol of my devotion, arced through the dim light, struck the wall with a sharp, pathetic clink, and settled silently in the dust. I lay there, feeling the terrifying, subtle changes beginning inside me. The virus had begun its work. It was fast-acting, lethal, and started with crippling weakness and dizziness. It wasn’t instantly fatal, but that was if the body was intact and healthy. After three hours of unrelenting torment, my immune system was nonexistent. Injecting this now was a death sentence. The initial symptoms hit me like a sledgehammer. Within thirty minutes, I felt trapped between freezing cold and searing heat, my body racked by spasms. Without the counter-agent—the specific anti-viral vaccine—I had less than forty-eight hours to live. I had assumed the cartel wanted a ransom, given I was the CEO of the Hawthorne Group, worth billions. Instead, this entire horror show was orchestrated by my wife to turn me into Tristan Bellweather’s plot device. Tristan had been a constant shadow in our lives since the start of our marriage. I hated the man for his thinly veiled challenges, and the worst part was Alisa’s consistent defense of him. “Noel, you know I only interact with Tristan because of the World Will’s instructions. It’s the only way for me to stay here, for us to have a future. Please, just be patient with me.” “He’s only a friend, I swear. I love you, truly. Trust me, when this is over, I will make it up to you.” She had confessed everything about the Traveler premise on our wedding night. It was a fantastical, almost unbelievable story, but I loved her, so I chose to believe. For her, I had tolerated every provocation from Tristan. Alisa would always return with gifts and apologies, her eyes brimming with what I believed was genuine distress, begging for more patience. And I always forgave her. For our future. But this. This went too far. She had orchestrated my death. In that instant, the heart-wounding betrayal surpassed the physical agony. As my consciousness began to drift, I heard the rapid, panicked sounds of footsteps, followed by Alisa’s voice—a perfect blend of forced panic and manufactured distress. “Noel, stay with me! I’m getting you to the hospital now. You’re going to be fine!” She immediately directed her men to gently lift me onto a waiting gurney. Even with their careful movements, the raw pain was an oceanic wave, overwhelming everything. Seeing the grimace on my face, Alisa’s eyes welled up. She reached for my hand, then hesitated, unable to find an untouched spot to grasp. Suddenly, her gaze snagged on my bare finger. The lack of the ring made her body stiffen almost imperceptibly. She clearly wanted to ask about it, but seeing my condition, she swallowed the question. In this state, who would care about a piece of jewelry? She pushed down a flash of annoyance and leaned closer. “Just a little longer, Noel. We’re almost at the hospital!” Before, her concerned tone would have made me feel safe and cherished. Now, it made me sick. The pain in my body was a constant, searing reminder of the person responsible for it. Every ounce of love I had felt for Alisa curdled into a corrosive hatred. I clenched my fists, reopening the wounds on my hands, the sharp, distracting pain the only thing keeping the rising bile of hatred from consuming me completely. Alisa sat beside the gurney in the ambulance, her face etched with anxiety and pity. Looking at her tear-filled, concerned features, I found her utterly repulsive. If I didn’t know the entire sequence was her own macabre play, I might have believed she was heartbroken. My gaze hardened. My voice was cold, razor-sharp. “You had my GPS tracker. Why are you only showing up now?” The warehouse where I was held was only two blocks from the hotel. I had a subcutaneous tracker linked directly to her phone. She would have known my exact location the moment she checked. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Of course. She wasn’t nearby waiting for the timer to run out—she was waiting until the coast was clear. Hearing the caustic sound, Alisa flinched, assuming my bitterness was only about her delay. She looked contrite, tears spilling over. “I am so sorry, darling. It’s my fault. My phone broke while I was searching for you.” She reached for my face. “But I promise, you’ll have the best care. I’ll make sure you recover completely.” “And those savages who hurt you? They won’t get away with this!” I couldn’t stomach her hypocritical show any longer. I closed my eyes, seeking darkness to shut out her face. The ambulance sped to the nearest hospital. When the surgical team saw the state I was in—a body covered in blood—they gasped. They had never seen such extensive trauma. Inside the operating room, the doctors were visibly shaken. All my fingernails had been pulled out. My body was a roadmap of knife wounds, stab marks, burns, and needle punctures. It was a level of systematic cruelty that defied comprehension. Most people would have succumbed to despair after the first hour, yet somehow, I had survived. Just barely. Some of the nurses, overcome with emotion, wept silently, whispering curses against the inhuman kidnappers. Alisa waited outside. When the surgeon emerged, she rushed forward. The doctor removed his mask, sighing heavily. “It’s dire, Ms. Sebastian. The worst case I’ve ever seen. Thankfully, he maintained consciousness and possessed an unbelievable will to live. That’s why he’s alive now.” Relief washed over Alisa’s face. Then, the doctor’s expression turned grim as he described the extent of the physical damage. “The brutality of the perpetrators… Mr. Hawthorne… he is no longer whole. The injuries to his groin area were inflicted with such deliberate cruelty—ten distinct, severed segments. The damage is irreversible and beyond any current surgical repair…” Alisa’s face drained of color. She stumbled backward, hitting the wall. “Stop!” she cried out, cutting off the doctor’s sentence. She slid down the wall until she was on the floor, tears streaming down her face as she murmured, “Don’t say it… please don’t say it…” The doctor, believing her distress was due to her husband’s horrific suffering, decided to withhold the last piece of crucial information: the viral infection and the need for immediate vaccination. He figured he would simply have the nurse administer it shortly. When the anesthetic wore off, I woke up to Alisa’s concerned face hovering over me. A powerful wave of pure disgust and loathing surged through me, so intense it made my stomach churn. Unaware of my internal collapse, Alisa brightened, pressing the call button and immediately asking if I was in pain. Her fake concern felt like a physical violation. When the doctor arrived and finished his check-up, he turned to Alisa. “He’s stable, but we need to address the viral infection immediately. I’ll have the nurse come in with the vaccine.” At the mention of the virus, a flicker of panic crossed Alisa’s eyes, quickly followed by a strange, frantic motion as she ushered the doctor out. She returned to my bedside, whispering, “Don’t worry, once you get the shot, the virus will be harmless…” Just then, the door swung open, and a voice I equally despised chimed in. “Alisa, how is Noel holding up?” Tristan Bellweather walked in, an expression of studied worry on his face. But I saw the thinly veiled triumph dancing in his eyes. Alisa shook her head, unable to speak, then looked at the hypodermic needle in his hand, assuming it was the antiviral. Knowing Tristan had a medical background, she didn’t question it and quickly gave up her spot. “Why are you delivering it? Never mind. Give Noel the shot now, then I’ll arrange a flight for you back home.” Tristan frowned. “What about you?” Alisa gave me a look of staunch devotion. “I’m staying here until Noel is completely recovered.” I couldn’t stand her nauseating performance and turned my head away. Tristan sighed dramatically. “Alisa, I know how devoted you are, but you forgot about the mess waiting for us back home.” She met his gaze and remembered. Her sudden departure to execute this plan meant the Hawthorne Group’s board was already questioning her authority. She rubbed her temples wearily. “Fine. I’ll go back with you.” I laughed internally. Of course. Everything—the board, the company, the mission—was more important than me, her husband, who was fighting for his life. Alisa gave Tristan a few quick instructions, then left to contact the airport. The moment she was gone, Tristan slid onto the edge of my bed, intentionally pressing down on my wounded leg. I frowned, pulling my hand away. I refused to look at him. Tristan scoffed, his voice dripping with schadenfreude. “I never thought the great Noel Hawthorne would fall this far.” “How does it feel? To be crushed into the dirt?” I turned my head and met his gaze, my voice strained. “Even like this, she still hasn’t divorced me.” Tristan’s triumphant smile evaporated. He glanced at the syringe he had placed on the side table, then the grin returned, crueler than before. He picked up the needle. “Do you know what this is? This is a high-dose sedative. Enough to keep you asleep for at least twenty-four hours.” “Alisa told me to bring it. She needs that time to swoop in, steal the multi-billion-dollar medical contract you’ve been working on, and hand it straight to me.” My eyes widened in shock. “What are you talking about!” Our companies were fierce, equally matched rivals in the medical equipment sector. This contract would solidify the Hawthorne Group as the industry titan, completely eclipsing Tristan’s Bellweather Medical. I had spent two weeks working non-stop, even drinking myself to the point of a near ulcer with the client, to secure this. Alisa knew how critical this deal was to my legacy. How dare she hand it to him! Tristan reveled in my stunned expression. He knew he was running out of time, so he grabbed my wrist, pushed the needle into my vein, and emptied the syringe into my system. As the fog of the sedative overtook me, I heard Tristan’s voice, thick with exhilaration. “Noel Hawthorne, everything you have—it’s mine now!” Tristan’s intent was quickly thwarted. My body was too ravaged, the pain too overwhelming. I only slept for an hour before the agony tore me back to consciousness. I opened my eyes to see a fully masked doctor standing by my bed. The doctor looked confused. “I specifically asked the nurse to administer the antiviral shot. Why are you still presenting with such aggressive viral symptoms?” I gave a bitter, gasping laugh. “Because the vaccine was swapped.” The doctor’s eyes widened in horror. “What! Who would do such a thing? Swapping a vaccine at a time like this—it’s murder!” I gripped his sleeve, my voice thin and desperate. “Doctor, it’s only been seventeen hours since the injection. There’s still time. You have to give me the vaccine.” I would not die. Not until I made them both pay. The doctor’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. The hospital is completely out.” I yelled, despair rising in my chest. “How can you be out!” He sighed. “We’re not in the main infection zone. All remaining stock was rerouted to the areas with higher confirmed cases. The vial that was swapped… that was the last one.” I instantly thought of my rivals. “Tristan! Alisa! They haven’t boarded yet. Call my secretary, Harrison. He needs to intercept them!” The doctor understood the urgency. He nodded and rushed out to contact Harrison Cole. Infected and isolated, I could only wait, paralyzed by the fever and the pain. Ninety minutes later, Harrison returned, his face pale and etched with defeat. He stood outside the glass partition, shaking his head. “I tried, Mr. Hawthorne. I demanded the vaccine. Tristan insisted he had already given it to you.” “And Alisa!” I pleaded. “She was right there! She should have forced him!” Harrison looked away, a pained expression crossing his face. “Mrs. Hawthorne… she believed Tristan. She told me to tell you to stop playing games and that she would come back to you once her affairs were sorted out.” Rage blinded me. I swept everything from my bedside table, sending instruments and water flying. “Who needs her company! I hope she dies! I just need the vaccine!” The moment the words left my lips, a searing pain erupted in my chest, and I violently spat out a mouthful of dark, clotted blood.

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The day my sister, Rylee, ran off with Cruz, the low-life she was dating, I did what my parents, Helen and George, told me to do: I went to find her. I never thought I’d be the one dragged into a dark alleyway and brutalized by Cruz and his friends. Rylee passed out cold right there, a neat little heap of shock. Me? I was left a mess of torn skin and spilled blood, fading in and out of consciousness for ten months in the ICU. When I finally woke up, Mom and Dad were holding a newborn baby. I broke. I tried to take the baby and myself off our apartment building’s roof several times. I only stopped when my family, literally kneeling on the worn gravel of the rooftop, begged me to live. Rylee, my once-rebellious little sister, was inconsolable, swearing on everything she had. “Stella, I promise I’ll never make a mistake again.” Mom and Dad knelt with her, their voices thick with commitment. “Your uterus was removed to save your life,” Mom choked out. “We had to save your right to be a mother. That’s all that matters.” Dad’s hands were shaking as he spoke. “You just focus on rebuilding your life. We will raise Wyatt. You won’t have to do a thing.” But when I finally, tentatively, started to accept the boy’s existence—when I reached out to pull the blanket over him one night—Mom burst out of the kitchen. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she shoved me onto the floor. “Are you trying to hurt him? Can you really not tolerate this child?” “Your sister is already staying away because of you! What else do you want?” Then came the line that severed the last thread of my sanity. Her voice was flat, laced with pure, casual disgust. “You know, for someone who always felt like she was in Rylee’s shadow, getting to sleep with her man—even like that—you must have gotten some twisted satisfaction, didn’t you?” A flicker of contempt crossed her eyes as she scooped up the baby and walked away. My fingers trembled. I climbed the stairs to the rooftop for the thirty-ninth time. I didn’t look back. … 1 The sound was a hollow, sickening thud. My body hit the lawn by the first-floor entrance just as Mom stepped out of the elevator. She didn’t see me. She just heard the noise and muttered a curse. “What in God’s name was that awful noise? Don’t you dare scare my precious grandson!” She cooed to the child in her arms. “Wyatt, don’t cry, baby. Grandma is taking you far away from your mean mommy.” I drifted in the air, looking down at my broken, shattered body, a grim, pathetic smile playing on my lips. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard my mother’s true thoughts. The first New Year’s after Rylee left, Mom cried looking at Rylee’s empty chair at the dinner table. Later, after I’d gone back to my room, I heard her sighing to Dad. “Stella has grown up, I guess. She sends us money every month now.” “But no matter how hard I try, Rylee won’t come home. Money is hard to earn out there. Our little girl, who never lifted a finger, shouldn’t have to suffer like this.” “George, she’s afraid of seeing Stella. If Stella had just… died that day, maybe…” “Enough,” Dad snapped, cutting her off, glancing nervously toward my closed door. The second time was Wyatt’s second birthday. There was a rare burst of laughter in our small apartment. Dad closed down the diner early, and Mom lit the candles on a tiny, three-layer cake. But in the warm glow of the candles, looking at the child’s eyes—the exact shape and hue of Cruz’s—I was instantly pulled back to that dim alley. Cruz, Rylee’s boyfriend, leered at me. He snapped his fingers, and seven, then eight, then nine other thugs swarmed out of the shadows. Rylee fainted. I was trapped. They piled on top of me. They used shards of glass to slice my skin, and they used something else to tear into me. It was all a bloody, churning, sickening mess… And my family was celebrating the birthday of my rapist’s child. A wave of phantom pain seized me, and I started convulsing right there in the middle of the cheer. The smashed candles set a small fire on the cake, and Wyatt started to scream. Dad was frantic, trying to keep me from hurting myself. Mom looked at the red scalds on Wyatt’s arm and her face crumpled in agony. She sank to the floor, her voice a broken whisper. “George, when will we ever have a happy day again?” “Will it only happen when Stella…” Dad froze. His hand, pressing on my face, loosened for a second. But only for a second. He pressed harder, a tear dropping onto my cheek. “Stella, we didn’t consider your feelings. We are sorry.” “We will never celebrate Wyatt’s birthday again. We promise.” … Two years later, floating above them, I watched Mom carry Wyatt directly to the back office of our family diner. Dad, already waiting, pulled out a cake. It read: Happy 4th Birthday, Baby Wyatt. Dad eagerly took the boy, hugging and kissing his chubby cheeks. “How was it? Did Stella suspect anything?” he whispered. Mom gave him a smug, knowing look. “I intentionally picked a fight with her. She’s probably stewing in her room right now.” Dad sighed. “Well, let her sulk. We can’t ignore our grandson every year just to cater to her.” Mom nodded. “Her temper is getting worse every year. Ignore her. Come on, let’s sing for our little man!” Dad smiled mysteriously. “Hold on. We have one more person joining Wyatt’s party today.” As if on cue, a familiar voice rang out from the doorway. “Dad. Mom. I’m home.” 2 Dad, Mom, and I all turned our heads at the same time. Rylee stood in the doorway, carrying big bags. Four years. She was thinner, a little harder around the edges. Mom’s eyes instantly filled with tears. She rushed over and grabbed Rylee’s shoulders. “Rylee! You stubborn girl, why did it take you so long to come home? Your mother has been worried sick!” Rylee forced a strained smile. As soon as she sat down, the tears started to fall. “Mom, Dad. Something has been weighing on me for four years.” “The truth is, I didn’t faint that day.” I froze in the air, my mind exploding in a silent burst of shock. “I heard Stella calling out. I heard her screams. But they were like rabid dogs. I was so scared…” Before she could finish, Mom clamped a hand over Rylee’s mouth. “Silly girl, don’t say it. Your mother knows.” Now it was Rylee’s turn to stare, her eyes wide with shock. Mom wiped the tears from Rylee’s cheek. “When you were stammering and speechless at the police station, your father and I knew. We knew you couldn’t look your sister in the eye, and that’s why you haven’t come home.” “But we’ve made our choice. We have to keep up the lie. Don’t ever speak of this again.” Dad remained silent. He knew too. I hovered there, feeling as if I had been plunged into a freezing pit. Mom and Dad’s faces looked utterly alien to me. I had never expected them to openly favor me. Since the diner kept them busy, I was raised by relatives until I was five. Rylee had been with them since birth. Of course, they were closer to her. So I accepted it. The bigger of the two chicken thighs on the dinner table always went to Rylee. The prettier doll at Christmas belonged to her. But what Rylee had, I eventually had too. That was enough. I convinced myself that a slight tilt of the scales was normal. Now I knew the chilling truth. The weights had never once fallen on my side of the scale. After a long silence, Rylee dug into her bags and pulled out gifts: a massage device for Dad, a wool coat for Mom, and a learning tablet for Wyatt. Finally, everyone’s eyes went, by silent agreement, to one final, unopened gift. It was thin, like a piece of paper, but it was the heaviest object in the room. Rylee unwrapped it and placed it on the table: a bank card. “Mom, Dad, there’s fifty thousand dollars on this card.” Dad’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Where did you get that kind of money?” Mom’s hands trembled. The card seemed to scald her eyes, and she threw her arms around Rylee, sobbing. “My baby! How much suffering did you go through out there? We don’t need you to earn this much!” Rylee lowered her head. “Stella needs it.” “I came home because I made a decision. I want to formally adopt Wyatt as my son. I’m giving forty thousand of this to Stella as a clean slate fund, a dowry, so she can marry someone she loves without shame.” My heart plummeted. I looked at the bank card, my emotions a confusing storm. Mom shot up to her feet. “Absolutely not! A young, unmarried woman with a child? What will people say?” Rylee countered, “What will people say about Stella? She’s an unmarried woman with a child.” Mom banged her fist on the table in desperation. “It’s not the same! You’re different!” “How are we different?!” “She’s damaged goods! She was trampled by seven or eight guys! Who is going to want her?!” Mom shrieked the words, so loud that people passing by the diner peered in. Even as a ghost, I felt a white-hot spike of shame, as if I had been nailed to a cross of dishonor. The word “damaged goods”—coming from my own mother—felt like a hand squeezing my heart until it bruised. Dad rushed to pull down the rolling shutter. “Stop fighting!” “Rylee, keep the fifty thousand. For yourself.” Rylee tried to argue, but Dad cut her off. “Your sister’s wedding fund is taken care of. You’re not a child anymore. You need to focus on your own future.” “As for Wyatt, as long as your mother and I are alive, he is our responsibility. We made the choice to save him!” “If you insist on doing this, you are trying to kill your mother and me!” With that final declaration, Rylee’s throat bobbed. She asked the one question left. “Why did you make my sister carry the rapist’s child?” Mom reacted violently, slapping Rylee across the face. I knew the trigger. She was remembering me screaming that exact question at her. “He’s not my son! He’s the rapist’s son!” “I was unconscious! I had no choice! Didn’t you care about my life? I have to look at this abomination for the rest of my life!” Mom was trembling, distraught. She cradled the red mark on Rylee’s face. Her voice was thick with a twisted kind of devotion. “Your sister lost her innocence, Rylee. Her uterus was ruined. No one will ever truly claim her. If we don’t leave her this child, who will protect her? Who will take care of her when we’re gone?” “We are her parents! Would we ever hurt her? We did this for Stella’s own good!” That one crushing phrase—for Stella’s own good—choked the fight out of Rylee. 3 The three of them, each burdened by their own secrets, swallowed the birthday cake. The sweet cream felt like lead in their stomachs. On the walk home, no one dared to mention the matter again. Arriving at the apartment, Mom pushed the door open and announced, falsely cheerful, “Stella, your sister is home!” There was no response from my room. “That stubborn girl, sulking again,” Mom complained, her smile gone. “She’s a mother now, and still throwing tantrums.” Dad looked at the silent, closed bedroom door and the empty space around it. His voice was unusually stern, almost a command. “Stella, come out and greet your sister.” Still no response. Rylee started to walk toward the door, but Dad stopped her, his expression tight. “If she wants to sulk, let her stay there until she comes to her senses!” He raised his voice, making sure I could hear him. I longed to defend myself. But now, they couldn’t hear a word I said. That night, the dinner table was filled with a rare, strained laughter. Mom and Dad constantly piled food onto Rylee’s plate until it was a small mountain. Mom pulled out her phone and started scrolling through contact lists. “This is your Aunt Carol’s son. He’s in corporate finance, has a car and a condo. Take a look, is he your type?” “And this one, Mrs. Amanda’s nephew. Ivy League grad, bright future. You young people should get together for dinner.” As she scrolled through the photos, I watched Rylee. She had the simple, easy path I used to believe I had. Rylee offered polite excuses, her eyes constantly flickering toward my closed bedroom door. Late that night, after Mom and Dad had put Wyatt to sleep, Rylee got up to use the bathroom. The moonlight spilled through the window, lengthening her shadow down the hallway. Just like when we were kids and she’d upset me, she crept toward my door. She put her ear against the wood and tapped softly. “Stella, Sis, are you still mad at me?” she whispered. She slid the bank card through the gap under the door. “I’m sorry. Is this enough of an apology?” “Sis, we haven’t slept in the same room in ages. I miss you.” The old me, if I were still angry, would have angrily shoved the card right back out. But there was no movement from the room. Rylee assumed the silence was an assent. She giggled softly. “I knew you still loved me. I’m coming in.” She grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and her smile froze. The bed was empty. The room was deserted. 4 “Mom! Dad! Wake up! Stella’s gone!” Rylee’s frantic screams shook them awake. The three of them stared at the empty bed, confusion turning to panic. Mom was the first to lash out. “See? I told you! We spoiled her. Now she’s running away from home!” Dad was the first to realize the gravity of the situation. “Rylee, you didn’t say anything too harsh to her today, did you?” Mom’s eyes darted away. “No, no, of course not.” “I speak to her softer than I speak to the Virgin Mary. How could I have said anything out of line?” She was still more annoyed at my absence than worried about it. Rylee made a move to rush to the rooftop, but Dad blocked the door. “Don’t go. It’s not safe for you to be out there at night.” “Besides, we took her elevator key card months ago.” “And the stairwell…” He paused, a strange confidence settling on his face. “She won’t go up the stairwell. Not after what you left there for her.” Rylee’s frantic steps halted. She remembered. A confident smirk—part of her old self—returned. “You’re right. I know her better than anyone.” “She saw those notes. There is no way she went to the rooftop.” My heart clenched. I saw the image of the stairwell flash in my mind. Yes. They were this close to holding me back. But I looked at Mom’s face—a face already settling into an expression of weary indifference—and a wave of finality washed over me. Mom stretched and yawned, sounding exhausted. “Stop looking. She’ll come back tomorrow.” Rylee was still worried and insisted on checking the neighborhood. Mom’s temper flared. “What if you find her? Then what? Do we bring her back so we can walk on eggshells again?” “Let her go out and suffer in the cold. Let her realize how good she has it here.” “But Mom…” Rylee tried to argue. Mom slammed the door and locked it. “No one is leaving this apartment tonight to look for her!” “All the other grandmothers are beaming with pride, and I have to live in shame with this child. I am done catering to her moods!” The apartment fell into a chilling silence. Wyatt’s cries drifted from the bedroom, and Rylee’s anxiety only grew. Mom walked in to soothe the boy. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, baby. It’s all your bad mommy’s fault. She’s always causing trouble.” Just as she spoke, the landline in the living room rang. “Hello, is this the owner of unit 1205?” Dad frowned. “Yes. Why is your property management calling at three in the morning?” “Sir, our night patrol found a female body on the lawn. The police are already on site. We need you to come down immediately to confirm the identity…”

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