Author: Momo Chan

I saw the moment the transfer student slipped a foil packet into my childhood best friend’s pocket. He noticed me and offered a smirk. “Relax, bro. It’s not for me and your girlfriend.” Tessa explained, her voice already edged with exhaustion. “We ran out of the rubber sheaths we need for the lab experiment. This is a substitute. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Locke.” She was bracing herself for my usual display—the jealousy, the possessiveness, the scene she’d come to find both frustrating and entirely predictable. But I simply lowered my head, my expression vacant, and went back to my reading. Tessa didn’t know that the day she shared a single melting ice cream cone with Jax Riley, I had already decided to leave. As far as I was concerned, she had checked herself out of my life weeks ago. 1 “We’re using it for a science project, Locke. Don’t be unreasonable.” She preempted me, already rubbing the bridge of her nose as if preparing for the headache of my inevitable cross-examination. I hadn’t said a word. The only reason I’d even looked up was that their whispers had become too loud, disrupting my focus on the advanced calculus lecture I was streaming. I rewound the audio to catch the missed equation, pulled my earbuds back down, and tuned them out. Tessa froze. Jax nudged her with an elbow, his grin wide. “Did your boyfriend change his strategy? Realized being a tyrant doesn’t work, so he’s trying the silent, wounded act?” He spoke loudly enough for me to hear. “Go on, your little flame is waiting for you to comfort him.” “Comfort what?” Tessa snapped, her tone dripping with annoyance. “He’s not my husband. Go coddle him yourself.” “Ooh, strong words. Be careful, he might never speak to you again.” Tessa’s cold gaze landed briefly on the top of my head. “I pray he doesn’t.” Jax let out a laugh. “You’re a cruel girl, Tessa Harrington.” The classroom began to fill up, the ambient noise muffling their chatter. I checked the answer for my last listening exercise and got a call from Mr. Davies, our estate manager. “Mr. Montgomery, the paperwork is finalized. Your departure is scheduled for seven days from now. I’ve also forwarded Ms. Harrington’s recent activities to the Chairman.” “Good,” I replied, my eyes momentarily drifting to Tessa, who was now leaning in, whispering conspiratorially to Jax. He laughed, then—and I felt a flicker of the revulsion return—slipped his hand behind her shirt collar. I returned my focus to my notes, my voice calm. “After my mother reviews the situation, inform her to cancel the engagement agreement immediately. All joint ventures with the Harrington family are to be halted indefinitely.” 2 I left the Headmaster’s office. He’d been all smiles and obsequiousness after I confirmed that the funding for the new computer lab and gym equipment would proceed, even with my abrupt departure. I rounded the corner of the administrative hallway and ran straight into Jax and Tessa. “Tessa, what’s your rich boy doing coming out of the Headmaster’s office? Did he go full snitch over a tiny foil packet?” Jax adopted a mock-pathetic look and tried to drape his arm over my shoulders. “Come on, buddy. It was for a lab. We didn’t break any rules.” I pulled my arm away. A wash of purely aesthetic distaste came over me. “I’m not your ‘buddy.’ And my name is Locke Montgomery.” Jax blinked, then exaggerated a flinch. “I just thought it sounded friendly. My apologies, I shouldn’t have presumed to high-five a millionaire. Please, Locke, don’t report us. I’ll stop talking to Tessa if that’s what it takes!” Tessa had had enough. She stepped forward, placing herself between us, her eyes blazing with distinct accusation and impatience. “Locke, this is a high school, not the boardroom. Stop flexing your power. You need to go back inside right now and tell the Headmaster you were only joking. Jax and I are just friends. Our relationship is completely above board.” “It’s fine, Tessa,” Jax cut in, peeking over her shoulder with a pained look. “Everyone knows you two are the school’s golden couple. I shouldn’t have tried to befriend you.” He turned, looking heartbroken, about to storm off. Tessa grabbed his arm, her gaze fixed on me, radiating cold contempt. “Locke, do you know how disgusting you are? I’m a person, a free agent. Why do you need to chain me to you every single day, dictating who I can and can’t speak to? Did you buy me?” They’d left a gap in their rehearsed performance, and I finally had space to speak. I looked into the blatant disgust in her eyes and asked softly, “Didn’t I?” 3 I was born with a certain emotional flatness. Outside of my parents, I’ve always found it difficult to form genuine attachments. I was five years old when my father’s business rivals kidnapped me. While running away, I was cornered, nearly recaptured, when Tessa, who was just playing nearby, intervened. She distracted them, allowing me to escape, and she was the one who was caught and beaten—breaking two of her ribs. Later, in her hospital room, I surprised everyone. To my usually anxious and distant parents, I said, “I want Tessa to be my friend.” They were stunned. It was the first time I had ever expressed a desire for a companion. After a thorough background check on the Harrington family—a background check they passed easily enough, being respectable, if not wealthy—my parents enthusiastically agreed. Tessa’s parents, sensing the opportunity of a lifetime, were positively glowing. My mother came from old-money New England society. My father was the patriarch of a global financial empire. Their daughter, aligning with me, meant the Harringtons would skyrocket into the upper echelon of the DC/New York social scene. In the years that followed, Tessa’s parents never missed an opportunity to subtly push us together. My mother, seeing how my relationship with Tessa seemed to ease my social difficulties, eventually asked if I would consider making the arrangement permanent. I didn’t feel anything, but meeting my mother’s worried gaze, I nodded. I didn’t want my parents to worry about my small affairs. A quiet, verbal promise of an engagement, made during a holiday party, was all it took. That simple, non-binding agreement was enough to launch the Harringtons into the core circle of the East Coast elite. Tessa’s parents were ecstatic, constantly pressuring her to stay close to me, to keep me happy, terrified that I would change my mind. But as she grew older, Tessa changed. The girl who used to patiently read with me, the one whose eyes held genuine amusement and kindness, slowly replaced that warmth with visible annoyance and resentment. She hated it when people at school called us the “Golden Couple.” Then Jax arrived. The first time I saw him, he was sitting at my desk, rifling through the items I kept there. “Tessa, is your desk mate really a guy? He has so much stuff. And so many bright colors.” Tessa was leaning against the desk, a genuine smile playing on her lips as she looked at him. “He’s not like you, Jax. You’re messy and only like black, white, and gray.” Jax playfully swiped at her, accidentally knocking over my insulated tumbler. It hit the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces. Tessa saw me suddenly standing there and her smile vanished. “Jax just transferred in. He didn’t know better, Locke. Don’t make a big deal.” I looked only at Jax, my voice flat. “That tumbler was a limited edition. Twelve hundred dollars. I want payment within three days.” Jax scoffed, incredulous. “Twelve hundred dollars for a water bottle? Are you insane? You act like you’re some rich kid from a movie!” Someone nearby whispered, “He is a rich kid from a movie. His family donated the new Arts Center and half the STEM wing.” Jax’s face flushed a deep crimson. He stammered, “C-come on, I didn’t mean to! Why should I have to pay?” He tugged at Tessa’s sleeve. “Tessa, your friend is a snob.” Tessa frowned. “Locke, he didn’t do it on purpose. And twelve hundred dollars is nothing to you. Stop being so aggressive.” “Fine. You pay for him, then. Twelve hundred dollars. Transfer it now.” Tessa’s face hardened. “Seriously? For a cup? You’re unbelievable.” “Unbelievable, but serious,” I said, meeting her gaze. “My family’s money is not Monopoly money.” With the rest of the class watching, Tessa was forced to transfer the funds. Once the transaction was confirmed, she started gathering her books. “Jax, you wanted me to tutor you? I’m moving. I’m taking the desk next to yours.” She said it to Jax, but she was looking at me, clearly expecting me to beg, to plead for her to stay. I merely stepped aside, giving her more room to move. She paused, then, fueled by a renewed rush of anger, she slammed her books down on the empty desk next to Jax. I watched her go, and in that moment, I knew I had to find a way to let her go for good. My life was complicated enough. If I couldn’t have a genuine friend, I didn’t need a transactional one, either. 4 The Headmaster, on his way out, smiled as he passed us. “Ms. Harrington, are you also in line to file your withdrawal paperwork?” Tessa looked confused. “Also? Where are you going, Locke?” “A program. Overseas,” I said neutrally. The Headmaster’s eyes flickered, then he seemed to understand and only offered a few final words of academic encouragement before leaving. Back in class, our English teacher began announcing the recipients of the Quarterly Improvement Scholarship—a fund specifically designed to reward the most improved students. While the teacher droned on about grading curves, I heard Jax whisper thanks to Tessa. “Tess, thanks for the tutoring. I’ll take you to dinner once I get the money.” Tessa smiled. “It’s nothing.” But the teacher read out another girl’s name. Jax shot up, forgetting himself. “Wait! It’s supposed to be Paige Stevens?” The teacher frowned. “Any disputes can be settled after class. Do not interrupt the lecture.” After the bell, Jax chased the teacher down and returned to his seat, eyes red-rimmed and miserable. “So much for the rich having a heart, huh?” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. The class surrounded him, asking what happened. Jax walked directly up to my desk, his expression a mask of wounded pride. “Locke, I know your family set up this scholarship, but you can’t be this vindictive. Just because Tessa and I got close, you changed the name to punish me. How can you be so unfair?” The entire class gasped. The eyes on me shifted from neutral curiosity to judgment. I looked up from my book. “Did the teacher tell you that, specifically?” Jax’s eyes darted away. “Do you think I’m lying? Everyone knows Tessa doesn’t bother with you anymore, and you have that engagement hanging over her head. Of course, you’d try to hurt me.” He lowered his voice, making it sound desperate. “I know you don’t need the money. You don’t understand what it’s like to be poor, but I really need that few thousand dollars. I’ll stop seeing Tessa. I’ll give her back to you. Just give me the scholarship.” Tessa, who had just returned from the hall, watched Jax’s pale, distraught face, and her expression softened with pity. “Locke, if you have a problem, take it out on me, not him.” Bully him? A rare surge of genuine emotion—disgust—prickled beneath my skin. “First,” I said, my tone deadly quiet, “I don’t stoop to bullying anyone.” “Second,” I shifted my gaze to his face and held up my phone, which was clearly recording, “I have the right to report you for slander and defamation.” Jax froze, his face draining of color. He mumbled something and tried to hide behind Tessa. “It’s fine,” he whimpered. “I can’t fight the elite. Let Paige Stevens have it. Maybe it’s good for me to realize how the world works.” Tessa’s eyes shone with sympathy. “Locke, Jax improved his grades by over 100 points. You can’t involve other people in our spat.” “We are living, breathing people, Locke, not props for your controlling games!” I was about to respond when a quiet, usually shy girl in the back row abruptly stood up. Her eyes were red, and her entire body was shaking with nerves. She walked over, stared directly at Jax, and spoke, her voice trembling but firm. “Locke Montgomery has not abused his power. This scholarship is mine, and I earned it.” She took a shaky breath. “My parents passed away, and my grandmother is in a nursing facility. We rely on government aid. Locke’s family only set up this particular fund after he learned about my situation.” “Even so, I struggled with my grades. I didn’t receive it for two years. But this semester, I raised my score by 109 points and my class rank by over 300 places. I worked hard. I deserve this.” “Hundreds of students benefit from the Montgomery Foundation’s grants every year. Mr. Montgomery does not deserve to be slandered like this!” Paige’s face was beet red, and tears streamed down her cheeks. 5 The classroom fell silent. Then, the low murmurs began. “Locke is aloof, but he’s never condescending or cruel.” “Right? That fund gives six thousand dollars four times a year. Hundreds of students across the school benefit. That’s genuinely kind.” “Paige is quiet, but she doesn’t fight for attention. If she improved that much, she deserves it.” The consensus quickly shifted to Paige and me. Jax’s face went through several shades of white and red before he couldn’t stand it anymore. He muttered an apology to Tessa and ran out of the room. Tessa looked at me, her expression a confusion of guilt and contempt. “Even if you didn’t manipulate the outcome, did you have to humiliate him like that? We’re all classmates.” I lifted my head, my patience snapped. “Tessa, you truly have no self-awareness.” I had never used such a sharp tone with her before. In the past, I’d tolerated her behavior to a point, seeing her as a necessary, if flawed, social buffer for my parents. This was the first time I’d directly challenged her. She was clearly humiliated, her face flushing crimson. She spat out, “You’re impossible!” and stormed out. Jax and Tessa skipped the remaining two classes. Due to the time difference, my mother’s notice hadn’t reached the Harrington family yet. That evening, after my usual routine of washing up and reading a financial journal, I received a text from an unknown number. It was a photo of several torn foil packets scattered on a bed, paired with a message: [You stole my scholarship, so I stole your woman. Idiot. Did you actually believe we were using these for chemistry?] I had expected it, but seeing the visual proof made my stomach clench with cold, clean disgust. I didn’t reply. I simply screenshotted the image and text and sent it to Mr. Davies. [Attach this to the official termination of the engagement agreement when you send it to the Harringtons.]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390766”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The news broke online that I was merely one of Damon Maxwell’s thirty-eight mistresses, a counterfeit Mrs. Maxwell. I was eight months pregnant at the time, busy running damage control for Damon after his latest round of leaked bedroom photos with a twenty-two-year-old model. Everyone in the Elite East Coast Circle called me the most professional PR Queen, the ultimate fixer. My husband’s scandals would fly, and I would clean up the wreckage without a tremor in my voice or a hitch in my stride. I’d handled hundreds of crises for Damon, sending out countless cease-and-desist letters and hush money checks to women he’d slept with. I just never imagined I would become the object of the public relations crisis myself. When I finally tracked Damon down, he was naked with Sally Bell in the sun-drenched nursery I had spent three months designing for our baby. Used condoms littered the plush, pastel rug. Seeing me, the man who was typically too lazy to lift a finger shushed me. “Take it outside, Jules. Sally is a light sleeper.” I didn’t react, only asking calmly, “Do you need me to handle today’s news?” Damon chuckled, recalling the photos Sally had posted—photoshopped wedding pictures, of all things. “Be a good girl, Juliet. Sally is fragile. Don’t ruin her fantasy.” “Understood,” I said. I turned and issued the statement online. [I confirm that Mr. Maxwell and I are not married. I wish Mr. Maxwell a very happy new beginning.] The public response was a bonfire of mockery. Damon, however, was satisfied, pulling me closer. “Once you deliver the baby, we’ll hold the official wedding you’ve always wanted.” I didn’t answer. He didn’t know that once I delivered this child, the ten-year debt I owed the Maxwell family would be repaid in full. And the man who had waited a decade for me was finally coming home. Someone had already planned my wedding. … The man on the other end of the line was ecstatic. “Jules! You finally said yes to me!” “Wait for me! I’m taking the first flight back to marry you!” Hanging up, I realized Damon had appeared behind me. “Did you take care of the press? Is it handled?” he asked. I looked down at my contact list. The screen was a long scroll of journalists, editors, and lawyers. I hadn’t realized I hadn’t made a personal call in years. My life had been revolving around his crises for so long, I had no friends left to call. It was no wonder Damon assumed I was talking to a reporter. Seeing my silence, he frowned slightly, leaning closer. “What are you looking at?” I pressed the power button, dismissing him. “Nothing important.” Behind him, staff carried in a mountain of designer bags and boxes—luxury goods, many of which I had long coveted but could never bring myself to buy. Seeing the smug satisfaction on his face, I automatically reminded him, “I’m due any day now. I can’t exactly fit into any of that—” Before I could finish, Damon was already directing the staff excitedly. “Tear down the crib. Convert the nursery into a walk-in closet. Put all this in there.” Then, he held out his hand to me for a key. “Sally went home to pack. She loves this place. Jules, you need to move out for now.” I froze for a moment, convinced I had misheard him. “What did you say?” Damon’s smile was careless as he met my reddening eyes. He handed me a property deed. “A bonus for your hard work on this latest mess.” I watched the staff gut the apartment that had been our home, even tearing down the drapes I had personally chosen. The sudden, unfiltered afternoon sunlight was blinding. I remembered the first time Damon and I walked into this apartment. The sun had been just as bright. He had pressed the key into my hand, the notoriously lazy East Coast heir looking me in the eye with a rare seriousness. “Juliet, this is your home now. No one will ever kick you out.” I had confided in him, obliquely, that my mother and I had been thrown out of our home years ago. He knew that the one thing I wanted most was a safe haven. He gave it to me. I fell in love with him for the security he offered in that moment. That feeling had fueled me for ten years. It sustained me through every night he didn’t come home. It weathered the endless parade of women who challenged me. It endured the relentless scrutiny and sneers of the elite. Now, he was asking for the key back. Ten years later, I was being thrown out again. It doesn’t matter, I thought. I was leaving anyway. I handed him the key, took the deed, and walked out. Damon looked surprised by my lack of drama. I wasn’t the picture of stoic composure the media painted me to be. Every time he cheated, I had fought him like a maniac. I had threatened to end my own life. Each time, Damon had only soothed me lightly, tossing me a few checks or a piece of jewelry. But this time, I had no energy to fight. I had been resigned to staying—for the baby—to become the dignified society wife. Damon could have slept with anyone, but not Sally Bell. She was the living, breathing evidence of Victor Bell’s betrayal. Sally and her mother had driven my own mother to her death. When my mother fell from the thirty-second-floor window, her eyes were wide and staring. I knew she died filled with burning, unforgiving resentment. Damon grabbed my wrist. His fingers instantly recoiled, however, when they touched the crisscross of old, mottled scars. He scowled, unable to hide the brief flash of revulsion. Meeting my gaze, a flicker of guilt crossed his face, a look I rarely saw. “I’ll have the driver take you. The new house gets great light too. You’ll love it.” I nodded calmly. Halfway there, the driver suddenly looked back. “Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. Maxwell wants us to return to the apartment.” When I walked back in, the air was thick with smoke. The household staff stood nervously along the walls. Damon was standing over a scorched, ruined pot, his face a grim mask. Seeing me, he urgently pulled me into the kitchen. “Juliet, you need to show me how to make that soup you used to make for me.” I looked at him, truly seeing him. I watched him sweat nervously as he turned on the gas burner, struggling against his long-held phobia of fire. He was meticulously trying to cook a meal for his beloved, all because of one casual post in her social feed: “If someone could deliver a bowl of hot soup on this cold day, I’d owe him everything!” And so, Damon Maxwell, the man who had never done a household chore in his life, was awkwardly attempting to make soup for a flippant social media joke. A few days earlier, I had slipped and fallen in this very kitchen. Damon had kept his distance, acting as if he hadn’t seen anything. Later, he had posted the security footage of me struggling to pull myself up to a restricted social circle, a circle that purposefully excluded me. He had captioned it, “Looks like a stupid pig rolling around on the floor.” I silently prepared a fresh pot of soup for him. He was absorbed, intently listing every step in his phone’s notepad. His ringtone chirped. He answered without a second’s hesitation. My eyes fell on his screen. The contact name for the incoming call was listed as: “Wife.” A moment of dizzying realization hit me. If Sally was his wife, then who was I? As Damon walked out onto the balcony, cradling his phone, I instinctively called his number. I heard the rapid busy signal. He had blocked me. I laughed a quick, self-deprecating laugh and hailed a car. Lorelei Maxwell, Damon’s mother, was waiting for me at the family’s estate. She sighed when she saw me. “Juliet, you promised you would stay for the baby…” I didn’t let her finish. I placed the finalized divorce agreement on the table and looked her in the eye. “Mom, according to our agreement, once I produce an heir for the Maxwell family, the debt for my mother’s medical expenses will be nullified.” “My due date is in three days. Let me go after the birth.” Ten years ago, I met Damon at a dive bar. He was the reckless heir to an East Coast dynasty; I was a temporary dishwasher in the kitchen. He saw me once and chased me for eighteen months. His mother found me when my mother’s prognosis was terminal. She told me I was the only woman Damon had ever truly been obsessed with. She offered me a proposition: Marry Damon, manage him, and give the family an heir. The payment: All of my mother’s future medical bills. I agreed without hesitation. After the wedding, Damon and I had a brief, intensely sweet period. Then, he grew bored. Like all the women before me, I became the ‘mosquito on his chest’—the thing he took for granted. Seeing my resolve, Lorelei finally nodded. “Damon is the one without luck.” “After the birth, I will arrange your release.” As I walked out of the estate, Damon, for the first time ever, posted a personal update. He must have forgotten to block me. The video showed him smiling with deep, doting affection. “Formal apology to my Wife. I missed the agreed-upon soup delivery time by one minute.” “My punishment is a lifetime of making soup for her.” The video quickly went viral. My social media mentions exploded in a new round of digital abuse. [Oh, so she really was the fake Mrs. Maxwell. The untamable Damon never posted sweet stuff like this for her!] [A mistress being this arrogant? Our Sally must have the patience of a saint!] [Bitch! How dare you try to take Sally’s place as the main squeeze? Why don’t you just die!] [PR Queen? Pfft. More like a dirty whore!] I closed the app. A text from an unknown number came in. [I’m coming to your place tonight. Will be home late.] Ten years married, and this was the first time Damon had proactively messaged me his plans. It was from a burner phone. Was he worried Sally would see it and get upset? I didn’t reply. A minute later, the text came again. [It’s Damon Maxwell.] I lowered my eyes and blocked the number. I drove to the old, tiny apartment my mother and I had rented years ago. A notification popped up. [That was me. Why aren’t you responding?] Damon had removed me from his block list. I saw he had changed his profile picture. It was a candid shot of a girl in profile, smiling radiantly in front of a grand manor. The house was the one where I had lived for eighteen years. I blocked him again. I lay down on my mother’s narrow bed and, for the first time in weeks, slept soundly. I was woken by a loud knocking in the early morning. I opened the door to Damon, who was scowling fiercely, clutching a massive bouquet. “Why aren’t you answering your texts?” he demanded. “You didn’t have to run away if you didn’t want to move. You could have just said so.” He handed me the flowers, a gesture of grudging forgiveness. I didn’t take them. I looked him in the eye, unable to contain the question. “Ten years, Damon. Did you ever realize I’m severely allergic to pollen?” The shock on his face quickly morphed into a dark, angry color. He threw the bouquet away in a fit of pique. “Juliet Abbott, enough already. I was just fooling around with a minor celebrity. It’s not the first time. Why are you so damn dramatic?” He glanced dismissively at my large stomach. “You don’t think having a kid is going to give you leverage over me, do you?” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to his car, ignoring my protests. “Fine, you don’t want to move, I won’t force you. Just come home with me.” I sat in silence, scrolling through my phone. Sally had updated her social media again. She was sitting inside a heart shaped by a sea of red roses, holding a property deed. The caption: [I told him I didn’t want someone else’s leftovers, so my hubby bought me a gorgeous penthouse with a river view. This silly man even snipped the stamens off all 999 roses because he knows I’m sensitive to pollen!] I clutched my chest, trying to suppress the wave of sour despair. My baby, sensing my distress, began to kick violently. Damon saw my troubled expression in the rearview mirror. He slowed the car. “What’s wrong?” I gasped out, “Stomach pain. I need to go to the hospital.” Damon immediately turned the car toward the nearest emergency room. Then his phone rang. A soft, tearful voice came through the speaker. “Damon, darling, my period just started, and my cramps are awful. Could you please come be with me?” He slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched a sickening sound. The seatbelt bit painfully into my abdomen. I was drenched in cold sweat. The next second, Damon unlocked my seatbelt. His voice was urgent. “The hospital isn’t far. Just take a cab from here.” Clutching my stomach, I gritted my teeth. “Take me first. It won’t take long—” He cut me off, shoving me out of the car. He sounded impatient. “A young girl’s pain is real, Jules. She can’t handle it. Not like you…” The car sped away, tires eating the pavement right next to me, the wind whipping away the end of his sentence. I fumbled for my phone to call 911. I managed to give the address before the pain overwhelmed me, and I passed out. When I woke up, it was the middle of the night. The doctor’s expression was grim. “A little later, and we would have lost both the mother and the child.” “The baby is breech. We have to do an emergency C-section. Where is your family? We need a signature.” I was reaching for my phone to call Damon when he burst into the room. I had rarely seen such a look of naked desperation on his face. He violently yanked me off the bed. “I need your help with something.” The IV needle was ripped clean out of my arm. Blood pulsed onto the sheets, but Damon didn’t notice. I struggled, fighting the intense pain, but Damon pushed me toward his security detail. “You take a separate car. Sally is in mine. She doesn’t like the smell of the hospital on you.” When I was dragged into the private dining room, everyone looked at me with smirks and knowing smiles. Franklin Calder, the man seated in the center, smiled a little too broadly. “Long time no see, Mrs. Maxwell. Oh, wait, I suppose I should call you Ms. Abbott now.” Seeing the man, my body began to tremble uncontrollably. I instinctively hid behind Damon. But he pushed me forward. He whispered, low and fast, “Sally has a movie deal stuck because of Calder. He specifically requested you to be the one to seal the deal.” “Jules, get this for her, and I promise I’ll never look at another woman outside again.” I stared at him, unable to breathe, barely finding my voice. I whispered, “You forgot? He almost sexually assaulted me ten years ago.” Damon dismissed it with a shrug. “But he didn’t, did he?” Before I could react, he had pushed me down into the seat next to Franklin Calder. Calder’s greasy eyes roved over me. He offered me a glass of champagne. “Since Ms. Abbott is here, would you do me the honor?” I refused coldly. “I can’t drink.” I tried to stand up, but Damon’s hand clamped down on my arm. Sally leaned into Damon’s ear, crying plaintively. “If Juliet won’t help me, I’ll just toast Mr. Calder myself.” Damon immediately snatched the glass from her hand. “Absolutely not. You’re too young to drink.” Then, he turned a dark, angry face toward me. “I asked the doctor. You can eat anything before delivery. It’s just one toast. Stop being a drama queen.” At that moment, a deafening ringing filled my ears. When I married him, I was Sally’s age. To close a deal or cover a scandal for him, I attended countless parties like this. I went from never drinking to having stomach bleeds. And now, heavily pregnant, he didn’t spare a single thought for me. Calder suddenly lunged forward, forcing the bottle into my mouth. “Ms. Abbott is still so proud. I guess I’ll have to feed you myself.” I choked, struggling, my eyes locked on Damon. He didn’t even look at me. He was calmly and meticulously peeling shrimp for Sally. Bottle after bottle was poured down my throat amidst the drunken laughter of the room. My consciousness flickered, only to be dragged back by the wrenching pain in my abdomen. A hand forcefully grabbed and squeezed my breast. The horror of that terrifying night years ago flashed through my mind. The dark room. The fat man’s hands roaming my body. SLAP! I instinctively lashed out, striking the man in front of me. The room fell silent. Calder chuckled, holding his cheek. “I guess Ms. Abbott isn’t interested in this partnership.” Sally immediately clung to Damon’s arm, whining. “Damon, darling, if I lose this movie, the whole industry will laugh at me!” Damon finally set down the shrimp shell. He looked at me blankly. “Apologize to Calder.” When I didn’t move, Damon signaled to his bodyguards. “Make her kneel and apologize to Mr. Calder.” Sally, eager to please, chimed in. “I heard Mr. Calder likes to watch animal tricks. Maybe Ms. Abbott could crawl around like a dog for him?” The men in the room roared with laughter, encouraging her. I looked at Damon, tears streaming down my face. “Damon Maxwell, I’m carrying your child. Please, let me go.” Perhaps the sheer agony in my eyes stunned him. He froze. I swayed, forced myself up, and staggered toward the door, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. But the moment I reached the doorknob, Sally dramatically chugged a glass of wine, coughing violently. “Mr. Calder, don’t be mad. I’ll drink with you.” Damon furiously snatched the glass away. “No! You’re not drinking!” From behind me, his voice, cold and sharp as ice, sliced through the air. “Stop. Who said you could leave?” He pulled out a familiar jade locket, laying it on the table. “Get this deal for Sally, or else…” The locket was the last remaining possession my mother had given me before she died. I resigned myself. I sank to my knees and began to crawl around the perimeter of the room. Blood continued to seep out, soaking my pants. They cackled. “Look at the dog in heat! She’s peeing on the rug!” “Yeah, yeah, she says no, but in the end, she still becomes Calder’s bitch.” My vision grew hazy, and I could no longer move. The severe abdominal pain was a constant, blinding fire. Franklin Calder walked toward me, smiling, and ordered his men to hoist me up. He addressed the room. “You’re all too much. Ms. Abbott is pregnant. Don’t tease her so badly.” “I’ll take Ms. Abbott to the room next door to rest.” I fought to keep my eyes open, whispering Damon’s name. I saw him embracing Sally, kissing her passionately. I closed my eyes in absolute despair. I used every last ounce of my strength to twist the diamond ring—the one I had worn for ten years—off my finger. I threw it onto the floor. In the dark room, the greasy man leaned over me. “You little bitch. If Damon Maxwell hadn’t had your back all those years ago, I would’ve had you then.” “He’s done with you now. He just sold you to me.” The moment my clothes ripped, the man above me cried out in pain and collapsed. A strong pair of arms lifted me in the darkness. “I’m sorry, I was late.” … The next morning, Damon’s hotel room door was kicked open. Lorelei Maxwell walked in, her face etched with a dark fury, clutching an infant. She slapped Damon hard across the face, several times. Woken abruptly, Damon was about to lash out, but he stopped when he saw his mother. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Lorelei shoved the baby, purple and lifeless, into his arms. “Look at your child before I take him for cremation.” Sally screamed at the sight. Damon stared at the infant, a terrible panic rising in his chest. Just then, news broke that the Maxwell family’s illegitimate son, who had been raised abroad, had returned home and announced his engagement. When Damon registered the familiar name in the article, he bolted out the door.

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The boy I grew up with, the one who was supposed to be my childhood sweetheart, was nice to every girl in our orbit. Except me. We were playing a round of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ and when one of the other girls giggled and simply smiled at him, he immediately jumped in as her “Black Knight,” downing her drink for her. Then he pointed at me. “Croft, ten laps around the field, or down this shot. Your choice.” When someone started to intervene, he stopped them with a hard stare. “Laney’s got two legs, two hands. She can manage a dare, can’t she?” The time he designed the custom spirit wear for the whole junior class for Field Day—he made a shirt for everyone but me. He just snickered. “The princess doesn’t need to slum it with the rest of us in this trash, does she?” But the one time I actually wore a different top to school, a simple, non-uniform sweatshirt, he crumpled the water bottle in his hand, his eyes burning. “Are you two seriously wearing matching clothes, you little—” 1. Our class had forty-nine students, but the box of custom Field Day hoodies only held forty-eight. The class representative for the Spirit Week committee was supposed to handle the order, but Lachlan Wilder—Lock—had taken over. He stood at the front of the room, slapping his hand down on the podium. The whole class snapped to attention. “Alright, Field Day is next week,” he announced, his voice carrying the easy confidence that made him the unofficial King of our high school. “The school is making us all wear matching gear for the opening rally. My dad knows some hot-shot designers. I took care of the whole thing. What do you guys think?” The initial silence broke into a flurry of cheers. Everyone knew he had the connections and the money to get something genuinely cool, not the usual cheap merch. Lock lifted his gaze, lazily skimming the room until his eyes caught mine. My pen froze above the margin of my notebook, and a cold dread settled in my gut. Lock had changed since middle school. The kid who used to cry if I went anywhere without him, the one who needed to hold my hand in the hallway, had become an expert in subtle cruelty. It started with the teasing. When anyone showed interest in me, he made sure to broadcast it to the entire school, turning it into a punchline. His best friend, Zack, would sometimes chime in, “Hey, Laney, heard some sophomore has a crush on you. Can’t have that, can we?” “You’re our Lock’s future wife, after all. What if you get stolen?” Lock would usually just kick Zack’s chair, looking annoyed. “Shut up, man. I’m not interested in soft girls like her.” Yet, I remembered the afternoon when he was seven, pleading with our parents for a “childhood betrothal.” He’d even snuck his mother’s heirloom gold jewelry out of their safe. “Here,” he’d whispered, pressing a small, intricate gold charm into my palm. “Mom says you need a five-piece set to get married. These are the down payment.” He got grounded for a month that night, but the pact, at least in our childish minds, was sealed. His cruelty escalated from verbal jabs. He started “forgetting” my portion whenever he bought the class pizza, or getting the group text for our study sessions wrong, always telling me to show up an hour late. At first, I’d bite my lip, trying to hold back tears. He’d ruffle my hair and murmur in my ear, “Don’t cry, Little Lane. I just thought you needed to rest a little longer.” Once, twice… After a while, I realized it wasn’t forgetfulness. He was deliberately excluding me, deliberately messing with me. My mother, blissfully unaware, would just say, “Laney, he always makes it up to you later, doesn’t he? And no one ever actually says anything mean to you at the meetings, right? He’s just a teenage boy, trying to get your attention, and totally failing at it. He cares about you more than he lets on, sweetie. You should talk to him.” 2. The talk ended with a basketball whizzing past my head, missing by inches. I flinched. His face was flushed—from anger, or heat, I couldn’t tell—and his lips were pressed into a furious line. “Who the hell wants you to look at me, Laney?” he spat. “I have a line of people chasing me. Stop making everything about you. Stop thinking you’re that special. It was a damn mistake. I told you, my memory sucks. You’re the one who’s psychoanalyzing everything because you want to be my wife so bad.” He walked away stiffly, but then spun back, his brow furrowed with rage. “And for the record, Delaney,” he snarled, “I’ve been looking at you for years. I’m sick of looking at you. And I will never like you.” That night, I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. Every promise he made as a boy—I had believed every word. And I was truly, hopelessly in love with him. As schoolwork piled up, I buried those feelings. But now, seeing the class representative counting the spirit wear, she whispered an embarrassed question. “Wait, there’s one missing again?” I sat frozen, unable to grip my pen, and met Lock’s gaze. His eyes held a flicker of cynical amusement. 3. The low murmur of the class suddenly felt amplified. “It has to be Laney’s again.” “Lock seems so cool and collected with everyone else. He helped me to the clinic when I twisted my ankle. Why is he always so awful to Laney?” “Thank God it’s not me. I’d be mortified. The whole class has one but you? I’d spend all night wondering what I did wrong.” The conversations triggered a sharp memory. Just last week, I’d overheard Lock and Zack talking by the gym. Zack had been laughing. “Lock, messing with Laney is hilarious. She’s like a little rabbit when she deals with you. You bully her, and she just looks at you with those big red eyes. Honestly, the look on her face—I swear, it’s kinda hot.” Zack was immediately slammed against the lockers with a heavy kick. “You stay the hell away from her, Zack. She’s my punching bag. Only I get to mess with her.” Someone else pressed the issue. “Why, man? You got a thing for Laney?” “Go to hell! I hate looking at her, that’s why! She’s always hovering, always smiling at you guys. Every time I see it, I just feel this gut-wrenching fury.” “But dude, we’re in the same class.” The second guy was also shoved hard. In an instant, everything clicked into place. This wasn’t the “special attention” my mother had talked about. This was simple, possessive, mean-spirited fun. My blood ran cold. My teeth started to chatter. Cruelty, I realized, always leaves a trail. Lock finished handing out the hoodies and sauntered over to my desk. “Princess can’t possibly wear this garbage, can she?” I looked up at him, and a strange, liberating calm washed over me. I smiled, genuinely. “You’re right. The trash you’re handing out? Trust me, I already threw mine away.” 4. A collective gasp went around the room. Lock’s eyes narrowed, turning a dangerous, bloodshot red. No one dared to speak. The silence was broken only when Briar Jennings, the class beauty from the junior section across the hall, waved from the window, calling Lock’s name. He ignored her but slammed his hand down on the test paper on my desk. “Is that so? Well, that’s a real shame.” “I was actually going to give you the custom one I designed, but you clearly don’t want it.” A few weeks ago, I would have broken down, pleaded with him, and then, when he inevitably slipped me the gift later, I would have burst into tears of relief and forgiveness. But realizing that all those years of devoted love had been ground into nothing more than a nasty game, I felt only a profound emptiness. Nothing he did now mattered. The belated make-up gift, the supposed “special treatment”… My mind was finally clear. His “being different” was simply setting me up, again and again, to be the public target. Besides, one different hoodie in a class of identical ones would only make me stand out more. It wasn’t kindness; it was a cruel spotlight. While we were still locked in a stare-down, Briar Jennings walked right into our classroom, slipped her arm around Lock’s shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking me to the soccer game? Why are you wasting time here?” Lock was still glaring at me, fire in his eyes. He wrenched free, stormed back to his backpack, and pulled out a light-colored garment wrapped carefully in plastic. He threw it at Briar. His eyes never left mine. “The princess doesn’t want it. It’s yours.” I recognized the designer label. It was the same exclusive, cult-favorite streetwear line that Lock had always gotten me for my birthday before I turned fourteen. That designer had retired three years ago, and rumors said he only came out of retirement if you literally volunteered as his personal assistant for a month. Lock had disappeared for a month over the summer. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. “Ooh, a good one. I’ll take it. But, Laney,” Briar said, looking me up and down, “a joke is only funny if you don’t take it seriously.” She tugged on Lock’s sleeve, and he patted her hand with an air of exasperated resignation. Exasperated resignation. If I was even a step too slow, he would get impatient and snap at me. I forced a bitter laugh. He knew how to be gentle. The bell rang, shattering the tension. 5. The crowd of gawkers dispersed. I took a deep breath, gathered my scattered emotions, and went back to my work. I didn’t acknowledge Lock for the rest of the day. When the final bell rang for evening study hall, Lock came over as usual. For years, he’d waited for me to pack up, always reaching out to take my bag. It was a habit from early childhood, an unspoken rule. This time, I batted his hand away. “Don’t bother. I can manage this fine on my own,” I said, my voice cold. “And you won’t need to anymore.” He froze, then his face hardened. My backpack landed on the floor with a thud. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Laney? You’re cutting me out? Are you seriously that much of a sore loser?” I didn’t know where the line between his “joke” and his true malice was, or how much of his torment was genuine. But none of it mattered. It didn’t justify the pain he caused. Love is love. Unlove is simply that—unlove. Someone gasped. “Woah, Laney is suddenly savage.” I stared at Lock, saying nothing. Spending so much time with him, sharing our commutes, my feelings had taken root. I’d unconsciously suppressed my own personality, my temper, just to keep the peace. There was no need for that now. He wasn’t worth my niceness. I picked up my bag and walked away. Behind me, a chair scraped violently across the floor. 6. The next morning, after the first bell, I pulled a gourmet box of chocolates from my desk and placed it on Lock’s table. “Stop giving me these. I don’t like them.” I was lying. I used to love them. But that was before he changed. Back then, he’d scavenge for the most obscure, delicious things and gift them to me, propping himself on my desk with sparkling eyes, like a puppy waiting for praise and a tail wag. That changed the day Zack gave him a brilliant, cruel idea: hide a dead, slimy garden frog in my favorite box of chocolates. I have a deep-seated phobia of wet, slick creatures. The sticky feeling on my hands that day still made my skin crawl. I’d sat there, paralyzed, a choked scream caught in my throat. That was the first time I recoiled from his touch. And I never ate a chocolate he gave me again. Lock stared at the box, then frowned, his expression turning to annoyed confusion under the scrutiny of the whole class. “You used to love these, Laney. What’s wrong?” I ignored him, walking toward my seat. A sharp, painful grip on my wrist yanked me back to his side. “You tell me, Laney. Say it out loud.” I seized the moment of his confusion, snatched my arm back, and glared at him with cold detachment. “Lock, I don’t need your pathetic apologies anymore, so—” He interrupted, running a hand through his hair and sneering. “Apologies? What the hell are you talking about? Who said I was apologizing? What did I even do wrong?” “Look around, Laney. Everyone has one of these in their desk.” I stiffened, my back rigid, and scanned the room. Sure enough, several people were sheepishly pulling the same boxes from their drawers. Shame, hot and searing, crept from my feet to my fingertips. But in my peripheral vision, I caught the slightest upward twitch at the corner of Lock’s mouth. “I told you before I just forgot to get yours,” he said, his voice laced with false exasperation. “Now I remembered, and I put it carefully in your desk. And you still don’t believe me.” He sighed, shaking his head with forced helplessness. “What do I have to do to make you happy, Laney?” Briar Jennings’s voice cut in from the doorway. “Exactly. Come on, Laney. This time, I can vouch for him. Lock wasn’t messing with you.” 7. They shared a look—a shared joke, a perfect synergy. Lock’s other friends stepped in to smooth things over, but my heart felt colder than ever before. I bit down on my lower lip, preventing the tears from falling. “Lock,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “is this your new trick? Your latest way to mess with me?”

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Seven years into my father’s affair, my mother, Cecilia, was handed a death sentence. Terminal stomach cancer. Her first act was to plead with Dr. Serena, her long-time physician, not to tell my father, Victor. Dr. Serena was so angry she wept. “Cecilia, what is this performance? Do you really think playing the noble martyr will make that scumbag regret anything?” “You’re punishing him with your death, Cee. How pathetic!” But my mother just smiled, her gaze settling on me with a gentle, terrifying softness. “I don’t want his regret,” she whispered. “I want to secure a future for my Willa.” 1. When my mother and I finally left the hospital, my father was gone. He had only left her a text message: [My time is valuable. You were five minutes late. I left.] My mother gripped the phone, momentarily frozen. I remembered the past, too. I have hemophilia, so trips to the hospital were constant growing up. My father, Victor, would always drop everything and wait patiently. My mother would tease him, “Aren’t you bored?” He’d take me from her arms and kiss her cheek, his voice full of warmth. “Never. Every second I spend waiting for you both is happiness.” I would be held between them, warm and secure, and I was happy too. My mother’s fingers trembled as she deleted the text. Then, she opened a new message to Dr. Serena: [Did you send the fake clean bill of health report to Tess?] After receiving confirmation, she led me home. My mother used to walk with a light, quick step; I could never keep up. Now, I had to support her just to keep her moving. As soon as we arrived, she rushed to the bathroom and coughed up a terrifying mouthful of blood. When she looked up, she was staring at the mirror, where our two overlapping handprints rested. The blood in the toilet was a blackish red. Panicked, I immediately called my father. There was a woman’s laugh on the other end, but I was used to it; I pretended not to hear. Sobbing, I told him that my mother had terminal stomach cancer. My father arrived quickly. He saw the violent red in the toilet bowl and immediately scooped my mother up in his arms. “Don’t panic, Cee. We’ll get a second opinion from the best doctors in the country.” “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He’d always told her that the women outside were just flings; she was the one he truly loved. I believed he was a man of his word. But just then, the sharp click-clack of high heels echoed in the hallway. Tess, in her crisp white dress, appeared. She held her head high and slapped a piece of paper onto my father’s chest. “Victor, you’re such an idiot! Your trophy wife has played you for a fool!” “‘Terminal cancer’? It’s just a scheme to get your attention! This came from my friend at the hospital. She is perfectly healthy!” I recognized the paper. It was the fake clean bill of health my mother had asked Dr. Serena to forge. I opened my mouth to explain, but my mother gripped my hand, stopping me. I could only watch as my father’s face darkened. “Faking an illness for sympathy, then dragging Willa into your lies.” He glared at my mother. “Cecilia, you have sunk to a new low.” My father ignored my protests and stormed out, his arm wrapped around Tess. My mother watched them leave, a thin smile on her pale face. I cried hysterically. “Mom, why did you pretend you were healthy?” She sighed softly. “Because Tess is too small-minded.” “She’s too stupid to ever believe that I would be ill, or that I could out-maneuver her. So I had to feed her the evidence.” “This is how we build moral currency,” she explained. “The more guilt he carries, the more Victor will owe you, Willa.” “Besides, once Victor realizes her report was fake, he will never believe anything she presents to him again.” I didn’t understand the strategy. I only knew that my mother was dying, and I cried harder. She wiped my tears away. As she did, she began to cry too. “Victor, you’re supposed to be so smart. How could you fall for a simpleton like Tess?” My mother had been a powerful man’s mistress. My father was a poor businessman, practically begging for investment. They met across a crowded banquet hall—a rose blooming unexpectedly in rotten soil. My mother flirted with her protector and secured a massive investment and countless contracts for Victor. Later, when her protector went to prison, my father was already a titan of industry. Ignoring the scorn of everyone, he tracked down my mother, who had been passed around. There were no grand speeches. They simply got married. In their marriage, my father treated her like the most delicate, cherished woman. He bought her a French chateau, gifted her company shares, and when she was pregnant with me, he spent a fortune to buy the naming rights to a minor planet. They could have been happy forever. Until I was born. 2. Because I have hemophilia and need frequent transfusions, my father hired a secretary with my rare blood type. Her name was Tess. She was a bit clumsy and seemed sweet. My father called her my “walking blood bank.” But slowly, when Tess came to give me blood, my father’s brow would furrow with concern for her. Once, when I was in critical condition, Tess claimed she was afraid of needles, and my father actually disconnected my IV line. I nearly died that day. We were saved only because the hospital was able to contact a blood bank out of state. When I woke up, I saw my father holding Tess’s hand. He was telling my mother: “I’m sorry, Cecilia. I’m in love with Tess.” “If you accept it, you can still be my wife, and Willa will always be my only daughter.” My mother accepted the reality calmly. She said that I was sick, and if they divorced, she wouldn’t be able to afford my care. And so, my mother became the most generous wife in the city. So generous that when my father’s photos with a club girl leaked, she personally handled the PR cleanup. Each time, my father would apologize and transfer a large sum of money into my account. My mother accepted it for me and pretended nothing happened. Until a few days ago, when Tess showed up with a visible baby bump. She was pregnant with my father’s son. “The moment he looked ecstatic, I knew,” my mother said. “That baby will eventually threaten your standing. It had to be eliminated.” “And I’m almost dead anyway… I’ve been a trophy wife all my life. Using my last breaths to set up my daughter? I’m content.” As she spoke, my mother took out a brand new, expensive leather journal. A kept woman who only finished elementary school certainly didn’t have a diary-writing habit. So she had to forge one. Her fingers were swollen, barely able to hold the pen, but she wrote every word, detailing her years with Victor. When she finished, she sent the journal off to be artificially aged, then locked it in her safe. She made me memorize the combination. “When I’m gone, the day your father misses me most, you will lead him to this diary.” It took several days to forge the journal. My mother would clutch her stomach, beads of sweat dripping down her face from the pain. She gave me an Amex Black Card and asked me to buy her some powerful painkillers. It was strange—it was only September, but perfect, heavy snow was falling outside. I didn’t think about it; I just ran, slipping and falling repeatedly on the unfamiliar ice until I reached the pharmacy. I picked up the medication and swiped the card. “Beep. This card has been frozen.” I froze. This was my father’s supplemental card, always unlimited. It couldn’t be frozen. I called my father immediately. But the one who answered, her voice languid and smug, was Tess. “That’s your father punishing your mother, sweetie.” “He told me to tell your mom to stop her pathetic schemes and stick to being the wife she is.” I screamed, “That’s impossible! You must have tricked him!” Tess chuckled softly, then lowered her voice. “I did. So what?” “After all, all I had to say was that my baby brother wanted to see snow, and your father spent millions on cloud-seeding to make it happen.” I looked at the bruises forming on my legs, sobbing uncontrollably. The snow that made me fall and scrape myself raw was my father’s gift to his mistress. By the time I scraped together the money from my piggy bank and bought the medicine, my mother had already passed out from the pain. I gave her the medication. She looked at my raw legs, her eyes filling with tears. I heard her call Dr. Serena. “He loves her more than I imagined,” she said, her voice strained. “I need to accumulate more moral currency for Willa. I need to die more violently.” I woke up sometime later in my mother’s bed. She was packing, breathing heavily. She tossed their wedding photo into the fireplace. Her clothes and jewelry were boxed up for sale. When she reached for the scarf she had knitted for my father with her own hands, I rushed forward to stop her. She gently kissed my cheek. “I know you love it, Willa.” “But I have to ensure you are the only thing left behind to remind him of me.” I couldn’t speak. Then, my father’s assistant called my mother. “Mrs. Victor, Mr. Victor took Ms. Tess for her checkup and the paparazzi got photos. He needs you to film an apology and clarification video immediately, to avoid impacting the company’s stock price.” 3. My mother answered flatly and skillfully set up the camera. I yelled in fury. “It’s Dad’s fault! Why does Mom have to take the blame?” “I don’t want Mom to be humiliated again!” I knocked the camera over, but my mother calmly set it back up. “Be good, Willa. The company will be yours one day.” “Protecting the stock now is protecting your future.” I still didn’t understand, but my mother’s eyes were filled with profound sorrow. On camera, she was gracious and poised: “This is all a misunderstanding. Ms. Tess is an employee… my husband, Victor, simply offered a professional courtesy to take her to the doctor.” When the video was posted, the internet mocked her relentlessly. They called my mother the most subservient wife in Manhattan. But my father was pleased. He finally came home. He first swept me up, twirled me, and put a tiny flame opal on my wrist. Then he kissed my mother and gave her a deep black pendant. “This is my generous Cecilia,” he said. “Don’t worry, the card is unfrozen now.” “I wasn’t angry because you faked an illness, Cee. I was angry because you cursed yourself. We’re going to grow old together. Don’t ever say something so unlucky again, okay?” My father was so gentle. I hoped, foolishly, that he still loved us. I watched him wistfully, and suddenly, the pain in my legs faded. After he left, I happily went to my mother to admire the pendant. She laughed—a cold, humorless sound—and took it off. She stroked my head and showed me a news article on her phone. [Gem Legend! Victor Spends Millions, Cuts Massive Flame Opal, Yields Priceless Bangle!] I stared at the photo of the enormous, perfect flame opal on Tess’s wrist. Then I realized it. My tiny bangle and my mother’s pendant—together, they made up the heart of a bangle. Oh. Our gifts were the scraps. The excess material from Tess’s main attraction. I was furious and wanted to confront my father. But my mother calmly called Dr. Serena, setting the date for her to take the lethal medication: their wedding anniversary. “That way, every time he celebrates his freedom, he will remember my death.” “He needs to remember me for a long, long time. Only that will benefit you, Willa.” I didn’t dare cry in front of my mother. I hid in my room and counted the days. I was going to lose her. Though she held me and said she would become a star in the sky, I was seven years old. I knew it was a lie. I couldn’t expose her; I didn’t want to cause her more pain before she died. The next few days, my mother was busy. She contacted Mr. Harrison, a key investor of my father’s, and they spoke in whispers for a long time. Then she carefully chose a gown. My father was taking her to a major charity gala. Just her. No disgusting mistress. She even helped my father placate Tess. But then, she taught me how to provoke the already-soothed Tess: “He-he, so what if he gave you snow? You’re still just my dad’s plaything.” “Only my mother can be on his arm at a proper event like the Metropolitan Gala!” Tess was so easy to manipulate. She immediately took the bait. On the night of the gala, our family of three had just sat down when Tess, disguised as a staff member, appeared. She didn’t say a word, just stared at my father with red-rimmed eyes. I clearly saw my father’s throat bob as he swallowed. “Victor,” my mother pleaded, “this is a major event. Give me this one night.” But under the gaze of the entire room, my father patted my mother’s hand. “There are too many people here. Tess is pregnant. I’m worried she’ll be jostled.” He went to sit with his mistress. The entire room erupted in hushed whispers. My mother lowered her head, feigning humiliation. In the shadows, she gave a subtle look to Mr. Harrison. 4. I knew Mr. Harrison. He was one of my father’s biggest investors. He had once suggested my mother leave Victor and go with him. I remembered him as a gentle man. But tonight, he was rough. He rudely grabbed Tess and ordered her to have a few drinks with him. Tess panicked and refused repeatedly. My father stepped in front of her, politely saying she was pregnant and shouldn’t drink. But Mr. Harrison seemed enraged. He dropped a threat: “If Victor can’t even give me this favor, then our partnership is over!” Seeing the terror in Tess’s eyes and the mortification on my father’s face, I felt a swell of triumph. I silently cheered Mr. Harrison, hoping he would give my mother more satisfaction. But the next second, I heard my father laugh. “How about this, Harrison? Let my wife keep you company for a few drinks.” “Tess may be pretty, but my Cecilia is the most beautiful woman in the city.” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe these words came from my mother’s husband. My mother didn’t move as my father grabbed her and pushed her toward Mr. Harrison. “It’s just a few drinks, Cee… You won’t refuse, will you?” I rushed forward to shield my mother. “My mother is sick! Dr. Serena said she can’t drink! It will kill her!” My father grabbed me by the collar and tossed me aside. He glared at my mother. “Look what you’ve taught Willa. The lies never end.” Mr. Harrison wrapped his arm around my mother and, along with several other men, started forcing drinks down her throat. My mother drank one glass after another, numbly. Mr. Harrison, however, seemed to have tears in his eyes. Finally, after an unknown number of drinks, my mother suddenly vomited blood. “Cecilia!” My father’s face changed instantly. He ran toward her. But Tess shrieked. “So much blood, Victor, I’m feeling faint…” My father hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he turned, picked up Tess, and carried her out. “The penthouse isn’t far. I’ll take you there to rest.” The penthouse was my parents’ wedding gift. My mother cherished it and never let outsiders inside. She stared at my father, her voice weak but firm. “No! Take her anywhere, but don’t defile my home!” My father initially tried to reason with her, but my mother was immovable this time. As they wrestled their way to the apartment, Tess’s deliberate moans grew louder. In a fit of rage, my father slapped my mother. “Are you insane? It’s just a house!” “If you think it’s more important than my son, then you can rot inside it!” He shoved my mother into the penthouse, locked the door behind her, and sped away before she could chase him. Mr. Harrison, Dr. Serena, and Dr. Serena’s boyfriend, Detective Miller, waited patiently with me outside the villa. After my father’s car disappeared into the distance, we finally went inside. My mother was still coughing up huge amounts of blood. Her dress and the marble floor were stained red. Her forehead was slick with cold sweat from the pain. But she persisted, directing Mr. Harrison to set up a complicated mechanism. “It must… ensure that the moment… they make love in that bed, my body… drops down onto them.” “Don’t forget to lock the door when you leave… He has to believe I was forced to drink, then locked in and left to die with no way to call for help.” “All traces… must be eliminated with professional forensic skill.” “The infertility drug… Willa, you must find an opportunity to put it in your father’s drink once you get home.” “The report that Tess’s fetus isn’t his… is it convincing enough? Let me see it one last time.” “He must have only one heir—you, Willa. He must.” Her voice was ragged with pain. Finally, with everyone’s help, she used her last ounce of strength to climb onto the skylight mechanism. She placed a white pill in her mouth. A look of profound relief crossed her face. “No flaws,” she whispered. “Thank you, all of you.” “Willa, farewell. Mama loves you, forever loves you…” Her voice faded, until it was gone. The adults were sobbing. Mr. Harrison knelt on the floor, weeping. I was the only one who didn’t cry. I had watched my mother meticulously arrange her own death. My tears had run dry. I looked at the sunflowers in the villa’s courtyard. The manufactured snowstorm had made them wither prematurely. I sat there quietly, waiting for my father to return. The doorbell finally rang around midnight. 5. Hearing the movement, I flew to the kitchen, poured a glass of warm water, and dropped in the tasteless medication my mother had given me. When my father entered, I sweetly handed it to him. He drank it without suspicion, then finally noticed I was alone. A look of annoyance and resignation crossed his face. “Your mother hasn’t come home?” “She’s becoming impossible. To spite me, she’s abandoned her own daughter.” He pulled out his phone. My heart hammered in my chest. I thought he was going to call my mother. But the next words were: “Tess, Willa’s mother isn’t home. Come back here.” Willa’s mother… It was a mercy my mother was already dead. If she knew she no longer had a name in his mind, only a title, how much more heartbroken would she be? My eyes burned again, but I held back the tears. I slept downstairs that night. I could hear sounds from the master bedroom. “Mmm, don’t touch me. I’m carrying your son.” “It’s been three months. It should be safe.” “Nonsense. It’s two days shy of three months.” “Two days… What a coincidence. That’s an important date. I can’t be with you that day.” “What date?” My father chuckled softly and didn’t answer. I copied my mother’s cynical smile. You don’t need his compensation anymore, Dad. The next morning, Tess walked downstairs, her face sated. She shot a smug look at me as I quietly ate breakfast. “Enjoy your meal, darling. This house will have a new mistress soon.” I put a piece of bacon in my mouth. My voice was as gentle as my mother’s had been. “Do you know what that important date is?” The simpleton my mother had pegged him to be looked at me blankly. I smiled. “It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary.” “You see? You will never be able to replace my mother.” It was completely unsatisfying to mess with a fool. No wonder my mother never bothered with Tess before she got sick. Just that one sentence was enough to send Tess storming off to confront my father. After she left, my mother’s phone kept ringing. My father was calling her. I let the screen flash. Then he started texting. [Still angry, Cee? It’s been a night.] [Tess is just a girl, and she’s pregnant. Of course I have to take care of her more than you.] [Alright, alright. You were hurt this time. Tomorrow is our anniversary. I’ll compensate you. Deal?] He sent pictures of expensive jewelry. When there was no reply, he sent photos of luxury properties, promising she could pick one, and it would be placed in my name. I followed my mother’s instructions and sent no reply. My father seemed to grow enraged. [Cecilia, how long are you going to pout?] [Tess was just here, sweet and soft.] [If you keep this up, I’ll spend the anniversary with her!] My heart thumped. He had reached the critical point. The ‘typing’ indicator flashed for a long time. Then my father sent a voice message: “Fine, let’s see who can hold out longer!” “Forget the anniversary. I’m going to be with Tess.” “You didn’t want her in the penthouse? Good. I’m going to have a candlelight dinner with her there.” “You can figure out Willa’s medical bills yourself!” My mother had broken down his reactions step-by-step for me. But hearing it now, my heart ached with a dull, heavy pain. Did you ever love her, Dad? If you did, why would you use my health to threaten her? But it didn’t matter. I texted Dr. Serena and Detective Miller. Everything is ready. On the night of the anniversary, Dr. Serena picked me up, and we waited outside the penthouse. In the darkness, we watched my father enter, his arm around Tess. Candlelight warmed the windows. Tess leaned into his shoulder, giggling. Tess flirtatiously pulled at his tie, but my father hesitated, nervously twisting his wedding ring. Detective Miller clearly read Tess’s lips through the window: “Take off the ring, Victor. Don’t you want to meet your son sooner?” That one sentence sent my father’s blood rushing. He yanked the ring off and tossed it onto the sofa. He picked up Tess and carried her upstairs. Through the faint curtain, we watched their silhouettes as they moved, step by step, toward the bed. The moment he pressed Tess down, there was a deafening CRASH. A woman’s deformed body smashed directly between them.

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My mother, Adriana, was breathtakingly beautiful, but everyone in the forgotten town of Hickory Creek hated her. Every night, a different man slipped into her bed, and every morning, he would shuffle out looking perfectly satisfied. They called her a tramp, a slut, saying only a simpleton like my father, Roy Tucker, would keep her. Dad would even buy her pretty dresses and cheap jewelry, dressing her up like a princess for the viewing. But I knew the truth. Every time, those men would hand Dad a wad of bills and tell him she was worth the price. I hated her. I kept my distance, never seeking comfort. I only felt a cold, hard disgust for the woman who let filth touch her. It wasn’t until a truly repulsive beggar—a man who looked like dirt and smelled of rot—shuffled out of her room and handed Dad a single, crumpled bill that a calculated thought hardened in my mind: If she was going to sell herself, why not help Dad sell her for a fortune? … 1 The forced, triumphant smile vanished from Dad’s face the moment the beggar was out of sight. He stormed into the room and the sound of the slap was dull, sickening. “You worthless bitch! That’s all you pulled in? And you still have the nerve to just lie there!” He kicked the mattress. “Today is Christmas Eve. Get up and go make me a holiday dinner.” Mom lay on the stained sheet, her legs still splayed. She was naked, her pale skin a roadmap of bruises and purple welts. Her breasts were covered in fresh, bloody bite marks. She just stared at the ceiling, not crying, not moving—her eyes empty, wide, and entirely blank. As he stomped out, Dad spat over his shoulder. “Goddamn slut. You get less valuable every time.” I watched her rise, the silence in her movements more disturbing than any scream. She went to the sink, ran the cold water, and washed the evidence of the last man off her body before pulling on a clean, threadbare shirt. Then she walked, stiff-backed, to the kitchen. I didn’t follow. Instead, I went out to the cluster of rusted trailers we called a village. The men in Hickory Creek always smirked when they saw me. “Hey, Dusty,” they’d call me—a name that meant ‘the neglected one’ here. “Is your mama busy tonight? God, her legs are something else.” “Hey, why don’t you drop your pants and let old Butch see if you’re as pale as your mom.” In response, I’d grab a fistful of sharp gravel and hurl it at them, earning their loud, delighted laughter. The women here loathed my mother, gathering daily to trash-talk the beautiful, broken woman. But the men were worse. Their eyes, when they spoke of her, were like a pair of greedy, oily snakes. They all knew one thing, though: I hated my mother, and the subject of her made me snap. That evening, a couple of Dad’s regular card buddies—men with yellow teeth and cheap beer breath—arrived. They settled down, dealing cards and letting their eyes roam the trailer. “Hey, Roy,” one of them asked, looking towards the kitchen. “Where’s Adriana?” Dad took a drag from his cigarette, his eyes squinting against the smoke. “She’s cooking. When we’re done dealing, we can eat.” A man named Mitch gave a leering grin and a thumbs-up. “Man, Roy, you got it made. A wife as beautiful as a movie star, who’s good for a man and brings in the cash.” Another added, “And Dusty, too. Most girls are close to their moms, but you and your old man are tight. She’ll be a good little thing when she grows up.” The praise made Dad puff out his chest. His porcine face wobbled with mirth. “Damn right. You take a look at the women in this house, and they’re both nothing without me.” He slammed his hand on the table. “I tell them east, they don’t go west. They’re more obedient than old man Floyd’s mutt.” They roared with laughter. Floyd’s dog was a filthy, abused animal. The smell of food wafted in, and I went to the kitchen to help carry the dishes. The rule in our trailer—an unspoken law in this whole village—was that women did not sit at the table. They ate in the kitchen, hidden away. In our house, it was worse: Mom and I had to squat with our bowls at Dad’s feet, ready to serve him. I set plate after plate on the table. The last pot was heavy, and as I set it down, I accidentally knocked the small charcoal brazier underneath. The tablecloth immediately caught fire. Mom ran over, grabbing a damp towel and smothering the small flame. It was out in seconds. But Dad, who had just finished his hand, saw her. He lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair. He slammed her head down onto the table with a sickening thud. A grotesque lump immediately swelled on her pristine forehead. “Who the hell said you could stand at the damn table? You trying to jinx my luck on Christmas Eve, you curse!” 2 One hand still twisted in her hair, Dad used his other hand to furiously strike her face. Her cheeks quickly swelled, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Mom never fought back. She never cried. She was a beautiful, compliant mannequin, silently enduring every horror. She’d be subjected to unspeakable things all night, but every morning, she’d meticulously clean herself up and dress as if nothing had happened. That’s why the women of Hickory Creek called her a natural whore, saying she was the one who craved the men, that she’d cheat on Dad even if he didn’t sell her out. I knew that wasn’t true. Once, she had tried to run. Years ago. She managed to knock out the man in her bed, scoop up my tiny body, and tear through the village in the dark. The wind had whipped her hair around her face—a desperate, tangible vision of hope. The mud of the path was treacherous, and she trembled with effort. I could hear the frantic drumming of her heart. She made it almost to the highway before two men blocked the path. Their voices were wet with lust as they appraised her. “Look at that, the prettiest thing in a ten-mile radius. Even running away, she’s a sight.” It turned out Dad slept soundly and traveled without worry because he’d already made a deal with the village: Anyone who found her trying to escape would be rewarded with a free pass. In the filthy dirt patch behind a rusted-out shed, the two men descended on her like wolves. Mom let out a high, tortured scream, beating the air with her arms. It was the only time she ever actively fought them, but her frantic struggle was only to keep them from letting me see. But no one cares about a toy’s feelings. The moment she tried to leave, her hope became a sick source of entertainment for her captors. That night was the moment I started to hate her, or perhaps, the moment I felt compelled to act like I did. Now, Mitch and Butch were trying to intervene. “Come on, Roy, easy, man. She didn’t mean it.” “It’s Christmas Eve, let’s eat.” Dad finally released her, a few strands of her chestnut hair still wrapped around his fist. He thrust his foot out and shoved her to the ground. “You’re gonna kneel right there and serve us. My hand was bad tonight, and it’s all your fault, you rotten slut.” Without a word, Mom dropped to her knees. She ladled soup, served the pot roast, and listened to their crude, slurred jokes. “Look at that, Roy. You really trained her. I’d wake up laughing if I had a woman like that.” Dad reveled in the compliments. He’d always been that way, never bothering to pretend to be a decent person. Since I could remember, he did nothing but drink and gamble. I’d heard he was a nobody in this village until he married Mom, and then, suddenly, men started seeking his company—all for the chance to take advantage of her. He didn’t care why they praised him; he just loved the feeling of being respected, of being chased. When the men finished the food, they weren’t ready to leave. I knew what that meant. This night of family cheer was about to become Mom’s night of hell. 3 Sure enough, Dad dragged Mom into the back bedroom—the one we all called “The Room”—and one of the men, Butch, followed her inside immediately. Before long, Mom’s screams, sharp and frantic, tore through the winter air. I’d heard them a hundred times, but they still made my body seize up with a cold, terrifying shake. Outside, the men were laughing. Her pain was their pleasure. “Damn, Butch is an animal! Listen to her, Roy, she must be loving it in there!” “You’re a lucky bastard, Roy.” They snickered, their eyes trying to bore holes through the thin curtain over the window. I wanted to leave. I knew she didn’t want me to hear this. “Dad, I’m going to bed.” He hit me hard across the ear. “Go to sleep? I’m not sleeping, you little brat. You wait right here until they’re all gone.” I pressed my throbbing ear and sat down on the stoop of the porch. Eventually, Butch emerged, adjusting his pants. “Whew. That was damn good, Roy.” Dad impatiently demanded the money. Butch pulled out a wad of bills and handed them over, his tone laced with mockery. “Easy, Roy. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” Then, the next man, Mitch, stumbled eagerly inside. They continued the rotation, one leaving, one entering, stretching the night out into a seemingly endless expanse of suffering. Mom’s cries shifted from frantic screams to hoarse, exhausted gasps, and finally, to nothing but muffled whimpers. Each man who left handed Dad the required amount, their faces satisfied and slick with sweat. The last one emerged, looking regretful that it was over. “Roy, you lost a lot of cash at the table tonight, right?” Dad was busy counting the money, not looking up. “Don’t worry, I won’t owe you.” The man gave a sleazy grin. “That’s not what I mean, Roy. One time wasn’t enough for me.” He looked at the remaining men. “How about we do a group deal? We all go in together, and we call your debt to us settled.” Dad looked up, his eyes lighting up with greed. He looked at the others. They immediately agreed, their eyes glowing like famished wolves. Together, the three remaining men stormed into The Room. This time, Mom did not make a single sound. The sky was beginning to lighten when the wolf pack emerged, looking red-faced and utterly satisfied. They finally left. Dad yawned, ready for bed. He muttered as he walked past me, “Worthless hag. You’re getting less valuable by the month.” He looked at me, his eyes unfocused. “Dusty, go check on your mother.” My head throbbed from the night-long vigil. I opened the door. The stench hit me first—a thick, nauseating smell that made me gag. Mom was unconscious on the floor, covered in a sickening mix of fluids. Blood was everywhere, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I grabbed a basin of ice-cold water and a rag, wiping her body clean, piece by piece. She was covered in fresh red marks, hideous welts, and angry, open wounds. There wasn’t a single clean spot on her body. Though she was passed out, her brow furrowed in a painful, agonizing spasm every time I touched her. I knew, with cold certainty, that if this continued, she wasn’t going to last much longer. 4 The next day, Mom woke up and tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She stood in front of the broken mirror, trying to fix her hair. But her swollen face and the brutal purple bags under her eyes meant no amount of effort could hide the damage. We were eating when a man—a scruffy neighbor named Mikey—burst in, looking desperate. “Roy, now’s the time! My old lady went to her mother’s. I gotta go back before she gets home.” Mom could be called upon at any moment. These men always had wives, and they couldn’t risk being seen near our trailer. Dad accepted the cash and, grinning, yanked Mom off the floor. Mikey followed her eagerly into The Room and the door slammed shut. Dad beckoned me over to finish waiting on him. He seemed to be in a great mood. He even tossed a chunk of meat into my bowl on the ground. Normally, meat was for him alone. He’d occasionally ‘reward’ me with a piece, but Mom never got anything. This time, however, Mikey came flying out of the room just moments later, his face contorted in rage. “Roy Tucker, you damn well cheated me! That whore is stinking! You rotten liar, Roy. Her pussy reeks—she’s got some kind of disease! Give me my money back!” Dad slammed his fist on the table. “Bullshit! She was fine yesterday!” They argued until they finally threw the door open and looked inside. Sure enough, a horrifying yellow discharge was visible on Mom’s legs. Dad was forced to return the money. Mikey stormed out, cursing the whole way. As soon as the door shut, Dad grabbed a heavy switch from the yard and began whipping Mom. He had a powerful arm. The thin branch whistled as it struck her already mangled body, raising fresh red tracks over old purple bruises. “You worthless slut! When did you get this disease?” he roared, the fear of contamination turning into fury. “Look how filthy you are! You’re disgusting! No decent man would touch you now! You eat my food, you live in my house—and now you can’t even make me money! What good are you to me?” Mom was a ragdoll. She screamed in agony, thrashing and writhing on the bed. I curled up in the corner. Tears welled in my eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. He kept hitting her until she passed out, only to be jolted back awake by the next blow. Dad vented his rage until his own arm was tired and shaking. He threw the switch down, his eyes murderous. “You piece of trash! How am I supposed to gamble now?” He turned to leave, but his eyes fell on me, huddled in the corner. Beneath the layers of dirt and fear, my features—small, thin, and currently wet with tears—were undeniably similar to my mother’s. A faint, almost-womanly curve was beginning to show on my frame. Suddenly, he smiled. “Dusty,” he said slowly, his voice changing entirely. “Damn, I never noticed. You’re actually pretty.” He had always insisted I stay dirty, wear the ugliest clothes, and keep my face grubby. I had often resented it, wondering why she got to be a princess while I was a scruffy peasant. Now, I understood. Dad walked over, stroked my hair, and chuckled. “Well, I guess raising you wasn’t a total waste after all.” The next few days passed without any strangers coming to the trailer. Dad grew more and more volatile, returning home daily to give Mom a brutal beating. I knew his money was running out. Mom couldn’t get out of bed, so I was left to do all the work. Today, I was serving Dad his cheap whiskey and cigarettes. He was ranting, calling Mom a worthless cripple who couldn’t earn her keep. I lit his cigarette and handed it to him. I leaned in, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Dad, I think you’re losing money.” He grunted, drinking deep. “Mom is so beautiful. Since you have to sell her,” I said, trying not to choke on the word, “why are you selling her cheap?”

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The night my husband was hosting a tribute dinner for his mentor, I tracked the party down and walked right in. Every face in the room turned to stone, and I knew exactly what they were thinking: She’s here to catch him. A low buzz of judgment started up immediately, and an older gentleman—a well-meaning peacemaker—stepped in front of me. “Harper, honey, it’s not what you think. It’s a huge night, let’s not make a scene, alright?” Hudson’s face was a mask of furious, mortified red. His voice was a tight, cold hiss. “What in God’s name are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you there was nothing going on with Phoebe?” I gave him the softest, most polite smile I could manage. “I’m here to do exactly what you and your little protégé are doing.” I tipped my head to the event staff, confirmed my substantial gift was delivered to Chef Moreau, and then gave the room a dismissive nod. “Mission accomplished. I’ll be leaving now.” As I passed Hudson’s junior colleague, Phoebe Wells, I paused and let my eyes rake over her. “I hope, darling, that you enjoy your performance. You’re wearing my grandmother’s legacy. Make it count.” It was Chef Laurent Moreau’s sixtieth birthday gala. Hudson and Phoebe were part of the same maître lineage, so yes, it was technically normal for him to attend with her and not me. I had planned to stay home. To suck it up, as I had done for five years. … But before I left, I saw Phoebe’s Instagram story. She was wearing a bespoke, vintage silk robe—the one my grandmother, a renowned textile artist, had designed and worn for her first major exhibition. It had an intricate, hand-stitched floral motif. Phoebe wore the robe, along with an ancient, delicate silver headpiece, standing beside Hudson. She was all wide-eyed, fragile innocence, beaming up at him. The caption read: “First time on such a big stage. So safe with my mentor here.” In the photo, Hudson was leaning over her, his expression soft, his long fingers adjusting the silk collar. It was a look of care and tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. That robe was the only tangible thing I had left of my grandmother. It was everything. The black Bentley pulled up near the curb. I looked up. Hudson had followed me out. His face was glacial. “Harper, have you had your fun yet?” The night air was sharp and cold. I opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. Hudson’s profile was rigid, his jaw clenched so hard I could see his throat move. It betrayed his rage more than his words did. Five years of marriage, and I felt like I was seeing him clearly, calmly, for the first time. “I’ve thought it through,” I said softly. “Hudson,” I turned away from him, staring out the window. “Let’s call it.” The silence that followed was suffocating. “The reason.” His hands gripped the steering wheel. I couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice, only command. “Give me a reason why you’re having one of your episodes again.” I laughed, a short, hollow sound. It was absurd. I pointed to the rearview mirror. There was a small, white sports car that had followed us, keeping a respectful distance. “I’m guessing it won’t take ten seconds,” I said. “Before someone rushes in to explain it for you.” I watched the mirror and began to count. “Ten.” “Nine.” “Eight.” At seven, the door of the sports car flew open. A slim figure sprinted toward us, her voice already laced with a hysterical cry. “Hudson! Harper! Please, don’t fight!” Phoebe ripped the driver’s side door open and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Harper, I truly didn’t mean to! Chef Moreau insisted I present, and my own ensemble had a stain. Hudson said I could borrow that one. I didn’t know it was… that important to you. I swear I didn’t know.” “This is all my fault! Please, don’t take it out on Hudson. I beg you.” She grabbed my hand, then lifted it, preparing to slap herself. “If this makes it better,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face, “hit me.” “Go ahead. Hit me to get it out of your system.” She was guiding my hand toward her cheek. Hudson’s voice was like ice. “Harper, where is your composure? Did your mother teach you nothing?” I felt a surge of hysterical laughter. See? I don’t have to lift a finger, and I’m already the villain. I snatched my hand back, meeting Hudson’s eyes, which were alight with thin anger. “Do you get it now?” “Hudson,” I didn’t feel heartbreak, just a cold, paralyzing numbness. I unbuckled my seatbelt. “That’s the reason.” “I want a divorce.” I pushed the door open, flashing a tight, genuine smile at Phoebe, whose shock barely masked her triumphant flicker. “Congratulations, Phoebe.” “After all these years—meticulously inserting yourself into every corner of our lives—you’re about to win.” “You can have him. I’m done.” I turned to walk away, but his hand clamped around my wrist, a vise of pure adrenaline and fury. “Harper, what the hell is this insanity? You’re ending our marriage over a piece of clothing?” “Do you know what important meeting I ditched just to rush home and appease you? And this is how you treat me?” “You constantly attack Phoebe, and she’s the one who always tries to mediate and tell me to be more patient with you! Don’t be so ungrateful!” The pain in my wrist made me wince. “Let go!” I yanked my arm away, watching the red marks bloom instantly on my skin. Then, I raised my hand and swung my entire weight into the slap. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet night. “Hudson Blake!” “I am done tolerating you!” Eight years together, five years married. This was the first time I had ever embarrassed him in public. I didn’t care anymore. I stared at his stunned face, speaking slowly, deliberately. “On my grandmother’s death anniversary, you were with Phoebe, lighting candles at a monastery.” “When I was in the ER with acute gastritis, you were with Phoebe, pulling an all-nighter on her thesis.” “Every single time I have ever needed you, you were with your goddamn mentee!” “And today!” I pointed at the girl who was still dramatically weeping behind him. “You let her wear my grandmother’s only remaining keepsake—a symbol of everything I lost—on stage for her standing ovation!” “And when you saw that silk tear because it didn’t fit her right, you casually dismissed it as ‘just an old thing’!” “Hudson!” “We are finished.” I realized I was crying—full, ugly tears—only after the last word left my lips. I thought I was past crying for him. Hudson’s face shifted through shock, a flash of guilt, and finally, settling on an irritated defensiveness. “I didn’t know that was your grandmother’s anniversary! Chef Moreau’s event is non-negotiable! And Phoebe’s thesis was crucial to her career—I was being a supportive mentor! Why do you always have to make everything so ugly?” He looked at me with profound disappointment. “Harper, when did you become so petty? So unreasonable?” “No man is going to love you like this!” He was right. No man would love me like this. I was barely recognizing this hysterical, frantic woman myself. The tears fell, hot and unstoppable. “Then,” I choked out, “I don’t need your love anymore.” I wiped my eyes and turned to leave. But Phoebe seized my hand again. She cried with me, her grief appearing even more debilitating than mine. “Harper, please don’t do this. Hudson loves you. He really does.” “It’s my fault, I promise! I’ll apply for a fellowship abroad tomorrow! I’ll never see him again! Just please, don’t leave him!” Her pathetic fragility was my least favorite performance. Watching her cry somehow stopped my own tears. I violently shook her hand off and spat out a single word. “Get lost.” Phoebe stumbled back, falling hard onto the asphalt, looking up at me in wide-eyed, wounded innocence. “Harper!” Hudson instantly moved, rushing to pull Phoebe up. When he saw her hand was scraped, he turned and yelled at me. “Are you insane? Apologize to Phoebe!” “In your dreams.” I looked at him, then at the calculating smirk that flashed in Phoebe’s eyes as she hid in his embrace, and gave him my final ultimatum. “Hudson Blake, if you contest this, we’ll meet in court.” I didn’t look back. Behind me, I heard Phoebe’s muffled sobs, Hudson’s low, comforting assurances, and a final, clear sentence: “She’s completely lost it.” I hailed a taxi and went straight to my best friend, Jada’s, place. Jada didn’t ask a single question. She opened the door, let me in, walked to her bar cart, and pulled out a dozen bottles of various liquor—whiskey, vodka, tequila—and arranged them on the coffee table. She only asked one thing. “Is this enough?” I looked at her, and my eyes welled up instantly. Jada sighed and opened her arms. “Come here, sweetie.” I collapsed into her embrace, sobbing until my throat was raw, my body shaking, until I finally had to rush to the bathroom to throw up. When I stumbled back out, I collapsed on the couch. “I’m divorcing him.” “Jada, I’m getting a divorce.” “And I’m going to make Hudson regret everything.” What is love taken to its limit? It’s when the man you thought would be your safe harbor actively tramples on everything you hold sacred, then blames you for not being generous enough. It’s when the love you thought was unbreakable finally shatters into dust after years of gradual erosion and disappointment. I stayed at Jada’s for two weeks. Hudson didn’t contact me. Not a call, not a text. Phoebe’s social media, however, was updated with manic frequency. And every post had Hudson in the background. [Met so many industry legends today. A little nervous, but felt so safe with my mentor.] The picture was from a culinary institute’s private backstage area. Phoebe smiled shyly, and Hudson was in the back, talking earnestly to a renowned veteran chef. [Home-cooked late-night snack from my mentor just wiped away all the exhaustion.] The photo showed a beautifully plated bowl of udon noodles. Next to it, a clearly visible, strong, masculine hand rested on the table—the hand still wearing the simple platinum wedding band I’d bought him. [Must keep up my practice, even on the road.] The photo was a selfie in a hotel practice kitchen. Phoebe, in her chef’s whites, was posing, but the mirror reflection clearly showed Hudson, in a tailored suit, sitting nearby, reading. One post after another. Jada nearly crushed her phone in her hand. She pointed furiously at the screen. “Are you kidding me? This girl has ‘I’m about to steal your husband’ written all over her face! Is Hudson blind? How can he not see this?” Jada was hopping mad, but I felt strangely calm. I had passed the point of agonizing pain. I just offered a detached assessment. “He sees it just fine.” “Bullshit!” Jada sat next to me. “Then why is he enabling this little bitch?” “In his mind, as long as he hasn’t physically crossed the line, it doesn’t count.” Hudson always clung to his ridiculous moral high ground. Whenever I confronted him, he always had a ready defense. “Phoebe and I are strictly professional. You’re just twisted, seeing dirt where there is none.” Looking back on those words now, my heart was still. “The movers will be here soon,” I reminded Jada. If I was getting divorced, I needed to retrieve my personal belongings, especially the few antiques left by my grandmother. They were all still at the house. “Okay. Good. You’re making the right call.” Jada drove back with me. I assumed Hudson was still out of town on business. But the moment I unlocked the front door, I smelled dinner—the scent of his famous tangy, sweet spareribs. I took off my shoes and walked in. Phoebe was sitting at the dining table in my favorite cashmere loungewear, openly eating the dish Hudson had made. Seeing me, Phoebe froze, looking like a child caught in the act. She jumped up immediately. “Harper.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Hudson walked out of the kitchen, holding a pot of soup. The smile on his face vanished when he saw me. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’re back? Did you eat?” I ignored him, walking straight to the master bedroom. I stopped dead in the doorway. My dresser was ransacked. Jewelry boxes were open, and necklaces spilled out. The bed was disheveled. The closet door was ajar, and the small safe hidden in the back—the door was wide open. A cold dread washed over me. I rushed to the safe. It was empty. “Harper…” Phoebe followed me in, her voice small. “I’m so sorry. I… I accidentally lost a pair of your earrings a few days ago, and I was trying to find a matching set to replace them.” “And I… accidentally opened the safe…” My head spun. I whipped around. She was wearing a delicate, custom-made vintage emerald necklace on her wrist—the one my grandmother had given me, an irreplaceable antique. Now, the chain was broken. The tiny, precious emeralds were scattered across the floor, and Phoebe held only a few broken shards in her hand. “I swear I didn’t mean to.” “Harper, please!” Phoebe suddenly lunged at me, falling to her knees and grasping my arms, sobbing. “I beg you to forgive me!” “I didn’t know it was your grandmother’s! I really didn’t!” She held onto me tightly. “Hit me, Harper!” “Please!” “Just hit me, so I can feel less horrible about myself!” As she spoke, she tried to lower her head to bang it on the floor. A hand shot out between us, catching her forehead just in time. Hudson gently pulled the shaking Phoebe away from me, sheltering her behind his back. He looked at me with an air of detached superiority. “The person is gone. It’s just an object, a relic. You don’t need to terrorize a living person over a relic, Harper. Phoebe is remorseful.” His tone was dismissive, as if the destruction was nothing more than an inconvenient spill. And I was the aggressive, overreacting lunatic. He stood there, her protector, shielding her completely. “Just leave her alone. She’s already devastated.” I couldn’t speak. As long as Phoebe played this pitiful, fragile role, I would always be wrong. From her “accidentally” tearing my robe, to her “accidentally” losing my jewelry, to this moment—her “accidentally” smashing the last physical link I had to my grandmother. Hudson always told me to forgive, to be the bigger person. My mind went blank. My throat constricted. The tremor in my fingertips was the only sign of my rising storm. I looked at Phoebe, still sniffling and hiding in Hudson’s arms, but with a barely concealed glint of smugness in her eyes. I smiled. I took one step toward her. Right in front of Hudson, I lunged, grabbed a fistful of Phoebe’s hair, and slammed her head against the nearest wall. “Ah—!” As Phoebe screamed in shock, I kicked her in the knee. She lost her balance and dropped heavily, this time genuinely kneeling on the floor before me. “That’s not how you beg for forgiveness.” I planted my foot on her shoulder, pinning her down. With the hand still tangled in her hair, I brutally forced her head down to the ground. Thud. I heard Phoebe let out a choked gasp of pain and saw blood immediately seep from her temple. I leaned down and whispered, my voice ragged, for only the three of us to hear. “That is how you beg.” My eyes were burning red. I was about to hit her head again, but Hudson’s hand wrapped around my wrist, his grip iron-hard. He tried to yank my arm away, his face dark with rage. “Let go!” “Never.” Hudson used his other hand, prying my fingers open one by one. My fingernails dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain, relentlessly peeling my grip away. “Harper, don’t push this too far!” Too far? I looked at Hudson, my anger turning into a maniacal laugh. “You and her are too far, you cheating bastards!” “If you want to protect her so badly!” “Fine!” Ignoring the agonizing pressure on my fingers, I broke free just long enough to use every ounce of my strength to deliver a vicious backhand across Phoebe’s face. My nails raked across her delicate skin, leaving several clear, bleeding gashes. The pain of my chipped nails was nothing compared to the satisfaction of watching the face she flaunted on social media every day be momentarily destroyed. Phoebe completely lost it, screaming in terror and clutching her face. I just laughed. “You know what that is?” “That’s karma, bitch!” “Let me tell you something, Hudson,” I glared at his incredulous face, then down at the shrieking Phoebe. “I have never been a good person! You should have known that!” “You have finally messed with the wrong woman!” “I promise you both this!” “This is far from over!”

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I was born with Congenital Insensitivity to Pain (CIP). My adopted little brother, Kian, has a severe form of Osteogenesis Imperfecta—the ‘brittle bone’ disease. So, to keep him safe, my sister, Hannah, always used me to set boundaries and enforce rules for Kian. I did protest, but Hannah always pleaded with me, a look of deep, exhausted helplessness on her face: “Nick, Kian is our adopted brother, and punishing him directly will only bring judgment and gossip down on us.” “Plus, he’s so fragile, so much weaker than you! You can’t feel pain anyway, so just think of it as acting, and please, just go along with it.” When Kian ran off in a crowded shopping mall, Hannah broke one of my legs right in front of him. When he played with scissors, she chopped off five of my fingers, then had doctors reattach them one by one. Later, Kian got involved with a delinquent girl and ran away from home. After Hannah dragged him back, she sliced open several deep cuts on my body and shoved me into the indoor pool where she kept her sharks. Three sharks circled me. I screamed for her help, but she only focused on reprimanding Kian: “Mistakes have consequences. You run away one more time, and I’ll throw him back in.” Kian crumpled in terror, his knees hitting the cold marble floor and leaving a patch of dark bruising. Hannah immediately rushed to cradle him, her face full of anguish, and then turned to leave. I sobbed, begging her to pull me out first, but she never looked back. She had forgotten that Congenital Insensitivity to Pain isn’t the same thing as immortality. You can still die from blood loss.

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Preston Maxwell’s colleague, Daisy Palmer, was very pregnant. She waltzed through the front door, belly first, demanding the last gift from her registry, right as I was putting the finishing touches on our wedding decor. “Are you serious?” I managed, my voice raw. Preston looked utterly bewildered by my reaction. “I just helped her out with a sperm donation, Cathy. I’ve been nothing but faithful to you.” Then, he actually took her to the mall to pick out the gift. I immediately shared the story to our synchronized family group chat, canceling the wedding. But everyone seemed to think I was overreacting. Preston’s mother, Mrs. Maxwell, spoke in a long-suffering, patient tone: “Preston is handsome and has an Ivy League degree. Genes like that should be passed on. It’s practically a public service.” His father, Mr. Maxwell, scoffed: “He didn’t cheat on you. Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?” My own father was so enraged he nearly had a heart attack: “You stubborn fool! This is a perfect match. You dare throw it away?” My mother wailed dramatically: “Cancel this, and you’ll never find another husband!” “Then I’ll never marry!” I shot back, my eyes burning. But then my phone buzzed with a message from someone else: “Cathy Jensen, when do I finally get the way to the top?” … That evening, Preston gently ushered Daisy Palmer through the door. They had bought a massive box of toys for the unborn baby. Daisy lightly stroked her bump, and they exchanged a look that was undeniably filled with the shared, uncomplicated joy of impending parenthood. When she saw me, Daisy offered a small, neatly wrapped box. “Cathy, this is a gift I picked out just for you. I only found out today how upset you were about all this, so please take this as… a small apology.” I didn’t even look. It hit the bottom of the Restoration Hardware trash bin with a satisfying, hollow thud. Daisy’s practiced smile evaporated. Tears immediately tracked down her cheeks. “Cathy, I… I’m so sorry.” She choked back a sob and instinctively shrank behind Preston. Preston immediately shielded her. He looked at me with a weary, almost patronizing air. “Cathy, don’t be like this.” “I was just doing my part to donate high-quality genes, in line with the department’s initiative. Daisy’s a committed single mother by choice. She just wanted a baby, not a husband.” “We’re just colleagues. Seriously, there’s nothing going on.” “Just colleagues?” My voice shook. “Colleagues who text ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good night’ every single day? Colleagues who share a private Spotify playlist? Colleagues who cover for her at client dinners and drive her the twenty extra miles home after a late shift?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exhaustion. “There you go again. I’ve explained all of this. It’s just professional courtesy. You’re being paranoid and reading into things.” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. His excuses were pathetic and weak—casual workplace exchanges, a mentor looking out for a junior team member. They were full of holes, yet for five years, I had chosen to stitch them shut with my trust. But five years of my life. I couldn’t just let it end like this. I gritted my teeth, pointing at Daisy’s stomach, testing him one last time. “Fine. I’m the paranoid one. I misunderstood everything.” I stared into Preston’s eyes. “She can get rid of the baby. And I’ll consider everything forgotten. The wedding is back on.” “Absolutely not!” Preston’s voice cracked with sudden rage, though he quickly forced it down. “The baby is Daisy’s. I have no right to decide that.” Daisy instantly went pale. Then, with a dramatic gasp, she dropped to her knees. She clasped her hands over her stomach. “Cathy, there’s nothing between Preston and me. The baby is eight months old. He was just kicking me. I can’t, I can’t…” She was sobbing, trembling like a leaf. Preston’s face was a mask of internal conflict. After a few agonizing seconds, his composure broke. He helped her up, his smile forced and weak. “Cathy, asking her to terminate the pregnancy now is like tearing her heart out.” I watched him, a cold smirk twisting my lips. “Oh. Does that hurt your heart?” Preston visibly flinched. A look of genuine pain flashed across his face. “I didn’t think you could be so ruthless. If this is a condition of our marriage, then we truly aren’t the same kind of people… We should break up.” “Preston is innocent, Cathy! Don’t take this out on him!” Daisy suddenly shrieked. “If you want to blame someone, blame me! I can’t give up my baby… I’ll prove our innocence by ending my own life right now!” Before the words were out, she made a stumbling rush toward the balcony, making a show of trying to climb over the railing. My heart flew into my throat. I automatically started toward her. Preston was already moving, pure panic on his face. But before either of us could reach her, Daisy simply collapsed onto the floor, hyperventilating and weeping uncontrollably. Preston immediately wrapped her in his arms, his whole body shaking. After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes glacial as they fixed on me, still standing there. “Charlotte Jensen! Your baseless accusations nearly killed her!” His look was utterly cold, as if he were staring at a stranger. “She’s a young woman, pregnant, and vulnerable. You can stand there and watch her suffer, but I can’t.” His voice was vibrating with emotion. He carefully lifted Daisy into his arms. As he passed me, he growled, “Move.” I stood paralyzed, trying to form the words. “I wasn’t going to…” “Preston, the baby… I think the baby is coming.” Daisy moaned weakly, then went limp in his arms. “Daisy!” Preston’s face went white. He shoved past me with urgent force, carrying Daisy out the door. I sank onto the floor, biting down hard on my lip, trying to contain the freezing despair welling up inside me. I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling until dawn. My phone finally lit up with a text from Preston: I was out of line last night. I said things I didn’t mean. Cathy, I’m sorry. My nose started to sting. Tears immediately welled up. For years, he was always the one to apologize first after a fight, and I would always take the graceful path back to him. But this time was different. This was a line I could never uncross. Before I could reply, he sent a photo. It was of him and a newborn baby. The tiny infant was tucked gently into his arm. He was looking down at her with a tenderness that made his eyes look like soft spring water. Daisy had an early labor, but they’re both safe. The baby looks exactly like me. She’s alone, so I’m staying here at the hospital for three days to help out. Let’s push the wedding back a week. I can’t deal with all the planning right now. These simple, everyday words, every single one of them, felt like a spike driven through my chest. I numbly stood up and began systematically peeling the wedding stickers off the walls. Then I took scissors to the gown, reducing the silk and lace to a heap of worthless scraps. My fingers were shaking uncontrollably as I packed my suitcase. Just as I zipped it shut, Mrs. Maxwell burst in, her face beaming. “Preston asked me to bring him a change of clothes at the hospital. Honestly, I’m so eager to see my granddaughter!” When I didn’t speak, she took my arm with false warmth. “Cathy, look, Preston was wrong. He shouldn’t have kept the ‘donation’ a secret and embarrassed you. But it’s not some unforgivable sin, is it?” “We know you two are solid. You can’t let something this small ruin everything. Just forget what you said in the group chat. It was just heat of the moment.” “Come on, let’s go see the baby together. Give Preston an out, and we’ll forget this whole messy thing ever happened.” Like a puppet, I allowed her to drag me along. When I finally came back to myself, I was standing outside the hospital room. Daisy was lying weakly on the bed, her pale face still streaked with tears, a clear indication of a difficult labor. Preston was holding the baby, softly humming a lullaby. Mr. Maxwell smiled, a rare sight. “Preston’s an airline executive. Let’s call her Clarity. A clear new start.” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Maxwell chided. “That’s no name for a baby girl!” She eagerly reached out to take the baby. Preston shifted away. “Mom, don’t. You’ll hurt her. I’ve got her.” He glanced up and caught sight of me. His eyes instantly lit up. “Cathy, come look at her. Look how tiny her hands and feet are.” He leaned down to kiss the baby, then stopped abruptly, looking panicked, like a scolded child. “Wait, wait, Dad can’t give you any germs.” I had never seen him look so tender, so endearingly clumsy. This was the clumsy, gentle side of a new father. He was desperate to show his joy to the world, but I was the one person who should have been excluded from it. My face felt stiff as I managed a tight smile and turned to leave. Preston rushed to catch me, carefully presenting the swaddled infant to me. “Cathy, look. Doesn’t her nose and mouth look exactly like mine?” I looked down. The tiny face was indeed an exact, uncanny miniature of his. The similarity stabbed my eyes. My throat felt instantly thick. I coldly pushed the bundle away. Staring at Preston’s expectant face, I suddenly didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my pain. “Take her away. She’s ugly. She’s annoying to look at.” The baby started to wail. Preston’s expression instantly turned cold. He gently patted the child, comforting her. Mrs. Maxwell glared at me, her gaze like a knife. “You’re the one who’s annoying!” Mr. Maxwell simply pointed toward the door. “You’re not welcome here. Get out!” Daisy, on the bed, suddenly stirred. “Cathy…” She pleaded with the Maxwells. “Could I please speak with Cathy alone?” As soon as the door closed, Daisy offered a small, apologetic smile. “Cathy, I don’t want to break you two up. Preston really loves you. Actually, that night, he was drunk, and we just…” My mind went blank with a sudden roar. “It wasn’t a sperm donation?” She looked away. “Preston insisted on keeping it a secret so you wouldn’t be hurt.” “By the time I found out I was pregnant, I was three months along. He was furious. He said he’d pay me a huge sum for hush money once the baby was born and told me never to mention it again.” “Then why are you telling me now?” I asked coldly. “Why did you intentionally show up at my house, pregnant? Why didn’t you keep the secret forever?” She clearly hadn’t anticipated my directness. Her face shifted colors before she finally pursed her lips and stayed silent. I laughed with a bitter edge. “You’ve won. Preston and I are over. Your family of three can live happily ever after. What is it you’re still worried about?” She suddenly looked up, her eyes flashing with a strange, triumphant light. The next second, she rolled straight off the bed in front of me, landing on the floor with a loud thud. She immediately began screaming in terrified hysterics. “Cathy! I was wrong! Please don’t hit me!” I was stunned, utterly speechless. Before I could react, a powerful force yanked me away. Snap! My cheek burned, and I instantly tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Mr. Maxwell’s face was dark with fury. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “You brazen fool! This is a hospital! You think you can act like an animal here?” He raised his hand to strike again, but Preston intercepted him. “Dad, she’s my fiancée. I’ll handle it.” He pulled me into the hallway, found a packet of ice, and gently held it to my swelling cheek. “I didn’t push her…” I mumbled, looking down. “Mmm,” he replied softly, neither angry nor curious. I knew him too well. That silence was the worst kind of denial. If he believed me, he would fight for me. If he didn’t, he would simply say nothing. But if he didn’t believe me, why was he being so gentle? Tears finally overflowed, splattering hot and wet onto the back of his hand. He snatched his hand back as if burned. He stood up. “If you’re just going to stand here and upset Daisy and the baby, you should go home.” I reached out, grabbing the edge of his jacket, tears blurring my vision. “Just trust me this once. Please?” He let out a deep sigh. He gently unpeeled my fingers one by one. His face was etched with total disappointment. “Cathy, I can overlook all the crazy things you’ve done. I love you too much not to. But you need to be honest with me.” His phone suddenly rang—Daisy’s specialized ringtone. It was a cheesy, emotional pop ballad called, “Heaven Is a Place on Earth.” I once asked him, “Is it appropriate to have a special ringtone for a female colleague?” He looked baffled. “She likes the song, I set it for her. Don’t overthink it.” I watched him answer the call, then turn and walk away without a backward glance. I sat alone on the bench, my cheek throbbing, laughing and crying all at once, like someone suddenly diagnosed with a terminal illness. He told me I needed to be honest? Had he been honest with me? I went back to the apartment and collected my things. I thought about going to my parents’ house, but they video-called me first. My father clutched his chest, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The Maxwells called! They said you showed up at the hospital like a maniac and attacked the poor girl who just gave birth! What were you thinking? The hospital CEO is my friend! He’s asking what the hell is going on! You’ve embarrassed the Jensen name!” My father started gasping. My mother rushed to get his pills, then glared at me. “Preston already explained everything! She’s just a colleague! You forced him to cheat! You’re driving him away!” She spotted the swelling on my face and sneered. “Serves you right!” “What did I do wrong that you all have to condemn me?” I took a shuddering breath, my voice hoarse. “Why will you believe total strangers over me?” “Believe what? Tell us!” my parents demanded, speaking over each other. Looking at their cold, resolute faces, I just deflated. “Never mind.” I frantically hung up the call. I couldn’t let them see my tears. Otherwise, I’d just hear the usual, “What else are you good for besides weeping?” In that moment, I realized I had nowhere to go. My phone vibrated. Sam Sullivan: “Cathy, when do I finally get the way to the top?” “Now.” I replied instantly, without thinking. Sam, the high school failure who used to be at the bottom of the class, suddenly transformed his senior year and followed me to the same university. He’d relentlessly pursued me for years, and I had rejected his hundred proposals. Who would want the cute, but utterly useless, class clown? Even if his smile made my heart skip a beat, the answer was always no. After college, I got with Preston. Sam went to Switzerland for grad school, but his messages never stopped. From daily check-ins and sharing life updates to the relentless question every few days: “When do I finally get the way to the top?” I had never replied. He was like a tireless robot, never giving up. Thinking of this, I sent him another text: “Three days from now. Straight to the altar. You want that spot or not?” Slam! The apartment door flew open. Preston stood in the doorway, his face a thundercloud, his eyes locked on me. “Charlotte Jensen! What the hell did you do to my shirt!” “Wh—” “Shut up!” He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist and slamming me against the wall. I had never seen him look like this. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath ragged. “I was wearing the shirt you brought me when I held the baby. Within ten minutes, she had a full-body rash and respiratory distress! She’s in the NICU right now!” “She’s a newborn! Cathy, you give me an explanation!” “I didn’t do anything!” My wrist felt crushed. I struggled to break free. “Let me go…” Before I could finish, he swung his fist. I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head. There was a sickening crack next to my ear. His fist had struck the wall beside my head. When I opened my eyes, I saw blood seeping from his knuckles. “Preston,” I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Were you… were you actually going to hit me?” He seemed to snap out of a trance. He instantly released me and pulled me into a desperate embrace. “Cathy, I… I panicked. I’m so sorry.” “I told you I could overlook anything you did. But this is too far. Daisy is crying, saying she wants to die with the baby. Go down on your knees and apologize to her, okay?” Hot tears dripped onto my neck. “Do it for me, Cathy. I promise you, if you just apologize, we can still get married.” The man who hadn’t cried when he shattered his ribs in a flight training accident was crying now. A man’s tears meant he had a weakness. Daisy and the baby were his. I looked at his trembling shoulders and smiled, a strange, hollow smile. “Fine. I’ll apologize.” He visibly relaxed, relief washing over him. “Good. We’ll go to the hospital right now.” He reached for my hand. I pulled away, my face expressionless. “I can walk myself.” “Okay,” he nodded, but still hurried me. “Come on. I’m worried about Daisy losing it…” When we reached the entrance to the NICU, Daisy dropped to the floor and grabbed my legs, holding on for dear life. “Cathy, please! You can take my life! Just let the baby be okay!” She was screaming hysterically, sobbing and shaking. I was so angry I laughed. I reached down to pull her up. “Stop the act. I should be the one kneeling. Please, Miss Palmer, take my fiancé and leave me alone.” She snapped her head up. A flicker of triumph crossed her eyes, instantly replaced by terror. “No! No, that’s not it! Preston is yours forever. I would never dream of stealing him! I just want to live quietly with my baby.” “Get up!” I’d completely lost my patience. She grabbed my hand. I yanked my hand away in disgust. She used the momentum to throw herself backward, her head hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She let out another bloodcurdling shriek. “Enough!” Preston rushed over to help her up. He looked at me as if I were a terrifying monster. “Cathy Jensen, don’t come back here if you won’t apologize! Daisy just gave birth, and the baby is fighting for her life. How can you be so cruel?” I just looked down, unable to find anything to say. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, would he? After a long silence, Preston gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. Why do I expect an explanation? I’ve seen you hurt Daisy and the baby with my own eyes. Just go home. You’re only making things worse here.” “The baby’s parents! Who are the baby’s parents?” a doctor suddenly called out. Preston turned without hesitation, escorting Daisy away. The doctor scowled at me. “Non-essential personnel, don’t cause a disturbance.” He was right. They were the parents. I was the extraneous personnel. Twice in one day I had subjected myself to this humiliation. To everyone here, I was just a vicious, insane woman. Suddenly, all my strength left me. I swayed backward, only to fall into a warm embrace. Sam Sullivan steadied me. He looked intensely excited. “Cathy Jensen, you said ‘Now.’ Is the way to the top for real?”

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The day the Manhattan heiress proposed to my best friend, he stepped off the skyscraper ledge. “Spencer, I’m sorry, but I have to go home first.” The scene below was a horrifying splash of red against the white marble. Cordelia Hallowell, the usually ice-cold, aristocratic CEO, screamed. She threw herself onto Jude’s body, clinging to him in a frenzy. I merely curled my lips in a wry, mocking smile. I backed up a single step, my heels teetering on the terrace edge. Cordelia’s cousin, Juniper, who was shielded by Cordelia as she cradled a man in her arms, glared up at me. “What, Spencer? Are you trying to use some cheap, tawdry suicide attempt to force Cordelia to marry you, too?” The man was already dead. What use was that slip of a marriage certificate now? Cordelia, you were never my home. I’m ready to leave this stage. I tipped backward, my body plummeting toward the earth. In the instant my weight slammed into the pavement, I heard Cordelia’s raw, gut-wrenching shriek. 1 I didn’t die. The private hospital wholly owned by the Hallowell Group cleared an entire wing just for me. Within twenty-four hours of my fall, a global consortium of top medical experts held a symposium on my condition. And Cordelia Hallowell? She became my shadow, personally supervising my care for an entire month. “Ms. Hallowell truly cares for you, Mr. Hale.” The attending physician’s tone dripped with envy, his gaze falling to my unmoving legs before a flash of pity crossed his face. Yes, Cordelia had spent tens of millions to snatch my life back from the abyss. Unfortunately, money couldn’t solve everything. My legs were useless, and Jude was gone. Lying in that sterile room, the days and nights of semi-consciousness were haunted. I relived the scene of Jude’s jump over and over. He was wearing the simple white t-shirt we’d arrived in—the one he’d worn five years ago. He leaped from the high-rise, looking heartbreakingly beautiful, like an angel embracing freedom. He’d told me, “There’s no home for me here, Spencer. Even if there’s only a fifty percent chance, I have to try.” Five years ago, Jude and I were in a car crash. We woke up here, thrust into this melodrama novel. To “go home” as quickly as possible, Jude nearly destroyed himself. He pulled Juniper Hallowell, the perpetually suicidal, gloomy girl, back into the light. He became her cause. As for me, I spent five years, day in and day out, helping Cordelia—the disgraced, exiled cousin—rise to become the CEO of the Hallowell Group. We had finally done it. The goal was achieved. A month ago, it was Jude’s birthday. When Juniper bowed her proud head and made her tearful confession, I saw the shimmer of unshed tears in Jude’s eyes. Even then, I suspected Jude wouldn’t be coming home with me. But I never thought he would leave me behind like this. Dying before the system’s task was complete meant even the fifty percent chance of returning to our original world would likely result in a shattered body from the car crash. He was decisive. So final. 2 “You’re awake.” The sound of the door closing pulled me back from the void. I looked listlessly at Cordelia as she entered, offering no greeting. She placed the thermal container on the side table, ladled soup into a small bowl, and brought the spoon directly to my lips. “Your favorite beef consommé. I picked out the thyme.” A faint, burnt aroma drifted through the air. I raised an eyebrow, noting the angry red marks on her thumb and forefinger. She had cooked this herself. How novel. Only a month ago, she despised me so much she practically wished me dead. I studied her, oddly intrigued. She was thinner than before. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, which only sharpened the exquisite severity of her features. The look she leveled at me was saturated with self-reproach. My gaze drifted to the doorway. A familiar white t-shirt flashed past. Dax Prescott’s furtive, peering eyes met mine. Ah. No good deed goes unpunished, and no sudden devotion is without a hidden agenda. She was here on behalf of her beloved. For the first time since I woke up, I smiled at Cordelia. A look of relief washed over her, only to freeze when I spoke, my voice devoid of warmth. “Why don’t you invite Dax in? Worried I’ll throw more dirt on him? Don’t worry. My legs are broken. I won’t get a chance to perform an encore.” “Spencer!” Cordelia’s eyes flashed with the chill of a gathering storm. She looked ready to lash out, to reprimand me as she always had. Then she glanced down at my motionless legs, pressed the bridge of her nose, and sighed. “I regret Jude’s death. Dax… he didn’t mean to incite him. None of us knew his depression was so severe. Besides, the Hallowell family couldn’t possibly let June marry someone with a history of that kind of severe mental instability…” Her voice trailed off, a rare moment of guilt crossing her face. I met her eyes with an icy stare and let out a single, contemptuous chuckle. She knew. She knew the whole story. If she hadn’t indulged Dax, he would never have dared to ruin Jude’s proposal. “Jude is dead, Cordelia. That’s an unchangeable fact. Try not to be too upset.” She turned her head away, her lips tightening into a thin red line. “Just focus on getting better. When you’re healed, we’ll get married.” She didn’t dare meet my gaze again. She quickly gathered Dax and left. Before exiting the room, Dax tossed me a look of pure, satisfied provocation. It was the same look he gave Jude and me the day he returned from overseas, a private declaration of war. “Guys, have you heard the expression? The late arrival always triumphs over the long-suffering loyalist. “Trust me. I just have to snap my fingers, and both of them will come running like dogs.” 3 I believed him. Of course, I did. Jude’s mission with Juniper had been a smooth-sailing success, hitting an Affection Rating of 99 in no time. Mine, with Cordelia, was a war of attrition. Cordelia was cold, closed-off. It took me five years and nearly losing my life to save her from a devastating earthquake just to earn one, begrudging line: “You can have the title of my boyfriend, Spencer, but don’t expect anything more.” Jude tried to rationalize it for me. He’d say Cordelia was just reserved, that her Affection Rating hitting 50 was the best proof of her secret devotion. He’d throw an arm around my shoulder, promising that since Juniper’s score was rising quickly, he would wait until Cordelia finally loved me completely. We would go home together. I saw the flicker of reluctance in his eyes even then. I just laughed, teasing him. “We have no family back home anyway. If you really love June, I’ll stay here with you forever. No problem.” I watched his ears turn pink, hiding my own sense of loss. I wasn’t immune to Cordelia. That fragile, nascent feeling, however, was extinguished before it could even take root. By her own hands. In the third year, while accompanying Cordelia on a resort development project, the earthquake hit. When the support beam crashed down, I shoved her toward the only safe recess. In the dark silence underground, my breathing grew shallower with every second. Cordelia finally found a sliver of cell reception. She didn’t call for rescue. She called Dax, who was thousands of miles across the ocean. She didn’t say anything. The silent, desperate confession of love spread through the darkness. The secret, unspeakable depth of her feelings swelled and intensified in the face of death. It was a tidal wave that submerged me and completely extinguished the restless beat of my own heart. 50, 30, 20… Affection Rating: Zero. 4 At the time, I told myself the worst outcome was not being able to go home. Jude still had a choice. As long as he was happy, I was satisfied. Cordelia didn’t visit the next day, only sending a nurse with a custom-made nutrient shake. Undoubtedly, another of her home-cooked masterpieces. She was afraid to see me. She was guilty. Dax, on the other hand, sent a message. [Are you and Jude competing for who can be the bigger joke? One dead, one crippled, and the woman you both wanted is still orbiting me like a puppy. Good riddance.] Attached was a photo. In the frame, Dax wore a tailored tuxedo. Juniper was nestled intimately on his arm, their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. I recognized the suit. It was the tuxedo Jude had custom-designed for himself for the wedding. Even the enormous, rose-covered archway behind them was a structure Jude had commissioned, built from the pink hybrid roses he’d spent two years cultivating in the Hallowell gardens. Jude had sensed June was finally ready to commit. He’d been secretly preparing this surprise for the proposal day. Instead, on that day, Dax publicly released photos of Jude with other women, announcing that he was going to expose the “gold-digging fraud” to everyone. That was supposed to be the happiest day of Jude’s life. Instead, under the cold, judging stares of the entire social circuit, the color drained from Jude’s face, inch by agonizing inch. Jude snapped, throwing a punch at Dax, only to be shoved hard to the ground by Juniper. “Jude, you knew that woman wasn’t me that night, didn’t you?” It was the first time I had ever seen that raw, naked despair on Jude’s face. He trembled as he stood up. And then, a brilliant splash of crimson erupted from his mouth. 5 Dax followed up the text with a barrage of June’s engagement photos. Apparently not satisfied with just text, he video-called me directly. “Spencer, old friend, I’m so sorry. I love this suit, but my shoulder width is all wrong. Do you think the tailor can rush the alterations before the wedding?” Juniper’s engagement party hadn’t been canceled. I looked at the tuxedo on Dax. He had spent years playing Cordelia and Juniper against each other. A mere frown from him would have two of the world’s most powerful women bending over backward. Was he finally ready to reel in the line? Curious. Ignoring Dax’s taunt, I looked past him at Juniper, who stood silently in the frame. Her features, so strikingly similar to Cordelia’s in their sharp beauty, were marred by a subtle shadow, the same wounded gloom that had marked her before Jude arrived. I glanced down at the system interface on my wrist. Juniper’s entry: Affection Rating: 100. I smiled. “Juniper, want to know why Jude really jumped?” June’s head snapped up. Her eyes held a chilling, manic intensity. “Who said Jude is dead! “We’re getting married in a week! Are you trying to jinx him? Don’t you dare curse him!” Dax’s arrogant expression instantly turned ashen. 6 Juniper was dragged into my hospital room by her hair. When Dax was thrown to the floor, his borrowed suit was shredded, and his famously long, athletic legs were a bloody mess. Blood pooled on the floor, the sight painfully reminiscent of the day Jude died. “Tell me! Where is Jude!” Juniper’s eyes were bloodshot, the whites laced with red. She lunged, clutching my throat. I looked up at the terrifying, pulsing red number above her head, wreathed in black mist. “Jude is dead. He jumped, and as his body turned to pulp, he was still planning his proposal to you. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You didn’t want to marry him because you personally delivered him to the bed of another woman.” Juniper’s grip tightened violently. “I didn’t! “He was planning our wedding! He wouldn’t leave me! If he died, he must have been faking it to make me regret this! “Yes, that’s it! He’s mad at me, so he’s hiding! Isn’t that right? You’re his best friend… Where did you hide him?” June’s words were a torrent. She looked at me with wild, desperate supplication, her grip on my throat increasing, terrified I would offer a negative answer. I was choking, but I laughed anyway. Ha. Jude, she doesn’t believe you’re dead. She can’t. She knows everything, but she refuses to admit it! 7 Just as I was about to pass out, Cordelia burst through the door. She landed a heavy punch into Juniper’s stomach and immediately rushed to check on Dax’s injuries. But when her eyes met my cold, detached stare, her gaze wavered. “Spencer, I…” I looked away, turning my attention to Juniper. The blow from Cordelia seemed to drain her strength. She lay on the floor like a piece of discarded meat, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Bring Jude back,” she whispered. I’d heard she’d lost touch with reality the day Jude died. She had held his corpse all night, until Cordelia had to sedate her and drag her away. The man dies, and now she loves him. Women are pathetic creatures. I tilted my head, smiling as I replied, “Sure. Go ahead and kill Prescott first.” Juniper’s eyes suddenly sparked with manic light. “Spencer!” Cordelia glared at me, ready to argue. But Juniper had already transformed into a beast that had scented blood. She rushed Dax, her eyes burning red. The sound of fists hitting flesh, mixed with Dax’s screams, was surprisingly melodic. I wheeled my chair closer, securing the best viewing spot for the spectacle of a cousin and niece turning on each other over the same man. Jude and I had watched this drama as supporting characters countless times. I had never found it so hilariously absurd. Only after June was finally restrained and dragged away did Cordelia turn to me, her face a mask of dark fury. “Spencer, have you had enough of this circus!” I offered a soft laugh. “I told you. I want Dax Prescott dead.” Cordelia’s chest heaved. She finally dropped the pretense of the devoted, loving partner. Her hands clenched and unclenched, struggling to resist the urge to strike me. “Anything but that. Marriage, or any other condition. I’ll agree to it.” She looked down at me, her tone condescending, full of false generosity. “You’ve helped me for years. Just stop the drama, and we can finally have a real life together.” I looked at her calmly, then slowly offered a faint, tragic smile. “The marriage? I’m walking away. “And Cordelia? I’m walking away from you, too.”

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My fiancée’s twenty-something assistant loved a good bet, and for the nineteenth time, she’d canceled our wedding because she’d “lost” to him. I warned her again, “Izzy, if you pull this again, I’m marrying someone else.” Isabella Moretti, the CEO of Moretti Global and the woman I was supposed to marry, just laughed, completely unconcerned. “Grant, you literally gave me a kidney. How are you going to marry anyone else?” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “And besides, who else would take on damaged goods like you?” On the morning of what was supposed to be our twentieth wedding day, the assistant, Chase Blackwood, sent her a picture of an airport departure board with a ticket stub visible in the corner. It was another one of their absurd wagers. “If you can’t find me in the next thirty minutes, you’ll never see me again, Izzy.” Seeing the flight’s destination—somewhere tropical, no doubt—Isabella’s face went pale with urgency. She ripped off her bespoke veil and sprinted for the door, headed for the airport. Thirty minutes later, Chase posted a story on Instagram: “Someone who truly cares will cross any ocean for you.” I watched the post without reaction, my face a cold mask. Then, I quietly dialed a familiar number. “Dahlia Prescott,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Was that promise you made to marry me all those years ago still good?” Her voice came back, bright with excitement. “Really? Of course, it’s good! If it’s you, Grant, my answer is always yes!” … The guests in the grand ballroom were exchanging bewildered glances. In the elite circles of Manhattan society, this was turning into the biggest scandal of the season—and a massive, embarrassing joke. My closest friends and family were fuming on my behalf. “Isabella Moretti is completely deranged, how can she cancel a wedding twenty times for a glorified assistant?!” “Seriously. Grant gave her everything, even a goddamn kidney! Mr. Kensington actually disowned him over it, you know.” Listening to the hushed, angry whispers, a bitter, hollow laugh echoed in my chest. Even strangers understood that this time, Izzy had gone far, far too far with her game. Mrs. Moretti, Izzy’s mother, scurried onto the stage, grabbing my arm. “Grant, darling, just keep the guests occupied. Tell them Izzy had a sudden corporate emergency. Get them to the buffet, please.” I looked at the older woman, the exhaustion in my heart bottomless. “Mrs. Moretti, I’ve used that exact excuse nineteen times. Izzy has walked out on this exact ceremony nineteen times! Do you think these people are fools?” Her expression soured. “We’ve done it this many times, what’s one more?” “You’ve been ‘desperately in love’ with my daughter for ten years,” she continued, a flicker of disdain in her eyes. “Seems like it was all talk.” The sheer entitlement in her tone made me feel physically ill. Memories flashed behind my eyes. Since Chase Blackwood started as Izzy’s assistant two years ago, our wedding date had become a sick, revolving door. Every time, on the day of our scheduled ceremony, Chase would challenge Izzy to a ridiculous wager. And every single time, Isabella would conveniently ‘lose.’ I wasn’t even sure anymore if the losing wasn’t intentional. The first time, she lost a bet and turned the wedding into a black-tie masquerade. Her dance partner? Chase. The second time, she lost again. Chase claimed he’d never worn a groom’s tux, so Izzy handed him my custom jacket and the boutonnière. They played out the entire ceremony, leaving the guests utterly stunned. The third, the fourth… it was always the same result. Her excuse was always a variation of the same lines: “Grant, you have to be understanding. As CEO, I have to be a woman of my word, or how will my staff respect me?” “Besides, Chase was headhunted at a high price. I can’t let him feel slighted.” Thinking back, it was obvious. They were playing a sick game at my expense, on the day I was supposed to have the happiest moment of my life. Did they really think I was that naive? The nineteenth time, their bet was that Chase had one minute to run from the lobby to the wedding stage. The distance was just over a hundred feet, and Chase is six-foot-three—he could have crawled that distance. Chase took his sweet time, sauntering onto the stage, his eyes sweeping over me with a sneer. “You indulge me so much, Izzy. Maybe you do want to marry me. Come on, let me wear the jacket.” Isabella gave him a doting smile. “Well, since you made it up here. I can’t let you leave empty-handed. That tux jacket really suits you.” That day, she even exchanged rings with him. Her explanation to me afterward? “Everyone’s tired from all the excitement. We can have the actual wedding next time.” I knew then that if I had been the man exchanging rings with her that day, our wedding would have gone off without a hitch. That was the closest I had ever come to happiness. Mrs. Moretti was still trying to get me to cover for Izzy. But before I could respond, the double doors swung open. Isabella and Chase walked in, arm in arm. “Izzy, you lost again, by just one second! You have to honor the bet.” Isabella’s tone was as soft as silk. “Fine, what do you want?” Chase feigned generosity. “You’ve had a stressful day. How about you make it up to me by joining me for dinner?” Isabella’s face instantly lit up. “Chase, you’re the only one who truly understands me.” Watching her casually toss the boutonnière and my ring into a nearby trash can, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no pain. The last shred of hope was gone. I was finally, completely dead inside. I offered a final, polite warning. “Isabella, are you walking out on the wedding again?” She turned back, looking down her nose at me. “Grant, you’re making a fuss over nothing. The auspicious hour has passed anyway. We’ll reschedule the wedding for another day.” In front of every guest, she and Chase simply turned and walked away. A ripple of laughter swept through the ballroom. The son of the respected Kensington family, publicly shamed by a twenty-something assistant. Watching their retreating backs, I managed a genuine, if cold, smile. I called out to them. “Isabella Moretti, let’s make a real wager. I’m betting there won’t be a twenty-first wedding.” She turned back, visibly annoyed. “I told you, I only play these games with Chase. What makes you think you’re worthy of a bet with me?” Ignoring the rising tide of mockery from the guests, I slowly slid my own wedding band from my finger and dropped it into the trash can beside hers. “I’m betting that if there is, Moretti Global will be gone from Manhattan before you can walk down the aisle.” Hearing the threat, Izzy spun back, her eyes burning with hatred. She marched up and slapped me across the face. “Grant Kensington, you know how hard it was to build Moretti Global! You would actually curse my company just because of a canceled wedding?” “Chase was right about you,” she spat. “You are just a selfish, entitled leech.” I let out a soft, mocking laugh. “If you two have already slept together, just get married. Stop using your pathetic little wagers as an excuse to humiliate everyone else.” My voice wasn’t quiet. The entire ballroom was staring. Chase’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Mr. Kensington, Izzy and I maintain a strictly professional, superior-subordinate relationship. You have no right to slander us.” Then, he leaned in and muttered quickly in my ear. “Izzy didn’t let you touch her for ten years, but she was in my bed the first night we met. She could love anyone in the world, Grant, and it would never be you.” He straightened up, gave me a mocking smile, and walked back to Izzy. “Izzy, darling, you still haven’t honored the terms of the last bet. You promised to transfer Mr. Kensington’s shares to my boy Gus. Did you forget?” My blood ran cold. Gus was Chase’s dog. I stared at Izzy, waiting to see if she was truly twisted enough to insult me like this—to choose a glorified pet over the man who bled for her company. A flash of something—maybe hesitation—flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. She pulled a document from her clutch and thrust it into my hands. “Sign it, Grant. I can’t go back on my word in front of my staff.” Her expression was deadly serious. A fresh pang of agony shot through me, but it was just a fleeting ache. I had been the architect of Moretti Global’s success. It was primarily my work that built the company. I remembered a time when her eyes were full of love for me. “Honey, the company is booming. You don’t have to work so hard. You just take care of me and our home, and I’ll give you the majority of the shares so you feel secure.” She couldn’t be apart from me for an hour back then; she’d video call me even during board meetings. Now, I was worth less to her than her assistant’s pampered dog. “Grant, sign it. Stop acting like a child. It’s just a little welcome gift for Gus.” My eyes widened in disbelief. How could she say that without batting an eyelash? “Isabella Moretti, you’re asking me to sign over forty percent of my shares to a dog?”

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