Author: Momo Chan

My annual salary was fifty-five thousand dollars. I happened to glance at the new hire in my team’s pay stub, and the number printed there was a stunning one hundred twenty thousand dollars. I said nothing. I continued to train him, debug his messy code, and prep his progress reports for the management. He used my work to snag the quarterly bonus, swaggering with confidence in the all-hands meeting. When my contract renewal came up at the end of the year, the HR manager smiled and told me, “Young people need to focus on the big picture, not get bogged down by every single dollar.” I pushed my resignation letter across her desk. The next morning, the entire core project my department was responsible for—the system’s backend—went completely dark. 01 Monday’s team meeting was stifling. The air was thick and heavy, like a waterlogged sponge that you couldn’t wring a drop of fresh oxygen from. The fluorescent bulbs overhead emitted a faint, irritating hum, casting a pale, sickly light that made everyone’s faces look greasy with exhaustion. I finished my report on last week’s development progress. Every milestone, every data point, was clear and precise. It was the result of two all-nighters. Mr. Harrington, our department head, gave a curt nod. His expression was as flat as the horizon, as if I were reciting an entirely irrelevant weather forecast. “Mmhmm, noted.” He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and a proprietary, almost smarmy appreciation instantly plastered itself across his face. “Next up, let’s hear from Brody. Brody’s only just started, but he has such fresh ideas, and huge potential!” All eyes in the conference room shifted to Brody Wells, sitting next to me. Brody, twenty-four, private school and an ivy-league graduate, with a résumé that practically glowed. He stood up, adjusted his tie, and opened a sleek, professionally designed PowerPoint. The cover slide, I noticed, was his sole “contribution” after I’d stayed up all night writing the report’s core content. He launched into his presentation, talking fast, using my core analysis and wrapping it in layers of trendy corporate buzzwords. Synergy, deep dive, leveraging the ecosystem, optimizing the critical path. Mr. Harrington and the other leaders nodded along, mesmerized. I sat there, my face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, my fingers curled beneath the table. My nails dug deep into my palm. Every word, every piece of data, in the foundation of that report was mine. After the meeting, I went to retrieve my documents from the printer. The machine spat out warm paper. As I was stacking the sheets, the corner of my eye caught sight of a forgotten slip of paper lying tucked away. A pay stub. The name “Brody Wells” was printed clearly at the top, searing into my vision. A purely instinctive, almost criminal impulse took over. I picked it up. Base salary, performance bonus, stipends… Finally, the net pay section. A number branded itself onto my retina like a red-hot iron. $120,000. One hundred twenty thousand dollars a year. My hand gave an uncontrollable shake. The flimsy paper in my grip suddenly felt as heavy as a lead weight. The number on my own pay stub was $55,000. The sheer, sickening absurdity of it, the raw, gut-punch of humiliation, washed over me in a tidal wave. I could hear my own heart pounding in my chest—a heavy, slow, painful thud. Snapping back to reality, I quickly slid the pay stub under my own pile of files and walked back to my cube, moving with a calmness that belied the internal earthquake. Brody sauntered over, collapsing into the chair next to mine, and spun his laptop around. “Jessica, quick, check this out. What’s going on with this bug? It’s driving me crazy.” His tone was one of entitled complaint. I glanced at the screen. The bug was the result of a single wrong parameter he’d coded yesterday afternoon—a mistake so low-level it was embarrassing. I didn’t say a word. I took the laptop. I didn’t ask why he couldn’t fix it, and I certainly didn’t explain the underlying logic. My fingers flew across the keyboard: modify, save, compile, run. The whole process took less than five minutes. The green “success” prompt popped up. He peered over my shoulder, a look of easy relief on his face, and tossed out a casual, “You’re a lifesaver, Jen.” Then, he grabbed his coffee mug and headed off to the breakroom. I heard his voice bragging to another colleague over the partition. The words were indistinct, but the smug confidence in his tone cut through the office noise. “…a tiny issue, fixed it in two seconds, no big deal…” I stared blankly at my computer screen. The file open was the core code documentation I was writing. These lines of code were the skeleton of the entire system, built by my own hands, one keystroke at a time. That afternoon, he came over with a USB drive. “Jessica, can you copy those documentation files and maintenance guides for me? I need to, you know, ‘study’ them.” He smiled, wide and harmless. I looked at him. I plugged in the drive. The six months of meticulous work, my personal knowledge base, everything I’d compiled so the company wouldn’t be blind if I took a vacation—I copied all of it to him. No hesitation. After he left, Doris, the test engineer from our team, a woman in her forties who had seen a decade of corporate drama, leaned in. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Jessica, you’re… too generous. You have to be careful.” I managed a smile, one that probably looked more like a grimace. “It’s fine, Doris. It’s just for work.” I knew I wasn’t being generous. I was handing them the rope to hang me with. No, I was handing them a gun, and I’d already loaded the bullet destined for their own heads. The quarterly review meeting included all senior and mid-level management. Brody, armed with my data and my documentation, gave an impossibly polished presentation. On stage, he spoke eloquently, confidently, acting as though he was the one who had spent the sleepless nights solving the impossible problems. Below him, Mr. Harrington listened, his face flushed with pride, whispering excitedly to the executives next to him. When the meeting concluded, Mr. Harrington announced, on the spot, that due to Brody’s “outstanding contribution” and “massive potential” on the core project, he would receive a fifty-thousand-dollar quarterly bonus. Applause erupted. Brody took his bow, his eyes sweeping past me without a pause. I was just part of the background. The next day, to celebrate, Brody ordered a fancy espresso bar delivery for the entire department. Cups of gourmet lattes and artisanal teas arrived at everyone’s desk, their sweet, warm aroma filling the air. My desk was the only one empty. He hadn’t forgotten me. He was deliberate. He presented the last cup, a top-shelf pour-over, to Mr. Harrington. Mr. Harrington accepted it, clapping Brody on the shoulder. “Brody, keep up the great work. You are the future of this department!” I watched them, feeling like I was observing a ridiculous play that had nothing to do with me. The last ember of my hope went cold. Smashed. Reduced to a pile of glacial ash. I wasn’t enduring. I was waiting for my moment. From that day on, I started working even more diligently. I quietly compiled and organized every piece of my work: documentation, code records, and the final System Operational Procedure (SOP) for my role. The definition of every interface, the logic of every module, every potential exception—I recorded it all in the most detailed, standardized language possible. I even wrote independent user guides for every critical script, meticulously detailing the meaning of every parameter and the consequence of modifying it. My work was impeccable, perfect. A masterpiece. A perfectly crafted offering for the grand funeral I was preparing. Doris looked at me with a mix of concern and confusion. She found me again in private. “Jessica, what are you doing? At this rate, he gets all the credit and you’ll get all the blame.” I simply smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Doris. My worth isn’t something they get to define.” But my price, I decided, was something I was going to collect, with interest. 02 By the end of the year, the air was thick with the jittery anticipation of contract renewal season. Ms. Davies, the HR Manager, called me into that familiar, eternally chilly conference room. She greeted me with a professional, flawless smile and poured me a glass of water herself. “Jessica, two years already. Time really does fly.” She slid a renewal contract toward me, her posture elegant. “Have a look. This is the company’s recognition of your contribution.” I flipped it open, my eyes zeroing in on the salary column. A five percent raise. $55,000 multiplied by 1.05 equals $57,750. A raise of twenty-seven hundred fifty dollars a year. A cold, internal scoff escaped me, but my expression remained placid. Ms. Davies launched into her performance. Her voice was as gentle as a spring breeze, yet her words carried an unmistakable corporate weight. “Jessica, I know you have salary expectations. But you need to focus on the big picture, the future.” “This company is a top-tier platform. The projects you’re exposed to, the experience you gain—it’s far more valuable than the number on your paycheck right now.” She paused, taking a sip of water, her eyes meaningfully flicking to the side. “I know you’ve been working hard with the new hire. But that’s a test for you, too. It shows trust from management. Mr. Harrington is watching, you know.” That last sentence was the switch. It instantly ignited the banked-down coals of my anger. But I didn’t let it show. I simply looked up, met her eyes, and calmly cut her off. “Mr. Harrington was watching, Ms. Davies. And then he gave Brody the fifty-thousand-dollar bonus.” Ms. Davies’s smile froze for a split second. The air in the conference room seemed to solidify. She clearly hadn’t expected this silent, reliable employee to confront her so directly. “Uh… Jessica, that… you can’t look at it that way,” she tried to recover. “Brody has a strong background, and he brings a certain type of resource to the company. That is… that is a strategic decision, Jessica. High-level corporate strategy.” I laughed. It was a genuine, visceral laugh—the kind that comes when you realize the sheer absurdity of your situation. “So, Ms. Davies, what you’re saying is: my technical skill is worthless, but his PowerPoint skills and his background are worth $120,000 a year plus a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus?” I’d laid the issue bare. I wasn’t going to play their fake corporate games anymore. Ms. Davies’s composure finally shattered. The professional mask was ripped away, revealing a core of arrogance and impatience. She leaned back in her chair, adopting the cold, official tone of a bureaucrat. “Jessica Reid, I suggest you think carefully. You know the job market is tight right now.” “You shouldn’t be so fixated on personal, short-term gains. People who nitpick every dollar don’t have room to grow professionally. You will hurt your career trajectory.” Classic PUA tactics. In the past, those words would have sparked anxiety and self-doubt. Now, they were just laughable. I stopped wasting time. I reached into my bag and pulled out another document, one I’d prepared long ago. My resignation. I slid it across the table, right next to the contract offering me a paltry raise. “Thank you for the coaching, Ms. Davies.” I stood up, looking down at her. “Perhaps my perspective is too narrow. I can only focus on short-term gains.” “So, I’ll leave this contract, which is focused on the future, for someone with a larger perspective.” I picked up my bag, preparing to leave. Ms. Davies was utterly stunned by my move. She sprang up, her voice sharp. “Jessica! What is the meaning of this? Are you threatening the company?” I paused, turning back, a faint, unreadable smile on my face. “Oh, I forgot to mention, Ms. Davies.” “I’ve already accepted an offer for double my current salary.” The statement was a lie. I hadn’t looked for a new job. But I needed to use it to cut off any avenue for them to try and retain me or lowball me. I didn’t want a raise. I wanted out. And I wanted to watch the magnificent stage I’d personally built, and which they had so carelessly trampled, crumble the second I walked off. Watching Ms. Davies’s face contort from shock to anger to utter disbelief gave me a feeling of release I’d never known. I turned, opened the conference room door, and walked out without a backward glance. Behind me, the silence was absolute. 03 My exit process went surprisingly smoothly. During the handoff, I placed a thick stack of my “perfect” documentation—my magnum opus—on Mr. Harrington’s desk. “Mr. Harrington, all code access has been transferred, and server credentials have been moved over to Brody. This is the handoff document. Every detail is in here.” Mr. Harrington didn’t even look at the documents. He impatiently waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I know.” His face held a look of unconcealed dismissal, as if to say the company would continue to spin perfectly well without me. Brody stood nearby, a smug grin hanging on his lips. To me, he looked like a spoiled heir taking the throne, blissfully unaware he’d inherited a kingdom on the verge of volcanic collapse. After completing all the formalities and walking out the front doors with my cardboard box, Mr. Harrington made a show of saying goodbye. He patted my shoulder, his voice artificially cordial. “Jessica, keep in touch. I wish you all the best.” I smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.” I didn’t look back. I stepped into the afternoon sunlight of the winter day. The sun was a bit blinding, but I felt cleansed, renewed. The air of freedom felt incredible. The day after my resignation was a Monday. An ordinary Monday where I didn’t have to rush to catch the subway. At nine-thirty in the morning, the stock market’s opening bell. I was comfortably sitting at my kitchen table, enjoying a fresh-baked pastry and a hot cup of tea. My phone suddenly erupted in a frenzied vibration, like an agitated beehive. Notifications exploded, lighting up the screen. It was the old department group chat. Though I had already quit it, Doris had added me to a private, smaller chat with a few old colleagues. In that small group, my former coworkers were frantically forwarding screenshots from the main department thread. “Massive crisis! The core trading system backend is showing all red flags!” “It’s crashed! Everything has crashed! All trading modules are offline!” “Client order requests are timing out, the logging system is spamming errors—it’s blowing up!” “What the hell is going on? Is this the apocalypse?”

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The $80,000 year-end bonus had just cleared my account. I was already mentally shopping for luxury gifts for my parents when my mother’s text arrived. “Sharon,” it read, “don’t you dare come home for New Year’s with your usual expensive-but-useless junk. We don’t want it.” “I’ve sent you a list. Stick to it. The items for Dustin’s family are the absolute priority—top-tier only.” Before I could even formulate a reply, the next message pinged. “P.S. Don’t forget to drive that new Mercedes E-Class back. Your father and I need something to brag about to the neighbors.” I almost typed out a refusal, but then I saw it: my brother, Dustin, had posted an Instagram Story. It was a screenshot of three first-class plane tickets. The caption: Big thanks to Mom! Finally upgrading that ride. See you soon, Atlanta! #MercedesLife #FamilyPerks … Below Dustin’s post, the likes from our mutual friends piled up, but the knot in my chest tightened instead of releasing. When Dustin got married, my parents drained their retirement—not just the $40,000 for the wedding, but the $120,000 down payment on his first house. He’d even “borrowed” the entire $30,000 I’d saved from my first few years working. Now they were buying him a car? Where was this money even coming from? Before I could puzzle it out, Mom’s call came, sharp as a drill. “Sharon Marie Reynolds, did you get my messages or are you choosing to ignore me?” I explained I’d been driving, but she cut me off, her tone heavy with accusation. “Since you couldn’t be bothered to look, I’ll tell you now. Your father and I need a full-body Shiatsu massage chair. Don’t skimp. Mrs. Reynolds next door got one for three thousand dollars, yours better be better. And your brother’s house needs a full smart home overhaul—Nest, Ring, all the top brands. That’s at least eight thousand. Oh, and Brielle’s La Mer regimen, and Cody’s full Apple suite. You will not forget a single item. I promised them.” I was listening, jaw clenched, but the five-year-old’s “Apple suite” (iPhone, iPad, Watch) made me crack. “Mom, Cody is five. Why does a kindergartener need a full Apple suite?” Her voice immediately scaled to a shout. “Because I told you to buy it, that’s why! Stop being difficult!” “Brielle says Cody is a ‘high-needs’ child and those things are ‘standard equipment’ for his social group. What kind of aunt are you? Arguing over a few gifts? You’re an embarrassment!” “Mom, that’s not what I—” She cut me off again. “I swear, I can never talk to you without getting angry. You’re going to give me a heart attack. Just follow the list, and you will drive that new car home. If you show up in anything else, you won’t be welcome inside this house.” Slam. The dial tone was a physical pain. My blood felt hot and thick, rushing to my head. I opened the list. Beyond the electronic and cosmetic demands, she’d specified I stop by the seafood market before arriving to buy Maine lobsters and Alaskan King Crab. Every detail was planned out, down to the brand of sparkling water. I immediately texted Dustin. “Hey, what did Mom tell you to bring home?” His reply was instantaneous: “Nothing, she said we just had to show up. Gotta go, boarding now.” A cold fire flared in my chest. I felt sick. From start to finish, I was the designated wallet, the fool. Just then, my cousin, Jessie, called. “Sharon? When you hit the market, grab me a couple pounds of those big shrimp, okay? Aunt Pat said to call you directly if we wanted anything, and you have to get it.” After I hung up, the family group chat exploded. All my aunts and uncles were @-ing me with their own last-minute requests. Finally, my mother summed it up: “Sharon, you got all that? Hurry home once you’ve bought everything. Everyone is excited to taste your cooking tonight.” Not only was I the designated buyer, I was the chef. “Fine,” I thought, the ice forming around my heart. “If they’re so hungry, I’ll make sure they get exactly what they deserve.” New Year’s Day. My phone was on silent. I didn’t get out of bed until noon. Checking my phone, I saw 99+ notifications, nearly all of them “Mom-heavy.” She was throwing every insult she knew. I dressed slowly and started the Mercedes. As I merged onto the freeway, I answered her latest call. “Sharon Marie Reynolds, you little bitch! Are you trying to ruin New Year’s for the whole family? We’re all here waiting for you!” I honked the horn twice near the phone. “Mom, I’m driving, remember? You were so insistent I bring the new car. Did you forget how bad the traffic is on the holiday weekend?” Her tone softened slightly. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” “Okay, listen. I need you to transfer me $3,000 right now for the groceries so dinner is ready when you get here. Then, I need you to hand out $500 cash to everyone as an apology for making them wait. It’s the holidays, don’t be a spoilsport.” Ha. You’re all having fun at my expense. I thought, but I spoke sweetly. “No problem, Mom. I can’t pull over right now, but I promise, the second I step through the door, I’ll Venmo it to you.” Before she could argue, I hung up. I finally arrived at 7:00 PM. The moment I walked through the door, the crowd descended. “Sharon’s here! Patty, you were just saying how successful she is!” “Heard you got another promotion! Gotta be pulling in six figures a month now, right?” I forced a tight smile. “Just a little cubicle job, nothing special.” Dustin’s family rushed over. “Sis, Mom said you’re getting me the smart house system? Just Venmo me the eight grand, it’s easier, and I can pick it out myself,” he said, already holding out his phone. Brielle, his wife, scanned my empty hands, her eyes narrowing. “Sharon? Where are the La Mer and Cody’s Apple box? Oh, they must be in the car! You didn’t even call to let us know you were here! Dustin, go help your sister with the bags! She bought so much, how could a little girl carry it all?” I ignored them, walking straight into the living room. I pulled off my expensive jacket and sank onto the nearest armchair. “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “I didn’t buy anything.” The room went instantly silent. The card players froze. The sound of popcorn chewing stopped mid-crunch. Mom came rushing in from the kitchen. She took one look at my empty hands and her face flushed crimson. “What did you say? You came back empty-handed?” “You useless, ungrateful creature! Did you hear me? I told you three days ago what to buy! Are you trying to deliberately provoke me?” She grabbed my arm and yanked me up so violently I stumbled, my head hitting the heavy mahogany wardrobe. I felt a stinging pain and a thin line of blood started to trace down my temple. My father, Tony, shuffled forward, trying to be the peacemaker. “Patty, calm down! Sharon wouldn’t do this without a reason. Maybe she just wants to give us the cash directly?” “It’s the holidays, honey,” he continued, trying to placate me. “Tech and skincare prices are insane right now. Giving cash is much smarter.” The rage in my mother’s eyes dissipated slightly. She turned back to me. “Is that it? Are you going to give us the money?” Aunt Carol, sensing a shift, immediately pulled out her phone. “Sweetie, Aunt Carol isn’t greedy. Just Venmo us each $500, and this whole thing is over. We waited all day, we deserve compensation for the delay.” One by one, the other relatives held out their phones, their faces contorted by naked greed. I felt a wave of nausea. “I don’t have any money for you. If someone promised you a payment or a gift, you should go ask the person who made the promise.” The room was stunned. They were so used to the compliant, dutiful Sharon that my refusal registered slowly. My mother broke free of my father and slapped me across the face with full force. The inside of my mouth immediately tasted metallic. “How dare you talk to your elders that way? I paid for your college education and this is how you repay me? You think you’re better than everyone because you make a salary? Kneel! Apologize to every single person in this room!” Aunt Carol seized the opportunity. “She’s so rich she can’t look at her poor family anymore! The girl needs a lesson, Patty. You’re being too soft.” My mother raised her hand for another strike, but Dustin suddenly rushed forward and caught her arm. He whispered something in her ear, his eyes flicking to me and back to her. She slowly lowered her hand, glaring at me. “We’ll deal with you later. Get in the kitchen and help!” Dustin then turned to me, playing the concerned brother. “Mom’s just stressed, you know her temper. She loves you best, she always has. Come on, big holiday, let’s not let the others see us fighting.” The sheer hypocrisy of it made me sick. Mom always loved you best. That was the most hilarious lie I’d ever heard. Daughter’s must be spoiled, sons must be disciplined, was their silent mantra. Yet, Dustin always got the best cuts of steak, anything he asked for. I had to earn a new pencil eraser with a week of chores. When I got a perfect score on my SATs and got into NYU on a full ride, Mom said they couldn’t afford the ‘extras’ and tried to stop me from going. I needed the scholarship and two minimum-wage jobs just to survive. Mom, seeing me frozen, stomped over, grabbed my ear, and yanked me toward the kitchen. As she dragged me past Dustin, I saw her give him a subtle but unmistakable look. Because I, the fool, hadn’t bought anything, the kitchen was practically bare. Mom chopped vegetables furiously. “You have ruined this dinner party,” she hissed. “I must have been a sinner in my past life to birth such a worthless viper.” “I’m telling you, Sharon, you will apologize to everyone at dinner, and you will give every single person ten thousand dollars. Do you want me to lose face in front of the entire family?” I glanced at her, saying nothing. I had a feeling the night was about to get much worse. My mother gave me a hard shove with her elbow. “I’m talking to you! Stop playing mute!” I dropped the knife and stared directly into her eyes. “Mom, am I really your daughter?” She froze, staring at me blankly for a long moment before recovering. “What is that supposed to mean? I carried you for nine months! You owe me for this life! Now, stop bringing up useless stuff and talk about the compensation!” She threw a ladle at me. “Hurry up and cook these six dishes. Everyone is waiting.” Before she could leave, Cody, my nephew, stormed in. He saw me and started kicking my shins with all his tiny might. “You mean woman! Give me my Apple set!” he screamed. “My mom said if you don’t, she’ll go to your office and tell your boss what a bad person you are!” Brielle followed him in, all fake concern. “Cody, honey, stop! Sharon, he’s just saying silly things, don’t pay any attention.” But the look in her eyes was pure, cold malice. I laughed, a harsh sound. “Don’t worry, Brielle. What kind of grown-up raises a kid like that? I think I finally understand.” Brielle’s face twisted. She turned to my mother. “Patty! Is this how your daughter talks to me? If you insist on keeping her here, Dustin, Cody, and I are leaving!” She grabbed Cody and made a show of storming out. My mother panicked and chased after them, yelling at me over her shoulder, “You little home-wrecker! You’ll be the death of us all!” Of course, Brielle didn’t leave. Instead, Mom gave her cash to go shopping and told her to come back when dinner was ready. But when it was time to eat, the three of them were nowhere to be found. Their phones were off. Mom had no choice but to tell the twenty-plus relatives to start without them. The six pitiful dishes I’d cobbled together disappeared instantly. The complaints started immediately. Aunt Carol was the first. “Patty, you promised a feast! I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and this is it? If you can’t afford it, don’t promise it!” Mom’s face was crimson as she apologized, quickly deflecting the blame onto me. “It’s all Sharon’s fault! She came home late and didn’t buy anything!” Then, the final, desperate solution. “Don’t worry, everyone! We are all going to The Gilded Spoon! The best five-star restaurant in the city! Order anything you want! Sharon is picking up the entire tab!” The relatives cheered up instantly. “Fantastic! Let’s go right now!” Under the table, Mom’s hand clamped onto my thigh, her nails digging in. “You try to pull one more stunt, you little bitch, I swear I’ll call your CEO. You think your fancy ethics code would approve of an employee who disrespects her family?” I stared back at her, dumbfounded. My own mother was using my career, the one thing I valued most, as a weapon. I knew she was crazy enough to do it. It was just one dinner. I bit down hard on my inner cheek and nodded. Walking out, Mom immediately reached for a cab. “Mom, why are we hailing a cab? I drove the Mercedes, remember?” I said, walking toward my usual spot. When I got there, I froze. The space was empty. I checked my purse—the key fob was gone. “Mom. Where is my car?” Then I remembered the missing family of three. “Mom, did Dustin take my car?” Seeing my expression, she had no choice but to nod. “He’s never driven such a nice car. I just let him borrow it for a quick run.” I pulled out my phone and opened the vehicle’s tracking app. My car was over three hundred miles away, traveling at a steady 90 mph.

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The first time my boyfriend, Kevin, took me back to his family’s small, rural hometown, I stopped at a boutique in the nearby town to pick up several boxes of beautifully packaged pastries as a hostess gift. The moment I stepped through the door, offering the box with a nervous smile, the warmth from the neighbors gathered inside evaporated. An older woman, who had just greeted me with a hug, suddenly backed away, her face draining of color. She spat a disgusted sound onto the floor. “Pah! That girl looks sweet, but she’s clearly mixed up in something foul!” I froze, humiliated. Kevin, seeing the scene, snatched the elegant box from my hand. His face instantly turned to stone. “It’s over! Get out of my house right now!” He slammed the box onto the slate floor. The delicate petit fours inside shattered, turning to dust. Kevin’s father burst from the kitchen, grabbing a shovel leaning by the hearth, ready to drive me out. “Get out! Bringing a thing like that to my door, are you trying to wish death on me?” I stared at the ruins on the floor, my mind utterly blank. 1 “How could they just humiliate me like that? It was just a box of fancy matcha shortbread!” Clutching my phone, I sobbed uncontrollably to Maya, my best friend, recounting the cruelty I’d suffered at Kevin’s family home. “Are you sure they were just… regular pastries?” Maya’s voice was strained with suspicion. Tears streamed down my face, splattering onto my hand. “Of course! I even waited in line at that trendy, artisanal bakery downtown. Each box cost me a fortune!” “And when I first arrived, everyone in the village was so friendly, but the second Kevin’s dad smashed the box, they all looked at me like I was a murderer.” “I’ve been thrown out. I’m standing alone at the edge of town, and I honestly can’t understand it. Are small towns in the South this obsessed with bizarre superstitions?” Hearing my voice crack with despair, Maya quickly tried to soothe me. “Okay, honey, calm down. First, send me a picture of the pastry box and the receipt.” “Don’t worry. If this is just some twisted, localized game they’re playing to bully you, I’ll drive up there with my brother and we’ll trash their porch for you.” That promise of solidarity provided a momentary anchor. My hands trembling, I opened the ordering app, found the receipt, and sent the product page and the order details to Maya. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. I took a shaky breath, ready to lean into her for comfort, but the voice that answered was tight, barely recognizable, and edged with a terrifying tremor. “That order—is this really what you bought?” “Is that what you intended to bring to his parents?” That familiar, ominous shift in tone—Kevin had asked me the same thing right before he smashed the box. My heart plummeted. I instinctively tried to explain, but Maya’s voice suddenly became sharp and piercing, like she was talking to a complete stranger. “Joanna, I honestly regret every year I’ve known you!” “You psycho. How could you do something so evil, so morally depraved? Those are living, breathing people!” “Don’t ever contact me again. I feel sick.” She hung up, giving me no chance to defend myself. When I tried to call back, I only heard the sterile “The user you are trying to reach is unavailable.” My texts were met with the unforgiving red exclamation point. I stood on the curb of the unfamiliar street, the icy wind biting at me. I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning. Someone please tell me what is happening! 2 In a state of shock, I took a taxi back to my city apartment late that night. I pulled out my keys, but before I could turn the lock, the door was yanked open from the inside. It was my parents. Their faces were ashen and grim. Two of my packed suitcases sat at their feet. My mother, whose eyes were always filled with loving patience, looked at me now with nothing but cold loathing. Before I could step across the threshold, she shoved the heavy luggage out the door, the case nearly slamming onto my feet. “Dad? Mom? What are you doing?” I panicked, scrambling to grab my mother’s arm, my tears starting again. “It’s bad enough Kevin’s family bullied me. Why are you doing this, too?” “I’m your only daughter. You’re supposed to stand up for me right now!” “Please, even if you’re kicking me out, at least tell me what I did wrong!” My father stood behind her, a cigarette burning between his fingers, refusing to even look at me. I was air. My mother violently wrenched her arm free, the force sending me stumbling backward into the hallway wall. The dull ache in my back was nothing compared to the terror seizing my chest. My mother, who never raised her voice, pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “Don’t call me Mom! Our family doesn’t breed evil like you!” “Relatives were calling to scream at me, and I defended you—until I saw that order screenshot…” “Joanna, do you have a heart at all? That was a gift for elders! How dare you give them that?” Leaning against the cold plaster, I cried out in despair. “It was just a few pastries! I won’t buy that brand again! Is that it?” “Just because I didn’t understand some ancient custom, did I deserve a death sentence? Did Kevin brainwash you all?” At the mention of the “pastry,” my father snapped. He lunged forward, raising his hand to strike me, but stopped in mid-air, his eyes filled with agonizing disappointment. “You created this mess, and you have the nerve to blame others?” “Bringing that kind of cursed item to their home… you want the entire world to point fingers at us?!” “Get out! Now! If you have any decency left, disappear and never show your face again!” The door slammed shut with a final, brutal sound. The cold, hard click of the deadbolt severed the last connection I had to my home. I sank to the floor in the hallway, hugging my knees. The whole world was spinning, collapsing. If I was truly in the wrong, why wouldn’t a single person explain to me what those boxes of pastries actually represented? To be abandoned like this, over an unnamed crime—I refused to accept it! 3 I slept fitfully in a cheap hotel, my eyes swollen from crying. The next morning, I went straight to the nearest police precinct. On the way, I decided to test the waters. I stopped a kind-looking old woman on the street and showed her the photo of the pastry box on my phone. At first, the woman smiled warmly. “Oh, that packaging is quite elegant. A lovely gift.” My spirits lifted. I quickly asked, “And what if I were to give this to my boyfriend’s parents?” The smile vanished instantly. It was replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror and disgust, like she’d just seen a plague rat. “Pah! Such depravity!” She spat a glob of phlegm near my feet and swung the shopping bag in her hand, hitting my shoulder. “Young people today! Doing such despicable, evil things! Why don’t you just get hit by a bus!” Bystanders noticed the commotion and gathered around. They didn’t know the cause at first, but when they heard the old woman reference the reason, their expressions darkened. They looked at me as if they wanted to tear me limb from limb. Terrified, I turned and ran, nearly twisting my ankle. Even so, I was determined to know the truth. At the police station, I poured out the entire absurd story to the officers, feeling like I was finally grabbing hold of a lifeline. Tears running down my face, I placed my phone on the desk. “Officers, I don’t understand. Everyone is acting insane.” “I just bought a few pastries. How did I become a public enemy?” The officer dealing with me, a young woman, was joined by a veteran cop. Both looked grave. The young woman handed me a tissue. “Ma’am, based on your description, if this isn’t some massive cultural misunderstanding, it is highly unusual.” “Rest assured, we are law enforcement. We deal with evidence and law, not emotions. Let us see the photo of this item.” Hearing that, the knot in my stomach loosened a bit. Here, at least, was a semblance of logic. My fingers shaking, I tapped open the product page and slid the phone across the desk. However, the instant the two police officers saw the screen, that same chilling, familiar, and utterly suffocating atmosphere descended again. 4 The young officer’s previously gentle gaze sharpened into cold steel. She sprang to her feet, her hand instinctively resting on the equipment belt at her waist, as if I were an extremely dangerous terrorist. The veteran officer’s face was dark, staring at me with contempt and deep suspicion. “Ma’am, are you seriously trying to play games with us?” He slammed his hand on the desk, the sound loud enough to make my ears ring. “You purchase an item like that and then come here claiming innocence?” “We now have serious concerns that you may be attempting to endanger public safety or may be involved in a fraud scheme. We require your immediate cooperation!” I was too stunned by the abrupt shift to speak. My back pressed against the chair, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Officers, it’s matcha shortbread! I checked the ingredients multiple times—it’s just green tea and sugar!” “What law have I broken?” The veteran officer sneered. “Matcha shortbread? I think you’ve got mush in your head!” Ignoring my pleas, he ordered the young officer to search me and demanded my ID and phone. They began running my information through the system. In that moment, I felt stripped bare, standing under a spotlight, every last shred of my dignity crushed. Half an hour later, they confirmed I had no criminal record, but their attitude did not thaw. The young officer tossed my ID back onto the desk, her voice like ice. “Ms. Bishop, while there is no evidence at this time that you have caused substantive harm, your actions are a severe violation of public decency and order.” “I am warning you: if you dare to parade this item around or attempt to harass the victims’ family, this will be more than just a verbal warning.” I gripped the edge of the table, utterly distraught. “Can you just tell me why? Why is everyone acting like this?” “Even if you sentence me, you have to tell me the crime! I’m going crazy! Am I having a psychotic break, or has the whole world lost its mind?” The two officers exchanged weary, impatient glances. The veteran sighed, pointing toward the door with an expression of dismissive disgust. “You absolutely need to see a doctor.” “Go to Metropolitan General and see a psychiatrist. Maybe a professional can help you clear your head and realize the heinous thing you’ve done.” “Now get out. You’re wasting our time.” I was ejected from the precinct and sank onto the curb, sobbing uncontrollably. Had I truly gone mad? In the memory of buying the pastry, had I actually bought poison or a bomb? To give myself a definitive answer, to avoid being destroyed by an unknown charge, I wiped my eyes, hailed a cab, and headed straight for the mental health ward. In the consultation room, facing an older, professional-looking doctor with graying hair, I fought hard to control my emotions. I recounted the events of the last two days as clearly and logically as possible: the neighbor’s spitting, my parents’ expulsion, the police warning. The doctor listened intently, occasionally making notes on his pad. When I finished, he adjusted his glasses and asked in a calm, even tone: “And the source of all this conflict, the box of pastry—may I see it?” I was a coiled spring of fear. I hesitated, clutching my phone. The doctor seemed to sense my terror and gave me a gentle smile. “I’m a doctor, Joanna. I’ve seen countless bizarre things.” “In this room, the patient is always the priority. You have nothing to fear from me.” His professionalism and compassion gave me the final push. I closed my eyes and handed him the phone, bracing myself to be dismissed like garbage. Time stretched on. Every second felt like an eternity. After a full minute, the doctor returned the phone. His expression hadn’t changed. He remained utterly calm, compassionate, and gentle. There was no anger, no disgust, not even a flicker of surprise. “Ms. Bishop, this box of pastry… you genuinely bought it as a gift for your boyfriend’s parents, correct?” he asked softly. I held my breath, nodding cautiously, worried this was another trap. “Yes. I bought it for them.” The expected explosion of rage never came. Instead, the doctor heavily circled something on his pad, looked up, and held a gaze I couldn’t quite decipher. “It seems my initial hypothesis was correct.” “Ms. Bishop, your cognitive function is unimpaired. Your mental state is completely sound.” Hearing the word “sound,” my tightly wound nerves snapped. Tears erupted from my eyes. I collapsed onto my knees, desperately clutching the doctor’s white coat, like he was the last piece of floating wreckage. “Doctor, if I’m not crazy, then what is it?” “Please tell me why everyone is trying to destroy me over this one box! You know the answer, don’t you? Please!” The doctor sighed, helped me up, and pointed to the phone on the desk, his voice tinged with a weary disappointment. “The answer, Joanna, is not complicated.” 5 “The key to all your problems lies within the pastry itself.” “Because what you bought… is precisely this box of pastry.” That utterly useless statement nearly made me faint. If he hadn’t been so calm moments before, I would have thrown the stethoscope at him. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to curse him. My voice shook with frustration. “Doctor, I paid three hundred dollars for this appointment, not to hear circular logic.” “I know I bought the pastry. The question is, why is it universally condemned? If this is some common knowledge taboo, why have I, a person who’s lived twenty-seven years, never heard of it?” The doctor was unperturbed by my outburst. He shook his head and sat back down. “No, Ms. Bishop, you’re still thinking in terms of taboo.” “Some things aren’t taboos; they are imposed narratives.” “In the current social climate, you don’t understand because you are standing in an information silo.” “Go home. Shift your focus from other people’s reactions to the source of this specific pastry. Pay attention to how it came to you.” “Perhaps you’ll realize that many things, from the very beginning, were simply a well-laid trap.” As I was ushered out of the consultation room, the doctor’s vague words were the only thing echoing in my head. Focus on the source? The source was a link Kevin sent me. He told me it was the most respectful gift in his hometown, and that I had to get this specific item, with this exact packaging, from that exact shop. On the ride home, I went over those details again and again. My phone vibrated—a message in the company chat. My supervisor tagged me: “Joanna, there’s an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. No matter what personal issues you have, you must be present.” Staring at the screen, I took a deep breath. Whatever the truth was, life had to continue. I wouldn’t be defeated. At least the doctor had given me a new perspective: this could be a trap. The next day, I arrived at the office with dark circles under my eyes. The atmosphere was palpably wrong. The usually noisy break room fell silent the moment I stepped past it. Several colleagues I considered friends immediately lowered their heads, pretending to work, avoiding eye contact. I walked to my desk. Before I could sit down, my supervisor, Beth, walked over with a file. She slapped the document onto my desk, her eyes filled with unconcealed contempt. Her voice was loud enough for the entire office to hear. “Joanna, the company is conducting a background review. Due to serious concerns regarding your personal character, we believe you are unsuitable for your current position.” “This is your termination letter. Sign it.” I shot to my feet. “Beth, I’ve worked diligently for three years and never made a mistake! Why are you firing me?” “Even if it’s a ‘character issue,’ you need proof! What exactly did I do?” Beth scoffed, pulling out her phone and shoving a picture in my face. “Proof? This is the proof! Sending an item like this as a gift to an elderly couple!” “The entire industry chat is buzzing about it. Our company cannot afford this kind of scandal!” “You have the nerve to ask? Kevin’s family was being kind! If it were me, I’d have had you arrested!” It was the screenshot of my pastry order. My blood turned to ice. Beyond Kevin and me, absolutely no one knew what the final order details looked like. Even Maya, who had since blocked me, only got the product link, not the full receipt with my name and address! The source of the leak was undeniable. The surrounding colleagues began whispering, their voices carrying. “I can’t believe it. She seemed so quiet, but she’s truly wicked on the inside.” “I know. I heard that cake is specifically used for hexes. I’d be afraid of crossing her.” “I’d be worried about bad karma just working with her. Get her out of here now.” Listening to the vicious remarks, a strange calm washed over me. A hex? Specifically for a curse? So that was the narrative they had all received. I didn’t argue further. I picked up a pen and signed the termination letter cleanly. If someone had gone to such lengths to destroy me, extending the siege to my workplace, this was far beyond a simple misunderstanding. This was an organized, full-spectrum ambush.

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My mother was too preoccupied to raise a child, so, in her infinite wisdom, she decided to turn my older brother into a Nanny-Brother. She constantly drilled a single concept into his head: “Everything in the house will belong to you someday, and that includes your little sister.” My brother believed her. And so, while other heirs were out on the town drinking and partying, he was playing dress-up with me. While other trust-fund princes were drag racing and chasing girls, he was watching videos of my childhood, set to ridiculous, soothing soundtracks. Which meant that when I discovered I was a foundling, not a biological daughter, I had only one thought: I’m screwed. My brother is going to lose his mind. But then I saw him smile, his gaze locking onto me like a wolf spotting prey. “That,” he said, the word dripping with dark pleasure, “is just perfect.” 1 It was a Sunday evening family dinner, and my mother, Nadia, was chatting animatedly with my aunt. “You wouldn’t believe it, back at Ava’s first birthday, the ‘Grabbing Ceremony’—she ignored all the toys and candy, and she just grabbed onto Declan and wouldn’t let go.” “And Declan! He was such a handful as a kid, he’d barely smile, and even I, his mother, was nervous around him. Now look at him—he practically raised Ava. He’s like a built-in manny. When Ava said she was moving into the dorms, he looked like the sky was falling.” Manny? Was that a term you could just throw around so lightly? My mouth twitched, but before I could reply, a steaming mug was pressed into my hand. Ginger tea. Declan Sinclair settled naturally beside me. His knee pressed against mine. His arm wrapped loosely around my waist, his fingers beginning a slow, light circular massage on my lower back. “Still aching?” Ever since my first bad cramps, he’d been more attentive to my cycle than I was. Truth be told, I barely felt anything now, but with all the relatives watching, I felt my face flush. I tried to pull away, keeping my voice low. “Dec…” “Hmm.” Declan hummed an acknowledgement, then lifted his eyes, his gaze cool and distant, to the relatives across the table. “It’s getting late. Aunt and Uncle, I think you should head home.” He tossed the blunt dismissal out without apology, ignoring their clearly offended expressions. He only looked down at me, his eyes asking, Is it time for us now? 2 I had truly been raised by my brother. I heard that in the beginning, he hadn’t wanted me. Even as a small child, he had his own sharp logic. He’d argued against my mother’s irresponsible behavior: “She’s your baby, Mom. She’s not my baby.” My mother had been amused. “Why isn’t she yours?” “Everything in the house will belong to you someday, and that includes your little sister.” Declan took the line to heart. From then on, he became my willing, tireless Nanny-Brother, taking charge of everything. When I was sick in the hospital, my mother would stammer in response to the doctor’s questions; Declan would answer fluently and perfectly. Even my mother had once marveled, “Declan, you really have the instincts of a parent.” Declan took it as the highest compliment and doubled down on his care. Even now, he was standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of weary tolerance and total certainty, as if I was the one being unreasonable. I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Dec, I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.” His voice was flat. “You said that last time, and you ended up in the ER with a migraine.” “That was just an accident—” “I can’t afford another accident.” “But this… this is wrong.” Seeing my hesitation, he pushed the door open, easily slipping inside the room. He tilted his head, his expression a picture of genuine confusion. “What’s wrong about it? You’re mine, Baby.” 3 The first time I realized that pet name was too intimate was during my college orientation week. Freshmen were required to stay in the dorms by our university. Declan showed up, his face a thundercloud, to help me make my bed. He was striking, handsome in a way that screamed ‘elite heir,’ yet he was expertly managing sheets and duvets. He even retrieved my required gym uniform, carefully adding a soft waist belt and specialized insoles. My roommates stared, their faces flushed with envy. “Ava Sinclair, your boyfriend is incredible.” My expression froze instantly. I quickly whispered, “He’s my brother. My actual brother.” “Oh. Then why does he call you ‘Baby’?” “And you guys don’t look alike at all.” I could only mumble an explanation: “He raised me.” From that day on, I strictly forbade Declan from calling me that in public. Although he didn’t seem to understand the reason, he listened. But as soon as we were home, he’d double down, stubbornly calling me Baby. “You are not allowed to call me that.” I grit my teeth, pushing against his chest to keep him away. Declan just nodded, utterly unbothered. “Whatever Baby wants.” I gave up. It was useless arguing with him. 4 I had a lot on my mind last night, and when my alarm went off, my brain was still foggy. Unfortunately, I had an 8 AM class. Declan pulled me out of the covers. “Baby, open up.” I groggily brushed my teeth. He then meticulously washed my face and applied my skincare routine. Only after everything was done did he settle me back on the bed. My clothes for the day were laid out on the chair, already chosen. He tilted his face toward me, seeking his good morning kiss. I gave it to him in a daze. “Thank you, big brother.” “Be a good girl. Tell your brother when you’re dressed.” By the time I was fully dressed, almost half an hour had passed. Twenty minutes of that was silent internal screaming. I thought about how utterly useless I’d been—like a total infant—just hours after my big independence speech. I felt deeply embarrassed. My mind was a blur until my class ended. I tried scrolling through my phone to distract myself. Then I saw a post that stopped my hand mid-scroll. I clicked on it before I realized what I was doing. [My little sister won’t let me eat her leftovers anymore. What do I do?] [This morning, I made breakfast as usual. My little sister loves it, and her cheeks look so cute when she’s finished. When she was done, I went to take her plate, but she wouldn’t let me. If I hadn’t tricked her and said I didn’t make enough for a second portion, I almost wouldn’t have gotten any. This has been happening a lot lately. Has someone been talking nonsense to her?] 5 8 AM is prime time for university students. I refreshed the page, and the comments flooded in instantly. [OMG, is this English? Grandma, the Sibling Suspense update you love just dropped.] [Someone should be talking nonsense to her, lol. The sister is a normal human; the poster is a menace.] [This is a sick trope, right? Honestly, my boyfriend doesn’t insist on eating my literal leftovers.] [“Almost wouldn’t have gotten any…” Dude, what are you regretting? Is your sister’s saliva magical?] Poster: [That just means your boyfriend doesn’t love you enough.] [I’ve taught my sister since childhood that family is the only lifetime bond. Not some short, fragile hormone-fueled connection like a lover.] [I don’t know. Everything she’s tasted just tastes better. We’ve grown up this way. Unfortunately, she’s in college now, so I only get this one meal a day. I can’t compromise on this.] User: [You’re complaining? If I had a brother like this, I’d run away overnight.] Poster: [Why? She asked me not to sleep with her, not to kiss her cheek, and I listened. I’ve been very compliant. She can’t leave me.] User: [Wait, no kissing? I don’t believe it.] Poster: [I keep my word. The morning kiss has been changed to her kissing my cheek instead.] The atmosphere was still relatively playful until the newest comment popped up. Ghosted_by_Venus: [It’s simple. She has a dog outside, of course! She needs to be discrete.] 6 This comment clearly struck a nerve with the poster.

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On our wedding night, Gavin Harrington didn’t uphold his promise to inject capital into the Hale family business to keep it afloat. Instead, he had a crate of scratch-off lottery tickets delivered. He unbuttoned his custom-made dress shirt, his eyes carrying an air of bored mockery. “Two million dollars’ worth of instant winners, Rory. Cash in whatever you get. Learn to be a good girl, and maybe you’ll get a real treat.” I knew he was punishing me. Punishing me for disrupting his meeting yesterday and, more specifically, for dumping a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon all over his skimpily-dressed little secretary. But this time, I didn’t scream or cry. Even when my fingers brushed against a small, dented brass charm in his jacket pocket—a token from our youth that still held a trace of his warmth—I just calmly wiped it clean. The shock in Gavin’s eyes was fleeting, quickly replaced by a smug satisfaction. He circled around me, his warm breath fanning my ear. “That’s my girl. That’s more like the Mrs. Harrington I married.” He slid an unlimited black card into the lace of my bodice. The cold plastic felt like a blade against my skin. “Take it. This should be enough to stabilize your father’s company.” I managed a brittle, forced smile, pulled the card out, and held it back out to him. “I won’t be needing it.” He didn’t know that while he was busy trying to “tame” me these past few days, the debt collectors had pushed my father too far, and he had fallen from the twenty-eighth floor of his office building. And the dead, after all, have no use for money. 1 Gavin’s eyebrows immediately knitted into a furious knot as I pushed the black card back. “Aurora Hale,” he snapped, using my full, formal name. “Playing hard to get is a turn-on once. Do it twice, and it’s just pathetic.” He tossed the card onto the scattered lottery ticket boxes, where it landed with a sharp, echoing clatter. “Suit yourself. I guess your father’s backbone is tougher than I thought. He can probably handle a few more days.” The mention of my father made my heart seize up. Yes, Gavin, how could you possibly know? That backbone, the one that used to shield me from the world, was now shattered and lying in the cold storage unit of a funeral home. I didn’t say anything. I just crouched down and picked up one of the scratch-off cards. My fingernail scraped against the silvery coating, a dry, grating shush that sounded deafening in the silence of our opulent bridal suite. Gavin stood over me, watching. He was waiting for me to flare up, to demand answers, or to clutch at his legs and beg like I used to. But I simply kept scratching. The first card: Try Again. The second: Two Dollars. When Gavin was chasing me, he loved taking me to little convenience stores to play these. Back then, he was the Harrington family’s black sheep, and I was the gilded princess of the Hales. He’d said, “Rory, when I hit the jackpot, I’ll buy you the biggest diamond ring in the world.” I’d replied, “You don’t need the jackpot, Gavin. You’re my jackpot.” Those promises were heavy, crushing me now under their weight. My phone vibrated. It was an urgent text from the funeral director: [Ms. Hale, the body reconstruction requires immediate next-of-kin confirmation. Please come as soon as possible.] My hand shook, and my nail tore through the thin cardstock. Just then, Gavin’s phone rang. In the cavernous, quiet room, his ringtone was a jarring intrusion. He glanced at the screen, and the cold hardness in his expression instantly softened, replaced by a tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. When he answered, his voice was dangerously gentle. “What is it, Piper? Are you still hurting?” “Don’t cry. I’m on my way.” He hung up, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door without a glance in my direction. “Gavin.” I called out his name, my voice raw and unfamiliar. He paused, turning back with undisguised impatience. “Piper was scared. She had a nightmare. I’m going to check on her.” “Tonight is our wedding night,” I stated calmly, factually. Gavin scoffed, securing his cufflink. “Aurora, are you actually trying to hold me to that?” “You dumped wine all over Piper yesterday. Did you ever stop to think she was acting as my assistant? She wore that sheer dress to cover for me, and you humiliated her in front of everyone.” He walked closer, his expression cooling further. “She’s young. She’s sensitive. Unlike you, Ms. Hale. You’ll stomach anything for money.” Every word was a needle plunged into my lungs. In his eyes, my justifiable anger was a tantrum. His mistress’s calculated manipulation was pure, fragile innocence. “What if I tell you not to go?” I looked up, my gaze steady amidst the wreckage of scratch-offs. The funeral home closed at midnight. If he left now, taking the only car, I’d be stranded in this isolated hillside mansion. I wouldn’t get to the funeral director in time, and my father would spend another day in that cold drawer. Gavin looked at me as if I’d told the funniest joke. “Rory, get your identity straight.” “The Hale name is barely breathing right now. It is hanging on by a thread that I control.” “What right do you have to tell me where to go?” With that, he turned and strode out. The front door slammed shut. Then came the roar of the engine as his car sped away. All that was left for me was the house full of wedding décor and that entire crate of sarcastic lottery tickets. I looked down at the scratch-off I’d torn. It was a winner—a hundred dollars. Too bad the prize section was ruined. It was void. Just like my seven years with Gavin. Utterly, irrevocably ruined. 2 That night, I walked ten miles. I walked down the winding canyon road in paper-thin silk flats that weren’t meant for anything but marble floors. My heels were quickly ground to bloody pulp, and every step sent a sharp, drilling pain up my legs. But that pain was clarifying. By the time I reached the funeral home, the staff was locking up. The attendant, startled by my disheveled, bloody state, looked at me with a measure of pity. “Ms. Hale, you made it.” “Your father’s body sustained significant trauma. We’ve done what we can, but…” “I understand.” I cut him off, picking up the pen to sign the confirmation form. My hand was shaking violently; my signature was jagged, clumsy, and ugly. My father, George, had always prized dignity and wrote a beautiful, steady hand. If he could see my signature now, he’d probably tap me on the head and call me a disgrace. But Dad, your daughter is completely spent. “When is the cremation scheduled?” I asked. “We’re backed up. The soonest we can do it is the morning after tomorrow.” The day after tomorrow. Good enough. By the time the paperwork was finalized, the sky was already turning a pale, sickly gray. As I stepped out of the funeral home, Gavin’s call came through. “Where are you?” His voice was thick with sleep, and in the background, I could hear a woman’s low, soft murmur. “I’m out,” I replied flatly. “Get your ass home now.” His tone turned instantly frigid. “My mother is coming for brunch. Don’t let her see you looking like some whore who stayed out all night.” “Aurora, if you dare embarrass me in front of my mother, the Hale company funds are permanently frozen.” Always the same threat. Always the same routine. A few days ago, I would have panicked, stammered an excuse, and jumped into the first cab home. Now, I just felt a chilling amusement. “Fine.” I hung up. When I reached the mansion, Gavin was at the breakfast table reading a financial newspaper. Piper Wells, the secretary, emerged from the kitchen carrying a glass of milk, wearing my expensive silk wedding night robe. I hadn’t even had a chance to put it on. It hung loosely on her petite frame, yet somehow managed to convey a clear, brazen declaration of ownership. “Oh! Rory! You’re back?” Piper squeaked, looking like a startled doe. “I’m so sorry. My clothes got dirty last night, and Gavin just told me to borrow this…” “I’ll take it right off and give it back!” She made a move to untie the belt, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of the fact that she was wearing nothing underneath. Gavin put down his paper and frowned, his voice sharp. “Don’t you dare. It’s just a robe. It’s not like she’ll miss it.” He looked at me, his gaze dropping to my feet, which were crusted with dirt and blood. His frown deepened. “Where the hell were you carousing all night? You look like a damn beggar.” “I don’t like that robe anymore.” I bypassed Piper and headed straight for the stairs. “It’s soiled. Throw it away.” Behind me, I heard the sound of shattering china. Piper’s voice was tearful and wounded. “Gavin, is Rory mad at me?” “Ignore her,” Gavin said, his tone cold and cutting. “The Hale family is collapsing, but the princess still thinks she’s royalty. It’s a pampered sickness.” 3 Mrs. Harrington arrived shortly after. Piper was perched on Gavin’s lap, feeding him peeled grapes. My mother-in-law didn’t look angry; in fact, she smiled with a rare, approving affection. “Piper is such a sweet girl, so thoughtful. Not like some bad luck charms who walk in the door with a face like a tombstone. Absolutely cursed.” I stood at the top of the stairs, clutching my father’s death certificate. Hearing the word “tombstone” made my fist clench involuntarily. Gavin glanced at me, his eyes indifferent. “Mother is here. Aren’t you going to serve tea? Did your family’s manners die with their wealth?” I walked down silently and picked up the teapot. My wrist was still shaking—a painful souvenir from my ten-mile walk. The muscle spasms were intense. As I poured the tea, Piper shrieked and recoiled dramatically into Gavin’s chest. “Ah! It’s too hot!” The truth was, the water hadn’t even splashed her. But Gavin reacted instantly, shoving me away. The boiling tea cascaded over my hand, scalding my skin and instantly swelling it bright red. “Aurora Hale, was that intentional?” Gavin shielded Piper, his gaze full of disappointment. “She wore a robe, and you can’t stand it? You have to pull this high-school jealousy act in front of my mother?” Mrs. Harrington snorted and heavily tapped her cane on the marble floor. “High society princess? More like a jealous shrew! Gavin, how can a woman like this be your wife? Divorce her now, and put this sweet girl in her rightful place.” If this were a week ago, the word “divorce” would have sent me to my knees, weeping and pleading with my mother-in-law. I loved Gavin with a desperate, self-annihilating passion. But now, hearing it, I felt a peculiar wave of relief. “Fine.” Ignoring the sharp pain in my hand, I looked up at them, my voice calm as a still pool. “Let’s get divorced.” The air in the living room froze solid. Gavin’s initial shock melted into a deep sneer of mockery. He pushed Piper off, stood up, and stalked toward me, his fingers brutally clamping down on my jaw. “Divorce? Aurora, what do you think you have to bargain with?” “Don’t forget, your father’s failing company owes the bank over three hundred million dollars. Without me, how will you plug that hole? Will you sell yourself on the street?” “Or do you want your ‘respectable’ father to spend his old age in a federal penitentiary?” Up until yesterday, these threats would have completely broken me. Now, they were just pathetic. He had held my one and only weakness hostage. But that weakness was gone. The soft spot was dead. “Believe what you want.” I slapped his hand away. I was done with these pointless arguments. “I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.” A moment later, I heard the heavy, resounding crash of a vase shattering. Gavin’s enraged roar echoed through the mansion: “Aurora Hale, get back here! Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?” “Gavin, please don’t be angry. Rory is probably just upset…” Piper’s soft, whiny voice joined the chaos. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have worn her robe. I’ll take it off right now and return it to her, even if I have to walk outside naked…” “You wear it! Keep it on!” Gavin ground the words out. “I want her to see who gives the orders in this house!” I shut my bedroom door, muffling the noise below. The water blisters on my hand were already raised and translucent. I found a needle, sterilized it over a lighter, and, without expression, popped the biggest blister. Pus leaked out. It hurt. But this physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of my father lying in that cold morgue drawer. I rummaged through a box and pulled out my wedding ring. It was a five-carat pink diamond—a dazzling, priceless stone Gavin had given me when he proposed. At the time, he’d said, “Rory, you’re my princess. The best things in the world belong to you.” Now, this ring was the only valuable thing I owned. My father’s funeral needed cash. The burial plot needed to be paid for. The best mahogany urn needed to be bought. Gavin had frozen my accounts, and the Hale company assets were sealed. I couldn’t let my father leave this world in shame. I slipped the ring into my pocket, changed into black clothes, and quietly exited the mansion through the back door. 4 The Meridian Exchange—the city’s largest, most discreet pawn shop. The owner scrutinized the pink diamond, his eyes wide with shock. “Ms. Hale, this is a rare piece. The auction where Mr. Harrington bought it was front-page news. Are you absolutely certain you want to pawn it?” “Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. “Sell it. Final sale.” The owner tutted, then named his price. “Three million. That’s my final offer.” The ring was originally worth over twenty million. But I didn’t have time to haggle; the funeral home needed payment now. “Done. Transfer the funds.” Just as I reached for the pen, a long, well-manicured hand clamped down over the ticket. The familiar scent of cedar and high-end cologne wafted over me, bringing with it a suffocating sense of pressure. “Aurora Hale. Are you that desperate for cash?” My body went rigid. I slowly looked up. Gavin Harrington was standing right behind me. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Trailing him was a smirking Piper and a few of his rich friends, who stood with crossed arms, watching the spectacle. Their eyes were full of a cruel, voyeuristic amusement. “Well, well, isn’t that the Mrs. Harrington? Selling her wedding ring? Is Gavin starving you, man?” “Gavin, did you push the lady too hard? Can’t even afford food?” Gavin ignored their taunts, his eyes locked on mine, churning with cold fury. “You rejected the black card I gave you, only to turn around and humiliate yourself at a place like this?” “Do you want the entire city of New York to know that I abuse my wife?” He snatched the ring off the counter, his thumb rubbing the massive diamond. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Three million? That’s what seven years of our life together is worth to you?” I looked at him, feeling only a profound sense of the absurd. If he truly cared about those seven years, he wouldn’t have brought his mistress home on our wedding night. He wouldn’t have watched my father drown in debt. “The ring is mine. I have the right to dispose of it.” I reached out to grab it back. “Give it to me.” Gavin easily pulled his hand away. He saw my frantic urgency and suddenly smiled—a smile that was vicious and brutal. “You want money, don’t you? Fine.” He pulled out his checkbook, quickly scrawled a number, and tore off the check. He tossed it lightly, letting it flutter onto my cheek and land on the floor. “That’s five million dollars.” He pointed at the check on the dirty floor, speaking to me as if I were a pet dog. “Kneel down. Pick it up. The money is yours. The ring stays with me.” Piper wrapped her arm around Gavin’s, her voice sweet and clinging. “Gavin, this ring is gorgeous. I want it.” Gavin fondly stroked her nose. “You like it? Consider it yours.” He casually took the ring—the symbol of our supposed “forever”—and slipped it onto Piper’s middle finger. It fit her perfectly. “Oh, thank you, Gavin!” Piper lifted her hand, showing off the diamond’s fiery sparkle under the lights, and shot me a triumphant, pitying look. “Rory, since you didn’t want it, I guess I’ll take it.” I watched the scene unfold, my heart clenching so hard it felt like a silent, crushing blow. But I didn’t cry. I slowly bent my knees. In the scornful gaze of Gavin and his friends, I knelt down and picked up the check. If it meant my father could rest in peace. What was my dignity? What was my pride? When he saw that I actually knelt and took the check, the smile vanished from Gavin’s face. It was replaced by a concentrated, violent rage. He must have expected me to tear the check up and run away, weeping as I always did. He was wrong. “Thank you, Mr. Harrington.” I folded the check, put it into my pocket, and turned to leave. “Stop!” Gavin grabbed my wrist, his grip so powerful I thought he might shatter the bones. “Aurora, how did you become so utterly base?” “For five million dollars, you gave up your wedding ring? Do you have any heart left?” I looked up, meeting his furious gaze. “Gavin, you gave the ring to someone else.” “As for my heart…” I gave a dry, empty laugh. “It’s been dead for days.” 5 With the five million dollars, my father’s funeral arrangements were handled smoothly. I chose a sunny burial plot, a spot he always loved, overlooking the entire city skyline. The day of the cremation was gray and overcast. I didn’t call any relatives or friends. Since the Hale family collapsed, everyone who had fawned over us had fled, afraid of catching the contagion of ruin. I walked the empty path of the cemetery alone, holding the urn. The wind was fierce, stinging my eyes. My phone, in my pocket, was vibrating frantically. It was Gavin. I ignored it, but he kept calling. Finally, I answered. “Aurora Hale! Where the hell are you?!” His roar was deafening, mixed with loud music and the clinking of glasses. “There’s a critical corporate mixer tonight, and I need you to get your ass over here!” “I’m busy,” I said softly, looking at my father’s kind face in the stone photo. “Busy? Doing what besides being a parasite at home?” Gavin sneered. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re still sulking over the ring. Play nice tonight, charm Mr. Wallace for me, and I’ll buy you a ten-carat rock.” “Oh, and Piper is here, too. She doesn’t know the business etiquette, so you’ll need to coach her and help her field the drinks.” He wanted me to babysit and be the human shield for his mistress. This was the man I had loved for seven years. “I’m not coming.” I hung up and turned the phone off. The world was finally silent. I sat by the gravestone for the entire afternoon. It wasn’t until the cemetery groundskeeper came to tell me they were closing that I finally stood up. When I returned to the mansion, it was late. The lights were on in the living room. Gavin was slumped on the couch, his tie loose, reeking of alcohol. Piper was kneeling on the floor, helping him pull off his shoes, her eyes red-rimmed and tear-stained. When Gavin saw me walk in, he grabbed the crystal ashtray off the coffee table and hurled it. Smash! The ashtray grazed my forehead and hit the wall, shattering. Shards of glass flew everywhere. A sliver sliced open my brow bone. Warm blood immediately ran down into my eye, turning my vision a horrifying red. “Aurora Hale! You think you’re so tough, don’t you? Hanging up on me? Turning off your phone?” Gavin swayed as he stood up, staggering over to grab my collar. “Do you know how important that deal was to me tonight? Because you didn’t show up, Mr. Wallace was furious! If this deal falls through, how will you pay for it?” I let him shake me, a soulless doll. “Say something! Don’t play mute!” He noticed the blood on my face and momentarily paused, a flicker of something that might have been guilt crossing his face. But the guilt was quickly buried by rage. “A little scratch and you’re playing the victim? Piper was covering for you all night, and she threw up all the meds for her stomach ulcer! That is your failure as my wife!” Piper whimpered, clutching her stomach and leaning weakly against the couch. “Gavin, don’t blame Rory… Maybe she really did have an emergency…” “What emergency could she possibly have?” Gavin sneered. “She probably went looking for some gigolo! Used the five million from the ring to buy herself a pretty toy!” He reached out to frisk my pocket. “Where is the money? Hand over the rest of the money!” I fought him off, fiercely protecting the pocket that held the burial plot receipt and my father’s death certificate. “Let go!” “Never!” During the struggle, a thin slip of paper fluttered out of my pocket. It landed perfectly, right by Gavin’s polished leather shoe. The air seemed to still. It was the cremation certificate issued by the funeral home. The bold, black lettering seemed to scream under the crystal chandelier. [Deceased: George Hale] [Cremation Date: October 15, 2025] Which was today. Gavin’s hands froze.

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After the divorce from Anastasia Stacey, the only option left was a quiet kind of downgrade. I married a woman who spoke little, wore faded, thrift-store T-shirts, and always had her hair pulled back into a hasty, messy knot. She’d haggle over every fifty cents at the grocery store. My old friends, the ones who still spoke to me, would look at my life and make condescending jokes: “Your lifestyle took a hit, Cal, but did your taste have to as well?” I just laughed it off. “I told them how I’d smashed Paul Hayes’s laptop into his head in front of the entire Stacey Capital board,” I’d say. “Anastasia sacrificed me to save him. The fallout was nuclear. I was an untouchable after that.” “When I got out of prison, the shame was a physical thing. Dogs would cross the street to avoid me. I was lucky anyone would have me.” As I spoke, my hand moved with practiced precision, filleting a fresh halibut. I bagged it for the customer and called out to the next person in line. “Fresh catch, ma’am. Take your pick.” The person froze, and then a shaky, unmistakable voice whispered, “Cal… you did all this… just to hurt me? To punish me for sending you away?” 1 I didn’t look up. My dulling fillet knife slammed down on the wood block, scattering scales and blood-tinged water onto the tiled floor. Anastasia Stacey stood there. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, unbothered cream suit that looked wildly out of place next to the stench of the fish market. She stared at my hands. They were raw, chapped, covered in shallow cuts and the winter frostbite. Those hands used to type memos and sign multi-million dollar contracts; now they were coarse and stiff, like dry driftwood. “If you’re not buying, move along. There’s a line behind you.” I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and reached for the next customer’s basket—an elderly man named Mr. Rodriguez. Being ignored seemed to be the worst insult. Anastasia’s composure cracked. She stepped forward and, in a flash of manic impulse, swiped my knife off the counter. It clattered on the concrete floor, bouncing twice. “Calvin Brooks, the youngest executive in Stacey Capital history, a Finance grad from Stanford, is gutting fish?” She practically yelled the last part, her voice a mix of disbelief and tightly coiled rage. It drew the eyes of the surrounding vendors and the morning shoppers. “Do you think this is going to make me feel sorry for you? Do you think I’ll regret testifying against you?” Her eyes were overflowing with the kind of high-society pity that felt worse than contempt. She clearly believed I was performing, trying to use my own degradation to manipulate her. I bent down and picked up the knife, rubbing it against my rough canvas apron. “Ma’am.” I kept my voice flat. “That knife cost me thirty dollars. You’ve chipped the blade. You owe me.” I looked at her, then turned to Mr. Rodriguez. “And I don’t know you.” Anastasia was stunned. She was prepared for a fight, for tears, for an apology—but not for a petty demand for thirty dollars. The crowd began to buzz. “Who is that woman? Dressed like she’s on a magazine cover, coming here to hassle a decent man.” “Looks like an old flame. She’s probably here to gloat now that he’s down on his luck.” “He works hard. She needs to mind her own business.” The whispers drilled into Anastasia’s ears. Her face cycled through shades of white and pink. Her assistant, standing awkwardly behind her, made a move to intervene, but she waved him away. She fixed her stare on me, trying to find some trace of the adoration I used to have for her. There was nothing left. Only a profound, dead emptiness. “Stop playing dumb, Cal.” She ground out the words, lowering her voice to a furious hiss. “Your father would spin in his grave if he saw you like this. Your hands were meant to sign documents, not scoop out guts! If you needed money, why didn’t you go to a proper firm? With your background…” She paused, a sharp, cold smile forming on her perfect lips. “Oh, I forgot.” “You have a felony record. I made sure of that.” “So, what is this? A spiteful act of revenge?” The familiar, self-righteous arrogance returned to her face. I ignored her. I turned back to the tank, netted a fresh red snapper, and brought it to the block. I pressed down, the knife moving expertly. Fish blood sprayed out, splattering directly onto the hem of her designer skirt. Anastasia flinched back, a look of visceral disgust crossing her face. I packaged the fish without a word, handing the bag to Mr. Rodriguez. “That’s twenty-five, sir. The QR code is on the wall.” I never looked at her. That blank dismissal was the only weapon I had left. She pulled out a crisp, white linen handkerchief, her hand hovering as if to wipe the specks of blood from my face. I tilted my head away. The handkerchief froze in mid-air. “Ma’am.” I pointed to the wall. “The knife was thirty. Loss of business is twenty. Total, fifty dollars.” “Pay up and stop wasting my time.” 2 Anastasia’s hand dropped. She crumpled the pristine handkerchief in her tight fist. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to contain her fury. “Money? Is that all you want?” She sneered, pulling out her checkbook and quickly scrawling a number. Then she pulled a thick wad of cash from her wallet. Splat. She tossed it all—the check and the cash—onto the blood-and-guts-covered counter. “Shut down your stand,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “Come have lunch with me and let’s talk. This is enough for you to sell fish here for a year.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. The stack of bills was easily three or four thousand dollars—a fortune to the market workers. Anastasia stood tall, waiting for me to break down in humiliated rage and throw the money back at her. The old Cal would have. He couldn’t stand being insulted. I looked at the wet, blood-stained bills. I didn’t hesitate. I snatched the damp pile of cash, weighed it in my palm, and stuffed it into my tattered, sewn-up leather waist pouch. “Thank you, boss.” I gave her a curt nod, devoid of any shame. “Anything else? Need me to scale or gut another one?” Anastasia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Cal… are you serious?” Her voice trembled, her pointing finger shaking. “Have you no dignity left?” “You once froze me out for three days because I didn’t get you a limited edition watch. And now, for this petty cash, you’ll drop all your pride?” I pulled off my fish-stained apron. Underneath, I was wearing a faded, cheap T-shirt with a stretched-out collar. “Dignity, how much does that cost a pound?” I countered, grabbing a nearby hose to rinse the grime off my worn boots. “Let’s go. You wanted lunch, right? But first, a warning: I won’t get past the host stand at any of your high-end places. I don’t meet the dress code.” Anastasia was speechless. She just scowled and followed me. I led her out the back, through the narrow, reeking alleyway behind the market. It was the access point to the run-down walk-up where I lived. The ground was slick with sewage and rotting produce. The air hung heavy with a mildewed stench. Anastasia picked her way along, terrified of ruining her expensive leather heels. “Walk two blocks in these shoes, and you’ll understand why I love cash,” I said, not looking back. At the alley mouth, our landlady, Dolores, was blocking the path, cracking sunflower seeds. Seeing me, she spat out the shells immediately. “Hey, Cal! That power bill from last month? Pay up or I’m shutting off your unit!” “Just opened shop, Dolores. Right now.” I offered a conciliatory smile and pulled out a few of the bills Anastasia had just given me. I handed them over without counting. Dolores’s face instantly softened. “Oh, look at you, hitting the jackpot! Alright, alright. I’ll give you a few more days.” A little further down, Mr. Rodriguez, the junk collector, was pushing his overloaded cart, its wheel jammed in a pothole. I didn’t hesitate; I ran over and helped him heave it free. Afterward, I didn’t forget to haggle. “Mr. Rodriguez, you stiffed me fifty cents on that last batch of cardboard. Gotta square up today.” Anastasia stood watching, her face growing paler, her expression tightening with every transaction. She watched me scrape for pennies, nod humbly to my landlady, and navigate this suffocating, lower-class world with utter familiarity. The stark reality of it was like a series of hard slaps to her face. Finally, she broke. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Stop it!” she hissed. “Cal, stop the act.” “I don’t believe you can live like this. Move out. I’ll find you an apartment. I’ll get you a job.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’m transferring you a million dollars.” “Just promise me I never have to see you embarrass yourself in a place like this again.” She was desperately trying to use her wealth to wash away her own guilt, or perhaps just to buy back her peace of mind—to prove that she hadn’t completely destroyed me. I stood still, letting her work. A few seconds passed. Ding. It wasn’t the successful transfer notification. It was a failure message. Anastasia frowned, confused. “What? Bad service?” She tried again. Failure. The system notification flashed: Recipient account frozen due to ‘judgment debtor’ status. Restriction on high-value transactions. Anastasia’s hand froze mid-air. She slowly looked up at me. I met her gaze, a sharp, bitter smile twisting my lips. “Mrs. Stacey, you forget so easily.” “Three years ago, to force my hand, you personally filed the motion to freeze all my assets and blacklist my credit.” “It seems the system you built is still standing.” Anastasia’s face went white. She opened her mouth to argue, but no sound came out. The very tool she had used to break me was now the wall preventing her “charity.” The irony was delicious. A deep engine rumble cut through the alley’s noise. A black Maybach pulled up, ridiculously conspicuous. The door opened. A polished, custom-made leather shoe stepped out. I looked at the car and spoke to Anastasia, my tone completely neutral. “Your husband is here.” “Aren’t you going to greet him?” 3 Paul Hayes emerged from the car, immaculate in a bespoke Armani suit. A limited-edition Patek Philippe glinted on his wrist—the very one Anastasia had purchased at auction last month as an anniversary gift. He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes darting between Anastasia and me. Then, he pasted a warm, sympathetic smile onto his face and rushed over. “Ana, darling, what are you doing in a place like this?” He slipped an arm around her waist, clinging to her possessively, while his eyes cut me like razor wire. “Ugh, what an awful smell!” He clapped a hand over his nose and dramatically backed up, fanning the air with his free hand. “This stench is sickening. Let’s get you out of here, Ana.” He grimaced, the disgust entirely unfeigned. Anastasia’s body stiffened, but she didn’t push him away. She only looked at me with that same complex, unreadable expression. Paul, seeing my silence, moved closer, feigning sudden recognition. “Oh my God, is that Cal?” He covered his mouth in mock shock. “How could you… how did it come to this?” He extended a hand, as if to pat my shoulder, but stopped short, clearly afraid of contaminating himself. “Cal, I know you were distraught when you smashed my work laptop and nearly cost me my career…” He touched his immaculate new laptop bag, his eyes instantly welling up. “But I forgave you a long time ago. You weren’t in a stable place. Seeing you like this… it truly breaks my heart.” He looked on the verge of tears. Anastasia, whose face had been etched with a flicker of regret, hardened instantly. The memory of the violence erased any nascent pity. “Hey, Cal, how much for this fish?” Paul suddenly changed tack, pointing to the bag in my hand. “Since we ran into you, I have to support your business, right?” He reached out to take the bag from me. I didn’t let go. “Mr. Hayes, your hands are too precious to touch garbage.” I tried to lower the bag to the ground. Paul, however, made a sudden, exaggerated grab for it. “Oh, don’t be shy, buddy!” In that moment, whoosh. The bag turned over. The water, along with the dead fish, spilled out, soaking me completely. My already filthy T-shirt was now drenched and clinging to my chest. “Oops! I am so sorry, so clumsy!” Paul yelped, leaping back to avoid the spill. “This fish is so slippery!” As he cried out, his eyes were glued to Anastasia’s reaction. Seeing her scowl, he instantly changed his tone. He pointed at the fish on the ground and shouted: “Cal, is this fish spoiled? The smell is rank! Are you selling rotten fish to people? What if someone gets sick? And I heard that, you know, being in prison, you can sometimes pick up…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear. The surrounding neighbors and shoppers, who were already enjoying the spectacle, leaned in closer. “What disease? Is it contagious?” “Selling bad fish is terrible. I won’t buy from him again.” The tide of public opinion instantly turned against me. For a street vendor, a bad reputation is a death sentence. I stood there, letting the dirty water drip from my hair. My face was expressionless. Instead of lunging at him like I had three years ago, I simply bent down and scooped the fish back into the bag. Then I stood up, looking Paul straight in the eye. “Mr. Hayes.” My voice was quiet, but every word cut through the noise. “My fish were delivered this morning. The people on this block have been eating them for six months without issue.” I glanced pointedly at his slick, over-gelled hair. “The only way this fish is dead is if it was poisoned by the hair gel dripping off your expensive head.” A wave of laughter rippled through the onlookers. Paul’s face turned the color of raw liver. “You!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Cal is honest. He never cheats anyone,” Dolores chimed in, chewing loudly on her seeds. “Right,” Mr. Rodriguez agreed, pushing his cart closer. “He’s a good man. You rich folks should stop bullying him.” The public tide instantly swung back. The working-class crowd disliked Paul’s pompous cruelty far more than my supposed crime. Paul turned to Anastasia for backup. “Ana, look at him…” Anastasia looked at me, soaking wet but standing ramrod straight. A look of sheer, miserable irritation flashed in her eyes. She clearly found the entire scene mortifying. “Enough!” she snarled, yanking her arm out of Paul’s grasp. “Haven’t you made enough of a scene?” 4 After snapping at Paul, Anastasia turned her attention back to me. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her gaze a high-handed judgment. “Cal, if you’d been half this level-headed three years ago, you wouldn’t have gone to prison.” Her tone was filled with a patronizing disappointment. “If you hadn’t been so impulsive, so violent, we wouldn’t have ended up here. This is all your fault.” I felt a sudden, cold wave of laughter rise in my chest. Three years ago, at the shareholder meeting, Paul had leaned in and whispered to me, “Your parents’ car crash was karma. They were in Anastasia’s way.” Then he’d added, “She’s been mine all along. She tells me that every time she’s in my bed.” I’d lost control. I’d grabbed the first thing I saw—a laptop—and thrown it. Anastasia only saw the assault. She didn’t listen to a single word of my explanation. To protect Paul and for the sake of what she called “integrity,” she’d handed the evidence to the police herself. And now, she was standing here, lecturing me on self-control? “Mrs. Stacey is right,” I conceded, wiping the water from my face. My voice was hoarse. “I deserved it.” “I was blind.” Anastasia’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean?” She pulled another stack of bills—maybe six hundred dollars—from her wallet and, adding it to the damp pile on the counter, pushed it all toward me. “Paul was childish and ruined your work space. Take this, go buy some clean clothes.” “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself here. Go home.” Paul, though chastised, smirked, seeing his wife use money to shame me. He assumed a man like me would gratefully pocket the cash. After all, what is pride worth when you’re worried about the rent? I looked down at the money, then up at Anastasia’s self-satisfied expression. I reached into my patched-up pouch and took out the cash she had given me earlier—the blood-stained, wet bills. I grabbed the new stack, balled it all up, and threw it with force straight at her chest. Thwack. Anastasia was stunned. Paul was stunned. “I don’t want it,” I said, looking her dead in the eye, each word heavy and deliberate. “Your money is filthy.” “Take your dirty cash and get out of my sight.” Anastasia exploded. She had never been treated with such contempt, especially not by the man who had once worshiped her. “Calvin!” She shrieked, the veins in her neck bulging. “Stop this pathetic performance! What do you have now besides the stench of fish?” “Your life is ruined! Who else in the world would even look at you now, except me?” Paul seized the opportunity, his voice dripping with malice. “Now, Ana, don’t upset yourself. Cal’s current situation is truly regrettable.” He looked me up and down with vicious contempt. “He can’t even hold down a proper job, let alone get married and start a family.” “I mean, I hear men who’ve spent time inside… their bodies, you know…” He paused, letting the rumor hang in the air. “Who would risk marrying him? He’ll probably die alone and childless.” My hands clenched into fists, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I was about to break. Just before the explosion, a rush of tiny footsteps echoed in the alleyway. A small figure burst through, crashing right into my legs. A boy, maybe two or three years old, wearing a clean but faded little tank top. He wrapped his arms tightly around my thigh, looked up, and called out in a clear, happy voice: “Daddy!”

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Covering for My Brother in a Game Kellan’s friend scoffed on the comms: “Blake, how long are you going to keep messing with those jungle creeps?” I winced and finally pressed the push-to-talk. “Sorry. It’s his sister. I’m terrible at this.” The line went silent for a beat. Then, a low, easy voice, edged with a hint of laughter: “Don’t sweat it. You go play. I’ll carry the whole match.” 1 It was late that evening. I was bringing Blake a snack when I walked into his room. He practically shoved his phone at me. “I need to run to the restroom. Play for me for a minute.” I blinked at him. “I can’t. I don’t know how.” “It’s easy. Just chuck skills at the little monsters in the jungle, okay?” With that sage advice, my brother was gone. I looked at the character screen. The Shadow Blade. A high-skill assassin. I’d never touched the game, so I did what he said: I focused on the nearby jungle mobs. The brief moment of satisfaction I felt for taking down a particularly nasty-looking beast was immediately shattered. “Blake, are you planning on farming those jungle creeps all night?” “Seriously? You’re playing like you’re trying to throw the match.” The voice was young and sharp, laced with an impatience that was palpable even through the speaker. I instantly regretted entering my brother’s room. This was real, red-hot humiliation. And, naturally, Blake was taking his time. Terrified he’d start up again, I finally pressed the push-to-talk button, feeling guilty as I walked my character away from a newly spawned group of monsters. “Sorry. It’s his sister. I’m terrible at this.” “Blake will be right back.” The comms were silent for several seconds. Then I heard a hiss, like a heavy object had been hit. The enemy marksman’s character on the screen suddenly died. When the voice returned, it was low and easy, now fully edged with a familiar, teasing quality. “Don’t sweat it. You go play. I’ll carry the whole match.” It was only after his second comment that I let myself believe it. It was Kellan. My brother’s friend. Someone I hadn’t seen in years. I was still in a daze when Blake returned and took his phone back. “Nice. Didn’t die. You’ve got talent, June.” As I was leaving the room, I overheard Blake talking to Kellan. “How was my sister’s gameplay?” “Better than yours.” “When did she get back in the country?” “None of your business. Why do you care about your sister so much?” 2 Kellan and I went way back. I was a freshman then, and Blake was a sophomore. At the annual high school track and field meet, Blake was running long distance and made me promise to cheer him on. I was leaning against the railing, bored out of my mind, when my hand brushed against something warm. It was the hand of the guy standing next to me. The crowd was packed in tight, and we were accidentally pressed close. His fingers were long and lean, the knuckles clearly defined, the veins visible like blue rivers under the skin. It was beautiful, like an actual piece of art. I stared for a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable, completely lost in thought. He snapped his fingers, and a clear, melodic voice brought me back to reality: “Hey. What are you thinking about?” I jolted, meeting a pair of eyes that were laughing at me. He had sharp, handsome features, a high nose, and thin lips, and his hair was slightly ruffled by the wind. It was the first time I realized someone could look that effortlessly cool in a generic high school gym tee. My face felt like it was on fire, and I essentially fled. I don’t even remember what I stammered out to him. I thought that would be the end of it. But when Blake won his medal and took his friends out to celebrate, dragging me along, I realized how small the world was. Blake clapped his friend on the back and introduced him to me. “This is one of my main guys, Kellan Rowe.” Kellan raised an eyebrow at me. “Hey, little sister.” The light in his eyes made my heart flutter. Kellan Rowe. I repeated his name silently in my head. 3 Later, lying in bed. For some reason, I was possessed by the impulse to log into my old Messenger app—the one I hadn’t touched in three years. I stared at his dormant avatar for a long time. Apart from Blake, this was the only digital link I still had to Kellan. Then my phone vibrated, and the icon lit up. Kellan was online. He sent a message: “Apologies. Wasn’t trying to rag on you tonight.” And then, direct, no preamble: “When did you get back in the country?” It was abrupt, with no attempt at a greeting. I thought for a moment before replying: “Yesterday.” “Hmm.” The chat went silent. We were two people whose lines of life had gone parallel years ago. We had no common ground left. I didn’t know what to say. I even did a quick search online for “How to talk to an old friend you haven’t seen in forever.” Like a robot, I typed out a few words: “Long time, no see. How have you been?” Kellan replied immediately. But his message made my heart skip a beat. “Then let’s go see each other.” “Maybe someday.” 4 I didn’t expect “someday” to come so quickly. The next morning at breakfast, I was sipping my coffee when Blake casually brought up his birthday. “I was thinking of having my party at the old lake house in Willow Creek this year.” “If you hate the noise, we can go out instead.” I nodded, then the words slipped out: “Is Kellan going to be there?” Blake’s internal alarm went off immediately. His voice shot up. “How do you two know each other well enough for him to ask about you yesterday and for you to ask about him today?” I kept my head down, focusing on my breakfast to hide my expression. “We don’t. I just remembered him from the game last night.” Blake nodded, though he still looked suspicious. I couldn’t tell if he believed me. In the end, he did hold the party at the Willow Creek lake house. It was a proper bash on the back deck and patio. I didn’t go down immediately. I stayed on the second-floor balcony, getting some air. My gaze fell, and I immediately saw Kellan below, on the phone. He was tall and lean, his shoulders sharp and clean in a black sweater. He had completely shed the youthful awkwardness I remembered. As if sensing my stare, Kellan slid his phone into his pocket. Across the din of the party, he didn’t speak, but his eyes found mine. His thin lips moved, silently forming the words: “Long time no see.” The moment felt like a feather scratching at my soul, again and again. I realized Kellan had changed so much. 5 I finally went downstairs when Sasha, my best friend, came up and dragged me down. She threw her arm around my neck and whispered in my ear: “You don’t love me anymore, do you? Hiding up here like a ghost.” I patted her arm. “I love you. I love you.” “I just got back, and I don’t really know all these people anymore. I don’t want to be awkward.” Blake truly was a social butterfly. The back deck was packed. The clinking of glasses, loud laughs, and music all mixed together, making my ears ring. Blake’s friends were loud when they saw me. “Whoa, look at little June Hollis! You got so pretty!” Another voice yelled, “She’s even taller!” Someone nudged Blake with an elbow. “Remember me, little sister? You seeing anyone these days?” Blake immediately smacked the back of the guy’s head. “Beat it. Go on.” “Don’t pollute my sister’s eyes.” Blake made me sit in the chair on his left. Kellan was on his right. Feeling self-conscious, I looked for Sasha, only to find her on the lawn, singing her heart out into a microphone. Blake went over to join her, singing along. Hesitantly, I reached for a glass of something they’d just mixed. Before the rim touched my lips, a hand clamped around my wrist. Kellan’s voice dropped. “You don’t want that. Trust me.” I tried to pull my hand away. “Just a little. It’s fine.” “It’s nasty. And too strong.” Kellan took my glass and stood up, walking over to the nearby outdoor bar. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a clean, pale wrist. He looked down, pouring liquids into a new glass without hesitation. He looked serious, but in reality, he only added a few drops of liquor. The rest was all juice and soda water. It looked even less appealing. I instinctively recoiled from the glass he handed me. Kellan looked at me, a hopeful expression in his eyes. He seemed genuinely curious when I only took a small sip. “Afraid I poisoned it?” I forced myself to drink a few more sips. It was bitter. Actually really awful. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I smiled. “It’s great.” Kellan took the glass away, leaning in slightly, looking amused. “It’s mostly soda water. And you think it’s ‘great’?” “Years abroad, and still afraid to take a sip of bad booze,” he teased. I turned my head, ignoring him. Kellan’s gaze lingered on my profile, but his smile slowly faded. His voice dropped several degrees, carrying a distinct note of melancholy. “Why did you tell everyone you were leaving… but not me?”

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The day before the Elite Icon model search, I was locked inside my own burning apartment. When the firefighters finally pulled me out, my skin was a ruin of blisters and char. My face, once my fortune, was unrecognizable. Outside the operating room, my mother was wailing, a sound that tore through the sterile hallway. She kept blaming herself, sobbing about how she’d accidentally locked the deadbolt. Roman, my fiancé, had mobilized every top dermatologist in the city. He swore to the heavens he would restore me to perfection. But as I lay on the gurney, drifting in a haze of agony just outside the OR doors, I heard my mother’s voice. It wasn’t hysterical anymore. It was trembling, hesitant. “Roman… even if we wanted to help Tess win the competition… wasn’t setting the fire and locking Norah inside… wasn’t that too much? Look at her.” Roman’s voice was cold, a low rumble of disdain. “If Norah weren’t so vain, so selfish, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this. She knows Tess suffers from severe depression, yet she prances around the house, flaunting her body, triggering her sister every single day. Norah lost some skin. Tess was losing her will to live. It’s what she owes her sister.” He paused, his tone shifting to a terrifying, possessive calm. “Don’t worry. I’ll still marry Norah. With the title of Mrs. Roman Ward, no one will dare whisper a word about her scars, even if she looks like a monster. I’m giving her a life of luxury. She should be grateful.” Destroying my health, my career, my face—this was his definition of good? I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would shatter. The cold of the hospital air warred with the phantom heat searing my flesh. The man I had loved for a decade. The mother who used to brush my hair and call me her angel. I didn’t want either of them. Not anymore. … “Cancel the surgery. Tell the specialists to wait in the hall.” The trauma surgeon, already gloved up, looked at Roman in disbelief. “Mr. Ward, the burn coverage is critical. Her trachea has severe smoke damage. If we don’t operate immediately, she could lose her voice permanently. Her face… her skin… it will be irreversible.” My mother flinched. “Roman, she’s hurt so badly. She definitely can’t compete tomorrow. Maybe we should just let them operate…” “Let it rot,” Roman said, his voice devoid of emotion. “If we fix her now, her ego will bounce back. She’ll find a way to sabotage Tess even from a hospital bed. She needs to be broken—physically and mentally—so she stops trying to overshadow Tess. I’m doing this to humble her. It’s for her own good.” He picked up a wet cotton swab and gently dabbed my cracked, bleeding lips. It was a lover’s touch, terrifying in its tenderness. But his words were a blade. “I promised Tess that this championship is hers. I won’t let anyone, not even you, stand in her way.” My mother sighed, a sound of resignation, and turned to the doctor. “Just give her pain management. Clean the wounds, but… gently. Don’t let her hurt too much.” No one noticed my body trembling under the thin sheet. It felt like a shard of glass had been driven straight through my heart. The suffocation was worse than the smoke. The fire wasn’t an accident. It was a meticulously designed execution, orchestrated by the man I’d planned to marry, all to clear the runway for Tess, my adopted sister. And my mother—my soft-hearted mother—was an accomplice. They stood in the doorway, ignoring my silent screams, relieved that my light had finally been extinguished. Pain spiked in my chest. My throat convulsed, and I coughed up a mouthful of blood. My mother gasped, reaching out instinctively, but her hands hovered in the air. There was nowhere on my body left to touch that wasn’t raw flesh. “Norah, baby, Mom is here,” she wept, her eyes red. “Does it hurt? Don’t be scared. I’ll never leave you.” Roman turned on the hospital staff, performing the role of the distraught fiancé perfectly. “Where the hell is the dermatologist? If anything happens to my wife, I’ll bury this hospital in lawsuits.” The doctor, who had clearly been paid off, stammered his rehearsed line. “Mr. Ward, we’re trying. There was a pile-up on the bridge. The specialist is stuck in traffic. He won’t be here until tomorrow.” Roman kicked the surgeon in the shin. “Get out.” He turned back to me, crouching down until we were eye-level. His face was a mask of tragic guilt. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I got here too late. I let you suffer. But listen to me—I don’t care what it costs. I will fix your face. I will get you back on the runway.” I stared at him, numb to the bone. “Will I… really recover?” “You will. I promise.” His earnestness made me feel like a fool. To remove a stumbling block for Tess, this man—who had held my hand from high school prom to our engagement party—had woven a web of lies to send me to hell. And my mother, who had once chosen me over everything, had decided that the “fragile” adopted daughter mattered more. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask why. But the words died in the ashes of my heart. Nurses approached with antiseptic solution. “Miss Linley, since the specialist isn’t here, we have to disinfect the wounds manually. This is going to burn.” Burn wasn’t the word. As the liquid hit me, it felt like I was back in the apartment, the flames licking my bones. I thrashed, blood and pus staining the pristine sheets. My mother covered her mouth, sobbing into her hands. Roman gripped the bed rail, his knuckles white, eyes tearing up as if he felt every ounce of my pain. Their concern was Oscar-worthy. But I knew the truth. The love was fake. Only the pain was real. I woke up two days later. Roman and my mother were arguing in the corridor. “Roman, her condition is critical. We’ve delayed treatment for forty-eight hours. Are you seriously going to give her that experimental psych med?” “The doctors said the side effects aren’t fully tested. It causes seizures. Loss of bladder control.” Silence stretched for a few seconds before Roman’s voice cut through, decisive and cold. “Those side effects are exactly what I need. Tonight is Tess’s victory gala. Every major designer and editor will be there. Norah already looks like a monster; a little more humiliation won’t hurt. She needs to lose her dignity completely. Only when she’s truly humiliated will she stop trying to compete with Tess. After tomorrow, I’ll announce our wedding. That’s compensation enough.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Mom, tell the specialists to wait at the villa. As soon as the gala ends, we treat Norah.” My mother murmured her agreement. I stared at the ceiling tiles, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, stinging the raw burns on my cheeks. The physical pain was blinding, but it was nothing compared to the hollow in my chest. They knew. They knew I was born sickly, that I had clawed my way into the modeling world with blood and sweat. It was my identity. My soul. And with a few casual sentences, they had decided to crush it. If I had known this was the price of their love, I would have stayed in the fire. The door pushed open. Roman walked in, his expression softening into that practiced tenderness. He held out two pills. “Norah, honey. I asked the doctor. This is a new painkiller. No side effects. It’ll help you sleep.” I looked at the bright red capsules. They looked like drops of blood. “Roman,” I rasped, my voice like grinding gravel. “It’s too bitter. I don’t want it.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then smiled, squeezing my hand on a patch of unburned skin. “Watching you suffer is killing me. Do you want to break my heart? Please, take it for me.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed the pills against my lips, forcing them past my teeth. “Good girl. Let me help you.” The bitterness dissolved on my tongue, choking me. Almost immediately, the room began to spin. Roman gripped my wrist. “Norah, tonight is Tess’s celebration. Her biggest wish is for you to be there. If you don’t go, the press will say you’re jealous, that you can’t handle your sister’s success…” “I’ll go,” I whispered. “Get my clothes.” I knew there was no choice. Roman had scripted this entire evening. My mother walked in just in time to hear my surrender. Her face lit up. “Oh, my good girl. I knew you’d do the right thing.” “After Tess’s party, I’ll plan the wedding myself. It will be perfect.” I pulled my hand away from them. My heart was a stone in a frozen lake. The limousine pulled up to the estate. The moment I was helped out of the car, a wall of flashing lights blinded me. I reached for my mother’s hand in panic, but I grabbed only empty air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her guiding Tess away, shielding her, not sparing me a single glance. I kept my head down, clutching the brim of my hat, my body hidden in oversized clothes. “Miss Linley! Is it true you set fire to your own apartment because you were afraid your sister would beat you?” “Is it true you’re disfigured? Do you have no shame showing up here?” “Norah! Did you ruin your face because your sugar daddies weren’t satisfied?” As the questions rained down, a reporter lunged forward and knocked the hat off my head. The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath that sucked the air out of the night. My face—a map of raw, red meat and charred skin—was exposed to 4K lenses. “Oh my god. That’s disgusting.” “I’m gonna be sick. She looks like a horror movie.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Black spots danced in my vision. They didn’t stop. Dozens of phones were raised, livestreaming my nightmare to the world. “Here she is, folks. The fallen angel, Norah Linley. Vicious, jealous, and now, getting exactly what she deserves. Let’s see the karma up close.” Someone shoved me. I hit the pavement hard. The loose clothes tore. My arms, my thighs, my stomach—wrapped in gauze and oozing fluids—were laid bare. A guttural, animalistic sound tore from my throat. Then, the shaking started. My limbs jerked violently, beyond my control. I was convulsing, my back arching off the concrete. The reporter who had pushed me looked ecstatic. “She’s having a seizure! Keep rolling! Zoom in on her face!” I could feel my eyes rolling back, foam gathering at the corners of my mouth. I was fully conscious, trapped in a body that was betraying me. I was a circus freak. A monster for their amusement. Then, the final blow. I felt a rush of warmth spread through my lower body. The sharp, acrid smell of urine cut through the night air. The shame was so absolute, so crushing, that I prayed for a heart attack. I wanted to die right there on the asphalt. Cameras flashed relentlessly at my stained clothes. I lay there like a broken doll, twitching in a puddle of my own waste. “What are you doing! Put the cameras down!” Roman roared, charging through the crowd. He grabbed a photographer’s camera and smashed it onto the ground. “Get the hell out of here!” My mother rushed over with a coat, covering my trembling body, tears streaming down her face. “Security! Where is security? Why are these vultures here? You’re all fired!” Tess stood slightly behind them, covering her mouth in theatrical shock. “Oh my god, you guys are too much! How could you do this to my sister? You are not allowed to publish those photos of her wetting herself!” It was so transparent. So disgusting. If they wanted the trophy, if they wanted to give Tess every ounce of love in the world, I would have stepped aside. Why did they have to destroy me like this? My consciousness was fading. I felt Roman kneeling beside me, gripping my hand so tight it hurt. “Norah, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t protect you. I promise, from now on, no one will ever hurt you again. We’ll get married right away, okay?” I wanted to say no. But the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, and I vomited red all over his pristine tuxedo. Roman’s pupils constricted. His face went chalk white. As the darkness took me, I heard him and my mother screaming for a doctor. “She was already in critical condition. The delay… plus the overdose of neuro-stimulants… her organs are failing. Survival rate is thirty percent.” Roman’s voice cracked. “Fix her! If my wife dies, you all die with her!” A tear hit the back of my hand. “Norah, we promised forever. You can’t leave me.” My mother was begging the doctors. “Please, save my daughter. Take my life instead. Just save her.” I closed my eyes, sinking into the void. Let me go, I thought. Just let me die. I didn’t die. I woke up back in my room at the villa. voices drifted in from the hallway. “Mom, are you really going to transfer all of Dad’s inheritance to me? Won’t Norah be upset?” My mother’s voice was warm, indulgent. “She doesn’t get to be upset. She’s marrying Roman; she’ll never need money. Tess, when your father died and I got leukemia… you were the one who gave me blood. You gave me your bone marrow. I swore then that you are the only daughter who matters.” “Besides, the money isn’t enough. I know you’ve always loved Roman. I’ve already spoken to him. With Norah’s… condition… she can’t carry a child. On their wedding night, you’ll take her place. You’ll give Roman his first heir.” Tess giggled, a shy, sickly sweet sound. “I’ll do whatever you say, Mommy.” The door opened. My mother froze when she saw my eyes were open. A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but she smoothed it over quickly. “Norah… since you heard, I won’t lie. The Ward family needs an heir. But don’t worry, your position as Mrs. Ward is secure…” “I agree,” I said. My voice was a flat line. “I’m in no shape for a wedding. Let Tess stand in for me.” My mother beamed. “Oh, Norah. You’ve finally grown up. You’re being so sensible.” Tess walked in, glancing at my bandaged, ruined skin with open disgust. “Don’t worry, big sister. I’ll take very good care of Roman for you.” I turned my head to the wall. I couldn’t bear to look at them. I just hoped that one day, when my mother learned the truth about who actually gave her that bone marrow, she wouldn’t choke on her regret. The wedding was held at the villa. It was Tess’s idea. She wanted me to hear the music, to know exactly what she was stealing. But I underestimated her. She wasn’t just a thief. She was a predator. She pushed open my bedroom door. She looked radiant in a custom couture gown, but her smile was a rictus of hate. “That fire should have finished the job, Norah. You’re like a cockroach.” I was too tired to fight. “You won. You have everything. What else do you want?” She laughed. “I want you dead, obviously. Only when you’re gone can I be the real Mrs. Ward.” She pulled a silver lighter from her clutch and flicked it open. She touched the flame to the heavy velvet curtains. Fire. The blood drained from my face. My PTSD kicked in, paralyzing me. I tried to drag my broken body off the bed to stop her, but she slammed her heel into my ribs, kicking me back against the headboard. Then she ran to the door and started screaming. Roman burst in seconds later. He didn’t look at me. He wrapped his arms around Tess. “Tess! What happened? Are you hurt?” My mother was right behind him. “Get her to the hospital! The baby!” There was no baby, but the panic was real. No one looked at me. No one saw the blood running down my forehead where Tess had kicked me. Tess buried her face in Roman’s chest, sobbing. “I just wanted to cheer Norah up… but she said… she said if she’s ruined, I should be too! She said she’d burn my face off! I was so scared…” Roman turned to me, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Are you insane? Tess came here out of kindness, and this is how you repay her? Look at yourself. You’re a monster, inside and out.” My mother shook her head, her expression one of utter revulsion. “I knew you were jealous, but this? You tried to burn your sister? You don’t deserve to be my daughter. Getting burned was exactly what you deserved.” They lifted Tess up and turned to leave. At the door, Roman glanced back at the fire climbing the curtains. He let out a cold laugh. “You like playing with fire so much? Enjoy it. Lock the door. No one opens it.” “No!” I screamed, forcing the sound through my damaged throat. “It wasn’t me! Roman, please!” The door slammed. The lock clicked. My mother hesitated in the hallway. “Roman… locking her in… is that safe?” “She started the fire; she obviously has an exit plan. She probably has an extinguisher hidden under the bed. She’s just manipulating us again.” Roman carried Tess to the car, speeding toward the hospital. It wasn’t until Tess was checked over and declared completely unharmed that he remembered me. He sighed, annoyed, and pulled out his phone. A news alert flashed on the screen: BREAKING: MASSIVE INFERNO AT WARD ESTATE. He frowned. Before he could dial, his phone rang. It was the house manager. “Let her out,” Roman snapped. “I’m sending the car around. We’re going on the honeymoon. Tell her I booked Paris.” The manager’s voice was trembling, barely human. “Sir… the fire… it was too fast. We couldn’t get to the door. The East Wing… it’s gone. Mrs. Ward… she…”

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I died on Christmas Eve, and honestly? It was the first time in years I actually got some rest. The handmade ravioli I’d spent all afternoon rolling out was still sitting in the pot, the water long since boiled away. The Christmas card for my son, stuffed with cash, was still clutched in my stiffening hand. People say death is like a candle blowing out—darkness, then nothing. But my soul didn’t dissolve. Instead, I was forced to float there, a silent spectator in my own living room, watching Cole walk through the front door. He’d just come from his assistant’s bed, carrying the scent of her perfume and the guilt of a thousand betrayals, right into our home. Cole walked in, trailing our son, Leo, and her—Tessa. When he saw me lying on the sofa, eyes closed, he didn’t scream. He didn’t panic. He just sighed—that heavy, weary sound he always made when I became an inconvenience—and dropped a shopping bag onto the coffee table. A limited-edition handbag. My “sorry I’m cheating on you” Christmas gift. “Asleep again? If you’re feeling sick, Mara, you shouldn’t have tired yourself out cooking.” Tessa, standing behind him, immediately welled up, her eyes rimmed with practiced red. “Cole… don’t be mad at her. Mara sent me a text earlier. She said she didn’t want to see my face, told me to get out… Maybe I should just go.” Cole looked at me—sleeping, silent, ignoring him. The flicker of pity in his eyes hardened into annoyance. “Mara, seriously? How long are you going to keep this up? Tessa is here for work reasons. Can’t you be the bigger person for once?” I lay there, dead and cold on the sofa, listening to my husband lecture my corpse for an entire night on behalf of another woman. It wasn’t until the second day after Christmas that the lie was finally, violently torn apart. 1. My body was curled into the corner of the sectional, my hand still gripping the red envelope I never got to give to Leo. I watched the three of them—Cole, Tessa, and Leo—standing in the foyer like a picture-perfect family that I no longer belonged to. Cole smelled the burning first. Acrid smoke was drifting from the kitchen. Frowning, he strode over and killed the burner. The pot of water I had set to boil for the pasta was bone dry, the bottom scorched black. “She’s getting worse,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Irresponsible.” But when he turned back, his gaze landed on me. For a second, the irritation softened into a complicated, reluctant concern. He walked toward me, his footsteps soft on the hardwood. He reached out, intending to shake me awake. But then he saw the dark, heavy circles under my eyes, the exhaustion etched into my pale skin. His hand hovered in mid-air, then dropped. Instead, he picked up the cashmere throw draped over the armrest and gently tucked it around me. “Forget it. Let her sleep.” “Her health… it’s really falling apart.” That sentence. Even dead, it made my cold heart phantom-twitch with pain. Leo dropped his backpack and ran over, nudging my shoulder. “Mommy? I’m home.” I couldn’t answer him. Tessa didn’t miss a beat. While Cole was on the balcony taking a call, she rushed over and pulled Leo away. “Leo, sweetie, Mommy’s very tired. Let her rest. Why don’t you go put your bag in your room?” She ushered my son away. Now, it was just the two of us in the living room. Me and the woman who wanted my life. I watched the mask slip. Her eyes went cold and sharp. She snatched my phone from where it had slipped between the cushions. She unlocked it effortlessly—she knew my passcode was Cole’s birthday. Her thumbs flew across the screen, typing something, sending it to herself, then deleting the evidence. She set up a scheduled message. She wasn’t done. She walked over to the sideboard, grabbed a crystal tumbler, and looked at my body with pure venom. Crash. She smashed the glass on the floor. “Ah!” She screamed, dropping to her knees, deliberately reaching for the jagged shards. Cole rushed in from the balcony. “What happened?” Tessa looked up, tears already streaming down her face. She held up a finger, blood welling from a fresh cut. “Cole… I… I just wanted to get Mara some water. But she… she seemed so angry. She knocked the glass out of my hand. She won’t even look at me.” She sobbed, clutching her hand. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll leave.” Cole’s face darkened. He looked at the shattered glass, then at me—curled under the blanket, unmoving, silent. The pity was gone. Replaced by pure, unadulterated exhaustion. “Mara!” “We have a guest. You’re throwing things? Can you stop acting like a child?” I couldn’t defend myself. Leo ran out, scared by the noise. He looked at me, then at the crying Tessa, and wailed. “I don’t want pasta! I want pizza!” Cole snapped, “Ask your mother to make you—” He stopped. He glanced at my still form, waved his hand dismissively. “Forget it. Can’t count on her for anything. Come on, Dad’s taking you out.” Before leaving, he pulled a credit card from his wallet and slid it onto the coffee table next to the designer bag. Then, he took a small orange pill bottle from his pocket. “It took me weeks to source this medicine. When you’re done throwing your tantrum, take it.” He paused, his voice dropping to a glacial temperature. “And stop with the ‘I’m dying’ act to scare me, Mara. I’m tired.” He turned to leave. But at the door, hesitation struck. He looked back, stepping toward me as if to check my forehead for a fever. Just as his fingertips were inches from my skin, Tessa let out a sharp cry of pain. “Cole! My hand… it hurts so bad, the bleeding won’t stop.” Cole froze. He pulled his hand back, turned, and rushed to Tessa, inspecting the small cut with exaggerated care. “Let’s go. We need to get that cleaned up. Don’t want it to scar.” The door slammed shut. The world went silent. The life-saving medicine he had worked so hard to find sat on the table, less than two feet from my corpse. 2. I drifted, untethered, following them to a high-end steakhouse downtown. Cole was meticulously cracking lobster claws for Leo. Tessa sat beside them, phone raised, capturing the moment. She posted it to Instagram immediately. Years come and go, but having you two is everything. The photo showed Cole’s handsome profile in soft focus and Leo’s beaming face. Meanwhile, back in the living room, the temperature was dropping. My body, shrouded in the growing darkness of the winter evening, was cooling rapidly. Halfway through dinner, Tessa’s phone pinged. She glanced at the screen and her face went chalk-white. Her fork clattered to the floor. She covered her mouth, eyes wide with terror, tears instantly springing up. She handed the phone to Cole, her hand trembling violently. “Cole… it’s Mara… she… she texted me.” “She said if I dare come back with you tonight, she’ll stab me…” Cole’s expression turned thunderous. He snatched the phone. There it was—a text from my contact, sent ten minutes ago. The scheduled message Tessa had written herself. Tessa, don’t think you’ve won just because Cole took you to dinner. I just sharpened the paring knife. You walk through that door, and one of us is leaving in a body bag. I don’t care if I die doing it. Cole slammed his fist onto the table. The cutlery jumped. Patrons at nearby tables stared. He pulled out his own phone and dialed me immediately. His eyes were burning with rage. One call. Two. Three. All unanswered. He let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Great. Mara, you’ve really outdone yourself.” “You send death threats, and now you play the silent game? You want to ghost me?” Tessa shrank into his side, trembling. “Cole, I’m scared… I’m actually terrified. Her mental state… what if she’s actually waiting with a knife? And Leo is with us. We can’t risk traumatizing him.” Cole looked at the woman shaking in his arms, then at his son, who was oblivious, gnawing on a lobster tail. The disgust he felt for me finally outweighed his last shred of reason. He made the decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “We aren’t going back tonight.” “If she wants to go crazy in that house, let her go crazy alone.” He stood up, grabbing his coat. “We’re driving up to the lodge in Vail. We’ll ski for a few days. Once the holidays are over and she’s calmed down, I’m coming back to discuss the divorce.” He signaled for the check. The black SUV slipped into the stream of traffic, leaving the city—and me—behind in a blur of festive lights. The living room was pitch black. My phone, ringing uselessly, sat on the floor where it had fallen. The screen lit up the darkness, pulsing rhythmically, illuminating the purple lividity that had begun to pool in my face. Three missed calls from Cole. And one final voicemail. Mara, I’ve been suffocating for years. Tessa is my employee, she’s no threat to you, yet you can’t tolerate her existence. Spend the holiday alone. Don’t expect us back. For the next few days, I didn’t “bother” them. He thought his silent treatment was working. He didn’t know that while he was laughing on the slopes, I was rotting alone in a freezing house. 3. The suite at the ski resort was warm, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a pristine white world. But Cole was restless. His right eyelid kept twitching—a bad omen. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over my name. He wanted to check in. But then he saw the red row of missed calls and the threat “I” had sent. He tossed the phone onto the bed, stubbornness hardening his resolve. Tessa was playing the long game. To get closer to him, she staged a fall on a bunny slope the next day. “Cole! My ankle… I can’t walk.” Cole sighed and hoisted her onto his back, trudging down the mountain. Leo ran alongside them, clapping his gloved hands. “Daddy’s carrying Ms. Tessa! Like in the cartoons! Daddy carrying the bride!” Cole’s face dropped. He snapped his head back. “Leo! Stop it. Mommy is my wife. Don’t say things like that.” The reprimand hung in the cold air. Even Cole seemed surprised by his own defense of me. Perched on his back, Tessa’s eyes flashed with malice, quickly masked by a wince of pain. That night, Tessa screamed. She ran to Cole, phone in hand, face devoid of color. “Cole! Look! Look what Mara sent me!” Cole took the phone. The screen displayed a grotesque, close-up photo of a dead rat, bloody and mangled. Underneath, a caption: You will all die. This time, the sender was an unknown number—Tessa’s burner account. Cole stared at the revolting image, then looked at his lock screen—a photo of me from years ago, smiling softly. “How did she become this?” He whispered, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Where did the gentle, kind Mara go?” That night, Cole drank alone on the sofa until he passed out. Tessa sat by him, whispering poison disguised as comfort. Alcohol eroded his defenses. “When we get back,” he slurred, “I’m sending her to a facility. I can’t let her stay like this. She’s going to ruin Leo.” He fell asleep thinking he was making the responsible choice. The next morning, the property manager called. “Mr. Miller? We have a complaint from the tenant below you. There’s a leak dripping through their ceiling.” “We’ve been knocking on your door for twenty minutes. No one is answering.” It was me. My body fluids were liquefying, seeping through the sofa, soaking the floorboards, and dripping into the apartment below. Cole, hungover and irritated, snapped. “My wife is home sleeping. She’s not well, and she hates being disturbed. Do not bother her.” “Just shut off the main water valve for the unit. I’ll deal with it when I get back.” He hung up, but the anger simmered. He opened WeChat and sent me one more message. Mara, the building manager says there’s a leak and you’re ignoring it? What is wrong with you? Clean the place up before we get home. The message sent. Silence followed. He sneered and turned off his phone. He didn’t know that the Mara who could answer him was already gone. 4. On the afternoon of the second day of the New Year, Cole finally drove them home. Tessa sat in the passenger seat, managing expectations. “Cole, she’s going to be furious. She might have trashed the house.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, just don’t engage. If she’s unstable, don’t trigger her.” Cole drove in silence, his jaw set tight. They parked in the garage and took the elevator up. When the doors slid open, they froze. The hallway was crowded. Police officers in uniform. Property management staff looking pale. Neighbors whispering, craning their necks. And most jarringly—two coroners in white protective suits, masks on, walking out of our front door. The air was thick with a sickly-sweet, metallic stench. Tessa gasped, hiding behind Cole. “Oh my god… Cole… did she… did she kill herself to manipulate you?” Her voice trembled with feigned horror and hidden glee. “She’s terrifying! To do something like this…” Cole’s stomach dropped. He shoved through the crowd. “Mara! What the hell have you done now?!” A young officer stepped in front of him, hand raised. “Sir, stay back. Do you live here? What is your relationship to the deceased?” Cole shoved the officer aside, his eyes locked on the open door. “I live here! Who are you? Why are you in my house?” His brain short-circuited. “Deceased? Who died? My wife is inside sleeping! She has a temper, don’t scare her!” It wasn’t possible. He remembered tucking the blanket around me on Christmas Eve. He remembered the threatening texts from last night. People don’t just die. Tessa scrambled to keep up, turning to the police. “Exactly, officer! There must be a mistake. Mara is fine. She’s just dramatic.” She pulled out her phone. “Look! She sent me a death threat on Christmas Eve at 10 PM. And this! She sent a dead rat picture yesterday morning. How could she be dead?” The neighbors fell silent. An older medical examiner stepped out of the apartment. He pulled down his mask, looking from Cole to the babbling Tessa with cold, clinical eyes. “You say she sent you a photo in the middle of the night last night?” He thumbed over his shoulder, where two staff members were maneuvering a gurney covered in a white sheet out the door. “Based on the lividity, the rigor mortis, and the state of decomposition…” “The deceased, Mara Miller, died of sudden cardiac arrest. Time of death is estimated at over 40 hours ago.” The examiner stepped closer, staring hard at Tessa. “Which means she died around 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve.” “So, I have to ask: How does a woman who has been dead for two days send you a text message?” “Is she haunting you?”

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Meredith slept with a subordinate twelve years her junior. When I caught her, she chose to come back to the family. We were stitching our lives back together, or so I thought, until I glanced at her phone and saw an unsaved number flashing on the lock screen. I’m getting married tomorrow. Can you come to Harbor City? I need to see you one last time. It’s a three-hour drive from Seattle to the coast. If she left now, she’d hit the city limits by 1:00 AM. I watched her pulling clothes from the closet, frantic and focused. I kept my voice low, deadly quiet. “Packing that much lingerie, Meredith? Planning to sleep with him one last time for old times’ sake?” I leaned against the doorframe. “Should I pack you a box of condoms, or do you have that covered?” … 1 Meredith looked up, her face etched with a kind of exhaustion I hadn’t seen before. “Grant, I chose you. I’m here, aren’t I? What more do you want?” She threw a silk blouse into the suitcase. “Are you not going to be happy until you’ve pushed me into an early grave?” I remembered the look on her face the day I caught her and Kieran in that hotel room. Pure, unadulterated panic. I didn’t handle it with dignity. I wasn’t the stoic husband. I was the cliché—the rage-filled spouse screaming, tearing at them, snapping photos of their shame to burn their worlds down. And it worked. Kieran lost face, lost his job, and scurried back to his hometown in disgrace. Meredith lost a six-figure contract and her director title. Under the weight of moral condemnation, she had knelt before me, begging, promising to be the wife I deserved. For the past year, she had been perfect. Terrified, docile, obedient. While launching her start-up, she took on every night shift with our daughter, Rory, just to let me sleep. She wore herself thin, catching pneumonia twice, working herself to the bone until her new company started turning a profit. She looked successful again. She looked redeemed. As if karma had missed her address entirely. Oh, except for those few colds. That was her great penance. And now she claimed I was pushing her to the brink? The irony tasted like copper in my mouth. “Meredith,” I curled my lip, “where do you find the audacity?” “Did you forget your vow? You swore on your life you’d never see him again.” She folded a dress with trembling hands and zipped the suitcase shut. “Grant, we haven’t visited the shelter in ages. Tomorrow, let’s go together. We can bring donations.” She forced a smile, a mask of domestic softness. “Let’s get some sleep before Rory wakes up. You know how cranky she gets.” I dug my fingernails into my palms until the skin broke. I hated this. I hated how she pivoted, how she smoothed over the jagged edges of her betrayal with mundane distractions. She was the sinner, yet she stood there with the posture of a saint. “And what about Kieran?” I scoffed. “You loved him so much. Won’t he be heartbroken if you don’t show up? Or are you afraid God might actually strike you down for breaking an oath?” Her expression didn’t waver. “Grant, the kids at the shelter love those cinnamon rolls from the bakery on 4th. Remind me to pick them up.” This was Meredith. The colder she acted on the surface, the clearer the boundaries she drew, the more torrentially the feelings raged underneath. It was true with me once. Now, it was true with Kieran. I wanted to rip that calm, hypocritical mask right off her face. 2 I walked to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out the stack of stationery. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to read them aloud, my voice dripping with venom. “Kieran, you are the wind in the mountains, untouched by the dust of this world. Seeing you makes me believe that something pure still exists.” “People say the wind leaves no trace, but I will keep you hidden in my heart, protecting your clarity year after year.” “All I ask of this life is to drift along with you, never parting.” I paused, looking her dead in the eye. “Kieran, the man in my bed is not the man in my soul. Only in the deep of night do I see your face, so clean it makes my heart tremble.” Meredith’s composure finally shattered. “Stop it!” she screamed, covering her ears. “Grant, shut up! I made a mistake. Haven’t I paid for it every single day for a year?” “It’s in the past! Why can’t you let it go?” I laughed, a dry, hacking sound, and grabbed the pair of men’s boxers—custom embroidered with a lotus motif—and threw them in her face. “I can’t let it go? Oh, Meredith, your prose is just too moving. I had to keep it. A daily reminder that inside your heart lives the beautiful, pristine Kieran!” “And you call this past year atonement? Taking care of Rory isn’t penance, Meredith. It’s called parenting! She’s your daughter, not a punishment!” Meredith had always been a romantic. When she loved, she loved with purple prose and grand gestures. I used to roll my eyes at it, secretly thrilled that I was the subject of her intensity. I thought I was the only one. Until I was cleaning the bottom shelf of the bookcase and found the box. Five hundred and twenty-one letters. Written over two years. The embroidered boxers were his response to her devotion. Opening that box was like opening a vent to hell; the demons haven’t stopped eating me since. When I stormed that hotel, the staff thought I was a drunk. I had to call the cops. With their help, I got into the suite. I saw my wife—my brilliant, composed wife—looking terrified, shielding her lover with her own body as if I were the monster. I lost my mind. I fought, I screamed the vilest things a human can articulate. Meredith rubbed her temples, her voice dropping to a weary murmur. “Is this necessary? Yes, the hotel happened. I lost my mind for a while. But we only slept together that one time. You blew it up, and nothing came of it. We didn’t end up together, did we?” “Don’t you dare sound righteous about infidelity,” I spat. “You are hateful, Meredith.” She hooked a stray hair behind her ear, her eyes going cold and cruel. “Grant, you know what? The more you act like a lunatic, the more beautiful Kieran looks in my memory.” “You will never compare to him. Keep screaming. Let’s see how long you last.” I gasped for air, staring at her. She finally showed emotion, and it was contempt. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder. The woman who once looked at me with stars in her eyes now looked at me like I was a disease. I had tried to forgive. She had come home. We had a child. 3 But for the last year, every time she touched me, every time we tried to be intimate, the image of her tangled in sheets with Kieran flashed in my brain. I was physically repulsed. I couldn’t pretend. The dam broke. “Then go!” I shrieked. “Divorce me and go marry him! Stop playing the martyr, Meredith, it makes me sick!” I picked up the boxers from the floor and ripped them until the fabric gave way. “Trash! You’re both trash!” Meredith watched my meltdown with a detached satisfaction. She reached out, wiping a tear from my cheek. “See? You work yourself up just to anger me. Is it worth it?” “Grant, it’s over. Why can’t we just live our lives?” “We have a daughter. Stop saying the word divorce.” I slapped her hand away. Rory woke up in the next room, wailing. I rushed to the crib, lifting her, rocking her, trying to soothe her terror with my own shaking hands. Meredith watched from the doorway for a moment, then turned and walked out. When Rory finally settled, I went to the kitchen to warm a bottle. The air smelled of expensive scotch. Meredith was sitting on the floor, surrounded by empty tumblers, eyes glazed. Half-dead to the world. Mourning her lover’s wedding, no doubt. Her phone buzzed. Her eyes shifted. Her hand trembled as she slid to answer. “Kieran. I’m here.” The voice on the other end was low, ragged. “Mer… he won’t let you come see me, will he?” Meredith’s gaze dimmed. “Kieran, he’s my husband. We have a child. I have responsibilities.” “I know. You’re good, Mer. You have honor. I always knew I had good taste.” Kieran’s voice broke, fragile as glass. Meredith gripped the phone, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We shouldn’t see each other again. Kieran… I hope you’re happy. Truly. Have a beautiful life.” Just as she was about to hang up, Kieran pleaded. “Mer, wait. Can I talk to him?” Meredith hesitated, then held the phone out to me. “He wants a word. Control your temper. Don’t scare him.” I didn’t take it. But Kieran spoke as if he knew I was listening. “Grant, listen. She chose you. She went back. I’m begging you, treat her well. You have no idea the pressure she’s under, making money, keeping face.” “She hates spicy food. She loves sweet things, specifically mango sago pompelo. Don’t let her drink cold water in the summer, her stomach is sensitive.” “And I bought her a neck massager a while back—her cervical spine is messed up. Use it on her. She’s in a growth phase with the company…” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Are you finished?” “You are truly pathetic. Managing my wife from three hours away? If you’re so worried, why don’t I gift wrap her and drive her to your bed tonight? You can swap out the bride.” 4 “Since you have no shame, maybe the wedding guests would love to see exactly what kind of—” Meredith snatched the phone back, shouting, “Stop it! Are you insane?” I looked at her with pure hatred. “He dares to do it, I dare to say it. You two are disgusting. Flirting right in front of my face.” From the phone, Kieran’s soft sobbing echoed. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset your husband.” Meredith’s face darkened. “Grant. Apologize.” My rationality snapped. I was back in that hotel room. I wanted to hurt her. “Apologize to who? Your boy toy? Meredith, are you human? I hope you both rot! I hope you both burn!” Meredith shoved me back, furious. “Grant! Are you deaf? I was saying goodbye! If you keep acting like a psycho, I swear to God, I will drive to Harbor City right now!” When she said it, I saw the flicker in her eyes. Hope. She wanted an excuse to go. But she had to maintain the act of the suffering, responsible wife. She made me the villain. I was the monster pushing her away. I laughed, a hollow sound. I ran to the bedroom, grabbed the pile of clothes she had abandoned, stuffed them into the suitcase, and hurled it into the living room. “Get out!” “Meredith, looking at you makes me feel dirty.” “Fine, Grant. You asked for this. Let’s see how you manage a toddler alone.” She smirked, a cruel, cold thing, grabbed the handle of her luggage, and walked out the door. The apartment fell silent. My knees gave out, and I collapsed on the floor, curling into a ball, weeping without sound. I stayed there until Rory cried again. I pulled myself up, shook the formula bottle, and went to her. I held my daughter’s small, warm body and didn’t sleep for a second. I was the one being pushed to the brink. By her. By him. For a year, we played house. But I was cracking. I had nightmares of white limbs tangled in hotel sheets. I started crying for no reason. I shook. I screamed at furniture. I broke things. I started cutting my arms just to feel something other than the pain in my chest. If she was ten minutes late, I accused her. I checked her phone. I smelled her clothes. She explained at first. Then she stopped. Then she moved to the guest room. Our marriage froze over. The day I found myself standing on the balcony of our 18th-floor apartment, holding Rory, looking at the pavement below, I woke up. I almost died. I almost took my daughter with me. Depression. Severe. I stepped back from the ledge. The cold wind slapped me sober. I got help. Therapists. Meds. I fought to stay alive. But today, Meredith, the architect of my ruin, pushed me back toward the edge. This nauseating, scarred marriage was done. I sat up until dawn. Meredith didn’t come back. Her parents did. 5 Her father looked me up and down and started the lecture. “Fighting again? Grant, look, if Meredith truly wanted that boy, you wouldn’t be our son-in-law.” “I’m not trying to be mean, but you’re petty. You have no vision. If you had just shut your mouth back then, Meredith wouldn’t have lost her job. She’d be getting bonuses. She wouldn’t be working this hard.” Her mother sighed, checking her phone theatrically. “Grant, honey, Meredith is a catch. Successful women have admirers. It’s normal.” She shoved her screen in my face. It was a screenshot of Meredith’s WeChat Moment, posted hours ago. The photo showed her hugging Kieran, wiping tears from his face. The caption: Traveled a thousand miles, just to see you one last time. I checked my phone. Nothing. She had blocked me from seeing it. I called her. Straight to voicemail. I looked at her mother. “Are you sure she’s with him?” Her mother smirked and dialed Meredith on speaker. “Mom? What’s up?” Meredith answered instantly. “Honey, where are you? Did you fight with Grant again?” Meredith’s voice was flat, dismissive. “Hardly a fight. He’s just having another episode. Too much time on his hands. I’m in Harbor City. Don’t tell him. I’m seeing Kieran one last time, then I’ll be back.” One minute. Click. She really went. My chest felt empty, cavernous, but strangely light. Her mother tsked. “See? Meredith tells me you’re dumb and slow, just yelling all day. If it weren’t for the kid, she’d have left you ages ago.” “I hear this Kieran boy is nice. Parents are teachers. A better match for our Meredith. Unlike some people. No parents, probably bad luck.” “Rotten roots grow rotten trees. Since she likes used goods so much, she can have him.” I said it calmly, picked up Rory, and walked out the door, leaving the old couple shouting insults at my back. I tolerated them for years because I loved her. That obligation evaporated last night. If Meredith wasn’t in Seattle, I was going to find her. I stopped at a lawyer’s office, drafted a divorce agreement, and drove to Harbor City. Using the geotag from the photo her mother showed me, I found the hotel. The ballroom was lavish. Kieran stood at the altar in a tuxedo, about to exchange rings with a woman who looked expensive. Meredith stood below the stage, looking like her soul had been ripped out. “Kieran,” she whispered, loud enough to carry, “you have to be happy.” Kieran’s eyes welled up. It was tragic. Romeo and Juliet, separated by the cruel hand of fate. I walked through the double doors, stopped right behind Meredith, and raised my voice. “Since the groom has feelings and the mistress has a heart, let me help you out!” “Meredith! Let’s get a divorce!” 6 Silence slammed into the room. The whispers started immediately.

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