Author: Momo Chan

Everyone used to tell me I hit the jackpot. I got the trophy wife—beautiful, smart, and a whiz with a budget. Only my five-year-old, Quinn, looked at me like I was a textbook case of bad judgment. That was until my wife’s “close colleague” moved in, wearing my tailored blazers and using my shaving kit. Quinn shook me awake in the middle of the night. “Dad, what on earth are you still holding onto with a snake like that?” I stared at her. “What did you say?” She sighed. “I lived to be twenty-five in my last life. I watched you put up with her for your whole adult life.” “This time, just listen to me. Get a divorce.” “Once you do, I’ll set you up with a real stunner. Hotter than Mom, sweeter than Mom, and the key thing? She’ll only have eyes for you.” 01 Geneva’s cheating was broken to me by my daughter, Quinn. She was five, just started kindergarten. She walked in that day, tossed her pink backpack onto the sofa, and came straight over to me. “Dad, Mom’s seeing someone else.” I was wiping down the kitchen counter. My hand froze for a second, then I kept wiping. “Don’t talk nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense.” She climbed onto a high barstool, swinging her little legs. “I saw her today at the mall. She was wrapped around some guy—tall, wearing a black leather jacket.” I tossed the rag into the sink, splashing water onto my hand. “You must have been mistaken.” “I wasn’t mistaken.” She hopped off the stool and stood in front of me, looking up. “Dad, it’s okay to cry. You’ll feel better if you let it out.” I didn’t cry. I actually laughed. “Kid, you’ve been watching too many soap operas.” She shook her head, reaching for my hand. It was so small and soft. “Dad, I’m not a kid.” She spoke slowly, every word measured. “The truth is… I came back from eighteen years in the future.” I froze. “Eighteen years from now, you’re dead,” she said, her eyes turning red fast. “Lung cancer. Stage four, right out of the gate. Mom was remarried by then. Three months after your funeral. She said a house couldn’t run without a man, and Daisy was still young.” The kitchen light flickered. I felt a sudden rush of dizziness. “I didn’t cry, honest.” She wiped her eyes, leaving a wet streak on her hand. “I didn’t cry at your wake. Grandpa Rose said I was cold, said I had no heart. But I knew. I remembered the last six months, you hurting, unable to sleep all night, and not one of them was there to ease the pain.” I stumbled back, leaning against the refrigerator. One of Daisy’s little art magnets slid off and hit the floor with a hollow clack. “Dad.” She came closer, hugging my leg this time. “Stop doing all the chores for her. Your cooking is the best, but she always found something to pick at. She’d complain that all you did was ‘hang around the house,’ and still couldn’t even keep the place clean.” I wanted to deny it, to say, Gen wouldn’t say that. But the words wouldn’t come out. Because last Wednesday night, she did say exactly that. I’d made her favorite Sticky Ribs, and she said they were too sweet, not salty enough, and the meat was tough. Then she took a call, said her friend had an emergency, and walked out. “Dad.” Quinn looked up, tears blurring her face. “Come with me. I can make money. I can take care of you.” “You’re only five…” “I’m twenty-three,” she cut in, her voice suddenly rock-steady. “In my timeline, I was twenty-three, a Vice President at a major investment bank. I could afford a house, a live-in nanny. I could let you sleep in every day and not have to be up at six to make breakfast.” I knelt down, meeting her gaze. Those eyes were too familiar. They weren’t a five-year-old’s eyes. There was something in them I didn’t understand, but I knew it wasn’t a lie. “Why did you come back?” I whispered. “Because I missed you.” The tears started again. “I missed you for eighteen years. Every night. I remember those last days, you were so thin, just a pile of bones, but you still insisted on getting up to make Daisy and me breakfast. You said you didn’t want us to be late for school.” She reached out and touched my face, her small fingers trembling. “Dad, she’s not worth it,” she said. “She’s not worth it, and neither are we. You ran yourself into the ground, and it didn’t even help us grow up right. I was twenty-three and terrified to date, afraid I’d turn into you. Daisy was worse. She ended up…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew it wasn’t good. A key turning in the lock outside. Quinn instantly wiped her tears, pulled away from me, and ran to the sofa to grab a picture book. When the door opened, she was already pointing at a bear on the page. “Dad, this little bear is so cute.” Geneva walked in, dropping her handbag by the door. She glanced at me. “Why are you just standing there, Adam? Is dinner ready?” I didn’t move. Quinn jumped off the sofa and ran to her. “Mom, Dad isn’t feeling well today. Let’s order takeout.” Geneva frowned. “What’s the drama?” “No drama.” Quinn tilted her head up, giving her a sweet smile. “I really want a burger. Dad’s cooking every day gets boring. Let’s mix it up.” Geneva looked at me. “You’re not well?” I looked at her face. I’d seen this face for seven years—five years married, two years dating. I used to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Now, I suddenly noticed the fine lines around her eyes, the constant edge of impatience around her mouth. When she looked at me, there was very little warmth. “Yeah,” I said. “Headache.” “Fine. Order takeout.” She put down her bag. “I have a video conference in half an hour. Call me when the burgers arrive.” She walked into the bedroom. Quinn ran over and pulled my hand. “Dad, let’s go change.” “Change into what?” “That black suit. The really sharp one,” she dragged me toward the walk-in closet. “The last time I saw you wear it was my fifth birthday. You never wore it again after that.” There was a black suit in the closet. We bought it for our anniversary. Geneva said it was too formal for daily wear. Quinn pulled it out and shook it open. “Put it on.” “Why do I need to wear this now?” “Wear it for me.” She insisted. “Dad, you’re thirty-one. Not seventy-one.” I changed into the suit. The man in the mirror was a stranger. My body wasn’t bad, but my complexion was dull, and there were dark circles under my eyes. Quinn climbed onto the dressing table and picked up my hair gel. “This one holds well.” She uncapped it and handed it to me. “A little spray.” I sprayed it. She then opened the aftershave, her movements unnervingly practiced for a child. She dabbed some on my face, straightened my collar, her touch gentle. “You’ll get even hotter,” she said. “A hundred times hotter than this. Lots of people will chase you. There’s this gallery owner who’s obsessed with you, chased you for three years. But you never said yes.” I looked at her. “How do you know that?” “Because I saw it.” She put the aftershave down and scrutinized my face. “Before I came back to this world, I visited another one in my dreams. In that world, you didn’t die. You divorced, opened an auto repair shop, you dressed sharply, and had a ton of friends. When you were fifty, you took up mountain climbing and posted pictures on Instagram, smiling so genuinely.” She jumped off the dressing table and pulled my hand toward the door. “In that world, every time I saw you, I cried,” she said. “Because I knew that dad wasn’t my dad. My dad died at thirty-one. His last words were, Don’t forget the noodles on the counter.” She pushed the door open. Geneva was coming out of the bedroom just then. She saw me and stopped dead. “You…” She tried to speak. “Why are you so dressed up?” Quinn cut in before I could answer. “Dad’s taking me out for dinner. Mom, you can order your own takeout. We’re getting French.” She yanked me toward the exit. Geneva called from behind, “Adam Kincaid!” I didn’t look back. Quinn tiptoed to open the door, pushed me out, then squeezed out herself, pulling the door shut behind us. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on. She pulled me down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time. She pushed open the main door on the ground floor, and the evening breeze rushed in, lifting her hair. She stopped under a streetlamp, catching her breath, and looked at me with a smile. “Dad,” she said. “From today, I’ve got you.” I looked at her glowing eyes, and suddenly felt like I really had died once already. And now, I was alive again. 02 That steak dinner cost us three-hundred-and-eight dollars. Quinn sat across from me, cutting her steak with a scary level of expertise. She even ordered a whiskey for me. The waiter looked at her like she was an alien. “Kids can’t drink,” the waiter said. “It’s for my dad,” Quinn said without flinching. “He needs it.” When the drink arrived, she poured me a glass. “Drink it, Dad. When was the last time you had a drink?” I thought about it. I couldn’t remember. Probably at the wedding, the champagne toast. Gen said I had a low tolerance and told me to stop drinking. And I did. I picked up the glass and took a sip. It was strong. Quinn watched me, and then suddenly said, “Dad, do you remember taking me to the amusement park when I was three?” “I do.” “Mom had promised to come, but she canceled last minute, saying her friend had an emergency.” She cut the steak, the knife and fork clinking against the plate. “You took me on the roller coaster all by yourself, waited in line for ice cream, and carried me for two miles looking for a bathroom. When we got home, I fell asleep on your shoulder, and your arm was sore for a week.” I remembered. Gen definitely didn’t come that day. She said a very important friend had broken up with her and she couldn’t leave. She didn’t get home until ten that night, and I smelled men’s cologne on her. When I mentioned it, she snapped that I was being ridiculous, and it was the friend’s boyfriend’s. “I remember thinking,” Quinn put the steak in her mouth and chewed slowly, “when I grow up, I’m never going to let my dad be this tired.” She swallowed and looked up at me. “But when I grew up, you were already gone.” Other tables were loud with laughter, couples feeding each other, a kid throwing a fit. Only our table was hushed, like a funeral reception. “Dad.” She put down her silverware. “Get a divorce.” I stayed silent. “The house, the car, the savings—take everything you’re entitled to. She has a high-end PR firm, shares, and you’re the legal husband. You can split it all,” she said, her expression as cool as if she were discussing a stranger’s affairs. “I know you’re soft-hearted, but don’t be this time. In the last life, you were too soft. You took nothing but custody of Daisy and me. And what happened? She kept dragging her feet on the support payments.” I looked at her. A five-year-old face, a twenty-three-year-old gaze. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “I read your journal,” she said. “I found it under your desk after you died. A hardback notebook, the cover was worn thin. You wrote about everything, starting from the day you got married, right up to the day you were diagnosed with cancer.” She paused, her voice dropping. “The last entry read: My greatest regret was giving everything I had to others, and keeping nothing, absolutely nothing, for myself.” My hands were shaking. She saw it and reached over to hold them. “Dad, this time is different.” Her grip was firm. “I’m here now. I know all her tricks. I know what Grandma Rose will say. I know how to find the evidence and the right lawyer. Trust me this once, okay?” I looked at her for a long time. Then I said, “Okay.” She smiled. Her eyes curved up, and for the first time, she looked like a five-year-old kid. 03 We got home at ten. The living room light was still on. Geneva was sitting on the sofa, a pile of snack wrappers in the trash can next to her. “Decided to show up?” Her voice was ice. Quinn stepped in front of me. “We went out for dinner.” “Did I ask you?” She looked past Quinn to me. “Adam Kincaid, are you getting brave now? No dinner, no watching your kid, just running off dressed like a runway model?” I stood my ground, saying nothing. Quinn tugged my hand and whispered, “Dad, go take a shower. I’ll handle the rest.” I hesitated, but she pushed me. “Go.” I went into the bathroom. As the hot water ran, I heard their voices outside the door. Quinn’s voice was calm. “Mom, let’s talk.” “What is there to talk about with you?” “Let’s talk about you and the guy in the black leather jacket,” she said. “I took pictures. Want to see them?” There was a few seconds of silence outside. Then Geneva’s voice, low and sharp. “What are you talking about?” “Fifth floor of the mall, outside the Boba shop, three p.m. yesterday.” Quinn recited it like a police report. “He had his arm around your waist. You bought him a watch—$5,200, swiped your card. The receipt’s in your bag. Want me to go grab it?” I turned off the water and pressed my ear to the door. Geneva’s voice was starting to sound rattled. “Did your father make you take those pictures?” “I took them myself,” Quinn said. “Mom, I’m only five, but I’m not an idiot. I know your phone password is my birthday. I’ve known it forever. The guy in your texts, ‘Troy E.’? That’s Troy Evans, your firm’s new twenty-four-year-old marketing coordinator. Fresh out of college. Really, Gen? Him?” “Quinn Kincaid!” Geneva roared. “Shh, Dad’s showering.” Quinn’s voice remained even. “Mom, if you want to play around, fine. But don’t bring it home. If you insist on bringing him home, then file the papers first, split the assets cleanly, and then you can bring home whoever you want.” I heard the sound of a handbag being opened—Geneva was likely searching for the receipt. “Honey, you’re too young to understand,” Geneva’s tone softened slightly. “Mom has a lot of pressure at work. Sometimes I need to decompress. But that doesn’t change how much I love your father and this family.” “Really?” Quinn chuckled. “So last Wednesday, when you said your friend had an emergency, you were actually watching that romantic drama with him? Back row of the theater? You two were holding hands while Dad was home reheating your soup for the third time.” The silence outside was absolute. I pulled the door open and stepped out. Geneva saw me, and her face fell. Quinn ran over and grabbed my hand, her palm slick with sweat. “Dad, you’re done?” I nodded, looking at Geneva. “Is what she said true?” Geneva stood up, reaching for me. “Adam, let me explain—” “Just tell me if it’s true or false.” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at her and felt a strange, cold amusement. Seven years. I’d done her laundry, cooked her meals, earned the money, and looked after her parents. When she was struggling to launch her firm, I gave her my entire savings for my own venture. She told me to focus on the family, so I shifted my career from project lead to support and logistics. And now, she was telling me she was under pressure and needed to decompress. “Gen Rose,” I said. “We’re getting divorced.” She was stunned. Quinn gripped my hand tighter. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “The house, the car, the savings—everything gets split. I want half of the firm’s shares. The kids stay with me. You pay child support.” Geneva looked at me like a stranger. “Adam Kincaid, are you out of your mind? Do you know what my firm is worth? You want half? Do you even understand how to run it?” “I don’t,” I said. “But the law does.” Her face darkened. Quinn suddenly spoke up. “Mom, if you don’t agree, I’ll send the pictures to your firm’s group chat. Your phone is synced to your office computer. I know the password. I can access the chat.” Geneva snapped her head toward Quinn, her eyes murderous. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Try me,” Quinn said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I’m five. I could probably get away with murder. Want to find out?” Geneva raised her hand, and I stepped forward to shield Quinn. “Try to hit her.” Her hand froze in mid-air. We stood there locked in a silent standoff, the living room clock ticking away the seconds. Finally, Geneva dropped her hand, smoothing her dress. “Fine, Adam. You’re playing hardball. You have guts.” She grabbed her bag and slammed out the door. The moment the door closed, my legs went weak. I nearly collapsed onto the floor. Quinn caught me. “Dad, are you okay?” I shook my head, looking at her. “Those photos… did you really take them?” She blinked. “I lied. Where would I get a phone to take pictures?” “Then the mall, did you really see it?” “I saw it,” she confirmed. “But no photos. I just said that to scare her.” I was speechless. She led me to the sofa and leaned against my shoulder. “Dad, with people like her, you have to be tougher. The softer you are, the more she’ll walk all over you.” I stroked her hair, a hollow space in my chest. “Quinn,” I asked. “Was the last life… really that awful?” She didn’t answer, just hugged me tighter. After a long while, she said, “Dad, not this time.” “I promise.” 04 Geneva didn’t come back the next morning. When Quinn woke up, she went to the kitchen and warmed milk, toasted bread, and fried an egg for me. “Dad, breakfast.” She carried the plate to the bedside. I looked at the perfectly fried egg, the edges crisp and golden. “When did you learn to cook?” “Last life.” She climbed onto the bed next to me. “I learned when you were sick. After you were gone, I had to take care of Daisy.” She took a bite of her toast, chewing slowly. I suddenly remembered to ask, “Where’s Daisy?” “At kindergarten. It’s Friday, so we pick her up this afternoon. Dad, go see the lawyer today. Before Mom has time to think.” I sat up. “So fast?” “Fast,” she nodded. “She’s definitely going to meet up with Troy to plan their next move. If they get their story straight and come up with a strategy, we’ll be on the defensive.” She hopped off the bed and pulled a piece of paper from her tiny backpack. “This is the best divorce lawyer in the city. I looked him up in the last life. Mr. Alistair Cross. Specializes in this exact kind of case. Tell him I sent you.” I took the slip of paper. It had a name and number. “How did you…?” “I did my homework before I came back.” She smiled. “Your daughter is pretty smart, Dad.” I looked at her smiling face, and my last bit of hesitation vanished. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

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“Sign it. You walk away with nothing.” Jocelyn Pierce slid the divorce settlement across the conference table, her tone as detached as if she were discussing quarterly earnings. Next to her sat her attorney, Mr. Stone. Next to him sat her new partner—her young, handsome former executive assistant, Andre Blake. Andre looked at me with a faint air of pity. “Nolan, Jo’s been more than fair. You get to keep the condo and the car. Just sign the papers.” I picked up the pen. Jocelyn frowned. “Aren’t you going to look at the terms?” “No need.” I signed my name: Nolan George. Then I smiled. Jocelyn’s composure faltered. 1. Jocelyn said that line at exactly three in the afternoon. The conference room was quiet, the late-day sun slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows and illuminating the cold, white paper of the divorce agreement. I stared at my name on the page, feeling a complete stranger to it. Nolan George. Thirty-two years of my life condensed into two words. Five of those years belonged to Jocelyn. When we married five years ago, she wasn’t “Jo, the CEO.” She was just a market director who’d just been fired by her company, with nothing but three months of severance pay in her bank account. I remember her telling me she wanted to start a business. I asked what she wanted to build. She said an enterprise SaaS platform. I told her the market was already saturated. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. She had the network, she had the vision, she just needed a technical co-founder who could write the code. At the time, I was a Lead Engineer at a major tech player, pulling down a solid six-figure salary. I said, “I’ll do it.” She froze for a second, then broke into a smile. It was the most honest, unfiltered happiness I’d ever seen from her. “Seriously? You’d actually quit your job for this?” I told her I would. That’s how it started. I resigned. She cashed out her severance. We wrote the first line of code in our tiny, rented apartment. There were only two people in the company: her and me. Jocelyn handled the sales, the partnerships, and the investor pitches. I handled all the technology. All of it. I built the server architecture. I designed the database. I wrote the front-end and the back-end. I optimized the core algorithms. The day the first version of the product went live, Jocelyn posted an update on her feed. “Day 127 of the startup journey. Product launch is a go! Grateful for everyone who supported me.” The photo was her, shot from the back, sitting at her laptop—resilient, focused, and utterly beautiful. It was the perfect CEO origin story. I saw the post at two in the morning, right after I’d finally deployed a fix for a critical live bug. I’d had three cups of coffee, and my eyes felt like they were packed with sand. I just smiled to myself. I didn’t say anything. That post was just the beginning. The day we signed our first client, Jocelyn took them out to dinner. She didn’t invite me. The day the first round of seed money hit the bank, Jocelyn posted, “Thank you to our investors for believing in us, and thank you to my incredible team.” The photo was her and the lead investor. Team? The entire tech department was one guy: me. I brought it up once. “When you post things, could you maybe just mention me?” Jocelyn was on a call, but she looked up at me. “You’re my husband, Nolan. Why would I tag you? People would think I lack professional boundaries.” “I’m the company’s Head of Technology.” “You’re my husband,” she insisted. “What you build is what we build. What’s the difference?” I told her there wasn’t one. I thought she meant it. The company grew from two people to twenty, and then from twenty to eighty. Jocelyn hired sales reps, operations managers, finance directors, and administrative staff. The one thing she avoided hiring was more senior tech staff. It wasn’t that she didn’t try. She hired three people over the years. They all quit. Because she couldn’t keep them. Only I truly understood the core code. Only I could maintain the central system. The new hires couldn’t take over, or they’d inevitably screw it up. Jocelyn told me to just keep doing it. “You’re used to it, anyway.” I said fine. I did it alone for five years. Five years. Over eighteen hundred days. More than fifty thousand hours. The logged overtime alone exceeded eight thousand hours. That’s four and a half extra hours of work every single day, practically zero weekends off. The only time I ever took off was when I landed in the emergency room with acute gastroenteritis. She visited me on the first day. She came in with a bouquet, stayed for three minutes of small talk. Then she asked: “What’s the root password for the main server?” I was lying in the hospital bed, IV drip running. I gave her the password. She said thank you and left. She didn’t come back on the second day. Or the third. On the fourth day, she sent a driver to pick me up. In the car, I asked her what the server problem was. She said it was nothing major, just a small bug. Fixed now. I told her to let me look at it. “Don’t worry about it, Nolan, it’s been handled.” I asked her who fixed it. “An external contractor.” A faint flicker of alarm went off in my mind right then, but I couldn’t quite catch it. I should have. In the company’s third year, we closed our Series A, valuing the company at thirty million. Jocelyn posted again. “Grateful for the team, the investors, and everyone who believed in me. Three years. We finally made it to this stage.” The photo was her and the investors, with the sales team standing dutifully behind them. The comments section was full of congratulations. I typed three words: Congrats. Jocelyn replied with a hugging emoji. That evening, I asked her about the equity split. She said it was finalized. I asked how much I received. “Five percent,” she said. I stopped typing. Five percent? I wrote the entire system. Front-end, back-end, architecture, algorithms, and maintenance. I did the work of three people for three years. Five percent? Jocelyn saw the displeasure on my face and sighed. “I know you worked hard, but equity isn’t about hours clocked, Nolan. The Head of Sales got five percent, the CFO got five percent. You can’t think you’re special.” “I was the only person with you from Day One.” “And you’re my husband,” she emphasized. “What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. Why worry about splitting hairs?” She used that line again. She always used that line. I said fine. Five percent it was. At a thirty-million valuation, five percent was one and a half million dollars. One and a half million for three years of my life. That’s five hundred thousand a year. I’d been making a million dollars a year at my old Big Tech job. I was operating at a loss. But I didn’t say it. She was my wife. We were family. And family doesn’t count the cost. Series A led to Series B. Series B led to Series C. The company’s valuation climbed from thirty million to a hundred million, and then to three hundred million. My equity remained five percent. Jocelyn’s equity was forty-two percent. I didn’t ask her why mine hadn’t increased. I was afraid of hearing, “You’re my husband,” again. In the company’s fourth year, we held the annual gala. Jocelyn stood on stage in a custom-tailored suit—sharp, elegant, and radiating success. More than a hundred employees sat below, illuminated by the spotlights. “This year, our revenue surpassed twenty million dollars, and we are finally profitable. This is all thanks to your dedication.” Applause. “Thank you to the Sales Team—you are the company’s vanguard!” Applause. “Thank you to the Operations Team—you are the company’s foundation!” Applause. “Thank you to the Finance Team—you are the company’s guardians!” Applause. I sat there, waiting for her to mention the Technology Team. She never did. After the gala, a new sales rep came over. “Nolan, what exactly is your role here? Are you the CEO’s partner?” I told him I was the Head of Technology. He looked surprised. “Oh. I thought you were Jocelyn’s driver.” When we got home that night, I asked her why she hadn’t mentioned me. She was taking off her makeup and paused. “Why would I mention you? Everyone knows you’re my husband. If I mention you, they’ll say I lack professional boundaries.” “You could have just said, ‘the Technology Team.’” “The Technology Team is just you. Mentioning them is mentioning you. It’s the same thing.” I didn’t argue. Jocelyn came over and patted my shoulder. “Don’t overthink it, honey. I keep track of everything you do. Once the company grows bigger, I’ll increase your equity. I promise.” I said fine. I waited. The fifth year came and went. The equity never increased. But Andre Blake arrived. 2. Andre was hired as Jocelyn’s executive assistant. I met him when he started. Top-tier university, young, good-looking, and very composed. I didn’t think much of it. The company had over a hundred employees, half of them male. He wasn’t the only sharp, attractive person in the office. But I should have thought more of it. After Andre arrived, Jocelyn got busier. She used to be home before ten. Then it was eleven. Then midnight. I asked her why she was so busy. She said we were pushing for Series D, and the workload was intense. I asked if I could help. She said no, just focus on the technical side of things. I believed her. Three months after Andre started, the executive office held a team event. Jocelyn attended. I asked her, “Since when do you join your assistant’s team happy hours?” She said it wasn’t a party, it was employee retention. As the boss, she should make an appearance. I said fine. Six months after Andre started, it was the annual gala. Jocelyn personally managed the planning. I had no part in it. During the raffle, Andre won the grand prize—a ridiculously expensive Swiss chronograph. Jocelyn personally clasped it onto his wrist, and they posed for a picture. She posted the photo of them together, Andre’s smile dazzling under the spotlight. The caption: “Our annual grand prize winner! Some people have all the luck!” I sat in the audience, looking at the screen, a small, cold knot tightening in my stomach. But I didn’t say anything. I had too much I wanted to say, and I was afraid she would accuse me of being paranoid. Eight months after Andre started, I found the evidence. Jocelyn came home late that night and went straight into the shower. She left her phone on the coffee table. I didn’t mean to look. I really didn’t. One unread text. From Andre. Miss you. I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I put the phone back exactly where it was. Jocelyn came out of the bathroom, picked up the phone, and glanced at it. I asked her, “Who was that?” “Work stuff,” she said. “Oh.” I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, after Jocelyn left for the office, I opened the company’s login system. As the Head of Technology, I had administrator access. I pulled up Jocelyn’s and Andre’s access logs for the last three months. Their attendance was perfectly synchronized. Jocelyn worked until midnight; Andre worked until midnight. Jocelyn worked on Saturday; Andre worked on Saturday. Then I pulled the building’s key card entry system logs. They often entered and left the building at the same time. On multiple occasions, the logs showed Andre swiping his card to enter her private office. At eleven p.m. I put the phone down and took a deep breath. I told myself it was for work. I told myself not to be paranoid. I told myself Jocelyn wasn’t that person. I told myself she was my wife. We were family. And family doesn’t count the cost. I kept silent. One year after Andre started, I knew the truth. That night, Jocelyn didn’t come home, claiming she had a client dinner. I opened the in-car GPS app. Her car was parked outside a luxury high-rise on the West Side. I’d been to that building once. Last year, Andre had invited some of the exec team to his place for a housewarming. I didn’t go inside. I drove to the entrance and sat there for an hour. Just sat. At one a.m., Jocelyn’s car pulled out. Andre was driving. They were talking, and Jocelyn was laughing. I watched from a distance, never getting out of my car. The next morning, Jocelyn came home. She said she’d had too much to drink at the client dinner and slept at the office to avoid a DUI. I said, “Oh.” She asked why I looked so tired. I said I hadn’t slept well. She said, “We’ll go on a trip once the Series D is done. You need a break.” I said fine. After she left, I didn’t cry. I sat on the sofa for a long time. Then I opened my laptop and started working. Code doesn’t betray you. Code doesn’t lie. The code was written by me. It was mine. For the next two months, I didn’t mention the text or the apartment. Jocelyn went on with her life—going to work, attending dinners, and not coming home. I went on with mine—writing code, patching bugs, and optimizing the system. We were pushing hard for Series D, and the workload was genuinely overwhelming. I worked thirty days straight on the system overhaul, sleeping four or five hours a night. Jocelyn never once asked me if I was tired. One night, at two a.m., a server failure threatened data loss. I spent three hours scrambling alone until five a.m., when I finally fixed it. Jocelyn saw me asleep at my desk when she arrived that morning. She nudged my shoulder. “Server fixed?” I said yes. “Good. I have an investor meeting soon. Can you pull together the updated technical performance metrics for me?” I said fine. She walked away. She didn’t ask if I’d eaten breakfast. She didn’t ask if I was okay. I was just a machine. Use me, then keep using me. The Series D funding round closed after three months. A three-hundred-million-dollar valuation, with eighty million raised. Jocelyn was ecstatic, doing three full turns in her office. That evening, she surprisingly came home early and brought a bottle of expensive red wine. I thought she had come to thank me. She sat down, her expression serious. “Nolan, I have something I need to tell you.” I braced myself. Was she finally going to talk about the equity? She said, “I’m pregnant.” I paused for three seconds. Then I laughed. “Congratulations.” Jocelyn looked surprised by my reaction. “You’re not angry?” “Should I be?” “I thought you would….” “Cry? Cause a scene?” I stood up. “Jocelyn, you give yourself too much credit.” She just stared at me. I walked into the home office and locked the door. I slept very well that night. The next morning, I went to the office as usual. Jocelyn didn’t come in; Andre reportedly took her to her first OB-GYN appointment. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and started compiling files. Every line of code I’d written over the past five years. Every technical document. Every system architecture diagram. Every algorithm model. I reviewed them one by one. Then I navigated to the U.S. Copyright Office website. Software copyright registration. The applicant can be an individual or a company. I had never paid attention to this before. But I was paying attention now. I found the date I wrote the very first line of code: March 12, 2018. The company was incorporated on April 5, 2018. The core architecture, the core algorithms, and the core modules were all finished before the company was legally created. Whose copyright did that code belong to? Mine. Because I had developed it as an individual, before I was an employee. Jocelyn had only made a verbal request: “Help me write this.” She hadn’t presented any contract. I was her husband, not her employee. I wrote the code as a favor, not as a job. The copyright for that code was legally mine. I stayed in the office all day. Jocelyn returned in the early evening. She looked surprised to see me at my desk. “You’re still here?” “Yeah, organizing some files.” “What files?” “Five years of my work product.” She didn’t press. She walked into her private office and shut the door. An hour later, she summoned me. Inside, along with Jocelyn, were the company’s lawyer and Andre. Jocelyn pushed a document toward me. “Nolan George, we’re getting a divorce. Here’s the settlement agreement.” I picked it up. It was thick, seven or eight pages long. I flipped through it. The gist was: Irreconcilable differences, voluntary divorce. All company equity goes to the wife. All bank accounts go to the wife. Debts are assumed separately. The husband voluntarily waives all claims to marital property. I was walking away with nothing. It was written in black and white. Andre looked on, his eyes holding pity mixed with a hint of undeniable smugness. “Nolan, Jo’s been more than fair. You get to keep the condo and the car. Just sign the papers.” I looked at him, then at Jocelyn. She was sitting in her CEO chair, her expression cool and distant. Five years. From nothing to a three-hundred-million-dollar valuation. I was the one who built the infrastructure. And now she wanted me to walk away empty-handed. I laughed. “Fine. I’ll sign.” I picked up the pen and wrote my name. Jocelyn looked surprised. “Aren’t you going to look at the terms?” “No need.” I pushed the agreement back to her. “When are we filing the paperwork?” “Tomorrow.” “Fine.” I stood up, picked up my bag, and walked out of the office. Andre called out behind me, “Nolan, you still have stuff on your desk!” I didn’t turn back. “Keep it.”

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I was the true daughter of the Parker jewelry dynasty. The moment I stepped inside the house, my mother pressed two bangles into the hands of myself and the other girl, the one they had raised. “Rory, you are my own flesh and blood.” “Evie, I raised you from a baby.” “We expect you both to live in peace. Your father and I promise, absolutely no favoritism!” The Parker assumed I was some ignorant hick from the backwoods. They thought I wouldn’t know the difference between the Flame Emerald Opal Bangle they gave Evie—valued at three million dollars—and the cheap glass knock-off they slipped onto my wrist, the kind you could buy a dozen of for a hundred bucks. They were wrong. Not only was I an expert gemologist, but I had a gift: a kind of clairvoyant eye. I could see through stone and straight into the core of a person’s heart. In the rough gemstone market, people risked fortunes on a single cut, one slice separating them from heaven or hell. For me, it was simply collecting free money. You can dismiss me now, Arthur and Cecilia. It won’t matter. Just promise me one thing: don’t regret it later. … My parents exchanged a self-satisfied look, watching me stare blankly at the glass bracelet. They assumed their deception had worked. My brother, Bryce, sauntered over, his voice dripping with condescension. “Aurora,” he drawled, using my full, hated name. “Spending twenty years in the wilderness, you’ve probably never seen anything this valuable, have you?” He snickered. “Keep it safe! When you finally manage to marry some mountain man, that glass trinket will be your whole dowry, ha-ha-ha—” I didn’t let him finish the laugh. I slammed the fake bangle against the pristine marble floor. The crisp, shattering sound echoed in the foyer. The Parker faces immediately tightened. Cecilia screamed first. “Aurora! What in God’s name are you doing?” Arthur’s face was the color of slate. “Such an ungrateful, ill-mannered girl!” Evie pretended to recoil in shock, but her eyes, when she thought no one was looking, glittered with vicious pleasure. Bryce pointed a finger at my nose. “You bumpkin! No class, no education! You just destroyed millions of dollars worth of jewelry?” “Millions?” I nudged the splintered shards with the toe of my boot. “Even a ‘bumpkin’ recognizes shattered glass, Bryce.” I met his furious gaze, holding it steady. “The Parker are global jewelry titans. You gift your biological daughter a cheap fraud. Are you not terrified of the shame when the world hears it?” They were instantly silenced. Cecilia struggled to salvage the moment, her voice thin and forced. “Rory, darling, it’s not that we didn’t want to give you the real thing. But you’ve only just come back from the mountains. We were afraid your… rough edges… might damage it. Evie is different. She’s always been so composed, so careful. When you’ve mastered her grace and etiquette, your mother will give you a real one.” I just scoffed. I didn’t bother to respond. Arthur’s temper flared. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Don’t you dare sneer at me! I’m telling you, Aurora, Dr. Celeste Dubois—the most respected clairvoyant in Manhattan—read your chart! You have a Shadow Fate! A life of poverty and shallow luck. You simply cannot bear the weight of truly precious things! If you wore real opal, you’d bring disaster on yourself within three days!” He puffed out his chest, turning his gaze to his golden child. “You can’t compare to Evie. She is a Golden Anchor for this family. Our prosperity for the last twenty years? All thanks to her good karma!” I bit back a reply. They took my silence for submission. Cecilia breathed a sigh of relief. “Come now, don’t talk about this anymore. I’ll show you to your room.” Beyond the entrance hall was a sprawling gallery. Glass vitrines housed an array of opal and precious stones. I instantly recognized the hierarchy: VVS-Clarity Flame Red was the pinnacle, priceless. Ice-Opal was next, also astronomical. Then came the Water-Opal, Lavender, Glutinous, and Bean grades. Opal was the core of the Parker fortune. In one corner, a dozen or so rough, black stones were haphazardly piled. These were the “roughs”—stones encased in an outer crust. Without cutting, no equipment could fully reveal the quality or even the presence of the precious stone inside. It was truly “a gamble only the gods can judge.” Buyers relied on instinct and blind luck. A single cut could mean instant wealth or total ruin. This was the famous “cut-to-heaven, cut-to-hell” game. But they couldn’t see. I could. I flicked on my internal vision. Every secret of those roughs was laid bare. Only three had anything inside. The best was a low-grade Lavender, barely worth anything. And they called themselves a stone-gambling family? What a joke. My foster grandmother, who raised me in the isolated village, held my hand on her deathbed and said: “Rory, those eyes are a blessing from God, and a deep curse. Hide them. Never let anyone know.” My room was in the west wing of the mansion, its window facing a high brick wall. It was perpetually shadowed. Inside, there was only a hard, narrow bed and a chipped wardrobe. A stark contrast to Evie’s “princess suite” with its private balcony, walk-in closet, and marble en-suite. The next day, the house was a flurry of activity. The Parker were heading to the annual International Gemstone Rough Auction in Phoenix. Dr. Celeste Dubois arrived. She wore a flowing, pale-grey silk wrap dress, clutched a faux-Tibetan mala, and projected an air of faux-spiritual serenity. The Parker treated her with religious reverence. I almost choked on a laugh. My eyes saw right through the expensive silk. Underneath, she was wearing a bright red lace thong. A charlatan and a fraud, through and through. Dr. Dubois launched into a dramatic speech about Evie being the “Golden Anchor,” guaranteeing a massive profit at the auction. Arthur beamed, then turned to glare at me. “Listen, Aurora! Don’t you dare speak out of turn at the convention! If your bad aura disrupts Evie’s karma, I will hold you personally responsible!” I adopted a docile, obedient expression. I have two gifts, after all: clairvoyance and playing the fool. The trip was via a luxury sleeper car on the train. Late that night, I went to use the restroom. The door was locked, and a muffled, frantic sound came from inside. Through the wood paneling, my vision pierced the scene: Arthur had Dr. Dubois pressed against the wall. Her silk dress was hiked up, and the tacky red thong was a blazing spot of color. I quietly turned and walked away, pretending to have seen nothing. At the auction hall, the atmosphere was electric. The surface of the rough stones had certain indicators—veins, color patches—that suggested the presence of quality gems. The ones with no external clues were ignored. Bryce darted through the crowd, trying to look like a pro. “This one’s crust looks hot, it’s got to be a winner!” “Look at that vein structure, definitely a high-end deposit inside!” “I’ve studied this for years. I’m going to cut a Flame Red out of here, I swear it!” He spent over three million dollars in a frenzy, buying more than a dozen roughs. Evie was equally aggressive, choosing several large stones and spending even more than her brother. I trailed behind them, my eyes sweeping over every rock like an internal scanner. Good, mediocre, empty… I saw everything. After they finished their spree, I finally spoke. “I’d like to buy one, too.” The Parker erupted. “Do you know the first thing about this? Don’t waste your money!” “A person with a Shadow Fate shouldn’t even touch these things! You’ll cause a loss!” I ignored them and walked to the far corner of the hall, the “Boneyard”—the scrap heap of unwanted, trash-grade roughs that were free for the taking. No one wanted them; they just took up space. I quickly picked out a watermelon-sized stone. The Parker howled with laughter. “Aurora, did a door slam into your head?” “Picking up other people’s trash? Have some dignity!” Dr. Dubois shook her head, offering a theatrical sigh of derision. “That stone is energetically dead. A blight on the table. Touching it is an invitation to misfortune.” I didn’t reply. I carried the stone over and stood by the cutting area. Laugh all you want. You’ll be crying soon enough. The cutting area was a chaotic scene of diamond saws and grinding wheels. Bryce was first, pushing his dozen stones onto the slab. “Every single one of my picks is a winner!” he boasted, puffing out his chest. The saw screamed into life. The first stone: a dud. Just inert rock. The second: inert. The third: inert. All dozen were cut. Not a single piece of viable stone emerged. Three million dollars had vanished. The crowd erupted in jeers. “Big talk for nothing!” “The Parker boy has a terrible eye!” “He has the air of a genuine trust-fund disaster!” Bryce’s face turned beet red. He whirled on me, enraged. “It’s you, Aurora! You and your bad karma! You stood too close and jinxed me, you poor trash!” I raised an eyebrow. “Can’t push a successful turd out, so you blame the earth’s gravitational pull, is that it?” The laughter grew louder. Bryce looked ready to explode. Arthur snapped at me. “Watch your filthy mouth!” Cecilia intervened. “Stop the fighting! Evie’s stones are up next!” Evie’s cutting began. The first two were total busts—no stone at all. Her face went pale, and Dr. Dubois looked highly flustered, grasping for an excuse. The third one, however, flashed red! “Glutinous Opal! Pale red! Not bad!” The fourth yielded a Lavender Opal. The fifth, a low-end Bean Opal. In the end, Evie had spent nearly four million dollars and recovered three medium-grade stones, worth about four million in total. Not a loss, but not a huge win either. Still, after they were polished and set, the profit margin would be significant. It counted as a successful gamble. Arthur and Cecilia sighed in collective relief, their faces wreathed in smiles. “That’s our Evie!” “Truly the family’s Golden Anchor!” Evie smiled smugly and immediately twisted the knife. “Sister, if you hadn’t been standing so close, poisoning the atmosphere, I’m sure I would have cut something even better.” Every eye in the room swiveled to me, filled with judgment. I ignored them, moving forward to present the watermelon-sized stone I’d picked up from the Boneyard. “Master Cutter, please.” “Ha!” Bryce immediately pounced. “This piece of garbage is worth cutting? Don’t waste the diamond saw!” Evie, all sweetness and malice, strongly agreed. “Cut it! Of course, cut it! Maybe my sister can finally find a diamond in a coal mine, yes?” The cutter, looking bored, started the machine. The screeching noise filled the air. First cut, a thin slice. Gray-white. “See! Trash!” Bryce roared. Second cut. Still gray-white. Evie’s smirk deepened. The cutter, impatient, decided to split the rock down the middle to end the farce quickly. The wheel descended. “ZZZZZZ!” The grating sound suddenly changed pitch. A shocking, liquid-clear flash of red exploded into everyone’s sight! “Red! It’s red!” “The clarity… the water… my God!” “Ice-Opal!” “Flame Apple Red!” The hall exploded. The cutter’s hand jumped. He immediately stopped the machine and carefully poured water over the cut. The streak of red became clearer, more brilliant. It was a fresh, crisp apple-red, second only to the true Flame Red in value and desirability. “A win! A massive win!” “That was from the scrap heap?” “Zero cost, a VVS-Clarity Apple Red? What kind of luck is that?” All eyes, stunned and blazing, were fixed on me. Bryce gaped like a fish thrown on the dock. Evie’s smile shattered into a million pieces. She looked like she’d just swallowed something foul. My parents stared at the red stone, their eyes widening with naked greed and disbelief. The Master Cutter carefully removed the remaining crust, revealing a perfect, seamless block of the gem. It weighed over six pounds. The color was uniform, the clarity flawless. The surrounding gem merchants went insane, shouting bids over each other. “Twenty million! Cash!” “Twenty-five million!” “Thirty million! I have to have this piece!” I pointed to the merchant who’d called thirty million. “Done. It’s yours.” He was ecstatic, writing me a check on the spot. Arthur suddenly galvanized, lunging forward to grab my arm. “Hand over that check! It will go toward mitigating your brother’s disastrous loss!” Cecilia rushed over, echoing his sentiment. “Exactly! A girl like you can’t carry so much cash. Give it to your mother for safekeeping!” I shook off Arthur’s grip and looked at them with ice in my eyes. “You put no capital in, so what right do you have to my money?” Arthur was momentarily speechless. He sputtered with rage. “You unfilial wretch! You viper! We raised you for nothing!” “Raised me?” I countered with a cold laugh. “When I was growing up in the mountains, struggling to eat, where exactly were you?” Bryce started stomping his foot. “You just got lucky, you little gold-digger! Don’t act like you’re some kind of expert gemologist!” “Luck is still luck,” I said with utter disdain. “It’s certainly better than the luck of someone who blew three million dollars on a pile of inert garbage.” Bryce looked like he might actually pass out from fury. The first day’s Full Rough Bidding session was over. The second day was the Semi-Rough Auction. Full Roughs are uncut—a blind gamble. Semi-Roughs have a “window” cut into them, revealing a small section of the stone. This makes the risk lower, the price higher, and the bidding highly competitive. The host took the stage, shouting into the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen! The highlight of the day! Lot 001!” Staff wheeled a massive rough stone onto the stage. The window cut showed an intense, liquid red. The quality was VVS-Clarity Ice-Opal, demonstrably better than my score yesterday. Every eye in the room was fixed on the stone. Breathing got shallow. Just before the bidding started, a young man strode into the hall. Tall, impeccably dressed, he possessed an almost unnerving aura of entitlement and power. It was Dominic “Dom” Keller, the sole heir of the rival Keller Luxury Holdings. Evie’s eyes lit up. She quickly smoothed her hair and practically sashayed over to him. She had a long-standing, obsessive crush on Dom and dreamed of marrying into the Keller family. “Dom, darling! I didn’t know you were joining the auction…” Dom didn’t break stride. He didn’t even glance at her, walking straight to the reserved seats in the front row. Evie froze, her face cycling from crimson to white. She stumbled back, furious and embarrassed. Seeing the wry, knowing look on my face, she lost her temper. “Go ahead and laugh! Dom is just playing it cool! He’s always liked me in his heart! He’s a man you could never, ever touch!” I ignored her. The auction began. “Twenty-five million!” “Forty million!” “Eighty million!” The price shot past one hundred million. It was Arthur who called out the bid. His eyes were wild, fully committed. The crowd quieted. One hundred million was the ceiling for many buyers. The host was about to drop the hammer when I calmly raised my hand. “One hundred and twenty million!” The room gasped. The Parker snapped their heads toward me, their shock palpable. “Aurora! Are you insane? You’re bidding against us?” I gave them a cold smile. “We’re not related by affection, Arthur. Why wouldn’t I compete?” Arthur was trembling with fury. “You don’t have that kind of money! Get out! Stop disrupting the auction!” I held my paddle high, my voice perfectly level. “Who says I don’t have it? Dom, darling, would you be willing to lend me a hundred million?” All eyes swiveled to Dom Keller. “Lend?” His eyes flashed with a hint of predatory amusement. “Why borrow when everything I own is already yours?” He stood up, his voice ringing out with confidence. “She is my fiancée! Bid as high as you want, my love. I will light the entire sky for you!” BOOM! The entire auction hall exploded in chatter. The Parker looked like they’d been struck by lightning. Evie’s face was ashen, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated jealousy. I raised my paddle again. “One hundred and twenty million! Arthur, are you going to raise it?” Arthur’s face was puce, his chest heaving. Evie, however, had completely lost her mind to envy. She shrieked: “Dad! Bid! We cannot lose to her! One hundred and fifty million!” Arthur was trapped. Losing face in public was unthinkable, and losing the bidding star would ruin the year. He gritted his teeth and raised the paddle. “One hundred and sixty million!” I spoke softly. “Two hundred million.” I knew two hundred million was the absolute limit of the Parker’s liquid capital. Bryce jumped to his feet, screaming. “Aurora! Are you deliberately trying to bankrupt us?” I looked him straight in the eye, utterly without fear. “Ruin you? Good. Maybe then you’ll stop taking up valuable space on this planet.” That line sent Bryce into an emotional frenzy. “Three hundred million!” he roared. “We’ll sell the house! We’ll be broke! But we will not lose to you!” Everyone was stunned. Three hundred million for a semi-rough was a colossal risk. Yes, the window showed Ice-Opal Red, but who knew how deep it went, or what grade the rest of the stone was? This price would empty the Parker coffers and leverage almost every family asset. Arthur tried to intervene, but it was too late. Bryce, his eyes red, glared at me. “Come on! Raise it again, you trash! Too poor to keep up? Then get out!” I looked at them, and my smile deepened. My trap had sprung perfectly. My x-ray vision had already told me the truth: this Block of the Day had a paper-thin layer of high-grade Ice-Opal on the surface. The rest of the colossal stone was nothing but the cheapest, most worthless Gritstone Waste imaginable. I had deliberately driven the price up to break them. “Congratulations,” I said, my voice sweet. “You win.” “I’m out.” The host slammed the hammer down. “Three hundred million! Sold to the Parker!”

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My engagement to Rhett Prescott, the crowned prince of Atherton’s old money, was decided when we were children. Because of this status, I spent my childhood trying to control his every move. Every time I pushed his limits, Rhett would lash out with the same defiant threat: “Sloan Callahan, mark my words. I am going to blow up this farce of an engagement, and you’ll be the one left holding the pieces.” Then, I discovered I was the fake heiress. I decided to retreat, to make myself small. I stopped asking about Rhett’s business, stopped forcing him to uphold our mandatory couple appearances. After half a month of silence from me, his inner circle threw him a party to celebrate his freedom. But to my surprise, Rhett completely lost it. “Mind your own damn business!” he’d screamed. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Now she’s got someone else’s collar to hold.” 1 “Sloan, Rhett’s out stirring up trouble again with Pierce and the usual pack of trust-fund delinquents.” The music in the Atherton club was deafening. My best friend, Harper, was delivering the latest report on Rhett, but my attention was miles away. I took the phone she handed me. In the video, Rhett looked every inch the rebellious heir. He was leaning against a black Aston Martin, looking lazy in a crimson silk button-down, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He was surrounded by a crowd of hangers-on, all with too-attractive, scantily-dressed women draped over them. I watched it all calmly, then just as calmly handed the phone back to Harper. “It’s fine. Let him.” “What is wrong with you?” Harper pressed her palm to my forehead. “You don’t even have a fever.” She narrowed her eyes, the familiar mischief in them gone. “Are you an alien body snatcher? The real Sloan would be on her way to burn that club down right now.” “Harper,” I gave her a flat look. “Do I need to remind you of the time you accidentally dyed your hair green at your sixth-grade dance? Just to prove I’m me?” I grabbed my clutch and walked toward the exit. It wasn’t surprising that Harper was so alarmed by my change. Since the day Rhett and I were betrothed at age eight, I had taken my role as his handler seriously. I policed his life with an iron fist. Before, I felt I had the right to. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Because I might not be Rhett’s fiancée for much longer. 2 Just three days prior, I’d accidentally discovered that my parents—the Callahans—were not my biological family. I had been switched at birth. It wouldn’t be long before the Callahans’ true daughter was found and brought home. My fate as the discovered fake heiress was brutally clear. For years, I’d leveraged my status as a Callahan daughter and the fiancée of the Prescott heir. In the process, I’d made plenty of enemies in Atherton’s exclusive circles. So many people were waiting to watch me fall from grace. Especially Rhett. Ever since our engagement, I had relied on the authority of the Prescott Chairman, Rhett’s grandfather, to keep him in line. Even after he turned twenty-one, I laid down three unbreakable rules: Rule One: No smoking, no binge drinking, no fighting, and absolutely no reckless benders with his low-life friends. Rule Two: No staying out all night. He had to be home before midnight. Rule Three: We had to maintain appearances, including our fiancée obligations. At least three times a week. Every time I cracked down on him, Rhett would shoot back with his threat: “Sloan Callahan, you wait, I’m going to annul this broken engagement sooner or later.” I never took him seriously. But now, everything was different. In high-society marriages, pedigree and mutual benefit were all that mattered. No matter how fond the Chairman was of me, he would never allow his grandson to marry a woman who couldn’t benefit the Prescott business empire. The engagement was doomed. If I wanted to avoid Rhett’s public scorn and cruelty after my ‘fake’ identity was revealed, I had to cut my losses now. I had to stop controlling him entirely. 3 I didn’t go looking for Rhett. Instead, I went home early. But no sooner had I walked through the door than he returned. Hearing the commotion in the entryway, I instinctively looked up. Our eyes met. Rhett’s face flashed with guilt, but he forcibly held my gaze. He lifted his chin, his voice deliberately loud. “Sloan Callahan, you got it. I was out with Pierce and the guys, and yeah, I was drinking and smoking.” I didn’t engage in our usual sparring match. I merely gave a quiet, neutral “Mhm,” and started to walk toward my bedroom. “Sloan Callahan—” Rhett closed the distance in a few quick strides, grabbing my wrist. His dark eyes were fixed on mine, his tone tight with hidden anxiety. “Did you hear me? I said I was drinking and smoking.” “I know,” I looked at him, my voice flat. “You don’t have to tell me. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” “Alright, Sloan,” his lips curled into a smirk of forced confidence. “I know you’re still pissed.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “I was wrong not to escort you to the gala last week. You’ve barely spoken to me for three days.” “No, I’m not—” He cut me off before I could finish. “Fine. Tonight, you can call the shots in bed, too.” With that, Rhett started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a great body—broad shoulders, a lean waist, and solid muscle. It was the kind of body that made me forget my rules. He took my hand and pressed it hard against the sculpted planes of his abdomen. Then he turned his face away, the tips of his ears slowly turning pink. “Consider yourself lucky. You can feel me up however you want tonight.” I glanced at the date on my phone. I’d completely forgotten that tonight was one of our Rule Three nights. Usually, I was the one who had to initiate. Rhett was being terrifyingly proactive. “Rhett, I’m not in the mood tonight.” I dropped the sentence like a grenade and bolted back to my room. 4 I woke up late the next afternoon. Unusually, Rhett hadn’t left the house. He was sprawled on the living room sofa, scrolling through his phone with a casual, bored air. When I walked out of my room, he snapped his phone shut, cleared his throat quietly, and spoke with an indifferent tone. “Sloan Callahan, you complained that all your clothes were out of season. I’ve got some free time today. I’ll take you to the city to get new ones.” “No, thank you. I have plans with Harper.” I rejected him without a moment’s thought. “Wait, Sloan Callahan, how much longer are you going to hold this grudge?” Rhett sprang up and grabbed my wrist, his brow furrowed. He pursed his lips, a slight impatience creeping into his voice. “I’m offering you the olive branch, Sloan! Are you just going to save this up to use against me with my grandfather?” So that was the reason for his strange behavior. He thought I was just laying a trap. I’d certainly done that enough times in the past. “Relax, Rhett. I won’t.” I waved my hand dismissively. “I admit, I was too controlling. All three rules I established? They’re null and void. From now on, you do what you want. I won’t be involved in your life.” “I mean it.” Fearing his disbelief, I raised three fingers in a mock-oath. “I swear.” “Sloan Callahan, you…” Rhett stared at me in disbelief, his eyes clouding with a faint, watery red. His chest rose and fell sharply. Finally, he turned his face away, his voice stiff and hard. “Fine. Whatever you want.” The front door slammed shut with a BAM. Wait!!? What the hell is he angry about? I met Harper at a cafe and told her everything about the identity swap. Harper froze for a long moment before reacting. “So you think the engagement is going to fail, and that’s why you’ve stopped being his warden?” She leaned forward. “But have you ever considered that Rhett might actually like you, and he won’t give up the engagement easily?” “Rhett doesn’t like me.” I managed a thin, self-deprecating smile. “Just last week, he told me so himself.” I sighed. “I only just learned how much he truly loathes our engagement.” 5 After so many years with Rhett, it would be a lie to say I had no feelings for him. The night I learned I was the fake heiress, I desperately wanted to find Rhett and use him to release my pent-up emotion. Instead, I accidentally overheard him talking to his friends: “Prescott, are you really content to be policed by Sloan Callahan for the rest of your life?” “Everyone says you’re whipped, tied up by one woman.” “You haven’t… fallen for Sloan, have you?” “Impossible!” Rhett declared flatly. “I’d fall for anyone but her.” He let out a short, cold laugh. “Sloan Callahan? She’s got pale skin and big eyes, but she is absolutely not my type. If it weren’t for my grandfather forcing me into this, I would never have submitted to her rules.” Standing outside the private room, I felt a tidal wave of unnamable emotions wash over me. The last flickering flame of hope I held for Rhett was extinguished. I left the club quietly and walked alone for a long time on the way home. “Rhett said it himself,” I told Harper, pressing my lips together. “He’s itching to dump me.” Harper opened her mouth to speak, her eyes full of unspoken feeling, but in the end, she said nothing. I explained my worries to her. I’ve always cared deeply about my reputation. When the news breaks that I’m the fake heiress and the Prescott family rejects me, I’ll be the joke of the entire city. So, before the true heiress is found, I intend to break off the engagement myself. 6 Without my restrictions, Rhett didn’t come home for days. Normally, if he wasn’t back by midnight, I’d either bombard him with texts or show up and drag him home. Tonight, just as I was getting ready for bed, Rhett’s lackey texted me a video. [Yo, Mrs. P. The Boss is insisting on hiring a ‘companion’ tonight. You might want to come down and put a stop to this.] I opened the video. Rhett was sitting lazily on a sectional sofa, a saccharine-sweet blonde in a baby-blue dress standing in front of him. A sharp pang hit my chest. He wasted no time taking my words literally. [Got it. Thanks.] I locked my phone, but another video immediately pinged through. Rhett had his arm wrapped around the blonde, and he was stuffing his black card into her hand. “My fiancée doesn’t want to control me anymore. Bring out all your tricks, baby.” My eyes stung. I deleted Rhett’s lackey from my contacts list. Before I broke the engagement, I planned to move out of Rhett’s house. It was originally the luxurious Atherton home the Prescotts intended for our marriage. Since the engagement was ending, there was no need for me to stay. After a few days of searching, I found an apartment I liked and was going today to sign the lease. Stepping out of the elevator, I ran into Nolan Hayes, a friend from college, in the hallway. We were laughing and chatting as we walked toward the exit. But just as we reached the complex gate, I saw a familiar silhouette. Rhett was staring at Nolan and me. His eyes were filled with disbelief, anger, and a flicker of raw instability. He shifted his gaze to my face, his eyes red for some reason, and asked through gritted teeth, “Sloan Callahan, who the hell is he? Don’t forget, you have a fiancé.” “I won’t for much longer,” I murmured, barely a whisper. Rhett’s pupils contracted. He surged forward and gripped my shoulders, his fingertips white with strain. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes were welling up with a thin, angry film of water. “Sloan Callahan, are you throwing me away for this guy?” I parted my lips to speak, but Rhett yanked me violently into his car. His mouth came down on mine, then he bit my earlobe viciously. “Sloan Callahan, we grew up together. We’re us. What the hell is he to you?” “Get off me!” I struggled, pushing him away, but his kisses trailed down my collarbone. “You want me to leave, Sloan Callahan?” He immediately ran his hand up my thigh and pressed his mouth to my neck, threatening me. “If you get out of this car, I will kiss you in front of him.” … That night, Rhett was back in his signature provocative attire, showing off his sculpted abs. “Sloan Callahan, inspect the merchandise.” He grabbed my wrist and forced it against his stomach, then offered an explanation. “I didn’t touch anyone the other night. When you blocked that text from Pierce, I drove straight back.” He leaned in, his voice thick. “Sloan Callahan, you clearly still care.” His words softened something in me. Maybe Rhett did care, just a little. I pushed his chest lightly. “You still smell faintly of liquor. Go wash again.” Rhett looked like he wanted to argue, but he turned and obediently headed to the bathroom. 7 While Rhett was in the shower, the screen of his tablet, which was on the sofa, lit up. I opened it and saw his friends’ group chat messages. [Boss, I tracked down the guy. He’s just Mrs. P’s old college friend, Nolan Hayes.] [The Boss is really fired up about this guy. He must be falling for Mrs. P, right?] Rhett: [Who the hell is falling for Sloan Callahan? I’m just pissed she’s having an emotional affair.] Rhett: [I’d never want a flighty, ungrateful woman like her.] Rhett: [When I’m done training Sloan, when she’s completely obsessed with me, I’m going to drop her like a hot potato!] I gave a bitter, dry laugh. Rhett’s anger and jealousy had all been an act. That was his real plan all along. I closed the tablet, a mix of hurt and fury bubbling up inside me. I was deep in thought when a clean, fresh-smelling Rhett slid next to me. His breath was hot, his kisses trailing down my neck. His voice was husky. “Sloan Callahan, it’s been too long.” I pushed him away, my tone icy. “Rhett, don’t touch me. I don’t want this.” Rhett muttered a low curse and frowned. “Sloan Callahan, you’re not letting me touch you? Are you saving yourself for Nolan Hayes?” Remembering the malicious messages on the group chat, I suddenly saw no reason to explain myself. The engagement was ending anyway. I might as well look like the winner, the one who left with dignity. I pressed my lips together. “Yes. From now on, I won’t concern myself with your family’s business. And you won’t concern yourself with mine. We can both do whatever we want.” “The hell I will!” Rhett’s eyes were bloodshot with anger. “Sloan Callahan, either you cut him off, or we end this engagement now.” “Fine,” I agreed, following his lead. “I’ll call both families tomorrow.” Then, fighting back tears, I slammed the door on my way out. 8 When I returned, the living room looked like a hurricane had passed through it. Rhett was sitting on the sofa, his arms crossed, his gaze a challenge. “Sloan Callahan, you want to break the engagement? Then pack your stuff and get out of my house immediately.” He waved his hand at my belongings. “All these new-season clothes in your room just annoy me now.” He smirked, cruel and calculating. “Once you leave me, do you think Nolan Hayes’s pathetic salary can keep you in clothes like that?” “Even if he can’t, I’d still prefer what he buys me,” I replied, my voice steady. “I’d only worry about him affording it.” I walked straight into the bedroom and dragged out a large suitcase. Then I calmly began folding the scattered clothes, tucking them neatly into the luggage. “Wait, Sloan Callahan, are you serious?” Rhett suddenly rushed over and slammed his hand down on the suitcase, his knuckles white with strain. His breath hitched, and a thin, angry moisture gathered in his eyes. “Are you really breaking up with me for that guy?” He searched my face frantically. “Is he better than me? What did I do wrong?” Rhett stared at me, then suddenly sank to his knees. His face was pale, his body trembling. “Sloan Callahan… I’m sorry. I swear I’ll listen to you from now on.” He clutched the hem of my shirt with one hand, the other clutching his chest, his face contorted in pain. “Sloan Callahan, it hurts. Please. Don’t go.” Rhett’s lips were quivering, and the pain seemed genuine. It was only then that I remembered. He had a serious heart condition. It was the reason the Prescotts indulged him so much. Rhett passed out. I immediately called 911. As he was being rushed into the emergency room and I waited outside, two warring voices fought in my head. Was he really that emotional about me leaving? Did he actually care about me? Rhett had to stay in the hospital for a few days, so I returned home to grab him a change of clothes. “The Boss is pretty clever, huh? Checked into the hospital just to stop his fiancée from leaving.” I heard one of his friends say inside the house. “I only did it because I wanted to wait until Sloan was completely obsessed with me, and then I’d drop her hard!” Rhett’s voice was defiant. “Gotta say, the pity play is working beautifully.” My hand, reaching for the doorknob, froze. I was so grateful I had come back at that exact moment. Otherwise, Rhett would have fooled me again. I should have known. Given Rhett’s arrogant personality, the only one who could end the engagement was him. If I tried to force a breakup now, I had no idea what kind of disaster he would cause. My only option was to play along. I had to continue the performance until the real heiress returned. Then the Prescott family would naturally end the engagement for me. 9 During Rhett’s few days in the hospital, I didn’t mention the breakup again, returning to our old way of interacting. Rhett was ecstatic. It was during this time that Dahlia Song, the real heiress, was found and brought back. The Callahans hosted a lavish welcome banquet for her—it was practically the talk of Atherton. Rhett was discharged from the hospital, and we attended the party together. When he learned I was the fake heiress, Rhett seemed secretly pleased. He grabbed my hand and threatened me. “Sloan Callahan, let’s see you try to break up with me now. Without the Callahans, your only support system is me.” When Dahlia saw Rhett, her eyes lit up. “It’s you. Do you remember me?” Rhett glanced at me triumphantly. “Of course, I do.” From their conversation, I learned Rhett had once saved Dahlia from being harassed by thugs when she was younger. He was her hero. I watched the two of them chatting easily, a knot of deep, unfamiliar bitterness forming in my chest. Back at home, I saw the group chat blinking on the tablet again. [Boss, you and the real Callahan heiress looked really good together today.] Rhett: [Truthfully, a gentle, easy-going type like Dahlia is what I actually like. Sloan is a battle-axe. I hate being bossed around.] [So, why don’t you dump Sloan now and marry Dahlia, Boss?] Rhett: [Not yet. I need to wait until Sloan is totally obsessed with me. Then I’ll drop her.] I closed the tablet, my heart heavy with a dull ache. The day after the banquet, my adoptive parents called me back to the Callahan manor. They felt they owed Dahlia everything. Dahlia had expressed her liking for Rhett and wanted to marry him. They asked me to hand the engagement over to her. I agreed. I had no intention of fighting Dahlia for anything. Everything was rightfully hers, and it was time to give it back. But when the news of Rhett and Dahlia’s engagement broke, I knew I would be subjected to endless ridicule. Atherton would be unbearable. Leaving the Callahan home, I hailed a cab to the private racetrack Rhett frequented. Even though I already knew the answer. To extinguish the final spark of hope, I wanted to hear it from Rhett one last time before I left the city forever. When I arrived, Rhett was leaning against his car, chatting casually with his friends. Someone with sharp eyes spotted me and nudged Rhett’s shoulder. “Yo, Boss, Mrs. P is here.” Rhett looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. “Sloan Callahan, what are you doing here?” He sneered. “I’ve only been gone for a moment, and you’re back to being my warden?” I stared at him, my voice steady. “Rhett, am I just a placeholder? Could any girl from the right family fill this spot?” “Why wouldn’t you be?” Rhett looked at me with bored amusement. “Sloan Callahan, I’m not exactly limited to you.” He put a hand on my hip, pulling me closer in a possessive gesture. “If you stop chasing other men, I won’t break the engagement. Yet.” My nails dug into my palms. I forced my voice to remain perfectly calm. “Good. I needed to know.” Rhett gave a cold snort. “Smart girl. Figured it out, didn’t you, Sloan Callahan?” I left the racetrack, had a quick dinner with Harper, and bought a ticket out of Atherton that afternoon.

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On the night of the annual family dinner, my husband, who openly disliked children, casually mentioned how “cute” a cousin’s toddler was. I took it as a sign. A signal. I immediately ordered ten packets of expensive, complex fertility herbs to regulate my body. I spent three grueling months dragging him through a high-intensity baby-making routine. My abdomen remained stubbornly, cruelly empty. The truth dropped like a bomb: I found his vasectomy report tucked away in his bedside drawer. Right next to it, I found photographs of his secret twins. A boy and a girl. Four years old. The resulting fight was cataclysmic. 1 The older generation and our friends rallied around me, urging caution. “Carlisle finally agrees to an heir, why make a scene? The Carlisle Group needs a successor.” “The children must have been an accident. Damon probably felt obligated. Why not just raise them as your own, Anna?” I looked at Damon Carlisle, my husband of three years, who stood before me—aristocratic, cold, and emanating the severe authority of a man used to getting his way. “I will agree not to divorce you, on one condition: you never see them again. That is my maximum concession.” Damon stood up, slowly removed his wedding ring, and placed it gently on the glass coffee table. “Vera suffered the ten months of carrying my children. I am their father. It is my responsibility to care for them.” “She won’t challenge your position as Mrs. Carlisle. Why are you being so relentlessly aggressive?” Hearing his cold logic ripped the last remnants of hope from my chest. I finally abandoned the fantasy of things ever returning to normal. “If that is the case, then we are getting a divorce.” BAM! A teacup smashed near my feet. My father, Mr. Welles, his face mottled purple with rage, pointed a trembling finger at me. “Dare to divorce him, and I will break your legs!” “Since when is a small scandal not commonplace in the upper echelons of society? Why must you be so dramatic?” My mother-in-law rose to pull my father back, but her eyes held a distinct look of displeasure when they met mine. “Anna, you are a Welles, a daughter of a respectable family. How can you stoop to the level of those lower-class women who fight over men?” “Look at the chaos you’re causing. If this gets out, it will damage the Carlisle reputation.” The voices of everyone in the room became a chorus of disapproval. My tears finally streamed down my face and landed on my hands as I asked the question that still burned worst of all: “Damon, why did you have a vasectomy behind my back?” Years ago, we had agreed that if I accidentally became pregnant, and he still didn’t want a child, I would respect his decision. I had thought, naively, that a surprise might trigger his paternal instinct, that his preferences might change. But for three years, there was never a single accident. I spent two years believing it was my body, enduring endless appointments and drinking bitter herbs. I was trying to fix myself, when he had already made me redundant. A flicker of guilt crossed Damon’s face. He let out a heavy sigh. “Anna, I had no choice.” He walked over and gently put his arm around my shoulder, his voice now a low, earnest murmur. “Vera grew up poor. She suffered so much abuse and hardship. How could she compete with a Welles heiress? And how could her children ever compete with one of yours?” “I didn’t want them to suffer the same way she did, to be pointed at and humiliated.” “We’ve been in each other’s lives since we were kids, Anna. Surely you can understand my position.” He spoke of the unfortunate necessities of the world, asking me to accept his arrangement. In my heart, all I heard was a tidal wave of shock and revulsion. He loved her deeply enough to plan their entire future—a future that required him to betray me. I was nothing more than a sacrifice for his true love. I shoved his arm away, taking three shaky steps back. I looked at him with utter desolation. “Damon Carlisle, you are truly disgusting.” “We are done. I refuse to share a life with a liar.” Damon’s face hardened, the shame immediately masked by anger. “Anna Welles, as children of elite families, we all have obligations. Why can’t you be gracious and accommodating?” “You were born with the wealth and privilege Vera will never have. I have given you the status and respect of being Mrs. Carlisle. She just wants to be a simple, ordinary woman. Do you really need to force me to abandon her?” 2 He looked past me to my father. “Dad, I don’t want this affecting the merger. Take Anna home and talk some sense into her.” He then grabbed his car keys and strode out, calling his mother and the other guests with him. He was even kind enough to close the door behind him. Instantly, my father’s roar was deafening. “You ungrateful girl! Haven’t you embarrassed me enough? Now I have to take you home for a ‘talking to.’ How did the Welles family raise such a coarse, disrespectful person?” I scoffed. “Poor genetics, I suppose. I’m not just coarse, I’m selfish and cold-blooded, too.” He married into my family and then kept a mistress and had secret children, driving his wife to suicide. I was only asking for a divorce. My father was clearly worse than me. My father flew into a rage. “Anna Welles, you are just as narrow-minded and foolish as your mother! Why can’t you just live a good life? Do you have to cause chaos just to feel satisfied?” He glared at me, his voice icy and menacing. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of Franklin. He’s in his senior year. He’s always been an honor student. You don’t want to force him to drop out of high school, do you?” My shoulders slumped. I collapsed onto the sofa. I couldn’t gamble my younger brother’s future against them. When our mother jumped, he was barely one year old. He was so tiny, just holding my hand and laughing with those clear eyes, having no idea he would never see her again. Since he turned one, he’d been poisoned three times, bitten by a snake, had his ribs broken in a car accident, and almost suffocated from a severe allergic reaction. I had protected him through hell and back. How could I destroy his one chance at a future? My father ultimately slammed the door shut and left. When Damon returned late that night, he found me sitting on the floor, weeping and blurry-eyed from too much liquor. He said nothing, simply picking me up and moving me to the sofa, then taking a cloth to gently wipe my face. He brought me a glass of lemon water and held me, feeding it to me, sip by sip. For a brief, sharp moment, I was transported eighteen years back, to when our affection was true. My mother had just died, and my father immediately moved his mistress in. They forced me to kneel and call her ‘Mother.’ I hid in the attic and cried until my throat was raw. Damon was the one who held me, wiping my face and feeding me water, just like this. He held me and told me he had me, that everything would be okay, and to trust him. The thirteen-year-old boy then knelt before his own father and begged for a shred of protection for me, strategically using the Welles family cooperation to prove my worth. How could I not have loved that boy? The brief, artificial warmth was shattered by a long, heavy sigh. “Anna, I’m not leaving you. The twins were truly just an accident.” I clung to his neck, my voice breaking. “Damon, you know I can’t accept this. I won’t end up like my mother, struggling and suffering until I break.” “Please, send them overseas. We can support them financially forever.” “Why didn’t you make her get an abortion? Why didn’t you talk to me when you suddenly wanted a child?” After a long, cold silence, Damon finally spoke, his tone utterly indifferent. “The Carlisle-Welles merger grand opening is tomorrow. Prepare yourself. You must not be absent. It will only cause speculation.” Watching his tall, unyielding frame walk away, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. The next day, Damon sent over a gorgeous gown and the expensive Queen’s Chandelier necklace he had bought at auction. His secretary nervously watched me. I changed and applied a perfect, polished coat of makeup. Damon was right. The business cooperation could not be destroyed. Franklin wasn’t grown up yet. I still had a responsibility to reclaim everything my maternal grandfather left behind. 3 The grand opening ceremony was grand. All the Oakwood Hills elite were present. Stepping onto the grounds of the exclusive estate, my eyes landed immediately on Vera Jenkins. She was wearing a pearl-white silk dress, looking demure and graceful, exuding an air of gentle, maternal warmth. Damon had his arm around her waist, navigating the room and greeting guests. Vera smiled politely, perfectly composed. My mother-in-law was holding the little boy, chatting happily with a group of society matrons. Everyone complimented the child, calling him “a blessing,” “a future titan of industry.” The moment I stepped into the ballroom, the noise instantly died. Every single eye swiveled to me. Damon released Vera, walked over to me with an unnerving ease, and took my hand. “Anna, come see the baby. He really is adorable.” He led me to his mother and gently placed the child in my arms. Looking at the healthy, plump baby, a wave of bitter longing washed over me. I gently touched his soft cheek. If only he were mine. I knew I could have given Damon a child, too. The surrounding looks were a dizzying mix: pity, thinly veiled ridicule, and cold detachment. Vera quickly rushed forward, her hands outstretched, a hint of urgency in her expression. “Sister, Astra is heavy. Please let me hold him.” I froze, looking at her in disbelief. “You… you named him Astra?” “Astra Carlisle. Damon said it symbolizes the way our hearts are forever linked.” A piercing cry erupted. My hands suddenly dropped. I was falling into an endless abyss, consumed by a paralyzing cold. He gave our name to them. He wanted their hearts to be forever linked. Astra. I was eighteen, celebrating my birthday, the first night I gave myself to him. He had held me tight and vowed that our first child would be called Astra—a testament to our souls being eternally bound. Before I could voice the furious question that was choking me, a sharp smack echoed through the vast room. I blinked, realizing I had dropped the baby. He was on the floor, a trickle of blood seeping from his forehead. Damon was instantly kneeling, clutching the child, his eyes blazing with pure hatred directed at me. Beside him, Vera was sobbing hysterically. “Sister, even if you hate my children, you can’t drop him in public like this! He is Damon’s son, too. How could you be so cruel?” She struggled to pull the baby from Damon’s grasp. “Damon, please, just let me go! I love you, and I was willing to be a secret, but I cannot risk my children’s lives! How can she do this? Is it just because I have no one to protect me? Can she just try to kill Star right here, in front of everyone?” Her cries were heartbreaking. Damon was frantic, holding both her and the screaming child tightly. “Vera, look at me. Astra is our baby. I will never let anyone hurt him. I love you both, and I will protect you with my life.” “Don’t worry. I will give you justice. I will make her kneel and apologize to you. I will give you whatever guarantee you need.” Every word Damon spoke was a stab to my heart. He was demanding that I, his wife, bow and apologize to his mistress, and give her a guarantee. What about my guarantee? Was it all just a sick joke? The image of a brilliant, hopeful young man flashed in my memory: “Anna, I love you. I will protect you forever. Anyone who tries to hurt you, I will fight to the death.” Damon grabbed the collar of my gown and with a sudden jerk, flung me toward Vera. “Kneel! Apologize to Vera and Astra.” “And swear on your late mother’s memory that if you ever try to cause trouble or harm Vera and her children again, your mother’s soul will suffer the eternal torment of fire and agony in the afterlife!” I stared at Damon in horror. My mother had treated him like her own son. He had once knelt at her grave, calling her ‘Mom.’ Now, for his mistress, he was willing to curse her so viciously. 4 I wiped the tears from my face and straightened my spine. “Damon Carlisle, I will never kneel and apologize to your mistress. You will have to kill me first.” Damon’s eyes narrowed. He motioned with his hand. Two bodyguards rushed forward, seizing my shoulders. One delivered a powerful kick to the back of my knees, sending me crashing to the floor in front of Vera. I didn’t get a chance to even lower my head before the noise of the crowd surged. “Oh my God, the Welles heiress is kneeling to the mistress. That’s a new low for women.” “She might as well die. Live any longer, and it’s just public disgrace. Her late father must be rolling in his grave.” I raised my chin stubbornly, my eyes bloodshot as I looked at Damon. “Damon, how could you forget the promise we made under the Sycamore tree?” Damon’s gaze was hard and unrelenting. He squeezed my jaw with brutal force. “Anna Welles, I have never forgotten. You are the one who is aggressive, insisting on driving Vera and the twins away. Today, you deserve this lesson.” He forced my head down, slamming my forehead hard against the marble floor. Warm blood immediately trickled down my face and into my eyes, blurring my vision. As Damon prepared to smash my head down a second time, a small, thin figure surged forward. He punched Damon squarely in the face. “Don’t you dare hurt my sister!” Through the haze of my own blood, I saw my brother, Franklin Alexander, standing between us, his body trembling, his arms wide open in fierce protection. Damon recovered his stance, wiped the blood from his lip, and looked at Franklin with cold contempt. “Move.” “No.” “Damon, you can’t do this to my sister! You promised you would protect her forever! Why are you making her kneel to this… this vixen?” Damon’s eyes narrowed further. He spoke in a chillingly low voice. “Franklin, you’re too young to understand. I’m doing this for your sister’s own good, to stop her from harming innocent people.” “That’s a lie! My sister would never hurt anyone! You’re framing her!” “I’m eighteen now, Damon. I’m not a child. If you won’t protect my sister, I will.” The boy’s young face was contorted with grief and outrage. He grabbed my arm, trying to pull me to my feet and away. Damon waved his hand. The bodyguards blocked our path. “Anna, you must face the consequences of your actions. You haven’t apologized to Vera.” Franklin furiously pushed at the bodyguards, but they seized him and pinned his arms behind his back. Seeing them grab my arm, the boy screamed. “Don’t touch her! I’ll apologize! I’ll take the beating, whatever you want!” With that, Franklin collapsed to the ground, facing Vera, and began to slam his head against the floor in a desperate kowtow. “I’m sorry! I’ll pay for my sister’s mistake! Don’t do this to her! She’s a woman! Don’t humiliate her!” Tears sprang from my eyes. I kicked out violently at the bodyguard’s leg, scrambling forward to pull Franklin into my arms. “Franklin, I’m so sorry. I failed you. I’m useless. I’m so sorry…” Franklin’s tears soaked my neck. His voice was hoarse and broken by sobs. “Sis, I’m the one dragging you down. I’m quitting school. Let’s just leave.” The guests watched with complicated expressions. In the upper class, everyone was an expert strategist; they all knew the truth about the Welles family history. But no one dared to speak up and risk offending a powerful business partner. Seeing the tension mount, my father finally stepped forward, his voice cold and commanding. “You embarrassing trash! Fighting over a man and ruining a great day for the merger!” He raised his hand and slapped Franklin hard across the head. “You’re supposed to be a man! Instead of advising your sister, you join her foolish chaos! How can I ever hand the Welles Group over to you looking like this?”

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I was the golden girl of Manhattan General, a thoracic surgeon with hands insured for millions and a reputation that spanned the East Coast. Then came the fall. Accidental exposure to HIV. A source that couldn’t be traced. The board fired me to save face, and the whispers followed me home—my own family looking at me with thinly veiled disgust, convinced my “lifestyle” was to blame. Through it all, Bennett Cole played the saint. My childhood sweetheart, the man who walked out of the light to stand by my side. We lived a life of polite, distant civility until the virus finally took me. It wasn’t until my soul was hovering over my own funeral that the truth shattered me. I watched Kylie Winters, Bennett’s tearful junior protégé, collapse into his arms by my grave. “Bennett, it’s all my fault,” she sobbed, clutching his lapels. “If I hadn’t hidden that patient’s HIV status… Jordan wouldn’t be dead.” “I just wanted him to be saved,” she wailed, playing the martyr. “If everyone knew he was positive, no one would have operated on him.” Bennett didn’t push her away. He stroked her hair, his voice sickeningly tender. “You have too much heart, Kylie. I’ve already atoned for you. You don’t need to blame yourself anymore.” A jagged, white-hot pain tore through my consciousness. I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was blinded by the harsh, sterile glare of hospital fluorescents, tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t dead. I was back. I had returned to the day of the exposure. The day of the surgery. “Dr. Calloway? Still napping?” The voice was chirpy, grating. Kylie Winters walked toward me, a blue medical file in her hand. 1 Bennett and I were the power couple of Manhattan General’s surgical wing. Kylie was his shadow—a junior resident he’d brought in three months ago to assist with anesthesia in General Surgery. Looking at her now, a wave of nausea rolled through me. The image of her face buried in Bennett’s coat at my funeral was burned into my retinas. I took the file she offered. My voice came out colder than the AC venting above us. “This patient. Any hidden history? Did we run the full preoperative viral panel?” Kylie’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “Dr. Calloway, of course. We always screen. The report is right there in your hand. Why are you asking?” I remembered this moment. I remembered the fake report sitting in my drawer in that other life. A hollow laugh bubbled in my throat. “I seem to have misplaced that specific lab report,” I lied, my gaze locking onto hers. “Have him tested again. Stat. Just in case.” The color drained from Kylie’s face. Her voice pitched up, trembling with defensive energy. “Dr. Calloway, are you serious? The OR is booked. We’re close to the incision time. Running a new panel now will delay everything!” My patience for incompetence—and treachery—had evaporated. “It’s a routine cholecystectomy, Kylie. A gallbladder removal. A few hours won’t kill him. Are you the attending surgeon, or am I? Why are you so nervous?” In my past life, I had just come off an eight-hour marathon surgery. My herniated disc was screaming. I was exhausted, defenses down. I had powered through this surgery on autopilot. When the blood splattered into my eye, it was already too late. I had checked the report afterward, just to be safe, but it was a forgery. It made me miss the window for PEP—post-exposure prophylaxis. Now, Kylie stood frozen in the center of the office, vibrating with anxiety. “Why are you still standing there?” I snapped. “Go. You said the surgery was urgent, didn’t you? The sooner you get the blood draw, the sooner we cut.” Kylie dropped her head, big, performative tears splashing onto the linoleum. Before I could dress her down, Bennett walked in, fresh from rounds. “What’s going on? Kylie, why are you crying?” His tone was sharp, his eyes landing on me with a familiar, weary judgment. “Dr. Cole… Dr. Calloway wants to delay the surgery to run labs we already did,” Kylie whimpered. “How am I supposed to explain this to the family?” Bennett wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The tenderness in his eyes was nauseating. In my last life, I thought they were just close colleagues. I thought my unrequited love for Bennett was a tragic romance. It was a farce. I expected Bennett to defend her. Instead, he surprised me. He sided with the protocol. “It’s fine, Kylie. The surgery isn’t life-threatening. If Jordan wants to be safe, let her be safe. Go tell the lab.” 2 I was stunned. Did he not know? Was I the only one who remembered the future? Less than an hour later, Bennett returned. He handed me a report. I scanned it, and my blood ran cold. Negative. The report said the patient was clean. No HIV. I gripped the paper until it crinkled. Impossible. My memory was vivid—the diagnosis, the decline, the funeral. Was it a hallucination? A nightmare? No. The pain in my lower back was too real. The hatred in my gut was too solid. “Jordan, are you happy now? Can we operate?” Bennett’s voice was laced with impatience. “The patient is waiting. Show some professional ethics. I know you get paranoid, but this is a job.” I looked up at him. I saw the annoyance in his brow, the slight curl of his lip. I took a deep breath, centering myself. “Actually, my back is seizing up. My disc is flaring badly,” I said, testing the waters. “Why don’t you take this one, Bennett? You don’t have a slot this afternoon, right, Mr. Vice-Chief?” I threw his title at him like a dart. We had grown up together, attended the same med school. I was the natural talent, the one our mentor, Dr. Keane, handpicked. Bennett was the luggage—brought along because Dr. Keane had a soft spot for me. Everyone called us the “Golden Pair.” I believed it. When the hospital board was deciding on the Vice-Chief position, Bennett had looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes in the stairwell. “Jordan,” he’d said, looking defeated. “I feel like I’m always running behind you. I’m just your shadow. If you take this promotion… I’ll be the joke of the department again. Do you think I’m useless, too?” I had been a fool. I told him he was the hardest worker I knew. I stepped aside. I let him have the title. Now, hearing me ask him to take the surgery, Bennett’s face turned an ugly shade of gray. “Jordan, are you joking? You’re handing your patient to me?” His reaction confirmed it. He knew. He absolutely knew the patient was HIV positive. Bennett was a competent surgeon. For a minor procedure like this, stepping in for a colleague was standard. He used to volunteer to take my shifts to look like a hero. “I seem to recall you begging to take my cases before,” I said coolly. “Was that just talk?” “I… I…” He stammered, unable to form a coherent excuse. Kylie jumped in, the loyal attack dog. “Jordan, that is too much! Where are your ethics? Why should Dr. Cole clean up your mess? You can’t just bully him because you grew up together!” “If something goes wrong, what happens to Dr. Cole?” She was shouting now, unaware she was tipping her hand. I raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Cole has done hundreds of cholecystectomies. What could possibly go wrong?” Kylie realized her slip and pivoted. “If you don’t scrub in right now, I’m reporting you to the Chief and the family!” Bennett stepped in front of her, shielding her. “Jordan, stop being unreasonable. The family is furious. The patient has been NPO—fasting—for six hours, and you’ve wasted another hour on this wild goose chase. Do you want to destroy the hospital’s reputation?” 3 A crowd of nurses and patients had gathered in the hallway. The spectacle was public now. I had to do the surgery. And honestly, I wasn’t going to let anyone else touch it. I couldn’t legally refuse treatment. And if I didn’t catch them in the act, how would I ever nail these two to the wall? “Fine. I’ll do it,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “But on one condition. Kylie is my first assist.” “No!” Bennett barked immediately. Behind him, Kylie actually trembled. “Why not?” I asked, feigning innocence. “You brought her into this department to learn from me, didn’t you? She’s been a glorified anesthesia tech for months. Time to get her hands dirty.” Bennett had dumped her on me initially, claiming he was too busy to mentor her. It was a brilliant move—he looked generous, got free time, and I did the work. “She’s not experienced enough. You…” Bennett started. “She’s my assistant. My OR, my rules,” I interrupted. “We all learned by doing. Unless her degree is just a piece of paper?” I hardened my gaze. “If she doesn’t scrub in today, she doesn’t scrub in ever. I won’t sign off on her residency.” It was her final month. Without my signature, she was finished. Kylie’s eyes hardened. She grit her teeth. “I’ll do it.” “But…” Bennett tried again. “No ‘buts’, Bennett. Don’t worry about me,” Kylie said, putting on a brave face. “Dr. Calloway is the star of the department, right? She says it’s a routine surgery. I’m sure she’s right.” Bennett looked at her, then at me. His eyes held a look I recognized but had never understood until this lifetime. Insecurity. Deep, rotting insecurity. I was Jordan Calloway. Prodigy. Success story. Insecurity was a language I didn’t speak. In the locker room, I suited up for war. Double gloves, face shield, protective eyewear, waterproof gown. Full barrier precautions. When I walked out, I locked eyes with Kylie, who was also wrapped up like she was entering a biohazard zone. “Why the hazmat suit, Kylie?” I asked. “You’re just assisting. Heavy gear will slow your reflexes.” Dani, my usual anesthesiologist and actual friend, frowned at Kylie. “Yeah, what’s with the getup?” Dani had insisted on being in the room, despite me trying to keep her out of the line of fire. She didn’t trust Kylie. I heard Kylie mutter under her breath as she adjusted her mask. “Who knows what kind of dirty diseases people have.” I almost laughed. The irony was rich. Not the time for your savior complex now, is it? The surgery began. The tension was palpable. Every time Kylie handed me an instrument, she recoiled, standing as far back as physically possible. “Who hired this girl?” a scrub nurse whispered. “Did she skip the sterile field training?” “Bennett’s pet project,” another murmured. “I heard she barely graduated. Flunked half her classes.” I tuned them out. Without the verified blood test, only I knew the truth: the blood inside this man was a loaded gun. One slip, and I was dead. Again. “Retractor,” I ordered. Nothing happened. “Retractor! Wake up!” Kylie jumped, realizing the whispers were about her. She grabbed the retractor with visible resentment and jammed it into the incision site. She pulled back hard—too hard, too fast. Blood spurted. Several drops hit my face shield, right over my eyes. I froze for a microsecond, staring at the red smear on the plastic. Thank God for the goggles. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then, Dani screamed from the head of the table.

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Three years after I walked out of the prison gates, my uncle-in-name-only, Barrett Stanford, dragged me out of the shadows of the underground fight club. He smashed his fist into my face, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets with rage. “Kelly, who gave you the nerve to stay away? And look at you—you’ve turned yourself into a monster!” I wiped a streak of blood from my lip and grinned, a smile void of any soul or shame. “Mr. Stanford, that’s ten grand a punch. If you’re not satisfied, keep going. A few more hits and I’ll have this year’s rent covered.” His fist trembled in mid-air, knuckles white, but his voice lost its edge, softening into something almost pathetic. “Come home with me… just apologize to Harper.” “She’s kind,” he added, desperate. “She stopped blaming you for the slander years ago.” His gaze swept over the jagged scars mapping my arms, his expression twisting into something complex. Pity? Disgust? “Look at you. Covered in blood. How are you any different from a stray dog eating out of a dumpster?” A tremor ran through me, but I turned my heel to leave. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. This blood, this violence—it was the only way I learned to survive inside the cage. “Don’t forget,” he shouted at my back, “I am still your fiancé!” My footsteps faltered. Forget? How could I? Three years ago, on the night of our engagement party, Harper drugged me and shipped me off to a black-market gala. My virtue, my body, my life—put on the auction block like cattle. That night, stripped of dignity, I became the city’s favorite scandal. The desperate, insatiable fallen woman. And the man who signed the papers to sell me? That was my fiancé. … A shrill roar of laughter erupted behind me. Barrett was frantic, humiliated that his pristine reputation was being stained by my existence. He was the wealthiest titan in Seattle, yet his “fiancée” was brawling in a meat market for pocket change, blood and sweat flying everywhere. I ignored him and slipped backstage. Minutes later, I was back in the Octagon. The harsh floodlights blinded me, focused on the opposing iron gate. From the shadows, a guttural, inhuman roar echoed. “Tonight! Number 67 versus The Burmese Tigress! Place your bets!” The curtain was ripped aside. My opponent wasn’t a woman; she was a force of nature, towering and terrifying. I sucked in a cold breath. “Hey, sister.” I looked up to the VIP balcony. There was Harper, draped in designer silk, leaning over the railing with that sickeningly sweet smile. “I heard you’re short on cash. So, I arranged a little gift to help you earn more.” Her tone was innocent, but the cruelty underneath was razor-sharp. “I bet a million dollars on you to win. Don’t let me down.” A million. My fists tightened inside my gloves. I thought of my parents’ estate, seized and sold off. I took a step forward without hesitation. Just then, Barrett burst into the VIP box. Harper practically melted into his arms. “Barrett, I know Kelly has too much pride to ask for help. I just want her to win that million on her own terms.” She looked up at him with wide, doe eyes. “I heard she’s on a winning streak. The owners love her…” Barrett looked down at me, his expression haughty and distant. “Kelly, apologize to Harper right now, in front of everyone, and I’ll give you the million myself.” His voice boomed over the arena. “Refuse, and you’ll have to fight for scraps from the beast.” Every eye in the house was on me, expecting me to break. To beg. Instead, I bit down on my mouthguard and raised my fists. Barrett’s face went dark, his eyes burning with a fury that could scorch the earth. The bell rang. The Tigress lunged. I rolled forward, dodging a blow that would have taken my head off, and kicked hard at her throat. But the weight difference was impossible. Her fists were like sledgehammers. Twice, she nearly cracked my skull open. Barrett stared down, his face growing paler with every blow I took. I wouldn’t tap out. I couldn’t. By the third round, my arms were shredded, my vision blurring red. Thwack. A final, brutal uppercut. The Tigress hit the mat. Barrett threw down his drink, vaulting over the railing and rushing the cage. He grabbed my bleeding arm, screaming, “Do you want to die?!” Blood dripped onto the canvas, mixing with the sweat stinging my eyes. I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t lose. Tell her to pay me.” He grabbed my throat, his fingers cold, staring into my soul. “You are hopeless. If you wanted money this badly, maybe I should have let you go for a higher price at the auction back then!” My body seized. My eyes rolled back, and the darkness took me. Before the silence, the old secret I had overheard that night whispered in my ear. “Mr. Stanford, ruining her reputation tonight finally gives Miss Harper some justice.” “She brought it on herself. This is the price for slandering Harper.” That night at the auction was a recurring nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Harper had staged it all—leaked her own compromised photos, made herself trending news, and framed me for it. No matter how I begged, how I explained, Barrett refused to believe me. On the night I was supposed to be happiest, he sent me to hell. Through the haze of the drugs, I had seen Harper nestled in his arms, clinging to him like a vine. My heart hadn’t just broken; it had shattered. On stage, men looked at me with greedy, predatory eyes. “The Kelly heiress! Starting bid is open!” I had looked at Barrett, one last desperate plea. I didn’t do it. Through the cigar smoke, his eyes were cold, indifferent. “Mistakes have consequences, Kelly.” The humiliation that followed broke me. The tears, the pain, the absolute betrayal. He hated me that much. When the chaos ended, it was deep into the night. The scandal was already all over the city. I heard him talking to the manager. And that was when I snapped. I lit the match. The fire roared, burning down the venue, burning down our past. The police came quickly. Barrett had kicked me away as they cuffed me. “Harper inhaled smoke! She’s in the ER right now! How could you be so vicious? You tried to burn her alive!” “Just you wait. I won’t let this slide.” On the day of my sentencing, Barrett announced to the press that he was backing Harper to take over the family trust. I lost everything. Three years in prison. I slept near the latrine. I was forced to drink toilet water. I was stripped and humiliated by women who had nothing left to lose. To survive, I learned to use my fists. My only tether to sanity was the hope of buying back my parents’ estate. The day I got out, I scurried into the underground fighting ring like a rat in a sewer, numbing myself to the pain. A million dollars. That money would get me closer to home. I woke up with a start, the harsh white of a hospital ceiling blinding me. “Did the money come through?” The nurse—the fight manager—froze. She hadn’t expected that to be my first question. Silence. My chest felt like it had been caved in by a hammer. Tears, hot and unbidden, spilled over. I was delusional. Why would Barrett let me win? “Forget it,” I rasped. “I’ll fight more matches…” “Kelly.” The manager cut me off, her eyes filled with pity. “Don’t come back. Mr. Stanford put out the word. Any venue that lets you fight gets shut down and sued into bankruptcy.” She dropped a debit card on the bedside table and fled, unable to look at me. The air left the room. I was suffocating. I stumbled out of the hospital, into the pouring Seattle rain. The water mixed with the salt on my face, blurring the neon lights. I clutched the card, knowing my dream was drifting further away. My feet carried me to the Estate on autopilot. Through the iron gates, through the rain, I saw them. Barrett was holding Harper’s hand in front of a wall of reporters. “Starting today, this historic estate is officially gifted to Harper!” “She is now the rightful mistress of the legacy!” The world spun. I pulled out my burner phone and dialed the number I hadn’t dared to call for three years. “Get me out of here.” Harper feigned shock, her hand over her mouth. “But… what about my sister?” Barrett’s eyes flickered, but the cold mask returned instantly. “From the moment she spread those lies about you, she ceased to be family.” “By what right?” My voice trembled with rage. I stepped out of the shadows, soaked, bruised, looking like a revenant. “Is that Kelly?” “It really is her. I thought she’d have the decency to stay hidden.” “Pfft, she’s an ex-con now. What shame does she have left?” “Tsk, tsk. Raising a whore who seduces her own brother-in-law… her father must be rolling in his grave.” I froze. Barrett stepped forward, yanking me under his umbrella. “If you’re hurt, stay in the hospital. Stop making a scene!” I shoved him away. “By what right do you give my home to her?” I screamed. “I am the daughter of this house! She is a foster child! What right—” Slap. My cheek burned, swelling instantly. I held my face, staring at Barrett in disbelief. He placed himself between me and Harper, a human shield. “Your father entrusted both of you to me. In my heart, Harper has never been just a foster child!” “You framed her. You tortured her. You aren’t fit to carry the family name. You have no right to object!” It was absurd. It was a comedy. I flashed back to when I was ten. The day Harper arrived. I gave her my favorite doll. She ignored it. Then, the moment I turned around, she threw herself down the stairs. “Kelly… why did you push me? Do you hate me?” My parents believed me. But from that day on, her tears were weaponized. Mother’s missing jewelry. Father’s broken antiques. Every time she cried, I was the villain, defenseless against her performance. But Barrett… he used to stand by me. “I know Kelly. She wouldn’t do this.” “She has a temper, sure, but I spoiled her that way. And I like it.” I was naive. I thought he would stand by me forever. “You are a disappointment,” I whispered. The cold man in front of me overlaid the image of the boy who once knelt in the grass, crying, promising to protect me. I blinked, and the boy was gone. “Kelly, I’ll give you one last chance. Apologize to Harper. The family, and I, will be your shield again.” I looked at his hand, interlaced with hers. I laughed. It was a dry, broken sound. “No need.” “Give me the million dollars. And from this moment on, we are strangers. Dead to each other.” The silence was deafening. Barrett’s eyes turned predatory, dark and confused. “What did you say?” He stared at the stubborn set of my jaw, and for a second, panic flashed in his eyes. He realized he had miscalculated. “Kelly!” Harper sensed the shift. She lunged forward, dropping to her knees in the mud before me. “Blame me! It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have come into this family!” “I don’t want the house! I’ll leave Seattle tonight! I’ll give it all back!” She wailed, turning and running toward the stone steps. Then, she tripped. It was theatrical, perfect. She tumbled down. “Harper!” Barrett screamed, his composure shattering. He rushed down. When he saw the blood soaking her white skirt, his voice cracked. “Doctor! Call an ambulance!” He looked back at me, pure hatred in his eyes. “Tie her up! If Harper loses this baby, Kelly pays with her life!” “Mr. Stanford, the patient is in bad shape. The pregnancy… we couldn’t save it. And I’m afraid she may never conceive again.” “What?” Harper wept, biting her lip until it bled. “My baby…” “Who is the father?” Barrett asked, his voice low, suppressing a volcano of rage. Harper buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry, Barrett. Last month… when you were drunk… you didn’t use protection…” His pupils contracted. Panic, then guilt, washed over him. He pulled her tighter. “No. This isn’t your fault.” Harper let out a guttural sob. “I can never be a mother? Barrett, what am I going to do?” I stood there, handcuffed, staring at her flat stomach. I remembered the excuse Barrett used to avoid touching me. “You’re too young. I respect you too much. I’ll wait until we’re married.” But he got Harper pregnant. Even if the baby was gone now. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t with me. I laughed. A bitter, jagged sound. “Kelly, you are a curse!” Barrett roared, hearing my laughter. He lunged, punching me hard in the stomach. I coughed up bloody foam, mumbling through swollen lips. “She deserved to lose it. It’s karma for what she did to me.” “And if she planned this miscarriage, you better check if that kid was even yours.” He slapped me again, sending me crashing into the corner. Blood from my forehead blinded my left eye. He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me to the open window. He pushed my upper body out over the ledge. Three stories up. One let go, and I was pavement. “You really are insane,” he hissed. “For three years, I wanted to bring you home every single day. I was terrified you were suffering in prison. I pulled strings to keep you safe.” “But you? You’re heartless! Three years, and the moment you get out, you vanish!” “Do you know how long I looked for you? Do you know how it felt seeing you getting beaten to a pulp in that cage?” “Kelly, you don’t know anything.” “You only know how to hurt Harper. You are a complete lunatic!” His eyes were red, brimming with tears that fell onto my shoulder. I hung over the edge, feeling the wind. My heart was colder than the air. “You’re right. We are done.” He hauled me back in and threw me onto the floor like a bag of trash. His voice went icy. “But you made a mistake. And you have to be punished.” I slowly lifted my head. “Confess. Publicly admit to your crimes over the years. Voluntarily renounce your claim to the estate. Do that, and I’ll give you the house back.” My ears rang. I tasted iron. “You…” He looked down at me, a god judging an insect. “Think carefully. This is your last chance.” My fingers brushed the photo in my pocket. My father’s last gift. On the back of the yellowing family portrait, in his shaky handwriting: “Kelly, when Papa gets better, we’ll go to Switzerland. We’ll see the snow.” I remembered his thin, frail arms. Tears hit the floorboards. I bit my own arm to stop the screaming, shaking uncontrollably. “Fine. I accept.” The next day, noon. I knelt in front of the Estate gates. Flashbulbs popped like lightning. I read the “Confession” word for word. “…I caused Harper’s miscarriage. I am wicked.” “…I bullied Harper for years. It was all my fault.” The crowd was furious. Someone threw a soda can. It hit my head. “Die, you poison witch!” “Why don’t you kill yourself to atone?” “Harper is an angel, and this one is a snake!” I curled into a ball on the concrete. Through the legs of the crowd, I saw Barrett lead Harper out of a limousine. “In three days,” he announced to the cameras, “I will hold the wedding of the century with Harper.” As security dragged me toward a garbage truck to haul me away, my burner phone buzzed. “Kelly. I’m back. Let’s burn them down.” … Three days later. The wedding was lavish, grotesque in its opulence. But the guests kept whispering. “Mr. Stanford, Kelly is still family by blood. Did you have to push her that far?” Barrett’s face was thunderous. “I didn’t drive her away! She refused to turn back!” “To her, we mean nothing compared to that house. Don’t mention her name again!” The room went silent. The next morning, Barrett called his assistant. “Find Kelly. Get her to sign the transfer papers for the house. I’m not waiting.” He paused, then changed from his robe into a suit. I used to love seeing him in a suit. He sprayed cologne. Harper watched him, her face twisting. Last night, their wedding night, Barrett hadn’t touched her. He was preparing to see me. He wanted to look good. He was waiting for me to show up, broken and defeated. His assistant’s phone rang. The color drained from the man’s face. “Mr. Stanford… bad news. Kelly is missing.” “And… the Estate. It was just sold at auction to a private buyer for triple the value.”

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The ink wasn’t even dry on the lease when I noticed them: four dark, jagged shadows in the corners of the bedroom ceiling. I snapped a picture and threw it up on Reddit, captioning it with a heavy dose of sarcasm: “Pro tip: Always tour the place in person before signing. Otherwise, you won’t know about the leaks until you move in. My bedroom ceiling is basically a mold colony.” At 2:00 AM, insomnia kicked in. I unlocked my phone to scroll through the comments. The top comment made my blood turn to ice water. “That’s not mold. Look closer. Those are footprints. If you don’t believe me, look up right now. Tell me if you see four women hanging upside down from your ceiling.” 1 The moment I read those words, the hair on my arms stood up like an agitated cat. My hands shook so violently I could barely grip the phone. I yanked the duvet over my head, cocooning myself in darkness. Because I was sleeping in that exact bedroom. I had moved in that morning. Sure, the location was in the middle of nowhere—a forgotten edge of the city where the streetlights flickered and died—but I couldn’t say no to the price. Six hundred dollars a month. In this economy, that wasn’t just a deal; it was a miracle. I hadn’t even toured the place. I’d wired the deposit and signed the digital contract faster than you could say “scam,” terrified someone else would snatch it up. When I first walked in, seeing the furniture draped in white dust sheets, the living room looked spacious. The sunlight hitting the hardwood floors felt clean, almost cinematic. “I won the lottery,” I’d whispered to myself, grinning like an idiot. I was satisfied with everything. The square footage, the vintage furniture, the decent renovation. Until I walked into the bedroom and saw those black stains in the corners. They looked like water damage, not too dark, just ugly enough to be annoying. “A leak?” I’d frowned. But the ceiling was dry to the touch. I shrugged it off. I’d hire a handyman to paint over it later. After unpacking, I sat on the bed, doom-scrolling. That’s when I posted the photo, subtly bragging about the price under the guise of complaining. And now, lying in the dark, I wasn’t seeing envy in the comments. I was staring at a sentence that made my soul leave my body. “That’s not mold… tell me if you see four women hanging upside down.” I lay stiff as a board under the covers, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. A single sentence had painted a picture I couldn’t scrub from my brain. Four women. In the corners. If they had long hair, gravity would pull it down… like black curtains reaching for me. I couldn’t look. I kept my head buried and typed a reply with trembling thumbs. “Dude, please stop. It’s 1:00 AM and I live alone. You’re literally terrifying me rn.” The internet, being the internet, just wanted blood. “OP, take one for the team. Peek out and update us.” “+1. We need to know.” “I’ll Venmo you zero dollars to check.” There were the skeptics, of course. “Lame. Quit trying to scare a girl living alone.” “You feel big making people panic?” “Don’t listen to him, OP. He’s trolling. Ghosts aren’t real.” The thread turned against him, burying him in downvotes and insults. He didn’t get angry. He just posted one more calm, chilling reply. “Real or fake… why don’t you let her look for herself?” Within minutes, curiosity weaponized the comment section. Everyone wanted me to look. I knew if I didn’t check, I’d never sleep again. My imagination was worse than any reality. Driven by a mix of morbid curiosity and a desperate need to debunk the fear, I took a deep breath. I lowered the blanket, inch by inch, until my eyes cleared the fabric. The room wasn’t pitch black. I’d left the curtains open, and the silver moonlight washed over the floorboards, casting long, pale shadows. I held my breath and looked up. Nothing. The four corners were empty. Just shadows and plaster. I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for an hour. I sat up, leaned against the headboard, and typed back. “Nothing there! Just a false alarm. You guys got me good. lol.” 2 The comment section seemed almost disappointed, the engagement dropping off. Then, he replied again. “Nothing? Take a picture. Show me.” I gritted my teeth. Seriously? If it weren’t for his creepy comment, I’d be asleep right now. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to humiliate him. I exited the app, opened my camera, and aimed it at the ceiling. My hand jerked. The phone tumbled from my grip and clattered onto the floor. Before it fell, the facial recognition software had locked on. Four yellow squares. Four faces. And in that split second on the screen, I saw them. Four women with long, matted hair, hanging straight down from the four corners like human stalactites. My scalp prickled with electricity. I dove back under the covers, pulling my knees to my chest, my body rigid as a brick. It wasn’t a hallucination. The phone saw them. I was hiding under a duvet, and four dead women were hanging directly above me. The silence in the room changed. It became heavy. Thick. I felt it then—a physical weight of being watched. Four pairs of eyes boring into the back of my neck. My throat was sandpaper. I swallowed hard, the sound deafening in my own ears. I didn’t move a muscle all night. I waited until the morning sun hit the duvet before I dared to peek out. My eyes were swollen shut, my brain foggy with adrenaline fatigue. I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand. I looked up. The black stains in the corners… they weren’t just shapeless blobs anymore. In the daylight, they looked exactly like footprints. Like someone had been standing on the ceiling for a very, very long time. Did they stand there and watch me sleep all night? A shiver raked down my spine. I scrambled out of bed, snatched my phone from the floor, grabbed my charger, and bolted. I didn’t stop running until I hit the pavement outside. I found a diner a few blocks away, ordered coffee and a bagel just to rent the table, and plugged in my phone. The second the screen lit up, I opened the Reddit thread and DM’d the user with the black profile picture. “Dude I saw them! I saw them on my camera! There are actually four women on my ceiling! Please help me! I’m twenty-four, I don’t want to die!” Radio silence. I sat there charging my phone until I had to go to work. I walked into the office like a zombie. I was late. My supervisor, a woman who thrived on passive-aggression, chewed me out for five minutes. I didn’t hear a word she said. All day, I stared at my phone, waiting for a notification. Finally, during my lunch break, it buzzed. “I knew I wasn’t seeing things. Now do you believe me?” I replied instantly: “I believe you! Please help me. I signed the lease and the landlord is in Cabo or something, she won’t text me back. I’m broke. I can’t afford a hotel. What do I do?” My face must have been ghost-white because I felt a hand on my shoulder. I screamed. “AH!” Sasha recoiled, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “Whoa, easy. It’s just me.” Sasha smiled, holding out an iced latte. “You look like hell. Rough night?” I didn’t have the energy to lie. “My apartment is haunted. Like, actually haunted.” Sasha blinked, then burst out laughing. “No way. Really? Do we need to call a priest? Or maybe the Ghostbusters?” I took a sip of the coffee, my hands still shaking. “Sasha, I’m not joking. There are things in there.” 3 Sasha’s smile faded slightly. “You’re serious?” I nodded. “Dead serious.” She narrowed her eyes, then grinned again, tapping my shoulder. “Okay then. I’m coming over tonight. I’ve always wanted to see a ghost. This is gonna be content gold.” I shook my head violently. “No. I’m not going back there.” I looked down at my phone. The netizen had finally replied. “Don’t leave tonight. Stay in the house.” I typed back, tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t. I’m terrified.” He sent a smiley face emoji. The creepy, passive-aggressive kind. Then: “If you don’t listen to me, I can’t save you.” I couldn’t hide forever. I had a twelve-month lease. If I didn’t fix this, I was homeless. I gritted my teeth. “Okay. I’ll do what you say.” He sent a wall of text. “Tonight, stay inside. Don’t go anywhere. Find a hiding spot. At midnight, they will come looking for you. As long as they don’t find you, you and the house will be clean. Don’t worry, just hide anywhere. They aren’t good at seeking.” “I’m not far from you. Send me the address. I can be there tonight.” I felt sick. I sent the location pin. “What happens if they find me?” He just sent the smiley face again. By 5:00 PM, I had begged Sasha to come with me. She didn’t mock me. In fact, she seemed thrilled. I showed her the chat logs on the subway ride over. Sasha’s eyes went wide. “You’re trusting a random stranger from Reddit? What if he’s a serial killer?” I rubbed my temples. “He knew about the footprints before I did, Sash. He’s the only one who knows what’s going on.” “Maybe he’s a medium,” I speculated. “Or a psychic?” Sasha didn’t answer, just gave me a pitying smile, like I was a cute but dumb puppy. Back at the apartment, I avoided the bedroom like it was radioactive. We sat in the living room. I was manic, rambling about hiding spots. Sasha wasn’t listening. She was looking around, impressed. “Six hundred bucks? In this city? For this? Piper, I’d live here even if Dracula was my roommate.” “I saw actual ghosts, Sasha,” I snapped. “Relax,” she grinned. “I’m here, aren’t I?” We made fried rice for dinner. Having another human being there, laughing and talking, made the terror recede. The apartment felt normal. By the time we finished washing up, it was 11:00 PM. I pointed to the large wardrobe in the bedroom. “I’m hiding in there. You? Want to squeeze in?” It was the only place that felt like a fortress. Sasha looked at me, incredulous. “You’re really doing the hide-and-seek thing? Because the Reddit guy said so?” I slapped my forehead. Was she dense? Did she still think this was a bit? “Sasha,” I said, my voice dead level. “Yes. Whether you believe me or not, hide. Or leave. Right now. Because if you stay out here, something bad is going to happen.” The memory of the four faces flashed in my mind. I shivered. Sasha pouted but nodded. I heard her mutter, “Uber surge pricing is insane right now anyway…” 4 At 11:30 PM, I cleared a space in the wardrobe, pushing my coats aside until there was a niche just big enough to crouch in. I shoved my phone in my pocket and hissed at Sasha, who was taking her sweet time. “Hurry up! I don’t want you getting hurt.” I pulled the wardrobe doors shut. Click. Darkness and the smell of cedar chips swallowed me. I checked my phone. The blue light illuminated my terrified face. I DM’d the Reddit user: “Are you here?” He replied: “Almost.” I clutched the phone to my chest, burying my face in a wool sweater. “Hehe, I’m hidden! This is kinda thrilling!” Sasha’s voice came from outside. “Turn your brightness down!” I whispered aggressively. “Text me only. No talking!” A WeChat notification pinged. Sasha sent an ‘OK’ sticker. Silence descended. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath. I watched the clock on my lock screen. 11:58. 11:59. Midnight. Thump—Thump. My heart was louder than the noise. Tap. Tap. Tap. The second the clock turned, footsteps started. In the dead silence, they were amplified. I curled tighter into a ball. The steps were light, leisurely. Like a stroll. But my hands shook uncontrollably. Because the sound wasn’t coming from the floor. It was coming from the ceiling. Tap. Tap. Tap. They were getting closer. I imagined the dry rasp of hair dragging against the top of the wardrobe. I clamped a hand over my mouth, forgetting to breathe. Mercifully, the footsteps passed over me. They moved away, a shuffling, chaotic rhythm, heading toward the living room. The layout was simple. Bedroom opens to the living room. Off the living room is the bathroom and a kitchenette. There’s a spare room I used for storage next to the bedroom. The idea of four dead women walking on the ceiling, hunting for me… I wanted to scream. Tap. Tap. The sound continued in the living room. Then—Knock. Knock. A rhythmic, slow rapping. Not a human knock. Who knocks on a door at midnight inside a locked apartment? Then the realization hit me. They weren’t knocking on the front door. They were knocking on the internal doors. I shrank into my coat collar. I pulled up Sasha’s chat. “You okay?” Sasha replied instantly: “I’m good. Do you hear the ceiling walking?” “Yes. They’re here. Be careful. Do not come out.” “Holy shit it’s real! I’m not going anywhere! I’m literally shaking rn.” (Sticker: A yellow bean sweating and laughing nervously) A moment later, I heard the bathroom door creak open. I froze. Wait. They were on the ceiling. I remembered the visual. Upside down. Arms hanging… but still feet from the floor. The bathroom door handle was waist-high. How did they reach the handle?

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I was ten years old when I watched a sedan lose control and tear my brother out of this world. The driver didn’t stop. The taillights just dissolved into the rain, leaving my brother dying in my arms and my right leg shattered, a ruin of bone and blood that would leave me with a limp for the rest of my life. After that, the concept of “family” evaporated. I thought that was it. I thought my life was destined to be a series of limping steps through an endless gray corridor. I was just surviving, dragging my bad leg through the shadows. Then I met Harrison. He was the definition of a lifeline—gentle, attentive, a rising star at one of the city’s top law firms. He didn’t look at my leg with pity. He didn’t mind the uneven rhythm of my walk. When the nightmares came, he would hold me until my shaking stopped, whispering against my hair that the past couldn’t hurt me anymore. On our three-year anniversary, he invited me to his parents’ estate. It was time, he said, to make it official. Harrison came from money. Old money. His father was a retired federal judge; his mother, a titanium-spined businesswoman. Their home was the kind of sprawling colonial revival mansion I’d only ever seen in architectural digest spreads. Dinner was an exercise in high-stakes etiquette. The crystal gleamed; the conversation was polite and airless. Then his mother, Victoria—a woman who wore her sixty years like a tailored suit, impeccable and expensive—decided to break the ice with a charming little anecdote from her youth. “Oh, I was a menace back then,” she laughed, swirling her Cabernet. “I’d just gotten my license and decided to ‘borrow’ your father’s prized vintage Jaguar. I was terrified, driving way out in the boonies. I hit something—a large dog, I think—and I panicked. Just drove right off.” She took a delicate sip of wine, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “The front bumper was caved in. I spent my entire allowance paying a mechanic to fix it in secret. Your father still doesn’t know.” She winked at her husband. “Thank god that road was deserted. No cameras back in the nineties. It would have been a scandal.” The silver fork slipped from my fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a violence that silenced the room. The make of the car. The stretch of road in the suburbs. The timestamp—a rainy evening in late autumn. Every detail locked into place, sliding over the jagged edges of my trauma with terrifying precision. I looked at Harrison. His face had drained of blood. He was staring at his water glass, refusing to meet my eyes. And in that split second, the air left the room. I understood. He wasn’t my savior. He was the hush money. 1. The sound of my fork hitting the china echoed like a gunshot. Victoria’s smile faltered, a hairline fracture in a perfect porcelain mask. She looked at me, a flicker of annoyance crossing her brow, as if I’d committed a minor social faux pas. “Nora, dear? Is something wrong with the steak?” Harrison’s father, the Honorable Judge Montgomery, lowered his Wall Street Journal. His gaze behind his wire-rimmed glasses was heavy, judicial. I didn’t look at them. My eyes were locked on Harrison. His hand was resting on the white tablecloth, knuckles gripping the stem of his wine glass so hard the skin had turned translucent. Sweat beaded at his temple, but he was too paralyzed to wipe it away. “Harrison.” My voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried a chill I didn’t know I possessed. “That road your mother mentioned… was it Blackwood Road?” Harrison flinched as if I’d struck him. The elegant veneer on Victoria’s face cracked. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory. “How would you know that name?” I tried to smile, but I felt the muscles in my face contort into something grotesque. “Because that is where my brother died.” I pushed the words out through the constriction in my throat. “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver in a vintage car.” “On a rainy evening. Just like the one you described.” Silence descended on the dining room, heavy and suffocating. It felt like the oxygen had been vacuumed out. Victoria’s expression shifted—confusion, then realization, then pure, unadulterated terror. Her face went ashen. Smash. Her wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. The red wine splattered across the Persian rug like a fresh arterial spray. “You… you’re talking nonsense!” Her voice pitched up, shrill and jagged. “Blackwood Road? I don’t remember any road names! It was a deer! Or a dog!” “You don’t remember?” I repeated slowly. I turned my head toward the window, toward the garage where a shiny new Porsche sat. “That Jaguar… the license plate ended in 77, didn’t it?” I leaned forward. “My brother… with his last breath, he managed to whisper two numbers.” Victoria’s lips trembled. The silence stretched, thin and taut. Harrison finally moved. He shot up from his chair, grabbing my wrist. His grip was bruising, desperate. “Nora! Stop. You need to calm down. This is a misunderstanding. My mother, she—” “A misunderstanding?” I ripped my arm away from him and stood up. My bad leg buckled under the sudden movement, pain shooting up my hip. I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. “Tell me, Harrison. What part of this is a misunderstanding?” “You knew who I was the day we met, didn’t you?” “You approached me. You courted me. You loved me. All because your mother slaughtered my brother. Is that it?” “Your love, your kindness, your patience—it’s all counterfeit. It’s guilt money! Isn’t it?” My voice rose with every sentence, climbing a ladder of hysteria. Harrison! He looked at me, his handsome face crumbling into gray ash. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t deny it. “Enough!” The shout came from the head of the table. Judge Montgomery slammed his palm down on the wood. He stood up, his presence looming large. The cold detachment of the courtroom settled over his features. “Miss Vance. Watch your tone.” He adjusted his cuffs. “The police closed that case decades ago. Insufficient evidence. It was an unfortunate accident.” “To come into my home, eat my food, and accuse my wife of a felony based on a coincidence? It is not only rude, it is slanderous.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of authority. The threat was implicit. I looked at them. The panicked murderer. The lying coward. The complicit enabler. Perfect. A perfect American family. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, wet and bitter. Tears spilled over my lashes. “You’re right. I’m being rude.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Slowly, painfully, I turned toward the door. “Excuse me, Judge. I seem to have lost my appetite.” 2. I thought I would run. I thought I would get in my car and drive until the gas tank ran dry. But I barely made it past the wrought-iron gates before Harrison caught me. “Nora! Wait! Please, you have to listen!” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my neck. I could feel his hot tears on my skin. “I’m sorry. Nora, God, I am so sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “I first saw you in my father’s old case files. There was a photo of you at the scene, holding your brother, screaming. It haunted me.” “I admit it. I found you because I wanted to help. I wanted to… to balance the scales for what my mother did.” “But I fell in love with you! You have to believe me. The last three years were real!” His grip tightened, as if he were trying to physically hold me together. An hour ago, this confession might have moved me. It might have broken my heart. Now, it just made me want to vomit. Balance the scales? He thought his affection was currency? That his love could purchase a life? I stood rigid in his embrace. When his sobbing subsided, I spoke. My voice was dead. “So, you admit it.” Harrison froze. “I…” “Your mother killed Toby.” Silence. The silence was the verdict. I shoved him away. I looked at his face—that face I had kissed a thousand times—and saw nothing but a stranger. “Harrison. We’re done.” “No! Nora, you can’t do this!” He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes frantic. “We were going to get married. We talked about Paris. We talked about a life…” “Married?” I let out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter. “To you? Am I supposed to sit at Thanksgiving dinner across from the woman who ran over my brother?” “She didn’t mean to! She was young, she was scared…” “So she left a ten-year-old boy to bleed out in a ditch? And she’s slept soundly in her silk sheets for twenty years?” He had no answer. Behind him, the heavy oak door of the house opened. Victoria stepped out. She had wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders. The panic was gone, replaced by the icy, transactional demeanor of a woman who negotiates hostile takeovers. “Miss Vance. Let’s cut to the chase.” She walked down the steps, her heels clicking on the stone. “I know your background. I know the struggle. Let’s talk numbers.” “A condo in the city. Fully paid for. A new car. And let’s say… five million in cash.” She paused, gauging my reaction like she was appraising a piece of real estate. “That’s enough to ensure you never have to work another day in your life. Forget the past. Stay with Harrison if you want, or don’t. But take the deal. It’s best for everyone.” I looked at her. I looked at this woman who had crushed my brother’s body and now wanted to crush his memory with a checkbook. To people like her, pain is just a line item in a budget. I smiled. “Okay.” Harrison blinked. Victoria exhaled, a triumphant smirk touching her lips. I held her gaze. “I don’t want your money.” “I want you to go to my brother’s grave. I want you to get on your knees. And I want you to beg him for forgiveness.” 3. Victoria’s face mottled with rage. “You’re out of your mind,” she hissed. “You expect me to kneel in the dirt for a dead boy? Who do you think you are?” “Mom!” Harrison stepped between us, terrified. I ignored her outburst. I kept my eyes on Harrison. “That is the price. Take it or leave it.” “If you don’t, I go to the police. Tonight.” The word police hit Victoria like a physical blow. She swayed. The Judge stepped onto the porch. “Miss Vance,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Be very careful. Scorched earth tactics rarely work against people with resources.” “I have friends in the DA’s office. I have friends in the press. If you drag this out, you will find yourself buried in litigation and slander suits until you can’t afford a loaf of bread.” It was a naked threat. They were telling me that truth didn’t matter. Power mattered. “So, no deal?” I asked. The Judge glared at me. “Fine.” I pulled out my phone. I started dialing 9-1-1. “Wait!” Harrison lunged, grabbing my hand. He spun around to his parents, his face twisted in agony. “Dad, Mom. Just do it.” “We… we owe her this.” “Harrison! Have you lost your spine?” Victoria shrieked. “You want me to—” “Mom!” Harrison shouted, his voice cracking. “Please! If you don’t, she’ll destroy us. All of us!” Victoria trembled. She looked at me with pure, distilled hatred. If looks could kill, I would have joined my brother right then. Finally, she slumped against Harrison, defeated. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine. I’ll do it.” “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.” I lowered my phone. “Not tomorrow.” “Tonight.” I wasn’t going to give them time to call their lawyers, to spin the story, to find a way out. Harrison paled. Victoria looked like she might faint. “Tonight? It’s almost midnight! The cemeteries are closed!” “Then we go to Blackwood Road,” I said, my voice steel. “The exact spot where you hit him.” “I want you to kneel where he died.” 4. The night was suffocatingly dark. Blackwood Road was a tunnel of trees and shadows. The wind howled through the branches, a mournful, hollow sound. We parked on the shoulder. It was deserted. Victoria, shivering in her expensive dress, lowered herself onto the wet asphalt. Her knees hit the grit. She was shaking—from cold, from rage, from humiliation. Harrison stood beside her, looking like a ghost. The Judge stayed in the Mercedes, the headlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating us like actors on a stage. “Is this enough?” Victoria gritted out through chattered teeth. “I’m kneeling. Are you happy?” I didn’t answer. I reached into my purse and pulled out a photograph. It was Toby. He was twelve in the picture, grinning, missing a tooth, holding a baseball bat. I placed the photo on the wet road in front of her. “Look at him.” “Tell me,” I whispered. “Why did you kill him?” Victoria flinched, turning her head away. “I… I told you, it was an accident. It was dark. It was raining…” “You didn’t see him?” I laughed, a broken sound. “You stopped the car, didn’t you?” Victoria’s head snapped toward me. Her eyes went wide. “How… how do you know that?” “Toby told me.” Tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. “He wasn’t dead immediately. He was conscious. He saw your brake lights. He thought you were coming to help him.” “But you didn’t.” “You waited. Five seconds. Maybe ten. And then…” I choked on the bile rising in my throat. “Then you hit the gas. You felt the bump as the tires went over him.” I was shaking now, vibrating with the memory I had suppressed for a decade. I was there. Hiding in the rhododendrons, paralyzed by fear, too young to understand, too terrified to scream. “No! That’s a lie!” Victoria screamed, shaking her head violently. “I didn’t run him over! I just drove away! I just left!” “Is that so?” I crouched down, forcing myself into her eyeline. “Then look at him. Look at his eyes and say it again.” I shoved the photo closer. Victoria looked. Really looked. And something in her snapped. “Get it away! Get him away from me!” She scrambled back on her hands and knees, screeching like a banshee. She broke. The façade of the elegant socialite dissolved into pure, primal guilt. Harrison rushed forward, shielding his mother, looking at me with betrayal. “Nora! That’s enough!” “She apologized! She knelt! What more do you want?” “Do you want blood? Is that it?” I looked at him. The man who claimed to love me, now hugging the monster who ruined my life. “Blood?” I stood up, wiping my face. “Harrison, you have it all wrong.” “I don’t want you dead.” “I want something much worse than death.” I turned my back on them and walked into the darkness.

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“Director, we have a situation. It’s about your son. The kidnappers… they threw him. He didn’t make it.” Declan froze. He was still buttoning his shirt, the warmth of the woman on the couch behind him still clinging to the air. His pupils contracted into pinpricks. He slammed his hand onto the mahogany desk, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” The aide wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, his voice trembling. “Three days ago, sir… you gave a direct order. You said you thought your wife was pulling another stunt to check up on you. You said, under no circumstances were you to be disturbed.” Declan’s face drained of color. The blood in his veins turned to ice. … After my son – Neil died, I excised every habit of mine that Declan despised. I stopped calling to check on him. Even when he didn’t come home for days, I didn’t cry, I didn’t plead, and I certainly didn’t ask where he had been. When I fractured my arm during a training simulation and the medic asked to contact my next of kin, I just stared at the white wall. “I don’t have a husband,” I said, my voice flat. The doctor paused, recognizing me. “Mrs. Kensington? Director Kensington is literally two floors up in the briefing room. Shall I send someone for him?” Right. I had forgotten. This military hospital fell under his jurisdiction. I shook my head. “No. Don’t bother.” But thirty minutes later, Declan walked in anyway. He wore his authority like a second skin—the sharp cut of his suit, the heavy brow, the invisible weight of power that followed him into the room. “Why didn’t you call me?” I lowered my gaze to the sheets. “It’s just a hairline fracture. It’s not important.” My tone—so detached, so light—seemed to irritate him. In his memory, I was the fragile one. When we were dating, a paper cut was enough reason to curl into his lap and demand a kiss to make it better. But now, with my arm in a cast, I didn’t even frown. Declan opened his mouth to speak, but the chatter of nurses in the hallway drifted in through the open door. “Director Kensington is obsessed with Ivy. She just twisted her ankle, and he called in the entire orthopedic surgical team. He hasn’t left her side. He actually carried her to radiology.” Declan glanced at me sideways, bracing himself. He expected the old Nora—the one who would explode in jealousy, the one who would scream. Instead, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the pillow. I didn’t even twitch. The silence unnerved him more than the screaming ever did. His voice dropped, heavy with frustration. “Don’t listen to the gossip. Ivy twisted her ankle during field ops. I was just dropping her off.” “Okay,” I whispered. “Do you not believe me?” His temper flared, sudden and defensive. “I believe you,” I said, and I meant it. “She’s your subordinate. She’s your foster sister. It’s only natural you’d take care of her.” In the past, he would cold-shoulder me, lecturing me with that condescending tone: Ivy is family. I can’t just ignore her. It’s a sibling bond, Nora. Stop being psychotic. Now that I was finally acting exactly how he wanted—quiet, compliant, reasonable—he didn’t look relieved. He looked like he was suffocating. Just then, a nurse burst in. “Director! Miss Ivy is saying her ankle pain is unbearable. She’s asking for you.” Declan snapped. “If she’s in pain, get a doctor! I’m not a medic. What the hell am I supposed to do?” The nurse flinched and scrambled out. Declan turned back to me, his expression shifting to something resembling guilt. “Nora… are you still thinking about Neil? Look, what happened… it was a lapse in judgment on Ivy’s part. I’ve already reprimanded her.” He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for my hand. “We’re young. We can have other children. I’ll clear my schedule for the next week. I’ll stay here with you. Okay?” I pulled my hand away. It was a subtle movement, quiet and fluid. Declan frowned, his jaw tightening, ready to argue. But then, a commotion at the door stopped him. Ivy stumbled into the room, leaning heavily on a crutch, and dramatically collapsed in the doorway. Declan was there in a heartbeat, scooping her up. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.” “I heard Nora was hurt,” Ivy sobbed, clinging to his lapels, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. Then she looked at me. “Nora, please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean for Neil to get taken… I didn’t mean for it to happen…” I didn’t speak. I just closed my eyes. Declan lowered his voice. “I’m going to take her back to her room. I’ll be right back.” He carried her out. He didn’t come back that night. Instead, my phone buzzed. It was a secure line from Special Operations Command. “Agent Ruan, are you confirming your participation in Project Chimera?” “Once you’re in, you’re deep cover for ten years. Zero contact with the outside world. That includes spouses.” “I confirm,” I said into the dark room. “Don’t worry. I’ve already filed for divorce. The cooling-off period ends in a week. I’ll have the decree in hand. I’ll be a free agent. This mission is perfect for me.” The handler on the other end hesitated. “Agent Ruan… are you sure? Everyone knows how devoted you are to Director Kensington. You turned down the General Staff promotion for him.” My chest ached, a sharp, physical pang. I was supposed to be the rational soldier. But when it came to Declan, my logic always failed. We had been rivals at the Academy. “The Power Pair,” they called us. The results were always the same: Declan first, Nora second. I hated it. I trained until my muscles screamed, trying to beat him. But Declan was a natural tactician, born for command. On the surface, I competed with him. Beneath it, I worshipped him. Before graduation, I cornered him, my face burning. “Declan, if I beat you in the final war games… will you be my boyfriend?” I expected him to laugh. Instead, he leaned in, his voice low and smoky. “If you take first place in the joint exercises… I’ll marry you.” For that joke, that half-promise, I nearly killed myself training. I took first place. And Declan didn’t back down. At the commendation ceremony, in front of the entire corps, he proposed. There were helicopters trailing colored smoke in the shape of a heart. It was the grandest gesture anyone had ever seen. “Nora, I love you. Marry me.” I thought I was the protagonist of a fairy tale. I didn’t know then that the spectacle wasn’t for me. It was a smokescreen. He needed a massive public distraction to bury a scandal involving him and Ivy. I was the decorated female soldier, the media darling. I was the perfect shield. “Agent Ruan? You still there?” The handler’s voice was gentle. “Are you having second thoughts? You loved him a lot.” “I’m not regretting anything,” I said, cutting him off. “And I won’t. Because I don’t love him anymore.” The door clicked open. Declan stood there. The air around him was frigid. His eyes were dark, dangerous pools. “What did you say?” He walked closer. “You don’t love who? Say that again.” I had hung up the phone the second I heard the latch. Now, I lay still, eyes shut, feigning sleep. Declan loomed over the bed. Seeing my closed eyes, he let out a breath he’d been holding. He thought I was talking in my sleep. But the relief was short-lived. Even in my dreams, he couldn’t tolerate my indifference. He shook my shoulder. “Nora? Wake up. You were having a nightmare. Were you dreaming about Neil?” I opened my eyes, staring past him. “Nothing. I just dreamt Neil asked me why his mommy doesn’t love him anymore.” Declan flinched as if I’d slapped him. He pulled me into a hug, too tight. “Neil’s death isn’t your fault. Stop torturing yourself. We’re young. We can have a dozen kids if you want.” I stayed silent. I was cold, all the way through to my marrow. I could have another child, yes. But my son was dead. Did he think children were replaceable? Like goldfish? I was too tired to fight. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?” He pulled back, looking at me. “Tomorrow is the seventh day since… since it happened. The vigil. I’ll go with you to the cemetery.” My body went rigid. “Director,” a nurse called from the hallway, terrified. “Miss Ivy had a nightmare. She’s screaming your name. She’s hyperventilating.” “Understood,” Declan said. He looked at me, a long, searching look. “Rest, Nora. We’ll say goodbye to Neil together tomorrow.” I stared at the ceiling until dawn. The next day, Declan drove us. The Kensington family estate was draped in black crepe. The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. I hobbled into the main hall on my crutches, desperate for one last look at the small casket. But before I could cross the threshold, my mother-in-law, Eleanor, launched herself at me. “You have the nerve to show your face!” She slapped me. The force of it knocked me sideways. Then her hands were in my hair, pulling, tearing. “You killed my grandson! You knew you were a target, yet you paraded him around town! Why didn’t the kidnappers kill you? You poisonous bitch, you wanted him dead!” I froze, stunned. Ivy was the one who took Neil out. Ivy was the one who lost him. Why was Eleanor screaming at me? I looked at Declan. He turned his head away. The rest of the family swarmed, feeding off the matriarch’s rage. “Heartless woman!” “Get her out of here! She doesn’t deserve to be at the funeral!” I had dragged my broken body here to say goodbye to my son, and they were treating me like a criminal. A rock thrown from the crowd struck my forehead. Blood trickled into my eye. Someone kicked my crutch away. I fell hard, the impact jarring my broken arm. Finally, Declan stepped in. He stood over me, his voice booming. “Enough! This isn’t Nora’s fault. Anyone who touches her again answers to me. Do you want to spend the night in a military brig?” The crowd parted. He was the head of the family now. He carried me upstairs to the guest room and opened a first aid kit. I watched him clean the blood from my forehead. “Ivy took Neil to the mall. Why does your mother think it was me?” Declan’s hand paused. He didn’t look at me. “Nora… you know Ivy’s position is fragile. She’s a foster child. The family never really accepted her.” He sighed, finally meeting my eyes. “If they knew she was the reason Neil died… they’d destroy her. She wouldn’t survive it.” “But you,” he continued, “you’re my wife. You’re strong. I can protect you. No one can actually hurt you.” “So,” he finished, voice soft, “just take the blame for her. Please. As compensation, I’ll transfer the deed to the lakeside villa to your name.” He braced himself for the explosion. He expected me to scream, to throw things. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever.” He blinked. “Don’t overthink this. Ivy is like a sister to me. We grew up together. When she found out she was adopted… she lost her whole world. I can’t abandon her.” “I understand,” I said. “You don’t need to explain. Explanations are for people who care. I don’t love you anymore, Declan. I don’t need your reasons.” Before he could process that, a security guard burst in, panting. “Director! Disaster! Miss Ivy came to pay her respects and got into a fight with Harper!” Harper. The Kensington’s biological daughter, kidnapped years ago and raised in poverty. She hated Ivy—the girl who lived the life that was stolen from her—with a burning passion. Declan panicked. He dropped the gauze. “Wrap it yourself. I have to go down there before Harper kills her.” He ran out. The moment he left, Eleanor marched in. She wasn’t alone. She had two of the house staff with her, and she was holding a heavy wooden cane. “Declan’s gone,” she hissed. “No one to save you now.” “You killed my grandson. I’m going to make you wish you were dead.” The staff grabbed me. They hauled me up and slammed me onto the hardwood floor. Eleanor stepped on my broken hand, grinding her heel down. “I bet it hurt when those men threw Neil, didn’t it? Did his bones snap like this?” The pain was blinding. I curled into a ball. Did Neil hurt this much? When he hit the ground… did he call for me? Eleanor nodded to the servants. They lifted me up and threw me down again. And again. “You’re special forces!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You could have saved him! You let him die to punish Declan! You were jealous of Ivy!” I laughed. Through the blood in my mouth, I laughed. Even the old woman knew. Everyone knew Declan chose Ivy. Only Declan pretended it was “brotherly love.” They beat me until I stopped moving. “Madam, stop! She’s barely breathing!” Darkness took me. I woke up back in the hospital. I struggled to sit up. My phone had two notifications. One from the City Clerk: Divorce Decree finalized. Please collect within 3 days. One from Special Ops: Project Chimera initiates tomorrow. Send extraction coordinates. I stared at the screen, and for the first time in forever, I smiled. But I had one stop to make. I heard Ivy had been injured by Harper and was in the VIP wing. I grabbed my crutch and dragged myself down the hall. “Nora? Here to gloat?” Ivy lay in bed, looking pristine. “You’re pathetic. You’re half-dead and Declan isn’t even there. I twist my ankle and he holds my hand all night.” I ignored the bait. “Ivy. I want the truth. That day at the plaza. Did you lose Neil, or did you let him go?” Ivy laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound. “You really want to know? Fine. Declan was there.” I froze. “Declan was there,” she repeated, savoring the words. “I led Neil to the alley. I let go of his hand. When the men came… Declan was twenty feet away. He saw it. But he ran to me. He tackled me to ‘protect’ me because I screamed. He watched them take your son because he was too busy being my hero.” The room spun. Declan was there. “And the best part?” Ivy smirked. “He knew I was carrying a concealed weapon. I didn’t need saving. In his heart, you and your son combined aren’t worth my little finger.” Tears blurred my vision, but I wiped them away instantly. That was the last tear I would ever shed for Declan Kensington. I turned and walked out. I took a cab to the City Clerk’s office. I sat on the steps all night until they opened. I got the certificate. I asked them to mail Declan’s copy to his office. A black military Jeep was waiting at the curb. Before I got in, I took out my phone. I uploaded the recording of my conversation with Ivy to the internal military network. Neil’s death wasn’t an accident. It was negligent homicide, covered up by a high-ranking official. The law couldn’t touch them, but the court of public opinion—and the military tribunal—would destroy them. I tossed the phone into a trash can. I climbed into the Jeep. The engine roared. I was free.

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