Author: Momo Chan

The girl I’d been talking to online mentioned she had a thing for the “clean-cut, preppy” look. Before we were set to meet in person, I silently purged my closet. Out went the faded hoodies and gym shorts; in came the crisp, white button-downs. That’s when the text started scrolling across my vision, glowing like a neon news ticker suspended in mid-air: [Why is the Side Character changing his wardrobe? If he actually cleans up, how is the Hero supposed to impersonate him to get the Girl?] [Relax. The Hero will make one snarky comment, and the Side Character will feel so insecure he’ll change back into his rags.] [Actually… the Side Character has broad shoulders and a runner’s build. He’d honestly look better in that shirt…] [Who cares about looks? The Hero is the Golden Boy of the Finance Department. This guy reeks of poverty. How could he ever match with the Simona heiress?] My fingers froze on the buttons. The dorm door swung open. Brody walked in, spinning a basketball on his finger, his eyes landing softly on my new shirt. “Carter? You bought that?” He walked over, his voice dripping with that practiced, effortless charm. “Honestly, man? That style just… isn’t you. It looks like you’re playing dress-up. It’s a little awkward.” 1 Awkward. The word was a needle, sliding precisely into my insecurity. My parents always raised me to be practical, invisible. Keep your head down, Carter. Wear clothes that last. So, I lived in oversized sportswear. But what twenty-year-old guy doesn’t want to look good? Brody patted my shoulder, flashing that winning, sunlight-bright smile. “I’ve got a new tracksuit I haven’t worn. You can have it. I just don’t want you going out there and getting laughed at.” If this were yesterday, I would have burned with shame. I would have stripped off the shirt and buried it in the bottom of my laundry hamper. Countless times I’d wanted to elevate my style, and every time, Brody was there to “gently” steer me back to mediocrity. I truly believed he was looking out for me. That is, until I overheard him in the hallway telling our other roommates that I actually had better bone structure than him, and if I ever figured out how to dress, he’d lose his spot as the campus heartthrob. Brody gave me the silent treatment for three days after that conversation. I was the one who apologized. I begged for his friendship back. I thought he was my best friend. I was so paralyzed by my own low self-esteem that the idea of competing with him never even crossed my mind. But today… I shook my head. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t see a charity case. I saw a man. I hooked a smile onto my face. “I’m good, thanks. I want to try something new.” Brody’s smile faltered. It was like a glitch in the simulation. The ticker in my vision flared up again: [What is the Side Character doing? Does he actually think he looks good?] [If he keeps this up, how is the Hero going to steal his identity and bag the Heiress?] [Don’t worry, everyone. The Side Character never sent a face pic to the Girl. The Hero is smart; he’s already planning the ‘accidental’ meet-cute. Carter is about to become the imposter in his own life.] [Exactly. The Hero just has to play the victim, and Tiffany Simona will melt. Who cares about Carter?] It hit me then, with the force of a physical blow. I was just a prop. A “cannon fodder” character in a trashy romance novel. My existence served one purpose: to make Brody look better and to facilitate his romance with Tiffany Simona. In the original ending, Brody frames me for trying to sabotage their love. I get expelled, blacklisted, and end up working manual labor in some godforsaken place, miserable until the day I die. Well. I’m awake now. And I’m not playing by the script anymore. I wanted to see what happens to a romance novel when the side character decides he’s done hating himself. I straightened my spine, squaring my shoulders in the mirror. I looked Brody dead in the eye. “My girlfriend said she likes guys in white shirts. I figured it was time for a change.” The corners of Brody’s mouth tightened. “Is that so? Carter, come on. You can’t take online flings seriously. She probably just said that…” “Maybe,” I interrupted, adjusting my collar. “But let’s test the theory. Who knows? I might just pull it off.” 2 That night, Brody didn’t try to talk me out of it again. But the air in the room was thick with his irritation. He tossed and turned all night. We didn’t have classes the next morning. When I woke up, Brody’s bed was empty. I washed up and checked my phone. A message from T-Simona. T-Simona: You mentioned yesterday you wanted to change up your look. I hope I didn’t pressure you. Just be yourself. No pressure with me, ever. I stared at the screen, a warmth spreading through my chest. We met in an online book club six months ago. She didn’t say much, but every word she typed felt like it had weight, like it came from a deep, quiet place. We clicked. We’d been “dating” for two months, but I’d always been too insecure to send a face reveal. I looked at the mirror. The white shirt was crisp. I looked clean. Capable. I snapped a photo. No filters. Just me. And I hit send. Carter: No pressure at all. I wanted the change. What do you think? Almost instantly, the mental ticker scrolled past: [He actually sent it! Too little, too late. The Hero already has her schedule. He’s probably initiating the encounter right now.] [The drama! The Hero is wearing a nearly identical shirt today. He’s going to wait for her to mistake him for Carter!] [Carter sends the photo now, but the Girl will just think he’s the copycat. The Hero is going to spin such a sob story.] [The Hero and the Heiress are destiny. Why is this garbage character fighting it?] My heart dropped into my stomach. I texted her: Where are you? No reply. I shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbed my bag, and sprinted. I reached the bottom of the stairs when my phone buzzed. It wasn’t her. I remembered vaguely that the book club organizer mentioned she was in the Fine Arts program. I ran toward the Arts wing. From fifty yards away, I saw them. Under the sprawling shade of the old oak tree near the side exit. A guy in a crisp white shirt, hair styled perfectly. He was looking down at a girl, his profile sharp and handsome. It was Brody. The woman had her back to me. She was slender, wearing a simple, elegant beige dress. Brody reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was practiced, tender. The ticker screamed in excitement: [Yes! That’s the look! The soulful second lead energy! Look at him, Tiffany! He’s the one!] [The Hero looks so vulnerable. If he says Carter stole his photo, she’ll believe him in a heartbeat!] The next second, Brody leaned down and kissed her forehead. The small flame of hope in my chest hissed and died. The woman looked up. Her gaze drifted past Brody and collided with mine. She didn’t look away. Brody followed her line of sight. When he saw me, his smile froze, then shattered. “Tiffany.” His voice was tight. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late for the gallery.” I found my voice, stepping forward. “Actually, I’m the one who—” “He’s my roommate, Carter,” Brody cut in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, practically trembling. “I… I didn’t want to tell you…” He looked at her with wide, wet eyes. “He bullies me in the dorm constantly. He even stole my photos to catfish people online…” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing angry red scratches on his forearm. “Yesterday, I tried to ask him to stop, and he… he came at me with a utility knife…” The woman’s expression shifted instantly. When she looked at me again, the curiosity was gone. Replaced by a cold, aristocratic disgust. “Brody is my boyfriend now.” Her voice was ice. “If you touch him again, or try to use his identity…” She paused, looking me up and down like I was something she stepped in. “I will make sure you don’t just leave this university. I’ll make sure you disappear.” She turned her heel. They walked away. I stood there, the summer breeze feeling like liquid nitrogen against my skin. I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I opened our chat. Carter: Why would you believe a stranger over me? Sent. Thirty minutes later. The vibration buzzed against my palm. T-Simona: Something urgent came up. I’ll find you. My heart hit the floor. I laughed, a dry, cracking sound, as a tear hit the screen. Carter: I get it. I hope you’re happy. I hit send. Then I tapped the corner of the screen. Block. Delete conversation. 3 If I couldn’t change the plot of this damn novel, I could at least remove myself from it. I would stay in my lane. I wouldn’t touch their toxic love story. But the tree craves silence, and the wind won’t stop blowing. The anonymous post on the campus forum—”The Preston Whisperer”—went live the next morning. The headline was in bold, aggressive red: EXPOSED! Psycho Stalker Carter steals Roommate’s Photos for Catfishing, Bullies Victim into Silence! The post was a masterclass in fiction. It wove a narrative of a jealous, psychotic loser terrorizing the golden boy. I was the villain. The comments section was a dumpster fire. [Whoa, for real? Carter looks so quiet though.] [It’s always the quiet ones. I heard he’s on financial aid—probably jealous of Brody.] [I’m next door to them. I hear Brody sighing all the time. Now it makes sense. Terrifying.] [Expel him! We don’t need freaks like that at Preston!] I scrolled, my fingers numb. When I walked into my lecture hall, the stares felt like physical pricks. My desk was covered in blue ink. The sticky liquid dripped onto the floor, a dark stain against the linoleum. After class, I was cornered in the stairwell. Three guys. The leader was one of Brody’s frat brothers. He crossed his arms, sneering. “Well look at that. The Great Pretender. You have some nerve showing up.” “Move,” I rasped. Another guy leaned in. “Check the forum? Ten thousand views. You’re famous, stalker.” They formed a semi-circle. Down the hall, leaning against a locker, was Brody. He was watching, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. One of the guys grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved my head toward the trash can. “Get off me!” I struggled. “You’re defending a liar! Brody is the one bullying me!” “I never used his photos! He’s impersonating me!” Someone kicked the trash can. Coffee grounds and old noodles splashed all over my white shirt. “Garbage human,” someone spat. People walked by, averting their eyes or whispering that I deserved it. I broke free and ran, hiding in a dead-end corridor of the Science building until the sun went down. My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Unknown numbers. Get out of Preston, freak. Die, stalker. By evening, my stomach was eating itself. I had to go to the dining hall. The moment I stepped in, someone “tripped” and splashed a cup of scalding tea on me. I yelped in pain. The cafeteria went silent. All eyes on me. The guy was Brody’s shadow, always trailing him like a puppy. “What is wrong with you?!” I shouted, my patience snapping. He gritted his teeth and slammed his food tray onto my chest. Marinara sauce exploded over me. “Stop whining! You fake piece of trash, using Brody’s face to scam girls and then cutting him up?” “I caught you today, so I’m settling the score for Brody!” I opened my mouth to argue, but his friends circled me. Up on the mezzanine level, looking down from the VIP balcony, was the woman in the beige dress. She frowned, looking at the commotion. Her friend whispered something like, “Tiffany, ignore him. He deserves it.” Down below, I was being shoved, my hair pulled. Suddenly, Brody’s voice cut through the noise. “Guys! Stop! What are you doing?” The crowd parted. He rushed in, looking like a saint, reaching out to help me up. “Are you okay, Carter?” He frowned, turning to the mob. “Don’t do this. As long as Carter learns his lesson…” Watching his performance made bile rise in my throat. I instinctively slapped his hand away. He threw himself backward like he’d been shot. As he fell, his sweatpants caught on the edge of a chair. RIIIP. The fabric tore from the knee up, revealing… thermal long johns. In June. Time stopped for a second. Then Brody started wailing, curling into a ball on the floor. “Carter! I was trying to help you! Why would you attack me again?” The woman on the balcony, Tiffany, came sprinting down the stairs. 4 She ripped off her designer cardigan and draped it over Brody, helping him up. She turned to me. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the floor. “Carter.” Her voice was a low growl. “I warned you yesterday.” “Get out of my sight. Now.” In this broken narrative, arguing was useless. I turned and walked out, humiliated, sauce drying on my skin. I needed to transfer. I needed to leave. Then came the notification. “Emergency Dorm Meeting.” Mandatory. It was a trap. I knew it. But if I didn’t go, I’d be expelled for truancy. I pushed open the door to the student lounge. Brody and his crew were waiting. “Ah, the guest of honor.” I gripped my backpack straps. “Where’s the RA? Where’s the Dean?” “There is no meeting.” One of the guys spun a keychain around his finger. “This is an intervention.” Someone set up a phone on a tripod. “Livestream title: Stalker Carter Confesses. 10k likes and we let him go.” Blood rushed to my head. “This is false imprisonment.” “Imprisonment?” The guy laughed, slapping my cheek lightly. “This is community service. We’re cleaning up the trash.” “Or… you can drop out. Right now. Disappear from Tiffany’s life.” Before I could answer, two guys grabbed my arms. “Let go!” One pulled out a permanent marker. “Should we write ‘LIAR’ or ‘SHAME’ on his face? Oh, right, you like stealing Brody’s look?” The marker tip hovered near my eye. I jerked my right arm free and shoved him. hard. He stumbled back, knocking over a chair. “He fights back?!” Another guy rushed me, twisting my arm behind my back and slamming me against the whiteboard. “Do it the hard way, then.” Brody rushed forward, grabbing the collar of my stained white shirt. He yanked. Buttons popped, pinging against the floor. The fabric tore, exposing my chest and shoulder. Wolf whistles and laughter filled the room. The camera flashed. “Keep going, Brody! Strip him! Let’s make him famous!” “Actually, he’s ripped. Too bad he’s a psycho. Title it: The Real Face of the Stalker.” Humiliation burned like acid. I struggled, but the hands holding me were iron. Another hand grabbed my waistband. “No—!” The scream caught in my throat. The lounge door swung open. Light flooded in. It was her. My online connection. She stood in the doorway, silhouette sharp. “What is going on here?” For a second, I thought I was saved. “Miss Simona! Perfect timing!” Brody’s lackey shouted. “We’re teaching the scammer a lesson. He tried to hit Brody again!” Tiffany walked into the room. Her eyes landed on my face. “Don’t go too far.” Brody immediately latched onto her arm, fake tears welling up. Tiffany was silent for a few seconds. Then she spoke, slow and bored. “…Just don’t kill him.” Five words. They crushed the last bit of hope I had. The goons cheered. “You heard the lady!” “Strip him!” Hands grabbed at my remaining clothes. CRASH. The double doors were kicked open. A figure stood there, backlit by the hallway lights. A long black trench coat, tall, radiating a chill that froze the room instantly.

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The day after I graduated from college, my father threw me out of the house. He made the announcement in the family chat thread. “I didn’t raise him all these years just so he could be a deadbeat mooching off me.” “Two hundred dollars is more than enough to get him started until he finds a job.” “If he can’t make something of himself, I won’t call him my son.” The likes and agreements from relatives poured in immediately. To pay off my student loans, I was forced to rent the cheapest room available and take on the toughest, most exhausting jobs, often juggling three shifts a day. Eventually, I collapsed from sheer exhaustion and died while making a delivery run. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I was expelled from the mansion. The first thing I did with the two hundred dollars was buy a train ticket to my grandparents’ house. If you won’t let me mooch off you… Then none of us will! 1 I found myself standing in the familiar, yet chillingly cold, living room of the mansion. My father, Victor Caldwell, stood opposite me, his gaze entirely devoid of warmth. There was only unconcealed disappointment and a deep-seated annoyance. My half-brother, Jace Caldwell, slouched on the expensive leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a smirk of malicious glee playing on his lips. My stepmother, Sibyl Sinclair, stood at my father’s side, one hand resting on his arm in a show of concern. With the other, she was gently dabbing at tears that weren’t there with a tissue. “You’ve graduated from college, you’re a grown man. Do you plan on just idling around, waiting for the world to hand you a living?” Victor’s voice was like chips of ice, every word a solid blow to my chest. “I didn’t feed and clothe you for two decades just so you could be an unproductive piece of trash, a freeloader!” Sibyl immediately cut in with fake solicitude: “Victor, don’t talk about Kellan that way.” “Kellan is still young, just starting out. He doesn’t know anything.” “If you rush him out so quickly, what if he can’t take care of himself? It breaks my heart to think about it…” Her words, though seemingly meant to soothe, were meant only to fan the flames. Predictably, Victor’s temper flared even higher. He flung Sibyl’s hand away and jabbed a finger right into my face. “Young? He’s twenty-two! What are you talking about?” “Kids from poor families start working after high school to support their families!” “I put food on your plate, gave you clothes on your back, and paid for your college education. My duty is done!” “Starting today, you’re on your own. Get out and make a life for yourself!” With that, he yanked two bills from his wallet and violently slapped them across my cheek. “Two hundred bucks. That’s enough to tide you over until you find a job! Don’t you dare say I didn’t help you!” The floodgates of memory burst open. In my last life, I had listened to those harsh words, seen Jace’s delighted smile and Sibyl’s performance, and felt nothing but righteous fury and injustice. I argued vehemently, insisting I needed time to find a job after graduation, explaining that the world wasn’t as simple as they imagined. I even brought up the student loans—loans Father had insisted I take out, saying it would “keep me focused” during my college years. The response was a thunderous slap. It was heavy and brutal, stunning me into silence. My cheek instantly swelled, my ears rang, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I stared at Victor in disbelief. The man who once carried me on his shoulders now looked at me with cold disgust. Sibyl pretended to gasp and rushed to intervene, while Jace barely managed to stifle a laugh. That moment was the complete shattering of my dignity, the bleak starting point of my miserable last life. I was tossed out with my humiliation and those two hundred dollars, beginning a dark, relentless struggle that ended on the side of a road… This time, I didn’t argue. I took a deep breath, lifted my head, and met my enraged father’s eyes with a calm that was utterly foreign to him. “Yes, Dad. I understand.” “Before I leave, I just have one question.” “When Jace graduates, will you do the same thing to him?” “Will you hand him two hundred dollars and kick him out of this house to fend for himself?” 2 The living room fell into a sudden, deadly silence. Victor froze, then his face turned a ghastly shade of white. Jace’s smile vanished, and he instinctively sat up straight. Sibyl shrieked, “Kellan! What are you talking about? What does this have to do with your brother?” Victor lunged forward like a lion whose tail had been stepped on. “You ungrateful little bastard!” Instead of another slap, he grabbed my suitcase with a crude jerk. He threw it with all his might out of the open front door, like it was a piece of trash. The suitcase hit the concrete driveway with a dull thud. The latches sprang open, and a few of my faded, worn clothes spilled out. “Get out! Get out now!” “I don’t have a son like you!” He stood there, chest heaving, pointing frantically at the door. Jace raised his phone, openly snapping pictures. His face was a mask of excitement, as if he were watching an incredibly entertaining show. Sibyl gently rubbed Victor’s back, cooing, “Victor, don’t get so worked up. He’s not worth it.” “The boy is foolish; we’ll teach him slowly…” But the flash of triumph in her eyes did not escape me. I silently gathered my scattered clothes, picked up my college diploma, and carefully brushed the dust off the cover. Then, clutching the two wrinkled hundred-dollar bills, I straightened my spine and walked, one step at a time, away from this grand, yet utterly devoid of warmth, “home.” Behind me, I heard Victor’s continued, angry roaring, Sibyl’s feigned comfort, and Jace’s barely suppressed low laughter. The wrought-iron gate of the estate slowly closed behind me with a heavy clank, separating two worlds. The sunlight was harsh. I squinted, looking at the distant city traffic. This time, I wouldn’t be the blind fool of the last life, rushing headlong into the bottom rung of society, letting cheap labor drain my life away. Two hundred dollars was enough. Enough to buy a train ticket back to my grandparents. If you won’t let me mooch, then neither will you! After hours of travel, I finally arrived in the small town, full of the scent of earth and the warmth I remembered. Grandpa Robert (“Bob”) was sitting on his porch swing, rolling a cigarette. Grandma Martha was busy in the kitchen. The smoke from the wood stove curled into the sky, carrying the unique, delicious aroma of home cooking. “Kellan? What are you doing back here?” Grandpa looked up, surprised, then a flicker of confusion crossed his wrinkled face. Grandma heard his voice and came out, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes crinkling into a warm smile. “Oh, my sweet boy is home! Come in, come in! Have you eaten? Grandma is making scrambled eggs just for you!” Seeing the genuine, unreserved joy in their faces, my heart swelled, and my eyes stung with unshed tears. At the dinner table, as my grandparents constantly piled food onto my plate and asked after me, I didn’t hold anything back. I recounted my experience exactly as it happened, without exaggeration. Grandma’s eyes welled up as she listened, gripping my hand tightly. “My poor baby… your father is just… just completely out of his mind!” Grandpa listened in silence, his face growing darker, the veins on the back of his hand bulging. When I repeated Victor’s line—”If he can’t make something of himself, I won’t call him my son”—he slammed his fist onto the table with a loud thud. “That son of a bitch!” Grandpa shot up, his chest heaving. “Victor Caldwell, he thinks he’s something special, does he? How dare he treat my grandson this way?” He pulled out his old flip phone and dialed Victor’s number. The moment it connected, he roared into the receiver: “Victor Caldwell! Get your sorry self back here now! Now! Immediately!” Victor on the other end seemed to try and explain something. Grandpa didn’t give him a chance, hanging up the phone immediately. A few hours later, Victor’s Maybach pulled up outside Grandpa’s rural farmhouse. He frowned as he got out, his face etched with impatience. “Dad, why the emergency? I have work back at the office.” When he saw me sitting next to my grandparents, a look of displeasure and dawning comprehension crossed his face. “What is it?” Grandpa fought to suppress his fury. “I’ll tell you what it is! I’m asking you, is this how you treat your own flesh and blood?” “Kicking him out the day after he graduates with two hundred dollars?” “Have you completely lost your mind?” A flash of guilt and embarrassment crossed Victor’s face, but it was quickly replaced by self-righteous indignation. “Dad, I’m doing this for his own good!” “It’s called ‘tough love,’ the most prevalent parenting philosophy in the world!” “He’s twenty-two! A man! Should he keep living at home as a mooch? Kids in other countries are independent by eighteen. I’m already late on this!” 3 He spoke with great eloquence, as if he were an expert in child psychology. Grandma shot him a sideways glance. “Tough love? I think that snake Sibyl is the one who put you up to this!” “She can’t stand Kellan, so you go along with her, tormenting my grandson?” Victor’s face changed, and he immediately denied it. “Mom! What are you saying?” “This has nothing to do with Sibyl! It was my decision entirely.” “And Jace is my son too. I’ll treat them both equally in the future, I promise!” He said this with absolute certainty. As if he hadn’t completely lost his temper when I brought up Jace just yesterday. “Equally?” Grandpa Bob let out a cold laugh, full of irony and disappointment. “Fine. ‘Equally,’ you say! Victor Caldwell, you’ve gotten awfully big for your boots, using some foreign parenting fad to turn against your own son.” Grandpa stood up, his gaze like a torch. “Since you believe that once a child is an adult, he shouldn’t be managed and should rely on himself…” “Then fine, I ask you, how old are you this year?” Victor was taken aback, not grasping Grandpa’s meaning. “Fifty-three… Dad, why do you ask?” “Fifty-three. Much older than twenty-two, isn’t it!” Grandpa’s voice suddenly rose. “You go on and on about your son not mooching, but what about you?” “That mansion you live in, the three prime rental properties you collect rent from every month, even the seed money for your company—how much of that did you earn?” “Wasn’t it all built from the ground up by me?” Victor’s face went white instantly. He seemed to sense what was coming and hurriedly said, “Dad, that… that’s not the same! I’m your son. All these businesses will eventually be…” “Eventually?” Grandpa cut him off, his tone glacial. “There is no eventually! You think relying on your parents is shameful and independence is necessary?” “I’ll grant you your wish!” “Starting today, I’ll notify the tenants of those three properties to deposit the rent directly into your mother’s account.” “And the mansion you live in? I’m taking that back, too!” “The three of you, go find your own place to live and be independent!” The words hit Victor like a lightning bolt. He was stunned. He could no longer maintain the facade of his “parenting philosophy.” His face was covered in panic and disbelief. “Dad! You can’t do this!” “I’m your only son! How can you take the family property back?” “This… how are we supposed to live? The company’s cash flow relies on that rent!” He rushed forward, his voice a mixture of pleading and confusion, a stark contrast to the high-minded father of just hours ago. Grandpa looked at his desperate, ugly face, his disappointment deepening, leaving only cold resolve. “Only son? You remember you’re my son now?” “Did you remember you were my son when you were kicking my grandson out?” “You’re in your fifties! You force your newly graduated son to be independent, yet you happily live off the wealth I built?” “Victor Caldwell, have you no shame?” “Get out! Get out now! Take your philosophy with you, and go be ‘independent’!” Victor stood frozen, his color cycling from white to green to red. He looked at Grandpa’s freezing face, then at Grandma’s tear-filled yet resolute eyes, and finally, his gaze settled on me. His expression was complex: anger, resentment, and perhaps a faint, barely perceptible flicker of regret? The air hung heavy for a few seconds. “Dad, Mom, I… I was wrong.” Victor’s voice was dry, a strained attempt at conciliation. “I was foolish, I didn’t think it through. I shouldn’t have treated Kellan like that.” 4 Grandpa looked at him coldly, remaining silent. Grandma turned her face away, wiping the corner of her eye. Seeing the situation wasn’t improving, Victor quickly turned to me. “Kellan, your father was wrong. I was just too eager for you to succeed.” “Please… don’t take it to heart. I promise I’ll change and be a better father to you!” He spoke earnestly, his eyes full of what seemed like sincerity. But I remembered the last life clearly. The rain was heavy that day. I was riding my scooter when a sudden, sharp pain in my chest made me lose control and crash onto the side of the road. My vision blurred. Rain and mud poured into my nose and mouth. In my last flickering moment of consciousness, I saw a familiar black Maybach slow to a stop five feet away due to traffic. The window lowered, and I saw my father. His gaze casually swept over me, without stopping, without confusion, without the slightest ripple of emotion. It was like seeing a dying stray dog on the roadside. The window went up, and when the light turned green, the car sped away. The promises spilling from his mouth now were nauseatingly fake to me. He was giving in, not because he recognized his error, but because Grandpa had cut off his financial lifeline. Once the crisis passed, he would revert to his old self, or perhaps even intensify his cruelty because of today’s humiliation. Unfortunately, my grandparents were ultimately soft-hearted. Grandpa snorted. “You know you were wrong now? What took you so long?” “Victor Caldwell, I’m telling you, this is the last time!” “If you ever dare to mistreat my grandson again, I will change my will immediately. I’ll donate everything, and you won’t get a single penny!” Victor, reprieved, nodded rapidly. “Never again, absolutely never again!” “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll turn over a new leaf.” Before leaving, I said I wanted to buy something at the town store and asked Grandpa to walk with me for a bit… Back in the city, Victor asked me to move back into the mansion and arranged for me to take a middle management position at the company. The following days were calm. Sibyl and Jace greeted me with smiles. But I knew the undercurrents were strong beneath the peaceful surface. At the company’s annual Fall Gala, I was toasted by management until I felt woozy and slipped into an empty private room next door to rest. As I was drifting off, the door was suddenly shoved open. A strange woman rushed in and, before I could react, began to scream. “Help! Rape!” At the same time, she aggressively tore at her own skirt and stockings, exposing her pale legs. My drunken haze instantly evaporated. Before I could process what was happening, Sibyl rushed in with several colleagues and pinned me down. The room erupted into chaos. Someone immediately called the police. Victor was the last to arrive when the officers got there. He stood beside the police, his face a picture of distress. “Officers, this is my failure as a father.” “I never imagined he would do such a thing. Please process this according to the law. I will not interfere.” “He should serve whatever sentence he deserves. The Caldwell family will not harbor a disgrace like this!” Sibyl pointed at me, tears streaming down her face. “Officer, he’s always been bad! When he was a child, he… he used to peep on the maid in the shower!” “I was too scared to say anything, but now I’m terrified to think about it!” Jace instantly backed her up. “I saw it too! I saw my brother stealing the maid’s stockings!” “And his computer is full of porn and shady websites!” The mother and son’s accusations caused a commotion. Colleagues began to whisper. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. He seemed so normal.” “I noticed him staring at the women’s legs in the office! Now he’s drunk, the real colors show. He’s clearly a pervert!” “With a son like this, no wonder Victor Caldwell is acting like a saint.” “It’s dangerous to work with a man like this. Kellan Blackwood belongs in jail!” The murmurs weren’t loud, but I heard them clearly. An officer approached. Just as the handcuffs were about to be clamped onto my wrists, I spoke calmly. “Officer, before you take me, I request to make a phone call.” Victor sneered, crossing his arms. “A phone call? It won’t help, no matter who you call!” “Don’t bother with your grandfather. Not even God himself can save you now!” Jace snickered, his eyes filled with contempt. “Bro, stop struggling. Just confess and maybe you’ll get a shorter sentence.” I ignored them both, speaking clearly, word by word. “According to procedure, I have the right to notify family or legal counsel before being subjected to mandatory measures.” The officer hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Fine. Make the call.” Under the varied stares of everyone in the room, I pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper—a scrap from Grandpa’s tobacco pouch. When he saw the number on the paper, Victor’s eyes narrowed suddenly.

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Calvin West noticed the silence first. It had been a full week since I’d filed a single Amex Centurion expense report to the company portal. He must have assumed I’d finally given up my petty habits, because he tossed the heavy black card onto the breakfast table like a bone for a stray. “I’ve covered your dad’s next round of dialysis, Sandy,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “Stop bothering me with these pauper problems. I know your family’s a money pit, but as a West, try to look less starved when you’re feeding.” He didn’t know that when I reached for that black card, I had already signed the divorce papers and the organ donation forms for my father. The gray, pilled sweatshirt I wore was a five-year-old handout he’d given me on a whim. No one would believe that Sandy West, the wife of the man who held half of Hollywood in his palm, had to photograph the receipt for a five-dollar box of tampons and submit it to his assistant for approval. He’d always claimed that a woman like me—a social climber from the wrong side of the tracks—would become “spoiled and unmanageable” if she had her own money. A week ago, my father, Robert, needed an emergency blood filtration. I’d knelt, practically begged, for a simple thirty thousand. Cal’s indispensable executive assistant, Kendall Price—the so-called “One Who Got Away”—had intentionally reversed the wire transfer and told me, with a sweet, condescending smile, that she was helping me “kick the habit of avarice.” Cal didn’t know I endured this ritual of shame only because my father’s life support was tied to Cal’s exclusive, private clinic. But now, they’d pulled the plug due to outstanding balances. Dad was gone. His ashes were scattered. There was no reason for me to be his obedient, well-fed dog anymore. … 1. My phone vibrated. A text from Cal popped up, dripping with the same tone of high-handed charity. “I’ve reinstated your father’s treatment. Try to behave. Stop lying to nickel-and-dime me. I know people from your background struggle, but my money isn’t that easy to swindle.” I stared at the two lines. The strange, cold calm inside me was a revelation. My reply was a single, detached word: “Got it.” I put the phone down and slid the signed divorce agreement across the mahogany desk. Cal probably thought my three-day silence on expense reports was a pathetic attempt at a “cold war.” After all, for the last three years, I had lived like a supplicant for my father’s escalating medical bills. I had no income. Cal had forbidden me from working, saying a West wife never clocked in. But he also refused to give me a household budget. Every single dollar I spent had to be approved through his company’s corporate expense system—Concur, or some equally bureaucratic nightmare. Groceries required approval. Tampons required approval. Even a five-dollar subway ticket required uploading a scanned receipt. The approver was his personal secretary, Kendall Price. The woman who’d been at his side since college, the one he proudly referred to as his “Corporate Muse” and “The Only Woman I Trust.” Three days ago. The hospital had issued a critical notice. Dad had suffered a major stroke and needed emergency surgery. Two hundred thousand dollars. To Cal, it was the cost of a single, decent bottle of wine. I called him, frantically. After a dozen attempts, someone finally answered. It was Kendall. “Sandy, honey, Cal’s in a high-level strategy meeting. Is there something urgent?” I was beyond pride. I sobbed into the phone. “Kendall, please, let me speak to Cal! My father is dying—I need two hundred thousand for emergency surgery!” Kendall chuckled—a delicate, knowing sound. “Sandy, you know the rules. Two hundred thousand isn’t petty cash. You have to submit it through the proper Concur process.” “Cal hates rule-breakers. If you try to jump the queue, he’ll be furious. Just submit the ticket. I promise I’ll approve it as fast as the system allows.” She hung up. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely type. I logged into that goddamn system. Reason: Father’s Emergency Surgery. Amount: $200,000. Attachment: Critical Condition Notice. Submit. I watched the screen. One second, two seconds. Ten minutes later. The phone buzzed. It wasn’t a transfer notification. It was a Concur rejection email. Rejected by: Kendall Price. Reason for Rejection: Attachment format is blurry. Please rescan and upload a high-resolution image. The blood drained from my head. 2. I reshot the photo. My hands were shaking, so it was a little fuzzy. I took another one. Every second was a life lost. I submitted again. Five minutes later. Rejected. Reason for Rejection: Amount too large. Requires a detailed line-item expenditure breakdown, precise down to the unit price of each medication. I lost it. The surgery hadn’t even started; the doctors were just trying to stabilize him. Where was I supposed to get a price list down to the milligram? “Please, for God’s sake, approve the money first! It’s life-saving cash!” “I’ll file the details later, Kendall, please! It’s a human life!” Kendall replied with a cute, laughing emoji. “Sister, it’s not that I don’t want to help. But the CFO rules are the CFO rules. I have to manage expectations. You’re just too chaotic. You can’t bring poor-people habits into a luxury lifestyle, can you? Cal said he needed me to help you set boundaries.” I stood outside the operating room, clutching my phone. I felt like a beaten mutt whose spine had been removed. I texted Cal. I sent voicemails. “Cal West, I’m begging you.” “Just send the money, and I will do whatever you say. I won’t fight you anymore. I won’t be jealous of Kendall. Please, save my father.” Thirty minutes later. Cal finally replied with a brief voice note. The background was loud and brassy; his voice was slurred with slight intoxication and deep annoyance. “Just do what Kendall tells you. Stop bothering me.” In that moment. The surgery light turned off. The doctor emerged, pulling down his mask, and shook his head with a deep, weary regret. “I’m sorry. If we could have administered the medication even ten minutes earlier…” I didn’t hear the rest. The world went silent. The man who had raised me through sheer grit, who’d sacrificed everything to put me through graduate school. He died in this glittering, indifferent city. Because of a Goddamn expense report “format error.” His body grew cold. My love for Cal West went cold right along with it. For three days. I handled the funeral. The cremation. The scattering of the ashes. I never told Cal. There was no need. He was so afraid I would swindle him out of his money. From now on, I would never ask him for a dime. I looked at the patronizing text he’d just sent me. A slow, chilling smile spread across my face. He thought I was playing games for attention. He didn’t know I was offering him the last shred of dignity. A notification flashed on my screen. A red dot on Instagram. It was Kendall. The photo was high-end omakase sushi, and a man’s hand—Cal’s hand—wearing the custom Patek Philippe watch I’d once saved for two years to buy him. The caption: “Thanks to the boss for the excellent meal. Some people only know how to beg for money. So tasteless.” I tapped the ‘Like’ button. Truly. It was the first time I’d ever liked one of Kendall’s posts. The phone rang immediately. Cal. He must have seen the ‘Like’ and thought I was being passive-aggressive. I didn’t answer. Another text came through: “Sandy, who are you trying to shade? Don’t let people misunderstand Kendall. She’s just being professional. Delete that like immediately or I’m shutting off your access to the accounts.” Professional? Professionally murderous? I laughed. I went back to the post and left a comment. “A toast to the secretary who climbed her way to the top by rejecting the boss’s wife’s life-or-death emergency fund. I hope you two soulless vultures lock it up forever. Thieves deserve each other.” Send. Block. Power Off. The world was finally, blessedly quiet. 3. I started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. I had lived in this so-called home for three years. My possessions were pathetic. The walk-in closet was enormous. The left side was Cal’s custom-tailored Italian suits. The right side was several locked cabinets. That’s where the jewelry and the designer bags lived. The keys and the biometric access were all controlled by Kendall. Every time I attended a gala, I had to request the accessories from Kendall as if I were borrowing props for a movie. When I was done, I had to return everything immediately. Once, I accidentally snagged the hem of a designer dress. Kendall made me write a three-thousand-word essay on financial responsibility in front of the housekeeper. She also docked my allowance for the following month. Cal just watched, commenting mildly, “Kendall is helping you learn a lesson. These things are expensive. You can’t afford to replace them.” He was right. I couldn’t afford it. I was an orphan, a “bottom-feeder” in their lexicon. I opened the tiny corner that was mine. A few pilled sweaters. Several pairs of faded jeans. The only thing that mattered was the crisp white T-shirt I’d worn three years ago, when I first got married. Back then, I wasn’t Sandy West. I was the youngest Physics Ph.D. candidate at State, a brilliant student with a limitless future. Cal had said he loved my quiet brilliance. He’d promised, “Sandy, marry me, and I’ll give you a real home.” I believed him. I gave up a scholarship abroad. I ignored my professor’s pleas. I devoted myself to being a trophy wife, trapping myself in a gilded cage and becoming a joke. I stripped off the sweatshirt he hated. I put on the slightly yellowed white T-shirt. The jeans were a little loose. I had lost nearly twenty pounds in three years. I dragged out a battered, worn-out suitcase. I put in my few books, a couple of photos, and my father’s small, black wooden urn. That was all. Everything else in this mansion was utterly meaningless to me. I walked downstairs. Mrs. Petrov, the housekeeper, was polishing a vase. She rolled her eyes when she saw my suitcase. “Trouble again, Mrs. West? The Master said if you walk out this time, don’t even think about coming back.” “Also, Mr. West wants his bouillabaisse for dinner. Don’t forget to make it.” Even the help looked down on me. They knew I, the mistress of the house, didn’t even have the authority to sign their paychecks. My “allowance” was less than their salary. I stopped and looked at Mrs. Petrov. “Make your own damn soup.” “Or better yet, ask Kendall to do it.” Mrs. Petrov froze, unused to my tone. “What is your attitude? I’ll tell the Master…” “Be my guest.” I pulled the suitcase and walked out the front door without a backward glance. The sun was blinding. I shielded my eyes. Three years. I had finally walked out of this tomb. 4. Cal returned faster than I expected. My comment must have infuriated him. He wasn’t there to placate me. He was there to defend his corporate darling. I was struggling to get a taxi outside the estate gates when a black Maybach screeched to a halt in front of me. The door flew open. Cal stepped out, his face a mask of cold fury. Kendall followed, her eyes red, the picture of a woman deeply wronged. “Sandy, what the hell is wrong with you?” Cal grabbed my wrist. “Apologize to Kendall—now!” “What kind of insane lies are you spreading? What good does slandering her name do for you?” I looked at the face that had once made my heart race. Now, I felt only disgust. “Lies?” I yanked my hand free and looked pointedly at Kendall. “Does the Secretary know the truth?” “Three days ago, my father was on an operating table waiting for money.” “Secretary Price rejected my application because of ‘incorrect format’ and ‘excessive amount’.” “Did the CEO know that detail?” Cal paused. He clearly hadn’t known the specifics. He only knew I asked for money, and Kendall said it wasn’t by the book. He looked at Kendall instinctively. Kendall visibly trembled. The tears arrived instantly. “Cal… I didn’t mean to…” “I was just following the company’s financial guidelines. And… and Sandy was so aggressive, I didn’t realize it was life-or-death money…” “Besides, I told the finance department to prepare the transfer later! Sandy just… never resubmitted the form!” What a silver tongue. What a beautiful “never resubmitted.” Was I supposed to submit it to the Grim Reaper? Cal frowned deeper, turning to me with a look of utter disappointment. “Sandy, you constantly let me down.” “Kendall was just doing her job. Why are you being so malicious?” “Your dad was just sick, right? It wasn’t that serious. You’re defaming Kendall online just for this amount of money? Where is your dignity?” Dignity? Talking about dignity to a murderer? I laughed without humor. “Cal West, you are terminally blind.” “If you trust her that much, there’s nothing more to say.” “The divorce papers are on your study desk. Sign them.” I started to walk, pulling my suitcase. My attitude enraged him. He grabbed the suitcase and slammed it on the ground. The old zipper snapped. My pathetic few belongings spilled out. A few threadbare shirts, a couple of books. And a small, black wooden box. The urn rolled a few times, stopping at Cal’s feet. Cal froze. He stared at the box, his pupils constricting violently. “What… what is this?” I bent down, carefully retrieved the urn, and wiped the dust off the surface. “This is my dad.” “Cal West, are you satisfied now?” 5. Cal stood rigid. His eyes darted between the urn and my face, struggling to process the image. “D-dead?” His voice was dry. “How is that possible? He was fine three days ago…” “Yes. He was fine three days ago.” I looked at him calmly. “If that two hundred thousand had arrived promptly, he would be recovering in the ICU right now.” “But alas, Secretary Price found the format incorrect.” “And alas, CEO West assumed I was trying to swindle him.” The air thickened to a solid mass. Kendall’s face was ashen. She instinctively moved to hide behind Cal. “Cal, I truly didn’t know… I thought she was making excuses to buy a new designer bag again…” Cal took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and control. “Why didn’t you just come directly to me for something this critical?” he demanded. “If you had just asked me properly, I wouldn’t have said no! You insisted on using Concur, you chose to spite Kendall, Sandy—you caused the delay!” Ah. That was Cal West. The man who was never wrong. Even with a corpse at his feet, he could find a way to shift the blame to me. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. It was exhausting. “You’re right. It was all my fault.” I nodded. “So, I’m leaving. I won’t pollute your sight anymore.” “Give me my suitcase.” But Cal planted his foot firmly on the clothing scattered on the ground. It was the faded white T-shirt. “Leave? Where do you think you’re going?” “Don’t think using a dead person as leverage will make me forgive you. Get back inside!” He reached for me. I sidestepped his touch, grabbed his arm instead, and hauled him toward the villa. “What are you doing? Let go!” Cal roared. I ignored him, dragging him all the way up the stairs and into the master closet. Kendall scrambled behind us, panicking. “Sandy, please, don’t do anything crazy…” I pointed to the huge wall safe. “Open it, Kendall.” Kendall hesitated. I picked up a nearby golf club. “I said, open it.” The club crashed against the safe door with a deafening CRACK. Cal was stunned. He’d never seen me lose control like this. “Sandy, are you insane!” “Are you opening it or not?” I glared at Kendall. Terrified, Kendall pressed her thumb to the scanner. Beep. The safe door swung open. It was packed with dazzling diamonds, Hermès bags, and limited-edition watches. Cal scoffed, regaining his arrogance. “See? Have I not been good to you? Every single item in here is worth millions!” “Good to me?” I laughed. I dropped the golf club and pulled a thick wad of printed documents from my pocket. I slapped them hard across Cal’s face. The papers drifted down like snow.

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Five years after I lost my hearing, my world suddenly flooded back with sound. I was about to call for my wife, to tell her about the miracle, when I overheard her conversation with her assistant. “Mrs. Caldwell, they’ve harvested almost every organ they can from Mr. Ashworth. Are you really going to replace his heart with an artificial one now?” “This is the seventh operation. First, Grant Kingston killed Mr. Ashworth’s parents, and you planned that crash to cover the truth—to leave him a quadriplegic, a useless dependent.” “He is no threat to you or Grant now. Why won’t you even leave him his last, natural heart?” Sabrina’s voice was unnervingly calm. “I only ever approached Nolan because his tissue matched Grant’s perfectly. And he was a brilliant forensic investigator—I couldn’t risk him finding the truth. It would have ruined Grant for life.” “Once Nolan’s heart is transplanted into Grant, I can finally take the children and return to their real father.” “As for Nolan… I’ll care for him forever. I suppose that’s my compensation to him.” I collapsed onto the floor, my chest tearing open with a pain far greater than any surgery. The one who had orchestrated the brutal death of my entire family was the woman I had loved and trusted for twelve years. She had stayed by my side all this time, not for love, but to use my life, organ by organ, to save her true love! Sabrina. If this is what you truly wanted, then I will grant your wish. But not the way you think. 1 “I had to terminate three of Nolan’s children before I could finally carry Grant’s twins to term. I will never allow anything to happen to my children’s biological father.” “Once this heart transplant is complete, tell the surgeon to permanently cripple his hands, too. Grant can’t sleep at night, knowing those hands once touched me.” “Crippling him will put Grant’s mind at ease.” Cameron, Sabrina’s long-time assistant, spoke with a tremble in his voice. “Mrs. Caldwell, those hands are the only thing Mr. Ashworth can move. Your wedding to Mr. Kingston is scheduled, and you have his children… is it necessary to go to such an extreme? To destroy him so completely?” “If, by some remote chance, Mr. Ashworth ever learned the truth, I’m terrified of the consequences.” Sabrina frowned slightly. “What consequences could a living corpse, who relies on a machine to beat his heart, possibly bring me?” “Nolan is depressed and shuts everyone out but me, which is perfect—I can keep him hidden. Besides, what truth could a deaf man possibly hear?” “We’ll revisit all this after I’ve secured my future with Grant and the children.” Cameron’s face registered a flash of resentment, but he was resigned. He instructed the men to lift me onto the gurney. Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. Through the door, I heard the doctor pleading. “Mrs. Caldwell, in Mr. Ashworth’s current state, this operation is tantamount to murder…” Sabrina’s voice cut through the air, cold and definitive. “Do as I say. I will take full responsibility for him, crippled or otherwise. If he dies, I’ll arrange a beautiful funeral. Now, start the procedure.” The doctor sighed, accepting his grim assignment as the gurney rolled into the operating room. Even a stranger showed more compassion than the woman who had shared my bed for a decade. The anesthesia hit me instantly, blurring my vision. But the pain in my soul only sharpened. I heard Sabrina’s assistant lower his voice and give his final report. “Mrs. Caldwell, the driver who took the fall for Mr. Kingston pleaded guilty in court. He insists he accidentally killed Mr. Ashworth’s parents.” “This must remain confidential. Nolan is physically and mentally shattered after so many operations. He cannot handle any more stress.” “Grant has been suffering from anxiety attacks since the drunk-driving incident. Once the surgery is a success, we can finally hold the wedding. There can be no mistakes this time.” “Understood.” The drugs paralyzed my body, but my hearing remained intact. Sabrina and her team were right outside the door, but I felt a gaping, cold wound in my chest. Grant Kingston was the one who had murdered my parents and mutilated their bodies! And Sabrina, my wife and a sharp lawyer, had broken the law by finding a scapegoat to protect her lover. Afraid I would uncover the truth, she then personally orchestrated the car crash that turned me into a useless dependent! She had even mercilessly aborted our three children, and then lied, claiming the twins were ours. I had clung to those two boys as my only reason to live. The depth of my pity was horrifying. “Tell the surgeon to be gentle. Nolan has already endured seven operations. I’m afraid he can’t take much more.” Sabrina covered her eyes, a look of manufactured guilt crossing her face. “It’s been so many times now. It still hurts my heart to see him wheeled into the operating room.” Cameron, who had been silent, finally couldn’t hold back. “Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Ashworth worked night and day to put you through law school. Now, he’s the only one left of the Ashworth family. Even if you have no loyalty, shouldn’t you consider your future?” Sabrina glared at him. “Why are you suddenly taking his side today?” “What is so wrong with his life now? He doesn’t have to struggle; I provide him with everything. Even if everyone else is gone, he still has me, doesn’t he?” “For Grant and the children to have a complete family, isn’t it Nolan’s duty to make this sacrifice?” Her words twisted the knife deep in my sternum. The shattering pain of my hand bones being broken forced a gasp out of me. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the desolation in my heart. Twelve years of love—a catastrophic, bloody joke. Sabrina, your lies have damned us both. 2 When I woke again, I was tethered to a dozen tubes and wires. Seeing my eyes open, Sabrina quickly wiped away her tears, forcing a gentle, grief-stricken smile that looked painfully sincere. “Nolan, you scared me to death. I was so afraid you wouldn’t wake up this time.” “The doctor says your hearing is miraculously back, but your paralysis is permanent. Don’t worry, you are my beloved husband, and I will take care of you.” I turned my head away, unwilling to meet her gaze. A searing, needle-sharp pain shot through my chest, causing the artificial heart to emit a piercing, urgent alarm. “Nolan, don’t move. You struggled unconsciously during the surgery, and it caused permanent nerve damage in your hands. I authorized the amputation.” “But it’s okay. Even if you have to lie in bed forever, we still have our healthy twin boys, darling.” She motioned for the twins to come over, but the sight of them, knowing my three children were brutally erased, made my blood run cold. I wanted to kill them all. Seeing the cold sweat beading on my brow, Sabrina’s voice was full of manufactured concern. “Nolan, are you angry with me? Please don’t upset yourself. It hurts me to see you like this.” When I remained silent, she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her wounded expression suggested she loved me desperately. For twelve years, I had drowned in this meticulously crafted illusion. Now, the veil had been ripped away. I silently waved my hand, finally managing a weak, choked phrase. “Stop it.” Sabrina cautiously took my hand. “Nolan, do you know? They replaced your heart with the newest model.” “The doctor said this artificial heart can support you for at least twenty years. Now I can finally rest easy. You’ll be by my side forever.” She continued to sing the praises of the machine heart, deliberately twisting the knife in my psyche. I stared blankly at the ceiling. Grant merely suffered from anxiety attacks, and she ordered my healthy, beating heart to be cut out. Again and again, she used my healthy organs to save the man who had murdered my family. She reduced a living man to a living corpse, and she was still lying. “Enough!” Sabrina, seeing my rage, gently wiped the sweat from my forehead, her movements as careful as if I were fragile, priceless art. “Nolan, if you don’t want to hear it, I won’t say it. Just calm down, okay?” To any observer, the scene would evoke a gasp of admiration: Attorney Caldwell truly is devoted to her husband. But they didn’t know the blade concealed beneath that tenderness. They didn’t know the deadly poison in every loving word. She had woven a twelve-year-long nightmare for me. Now, the dream had to end. Since I was still alive, I would personally settle the accounts, every last one of them. 3 A few days later, I told Sabrina I wanted to go home to visit my parents’ memorial. She couldn’t refuse, so she brought me back. All the way there, Sabrina talked about how the day after tomorrow was our twelfth wedding anniversary, and how she had prepared a big surprise for me. I looked at her, expressionless. If this was a fake marriage, what was the point of celebrating an anniversary? Even her pretense of love was physically sickening. Once we were home, Sabrina quickly found an excuse to leave the room. My parents’ black-and-white photos gazed down at me, their eyes gentle. I could only lie here every day, head bowed before those two urns, regretting my impotence, unable to seek vengeance or justice for them. I had prayed countless times for their peace and happiness in the next life. But when I overheard the maids’ conversation, the blood froze in my veins. “Oh, Mr. Ashworth is here again. Mrs. Caldwell ordered us to keep absolutely silent, but my conscience is killing me.” The maid’s voice dropped to a whisper, tinged with a deep sigh. “I know. Those urns—they don’t hold the remains of the old Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth!” “Before their funeral, Grant had the real ashes mixed into dog food and fed to the strays in the alley!” My fingers, gripping the wooden frame of the altar, trembled violently. “Poor Mr. Ashworth, kneeling here for twelve years, talking to an urn full of concrete dust…” For twelve years, I had bowed and wept before my enemy’s careless insult—cement dust! My parents, whom I begged for peace, had been utterly erased, their remains tossed to feral dogs by the killer! My vision blurred with rage, and I passed out. When I next opened my eyes, Sabrina and Grant were shamelessly having sex on the sofa in the living room. Sabrina’s voice was a soft, gasping moan. “Grant, is this a good idea in front of Nolan? Besides, we’re getting married in two days, can’t you wait?” Grant’s movements became more aggressive, his low, husky laugh dripping with malice. “Wait? I’m doing it right in front of this waste! It’s the ultimate rush! You always told me he was impotent, anyway.” “All these years, every time the waste wanted to touch you, you turned off the lights! You wanted to sneak me in, didn’t you?” “He still has no idea he never slept with you. He was sleeping with those escorts you hired, right?” Every word was a poison-tipped needle, plunging into my already ruined heart. I used the tiny, almost imperceptible movement I had left in my fingers to fish out my hidden phone. I sent a single text to the familiar number: [Get me out.] Almost the moment the message sent, the screen lit up faintly with a reply: [You’re finally awake. Wait for me. Tomorrow.] Sabrina, Grant. I will have blood for blood. 4 After sending the text, I immediately feigned unconsciousness. The next morning, Sabrina came to push my wheelchair, ready to celebrate our anniversary. Looking at her beaming face and the hickeys she had tried to conceal beneath a high collar, I felt an intense wave of nausea. Grant stepped forward, volunteering to take my wheelchair. Sabrina gave him a tender smile and walked ahead to the car. Grant immediately leaned down and shoved his phone toward me in a deliberate act of provocation. The screen lit up, showing a gruesome scene. It was the complete, uncensored video of my parents’ brutal murder and dismemberment! Their piercing screams shredded my eardrums; every cut felt like it was slicing through my own heart! Grant laughed cruelly, pressing his mouth close to my ear. “I killed them on purpose. Who told you to always be better than me? I wanted your woman, and I wanted your parents dead!” “And I was never sick. The anxiety attacks were fake. But your woman never asked questions, she just offered up your heart.” “I had your healthy heart preserved as a specimen. Oh, and your parents’ heads? I cut those off too. They’re right next to it. Want a tour?” My eyes were burning with pure, unadulterated hatred! I used every ounce of my meager strength to slam the wheelchair into Grant! He tumbled to the ground. Sabrina and her parents rushed over when they heard the commotion. Her parents immediately cradled Grant, then turned to yell at me. “You machine-dependent waste! How dare you lay a hand on Grant?!” “Exactly! Look at yourself! How do you compare to Grant?” “Our daughter is a successful lawyer! You’re nothing but dead weight! If you had any decency, you’d disappear yourself!” I shook with fury. Without me, their daughter would never have afforded law school, and they would never have escaped their impoverished life in the country. Yet now, they spat venom at me. Grant clutched his arm, feigning unbearable pain. Sabrina looked at me, her eyes arctic cold. “Nolan, are you done with this tantrum? Honestly, your parents deserved to die! You were hit by that car because you brought it on yourself!” I clutched my chest, coughing up a mouthful of blood. My parents deserved to die? I brought the crash on myself? I pointed a trembling finger at Sabrina, my voice raw and choked. “Who planned the murder of my parents? Where are our children? Sabrina, you know everything!” A flash of genuine panic crossed her eyes. “How would I know! Stop trying to change the subject!” She waved her hand dismissively, ordering the staff. “Throw him onto the back forty. Drag him back only when he has calmed down and is ready to apologize.” I gave her a long, cold stare. She was momentarily startled by the intensity of my look, then tried to coo. “You know I only love you, but you’re being unreasonable. Go calm down, and I’ll come get you. We can go have a private anniversary celebration later.” With that, she turned to walk away. I let out a silent, bitter laugh. The person coming to get me was already waiting, just across the street. I looked past her, toward what was once the Ashworth estate. It was now fully decorated, the scene set for her wedding to Grant. Her “surprise” was just a ploy to clear me out of the house, making room for their ceremony. It didn’t matter. Just as Sabrina and Grant raised their glasses for the toast, Cameron rushed in, interrupting the ceremony. “It’s terrible, Mrs. Caldwell! Mr. Ashworth knows the truth—he took his bags and left the country, alone!”

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On New Year’s Eve, I was just tucking the last of the lucky pennies into the homemade nuggets—our ridiculous, yet fiercely cherished family tradition for a prosperous year. That’s when my wife’s voice cracked from the entryway: “Carlton, this poor woman looks absolutely desperate. She’s been sitting out there all day, and it’s the holiday.” “I want to invite her in to celebrate with us.” I wiped the flour from my hands, smiling as I walked toward the hall. “Sounds good, plenty of food for an extra—” The older woman stood awkwardly in the foyer, her eyes wide with an almost frantic mix of deference and hope. “Carlton.” Just two syllables, and the smile instantly froze on my face. Ignoring Selena’s baffled expression, I walked straight past her and yanked the front door wide open. “Get out.” “Carlton, I just wanted to…” I didn’t understand. Why now? After more than two decades of silence, why come back? “Go. Now.” … The door slammed shut with a deafening, visceral THUD. The sudden shock made the festive garland on the frame shake. My daughter, June, still clutched an unwrapped candy in her hand. She tugged at my sweater, her voice a fragile whisper. “Daddy, that lady was crying, I think.” My face was a stone mask. I strode over and snatched the candy right out of her grasp. “Poison.” I didn’t hesitate. I dropped the candy directly into the kitchen trash, right in front of her small, shocked face. “June, how many times have I told you?” “You are never to take anything from strangers. You are never to talk to them. Do you understand?” My outburst terrified her. Tears pooled in her wide eyes, but she bit her lip hard, not daring to let them fall. She just nodded frantically. Selena was equally stunned by my rage. In our seven years of marriage, she had never seen me lose control like this. She walked over and gently took my hand, which was still shaking. Her eyes were filled with confusion and concern. “Carlton, you feed the stray cats in the neighborhood. What is going on? That woman didn’t look like a threat, she was dressed well, and on New Year’s Eve…” I couldn’t explain it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I pulled my hand away, avoiding the searching look in her eyes. “Just drop it.” I had to shield her from the storm churning inside me. “I’m going to cook the nuggets.” I practically ran, escaping into the humid sanctuary of the kitchen. The water boiled, the plump dumplings tumbling in the white foam. Through the fogged-up window, I glanced down, a compulsive, self-destructive urge taking over. She hadn’t left. She was standing rigid, staring up at our window. The snow was coming down harder now, a thick white layer quickly accumulating on the shoulders of her expensive wool coat. My phone vibrated incessantly in my pocket. The neighborhood group chat was already blowing up. Mrs. Denton, Third Floor: “OMG, look at this old woman! Isn’t that a designer coat? Looks like an old-school Armani!” Sarah_TX: “Probably a knock-off. Who gets turned away by their family in an Armani coat?” Chad_Finance: “She’s probably some poor relative trying to shake down a homeowner for cash.” Grams_1948: “Her face is turning purple. If she freezes to death on our sidewalk, the insurance rates will be hell.” Reading those words, Selena couldn’t sit still anymore. She stood at the kitchen doorway, an umbrella in her hand, hesitating. “Carlton, maybe I should just go down? I could just give her the umbrella. What if something actually happens…” “Don’t you dare!” I spun around, the large slotted spoon in my hand trailing a spray of scalding water onto the floor. I threw the spoon down and lunged, gripping Selena’s sleeve so tight it must have hurt. My eyes were wild with pleading, even a hint of unspeakable terror. “Don’t go, Selena. Please. Don’t go.” She was visibly startled by the sheer hatred in my eyes. She sighed, set the umbrella back down, and took my trembling hand in hers. “Okay. Okay, I won’t. I’ll listen to you. We’ll stay put.” Dinner was silent, heavy with unspoken tension. June, who usually inhaled the nuggets, only managed two before putting down her chopsticks. She gave me a nervous, sideways look and quietly retreated to her room to draw. Selena silently cleared the plates, careful not to mention the woman downstairs again. After the dishes were done, she came out and found me missing. I was huddled in the corner of the balcony, knees drawn to my chest, my body shaking violently. A pair of warm arms wrapped around me from behind. Selena smelled faintly of lemon dish soap and home. She pressed her body against my ice-cold back, her chin resting gently on the crown of my head. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here. You’re safe.” I turned, burying my face in her shoulder, the tears silently soaking her shirt. We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. Long after the last fireworks had faded outside. Finally, my voice raw and broken, I managed to speak. “Selena.” “That winter was so much colder than this one.” Her name was Sylvie Hawthorne. She was my biological mother, the golden-child princess of the old-money Hawthorne family. I remembered when I was a kid, she would lift me onto her shoulders so I could see the lights at the town carnival. Sylvie had given up a massive fortune for what she called “true love,” eloping with my father to this tiny, nowhere town. Life was hard, but for a while, we were happy. Dad worked as a technician in a factory. She knitted sweaters for extra money. We lived in a cramped duplex, eating simple meals, but the laughter never stopped. Every New Year’s Eve, she would hide a penny in one of the nuggets. She always marked it and made sure I was the one who got it. When I found it, she’d stroke my hair, her eyes crinkling with a beautiful smile. “Our Carlton is a lucky boy.” “You will live a life of peace and fortune, my son. I’ll make sure you have everything good in the world.” I genuinely believed I was the luckiest kid alive. Even without new clothes, even when we couldn’t afford meat. As long as I had her. But when I turned three, the nightmare began. I was diagnosed with a severe congenital heart defect. The doctor handed down the death sentence. The surgery was $100,000. In the early nineties, a time when a gallon of milk was a few bucks, that was an astronomical sum. It was enough to shatter any normal family. Sylvie went mad, selling everything valuable we owned. She even sold her only piece of jewelry, a jade pendant—her wedding gift. It was a drop in the ocean. Dad worked the most back-breaking shifts at construction sites. He even started secretly selling his blood. His arms were riddled with needle marks. But still, we couldn’t even cover the deposit for the operation. Watching me on that hospital bed, my breath shallow and weak, this once-proud woman finally broke. It was a stormy night. She bolted from the room. When she came back, she was a different person. The light had gone out of her eyes, replaced by a dark, volatile rage. She started complaining. She railed against poverty, against fate, against the tragedy of having me—her burden. She smashed things in our tiny apartment, shattering the only glass thermos we had. Dad held me, cowering in a corner, crying silently. And then, one day, she was gone. She left, and she never came back. What arrived instead was a middle-aged estate manager in a sharp, expensive suit. He stood in our cramped, depressing hospital room, holding a handkerchief to his nose in disgust. “Ms. Sylvie has returned to the city.” “She asked me to inform Mr. Tobias that she has realized this marriage was a mistake. A moment of youthful, foolish impulsivity.” The manager took a check from his briefcase and dropped it carelessly onto the nightstand. “This is a certified check for $100,000. It is compensation.” “You are not to contact Ms. Hawthorne ever again.” My father couldn’t believe it. He lunged at the manager’s sleeve, wild with denial. “No! Sylvie wouldn’t leave us! She went to raise the money for Carlton, didn’t she?” “She wouldn’t abandon us! She promised we’d be a whole family!” I, too, thought she was doing it to save me. I secretly rationalized it: Maybe she was forced. Maybe she’d come back for us once I was well. When I recovered. Dad and I stayed in that miserable rental apartment. He was waiting for her. I was waiting for her. Until a few months later. A group of cold-eyed men in black suits stormed our apartment. Their leader said they were acting on Sylvie Hawthorne’s instruction. They were here to sign the divorce papers. Dad refused. He held the one, faded family photo, screaming and pleading to see Sylvie one last time. “You’re making this difficult.” The leader sneered. They broke my father’s leg with a crowbar, right in front of me. The sickening snap of the bone is a sound I will never, ever forget. “Take the little bastard!” “You sign the papers, we release the kid!” I was forcibly dragged into the black sedan. My father, dragging his broken leg, crawled across the muddy ground, his fingernails digging trenches in the dirt. His clothes were soaked with blood. “Carlton! Give me back my son!” “I’ll sign! I’ll sign!” That agonizing scream became the nightmare that woke me up countless nights throughout my childhood. Finally, Dad’s trembling hand smeared a bloody print onto the divorce agreement. That night, he held me, his tears all dried up. He clutched the two halves of a shattered piece of jade—their engagement token. The jade was broken. Our family was broken. Months later, we saw her face on the front page of the paper. A whole spread detailing the upcoming engagement between the Hawthorne Group heiress and Damon Caldwell, the scion of the Caldwell dynasty. In the photo, the woman who once hoisted me onto her shoulders was draped in designer clothes, linked arms with a handsome man, looking radiant. It was a true power match, a merger of two empires. The moment Dad saw the paper. He coughed up a mouthful of blood right onto her smiling black-and-white face. He wouldn’t believe Sylvie had broken her promise. But what could he do? Drained of all savings from my surgery, and needing to care for me, Dad started working three jobs a day. He developed a chronic illness. That broken leg, never properly treated due to lack of money, left him permanently disabled. Every cold, wet day, the pain would be so bad he’d thrash in bed. He began to hallucinate, muttering from his sickbed: “Sylvie, Sylvie… why?” “Sylvie, did you come to see me?” The nurse just shook her head. “He’s fading, son.” I knew Dad wanted to see Sylvie. I heard the news: Sylvie was in town on a project inspection. She was leaving that day. I ran like a maniac to the downtown hotel. I had to bring her back. I had to let my father die without regret. I needed to ask her, was this real? Did she really abandon us? But when I finally reached the hotel entrance, gasping for air. What did I see? Sylvie Hawthorne, holding the hand of that handsome man, cradling a small boy in her other arm. The boy was wearing a pristine blue suit and holding the most expensive, limited-edition action figure of that era. A perfect, happy family of three. Sylvie bent down to kiss the boy’s forehead, her eyes filled with a tenderness that could melt stone. The tenderness that had once belonged only to me. I tried to rush forward, but a guard grabbed me. “Get away, you little tramp! Beat it!” I watched, helpless, as they got into a luxury sedan and sped away. I wouldn’t give up. I chased that car for three city blocks in the snow. My shoes were lost, and the ice was cutting my feet until they were bloody. I was screaming until my throat was raw: “Mom! Mom, look at me! It’s Carlton! Your father is dying! Please turn back!” But the car never stopped, not even for a second. She was sitting inside. Maybe she heard, maybe she didn’t. But she didn’t look back. When I finally limped, bloody and exhausted, back to the hospital. All I saw was a white sheet pulled over my father’s head. The nurse looked at me, her eyes full of pity and helplessness. “Kid, your dad waited for you…” “He kept staring at the door, refusing to close his eyes.” That day, I lost the father who loved me, and the mother who rejected me. I hated her. Reliving those memories, my tears came in a fresh, violent torrent. I grabbed Selena’s shirt, crying like a helpless child. “She killed my dad!” “She left me an orphan!” “Selena, why is she back now? If she was going to leave, why couldn’t she have stayed gone forever?” Selena listened, her eyes red-rimmed. She didn’t try to offer platitudes. She just held me tighter, her arms squeezing me so hard it felt like she was trying to absorb me into her very bones. “Carlton, stop. Don’t cry.” “You have me. You have June. We are your family now.” “You are not alone anymore.” She was right. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had Selena. I had June. But why did my heart still feel so desolate? The next morning, New Year’s Day, Selena had to go to work. June was still quiet and subdued from the night before, so I bundled her up and took her to the park across the street. The park was crowded. I sat on a bench, looking down at my phone to answer a quick holiday text. When I looked up again, June, who had been busy building a snow-fort, was gone! My heart seized in my chest. “June?” “June!” Silence. The horrifying images from two decades ago—the black suits, the forced car ride—flashed in my mind. I screamed her name, asking every person I saw. Until I rushed past a cluster of pine trees behind the playground. And I saw her. Sylvie Hawthorne was holding June’s hand! She was bent over, pushing something into June’s arms. June seemed to be struggling a little. In that instant, all reason evaporated. She was here to take the last remaining piece of my family, just like she took me to terrorize my father! I grabbed a large, hard slab of ice from a snowdrift. I charged. I swung the ice block and slammed it into Sylvie’s back! “Let her go!” A heavy, sickening thud. Sylvie stumbled, collapsing face-first into the snow. She lay there, motionless for a long moment. But whatever she was holding, she shielded fiercely. “Sylvie Hawthorne, you monster!” “You kidnapped me to threaten my father then, and now you’re trying to kidnap my daughter to threaten me?” I was hysterical, grabbing handfuls of snow and hurling them at her prone body. June was terrified by the sudden violence. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around my legs, screaming. “Daddy! Don’t hit the nice lady!” “She was just giving me a snack!” I froze. Sylvie, grimacing in pain, slowly struggled to her feet. She wasn’t angry. She didn’t even bother to brush the snow off her expensive coat. Her first concern was the food scattered on the ground. “It’s dirty… It’s all ruined…” She looked distraught, like a scolded child, frantically trying to salvage the pieces. “Carlton… I saw the child was hungry…” “I saw her staring at the other kids’ fried chicken.” “This is still hot. I ran to the drive-thru just now and kept it tucked inside my coat so it wouldn’t get cold.” “You used to love this when you were little.” My eyes fixed on the familiar red and white cardboard bucket. When I was a kid, only on my birthday would Sylvie scrape together enough money to take me to KFC. She always ordered one meal, watched me eat it, and claimed she didn’t like grease. I stared at the snow-covered chicken, tears burning in my eyes. But I forced them back. “I don’t like it anymore.” Sylvie’s hand trembled as she reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a bank card. It was one of those old, flimsy magnetic strip cards, the edges worn white. “Carlton, it’s all my fault.” “There’s $5 million on this card. It’s the money from the sale of my grandmother’s estate.” “I know money can’t fix anything, but… please, take it.” “I want you and your father to be able to live comfortably.” She looked up at me tentatively. “Carlton, how is your father? Is he well?” “It’s been so long. I… I’d like to see him.” Hearing that, my crying stopped instantly. See my dad? What an outrageous, obscene joke. I stared at Sylvie, my gaze chilling to the core. “You want to see him?” A flicker of desperate hope ignited in Sylvie’s eyes. “Can I? Just from a distance. I won’t bother him.” “Fine. I’ll grant your wish.” I grabbed the collar of her expensive coat and dragged her back to our apartment. Sylvie stumbled behind me, offering no resistance. Once inside, I shoved her hard into the center of the living room. Then, I pointed to the small, simple memorial table in the corner and roared. “He’s right there! He’s looking at you now!” “Did you see him clearly?! This is the man you wanted to see!” Sylvie’s body seized up. She slowly, shakily, raised her head. Hanging in the center of the living room was a black-and-white photo. The man in the picture was young, handsome, with a gentle smile playing on his lips. The man she had supposedly loved all her life. He was staring down at her, cold and stern. Sylvie was struck as if by lightning. She froze, her whole being collapsing inward. Her lips worked frantically, a rasping sound caught in her throat, unable to form a single, coherent word.

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The first time I met Victoria “Tori” Leighton, my benefactor, was on the day my mother was dying. The figure on the check she slid across the table could have bought my mother a new life, and mine along with it. “Be my boyfriend for three years, Andy. When the contract ends, the money is yours.” And so, I started wearing the clean, tailored white shirts, copying the style of Dominic “Dom” Keller, her idealized first love—her Original Sin. She treated me extravagantly. I wasn’t a hidden pauper; I was publicly her chosen partner. She purchased rare antiques for me, declared to the press that I would be the sole Mr. Leighton. The whole circle whispered that Tori Leighton, the ruthless CEO, had finally fallen for the scholarship boy she plucked from obscurity. It was an arrangement, a transaction, but I sank into it anyway. I let myself drown in the current of her brazen favoritism, allowing my own fragile love to grow unchecked. Until the month before the contract expired. Dom showed up on the Leighton doorstep, begging for help. He was running from a hit-and-run charge. That night, Tori gave me a new contract. “Andy, serve four years in prison for Dom. I’ll ensure your mother’s comfort and care for the rest of her life.” “And if I refuse?” I asked, my voice a shaky wire. “I will stop all of Helena’s treatment immediately. You have no choice, Andy.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “As compensation, I will still marry you when you get out.” Outside the window, sirens wailed, growing louder and closer. I looked at her, and the tears fell silently. … It was pouring rain on the day I was released. The winter chill of the rain hitting my skin was agonizing; I was still wearing the thin clothes from the summer day I went in three years ago. Four years of torment had stripped me of my youth and ruined the hands I had once been so proud of. Two fingers had been deliberately crushed, now a crooked, ugly mess of scar tissue that never healed right. The heavy iron gate groaned, slowly swinging open. For a stupid, desperate moment, I indulged a flicker of delusion: would she be there to meet me? But outside the gate, there was nothing but muddy ground and the downpour. I had been too greedy. She never loved me. The affection was a stage performance because I was a good enough stand-in. The public displays of devotion were a lie. She pulled me from the abyss, yes, but it was purely transactional, a way for us both to get what we wanted. I told myself that a thousand times, but the betrayal was still a knife twist, and the tears fell anyway. She was a splinter in my heart, and four years hadn’t been enough to dig her out. Wiping my face, I reached for the letter my mother had written me, tucked in my pocket. The paper warmed my heart. A car suddenly swerved, slamming on its brakes in front of me, splashing a sheet of muddy water over my clothes. Tori stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. Just like that day in the hospital, when I was signing my mother’s critical care forms and had nowhere left to turn, she descended like a god. Only then, my heart had hammered with a terrified kind of adoration. Now, looking at her face, there was only a toxic mix of need and loathing. The passenger window slid down. Dom leaned out and smiled at me. “Oh, look at you. Still in those thin summer clothes? Honestly, Tori, did you forget it’s January?” Tori’s gaze swept over me, her tone flat and distant. “He won’t freeze.” Dom’s spoiled, affected drawl—I’d spent years imitating that cadence for her, a thousand times over. Hearing it now, firsthand, gave me whiplash. The memory of all those days, when I was acting as him and reaping all of Tori’s affection, flashed before my eyes. “Sorry, baby had a little fever this morning, so Tori was delayed coming to pick you up…” I heard a child’s giggle from inside the car, and my hand trembled. In the four years I spent behind bars for Dom, they hadn’t just reunited; they’d built a family. I managed a self-deprecating twist of my mouth. She bundled me into the back seat. Her eyes flickered down to my mangled hand, and she stiffened for a single, fleeting second. There was a look of frustration—hard to read—in her eyes. The next second, she pressed a button on the control panel, and the vent in the back seat pumped out a rush of hot air. Then, a packet of tissues was thrown over her shoulder. I thought, for a desperate moment, it was pity, until her cold voice cut through the silence. “Dry yourself off. Don’t ruin Dom’s favorite cashmere seat cushions.” The last fragile piece of hope in my chest was drowned in that bucket of ice water. “Ms. Leighton,” I said, my voice rough. “Just take me to my mother.” She didn’t answer, slamming her foot down on the gas. The silence was thick with unspoken resentment; only the cheerful babbling of a child broke the tension. She used to hold me close and whisper, ‘Andy, let’s have a baby, just you and me.’ How much of her affection had been real? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I did everything you asked! Why are you still keeping my mother from me?” I leaned forward, desperation sharpening my tone. “What’s next? What other service do you need? Is Dom facing a new felony that needs covering?” Her eyes finally met mine in the rearview mirror—dark and unreadable. Dom chuckled softly, an arrogant, superior sound, watching my desperation. The car sped through the rain, finally pulling up in front of the County Clerk’s Office—the Registry—in a bright, unambiguous stop. “Andy Virgil,” she said, her voice as calm as if discussing the weather. “I’m honoring the promise I made years ago. We’re getting married.” “Come on,” she added. “Let’s get this done.” The twenty-three-year-old version of me would have been ecstatic, joyously linking my arm through hers and running into the office. The thirty-year-old version of me felt only a crushing sense of dread and incomprehension. She hadn’t kept a single one of her other promises—why would this one matter? A fierce sense of instability washed over me. “Has something happened to my mother?” I asked, trembling. She glanced at me, a hint of mockery in her expression. “Have the letters and recordings my lawyer sent you these past few years been insufficient?” No. Just the day before my release, I had received a letter in Mom’s familiar handwriting. Seeing it had calmed my heart. If something had happened to her, I wouldn’t be standing here. I wouldn’t be alive. “Just go inside first,” she said, her voice softening slightly, a fake show of conciliation. “Sign the papers, and I’ll arrange for the best orthopedic surgeon to see your hand. Andy, be good.” It was always like this: she’d slap me, then offer a poisoned sweetener. She knew my only weakness, and she used the cruelest leverage possible. Dom spoke up from the front seat. “The kid needs a legal father on the birth certificate. My status is a little…complicated. Don’t worry,” he sneered, looking back at me. “A woman like Tori? I’d never let her go to a cheap substitute like you.” I clutched the letter in my pocket. I would see Mom soon. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes. I chose compliance once more, following her into the registry. Filling out the forms, signing, taking the picture. I wrote Andy Virgil one deliberate letter at a time. My twenty-three-year-old self had planned this day: a top photographer, cute props, matching designer outfits she’d made herself. Now, there was nothing. The clerk instructed us to sit in front of the backdrop. “Closer, please. And, ma’am, can you hold his hand? You look too distant.” Tori’s brow furrowed. She instinctively reached for my left hand. Her fingertips brushed the raw, empty space where my little finger and ring finger used to be. Her body froze. There was only jagged scar tissue and cold air where warmth should have been. “It’s… not right,” she murmured, pulling her hand back instantly, her face tight. “Let’s just take the picture.” I quickly tucked the ruined hand into my sleeve, a sick, hollow feeling in my chest. Tori’s face was unreadable, a mask of cold displeasure. The flash went off, and I flinched, instinctively closing my eyes. The unwelcome memory of her kissing my hands flooded my mind: “Andy, has anyone ever told you that you were born for the piano?” She said she chose to sponsor me, a boy whose family was bankrupt, only because she didn’t want me to abandon my musical path. Yet she was the one who personally destroyed me, ensuring I would never touch a piano again. Soon, two red marriage certificates were pushed across the counter. I opened mine. The photo was grotesque. She wore a heavy black designer coat; I was in a threadbare, faded T-shirt. Outside, she lit a cigarette, leaning against the car door and watching me. “The title of Mr. Leighton is yours, but let’s be clear.” Her eyes were cold smoke. “Every penny of the Leighton estate is Dom’s. You are a name on paper. A temporary prop. Don’t start thinking you’re above your station.” I gave a bitter, mocking smile. “Don’t worry. I’m completely under your thumb. How could I possibly have high standards?” She paused, unused to my new lack of obedience. “Sharp tongue. Looks like prison didn’t teach you manners.” I ignored the comment, meeting her glare head-on. “Can we go see my mother now?” In the tense standoff, Dom suddenly took off the silver ring on his finger. “For the sake of appearances, wear this. Just in case the old man gets suspicious.” I took the ring woodenly and tried to slide it onto my remaining middle finger. I was so thin, all bone and stretched skin, that the ring, this symbol of what should have been happiness, slid right off. Clink. It rolled onto the dirty floor mat beneath the seat. Tori let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “A man with no luck, can’t even hold on to a wedding band.” She bent down, retrieved it, and grabbed my hand, trying to forcefully push it back on. She tried several times, but it wouldn’t stay on the thin knuckle. Losing patience, she threw the ring onto the passenger seat with an angry hiss. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. Did you not eat in there?” She had infinite power; finding out about my suffering in prison would have been simple. But she had never once asked. Tori took a final drag, crushed the butt beneath her heel, and looked at me. “Your mother is in a high-end nursing facility out of town.” She got into the car. “We’ll go tomorrow. Tonight, you’re coming home with us.” I stood still, the refusal already in my throat, but I couldn’t speak it. I didn’t even have the cash for a cheap motel. I had nowhere to go. Head down, I climbed back into the car, watching as we drove into the exclusive, gated community downtown. Years ago, when Tori was first starting her company, she brought me to see this complex. She put her arm around my waist, pointing at the grandest villa by the lake. “When I make enough money, I’ll buy that one, and I’ll marry you.” I found out later that she’d already purchased the property. She’d only found me a small, beautiful apartment outside the city—a gilded cage—while this house, her real home, was kept for Dom. I was the kept boy, the substitute. And like an idiot, I had believed I had a place in her future. Dom leaned closer to Tori. “Honey, I’m still a little cold.” Tori reached out, adjusted the heat higher, and then took off her expensive coat to drape it over his shoulders. “Why didn’t you dress warmer? Your hands are ice.” Watching their easy intimacy, my chest constricted painfully. I remembered when I shivered once in her arms, and she instantly took me on a shopping spree, shutting down half the department store. I mentioned, once, that I missed seeing the stars. The next day, there was a massive telescope on our balcony, and a famous astronomer was on a live video call to explain the constellations to me. She used to come home, the first thing she’d do was pull me into a hug, kiss my jaw, and ask what I wanted for dinner. She remembered my favorite dishes, kept my prescription medicine handy for my bad stomach, and quietly covered me with a blanket when I worked late. The love was so overwhelming back then, it felt like it could swallow me whole. That was how I was drawn in, piece by piece. But it was all an act. She was a phenomenal actress, and I, a perfect fool. The housekeeper’s voice calling me upstairs snapped me out of the memory. I walked into the massive en suite bathroom, desperate for a hot shower. The imported, complicated shower system was too advanced. I must have hit the wrong button, because a column of icy cold water slammed down on my head. I gasped, soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. That sudden, freezing drenching made one thing crystal clear: I was still a world away from her. As I fumbled to turn the water off, the bathroom door burst open. Tori rushed in, grabbing me and dragging me out. A gut-wrenching scream rose from downstairs. Dom was crying hysterically, clutching the child. Foam was on the baby’s lips, and blood streamed from its forehead—it looked like it had taken a terrible fall down the main stairs. In the ensuing chaos, I was shoved into the car with the rest of them, heading to the hospital. Watching Dom cry, cradling his child, I simply clenched my own wet clothes, swallowing my own suffering. The doctor was grave after the initial examination. “Severe blood loss. We need an immediate transfusion. However, the child has a rare blood type—Rh-Negative. We’re short on supply…” Suddenly, the reason for my hurried arrival, for my very existence in her life, snapped into focus. She hadn’t just brought me home; she’d brought me back to serve as a blood bag for her son. She grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the nurse. “Use his blood. He’s Rh-Negative, too.” The nurse approached with a needle. I took a stumbling step backward. Tori leaned close, whispering in my ear. “No blood today, no mother tomorrow.” The same leverage. Always my mother. Four years of prison, ruined hands, forced marriage, and now this coerced bloodletting—the new cruelty merged with the old hatred. In a blinding flash of fury, I lifted my hand and swung it at that familiar, commanding face. Smack! Tori’s head snapped sideways. She stared at me, disbelief twisting her features. I had always been compliant, never once even raising my voice, much less my hand. My palm stung, but a dark, twisted satisfaction erupted in my chest. “Tori Leighton,” I spat out, my voice ragged. “I am a person! I’m not a goddamn tool for you to use and discard!” But two fists are no match for hired muscle. The bodyguards quickly pinned me and dragged me to the collection room. “Andy Virgil, everything you are was given by me,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Don’t talk to me about blood. If I ask for your life, you have to give it.” I closed my eyes in despair, tears tracing tracks through the grime on my face. Four years in prison. I survived that. This pain is nothing. The red blood flowed through the clear tube. 200cc. 300cc. 400cc. I lost track of time. My breathing became shallow, and I could hear my heart thudding violently in my ears. “Is that enough yet?” Tori demanded, her voice tight with impatience. The nurse finally stopped, looking apologetic. “That’s plenty, ma’am.” I stumbled out of the collection room, using the wall for support. As I lifted my head, my eyes caught a framed landscape picture next to a notice board—a familiar scene. That corner. That exact painting. It appeared often in the video updates my mother sent me. A gigantic surge of adrenaline and elation shot through my veins. She’s here! She has to be! I stumbled toward the nurse’s station. “Excuse me, please. Is there a patient here named Helena Virgil?” The nurse typed a few keys. My breath hitched in my throat, my heart trying to beat its way out of my ribs. I was frantic to see my mother, terrified Tori would swoop in and stop me. I fixed my desperate gaze on the nurse’s face, only to see pity reflected in her eyes. “Helena Virgil? The late-stage liver cancer patient? She died two years ago.” My heart stopped. A massive ringing sound drowned out all other noise. “You… what?” “Yes. She passed away two years ago. The family signed the Do Not Resuscitate order, said they couldn’t afford treatment anymore. They picked up the ashes.” Couldn’t afford it? Tori promised me she would cover all the costs. I went to prison for her other man, lost my hands, gave her my soul—and she let my mother die, just to save money? A tidal wave of hate and self-loathing washed over me. My limbs went numb; I was suffocating. All those letters. All those videos. They were all fake. I have nothing left. The wind howled outside. I was shaking. I climbed onto the windowsill, taking one last look at this monstrous world. Down the hallway, I saw a doctor quietly relaying good news. Tori put her arms around a visibly relieved Dom. Their child must have stabilized. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself forward, a final leap. In the blurred rush, I saw Tori, suddenly frantic, lunging toward me, grabbing my wrist. Her hands, usually so steady, were shaking violently.

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“The son you kept secret for two decades is here, Dad. And he’s asking for the house.” I stood by the hospital bed, looking down at my father. He was skeletal, barely a shadow of the man he’d been. His eyes darted away from mine. His lips moved, dry and slow. “Dee, he’s your brother…” My brother? I had spent eight years of my life waiting on him. Eight years of bedpans and feeding tubes, eight years of quitting my job, foregoing marriage, sacrificing my entire life. Eight years. And he had kept a whole son secret for twenty years, a child whose existence he’d never even hinted at. Now, that “brother” was here. Here to divide the legacy. 1. When the man first stood in the doorway of the hospital room, I honestly thought he was lost. “Excuse me, is Arthur Stone staying here?” I paused. “Who are you looking for?” “Arthur Stone,” he repeated. “I’m his son.” My mind went blank. I hadn’t processed the words. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” “Arthur Stone’s son, Ronan Mills.” He spoke with an unnerving casualness. “I’m here to see my dad.” Arthur Stone was my father’s name. I, Delilah Stone, was Arthur Stone’s only child. “You have the wrong room,” I said, flatly. He smiled, a practiced, easy smile, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a photo. It was my father. Younger, maybe forty, standing next to a small boy, seven or eight years old. My father’s hand rested heavily on the boy’s shoulder. Beneath the photo was a handwritten inscription: “Ronan’s 8th Birthday. Dad loves you always.” My hands started to shake, gripping the doorframe. “Who in God’s name are you?” He tucked the phone away and looked up, meeting my eyes. “Dee, I’m Ronan Mills. My mother is Lydia Shaw. Dad and my mom were together about twenty years ago.” Dee. He called me Dee. I leaned against the frame, feeling the world tilt on its axis. “That’s impossible,” I whispered. “My father would never—” “That’s enough, Delilah.” My father’s voice, raspy and weak, came from the bed. “Let him in, Dee.” I spun around. My father sat up against the pillows, his face utterly devoid of surprise. Not an ounce of shock. He knew. He had been expecting this visit. “Dad…” “Let him in,” he repeated, his voice firm despite the weakness. “I have something to tell both of you.” That afternoon, I learned the secret he’d hidden for twenty years. The year I turned ten, my father had an affair. The woman, Lydia Shaw, was a colleague. They were together for three years. They had a son. Ronan Mills. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” My father stared out the window, avoiding my gaze. “It happened too long ago.” Too long ago? I was thirty-two years old. This secret had been locked away for twenty years. Did Mom know? “Your mother knew,” my father said, as if reading my mind. “I cut off contact with the woman eventually. Your mother forgave me.” Forgave him. A thick knot of something—rage, grief, nausea—coiled in my chest, making it impossible to breathe. “And him?” I pointed to Ronan, who was standing quietly by the wall. “You cut off contact, but he’s still here. How?” “I cut off the mother,” my father said. “But he’s my blood. I couldn’t abandon him.” Couldn’t abandon him. “You’ve been supporting him this whole time?” My father remained silent. Ronan answered for him, smoothly. “Dad always wired money to my mother for support. He also paid for my college tuition.” Every month. Support checks. Tuition fees. A memory surfaced, sharp as glass. My senior year of high school, I wanted to take a two-week summer intensive English course. It cost two thousand dollars. My father said it was too expensive, that it was unnecessary. I worked three consecutive summer jobs just to save enough for a modest college exchange program. And all the while, he was funding another woman’s life. Paying another child’s tuition. “How much?” I asked, my voice barely a thread. “Excuse me?” Ronan asked. “How much did you send them every month?” My father wouldn’t look at me. Ronan said, “Eight hundred dollars.” Eight hundred dollars a month. For twenty years. I did the math quickly. One hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars. Plus four years of college tuition, easily another sixty thousand. A quarter of a million dollars, minimum. My two-thousand-dollar summer course had been “too expensive.” His $250,000 secret family fund had been necessary. “Dad.” My voice was dry and shaky. “Why couldn’t you have told me any of this over the years?” “Told you what?” My father finally looked at me, a flicker of impatience in his eyes. “What good would it have done? So you could hate me?” So I could hate him. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. “I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just want to know what I meant to you.” My father didn’t answer. Ronan stepped in, his tone mild and conciliatory. “Dee, let the past stay in the past. Dad isn’t well right now. We shouldn’t stress him out.” His voice was calm, concerned, even affectionate. As if he were the true, devoted child of the house. As if I were the interloper, the source of the drama. “Why are you here, Ronan?” I asked him. “To see Dad,” he said. “And to finally meet my sister.” “And what else?” He hesitated, just a breath. “Dad wants to settle his legacy.” The legacy. He was here to claim his share. 2. My father’s illness had been diagnosed four years ago. Stage IV lung cancer. The doctors gave him a year at most. I quit my job in marketing and became his full-time caretaker. One year turned into two, two into three, and now we were in the fourth year. He’d had six hospital stays, three major surgeries, and over a dozen grueling rounds of chemo. Every single time, I was the one who was there. Making appointments, standing in lines, paying the bills, fetching medications, bathing him, wiping him down, emptying the bedpan. Three a.m., he’d cry out in pain, and I’d crawl out of bed to give him a massage. Six a.m., he wanted his oatmeal, and I had to be up by five to cook it. Four years. One thousand four hundred and sixty days. I haven’t had one full night of uninterrupted sleep. My mother, Victoria, was frail and elderly herself; she could offer little help. Relatives made symbolic visits, bringing fruit and murmuring, “You’re doing great work, Dee,” before disappearing completely. I carried the entire weight of it alone. I was thirty-two. The age when my peers were getting married, I had no partner. The age when I should have been building my career, I had no income. The age when I should have been living my life, I was eating stale crackers in hospital hallways. I’m not saying I didn’t resent it. But he was my father. I thought I was his only child. I thought he would remember everything I did. Now I knew the person he remembered was someone else entirely. A son he’d hidden for twenty years. “Dad.” I sat by the bed that evening. “Who has been taking care of you for the last four years?” He kept his eyes closed, silent. “It was me,” I answered myself. “It was me who quit my job. It was me who cleaned up your mess. It was me who held your hand through surgery, who stayed awake night after endless night.” “I know that,” he mumbled. “And him?” I gestured toward the door where Ronan was staying with my mother. “Where was he for the last four years?” My father opened his eyes and looked at me. “He didn’t know I was sick.” “You didn’t tell him?” “No.” “Why not?” “He’s young. He has his career to focus on,” my father explained. “I didn’t want to disrupt his life.” Didn’t want to disrupt his life. And me? I was also young. I also had a career. What did you say to me when I hesitated about quitting my job? You said: “You’re my daughter, Delilah. It’s expected that you take care of me.” Expected. “And me?” I demanded. “Did you ever think about disrupting my life?” He didn’t answer. “I’m thirty-two,” I continued. “My friends are all married. Some have kids in kindergarten. What do I have? No partner, no savings, no career. For four years, I have had nothing.” “You’ll have it,” my father said. “When I’m gone, you’ll be free.” When he was gone. I would be free. A hollow laugh escaped me. “Dad, do you even hear yourself?” Silence. “You say when you’re gone, I’ll be free,” I said, standing up. “So what was all this for? What does my sacrifice of the last four years amount to in your eyes?” “I remember it,” my father insisted. “You remember me, or you remember him?” He looked at me. His eyes held something that wasn’t guilt. It was impatience. “Delilah, can we please stop with the drama?” Stop with the drama. I had provided four years of selfless care without a single word of complaint. He had hidden a secret son for twenty years, and my asking about it was “drama.” “Fine.” I took a deep, shuddering breath. “No more drama. Just tell me why Ronan Mills is here.” “He came to see me.” “He came for your legacy,” I countered. “Didn’t he?” My father didn’t speak. “Didn’t he?” “…He is my son,” my father finally stated. “If I want to leave my assets to him, what is the problem?” His assets. Left to his son. What is the problem? I stood there, feeling utterly, mortally cold. “Dad, what about me?” “You are my daughter,” my father said. “Daughters eventually marry out. They become part of another family.” 3. That evening, I returned to the house to find Ronan standing in the living room. He was examining the space, looking at the sofa, the TV, the family photos on the wall. “Dee.” He turned, giving me that same placid smile. “This house is pretty big.” It was 2,000 square feet. It was my father’s only property. He had bought it for 400,000 years ago. Now, in this Brookline neighborhood, it was easily worth 1.2 million. “What are you looking at?” I asked. “Nothing, just checking it out.” His tone was light. “This was Dad’s house, right?” “Yes.” “Whose name is on the deed?” I paused, taken aback by the bluntness. “My father’s name is on the deed.” “Good,” he nodded. “That’s good to know.” Good to know? What did he mean? “Look, Dee, I’ll be direct with you.” Ronan sat down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. “Dad’s intention is for the house to come to me when he passes.” I felt a sharp, internal stab. “What did you say?” “He said he’s giving the house to me,” he repeated. “Plus all of his savings and investments. He mentioned it was around $4.5 million, all told.” $4.5 million. Plus the $1.2 million house. $5.7 million. My father’s entire life’s worth. All of it to Ronan. “Are you joking with me?” I demanded. “No.” Ronan took a folded paper from his pocket. “This is Dad’s will. It’s been notarized by his lawyer. You can read it.” I took the paper. The Will. It was written clearly: “I, Arthur Stone, hereby voluntarily bequeath my entire estate, including one property, all bank savings and investments, to my son, Ronan Mills.” My son, Ronan Mills. Not my daughter, Delilah Stone. I flipped the document over and saw my father’s signature, and the thick, red ink of his thumbprint. The date was three months ago. Three months ago, I was at the hospital, holding the basin while he threw up from chemo. He was letting me care for him while secretly signing away everything he owned to his illegitimate son. “Dee, don’t get upset,” Ronan said, watching me. “Dad said you worked hard these past few years. He left you a little something—$50,000. It’s his way of saying thank you.”

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On the day I was declared recovered from postpartum depression, Nathaniel, who was driving, suddenly spoke. “The truth is, I have another family.” The words hit me without warning, leaving my mind buzzing, a dull throb behind my eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the road, then sighed, “These past few years, with your postpartum depression flaring up, your constant talk of ending it all… I’ve been living a hellish existence too. Now that you’re recovered, it’s only right that I spend some time making it up to my real wife and children.” It took a long moment for me to force a trembling sound from my throat. “Then… then what are my child and I? Fakes?” He didn’t deny it immediately. After a long pause, he said with a chilling certainty, “Think what you will. You wouldn’t leave, not with the child, would you?” My body went completely cold. The facade of my recovery shattered, exposing the raw wound beneath. … The suffocating dread, an old, unwelcome friend, washed over me. I clutched my throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Nathaniel, with practiced ease, handed me water and patted my back, yet his words remained cruelly sharp. “The day you gave birth, Scarlett called, saying she wasn’t feeling well. Ha, turns out she just tricked me into being her plaything. To be precise, we were merely legal bedfellows.” I swallowed the water with difficulty, a fierce nausea churning in my stomach. I remembered that day, the day I gave birth. I was rushed into the operating room, but Nathaniel never arrived. The doctors made over a dozen calls, unable to locate him. In the sterile, empty corridor, only my desperate cries echoed. From that day on, I dreaded being alone. The sound of my child crying would send me spiraling. The doctor called it severe postpartum depression. Nathaniel suddenly pulled the car over, grabbed two tissues, and dabbed at my tears. “So…” I choked back a sob. “You already had a wife. Why did you have a child with me?” His hand froze, then he forced a thin smile. “I made it very clear. Marrying her was just for some ridiculous promise. But Audrey, you’re the one I love. And I gave you the child you wanted. Isn’t that enough?” He gazed at me with intense seriousness, as if expecting my affirmative answer, expecting me to readily accept his scraps of affection. But the faith I had clung to so desperately crumbled into dust in that instant. Just moments ago, I’d recited memorized answers to all the psychiatrist’s questions. I’d fought to suppress the countless impulses to end my own life. And finally, I’d received the coveted diagnosis of recovery from depression. I thought today would be our fresh start… Tears streamed down my face. “Nathaniel, you’re utterly rotten.” Nathaniel stared at me, then a sudden laugh escaped him. “Rotten, maybe. But I was there for you through the hardest years. At least in your and our child’s eyes, I was a good husband and father.” Only then did I realize how foolish and naive I had been. Seeing my silence, he patted my head with a sense of satisfaction and continued driving, until his phone abruptly rang. “Honey, I miss you. I forgot to tell you this morning, the pipes at home…” The woman, as if it were the most natural thing, called him ‘honey,’ rambling on about their shared household trivialities. Nathaniel listened indulgently, responding in kind. Finally, he looked at me with a soft smile. “Scarlett needs me. I have to go there right away. We’re not far from home. You can head back on your own.” I was dropped off, effectively kicked out of the car. A ten-minute walk had never felt so impossibly long. Back home, I retrieved the sleeping pills I’d tossed into the trash and swallowed every single one. My stomach clenched in violent spasms, and fragments of old memories flashed through my mind. I remembered right after giving birth, curled up alone in the bathroom, letting my baby cry heartbrokenly outside the door. Nathaniel had stood between me and my blade countless times, always stroking my hair gently, saying, “I’m here. It’s okay…” He’d carefully managed my volatile emotions while also taking on the task of soothing our child. Just as he said, he was a good “husband,” a good father. Perhaps it was because those memories were too painfully beautiful that I chose slow-acting sleeping pills, opting for a slower departure. The next morning, a clatter from downstairs jolted me awake. As I descended the stairs, a woman, barely clothed, suddenly stood before me. Scarlett met my gaze, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then she pursed her lips apologetically. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just came in to look for some contraception. Nathaniel’s waiting for me in the car…” Then she spread her hands, a hint of challenge in her posture. “But I couldn’t find any. Don’t you two usually… use them?” It seemed she knew. Ever since I gave birth, Nathaniel hadn’t touched me. He’d claimed he wasn’t interested, that he was too busy with work, even that it was to help stabilize my condition. I looked at my own swollen, changed body in the mirror, then at Scarlett’s graceful figure. I understood the real reason now. Nathaniel walked in, saw us facing off, and quickly moved to cover the fierce marks on Scarlett’s body. “Aud—” He instinctively looked at me, then quickly changed his tone. “Scarlett, I told you to go to the convenience store. Why are you… undressed?” The woman seized the opportunity to nestle into his arms, pouting playfully, “Didn’t you say you couldn’t wait? And this place is closer!” Nathaniel stroked her hair, his voice just as soft and coaxing as it used to be with me. It was all too familiar, so sickeningly familiar that I wanted to vomit. In an instant, the suppressed fury burned through my reason. I shoved both of them. “Get out! At least this is still my home!” Scarlett stumbled from my push, her face full of disbelief as she looked at me. “Audrey!” Nathaniel’s eyes blazed crimson with anger. He pulled Scarlett behind him. “She was just here to pick something up. Don’t scare her!” The reflection in his eyes showed me as a raging, unreasonable lunatic. A torrent of emotions overwhelmed me, and I suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood. Nathaniel’s breath hitched as he stared at the dark red blood on the floor. “What… what’s wrong? Audrey, wasn’t your illness gone?” I stood frozen, utterly bewildered. The medication in my system must be starting to take effect. I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, but Scarlett let out a small cry, drawing his attention. “Honey, I think I twisted my ankle. It hurts so much…” Nathaniel’s brow furrowed with concern. When he looked back at me, his eyes were tinged with disgust. After he carried Scarlett away, the tears I’d held back streamed down my face. I had practiced suppressing my emotions countless times, but I couldn’t hold them in any longer. Like a madwoman, I smashed the house to pieces, then frantically cleaned up the wreckage, preserving the last shred of my dignity. I had just wiped the blood from the floor when the call came—a critical condition notification for my mother. When I stumbled into the hospital, my mother lay frail and fading on the bed. Through the thick oxygen mask, her brow was furrowed, a hint of anger in her expression. “Nathaniel told me. You, why would you try to break up someone else’s family…” In that instant, my world spun on its axis. I remembered how my mother had happily given me away to Nathaniel, placing all her hopes on us. Learning that Nathaniel had another family must have pained her a hundred, a thousand times more than it pained me. I sobbed, trembling. “Mom, please let me explain, I…” Before I could finish, my mother turned her head away, unwilling to look at me, tears soaking her pillow. Watching the doctors rush her into surgery, I drifted in a daze, somehow finding my way to Scarlett’s house. Pushing open the door, I walked into the liveliest family gathering I had ever witnessed. Ignoring everyone’s stares, my eyes red, I demanded, “Nathaniel, did you tell my mother about our fake marriage?” In that moment, I desperately wished he would deny it, say it was all a misunderstanding! Instead, Nathaniel met my gaze openly, his eyes holding a strange, self-righteous glint. “That’s right. I thought you could get along with Scarlett peacefully, but you’ve gone too far. This is just a punishment.” With those words, the last sliver of hope in my heart shattered. I let out a bitter laugh. So my mother’s life was worth less than Scarlett’s twisted ankle! I was about to explode, but Nathaniel’s eyes gave me a warning, and then I noticed—at the family gathering, besides Mr. and Mrs. Albright, there were two elderly people Nathaniel had told me were long dead. “Didn’t you say… you had no parents?” Seeing Nathaniel’s hesitant, unspoken expression, I understood everything. In their harmonious family, I was merely the woman hidden in the shadows. I wasn’t even worthy of meeting his parents. Scarlett was hosting the four elderly guests, playing the perfect homemaker. Their unfamiliar gazes fell upon me; they clearly had no idea who I was. In the awkward silence, Scarlett quickly rushed over to smooth things over. “Audrey, dear, is the baby crying for his daddy again? Why don’t you wait here for a bit? We’ll be done soon.” At her words, everyone gasped. “A child? So you’re the mistress who tricked our Nathaniel?” “This is our family gathering today! You won’t cause a scene here! Get out!” “What disgrace! How can a woman be so shameless?” I listened numbly, Nathaniel not uttering a single word in my defense. Instead, he gritted his teeth, issuing an unyielding command: “Audrey, go home now.”

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An hour before our flight, my fiancé, Mason, abruptly abandoned me. He chose instead to take his childhood sweetheart, Seraphina, to celebrate Valentine’s Day. They strolled hand-in-hand, taking countless photos. The omnipresent commentary, a constant stream of scrolling text only I could see, offered its usual reassurances: [This man’s love is just awkward and proud, darling. If you just cling to him, you’ll see his heart is always only for you.] [Ten years you’ve been together, does this one time really matter? He’s just a child, waiting for you to coax him.] [He’s just putting on a show for the supporting character; he’s thinking of you every single second.] I was utterly sick of hearing those words. I didn’t cry, didn’t make a scene, and unlike usual, I didn’t frantically chase after him. Instead, I quietly slipped off my engagement ring and accepted my company’s assignment, resolutely embarking on a ten-year journey abroad. 1 The airport entrance was bitterly cold. I stood in the biting wind for nearly two hours, but Mason’s car never appeared. He had told me he’d finish work early today, meet me, and we’d fly to London together. On Valentine’s night, my favorite singer was holding a concert there. Going to a beloved concert with the person I loved most had always been my dream. I’d begged Mason for years, and finally, last month, he agreed. I was so thrilled I couldn’t sleep for nights, spending a month planning every detail of the trip. But now, my overflowing joy was slowly turning into anxiety. He hadn’t arrived yet; could something have happened on the road? I immediately called him to check. Usually, I wouldn’t call him lightly, to avoid disturbing his work. Thankfully, he answered quickly. “Mason, where are you? Is there traffic?” A calm, distant male voice responded after two seconds of silence: “I’m in the departure lounge. Boarding in five minutes.” My mind went blank for a moment. I instinctively apologized, “I’m so sorry, I must have misread the time! I’ll be right there!” He said flatly, “You didn’t misread it. I changed the time.” I was momentarily stunned. The next second, I heard him say, “Seraphina said she didn’t want to spend Valentine’s Day alone, so I’m taking her to the concert. It’s not safe for you to travel alone, so don’t go. Just stay home.” I was instantly speechless, feeling as if an invisible hand had gripped my throat, making it impossible to breathe. “It’s Seraphina again. That New Year’s Eve, you also said she didn’t want to be alone and left me home to be with her. Have you forgotten, I’m your fiancée?” A sigh came from his end. “Yes, you’re my fiancée. You already have me, but Seraphina has nothing. At least on Valentine’s Day, I can’t let her be lonely.” I sniffled, but my nose was still burning and stinging. I sneezed three times in quick succession. “Mason, I’m cold.” My expectations and pride were slowly shattering in his silence, yet I wouldn’t give up. “If you don’t come out, I won’t go back. I’ll wait for you.” I quickly hung up, turned off my phone, and hunched my shoulders, waiting quietly in the cold wind. This was my infallible trick. In the past, the moment Mason heard me sneeze, he would drop everything and rush to me, personally taking me to the clinic for a check-up, only relaxing once he was sure it was nothing serious. If I refused to take my medicine, he’d become agitated, coaxing me in every possible way until I swallowed it. Even when we were in different places, he’d insist I keep video calls open, even when sleeping, saying he wanted to see me every second, or he wouldn’t be at ease. Even if the whole world called me a desperate doormat, I stubbornly believed – he was simply bad at expressing love, not that he didn’t love me. Now, I clenched my fists, nervously watching the exit, thinking I’d see him any second. But ten minutes later, I saw his assistant rushing towards me. “Ms. Willow, Mr. Caldwell has already boarded. He asked me to take you home.” The cold wind whistled, messing up my carefully styled bangs. The airport’s large window reflected my disheveled, tear-streaked face. My vision blurred for a moment, then cleared, and I saw those familiar scrolling messages. [Don’t be sad, sweetie, Mason is just a stubborn, soft-hearted tsundere! Don’t overthink it, hurry and chase him, don’t let them have a moment alone!] [Scorpio men are just like that, honestly, he’s secretly hoping you’ll chase him! Every time you show up, he’ll be grinning to himself!] [Seraphina is just a flavor enhancer for your relationship, she means nothing! Be a good girl, rush and chase him!] My eyelids drooped. For the first time, I asked them, “Why am I always the one getting hurt? Why am I always the one apologizing, always the one chasing him?” My tears were hot and salty, streaming down my face. The messages grew sparser, uniformly urging me to understand Mason. I looked at my lonely shadow on the ground and let out a self-mocking laugh. “Maybe he does love me, but I’m tired of digging for it.” With that, I dialed my boss. “Boss, I’ve changed my mind. I’m willing to accept the assignment. Ten years abroad.” 2 I ran my fingers over the wave-patterned ring on my ring finger. Mason had designed it himself; mine was waves, his was a little fish. Back then, I pestered him for ages, asking why he designed it that way. He was a man of few words, yet he spoke of his design inspiration like a lover’s confession. “A fish can’t leave water, just like you and me.” At that time, I truly believed I was the most loved woman in his heart. Later, Seraphina returned. She jokingly said she liked Mason’s ring, asked for it, and never gave it back. As a result, the media mistakenly thought Mason and I had already broken up; why else would I take off my engagement ring? I mentioned it to Mason, asking him to get the ring back. He told me not to always fuss over such trivial things. But when the rings first came out, he couldn’t wait to wear his in front of the media 24/7. The scrolling messages urged me to ask him again, and I reassured myself that perhaps he was too busy with work and simply forgot about the ring. All I needed to do was bring it up one more time. But now, I was suddenly exhausted. Thinking of this, I took off the ring and resolutely left the house. While waiting at the airport, a chat history popped up from a five-person group chat on my phone. It was Mason’s friends. Years ago, in my pursuit of Mason, I used a little trick to buy one of his friend’s accounts and lurked in this group, silently reading their conversations. Because Mason and that friend had fallen out, they hadn’t been in touch for years, so my secret was never revealed. Even now, no one knew I was in the group. They posted a few photos of me going through security at the airport, tagging Mason. [Mr. Caldwell, your little wife is chasing you a thousand miles again. Be mentally prepared!] [I said Willow wouldn’t last a day before chasing him. See? It’s only been an hour, and she’s already tailing him like a puppy.] [Willow doesn’t compare to Seraphina in family background or looks. I really don’t know what kind of magic she used to capture our Mason’s heart.] It wasn’t until I landed that I saw Mason’s recent reply. [Can’t shake her off. Just have to make do.] I let out a bitter laugh. I really wanted to reply: Congratulations, you’ve successfully shaken me off. 3 At the airport exit, I saw Mason’s assistant waving at me. “Ms. Willow, Mr. Caldwell asked me to take you to a hotel. He said not to wander off, just wait for him there.” The scrolling messages erupted. [See? See? Mason truly loves you! Even when he’s with the supporting character, his heart is still here! Sweetie, don’t be difficult anymore.] [His comment in the group is just a typical straight man’s flaw, don’t mind it.] Last Valentine’s Day, the messages had reassured me the same way. Back then, I wanted to see snow in Reykjavík. Mason frowned and refused, saying he hated snow. But before, when I said I wanted to see snow, he would immediately book flights and hotels, ready to take me anytime. I comforted myself, thinking perhaps he really did dislike the cold. So, I meticulously planned a warm vacation to Maui, only to see him suddenly grab his luggage and head out. He told me, very indifferently, “Seraphina is alone in Reykjavík. I’m worried.” At the time, I was almost in tears. I chased after him, feeling wronged, clutching his arm like a protective, yet harmless, puppy, determined not to let him have any time alone with Seraphina. Because they had been childhood sweethearts. Everyone said that if Seraphina hadn’t rejected him, it would never have been my turn. I felt threatened, sinking into endless insecurity. Just as I was about to give up, guided by the messages, I discovered an album Mason had hidden. That album contained photos of us from when we first met to when we fell in love, and a secret I had never known. During the time my parents passed away, it was Mason who had secretly paid off their debts. To avoid burdening me, he had even deliberately had others tell me my parents had cleared the debts themselves. This album chronicled his subtle yet profound affection for me, proving that this love wasn’t just something I had shamelessly chased. Therefore, I stubbornly followed him to Reykjavík, desperately guarding our love. Looking back now, I belatedly understood. The man who used to slow his steps to accommodate me had, at some point, gradually forgotten me. The two of them, Mason and Seraphina, in tacit understanding, ignored me, chatting and laughing with each other, leading many passersby to mistake me for the other woman. Mason never spoke up to clarify, and even when I deliberately took his hand to assert my claim, he shook it off. My leg was stuck in the snow, unable to move, and I was terrified. But after hearing my cry, he only glanced back before carrying the complaining Seraphina, who claimed her leg hurt, back to the hotel. If someone hadn’t passed by and rescued me, I probably would have frozen to death that night. Afterward, I cried, asking him if he truly cared about me. He stood with his back to me, not holding my hand, not turning around. Even his hair seemed to exude indifference. “Only a lovesick fool like you would ask such a childish question.” That night, I should have given up entirely. But the messages repeatedly told me that Mason was testing my love for him, holding back his affection because he feared I would leave. Unwilling to lose him, I chose to believe the messages. But what was the result? He still chose to send me alone to a hotel, to wait obediently for him to come home, rather than be with me, choosing Seraphina instead. Thinking of this, I couldn’t help but smile bitterly, my eyes regaining their resolute determination. I gently pushed away the assistant’s hand. “No need. The company has arranged accommodation for me.” Coincidentally, the place I was going to spend ten years was London. The assistant frowned, trying to persuade me. “Ms. Willow, why are you doing this? We all know you can’t leave Mr. Caldwell, and we know you’ll eventually go to coax him. He’s offering you an olive branch now, so just take it. Being so stubborn, you might genuinely lose him.” I smiled faintly. “I don’t want him anymore. How can I lose what I don’t want?” In the assistant’s astonished gaze, I resolutely turned and walked away. Five minutes later, Mason called. How rare. He actually called me first. After Seraphina came back, he had never initiated a call to me. I felt annoyed and cut him off without answering. He called again. The ringing sounded restless and anxious. I simply turned off my phone. Unexpectedly, a few minutes later, several cars abruptly forced my taxi to a stop. The driver, scared by the scene, refused to take me further, kicked me out, and sped off. The assistant opened a car door, his tone firm. “Ms. Willow, please don’t make things difficult for us.” I sneered, “Mason is worried I’ll disrupt his date, isn’t he? Tell him his worry is unnecessary; I won’t bother him again.” The assistant replied, “We don’t know what Mr. Caldwell is thinking, but he wants you to wait for him at the hotel, so we absolutely cannot let you go anywhere else.” With that, two men got out, making to force me into the car. Just then, a sharp horn blared closer. A sleek, lustrous black Bentley forced the men back and stopped in front of me. The car door opened, and a tall, distinguished figure stepped out, holding the door for me. Sebastian still had that refined, gentlemanly air he’d always possessed, like a warm ray of light that illuminated everything around him with a gentle smile. He looked at me, extending a hand. “Coming to London and not telling me? You’re being a stranger.” I didn’t have time to think too much. I immediately took the escape he offered, slipped into his car, and left those men behind.

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My childhood friend, Hank, was home for the holidays, and I overheard his mother trying to set me up on a date. He asked, “Are you that bored?” His mother seemed surprised. “Why are you getting angry?” Everyone knew he was brilliant, a graduate from a top-tier university, while I had only attended an average one – a world of difference. He had no romantic interest in me. But no one knew this was the third year since our unspoken, complicated relationship had ended. Back then, he had simply leaned against the bathroom door and said, “It’s probably better to end things early. It was quite dull.” 1 “Who’s angry?” Hank’s expression was cool and indifferent. “Don’t bother. She won’t agree.” His mother asked, “You’re so sure?” Hank didn’t reply. He took his mother’s phone, scrolled through a few photos of potential suitors, and offered a lazy smile. His mother knew his arrogant demeanor well. Hank was a golden boy, effortlessly excelling in academics and blessed with striking looks. He was always the center of attention. “They can’t compare to you,” his mother conceded, “but what if Willow likes one of them?” “You can try.” His tone was detached, as if it had nothing to do with him. Yet, he paused, halting his movement towards the door. Ten minutes later, I sent my reply. [No need, thank you, Auntie.] He barely glanced at it, a silent “I told you so” expression on his face. He turned and walked out, dismissing the matter from his mind. So, he didn’t notice the second text message that immediately followed. [Auntie, I’m getting engaged next week.] 2 The summer I loved Hank most was the darkest time of my life. On the eve of winter break in my sophomore year of university, there was a high school reunion. I was packing my suitcase, trying to resist checking if Hank had replied to my message. He hadn’t. Instead, he had added someone else to our group chat. [What’s going on?] [Who’s this?] Friends in the chat started teasing. Hank wrote: [My girlfriend.] The word “girlfriend” exploded in my mind. I knew Hank wasn’t short of admirers, but he had always seemed so indifferent. So indifferent that I clung to a foolish hope. I clicked on his girlfriend’s profile picture. She was beautiful. I sat in my dorm room, applying a full face of makeup, then removing it, finding myself looking terrible no matter what. When I arrived at the reunion, the room was buzzing with lively conversation. Seeing me appear, the laughter abruptly stopped. Hank happened to be standing up, making space for his girlfriend. He leaned halfway towards me, his eyebrow slightly raised. “Willow, what kind of awful makeup is that?” It was a perfectly normal, joking tone for a friend, exactly the same as always. It was me who was different. My insecurity overflowed, leaving me flustered. Everyone chuckled. I instinctively laughed along, trying to hide my embarrassment. “What’s so funny?” Hank’s girlfriend pulled me out of the private room and led me to the restroom. She helped me remove my patchy foundation, asking as she did, “Hank is too mean. I’ll give him a talking-to for you later.” Her hands smelled sweet, her skin delicate. She was so gentle that even I couldn’t help but like her. How much more would he like her? That night, I trailed behind the crowd, watching Hank take her hand. They looked perfect together. In the latter half of the party, someone suggested drinking. Hank declined. His girlfriend got into the driver’s seat of his luxury car. I turned to follow the crowd, but Hank grabbed me and pulled me into the back seat. “Don’t pick up bad habits,” he said, his eyes smiling. “If your mother found out, she’d kill me.” “That’s right,” his girlfriend added, “We’ll drop you off at university.” Halfway there, his girlfriend decided she wanted crawfish and asked me, “Want to come eat with us?” Hank looked at me, one hand on the steering wheel, and I understood his expression: Don’t be a third wheel. “You two go ahead,” I said. Hank still dropped me off at university first. Before I got out, I heard his girlfriend quietly ask him, “Am I still coming to your apartment tonight?” The ink-black London night, a cold wind sweeping in, carried that soft but clear question right to my ears. His car sped away. I stood there, remembering high school evenings when Hank would stop his bicycle outside my house, waiting for me. At the time, I thought, If someday he drives a car, how would I feel sitting inside it with him? Now I knew. 3 I heard Hank broke up with his girlfriend after only two weeks. My contact with him had ended long ago. I was busy with exams, lab work, writing papers—busy trying to shed that dark, unremarkable version of myself. It wasn’t until a few years later, before my senior finished university, that she dragged me to a bar. “Do you know that super handsome guy at the next table?” “I heard he’s a tech mogul, his starting salary went straight to six figures.” The speaker gestured a number, and everyone gasped in amazement. I looked at the next table. Hank sat amidst a crowd of handsome men and beautiful women. “I’m going to get his number,” a girl said, standing up and heading excitedly towards their table. She returned ten minutes later. “You didn’t get it, did you?” “That hotshot is notoriously hard to pin down, even at his university.” I got up and went to the restroom. As I came out after washing my hands, I ran into Hank, who was waiting by the door, cutting me off. He wore a black turtleneck, his figure tall and broad. His fair neck looked clean and alluring. He held my coat draped over his arm. He asked, “Did I offend you somehow?” “No.” “Then why did you block me?” His dark eyes stared straight into mine, easily making me feel irritated. “Give me back my coat.” He turned sideways. “No.” The alley outside the bar was filled with the biting cold of falling snow. He asked me again, “Is the guy sitting next to you your boyfriend? Did you learn from him, coming to a bar so late at night?” Seeing my silence, he snorted. “No offense. Just warning you to be careful who you choose. He doesn’t look like a good guy.” My steady gaze met his face. I suddenly understood that some things couldn’t be cured by quitting. They could only be appeased by obtaining them. “Are you angry?” My tone was calm. He chuckled. “Why would I be angry—” “Hank, are you coming home with me?” He froze, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the words. “If not, then someone else will.” I turned to leave, but he gripped my wrist. On that first snowy night of November, our secret, unspoken relationship began. Honestly, I just wanted to know. What did that arrogant face look like when it was lost in passion? So this was the expression. Even in bed, he was still playing it cool, teasing me. Maliciously, he asked, “Would anyone else do?” No. I looked away, trying desperately not to cry. Month after month, we grew more addicted than the other. I felt I was beyond saving. At one point, I even thought he might genuinely like me. So when he held the hairdryer, his large hand running through my hair, and asked, “Do you like me?” I couldn’t help but say, “Let’s end this kind of relationship—” and then, truly be together. But before I could finish, he let go. The hum of the hairdryer stopped, and the bathroom grew silent, save for the sound of running water. He stared at me for a long time. Leaning against the bathroom door, he gave a faint smile. “It’s probably better to end things early. It was quite dull. Our kind of relationship, you know, it doesn’t even qualify as a breakup.” My soaking wet hair stuck to my back. One moment cold, the next hot. That was the moment I truly wanted to retreat. All these years, I had been so ordinary by his side. But I didn’t want to shortchange this ordinary self of mine anymore. [Auntie, I’m getting engaged next week.] Hank, who hadn’t seen this message, was at his childhood friend’s christening celebration. He knew I would be there today too. We hadn’t seen each other in three years. He casually glanced at my name tag, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Someone at the table mentioned, “Arthur Stone is getting engaged, did you hear?” “No way! He’s always been single, to the point the media questioned his sexuality. How did he find someone so fast?” “Met her through a setup.” Hank’s eyebrow twitched at the word. He was somewhat allergic to it today. Someone asked, “What kind of fiancée is she?” “A bit like Willow.” Hank’s gaze shifted from the door to the person who spoke. “So he likes that type,” the person joked, then asked Hank, “Why didn’t you ever think of introducing Willow to him?” Hank maintained his detached expression. But a cold draft from the half-open window ruffled the hair on his forehead, making his eyes seem a little darker. “I did introduce them,” Hank said. “She wasn’t interested.” Arthur Stone was known for his fierce, untamed nature, always hungry for more. He was a completely different type from Hank. “I was kind enough to have someone drive her home in her first year of university, to create an opportunity for them.” Hank’s voice was very soft as he spoke. “She even complained to me that Arthur was too aggressive.” Just then, Hank’s childhood friend, Patrick, walked over. He was one of the few who knew about Hank and my past relationship. He looked at Hank with interest and asked, “Do you know what ‘blind spot’ means?” Hank looked confused. Patrick didn’t explain further, but narrowed his eyes and smiled, telling the gossiping group at the table, “They say they met through a setup, but Arthur had a crush on her for many years. Too bad the girl was completely devoted to someone else. He finally got his chance.” Everyone was surprised. “No way, he’s got such great qualities, and he’s still poaching someone else’s girl.” “Whose girl is he poaching?” Patrick didn’t answer, just clapped Hank on the shoulder. “Did Arthur invite you to his engagement?” “No.” “That’s odd, you two are so close.” Patrick’s smile grew deeper as he asked Hank, “Want to see a photo of his fiancée?” With that, he pulled out his phone and shoved it in front of Hank. Hank leaned down to look, but someone nearby exclaimed, “Willow, you’re here!” His gaze instantly shifted to me at the entrance. I walked in, wearing a cream-colored knit dress. Patrick meaningfully put away his phone and said to Hank, “She looks good, doesn’t she? Never realized Willow had such a great figure back in university.” Hank’s calm gaze fixed on me, then he looked away. He knew. The first time we shared that snowy night, I wore a similar dress. I wore styles I liked for a long time. I was constant in everything. But he didn’t know that people and clothes were different. Once I hit a brick wall, I would turn back from my misguided path. I pulled out a chair and sat down. A long-lost scent drew near. Hank didn’t speak to me, didn’t even touch me. He was well-liked. People came to toast him, round after round. “When are you two getting married?” A drunken classmate clapped Hank on the shoulder, pointing at him and me. “What nonsense are you talking about?” He was pulled away by others. “Oh, right, it’s Willow.” “I thought she was Hank’s girlfriend.” “You two are dressed in black and white; I thought it was your wedding.” Hank chuckled at the remark, deflecting it, a charming glint in his eye. He raised his glass and drank the toast. This was the first time he had smiled tonight. 4 The banquet ended. Patrick, who hadn’t drunk, offered to drive me home. I opened the back car door, only to see Hank sitting there. When Hank was drunk, he didn’t like to talk; he just liked to stare at people with those dark, cold eyes. “He’s completely out of it. We’re taking him back together. You don’t mind, do you, Willow?” I got into the car and sat down. Hank’s hand remained suspended in the middle, maintaining a distinct separation. It was a long drive back to the city center. I leaned my head against the car window and closed my eyes, trying to sleep. The car would occasionally jolt, causing my head to bump slightly, but I didn’t care. The car window reflected Hank’s face. He stared at the noticeable distance between us, lost in thought. When we arrived at my place, Hank offered to see me upstairs. “No need.” He ignored me, his voice cold. “If anything happened to you, we’d all be responsible.” In the elevator, he leaned against the wall, alcohol-flushed, loosening his tie. “My mother’s setup was quite good. Why didn’t you go for it?” He tilted his chin slightly, looking down, his gaze probing. “Not impressed?” “Then what kind do you like?” He was deliberately provoking me again. “Like me?” I met his gaze in the elevator’s reflection. “Not anymore.” “Then the opposite of me, like Arthur Stone?” My gaze froze. He said, “Too late. He’s getting engaged.” Hank seemed intrigued, asking casually, “Willow, since you’re going on setups anyway, how about we give it a try?” With that, he leaned down, looking into my eyes. “You haven’t been waiting for me to say that, have you?” “No.” I looked up at him earnestly. “The day we ended things, I made it very clear: I wouldn’t like you anymore.” “Really?” He slipped one hand into his pocket, a lazy smile on his face. “Good. Don’t just marry someone to forget me.” Hank’s attitude was indifferent, explicitly a scoundrel but fond of saying pretty words. His tone was remarkably sincere: “More than anyone, I hope you find someone you love and marry them. I’ll definitely wish you well.”

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