Author: Momo Chan

The first thing I noticed when I opened the office door was the junior analyst, Jett Sawyer, beneath the conference table. The kid, barely shaving, was intent on his mischief, and Cassia’s attempt to suppress her pleasure was failing dramatically. I placed the file on the desk without making eye contact. “The Soho Initiative funding request. Just sign here, please.” She was preoccupied with a much more immediate form of gratification. Distracted and humming, she grabbed the pen and signed through the pages without looking. Only then did she lift her slightly hazy eyes. “Wait… wasn’t your flight tomorrow? Why the sudden return?” I retrieved the file. “Came back to handle some urgent business.” Before turning to leave, I glanced under the desk. “Tell him to come out now.” Cassia paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She was likely expecting a scene—me throwing a fit, making threats, recording the confrontation as I had done years ago. Instead, I simply added, “He’ll lose the circulation in his legs if he stays down there too long.” Feeling caught and slightly foolish, she deflected. “What urgent business are you here for?” I didn’t answer. I just closed the door and, with a gentle click, flipped the magnetic [Do Not Disturb: In Meeting] sign on the handle. She didn’t realize that my urgent business had already been accomplished. … 1 From inside the office, I heard Jett Sawyer’s voice, a childish hint of laughter threading through it. “Cassia, you scared the hell out of me just now.” Cassia’s low chuckle was intimate and throaty. “Scared of what? He’s not going to eat you.” “But he’s your husband…” “Exactly. And he’s well-trained. See? He just left on his own.” I stood motionless just outside the door. The afternoon light sliced into the hallway, leaving a sharp line by my shoes. Jett lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, are you coming home tonight?” “Business is business, but,” Cassia said, her tone utterly natural, “I always go home.” Jett scoffed from his throat. “Boss, you’re so used to being pampered, you miss him after a single day?” “Anything he can do, I can do better. Or did I not satisfy you a moment ago?” “You and him? It’s not the same.” Cassia’s lazy voice cut in. “He’s stubborn as an ox, but he can’t live without me! You know how much trouble he went to with his family just to marry me.” She paused, the implication hanging in the air. “If I don’t go back, do you think any of you little lovers would survive?” She spoke of weighty, painful history as if reciting a bedtime story. Jett’s voice was syrupy, laced with curiosity. “And do you… like that about him? The way he pretends to be the one in charge but is actually just pathetic?” The air went still for a beat. Then I heard Cassia emit a brief, dismissive laugh. She countered, “What do you think?” “I think—” Jett never finished the sentence. Because I opened the door again. Both people in the office froze instantly. Jett was half-perched on the edge of Cassia’s expansive mahogany desk. Cassia leaned back in her chair, the top two buttons of her silk blouse undone. She was startled for only a fraction of a second, then raised a knowing eyebrow. “Forget something?” I ignored the question, walking straight toward the side table where the key bowl was. My car keys were indeed there. I picked them up and turned to leave once more. “Declan.” Cassia stood, walking around the desk to me. Her arms instantly wrapped around my waist. She always did this at the office. Affectionate public displays of ownership—she was never stingy with those. I gently disengaged. After his encounter with her, Jett carried the distinct scent of the men’s cologne she’d given me. The exact same bottle. Last month, when she presented it to me as a birthday gift, she’d called the fragrance “irreplaceable” and uniquely mine. Now, I realized she must have bought them in bulk. “I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” Her voice adopted its usual, soft coaxing tone. “What do you want to eat? I’ll cook it myself, hmm?” Jett let out a small, contemptuous huff beside us. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I have plans tonight.” Her smile faded slightly, though her lips remained curved upward. “What is it? Are you upset?” She leaned closer. “Because of Jett? I told you, he’s nothing but a—” “I know,” I interrupted softly. “He’s an intern analyst. He needs your hands-on guidance.” What sort of skills she chose to instruct him in was entirely up to her. She seemed momentarily stunned. She probably hadn’t expected me to skip the protest, the argument, and even the sarcasm this time. She raised a hand to touch my cheek, but I had already taken a step forward. “Fine,” she shrugged, switching her grip to my forearm. “Whatever it is, be home before nine.” Jett snickered nearby. I looked at him, and he met my gaze. Compared to the other men I had quietly dealt with over the years, he was remarkably protected. His eyes held undisguised triumph and provocation. Youth is a powerful thing. Looking at his arrogant, fresh face, I was transported back to the summer I was twenty, when Cassia pulled me out of the psychiatric clinic. 2 It was the third day my father had sent me there for “treatment.” Treatment for my “pathological love” and my “disease” of wanting to marry a woman from the wrong side of the tracks. Cassia had waited all night, hidden in the air ducts, until the morning nurse change. She pried open my window. We slid down the wall on a rope woven from knotted bedsheets. She landed hard, fracturing her elbow, but never once let go of my hand. When we reached safety, her clothes were soaked with sweat. She shakily grabbed my hand and pressed it against her heart. It was beating fast and heavy. “Declan,” her eyes were bloodshot. “Listen to me. If we can get out of this place today, nothing will ever be able to separate us.” She fumbled in her pocket, then opened her palm. A thin, cheap silver ring, bought from a flea market stand. “Declan, put it on me!” She looked into my eyes, enunciating every word. “I want to tell the world I’m with you because I love you, not for your money.” “From this day on, every step we take—the good and the bad—it counts.” My fingers trembled as I put the ring on her. “When I have money someday, I promise I’ll replace it with the largest diamond ring in the world.” My voice caught. I felt she deserved so much better than the shame my family was putting her through. The sun that day was just like today, bright and blinding, shining on her young face, illuminating the fierce light in her eyes. I thought that was forever. … I didn’t stay in my own office long. My assistant knocked shortly after I got back. “Mr. Holt, this is the summary of the expense reports that were fast-tracked during your week away.” She placed the tablet in front of me. “Specifically… Mr. Sawyer’s spending requires your review.” I scrolled through the screen. Customized Italian personal grooming treatments, an exclusive wellness spa retreat, an extended lease on a Ritz-Carlton suite… Scrolling down further, my finger stopped on the last entry: Private OB-GYN Consultation & Services… The assistant cautiously added, “Finance said… these accounts were routed through the ‘Employee Wellness’ budget, authorized with Ms. Lane’s special approval.” I put down my coffee cup. “Jett Sawyer. How long has he been with us?” “Three months.” I nodded, asking nothing else. “If Ms. Lane approved it, process the expenses as normal.” The assistant hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. “Mr. Holt… I’m not sure I should say this.” “Go on.” “The first day you were gone, he… he had Ms. Lane with him on your chair…” The assistant sniffled, her face flushed with discomfort. “I heard the noise when I passed. He was laughing, saying he wanted to take the thrill as far as it could go.” I subconsciously looked over at my executive chair. It was the one Cassia had specially ordered from Milan when we first started the company. She’d said, “You always have lower back pain. This chair is ergonomically designed for spinal support.” I already knew what my assistant was telling me. Jett Sawyer was barely twenty-two. Unlike the men who came before him—the ones who feared Cassia’s temper or losing their jobs—he was brazen, shameless. He wanted every love bite to be a close-up photo. Why wouldn’t he want to immediately send such a stimulating ‘trophy’ to me? Last Wednesday, at two in the morning. I was pulling an all-nighter on a proposal in my hotel room abroad when my phone screen lit up. A photo from an anonymous number. The moment I opened it, I couldn’t immediately process what I was seeing. Until I recognized it—my office. The man, his face obscured, was straddling my chair. Cassia sat on his lap, facing him, in a compromising position. The accompanying text message read: [It really is extra comfortable on this chair, isn’t it!] I didn’t see his face, but I knew exactly who it was. I didn’t reply. But in that moment, the dam I had been holding back for seven years suddenly burst. That was when I decided to return and handle the urgent business of ‘divorce’— And she, lost in her own smugness, had no idea that the divorce papers were hidden beneath the stack of “Soho Initiative funding requests.” 3 “Last Friday afternoon, the moment you left, Jett Sawyer came strutting in wearing your custom-made Italian Chelsea boots. I couldn’t help myself, I asked him why he was wearing your shoes. He had a ready answer…” The assistant paused, then relayed his words with disgust. “‘Ms. Lane said they look good on me. Mr. Holt? He’d never sweat the small stuff.’” She looked up, her expression a mix of sympathy and frustration on my behalf. “Mr. Holt, are you… really not going to sweat the small stuff?” I looked at the earnest, young woman who was standing up for me. I offered a small, bloodless smile, my tone completely level. “They always rubbed my heel a little. If he likes them, he can have them.” Before I left on the trip, I had no idea these two were involved. The company had been focused on a major market expansion, and I hadn’t paid my usual attention to Cassia. Besides, she’d had a seemingly steady lover installed in an apartment near the office complex. Judging by Jett’s audacity, the previous man had clearly been dispatched. “Wipe your eyes,” I handed her a tissue. “I’ll be out of the office next week. Keep an eye on things.” She looked puzzled. “Where are you going?” I didn’t answer. I simply looked out the window. The sunlight was perfect, just like the afternoon seven years ago when we went to the courthouse. Cassia had gone alone to the family estate. She knelt on the cold stone floor of my father’s library for three hours, begging for his approval. “Sir, I know you despise my background, but Declan and I love each other deeply. I swear I will never let him down.” Ultimately, my father had her escorted out. But he stood by the window for a long time that day. Later, he took her poorly constructed business plan, revised it in the library, and secretly mailed it to me. Bringing up these old wounds now feels like demanding payment for kindness, tainting sincerity with calculation. But if I don’t mention it… If I don’t mention it, she will truly believe she is a self-made prodigy. She will believe that all the data, the connections, the seed capital—she earned it all on her own merit. 4 Shortly after the assistant left, Cassia called me from the car. “Jett was completely spooked by your little surprise visit today,” her voice was low, laced with a playful intimacy. “I need to spend some time coaxing him back to normal. I’ll be late. Leave the front door unlocked for me.” I waited three seconds before speaking. “Didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t get pregnant?” Silence on the other end. “What are you talking about?” Her voice remained steady. “The OB-GYN visits Jett made—they can’t be without cause, can they?” A two-second pause. Then, a sudden chuckle. “You looked into him?” “It was on the company ledger,” I replied calmly. “A fifty-thousand-dollar premium prenatal package. Filed under employee benefits. You were very generous with the approval, Cassia.” Perhaps she signed the expense without looking at the details at all. She softened her tone, adopting a persuasive, honeyed sound. “Declan, that was an accident! He’s young, completely naïve. He thought if he got me pregnant, he could somehow force my hand.” “And?” “I’m handling it,” she said decisively. “Don’t worry, no one is going to threaten your position.” “Cassia.” I spoke her name. “Hmm?” “Do you remember,” I said slowly, deliberately, “how we lost our first child?” Her breathing hitched on the other end of the line. “Stop it, Declan. That’s in the past. Bringing it up again and again is pointless.” “You’re right.” I allowed myself a brief, dry laugh. “It’s all in the past.” The child who never made it. The vows she knelt and swore to me. The thing she held against me for so many years… “Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll come home once I’m done with him.” She hung up. I raised my hand and, for the first time, and the last, blocked her number. Then, I replied to the message that had been waiting for my confirmation for an entire week: [It’s handled. I will be on time for the wedding.] 5 When I left the office, all my personal effects had been discreetly packed and taken care of. The elevator descended, the gentle drop of gravity a comforting sensation of loss of control. There was a time, in this very elevator, when she pressed me against the mirrored wall, kissing me passionately, whispering: “Declan, I must have earned so much good karma in this life and the last to marry you.” Her eyes were so bright back then. Bright enough that she almost seemed to believe the lie she was telling. I had planned to meet a friend for a farewell dinner. The restaurant was downtown, overlooking the waterfront. I had barely settled in when I saw Jett Sawyer walk in, his arm draped around Cassia’s waist. He was leaning in to hear what she was saying, a lazy, entitled smile on his face. Cassia saw me first. She stopped for a moment, then her smile widened. Instead of avoiding me, she walked straight to my table. “Your ‘plans’ were to eat dinner by yourself?” She pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. “The steak here is good,” Cassia said, picking up the bottle of wine on my table. “But this vintage you ordered is too mild. I’m having the server open a proper one.” The server brought the bottle she ordered. Cassia poured two glasses herself. One she pushed toward me, the other she handed to Jett. She looked at me. “How’s the taste?” “It’s fine.” “Just ‘fine’?” Her smile deepened. “I remember you used to love this. You said it had a certain… bittersweet almond note.” “People’s palates change,” I put the glass down. “Things you once thought were good, you look at now and realize they’re just mediocre.” Cassia’s eyes darkened slightly. But she quickly laughed, wrapping her arm around Jett’s shoulder. “Did you hear that?” She gently turned Jett’s face toward me. “Your brother is teaching you a lesson: don’t take women too seriously.” Jett looked at her, his eyes possessive. “What about you? Can I take you seriously?” “Me?” Cassia met my gaze, but her words were for him. “A woman like me is best enjoyed in passing, Jett.” 6 She spoke lightly, flippantly, likely expecting me to do what I always did—rise coldly and leave. To give them their private space. But I refused to be accommodating. I picked up the wine glass and took another sip. Only when I received a text that my friend couldn’t make it did I stand up. “He got held up,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.” I turned to walk away. Jett suddenly spoke. “Bro, Cassia’s birthday is next week. We’re throwing a yacht party. You should come.” I paused. “You have to come,” Jett added, his voice loaded with suggestion. “Cassia said her most desired gift this year is…” He drew out the pause, looking to Cassia. Cassia lightly squeezed his shoulder, cutting him off. “Stop playing games.” I nodded. “I can be there. As long as you’re not afraid of me making the party even more ‘exciting’.” With that, I walked out. The glass door sealed shut, cutting off their laughter and conversation into a different world. I arrived at the house at seven. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, was in the kitchen simmering broth. “Mr. Holt, you’re back?” “Ms. Lane called and said she’ll be late. Should I save the soup for her?” “No,” I set down my bag. “She won’t be coming home.” Mrs. Gable looked uncertain. “Are you… sleeping here tonight, sir?” I paused, halfway through taking off my coat. “What do you mean?” “The days you were traveling,” Mrs. Gable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Sawyer… he moved in.” The air was still for two seconds. I continued to unbutton my coat, one, two. “Which room is he in?” “The primary suite… four nights in a row. Ms. Lane… was there too.” I nodded slowly. “Ms. Lane,” Mrs. Gable hesitated. “I didn’t want to tell you, but she said you’d be upset, and she told me to…” “It’s alright. I don’t blame you.” I looked up, surveying the living room. Every piece of furniture here was chosen by me, every painting hung by me. She loved it. She always said, “Declan, this house only feels like a home when you’re in it.” Now, the house was no different from a high-end motel. Anyone could check in for a few nights. “Sir, don’t hold it in. If you want to yell, or even cry, it would be better than this…” Cry? I saw my reflection in the glass of the painting. My eyes were empty. A well that had been dry for years—how could it possibly produce water now? “Mrs. Gable, you can go home for the night.” I headed upstairs. Opening the door to the primary suite, a strange, unfamiliar scent washed over me. The sheets had been changed, and seven or eight boxes of unopened Durex were haphazardly scattered on the nightstand. I pushed the window open, letting the night wind rush in. It blew away the stale, unpleasant air. I pulled open the deepest drawer in the walk-in closet. Seven small journals, arranged by year. They were still there. The cover of the top one was a slightly dated deep-sea blue, the edges worn from use. That was the first year of our marriage. I had diligently recorded everything I did for this ‘home,’ like a student conducting a project: the light fixtures I fixed, the dishes she loved I taught myself to cook, the trips we planned… On the last page, a line of pencil read: [Seven-Year Plan, Completion: 1/7] In the second notebook, the focus shifted abruptly to me. It was filled with workout plans, excerpts from self-help books on maintaining intimacy… From the third book onward, the entries became sparse, the dates increasingly sporadic— Not because life was boring, but because my emotional energy was being spent elsewhere. I had thought seven years of beautiful records could fight off the seven-year itch. But I had stopped updating it four years ago. Those years had been dedicated to more practical matters— Tracking hotel charges on her bank statements, locating the apartments where her assistant delivered the flowers she’d ordered for her lovers… The men I had confronted during those years of escalating conflict were too many to count. I gently dropped the notebooks into the waste bin. Seven years. My plan had only reached one-seventh completion. I was the only one in the marriage striving for salvation. She, meanwhile, had long since opened her own private harem, seeking universal spiritual comfort. My phone chimed with a flight notification: [Mr. Holt, your urgent flight has been confirmed. Departure at midnight.] I replied, “Thank you.” While performing a final check of my luggage, I felt a hard object at the bottom of the suitcase. It was the silver ring Cassia had handed me, the one she made me use to propose to her. I tossed it onto the bed, grabbed the suitcase, and walked out. The rideshare was waiting by the curb. The driver asked, “The airport, sir?” “Yes.” … As expected, Cassia, wrapped up with Jett, didn’t come home. She woke up just after noon the next day, her phone buzzing. An automatic bank alert: [Your account ending in 8818 made a transfer of $1.00 USD to ‘Declan Holt’ at 03:47 AM. Memo: Divorce Settlement Payment.] She frowned, thinking she’d misread it. Just as she was about to scrutinize the screen, a breaking news alert popped up— [Tycoon Tête-à-Tête: The Holt Group Finalizes Strategic Split; Holt and Caldwell Families Announce Formal Union] “What is it?” Jett Sawyer’s voice was close, his chin resting on her shoulder, still thick with sleep. “Who’s being such a buzzkill so early…” Cassia rubbed her temples. The screen lit up again. It was a text from her lawyer: [Ms. Lane, the divorce petition with both signatures, authorized by Mr. Holt, has been filed with the court. You are required to file your response within seven days.]

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I was on a self-imposed sabbatical in the countryside when the text came in: I was the long-lost, biological son of the Kincaid family. When the two men in black suits strapped my hands behind my back, dragging me through the grand front hall, the fake heir, Chadwick Kincaid—Chad—stood behind my presumed parents, looking suitably distressed. He was a master of the wounded-gazelle routine. My biological father, Mr. Kincaid, a man whose face was chiseled from old granite, spoke in a frigid tone. “Your brother ruined the painting the Sinclair heiress sent to her younger brother. You will go to the Sinclair estate and apologize on his behalf.” Chad sniffled, his eyes red-rimmed, playing the role perfectly. “Don’t worry, little brother. If anything unfortunate happens to you, I promise I’ll be the dutiful son for Mom and Dad.” And my rumored fiancée, Brielle Lockhart, was staring at me with naked disgust. “Honestly, straight from the sticks. You reek of the gutter,” she spat, then turned her full venom on me. “Chadwick is too proud to ever bow his head. If you dare shirk this duty, you’ll be sorry you ever showed your face here.” Gutter? I looked down at the perfectly tailored high-end bespoke suit I was wearing. I’d only spent a few weeks in a quiet, remote town as a break from Manhattan life. How did that make me “poor”? More importantly, was my sister—the infamous Sloane Sinclair—really that heartless? It was just a painting I’d accidentally scuffed. Did it really warrant me being tied up and forced to grovel? … “Wait!” Just as the bodyguards began to haul me out, Brielle’s voice cut through the air. “I’ll go with him.” She walked toward us, adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. “The Sinclair estate isn’t some backyard BBQ. Their rules are absolute. This country bumpkin knows nothing of decorum. If he tries to run along the way, or if he gets there and opens his mouth to spout nonsense, offending one of the Sinclairs—” She paused, her expression still one of pure contempt. “Well, then not just him, but all of us will pay the price.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Remember, you must kneel for twelve straight hours at the Sinclair manor. That’s the only way to show true sincerity. Otherwise, your dirt-poor foster father back in the village…” The threat hung in the air, unfinished but crystal clear. Foster father? I froze. What in the hell were they talking about? When I was little and got lost, I hadn’t been picked up by a struggling rural family. I was found at a quiet Jesuit retreat by the founder, a man who saw me praying alone and declared that I was a child sent by God, full of good fortune. He processed the adoption paperwork instantly, taking me in. Coincidentally, the year after I arrived, his niece, who had been struggling with a chronic, debilitating illness, made a miraculous, full recovery. The whole family believed I was the source of her good fortune. They had spoiled me senseless. They must have mistaken a family groundskeeper, Mr. Henderson, who had recently gone back to visit his own relatives, for a “rural foster father.” “Son, your mother and I do care about you, truly. After this whole ordeal is over, we will treat you properly.” My biological mother, Mrs. Kincaid, spoke up reluctantly, perhaps remembering the weak tug of blood relation. “Your brother grew up with us, sheltered. He hasn’t had a hard day in his life, so you’ll have to take the fall for him this time.” Treat me properly? I scoffed internally. My father had kept my DNA on file with the police for twenty years, just in case. But they didn’t come for me until Chad screwed up and needed a human shield. Did they think I wouldn’t notice the convenient timing? He hasn’t had a hard day in his life, but I have? Fine. This was the clarity I needed. I’d see this through, and then I’d call my real father and tell him he could finally close that decades-old missing person file. The Kincaids could have their perfect little family back. “Brielle, you’re an angel.” Chad gave me a smug, triumphant look, then wrapped an overly familiar arm around Brielle’s waist. “Maybe I should go too. My little brother has been in the boondocks for so long, he’s probably untamed. A second person is just insurance.” “I think you just can’t bear to be without me.” Brielle tilted her head and gave him a quick, possessive kiss on the lips. Untamed? I was shocked. If the Sinclairs heard him describe their ‘good-luck charm’ in those terms, the Kincaid family would be annihilated before sunset. Swallowing the laugh that threatened to spill out, I plastered a look of terrified obedience on my face. “Brielle, please don’t worry. I won’t run. I know you’re my fiancée, and I have to listen to you. Wherever you tell me to go, I’ll go.” “Shut up! How dare you call her Brielle? And whether or not that engagement even stands is still up for debate!” Chad raged, furious that the fake-heir title was about to expire. Brielle’s face softened fractionally. “Enough. Get in the car.” I watched the venomous jealousy flash in Chad’s eyes. This was his limit? We hadn’t even started. The car pulled slowly away from the mansion. “You’re dead,” Chad hissed, leaning in close. His eyes were bright with a dark, ugly excitement. “The Sinclair heiress won’t let you off the hook. Let’s see what you’ll use to compete with me for Brielle and the Kincaid empire then.” He gripped my shoulder, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “I’m telling you, everything here belongs to me. Once you get to that Sinclair estate, you’re finished.” The Sinclair estate. I almost chuckled. That sprawling property was where I’d spent my childhood being absolutely lawless. And the Sinclair heiress, the rumored cold and stunning woman—if I remembered correctly, my sister, Sloane, had once helped me steal a priceless antique chess set from my grandfather’s study. We’d both been punished with two hours of military-style drills in the sweltering heat. I wondered what kind of spectacular meltdown she would have seeing me, her little brother, bound up like livestock, delivered to her doorstep as a sacrificial lamb. Would she break their legs first? Or start with their hands? Ten minutes passed, and we hadn’t even made a dent in the drive. I strained against the ropes binding my arms, a surge of regret hitting me. I hadn’t realized the Kincaids lived this far from the Sinclairs. “You idiot, what are you doing?” Chad instantly yelled, his paranoia spiking. “It hurts,” I muttered, rolling my eyes inwardly. Was he always this dramatic? “Hurts? You’re some poor piece of trash from the country. You’re thick-skinned! You’ve been bound for ten minutes and you’re already pretending to be in pain? I bet you’re just trying to escape.” “Escape? I’m hogtied in the back of a black SUV. You show me how to run.” I was almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of his logic. “Brielle, I told you his intentions weren’t pure. He just said he’d obey you, and now look.” Chad fixed me with a hateful stare and then turned to Brielle, clearly hoping to egg her on. Brielle, predictably, took the bait. “I’m warning you, stay in line. Don’t try anything clever,” she sneered, her voice laced with superiority. “Who do you think you are? Don’t assume that just because you share a sliver of Kincaid blood, you’re suddenly someone important.” “Everything belongs to Chad. Just look at yourself. You can’t even compare to one of his hair follicles.” She paused, her voice dripping with further scorn. “As for me, don’t even dream about it. My husband will be a man of true pedigree, like Chad. A peasant raised in the middle of nowhere like you isn’t fit to tie my shoes. Get that through your head.” Chad smirked triumphantly but played the peacemaker. “Brielle, don’t talk like that. Even if he came from a low-class background, he’s still Mom and Dad’s son.” Low-class background. No one had ever dared to speak to me that way. I struggled to contain the furious emotion swelling inside me. My sister had taught me early on never to argue with an idiot. I deliberately curled my arms, making the tight knots dig into my wrists, and adopted a pitiful expression. “I’m sorry. I won’t move again.” I said, my voice meek. “Chad, you don’t have to worry. You are the sole Kincaid heir, and I’ll listen to everything you say. I won’t fight you for Brielle, either.” Seeing me so completely broken, Chad’s arrogance exploded. He couldn’t help himself. He sighed dramatically. “Little brother, we’re only doing this for your own good. It’s good that you finally understand.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “People like us, born into this status, are on a different level than your dusty village. We’re taking you to the Sinclairs to show you how the real world works, and to teach you to be careful. Don’t make mistakes.” But I wasn’t prepared for his malice to escalate. He turned to Brielle again. “Brielle, I’m still worried. What if he gets nervous? What if he’s clumsy and offends the Sinclairs? He’ll get us all killed.” “We should practice first. Give him some mental prep.” “What are you talking about?” I lifted my head abruptly, a sudden, chilling sense of dread washing over me. “What am I talking about? Don’t you get it?” Chad spoke with a cold calmness. “We’re going to practice. A dress rehearsal. You need to show us how you’ll beg and grovel. Just so you don’t choke when the real show starts.” Before Brielle could respond, he ordered the driver to pull over into a deserted, wide-open spot. Before I could process it, he violently yanked me out of the car. I landed hard on the cold asphalt. “Alright, little brother. Kneel for me.” Chad stood over me, his gaze contemptuous. “Practice how to kowtow and how to plead for mercy.” “Go to hell!” I glared back, unable to stop the words. I kneeled only to the heavens, the earth, and my parents. Chad was nothing. “Still talking back?” The fake smile instantly vanished from Chad’s face. He drew back his leg and kicked me hard in the stomach. A shockwave of twisting pain radiated through me. My bound hands made it impossible to brace myself, and my forehead slammed into the ground. A warm, sticky liquid immediately flowed into my eye. “I knew you were faking it!” Chad’s face was a mask of pure fury. “You spoke so sweetly in the car, but now you refuse to kneel? You’re clearly plotting to get me killed!” Brielle rushed over, equally enraged. “You pathetic trash! We almost fell for your act!” “You think you’re too good for this? I’m telling you, you will kneel whether you want to or not. You have no choice!” “Dream on!” I gritted my teeth and spit a mouthful of blood and phlegm toward them. “Still resisting?” Brielle’s palm struck my face with all her strength. The ringing in my ears was instantly replaced by her furious voice. “I’m giving you this chance! You are Kincaid property, a mistake they picked up. You’re lucky to be alive! It’s an honor for you to take Chad’s punishment! If you don’t start respecting the rules, I’ll be the one to teach you what they are.” “Don’t you dare!” I stared at her, my eyes blazing. I had been treated like a little prince, a source of good fortune my entire life. No one had ever dared to raise a hand or a voice against me. Who was Brielle Lockhart to teach me a lesson? My raw fury startled her for a moment. She faltered, then roared, enraged by her own momentary fear. “Watch me!” Chad stomped on my leg. Brielle slapped me again, and again, driven by a hysterical, escalating rage. “I’m a Lockhart heiress! You’re nothing but cheap goods from the sticks! I have every right to teach you a lesson! Stop looking at me like that!” She turned to the two hulking bodyguards. “Hold his head down and make him kowtow! When he learns his lesson, you can let him up!” The two men stepped forward instantly. One pinned my limbs, the other grabbed my head, forcing it down with crushing pressure. I struggled with every ounce of strength, but it was useless. Thud. My forehead hit the unforgiving pavement. My vision swam. Then, the warm, wet feeling returned, heavier this time. “Hahaha! Excellent!” Chad roared with laughter, watching my pathetic state. “See, little brother? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just cooperate? That’s a lovely, loud sound. Why go through all this trouble? A cheap life should know its place.” He ground the heel of his leather shoe onto my hand. The pain was blinding. Then, with his other hand, he mockingly patted my bruised cheek. “Good boy. Now, say ‘woof woof’ for us.” This was the ultimate humiliation. My body trembled, not from pain, but from white-hot rage. My eyes were bloodshot, staring daggers at him. I spoke through clenched teeth, every word dripping with venom. “Do you know who I am?” “I am Sloane Sinclair’s brother, June Sinclair.” I thought they would at least hesitate, maybe show a hint of doubt. Instead, they burst into raucous laughter, as if I had told the funniest joke in the world. “Hahaha! Did you hear that? The Big Sister’s brother? You must have lost your mind from the head trauma, or you’ve gone crazy from poverty and started hallucinating! The Sinclairs? Do you know who they are? They’re a dynasty that can shake the entire state of Connecticut with a flick of the wrist. Do you really think a piece of trash like you, dragged out of whatever mountain hole, can claim kinship?” Brielle leaned into Chad, giggling. “See, Chad? Good thing we made him practice. With this kind of raving madness, he would have ruined everything at the Sinclair estate and gotten us all wiped out.” He looked down at me, a dark glint in his eye. “It seems we won’t just make him apologize. We need to teach him a lesson for the Sinclairs. Sloane Sinclair is famously protective of her brother. If she hears this idiot is running around claiming to be him, she’ll be grateful to us for punishing him. We’ll get contracts, or even that prime piece of downtown land!” “Oh? What do you propose, Chad?” Brielle prompted, her eyes gleaming. Chad scanned the area. “Didn’t the ancients apologize by bringing a whip and thorns? Let’s honor tradition. Strip him, bind him with the thick, barbed rope, and drag him to the Sinclair estate. That’s what I call sincerity. I bet the Big Sister will be impressed.” Brielle’s face lit up. “My Chad is the smartest! Why didn’t I think of that?” It wasn’t until Chad pulled out a length of heavy, thorny vine that I realized he was serious. My eyes widened in terror. “Chad! Are you insane? This is assault! This is a felony!” “Law?” Chad scoffed. “Little brother, out here, I am the law. I’m helping you redeem yourself for the Sinclairs.” Chad ran his hand over the menacing barbs, grinning at my fear. “This is the only way Sloane Sinclair will believe our sincerity and forgive your insane babbling.” “Don’t you dare! Chad! Brielle! You wouldn’t!” I thrashed wildly, but the bodyguards held me fast. Brielle gave a cold wave of her hand. “Tear his clothes off and bind him. Make sure those ropes are tied tight. If a single one comes loose, you’ll lose your job—or worse!” The bodyguards lunged, ripping my suit jacket and dress shirt off. Then, they began brutally wrapping the thick, barbed vine around my back and arms. “Agh!” With every twist of the rope, the thorns dug deeper into my flesh. Blood instantly began to pour out, soaking the rope and the pavement beneath me. I couldn’t stop the scream. Chad’s excitement was manic. “That’s beautiful, little brother! So beautiful!” He squatted down, forcing his face close to mine. “When we get to the Sinclair estate, I want you to make that sound again. Every time you kowtow, I want you to scream it loud enough for the whole family to hear how deeply sorry this idiot is.” The ropes tightened further. More barbs pierced my skin. Each breath was an agony. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood, swallowing the metallic tang. I fixed my scarlet eyes on them, the hatred absolute. I was fading. Consciousness was a distant shore. Suddenly, I heard Brielle’s sickeningly sweet, placating voice. “Oh, Miss Sinclair! Are you just heading out? What a coincidence.” Then, an older, familiar voice. “The Young Master is being a bit flighty and hasn’t come home yet. Miss Sloane is worried and going out to search for him.” Mr. Henderson. It was the family groundskeeper, the man they thought was my foster father. He was driving the car. A surge of frantic hope coursed through me. With my last ounce of energy, I stretched out my hand and fumbled for the car window button. The window whirred down. I saw her. My sister’s familiar, beautiful, decisive face. Tears instantly blurred my vision.

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My husband Pierce Donovan’s newest student, Brooke Miller, wasn’t just curious; she was a goddamn investigative journalist of my private life. The first time she was alone with me, she asked if I’d leaked urine after childbirth and if Pierce, the revered professor, still found me sexually attractive. Later, under the guise of “researching the human body,” she relentlessly pestered Pierce to let her examine him. It escalated to sending him lingerie photos late at night, asking which set would make a man “get off.” Yet, every time I confronted him, Pierce would cite her troubled background as an orphan and insist I show compassion and restraint. “She’s just a curious baby, Scarlett,” he’d sigh. I kept my mouth shut. I kept my rage tucked away. Until Christmas Day. I had stepped out with my mother-in-law to pick up a new playing card. When I returned, I found Brooke, not just holding a handful of crushed walnuts, but shoving them into my five-year-old daughter Daisy’s mouth. Walnuts. Daisy has a severe, life-threatening nut allergy. After rushing my daughter to the hospital, the adrenaline of terror gave way to pure, blinding fury. I slapped Brooke across the face. Pierce immediately pulled the sniffling girl into his arms. He looked at me, his handsome brow furrowed in disappointment. “Scarlett, you need to calm down. Why are you attacking a kid who has no family? Brooke was just curious about the reaction. An academic observation, that’s all. It’s not like Daisy is permanently damaged.” “She’s fine, isn’t she?” I closed my eyes, the cold finally seeping into the deepest parts of my soul. If he was going to protect his so-called “curious baby” like this, then the role of the Perfect Wife was officially vacant. 1 “Mrs. Donovan, I really was just too curious.” Brooke dabbed at her eyes, leaning on Pierce. “You let me stay in your home for the holidays. If I made a mistake, aren’t you the one with the bigger responsibility?” Even Pierce looked at me with a cold, accusing stare. “Brooke is young, Scarlett, and still just a kid. You knew Daisy has allergies, so you shouldn’t have any nut products in the house to begin with! This is your fault.” Standing outside the emergency room doors, my anger was so extreme it circled back around to a terrifying calm. I just nodded. “You’re right,” I said. “It is my fault.” My mistake wasn’t the nut products. My mistake was suffocating myself for so long, swallowing my justifiable feelings and compromises just to become his Perfect Wife. Daisy has a severe nut allergy, but my mother-in-law loves pecans. To accommodate everyone, I painstakingly prepared all the favorite holiday foods. Now, I realized I was the only person I had forgotten to accommodate. I remembered the past months. Every time Brooke’s “curiosity” led to inappropriate behavior with Pierce, I had gently questioned him, only to be met with that familiar, cold irritation. “Scarlett, I’m busy. I don’t have time for your silly, jealous games. Brooke is a student, not some mistress. We’re not the disgusting people you think we are.” That single sentence—disgusting people—had shamed me into silence and completely crushed my courage to ever question him again. From that moment on, I learned to rationalize their oversteps. I threw myself into being the perfect homemaker and hostess, desperate to earn his public acknowledgment as a “good wife.” I had it all wrong. The Perfect Wife gets neither his love, his attention, nor the ability to protect my daughter. Pierce, expecting a fight, looked confused. His expression softened with a complicated mix of relief and subtle condescension. “I’m glad you finally see your mistake.” Just then, Daisy was stabilized and rolled out. Her small face was pale, and she was silently mouthing “Mommy” and “Daddy.” Pierce, the doting father, took a step toward her. But his step was snagged by Brooke, whose legs suddenly buckled. “Professor, I feel faint…” He looked at his frail daughter, then down at the picture of helpless distress in his arms. He lifted Brooke, cradling her. “Daisy’s stable, Cami. You stay here. I have to get Brooke back to her dorm. She probably skipped breakfast ‘to observe the symptoms of hypoglycemia’ or some bullshit.” He hurried away. Daisy’s eyes filled with tears as she was wheeled into the recovery room. She clung to me, her voice a small, broken whisper. “Does Daddy hate me? Why did he hug the bad sister and not stay with me?” Her pale face was marked by the small, red scratches Brooke had left when forcing the nuts into her mouth. “I’m sorry, Mommy. Is it because I’m not a good girl that Daddy doesn’t want to come home? I’ll be quiet. I’ll be good.” My heart shattered. I hugged her tight, trembling, telling her over and over that none of this was her fault. That her mother loved her fiercely. The next day, Pierce was supposed to pick us up. He never showed. We were already in the car when he finally called. “The lab is crazy, Scarlett. I can’t leave. Take Daisy home, and I promise, I’ll make it up to her.” But through the phone, I heard Brooke’s voice, sickly sweet, complaining that her hand hurt and begging him to feed her. The tiny spark of hope in Daisy’s eyes died. “Mommy,” she whispered. “Can we go to a house with just you and me? Daddy likes my little brother. I don’t want a Daddy anymore.” Little brother? I froze. Pierce and I only had Daisy. Where would a “little brother” come from? Watching my five-year-old weep, a cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. I didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” I said, putting the car in drive. “We’re moving today.” As I drove Daisy to the first safe place I could think of, I called a private investigator. “I need everything you have on Pierce Donovan and Brooke Miller. Everything. And I need to know if they have a child.” The neighborhood was alight with festive decorations, firecrackers popping in the distance. It was a holiday. But when I arrived at the apartment building with Daisy, the security guard stopped me. “Who are you? Gotta have a keycard to get in!” I frowned. “My husband has the keycard, but I’m the owner of unit 603.” The guard snickered. “Mistresses are getting bold these days. The owner of 603 is heavily pregnant and definitely does not have a kid that big.” I stared at him. That apartment was my property, bought before Pierce. It was our first place, where we lived for three years, packed with the early memories he’d sworn were sacred. He’d promised it would be our “love nest,” the place we’d return to when we were old. The deed was in my name alone. I swallowed the rising panic. “I am the owner. I bought the unit eight years ago—” “Get lost!” The guard waved me off impatiently. “Go find a better time for this, lady! I don’t care about your story. No outsiders allowed on Christmas.” His eyes slid to Daisy, a look of outright contempt that seemed to call my daughter a bastard. The insult was a physical slap. I reached for my phone and pulled up the digital deed. He took his time reviewing it, waiting until a couple passing by paused to watch. Reluctantly, he handed the phone back. “The registration list doesn’t have your name, lady. Even if this is real, I need to see you open the door. That’s Professor Donovan’s home, and you are not going to cause a scene.” His arrogant face fueled my sudden calm. “Fine. You can follow me upstairs and watch me open my own front door.” I parked the car and took Daisy’s hand. The guard scoffed behind me. “What are you waiting for? Can’t even open your own front door, huh?” I extended my finger to the biometric reader. BEEP. Authentication failed. The guard laughed. I tried the keypad, punching in our anniversary. Password incorrect. “Told you you’re a mistress! The owner can’t get into her own house? Now take the brat and get out!” The guard lost all pretense of patience and reached out to grab my arm. Daisy screamed, terrified. As I fought to pull away, her small teeth sank into the man’s arm. He bellowed and viciously kicked my daughter. Her tiny body slammed against the stone wall. Her head snapped back, and she collapsed. “Daisy!” My vision swam red. I fought desperately against the guards, but all I could do was watch as the man who kicked her raised his security baton high above my unconscious daughter’s head. “Stop!” It was Pierce. My tightly wound body relaxed for a split second. Daisy was still his daughter. He would never allow them to hurt her. But the Pierce who stepped out of the apartment was not the Pierce I knew. He wrapped his arm around Brooke’s shoulders, his expression dark with fury. “Scarlett! I told you that child isn’t mine! I’m married! Stop harassing us!” In front of everyone, he hesitated, then pulled out a wad of cash and threw it, hitting my face. “This is charity, for you. Bringing a child out in the middle of winter as leverage? You’re a terrible mother.” “Guards, get them out. Don’t let them bother me again.” I gaped at him, my eyes burning. “Pierce Donovan! This is my apartment. My pre-marital asset—” Before I could finish, he kicked me—hard—in the chest. “Lies! Guards! Are you really going to let an outsider terrorize a resident?” The stunned security officers swarmed me, roughly dragging me and Daisy away. I shielded her body with mine, screaming, my voice raw with heartbreak. “Pierce Donovan! I was blind! I threw away my whole life for you!” For a fleeting second, his eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of panic. But it vanished quickly. Brooke took his hand and placed it on her stomach. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I saw the doting, tender smile he gave her. The neighbors’ scornful whispers surrounded me. “No shame, trying to claim a married man like that.” “Look at the poor kid. Her life is ruined with a mother like that.” Out in the ice and snow, my daughter, just recovering from anaphylaxis, was being rushed to the emergency room for the third time in two days. Pierce’s texts popped up on my phone. He claimed that because Brooke had no parents, he was just letting her stay in the apartment temporarily. “Scarlett, don’t be ridiculous. If the neighbors find out you’re my wife, how is Brooke going to live here? You sound like a screaming shrew, Cami. Where is the calm, gentle wife I married?” Screaming shrew. That final line was the last, cold-blooded blow that shattered the lingering pieces of my love. The ‘gentle wife’ was a performance, a straightjacket I’d worn for him. Now, I was just raw, furious, and determined. My hands trembling, I called home. “Dad,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry… I made a terrible mistake. I need your help.” While Daisy was being treated, I made two major moves. First, I hired a professional legal team and drafted divorce papers that would ensure Pierce left with nothing. I also immediately sold the pre-marital apartment at a deep discount. Second, I had my family cut all hidden financial support for Pierce’s university research and, more immediately, instructed the nurse taking care of his paralyzed father to quit immediately. I had been the dutiful, sacrificing wife for so long that I’d almost forgotten the kind of leverage and freedom Scarlett Blake once possessed. The day the nurse left, Pierce called dozens of times. When I finally answered, his voice was tired and frantic. “Scarlett, where are you?! My father has been lying in his own filth for a day, the place is covered in dirty clothes and trash, the fridge is empty!” I listened, unmoved. “I’m with my daughter. She’s recovering.” His rant paused. His voice went husky. “I… I forgot. How is Daisy? I’m coming right now—” His words were cut off by a girl’s soft squeal, then the sound of urgent footsteps and a lingering kiss. I hung up, expressionless. He didn’t deserve to see our daughter again. He didn’t deserve any genuine human emotion. Pierce didn’t visit the hospital once during Daisy’s stay. He only rushed in when I was checking her out, right before our flight. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett. Home has been a total mess without you. I finally realize how much you do. When we get back—I promise, I’ll make it up to you and Daisy.” He knelt, forcing a weary smile onto his haggard face. “Daisy, sweetie, can Daddy hold you now?” My phone buzzed, saturated with texts from Brooke. “You know why the Professor hasn’t visited? I passed the three-month mark today! I told him I was curious about pregnancy sex, so he stayed in bed with me for seven days straight!” I looked up. There was a faint red mark just beneath Pierce’s collar. But this time, no emotion stirred in my chest. Daisy looked at Pierce, hope and fear warring in her eyes. She hugged my leg and whispered to me. “Mommy, can I just hug Daddy once? Then I really don’t ever want him again.” I stroked her hair and agreed. I left for only a moment to grab our belongings from the room, but when I returned, Pierce and Daisy were gone. I screamed her name, running hysterically down the halls. I stumbled around a corner, and a sharp, paralyzing pain exploded in the back of my skull. Darkness. I woke up in a freezing warehouse. Daisy was strapped into a restraint chair with electrodes. Her mouth was taped shut. She was crying hysterically, her face beet red, struggling for breath. “Professor, they say shock treatment makes kids smarter. Just let me try it, please?” I was paralyzed by shock. “Pierce Donovan, are you insane?! She called you Daddy! And you’re going to electrocuteher?!” Pierce’s eyes flickered with a hint of remorse, but it vanished as Brooke started to weep pitifully. “Professor! If I don’t satisfy my curiosity, I won’t be able to eat or sleep! My tummy hurts right now!” At the mention of her stomach, Pierce was instantly focused on her, his face a mask of panic. “Okay, okay, anything you want…” “Brooke Miller, don’t you touch her! If you hurt Daisy, I will rip you to pieces—” SMACK! A stinging blow split my lip. Blood bloomed on my chin. I stared at Pierce in utter disbelief. He was snarling. “Daisy wouldn’t listen to a damn thing I said! I just asked her to call Brooke ‘Mommy,’ and she bit her! She bit her!” Brooke seized the opportunity, cuddling into his side. “The bite hurts! Shock treatment doesn’t just make them smart, it makes them obedient. Professor, I want to play!” The “bite” was a tiny, unbroken red mark on her arm. I screamed and struggled, the ropes around my wrists cutting deep, drawing blood, but I couldn’t stop Brooke from flipping the switch. A current surged. Daisy cried out, instantly losing control of her bladder, convulsing, and passing out. But Brooke wasn’t finished. She cranked the dial up and hit the switch again. Daisy was only five! She started foaming at the mouth, her entire body twitching violently. Brooke laughed, picking up a metal rod and whipping it across Daisy’s face. Daisy woke up, screaming in raw pain. “Shut up! Stop crying! Tell me you’ll listen to me!” But a five-year-old child could only cry for her mother. My heart was hemorrhaging. “Stop it! Stop, you monster!” Seeing Daisy’s continued tears, Brooke’s eyes hardened. “How will you ever be a good big sister if you don’t learn obedience? You’re going to get a good lesson this time.” She reached for the highest-voltage switch. Pierce didn’t see it, but I saw her look at me, a silent, vicious challenge in her eyes. “Your daughter is going to die.” “NO!” Just as her finger made contact with the button— The warehouse doors were violently kicked open. Highly trained men in black suits swarmed the room, instantly tackling Pierce and Brooke to the floor.

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The first thing I did when I got home for winter break was check the safe deposit box containing my future inheritance. I stared into the empty space, my breath catching in my throat. My personal treasury—gone. Grandma Helen’s antique diamond and sapphire cuff, the emerald earrings, the gold heirloom watch, all totaling over $150,000—vanished. I was about to call my mom when a university acquaintance, Tatum Wells, posted a picture to her social media. [So grateful to my amazing parents for my new engagement cuff! Mom says it’s my first piece of my wedding jewels. I’m being spoiled! ] The photo showed two identical bracelets on her wrist. They were sickeningly familiar. I immediately messaged her: “Where did you get that cuff?” She shot back a reply: “Dad snagged it for me at an auction. Why, jealous?” I quickly took a screenshot for evidence and called my father. “Dad, did you happen to move the jewelry Grandma gave me?” His voice hesitated for a fraction of a second before he spoke, sounding completely casual. “No, sweetie, those things are safe and sound in your box, aren’t they?” I said, “Good,” with a laugh, then hung up and immediately drove to the location Tatum had tagged. 1 The car dropped me outside a high-end photography studio. I walked quickly inside and spotted Tatum Wells right away. She was facing away from me, her arm linked affectionately with a woman who was probably in her mid-forties, with dyed brown, wavy hair. I’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of that face once—on my dad’s phone screen. He had quickly pressed the power button, mumbling something about it being a photo of an excellent employee he needed to review for the company. I walked up and spoke her name clearly: “Tatum Wells.” The woman and Tatum turned simultaneously. The woman’s smile froze the instant she saw me, as if she’d been blindsided. But she quickly composed herself, greeting me with a polite, measured warmth. “You must be Tatum’s college friend. She’s mentioned you.” Tatum, however, just stared, the expression on her face pure disbelief. “Kinsley? What are you doing here?” “I’m here to take a family portrait with my parents. What are you doing here?” A sharp ache pierced my chest. I knew exactly what day it was. It was my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Before Dad left this morning, he said he’d rush through his work at the office so he could come home early. Mom was humming in the kitchen, already looking forward to their celebration. He hadn’t come home. He was here. Tatum seemed to realize the connection, too, and covered her mouth in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Oh my God! You didn’t check my post and follow me here, did you? Are you stalking me?” Her tone and expression were theatrical, laced with a deliberate, mocking superiority. The woman, Bethany Wells, interjected smoothly: “Tatum, don’t talk like that. Perhaps your friend was just passing by. I trust that others are as well-mannered as you are, honey.” The comment was a subtle jab, not only calling me a stalker but also taking a swipe at my mother’s parenting. I smiled, cutting straight to the point. “Tatum Wells, would you mind asking your dad to come out? I’d like to meet him.” For four years of college, Tatum had subtly competed with me on everything—grades, fashion, and who received the most expensive gifts. I had always dismissed it as harmless, youthful rivalry, never quite understanding the source of her faint but persistent malice. Now I knew. Tatum paused, instantly defensive. “Why do you want to meet my dad?” Bethany tugged Tatum’s arm, giving me a perfectly composed, yet distant, smile. “Tatum’s father left right after we finished our family portrait. He isn’t here anymore.” “If you’d like to meet him, Kinsley, perhaps another time.” My eyes dropped to the woman’s neck. She was wearing a vintage emerald pendant necklace. The stone was clear and deep, like water. It was one of my favorite heirlooms, passed down through my mother’s family for generations. Bethany noticed my gaze. Her fingers delicately touched the pendant, and her lips curved into an unnervingly perfect smile. “This necklace looks decent on me, don’t you think? Oh, Tatum’s dad is just so sweet. He insisted it was the perfect match for me and had to have me wear it.” Tatum giggled. “Just take the compliment, Mom. Dad is crazy about you.” I looked at the familiar necklace on her neck and offered a small smile of my own. “Ms. Wells, that necklace is truly beautiful.” “Funny thing is, I have an identical one. Except… mine seems to have gone missing recently.” Bethany’s color drained slightly. Before she could speak, Tatum erupted. “There are millions of necklaces in the world! It’s totally normal for styles to be identical!” She paused, her eyes sweeping over the simple pearl necklace I was wearing. “Speaking of necklaces, isn’t that cheap internet trash? Those pearls look fake. You’re actually wearing something so low-quality?” A buzzing sound filled my ears. Blood rushed to my head. My father, Robert Sullivan, had personally put this pearl necklace around my neck last month for my birthday. He’d claimed he’d specially sourced it for me during an international business trip. When I first touched the cold, slightly plastic-feeling beads, I only assumed he was clueless and had been scammed abroad. I was afraid of making him feel guilty, afraid of his disappointment, so I wore it every single day, even when the inferior material irritated the skin on my neck. “What? Nothing to say? Embarrassed that I called you out for wearing fakes?” Bethany gently scolded her daughter. “Tatum, that is no way to speak to your friend. It’s rude.” Tatum pouted, but her eyes were bright with a triumphant smugness. I didn’t argue. I simply reached into my pocket and turned off the recording app on my phone. Then, after one last look at Tatum’s eyes—which, in the harsh studio light, bore a sickening resemblance to my father’s—I turned and walked away. Tatum Wells seemed to have forgotten one crucial thing. The luxurious life she enjoyed, the expensive jewelry her mother wore, the doting paternal affection she flaunted… The source of all of it. They seemed to think that stealing things and wearing them made them their own. That was fine. If they loved my inheritance that much, I certainly didn’t mind making sure they returned every single item they took from my home, with interest. 2 When I got home, my mother, Charlotte, was in the kitchen, simmering a pot of slow-cooked broth. My father grew up poor. He was undernourished and developed a chronic, severe stomach condition. My mother loved him so much she voluntarily stepped down from her corporate position to focus on the home. A woman who had been a sharp, commanding presence at the negotiation table willingly confined herself to the kitchen. She cooked, baked, studied medicinal recipes… She managed to nurse his gaunt frame back to health and cured his stomach issues by 80 percent. For as long as I could remember, my parents seemed deeply in love. Today was their twenty-fifth anniversary. And I had just discovered my father was having an affair. Watching her back in the kitchen, my fury morphed into a deep, agonizing sorrow. Tears welled up without warning and wouldn’t stop. My mother was forty-five this year. But years of focusing on her family and neglecting self-care made her look five years older than her age. Especially her hands. Her knuckles were slightly swollen from constant work, her palms covered in thin calluses, and the back of her hands bore several old scars. Every single one was for him. Mom heard the noise and poked her head out of the kitchen. Seeing my tear-streaked face, she visibly panicked. She quickly wiped her wet hands on her apron and rushed over, her warm fingers cupping my face. “Kin, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Who hurt you?” Her brow furrowed, her voice frantic. “Don’t be scared, Mom is here. I’ll call your father right now, I’ll tell him to—” “Don’t call him!” I grabbed her wrist, shaking my head forcefully. She froze, looking at me anxiously, her eyes reflecting my miserable, desperate face. My eyelashes trembled violently. I forced the words out from my throat. “Mom, Dad… he has someone else.” “Her name is Bethany Wells, and she’s his childhood sweetheart. They grew up in the same small town.” Mechanically, I pulled the documents I’d researched on the way home out of my bag, presenting them to her page by page. “They never broke contact. Dad was always secretly sending her money, even after he went to college.” “Ten days after you married Dad, he faked a business trip. That night, they were together.” “When you were six weeks pregnant, Dad bought a luxury villa downtown. It was deeded in her name.” “During your severe morning sickness, when you couldn’t keep anything down, Dad was at her place, making her soup and cooking her balanced, nutritious meals.” “While you were in the hospital, fighting for your life to give birth to me, he was out walking with her, massaging her back.” “You had a C-section scar, lying helpless in the recovery room, and he was taking her to prenatal checkups.” “Mom, can you believe this? She was pregnant with his daughter at the same time you were pregnant with me. His illegitimate daughter is only four months younger than I am.” I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up, but tears just streamed down my face. My mother stood utterly still, trembling. She stared intently at the words and pictures, whispering over and over: “How… how is that possible? Your father and I have been married for twenty-five years. You’re grown up, he couldn’t possibly…” I reached up and gently wiped her tears, continuing the assault. “Mom, do you remember the inheritance Grandma Helen left for me, the $150,000 worth of jewelry?” Mom nodded, her red-rimmed eyes reflecting the memory. “Of course, I remember. Your grandmother gave it to you on your eighteenth birthday.” “She loved you the most; you were her only granddaughter. She was upset with me for marrying your father against her wishes and didn’t speak to me for three years. She only softened when I was pregnant with you.” “You are my only daughter, and I’ve been saving my own jewelry to add to your dowry for years.” I closed my eyes, numbly pulling out the audio recording and the screenshots. “Well, what if I told you that Dad secretly stole my $150,000 inheritance and gave it all to his illegitimate daughter?” “Mom, today is your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He lied that he was at the office, but he was actually taking a family portrait with them.” “Grandma’s gold cuff, the emeralds, the diamonds—they are all on their bodies.” My nose was stinging. I spoke each word clearly: “Dad stole my $150,000 inheritance and gave it all to his bastard daughter!” “What?” Mom was incredulous, her pale face coloring with fury. “He dared to touch the inheritance your grandmother left you?!” Hearing that, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I wrapped my arms around my mother and burst into a loud, wrenching cry. “Mom, Dad never loved us! He loved your family’s money, he loved Grandpa George’s support! We meant nothing to him!” My eyes were hot and swollen, heavy with a mixture of betrayal and hatred. The last twenty years had been a perfect performance. The more I thought about it, the more the raw hurt twisted into pure hatred. I hated him for deceiving my mother, and I hated him for giving me years of his fake, superficial fatherly love, treating me like a charity case. My chest ached with the pain of it. I hurt for myself, but I hurt infinitely more for my mother. I was her flesh and blood; I knew how deeply she felt everything. She was the one who was truly devastated. Just as I was about to speak, my phone rang. It was my boyfriend, Grant Miller. I sniffed, answering the call. “Hello?” Grant’s voice was cold and detached, devoid of any concern. “Kinsley, I’ll be brief. We should break up.” I froze, tears still clinging to my lashes. “What did you say?” “I’m getting engaged next Saturday,” he stated flatly. “Let’s cut all contact after this.” “Why?” I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. “Grant, you owe me an explanation!” Silence stretched for two seconds. Then he said, “Because the other fiancée’s family is offering a much more generous dowry. It will be a huge boost to my career.” Buzz. My mind went blank. My blood seemed to turn instantly cold. “Tatum Wells?” My voice was trembling. “Are you getting engaged to her?” Grant blurted out reflexively, “How did you know?!” It was confirmed. I pulled my lips back in a short, sharp, cold laugh. “Grant Miller, you will regret this.” I hung up without another word, throwing the phone onto the sofa. Almost simultaneously, my mother’s phone screen lit up on the table. It was a text from Dad. [Honey, I just got a last-minute call. A distant relative’s kid is getting engaged next Saturday, and I have to attend to represent the family. Don’t wait up for me for dinner.] I clicked on Tatum Wells’s social media. Her newest post was glaringly clear: [Big day next Saturday! T-minus seven days until engagement! Thank you, Dad, for setting all of this up for me! ] I placed the two messages side by side in front of my mother. The air went silent for several seconds. My mother’s swollen eyes stared at the screens. Her chest rose and fell sharply a few times. She raised a hand and fiercely wiped away the tear stains on her face. When she looked up, the warmth in her eyes was gone. They were replaced by a clear, icy resolve. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Neither of us spoke, but in the other’s eyes, we saw the exact same, devastating determination. I smiled softly. “Mom, next Saturday’s engagement party. Let’s call Grandpa George and Grandma Helen. We’re all going.” I couldn’t wait to see the expression on my father’s face when he saw us there. 3 The night before the engagement party, the lights in our house were blazing. Dad hadn’t come home, claiming he was busy. Mom and I were busy, too. Busy compiling evidence of his infidelity, busy drafting the divorce papers, preparing to expose him at the engagement party the next day. During our preparation, Dad called to sound us out. “Kin, are you and your mom asleep yet?” “What are you two planning to do tomorrow?” “Oh,” I replied, flipping through a stack of documents, keeping my tone deliberately vague. “We’re just going to visit Grandpa and Grandma George tomorrow.” Dad visibly relaxed on the other end. He chuckled. “Okay, honey. Dad has to go. Good night.” The next day, Mom and I quietly slipped into the wedding reception and found seats in the back. Grandpa George and Grandma Helen were waiting in the car; we didn’t want to risk over-exciting them just yet. When most of the guests had arrived, Tatum Wells walked in, arm linked with Grant Miller. My dad and Bethany Wells followed behind them. They were all meticulously dressed in celebratory, expensive attire. The MC stepped onto the stage to start the event. “Congratulations to the happy couple! May you live happily ever after!” Tatum and Grant were invited onto the stage. After exchanging rings, they embraced and kissed. A wave of applause erupted from the crowd. My stomach turned. It was sickening. The MC handed the microphone to Tatum. “A few words from the bride?” Tatum batted her eyes sweetly. “First, I want to thank my parents.” She looked out at the crowd and smiled. “My dad spoils me. Every year for my birthday, no matter how busy he is, he cooks all my favorite dishes.” I leaned toward my mom. “Mom, did Dad ever cook you one meal?” Mom’s face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. Tatum continued: “When I turned eighteen, Dad took a whole month off work to take me traveling around Europe!” I asked again. “Mom, what did Dad say he was doing then?” Mom’s voice was bitter. “He said the company had an urgent issue, and he had to take a long, emergency business trip.” I gave a grim smile. “Other than the honeymoon… did he ever take you traveling after that?” Mom was silent for a long time, then shook her head. “No. He always said he was too busy.” My heart turned to ice. I gripped her hand, which was cold as marble. The MC suddenly announced, “And now, please welcome the bride’s father to the stage!” My father straightened his tuxedo and strode onto the platform. He took the microphone, his back perfectly straight, his demeanor radiating pride. “Mr. Sullivan,” the MC prompted, “how did you manage to raise such a wonderful, grateful daughter?” Dad cleared his throat and swelled with paternal pride. “Raising a child has no secret. Just one rule—” He paused, looking lovingly at Tatum. “You get what you give! I’ve been a truly, genuinely good father to my daughter, and that’s why she is so thoughtful and devoted.” He then turned to Grant, his voice becoming heavier. “Son-in-law, I only have one demand for you. You have to be like me—put your whole heart into treating her well!” As he spoke, he became emotional; his eyes even welled up with tears. Listening to his speech, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. Mom sighed. “Twenty-five years, and I never knew he was such a good actor.” A roar of applause filled the room. Guests were cheering. “Well said! What a great father!” In the midst of the congratulatory noise, I abruptly pulled my mother to her feet. “Excuse me, sir,” I called out, my voice clear and loud, overriding the applause. “You claim you put your whole heart into being a father. Does your so-called genuine devotion include stealing your biological daughter’s $150,000 inheritance and giving it to your illegitimate daughter as a dowry?”

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Seven years. Seven years with Grant Montgomery, and we were finally getting married. I was full of enthusiasm, meticulously planning every detail of the wedding, when I accidentally found our venue had been double-booked. My carefully prepared space was occupied. I complained to Grant, frustrated, but he cut me off without mercy. “You’re driving me crazy, Cara. It’s a venue. If this ballroom is booked, we’ll just switch to another one, alright?” I stared at Grant, taken aback by his sudden, icy tone. He didn’t call me again. My attempts to reach out were always met with the same dismissive reply: I’m swamped. I’m busy. It wasn’t until ten days before the wedding, when I went to his office, that I understood. His voice filtered clearly through the closed door: “Phoebe, sweetheart, relax. Our guests are going to The Belvedere. I haven’t changed the address on the invitations, okay? She can have the dress, the flowers… but on Saturday, you’re the only bride with a crowd.” “The RSVP card still has our original address,” he reassured her. I stood there, stunned. It wasn’t a venue clash. It was a groom clash. 1 I walked home in a daze. I was so disoriented I bumped into countless strangers on the street. “Watch where you’re going, lunatic!” “Seriously? Look at her, what a mess. Move it!” “Blind? If you don’t need those eyes, donate them!” I froze at the last comment, then let out a self-deprecating laugh. “You’re right. I was blind.” The person who had shouted at me faltered, a flash of surprise crossing their face before they hurried away. They probably thought I was a psycho. I didn’t care enough to explain. Rain began to pour, instantly soaking me through. I didn’t feel it. The icy water ran down my face, washing away nothing. Inevitably, I woke up in the middle of the night with a fever. Half-asleep, I answered my phone. “Cara, can you bring some Advil to The Nightingale Club? This crowd totally got me hammered.” My body tensed. Instinctively, I swung my legs out of bed to search for the medicine. I stopped myself. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I have a fever.” A moment of silence, then a chorus of teasing voices around him. “Grant, you lost! Looks like you’re buying your own hangover cure.” A high, charming voice—Phoebe Wells. I let out a cold, cynical laugh. Grant abruptly hung up the phone. He came home late, hours later, smelling strongly of whiskey and cheap cologne. He yanked me out of bed. “What is wrong with you? My friends were practically pouring liquor down my throat and you couldn’t be bothered to bring a bottle of Advil. You used a fever as an excuse?” “Do you even care about me, your fiancé?” The alcohol fumes cleared my head a little. I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to steady myself. “I told you. I have a fever.” The emphasis finally made him look at me. My flushed cheeks were all the confirmation he needed. He was silent for a moment. He spoke softly, but the words were hollow. “Right. I’m sorry. I’ll take the study.” I scoffed, collapsing back onto the bed. I wasn’t going to sleep now. From the adjacent study, I could hear soft laughter and low voices. They were muffled, but loud enough. I didn’t sleep all night. Grant and Phoebe emerged from the study, looking refreshed and annoyingly cheerful. Grant’s smile froze when he saw me. He instinctively pulled away from Phoebe. “Morning,” he mumbled. “The party ran late last night, and Phoebe didn’t have her keys, so I just brought her here.” I nodded, stepping around them and heading for the door. He grabbed my wrist. I looked at him, confused. “Where are you going?” he stammered. “Aren’t we supposed to look at your wedding dress today?” I paused, then smiled brightly. “Why don’t the two of you go? I have an urgent matter at the firm.” Grant seemed to visibly relax, his smile becoming genuine. “That’s probably best. Phoebe has impeccable taste, I’m sure she’ll make sure we’re both happy.” “I’m sure,” I echoed. I immediately called his closest family friends and told them the venue had been changed. Then I called my own friends and told them the wedding was off. I turned off my phone. I couldn’t bear to explain. I headed straight for the Passport Agency. I’d secured a spot in a post-graduate program abroad months ago, but had put it on hold—who wants to be apart right after they get married? Now that the wedding wasn’t happening, I wasn’t giving up that scholarship. As I walked out, I saw Grant and Phoebe exiting the courthouse, faces beaming. We locked eyes. All three of us froze. “What are you doing here?” I asked, cutting him off before he could question me. Grant flinched, his gaze darting away. 2 Phoebe immediately slipped her hand through Grant’s elbow, a triumphant look on her face. “Grant just came to run an errand for me,” she purred. I gave her a flat look. “Congratulations.” Grant tried to follow me, reaching out to explain, but his hand snatched air. “Cara!” I didn’t stop, accelerating my pace. That evening, Grant brought Phoebe back to the apartment. I looked at them impassively. “Should I give you the master bedroom? I doubt you both fit in the study.” My comment must have hit a nerve. Grant’s face darkened. “Cara! Do you have to be so cutting? What happened to you? You sound like a shrew!” I almost laughed. I hadn’t said or done much, yet the label of “shrew” had already been slapped on me. I pointed at my head and smiled. “I’ve been wearing so many hats lately, I don’t even know which one fits best.” Grant looked momentarily uncomfortable. Then, with a sickening speed, he backhanded me across the face. “I gave you a life here! Don’t forget this is my apartment! You eat my food, live under my roof! And you’re going to talk to me like that?” “Get out! You’re done here!” He shoved me toward the front door, not giving me a chance to grab my purse or phone. My head spun. By the time I regained my senses, I was locked out of my own home. “Grant! Give me my phone!” I pounded on the door. It never opened. It was a cold autumn night. I rubbed my arms, goosebumps rising on my skin. This was the city I grew up in, and suddenly, I was homeless. Penniless and desperate, I walked the five miles to my office. I collapsed onto my desk, utterly exhausted, and slept until morning. With the help of a coworker, I bought a burner phone and called Grant’s number. It wasn’t him who answered. Phoebe’s voice drifted through the line. “Grant, it’s an unrecognized number.” Grant sounded impatient. “Just hang up.” But Phoebe didn’t. She must have known it was me. “Shouldn’t you call Cara back and apologize, Grant? She’s a girl; she has dignity…” The classic, innocent maneuver. A ‘Golden Girl’ playing the part of a saint. I gave a dry laugh, a terrible sound. But Grant’s reply froze the blood in my veins. “Why bother? She has no place to go in this city. She doesn’t even have her phone. She’ll break and come crawling back soon enough.” The line clicked dead. I stared at the phone. He knew. He knew I was out there. He knew I had nothing. I forced a bitter smile. I thought my heart was done hurting, but a flicker of pain still pierced my chest. I immediately dialed the number again. “Why are you calling again? Didn’t you hear what Grant said?” Phoebe’s voice was now sharp with irritation. “How pathetic are you? Sticking to him like a cheap sticker, don’t you have any self-respect?” I ignored the insults. I smiled faintly. “Let’s meet. I have something to give you.” Phoebe sounded suspicious, but after a moment of hesitation, she agreed. “The downtown café. Be there.” I hung up and headed out. The time came and went. Phoebe didn’t show. 3 “Cara! Are you trying to intimidate Phoebe again?” “I told you nothing is going on between us, why do you keep harassing her?” Grant’s voice rang out, followed immediately by the sting of a sharp slap. My cheek burned. I laughed mockingly, looking at Grant like he was a complete stranger. “Hitting a woman before you even bother to ask questions—is that the Montgomery family standard?” Grant’s face flushed deep red. He pursed his lips, unable to respond. Since Phoebe hadn’t come, I didn’t need the thing I’d brought. “If I wanted to hurt her, I wouldn’t have called your phone. Did you think I hoped she’d answer? That’s hilarious.” I advanced on him slowly, and he actually took a step back. I found him boring. I turned and walked away. Grant didn’t look for me again. The wedding day crept closer. On the day before, he performed an act of great ‘mercy.’ He brought me a necklace. No box. No velvet pouch. Just a dull, tarnished pendant. “I bought back the necklace you loved so much,” he said. I found it ridiculously funny. I looked at Grant solemnly. “If you think I’d care about a used, second-hand necklace that Phoebe stole from me and you retrieved like a bone, you drastically underestimate me.” Grant looked guilty, his face hot with shame. He tried to stand firm. “Why are you being so unreasonable? You have the necklace you love, and you have me. What more do you need?” “Tomorrow, we’ll be husband and wife.” I gave him a noncommittal smile. “I understand.” I turned to leave. “Wait,” he said suddenly, grabbing my arm. “Where have you been staying? Your ID and things are at the apartment. Surely you haven’t been…” For a moment, I was hurt. My anger flared. I violently shook off his grip. The look of pain in my eyes was unmistakable. “Grant! You knew I had nowhere to go, yet you threw me out!” “Did you honestly think—” He broke eye contact, looking guilty. He looked away. “I thought you’d last half a day before coming back to me.” In that moment, I was done. “Forget it.” I strode away, not bothering to look back. But there was an uninvited guest waiting for me below my office building. “Cara.” I turned. Phoebe. “You got the necklace, right? That was Grant and me trying to be decent. You loved it so much.” I looked at Phoebe. Around her neck was something incredible: the legendary, multi-million dollar Starlight Sapphire, rumored to have been sold at auction recently. Noticing my gaze, Phoebe lifted her chin arrogantly, running her finger over the massive stone. “Grant said you liked that old thing, so he traded the Starlight Sapphire for it.” Her tone was a punch to the gut. “It’s trash. Keep it,” I told her. Phoebe exploded with impotent fury. I ignored her. The next day, I boarded my flight to Copenhagen. I silenced my phone, ignoring the calls from the maniacs—Phoebe and Grant. Just as I was about to board, a strong force slammed me to the ground. “You’re abandoning the wedding just to leave the country?!” 4 Phoebe, wearing a ruined wedding dress and tears streaming down her face, looked pitiful and insane. Grant, standing beside her, was seething with rage. I glanced at their clothes. They were smeared with dirt and grime, as if someone had thrown mud or garbage at them. “Wow. Wasn’t this the wedding you dreamed of?” I asked sweetly. “What’s wrong? Can’t the wedding happen without me?” Phoebe seemed to remember something. She scrambled on top of me, pinning me down. “Do you know what you’ve done to me?!” she shrieked. “If it wasn’t for you, I would be the happiest bride alive today!” A terrifying pressure clamped down on my neck. I began to choke. Grant watched, his expression complicated, but he made no move to help me. Finally, airport security noticed my distress. “What are you doing? Get off her! We’ll call the police!” Several guards rushed over and pulled Phoebe off me. I gasped for air. I thanked the guards and sprinted toward the gate, boarding the plane with the fastest speed I could manage. The moment I turned on my phone, my best friend, Samira “Sam” Khalil, called. “Cara, you have no idea how awkward it was. All the guests were ghosted. The venue was empty.” “Mr. Montgomery was furious. He called Grant over and discovered the whole ‘changing the bride’ situation right in front of everyone. Grant and Phoebe got a massive beating.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I had guessed something like this would happen. Grant’s father was obsessed with reputation. Changing a bride at the last minute for a mistress was unforgivable. “I saw how pathetic they looked,” I said. “Phoebe tried to choke me, but security stopped her.” Sam gasped in alarm. She asked after me, her concern warming my heart. “I’m sorry, though. I wasn’t just in the city for the drama. I wanted to see you off.” I went silent, a sudden ache in my chest. “I’m sorry.” Sam chuckled gently. “Don’t be. I just want you to be happy. Once you’re settled, I’ll fly over to see you.” Hanging up, the loneliness of being in a foreign country finally hit me. But at least the annoying presence of my past was gone. Life settled into a quiet rhythm. Six months later, my old friends began sending me strange, synchronized messages of concern. The coordinated effort felt odd, but I couldn’t get any specific news out of them. Outside, the rain hammered down, mirroring the rising anxiety in my heart. BANG! BANG! BANG! A furious, heavy pounding on the door made me jump. I walked toward the door cautiously, my voice shaking. “Who is it?” Through the peephole, I saw no one. My hair stood on end. My mind raced through every possible scenario. “Open up! I want to come home!” The familiar voice made my soul leap out of my body. It was Grant. “This is not your home! Go away!” I shouted, trying to deepen my voice and speaking in the local language. But the person outside sounded delighted. “Cara, it’s you, isn’t it?” “I know that’s your voice!” “I came for you. We’ll be together, okay?” Grant’s voice was full of desperate excitement.

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After I caught my wife, Arabella, and her oldest friend, Pierce, in bed together, a single question—why?—was enough for her to have me committed. Five years in a place they called an “asylum.” When I finally got out, I was quiet. Extremely obedient. If someone told me to walk east, I wouldn’t even think about the west. Arabella brought me home, her eyes as cold as the November air. “If you ever speak to Pierce with disrespect again, Cal,” she warned, her voice low and sharp, “I won’t be so lenient next time.” I nodded obediently. Then, I turned and picked up a fruit knife, ramming it into my mouth until my tongue was a mangled mess of flesh and blood. She immediately snatched the knife away, the color draining from her face as she looked at the grotesque wound filling my mouth. Pierce leaned close, his voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “Try another pathetic stunt to win Bella’s attention, and I’ll personally ship you back to the Institute.” Then, with a practiced gasp, he slapped himself hard across the face, stumbled, and fell to the floor. “I’m sorry, Cal. I shouldn’t have gotten in your way. Hit me back. Please, take out your frustration on me.” Arabella walked in just in time to see him on the ground. Her eyes flashed with immediate, furious conviction. She stomped on my hand, grinding her heel into my knuckles. “I brought you home out of the goodness of my heart, and this is how you repay me? Uncaring, ungrateful. Have you completely lost your soul?” I got up, walked to the garage, and obediently laid down on the commercial-grade cutting machine. I found the power switch and pressed it. Bone dust and blood sprayed everywhere. Arabella froze, shaking violently, before finally snapping out of it and shutting the machine off. In the ambulance, I heard Arabella’s voice, trembling as she spoke to the EMT. “I just… I yelled at him. I didn’t tell him to start cutting off his own flesh…” I was convulsing from the pain, but I managed to nod. She hadn’t told me to do it. But five years in that place, five years of endless beatings and torture, had taught me the lesson. Obey the unspoken command. Always. Later, she would ask me to die for Pierce one more time. And when I did as she asked, she would just cry and beg for my forgiveness. … It took three days in surgery just to keep me alive. Arabella looked at me, wrapped head to toe in bandages, and a flicker of something—pity? distress?—crossed her face. Pierce was quick to shift the blame. “Bella, I know Cal wanted me gone, but I never imagined he’d throw himself onto that thing to try and manipulate us,” he whined. “Maybe I should just leave. Who knows what he’ll try to pin on me next!” Arabella instantly pulled him into a hug. “If anyone’s leaving, it’s Callum! Five years hasn’t changed him. Look at him! He’s using self-mutilation as a ploy to get attention!” she spat, her gaze never leaving me. “If he really wanted to die, he would have plunged the knife into his heart. He laid on that machine because he knew we could still save him!” I had just opened my eyes enough to hear the words. A cascade of memories—the grinning faces of my torturers, the sting of the whip—slammed into my mind. I couldn’t stop the full-body tremor. Panicked, I threw myself off the bed. The stitches in my fresh wounds ripped open, and I was instantly a bloody mess. I barely felt the pain. I scrambled, grabbed a discarded scalpel, and plunged it into my chest, aiming for my heart. A sickening thud as the blade met flesh. Blood spurted across the crisp white sheets. Slumped on the floor, my hand resting on my still-beating heart, I felt a deep disappointment. I’d missed the mark. As I struggled to thrust the blade in again, Arabella snatched the scalpel away. “Callum Forrester, what are you doing now!” I coughed up blood. A pool of it gathered beneath me. Pierce started to speak, but Arabella impatiently cut him off. “Just stop it, both of you. Whatever you’re doing, don’t provoke him right now.” Pierce’s eyes widened in disbelief. She was defending me? He immediately turned his outrage into a weapon. His eyes blazing red, he struck himself, hard, twice across the face. “You’re right! It’s all my fault! I was trying to provoke him, I made him hit me, I forced him to hurt himself!” he wailed, dissolving into theatrical, heartbroken sobs. “Bella, every mistake is mine. Punish me however you see fit.” Arabella’s gaze flickered back and forth between us, torn. Finally, she helped Pierce up, deliberately looking away from me. “Callum,” she said, her voice strained. “Pierce is kind-hearted enough not to press charges. Apologize to him. Right now. And we’ll forget this ever happened.” I looked up at her, weak, dizzy. My body reacted before my mind did. If I was to apologize, I needed to show her the appropriate level of conviction. Before either of them could stop me, I smashed the glass flower vase. The shards dug deep into my knees, shredding the muscle as I knelt before Pierce. I began to hit my forehead against the floor, a rhythmic, bone-jarring thud. Each one was done with maximum force. My vision started to tunnel. I heard a crisp, snapping sound, like a dry twig breaking. I felt the raw scrape of bone on the floor. Finally, the crippling pain consumed me, and I collapsed. Pierce, still in Arabella’s arms, stared down at me, utterly stunned. A moment later, the room erupted into panicked shouts. In the last sliver of consciousness, I saw Arabella running to get a doctor, frantic enough that she’d lost one of her high heels. That night, Arabella played the surveillance footage back for Pierce. The malicious threat, the self-inflicted injury, Pierce’s dramatic performance—it was all laid bare. Pierce’s composure shattered. Tears instantly welled up. “I was so terrified, Bella… Cal went to that place because of me. He must hate me enough to kill me.” “I was just trying to test him. I needed to know if I was safe around him,” he stammered, pulling a small pocket knife from his jacket. “I’m sorry, Bella. If you blame me, I’ll pay him back with my life.” He made a show of pressing the blade to his wrist. Arabella’s anger instantly evaporated, replaced by frantic concern. She snatched the knife away and clutched him to her chest. “I don’t blame you! Five years ago, Cal was bullying you. It’s normal that you’d be worried,” she soothed. “Besides,” she added, her eyes hardening as she looked toward my bruised and bloodied body, “what normal human being is so pathologically obedient? No one slices their own tongue or jumps into a grinder just because of a few angry words.” Pierce had completely convinced her. She dug her sharp fingernails into my torn skin. “Callum, is this what you wanted? Was this whole act just a complicated way to plot revenge on Pierce?” she accused. “Your manipulation is so deep, I almost believed you.” The agonizing pain made my lips tremble. “No,” I whispered. “I will be obedient. Even if you told me to die, I would do it.” Arabella didn’t believe me. From that night on, her eyes were filled with a cold, perpetual scrutiny. With Arabella’s tacit approval, Pierce’s torment became even more brazen. He deliberately scalded my face with boiling water. Even as the skin blistered and peeled, I didn’t make a sound. Frustrated by my silence, he snatched the antique pocket watch Arabella had given me—my most treasured possession—and smashed it to pieces. Arabella watched, arms crossed, waiting for the once-proud, arrogant Callum Forrester to finally erupt in fury. I didn’t even flinch. A flicker of irritation crossed Arabella’s face. “Doesn’t it matter to you at all?” I simply nodded in placid compliance. “If that is what you want, then no. It doesn’t matter to me.” Arabella froze. A dark shadow crossed Pierce’s eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smile. He wrapped his arm around Arabella, his tone deliberately intimate. “Since he’s so accommodating, Bella, I have one more test we can try.” He gave me a challenging look, then lowered his head and kissed Arabella. The wet, intimate sounds echoed in the sterile room. Arabella initially looked flustered, trying to push him away while staring at me. But soon, under his aggressive intensity, she began to respond. When my expression remained utterly blank, Pierce upped the ante, brazenly cupping and fondling her breasts. Arabella let out a soft, low moan, her face flushed with passion. They acted as if I were invisible, shifting positions and intensifying the act. I watched the entire obscene process in silence. When her eyes finally met mine, my calmness seemed to infuriate her. She shoved Pierce away. “Callum, how could you have no reaction?” she demanded, her chest heaving. I saw the angry red marks Pierce’s hands had left on her skin. I lowered my eyes submissively. “I said I would be obedient. I wouldn’t interrupt your pleasure.” She must have forgotten. Five years ago, I’d stumbled upon Arabella and Pierce in the throes of their passion. I was consumed by a blinding rage. I attacked Pierce, demanding to know how he could be a homewrecker. Arabella had shielded him, accusing me of being the irrational one. That night, she told everyone I was suffering from a psychotic break and had me locked away for “treatment.” But it wasn’t a hospital. It was the private hell Pierce had meticulously selected for me. I was kept like a dog in a lightless cage. Whips, branding irons, skinning, and even live experiments—I endured every type of torture. Day after day, the relentless cruelty taught me one thing: complete submission. Which is why, no matter the humiliation, I would never resist again. Arabella was red-faced and breathing heavily, a fire in her chest. Pierce saw his opening. His eyes narrowed with malice. “Bella, Cal can endure this? God knows what he’s planning for us. I hired some guys—you know, the kind who ‘train’ guys at underground casinos. Let’s see how long his nerve lasts with them.” Arabella hesitated. She was about to speak, but Pierce gripped her hand and sighed heavily. “Bella, it’s for his own good. If he’s truly compliant, you can trust him to stay at home, right?” With a wave of Pierce’s hand, two menacing thugs instantly grabbed me and dragged me toward the basement door. Arabella, silent, turned and walked away, giving them her silent consent. The moment the door slammed shut, they yanked my hair back and tried to shove my face into a box filled with thousands of tiny steel needles. I beat them to it. I grabbed handfuls of the needles and shoved them into my mouth. I started to swallow them, the pinpoints tearing at my throat and viscera. The agonizing, tearing pain made me convulse, producing only a low, guttural roar. But compared to the five years of nightmares, it was nothing. The thugs stared at me, shocked into inaction. Pierce’s gaze was pure hatred. He shrieked, “Bring in the industrial shredder! There’s no way he can endure this!” He revved the machine to full power, his eyes filled with contempt. He was absolutely sure I would finally break down, either begging for my life or cursing his name. I didn’t hesitate. I launched myself into the rapidly spinning blades. My flesh, bones, and sinews were instantly shredded and atomized. My blood and viscera splattered over Pierce, coating him head to toe. He screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure terror, and scrambled out of the basement. In the throes of my unimaginable agony, I managed a final, blood-drenched smile. This time, surely, they would be satisfied. My latest hospital visit made the local news and brought Arabella’s parents—my in-laws—to the hospital. When I woke up, my mother-in-law, Lydia, slapped me hard across the face. She ignored my mutilated, shattered body. “Callum Forrester! You’re a curse! The minute you came back, you ruined my daughter’s reputation! I regret not forcing Bella to divorce you years ago!” “You should have stayed in that damned asylum forever!” My father-in-law held her back, his voice low and serious. “Cal, if you’re still angry about five years ago, we can resolve it. Why turn yourself into a spectacle?” I looked slowly at them. Five years ago, when I begged them to help me, they’d walked away without a backward glance. Resolve it? They wouldn’t lift a finger. Arabella walked in. For the first time, tears streamed down her face in genuine distress. “Callum,” she choked out. “I believe you now. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anyone hurt you again…” I looked at her, my face expressionless. My silence only made her sob harder. Lydia suddenly yanked Arabella away, sneering at me. “Bella, don’t fall for his tricks! He’s doing this on purpose to make you feel guilty, to drag you down for the rest of your life!” “I’m filing the divorce papers right now. We’re throwing this garbage out of the Ashworth family for good!” Arabella violently pushed her mother away. “Mom, can’t you see what he’s done to himself? He almost died!” “So what if he did!” Lydia shot back, glaring at me with disgust. “He’s a psychopath! A menace! He doesn’t deserve to be a son-in-law here!” She turned, her face softening instantly as she saw Pierce. “Pierce, honey, don’t worry. We only trust you to be by Bella’s side. No one is going to hurt you.” Pierce offered Lydia a grateful smile, then pulled out a sheet of paper, his face etched with fake concern. “Bella, the doctor sent this. It’s Cal’s psychiatric evaluation.” “The doctor says Cal has XYY Syndrome and Antisocial Personality Disorder.” Lydia’s voice rose to a screech. “Then send him back to that place! Now! Lock him up forever!” She pulled Arabella three feet away from me, as if I were a contagious piece of filth. “If he kills someone, he’ll ruin the family! Why doesn’t he just finish the job and die already!” Arabella’s expression wavered. The words “just die” echoed in my skull. I struggled to rise. While they were distracted, I managed to find a large surgical blade. I raised it to my temple. And as the look of sheer terror flashed across Arabella’s face, I rammed the blade into my own temple. Blood mixed with brain matter instantly coated the room. A piercing shriek tore through the hospital corridor. “Cal!!!”

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The ninety-ninth time my husband, Brad, publicly shamed me—for not having King Crab on the New Year’s Eve table, of course—while clutching his wallet like a pearl, I did the only thing a woman in my position could: I found a “Sugar Daddy.” A real one. This new benefactor was lavish. Five thousand dollars just to go shopping, ten thousand to catch a movie. When we hit the department store, the black card was limitless. He bought me a gold bangle worth fifty grand without a second thought, and he immediately paid for the expensive interest class my daughter had been dreaming of. This year, I bought my daughter a full set of designer New Year’s clothes early. Fresh oyster, lobster, and King Crab packed our refrigerator until it groaned. Brad finally lost it, his voice shrill and hysterical. “I only give you this paltry little allowance! Where the hell did you get all this stuff?” I fought the cold, internal laugh threatening to spill out. So, he does know it’s just “a paltry little allowance.” 1. “It was all on sale at the market,” I answered vaguely, turning to take the new outfits I’d bought for our daughter into the bedroom. When I came back out, Brad’s face was ashen. He was holding a crumpled shopping receipt for eighteen hundred and eighty dollars—a smoking gun—and he threw it at my face. The sharp edge of the paper nearly drew blood. “Sophia! You spent almost two grand on seafood! That pathetic King Crab alone was over three hundred bucks!” “You’re a stay-at-home mom, someone nobody would even hire to pick up trash! Where did you get this kind of money?” I stared at Brad and innocently blinked twice. “I saved it. I saved it from the allowance you gave me.” “Didn’t you give me eight hundred dollars every month?” “Other than groceries, cooking, and paying the utilities, I don’t have many expenses.” “I saved up quite a bit over the year!” “That’s bulls—!” Brad yanked at his own hair in a fit of rage. “I gave you eight hundred, not eighty thousand! Do you think everyone is as stupid as you are?” Watching the spectacle, I almost felt a strange urge to smile. Brad, who earns two thousand a month, was terrified that my years as a stay-at-home mom would instill bad habits, so he limited my monthly allowance to $800. This money had to cover all of my and our daughter’s expenses, plus the utility bills. I had to sneak out every day to work side jobs at the farmers market just to keep the household barely afloat. Last New Year’s Eve, I worked for half a month straight at the butcher’s stall just to save enough for a halfway decent dinner. But when Brad saw the table, his face instantly darkened. “Honey, in this day and age, what family doesn’t have a King Crab on the New Year’s table?” he’d said. “I give you such a generous allowance; can’t you be a little more frugal?” “My parents don’t live with us; this one meal is your only chance to show filial piety. Shouldn’t you try harder?” I’d cried on the spot, grabbing my hair hysterically. “You gave me eight hundred dollars, not eighty thousand! You know damn well if I can afford a King Crab!” I never thought that in just one short year, that exact line would be coming out of his mouth. 2. Brad clearly didn’t believe my explanation. While I was in the kitchen washing cherries for our daughter, he pulled out every single savings book and bank card he owned, calling the banks one by one. “Hello, yes! I need to check all the transactions on this account for the past six months!” “Are you sure all deposits and withdrawals were made by me alone?” “There’s no chance my wife took our marriage certificate and withdrew any money, is there?” Brad was spitting mad as he spoke into the phone, determined to find evidence that I had stolen from his accounts. I remember when we first married, Brad handed over his salary every month. At the time, I earned five times what he did, and I managed all the household finances. But when I was forced to quit my job and stay home because of our daughter’s congenital respiratory condition, Brad, under the guise of paying for medical expenses, took all the money I had. From that day on, my savings became his savings. His accounts were walled off from me; I couldn’t spend a cent without his permission. When I was the breadwinner, Brad would hand over a small part of his salary while demanding I buy him five-hundred-dollar leather shoes. When the tables turned, he claimed I was too extravagant, arguing that a monthly $800 allowance was necessary to keep me in check. Brad spent over an hour on the phone. After confirming that not a single penny was missing from his accounts, he took a deep breath, his face cold, and stood before me. “Sophia, tell me the truth. Are you cheating on me?” Just as Brad asked this, I got a message from my “Sugar Daddy.” He told me to rest well over the holiday and that he’d spend time with me after he got back from Miami. I immediately sent back a perfectly sweet emoji. Instantly, another five thousand dollars transferred into my account. My “Sugar Daddy” truly was the best; he just throws money at me without asking. “Sophia! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” I was in a great mood thanks to the five grand. I kept the smile on my face when responding to Brad’s interrogation. “Honey, don’t be ridiculous. I’m a useless old housewife. Who would look twice at me?” “Why would a rich CEO ignore all the young, beautiful girls and throw money at me?” Brad suddenly thought of something. He rushed into the bedroom and grabbed the entire set of luxury cosmetics from my vanity. “No! This is all wrong! You never used to wear makeup, Sophia!” “Look at you now, painted up like a ghost! Do you look like a decent wife or mother at all?” I tilted my head, checking my reflection in the TV’s dark screen. Full lips, bright eyes, every strand of hair perfectly styled. I didn’t know if I looked like a decent wife, but I was certainly prettier than I was two years ago, sitting alone and disheveled in the children’s ER while our daughter was on an IV. “Honey, didn’t you say that even as a stay-at-home mom, I should keep myself up to please you?” “If you don’t like it, I won’t wear it anymore.” My consistent, lukewarm attitude finally broke Brad. He slammed the pile of expensive cosmetics he’d just retrieved onto the floor. “Sophia! You tell me the truth! If you don’t explain yourself, I’m divorcing you immediately!” 3. Divorce. That’s wonderful. I’d endured months of this, and I’d finally gotten Brad to propose divorce. Honestly, I wanted to divorce Brad the very first day I met my “Sugar Daddy.” But he advised me that it was best if Brad initiated the divorce. That way, he would have no leverage over me regarding the dissolution of the marriage. I hadn’t even gotten the chance to say “yes” when my mother-in-law’s call came through. I had no interest in hearing Brad’s conversation with his mother, so I turned and went into the room to comfort our daughter. Brad’s tantrum was loud, and I was worried about scaring her, as she’d just fallen asleep. A few moments later, Brad hung up and came in. His face was still sour, but his tone had softened slightly. “Mom said my Aunt and Uncle are coming back from Florida this year, and they’re all coming here for New Year’s.” “You need to prepare properly these next few days. Don’t let the New Year’s dinner be so pathetic.” After years of marriage, I instantly understood the subtext. He meant he’d overlook where I got the lobster and King Crab from, as long as I helped his “filial son” self save face in front of his relatives. But I had no intention of letting him get his way. The next day, I hired a professional chef to come over and prepare a luxurious seafood feast just for my daughter and me. After we ate our fill, we gave the leftover crab legs and shrimp to the stray cats in the neighborhood. Not a single shell was left behind. On New Year’s Eve morning, Brad was still on the phone, boasting to his mother. He told her I’d bought a giant King Crab, a pair of eight-pound Australian lobsters, and fist-sized premium oyster, all waiting to treat his aunt and uncle’s family. When Brad and the whole crowd stomped through the door that evening, they found an empty dining table set with only two plates of frozen dumplings and two plates of burnt peanuts. Brad’s smile froze on his face. “Is this the dinner you prepared?” he asked, his voice strained. I stood there, bare-faced, holding my daughter’s hand. She was wearing old, slightly dingy clothes. I smiled with complete sincerity. “It is, honey.” “That day, you were so angry and asked where the money for the seafood came from.” “Well, actually, I’d borrowed it from a bunch of sketchy payday loans and credit cards. I borrowed over ten thousand dollars!” “I knew I was wrong, so I returned all the seafood and the new clothes! I paid the money back!” “I still owe about a thousand dollars in interest, but with the eight hundred dollars you give me every month, I should be able to pay it off in two years!” Brad and his mother’s faces cycled from crimson to white. They were speechless for a long time. From the back of the crowd, Aunt Lydia (Uncle Victor’s wife) remarked icily: “Sister-in-law, your Brad is so successful. He has to take out loans to host us for dinner on New Year’s.” Uncle Victor’s daughter, Cousin Madison, who had just returned from overseas, glanced at the table with blatant disdain. “Cousin Brad, you only give your wife eight hundred dollars a month? Tsk, tsk, no wonder foreign women look down on men from around here.” Brad clenched his fists, veins throbbing on his forehead. He looked ready to punch me. His mother stepped in and stopped him, rolling her eyes fiercely at me before trying to smooth things over. “Oh, hush, these two are having a little fight again!” “Women these days, they’re not as sensible as we were back then!” “They get a little upset and throw a fit just to humiliate their husband!” “Tonight, my treat! We’re going out for dinner! Let the person who caused all this trouble reflect on herself at home!” 4. Brad stumbled back in right as the New Year’s fireworks were cracking at midnight. Drunk and bleary-eyed, he shoved a divorce agreement into my hand. “Sophia! I know you did that on purpose today!” “We don’t have to torment each other anymore. Let’s get divorced after the holiday!” I quickly scanned the terms. The child went to me, the house split fifty-fifty, all savings to him, and he wouldn’t pay any child support. I thought about it. It seemed fair enough. I had no intention of splitting the savings my “Sugar Daddy” had given me anyway. So, with a flourish, I signed the divorce agreement. That night, I moved into my daughter’s room. The next morning, Brad held up the signed agreement and immediately started grilling me. “Sophia! I was only suspicious before, but now I know for a fact you have someone else!” “Otherwise, where would an orphan who doesn’t even have her parents around get the nerve to divorce me?” “Sophia! Tell me clearly! When did this start? Who is he? If you don’t explain, neither of us is going to have a peaceful holiday!” Brad was hysterical, grasping at straws. He was a mirror image of how I had been one year ago, desperately asking him whose long hair was on his pillow and whose lipstick stained his collar. Back then, Brad just played on his phone, not even sparing me a glance. I turned off the flame under the millet porridge I was making for my daughter, sighed slowly, and imitated his former nonchalance. “Honestly, living with you is exhausting. Believe whatever you want.” From that day on, Brad went crazy. He contacted all my old friends and former colleagues, trying to dig up any shred of evidence. Unfortunately, my “Sugar Daddy” and I had been careful from the start. He was old-school; he paid me mostly in cash. The few times he’d wired money, I’d handled the paper trail meticulously, leaving no trace. Brad spent days searching, but found nothing. Then, one afternoon, right after Presidents’ Day, my “Sugar Daddy” finally returned from Miami. As soon as I got the message, I rushed to put on my best makeup. I took my daughter’s small hand, and we walked to the fancy café where we often met. My “Sugar Daddy” pulled out two gold bangles, a large one and a small one, and put them on my and my daughter’s wrists. Before I could even say how lovely they were, Brad, his mother, and his entire extended family suddenly appeared from nowhere. My mother-in-law immediately threw a cup of coffee at my face. “You little tramp! I knew you were cheating on my son!” My “Sugar Daddy” instantly pulled me behind him, tenderly wiping my face with a handkerchief. “Who are you? What do you want?” Brad, like a blind cat who finally caught a rat, stuck out his chest triumphantly. “Who am I? I’m her husband! Look at you, all dressed up! You seduced my wife!” “You’re paying! Don’t even think about getting away with less than five hundred thousand dollars!” Uncle Victor scrutinized my “Sugar Daddy” from head to toe, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “You’re Robert Sinclair, aren’t you? The CEO of Sinclair Industries! Yes, it’s you!” He pulled out his phone and snapped several pictures of my “Sugar Daddy.” “I can’t believe a big shot like you plays such dirty games!” “Listen, you have to pay our family ten million dollars for this! And our company needs to get the exclusive agency contract for your Sinclair Group!” “Otherwise, I’ll release these photos to the public! I’ll ruin your company and you right along with it!” My “Sugar Daddy’s” face was calm as water. He surveyed the greedy faces before him, his voice commanding and quietly powerful. “Yes, that’s right.” “I am Robert Sinclair of Sinclair Industries, and I am Sophia’s biological father.”

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My husband, Cameron Miller, had a strange, specific ritual. Every time we made love, he would first take off his hearing aids. He said he needed to see my expression clearly. To watch the truth in my eyes. And then, just as he was about to come, he would always slip them back on. He said he needed to hear my voice clearly. To listen to the confession of my pleasure. For seven years, this was our nightly script. Everyone called us the perfect couple, a seven-year marriage where the passion only deepened. On the day of our seventh anniversary, I secretly took that old hearing aid to a specialist. I wanted to have an identical one custom-made—a surprise gift for him. The doctor, a kind older man, informed me. “Mrs. Miller, this old unit has a stored voice memo. Would you like me to sync it to the new device?” Before I could answer, the doctor played the recording for me right there. The sound instantly plunged me into an ice-cold horror. I recognized it immediately: The voice of The Myth he worshiped—his unattainable first love. She was trembling, breathless, whispering at the height of her passion: “Cam, I love you…” … 1. The moment I heard that voice memo, the blood in my veins seemed to turn to solid stone. The doctor was fumbling with apologies. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Miller, I didn’t realize it was a… I’ll turn it off immediately!” But the woman’s breathless moans and declaration of love were already looping in my brain, a permanent, agonizing echo. I stumbled out of the clinic, numb and disoriented. The next second, my phone vibrated. It was Cam. I swiped to answer, and his voice, that familiar blend of possessive affection and urgent concern, came through. “Alisa, where did you disappear to? I came home and didn’t see you. You scared the hell out of me.” I opened my mouth, but my throat was too dry to form a sound. He instantly noticed my silence. “Why aren’t you talking? Your voice sounds tight. Who upset you? Tell me. If the sky falls, your husband is holding it up.” The sky falling? My sky had already collapsed. And the man who pushed it over was him. “I’m fine,” It took all the strength I had to squeeze the words out. “Just running an errand. I’m heading back now.” “Running what errand? The sun is blazing out there, you’ll burn. Stay put, I’m coming to get you.” He hung up. In less than ten minutes, his car pulled up beside me. Cam rushed out, opened the passenger door, and pulled me into a fierce hug, his hand immediately checking my forehead. “No fever, but why is your face so pale? Are you feeling unwell?” He retrieved an elegant paper bag from the passenger seat, presenting it to me with a proprietary grin, like a boy showing off a prized possession. “Look, that triple-layer mousse cake you mentioned yesterday. I drove all the way to the West Side for it.” I stared at the warmth in his eyes, at the open, undeniable love and worry reflected there, and a terrible, tight knot formed in my chest. Seven years. This man had used this flawless, relentless tenderness to wrap me up in a cocoon of my own foolish, self-satisfied belief. Back at home, the dining table was a vision of celebration: flickering candlelight and a perfectly decanted bottle of Cabernet. Our seventh anniversary. The atmosphere was strangely suffocating. I couldn’t taste the food. Cam tried to speak several times, only to be shut down by my cold, rigid expression. After dinner, he came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. His warm breath tickled my ear. “Alisa, did I mess up? Did I do something to make you angry?” I remained silent. He sighed, turned me around, cupped my face, and kissed my forehead. “If you’re unhappy, I’ll clear my schedule tomorrow. We can fly to the coast and relax, just the two of us. How does that sound?” “You know, in my heart, nothing is more important than you.” Looking into his earnest eyes, I felt a flicker of doubt. My resolve was wavering. Sensing the shift, Cam walked to the bedside table and picked up the old hearing aid. Just like he had on over two thousand nights before. As he was about to put it in, I grabbed his hand abruptly. “Cam,” I forced a smile, looking him straight in the eye. “That thing is so old, it’s about to break down. Let’s get you the new version I ordered, okay? Let me just throw this old one out.” Cam’s movement froze. The gentle smile on his face wavered, then solidified into an expressionless mask. He quickly recovered, smoothly withdrawing his hand. His tone was firm but soothing. “Why the sudden change? It’s been this way for seven years, Alisa.” He held the hearing aid, stroking it as if it were a rare, priceless artifact. “You don’t understand, Alisa. This isn’t just a piece of technology. It’s been with us since the beginning, since that awful rental apartment. It’s a testament to everything we’ve built.” A testament? A testament to seven years of lies and manipulation? A sudden, white-hot fury flared up inside me. I snatched the device from his grasp. “I am the person who stood by you! Cam, your focus should be on me, not on a cold, inanimate machine!” “I said, I’m throwing it away!” Clutching the hearing aid, I spun around, heading for the trash bin. “Don’t you dare!” Cam’s face completely darkened. For the first time, those eyes that were always filled with soft affection now held a sharp, terrifying intensity. He lunged forward, grabbing the hearing aid out of my hand. He clenched it tightly in his palm, guarding it like a sacred, irreplaceable treasure. His voice was a low, unprecedented warning, edged with ice. “Alisa Wells. Do not touch that again!” Then, without so much as a glance at me, he spun on his heel and strode out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut with a violent BANG. I stumbled backward from the force of his exit, collapsing onto the floor. I sat there, staring at the closed door, cold to the bone. In seven years, this was a first. He had left me alone. 2. Cam never came back that night. The next morning, I came downstairs, my eyes raw and swollen, only to find him in the kitchen, apron tied around his waist, busy making breakfast. He heard me and immediately turned, a cajoling smile on his face, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night. “Alisa, you’re up? Come eat.” He walked over to me, carefully took my hand, and his voice was the familiar, comforting tone of a loving husband. “I was an ass yesterday. I shouldn’t have yelled about the hearing aid. It just… it holds so many memories of when we had nothing. I was overly sensitive. Please, don’t be mad at me, okay?” He lowered his head and pressed a light kiss to the back of my hand. “You know I can’t function without you.” Looking at his sincere, slightly exhausted eyes, I almost allowed myself to believe that the previous night had simply been a terrible nightmare. My heart, shamefully, softened. What if the recording was truly just a misunderstanding? The idea, once planted, grew frantically. We had spent seven years together, climbing from a cramped rental to the top of a publicly traded company. We’d weathered real storms. What could a misunderstanding be that we couldn’t talk through? I took a deep breath, deciding to break the awful stalemate. He was looking at me, his eyes pleading. “Alisa, I messed up. Please talk to me.” I nodded. “I’ll bring you lunch at the office today.” Cam’s eyes instantly lit up, as if he’d been granted a full pardon. “Perfect! I’ll finish up my morning meetings and wait for you. What do you want? I’ll have my assistant pre-order something.” “Don’t bother. I’ll make it.” That afternoon, carrying a stainless steel thermos, I walked into Cameron’s company for the first time. He always insisted that corporate life was too stressful and messy, and he wanted me to remain a worry-free princess. The receptionist was surprised to see me, but politely led me toward the CEO’s suite. The door wasn’t fully closed. As I was about to push it open, a melodic, overtly flirtatious female voice floated out. “Cam, the Q2 earnings report looks sketchy. Why don’t you come look at it over here?” This was followed by Cam’s voice, a familiar tone of exasperated indulgence. “You’re just too lazy to use your own brain, Teresa.” I pushed the door open, freezing in the doorway. The woman was a dazzling, striking beauty—a stark, vibrant contrast to my own quiet elegance. But I recognized her instantly. Teresa Sabrina. That face—the one I’d only seen on the old campus forums seven years ago, the one universally revered as the Art Department’s untouchable goddess. She was draped across Cam, practically sitting in his lap. They were bent close, heads nearly touching, intimately reviewing the same document. Hearing the door, Cam reflexively looked up, and his face instantly drained of color. He tried to pull away from Teresa, but she tightened her grip on his arm, leaning even closer, her full chest intentionally brushing against his bicep. She raised her head, giving me a slow, assessing look, her eyes holding a glint of genuine contempt. “Well, hello there. You must be Mrs. Miller. I thought you were the catering staff.” She laughed, a bright, brittle sound. “Cam is hard of hearing, you know. I have to be close so he can follow. You don’t mind, do you?” I ignored her, my eyes locked on Cam, waiting for his reaction. I waited for him to shove her away, to step in front of me and shield me, to offer the quick, practiced explanation I was used to. But he just stood there, frozen. His gaze was shifty, his face a miserable portrait of guilt and helplessness. “Alisa, please don’t misunderstand. Teresa is our new financial consultant. We were just… going over work.” Going over work? Did their “work” involve being intimately wrapped around each other? A sudden buzz filled my head. Everything fractured. The whispered gossip from college, the judging eyes, they all flooded back. “Did you hear? Campus King Cameron Miller is dating Alisa Wells now.” “Everyone knows he loves Teresa Sabrina. Alisa is just a rebound, a desperate fallback.” “Teresa didn’t want the poor guy back then, so Alisa got the sloppy seconds.” The thermos clattered from my hand, the noise swallowed by the thick carpet. Hot soup splashed across the floor. I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked out. And again, just like the night before, Cameron did not follow me. 3. I don’t know how I made it back to the house. It wasn’t until well after dark that Cam finally returned. He tiptoed into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He smelled of Scotch and a faint, cloying scent of another woman’s perfume. Teresa’s scent. He reached out to hold me, but I pulled away. In the dark, he sighed, his voice low and placating. “Alisa, don’t be like this. Teresa just got back from overseas. She’s naive, she doesn’t know corporate protocol. I was just taking care of her a little extra.” “We’ve been together for seven years. Do you really not trust me?” He wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me tight against his body. “Okay, stop being upset. I promise you, I’ll keep my distance from her. It’s over, okay?” His embrace, once my most cherished sanctuary, now felt like a cold, suffocating cage. I didn’t struggle. I let him hold me, trying to absorb the illusion of warmth. His kisses became frantic, scattered along my neck, and his hands began to wander beneath my silk pajamas. Everything was exactly as it had been for the past seven years. In the heat of the moment, his breathing grew ragged, and his hand instinctively reached for the bedside table. That action—that unconscious reflex—was the final, crushing weight that broke the fragile dam of my suppressed anger and humiliation. The instant he picked up that old hearing aid, ready to put it on, I lunged and sat bolt upright. “Cameron Miller!” My voice was sharp, a hysterical tremor that didn’t sound like my own. “In your mind, do I even measure up to a strand of her hair?!” My reaction startled him. He froze, the hearing aid half-raised to his ear. “Tell me! These seven years—was I nothing but her replacement? Her stand-in?” He opened his mouth, perhaps to lie, but the look of genuine shock, mixed with undeniable guilt, was all the answer I needed. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I ripped the hearing aid from his grip, raised my hand, and brought it down with every ounce of force I possessed! CRACK! The device he treated as a sacred relic shattered into a dozen irreparable fragments on the hardwood floor. Cam’s eyes flew wide open, staring at the destruction in pure disbelief. He threw himself onto the floor, scrambling on his hands and knees, frantically trying to piece the shards back together. His fingers were sliced by the sharp edges, tiny beads of blood welling up. He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot, glaring. “Alisa! Have you lost your mind?!” He roared, his voice distorted by fury. “Haven’t I been good enough for you for seven years?! I treated you like a damn princess! Do you know the hell I went through building this company? The discrimination I faced?!” He rose to his feet, stepping closer, his eyes cold and sharp as knives. “We could have coasted through this life! We could have acted happy forever! But you just had to go after Teresa! You just had to force me to say the words!” He gritted his teeth, pushing the words out through a narrow opening. “Fine! You want the truth? I’ll give it to you! Yes! I never got over her!” He turned, ready to slam the door on me again. As his hand closed around the doorknob, I used the last of my strength to ask the question that had suffocated me for seven years. “If you love her, why did you marry me?” Cam’s footsteps halted. He didn’t turn around, but the sentence he left hanging in the air was enough to cast me into eternal darkness. “Because I didn’t want her to suffer.” The door crashed shut. I started to laugh, a horrible sound that quickly dissolved into blinding tears. He didn’t want her to suffer? Teresa Sabrina was a society heiress. And what was I? To be with him, I had cut ties with my family, giving up everything that was easily handed to me. He didn’t know that when clients made him drink himself sick, I was the one who went in his place, downing hard liquor until my stomach bled, just to secure that contract. He didn’t know that when he crossed the wrong people in the city and was blacklisted, I went and knelt at the feet of my ex-fiancé, licking the dirt off his bespoke shoes, just to buy Cam a sliver of hope. I was willing to suffer for him, so he wouldn’t have to. And he? He didn’t want her to suffer. Therefore, all the suffering was reserved for me. The irony was blinding. 4. Cam returned the next morning. He came bearing an unprecedented avalanche of material compensation, as if to apologize for his brutal loss of control. A stack of documents lay before me: the deed to the city’s newest luxury high-rise property, and an official transfer of 49% of his company’s shares to my name. His face was contrite. “Alisa, I was a bastard yesterday. I said terrible things. The hearing aid… it’s just a thing. Forget about it.” He produced a velvet box from behind his back, opening it before me. Inside lay a massive pink diamond, perfectly cut, its fire dazzling. “We were broke when we got married, and all I had was a soda can tab to propose with. I swore I’d give you the world’s best one day.” He slipped the colossal pink diamond ring onto my finger, gripping my hand tightly. “Tonight, after the company’s IPO launch party, I’m going to give you the most spectacular wedding the city has ever seen. What do you say?” I looked up at him and gave him the most brilliant, radiant smile I could muster. “Yes.” That night, the IPO launch party was the talk of the town, streamed live on every major platform. Every significant figure in the city was there. In the glittering ballroom, Cam, in his bespoke tuxedo, moved with the confident swagger of a man on top of the world. He was, without a doubt, the centerpiece of the evening. Meanwhile, escorted by my closest friend, Brooke, I was in a black town car, speeding toward the airport. The car’s screen was tuned to the live broadcast of the gala. The camera focused on Cam—handsome, assured, fielding one interview after another. He was running the show, so wrapped up in the glory that he hadn’t even noticed his co-star, the woman he was about to propose to, was gone. Finally, the event reached its crescendo. Cam walked onto the main stage, standing under the spotlight, facing thousands of guests and the national audience. He took the microphone, his voice ringing clearly across the venue. “Tonight, standing here, there is one person I need to thank. Without her, there would be no Cameron Miller today.” “Seven years ago, I owed her a ceremony. Tonight, I intend to give it to her, in front of the entire world.” In the car, Brooke excitedly grabbed my arm. “The jerk finally grew a conscience! He’s about to profess his love to you in front of the world!” Before she could finish, Cam’s heartfelt voice sounded again. “Teresa Sabrina, thank you.” My heart stopped beating. “Thank you for the push, the motivation, that drove me here today. Everything I owed you from the past, I will repay in double, starting tonight.” “I’m going to give you the most beautiful thing in the world.” The entire hall erupted in a thunderous applause and cheering. Teresa Sabrina, wearing a pristine white gown, looking like a sanctified princess, walked onto the stage, surrounded by adoring guests. Cam pulled a different velvet box from his pocket and dropped to one knee. Inside the box was a teardrop-cut Ocean Heart Sapphire ring. I looked at that sapphire, then at the massive pink diamond on my own finger, and I laughed. Years ago, when we were poor, we saw them at an auction preview. The pink diamond was the most expensive, most obvious piece. The Ocean Heart Sapphire was a global one-of-a-kind, unique and impossible to attain. I slowly pulled the immensely valuable pink diamond from my finger, rolled down the window, and tossed it into the night without a second thought. Almost simultaneously on the live feed, a uniformed staff member rushed onto the stage and handed Cam a beautifully wrapped gift box. Cam, eyes full of tearful gratitude, thinking it was Teresa’s returning gesture, took the box and opened it in front of the crowd. Inside, resting on the velvet lining, was an old, identical model of the hearing aid I had just smashed. He smiled, his eyes softening with that familiar, possessive affection. He picked it up, put it on with practiced ease, and looked at Teresa with smoldering affection. “You little minx. You remembered this. What secret message did you record for me this time?” The smile was wiped clean from his face in the next second. As he registered the recording, his expression froze, instantly replaced by a look of profound horror and terror. He shoved Teresa aside and scrambled to the edge of the stage, screaming into the microphone, his voice raw and desperate. “Alisa! Where is my wife! Where is Alisa Wells!” “Turn this city upside down! Find her for me!”

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My mother, Carol, always prided herself on being the picture of impartiality. Whatever my older sister, Tiffany, had, I was required to have, too—no more, no less. It was her personal mantra, a suffocating, twisted form of equity. I wasn’t planning on going home for the holidays this year; I was in the middle of closing a multi-million-dollar deal. But then the text came. “Jenna, I bought you a ticket for tonight. Remember to be on time.” “You know how hard it is to get seats for Christmas. I was up for days trying to snag this one for you!” I was about to text back a polite refusal, but she preempted me, sending the ticket information: an interstate bus ticket, 19 hours and 53 minutes, non-stop. The accompanying voice memo dripped with martyrdom: “Your sister has a ticket. If you didn’t, I’d look like a mother who plays favorites! If you don’t come home, you’re ungrateful!” I had no choice but to agree. The very next second, my sister, Tiffany, posted in the family group chat. “OMG, look how much Mom adores me! She booked me a first-class flight a whole month ago!” If this was what Carol Perkins called “fairness,” I really didn’t want it anymore. … The words “a whole month ago” burned a bitter acid behind my eyes. I must have been frozen in that position for too long, because my colleague, Mark, leaned over, his expression a mixture of pity and disbelief. “Jenna, a bus ticket? Nineteen hours? That’s brutal. And I thought your mom was chartering a car for you?” I tasted ash. “A chartered car?” I hoped. Mark’s mother was a neighborhood friend of mine, so he was a reliable source of uncomfortable information. “Yeah, my mom was telling me all about it. Carol was worried you were overworked and was going to hire an executive car service to drive you cross-state. She went on and on about how much she cared. She really dotes on you!” The blood ran cold in my veins. I immediately checked the family chat again. Tiffany’s message about the first-class flight had been swiftly deleted. The screen was now filled with Mom’s generic, shareable posts—the kind that looked like a bad life-coach’s feed: “The most important thing about ‘filial piety’ isn’t obedience, it’s making peace!” “Only a perfectly balanced scale makes for a harmonious family!” My aunts and uncles chimed in, seeking advice: “Carol, you’re a saint. Two daughters, no favoritism!” “It must be why both your girls are so successful!” My throat tightened. Shaking, I typed a message: “Mom, I heard you were going to charter a car to pick me up?” The group chat instantly went silent. Before Carol could reply, Tiffany launched her attack: “Jenna Perkins, how can you be so entitled? You’ve been working for years! Mom was nice enough to even book you a ticket at all!” “A chartered car? Seriously? Who do you think you are?” My question was instantly deflected. The group erupted with praise for Tiffany’s “maturity,” throwing thinly veiled insults my way. “Well, I’d say a little favoritism is natural. You can’t expect five fingers to be the same length.” “Tiff is so thoughtful. If she were my daughter, I’d favor her too.” “Honestly, Tiffany has been the one suffering all these years.” My fists were clenched so tight my nails dug crescents into my palms. I was shaking, unable to defend myself. Should I post the picture of my standing-room-only bus ticket? But Tiffany had already painted me as the spoiled one demanding luxury. And her flight message? Only I had seen it before she deleted it. Just then, my mother’s chat box popped up. A $50 Venmo transfer appeared with the caption: “Did my little girl get her feelings hurt? Here’s a little something, sweetie. Don’t worry about your sister.” “I did want to charter a car, but it was too last-minute. You know how busy I am.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The unaccepted $50 mocked my fleeting, self-pitying moment of hope. I finally found the courage to send the question I needed answered: “Why did you book a first-class flight for Tiffany?” It was a long time before Carol replied: “Don’t be ridiculous, Jenna. I would never be so unfair. You two are treated exactly the same.” “A bus ticket, a plane ticket… tickets are hard to get at Christmas. You need to be understanding.” I slumped in my office chair, defeated. Her texts continued: “Oh, and your sister gets carsick easily on buses. Remember to pick her up some motion sickness meds. And she loves those expensive cherries; they help her nausea.” “Since I sent you the $50, that makes it fair.” Mark’s phone nudged my elbow. He pointed to a new text from his mother: “My mom just sent me this. Carol couldn’t figure out the app, so she had my little brother help her book it.” I read every word. The messages detailed Carol’s sincere concern for her daughter’s well-being: Driver, my daughter gets nauseous, please drive smoothly. She’s a quiet girl, please don’t try to make conversation. I’ll be waiting downstairs an hour early, please be punctual. The newest chat log, dated a month ago: “Driver, we won’t be needing the car. My daughter decided to fly home instead.” The name on the booking? Tiffany Perkins. Never Jenna. I fought back the tears, refusing to let them fall. It had always been like this. Bread had to be measured with a ruler and sliced in half. Milk had to be dated and checked for evenness. Our bedding, our backpacks, our clothing—all the same color and style. As a child, I, like everyone else, believed my mother was the epitome of fairness. As an adult, I knew the truth. I hated cream-filled bread and loathed milk, but Tiffany loved them. I didn’t want a pink backpack or frilly dresses, but Tiffany did. I wanted to attend a university three states away, but Mom insisted I stay here, with Tiffany. The sight of my manager, Sarah, coming toward me snapped me out of my haze. “Jenna, are you coming home for the holidays?” I instantly replied, “No, Sarah, I’m staying. I’m going to power through the Ramsey account.” Just then, the family group chat exploded with photos. My aunts were showing off their Christmas gifts: “Thank you, Tiffany, for the amazing holiday gifts!” The photos showed boxes of gourmet fruit baskets, high-end artisanal beer, and imported seafood. “Thank you, Jenna.” In that second photo, casually tossed into the corner, was a single, generic case of store-brand juice boxes. My eyes blurred with tears of shock. Because I had bought all of it. The gourmet baskets, the beer, the seafood, even the cheap juice boxes—they were all from my account, my card. Tiffany hadn’t contributed a thing! Rage seized my brain. I didn’t care about their twisted game anymore. I typed a furious retort: “These were all bought with my money. How did they become Tiffany’s gifts?” The moment I sent it, my Aunt Brenda jumped in: “Jenna, you really are just like your mother said you were!” It was as if she’d been waiting for me to take the bait. A cold dread washed over me. Next, Aunt Margaret scolded me: “Last year, you claimed you bought us that expensive necklace, too! I praised you for months, only for your mother to tell us afterward that Tiffany had paid for it all!” Her voice memo dripped with scorn. “This year, the boxes clearly have Tiffany’s name on the shipping labels. And now you’re trying to take credit for them again? Get real!” I couldn’t breathe. My body was shaking uncontrollably. I didn’t care about face or courtesy anymore. I had spent the money, and I deserved the credit. But the message I tried to send next bounced back with an unmistakable exclamation mark. “You are no longer a member of this group. Please submit a request to rejoin.” I stared at the group admin’s profile picture. My mother. A moment later, Carol texted me privately, her tone sickeningly gentle: “Jenna, are you mad at Mommy? Let me explain. I’m doing this to maintain fairness!” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. What kind of fairness was this? “You two are sisters. You work in a big-city firm; your sister is barely making minimum wage. Everyone praises you. Who praises Tiffany?” “So, I decided to let her take credit for the holiday gifts. That way, things are fair, aren’t they?” Her tone subtly shifted to one of slight annoyance: “Look at you, airing our private business in the chat. Do you want to embarrass me or your sister?” “Forget it. When you get here, take Tiffany to the mall and buy her a nice gold bracelet. It’ll be your compensation to her.” I couldn’t speak. Tears streamed down my face. She was calling me unfair, and demanding I compensate the one who was robbing me? As I reached for my keyboard to unleash hell, Mr. Evans, my division manager, stormed over. “Jenna, with me. Now!” My heart sank, a sickening feeling washing over me. “Do you know your mother just called to quit for you? Are you serious? What are you, a child playing adult? Get out of my office!” My head felt like it had been hit by a bomb. I scrambled for my phone. The last message from my mother was waiting: “Your sister was just fired. Since that’s the case, I’ve quit your job for you. To make things fair!” I took a deep breath, bowed to my manager, and offered my sincerest apologies. After a brutal dressing down, Mr. Evans delivered the final order: “Don’t come back until your family drama is completely sorted out!” My humiliation was a suffocating weight. I walked out of the building, my anger finally reaching a boiling point. I called her. “Tiffany is a waitress who takes advantage of your monthly allowance! She works two days and skips three! Of course, she was fired!” “When I was doing that crushing internship, making minimum wage, barely able to afford rent, did you ever give me a penny? Never!” “Is that fair? Is that what you call fair?” “I’m not coming home for Christmas. I’m not coming home ever again. As far as I’m concerned, you only have one daughter: Tiffany!” I hung up without waiting for her reply. Within half an hour, my phone was besieged by calls from relatives. I ignored them all, letting them pile up as texts and voice memos. Aunt Brenda and Aunt Margaret were the first: “Jenna Perkins, you have some nerve! How can you talk to your mother like that? You’re an ingrate! The city turned you into a monster!” “Do you know how much your mother is crying? Get home and apologize right now!” Accompanying the texts were photos of my mother, Carol, looking pale, collapsed on the sofa, sobbing hysterically. The sight made me feel numb, yet a fresh wave of white-hot anger surged inside me. Aunt Brenda’s voice memo included my mother’s choked-up whisper: “Jenna, Mommy knows. If you want the gifts to be yours, they are, okay? They’re yours.” They were already mine. My hand dropped uselessly to my side, my body trembling. Just before my screen locked, a message came through from Tiffany: “Jenna, you treat Mom like this, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” I blocked them all. I wiped my tears. A sudden, intense sense of self-preservation guided me to my apartment’s spare room. I needed something to guarantee my safety. The next morning, I texted Mr. Evans that the situation was handled and reported to work on time. The minute I walked in, I noticed the disgusted glances from my coworkers. “That’s her, the one who abandoned her mother,” I heard. “Her poor mother worked so hard to raise them both, and that’s how she repays her?” “I saw the video. She’s a monster.” “How can someone like that work for us? It’s a disgrace!” My hands shook as I checked my phone. Top of the local news feed: “Ungrateful Daughter Disowns Mother Over Budget Flight Ticket?” The video showed my mother weeping dramatically, surrounded by relatives who took turns recounting Carol’s “fairness” over the years. They claimed she stayed up for nights trying to buy me a plane ticket, and out of desperation to see me, she bought the bus ticket. Now, I had cut her off. My head swam with fury. I wanted to scream the truth. But Mr. Evans appeared, his face thunderous. “Jenna Perkins, before you say a word, look outside.” I stumbled down the stairs. Outside, a crowd was gathered, holding banners that blocked the company entrance: “Boycott Ungrateful Daughter Jenna Perkins! Support the Fair Mom!” “Find Jenna Perkins—She Needs to Learn a Lesson!” I flinched. Taking a deep breath, I was about to rush out and tell the truth when someone pointed at me. “There she is! That’s Jenna Perkins!” The crowd surged. In the second I froze, a stinging blow landed across my face. “You dare treat our mother like that? I’ll teach you respect!” It was Tiffany. Her face was contorted with fury, but her eyes held a spark of undisguised triumph. I reeled, my vision blurring. I couldn’t speak. The surrounding crowd saw my silence as guilt and began to jeer. Then came the projectiles—rotten eggs and old lettuce leaves—pelting me. “That’s Jenna! Folks, hit the like button! Watch me punish this monster for all of you!” Tiffany held up her phone. She was live-streaming the attack. In the corner of the video feed, my mother was visible on a couch, looking weak, her voice a desperate plea: “Jenna, Mommy knows you were just upset. It’s okay. Just come home today, and you’ll still be my good daughter.” Her words sliced through the last thread of my attachment to her. I started to laugh, a wretched, cynical sound. “Mom,” I choked out, “one last time. Is the truth what the internet is saying?” My mother’s eyes went instantly red, but she didn’t speak. The crowd’s anger intensified. “She has no remorse! She wants to drive her own mother to her grave!” “How can a big company like this hire someone with zero morals? Fire her!” I watched the live stream and saw it—a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk play across my mother’s lips as the comments rolled in. Just then, Mr. Evans and Mr. Harrison walked out, their faces grim. “Following an internal investigation,” Mr. Evans announced loudly, “Jenna Perkins was found to have engaged in fraudulent expense reporting. We have terminated her employment.” “And we will be pursuing criminal charges.” The termination notice was slapped against my face, the paper leaving a thin cut on my cheek. “Expect a subpoena from the court.” I froze, a thought clicking into place. Because she lived nearby, Tiffany constantly dropped by my apartment, always trying to sneak into my home office. My expense reports were filed and organized there. I looked up, meeting Tiffany’s smug, triumphant gaze. Then I looked at the phone video. My mother lowered her head, avoiding the camera’s focus. She was in on it. I smiled, a cold, empty feeling in my chest. “Well,” Tiffany crowed, “now you’ve lost your job and you’re going to jail. Why don’t you apologize to Mom? We might still give you a handout!” “You’re supposed to be so smart! Write her a letter of apology right now. Kneel and beg for forgiveness!” I reached into my bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. My voice was steady, betraying no hint of fear or defeat. “I do have something to give Ms. Perkins.” “But it’s not an apology.” Someone held a camera up to the paper in my hand. Gasps erupted from the crowd. “What is that?” My mother, unable to see the paper, felt a surge of panic. She instantly perked up. “Jenna, what are you doing? Mother and daughter have no grudges! Even without an apology, Mommy won’t blame you!” She tried to start crying again. Tiffany sobbed: “Jenna, Mom sacrificed everything for us! And you won’t even apologize! You’re waving some stupid piece of paper around just to upset her!” But they were too late. The surrounding crowd was looking at the paper, their jaws dropping. No one was rushing to their defense. Someone finally broke the silence with a shocked exclamation: “Are you kidding me? This woman calls herself a ‘Fair Mom?’ This is disgusting! Look at this list!”

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The moment Sasha replaced the wedding photo above our bed with that enormous oil painting—a piece her lab colleague, Blake, had gifted her—I felt an utter, bone-deep weariness settle over me. When I finally put the signed divorce papers in front of her, she kept her expression perfectly cool. “Am I really not allowed to redecorate the bedroom, Ronan?” she snapped. “And divorce? You’re willing to walk away from your little princess, the one you’ve practically molded with your own two hands?” I simply nodded. Yes, I was walking away from both. After all, my precious daughter was just like her mother. They both had already put another man first. … 1 Sasha sat across from me, her face blank as she flipped through the divorce papers I’d presented. She didn’t read them closely, giving them a cursory glance before snapping the file shut. “All this because I changed a painting? You want a divorce over something this trivial?” “Think carefully, Ronan. I don’t have time for a tantrum. Are you really giving up custody of the daughter you adore?” I glanced at Gwen, who was still camped out on the sofa watching TV, long past her bedtime. “I am.” Sasha signed the agreement without a moment’s hesitation, as if I were the one acting unreasonably. Her gaze on me was detached, almost bored. Just this afternoon, I’d cooked dinner as usual. Roasted short ribs—their favorite. I watched the clock tick past, but the front door remained silent. I called Sasha. It rang twice, then switched to a ‘user busy’ signal. She’d obviously declined the call. It was after ten when the two of them finally came home, cautiously carrying a heavily wrapped canvas. It was the third time I’d reheated dinner. Yet, mother and daughter were in silent agreement, gliding past the kitchen as if the table didn’t exist, rushing straight to the master bedroom. I walked to the doorway and watched Sasha preparing to swap out the framed wedding photo. “Why the sudden change?” I asked. Sasha didn’t pause in her work. “Am I not allowed to hang a piece of art in my own home?” she countered. Gwen stood beside her, stretching onto her tiptoes to help her mother steady the painting. Her eyes sparkled. “Mom, when can we go get Five Guys with Uncle Blake again?” Sasha quickly put a hand over Gwen’s mouth, then shot me a fleeting, defensive look. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want you to misinterpret things.” Blake was Sasha’s mentor from her graduate program, and also, technically, a former colleague of mine. He’d recently transferred jobs and was now working in the same research lab as Sasha. I lowered my gaze, the image of the cooling ribs and mashed potatoes on the kitchen table burning in my mind. I spoke softly. “Next time, don’t take Gwen to eat fast food. Her stomach is sensitive.” “Fine,” Sasha conceded dismissively. She hung the new canvas above the headboard, replacing the spot where our smiling faces had lived for eight years. After adjusting the position to her satisfaction, she smiled, took a photo, and immediately checked her phone. “Wow, Mom, Uncle Blake is so talented. He painted that?” Gwen stared at the wall in awe. The painting was a lush, romantic oil landscape. So, Blake was the artist. Sasha’s attention was completely fixed on her screen, her face alight with an unfamiliar, almost giddy joy. Gwen, impatient, clambered onto the bed and peered over her shoulder at the phone. “Mom, what are you and Uncle Blake talking about? I want to text him too!” After Sasha had signed the divorce agreement, I planned to leave that very night. But looking around the house we’d shared for nearly eight years, I felt stuck. Where do you even begin? Sasha watched me. “It’s late. You can leave tomorrow, if you want.” I shook my head. “No. Tonight.” I packed a carry-on with only the essentials. The wedding ring went back into the jewelry box; I took nothing else. As I dragged my suitcase to the door and went to change my shoes, Gwen walked up to me, silent and timid. Seeing this tiny creature I had dedicated six years of my life to, my chest tightened, an involuntary surge of paternal affection. “Your mother and I are getting divorced,” I told her. “You need to listen to her, and remember to cut out the junk food. And you’re allergic to shellfish—don’t forget that.” Gwen simply rolled her eyes. She sounded utterly unconcerned. “Hmph. Mom said you’ll come back in a few days anyway. You don’t have any friends here; only me and Mom care about you.” Then she stood on her toes, whispering into my ear, her voice a poisonous dart. “Dad, you should just stay gone forever. I don’t like you. I like Uncle Blake. If you don’t come back, Uncle Blake can be my dad.” Gwen’s words annihilated the last shred of tenderness I held. They say children are honest, and it’s true—only a child would bypass all social filters and speak her rawest thought. The daughter I had held in my heart and pampered since birth, never actually liked me. I said nothing more. I picked up my suitcase and walked out the door. 2 Gwen was right, in a bleak, undeniable way. I truly had no friends here. I had been in a long-distance relationship with Sasha back then. Desperate not to lose her, convinced we had a future, I left my familiar hometown, resigned from a job I loved. I was young, burning with a lover’s conviction, believing the ‘right person’ was waiting for me at the end of the road. And for a time, we were deeply in love. We even had our beautiful daughter, Gwen. When Gwen needed full-time care, Sasha refused to put her own career on hold. “Marriage doesn’t have to mean only the woman makes sacrifices, right?” she’d said. I heard the implied plea. Coupled with the fact that the new job I’d found in this city was objectively less significant than Sasha’s high-stakes research position, I decided to become her ‘support system’—her stay-at-home husband. I was content, believing that our happiness mattered more than my title. That was, until Blake was transferred to Sasha’s lab. That’s when I watched our connection erode, day by day. It faded, it fractured. Even Gwen joined in, more than once asking me to step aside so Blake could be her father. I stood on the curb of the empty street at 1 AM, waiting for a cab, dragging my suitcase behind me. The late-night breeze felt less desolate than my own heart. I rented a small studio apartment. It was bright and faced the sun. Before, I would work on research materials and papers from home in the evenings. Just today, I’d received good news—I’d won a small, prestigious grant. The funding wasn’t life-changing, but it was enough to sustain me for a year or two. I woke up this morning to a rare, delicious feeling of leisure. No immediate leap out of bed to the alarm clock, no mad dash to get Gwen ready for school. I looked in the mirror, shaved carefully, and styled my hair. I instantly looked healthier, more energized. I even signed up for a fitness class. While running around the house and playing with Gwen kept me moving, I’d lost significant muscle mass. Other men were rushing to catch the morning subway to their corporate jobs; I was riding the city bus, fighting with retirees over the best produce at the market. Outsiders had whispered that I was ‘eating soft rice’—a gold-digger. I never cared. I knew the truth: Gwen wouldn’t have lived such a pampered life on Sasha’s salary alone. I cleared my head of those thoughts and started working on my résumé. I wanted to go back to work, to stand in a real lab, not just sit in front of a computer screen. That afternoon, I treated myself to my favorite food: spicy fried chicken. Because I was always catering to their mild palates at home, we rarely had anything spicy. Now, biting into the tender chicken, it hit me like a rush. This was another small piece of my old life, gradually returning. That night, Sasha called. Her voice was flat, typical of her professional tone. “Listen, I’m calling about a box of sealed things of yours. I haven’t opened it. Give me an address, and I’ll mail it to you.” I thought for a moment. “You can open it. It’s just useless junk I kept from when we were together. I don’t need it. Throw it out.” Sasha hesitated on the line. “Actually,” I added, cutting in, “if you find anything else of mine, just dispose of it. Don’t bother calling again.” I hung up. That box held old ticket stubs, notes, and silly gifts—all those insignificant things you keep when you’re building a life. They were just garbage now. After a few successful interviews, I landed a position at a respected research corporation. They offered me a private lab for my own studies. I was at the grocery store that afternoon after my shift. At home, I spent hours trying to invent new dishes to satisfy their picky tastes. Now, I needed to satisfy my own stomach. As I pushed my cart, my phone rang. It was Gwen’s school. “Mr. Ronan,” the teacher’s voice was strained, “I was wondering if you might have forgotten to pick up Gwen today? All the other children have gone home, and she’s the only one left.” 3 I checked the time. Gwen had been out of school for over an hour. But I kept pushing my cart. I had no intention of changing my plans. “Teacher, this is the situation: Sasha and I are divorced. She has full custody now. I’m going to give you her number. Please call her.” “Oh, I see. My apologies. It was just always you who came, and Gwen insisted I call you first. Sorry to bother you.” The teacher sounded genuinely apologetic. I was about to say, ‘No problem,’ and hang up, but Gwen snatched the phone. “You’re so petty, Dad,” she said into the receiver. “Mom is busy. You have nothing to do; can’t you just get me? Humph, if it were Uncle Blake, he’d definitely come get me.” Her words barely registered. They carried no sting. “Gwen,” I stated clearly, “Your mother and I are divorced. I won’t be picking you up anymore. If no one comes for you, you must tell the teacher to call your mother. Or, yes, you can call your Uncle Blake.” I hung up. I couldn’t recall how I had raised her to be this way. When she was little, and Sasha was working non-stop, I’d always told Gwen that her mother was working hard and we needed to be understanding. But children quickly internalize the care and devotion of the adult who is always there, viewing it as an inalienable right. I rubbed my forehead. Whatever. Let her deal with the consequences. But my phone didn’t stop. After dinner that evening, Sasha called again. Her voice was the same as always, cool and even. “Ronan. Gwen’s stomach bug is back. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find her medication. Where did you hide it?” I gripped the phone, forcing my anger down. “In the cabinet under the TV.” “Oh. Found it. Listen, did Gwen’s teacher call you today? I was in a meeting and ran late. Did I… inconvenience you?” I didn’t know what she was driving at—she sounded clumsy, like she was trying to start a conversation with thin air. “Yes, you inconvenienced me,” I said flatly. “So, can you please stop calling me?” In the past, my calls were rejected; she never called me. Now, in just a few days, the calls were stacking up. I changed my number. Over the next few weeks, Sasha didn’t call. I immersed myself in the lab, often staying an entire day. Here, I reconnected with my earliest ambition. It felt like college again. I used to be a student who lived and breathed research. At some point, my dreams, my core, had been subsumed by the demands of a life I had willingly chosen to abandon myself for. The department head walked in to tell me I had a new project I needed to take over. I pulled off my gloves and stepped out. In the waiting area, I saw two familiar figures. Sasha. And beside her, Gwen. Through the glass, Sasha was awkwardly explaining to the department head why she had brought her daughter to the office. I walked into the room. Sasha’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly at the sight of me. “Dad…” Gwen muttered, tugging on Sasha’s jacket. “Ah, here he is,” the department head said, pointing to me. “This is the head of the project; he’ll handle the transition.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and offered a faint smile. “Director, no need for introductions. This is my ex-wife. I’ll take it from here. You can go back to your work.” The director offered an uncomfortable laugh and left the room. I looked at the file in my hands. “By my count, your team should have one more person.” Just as I spoke, a knock came at the door. Blake walked in. “Sorry, I’m late.”

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