Author: Momo Chan

This year, the finance team saved the company $4.2 million in taxes and recovered $28 million in bad debt. The night before the Christmas gala, the CEO had us stack $7 million in cash in the conference room and guard it overnight. “Grace,” he said with a smile, “I’ve got a special prize for the finance team tomorrow!” That night, we took turns using the bathroom, staring at the money. Emily, our intern, whispered, “This much cash… it has a smell, right? A good one. Maybe we’ll each get a bundle?” I just smiled. With our frugal CEO, we’d be lucky to get a $500 bonus. At the gala, sales stuffed cash into bags, with the top seller taking home $280,000. Then it was our turn. The CEO handed me a cheap plastic gadget that chirped, “Reset! Reset!” “The finance team works the hardest,” he said. “So, I got you all a new calculator to make your work faster and your overtime shorter!” 1 “Beep—Reset! Reset!” The room erupted in thunderous laughter, the sound so loud it felt like it could tear the roof off the ballroom. Alex, the head of sales, laughed the loudest. He was still holding his duffel bag overflowing with cash, pointing at us. “Mr. Jackson, that gift is brilliant!” he roared. “Get the bean counters to wipe last year’s slate clean! Time to start fresh next year, do more work, and stop making trouble for the rest of us!” This was the “special prize.” This was the “surprise” we’d earned after guarding his money all night, holding our bladders until they nearly burst. Last night, after everyone left, the building’s heating was shut off. It was fifteen degrees in that conference room. To guard the seven million dollars he wanted to “show off,” the five of us huddled in oversized coats, taking shifts to watch the money, terrified to even take a bathroom break. Emily, the intern, had fallen asleep on the pile of cash and drooled on it. She woke up in a panic, her face pale with fear that she’d be docked pay for damaging the bills. Our senior accountant, Sarah, who suffers from a severe herniated disc, sat bolt upright on a hard chair all night. This morning, she could barely walk straight. We had guarded a mountain of gold, only to be publicly executed for it. “Mr. Jackson.” I took a step forward, walking to the microphone. The laughter died down a little, but the malicious stares still felt like needles piercing my skin. Mr. Jackson looked at me, his eyes full of amusement. “What is it, Grace? Too excited? No need to thank me. It’s just a little something from the company. A good craftsman needs the best tools, right?” “We don’t want a token gesture. We want fairness.” I stared at him, suppressing the inferno of rage in my chest. “This year, the finance department saved this company $4.2 million through completely legal tax planning.” “Last month, our entire department spent two weeks in the freezing snow, tracking down a debtor to recover a $28 million bad debt. We were chased by dogs and had dirty water thrown on us.” “The sales department took home their five percent commission. They deserved it. They’re the heroes.” “But what about us?” “We guarded seven million dollars of your cash all night, and all we get is a five-dollar calculator you probably bought on Amazon?” The room went quiet for a few seconds. The smile on Mr. Jackson’s face faded. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Grace, your math is wrong.” He picked up his own microphone, addressing the entire company in a paternal tone. “The finance department certainly works hard, but everyone needs to understand the basic logic here.” “The sales team fights on the front lines. They are the rainmakers who bring money into this company!” “And you in finance? You’re the support staff. The housekeepers. The money was always the company’s. The bad debt was recovered because our legal team is intimidating. The tax savings were because of favorable government policies.” He sneered. “You just push a few buttons on a calculator. And for that, you think you deserve a cut worth millions?” “The receptionist pushes the elevator button for me every day. Should I give her company shares, too?” Another wave of laughter exploded through the room, this time more vicious and unrestrained. “Yeah, finance is always a pain in the ass. Getting an expense report approved is like pulling teeth, and now they want a commission?” “Mr. Jackson’s right. They’re just a bunch of number-crunchers. They produce nothing but want a piece of the pie? They must be crazy!” The humiliation slapped me across the face. I could feel my team behind me, trembling with suppressed rage. I could even hear Emily sniffling. “Fine.” I nodded, then slammed the calculator down on the podium with a loud crack. “Since Mr. Jackson thinks all we do is push buttons, this gift is far too valuable. We can’t accept it.” With that, I turned to my team, their eyes red and brimming with tears. “Let’s go.” 2 The moment we stepped out of the hotel, the cold wind hit me, and I realized my back was drenched in a cold sweat. “Grace, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t hold it in…” Emily squatted by the roadside, sobbing uncontrollably. “My mom’s surgery is next week…” “The doctor said we need to have fourteen thousand dollars ready. I was counting on my bonus… I thought I’d get at least five or six thousand. With my savings, it would have been just enough…” “Stop crying.” Sarah pulled a tissue from her purse and roughly wiped Emily’s tears, though her own hand was shaking. “Who are you crying for? Didn’t you hear Alex and the others? We’re just parasites!” “But Sarah…” Emily looked up, her makeup a mess. “That $4.2 million tax plan… Grace, you went through dozens of drafts to get that right! That $28 million… Grace led us and fought like hell to get it back…” “How can they say it had nothing to do with us?” she wailed. “When we started the project, Mr. Jackson promised us a one percent commission!” I remained silent, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. He probably made that promise because he never believed we could actually pull it off. Ping. A notification lit up Sarah’s phone. A payment reminder for her son’s private school tuition. She quickly turned off the screen, avoiding my gaze. “I’ll figure out the money,” I said, looking back at the hotel. “What belongs to us, no one can take away. Everyone go home, get some sleep. Be at the office on time tomorrow.” The next morning, I arrived an hour early. The door to Mr. Jackson’s office was ajar. The room was thick with smoke and echoing with boisterous laughter. “Mr. Jackson, that move last night was genius!” “You should have seen the faces on those women in finance! They looked like they were going to be sick, hahaha!” “It’s about time someone put them in their place. They scrutinize every single one of my expense reports. That should shut them up!” “Hmph. A bunch of penny-pinching vultures. They even question how I spend my own money,” Mr. Jackson’s voice was cold. “If they weren’t still somewhat useful, I wouldn’t have even wasted the five bucks on them.” “By the way, that ‘AI Finance’ system… how are the talks with that vendor going?” “All settled!” “It’s only twenty-five thousand a year for the service. So much cheaper than keeping these freeloaders around! And it’s smart AI. It listens. It doesn’t cause trouble.” I stood at the door, my hand frozen on the handle. So that was it. It wasn’t a joke to liven up the party. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a premeditated execution. Humiliate us first, force us to quit, so he wouldn’t even have to pay severance. I threw the door open. The laughter inside stopped abruptly. Seeing it was me, the flicker of panic on Mr. Jackson’s face turned to annoyance. “Don’t you know how to knock? Where are your manners?” Alex was lounging on the sofa, his legs crossed, a smirk on his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t our esteemed Director of Finance. What’s wrong? Your calculator break? Want me to get the sales team to pitch in for a new one?” I ignored the barking dog and walked straight to Mr. Jackson’s desk, planting my hands on it and staring him down. “Mr. Jackson, since you clearly think the finance department is useless, we’ll get out of your way.” “This is our severance proposal. Standard severance package, plus the bad debt commission you promised. Not a penny less.” “Sign it, and we’re gone. We’ll make room for your AI.” I slapped the proposal, which I had printed overnight, onto his desk. Mr. Jackson glanced at the number and his eye twitched. “Three hundred thousand dollars in commission? Grace, are you robbing me?” “Is it too much?” I sneered. “Alex alone walked away with a bonus nearly that size yesterday. This is for our entire department of five. Compared to the $28 million we recovered, this is pocket change.” “That’s the company’s money!” Mr. Jackson slammed his mug on the desk. “Grace, don’t push your luck. You want to leave? Fine! Write your resignation letters and get the hell out! You want severance? Not a chance in hell!” “So, there’s no room for discussion?” 3 “Discussion? What right do you have to discuss anything with me?” Mr. Jackson stood up, grabbing a stack of files and throwing them at me. “Believe it or not, I can have security throw you out right now!” “Publicly insubordinate, terrible work attitude,” he snarled. “You’re fired! And you’re getting nothing!” Alex chuckled from the side. “You hear that? Get lost before you embarrass yourself further.” I looked at Mr. Jackson’s contorted face and suddenly smiled. The smile made him pause. “Mr. Jackson, you seem to have forgotten something,” I said softly. “People in finance… we love keeping records. And we’re even better at digging up old ones.” “If you want to do this the easy way, we’ll follow labor laws. But if you want to do this the hard way…” “Then we can help you remember exactly how that $4.2 million in tax savings was planned.” Without waiting to see his face change color, I turned and left. Back in the finance department, the atmosphere was heavy. Every computer screen was black. “Grace…” Emily ran over, her voice choked with tears. “I can’t log in. It says my access is frozen. And HR just came by and told us to pack our personal belongings by the end of the day…” “Stay calm.” I patted her shoulder. “Where’s Sarah?” “In the small conference room. Linda is talking to her.” Linda, the HR Director. The woman who was always smiling and talking about “company culture” was now acting as Mr. Jackson’s executioner. I pushed open the conference room door. Sarah was huddled in a corner, her hair a mess, looking ten years older. Linda sat across from her, casually twirling a pen. Two unfamiliar men in black suits sat beside her. “…Sarah, you need to think this through,” Linda’s voice was as gentle as ever. “This is embezzlement. It’s cooking the books. If the company presses charges, not only will you have to pay back every salary you’ve ever earned, but you’ll also do a few years in prison.” “Your son is about to apply to high school, isn’t he? If his permanent record shows his mother is a felon, his life is ruined.” “Stop it! Stop it!” Sarah covered her ears, breaking down into hysterical sobs. “I’ll sign! I’ll sign the voluntary resignation! Please, just don’t call the police!” “There now, that’s better,” Linda smiled, pushing a document toward her. “Hold on!” I rushed forward, snatched the paper, and tore it in half. “Linda, who do you think you’re scaring?” I stood in front of Sarah, glaring at her. “Those transactions were personally authorized by Mr. Jackson! To evade taxes, he had Sarah split the business across five shell corporations! He signed off on every single step!” Linda shot me a disdainful look, slowly brushing the paper scraps off her suit. “Grace, I knew you’d be difficult.” She waved her hand, and the two men in suits stood up, blocking our way. Linda pulled another document from her folder and tossed it at me. “You don’t have to sign. You can sue. But let me remind you, the legal representative of those shell corporations is that junior accountant who quit six months ago. As the head of finance, do you think you can walk away clean?” “As for Mr. Jackson’s signature… what proof do you have that those are the originals? I can print as many of those as I want.” My heart sank. So that was their endgame. The junior accountant was a distant relative of Jackson’s. The trap had been set months ago. They had planted a landmine right under our department, and we were the perfect scapegoats. “And,” Linda leaned in, her voice a low whisper, “that AI finance team has already taken over the backend data. All the operation logs on your computers have been wiped. Grace, what exactly are you going to fight the company with?”

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1 Seraphina saved my life three times, so I gave her three chances to break my heart. The first was our wedding day. She arrived with bruises on her neck. I acted like I didn’t see them. The second, she was photographed meeting a lounge singer. I smashed my car’s headlights, slapped her until she bled, and demanded a divorce before losing myself in a club until dawn. Seraphina heard and tore the club apart, then live-streamed a tearful apology and declared her love to the world, swearing she’d be a devoted wife. My family, fearing damage to our corporate alliance, pressured me to forgive her. I did. But the day my mother jumped from our roof after my father’s mistress and her son tormented her, Seraphina disappeared. When I found her, she was in a lounge, her arm linked with my father’s illegitimate son, clinking glasses with friends. “Sera, didn’t you swear off this? Isn’t Asher going to kill you?” someone teased. She scoffed. “Rowan’s no stranger. He was scared, I was just comforting him. What’s the problem?” She sipped champagne, confident. “Besides, when has Asher ever stayed mad? He’ll forgive me. He always does.” But you’re wrong, Seraphina. You’re out of chances. … I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The boisterous laughter in the room died instantly. Someone fumbled to cut the music. Seeing me, Seraphina shot to her feet, a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. “Asher, what are you doing here? Is… is everything taken care of for your mother?” She gestured toward the boy beside her. “Rowan was just so shaken up. I know he’s your brother, and you’re so busy, so I thought I’d bring him out to clear his head…” How noble of her. “Seraphina,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Have you drunk yourself stupid? Have you forgotten why my mother is dead?” Today was supposed to have been my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Instead, his mistress and her son had shown up at our door. They claimed they were there to offer congratulations, but it was a declaration of war, a blatant provocation. And my father, instead of feeling an ounce of shame, told my mother to be more understanding. Rowan was only two years younger than me. My mother had dedicated more than two decades of her life to building a home for that man, only to discover his betrayal had been a shadow living alongside them for nearly as long. Our housekeeper, unsettled by the tension, had secretly called me while I was out picking up the anniversary cake. But by the time I raced back to the villa, it was too late. My mother leaped from the rooftop. Her body landed on the hood of my car, shattering the windshield in a spiderweb of cracks, painting it crimson. While I was drowning in grief, making arrangements for her funeral, my father was busy comforting his mistress. And my wife… my loving wife was out consoling the son of my mother’s tormentor? Suddenly, an unthinkable thought struck me. “Seraphina, you already knew Rowan, didn’t you? You knew who he was all along.” “I…” She stammered, her eyes darting away, guilt written all over her face. Rowan quickly jumped in. “Brother, please don’t blame Sera. It was my dad and me… we asked her not to say anything yet. We were afraid it would upset you and were waiting for the right moment.” He looked between us, a picture of innocence. “I was her junior in college. We… we dated for a while, but her family forced her into an arranged marriage, so we had to break up.” He added hastily, “I swear, I have no intention of taking her from you. It’s just… I was so scared today. I never thought your mother would be so… distraught.” Seraphina’s silence was all the confirmation I needed. A wave of bitter absurdity washed over me. So, she knew. She knew my father had a secret son, a whole other life, and she kept it from me. If I had known sooner, maybe I could have prevented this. Maybe my mother wouldn’t have felt so utterly alone, so betrayed that jumping seemed like the only way out. Seeing the storm on my face, Rowan spoke again, his voice cloyingly sweet. “Brother, my mother and I truly just wanted to offer our best wishes. I know… I know your mom’s death is connected to us, and I feel terribly guilty.” He gestured to the karaoke machine. “I just graduated, so I don’t have much to offer as a gift. How about I sing you a song, as an apology?” Before I could answer, he hurried over and selected a track. The next second, a ridiculously cheerful party anthem blared from the speakers. I froze. On the day of my mother’s tragic death, he was going to sing that? He turned, a mocking little wink in his eye. The rage that had been simmering inside me finally exploded. I snatched a heavy glass bottle from the coffee table and brought it down on his head. CRACK. The bottle shattered. Rowan screamed, diving behind Seraphina for cover. “Sera, are you okay?” he cried, feigning panic. “I-I didn’t mean it! I swear I didn’t pick that song. I must have been so nervous seeing my brother that I hit the wrong button…” Seraphina stood between us, a trickle of blood running down from her forehead where a shard of glass had nicked her. Her eyes, however, were fixed on me, blazing with fury. “Asher, what the hell is wrong with you? He’s your half-brother! How could you attack him?” She shielded Rowan protectively. “With that vicious temper of yours, it’s no wonder he was scared enough to make a mistake.” “I was starting to feel a little guilty about keeping this from you,” she spat, “but now I see it was the right call. God knows what you would have done to him if you’d known sooner!” Rowan wrapped his arms around her shoulders, his face a mask of adoration. “Oh, Sera, you’re so good to me. You always protect me.” Seraphina’s expression softened as she looked at him, ruffling his hair with a fond, exasperated sigh. “What am I going to do with you? You’re as soft as a little rabbit. If I don’t protect you, the big bad wolf will eat you alive.” Her words hit me like a physical blow. A long time ago, a much younger Seraphina had said those exact words to me. She probably didn’t even remember. I drew a long, shaky breath. From my jacket pocket, I pulled out the papers I’d drafted but never signed after her last affair. “Seraphina,” I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. “Let’s get a divorce.” 2 Seraphina let out a sharp, dismissive laugh, signing the divorce papers with a flourish. “Asher, is this your new trick? The last one didn’t work, so you’re trying again?” She tossed the pen down. “Fine. I’ll sign. But I didn’t cheat this time, so don’t expect me to come crawling back to you.” “See you at City Hall in a month,” she said, her chin high. “You’d better still have this much backbone then. Don’t come crying to me when you change your mind.” My past forgiveness had made her complacent. She was convinced that for the sake of our families’ business alliance, I would never truly leave her. She was wrong. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice flat. “I won’t.” Without another word, I turned and walked out. I didn’t go home. I booked a hotel suite for the month, to wait out the mandatory cooling-off period. In the days that followed, Seraphina didn’t send a single text. I heard through the grapevine that Rowan wanted to learn to ski in Switzerland. Seraphina owned a private resort there, so she took him. My best friend was livid when he called. “What the hell is wrong with her?” he raged. “Everyone knows she built that resort for you! It was supposed to be your belated honeymoon spot after she proposed. It was meant to be for you and you alone!” “And now she’s taking that little bastard there? Has she learned nothing? Is she cheating on you again?!” I sat by the floor-to-ceiling window of my hotel room, the signed divorce papers lying on the table in front of me. For a moment, I was speechless. These papers… I had them drawn up the last time I caught her. I’d been so suffocated by her betrayal that I’d called my friend and hit the clubs, determined to drink myself into oblivion. Somehow, Seraphina found out. She stormed in like a hurricane, flanked by her security team, and proceeded to smash the place up, slapping every woman who had dared to talk to me. She had grabbed me by the collar, her eyes wild. “You’re a real piece of work, Asher.” Then, her voice broke. “I admit it. I fell in love with you. I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else. Are you satisfied now?” What followed was that infamous live-streamed confession, a spectacle for the whole world to see. Seraphina swore she would change, that she would be a good wife. And for a while, life was sweet. Like my friend said, she showered me with affection, catering to my every whim. She knew I loved skiing, so she built a private mountain estate in the Swiss Alps, just for me. The name itself was a combination of ours. But now… I looked at the latest picture Rowan had posted online. The grand sign above the resort entrance had been replaced. The four words that once symbolized our union, “Asherina,” were gone. In their place, a new sign proudly proclaimed, “Serarowan.” “Yes,” I finally said into the phone, my voice hollow. “She’s cheating again. Which is why I’m done with her for good.” I hung up and, without a moment’s hesitation, signed my name on the divorce papers. On the seventh day after my mother’s death, my father called, asking me to come home for breakfast. A foolish part of me hoped he felt a shred of remorse, that he wanted us to visit her grave together. When I arrived, I found Rowan and his mother, Diane, sitting at the dining table. My face went cold. I turned to leave. “Stop!” my father barked, his voice sharp with anger. “Don’t you walk out of here!” He slammed his hand on the table. “I heard you attacked Rowan at the club the other day! What kind of monster are you? He’s your brother!” He jabbed a finger at me. “Thank God Seraphina was there to shield him! You injure him, and then you have the audacity to demand a divorce and run away from home?” “I don’t know what your mother taught you, but she raised a thug! You will get on your knees and apologize to them right now before you ruin the partnership between our families!” I stared at this man, this shell of a father whose world revolved only around profit and power. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “You knew I ran away from home? Funny, you never bothered to ask where I was staying, or if I was okay.” “Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” I sneered. “Your heart is entirely occupied by your whore. Otherwise, you might have actually shown up to your own wife’s funeral. You have the nerve to talk about my mother after that?” My father’s face turned purple with rage. He threw his fork down and raised his hand to strike me. Diane quickly intervened, her eyes glinting as she played the part of the benevolent peacemaker. “Darling, what are you doing?” she cooed, holding his arm. “The boy is grieving. We should be understanding. It’s alright, I don’t mind what he says.” She patted his chest, then turned to me with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Besides, you can’t bruise his handsome face. How will he and Rowan both serve as your groomsmen?” The world tilted. My blood ran cold. My voice came out as a strangled whisper. “What… what did you just call him? You’re getting married?!” 3 “My mother has only been dead for a week, and you’re already marrying your mistress?!” My father’s face hardened, his voice dripping with righteous indignation. “You said it yourself, your mother is dead. Am I supposed to mourn her forever?” “And Rowan is a grown man now,” he continued, gesturing to the boy. “I can’t let people whisper behind his back, calling him illegitimate for the rest of his life. It’s my duty as a father!” Duty? I collapsed into a chair, a hysterical laugh bubbling up from my chest as tears streamed down my face. Rowan slid into the seat next to me, taking my hand in a gesture of false camaraderie. “This is great, brother! Now we can be a real family. I don’t know much about the rules of high society, so you’ll have to teach me. I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone.” “Sure,” I said, wiping my tears away. “No problem.” My father and Diane exchanged satisfied smiles. I calmly lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and blew the smoke directly into Rowan’s face. “Then here’s your first lesson. I am the son of the legal wife. You are the son of a whore. That means you don’t get to open your mouth in my presence unless I speak to you first. Got it?” With a flick of my wrist, I pressed the glowing tip of the cigarette into the back of his hand. The hiss of searing flesh was punctuated by Rowan’s piercing shriek. I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t think I don’t know. You spoke to my mother alone right before she died. I haven’t settled that score with you yet, so I suggest you stay the hell away from me.” “Asher! Have you lost your mind? That’s your brother!” my father roared, jumping to his feet. Diane rushed to cradle the sobbing Rowan, glaring daggers at me. “Hah…” I dusted off my hands. “My mother only gave birth to me. I don’t have any cheap half-brothers.” “Dad, you know my temper,” I warned, my voice deadly calm. “You want to throw a wedding for this trash and officially welcome them into society? You go right ahead. But I swear to you, if you try, I will burn your wedding to the ground. Test me.” He knew I wasn’t bluffing. My connection to the Seraphine family still held weight. My father and Diane’s faces contorted with rage and impotence. Just then, a familiar voice cut through the tension from behind me. “With me here, I’d like to see who dares.” Seraphina strode in, one hand casually tucked into her pocket. The moment Rowan saw her, his tears redoubled. He scrambled over to her like she was his savior, showing her his burned hand. Seraphina’s face tightened with pity and anger. “It’s okay, Rowan,” she cooed, her voice soft. “I’ll take you to the best specialist. I promise there won’t be a scar.” She looked at him fondly. “Our Rowan has to be the most handsome groomsman for his father, doesn’t he?” I stared at her, incredulous. My voice trembled. “Seraphina, do you even hear yourself?” She met my gaze, a cold, mocking smile playing on her lips. “I heard everything, Asher. In our world, what man doesn’t have a few women on the side? Your mother died because she couldn’t handle it. Why are you blaming Rowan for her weakness?” Her words were like knives. “You had a father your whole life. Why shouldn’t Rowan have the same? It’s not fair.” “I don’t care what you think,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality. “I’m going to help him take his rightful place in this family. I’ll make sure everyone knows he’s a legitimate heir, and no one will ever dare call him illegitimate again.” She took a step closer, her eyes boring into mine. “You want to ruin this wedding, Asher? Go on. I dare you.” I knew she meant it. The last time she’d made a threat like that, the man who had made a crude joke about me found his company bankrupt within days. He vanished from Seacrest Bay, reportedly with two broken legs and no tongue. I should have seen this coming. Seraphina was always promiscuous. To her, my father’s infidelity was a trivial matter. She couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of my mother’s pain, or mine. But the betrayal, coming from the woman who had shared my bed, still felt like a dagger twisting in my gut. I snapped. I slapped her, hard. “Get out!” I roared. Seraphina just smirked, rubbing her cheek. Before she could retort, Rowan charged at me, shoving me with all his might. “I’ve had enough of you! Stop bullying Sera!” he screamed. Seraphina watched with a flicker of amusement. “Well, well. The little rabbit has learned how to bite.” “You always protected me, Sera,” Rowan declared, puffing out his chest. “Now it’s my turn to protect you!” I stumbled backward, crashing into a pair of large potted cacti. Hundreds of tiny needles embedded themselves in my back and palms. The sharp, stinging pain made me gasp, blood welling up and dripping onto the floor. My father sighed, a look of utter disgust on his face. “You’ve completely ruined a perfectly good breakfast.” He turned to Seraphina. “Sera, you haven’t eaten, have you? Let’s go out.” Seraphina, her attention focused entirely on Rowan’s hand, simply nodded and led him away without a single glance back at me. As they left, Rowan turned his head and mouthed one word at me. Loser. I watched the four of them walk away, a happy family unit. A bitter laugh escaped my lips as hot tears finally began to fall. “Mom, look… you’re gone, and now your son is homeless…” My voice broke into a sob. “Doesn’t it hurt you to see this? Please, come back. I miss you so much…” 4 News of my father’s impending wedding spread through our social circle like wildfire. During that time, Seraphina flaunted Rowan at every opportunity, taking him to all sorts of high-profile events, even those meant exclusively for married couples. She made it clear to everyone: Rowan was not to be called illegitimate. He was to be treated with the same respect as they would treat her. Rowan, for his part, made sure I knew it. He would call or send videos constantly, each one a carefully crafted showcase of his new life with Seraphina. “Brother, Sera gave me another diamond ring yesterday. It even has our initials engraved on it. I heard it’s bigger than your wedding ring was.” “Oh, and she convinced her father to give me the family’s heirloom signet ring. Isn’t that something they only give to sons-in-law? I guess you won’t be needing it anymore.” I remembered that ring. By Seraphine family tradition, it was only passed to a new son-in-law after the birth of an heir. Seraphina had never bothered trying to get it for me, always saying, “We’ll have kids eventually, it’ll be yours then.” Given her past, I hadn’t been in any rush to start a family. We had planned to start trying after the New Year. Now, it seemed, that was off the table. I couldn’t imagine what she must have said or done to convince her staunchly traditional father to break such a long-standing rule. The final message was a picture of Seraphina, asleep. Her exposed neck and shoulders were a canvas of angry purple marks. The text below it read: “Sera said she hasn’t been this happy in a long time. She said being with an old man like you was so boring she could only fake it.” I didn’t bother replying. I just blocked his number. On the day of my father and Diane’s wedding, Seraphina, paranoid I would cause a scene, hired a legion of bodyguards to patrol the venue inside and out. It was completely unnecessary. She had already put the word out: anyone who dared to help me disrupt the wedding would be making an enemy of the Seraphine family. No one would touch me. I sat alone in my hotel room, clutching a photo of my mother, tears of guilt and helplessness streaming down my face. That afternoon, the door to my suite burst open. Seraphina stood there, flanked by her security, her face a mask of cold fury. A red-eyed, sobbing Rowan was right behind her. She stormed over and grabbed me by the collar. “Asher, I never thought you could sink this low! How could you leak private photos of Rowan at the wedding?” Her voice was laced with venom. “It’s all over the news! You’ve ruined him! How is he ever supposed to get married now? You just wanted to destroy his future!” I shoved her hand away, my brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you talk—” Before I could finish, Rowan burst into tears. “Brother, I know you don’t want to give me the company shares, but it was Dad’s idea! I’m his son, I can’t just defy him, can I?” He looked at me with wounded eyes. “If you’re angry, take it out on me, I can handle it. But why did you have to do it on my mother’s wedding day? She’s been called a mistress for so many years… she’s suffered enough.” And then it all clicked into place. Years ago, when my father was still madly in love with my mother and defied his family to marry her, he had given her half of his shares in the company to show his devotion. My mother later signed them over to me. This was never about a wedding. This was a setup. A cold smile spread across my face. “Seraphina, are you blind? Can’t you see what this is? He’s staging this whole drama to steal the shares my mother left me.” “You say I did it? Who saw me? Do you have any proof?” “I don’t need proof! Rowan isn’t that kind of manipulative person. You’re the only one with a motive!” Seraphina shot back, her belief in him absolute. She grabbed my arm. “You’re going to go live right now, apologize to Rowan, and tell everyone you did it.” “And then,” she said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “you will sign over all of your shares in the company to him. It’s what you owe him.” “And if I don’t?” At my defiance, Rowan let out a theatrical, despairing wail. “Sera, my reputation is ruined! Everyone is calling me a shameless degenerate who destroyed his own parents’ wedding!” “My brother had a father his whole life, he has company shares, he has an amazing wife like you… I have nothing! I can’t live like this, being pointed at and whispered about forever! I’d rather just die!” “Rowan, don’t be stupid!” Seraphina cried, grabbing his arm. She turned to me, her eyes burning with a cold fire, and a cruel smile twisted her lips. “Asher, did you really think the body cremated that day… was your mother’s?”

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1 Seven years. That’s how long I’d been back with the Moreaus, the family I was born into. And in all that time, they all still hated me. My parents found the stench of poverty impossible to wash off me, a stark contrast to the effortless grace of the girl who had taken my place. My biological brother, Marcus, blamed me for the year the false daughter had to move out and “suffer” after I first came home. When she moved back in, he guarded her like a junkyard dog, convinced I was a constant threat. Even Rhys, the boy I practically raised from infancy, declared that the false daughter, Sophie, was the sister he’d always dreamed of. Me? I was the wicked witch who wouldn’t let him eat junk food or play video games all day. He once told me, with all the certainty of a child, that no one in the world would ever love me. I thought he was right. It had to be something in the air of this world, something fundamentally toxic to my existence. So when a System appeared out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to complete missions in other worlds, I didn’t hesitate. I agreed instantly. … The System came for me the day I got out of the detention center. I’d been locked up for two weeks. Outside, winter had sunk its teeth into the air. I wrapped my thin windbreaker tighter around myself. Hunching my shoulders against the biting wind, I mumbled to the System. “Are you sure? As soon as this body dies, you can take me away?” After receiving a firm confirmation, my eyes settled on the nearby lake. I had just started walking toward it when a heavy coat was draped over my shoulders. I turned my head and came face-to-face with a sight that made my stomach churn. My dear brother, Marcus Moreau. Two weeks ago, he was the one who had personally escorted me to the police station. It was because Sophie’s masterpiece for the art competition, which had mysteriously gone missing, was found in my room. In shreds. At first, I had screamed myself hoarse, trying to defend myself. But as I looked at their impassive faces, my explanations withered into despair. I had forgotten. Sometimes, the truth doesn’t matter. Everyone has their own set of scales. And a single one of Sophie’s tears could outweigh my entire existence. Marcus had wiped away that tear and told me, his face a mask of cold disappointment, that I needed to learn a lesson. Remembering that, I shrugged my shoulders. The heavy men’s coat slid off and landed in a heap on the dusty ground. Marcus’s face tightened, his expression growing colder still. The old me would have been a mess of anxiety, forcing a placating smile. But now, I just gave him a sideways glance before looking away. “Does Sophie know you’re here?” I asked, my voice flat. “Because I’d hate for her to shed a tear and have you pin the blame on me again.” I offered a thin, humorless smile. “Two weeks ago, she cried, and you sent me to a detention center. You gave me a permanent record and made sure I wouldn’t be able to graduate. If she cries again, what’s next? Do you want me to bleed out to dry her tears for you?” Marcus, who had bent down to pick up the coat, froze. He stayed like that for several long seconds. After all, we both knew the truth. Sophie had destroyed her own painting. It was a pathetic, self-staged drama. Over the years, her schemes had always been clumsy and obvious, but our parents, Marcus, and Rhys had all chosen to be blind. Finally, he straightened up, brushing the dust from his coat. He didn’t offer it to me again. He kept his eyes on the ground. “Come home. Mom and Dad are waiting.” He paused, then finally looked at me. “Mom bought you a strawberry cake.” He reached for my hand. I flinched back, taking several steps away. “I don’t eat strawberry cake. I ate Sophie’s once, and you locked me outside in the courtyard to stand all night. Remember? It was snowing, too.” The fingers of his outstretched hand curled into a fist. He looked away, his gaze darting around like a cornered animal. A silent, bitter laugh formed on my lips. I knew he remembered. That night, as I stood shivering in the snow-filled courtyard, I had looked up and seen him in his second-floor bedroom, warm in a thin sweater. He gave me a single, indifferent glance before drawing the curtains shut. Snowflakes landed on my eyelashes, melting into cold trickles that slid down my numb face. I couldn’t tell if they were water or tears. 2 Marcus’s face was a mess of shame and conflict. His lips moved as if to say something more, but I was already done listening. The System had promised me a new world. A world where I would have loving parents and a brilliant older brother who adored me. A world completely different from this one, where every meal I’d eaten for seven years had felt like choking down uncooked rice. With that thought, I took a deep breath and broke into a run toward the man-made lake. “Cora! Where are you going?” As I sprinted, I could hear his frantic footsteps pounding on the pavement behind me. “Cora! No one at home is blaming you! Sophie promised she’d try to get along with you! You need to stop this, right now—” His angry shouts died in his throat. Because without a moment’s hesitation, I launched myself toward the thin sheet of ice forming at the water’s edge. I ran, full of joy, toward my new world. But in the next second, my vision flipped. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, tackling me to the frozen grass. At the same time, I heard a loud splash. I sat up, pushing myself from the ground, and saw Marcus flailing in the icy water. He couldn’t swim. I could hear his choked gasps for air, his face already turning a deathly shade of blue from the cold. I just sat there on the lawn, watching him sink, my expression blank. Chaos erupted on the shore. Someone jumped in and dragged him out. Wrapped in a blanket, Marcus shivered violently, but his eyes, across the frantic crowd, found mine. For the first time, those eyes, which always held such cold assessment and judgment when they looked at me, held something else. They held pain. Anguish. But what did he have to be anguished about? I shook my head, a scornful smile on my face. When the Moreau family found me at fifteen, I actually had one good year. Back then, Sophie had claimed she felt guilty for stealing my life of privilege. She announced she was giving me back my parents and brother, and she moved out with Rhys. She left with a dramatic flourish, deleting all her contact information for the family. That year, my mother cooked my favorite dishes. My father canceled business dinners to eat with me. And Marcus would pick me up from school every day. The dinner table was often silent, and Marcus was always distracted on the drives home, but I was still clumsy and greedy in my enjoyment of the warmth I had been denied for fifteen years. I thought I finally had a home. But the next year, Sophie came back, with Rhys in tow. She was rail-thin and looked like a startled bird. And just like that, in less than a year, my father, mother, and brother were no longer mine. The food on the table was always Sophie’s favorite. My father, no matter how late he came home, would always peek into her room. And I never saw Marcus’s car at the school gates again. Then came Sophie’s endless campaign of sabotage. She said I tore her dress. Marcus believed her and threw my entire wardrobe into the backyard pond. She said I stole her necklace. Marcus looked at me like I was scum. “Give it back to her, Cora. Don’t make me search your room.” The necklace was later found in a hidden compartment of Sophie’s own jewelry box. She just stuck out her tongue and said she’d forgotten, and no one cared about the suspicion and hurt I had endured. She said I was spreading rumors about her at school. Marcus didn’t even bother to ask me; he just canceled my car service. Sophie’s tactics were never clever, but they were sharp, and they dug into my flesh, causing a pain that was deep and relentless. My explanations were useless. Their favoritism was a fortress, and I was never allowed even a sliver of their affection. So what was this performance now? What was all this supposed to mean? 3 The crowd of onlookers on the shore began to disperse. I stood up, testing the ankle I had twisted in the fall. I had only taken a couple of steps when an ice-cold hand clamped down on my arm. “Cora, what in God’s name are you trying to do?” I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the area, searching for a more efficient way to die. The lake was out. Too easy to be rescued, and too much trouble for the rescuers. Jumping from a building wouldn’t work unless it was high enough. Bashing my head against a wall wasn’t a guarantee… “Cora, answer me!” My silence enraged Marcus. He let out a low growl, his voice trembling on the edge of a breakdown. “What is it you want? Was that a threat? Were you trying to scare us? Let me tell you, Cora, threatening suicide is the most pathetic tactic there is! Do you think we’ll just give in to you? In your dreams!” His shouting made my ears ring, but strangely, I felt a laugh bubbling up inside me. See? People who don’t love you will see you hanging from a rope and think you’re just playing on a swing. Ignoring my struggles, Marcus dragged me into his car. He was soaking wet, his lips a deep shade of purple from the cold. But he seemed oblivious to it, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other clamped around my wrist like a manacle. I tried to pull away, my voice calm. “Let go.” He didn’t. His grip only tightened. “Cora, Mom and Dad are waiting for us. You said you wanted to go to Disneyland, remember? I’ll buy the tickets in a few days. We’ll all go as a family.” A humorless smile twisted my lips. “Is Sophie going?” His fingers tightened on my wrist. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “I’ll keep an eye on her.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. My laughter darkened his expression. “Cora, you don’t need to compete with Sophie. You—” I didn’t let him finish. I lunged for the steering wheel. The car swerved wildly on the empty road. Marcus’s voice cracked with terror. “Cora! Are you insane?” “We’re going to crash!” Perfect. A quick end for both of us. Dying with him was disgusting, but taking one of them with me felt like a fair trade. Fueled by that thought, I yanked the wheel with all my might. The car fishtailed violently before veering sharply to the right, crashing into the median strip. The screech of tires echoed in the sudden silence that followed. But apparently, Marcus had slammed on the brakes in time. The impact wasn’t even hard enough to deploy the airbags. My head swam. I sighed. Another failure. What a shame. The first thing I did was reach for the door handle. Locked. Marcus slumped in the driver’s seat, his face a ghastly shade of white. After a long moment, he turned to me, the corners of his eyes red, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “You really… want to die that badly? Even if… it means taking me with you?” I clutched my aching head, not even bothering to look at him. “Marcus, why didn’t you just drown in that lake?” 4 Marcus didn’t say another word. He just drove, forcing me back to the Moreau estate. The dead silence between us lasted until we stepped through the front door and saw Sophie. She was dressed in a white sundress, her cheeks rosy. It was clear my absence had been good for her. Her eyes widened when she saw Marcus, then narrowed at me, her face immediately crumpling into its usual mask of tearful victimhood. “Sister Cora, my brother went all the way to get you… what did you do to him? How could he be—” “Shut up.” Marcus’s voice was hoarse and dry, but it carried an undeniable weight. Sophie’s eyes flew open in disbelief. Even our parents, who had hurried into the foyer, looked stunned. I turned my head, surprised. It was the first time I had ever heard Marcus speak to Sophie with anything less than gentle indulgence. His head was bowed, his normally ramrod-straight spine slumped with an uncharacteristic weariness. “It has nothing to do with Cora.” He looked up, his gaze sweeping over all of us. “From now on, don’t jump to conclusions about my business, or Cora’s. Especially you.” He fixed his eyes on her. “Sophie.” The color drained from Sophie’s face. Her lips trembled, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. But this time, her usual pitiable act was tinged with genuine panic and hurt. “Brother… you’re yelling at me… for her?” Just then, another voice, clear but sharp with anger, cut in. “Marcus! How could you say that to my sister?” I looked up. Another traitor. Rhys. The younger brother I had raised by hand before I was “rescued” by the Moreaus. He stormed down the stairs and planted himself protectively in front of Sophie. I could still see the ghost of the little boy he used to be in his features, but the look he gave me was pure, cold hostility. “Cora! What lies have you been telling about my sister now?” “She has always treated you like her real sister, putting up with all your moods! How can you be so vicious, trying to drive a wedge between her and Marcus? Can’t you stand to see any of us happy?” His words had barely faded when my hand connected with his cheek in a sharp slap. He staggered back, clutching his face, his eyes wide with shock. “Cora… you… you hit me?” I looked into his disbelieving eyes and gave him a careless smile. “So what if I did? With a mouth that filthy, aren’t you just begging for it?” Perhaps because I had never treated him this way before, his expression went blank, a familiar, wounded look creeping into his eyes. For a fleeting moment, I was transported back in time. I was ten, and Rhys was three. Our parents had died together in a car accident. Suddenly, I, a child who could barely care for herself, became the guardian of a toddler. The meager settlement money was quickly spent by relatives on the pretext of buying a burial plot. So I learned to act like an adult. I went to the market to pick up the rotten vegetable leaves the vendors threw away. I would cook a pot of watery porridge, so thin you could see your reflection. I’d drink the water off the top and give the thicker parts at the bottom to Rhys. When he was old enough for school, I knew there wasn’t enough money for both of us. So, after my own classes, I would scavenge for scraps to sell. I was chased by stray dogs and bullied by other scavengers. Back then, I was steeped in the sour stench of the junkyard. My classmates would pinch their noses when I came near. The smell felt like it had seeped into my very skin. So much so that when I first arrived at the Moreau’s house, my mother rushed to embrace me, but her arms only hovered around me for a second before quickly pulling away. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and she discreetly raised a hand to her nose. Rhys had seen my humiliation. As I stood there, frozen with shame, he reached out and squeezed my hand tightly. Then he stood in front of me and announced to the Moreau family that I was the best sister in the world, and if they dared to bully me, he would make them pay. That was the Rhys I knew. But a year after he and Sophie returned to the Moreau house, the best sister in the world became the worst. He was full of praise for Sophie and criticism for me. And now, this boy who constantly accused me of being manipulative and psychologically twisted, was looking at me with a rare flicker of hurt in his eyes. He stood there, head bowed, clutching his cheek, looking pathetic. His precious sister was clearly heartbroken for him. Sophie walked toward me, her voice trembling with perfectly modulated emotion. “Sister, please don’t be angry. Rhys is still young, he doesn’t know any better. He speaks without thinking. I’ll apologize to you on his behalf.” She reached out, as if to take my hand. “I didn’t raise him well. And I… I shouldn’t have come back. If my being here makes you so unhappy, if it’s tearing this family apart, I… I can leave again…” There it was. The same old act. As expected, our mother immediately wrapped a protective arm around her. “Sophie, don’t say such foolish things. This is your home.” Our father glared at me, his eyes full of warning. “Cora, don’t stir up trouble the moment you walk in the door.” I scanned the faces in the room. They were all clustered around Sophie, a protective circle. And there I was, standing alone in the entryway, an outsider who had never, not for a moment, belonged in this so-called family. The thought made me sigh. “You really are a loving family,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “So wonderfully, disgustingly alike.” They all stared at me, stunned. Sophie was the first to react. She tore herself from our mother’s grasp. “I’ll just die! I was a mistake from the beginning! If I die, everything will be clean again!” She ran to the nearby dining room, snatched a steak knife from the table, and held it to her wrist. “It’s all my fault…” “No! Sophie, put the knife down!” our mother shrieked, shooting me a look of pure hatred.

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The day the System departed, my husband, whose affection meter had been completely filled, brought his new lover home. He sneered, a dismissive glance thrown my way. “Let me guess? You finished your quest, you could have gone back to your original world.” “But you chose to stay, for me and for our children?” “Laughable. A broken toy played by ninety-nine men, do you really think I’m madly in love with you? Do you even deserve it?” I froze. My twin son and daughter spat at me. “Stop pretending! We’ve seen all the comments. You’re just a shameless quest-completer! We’re disgusted to have been born by you!” “Auntie Julianna should be our mother!” My husband, Vance, held his lover close, his expression full of contempt. “Julianna and I will marry, and she will raise the children.” “As for you, serve Julianna like a loyal dog, and I might just throw you a bone.” My thoughts: Huh? The System had merely gone ahead to arrange my reward for completing a hundred quests. In a week, I’d be back to living a lavish life as a wealthy socialite. What on earth were they yapping about? … I kept a poker face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My son, Jake, pointed at me, his face twisted in disgust. “The comments told us everything!” My daughter, Clara, was even more direct: “You make money by seducing men! You’re disgusting! We don’t want a mother like you!” Vance stared at me, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. “Hear that?” “You think you’re a great actress?” “Your petty schemes and tricks only worked on those other men, and a few foolish fans in your stream.” Stream? Fans? It took me a moment to process, then I raised a hand and lightly tapped the air. The stream’s comment section materialized before me. In my world, transmigration quests had become a form of entertainment. And I was a professional transmigration streamer, the fastest and most popular one on the entire network. Fame brought trouble; the comments section was constantly filled with people accusing me of being a cheap hustler. I’d long since blocked their hateful remarks, focusing solely on my quests. A cascade of dense comments scrolled rapidly before my eyes. [Got played! Serves her right! The b-tch finally got what’s coming to her!] [If you say it now, she’ll see it!] [So what if she sees it? The System’s gone, where can she run? Stay in this transmigration world and be a bitter old hag, hahaha!] It seemed my stream’s audience couldn’t see my conversations with the System. Otherwise, how could they not know the System was just off arranging my rewards? I immediately sent feedback to the System. [System! There’s a bug! How can people in the quest world see the comments??] The System’s automated reply came. [Feedback received!] I tapped the “connect to human operator” button dozens of times. [I was supposed to have perfectly completed the quest. How do you explain this situation? And I have to stay in this world for another week. What if they hurt me?!] The System took a while to respond. [The waiting period will not affect the final quest outcome.] [During this time, any harm you receive will not affect your physical condition in real life.] [Furthermore, additional quest rewards will be added as compensation upon your return to the real world!] My eyes fixated on the word “compensation.” Wasn’t this the universe practically showering me with money? I immediately switched on my acting skills, my eyes welling up instantly as I grabbed Vance’s sleeve. “Those others were tasks, but with you, I was sincere!” Vance’s face was etched with revulsion. “Your sincerity is worth a fortune?” “Do you know how many showers I had to take after every time I forced myself to have physical contact with you? I was terrified of getting sick!” Vance finished speaking, then, as if disgusted, he violently flung my hand away. The force was so strong I staggered, my head hitting the corner of the table. Julianna gasped dramatically, “Oh dear!” “Vance, you mustn’t be so harsh with Evelyn. She’s a pitiful soul, after all, having to… with so many men to complete her tasks… tsk, tsk, tsk…” I lay on the floor, looking utterly heartbroken. But in reality, I was arguing with the System in my head. [Because of your screw-up, the male lead, the third party, and the children are all humiliating me! He even laid hands on me! How will you settle this score?!] The System glitched for a moment. […Detecting sustained malicious behavior.] [Compensation multiplier in the real world increased by five percent.] The base reward for one hundred perfect quests was ten million, multiplied by five percent. In just a few minutes, I’d earned an extra five hundred thousand. I almost couldn’t keep my grin in check. I had to lower my head, playing the part of a sycophant. “…Alright.” “Just don’t cast me out.” “I’ll do anything you ask.” The comments section exploded. [Holy cow, no way, she actually fell in love?] [She can’t go back, so now the male lead can do whatever he wants to her?] [Typical h-e, cheap to the bone!] Vance looked a little surprised. The two children immediately shouted, “Daddy, don’t let her trick you!” “The comments said she knows she can’t go back, so she’s just putting on a sweet act!” The flicker of pity in Vance’s eyes vanished, replaced by even greater disgust. He pulled out divorce papers. I signed them without even a glance. Then a second document was tossed at my feet. It was a servitude agreement. Julianna leaned over to look, her smile barely contained. “Vance, you’re too direct. What if Evelyn can’t handle it?” Vance sneered. “Then she can get lost.” “Didn’t she say she’d do anything to stay?” “Evelyn Hayes, from today onwards, you are a house servant of the Thorne family.” I immediately activated the live stream’s recording function. I recorded this inhumane, unequal contract in its entirety and sent it to the System to demand compensation. Only then did I theatrically sign it with trembling hands. Julianna smiled sweetly, then immediately ordered me to make her coffee. I brought it to her, and she barely glanced at it before deliberately splashing the scalding hot coffee onto my face. She then acted as if she was startled. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Evelyn! This coffee was so bitter, I just lost my grip for a moment.” Vance’s gaze lingered on my reddened face for less than a second before moving away. “Julianna, you’re still too kind. You’re the lady of the Thorne house; you don’t need to apologize to anyone.” His words gave Julianna all the confidence she needed. From that day on, if a meal wasn’t to her taste, I had to remake it. If there was a speck of dust on the floor, I had to kneel and scrub it. Clothes had to be hand-washed. She even made me kneel in a corner for two hours with a simple phrase like, “You’re an eyesore.” And I played along perfectly. I bowed my head, apologized, and knelt. Then, in my mind, the System’s notification of accumulated compensation would chime precisely. The notifications were frequent, but the increase was slow. Four days passed. I looked at the compensation multiplier floating in my vision. [Twenty percent.] I frowned slightly. …That’s it? Come on! I only have one week to earn extra money! Time is tight, and the task is heavy. I really don’t have time to play these games with you! Just then, the door was suddenly kicked open. “Can’t you see the water stain on the floor!? Hiding here to slack off without cleaning it properly?” Vance dragged me out directly. The two children threw a dirty rag into my face. Julianna stood by, looking down at me. “Evelyn, how can you not even do such a small thing well?” “Perhaps… go kneel for half an hour first? Will that help you clean better?” I looked at the blatant malice in her eyes. A plan suddenly formed. I slowly got up, my eyes red, and looked at Vance. “Do you really think… no matter what I do, I’m stuck here?” Vance sneered. “Or what?” I rushed to the kitchen, pulled out a fruit knife, and held it to my throat. “Don’t push me!” “If I die in this world, I can go back too!” The comments went wild. [Suicide to return to the original world? I don’t remember that being a rule??] [This is a new sob story tactic, clearly an act!] [Who knows what happens if she dies in the quest world? Does she dare to gamble? Who’s she trying to scare?!] Vance instinctively softened his tone. “Evelyn, don’t get agitated, put the knife down.” Even if he found me dirty, thought I was manipulative, he had, after all, had his affection meter filled by me. In a moment like this, he couldn’t help but worry. I watched Julianna’s face twist with jealousy. She’s hooked. She shrieked and rushed over to grab the knife. “Hasn’t Vance been tricked enough by you?! Why are you still trying to force him like this?” Then she deliberately grabbed the blade, slashing a deep cut into her palm. “Ah—!” A short, sharp scream. Julianna clutched her hand, crying pitifully. “Evelyn, I just wanted to persuade you not to do anything foolish, how could you…” Vance saw the blood gushing from her palm, his attention immediately diverted. “Julianna!” Julianna shook her head at him, then turned to the children, her voice hesitant and innocent. “Jake, Clara…” “Did you see the comments just now?” “Is what she said true? Is she trying to force your father again…” Jake immediately chimed in, his tone firm. “She’s lying! There’s no such mechanism at all!” Clara also nodded vigorously, “The comments said she doesn’t dare to die!” “She’s just faking pity, trying to use death to make Daddy soften!” The last shred of wavering in Vance’s eyes completely vanished. “Evelyn Hayes.” “If you want to die, go die far away! Don’t involve others!” With that, he raised his hand and struck my knife-wielding hand. The blade twisted, leaving a cut from my lower jaw all the way to my cheek. Blood dripped onto the floor from my chin. But Vance didn’t even look at me. He scooped Julianna into his arms. “Let’s go, to the hospital.” Julianna, nestled in his arms, didn’t forget to glance back at me, her eyes full of triumph. The two children immediately followed. I raised a hand and casually wiped it. Dying to return to my original world? Of course, I made that up. And whatever injuries I sustained here would be perfectly healed upon my return. Such a golden opportunity—wouldn’t it be a waste not to take full advantage? The next second, the System’s notification arrived as promised— [Detecting severe physical harm maliciously inflicted by the male lead.] [Compensation multiplier significantly increased.] The number jumped. Directly to thirty percent. That’s three million. A smile spread across my lips. Now this is the right rate of increase. I looked up at the tightly closed door. “Julianna… you really need to push Vance harder.” “After all, you only have three days left to torment me.” Julianna didn’t disappoint me. That day, Vance’s wavering under my ‘death threat’ left her seething. The next day, she suddenly dragged me out of the utility room. She stripped off my pants and shoes and left me to stand in the heavy snow as punishment. The reason? I had nudged her wedding ring while wiping the table. My legs were frozen solid in the cold wind, losing all sensation. By the time she finally dragged me back inside, I was unconscious from hypothermia. Vance merely glanced at me. “Just don’t kill her. Wouldn’t want her to get off easy.” I lay on the bed, suffering from hypothermia, unable to feel my legs. The System detected irreversible damage to my legs. The compensation multiplier shot up by several tens of percent. Julianna smiled as she brought me a bowl of black soup. “Evelyn, I was worried you caught a chill, so I made you something to warm up.” The black soup reeked of decay and was steaming hot. She smiled sinisterly. “Don’t worry, you won’t die.” Then she force-fed it down my throat. My throat was so scalded that even swallowing saliva hurt. My stomach churned with nausea, burning as if on fire. I vomited blood all over the floor. I curled up on the ground, my consciousness blurring. It truly hurt. For the endless money I’d have back home, I was pushing myself to the limit. Fortunately, the System’s compensation multiplier didn’t disappoint, already reaching seventy percent. Seven million. But I was greedy. I still felt it wasn’t enough. The basement was dark and sunless; I could only tell how much time had passed by the System’s countdown to my return. Until the last day, Julianna and Vance’s wedding day. I was dragged out and shoved into a car. Then dragged out again. I paused, realizing this was the back-office storage room of their wedding venue. Julianna stood before me in her wedding dress. “You really are tough as nails.” I smiled, casually spouting nonsense, and even flipped her off. “That’s because I have the System.” “I’m the female lead of this world. Whatever you do, you’re just a trashy side character.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I was violently seized by several people and bound inside a giant transparent tank. Julianna’s eyes were brimming with hatred. “Originally, I wanted to keep you by my side and slowly torture you.” “But now, it seems you must die.” “If you die, no one will steal my Vance! And Vance and I can be happy forever.” As soon as she finished speaking, the tank slowly began to fill with water. A screen was placed in front of me. On it, the wedding ceremony was about to begin. Julianna resumed her gentle smile. “I’m really curious, can the System save your life?” “Oh dear, imagine watching Vance marry me, this ‘trashy side character,’ then slowly dying yourself. Wouldn’t that make you die with regret?” She leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. “Evelyn Hayes.” “If you can go back after you die, then consider it my parting gift to you.” “But if you truly die—then you deserve it!” She left. The warehouse door closed. The water level began to rise, slowly covering my calves, knees, thighs. I was fixed in the center of the tank, unable to even turn my head, forced to watch the screen. When the wedding began, the water had already reached my chin. Yet, my return countdown still had a few minutes left. The comments in the corner scrolled wildly. [This b-tch deserves it, hahaha!] [What happens if a quest-completer dies in the quest world? I heard they become a vegetable!] [Die quickly! This awful woman tricked so many men, and she still gets to live it up? Why? She should just die!] At the wedding venue, Jake and Clara suddenly changed their expressions. “Daddy! What’s a vegetable…?” “The comments say Mommy is about to become a vegetable…” Vance’s heart plummeted. Julianna’s eyes flashed with hatred. She quickly grabbed Vance’s hand, soothing him. “I merely locked her up for a small punishment, how could she become a vegetable?” “She knows the children can see the comments now, she might just be acting, deliberately making the comments send messages to trick you!” Vance hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded. He took the wedding ring, ready to place it on Julianna’s finger. In the tank, the water had completely covered my nose. I could no longer draw a single breath of air. My lungs convulsed frantically, my body shaking uncontrollably. For the first time, I felt a clear panic. If my return was delayed by even one second, I might truly die here. In this life-or-death situation, my compensation multiplier soared almost every second. [Return Countdown: One minute] My vision began to darken. A buzzing filled my ears. Just as my consciousness was about to snap— My stream’s light screen suddenly flared to life. A golden banner stretched across my entire vision. [Congratulations, Evelyn Hayes, on becoming the first streamer to complete one hundred consecutive quest challenges!] [Pre-allocated bonus of ten million! Other subsidies around twenty million!] [Return Countdown: Ten seconds] The comments instantly exploded. But I could no longer keep my eyes open to read them. Three… Two… In the final second, the warehouse door was kicked open. “Evelyn!” And I completely lost consciousness.

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The universe just hit the ‘restart’ button—and dropped me into a nightmare. Specifically, I woke up as the tragic hero in one of those gut-wrenching “Dead Husband” romances. The plot was classic: The hero is mentally and physically tortured, suffers a miscarriage (yes, the male version), has his eye dug out, his kidney removed, and dies miserably. Only then does the heroine realize he was innocent all along and lives to regret it forever. I swear, what kind of lawless world is this? My eyes were practically spitting fire as I muttered curses and drifted off to sleep. When I opened them again, I had transmigrated to the exact day the hero was framed by the heroine’s beloved “Golden Boy.” Oh, this is going to be fun. I grabbed my phone and quickly dialed three numbers: “Help! I was nearly murdered!” Let’s see if your twisted melodrama world has any police. 1 I came to with the faint, sterile smell of a hospital, wrinkling my nose instinctively. “Ugh.” A slender, striking figure in a floor-length crimson dress stood by the bed. Her voice was pure ice: “You’re awake. Stop playing dead and go apologize to Jasper.” That line. It was sickeningly familiar. Wasn’t this the trashy novel I’d been reading before I passed out? Delaney Wells, beautiful and icy, was standing against the light, arms crossed, radiating self-righteous fury. In the original story, Delaney and the hero, Callan Bishop, were married in name only. Callan had loved her for years, and Delaney, though moved by him, didn’t realize her own feelings until her first love, Jasper Reid, came back to town. Jasper, wanting to break them up and claim Delaney for himself, tried to drug her for a hookup. But a bizarre mix-up led to Delaney sleeping with Callan instead. Jasper quickly spun the narrative, accusing Callan of the drugging. Callan, a proud but stubborn man, couldn’t defend himself effectively and was misunderstood as being deeply manipulative. That was the wedge that began their decline. After that single night, Delaney’s already low opinion of Callan plummeted. Jasper then deliberately sought out confrontation, sabotaging Callan’s reputation and finally, shoving him down a flight of stairs. And now I’m supposed to apologize to the sociopath who nearly killed the original me? Absolutely not. I didn’t come here to be a doormat. I frowned, a snarl rising in my throat. “Apologize? Go to hell.” Delaney’s eyes widened. “What?” The momentary shock passed, replaced by a deeper scowl. “So you finally drop the act. Jasper was right—your attentive, thoughtful persona was just a mask.” She stepped closer and grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “You clearly fell down the stairs yourself and now you’re trying to pin it on him. He’s wracked with guilt—he hasn’t eaten or slept since you were admitted. If you have an ounce of decency, you’ll go apologize now.” Decency? I violently yanked my arm away. A sharp spike of pain shot through my leg, and the room spun—this body was seriously weak. I lifted my gaze to meet hers and held out my hand. “Give me your phone.” Delaney frowned, noticing my pale complexion. A flicker of something that looked like pity crossed her face. She reached into her clutch, lecturing me as she did so: “Calling him is fine, I suppose, considering your condition. But you need to learn to control this temper, Callan, or—” I snatched the phone from her hand and, with absolute clarity, dialed three digits. It connected instantly. I spoke in a calm, measured voice. “Hello, 911? I need to report an assault. Attempted murder, actually.” Delaney: Blinks. The police were fast. Soon, two officers were standing by my bedside. I cleared my throat, then burst into a theatrical, heart-wrenching sob. “Officer, please! You have to help me!” I pointed a trembling finger at the stunned Delaney. “My wife here is having an affair! Her lover pushed me down a flight of stairs! I fell from the top—sob—it was brutal! They tried to kill me!” Delaney’s face went white. Confronted by the officers’ severe, scrutinizing eyes, she stammered. “I… that’s not… I didn’t…” “Delaney?” Everyone turned. Jasper Reid was standing in the doorway, the quintessential Golden Boy in an all-white linen shirt, looking frail, delicate, and utterly innocent. You have got to be kidding me. That pose should win an Oscar. My eyes narrowed. No way am I letting this manipulative leech play the victim. I ripped the IV out of the back of my hand, scrambled back to the headboard, pulled my hair into disarray, and shrieked. “NO! NO! It’s him! The killer! He’s come back for me! He’s going to finish the job! He’s going to kill me!” Jasper’s carefully constructed expression of fragile concern faltered, freezing in an awkward half-step forward. Delaney started toward him, but the lead officer held up a hand. “Ma’am, the caller has accused both of you of assault and attempted murder. We need to take a statement and investigate. Please do not interact with the alleged victim.” Jasper: Confused, petrified silence. Another officer approached to calm me down. I pretended to settle, huddling behind him, trembling. “He pushed me. I didn’t even have time to scream before I was tumbling down.” Delaney’s voice was strained and cold. “Callan Bishop! What on earth are you saying? You fell on your own! You’re slandering Jasper, and calling the police? This is a waste of resources, you know that’s a crime!” I clutched the officer’s sleeve pitifully. “I promise, he pushed me. When we first got married, I installed a full security system on the estate for safety. Every corner of the house is on camera, Officer. Please, check the footage.” One officer nodded, took the address, and left with his colleague to retrieve the data. Jasper was completely undone. He’d only dared to be so reckless because he knew the original Callan would be too stubborn and self-destructive to use evidence. He hadn’t counted on the cameras. Seriously, why was the original hero such a masochistic idiot? The officers returned quickly. On the bodycam footage, the case was clear: Jasper aggressively closing the distance, reaching out, and shoving my shoulder, sending me flying down the stairs. Delaney, who rushed over after the noise, only saw Jasper kneeling beside me, looking distressed. Jasper’s knees gave out, and he crumpled to the hospital floor. Delaney whispered, shaking her head. “No… it can’t be… you actually pushed him?” Jasper crawled toward her, grabbing the hem of her crimson dress. “Delaney, I messed up, I’m sorry. I just wanted him to stop keeping us apart. I pushed him accidentally! Please, you have to forgive me!” I couldn’t stand it. “Are you out of your mind? Forgive you? You pushed me down the stairs! I’m the victim lying here in pain! You’re apologizing to the wrong person, you pathetic fool!” Jasper: Silence. Delaney: Silence. The Police: Deep, uncomfortable silence. Oh, right. I forgot my “persona” for a second. I quickly switched back to the victim role, clutching my injured leg and wailing. “The evidence is right there! Officer, this is a clear case of aggravated assault. I insist on pressing charges! He’s malicious and unpredictable. I’m genuinely afraid he’ll come after me again. The thought of falling from that height keeps me awake at night!” Despite my truly awful acting, the facts were undeniable. Jasper Reid was taken into custody on suspicion of assault. He was looking at a minimum of two weeks in a cell. Delaney stared blankly at me, then at Jasper’s struggling form as the officers led him away. A look of utter bewilderment crossed her flawless face. Oh, stop looking so lost, you idiot. You’re no saint either. I settled back onto the pillows. “Delaney, I want a divorce.” Her lip trembled. “A divorce? On what grounds do you think you have the right to ask me for a divorce?” …And there’s the classic line. I reached for the water glass on the nightstand and threw it, aiming at the wall behind her head. “You think a trust fund and a good last name make you royalty? You can buy me out of my own life? I’m telling you we are done! This is a legal right, not some damn favor you bestow! I’m sending you the papers tomorrow, and if you dare fight me, I’ll expose everything to the media! We’re talking ‘Wells Heiress, Adulterous Wife, Conspires with Lover to Murder Husband.’ Enjoy watching your stock plummet and your board turn on you.” The glass shattered on the tile floor. Delaney stood frozen, her crimson dress now splattered with water, looking more disheveled than she probably had in her entire life. Her bewildered gaze intensified. “Callan, you’re not supposed to be like this.” I gave a cold laugh. “How am I supposed to be? Meek? Like the convenient husband who lets you and Jasper walk all over him? Who smiles politely while you two flirt? Who quietly accepts your abuse and physical harm? Go to hell. I’m not your toy, and I’m definitely not your father.” Delaney walked out, looking utterly defeated. A sharp, painful ache hit my chest. It was the original Callan’s lingering grief. Stop it, you pathetic fool. You’re free now. 2 Jasper Reid ended up with two weeks in county jail for aggravated assault. I suspect Delaney’s family used their influence to keep him from facing felony charges, but the police record was enough for my purposes. The day after I called 911, I had a lawyer draft the divorce papers, making sure the division of marital assets was meticulously detailed. I never understood why the male leads in these wealthy-family abuse novels always had to walk away with nothing, acting like they were too ‘pure’ to take their due. It’s their right! They were abused and nearly murdered—they deserve every penny of their marital property, plus emotional distress damages. Unfortunately, the divorce wasn’t straightforward. Delaney refused to sign. After several attempts, she deployed her mother—my mother-in-law—to handle me. Mrs. Wells arrived in a custom-tailored designer suit, sipping an artisanal latte with an air of refined disappointment. “I know Delaney was wrong,” she began. “But in our world, Callan, elite marriages are often separate lives. We both know how things work. You brought the police into this—you made an embarrassing scene. If the firm hadn’t stepped in to kill the story, the scandal would have crashed our stock. You’re being very immature.” I felt the bile rise. This level of hypocrisy was breathtaking. Without a word, I picked up my own cup of coffee and tossed the contents straight onto her suit. “Aaaah!” Mrs. Wells screamed, her perfectly coiffed hair and the expensive fabric now soaked with dark brown liquid. “Callan Bishop! Have you lost your mind?” “I have! You and your sick family drove me to it! Your daughter cheats, then conspires with her lover to nearly kill her husband, and you sit here telling me to let bygones be bygones? You’re a fake!” “You…” “Me what? You failed to raise a decent daughter. She gets married and runs around with another man, nearly killing me in the process. You think you bear no responsibility, Mother?” “I…” “I what? You talk about ‘separate lives’ and ‘elite arrangements’? I remember when your late husband ran around with those aspiring actresses. You nearly cried yourself into the hospital, threatening to bankrupt him! You can’t preach water and drink wine. If you’re so generous, why didn’t you just officially welcome his mistress into your home?” “He…” “He nothing! I’m getting a divorce. The marital assets will be divided strictly according to the law. You won’t cheat me out of a single dime. I’m showing remarkable restraint by not suing you all for emotional distress.” Mrs. Wells’ face darkened. She was determined to regain control. She snapped, calling to a bodyguard hovering near the door. “Take this insolent man to the basement! I will teach him how to behave!” Wait. I suddenly remembered: this old harpy had a history of verbally abusing the original Callan, using ‘teaching manners’ as an excuse to lock him in the basement for days, torturing him both mentally and physically. Illegal confinement, is it? I whipped out my phone and dialed the number I now knew by heart—911. “I’m at the Wells Estate in Greenwich! My mother-in-law is threatening to illegally confine me in the basement! Officer, please, I need help!” Mrs. Wells stared at the phone in confusion. “What are you doing?” I gave her a chilling smile. “Giving you a taste of a civilized society.” The police were, once again, astonishingly fast. The officer who arrived looked at me, then at Mrs. Wells—who was standing there with coffee dripping from her hair and dress—with a profound look of weary disappointment. “It’s you two again.” I scrambled behind the officer. “Yes, it’s me! This old woman is my mother-in-law. She’s trying to kidnap and lock me up just because I want to divorce her cheating daughter!” The officer scowled at Mrs. Wells. “Ma’am, this is a nation of laws. You can’t just limit someone’s freedom. That’s a felony.” Mrs. Wells sputtered, “I… I was just threatening him…” “Nonsense! I knew she was up to no good, Officer. My recording started the moment I walked into the house!” I pulled out my phone and played the audio file at full volume, clearly capturing her order to the bodyguard. Mrs. Wells: Silence. The officer listened to the entire exchange, then fixed a cold, severe gaze on her. “You are not above the law. Threatening to restrict someone’s movement is a serious offense.” Mrs. Wells, in her stained suit, her dignity shattered, was forced to stand there and take a 15-minute lecture on the legal repercussions of illegal detainment. I knew the officers couldn’t actually arrest her since no physical harm had been done, but a good legal lesson was enough for now. As I left the estate with the police escort, the lead officer gave me a look that was both sympathetic and exhausted. “Hang in there. You’ll get through this.” “Thank you, Officer. I appreciate it. And… I apologize in advance. You’ll probably be hearing from me again.” I watched the patrol car pull away and muttered to myself, “God, the security of this country is truly something else.” 3 Delaney’s refusal to sign the divorce papers wasn’t just my problem; it was driving Jasper Reid crazy, too. He was acting like a nervous wreck, constantly finding ways to harass me. But since I wasn’t the original, masochistic hero, I refused to play the victim. He tried to retaliate by planting a venomous snake in my new apartment, hoping it would bite me. But I’d anticipated this level of low-brow villainy. My new place was wired with cameras. They clearly captured the entire incident, allowing me to call 911 again. “Yes, it’s me. Jasper Reid tried to kill me with a snake.” Then he moved to cyberwarfare: posting my private address, doxxing me, spreading nasty rumors online, and hiring trolls to attack me. My response? The legal system, again. “Officer, I’m being stalked, doxxed, and subjected to a targeted campaign of harassment. My mental health is severely affected. I have crippling anxiety and clear depressive tendencies.” Jasper Reid was promptly sent back to jail for another two weeks. Those two weeks weren’t exactly peaceful for me, either. Delaney, a dark cloud, started following me. “What exactly do you want?” I was utterly exhausted by her presence and finally agreed to meet her at a coffee shop. She looked significantly thinner, her exhaustion evident. I couldn’t tell if she was angry that her obedient husband had suddenly gone ‘mad’ or heartbroken that her Golden Boy turned out to be a villain. After the police lectured her mother, Delaney had called me in a rage, accusing me of disrespecting my elders. I’d verbally eviscerated her in response. She began a one-sided cold war, which I enjoyed immensely. But the moment Jasper went to jail for the snake incident, she unilaterally ended it. She’s a mess. She looked down at her coffee, then up at me. “I was wrong. I never imagined Jasper was capable of that. I apologize.” “Okay. Apology accepted. Are we done? I have things to do.” Delaney’s eyes were red-rimmed. She studied me with a speculative look. “Callan, why do I feel like you’ve completely changed?”

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I, Audra Mills, the company’s star translator, willingly passed on the biggest project of the year—a nine-figure deal—to the receptionist, Phoebe Wells. I did this only because, in my previous life, my fiancé Carter’s high-school dropout “childhood sweetheart” had suddenly claimed mastery of eight languages through self-study. I used to spend two weeks researching every obscure technical term before a translation, yet Phoebe could perform flawless, one-hundred-percent-accurate simultaneous interpretation simply by speaking off the cuff. The office buzzed with admiration for her “genius,” and I was quickly whispered about as an overpaid fraud. It all came to a head when I was two weeks deep into preparation for that massive project, running on four hours of sleep, ready to step onto the stage. Phoebe blocked my path. “Audra, this isn’t the time for you to grandstand. This contract is critical for the company’s IPO. Your foundation isn’t as solid as mine; it should be me.” Carter and my colleagues—the very people I had trained and worked alongside for years—unanimously agreed with Phoebe. I fought for my right to the job, but I was forcibly replaced. Phoebe executed the translation brilliantly, becoming the company’s hero overnight. I, meanwhile, was demoted to the mailroom, citing “insufficient professional capability.” I couldn’t understand it. How could ten years of disciplined, agonizing work lose to Phoebe’s sudden, unexplained talent? In a daze, consumed by professional grief, I slipped, fell, and drowned. In those final, chilling moments before I died, I heard her voice: I can only do it because I’m listening to your thoughts. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Back to the day Phoebe Wells first claimed she was fluent in eight languages. This time, I didn’t spend the night pouring over technical briefs. Instead, I lay in bed, quietly reciting the Declaration of Independence in my mind. … “Audra, congratulations! First place in the monthly review—again!” “Three-peat! That’s incredible!” My colleagues surrounded me, applauding. Standing in the middle of the crowd, I felt a flicker of disorientation. The scene was playing out exactly as it had before. The host cleared his throat and announced, “Our champion for this month’s assessment is, once again, Audra Mills…” “Hold on.” Phoebe stepped out from the periphery. “I signed up for this assessment too. Why don’t you let me try?” The chilling familiarity of the moment sent a shiver down my spine. My colleagues eyed Phoebe with suspicion. “This isn’t a game, Phoebe. You haven’t studied translation. The barrier to entry for this field is massive.” Phoebe pouted. “It doesn’t look hard to me. And who said I haven’t studied? Is it a crime that I taught myself eight languages at home this month?” A few people chuckled. “Self-taught? Even Audra, our ace, studied diligently for a decade. How could someone with zero background manage that?” “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself, Phoebe. If you can translate a single sentence perfectly, I’ll take you out to dinner.” They laughed, no one taking her seriously. Only I knew that in the last timeline, in this very moment, Phoebe had rattled off translations in eight languages without effort. Phoebe turned, linking her arm through Carter’s. “C’mon, Carter. Just let me try! I registered, and if you don’t let me participate, I’ll complain to HR about unfair assessment rules!” Carter James, a man who usually lived and breathed pedigree and credentials, showed no objection. He looked down at her with a sickeningly indulgent gaze. “I give up with you, Pheebs. Go ahead and try.” At Carter’s nod, the host reluctantly began to quiz Phoebe. What happened next was stunning. Question after question, whether in French or Spanish, Phoebe translated rapidly and with unnerving accuracy. The room’s expressions shifted from mockery to stunned amazement. It came down to the final round: simultaneous interpretation. As the host finished reading a complex German passage, Phoebe opened her mouth and spoke a flawless stream of the language. “…affecting androgen receptor inhibitors, directly targeting the ligand-binding domain. This can be used to treat patients with metastatic prostate cancer immediately.” The room erupted in applause. “Phoebe, you’ve been holding out! Your level is practically on par with Audra’s!” Someone else, more experienced, asked, “Even Audra needs a notepad sometimes for simultaneous work. How can you, a complete novice, be so fluid?” Phoebe widened her eyes in feigned surprise. “Isn’t translation just saying what you hear? Maybe Audra’s getting old; her memory naturally can’t keep up with a younger person. Taking notes is understandable.” She stuck out her tongue playfully. “Oh, Audra, did that sound too blunt? I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly!” I smiled. A cool, thin smile. While Phoebe was translating, I had subtly, intentionally mistranslated one crucial technical term in my own mind. Phoebe had parroted that exact, erroneous word. It confirmed my suspicion. She hadn’t magically mastered eight languages overnight. Thinking back to her unfocused, glassy-eyed look during the translation, I realized she wasn’t processing the source language at all. She was simply reciting my internal monologue. If that’s the game we’re playing, then I had a spectacular gift waiting for her. The host looked uncomfortable. “Well, Audra and Phoebe are tied for first place. So, the champion this month…” Carter frowned. Phoebe’s lips curled up in a confident smile. “Since it’s a tie, Audra, do you have the confidence to face me in a tie-breaker?” Phoebe’s challenge drew everyone’s attention. Carter was about to speak when I preempted him. I laughed gently. “No need. I concede.” The room erupted in gasps. Carter froze, clearly taken aback. He knew how seriously I took my profession and assumed I would never pass up a contest of skill. I repeated myself. “I withdraw.” He didn’t know that last time, full of competitive spirit, I had participated, only to be beaten at every turn because Phoebe simply spoke the answer I was preparing a split-second before I could. My decade of hard work had been turned into a joke. I wouldn’t let that happen again. Phoebe tried to provoke me. “Audra, you’re our star translator. Are you really going to back out of a challenge against a little front-desk girl? That’s embarrassing, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair. “Why don’t you quiz me again? See what level my skills are at. Can I compare to you?” I gave her a knowing look. “Your level is much higher than mine, Phoebe. I’d say at least Level Thirteen.” Phoebe proudly puffed out her chest. “Of course it is! My skill—” Everyone in the room burst into laughter. “Level Thirteen? Hahaha! What kind of certification is Level Thirteen?” “You!” Phoebe’s face turned bright red and purple with fury. She stamped her foot. “Enough!” Carter roared, glaring at me with undisguised displeasure. “There’s a limit to your sarcasm, Audra! Are you proud of yourself because you have a few certificates? You know Phoebe doesn’t understand your technical jargon, yet you still bully a young woman. Have some dignity!” I dug my nails into my palm, anchoring myself. The laughter in the room instantly died. The host managed a weak smile. “Perhaps we should declare co-champions this month?” Carter’s voice was sharp. “Co-champions? Audra has been studying for years. Phoebe started this month. The difference is clear!” At Carter’s insistence, the host announced Phoebe as the sole champion. Colleagues immediately swarmed her with congratulations. Phoebe cheered and hugged Carter. Carter glanced at me, coughed awkwardly, and gently pushed back a step. I scoffed internally. Leaning into Carter, Phoebe looked at me and gave a mischievous, challenging wink. “Audra, I think I’ve proven myself. Can I come along this afternoon for the big German business meeting?” I frowned, instinctively about to refuse. “No…” Phoebe’s eyes instantly welled up. “Audra, I know you look down on my lack of education. But I’ve studied non-stop to try and help Carter and the company. Are you going to deny me even the right to learn?” Carter pulled her closer, his expression softening with sympathy, and he rounded on me. “Phoebe is trying to help the company! Why are you so determined to shut people out?!” The surrounding colleagues chimed in. “Audra, you’re being selfish. What difference does Phoebe’s talent make to you?” “Yeah, can’t you give a new employee a chance? That’s so petty.” They threw accusations at me from all sides. I calmly finished my sentence. “I was going to say, ‘No problem, I was just thinking she should come along to learn.’” The room fell silent, the colleagues shifting uncomfortably and quickly changing the subject. Phoebe looked at me, a cryptic gleam in her eye. “Audra, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to really learn.” In the afternoon, we arrived at the venue. Our partner, a long-term client named Mr. Peterson, was hosting the meeting. Once everyone was seated, the meeting began. I was entirely focused, taking notes and marking key terms on my pad. As the German speaker finished a long technical segment, I took a breath, ready to speak. A fluid, rapid translation cut me off from behind. “…utilized for the treatment of patients who have received a novel endocrine agent, showing significant improvement. Key endpoints included overall survival and time to initiation of cytotoxic chemotherapy.” I whipped my head around. Phoebe, who was supposed to be quietly observing, was delivering the translation at speed. For the rest of the meeting, every single time I opened my mouth to translate, Phoebe would snatch the floor, continuing to translate flawlessly. I didn’t manage to get a single word in. When Phoebe finally finished the last sentence, looking incredibly pleased with herself, applause broke out. She then covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, I am so sorry! I was just here to learn, but I got so engrossed. It just slipped out.” She beamed at me. “Audra, you don’t mind, do you?” Carter was clapping enthusiastically. “She minds nothing! You were brilliant, Phoebe! Translation is a meritocracy!” Mr. Peterson also praised her warmly. “Audra usually handles our accounts, and she’s excellent, but for a newcomer, you’re incredibly fluid. You must have done an enormous amount of private preparation for this meeting, right?” Phoebe just smiled sweetly. “Preparation? You don’t need any. Translation is just saying what you hear.” She tapped her head. “When you’re skilled, it’s just instinct, like eating or drinking.” Peterson looked surprised. “Audra, as a senior translator, always asks for our documentation a week in advance. You really didn’t prepare at all?” Phoebe blinked innocently. “Even though I’m new, I know everyone is busy. I wouldn’t bother people by asking for documents. Some people just drag things out for days to prove their professionalism, even when it’s an easy, one-shot translation.” I frowned. That was nonsense. As a translator, you handle specialized terms from countless industries. Researching beforehand is essential professionalism. Before I could correct her, Peterson’s gaze on me hardened. “From now on, all our company’s translation work will go through Phoebe. Some people like to make a show of their effort! Our company doesn’t have the budget for that kind of attitude.” I was speechless, standing there, unfairly condemned. Carter was quick to agree with him. Back at the office, Carter heaped praise on Phoebe and announced her promotion from receptionist to full-time translator. She was immediately given her own corner office. Carter proudly declared it a reward for her “outstanding performance” at the meeting. I scoffed internally. I’d completed dozens of zero-fault, high-stakes negotiations of that size over the years. I’d worked here for a decade and still shared a cubicle. I said nothing, burying my head back in my work. Over the next few weeks, Phoebe continued to use the same tactic, seizing the spotlight in every translation, always relying on my preparation. I, in turn, worked even harder, meticulously preparing every document, just for her benefit. Finally, the day before the massive nine-figure project presentation arrived. I was conspicuously hunched over my desk, cross-referencing industry-specific jargon. A colleague rolled their eyes. “If you don’t have the talent, don’t take the job. Phoebe just translates it directly; why waste everyone’s time with this act?” Phoebe giggled, covering her mouth. “Audra, what’s the point of looking at all that? You spent twelve years studying and you still can’t compare to my one month of self-study.” The colleagues immediately launched into more gushing praise for Phoebe. I frowned, playing the role of the troubled professional. “You’re right. There’s no point arguing about it.” I sighed heavily. “Since you’ve proven you’re enough, maybe I shouldn’t even go tomorrow.” “No!” Phoebe shrieked the single word, immediately earning confused stares. She quickly adjusted her expression, forcing a smile. “I… I just meant that Audra might gain valuable experience at a conference this size, in case she needs it later.” Carter also frowned, displeased. “What’s with the drama, Audra? Is it not a fact that you can’t keep up with Phoebe? Who are you trying to threaten by saying you won’t go? If you don’t want to, then don’t go!” I remained silent. Phoebe, however, was visibly desperate. “Carter, please let Audra come. I haven’t done a conference this big before. If Audra is there, we can learn from each other!” My colleagues were disgusted by her generosity. “Phoebe, she prepares for half a day just to put on a show! She’s the one who needs to learn from you! You’re too kind to her.” Phoebe pleaded with Carter until he finally gave in. “Fine! For Phoebe’s sake, I’ll give you one last chance. You have three minutes to pack up and get downstairs. Be one second late, and you’re out.” Phoebe stared at me intently, terrified I would say no. I slowly gathered my things. “Alright. I’ll go.” She finally let out the breath she was holding. The next day, as we arrived at the conference hall and the translators were being positioned, Phoebe reached out and stopped me. “Wait!” She gave a look of false sincerity. “I’ve thought about it, and I think I should handle the translation.” “These minor skirmishes we’ve had, I’ve been willing to let you share the stage. But this contract is too important. This isn’t the time for you to grandstand, Audra. Your foundation isn’t as solid as mine; it should be me.” I was about to speak, but Carter immediately approved. “She’s right! This meeting is vital for the company. There can be no mistakes.” He turned to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Audra, you should be thanking Phoebe. She’s stepping up to cover for you. If your mistake costs us the IPO, you’ll be the company’s culprit. How will you explain that to the board?” I let out a cold laugh. Ten years of dedicated work, reduced to a liability. When the company started, I worked four or five translating jobs a day, standing for nine hours straight, just to build our reputation. Now I was the culprit, and Phoebe was the savior who’d stolen my job and demanded my gratitude. Seeing my lack of movement, my colleagues mocked me. “Seriously, Audra, you aren’t thinking of fighting Phoebe for this job, are you?” “Phoebe brought you here to learn. Don’t be so ungrateful!” “Forget professional skills, Phoebe is much more pleasant to look at. Just look at yourself—you’ve got rings under your eyes the size of a raccoon’s!” I raised a hand and touched the dark circles—trophies of my late-night research, now just ammunition for their insults. In my previous life, I would have argued fiercely. Now… I looked around the room and smiled faintly. “I have no objection,” I said, stepping away from the translator’s booth. “I just hope you all take responsibility for your choice. And don’t regret it.” My colleagues laughed it off, saying I was being melodramatic. Carter sneered. “I told her to take the stage. If there are any problems, I’ll take full responsibility.” I didn’t argue. I stepped aside and let Phoebe take my place. Phoebe leaned toward me, a triumphant look in her eye. “Audra, this was always your spot, and you used to make such a fuss if anyone got close. I’m not used to you being this quiet! But you have to admit the difference in talent. It took you twelve years to get here; it took me one month.” She leaned back in the booth. “Just watch and learn how a real translator works.” I ignored her. The meeting began. Phoebe sat confidently in the translator’s position. Carter and the others gestured encouragement from the audience. In the next moment, Phoebe’s face took on a look of intense concentration. This focused, serious expression made Carter sigh with pride. “Phoebe truly was born for this job. She gives everything her all.” The colleagues murmured in agreement. Then Phoebe opened her mouth. “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature…” Every person in the conference room stared, eyes wide.

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The first time I went to my wife’s company to ask for sick leave, the receptionist was visibly baffled. “You have to be kidding me, sir. The person you’re referring to… she’s the owner of this entire corporation.” She tilted her head, her smile fading. “And our owner and her husband come and go together every day.” “Her husband definitely isn’t…” The elevator doors opened. In that next second, my wife—who should have been confined to a sickbed in our shabby apartment—stepped out, smiling brilliantly, arm in arm with her college sweetheart. Our eyes collided. Her smile fractured, freezing on her face. I looked at the cashmere and the diamond watch, the sheer extravagance clinging to her, and the tears that came felt like a bitter, hysterical laugh. “That single one of your dresses is worth a year of my wages, but you played the role of a secretary making forty grand a year.” “You took my entire savings to start this company, then told me you were broke and in debt. I worked three jobs just to help pay it off, so exhausted I didn’t dare take a day off even with a fever.” “Tell me, Blair. Why did you play me for a fool?” Blair Caldwell fumbled for words, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Her companion, Miles Albright, stepped forward before she could speak. “It’s not a mystery, man. When I got married, she promised me she’d wait. Her company, her success—it’s all part of the future she built for us.” He shrugged, adjusting the cuff of his bespoke suit. “So, no. She really doesn’t have a dime she can give you.” It was then I realized the depth of the deception. Not only had she hidden her entire identity and fortune from me, but she had made a lifelong vow of fidelity and commitment to another man. Yet, I was Blair Caldwell’s legal husband, Noah Harrison. Could she truly walk away and leave me with nothing? 1 Blair’s hand reached out for my shoulder. I flinched, pulling back abruptly. Her hand hung in the air, then dropped with a sigh. “Noah, listen to me. I loved the simplicity of the life we had. I really did. I never planned to keep this from you forever. I was going to tell you the truth… soon.” “Soon? Eight years, Blair! We’ve been married for eight years! Was that not long enough?” My voice was trembling, the rage a fragile thing beneath the surface of my shock. “Or did you just think I was a fool you could lie to for the rest of your life?” She tried to take my arm again. “It’s not like that, Noah.” I took a shaky step back. My feet felt unstable because the soles of my shoes were worn flat, but I’d never felt I could justify buying a new pair. My gaze settled on Miles Albright. He was wearing gleaming custom oxfords, a charcoal gray suit that screamed couture, and on his wrist, a Patek Philippe. I’d only ever dared to peek at those through a jewelry store window. I remembered joking with Blair years ago: “When you’re rich, buy me a Patek, too.” She had laughed, ruffling my hair. “I promise. I’ll buy you two. One to wear, one to keep in a safe.” She had bought one. She’d just given it to him. Fighting the sickening bile in my throat, I forced a smile. “Not like what? Then what is he?” Blair glanced nervously at Miles. “Miles is just a friend.” Miles’s smug expression immediately soured. “Blair!” She grabbed his arm, shooting him a silent look, then turned back to me, her voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. “Trust me, if I were involved with Miles, you wouldn’t have lasted this long. He just got divorced. He’s been really unstable, and I’m just trying to look out for him.” “He’s always loved a cruel joke. He was just messing with you now. Don’t take it to heart.” “Noah, you have to believe me.” Believe her. I flashed back to our first year of marriage, her first supposed “failed startup,” and the fifty thousand dollars in debt. The day the angry creditors showed up, she was huddled in the corner, sobbing, telling me how sorry she was. I held her and told her it was okay, we’d face it together. That night, I emptied my savings account. Twenty thousand dollars—my entire safety net. I pressed the debit card into her hand. “Take this. We’ll figure out the rest. I believe in you.” She cried in my arms for hours, promising she’d never betray my love. Eight years of deceit. That was her definition of not betraying me. “Believe you?” I heard a strangled, watery sound that might have been a laugh. My cheeks were wet. “Blair Caldwell, look me in the eye and tell me again that you are just friends?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. That silence was more brutal than any confession. I knew I didn’t need to ask anything else. I took a deep, shuddering breath, wiping the tears away. “Blair, let’s get a divorce.” “It’s seven words. That’s a million a word. A seven-million-dollar buyout of our marriage. To seal your freedom with him. That seems like a bargain.” 2 Blair seemed genuinely panicked. “Noah, you need to calm down. Let’s go home and talk.” I cut her off. “You mean the seven-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment with the peeling paint on the walls?” I wanted to laugh again, a truly terrible sound. Her expression tightened. She reached out to grab me. “Stop making a scene. It’s unprofessional.” “Let go,” I ground out. She held firm. “Not until you promise to come home and talk this through.” Miles, watching our struggle, drawled, “Mr. Harrison, if you ask me, you should be grateful. If you think the money is too little, I’ll tell Blair to up your monthly allowance. Five thousand. No, make it eight thousand. That should cover your expenses, just try not to be too extravagant.” His words were more painful than a punch. I thought of the endless string of calculated, careful days: the sale-rack groceries, the used shirts I bought on eBay, the badly trimmed hair I cut myself. The rush of humiliation was overwhelming. One of my arms was locked in Blair’s grip. The other one moved, an instinctual, desperate reaction, and I slammed my open palm across Miles Albright’s smug, self-satisfied face. The crack of the blow echoed in the silent, polished lobby. Time seemed to stop. A few seconds passed before Miles reacted, clutching his cheek, his eyes wide and wet with rage. “Blair! He hit me! It hurts!” Blair’s reaction was immediate. She shoved me away. I staggered backward. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of the reception desk. A white-hot burst of pain exploded in my spine. I hadn’t even found my footing when she grabbed me again. “Noah Harrison! Are you insane!” she screamed, shaking my shoulders and then delivering a vicious, final push. The world tilted. My head hit the corner of the heavy marble table with a sickening thud. A dull, heavy pain radiated from the back of my skull. I reached up and felt the slick warmth of blood. I gripped the table, struggling to stay upright. My vision was blurry, but I saw her clearly: she was cradling Miles’s face, meticulously checking his cheek. “It hurts, Blair, it hurts so bad…” Miles whimpered. Blair patted his back like a child’s. “It’s okay, darling. I’m right here.” Then she looked up at the stunned receptionist. “Are you blind?! Can’t you see Miles is hurt?! Get an ice pack! Now!” The young woman gasped and scrambled away to find the ice pack. The blood ran down the back of my neck, warm at first, then chilling as it soaked into my collar. I was cold. I was cold all over. Blair finally turned back to me. “Go home. I have to take Miles to the emergency room. We can talk about us another time.” My vision was swimming, but I fought to keep my voice steady. “Blair Caldwell, as of today, we are done.” She frowned. “What are you talking about?” “You think seven million is too much? Fine. The savings you owe me, the eight years of my life you stole, the blood I just shed—I’m going to get it back. Every last cent, in court.” The community property. The company she started with my money. The profits. The houses, the cars, the luxury watches she bought him. Everything. I would claim my rightful share. Miles shot up, his eyes blazing. “You’re dreaming!” I didn’t answer him. I simply turned and walked toward the main doors. Every step sent a jolt of throbbing pain through the back of my head. Every step, I bled. But my back was straight. A man can fall, but he must never bend. Whether I was dreaming or not, my lawyer would soon answer. 3 It was dark by the time I left the law office. I drove home, wincing from the headache, and as soon as I stepped inside, I saw an open suitcase in the middle of the living room. Blair was folding dresses into it. Miles was sprawled on our threadbare couch, scrolling on his phone. “You’re back?” Blair looked up, her tone as calm as if nothing had happened. “Good. I have something to tell you.” “Miles’s body is sensitive. That slap you gave him made his heart race. The doctor says he needs constant care. I’ll be staying with him for a few days.” I barked a laugh. “Don’t bother telling me. We’re in a ‘divorce cooling-off period,’ Blair. You can live wherever you want. I don’t need a report.” She let out an impatient sound. “Noah, don’t be like this. I know you’re emotional, but we can talk later. Miles needs me now.” Need. When she needed me, I was there. When I needed her, she was with someone else. Was it fair? No. But marriage isn’t about fairness. It’s about willingness. I had been willing for eight years. Now my heart was dead, and my willingness was gone. “Fine,” I said, turning and walking into the bedroom. She probably expected me to break down, to beg, to try and stop her. I didn’t. I opened the closet and began tossing her belongings into the case. My hand paused only when I reached a photo frame. It was our wedding picture. She was beaming. My eyes were full of light. “Noah, what are you doing?” She followed me in, and there was a tremor of genuine alarm in her voice. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” I continued throwing things into the suitcase without looking at her. “I’m helping you pack. Saves you a trip.” “I said it’s just for a few days—” “Then don’t ever come back. Take your things, and the man who needs you, and get out.” Miles appeared in the doorway. “Blair, are you still going to the yacht auction tonight? You promised to bid on that limited edition watch for me…” “Yes.” Blair answered instantly, not sparing me a glance. “I keep my promises.” Hearing her reply, Miles looked at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “A high-society event like that… I doubt Mr. Harrison has ever been to one. I suppose it’s for the best. Lots of rules, not suitable for someone… impulsive like Mr. Harrison.” Blair turned back, offering an explanation. “Noah, I’m not excluding you. It’s just that these events are for business partners. We have to be careful what we say and do. I was worried you might not fit in, that you might say or do something to offend an important client—” I cut her off, cold. “Are you done?” She blinked. I pointed to the door. “Then get out. Get out of my apartment.” “Noah, this is our—” “No. This is mine. I pay the rent. I pay the utilities. I bought the furniture and appliances. What did you contribute in eight years, other than your presence?” She opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the words died in her throat. Because I was telling the truth. For eight years, the “household money” she gave me—five thousand a month—was just enough for rent and basic expenses. When I said it wasn’t enough, she told me to be thrifty. I was thrifty while she squandered fortunes on another man, and still called him just a friend? Her tone went frigid. “Fine. I’ll go. But you’ll regret this!” “Go!” The door slammed shut, and the apartment fell silent. It was too quiet. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the frantic drumming of my own heart. I sank slowly to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Tears fell, hitting the worn linoleum floor. One drop, then another. I don’t know how long I sat there. The phone buzzed. I picked it up. A photo from an unfamiliar number. On a luxurious hotel bed, Blair’s face was soft in sleep. Miles was nestled against her chest, giving the camera a triumphant thumbs-up. Below the photo was a single line of text: “Thanks for making it possible.” I stared at the image for a long, steady moment. Then I replied: “Thank you, too.” For sending me the proof. My private investigator hadn’t been able to confirm physical infidelity. That would have complicated the divorce proceedings and limited my claim to the marital assets. Now, I had it. 4 But the accident, the truly unexpected blow, came suddenly. My stomach had been cramping painfully since I left the law firm. I drove to a walk-in clinic, which sent me to the ER. The doctor told me I had severe gastric ulcers and internal bleeding. He gave me a prescription and told me to rest. I sat in the waiting room, staring blankly at the lab report. That’s when I heard the familiar voices down the hall. “The doctor said you’re delicate, Miles. You need to take it easy and avoid stress.” Miles’s voice was his usual, soft coo. “I know, but I’m a little cold. Will you hold me tonight, Blair?” I instinctively tried to get up and leave, but I turned the corner right into them. Blair was leaning on Miles, her face alight with an affectionate, doting smile. Seeing me, they both froze. Blair instantly dropped Miles’s arm and hurried over. “Noah, what are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?” There was a flicker of genuine concern in her eyes. For a split second, I almost believed she was the wife who used to stay up all night with me when I had a headache. I quickly tucked the lab report into my bag. “Routine checkup. Nothing to worry about.” I didn’t want her to know. Blair hadn’t seen my move, but Miles had. He sauntered over. “Blair, I’m thirsty. Can you get me a bottle of water?” Blair glanced from me to him, hesitated, and then conceded. “Okay. Wait here.” Once she was gone, the kindness instantly vanished from Miles’s face. “Did you get the picture? Blair is so captivating when she sleeps, isn’t she? She likes to spoon, and her arm holds you so tight.” Even as I told myself I was over her, the words still twisted something agonizingly deep in my gut. Eight years of devotion wasn’t something you could excise easily. I frowned. “Move.” He blocked my way, his eyes locked on the bag where I’d hidden my report. “You’re sick, aren’t you?” “None of your business.” He smiled, a flicker of pure malice in his eyes. “Blair’s future is my business, so…” He pulled a small utility knife from his pocket. I scoffed. “I advise you to put that away. This is a hospital. If you injure me, you’ll regret it.” He grinned. Then, with a sudden, vicious movement, he slashed a line across his own wrist. “Ah! Blair! He’s crazy! He cut me with a knife!” Blair came sprinting back. The water bottle she held clattered to the floor and rolled far down the hall. She grabbed Miles’s arm. When she saw the gash, her face went deathly pale. I was stunned. My voice shook. “It wasn’t me! He did it to himself! Call the police! Yes, call the police! Check the knife for fingerprints—” Before I could finish, Blair’s foot shot out and slammed into my abdomen. A searing, blinding pain erupted. Miles whimpered again. “Blair, it hurts.” Blair didn’t even look at me. She threw her arm around Miles and ran toward the emergency room. “Hold on! The doctor will be right there!” I collapsed, clutching my stomach. My heart felt like it was tearing apart. I doubled over and coughed up a huge mouthful of blood. I heard the frantic scream of a nurse: “Security! Help! Now!” Through the blurring darkness, I saw Blair’s footsteps hesitate, and the look of cold, stark fear on her face. … When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A dull ache radiated from my stomach. I touched the area—surgical stitches. It was night. Rain was falling outside the window. The door creaked open. Blair walked in, her dress rumpled, her face etched with exhaustion. She sat by my bed and was silent for a long time. “Noah, I’m so sorry. I was panicking… I didn’t know you were sick.” I closed my eyes, turning my face away. “But it’s okay,” she rushed on, reaching for my hand. “I told the doctor to perform the surgery immediately. Everything is fine now.” I pulled my hand back, tears stinging my eyes. Her voice cracked. “Noah, please. Look at me. I was wrong… I’m begging you, just look at me.” “I’m sorry, I truly am…” Just then, her phone rang. She wiped her eyes and answered it. The corridor outside was quiet. I could hear the voice on the other end: a court clerk. She hung up after a long moment. “You filed for divorce…?”

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The day I died, my roommate was wearing a five-carat engagement ring at my graveside. My death was the culmination of her perfect lie: She’d used my name—Juliet Abbott, heiress to Abbott Pharmaceuticals—to scam an East Coast scion online. She’d sent him her own pictures, all of her perfectly slim, perfectly pretty self. When the scion, Prescott Harrington, discovered the real me was a woman nearly one hundred pounds overweight, his fury was absolute. He didn’t just break up with me; he used the full, destructive weight of the Harrington empire to crush my family’s company. My parents, broken by the shame and ruin, took the leap first. I followed them. Stella Davies stood over my fresh grave, her eyes wide and innocent, a diamond so large it looked like a frozen teardrop flashing on her finger. “Jules, Prescott proposed!” she whispered, her voice laced with the sickening sweetness of fake sympathy. “It’s a shame you jumped so soon. That two hundred pounds of yours would have made me look absolutely breathtaking as your maid of honor.” She leaned closer, a satisfied smirk cracking through her false woe. “I only used your name because I felt sorry for you. You were so huge, I figured you were too pathetic to ever land a man like Prescott. Who knew he would be so disgusted when he finally saw you that he’d dismantle the Abbott empire?” “Well, here’s hoping you’re reborn skinny, sweetie.” God must have heard her last spiteful wish, because I was reborn. Now, I have three months. Three months until Prescott Harrington steps off the plane and walks into the life Stella stole. This time, she will learn that stealing a name will cost her everything, including her life. 1 “NO WAY!!!” A shriek, sharp and completely grating, sliced through the evening quiet of our dorm room. The two other girls looked up from their phones, instantly alert. Stella Davies had sprung up on her bed, her face contorted with unbridled joy and a hunger for attention. “Scott, you’re not messing with me, are you?” She threw a deliberately casual glance my way, then hit the speaker button on her phone. The soft, low chuckle of Prescott Harrington—the golden, blue-blood heir to the Harrington fortune—echoed clearly in the tiny space. “Baby, it’s just a car. Why would I tease you?” His voice was rich, effortless, dripping with the kind of money that buys discretion and silence. “I saw it in Monaco and just thought the red was perfect for you.” “I’ll be home in three months. The paperwork will be finalized by then. I’ll drive it right up to your dorm myself.” He hung up. A beat of silence, then the other two roommates erupted in envious squeals. “Stella! Is that really a limited-edition Ferrari?” “Oh my God… you are living the dream!” Stella slid off her bed, weaving through the clutter and coming straight for me. She grabbed my arm and gave it a saccharine shake. “Jules, you have to come with me to meet Scott when he gets here, okay?” she pleaded, batting her eyelashes. “It’s my first time meeting an online boyfriend. I’m so scared of being scammed!” I looked up, my eyes locking on the mask of manufactured innocence on her face. Last life, that exact look had fooled me. My heart had softened. I’d nodded. The price for that single, kind gesture was paid with three coffins. 2 Stella had been transferred into our room at the start of junior year. That was when she was diagnosed with a particularly nasty, rare autoimmune condition. The treatment required long-term, high-dose steroids and supplements. Not only was the medication astronomically expensive, but the side effects were horrific: massive, uncontrolled weight gain, a ballooning face, and a condition known as a “buffalo hump.” Stella’s family couldn’t even afford her next month’s rent, let alone the medicine. When the pain flared up, she would hide in the corner and weep, a fragile, pitiful mess. I felt sorry for her. I went home and begged my parents. Abbott Pharmaceuticals didn’t just cover her tuition and living expenses; we put her on our experimental new drug trial. The drug was potent, effective, and crucially, had virtually zero side effects—no weight gain, no swelling. It hadn’t been officially released yet, but at my insistence, my parents signed off on the ‘compassionate use’ waiver. It was my drug, my access, and my family’s money that saved her life and preserved the one thing Stella truly prized: her beautiful, slender body. 3 My good intentions, however, were food for a viper. Senior year, she secretly used my name to lure Prescott Harrington. She claimed to be Juliet Abbott, the Abbott heiress, while sending him her own flawlessly edited photos. It was exactly today, in my previous life, that she got that call about the car, and it was exactly today that she asked me to meet him with her. I said yes. Three months later. Prescott actually showed up at the campus gates in the red Ferrari. Stella was clutching my arm, quivering with excitement as we walked up. But when Prescott smiled and called her name—”Jules”—she played the scared rabbit. She backed away, feigning total confusion, pointing her trembling finger directly at the two-hundred-pound me. “Y-you must have the wrong person? She is Juliet Abbott.” Prescott’s face had instantly gone black. He had assumed I had stolen her photos, that I was the scammer, the liar. In a rage, he’d brought down the full weight of his family’s influence on the Abbott name. After my family’s final, desperate act, Stella had appeared before a devastated Prescott, tears streaming down her perfect face, ready to deliver her ‘truth.’ “Scott, the one you were talking to was me,” she’d sobbed. “I was so insecure. Your family is everything, and I’m just a poor student with nothing. I was terrified you would never look at me, so I did a wicked thing and used Juliet’s name…” “And that day at the gate? I pretended not to know you because I needed to know if you loved me, or if you just loved the Abbott name…” Prescott, heartbroken and moved by her apparent sacrifice, had pulled her into his arms, instantly proposing. “From this day forward, you won’t need to borrow anyone’s name,” he’d vowed. “Because there is no title in this world more revered than Mrs. Prescott Harrington.” It was a beautiful love story. Unfortunately, it was built on the bones of my entire family. 4 “Jules? You’re not saying anything. You don’t want to go with me?” Stella’s voice yanked me back to the present. I pulled my arm free from her grasp, distancing myself from her touch. “No. I don’t.” Her expression immediately curdled. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, silken-soft whisper only I could hear. The knife-twist of her malice was unmistakable. “Jealous?” She smiled with a vicious sweetness. “Jealous that I snagged Prescott Harrington? Jealous that he casually buys me a Ferrari, while you, the great Abbott heiress, can’t even get a date?” “You must have loved throwing money at me and watching me grovel, right?” Her eyes were cold, spiteful. “Well, look who’s on top now. Juliet Abbott, I hope that pathetic little superiority complex of yours is completely shattered.” “Are you finished?” I asked. My tone was so flat it stopped her mid-sentence. Before she could form a reply, I pulled out my phone and dialed the house number. “Mr. Harris,” I said calmly when my family’s butler answered. “Immediately cease all funding and all aid to Stella Davies.” “Including her monthly medication supply.” Mr. Harris’s even voice came through the speaker. “Miss Abbott, is that effective immediately? Miss Davies’s next supply was scheduled for tomorrow.” “Immediately,” I confirmed, watching the blood drain from Stella’s face. My voice was ice. “From this moment forward, the Abbott family will not spend a single cent on her. She will not receive a single pill.” 5 A dead silence descended upon the room. The other two roommates shifted uncomfortably, glancing between a placid me and a ghost-white Stella. Stella managed to tear a brittle, scoffing laugh from her throat. “Fine! Stop the funding! Who cares?” she chirped, though her hands were shaking. “Your family’s experimental crap? Who knows what’s in it! Maybe you were just using me as a guinea pig! I was going to stop taking it anyway!” She tossed her head back in defiance. “Wait until my fiancé gets back. I’ll be able to afford the best medicine in the world!” I put my phone away. My expression remained impassive. “Go ahead. You wait for him.” Stella had no idea what awaited her once she was forced onto the generic, commercial-grade steroids—the drugs that would replace the bespoke medication the Abbott family had been providing. Moon face, buffalo hump, central obesity, dark purple striae across the skin… The beautiful face and slender body she had mortgaged her soul to protect. It would all disintegrate. Bloat. Corrupt. I was waiting, too. Waiting for three months to pass. Waiting to see the expression on Prescott Harrington’s face when he saw the woman who claimed to be his “perfect vision”—transformed into a desperate, monstrous thing. The scene would be delicious. 6 I didn’t spare Stella’s trembling, defiant mask a second look. I simply turned and began packing my bags. “You’re moving out?” one of the other girls whispered. “Yes,” I replied, stuffing heavy books on Integrative Medicine into my suitcase. “I need space to focus.” I needed an environment free of distraction. I had a plan to execute—the one Stella’s malice had cut short in the last life. My major was in holistic and integrative medicine, specializing in metabolism and weight management. Many people found it hilarious. A two-hundred-pound woman studying weight loss? What they didn’t know was that this weight was self-inflicted. Early in freshman year, combining an ancient family formula with modern pharmacology, I had successfully refined a pure herbal weight-loss remedy. It was effective, fast, and virtually side-effect free. My father was thrilled, wanting to launch an entirely new product line under Abbott. But the old guard on the board had sneered. “A cocktail put together by a green kid? And you claim ‘no side effects’?” “Miss Abbott, you have no credentials. Who would believe you?” “Want to prove it? Fine. Take it yourself first!” Their arrogance had accidentally given me the perfect idea. With my father’s quiet support, I began a long-term ‘self-experiment.’ Over two years, using specific diets and drug assistance, I had intentionally gained a hundred pounds. Last life, I was just days away from starting a live-streamed regimen—a public record of my entire weight-loss process—when Stella had pulled me toward Prescott Harrington. The whole plan, along with my life, had been reduced to ashes. Not this time. I couldn’t wait. I zipped up my suitcase. The girl reflected in the mirror was still large and swollen, but the smoldering fire that had been dormant for two lifetimes was finally alight in my eyes. More than one person had told me, before I gained the weight, that I had the kind of face that could stop a man’s heart. This time, I will claim that dazzling life that was supposed to be mine, and I will take back everything they owe me. 7 The afternoon I moved out of the dorm, I registered a new social media account: “Jules’s 90-Day Miracle.” The three-month timeline—one month of internship and two months of summer break—perfectly aligned with my plan. I never showed my face. The camera focused only on my body below the neck, the scale’s readout, and my daily meals. On Day One, the screen displayed a two-hundred-pound, soft, and shapeless body. My voice was calm. “Hello. Starting today, for the next three months, I will lose exactly one hundred pounds using only a proprietary herbal formula and a sensible diet.” The comments section exploded with mockery. “Trying to go viral, are we? Hundred pounds in three months? Unless you get liposuction, no way.” “I’ll believe that when I believe I’m the Queen of England.” “Another scammer trying to sell supplements.” I ignored the noise, sipping my first cup of the herbal infusion. Day Two. Day Three… Over the ninety days that spanned my internship and the entire summer, I live-streamed twice daily—taking my medicine, revealing my weight, and showing my exact caloric intake. Everything was transparent, open to scrutiny. My weight dropped at a stunning, visible rate. The bloated jawline sharpened, my collarbones emerged from the thick layer of fat, and my waistline appeared clearer every day. My body transformed daily right before the camera. The initial mockery turned into full-blown internet shock. “Holy sh*t! She lost another 1.2 pounds today! What kind of witchcraft is this?” “I’m begging for the formula! I’d sell my ex-boyfriend’s soul for this!” The skeptical old board members at Abbott, who had initially dismissed my idea, started showing up in the live chat, sending huge virtual gifts and calling my father with fawning deference. “Chairman! Miss Abbott’s formula is a miracle drug! We must push it into production now!” The herbal formula’s production line was approved by a unanimous vote. Just before the end of summer, I stepped on the scale for the final time. The digital display showed a number exactly one hundred pounds less than when I started. I posted a short, dramatic before-and-after video. The comments section went insane. “Queen! You are my only Queen! Show us your face, please!” “That transformation… what does her face even look like?” “I’m betting a year’s salary she’s a drop-dead goddess!” 8 On the first day of the new semester, I slipped into a sleek, black spaghetti-strap dress. In the mirror, my hair was pinned up, revealing a face that was clean, unadorned, and arrestingly beautiful. The most impactful feature was my eyes—clear, stark black-and-white, shimmering like cold stars. I put on a disposable surgical mask and walked toward the campus. The September sun was harsh. The campus entrance was packed with returning students and parents. A bright red Ferrari sat glaringly at the curb. Its scissor door was open. Prescott Harrington leaned against the side, sunglasses covering his eyes, his posture radiating casual, untouchable arrogance, commanding every eye. As I was about to navigate the crowd, my phone buzzed. It was Stella. “Jules, where are you?” Her voice was breathless with a nervous, desperate excitement. “At the gate.” “Perfect! Can you just meet Scott for me? I’m going to be half an hour late.” She paused, and the venomous satisfaction in her tone almost spilled out. “I told him you were my roommate. All you have to do is walk up and tell him—” “Tell him your name is Juliet Abbott. That’s it.” I sneered internally. My gaze scanned the agitated crowd, finally settling on a discreet corner of the plaza. A bulky figure in an oversized, dark track suit, wearing a hat and a mask, was hunched over, clutching a phone. There she was. Stella. “No,” I replied, my voice cool and final. In the corner, Stella flew into a silent, desperate panic. “Fine, Juliet Abbott! If you want to play dirty, let’s play dirty!” She furiously dialed another number, her voice shaking with pure malice. “Hello? Are you at the radio station? Good! Now! Broadcast it immediately!” Almost on cue, the high-power campus loudspeaker crackled to life. 9 “ATTENTION! Prescott Harrington at the campus gate, listen up!” “The Juliet Abbott you’re talking to online is a two-hundred-pound FAT PIG! She’s an UGLY, WICKED CREATURE!” “All the photos she sent you are STOLEN from her beautiful roommate! The real girl is a fat, ugly, psycho liar who scams men online!” “Prescott Harrington, you IDIOT! You’ve been fooled by a pig! The whole campus knows what she is!” The crowd instantly erupted. Discussion exploded in a shocked, chaotic wave of noise. Prescott’s expression, previously one of bored hauteur, froze. He ripped off his sunglasses, his eyes—cold, dark, and utterly lethal—sweeping toward the broadcast booth. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. The next second, he pulled out his phone. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word he spoke into the mic cut through the chaos, clear and distinct. “Juliet Abbott.” “I’m giving you one chance.” “Now. Get out here.” 10 The phone clicked off. The entire area went dead silent. No one dared to move. Every set of eyes was nervously searching, waiting for Juliet Abbott to emerge. That was my cue. I started walking. I walked directly toward Stella. The crowd instinctively parted, creating a path for me. Prescott’s dark, furious gaze followed me, settling on the hunched, bulky figure in the track suit. His brow furrowed in confusion and disgust. I stopped right in front of Stella. She tried to shrink into the anonymity of the crowd, but I was too fast. I grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, my other hand reached for the black surgical mask covering her face. With a swift, downward motion, I ripped it off— “N-no…!” The moment the mask fell, the air became thick and heavy. A face that was utterly and tragically ruined was exposed to the sunlight. It was bloated like unkneaded dough, squeezing her features into distorted slits. Her skin, a sickening shade of mottled gray and purple from the hormonal damage, was slick with a sweaty, diseased sheen. A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the onlookers. “Dear God… who is that? She’s so swollen…” “She… she looks sick.” “I think that’s Stella Davies from the Integrated Med program…” Stella let out a high-pitched, desperate shriek, trying to cover her face, but my hand easily blocked her attempt. As raw terror flooded her eyes, I reached up with my free hand, hooking my finger around the pristine white mask covering my own features. I gently, delicately, removed it. The midday sun poured down, illuminating my face. Extreme ugliness and profound, devastating beauty were displayed side-by-side in the same, cruel frame. Silence. More absolute than before. I turned my head and looked straight at Prescott Harrington. “Mr. Harrington.” “Which Juliet Abbott were you looking for?”

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I had been married for twelve years, and for every one of those months, my paycheck had gone straight to my mother, Doris. Stella, my wife, had never once complained about it. I honestly believed she was the most high-minded, understanding spouse a man could ask for. That belief shattered the day I was rushed to the hospital with a sudden, severe illness, needing a hundred thousand dollars for emergency surgery. I called her, my voice strained. “Stella, honey, I need the money for the operation.” Her voice, when it came, was a cold, sharp blade. “Go ask your mother. If you’re broke, maybe it’s time to pay the piper.” I froze. It was only after she hung up that the awful realization dawned on me—for the last twelve years, she hadn’t been high-minded or generous at all. She had simply been waiting for this exact day. 1 The dial tone buzzed like a needle in my ear. The world went silent. Only the rhythmic drip-drip of the heart monitor echoed in the sterile room, each beat a chilling countdown to my life’s end. Stella’s words were still circling in my head. “Go ask your mother. If you’re broke, maybe it’s time to pay the piper.” The tone was infused with ice, devoid of all the warmth and affection she had so expertly manufactured over a decade. I held my phone in mid-air, my arm locked in place. The blood in my body felt instantly congealed. How? How could she say that? We were husband and wife. Twelve years. My mind was a blank slate, utterly unable to process the magnitude of this betrayal. The aggressive smell of disinfectant burned my nostrils. I flashed back twelve years, to the first time I handed my debit card over to my mother, Doris Sullivan. We had just been married. My mother, smiling benignly, took the card in front of Stella and said, “A family’s money should be in one place, dear. I’ll keep it safe for you, put it away in a high-interest account. It’ll all be yours one day.” At the time, I thought she was the model of a dutiful parent. I was her son; she would never shortchange me. I looked at Stella. She just looked down, silent. I took her silence for assent. I believed her to be the rare, rational woman who understood the importance of filial loyalty. From that day forward, for twelve years, one hundred and forty-four months, not one dollar of my salary passed through my own hands. Stella never raised her voice or gave me a dirty look about it. I had been patting myself on the back for years, convinced I had married a good, generous, unmaterialistic wife. But that single, brutal sentence—”maybe it’s time to pay the piper”—was a slap that brought me crashing back to reality. It wasn’t assent. It was twelve years of calculated resentment. A bone-deep chill crept from my soles to the crown of my head. No, this couldn’t be right. Stella must have been joking, angry, or stressed. Clutching at a sliver of hope, I dialed my mother, Doris. The phone rang for an agonizingly long time. “Hello? Grant, is that you? Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?” My mother’s voice was, as always, thick with performative concern. My tight nerves relaxed a fraction. “Mom, the doctor says I need immediate surgery. It’s a hundred thousand dollars.” My voice carried a tremor I couldn’t hide. “A hundred thousand? Why so much?” The pitch of her voice lifted slightly, then softened again. “It’s alright, son, don’t you worry. A mother always takes care of her child. I’ll make sure you get treated.” The enormous rock in my chest sank to the floor. “When can you bring the money, Mom? The nurse has been pressing me.” “Oh, don’t rush me, dear,” her tone grew hesitant. “The money is all saved up, but most of it is in long-term CDs—you know, to get the best interest. Pulling it out now would be a catastrophe, we’d lose so much on the penalty.” “But the doctor said—” “I know, I know,” she cut me off impatiently. “I’ll see what I can scrape together first. What about your wife? Didn’t you talk to her? She must have some liquid cash, surely?” She was pushing it back to Stella. The small sense of security I had just found evaporated, leaving me more anxious than before. “Mom, Stella… I told her.” I couldn’t bring myself to repeat what Stella had actually said. “Well, there you go. You’re married, she can’t just abandon you. I’m hanging up now. I’ll go check with the bank.” The line went dead with an abrupt click. I stared at the phone screen, the anxiety twisting around my heart like a poisonous vine. The door opened and the nurse walked in, her face impassive. “Mr. Sullivan, if your payment isn’t processed, your surgery will be postponed today. We have other patients waiting for the OR.” Her words were a cold, hard hammer blow to my fragile nerves. “I—I understand. I’ll… I’ll have it processed right away.” My lips trembled, unable to form a coherent sentence. The nurse gave me a look of vague pity and turned to leave. Like a cornered animal, I redialed Stella’s number. This time, the phone rang once, then clicked off. I tried again. Click. I called her again and again until the generic voice message informed me that “the user you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” She had blocked me. Despair, like a tidal wave, instantly drowned me. My chest tightened, a crushing weight pressing the air from my lungs. Just then, my screen lit up. It was my younger brother, Ronan. I seized the phone like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “Ronan! Quick! How much cash do you have? I need to borrow some—I need surgery now!” I cried out desperately. There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Cash? Where would I get cash, Grant? You know I just bought the new SUV last month; I’m totally tapped out.” His voice held zero urgency, only a tone of mild complaint. “Speaking of which, there’s a new flagship smartphone that just dropped. The camera is insane. I was thinking of upgrading. Could you maybe talk to Mom…?” Slam! I lost it. With every ounce of my remaining strength, I hurled the phone against the far wall. The screen splintered like an ugly spiderweb. The world was finally, utterly silent. I lay back on the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was an old, discolored water stain shaped like a grotesque, twisted face, silently mocking me. In their eyes, I was worth less than a new phone. 2 After what felt like an eternity, the door cracked open. My mother, Doris Sullivan, walked in, clutching an old thermos. The moment she saw me, the tears started, streaming down her face like a broken dam. “Oh, my poor baby, how did you get so sick? This is going to be the death of your old mother…” She collapsed against my bedside, sobbing and beating her chest dramatically. Anyone watching would have believed she was a loving, utterly heartbroken mother. But after Stella’s call and Ronan’s callousness, her wails were nothing but grating noise to me. When she finished her act, she pulled a crumpled wad of bills from her pocket and shoved it into my hand. “Grant, sweetheart, this is every penny of my emergency money. Take it.” I looked down at the pathetic bundle in my hand. At most, it was two hundred dollars. All the blood in my body rushed to my head. Twelve years of my five-figure monthly salary, and this was my return? Two hundred dollars? “Mom, where is my paycheck money?” My voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grating on wood. Doris’s sobbing stopped instantly. She wiped her eyes and immediately launched into an attack on Stella. “Don’t even get me started! I told you years ago that woman couldn’t be trusted, she’s sneaky! See? The minute you get sick, she’s nowhere to be found! She must have hidden all your money!” She pushed all the blame onto Stella. “Your money, the bulk of it, is tied up in a high-yield CD, like I told you. The penalty for early withdrawal is huge!” She slapped her thigh, her face contorted in an expression of pained self-righteousness. “Just go back to your wife! She must have cash! Spouses are supposed to protect each other, how can she just watch you die? That heartless woman!” I said nothing, just stared at her. My eyes fell on her wrist. There, glittering under the fluorescent hospital light, was a brand-new, thick gold bangle bracelet. I had seen that exact style in a jewelry store window just last week. The price tag had been north of three thousand dollars. My heart plummeted. My mother had always sworn off jewelry, calling it a waste of money. Where did this bracelet come from? I couldn’t stop the image of Stella from flashing in my mind. She hadn’t bought herself new clothes in years. She wore the same few outfits, washed until they were threadbare. Our son didn’t have a decent remote-control car; his toys were hand-me-downs from the neighbors’ kids. And my mother, wearing a three-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry, was telling me she only had two hundred dollars in emergency cash. An invisible hand squeezed my heart, the pain so sharp I could barely draw breath. “Mom, your bracelet… is that new?” I heard the tremor in my voice. Doris’s look of profound sadness instantly froze. She instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but it was too late. Her eyes darted around the room. “This? Oh… this old thing? I bought it last year… It was cheap…” “Last year?” I gave a cold, dry laugh. “I saw the exact one at the jeweler last week. Thirty-two hundred dollars.” The air thickened, a sudden, suffocating silence. Doris’s face cycled from red to white to a mottled gray-green. She instantly exploded, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Grant! What is the meaning of this?” She shot to her feet, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Are you questioning me? I worked my fingers to the bone to raise you, and now you take the side of an outsider and accuse your own mother?” “You married that vixen and lost your mind! You’re utterly poisoned by her!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to pierce my eardrums. “I’m telling you, the money is not available! If you want to get well, go beg your darling wife! See if she gives you a cent!” With that, she snatched the two hundred dollars back and threw the crumpled bills on the floor. The scattered greenbacks looked like a spray of blood. She spun around, slammed the door, and was gone. The ward was dead quiet again. I looked at the money on the floor, then at my own empty hands. Vixen? Outsider? For twelve years, Stella managed our home, raised our son, and looked after my every need. Yet, in my mother’s eyes, she was still just an “outsider.” And I, her so-called “son,” when in desperate need of life-saving cash, was rewarded with a pathetic performance and a torrent of abuse. My heart chilled, inch by agonizing inch. The “filial loyalty” I had so proudly upheld was nothing more than a self-deceiving joke. 3 I had run out of options. The hospital’s notices for payment started arriving like snowflakes, each one a death warrant. I lay on the bed, feeling like a stranded fish, mouth agape, waiting for the end. In a haze of despair, I thought of my childhood friend, Connor. I used the nurse’s station phone to call him. “Hello, who is this?” “Connor, it’s me, Grant.” My voice was weak, barely a whisper. “Grant? What the hell happened? You sound half-dead.” “I… I’m in the hospital. Acute pancreatitis. I need surgery, man. Could you… could you lend me some money?” My face burned with shame as I asked for the loan. I had never asked anyone for money in my life. “How much?” Connor didn’t waste a single word. “A hundred thousand.” “Fine. Send me the account details. But let me say one thing, Grant. Are you out of your mind? What about your wife and kid? Where did the last two and a half million you’ve earned go?” Connor’s blunt question hit me like a sledgehammer. Two and a half million… Right. Where was my money? I had never actually run the numbers. I just knew my five-figure paycheck automatically transferred to my mother’s account every month. How much was that, over twelve years? “Connor, could you… could you help me figure that out? How much did I make over the last twelve years?” “Hold on.” Connor hung up. Less than ten minutes later, the cell phone (one the nurse had kindly lent me) buzzed with a text. From Connor: “Just ran the numbers. After tax and benefits, your take-home pay over 12 years is conservatively $2.5 MILLION.” Two and a half million! I stared at the number, my limbs going cold. It wasn’t twenty-five thousand, not two hundred fifty thousand, but a staggering two and a half million dollars! That sum was enough to buy a decent house in the Bay Area, enough to secure my wife and son a comfortable life. And yet, here I was, unable to afford a hundred thousand dollars for my own surgery. Where did my money go? The wrenching pain in my heart threatened to make me pass out. Just then, the door swung open again. My mother, Doris, returned, her face still flushed with anger. I looked at her and roared like a lunatic. “Where is my money! Where did the two and a half million dollars go!” Doris flinched, startled by my ferocity. Her eyes darted away. “What two and a half million? Where do you get that number? It’s… it’s all saved for you…” “Saved? If it was saved, why can’t I get a hundred thousand dollars for life-saving surgery?” I struggled to sit up, but the weakness in my body sent me crashing back down onto the bed. “What is wrong with your brother? Shouting at your mother, do you have no manners!” A lazy, entitled voice sounded from the doorway. My brother, Ronan, swaggered in, dressed head-to-toe in brand-new designer sportswear. On his wrist, a glittering luxury watch. In his hand, the very latest smartphone model he’d asked me about on the phone. My gaze was locked on him, pinned like an insect. His outfit alone was worth more than ten thousand dollars. And then there was me. Lying on a cold hospital bed, waiting for a hundred thousand dollars to save my life. My mother and my brother were living in absolute, pampered luxury, funded entirely by my sweat and blood. A metallic, sickly-sweet taste flooded my throat. I looked at their smug, self-satisfied faces, then at the scattered, pitiful two hundred dollars on the floor. My vision went scarlet. I wasn’t a son. I was merely an asset. A human ATM, bled dry to the last drop, bones scraped clean by my own family. “The money… did it all go to him?” My voice was a raw whisper, tasting of blood. Doris’s face changed completely. Ronan looked irritated. “What do you mean, ‘went to me’? Money Mom gives her son isn’t ‘giving,’ it’s family! Besides, your money is Mom’s money. And Mom’s money is mine!” This self-serving, entitled logic ignited the final, frayed wire in my brain. I felt something enormous and vital inside me collapse. Twelve years of faith, twelve years of self-imposed blindness—it was all annihilated in that instant. 4 The door to the hospital room opened a third time. This time, it was Stella. She wore a simple black dress, her face devoid of any emotion, her eyes as cold as a Siberian winter. She didn’t look at me. She walked straight to the bedside. In her hand was a thick, leather-bound notebook. Thwack! She dropped the book onto my bed. The sound was quiet, yet it exploded in my ears like a thunderclap. My gaze fell on the cover.

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I used to be Rowan Mitchell, the realist prodigy who took the New York art world by storm. Now, still young, I run a tattoo parlor tucked away in a dimly lit alley. My work is impeccable, but the shop has one ironclad rule: no matter the price, I never ink a person’s name. “Roe, I still want her name.” The young guy who comes in every week stood in the doorway again. He pointed to the photo of a bright-eyed girl. “Just ‘Jenna.’ Please, can you do it?” I looked at him, and saw a reflection of another stubborn boy from years ago. Finally, I simply set my pen down on the table. My gaze drifted to my own growing belly. “Some names, you tattoo them thinking they’re profound declarations of love. Later, you realize they’re just jokes.” “I told you the rule. No names.” It wasn’t until news broke about Preston Van der Zee—the crown prince of the elite Manhattan circle—having a tattoo that read ‘Rowan’ on his lower back. The girls in the shop clustered around me: “Roe, that tattoo has the exact same name as yours!” “The gossip rags said the Prince had three ribs broken just to marry her. For a second, I almost thought you were the one!” I smiled, shaking my head, and stroked my pregnant stomach. The door suddenly swung open. The man stood in a tailored suit, dragging in the cold air from outside. He spoke with an unnerving detachment: “I need a removal.” 1 The moment I recognized him, my heart seized up. I froze. “Tattoo removal, right this way.” Jules, the receptionist, led him to the back room. Even with the mask covering the lower half of his face and his gaze fixed on the floor, I knew him instantly. He was Preston Van der Zee, the same man the girls and I had just been discussing. “Roe, he said he needs the owner to do the removal personally.” Jules approached me, her face clouded with concern. I pulled myself together. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” Inside the back room, Preston sat rigidly on the sofa, legs crossed, his clean knuckles idly scrolling on his phone screen. He had the speakerphone on. I heard the simpering voice of a woman on the other end: “You promised me you would clean up everything that had to do with her! But that tattoo is still there, and every time I think about it…” A broken sob filtered through the line. Preston patiently soothed her: “If you don’t like seeing it, then I’ll have it removed.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “It’s just a tattoo. Every second it stays on my body, I find it disgusting.” The sound of me pushing the door caught his attention, and he finally looked up. The moment he recognized me, his brows knit together almost imperceptibly. His sharp, assessing gaze fell to my prominent baby bump. Preston quickly pulled his attention away, addressing the phone: “Be good. I’ll be home soon.” He hung up. He looked at me. “The Van der Zee name won’t be held hostage by a child. However you got pregnant, you’ll terminate it.” His eyes were heavy and grim. For a moment, I didn’t process what he’d said. When the meaning hit, I scoffed out loud: “This is my husband’s child, Preston. It has nothing to do with you.” “I got married after we separated.” He tapped his fingers lightly on the seat, seemingly considering something. I ignored him, rolling the laser machine over. As routine, I lifted the fabric of his shirt to expose the tattoo on his lower back. Seeing the ink again after five months, my heart involuntarily lurched. Every line, every stroke, had been designed by my own hand. He had endured the pain to get it, and afterward, he’d cradled me in his arms, smiling, treating me like the most precious treasure: “This way, we’ll never be apart.” I steadied myself. “This will hurt a little. Try to stay still.” My voice was flat and steady, as if I were addressing the most ordinary client. In the small treatment room, the laser machine began its rhythmic tick-tock. Preston’s sweat beaded instantly. Each pulse of the laser brought a suppressed grunt of pain. I didn’t know how much time passed until the final stroke blurred into an angry, blood-flecked red blotch. It was done. Just like a broken promise, a wrong relationship had finally been corrected. “You’ll need three more sessions,” I said, removing my protective goggles. “It will scab, then flake off. Nothing to worry about.” Preston stumbled as he stood up, raising a hand to offer me a credit card. “Whosever child it is, abort it.” He paused. “Chelsea is pregnant too. If she were to find out, it would cause unnecessary suspicion, and emotional distress is bad for the baby.” I waved the bank card away, forcing a small smile. “Do you really think I’m just some trinket you can pick up and put down whenever you like?” Preston was silent for a beat. He sighed lightly. “Rowan, I never looked down on you.” I responded with a detached, “Mhm.” Then I turned and walked away, terrified that I would lose control, just as I used to—like a desperate, hysterical mess. And all I would get in return was a look of utter disgust and a cool, dismissive, “Are you done with your tantrum?” 2 I watched Preston walk out the door. My hand began to throb faintly. I forced a laugh for Jules. “It’s going to rain.” The words were barely out when a clap of thunder split the sky. Jules looked at me with immediate reverence. “Roe, you’re basically a Greek goddess of weather.” I gazed out the window, smiling but saying nothing. The night deepened, and the rain became a drumming downpour, blurring the glass into a massive watery curtain. Thirteen years ago, it had been a rainy day too. My father was a bodyguard for the Van der Zee family. Preston was only six then. He’d been kidnapped by an enemy family while playing outside. It was my father who sacrificed his life to save him. His only dying wish: Look after his daughter. And so, I became a fixture in the Van der Zee mansion. I was very young and only knew that my father had died because of Preston. The crushing grief overwhelmed me, and seeing him made me scream and cry. “You killed my dad! I hate you!” I stood alone in the rain, my voice raw and hoarse. The cold rain drenched me, the chill reaching my bones. Ignoring the servants’ frantic attempts to stop him, Preston ran out into the storm and pulled me into a hug, whispering, his small body trembling: “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…” We both got sick and passed out from the cold. When I woke up, Preston was sitting by my bedside, his boyish face serious and earnest: “From now on, I will protect you in everything. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” From then on, I was the Van der Zee family’s unofficial second daughter. Preston indulged my every whim. When I had nightmares about my father’s death, he would sit up all night by my bed without fail. Having just lost the only family I had, I began to depend on him, seeing him as a source of salvation. To preserve the memory of my father, I begged him to find me a painting tutor. I immersed myself in art, determined to paint the last images of my father from my memory. It was then that my teachers discovered my extraordinary talent. By age thirteen, I was studying at the Royal Academy of Arts. By fourteen, I was the protégé of a world-renowned master. At sixteen, one of my pieces sold for eight figures. I became the it girl, the prodigy, but a photo of me and Preston was leaked. The media speculation and online gossip were relentless: “Hooking up with the Prince of the Elite Circle at that age? Shameless!” “She’s nothing but a scheming gold-digger. Why are you praising her?” “Look at her. She’s clearly manipulative. Her awards? Probably slept with the judges to get them!” “Genius? More like a cheap hustler.” Spreading rumors is the fastest way to destroy a woman. Before I could react, all the online filth was scrubbed clean. Preston took the rare step of posting on his social media: “The girl I consider my North Star is not one for you to judge.” After that single sentence. No one dared to speak ill of me again. All the major gossip mongers received cease-and-desist letters. I was still in London for school when he took a red-eye flight, knocking on my door in the middle of the night. “Roe, don’t waste a single minute worrying about those people.” His long lashes still held flakes of snow. His expression was focused and full of concern. I was momentarily stunned. In that fleeting moment, I understood something deeper in his gaze. But I dared not entertain the thought. The Van der Zee empire was too vast. Preston, the heir, was destined for a strategically advantageous marriage. “Thanks, Preston,” I said, drawing my thoughts back and forcing a smile. The light in Preston’s eyes dimmed. He asked, his voice shaking: “What did you just call me?” It sounded as if he couldn’t believe his own ears. “Preston,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m meeting friends for class soon, so I can’t entertain you for long.” Preston looked like he wanted to say more, but he only ran a hand through my hair. He spoke, his voice hoarse: “I’ll head back then.” The unspoken longing of our youth ended there, in that moment of conscious retreat. The change came later, on the night of my eighteenth birthday ball. 3 “Roe,” Jules gasped, eyes wide, staring at the computer screen. “This girl looks just like you!” My heart pounded, and I quickly moved to her side. Underneath a post discussing Preston’s tattoo, someone had uploaded an old photo. It showed Preston pinning a boy to the floor, fists flying, while I, dressed in a couture gown and wearing a tiara, tried to break up the fight. Jules scratched her head, asking tentatively: “Roe, so you and the Prince really do know each other?” I nodded. And I began to tell her the story behind the photo. At my eighteenth birthday ball, a relatively well-known boy from our circle had confessed his feelings for me. Preston had immediately grabbed the boy’s collar, his tone razor sharp: “She belongs to me. What right do you have to touch her?!” The two of them had fought, oblivious to the venue or the crowd. That night, Preston came looking for me. He started drinking alone, and two glasses in, he was drunk. He cupped my face in his hands, his expression full of sorrow. “Roe, don’t you know?” He collapsed into my arms, his eyes reflecting mine. “I’m in love with you.” A burst of fireworks outside illuminated his desolate face. The painter’s perception of beauty was magnified in that moment. On impulse, I kissed his perfect lips. The moment it was done, a wave of regret washed over me. The next day, he announced to his parents that he was going to marry me. He stood firm even after his father allegedly broke three of his ribs, raging: “A Van der Zee heir marrying a bodyguard’s daughter? You’re degrading yourself!” Preston never backed down, eventually forcing the family to consent to the marriage. He had completely sealed off any chance for me to change my mind. After we married, he treated me exactly the same as before. He wanted me by his side at every event, introducing me proudly to everyone: “This is my wife. She’s a painter, a little known genius.” The entire elite circle declared him a man obsessed with his wife. “Wow,” Jules said, shaking her head, a hint of confusion in her voice. “So why did you two break up?” “The Prince was clearly madly in love with you, and you’re so accomplished. Who was this ‘other woman’ who could possibly steal him away?” When I first heard about Preston’s affair, I was dismissive. He loved me too much, I thought. He loved me enough to tattoo my name on his skin, to be inseparable from me, even immersing himself in art exhibitions and oil painting just for my sake. Chelsea Bell was the one who appeared then. Preston’s mistress. She was a struggling, ambitious university student from a poor background. I was hosting my “Phoenix Rising” exhibition in the city, and Preston was there with me. In the gallery, a young woman grabbed my hand, asking excitedly: “You’re Rowan Mitchell, right?” Her eyes sparkled. Before I could speak, she rushed on: “Ms. Mitchell, you are my idol. I’ve studied all your work, from when you were a teen until now. I truly hope to be like you someday!” Then her expression dimmed. “But I don’t have your resources. My family can’t afford to let me continue my studies.” I was moved. I considered testing her skills to see if she was worth discreetly sponsoring. I asked her, “Can you tell me which Western Art History movement you admire the most?” “I…” She stammered, unable to answer. “Enough.” Preston uncharacteristically cut me off. “Roe, don’t put her on the spot.” I stared, momentarily stunned. I was about to explain my intentions. But then I saw it: he was looking at Chelsea Bell with a barely concealed expression of pity. That was how they met. A few days later, Preston brought Chelsea home to talk with me. “Roe, do you remember Chelsea?” “Her family is forcing her to quit school and marry for money. I want to bring her here. You can mentor her personally.” Chelsea clutched at the corner of her dress, biting her lower lip, looking panicked and helpless. “Ms. Mitchell, it would be my honor to be taught by you.” “I promise to study hard. Please, just give me a chance.” She immediately knelt at my feet, her eyes wide with desperation and craving. I felt sympathy for her plight and agreed. She did nothing in the house but paint, focusing entirely on her art. Preston told the outside world that she was my new protégé, giving her an immediate, huge boost in attention. Every time I came home from a busy day, I would coach her hands-on. Watching her gradually improve, and eventually hold her own small exhibition, brought me a genuine sense of fulfillment. 4 The turning point came at one of Chelsea’s exhibitions. She displayed several works that I had never publicly released. My blood instantly boiled. I immediately confronted Preston, my voice tight with accusation: “What is the meaning of those paintings in Chelsea’s show?” I had only ever shown those specific drafts to him. Preston flinched, then said dismissively: “I gave them to her. You have so many pieces, why are you making a big deal out of a few sketches?” He tried to brush the entire matter aside. He embraced me, his voice calm. “She said she liked them, so I gave them to her. I’ll talk to her about it next time.” I refused to back down. I said with a deep, furious calm: “This is theft, Preston!” I then used my official website and social media to release an authoritative statement. Chelsea was immediately slammed by online outrage. She posted a desperate-sounding message: “Are you trying to destroy me? I don’t have Rowan’s wealth and privilege. I’m just a struggling person from a poor background. What is wrong with trying to succeed?” Preston immediately deployed the Van der Zee PR machine, working through the night to delete any negative comments about Chelsea, including my official statement. Unwilling to give up, I contacted the media and planned a press conference to clarify the truth. Preston finally erupted in rage. He came to me, shouting: “Stop it!” “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?!” “She tried to kill herself because of you! She cut her wrists! Do you know how important hands are to a painter?” For a moment, I hardly recognized him. I didn’t back down. I even swore I would paint exact duplicates of the stolen pieces and show the world that she was a fraud. Chelsea finally became afraid. She ran to Preston. “Mr. Van der Zee, please save me. I don’t want my reputation destroyed.” The day of the press conference, Preston brought a team to intercept me. He gestured to several men, and they viciously and deliberately struck my hand bones. I heard the sickening, sharp crack of the bone breaking. “Ah!—” Preston turned his eyes away, unable to watch, but his voice was unwavering. “Don’t blame me, Roe.” “If you lose your hand, you’re still Mrs. Van der Zee. But Chelsea—she can’t afford to lose anything else.” My face was paper-white. I squeezed out a strangled cry of pain, the agony nearly consuming my sanity. “Take me to a hospital, please!” I knelt on the floor, trembling violently. Preston didn’t budge. “You can hold on a little longer.” Chelsea, hiding timidly behind Preston, shot me a look of cold, victorious challenge. That was the darkest day of my life. In a single afternoon, I lost the man I loved and the career I was so proud of. 5 “Whaaa!” Jules’s cheeks were wet with tears. She looked at me with deep sympathy. “Roe, I just tried to search for your old profile, and I can’t find anything.” It was useless. After Preston and I had our final rupture, he flew into a rage and used his connections to completely wipe out all traces of my life with him. No one was allowed to mention me. I pretended to be unaffected, smiling at Jules. “Tomorrow is the start of spring holiday. We’ll take the day off.” “Okay.” … The spring rain drizzled down. When I arrived at the cemetery, a tall, familiar figure was already standing there. Pushing down my emotions, I walked over and silently placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums at my father’s grave. I stood beside Preston for a moment. As I reached the cemetery gate, he suddenly grabbed my arm. I forced myself to meet his eyes and gave a polite smile. “Can I help you?” Preston’s gaze was fixed intently on my abdomen. “Abort the child. For the sake of your father’s memory, you can still come back as Mrs. Van der Zee.” He lowered his eyes, his lips barely moving. “Chelsea feels deeply guilty about what happened between us. If you come back, she will give you her child to raise as compensation. All she asks is to see him five times a week.”

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