Author: Momo Chan

I was with my best friend at a hotel to bust her boyfriend for cheating. We threw back the covers. And I found myself staring into Nate’s face. His first instinct was to pull the sheet over the woman beside him, hiding her from view. Only then did his eyes lift to meet ours, a single, venomous sentence spat from his lips. “Get the hell out if you don’t want to die.” My best friend, Zoe, froze in terror, yanking at my arm, trying to pull me out of the room. But my body was rigid, my feet rooted to the floor. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. Because I am Nate’s actual girlfriend. 01 “Hold on.” Nate’s voice stopped us cold. He languidly lit a cigarette, a slow plume of smoke curling from his lips as his gaze settled on me. “If any videos from tonight leak, I don’t care who posts them. I’m holding you responsible.” “Echo,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue with a certain post-sex laziness, “did you hear me? Don’t pull any of your little stunts. It’s annoying.” The moment his words landed, a low laugh escaped my lips. It sounded harsh and brittle in the quiet hotel room. Zoe, hiding behind me, was frantically tugging at my shirt, her face beaded with sweat. I knew what she was thinking. She wanted me to just leave, to deal with this later. After all, Nate’s family was powerful, and he had a violent temper. When he lost it, he didn’t care if you were a man or a woman. And seeing how fiercely he was protecting the woman in the bed, Zoe was terrified I’d pick a fight and get hurt. But I wasn’t leaving. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was the one who had been wronged. There was no reason for me to back down, and I wouldn’t. “Nate, your nerve is actually kind of impressive. I’m a little confused here,” I said, pushing Zoe’s hand away and stepping forward. A sarcastic smile twisted my lips. “Remind me, who’s the one cheating right now? You, or me?” Who was the one caught in bed in a hotel? It wasn’t me, standing here fully dressed. It was Nate, naked under the sheets, smoking a post-coital cigarette. “What’s with the act?” What’s with the anger? Why are you the one threatening me when you’re the one who did something wrong? My hands clenched into fists, my voice trembling so hard I could barely form the words. I was screaming at myself internally not to show weakness, not to let him win. But when I looked down and saw the protective way he shielded the woman beside him, a sharp pain lanced through my chest. A bitter, mocking smile stretched my lips. My hands were shaking. “I’m your goddamn girlfriend!” I finally screamed, my eyes burning. “You won’t let me see her? Fine, that just makes me want to see her more! If she has the guts to pull this kind of shit, she should have the guts to show her face!” The words were barely out of my mouth before I lunged toward the bed, a crazed desperation fueling me. I had to see her. I had to know who it was that I had lost to. My movement was so sudden it caught Nate by surprise. But he recovered in a split second, his expression turning to ice. He grabbed the back of my collar and yanked me backward. As I stumbled, losing my balance, he lifted his foot and kicked me, hard, right in the stomach. The force of the blow sent me flying, and I landed heavily on the floor. A searing pain shot up my spine, and a piercing scream was torn from my throat. “Nate,” I gasped, my vision blurred with tears of pain. My voice shook, but I forced myself to look at him, to say the words one more time. “I am your girlfriend.” “So?” Impatient boredom was already creeping across his face. He frowned, looking down at me from his throne on the bed. “Echo,” he asked, “is cheating illegal?” 02 “What… what did you say?” My mind went blank. I couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything. I stared at Nate’s handsome mouth and managed a smile that was more hideous than a sob. “Nate, what did you just say? What do you mean?” How could any decent, moral person ask a question like that? But Nate wasn’t looking at me. He was leaning over, murmuring to the woman hidden under the sheets, asking if she was okay. Only after she nodded and whispered a soft “I’m fine” did he relax. Only then did he deign to look at me again. The moment our eyes met, I saw the cold indifference in his, and all the strength drained out of my body. I had known Nate for five years, been with him for three. I knew him too well. I knew him so well that in that single glance, I understood with chilling certainty: he didn’t love me anymore. When he looked at me, there was no trace of the laughter that used to dance in his eyes. There was only a thick, heavy layer of disgust, as if the very sight of me made him want to vomit. The realization was a punch to the gut. I struggled to my feet. I already knew the answer, but a desperate sliver of hope made me ask anyway, my voice trembling. “Nate, are you breaking up with me?” “Do you really like this… this homewrecker that much?” I couldn’t stop myself. My voice rose as I pointed at the lump on the bed, my eyes red with unshed tears. The next thing I knew, the half-smoked cigarette was flying through the air, straight at me. “Shut up!” he roared. “Echo, this is your last warning. This is between you and me. You leave her out of it.” Nate’s eyes were cold steel. “She’s not like you. If I hear one more disgusting word come out of your mouth, I promise you, next time I won’t just be telling you to shut up. You know I always keep my word.” I just stood there, stunned, and didn’t even think to dodge. The lit end of the cigarette hit me right below the eye. For a split second, a searing pain blossomed, leaving an angry red mark. Hot ash flew into my eye, and the world exploded in agony. In an instant, my right eye was flooded with red. I vaguely reached up and my fingers came away wet and warm. Blood and tears streamed down my face. Staring at the blood on my fingertips, a loud ringing filled my ears, blocking out all other sound. I could see Zoe running toward me, her face a mask of panic. I could see the revulsion on Nate’s face. His expression was dark, his mouth moving, spitting more venom at me. But I couldn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t until Zoe grabbed my hand that the buzzing started to fade, and the sounds of the world rushed back in. And I heard the end of Nate’s tirade, spat out with pure contempt. “What law did I fucking break by cheating?” he sneered, his eyes cold. “Who are you to play judge and jury? Forget girlfriend, even if you were my wife, so what if I cheated? You’re so worked up, you want me to call the cops on myself?” My body went rigid. I stared at him, at this man I had been with for over three years. And for the first time, I realized that after three years of sharing a bed, I had never really known him at all. A long moment passed. Then, a strange, airy laugh escaped my lips. “Okay,” I said softly. “I get it.” “You’re right, Nate. Cheating isn’t illegal.” I looked him straight in the eye. “So we’re breaking up.” Nate flinched. 03 He seemed genuinely surprised, frowning as he stared at me for a long moment. He probably hadn’t expected me to be so decisive. After a beat, he lit another cigarette. “Fine,” he said with cold indifference. “Whatever you want.” “Now get out.” As Zoe and I were leaving, he called out to us one last time. “Remember to delete the video. I don’t want to see it anywhere.” “Okay,” I said. Maybe my agreement was too quick, too casual. Nate’s hand paused on its way to his lips. He looked puzzled, but he didn’t ask any questions. I walked out of the room and, out of habit, gently pulled the door shut behind me. The moment the lock clicked, I let go of Zoe’s hand, which I had been gripping like a lifeline. The tears I had been holding back finally broke free, streaming down my face. I had to bite down on my lip, hard, to stifle the sobs that were clawing their way up my throat. Don’t cry, I told myself. He’s just a cheating piece of trash. It’s over. What is there to cry about? A scumbag like him isn’t worth my tears. But no matter how hard I tried to swallow them, the tears just kept coming. The pain and humiliation churned inside me, each wave sharper than the last, until I was so weak I could barely stand. We had been together for three years. Three whole years. I could have gotten attached to a dog in that amount of time, let alone a living, breathing person. He was the one who used to kiss and hug me every day. The one who would drop everything to travel the world with me. The one who, if I casually mentioned I missed him, would be on the first flight the next morning just to see me. I had imagined so many futures for us. Maybe we would get married. Maybe we would drift apart and break up peacefully. But I never, ever imagined it would end like this. In a sordid hotel room, with him cheating, spitting threats at me to protect his mistress. What a fucking joke. My past three years felt like a joke. I sank to the floor in the hotel stairwell, hugging my knees, and asked Zoe through ragged sobs, “Does every relationship end in this same stupid way?” Zoe dabbed at my tears with a tissue and sighed. She was about to say something when she suddenly froze. “Stop crying,” she whispered urgently. “I’ve got an opportunity for you to let off some steam. Wipe your tears and get up. Now!” Still dazed, I let Zoe pull me to my feet. Before I could even register what was happening, her eyes were blazing. She dragged me toward a couple who had just walked out of the hotel lobby. It was only when we were right in front of them that I realized the man was Zoe’s boyfriend. I saw the panic flash across his face a split second before Zoe’s studded handbag crashed into it. “You piece of shit!” Zoe screamed, her eyes red with fury. “You cheat on me? You find another woman?” She grabbed the other woman’s hair and swung her bag again. When her boyfriend tried to make a run for it, Zoe grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the ground. Then, she unleashed a flurry of kicks, her high heels stomping on his face, his groin, anywhere she could reach. Finally, her rage spent, Zoe spat on the pathetic man crumpled on the pavement. “You men are all the same!” she yelled. “Garbage! All of you!” Then she grabbed my hand, and we ran. We ran so fast the wind dried the tears on my face. We didn’t stop until we were several blocks away, gasping for breath. We looked at each other, and then, we both burst out laughing. “Feel any better?” Zoe asked, catching her breath. “A little,” I panted back, a real smile finally reaching my eyes. “My heart doesn’t hurt as much. It’s mostly my eye. The burn is really starting to sting.” I probably needed to go to the hospital. “Good,” Zoe said, her expression complicated. She hailed a cab and helped me in. “Let it hurt. And remember that pain. It’s what Nate gave you. Don’t you dare be weak and go back to him.” I lowered my gaze to the faint traces of blood on my fingertips and gave a weak smile. “I won’t.” I was done with Nate. For good. I wasn’t that pathetic. I wasn’t going to offer myself up to him just to get hurt again.

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I was married to my nemesis—a power couple in name only. We kept separate lives, a perfect, icy truce. While she made a spectacle of chasing a younger guy, I drowned my sorrow over the woman who was my one perfect memory, my guiding star. But her boy toy, Brody Wells, didn’t believe our marriage was a formality. He didn’t trust that his queen was truly his. To test the waters—and perhaps my resolve—he’d sneak into our marital penthouse in the dead of night. He once torched the million-dollar, custom-made wedding gown I’d commissioned in Italy, the one I had intended for Nora. Another time, he’d feign drunkenness and deliberately lose the wedding band my wife never took off. And every few days, he’d post veiled threats on social media, trying to challenge my status as the legitimate husband. My wife, Sloan, would call, her voice laced with weary annoyance. “The kid is jealous, I…” I’d cut her off impatiently. “Replace the ring. Fix the damage. Just don’t bother me.” I genuinely thought we’d keep this arrangement forever: mutually undisturbed, existing in parallel hells. Until Brody, emboldened by Sloan’s blind protection, went too far. He used Sloan’s name to steal the specialist appointment I had practically crawled on my knees to secure for Nora. My Nora died because of that delay. It was then I understood. Sloan Harrington and I could never be well again. For the rest of this life, we were each other’s consequence, two people destined to destroy one another. 1 I watched as Nora Clarke’s body was moved into the cremation chamber, reduced to a handful of ash. I held her urn, my arms shaking, and buried her myself. Staring at the beautiful, radiant smile etched onto her headstone, the suffocating grief I’d been holding back surged forward, a tidal wave threatening to drown me whole. I knelt at her grave, tearless, my face a terrifying mask of ice. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I traced the outline of her photograph, sitting there from dawn until the sky was pitch-black. “Nora, I have to go now. Someone has to pay for this. Don’t rush to cross over. Wait for me. I’ll exact my revenge, and then I’ll come find you.” Reluctantly, I walked away from the cemetery gates. I had a debt to collect for her, no matter the cost, even if it meant sacrificing my own life. The accumulated grief in my chest curdled, transforming into towering, consuming rage. Nora shouldn’t have died. I had secured Dr. Vaughn’s coveted treatment slot—the slot I’d practically mortgaged my soul for—only for Sloan to use my wife’s authority to hand it to her beloved Brody Wells for a common cold. By the time I realized the theft, Dr. Vaughn, infuriated by the scheduling error, had already flown overseas. I could only watch, helpless, as Nora took her last breath in my arms. Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, I drove like a fugitive, the speedometer needle touching the absolute maximum. I randomly called Sloan’s number. She picked up instantly. “Carl Owen. Are you finally calling to surrender? If you kneel and beg me, I might—might—forgive you for your decades of neglect, and perhaps even graciously save that little tramp of yours.” Sloan’s mocking voice echoed from the receiver, followed by a chorus of laughter from the people around her. “The great Owen is finally cracking? Honestly, Cal, you need to be the bigger man. Apologize. When you get here, we’ll all bear witness!” “Owen, remember to bring a case of the good stuff. We need to see your sincerity, don’t we?” “And he definitely has to buy Brody a gift, or Nora the short-lived ghost can forget about getting any help from our dear Sloan.” My rationality, already frayed, was incinerated completely the moment I heard them use Nora’s name like that. “Fine. Give me the address,” I said, my voice dry and gravelly. I hung up the second I got the location. The roar of the engine mixed with the frantic thump-thump of my heart as the tires screamed on the pavement. I slammed the brakes at the entrance of the exclusive private club, snatched a steel baton from a security booth, and stormed towards the private dining suite. I kicked the door open, meeting Sloan’s bored, casual gaze. “Well, Mr. Owen. Where is Brody’s gift?” The sycophantic girl who had just called Nora a “short-lived ghost” stepped closer, a smirk plastered on her face. I raised the baton and brought it down hard across her head. A fountain of hot, visceral crimson instantly erupted. “Carl Owen, you’re insane!” 2 She screamed. Before anyone could process what was happening, I had snatched Brody Wells, who stood apart, grinning smugly at my arrival. I swung the baton again, bringing it down with crushing force onto his shoulder. He let out a shriek of raw agony, and that finally jolted Sloan back to reality. She shoved me away and quickly shielded Brody behind her. “Carl Owen! Are you losing it? You’re acting like a rabid dog, tearing apart the furniture!” She glared at me, her brow furrowed with pure disgust. I walked toward her, one slow step at a time. The baton in my hand was gripped so tightly my knuckles were white. “Yes, Sloan. I lost it. The moment you took Nora’s last chance at life and gave it to this animal, I lost everything.” Hearing Nora’s name, Sloan let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. “Still obsessed with that little tramp? Did she call you to complain? She really is a useless thing who can only rely on a man…” I cut her off with a sharp, stinging slap across her face. “You don’t have the right to speak her name, you criminal!” My slap ignited a rage in Sloan that matched my own. She stood up, poking my chest with a manicured finger, her voice a low, venomous growl. “A slut is a slut! Why can’t I mention her? Don’t forget, you are still my husband, Carl Harrington!” Her eyes were filled with hatred. She grabbed a nearby steak knife and pressed the point lightly against my cheek. “Come on, dear husband. Apologize to my Brody-bear.” “Maybe if my mood improves, I’ll even let that tramp live a few more days.” With the knife pressed against me, I was unable to fight. She forced me to crouch down like a dog in front of Brody. I curled my lip into a smile. “Fine. If you can save Nora, I’ll kowtow to him. I’ll grovel.” Sloan’s face instantly chilled, only to snap back into a sneer a second later. “Perfect. I’d like to see just how low you’ll sink for that slut!” The instant she removed the knife, I lunged like a starved wolf, pulling Brody to the floor, sinking my teeth into his neck artery—I wanted to rip him apart! Sloan screamed for her security guards to drag me off. My head hit the floor, but I felt no pain. Only sheer, savage release. I let out a rattling laugh, cold eyes fixed on Brody as he wailed in terror, blood soaking his shirt. Sloan walked over, had a guard yank me up by the collar, and looked me dead in the eye, her expression vile. “You ungrateful, lowlife piece of trash! Since you won’t do it the easy way, you can strip naked, kneel on the floor, and beg Brody for forgiveness!” “Otherwise…” I wiped the blood from my lips and met her gaze fearlessly. “Otherwise what?”

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My mother-in-law walked into my house with the pregnant mistress and the ultrasound report, demanding I leave with nothing. My husband stood beside her and let her. I didn’t cry or scream. I just smiled. Right there, in front of all of them, I made a call. Thirty minutes later, a young man who looked startlingly like my father-in-law appeared at the door. I linked my arm through my mother-in-law’s, my voice sweet. “Mom, look. A new heir and a new grandson for the family. Double the good news. Try to be gracious.” 01 The atmosphere in the living room was toxic. Cecilia Wells, my mother-in-law, occupied the main sofa, her posture rigid, radiating the imperiousness of a minor royal. Every expertly preserved line on her face was etched with contempt and impatience for me. The ultrasound report lay like a dropped gauntlet on the polished coffee table between us. “Caroline,” her voice was low, yet sharp enough to cut glass. “Take a look at that.” “Three years, and your womb is stagnant. The Wells family is not going to let our name end because you’re incapable. Don’t be so pathetic as to cling to what isn’t yours.” Next to her sat a younger girl, Summer Rose. I knew her name. I’d seen her picture, tucked away in an encrypted photo album on my husband Harriet Wells’s phone, labeled “My Little Miracle.” Now, Summer was stroking her slightly rounded stomach, her face a mask of fragile vulnerability. Her eyes, however, were anything but fragile, darting hooks at Harriet, who was planted miserably next to me. Harriet, my husband. He looked like a child caught stealing, his gaze glued to the tips of his expensive leather shoes. He couldn’t look at his mother, and he certainly couldn’t look at me. He just mumbled a few words, the sound barely audible. “Caro, let’s… let’s be adults about this. Let’s not make this messy.” Let’s not make this messy. The last flicker of warmth I held for him died a swift, cold death. Had he forgotten everything I’d done for this family, for his career, over the past three years? I poured my family’s social and financial capital into his professional ladder, propelling him from a mid-level manager to a senior director at Wells Industries. I set aside my artistic life—my painting—to become the perfect corporate wife, learning to host dinners and manage the facade of domestic bliss. I endured Cecilia’s constant, stinging criticisms for the sake of his ridiculous “face.” And now, he wanted to dismiss me with a flimsy, “Let’s be adults.” I didn’t feel pain, just a profound, chilling numbness. I looked at them: the smug, demanding matriarch; the spineless, self-serving husband; the mistress, radiating a premature sense of victory. They formed a tableau so ridiculous, so deeply insulting, that I suddenly started to laugh. It wasn’t a sob or a bitter snort—it was a deep, honest amusement at the sheer, tragic absurdity of the scene. My quiet laughter cut through the tension in the room. Cecilia’s lips pressed into a thin, furious line, as if I were a piece of garbage she’d just spotted on her Italian marble floor. “What’s so funny? Have you lost your mind?” Harriet finally lifted his head, a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Caro, stop this—” I ignored them both. I reached into my handbag, pulled out my phone, and slowly unlocked the screen. My movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if I were simply checking the time. All eyes in the room were fixed on my hand. I found the number, one I’d saved months ago but never dialed. I hit the call button. It was answered immediately. I brought the phone to my ear, my voice softer than a whisper. “Hello.” “You can come up now.” I hung up and placed the phone back on the coffee table. My composure only fueled Cecilia’s rage. She assumed I was calling my parents to beg for support. She let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Go ahead, Caroline! Call your father, call the Governor! It won’t make a difference! The Wells legacy won’t be extinguished by a barren woman! You. Will. Go.” I didn’t dignify that with a response. I picked up the lukewarm tea in front of me and took a delicate sip. I was waiting. Waiting for the meticulously crafted surprise I’d prepared for the entire Wells family. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Harriet was fidgeting, repeatedly trying to speak only to be silenced by his mother’s glare. Even Summer’s fragile facade was beginning to crack, replaced by a nervous impatience. And then, after about half an hour, the doorbell chimed. Ding-dong. The sudden sound shattered the silence. Every nerve in the room went taut. A triumphant smirk spread across Cecilia’s face. She believed it was my family and was already preparing her humiliating speech. She gestured sharply to the housekeeper to open the door. Harriet jumped up, wringing his hands, bracing himself for the anticipated confrontation. The door opened. Standing in the entryway was a teenager. He looked around seventeen, dressed in a simple white tee and jeans, his frame lean, his eyes possessing a cool, almost haughty detachment. But it was the face. The face was, without a doubt, a near-perfect seven-tenths match for the photograph of Theodore Wells, my father-in-law, that hung in his study. Especially the eyes: narrow, sharp, and possessing an innate look of appraisal. The living room fell utterly silent. Cecilia’s triumphant smirk froze on her face, contorted into a grotesque expression of shock, as if she’d been hit by a sandbag. Harriet was agape, his mouth hanging open like a fish, pointing from the boy to me, unable to form a coherent sentence. I, however, remained serene. I rose gracefully and walked to Cecilia’s side, linking my arm with hers in a move that was sickeningly affectionate. Her arm was stiff as concrete. I could feel her entire body trembling. I leaned close to her ear and, in a voice that sounded almost cloyingly sweet, delivered the line I’d practiced in my head countless times. “Mom, look at us. Double the good news today.” I straightened up, my smile reaching the boy at the door, then sweeping over to my ashen-faced husband. “Harry’s getting a baby, and the Wells family is welcoming a new grandson. Isn’t that double the good news?” Finally, my gaze settled back on Cecilia. I lowered my voice to a dangerous, private whisper. “As the family’s matriarch, you’ll have to be… gracious.” “You need to set an example for the children.” 02 The moment the words left my mouth, Cecilia shrieked like a scalded cat. “You’re insane! You’re lying!” She shoved me away with a force that made me stagger. She pointed a violently shaking finger at the boy by the door. “Who is this gutter trash?! Caroline, you’ve finally lost it! What kind of sick, low-life stunt are you pulling to avoid a divorce!” The boy, Jesse Cole, hadn’t spoken a word. He merely regarded the hysterical woman with a cold, even stare, as if watching a meaningless theatrical performance. He reached into his jeans pocket and slowly pulled out a photograph. The photo was yellowed and curled at the edges, obviously cherished. It showed a young, vibrant Theodore Wells holding a bundled baby, standing next to a smiling, quiet woman. The baby’s features were strikingly similar to Jesse’s now. The photo was a bucket of ice water dumped directly onto Cecilia’s fire. Her shriek died in her throat. She stared at the photo, her lips trembling, utterly speechless. Harriet finally recovered from his shock. But his first instinct wasn’t to question the man who raised him. It was to turn the full force of his terror onto me. He lunged toward me, his eyes bloodshot, his face contorted with fury. “Caroline! Are you out of your mind?! You hired an actor to pull this pathetic soap opera? For God’s sake, what is your limit?!” His rage was the frightened bluster of a man who knew he was losing control. He wasn’t stupid; he was simply terrified. Terrified that this sudden “little brother” would cut into his inheritance. I gave him a bored, flat look. “Whether he’s an actor or not, Harry, can be solved with a simple DNA test. Just call your father back.” My eyes narrowed, carrying an all-knowing contempt. “Why so agitated? Are you afraid of another claimant to the estate, or are you afraid of your mother’s blood pressure?” The question was a direct hit to his jugular. Harriet’s face went instantly pale. All the accusations clogged in his throat. He looked like a dog whose leash had been snapped, retreating a couple of steps in utter defeat. Summer, in the corner, was clearly terrified by the sharp, unexpected turn of events. She’d come expecting to be the star, the triumphant victor. Instead, she found herself neck-deep in a messy, high-stakes power struggle far beyond her understanding. She instinctively shrank behind Harriet, seeking protection, only to realize the man himself was rapidly drowning. Her face showed a genuine panic and perhaps, a flicker of regret. After her brief moment of stunned silence, Cecilia completely broke. She began throwing things. The crystal bowl on the coffee table, the antique vase on the credenza—anything she could grab was hurled to the floor. The sounds of shattering glass and porcelain were punctuated by her frenzied screaming. She called me a poisonous snake, a murderer trying to destroy her family. She screamed that Jesse was bastard trash, a demon sent to ruin them. The only person she dared not curse was the man in the photograph, her husband, Theodore Wells. I leaned back into the sofa, pouring myself a glass of water, watching the theatrical destruction unfold with detached calm. Seeing Cecilia’s face swell with apoplectic rage, I offered a “kind” reminder. “Mom, be careful not to—oh, wait.” I paused and gestured toward the whimpering Summer in the corner. “It’s her whose blood pressure you should worry about, right?” That sentence was like oil on a raging fire. Cecilia lost all control, lunging at me, only to be caught and held fast by Harriet. “Mom! Calm down! Mom!” Harriet was a mess, trying to restrain his collapsing mother while simultaneously glancing at me, hoping I would “be the bigger person.” I simply shot him an icy glare, and he froze, unable to move a muscle closer. The living room was a disaster. Screaming, crying, cursing—an absurd opera of domestic chaos. Jesse and I were the only still points in the storm. He stood like a statue of judgment, his mere presence a searing indictment of this hypocritical household. I took out my phone and, with a subtle click, snapped a photo of the wreckage. The picture captured my hysterical mother-in-law, my cowardly husband, and the terrified mistress, all against a backdrop of shattered glass. How fitting, I thought, the words a low murmur to myself. A perfect photo of a gilded cage falling apart. 03 Theodore Wells returned to find the domestic drama in its intermission. Cecilia, exhausted from screaming, was slumped on the sofa, the housekeeper gently rubbing her back. Harriet was awkwardly sweeping up shards of glass, looking lost. Summer remained a frightened ghost in the farthest corner. Jesse and I stood apart, a unified front against the mess. Theo Wells entered the room, trailing a cool, palpable aura of authority. He was in his mid-fifties but meticulously preserved, his power suit and air of command making him seem younger and more intimidating. His gaze swept the room, finally locking onto Jesse’s face—a younger version of his own. His eyes narrowed, a mixture of shock and fury, as if he’d been struck where he was most vulnerable. Cecilia saw her savior and lurched off the sofa, a sinking ship finding a port. She rushed to him. “Theo! Thank God you’re home! Look what she’s done!” She pointed at me, her voice cracking with accusation. “She’s trying to destroy our family! She found some bastard and claims he’s your son! She’s trying to kill me!” Theo ignored her wailing. His eyes, cold and lethal, drilled into me. “Caroline. Who gave you the right?” His voice was deep, each word forced out, loaded with immense pressure. He didn’t spare a glance for Jesse, treating the boy as if he were thin air. He issued an immediate command, speaking to me as if I were a subordinate who had overstepped. “Take this boy, whatever he is, and get out of my house. Now.” This was Theo Wells: the benevolent dictator, the ruthless puppet master, the one who would sacrifice anything—anyone—to preserve his name and his image. I didn’t move. Facing his crushing authority, I didn’t even blink. I slowly reached into my Hermès bag and pulled out another document—a manila envelope, the seal intact. I pushed it onto the coffee table toward him. The gesture was elegant, yet infused with an undeniable force. “Don’t rush to judgment, Dad.” My voice, light as a feather, somehow carried to every corner of the room. “I was worried you wouldn’t believe me, so I took the liberty of getting a DNA test done myself. Preemptively.” Boom. The revelation sent a fresh jolt of electricity through the room. The crack in Theo’s facade widened. He stared at the envelope, his expression a mask of disbelief. He hadn’t accounted for my meticulous preparation. I reached out and delicately broke the seal, sliding the sheets of paper out and laying them flat. The top line, bold and centered, screamed the conclusion. “Based on the DNA analysis, the results support Theodore Wells as the biological father of Jesse Cole.” The line beneath was the final nail: “Probability of Paternity is greater than 99.99%.” That single line of text was a brutal slap across Theo’s self-righteous face, and across Cecilia’s tear-streaked one. The silence was absolute. The only sound was Theo’s ragged breathing. His face cycled from steely blue to ash-white. His carefully cultivated control had just crumbled. It took him a long moment to find his voice. It was dry, like sandpaper. He glared at me, his look promising murder. “What in God’s name do you want?” I smiled. Facing his killer gaze, my expression was serene. “Nothing much, Dad.” I echoed his earlier tone, slow and deliberate. “I’m just taking a page from your wife’s book.” “Just trying to be… gracious.” 04 The scent of emotional gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Theo Wells, the seasoned operator, regained control after his initial shock. He waved a hand, dismissing his wife and son. “You two go upstairs. I need to speak to Caroline alone.” Cecilia started to protest, but one freezing look from Theo silenced her. She pulled a confused Harriet upstairs. Summer, relieved to escape the line of fire, vanished first. The housekeeper swiftly followed, closing the door behind her. The expansive living room was left to me, Theo, and the silently watchful Jesse. Theo took a deep, steadying breath, trying to reclaim his air of command. He pulled a checkbook and a Montblanc pen from his inner blazer pocket, his movements practiced and smooth. The pen scratched across the paper. He wrote a number, then slid the check across the table to me. “Five million.” His voice regained its high-and-mighty tone of condescension. “You, and this… young man, will take this money and disappear from my life forever. What happened today never happened.” I looked at the check—Five Million Dollars—written in his arrogant, sprawling hand. The arrogance of capital. I chuckled, then picked up the check between two fingers and gently pushed it back. “Dad, do I look like I need a settlement?” Theo’s face darkened. “Then what is it you want?” I bypassed the question, choosing a different angle. “Do you remember, Dad? This house, the one we’re sitting in now—in Point Vista? When we got married, you put the title in my name to show my parents your ‘sincerity.’” I watched his face change again and added cheerfully, “So, technically, you and the rest of the family are currently residing in my house.” Theo’s complexion became utterly ashen. The shift from overconfidence to strangled realization was complete. For the first time, he saw me—the wife he’d dismissed as a quiet artist and a passive trophy. I decided to apply the pressure.

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“You don’t deserve this room.” Bethany stood in the doorway, my backpack clutched in her hand. I was eight years old, home from school, only to find the lock on my bedroom door had been changed. “This room is for Troy now.” She tossed the backpack at my feet. “You’ll be living at your grandmother’s house.” I looked at Dad. He was staring at his shoes, refusing to meet my eyes. “Dad…” “Just listen to your mother.” That night, dragging my suitcase, I stood on Grandma Ruth’s front stoop. When she opened the door and saw me, she froze for three seconds, then pulled me into her arms and just cried. 1. In 2003, I was eight. That summer, my father got remarried. His new wife, Bethany, brought her six-year-old son, Troy, into our house. On the wedding day, Bethany wore a cream-colored dress, and her smile was so sweet it felt sticky. She patted my head and said, “We’re a family now, Callie. Call me Mom.” I did what I was told. “Mom.” She smiled in response, then immediately turned to hug Troy. I thought this was the start of a new life. My birth mother died young. I was only two when she was gone. Grandma Ruth always said Mom’s health had failed after giving birth to me, and she never recovered. For years, Grandma helped raise me, because Dad worked constantly and couldn’t manage it all. Now that we had a mother in the house, I thought things would finally be different. They certainly were. On the third day after the wedding, Bethany replaced the family portrait in the living room. The new photo showed Dad, her, and Troy. I wasn’t in it. I asked Dad, “Why am I not in the picture?” He said, “We’ll add you next time we take one.” When was next time? I didn’t know. But I knew the things in our house started to change, little by little. Troy’s toys multiplied, spilling out of every corner of the living room. My own toys were packed away into the storage closet. “They take up too much space,” Bethany declared. Every day, Bethany cooked Troy whatever he wanted—mac and cheese, crispy chicken tenders, hot dogs. And me? “You’re not a picky eater, Callie. You can eat anything.” Back then, I didn’t understand what favoritism was. I just wondered why Troy got two chicken fingers, and I only got one. Why Troy could stay up late watching cartoons, but I had to be in bed by eight. Why Troy could mess up and Bethany would just say, “Oh, he’s just a little boy, he doesn’t know any better,” but when I broke a water glass, I had to stand in the corner for two hours. I asked Dad about it. His answer was always the same: “You’re older, honey. You need to be more sensible.” Older? I was only eight. That fall, things escalated. Troy was starting elementary school. Bethany decided Troy needed a quiet environment to study. My room faced south. It was bright, and it was quiet. Troy’s room faced north, right over the street. It was too noisy. “Troy is moving into your room. You can take the north one.” I didn’t want to. It was the room I’d lived in my whole life. My mother’s last photo was still taped to the wall there. “No,” I said. “It’s my room.” Bethany’s face hardened immediately. “I’m talking to you, young lady. Watch your tone.” I looked at Dad. He just repeated the mantra: “Listen to your mother.” That night, I was forced to move into the small room facing north. Eighty square feet. A bed, a small desk, and a window that was broken—it wouldn’t shut properly, letting the winter draft whistle in. I carefully re-taped Mom’s photo to the wall of my new room. It was the only stand I took. But it wasn’t over. A month later, Bethany found a new reason. “There are only three bedrooms in this house. Your father and I have the master, Troy has the south room… wherever you are, it feels crowded.” She paused, then put on a saccharine, “I’m-doing-this-for-you” expression. “I think you’d be better off staying with your grandmother. Ruth is all alone; it would be so good for her to have company.” I just stared. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying you should go live at your grandmother’s.” Bethany sounded completely justified. “It’s not like you can’t visit. You can always come back for the holidays.” I looked at Dad. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the TV, silent. “Dad, say something.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Listen to your mother.” I lay awake that night, listening to the wind rattle the faulty window, and didn’t sleep a wink. The next day, when I came home from school, the lock on my old door was changed. The key was in Bethany’s hand. “I’ve packed all your things.” She pushed a suitcase toward me. “Your grandmother is coming to pick you up today.” I looked at the suitcase. A pink, 20-inch carry-on. It had belonged to my mother. It held all my clothes and schoolbooks. I looked at Dad. He was standing in the kitchen, holding his mug, still not looking at me. “Dad.” He didn’t answer. “Dad, are you getting rid of me?” He finally looked up, meeting my eyes for one fleeting second. In that glance, there was guilt, helplessness, but mostly, avoidance. “Your grandmother will take good care of you,” he said. “I’ll send you money every month for expenses.” I didn’t cry. Eight-year-old me stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the house I’d lived in for eight years, and suddenly felt like a complete stranger. Bethany leaned against the doorframe, a faint, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Troy peeked out of my old bedroom, holding my small teddy bear nightlight. “Mom, this lamp is cool!” “If you like it, keep it.” My mother had given me that lamp. I wanted to rush over and snatch it back. But I didn’t. Because I knew that in this house, I no longer had the right to ‘snatch’ anything. Grandma Ruth was waiting outside. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled up. “My Callie-girl.” She knelt down and wrapped me in a tight hug. “Time to come home with Nana.” I nodded. Dragging the pink suitcase, I walked out the door. Behind me, the lock clicked shut. That was October 15th, 2003. I will never forget that day. Because from that day forward, I no longer had a home. 2. Grandma Ruth lived in a run-down complex on the south side of town. A two-bedroom apartment, about 600 square feet. The building was old, the paint was peeling, and the room was quite cold. But Grandma had cleaned out the biggest bedroom for me. “Callie-girl, this room is all yours now.” She held my hand. “This is your home from now on.” I stood in the room, looking at the clean bedding, the new desk lamp, and the small potted plant on the desk. Grandma lived on her own, with a small monthly pension—barely enough for one. She had bought all these things just for me. That night, lying in bed, I finally let myself cry. Not because of the injustice. But because of Grandma Ruth. She was getting old, her health was fragile, and she took three different medications every day. She was supposed to be enjoying a quiet retirement, but instead, she was now responsible for an eight-year-old. “Nana, I’m sorry.” Grandma held me and softly stroked my back. “Silly child, what are you sorry for? You’re my granddaughter. If I don’t take care of you, who will?” From then on, I lived with Grandma. Life was simple. Grandma walked me to school in the mornings, I ate lunch in the school cafeteria, and in the evenings, she cooked and waited for me to come home. Grandma’s food was the best. Even though it was simple, comfort food, it tasted far better than anything Bethany ever cooked. At least here, I always got two chicken fingers. Dad had promised to send money every month. The first month, he sent $300. The second month, $200. The third month, nothing. Grandma called. Bethany answered. “Ruth, it’s not that we don’t want to send it. But things are tight right now. Troy has tutoring, and there are so many expenses. Just tell Callie to be more frugal.” Grandma was so angry her hands were shaking. “That is your husband’s flesh-and-blood daughter!” “Is she? And are you the one raising her?” Bethany’s voice was ice cold. “She eats your food and lives in your house. Does it really seem right to ask us for money?” The phone went dead. Grandma sat on the sofa, silent for a long time. I came out of my room and saw her wiping away tears. “Nana, it’s okay.” I knelt and took her hand. “I don’t need their money.” “Oh, my sweet child…” “I’m not silly.” I looked up, my eyes dry. “Nana, I’m going to make money one day. I’m going to take care of you.” I was eight years old. Even I didn’t quite believe the words. But I never forgot them. After that, the allowance from Dad stopped completely. Occasionally, he’d send $100 or $150, but it was sporadic and unpredictable. Grandma never asked them again. Her pension, plus the small amount she earned doing alterations for neighbors, was just enough for the two of us. I knew how hard Grandma economized. The clothes she bought for me were new; the ones she wore were ten years old. She gave me meat; she ate only vegetables. She couldn’t afford to run the old gas heat much, so she slept under two heavy quilts. I saw it all. But I was too young to do anything. The only thing I could do was study. I knew that a good education was the only way I could give Grandma a good life later. When the holidays came, Dad would call. “Callie-girl, come home for Christmas dinner.” Home? Was it still my home? I didn’t want to go. But Grandma would say, “Go, honey. He is still your father.” So I went. The moment I opened the door, I saw a new chandelier in the living room, a brand-new sofa, and a thick carpet on the floor. Troy, in a new designer jacket, was glued to a gaming console on the sofa. Bethany peered out from the kitchen. “You’re back? Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a minute.” Her tone was casual, as if I were a distant relative stopping by. I looked down at my clothes. It was one of Troy’s old coats from last winter, which Bethany had given me before the holiday. “It’s still practically new. Troy didn’t want it anymore, but it’ll fit you perfectly.” Wearing Troy’s hand-me-downs, standing in this newly furnished house, I felt utterly out of place. During dinner, Bethany put the best portion of the slow-cooked roast in front of Troy. “Eat up, Troy. I made extra just for you.” In front of me, there was a plate of steamed vegetables. Dad reached over and put one small piece of the roast onto my plate. “Eat up.” One piece. Just one. Troy ate half the platter; I had one piece. I kept my head down and ate in silence. After dinner, Dad slipped me a $100 bill. “Take this. Get yourself some school supplies.” $100. I glanced at the new 60-inch flat-screen TV in the living room. It must have cost thousands. Then the gaming console in Troy’s hands. His new jacket. His brand-name sneakers. I took the money. Because Grandma needed it. “Thank you, Dad.” He patted my head. “Keep up the good work in school.” That year, I stayed in that house for only two hours. I ate, and I left. Bethany stood by the door, politely saying, “Come back soon.” Soon? When was soon? I didn’t know. Walking out of the complex, I looked back once. The living room light was on. Through the window, I could see Troy bouncing on the sofa, while Bethany and Dad were laughing, watching him. A perfect, happy family of three. I turned my back and walked into the cold winter night. That day, for the first time, I clearly understood— I had been abandoned by this family. Not just “staying with Grandma.” Abandoned. 3. Life went on. Elementary school, middle school, high school. I lived with Grandma Ruth the entire time. She poured all her love into me. All I could do in return was study hard. My grades were always good—top ten in my middle school, and I got into the Honors track in high school. Every time I brought home a report card, Grandma’s face would light up. “My Callie-girl is so brilliant!” That was her greatest source of pride. During the holidays, she’d tell the neighbors, “My granddaughter has amazing grades. She’s going to college!” A neighbor would sometimes ask, “Does her father help her?” Grandma’s smile would falter for a second. Then she’d say, “Of course, he helps… he comes to see her every Christmas.” Every Christmas. Yes, only at Christmas did I go back to that house once a year. It was the same routine: a quick dinner, a hundred bucks, and then I left. Bethany’s attitude was always politely distant, treating me like a relative she barely knew. Troy completely ignored me. Dad’s attitude was guilt, but guilt that never translated into action. I grew used to it. And I stopped expecting anything. In my junior year of high school, I needed a computer. The school started requiring a computer literacy class. I didn’t have one. Grandma had saved up her pension for years, accumulating maybe a thousand dollars. She wanted to buy me one. I refused. “Nana, keep that money for yourself. I’ll ask Dad.” It was the first time I ever called my father proactively. The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. “Hello, Callie? What’s going on? Why are you calling?” I took a deep breath. “Dad, I need a computer for school. I need about a thousand dollars.” Silence on the other end. “A thousand?” “Yes.” “Things are really tight right now. Troy is starting high school, and we’re saving for his tuition and fees…” I gripped the phone tightly. “Could you loan it to me? I promise I’ll pay you back.” “Callie, what kind of talk is that? Loan? It’s not like I won’t give it to you. I’m just short on cash right now…” “So, when will you not be short on cash?” “What is with your attitude?” He sounded annoyed. “Doesn’t your grandmother have her retirement money? Ask her to cover it for now. I’ll reimburse you later.” Later? When was later? When I was little, he said “next time,” now he said “later.” I had waited ten years for “next time.” “Never mind.” I hung up the phone. That night, I told Grandma, “I don’t need the computer. I can use the school’s lab.” Grandma didn’t say a word, she just looked at me and sighed. The next day, I came home to find a used desktop computer sitting on the desk. Grandma had found someone to help her buy it for five hundred dollars. “It’s not new, but it works.” Grandma wiped the sweat from her brow. “You’ll have to make do with it.” I looked at the old computer, at Grandma’s graying hair, at her increasingly frail figure. The tears came immediately. “Nana…” “Don’t cry.” Grandma wiped my tears. “Seeing you graduate and go to college will be worth everything.” The year I took my SATs, I was ranked third in my entire school. My score was high enough for the state’s top university. The tuition was $6,000 a year. With room and board and living expenses, it would be at least twenty thousand a year.

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My mother was the neighborhood’s most celebrated stepmother. She treated my stepfather’s three children better than she ever treated me. It was a well-known fact. Once, when all four of us had the flu, she was so terrified of neighbor gossip that she only gave the medication to them, leaving me to suffer and shake it off on my own. She would smooth my hair back countless times, her eyes full of a pleading sadness. “Cass, being a stepmother is impossible. I can’t slight them, or the whole town will carve up my reputation.” “You understand your mother, don’t you?” I understood. So many times. And each time, I swallowed the humiliation down to the back of my throat, where it hardened into a stone. That stone finally cracked when we were caught in a torrential downpour and had to pull over to the side of the highway to avoid a ticket. Just like she always did, Mom told me to get out and wait for the rain to let up. I stood frozen. I couldn’t move, and she knew why. After my stepbrother Garrett hit me while reversing his truck, my leg had been permanently damaged. I couldn’t walk for more than half an hour without searing pain. Mom’s patience snapped. She yanked me by the arm, dragging me out of the vehicle. “Don’t be stubborn, Cass! Try to be reasonable for once!” “Find a spot to take cover. Wait for the rain to stop and then hurry home.” I stood paralyzed in the deluge. This house, this life, wasn’t what I wanted. The downpour didn’t stop. The street water had already risen to my knees. I stumbled again and again into the deep puddles. The city streetlights cast a blurry, weak glow on the pitch-black night. “Cass?” 1 “Cass?” As I fell into the churning water yet again, Mom—umbrella in hand—sprinted toward me. She was always like this. I couldn’t bring myself to fully love her. But I couldn’t bring myself to fully hate her either. Her small frame looked like a scrap of paper in the wild wind, and she was nearly blown over into the floodwater. Rain smeared my vision. It wasn’t until she reached my side that her face and voice snapped into clear focus. She struggled to pull me from the slick, icy water, recognizing the resentment etched on my face. With a familiar, weary sigh, she began her usual lecture. “I know you’re upset. But what choice do I have, honey?” “You’re my biological daughter. They’re not. If I show even the slightest bit of unfairness to them, the whole world will know. How am I supposed to live with that judgment?” “I know you’ve suffered. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked on the last two sentences. It was heavy with the frustration of being misunderstood and the inescapable burdens of a stepmother. I said nothing. She helped me hobble back to that house. The dinner table held only scraps and cold leftovers. Even the ginger tea Mom had made to ward off my cold had been entirely consumed. Worse, they had poured the last bit into the cat’s bowl, just to make sure none was left for me. My two stepsisters, Brielle and Delaney, and my stepbrother, Garrett, never liked me. To my face, they were vaguely polite, mostly indifferent. But behind my back, they called me a pathetic leech, a tolerated guest, only fit to be their cleaning lady—less important than the furniture. They didn’t particularly like my mother either, but they reveled in all the concessions she made for them. My stepfather, Malcolm Shaw, sat in the living room watching TV. He didn’t spare either of us a glance, only offering a perfunctory, “You’re back.” He was always polite to me—no fighting, no yelling, no questions asked. He treated me like a distant relative, an acquaintance. But my mother loved him. She loved him fiercely. Even through all the compromises and suffering, she saw it as the necessary friction of building a happy family. Her love for him was why she’d divorced my biological father, giving up everything and taking me with her, the moment she learned Malcolm’s first wife had passed. She always said Malcolm was her first love. If not for her parents’ disapproval, their romance wouldn’t have been so tumultuous. Her deep, enduring love for him was the reason she went to such extremes for his three children. Mom helped me into the bathroom to take a hot shower. She brought me a glass of hot water. My stomach was rumbling. I was about to open my mouth and say, Mom, I’m starving. But she spoke first. “It’s late, Cass. Drink this water to settle your stomach. Your sister, Delaney, has terrible anxiety and her room is right next to the kitchen.” “She can’t tolerate the slightest noise. I’ll wake up early tomorrow and make breakfast.” The words died on my tongue. Since becoming a stepmother, she was a master at considering every single person in the house. Except me. 2 Her devotion to her role, her fear of being judged, dictated everything. I had been accepted to a prestigious state university. But Brielle cut off the celebration with a single demand: “None of us went to college. If Cass goes, we each deserve to be compensated for what we missed out on. You owe us all a college fund payout.” “Otherwise, we’ll know you, the stepmother, are playing favorites!” It didn’t matter that my tuition didn’t require Malcolm’s money. Mom’s salary alone was enough to cover my schooling. But for the sake of “fairness,” and because she couldn’t afford Brielle’s demand, she came to me weeping, begging: “Cass, you’re so smart. You’ll make it even without a degree.” “You love writing, don’t you? Why not try writing your novel full-time? Maybe that’s your best path.” That was the first time I truly fought back. I broke down, screaming until my voice was raw: “They didn’t go to college because they weren’t smart enough to get in!” “Why can’t I use my own mother’s money to go? Even if you won’t help, I can take out student loans!” But no matter how much I pleaded, Mom only cried with that same helpless, defeated expression. She even fell to her knees, hitting herself across the face. That was when I learned Delaney’s cat had shredded my acceptance letter. Mom begged me not to make a scene, pleaded with me not to tear apart the fragile family unity she’d fought so hard to build. I never made it to college. And not long after, I lost my chance at a future, and I lost my leg. Even when Garrett, driving without a license, reversed right into me and shattered my leg, she wouldn’t let me report it. She was terrified I’d make a big deal of it, that Garrett would go to jail, and that her perfect family would crumble. She threatened to kill herself if I called the police. She called this family her entire life, claiming Garrett was practically her own flesh and blood. If he went to prison because of me, she said, not only would he hate her, but it would destroy her relationship with Malcolm. After that final, crushing despair, I realized the absolute truth: she wasn’t their stepmother. She had utterly and completely become mine. The next day, I woke up with a bad cold and a spiking fever. My limbs were weak and heavy. Mom briefly checked on me early in the morning. She hastily put a hot mug of milk and a omelette egg on my nightstand. Seeing how high my fever was, she added a bottle of Advil. She was in such a rush. So rushed that she didn’t even look me in the eye when she spoke. “Cass, I’m heading to work now. Try to sleep it off. The fever will break soon. The house is on you.” I was the only “idle” one at home. Since the accident, being disabled meant I couldn’t find a suitable job. So, aside from writing my novels, I was in charge of the entire family’s cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Around noon, my phone pinged with messages. In the family group chat, Delaney messaged first, tagging me: Hey, little sis. I’m craving those stuffed bell peppers tonight. Five minutes later, Brielle tagged me: Cassidy, can you make that roasted chicken dish? The one you made last time was actually decent. Half an hour after that, Garrett tagged me: Little sis, can you make the pot roast? And throw in a couple of side salads. Thanks. Working hard. He followed the message with a digital payment. It was always five dollars and an emoji—a measly amount that was meant to feel like a handout. This time, I knew it would be the same. I didn’t collect the money. I didn’t reply to anyone. After spending the morning researching urban areas, I booked the cheapest train ticket I could find to Riverton, a city three states away. The departure date was three mornings from now. I spent the entire afternoon writing a final, long letter to my mother. With every word I wrote, the bonds of family pulled at my heart, making my eyes sting with unshed tears. 3 When night fell, my fever spiked again. I huddled under my blankets, shivering uncontrollably. At some point, the front door opened. A torrent of complaints immediately flooded the small apartment. “Why is it pitch black in here? Is Cass not home?” “What time is it? The kitchen is cold and empty. No dinner made.” “What is this, a strike? Who managed to piss off the little princess this time?” Mom and Malcolm had returned. The complaints from the three siblings grew louder and more frantic. “I worked all day! I’m exhausted, and I can’t even get a hot meal!” “What is her problem? If she doesn’t want to do it, she should just say so!” “Isn’t she supposed to be a part of this family? We all have jobs! It’s her responsibility. She can’t even manage dinner!” Delaney’s voice suddenly grew shrill and furious: “The laundry isn’t done! The clothes aren’t washed, not even the delicates! You can’t leave underwear sitting that long; it’s unsanitary! Mom, you need to talk to your daughter! What is she trying to do?” “I just bought that new lace thong—thirty dollars—and only wore it once. Now how am I supposed to wear it?” Mom, ever the peacemaker, tried to soothe them with her usual soft voice: “Cass didn’t do it on purpose. She’s probably not feeling well. I’ll go check on her.” Malcolm also offered a performative, conciliatory line: “Alright, everyone, calm down.” Mom hurried into my cramped room. When she flipped the light switch, the sudden, harsh glare illuminated the dark room. I was still lying there, semiconscious from the fever. “Cassidy, what’s going on? Are you not feeling well?” Beneath her concern, I could hear a definite tone of accusation. She pulled back the blanket from my head and instinctively reached out to check my temperature. “You’re running a fever again. Did you take the medicine?” “Yes,” I answered flatly. Garrett’s voice carried clearly from the doorway: “Mom, what are we eating tonight? I’m starving.” The flicker of worry on Mom’s face vanished as she rushed to appease him: “What do you want? I’ll make it right now.” Brielle grumbled, “It’s already so late. We’ll be eating dinner at midnight if you cook now.” Mom quickly offered a placating suggestion: “Tell you what. How about we all go out for barbecue? Garrett, didn’t you say you were craving brisket? My treat tonight.” The tension in the air evaporated instantly. They all cheered up, eager to drag Mom out to a restaurant. Malcolm gave a token gesture of concern: “Cass, are you going to join us?” Delaney’s voice was dripping with passive aggression: “She’s not feeling well, is she? Sick people usually don’t have an appetite. If she wants to go out for barbecue, it means she’s faking it.” And so, I was abandoned again. An outsider. Unsuitable for their family dinner. My tears, uncooperative, soaked the pillow again. My mind couldn’t help but flash back to ten years ago, before Mom remarried, to the way she loved me then. She used to hold me in her palm, terrified of dropping me. She kept me so close, afraid I would melt away. I had to face the reality. She was no longer just my mother. They returned after eating their fill. My stomach ached from hunger, and I was curled up beneath my covers. Mom placed a mug of milk on my nightstand again. Perhaps anticipating my anger, she spoke in a soft, coaxing tone, like one might use for a difficult child: “Once you’re better, I’ll take you out for barbecue too.” It was always wait, wait, wait. Brielle fed the dried strawberries I bought to the dog; she said she’d buy me more next time. Delaney took the dress I saved my meager earnings to buy and wore it without asking; she said she’d buy me a replacement next time. Garrett took the laptop I bought for my writing and used it for gaming; he promised me a new one next time. But, Mom, your “next time” was always a hollow lie. 4 I didn’t speak. She reached through the blanket and gently stroked my head. “My own daughter is the best. You always understand me. My Cass, you’re so mature.” She paused, sighing with a sense of noble suffering: “Being a stepmother is so hard. I’m truly relieved you understand.” But for every ounce of relief you felt, Mom, I felt an equal measure of heartache. Two days later, my fever finally broke. I felt well enough to move. Tomorrow, I would be leaving. I looked at the few, old clothes in my closet. I realized I didn’t have much to pack. It was the weekend, and they were all home. They were in the living room, discussing Garrett’s impending wedding. I didn’t join them, but I sensed the heavy atmosphere. Malcolm was saying, “The down payment for the new house is at least sixty thousand. Your mother and I barely have enough saved to cover it.” “The ring and the dowry gifts are another forty thousand. You three are siblings, you should pitch in and help.” Brielle spoke up first: “I don’t have much saved up. I can only manage five thousand.” Delaney reluctantly followed: “I only have five thousand, too.” Then, she deliberately raised her voice, directing it toward my room: “Don’t we have a writer in the house? Tapping away at her keyboard all day. I’m sure she’s sitting on plenty of cash.” Her tone was utterly sarcastic. She was the one who previously mocked me, saying my writing income wasn’t even enough to pay for my cat food. Mom, swayed by her words, came into my room, tears welling up in her eyes. “Cass, being a stepmother is hard. I have to help Garrett with his wedding. You’re his sister, and we’re family.” “Could you spare some of your royalty money? We can consider it a loan. Please?” Every time she used my money to bail out the three of them, she called it a loan. She never paid it back. “I don’t have much in royalties. It’s barely two thousand a month, and it’s not stable. It’s barely enough for me.” “Little sis, we’re family. Stop hiding it. I don’t believe you only make two thousand a month. Unless you show us your accounts.” Brielle had materialized, leaning against the door frame. Malcolm and the others followed, their eyes all fixed on me, judging. To appease them, Mom looked me in the eye and demanded: “Show me your accounts.” To finally shut them down, I logged into my bank account and my publishing dashboard, showing them the numbers. Once they confirmed my income was indeed pitifully low, their eyes filled with scorn. Delaney jeered: “You don’t have the talent to make a living as a writer. Honestly, you’re just dreaming in broad daylight!” Since I was leaving permanently tomorrow, I didn’t waste my breath arguing. They went back to discussing Garrett’s finances. In the end, Mom and Malcolm decided to take out a twenty-thousand-dollar loan to bridge the gap. Next was the issue of the wedding jewelry. Mom went to a cabinet and pulled out the vintage gold bracelet my biological father had left me. She also took out a small, two-ounce gold ingot. My father had given them to me when I was thirteen. Mom had told me I was too young and promised to keep them safe until I was an adult. But now, she said: “We’ll take these to be traded for the new jewelry. Gold prices are high right now. Buying them new is too expensive.” A furious heat instantly rose in me. I scrambled forward to grab them back. “That’s what my father left me! You have no right to give my property to him!” Mom was stunned by my reaction and chastised me with an annoyed tone: “I’ll buy you new ones later, Cass. Your brother’s wedding is an emergency, a huge deal!” She didn’t give the gold back, handing it directly to Garrett. She rushed him: “Go trade these now! Hurry!” I lunged to snatch them back, but Mom pinned me down. “Cassidy Jennings, will you please just be sensible!” I completely shattered. All the stored-up resentment erupted into pure rage. I screamed at her through my tears: “You are not their stepmother, Elaine! You are mine!” “I hate you. If you give my father’s things to him today, you won’t have a daughter anymore!” Mom froze. Then, a heavy slap landed across my cheek, followed by a roar of pure fury: “Get out! Get out and never come back!” I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my laptop bag and limped out the door. Behind me, I heard her final attempt to control me: “If you walk out that door, you’re never coming back!” She didn’t know: that was exactly my plan. It took three days for Mom to lose her composure and call my phone. The only reply was the standard “this number is out of service” message. She instantly panicked. At that moment, Malcolm rushed into the house, frantic: “There’s a girl hit by a car down at the complex entrance! They can’t make out her face, but she’s a—she’s on crutches, and everyone is saying it’s Cass! You need to go check, right now!”

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My fiancé broke off our engagement publicly, right in the middle of my grandmother’s birthday gala, because he’d fallen for the cleaning lady. “You’re a socialite, Penny, but that doesn’t make you better than anyone,” he declared. “I love Holly’s pure and gentle soul.” My grandfather, who’d been an occult consultant and geomancy master his whole life, was so enraged he threatened to exhume the Croft family’s ancestral grave plot. The next day, the patriarch of the Croft dynasty arrived with his six other grandsons in tow. He was there to apologize. “My dear girl,” the old man said, sweeping a hand toward the line of impressive young men. “You may choose any one of them. The one you pick will be the next CEO and heir to the Croft legacy.” — 1 “I am here today to break my engagement with Penelope Albright.” Harrison “Harry” Croft stood ramrod straight in a seven-figure bespoke suit, his hand firmly clutching that of a girl in a simple, pressed cleaning uniform. He bellowed the declaration, letting it echo across the ballroom where all the city’s elite had gathered to celebrate my grandmother’s eightieth birthday. The silence that followed was so thick, you could have sliced it with a butter knife. Every guest invited to pay their respects was now gawking at us. “You insolent fool!” My grandfather slammed his palm on the marble table, sending a fine porcelain teacup flying toward Harry. The trajectory was both distant and impeccably aimed. Harry instantly yanked the cleaner girl, Holly Davies, into his embrace and spun them around, taking the brunt of the flying teacup on his tailored back. He shielded her completely, a dramatic gesture of protection. I wanted to point out that the cup would never have hit her in the first place, but he was already turning back. He raised their clasped hands high. “I want everyone here to know, openly and honestly, that the woman I love is Holly Davies,” he announced. “Though Holly comes from humble beginnings, she is not beneath any of us. She is kind, optimistic, and strong. In my heart, she is ten thousand times better than Penelope Albright.” “You… you…” Grandpa was choking on his own fury, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. I patted his arm, steadying him, and glared at Harry. “Adultery and homewrecking. Is that what you call ‘honorable’?” Harry looked back at me without a hint of shame, delivering the line that cemented his place as a villain in my personal mythology. “Penny, the person who isn’t loved is the real outsider. Holly is a truly good person, and I won’t let you use that word to defile her.” The girl, Holly, took a step forward, aligning herself with Harry. She puffed out her chest, looking strangely empowered as she addressed me. “Miss Albright, I never intended to ruin a relationship. But Harry doesn’t love you. Even if you hold onto a one-sided arrangement, there is no real love between you two.” Her tone shifted to one of false sincerity. “It’s sad to be used as a tool for a corporate merger. Everyone deserves to be whole and have dignity. I believe that when you find your true happiness, you’ll actually be thankful that Harry and I took this step first.” I was stunned by their audacity. Dignity? They were lecturing me on dignity while standing there in a cheating tableau at my grandmother’s party? “Holly’s right,” Harry interjected. “Even if you married me, I wouldn’t love you. Since you come from a privileged family, enjoying more resources and a better education than most, you should focus on something meaningful—not obsessing over men and calling others ‘home-wreckers.’” I felt the sudden, desperate urge to ask my father if we still had that antique cavalry saber tucked away somewhere in the armory. “Get them out! Throw them out!” Grandpa, all eighty-plus years of him, grabbed a dining chair, ready to charge them himself. My father and uncle managed to restrain him—Grandma’s birthday was decidedly not the time for physical altercations. Finally subdued, Grandpa glowered at Harry. “Mr. Croft’s son, we accept your cancellation of the engagement. As for the matter of disrupting this celebration, I will settle that with your elders!” “There’s no need to use my family to threaten me,” Harry said, arrogant to the last. “The Crofts are the wealthiest family in the state. Anyone marrying in is getting a major upgrade. I am my grandfather’s hand-picked successor. He won’t turn on me for a Wells.” With that, Harry and Holly sauntered out, heads held high. My entire family was incandescent with rage. The remaining guests started whispering. Some even looked at me openly, with a mix of pity and thinly veiled schadenfreude. Grandpa let out a loud, contemptuous “Psh.” He then addressed the room: “Those of you who came only for the Crofts’ sake may leave now.” Faces immediately flushed with awkwardness. Soon, the once-crowded ballroom began to empty. Our family isn’t one of the truly top-tier dynasties; many of the prominent attendees were indeed here to curry favor with the Crofts. The atmosphere now felt like a sudden, humiliating end to a glorious run. Grandpa spat a silent “Psh” in the direction of the departing crowd. 2 Few people knew that the Albright family was, at its core, a lineage of metaphysical masters. Our legitimate businesses were mostly fronts; studying the threads of destiny and manipulating fate required discretion. Those who chose to stay for the sake of an aging matriarch, rather than running after the Crofts, would certainly be remembered by the Wells family. The next morning, Grandma was already orchestrating revenge. She ordered the groundskeepers to water the Croft Group’s corporate ‘four-leaf clover’ with boling water and to secretly steal the prized koi from their reflection pond. Grandpa was in the living room, calculating an auspicious day for maximum disaster, muttering darkly about exhuming the Croft’s ancestral plot. “To provoke a master of fate under his own roof! The Crofts’ luck is officially finished!” he spat, his mustache bristling. “Grandpa, digging up graves is terrible karma,” I intervened. “Maybe just make a voodoo doll of Harry? Something simple, like chronic itching, temporary impotence, and a few broken limbs? That should suffice.” Grandpa’s hand, holding the abacus, trembled. “Daughter,” he decided, looking weary. “Maybe we should just stick to the grave digging.” “Fine by me,” I shrugged. I rushed through breakfast and headed straight to the office. After Harry’s spectacle, I anticipated a flurry of canceled deals. Even though our real revenue stream came from less conventional means, the legitimate business mattered to our employees and their commissions. As I reached the lobby, my assistant, Walter, arrived. “Ms. Albright, you’re in early,” Walter greeted me, looking concerned. “Got to work, Walter. Which projects were flagged for termination? Get the heads of those teams on a call,” I said, walking toward the elevators. “Actually, Ms. Albright, all projects are proceeding normally.” Walter’s worried expression deepened. “After yesterday’s disaster, I expected total chaos, but there’s been zero impact.” Ah, I thought. The Crofts must have been scrambling all night to contain the damage. A very strong survival instinct, I had to admit. “Nothing to worry about then. Inform the teams.” I paused by the elevators, spotting a familiar figure: the same cleaner, Holly, bent over, mopping the floor. “Terminate her employment immediately.” “Yes, Ms. Albright,” Walter confirmed. Holly stood up, her face a mask of wounded shock. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong here.” I managed a strained smile. “Why the surprise? This is my company. Don’t you recognize your employer?” “Miss Albright.” Holly straightened up, looking pathetically wronged. “I’ve performed all my duties. You are only targeting me because of Harry.” I nearly laughed out loud. “Let me correct you: I’m targeting you because you disrupted my grandmother’s eightieth birthday party.” “I know Harry ending the engagement hurt you deeply. But you can’t bring personal grievances into the workplace. I work hard for my pay. You can’t fire me over private matters.” She looked on the verge of tears. Walter gaped at her, then leaned toward me. “She seems unstable. Should I call security?” “No need. Inform HR to process her termination now.” I turned to press the elevator button. “Miss Albright!” Holly cried out, her voice cracking. “Just because you are a privileged socialite and I am only a cleaner, does that give you the right to trample on my dignity? Cleaners earn their living with their own hands. We are not to be looked down upon.” Walter positioned himself between us, fearing she might lash out. “Ms. Albright, maybe I should call security anyway.” “It’s fine.” I waved Walter back and looked at Holly, the fragile, tenacious flower. “Your liaison with my fiancé and your behavior at the gala have nothing to do with your status as a cleaner.” “So you admit it’s because of Harry!” Excellent point, Walter. “Call security.” “Penelope Albright!” Harry, carrying a cup of coffee and two bagels, rushed in and immediately swept Holly into his embrace. He glared at me. “What did you do to Holly?” 3 I must have murdered their entire family in a previous life to deserve this. The moment Holly saw Harry, the tears started streaming. “Harry, don’t blame Miss Albright. I understand her pain from losing you. I know I shouldn’t be with you, but we have to protect our love.” Harry held her tightly, looking utterly besotted. “Don’t worry, my love. I told you I would handle both the Albright and Croft families. I will never let you suffer any indignity.” Even Walter couldn’t take it anymore. He muttered loudly, “Do either of you possess a single shred of human decency?” Harry ignored Walter completely, addressing me. “Penelope, control your assistant. I fell in love with Holly. She did nothing wrong. If you have an issue, take it up with me.” “Hmph.” I gave him a massive eye-roll. “My assistant, and everyone else in my company, has freedom of speech. I won’t police what they say or whom they criticize. As for you, you piece of stray, cheating filth, if you don’t want to be insulted, take your act elsewhere.” “You!” Harry’s jaw clenched. “Is this just you lashing out because I rejected you?” I wanted to curse his ancestors. Truly, the shameless are invincible. He then sighed dramatically. “I admit I handled this poorly. From now on, I can be like a brother to you. If you ever need anything, you can come to me.” “Spare me. You need to stop grandstanding and start worrying about your own hide. Your grandfather was busy yesterday, but today, you might just lose your legs.” I turned and stepped into the elevator. Harry darted forward and stopped the doors from closing. “What is your problem?” My temper was boiling over. Harry stood in the doorway, striking a pose of haughty superiority. “I told you, I am my grandfather’s successor. Even if I broke the engagement, even if I destroyed the Wells family, he wouldn’t raise a finger against me!” The next second, my stiletto landed squarely on his cheek. “Oops. My mistake. I bought that size too large,” I said dryly, retrieving my shoe and slipping it back on. Holly rushed over, cupping Harry’s face. “Harry, are you okay? Miss Albright is just in so much pain from losing you. That’s why she’s lashing out like this. She’s already suffered enough, please don’t retaliate against her family because of me.” Lock them up together forever. “My car’s outside. I can drive you two to the courthouse right now,” I offered sweetly. “Skip work. Get married.” Harry’s face twisted in conflict. Holly turned to me, her expression conveying a false sense of deep understanding. “Miss Albright, are you truly willing to bless us? I know how much pain you must be hiding.” Why do I always open my big mouth? Thankfully, my grandfather—a true savior when needed—called, demanding I return home immediately. I tossed my day’s agenda to Walter, pushed past the toxic couple, and headed home. Harry’s voice, still shouting something about his “commitment,” followed me. What a jinx. Those two were actively ruining my company’s feng shui. When I arrived home, the living room was already buzzing. The Croft patriarch, Silas Croft, was sitting next to Grandpa. Clearly, the grave-digging plan had been aborted. Given their decades-long relationship, I knew reconciliation was always possible. Standing nearby were six young men: the other Croft grandsons. Ah, he’s brought the whole cavalry. The old man must have been too embarrassed to grovel alone, so he brought a distracting display of handsome youth. There was the one with the wide, powerful shoulders, Nathan (Brother 2). The sharp, dark-browed one, Wesley (Brother 3). The mild-mannered, refined one, Jasper (Brother 4). The most eager, Flynn (Brother 5), spotted me first and chirped, “Sister-in-law!” Snap. Wesley immediately slapped the back of Flynn’s head. Old Man Croft glared, too. So much for being clever. “Are we still having lunch?” I asked, keeping my expression neutral. Old Man Croft gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Penny, my dear, I promise you, I will make this right. These are our boys. Any one you choose will be the next CEO and heir to our entire family.” I gestured to the baby Nathan was holding. “Does that include the one still on formula?” “Yes!” Silas Croft thumped his chest, looking overly generous. “Even if you wanted all six, I’d grant it. Harry is a fool and doesn’t deserve you. We’ll cut him out.”

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The night before I was due to start at the exclusive academy, I scrolled across a post that stopped my breath. [The new Cinderella arrives tomorrow. Which of our Princes should we send out this time?] [Heard she’s got a pretty face. Should we just ruin it first?] [I bet this Cinderella won’t last a year before she’s gone.] [I’ll take six months!] [Hope this one sticks around longer, or we’ll be bored again.] My hand paused, moving the contents of my carry-on. A heavy-duty taser, military-grade pepper spray, a vial of white phosphorus, a miniature fillet knife disguised as a barrette… A year? I think I can manage a year. 1 I was born with something broken inside—a natural anti-social streak. When I was ten, my stepfather tried to grope me. I met his burning expression with a blank stare, then calmly tossed a pan of scalding oil onto him before using my bare hands to crush the thing he prized most. At eleven, the neighbor’s pit bull tore a chunk of flesh from my leg. After the incident, the old woman who owned the dog not only refused to pay for my stitches but swore I had tormented her pet while she was out, claiming I deserved the attack. A few days later, while she was at the grocery store, I lured the dog—Buddy—out to an abandoned lot with some sausages. I meticulously sliced the hide from its body, then went home and made a slow-cooked dog meat stew. When the old woman returned, I personally delivered the steaming bowl to her. She ate it, lips slick with grease, complaining only that the meat tasted gamey. Later that night, she realized Buddy was missing. She searched for a full month, growing sicker with worry until she collapsed in the street and was taken to the hospital. I went to visit her, carrying a fruit basket. As she watched me, tears welling up from gratitude, I leaned in close. “Hehe. Did you like Buddy’s meat?” “I cooked a huge pot just for you. Did you love it?” The old woman’s eyes bulged in absolute terror, her throat making a sound like a punctured bellows. After I left, her heart rate spiked, her blood pressure shot up, and she died right there, a victim of her own shock. When I was thirteen, a psycho classmate—a yandere in the online terms—filmed me in the bathroom and posted the video anonymously. That same evening, I texted him, asking him to meet me on the school roof, wearing something deliberately revealing. Under his feverish, predatory gaze, I hit him once with a brick. When he collapsed, I stripped him, bound him to the railing with duct tape, and left him exposed to the biting night wind. “W-w-whimper… Queena, I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. Please, let me go!” he begged, tears mixing with snot on his bruised face. I smirked, then logged into his heavily secured social media account, set up a tripod, and started a live stream. Overnight, the boy became an international joke. I deleted every trace of our conversation and, knowing exactly what I was doing, dropped a USB drive containing ten gigabytes of other girls’ videos—footage he’d taken—right outside the police station. The investigation was launched immediately. His parents, desperate to avoid a larger scandal, chose to forgive me for the assault. I sat in the interrogation room, laughing like a maniac. Everyone learned to fear me, to avoid me. Until I got the call from the hospital. My sister, Stella, had jumped. She was in the ICU, fighting for her life. I hung up the phone without emotion and returned to tasting a sickeningly sweet slice of cake at a local café. It was my fifteenth birthday. Stella had promised to come home for it. I glanced at the long, emotional text message she’d sent—a final missive, probably, before she jumped. It was sentimental and mushy. I skimmed it, lost interest quickly, and powered off my phone. The police tracked me down and gave me their conclusion. They offered a flimsy explanation. “Queena, your sister, Stella Sullivan, was under immense pressure at Veridian Prep and, in a moment of depression, took her own life…” Depressed? Suicide? They handed me a leather-bound diary, her last possession. 2 My sister had always been fiercely protective of me. She’d give me her favorite toys, her prettiest dresses. When our parents divorced and fought over custody, it was Stella who clung to me, telling the judge she only wanted to be with her little sister. Our parents saw me as a monster and openly despised me. Because of Stella, Mom was forced to take us both when she remarried. When my stepfather became abusive—the time he pinched my face and tried to hold me under the water in the laundry sink—it was Stella who launched herself at him to save me. She paid for it, badly. He hit her face with a flurry of heavy blows. Her brow bone shattered, requiring a handful of stitches at the hospital. Yet, she always remained relentlessly optimistic, even comforting me when she woke up. “See? Your big sister is fine, right?” “As long as my Queena isn’t hurt. You’re my little sister, and it’s my job to protect you.” The gentle touch on my hair was warm and comforting, yet I only tilted my head, confused. I never understood why she was so stubbornly determined to protect a monster like me. On holidays, even in our cramped, run-down apartment, Stella would arrange a colorful spread of humble treats. She’d place my favorites, peeled clementines and crisp, red apples, right on my bedside table. “Queena, it’s a holiday. Look what I bought! All your favorites.” I opened the diary, and a sudden, inexplicable tear splashed onto the white page. A strange emotion bloomed in my chest. A deep, hollow sensation, like something essential had been ripped away. I went to the hospital to see Stella. She was pale, wearing a breathing mask, and hooked up to countless tubes—barely clinging to life. I scoffed. “Stella Sullivan, you are such an idiot.” She’d been accepted to the elite Veridian Prep on a full scholarship for her academic excellence. Less than six months later, she was here. The diary she left behind was missing many pages. I flipped through, one by one. The last intact page was covered, front and back, in a single word—ESCAPE. The handwriting was shaky, as if the author had used every last ounce of strength to write it. Soon after, it was time for my entrance exams. I scored the top result in the entire city and was granted a scholarship to Veridian Prep. Veridian only accepted three scholarship students each year. The last was my sister. This time, it was me. 3 I spent the entire summer training at the gym. The rest of the time, I worked shifts at a café. I visited Stella daily, occasionally talking to her IV drip. Soon, the school year was about to begin. The night before orientation, I put on the Veridian uniform. The quality was excellent. Even the loose, pleated skirt perfectly showcased a girl’s pale legs. I admired myself in the mirror while refreshing the site for the latest posts. As expected, the thread had been updated. [OMG! So hyped! Cinderella arrives tomorrow!] [Hehe, which of our school Princes is going to make the first move?] [Same old games tomorrow? Honestly, I’m kind of over it. Can we spice it up?] [Right, heard she’s actually hot. Should we just ruin her face first?] [I mixed up some industrial-strength cleaner in Chemistry yesterday. Should come in handy.] [Hehe, I bet this Cinderella won’t last a year.] [Three months! I’m betting three months!] [Didn’t the last one break the record? Lived for so long. Every time we bullied her half to death, she’d be delirious, muttering about how she had to survive, had to live for her little sister…] My hand clenched around the handle of my luggage. I looked at the array of tools—the taser, the pepper spray, the white phosphorus, the micro-knife. Will these things be too childish for them? I closed my eyes and lay down. The thought of what tomorrow would bring made my mind buzz with explosive excitement. The next day, I looked up at the stunning, artistic architecture of the academy. I curled my lips into a pleased smile. The moment I stepped onto the campus, hushed whispers erupted around me. I ignored them, adopting an expression of nervous timidity. Snap! Something hit the back of my head. I reached up and my hand came away sticky with blood. A small, silver ball bearing rolled on the ground. Quickly, a second, then a third. The metal spheres came flying like bullets, aimed right at my body. I screamed and began to run frantically, stumbling as I tried to escape. People all around me raised their phones, capturing my desperate, pathetic struggle. “Haha! Look at her!” “That’s pathetic, even for a scholarship kid.” “Just running? I think the last one at least tried to fight back.” So, that’s what it was. Was this how Stella’s first day started? No wonder. No wonder she came home that first evening with a bloody mess clotting the hair at the back of her head, lying that she’d just tripped and fallen. Just as I lost my footing and crashed to the ground, a pair of pristine white sneakers appeared before me. “Are you okay?” A boy, backlit by the sun, reached out his hand. I squinted, then placed my hand in his. His voice was clear and pleasant. “You must be the new student? Are you lost? What made you fall like that?” His warm eyes studied me carefully, as if trying to etch my image into his memory. “By the way, I’m Jasper Lowell.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping into an intimate whisper by my ear. “I’m a year ahead of you. Your Senior.” 4 I raised my head and caught the flicker of pure malice deep within his eyes. He was the one who shot the ball bearings. He just finished tormenting me, and now he was here, trying to earn credit? I stood up, wrapping my arms around his waist with a smile. “You little son of a bitch. Think you’re so handsome?” I lifted my foot and stomped down hard on his sneaker. Jasper yelped immediately. He looked down and saw I was wearing heavy-duty, studded leather sneakers. His face twisted in agony. He shoved me away violently. “Ah! You psycho!” I laughed and stomped his foot again. “Senior, what’s wrong, Senior?” Jasper couldn’t take the pain any longer. He pushed me away one last time and hobbled toward the Nurse’s office, limping badly. When I arrived at the classroom and pushed the door open, a large bucket of stale mop water cascaded down from above. A group of girls clamped their hands over their mouths, giggling hysterically. The moment the bucket dropped, I twisted my body and kicked the heavy plastic container directly into their faces. The ringleader, Madison Croft, was stunned. She was instantly soaked from head to toe, reeking of sour, old filth. “You! You! Ahh! I’m going to kill you, you peasant bitch!” Madi shrieked and charged. I didn’t even have to move my hands; I simply sidestepped. She tripped, went face-first, and sprawled out on the floor like a beached whale. The other two girls wouldn’t dare touch me. They looked at me as if I were something terrifying and shoved each other aside as they fled. I finally reached my seat and, sure enough, found the word ‘BITCH’ carved into the desk, glue smeared across the seat, and a selection of roaches and other bugs stuffed into the drawer. I picked up the entire desk and tossed it into the nearest recycling bin, then went to the supply room and hauled back a brand-new set of furniture. The forum post updated quickly. [AAAH! That little whore! She dodged every single trap!] [She actually splashed the filth on me! I am not letting this go!] [Calm down, Madi. Calm down. There are still other plans, right?] [That was just an appetizer. She’ll realize soon enough that this school is her hell.] [Dorian and Zane, when are you going to make your move?] [The ‘Pursue the Peasant’ game is your specialty, isn’t it?] [I remember the last one was so broken, you two had her trained like a dog. She knelt down and licked your shoes!] … As predicted, two handsome boys soon appeared by my side. One was Zane Miller, with a deceptively innocent face. He claimed to be in my year, even two months younger, and constantly called me “Sister” or “Big Sister.” He brought me breakfast, took me to skip class, and after playing basketball, would approach me, sweaty and panting, begging for a head scratch. The other was Dorian Wilde, the Student Council President. He was aloof and aristocratic, but allegedly, he was only ever kind to me. He brought me hot tea during my period. A stickler for rules, he made exceptions just for me—allowing me to leave early or arrive late. He stepped in whenever anyone tried to bully me, and on my birthday, he folded me ninety-nine paper stars. It was a convincing performance by both of them. I enjoyed two months of easy living. No one dared to mess with me. There was always someone to get me water or snacks. I didn’t even have to go to the cafeteria. I just opened my drawer, and there were muffins and sandwiches. Until Dorian Wilde invited me to meet him in a secluded section of the campus woods. 5 Now, his mask of gentle warmth was completely stripped away. Dorian’s breath was hot against my ear. “Queena, do you like me?” “I haven’t told you this, but I have a specific… need.” He unsealed a designer shopping bag and pulled out an item—a ridiculously sheer, lace lingerie set. “Would you put this on, just for me?” I picked up the scrap of black lace with my fingertips. “Sure, I will.” Then, under his expectant gaze, I slapped the cheap fabric right across his face. Dorian froze. In that instant of shock, I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and hit him directly in the face. Dorian clutched his eyes, howling. “Ah! Queena Sullivan, what did you spray me with?” “Pepper spray. Figured I needed protection from predators.” Dorian tried to charge at me, his eyes bloodshot. I smirked, picked up a heavy branch I’d stashed nearby, and swung it hard at the side of his head. Dorian’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious. I dusted off my hands, unlocked his phone with his finger, and found the password-protected folder. Inside, it was a gallery of naked videos of various girls. My eyes narrowed. I quickly found the video of my sister. In the footage, Stella was doubled over, covering herself, her face slick with tears. At that moment, the online thread updated. [Dorian, did you get it done?] [Did you take the video of that bitch yet?] A pink avatar posted several frantic messages. [Dorian, don’t tell me you actually fell for the scholarship girl?] I typed back: On it. Then I raised the phone, aiming the camera at Dorian Wilde.

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The day my sister and I both moved back home, divorced and dragging our baggage, she posted a smug update on social media. “Who says a woman needs to pay her way back to her parents’ house after a divorce?” “I haven’t given Mom and Dad a dime in years, and I walked in with two leftover mandarin oranges.” “Mom was thrilled! Said she’d happily take care of me forever.” Later, while I was cooking dinner, I mentioned the post to Mom. She offered a cold, dismissive chuckle. “You know, I actually think you’re quite selfish. That’s where you fall short compared to Sandra. At least when Sandra was eating those oranges, she thought of me.” She turned to face me, her eyes hardened. “You? When was the last time you ever thought of your mother while you were eating something good?” A sudden, deep weariness settled over me. In ten years of marriage, I had funneled over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into this family. I had returned home after my divorce with boxes and suitcases full of things I thought they could use. Yet, I was still less valued than Sandra’s half-eaten snack. “See? You’re silent again. What, did I say something wrong? You’re just not as thoughtful as your sister. Never have been, not since you were a child.” “Then you continue to enjoy Sandra’s kindness and her oranges, Mom,” I said, stripping off the apron. “I’m done serving you.” I pulled out my phone, immediately canceled the shared credit card I kept for them, grabbed Luna, and walked out of the house without a backward glance. 1 A heavy snow had fallen over Crestview. Luna and I struggled through the blizzard, but I felt a complete, lightheaded sense of release. For a decade, I had bought them a house, kept them on an unlimited shared card, gifted Dad an expensive watch, and bought Mom a heavy gold bracelet. I believed my childhood home was my sanctuary. But when I came back, defeated and carrying everything I owned, Mom had been unwelcoming. “The fridge and washer are broken, Alexandra. You won’t be comfortable. And your old room is filled with storage. Maybe you should just go back to Todd?” “He was almost killing me, Mom.” “Then you just have to tolerate it,” she’d said, flatly. “All men get heated sometimes. Give him another chance.” I saw no genuine pity, only inconvenience. I replaced every broken appliance in the house, and only then did Mom grudgingly clear out my old bedroom. They called it my home, but I tiptoed around them, waiting on them, cleaning up their messes, feeling like a squatter in my own space. Now I finally understood: without love, no amount of money could buy me a place at their table. I hailed a cab. Just as I settled in, Dad yanked the door open and dragged me out. “You’re leaving because of a couple of oranges? Are you serious? Get back in there and apologize to your mother. All our relatives are here, and they’re waiting for you to cook.” The relatives gathered behind him murmured their support. “Yes, Alexandra. It’s just two oranges. You’re the older sister, don’t be so petty about your sibling.” “Exactly. You’re both divorced now. You need to stick together. Don’t be so small-minded.” As I wrenched my arm from Dad’s grip, Sandra’s voice drifted over, cool and indifferent. “You’re just jealous, aren’t you? Jealous that Mom and Dad actually like me. You’re dull, unpleasant, and you wonder why they don’t dote on you. Why don’t you reflect on your own personality for once?” “I just got home, and all our friends and family came to check on me, and already your feelings are bruised. You’ve had to compete with me since we were kids. Don’t you think it’s pathetic? You know you’ll always lose.” The careless remark twisted the knife in my chest. She was right. I had always been second best. From the moment Sandra, the surprise second child, arrived, Mom’s patience and soft words for me vanished. “Sandra is younger. Sandra doesn’t know any better. Give it to Sandra. Be the bigger person. Don’t be so small-minded, Alexandra. Why do you always compare yourself to your sister?” These phrases had defined my entire life, even though I was only a year older than Sandra. “I have every right to prefer Sandra,” Mom sneered, emerging from the house. “When I was in the hospital last year, it was Sandra taking care of me. You were nowhere to be found. What use are you, really? And you have the nerve to compare yourself to her.” I was shaking with fury. Mom had been in a coma; I had paid the bills and handled the logistics. She was the one who insisted I focus on work, claiming Sandra had it covered. Now she was rewriting history. I couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re absolutely right. You can’t rely on me. The next time you need money for a hospital or a bill, go find Sandra. Since she’s the one you prefer, you can count on her. As far as I’m concerned, you have no other daughter!” Dad slapped me across the face, his eyes blazing. “What did you say? It’s your duty to honor your parents! Are you trying to disown us?” “Yes! I’m disowning you! I don’t want this father and mother anymore!” I pulled Luna into the waiting taxi, slamming the door shut. From this day forward, I was an orphan. No matter how poor or desperate I became, I would never return and allow them to drain me dry again. 2 I had no home, so I took Luna to a cheap motel near my office. As soon as we settled in, Mom posted several photos in the family group chat. [Some people have the nerve to compare themselves to Sandra. Why don’t they reflect on how wonderful Sandra is? Look how much class she has when entertaining family.] [She booked the best steakhouse in Crestview, gave us so much face. And others? They just storm out in a fit of pique.] [If a certain ungrateful daughter would come back and pay the bill for this lavish dinner, I might consider letting her live here again.] In the photos, Mom’s hand rested affectionately on Sandra’s. The heavy gold bracelet I had bought for her was now on Sandra’s wrist. Sandra’s own social media updated again: “Congrats to me for escaping my marriage! Mom was so proud of my courage, she gifted me this beautiful gold bracelet. She says her Golden Girl deserves the best of everything.” I had worked myself to the bone, spending my own savings on that bracelet for Mom, never once buying myself anything so lavish. Now she’d given it away and was trying to shame me into paying for dinner. It was repulsive. I opened the group chat and sent a voice message. “One dinner gives you class? I spent a quarter of a million dollars on you! Without me, you’d still be stuck in that run-down farmhouse! Why didn’t that give you face?” “Who is the white wolf here? I poured hundreds of thousands into this family, and a stray dog would’ve shown more loyalty!” I hit send, left the group, and blocked every single one of them. A moment later, Uncle Richard called. “Alexandra, why did you block your parents? Why would you say those things? They’re still your parents, for heaven’s sake.” “I know you’re upset Dad hit you. I talked to him, he says it won’t happen again. Just come back, honey. We’re celebrating Sandra’s freedom tonight…” “Freedom?” I interrupted, the words thick with unshed tears. “When Sandra’s husband yelled at her, Mom and Dad rushed to bring her home. What about me? Todd was beating me senseless.” “I cried and begged Dad to help me, to let me come home, and he told me to tolerate it. He said a beating was better than him cheating, and to give Todd another chance. He’d learn his lesson.” “Uncle, there is no ‘after.’ Not a single person in that house cares about me. I’m done.” I hung up. Luna wrapped her arms around my waist, sobbing. “Mommy, I care about you. I love you. I’m going to grow up fast and make lots and lots of money, and buy you a real home.” Tears streamed down my face. I hugged her fiercely. Instead of fighting for their approval, I channeled all my energy into work. I needed to buy a house. We needed our own home. One afternoon, I went to pick Luna up from daycare, and the teacher told me her grandmother had already taken her. I raced to the house. Doris was dumping out Luna’s backpack, handing the prized jumbo scallops Luna had saved from the school cafeteria to Sandra’s daughter, Paige. I was so busy working multiple jobs, I often ate takeout. Luna hated it, so she often saved the best parts of her school lunch for me—a few prized shrimp, a piece of roast chicken. Today, it was the jumbo scallops. “Those are for my Mommy!” Luna tried to snatch them back, but Doris shoved her to the ground. “Paige is younger than you, so you let her have them, understand? Your mother has taught you to be small-minded, haven’t she? Getting upset over a couple of scallops.” Paige stuck her tongue out at Luna. “Your mom is jealous of my mom, and you’re jealous of me! Go ahead, make Grandma give them to you, if you dare.” When Sandra was small, I had to cater to her. Now, they were forcing my daughter to cater to Sandra’s daughter. I snapped. Just as I was about to grab the scallops from Paige, Doris stood up and shoved an apron into my chest. She let out a frustrated sigh. “What are you doing standing there? If you’re willing to come back, get in the kitchen and start dinner! Do you know what day it is?” She glanced behind me, her expression darkening. “You’re truly a disappointment. It’s my birthday, and you came back empty-handed.” Sandra chuckled softly. “Looks like Alexandra forgot your birthday, Mom. Don’t be sad, you still have me.” 3 Doris instantly beamed, praising Sandra for her thoughtfulness. She then turned her gaze of pure annoyance back to me. “See? Your sister is just better than you. Now go! Sandra already started the oven; all you have to do is the main courses.” Sandra added, “Don’t forget to make Mom a plate of pasta. Hand-made, of course. She likes those best.” I picked up the kitchen table and flipped it. Plates, utensils, and Sandra’s carefully placed fruit bowl crashed to the floor. “Why on earth would I give you a birthday gift? Why would I cook for any of you? We are no longer related!” Doris was so enraged she hit me across the face. “You dare defy me? I am your mother! It’s my birthday! You will honor your mother!” I covered my stinging cheek, then whirled around, grabbed a handful of Sandra’s hair, and slapped her twice across the face. Doris screamed. “Alexandra! Are you insane?” “I am! You drove me insane! I’m telling you right now, my daughter and I are done with the Callahans. If you ever, ever touch my daughter again, or lay another finger on me, I will double the abuse onto Sandra. Try me.” I pulled Luna toward the door. Doris let out a cold laugh, utterly composed now. “No relationship? Alexandra, don’t you forget who raised you. Your father and I worked hard to feed you, clothe you, and send you to school. Now you want to walk away? You can leave once you pay back every penny we spent on you!” I froze, turning back to look at her. “Fine. You want to settle accounts? Let’s settle them, properly.” I hired a lawyer immediately. We compiled every expense they claimed to have paid for my first eighteen years. When the final tally came to barely sixty-five thousand dollars, Sandra scoffed. “You bribed the lawyer. Sixty-five thousand for eighteen years? College alone cost more than that! Mom and Dad gave us three thousand a month in college!” Doris nervously tugged at Sandra’s sleeve. Her eyes betrayed a flash of guilt. My heart was cold. When I got into college, they tried to force me to drop out and get a job. “You’re smarter than your sister. You’ll make money without a degree. Sandra is delicate and not as sharp. She’d be ruined without a degree.” To get my education, I took out student loans and worked three jobs, clawing my way through to graduation, saving my career from being aborted. “My college was paid for with student loans. They paid for nothing,” I told the lawyer. “However, I have receipts for over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars I subsidized this family in the last ten years. That is far more than sixty-five thousand.” “Also, this house. It’s titled in both my name and Doris’s, but I paid the entire mortgage. I want her compelled to pay me back.” I glanced at the gold bracelet on Sandra’s wrist. “That bracelet was a gift I purchased for my mother. I have receipts. It is now on Sandra’s wrist. I reasonably suspect theft. I want it back.” Sandra was furious. “Mom gave it to me! You’re just jealous!” When the lawyer confirmed my demands were reasonable, Doris panicked. “Why should I pay her back? She’s my daughter! Buying a house for her mother is her duty! If I want to give her gifts to Sandra, that’s my right!” “And what is your relationship with Ms. Callahan?” the lawyer asked calmly. “You, as parents, were simply fulfilling your duty by raising a child. You forced her into existence; she didn’t ask to be born.” The lawyer looked at them with thinly veiled disgust. “Furthermore, Ms. Callahan has repaid you more than ten times over. Isn’t that enough? Mrs. Callahan, you must stop being so transparently biased. They are both your children.” Doris was speechless, flushed with shame. She tried to pretend nothing happened, but I wasn’t having it. I was direct: if they refused to return the house value and the bracelet, I would sue. We would drag this through court and see who ended up looking worse. “Give it to her!” Walter’s face was beet red. “I will not be humiliated. I won’t have my own daughter sue me!” “Alexandra, you heartless snake! I wish I’d never given birth to you! I still have one daughter left. I don’t need you to survive!” 4 To protect myself, I had the lawyer draw up a formal contract legally dissolving all financial and familial obligations. Doris and Walter moved out that day. They cried to the neighbors, painting me as a ruthless, ungrateful child. I used to be terrified of neighborhood gossip, terrified of being labeled “unfilial.” Now, I simply didn’t care. Let them talk. My life was none of their business. Luna and I couldn’t bear to stay in that house, so I listed it with a realtor. That night, Uncle Richard called. “A real shame, Alexandra, all this fighting. Did you know the property in the old town sold? Your parents got a cash payout of over forty thousand dollars. If you hadn’t left, you would’ve seen half that.” I knew better. Even if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have seen a dime. They wouldn’t have even told me the money existed. Uncle Richard forwarded me Dad’s recent social media post. [From this day forward, I, Walter Callahan, have only one daughter, Sandra. If anyone mentions a certain irrelevant person again, I will cut ties.] Sandra commented below: “Mom and Dad, I promise to take good care of you. I’m not an ungrateful white wolf like my sister.” I switched off my phone. Their drama was no longer my concern. “Tired?” Vice President Jensen handed me a contract. “Sign this, and you can take a week off. I hear you’ve officially cut ties with your family and are couch-surfing. This project bonus should be enough for a down payment on a place.” I accepted the folder, hesitating. “How did you know? Don’t you think I’m an ungrateful monster?” Jensen smiled. “Someone anonymously blasted a nasty email to the whole company, claiming you threw your parents out and disowned them. I intercepted it.” “I’m not surprised by the outcome. I knew years ago. You were always working multiple part-time jobs in college, skipping lunches. I knew your home life was bad.” He tapped the contract. “You did the right thing. Sometimes you have to quit. Sunk costs do not factor into major decisions. Go get that house.” My eyes stung with unexpected emotion. For days, all I’d heard was How could you? How heartless! You’re a white wolf! For the first time, someone was on my side. “Thank you.” I saw Sandra again while picking up Luna. She was blocking the street in a brand-new Mercedes-Benz GLC SUV, looking smug. “Aw, look at this. How pathetic. Riding a scooter now? If you hadn’t started a fight, maybe this Benz would have been yours.” I glanced at the SUV. “Sixty-thousand dollar car. Financed, I presume?” Sandra gave a faint smile. Doris, sitting in the passenger seat, spoke up dismissively. “I paid the down payment. I also bought Sandra a nice condo. We’re handling the monthly payments, of course. We only have one daughter now; she deserves to be spoiled.” “Some people are too late,” she added, giving me a pointed look. “We thought about giving her a little something, but she’s not my child anymore. I won’t waste my time on an outsider.” Since I’d set up the shared credit card, Doris and Walter hadn’t held a job. Yet the monthly twenty thousand dollars was always spent. It hadn’t been spent; it had been quietly saved and siphoned off. I ignored them, taking Luna’s hand and navigating around the SUV. Sandra shouted, “One more thing! Mom and Dad had their wills drawn up. All their assets are going to me. You tried to start a fight, and now you’ll live with the consequences!” Three days later, the contract was signed, and my bonus—a full fifty thousand dollars—landed in my account. I used it as a down payment on a small, move-in-ready condo. We were finally home. Just as Luna and I were celebrating with takeout, the lawyer showed up with a court summons. “Your mother, Doris Callahan, has suffered a severe brain bleed. Your father, Walter Callahan, was in a drunk driving accident. Your sister, Sandra, is unreachable. We have to come to you.” “Your mother claims you stopped the shared credit card, leaving them destitute and unable to pay medical bills. She is suing you for Elder Neglect and Non-Support.”

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My daughter was barely hanging on, recovering from a brutal car accident, when my best friend, Jenna, showed up with a special delivery—a scrawny, old mother hen, flown in from some remote farm. “It’s a true heirloom, Eliza, an organic free-range bird,” Jenna insisted, placing the struggling, feathered weight in my arms. “The broth will work miracles on Carol’s broken bones.” Then came the sinister caveat, the thing that would haunt my every waking minute for two lifetimes. “This one’s a real fighter, tough as nails. Remember, before you put it in the pot, you have to kill it—and I mean kill it—multiple times. Make sure it’s completely gone.” I’m the kind of woman who flinches at a housefly. I’ve never even squashed a cockroach. But for Carol, fueled by a terrifying maternal necessity, I took a knife and the bird to the small, sterile hospital kitchen. I twisted the scrawny neck with a sickening, wet snap. But Jenna’s words kept ringing in my ears. Kill it multiple times. Trembling, I plunged the knife into the bird again and again, until the counter was slick with dark, visceral blood. When I carried the steaming thermos of broth back to Carol’s room, the horror waited for me. My daughter’s small body lay under the sheets, but when I pulled the blanket back, there was no Carol. Only a torso riddled with deep, jagged holes, a mess of blood and viscera. And no head. Jenna shrieked, a sound that felt more performative than genuine, tearing the lid off the thermos I carried. It wasn’t rich, golden chicken soup. It was a container full of thick, congealed blood, and floating on top was the mangled, barely recognizable face of my daughter. “Eliza Rourke,” Jenna wailed, clutching the bloody container. “I told you to kill the chicken, not your own child!” My husband, Gavin Brooks, burst in moments later. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, were red with a rage that eclipsed my own paralyzing shock. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. Gavin’s hand swung out, a violent slap that cracked across my cheek, sending me stumbling back against the sterile wall. “She was just being a rebellious teenager, Eliza! You had an argument! And you decided to butcher her? You’re not a mother, you’re a monster! A psychotic animal!” I saw my reflection in the dark, anti-glare glass of the window: a blood-soaked woman, eyes wide, mouth agape. And tucked beneath the fingernails of my right hand was a bright, shocking crimson—the remnants of the red hair dye Carol had fought me to keep. But I knew what I had killed. I had killed the hen. How could the victim have been my own flesh and blood? The sheer impossibility of it drove me forward. I had to prove my sanity. Despite Gavin’s fists and my shattered disbelief, I crawled my way to the police station. I needed the truth to wash the horror away. They showed me the hospital surveillance footage. I watched myself, Eliza Rourke, my face contorted in a cold, unnatural smile. I watched my own hands, strong and merciless, twist my daughter’s neck until the sound was audible even through the muted recording. I watched myself, my own hands, dismember her body and then casually clean up the worst of the mess before walking out. I was taken away, convicted of murder, and sentenced to death. And then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the day Jenna brought the chicken. 1 “This one’s a tough bird, a real scrapper. Hard to kill, so you make sure you stab it good, Eliza. Make absolutely sure it’s dead.” Jenna Davies pushed the struggling, flapping hen into my hands. The sudden weight, the feel of the rough feathers, made my body seize up in a full-blown tremor. Looking at Jenna’s sickeningly earnest expression, the truth hit me: I was back. I had been given a second chance. The images—the blood-soaked glass, Gavin’s furious eyes, the headless corpse—flashed in a dizzying loop behind my eyes. I shoved the bird back, my voice laced with a raw, desperate fear. “No! I can’t. I don’t kill things, Jenna. Take the damn chicken and get it out of here!” Last time, I had accepted her gesture. I had been a grateful, naive idiot, desperate to nurse my daughter back to health. The maternal instinct had overridden my entire life’s aversion to violence. I’d snapped the bird’s neck, and remembering Jenna’s insistent warnings, I’d stabbed it repeatedly, just to be sure. But when I’d returned, the girl who loved to tease and torment her mother had been hidden under the blanket. When I’d pulled it back, all that remained was a faceless, mutilated corpse. Jenna’s screams—“Eliza! You killed your own daughter!”—and the sight of Carol’s head in the thermos. Even the ladle of “soup” I held had been a ladle of crimson blood. I killed a chicken. How had my daughter been the one to die? Gavin had kicked me to the floor, his voice echoing with righteous fury. “She was just having a moody teenage moment! You butchered her and dismembered the body to cover your tracks! You’re worse than an animal!” Lying there, broken on the cold linoleum, I’d seen the reflection. My bloodied face, Carol’s red hair in my nails. The evidence was irrefutable, yet my memory screamed a different truth. I’d crawled to the police, determined to prove my innocence, only to be faced with the undeniable footage of my own descent into madness and murder. A death sentence. Now, I was back. I would not accept the beginning of the nightmare. “Honestly, Jenna, just take it to the diner downstairs and have them process it. I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not taking the chicken.” The refusal was too rational, the fear too palpable. Jenna had no choice but to awkwardly pull the bird back into her arms. I thought I was safe. I thought I had broken the chain of events. But then, Gavin stepped out of the room, his face a mask of cold fury. “Are you serious, Eliza? Your daughter is lying there with a shattered leg, and you won’t even kill a chicken for her? What kind of mother are you? Just because she was in a moody phase and you had a fight last week, you’re going to neglect her now? Every kid messes up! No other mother is this cruel!” Carol, my little girl, peeked around the door, her face pale, eyes wide and pitiful. “Mommy, don’t be mad at me. I know I was wrong. Will you please make me the chicken soup? I’ll know you’ve forgiven me then…” I wavered. The love, the absolute, non-negotiable love for my daughter, always won. Jenna seized the moment, pushing the chicken and a butcher knife into my grasp. “Go on, Eliza. Kill the bird and make the soup. I’ll keep an eye on Carol for you.” 2 I stumbled into the small, sterile hospital kitchen reserved for families, heart pounding, gaze fixed on the corner where the security camera was mounted. The footage from my past life was a horror movie I couldn’t stop watching. Why did I think I killed a chicken when I had clearly murdered my daughter? How could I not recognize my own child? I had to test it. I pressed the hen onto the cutting board. With a shaking hand, I lifted the knife and made a shallow, bloody cut along the bird’s foot, barely drawing blood. At the exact same instant, the chicken’s wild, panicked squawk was perfectly overlaid with a sharp, agonizing cry from the hallway. I dropped the knife and bolted. It’s real. It’s happening again. I threw open Carol’s door, convinced I would find her foot severed, but she was curled on the bed, her small face contorted in pain. I scrambled toward her, checking her feet, her legs. I inspected every inch. No blood. No new cuts. She was intact. Carol blinked, her eyes hazy with confusion. “What is it, Mom? I just tried to shift down and I hit the railing on my broken leg. It hurt so much I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. Did I worry you?” I froze, my body rigid with shock. I forced a brittle smile, shaking my head. No. It was just a coincidence. I’m cracking up. I’m so stressed I’m having a psychotic break. The notion of a supernatural link, of a voodoo connection between a hen and my child, was too much for my rational mind. Everything I remembered, the arrest, the trial, the death—it must have been a terrifying, hyper-realistic nightmare brought on by fear and exhaustion. Jenna was my oldest friend; she wouldn’t hurt me. Jenna stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Eliza. Your sweet girl is safe here with me. You can trust me to watch her. Go on, make the soup. Just make sure you kill that tough old bird properly. Maybe I should come with you, just to be sure.” I nodded, utterly exhausted. Get rid of the paranoia. Focus on the living. I turned to leave, but Jenna suddenly bolted back into the room, her eyes wide with a manic terror that belied her previous composure. “Eliza! The chicken! Where is it? It’s gone!” I frowned, confused by her extreme reaction. Yes, those free-range birds are expensive and hard to find, but it wasn’t a national treasure. The truth was, the disappearance suited me perfectly. It was the easiest way out of this deadly obligation. “It ran off, Jenna, who cares? I’ll go to the market later and buy a replacement. I’d rather spend time with Carol right now.” I sat on the bed and reached for my daughter’s hand, which was close, almost touching mine. But my fingers grasped only the cold linen of the hospital sheet. I snapped my head up. Carol was gone. She had been right there, a moment ago. The exact moment Jenna declared the chicken was missing, my daughter had vanished into thin air. 3 “Jenna! Where is Carol? Did you see her? She was right behind me, how could she just disappear?” I grabbed her shoulders and shook, the frenzy I had been fighting finally taking hold. Jenna seemed equally distraught, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll help you search! We have to find it immediately! Hurry!” We ran out, my voice echoing down the sterile corridors of the wing, screaming my daughter’s name. Carol! Carol Brooks! I checked the ER, the morgue, even the dimly lit path to the staff parking lot. Nothing. But then I saw Jenna, ostensibly searching with me, now on her knees by a small patch of hospital landscaping. She wasn’t checking under benches or behind doors. She was rifling through the dense shrubbery, her movements more focused, more desperate than they should have been. It looked like she was searching for a missing animal. My mind went cold. I had to know. I yanked her up by the sleeve. “Jenna Davies, stop! What does that bird have to do with my daughter’s disappearance? Tell me what that chicken is! What did you bring here?” Jenna flinched, pulling her collar up to cover her neck. “It’s… the chicken…” she stammered, avoiding my eyes. Tears of pure, agonizing panic spilled down my face. Before I could press her further, a large hand clamped down hard on my shoulder and yanked me backward. “Eliza, what in God’s name is wrong with you? Stop the dramatics! You’re supposed to be making your daughter’s soup, not screaming in the hallway!” It was Gavin. And in his other hand, dangling upside down, was the missing hen. The sheer shock short-circuited my brain. I whirled around, grabbing his shirt. “Did you see Carol? She’s gone! She just evaporated!” Gavin scowled, his confusion seemingly genuine. “Carol? She’s been in the room the whole time. She said you ran out like a maniac, raving about a chicken, and she asked me to check on you.” I looked up. In the window of the hospital room, my daughter stood, small and whole, smiling and waving. “Mommy…” she called out, her voice a little, sweet lilt. “Why haven’t you made the soup yet?” It was like a bucket of icy water had been thrown over me. I was shaking, unable to reconcile the terror with the immediate, mundane reality. Jenna’s hand came back to my shoulder, her touch now soft. “Eliza, that chicken… it’s not ordinary. It’s a very rare breed—a game bird. I was afraid someone would see it and report us for poaching. I was worried we’d get into trouble, not that I wasn’t worried about Carol.” She looked so sincere that my suspicion felt small and mean. I managed a strained smile, trying to push the madness aside. But I had to be sure. I turned to Gavin, my voice dropping into a register I hadn’t used in years—a low, slightly manipulative purr. “Honey, you know I’m a mess with blood and feathers. I want Carol to have this soup, but I just can’t do it. Could you please kill the chicken and pluck it for me? I’ll take it from there and make the stock.” Gavin stared at me, his ears turning slightly red, surprised by the sudden, rare display of vulnerability. Then, he simply nodded. “Fine. Whatever. It’s just killing a chicken. Wait here, I’ll call you when I’m done.” 4 I didn’t follow them to the kitchen. I rushed back to Carol. Seeing her safe, whole, and nestled in bed brought an overwhelming surge of relief that broke the dam of my fear. My voice was thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, where were you? I was terrified! Jenna and I searched everywhere, why didn’t you answer?” Carol gave a quick, brittle laugh, snuggling into my chest. “I was just playing peek-a-boo with you, Mom. I was hiding right here. I didn’t realize you would panic so much.” I didn’t argue. But my heart was sinking. The room was tiny. There was nowhere to hide. She was either lying or she was a victim herself, just as confused as I was. Either way, I would not let her out of my sight. In the distance, I saw Gavin by the utility sink, the knife raised. I’d specifically told him to start with the chicken’s legs—to be cautious—just in case a swift beheading triggered the disaster I remembered. A shrill, agonizing squawk from the chicken. Both its legs were severed. Carol flinched in my arms, but nothing else happened. No blood, no fresh wound. I watched, breath held tight, as Gavin completed the grisly task, dismembering the bird and dropping the pieces into the pot. Carol remained perfectly intact. My panic eased. The spell was broken. It had been a nightmare. Gavin beckoned me over to the simmering pot. I gently tucked a drowsy Carol into bed, kissed her forehead, and locked the door from the outside, just in case. I seasoned the stock quickly. Ten minutes, tops. I poured a ladle of the rich, aromatic broth into a bowl and carried it back, a small victory clutched in my hand. The door was still locked. I breathed a sigh of absolute relief. But when I turned the key and walked in, the air went cold, and the victory turned to ash. The bed was soaked in a tidal wave of fresh, arterial blood. Carol’s remains—limbs, organs, entrails—were scattered on the floor in a grotesque, dismembered tableau. I dropped the bowl. The golden chicken soup splashed onto the floor, but as it spread, it miraculously transformed into a puddle of steaming, crimson blood. Jenna’s scream, identical to the last life, pierced the air. “Eliza! What did you do to your daughter now?!” I staggered backward, shaking my head violently. “No! I didn’t do it! I was only gone for a moment! She can’t be dead!” Gavin rushed in, his face turning ashen, his voice a choked sob. “You psycho! She was playing hide-and-seek! And you killed her for it? Jenna and I were out processing the chicken! Only you were here! It has to be you! The police are coming, Eliza, you’re not escaping this time!” The police arrived with unnerving speed. They barely glanced at the scene, their eyes fixed on me, my bloody hands, my horrified face. “The killer often returns to the scene,” one officer said, his voice cold and definitive. “Eliza Rourke, you’re coming with us.” I fought them, screamed, pleaded for someone to listen. I was only gone for twenty minutes! But as they dragged me away, my eyes fell on my fingernails. Again. Under the edge of the manicure: a small, tell-tale streak of Carol’s bright red hair dye. I went suddenly, horribly still. A slow, horrifying smile spread across my face. I started to laugh, a hysterical, wrenching sound that was part sob, part madness. “Of course,” I whispered to the empty room. “I see it now. You thought I was stupid, didn’t you?” The truth, the simple, devastating answer to the nightmare that had plagued two lifetimes, had been right in front of my eyes the whole time.

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At the Marshall Corporation annual gala, my father was scheduled to announce the company’s successor. Every eye in the ballroom was fixed on me, the CEO’s daughter, who had spent the last eight years grinding as the Executive Vice President. But in the next breath, Father announced my cousin, Piper Marshall, would inherit the company and assume the role of President. The room erupted in a stunned silence, quickly followed by a low, collective gasp. I was frozen, my face burning with shock. My voice trembled as I finally challenged him: “I’ve dedicated eight years to this company, running myself ragged. And I’m your daughter.” “Piper just graduated. On what basis is she named President?” Father’s expression was cold, distant. “Because Piper is stronger than you. She will surpass your eight years of accomplishments in one.” I stood there, processing the cruelty of his words, then threw my head back and let out a raw, desperate laugh that felt more like a scream. I knew that wasn’t the real reason. It was his tired, old excuse: maintaining his reputation for absolute impartiality—his desire to “avoid suspicion” at all costs. Since he was once again giving what was mine to Piper, I decided to take the core team and start my own venture. I would no longer be his daughter. … 1 My hysterical laughter made the entire ballroom stare. The smile Father had been wearing instantly vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. “Did you forget your meds this morning? What is this grotesque display?” he hissed. “I have gone mad,” I replied, the laughter dying in my throat. I held his gaze, refusing to look away. “You pushed me there.” “When this company was on the brink of collapse, I was the one out in the blistering heat, landing clients and stabilizing the market. I suffered heatstroke half a dozen times that summer.” “I designed the product that became our biggest success—the one that launched us into profitability! I worked a week straight, pulling all-nighters, and nearly collapsed from exhaustion!” Every word I spoke landed like a hammer blow. I saw a dozen heads nod in agreement among the crowd. They all knew the truth of my contributions. But Father’s face only grew colder. He clenched his jaw. “Enough! Why are you shouting and making a scene? You’re embarrassing me!” “I admit you’ve had some contributions, but they pale in comparison to Piper. She’s only just returned, and she’s already secured the deal with VentureTech, the international conglomerate.” “You worked for a year and failed to finalize that agreement.” Hearing that, I was struck by lightning, utterly stunned. That deal, the one he was talking about, was my year-long battle. I had worn through countless pairs of heels and exhausted every contact to finally bring it to the finish line. Father had promised to announce the good news at the gala, but I never imagined he would pin the credit on Piper. All to protect his perfect image and to appear “impartial.” At that moment, Piper stepped forward, feigning humility. “Uncle Marshall, I truly don’t have the experience. I shouldn’t take this role.” “Let Rachel have it. Please, don’t let this damage your relationship. I’d be happy to serve as Vice President.” Listen to how noble she sounded. It made her look humble and generous, while also ensuring she landed the second-highest position—a cushy path to wealth and power. Father, blind to her manipulation, rounded on me again. “Look at Piper. She’s so mature and considerate! And look at you—always causing me trouble.” “The presidency is settled. Piper Marshall will lead the company. Any dissent will result in immediate termination.” “Including yours.” He glared at me, his eyes full of icy threat. Next to him, Piper’s mouth curved into a faint, barely perceptible smile. The crowd buzzed with whispers. Their eyes on me ranged from pity to outright mockery. Some were already praising Piper, positioning themselves to align with the new power. My heart turned to ash. I looked at Father with complete despair and said, “Then let Piper be your daughter.” “I quit.” The room went silent. Everyone, including Father, stared at me, shocked that I would sever all family and professional ties so definitively. I didn’t wait another second. I turned and walked toward the exit. But just as I reached the hallway, he caught up. 2 “Rachel.” Father grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Can’t you ever act like a mature adult? Arguing with me in front of everyone makes us a laughingstock.” “Piper’s parents died young. We have a duty to take care of her!” “And right now, I have to maintain corporate optics! As soon as I win the Entrepreneur of the Year award, I’ll find a way to make you President.” “Now, come back inside. Apologize to everyone, including Piper! Tell them you’re willing to be her second-in-command!” I had foolishly hoped, for a second, that he had regretted his decision, but this was yet another brutal blow. “Years ago, I earned a place in the foreign exchange program through merit, and you took my spot and gave it to Piper, who was sleeping through her college classes.” “You said it was to ‘avoid suspicion.’” “You said she was alone in the world and I should be the bigger person.” “You said I could go later.” “But what was the result?” I lifted my gaze to meet his. This had been the pattern my entire life. In elementary, middle, and high school, I was always a top student, but I was never allowed to enroll in the best schools. Father always said it was to “avoid suspicion.” Yet, he would turn around, pull strings, and send the academically underperforming Piper to those exact schools. For years, I wondered if I simply wasn’t good enough, which only pushed me to work harder. Now I understood. Nothing I did would ever be enough. Piper would always be his priority, and “impartiality” was just a convenient weapon to hurt me. It was as if I’d exposed his deepest secret. Father’s face flushed with angry shame. He spat out a threat. “Rachel, if you keep this up, you will never be welcome back at Marshall Corporation!” His cold eyes were full of malice. “Fine.” This time, I didn’t back down. I turned and walked away. Father froze. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out. When I walked out of the hotel, the winter wind was as sharp and cutting as his words. It chilled me to the bone. Dad, I thought, I can stand on my own now. I don’t need you. I took a deep breath and sent a message to my college friend, Noah Sullivan, who came from a powerful, old-money family in the city: I hear you’re drowning in cash. Interested in investing in me? I am! Noah’s reply was instant: Meet me at our spot tonight. We can talk about it. I can also show you the eight-pack I’ve been working on! I smiled faintly. The guy always flirted with me the second he found out I was single. I drove home to pack my things. As soon as I walked in, I saw my mother sitting on the living room sofa. “Mom, I—” Before I could finish, she grabbed the nearest throw pillow and hurled it at my face. “Why did you publicly humiliate your father? Why do you constantly try to undermine Piper?” “It’s just a title, the presidency. They’re all Marshalls. What does it matter who sits in the chair?” She had clearly been briefed on the situation. And just as I expected, there was no comfort, only accusation. I took a deep, steadying breath. “They’re all Marshalls. What does it matter who your daughter is?” I countered quietly. “Go let Piper call you Mom and Dad.” I didn’t have the energy for a fight, just a weary finality. “You…” Enraged, Mother lunged forward and delivered a stinging slap across my cheek. “It’s because you’re always so disrespectful! So defiant! That’s why you’ll never be President!” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and laughed a short, hollow laugh. “Mom,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “You say I’m disrespectful? That I defy you?” “Since you brought Piper home, have I not given her everything—the best food, the best clothes, everything I owned?” “The elementary school spot, the college exchange program—you gave it all to Piper. She even hit someone with her car once, and I was the one who took the blame.” “In college, you ‘poor-fed’ me to keep up your facade of impartiality, giving me a $300 monthly stipend while Piper got a $3,000 allowance.” “Did I defy you then? Was I not obedient enough?” Confronted with the stark reality of my sacrifice, my mother was momentarily speechless. I didn’t linger. I walked into my room, quickly packed a single suitcase, and prepared to leave. “What is this? Are you running away?” Mother finally burst out. Her tone held no apology, only escalating anger. I didn’t answer, just quietly walked past her and toward the front door. I heard her shouting from behind me: “Rachel Marshall! It’s just the presidency! Why are you making such a drama out of it!” “If you walk out that door tonight, you are never to come back! I’ll pretend I never gave birth to you!” 3 I had heard those words countless times growing up. Yet, because of that stubborn belief in blood ties, I always held onto the hope of their eventual approval. That’s why I was never able to leave before. But this time, I closed the door with a loud, resolute slam. The cold wind outside felt warmer than my own house. I didn’t have a car. Father had said he needed to “avoid suspicion,” so people wouldn’t say he spoiled me. Mother had added that Piper didn’t have a license or a car yet, and she didn’t want my cousin to feel bad. As I reached the curb, a sleek, black Aston Martin pulled up next to me. The window slid down, revealing the handsome, cocky face of Noah Sullivan. I slid into the passenger seat, confused. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed on our usual spot.” “The whole city knows you had a spectacular falling out with your family,” Noah replied. I blinked, then opened my phone. A headline from a major news outlet immediately popped up. MARSHALL CORP. CUTS OFF DAUGHTER, NAMES NIECE HEIR. LAVISH INAUGURATION GALA PLANNED FOR TOMORROW NIGHT. BREAKING: RACHEL MARSHALL DISOWNS PARENTS, NOW HOMELESS AND ALONE. News travels fast. Almost instantly, two messages from my parents appeared. Without the Marshall name, who will recognize you? Think carefully! Stop being selfish! Come back now and apologize to your father and Piper. Say some nice things, and they’ll forgive you. Otherwise, you’ll starve outside, and no one will bury your body. I didn’t reply. I just laughed to myself. Starve? No one will recognize my face? We’ll see about that. Noah took me to a low-key upscale lounge. I walked in, looked up, and saw a familiar figure. My pupils immediately contracted. It was Gavin Thorne—my childhood best friend and my ex-boyfriend. He was currently wrapped in Piper Marshall’s arms, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on his face. “Seriously, Rachel,” Noah muttered, shaking his head. “You’re such a dummy. Those two were hooking up when they were studying abroad.” Boom. My brain went silent. I felt ridiculous. My parents had actually pressured me to give Gavin to Piper years ago. The absurd excuse then was that they didn’t want people to say they were using corporate power to force Gavin to marry me. I had adamantly refused, enduring a week of their furious silence and threats, but I wouldn’t budge. Later, Gavin left to study overseas, and we maintained a long-distance relationship for four years, with me covering nearly all his expenses. But on the day he returned, he broke up with me. His eyes were red then, as he told me, “Rachel, your parents’ pressure is too much. They will never agree to us. We have to break up. I don’t want to hold you back.” I desperately tried to salvage things. I told him my savings, while not massive, were enough for us to start fresh anywhere else. But he blocked me everywhere. For months, I was a wreck, consumed by guilt and self-blame. I believed I had failed to give Gavin the security he needed. I had failed to keep him. Now, this scene was a brutal slap across the face. Gavin saw me, his eyes widening in alarm. He quickly lowered his head, but Piper violently yanked him forward to greet me. “Cousin,” Piper cooed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I didn’t know how. Please don’t be mad.” “Gavin and I are true love!” In that instant, my rage flared. I lifted my hand, ready to deliver a punch to Piper. But Gavin stepped directly in front of her. “Enough, Rachel!” “Do you have any dignity? How could you try to hit Piper like that!” 4 I stood still, shaking as I whispered, “Why… why…?” Gavin was silent for a few seconds before giving his answer. “Because you’re the cast-off daughter! Piper is your aunt and uncle’s pride! She’s the future heir of the Marshall family!” His words were a physical blow, a scythe that sliced a chunk out of my heart. I was in so much pain that all I could do was laugh. Love. Family. None of it could stand against the harsh calculus of profit and status. Noah started to argue on my behalf, but I stopped him. I grabbed his arm and turned away. There was no point in wasting breath. The only way to win was with power, to prove who was stronger, who would shine brighter, and who would get the last laugh. “Cousin!” Piper suddenly chased after us, holding out a sleek card. “My inauguration dinner is tomorrow. You absolutely must come.” A triumphant, challenging smirk played on her lips. I realized then: this wasn’t a coincidence. Piper had staged this entire encounter. Why else would she be carrying invitations? “I’ll be there,” I said. I took the invitation, turned, and walked out without looking back, a cold smile forming on my own lips. Once in the car, I said to Noah, “I need a favor.” “Don’t worry, big plans are already in motion for tomorrow.” Noah thumped his chest, a predatory glint in his eye. We exchanged a look. No words were needed. We were on the same page. The next day. I arrived precisely on time at the grand hotel where Father was holding Piper’s celebration banquet. The guests hadn’t arrived yet. My parents, Piper, and Gavin all turned cold faces on me. “Hmph.” Father sneered. “Look how thoughtful Piper is—she even invited you, despite everything. She’s worried about your feelings. And all you know how to do is act like a jealous child!” “Apologize to your father and Piper, and we’ll forget the past. This is your last chance, Rachel. Don’t be foolish.” My mother chimed in. They didn’t seem surprised about Gavin and Piper at all. It appeared their actions years ago—blocking my foreign exchange, for instance—were all part of a calculated plan to secretly push the two of them together. “Cousin, there’s no room for bad blood in family. Just swallow your pride.” Piper’s smile was openly mocking now. Gavin immediately backed her up. “Being named Vice President is already a huge affirmation of your abilities from your aunt and uncle. You should be grateful.” I dismissed their self-important pontificating with a quiet, scornful smile. “Who said I was here to attend the party?” My parents paused, then scoffed, clearly thinking I’d gone completely mad. Just then, a wave of luxury cars pulled up outside the hotel. “Let’s go,” Father grumbled, giving me one last angry glance. “Ignore this disobedient child. We have guests to greet.” He, Mother, Piper, and Gavin marched toward the entrance to receive the city’s elite. The entire who’s-who of the city’s business community was there. But they all stood at the door, refusing to enter the hotel. Father looked confused. “What are you all waiting for? Please, come in!” But the crowd remained still. “They’re waiting for my permission.” I slowly walked up to the entrance.

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