Author: Momo Chan

Declan Holloway chased me down after the cheating—crashed his vintage Porsche, nearly killed himself, and somehow, woke up with amnesia. The doctors called it early-onset Alzheimer’s, but the only memory he clung to, the only person his broken mind retained, was me. Everyone said it was proof—that Declan’s love for me was visceral, an instinct carved into his soul. I only felt sick. I forbade him from coming within ten feet of me. Every towel, every glass, every single utensil in the house was labeled with my name and strictly compartmentalized. The day he was desperately thirsty and reached for my own, labeled water glass, I hurled it against the stone fireplace in front of the entire staff. He was terrified. His eyes were shattered and vacant. In that moment, a sliver of sharp, acidic grief broke open inside me. He’s not the old Declan, I told myself. He’s a clean slate. Later, he attended a small gathering of his old college buddies. I hesitated for an hour before driving over to pick him up, only to hear the low, amused voices from behind the door. “Grant, look, playing the amnesia card just to mess with your wife’s head? It’s a little much, even for you.” “Ronnie’s devotion is insane, man. You know she sacrificed her pinky finger for him back in the day, right?” Declan chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “Ronnie’s flawless, sure. Except for one thing: she can’t tolerate Scarlett.” “The more she tries to cut me off, the more agonizing the internal conflict for her. Once she learns to be the bigger woman—the right kind of wife—I’ll ease up. Eventually.” Outside the door, my tears hit the marble floor, silent and heavy. Declan. We’re done. There is no ‘eventually.’ Your illness is fake. But mine? Mine is real. … 1 The late-autumn rain turned to snow, melting against my coat. An icy draft snaked in through the doorframe, carrying the broken snippets of conversation. “Grant, you’re being too cruel to her. If she loves you that much, why not just grovel and ask for forgiveness? Why the fake amnesia?” Declan flicked ash from his cigarette. His voice was a low rumble. “You don’t get it. Ronnie is soft-hearted, but she’s also a lioness. We agreed she’d be the only one. If I don’t play the victim, she’ll never stop holding the infidelity over my head.” “More importantly, this is for Scarlett. She heard about the crash and miscarried. If I hadn’t immediately flown her out of the country, she might not have made it.” “And Ronnie? She got a harmless phobia. Compared to what Scarlett endured, what is that?” The air in the hallway solidified. After a long pause, someone muttered hoarsely, “Grant, aren’t you afraid she’ll find out and truly lose hope in you?” Declan cut him off with a short, cold laugh. “Hope? If she can’t handle this level of discomfort as the wife of Declan Holloway, then she’s not the woman I thought she was. Scarlett is different. She only has me. I am her entire world.” His final words were a harsh whisper: “Forget everything you heard in here. All of it.” I bit down on my lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. “Scarlett should be here soon, shouldn’t she?” a voice chirped inside. I spun around, scrambling to flee, but the sudden glare of blinding headlights froze me in place. The shriek of tires was the last thing I heard before the impact sent me flying. When I looked up, Declan was rushing out, and Scarlett was already clinging to his chest. “It wasn’t my fault! She just lunged right out in front of me…” My hair was loose, blood streaked across my face. Declan didn’t even look. He lifted his foot and landed a vicious kick to my back. The sickening thud of bone against concrete was distinct. I curled into a ball, and a wad of cash landed on my shoulder. “Trying to stage an accident for a payout?” he sneered. “This should cover your funeral.” Then, he slipped an arm around Scarlett and turned away. “Why didn’t you let me come pick you up?” His voice was sickeningly gentle. “Grant, maybe we should keep a little distance… I don’t want to upset your wife.” “You little fraud…” I heard the soft, wet sound of him kissing her. “I told you I missed you, didn’t I? And you came back.” I lay crumpled on the pavement, the grit mixing with the crimson on my face. The truth was, the Sinclair family business went under a year ago. And the Holloway family, due to Declan’s supposed amnesia, had scratched his name from the list of heirs. The pricey imported neuro-regeneration shots he supposedly needed? The ones costing a fortune? I had sold off my jewelry, then I sold plasma—pumping the last of my savings into that fake treatment. My own doctor had warned me: Tatum, keep this up and you’ll collapse. But watching him look at me with that confused, heartbreaking gaze, calling my name—I transferred the last of my own medical funds to him. I looked at the scattered bills, and a thin, hollow laugh escaped me. So much money. But it was too little. Not enough to buy back all the years of my love, all the sacrifices, all the life I’d given him. After a quick, perfunctory bandaging at the nearest clinic, I returned home. Declan was sitting at the dining table. His eyes lit up instantly when he saw me, just like they used to when he waited up for me back in the beginning. “Wife… I forgot how to use the forks. Will you feed me?” I glanced at the breadcrumbs stuck to his jacket. I remembered. Declan Holloway had an absolute, near-pathological contempt for anything less than intellectual perfection. He had a photographic memory and loathed incompetence. Now, he was sitting here, willing to play the helpless fool who couldn’t even manage a pair of chopsticks. This was his love? Seeing my silence, his eyes welled up. His voice trembled. “Wife, please don’t be disgusted with me. I learned the multiplication tables today. I’ll recite them for you.” I didn’t say a word. I simply handed him a long serving spoon. The movement pulled the fractured muscles in my back, making my face go white with pain. He took it cautiously, careful not to brush my hand. “Wife, are you hurt?” I stared at his perfectly acted, phony compassion. “I’m fine. Just got hit by a car.” “The driver’s boyfriend thought I was staging an accident. He gave me a good, hard kick.” 2 Declan’s pupils constricted. He looked genuinely concerned. “Where are you hurt? I’m taking you to the Emergency Room!” I watched his panicked, over-the-top expression and forced a smile. “It’s been handled. Right now, there’s something more important I need to tell you.” Declan scooted closer, crouching on the floor, looking up at me pathetically, his eyes brimming with fake tears. I looked down at his portrait of a tender, worried husband. Suppressing the sharp ache in my chest, I spoke the words slowly. “Let’s get a divorce.” Declan froze, then violently grabbed my hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Is it because you think I’m stupid?” His voice shook. “I won’t divorce you… I only have you.” Only me? I managed a smile that felt more like a grimace, then pulled my hand free and walked toward the bathroom. The water ran for a long time. I realized I’d forgotten to bring clothes, so I wrapped the towel around me and walked barefoot to the bedroom door. I stopped dead. I heard his soft, gentle voice: “Scarlett, don’t pout… The punishment isn’t over yet.” “Be a good girl. I’ll see you at the clinic tomorrow. We can’t start trying until you’re fully recovered. Don’t worry, no one is going to hurt you this time.” I stood there for a moment, then walked silently away. My tears were hot, but my heart was utterly cold. I woke up the next morning to find myself in the master bed. The comforter was new, freshly laundered. Declan was standing by the door, wearing sterile gloves and a face mask. “Wife, you got mad because I touched your hand yesterday, didn’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t sleep in here.” “I, I promise I didn’t touch you! The bedding is all brand new! I just… I saw you passed out on the table, and you looked so tired…” I watched his panicked, clumsy explanation and gave a faint smile. “Do you remember what I said yesterday?” He shook his head blankly. His eyes were clean and innocent, like fresh snow. “What was it, wife? I don’t recall.” I slowly sat up. The injury in my back was an icy, knifing pain. “Nothing important. It’s your check-up day today. I’m going with you.” A flash of genuine panic, quick as lightning, crossed his eyes. “It’s fine, I can go alone.” I smiled at him, and for the first time, I reached out and adjusted the lapel of his perfectly straight jacket. “Nothing is more important to me than you are.” I meant it. I meant it so much that Declan instinctively grabbed my hand, his eyes red-rimmed. “Wife, you’re finally accepting me again?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at him, letting him hold me tightly, letting him promise that we would never be apart again. At the hospital, I was stopped outside the MRI room where Declan was headed. “Family members aren’t allowed in the magnetic resonance imaging suite.” “I’m also a patient.” I showed the nurse my own lab order. My results came back fast. “It seems the car accident impacted you more than we thought. The initial trauma caused a slow bleed, leading to an abnormal subarachnoid space. You are at immediate risk of sudden death. You must be hospitalized right now.” The doctor immediately drew up the admission papers, which I tore to shreds. “No treatment. If anyone asks, please maintain my confidentiality.” As I left the exam room, the door to the adjoining suite was slightly ajar. I caught a glimpse of Declan’s back. He was bent over, gently kissing Scarlett’s lips. She was on her tiptoes, her hands linked behind his neck. His check-up. This was his check-up. A frantic throbbing started behind my eyes, like something was trying to claw its way out of my skull. I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. The last thing I saw before the darkness took over was his face, contorted in a mask of alarm, rushing toward me. “Tatum—” 3 I dreamed I was dead. At my funeral, Declan wore a black suit, his expression a perfectly measured grief. Three months later, his and Scarlett’s baby was born. They named him Intent—an echo of my name. Scarlett leaned into Declan’s arms and murmured, “A way to remember my sister.” Declan kissed her forehead. “It’s all over now.” The irony was a bitter burn. Even my death was just a footnote in the grand, sweeping drama of their love story. When I opened my eyes, I was in the passenger seat of our SUV. Declan was leaning over me, buckling my seatbelt. “You’re awake?” His voice was soft. “You collapsed at the clinic. You scared the hell out of me.” “Let’s go home. You need to rest.” I stared blankly at his face, inches from mine. His eyelashes were long, and when he looked down, he always appeared so focused, so deeply in love. My phone vibrated in my palm. A video message from an unknown number. I put in my earbuds and pressed play. Declan’s low, amused voice was sickeningly clear. “Let me check how well you’ve recovered.” Scarlett’s voice was syrupy and coy. “You’re so bad… Be gentle.” The video was short. The last frame, before the screen went black, was the platinum wedding band on Declan’s left hand. [Sister, I recognized you in the parking lot.] [I stepped on the gas on purpose. I wanted to see who Grant would protect.] [Now you know. He kicked you and held me.] [Oh, and you haven’t told him your family is bankrupt, have you?] [The expensive serum you bled yourself dry for? The one-thousand-dollar-a-vial stuff? It went straight into the trash. That doesn’t hurt, does it?] [I honestly can’t think of a more pathetic woman than you, so here’s a little wedding anniversary gift.] The message ended. The car stopped. Declan walked around and opened my door. “Wife, let me carry you in.” I didn’t move. I was cold, rigid, a husk with the soul sucked out. The arm he slipped under me tightened. His voice was muffled against the top of my head. “Wife, you’re trembling. Hold on to me if you’re cold.” Declan set me on the sofa and carefully draped a cashmere throw over me. My phone rang. The property manager said there was an urgent package that required my signature. Declan handed me a glass of water. “You stay put. I’ll get it.” I took a few sips and heard his footsteps disappear outside. After an unknown length of time, a sudden, heavy weakness paralyzed my body. I tried to call his name, but the door was violently shoved open. Three strange, burly men crowded into the living room. “Tatum Sinclair, right?” The beefy guy with the neck tattoo held up his phone. “Time to pay your debts.” My pupils shrank. My voice was a terrified, strangled croak. “I didn’t borrow—” A calloused hand slammed over my jaw, cutting me off. “If you don’t pay, don’t blame us for getting nasty.” A brutal slap knocked my head sideways. My vision went black. “Boss, this chick is a looker…” A greedy hand slid up my leg. “They say the Sinclair heiress was the prettiest thing in the city. Look at the face, the figure!” “You want to die?” The lead man snarled. “The client said whoever actually touches her isn’t walking out of here in one piece.” “What is his deal? He hires us to shoot his own wife?” “You idiot. He truly loves the other Miss Sinclair. These photos are just a power move, a way to keep his wife in line.” Through the hazy fog, I finally understood the “wedding anniversary gift” Scarlett had promised. For a few precious seconds, my heart simply stopped beating. My blurry vision registered the sound of a key turning in the lock. The flashbulbs went off again. I opened my eyes to see Declan’s bloodshot eyes and haggard face. “Tatum, you’re awake…” His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper on wood. “You scared me to death.” He spoke in frantic, broken sentences. He’d gone to get the package and somehow forgot to lock the door. When he came back, the house was a mess. And I was unconscious on the bed, clothes torn and mussed. “Thank God you’re okay…” He choked up, burying his face in my palm. “I failed you. I couldn’t protect you.” Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand out of his tight grip. “Your memory seems to be improving, doesn’t it?” His eyes widened in genuine alarm. “Are you mad? I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell you in the panic!” “Look, here’s the scan. My brain is totally normal. I’m completely recovered!” I didn’t even glance at the medical imaging. Declan gritted his teeth, then swung his arm and delivered a harsh slap across his own face. 4 His cheek immediately flared red and swollen, but his gaze was even more desperate, more pathetic. “It’s all my fault. Slap me, yell at me, but don’t shut me out.” He was like a child rushing to present a treasured item. He pulled a velvet box and a small, delicate slice of cream cake from behind his back. “It’s our anniversary today!” He opened the box, revealing a slender diamond bracelet. “I bought you a gift. Do you like it?” Without asking, he took my limp wrist and fastened the clasp. I lowered my eyes, gazing at the glittering bracelet, and finally spoke. My voice was dry, like a broken bellows. “Declan, do you love me?” Declan’s movement stopped. The air solidified for several agonizing seconds. He grasped my hand again, the force of his grip painful, his eyes focused with an intensity that felt like it was trying to brand itself onto my soul. “Yes.” He said it, every syllable, with the solemnity of an oath. “Tatum Sinclair, I love you.” The phrase was painfully familiar. He’d said it when he knelt in the rain after he cheated. He’d said it when he put the ring on my finger at our wedding. He’d even said it the first time he ‘recognized’ me after the fake amnesia. Every time, I believed him. Believed him without reservation, believed him until I’d given everything I had. How laughable. I looked into the bottomless well of “sincerity” in his eyes and felt an overwhelming, bone-deep fatigue. The sound of his phone broke the silence. He glanced at the screen, then grabbed his jacket. “There’s a lead on those bastards. I have to go immediately.” He stopped at the door, turning back, his eyes resolute. “Wife, wait for me!” His footsteps faded. The house fell into a deadly silence. Ten minutes later, my phone screen lit up. A voice recording from Scarlett. “Should I leak the rest of the photos now?” After a short pause, Declan’s voice—terrifyingly calm—replied. “Not yet. Wait.” “You don’t still have feelings for your wife, do you?” His voice dropped lower, colder. “Don’t be ridiculous. The photos are leverage. If she gives you any trouble, you show them to her.” Scarlett laughed, then her voice turned tearful. “But is her punishment just a few photos? We lost a baby, Grant.” Declan’s voice hardened. “Relax. I will make sure you get justice.” I listened quietly, tears streaming down my face. The place in my chest that had been raw, bloody, and mutilated finally stopped hurting. Only an empty, barren numbness remained. I picked up my phone. As I lowered my head, blood began to drip from my nose and eyes. I sent Declan a text message. Grant Holloway. I’ve run dry. My blood, my trust, my love. Is the curtain finally ready to fall on your performance? Then, I closed my eyes and let my phone fall from my hand. The next second, it started ringing frantically.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390137”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was checking into my sister’s emergency room for an allergic reaction when I ran straight into the resident who was hopelessly obsessed with her. The kid overheard the kind of “intimate” conversation only siblings have, and then saw my sister, in a classic move, habitually punch my shoulder. He went from jealous to frantic in about three seconds. He saw me as his ultimate nemesis, his eyes burning with pure, protective fury. I just stared, dumbfounded, ready to open my mouth and say, We’re siblings, you idiot. But before I could, he screamed, batting my sister’s hand away: “Dr. Pierce, break up with him! Don’t let this sick man fool you! That’s not an allergy!” “He’s got… lesions all over his rear!” “That’s a textbook sign of Secondary Syphilis! He has an STD!” 01 The entire emergency room fell into a deathly silence. Every single pair of eyes swiveled, swoosh, to focus on my exposed upper back and… my jeans, which I’d only managed to pull halfway back up after the initial assessment. My head went THWACK. All the blood drained from my face and rushed straight to my skull. “What the hell are you talking about?!” I was the first one to snap out of it, shaking with cold, pure rage. I whirled on him. Elijah Grant. The name was stitched on his scrubs. My vision was tunneling. “What is your name? What is your employee number? Do you have any idea you are leveling a felony accusation right now?!” My fury scared him; Eli flinched, and a fat tear plop-ped onto his chest. But he didn’t back down. He looked past me at my sister, Adriana Pierce, who was frozen in place. The look in his eyes was a bizarre mix of righteous indignation, agonizing heartbreak, and some kind of savior complex I couldn’t comprehend. “Dr. Pierce! I am not making this up! I’ve studied medicine for five years, I know what I saw!” He sobbed harder, pointing a finger at me. “I just don’t want to watch you be manipulated by a man like this! He has such a disgusting private life—he doesn’t deserve you! Look at him—he’s still trying to lie his way out of it!” Adriana’s expression was a perfect portrait of Who am I? Where am I? I yanked my jeans up instantly, ignoring the sharp, friction-induced pain on my irritated skin. I stood up straight, towering over Eli, and stared him down. “Say it again,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “The disease I have. What is it?” “I—” Eli stammered, intimidated by my gaze. But one glance at Addy standing beside me, and his courage flared up again. He puffed out his chest. “Don’t you know what you’ve been doing?!” “Fine,” I said, and the ridiculousness of the situation made me laugh—a cold, humorless sound. “You know what? Fine.” I stopped wasting time. I pulled out my phone and, right in front of him, started dialing. “Hello, 911? I need to report defamation. There’s a man at Metropolitan General who is publicly lying and slandering me, violating my civil rights…” “Hey! Hey! Mr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce, calm down!” Dr. Evelyn Shaw, the Chief of Emergency Medicine, rushed in, having clearly heard the commotion. She took one look at the scene—me shaking with rage, my sister’s face like granite—and she looked ready to faint. “Dr. Pierce, what… what in God’s name is happening here?” Adriana’s voice was dangerously flat. “Dr. Shaw, this doctor here just told the entire waiting room that my ‘dear one’ has Secondary Syphilis.” Dr. Shaw’s face went white. She spun on Eli, practically chewing him out in a whispered snarl. “Eli! Are you insane?! You’re giving a definitive diagnosis based on sight?! Are you a damned X-Ray machine?!” “I… I…” Eli’s tears flowed faster. He looked desperately at Addy. “Dr. Pierce, I was only trying to protect you! I—” “Shut up!” Dr. Shaw rubbed her temples. She knew Addy held administrative weight, and if this blew up, the entire ER department would face the fallout. “You will apologize to Mr. Pierce and Dr. Pierce immediately! Do you want to lose your residency spot before you even start?!” The words “residency spot” hit Eli like a physical blow. He shuddered, biting his lower lip, his face etched with humiliation and resentment. He gave me the most grudging, shallow bow imaginable. “I… I’m sorry.” His voice was a mosquito’s hum, but the murderous venom in his eyes was strong enough to peel paint off the wall. “I don’t want your apology,” I cut him off, my gaze sharp as glass as it swept over both him and Dr. Shaw. “Right now, in your hospital, I’m getting a full panel STD screening.” I paused, speaking each word slowly and distinctly. “If the results show I’m clean, I won’t just sue you, Eli Grant, for slander. I’ll sue this hospital for gross mismanagement and allowing an intern to disseminate false, life-altering medical information!” Dr. Shaw’s face was slick with a cold sweat. “Mr. Pierce, please, let’s calm down,” she quickly put on a professional smile. “This is a terrible misunderstanding! Eli, you are suspended immediately. You will write a ten-thousand-word apology. And this will be reported across the hospital.” I didn’t wait for the ensuing drama. I turned and walked away. Addy immediately followed, helping me re-register and get my blood drawn. I was exhausted. I was the one who jammed the needle in, who drew the sample, who filled out the paperwork. After fighting the hospital system for half the night, I dragged my inflamed body and my boiling rage back home, took the medicine, and fell into a heavy, feverish sleep. I slept for exactly as long as the internet was cancelling me. When I finally woke up, it was to the frantic, repeated ringing of my phone. Addy. “Hello…” My voice was a shredded whisper. “Cam, my god! You finally picked up! Check TikTok! It’s insane!” A cold dread clenched my gut. I opened the app. The barrage of DMs and comments (999+) instantly turned my phone into a slideshow. A local trending video was plastered on the front page. The screen showed a young man in a collared shirt, his face contorted in sorrow and injustice. It was Eli Grant. The caption read: #DidIDoSomethingWrong? I just wanted to be a good doctor. He didn’t name me, but the background was clearly the ER hallway from last night. Between sobs, he narrated: “…I was just trying to kindly warn that young woman that her ‘boyfriend’s’ symptoms were highly suspicious. If it wasthat kind of disease, it’s highly contagious. But I never imagined her boyfriend would react so violently, threatening to sue me…” “…Now, to smooth things over, my supervisors have suspended me and ordered a full review. I studied medicine for five years, and I truly don’t know what I did wrong…” “…Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten involved, but I just couldn’t stand the thought of that poor woman being kept in the dark. I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m still the best little lamb!” That last line—“I’m still the best little lamb”—was his calculated tag. The comment section had fully detonated. 02 @HealingHearts: OMG, baby don’t cry! You did the right thing! You are so pure! @TruthSayer: Some men are just pigs, they live a dirty life and then get mad when someone calls them out. @SheepLover: That patient definitely felt guilty and panicked, that’s why he sued! Hugs to the little lamb! @LocalGossip: Wait, isn’t this Metropolitan General? I think I was there last night, that dude was furious! @JusticeForSheep: Dig up the guy’s profile! Don’t let him hurt that beautiful woman anymore! I was physically trembling with disbelief and rage. The audacity of this sanctimonious, two-faced “Sweetest Little Lamb”! He was even replying to comments, painting a vivid picture of me. @TheLittleLamb: The guy looked pale and sickly, but he had the worst temper. I don’t know how he tricked a woman like her—she’s beautiful and classy, total night-and-day difference! @TheLittleLamb: I hear the beautiful woman is an admin at the hospital, too! Such a kind soul! It’s just so unfair! My anger reached a fever pitch. I typed a furious response in the comment section: @CamPierce: I am the “patient” you are referring to. The full story is… I’d managed to type out half the story when a cold, indifferent notification box popped up: [Your account has been temporarily disabled due to multiple reports of policy violation.] My vision blurred. When I gathered my senses, I immediately contacted the platform support, only to be told it would take three business days for the review process. Three business days? The damage would be irreversible by then! Addy, on the line, was frantic. “Cam, I already talked to the Hospital CEO! They said they’ll issue a public statement immediately!” “Addy,” I took a deep breath, forcing myself into a semblance of calm. “Don’t. You are currently ‘the poor, manipulated victim.’ The more you defend me, the more they’ll see me as some ‘privileged jerk’ abusing my ‘deep connections.’” “Then what do we do? Just let him get away with this character assassination?” I hung up, staring at Eli Grant’s tear-streaked face on the screen. Something clicked. That look he gave Addy in the ER last night. It wasn’t the way an intern looks at a colleague. It was obsession. Jealousy. Resentment. He kept saying, “For your own good,” and “He doesn’t deserve you.” Why would a brand-new intern be this fiercely protective of my sister? Unless… he’d known her for a while. A crazy, chilling idea flashed through my mind. I shot upright and dialed Addy back. “Addy, I need you to do something for me. Right now. I need you to log into the hospital’s internal network forum.” “The intranet? Now? Why?” “Don’t ask. Just search for a post.” I relayed the keywords, pulling from a hazy memory. “Keywords: Dr. Pierce, Boyfriend, Not Good Enough.” Silence on the other end. Addy was in Administration; logging into the intranet took her seconds. Five minutes later, she called back, her voice a mix of shock and utter bewilderment. “Cam… how… how did you know?” She sent me a screenshot. It was a post from three months ago, buried deep in the hospital’s anonymous gossip section. Title: [Treehouse] I feel bad for Dr. Pierce. Her boyfriend seems like such a demanding jerk. Body: The (OP) is a new intern. Today in the cafeteria, I saw Dr. Pierce eating, and her ‘boyfriend’ (I assume) called her. She had to drop her lunch and run all the way to the first-floor coffee shop to get him some kind of limited-edition seasonal cold brew. Last week, I saw her carrying his shopping bag for him in the hospital garden. He was acting so entitled and condescending, but Dr. Pierce just smiled through it all. And I heard he spends money like crazy. I think she hands over most of her salary to him. Seriously, what is so great about this guy? Why is Dr. Pierce with him? I feel so bad for her! The replies were varied. @GossipQueen: OP, are you secretly crushing on Dr. Pierce? LOL. @AdminBuddy: Ha! Our Addy is the hospital’s sweetheart. She’s got a line of admirers out the door. @Rando: I’ve seen that guy. He’s handsome, but he looks like a total tool. The OP, when asked if he was crushing, replied in an excited, lengthy defense: @OP: I am NOT! I don’t know why you’d say that! I’m just looking out for Dr. Pierce! She’s too good for a man who would manipulate and use her like that! I stared at the screenshot, my hands ice-cold. Three months ago, I was at the hospital for a dental check-up. Addy bought me a coffee, and I, being a typical younger brother, complained it was the wrong flavor and made her get the special one. Last week, my mom made us pick up her annual physical results. I had just finished some retail therapy and made her carry my bags. And her salary? Her bank account was confiscated by our mother years ago because she has zero impulse control. It’s in my name. I give her a monthly allowance. I drew a long, shaky breath, my voice now like shards of ice. “Addy, check the IP address of that post.” Addy: “…It’s the Interns’ Dorm, Building A.” “Who lives in Building A?” “…Dermatology, and a few Internal Med residents.” Addy paused, and I heard the click of a mouse. “Eli Grant. He’s in Building A.” 03 I smiled. The laughter was almost hysterical; tears pricked my eyes. It wasn’t a medical mistake. It wasn’t a random incident. This was a meticulously plotted, malice-driven act of retaliation, fueled by obsession. Eli hadn’t misdiagnosed me. He had sentenced me. He wasn’t trying to cure me; he was trying to punish me. He wanted to punish me, the “bad man” who “didn’t deserve” Addy and was “manipulating” her. Okay. You want to play this out on the internet? Game on. Just then, a WhatsApp notification popped up—a contact request. The profile picture was Eli Grant’s tear-stained, self-pitying face. I accepted it. His message came immediately. Eli: Mr. Pierce? I truly didn’t expect things to go this viral online. Eli: I know I messed up, and I’m asking for your forgiveness. As a doctor, though, I still advise you to take better care of yourself. You need to stop living such a messy lifestyle. That condescending, self-righteous tone made him sound like a goddamn savior. I stared at the text, shaking my head and letting out a final, furious laugh. My instinct was to unleash a torrent of profanity, but my finger froze over the screen. What was the point? It would only fuel his ego. I deleted the long string of insults I’d typed, and calmly sent a reply. Cam: Are you at the hospital right now? Eli clearly hadn’t expected that. After a few seconds, a lone “?” came back. Seeing that question mark, a cold, predatory smirk curved my lips. I ignored him and immediately called Addy. “Addy, I need your help.” “Name it, Cam!” “Take your TikTok account live.” “Huh?” “The title: Regarding ‘The Sweetest Little Lamb’s’ Slander Campaign: The ‘Dirty Man’s’ Sister Speaks.” 04 The next morning, Addy and I walked back into Metropolitan General. Addy’s TikTok account had tens of thousands of followers from her fitness videos and hospital admin tips. The moment she went live, the title alone pulled in thousands of viewers instantly. Most of them were the people who’d followed Eli’s story last night, rushing to curse out the “scumbag” and the “poor, manipulated girlfriend.” @ToxicTruth: Ugh, this dude actually came back to the hospital? @GossipGirl: She must be crazy! That gorgeous, classy woman with a guy who has Secondary Syphilis? @JudgeJudy: City folks playin’ too rough! I ignored the comments and walked straight into the ER lobby. Eli was still there. He wasn’t in scrubs, but in casual clothes, chatting and laughing with another nurse—no signs of a man facing a serious suspension. He saw me and froze. Then, he gave me a slight, dismissive sneer. But when his gaze darted past me to Addy, who was holding her phone up and live-streaming, the color drained completely from his face. The next second, his whole demeanor flipped. He rushed toward us, bowing deeply over and over again. “Dr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce! I am so sorry, truly!” “I never meant for the internet to react so intensely… I shouldn’t have revealed your medical condition, I was just so worried you might infect someone else…” He kept the weeping act up, subtly glancing at Addy, putting on a performance of sincere remorse. The live chat instantly exploded. @AHA! Did you hear that! He admitted it was a ‘medical condition,’ not an ‘allergy’!’ @PIG! I’m sick to my stomach! This guy brings his ‘girlfriend’ here to intimidate the poor doctor? I contained my volcanic fury and cut through his performance with a cold voice. “Medical condition? Fine.” I held up a manila folder. “My initial lab results from last night are in here.” Eli’s sobbing instantly stopped. “But I’m afraid you and the internet will say we’re ‘abusing power,’ forcing the hospital to alter the report.” I turned to the camera, sweeping my gaze over the crowd of onlookers. “So, right now, in front of everyone watching this stream, I’m registering again, drawing blood again, and doing a full, new panel.” “Not only that,” I said, turning to Addy. She understood immediately. She pulled out her work phone and dialed. “Hello, Public Notary’s Office? I need expedited, on-site document witnessing services…” “This…” Eli’s face had completely melted. Just then, Dr. Shaw rushed over, her face furious. “This is chaos! This is a hospital, not a goddamn television studio!” She was clearly trying to shut it down. Addy walked up to her, silent, and whispered a few words in her ear. I caught the words “CEO,” “Intranet Forum,” and “Malicious Slander.” Dr. Shaw’s face changed in an instant, from white to green to absolute black. She glared at Eli, then spat out three words through gritted teeth. “Let him test!” I took Addy’s phone, registered, and paid the fees. I ignored the vitriol in the chat. Blood draw, urine sample, other tests… The Notary officials arrived quickly, setting up their cameras to record the entire chain of custody. I remained perfectly calm throughout the process. Eli tried to slip away a couple of times, but Addy, standing like a stone statue at the lab door, blocked him. His face got paler, and his panic grew visible. When all the tests were done, I crossed my arms and sat in a chair in the lobby to wait. The stream had hit over a hundred thousand viewers, all waiting for the conclusion of this unprecedented scandal. Two hours later, I received the stack of printed reports. I didn’t look at them. I handed the entire stack, along with the Notary’s paperwork, to Dr. Shaw. “Dr. Shaw,” I managed a small, frigid smile. “You’re the Chief of Medicine. You’re the professional. Do me a favor: read the results of my new panel for the internet.” Dr. Shaw’s lab coat was damp with sweat. She took the stack of papers, her hands visibly trembling. She cleared her throat and started reading them one by one. “Complete Blood Count… Normal.” “Liver Function… Normal.” “Kidney Function… Normal.” She read quickly, until she turned to the last page. Her voice cut off abruptly. She looked up, giving me a strange, unreadable glance, then looked back down, her eyes full of hesitation and a hint of… pity? The live chat noticed the pause immediately. @WHAT Why did she stop? What’s on the last page? @TELLUS Spit it out! You’re killing us! With hundreds of thousands of people urging her on, Dr. Shaw swallowed hard. She lifted the final page to the camera and forced out the last few words: “Treponema Pallidum Antibody… Positive (+).” “Diagnosis: Syphilis, Secondary Stage.”

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To care for my mother after her cancer diagnosis, I quit my high-pressure job at a major finance firm and took a simple sales role near home. It was supposed to be my soft landing. On my first day, I saw her again—Serena Caldwell. The company’s newly appointed General Manager, and my ex-girlfriend from three years ago. In the mandatory morning meeting, she wore a perfectly tailored blazer and carried herself with an air of untouchable professionalism. Her eyes swept over me without the slightest flicker of recognition, as if I were a ghost she’d never known. A week later, my team secured a multi-million-dollar contract. At the small celebration dinner, she came up to my side, her voice a low murmur only I could hear. “Declan Miller,” she said, tilting her wine glass, “you’re still as ruthlessly efficient as ever.” The pivot point came the day after she left for a major business trip. A new Director of HR, whom everyone whispered was Serena’s fiancé, strode onto our floor. He marched straight over to my desk and, with a dismissive swipe, knocked my lunch container off the edge. “Lunch hour ended for everyone else twenty minutes ago,” he sneered. “What are you loitering around here for?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. It had been barely half an hour since the office’s “official” lunch break began, and I’d been finalizing the details of a contract signing for that afternoon. Eating a little late was now a fireable offense? I started to stand up to demand an explanation, but he turned to face the rest of the floor, his voice booming. “I don’t care how sloppy you’ve been in the past. From now on, you will follow my rules to the letter!” A wave of impotent anger washed over the office. My colleagues just bowed their heads and kept typing. Great. I thought. Even the ‘easy’ job has its own brand of corporate hell. … 1 I was halfway through drafting a message to a major client to cancel our cooperation—my breaking point—when Preston Wells, the new HR Director, finished his tyrannical speech and swaggered back toward my desk, clearly basking in the silence he’d created. He looked down at me with an expression of utter contempt. “Clean up this mess,” he hissed. “And if I catch you violating policy again, I’ll personally tank your entire performance review.” With that, Preston stalked away. Nate, the guy at the desk next to me, tugged urgently at my sleeve. “Declan, man, just sit down. The CEO’s guy is seriously unhinged.” I sank into my chair. Nate leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word is, every time he and Serena have a fight, he comes here and wreaks havoc. He even canceled Laura’s approved maternity leave, said she could give birth at her desk and still wouldn’t be missing work.” “Just hold tight. It’ll be better when Serena gets back.” Former Regional Director at a Tier-One firm, reduced to swallowing this garbage in a glorified suburban sales office. The only reason I hadn’t quit ten minutes ago was that this place was two miles from Mom’s apartment, making it easy to manage her care. Otherwise, I’d have slammed the multi-million-dollar contracts I’d just secured onto Preston’s smug face. My phone vibrated. It was a text from the executive assistant to the CEO of Aether Group. [Mr. Miller, Mr. Harrington insists on speaking with you personally.] [In addition to the previously discussed $8 million annual salary and equity, we’ve been made aware of your mother’s situation.] [The Group’s private medical facility is nationally renowned for its cancer treatment. Mr. Harrington guarantees that, upon your signing, your mother will be admitted immediately and receive complimentary lifetime medical care.] My breath hitched. My fingers went numb against the screen. Aether Group, the titan of the industry, didn’t just throw money—they hit my precise, agonizing pressure point. This wasn’t an offer; it was a lifeline dropped from the sky. I replied instantly: [I accept your offer. I will complete my transition and departure from my current employer ASAP.] I put the phone down and started writing my resignation letter. Mom’s care came first. Always. A few minutes later, Mark, my direct manager, rushed over, waving the resignation letter. “Declan, what are you doing?” His hands were visibly shaking. Serena had explicitly told him to keep me happy. “As you can see, Mark. I’m resigning,” I said, my voice calm. “No! Absolutely not!” He raised his voice, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. His expression, however, was pitifully desperate. “I know it’s Preston. I’m sorry. When Serena gets back, I promise, I will handle it.” The genuine panic in his eyes was clear. “If you walk out now, what happens to the department? Those major accounts… The new project is about to kick off, and the clients only trust you!” His look pleaded with me to stay. “I’ll ensure a smooth handover for those clients—” The sharp tap-tap-tap of expensive leather shoes echoed as Preston came out of his glass office. 2 “I can hear your yelling all the way from my office! Mark, is this what you call work?” He caught sight of Mark, his expression instantly judgmental. “Manager, you should not be wandering around gossiping during office hours. This is a professional environment, not a flea market!” My face hardened. Since I was already leaving, I had nothing to lose. “Mr. Wells,” I interrupted, my tone icy. “We are an international trade company. How do you suggest we communicate with clients without speaking? And furthermore, aren’t you the HR Director? Does your authority extend to micromanaging the day-to-day operations of the Sales Department?” A paralyzing silence fell over the office. Every single person stopped working and looked straight at us. Preston clearly hadn’t anticipated such direct defiance. He froze for a second. Then, his face flushed crimson with rage. “Declan Miller! Do you even want this job?! I am the HR Director! The discipline of all employees falls under my purview!” He was practically shouting, his voice pitching higher with every word. I gave a short, cynical laugh, took the resignation letter from Mark’s trembling hand, and tossed it right onto Preston’s chest. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I don’t.” The paper fluttered to the floor near his feet. Preston’s face twisted in fury, but then a slow, venomous smile spread across his lips as he realized something. He crossed his arms, then deliberately raised his foot and ground the heel of his shoe into the letter, grinding it into the carpet. “Trying to jump ship, are we?” he drawled. “Well, I won’t humor you. Your resignation is not approved.” Mark tried to interject, but a single, fierce glare from Preston shut him down. “I’ve notified you, Mr. Wells. Once the necessary handover is complete, I can leave.” Preston scoffed, ignoring me. “Company policy states that all departing employees must undergo a full exit audit to ensure no financial detriment to the firm.” He leaned down, picking up the crumpled letter, then tossed it into the nearest recycling bin. His smile turned chilling. “And unluckily for you, you haven’t completed the procedure.” “So,” he finished, a triumphant glint in his eyes, “you’re not going anywhere.” The room was deathly quiet. Everyone understood: Preston was deliberately manufacturing a roadblock to stall my departure. “In that case, I’ll call the GM directly right now for clarification on those procedures.” Preston’s eyes flickered, realizing this might escalate beyond his control. He just wanted to flex, not start a war. “Look, Preston, come on… just cut him some slack,” Mark jumped in, trying to play peacemaker. “Declan, just finish the handover on those few accounts and go. Give Serena a clean exit…” He turned his back to Preston and frantically motioned for me to concede. I understood. Mark wouldn’t be the one to block the paperwork. “Fine. Since Mark is asking, I’ll give him a pass.” Preston glared at me, his eyes dark with malice. “But you’d better not give me any reason to pull you up!” His sinister warning gave me a flash of unease. Over the next few days, the surface was smooth, but the undercurrents were rough. I continued to work, completing the handover, even more proactively than before. Preston, meanwhile, found increasingly petty ways to pick fights. He demanded I rewrite my daily reports for “incorrect formatting.” He checked on me constantly when I was meeting clients, claiming I exceeded my approved time away from the office. He rejected my taxi expense reports, claiming the date stamp was wrong, forcing me to pay out of pocket. I ignored his demands, simply taking screenshots and saving every correspondence. I also quietly reached out to a few friends in the local Labor Relations Board. Preston wasn’t just targeting me. When he issued his bizarre final refusal to Laura’s maternity leave appeal—using the ludicrous reason that she “hadn’t provided a paternity test for the child”—I knew it was time. That same afternoon, a stern call from a labor inspector hit Preston’s direct line. The inspector sternly demanded a written explanation regarding his “alleged violation of female employee protection regulations.” 3 Preston finally looked rattled. He hadn’t expected me to actually escalate the issue, and he quickly approved Laura’s leave. I thought that small victory would keep him quiet, at least until I was gone. Then came this afternoon. I had just finished my last face-to-face handover with a client. Walking back into the office, I immediately felt the atmosphere shift. Several colleagues stole glances at me, their expressions a strange mix of apprehension and doubt. The guy next to me looked like he wanted to speak but simply pounded the keyboard harder, avoiding eye contact. Mark’s office door was tightly shut. Confused, I sat down and opened my computer. An “All-Staff Alert” email from the corporate address was sitting at the top of my inbox. Sender: Preston Wells. Subject: IMMEDIATE TERMINATION FOR GROSS MISCONDUCT AND ALLEGED EMBEZZLEMENT In the body, my name was bolded and highlighted in red. [Preliminary investigation indicates that Declan Miller allegedly embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars. His actions constitute a severe violation of company policy.] [Mr. Miller is immediately suspended without pay, and all access and accounts have been frozen…] Attached to the email were a few blurry screenshots of a chat log. An account using my old profile picture was clearly soliciting “kickbacks” from someone. Oh, Preston. You’re so wonderfully clumsy. I couldn’t help but almost laugh. Using fake chat logs? That trick was outdated ten years ago. He was clearly just trying to manufacture an excuse to block the final phase of my handover. The most baffling part? “Hundreds of thousands of dollars.” That was less than a week’s commission for me at my old firm. Preston clearly hadn’t bothered to check my past pay stubs. My desk phone rang. It was Preston. “Miller, you saw the email. I need you to report to the small conference room immediately.” His voice was dripping with smug satisfaction. “You have some serious explaining to do.” I hung up. My colleagues looked at me, fear etched on their faces. Nate was practically shaking, urging me to call the police. I smiled calmly, assuring him that this kind of cheap parlor trick was something even a corporate intern could handle. I stood up and walked toward the small conference room, taking nothing with me. When I pushed the door open, three people were waiting: Preston, the company’s legal counsel, and an unfamiliar face from the auditing department. They were making a show of it. “Sit,” Preston commanded, pointing to the empty chair across from him. Before my butt could even touch the seat, Preston launched the attack. “Declan Miller, Mr. Reynolds from Coastal Trade will testify that he wired you money! And we have a statement from the North Star Group admitting you ‘requested’ kickbacks!” I raised an eyebrow. He’d done more than I thought; he’d apparently managed to bribe or coerce “witnesses.” Mr. Reynolds? North Star? I did business with them. The fact that they’d cooperate with Preston’s charade was slightly unexpected. But I wasn’t falling into his trap. I stood up immediately. “If you believe I have committed a crime, you are free to call the police at any time.” “If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.” Preston slammed his hand on the table and jumped up. “This is an internal investigation! Your hostile behavior and refusal to cooperate are in clear violation of company policy!” “I’ve already had your access badge and computer privileges revoked. You are suspended and will remain so until the investigation is complete! You can wait at home until we decide on your employment status!” I looked at Preston’s furious face. So that was his play: hold me in limbo indefinitely to prevent me from moving on to Aether Group. I ignored him, deciding that if it came to it, I would just take the whole thing to arbitration. I returned to my desk, quickly packed up my personal effects, and said a few quiet goodbyes to my colleagues. I took the elevator downstairs. The moment I walked through the lobby doors, I stopped dead. The main hall was swarming with people—a dozen of them, pushing cameras with long lenses and holding up phone cameras, all aiming straight at me. The lights and camera flashes exploded, momentarily blinding me. 4 “He’s out! That’s him!” “Mr. Miller! How do you respond to the company’s allegations of embezzling hundreds of thousands?” “We heard your mother is undergoing chemotherapy. Is that the primary motivation for your alleged misconduct?” The questions hammered at me like hail, each one a carefully constructed trap. I instantly knew this was Preston. I’d underestimated how far he would go. He’d weaponized media resources to destroy my reputation. The reporters were here less than thirty minutes after my “suspension.” This was clearly premeditated. “It’s all libel and baseless slander!” I shouted, trying to push through the crowd, but they were a solid, unmoving wall. My phone was vibrating frantically in my pocket. I managed to pull it out and saw it was the nurse’s aide from the hospital—several missed calls. My heart seized up. I answered immediately. The aide’s voice was frantic and tearful. “Mr. Miller! It’s bad! The hospital… there are people here! They say they’re reporters and onlookers, all crammed outside her room!” “They’re… they’re taking pictures of your mother and asking her awful questions!” “She got so upset, she had trouble breathing! The nurses came to push them out, but more people keep showing up!” “They’re saying… they’re saying she raised a fraud, that she’s an unfit mother…” Buzz. My mind went completely blank. Mom… they went after my Mom? “Call the police! Call the police right now!” I roared into the phone. “I’m on my way!” Hanging up, the blood surged to my head. I pushed away the microphone shoved into my face and yelled. “Get out of my way!” My eyes must have been terrifying, because the reporters closest to me instinctively backed up half a step. Just as I was about to charge out, my phone rang again. It was Ms. Davis, the executive assistant to Mr. Harrington at Aether Group. I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing a semblance of calm, and answered. “Hello, Mr. Miller?” My stomach dropped. I responded quietly. “Mr. Miller, I apologize for calling you at this time.” “We’ve noted the… unfortunate rumors that are currently spreading rapidly online.” Her tone was professional and smooth, but every word felt like a knife. “Mr. Harrington and the senior leadership team are extremely concerned.” “Aether Group maintains the most rigorous standards for the character and professional reputation of its senior executives.” She paused. My heart turned to ice. “Therefore, after an emergency deliberation, the Group has decided to temporarily suspend your employment process.” “Until you can provide concrete evidence to fully and definitively clear all of these accusations…” My mouth was dry and cracked. “Understood,” I managed, feeling utterly adrift. The line went dead. I stood in the center of the noisy lobby, surrounded by flashing lenses and relentless questions. The world went silent, then crashed down on me. A male reporter shoved a mic back into my face. “Mr. Miller, did Aether Group just rescind their job offer?” “Is this due to your poor character?” My control snapped. I grabbed his lapel, shaking with a blind fury. “What will it take for you vultures to leave me alone! How much damage do you need to do?!” Of course, Preston chose that exact moment to ride the elevator down to the lobby. “Well, well, look at all the media attention, Miller. Why don’t you just confess to your crimes?” His smug, malicious grin completely obliterated the last shred of my sanity. Just as I lunged, prepared to unleash a year’s worth of suppressed rage, a loud, commanding female voice cut through the chaos. “Declan, stop!”

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After insisting that Harper put on the delicate costume lingerie again, a line of floating text suddenly scrolled across my vision: [The toxic male side character is shameless, always trying to find ways to humiliate our heroine!] [It’s okay. When the heroine meets her tycoon father and becomes a commercial magnate, she’ll ruin his family!] [Skip the toxic side character’s scenes! Just show me the hero and heroine’s sweet daily life!] The commentary vanished, and my hand, which had been unhooking the back of Harper’s dress, paused. She was flushed, but her eyes held a cool, clear depth. “Not continuing?” she asked. I took a deep breath, redoing the button I’d just undone. “You can go.” 1 Harper froze. “Excuse me?” I lowered my gaze. My eyes trailed down her soft chest, her fair waist, until they settled on her hands resting at her sides. The delicate lace trim on the cuff looked like fine snowflakes dusting her wrist. I had spent weeks picking out this outfit for her. The top was tailored, perfectly tracing her figure. It wasn’t overtly revealing. In fact, paired with Harper’s cool demeanor, it looked almost regal. But according to the commentary I’d just seen, she was supposed to be feeling humiliated right now. She thought I was doing this just to degrade her. The thought made the whole endeavor feel pointless. I put the camera down. “I said, you can go. I don’t want to shoot anymore.” I was co-running a startup with my friend, Sam. Sam designed the intimate apparel, and I photographed the models. Harper had volunteered to be the one to model the clothes I’d picked out for this collection. She ripped the bunny ears from her head. Her thin lips tightened, hinting at annoyance. “Albert, what sort of mood are you in now? I agreed to the shoot, didn’t I? What else do you want?” Just then, the aerial commentary, which had momentarily disappeared, scrolled across the air again: [Why is the side character throwing a fit? The heroine put aside her self-respect to pose for him, what’s his problem?!!] [He’s just trying to build up more hate in her. He’s asking for a tragic ending.] [Don’t worry, everyone. This toxic creep ends up jumping from the eighteenth floor. He dies miserably~] 2 The eighteenth floor. Because of Harper? I involuntarily shivered and subtly put more distance between us. My voice dropped a notch. “I’m not throwing a fit. I just… I don’t think you genuinely want to do this. I don’t want to make you do something you hate.” Harper was taken aback. A flicker of disbelief crossed her eyes. Perhaps I had been too persistent in the past. My sudden capitulation seemed to genuinely confuse her. “Is that all? Are you plotting some new scheme beneath that innocent look?” I quickly shook my head. “No. Nothing like that.” She studied me, her expression unreadable. After a long silence, just as I thought she wouldn’t speak again, she placed the rabbit-ear headband into my hand. Her voice was slightly hoarse. “Then I’m going back to studying.” Only after Harper left did the tension drain from my body. More commentary drifted by: [As if the toxic side character would let the heroine off so easily.] [This is definitely a strategic retreat. He’s cooking up a new way to torment her.] [Remember last time? She wouldn’t go to the amusement park with him, so he retaliated by firing her mom, the housekeeper. Her mom was secretly crying as she left with her bags.] My fingers tightened into a fist. That wasn’t how it happened. The reason I had so forcefully dismissed her mother, Maria, right in front of Harper was because I had discovered Maria’s cancer diagnosis just before. Maria didn’t want the astronomical medical debt to weigh on Harper or interfere with her graduate thesis defense, so she was trying to keep it a secret. I found out, immediately contacted the best oncologists, and insisted she start treatment and stay in the hospital. I had to stage that “firing” to keep the truth hidden from Harper. Just yesterday, the doctor said her surgery went well and she would be released soon. 3 Early the next morning, I woke up thirsty and headed downstairs for a glass of water. Passing Harper’s room, I noticed her light was still on. The image of her sitting bolt upright at her desk, her long fingers turning a page, her lips slightly pursed in concentration, flashed through my mind. Then, the morning’s commentary—the predictions, the drama—slammed me back to reality. I shook my head hard. A faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. I retreated to the stairwell, peeking around the corner. I saw Caden, my stepbrother, in pink sleepwear, knocking on Harper’s door with a glass of milk. New floating text appeared before my eyes: [Aah! The hero is finally here! He’s so cute, like a little sunbeam!] [Waaah! Only the hero in this house actually cares about our girl.] [ I have complex feelings for the hero: I want to mother him!] Harper opened the door quickly, seemingly unsurprised. She pushed her black, half-rimmed glasses up her nose and familiarly took the milk, thanking him with slightly red ears. When their fingertips brushed, the scrolling commentary went wild, declaring they were “shipping” them too hard. Caden’s voice was bright. “Harp, will you go to the amusement park with me this weekend?” Harper paused, not answering immediately. She simply tilted her head back and finished the glass of milk. [What is the heroine doing!! Why isn’t she agreeing to go with our little sunbeam?] [Relax, she’s the reserved, repressed type. Give her a minute.] [Just kiss already! Aah, I’m dying here!] Caden pouted, looking slightly hurt. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can go alone.” Harper leaned in, bracing one hand on the door frame, closer to him now. “Who said I don’t want to? You get motion sickness, I was just trying to figure out if anti-nausea meds would help with those 3D simulator rides.” Watching the intimate scene, my heart felt gripped by an invisible hand. My eyes stung, and a heavy knot formed in my chest. When I used to ask Harper to go to the park with me, she would always say the same thing: I don’t have time to waste on such childish things. Now, she not only agreed instantly to Caden but was thoughtfully considering how to manage his symptoms. It wasn’t that she feared wasting time. She just feared wasting time on me. 4 Back in my room, staring at the 99+ notifications of people “shipping” them so hard, my eyes burned again. In this sweet romance novel, I was just the villain, the toxic side character everyone despised. Caden, my non-biological stepbrother, was the hero of this world. And Harper was his destined match. So, what did my years of devotion mean? Harper was sickly growing up. To ensure she was healthy, I often insisted she eat the vegetables and meats she hated. Later, in high school, she worked late nights at a study lounge’s coffee bar to save up for tuition, barely staying awake in class the next day. I found out, secretly got her fired, and convinced my father to cover her tuition until graduate school. Only after seeing the commentary did I realize that all the moments I thought were acts of love and protection were seen by her as coercion and humiliation. All leading to a future where she would seek revenge and destroy my family. If that was the reality, I had to stop loving her. I spent the next few hours packing all the gifts and tokens Harper had ever given me into a cardboard box. They weren’t exactly gifts, just random things she’d handed me. But I had kept them meticulously for years. I tossed the box into the storage room. 5 Harper and I attended the same graduate program, sharing the same advisor, though I was a year behind her. The next day, after we finished an experiment, Harper stayed behind to organize her data. Unlike my usual habit of waiting for her, I simply packed my bag and headed for the door. “Albert.” She called out my full name. I turned back, my expression intentionally cool. “What is it?” She stood and walked toward me. “Are you leaving now?” “Yes.” I started to turn away again. She grabbed my wrist, her grip firm, almost impossible to pull away from. “It’s dark out. I’ll walk you home.” “No need.” Harper looked down at me, her eyes dark and intense. “Are you throwing a fit again? Because I went to the park with Cade? Are you jealous?” More text flashed across my mind: [Is the side character ever not annoying? The slightest inconvenience and he forces the heroine to comfort him.] [She’s only walking him home because she has to swing by the bakery to grab a pastry for the hero.] So, that’s why. A sharp tug of pain went through my chest. It was foolish not to have seen it sooner. Since childhood, she always called Caden “Cade” or “Cady.” She always called me by my full name. That was the difference. I pulled my wrist free. “I’m not throwing a fit. It’s your business who you go to the park with.” Harper gave a light, knowing laugh. She looked like she saw right through my denial. “Still claiming you’re not jealous?” I was exhausted. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I simply turned and walked out.

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The day I found a used, ultra-thin wrapper—a condom—stuffed between the passenger seat and the console of Damon’s custom Range Rover was the tenth anniversary of our wedding. In the ensuing fight, I slammed the door and ran, only to be hit by a runaway semi-truck. Our seven-month-old child was torn from my body, seven months too soon. Crushed. Just… gone. Damon Cole wept outside the operating room, swearing that he would never betray me again. He blocked the mistress, Chelsea Quinn, on every platform and started sending me his itinerary daily. My friends called me a warrior, praising me for winning the battle for my marriage. But I grew quieter with each passing day. Until our tenth wedding anniversary. Damon knelt on one knee, holding a newly customized engagement ring—a replica of the cheap silver band he’d first given me when we were kids. “Anna Rhodes,” he said, his eyes earnest and teary. “If you could turn back time, would you still marry me?” Our eyes met. I just stood there, frozen, unable to give him any reaction. That’s when he snapped. “Anna, what is it going to take? How much longer are you going to punish me? It was a baby, not a limb! We can have another one! I’ve been crawling on my knees for six months, damn it! Is that not enough?” “Do I have to kill myself before you’ll finally forgive me?” I blinked slowly. I looked at him, then smiled faintly. “You went through all the trouble to set this up. You must be starving. Would you like me to make you some grilled cheese? Or maybe just burgers?” … 1 Damon roared and slammed the front door as he left. I sighed. For the last six months, Damon truly seemed to have become the man I married. He’d even pushed a crucial business dinner to be here with me tonight. But the words—the tearful, desperate “I do” I’d said ten years ago—couldn’t be squeezed past my lips now. Before I could process the lingering emptiness, my phone chimed. Chelsea Quinn had posted a new Instagram Reel. In the shaky video, Damon was slumped in a dim corner of a bar, slugging back liquor. He was leaning down and kissing Chelsea fiercely. The caption was a self-satisfied thought of hers: ‘To the one who sent him back to me. Love always finds a way.’ The old me, even when heavily pregnant, would have charged into that bar and torn both of them apart. Now, I just calmly clicked on her private messages. And sent her a screenshot of the recipe for my famous anti-hangover detox shot. It was a recipe I’d tracked down from an old herbalist for Damon when I was worried about his stomach. Sending it to Chelsea felt like passing on the mantle. I was done with the caretaking. I expected Damon to stay out for days, like he used to. But he came home. He stood in the foyer, smelling of stale liquor, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked broken and pathetic. “Why didn’t you come after me?” “Chelsea’s post—you saw it, didn’t you?” I froze. A sudden pang pierced my chest. He knew. He always knew about Chelsea’s deliberate provocation, about every one of her calculated moves to torment me. I opened my mouth, but the words felt stuck in my throat. My silence quickly transformed Damon’s hurt into white-hot fury. He grabbed my shoulders, his alcohol-laced breath hot on my face. “Anna! Say something, damn it! You had a miscarriage, you didn’t lose your voice!” “Look at you! You’re a shell of yourself, moping around all day. In bed, you’re like a dead fish. You have none of Chelsea’s fire, her vivacity—what man is supposed to tolerate that?” He got louder, unleashing every ounce of suppressed resentment. “The fight that day—sure, I was wrong. But are you telling me you had no part in it? The baby was in your stomach, Anna! You were the one stupid enough to get hit by a truck!” “And I came back! I want to make things work! We can have another baby! How much longer do you need to dwell on this?!” I stared at his enraged face, my eyes wide with a strange blankness. It had truly never occurred to me. His affair, my loss—all my fault. Just then, the doorbell rang. The display screen showed Chelsea holding a thermal carafe. She was specifically in a low-cut cashmere sweater, her neck craned just so, displaying a fresh, vivid bruise of a kiss. “Damon, are you home? You left before you could drink your hangover remedy. I was so worried.” Damon saw the screen, too. His grip on my shoulder eased. He looked at me, pleading. “Anna. Just say the word. Tell me to stay, and I will.” He was waiting. Waiting for me to scream, to drive Chelsea away, to lock him in with me—like I always had. But I just gave him a gentle, composed smile. “It’s too late. She shouldn’t be alone tonight. You should go with her.” In an instant, the expression on Damon’s face turned viciously ugly. “Fine! Fine, Anna Rhodes! You’ve finally done it.” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. He pointed at me, his jaw clenched. “You remember this! Don’t you dare say I was the one who walked away this time!” He spun around, flung the door open, and, taking Chelsea with him, stormed out without a backward glance. 2 Taking advantage of the post-anniversary chaos, I went through the house and began to sort things out. When I reached the cardboard box tucked away in a corner of the home office, I paused. There was nothing of monetary value inside. Just a faded, threadbare high school varsity jacket and a few polaroids. The jacket was Damon’s. The winter I was sixteen, my mother finally fled my father’s abuse. My father turned all his drunken rage onto me. I was being beaten bloody in an alley. Damon had rushed in, thrown that jacket over me, and taken several blows himself. He shattered a beer bottle and screamed at my father: “Old man, touch her again and I’ll bury you! You hear me?” He was young, reckless, all raw muscle and fury. He scared my father sober that night. Damon dragged me out of that suffocating darkness. When we were at our lowest, we split a single pack of instant ramen. Even the ring he proposed with was just a plain silver band. His hand shook as he slid it onto my finger, his voice thick with emotion. He said, “One day, when I make it big, I’ll replace this with a diamond bigger than a pigeon’s egg. I’ll buy you the best house, the best life.” “I’ll make you happy, Anna. We’ll have a complete, perfect family.” I sat on the floor, flipping through the photos, my fingertips icy cold. Damon had kept his promise. He gave me the mansion, the security, and now, even the bespoke diamond ring. But how did we end up like this? I think the change began when I got pregnant. The morning sickness was debilitating. Damon, concerned, told me to step back from the company to rest. That’s when Chelsea was hired. She was a top-tier graduate, beautiful, and undeniably capable. Damon mentioned her several times at home, saying he really admired her drive. I didn’t worry at first; I was glad someone was there to lighten his load. But slowly, his shirts smelled of a perfume I didn’t recognize, and his phone calls with me grew shorter and more impatient. Then came that torrential night when I took a taxi to the office to surprise him. I opened his office door. And saw two bodies intertwined. He was driving into her with a savage intensity. My world collapsed in that instant. I lost it. I screamed, I cried, and, seven months pregnant, I lunged at Chelsea, ripping at her hair. I exposed his shame to every mutual friend. I publicly humiliated Chelsea at the company. I thought I could drag him back. But he wasn’t the headstrong boy from the alley anymore. A single medical report—a statement about my mental health—sealed my fate. “She’s dealing with severe prenatal anxiety and a touch of delusion. We’re working through it, everyone. Please be patient with her.” But I wouldn’t surrender… And so, later… I instinctively clutched my lower abdomen, which was now flat and empty. I couldn’t go down that road again. I scrambled up, heart pounding, and, without another thought, dumped the entire box into the recycling bin. The next morning, I was woken up by the corporate Slack channel. The new personnel announcement showed Chelsea Quinn not only back but promoted to Chief Executive Assistant. The messages rolled in: “I heard the CEO spent the night of his anniversary with Chelsea.” “Ugh, is that pregnant whale going to come in and cause a scene again? I can’t deal with the drama.” “Who could? I think Damon’s finally smartened up. High time, too. Choose a capable woman.” “Cheers to Damon and Chelsea! Wedding bells soon, haha.” Seeing the gossip again, I felt calmer than I expected. I didn’t respond. I almost agreed with them; maybe Damon and Chelsea were a better fit. In the days that followed, Damon and Chelsea became openly high-profile. He took her to galas, business dinners, and even on the trip I’d always dreamed of—to see the Northern Lights. I stared at the photo of Damon’s side profile, his smile soft and tender, for a long time. He always said Iceland was too far, that we’d have to wait. But apparently, when it was for the person he loved, the distance didn’t matter. I didn’t call him. Instead, I opened Chelsea’s Instagram. For the first time, I Liked the photo. Then, I commented: “Wishing you two a happy ever after.” The phone rang immediately. It was Damon. The background was loud, and his voice was slurred. “Anna Rhodes, if you can find me in the next hour, I’ll give you one wish.” “A chance to ask for anything you want.” I glanced out the window. The rain was torrential. I ran out the door without hesitation. 3 The rain soaked me through. I couldn’t get a cab, so I ran. Searching one place after another. With ten minutes left, I finally burst through the door of a private party room. The laughter and noise stopped instantly. Every single face turned to look at me. I was dripping wet, my skirt stained with mud, my hair plastered to my face. I stood in the doorway, breathless and unable to speak. “Anna! You showed up just in time! I was just telling Damon that I’m pregnant!” Chelsea looked genuinely surprised and delighted, clutching a hospital ultrasound printout. I’d prepared myself for everything, yet I still stumbled back. Chelsea bit her lip, then stepped forward, grabbing my hand with faux-chastity. “Damon and I decided. He wants this baby. You and I can both be this baby’s mothers, in a way.” “It’s our apology gift to you. Can we just move past this now, please?” I was rigid. I took a deep, shuddering breath, just barely managing to suppress the urge to strike her. I wasn’t here to start a fight. “Wow, Damon. A wife and a mistress, both under your roof. Having it all, huh?” The crowd burst into mocking laughter. Damon slowly rose from the corner, walking over to me. He looked down at my miserable, drowned appearance, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You ran here? That’s how badly you want that wish?” I didn’t answer. I wiped the rain from my face with my sleeve. I just stared at him. I looked at his eyes, his mouth, his jawline. But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find the face of the Damon I’d loved. It seemed that I was finally able to say goodbye to the ghost of my past. “You said you’d grant any request.” “Absolutely.” Damon crossed his arms, leaning back, patiently waiting for me to ask for what he thought I wanted. I stood there, the wet clothes clinging to my body. I didn’t run to him, as they all expected. Instead, I slowly pulled a folded document from my soaked dress. “Damon, I’ve made up my mind.” “I want a divorce.” I calmly held the signed divorce papers out to him. The silence that followed was deathly. “What did you say?” He stared at the papers, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Ten years! I never asked for a divorce, and you want to end it?” I gave a cold, detached nod. “Fine! Fine! Anna Rhodes, you’ll regret this. You will crawl back to me, begging, before I ever take you back!” In a fit of pique, Damon snatched the pen, signed his name with a flourish, and tossed the papers on the floor. I silently bent down, picked them up, and tucked them away. I turned to leave, just as a bottle shattered behind me. 4 I wanted to clear out fast, to make room for Damon and Chelsea. But I still ran into them. Damon had apparently spent the interim entangled with Chelsea on the living room sofa. The air in the house reeked of sex and expensive cologne. I held my nose, walking past them. Damon got up, without shame, and grabbed my wrist, his voice a malicious sneer. “Anna, you better think carefully. Divorce me, and what do you have left?” “Your mother, who cut you off years ago and wishes you were never born? Or your father, who just drinks and screams?” I turned back, my eyes cold. He smirked. “Look, for ten years of marriage, if you’re really that desperate, beg me. I might hire you back as a nursemaid for pregnant Chelsea—at least you’d have a roof over your head.” Only a childhood sweetheart could know exactly where to land the cruelest blow. Despite my total detachment, a dull ache still flared inside my chest. I pulled my arm free. My voice was quiet, yet steady. “Don’t worry about me. My life is no longer your concern.” Chelsea, watching me tape up my packed boxes, let out a sneering laugh. “Anna, I never thought you’d give up now.” “I have to admit, you almost won. For those six months, I actually thought you might keep him.” I ignored her and kept sealing the box. My dismissal clearly infuriated her. She stepped forward and deliberately crushed the utility knife under her heel. “The thing I hate most is the attitude of you wives. Someone who couldn’t even keep her own husband has no right to look down on me.” I looked up, my brow furrowing. She suddenly leaned in close, a flash of pure venom in her eyes. She lowered her voice to a chilling whisper. “You still don’t know why Damon didn’t answer your calls the day you were hit by the truck, do you?” My expression froze. Chelsea was pleased by my reaction. She got closer, her lips almost brushing my ear. “It wasn’t bad signal. Not the phone left at home…” “He was with me, in the tiny studio apartment where you two lost your virginity.” “Your phone kept ringing—over and over, the screen lighting up.” “He glanced at the screen, hit Silent, and then… he pushed harder!” My face drained of blood. She was still reveling in the memory. “The rush was incredible. You have no idea how stimulating that was, knowing your desperate calls were chiming in the background. God, that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” Boom. My mind went blank. My vision blurred red. I lunged at Chelsea, throwing her to the ground and straddling her, hitting her in a frantic, uncoordinated frenzy. In the confusion, the cigarette lighter she held slipped, igniting the curtains. Flames shot up, and smoke began to billow. “Anna! Are you insane?!” Damon shouted, rushing in to pull us apart. But I clung to Chelsea like a demon, wrapping myself around her again and again. The fire grew. Damon gritted his teeth, kicked me away, and dragged Chelsea out first. When he looked back, the thick smoke had already obscured everything. I was gone.

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The day I nearly lost him, my husband, Callum Harding, was twenty-five years old. He was thrown from a high-rise building by kidnappers while trying to protect me. When he finally opened his eyes, the deep, adoring affection I knew was gone. In its place was a chilling indifference, edged with outright disgust. He said he was the Callum Harding of ten years later, thirty-five years old. The man who, three years into our marriage, would cheat on me with his childhood crush. He said the two of us had long grown sick of each other, trapped for a decade only by the child we’d had. He said he and Violet Summerfield had a child of their own. And the first demand he made, the moment his thirty-five-year-old self returned to his younger body, was that I terminate the twins growing inside me and divorce him. 1 The next morning, Callum discharged himself from the hospital and brought Violet home. My in-laws rushed me back to the house, where I found him holding Violet’s hand, addressing his parents. “Violet and I grew up together. She’s the only one who truly understands me, the one I’m meant to spend my life with. I have to marry her,” he stated. “As for Talia, I’m deeply sorry. I will provide her with whatever financial compensation she needs after the divorce.” My mother- and father-in-law were pale with shock and fury, muttering about the shame he was bringing to the family name. The son who had always been so dutiful was now utterly consumed by another woman. I stared at him, my heart constricting with a sharp, bitter pain. “Callum, were you serious about what you said last night?” He’d been in a coma for nearly a month. When he woke, he was a stranger, claiming to be his future self. I’d dismissed it as delirium, the residual effect of the trauma. But now, he was as resolute as ever. The look he gave me was identical to the one from the night before: devoid of warmth, filled only with cold finality. “Talia, how many times do I have to say it? I didn’t lose my memory. I remember everything. And I truly don’t love you anymore.” His look of revulsion made my spirit ache. “But we only got married three months ago. You told me you only loved me…” Callum frowned. Before he could speak, Violet sank to her knees in front of me and my in-laws. “Talia, I know your family is better than mine, and that you’re a better match for Callum. That’s why I never tried to compete with you before,” she pleaded, tears welling up. “But now he loves me too. Please, just let us be together.” I remembered the brutal details Callum had shared last night. He said that three years in the future, he encountered Violet during a high-profile anti-trafficking task force operation. He learned that after college, her lack of wealth and connections made her a target. She was assaulted and exploited by wealthy men, which led her to the dark side of the nightlife industry. His pity and subsequent care for her blossomed into love. But by then, I had already given birth to his child. The families on both sides, traditional and stubborn, refused to accept our divorce. And so, he said, we’d stayed entangled for ten miserable years. The whole thing ended when Violet, in despair, took her own life and their child’s, jumping from an eighteenth-floor balcony. He was back now to stop all of it before it started. I could pity Violet’s past, but I couldn’t bring myself to like her. Callum, his eyes full of tenderness, helped her up. He then turned to his parents, making his final, terrifying declaration. “Dad, Mom, if you don’t agree to this, I will resign from the force immediately. And then I’ll do something worse.” He used his life as a threat. They had no choice but to concede. Callum immediately walked out, taking Violet with him to her family home, presumably to propose. Once they were gone, my in-laws unleashed all their stored fury on me. They demanded to know why their son was a different person, why my husband’s heart had changed just three months into our marriage. I couldn’t answer. How could I tell them the truth? That the Callum who had walked with me from college to the wedding aisle was gone. That the man in his body was a ghost from the future, his thirty-five-year-old soul. And the thirty-five-year-old Callum, simply, did not love me. I stumbled out of the house. The early winter chill hit my face, yet everything still felt impossibly unreal. How could Callum not love me? At eighteen, we were in the same university. After a painting competition, he found me, his ears bright red, and asked for my number. I remember my own cheeks flushing as I looked at his handsome profile. He told me then, quoting his favorite poet, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” At twenty, we were a couple. We traveled to dozens of cities, and in every single one, he proposed to me. He said he would keep proposing until I was a hundred, or until I finally said yes. At twenty-four, I was hypothermic and near death on a remote mountain trail. He covered me with every piece of his own clothing. When the rescue team found us, he had barely a breath left, yet he was still holding me tight. Finally, I agreed to marry him. He was so happy he spun me around until I was dizzy, then flew to the States the next day to meet my parents. At the altar, he made a vow to love only me, for all our lives. Even as we fell from that building, he shielded me, his last words to me: “Talia, if there’s a next life, we’ll be together then, too.” I walked away without a scratch. He suffered multiple fractures. I swore I would spend the rest of my life repaying that fierce, deep love. But now, Callum was telling me he didn’t love me anymore. I wiped a tear from my cheek and started walking toward Violet’s house. I refused to believe that the Callum who loved me so completely could ever be unfaithful. I had to make the thirty-five-year-old ghost go back to his own timeline. 2 As I reached the yard, I heard the sounds coming from the house—intimate, unmistakable. “…Callum, easy now.” The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Callum had Violet pressed against him, one hand cupping her breast while the other was tangled in the back of her hair, aggressively deepening a kiss. My pupils shrank. “Callum, what are you doing?” I couldn’t reconcile this raw, uncontrolled display of desire with the reserved, self-possessed man I’d married. Was this man truly the Callum Harding I had known and loved for seven years? Hearing my voice, Callum instantly pulled back, his desire replaced by cold fury. “What I do is none of your business. Get out.” I swallowed the sudden surge of nausea and forced myself to meet his familiar but icy eyes. “This is my husband’s body. And we are still married!” Callum let out a bitter laugh. “I am your husband, aren’t I?” I shook my head stubbornly. “You are not him. Give him back.” He finally released Violet, murmuring a soft apology in her ear, then grabbed my arm with a shocking, brutal strength and dragged me toward the door. I had never imagined the man who cherished me, who treated me like spun glass, would ever touch me with such violence. Even the thirty-five-year-old him shouldn’t be capable of this. Once we were outside, I rushed to speak before him. “Tell me, what will it take for you to go back to your own body?” “If you’re worried about Violet, I can give her a substantial sum of money and relocate her overseas. I can ensure she never faces the kind of degradation you said she did…” Callum was unmoved. “I came back to marry her. I will have a life with Violet.” A life with Violet. He’d used that exact phrase in our wedding vows three months ago. The intended recipient was me. I struggled to breathe through the sudden, crushing pain. Then, I thought of the silver locket he’d given me just before the wedding—a bespoke blessing he’d sought from a spiritual retreat. “You’re not Callum,” I insisted. “The real Callum went to St. Jude’s Heights Chapel and made a solemn vow. He swore that in this life, and the next, he would only love me, and always be with me!” “Please,” I begged. “Just bring my husband back. I will agree to any demand, anything you ask.” A flicker of something—maybe conscience, maybe remorse—crossed Callum’s face. But the next moment, his voice was even crueler. “Talia, I absolutely hate this crying, desperate look on your face.” “You think if the twenty-five-year-old me comes back, he’ll love you forever, just as he promised? The things I told you are true. In three years, I will slowly fall in love with Violet.” “I am your future husband. You’re just getting advance notice of the ending of this marriage.” “Cutting our losses now is the best thing for both of us.” His words silenced me. I knew, with chilling clarity, that if he truly was the future Callum, my clinging desperation was pointless. But a deeper, more stubborn part of me wanted to believe he was an imposter, a cruel soul who had stolen the body of the man I loved. I took a shaky breath. “If you can convince the twenty-five-year-old Callum to come back and tell me himself that he doesn’t love me, I will walk away willingly. Otherwise, forget it.” Callum held my gaze for a long, cold moment, then forced a mocking smile. “Wishful thinking.” He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and shoved the divorce papers into my hand. “Be smart and sign it yourself. If you don’t, I don’t mind dragging this out with a messy divorce trial.” 3 That night, Callum did not come home. I tossed and turned for hours before drifting into a vague sleep. In the dreamlike haze, I suddenly remembered the conversation we’d had at the Chapel. We went to the isolated St. Jude’s Heights Chapel, known for its rigorous spiritual practices. Callum asked the old spiritualist, Father Thomas, for a special marriage blessing—a bespoke, hand-engraved silver locket meant to ensure eternal union. Father Thomas shook his head. “Your union, though blessed, is fated for a sharp, swift end. You should not seek this.” I wasn’t a believer, but Callum was fiercely insistent. Finally, the old man relented. He said that if Callum’s sincerity was absolute, he must walk the Three Thousand Steps of the Ascendant Path—a grueling three-day climb—three steps forward, one kneeling bow—and only then would he reconsider. I couldn’t bear the thought and begged him to forget it. I didn’t need a ritual to prove a love I saw in his eyes every morning. But the next night, Callum appeared at my door, exhausted, bruised, but his eyes shining like a thousand stars. He held up the newly-engraved locket. “Wife! I did it!” I had only smiled, calling him my beautiful idiot. I woke up and lay still for a long time. Then, I knew what I had to do. I drove straight to St. Jude’s. I needed to ask the spiritualist if he had foreseen this and if there was a way to fix it. The old man, Father Thomas, looked at me gently. “What’s so bad about cutting a doomed connection early?” I was about to protest when he directed my gaze to a far corner of the sanctuary. I saw them. Callum, my husband, was with Violet, his arm around her shoulders as they stood side-by-side, offering a prayer. I forced the rage and the suffocating chest pain down. I was here for a reason. Father Thomas took one look at my ashen face, sighed, and handed me a small piece of parchment, not the silver locket. “Take this. Tape it to your headboard and sleep. Tomorrow, you will have your answer.” I did as he instructed. That night, I fell into a very long, very vivid dream. I dreamed that at seven months pregnant, I was getting a check-up. On the way home, Callum got an emergency call for a raid and had to leave me to drive alone. I was in a car accident. The stress caused premature labor. I gave birth to twins, but one was too weak and didn’t survive. Callum held our tiny, dead son, his eyes bloodshot, and demanded to know why I hadn’t been more careful. I was consumed by my own grief, but his words hung between us like a poisoned cloud. The event became a permanent, festering wound in our marriage. Later, our surviving daughter was diagnosed with severe autism at age three. Callum’s assignments and covert work became more demanding. He was home less and less. I became unrecognizable. I secretly checked his phone. I dropped by his precinct during what he claimed were all-night shifts. I found myself whispering to our daughter, “Daddy doesn’t want us anymore.” Almost every time he came home, we had a horrible fight. “If you hadn’t insisted on carrying her to term after the accident, we wouldn’t be living this miserable life!” In the dream, Callum slammed the door behind him. 4 A month later, I found a movie ticket stub in the pocket of his washed uniform shirt. It was for a couple’s section. I stared at the stub, my eyes burning. He had told me he was working a marathon interrogation that night. Similar incidents became routine. The faint scent of a different perfume on his collar. A smudge of lipstick he hadn’t noticed. The unlabeled, frequently called number in his contacts. I watched, horrified, as our marriage spiraled beyond repair. Violet had a son—bright, healthy, and charming. On our daughter’s fifth birthday, Callum promised to take her to the amusement park. But he broke the promise to rush Violet’s boy to the emergency room. Our daughter sobbed, asking, “Mommy, does Daddy hate us?” We hated each other, yet we stayed married, bound by the child and the complexity of our lives. The final frame of the dream: Violet, holding her son, standing on the edge of a skyscraper roof. She smiled down at a frantically approaching Callum. “Callum, in the next life, I hope I find you sooner.” Then, she jumped. Callum turned to me, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “Talia. Are you satisfied now?” I jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. I placed a hand on my still-flat belly, my mind reeling. Before seeing the future, I had believed our love was strong enough to withstand anything. But having witnessed the step-by-step decay of our marriage… I closed my eyes and reached for the documents. I signed the divorce agreement. As requested, I went to the clinic and scheduled the termination procedure.

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I was ten years old. My little sister, June, had insisted on going to the New Year’s Eve countdown, and the surge of the crowd in Liberty Square had turned into a stampede. People were shoving, fighting for every inch of space. I saw a man close by gasp, his body squeezed too hard, and blood sprayed out of his mouth. June screamed, a high, panicked sound, and Dad immediately hoisted her onto his back. I spotted the narrow ledge of a maintenance platform built into the side of a building. I gritted my teeth, pulling my parents toward it. “Mom, Dad, hurry! Get June up there!” They first lifted June, then Mom scrambled up, and Dad followed. But when it was my turn, Mom started to cry, grabbing Dad’s sleeve. “Aaron, the railing… it won’t hold any more. It’s too much weight.” Dad’s hand—the one that had been reaching for mine—retracted instantly. “June is still so little. She’s terrified down there. You’re older, Penny. You have to be strong.” I fell back into the churning mass. Before I could even find my footing, two pairs of boots slammed down onto my stomach. My insides seemed to shatter. I coughed, a wet, ragged sound, and threw up blood. The world was dimming, and in that last moment of suffocating darkness, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I wasn’t strong enough. In the next life, I don’t want to come back to this painful world. … 1 The crowd was still a screaming, swirling chaos, and no one noticed the small body. I couldn’t make a sound. All my energy had drained away. My stomach felt torn open. I remembered a movie I’d seen once, and I tried desperately to push my organs back inside. But I couldn’t. My arms were too short. The hands of a ten-year-old scrabbled blindly on the cold pavement, quickly bruised and bloodied by passing feet. I hated how small I was. If I’d been just a little older, maybe I could have lived up to my parents’ words—maybe I could have been strong enough to survive. But I failed. A cowardly part of me just wanted Dad to hold me, the way he held June. Though, Mom and Dad’s eyes had always focused on June more. The first day I went to school, I’d come home beaming, clutching my new backpack. June had burst into tears. Mom had immediately smashed all my new school supplies and taken scissors to my backpack, slicing the straps into ribbons. Seeing my wet eyes, she’d only sighed in annoyance. “June can’t go to school, and you can’t show off in front of her. Be thoughtful.” I took the lesson to heart. When Mom suggested I live in the dorms at my magnet school, I readily agreed. Every weekend, I’d make sure to change out of my uniform before I walked home, so June wouldn’t be sad. But one cold winter weekend, I knocked on the door in my street clothes, shivering, and no one answered. I stood in the biting wind until nine o’clock. When I finally collapsed on the porch, feverish, Mom and Dad arrived, hand-in-hand with June. June was wearing a bright, sequined headband from the amusement park, and she was carrying a bag of chicken wings—the exact ones I’d been begging to try for months. Mom’s face flashed with a fleeting, embarrassed look. “Oh, sorry, Penny. We forgot you were coming home tonight.” Then she turned to June and smiled, “Come on, honey, give your sister a wing.” But the moment June saw the “Star Student” sticker the teacher had put on the back of my hand, she shrieked. My parents rushed to comfort her, locking me outside in the process. The bag of chicken wings fell to the ground, instantly coated in grit. But I was so hungry. I wiped them on my shirt, over and over, and stuffed them into my mouth. It wasn’t until past midnight that the door cracked open. Mom hurriedly pushed a cold pack and some pain relievers into my hand. She told me she and Dad had to take June to the hospital. I stood there in the desolate night, watching their backs shrink into the distance. I didn’t know what leukemia was, but I remembered the look in their eyes every time we went to the clinic: heartbroken, tear-filled, devastated. I knew they loved me. They just couldn’t help it. They’d told me countless times: “June is sick, and you’re a year older, you’re her big sister, you have to take care of her.” I knew June was in pain. So the whole family, including me, had to fulfill her every need. I couldn’t upset June. I had to be the good, understanding one. So now, I couldn’t call out. I couldn’t disturb Mom and Dad. My crushed, bloody body would definitely scare June. I lay silently in the crowd, biting down hard on my lip. Legs stamped over my body. The deafening screams blurred my consciousness. The pain was unbearable, but death, I realized, was a long process. I suddenly remembered something I’d read. A child comes into the world floating in their mother’s amniotic fluid, and they leave it floating in their mother’s tears. I didn’t want Mom to cry for me. I just wanted one last look, to tell her not to worry, that I would wait for them patiently in heaven. Up on the platform, Mom was holding June, looking around frantically. Was she looking for me? I wanted to reach out and touch her warm face one last time. But then, my body slowly floated up, passing right through the railing. 2 “Dad, Mom…” They didn’t react to my voice. I realized I was transparent. A light drifted down, and I heard a distant voice telling me to go, but I still wanted to see them one last time. To tell them I would wait for them in heaven. But as I reached my parents, Mom covered June’s eyes. “It looks like a little kid got trampled to death down there. Don’t look, June. It’s too bloody.” Dad’s face showed immediate alarm. “Thank God it wasn’t our June. Whose child is that? Parents shouldn’t let their kids wander off.” I froze, awkwardly wringing my hands. “I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I didn’t take good care of myself.” It was only after the words left my mouth that I remembered they couldn’t hear me. Mom suddenly paused. “Honey, that person down there… could it be Penny?” Dad stiffened for a second, then shot Mom a look of reproach. “Why would you jinx Penny like that? That’s bad luck.” “Penny’s been in the dorms since fourth grade. Her teachers always praise how independent and mature she is. She’s probably already found somewhere safe to hide.” Mom nodded, relieved. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. We need to focus on protecting June.” June was clutching Dad tightly, and Mom was watching her anxiously. June was still little; she needed her parents. I was relieved that I hadn’t seen them much; we weren’t close enough for her to miss me. What if she got upset because I was gone? Even thinking that, a dull ache twisted in my soul. So, even souls could feel sad. Why did I feel this stinging envy? I was being difficult. The police cleared another path, organizing the crowd to move out of the Square. They called out over a loudspeaker for parents to carry their smaller children to prevent more accidents. Mom and Dad finally climbed down from the platform with June, scanning the faces as they went, looking for me. But there were too many people. My body had already been kicked into a dark corner. Mom wasn’t tall enough to see me. She shouted my name a few times, but her voice was lost in the din. She frowned, a slight note of urgency in her voice. “I can’t find Penny. Do you think she went into a shop to hide?” Dad was carrying June on his back, trying to hold her high above the crowd. He didn’t have the energy to respond. “I’ll take June and keep moving, then. You keep looking for Penny?” Mom agreed. They split up. She was worried. She was calling my name in the crowd. I thought this was good. If they found my body, they could take me home. June wouldn’t have to see how mangled I was. Maybe at my funeral, I would finally see Mom and Dad cry for me for the first time? They had cried so many tears for June, but never for my illnesses or my little injuries. My problems never seemed to matter compared to hers. I was always the “understanding” one. But Mom and Dad, how I wished your eyes would land on me, just for a moment… A scream erupted from someone who had spotted me in the corner. “There’s a child dead here! All that blood!” A woman—an EMT, Dr. Reyes—rushed over and crouched down to examine me. “She’s not completely gone,” she called out. “The child has a will to live. She tried to put her insides back in her belly. Call an ambulance! She might still have a chance!” Mom’s steps faltered. She turned and began to push toward the gathering crowd. Was she going to find me? Could she save me? Maybe I could live. I could stay with them, and I wouldn’t care how hard or painful it was. But just as Mom was about to push through, Dad’s startled voice rang out from behind her: “Dahlia, come quickly! June, she’s passed out!” Mom spun around immediately, rushing toward June without a backward glance. “June, don’t be scared! Mom is calling 911 right now! Mommy’s coming!” In the dark corner, my tightly shut eyelids fluttered once, then fell still, sinking into silence. June’s condition couldn’t wait. I shouldn’t bother Mom. But Mom, Dad… I suddenly didn’t want to love you anymore. Maybe I really wasn’t strong enough. 3 The EMT, the doctor who was kneeling beside me, was startled. She stopped the person who was dialing 911. “The child suddenly lost the will to live. It’s too late now.” Her eyes reddened. She took off her jacket and covered my body. “We need to find her parents. We can’t just leave her here.” People murmured, shaking their heads, and reported my case to the police. My body was stuck to the pavement. The police wouldn’t touch the scene until the family arrived. They put up yellow tape and a warning sign, then started checking the CCTV footage. Time dragged on until the early morning. The police found my parents’ cell numbers and called them repeatedly. Dozens of calls later, the phones remained unanswered. The officer looked frustrated. “We cleared the area quickly enough. If the parents had just protected the kid, she would have been fine. This one must have stumbled and fallen in the rush, and then… she was trampled to death.” I was confused. But I hadn’t just stumbled and fallen. I was climbing the platform, but Dad let go. The fall wouldn’t have hurt me. I’d hit the ground, and I would have stood up. But there were too many people. Before I could get to my feet, the surging crowd had snapped my bones, and all my strength was gone. I left my body and drifted through the city to the hospital June frequented. My parents had a special membership for June, granting them VIP treatment. I walked into the room and saw June was awake. To cheer her up, her bed was surrounded by countless designer dolls and expensive, sparkling gadgets. I paused. I remembered begging Mom for a single, pretty doll to hug in the dorms. But Mom had earnestly told me, “You can’t compare yourself to June in everything. She’s sick and takes a lot of medicine, so we buy her these things. You get to go to school. You should be grateful. You don’t need a doll to show off.” But June’s dolls were so many, and so beautiful. Every time June swallowed a spoonful of medicine, Dad would laugh and give her a piece of candy. Mom would be right there, playing with a doll to distract her. Both of their cell phones were tossed on the bedside table, powered off. No wonder they hadn’t answered the police calls. They were completely preoccupied with June. My teacher once said that human love is finite. I understood now. Mom and Dad had given all their love to June, so there was none left for me. They couldn’t help it. I only wished that in the next life, I could be the one who was sick. I left the room, ready to go. But as I passed the next door, I saw a set of brothers. The younger one was sick, but the older one was healthy, playing a game on a tablet nearby. Their parents had bought both of them new handheld gaming consoles. The sick younger brother whined, demanding the older brother stop playing. Their father immediately addressed him sternly: “What your brother does is his choice. If you want to watch him play, just ask nicely.” Then their mother picked up the older brother and set him gently on the bed. “And you, buddy. At least let your brother watch. Turn the volume down a little so you don’t bother anyone else.” I stood there, mesmerized, watching the two brothers play. They went from tense silence to laughter, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Their parents exchanged a soft, satisfied smile. It was lunchtime, and the boys started arguing because they wanted different meals. Soon, two separate take-out orders arrived in the room, ensuring both boys were happy and well-fed. I floated back to June’s room. June, full and tired, was hugging a doll and sleeping sweetly. Only then did my parents finally remember me. They started to discuss my whereabouts. “Penny should have gone back to the school by now. Thank goodness she’s so self-sufficient; we don’t have to worry about her.” “We’ve worried ourselves sick over our poor June,” Dad replied. “We’ll call Penny later tonight. We can’t risk waking June up.” They stayed by June’s side, never leaving. I went back to the other room. Then back here. Back and forth. After watching for what felt like an eternity, a slow, quiet smile finally spread across my face. Love wasn’t a finite resource I had to sacrifice. It could be equally divided. I was just a ten-year-old child, experiencing the world for the first time. Mom and Dad, you didn’t not know how to love equally. You just chose not to. Since that was the case, I truly did not want to come back to this world. It wasn’t until early morning that Mom finally powered up her phone. The moment the screen lit up, a torrent of missed calls from the police department flooded the screen.

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My wife and I both cheated. She was guilty, and so was I. But the difference was, she acted with malice; I was merely the victim. On the very night her affair with her boy-toy was exposed, she drugged me, stripped me naked, and delivered me to a stranger’s bed—a complete setup designed purely to manufacture my infidelity. The camera flashes, the forced, humiliating positions… all captured for evidence. Our manufactured cheating scandal and her real one were leaked to the public simultaneously. It was a calculated move to deflect the heat from her lover and spread the blame. A crushing, suffocating wave of nausea hit me, making me gag violently. I was covered in red marks, bruises—physical evidence of a violation I couldn’t remember. I didn’t know how many people had touched me, or what they had done. Seeing the horror on my face, and the way I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, Geneva Pierce offered a flat, pathetic explanation. “I didn’t have a choice, Griffith. Andrew’s family is very strict. He couldn’t handle being called a home-wrecker. He would be ruined.” The internet was a torrent of condemnation. The scandal, the betrayal—it all triggered a heart attack in the only family I had left, Grandpa Arthur, who was rushed into emergency surgery. To protect myself, I had to protect her lie. As she wanted, I stood under the media spotlight and offered a calm, rehearsed clarification. “There was no infidelity. Geneva and I separated months ago.” … Seeing me fall in line, Geneva’s tension eased. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, having already whisked her lover away to safety. She gave me a hollow promise. “This is the only time. I promise. This situation with Andrew was sudden, I just…” I looked at her, my jaw tight with white-hot fury. “Tell me where these marks came from.” A hard knot of bile and anger choked me. I felt so unbelievably dirty. Pinch marks, yes, but others—like violent kisses. It felt like a freezing, utterly dehumanizing sexual encounter. By whom, I didn’t know. Raised with every privilege and shielded from real cruelty, I had never experienced this kind of raw, physical indignity. Geneva froze, taking a long moment to realize what I was asking. She rushed forward, desperate to spin the lie. “Don’t be afraid, Griffith. I put those marks there myself. No one else touched you. It was just for the photos.” I dug my nails into my palms. “If I were your lover—your precious Andrew—would you agree to let me have your name ruined, your body violated, just so I could protect my husband?” She avoided my eyes. “I don’t know. He… he’s different from you.” That was it. Whether I was her lover, her husband, or her crisis manager—I was never her priority. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood, and then I shoved her out of my sight. Disgusting. Geneva and I were childhood sweethearts, a perfect match in our corporate world, the golden couple everybody envied. We were happy, once. We even had a few years of what I genuinely thought was a loving marriage. Then she started cheating. She never hid it from me privately, though she was always careful to keep up appearances for the public. “We’ll keep it quiet. It won’t affect your standing. No one outside the circle has to look down on you,” she’d insist. In our world, love was often secondary to alliance. I had loved her. I had raged. I’d even fantasized about going full alpha CEO—blowing up our lives in a spectacular, mutually assured destruction kind of way. But then I’d remember my upbringing, my family’s name, and my grandfather. I always chose to look the other way. I never thought my deference would allow them to hurt me this way. Grandpa Arthur must have been utterly devastated to land in the hospital. Geneva remembered her boy-toy couldn’t handle the heat, but she completely forgot that the man who loved her like a granddaughter had a bad heart and couldn’t handle that kind of shock. I quickly regained my focus. Divorce. It wasn’t the end of the world. I found Geneva at the company headquarters. The air was buzzing—everyone was fawning over Andrew. She led me to her office. When she saw the divorce papers in my hand, she frowned. “You don’t have to do this, Griffith. The gossip will blow over quickly.” She and Andrew were now openly affectionate in public, acting like star-crossed lovers who’d finally found their way to one another. I heard they’d even visited his family. They were living their ‘happily ever after.’ I bit my lip hard. While Grandpa was fighting for his life, Geneva hadn’t visited once. I felt a crushing sense of pity for my grandfather, who had adored her. Whenever we argued, Grandpa would always find an excuse for her, even scolding me. “Griffith,” he’d say. “I know you’re strong and logical, but love isn’t like that. Girls don’t like it when you’re always so cold and rational.” He believed that was the key to a harmonious home, not realizing a marriage fails when only one party is still fighting for it. Geneva had checked out a long time ago. What was the use of clinging to an empty shell? I held the pen out to her. “Do you think people are stupid? Sign the real papers. It’s the only way to silence the doubters and prevent Grandpa from being shocked again when he wakes up.” Andrew chimed in, annoyingly supportive. “Griffith’s right, Geneva.” Her expression softened slightly. “After the dust settles, we’ll remarry. I told you, your position will never change.” I just smiled, a small, cold curve of my mouth. I wouldn’t need it. The only reason I hadn’t filed for divorce earlier was the tangled web of our family businesses. Over the past few years, I’d been quietly and deliberately untangling those connections. I had Geneva to thank for that foresight. A few years back, Geneva, wanting to punish me for her lover, had deliberately leaked critical intelligence that killed an innovative subsidiary I had just launched. The reason? I had cut off one of my own credit cards, which Andrew happened to be using. He tried to pay for something expensive and was humiliated when the card was declined. Geneva didn’t ask questions; she just acted. She sat in her lounge chair, utterly unbothered. “Griffith Locklear, you used disgusting tactics to embarrass my Andrew. Anyway, it’s all community property, and those secrets were tied to our joint assets. I can handle them however I want.” My company tanked. A whole year of relentless work, down the drain. The employees were devastated. I flew into a rage, slamming my fist into the wall. “I didn’t do that! Are you even human? How am I supposed to face my employees? Do you have any idea the R&D time and effort that went into that project?” She wouldn’t listen. She was consumed by her desire to comfort a tearful Andrew. To force me to apologize, she leveraged her cash flow to put pressure on Grandpa Arthur’s main corporation. To protect the old man, I swallowed my pride. I reluctantly went to Andrew and apologized. Later, Geneva realized her mistake: she had grabbed my card thinking it was her own before giving it to Andrew. I had only paused my own line of credit. She apologized to me and tried to plan an anniversary dinner. “I didn’t realize I grabbed the wrong card. I’ll compensate you for the company, but you never explained it clearly to me.” I laughed, the sound hollow. She had never listened to my explanation, choosing instead to believe my guilt. The anniversary dinner never happened. Andrew had a headache. From that day forward, I systematically separated every single asset I owned from Geneva. After we completed the divorce application, Andrew clutched Geneva’s hand, petulant. “Let’s get married, right now, Geneva. You promised.” Geneva, however, was watching my face. Seeing my indifferent expression, her own face soured. I might have imagined it, but she looked subtly annoyed as she was pulled away by her eager lover. That same day, Grandpa Arthur woke up. He was desperate for the truth. “Did you really cheat on her?” I wiped his face gently. “No, Grandpa. We separated long ago. It was never infidelity.” He couldn’t comprehend it. “How could that be? You were such a perfect couple. Just recently, you promised me a great-grandchild.” He slammed his water glass onto the table. “Tell me the truth, Griffith. What happened to you two?” My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I stood by the lie. Seeing my carefully controlled pain, he seemed to realize something. He sighed heavily. “Never seen you look so reserved, boy. You’ve grown up. It’s no longer your old man’s business.” I finally breathed a sigh of relief. As long as Grandpa was okay, I could manage. He had such high hopes for Geneva. She was the one person in the world he wanted me to be with. Geneva arrived moments later. She stopped in the doorway, having overheard his last words. Afraid she would agitate him, I quickly pulled her into the adjoining room. She looked down. “You know, you could have told him the truth. You don’t have to protect my reputation. Then he wouldn’t put pressure on you. Griffith, we are the best partners, but the love is gone. Your grandfather is right: you’re too rational.” I nodded at the second half. For the first half, I gave her a cold smile. I wasn’t lying for her; I was lying so Grandpa wouldn’t be angry and wouldn’t feel guilty for having pushed us together. Keeping him stable was all that mattered. As for her? She meant nothing. Just as we were talking, Andrew’s shriek echoed from Grandpa’s room. “Grandpa! I was just being kind and coming to visit!” It was followed by Grandpa Arthur’s violent coughing. “Who allowed you in here… Get out!” My heart shot into my throat. I rushed back in. Grandpa had fallen out of bed, coughing violently, and pointing a shaky finger at Andrew. “Get out! You’re lying!” Andrew was cowering in Geneva’s arms, holding his face. Grandpa was now coughing up blood. He pointed at Geneva and Andrew, his eyes wide with rage, before finally losing consciousness. Terrified, I yelled for the nurse and he was rushed back to the ER. Outside the doors, Geneva immediately started a fight. “How could Grandpa strike someone? Look what he did to Andrew! No matter how angry he is, he can’t do that, especially when Andrew was only being kind!” Her grating, senseless noise made my head pound. “Enough! I’ll find out the truth. Don’t think I’ll let whatever he did go unpunished.” I glared at Andrew, wanting to tear him apart. Geneva blocked my view. “Griffith Locklear, Grandpa is completely in the wrong here—” She rattled on, blaming my grandfather and ignoring the possibility of the truth, stopping only when a doctor opened the door. “Family members?” I stepped forward. When I heard the doctor’s words, the disease notification slipped from my numb fingers. The last of my fragile control shattered. I lunged at Andrew. “What did you say to my grandfather?!” Geneva held me back with all her strength. “Griffith! Don’t put this on Andrew! He just came to visit. He’s incapable of doing anything to cause this!” My eyes were bloodshot. Geneva flinched. I realized then that my heart was utterly dead to her. The sensitive, emotional person they killed was the one they now accused of being too rational. I glared at them, cold fury radiating off me. “You wait.” I would get the truth and justice for Grandpa. There was a camera in the room, but Andrew, with his calculated mind, had positioned himself to block the view. All the recording showed was his back, his mouth moving, followed by Grandpa’s extreme anger and blood. Andrew immediately played the victim. “I just told him to take care of himself! The old man suddenly hit me! I’m the victim here!” It was a flimsy, pathetic lie. Grandpa never behaved like that. Andrew must have spewed some filth. I grabbed him, shaking him hard. “What did you say?! Who the hell allowed you to visit my grandfather? You’re nothing!” He feigned hurt, but his eyes held clear defiance. My grandfather was my only family, and my rage could no longer be contained. I hauled back and slapped him across the face. Andrew hadn’t expected the physical violence. He screamed. We grappled in a corner of the hospital hallway. He was no match for me; his lip was bleeding instantly. A crowd began to gather. Geneva finally managed to wrench my arm away. In a blind flash of fury, she slapped me. “Look at you! What are you doing? You look like a maniac!” Tears finally breached my control. I had maintained the image of the perfect young executive for my entire life, and I hated looking like a screaming fool, but this was my grandfather! I couldn’t be rational. Geneva, seeing me broken for the first time, attempted to play the magnanimous peacemaker. “Let’s just end this now. No more fighting.” I stared at her, my voice sharp and disbelieving. “Geneva Pierce, don’t you forget that my grandfather saved your life once.” Andrew, breathing heavily, wasn’t satisfied either. “He beat me up! Why should he get away with it?” Geneva pulled out a black card and gave it to him as compensation. She finally looked at me, a flicker of genuine shame in her eyes. “Andrew’s sudden visit was wrong, but he had no bad intentions. And you still beat him. I will make amends for Grandpa, but I will not allow you to interrogate Andrew like this. You have no proof he did anything wrong.” I stumbled backward, the sting on my face burning. “Geneva Pierce, the biggest regret of my life is meeting you.” I would find the proof. I had just let my guard down today. I never thought Andrew was depraved enough to hurt an old, sick man. Geneva’s brow furrowed. The next second, her own face snapped sideways. I hit her back. My face was not a free-for-all for anyone. Just then, medical staff rushed out. “Who is the family member? The patient needs to speak to the family. Come quickly.”

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The third night of Cameron’s business trip, I was sprawled on the couch, my face slick with a charcoal mask, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. The screen suddenly flashed to life, pulling up a notification: [Aura Cycle: Your ‘Intimate Moment’ has been successfully logged!] Followed by a smaller line of text: [Time logged: 10:15 PM. Congratulations—you’ve had sex!] Had sex? I immediately tapped the app open. I had insisted Cameron download this period-tracking software and share his account with mine. The latest entry was clearly synchronized with the login IP from his phone. I instantly video-called him. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. His side was pitch black, lit only by a faint, weak glow. “Babe, what is it? I just finished a meeting—I’m exhausted. I’m just about to head back to the hotel,” his tired voice came through the receiver. I stared at the “10:15 PM” entry on the app, forcing a light laugh. “Nothing, really. Just missed you. You should hurry back and rest.” I hung up, then quietly opened a different app. I booked the earliest flight to his business city. 1. The flight was at four in the morning. I sat in the terminal, silently studying the “Intimate Moment” log on my phone. The IP address showed Raleigh. Exactly where Cameron was for this trip. We had been married for three years, college sweethearts all the way to the altar. In everyone’s eyes, he was the model husband: attentive, family-focused, and successful. He had even been the one to suggest we share the ‘Aura Cycle’ app. He said he wanted to understand my cycle better, to take better care of me, and to help us with our fertility planning. Now, the thought felt like a sickening, cosmic joke. Three hours later, at the Raleigh-Durham airport. I hailed a cab and gave the name of the hotel Cameron had mentioned. “The Grand Raleigh Regency.” The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Looking for someone, sweetheart? Bit early for a social call.” I smiled faintly and said nothing. At the hotel, I didn’t rush inside. I settled onto a sofa in the lobby, pulled out my phone, and called Cameron again. This time, a voice call. He picked up after a few rings, his voice thick and nasal, as if he’d just woken up. “Kendall? Why are you calling again? It’s not even light out.” “I had a nightmare, a terrible one where something happened to you. It woke me up.” I carefully laced my voice with tears and vulnerability. “Silly girl, I’m fine. I’m safe and sound.” He immediately adopted his usual soft, comforting tone. “I’m just worried. You’re alone in a strange hotel, and it makes me anxious. What room number are you in? I want to look up the floor plan, just to feel a bit more secure.” My nails dug deeply into my palm. There was a distinct, short silence on the other end. “Kendall, stop overthinking this. I’m in 1808. The security is great. Just go back to sleep, okay, babe?” “1808…” I repeated softly. “Okay. You go back to sleep too, honey.” Hanging up, the smile on my face was ice-cold. I stood and walked toward the reception desk. “Excuse me, I need to find someone. Could you tell me what room Mr. Cameron Foster is staying in?” The front desk agent gave me a practiced, corporate smile. “I apologize, ma’am, but for guest privacy, we can’t disclose that information.” I had expected this. I pulled up my phone’s lock screen—our wedding photo—and handed it over. “I’m his wife. We had a huge fight last night, and he turned off his phone. I rushed here from home, I’m genuinely worried about him.” I timed my eyes to well up, injecting my voice with exhaustion and desperate plea. The agent looked at the photo, then back at me, her expression softening with sympathy. She hesitated, then leaned in, lowering her voice. “Ma’am, Mr. Foster is definitely here, but he’s not in 1808. He’s in 2201.” My heart plummeted into the deepest, darkest well. 2. “Thank you.” I offered a shallow thanks and headed for the elevator. Twenty-second floor. The long hallway was padded with thick carpet, absorbing all sound. I stood outside room 2201. I didn’t even need to press my ear to the door. A low, familiar, overly-flirtatious female giggle leaked out. So familiar. I pulled out my phone, not to knock, but to open a text message to Cameron. “Honey, I’m here in Raleigh. I’m downstairs in the lobby.” The message dropped into the void. I smiled, a sharp, bitter twist of my lips. I waited approximately five minutes, guessing he had seen the message and was currently scrambling to concoct a strategy with whoever was inside. I sent another text. “I brought those Portuguese custard tarts you love from that bakery. I’m waiting for you in the lobby. Hurry down!” This time, the call came instantly. “Kendall! Are you insane?! Who told you to come here? Go straight home now!” His voice was no longer sleepy and tender but tight with frantic, barely suppressed rage. “Why can’t I come?” I asked softly, my tone innocent and wounded. “I missed you.” “I told you I was in meetings! You’re going to mess up my work schedule!” he snapped, exasperated. “Meetings? It’s barely seven in the morning. What kind of meeting? Or should I say, are you conducting a bedside meeting?” The silence on the other end was absolute. Followed by a ragged, sharp intake of breath. “Kendall, stop being irrational. I—” “Cameron,” I cut him off. “Ten minutes. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby. You come down alone.” I hung up before he could respond. I didn’t return to the lobby. Instead, I walked to the fire exit at the end of the hall. Through the narrow gap in the door, I had a clear view of 2201. Seven minutes later, the door cracked open. Cameron, wearing a loose terrycloth robe, peered cautiously up and down the hallway, then quickly slipped out. He hurried away, tying his robe belt as he walked, his face a mask of undisguised panic and irritation. After he left, the door didn’t immediately close. A slender arm reached out and snatched up a newspaper that had been left on the floor. The bracelet on that wrist was one I knew intimately. It was the one I had given my cousin, Jenna Wells, for her birthday last year. 3. Jenna Wells. My first cousin. My aunt’s daughter. She had told me she was home, taking care of our sick grandmother, and she often sent me photos of Grandma to ease my mind. I stared at the closed door, feeling the blood drain completely from my body. It was her. I didn’t immediately charge toward the room, nor did I go to the lobby to confront Cameron. I turned, walked down the stairs, and left the hotel. I found a window seat at a small coffee shop directly across the street, giving me a clear view of the hotel’s main entrance. I slowly stirred my coffee, watching Cameron pace frantically in the hotel lobby, checking his phone and making calls that I wasn’t answering. About half an hour later, he must have realized I wasn’t there. His face was a thundercloud as he marched back toward the elevators. Another thirty minutes passed. Cameron and Jenna walked out of the hotel together. Cameron had changed into a suit, but his tie was crooked. Jenna was wearing a lovely summer dress, her makeup perfectly done, and she was tucked intimately into his arm. They laughed easily, looking every bit the happy, newly-in-love couple. In the sunlight, the necklace around her throat caught the light. It was the one Cameron had given me for our anniversary last month. I’d told him the style was too flashy for me, and he’d promised to return it for a refund. Apparently, he hadn’t returned it. He had gifted it to a more “suitable” recipient. I took out my phone, aimed it at their retreating, intimate backs, and pressed the shutter. Then, I dialed Jenna’s number. She picked up quickly, her voice sickly sweet. “Kendall? What’s up, cuz? Calling so early.” “Jenna,” I said, my voice soft. “I just had a dream about you, so I called to check in. How are you and Grandma doing?” I saw her body visibly stiffen. The hand wrapped around Cameron’s arm dropped away. Cameron stopped, looking at her with confusion. “Oh… fine! We’re great! Grandma’s having a good day. I was just about to help her into the garden to get some sun.” Her voice was strained and unnatural. “Is that so? That’s wonderful.” I paused, then switched gears. “By the way, Jenna, I thought I heard my husband, Cameron’s, voice. He’s supposed to be on a business trip in Raleigh. Why would he be there with you?” My voice was quiet, but it was clear enough to carry. Through the coffee shop window, I watched Jenna’s face drain of all color. Cameron snatched the phone from her hand and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Kendall! What the hell do you want!” “I don’t want anything,” I said, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “I just wanted to tell you I loved the ‘Intimate Moment’ you logged last night. I hope you two have a reason to ‘Applaud for Love’ every single night.” I hung up, shutting their horrified, shocked faces out of my small phone screen. I packaged up the photo from my camera roll, along with the screenshot of the ‘Intimate Moment’ log, and sent them to my friend, Grant, a private investigator. The accompanying note read: [Find every hotel stay, all shared expenses, and all financial transfers between these two, starting one year ago. I need everything.] With that done, I booked a flight home. The war had just begun. 4. When I returned home, Cameron and Jenna still weren’t back. They were probably still in Raleigh, frantically strategizing their “explanation.” I walked into our master bedroom. Everything was exactly as I had left it: cozy and tidy. On the nightstand, our wedding photo sat in its silver frame. I looked at his face in the picture—a face smiling with false devotion—and felt nothing but nausea. I pulled open the closet. His clothes hung intimately next to mine. With a cold, emotionless detachment, I packed every single one of his suits, shirts, shoes, and ties into large suitcases. I called the deep-cleaning and sanitation service. “I need all bedding, curtains, and carpets replaced. Use the strongest possible disinfectant and scrub the entire house, especially the master bedroom.” That evening, Cameron finally arrived. The moment he opened the door, he froze. The custom leather shoes he loved were missing from the entryway. He walked barefoot into the living room, his face darkening as he saw the half-empty closet and the bare sink in the master bath. I was sitting on the living room sofa, calmly filing my nails. “Kendall, what is the meaning of this?” He stood over me, demanding an answer. “No meaning,” I said, blowing the dust off my nail file. “I just thought the house was a little dirty, so I had it cleaned.” “Where is my stuff?” “I threw it out.” “You!” He was shaking with fury. “How dare you throw away my things!” “Cameron,” I looked up, meeting his eyes, and spoke deliberately, word by word. “Everything in this house was purchased by me. I can throw out whatever I want.” When we married, my parents paid for this house in full, and the deed is solely in my name. The renovations, furniture, and appliances were all paid for with my pre-marital funds. He was essentially ‘Net-Worth-Zero’ coming into this marriage. His face cycled through red, white, and then a sickly green. “Kendall, listen to me,” he instantly deflated, trying to reach for my hand. “It’s not what you think with Jenna, it was her who—” “Stop.” I pulled my hand back, leaning into the sofa cushion. “I have zero interest in your pathetic excuses. Cameron, I’m only asking you one question: Are you divorcing me, or not?” He froze. He hadn’t expected the directness. “What about all these years we spent together?” “Don’t talk to me about feeling,” I scoffed. “Didn’t you use all your feelings to ‘Applaud for Love’ with Jenna?” “I…” He was choked into silence. “Cameron, I’m giving you two options.” I held up two fingers. “First, you walk away with nothing—net-worth-zero—and we get a peaceful, quiet divorce. This stays between us.” “Second, we meet in court. At that point, I think your parents, my aunt, and your entire company will be very interested in the evidence of your marital infidelity, especially with my first cousin.” His pupils constricted instantly. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Watch me.” I held his gaze, utterly fearless. We held the stare, the air thick with antagonism. Finally, he collapsed, sinking onto the sofa opposite me, defeated. “Kendall, can’t you just give me one more chance?” He lowered his head, a hint of plea in his voice. “A chance?” I laughed as if I’d heard the funniest joke in the world. “Cameron, when you and Jenna were repeatedly using our shared app to log your ‘intimate moments,’ why didn’t you think about giving me a chance?” He fell silent completely. I stood up, walked over to him, and tossed a pre-prepared divorce agreement onto the coffee table. “Sign it. Be at the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine.” I didn’t look at him again, turning and locking myself in the bedroom. I left him alone in the ravaged living room, staring at the divorce papers and the home that no longer belonged to him. 5. The next morning, I arrived at the courthouse doors at eight-thirty. Cameron hadn’t shown up yet. I wasn’t worried, leaning against my car and scrolling through my phone. Grant, my private investigator, had been efficient and already sent the first batch of data: three months of hotel stays between Cameron and Jenna. Raleigh, our hometown, even during our holiday visit to the suburbs—they’d managed to sneak away for rooms right under our noses. My stomach churned as I looked at the endless list of hotel names and times. At eight fifty-five, Cameron’s car finally pulled up, late. He emerged, looking haggard, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. He wasn’t alone. My mother was with him. Mom marched straight toward me, her face contorted in anger, and raised her hand as if to strike me. I smoothly stepped back, avoiding the blow. “Kendall! Have you completely lost your mind?! Why are you divorcing Cameron?!” I looked at my mother, a sheet of ice forming in my chest. Cameron had spent years manipulating her, charming her into treating him better than a biological son. “Mom, this is between him and me. Please stay out of it.” “Stay out of it? I’m your mother! How can I stay out of it? Cameron is such a good man! Where will you find a husband like him? You’re delusional!” she yelled, pointing a finger at my nose. Cameron stepped forward at the perfect moment, gently taking my mother’s arm, his face a perfect mask of “humble victimhood” and “understanding.” “Auntie, please don’t blame Kendall. It’s my fault. I messed up and made her angry.” My mother instantly melted. “Oh, Cameron, don’t say that. It has to be this hard-headed girl being difficult! Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this!” She turned back to me, her voice hardening. “I’m telling you, Kendall, you are not getting divorced today! If you walk through those doors, I’ll make a scene right here!” I looked at this perfect show of mother-in-law devotion and almost laughed. “Mom, are you absolutely sure you want to take his side?” “Of course I’m sure!” “Fine.” I nodded, pulling up the video I had secretly recorded outside the hotel in Raleigh. In the video, Cameron and Jenna walked out, arms linked, smiling radiantly. My mother’s expression froze instantly. “What… when was this? Who is that woman?” Her voice began to tremble. “Mom,” I looked at her, saying each word clearly. “That woman is Jenna. Your niece. Your sister’s daughter.” My mother looked like she had been hit by lightning. She staggered backward a step, caught only by Cameron’s quick arm. She looked at Cameron, then at me, total disbelief etched on her face. “No, it can’t be… Cameron, tell me it’s not true!” Cameron’s face had turned as white as paper. He opened his mouth, but not a single word emerged. “Mom, do you still want to take his side?” I asked, my voice flat and cold. My mother’s lips quivered. The look in her eyes for Cameron shifted from compassion to deep, gut-wrenching betrayal and fury. She violently shook off his arm, rushed forward, and delivered a harsh, echoing slap across his face. “You asshole!”

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A new broom sweeps clean, and I was the first piece of dust she decided to toss. “You’re fired.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I calmly opened my laptop and began wiping my work drives. The new director, an external hire, crossed her arms and let out a small, contemptuous laugh. “Oh, playing the rebel? Deleting files won’t help you, you know.” She leaned in, feigning curiosity. “By the way, what exactly was your project? I don’t recall seeing anything critical.” I just offered her a slight, hollow smile, pulled a thumb drive from the port, and pocketed it. “You’ll find out tomorrow morning.” 01 The conference room was suffocatingly hot. The harsh fluorescent lights above cast a sickly pallor on every face, including the freshly installed Head of Projects, Naomi Price. “To optimize our organizational structure and boost team vitality.” Her voice was clear and carried a sense of inherent superiority as her gaze swept deliberately over every person present. Finally, that sharp, predatory look settled on me. “Kai Lawson, you are terminated, effective immediately.” The room went completely silent. I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes lock onto me—some offering pity, a few genuine shock, but mostly schadenfreude and cool indifference. I was the sacrificial lamb, dragged out to be butchered in front of the flock. I didn’t give her the reaction she expected—no outrage, no desperate plea. I simply looked up, met her gaze through my glasses, and gave her a calm two-word reply. “Understood.” My compliance clearly threw her off balance. The rehearsed speech she had prepared must have died in her throat. She frowned, visibly annoyed that her ‘lamb’ was being so meek. The meeting concluded in an awkward, heavy silence. I returned to my desk, a quiet corner by the window where I kept a few struggling succulents. My colleagues avoided my eyes as if I were carrying a contagion. Only Sam Miller, the intern who sat across from me, risked a quick, worried glance. I gave him a slight nod, letting him know I was fine. Then, I opened my work computer. Every click of the mouse was loud and deliberate. – “Format drive C.” – “Format drive D.” Two progress bars appeared on the screen, the blue bands creeping forward with slow, steady certainty. The sharp click of high heels grew louder, stopping just outside my cubicle wall. It was Naomi Price. She stood there, arms crossed, looking down at me with undisguised mockery. “A tantrum, Kai? Really?” Her voice was low, yet loud enough to carry through the quiet office. “I wouldn’t bother with these petty theatrics. Everything is backed up on the company server.” I ignored her, my focus fixed on the slow march of the progress bars. My indifference infuriated her. She stepped into my space, and the rich, expensive scent of her perfume instantly saturated the air—so intense it made my stomach turn. “Still fighting? Deleting files won’t change anything, you know.” She leaned in, body forward, and whispered close to my ear, feigning conspiratorial interest. “Tell me, what was your project again? I don’t recall anything essential. Just some dispensable, fringe work?” She was too close, her breath tickling my ear, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I finally turned my head, looking her directly in the eyes for the first time. Her face was a mask of the victor’s arrogance and the contempt for the loser. I looked at her, and then, I smiled. It wasn’t a smile of anger or sadness, but one of complete, cold detachment that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. The instant the progress bar hit one hundred percent, I reached out and, with a soft click, pulled a small, plain black thumb drive—the one with the scratched casing—from the side of the host machine. I slipped it into my jeans pocket, grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, and stood up. I met her eyes—now wide with confusion and a flicker of unease at my inexplicable calm—and said, slowly, deliberately: “You’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Without a backward glance, I walked out of the place where I had poured three years of my life. The colleagues I left behind were frozen in their seats. 02 I slept until I woke up naturally the next morning. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting warm, shifting patterns on the floor. I rose leisurely, brewed myself a pour-over coffee, and carried the mug to the balcony to water my small collection of succulents. My phone lay silent in the living room. I hadn’t touched it. I knew that soon, it would turn into a scorching hot brand. Meanwhile, dozens of miles away, the headquarters of Vanguard Tech was already in chaos. At 6:08 AM, the core operations channel for The Nexus, the company’s flagship AI system, registered its first red alert. [Level 1 Alert: Core Database Connection Failed!] Immediately, hundreds of thousands of error messages flooded the screen like a burst dam. The backend indicators for The Nexus, normally a calming, stable green, were now flashing a frantic, blood-red. All front-end services relying on The Nexus, from the smart customer service on the company website to the AI recommendation engines in key partner applications, now displayed a single, chilling message: “SYSTEM ERROR.” “SYSTEM ERROR.” The Nexus was completely down. Naomi Price’s recently promoted Technical Lead, a man named Brian, was dragged out of bed by a frantic series of calls and arrived at the office by 6:30 AM. He sat in front of the terminal, his eyes puffy with lack of sleep, sweating as he stared at the screens filled with low-level code he couldn’t understand. His mind was blank. Server restart. No effect. Rollback to a previous version. Insufficient permissions. Attempted repair. The code was a monolithic firewall, rejecting all unauthorized access. At 8:00 AM sharp, the roar of CEO Robert Montgomery echoed through the entire Technical Department. “What in God’s name is going on! Someone tell me!” Robert, a man in his late forties who usually embodied polished professionalism, was disheveled, his face ashen, pacing like a caged lion. Naomi trailed behind him, pale but still trying to bluff her way through. “It has to be Kai Lawson! Robert, it must be him! He was disgruntled, he maliciously sabotaged the company system!” Brian immediately jumped in to agree. “Yes! It was definitely Kai! His access was the highest; he’s the only one who could have done this!” A few older employees gathered in a corner, murmuring amongst themselves. “Nonsense, Kai isn’t like that.” “The Nexus was built from the ground up by Kai. The core architecture, the algorithms—all his. No one else here can touch the foundation.” “I knew something was wrong yesterday. How could Naomi fire Kai so casually? It’s like cutting off your own arm.” Naomi overheard their comments, her face tightening with fury. She shrieked at Robert. “We have to call the police immediately, Robert! Get Legal ready to sue! This is corporate sabotage!” “Shut up!” Robert spun around, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her. “The priority is fixing the problem! Not finding blame! If the system isn’t back online before the market opens tomorrow, the company is finished!” The entire morning was spent in frantic, disorganized efforts. But faced with the impenetrable fortress of The Nexus, all attempts failed. The company’s stock began showing violent, anomalous fluctuations, and several major partners had already called with furious inquiries. In the midst of the chaos, someone finally remembered the sight of me formatting my computer the day before. “Robert, when Kai left yesterday, he wiped everything on his local drive!” “I checked it myself!” Brian immediately chimed in, eager for credit. “The drives are empty! He left nothing behind!” Robert’s gaze snapped to him. “What about the backup server?” A new layer of cold sweat broke out on Brian’s forehead. He stammered, “The backup server… the core module for The Nexus… it shows… it shows ‘Access Denied: Insufficient Permissions.’” Boom. Naomi felt a sharp, sickening explosion in her head. She finally understood. The cold smile I gave her as I left, the calm finality of “You’ll find out tomorrow morning”—it wasn’t a threat of a childish prank. It was the precise timing of a calculated counter-strike. Her face, already alarmed, completely drained to a terrifying shade of ash-gray. 03 The sunlight on the balcony was perfect, and the breeze was warm. I had just finished watering my last cactus when the phone in the living room finally rang. It was an unrecognized number. I slowly set down the watering can, dried my hands, walked into the living room, and picked up the call. “Hello.” There was a moment of sharp, ragged breathing on the other end, followed by a voice attempting to project calm authority. “Hello? Is this Kai? It’s Robert. Robert Montgomery.” The CEO. I waited, letting the silence stretch. “Kai, listen… we’ve had a bit of an issue here at the office. Are you available right now?” He chose his words with extreme care, as if testing a live wire. I took a slow sip of my coffee. It was rich and complex. “Robert, I’m no longer an employee of Vanguard Tech. Per company policy, my employment was terminated yesterday at 5:30 PM.” My tone was as neutral as if I were discussing the temperature outside. The line went audibly quiet. After a few seconds of silence, Robert started to play the sentiment card. “Kai, I know you’re upset. Naomi acted rashly, and I’ve already reprimanded her. But the company has supported your career for years, and you have a loyalty to the work we’ve done here, right?” He paused, his voice now laced with undisguised urgency. “Look, can you… can you please come in and help us restore the system?” I almost laughed out loud. Help? Supported my career?

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