Author: Momo Chan

The year I turned eighteen, the Winslows found me. They told me I was their long-lost second daughter, a child swept under the rug of their vast, untouchable empire. On my third day in their cold, cavernous estate, Benson, the family butler, approached me with a silver tray and a flat voice. “The late eldest daughter was betrothed to the Crawford family,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “Mr. Winslow says you are to take her place.” I pulled my hair back into a tight, no-nonsense ponytail, threw on the worn, oversized coat I’d lived in for years, and caught a cab to the Crawford estate. A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood by the towering iron gates, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked impatient, checking his watch every few seconds. “So, you’re the one the Winslows dragged out of the gutter?” He tilted his head, studying me like a stray cat that had wandered onto his manicured lawn. “Is the Winslow estate a charity now? They’ll take back just about anything.” The woman beside him stepped forward, handing him a bottle of sparkling water. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were razor-sharp. “Oh, Damian, don’t be cruel. She’s survived out there on her own for so long; she must be quite… resilient. Tell me, Iris, what was your last job? A waitress? A grocery cashier?” “Lindsay, don’t tease her,” Damian said, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at her. Then he turned back to me, his tone dry and transactional, as if we were negotiating a cheap lease. “I don’t recognize this betrothal. But since you’ve dragged yourself all the way out here, I’ll throw you a bone. Our housekeeper is retiring next week. You can take the job. I’ll pay you thirty-two hundred a month.” I didn’t say a word. In my palm, my cheap phone buzzed. My grandfather had just wired me twenty million dollars. 1 “What’s the matter? Thirty-two hundred too little for you?” Damian’s voice broke the silence. He loomed over me, his condescension naked and heavy. “Let’s be clear about who you are. You’ve been living like a vagrant for years. You have no degree, no manners, and you can’t even afford a decent coat. I’m only offering you this job as charity, out of respect for your late sister.” Lindsay giggled, hiding her mouth behind a manicured hand. “You’re too kind, Damian, really.” She stepped closer, pinching the pilling fabric of my sleeve with two fingers, her face twisted in theatrical pity. “Iris, sweetie, this coat is practically disintegrating. It’s time for an upgrade. I suppose thirty-two hundred is a fortune to someone like you. Did you ever see that much money at the shelter?” I looked at her beautiful, hollow face, then glanced down at the screen of my phone. The notification was still glowing: “Incoming wire transfer: $20,000,000.” Twenty million. So this was what my grandfather meant by “taking her place.” I slipped the phone back into my pocket, keeping my face entirely blank. “Mr. Crawford, my family sent me here to honor a commitment. A marriage.” Damian let out a harsh, bark-like laugh. “A marriage?” He stepped in closer, his shadow falling over me. “Iris, do you actually think you’ve become a princess overnight? If the Winslows cared about you, would they have let you take a dingy yellow cab here? No security, no driver, not even a decent car. To them, you’re just a pawn they threw out to absorb a blow.” Lindsay sighed on cue, wrapping her arm around his. “Damian, don’t be so blunt. You’ll break her heart. She just got a taste of the high life; let her have her little dream.” She looked at me, her eyes dripping with mock sympathy. “Take some advice, Iris. Damian doesn’t owe you anything. This arrangement belonged to your sister. Since you’re just a cheap knockoff, you should know your place. Being a maid is a good gig. At least you’ll have a roof over your head and won’t starve on the streets.” A cheap knockoff? I slightly raised an eyebrow. Right then, my phone rang. It was the custom ringtone for my eldest brother, Charles. Before I could move, Damian snatched the phone right out of my hand. “Look at that. Is the Winslow family checking up on their stray?” He pressed speakerphone without asking. Charles’s voice came through, cold and sharp enough to cut glass. “Are you dead out there yet? Still haven’t settled in?” Damian shot me a smug, triumphant look, leaning down toward the microphone. “Charles, it’s Damian Crawford. Iris just got here, but she doesn’t seem to understand the Crawford family’s expectations.” There was a brief pause on the other end. When Charles spoke again, his voice was ice. “Tell her to behave. Running around looking like a beggar is embarrassing to this family. If she wants to ruin her life, tell her to do it quietly. Don’t come crawling back here to annoy me.” With a sharp click, the line went dead. The dial tone droned in the quiet air. Damian burst into laughter, tossing my phone onto the gravel. “Hear that, Iris? That’s the family you’re so proud of. They don’t even want to look at you. They’re disgusted by your very existence.” Lindsay shook her head, looking at me like I was a pile of trash. “How pathetic. Cast out by your own flesh and blood. Iris, if you have any dignity left, go down to the basement and clean up the maid’s quarters. If you’re late, you won’t even get dinner.” I bent down and picked up my phone. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the glass screen. I blew the dust off it. “Where are the maid’s quarters?” I asked. Since Charles wanted me to “settle in,” I wanted to see exactly how much rope these two would give themselves to hang with. Damian scoffed, pressing the intercom by the gate. “Mrs. Landis, take the new maid down to the basement. Lay down the rules. Make sure she doesn’t wander around and get dirt on my carpets.” 2 A middle-aged woman in a stiff, dark grey uniform marched over. She swept a dismissive gaze over me. “Understood, Mr. Crawford. Leave her to me.” She turned to me, her tone sharp. “Follow me. Don’t dawdle.” I followed her through the grand, gilded foyer, past towering marble pillars, and down a flight of narrow, dimly lit wooden stairs. The air in the basement clung to the skin, damp and smelling of old mildew. Mrs. Landis pushed open a warped wooden door. “This is your room.” It was a cramped, windowless box. There was a single rusted metal bed frame and a dented locker. The sheets on the thin mattress were yellowed and threadbare. Mrs. Landis crossed her arms, her eyes hard. “Mr. Crawford says your duties include scrubbing the toilets and cleaning up after the dogs in the garden. You’re to be up by five every morning to prepare breakfast for the household. Any mistakes, and it comes out of your pay. Got it?” I stared at the stained, yellowed sheets and said nothing. Mrs. Landis gave me a rough shove. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question!” I sidestepped her next touch, my eyes instantly turning cold. “Don’t touch me.” She blinked, caught off guard, before her face flushed with fury. “Oh, think you’re someone special, do you? You’re trash that even the Winslows didn’t want. You don’t put on airs in this house. In this basement, “I” am the law.” She pointed at a pile of dingy rags in the corner. “Now, get moving. Scrub the five toilets on the main floor.” I ignored her, walking over to the metal bed. I gave one of the rusted legs a sharp kick. The frame let out a loud, agonizing groan, swaying precariously. “I don’t sleep on cheap beds,” I said. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Mrs. Landis let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t sleep on cheap beds? Who do you think you are, a guest at the Ritz-Carlton? If you don’t like it, sleep on the street!” Ignoring her screeching, I dialed a number. “Hello, is this the concierge at the Ritz-Carlton? I need a complete set of your signature presidential suite bedding delivered. Silk sheets, premium down pillows. Yes, deliver it to the Crawford estate. Bring it down to the basement.” I hung up and turned to the stunned housekeeper. “You can leave now. I’d like to rest.” Mrs. Landis stared at me as if I had completely lost my mind. “Are you insane? You think you can afford the Ritz? Just wait! I’m telling Mr. Crawford!” She slammed the door behind her as she stormed out. Within ten minutes, Damian and Lindsay burst into the basement room. Damian’s face was dark with rage, his finger practically touching my nose. “Iris! What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a maid! Why are you ordering luxury bedding from the Ritz?” Lindsay held her nose, waving a hand in front of her face. “Ugh, Damian, the smell down here is atrocious.” She sneered at me. “Iris, did living in shelters rot your brain? Your salary is thirty-two hundred a month. How do you plan to pay for this? Or were you expecting Damian to foot the bill?” Damian sneered. “In your dreams! I won’t pay a single cent. Let’s see how you handle it when they show up with the bill!” I leaned against the dented metal locker, watching them play their little roles. “I’m paying with my own money. What does it have to do with you?” Damian laughed as if I’d delivered a killer punchline. “Your own money? You were a homeless stray! How much could you possibly have? The rags on your back wouldn’t even clear ten dollars at a thrift store!” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “I’m warning you, Iris. If you try to use the Crawford name to run a scam, I will personally throw you out of here in pieces!” Just then, a sleek black Mercedes Sprinter with the Ritz-Carlton logo pulled up to the estate gates. A team of immaculate hotel managers in tailored suits entered the mansion, carrying several oversized, pristine boxes. The lead manager bowed politely to me. “Excuse me, are you Miss Iris Winslow? Your signature silk bedding collection has arrived. The total comes to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.” 3 A suffocating silence fell over the basement. Damian’s eyes bulged, staring at the high-end packaging. Lindsay’s face twisted into an ugly mask of disbelief and envy. “One… one hundred and twenty thousand dollars?” she shrieked. “For some bedsheets?” The hotel manager kept his professional smile. “Yes, ma’am. This is custom-tailored Italian silk, a limited global release.” Damian snapped out of his daze, pointing at me. “Iris! Where did you steal that money? Did you swipe a Winslow credit card?” I didn’t bother answering him. I tapped my phone screen against the payment terminal the manager held out. “Ding.” A crisp, clear electronic chime echoed in the cramped basement, confirming the transaction had cleared. The manager’s smile grew even wider. “Thank you for your patronage, Miss Winslow. Would you like our staff to set it up for you?” “No, thank you. Just leave them here.” The managers set the boxes down carefully, bowed, and withdrew. Damian stared at my phone, utterly speechless. Lindsay gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with jealousy. “It has to be stolen! There is no way the Winslows gave her that much cash! Damian, this is a crime! We need to call the police!” Damian’s eyes lit up. He pulled out his phone. “Yes! The police! You’re finished, Iris!” Right in front of me, he dialed my second brother, Chase. “Chase, it’s Damian. I have to report something urgent. Iris stole from your family!” On the other end of the line, Chase’s voice came through, thick with sleep and sheer, unadulterated irritation. “Are you out of your mind? Who calls this early?” Damian rushed to explain. “No, Chase, listen! Iris just dropped a hundred and twenty grand on silk sheets without blinking! She’s an orphan! Where would she get that kind of cash? She must have stolen your card!” There was a two-second silence on the other end. Then, Chase’s roar practically rattled the phone. “She bought a bed, so what? Did she spend your damn money? A hundred and twenty grand is pocket change! A single tire on my car costs more than that! If you ever call me again with this pathetic garbage, I will personally ruin you!” The call disconnected with a sharp beep. Damian stood frozen, his hand still holding the phone to his ear. Lindsay’s jaw dropped. Damian took a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. He glared at me, his voice trembling. “Did you hear that, Iris? Chase doesn’t even care enough to look into it. You’re such an embarrassment to them that they won’t even prosecute you for stealing. They treat you like you don’t even exist!” Lindsay chimed in, eager to soothe Damian’s bruised ego. “Exactly! The Winslows are so wealthy that a few hundred thousand is nothing to them. But their attitude toward you says it all. Iris, don’t think a little stolen money makes you queen of this castle.” Damian sneered. “Mrs. Landis! Throw all of this trash out! A maid sleeping on Italian silk? Not in my house.” Mrs. Landis eagerly complied, waving in a couple of male groundskeepers to grab the heavy boxes. I watched them calmly. “Damian, are you sure you want to touch my things?” Damian threw his head back. “In this house, I make the rules! Throw them in the dumpster outside!” I didn’t stop them as they dragged the boxes away. Instead, I quietly opened my phone and marked the order as delivered. 4 The next evening, the Crawford estate was ablaze with lights. Damian was hosting a lavish party to celebrate some minor, third-rate charity award Lindsay had won, inviting the city’s second-tier trust-fund crowd. Mrs. Landis tossed a skimpy, black-and-white maid costume onto my bed. “Put it on. Mr. Crawford wants you serving drinks to the guests tonight. He had this specially ordered in your size.” The fabric was insultingly sparse; the hemline wouldn’t even cover my thighs. I dropped the uniform onto the floor and stepped on it. “Tell him to wear it and serve the drinks himself.” Mrs. Landis bristled, her finger shaking as she pointed at me. “Don’t push your luck! Mr. Crawford said if you don’t put this on, he’ll have your old suitcase thrown into the fountain!” My gaze turned ice-cold. Inside that worn leather suitcase was the only thing left to me by the director of the shelter who had raised me—an old, battered diary containing the names of all the orphans she had cared for. I walked out of the basement and entered the grand ballroom. The air was thick with expensive perfume, loud laughter, and jazz music. Damian, dressed in a custom tuxedo, stood in the center of the room with a glass of champagne, holding court among his wealthy friends. Lindsay stood beside him like a proud swan in a white couture gown. When he saw me walk in wearing my old, oversized coat, his expression instantly darkened. “Iris, who said you could come out looking like that?” He marched over to me, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Where is the uniform I bought you?” Whispers began to ripple through the room. “Is that the stray the Winslows dragged back?” “I heard she’s practically illiterate.” “The Winslows must be mortified. Sending her to work as a maid at the Crawfords’…” Lindsay giggled behind her hand, her eyes glittering. “Oh, Damian, let it go. Maybe she’s just shy. She’s probably never seen an event like this before.” Damian sneered. “There is no negotiating in this house.” He turned to Mrs. Landis. “Go. Throw her suitcase into the fountain. It seems she needs a wake-up call.” A couple of security guards ran down to the basement and dragged my battered leather suitcase out into the courtyard. I moved toward them. “Stop.” Damian stepped in front of me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Hurts, doesn’t it? If you get down on your knees and beg Lindsay to forgive your rudeness yesterday, I might think about giving it back.” Lindsay looked down her nose at me. “I don’t even need you to kneel, Iris. Just say, nice and loud, that you don’t deserve to bear the Winslow name, and I’ll have Damian let you go.” I stared directly into Damian’s eyes. “If you throw that in, I will make you regret the day you were born.” Damian burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “Make me regret it? Do it! Throw it in!” With a heavy splash, my suitcase—the one that had been my only constant for fifteen years—was hurled into the deep waters of the stone fountain. The latch broke on impact, and my belongings spilled out into the water. The old diary, its pages fragile with age, instantly began to soak and disintegrate. A sharp pain squeezed my chest. The blood rushed to my ears, and my hands curled into tight fists. Lindsay walked to the edge of the fountain, looking down. “Oh dear, it’s just a bunch of garbage anyway.” She lifted her foot, intending to step on an old photograph that had landed on the wet stone rim. Before she could, my hand whipped out. “Slap!” I put every ounce of my strength into the blow. The impact cracked through the courtyard, and Lindsay was thrown off balance, hitting the stone tiles hard. The courtyard fell into absolute, terrified silence. Damian stared at her, then turned to me, his face contorted with rage. “Iris! You’re dead!” He raised his hand, swinging a heavy, open-palmed strike toward my face. But a split second before his hand could connect, the phone in his pocket blared with a shrill, demanding ringtone. Damian froze mid-swing, his eyes instinctively darting to the screen. “Caller ID: Benson (Winslow Family Butler).” Frowning, he swiped to answer and put it on speakerphone. In the quiet of the courtyard, Benson’s dry, commanding voice carried clearly to every ear. “Mr. Crawford.” “The elder Mr. Winslow is deeply displeased to hear how his granddaughter is being treated. Your hospitality has certainly been… eye-opening.”

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Because my parents always claimed they treated my sister and me completely equally, they expected us to split the burden of supporting them down the middle. But while my sister, Coral, makes eight thousand dollars a month, she has never contributed a single dime to our family. She donates every spare cent she has to impoverished kids through a charity in rural Appalachia. So, the mortgage on our house and the car payments? I pay them. Our parents’ prescription copays and my younger brother’s school expenses? I cover them. Even Coral’s new clothes every month are charged to my credit card. Crushed under the suffocating weight of it all, I finally broke down one evening and asked her, “Coral, can you please start keeping some of your paycheck for the family?” Coral’s face instantly went cold. “Do you have any idea how miserable those kids in the mountains are, Beverly? How can you be so incredibly selfish and heartless?” My parents immediately chimed in, taking her side. “Coral’s charity work was just featured in the local paper. If you can’t be proud of her, how do you have the nerve to criticize her?” My brother, Zack, rolled his eyes. “Beverly, you’re just jealous of Coral’s spotlight. You’ve been jealous of her since we were kids. Aren’t you tired of it yet?” A cold weight settled in my chest. Silently, I locked my phone screen, dark-screening the promotion notification I had just received from my manager. The next morning, I applied for an out-of-state transfer—a high-security, off-site project in Alaska, completely isolated for three months. Before I boarded the flight, I reported all my credit cards as lost and cancelled every single automatic payment linked to my accounts. I wanted to see exactly how this family would survive without me. … My mom had proudly forwarded a clip of Coral’s latest local news interview to our family group chat. Predictably, the extended family flooded the chat with praise for her generosity. “Coral is incredible! She’s such a credit to you, Mary. We’re all so proud to be related to her.” “She’s so much more accomplished than her younger sister. It’s hard to believe they were raised in the same house.” The compliments kept rolling in, but my hands were shaking so hard the screen blurred before my eyes. This month, the mortgage and car payments totaled fifteen hundred dollars. My parents’ medication copays, Zack’s SAT prep classes, and his allowance came to another eight hundred. And then there was the stack of credit card bills Coral had run up on my account. I had been out of college for less than two years. For twenty-four months, I had been working myself to the bone, selling pieces of my health just to keep this family afloat. When I pulled late nights at the office, I would agonize over the price of instant ramen, calculating if a store brand could save me fifty cents. My clothes were cheap clearance items worn until the threads frayed and pilled. Yet every payday, my salary barely sat in my account for half a day before the balance plunged straight back into the red. That evening, after clocking out, I gathered enough courage to talk to Coral. “Coral, do you think you could start keeping a small portion of your salary for the house? Our expenses have been so high lately, and I’m really struggling to—” Before I could even finish, she cut me off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Beverly, if you’re always short on cash, have you considered that you might just be terrible at budgeting? Besides, you should focus on negotiating a raise. You need to learn how to increase your income, not complain about expenses.” Coral looked at me with deep disapproval. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to tell her I hadn’t bought a single non-essential item in months, but she beat me to it. “Just because you had the luxury of a college education and never went hungry doesn’t mean you can ignore the plight of young girls in impoverished communities. Every dollar I give them is a lifeline to help them escape a cycle of poverty. You can’t be so incredibly selfish, Beverly.” Selfish? The sheer absurdity of her words cut me to the quick. Every time she played the generous savior and drained her bank account to zero, who was the one quiet backstop keeping her alive? Me. When other kids went to college, their parents or older siblings sent them pocket money. I, on the other hand, had to juggle three part-time jobs during my undergraduate years just to pay off Coral’s credit card balances. I had naive dreams that things would get better once I graduated and started a real corporate job. Instead, the demands only intensified. On top of my demanding 9-to-5, I spent my weekends freelancing just to plug the endless financial leaks at home. Meanwhile, Coral, who earned significantly more than me, acted as though the concept of household expenses didn’t exist in her universe. Coral was scrolling through the comments under her interview video, her face flush with validation. She thrust her phone screen in front of my face. “Look at this. Everyone is calling me an angel. Every single dollar I earn goes toward something beautiful. Stop worrying about my money just because you can’t manage your own. You shouldn’t stand in the way of charity.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Her money was hers to give away, but what about mine? Since elementary school, my wardrobe had consisted entirely of Coral’s faded hand-me-downs. When I finally graduated and saved a tiny emergency fund, my parents immediately demanded “family contributions.” Not a reasonable fraction—they wanted my entire paycheck. They claimed they were completely fair to all three of us. Because Zack was still in school, they said Coral and I had to carry the family’s financial weight together. My peers, two years into their careers, were building savings, planning vacations, and starting their own lives. But I was stretching myself so thin I felt transparent. Ordering a five-dollar iced coffee felt like an unforgivable luxury. “Beverly, you’re being incredibly immature,” my mother spoke up from where she sat on the sofa, her eyes glued to the TV. “Saving a soul is the highest calling on this earth, and your sister is literally saving those girls’ lives. Do you have any idea how much blessing that brings to our family? Instead of learning from her grace, you blow through your own money and then try to siphon hers.” My father nodded in agreement. “Coral is the pride of this family. Everyone in town knows how charitable she is. If you force her to keep her money for household chores, you’ll ruin her reputation. You can’t lose your humanity, Beverly.” Despite the rising lump of frustration in my throat, I forced my voice to remain calm, trying to appeal to their logic. “Mom, Dad, even if we want to help others, shouldn’t we look at our own bank accounts first? The mortgage and car payments are due this week, and Zack’s school just sent another bill for his textbooks. On top of that, Dad, your pulmonary fibrosis medication and Mom’s arthritis therapy are incredibly expensive. I can’t shoulder all of this alone. I really can’t…” “Stop using our health as an excuse to dodge your responsibilities,” my father snapped, cutting me off. “We got by just fine before you started working. You’re just looking for a way out. Selfish is selfish, Beverly.” My mother sighed, shaking her head at me with deep disappointment. “We know our own bodies. When it comes down to it, you’re just lazy and want to live a life of luxury. When are you finally going to grow up and stop embarrassing this family the way your sister never does?” Even though it was a humid May evening, a shuddering chill went straight to my bones. I was working myself to death, taking on extra shifts, spending my rare days off driving them to hospital appointments and sitting in crowded waiting rooms. During those doctor visits, they would hold my hand and call me their angel. But the moment I asked Coral to carry a fraction of the weight, I became the ungrateful, embarrassing child. Zack, who had just come home from his tutoring session, sneered at me. “Are you throwing another tantrum because you’re jealous of Coral, Beverly? I know exactly how your mind works. You’ve been doing this since we were kids. Don’t even bother coming to my parent-teacher conferences anymore. Coral is my role model. Having a sister like you makes me look bad at school.” Fine. Let them be the perfect, saintly family of four. I was nothing but the workhorse—blindly pulling the plow, feeding them all, and getting whipped the moment I let out a sound of exhaustion. Seeing my silence, Coral assumed she had won the argument. She offered a patronizing smile. “Look, Beverly, I know you work hard. But those girls in the rural districts have absolutely nothing. You need to open your heart and understand their pain. Tell you what—in my next interview, I’ll make sure to mention how supportive you are.” She spoke with the casual condescension of a queen tossing a scrap of bread to a servant. The coldness inside me hardened into stone. I was done being the fuel that kept their fire burning. Gathering every ounce of resolve, I looked Coral straight in the eye. “From now on, you pay half of the household expenses. If you don’t, I stop paying mine.” Before Coral could respond, my mother let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Oh, stop it. You’re just throwing a tantrum because you want to keep more money for yourself. You only care about your own comfort, completely blind to what those poor girls go through every single day.” I grabbed the worn, pilled fabric of my cheap sweater, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “They are struggling, but what about me? You have all the empathy in the world for strangers, but you can’t spare a single ounce of it for your own daughter who is drowning right in front of you?” My father slammed his fist onto the dining table, making the plates rattle. “Shut your mouth, ungrateful brat! Do you think we’d starve to death without you? If you don’t want to contribute, get the hell out of my house. But before you pack your bags, you’re going to pay us back every single cent we spent raising you!” Pay them back? While I stood there in absolute shock, my mother walked into her bedroom and emerged with a thick, leather-bound notebook. “Beverly, you brought this on yourself by turning your back on your family,” my mother said coldly. She opened the notebook, revealing neat, cramped rows of handwriting. She had recorded every single expense she had ever incurred for me since the day I was born. “Let’s start with rent. We’ll call it three hundred dollars a month. Over twenty-two years, that’s seventy-nine thousand two hundred dollars. Your clothes and school supplies were hand-me-downs from Coral, so we’ll give you a discount on those—call it five thousand. Add in your food, health insurance, and school fees… we’ll round it down to a flat hundred and twenty thousand dollars.” My mother slid the notebook across the table. Staring at the microscopic handwriting, a bone-deep chill washed over me. I had lived under the impression that I was a member of this family, not a tenant being billed for my existence. “You kept track of everything,” I whispered, my teeth clenching so hard my jaw ached. “Down to the boxes of cereal and the band-aids. Do Coral and Zack have notebooks like this too?” My mother rolled her eyes. “Coral is our pride, the face of this family. And Zack is our only son; he’s going to carry on our family name and build a life of his own. They aren’t strangers. Why would we charge them?” So, the ledger was reserved only for me. I was the only stranger under this roof. I stared at the faces of my parents, suddenly unable to recognize the people who had raised me. We used to live in a cramped, drafty two-bedroom apartment. The summer I got my college acceptance letter, my parents insisted we upgrade to a larger house in the suburbs. But almost immediately after they paid the down payment, their health began to fail. Feeling guilty and wanting to ease their burden, I volunteered to help carry the household expenses so they could retire early, foolishly believing Coral would do the same. For six years—four in college and two in my career—I had been paying the mortgage. This house belonged to me as much as anyone, yet I was treated like a trespasser. I swallowed the bitter bile rising in my throat and forced my face to go completely blank. “Fine. I’ll pay it.” I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. “But before I write a check, let’s look at my ledger.” I tapped the screen rapidly. “I’ve paid the mortgage and car payments for six years. I’ve covered every single one of your medical bills and physical therapy appointments, Mom. I’ve paid Zack’s school fees, and I’ve cleared Coral’s credit cards every month. I won’t charge you interest. Let’s round it down to a flat hundred and thirty thousand dollars.” They owed me ten thousand dollars. The smug satisfaction drained from my parents’ faces instantly. Before they could speak, Coral lunged forward and slapped me across the cheek. “We are family!” she shrieked, her face contorted with rage. “How can you be so incredibly cold-hearted? You’ve probably been plotting this for years, waiting for a chance to rob Mom and Dad. You think you can just make up some arbitrary number and demand money from us? We don’t owe you a single cent!” It was exactly the response I expected. I should have known that a single person’s sacrifices could never satisfy a pack of ravenous wolves. “Evidence?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet as my cheek stung. “I have bank statements, digital receipts for every mortgage payment, hospital invoices, and credit card histories spanning six years. How many pages would you like me to print out?” Coral’s face turned a sickly shade of white. Part of me wanted to tear this house apart, but the residual exhaustion of six years of obedience held me back. I took a deep breath. “Either we split the expenses fifty-fifty from today on, or you pay me back.” Coral glared at me with a pure, unadulterated hatred I had never seen in her eyes before. She snatched her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen for several minutes. When she finally looked up, a cruel, triumphant smirk played on her lips. “You want to touch my salary? Dream on. I just set up an automatic recurring donation. The moment my paycheck hits my account, every single dollar is swept straight to the charity. You won’t get a penny of my hard-earned money.” To show their solidarity, my parents immediately handed Coral their pension debit cards and savings books. “We stand together as a family,” my father declared, looking at me with utter disgust. “We support Coral’s beautiful heart completely. You, on the other hand, have lost your damn soul. Pack your things and get out of our house.” I hadn’t anticipated Coral would go to such self-destructive lengths just to spite me. “Why should I be the one to leave?” I countered, my voice shaking. “I’ve been paying the mortgage. If we sell this place, half of the equity belongs to me.” My mother let out a sharp, mocking sneer. “Oh, we knew exactly what kind of snake you were. You’ve been eyeing this property from day one, haven’t you?” She reached into her drawer and pulled out the property deed, flipping it open to the title page. There, printed in bold, official ink, were the names of the co-owners: Coral and Zack. Only their names. Not mine. A terrible numbness washed over me, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. They had shut me out before the first payment was even made. This was the house I had bled for over six long years, working double shifts, skipping meals, and fainting from sheer exhaustion and low blood sugar. This was my reward. In that moment, the anger died, replaced by a profound, hollow silence. I didn’t even have the energy to ask why. My mother stood there, gloating over her own cleverness. “See that?” she said, waving the paper in my face. “This house has nothing to do with you. Your sister has always been our pride. You’re just a parasite who brings us shame. Honestly, we should have married you off years ago.” I kept my head down, refusing to let them see the tears that refused to fall. I unlocked my phone and tapped “Accept” on the email invitation for the Alaska assignment. It was a blessing in disguise. If their house and their lives had nothing to do with me, then whatever happened to them next was no longer my concern. I packed a single suitcase with my few belongings and walked out of the house that had held me hostage for my entire life. As I crossed the threshold, my mother called out behind me, “Good riddance! Now that the dead weight is gone, we finally have our perfect family again.” I heard her, but I didn’t slow my pace. Because of the high-security nature of the remote Alaska facility, we were required to log our personal phones into secure storage upon arrival. I turned off my device before the flight, slept through the journey, and checked into the company housing late the following evening. When I finally turned my phone back on at my desk, the screen lit up with a relentless barrage of missed calls and urgent text messages. “Beverly, where the hell are you? The bank didn’t receive the mortgage or the car payment this month!” “The bank is threatening foreclosure and repossession! They’re coming for the house!” “Your father collapsed when the bank representatives showed up. He’s in the ICU right now! Get your self-centered ass back here immediately!”

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For the eighteen years I spent as the “accidental” daughter of the Crawford family, no one was ever unkind to me. When I lost control of my bike and crushed our neighbor’s ridiculously expensive imported orchids, she didn’t even flinch. She just knelt on the lawn and asked, “Oh, sweetie, it’s just a few flowers. Are your knees okay?” Years later, when I was trying to learn the family business and accidentally signed my own name on a ten-million-dollar merger contract instead of my dad’s, he didn’t yell. He just laughed, patted my shoulder, and said, “Well, your handwriting is definitely better than mine.” Even the notoriously grumpy security guard at our gated community would lift the barrier gate a little higher and give me a rare, toothy smile whenever I walked past. Growing up in a world of absolute, unconditional love had diagnosed me with a terminal case of “goodness-and-light syndrome.” I genuinely believed everyone in the world was inherently good. Until the day the hospital records were corrected, and I was sent back to my biological family. On my very first day in the drafty, worn-out farmhouse in rural Ohio, my biological mother found me sitting on the porch, soaking in the afternoon sun. She immediately launched into a classic guilt trip. “Must be nice being a pampered princess from the city,” she muttered, wiping her brow. “When I was pregnant with you, I was still hauling hay and working twelve-hour shifts at the diner.” I looked up at her, my heart aching. “Really, Mom? You had to carry all of that by yourself? That must have been so incredibly hard.” I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. “Don’t worry. I’m here now. We’ll do it together.” She froze. The arsenal of bitter remarks and sharp criticisms she’d prepared died right there in her throat. … Her mouth worked silently for a moment, but nothing came out. Finally, she propped her hoe against the weathered wooden siding, turned on her heel, and retreated into the kitchen without looking back. I stood on the porch for a little while, then found a plastic chair to sit on. From the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans drifted out. Before long, she emerged carrying a plate of food, set it down roughly in front of me, and immediately turned to leave. “Eat,” she said, her face stiff, avoiding my eyes. “I didn’t make it because I feel sorry for you.” “I just don’t want you starving to death on my doorstep,” she added, tearing off her apron and shaking off the dust. “People talk. They’ll say I’m mistreating you.” I took a bite of the home-cooked stew and smiled up at her. “Thank you, Mom.” As I was eating, the screen door creaked open. My biological younger sister, Maisie, walked out. Shuffling in her oversized slippers, Maisie crossed her arms, scanned me up and down, and rolled her eyes. “Oh, look at the big-city princess,” she sneered. “So high maintenance. Needs her meals warmed up and served right to her hand.” She dragged a metal chair out with a screech that set my teeth on edge. “Do you think our mom is your personal maid or something?” “No, of course not,” I said, putting down my fork. “Why would you think that?” “Why? Just look at you—” “I really don’t think that,” I interrupted, my voice gentle and sincere. “But you might not know this, Maisie—being a maid is actually a highly skilled profession.” Maisie blinked, caught off guard. I pointed to the modest plate of leftovers. “Our mom’s cooking, bless her, doesn’t really meet professional housekeeping standards. I only needed one bite to know she’s never done it professionally.” Maisie’s eyes went wide, her mouth opening and closing. “You—” “It’s okay if you can’t tell the difference,” I added warmly, looking at her with genuine sympathy. “Next time, I’ll ask Mrs. Higgins, the Crawfords’ housekeeper, to whip up a meal and bring it over. She is an absolute master in the kitchen.” I pushed the plate slightly toward her. “Once you taste her cooking, you’ll see what I mean. It’s very easy to tell them apart.” “Are you out of your mind?!” Maisie stood up so fast her chair clattered to the porch floor. “Hey! Watch your mouth with your sister!” our mother yelled from inside the kitchen. “Stop screaming! Haven’t we had enough embarrassment? Get back inside!” Maisie bit her lip, gave me a murderous glare, and slammed her way back into the house. The porch fell quiet. I looked down and finished every last bite on my plate. On the other side of the thin wooden wall, in the cramped bedroom, Maisie sat on the edge of the mattress, shaking with anger. She pulled out her phone and speed-dialed a familiar number. The line rang three times before a soft, polished voice answered. “Hello?” “Serena!” Maisie hissed, keeping her voice low. “The imposter is back.” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “I know.” My stay at the farmhouse didn’t last long. The next day, I had to head out to register at college. The registration process was painless. The Crawfords had already made some calls. When the registrar saw my name, she processed my paperwork in under twenty minutes. I stood by the campus gates with my duffel bag, looking around for the freshman dorms. “Daisy?” I turned around. A girl was walking toward me, flanked by three or four others. I recognized her instantly. Serena. The Crawfords’ biological daughter. “I heard you were arriving today, so I brought some friends to welcome you,” she said, reaching out as if to take my arm. “We’re classmates now. Don’t be a stranger.” “Thank you,” I said, keeping my grip on my bag but offering her a genuine smile. “I can carry it, though.” I was actually quite pleased. People here were much friendlier than I had anticipated. But a second later, a short-haired girl next to Serena pinched her nose. “What kind of bag is that? It smells like… cheap laundry soap.” “Hey, don’t say that,” Serena said, lightly nudging her friend. She turned back to me with a sweet smile. “Don’t mind her, Daisy. Come on, let us show you to the dorms.” That afternoon, I was carrying a plastic caddy to the communal bathroom when I found my path blocked. Serena was standing in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by the same group of girls from earlier. Several dorm doors were cracked open, curious faces peeking out to watch the drama unfold. “Daisy,” Serena said, her smile perfectly intact. “Hi,” I said, stopping. “Is everything okay?” “I actually wanted to ask you something.” She took a half-step forward, lowering her voice just enough so that everyone in the corridor could still hear. “Do you know… where someone goes to get a “rubber” pumped? I heard you have a lot of experience with that back in the country.” A wave of snickers and whispers immediately rippled down the hallway. I didn’t say anything. Serena paused on purpose, letting the silence stretch, before adding with a sigh, “A friend asked me to look into it, but I’ve never had to deal with that kind of thing. But I figured you’d know all about… well, getting things patched up.” Before she could finish, the short-haired girl chimed in. “Oh, come on, Serena. Why be coy? She probably had to deal with a lot of blown rubber back in that trailer park—” “Stop it!” Serena cut her off, turning back to me with a look of mock apology. “Daisy, please don’t be mad. If it makes you uncomfortable, just pretend I didn’t ask.” I tilted my head, looking at her, and gave it some serious thought. “Well, the old security guard at the campus gate can usually do it,” I said, entirely earnest. The whispering in the hallway died instantly. Everyone stared at me like I was some kind of alien. “But he only has a manual pump for bicycles and scooters,” I continued. “For a car, you’d probably have to take it to a proper auto shop. They have the heavy-duty compressors.” I adjusted my bathroom caddy and took a step closer to Serena. “What kind of wheels does your friend have? Does she need a patch or just a quick pump? I can go ask the guard for you if you’d like.” Dead silence. Then, someone down the hall snorted. Within seconds, a wave of muffled laughter broke out along the corridor. Serena’s smile shattered, her mouth twitching. She took a sharp breath, desperately trying to piece her composure back together. “No, thank you,” she said, her voice tight. “I must have gotten the details wrong. Let’s go, girls.” She turned and marched away, her entourage scurrying behind her. That evening, Serena returned to her room, slammed the door, and pulled out her phone. She opened her photo gallery and stared at a video clip. A cold, slow smirk spread across her face. The next morning, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Instagram, TikTok, Snapchat—the notifications were a sea of red dots. I leaned back against my pillow and scrolled through. Someone had taken a heavily edited video of yesterday’s hallway exchange and posted it online. It hadn’t gone viral-viral, but my direct messages were already flooded with hateful comments, mostly from burner accounts. “Trashy trailer trash, get out.” “Go back to the swamp you crawled out of.” I frowned. Not because I was hurt, but because I was disappointed. The vocabulary was so limited. They were using the same three insults over and over. Was this the best a college education could produce? I stopped on one account that was spamming me particularly hard, posting a dozen times in a single minute. I clicked on his profile. His profile picture was a massive basket of fresh lobsters, and his bio read: “Fresh Maine Lobster & Seafood Wholesale. Best rates in bulk.” I stared at the basket of lobsters for five seconds. Ignoring his string of insults, I typed out a quick reply. “How much for a dozen lobsters?” No response. For a solid minute, the chat interface was dead silent. Then, one by one, the toxic messages started to vanish. “Message retracted.” “Message retracted.” Once they were all gone, a new message popped up. “Hey there! Fresh catch just came in, special discount today! Free shipping on orders over $199. Can I send you our catalog?” I took a screenshot and sent it to Zoey, my roommate in the bunk below me. “People online are so helpful. They’re giving me seafood recommendations.” Zoey’s voice note came back immediately, her voice cracking with sheer disbelief: “Are you insane?! You’re being cyberbullied and you’re trying to buy lobster?!” “But it’s free shipping over $199.” “You literally have a loose screw—” Before she could finish, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was the freshman class group chat. Someone had posted anonymously three times in a row. “Just a friendly warning to everyone.” “Keep an eye on your belongings. You never know who you’re letting into your space.” “Especially certain ‘transfer students’ of questionable origins. Some people are wolves in cheap clothing.” Zoey poked her head up from the edge of my mattress. “That is 100% Serena! That passive-aggressive, snake-in-the-grass routine is so obvious!” I looked at the screen and typed directly into the group chat. “Thanks for the heads-up.” “My origins are actually pretty clear, though.” “The Crawford family paid my tuition.” “If anyone has a problem with that—” I typed @ and selected the official university administration account. “Feel free to confirm with the Crawford Foundation.” “@Crawford_Foundation_Campus_Relations.” Send. At lunch, I grabbed a tray and found an empty table near the window. I’d barely taken two bites when a shadow fell over my food. Serena was standing there, flanked by her usual crowd. It was peak lunch hour, and the cafeteria was packed. Several nearby tables immediately went quiet, everyone turning to watch. “Slap.” A piece of paper was slammed onto the table right next to my salad. Serena stood tall, her chin tilted up. “Take a good look, everyone,” she announced, her voice carrying across the hall. “That is a DNA test. I am the only real Crawford heir. Daisy, I don’t know what you’re still acting so proud of. You’re nothing but a fraud who stole my life.” The cafeteria erupted into a low chatter. I swallowed my food and looked down at the paper. “Yes. I know,” I said, nodding. Serena leaned down, pressing her hands flat on the table. “You know? You know that run-down farmhouse in Ohio is where you actually belong? You’re so poor you can barely afford a decent meal, and yet you’re sitting here playing princess with my family’s money?” “The cafeteria special is only eight dollars,” I explained gently. “I can afford that.” The short-haired girl next to her let out a harsh laugh. “Still trying to act tough? Do you really think the Crawfords care about you now? Now that they have their real daughter back, why would they waste a single cent on an outsider?” I tilted my head, thinking about it. “They do care,” I said, looking up at Serena. “They wired me next semester’s tuition last week. Actually, they sent extra and told me to get a new MacBook.” Serena’s jaw tightened, the muscles in her cheek twitching. “That’s just charity! They’re throwing scraps to a stray dog!” she snapped, her voice rising. “They raised you for eighteen years, of course they have some lingering guilt. But they have a real daughter now. Who’s going to care about you when things actually matter?” “Well, when I had a fever last month,” I replied honestly, “Mom drove all night to get here. She sat by my bed in the dorms until morning, holding my hand and bringing me soup. She didn’t even have time to do her hair.” Serena went quiet. “Dad came too,” I added. “He slept in the car because Mom didn’t want him waking me up.” Someone at a nearby table whispered, “Damn… that sounds like a real family.” Serena took a sharp breath, her sweet facade completely crumbling. “Listen to me, Daisy,” she hissed, her eyes venomous. “Everything the Crawford family owns belongs to me. Every dollar you spend is mine. Stay away from my parents, and know your place.” The cafeteria was so quiet you could hear the hum of the refrigerators. I listened to her, then looked up, offering her a soft, genuine smile. “How are you getting along with them?” I asked. She blinked, thrown off. “What?” “They can be a little difficult to understand at first, but I can give you a few tips,” I said, resting my chin in my hands. “Dad doesn’t talk much, but he’s easy to please if you ask him about his golf swing or his real estate projects. And Mom loves the lemon tarts from that little bakery downtown. If you bring her some, she’ll talk about how sweet you are for a month.” Serena stood frozen, her face a mix of confusion and fury. “You’re their biological daughter, so I’m sure it’ll be much easier for you,” I said, picking up my tray and standing up. “I hope you all get along. I don’t really care about the Crawford money. I just want them to be happy.” Leaving her standing there with a pale, stunned expression, I walked out of the cafeteria. As I stepped down the front plaza, I paused. A sleek black town car was parked near the curb. William and Helen Crawford—my dad and mom—were standing by the passenger door. Serena, who had followed me out, saw them and her eyes lit up. She practically shoved past me, smoothing down her hair and walking quickly toward them, her voice sweet and high-pitched. “Dad! Mom! What are you doing here?” Her friends trailed behind, glaring at me and whispering loudly, “See that, Daisy? Keep talking your big game, but their real daughter is right here. Aren’t you embarrassed to even exist? Get lost.” Serena smiled triumphantly, opening her arms as she approached the car. But my parents walked right past her, waving frantically in my direction. “Daisy! Over here, sweetie!”

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My sister, Daisy, was fragile, but she wore her frailty like a crown of quiet grace. She was always the delicate martyr. Every time Mom tried to give her my things, Daisy would shake her head, her eyes brimming with tears as she softly refused. But somehow, without fail, those things always ended up in her hands anyway. The moment a single tear slipped down Daisy’s cheek, Mom would fire off a massive, guilt-tripping message to our family group chat. “It’s my fault as a mother. I failed. I raised Fiona to be so selfish, and now poor Daisy has been crying in her room all night…” Once it posted, the endless barrage of aunts, uncles, and cousins would line up to tag me. They’d repeat the same old refrain: Daisy jumped into the freezing creek to save you when you were kids. She ruined her health for you. You owe her for the rest of your life. So, I spent seventeen years stepping aside. I gave up my bedroom, my scholarship funds, my spots in academic competitions… Until the year I was named the state’s top valedictorian with a perfect academic record, while Daisy completely bombed her exams. On the day of the final college enrollment deadline, Mom locked me in my bedroom, sobbing through the door, begging me to take a gap year and reapply with Daisy. Daisy knocked softly on my door from the outside, crying as she pleaded, “Mom, please don’t force Fiona. I don’t want her to feel like she’s a hostage to my saving her life…” But after I climbed out the window to submit my final enrollment confirmation, what awaited me wasn’t an orientation packet. It was a letter of admission revocation. It wasn’t until then that I discovered Daisy had been screenshotting every single one of Mom’s guilt-tripping posts and leaking them online, one by one. And when the local reporters interviewed her, Daisy had remained quiet for a long, heavy moment before looking up with tear-filled eyes. “Mom always says,” she whispered, “there are many things you can forget in this life. But you can never, ever forget a debt of gratitude.” … During the final weeks before the AP exams and final college assessments, I practically chained myself to my desk. I ran through practice test after practice test, highlighting my mistakes in red ink, correcting them until they were perfect. Daisy stood in the doorway, clutching her thermos of warm herbal tea. She looked at my study guides, covered in meticulous red annotations, and let out a soft sigh. “You’re so amazing, Fiona. Even with questions this hard, you barely make any mistakes.” I didn’t look up. “Practice makes perfect,” I replied flatly. Daisy stiffened, then lowered her head, coughing softly into her hand. “Right… not like me. My health has always been so bad. Other kids can study ten hours a day, but I’m exhausted after five. Every time I try to pull an all-nighter, I feel like my body is giving out on me.” The bedroom door slammed open with a violent crash. Mom stormed in. Without a word, she ripped the study guide right out of my hands and tore it down the middle, the sound of tearing paper echoing in the small room. “Fiona! Do you have a single shred of conscience left in you?” “Your sister is standing here coughing her lungs out, and all you care about is your stupid test prep! She ruined her health saving you from that creek, and now her body is failing her right before finals. Can’t you show her some basic human empathy?” I knelt down to gather the torn pages scattered across the carpet. Mom stomped her foot directly onto the papers. “Don’t touch them! Go to the kitchen and brew your sister’s herbal medicine! If anything happens to her, you could never pay her back!” I quietly retreated to the kitchen. The pot of herbs bubbled on the stove, sending up a bitter, medicinal steam. Meanwhile, Mom sat on the living room sofa, her fingers furiously tapping against her phone screen. Minutes later, my phone vibrated constantly. The family group chat notifications quickly spiked past 99+. [It’s my fault. I failed as a mother.] [When they were kids, Daisy risked her life to pull Fiona from the water, ruining her own health. Now, with the final exams here, Daisy is coughing and suffering, yet Fiona only cares about her test scores. She won’t even look her sister in the eye.] [I failed to raise her right. I’ve raised a girl who doesn’t care whether her savior lives or dies.] The moment the messages hit the chat, the relatives descended like vultures, tagging me relentlessly. [Fiona, you can’t forget where you came from.] [What’s the point of straight A’s if you don’t have a soul? Learn how to be a decent human being first!] [Your sister nearly died for you. Taking care of her is the bare minimum.] Just when the vitriol reached its peak, Daisy finally chimed in. [Please don’t blame Fiona, everyone. The exams are tomorrow, and she’s under a lot of pressure. It’s natural she wants to focus on studying.] Then, she added: [Mom, please delete those messages. I don’t want everyone to misunderstand Fiona because of me.] Her “defense” only poured gasoline on the fire. The chat erupted with praise for her kindness and renewed disgust for my selfishness. Someone even wrote: If only Daisy hadn’t saved her back then. I stared at the flashing screen, my face entirely numb, and muted the chat. I had been watching this same performance play out for seventeen years. When the tea was ready, I slipped on my headphones, drowning out the world with an English listening exercise. Let them scream. Eventually, they’d get tired and stop. But I only had one shot at my future. That night, I pulled a drawing from the very back of my desk drawer. It was the only thing Dad had left me. There were no flowers or trees on the page—just a tiny bird, wings unfurled, soaring through heavy clouds toward an open sky. Dad had been the only shield I had in this house. When Mom turned her back on me, he stood in her way. When the relatives lined up to condemn me, he raised his voice in my defense. Near the end, when sickness had reduced him to nothing but fragile bones, he held my hand and whispered the same words over and over: “Fiona, don’t listen to them. Keep your head down, study hard, and get out. Once you leave this place, you can finally start living.” A sudden click broke my thoughts. The door opened, and Mom walked in. She placed a sheet of paper on my desk. I looked down. It was an enrollment form for a gap-year prep program. She sat on the edge of my bed, her voice unusually soft. “Fiona, let’s talk. Your sister’s health is declining, and her stress levels are through the roof. She’s not going to get the scores she needs. You’re the older sister, and your grades are always perfect. I was thinking… maybe you could defer your enrollment. Take a gap year and prepare for the exams again alongside Daisy.” I froze. Over the years, she had made me give up clothes, my bedroom, my scholarship prize money. I had accepted all of it. But I never imagined she would ask me to hand over my future. Mom looked at me, a desperate hope in her eyes. “You know how weak Daisy is. She suffered so much for you when you were little. All I’m asking is for you to give her one year. I’m doing this for your sake, too, Fiona. There’s nothing worse in this world than carrying the reputation of being ungrateful.” I stared at the enrollment form, the black ink blurring before my eyes. After a long silence, I gave a quiet nod. “I’ll think about it.” Mom let out a visible breath of relief. “I knew you’d understand. You’ve always been my sensible girl.” Sensible. I had heard that word for seventeen years. It meant yielding whatever was mine. It meant swallowing my hurts in silence. It meant everyone around me believed my entire existence was merely collateral to pay back my sister. The exams came and went. Walking out of the testing center on the final day, the gates were crowded with anxious parents. Mom was there, her arm wrapped supportively around Daisy’s shoulders. Daisy offered me a weak, sweet smile and held out a cold bottle of water. “Great job, Fiona.” Before my fingers could touch the plastic, Mom snatched it away and pressed it back into Daisy’s hands. “You drink first. Your throat is dry.” I slowly pulled my hand back and let it drop to my side. The day the results were released, the school erupted. A giant red banner hung across the main gates: Congratulations to Fiona, State Valedictorian and Top Scholar! The principal called my cell phone personally. My guidance counselor’s voice trembled with sheer excitement on the line. Message after message flooded in from my teachers, calling me the pride of the school. Daisy, however, had barely passed. She locked herself in her room and cried for hours. Mom stood in the living room, listening to the phone ring off the hook with congratulations, her expression sour. The moment I hung up with another teacher, she glared at me. “Your sister is devastated, and you can’t even spare a thought for her feelings? Do you really need to let these obnoxious calls keep flooding our house?” I stared at her, then walked over to the landline and quietly unplugged the cord. “They won’t ring anymore.” The room fell dead silent. Mom watched me, her gaze shifting to something heavy and calculated. “The matter we discussed before… have you made up your mind?” For the first time in my life, I looked her dead in the eye. “I am going to college.” Her expression turned instantly cold. “What did you say?” “I said I’m not taking a gap year. Going to college was Dad’s final wish for me.” Mom slammed her hand on the table, standing up abruptly. “Fiona! Your sister’s body was ruined because she saved you! Her focus, her energy—everything suffered because of what happened that day. What is one year of your life compared to that? So what if you’re the valedictorian? You can get those scores again next year!” Tears of anger spilled down her face. “I’m telling you, you are not going to college this semester! You are staying right here to tutor Daisy, keep her spirits up, and study with her. You owe her this!” I ignored her shouting, walked back to my room, and closed the door. Within seconds, my phone began to buzz again. I didn’t need to look to know she had taken to the family group chat. I set it to silent. Later that night, when I went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, I heard Daisy’s muffled sobbing from the master bedroom. “Mom, please let it go. I can’t be the reason Fiona’s life is ruined…” Mom’s voice was incredibly gentle as she cooed, “Oh, sweetheart, don’t say that. She owes you this. If she hadn’t dragged you into that water, you wouldn’t be struggling like this today. Giving you one year is the very least she can do.” Standing in the dark hallway, I thought of every single sacrifice I had made over the last seventeen years. I had always viewed them as penance. But looking at the closed door, I realized I was done using my future to pay off an imaginary debt. The day before the final enrollment deadline. I was heading out the front door when Mom blocked my path. She extended an open palm. “Give me your ID, your registration paperwork, and your phone.” I took a step back. “What are you doing?” She didn’t answer. With a swift, practiced motion, she snatched the folder from my hands and pushed me backward. Before I could react, the heavy wooden door slammed shut, and I heard the sharp, metallic click of the deadbolt locking from the outside. I threw myself against the door, pounding my fists against the wood. “Mom! Open the door!” Her muffled, crying voice came through. “Don’t hate me, Fiona. I can’t let you live your life as a selfish coward. Once the deadline passes tonight, this will all be over.” “Mom! Let me out! The portal closes today!” I screamed, but there was only silence from the hallway. Hours ticked by. Eventually, the faint sound of Mom crying filtered through the walls. She was hosting a group video call with the relatives. “I hate doing this… but I can’t let my own daughters tear each other apart. I’m doing this for both of them.” On the other end, the voices of my aunts and uncles chimed in to comfort her. “You’re an amazing mother. Fiona is just incredibly selfish. Daisy sacrificed her health for her; what’s one little gap year? You’re doing the right thing.” Listening to them validate her cruelty, my mind flashed back to Dad’s frail hand holding mine. Fiona, get out. I looked out the window. My bedroom was on the second floor. The sill was narrow, and below lay a hard concrete patio. But I knew with absolute certainty: if I didn’t get out of this room today, I would never get out of this house. I gritted my teeth and climbed onto the window ledge. Gripping the metal drainpipe with everything I had, I slid down inch by inch. The rough brick tore at the skin of my palms. Halfway down, my grip slipped, and I crashed onto the concrete below. A sharp, burning pain flared through my knees. One of my shoes had flown off, but there was no time. Clutching my bruised leg, I stood up and ran. I sprinted barefoot on one foot toward the neighborhood gate, where I practically collided with a classmate from school, Emily. I grabbed her shoulders, my chest heaving, my voice trembling. “Emily… please, I need your phone.” With less than a minute left before the university portal closed forever, my fingers flew across her screen. I tapped the final submission button. The screen flashed: Enrollment Confirmed. My vision blurred with hot tears. For the first time in seventeen years, I had won. By the time I walked back into the house, the sun had set. Mom looked at me, her eyes cold and empty. She didn’t say a word. She simply picked up her phone and began typing. Within minutes, another lengthy, venomous post hit the family group chat. The notifications started rolling in again, heavy with condemnation. I stared at the screen, an overwhelming exhaustion washing over me. For the first time, I actually typed a reply. [I am going to college. But if Daisy wants, I am happy to tutor her remotely every single day to help her prepare.] The chat went quiet for a moment. Then, the attacks redoubled. [Remote tutoring? She doesn’t need a Zoom call, she needs her sister beside her!] [Fiona, you are unbelievably selfish.] I closed the app and turned off my phone. I thought that was the end of it. I had no idea the nightmare was only just beginning. A few days later, Emily sent me a link. Fiona, look at this. Is this about you? I tapped the link. It was a social media post that was already viral. The post was filled with endless screenshots of our family chats. Every single one of Mom’s manipulative paragraphs had been uploaded for the world to see. The captions read: Unbelievable: Valedictorian abandons the sister who saved her life. A sister sacrificed her health to save her from drowning, and now she refuses to take a gap year to help her. The comments had already surpassed a hundred thousand. Before I could process it, my phone began to buzz with notifications. Someone had leaked my real name. Someone else leaked my high school. Within hours, the topic reached the trending page: #StateValedictorianAbandonsSisterWhoSavedHerLife. The comments were merciless. How can someone this brilliant be so utterly heartless? A perfect academic record means nothing if you have a rotten soul. The university should revoke her admission immediately. Poor Daisy. She saved a monster. The next morning, local reporters were waiting at our doorstep. They shoved microphones into Daisy’s face as she stepped outside. She shook her head meekly. “Fiona has a right to live her own life. I never wanted to hold her back.” “But do you blame her?” a reporter pressed. Daisy remained silent for a long, painful beat, letting a tear slip down her cheek before whispering, “Mom always says… you can forget a lot of things in this life. But you can never forget a debt of gratitude.” Those few words sealed my fate. The public outrage reached a fever pitch. Later that evening, Daisy came into my room, her eyes rimmed with red. “Fiona, I’m so sorry… I never wanted any of this to happen. If I knew people would be so mean to you online, I wouldn’t have said anything to the press.” I looked at her, my voice dead calm. “Those screenshots. Did you post them?” Daisy blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Fiona, how could you think that of me? There are dozens of people in that group chat. Maybe an aunt or an uncle was just upset on my behalf and posted them.” She bit her lip, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Besides… what Mom wrote wasn’t a lie, was it? You chose a college halfway across the country because you wanted to run away from me. You wanted to leave the sister who saved you behind.” I stared at her, feeling a chill run down my spine. The sweet, fragile sister I had known my entire life seemed to vanish, replaced by a stranger with a calculated, razor-sharp edge. For the next week, the first thing I did every morning was log into the university portal. I kept telling myself that once I got to campus, the noise would fade. But my official acceptance letter never arrived. Instead, a new notification appeared on my dashboard: Notice of Admission Suspension. I dialed the admissions office repeatedly. Busy signals, voicemail, over and over, until finally, someone picked up. “I’m the state valedictorian,” I said, my voice cracking. “My academic record is flawless. Why is my admission being suspended?” The officer’s tone was entirely bureaucratic. “The university has received a significant volume of complaints regarding your character, including viral social media reports, news coverage, and formal petitions from the public. Our institution holds our students to high ethical standards. Due to the ongoing public controversy, we have decided to suspend your admission pending further review.” The line went dead. I stood frozen, holding the cold phone against my ear. Seventeen years of relentless work, of sleepless nights and absolute dedication, had been erased by a few screenshots and internet outrage. Moments later, my guidance counselor called. She sighed heavily. “Fiona… the school’s inbox is flooded with angry emails demanding we take away your valedictorian title. Go home for now. I’ll try to talk to the board.” I hung up and sat on the curb, watching the traffic pass by, having nowhere left to go. I didn’t crawl back home until the streets were dark. Mom was in the kitchen. She looked up and frowned. “Why are you so late?” It took a long time for my vocal cords to work. “My college admission,” I whispered, my voice thick. “They suspended it.” Mom paused. “What do you mean?” I tossed my phone onto the table, the suspension notice open. “They received thousands of complaints about how I treat Daisy. They think I’m a monster. They’re reviewing my file.” Mom glanced at the screen, and a subtle wave of relief seemed to wash over her features. “Well… then it’s for the best. Now you can take that gap year and help your sister.” I stared at her, my blood running cold. “Did Daisy post those screenshots?” Her expression hardened instantly. “Daisy is an angel. She would never do something so malicious! Fiona, you brought this on yourself with your own selfishness. Don’t you dare try to drag your sister down with you.” I took a sharp, shaky breath. “You know those posts are lies. I’m going to tell the truth. I’m going to post everything that actually happened in this house.” Before I could finish, Mom lunged forward and slapped me across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room, and my cheek flared with heat. She stood over me, trembling with rage. “You ungrateful brat! Haven’t you hurt this family enough? You ruined your sister’s life once—are you trying to destroy what’s left of her? Do you want to drive her to the edge before you’re finally satisfied?” I clutched my burning cheek, turned on my heel, and ran out into the night. Behind me, her shrieking voice cut through the air. “How did I raise such a heartless, cruel child!” I ran until my lungs burned, tears blurring my vision. As I slowed to a walk near the neighborhood park, an elderly man sitting on a bench called out to me. “Excuse me… are you Fiona? My goodness, look how much you’ve grown. When I pulled you out of the creek, you were barely up to my waist.” He gestured with his hand, smiling warmly. I stopped dead in my tracks. “What…? No, my sister, Daisy… she’s the one who saved me.” The old man’s brow furrowed. “Who told you that nonsense? She didn’t save you. She’s the one who pushed you into the creek.” My mind went completely blank, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. The old man hesitated, looking at my pale face, before adding quietly, “And… your mother was standing right there. She saw the whole thing.” My blood turned to ice. “What did you say?” The old man let out a heavy sigh. “Did she really keep that from you all these years?”

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A sudden shower began just as I went downstairs for lunch. After a violent gust of wind, my umbrella was violently wrenched from my grip and sent skittering across the wet pavement. Within seconds, the downpour soaked me to the skin. Instinctively, I looked up, searching for a familiar figure. A few yards ahead, my boyfriend, Drew, was holding his large black umbrella steadily over my best friend Claire’s head. His own left shoulder was completely drenched, but his eyes were bright with laughter as he talked with her. They were in the middle of discussing a multi-million-dollar cross-border acquisition. He didn’t even notice that I had fallen far behind, shivering and soaked. At our law firm, they were known as the “golden duo”—senior partners with a flawless track record, the stars of the litigation department. I, on the other hand, was just a paralegal who had failed the bar exam three times. Whenever I got discouraged, Drew would pinch my nose and give me a soft laugh. “Don’t worry about memorizing the statutes, sweetheart,” he would say. “My silly little girl doesn’t need to worry about dry codes. Just stay home and let me take care of you.” Then he would turn around and step into the courtroom with Claire, sharp-tongued and ruthless, conquering every case they touched. I wiped the cold rain from my face and kicked the broken umbrella aside. Watching their retreating shoulders, a sudden wave of nausea washed over me. This race to catch up to him, a race that had nearly cost me my sanity—I didn’t want to run it anymore. … The rain didn’t let up. I didn’t try to catch up with them. Instead, I turned around and walked back to the office alone. The receptionist looked up as I entered, her mouth opening slightly, but she didn’t dare ask. I changed into a spare shirt I kept in my locker and wrung the water from my hair, letting the damp strands fall over my shoulders. When I sat down at my desk, the screen was still open to the evidence list Drew had assigned me that morning. My phone lit up. It was a message from him. “Mia, send me the index for the Eastlake case before three. Make sure the formatting is correct this time.” I stared at the words. No “Where are you?” No “It’s pouring, did you get caught in it?” Just business. He hadn’t even realized I hadn’t followed them to lunch. Or perhaps he had never expected me to join them in the first place. I let the screen go dark and didn’t reply. At two o’clock, Drew and Claire returned to the office, walking one after the other. Claire’s yellow dress was perfectly dry, her hair styled and light, her heels clicking softly as she passed my desk. “Mia? Oh, when did you get back?” She tilted her head, her face a picture of innocent surprise. I gripped my pen tightly. “A while ago.” “Oh, dear. We were so caught up in our conversation, we didn’t even notice you had fallen behind.” Before I could answer, Drew walked over. He took a strawberry cream candy from his pocket and placed it gently next to my keyboard. Then, he gave my nose a brief, familiar pinch. “Why is your hair wet? Did you run around in the rain without an umbrella again?” You were the one who held the umbrella over someone else, I wanted to say. You forgot I was even there. The words lodged in my throat, heavy and cold. I stayed silent. He didn’t wait for me to answer. He was already turning toward his private office. As he passed Claire, he paused. “Finish up the slides for this afternoon’s presentation for me, will you? I don’t trust anyone else to do it.” Claire smiled, gave me a quick wink, and hurried after him. I stared at the pink candy on my desk. I left it wrapped. As I was packing my bag that evening, Zoe, who worked at the adjacent desk, leaned over. “Hey, isn’t today your second anniversary with Drew? What are your plans?” Our second anniversary. Right. A month ago, I had booked a window table at Sora, the high-end sushi restaurant across the street. But last week, Drew told me he had a client dinner and asked me to cancel it, promising we would make it up later. I had listened to him. I had canceled the reservation. Seeing my silence, Zoe added hesitantly, “Claire posted on her feed at lunch. She said she and Drew were celebrating the M&A closing at Sora. They looked like they were having a great time.” I opened my phone and pulled up Claire’s profile. In the photo, Drew was leaning slightly toward her, a relaxed smile on his lips. They looked perfect together, holding up two glasses of red wine with beautifully plated dishes between them. The caption read: Partners in crime! Long live the team! The timestamp was 12:57 PM. My umbrella had broken at 12:45 PM. It had taken him exactly twelve minutes to forget about me and raise a glass with her at the very table I had given up. I turned off my phone, picked up the strawberry candy, and threw it into the trash. The next morning, I arrived thirty minutes early. Because of my mood the day before, my work on the Eastlake index had been rushed, and I wanted to review it before Drew saw it. But when I opened the filing cabinet, my drafts were gone. In their place lay a beautifully compiled, completed index. On the cover page, the author’s name was printed clearly: Claire. I flipped through the pages, and my chest tightened. The structure was mine. The numbering logic was mine. Even a typo on page four—writing “jugdment” instead of “judgment”—was mine. But this version was formatted flawlessly, complete with professional yellow highlights. I took the document and knocked on Drew’s office door. He was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone. When he saw me, he gestured with his chin. “What’s up?” “This index. The original framework was mine.” He glanced down at the paper, his brow furrowing slightly. “Claire stayed up late to finish that. Your draft was a mess, Mia. We couldn’t send that to a client.” “But she built it directly on top of my work.” “Mia.” Drew set his phone down, his expression hardening. “You wrote a basic outline. Claire did the actual heavy lifting—case citations, formatting, refining the details. The final product is hers.” His gaze was level, devoid of warmth. “It’s getting exhausting watching you constantly try to compete with Claire. Be reasonable. I have a meeting, you should head out.” Before I could speak, the door opened. Claire stood there, carrying two cups of coffee. “Mia! Oh, you’re here…” She looked apologetic, handing me one of the cups. “I’m so sorry about the index. I was looking over your draft last night and saw some areas that needed adjusting, so I just went ahead and did it…” She turned to Drew. “Why don’t we add Mia’s name to the cover? After all, I did use her outline.” Her words were polite, but the phrase “add Mia’s name” made it clear who she believed the real author was. Before I could refuse, Drew waved his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, let’s move on. Mia, run down to the courthouse this afternoon and file these documents for Claire. Be a team player.” Be a team player. Run her errands. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and nodded. “Okay.” I spent the entire afternoon waiting in line at the courthouse. By the time I returned to the office, it was past six, and most of the staff had already gone home. As I passed Drew’s office, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. The light was still on. I paused, and Claire’s voice floated out, freezing me in my tracks. “Do you think Mia will try the bar exam again?” Drew’s reply was lazy, offhand. “With her brain? What’s the difference between taking it three times or ten?” Claire giggled. “Then why do you keep telling her to study?” “It keeps her busy. Besides, she won’t pass anyway.” He paused, his tone shifting to one of casual certainty. “Where else would she go without me? What firm would hire a legal assistant who can’t even pass the bar? Keeping her here means I can protect her. It’s easier for both of us.” His tone was perfectly relaxed, as if he were stating an obvious, undeniable fact. I stared through the crack in the door. He was leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed, a faint smile on his face. He probably didn’t think he was being cruel. To him, this was simply the truth. I stepped back quietly and walked to my desk. When I sat down, my hands were shaking. This was how he saw me. A helpless, incompetent stray he was keeping out of charity. After that day, I began spending my evenings at the public library. I left the office at five sharp every day without saying goodbye. I bought two new sets of study materials—one for my office locker, one for the library. I drew up a strict study schedule. On the notebook Drew had once given me, I filled the pages with key concepts, mapping out my daily chapter goals and practice questions. This was my fourth attempt at the bar, and I was going to pass. On the twelfth night, while I was in the middle of a practice exam, a hand suddenly pulled the pen from my grasp. I looked up. Drew was standing over me, hands in his pockets, looking down at my desk. “Zoe said you’ve been coming here every night.” I reached for my pen, but he pulled his hand back, keeping it out of reach. Then, he bent down, bringing his handsome face close to mine, his eyes softening with that familiar, patronizing tenderness. “My silly girl, why are you torturing yourself again?” “Give me my pen back.” “Come home. I bought those mango pastries you like.” In the past, those words would have had me packing my bags immediately. But now, I didn’t move. “I’m not finished.” He raised an eyebrow, as if my defiance was an amusing novelty. He didn’t push further but sat down opposite me and began scrolling through his phone. When the library closed, we walked out together. On the way to the car, he took my hand, his thumb rubbing the back of my knuckles. “Mia, there’s no need to push yourself this hard. Being a practicing lawyer is ten times more stressful than this. I don’t want to see you suffer.” It sounded like affection. But underneath, the message was clear: You can’t do it, so stop wasting your time. I didn’t say a word. On the nineteenth day, I went downstairs to grab my takeout lunch. It took less than five minutes. When I returned to my desk, the notebook I had spent the last month pouring my soul into was soaked in dark brown liquid. Coffee. It was completely drenched, the pages stuck together and turning to mush. Claire was standing nearby, clutching a tissue, her face pale with distress. “Oh my god, Mia! I am so, so sorry! I was walking past and completely bumped your cup…” But I hadn’t poured any water that day. My cup was still dry, sitting inside my desk drawer. Only my notebook had been on the desk. “I’m so sorry, let me buy you a new one…” Claire reached out to grab my wrist, her eyes brimming with tears. A few coworkers nearby began chiming in, trying to keep the peace. “Mia, Claire didn’t mean to do it. Don’t be upset…” I pulled my hand back and picked up the ruined notebook. One month of work, three hours a day, over eight hundred synthesis points, gone. “It’s fine,” I said quietly. I threw the notebook into my drawer. I didn’t go to the library that night. I stood outside Drew’s office door, waiting until nine o’clock for his meetings to finish. When he finally stepped out, I looked him in the eye. “Drew, we need to break up.” The hallway was silent save for the hum of the air conditioning. He stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a short laugh. “Mia, what is it now?” He pulled me into his office, closing the door behind us, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Who upset you? Is this about the notebook? Claire was practically in tears, she didn’t do it on purpose—” “It’s not about the notebook.” “Then what is it?” His hands slid from my shoulders to the back of my neck, his palms warm against my skin. “Mia, you know how much you mean to me. I just don’t want you to burn out. Is that a crime?” Looking into his eyes, my heart gave a painful, familiar squeeze. He leaned in closer, resting his forehead against mine. “Stop playing around. You always let your imagination get the better of you. We’re not breaking up. Tomorrow, I’ll take you out to Sora. I know I messed up last week, and I’ve been too busy lately. Let’s call it a makeup dinner for our anniversary.” He leaned in to kiss me. Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Claire’s voice came through the wood. “Drew, I have Mr. Ward on the line. It’s urgent.” Drew kissed my forehead quickly, released me, and patted my head. “Go on home first, sweetheart. We’ll talk when I’m done.” He opened the door and walked out. He didn’t mention the dinner the next day. Or the day after that. On the fourth day, HR called me into their office. “Mia, several partners have raised concerns that your recent performance has been sub-par. Given that you haven’t passed the bar… we would like to offer you a transfer to the administration department.” As I walked out of the HR office, I saw Claire leaving Drew’s room, holding a folder. On the cover, the bold letters read: Project Team Reassignment Request. The sight felt like a physical blow. She stopped when she saw me. “Mia? Oh, what are you doing here…” I didn’t look at her. I walked back to my desk, reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out the resignation letter I had written three days ago. I placed it on the HR director’s desk. Packing my things took less than ten minutes. Three years of my life fit into a small paper bag. Drew came rushing out when he heard, his brows knit tightly. “Mia, who told you to resign?” “I did.” “Why? If something’s wrong, we can talk about it.” I held the paper bag tightly. “You were right, Drew. Maybe this career isn’t for me.” His face paled slightly. “What did you hear?” “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I turned toward the elevator. He didn’t follow immediately, but his voice carried down the hall. “Mia! Where are you going to go? Be reasonable!” Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw Claire step up next to him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. I could read Drew’s lips as he muttered to her: She’ll be back in a couple of days. The doors shut, and I left the building. That afternoon, I went to Drew’s apartment, packed the rest of my belongings, and moved back to my parents’ house. I changed my phone number and deleted my social media accounts. I used my savings to enroll in an intensive, full-time bar prep course, spending twelve hours a day in a silent study room. Drew called my parents once. Other than that, there was no sign of him. At that moment, whatever feelings I had left for him finally died. During those months of isolation, no one pinched my nose or called me a dummy. No one interrupted my study sessions with sweets to tell me to stop wasting my time. No one “accidentally” spilled coffee on my notes. In September, I sat in the exam room. When the booklet was opened, my mind was entirely clear. Every rule, every exception, every case citation was exactly where it needed to be. In November, the results were released. I scored a 310 on the Uniform Bar Exam. The passing score in our state was 266. The day I received my score report, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and cried for a long time. It wasn’t just relief; it was the sudden, overwhelming realization that I had never been the incompetent girl Drew had made me believe I was. Six months later. At the County Courthouse, Courtroom 3, a contract dispute was underway. The plaintiff: Vertex Solutions. The defendant: Luminary Group. Representing the defendant: Drew Holloway and Claire Sterling. I stood in the hallway outside the courtroom, adjusting the files in my briefcase. The man standing beside me turned his head to look at me. “Nervous?” Adrian Mercer, senior partner at Mercer Law. Three months ago, during my interview, he had reviewed my resume, asked a few technical questions, and then looked up at me. “Why do you want to be a litigator?” I had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Because I can.” He had signed my offer letter on the spot. “Not nervous at all,” I replied. “Let’s go.” The heavy doors of the courtroom swung open. Drew was sitting at the defense table, flipping through a binder, while Claire whispered something in his ear. Adrian and I walked in together and took our places at the plaintiff’s table. The moment Drew looked up and saw me, he froze.

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On the day our parents were supposed to meet and set our wedding date, my fiancé, Garrett, stood me up to be with his childhood best friend, Amber. To prepare for this dinner, I had texted him every single day for a week to confirm the details. Every time, he’d dismiss it with an annoyed sigh: “I get it, Fiona. Are you a broken record?” On the day of the dinner, my parents took a six-hour Amtrak ride from our small Ohio hometown to Chicago. I had booked a private dining room at one of the finest steakhouses downtown to make sure everything was perfect. The food was served, the tea went cold, and Garrett’s chair remained empty. I called him for the fourteenth time. Finally, the line connected, but it wasn’t his voice on the other end. It was Amber, her voice trembling with an exaggerated, breathy whimper. “Fiona? I’m so sorry, Garrett had to rush me to the hospital. I tripped and sprained my ankle…” In the background, I heard Garrett’s voice, sharp and impatient: “Fiona, Amber is hurt and she has no one else here. Just take care of your parents first.” My parents’ faces turned pale, then furious. Garrett’s mother tried to smooth things over with an awkward, strained smile. “Garrett has always been too kind for his own good. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons Fiona loves him.” “I’m sure you understand,” she added to my parents. “We’ll reschedule.” I was shaking so hard with anger I wanted to flip the table right then and there. But looking at my parents, who hadn’t eaten all day, I forced myself to swallow the rage. After dinner, I walked them to the train station. “Mom, Dad, give me three days. Once I wrap everything up here, I’ll come home and marry Willie.” 1 “Fiona, are you sure about this? Seven years… are you really just going to throw it all away?” Right before the boarding gate, my mom held my hand, her eyes rimmed with red. My dad stood beside her, his knuckles white as he tightly gripped the heavy card envelope of cash he had prepared for Garrett—a traditional blessing to welcome him into the family. I met their worried gaze, my voice steady and unwavering. “Mom, I promise you, I’ll be home in three days.” The train roared away into the distance. I turned and hailed a cab. When I gave the driver the address of the apartment I had shared with Garrett for the last three years, he caught my eye in the rearview mirror, lingering a second too long. Perhaps it was because my face bore absolutely no resemblance to that of a bride-to-be who had just discussed her wedding date. I unlocked the front door. Instead of the familiar, soothing scent of my lavender candles, I was hit by the thick, pungent stench of wet dog. The expensive silk throw pillows on the sofa had been torn to shreds, stuffing scattered everywhere. Muddy paw prints littered the hardwood floor. And right there, chewing on a bone directly on top of my wedding dress garment bag, was a filthy, oversized poodle. It was Amber’s dog, Duke. Garrett had insisted on bringing him over last month. “Amber developed a sudden allergy to dog dander,” he had said casually over the phone. “We’ll watch him for a few days. You’re always puttering around the apartment anyway, what’s the big deal if you feed him?” I ignored the dog barking hysterically at me. I walked straight into the bedroom, pulled my oversized suitcase out from the back of the closet, and set it on the bed. There were no tears, no screaming, no throwing things. I quietly and methodically folded my clothes, gathered my documents, and packed them away. On the wall hung our seven-year anniversary photo frame. I pulled it down and tossed it into a heavy-duty black trash bag. The glass shattered inside the bag, slicing my index finger. A bead of blood welled up. It stung. I pressed a tissue against it without a word and kept packing. The front door beeped open. It was 1:00 AM. Garrett walked in, practically carrying Amber. Her ankle was wrapped in an absurdly thick layer of bandages, and she was draped entirely over his shoulders. “Oh, Fiona, you’re still awake?” She blinked her doe eyes, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “It’s all my fault. I was so clumsy on the stairs, and poor Garrett had to spend half the night with me in the ER.” Garrett tossed his car keys onto the entryway console, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. “Your parents weren’t upset, were they? My mom said they left right after dinner. Why didn’t you have them stay the night at a hotel?” He walked over to the couch, kicked away the shredded silk pillows, his face etched with exhaustion. “The ER was packed today. Amber was crying from the pain, and I couldn’t just leave her. You know how busy I am, Fiona. You shouldn’t have insisted on booking the family dinner for today of all days.” I tucked my last winter coat into the suitcase and zipped it shut. “We set this date three weeks ago, Garrett.” Garrett loosened his tie with an impatient tug. “Drop it, alright? Amber can’t navigate her apartment with her ankle like this. She’s going to stay in our guest room for a few days, so I need you to help take care of her.” He paused, his tone softening slightly, as if offering a generous concession. “Once Amber’s ankle is healed, I’ll personally drive down to your parents’ place and apologize to them. How’s that?” Amber hobbled over, clinging tightly to Garrett’s arm. “Garrett, did I make Fiona mad? Maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to come between you two.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Garrett said, patting her hand before turning back to me, expecting my usual quiet compliance. “Fiona isn’t that petty.” I rolled my suitcase to the front door. “Sure.” Garrett blinked, clearly taken aback by how easily I had agreed. A smug, satisfied smile began to form on his lips. “See? I knew you’d understand. Go pour Amber a glass of warm water, and grab some fresh sheets for the guest bed while you’re at it.” I didn’t answer. My eyes fell on the faint smudge of lipstick on his collar. “No need,” I said, opening the door. “The apartment is all yours. I’m moving out.” 2 “Fiona! What the hell is your problem in the middle of the night?” Garrett stormed over, slamming his hand down on my suitcase. His forehead was creased in deep, angry lines, his eyes flashing with the irritation of someone whose authority had been challenged. “Just because I couldn’t make it to dinner with your parents? I explained it to you! It was an emergency! Can you stop being so incredibly dramatic and unreasonable?” Amber hobbled behind him, using her uninjured foot to nudge my suitcase. “Fiona, Garrett works so hard to provide for you. You shouldn’t stress him out over minor things. Running away like a teenager every time you get upset makes him look really bad.” She sighed, playing the role of the mature, understanding friend. “We’re just like siblings. You treat me like some kind of threat. Isn’t it exhausting?” I stared down at her foot resting on my suitcase. She was wearing a pair of limited-edition designer sneakers. I had pulled strings with a friend abroad to get them imported last month, intending for Garrett to wear them at our wedding. Now they were on Amber’s feet. “Nice shoes,” I said quietly. Amber’s smile stiffened, and she instinctively shrank behind Garrett. Garrett immediately stepped in front of her. “I gave them to her! She sprained her ankle and couldn’t wear her heels, so I grabbed a pair from the closet. It’s just a pair of shoes, Fiona. Do you have to keep score on literally everything?” He pointed a finger at my face, his voice rising. “You used to be different. When did you become so materialistic? So impossible?” “Impossible.” That was the verdict on the seven years of my youth I had given him. To help him launch his software startup, I had dropped out of my master’s program to write code late into the night, ruining my stomach in the process. To save money for his company, I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing over fifty dollars in three years. And now, he gave my wedding shoes to another woman and called me materialistic. I let go of the suitcase handle. “She can keep them.” I opened the door and walked out into the cool night air. Behind me, Garrett’s furious voice echoed down the hallway. “If you walk out that door tonight, don’t expect me to come crawling back! And you can forget about signing the marriage license next week!” I stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button. The early morning air was brisk. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart, even though I hadn’t called it in years. “Willie.” The line went dead silent, save for the sound of heavy, unsteady breathing. After what felt like an eternity, a deep, gentle voice answered. “I’m here. Have you made up your mind?” “Yes,” I said, watching the streetlights flicker past. “For the wedding next Wednesday… can we change the groom’s name to yours?” Willie let out a low, soft laugh, carrying a steady, comforting warmth. “As long as you’re willing, Fiona, the seat next to me has always been yours.” After hanging up, I took a cab straight to our startup’s office. Hannah was already waiting for me in the conference room. She slammed a thick stack of legal documents onto the table, practically vibrating with rage. “Fiona! Finally! I thought you were going to let that parasite drain you dry!” I picked up the pen and signed my name on the equity transfer documents. “I’m taking my patents and my core client data. The empty shell that’s left? Garrett can play CEO with it all he wants.” Hannah watched me sign with a grin, giving me a massive thumbs-up. “Hell yes! I’ve been waiting for this day. I couldn’t stand him and his little pick-me sidekick. By the way, check out what Amber just posted on her Instagram.” She slid her phone across the table. It was a selfie of Amber wearing my silk bathrobe, sitting at my vanity. The caption read: “Day one of recovering at big brother’s house. Even the air smells sweet here~” Garrett had liked it instantly and left a comment: “Take your medicine. I’ll bring you those pastries you like from the bakery downtown tonight.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “The bakery downtown? The line there takes two hours. And he claimed he was too busy to meet your parents?” I pushed the phone away, completely unfazed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I handed the signed documents back to Hannah. “Expedite the filing. I want my name completely severed from this company within three days.” My phone buzzed. It was a text from Garrett. “Are you done throwing your tantrum? Amber needs a follow-up exam at three. Come drive us. Her leg is messed up and I can’t carry her the whole way.” I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then, I blocked his number. 3 At 1:00 PM, I was sitting in the private showroom of the city’s most exclusive bridal boutique. Willie sat on the leather sofa opposite me, casually flipping through a thick design catalog. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, his deep, intelligent eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses. He was the polar opposite of Garrett, whose expressions were always aggressive, impatient, and demanding. “Do you like this main gown?” He pointed to a strapless dress embellished with thousands of delicate, shimmering diamonds. “If you think it’s too revealing, we can ask the designer to raise the neckline.” I shook my head. “No need to change it. I like it. It’s beautiful.” Garrett had always complained whenever I wore anything remotely form-fitting. He didn’t even let me buy camisoles. He used to say that “good girls” dressed modestly and shouldn’t try to draw attention. I had actually listened to him, wrapping myself up like a Puritan for years. Willie closed the catalog and turned to the boutique director. “Prepare this piece. Have the designers alter it to Ms. Fiona’s measurements overnight. And swap out the standard crystals for aurora-cut diamonds.” The director bowed respectfully and left the room. Willie poured a cup of warm tea and handed it to me. “I’ve finalized the wedding favors and the venue. The shuttle service for your relatives is booked too. Is there anything else you’re worried about?” I stared at the amber tea, my throat tightening with sudden emotion. “Thank you, Willie. Really. You didn’t have to go this far…” “Shh,” he said, placing a long, elegant finger to his lips. “Fiona, I’ve waited seven years for this chance. If I can’t even handle these details, how do I expect to earn my promotion to husband?” Right then, my phone began to buzz incessantly. It was Hannah, spamming me with dozens of voice messages and screenshots. “Fiona! Look at the alumni group chat right now! I am losing my mind!” I opened the screenshots. It was the college group chat, which included Garrett’s old friends, as well as Amber and me. The chat was buzzing. Amber had posted a close-up photo of her hand. On her finger was a simple, elegant band. It was the custom wedding ring I had designed myself, visiting three different jewelers to get the blueprint right. The inner band was engraved with our initials: “F & G”. Amber had written in the chat: “Oh my gosh, Garrett insisted on getting me a little treat to cheer up my poor injured foot~ The style is a little vintage, but it’s the thought that counts!” His friends immediately started hyping it up. “Whoa, is Garrett finally spending cash on someone else?” “Does the future wifey know? That looks like a women’s ring!” Garrett replied with a voice note. I tapped play, and his smug, casual voice filled the room. “It’s just a cheap trinket, let her wear it for fun. Fiona’s been throwing a massive fit lately; she just needs a few days to cool off. Consider the ring an apology to Amber for the drama.” Hannah was typing in a fury: “Cheap trinket?! You stayed up coding for two weeks straight to save up for those rings! Garrett couldn’t even afford a down payment on an apartment back then, and now he’s using your hard work to play big spender?” I calmly saved the screenshots. Then, I called the jewelry boutique’s VIP service. “Hello, this is Fiona. I’d like to cancel all future maintenance and engraving services for the rings registered under my name.” “Yes, keep the deposit. I just want all association with your brand severed.” 4 I tapped the settings icon on the group chat. [Leave Group] With one tap, the screen went quiet. Less than a minute later, Garrett’s name flashed on my screen. He had obviously noticed my departure. I declined the call. He called again. I declined again. Finally, a text message came through, practically radiating his exasperation. “Fiona, what kind of childish game are you playing now? Amber just borrowed your ring for a quick photo. Why do you have to make a scene and leave the group?” “Get back in there and apologize to Amber! Otherwise, don’t expect me to show up at City Hall next week!” I stared at the text. My fingers moved deliberately as I typed four words. “Don’t bother showing up.” Three days flew by. During that time, I cleared out every single personal item from our office. I encrypted and locked down the core codebase. The key developers I had hired and trained resigned in unison. Hannah worked fast. As soon as the legal waiting period for the equity transfer ended, she wired Garrett’s meager startup capital back into his account. Through it all, Garrett didn’t show his face once. Word was, Amber’s dog had suddenly become “depressed,” and he was spending day and night at the veterinary clinic with her. Today was the day we were supposed to get married. Bright morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the polished marble floors. I sat in the passenger seat of Willie’s Maybach, wearing a stunning white dress. My phone lit up. It was a text from Garrett. “Duke has to get a full body scan today, so I can’t make it to City Hall. We’ll have to reschedule.” “Don’t start another fight over this. If anything happens to Duke, Amber will be devastated.” A dog’s checkup was more important than marrying his fiancée. For seven years, what on earth had I been holding onto? I deleted the conversation. The car pulled up smoothly in front of City Hall. Willie got out first, walking around to open my door. He offered his hand, palm warm and dry. “Are you ready to become Mrs. Willie, Fiona?” I placed my hand in his, stepping out of the car with a genuine smile. “It would be my honor.” The process was beautifully seamless. No arguments, no cutting corners, no endless waiting. The moment the official seal came down, the marriage certificate was handed to me. In the photo, my smile was brighter than it had been in years. Willie looked down at the certificate, a soft, rare smile reaching his eyes. He took out his phone and snapped a quick photo. “Do you mind if I post this? I’ve been keeping this dream quiet for so many years; I think I’ve earned the right to show off a little.” I smiled and nodded. Meanwhile, at the private veterinary hospital downtown, Garrett sat on a bench, irritably scrolling through his phone. Amber leaned against his shoulder, holding a chew toy to distract the poodle hooked up to an IV. “Garrett, Fiona didn’t throw a tantrum today, did she? You really didn’t have to stay here with me. Getting married is a big deal.” Despite her words, her hand clutched his sleeve tightly. Garrett snorted. “What can she do? She’s just playing cold shoulder, waiting for me to apologize. She’s pulled this act a hundred times. It’s getting old.” He opened the alumni group chat. The screen was flashing with rapid-fire messages. “Holy crap! Major news! Garrett, your wife is cheating on you!”

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The night we finally moved into our new townhouse, Thomas and I collapsed onto the mattress, completely exhausted from carrying boxes all day. But when I opened my eyes the next morning, I wasn’t in our new bedroom. I was lying on the cold, dusty hardwood floor of my old apartment—clear across the city. I was covered in grime, my limbs aching. Shaken to my core, I assumed my childhood sleepwalking had returned with a vengeance. Had I really walked miles in my sleep? Panicked, I rushed back to our new home and shook Thomas awake. He just rolled over, dismissing my terror as a bad dream. To prove to myself that it wouldn’t happen again, I drank ten cups of black coffee the following night to stay awake. It worked; I stayed firmly in our new bed. But as the sky outside turned a pale, dusty gold, I set an alarm for a quick thirty-minute nap. When I woke up, I was back on the floor of the old apartment. This time, sheer terror set in. Even driving took over forty minutes at dawn. How could I have walked here in thirty minutes? Was our new house haunted? Was some unseen force dragging me back to my past? I paid a spiritual medium to inspect the townhouse, but he insisted the property was clean. When we got back, Thomas’s face was cold and dark. “Are you sure you aren’t sneaking out to cheat on me, using this ghost story as a pathetic cover?” he sneered. Desperate to prove my innocence, I set alarms to go off every single minute the following night, forcing him to stay awake with me. But we were both running on fumes. Exhaustion claimed us anyway, and we drifted off. Only a minute later, my phone buzzed against my palm. I opened my eyes… and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling of my old apartment. I was paralyzed. Had I actually teleported? But the nightmare was just beginning. The new tenants of my old place were a young married couple. The wife, returning early from a grueling night shift, found me in her home. Assuming I was an escort hired by her husband, she called the police. I frantically called Thomas to vouch for me, expecting comfort. Instead, his voice came through the receiver cold and dripping with venom. “I knew it! You’ve been playing these mind games just to sneak out and sleep around. I hope you’re ready to be ruined.” I had no way to defend myself. The story spread online like wildfire. During a forced reconstruction at the scene, the tenant’s furious family cornered me, and in the chaos, they beat me to death on the concrete. And then, my eyes snapped open. I was back on the night we first moved in… … Looking at the pristine, freshly painted walls of the townhouse, a violent shiver ran down my spine. This was the place where the nightmare had started. Beside me, Thomas stepped out of the shower, drying his hair. He wrapped his arms around me, his shoulders heavy with fatigue. “Sweetheart, we worked so hard today,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Let’s just pass out. We’re getting married next month, and we have a million things to do.” But I couldn’t close my eyes. I shook him, my voice trembling. “Thomas, please. Can we go to a hotel tonight? Just for tonight.” He frowned, his eyes barely open. “Don’t start, Diana. You’ve been complaining about renting for years, and we finally have our own place. I’m too tired for these games. Go to sleep.” He turned over, and within seconds, his heavy snoring filled the room. My heart hammered against my ribs. In my previous life, my sudden disappearances had made him despise me. He had left me to rot in a holding cell, canceled the wedding, and let the public tear me apart. I had died without ever knowing how I was being transported twenty miles across the city. This time, I had to survive. I packed a small bag, woke Thomas up, and dragged him to a nearby hotel. He was furious, his face a silent, stony mask. But as I lay on the crisp, bleach-scented hotel sheets, I finally felt safe. I drifted into the deepest sleep I’d had in days. The next morning, I woke up. The blood in my veins turned to ice. I was lying on the dusty hardwood floor of my old apartment. The empty rooms stared back at me, mocking my relief. It hadn’t been the townhouse. The curse was tied to me, not the walls. I rushed back to the hotel. Without a keycard, I had to knock until Thomas opened the door, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with resentment. “What the hell is wrong with you, Diana?” his voice was a dangerous whisper. “Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under to pay for this wedding? You refuse to sleep in our own home, drag me to a hotel, and then sneak out at dawn without even taking your keycard! If you’re having second thoughts about us, just say it.” Tears stung my eyes. I wanted to scream, to tell him the terrifying truth. But then, a memory of his cold, sneering face from my past life flashed before me. A chilling thought took root: “What if Thomas is behind this?” We had met through a local matchmaking agency—a practical arrangement for two people reaching the age where society expects marriage. There was no grand romance. We bought the townhouse in a rush to satisfy our families. Later, I’d heard rumors of a girl he used to love, his first love who had moved abroad, the golden standard he’d spent his youth waiting for. Over the past week, he’d been taking secretive phone calls, slipping away whenever his screen lit up. Had he done something to me? Was this a scheme to ruin my reputation, to drive me mad, or even end my life before the wedding—leaving him free to marry his first love without looking like the villain? I swallowed my fear and forced a warm, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, babe. The hotel didn’t have breakfast, and I was starving. I ran out in a hurry and forgot the card.” His eyes swept over my silk nightgown, sharp and accusatory. “Who goes out for breakfast dressed like that? Or were you meeting someone?” Anger flared in my chest. “You’re the one betraying me, and you’re turning it on me?” But I kept my composure. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m exhausted from the move. Who would I be meeting at dawn?” He grunted, letting me in. I pretended to be remorseful, checked out, and returned to the townhouse with him. That night, I secretly downed several energy drinks. I set an alarm on my digital watch to vibrate every five minutes. I was going to catch him in the act. Thomas went to bed early, claiming exhaustion. I turned off the lights and faked my breathing, waiting in the dark. In the dead of night, he slipped out of bed and crept to the balcony. I followed him like a shadow, stopping just by the glass door. Through the quiet night air, I heard a woman crying on the other end of the line: “I came back for you… I miss you so much…” My chest tightened. It was her. But then, Thomas’s voice cut through the dark, cold and unyielding: “I told you, it’s over. I’m getting married. My fiancée is wonderful, and she put down the entire down payment on our home. Stop calling me.” He hung up. Relief washed over me, sweet and overwhelming. He had chosen me. When he crawled back into bed, I wrapped my arms around him, letting my guard down. Under the heavy blanket of warmth, the exhaustion of the past few days caught up to me. I drifted off. Five minutes later, my watch buzzed against my wrist. I opened my eyes. I was back in the old apartment. I didn’t run this time. If Thomas wasn’t the cause, and the townhouse wasn’t the trigger, then the mystery lay in this empty apartment. If I didn’t find the answer today, tonight would be my last. I searched every corner, but the place was bare. Nothing but dust and empty built-ins. As I walked toward the front door, I heard voices outside. My former neighbors were gossiping in the hallway. “It’s a good thing those kids moved out. It was only a matter of time before something terrible happened.” “Such a shame the new tenants don’t know the history. Nobody in their right mind would live here.” “The landlord is a crook. He knew what happened, but he kept renting it out anyway.” My blood ran cold. I threw the door open, startling them. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with this apartment?” They stared at me in shock. “Diana? You’re still here?” “I just came back to pick up a few things,” I lied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I heard you talking.” The older woman sighed, looking at me with pity. “Well, since you’re out, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. The landlord’s wife committed suicide in that living room. They say her spirit lingers, looking for a substitute to take her place. We were terrified for you two. It’s a miracle you made it out untouched.” A substitute? Was a restless spirit dragging me back here? I called the landlord, Charles. He was instantly defensive, his voice tight and hostile. “My wife’s death is none of your business. You’ve moved out. Leave me alone!” He slammed the phone down. I stared at the center of the living room, where I always woke up. There were a few loose floorboards that Charles had repeatedly refused to fix during our lease. I grabbed a crowbar from the closet and pried them up. Beneath the wood lay several bizarre talismans and an unfamiliar brass artifact. Terrified, I called a local paranormal investigator. He inspected the rooms, then shook his head. “The talismans were placed by the landlord to quiet his own conscience, not to trap a spirit. If a vengeful ghost wanted you, she would have taken you while you lived here. Why wait until you moved?” Another expert agreed. “The apartment has excellent natural light—the living room gets the most sun in the building. No negative energy could harbor here. The space is completely clear.” The lead evaporated. If it wasn’t the house, the ghost, or Thomas… what was it? The dark? What if I slept during the day? I went back to the townhouse, set up a hidden camera in the bedroom, and fell asleep. Three hours later, I woke up in the old apartment. The sun was setting. I checked the remote camera feed on my phone. At the exact moment I fell asleep, the screen dissolved into static. When the picture cleared, the bed was empty. I was gone. Despair washed over me. Was my fate set in stone? No. I refused to let my life be cut short. I bought a crate of energy drinks and returned home. Thomas watched me with a deep scowl. “You’re acting insane, Diana. Are you staying awake just so you can slip out to meet someone else?” Looking at him—the man who had turned his back on his first love for me, the man I had lost in a previous life—I felt a swell of affection. I raised my hand. “I promise you, Thomas. I’m doing this for us.” I drank energy drink after energy drink, waking him up every thirty minutes to prove I was still there. He was furious, but I survived the night. Morning came. He dressed for work, glaring at me. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re trying to drive me crazy so you can leave me for someone else, aren’t you?” I couldn’t explain. I let him leave, intending to close my eyes for just a second. I reached for my phone to email my boss, but before my fingers touched the screen, my surroundings shifted. I was in the old apartment. On the master bed. And the male tenant was sleeping right beside me. The bedroom door swung open. His wife, holding a towel, froze. She screamed. “I knew I smelled another woman’s perfume in here! You’ve been hiding in my house! Did this bastard invite you over while I was on shift? You cheap, disgusting home-wrecker!” The husband woke up, utterly bewildered. The wife called the police. History was repeating itself. I tried to grab her arm. “Please, listen to me! I used to live here—” She slapped me across the face, cutting me off. “Do you think I’m stupid? No decent woman is found in another man’s bed in her nightgown at dawn!” She dragged me into the hallway by my hair, screaming for the neighbors. The same gossiping women from yesterday shook their heads. “So that’s why she kept coming back in the mornings. She was scouting the place!” “I heard she’s supposed to get married. How disgusting.” The police arrived and detained me. I pleaded, “I don’t know how I got here! Every time I fall asleep, I wake up in this building!” The crowd laughed. The wife pointed to a nanny cam in the corner of her living room. “If you teleported, let’s see the footage!” I felt a surge of hope—the camera would prove my innocence. But when they played the video, my heart stopped. I hadn’t materialized. The footage showed me unlocking the front door, stepping inside, and looking directly at the camera with a chilling, mischievous grin before slipping into the bedroom. The neighbors recorded the screen, posting the video online. “Cheating bride caught in the act” went viral. Then, Thomas arrived, breathless and pale. I reached out to him, but his words cut like a knife. “I knew it. She stayed awake all night pretending to love me just so she could sneak out the second I left. She’s a liar and a cheat. The wedding is off.” He tore our wedding invitation to pieces and threw them in my face. My phone rang; my boss was firing me. The tenant’s brothers arrived, their faces twisted in rage. “You think you can ruin our sister’s marriage and get away with it?” They lunged. In my past life, this was where the darkness took me. I curled into a ball, bracing for the blows. But as my eyes swept the floor, I saw something small glinting in the dusty corner under the console table. My mind clicked. The pieces fell into place. I stood up, staring cold and hard at the angry crowd. “I can prove my innocence.”

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My husband, Garrett, had a deeply bizarre biological clock. For three years of marriage, he would wake up at exactly 3:00 AM, pulling me out of bed to eat a lavish, heavy meal with him. Then, at 2:00 PM sharp, he would pull shut every blackout curtain in the house, demanding absolute silence as he slipped into a deep sleep. He told me he suffered from chronic, agonizing insomnia, and that this erratic schedule was the only way he could survive. To accommodate him, I quit my job at a prestigious global consulting firm. Living in perpetual reverse, my body began to break down. I developed severe clinical exhaustion, and my hair began falling out in heavy, terrifying clumps. Whenever the blinding migraines struck, he would hold me tight against his chest, kissing my forehead with fierce tenderness. “I’m so sorry, Diana,” he would whisper. “You’re the only one who makes me feel safe. I can only sleep when you’re here.” I truly believed I was his anchor. His cure. Until yesterday afternoon at 2:00 PM. Just after he drifted off, his spare phone—the one he kept in the home office—lit up on the desk. A message preview popped up on the screen. [Garrett, Tokyo is actually sunny today.] [I just finished breakfast. Stop staying up all night to keep me company. Go to sleep, okay?] The sender: Taryn. I stared at the clock on the wall pointing to 2:00 PM, and then at the bright, blinding Los Angeles sunshine filtering through the cracks of the kitchen blinds. He didn’t have insomnia. He was just living in Tokyo time, in our home, keeping another woman company. I put the phone back exactly where it was. Then I walked into our bedroom and, with one violent yank, tore down the heavy blackout curtains that had kept us in the dark for three years. The brilliant, unforgiving daylight flooded the room, heavy and blinding. This godforsaken jet lag. I was finally done living in it. … The curtain rod ripped from the drywall, taking a chunk of plaster with it as it clattered onto the hardwood floor. From the bed, Garrett stirred. His voice was thick with sleep, rough and gravelly. “What was that?” I stood in the center of the living room, squinting against the sudden glare. For three years, this was the first time I had ever seen this room illuminated at two in the afternoon. There was a small patch of mildew creeping up the corner of the wall. A thick layer of dust blanketed the legs of the coffee table. On the windowsill, the pothos plant I had bought years ago was nothing but shriveled, brown straw. I had never even noticed. The curtains were always closed. Garrett stumbled out of the bedroom, shielding his eyes with his forearm. “What happened to the curtains?” “They fell.” He glanced at the ruined rod on the floor but didn’t press further. He walked into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and turned back toward the bedroom. “Can you put them back up? I need to get some more sleep.” I didn’t move. I just stepped directly into his path. “Who is Taryn?” His entire body went rigid. “A friend from college. She works in Tokyo.” “She sent you a message telling you to go to sleep.” He froze. “Did you go through my phone?” “The spare in the office. It lit up while you were asleep.” “It’s just an old number. Just a few old friends are on it. It’s nothing.” He took a sip of water, avoiding my eyes. “She knows about my sleep issues. She was just checking in.” “Does she know “why” you sleep at two in the afternoon?” Garrett stared at me, his face utterly flat. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Tokyo is seventeen hours ahead of Los Angeles. When you wake up at three in the morning, it’s eight in the evening over there—just in time to chat during her dinner. When you sleep at two in the afternoon, it’s seven in the morning for her—just as she’s waking up. You don’t have insomnia, Garrett. You’re just living in her timezone.” “You’re overthinking this,” he said. “Then unlock the phone and show me.” He looked down at me, his eyes darkening. “Diana, have you just been cooped up in the house too long? You’re becoming paranoid.” “I am not paranoid.” “Then stop looking for problems where there are none. Put the curtains back up.” He turned on his heel and walked back into the bedroom. Before closing the door, he threw one last line over his shoulder. “If you’re not feeling well, go see a doctor. Don’t take your moods out on me.” The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the living room, bathed in the harsh afternoon light. The fallen curtain rod lay at my feet. I didn’t touch it. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Diana, sweetie, how are you feeling? You looked so pale the last time I saw you.” “I’m fine, Mom.” “Is Garrett taking good care of you?” “Yes, he’s great.” “Good. Has his insomnia gotten any better?” I stared at the closed bedroom door. “No.” I hung up and walked into the office. The spare phone was still in the desk drawer. I picked it up. It only took me two tries to guess the passcode. There was only one pinned contact on his messaging app. The nickname: “T.” The chat history went back three years. Every single day was accounted for. I scrolled through it for forty minutes. Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Not a single break. The very first exchange began at the bottom. Taryn: “Are you really going to do this?” Garrett: “I’ll try. It should be fine.” Taryn: “But what about your days?” Garrett: “I’ll sleep during the day. I’ll just tell her I have insomnia.” My thumb froze over the glass. Taryn’s reply followed immediately. [What about her?] Garrett: [She’ll get used to it.] I laid the phone back in the drawer, screen-down, exactly as I had found it. I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was packed with the ingredients I used for our 3:00 AM meals—ribeyes, fresh pasta, heavy cream, imported cheeses. Everything was tailored for elaborate dinners. For three years, whenever he woke me up at three in the morning, he always requested those heavy, complex dishes. I had always assumed he just had a preference for midnight meals. But 3:00 AM Los Angeles was 8:00 PM in Tokyo. Dinner time. He had been eating the food I cooked, staring at his screen, virtually dining with her. I shut the refrigerator door. At 5:00 PM, Garrett walked out of the bedroom. “I’m eating out tonight. Business dinner.” “When will you be back?” “Not sure. Go to sleep without me.” “I don’t go to sleep until three in the morning anymore, Garrett.” He grabbed his car keys from the counter. “Then do whatever you want.” I heard the front door click shut. Three years of destroying my body to match his clock, and it culminated in “do whatever you want.” I sat at the empty dining table. My temples throbbed with a familiar, searing ache. I reached up to touch my hair and pulled away a clump of loose strands. I hadn’t even felt them detach. I opened my contacts and searched for the neurologist I had seen three months ago after a routine physical. She had told me then that my physical exhaustion was reaching a dangerous threshold and had urged me to do a full workup. I had laughed it off, telling her it was just a temporary bout of poor sleep. But she had been grave. “This isn’t just bad sleep, Diana. You are violently forcing your circadian rhythm out of sync. If you keep this up, hair loss will be the least of your concerns.” I sent her office a text message and booked an appointment for the day after tomorrow. Then I opened a delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of hot rice porridge. Before hitting submit, my finger hovered over the screen. Under the delivery address, there was a small note field. The saved default note read: “Please deliver before 2:50 AM.” It was from a night months ago when I had been too exhausted to stand at the stove at two in the morning, so I had secretly ordered takeout. Garrett had seen the packaging. He hadn’t gotten angry. But the next afternoon, when he woke up, he had pulled me into his arms, his voice soft and coaxing. “Let’s not order takeout anymore, babe. It’s not healthy. I only feel grounded when I eat what you make.” “But Garrett, sometimes I am just so tired.” “I know. I’m so sorry. Once my insomnia gets better, we won’t have to live like this anymore.” His insomnia was never going to get better. The porridge arrived. I sat in the brightly lit kitchen and ate it slowly. For the first time in three years, I was eating a normal meal at a normal hour. Halfway through the bowl, a thought struck me. I went into the study and opened my laptop. Garrett had a habit of leaving his corporate email logged in on our home computer. I typed a single word into the search bar: “Tokyo.” Three emails appeared. The first, dated a year ago, was an interview invitation from a firm in Tokyo. The second, from eight months ago, was an official offer letter. The third was his reply, sent just two months ago. “Thank you for your patience. I am currently wrapping up my affairs in the States and expect to relocate within the next six months.” He was moving to Tokyo. To her city. I scrolled down to the bottom of the thread. There was a name in the CC line: “Taryn.” I closed the laptop. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Garrett. [I’m going to be really late tonight. Don’t wait up. Grab something to eat.] A second message followed immediately. [Don’t worry about cooking at 3:00 AM. I’m stuffing myself at this dinner.] I stared at the screen. Slowly, the throbbing in my head began to fade. The pain was entirely gone. I opened my contacts and scrolled down to a number I had saved but never dialed: Zack, a divorce attorney. My best friend, Rachel, had given me his contact information three months ago. I had sat on it for ninety days. I stared at the digits, then locked my phone without dialing. I set it down and finished my porridge. At the bottom of the ceramic bowl was a delicate, painted crest. It was part of a dining set Garrett had picked out. Fine bone china. The next morning, at exactly 3:00 AM, the alarm went off. He had set it years ago, and it had run like clockwork ever since. I lay perfectly still in the dark. Garrett rolled over, his hand sweeping across the mattress to find me. “Diana. Time to get up, babe.” “I’m not cooking tonight.” “Why? Are you feeling sick?” “You told me last night you wouldn’t need a meal.” He paused, processing. “Oh. Right. I’ll just grab a snack. Go back to sleep.” He slid out of bed and walked barefoot down the hallway toward the office. I heard the soft slide of the desk drawer, and then came the faint, rhythmic tapping of fingers on glass. 3:00 AM in Los Angeles. 8:00 PM in Tokyo. She was right in the middle of dinner. I lay with my eyes closed, counting the beats of his typing. Four minutes. Then he tiptoed into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with exaggerated care. Half an hour later, he returned to the bedroom carrying a small plate. “I left a sandwich on the nightstand for you.” “I’m not hungry.” “I’ll leave it here anyway. Eat it when you wake up.” I didn’t answer. He slipped back under the covers, and soon his breathing leveled out. 3:40 AM. 8:40 PM over there. She had finished her dinner, and so he could finally rest. At 9:00 AM, I left the house. I walked into the clinic for my appointment. The doctor reviewed my previous bloodwork and ordered a fresh panel. After the blood draw, I sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, waiting for the results. My phone buzzed. It was Rachel. “Hey, Diana. Want to grab lunch?” “I’m at the clinic.” “What? Why? What’s wrong?” “Just a follow-up. Don’t worry.” “I’ll come pick you up. Call me when you’re done.” When the paperwork was ready, the doctor laid the printouts on her desk. “Your clinical exhaustion has worsened, your hormones are completely out of whack, and you’re showing signs of localized alopecia. Tell me about your sleep schedule again. What are your hours?” “I wake up at three in the morning and sleep at two in the afternoon.” She lowered her glasses, staring at me with deep concern. “Is this for work?” “No. For my husband.” “What kind of lifestyle requires that?” “He doesn’t work those hours. He told me he has severe insomnia and needs me up with him.” She sighed, sliding the papers toward me. “Diana, if you keep this up, hair loss will be the least of your concerns. Your cortisol levels are chronically elevated, and your immune system is taking a massive hit.” I took the reports, folded them carefully, and slid them into my purse. Rachel was waiting in her car curbside. When she saw me walk out, her eyes immediately darted to my hairline. She didn’t say a word. She just reached over, opened the passenger door, and ushered me in. Once we were settled at a quiet corner table in the restaurant, she stared at me. “You’re disappearing, Diana. You’ve lost so much weight.” “I haven’t had much of an appetite.” “And where is Garrett?” “He’s fine.” “I didn’t ask how he was. I asked if he’s taking care of you.” I pulled the lab results from my bag and set them on the table between us. She scanned the pages, her face hardening. “Diana. You’re twenty-eight years old.” “I know.” “Why are you doing this to yourself?” “He said… he said he can only feel safe when I’m awake with him.” Rachel closed the folder, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “And what about you? Who makes sure you’re safe?” I didn’t have an answer. I just picked up the menu. “Let’s order.” “Diana, look at me. Answer the question.” “I just want something simple. Maybe some soup.” Rachel reached across the table and pressed her hand flat over my menu. “The attorney’s number I gave you.” “Yeah.” “Did you call him?” “Not yet.” “Why?” “I need to confirm one more thing first.” “What?” “If he ever actually planned on taking me to Tokyo with him.” Rachel’s grip loosened. Her hand fell back to her lap. “What do you mean, Tokyo?” “He accepted an offer at a firm there. He’s supposed to start in less than six months. The email was CC’d to Taryn.” Rachel slammed her menu onto the table. A waiter glanced over from the station. She leaned in, her voice vibrating with quiet rage. “You are his wife. How the hell did you not know he was moving across the ocean?” “I didn’t.” “When was he going to tell you?” “I don’t think he ever was.” Rachel closed her eyes, taking a long, steadying breath. “Fine. And when are you going to ask him?” “Tonight.” At 8:00 PM, Garrett walked through the door. I was sitting on the living room sofa. The television was on, muted to a low murmur. He kicked off his shoes and sat in the armchair opposite me. “Where did you go today?” “The doctor.” A shadow passed over his face. “Is everything okay? Are you sick?” “My clinical exhaustion is worse. My hormones are a mess. And I’m starting to lose my hair in patches.” He stood up and came over to sit beside me, his fingers gently brushing the side of my head. “Are you taking your medication?” “The doctor said it’s a lifestyle issue. The schedule.” His hand stilled against my hair. “I know. I know how hard this has been on you, babe. Just let me get through this rough patch, and then…” “When are you leaving for Tokyo?” On the television, a late-night talk show host was laughing, the sound hollow and distant. Garrett’s hand froze against my head. “Who told you that?” “Your inbox. The offer letter from the firm in Tokyo. You accepted it eight months ago.” He slowly leaned back, his fingers interlacing. “I was going to tell you once everything was finalized.” “Finalized how?” “Once I had a place lined up over there.” “Lined up? With whose help? Taryn’s?” “She’s lived there for years, Diana. She was just helping me look at apartments. It’s practical.” “You’ve been in contact with her for three years.” He stared at me. “How much of my stuff did you go through?” “All of it.” He stood up and walked over to the window, looking out into the dark yard. “We’re just friends. If you want to make something sordid out of it, I can’t stop you.” “You didn’t wake up at three in the morning because you had insomnia, Garrett. It was eight in the evening in Tokyo—just in time to text her when she woke up. You didn’t sleep at two in the afternoon because you were tired. It was seven in the morning over there—just in time for her breakfast. You made me quit my job so I could suffer through her timezone with you. For three years.” He turned around. “I really do have trouble sleeping. Part of it was because of her, yes. But not all of it.” “Not all of it? Then how much?” “Is this really what we’re doing? Interrogating me over every minute?” “I only have one last question.” He looked at me, his jaw tight. “Did you ever actually plan on taking me to Tokyo?” He didn’t answer immediately. One second. Two seconds. Three. “I wanted to see how things went first.” I looked down at my hands. The skin over my knuckles was pale and thin. My blue veins showed clearly. I was so much thinner than I had been when we married. He walked back over, kneeling on the rug in front of me, taking my cold hands in his. “Diana, please. Look at me. She and I are in the past. There is no future there. I chose you. I married you.” “But you’ve spent every single day of our marriage living in her world.” “I’ll change. I promise.” “You can’t. You wouldn’t even let me change the blackout curtains.” His grip tightened. “Then what do you want me to do?” I looked into his eyes. For three years, those eyes had looked at me through the haze of exhaustion at three in the morning, always so soft, so full of apparent warmth. But I knew now that the warmth had never been meant for me. “I’m tired.” “Then rest. We can talk about this tomorrow.” “I don’t mean I’m tired tonight, Garrett. I mean I am exhausted by the last three years.” His hands slowly slid off mine. I stood up and walked into the bedroom. He didn’t follow. I heard him sit on the sofa. For a very long time, there was only silence from the living room. Eventually, he came to bed, sliding under the sheets beside me. “I’ll get rid of the spare phone tomorrow.” I kept my eyes closed. “We can change the curtains. You can sleep whenever you want.” I said nothing. “Diana?” “Yeah.” “Stop overthinking. Just sleep.” Soon, his breathing leveled out. At 2:58 AM, his phone buzzed under his pillow. He swiped it off instantly. He thought I was asleep. But I heard the rustle of the sheets. I saw the faint blue glow of the screen reflect against the bedroom wall as he rolled over. He typed with quick, muffled taps, but I could hear every single click. After three years, I had learned to map the shape of his movements in the dark. Four minutes later, he quietly slipped out of bed, returned the spare phone to the study, and crept back under the covers. I waited until his breath grew heavy again. Then I slipped out of bed, walked into the living room, and picked my phone up from the counter. I pulled up Zack’s contact details. “Hi Zack, this is Diana. Rachel gave me your number. I’d like to schedule a consultation regarding a divorce. I can bring my documents tomorrow afternoon if you have time.” Send. I muted my phone and walked back toward the bedroom. Passing the study, I paused. Inside the drawer, the screen of the spare phone was still fading to black. The final notification was still visible on the lock screen. Taryn: [Goodnight, Garrett. Can’t wait until you’re in Tokyo. Thank you for living in my timezone these past three years. I know it wasn’t easy.] I stared at it for a beat, then walked back to bed. Garrett was fast asleep. Los Angeles: 3:07 AM. Tokyo: 8:07 PM. She was wishing him sweet dreams from across the ocean. And here, in the dark, I finally chose to let the sun rise.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “533879”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In my seventh year of being Christian’s live-in, unpaid housekeeper, our cat went missing. I tore the house apart, checking every single corner, my eyes stinging with hot, angry tears as I finally reached for my phone to call the police. Christian snatched the phone right out of my hand and hung up. “I took him,” he said, not even looking up from his tablet. “Amber wanted a cat. She saw a picture of Barnaby and had to have him.” “He’s just a pet, Rachel. You can always get another one.” I stood frozen, staring at the empty ceramic bowl in the corner of the kitchen. During all those late nights when Christian was out with Amber, Barnaby was the only one waiting by the front door for me to come home. For seven years, that little creature was the only thing in this hollow house that actually needed me. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the hem of Christian’s jacket, practically begging. “Barnaby only eats the food I prepare for him. He won’t adjust to a new place. Please, Christian.” Christian let out a soft, dismissive scoff and turned his phone screen toward me, hitting play. On the screen, the cat who usually hissed at strangers was curled up in Amber’s lap, purring so loudly the microphone picked it up. “Rachel,” Christian said, his voice flat, cutting. “Do you always have to make yourself out to be so indispensable?” All the energy drained from my limbs, and I collapsed onto the cold hardwood floor. He was right, of course. No one is truly irreplaceable. Cats are like that. People are even worse. Maybe it was finally time for me to start living my own life. 1 The shrill ring of my alarm shattered the silence of the empty bedroom. My phone was cluttered with thirty different alarms. Five of them were dedicated to Barnaby—reminding me of his feeding schedule, his supplements, and his vet appointments. The rest of them revolved entirely around Christian. “Iron his suits. Start dinner. Take his Mercedes for a tune-up.” An endless, repetitive loop of service. I swiped my thumb across the screen. One by one, I deleted them. Every single one. I wouldn’t be needing them anymore. Supporting myself against the edge of the coffee table, I pushed myself up from the floor. Christian had been gone for hours. Only the slight indentation in the leather cushion of the sofa remained as proof he had ever been here. Just a few hours ago, he had sat right there, casually scrolling through financial news. He had watched me—frantic, sweating, pouring over every closet and cupboard—searching for a cat he had already packed up and given away. Maybe he found it amusing. Maybe that was why he kept his mouth shut, letting me play the fool. A sharp, physical ache bloomed in my stomach. Today was our seventh anniversary. I had spent the entire afternoon preparing a dinner filled with his favorite dishes. Now, those plates sat untouched on the dining table, the grease congealing into a dull, white glaze. I picked up the plates, one by one, and scraped the cold food down the garbage disposal. There was a time when Christian refused to eat anything unless I made it. Seven years ago, his most trusted business partner had spiked his food. It ended in a frantic rush to the ER, a painful gastric lavage, and hands so swollen from IV drips and nutrient lines that he couldn’t even hold a fork. After that trauma, he developed a deep, borderline paranoid aversion to restaurant food. So, I was the one who brought him homemade lunches in neat little containers. I would take the first bite to show him it was safe, then feed him the next. Back then, Christian would lean into my touch, looking at me with soft, vulnerable eyes. “Rachel, what would I do without you? I’d literally starve.” To take care of him, I walked away from my residency at the hospital. Three meals a day, rain or shine, I delivered his food. I did that for seven years. Until Amber arrived. She was the new junior executive assistant in his office. The day I walked in without knocking, she was sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk, holding a forkful of some charred, unrecognizable takeout, hovering it near his mouth. Christian didn’t even flinch. He just leaned in and swallowed it. “So, Christian, how does my cooking stack up against your girlfriend’s?” Amber had giggled. He raised an eyebrow, a lazy smirk on his lips. “Give her some credit, Amber. Cooking is pretty much the only thing she knows how to do.” It was only after their shared laughter died down that they finally noticed me standing in the doorway. He casually took the lunchbox from my hands. He took one bite of the roasted chicken I had spent two hours preparing, then spit it out into his napkin. He frowned, complaining about the seasoning. “Too bland. Too greasy. The meat is like leather.” And with every critique he threw my way, Amber let out a soft, synchronized titter. As it turned out, the betrayal of a pet was nothing compared to the betrayal of a partner. I plunged my hands into the soapy sink, mechanically scrubbing the grease off the ceramic plates. Over and over, until my skin went raw. My lips twitched. I wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all, but my eyes burned with a heavy, throbbing ache. These hands, which had once been trained to hold a scalpel with absolute precision, had become permanently wrinkled and smelled of dish soap. I let myself slide down the kitchen cabinets, pulling my knees to my chest. The screen of my phone lit up on the counter. It was a text from a medical recruiter. “Dr. Evans, we’d really love for you to reconsider. The department would be incredibly lucky to have you.” The offer had come in a month ago. I had agonized over it for an entire week before ultimately turning it down. My reasoning back then felt utterly pathetic now: “If I take this, who will cook for Christian? He’ll starve.” But there was nothing holding me back anymore. I typed out a single word: “Yes.” I locked the screen. In the quiet darkness of the kitchen, I whispered to myself, “Christian, I was never as useless as you made me believe.” 2 Late that night, the front door clicked open, followed by heavy, stumbling footsteps downstairs. A moment later, Christian slid into bed, smelling strongly of scotch and expensive cigars. He pressed his chest against my back. “The house is a mess, Rachel. Why didn’t you clean up?” I kept my back to him, refusing to answer. The sheets rustled as his hands slid under the duvet, tracing a warm, heavy path up my waist. “Still sulking?” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. “I told you, it’s just a cat. If you want, I’ll have a local breeder bring over a litter tomorrow and you can pick whichever one you like.” I bit my lower lip, staring hard at the dark wall. Suddenly, a cold metal weight settled against the bare skin of my collarbone. I looked down to find a delicate diamond necklace draped over my chest. He let out a low chuckle. “Happy seventh anniversary. See? I didn’t forget.” But I had seen this exact necklace just a few hours ago on Amber’s social media. She had posted a picture of it with the caption: “What do you do when a gift is super ugly? Will he be mad if I return it? Seriously, who actually wears such outdated stuff anymore?” So, it was a hand-me-down. A discarded consolation prize. I reached up, ripped the necklace off, and flung it back at him. “I don’t like it. I don’t want it.” Christian’s face darkened instantly. He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You’ll take it and like it. When did you become so demanding?” He was too close. The strong, cloying scent of cheap, sweet perfume clinging to his collar hit my nose, and my stomach violently rebelled. Before I could stop myself, I dry-heaved and threw up all over his chest. Christian stared down at his ruined silk shirt in disbelief. He looked up, his eyes cold and disgusted. “Look at yourself, Rachel,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re acting like a crazy woman.” The roar of his car engine echoed from the driveway. He was gone. I pulled the duvet over my head and, for the first time in seven years, slept peacefully. No waking up at dawn to press his shirts. No preparing a multi-course breakfast. No middle-of-the-night feedings for a cat that wasn’t there. I lingered in bed, enjoying the stillness. Then, the phone rang. Christian’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp and authoritative. “Since you’re so desperate to see Barnaby, go over to Amber’s place. She hates scooping the litter box anyway. Go clean it out for her.” I looked at the open suitcase on my bedroom floor, still waiting to be packed. “I’m busy,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I don’t have time.” On the other end of the line, he let out a dry laugh. “Busy? You? Rachel, you don’t even have a job. What could you possibly be busy with? I pay for the roof over your head and everything you eat, and you can’t even do this one small thing for me?” My grip tightened around the phone. A crushing sense of exhaustion settled deep into my chest. Seven years of devotion. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he literally didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, a utility that came with the house. I hung up on him. But in the end, I went anyway. Just once, I wanted to see if Barnaby was doing okay without me. The moment I arrived at the luxury high-rise apartment, a housekeeper stopped me at the foyer. “Oh, you must be the girl he hired to clean up after the cat,” she said, tossing a pair of blue disposable shoe covers at my feet. “Put those on before you walk in. And don’t touch anything belonging to Ms. Amber.” I stared down at the thin plastic shoe covers, my hands clenching into fists. “A girl hired to clean up.” So that was how Christian introduced me to his world. A maid. Amber’s apartment was spacious and immaculate. Christian had spared no expense, apparently. He had hired a full roster of staff for her—one maid for deep cleaning, another specifically to meal prep. He had rented the place for her, too. “She’s a young girl trying to build a career,” he had justified when I noticed the charge on his account statement. “How is she supposed to focus on work if she’s bogged down by household chores?” Yet, when I had approached him months ago, my back aching from scrubbing our four-bedroom house, and asked, “Can we hire a service? The house is just too big for me to manage alone,” he had scoffed. “Are you really telling me you can’t even handle a simple house?” I found Barnaby locked in a small wire crate in the laundry room. He was huddled in the far corner, and when he saw me, he hissed. It had only been twenty-four hours, but he looked at me like I was a complete stranger. “Barnaby, sweetie, come here,” I cooed, reaching out my hand the way I always did. He lunged forward, his sharp claws digging deep into the flesh of my forearm. I gasped, pulling my arm back as beads of blood welled up on my skin. I dropped the bag of treats I had brought. Suddenly, a strange wave of peace washed over me. He had only relied on me because I was his only option. Now that he had a luxurious apartment and a new owner, he didn’t need me anymore. Just as I stepped out of the lobby, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was Christian’s mother. “Rachel, Christian’s father is having an episode. You need to get over here right now.” 3 Over the years, I hadn’t just been Christian’s live-in maid. I had also served as his family’s on-call physician. Clutching my bleeding arm, I rushed over to his parents’ estate. But when I arrived, I found his father sitting comfortably on the back patio, drinking iced tea and playing chess with several other elderly guests. His mother was fanning herself, her tone breezy and untroubled. “Oh, he pulled his lower back yesterday. It’s been bothering him.” She patted my shoulder. “Good timing. Go ahead and give him a massage.” She gestured to the unfamiliar faces around the table. “These are Christian’s business partners’ parents. Why don’t you give them a quick adjustment too while you’re at it?” Always this. I had explained to them countless times over the last seven years that my degree was in modern medicine. I was a gastroenterologist. I didn’t do chiropractic work, nor was I a licensed massage therapist. But every time they called, no matter the hour, Christian would demand that I drop everything and run to them. In the past, because I loved him and believed we would build a life together, I treated them like my own family. But today, I simply looked at her and shook my head. “I can’t do that.” A tense, heavy silence blanketed the patio. Just then, Christian walked through the side gate, Amber trailing close behind him. Seeing me, Amber offered a sweet, patronizing smile. “Oh, Rachel! I’m so jealous. It must be so nice to have so much free time to hang out with the family. Christian and I have been running around dealing with clients all day. My shoulders are practically dead.” Christian’s mother instantly turned to me. “Well, Rachel, since you’re already here, why don’t you give Amber a quick rubdown too?” I stood my ground, refusing to budge. The scratch on my arm throbbed under my sleeve. “I said, I can’t do it.” But his mother acted as if she hadn’t heard a word, pulling Amber toward the outdoor lounge chair. Christian frowned, gently pulling Amber back by her elbow. “Don’t bother,” he said, his voice flat. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing anyway.” He paused, casting a dismissive glance in my direction. “She quit her hospital job years ago. Calling herself a doctor is a stretch at this point.” The quiet judgment of the elderly guests pressed in on me like physical weight. Amber broke the silence with a light titter. “Oh, Christian is just being possessive. He tells everyone I’m strictly “his” assistant. He doesn’t like anyone else touching me—not even other women. I think I’ll just go home and take a hot bath.” As Amber picked up her designer handbag, Christian turned to leave. His eyes briefly flicked down to the angry, red scratch on my arm. “Need a ride?” I didn’t argue. I silently climbed into the backseat of his car. The entire drive was filled with their lighthearted engineering of inside jokes and corporate chatter. I couldn’t have joined the conversation even if I had wanted to. And I didn’t want to. It was only after we dropped Amber off at her apartment that Christian looked up at me through the rearview mirror. “You okay? There are bandages in the center console. Use those for now.” I opened the console. Inside, scattered carelessly, were Amber’s things: a tube of her signature lipstick, a travel-sized bottle of her sweet perfume, a few of her hair ties. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I shut the compartment and leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city lights blur past. Christian glanced at me again, his voice softening slightly. “Look, just be good. Once we close this major deal, I’ll take you on a trip.” “Where to?” I asked quietly. “Paris? Rome? Or wherever Amber wants to go next?” I fell silent. “Are we seriously going to fight about this?” he sighed, sounding exasperated. “Amber is the lead strategist on this account. It only makes sense that she comes along.” “Makes sense.” I closed my eyes. “I don’t want to go on a trip.” “Then what do you want?” I took a slow, deep breath. “Just give me a day off, Christian. If I’m really as dispensable as you say, don’t call me tomorrow. Don’t look for me. I just want to do absolutely nothing.” He pulled up to a red light, turning back to study my face for a long moment. “Fine,” he murmured. 4 The next morning. I woke up to a perfectly still, empty house. I made myself a quiet breakfast, taking my time with every bite. Then, I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began to pack. At exactly noon, Christian’s name lit up on my phone screen. I took a breath, letting the steady hum of my new reality ground me, and answered. “Rachel,” he said, his voice unusually frantic. “I left the pitch deck for the afternoon meeting on the study desk. Can you bring it to the office right away?” “No.” My voice was flat, devoid of any anger. A faint, tearful sniffle came through the line. “Please, Rachel,” Amber’s voice pleaded, taking over the call. “We really need it. The board presentation is in thirty minutes. We’ve all worked eighty-hour weeks for three months for this.” I remained silent for a few long seconds. “Send a courier,” I said. “Christian, you promised me today.” “Rachel,” Christian’s voice came back on, lower now, carrying that familiar weight of authority. “It’s a highly confidential contract. I don’t trust a courier with it. You know what happened last time I trusted the wrong person.” I hung up. With a heavy sigh, I grabbed my coat. Whatever lay between Christian and me, I didn’t want to be the reason an entire team of innocent employees lost their hard work. I told myself this was simply my final good deed. I caught a cab and rushed to his corporate high-rise downtown. I practically ran up the elevator, arriving at the executive suite slightly out of breath, clutching the manila envelope. But before I could even catch my breath, a burst of laughter erupted from his office. “See? I told you she’d show up,” Amber cheered. Christian took the envelope from my hand and, without even opening it, tossed it straight into the recycling bin. “I told you it was confidential, and you didn’t even bother to look inside,” he chuckled, leaning back in his leather chair. “You didn’t realize it’s just blank paper, did you? God, Rachel. You really are gullible.” Amber pouted playfully, nudging his shoulder. “Fine, fine. You win the bet. I’ll buy dinner.” I stood in the center of the office, a cold, hollow laugh bubbling up in my chest. My feelings, my time, my dignity—none of it had ever mattered. To them, I was just a prop in a cheap office bet. Amber pulled out a takeout box of greasy, heavy-smelling food, pinching her nose dramatically. “Do I really have to eat this? I have a client meeting in an hour!” Christian—who absolutely detested strong food odors and had banned garlic from our kitchen for years—merely laughed. He picked up a fry and fed it to her himself. When she choked slightly on the salt, he immediately patted her back, rushing to pour her a glass of water. Standing in the corner of that sleek, glass office, watching them giggle like teenagers, I felt… nothing. No anger. No jealousy. Just a profound, devastating sense of absurdity. “Look at him,” I thought. “This is the man I sacrificed my career and seven years of my life for.” When they finally remembered I was still in the room, Christian pulled a black Amex card from his wallet and slid it across the desk toward me. “Go down to the boutique on the corner and buy her a change of clothes. Grab some air freshener while you’re at it. Keep the card and buy yourself something nice. Consider it payment for your trouble. And drop the attitude, Rachel.” I picked up the black card. I looked him dead in the eye and let out a soft, genuine smile. “Sure, Christian. Just wait right here.” I walked out of the office, took the elevator straight down to the lobby, and hailed a cab to O’Hare International Airport. During the ride, I pulled up Christian’s contact info and blocked his number. I had given him so many chances. If he had recognized me as his partner, even just once, instead of his personal servant, I might have stayed. But it was too late now. Christian waited in his office until the sun dipped below the skyline, but I never returned. He likely assumed I was just throwing another tantrum. But when he finally unlocked the front door of our house late that night, he was met with cold silence. The dirty dishes from days ago were still piled high in the sink. The dust was settling on the entryway table. The house felt neglected, dead. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he called out my name. “Rachel?” Only his own voice echoed back to him. He walked upstairs to our bedroom. When he pulled open the closet doors, they slid back to reveal empty hangers. The anniversary necklace lay discarded on the vanity. The truth finally began to dawn on him. With trembling fingers, he dialed my number. But all he got was the flat, mechanical tone of a dead line.

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I have to admit, I’ve always been a girl with a big appetite—and not just for food. Last night, I finally got a taste of the good stuff. When I opened my eyes this morning, there was a man in my bed. A soft, chubby one. Other girls have alcohol-induced one-night stands with chiseled, dark-and-handsome CEOs. I woke up next to a guy who looked like a teddy bear version of a corporate manager. If I looked at him from a certain angle, he was practically the archetype of a sketchy middle manager. Except he actually had very nice features under all that extra weight, and he was easily six-foot-one. My brain slowly pieced together the chaotic events of last night. To my absolute horror, I realized I was the one who made the first move. Just as I was spiraling, trying to figure out how to escape without waking him, a translucent, glowing text box drifted across my field of vision. It looked exactly like a live chat feed from a streaming app, hovering right in the air. “Oh no, the Male Lead is no longer pure! He’s so insecure about his weight, and the Heroine was supposed to save him with her unconditional love. How did this random side character steal him away?” “Wait, what? Did this home-wrecking side character seriously take advantage of his drunk state and…?” “Don’t underestimate him just because he’s chubby. He has incredible stamina.” “Totally. He only gained weight because of the medication he had to take after that accident. He used to be a gorgeous, wealthy heir.” “Actually, he went looking for the Heroine yesterday and overheard her complaining about how fat he is. He went to the club to drown his sorrows and ran into the side character instead.” “But who could resist her? She has a killer body and looks just as gorgeous as the Heroine.” “If I had her face and figure, I’d use him to climb my way to the top.” I was flattered by the compliments about my looks, but as someone struggling at the very bottom of the social ladder, beauty had always felt more like a curse than a blessing. I tried to slide out of bed silently, but my muscles screamed in protest. My foot caught in the heavy duvet, and I tumbled back onto the mattress. Before I could hit the floor, a pair of large, warm hands caught my waist, pulling me securely against a broad chest. I felt him stir, his body reacting with a sudden, unmistakable rush of morning energy. 1 A shiver ran down my spine. The chat feed flared up with renewed excitement. “This is definitely R-rated territory! Her body is insane.” “Wait, why did my screen go black? Let me watch!” The sheer embarrassment made my face burn a furious red. According to the chat, he was the “male lead” and I was just the “disposable side character.” Was I actually trapped inside some twisted romance novel? “Who sent you?” his voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp. “I’m this fat, and you still laid a hand on me?” I pulled the blanket tight around my chest, scurrying to the far edge of the bed. Looking into his icy, defensive eyes, a wave of sheer vulnerability washed over me, and my eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I offended a major client at work. My boss brought me to the club last night to apologize. They tried to force me to drink, to get me wasted. I only remember escaping the VIP room. After that, everything is a blur.” My boss had wanted that contract at any cost. He promised me a twenty percent raise if I just complied and kept the client happy. I desperately needed the job, so I thought I could just out-drink the man. I didn’t realize they had slipped something into my glass. Determined not to let them have their way, I had fought through the haze in my veins and stumbled out of the room. I grabbed the first man I saw in the corridor. I didn’t remember much of what followed… only that I was the aggressor, and that I had passed out more than once. A flash of guilt flickered across his eyes. He sat up, his back to me as he began pulling on his clothes. “I… I misjudged you,” he said quietly. “I’ll look into it. If what you’re saying is true, I will take responsibility.” Once he was dressed, he turned back to look at me. Seeing my small, shivering form huddled under the sheets, his gaze softened, his mind clearly drifting back to the intimacy of the night. I looked at my clothes scattered on the floor. They were torn to shreds. “Can you… help me buy some clothes?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “What size?” “Medium.” He rubbed his nose, clearing his throat as he pulled out his phone to text his assistant. The silence in the room became suffocating. I buried myself under the covers, avoiding his gaze entirely. Within twenty minutes, a bag of clothes arrived. He laid his business card, a package of pills, and a black credit card on the nightstand. “These are the emergency contraceptives, my card, and the clothes. There’s thirty thousand dollars on this card. The pin is six zeros. Call me if you need anything.” “Pills?” I poked my head out from under the blanket, panic rising in my chest. “What pills? Are you… sick? Do you have something?” His face flushed with annoyance. “It’s a morning-after pill. You were drugged. If you get pregnant, we don’t know how those chemicals might affect your body or a fetus.” I let out a long breath, relief washing over me. “You don’t need to take responsibility,” I mumbled. “I’ll take the medicine.” The chat feed popped up again. “She’s so naive, it’s almost painful.” “If I were her, I’d make him take responsibility. She just got fired, and she’s got nothing.” “I feel so bad for her. She’s beautiful but so helpless. She’s just a clumsy sweetheart.” “Honestly, it’s kind of sweet that they were each other’s first.” My cheeks burned even hotter. These comments were entirely too honest. He stared at me for a long moment before speaking. “Put your clothes on. I’m taking you to the hospital.” “Why?” I asked, genuinely confused. “I need to make sure you’re healthy, and we need a toxicology report. Don’t you want justice?” I looked down, a familiar sense of defeat settling over me. “If I go to the police, I’ll lose my job for sure.” I was pretty, yes, but I only had an associate degree from a community college. It had taken me months to find a job that paid enough to cover my rent. I couldn’t afford to lose it. God had given me a beautiful face, but He hadn’t given me the courage or the resources to protect it. I just wanted to survive. “I’ll handle the job situation,” he said firmly. “Just tell me: do you want justice?” I hesitated, then slowly nodded. After a quick shower, I pulled on the fresh clothes. Looking at my bare face in the mirror, my lips were slightly swollen, but my skin was glowing. “The side character is literally prettier than the Heroine. This is wild.” The comments really had no filter. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I looked at his tall, imposing figure. Under all that bulk, he carried himself with an innate authority, though I still couldn’t quite see him as the typical romance novel billionaire. He cleared his throat. “My name is Beckett Harrington. Let’s go.” I picked up the glass of water he had poured and swallowed the pill, then followed him out. But as we reached the elevator, my knees buckled. My legs were trembling so badly I had to lean against the wall. Beckett noticed immediately. His cheeks turned a light pink as he reached out, steadying me by my waist. “I’ll have my assistant buy you some flat shoes,” he murmured. I kept my head down, my face burning, as he guided me into the elevator. Up close, he smelled incredible—a rich, comforting blend of sandalwood and subtle amber that felt entirely custom-made. 2 After leaving the hotel, we drove straight to the hospital. He arranged for a blood draw and had the doctor check if the drugs had left any lingering damage. I was already exhausted, and losing blood made me feel utterly drained. Throughout the process, Beckett was quiet, occasionally looking at his phone to coordinate work. He really was attentive, despite his intimidating size. Once we left the clinic, he turned to me. “I’ve secured the security footage from the club. The manager is willing to testify, and a staff member confirmed they saw your drink being spiked.” A sudden warmth bloomed in my chest. A complete stranger was fighting for me. “The blood test will serve as concrete evidence. I’m taking you to the police station now to file a report. I’ve already contacted my lawyer to handle your company.” I nodded, my voice small. “Thank you.” “Don’t worry about it. Technically, I was a victim too.” I bit my lip, too embarrassed to respond. “For the report,” he added, “we’ll tell them I’m your boyfriend.” With Beckett’s help, the police report was filed smoothly. As we walked out of the station, my phone buzzed. It was a text from my manager: Don’t bother coming in today. You’re fired. A wave of bitter injustice washed over me. Beckett looked down at my phone, then at me. “To prevent them from trying to harass or threaten you, you should stay at my place for now. I’ll resolve your company’s contract issues this afternoon, and once that’s done, we can have a proper talk.” I opened my mouth to decline. I didn’t want to be a burden. But the chat feed flared up instantly. “Maisie, do not go back to your apartment! It’s dangerous!” “The big boss of her company was the one who set the whole thing up. He wanted her as his mistress.” “If they find her alone, she’s finished. Those corporate sharks won’t let her go easily.” “They probably have people waiting at her apartment right now.” The rejection died in my throat. We had already crossed the ultimate line anyway. Staying at his place for a couple of days couldn’t hurt. And if things went south, sleeping with him again was a far better alternative than being cornered by those predators. “Okay. Thank you.” He wasn’t the arrogant billionaire I expected; he was actually incredibly decent. Beckett drove me to a massive estate nestled in a highly secured, gated community. The driveway wrapped around a beautiful stone fountain. “Marie,” Beckett called out as we entered, before turning to me with an embarrassed look. He realized he still didn’t know my name. “Hi, Marie. I’m Maisie. Maisie Albright.” “Miss Albright will be staying with us for a while,” Beckett told the housekeeper. “Please get her settled.” “Of course, sir.” Beckett turned to me. “I have to handle some urgent matters. Let Marie know if you need anything.” I watched him leave, then followed Marie to a beautifully appointed guest room. After a warm bath, I muted my phone and sank into the mattress. The bed was incredibly comfortable. Exhausted from the night before, I closed my eyes and was instantly pulled into sleep, though memories of his heavy breathing and strong arms kept drifting through my mind. “For a big guy, he sure had stamina…” I mumbled into the pillow, my face burning in the dark. 3 When I woke up, the first thing I saw on my phone was a bank notification: $15,000 had been deposited into my account. Then came an apologetic text from the HR director at my old company. She claimed she hadn’t managed her staff properly. The supervisor who had set me up had been arrested, and the company was offering me a $12,000 emotional distress settlement, plus three months of severance pay. Over twenty-seven thousand dollars. I sat up, staring at the screen. I had never seen this much money in my life. I had graduated college a year ago. My first job ended abruptly when the creepy owner tried to touch me; I slapped him, and he refused to pay my final salary. It took me months to find this second job, only to be set up after three short months. I grew up in a small town. Because I developed faster than the other girls, I was constantly whispered about. By middle school, there were rumors that I was a provocateur. To protect myself, I wore oversized clothes, never touched skirts, and kept myself completely covered. Yet, I still ended up here. A soft knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Beckett standing there. “Have you been crying?” he asked gently. I quickly wiped my cheeks. “I just received the settlement from the company. Thank you.” “It’s only what you deserve.” An awkward silence settled between us. “Marie said you haven’t eaten all day. Are you feeling unwell?” The sudden warmth in his voice made my heart race. I stole a quick glance at him. “Just… a little sore. I’ve been sleeping.” The chat feed immediately started teasing. “Haha… they didn’t sleep until 5 AM, of course she’s sore.” “People always say weight affects performance, but clearly, the Male Lead has no issues.” I wished I could shut these comments off. Looking at Beckett, I felt dizzy. “Come down for dinner,” he said, his expression slightly strained. The dining table was covered in my favorite comfort foods: garlic butter shrimp, stone crab, steamed fish, and a warm, savory soup. I was so hungry I forgot my manners, digging in happily. But then I noticed he was barely eating, just watching me. I froze, slowly putting down a strawberry. “I… I was just really hungry. I don’t normally eat this much.” Growing up, I never had luxury meals. After my parents passed away when I was fourteen, my aunt took custody of me. She controlled my parents’ life insurance, giving me a meager allowance while her own children lived comfortably. I had worked double shifts at a boba shop just to buy textbooks. “Did you not get enough to eat?” Beckett asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, I’m full,” I whispered, embarrassed. He smiled, a genuine, warm expression that entirely transformed his face. “He is so whipped already.” “Honestly, she’s so beautiful, she deserves to be the main character.” “Maisie,” Beckett said, leaning back. “We need to talk about last night.” I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I need you to take responsibility,” he said. “What?” I stared at him, utterly bewildered. He looked slightly defensive. “Well, you don’t lose out in this deal either.” I couldn’t help but stare at his worried face. He had helped me so much today. “How do you want me to take responsibility?” Beckett cleared his throat, trying to look businesslike. “Marry me.”

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