Author: Momo Chan

After starting at my new company, I bought lunch for the office cleaning lady every single day. My coworkers laughed at me. They whispered behind my back, mocking me for kissing up to a woman who made minimum wage. My boyfriend broke up with me over it, claiming I was playing the big-shot philanthropist when I had no money to my name, warning me that I’d never amount to anything. Even the CEO eventually fired me, citing “misaligned values” and a “lack of professional focus.” I just smiled, packed my things into a cardboard box, and walked out. But by noon the very next day, my phone was ringing off the hook. The CEO, my ex-boyfriend, and every single one of my former coworkers were calling me in a panic, begging me in tears to buy that cleaning lady just one more lunch… … On my first day at Vertex Digital, Rachel from HR gave me a brief tour of the office. After showing me the standard open-plan desks and the communal kitchen, she stopped at the very end of a narrow, dimly lit hallway, right outside a cramped utility closet. She pointed inside at a middle-aged woman and said offhandedly, “That’s Helen. She handles the cleaning for the whole floor.” I looked into the small, shadow-draped space. Helen was wearing a faded gray uniform, sitting on a low plastic stool and quietly eating her lunch. It was a heartbreakingly simple meal: a plastic container of plain white bread and a paper cup of tap water. Sensing our presence, Helen instantly grew self-conscious. As if embarrassed by how meager her lunch was, she instinctively tried to shield the container behind her back. Then she looked up, offering a timid, polite smile. “Hello. You must be the new hire.” I nodded, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Hi, Helen. I’m Diana. Diana Monroe.” Helen stared at my outstretched hand, frozen. It was obvious she hadn’t expected a new corporate hire to offer a handshake to a janitor. After a long pause, she hurriedly set her container down. She wiped her palms repeatedly against her apron to clean off any dust, then carefully shook my hand. A warm, humble smile creased her face. “Nice to meet you, Diana. If you ever need anything cleaned or taken care of at your desk, just let me know.” I held her hand for a brief moment, nodding warmly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Beside me, Rachel frowned, a flicker of distaste passing through her eyes. When she turned back to me, her tone had cooled significantly. “Right, well, that’s everyone. Get yourself settled at your desk and you can start on the onboarding materials.” She turned and walked away without looking back, clearly eager to leave the damp hallway. I didn’t follow her immediately. Instead, I looked at the container on Helen’s small folding table and asked softly, “Do you only eat plain bread for lunch, Helen?” Helen pulled her hand back, looking a bit embarrassed. “Oh, yes. I’m just used to it.” I looked at her tired eyes, chose not to pry, and quietly headed back to my workstation to begin my onboarding. At the end of the day, my boyfriend, Brandon, walked over to my desk. He was a senior account executive in Sales, while I had just been hired as the Lead Operations Strategist. He had spent the last two weeks begging me to apply here. At the time, he told me Vertex Digital was on life support, teetering on the edge of a cliff. The operations department was a mess, and they desperately needed someone with a proven track record to turn things around. I had seven years of experience in high-stakes operational restructuring and was currently between contracts, so I eventually agreed to join. Brandon leaned against my partition, keeping his voice low. “So? How was day one? Getting adjusted?” I packed my laptop into my bag. “It’s fine. The core systems are messy, but nothing I can’t handle.” Brandon nodded, though his expression remained incredibly tense. “Diana, you have to understand, the market is brutal right now. Vertex is in a very precarious position. One wrong move and we go under. The pressure is immense.” He leaned in closer. “I know you have a lot of experience, but in corporate America, you’re only as good as your last win. You need to make a splash fast. Show them your unique commercial value. If you can pull Vertex back from the brink, you’ll be the golden girl here. Do you get what I’m saying?” “I understand,” I replied quietly. I was fully aware of the company’s fragile state. In this industry, the competition was predatory; smaller firms were swallowed overnight. Brandon had brought me in because he knew I had saved several struggling startups in the past. He wanted me to save his job security, too. But when he spoke about saving the company, my mind kept drifting back to Helen sitting in that dark closet. Looking at Brandon’s anxious, ambitious face, I offered a small, knowing smile. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” Brandon looked satisfied. “Good. I knew I could count on you.” The next day at noon, the office emptied out as people headed to local cafes or ordered expensive salads. I quietly ordered a double portion of a hearty chicken-and-vegetable lunch special from a nearby diner. When the delivery arrived, I grabbed the two warm containers and walked down the quiet hallway to the utility closet. Helen was sitting on her stool, about to swallow a spoonful of cold, dry bread. She paused, looking up in confusion as I walked in. Before she could say a word, I held out one of the steaming containers. “Helen, I accidentally ordered way too much food today. Would you mind helping me finish it?” Helen stared at the food, then at me, as if convinced she was dreaming. When she saw me pull up a plastic crate and sit down next to her, she finally realized I was serious. She waved her hands in refusal. “Oh, no, Diana. I couldn’t possibly. I brought my own bread from home. Please, eat your lunch while it’s hot. Don’t waste it on me.” She tried to push the container back, terrified of taking advantage of me. I gently caught her wrist, keeping my voice soft and sincere. “Helen, please. I honestly can’t eat all of this. If you don’t help me, a perfectly good meal is going to end up in the trash.” I kept my tone humble, making sure I didn’t bruise her dignity. Helen looked at the tender chicken and fresh vegetables, then met my eyes. Seeing only genuine warmth there, her eyes welled with a sudden, quiet gratitude. “Thank you, Diana,” she whispered. “You are incredibly kind.” I smiled, and we ate our lunch together in the quiet of the hallway. From that day on, I made it a rule to order a double lunch every single afternoon, sitting with Helen in her little closet to eat. At first, Helen repeatedly tried to hand me cash, insisting she pay for her share. But I steadfastly refused, always claiming I just wanted the company or that I had coupons I needed to use. Over time, she realized how stubborn I was and stopped fighting me. Instead, she began showing her gratitude in quiet ways. My desk was always immaculately dusted, my documents were neatly organized, and occasionally, a small container of fresh berries or a home-baked pastry would mysteriously appear next to my keyboard. Naturally, it didn’t take long for the rest of the office to notice. One morning, as I walked in, I noticed several coworkers whispering and casting judgmental looks in my direction. As I sat down, Chelsea, who sat at the desk next to mine, finally couldn’t help herself. “Diana, I’ve noticed you’ve been ordering extra takeout every day just to eat with the cleaning lady. Is she a relative of yours?” I shook my head. “No.” Chelsea looked baffled. “Then why are you buying her lunch every single day?” I didn’t feel like explaining the depth of it, so I kept it simple. “She only eats plain bread. That’s not healthy for someone her age.” Chelsea scoffed, her brow furrowing. “And why is that your problem? You don’t owe her anything. Why throw your money down the drain?” “It’s not a waste of money,” I said calmly. From across the aisle, Ashley let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. And here I thought the ‘savior of operations’ actually had some strategic vision. Turns out she’s just a bleeding-heart with a savior complex.” The surrounding operations team erupted into snickers, eager to join in. “Seriously,” one analyst chimed in. “The ship is sinking, everyone is grinding to hit targets, and she’s spending her energy playing social worker to the janitor.” “Maybe she’s not as smart as her resume says,” another whispered loudly. “She’s been here a month, done nothing major, and spends her time sucking up to a minimum-wage worker. How is that normal behavior?” “Exactly. A cleaning lady can’t get her a promotion, and she certainly can’t save this company. Buying her food is like throwing cash into a paper shredder.” “With that kind of vision, she won’t even survive her probation period.” They threw their insults back and forth, making no effort to hide their contempt. I ignored them entirely, pulling up my phone to decide what Helen and I should have for lunch. After all, keeping Helen fed was the most important strategy I had. That afternoon, I ordered a warm chicken soup and some steamed vegetables for Helen, as she had been nursing a slight cough. I even stopped by the pharmacy on my way back to buy her some cold medicine. Helen was so moved she could barely find the words to thank me. But as we were eating, Brandon suddenly appeared at the door of the utility closet. His face was flushed with anger. He grabbed my arm, pulling me out into the hallway and down toward the fire exit. “Diana, what the hell are you doing?” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “The entire office is working eighty-hour weeks to save this firm, and you’re doing… this?” I looked at him calmly. “I’m doing exactly what I need to do.” Brandon’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “What you need to do? You think your job is to spend your own money feeding a minimum-wage janitor?” He paced back and forth, running a hand through his hair. “I brought you here because I thought you were a genius. I thought you were going to pull a rabbit out of a hat and save Vertex. I thought you were going to make us both look like stars so we could finally climb the ladder together. And instead, you’ve spent a month playing nursemaid to a cleaning lady!” He stopped, looking at me with pure disgust. “I must have been blind. You have absolutely no professional instinct.” I felt a cold sensation settle in my chest. “So, you only pursued me and brought me here because of what my career could do for yours?” A flash of guilt crossed his face, but he quickly hardened his posture. “Yes, Diana. Welcome to the real world.” “I heard the rumors about you—the brilliant strategist who resurrected failing companies. I spent months planning ‘accidental’ run-ins, courting you, making you think I was the perfect boyfriend, all so I could bring you in to secure my own future here. I thought you were a ticket to the top. But you’re just a fraud with a soft heart and no brain.” He took a step back. “We’re done. I’m not letting a naive idiot ruin my reputation. I don’t have time to waste on a loser who belongs at the bottom.” Listening to his harsh, transactional words, the illusion of our three-year relationship shattered completely. I realized he had never loved me. I was just an asset he had failed to cash in on. I took a slow, deep breath, my voice remarkably steady. “Okay.” Brandon blinked, clearly caught off guard by how easily I accepted it. But his arrogance quickly returned. “Good. At least you have enough dignity to realize you’re not on my level. Go back to your cleaning lady. You two deserve each other.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the sales floor. In the hallway, several coworkers who had been eavesdropping watched me with smirk-filled satisfaction. “Well, that’s what happens when you prioritize the janitor over your own boyfriend,” Chelsea murmured as I walked past. “She’s a liability,” Ashley agreed. “Imagine having all that experience and still not understanding basic career politics.” I didn’t say a word. I just smiled. They didn’t understand. Securing a hundred new clients wouldn’t save this company half as quickly as sharing a lunchbox with Helen. After the breakup, the isolation at the office became total. Before, they had merely whispered; now, they actively frozen me out. I was excluded from team lunches, ignored in group chats, and left off the invite list for company happy hours. My manager began dumping the most tedious, mind-numbing administrative tasks on my desk, hoping I’d quit. But I didn’t care. In fact, I used my free time to take even better care of Helen. Aside from lunch, I began bringing her fresh fruit baskets and high-quality supplements to help with her cough. When I noticed her shoes were worn down, I bought her a pair of comfortable, supportive sneakers. Sometimes, when she looked too exhausted to carry her mop bucket, I’d take the handle from her hand and help her clean the floors myself. The office thought I was pathetic. They called me “the volunteer janitor” behind my back. A few days later, our CEO, Richard Christine, called an emergency all-hands meeting. We gathered in the main conference room, a space designed for two hundred people that now felt incredibly suffocating. Christine stood at the head of the long glass table, his expression dark and severe. “I called this meeting to address a serious issue regarding productivity and alignment,” Christine began, his voice echoing off the glass walls. The room fell dead silent. “We all know the state of Vertex Digital. We are facing a cash-flow crisis, client retention is down, and our competitors are closing in. In times like these, every single person in this room needs to be running at one hundred percent.” He slammed his hand on the table, making the glasses rattle. His eyes locked onto me. “But it seems some people think they are exempt from this. Diana Monroe, stand up.” Under the smug, expectant stares of my colleagues, I stood up calmly. Christine glared at me. “When I reviewed your resume, I was impressed. Seven successful turnarounds. I hired you expecting a leader who could steer this ship through the storm. And what have you done instead?” “You spend your days buying lunch for the cleaning staff, fetching her medicine, and doing her chores. My managers tell me you are completely distracted, neglecting your strategic duties to play savior to a janitor.” He sneered. “What exactly is your game here, Diana?” I looked him dead in the eye. “I am saving this company.” Christine let out a dry, bitter laugh. “By buying lunch for a janitor? Do you take me for an idiot?” “You’re using company hours to parade your supposed moral superiority, probably because you don’t actually have the skills to solve our operational problems. You are a parasite on this team, Diana. A distraction we cannot afford.” He pointed a finger at the door. “You’re fired. Pack your things and get out of my building.” I kept my voice even. “Are you absolutely certain about this, Mr. Christine?” “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he snapped. “We have no room for useless dead weight. Leave. Now.” I nodded. “Understood.” I turned and walked out of the room. As I packed my desk into a single cardboard box, my colleagues filed out of the conference room, whispering and laughing. “About time,” Chelsea smirked. “Maybe she can get a job at a soup kitchen.” “Such a waste of a salary,” Ashley added. “She really thought she was doing something.” Brandon walked by, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “I hope this is a wake-up call, Diana. Stop wasting your life on people who don’t matter. It just makes you look weak.” I smiled, taped up my box, and walked out of the glass tower without looking back. That night, I turned off my phone, crawled into bed, and slept for a solid fourteen hours. I woke up the next afternoon feeling lighter than I had in months. When I finally switched my phone back on, it vibrated so violently it nearly slid off the nightstand. There were dozens of missed calls from Brandon, hundreds of urgent notifications in the company group chat, and fifteen missed calls from Richard Christine. Before I could even process the screen, Christine’s name popped up again. I swiped to answer. “Diana! Oh thank god, you finally picked up!” Christine’s voice was frantic, his breathing ragged, completely stripped of his usual corporate authority. “Diana, please—I need you to come back to the office right now. Please, you have to buy Helen lunch!” “There’s been a disaster!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “533876”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I became a full-time gilded bird at eighteen. By twenty-eight, my keeper was getting married, but he still hadn’t grown tired of me. At his bachelor party just before the wedding, I went to pick him up. Standing outside the VIP suite, I overheard one of his friends ask, “You’re getting married next week. Has your little pet on the side been throwing a tantrum?” Chris sat with his legs crossed, entirely unbothered. “She did. Made a demand.” “Money or a title?” The friend assumed those were the only two options. Chris let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “She said she wants to go to Cambridge.” The room erupted into laughter. “A high school dropout wanting to go to Cambridge? She’s dreaming!” Chris smiled with lazy indulgence, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She’s my bird. If I don’t spoil her, who will?” Armed with those words, I chose to ignore the mockery of his friends and let myself believe him. Three months later, Chris kept his promise and drove me to a school. “Camden Bridge Technical Institute.” Hands shoved in his pockets, he gestured toward the drab, run-down building with his chin. “Go on, get your education. With your level, you wouldn’t survive a day in England anyway. Better to stick to the bootleg version close to home.” When I didn’t move, he chuckled. Tilting my chin up with his fingers, he murmured, “What? Not satisfied? You set a bar higher than the stars just because you wanted to become Mrs. Lancaster, didn’t you?” I jerked my head away, pulled my perfect French scorecard from my bag, and slapped it against his chest. “Chris, I was ready. I just didn’t expect you to be this useless.” … Chris looked down at the certificate in his hand. He froze for a second, then flipped through it carelessly, letting out a sharp laugh. “Fiona, we really are a match made in heaven. I find you a knockoff college, and you hand me a fake certificate?” “It’s a bit of a shame you can never be Mrs. Lancaster…” He seemed to think of something and laughed even more mockingly. “You didn’t actually think a Cambridge degree would get you past my family’s door, did you?” I looked at him, my own smile laced with sarcasm. “I have self-awareness, Mr. Lancaster.” In his wealthy, elite circle, women like me were nothing more than playthings. Even after ten years of devotion, that was still all I was to him. “But still, I gave you ten years of my life. When it’s all over, you can’t even manage to get me a proper education?” Chris looked down at me, his expression dripping with arrogance. “Darling, I’d love to help, but you haven’t touched a textbook in a decade. You simply can’t get into a university like that.” “Besides, the UK isn’t my family’s playground. Did you really think you could fool me with a forged test score?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice steady and deadly serious. “It’s not fake. While you were busy planning your wedding, I was studying.” Chris chuckled, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek. “Are you jealous?” “Your acting is incredible; you almost had me fooled. Maybe I should put you in the movies. You’d make a stunning star.” I tilted my head to avoid his touch, letting out a bitter laugh. “Chris, do you even know who I am?” The year I moved into his penthouse, I was the valedictorian who had walked away from a near-perfect SAT score and an Ivy League offer. Back then, I had the intellect, but I didn’t have the means to pay off my family’s million-dollar debt. Today, I still have the mind, but he has bought my freedom. The midday sun was scorching, eating away at Chris’s patience. His tone grew cold. “Of course I know you. You’re putting on this whole show just to remind me not to ignore you, aren’t you?” At that, I fell completely silent. This conversation was a dead end. As my keeper, Chris had given his bird the finest cage, the best food, and the most luxurious life. He expected nothing but endless gratitude. How could he ever understand that what a bird wants most is the open sky? “Are you going to study here or not?” he demanded. “No.” “Fine. I’ll give you one last chance to ask for something else.” “Send me to Cambridge.” Chris’s eyes darkened completely. He let out a cold sneer. “I’ve spoiled you too much.” With that, he got into his car and slammed on the gas, abandoning me there in the middle of nowhere, where even getting an Uber was impossible. My face grew pale under the blistering sun. I pulled out my phone and dialed the study-abroad agency. The counselor’s voice was professional: “The fastest route now is to sit for the A-Level exams. You need straight A’s to even have a shot at an offer.” “Then there’s the visa process. You’ll need proof of funds—at least seventy-thousand dollars up front in an account, and we conservatively estimate subsequent expenses to be around another hundred and fifty thousand.” I swayed slightly. I didn’t have that kind of money. Chris rarely gave me cash; if I wanted something, he had his assistant buy it. I knew why. He was terrified I would run with the money—a story as old as time in his wealthy circle. Lowering my eyes, I whispered into the receiver, “Let’s start with the exams. I’ll figure out the money.” I had been a kept woman for so long. If I wasn’t in it for the money, was I supposed to be in it for love? Since everyone assumed my greed was the only thing keeping me here, I might as well take the money and run. I ended up taking a bumpy local bus back to the city. The motion sickness made my stomach cramp violently. Mustering every ounce of strength, I caught a train back. By the time I unlocked the front door of the penthouse, I felt half-dead. The house was pitch black. Too exhausted to even flip the light switch, I stumbled through the dark toward the bedroom. “Have you learned your lesson?” Chris’s voice sliced through the silence. He was sitting in the shadows, making me jump. I froze, taking a moment to catch my breath before replying quietly, “Yes.” I paused. “Chris, I don’t want to go to school anymore. Just give me the money instead. Not much—just two hundred thousand dollars.” To men like him, two hundred thousand was pocket change, the cost of a few lavish dinners. But Chris just let out a soft laugh, leaning back against the sofa. “Suddenly, I don’t feel like giving it to you.” “Why?” My voice sounded like dying embers. “No reason.” He spoke with the casual indifference of a man who answered to no one. That was Chris. Intractable, unpredictable. He had paid off my family’s half-million-dollar debt without blinking, yet he begrudged me a fraction of that now. He felt nothing for me, yet he refused to let me go. A sudden spark of anger flared in my chest. I spat out, “Is Lancaster Enterprises going bankrupt? Or are you turning into one of those cheap, married old men who counts every penny they spend on their mistresses?” Chris stood up and closed the distance between us, the scent of expensive tobacco invading my senses. “Fiona, sometimes I really want to pull every single thorn out of you.” His fingers trailed along my bare arm, sending a cold shiver down my spine. Then he withdrew his hand, sighing with mock regret. “But then again, you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without them.” He tossed a couple of designer shopping bags from the sofa toward me. “My wife keeps a tight leash on the finances, so I can’t give you cash. But gifts are fine.” He offered a mocking smile. “And she keeps a tight leash on me, too. I have to go back and keep her company.” “If she’s that strict, shouldn’t you be a devoted husband, Mr. Lancaster?” I sneered. Chris paused at the entryway and chuckled. “You’re a bird, Fiona. She’s a human. There’s no conflict.” The front door clicked shut. I threw the luxury shopping bags onto the floor in a fit of rage, but immediately thought of their resale value and humiliatingly picked them up, smoothing out the creases. Staring at those glossy bags, a profound wave of grief washed over me. Years ago, I had tried to run. Chris had dragged me back within forty-eight hours. After that, I stopped trying, mostly because he wasn’t married yet. My one remaining boundary was that I would never be the other woman. My mother had been a mistress. The legal wife had set a trap for her, leaving her penniless, humiliated, and buried under a mountain of debt. I was the one who had to pay for her sins. Now, I was sliding down the exact same slope. I didn’t know if I could survive the fallout this time. The next morning, I picked up the study materials from the agency before heading straight to a luxury consignment shop to sell the clothes and bags Chris had given me. But the moment I laid the handbag on the counter, a beautifully dressed woman storming into the shop slapped me hard across the face. “You shameless thief! You stole my clothes and bags yesterday, and you’re already trying to pawn them today?” The woman was Isabella Croft, Chris’s new wife. She had been waiting for me. Panic seized my chest. I had no shield, no defense. I could only stand there silently as she produced the receipts and called the police. The total value of the items was high enough to qualify as grand larceny. She wanted me behind bars. Sitting in the interrogation room, the detectives asked me, “Did you steal these items?” I wanted to deny it. But explaining the truth meant admitting I was a mistress, that Isabella’s husband had gifted them to me. In the eyes of the law and public opinion, that would just drag me into a different kind of ruin. Just as the pressure was mounting and I was about to speak, Chris walked in. He didn’t even look at me. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Isabella, his voice dripping with gentle concern. “Who upset you, sweetheart? Why didn’t you call me first?” Isabella glared at him, pouting. “Oh, stop pretending, Chris.” Chris shrugged, his gaze finally shifting to me. I was already looking at him, my eyes filled with raw, helpless pleading—just like the day I had begged him to save me ten years ago. But this time, Chris didn’t help. He just smiled. “A formal trial is such a hassle. Why don’t we just hold her for ten days? Let my wife get a little peace of mind.” He leaned down, whispering in Isabella’s ear, his tone deliberately sweet. “What do you say, darling?” Isabella’s cheeks flushed. “Fine. We’ll let her off easy this once.” From beginning to end, Chris never offered a single word of explanation. He had happily joined his wife in treating me like a plaything. In that moment, I knew that if I didn’t escape, they would eventually destroy me. Ten days later, I was released. My clothes hung loosely on my thin frame, hiding the bruises that covered my body. I had been beaten inside. Every pack has an alpha, even in a holding cell. From day one, the dominant woman took a dislike to me. She and her cronies spent ten days making my life a living hell. The excuses changed daily: because I was too pretty, because I stayed silent, because I spoke up, because I refused to grovel at their feet. They built a miniature hell and kept me in it for ten days. Back at the penthouse, I stood under the shower for a long, long time, desperately trying to wash away the grime and the shame. Suddenly, the bathroom door swung open. Chris leaned against the frame, letting out a soft sigh. “My poor little bird.” Despite his words, there wasn’t a shred of pity in his eyes. I turned away, swallowing my humiliation. “Do you know what you did wrong this time, little bird?” he asked. “Those animals in there… you paid them, didn’t you?” I asked, my voice flat. Chris raised his hands in mock innocence. “Now, how could you say that? I could never bear to hurt you. But my wife was still furious, and she insisted on pulling a few strings. I couldn’t exactly tell her no.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. His silent permission was no different from pulling the trigger himself. I shut off the water and began to dry myself. Chris stepped onto the wet floor, taking the ointment to apply it to my bruises. “No more selling the things I buy you, little bird. Understand?” His voice was thick. I took a step back, cutting through the heavy air. “Then give me cash.” “What do you need cash for? Have I ever let you go hungry or cold?” “I want to go to school.” At that, Chris deliberately pressed down on a fresh bruise. I gasped from the sharp pain. His voice turned ice-cold. “What’s the point of school? When you’re done, you’ll still end up right back in my bed. Do they teach you how to please me in college?” I wanted to tell him that I was going to university so I could go far away—somewhere so distant that he would forget my name, and I could finally bury the past. I wanted to live the life I had planned ten years ago, full of color and purpose. But I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t say those things to him. We ended the night in cold silence. Sensing my defiance, Chris locked me inside the penthouse the next day and stationed guards outside the door. I didn’t care. My only goal was to get those straight A’s. Being locked inside just gave me the perfect, uninterrupted environment to study. After a few days of online classes, my tutor suddenly changed. Looking at the handsome young man on my screen, memories flooded back. It was my high school rival and desk partner, Wyatt Hawthorne. “My sister had an emergency, so I’m covering for her today,” he explained, looking just as shocked to see me. He kept his composure, keeping the explanation brief so we could get through the lesson. After class, we talked. He asked why I had vanished off the face of the earth after graduation, but I skirted around the question. Wyatt didn’t press. Instead, he caught me up on his own life. His family’s business was headquartered in London, and he had taken over the reins after finishing his degree. As he spoke, an idea began to take root in my mind. After a long pause, I asked, “Wyatt, are you interested in making an investment?” He paused, his bright eyes searching mine through the screen. Then he smiled. “I’m listening.” Chris kept me locked up for a full month. In the past, I would have gone mad. But now, my mind was entirely consumed by my studies. I worked day and night, barely sleeping four hours a day. When Chris finally came back, he was greeted by my pale, ghostly face. He frowned in disgust. “What happened to my little bird? You look like a ghost.” I rolled my eyes. “And whose fault is that?” Chris seemed to be in a good mood; he merely laughed. “My mistake. I’ll take my little bird out for a walk tonight.” True to his word, he took me to a high-society gala that evening. The moment we arrived, the whispers started. “I thought Chris and Isabella just got back from a month-long honeymoon. They seemed so happy. I figured he’d finally dumped this one.” Another voice sneered, “Men get bored. You can’t look at the same face forever.” Only then did I realize Chris had spent the past month traveling with Isabella. I lowered my eyes, taking a silent sip of champagne. Chris looked down at me, his tone teasing. “Jealous? I’ll take you on a trip next time, okay?” I looked up sharply, my eyes bright with sudden hope. “Could you take me to London?” Chris’s brow furrowed. “Are you still obsessed with Cambridge?” I shook my head quickly. “No. I just want to see the world with you.” His expression softened, and he agreed. “Alright. I promise.” A quiet wave of relief washed over me. In my mind, I checked off another box on my timeline. Halfway through the gala, Chris left to mingle. I slipped out to the quiet back garden to get some fresh air. I had barely stepped onto the stone path when a hand clamped onto my arm. “You little bitch! I finally found you!” I spun around, staring in disbelief at the haggard face. It was my mother, who was supposed to be behind bars. “When did you get out?!” Years ago, desperate to settle her debts, she had colluded with a loan shark ring to sell me off. I had found out in time and called the police, landing her and the entire gang in prison. I had no idea she had been released. “You heartless brat, you didn’t even come look for me when I got paroled,” she spat, her breath smelling of cheap liquor. “Give me money. I’m completely broke.” I eyed her warily, my voice cold. “I don’t have any money.” “You’re sleeping with a billionaire and you have no money?” Her voice shrieked, slicing through the quiet night. “I don’t. You need to leave right now before he sees you. He won’t let you off easy.” Her face twisted into a vicious sneer. “I gave you a chance, Fiona. Don’t blame me for being cruel.” Before I could react, she pressed a chemically treated cloth over my nose and mouth. Within seconds, my limbs went limp, all the strength draining from my body. A short distance away, a heavy-set, greasy-looking man stepped out from the shadows, rubbing his hands together. “I hear plenty of rich bastards in this town would pay top dollar for you,” my mother whispered, her voice laced with greed. “I’ll auction you off to the highest bidder.” Her voice was thick with excitement. A cold dread settled in my chest, but as my vision began to blur, I spotted a figure standing near the glass doors of the terrace. It was Chris. Hands tucked casually in his pockets, he stood there, watching the scene unfold with a faint, amused smile. It was an invitation—a test of my loyalty. I swallowed the panic and screamed with the last of my strength, “Chris! Help me!” A look of profound satisfaction washed over his face, and he stepped briskly toward us. Terrified, my mother dropped me and bolted into the shadows. Chris caught me just before I hit the ground. Shivering violently in his arms, I gritted my teeth. “If I hadn’t called your name, would you have just stood there and watched?” He smiled, his voice oozing faux innocence. “You’re my bird, darling. Why would I ever give you away?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I just wanted you to see that in this world, I am your only salvation. Your mother won’t protect you, and you certainly can’t protect yourself.” I stared at him, the horrifying truth clicking into place. He had tipped off my mother. From the very beginning, this was his design to make me realize that my only lifeline was Chris Lancaster himself. But he didn’t realize that every living creature will fight to the death for survival. I still had one card left to play. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I let my voice soften into a fragile whisper. “You’re right… I only have you.” My submission worked. Chris finally lifted the restrictions on my freedom, and two months later, I sat for my A-Level exams. When the results were posted, I had achieved straight A’s. Even my tutor was stunned. “You’re a brilliant mind, Fiona. It makes no sense that you never went to college.” I kept my head down, offering a small smile. “Even brilliant minds have bills to pay.” With my scores in hand, I slowly coaxed Chris into taking me to the UK. The night he booked the tickets, he held me close, his voice low and testing. “How did that little exam of yours go?” My fingers trembled slightly, but my voice remained steady. “Oh, it was fine. Just wanted to see what it felt like to study again.” He traced a finger down my spine, his eyes glinting with a soft threat. “It’s fine to play around.” “But if you try to enroll anywhere here, I can always have you pulled out. And as for schools abroad… without my money, you’d be thrown out before the first semester ends anyway.” I leaned against his chest, adopting my most compliant tone. “I know. I’m staying right here by your side.” Chris smiled, satisfied. Three days later, we boarded our first-class flight to London. I spent the entire journey staring out the window, my mind racing. Chris noticed. “Why so tense?” I took his hand, letting it tremble. “It’s my first time flying. I’m just a little scared.” He gave a soft, dismissive snort. “Pathetic.” But he signaled the flight attendant to bring over two glasses of wine, handing one to me. “Drink up. You’ll sleep through the rest of the flight.” I took the glass, leaning my head against his shoulder as the shadows in my eyes deepened. “Okay.” An hour later, the cabin lights dimmed, and we both drifted into a deep sleep. … When the plane touched down in Turkey for our layover, Chris was awakened by the flight attendant. He instinctively turned his head, and when his eyes met the empty seat beside him, his chest tightened. “Where is the woman who was sitting next to me?” Startled by his sharp tone, the flight attendant struggled to maintain her professional smile. “Sir, the lady got off the plane first.” “She even told me to let you sleep a bit longer. Weren’t you parting ways here?”

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At our high school graduation after-party, we played a round of “Never Have I Ever.” The rules were simple: the winner could make anyone in the room do whatever they wanted. I smiled, taking the initiative to strike first. “I’ve watched the stars with Chris at three in the morning.” “He’s written me a hundred love letters.” “He skipped his AP Calculus exam to sit with me in the ER when my appendix flared up.” “He has a secret contact name for me on his phone.” One by one, everyone in the circle folded their fingers. Except for Ivy, the biological daughter who had been brought back to the Devon family just a month ago. Her fingers remained perfectly straight. 1. She looked around the room, her voice soft and deliberate. “Chris texts me goodnight, every single night.” I folded one finger. “He never tutors anyone, but he spent the last three months helping me prep for the SATs.” Another finger down. “I’m his only pinned contact on Messages.” “His lock screen is my birthday.” She smiled, throwing the final blow. “And he’s the one who suggested this game tonight, because he knew I’d win.” I looked at Chris. He was sitting in the center of the plush leather booth, watching her with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. In three years, he had never looked at me like that. Not once. I lost. Completely and utterly. But the strangest part was, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. The booth fell dead silent. A dozen pairs of eyes shifted to me, heavy with pity and awkward amusement. Everyone in our graduating class knew I’d spent three years trailing behind Chris like a loyal shadow. To them, I was just the desperate, unrequited tagalong who couldn’t take a hint. Chris and I were childhood sweethearts. I had loved him for as long as I could remember. During our freshman year, we finally crossed the line. He kissed my forehead in the empty equipment shed behind the track field, smelling of cut grass and ozone. He told me, “I don’t want a relationship distracting us from our goals. At school, we should just be normal classmates.” I agreed. So, for three years, we became ghosts in each other’s public lives. I willingly played the role of the devoted, silent partner, convinced that if I was just patient enough, quiet enough, his brilliant, guarded heart would eventually belong to me entirely. It wasn’t until tonight that I realized it had all been a solitary delusion. Ivy won the game, her eyes sparkling as she turned to Chris. “Chris, will you drive me home tonight? I’m afraid of the dark.” Chris sat back, his long fingers casually spinning his lighter on the table. He didn’t even look in my direction as he grabbed his jacket. “Sure. Let’s go.” He agreed without a second thought. Someone in the corner, sensing the suffocating awkwardness, tried to clear the air. “Hey, Chris, what about Grace? She lives with you guys. Can’t she ride shotgun?” Chris paused, his hand on the door. He turned, his gaze finally landing on me. Those dark, deep eyes were entirely indifferent. “The car’s full. Just grab an Uber, Grace. You’ve always been the tough one anyway.” His tone was flat, like he was delegating a minor chore. Then, he opened the door for Ivy, guiding her out with a protective hand on her lower back. I sat there, staring at the closed door. This act of retreating, of being left behind, was something I had experienced dozens of times over the past month. Chris’s favoritism was loud and clear. I had confronted him about it once, my voice trembling with hurt. He had only frowned, looking down at me from his height. “You occupied her room, her life, for eighteen years, Grace. I’m just giving her what she missed out on. Why are you being so selfish?” With a single sentence, he had nailed me to a cross of guilt. I picked up my purse and slipped out of the venue. The humid summer breeze did nothing to cool my skin, but it cleared my head. The Uber pulled up to the gates of the Devon estate. I pushed open the front door to find the foyer dark. The kitchen island was cluttered with the greasy remains of a late-night takeout order—boxes from the high-end bistro downtown that Mr. and Mrs. Devon had shared with Ivy. No one had left a light on for me. No one had texted to ask if I’d made it home safely. I bypassed the mess and walked up to my small bedroom. Just as I shut the door, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Chris. “Ivy is asleep. Did you get back?” “The game was just to make her feel welcome. Don’t be petty.” “Make sure you lock in your Columbia enrollment tomorrow.” Looking at the glowing text on the screen, my heart didn’t even stutter. It was entirely still. I typed out a single word. “Okay.” I switched my phone to silent and flipped it face down on the desk. Lying in the dark, watching the shadows of the tree branches dance across the ceiling, tears finally slid hot and silent down my temples. “Chris, the promise of going to the same college… I can’t keep it anymore.” 2. The next morning, I sat at my desk and logged into the university admissions portal. My eyes fell on the first-choice box, where “Columbia University” was written in bold. Columbia. It was Chris’s dream, and for three years, it had been my cage. Chris was brilliant, always ranking first in our grade. To ensure I could stand beside him, I had nearly killed myself studying. I had stayed up until three in the morning memorizing formulas, anxious to the point of nosebleeds before every major exam. Whenever I felt like collapsing, Chris would just flip a page of his textbook and say indifferently, “I don’t do long-distance, Grace. You have to get in.” He never offered actual encouragement. He simply demanded that I keep up with his pace, and I, pathetically, took it as proof of his love. My phone buzzed on the wood desk. “I don’t have time to review your enrollment details today,” Chris’s text read. “Ivy wanted to go to the pier, so I’m taking her. Just commit to Columbia like we planned. Don’t mess it up.” His tone was so natural, as if he were a manager issuing directives to an assistant. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened Instagram. At the top of my feed was Ivy’s post from five minutes ago. “Thank you to my favorite person for the perfect day at the pier!” The photo was a selfie on the Ferris wheel. In the corner of the frame, a masculine hand was holding out a waffle cone of ice cream. On that wrist was the designer watch I had saved up for a year to buy Chris for his birthday. At the time, he had barely glanced at it, offering a lukewarm, “It’s fine.” I scrolled past the photo without feeling a thing, leaving a polite like on the post. Then, I put down my phone and gripped the mouse. The cursor hovered over “Columbia University.” Without a shred of hesitation, I clicked “Decline.” As the screen cleared, a rush of memories flooded my mind—all the quiet humiliations of the last three years. I had stopped eating spicy food because he disliked it. I had ignored him in the school hallways to keep our secret. I took a deep breath and typed a different name into the search bar: “University of Miami.” It was two thousand miles away. Warm, coastal, and entirely devoid of both the Devons and Chris. The portal prompted: “Are you sure you want to commit to this university? Once submitted, this action cannot be undone.” I hit enter. “Enrollment Confirmed.” The green banner flashed on the screen, locking the page. I let out a long, shuddering breath. The heavy, suffocating weight that had pressed on my chest for three years seemed to dissolve into the morning air. Almost instantly, my screen lit up with another message from Chris. “Did you lock in Columbia? Send me the screenshot.” I looked at the message, a faint, mocking smile touching my lips. As it turned out, cutting ties wasn’t nearly as hard as I had feared. 3. At dusk, the rumble of an engine echoed from the driveway. Before long, the quiet house was filled with laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Devon had returned with Ivy, their arms laden with glossy shopping bags from Saks and Chanel. I stepped out of my room just as they were piling the haul onto the coffee table. When Mrs. Devon saw me, her laughter caught in her throat. For a second, she looked as if she had forgotten I lived there. She reached into her designer bag, looking slightly uncomfortable, and pulled out a credit card, holding it out to me. “Grace, we had such a long day shopping for Ivy’s college wardrobe that we didn’t get a chance to pick out anything for you. Take this and buy yourself some nice things. You’re starting college soon; you need a new look.” Ivy sat on the sofa, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to intentionally reveal a glittering diamond necklace. She gave me a sweet, syrupy smile. “Grace, look at this. Chris stood in line for hours today to get it for me. Isn’t it gorgeous?” I stared at the necklace. It was the exact piece Chris had promised me as a graduation gift. He had told me, with his usual casual detachment, that we would go pick it out together after finals. He hadn’t forgotten. He had just decided it belonged to someone else. I pulled my gaze away and took the card from Mrs. Devon. “Thank you, Mom.” Mrs. Devon blinked, clearly surprised by my easy compliance. A flicker of guilt passed through her eyes, but I didn’t give her the chance to speak. I turned and walked back to my room. Once the door was shut, I pulled my old duffel bag from under the bed. I opened the closet and began sorting through the expensive clothes, designer bags, and jewelry the Devons had bought me over the years. I folded them neatly and placed them in the deepest corners of the shelves. I didn’t belong in this house, and I wasn’t taking their charity with me. My duffel bag was filled only with a few worn-out shirts, my favorite paperbacks, and a small silver locket my biological mother had left me. Halfway through packing, my phone lit up. “We’re getting sushi tomorrow at noon,” Chris texted. “Wear that white sundress I got you.” It was the same demanding, controlling tone he always used. I tapped out a quick response. “I can’t make it. You guys go ahead.” A few minutes passed before he replied. “Grace, don’t start. I took Ivy out today because she was feeling overwhelmed. If you’re upset, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” Faced with his transactional affection, I couldn’t even summon the energy to explain. “I’m not mad. I just don’t want to go.” I put the phone on silent and ignored the subsequent buzzes. I pulled out a notebook and began itemizing every cent of allowance and tuition the Devons had spent on me over the last eight years. Then, I transferred all the money I had saved from my part-time jobs onto the credit card Mrs. Devon had handed me. Soon, I would be entirely free. 4. For the next two weeks, I worked double shifts at a local cafe, determined to leave nothing owed. When the day of our class graduation send-off party arrived, Mrs. Devon practically forced me out the door. The family had rented a grand ballroom at a five-star hotel downtown to celebrate the graduates. When I pushed open the double doors of the ballroom, the room was buzzing with music and laughter. Chris was standing near the center table, looking striking in a tailored white shirt, his posture cool and aristocratic. Ivy sat beside him in a magnificent emerald silk dress, looking every bit the cherished daughter. They looked perfect together. Hearing the door open, Chris looked up. When his eyes fell on my faded vintage tee and worn jeans, his brow furrowed in immediate irritation. But he kept his composure, picking up a glass of champagne and walking toward me with slow, confident strides. The surrounding classmates offered knowing looks, stepping aside to clear a path for him. Chris stopped in front of me, his eyes carrying that familiar, smug certainty that I would always crawl back. To him, my two-week silence was just another tantrum. “You’ve had your fun for two weeks,” he said, his voice low. “It’s time to stop.” I looked at his handsome, indifferent face and felt a sudden urge to laugh. “Stop what?” Chris stiffened, caught off guard. His frown deepened, his voice dropping an octave. “Grace, I’m giving you an easy way out here. Don’t push your luck.” Ivy appeared at his side, wrapping her arm tightly around his. She looked at me with mock sympathy. “Grace, Chris is just looking out for your future. Columbia is incredibly competitive. You’ll really struggle there without his help.” I didn’t even look at her. I walked straight past them toward Mrs. Devon, placing the credit card on the white tablecloth before her. “Mom, everything you’ve spent on me over the last eight years—tuition, clothing, living expenses, with interest—is on this card. The PIN is six zeros.” Mrs. Devon froze. Chris, who had followed me, went completely rigid. Before he could demand an explanation, the school principal tapped the microphone on the stage, the feedback echoing through the speakers. “Parents, teachers, and graduates, may I have your attention, please!” The room fell quiet. “Tonight, along with celebrating Ivy Devon’s bright future, I have the immense honor of announcing two major achievements from our graduating class!” The principal pointed proudly to the large projector screen behind him. “First, our very own Chris, who graduated in the top percentile of the state, has officially committed to Columbia University!” The room erupted into applause. Chris offered a polite, practiced nod, maintaining his effortless golden-boy persona. The principal raised his hands to quiet the crowd, his smile widening. “And second, let’s congratulate Grace Devon, who has officially committed to the University of Miami!” The projector screen flashed, displaying the official confirmation letter from the admissions portal. The words “University of Miami” glowed in bright, coastal orange and green. The applause died instantly. The ballroom fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Every head in the room turned back and forth between me and Chris. The smug composure on Chris’s face shattered. He stared at the screen, his eyes wide with utter shock and disbelief.

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The third time Adeline burst in to catch me in bed with another woman, I didn’t panic. I didn’t scramble to pull on my clothes or desperately try to explain myself like I did the first two times. Simon Franklin, the lead counsel for the Davis Group, stood at the front of the room. “Mr. Max, this is the third instance of marital infidelity.” “According to the prenuptial agreement, you will leave with nothing—no assets, and you forfeit all custody rights to your daughter.” Adeline had long since lost her patience. Her eyes were filled with pure, cold hatred as she looked at me. She threw the divorce papers onto the table in front of me. “The first time, you claimed you didn’t even know the woman.” “The second time, you said you had no idea how you ended up in that hotel room.” “Three strikes, Wayne. What’s your excuse this time?” She expected me to spin another clumsy lie. But I said nothing. I just quietly picked up the pen, signed my name on the dotted line, and prepared to vanish from her life forever. I just wonder… why is it that now, when I have finally given her exactly what she wanted—leaving with absolutely nothing, not even demanding to see our daughter—she is the one who goes completely mad? … Simon snatched the signed papers away immediately. As if terrified I would change my mind, he turned to Adeline and said, “It’s done, Mrs. Davis. He signed.” Adeline stared at me, her brow furrowed tight. She probably didn’t expect me to sign so easily. The last two times, I had torn the papers to shreds, falling to my knees until they bled, weeping and begging her: “For Hazel’s sake, please believe me just this once!” I capped the pen and set it down on the desk. “I’ll pack my things and clear out as soon as possible. As for visitation rights—” “You don’t deserve to be a father,” she interrupted, her voice heavy and dark. “You are never to see her again.” I didn’t look up. I just let out a soft, dry laugh. “I was actually about to say… I don’t want visitation rights either.” Adeline’s coldness didn’t waver, but her eyes lingered on me a fraction longer. She couldn’t fathom my sudden compliance. For the past four years, she and Hazel had been my entire world. I used to feel a pang of jealousy and sorrow whenever Hazel called Simon “Uncle Simon” instead of calling out for me. To give her up so easily now… it didn’t make sense. “Trash,” she sneered, finally finding a rationalization for my behavior. “Willing to abandon your own flesh and blood for whatever cheap thrill you’ve got waiting outside.” “What was the point of all your schemes to get into my bed back then? What was the point of forcing me to have that child?” I listened to her words, but the desire to defend myself had completely withered. The first time she caught me in a hotel room with another woman, I had been utterly disoriented. I had begged and pleaded, insisting I would never betray her. But she was always convinced I was obsessed with her wealth. And because the woman in question had fled, leaving only a blurry silhouette on the hotel’s security footage, Adeline chose to believe me—partially. Even so, she took Hazel away from me. I was allowed to see my daughter only once a month, and I had to schedule it a week in advance through Simon. During those visits, Simon hovered over us like a warden. If I held Hazel a moment too long, I had to watch his scowling face. I had to clear every toy and dress I bought for Hazel with Simon first, otherwise they would never reach her hands. My mental state deteriorated rapidly, and then came the second affair. I had taken a small part-time consulting job just to keep my mind busy. On a business trip, I woke up in a hotel room, completely drugged and confused, with a woman draped over me. I called the police myself. But the medical report came back showing no signs of assault, and the evidence was stacked against me. Adeline assumed I had simply been caught before I could finish the deed. After that, I was stripped of my right to attend Hazel’s preschool events. Whenever the school called, Adeline sent Simon. She told me to stay home and “stop embarrassing the family.” Even when Hazel pointed a finger at me and called me a “bad, cheating man,” Adeline just stood there, silent. Now, the third time… I was tired of this sick game. I was ready to let them have each other. And yet, she had the nerve to ask why I was giving up my own child? Simon stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “Adeline, even though the prenup says he forfeits custody… in all my years of practice, I’ve never seen a father give up his kid this quickly.” “Wayne probably planned this long ago. Traveling light makes it easier to run around with his mistresses. Let him go. There’s no point in arguing.” He looked up at me, a brief, smug glint in his eyes. I let out a quiet chuckle. He seemed to have forgotten… Four years ago, he was the one who drafted that absurd prenuptial agreement, down to the exact clause about “three strikes of infidelity.” Adeline’s expression grew even colder. “You’d better mean what you say. Don’t come crawling back, begging on your knees.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out. I watched her back, the corners of my mouth twitching into a bitter smile. I won’t, Adeline. Years ago, when I was trying to convince myself that marrying you was the right choice despite our differences, I visited every church and spiritual guide, and every sign pointed to ruin. Then I traveled to a remote chapel in the Swiss Alps, spending a day and a night on my knees, praying until I found a passage that gave me hope: “Love bears all things, believes all things.” I thought it was a divine blessing. It turned out to be a curse. This time, my knees will never bend for you again. Simon looked at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Wayne, they say a night of passion is worth gold. We won’t keep you from your companion.” The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent once more. I looked down at the woman still fast asleep on the bed. A wave of deep disgust rose in my chest. I had woken up before her. I could have slipped away before they arrived to catch us. But I was just so tired of being the mouse in their cat-and-mouse game. I threw on my coat and walked out without looking back. The next evening, I went back to the estate to pack my things. When I opened the master bedroom, I found all my clothes and personal belongings completely gone. The housekeeper hovered in the doorway, unable to look me in the eye. “Mr. Max, your things… they were moved to the backyard storage shed. Mr. Franklin said… he said the master bedroom needs to be cleared out immediately for its new master.” I smiled faintly. Four years of marriage, and I wasn’t even allowed a decent departure. I walked out to the drafty storage shed in the backyard. Inside, cardboard boxes and plastic bags were piled high, haphazardly thrown together. I knelt on the dusty floor, digging through them one by one. The clothes didn’t matter. But I had to find my mother’s silver locket. It was a piece my grandmother had passed down to my mother, and my mother had given to me… The only thing in this entire place that actually belonged to me. Finally, I found it at the very bottom of a crushed box. I clutched it in my palm, letting out a long, shuddering breath. As I began pulling a few sweaters into a duffel bag, a small, shrill voice spoke from the doorway. “What are you doing?” I turned. Hazel stood there, her small frame blocking the exit. She looked so much like Adeline, but she had assumed the exact same haughty, arms-crossed posture as Simon. “Getting my things,” I said softly, returning to my packing. Usually, when I saw her, I would swallow my pride and shower her with hugs and kisses, even if she squirmed away in disgust. But this time, I felt nothing but a quiet, hollow stillness. “Those aren’t your things.” Seeing that I wasn’t pleading with her, she marched inside. She stomped her muddy shoe right onto one of my shirts scattered on the floor. “Uncle Simon said everything in this house belongs to Mommy. You’re not allowed to take anything.” My hands paused. “These are my personal belongings, Hazel.” “You bought them with Mommy’s money,” she said, putting her hands behind her back. “Mommy’s money belongs to the Davis family. Outsiders don’t get to take anything.” “Outsider.” I looked up at her. My four-year-old daughter was standing over me, looking at me as if I were a common thief. The coldness in her eyes was even sharper than her mother’s. “I’m only taking this,” I said, tightening my grip on the silver locket as I stood up. “The rest can stay.” “No!” She blocked the door, spreading her small arms wide. “You can’t steal from us!” “Hazel, step aside.” “I won’t!” she yelled. “You’re a thief! A dirty thief! Uncle Simon said once you leave, you’re never allowed back. Coming back makes you a robber!” A sharp throbbing started in my temples. “I’m telling you one last time, step aside.” “No! Give it to me!” She lunged forward, grabbing the velvet pouch containing the locket. I instinctively pulled back, but the cheap fabric tore. The silver locket slipped from my fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a sharp crack. I froze, staring at the shattered pieces of silver and glass. I remembered the day my mother had put it around my neck. She had said, “Wayne, this has been in our family for six generations. One day, you’ll pass it down to your own child…” It was the only piece of my history I had left. Six generations of love, shattered on a dirty concrete floor by my own daughter. Hazel stood back, muttering under her breath, “It’s your fault for not letting go…” My eyes burned as I stared at her. “Do you have any idea why your grandmother is in that care facility?” Hazel blinked, taking a step back. “I don’t have a grandmother. I only know about the money-wasting old lady…” The blood rushed to my ears, hot and deafening. “Uncle Simon said she lives in that fancy clinic using up Mommy’s money when she’s never going to get better anyway. She’s just a black hole for cash—” “Say that again.” My voice had dropped to a whisper. It sounded so hollow, so detached, I barely recognized it myself. Frightened by my expression, Hazel bit her lip but forced herself to sneer, “She’s just a money-wasting old lady, so what—ah!” I pushed her. Her foot caught on a box, and she fell backward, landing hard on her bottom. She sat there in shock for a second before letting out a piercing wail. “Mommy! Mommy!” I stood frozen, my hands trembling. Looking down at my screaming daughter, her words echoed in my head. “Money-wasting old lady.” That “money-wasting old lady” was my mother. Her grandmother. The woman who, despite barely recovering from major surgery, had spent weeks hand-knitting a baby blanket for Hazel’s first month. The woman who, every single year on Hazel’s birthday, would call from the rehabilitation center, asking the nurse to help her whisper, “Happy birthday, my sweet Hazel.” And my daughter called her a black hole for cash. A sharp piece of the broken silver sliced into my palm. The physical pain cleared my head. Adeline burst into the shed, seeing her daughter crying on the floor. She knelt down and gathered her into her arms. “Hazel, sweetie, what happened?” Hazel buried her face in Adeline’s neck, sobbing hysterically. “Mommy, he pushed me! Make him leave! I want Uncle Simon…” Adeline held her tight, looking up at me. Her eyes were filled with icy disgust. “Wayne, have you lost your mind? Putting your hands on a child!” “I didn’t hit her,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I only pushed her.” “Is there a difference?” I looked down at the broken locket in my bleeding hand. “Yes,” I said. “Hitting her would be a father trying to discipline his child. Pushing her was simply what she deserved.” Adeline stared at me, stunned. She looked down at Hazel. Hazel whimpered, her crying dying down to a sullen mutter. “But I was just telling the truth… Uncle Simon said that old lady is just wasting Mommy’s money…” Adeline rubbed her temples. “She’s a child, Wayne. Why are you picking a fight with a four-year-old?” She glanced at me coldly. “Simon manages our family accounts now. He was speaking from a purely financial perspective, and Hazel overheard him. Don’t blow this out of proportion.” “You have no idea how much stress he takes off my shoulders running this estate.” She looked at the broken silver locket in my hand. Perhaps sensing my genuine despair, her tone softened slightly. “I brought Hazel here today so we could talk. But… we shouldn’t mention the divorce to her yet. It’s not good for her development.” I didn’t say a word. Talk? About what? In four years of marriage, the total time she and Hazel spent speaking to me didn’t even equal half of the time she spent whispering with Simon. Back in college, she was the one who pursued me. She was the one who made me fall for her, step by step. She made me believe we had a future, even when everyone else said our worlds were too far apart. I had prayed, hoped, and fought so hard just to believe we stood a chance. Even without the unexpected pregnancy that forced our hands, I had been building up the courage to propose, to bridge the gap between her wealthy family and my modest one. Now, I was glad I never got the chance to say those words. My mother was still in the care facility, waiting for me to visit. Thinking of her, I grabbed my duffel bag and walked out of the shed. In the living room, Simon was kneeling in front of Hazel, softly comforting her. I walked past them without looking. Behind me, Hazel suddenly let out another loud sob. “Why is that bad man ignoring me!” She stomped her foot, furious and confused. She was so used to me running to her with tears in my eyes whenever she threw a tantrum, begging, “I’m sorry, sweetie, Daddy was wrong.” To be met with absolute indifference made her feel slighted. Adeline said nothing, but I could feel the heat of her glare on my back. I didn’t stop. Just as I reached for the front door, her voice exploded through the foyer. “Stop right there!” I paused. “Get over here and apologize to Hazel,” she commanded. “You pushed her, and you terrified her.” I stood still for a moment. Realizing this would likely be the last time I would ever have to deal with them, I decided to end the arguments. I walked back and knelt down in front of Hazel. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking into her eyes one last time. “Daddy shouldn’t have pushed you.” Hazel sniffled, and then, without warning, she spat directly at my face. The warm, wet saliva trickled down my cheek. “Dirty man,” she whispered in her sweet, high-pitched voice. “You deserve it.” Adeline watched, her expression completely detached. “You’ve been running around with other women. Even your own daughter can’t stand the sight of you.” I slowly raised my hand, wiping my cheek. I laughed. “Running around?” These setup affairs were so incredibly clumsy. Did she honestly not see the gaping holes in the stories? Or did she see them and simply choose to ignore them? If she wanted to believe it, let her. “For four years, Adeline, you and Simon have acted like a married couple in front of everyone.” “You practically let him raise my daughter. Tell me, who is the one crossing lines here?” “We’re getting divorced. Can we at least stop lying to ourselves?” Simon’s face went completely pale. His eyes welled with tears instantly. “Wayne, how can you accuse me of such a thing? Adeline, I…” “Wayne, it’s been four years! Have you not thrown enough tantrums?” Adeline’s gaze locked onto me, burning with rage. “Fine. Since you’re so convinced we’re dirty—” She marched over, grabbing my arm, and dragged me toward the bedroom. The moment the door slammed shut, she grabbed a silk scarf from the dresser, bound my wrists tightly, and shoved me to the floor. Then she turned, pulling Simon into her arms, holding him close. “Do you want me, Simon?” Simon gasped, but quickly wrapped his arms around her waist, whispering, “Adeline, I’ve waited so long for this…” They fell onto the bed, shedding their clothes in a frantic, desperate rush. I thrashed against the binding, my voice cracking as I forced the words out of my throat: “Adeline, we are getting a divorce! You can do whatever you want tomorrow! Why do you have to humiliate me like this right now?” She paused, her fingers wrapping tightly around my chin, forcing me to look at her. “Humiliate you? Wayne, do you honestly think you still have any dignity left to lose in my eyes?” “Adeline, don’t let him ruin the moment…” Simon wrapped himself around her from behind, breathing softly against her neck. She let go of my jaw, turning back into his embrace. I closed my eyes, silent tears slipping down my temples. Suddenly, my phone—which had fallen out of my pocket onto the carpet—began to vibrate violently. It was my mother’s number. I struggled against the silk binding, barely reaching the screen with my fingers to swipe answer. But it wasn’t my mother. It was a panicked nurse on the other end: “Mr. Max! You need to get to the clinic immediately! Your mother somehow found out about the divorce. She thinks she’s a burden to you… she’s climbed up to the roof—” “What?” “She said… “static”—” Before she could finish, the call cut out with a sharp screech of static. My heart stopped. “Adeline!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “My mother is in danger! Let me go, please, I’m begging you, let me go!” She glanced back at me, a cruel, mocking smile on her lips. “What’s the matter, Wayne? Didn’t you want to watch? Now you’re making up cheap stories to escape?” “I’m not making it up! The clinic just called! My mother knows we’re divorcing, she’s going to jump—” “Enough,” she said, sitting up. “We just signed the papers. How could she possibly know?” “And even if she did, you’re the one who told her, knowing she couldn’t take the stress. Who else is to blame?” She turned back to Simon. I thrashed against the silk scarf, screaming, “Adeline! I swear I didn’t tell her! Just let me go, there’s still time!” “She was hit by that truck saving you and Hazel! Please, don’t play with her life…” “Wayne!!!” Adeline’s voice was dripping with exhaustion and disgust. “Is your mother your permanent hostage? Every time you get caught cheating, you either use Hazel to beg for pity, or you throw your mother’s sacrifice in my face!” “I’m not lying—” Tears blinded my vision. “Please, this is real, I beg you…” Simon wrapped his arms around her waist. “Adeline, everyone knows his mother only jumped in front of that truck because she wanted to save her granddaughter. If it had just been you, she wouldn’t have lifted a finger. You’ve already paid for her medical bills all these years. You owe them nothing.” “Come on, don’t let him ruin this…” The last shred of hesitation in Adeline’s eyes vanished. Realizing she would never believe me, I scrambled toward the door, throwing my weight against it. My forehead slammed hard into the solid wood, splitting the skin. She marched over, grabbing me by my collar, and threw me back onto the carpet. “Wayne!” “You wanted to accuse us? Then you’re going to sit here and watch every single second of it.” She grabbed a roll of packing tape from the desk and sealed it over my mouth. Then she dragged me across the floor, shoving me into the dark walk-in closet. “Listen closely. Since you wanted to know what ‘dirty’ really sounds like!” The closet door slammed shut, and the lock clicked. The final sliver of light disappeared. In the suffocating darkness, I was forced to listen to the sounds of their betrayal. Over and over again The next afternoon, Adeline returned home from a business dinner. Standing in the quiet living room, she rubbed her temples, calling out out of habit: “Wayne, I have a headache. Make me some tea.” No one answered. She frowned, turning to the housekeeper. “Where is Wayne?” The housekeeper looked confused. “Ma’am, I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” “Hazel came down with a fever this morning, screaming for her father. It reached 102 degrees. And… the hospital called. They said Mr. Max’s mother jumped from the roof last night. Her body is at the morgue, but… nobody has come to claim her.” Adeline froze. “What did you say?” A sudden, cold dread gripped her throat. “Did… did you not let him out?” The housekeeper stared back blankly. “Let… let him out of where?” Adeline bolted up the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. She threw open the walk-in closet door—

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On our wedding day, Zavier took a wrong turn. He didn’t just miss a street; he navigated the entire sixteen-car bridal procession directly to his childhood sweetheart’s driveway. He even posted a selfie on Instagram, rubbing his temples with a sheepish grin. “Can’t believe I actually managed to get lost on my own wedding day. Facepalm.” The comments section exploded. Nobody stood up for me. Instead, they teased, “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” or “Looks like destiny is still pulling the strings.” My mother sat beside me in the bridal suite, her face pale under her makeup, desperately trying to keep her voice steady. “Georgie, sweetheart, it’s just a wrong turn. He’s on his way. He’ll be here soon.” But this wasn’t the first time. Once, when we ran out of olive oil while cooking dinner, he went to the grocery store and somehow ended up parked outside Cassie’s apartment building. On our third anniversary, he disappeared to her house, leaving me standing outside the restaurant in the freezing November wind for five hours, waiting. When I had a sudden, violent fever and fainted in our hallway, he woke up to my panicked texts—and drove straight to Cassie’s place instead of mine. Every single time, he offered the exact same, weary excuse: “I’m sorry, Georgia. It was just muscle memory. My hands just turn the wheel that way.” I was tired of apologies. I wanted to be chosen. When Zavier’s name lit up my phone again, I let it ring out. Then, I reached up and slowly untangled the delicate pearl tiara and veil from my hair. This wrong turn was going to be his last. … My mother gripped the “Mother of the Bride” corsage in her hands, her knuckles white. Her eyes welled with tears, and she shook her head. “Georgie, no. You can’t just… this wedding is…” She choked up, turning her head to wipe her tears with the back of her hand. “You fought so hard for this. You’ve suffered so much for him.” “Suffered.” The word echoed in the quiet room. Zavier and I grew up together, neighbors in a sleepy suburban town. But back then, my love for him was a one-sided, suffocating weight. He threw away my hand-written letters, ignored my invitations, and practically ran when he saw me coming. In my messy, desperate twenties, I believed that love was synonymous with pain. I once locked myself in the bathroom and did something stupid, cutting my wrist, thinking that if I couldn’t have him, I didn’t want the life I was living. He had rushed to my house, drenched in sweat, crying as he held my bandaged hand, swearing he loved me, begging me never to do it again. My mother saw that desperate, ugly moment and assumed that our wedding today was the hard-earned happily-ever-after. But childhood history is nothing compared to the sudden, blinding flash of a new obsession. I called off the wedding. I sat in the back of a yellow cab, the biting winter wind rushing through the half-open window, making my head throb. Zavier’s name lit up my phone screen. I declined. He called back. I declined again. After several rounds, the screen finally went dark. When I got back to our apartment, I immediately began packing. The front door clicked open, and Zavier walked in. He looked tired, but beneath the fatigue was a sharp edge of irritation. “Why didn’t you wait for me to pick you up? What kind of game is this, Georgia? It’s our wedding day. Don’t you realize how important today was?” The barrage of accusations made my chest tighten. I didn’t answer. I kept folding the laundry on the balcony, moving through the motions of a life I was already leaving behind. He didn’t notice the suitcase open on the bedroom floor. Frustrated by my silence, he marched over and gripped my shoulders, forcing me to face him. “Georgia! I am talking to you!” I looked into his eyes. He hadn’t changed. He still had that same youthful, confident charm he possessed seven years ago. But the boy I loved felt miles away, a stranger wearing his skin. “The ceremony window is closed,” I said quietly. Zavier let out a long, relieved sigh. “Georgia, those ‘lucky hour’ windows are just superstitious nonsense. There was a massive bottleneck on the interstate on my way back. That’s why I was late. But you shouldn’t have canceled the whole thing.” I knew he was lying. The interstate was clear today. There was no traffic. When a man wants to be there, he moves mountains. When he doesn’t, he builds them out of excuses. He was only angry because I had embarrassed him. Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. The caller ID showed Cassie. He answered, and because the room was so quiet, her voice drifted through the receiver. “Zavier? I just checked the transit chart for today. Mercury is stationing retrograde, and honestly, the stars were totally misaligned for a wedding today.” “Maybe the universe was protecting you by sending you to my street. It was a sign to stop the wedding.” A faint smile played at the corner of Zavier’s mouth. But it was a sad, wistful sort of smile. After he hung up, he stopped arguing with me about the cancellation. “Look,” he said, his voice softening. “Let’s just put today behind us. We’ll pick another date. A better one.” My hand froze on a hanger. A hot, bitter anger flared in my chest. He spoke as if I were the one who had ruined the day, and he was the benevolent saint offering forgiveness. I said the lucky hour was superstition. Cassie blamed the stars, and suddenly it was a sacred sign. I was so tired of his double standards. My stomach growled loudly, breaking the heavy silence. I realized I hadn’t eaten since 3:00 AM when the makeup artist arrived. Eight hours of waiting on an empty stomach, wanting to look beautiful for him, only to be left standing while he took a detour to his past. I walked toward the kitchen, but Zavier spoke up before I could reach the fridge. “Don’t worry about making dinner for me. I already ate.” He didn’t just take a wrong turn. He stayed at Cassie’s house and had lunch. I let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. The last few years of my life felt like a massive, cruel joke. Suddenly, a warm rush of blood between my thighs signaled the arrival of my period. Within seconds, a fierce, white-hot cramp bloomed in my lower abdomen, forcing me to double over. Zavier was sitting right there in the living room, but I didn’t ask him to help. Whenever I got my period, his response was always the same mechanical script: “Drink some tea, get some rest.” Nothing more. I dragged myself to the hallway and pulled open the medicine cabinet. The Advil bottle was empty. Zavier’s voice drifted from the living room. “Did your period start? You need to eat something nourishing, or you’re going to crash.” I froze. Turning around slowly, I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. He was on the phone. With Cassie. So he “did” know that a woman needed actual care and nourishment during her period. He just reserved that knowledge for Cassie, while I got the default “drink some tea.” Zavier didn’t even look at my pale face. He grabbed his leather jacket and walked toward the door. “Georgia, I have to run out for a bit. Stay here and rest, okay?” The pain was so intense I could barely breathe. “Can you… can you please buy me a box of painkillers from the drugstore downstairs? Please.” He blinked, looking slightly surprised, then nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right back.” Forty minutes passed. The drugstore was less than a hundred yards away. I dialed his number, my hand trembling. “Where are you?” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a guilty silence. “I’m so sorry, Georgia. I… I ended up outside Cassie’s building again. Muscle memory.” “But don’t worry! I’m ordering a courier to drop off the medicine. It’ll be there in a minute!” My hand went limp, and the phone slipped onto the sofa as he hung up. The pain finally pulled me into a dark, fitful sleep. When I woke up, the apartment was pitch black, and the medicine still hadn’t arrived. I checked my phone. There was a text from the delivery driver: “So sorry, I’m unfamiliar with this neighborhood. Got lost. On my way.” Outside, a storm was brewing. Wind rattled the windowpanes, and the sky looked bruised and heavy. Half an hour later, the delivery guy finally knocked. Holding the cheap plastic bag of painkillers, my chest felt hollow. Right on cue, Zavier called. “Georgia? Did the courier get there?” “Yeah.” “Good. I don’t know what took him so long, but at least you have it. Take the pills.” I couldn’t help the dry, humorless laugh that escaped my throat. “If you hadn’t taken your usual ‘wrong turn,’ I wouldn’t have had to wait two hours in agony.” A heavy silence stretched over the line. When Zavier spoke, his tone was defensive, tinged with a lecturing sigh. “Georgia, you have to learn to let things go. Stop living in the past.” “You got the medicine, didn’t you? That’s what matters.” I hung up. He told me to look forward, while he remained perpetually anchored at another woman’s doorstep, unable—or unwilling—to leave. After the pills kicked in, I opened Instagram. Cassie had posted a new photo. “Cramps are kicking my butt today, but so grateful for my favorite person.” The photo showed a man standing at her stove, stirring a pot of soup. He had his sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearm. I would recognize that arm anywhere. Two years ago, someone had thrown a heavy glass planter from a high-rise balcony. Zavier had shoved me out of the way, and a shard of shattered glass had sliced open his right forearm. The thick, jagged scar was unmistakable. I tapped on her profile and scrolled through her recent posts. There was one from three weeks ago: “We’re so in sync. We ran out of vinegar, and he showed up at my door with a bottle without me even asking.” Another from last month: “The olive tree he bought me. May we grow as strong and steady as its branches.” I stopped scrolling. The comments on her posts were filled with envious sighs. “Your boyfriend is literally perfect.” “I need to send this to my husband to show him what a real partner looks like.” Cassie hadn’t corrected any of them. She just replied with a playful wink emoji. Her apartment was filled with little touches of Zavier’s presence. It looked like a home they had built together, while our expensive rental felt like a cold, temporary waiting room. I believed in clean breaks. I dialed his number. The background was noisy—I could hear Cassie’s soft laughter and the clink of silverware. “Zavier, we’re done. Let’s break up.” He clearly didn’t hear me over the noise. “What was that? I’ll be home soon, Georgia. Be good.” The line went dead. I actually laughed out loud. Even as I was cutting the cord, he was still entirely convinced I was just throwing a tantrum, waiting for him to come home. I went back to packing. But as I cleared out the safe, I realized the family heirloom was missing—the antique sapphire ring my mother had passed down to Zavier as an engagement gift. If we were over, that ring belonged back with my family. I searched every drawer and cabinet, but came up empty. Frustrated, I called him again. The background noise quieted down as he stepped away to answer. “I told you, I’m on my way home,” Zavier snapped, his patience entirely gone. “Do you have to constantly blow up my phone?” “I know you’re mad about the wrong turn today. But I’ve lived near Cassie for years. It’s an old habit, and I can’t just unlearn it overnight.” “I promise you, this is the last time I’ll go to her place. Okay?” “I said I would marry you, and I will. Just stop acting like this. Stop calling.” He didn’t say the rest, but I knew what he meant. “Stop ruining my night with her.” “Okay,” I said quietly, and hung up. It was strange how love could evaporate. I didn’t feel like crying. I just felt incredibly bored of him. Eventually, I found the ring. It was tucked in a small velvet box in his locked desk drawer, polished and pristine. Next to it was a small sticky note in his handwriting: “The promise of forever.” I ripped the note into tiny pieces, put the velvet box into my bag, and took one last look at the apartment. It was beautiful, expensive, and entirely devoid of warmth. That night, back in my childhood bedroom, I slept better than I had in years. I didn’t have to lie awake wondering when he would come home. I didn’t have to count the hours of his “wrong turns.” We were both finally free. The next afternoon, I woke up to a text from Zavier. It was an address for the Ritz-Carlton. It was a far grander venue than the one we had booked for yesterday. “I booked a new date. Tell your mom. You’ll get the wedding of your dreams, Georgia. I promise I’m making this right.” I looked at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I started to type a rejection, then paused and deleted it. He had stood me up so many times. It was time he felt what it was like. I closed the message and dialed a different number. I was betting on one thing: that Zavier’s “muscle memory” would strike again on his way to the altar. The next morning, the makeup artist gave me a look that was striking and flawless. At 9:00 AM, my phone rang. It was Zavier. His voice held that familiar, exhausting note of sheepish regret. “Georgia, I’m so sorry. I… I took the wrong exit again. But I’m turning around right now. Please wait for me.” I listened to his breathy panic. This time, it sounded different. Usually, his apologies were breezy, confident that I would always be there. Today, there was a genuine tremor of fear in his voice. But it didn’t matter. I looked up at the clock. The ceremony was scheduled to start in ten minutes. He would never make it. “Don’t worry about it,” I said softly. “The groom is already here.” “What do you mean?” Zavier’s voice cracked. “What do you mean the groom is already here?” I didn’t answer. I just hung up. And I wasn’t lying. The groom was waiting for me. Declan O’Connor. Like Zavier, Declan had been in my life since we were kids. But while I had spent a decade chasing after Zavier’s shadow, Declan had spent those same years quietly standing behind me, catching me whenever I stumbled. He had loved me for as long as I had loved Zavier. The moment I canceled the wedding yesterday, Declan had called me. His voice had been thick with emotion, practically pleading for a chance. “We don’t have to get legally married right away,” he had said. “Just let me give you the wedding you deserve. Let me stand by you. We can figure the rest out later. Give me a chance to win your heart.” He offered me respect, time, and absolute freedom. So, I said yes. We booked the grand ballroom right next to the one Zavier had reserved. Only a single, soundproofed wall separated us. As the music started, Declan stood at the altar, holding a bouquet of white peonies. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he watched me walk down the aisle. When I reached him, he leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to my forehead. Looking into his tear-filled, dark eyes, a quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. “This” was what it felt like to be looked at with absolute devotion. Declan choked up during his vows, his voice cracking with an emotion so raw it made the guests tear up. I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around him and gently patting his back until he could breathe again. The ceremony was beautiful. But as we walked down the aisle as husband and wife, the double doors at the back of the ballroom burst open. Zavier stood in the doorway, breathless, his tie askew, looking wild-eyed and desperate. He didn’t even notice Declan standing beside me. He just leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he panted, a look of immense relief washing over his face. “Thank God,” he gasped. “I made it. I’m here.”

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My neighbor’s hand had just been severed by the elevator door, and she was screaming at my doorstep, begging for help. I was on my knees, reaching for the plastic bag to help her preserve the severed limb, when a scrolling feed of glowing text suddenly flashed across my field of vision. It looked exactly like a live-stream chat overlay, hovering in the air. [DON’T PICK UP THAT SEVERED HAND! DON’T TOUCH IT!] [She chose you on purpose! The moment you lay a finger on that hand, she’ll blame you for any complications that happen down the road!] [You’re the ultimate fall guy she handpicked out of this entire building!] [Nicholas had it so rough in the original timeline. Not only did she sue him for every penny and organize a massive cyberbullying campaign against him, but she used her ruined hand as an excuse to leech off him forever. She literally drove him to jump off a building.] My hand began to shake violently. I snatched my fingers back and stood up. The floating text froze for a fraction of a second, then went absolutely wild. [Yes! Get the hell out of there!] [Martina has a dozen relatives hiding in her apartment right now, just waiting for you to take the bait.] What? At that last sentence, a chill shot down my spine. I backed into my apartment and slammed the door shut. To hell with playing the hero. 1. My hand was trembling so hard I could barely lock the door. Martina Hobbs was right outside, covered in blood. The moment the door clicked shut, the frantic begging on her face hardened into something cold and rigid. She clutched her bleeding wrist, her body shaking as she screamed through the wood. “Nicholas! What the hell are you doing?!” “We’re neighbors! How can you just leave me here to die? My hand is still stuck in the elevator! Aren’t you going to help me get it?!” Her voice cracked, slipping back into a desperate, pathetic wail. “I’m begging you, Nicholas. Just give me some ice. At least give me enough ice to keep it cold until I get to the ER.” For a split second, guilt gnawed at my chest. I reached for the deadbolt. But the moment my fingers brushed the metal, the floating text flared up again, glowing a harsh, warning red. [Don’t fall for it!] [She’s only crying to manipulate Nicholas into touching the severed limb!] [The injury wasn’t even an accident—she brought it on herself. The Hobbs family was having a massive party today. She got wasted, threw a violent tantrum in the elevator, and got her hand caught. Now they just need a scapegoat to cover the medical bills!] [Don’t even give her ice. There are no security cameras in this part of the hallway. She’s trying to force her way inside!] [Exactly! Her own apartment is literally right next door. Why doesn’t she get her own ice?] My breath caught in my throat. My hand froze. [Besides, Martina has over ten people hiding in her living room right now.] [Why is she only knocking on your door?] Ten people? My heart hammered against my ribs as I took a slow step backward. The color completely drained from my face. Just a minute ago, when I had first opened the door, I had caught a fleeting glimpse of the shoe rack outside Martina’s apartment. It had been piled high with extra footwear—heavy men’s sneakers, women’s heels, and even a couple of pairs of children’s boots. Smash. A muffled sound of breaking glass echoed from the balcony next door, followed by a man’s hushed, urgent voice trying to quiet someone down. “Shh! Keep it down! Don’t let the neighbors hear you!” “Be quiet!” A child’s soft whimper was abruptly cut off, and the balcony fell dead silent again. A cold sweat broke out across my neck. The floating chat was telling the truth. Martina was claiming she was home alone and helpless. But if she was out here bleeding in the hallway, who were the people hiding inside her apartment? She was lying. The entire thing was a trap. “Nicholas, open the door!” The frantic pounding continued, but I only felt a profound sense of relief. Why would she bypass a house full of her own relatives to beg a single, male neighbor for help? The realization made my blood run cold. “I can’t help you,” I called out, raising my voice so it would carry through the heavy door. “I have severe hemophobia. I faint at the sight of blood. I’m calling 911 for you right now!” The moment the word 911 left my mouth, the hallway went dead silent. After a tense pause of several seconds, the doorknob began to rattle violently. Martina’s voice returned, laced with a sharp, panicky edge. “No need! I already called them!” “I just need you to get the hand for me! Please, just open the door!” As the handle shook under her desperate attempts, the floating text began to scream in capital letters. [NO! NICK, HOLD THE LINE!] [Don’t let her in! Just hold out until the paramedics arrive. Martina won’t be able to last long anyway!] Minute after agonizing minute ticked by. Martina’s face through my peephole looked monstrous, her features twisting in rage. She began throwing her body against the door, but I breathed a small sigh of relief. Martina is panicking. A severed limb needs to be iced and prepped for surgery within a golden window of thirty minutes. I remodeled my condo two years ago and put in a reinforced steel door. In her weakened state, she had no hope of breaking it down. Sure enough, the pounding stopped after a few minutes. But a second later, a familiar male voice echoed from the hallway. “What is going on out here?” My heart stopped. It was Cody Jenkins, the kid who rented the apartment on the other side of my unit. He was a recent college grad who had just started working in the city. He occasionally came over to borrow household tools, and I had always tried to be a good neighbor to him. Thinking of the blood and the severed hand outside, my eyes went wide. I scrambled to grab my phone, intending to text him to get back inside and lock his door. “What?!” Before I could even unlock my screen, Cody’s voice escalated into a dramatic, self-righteous shout. “We’re all neighbors here! How could Nicholas just lock his door and leave you to die?!” “This is sick!” My chest tightened as I listened to them murmuring outside. Suddenly, the floating chat erupted into a solid wall of exclamation marks. [IT’S OVER!] Outside, Cody’s eyes scanned the hallway before he bent down and slipped his hand under my welcome mat. “Don’t worry,” Cody said loudly. “I know where he keeps his spare key.” The sound of metal sliding into the lock sent a physical jolt of terror straight through my chest. 2. “Nicholas, you liar!” The door swung open, and Martina lunged into my entryway, her eyes gleaming with a strange, predatory light. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching her bleeding arm and rolling around in theatrical agony. “You left me out there! You delayed my medical treatment!” “If I lose my hand, you’re going to be held fully responsible!” Responsible? I looked down at her, my expression hardening as the warnings from the floating chat echoed in my mind. “Your injury has nothing to do with me,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Whether I choose to help you is my decision. And I decline.” Her agonizing wails cut off instantly. She stared up at me, her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. “You decline?!” Finding herself rejected so bluntly, Martina’s pale face tightened. She lowered her voice, a desperate, calculating look flashing in her eyes. “Nicholas, I didn’t just knock on your door for no reason!” She pointed a trembling, bloody finger at me. “You’re not afraid of blood. You were a licensed doctor for five years! How could you possibly have hemophobia?!” My survival instincts flared. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I had never told a single soul in this building about my medical background before I transitioned into corporate consulting. How could she possibly know? But the answer presented itself immediately. “That’s right, Nick,” Cody chimed in, stepping into my entryway with a smug grin. “I saw your board certification plaque on your bookshelf when I borrowed your vacuum last week. Doctors take an oath to save lives. How could you lie to her?” “Good thing I remembered and told her!” Cody’s words felt like a physical blow. My head spun. He rolled his eyes at me, completely ignoring the betrayal of my privacy. “Come on, Nick, save her!” “Yes, please!” Martina pleaded, her eyes darting around my apartment, searching for any leverage. The floating chat was exploding now. [Holy crap, where did this Cody guy come from?!] [What a saint. If he’s so damn noble, why doesn’t he save her himself?] [First Martina, now Cody helping her corner him. Nicholas is completely trapped!] [He’s doing this on purpose. He wants the drama.] When I didn’t move, Martina’s expression shifted from desperation to outright hostility. Cody was even faster, covering his mouth in exaggerated horror. “Nick, are you seriously going to let her bleed out in front of you?” “How can you be so heartless? I’m going to put this online and expose you!” His chest heaving with simulated righteous fury, Cody pulled out his phone and pointed the camera directly at my face. “Look at all this blood! If she dies or ends up permanently disabled because of you, what then?!” Martina caught the cue. “Nicholas, please! How much money do you want? I’ll pay you! Just help me prep the hand so the doctors can sew it back on!” “Please!” With a wet thud, Martina dropped heavily to her knees on my floor. “I’m begging you!” The loud commotion had begun to draw other residents from the elevator. Seeing the smear of blood in the hallway and the towel-covered shape on the elevator floor, several people gasped. Cody rolled his eyes at me, his phone held high to capture the crowd’s reaction. “Nick, I thought you were a decent guy, but you’re a monster. Making a bleeding woman kneel and beg just to get a little help. Have you no shame?” “How did someone like you ever become a doctor?” His eyes were red, his voice shaking with a performance of pure moral outrage as he turned his camera back and forth between me and the kneeling woman. The gathering crowd began to whisper loudly. “What? He’s a trained professional and he’s just watching?” “Is he even human?” “So cold-hearted. If he won’t do it, we should!” As the murmurs grew louder, Martina subtly glanced toward her own apartment door. I caught the signal. [Watch out! Martina is calling in her reinforcements!] The floating chat flashed a warning. A second later, Martina’s apartment door flew open, and a small mob of people spilled into the hallway, pushing through the onlookers. “It’s him! He’s the one stalling! He’s trying to kill her!” “If anything happens to our Martina, you’re paying for it with your life!” The relatives, who had been waiting in ambush next door, swarmed my entryway. Martina’s older brother, Greg, led the pack, dragging a crying child with him and pushing the kid to the floor to add to the chaos. They screamed about my “cruelty” and “lack of humanity.” “He’s a cold-blooded animal! Why won’t he help?” “It’s just a simple favor! It wouldn’t kill him!” “Exactly!” Cody chimed in, crossing his arms and nodding along. The crowd’s glares grew heavier, pointing fingers and shouting insults. Martina remained on the floor, her face growing paler from the blood loss, saying nothing but letting her family do the dirty work. I took a deep, steadying breath. “I really can’t help her,” I said loudly, holding my hands up. “I don’t have the training for this.” I reached over to my entryway shelf, grabbed my old framed certificate, and turned it toward the crowd. As they squinted to read the bold, gold lettering, the shouting gradually died down. I looked at Martina, my voice incredibly calm. “I was a urologist.” The entryway fell into absolute, dead silence. 3. “I don’t care what kind of doctor you are!” Greg roared, his face turning red. “A doctor is a doctor, even if you’re a… a what? A urologist?!” I pointed directly to the specialized text on the board certification: Specializing in Male Reconstructive Urology and Sexual Medicine. Someone in the back of the crowd snorted, trying to muffle a laugh. “Alright, look,” a neighbor murmured from the hallway. “If we’re dealing with a retired dick doctor, why are we wasting time badgering him? We need to get her to the ER!” “Yeah, if they don’t get that hand to the hospital soon, they won’t be able to reattach it. Call an ambulance!” “If they leave now, they might still make it.” The crowd’s sentiment was shifting. Cody, seeing his viral stream losing its dramatic villain, quickly lowered his phone and stepped forward, panic in his eyes. “Wait! Even if the ambulance gets here, it takes time!” “The most important thing is preserving the severed hand right now. It’s eighty-five degrees outside today. Is Nicholas just going to let it rot on the elevator floor?!” The hand was still sitting under a blood-stained towel in the elevator. Martina shuddered, her eyes darting to Cody as she realized her window was closing. She scrambled off the floor and lunged at me like a feral animal. “You have to preserve my hand! You spent five years in medicine, you must know how to do that!” The floating chat flashed frantically in front of my face. [MOVE! Don’t let her touch you!] [She’s going to frame you the second she makes contact!] Without thinking, I took a massive step back, completely clearing her path. But Martina didn’t stop her forward momentum. In the split second before she hit the floor, I caught a brief, chilling smirk on her face. Oh, no. She shut her eyes and collapsed heavily onto my hardwood floor, completely limp. “She fainted from blood loss!” Cody shrieked, his camera instantly locked onto my face. Martina’s relatives erupted into fury, pointing and screaming. “If she dies in your apartment, we’re suing you for murder!” The chat was scrolling so fast it was almost a blur. [She is determined to pin this on you. If she has to die to do it, she’ll die in your living room.] [Martina is actually losing too much blood. The hand is reaching its expiration limit.] I didn’t have much time. Greg was sobbing theatrically, wiping fake tears while peeking at me through his fingers. The neighbors were staring at me with disgust. I took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll help.” The relatives instantly looked pleased. But before they could speak, I pulled out my phone, searched for a medical infographic, and sent it directly to Cody. “This is the standard medical procedure for preserving a severed limb. Since you’re so passionate about justice and saving lives… I’m sure you won’t mind doing it yourself.” Cody’s smug grin froze. Before the family could react, I turned my own phone camera on him. “I’m livestreaming your heroic act to my followers right now. Show them how it’s done.” The hallway went dead silent. Cody’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. [Holy crap, the plot twist!] [Nicholas just Uno-reversed Cody!] [Is Martina’s plan about to blow up in her face?] I felt a surge of relief, but then Cody swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Sure! I’ll do it!” My chest tightened. The floating chat flashed a single, ominous line. [It’s not going to be that easy.] [Nicholas, you just walked right into their trap!] Cody turned toward my kitchen, his voice dripping with false humility. “Everyone watching, you heard him. Dr. Campbell gave me the instructions, and he’s providing the materials. If anything goes wrong, it has nothing to do with me.” He grabbed a clean Tupperware container from my counter, ran out to the elevator, and picked up the severed hand. He looked back at me, his eyes gleaming with sheer malice. “I won’t take credit for your medical advice, Nick.” My stomach dropped. The neighbors began to cheer. “Just save her! With so many witnesses, nothing can go wrong!” “Even if it does, it’s not Cody’s fault!” Greg sneered at me, crossing his arms. “Exactly. My sister fainted in Nicholas’s apartment, and he’s the medical authority dictating the procedure. Cody’s just the hands. If anything goes wrong, we know who to blame.” They still wanted to pin it on me. “Wait, Nicholas!” Cody shouted from the kitchen. “Why isn’t there any ice in your freezer?!” “How are we supposed to keep the hand cold?!” The neighbors suggested asking other residents for ice, but Greg immediately shot it down. “No! We can only use what’s in Nicholas’s house, otherwise…” He bit his lip, realizing he had almost said too much. Cody’s eyes scanned my kitchen, landing on a shelf near the sink where I kept a few bottles of sterile saline solution for my contact lenses. “Wait!” Cody yelled, his face lighting up. “No ice, but we have sterile saline! Perfect!” The Hobbs family cheered. The chat wailed in despair. [Oh no… Nicholas still couldn’t escape it.] [You can’t save stupid.] [This is awful.] But when I heard the words sterile saline, my eyes went wide. “No! Stop!” 4. The color drained from my face. I raised my voice, shouting at him. “You have to follow the diagram I sent you! Do not change the protocol!” “Don’t touch those bottles!” Ignoring the blood, I lunged toward Cody to grab the container from his hands. He flinched, nearly dropping it as I tackled him. “Look at him! He’s panicking!” Cody screamed to the crowd, backing away with a look of pure disgust. “He doesn’t want her hand saved! He’s trying to sabotage the rescue!” He pointed at my phone screen. “The diagram he sent me was just a random Google image search! It has a watermark on it! He’s trying to kill her career!” “Get away from him!” Before I could reach Cody, Greg stepped in. SLAP! A heavy hand struck my left cheek, sending a blinding flash of pain through my jaw. My ears rang, and for a second, I couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched whine. When I recovered, Martina’s relatives were standing in a defensive wall in front of Cody, glaring at me like wolves. “What are you trying to do, Nicholas? Stall until she’s crippled?!” “If Martina loses her hand because of your interference, we will sue you into bankruptcy!” “You want to stop us? Try it in court!” The neighbors in the hallway began to murmur in agreement. “Don’t let him ruin it!” “He sent a fake picture just to cover his own ass! He’s trying to sabotage her!” “He just wants to watch her suffer! Cody, put the hand in!” Cody shot me a triumphant smirk. Ignoring my warnings, he poured the sterile saline directly into the container, submerging Martina’s severed hand completely in the liquid. “Nice try, Nick,” Cody sneered. “Saline is sterile. It kills bacteria and keeps tissue clean. It’s the perfect preservation fluid. And you were trying to hide it from us!” “You’re sick!” Cody’s livestream was still running, and the viewers were eating up his heroic performance. The crowd’s anger boiled over. “Beat him! He’s a psychopath!” Greg yelled, throwing the first punch. The relatives swarmed me, fists and feet raining down on my head and torso. I curled into a tight ball on the floor, protecting my vitals, my scalp stinging as someone ripped at my hair. The chat continued to scroll frantically. [This is horrific. Nicholas is still getting ruined.] [Cody is going to go viral for ‘saving’ her, and Nicholas is going to be completely destroyed online.] [The Hobbs family is like a pack of parasites. Once they latch on, they’ll drain him dry.] [Nicholas is dead meat.] [+1] [+10086] Dead meat? I took a heavy blow to my temple, warm blood trickling down my face and blurring my vision. But as I watched Cody seal the Tupperware container, a quiet, cold calm washed over me. I looked down at the floor, a tiny, dark smile touching my lips. Not quite. Give it thirty minutes. They are going to regret every single second of this. “The ambulance is here!” someone shouted from the lobby. The wail of sirens echoed from the street below. The crowd shifted instantly. Greg and the relatives scrambled to lift Martina, while Cody held the container close to his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes! The ambulance!” Cody turned his phone camera to himself. “We saved the hand together, chat! I’m heading to the hospital with them now to keep you guys updated!” At the sound of the sirens, Martina—who had supposedly fainted from blood loss—miraculously opened her eyes. The chat flared up. [???] [She was faking the whole time! What a disgusting snake!] Martina leaned down close to my face, her breath hot and smelling of cheap liquor. “You lost, Nicholas,” she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. “Once they sew my hand back on, I’m coming back for everything you own.” She spat on my floor, and the group swept out of my apartment, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind them. Once they were gone, I slowly sat up, the pain in my ribs sharp but manageable. I wiped the blood from my forehead and let out a soft laugh. Martina’s hand was officially gone forever. I picked up my phone, cracked screen and all, and dialed the police. “Yes, I’d like to report a home invasion, assault, and extortion…” I leaned back against my sofa, staring at the ceiling. I hoped she would still be smiling when she reached the hospital. … Meanwhile, at the municipal hospital, Martina was rushed straight into the operating room. Cody sat in the waiting room, holding the plastic container and streaming to his growing audience, his face flushed with the thrill of internet fame. The surgery light turned red. The minutes ticked by. But less than thirty minutes later, the light flickered off. The double doors swung open, and the lead surgeon walked out, his expression incredibly grim. “Who is the family of Martina Hobbs?” Cody, still filming, grinned at the camera. “Wow, that was fast! Great efficiency from the surgical team!” But the surgeon shook his head, looking down at the chart. “The surgery has been canceled. The patient’s hand is completely necrotic.” Cody’s phone slipped through his fingers, clattering onto the linoleum floor. His face went entirely white. Martina’s hand was dead.

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I asked Virginia for a divorce while she was on her phone, soothing her heartbroken first love. She didn’t even look up from her screen. “Hell must have frozen over. You’re asking for a divorce?” In our five years of marriage, Virginia was always the one to throw the word “divorce” around whenever we fought. And every single time, she would wait for me to bend, to apologize, to coax her back. “What’s your reason?” she asked. I pointed at her phone, where the screen was overflowing with comforting messages to Jordan. “Is that not reason enough?” Virginia frowned. “He’s going through a hard time. What’s wrong with me comforting a friend?” She let out a cold laugh. “If you don’t even have this basic level of trust, then fine. Let’s end it.” I slid the signed divorce agreement across the desk. “Fine. Sign it.” Virginia froze for a second, then carelessly scribbled her name at the bottom. “Have fun with your little tantrum.” She didn’t think I was serious. She truly believed I would never leave. But this time, I meant it. I was done chasing her. 1 The study was silent except for the dry scratch of her pen. When she finished, Virginia pushed the agreement back to me, her eyes already drifting away. “It’s signed. Take it.” Her tone was light and dismissive, like a boss handing an idle chore to an intern. The moment I picked up the paper, Jordan’s FaceTime call came through. Virginia answered immediately. “Virginia, thank you so much for talking to me…” Jordan’s voice crackled through the speaker, thick with tears. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” My hands tightened on the document. Virginia’s voice softened into that warm, indulgent tone she reserved only for him. “Oh, stop it. It’s just a breakup. You don’t need to cry like this. When you broke up with me back then, you didn’t seem nearly this devastated.” “That’s not true… I was miserable. I just didn’t let you see it,” Jordan whined, his voice dripping with practiced vulnerability. I looked down, burying the familiar ache deep inside. Whenever Jordan hurt, Virginia was there to soothe him. When he got sick, she would drive through the night just to bring him soup. For his birthdays, she spent months hunting down the perfect gifts. Every minor tremor in Jordan’s life was an earthquake to Virginia. And to me? She left nothing but the threat of divorce. A dull, heavy bitterness settled in my chest. “I’ll pack my things and move out tomorrow,” I said quietly. Virginia looked up, her brow furrowing with that familiar, sharp annoyance. “You’re taking it this far? Fine. Do whatever you want.” “Is Drew there?” Jordan asked over the phone. Virginia turned her attention back to the screen, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Yeah. He’s throwing a fit. We just signed the divorce papers.” Jordan let out a soft, performative gasp. “Oh… it’s not because of me, is it?” His voice pitched higher, directed at me. “Drew, seriously, Virginia and I are just friends. She was just keeping me company. Please don’t take it the wrong way.” I almost wanted to laugh. He called this blatant disregard for boundaries “just keeping a friend company.” “What does he have to do with this?” Virginia snapped, her irritation turning back to me. “His own mind is just dirty. We grew up together. What’s the big deal?” Yes. To Virginia, Jordan wasn’t just her first love; he was her childhood sweetheart. After his parents passed away, her family took him in. In her heart, Jordan would always occupy the throne. Even though they had broken up years ago, her devotion to him had never wavered. If anything, it had grown. He was always first, and I, her husband, was a distant second. They were never “just friends.” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, my voice dead calm. “I won’t be in your way.” “Drew, that’s enough,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “You know exactly what Jordan means to me.” “I do,” I said. “I finally do.” Before she could reply, Jordan’s voice pulled her back to the screen. I picked up the divorce papers and walked out of the study. Through the heavy wood, I heard Jordan’s muffled voice. “Virginia, maybe you should go check on him?” “Don’t worry about it,” she replied, her voice dismissive. “There’s no point.” A bitter smile touched my lips. She was right. There was no point. In this marriage, I had always been the one to bend, to apologize, to bridge the distance. I used to think she just didn’t know how to apologize, that she was just too proud. But the truth was simpler: she just believed I would never actually leave. I looked down at the signed papers, my fingers clutching the edges. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to comfort someone. She just didn’t want to comfort me. 2 Back in our bedroom, I began to pack. I pulled my passport, birth certificate, and important documents from the safe, laying them out on the bed. Tucked at the bottom of the drawer were our two marriage certificates. I took mine. I’d need it soon. I didn’t hear Virginia walk in. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me fold my shirts, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Where do you think you’re going?” She had always treated my words like background noise. I was used to it. “I’m moving out,” I said. She let out a sharp, mocking breath. “Oh, drop the act, Drew. You’ve made your point.” “You’ll pack your bags, go stay at a hotel for a night, and then drag them right back here. Aren’t you tired of the drama?” She didn’t believe me. She thought this was a performance to get her attention. And why wouldn’t she? Everyone knew I loved her to the point of self-destruction. One second she would threaten to leave, and the next I would be apologizing, swallowing my pride just to keep her. At social gatherings, her friends would laugh and say: “Virginia, you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. He’s totally obsessed. Not like Jordan—whenever Jordan got mad, you had to be the one to chase him. Drew is so much easier.” And Virginia would just shrug, her eyes cold. “Yeah, well. I’m used to it.” I folded another sweater, keeping my eyes on the fabric, ignoring her. When I didn’t fire back, her tone shifted, becoming quiet but laced with a threat. “Drew. Don’t push this too far.” My hands paused. I looked up at her. “You think I’m just throwing a tantrum?” “Aren’t you?” she retorted. “We had a conversation. That’s it. And now you’re demanding a divorce? When did you become so incredibly petty?” I actually laughed. To her, a lifetime of being sidelined was just “a conversation.” My breaking point was just “pettiness.” A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. All the arguments, the defenses, the explanations I had prepared over the years evaporated. “Fine,” I said softly. “Then I’m petty.” I didn’t have any words left. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it, silent for a moment, before looking back up. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight. Since you’re so set on this little exit, pack light. It’ll save you the hassle of unpacking when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I just kept folding. “You know what Jordan and I are,” she added, her voice dropping, though it sent a chill straight to my chest. “Jealousy is a bad look on you, Drew.” She turned and walked away. The next morning, I carried my suitcase downstairs. Virginia was in the kitchen, sipping coffee as if it were any other Tuesday. “Jordan’s birthday is in a couple of days,” she said, her tone conversational, almost pleasant. “He wants to spend it here in Chicago. I told him he could stay in our guest room for a bit.” It wasn’t a question. It was an announcement. I gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my knuckles turned white. The sheer absurdity of it made me want to laugh. “Do whatever you want,” I said. She looked at me, taking a sip. “You should come to the dinner. Otherwise, Jordan’s going to think you’re holding a grudge.” She didn’t care about my feelings. She never had. It was just another box for her to check. She checked her watch and stood up. “He’s landing soon. I’m going to go pick him up.” As she reached the front door, I called out. “Virginia.” 3 She turned, her eyebrow slightly raised. There was no surprise on her face, only that familiar, smug indifference. She thought I was finally breaking. She thought I was going to apologize. “Are you free tomorrow?” I asked. “If you are, we need to go to the courthouse to file the petition.” The smugness vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering anger. She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Are you serious, Drew?” “I let you play your little signing game, and I let you pack. But this is getting ridiculous.” I looked at her. “I am serious. Let’s go tomorrow. It takes thirty days for the court to finalize it anyway, so the sooner we file, the better.” She cut me off, her voice sharp with impatience. “Drew, drop it. We both know you can’t survive without me. You’re throwing a fit over Jordan because you have nothing better to do. It’s pathetic.” She checked her watch again. “I have to get Jordan. If I’m late, he’ll be upset. We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.” She slammed the door, leaving me in the quiet foyer. I stood there for a long moment, then pulled my suitcase out into the cold morning air. That night, I sent her a text. “Nine o’clock tomorrow at the county courthouse. Don’t be late.” It took hours for a response. When my phone finally buzzed, it was an audio message. But it wasn’t Virginia’s voice. It was Jordan’s. “Hey Drew, what’s this about nine o’clock?” Jordan’s voice was bright, backed by the loud thrum of music and laughter. “Virginia is throwing me a welcome-home party. You should come!” In the background, I heard someone yell, “Whoa, Jordan, you’re just answering Virginia’s texts now? Aren’t you worried she’ll get mad?” Another voice chimed in, laughing. “Are you kidding? Drew touched her phone once last year and she practically bit his head off.” “Exactly! You can’t compare Drew to Jordan. Jordan’s special.” The message went on, filled with drunken laughter. I knew Jordan had sent it on purpose. But they weren’t wrong. At a dinner party months ago, my phone had died, and I’d reached for Virginia’s to check the time. She had snatched it out of my hand instantly. “Drew, do you have absolutely no concept of privacy?” she’d snapped in front of everyone. I had sat there, burning with embarrassment, while someone else quickly changed the subject. A second audio message from Jordan came through. “Sorry about that, Drew! The guys are just joking around. Don’t take them seriously.” I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, Virginia called. “Jordan said you texted?” She sounded amused, as if she were waiting for my inevitable surrender. “Yes,” I said, my voice flat. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock at the family court. I’m calling to make sure you don’t forget.” “Drew, are you seriously doing this?” Her voice flared with sudden, sharp anger. “Don’t you think you’ve humiliated us enough? Do you want everyone laughing at us? Take a few days to cool off. This constant jealousy is exhausting. You’re acting like a child.” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m not jealous, Virginia. I’m done. I want a divorce.” But before I could finish, the line went dead. Jordan must have called her back to the party. A minute later, my screen lit up with a video from Jordan. “Hey Drew, we’re playing a game. You don’t mind, right?” 4 I hesitated, then tapped play. It was the card-passing game. Virginia and Jordan were face-to-face, holding a thin playing card between their lips. The crowd around them was cheering wildly. “Oh my god, Virginia’s going to be sleeping on the couch tonight!” someone yelled. “Childhood sweethearts, first loves… come on, just kiss already!” “Thank god Drew isn’t here, or we’d never hear the end of it.” As they leaned in, someone blew on the card. It fluttered to the floor. Their lips met. The video cut off to a chorus of wild screams. I felt… nothing. Just a vast, hollow emptiness. Another text from Jordan popped up: “Drew, you’re not mad, are you? It was just a party game. Don’t take it seriously.” I locked my phone and went to sleep. The next morning, I went back to the house to grab the rest of my things. When I tried the keyless lock, the code didn’t work. I tried it three times before the door finally clicked open from the inside. Jordan stood there, wearing a silk pajama set. “Drew?” He smiled warmly. “Oh, sorry about the lock. Virginia had a few too many drinks last night and ended up changing the code to my birthday. I guess she forgot to tell you.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze traveled down to the pajamas he was wearing. They were mine. A set Virginia had bought me for our anniversary that I’d never even worn. Jordan noticed my gaze and offered a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I packed in such a rush, I forgot to bring pajamas. You don’t mind, do you?” I pushed past him. Virginia was coming down the stairs, tying her robe. She stopped when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” I ignored her and went straight up to our bedroom. When I opened the door, I froze. My suitcase had been dragged out of the closet and left open on the floor. The clothes I had neatly packed were rummaged through, scattered everywhere. Virginia walked in behind me. She looked at the mess, then cleared her throat, a rare flash of self-consciousness crossing her face. “Jordan forgot his clothes. I was looking for something he could wear. I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’ll clean it up later.” She dismissed it as if it were nothing. I didn’t say a word. I knelt down, picked up my clothes, and stuffed them back into the bag, zipping it shut. Virginia frowned. “It’s just a shirt, Drew. I’ll buy you a new one. Stop acting like this.” “No need,” I said, pulling the suitcase upright. “Keep it. Let Jordan have it.” I looked her in the eyes. “Find some time today. Let’s go file the papers.” Jordan hurried into the room, his eyes red and pooling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Drew. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have borrowed your things. I’ll buy you a new set… please, don’t divorce Virginia because of me.” Virginia’s expression softened immediately. She put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Jordan. Don’t apologize.” Then she turned to me, her voice cold. “That’s enough, Drew. You’re making a scene over a t-shirt. Is this really who you want to be?” To Virginia, everything was a minor issue when it came to Jordan. I was always the unreasonable one, the villain in their beautiful, tragic story. “Yes,” I said, looking at her one last time. “I’m making a scene. And I’m leaving.” I wheeled my suitcase out. As I walked down the hall, I heard Jordan’s quiet, worried voice behind me. “Virginia, he seems really mad this time. What if he actually leaves?” And then, Virginia’s confident reply: “He won’t. I know him. He can’t live without me.” I kept walking. That afternoon, we met at the courthouse. We filed the petition, and the clerk informed us of the mandatory thirty-day waiting period. Virginia let out a small, knowing smirk as we walked down the steps. “Nice show. You knew about the waiting period, didn’t you? Is that why you insisted on coming today? Just to keep up the act?” I didn’t answer. I hailed a cab and got in. A text from her arrived ten minutes later. “Jordan’s birthday dinner is tomorrow night. Make sure you’re there. And don’t forget to buy him a gift.” I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, opened my airline app, and booked a one-way ticket to Denver.

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Will was the finest ship-lanternsmith in Mariner’s Bay. There wasn’t a beacon or light he couldn’t mend. In our harbor town, they all said a fisherman’s daughter like me had struck gold. Marry the keeper of the light, they said, and your life will never know darkness. According to our old coastal traditions, the groom must keep a vigil over the bridal lantern for three nights before the wedding. If the flame dies, the marriage is over. He held my hand and said, “Nothing in this world could pull me away from you.” And I believed him. The first night, he kept his watch beautifully. The warm golden glow lit up the sharp line of his jaw. On the second night, Talia sent a text: “Will, I’m afraid of the dark.” When he stood up, he didn’t even glance back at the wick. The ocean wind was vicious that night. My bridal lantern guttered and died in the draft, remaining cold and dark until morning. Across the eastern harbor, ninety-nine sea-lanterns blazed in unison. He had lit them himself, with his own hands, for Talia. Old Mrs. Higgins came by from the docks to ask: “Where’s the groom? Isn’t he supposed to be the best lightkeeper in the bay?” It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep a light burning. He kept ninety-nine of them alive all through the storm. Just not mine. At dawn, I dialed a number I’d kept hidden for five years. “Is what you said back then… still true?” … The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept the cold ash across the floor, settling at my feet. Brian stood in the doorway. He was carrying a paper bag of breakfast. His eyes fell on the dead bridal lantern sitting in the drafty window. Nothing but black soot remained in the glass bowl. Brian paused. “Chelsea, the wind was just too strong last night.” He reached out, his hand hovering over my hair, but withdrew his fingers before making contact. “It’s fine that the light went out,” he said. “I’ll make you a new one later using the finest braided wick.” I stared at the paper bag. It was fish chowder from the harbor cafe. The broth was already stone-cold, the potatoes congealed. He used to never let me touch cold food. One winter festival, when I stubbornly ate half a bowl of cold crab stew, my stomach cramped up in the middle of the night. He threw on a coat, ran across half the town in the freezing dark, and brewed ginger tea for me. Back then, he sat by my bedside, his warm palm pressed against my belly: “Our Chelsea’s tears are too precious to be wasted on pain.” Now, he just pushed the cold breakfast toward me. “Talia had a hard night too,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Her parents are gone, and she suffocates whenever the house goes dark. I stayed up till dawn keeping those ninety-nine beacons lit. My eyes are burning.” He spoke as if waiting for me to comfort him. I kept my hands folded in my lap, digging my nails into my palms. The familiar heat pooled in my eyes first. It was a weakness I’d had for years. Whenever I got anxious, hurt, or overwhelmed, my tears would betray me before I could find the words. Will used to hate seeing it. He would gently wipe them away with his sleeve and tease me: “A girl raised by the sea, yet your eyes are softer than the tide.” But now, seeing my eyes rimmed with red, his forehead creased with annoyance. “Why are you crying again?” I looked down. He let out a heavy sigh. “Chelsea, you’re about to be my wife. Talia’s situation is tragic—why do you have to compare yourself to her?” “I’m not.” My voice was thick, raspy. Will pushed the paper bag closer. “Then eat something. Stop acting like this, as if I’ve mistreated you.” I stared at his hands. Those hands were the steadiest in Mariner’s Bay. With a single flick of his fingers, he could coax a dying ember back to life. Yet, my lantern had been cold all night, and all he had to say was that he’d build another. I swallowed my tears and nodded. “Okay.” His expression softened slightly. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “I know you’re upset. Once this storm passes, I’ll make it up to you.” It felt like he was tucking all my lifetime’s hurts into some vague future that would never arrive. The phone on the table buzzed. Will glanced at the screen as it lit up. Talia’s profile picture was a small white lighthouse. “Will, my chest feels so tight again.” Will grabbed his windbreaker and turned on his heel. I called out to him. “Will.” His hand rested on the doorknob. “Is there something else?” I watched the draft whistle through the doorframe, cooling the already ruined breakfast. “Today is the third day.” Our town’s custom demanded three continuous nights of vigilance. The third night was the most sacred. He paused. “I know,” he said. “I’ll be back later. I won’t miss it.” “How late is later?” “Chelsea,” he said, his voice dropping into a patronizing softness. “Don’t be petty.” I let my fingers relax, leaving four pale crescent marks in my palm. He added, “Talia has no one left. I’m just going to check on her and come right back. Be good. Don’t make me choose between the two of you.” “Choose between the two of us.” So, she and I were the two sides of his scale. He stepped out and closed the door. I sat in the silence for a long time. Eventually, I got up and reached for the broom. With the first sweep, the black ash clung to the straw. With the second, the charred remains of the wick rolled to my feet. I knelt to pick it up. It was so brittle that it crumbled into black dust at the slightest touch of my fingers. I swept the ash into the dustpan, dumped it into a trash bag, and tossed the cold chowder in right after it. My phone screen flickered. The incoming number had no name attached. For five years, it had only ever appeared when I was at my absolute lowest. I stared at it for a few seconds but didn’t call back. Instead, I opened my contacts, deleted Will’s name from my emergency contact list, and typed the unnamed number into the empty space. Saved. The ocean wind rattled the windowpanes. I set my phone face down on the table, took the trash bag, and walked out. I opened the wooden chest beneath my bed. Inside lay the registry of Will’s family gifts, two red candles, a small box of pearls, and the little trinkets he had given me over the years. A miscarved lantern dial. A weathered piece of ship-deck wood. A spool of red twine he had wound himself. I didn’t cry. The tears burned the corners of my eyes but refused to fall. I took the items out one by one, separating them into oilpaper bags by how old they were. At the very bottom lay the wooden deck piece. On the back, two words were carved: “My Chels.” He had carved it when he was first learning the craft. That year, a violent gale had hit the bay. I was terrified, curling into a ball in the cabin corner. He had held me tight, shielding my ears with his hands: “Don’t listen to the storm, Chels. Just listen to my heart.” I placed the wooden piece into the bag. Then, my fingers brushed against something else. It was a sailor’s knot—a lanyard hitch. I froze. This knot had been sitting in my chest for five years. I had always assumed Will left it behind the day he rescued me from the sea. When he saw it later, he had merely shrugged: “Just a piece of frayed rope. Keep it if you like it.” But looking closely at it now, the way the rope was spliced and hitched was entirely different from the way Will secured his boats. Outside, a voice called out, “Chelsea, heading down to the harbor?” It was Mrs. Higgins, who was heading down to ship her fresh catch. I hugged the chest to my chest. “Yes.” The docks were busy. With my wedding date approaching, several elderly women casting nets looked over at me holding the box. I placed the chest at the shipping counter. “Could you have this delivered to the old family home of the ship-lanternsmith?” The clerk blinked. “Is this your dowry?” “No,” I said, placing the registry right on top. “It’s everything they sent. I’m returning it.” The clerk went still. The women mending nets nearby stopped their work. Mrs. Higgins, who had spent her youth on deep-sea vessels and knew every maritime rescue story by heart, walked over. When her eyes fell on the sailor’s knot sticking out of the box, her expression changed. “Why do you have this?” I gripped the edge of the chest. “Do you recognize it, Mrs. Higgins?” She pulled a netting needle from her hair and stepped closer, inspecting the weave. “This is Brian’s knot,” she murmured, her voice dropping. “He used to wear this hitch wrapped around his wrist.” My throat felt as if it had been swallowed by saltwater. “Which Brian?” She looked at me, letting out a long sigh. “Brian Callahan. The best sailor Mariner’s Bay ever had.” “Five years ago, during that terrible squall, when you were sucked into the undertow… he was the one who dove into the vortex and pushed you up to the surface.” I couldn’t move. She continued, “A jagged reef tore open his leg—the wound was so deep the water turned red. But by the time you opened your eyes, Will had just arrived. He held you and wouldn’t let anyone close. You were so terrified, you only recognized him.” “Will never told me.” Mrs. Higgins gave me a knowing look. “Of course he didn’t.” She picked up the sailor’s knot. “Brian didn’t say a word. He just dragged his bleeding leg away. When people asked later, he only said he was glad you were safe.” The memory of that golden five-year-old dusk flashed before my eyes. When I woke up, Will’s clothes were barely wet at the collar. His sleeves were dry, and his boots had no traces of the muddy silt from the reef. I had wept, calling him my savior. He had stiffened for a fraction of a second, then held me tight: “I’ll protect you with my life from now on.” I had spent five years believing I owed him my life. Believing I had to be the understanding, patient one. It turned out, I didn’t owe him anything. The clerk asked softly, “Miss Chelsea, are we still shipping this?” I squeezed the sailor’s knot in my palm. “Yes.” Every single thing belonging to Will. Not a trace left. While the clerk was writing the ticket, my phone buzzed. A message from Will: “Talia is asleep. I’ll head back later to look at the lantern.” I stared at the words. “Later. Always later.” I swiped left on his name, unpinning him from the top of my chat list. Then, I opened the contact with the unnamed number. For five years, whenever I scraped my knee or hurt myself, an anonymous tube of healing ointment would appear at my doorstep. Whenever the harbor festivals got too crowded, someone would quietly reserve the quietest spot on the pier for me, knowing I hated crowds. And whenever Will broke his promises, a small green navigational light would always be burning at the end of the breakwater on my walk home. I used to think it was just a series of happy coincidences. I pressed the sailor’s knot against my chest. The rough texture finally woke me up. As the box was loaded onto the barge, Mrs. Higgins asked, “Chelsea, where are you going?” I looked toward the end of the breakwater. “To say a thank you that is five years overdue.” The breakwater was empty. Only a row of old wooden pilings stood against the gray water. I sat down by the very last piling and dialed the number. It rang twice before he answered. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t rush to speak. There was only the low, steady sound of his breathing over the line. I gripped the phone, and suddenly, the tears I had been holding back spilled over. One hot drop hit my hand, then another. On the other end, his voice came through, soft and quiet. “Are the pearls falling again?” I bit my lip to keep from sobbing. He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “It’s alright. I’m here. Cry as much as you need to.” I wept until I could barely breathe. All these years, whenever I cried, Will’s first reaction was irritation. He told me crying before the wedding was bad luck. He told me Talia had it harder. He told me that as his future wife, I needed to show more dignity. But the man on the phone just listened. Just like he had for the last five years—never rushing, never questioning, never interrupting. Finally, I found my voice. “Five years ago… in the undertow. Was it you who pushed me back to the surface?” Silence stretched on the line. So long that the sound of waves crashing against the rocks filled the quiet. He finally spoke. “Who told you?” I closed my eyes. “Mrs. Higgins recognized the knot.” I heard a soft, faint chuckle. “The way you looked at him back then… there was so much light in your eyes,” he said. “I didn’t want your first thought upon waking to be a burden of obligation.” My throat tightened. “So you just stayed silent?” “Yes.” “And your leg?” “It healed.” “Liar.” Another silence. Then he let out a soft laugh. “I don’t limp too badly. That counts as healed.” I buried my face in my knees, the tears soaking through my sweater. “Brian…” He spoke again. “Chelsea, you don’t have to feel like you owe me anything just because you found out.” I couldn’t form words. “I saved you because I wanted to save you,” he said. “Not to make you turn around and look at me.” I looked out at the ocean. Far to the east, the ninety-nine lanterns Will had lit for Talia stood out like a grand display of devotion. My own bridal light had died in the wind, and no one had looked back. “If he treats you well,” the voice on the phone said, “I could have kept this secret forever.” My fingers tightened around my phone. “And what if he doesn’t?” The wind highway threatened to carry my whisper away. “Then my ship will always have a green light burning for you.” “What you said to me before… does it still stand?” “Which part?” “You said if there ever came a day when I didn’t want to wait for the red light, I could board your boat.” “It stands.” “Then come get me in three days.” “Okay.” I tied the sailor’s knot around my wrist. “I don’t want a red bridal lantern anymore. I’ve spent enough of my life waiting for the red lights in this harbor.” “What do you want instead?” “I want green lights. A whole ship of them.” “You got it.” Before hanging up, I looked at Will’s last message one final time: “Chels, I’ll do my best to get back tonight. Don’t overthink things.” I put the phone back in my pocket. I had spent five years waiting for his “best.” Starting today, I was done. On the morning of the wedding, I woke up early. There were no bridesmaids. No car sent by Will’s family. Only Mrs. Higgins arrived, carrying a small wooden box containing a sea-blue gown. “Brian had this made,” she said. “It doesn’t follow the local wedding customs. But if you don’t want to wear it, there’s still time to change your mind.” I touched the sleeve. The stitching was incredibly tight and neat. Along the cuffs, a pattern of green waves was embroidered—discreet, catching the light only when I lifted my hands. I smiled. “I want to wear it.” Mrs. Higgins helped pin my hair. She didn’t mention Will, nor did she ask if I was afraid. Before leaving, I took down the last red lantern in the house. Will had built the frame himself, lining the inside with a thin sheet of translucent fish-scale paper. He had promised that on our wedding night, he would write our names on it and let it drift out to sea. I dismantled the frame. The fish-scale paper was still blank. Not a single letter had been written on it. I folded it up, placed it at the bottom of the old wooden chest, and handed the box to Mrs. Higgins. “If anyone from his family asks, tell them everything has been returned in full.” Mrs. Higgins nodded. “Understood.” As I stepped outside, my phone vibrated. It was Will. “Something came up here, so I’ll be a little late to collect you. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” I stared at it, then typed two words: “Don’t bother.” The screen instantly showed “Typing…” then stopped. Finally, a message came through: “Don’t be dramatic, Chels. Today is too important.” I put the phone away. Suddenly, a collective gasp echoed from the docks. Through the thick morning fog, a massive black ship broke the harbor line. Its hull rode high in the water. No red silks. No wedding firecrackers. But along the railings, one by one, brilliant green lights began to flare. First at the bow. Then up the masts. Then lining the decks. Nine hundred and ninety-nine green navigational lights turned the eastern harbor into a sea of emerald clarity. The crowd on the pier fell silent. Someone whispered, “That’s the first sailor’s ship.” I stepped onto the gangplank. The crew stood in neat rows on either side. They didn’t cheer or shout; they simply bowed their heads slightly as I passed. Just outside the cabin door sat a solitary green lantern. Underneath it was a slip of paper. “Don’t be afraid. Just keep moving forward.” I slipped the paper into my sleeve. As the ship pulled away, people on the docks began filming. I stood on the deck, the wind catching the sleeves of my sea-blue gown, revealing the sailor’s knot tied around my wrist. Behind us, the red wedding scaffold grew smaller and smaller. In Talia’s living room, Will, dressed in his red wedding suit, was holding a bowl of warm herbal tea. His best man was nudging him. “Man, it’s your wedding day. Don’t keep Chelsea waiting too long.” Talia, dressed in simple white, kept her head down as she cradled the bowl. “Will, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from your wedding.” Will replied, “A few more minutes won’t hurt. Chelsea is the sensible one. She’ll understand.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Alright, get some rest. I need to go finish the wedding walk.” Suddenly, the best man gasped, staring at his phone. “Will… look at the local feed. It’s trending.” “The elusive first sailor is marrying today. The bride is the fisherman’s daughter he pulled from the undertow five years ago.” Will smiled casually, glancing down at the screen. But with that single glance, his entire world shattered. Under a sky illuminated by a thousand green lights, the bride slowly raised her head. He could never forget those eyes, rimmed with red. The sailor’s knot hung clearly from her wrist. The smile froze on Will’s face. He violently pushed Talia aside, running out the door and sprinting toward the harbor like a madman. “Will! You dropped your phone!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “533869”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I used to be a stray cat. In that life, I did whatever it took to survive. Now, somehow, I’ve found myself in the body of a D-list Hollywood nobody, shoved into a high-stakes acting competition reality show called “The Method”. My direct rival is Selena Cross, a Juilliard graduate and the darling of the indie film circuit. Her brand is effortlessly “pure”—she’s the girl who doesn’t play the game, the one who stays above the drama. In front of the cameras, she wears her humility like a crown, sweet-talking her way into offering the spotlight’s most coveted role to me—the raw newcomer. I didn’t play the polite game. I snatched the script right out of her hands and told the cameras I’d do it better. The internet lost its mind. [She’s so desperate, it’s pathetic. The ambition is practically leaking out of her pores!] [Selena is an angel. This street rat Wren Felix needs to get off our screens immediately!] The first round’s theme was “Despair.” Selena wept, her tears perfectly timed, her technique flawless. The judges nodded in approval. Her fans were already typing their essays, waiting to laugh at me—the untrained, unpolished nobody who had dared to steal the spotlight. Then the camera cut to my corner of the stage. I was just curled up in the dark, my body trembling, staring blankly ahead. The live chat went dead silent. [Holy shit… is she actually acting right now?] … Backstage in the waiting area, the other contestants had already finished their introductory interviews. I sat on a squeaky metal folding chair in the corner, scraping the bottom of a lukewarm container of cheap takeout. A production assistant hurried over, her face a mask of anxiety. “Wren Felix! You’re up! Can you put the cardboard box down for two seconds?” I scraped the last forkful of rice, snapped the lid shut, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Coming.” The live stream chat was already eating me alive. [Everyone else is mentally preparing, and she’s stuffing her face? Is she seriously taking this competition seriously?] [Our Selena was so nervous she couldn’t even swallow a bite of lunch! Meanwhile, this trash is eating like it’s her last meal.] I couldn’t help it. When you’ve known real hunger, you don’t walk away from food. It’s a survival instinct. The show was called “The Method”. Twelve actors, paired off to fight for their lives on stage, evaluated by four of the industry’s most demanding directors. The lowest scorer each week gets cut immediately, until only one is left standing. The moment the cast was announced, my name trended on social media—and not for a good reason. I was a D-list nobody with zero pedigree, zero formal training, and a resume consisting entirely of four background victim roles in cheap straight-to-streaming horror flicks. My total dialogue across three years didn’t even span fifty words. Then there was Selena Cross. Juilliard graduate. Protégé of indie auteur film directors. Nominated for a major breakout award with her very first feature. The press called her “America’s Sweetheart of the Art-House Scene.” Her brand was effortless, gentle, and utterly above the vulgarities of fame. The producers had cast me to be the sacrificial lamb. The classical darling versus the unwashed street rat—the narrative practically wrote itself. I knew exactly what they wanted from me. I didn’t care. A stray cat doesn’t turn its nose up at a dumpster just because it’s dirty. You take the meal. As for what people thought of me? A creature that has starved doesn’t waste time worrying about dignity. I passed Selena on my way to the interview set. She was wearing a simple white linen dress, her hair falling in soft, natural waves over her shoulders, her makeup so minimal it seemed non-existent. She offered me a warm, fragile smile. “Wren, right? Good luck out there.” She paused, tilting her head slightly toward the camera, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic lilt. “Honestly, I believe pedigree and training aren’t everything. Anyone can make magic.” The sentiment was beautiful. But I didn’t miss the cold, sharp glint in her eyes, or the tiny, mocking twist at the corner of her lips. It was the look of someone throwing a stray a bone they’d already spit on. I didn’t play along. I sat in the hard plastic chair, looked straight into the camera lens, and bared my teeth in a grin. “Hey. I’m Wren Felix. D-list bottom-feeder. I’m here for one thing: to win.” The chat went off like a bomb. [Win? Did this girl seriously just say ‘win’? What rock did she crawl out from?] [The arrogance! Selena wouldn’t even say something so classless, and this street rat thinks she’s got a shot?] After the interviews, the executive producer announced the first round: a head-to-head dueling showcase. We were paired up to perform a scene from a classic psychological drama. I was matched with Selena. Then came the choice of roles, and with it, a little “accident.” The team had prepared two roles. The lead was a woman unraveling under extreme psychological pressure—massive, weeping monologues, a textbook showcase of emotional intensity. The other was a bystander with exactly two scenes. Selena looked at the cards, then turned to me with an expression of pure, saintly benevolence. She held out the lead role. “Wren, take it,” she said, her voice dripping with warmth. “I think newcomers deserve the chance to shine. I’m happy to take the supporting role.” The chat was instantly moved. [Oh my god, Selena is a literal saint! She just gave away the showcase role!] Chase Dalton, a smug, highly popular lead actor who was also in the competition, stood nearby. He spared me a brief, disgusted glance. “Just take it and don’t waste her kindness, Wren. Frankly, I’m not even sure you can memorize that many lines.” I looked at the card in Selena’s hand. Her smile was flawless, her eyes wide and innocent. But I recognized the scent. It was the smell of a hunter laying a trap. She wasn’t being generous. She knew the lead role was a landmine. It required an immense, fragile emotional range that even seasoned actors struggled to hit. To her, I was an amateur. Giving me this role was simply hand-delivering me a shovel to dig my own grave on national television. Meanwhile, she’d play the easy supporting part, collect her praise for being “humble,” and sail through to the next round. I reached out and took the card from her fingers. “Sure. I’ll do it.” Chase let out a soft sneer. “Fool’s errand.” Selena cast her eyes down, her long eyelashes fluttering as if she were worried for me. It was a beautiful piece of theater. We had three hours to rehearse. Selena glanced at her short script, tossed it onto the table, and spent the rest of the time sipping an iced latte, chatting with her team. She looked utterly unbothered. With only twenty lines, she had nothing to fear. Chase strolled by and patted her shoulder. “I love how grounded you are, Selena. No panic, no stress.” “Why worry?” Selena laughed softly. “Acting has always felt as natural as breathing to me.” The chat was filled with admiration. [That’s what real training looks like. Grace under pressure.] [Meanwhile, look at the other one…] The camera cut to my corner. I was crouched on the dusty floor of the rehearsal room, staring at a blank brick wall, muttering to myself. My script was dog-eared, the margins crammed with scribbles and scratched-out notes. [Talking to a wall because she doesn’t even have a scene partner. This is sad.] [Selena sipping coffee is a hundred times more elegant than this girl crouching like a gargoyle.] Only one comment got buried in the deluge of mockery: [Wait… look at her script. What are all those notes? They’re practically a novel.] Three hours later, the stage lights went up. Selena was up first. She played the bystander witnessing a hit-and-run. Two scenes: one where she gasped and covered her mouth in shock, and another where her hands trembled as she dialed 911. Was her expression correct? Yes. Were her marks hit? Perfectly. But that was all. It was a textbook performance—mathematically correct, utterly devoid of life. On the panel, Director Campbell gave a polite, clinical nod. “Selena, your technique is incredibly disciplined. Solid work.” The chat immediately inflated the compliment. [Even Director Campbell praised her! Selena never disappoints!] [I’m already feeling embarrassed for the other girl and she hasn’t even walked on stage yet.] But in reality, the moment the words left his mouth, Campbell looked down at his notes, completely losing interest. Then, the stage went dark for my scene. I stood in the wings, waiting. Chase leaned against the soundboard, his arms crossed. “Make it count,” he murmured, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t embarrass Selena after she gave you her spotlight.” I ignored him and walked onto the empty stage. The scene: A woman abandoned by everyone she loves in a freezing downpour, huddled in a dark alleyway. She had to transition from utter hysteria to a quiet, terrifying numbness, and finally, find a spark of raw instinct to keep breathing. The director called action. At the monitors below, Selena watched with a faint, amused smile. She was ready to watch me drown. For the first thirty seconds, I didn’t move. The chat grew restless. [Is she frozen? What is this, a still frame?] [I knew it. She choked.] Then, I collapsed. It wasn’t a graceful, theatrical sink. My knees simply gave out, and I slid down the rough brick wall. I pulled my knees tight to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around my ribs. I wasn’t acting. My body just remembered. A winter night. Under the concrete overpass. Right next to a leaking dumpster. You curl your body into a ball to keep the heat from leaking out. You squeeze your arms around your ribs because when the hunger gets too sharp, putting pressure on your stomach stops the cramping. I didn’t cry. My eyes burned, but they remained dry. When you are truly frozen, truly starving, you don’t waste water on tears. Tears take energy. And every scrap of energy you have must be hoarded for one thing: survival. I sat there, staring blankly into the middle distance, my eyes completely hollow. After a long silence, my fingers twitched. I reached out, my palm flat against the dirty floorboards, scraping slowly until my hand closed around something invisible. I brought my hand to my mouth, and I began to chew. At the judges’ table, Director Campbell’s polite smile vanished. He slowly pulled off his glasses, leaning his entire body forward. The female director beside him pressed a hand to her mouth. When I reached the final line of the monologue, I lifted my chin just a fraction. My voice was a dry, raspy scrape, barely louder than a breath: “…It’s fine. I won’t die.” The studio fell into a suffocating silence. By the monitors, the smile had drained completely from Selena’s face. The judges remained silent for what felt like an eternity before Campbell finally spoke. “Selena, your performance was competent,” he said, his voice quiet. “But Wren… Wren’s performance came from the marrow of her bones.” The scoreboards lit up. Selena: 78. Wren: 96. The live chat split wide open. [96?! The D-lister beat a Juilliard grad by eighteen points?!] [I mean, she was good, but this feels rigged. Selena literally gave her the role. Wren’s greed is disgusting!] When the scores were read, Selena handled it with perfect poise. “Wren is incredibly gifted,” she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she offered a brave, gentle smile to the camera. “I’m genuinely happy for her.” [Selena’s class is unmatched. If some street-rat tried to pull that on me, I’d have walked off.] [She got a 78 on a bystander role! The script limited her!] Chase Dalton added a cool, dismissive remark to the cameras: “An emotional outburst is easy. This competition is about consistency and versatility. Let’s see if she can do anything else.” The producers immediately moved to the next round: Improv. No scripts, no rehearsal time. Just a pure test of instinct. This was Selena’s home turf. Four years of classical training meant she had done hundreds of hours of theater sports and improv. [Improv? Selena’s got this in the bag.] [Wren got lucky with a script she probably memorized for weeks. Let’s see her try to wing it.] The keyword drawn by the judges was “Betrayal.” Selena went first. She closed her eyes for three seconds, and when she opened them, she was a wife discovering her husband’s affair. She tracked the emotion perfectly: shock, fury, and finally, a beautifully weeping heartbreak. She dropped to her knees, gathering scattered photos with trembling fingers. “Why… you promised me…” The audience applauded. But to anyone watching closely, the performance felt mechanical. Every gasp was calculated, every sob measured to the millisecond. It was flawless, and entirely forgettable. On the panel, Director Campbell gave a neutral assessment. “Very smooth. Highly emotional.” He didn’t praise it, but he didn’t tear it down either. [Campbell said ’emotional’! Selena is a textbook genius!] My turn. Selena sat in the front row, her smile gone, replaced by a quiet, smug certainty. She didn’t believe an untrained actor could survive raw improv. Chase leaned back, whispering, “This one’s over.” I walked onto the empty stage. “Betrayal.” Selena had played the victim of betrayal. I decided to play the betrayer. The spotlight hit. I sat on a single chair facing an empty table. I kept my head low, my hands resting on the surface. In one hand, I gripped an imaginary thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. I began to count them. One. Two. Three. My fingers shook slightly, but a tiny, dark smile touched my lips. At seven, I stopped. I stuffed the bills deep into my jacket pocket, picked up an imaginary glass of water, and downed it. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, stood up, and carefully slid the chair back under the table. The movement was silent, as if I were trying not to wake someone in the next room. I walked toward the edge of the stage—an imaginary door. When my fingers closed around the invisible handle, I paused. I didn’t look back. But my shoulders sagged—just a fraction of an inch, a brief moment of heavy, silent weight. Then, I turned the handle and stepped through. I didn’t say a single word. The studio remained frozen for five long seconds. This time, Campbell didn’t hesitate. He leaned into his microphone. “I don’t know what your life has been, Wren. But every gesture you made carried the weight of a real decision. That is something Juilliard cannot teach you.” The scores flashed on screen. Selena: 81. Wren: 97. Chase looked like he’d swallowed a wasp. The tide in the chat began to turn. [How did she do that? She didn’t say a word and I have goosebumps.] [Selena’s betrayal is what you see on TV. Wren’s betrayal… felt real.] [They’ve only done emotional scenes so far! Selena’s technical skill hasn’t had a chance to shine!] After losing two rounds in a row, Selena’s serene façade began to show its first cracks. In the greenroom, she spoke to Chase in hushed, hurried tones, unaware that a nearby boom mic was still hot. “Who the hell is she?” Selena whispered. “Did your people look into her?” “Yeah,” Chase muttered. “She’s a nobody. No real agent, no backing. Just some background trash.” “Then is Campbell rigging this? Are the producers trying to force some stupid underdog narrative?” “Maybe. But Campbell… he’s too stubborn to play along with network notes.” Selena went quiet for a moment, then took a long, stabilizing breath, smoothing her face back into its signature gentle mask. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll settle this in the third round.” The production team quietly slipped this exchange into the broadcast. The reaction was immediate. [Selena is just human. Anyone would get anxious if they were being pushed out by a nobody.] [Human? She sounded like a completely different person. The ‘Saint Selena’ act is fake.] The third round was the most critical: the Classic Scene Reinterpretation. We were assigned scenes from iconic films and had to put our own spin on them. It was a test of raw instinct, technical skill, and artistic taste. Selena drew a scene from the classic indie drama “Autumn Leaves”—a heartbreaking sequence where a mother bids farewell to her daughter on her wedding day. I drew the climax of “The Isolated City”—the final three minutes of a death-row inmate walking toward the execution chamber. The original performance had won an Oscar. [A mother’s farewell? That’s a tearjerker. Selena has this locked down.] [An Oscar-winning death march? No way a D-lister pulls that off. She’s going to look pathetic compared to the original.] Selena visibly relaxed. She smiled for the cameras. “I connect deeply with this piece. Maternal love is the most universal language.” I looked at my slip of paper, my expression blank. The crowd had already written my obituary. We had two hours. Selena wasn’t drinking coffee this time. She worked tirelessly, refining every gesture, every teardrop. She knew this was her last chance to save her reputation as the “prodigy.” Meanwhile, a production assistant walked past my rehearsal space and found me sitting flat on the floor, my back against the wall, eyes closed. I looked like I was asleep. [She gave up. She doesn’t even have the guts to try.] [Taking a nap? What a clown.] The cameras rolled. Selena went first. She poured everything she had into the scene. She fussed over her daughter’s veil, repeated lines about eating well, and wept bitterly as the carriage pulled away. But the desperation was palpable. She wanted to win so badly that every sob felt forced, every tear mathematically squeezed out for maximum dramatic effect. You could see the machinery of her acting. Campbell’s critique was restrained. “The emotion was there, Selena. But in a few places… it was a bit much.” Her score: 85. Respectable, but not insurmountable. My turn. I stepped onto the stage. The lights dimmed. In the front row, Chase whispered to another contestant, “The original took twenty years of classical experience to pull off. An amateur like her—” The lights flared before he could finish. The stage was completely bare. No props, no backdrop. Just me. But the room went cold. Because the moment the light hit my face, my eyes had changed. It wasn’t terror. It wasn’t noble tragedy. It wasn’t the sweeping, dramatic acceptance of death that the Oscar-winning original had shown. It was a strange, terrible stillness. Like a stray cat that had spent its entire life running through frozen alleys, only to finally find itself trapped in a dead end. It doesn’t panic. It doesn’t cry out. Because to a stray, every day has been a dead end. Today is simply the last one. I took my first step. In the judges’ row, Director Campbell’s fingers tightened instantly around his armrest.

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I gave Isabel a hundred-day grace period before we walked down the aisle. A simple test: if she could go those hundred days without contacting Adrian, her first love, I would forgive her. For ninety-nine days, she was practically perfect. Then came the early hours of the hundredth day. Adrian posted a photo on Instagram: “Afraid I’d have nightmares, she burned someone else’s sacred protection charm just to keep me warm.” In the photo, the half-charred red silk pouch was unmistakable. It was the amulet my grandmother had climbed a mountain shrine on her hands and knees to get for me right before she died. The only piece of her I had left in this world. A moment later, a text from Isabel lit up my screen. Eden, the hundred days are up. Wait for me to get home, and we’ll go straight to City Hall. I stared at the words, and a sudden, quiet laugh escaped my chest. It’s over, Isabel. The hundred days. And us. … “Eden, I’m downstairs. Did you find the paperwork?” Isabel’s voice over the phone was raspy from staying up all night, but there was an unmistakable flutter of excitement in it. I didn’t answer right away. I sat on the edge of the sofa, my eyes locked on the picture on my screen. “Hello? Are you there? Did you misplace them since it’s been so long?” She let out a soft, teasing laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m coming up to help you look. I grabbed those pork buns you love from the bakery on South Street, too.” “Don’t bother,” I finally said. My voice was entirely flat. “What?” She paused. “I didn’t look for the papers,” I said, looking out at the gray, overcast sky pressing down on the city. “And you don’t need to come up.” Silence stretched over the line for a beat or two, followed by a heavy, familiar sigh. “Eden, are you still upset that I wasn’t there to count down the hundredth day with you last night?” “I told you, we had an emergency board meeting. Every executive was there; I couldn’t just walk out.” “I swear, the moment we sign the papers, I’ll book us a trip to the Maldives to make up for it, okay?” It was always like this. The effortless lies, the endless promises written on empty air. I used to believe her. Now, it just made my stomach turn. “Isabel, were you really in a board meeting last night?” I asked quietly. “Of course! Where else would I be?” Her tone was firm, without a single flicker of hesitation. “I see.” I felt a cold smile pull at the corner of my lips. “It must have been freezing in that conference room then. Cold enough that you had to start a fire just to stay warm.” The line went dead silent. Her breathing caught sharply. “What… what is that supposed to mean?” Her voice finally trembled. “Nothing.” I hung up. Less than three minutes later, the lock clicked open frantically. Isabel burst through the front door, not even pausing to kick off her heels before she rushed toward me. She held a grease-stained paper bag of warm buns, but her eyes were wide with panic. “Eden, what did you mean by that? Did you see something?” She reached out to grab my hand, but I stepped back, letting her fingers grasp empty air. “You smell like smoke,” I said, looking at her expensive tweed jacket. “And Adrian’s cologne.” Isabel’s face drained of color instantly. Instinctively, she pulled her collar up to sniff it, her lips parting, but no words came out. “No lies left?” I looked at her, my gaze cold. “What happened to the emergency board meeting?” “Eden, let me explain!” She threw the bag of pastries onto the coffee table, her words rushing out. “Adrian called me last night. His power went out, and he was having a massive panic attack. He was crying, alone in the dark.” “You know how bad his claustrophobia is. Was I supposed to just leave him there to suffer?” “I only went over to calm him down. I swear, nothing happened between us!” She said it with such righteous conviction. I laughed, a sharp, hollow sound that brought hot tears to the corners of my eyes. “So, your way of calming him down was burning my grandmother’s amulet to keep him warm?” She choked on her words, her eyes darting away. “That… that was an accident. He was shaking so badly. I saw the pouch in my car, and I just wanted to give him a little light, something to make him feel safe.” “Eden, it’s just a silk pouch. We can get another one. I’ll drive up to the monastery tomorrow, and I’ll walk up those stone steps on my knees to get you a new one myself!” Just a silk pouch. My grandmother had kept her diagnosis a secret, dragging her frail, pain-wracked body up those steep mountain steps just to pray for my safety. Her knees had been raw and bleeding, her skin tearing under her worn trousers. When she returned, she had pressed that little red pouch into my hands with trembling fingers. “Eden, sweetheart, I won’t be here to watch over you much longer. Let this keep you safe.” It was the only piece of her I had left in the world. And Isabel knew that. I had bared my soul to her about it. I took a deep breath, pointing directly at the door. “The hundred-day grace period is over. You broke the rules. We’re done, Isabel.” “Eden, stop being so unreasonable!” Her defensive temper finally flared. “I told you it wasn’t intentional! How long are you going to keep punishing me for this?” I didn’t say another word. She gritted her teeth, pointing a finger at me. “Fine. Calm down. I’ll come back when you’ve cooled your head!” She slammed the door so hard the walls vibrated. The apartment fell back into a suffocating, dead silence. I sank onto the sofa, took out my phone, and dialed the number for our real estate agent, Greg. “Hey, Greg, it’s Eden from Emerald Heights.” “Yeah, I want to sell the place. As quickly as possible. I’m willing to drop the price, but I need an all-cash offer.” Just after I hung up, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Adrian. Hey Eden, Izzy left one of her dresses at my place last night. I washed it, so I can drop it off later? Also, please don’t be mad at her about the amulet. She was just worried about me. If it’s really that big of a deal, I can Venmo you twenty bucks to buy a new one? I stared at the screen, at the dripping condescension of his words, and let out a dry laugh. Keep it, I replied. Keep the dress, and keep her. You two deserve each other. I blocked his number immediately and cleared our chat history. Looking at the blank screen, an overwhelming wave of relief washed over me. For three years, I had lived as a pathetic side character in their crowded, suffocating relationship. Now, I was finally opting out. By 2:00 PM, Greg arrived with a young couple to view the apartment. Once they left, I started packing. Honestly, I didn’t have much. This apartment was practically a shrine to Isabel and Adrian. In the guest bedroom, there was a velvet throw pillow Adrian had insisted on having. In the bar cabinet, bottles of wine Adrian had shipped from his travels. Even the entryway closet held a pair of slippers bought exclusively for him. I grabbed a couple of heavy-duty cardboard boxes and swept all of it inside. I threw in Isabel’s leftover clothes, her designer makeup, and piled the boxes right by the front door. As evening fell, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Greg returning for something he’d forgotten, I pulled the door open, only to find Isabel standing there. She was holding a beautifully packaged box from my favorite bakery, a placating smile on her face that said she was entirely confident I would forgive her. “Eden, look. I got you that Black Forest cake you love.” She tried to brush past me to get inside, but I barred the doorway. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice flat. “I came to apologize, okay? What else do you want from me?” She sighed, her tone carrying that familiar, patronizing indulgence. “Stop acting out. We have to go to City Hall tomorrow.” “I made myself clear this morning. We’re over.” I didn’t move an inch. The easy smile faded from her face. “Eden, do you honestly think threatening to break up with me is funny?” She knitted her brows. “It was a stupid charm. I apologized. You’re blowing this completely out of proportion.” “A stupid charm?” I looked her dead in the eye. “That charm was the physical proof of your priorities, Isabel. You always choose him.” “I don’t choose him!” her voice rose. “Don’t lie to yourself,” I shot back, stepping forward. “Three years ago, I was hooked up to an IV in the ER with a hundred-and-three-degree fever, and you ran out on me because Adrian’s power went out and he was scared.” “Six months ago, we went to get fitted for our wedding attire, and Adrian said he wanted to know what it felt like to be a groom. You let him wear my custom suit, took photos of him, and posted them online.” “And when we bought this place, Adrian said he liked the sun-drenched guest room, so you handed it over to him without even asking me!” With every word I spoke, the color drained further from Isabel’s face. “Eden, be reasonable!” She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Adrian spent years alone overseas. He just got back and doesn’t have any friends here. I’m practically his sister—what’s wrong with looking out for him?” “Sister?” I laughed, a bitter sound. “I’ve never met a sister who would sneak off to her brother’s house on the eve of her own wedding and burn her fiancé’s dead grandmother’s keepsake to keep him warm.” “I told you, it was an accident!” she screamed. “Too many accidents become a pattern.” I pointed at the cardboard boxes resting by the wall. “Take your things and don’t come back.” Isabel looked down at the box overflowing with her everyday items. For the first time, reality seemed to sink in. She realized I wasn’t just throwing a tantrum. “Eden… are you serious?” she asked, her voice tight. “Completely.” “Fine! Great!” She laughed, a harsh, angry sound, and kicked the cardboard box hard. Dresses and expensive cosmetics scattered across the floor. “Don’t come crying to me when you regret this! Who else do you think is going to put up with your petty, insecure attitude?” “I have to help Adrian unpack tomorrow anyway. I don’t have time for this. When you finally come to your senses, you know where to find me!” She threw the cake box violently onto the floor, turning on her heel to storm toward the elevator. I looked down at the ruined, smashed cake on the ground. “Goodbye, Isabel.”

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