Author: Momo Chan

On the eve of my wedding, I was dragged into the woods by two thugs and tormented for three hours. When my brother found me, I was disfigured, four teeth knocked out, covered in blood. My dad rushed over after finishing a business deal, pounding the wall and swearing revenge for me. Before entering the operating room, my brother, in his white coat, promised he would do everything to help me recover my looks and heal my body. But as I lay in the emergency room, I heard my brother whisper to my dad: “Dad, wasn’t it too much letting those animals bully Chloe like that?” My dad was silent for a moment, then said in a deep voice: “I didn’t expect them to be so heavy-handed! But this is good too. With Chloe ruined like this, there’s no way she can marry Liam Scott anymore. Bella can marry him rightfully now.” “We did this for Chloe’s own good. With her arrogant and domineering personality, if she really married into the Scott family, who knows what trouble she would cause.” … Since that’s the case, I don’t want them anymore. 1 My brother’s assistant checked my injuries and hurried out. “Dr. Chen, the patient has multiple injuries, should we operate immediately?” “Okay, we…” Just as my brother was speaking, my dad interrupted him. “No rush. Wait until Bella and Liam’s wedding is over before you operate.” “Chloe only suffered external injuries, she’ll heal quickly. If we do the surgery early and she runs to interrupt their wedding, what then?” The assistant beside him was shocked. “This kind of surgery can’t be delayed. We have to consider if the patient has any unexpected complications…” My brother echoed: “Right! We must operate on Chloe as soon as possible. I won’t allow anything to happen to her!” With a crisp slap, my dad hit him hard across the face. “Fool! We’re halfway done, how can we retreat now? Chloe is already like this. Our task now is to ensure 100% that Bella can marry Liam!” “Do as I say! Give Chloe the best medicine to lessen her pain, and delay the surgery until tomorrow night!” Listening to the conversation between my dad and brother, my heart went cold. When my parents divorced, my dad refused to let my mom take me no matter what. I thought he couldn’t bear to part with me, that he loved me. Who would have thought he would hurt me like this for an adopted daughter? And my brother, who fought others for me when we were young, and always thought of me first when he had good things growing up. Now he could let thugs bully me and even deliberately delay my surgery! How did they become like this?! The next second, the two walked into the emergency room. I closed my eyes, continuing to feign unconsciousness, but my fists clenched uncontrollably. My dad quickly noticed my abnormality. He held my fist and asked with concern: “Chloe, are you awake? How do you feel now?” He then pretended to order my brother: “Ethan, what are you standing there for? Hurry up and check your sister’s injuries, give her the best painkillers!” My brother immediately leaned in, checking my condition with heartache, stopping the bleeding and bandaging me. Their words and actions were full of concern for me. However, knowing the truth, I only felt chilled and nauseous. Those two thugs forcibly pulled out my teeth, and my mouth was still bleeding. I endured the pain, looking at my brother and asking: “I feel pain in my lower abdomen. Brother, when is the surgery?” My dad answered first: “Chloe, your brother is missing a medicine here. He has arranged for someone to transport it here urgently. The surgery might have to wait until tomorrow night!” “But don’t worry, your brother will stay here with you and won’t let anything happen to you!” I was disappointed to the extreme with them. I looked at my brother and couldn’t help asking: “Brother, is that true? I feel like I’m dying, but the surgery can’t be done?” My brother’s eyes flickered, clearly guilty. However, the next moment, he replied calmly: “Dad said so, how can it be fake? Chloe, don’t be afraid, I will do my best to ensure you are safe and sound.” 2 As my brother spoke, he cut open my pants with scissors to check the painful area on my abdomen. He trembled: “What happened to you? Why are you hurt like this here?” I tensed my weak body in pain, meeting their incredulous gazes, and answered softly: “I’m a woman with no strength. Falling into the hands of those two animals, could I have had it easy?” “They treated me like a toy, wishing to tear me apart…” My dad looked away unbearably. My brother hugged me tightly, trembling all over. “Chloe, don’t say anymore. I will definitely cure you! And your face, I will do my best to restore it to its original state!” My dad declared there that he would spend a fortune to find those two animals and tear them to pieces. My brother kept his word and really didn’t operate on me, only stopping the bleeding and giving painkillers. Groggily, I heard my brother asking my dad. “Dad, Chloe has been bullied like this. Are we really going to post her experience online?” “And spread rumors that she was loose herself, deliberately seducing those two thugs into the woods…” “When people online see this, who knows how they will curse her…” My dad said firmly: “We must do this! That kid Liam loves Chloe to death. It’s not enough that she was bullied by them; we have to ruin her reputation too!” “Only in this way will the Scott family completely reject Chloe!” “At worst, after the wedding is over, we’ll delete those things and hire a PR team to clarify and clear Chloe’s name!” I was going crazy. Clearly, I was night running when those two thugs suddenly appeared and forcibly dragged me into the woods. As my family, how could they slander me like this?! A few minutes later, my phone started vibrating, buzzing again and again. It was my best friend sharing a TikTok video. [Chloe, look at this TikTok video. Why does it mention you by name?!!] Opening it, it was a video of me hooking up with those two thugs and following them into the woods. This was obviously the masterpiece of my dad and brother. As the person who experienced this, I naturally knew this video was fake. However, the comment section was full of sarcasm and insults towards me. [Isn’t this the Chen family’s daughter? Is she this loose?!] [Heard she’s having a wedding with the Scott family’s son tomorrow. This is having fun outside before getting married!!] [Damn, how can there be such a disgusting woman? If I married this kind of b*tch, I’d break her legs!!] [Liam Scott definitely won’t want her anymore seeing her like this, right?!] [Her family must be furious, hahahaha!!] … Looking at this content, I trembled with anger. The pain on my body exploded instantly, unstoppable even by the best painkillers. At this time, my brother came over, took away my phone, and hugged me with heartache. “Chloe, I believe you. You are not like this.” My dad glanced at my phone and threw it hard on the ground. “How can they say this about my daughter? I’ll call right now and have someone delete this video!” He walked away making a call. My brother comforted me gently: “Chloe, don’t worry. In ten minutes, Dad can make this video disappear.” I didn’t speak, just faintly admiring the acting skills of these two. How can they be so thick-skinned? They clearly created the rumors about me, yet they act like good people in front of me one by one. A few minutes later, my dad walked back and said to me: “Chloe, I’ve had the video deleted. Dad will always be your support. I won’t allow anyone to hurt you!” My brother echoed: “I will always protect you too.” However, that video had been shared tens of thousands of times and had long reached the Scott family. What would Liam think of me? At this moment, I clearly realized that it was completely impossible between him and me. Perhaps, in tomorrow’s wedding, Bella Chen really will get her wish and become his bride. My heart hurts so much! My brother worried about my physical condition and asked his assistant to arrange a more comprehensive examination for me. After the examination, the assistant looked at me with pity, pulled my brother aside, and stuffed a report into his hand. “Dr. Chen, your sister’s organs are damaged. She must be operated on as soon as possible, otherwise she will completely lose her fertility, and various bodily functions will be seriously affected!” 3 My brother flipped through the report carefully, his face getting darker and darker. He warned the assistant not to talk nonsense and turned to find my dad. His thoughts were exactly the same as the assistant’s. I must have surgery now. If not, I might not only be unable to have children but also very likely lose the ability to take care of myself! In the hallway outside, my dad trembled: “How could this be? How could those two animals do this to my daughter!” My brother was anxious. “The urgent task now is to operate on Chloe immediately!” Even through the wall, I could feel how anxious they were now. At this moment, I thought they would operate on me immediately. However, I was soon disappointed to the extreme. My dad said coldly: “No! If we operate on her now, what about Bella’s wedding?” “It’s good she can’t have children. This way Liam will completely give up. He will love Bella wholeheartedly!” “As for losing the ability to take care of herself… As the best doctor in our city, can’t you even cure your own sister?” “Hmph, even if she really loses the ability to take care of herself, it’s fine. As her dad, I will support her for a lifetime and never let her starve or freeze!” At this time, I no longer had any expectations of them. Enduring the pain, I picked up the phone my dad threw on the ground and dialed a number I knew by heart. “I miss you. Can you come find me?” “Also, I want to ask you to do some things for me…” Just after the call, my dad and brother walked in. Under my dad’s gaze, my brother fed me medicine and water. I didn’t resist, obediently complying. Just after taking the medicine, a strong drowsiness hit me. It seems they gave me sleeping pills. I’m hurt like this, are they still afraid I’ll stop Bella’s good thing? When I opened my eyes again, it was already the next evening. By this time, the wedding where Bella replaced me should have ended, right? Before I was fully awake, my brother stepped forward excitedly. “Chloe! The medicine missing for the surgery will arrive in ten minutes. I can operate on you immediately! Just wait a little longer!” Joy couldn’t be hidden on my dad’s face, but I knew it wasn’t because I was about to have surgery, but because his adopted daughter finally married the man she liked. I looked at them indifferently and said lightly: “I’m not doing this surgery.” My dad got anxious immediately. “How can that be? We held on until now, finally can operate, how can you give up?” “Chloe, do you want to become a cripple who can’t have children?” My brother grabbed my hand tightly, anxiously saying: “I forbid you to give up!” “Chloe, you have to believe me. I can definitely cure you. And your face, I will restore it to how it was!” “Give me a chance to make up for it, okay?” Just then, my dad’s secretary walked in quickly and whispered to him: “Mr. Chen, Bella has arrived.” My dad looked happy. His tone changed, saying to me: “Consider the surgery carefully. Bella is here to see you now, don’t embarrass her!” A guilty look flashed across my brother’s face, but in the end, he said nothing. I knew what happened even if they didn’t say. Bella was an intern in my dad’s company. Somehow, she won my dad’s favor. That weekend, my dad brought her home and announced he recognized her as his adopted daughter. Since then, my dad treated her as well as his biological daughter, wishing to hold her in the palm of his hand. Until this time, for Bella to marry Liam whom she fell in love with at first sight, he didn’t hesitate to hire two thugs to drag me into the woods and bully me. Liam hasn’t come to see me for so long. It seems he also gave up on me and married Bella. I’m just curious why Bella isn’t enjoying her wedding night but ran over here at this time? Unexpectedly, she actually came wearing my wedding dress. 4 Seeing her, my dad and brother showed no dissatisfaction. Seeing me on the hospital bed, the joy on her face couldn’t be hidden. She feigned concern for me: “Chloe, how did you become like this? The thing about you and those two thugs isn’t true, is it? You were consensual, how could they treat you like this?” My brother frowned. Bella immediately apologized to me: “Sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t mention this to make you sad, I accidentally forgot!” I didn’t want to watch her act here. I endured the pain and disgust and asked her: “Bella Chen, why are you wearing my wedding dress?” Bella’s eyes reddened instantly, looking like she was about to cry. My dad’s face changed, glaring at me fiercely, shouting: “What else could it be? Chloe Chen, you were indiscreet before marriage, messing around with two men. Naturally, the Scott family won’t want you anymore!” “If it weren’t for Bella wronging herself and sacrificing herself to marry Liam, who knows how ugly this matter would have become!” My brother scolded me coldly: “Chloe, don’t think you can do whatever you want just because you’re sick! Bella helped you this time, you shouldn’t question her!” Their righteous appearance made it seem like that video wasn’t forged by them. I laughed in anger, but laughing hurt my mouth. “Don’t blame Chloe, she must be very sad now. If she wants to blame someone, blame me!” Saying this, she walked up to me, looking at me mockingly, and said proudly in a volume only I could hear: “The once arrogant Chen family daughter has now become an ugly monster.” “Heard you can’t even have children, so pitiful!” “And I, replaced you to marry Liam. He will love me wholeheartedly in the future.” “Guess who did all this?” “It was the thugs your dad hired, your brother deliberately delaying your surgery…” “In their hearts, I am their family, and you are not even as good as roadside trash…” I glared at her, opening my mouth to curse her. I only said “You”, and she suddenly fell back hard. She fell to the ground, saying pitifully: “Chloe, I know you hate me for marrying Liam and taking away Dad and Brother’s love for you!” “If you really aren’t willing, I’ll return Liam to you, return Dad and Brother to you. I can also atone with death, no need for you to push me…” Before I could react, my dad rushed up and slapped my bandaged face. “Chloe! You’re hurt like this and still bullying Bella. How can you be so vicious?!” “Bella wronged herself to marry Liam to clean up your mess. If you have any dissatisfaction, come at me!” My brother also kicked my hospital bed hard. His kick was so powerful that I rolled off directly. He ignored it, helping Bella up and hugging her tightly. He said to me coldly: “Chloe Chen, if you dare touch Bella again, I won’t recognize you as my sister.” Even though I had decided to cut ties with them, my heart was still terribly cold. I watched helplessly as they left holding Bella. My dad took Bella for a checkup, afraid she was hurt in the slightest. He also had someone bring her the most delicious midnight snack. Only then did he remember me. He said to my brother: “Go ask Chloe what she wants to eat. We were so harsh to her just now, she must be angry.” A few minutes later, my brother stumbled back with a piece of cloth written in blood. “Dad, Chloe doesn’t want us anymore. She wants to sever ties with us!”

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1 After my family fell, my uncle was “diagnosed” with ALS. I left the military, borrowed from loan sharks, and carried his burden alone. For five years, I endured it all—broken ribs without painkillers, exhaustion without rest—every cent went to his care. One night, while waitressing at the Astoria Grand, I saw him. The man I thought was wheelchair-bound stood tall in uniform, laughing with comrades. “General,” one said, “you’ve faked ALS for five years. Sarah’s nearly worked herself to death. Isn’t it enough?” Uncle Marcus scoffed. “Almost. If she hadn’t rejected Elsie and driven her into depression, I wouldn’t have needed to teach her this lesson.” He continued, “Elsie’s doing better now. Soon, I’ll ‘recover’ miraculously. Sarah will have suffered enough to behave.” “But will she believe an ALS recovery?” his comrade asked. Marcus laughed. “That foolish girl? She’s believed me since childhood. This is for her own good. I’ll make it up to her later.” I lowered my head, tears falling silently. But Uncle, there is no “later” for us. Your illness is a lie. But mine is real. … A cold wind whipped around the building, chilling me to the bone. I stood frozen, a puppet on a string, as the faith I had clung to for five years was systematically dismantled, a death by a thousand cuts. Each one carved away a piece of my soul. His friend, Captain Grant, sighed. “I have to say, Marcus, that’s cold. This is the girl you raised. The youngest ace sniper in the Command. She threw away her career for you, without a second thought. She’s barely in her twenties and she looks like she’s aged a decade. The other day, she was eight hundred dollars short for your imported medicine. She came to me, begging for a loan.” Marcus’s face hardened. “And you gave it to her?” Grant shook his head, his expression pained. “You gave a direct order. What could I do? The kid stood outside my barracks all afternoon until she passed out from low blood sugar. I didn’t even dare help her up. She came to on her own and used the wall to pull herself to her feet.” What Grant didn’t say was that on that day, I had pressed my service pistol to my temple. Captain, I’d said, there’s one round left in the chamber. If you don’t lend me the money, I’m pulling the trigger. Uncle had been off his medication for seven days, and he was coughing up blood. But Grant had just stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, disarmed me with grim resolve, and shoved me out of his room like I was carrying the plague. Now I understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help. He wasn’t allowed to. Marcus’s voice was like ice. “Let me be clear to all of you. Until Elsie returns from her retreat in the Capital, no one helps Sarah. Not if she kneels, not if she begs. If she drops dead in front of you, you don’t even look.” “Elsie is a fragile soul, and her depression is just starting to lift. This five-year ‘punishment’ for Sarah is not to be cut short by a single day. If any of you upsets Elsie, don’t blame me for what happens next.” The room fell silent. Someone finally broke the tension. “General, aren’t you afraid that if Sarah finds out the truth, it’ll break her heart?” Marcus let out a short, harsh laugh. “Break her heart? I raised her. I gave her a life. What’s a little hardship? Elsie is different. She has no one. She’s suffered so much. It’s my duty to take care of her.” His gaze swept across the room. “What was said here tonight stays here. If a single word of it reaches Sarah’s ears, our history will mean nothing.” I leaned against the cold wall, my limbs numb. So that was it. The five years I had risked my life for, my entire future, was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated punishment. My career, my honor… all of it could be sacrificed at the slightest hint of Elsie’s displeasure, dismissed by my uncle as a necessary evil. I wanted to laugh, but the taste of rust filled my throat. A phone rang inside the room, and footsteps approached the door. I had no time to hide. I spun around frantically and collided with the manager carrying a bottle of wine. The bottle, a special reserve for the military elite, shattered on the floor. The manager’s face contorted with rage, and he slapped me hard across the face. The door to the private room swung open. Marcus strode out, his eyes passing right over me as he opened his arms to catch Elsie, who had just arrived. “What are you doing here by yourself?” he cooed. “I told you I’d come pick you up.” Elsie’s laughter was bright and clear. “I missed you, Uncle! I wanted to surprise you!” I was on my knees on the cold marble floor, less than a yard away, a mask covering my face. The brilliant diamonds on Elsie’s watch seared my tear-filled eyes. A single one of those gems could have paid for three months of my uncle’s ‘medicine.’ The manager scurried over, bowing apologetically. “General Redmond, my deepest apologies… This idiot broke your bottle.” A pair of black military boots stopped right in front of me. Marcus frowned, annoyed. “Enough.” He pointed a finger at me. “You broke it. You’ll clean it up with your bare hands. If Elsie steps on a single shard, you’ll swallow every last piece.” I knelt, my palms pressing into the carpet, searching for the glass. The shards bit into my skin, leaving a trail of tiny, bleeding cuts. Elsie let out a delicate gasp, clinging to Marcus’s arm. “Uncle, my feet are tired.” “You’re so spoiled. Let me carry you out of here. It’s filthy.” His black military boot pressed down on the back of my hand and moved on, without a moment’s pause. I remained on my knees, staring at my bloody palms, and a low laugh escaped my lips. Tears mixed with the warm fluid trickling from my nose, dripping onto the floor. The manager jumped back. “What’s wrong with you? You’re bleeding everywhere!” I staggered to my feet, wiping my face with my sleeve. It came away stained crimson. “Maybe… I’m finally dying.” Ignoring his stunned expression, I turned and walked away, leaving a broken trail of red drops behind me. When I pushed open the door to our apartment, the sound of breaking porcelain came from the kitchen. Marcus was struggling to push himself up with his arms, trying to get out of his overturned wheelchair. When he saw me, he froze, then dropped his head, his eyes quickly turning red. “Sarah… I just wanted to warm up some milk for you… I’m so useless… just a worthless cripple…” His speech was slurred, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Combined with his trembling hands and despairing eyes, he was the perfect picture of an ALS patient ravaged by years of illness. I suddenly remembered that before his “diagnosis,” Marcus had been a notorious neat freak. This was a man who polished his sidearm three times a day, who couldn’t tolerate a single wrinkle in his uniform. Yet for Elsie, he had kept up this pathetic, painful charade for five full years. In that moment, I wanted to cut open his chest and see if his heart was made of stone. Seeing my silence, his shoulders slumped. “Sarah… are you disgusted by me? Just go… leave me here…” I walked over without a word, righted his wheelchair, and helped him into it. Then I got a bowl of warm water and began to clean his face. He suddenly grabbed my wrist, his eyes falling on my torn and bloody palm. “What happened? Who did this to you?” I stared into the fake concern in his eyes. “Someone who looked a lot like you.” His jaw tightened. “At the Astoria Grand.” I smiled again. “But I know it wasn’t you. My uncle would never lie to me. Right?” His gaze flickered away. “Of course not. Sarah, you’re the most important person in the world to me. I would never lie to you.” I fought back the burning sensation in my eyes and wheeled him out of the kitchen. After I made dinner and brought it to the table, the living room was empty. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and I could hear his hushed voice on the phone. “Be good, Elsie. Uncle has a big surprise for you tomorrow. We’ll celebrate your birthday properly.” On the other end, Elsie’s voice was sweet. “But tomorrow… it’s Sarah’s birthday too. If you’re not with her, won’t she be sad?” “Silly girl. You’re my most precious treasure. Sarah stopped celebrating her birthday years ago. She’s used to it.” Elsie cheered. “I knew you loved me best!” I stood at the door for a long time. Finally, I untied my apron in silence and left. When Marcus wheeled himself out, the apartment was empty. On the table sat a bowl of noodle soup and a single, foil-wrapped imported pill. He was used to me being gone by this time, working my night shift. But an image of my deathly pale face, my mangled hand, and my impossibly thin frame flashed through his mind. A sudden, inexplicable panic seized his heart. He grabbed his phone and quickly dialed a number. The next day, we were at the military hospital for a check-up. My uncle’s doctor was ecstatic. “Ms. Jenkins! A research institute in the Capital has a new experimental drug with incredible results for ALS! I managed to get General Redmond a spot in the trial!” Compared to his excitement, my voice was flat. “What are the chances of a full recovery?” “Over eighty percent!” Marcus played his part perfectly, his eyes welling with tears. “Sarah… I can get better… I can stay with you…” I forced a faint smile. “If only one of us could live, Uncle, no matter what, I would always want it to be you.” He froze, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? We’re both going to be fine. When I recover and return to the service, you’ll go back to being the Command’s proudest sniper—” But that pride… I didn’t want it anymore. And I didn’t want him anymore, either. The doctor asked me to leave the office, claiming the “examination process was complex.” I knew it was just an excuse to get me out of the room. I stood around the corner of the hallway and watched as my uncle quickly changed out of his patient gown and walked, steady and strong, into the elevator. Down below, the familiar black military sedan was already waiting. I quietly looked away and walked into another clinic at the end of the hall. “Sarah, the tumor in your brain has already pressed against major nerves. It’s inoperable now.” The doctor’s sigh was heavy. “If you had come in two weeks ago… there might have been a chance. You have… maybe a couple of days. Go say your goodbyes to your family.” I sat there in silence for a long time before slowly nodding. “After I die, please have me cremated. The ashes… please deliver them to the Westwood military base housing, to General Marcus Redmond.” I left what little money I had and walked out of the hospital. My phone lit up with a new text message. 「You should come see the house on base.」 The sender was Elsie. I hailed a cab and went to Westwood. The single-family house on the base, which I thought had been sold off years ago, was now ablaze with light, decorated like a fairytale castle. It was filled with guests, a glittering party in full swing. Elsie, wearing a diamond tiara and a white designer gown, clung tightly to my uncle’s arm. They stood surrounded by well-wishers in front of a six-tiered cake. She clasped her hands together, her voice saccharine. “My wish is to be the only little princess in my uncle’s heart, forever and ever.” Marcus smiled and pulled a small, dark blue velvet box from his uniform pocket. The moment he opened it, all the blood in my body turned to ice. It was a sapphire locket. It was a Redmond family heirloom, passed down through generations, only to the women who married into the family. On my eighteenth birthday, my uncle had placed it in my palm. Sarah, whether you accept me as more than your guardian or not, you will always be my most precious princess. I once valued it more than my own life. Even in our darkest times, I protected it fiercely. Now, that same sapphire locket, its chain shortened and its back engraved with a new name, Elsie, was being fastened around her delicate neck. As the crowd applauded, Marcus’s voice was full of warmth. “My little princess, congratulations. Your wish came true.” I don’t know how I managed to walk away from that blindingly bright scene. My phone buzzed relentlessly in my pocket. 「I recognized you at the hotel, you know, sis.」 「See? The locket is mine, and so is Uncle.」 「You’re like… a stray dog nobody wants. So pathetic.」 「Your life is such a failure. Why don’t you just die? ;)」 「Oh, by the way, I had Uncle prepare a special ‘birthday present’ for you. I hope you… enjoy it.」 I wandered the cold streets like a ghost for the rest of the day. As night fell, I returned to the old, crumbling apartment building we lived in. And then I understood what Elsie’s “present” was. The door was wide open. The inside of the apartment looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Marcus was on the floor, his hands tied behind his back, his new uniform covered in dust. He struggled against his captors, the veins in his neck bulging. “Well, well, long time no see, kid,” the leader said, a toothpick dangling from his lips. “Time to pay up for the month, isn’t it?” My face went white. “But I already paid off all the debts.” “Paid off?” The man sneered, grinding his boot into my uncle’s back. “I say you haven’t, so you haven’t. What, you don’t want to pay? Then let’s see how many whacks with a pipe your precious uncle can take.” “Sarah… don’t worry about me! Run! Just run! Let them kill me… I’m just a worthless cripple anyway…” The exact same words. I had heard them countless times over the past five years. I closed my eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. They had staged this “debt collection” so many times, yet they had never truly harmed my uncle. But I, in my desperation to protect this liar, had suffered broken ribs, a crippled leg, and had given almost everything I had. The taste of rust filled my throat again. My voice was a hoarse whisper. “What… what do you want?” The man looked me up and down, his eyes filled with contempt. “You’re going to crawl through each of our legs. For each one, you bark like a dog three times. We’ll call today’s payment our entertainment fee.” “No! Sarah! You can’t!” my uncle roared, his eyes red as he struggled to get up, only to be shoved back down. I gave a numb, empty smile. The last tiny flicker of hope inside me sputtered and died. “Fine,” I heard myself say, my voice terrifyingly calm. “If this is what you want, then we’re even.” The words were meant for the thugs, but my uncle’s head snapped up, a flash of genuine panic in his eyes. But then he remembered his promise to Elsie. This was the last “lesson.” As soon as Sarah got through this, he would take her home and spend the rest of his life making it up to her. He had a lifetime to fix this. So he looked away. And as he “struggled,” he secretly activated the micro-camera hidden in his cuff, recording the image of me kneeling before those men. He sent the video. The men left. I lay on the floor for a long time before I found the strength to stand. Marcus crawled over, his eyes red. He opened his mouth to deliver another pitiful line, but when he saw the dead, empty look in my eyes, the words died in his throat. The next day, a medical team arrived to take my uncle to the Capital for his “miracle drug” treatment. Before he got in the car, he clutched my hand tightly, looking back every few steps. “Sarah, wait for me to come back. I promise, I’ll get you your sniper rifle back. You’ll be the pride of the Command again. I’ll never let anyone… bully you again.” I smiled but didn’t answer. I just watched quietly as the car disappeared down the street. Then, I doubled over, clamping a hand over my mouth as blood poured through my fingers. The doctor had said that when the tumor ruptured, it would be the end. It was strange. In that final moment, as I fell, I felt no fear. My mind was flooded with scattered, warm memories from a lifetime ago. Uncle Marcus, taking me home from the cold military cemetery, clumsily trying to braid my hair. Me, missing my first shot on the rifle range, and him scolding me with a stern face, only to secretly slip a piece of candy into my pocket later. Me, delirious with a high fever, and him sitting by my bedside all night, holding my hand and whispering over and over, “Don’t be scared, Sarah. Uncle’s here.” He had said, “My Sarah deserves the very best the world has to offer.” A warm liquid slid down my cheek. With a trembling, blood-stained finger, I opened my phone. Using the last of my strength, I typed out a message, one word at a time. 「Uncle, I’m not waiting anymore.」 「This life… I’m giving it back. To repay the Redmond family for raising me, and to pay for Elsie’s ‘pain.’ Please… bury me next to my parents.」 The message sent. I closed my eyes, my strength gone. And on the floor beside me, the phone began to vibrate, a frantic, desperate buzz against the cold linoleum.

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I was feeding his prize-winning hound when the livestream of his engagement party reached its crescendo. The bride was radiant. In the comments, someone jokingly asked where I was. “Ashley, what happened to that little shadow of yours? The one who swore she’d never marry anyone but you?” Ashley Hawthorne let out a short, cold laugh, flicking the ash from his cigarette with careless grace. “Don’t bring up that mute. She’s bad luck.” “She has no pride. Even if I threw her out, she’d come crawling back on her knees, begging for me.” The partygoers erupted in laughter. On the other side of the screen, I gently set down the bag of dog food. He was so sure of himself. So sure I would forever be the dog he could summon and dismiss with a wave of his hand. I closed the livestream, unclasped the collar from around my neck—the one engraved with his name—and threw it in the trash. My debt for the last twelve years had been paid with my life. From now on, we were through. I was done serving him. … I had just dragged the battered suitcase I’d used for twelve years to the foyer when the front door was shoved open with brutal force. Mrs. Hawthorne swept in, wrapped in a thick fur coat, her sharp-faced housekeeper trailing behind her. Her eyes landed on the suitcase in my hand, and her face instantly hardened into a mask of contempt. There were no questions, no attempt to make me stay. Only suspicion and disgust. “Stop right there.” Mrs. Hawthorne approached, looking me up and down as if inspecting a potential criminal. “You want to leave? Fine. Open the suitcase.” “The Hawthorne family has housed you for twelve years. Who knows if you’ve developed sticky fingers? We can’t have you stealing from us.” I froze, my fingers digging into the handle of the suitcase. I signed, It’s just my old clothes. There’s nothing of yours in here. “Stop with those ridiculous hand signals! They’re infuriating to look at!” Mrs. Hawthorne waved a dismissive hand. “Housekeeper, search it! Search every inch!” The housekeeper, practically vibrating with anticipation, lunged forward and snatched the suitcase from my grasp. She flipped it over, dumping its contents onto the marble floor. A few faded sweaters, two pairs of worn-out canvas shoes, and a handful of old books on sound design. It was a pathetic, laughable collection. Mrs. Hawthorne prodded the pile of clothes with the toe of her designer heel. Suddenly, her gaze locked onto something in the corner. It was an old pocket watch, its cover worn smooth with age. It was the only thing my father had left me. “I knew it. A little thief.” She sneered, her stiletto heel coming down hard on the watch. A sharp crack echoed through the cavernous hall. I scrambled forward, a desperate cry trapped in my throat, trying to push her away. That was my father’s! That was my life! The housekeeper was faster. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head against the floor. I opened my mouth in a silent scream, hot tears blurring my vision. Mrs. Hawthorne ground the watch under her heel, twisting her foot until it was nothing but a mangled piece of scrap metal. “It belonged to a Hawthorne family driver, which makes it Hawthorne family property,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn as she looked down at me. “You eat our food, you live under our roof. The very breath in your lungs is a gift from us. Without my permission, you can’t even take a speck of dust from this house.” She bent down and yanked at the slightly thicker coat I was wearing. “I bought this, too. Take it off.” I refused, clutching the collar. It was the middle of winter, a blizzard raging outside with temperatures well below freezing. Without this coat, I would die. “You’re determined to do this the hard way.” She slapped me, a vicious backhand that sent my head snapping to the side. The taste of blood filled my mouth. “Strip it off her!” The housekeeper and two maids descended on me, forcibly tearing the coat from my body. Dressed in nothing but a thin, worn sweater, I was dragged to the front door and thrown out. “Get out!” The heavy door slammed shut behind me. I fell into a snowdrift, the biting cold instantly seeping into my bones. From inside, I could hear the maids’ fawning laughter and Mrs. Hawthorne’s curses. I pushed myself up from the snow. Barefoot, I began to walk away, step by agonizing step. The snow was already past my ankles. I didn’t look back. I would rather freeze to death on the side of the road than ever return to that hell. The heat in the villa was cranked high. Ashley Hawthorne stumbled in, reeking of alcohol, toying with a lighter Sophia had given him. “Eve, get me some water.” He barked the order out of habit, collapsing onto the sofa. There was no response. Only the hollow echo of his own voice. He frowned, loosening his tie, his voice taking on a raw, irritable edge. “Where the hell did you go? Are you deaf, or just playing the part?” The housekeeper scurried over with a glass of honey water, a sycophantic smile plastered on her face. “Mr. Ashley, that little jinx is gone.” Ashley paused, then let out a derisive snort. “Gone?” He sat up, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the trash can in the corner. The collar, engraved with his name, lay inside, discarded amongst fruit peels and scrap paper. It had been his “coming-of-age” gift to me on my eighteenth birthday. “Wear this,” he had said, “and you’ll be my most obedient pet.” Ashley stared at the collar for a moment. Instead of anger, a wider, more amused smile spread across his face. He pulled out his phone and sent a voice message to his group of degenerate friends. “Let’s start a pool. How many days until Eve, the little mute, comes crawling back?” “I’ll bet on five.” “Nah, three. It’s freezing out there.” The chat filled with laughter and agreement. “Ashley, the little mute’s got some nerve this time. Running away from home.” “It’s just a game. Playing hard to get. It’s what women do.” Ashley’s voice was laced with absolute certainty. “She can’t live without me.” “It’s like a fish out of water, or a dog without its master.” “Put the word out. Anyone in this city who dares to help Eve Dawson is making an enemy of the Hawthorne family. I’m going to teach her that without me, she doesn’t even have the right to beg on the streets.” At that very moment, I was huddled under the eaves of a 24-hour convenience store, shivering uncontrollably. It had been two days since I’d left the Hawthorne estate. I had gone to every recording studio where I’d ever worked part-time. No one would hire me. Just half an hour ago, I had tried the last studio that had ever shown me kindness. The owner was a man in his fifties who had always been decent to me. But when I knocked, he blocked the doorway, his face etched with apology. “Eve, don’t blame me, kid.” He lowered his voice and pressed a few hundred-dollar bills into my hand. “The Hawthornes put the word out. Anyone who hires you loses their business. I’ve got a family to feed. I’m so sorry.” “You need to go, before someone sees you.” The door closed gently in my face. I stood in the swirling snow, clutching the money, feeling no warmth at all. No ID, no phone, no place to stay. Ashley was trying to kill me. Seven years ago, my grandmother had fallen gravely ill and needed emergency surgery. I had knelt before Ashley, begging him for a hundred thousand dollars. It had been snowing just like this. Ashley and his friends were in the yard, playing darts. He pointed to a tree trunk not far from me and tossed me an apple. “Balance this on your head.” “I don’t lend money,” he’d said with a smirk, “but I do give it away.” “You’re the target, not the apple. For every dart that hits you—and you don’t flinch—I’ll give you ten thousand.” I was shaking with fear, but I had no choice. I placed the apple on my head and closed my eyes. The first dart whizzed past my ear, pinning a lock of my hair to the tree. His friends cheered. The second dart sank into my left shoulder. Agony shot through me, but I bit down so hard I thought my teeth would shatter. I didn’t move. Blood stained the white snow. That day, I took five darts and earned fifty thousand dollars. By the time I dragged my broken body to the hospital, a white sheet was already covering my grandmother. “Even half an hour earlier,” the doctor said, “and we could have saved her.” I stared at the snow-soaked bills in my hand. A black, venomous hatred began to bloom in my heart. Ashley Hawthorne, do you really think I would ever come back? Keep dreaming. On the third day, a fever took hold of me. My head was spinning. To escape the wind and snow, I crawled into an abandoned pedestrian underpass. I curled up in a corner, hugging my knees, my consciousness beginning to fade. Suddenly, a blinding pair of headlights illuminated the entrance. A black Maybach pulled to a stop. It was Ashley’s car. The door opened, and Sophia, clinging to Ashley’s arm, stepped out. “Ashley, darling, I heard there’s a little shop around here with the most amazing chestnut pastries. I want to try them,” Sophia cooed, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Of course. Anything for you.” Ashley’s voice was indulgent and gentle, a tone I had never heard him use. As they passed the underpass, Sophia stopped. She had spotted me huddled in the corner. “Oh my goodness, isn’t that little Eve?” she exclaimed, covering her mouth in mock surprise as she tugged on Ashley’s sleeve. “Heavens, what is she doing sleeping here? She’ll freeze to death in this weather.” Ashley followed her gaze. When he saw my pathetic state, he let out a cold snort, his eyes filled with ridicule. “I knew she wouldn’t last long. Look at her, playing the victim, waiting for me to find her.” I didn’t want to look at them. I struggled to my feet, wanting to leave, but the fever had left me weak. I stumbled and fell heavily back to the ground. Sophia let go of Ashley and clicked over to me on her high heels. She knelt, holding out an elegant hand warmer. “Eve, here, take this and get warm. Don’t be angry with Ashley anymore.” I turned my head away, refusing to touch anything of hers. She leaned in close, whispering so only I could hear. “You looked like a bitch in heat, kneeling on the floor for him that night. What’s the matter? No one wants you now, so you have to sleep in a sewer?” Rage burned through me. I raised my hand to push her away. But before I could even touch her, Sophia let out a piercing shriek. “Ah!” She threw herself backward, landing hard in the snow. She clutched her stomach, her face draining of all color as tears welled in her eyes. “It hurts… Ashley, my stomach, it hurts so much…” “Sophia!” Ashley’s face contorted in panic. He rushed to her side. He didn’t even glance at me. He just kicked me, hard, in the shoulder. I was thrown backward, my back slamming against the rough concrete wall. My head struck a sharp rock. Blood streamed down from my brow. Ashley scooped Sophia into his arms, then turned to glare at me. “Eve, you’re asking for it!” he roared, pointing a trembling finger at me. “If anything happens to Sophia, I’ll kill you!” I lay on the ground, gasping for air, the taste of blood thick in my throat. I saw Sophia, nestled in his arms, flash me a triumphant smirk. But Ashley wasn’t finished. He handed Sophia over to his driver, who had just arrived, and strode back toward me. He grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to my feet. “Kneel and apologize to her!” I bit my lip, staring at him with defiant eyes. No. I did nothing wrong. I will not kneel. “You won’t kneel, is that it?” Ashley sneered and pulled out his phone. “Go to Westwood Cemetery. Dig up the old woman’s ashes. Since her granddaughter is so stubborn, let’s scatter her ashes to the wind. Give her a little encouragement.” My world shrank to a pinpoint. My grandmother was my last line. How dare he. I shook my head wildly, grabbing his wrist, my nails digging into his flesh. “N-no… p-please… don’t!” I gasped, forcing out a broken, airy sound. A cruel, satisfied smile spread across Ashley’s face. “Well, well. The mute can speak after all? Or are you just scared now?” “Then kneel. And bow your head to the ground until Sophia is satisfied.” He let me go. I collapsed to the ground like a broken doll. For my grandmother, I would kneel. I turned toward Sophia and slammed my forehead against the frozen earth. Once. Twice. Three times. The dull thud of my head hitting the ground echoed through the underpass. Each impact was the sound of my dignity shattering into a million pieces. I was dragged back to the Hawthorne villa.

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1 The night of my graduation, the freshman who’d been chasing me for six months got me drunk and lured me to his bed. When I woke up, he was smiling. “You weren’t just with me last night,” he told me. Soon after, photos of me in bed with a group of strange, middle-aged men went viral online. The caption read: “Shared Sugar Baby: Now Taking Appointments.” When I confronted him, his voice was laced with ice. “Isn’t your mother a professional homewrecker? As her daughter, you naturally had to one-up her.” The night my mother saw the news, she had a stroke. When she woke up, her mind was forever trapped at the age of eight. To support her, I became the star attraction at a downtown nightclub, the queen of the midnight stage. Eight years later, as I writhed under the hazy lights, I looked up and saw a pair of familiar eyes in a VIP booth. … Sweat slicked my skin as I danced, the cold metal of the pole a searing line against my inner thigh with every spin. A raw, familiar pain. After eight years, my skin still hadn’t gotten used to the friction. But I couldn’t stop. Every cheer from the crowd was a potential bill paid, another dose of the medication my mother needed tomorrow. I spun, inverted, and split my legs. And then, in the middle of a difficult backbend, my eyes slammed into his. My body faltered. I lost my grip and plummeted from more than six feet up. I hit the stage hard. A sharp, drilling pain shot through my ankle. The crowd erupted in jeers and crude laughter. “What the hell was that?” “If you can’t dance, get off the stage!” The manager rushed forward, bowing and scraping apologies to the audience while grabbing my arm. He hissed through clenched teeth, “Stella! What the hell was that? You trying to get fired?!” “Do you have any idea how many people are watching? If you ruin the club’s reputation, can you afford to pay for it?!” I clutched my swelling ankle, my entire body trembling with pain. I looked back toward the VIP booth, but the familiar eyes were gone. Had I imagined it? “What are you gawking at? Get the hell backstage!” the manager barked, snapping me back to reality. I bit my lip and limped off the stage. Back in the cluttered dressing room, I had just sat down when a busboy shoved the door open. “Manager says because of your screw-up, you’re not getting paid for tonight,” he said flatly. “What?” I looked up, my heart sinking. “Nothing? But my mother has a physical therapy appointment the day after tomorrow.” I grabbed his arm, my voice pleading. “Can you please talk to him for me? I’ll be more careful next time. I swear it will never happen again!” He shook my hand off, his face a mask of disgust. “It’s no use begging. He’s furious. Besides, it was your own damn fault for not paying attention.” He spun around and left, slamming the door behind him. I sank back into the chair, the pain in my ankle mingling with the panic rising in my chest. Therapy bills, medication costs, rent… The numbers spun in my head, suffocating me. If I didn’t get paid tonight, my mother’s therapy would have to be postponed. Just as I was drowning in despair, the door opened again. It was the manager. His expression had softened slightly. “Stella, come with me. A client in a VIP room asked for you. A private performance. Double pay.” My stomach dropped. I knew exactly what a “private performance” meant. A closed room, expensive liquor, and hands that didn’t know boundaries. I had always avoided it. But then I thought of my mother’s therapy, of the bills piling up, and I hesitated. “What? You don’t want to?” The manager raised an eyebrow. “Fine. But if you refuse, you can forget about your base salary for the month, too.” “I’ll do it,” I said, my voice tight. I had already fallen this far. What right did I have to be picky? The manager’s smile was triumphant. “That’s more like it. You’re in this line of work. No need to pretend you’re a saint. Now hurry up and change. Don’t keep the client waiting.” I pulled a conservative black slip dress from the locker, threw a thin jacket over it, and followed him to the VIP section. When he opened the door to the private room, the manager’s face instantly transformed into a fawning grin. “Mr. Wallace, here she is. This is our star, Stella.” I followed his gaze, preparing to force a smile, but my expression froze. 2 Seated in the main armchair was the face I had seen from the stage. Caden. So I hadn’t been imagining things. It had been eight years. He was no longer the fresh-faced freshman who used to follow me around campus. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his eyes sharp and steady, exuding the unmistakable aura of a Hollywood star. And I… I was a nightclub dancer, selling my body for money. The shame lasted only a second. I quickly composed myself. I didn’t have the luxury of feelings anymore. As instructed, I walked to the small stage in the center of the room and began to move to the music. I plastered a seductive smile on my face, even as sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them. When the song ended, there was a smattering of applause. Caden, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke. His voice was laced with a chilling mockery. “Stella. Eight years, and this is what you’ve become. Impressive.” The room fell silent. The others, sensing the tension, chimed in. “Caden, you know her?” Caden picked up his wine glass, his eyes sweeping over me with disdain. “Not really. We went to the same university. I just had the misfortune of hearing about her… glorious achievements back then.” He drew out the words “glorious achievements,” and the men around him chuckled with knowing smirks. “Well, if she’s an old friend of yours, she should give us a proper show, right?” one of them jeered. “How about a striptease to liven things up?” My body went rigid, and the color drained from my face. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t do that.” “Don’t do that?” the man with the gold chain laughed. “We’re all here to have a good time, why the act? You dance well, and we’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet and slapped it on the glass table. The others followed suit, and soon a small mountain of money was piled on the table. The bills glittered under the dim lights, a tempting, filthy sheen. All I could see were hospital invoices, my mother’s childlike eyes, and the urgent voice of the nurse on the phone. The seconds ticked by. The mood in the room shifted from anticipation to impatience. “Are you gonna dance or not? If not, get the hell out!” someone shouted. Caden just sat there, sipping his wine, a king watching a spectacle from his throne. And I was the sacrifice on the altar. My nails dug into my palms, the pain the only thing keeping me grounded. I gave a slow, deliberate nod. The music started again, slower and more provocative this time. I reached up and untied my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. Then, with trembling fingers, I reached for the zipper on the side of my dress. The sound of it sliding down was quiet but deafening. The dress slipped from my shoulders, revealing the thin, black lace bra underneath. The air conditioning was cold, raising goosebumps on my skin. I moved mechanically, trying to cover myself with my arms, which only earned me more excited whistles. Just as my shaking hand reached for the clasp of my bra— “That’s enough,” Caden said, his brow furrowed. Everything stopped. I stood frozen, the dress half-off, pooled around my elbows. He stood up and looked down at me, his disgust unconcealed. “A leopard never changes its spots. Just like your mother—you’ll do anything for a price.” He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. With Caden gone, the others lost interest and began to leave. I quickly pulled my jacket tight around me, hugging myself as I stood there, stunned. Just then, the producer, Mr. Wallace, walked over to me. He tucked a business card into the top of my dress, his voice greasy. “Stella, right? You’ve got a great body. And you can really move.” He leaned in close, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I’m working on a new project. Looking for actors who are… adventurous. Willing to get creative. Give me a call if you’re interested. The price is negotiable.”

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After my husband went bankrupt, I followed him into a basement apartment. We were broke, living a miserable existence, and yet he still had to support me—his cruel, demanding, high-maintenance wife. The System ordered me to maintain this persona. But my moral compass was too strong; I was wracked with guilt after every cruel act. So, every time I finished tormenting him, I would secretly cry my eyes out. In the middle of the night, I crept into his room and lifted the sleeve of his shirt. A gash, nearly four inches long, jagged and raw, stared back at me. He’d gotten it working himself to the bone to buy the designer coat I had demanded. As I cleaned and dressed the wound, tears streamed down my face. “System,” I whispered, “when is he going to ask for a divorce?” I couldn’t stand being cruel anymore. I couldn’t stand seeing him get hurt. The System glanced at my husband’s arm, now damp with my tears, then at his eyelashes, which were trembling ever so slightly. It sighed. 【Divorce? Honey,】 it said. 【He’s planning on loving you for the rest of his life.】 1. “I’m so glad no one took it. See? I told you it was pretty. The ribbon is tied so nicely, too.” It was already ten o’clock at night. I stood under a flickering streetlight, holding the bouquet I’d just fished out of the trash, my voice filled with a quiet joy. The System responded with a cold, humorless laugh. 【A handful of cheap roses, some jasmine, and ten-dollar wrapping paper.】 it sneered. 【A bouquet that cost less than twenty bucks. And for this, you sneak out in the middle of the night to go dumpster diving? Why don’t you just move in there?】 I stayed silent for a moment before whispering, “You can be really mean, System.” Another cold laugh. I didn’t have much room to talk. Not long ago, I’d said something just as cruel to Louis. I had thrown the flowers on the ground right in front of him. He bent down to pick them up, but I stopped him with a sharp command. “Other men buy 999 roses. And you? If you don’t have money, don’t try to act romantic. This is pathetic and embarrassing. Just looking at it makes me sick.” “Can’t you make more money? Being this broke… marrying you was the worst luck of my life.” It wasn’t just the flowers. There was also a small box of fresh strawberries. His boss had handed them out during a site inspection. Louis hadn’t eaten a single one, saving them to bring home to me. The System rolled its eyes, thoroughly disgusted by my sentimentality. 【Can you please stop caring about such meaningless things? Stick to your role! You are the vicious, cruel supporting character. Your only purpose is to humiliate the male lead. I am so sick of you acting like an idiot!】 Its voice was sharp, urging me to go back inside. I pretended not to hear. I crouched down, carefully separating the jasmine blossoms and pressing them flat to use as bookmarks before slowly walking back to our apartment. Strawberries he wouldn’t eat, flowers he went out of his way to buy. If these things, so despised by the System, were meaningless… Then what in the world had meaning? 2. 【Next mission: Force the male lead to buy you a designer coat before Christmas.】 And that was the System’s answer. Louis was home early for once, standing on a stool, fixing a faulty lightbulb. The building was old, the wiring shot. It was a constant cycle of fix and fail. “I bought a small desk lamp,” he said, not looking at me. “I’ll charge it every day before I leave. If the light goes out again, don’t touch it. Just use the lamp and wait for me to get home.” I stood behind him, holding a mug of hot orange juice, my face pale and soft in the dim light. Louis’s hands, once impeccably manicured, were now covered in grime, the palms crisscrossed with tiny cuts. “I…” After a long hesitation, I finally forced out the scripted lines. “Christmas is coming. You have to buy me an expensive coat so I can dress up properly. How am I supposed to celebrate Christmas otherwise?” I showed him a screenshot on my phone, trying to sound fierce. “This one. You have to get me this one. If you can’t, then you’re a useless failure, and you shouldn’t even bother coming home.” Louis washed his hands thoroughly before taking the phone from me. He stared at the screen for a long time before looking up, his expression unreadable. “Is this the only one you want?” At the same time, the System shrieked in my head. 【What the—$800?! Are you insane? Where did you even find a coat at that price?】 The brand specified in the script was far too expensive. Thankfully, I was resourceful. I had scoured online resale apps. Sure enough, I found the $2,000 coat, barely used, for $800, shipping included. Getting it for $800 meant Louis would have to work a few less days, shed a little less sweat. “Is this the only one you want?” Louis asked again. It was only much later that I understood the complex emotions swirling in his eyes. There was a time when $800 wouldn’t have even bought a single button on one of his suits. But now, for the woman who had followed him into a cramped, run-down basement, it was an “expensive coat” to be cherished, a chance to feel beautiful again. When he was on top of the world, I had received nothing from him. But when he hit rock bottom, I was right there beside him, sharing his hardship. At that moment, though, I didn’t understand. I assumed he thought the price was too high, that I was pushing him too far. Shame makes people say stupid things. “Oh, uh, well, I can try to haggle a bit more. Maybe I can get it for less than eight hundred.” I had completely forgotten my persona, my mind consumed by bargaining and panic. Suddenly, the mug was lifted from my hands. Louis reheated the orange juice and passed it back to me. “Lipstick,” he said softly. “A hat, ribbons for your hair, a Christmas tree, a little cake.” A cold wind howled outside, but inside our tiny apartment, it was peaceful. He gently guided me to the sofa. Louis knelt before me, and I found myself looking into a pair of deep, beautiful dark eyes. “You’ll need all those things, too,” he said. “To have a proper Christmas.” 3. Louis was a man of his word. The day before Christmas, I received my gift. It had a crisp silhouette, soft fabric, and a vibrant color. The System breathed a sigh of relief. 【You almost fooled me. Good thing the male lead bought it from the department store. Hahaha, guess you forgot he has a thing about cleanliness. Who would buy a second-hand coat someone else has worn? Only a complete moron like you…】 The System’s mockery was relentless, but I wasn’t listening. “You said… he bought it at the department store?” After Louis’s company went bankrupt, all his old rivals had blacklisted him. He couldn’t get a job at a major corporation or find any respectable work. He was forced to take day-laborer jobs at construction sites, in warehouses, on the docks—anywhere he could sell his strength for cash. And I, his spoiled, vain wife, would immediately squander every dollar he brought home. I bit my lip. “$2,000. Where did he get that kind of money?” 4. It didn’t take long for me to find out. Someone posted a photo online that quickly went viral because of how handsome the man in it was. 【The guy our building management hired to wash windows. Hot, right?】 【OMG, I want that window washing service… for reasons. Why doesn’t my building offer this? One star!】 【I live in this building too. The person on the floor above me has no class. They left a flowerpot on their windowsill, and it fell and hit the poor guy. The gash was huge, blood was pouring out. It was terrifying.】 【I know, right? And he was so nice about it. He just asked for compensation privately. If it were me, I would have blasted them all over the internet! Let everyone see what a trashy neighbor they are!】 That night, I snuck into Louis’s room. It wasn’t really a room, just a folding bed in the corner of the living room, sectioned off by a curtain. Another one of my cruel deeds. I had claimed the only bedroom for myself and refused to let him in. I lifted his sleeve. Sure enough, there was a gash nearly four inches long, jagged and horrifying. Dangling 26 stories high, clinging to the side of a building with only a single rope for support, washing window after window under the scrutinizing gaze of strangers… Louis, had you already decided then and there that you would go to the department store to buy me that coat? “You’re hurt, and you didn’t even tell me.” The wound had only been hastily cleaned. Louis had acted as if nothing was wrong. At dinner, he gave me an apple but didn’t peel it for me like he usually did. He’d said, “A Christmas apple has to be eaten with the skin on. That way, the peace it brings is whole and complete.” It wasn’t that he couldn’t peel it. It was that his left hand was injured. He couldn’t hold a knife, so he’d made up a clumsy lie. A lie that had only fooled his stupid, cruel wife. As I applied ointment to the wound, my fingers gently brushed over the old scars on his wrist. This one, from when I had a fever and needed to see a doctor. He’d taken a job hauling bricks and, being inexperienced, had been cut by a tool. This one, from when I demanded a gold necklace. He’d worked as a bouncer for a night and had been hit with a steel pipe. And this one, and that one… I tried to control my emotions, but the more I tried, the more the tears fell. The System attempted to comfort me. 【Stop crying. If you ask me, you’re the unlucky one. If you’d married him a year earlier, you would have been a billionaire’s wife. You would have gotten mansions as wedding gifts. Instead, you get nothing but a basement apartment. What’s the big deal about him spending a little money on you?】 I was supposed to resent Louis. Resent him for going broke, for being poor, for not being able to give me a good life. But what about Louis? One day he was a golden boy, the next he was at the bottom of a pit. Mocked, humiliated, working grueling manual labor under the scorching sun, enduring the strange looks from everyone. And when he came home, he was met with the accusations of his pampered wife: “You’re a failure. So useless. You can’t even buy me a piece of jewelry. If I were you, I would have killed myself by now.” In the dead of night, Louis, when you stare at this damp, cracked ceiling, do you ever think about the man you were a year ago? Ambitious, brilliant, with the world at your feet? A bitter wind rattled the windowpane. On the bed, the man’s eyelashes trembled. I pressed my cheek to his palm, my tears soaking his wrist. “System, when is Louis finally going to ask for a divorce?” I couldn’t do this anymore. I didn’t want to hurt him again. This Christmas Eve was dark and bleak. The apple tasted of ashes. If he could just divorce me, he wouldn’t have to work himself to death, right? He wouldn’t have to juggle three jobs a day. He wouldn’t have to get hurt anymore. 【Divorce?】 the System said, its tone dripping with something that sounded almost like pity. 【Honey, he’s planning on loving you for the rest of his life.】

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We were childhood friends, running a trucking business together. A net profit of over $350,000 a year. At the end-of-year split, he tossed me an envelope with $8,000 cash. “Buddy,” he said, “you don’t own the rig. This is for your trouble.” I looked at him and his wife, celebrating their new BMW and their new house, and I smiled as I took the money. What he didn’t know was that over the years, I hadn’t just memorized every route; I had gotten to know every single client. The day I rolled up in my own tractor-trailer and snatched his biggest contract right from under him, he completely lost his mind. 1 The late-year wind bit hard, kicking up dust that felt like sand against my face. Rick shoved a thick envelope into my hand and clapped me on the shoulder. “Mark, my man. It’s been a long year.” His voice was thick with booze and a condescending sort of charity. I squeezed the envelope. It wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t fat either. The bills inside were so crisp they felt sharp. “Rick… what’s this?” “$8,000. A little something for your trouble.” He grinned, showing off teeth stained yellow from years of smoking and drinking. “It was a good year. We cleared $350k, net. You don’t have a truck in the game, you’re just riding along, so that’s a damn good piece of change for you.” Three hundred and fifty thousand. Eight thousand. The two numbers exploded in my head, leaving a dull ringing in their wake. My heart plummeted, a lead weight in my chest. His wife, Brenda, clung to his arm, dangling the keys to a brand-new BMW. The blue and white logo seemed to burn into my eyes. “Mark, you just keep working hard for my Rick next year, and we’ll take care of you.” Her hand, with its fire-engine-red nails, fished a set of house keys from her purse. She tapped them against the floor plan of their new home. “This one’s 1,800 square feet. We close next week. You’ll have to come to the housewarming.” I watched the raw, unfiltered happiness and pride spilling off them. I felt like a ghost at their feast, a complete and utter joke. I forced the corners of my mouth into a smile that felt like cracking plaster. “Thanks, Rick. Thanks, Brenda.” I stuffed the $8,000 into my pocket. My hands were steady, but my fingernails were digging so deep into my palms I thought I might draw blood. The dinner was at the nicest steakhouse in town. The private room was stuffy with heat, and the food on the table was arranged like art. I had zero appetite. My mind drifted back to the endless days and nights on the road. The summers, when the cab was a steambox with no AC, and I had to chug lukewarm water and pinch my own thigh just to stay awake. The winters, when we were snowed in on some godforsaken mountain pass, gnawing on frozen sandwiches for two straight days. I once drove for three days straight to make a rush delivery, my eyes so bloodshot the whole world seemed to shimmer and shake. And where was Rick during all of that? He was at home, tucked into his warm bed, AC blasting, making the occasional phone call to manage me remotely. “Mark, keep an eye on that load. Can’t have any issues.” “Mark, schmooze the guys at the dock. Get them to move faster.” “Mark, the client needs a little something extra, you know what to do.” I was the one who had to “know what to do.” I was the one who had to “keep an eye on things.” I was the one changing tires in a blizzard and laying down planks in the mud. And he was the boss, reaping all the rewards. All because the title of that tractor-trailer had his name on it. “Here, Mark, have some lobster. You need to put some meat on your bones. You’re all skin and bones from the road,” Brenda said, dropping a piece into my bowl with the kind of pity you’d show a distant, poor relative. “Yeah, trucking’s a tough life,” Rick chimed in, taking a sip of his whiskey. “But that’s what being a man is about. You gotta have something to strive for.” His “something to strive for” was the BMW key fob in his hand and the new house keys in his wife’s. My “something to strive for” was the eight grand in my pocket. My “trouble money.” I kept my head down, pushing rice around my bowl, saying nothing. Every grain felt like sand scratching my throat. Humiliation and rage churned in my gut like molten iron. Four years. We’d been partners for four years. Every route, every client, every weigh station attendant with a bad attitude—I knew them all. I’d learned them through sweat and sleepless nights. I had an encrypted file on my phone. In it were the contact details for every single client. Their shipping schedules, their bottom-line prices, even what brand of cigars they liked or what kind of coffee they drank. Rick knew none of this. He just knew how to watch the numbers climb in his bank account each month. As the drinks flowed, the mood in the room got louder. Rick and his cronies started bragging about the year’s success, about his sharp eye for business, about how he knew how to manage people. I sat in the corner like a piece of furniture, listening quietly. But my mind was racing, calculating every ledger from the past four years. Nearly a million dollars in total profit. My cut, all told, was less than fifty thousand. This wasn’t a partnership. This was vampirism. I wasn’t his friend; I was his livestock. As the dinner wound down, I finally lifted my head and met Rick’s hazy, drunken gaze. “Rick… any chance I could get a bigger cut next year?” My voice was raspy, but clear. “My folks are getting older, their health isn’t great, and I’m trying to save up to get married.” The room fell silent. Every eye was on me. The smile on Rick’s face slowly faded. He put down his glass, his eyes narrowed with annoyance and suspicion. “Mark, what’s this all of a sudden?” He paused, his tone turning cold. “You gotta know your place, man. You didn’t put up any capital, you don’t own the truck. To be honest, you’re just a co-driver. I’m only giving you this much because I consider you a brother.” “Any other co-driver would be lucky to get twenty grand a year, tops.” “That eight grand is because we grew up together. That’s for old times’ sake.” His words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. Old times’ sake? So my sleepless nights, my near-misses on icy roads, were worth an extra three thousand dollars of sentimentality to him. I looked at his face, so full of self-righteous justification, and I started to laugh. A quiet, humorless laugh. I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I just picked up my glass of cheap beer. “You’re right, Rick.” I tilted my head back and drained the bitter liquid in one go. “Thanks for the lesson.” The cold beer slid down my throat, a final toast to the funeral of our four-year brotherhood. My heart was no longer churning. It was a frozen, silent wasteland. From now on, I was driving my own road. 2 I didn’t go home for the holidays. I lied to my parents, told them I had to cover shifts at work. The truth was, I took that insulting eight grand, along with every penny I’d managed to scrape together over the years, and set a long-overdue plan into motion. Two days after Christmas, I showed up at Mr. Peterson’s front door with a couple of gift baskets. Peterson was the logistics manager for a major manufacturing plant—our biggest client. He was in his forties, a fair man who respected hard work and competence. He answered the door himself, a little surprised to see me. “Mark? What brings you here?” “Happy holidays, Mr. Peterson,” I said with a disarming smile. “Just brought you a little something from back home. Nothing fancy, just something for you and the Mrs. to enjoy.” Peterson invited me in. His house was tasteful and well-kept, with a quiet, scholarly air about it. I didn’t mention work. Not once. We just drank coffee and talked about the state of the shipping industry, about how the new interstate bypasses were affecting transit times and costs. Casually, I dropped in the route-optimization strategies I’d been developing in my head for the past two years. Which stretches of I-80 were always jammed during rush hour, which truck stops had the best and cheapest diners, even which weigh stations had the pickiest inspectors. Peterson listened with growing interest, a look of genuine appreciation in his eyes. “Mark, I had no idea you’d put this much thought into it.” “You spend enough time on the road, you learn to think about these things or you lose money,” I said. It was the simple truth. When I left, Peterson walked me to the door. “You’re a sharp kid, Mark. Keep it up.” He clapped me on the shoulder. That simple gesture felt heavier, more real, than any time Rick had ever called me “brother.” From Peterson’s house, I drove straight to my next target. For the entire holiday break, I was on the road, visiting people. The clients, the warehouse foremen, the shipping managers I’d shared a cigarette with while loading or helped out during a tough unload—I paid a visit to every single one. I didn’t bring expensive gifts, just those small, thoughtful baskets and a sincere greeting. I made sure they remembered me, Mark, not just “Rick’s co-driver.” When the holidays were over, Rick called, ordering me back to work. His tone was imperious, as if my taking a week off was a personal offense. “Mark, playtime’s over! I want the truck inspected and ready to roll by tomorrow!” “Got it, Rick,” I answered calmly. After hanging up, I looked at the “Key Clients” group in my phone’s contacts. Every name in that list was a beacon. I had the network. Now, I needed my own damn rig. I started haunting used truck lots and dealerships. A new Peterbilt tractor-trailer would run close to $180,000. Even a decent used one was pushing a hundred grand. I pooled all my money—including the humiliating $8,000—and came up with less than $25,000. It wasn’t even enough for a proper down payment. For days, anxiety was a physical presence, a hand squeezing my throat. I spent my days walking the lots and my nights in cheap motels, staring at the ceiling, running the numbers over and over. I couldn’t wait any longer. Every extra day I spent with Rick was another day he was sucking the life out of me. To make more cash, I started taking on side gigs. I found a dispatch office in a logistics park and convinced the woman running it to give me the short-haul, late-night loading jobs nobody else wanted. From 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., I moved between different warehouses. I hauled sacks of cement, rebar, crates of vegetables. Sweat soaked through my clothes, and when the cold night air hit me, the chill went straight to my bones. I gritted my teeth, hoisting one heavy load after another, driven by a single thought: faster, just a little faster. Every dollar was a brick in the foundation of my new life. Rick called a couple more times, asking why he couldn’t reach me during the day. I fed him some story about working overtime. He grumbled about me getting lazy and disrespectful, then left me alone. In his eyes, I was just a tool. You pick it up when you need it, you toss it aside when you don’t. He never cared what happened to the tool itself. His neglect was my opportunity. I kept driving for him during the day and loading boxes at night. I felt like a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit. Exhausted, but filled with a terrifying hope. My plan was taking shape, one agonizing step at a time. 3 The breakthrough came from a conversation with an old-timer at a truck stop. He told me some dealerships, desperate to meet their sales quotas, offered low-money-down financing deals. You could get into a rig for just 20% down, but the interest rates were killer. “It’s a gamble for guys like us,” the old driver said, blowing a cloud of smoke. “Guys with more grit than cash. If you win, you pay it off in a year. If you lose, they repo the truck and you’re left with nothing but debt.” It was the biggest gamble of my life. I didn’t hesitate for a second. I found the dealership he mentioned. A brand-new Peterbilt 389 was parked out front, gleaming and massive, like a beast of chrome and steel waiting to be unleashed. The salesman took one look at my worn clothes and the grime under my fingernails and practically ignored me. But when I pulled out my bank card and said I wanted that Peterbilt, on the low-down-payment plan, his eyes lit up. Everything after that was a blur of paperwork. Credit checks, contracts, loan applications. The moment I signed my name, my hand was shaking. This wasn’t just a sales contract; it was a bet on the rest of my life. Three days later, I came to pick it up. The second I settled into the brand-new driver’s seat and wrapped my hands around the cool, thick leather of the steering wheel, a profound sense of peace washed over me. Every screw, every inch of this machine, belonged to me. Mark. No more living under someone else’s thumb. No more taking orders. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life with a deep, powerful rumble. It was the most beautiful sound in the world. I felt like my future was right here, in my hands, on this wheel. I called my parents and told them I’d found a new job with better pay. I told them not to worry about me anymore. My mom started crying on the other end, telling me to take care of myself, not to work too hard. I fought back the lump in my throat and promised I would. I didn’t tell them about the six-figure debt I’d just taken on. I just wanted them to see me when I finally made it. Meanwhile, Rick was getting antsy about the first big job of the year. Usually, Mr. Peterson’s first shipment was already booked by now. But this year, there was only silence. Rick took Peterson out for expensive dinners, sent him gifts, but Peterson remained noncommittal, saying he was waiting for approval from the higher-ups. Rick was getting frustrated. He had no idea that the person Peterson was waiting for was me. I didn’t rush to make my move. I spent two weeks driving my new rig from one government office to another, getting all my permits in order. Business license, DOT number, operating authority. When the words “M-Line Trucking” were printed on the official certificate, I just stood there in the parking lot of the county clerk’s office, grinning like an idiot for a long, long time. My teeth were sharp. My claws were out. Now, all I had to do was wait for the right moment to strike.

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1 After the heir to the Campbell fortune got into a car crash and lost his memory, he forgot all about the simple girl who was his one true love. So his family arranged for me to swoop in. A strategic alliance, an engagement. But this heir, Damian Campbell, was once the family’s most disfavored son. Back then, even I had been among those who had casually humiliated him. Only the housekeeper’s daughter had stood by him, supporting him on his ruthless climb to become the Campbell successor. Fate, however, had a twisted sense of humor. After Damian’s amnesia, I never mentioned the past he’d forgotten. I played the part of his perfectly matched fiancée, and our life together was, for the most part, peaceful. Until two years later, when the housekeeper’s daughter, who had been driven away by the Campbell family, returned from abroad. And Damian’s memories began to resurface. Once his mind and heart were back on track, he was destined to settle the score with me. Everything would be set right. But then, I got pregnant. 2 I heard Damian was rushed to the hospital that morning, struck by a sudden, splitting headache at the office. When I arrived at the door of the VIP suite, his assistant was waiting outside. “Ms. Hopkins.” Nathaniel Reed, his executive assistant, stopped me before I could go in. “Mr. Campbell,” he said, his voice low, “he might be getting his memory back.” My fingers tightened on my purse. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. There were already people inside. Besides Damian, there was another man and a woman. The man was one of Damian’s few friends, Leo. The woman was dressed in a simple, elegant dress. She had a clean, almost ethereal beauty. She was speaking to Damian. “My name is Seraphina Rose.” “I’m back.” “Do you remember who I am?” Her voice was soft, laced with a fragile, trembling hope. Damian wasn’t in the hospital bed. He was sitting in an armchair in the suite’s living area, looking as imposing as ever. Dressed in a sharp suit, his handsome face was cold and impassive, his legs crossed in a posture of casual authority. If not for the faint pallor of his skin, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong. He didn’t answer her. Instead, he spoke to his friend, his tone laced with ice. “Leo, stop bringing random women to see me.” He then motioned for his assistant to show them out. As Leo led the woman away, he shot back, “Damian, you’re going to regret saying that.” The woman’s eyes reddened. She cast one last, lingering look at Damian before turning to leave. Her gaze was filled with a universe of emotions I couldn’t begin to decipher. Now it was just the two of us. As his fiancée, I played my part. “Does your head still hurt?” “I’m fine,” Damian said, his voice clipped. “Nathan said… you might be remembering things?” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Just fragments. Flashes I can’t hold onto. Someone crying in the snow, a lot of muffled voices…” Damian uncrossed his legs. A moment later, he pulled me onto his lap. We’d been engaged for nearly a year and a half since his accident. It wasn’t as if our relationship was purely platonic. We had the intimacy expected of a couple. He spoke, his voice a low murmur against my ear. “That was just Leo playing a prank. Bringing in some girl and claiming she was someone I used to love.” Given Leo’s reputation as a troublemaker, it was an easy mistake for Damian to make. He leaned in, his cool lips brushing the corner of my mouth. “Compared to her,” he whispered, a hint of dark amusement in his tone, “your gentle beauty is far more my type.” He said it to reassure me, to dismiss the other woman. And it worked, because it was obvious his memory hadn’t fully returned. He had no idea who that girl, Seraphina Rose, really was. He didn’t remember how important she had been to him. I lowered my eyes, hiding the storm of fear inside me. “Good,” I whispered. 3 Damian was discharged from the hospital that same day. That evening, he took me back to his penthouse. In the car, he held my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “Colette, I’ve been thinking,” he said suddenly. “About what?” “If my memory does come back,” he paused, “do you think I’ll find out there are secrets between us?” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Why would you ask that?” “A gut feeling,” he said, his gaze turning to the city lights blurring past the window. “I just feel like I’ve forgotten something… something vital.” I was silent for a moment before answering softly, “Whatever happens, happens. What’s meant to be remembered, will be.” Later that night, Damian’s hands were gentle on my shoulders and waist as he turned me so my back was to him. “Is this okay?” His voice was a low rumble, tinged with restraint. I finally nodded. “Be gentle.” In our relationship, Damian was the perfect partner, the ideal fiancé. Even in our most intimate moments, he was always considerate of me. After his amnesia, it was his grandmother, Matilda Campbell, who had personally chosen me for him. Before our engagement, she had summoned me for a private meeting. “This isn’t just about the alliance between the Campbell and Ashford families,” she’d told me bluntly. “Colette, when a beautiful, gentle, and understanding woman like you is by a man’s side, no man can resist falling for you.” Her intention was clear: she wanted me to replace Seraphina in Damian’s heart before his memory returned. And on the surface, it seemed to be working. Damian was clearly attracted to me. A few months after our engagement, we fell into the easy rhythm of a couple living together. He desired me, physically. But desire for a pretty face, for a warm body, is the most superficial connection of all. What the old matriarch didn’t know was that before Damian was the heir, during the darkest period of his life, Seraphina had been his rock. And me? Back then, I was one of them. One of the rich kids who looked down on him, who had played a part in his humiliation. The moment Damian remembers, replacing Seraphina will be a fantasy. He’ll want nothing more than to destroy me. 4 I slept poorly, my dreams filled with ghosts from the past—scenes I desperately wanted to forget but were seared into my memory. I woke to Damian’s hand on my forehead, wiping away a cold sweat. “Bad dream?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep. Seeing me clutch my stomach, he pulled me into his arms. He glanced down and his eyes softened. “Colette,” he said gently, “you’ve started your period.” It was a few days early, but it was never regular. This time, though, the cramping was worse than usual. A small, dark stain had blossomed on his pristine white sheets. My eyes fluttered closed. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He didn’t seem to mind at all. He got up, found a box of pads in the bathroom cabinet, and then carried me into the en-suite. “Does it hurt much?” he asked, his touch incredibly gentle as he helped me clean up. “It’s okay.” “I’ll have the housekeeper make you some ginger tea.” As my fiancé, Damian had never lacked attentiveness. But behind this flawless facade was a man who was always in control, always rational. In front of me, he was calm, composed, unshakable. This was the same man who, two years ago, had lost control so completely over Seraphina that he’d ended up in a near-fatal car crash. The thought made a question slip from my lips. “Damian, have you ever considered that if you get your memory back, you might discover you were in love with someone else?” “So in love you would have done anything for her.” “What would you do?” His hands stilled for a moment. “Colette, what are you worried about?” He lifted me onto the marble vanity, his hands bracketing me on either side. “I’m just curious.” “If there really was someone like that,” he said, his gaze serious, “I suppose the first thing I’d do is find out why I forgot her.” “And then?” “And then,” he paused, thinking, “I’d do what I believe is right.” It was a vague answer. But it was also terrifyingly honest. 5 On a weekday, Matilda Campbell insisted I bring Damian lunch at his office. It was, she said, what a good fiancée does. I arrived just as he was finishing a board meeting. Damian, impeccably dressed, took the insulated lunch bag from me in front of his top executives. He handed it to Nathan. “Thank you,” he said, his arm wrapping naturally around my waist. One of the executives was the head of a joint project between our families. And standing just behind him today was a familiar figure. It was Seraphina. Her eyes fell on Damian’s arm around me, and the light in them dimmed. The executive greeted me first. “Ms. Hopkins.” Then he turned to Damian. “Mr. Campbell, this is my new assistant, Ms. Rose. A brilliant graduate, just returned from her studies abroad. She’ll be our liaison with Campbell Corp for this project.” “Is that so?” Damian’s gaze flickered over Seraphina, cool and impersonal. “Welcome to the team. I trust you’ll be up to the task.” His tone was strictly business. Seraphina bit her lip. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Campbell.” An older vice president saw me and chuckled. “Damian, I hear wedding bells are in your future?” A faint smile touched Damian’s lips. “It’s about time I settled down.” He then made the announcement to everyone present. “The wedding is set for three months from now. You’ll all receive invitations.” A chorus of congratulations erupted. “Congratulations, Mr. Campbell!” “Ms. Hopkins is a lucky woman!” Through it all, I watched Seraphina’s face grow pale. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around her folder that her knuckles were white. 6 After lunch, Damian had me stay in his office. It was the perfect opportunity. “Your grandmother wants me to quit my job to focus on wedding preparations.” I taught piano at a prestigious international school and occasionally performed. But Matilda Campbell was a woman who did not tolerate being disobeyed. “Do you want to keep working?” Damian asked, putting down his chopsticks. “Yes. I love teaching. And I love music.” He saw the desire in my eyes. “If you don’t want to quit, I’ll handle it.” “Really?” “You’re my fiancée,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s my duty to support your choices.” He did, however, expect a reward. Before I could protest, Damian leaned in and captured my lips in a slow, possessive kiss. His hand rested on my waist, a firm, comforting pressure. We were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in.” Damian pulled away, his fingers gently smoothing my hair. Nathan entered with a file. Though Damian looked perfectly composed, I was still catching my breath in his arms. It was obvious what we’d been doing. Nathan tactfully ignored it. “Mr. Campbell, this is the background check you requested on Seraphina Rose.” A knot of ice formed in my stomach. He was investigating her. He had seemed so dismissive at the hospital. Had some part of him recognized her after all? Nathan placed the file on the desk, then glanced at me, hesitating. “Is there something else?” Damian asked, sensing his reluctance. “No, sir.” Nathan retreated. After he left, Damian turned to me. “Colette, do you know why I’m looking into her?” I shook my head, my heart pounding. “Your stepbrother came to see me,” Damian explained. “He asked me to go easy on this project, to let Seraphina use it as a training ground. He said she’s exceptionally talented.” He then dropped a bombshell he thought I didn’t know. “There’s a reason the Ashfords are so invested in her. They’ve found their long-lost daughter.” I feigned shock. “You mean… Seraphina?” “Yes.” Damian nodded, opening the file for me to see. “The DNA results just came back. She’s the Ashford heiress, missing for years.” As I processed this, he continued, his voice low and protective. “You’re my fiancée. Soon, we’ll be husband and wife. I have to look out for you. I needed to know what kind of person she is. If she’s going to be difficult, I need to be ready to protect you.” His words were a complicated mix of comfort and terror. I wasn’t an imposter who had stolen Seraphina’s identity; my mother had married into the Ashford family when I was a child. But the irony was staggering. The file in front of me was detailed, but it only briefly mentioned that Seraphina had been adopted by a housekeeper. Her entire history with Damian, their shared past at the Campbell estate, had been completely erased. Someone was deliberately hiding the truth. With the wedding so close, Damian thought he was protecting me, his future wife. He had no idea that once Seraphina—the true Ashford heiress—was officially welcomed back into the family, the first thing she would want is the man this engagement was meant for. The man who was rightfully hers. 7 That afternoon, after my classes, I called my mother. “Your stepfather was planning to announce it at the family dinner next week,” she admitted. “When he asked you to bring Damian.” “Colette… I didn’t mean to keep it from you.” Her voice was heavy with guilt. Then, she asked a strange question. “Have you been feeling alright lately? Any discomfort?” I was about to dismiss her concern when, as if on cue, a dull, aching cramp started low in my belly. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little tired.” “Well, get some rest.” After we hung up, the pain intensified. My period this month had been strange—spotty and light, but incredibly uncomfortable. I left work early and went to the hospital. I never imagined I could be pregnant. Damian and I had always been careful. For a while, it had been him. But recently, I’d gone to the doctor and gotten a prescription for a low-dose birth control pill, officially to help regulate my cycle. Now, sitting in the OB-GYN’s office, I stared as the doctor read my test results. “You’re about four weeks along,” she said. “Some light bleeding can be normal in early pregnancy.” She looked at me over her glasses. “But you need to be careful. Now that you’re pregnant, you should avoid strenuous intimacy. Get plenty of rest, and try to keep your stress levels down.” The paper in my hand trembled. Pregnant. I was actually pregnant. Now, of all times. I hid the test results in my bag. As I stepped out of the hospital, a light rain began to fall. I stood under the awning, watching the drops splatter on the pavement, completely lost. 8 On the day of the Ashford family dinner, I found my mother alone, overseeing the preparations. I didn’t mention the pregnancy. I just asked, “Are you hiding something from me?” She froze. “Colette, what—” She finally broke. “It was the Ashfords who pushed for this marriage alliance. Now, to make it up to his real daughter, your stepfather wants to call off your engagement before her official debut.” “I couldn’t let them just use you and throw you away,” she whispered. “So what did you do?” My voice shook. “A month ago… I paid the housekeeper at your place. I had her switch your birth control pills with vitamins.” My mother couldn’t look at me. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” My voice rose. “I know, but I had no choice!” she cried, her eyes red. “Colette, you’re my daughter! I can’t watch you be sacrificed and then discarded! With a child, the Campbells can’t just break the engagement. Even if Damian remembers everything, he’ll have to treat you better for the baby’s sake.” I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control my rage. “Mom, you’re so naive. You don’t know the first thing about Damian and Seraphina.” I stopped myself before I could say more. A moment later, Damian found me. He came to my side, his fingers instantly finding mine. He brushed his hand over my bare arm, exposed by my sleeveless dress. “Why are you so cold?” He asked a passing maid to fetch me a shawl. I forced a smile. “It’s nothing, just the air conditioning.” My younger half-brother, my mother’s son with Mr. Ashford, ran up to Damian, chirping, “Brother-in-law!” A small smile touched Damian’s lips. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Your sister tells me you haven’t been focusing on your studies. Work harder. If you make it into the top ten of your class, I’ll get you whatever you want. Don’t make your sister and me worry, understand?” The boy, spoiled by everyone else in the house, was surprisingly obedient with Damian. “I will, brother-in-law!” My mother chose that moment to interject. “Damian, you’ll make a wonderful father one day. You two should start trying for a baby soon. Colette, why are you wearing flats tonight? Are you pregnant already?” My heart stopped. The smile vanished from Damian’s face. His voice was cool and definite as he replied, “She’s not pregnant. She had her period last week.” “Oh, I see,” my mother said, disappointed. “Well, no rush. It will happen when it happens.” Later, when we were alone, I asked him directly, “After marriage comes children. But you don’t seem interested in having any.” Damian was draping the shawl over my shoulders. His handsome face was unreadable. “There’s no hurry,” he said. “We can wait a few years. We’re both still young. I’ve never thought about being a father this early.” “And…” he hesitated. “And what?” “Growing up in the Campbell family, I’ve seen too much bloodshed over inheritances,” his voice turned colder. “I don’t want my child to grow up in an environment like that.” His indifference on the subject was palpable. In a ruthless family like the Campbells, where love was a currency and siblings were rivals, he truly had no desire for an heir. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, where a tiny, secret life was growing. 9 Across the room, Seraphina—now officially Seraphina Ashford—was descending the grand staircase just as she spotted Damian and me together. She was transformed. Gone was the simple girl from the hospital. Tonight, she was breathtaking in a champagne-colored gown, her hair swept up to reveal a long, elegant neck. Her eyes, however, were fixed on one person. “Damian…” she breathed, her voice a fragile mix of longing and hurt. Damian’s gaze met hers, cold and detached. “Colette is only two months your senior,” he said, his voice cutting through the air. “But given the circumstances, you should be calling me your brother-in-law.” The color drained from Seraphina’s face. “I… I understand. Brother-in-law.” She managed a brittle smile and turned away, stumbling slightly. The rest of the evening was a blur. The Ashfords formally announced the return of their long-lost daughter. My stepfather stood with her, beaming with paternal pride. “This is my daughter, Seraphina. From now on, she is the eldest daughter of the Ashford family. Please, make her feel welcome.” The guests flocked to congratulate her. Seraphina handled them with a grace that betrayed none of her earlier distress. My mother somehow arranged for Damian and me to stay the night, in my old childhood bedroom. He was oblivious to the web of schemes closing in around us. After his shower, he came to bed. He kissed me, a simple goodnight kiss that slowly deepened. “It’s been a while,” he murmured, his fingers sliding under the hem of my nightgown. I caught his hand. “Not tonight,” I stopped him. “I’m still not feeling well.” His hair was still damp, his jawline sharp. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. “Your period is lasting a long time, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low. “It’s probably just my hormones,” I lied. “I have a follow-up appointment at the hospital tomorrow,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me and get checked out?” My breath hitched. For the past two years, Damian had been undergoing treatments, trying to reclaim his past. In the last six months, he’d started working with a top specialist, trying a more aggressive, interventional therapy. It was clearly working. He was going to remember everything. Maybe as soon as tomorrow.

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“Let’s get a fake divorce.” Mark placed a document on the kitchen counter in front of me. My hand, holding the knife I was using to chop vegetables, froze mid-air. “We’ll transfer the house to my mom’s name for now. Once the new regulations pass, we’ll remarry.” His tone was casual, as if he were discussing what to have for dinner. “It’s for the good of our family.” I just looked at him. My husband of eight years, saying the word “divorce” without so much as blinking. “I’ll write up the agreement,” he added. “All you have to do is sign.” I lowered my eyes to the papers. The house: goes to the husband. The savings: go to the husband. Custody of our daughter: goes to the husband. And me? I would leave with nothing. “For the good of our family,” I repeated his words, a small, tight curve forming on my lips. “Fine.” I set the knife down. “I’ll sign it.” 1. Mark seemed taken aback by how quickly I agreed. He just stared for a second. “You… you’re okay with this?” “You said it’s for the good of our family,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel. “How could I say no?” He watched me for a few more seconds, then a slow smile spread across his face. “I knew you were an understanding woman.” An understanding woman. I rolled the words around in my mind. In eight years of marriage, that was the first time he’d ever praised me like that. “Take a look at the agreement first,” he said, sliding the papers toward me. “If you have any issues, we can talk about them.” I picked up the document and read through it, page by page. Assets: • Property: Marital home in the Southwood district. 1,300 sq. ft., valued at approximately $850,000. To be transferred to the husband. • Savings: Joint savings account containing $140,000. To be transferred to the husband. • Vehicle: One Volkswagen Passat. To be transferred to the husband. • Child Custody: Sole custody of our daughter awarded to the husband. Me: Entitled to nothing. “This part…” I pointed to the custody clause. “Our daughter stays with you?” “My mom will help out,” Mark said without a second thought. “You can’t manage her on your own.” “And what about me?” “You can visit her whenever you want,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not like I’m banning you from seeing her.” I met his gaze and held it, saying nothing. He shifted uncomfortably. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” I set the agreement down. “I’ll look it over. I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.” “Okay.” He let out a breath, visibly relieved. “No rush, anyway. The new tax laws don’t kick in until next month.” The “new tax laws” were the capital gains regulations everyone was talking about. His plan was to execute a sham divorce, transfer the house to his mother to shield it as her primary residence, and then remarry me when the dust settled. It would save us a fortune in taxes. It sounded perfectly logical. I nodded and put the agreement away in a drawer. “What do you want for dinner?” I asked. “Whatever.” He already had his phone in his hand. “You decide.” I turned and walked back into the kitchen. Whatever. That was his answer for everything lately. Whatever for dinner, whatever clothes to wear, whatever time he came home. Everything was “whatever.” Except for this divorce. On that, he was anything but casual. The agreement was meticulous, every clause spelled out, not a single word left to chance. I opened the fridge, my eyes scanning the contents. After a moment, I pulled out a steak. As I began to slice the meat, my hand was perfectly steady. His mother showed up during dinner. “Mark told me about the plan,” she announced with a smile as she walked in. “It’s the smart thing to do.” I put down my fork. “So you know about it, Mom?” “Of course, I know.” She took a seat at the table. “We transfer the house to my name, and once the policy stuff is over, we transfer it right back. No harm done.” “The agreement also says our savings and the car go to Mark.” “They’ll be safer with him for now,” she said, helping herself to some salad. “We’re family. What’s mine is yours, right?” “And our daughter?” “I’ll help raise her,” she declared, as if it were a settled fact. “You couldn’t handle it by yourself.” The exact same words Mark had used. I managed a small smile. “Mom, Mark and I have been married for eight years.” “That’s right, eight years,” she nodded. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” “For these eight years,” I continued, “the mortgage, our daughter’s tuition, the daily bills… I put every single paycheck I earned into our joint account. I never kept a cent for myself.” “Well, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” she replied. “You earn money to support the family.” “So when we get this ‘fake’ divorce, I’m supposed to walk away with nothing?” His mother blinked. “But it’s just for show!” she said, a note of exasperation in her voice. “Goodness, Evelyn, why are you being so difficult?” Just for show. I looked at her sincere, untroubled face. “You’re right, Mom,” I nodded. “I’m making a big deal out of nothing.” She beamed, satisfied. “That’s my girl. In a family, we don’t nickel-and-dime each other.” Beside us, Mark scrolled through his phone, not even looking up. I lowered my head and ate my dinner in silence. After dinner, I went to wash the dishes. I could hear Mark and his mother talking in the living room. Their voices were low, but I caught a few words. “…next month… transfer… no problem…” I turned the faucet on full blast, letting the rush of water drown out their voices. When I was done, I dried my hands and walked back into the living room. “Mom, it’s getting late. Why don’t I drive you home tomorrow?” “No, no, that’s alright.” She stood up. “I’ll grab a cab. You two get some rest.” On her way out, she patted my hand. “Evelyn, honey, try to be understanding. Mark is under a lot of pressure.” “I know,” I said. After she left, I went to our bedroom. Mark was already in bed, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone. I walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer. His credit card statements were tucked away at the very back. I pulled them out and started flipping through the last three months. September: a charge for $320 at the Fairmont Hotel. Another for $2,150 at Tiffany & Co. A third for $585 at a high-end steakhouse. October: Fairmont Hotel, $320. The Ritz-Carlton, $450. A single transaction for $3,700 at Nordstrom. November: Fairmont Hotel, $320. Fairmont Hotel, $320… The same hotel, once a week, like clockwork. Jewelry stores, department stores, fancy restaurants. I had never received any of these gifts. I put the statements back and quietly closed the drawer. “What are you looking for?” Mark’s voice came from the bed. “Just grabbing something,” I said, turning around. “Let’s get some sleep. We both have work tomorrow.” He grunted in response and went back to his phone. I lay down and closed my eyes, but the numbers kept flashing behind my eyelids. $2,150. $3,700. $320… It’s for the good of our family. Mark’s words echoed in my head. Was it, though? Was it for the good of our family? Or was it for the good of his? I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness above me. Tomorrow, I had some investigating to do. 2. The next morning, as soon as Mark left for work, I called in and took a half-day off. The phone rang almost immediately. It was my mother-in-law. “Evelyn? Why aren’t you at work today?” “I had something to take care of,” I said vaguely. “Just handling it from home.” “What is it?” “Work stuff.” She said “oh” and didn’t press further. After hanging up, I opened my laptop. First, I checked his location history. Mark and I had shared our locations since the year we got married. It was his idea, “to make it easier to find each other,” he’d said. I had never once used it to check up on him. Today was the first time. I pulled up his location data for the past three months. And then I froze. Three or four times a week, nearly every week, he went to the same place. An apartment complex on the east side of town. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t a client’s address. It wasn’t anywhere he had ever mentioned to me. I zoomed in on the map and wrote down the name of the complex. Sunnyside Gardens, Building B. I’d never heard of it. I picked up my phone and sent a message to my best friend, Sophia. Soph, you there? Here. What’s up? she replied instantly. You’re a real estate agent. Can you look someone up for me? Who? Someone who lives at Sunnyside Gardens, Building B. I need to know whose name is on the deed. What are you digging for, Evie? I hesitated, then decided against telling her everything just yet. Just help me out. Dinner’s on me. Deal. Gimme a few. I put my phone down and went back to Mark’s credit card statements, sorting every charge by date. Hotel stays: 12 times. Jewelry stores: 3 times. Restaurants: 8 times. Department stores: 5 times. Every single one on a weekday. And every single one had nothing to do with me. I took out a piece of paper and started adding up the numbers. The hotel stays came to about $4,000. The jewelry, around $6,500. The restaurants, nearly $4,500. The shopping sprees, over $11,000. In just three months, he had spent over $26,000. That was more than $100,000 a year. And this had been going on for how long? Three years? The pen in my hand started to shake. My phone rang. It was Sophia. “Evie, I got it.” “Tell me.” “Sunnyside Gardens, Building B, apartment 1402. The owner is a Zoe Jensen. Female, 26 years old. The deed was transferred to her name this past June.” Zoe Jensen. I wrote the name down on the paper. “That’s all the public info I can pull,” Sophia said. “If you need more, you’d have to go to the county records office. Evie, seriously, what is this about?” “Thanks, Soph. I owe you dinner,” I said, and hung up. Zoe Jensen, 26. Sunnyside Gardens, apartment 1402. Deed transferred in June. I opened our banking app and scrolled through the transaction history for our joint account. I went back, and back, until I reached May of this year. May 28th. A wire transfer for $80,000. Recipient: Zoe Jensen. Memo: Down payment on house. The world stopped. Eighty thousand dollars. Almost everything we had managed to save in eight years of marriage. He had wired our entire life savings to her. I stared at the screen, my body numb. It’s for the good of our family. His voice was a venomous whisper in my ear. So this was it. This was what “for the good of our family” meant. Give my money to another woman. Then make me sign a document to leave with nothing. And after that? Marry her? I closed the app and leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe. In, out. In, out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw anything. I didn’t pick up the phone to scream at him. I just sat there, my gaze fixed on the ceiling, as the numbers spun in my head. $80,000. 89 location pings. $26,000 in lavish spending. 8 years of marriage. And that “fake divorce” agreement. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He had it all planned out. The fake divorce, transferring the house to his mom—no, that was a lie. He was never going to put it in his mother’s name. It was for her, wasn’t it? The savings were his. The car was his. Our daughter was his. And me? I was left with the scraps. He didn’t even want me to have the scraps. At five o’clock, Mark came home from work. “You didn’t go in today?” He seemed surprised to see me. “Took a half-day,” I said. “Had some things to do.” “What things?” “Work things.” He grunted and dropped his bag, slipping into his house shoes before collapsing onto the sofa. It was all so painfully normal. “Did you finish reading the agreement?” he asked. “I did.” “And?” I walked over and sat in the armchair across from him. “I have a question for you.” “Go ahead.” “The house. After we transfer it to your mom’s name, when can we transfer it back?” “As soon as the new regulations are clear. Six months, tops.” “Six months,” I nodded. “And the savings?” “They’ll stay with me for now. But if you need anything, you can just ask.” “Just ask,” I repeated, nodding again. He seemed a little on edge. “Do you… have a problem with that?” I looked straight at him. “No problem at all,” I said. “I just wanted to confirm.” “Confirm what?” “Confirm that everything you’re telling me is the truth.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then broke into a grin. “Of course, it’s the truth,” he said. “Why would I lie to you?” “Right,” I said, mirroring his smile. “Why would you?” I stood up. “I heated up dinner. You should eat.” “You’re not eating?” “Not hungry.” I started toward the bedroom. “About the agreement, I just need a little more time to think.” “Fine,” he said. “Take your time. There’s no rush.” I closed the bedroom door behind me. Take my time. Yes, I would. I needed to take my time. And think very carefully about how I was going to get back every single penny that belonged to me. 3. The next day, I did something I never thought I would do. I went to see a lawyer. Sophia had recommended her. A college friend who specialized in family law. “Tell me everything,” the lawyer said. Her name was Ms. Sutton, a sharp woman in her thirties with an air of no-nonsense competence. I laid out all my evidence on her polished desk. The credit card statements. Screenshots of the location history. The wire transfer record. The property information on Zoe’s apartment. And finally, the “fake divorce” agreement Mark had drafted. Ms. Sutton examined each document carefully, her expression unreadable. When she finished, she looked up at me. “Your husband is quite the operator,” she said, her voice dry. “He certainly has all his ducks in a row.” “He wants me to leave with nothing.” “This agreement,” Ms. Sutton tapped the paper, “did he write it himself?” “Yes.” “Has he signed it yet?” “He said he’d sign it after I did.” A small, knowing smile touched Ms. Sutton’s lips. “He probably has no idea,” she said, “that this very document could be his undoing.” I stared at her. “What do you mean?” Ms. Sutton flipped the agreement back to the first page. “Look here.” She pointed to a line. “Assets, Property: To be transferred to the husband.” “Right.” “But this was your marital home, purchased after you were married, correct?” “Yes.” “Who paid the down payment?” “His parents gave us $50,000, and we paid the other $150,000.” “And that $150,000 included your money?” “I put in every cent of my savings.” Ms. Sutton nodded, satisfied. “Then the house is marital property,” she stated. “He has no right to dispose of it unilaterally.” “But the agreement he wants me to sign says—” “The agreement he wants you to sign,” Ms. Sutton cut in, “is legally considered a postnuptial agreement.” She held up the paper. “If both parties sign this, it becomes legally binding.” “But here’s the thing,” she said, that smile returning, “the agreement he wrote, which gifts all assets to himself, assumes one thing: that you have no grounds to contest it.” “And I do?” “Oh, yes,” Ms. Sutton said, her eyes glinting behind her glasses. “He made a critical error.” “What error?” “He forgot something very important,” she said, her voice sharp and clear. “He’s the at-fault party.” It took me a moment to process. “Illegally transferring $80,000 of marital assets to a third party,” Ms. Sutton said, ticking off points on her fingers, “that’s fault.” “Adultery, that’s fault.” “Maintaining a long-term affair and cohabitating with a third party during the marriage, that’s fault.” “And our state’s laws are very clear. When a divorce occurs, the non-faulting party can seek damages, and the at-fault party may receive a significantly smaller share of the assets, or in some cases, none at all.” It was finally starting to click. “So you’re saying…” “I’m saying,” Ms. Sutton leaned forward, “he’s trying to leave you with nothing. But in the end, the one walking away empty-handed might just be him.” I stared at the agreement on her desk. “But I need more proof,” I said. “The transfer is one thing, but it’s not enough to prove everything.” “You need three categories of evidence,” Ms. Sutton said, holding up three fingers. “First, proof of the affair. Second, proof of the asset transfer. Third, proof that he acted with malicious intent.” “How do I get it?” “Proof of the affair: hotel receipts, text messages, photos,” she listed. “You already have the smoking gun for the asset transfer: the $80,000 wire record.” “And the third thing?” “That’s the easiest part.” Ms. Sutton’s smile was predatory. “You get him to admit it himself.” “How?” “You record him.” I fell silent. A recording. Get him to admit, in his own words, to the affair and the transfer of money. Then use his own voice against him in a court of law. “Are you willing to do it?” Ms. Sutton asked. I thought of him lying in bed, scrolling on his phone without a care in the world. I thought of his mother, telling me it was all for the good of the family. I thought of those four words on his agreement: Entitled to nothing. “I am,” I said. “Then let’s make a plan.” Ms. Sutton pulled out a notepad. “Step one: you continue to play along with his fake divorce.” “What?” “Don’t let him suspect you know the truth,” she explained. “The more secure he feels, the more likely he is to slip up.” “Step two: gather your evidence. Bank records, chat logs, and that recording. The more, the better.” “Step three: when he pressures you to sign the agreement, you sign it.” I was stunned. “Sign it?” “Yes,” Ms. Sutton confirmed with a firm nod. “Sign it.” “But that agreement gives him everything—” “That agreement was written by him,” Ms. Sutton said, her eyes practically shining. “An agreement he wrote and he signed becomes a legally recognized document.” “You sign it, he signs it, and the agreement is official.” “And then?” “And then,” she said, “you take that signed agreement, along with all your evidence, and you file for divorce in court.” “Think about what the judge will see,” she said, her words precise and deliberate. “A cheating husband who transferred $80,000 of marital assets to his mistress, then drafted an agreement to strip his wife of everything she’s entitled to.” “In that scenario, how do you think a judge will rule?” I finally understood. “The agreement he wrote,” I whispered, “becomes his own death warrant.” “Exactly,” Ms. Sutton grinned. “He’s selling himself down the river, and he thinks you’re the one holding the paddle.” On the way home, my mother-in-law called. “Evelyn, have you made up your mind about the agreement?” “I have,” I said. “You’ll sign?” “I’ll sign.” “Wonderful!” Her voice was overflowing with relief. “I knew you were an understanding girl!” An understanding girl. I gripped my phone, silent. “So, can we go handle the paperwork tomorrow?” she pressed. “I’ll have Mark schedule the appointment.” “Okay,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.” I hung up and stood on the sidewalk, the cool evening breeze doing nothing to calm the fire in my mind. Tomorrow. Fine. Let them have their day. Their reckoning was coming.

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My father-in-law passed away, and my mother-in-law, a woman hopelessly obsessed with a fairytale romance, took his entire inheritance and began showering it on her high school sweetheart. He told her he wouldn’t leave his wife until she gave him a child. But my mother-in-law, Brenda, couldn’t conceive. So, she did the unthinkable: she secretly swapped my and my husband’s IVF embryo with one of her own. I carried the child for ten months. The day I gave birth, her old flame dropped dead of a heart attack. Brenda was devastated. Later, when our baby needed a blood transfusion, tests revealed the baby’s blood type didn’t match my husband’s. Brenda turned on me, accusing me of cheating and plastering the story all over social media. My husband, David, consumed by disappointment, divorced me. I was cyberbullied, isolated, and lost my job. To hide her secret forever, Brenda smothered the infant and framed me for the murder. With no one to believe me, I chose to prove my innocence the only way I had left. I jumped from a building. It was only after I died that I learned the other, more terrifying truth. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Brenda swapped the embryos. This time, I swapped them right back. And this time, I would calmly give birth to my child and wait for Brenda to light her own funeral pyre. 1 “This is amazing, honey! The clinic just called—the transfer was a success! I’m finally going to be a father! A father to a son!” Watching David’s eyes well up with tears of joy, I stood frozen. I was back. I had been reborn, sent back to a time before the tragedy unfolded. My body still ached with the phantom pain of hitting the concrete, a brutal reminder that my previous life had been no nightmare. It was real. David noticed my silence and misinterpreted it. He thought I was having second thoughts about the pregnancy, since it would mean pausing my career as a live-streamer. He tried to soothe me. “Jenna, I know your influencer career brings in more money than my job, but you’re always so public, you know? People talk. Why don’t you just quit?” “Don’t worry,” he continued, “I’ll have my mom take care of you. And every penny I earn will go toward your health and the baby’s.” In my last life, those words had moved me to tears. I’d agreed instantly, quitting my job to become a full-time mom. I had no idea that the baby growing inside me wasn’t mine at all. It was the IVF baby of my mother-in-law and her married high school flame. After my father-in-law died, Brenda claimed she was holding onto the inheritance for our future child. In reality, she was spending every last cent on Arthur, the man she’d pined for her whole life. She bought him cars and watches, desperately trying to replace his wife. But Arthur wanted a child, something Brenda could no longer give him. So, she turned her sights on me. On this exact day in my previous life, David and I had gone to the clinic, completely oblivious. After the successful transfer, Brenda doted on me, and I was filled with gratitude. I even covered for her when she was constantly out of the house. I never imagined that the ten months of pain and discomfort I endured were for another woman’s scheme. After I gave birth, Arthur died unexpectedly of a heart attack. Brenda, still determined to have David and me raise her child, kept the secret, even pushing us to get the baby a birth certificate. The truth only came out at the one-month celebration when the baby had a small accident. The blood type didn’t match David’s. Terrified of the scandal, Brenda immediately pointed the finger at me, accusing me of having an affair. But the baby wasn’t biologically mine, either. Back then, the idea that Brenda could do something so monstrous was inconceivable. I had no way to prove my innocence. A paternity test confirmed David was not the father. His disappointment curdled into rage. He slapped me across the face and demanded a divorce. My pleas were useless; he refused to believe me. Brenda posted a video of our fight online, cementing my reputation as an adulteress. My former agency cut all ties with me. I had no income, only the constant barrage of hate from strangers online and the scorn of neighbors and relatives in person. As the scandal grew and David wanted nothing to do with the child, Brenda panicked. Fearing the truth would come out, she quietly smothered the baby in its crib and framed me for the murder. I was sentenced to ten years in prison. In my despair, I took my own life. My spirit floated free, and I watched Brenda clinging to Arthur’s tombstone, her sobs echoing through the cemetery. It was then that I heard her confess everything, wailing about how unfair her life was. “You left me all alone, Arthur! I don’t want to live anymore either!” My soul trembled with rage. Her pathetic, love-sick fantasy had cost me everything. Did I deserve to suffer the consequences of her obsession? Thinking of how she had systematically destroyed me, I knew one thing for certain. This time, she would pay. If she loved drama so much, I would give her a performance she’d never forget. 2 This time, I didn’t foolishly quit my job. I applied for maternity leave, with plans to work for the first few months of the pregnancy. David was annoyed. “Either you get your mom to give us the inheritance money now,” I said coolly, “or we’re not discussing my job.” “What’s that supposed to mean? Mom already said she’s saving it for us.” I didn’t expose her lie. I wanted David to find that out for himself. “That’s my condition. Go ask your mother.” When we arrived at the clinic, Brenda was just walking out. A flash of guilt crossed her face before she replaced it with a warm, motherly smile. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been waiting forever!” I just smiled back. Before they wheeled me into the procedure room, I asked the doctor to run a final check on my embryo. When he saw the discrepancy, the color drained from his face. “It’s okay,” I whispered to him. “Just swap them back. This stays between us.” The doctor, immensely grateful, promised to keep it a secret from my family. As for the other vial, I tucked it into my purse. I spent a week recovering, letting Brenda and David wait on me hand and foot. I made sure to be as demanding as possible. “I’m craving the pot roast from that place on the east side.” David grabbed his car keys. “I’ll go get it!” Then, to Brenda: “I can’t just eat meat. I need some fruit. Mom, could you run downstairs and buy some?” Brenda, already sweating from running up and down the hospital floors, dutifully went. The pregnant woman in the bed next to me watched with envy. “Your husband and mother-in-law are so good to you!” I smirked. “It’s the least they can do.” Once I was discharged, I made a special pot of soup for Brenda. She sniffed it, wrinkling her nose. “This smells a bit off. Is the meat bad?” I leaned against David and started to cry. “Does… does Mom not like my cooking?” I stroked my belly dramatically. “Oh, little one, I hope Mommy’s bad mood isn’t affecting you.” Hearing that, Brenda grabbed the bowl and chugged the entire thing down. Not long after, she was clutching her stomach and running for the bathroom. She made the trip half a dozen times, finally emerging with her legs trembling. “What on earth was in that soup?” she asked, her voice shaky. I glanced at the empty hospital vial in the trash can and simply smiled. With the baby as my leverage, David and Brenda were wrapped around my finger. Five months into my pregnancy, I started my official maternity leave. A few days later, I got a call from my boss. She told me my husband, David, had submitted a resignation letter on my behalf. My boss knew I hadn’t planned to quit, so she called to confirm before processing the paperwork. The glass I was holding slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. I quickly assured her it was a mistake and that I fully intended to return to work. Relieved, she wished me well with the rest of my pregnancy. After hanging up, I was seething. That night, I confronted David. He looked guilty. “I was just worried you were overworking yourself.” “Did you get the money from your mom yet?” I pressed. He stammered, “Mom said… she said it’s in a long-term deposit. She can’t take it out right now.” That was it. I snapped. In a fit of rage, I flipped the dining table over. “I don’t care! If you don’t get that money back, you can forget about having a peaceful life!” David threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay! I’ll go! Just be careful! The baby!” Later that night, I woke up and overheard him talking with Brenda in the living room. “The money just isn’t accessible right now!” Brenda insisted. “But Mom, Jenna’s going crazy! That baby is our family’s last hope!” Brenda sounded completely confident. “Don’t worry. Once that baby is born, she won’t be able to cause any trouble at all.” Of course. She still thought the baby in my belly was hers. She was just waiting for the birth to unleash her storm of lies.

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At 28, Victor wrapped his arms around me, his voice a low, sweet murmur in my ear. “Aria, my love, will you have my baby?” At 35, while I was fighting for my life in a hospital bed, Victor was caught by the paparazzi having a tryst with his young secretary in the hospital’s underground parking garage. Afterward, Victor was silent for a long time. He lit a cigarette, and through the veil of smoke, his voice was flat, detached. “Aria, don’t go after her. She’s young, she doesn’t know any better.” “I’ll make it up to you.” I stared at the miscarriage report on my phone, a numb smile twisting my lips. “Don’t bother, Victor.” “Let’s… get a divorce.” The hand holding his cigarette paused mid-air. “Aria, you’re not a child anymore.” “You need to think about the consequences before you act.” Consequences? Oh, I’d thought about them very, very clearly. 1. I placed the divorce papers on the table, wanting nothing more to do with him. I turned to leave. Victor stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed my arm. “Aria, it was just a baby.” “If you want one, we can always have another.” “Don’t throw the word ‘divorce’ around every time we have a problem.” A bitter sting filled my nose. I blinked hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. “Victor, he was eight months old. He was a fully formed person!” Victor sighed, a sound heavy with impatience. “Until it’s born, it’s just an embryo. Can you please stop being so emotional?” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “Is that what you were thinking when you were sleeping with Tessa, Victor?” His grip on my wrist tightened, his eyes narrowing. “What man doesn’t do this?” “It was a one-time thing. It’s not a big deal. I promise you, you will never see Tessa again.” “Aria, we don’t have to go down this road.” Looking at his smug, self-assured face, I closed my eyes. The bitterness was a physical ache in my chest. A one-time thing? Victor thought he’d hidden it so well. The truth was, I had known for a long time. He had told me he was on a business trip, but he was really in Bali with Tessa, watching the sunset she’d always dreamed of seeing. The girl was brazen, sending me a photo as a taunt. Her message read: Mrs. Marsden, the sunset is beautiful. Mr. Marsden is just a little rough, though. In the photo, against the fiery backdrop of the setting sun, Victor was kissing her passionately, the golden light bathing them in a lover’s glow. The pain was so intense I couldn’t breathe. I called him. He answered almost immediately, his voice husky with desire. “What is it, Ari?” I fought to keep my own voice steady. “What are you doing?” There was a muffled groan on his end, followed by a faint, sticky, wet sound that made my stomach churn. The phone in my hand began to tremble. I prayed, I begged the universe for him to tell me Tessa was lying. “Working out,” he said. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m busy. I’ll call you back when I’m done.” The line went dead. My heart turned to ice. With his actions, Victor had confirmed everything. He really was cheating on me with Tessa. My lungs seized. I couldn’t get enough air. My hands twisted together, my entire body going numb. I was rushed to the hospital. There, the doctor told me I was pregnant. I clutched the positive test and cried for hours. When Victor finally came home, I didn’t even have the courage to confront him. A tear escaped and traced a path down my cheek. Victor gently wiped it away with his thumb. “Aria, can’t you just turn a blind eye this once?” My voice trembled with rage. “The only option for us is divorce, Victor! There is nothing else!” His chest rose and fell in a frustrated rhythm. He took a few deep breaths, trying to rein in his anger. “I am not divorcing you, Aria.” “So you can just get that idea out of your head.” “Calm down and think about what you’re doing.” He snatched the divorce agreement and threw it in the trash, then slammed the door to his study with a force that shook the entire house. 2. The snow was coming down hard outside. Victor’s words kept replaying in my mind. He’d said, “It’s just an embryo.” He’d said, “Aria, are you completely blameless in this?” A sharp, cramping pain shot through my lower abdomen. Tears splattered onto the steering wheel. I couldn’t tell if I felt more sorrow or more hatred. There was a time when I was the center of Victor’s universe. Once, just because I told him I missed him, he dropped everything, flew halfway across the country, and showed up at my door in the middle of the night with a bouquet of my favorite flowers. In our second year together, I fell gravely ill. Victor, a man born with a silver spoon who had never believed in anything he couldn’t see, crawled up the hundreds of stone steps to the old chapel on his knees, his skin raw and bleeding, just to pray for my recovery. From priceless jewels to his constant presence, Victor spoiled me rotten. He truly cherished me. When we first married, the other wives in his social circle looked down on me. I was younger, and they whispered behind my back that I was a nobody from a working-class family who didn’t belong. I became so self-conscious that I refused to attend any important events with him. When Victor found out why, he made them all pay. A man who rarely showed his emotions, he called a press conference just to publicly defend my honor. After that, no one ever dared to disrespect me to my face again. Everyone in our circle envied me for marrying a man who loved me so deeply. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Until Tessa appeared. She was an undergrad at his alma mater. A sophomore. At first, he just started mentioning her more and more. I got jealous. “Are you falling for her?” I asked. He would kiss me. “Sweetheart, why are you always so jealous? She’s just a kid, with a terrible temper at that. Why would I ever like her?” Perhaps, even then, his heart was already leaning toward her. He just hadn’t realized it himself. Our fights about Tessa became more frequent, our love worn down with each argument. The tender embraces were replaced by weary sighs. “Aria, she’s a child. Why are you getting so worked up over her?” “I’m exhausted. Can you please just be mature about this?” And then came Tessa’s blatant provocations, one after another. The man who once loved me so fiercely was now allowing the new object of his affection to hurt me whenever she pleased. 3. I returned to our villa. The nursery, which I had spent months preparing, was quiet and still. The small, empty crib rocked gently with a push. I stared at it for a long time, and then the dam of my emotions broke. An eight-month-old child. How was that different from a newborn? The doctor had said my due date was just next month. I had planned everything. I’d read dozens of parenting books. I’d bought him a silver locket for protection, hand-stitched a quilt for him, and even worked with a designer to custom-build his crib, sanding every edge myself… I had waited for his arrival with so much joy. I wanted to give him all my love, to ensure he would be happy for his entire life. We were so close. So, so close… 4. Tessa came to find me because Victor was trying to break things off with her. He had told her, “Tessa, I’ll give you a generous settlement. After that, I want you to leave Port Sterling and never come back.” She refused. Crying, she asked him if he had ever loved her. Victor kissed away her tears. “Tessa, if I had met you first, I would have loved you. But I already have Aria.” “Don’t cry, Tessa. It hurts me to see you cry.” After that, he refused to see her. Driven by desperation, she somehow found her way to me. The moment she walked in, she pointed at my stomach. “You think having a baby can trap him?!” “Let me tell you, you’re dreaming!” “The person Victor loves is me! Me!” I clutched my belly and backed away, trying to calm her down. But Tessa, blinded by rage, was beyond reason. I called for our housekeeper, hoping she could escort Tessa out. Tessa shoved the older woman to the ground and lunged at me. “Aria Marsden! Why don’t you just die?!” “If you were dead, Victor would be all mine!” I couldn’t dodge in time. She pushed me hard, and my stomach slammed into the sharp corner of a table. A searing pain shot through me, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Tessa was like a wild animal. Her stiletto heel kicked my belly, again and again. She was screaming for me to die. I felt a warm gush of blood run down my thighs. Panic seized me. The housekeeper scrambled to her feet, pulled Tessa off me, and called the police, then an ambulance. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I dreamed of a small child waving at me from a distance. No matter how hard I reached, I couldn’t touch him. When I woke up, a doctor was looking at me with pity in his eyes. I opened my mouth, clinging to one last sliver of hope. “Doctor, my baby…” The doctor sighed. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Marsden. We couldn’t save him.” I had expected it. But hearing the words out loud, I shattered. My tears soaked the pillow. The doctor tried to console me. The next day, a gossip site published the story: Victor Marsden, caught in a tryst with his young secretary in the hospital’s underground parking garage.