Author: Momo Chan

The day my best friend quit her job, I started writing my resignation letter too. My manager, passing by, scoffed. “Her parents supported her before she got married, and her husband supports her now. She’s worth millions. And you?” He sneered. “With that pathetic salary of yours, can you even afford a plane ticket?” I was an orphan as a child. A student on financial aid in college. Now, just cheap labor. There really wasn’t much about me to command respect. But… “I can afford it.” My best friend says her husband isn’t nearly as much fun as I am. She’s paying me ten million dollars to be her companion on her trip around the world—take some photos, keep her company, all expenses paid. And ten million dollars? It’s just enough to buy this entire company. 1 “That’s it. I’m done.” My best friend, Jessica, slammed her resignation letter onto our director’s desk. The entire office fell silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction. Our director, Mr. Thompson, a paunchy man in his forties, adjusted his glasses and picked up the letter. “Now, Jessie, let’s not be hasty. If you have a grievance, you can always bring it to the company.” Jessica crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “And you’d do something about it? You stole my numbers last month. You stole my creative concept the month before that. And the bonus you promised me? Did your dog eat it?” A flush crept up Mr. Thompson’s neck, but he forced a smile. “Jessie, that’s not how it happened…” “I’m done talking to you,” she cut him off. She pulled the keys to her Rolls-Royce Phantom from her purse and twirled them around her finger. “My resignation is on your desk. Approve it or don’t. Either way, tomorrow, I’m starting my trip around the world.” With that, she spun on her heel and strode out. She paused at my desk and leaned in close. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Get your letter signed and let’s blow this popsicle stand. We’re not wasting another minute on this leech.” I nodded and kept typing. After she left, the silence was shattered by a wave of whispers. “God, to be able to just walk out like that.” “Well, she can afford to. You know who her dad is, who her husband is. We’re not in the same league.” “Seriously. If I had a husband pulling in eight figures, I’d slap my resignation on his face, too.” Amid the murmurs, I finished my own letter. When I pushed open the door to his office, Mr. Thompson was leaning back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re quitting, too?” I placed the letter on his desk. “Yes, Mr. Thompson. I’m resigning.” He stared at me, then let out a short, sharp laugh that grew until his shoulders were shaking. The sound, thick with contempt, was jarringly loud in the quiet office. He wiped a tear from his eye and pointed at me. “Jessica is quitting to go home and be a pampered wife, to pop out a few kids. Her parents left her ten condos downtown, and her husband is on the board of a publicly-traded company. They’re practically royalty.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk, and looked me up and down. “And you, Anna?” “You came from an orphanage. You put yourself through college on student loans. You make five thousand a month. After you pay your loans and your rent, what’s left?” He picked up his desk calculator and made a show of punching in numbers. “Let’s see… is that even enough for a budget flight to Miami?” His words were a dull knife, twisting in my gut. He was right. I came from an orphanage. I was drowning in student debt. I was the company’s cheap labor, and my five-thousand-dollar monthly salary was barely enough to survive on. From his perspective, I had nothing. But did being poor and having no connections mean I deserved to be humiliated like this? 2 Seeing my silence, Mr. Thompson’s smugness grew. He leaned back, his hands folded over his paunch, his chin held high. “Anna, a person needs to know their place.” His voice was low, but loud enough for the entire office to hear. “Don’t get swept up in the drama of the rich. You can’t even reach their world on your tiptoes.” Every word was a cold needle against my skin. I had no family, no background. I didn’t even know who my parents were. Jessica was my only friend. She took me to fancy restaurants, bought me clothes I could only dream of, and never once made me feel small for being poor. She said we were best friends. But to Mr. Thompson, I was just a pathetic hanger-on. He seemed pleased by the stricken look on my face. “Go back to your desk and get to work,” he said, bestowing his magnanimity upon me. “And I’ll even consider adding three hundred dollars to your performance bonus this month.” Three hundred dollars. For the project I’d pulled three all-nighters on, the one he’d put his name on and received a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for. For the creative concept I had meticulously developed, the one he had presented as his own to climb another rung up the corporate ladder. Three hundred dollars wasn’t compensation. It was an insult. Blood rushed to my head. I heard my own voice, hoarse and quiet, but perfectly clear. “I am resigning.” This time, there was no hesitation, no softening of the words. It was a statement of fact. The smile froze on his face. “Anna, do you think jobs grow on trees? Look at any job site. There are hundreds of applicants for every position. What do you have? A degree from a top school? Years of experience on major projects?” His voice turned venomous. “You walk out that door, and I’ll make sure you never work in this industry again. Your file, your letter of recommendation… it all goes through me.” He gestured to a filing cabinet. “All it takes is a few choice words from me, and you’re finished.” I dug my nails into my palms. I knew he would do it. It was how he controlled all of us at the bottom. He got off on the power. “I’m giving you one last chance,” he said, leaning back again, resuming his throne. “Take back your letter, tear it up, and we’ll forget this ever happened. And I’ll still give you the three hundred dollars.” He wouldn’t let me go. He didn’t need an employee; he needed a scapegoat, a workhorse he could exploit without complaint. A nobody he could bully. I knew if I backed down, I would keep my job. I could pay my rent next month. But I also knew that if I backed down, I would be affirming that I was a person who could be trampled on. He would only get worse. I would be trapped under his thumb, bled dry until I had nothing left to give. 3 “Mr. Thompson, you know exactly why I’m resigning.” “When you presented my proposal, you didn’t even bother to leave my name on the PowerPoint.” “The project bonus last month was twelve thousand dollars. You told me, ‘Young people should be willing to sacrifice for the company,’ and kept it all.” “I have records of everything.” With every fact I stated, a muscle in his jaw twitched. “What do you think will happen if I forward all of this in a mass email to the entire company?” I wasn’t Jessica. I couldn’t afford to burn bridges. But I wasn’t a doormat, either. The bonuses he’d pocketed, the credit he’d stolen—I remembered it all. He thought I was an easy target. He was about to find out that even a cornered mouse will bite. His face turned a blotchy red. He stared at me, his eyes burning with a furious hatred. Finally, he ground out two words. “Get. Out.” He snatched the letter from the desk and scrawled his name on it. “Now, get out!” I took the signed letter and turned to leave. As I reached the door, his voice stopped me. “Wait.” I paused, my back to him. “Anna, if we’re going to do this by the book, then we’ll do it all by the book.” His voice had regained its familiar, smug tone. “Company policy states that employees must give one month’s notice. You’ll be expected to complete a thorough handover.” I considered it. It was company policy. If I left now, he could withhold my final paycheck and my official termination papers. I nodded. “Fine. I’ll work out my notice.” 4 Back at my desk, my colleagues scattered, suddenly engrossed in their work. But I could feel their eyes on me—a mixture of pity, glee, and indifference. My phone buzzed. It was Jessica. Done yet? I’m downstairs. I’ll take you out for a celebratory feast. Welcome to your new life! I typed back: Thompson is making me work a one-month notice period. Her call came instantly. “What? Are you kidding me? You know what he’s going to do, right? He’s going to squeeze every last drop of blood out of you for the next thirty days.” I knew. But knowing and being able to do something about it were two different things. “Jessie, I…” “What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “I told you, I’m backing you! You’re going to start your own company! You’ll be his boss! What are you afraid of?”

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1 On my commute, I saw a forum post titled: “Expecting a boy but overwhelmed with work. How can I get colleagues to help?” The OP shared her excitement about carrying the “family heir” but complained of morning sickness and a heavy workload, asking how to make coworkers more considerate. The comments tore into her entitlement: “Why work if the baby’s so precious?” and “Your husband should step up, not your colleagues.” Ignoring the backlash, she liked a manipulative suggestion: “Pick a quiet, young colleague to be the godmother—she won’t refuse, and you can boss her around.” I reported the post. Then, at work, my desk neighbor happily announced, “I’m pregnant—two months along!” Felicia’s voice was bright and cheerful, pitched just loud enough for the entire open-plan office to hear. A chorus of congratulations immediately filled the air. “Wow, Felicia, you’re going to be a mom!” “Congratulations!” Amid the well-wishes, Felicia grabbed my hand with an almost cloying warmth. “Chloe, you and I are the closest here. You’re so brilliant, I’ve always thought of you as a little sister.” “So, I wanted to ask if you would be my baby’s godmother. Let him soak up some of your good fortune!” I froze. The forum post flashed through my mind, specifically the line about “finding a quiet pushover to be the godmother.” It couldn’t be… that much of a coincidence, could it? I gently pulled my hand back, my smile feeling stiff and unnatural. “Congratulations, Felicia, that’s wonderful news. But… isn’t it a bit early to be asking me to be a godmother?” “I only just graduated. I’m practically still a kid myself.” Linda, a veteran colleague nearing retirement, chimed in with a good-natured laugh. “She’s right, Felicia. Chloe doesn’t even have a boyfriend yet. It wouldn’t be proper for her to be a godmother.” I shot her a grateful look. “Exactly! Linda’s right. My mom has warned me about that, too.” Felicia’s smile faltered for a split second, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. But she quickly plastered it back on. “Oh, listen to me, getting carried away with excitement. I wasn’t thinking.” She said she wasn’t thinking, but she didn’t move. She clearly wasn’t finished. After a few seconds of silence, Felicia placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, her voice turning soft and frail. “Being pregnant is such a blessing, but sigh…” “It’s just this first trimester. The symptoms are hitting me so hard. I’m dizzy, nauseous, and my back aches if I sit for too long.” “And the subway every day… it’s so crowded, and I worry about the radiation from the security scanners. I don’t know if it’s safe for the baby…” Her tone shifted. “Chloe, don’t you drive to work every day?” “I was wondering… could I possibly get a ride with you?” A ride? We live in completely opposite directions. What she wanted wasn’t a ride, it was a free chauffeur. I laughed coldly to myself but put on a troubled, apologetic expression. “Oh, Felicia, what terrible timing.” “My car broke down last Friday. The mechanic said they have to order a part from out of state, and it’ll take at least a month. See? I had to take the subway this morning, too.” I held up my hands in a gesture of helplessness. I was suddenly incredibly grateful that I’d been too busy to get gas last weekend. This morning, the car wouldn’t even start. Felicia’s expression froze, a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. She looked like she wanted to argue but eventually just squeezed out a dry, “Really? What a coincidence.” At lunchtime, I took out my insulated lunch box. Today’s main course was pan-seared salmon. My mom knew it was my favorite and made a point of waking up early every day to pack me a lunch. The moment I twisted the lid open, a figure appeared at my side. Felicia stood over my desk and took a long, deep sniff of my food. “Wow, Chloe, that smells incredible!” Then, she clutched her chest as if in discomfort. “My morning sickness has been so bad, the smell of everything makes me sick. I can’t keep anything down.” “But the second I smelled your lunch… poof! My appetite is back!” Felicia stroked her abdomen and sighed dramatically. “This isn’t me being greedy. It must be my baby craving it!” 2 I… was speechless. She looked at me with wide, expectant eyes. “Chloe, could you bring an extra portion for me tomorrow? You’re already packing a lunch, so one more serving wouldn’t be too much trouble, would it?” Alarm bells went off in my head. Packing lunch for a pregnant woman? If anything she ate made her sick, I’d be the one to blame. No thank you. I forced a smile and quickly deflected. “Felicia, this is just how my mom cooks for me—lots of oil and salt. It might not be suitable for a pregnant woman.” There was no way I was agreeing to this. My mom already worked hard enough making my lunch; why on earth would she cook for Felicia? Felicia’s face fell, her voice instantly turning pitiful. “But I really can’t eat anything else, and the baby needs nutrients…” “Please, Chloe, just help your big sister out. Help the baby. We can discuss payment.” I remained unmoved, continuing my gentle refusal. “How about this, Felicia? I can send you the recipes later. They’re all simple home-cooked meals, so your family can make them for you. It’s always safer to eat food prepared at home.” “Besides, I’ve heard there are a lot of foods pregnant women should avoid. It’s better to have control over what you’re eating.” “My husband doesn’t know how to cook!” Felicia retorted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s a man! Why would he go into a kitchen and come out reeking of grease?” Her logic was so absurd it was almost funny. So, it was beneath her husband to cook, but my mother was expected to? Before I could say anything else, she reached out, and in a flash, snatched a piece of salmon from my lunch box and popped it into her mouth. I was completely stunned. I never imagined she would just grab food from my container. I was too shocked to even react. She chewed a couple of times, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, it’s fully cooked! This is delicious! My appetite is so off right now, this is exactly the kind of flavorful food I’ve been wanting.” “Chloe, just bring me a portion tomorrow!” Her tone was no longer a request; it was a demand. A knot of frustration tightened in my chest. The contents of that forum post echoed in my mind again. I deliberately furrowed my brow, my expression full of concern. “Felicia, you have to be extra careful when you’re pregnant. You can’t be casual about your diet!” “And my mom’s cooking… she’s not the best. Sometimes things are undercooked, or she adds too much salt. What if you eat it and don’t feel well?” Felicia waved her hand dismissively. “Then just tell your mom to be more careful. Make sure it’s cooked through and not too salty. It’s not a big deal.” She paused. “Are you worried I won’t pay you?” “I’ll give you five dollars a day for ingredients. That should be plenty, right? Vegetables at the supermarket are only a few cents a pound on sale.” When I didn’t respond, she added, “Besides, I’m always looking out for you. Remember that apple I gave you last week?” I almost laughed out loud. That apple was from the company’s complimentary afternoon snack cart. She had just passed one to me. Now it was some grand gesture of generosity? And five dollars? That wouldn’t even cover a corner of this piece of salmon. I took a deep breath and put on a righteous, responsible expression. “Felicia, this isn’t about money. The main thing is that my mom’s cooking isn’t standardized. What if she uses something you can’t eat? I can’t take that responsibility.” “We both need to be cautious. And didn’t you say this morning that your in-laws are placing a lot of importance on this baby?” With that, I turned to our colleague Brenda, who was eating at the next desk. “Brenda, you’ve had kids, you have experience. Isn’t that right? A pregnant woman’s diet needs to be carefully managed, doesn’t it?” Brenda nodded thoughtfully. “Chloe has a point. Felicia, you can’t be too careful with food from outside, especially from someone else’s home kitchen. What if you have an allergy or a bad reaction? That would be serious.” Several other mothers in the office chimed in. “That’s right! You care so much about the baby, you can’t just eat anything!” “Chloe’s young and can eat whatever, but you’re pregnant. Your body is different. You really do need to be particular.” Every word was reasonable, leaving Felicia with no room to argue. She had spent the whole morning bragging about the “precious heir” in her belly. She couldn’t very well turn around and say, “Oh, it’s fine, I can eat whatever.” Still, she wouldn’t give up. “But just once or twice…” “Not even once!” I cut her off immediately. “Felicia, you have to be responsible for your baby! Safety first!” An idea sparked in my mind, and I pulled out my phone. “Oh, I know! Let me recommend a professional meal delivery service for expectant mothers!” “I saw an ad for it. Scientifically balanced, nutritious meals… It’s a bit pricey, over a hundred dollars per meal, but the baby’s health is what’s most important, right?” Over a hundred dollars? Felicia’s lips twitched violently. With everyone watching, she couldn’t deny that her “baby was precious,” but she clearly wasn’t willing to spend that kind of money. She stood there, frozen, and forced a dry laugh. “Well… in that case, never mind. I… I don’t think I have much of an appetite anymore.” 3 That night, I collapsed onto my bed, exhausted. My phone screen lit up. The post I had reported earlier was still active—my report had been rejected. And it had been updated. I opened it. 【I’m so pissed! I tried the advice from you ladies today, but that little witch wouldn’t budge!】 【First, she played dumb to get out of being the godmother. Then at lunch, she deliberately ate amazing food in front of me to taunt me. I asked her nicely to pack an extra meal for me, and she had the nerve to give me attitude in front of everyone and even ganged up on me with the old hags in the office!】 【How can someone be so evil? Is she just jealous that I’m carrying a boy? How can I force her to obey me and show her what happens when you cross me?!】 Reading this, I was now 100% certain who the poster was. Felicia’s behavior was beyond shameless. I snorted with a mix of anger and amusement. The comments below were still mostly negative, but a new “suggestion” had quickly risen to the top. 【Girl, are you dense? Of course she’s going to say no if you ask her in private! You have to master the art of moral blackmail!】 【Find a public setting, in front of all your colleagues, especially your boss, and ask her to be the godmother again… but this time, give her a reason she can’t refuse, or would be too embarrassed to refuse!】 【Think about it. With everyone watching, including management, if she dares to say no, what will people think of her?】 【That she’s cold-hearted and ungrateful! How could she possibly survive in the company after that?】 Someone else added to the thread. 【Exactly! And once she’s the godmother, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to make her spend money.】 【Like when you’re in your postpartum period. Say you want to go to a nice postpartum recovery center, but you’re short on cash? Just ask the godmother to chip in! She agreed in front of everyone, how could she have the nerve to refuse?】 My eyes widened. So that was her game. This wasn’t about finding a godmother; it was about finding a long-term cash cow and ATM. Did she think I was the baby’s father? As expected, the original poster replied enthusiastically. 【This idea is brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that!】 【Perfect timing, too. Our monthly review meeting is in two days. All the staff and managers will be there!】 【Let’s see her try to escape this time!】 Staring at her gleeful words on the screen, a chill ran down my spine. The monthly review meeting was in two days. I turned off my phone and took a deep breath. If that’s how you want to play it, fine. I’ll play along. Two days later, at the monthly review meeting. As soon as Ms. Davis, our director, finished her closing remarks and announced the meeting was over, Felicia suddenly stood up. Under the confused gazes of everyone in the room, she walked to the front. “If I could have everyone’s attention for just one minute, I’d like to take this happy occasion to share some wonderful news!” All eyes turned to her. She placed a hand gently on her stomach, her voice turning sentimental and sorrowful, her eyes welling up. “There’s something that’s been weighing on my heart for a long time… Ever since I got pregnant, I’ve been having the same dream.” “In my dream, my unborn baby keeps telling me that he wants a godmother. And he’s already chosen the person.” Her gaze swept across the room and landed squarely on me. “That person is Chloe!” “We’re the best of friends. She’s kind, talented, and she’s the person I trust most in this world. The dream felt so real, I know it must be fate. It’s a connection my baby chose himself!” By this point, she seemed overwhelmed with emotion, tears shimmering in her eyes. Felicia pulled a small red envelope and a tiny pair of baby socks from her pocket and walked towards me. “Chloe, today, in front of all our managers and colleagues, I solemnly ask you to be my child’s godmother. This is a wish from both me and my baby!” “This envelope and these little socks are a small token from us. Please, you must accept it!” Before I could refuse, she had already shoved the envelope and socks into my hands. A look of triumphant surprise bloomed on Felicia’s face, but then, I smiled. I held the red envelope high in the air, my voice ringing out, full of delight. 4 “This gift from Felicia and the baby is so precious! Since it’s bringing so much good luck, I have a suggestion. Why don’t we donate this red envelope?” “We can buy afternoon tea for the entire department! Let’s all share in the good fortune!” “From now on, this baby will be our whole department’s treasure. What do you all say? We can all dote on him together!” My colleagues, unaware of the backstory, thought it was a fun and heartwarming idea and immediately cheered. “Great idea!” “That’s so generous of you, Chloe!” “Yes, let’s all be godfathers and godmothers!” Amid the cheers, Felicia’s face went rigid and pale. She wanted to stop me, but with everyone watching, she couldn’t find a reason. Encouraged by the crowd, I opened the envelope right then and there. Inside was a single, crumpled one-dollar bill. The buzzing room fell dead silent. The enthusiastic gazes of a moment ago turned strange, all of them now fixed on Felicia. The amount in the envelope was just a gesture, of course… but— One dollar? That was just pathetic. Felicia’s face flushed crimson. She scrambled to explain, her voice strained and awkward. “The-the money isn’t important! It’s a tradition where I’m from. The godmother envelope always has one dollar in it, for good luck—it symbolizes wholehearted devotion! It’s the sentiment that counts!” “Chloe, back home, a baby has to have a godmother chosen before they’re born to ensure they grow up safe and sound. My dream was a sign. You have to be the one!” Having found her footing, her voice grew louder, more insistent. “You wouldn’t disrespect a tradition like that, would you? You wouldn’t disregard the baby’s health and safety?” “Right, everyone? Traditions and a baby’s wish, those are important things!” As she’d hoped, a few colleagues who were swayed by her words began to murmur in agreement. “Well, you should respect traditions…” “Being a godmother is nice. You get a baby without the pain!” “It’s all for the baby’s sake, Chloe. You should just say yes.” I listened to the whispers with a silent, scornful laugh. Outwardly, I put on a look of dawning comprehension mixed with distress. “Oh, I see! Felicia, what a coincidence. We have a tradition where I’m from, too.” My voice was tinged with a naive confusion. “They say an unmarried woman can’t be a godmother, because it will jinx her own romantic prospects and make it hard for her to find a partner.” I turned to a few of the older women in the room. “Linda, Sarah, you’ve heard of that one, right? I think the older generation all says that.”

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I think I’ve activated a system. Whenever I get close to Ted, a deposit magically appears in my bank account. I asked him carefully, “You haven’t signed the papers from last night, have you?” He sneered. “What? Having second thoughts?” I plastered on my most shameless smile. “I had a dream last night. My grandpa was yelling at me from the great beyond. He said he just got settled in his grave, and I’m already pulling this stunt.” “He said we should at least wait until he’s reincarnated before we get a divorce.” 1 This morning at 7:58 AM, I confirmed this earth-shattering discovery. We were in the kitchen. I was turning around with a piece of whole-wheat toast in my mouth when I walked straight into someone’s chest. Ted’s eyes were bloodshot, like he’d been up all night. And I wasn’t wearing a bra. “S-sorry!” I crossed my arms over my chest. “It’s eight. I thought you’d already left for work.” He didn’t say anything. He just moved around me, opened the fridge, and poured a glass of ice water, gulping it down. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and a stray drop of water slid from the corner of his mouth, tracing a path down his jawline and disappearing into his collar. I stared, mesmerized, as that tempting droplet vanished at his collarbone. The next second, my pajama pocket vibrated. [Bank Account +$50,000] The sender was anonymous, the memo blank. It was like a transfer from another dimension. I stood there for a full minute, clutching my phone in a daze. It wasn’t until Ted was fully dressed and we were sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, the atmosphere as chilly as two strangers sharing a table, that I moved. There was only one apple left on the plate. We both reached for it at the same time. His hand covered mine. His palm was searing hot, and I snatched my hand back as if burned, laughing nervously. “You have it! You have it!” Ted stared at me. Honestly, his gaze was so sharp you could have peeled the apple with it. He picked it up and took a loud, crisp bite. Over the crunch, my phone screen lit up again. [+$20,000] 2 At this point, my brilliant mind had pieced together the following: Bumping into his chest (large-scale physical contact) = $50,000. Back of my hand touching his (brief skin contact) = $20,000. The more intimate the contact, the bigger the payout (hypothesis pending verification). Conclusion: Ted = a human ATM. This realization made me stare at the man across from me, who was methodically eating his apple. My gaze grew hotter and hotter. He set down the core and wiped his hands. “I’ll sign the papers tonight.” “Wait!” I blurted out. Ted looked up at me. “What? Having second thoughts?” “Well…” My brain went into overdrive. “I had a dream last night. My grandpa was yelling at me. Said he just got settled in his grave, and I’m already pulling this stunt. He said we should at least wait until he’s reincarnated before we get a divorce.” I added a sheepish grin. “And, hey, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your grandpa either, right?” The air was silent for a few seconds. He tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My grandfather passed away three years ago. By your logic, he should be in kindergarten by now.” “Kindergarten curriculum is very demanding. We shouldn’t distract him.” Ted looked at me as if I were a new and fascinating species of alien. After a moment, he stood up and grabbed his suit jacket. “Whatever you want. The company is expanding anyway. I don’t have time to deal with the paperwork.” As he walked toward the door, my eyes lit up. I dashed over and knelt down in front of him. “Let me get your shoes!” He froze, his voice tight. “Anya, what are you doing?” “Helping you with your shoes, of course,” I said, grabbing his ankle. “These leather shoes look best with your suit, but the laces are such a pain. Oh, and your tie is a little crooked. Let me fix that for you.” My fingers crept up his chest, my fingertips “accidentally” brushing against his Adam’s apple. Ted’s breath hitched. “There!” I stood up straight, beaming like a top salesperson who’d just smashed their quota. “Drive safe!” The door clicked shut. I excitedly pulled out my phone. Unlock—open messages— [+$30,000] Thirty thousand! Combined with the seventy thousand from this morning, that was a hundred grand in half an hour! I clutched my phone, whispering, “System? Are you there, System? Come out and chat for a minute?” No response. I’ve read enough novels to know that some systems are chatty and demanding, while others are the strong, silent type. Mine was clearly the latter. But I didn’t care. Humming a tune, I danced back into the living room and picked up the landline to call my best friend. “Hello? Mia! You are not going to believe this. I’ve been blessed by the god of wealth.” “In English, please.” “Every time I touch Ted, I get money. It’s like killing monsters and getting gold drops in a video game. I made a hundred grand in half an hour this morning!” There was a second of silence on the other end, followed by a piercing scream. “I told you, Anya! Ted is hot and rich! He gives you a hundred grand for one night? Sleep with him for a lifetime and you’ll be a billionaire! Wait… but why was it so short? Only… half an hour?” I knew what she was thinking, but I couldn’t be bothered to explain. “The thing is, I just asked for a divorce. It feels kind of lame to go back on my word now.” “A divorce? What’s a divorce worth?” Mia sounded like she wanted to shake me. “Your little non-profit is hundreds of thousands in the red. It’s going to shut down next month. You have over a hundred kids counting on you. Do you have a backup plan?” She’d hit my weak spot. “And what’s not to like about him? Is the black card in his suit pocket too uncomfortable? Or does he unbutton your shirt too fast at night?” “Anya,” her tone suddenly turned serious. “Ask yourself this. Do you really not like him, even a little bit?” I held the receiver, unable to answer. The divorce papers were still on the coffee table. I remembered last night, when I handed them to him. He was on the phone by the French windows. He hung up, turned, and his eyes scanned the black and white pages, finally settling on my face. “So, the day has finally come?” “Our grandfathers are gone,” I said calmly. “There’s no need to force this anymore.” He walked toward me but didn’t take the papers. “Anya, these three years must have been so hard on you.” “The feeling’s mutual,” I replied. He suddenly reached out, his fingertips tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I instinctively flinched back. “You’ve lost weight. Is the charity work that demanding?” “It’s fine. Can’t compare to you.” He turned away and headed for the study. “Don’t worry. I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time, too.” 3 That night, Ted didn’t get home until ten. He reeked of alcohol. I was curled up on the sofa, looking at my charity’s financial statements. The red numbers were glaring. An eight-hundred-thousand-dollar deficit gaped at me like a monster waiting to devour children. “Still up?” He loosened his tie, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Waiting for you.” An idea sparked in my mind. I closed my laptop. “Want some soup to sober up? I’ll go make some!” He seemed taken aback. “You know how?” “I’ll learn!” I bounced into the kitchen and emerged less than ten minutes later with a bowl of soup that looked highly questionable. “…Wanna try?” Ted stared intently at the bowl of unidentifiable sludge. “It’s not poisoned,” I said defensively. “I looked it up online.” I pushed the bowl toward him. He had no choice but to pick it up and down it in one go, as if facing his doom. He immediately started coughing violently. I cupped his flushed, dazed face in my hands. “How do you feel? A little better?” “It’s… it’s disgusting.” My smile froze. “And now I feel even worse.” I cleared my throat, trying to salvage the situation. “How about I give you a head massage? My dad always gets headaches after drinking, and my mom does this for him.” But he pulled away from my touch. “No, thanks. I’m going to bed.” He looked at me. “Thanks for the soup.” “Don’t mention it!” I put on my best customer-service smile. “It was my pleasure!” “Anya,” he said suddenly. “Why are you suddenly…” “Hmm?” “Never mind.” He shook his head and went to his room. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight!” The moment he was out of sight, I whipped out my phone. The screen lit up. [+$80,000] I clapped a hand over my mouth and fell back onto the sofa, laughing, my legs kicking in the air. That night, I had a dream. I dreamed that Ted had turned into a giant money tree. I was perched on a branch, happily picking the jingling gold coins. He stood below, calling up helplessly, “Anya, you’re crushing my leaves!” I looked down at him. “A leaf for ten thousand dollars. Want one?” He sighed and opened his arms. “Jump. I’ll catch you.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I leaped— And then I woke up. 4 “There’s a business gala on Friday,” Ted announced suddenly at breakfast. “Partners are expected. Are you free?” In the past, I always made excuses to get out of these things. I hated the fake small talk, hated being scrutinized under the title of “Mrs. Astley.” But this time, I nodded. His eyes were searching. “The charity isn’t busy?” “A wife has her duties, no matter how busy she is, right?” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “We’re not divorced yet, after all.” He smiled faintly but didn’t say anything. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He watched as I walked over to his side of the table, napkin in hand, and leaned down, smiling at him. “You…” “Don’t move.” It was the first time we’d been this close. Close enough to see the fine texture of his skin, to smell the crisp, clean scent of his aftershave. Through the napkin, the pad of my finger gently pressed against his cheek. I wiped away a tiny fleck of coffee foam. “There.” My smile was angelic. “Perfect.” My phone vibrated again. 5 On Friday evening, Ted handed me a gift box. “Change into this.” Inside was a long, velvet dress in a deep forest green, elegantly tailored. At first glance, it seemed fine. But when I put it on, I realized the neckline was… a bit more daring than I’d anticipated. When I came downstairs, he was waiting in the living room. Black suit, silver cufflinks, his long legs crossed in a way that should have been illegal. The moment he saw me, his pupils visibly dilated. I awkwardly clutched the two suggestive pieces of fabric over my chest. “Does it look okay?” He walked over and draped a white shawl over my shoulders. “It’s gotten colder today,” he said. “I’m not cold…” “Wear it.” His tone left no room for argument. His fingers brushed against my bare shoulder, lingering for a second too long. At the gala, I was the only one who got the “colder weather” memo. All the other women were dressed to the nines, their figures on full display. I was the only one wrapped in a long shawl that nearly reached my ankles, not even a collarbone in sight. Ted parked me at the dessert table. “Just stay here and eat. Don’t wander off.” I watched him navigate the crowd with ease, and I suddenly felt the distance between us. This was the real him. In just a few short years since graduation, he had gone from a campus star to a rising tycoon. Compared to someone like me, who was constantly scrambling in the world of charity work, covered in metaphorical dust, we were in two completely different worlds. “Ted!” A woman in a red gown holding a glass of champagne approached him, linking her arm through his naturally. I recognized her. The daughter of some real estate mogul. A few months ago, a business magazine had run a story about their rumored romance. Although the next day, the copy of that magazine I’d been reading mysteriously vanished from our house. The woman stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Ted didn’t pull away. My fork sank into a slice of cream cake. It’s fine, I told myself. Three years. I’m used to it. The unfamiliar perfumes, the lipstick stains on his white collars—they were all proof that we didn’t love each other. But why did my chest feel so tight? When the music started, I made a decision. I put down my plate, took off the shawl, and walked toward the dance floor. To the stunned surprise of everyone around us, I squeezed past the woman in red, took Ted’s hand, and placed it on his shoulder. “She seems to really like you. Want me to run some interference?” His smile was teasing. “Jealous?” “I just don’t want people to think Mr. Astley means nothing to his own wife.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in his chest. “Let’s dance. Just one dance.” The melody was beautiful, the lights swirling overhead. His palm was hot against my waist, even through the fabric. I heard a strong, steady heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. It was getting faster. For a moment, I forgot what I was doing. I forgot about the system, the bank account, the calculated touches and contrived closeness. 6 The day the money in my bank account passed five hundred thousand, I went to see Sean. The cemetery was on the north side of the city. The little girl he had saved comes every year. She’s ten now, with her hair in a ponytail. She showed me her honor roll certificate. “Anya,” she said quietly after laying down her flowers, “are you happy now?” I stroked her hair. “Yes.” “That’s good.” She smiled sweetly. “After Sean passed, my biggest wish was for you to be happy.” My eyes stung. It started pouring on the way back. When I got home, Ted was sitting in the living room. The TV was on, tuned to a financial news channel, but he didn’t seem to be watching, just fiddling with the remote. “Where were you?” he asked. “The cemetery,” I said, taking off my wet coat. “The one on the south side?” His voice was flat, cold. “Both our grandfathers are buried there.” “No, the one on the north side.” I was exhausted. “I was visiting an old friend.” He didn’t ask anything else. After a long silence, he turned off the TV, tossed the remote down with a clatter, and stood up to go to his study. “Since you’re so determined to get a divorce, Ms. Thorne, please keep your distance from me. Let’s not give anyone the wrong idea.” A fire ignited in my chest. “Don’t you worry, I’ve already found a new place. I can move out anytime! Besides, this house isn’t that big. How am I supposed to ‘keep my distance’ when we’re constantly running into each other?” He stopped and turned around. “Isn’t that big? I seem to recall someone, on her very first day here, remarking that this house was big enough to raise cattle. Now you’re saying it’s too cramped?” 7 That night, I dreamed of Sean. It was the same reservoir, the same struggling child in the water. I screamed frantically, “Don’t go! It’s too far, Sean, don’t go in!” But he jumped in anyway. Without a second thought. The moment the water swallowed him, the world went white. The man I had loved for four years, the man who had just been excitedly planning our future together, was now a cold, lifeless body. I woke up screaming. Covered in sweat, shaking uncontrollably. The door was suddenly thrown open. Ted rushed in, found me in the darkness, and pulled me into a fierce embrace. “It’s okay! It’s okay!”

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1 At the company’s annual gala, my wife, the CEO, suddenly called. She asked me what I was doing. “Washing your underwear, of course,” I answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “What’s up? I have to put these in the dryer when I’m done, and then I need to give the baby his bath.” A wave of laughter and applause erupted from her end of the line. The call ended abruptly. She didn’t come home until late, reeking of a nauseating mix of alcohol and perfume. I got up to make her some soup to sober her up. She grabbed my hand, her eyes bloodshot. “Robert, where’s your spine? Your pride?” I just smiled faintly. The proud Robert was dead. In this new life, all I wanted was for the people I loved to live. … Lisa turned me to face her, hysterical. “Say something!” she shrieked. “Tell me, where did you put my Robert? Give him back to me!” I smiled. “People change, don’t they?” Besides, she was the one who changed first. The anger and frustration in her eyes slowly faded into a weary sadness. “Can we just stop torturing each other?” My own eyes were calm. “What’s so bad about the way things are now?” Her shoulders slumped, and she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You should go back to bed.” Back in my room, I heard the sound of shattering glass. A little while later, she came in and sat on the edge of the bed. After a long silence, she spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” “I’ve really broken it off with Kevin. And there won’t be any other men.” “What will it take for you to forgive me?” I didn’t want to fight with her. I stayed silent, gently patting our restless baby. Sleep, my love. Daddy will never leave you again. In my past life, when Lisa was two months pregnant, I discovered she was cheating on me. To be more precise, from the moment she started pursuing me, through our courtship, our marriage, and her pregnancy—a total of seven years—she had been sleeping with her childhood friend, Kevin. I wanted a divorce. She refused, no matter what I said. She told me over and over that she loved me, that the baby was mine. She kept me locked in the house in the name of love. When I tried to kill myself, she tied me to the bed. When I went on a hunger strike, she threatened me with my father’s safety. This went on until she gave birth. The moment our baby’s soft little hand closed around my finger, I felt like I had come back to life. He was my son. I watched him constantly, smiling when he smiled. Lisa was happy too. She had successfully used our son to keep me. But three months later, I had a complete mental breakdown and nearly threw our son from the third-floor balcony. Lisa snatched him from me and slapped me, her hands trembling with fear. “You’re insane!” She had me committed to a psychiatric hospital for a year. When she came to pick me up, she asked if I missed our son. Hearing his little voice call out “Daddy,” my heart clenched. I nodded. When we got home, Kevin was there, holding our son. “Lisa! I was just passing by and wanted to see the baby. I think he’s having an allergic reaction to something he ate.” Our son was struggling to breathe, his face already turning purple. At the hospital, the doctor said we were too late. I was plunged back into a deeper hell. “Murderer!” I lunged at Kevin, but Lisa threw herself in front of him. “Robert, calm down. I’m heartbroken too, but this was an accident. Kevin would never hurt our son on purpose.” She trusted him. “It wasn’t on purpose,” so he was absolved of all blame. My suspicions were just the ravings of a madman. After all, I had almost become my son’s killer once. I had no right to condemn anyone else. I found the lecture hall where Kevin taught and scrawled on the blackboard in red paint—KEVIN, A LIFE FOR A LIFE! I emptied the entire can of paint on him. Lisa dragged me to the hospital, her face grim. “Your father is having brain surgery in three days. Do you want him to die too?” 2 My father had a malignant brain tumor. They hadn’t dared to tell me. I stopped causing trouble. But my father died on the operating table. “Robert…” Lisa shook me awake, frowning as she wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. It took me a moment to come to. I stared at the date on my phone, slowly pulling myself out of the nightmare. I had been back for a year. On this day, Lisa had excitedly told me that our son had kicked for the first time. I placed my hand on her stomach. “Hey, baby, it’s Daddy. Give a little kick. Tell Mommy we both love her very much.” “Robert, can you forgive me? Just this once?” “Let it go,” I said. Love, forgiveness… it was all meaningless. All I wanted was for my son and my father to be safe and healthy. The next day, Lisa went with me to visit my dad. We took him for a full check-up. The tumor was still small, the surgical risk much lower. The operation was a success, and his recovery was smooth. A huge weight was lifted from my heart. It was a greater relief, a more profound joy, than my own second chance at life. I started cooking for Lisa every day, going on walks with her, getting some sun. We went shopping for baby clothes and decorated the nursery. I could even laugh and joke with her. I didn’t refuse her hugs or goodnight kisses. Lisa was happy, but there was always a faint shadow of worry in her eyes. Until our wedding anniversary. She wanted to be intimate. I pushed her away. “If you have needs, you can go to Kevin, or someone else,” I said calmly. “I don’t mind. Just be careful not to hurt the baby.” She looked as if she’d been doused with cold water, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What did you say?” “Robert, you still hate me, don’t you? You haven’t really forgiven me.” I shook my head and sat up, straightening my clothes. “I’ve just figured things out. You were right. Sex and love can be separate. I believe that you love me. I was just being too sensitive before.” I had accepted her explanation, but now she was the one who was angry. “Do you really think that?” I looked her in the eye and nodded. She slammed the door and didn’t come back all night. The next morning, she returned with a bouquet of flowers and an apology. “I’m sorry, honey. I was too emotional last night. It’s okay. We can take it slow. As long as you’re willing to give me a chance, I’d be happy with a platonic relationship for the rest of our lives.” She showed me her chat history. “I went to see Jane. She has security cameras. I can ask her to send you the footage if you want.” I smiled and nodded. “I believe you. You don’t have to explain.” The look in her eyes was more disappointed than if I had accused her. “Okay. Let’s have breakfast together.” “I didn’t sleep well last night. Will you take a nap with me later?” And so the days passed. Until one night, she found me in the walk-in closet, ironing a shirt. She flew into a rage, cutting the shirt to pieces. “What do you want from me?” she demanded, her eyes red. That’s when I realized the shirt wasn’t my size. Kevin must have left it here, and the housekeeper had probably put it with my things. “I’m begging you, Robert. Stop punishing me like this. This act you’re putting on—the perfect, long-suffering husband—does it make you happy?” I tried to explain that I just couldn’t sleep and was looking for something to do. “Fine. Fine…” She was so angry she was speechless. She tore off her own pajamas and threw them at me. “Then keep ironing! Since you have so much free time, you can do all the housework from now on. And all the laundry has to be done by hand.” I did as she said. And yes, there was a small part of me that took pleasure in seeing her lose control. In our worst fights, she would say that a social climber like me should be grateful for marrying her and changing my station in life. That a person can’t have everything. But when it came to herself, she conveniently forgot her own logic. She wanted my forgiveness, my understanding, and my unconditional love, as if nothing had ever happened. 3 Today, our son had to get his vaccinations. He cried pitifully. I comforted him, yawning twice. Lisa, full of guilt, took the baby from me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me yesterday…” I quickly took the blame. “I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a game. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” She was about to say something when her phone rang. After a moment’s hesitation, she answered it in front of me, a show of transparency. It was Kevin. He’d been in a car accident. In my past life, she had been on a business trip for a week around this time. I took our son from her. “You should go. You’re the only family he has in this country. I was just thinking of going to see my dad anyway.” Her expression was a mixture of relief and disappointment. She hesitated, then turned and left. The driver hurried in. “Sir, shall we go?” Just then, my phone rang. My heart started to race. “Hello, this is the emergency room at Capital University Hospital. Are you a relative of Mr. Robert Thorne Sr.?” “Yes,” I answered, my voice trembling. My stomach twisted into a knot. When I got to the hospital, I saw Lisa. Kevin was sitting on a bench nearby. “Robert, don’t panic…” It turned out Kevin was the one who had caused the accident. The person he had hit was my father. The world around me seemed to blur. All I could hear was a ringing in my ears. “Robert, look at me…” My dazed state frightened Lisa. She grabbed my arms. “Don’t worry. Dad will be fine. The roads are slippery because of the snow. Kevin didn’t mean to do it. He’s very shaken up.” My eyes burned, and a metallic taste rose in my throat. “Didn’t mean to…” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. There it was again. Kevin walked over, his face full of apology. “Robert, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even recognize your dad. I was making a right turn, and he suddenly ran out to pick up his mask. I couldn’t brake in time.” Looking at him, I saw my son’s pained face, and I couldn’t breathe. The hatred boiling inside me was uncontrollable. I slapped him across the face. Lisa gave me a reproachful look, her eyes full of concern for Kevin. “I’ll have the driver take you home. I’ll deal with the police. Don’t blame him. He’s just as upset.” Kevin smiled magnanimously. “I know. I’m not mad. You don’t have to worry about me. Just stay with him.” I stumbled back, leaning against the wall for support, taking deep breaths. I couldn’t fall apart. My dad was still in surgery. “Family of Robert Thorne Sr…” Hearing the nurse call his name, my heart leaped into my throat. “I’m very sorry. The patient died from a cerebral hemorrhage. Time of death…” My vision went black, and I couldn’t stand. I doubled over, retching. I heard my phone ringing, but I couldn’t get my hand into my pocket. Lisa answered it for me. Her face went white. The nanny had been in a car accident on the way home with our son. I scrambled to my feet and ran, but my legs gave out from under me. The world went dark, and I passed out. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I had only one thought. If my dad hadn’t had the surgery, would he have survived the accident, just like in my past life? I was a murderer too. If anything happened to my son, my guilt would be unforgivable. 4 My son lay in the ICU, his tiny body hooked up to a tangle of tubes. Cold tears streamed down my face. I clenched my jaw, making a silent vow. If my son died, this time I would take them all down with me. Lisa held my hand, offering hollow comfort. “Honey, the baby will be fine.” I squeezed her hand, staring at her. “Lisa, I want Kevin in jail!” She guiltily averted her gaze. “Let’s go back to your room first. You need to finish your IV. We can talk about this later.” My heart went cold. I closed my eyes. They had known each other since birth. They were closer than family. They told each other everything. They were intimate friends in every sense of the word. What was our flimsy love compared to that? What was I, her convenient husband? And what was my father, a man with no blood ties to him? The sedative kicked in, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, Kevin was sitting on the sofa, casually peeling an orange. “Robert…” he said, standing up and walking over to my bed. “I’m really sorry. I never thought it would come to this.” His apology was as perfunctory as if he’d made a mistake on a work document and had to appease his boss. The moment he heard the doorknob turn, he dropped to his knees. “A life for a life. I will atone for my sin.” Lisa rushed in and helped him up. “He had surgery on his knee,” she said to me, her tone accusatory. “Lisa, I’m a man. I take responsibility for my actions. I made a mistake, and I should be punished. Don’t break Robert’s heart anymore.” A sarcastic smile touched my lips. Lisa squeezed his arm, a silent gesture of reassurance. “You’ve already apologized. It’s okay. You can go home now.” We were alone. “I just went to see the baby.” “Robert, Dad is gone. But Kevin…” “Lisa, I’m pressing charges.” Her eyes instantly turned cold. “Robert, you can’t.” It was a statement of fact, and a thinly veiled threat. My heart felt like it was being torn apart. I let out a bitter laugh. “A divorce, then? Can I get a divorce?” She frowned. The word had become a taboo in our endless arguments. “Those are two different things.” I laughed harder, but tears streamed down my face. I felt suffocated, terrified, helpless. “Lisa, let’s get a divorce. I get our son, and you give me twenty million. Unless you lock me up for the rest of my life and cut off my arms and legs, I will kill you both.” Her eyes widened in shock, but she only sighed, her tone placating. “You’re too emotional right now. When you and the baby are both out of the hospital and you’ve calmed down, we can discuss whatever you want.” I took a deep breath. “Come closer. Close your eyes.” She was confused, but she did as I said. I pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand and, with all the strength I could muster, plunged it into her eye. She staggered back, clutching her eye, her face contorted in agony, her lips white. Her other eye was wide with disbelief, anger, and hurt. “You really hate me that much?” I looked at her calmly. “Do you really love me that much? You’re the one who imprisoned me with your so-called love, who made me lose my family, who pushed me to this point.” The next second, I broke down, shaking, convulsing, vomiting. A flicker of pity and pain seemed to cross her face. She agreed. Dealing with my father’s funeral, the divorce, moving, my medication, waiting for our son to be discharged… The next two months were an agony of suspense, terrified she would go back on her word. Finally, the day came when I could take my son home. I made sure to dress neatly. But when I got to the hospital, the nurse looked at me in surprise. “Mrs. Astley already picked up the baby.” My blood ran cold. It felt like my throat was closing up. I turned and ran, only to collide with a woman. “Robert, don’t be afraid. I’ll help you.”

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Two in the morning, and the community group chat exploded. 【Wife wanted. With love.】 【This is the lady from apartment 1202. I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and I can’t bear to leave my husband and son alone. Therefore, I am arranging a new marriage for my husband.】 【Requirements for the woman: Age 20-25, height 5’6″ or taller, slim build, earns $10k+ a month. Must be an only child from a local family, and must be child-free by choice.】 【A test of true love awaits. Qualified neighbors, please contact me directly.】 I stared at my phone, completely floored. You really see all kinds of crazy on the internet these days. A second later, my phone started vibrating like a jackhammer. Leah had tagged me. Three times. 【Ava from 1302, can’t you tell I’m talking to you?】 1 I was baffled. My parents bought this apartment for me. I’d only been living here a month, and I’d already run into a lunatic like this. The other night owls in the group started chiming in: 1501: 【What is this, some kind of performance art?】 803: 【This is why you shouldn’t stay up late. I’ve scrolled straight into the twilight zone.】 702: 【Dream on! Maybe if you wish hard enough when you go to sleep.】 1502: 【Is this for real? Even with a terminal illness, that’s no excuse for this kind of delusion. A princess isn’t going to marry a toad.】 … Someone quietly added: 【Has anyone checked who posted this?】 But it was too late. Leah started tagging everyone in a frenzy. 【I have no idea what you mean by ‘performance art’! I’m a faithful wife, so don’t project your own dirty thoughts onto me!】 【My soul is going to heaven, so what do you mean ‘twilight zone’? Are you cursing me? I hope your whole family gets hemorrhoids!】 【What I do in my sleep is none of your business! You’re just bitter my husband didn’t choose you!】 【Do you think a terminal illness is a joke?】 【You people aren’t just unhelpful, you’re vile and abusive! A bunch of animals!】 The people who had commented were verbally bludgeoned into silence. I watched it all unfold, determined to stay out of it. But Leah was like a rabid dog, sinking her teeth into me and refusing to let go. She sent me a dozen friend requests through the group chat. 【Ava, accept it! Now!】 【I’m a sick person! I can’t stay up late! Have you no compassion?!】 【Don’t play dead. I know you’re awake.】 【You leave for work at 8 AM and get home at 10 PM. You just got out of the shower! I know your routine.】 【ACCEPT IT!】 A wave of goosebumps washed over me as the notifications flooded my screen. Was this woman insane? Had she been spying on me? Annoyed, I swiped to dismiss the notification but accidentally tapped “Accept.” Instantly, a massive wall of text appeared in the chat box, as if it had been waiting to strike. 【Ava, once you’re with my husband, you’ll have to quit your job.】 【Our Leo wakes up at 8:30 for preschool and gets picked up at 3:30. Your current schedule won’t work for school runs.】 【And getting home at ten to cook is way too late. My husband has a sensitive stomach; he can’t go hungry.】 【Of course, your new job can’t pay any less than $10k a month. Otherwise, you won’t be able to support my family properly.】 I laughed out loud. 【With demands like that, what’s the dowry?】 She flew into a rage. 【What dowry? Did you even read my post!】 【I am a SICK WOMAN! This is a matchmaking service out of CHARITY! There is no dowry!】 … I couldn’t be bothered with her meltdown. I clicked on her social media profile. She posted at least ten times a day, all pictures of her husband and son. The most recent post was a photo of a cancer diagnosis. The caption read: 【My darlings, even from heaven, Mommy will always be watching over you.】 It was an early-stage cancer with a very high cure rate. Instead of seeking treatment, she was busy finding her husband’s next wife? Summoning what little kindness I had left, I tried to reason with her. “Ma’am, your priority right now should be getting treatment.” For her body and her mind. But I must have hit a nerve. She completely lost it. A 60-second voice memo landed in my inbox, a piercing shriek that nearly shattered my eardrum. “Ava! I’m not dead yet! You don’t get to tell me what to do!” “As long as I’m alive, you’ll always be the other woman! The mistress! A dirty little secret that can’t see the light of day!” “Even after I’m gone, my son will only ever call you ‘Auntie’!” “If you get any funny ideas, I’ll haunt you from beyond the grave!” I rolled my eyes. Right. Never try to reason with crazy. Block. Delete. 2 The next morning, I ran into Mrs. Gable, the cleaning lady, in the elevator. She worked part-time for me, a quiet and diligent woman. I casually asked her about Leah from 1202. Mrs. Gable’s face paled, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “That one’s a lunatic!” “She’s been paralyzed for four years, the whole family is scared of her. Now she has cancer. Steer clear of her, dear. Don’t get involved.” She looked like she wanted to say more but held back. I could guess the rest. This woman was trouble. But I never expected this. I spent the morning meeting with clients. When I got back to the office at noon, my manager, David, called me into his office, his face like a thundercloud. He slammed a termination form down in front of me. I blinked, confused. “David, you’re quitting?” His face was beet-red, his neck swelling with rage. “No, you’re quitting!” “If you have a problem, you bring it to me! You don’t send your family here to harass us!” I was completely lost. “My family?” “Some woman! She stormed in here this morning, screaming at the top of her lungs, accusing the company of being immoral, of destroying families!” “She yelled that you had a terminally ill person at home, with a husband and child to care for, and yet you had the nerve to show up to work!” He was shaking with anger. “I’ve mentored you for three years, Ava. If you want to leave, fine. But don’t stoop to these kinds of cheap tactics!” It clicked. Leah. I immediately set the record straight. “David, my parents are healthy, I’m single, and I don’t have kids. The woman who came here is a psycho. I’ll handle it.” He looked skeptical, so I pulled up the group chat history. When he saw the “Wife wanted” post, his expression soured as if he’d swallowed a bug. 3 At three in the afternoon, I was in a meeting when my phone started buzzing nonstop. David shot me several dirty looks. I offered an apologetic smile and slipped out, hiding in the restroom to take the call. “Leo’s mom? School’s out. When are you coming to pick him up?” Leo. That was Leah’s son. I fought to keep my voice steady. “I’m not his mother!” The voice on the other end immediately turned accusatory. “As his mother, you’ve never once picked Leo up yourself. That’s not very responsible, is it?” “He’s been looking forward to you picking him up all day. He told everyone how beautiful you are. Are you really going to break his little heart?” “No matter how busy you are with work, a child’s youth only happens once!” My patience snapped. My own youth only happens once, too. Seeing that reasoning was pointless, I cleared my throat, plastered on my most sincere, professional smile, and purred into the phone. “Hello, ma’am. Have you considered refinancing your home loan?” “We offer low interest rates and fast approval. I see here that you have an excellent credit score…” Before I could finish, she slammed the phone down. I smirked and dialed back immediately. “Hi there, I really think you should consider our company’s offer…” Finally. Blocked. When David heard what was going on, he broke protocol and let me go home early. But as I reached my front door, I got a call from an unknown number. A cold, female voice drifted through the speaker. “Ava. You didn’t work late today. Looks like you listened to what I said yesterday.” “But Leo gets out of school at three-thirty. You’re not cutting it as a new mom!” “I can watch you now, but what about after I’m gone?” “Who knows if a tramp like you will abuse my child!” The voice was low and raspy, and it made my scalp tingle. I slammed the phone off, my eyes darting down the empty hallway. The motion-sensor lights were off, leaving everything in shadows. A chill crept up my spine. How did Leah know when I got home? 4 Inside, Mrs. Gable had already cooked dinner and left. I poured myself a large glass of red wine and downed half of it. Then, I grabbed a trash bag and scraped the leftover food into it. I mixed in some foul-smelling fermented tofu, a rotten egg… Clutching the bag, I staggered downstairs to apartment 1202. After putting on a mask and gloves, I smeared the putrid liquid all over the door, the keyhole, and the doorframe. An ungodly stench that assaulted the senses instantly filled the entire floor. I sat down in front of her door and began to wail. “Leah, how could you be so cruel!” “I’m only twenty-five! I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, and you’re forcing me to marry that pig of a husband!” “When I said no, you went to my office and made a scene!” “Do you know how hard it is to find a job right now? You’re trying to ruin my life!” The smell and my crying drew the neighbors out. They started to speak, then bent over, gagging. I thoughtfully handed them spare masks. “I’m so sorry… I had a little too much to drink, I’m just so upset…” Between sobs, I recounted everything—Leah spying on me, the scene at my office. After hearing my story, a few of the older women were filled with righteous indignation. “So you’re the Ava that Leah called out last night?” “That Leah is a piece of work! Look what she’s done to this poor girl!” My crying intensified. “I didn’t know what else to do! I was so stressed, I just had a couple of drinks and came to confront her.” “If she calls the cops, please, tell them I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just drank too much and acted impulsively!” The neighborhood watchdogs, filled with a sense of justice, puffed out their chests. “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll vouch for you!” I dabbed at my tears, moved by their support. “But…” someone hesitated. “I’ve lived here for years, and I’ve never actually seen Leah.” The others nodded in agreement. “That’s right. She just hides away and torments people from the shadows.” “One time, I have no idea how I pissed her off, but she started threatening me with pictures of my grandson playing in the park!” “Me too! I once said something in the group chat about not guilt-tripping people, and she spent all night harassing me with calls from different numbers!” I stopped crying. A fuzzy idea began to form in my mind. Before I could grasp it, an old man stomped his foot in anger. “Call the police! We have to report her! We can’t let her terrorize the building like this anymore!” The police arrived quickly. After listening to the neighbors’ jumbled explanations, the officer looked at me, exasperated, and knocked on the door of 1202. I was still deep in my performance, tears streaming down my face. “Officer, Leah not only tried to force me to marry her husband, but she also went to my company and caused a huge scene…” The officer suddenly turned, a complicated look in his eyes. “You’re saying she went to your office and caused a scene?” I sensed something was off. Following his gaze, my eyes widened in shock. The one who opened the door was a chubby little boy. And Leah… was in a wheelchair. Paralyzed. Then who was the woman who stormed into my office this morning?!

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My boss, Patrick Smith, was in a car accident. He’s been in a coma ever since. My best friend, Maya, who works in administration, used her position to assign his idle Maybach to me. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Turns out, the car has a worse temper than my boss ever did. If I accelerated too slowly, a man’s voice would crackle from the speakers: “Are you part turtle? A snail could move faster.” If I braked too hard, the voice would snap: “In a rush to get reincarnated? Are you trying to send me to an early grave?” I just figured it was some cruel voice pack Patrick had installed before the accident. Until tonight. I was working late and had to change in the car. The moment I slipped off my blazer, that familiar voice echoed softly. “With a figure like that, you should really keep your clothes on. Don’t embarrass yourself.” I looked up in terror. In the rearview mirror, a translucent figure was lounging in the back seat, legs crossed, a look of utter disgust on his face. It was him. The office tyrant himself, currently lying unconscious in the ICU. 1 I slammed my foot on the gas, and the Maybach roared through the intersection. The voice was back. “Are turn signals just for decoration? Do you change lanes using telepathy?” I’d had enough. I slapped the steering wheel. “Shut up!” Three seconds of silence. “Your temper is bigger than your driving skills, I’ll give you that.” I took a deep breath, telling myself to stay calm. After all, this car was a perk Maya had arranged for me. The group’s CEO, Patrick Smith, had been in a coma for three months after a severe accident. His exclusive ride had been collecting dust in the underground garage ever since. “The car’s just sitting there,” Maya had said. “Your beat-up old Honda should’ve been scrapped years ago. Just take it. No one’s going to question Mr. Smith’s car.” I’d believed her. But the car’s built-in voice assistant was practically an AI clone of Patrick himself. Caustic, critical, and completely inhuman. I parked in a shadowy spot beneath the office building and checked the time. The company banquet started in half an hour. No time to go home and change. I glanced around, confirmed no one was watching, and raised all the sunshades on the windows. The cramped, private space gave me a sliver of security. I unbuttoned my blouse, shrugging out of my work clothes. Just as I reached for the evening gown on the back seat, an icy draft ghosted across my neck. “Is that what you chose to wear?” “Pink lace? How old are you? You need the right foundation to pull off ‘coy’.” My whole body went rigid. I slowly turned my head. The back seat, which had been empty moments ago, was now occupied. A man in a bespoke black suit sat there, broad-shouldered and trim-waisted, his long legs crossed. I’d seen that face countless times at company events. Cold, handsome. And currently twisted into a sneer of undisguised mockery. Patrick Smith. No. He was supposed to be in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator. A scream lodged in my throat. Patrick raised a hand, his long, elegant fingers pointing toward my chest. “I wouldn’t recommend streaking in my car.” “I’m allergic to flat chests.” I snatched my jacket, clutching it to myself as I shrank into the corner of the driver’s seat, my teeth chattering. “Are you a person or a ghost?!” Patrick scoffed, leaning forward. His face passed right through the back of my seat, materializing inches from mine. “What do you think, Miss… assistant?” He got my title wrong. My name is Chloe. But he clearly didn’t care. “Get dressed.” He pulled back, leaning against the seat again, his expression one of pure annoyance. “Just looking at your idiotic face gives me a headache.” 2 I practically fell out of the car. The security guard on patrol gave me a look like I was a lunatic. I glanced back. The Maybach sat silently in the darkness, windows sealed, hiding its secrets. A hallucination. I’d been working too much overtime lately. It had to be a hallucination. Trembling, I put my shoes back on, forcing myself to calm down. Patrick was in the hospital, intubated, hooked up to an ECG. And besides, ghosts aren’t real. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the car door open again. The back seat was empty. See? Just as I breathed a sigh of relief and settled into the driver’s seat, a dark shape materialized in the passenger seat beside me. Patrick was turned toward me, his face a mask of impatience. “Are we playing hide-and-seek?” “Aaaah!!!” I screamed again. “Quiet.” He rubbed his temples. “You’re giving me a headache.” I pressed myself against the door. “But… aren’t you in the hospital?” “That’s what I’d like to know.” “I woke up in this damn car.” Patrick looked up at me, his gaze freezing cold. “And you. Who gave you the nerve to drive my car?” I stammered, “It… it was an arrangement from the admin department…” There was no way I was selling out Maya. Patrick snorted. “That pack of incompetents in Admin. I’ll fire them all when I get back.” He seemed to lose interest in pursuing it, pointing ahead. “Drive.” I froze. “To… to where?” “The hospital.” Patrick stared out the window, his profile hard and unforgiving. “I’m going to see if I’m actually dead.” I didn’t dare refuse. I started the car. And stalled it. Twice. Patrick’s scathing commentary was, as always, right on cue. “Did you get your driver’s license in a cereal box?” “The clutch goes all the way to the floor. Are your legs too short, or are you just weak?” “Put it in gear! What are you fumbling with?” He berated me all the way to the hospital’s underground garage. I parked the car and unbuckled my seatbelt, ready to flee for my life. “Mr. Smith, we’re here. You can… uh… go ahead.” Patrick didn’t move. He stared at the car door, his expression grim. “Open it.” I quickly got out and pulled open the passenger door for him. He swung his legs out to exit. The next second. He was thrown back into the seat as if by an invisible force. The car shook violently. I was frozen in shock. Patrick’s face was ashen. He tried again. The same result. He was trapped in the Maybach. Patrick leaned back against the headrest, his chest heaving, the pressure in the car dropping to a terrifying low. After a long moment, he turned to look at me. “Chloe.” He actually got my name right. “Come here.” I shuffled two steps closer. “Closer.” I pressed myself against the car door. “Get in.” I shook my head frantically. “I don’t—” “Get in!” I flinched and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Patrick stared at me, then suddenly reached out. His translucent hand passed through my shoulder. There was no touch, only a wave of spectral cold. “Drive,” he said. “Where to?” “Home.” “Wh-whose home?” Patrick’s lips twisted into a chilling smile. “Yours.” 3 I brought Patrick back to my apartment. Or rather, I parked the car downstairs. He couldn’t get out of the car, and there was no way for me to get him upstairs. “You live in a place like this?” Patrick surveyed the dilapidated old apartment complex through the car window. Overflowing dumpsters, stray cats darting about, hallway lights flickering like a horror movie. “The slums look better than this.” I pulled out the car key, mustering my courage. “Mr. Smith, it’s all I can afford. You’ll have to make do.” I was about to make a run for it. “Stay.” Patrick’s voice stopped me. “Roll down the window.” I did as he said. “Leave your phone.” “What?” “I said, leave your phone!” I didn’t dare argue. I offered him my phone. But he couldn’t grasp it; the phone passed through his hand and landed on the seat. Patrick’s face darkened. “Put it there. And open a streaming app.” I obediently found a reality show for him and propped the phone up on the dashboard. “I’m going upstairs to sleep now…” “Be down here at seven tomorrow morning. On the dot.” Patrick didn’t even look at me. “Be one minute late, and I’ll be crawling in through your window tonight.” I glanced up at my eighteenth-floor apartment, then back at his ghostly form. Somehow, I believed he could do it. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. My mind was consumed by the image of my ghost-boss sitting in the car downstairs. The next morning, I went down with dark circles under my eyes. Patrick was still there. The phone was dead. He was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, radiating a murderous aura. “Is this what you call a full charge? The screen went black in three hours.” “Mr. Smith, it’s last year’s model…” “Pathetic,” he spat. On the way to the office, he was his usual, relentlessly critical self. “Turn left, take the expressway. The streets below are a parking lot.” “Overtake him! That BMW driver is scared of his own shadow. What are you waiting for?” He directed my every move, and for the first time, I actually wasn’t late. As soon as I walked into the office, Maya rushed over. “So? How was it last night? That car is a dream to drive, right?” I forced a smile. “Oh yeah, a dream. Comes with a complimentary surround-sound verbal abuse feature.” Maya didn’t get it and was about to ask more when our department manager clapped his hands. “Everyone, listen up!” The manager’s face was grave. “We’ve just received word. Mr. Smith’s condition has worsened. It’s likely… just a matter of a day or two.” “The company has arranged for each department to visit the hospital in shifts to pay their final respects.” “Our department’s slot is at ten a.m.” My head started buzzing. Patrick was really going to die? Ten o’clock. The area outside the ICU was crowded. The air was thick with sobbing and hushed whispers. I hung back at the edge of the crowd, clutching a bouquet of chrysanthemums that no one would notice anyway. Through the thick glass, I saw Patrick on the hospital bed. His face was deathly pale, so thin he was almost unrecognizable, with tubes running in and out of his body. Lifeless. A world away from the arrogant bastard in the car. I instinctively glanced behind me. The empty hallway stretched out, silent. Of course. He couldn’t leave the car. “You can go in. Don’t take too long,” a nurse said, opening the door. I followed my colleagues inside. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors hammered against my heart. I walked to the bedside, staring at that familiar face. On a strange impulse, I reached out, wanting to check for his breath. The instant my fingertips brushed against his skin… ZAP! A powerful electric current shot from my fingers and coursed through my entire body. The pain was sharp, intense. I snatched my hand back. “What are you doing?” the manager hissed, glaring at me. I clutched my tingling fingers, staring at the bed in horror. In that brief moment. I had clearly heard a voice in my head. “Idiot, are you trying to kill me?!” It was Patrick’s voice. My head snapped up. The man on the bed remained motionless, his eyes sealed shut. But I saw it. His finger. It had twitched. 4 I all but fled the hospital room. When I got back to the car, Patrick was sitting in the back seat, his eyes closed as if meditating. He opened them as I slid in. “What was that just now?” he asked, straight to the point. I didn’t bother hiding it. “I touched you.” Patrick’s eyebrow twitched violently. “I felt it.” “What?” He sat up straighter. “When you touched my body, I felt it… here.” He pointed to the same spot on his ghostly form. I swallowed hard. “…Your body and your… spirit are still connected?” “It’s not just a connection.” Patrick’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his face closing in on mine again. “Chloe. It’s you. You’re my power bank.” Patrick began experimenting with possession. As long as he was latched onto me, he could leave the car, maintaining a certain radius. I was his anchor. And so, my cubicle gained an invisible, spectral supervisor. “This PowerPoint presentation looks like absolute garbage. Are you trying to disgust the client into signing?” “That data point is wrong. Move the decimal two places to the left. Did a gym teacher teach your finance department math?” “Stop drinking that instant coffee. It tastes like dishwater.” I revised proposals while enduring his constant mental assault. That night, I just wanted to unwind with a TV show. “Change it. The male lead’s plastic surgery is distracting.” “Can’t you see those chips are expired?” “Turn the water temperature down. Are you trying to boil me alive?” I finally snapped. “Patrick! This is my home! I’m entitled to some privacy!” Patrick looked down on me, imperious. “Privacy? Is there a single part of you I haven’t seen by now?” “That’s because you were spying!” “I was subjected to visual pollution against my will.” He was so shamelessly self-righteous. And then he pushed it further. “There’s an important meeting tomorrow. Bring your brain, and do exactly as I say.” I wanted to ignore him, but he threatened to blow in my ear all night while I slept. I caved. At the meeting, I repeated Patrick’s words, systematically dismantling the arguments of a senior manager who had always targeted me. The entire room was stunned. Seeing the look of defeat on the manager’s face gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction. Patrick seemed to be in a good mood too, ending his possession early. After work, I went to the underground garage to get the car. As I reached for the door handle, I froze. Reflected on the window was…

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The night before the wedding, my sister brought me Bella’s death certificate. A climbing accident in the remote Alaskan interior. Survival rate: negligible. I shredded the paper. I flew out alone. I went to the Yukon and shredded myself, too. I battled altitude sickness, pulmonary edema, and the kind of isolation that makes you think you’re going mad. I faced down a pack of wolves, lost, staggering, all for a shadow on a horizon that held no one. Three years later, I came back—hair matted, skin like leather, a man aged a decade. All I’d found was her ID tag, buried in the permafrost. I passed a trendy bistro, and there she was. Not a ghost. Bella Keller, draped in a custom gown, laughing with Amelia, my own sister. Finn O’Connell, her junior, gave a soft, practiced laugh. “Thanks, ladies. Just because Cas said one harsh thing to me, you two went this far to back me up? And right before you were supposed to marry him, Bella.” Bella smiled, the kind of indulgent, maternal smile I used to love. “You’re our only one, Finn. You work so hard on those rescue missions, and Caspian had the nerve to call you irresponsible. This whole thing? It’ll humble him. Do him some good, really.” “But… he’s not actually hurt, is he? Cas?” “No, my people are looking out for him,” she assured him, a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’ll be fine. We’ll get married eventually. It’s what he wants most. The hardship he endured in the Yukon? He’ll forget it. It’s insignificant.” A draft blew through my empty right pant leg. The System cut in, its voice a hollow hum. [Target has agreed to marry. Mission accomplished. You may redeem one wish, guaranteed. Redeem now, Host?] A single, raw tear carved a clean path down my dirt-caked cheek. “Then let her,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat, “let her truly die in the Yukon.” [Wish received, timeline being replanned…] Through the bistro window, Bella answered a call. “Another climber is missing in the interior?” I saw her lips move. “Right. I’ll mobilize our team immediately.” I knew the System’s will was already at work. “And any word on my fiancé lately?” she asked the caller. “He’s volatile. He must have been frantic when he thought I’d vanished. It’s been three years, but keep an eye out for him.” She turned. And her eyes—eyes that hadn’t seen a real struggle in years—met mine through the glass. Her lips formed two words: Later. Talk. Bella and Mia burst out. “Cas? God, what have you done to yourself?” Bella reached up, her fingers grazing my rough, cracked cheek—a face that, three years ago, was only concerned with a clean shave for our wedding. Mia grabbed a single, broken strand of my hair, her eyes wide with shock. “You… you have gray in your beard?” I was dragged into a high-end salon. The stylist tutted, struggling to work a brush through the mess. “How long has it been since you washed this? And for a young man, your skin is so rough.” Mia and Bella exchanged a look in the mirror. Both quickly averted their gaze. The stylist glanced at Finn O’Connell, who stood by the door, observing. “But this gentleman is immaculate. Obviously a trust fund baby, no expense spared.” I gave a harsh, internal laugh. Of course he was immaculate. Bella looked after him. I remembered catching Finn three years ago, teasing her to use her expensive moisturizer. She’d pretend to scold him while meticulously applying the lotion to his face with her own hands. I’d snatched the jar away and dressed Finn down for his immaturity. Bella had smoothed things over, that same indulgent smile fixed on her face. “Finn had a rough childhood, Cas. No one to look out for him. He sees us as family in the squad. Don’t be like this.” I’d pushed back, the pain sharp and immediate. “A fiancé is family, Bella! More than a junior teammate! When have you ever fussed over my skin like that?” She’d frozen. Finn had stomped off and vanished for a month. Bella never mentioned it again, even before her “rescue mission” to the Yukon, when she’d held me tight and promised me forever. I’d thought it was over. But I saw it now. It was never over. It was the start of the plan. A cruel, calculated plan to punish me. And my sister, Amelia, delivered the weapon. I remembered Mia’s whispered words through the glass: ‘It had to be me. Cas trusts me more than anyone. It makes the illusion perfect.’ I stood up. Hair half-cut, a mess of tangled frustration. I walked out. Bella’s hand grabbed my arm. “Where are you going?” “You just got an emergency call, didn’t you?” I said, shaking her off. “I wouldn’t want to hold up the great rescuer.” A flicker of what looked like genuine pain crossed her face, her eyes welling up. “No, Cas, wait. Tomorrow is your birthday. You forgot, didn’t you? I can speed through the rescue trip. I won’t miss it.” Amelia’s gaze softened too, a sliver of sisterly concern. “Let us do this one thing for you, Cas. Let us celebrate.” I didn’t refuse. What did it matter? I knew my next destination, too. Early or late, the destination was the same. I turned to leave fully. In the reflection, behind Mia’s shoulder, I saw Finn O’Connell. His eyes were cold, calculating. Not the injured junior at all. The birthday party was lavish, an absurd spectacle. I felt like a museum piece, pulled onto a gilded stage. The warmth and smiles of the guests were a physical shock after three years of wilderness. My throat tightened. Before I could even speak, the main doors burst open. Finn O’Connell stumbled in, covered in blood, his expensive clothes shredded, collapsing in front of the horrified crowd. “Mr. Thorne,” he wailed, his voice breaking. “I promised I’d leave the two women alone! Why are you still trying to ruin me!” The “Happy Birthday” chorus died instantly. Bella and Mia lunged for him. One held him; the other ripped off her jacket to press against his wounds. Seeing the deep gashes, Mia’s face contorted with fury. “Caspian Thorne! What in God’s name did you do?!” The guests gasped, their disbelief a palpable wave. “Those cuts… they’re terrible.” “Mr. Thorne just returned, and this is what he does? His parents, God rest their souls, must be heartbroken watching this!” Bella glared at me, her teeth grinding. “I told you! I was rescued by a local guide! We spent these years searching for you! We didn’t keep my survival a secret, and Finn had nothing to do with it! Whatever you have against me, come after me! Attacking an innocent man is monstrous!” Finn crawled forward on his knees, a perfect picture of beaten puppy-dog remorse. “Mr. Thorne, I swear, I have no improper feelings for the ladies. I was abandoned as a child, starving for affection. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never see them again. Why are you trying to destroy me?” Bella and Mia sucked in a breath at the mention of him leaving. I looked down at the pathetic creature kneeling at my feet. “You haven’t changed at all, Finn. You’re still a performance artist.” “Caspian Thorne!” Bella’s hand shot out, grabbing my throat and slamming me against the wall. She pointed at Finn’s wounds. “Who fakes injuries like this?! We told you we didn’t fake my death to hurt you! Why are you so relentless? Have you lost all decency? Did three years in the wilderness strip you of your humanity? Maybe you need three more to learn some manners!” Mia stepped in, her voice cold. “You will either apologize to Finn, sign a statement guaranteeing you’ll never harass him or try to force him out. Or, you take the same injuries he has.” The hand left my throat. I doubled over, gasping for air. The pulmonary edema I’d developed—and barely survived—in the Yukon was better, but the damage was permanent. The irony. “Stop the dramatics, Cas. We had a network watching you. You were never in actual danger.” Bella thrust a pen and paper at me. Sign the confession. I braced my shaking frame, took the pen—and snapped it clean in half. “No need,” I choked out. “I’ll take the second option.” Bella and Mia flinched. “You want to be injured? Are you insane?” The next moment, I reached down, unbuckled the socket, and detached my own right leg. I placed the prosthetic on the table with a dull thud, fighting for breath. “One leg,” I rasped. “Is that enough?” “Cas!” Amelia screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. “If not,” I continued, my voice gaining a terrible clarity, “how about an eye?” I reached up and pulled out my left eyeball. A glass prosthetic. The first time I met the pack, the fire failed, and the alpha ripped out the original. “Cas!” Bella’s voice was a ragged whisper. I clutched my chest. My lips were turning blue from the edema. I collapsed to the floor. “How… how is this possible!” Bella knelt instantly, clutching my arm, trembling violently. “I had people watching you! I told them to protect you! Why did they let this happen!” Before the blackness took me, I registered one thing: Finn O’Connell, the pathetic, injured victim, flinched when Bella said she’d had me ‘protected.’ His eyes flickered away. I woke up in a sterile room. Bella was by my side, clutching my hand. “It’s settled, Cas. It was a misunderstanding. Finn was attacked by thugs and thought you hired them.” I stared at her, waiting for the inevitable apology, the remorse. Instead, she sighed. “Don’t blame him. If you hadn’t always been so aggressive toward him, he wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” “Bella…” My voice was a choked sound. “It’s… over? All that suffering? Just dismissed as a misunderstanding?” “Cas!” She gently pressed me back against the pillows. Her voice softened, now a practiced coo. “Let’s get married. Now.” I froze. She traced the empty socket of my eye, her own eyes instantly glossy. “I’ve pushed my rescue trip back two days. Cas, I am so sorry I let you suffer. I will be your wife, and I will spend my life making it up to you.” She pressed my hands between hers. “Finn is just a teammate, a brother. If I had known you would be hurt this badly, I would have let him suffer instead.” “Bella…” Finn’s small, wounded voice came from the doorway. Bella tensed. She snapped her head toward him. “Get out.” “Bella!” “Get out!” Her brow furrowed. “I’m speaking to my fiancé. It has nothing to do with you.” Mia, still at the foot of the bed, looked surprised. “Bella…” “Get out!” Finn’s eyes were instantly red. Just like three years ago, when I’d first scolded him, he spun around and left. Mia watched him go, shaking her head with a sigh, but she didn’t follow him. “Marry me, Cas?” she pleaded. I looked out the window, a cold smile lifting the corner of my mouth. “Yes,” I whispered. Fine. She would die anyway, fulfilling the wish. And I would get half her estate in the real world. A single tear, hot and heavy, tracked down my cheek. Bella. You forced my hand. You promised me. You would never lie to me. And if you did, you deserved to die. You lied once. I won’t let you have a second chance. She didn’t wait. The news of our upcoming wedding—Caspian Thorne, the high-profile philanthropist, and Bella Keller, the heroic rescue captain—was plastered everywhere, dominating social media. The buzz didn’t last. It was quickly buried by another headline: Bella KELLER’S JUNIOR CO-WORKER: THE SECRET BOYFRIEND? The article detailed how Finn O’Connell allegedly pursued his married captain, sharing water bottles on missions, and how she applied his skincare products herself, all with photographic evidence. I blinked. I was the only one who knew those specific details. How had this leaked? The door slammed open. Bella stood there, spitting mad, a stack of the incriminating photos fluttering to the floor. “Why are you doing this to him?! He had a terrible childhood, he’s sensitive! If Mia and I hadn’t intervened, he would have killed himself!” Behind her, Finn was a mass of red eyes and tears, being cradled by Amelia. “Mr. Thorne, I only see the ladies as sisters! I’m sorry! I’m avoiding them! Why must you destroy me?” The pieces clicked. Finn had staged the whole media leak himself to provoke this exact reaction. Bella was frantic. “The media storm is out of control! Finn might be clueless about boundaries, but he’s worked hard to be where he is! You can’t just ruin an innocent person! Look at you, Cas!” I fought the urge to point out that they were the ones who pulled strings to get him into the squad. I just stared. “So what’s the solution? Do you want me to be pilloried by the media too?” “Yes,” she said, the word a flat stone. I flinched. “The only way to kill this scandal—since it originated because of you—is for me to marry Finn. A public, fast wedding to show he isn’t a homewrecker.” I thought I misheard her. Her eyes slid past my empty socket. A brief, fleeting moment of guilt. She softened her tone. “We’ll still legally marry, Cas. Me and you. After I get back from the Yukon. But for now, we have to save Finn. Don’t worry, I won’t actually sign the papers with him.” I fought for air, controlling the pulmonary strain. “Bella, do you remember the promise you made to me?” She paused. Avoided my gaze. She turned her back. “I said I’d marry you when I get back, Cas. I won’t lie to you.” Mia looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and annoyance. “You’re really testing my patience, Cas.” The two women shielded Finn and left. I watched Bella’s retreating back. My smile was a mask of coldness, but a tear slipped from my eye. Bella. You promised me. If I lie, may I die a terrible death. You lied once. I won’t let you have a second chance. The day before the “wedding,” Bella went to a quiet, gothic cathedral downtown. She looked up at the stained-glass image of Christ. She wasn’t religious. But she’d felt compelled to stop. The sorrowful figure looked down on her white gown. She whispered: “I am guilty. I deceived a man I truly love, Cas, and he suffered damage I never intended. But I had to do it. The other man—Finn—is innocent and vulnerable. I promised him my support. My sin was negligence, allowing a lesson to become a life-changing agony for my fiancé. I vow to spend my life atoning. Lord, forgive me.” A limping man entered the quiet space. Dragging my new prosthetic, I stood where Bella had been. It was strange. I was no believer, but I’d felt a pull, too. “I suppose I am also guilty,” I said, the words echoing off the stone. “I am about to cause a death. The death of my fiancée. I wished for her demise in the Alaskan wilderness. I once loved her deeply. Perhaps judging her sin is not my right. But I choose this anyway. She made the vow herself: If I lie, may I die a terrible death. If you called me here, Lord, I have only this to say: I will not recant. I will not regret. Lord, don’t forgive me.” I turned. The tap-tap of my shoe and the thud of the prosthetic were loud on the marble. I skipped the staged wedding. I only went to see Bella off as she left for her rescue trip. Finn came up, eyes red, but she ignored him, looking only at me. “Cas, a private goodbye?” Finn shot me a murderous glare. Her SUV stopped just before the freeway entrance. She got out and held me in a desperate, hard embrace. “I’m sorry, Cas. When I get back, I’m never leaving you again.” “I know,” I said, patting her back, cutting her off. “The wedding with Finn is a facade. I never wanted a life with anyone but you—” “I know,” I repeated, interrupting her again. “Go.” She walked toward the SUV, turning back to look at me three times, her face a mask of regret. As her car passed through the toll plaza, a tear slipped down my face, unnoticed by her. Goodbye, Bella. No. Farewell.

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My ex-girlfriend always had to be contrarian. I’d crave a slice of pear, and she’d shove an apple in my face. I’d bring up marriage, and she’d declare herself a devoted non-committalist. She used to say that sparring was her way of flirting, that she only pushed back because she found me adorable. It took me nine hundred and ninety-nine pleas, but she finally conceded to having a wedding ceremony—just to fulfill the dying wish of my critically ill mother. My mother, frail and already suffering, endured a grueling cross-country bus and train journey just to be there. She arrived, only for the bride to be a no-show. When I called her, Gigi’s voice was sharp and accusing: “Brooks’s fiancée bailed on him, so I’m stepping in to save his day! Your mother couldn’t be sick any other day, could she? The one day Brooks is celebrating, she’s demanding a wedding? How tasteless! I’m not going anywhere, Callan. I’ll come to your wedding, just wait!” But my mother, holding on by sheer willpower, never saw the bride. The guests cleared out at midnight, and my mother finally slipped away, heartbroken. Meanwhile, Gigi’s social media status had been quietly changed to “On Honeymoon,” with a geotag for Bali. “I’ll be back in ten days, maybe two weeks. Just tell your mom to hang in there, and we’ll go sign the papers then.” She didn’t know that the moment my mother died, I decided I was done with her. 1 A week after the funeral, the company sent me a notice: violating policy due to unauthorized absence, report for termination proceedings. As I boxed up my belongings at the office, the whispers followed me: “Isn’t that the guy who tried to force Miss Winslow to marry him? Unbelievable nerve. Firing him isn’t enough; he should be blackballed from the industry!” “I heard he shot himself in the foot and actually drove his own mother to her grave with the drama. Serves him right.” I paused, a half-packed file box in front of me. My ex, Genevieve “Gigi” Winslow, was the company’s CEO, my direct superior. She’d claimed I was just a supervisor and didn’t meet her mother’s standards for a suitable fiancé, which was why we had to keep our relationship a secret. To avoid suspicion, she constantly undermined me in the office. She’d dump the coffee I bought her or tear my meticulously prepared proposals to shreds. My colleagues considered me a pathetic, bootlicking annoyance. They treated me like a human dumping ground, constantly passing off their tasks to me. After my mother’s death, my tear ducts were dry, and their venomous whispers simply couldn’t touch me. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “Apologies, but my absence wasn’t for a vacation,” I said, my voice empty of warmth. “I was scouting locations. I’m starting my own company.” Their jaws dropped. I got home just as Gigi called. The sound of the ocean wind howled through the phone, painfully scraping my eardrum, forcing me to hold it away from my ear. “Callan, get home right now! I need you to mail the gift box in my dresser drawer to the address I sent you—expedite it, overnight air freight! It’s Brooks’s birthday tomorrow!” Even when I had a hundred-and-four-degree fever, she wouldn’t let me call in sick. But now, she was ordering me home immediately to ensure her childhood sweetheart, Brooks, got his present on time. The dresser was right beside me. I pulled open the drawer, and there it was. Inside the ribboned box was a Patek Philippe watch, subtle yet devastatingly expensive. A month ago, I had pointed at a billboard on the street and casually mentioned how much I liked that particular model. Gigi had just given me a dismissive side-eye, asking if I even thought I was worthy of such a timepiece. I hadn’t asked her to buy it for me. I just liked it. I wasn’t worthy, but Brooks apparently was. It wasn’t the first time. A year ago, she gave him a luxury sports car the day he returned from overseas. For my birthday, she’d gone to the discounted section of the grocery store and gifted me a bag of snacks that were about to expire. She’d said: “You shouldn’t compare yourself to Brooks. My intention is so much more valuable than some ridiculous five-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” I had let her lead me by the nose until this latest stunt: Gigi skipping our wedding to stand in for Brooks at his, and then going on his honeymoon. The memory of my mother, fighting for every last breath, closing her eyes in final, silent despair because she never saw me with a wife, brought a sharp, clarifying pain. I bit down on my tongue. The pain grounded me. I tossed the gift box back into the drawer. “I won’t mail it.” Gigi was silent for a beat, then her voice spiked in rage. “Callan, do you have any humanity? Brooks is sick with culture shock, and he just wants to cheer up on his birthday!” Brooks’s gentle, understanding voice came over the line. “It’s okay, Gigi, really. No gift could compare to you being here with me.” Gigi immediately refuted him. “No! If you want it, I’ll pluck the stars out of the sky for you!” I was speechless. I had only ever asked for a pear. She’d insisted on the apple. She’d told me apples were cheap and filling—suitable for a man like me. In ten years, she had never once considered what I truly wanted. For Brooks, she was ready to move heaven and earth. Gigi huffed, indignant. “I will be good to him! You dare defy me?” Brooks sounded resigned. “As you wish, my little princess. I just worry Callan will get upset.” Gigi scoffed. “Who cares about him? The man has zero empathy! You were sick, your fiancée ran off—I just stepped in as a temporary fill-in and came on a quick trip to help you relax. And he throws a fit!” “I told him I’d marry him once I got back and make him the ideal son-in-law, but he’s still being petty and relentless. Honestly, he’s such a headache.” I lowered my eyes, utterly numb. Gigi treated Brooks this way because she was certain I would never leave her, no matter what. “Alright, I have to take Brooks to the clinic now. Just mail the package. Hurry.” She hung up after her perfunctory order. A minute later, I saw a new post on Brooks’s social media. A single, simple photo. The two of them building a sandcastle at sunset. Their hands were overlapped, and the brilliant sparkle of matching commitment rings on their fingers was blinding. This was their trip to the “clinic.” I couldn’t even summon the energy to confront her. If I did, I would only be berated for being small-minded and for questioning their “pure, platonic friendship.” Now, all I wanted was to leave this soul-crushing city, return to my hometown, and build something of my own. At my mother’s funeral, I’d reconnected with my old friend, Marcus. He had the capital and the location for a new business, and all he needed was a strong operations person—me. I had promised him three days to wrap up my life here before joining him. Thinking of this, I texted Marcus. We chatted until the sun set, and a genuine smile finally touched my lips. Just then, a different friend messaged me. “Callan, Gigi posted you for sale on that used-goods app! What is going on?!” 2 I clicked on the link my friend sent. The product photo showed me wearing an apron, focused intently on cooking. “Used-up Boyfriend for Sale. 90% New. 99 cents to the first bidder.” The comment section was flooded by Gigi’s friends, turning it into a group event. “Gigi, you’ve had this product for ten years; you can’t call him 90% new! He was a looker when he was young, but now he’s just old bark.” “Not the prettiest accessory, but buying him means a free housekeeper. Pretty good ROI.” The friend who’d sent me the link weakly commented: “Gigi, won’t Callan be mad if he sees this?” Immediately, everyone swarmed him: “If Callan gets mad, he can’t take a joke.” “Give it a rest. Callan’s just a country boy clinging to Gigi, hoping to cash in on her family’s wealth. He’s pretending to be a great lover!” My heart was like a stone in my chest. I felt nothing. I already knew Gigi’s friends looked down on me. They even had a private group chat where they constantly urged her to break up with me. Everyone assumed I was a gold-digger, never realizing that for ten years, I’d never spent a dime of her money. I’d handed over every paycheck and worked extra shifts just to buy her gifts and help with expenses. I was so broke that I had to borrow the money for my mother’s funeral from Marcus. I meant to close the app, but I accidentally hit the “Make an Offer” button. I watched, frozen, as a private message popped up: “Fine, you win. Offer accepted. Final price: 97 cents.” While I was still reeling, trying to figure out how to delete the transaction, Gigi called, sounding completely unconcerned. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Callan, don’t take it seriously. I’ll take it down tomorrow.” The background noise was a roar—she sounded like she was in a crowded club. Brooks’s voice, loud, cut through the din: “My bad, Callan! It was supposed to be me she put up for sale, but Gigi was afraid someone would actually bid on me, so she used you instead. But hey, that picture is great! Everyone in the group chat said you look so domestic and competent!” My grip tightened on the phone. Before the wedding, Gigi had seen me cooking and said my focused look was handsome, impulsively taking a picture. I’d been so touched, happily posing. I’d been nothing but a source of entertainment for her. Gigi sounded slightly chastened, a rare moment of weakness. “Look, I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll bring you a souvenir.” “You don’t have to. I’m leaving in two days—” —I’m leaving. The words caught in my throat. She had already hung up. I suddenly felt a profound, overwhelming sense of futility. The next morning, I received a call from a repair center. “Mr. Han? Ms. Winslow’s tablet is ready. She’s out of the country, so she asked us to contact you for pickup.” The tablet. After my mother fell ill, I had desperately begged Gigi to set a date. She ignored me, glued to her tablet, refusing to commit. I had snapped, asking her if her reluctance to marry me was because of Brooks. She’d immediately thrown the tablet, shattering the screen, then her face went cold and she mockingly agreed to my request. Now I knew. She hadn’t been angry; she had been guilty. Snapping back to the present, I decided not to make things difficult for the repair guy and headed to the center. The technician handed me the device. “Just the screen was broken. The data is all intact!” I idly swiped the screen twice and realized she hadn’t logged out of her messaging app. I looked closer. It was her burner account. Brooks was pinned to the top of her contacts. They shared matching pink-themed avatars. His nickname was “My Prince.” Hers was “The Prince Is Mine.” I swallowed hard and opened Gigi’s profile. The tablet froze for a moment. Then, a dense, unending stream of posts—all visible only to her, or Brooks—an archive of photos, messages, and every piece of information about him, erupted onto the screen. 3 I scrolled for what felt like an eternity before reaching the first entry. “October 29, 2015. Brooks’s first month abroad. I think I’m going through withdrawal. I saw someone in the cafeteria who looks just like him…” That was the day Gigi and I met. My family was poor; I was eating instant ramen in the school cafeteria. She suddenly sat down next to me, slid her full tray of expensive food toward me, and begged me to eat it. She added my contact info and asked me to tutor her for her finals. “January 1, 2016. Brooks’s third month abroad. I confessed to Callan. He was so happy, so shy. I feel a strange sense of guilt. He’s not Brooks, after all.” … The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The account Gigi gave me, the one we used for ten years, wasn’t her real account. It was the placeholder, the cover, maybe even just her work number. Frowning, I tapped on Brooks’s chat history. January 15, 2025. Brooks: “I’m craving a slice of watermelon.” I remembered that day vividly. It was a snowstorm, ten degrees below freezing, with strong winds. Yet, Gigi had agreed without hesitation and had driven all over the city to find one. Brooks had responded: “Winter watermelon isn’t great after all. Gigi, can you just take it and toss it?” That afternoon, Gigi came home holding half a watermelon, her nose raw and red from the cold, her eyelashes speckled with melting snow. She smiled as she handed the fruit to me. I was nearly in tears, vowing to devote my life to her. It had all been a performance. I had been a fool. In a self-destructive trance, I continued to read every thread. The patience, the encouragement, the gentle sweetness—the things I had always been denied—were all lavished on Brooks. I had always thought Gigi’s venomous tongue was just the result of a cold, elite education, that she was socially awkward and didn’t know how to be kind. Now I understood. It was simply because of two words. Not worthy. I took the tablet and left. When I reached my apartment building, a delivery guy was waiting for me, holding a battered, worn package that required a signature. Inside, resting on a bed of crumpled paper, was a thin gold chain. The delivery guy hesitated. “The sender said she wasn’t qualified to be your girlfriend and asked you to take back this family heirloom necklace. She insisted you verify the contents right here.” Gigi knew exactly how to manipulate me. Whenever we argued, she would return the necklace, our only meaningful token of commitment, claiming my temper was too much and she couldn’t handle me. It was her ultimate threat to end things. And every time, I would panic. I would refuse to sign for it, sobbing and begging her forgiveness, asking her to put it back on, desperate in my humiliation. But this time, I slipped the gold necklace into my pocket, took the pen, and signed my name. Just as I stepped out of the coffee shop, Gigi called, sounding triumphant. “Callan, did you see the package? That’s what you get for not mailing Brooks’s watch! I bought him a five-million-dollar villa as a birthday gift and promised to vacation with him there every year. Didn’t you just shoot yourself in the foot?” The next second, she shrieked. “You signed for it?!” “Yes.” She frowned, displeased. “Why did you sign for it? You said it was your family’s heirloom, to be worn only by your wife, only me, for life!” I simply asked, “Didn’t you send it back?” Gigi choked on her words. Before I could speak again, she spoke, her voice ice-cold: “Callan, you are despicable! You can’t take a simple joke. Fine, keep the damn necklace and wear it until you die!” She didn’t just hang up; she blocked me on every platform. I knew she was genuinely angry this time. But all I felt was silence. And peace. Two days later. I was planning for my long-haul flight and stepped out to buy some energy bars. When I returned, the front door was ajar. A thief? I peered through the peephole. Inside, Brooks was holding a fork and a slice of cake, licking the metal with a look of pure satisfaction before forking another piece and feeding it to Gigi. “Gigi, this cake is amazing. Only you would go all the way across town to get it.” “You were with Callan for ten years, though. Maybe you should talk things out when he gets back? Don’t stay angry.” Gigi, who was normally a germaphobe, tilted her head slightly and bit the cake off the fork, her eyes fixed on Brooks. “To be honest, ten years with him doesn’t compare to ten days with you.” Brooks froze. Gigi laughed, playfully punching his arm to mask the sudden intimacy. “Just kidding! Didn’t your mother line up another potential match for you? Let me vet her for you. We’re best friends, right?” In matters of the heart, everyone has insecurities. Even Gigi, normally so arrogant, feared rejection or disdain. A draft blew through the gap, slamming the door shut. I took out my key, ready to open it. Gigi beat me to it, yanking the door open. She launched a preemptive strike, demanding an explanation. “Callan, you’re not at work. Why didn’t you meet me at the airport?” 4 I put the keys back in my pocket and held up the snack bag. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.” Gigi frowned. “I posted the flight information on my socials!” “I was blocked.” “Well, couldn’t you ask your friends? Couldn’t you call my secretary? Your girlfriend was gone for two weeks, and you weren’t worried at all? What are you holding, anyway? Not only are you absent from work, but you were out spending money?!” When did she become so verbose? I nodded toward Brooks. “Worried about what? You clearly had company.” Brooks intentionally licked his fork again, offering the cake toward me. “Callan, why are you so tense this morning? Want some cake?” I felt a surge of nausea. “Apologies, I don’t share food, especially not saliva-laced cake.” Gigi’s body trembled. She stepped toward me to argue, knocking into the large shopping bags at her feet. Coffee pods and high-end wellness supplements spilled out. She angrily kicked a plastic bag toward me. “I even brought you and your mother souvenirs! Callan, you are utterly heartless!” I knew Gigi was lashing out because she felt guilty and was trying to deflect from the ambiguous intimacy she shared with Brooks. But there was something far more important on my mind. “Gigi, keep the souvenirs. Just hand over my payroll card.” I needed the money. I still had to repay Marcus for the funeral expenses. Brooks feigned shock. “Callan, what kind of man asks his girlfriend for money? I know you’re still angry about Gigi standing in as my replacement fiancée, and I’m sorry, okay?” The familiar manipulation. The old me would have lunged at him, demanding he drop the pretense. Now, I was too tired. Gigi was shaking with rage. “We agreed you’d hold all your savings with me so we could buy a house together! What do you mean, you want it back?!” “I always knew you were vain, always wanting to spend money or beg for a promotion. I’m the one who signs your paychecks, so what right do you have to ask for it? I’ll demote you if you keep this up!” I gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Gigi, a person with my skills would get a starting salary of twenty thousand a month at any other company. You pay me six thousand. Should I thank you?” Gigi looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief and disappointment. “Callan, don’t be ungrateful! Do you think you would have gotten your foot in the door at a massive company like ours if you weren’t my boyfriend?” “You’re so shortsighted, a total simpleton. Why do you think I was marrying Brooks? It was to secure our networking, for our future! My mother finally agreed to hand over the company to me soon, and then I would have married you. Do you really need this paltry salary now? Are you really giving me the cold shoulder over this small amount of money?” Who was giving whom the cold shoulder? I said, cold and hard, “Gigi, I only want the wages I earned. And, we should—” Break up. The two words wouldn’t come out. Instead, Gigi pulled the card out and slapped it against my face. “Callan, everyone told me you were just after my money, and I was stupid enough to defend you. Now I see I was wrong. A provincial man like you is completely unworthy of my sacrifice!” The sharp edge of the card cut my cheek. I felt a sudden coolness on my right cheek. I touched it with my finger and saw the wet, crimson smear. She was right. I was unworthy. This toxic, broken relationship should never have started. Gigi looked momentarily panicked but quickly hardened her voice. “Serves you right.” Brooks gently patted her back, then looked at me with smug satisfaction. “Callan, just apologize to Gigi before you hurt yourself more! She waited for you at the airport for ages. It’s just a girl’s temper. A man needs to be the bigger person.” My attention was drawn to the familiar timepiece on his wrist. My pupils contracted. If they were in the living room, what about my mother’s portrait? I rushed into the bedroom. A sigh of relief. It was still on the bedside table, untouched. I picked up the portrait, ready to leave this disastrous place for good. Gigi snatched it from my hand and slammed it face down on the table. “I’m talking to you! Why are you in the bedroom? I told you, you can’t run away. You have to apologize! Otherwise, I won’t go through with the wedding, and your sick mother can just keep waiting!” Brooks walked over, ostensibly to mediate, but his eyes narrowed, and he suddenly knocked my mother’s portrait onto the tile floor. Smash! The frame hit the tiles, and glass shards flew. Brooks yelped. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” The world seemed to recede, focusing only on the portrait lying on the floor. I crouched down, eyes stinging, and started picking up the glass. My fingers were immediately sliced open by the tiny fragments. Gigi only cared about Brooks, checking him up and down. “Brooks, are you okay? Did any glass hit you?” She turned and cursed at me. “Callan, are you blind? Why do you keep such dangerous things in the house? Apologize to Brooks now, or I swear I will never marry you!” Seeing me stubbornly picking up the glass, my hands dripping with blood, she kicked me in frustration. “I’m talking to you! Stop picking that up! Aren’t you the ultimate filial son? Don’t you want to grant your mother’s wish?” Then her eyes landed on the black-and-white photograph. She froze. “Who… who is that?” I wiped the blood, my blood, from the photo with my shirt sleeve. My mother’s loving, gentle gaze was still looking up at me. Thankfully, the picture itself was undamaged. I looked up at Gigi and finally, finally finished the sentence I had started so many times. “Gigi, my mom passed away. There won’t be a wedding.” “We’re done.”

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I’d been running on fumes for two weeks straight, sacrificing weekends and late nights, but it finally paid off. I landed that twelve-million-dollar deal, the one that snatched the company back from the brink of insolvency. My boss, Rick Graham, was ecstatic. At the victory dinner, he’d called me the “backbone of the firm” and promised me a substantial bonus. But when the end-of-month pay stub hit my inbox, I stared at the line item for commission, and the blood drained from my face. A debit of $250. My commission was negative? I actually owed the company two hundred and fifty dollars? I immediately called Finance. “Brenda, my pay statement—there must be a mistake.” Brenda, the payroll manager, sounded deliberately vague. “No mistake, Bella. That’s Mr. Graham’s specific cost-accounting method. He said you’d understand.” My heart sank. I bypassed the phone and knocked directly on Graham’s door. He handed me a sheet of convoluted figures, smiling benignly. “That twelve-million-dollar order you signed? After factoring in the resource concessions, the advance capital outlay, and hidden overhead, the company’s net loss was $150,000. Due to the, ah, personal way you structured the deal, you’re responsible for 5% of that loss, which is $7,500.” He gestured to the sheet. “We were generous and used your entire base salary to offset it. But since your salary wasn’t enough, you still owe the company two hundred and fifty dollars. Don’t worry,” he added with a wave of his hand, “the company is big-hearted. We’ll waive that.” Then, moments later, the firm announced a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for Piper Wells, the fresh-faced intern who had just started and was known to be a personal friend of the family. Watching the obvious favorite excitedly invite the whole office out to celebrate her windfall, something inside me broke. I was done. Utterly, irrevocably done. I started doing the bare minimum. Clocking in, clocking out. Nothing more. A few days later, a critical project faced a major flaw, threatening the company with a massive penalty. Graham begged me to fix it. I smiled back, just as benignly as he had. “My apologies, Graham,” I said, showing him a folder. “I just finished processing my resignation. I’m no longer an employee of this firm.” “You’ll need to find the person who received that ten-thousand-dollar bonus to clean up the mess.” 1 Listening to him casually use the phrase “the company is big-hearted, we’ll waive that,” my entire body went cold. Even my fingertips were numb. My voice shook. “Graham! To land that deal, I worked two weeks straight! I drank until I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer! Every single concession, every clause, was reported to you and got your explicit sign-off! Now you’re claiming this is a loss caused by my personal actions?” I pushed up the sleeve of my left arm. The red, fading scar, still clearly visible from when I’d scalded myself with coffee rushing a project report, was a perfect, angry testament. “This is the ‘backbone of the firm’ you mentioned at the dinner? My value is negative two hundred and fifty?” Graham’s face darkened. “Bella Steele!” He stressed my name, his tone a clear warning. “Mind your attitude! This is a professional environment. We affirm success, but we do not ignore problems! Your value isn’t measured by a headline contract amount, but by the net result! You need to think long-term, not just obsess over petty cash!” The company was collapsing. I’d single-handedly pulled them out of the fire with that deal. And this was the reward. My soul shriveled. All the grand visions, all the promises of a future and career path—they all became sickeningly ridiculous in that moment. I took the cost-accounting sheet and walked back to my desk. I’d barely collapsed into my chair when Brenda, from the opposite cubicle, leaned over with a smile full of nosy anticipation. “Bella, back so soon? Mr. Graham must have given you a huge bonus, right? A contract that big, your commission must be… this much?” She made a subtle hand gesture, her eyes wide with envy. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Negative two hundred and fifty. The sheer absurdity made me want to laugh hysterically. Before I could form a response, Ben, a younger colleague, walked by with a coffee cup and leaned in conspiratorially. “Bella, did you hear? Piper Wells, the new intern in Admin—she’s only been here a month, and Graham just personally approved a ten-thousand-dollar bonus! Ten grand! It’s supposedly for her ‘potential contributions.’ Some people just have all the luck.” Piper, the boss’s relative. Her potential contribution? Ten thousand? I landed a twelve-million-dollar contract and incurred a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar debt. All the accumulated frustration and anger boiled over. “How much did I get?” I sneered, opening the company-wide chat. “I’ll show you how much I got.” I attached my pay stub and posted it. 2 I took a deep, shuddering breath and typed furiously. [Bella Steele] @RickGraham Rick, would you mind explaining to the team why, after signing a $12 Million contract for the company, your accounting method shows my commission as a negative $8,750, leaving me personally owing the company $250? [Bella Steele] And why is it that a new intern, Piper Wells, who has been here for one month, received a special bonus of $10,000? What specific, quantifiable contribution valued at $10,000 did she make to the company? I leaned back, my chest heaving, my hands still trembling slightly. Graham’s public response popped up in the company chat, the tone instantly harsh and disciplinary. [Rick Graham] @BellaSteele Who authorized you to discuss a colleague’s compensation in a public forum? This is a severe violation of company policy! As the CEO, I see and acknowledge Piper Wells’ contributions, and her compensation is entirely appropriate! It is not your place to question it! [Rick Graham] You caused the company a calculated, actual loss! The company chose not to pursue damages, which is an act of extreme goodwill! Do not be ungrateful, do not muddy the waters, and do not try to incite dissent! It turned out that twisting reality could be done with a straight face and full self-righteousness. My fingers shook as I typed my final reply: [Bella Steele] Since my hard work securing $12 Million is considered a loss, I will, from today onward, dedicate myself to being a quiet, compliant employee, ensuring I will not generate the company a single dollar of new, negative return! I closed all my work-related documents and webpages, and clicked open the system’s pre-installed game of Spider Solitaire. No orders, no negative returns. Simple. I was officially playing the corporate martyr. At five-thirty, the end of the workday. I didn’t, as I had countless nights before, glance over any pending tasks or strategize for the next day’s client calls. I shut down my computer and stood up to leave. “Bella… you’re leaving already?” Ben from the next cubicle asked instinctively, staring at his pile of unfinished work. “Yep,” I nodded, my tone even. “Clocked out. Why stay? To create new negative profit?” As I reached the main exit, Graham’s angry voice boomed behind me: “Bella Steele! Where is the client data analysis report? Mr. Thompson needs it first thing tomorrow!” I paused, turning back slightly. “Graham, I’m clearly incompetent. You should find a more capable colleague—or one whose contributions are valued—to handle it.” Graham’s face was dark purple. He roared, “Fine! Piper, you take over the Thompson account! And you’re out as Team Lead, effective immediately!” Piper’s voice was full of breathless excitement. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Graham!” I walked out, a cold smile forming. Let’s see her handle it, I thought. 3 The next morning, Graham’s voice was booming in the office. “Mr. Thompson, Bella’s been under the weather lately, yes. But we’ve assigned a more senior colleague to the follow-up. Absolutely no issues!” My heart gave a faint, cynical skip. It was Mr. Thompson, the twelve-million-dollar client. More senior? I scoffed internally. Who else in this company understood the complex, customized requirements of that project the way I did? Graham deliberately walked over to my desk. “Bella, the company has decided to focus on developing Piper’s skills, and she’s now Project Lead. You need to adjust your attitude and check your emotions at the door. The company keeps turning, with or without you!” I gave him a sweet, fake smile. “Understood, Graham. I’m completely unbothered.” Piper smugly took her place at my old Team Lead desk. The crucial project coordination meeting began precisely on time that afternoon. Mr. Thompson and his team were already seated in the conference room. I sat at my cubicle and could just faintly hear the muffled conversation, which, surprisingly, didn’t sound like the intense argument I’d expected. A long while later, the door opened. Graham walked out, accompanying Mr. Thompson and his team, wearing a look of relieved satisfaction. “Mr. Thompson, don’t worry, Piper is young, but she’s a quick study. We will absolutely deliver on this project!” Graham’s voice was sickeningly sycophantic. Mr. Thompson nodded faintly, then spoke to a clearly expectant Piper. “Ms. Wells, that initial report and your presentation outline were very clear. Good foundation. Keep it up.” It wasn’t a glowing review, but to Graham and Piper, it was the sound of a heavenly choir. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson! I’ll work even harder!” Piper’s voice trembled with excitement. After seeing off the client, Graham clapped Piper heavily on the shoulder and declared loudly, making sure the entire office heard: “Excellent! Well done! I knew you could do it! Some people, who think too highly of themselves, need to see the new guard taking over!” The office eyes shifted, intentionally or not, toward me. Piper, clutching a folder, walked over to me, her face alight with triumph. “Bella,” she said, flaunting the folder. “You heard Mr. Thompson, right? Honestly, it wasn’t much—just a basic analysis report. Maybe it’s complicated for some people, but I think, if you just apply yourself, it’s no big deal.” She deliberately held the folder up and shook it in front of me. “Looks like the company keeps turning just fine without anyone, doesn’t it? Maybe even better.” I recognized the report instantly. It was a draft file I had saved on my work computer. My voice remained calm. “That report you handed Mr. Thompson, that was a file from my computer, correct?” Piper’s face went rigid with indignation. “So what if it was? The computer is company property, so the files are company assets! As the Project Lead, what’s the problem with using company data?” “The problem is presenting someone else’s labor as your own, and using it to claim credit. That’s theft.” “You’re lying!” Piper shrieked, like a cornered animal. “I referenced it! I borrowed it! Graham said all resources must be used for the project! I already copied every single follow-up folder for this account from your computer! It’s all gone! Whether you’re here or not is irrelevant to the project now!” I allowed myself a small, internal smile. “Then I sincerely wish you success with the project follow-up.” The files on my computer were the initial, first-generation versions, with zero connection to the project’s actual core logic. A simple analysis report wouldn’t show the difference yet. But if she continued to use those files… The real show was just about to begin. 4 Under Piper’s lead, the project, supported by the foundational work and framework she had essentially stolen from me, continued smoothly for a while. This convinced Graham that he no longer needed me. The few remaining legacy clients still under my management were forcibly transferred to other colleagues under the guise of “unified management.” He began chipping away at me in public forums, his passive-aggressive hostility palpable. During the morning huddle, he’d randomly call me out: “Bella, I looked at your workload statistics for the month. It’s almost blank! We don’t pay people to sit around. Show some initiative!” If he walked past my desk and saw me browsing industry news, he’d sneer: “Well, look at you, so relaxed. Found a new job, have we? If so, pack up and leave. Don’t occupy a valuable seat.” He even had HR send an email, citing an “office space optimization” initiative, demanding I move my desk to a desolate corner by the breakroom, a space that never saw sunlight. I didn’t protest. I quietly packed my things and moved. I took every petty obstacle he threw at me, waiting. Graham, however, finally lost his patience and decided to force the issue. He called me into his office, getting straight to the point. “Bella, let’s be adults about this.” He leaned back in his CEO chair, looking down on me. “Everyone sees your recent behavior—the slacking, the zero work ethic. It’s severely damaging the team morale and the company culture.” I played dumb. “Graham, I don’t understand. When did I start slacking off?” He scoffed. “Still denying it? You clock in and out exactly on time, you refuse new assignments, you’re not communicating with your old clients, and you spend your day playing solitaire or browsing the web! What else would you call it?” “You misunderstand, Graham.” My tone was sincere. “I don’t dare answer client calls easily, for fear of saying the wrong thing; I don’t dare take on complex projects, for fear of miscalculating costs; and I certainly don’t dare work overtime, for fear of consuming more company resources and causing an even greater loss.” “I am strictly adhering to your explicit instructions to mitigate risk and avoid creating any new, actual losses for the company.” He pointed at me, sputtered for a full minute, and could not land a single syllable. Graham just wanted me to quit so he wouldn’t have to pay my severance package. I cut to the chase. “Graham, you just don’t want to pay the N+1, do you?” “That is slander!” He raised his voice, volume hiding his guilt. “The company adheres to policy! You have an attitude problem, you’re not keeping up with the company’s trajectory!” I looked at his flustered, paper-tiger expression and simply found it pitiful. Using the smallest possible cost to resolve the biggest headache—that was his guiding principle. I decided not to argue over the severance money. It was beneath me. I was simply waiting for the grand drama I had set in motion. I said lightly, “I’ll resign. In the next two days.” Two days. That was enough. Enough time for the stolen, outdated analysis report to detonate all the hidden issues during the truly critical project testing phase. Graham’s face lit up with satisfied triumph. He clearly assumed I was folding under the pressure, giving up the fight. “Hmph,” he grunted through his nose. “Smart move.” He waved his hand, dismissing me like a bothersome fly. “Process your paperwork quickly. Don’t drag it out and disrupt the others.” “Will do.” I turned and left his office. The project entered its most crucial testing phase right on schedule. On the morning of the test, the documentation described logic and data that were fundamentally inconsistent with the actual system. A critical, fatal flaw. The entire project team went into a panic. Mr. Thompson’s acceptance team was already en route. If we couldn’t demonstrate today, the partnership would be over, and the company would face massive breach of contract penalties. Graham roared, “Piper Wells! What the hell is going on? These reports, these proposals—didn’t you prepare them?” Piper flinched, tears instantly welling up. “T-these foundational reports and core modules were all done by Bella! I, I just built the follow-up work on her basis!” He bellowed toward the door, “Bella! Get her in here!” “No need to call, Graham.” I walked in, holding a slim folder. He lunged toward me. “Bella, quick! What’s wrong with this? Fix it, Thompson’s team is almost here!” I held up a hand, looking perfectly innocent. “Graham, I’m afraid I can’t. I just finalized my separation paperwork. I’m no longer an employee of this company.”

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Matt got into a fight at school. I only realized who the other kid was when I got there: my ex-wife’s daughter. The moment she saw me, the little girl’s eyes went red, but she stood her ground, chin stubborn and head rigid. She wouldn’t speak. My ex-wife stood behind her. Five years. I never thought we’d be able to exchange polite nods, much less in a school principal’s office. Emily’s gaze fell to the healed, jagged scar on my left hand. “Does it still hurt?” she asked, her voice a low, careful whisper. My eyes dropped to her right hand, missing its pinky finger. I smiled the empty smile I’d perfected and replied, “No. I don’t feel a thing anymore.” The principal blinked, a look of profound awkwardness crossing his face. “…You two know each other?” Emily acknowledged it with a quiet nod. My tone was just as flat. “Yes. I’m her ex-husband.” The one she used as a pawn, the one she had locked away in a private asylum, the one whose hand she purposefully maimed. The madman ex-husband. A cold drop of water slid from my hair and trailed down my neck. I’d run so fast I hadn’t even thought to grab an umbrella. The rain outside was coming down in sheets. The principal explained that the fight was over a pencil case, nothing serious. I pulled Matt into my arms, checking quickly for bruises. Only then did my eyes drift to the object on the desk. It was the pencil case I’d bought for him. A simple blue pouch, the same style most kids had. The one difference: I had personally embroidered a tiny rabbit onto the fabric. When I was still living in the house with the Emily’s family—when I was still Aaron—I’d had endless free time, which I used to sew a small rabbit onto every piece of our daughter’s clothing. Daisy, who wasn’t yet three, would always cry and turn away from me, burying her face into her mother’s skirt. Yet here she was now, years later, picking a fight with my son over that very rabbit. I felt a sting of familiar protectiveness for Matt, my son who had suffered this meaningless confrontation. Taking his small hand, I moved toward the door. “Aaron Drew,” Emily called out suddenly, stopping me just before I reached the hallway. “Have dinner with me. Daisy was wrong to hit your son. It’s only reasonable that I pay for the meal.” I didn’t break my stride. I pulled open the heavy office door, my voice cold and distant. “No, thank you, Emily.” The price of her “reasonable gestures” was always too steep for me. First, my heart. Then, my hand. Now, what does she want? I stepped out. From the corner of my eye, I saw the little girl silently wiping away tears, whispering the word “Daddy.” The door clicked shut behind me. The cold air hit my face, a welcome shock. The school was in the suburbs. Getting a ride now would be impossible, and my old moped was soaked through. I looked down at Matt. “Looks like we’re walking home today, buddy.” Matt didn’t mind. He shrugged off his own thin jacket and draped it over my shoulders. We eventually made it to Times Square. On the massive, illuminated screen, a man’s face was being projected on a loop. He was the nation’s current it-model, successful, famous, and married to the brilliant businesswoman, Emily Sterling. They had one adorable daughter. Matt saw the man and hissed out a harsh, “Bad guy.” I smoothed the wrinkle between his brows. “He looks just like me, remember? If you call him a bad guy, aren’t you calling your dad one too?” “No. It’s not the same.” Matt gently traced the grotesque, frightening scar on my left hand. “It’s not the same, Dad. He had surgery to look like you. He stole everything. He deserves to be called a bad person.” My eyelashes fluttered. Since I adopted him, I had never spoken a word about my past. No one knew I was the real Aaron Drew, the eldest son of the Sterling Group founder. And no one knew that the innocent-looking model on the screen was actually Rhodes Vance, a high school dropout who used to fly across the country for a thousand dollars. Matt looked up into my eyes, asking the question he’d held onto for too long. “Dad, why don’t you expose them? The Sterlings have so many enemies. They can’t all tolerate a fraud like Rhodes.” I stood up slowly and continued walking toward the tenement building I called home. Matt didn’t know. The Drew family died out seven years ago. My father, my mother, my sister—even the housekeeper Mrs. Zhang and the groundskeeper Mr. Wallace—they all drowned at sea, picked apart by fish until only brittle bones remained. To pave the way for Rhodes, everyone who could prove my identity was eliminated. After I escaped the basement, I couldn’t even build them a proper tombstone. I could only sneak to the coast and pour out cup after cup of whiskey to the relentless gray waves. By then, Rhodes had been acting as the Drew heir for half a year. He was loud, flashy. Using my identity, he frequented high-end hotels with Emily, and wave after wave of expensive luxury items were delivered to the Drew mansion. He even signed over the company my father had built his life around, handing it all to Emily. The entire internet celebrated their ‘enduring love.’ I was trapped in a cheap rental, unable to sleep night after night. My dreams were saturated with my parents’ bloated faces, their hands reaching out to me for salvation. Seven years ago, I was too young, too impulsive, too reckless. I’d stormed into the acquisition signing ceremony with a hoard of reporters. I was hysterical, screaming and shouting. I tried desperately to prove I was the one true Drew heir. Cameras flashed and bulbs popped. In the blinding light, I saw Emily give a subtle, dismissive smirk. She took a step forward, shielding Rhodes. Her voice cut through the chaos, cold and brutal. “I don’t know this man. My husband is the one I chose, the one I stand by.” Even my one-year-old daughter, Daisy, stood on Rhodes’s side, crying and pushing me away. “Daddy, that man copied your face! I’m scared…” While I stood there, stunned into silence, Rhodes smiled, his face exactly like mine, and swept Daisy into his arms. He had won. He had stolen my daughter, my wife, my entire life, becoming the undisputed heir. And I became the lunatic who tried to steal his identity through plastic surgery. The farce ended with the police hauling me away. In the precinct holding cell, I was manic, screaming over and over that Emily had killed my family and colluded with the imposter to steal my life. No one believes a madman. Especially since a credible police report required evidence, and I had none. I was held for a day. When I walked out, Emily’s sleek sedan was parked outside, a cigarette glowing fiercely between her fingers. “Aaron, you should have figured this out years ago. You can’t stop me from loving who I want.” She exhaled a plume of smoke, then softened her voice. “If you’d been a little smarter, a little more agreeable, I wouldn’t have had Rhodes get the surgery. You’d still be the CEO. You’d still be my husband.” She opened the passenger door. “Get in. Come home with me. You haven’t seen Daisy in six months. Don’t you miss her?” … “Dad, we’re home.” Matt’s voice pulled me out of the suffocating memory. I glanced at the dark, grimy stairwell and walked in, used to the squalor. Compared to my life back then, things were marginally better now. After Emily took me back, I became Rhodes’s permanent understudy. Any corporate dinner he hated, Emily would drag me along to, making me drink with the partners. Any party he found boring, she would bring me to, keeping me by her side as a decorative, silent puppet. During those two years, I tried to tell everyone the truth. The old Sterling board members, the friends I grew up with, the investigative journalism students I knew from college… I sought out anyone I could think of. I cried myself sick, laid out the entire truth, begged them to call the police with me, to tear off Emily’s perfect, deceitful mask. But every one of them looked at me with a strange pity. They didn’t believe me. My countless attempts to resist were simply confirmation of my supposed schizophrenia. My best friend was the one who personally delivered me back to Emily, asking her to get me help and take good care of me. From that day on, my reputation as a madman was sealed. Emily took my hand and slipped my wedding band back onto my finger. She smiled. “Aaron, no one believes you now.” “In this whole world, I’m the only person who knows your grievances and your anger. Now, let’s just have a quiet life. Don’t you want to stop being a madman?” I stared at her blankly. Tears streamed down my face, tasting bitterly of salt. After that, when I wasn’t needed as a stand-in, I was monitored by the staff and confined to the suburban compound. I would stand in the empty backyard, staring vacantly at the sky. And every time, Emily would be away on a trip, “honeymooning” with Rhodes. The private jets carrying them would streak overhead, leaving bright, painful lines across the pale blue canvas. Emily had once asked if I missed Daisy. I hadn’t been able to answer her then. Now, I could give her a clear, solid answer. No. I don’t. I led Matt up the stairs, step by step. The top floor, where the rain always leaked in, was our home. But now, two figures—one tall, one small—were standing outside my door. Emily immediately pinched out her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. She knew I hated the smell of smoke. When we were together, she never cared. Five years later, she suddenly remembered. “Aaron… you’re still living here?” I walked past her without a word. I unlocked the door, walked straight into the kitchen, and started boiling black tea. The apartment was small. With two more people, it would be suffocatingly crowded. Matt stood planted in the doorway, glaring fiercely at the pair outside, refusing to let them enter. His attitude was hostile, his small eyes filled with simmering resentment. I didn’t know how much he understood about my past. I didn’t know how deeply he felt my pain. But I did know that I couldn’t bear to see that much hatred in the eyes of a seven-year-old. I ruffled his hair, handed him the steaming mug of tea, and told him to drink it while it was hot. Then, I looked up at the two people in the hallway, my voice professional and detached. “Emily. Please leave. I won’t pursue this issue regarding your daughter stealing my son’s pencil case. I just need you to manage her and ensure she doesn’t bother us again.” At the phrase “your daughter,” the little girl’s eyes instantly filled with tears. She lowered her head, hoping I wouldn’t see her grief. I saw it. But I tightened my grip on the doorknob, ready to shut the door and send them away. Emily pushed her hand against the frame. Her eyes were fixed on the hideous scar on my left hand. She spoke suddenly. “Aaron, you don’t invite me in because you still hate me?” Hate? Seven years ago, the Aaron who scrambled out of that dark basement hated her more than anything. Two years later, the Aaron whose hand Emily personally mutilated hated her with a blood-red fury. But now, five years had passed. Time had smoothed the sharp edges of everything. The hate, truly, was gone. Emily was nothing more than a stranger to me. Under my placid, indifferent stare, Emily’s eyes slowly filled. She bowed her head, her voice trembling. “Aaron, how can you not hate me?” After escaping the basement, I was Rhodes’s stand-in for two years. I was numb. But Rhodes apparently wasn’t satisfied. He resented that Emily would still bring me gifts after a business trip or sit silently with me on my birthday. After two years, he couldn’t take it anymore. He came to the suburban compound and gleefully told me a cruel truth. He said that when I was locked in the basement, my parents were still alive. It was Rhodes, using my identical face, who had lured them onto a boat and taken them to the international waters. He laughed. “Aaron, you should have seen the look on their faces as they went into the water. It was hilarious. Right up until the very end, they thought you were the one who killed them.” The words hung in the air for a long time before I slowly lifted my head. A dense, sickening pain began to crawl through my dead heart. I remembered learning to ride a bike—my father postponing a critical meeting just to hold the seat and steady me. My mother filming every clumsy second, then scooping me up after I fell, gently inspecting my scrapes. The past flashed before my eyes. I shattered. I grabbed the fruit knife from the counter and lunged at Rhodes like a madman. He was prepared. He ran directly for the door and dove behind Emily, sobbing and shaking as he cried out. “Emily, he’s trying to kill me! D-did I do something wrong?” The bodyguards behind Emily easily intercepted my attack, their eyes cold. “Aaron. Do you want to go back to the hospital?” She had the guards drag me toward my room while she soothed Rhodes. I saw red. I snatched the knife off the floor and swung wildly at Rhodes. Blood splattered across my face. Emily stepped in front of Rhodes, taking the blow. My knife severed her pinky finger. Blood gushed out. I ran. That afternoon, many people saw the Drew heir running through the streets, bloodied and frantic. Afterward, Emily personally checked me into a private psychiatric facility. She was missing a finger, but she also took a knife to my hand, deliberately ruining it. “Aaron, you shouldn’t have run that day,” she said, calm and collected. “People saw two Aaron Drewes—one safe in the hospital with me, the other fleeing hysterically in the street.” “Rhodes can only live because of that face. You don’t need it. Once your hand is healed, I’ll bring you home.” I spent six months in that asylum. I was forced to take medication daily; if I resisted, I was given special “treatments.” My mind was constantly hazy. Emily’s attitude toward me, ironically, softened. I would often lean against her shoulder, staring blankly at the smooth, pale band of skin on my left ring finger. From eighteen to twenty-eight—a decade—that finger had worn the same simple ring. No one knew that Emily was a child I had essentially saved. She was the illegitimate daughter of the Sterling founder, thirteen years old, with nowhere to go. She had come to me, begging for a place to sleep. My mother, seeing her desperation, took her in. She was my companion, the most fiercely loyal person I knew. If someone picked on me, she was the first to fight them, not stopping until they were on their knees, crying for mercy. When I was kidnapped once, she found me, covered in blood, gripping a stained knife, her eyes full of the terror of nearly losing me. When I turned eighteen, she gave me a ring. A commitment, and a tracker. That kidnapping had terrified her so much that she designed it herself. My sister had laughed, patting Emily’s shoulder. “Your possessiveness is intense. Aren’t you afraid my brother will get bored and find a more agreeable girl?” No one knew that lighthearted comment would turn into a curse. The one who grew bored was Emily. The woman who would have died for me became obsessed with a male escort flying across the country for a few hundred dollars. She then used him to destroy my family. I fought her. I screamed, I begged, I tried every strategy I could think of. But Emily neutralized every move with unnerving ease. The pain in my hand was once so profound, so sharp. But as the scar tissue grew, the feeling simply went away. I looked at Emily standing in the rain, my gaze utterly vacant. She had lowered her head, much like her daughter, to hide her tear-filled eyes. I saw them. I just didn’t care. “Emily. Let’s just leave it at this. Whether you regret it or you feel guilty, we can’t go back to what we were.” I kept my hand on the knob, forcing her and Daisy back into the rain. The rain hammered down harder, spotting the walls with fresh mildew. In the kitchen, I could hear the drip, drip, drip of the leak. Matt sweetly handed me a cup of black tea. He looked at the water-streaked walls and let out a happy cheer. “Dad! It’s raining! Does that mean Sloane is coming over?” Sloane was the woman I was seeing—or, the woman I was almost seeing. She was a cold but genuinely good person who always appeared when I was in a crisis, never asking for repayment. Sometimes, when I couldn’t pick up Matt, she would be waiting in her black SUV outside our complex. She was usually quiet and reserved around me, but Matt claimed he’d seen her dressing down a contractor once, so intimidating that no one dared speak. Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. Sloane had arrived. She was about to step in, just as she always did, when a hand shot out and stopped her. Emily’s face was utterly pale. She pointed at Sloane, her voice incredulous, ragged with shock. “Aaron Drew! Who is she?!”

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