Author: Momo Chan

It was New Year’s Day when I overheard the conversation. My now ex-wife, Seraphina Wells, was at the third wedding of her best friend, Bianca. “Seraphina, a woman is always meant to upgrade,” Bianca chirped, her voice too loud for the hushed venue. “Why waste another minute on an old, crooked tree like Leo Vance?” “Look at me,” she continued, oblivious to the fact that I was in the next room. “I went from a coffee-kiosk owner to a tech millionaire, and now I’ve landed myself a Manhattan Trust Fund Guy—who’s five years younger, no less!” Seraphina fell silent. She never offered a single word in my defense. That night, everything shattered. I caught a glimpse of her phone screen: a search history for a divorce lawyer and a text thread with Bianca about “scouting new candidates.” The air left my lungs. The temperature in the room dropped to zero. “Seraphina.” I closed the door softly behind me. “If you truly believe you’re destined to trade up, then I won’t stand in your way.” 1 I saw the divorce papers over dinner at her parents’ house. I’d brought the requisite holiday gift basket—high-end artisanal cheeses and a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir. “Leo, let’s get divorced.” Her voice was flat, devoid of any feeling. Her expression was perfectly calm. She had already made up her mind. Everyone else at the table—her mother, her father, a handful of aunts and cousins—gaped at her, then at me. For five years, Seraphina and I had been their model couple, their gold standard. We never raised our voices. We never threw a plate. No one could have predicted this quiet, devastating implosion. “Seraphina,” her mother, Eleanor, cried, gripping her hand. “What in the world? Did this good-for-nothing man abuse you?” She whirled on me, her eyes narrowed. “Well? What are you gawking at, Leo? Get down on your knees and apologize! Do I have to teach a grown man how to salvage his marriage?” Seraphina’s father, Richard, hammered the table. “A father knows his daughter. To drive Seraphina to divorce, you must have committed an unforgivable offense. You’re not leaving this house until you give us an answer!” The chorus of the extended family began. “Leo, you’re sick! My cousin is so kind and refined. What more could you possibly want?” “Everyone used to call you ‘Mr. Steady,’ the emotionally stable one. Stable? I think you’re a ticking time bomb!” “Hypocrite! What kind of man is he? He probably hits her!” Their eyes were filled with disgust. Their words were razor-sharp. But the facts were exactly the opposite. Seraphina was the one who seemed calm and gentle on the surface, but she was the walking powder keg. When her mood was good, I was her warm sunlight. When it wasn’t, the change was terrifying. There was the night she woke up and couldn’t sleep; she spent three hours poking, prodding, and whispering right next to my ear, determined to keep me awake. There was the time I couldn’t get her favorite organic cake, and she locked me out of the master bedroom for an entire weekend. Of course, she always followed up with a tearful, “I’m so sorry.” I loved her. I swallowed my truth, my frustration, and my exhaustion, transforming myself into the perfect, uncomplaining husband she needed to maintain her image. I had become the architect of her perfection. It was all undone by a single, mercenary remark from a shallow friend. I took a deep breath, the air burning my lungs. I looked at the table of accusers, then at my wife. “We have no conflict,” I said, my voice low and even. “She simply believes I’m no longer good enough for her.” 2 The room went silent. Every head turned toward Seraphina, waiting for her denial. “He’s right,” she declared, her chin lifting with a familiar, self-satisfied arrogance. “My friend is right.” “A woman is always meant to upgrade.” “Bianca married a guy who started a chain of coffee kiosks, then moved to a tech millionaire who decked her out in diamond tennis necklaces. Now she’s with a genuine East Coast Trust Fund Guy who treats her like a queen—and is younger than she is!” “I am just as deserving,” she announced, her eyes blazing with conviction. Everyone in the room was stunned. I managed a bitter, internal laugh. Maybe she had never really seen me at all. Perhaps she only valued my stability, my kindness, and my provision—a temporary safety net until the real prize came along. She and her friend had always made comments about my “nice-guy” look—ordinary, dependable. I was the safe bet that, in their minds, she only landed because of some karmic stroke of luck. I had been devoted to her, and I had even agreed to a child-free marriage (DINK), simply because she wanted it. None of it mattered. After a shocked pause, Eleanor slammed her hand down. “What are you waiting for, Leo? Apologize! Buy her that designer handbag! Get her the diamond studs she wants!” “You must have done something, Leo! Seraphina wouldn’t do this otherwise! It’s your fault for making her say such absurd things!” I was speechless. She had just laid out her entire materialistic philosophy, yet they were still blaming me, demanding I beg. They weren’t leaving me a shred of dignity. When I didn’t move, Richard nudged my leg sharply under the table. “Leo, you’re the man! Swallow your pride. It’s a small price to pay to keep this marriage.” “You won’t find another woman as elegant and beautiful as my daughter. If you don’t fight for her now, you’ll regret it forever.” The others chimed in again. “Quickly, apologize! Don’t wait for my cousin to get serious about this!” “Marrying Seraphina was the biggest break your family ever had. Don’t ruin it!” “You clueless man! Just apologize, even if it’s not your fault!” They were a single, unified front against me. Every single person was telling me to bow my head. Why? Because she was pretty? Because she was ambitious? Because they were all collectively entitled? I slowly stood up, my gaze locking onto Seraphina’s. I spoke clearly, enunciating every word. “I agree to the divorce.” “The marriage is over. We are strangers from this moment on.” 3 My words were soft, but they ripped through the silence like a gunshot. Even Seraphina froze, momentarily shocked by how quickly I agreed. Before anyone could recover, I grabbed the divorce agreement, signed my name, and pressed my thumbprint into the designated spot. “Are you insane?!” Richard and Eleanor shot out of their seats. “Leo Vance!” Eleanor screeched. “Are you even a man? Is it so hard to apologize? She says divorce, and you just comply? Have some spine! Rip up that paper, get on your knees, and list every one of your faults! Start repenting!” Seraphina had initiated the split, yet they still saw me as the sole culprit. Like daughter, like parents. Their entire family DNA was woven with arrogance and narcissism. Seraphina snatched the papers from my hand, as if afraid I might change my mind. “Let’s go,” she said, already walking toward the door. “The City Hall office closes soon.” She couldn’t wait. I felt a sudden rush of bitter clarity. What had these five years been? A messy, expensive farce. I followed her, silent. Richard grabbed my arm, his face apoplectic. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Leo. You’re over thirty. You’ll be picking up stray dogs before you find another date!” “Be smart! Get down now! I’ll put in a good word. Failing that, put your parents’ retirement funds in Seraphina’s account. Just so she feels secure.” “Oh, and the house they live in? Change the deed into her name.” He had made these demands before. Now, in the midst of her self-created crisis, he was trying to leverage my parents’ security. If I agreed, would I even deserve to be called their son? I clenched my fist, pulling my arm away. “Maybe I won’t be the one who ends up alone.” I walked out without looking back. Behind me, the venom flowed. “You selfish bastard! It was just a house and a retirement fund! No wonder my daughter is leaving you!” “Seraphina with you was a rose next to a pile of dirt!” “Good riddance! She’s going to upgrade, and you’ll rot in the ground!” The relatives joined in, calling me worthless, cheap, and a failure for not being rich or handsome enough. Yet, over the years, I had lent them significant sums that were never repaid. I had treated Eleanor and Richard like my own parents—gifts, meals, new clothes for every holiday. When they were in a car accident, Seraphina was traveling for work, and I—with my own parents—had cared for them for a full month. I thought five years of diligent, selfless devotion would earn me a place in their hearts. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t just Seraphina. Deep down, the entire Wells family believed I had high-climbed to be with her. No matter how hard I worked, I would never be enough. On the drive to City Hall, Seraphina broke the silence. “What did you mean, ‘Maybe I won’t be the one who ends up alone’?” “Are you implying I won’t find anyone better?” “Or are you saying,” she continued, a sneer forming, “you can actually trade up from me?” 4 Before I could answer, she burst into a cruel, knowing laugh. “Leo Vance, stop dreaming. What can you offer besides emotional labor and a steady paycheck? Nothing.” “I’m not afraid to tell you,” she said, turning to face me with a cold lack of remorse. “I got bored of your ‘goodness’ a long, long time ago.” We were divorcing, and she still needed one last slash. I remembered our wedding day. She had whispered, “You’re the only person in the world who loves me without an agenda. I love you, and I’ll never get bored.” Now, before the mistress even showed up, the sentiment was already dead. We signed the papers. Back at our apartment, the first thing Seraphina did was take the framed wedding photo off the wall and smash it. Then she set the pictures inside on fire. “Leo.” Her tone was a command. “Delete everything. I don’t want any trace of this failure left behind.” I looked at her. She was a stranger. “Fine.” I nodded, opened my phone, and deleted her number, her email, her social media profile, and every single photograph I had ever saved. My phone’s memory usage indicator dropped sharply. I stared at the sudden emptiness, then let out a long, slow breath. It felt like I had just shrugged off a 100-pound weight. She thoroughly inspected my phone to ensure the digital cleansing was complete. Satisfied, she dragged her suitcase toward the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. “Leo.” She said my name, almost softly. I looked up, meeting her gaze. A brief stab of sadness hit me, then receded. “Leo Vance,” she repeated, her voice hardening. “People have to look out for themselves. Don’t blame me.” “Blame yourself for being stale. Blame yourself for not being good enough.” This time, Seraphina didn’t look back. I heard the rapid click of her heels down the hallway. Her steps were light. Her energy was electric. She was already mentally calling out to her young, new prize. Outside, Bianca was waiting, leaning against a six-figure luxury sedan. Next to her was a man with slicked-back hair, wearing a massive gold watch and an arrogant smirk. He definitely looked like “money.” “Seraphina! Congrats on the divorce! Congrats on escaping the mediocrity!” Bianca exclaimed, waving her over. “This is my husband’s friend, Silas Kincaid. He loves a beautiful, recently available woman like you!” Seraphina’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. She looked Silas over—the car, the watch, the clothes—and her eyes lit up. Silas grinned, opening the back door for her. “Your chariot awaits, Princess.” “You are so charming,” Seraphina giggled, stepping in. From the window, I watched the sedan pull away. Silas Kincaid felt instantly, unnervingly familiar. I snapped a photo of him and the car, then texted it to my old college roommate, who now worked for a federal agency. [This guy. Is he on any of your lists?’]

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That night, during the corporate retreat, my husband tossed my dignity onto the high-stakes table like a spare chip. Caleb had been meticulously folding, making disastrous calls, and practically handing the pot to the twenty-two-year-old marketing intern, Tiffany. He let her win again and again, nine hands in a row, a flawless winning streak that had the whole room cheering her on. I frowned, ready to interject, but Caleb’s hand clamped down, dismissively, on my wrist. “Don’t sweat it, honey. It’s just a game,” he said, his smile tight, his eyes fixed on Tiffany. “Let the kid enjoy her moment.” When Tiffany’s greedy gaze landed on the vintage, inherited diamond bangle on my wrist, I instinctively pulled back, trying to protect the last thread of my composure. But before I could speak, Caleb had already agreed to the new stakes for her. “Fine,” he announced to the room, his eyes shining with cold excitement. “We’ll bet the bracelet.” Laughter erupted around the table, a booming sound that only amplified the sickening chill settling in my chest. It was then, in the suffocating silence of my inner world, that my abdomen gave a sudden, soft thrum. A gentle, nascent voice, a strange echo I’d only heard since I became pregnant, resonated in my core. “Mom. Bet it.” The voice was strangely calm. “I’m your Fortune Charm, the Ace Baby. We can’t lose.” I lifted my gaze, meeting Tiffany’s challenging stare, and slowly, deliberately, I unclasped the diamond bangle. 1 The silence that followed was total. Everyone at the table and those gathered around froze, watching my hands. “Is she really going through with it?” someone muttered. “I remember that bracelet. Caleb gave it to Bella for their tenth anniversary.” “Well, the CEO agreed to the stakes. Can’t back out now.” “This is getting heated. Pass the scotch, there’s going to be a show.” I placed the bangle softly on the green felt. It was indeed my tenth-anniversary gift from Caleb. Back then, under the soft lighting of a high-end steakhouse, he’d looked at me with an earnest devotion I hadn’t questioned, and said, “This is forever, Bella. Just like us.” And now? He was betting our ‘forever’ on a hand of high-stakes poker. Tiffany’s eyes were wide, bright with unbridled avarice, glued to the glittering diamonds. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Bet it. Are you game, Bella?” I looked to Caleb one last time, waiting for him to step in, to show a sliver of respect. He merely offered a dismissive laugh. “It’s a retreat, Tiffany. We’re having fun. Besides, you won’t necessarily lose, honey.” Marcus, our CFO, quickly jumped in to back him up. “Exactly, Ms. Bella. Your luck isn’t that bad.” My cheeks were burning, as if he’d slapped me. Everyone in the private room was watching, whispering. The boss’s wife being pushed to this extreme was certainly a rarity. Then, the gentle reassurance from my core returned. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got this.” My heart settled again. Since I’d become pregnant, there had been a strange, almost mystical shift in our luck. The company had landed two massive deals. I’d bought a lottery scratch-off on a whim and won a decent chunk of cash. Caleb had joked then, “This kid’s a little godsend.” Now, the godsend was speaking. I’d be a fool not to listen. I took a slow, deep breath, and nodded. “Fine. I’m in.” Caleb raised a brow, a flicker of something—satisfaction, maybe—in his eyes. Tiffany’s face lit up, and she eagerly sat back down. “The next hand takes the pot!” The cards were shuffled, cut, and dealt. The four of us at the main table were myself, Caleb, Tiffany, and Marcus. My hands trembled slightly. Not from fear of losing the diamond bangle, but from pure, raw rage at Caleb’s complicity and Tiffany’s audacity. Beneath the anger, a terrible question started to beat: Were there more secrets between them? Secrets that had already shattered my bottom line… The hand began. I played cautiously, but my cards were trash. It was Caleb’s turn to act. He casually ran his thumb over the edge of his chips, a subtle glance flicking toward Tiffany. “Fold.” “Call and raise!” Tiffany announced, pushing a mountain of chips forward. She won the hand. Caleb had folded right into her path, allowing her to take a clean, massive pot. He’d seen her weak bluff and had deliberately withdrawn to give her the win. “Sorry, Ms. Bella,” Tiffany giggled, pushing her stack of chips toward the center. She extended a manicured hand. “The bangle is mine, all-in pot rules.” Caleb chuckled, pulling out his own wallet to cover the agreed-upon equivalent in cash and chips for the loss. “Tiffany, your luck is incredible. You’re unstoppable.” Tiffany slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, admiring the sparkle under the recessed lighting. “It really is gorgeous.” Caleb gave her a look that was entirely too soft, too fond. “It suits you perfectly.” A sharp, visceral pain pierced me. On a normal night, a reward to an eager employee would be one thing. But this was our anniversary gift. And he was openly, shamelessly, favoring her. “Don’t be sad, Mom.” The fetal voice cut through the sting. “Keep betting. What we lose now, we’ll win back later.” 2 Tiffany’s face was flush with triumph, her eyes meeting mine in a blatant challenge. “Another hand, Bella?” she asked, using my first name like a deliberate insult. Marcus, the CFO, chimed in, stirring the pot. “Don’t stop now! I’ve lost a ton of cash; I need a chance to redeem myself…” Caleb remained silent, watching me. He was waiting for my reaction. I smiled, my voice unnervingly level. “Sure. That was just a warm-up.” I straightened up in my seat, placing my hands flat on the felt. “Let’s keep going.” Tiffany looked briefly confused, then her face broke into a wider, more eager smile. “Great. What are the stakes this time?” Her eyes scanned me from my expensive blazer to my Louboutin heels, finally settling on the solitaire diamond pendant at my neck—Caleb’s gift to me for my last birthday. She pointed, her finger like a dart. “That. The necklace.” I managed a slight curl of my lip, then reached up and unclipped the clasp. The diamond pendant was far more substantial than the bracelet—easily three times the value. Tiffany’s eyes were huge, and a little gasp escaped her. The whispers in the room instantly grew louder. “That’s too much, isn’t it? She’s clearly just trying to strong-arm the boss’s wife.” “I know. This has to be intentional. You think the rumors are true? Her and Caleb…” The rest of the sentence trailed off, but the meaning hung heavy in the smoke-filled air. Caleb turned his head slightly, giving the gossiping crowd a silent, warning glare. The room fell into an awkward hush. My hands, hidden below the table, clenched into white-knuckled fists. So, it was true. While I was home, pregnant, protecting myself and the baby, Caleb had found comfort—and a partner in crime—in his eager intern. Seeing my composure, Caleb coughed lightly. “Maybe we should wrap it up, Bella? Just play for the house money.” “No!” Tiffany and I snapped in perfect, chilling unison. Caleb looked surprised, turning his complex gaze on me. “You really want to bet it?” I met his eyes with a cold confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “What, are you worried I’ll lose, or that she will?” He held my stare for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then gave a curt nod. “Have it your way.” I began to deal the cards again. This hand, I was hyper-aware. I listened to the shifting air, the scrape of chips, and the minute changes in their body language. After I had a strong set, I held back from announcing my hand, instead watching Caleb and Marcus. I noticed it immediately: every time I reached for a card, Caleb’s fingers would tap a certain way on his water glass. Tiffany would read the signal, adjusting her chips or her expression. Marcus was in on it, too, folding or raising the precise amount to push the pot and shape the betting for Tiffany. Three people, collaborating. The only one left out of the loop was me. “Mom, the girl behind you isn’t right.” The soft voice of the baby suddenly warned. I subtly tilted my head, catching the reflection in the window behind me. Mia, Tiffany’s friend and a junior admin, was standing slightly to my left, leaning in, her eyes fixed on my cards. There it was. An extra set of eyes. No wonder Tiffany had been able to avoid my strong hands and pull off those huge winning bluffs. “Mia, darling, would you be a dear and grab everyone a fresh round of lattes?” I called out suddenly, my voice deceptively warm. Mia jumped, startled. I gave her a gentle, focused look. “You look tired, sweetie. Take a break.” Mia’s face flushed scarlet. She glanced desperately at Tiffany, then stammered an apology and hurried to the corner to get the order. The game resumed. Without her eyes, Tiffany looked slightly unsettled, her gaze flickering constantly between Caleb and Marcus. The hand dragged on. We were down to the final draw. Caleb reached for his card, touched it, and hesitated a moment too long. He pushed it back into his stack. “Call.” “All in!” Tiffany shouted, slamming her chips down. I called her bluff, but she was telling the truth. She revealed her hand—a perfectly played Straight Flush. “Oh, too bad, Bella,” Tiffany said, her smile blinding. “It looks like I win again.” She snatched the solitaire pendant, clipped it around her neck, and immediately pulled out her phone for a selfie. Marcus burst out in forced laughter. “The boss’s wife is having a rough night! Maybe pregnancy is draining your luck.” Another manager, an oily man named Todd, leaned in. “We used to say Ms. Bella’s pregnancy was boosting the company. Looks like the Fortune Charm is with someone else now. Ms. Tiffany must be the new lucky star.” Caleb stared at me, a complicated mix of arrogance and relief in his eyes. “A bet is a bet, Bella,” he said, his voice flat. “You have to honor it.” I kept my expression blank, swallowing the burning indignation. “Don’t panic, Mom.” The fetal voice was back, steady as a heartbeat. “They’re trying to bait you, to push you to lose control, to go for the ultimate stakes.” “Trust me. I’m ready.” 3 The atmosphere in the private room had shifted from a fun retreat to a predatory circus. I had lost twice. My most valuable personal jewelry was gone. The colleagues had stopped pretending to play and were crowding around, watching the spectacle. Tiffany, wearing my diamonds and my bangle, was the smug center of attention. “Want to play another hand, Bella?” she taunted, running a finger over the stone on the pendant. “Though, I’m not sure you have anything left to bet.” I considered the remaining stakes. My designer handbag? My car keys? She wouldn’t be interested. I was right. Tiffany spoke, her voice laced with heavy expectation. “How about… we bet something really interesting.” She turned to Caleb, their eyes locking in a silent, conspiratorial moment. “Let’s bet company stock.” The room went dead silent. Everyone understood. This was no longer a game. Our company, AxelTech, was named after a combination of our initials—Caleb’s and mine. Caleb held 40%, I held 35%, and the remaining 25% belonged to our investor, Mr. Vance. My heart gave a heavy, cold thump. I finally understood the full scope of their plot. Tiffany didn’t want the jewelry. Caleb wanted to use her hand to dilute my ownership. I spoke, my voice sharp and cold. “Your salary is barely four thousand a month, Tiffany. Where is your capital to bet against 15% of AxelTech?” Tiffany grinned, turning back to Caleb. “Can I borrow it from you, Caleb?” Caleb paused for a calculated second, then laughed, loud and artificial. “Sure. We’re just playing, darling. Lighten up.” Playing with company shares? I stared at Caleb. How long had he been planning this entire charade? It didn’t matter now. If he wanted to play, I would show him what a real game looked like. “If we’re betting shares, we’ll do this officially. Call Attorney Reyes and have him draft the agreement,” I instructed Marcus. Marcus flinched. “Ms. Bella, are you serious?” “Call him,” I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument. Caleb’s brows furrowed, and a line of irritation appeared between his eyes. “Bella, are you going to make this difficult?” “Didn’t you start this game?” I challenged, meeting his gaze. There were too many people here, too many witnesses. If I lost, he would take my shares without a second thought. But if he lost, without a contract, he would simply walk away. I knew him too well. Caleb’s face darkened. He stared at me for five solid seconds, a cold appraisal. “Fine,” he conceded. “Have it your way.” Attorney Reyes arrived half an hour later. “Attorney Reyes, I need a legal agreement. The stakes are 15% of my shares in AxelTech.” Fifteen percent. It was a significant slice. If Caleb acquired it, added to his 40%, he would control a whopping 55%, turning the company into a dictatorship. Tiffany’s eyes gleamed with reckless excitement. “My capital will be the bracelet, the necklace… and a $1 million loan from Caleb?” She looked at him for confirmation. “I can sign a promissory note, right?” Caleb nodded, his smile returning, a sickening, proprietary look. “Done. I’ll guarantee the loan. If you lose, I cover it.” The collective wow from the surrounding colleagues was audible. The favoritism was blatant. Caleb, however, simply crossed his arms, waiting for the deal to be struck. The agreement was drafted. I signed, Tiffany signed, and Caleb signed as the guarantor. A legally binding contract, in black and white. Before the cards were dealt, I touched my swollen belly. “Baby, this is all on you now.” The fetal voice was strong, steady, and certain. “Mom, relax. I’m thinking three steps ahead.” The final high-stakes hand began. This time, the silence was agonizing. Tiffany was sweating. Caleb was chain-smoking. I, oddly, was calm. I reached for my last card, the one I needed. I glanced at Tiffany, her face tight with desperation. She reached, and her face brightened. “I’m in!” she crowed. “I hit the full house!” The room erupted. Marcus was the first to cheer. “Congratulations, Ms. Tiffany! You’re a co-owner of AxelTech!” Tiffany was radiant with arrogance. She leaned back, glancing at me. “Thanks for the shares, Bella.” Caleb laughed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Incredible luck, Tiffany. Everyone, say hello to your new partner, Ms. Thorne.” The congratulations swirled around her. But I barely heard them. I lost again. The bangle, the necklace, the shares. My hands and feet felt frozen, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. What was left to lose? “Mom. Don’t panic.” The voice was sharper this time, a sudden jolt of electricity. “I let them win. They needed to think they had the advantage. They needed to be pushed over the edge.” “Now. Bet everything you have left. The whole pot. We crush them now.” 4 The game was paused. Tiffany was basked in the congratulations of the crowd. Caleb was on a phone call, a smug, satisfied expression on his face. Marcus came over, feigning concern. “Ms. Bella, maybe call it a night? You’ve had a bad run.” I didn’t look at him. “Keep going.” My voice cut through the noise, and the room went quiet again. Tiffany turned, confused. “You want to play again? I don’t think you have anything left that can cover the stakes, Bella.” She rattled the agreement in her hand. I sat back down and surveyed the entire room. “ALL IN,” I announced. “I’ll bet my remaining 20% of AxelTech shares.” “I’ll bet my personal trust fund.” “And I’ll bet half of our marital assets.” A collective gasp swept through the room. She’s lost it. Caleb slammed his phone down and strode over. “Bella, enough!” he hissed, his eyes narrowed with genuine fury. He wasn’t mad that I’d lost—he was mad that I was ruining his neat, contained plan. I glanced at him, then back at Tiffany. “You wanted to play big, Tiffany. I’m playing to the end.” Tiffany’s eyes were filled with a wild mix of caution and insatiable greed. “I… I don’t have the capital for that.” “You can borrow it,” I said, finishing her thought for her. “From your CEO.” Caleb squinted at me, calculating. “Are you certain, Bella? If you lose this, you have no financial footing left.” He knew exactly how much was in that personal trust. “I am certain,” I stated, cutting the air with the finality of the words. Marcus rushed forward to intervene. “Ms. Bella, please! Don’t let the adrenaline control you!” “It’s just a game!” a chorus of other managers pleaded. Just a game. The perfect cover for all their malice. Tiffany looked at Caleb, playing the innocent damsel. “Caleb, can I borrow that much?” Caleb was silent for a few heavy seconds, then his lips stretched into a cruel, patronizing smile. “Yes.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, his voice softening, attempting a familiar intimacy. “Don’t worry, darling. If you lose, I’ll take care of you. You can take an early maternity leave, quit worrying about the company, and just focus on the baby.” The words were gentle, but the knife was already twisting. His goal was laid bare: to push me out of the company so he and Tiffany could take complete control. I scoffed, my eyes focusing on Attorney Reyes. “Please call a third-party notary. Redraft the agreement, to be signed now.” I looked at Caleb and Tiffany. “And this final hand will be Heads-Up. Just the two of us. No partners.” Caleb and Tiffany exchanged a panicked look. Without Marcus’s help, the risk was enormous. I gave a cold laugh. “What’s the matter? Are you scared, Tiffany, without Caleb and Marcus to help you with the signals?” Tiffany’s face went crimson. “I’m not scared! I just won a full house on my own!” I smiled, tossing the pen toward the freshly printed agreement. Caleb was furious but had no choice but to sign as the guarantor. Attorney Reyes and the notary set up a camera, ensuring the entire process was documented and legally sound. Everyone else was pushed back five meters. The table was cleared. Tiffany sat across from me, her composure completely gone. “Let’s begin.” I shuffled and dealt the cards. This final hand was slow, deliberate. Tiffany was twitchy, looking frequently over my shoulder. I played blind. I didn’t set my cards in a traditional rack, laying them flat on the table, face up. I forced Tiffany to guess my hand. Her eyes kept darting to the far distance where Caleb stood. Caleb was making subtle hand gestures, but he was hesitant—it was too high-stakes, and he couldn’t see my cards to be certain of his advice. I drew the last card I needed. My heart leaped, but I didn’t move. I looked up at Tiffany, giving her a slow, predatory smile. “Tiffany, do you know why Caleb has been helping you all night?” She froze, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and fear. “It’s not because you’re young or pretty,” I whispered. “It’s because he thinks you’re stupid.” Her face drained of color. “You’re talking nonsense! Just play the card!” I gave a gentle tug at the corner of my lips. “We’ll know soon enough.” Tap. I revealed the card in my hand. It was the Ace of Spades.

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Five years cut off. Five years of hauling bodies. Finally, I had the down payment for my own place. I was waiting for my final paycheck when I ran straight into my brother, Cole. He was there picking out a plot for his adopted sister’s dead dog. Our eyes locked. In the kind of unspoken truce we’d mastered years ago, we both looked away instantly. It wasn’t until my boss handed me the ten-thousand-dollar cash envelope that Cole let out a low, scornful chuckle. “Well, Skylar,” he sneered, looking me up and down. “Five years gone, and you’re actually doing okay for yourself.” I glanced at the black card clutched in his hand. “It’s fine,” I countered, my voice flat. “Still not as comfortable as Willow Reed’s dog.” A million-dollar burial plot, and he hadn’t even blinked. Meanwhile, the total price for my small condo was just thirty thousand. My brother’s voice tightened, a familiar, awkward attempt at dominance. “I know you were never meant for a rough life. Apologize now, and I’ll let you come home.” I shook my head, carefully tucking the cash deep into my jeans pocket. I’d already contacted the agent. Any minute now, I would have a home that was truly mine. 1 I left the mortuary and headed to meet my real estate agent, Sarah Lane. On the way, I stopped and bought a small celebratory cake. Sarah was genuinely kind. I’d dragged her to see countless properties over the years, only to back out at the last minute for one reason or another. Now that it was finally settled, the cake felt like the right way to share the relief and joy. I hadn’t walked far from the bakery before a hand clamped down on my wrist from behind. I gasped, startled. The cake slipped from my grasp, hitting the sidewalk and shattering into a messy pile of frosting and crumbs. Furious, I spun around—and crashed, eyes wide open, into Cole’s dark, rigid gaze. I froze for a second. His tone was a whip-crack of cold steel. “You don’t have anything you need to explain to me?” Frustration instantly boiled up. I yanked my arm free. “Explain what?” He pursed his lips and scanned me from head to toe. “You are a Jensen. How can you work in a mortuary? You might not find it disgusting, but I’m worried you’ll bring bad luck to Mom and me.” I dropped to a crouch to inspect the ruined cake. “Then stay away from me if you’re so worried about bad luck,” I shot back. “I’m earning an honest living. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He grabbed my wrist again, forcefully pulling me upright. “Skylar, why do you insist on talking to me like this? You’re the one who walked away five years ago. You still can’t get over it?” My patience was gone. I tore my hand away. “You’re the one who can’t get over it!” “Cole Jensen, we cut off all ties. Can you just leave me alone?” His face went completely dark. “Mom is sick. She talks about you constantly. How can you be so heartless? Do you have any conscience?” Now I was the heartless one. Five years ago, Willow had deliberately sicced her dog, Apollo, on my cat, Milo, killing him. I’d only hit the dog once in my grief, and Cole had slapped me. “Apollo is just a dog,” he’d roared then. “He doesn’t know any better. How can you be so cruel?” I’d been hysterical, sobbing, turning to my mother for comfort. Instead, she’d drenched me with a bucket of cold water. “That stray cat you brought back from the country has scratched up all the furniture. It’s dead, so it’s dead. What are you crying for?” Those two sentences were the final, crushing blow. That’s when I’d decided to leave and sever all ties. Cole’s face was still set in a scowl. “It was such a small thing. Does it really merit this reaction?” Small thing? Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to let him see them fall. Milo’s death was just the ignition. The final straw that broke me. From the moment I was brought back to that house—the house I was supposed to have been born in—Willow had been a constant source of torment. And my own mother and brother had never once stood by me. Willow claimed I stole her money. They searched my room, frisked me. Even when they found nothing, they never made her apologize. Because I had lived in the country for twenty years, my hands were often chapped and raw, and my face easily flushed red in the cold. Willow took photos of me and posted them in the class group, leading the ridicule. I was twenty and deeply self-conscious. Hiding my swollen, cracked hands behind my back, I finally lost it and kicked her in the chest. That was the only time I’d ever physically fought back. The result? That night, Mom made me kneel in the snow and write “I’m sorry” one hundred times. My affection for them had been a candle burning brightly when I first returned home. Over three years, it had slowly, painfully guttered out. Milo’s death gave me the resolve I needed to leave. I dropped out of the elite prep school and entered the workforce. As I walked out the door, Cole’s face was thunderous, his voice cold with threat: “Think carefully. You are nothing without this family. One word from me, and you won’t even be able to find a job.” I didn’t say a word. I just took the two worn suitcases I’d brought from the country. After that, the long, brutal search for work began. True to his word, Cole had me blacklisted. No matter what job I landed, I was fired within two months. The reasons were always vague, always different. But it only took a year for me to figure out a loophole. Mortuary transport: Five hundred dollars per body. It was grim, taboo work, but I was good at it. In four years, after all my expenses, I had saved up enough cash. I was satisfied. Cole stood before me, his expression the same furious, controlling mask he wore the day I left. Looking at him, a wave of cold revulsion rose from the pit of my stomach. “The heartless ones are the people you choose to protect. From now on, let’s pretend we’re strangers.” I bent down, finally collected the pieces of the broken cake, and walked away. His cold, cutting voice floated after me. “No matter what, you are not working that job anymore. Willow is a member of the Bellevue Animal Protection League. Look at you, Skylar. A disgrace.” 2 I ignored him, tossed the ruined cake into a nearby trash can, and bought two coffees. The encounter had made me late, but Sarah smiled brightly when I finally arrived. “Skylar, here’s the contract. Take a look.” I handed her a coffee, feeling a flush of guilt. “Sorry I held you up. I meant to get you a cake, but it was… ruined by a dog on the way here.” Her smile didn’t waver. She was a master of professionalism. “Good things take time! Let’s call it fate.” Warmed by her kindness, I picked up the contract. I didn’t truly understand the legalese, but a transaction this huge—this monumental step toward my freedom—felt like it needed time and careful attention. The Jensen house had never felt safe, only like a place of dependency. Owning my own home had become an obsession after the cut-off. Sarah waited patiently until I finished. She handed me a pen. “Sign when you’re ready.” I nodded, reaching for the pen, when her phone suddenly rang. “Company call,” she mouthed, smiling, and tapped ‘answer.’ The next second, she went completely rigid. “Fired? What… what did I do wrong?” A terrible premonition flooded me. My stomach clenched. Sure enough. When Sarah hung up, her eyes were instantly wet, her face blotchy with tears. “Ms. Jensen, you have such a powerful brother, one who can ruin my career with a few words. Why were you wasting my time looking at properties?” My pupils contracted in horror. I quickly tried to explain. “I cut off all ties with them years ago! That was Cole Jensen, and he—” “I think you’re just messing with me!” She leaped to her feet. Furiously, she snatched the contract from my hands. She reached for the coffee, intending to splash it on me, but ultimately just slammed the cup against the wall near my feet. The tea bucket burst open, splattering the floor. I tried one last time to explain. I opened my mouth, but she was already out the door. I stood there for a long time, stunned. Finally, I pulled out my phone and called Cole. He answered instantly. I couldn’t control the rage in my voice. “What the hell do you want! Fine, you want to mess with me, but the agent was innocent!” “Sister…” Willow’s soft voice answered from the receiver. “Brother is busy arranging for Apollo’s ashes. Tell me what you need.” 3 I had nothing to say to Willow. I was about to hang up when she spoke again. “To be honest, Sis, I forgave you a long time ago.” “Brother and Mom really miss you. Why don’t you just come home?” Then, Cole’s voice cut in. “Who is it?” “It’s Sky. I’m telling her to come home.” “Put on speaker.” I swore under my breath and hung up the phone decisively. I decided I had to try one last time. I went to the real estate company. Sarah was gone. I found the owner and explained, in painful detail, my relationship with Cole. I begged him not to fire Sarah, insisting that I was the reason for the trouble. The owner looked troubled. “Your brother offered a very high settlement for her departure. It’s actually a good thing for Sarah. She can still find another job, but now she has a generous payout.” The implication was clear: Sarah was not coming back. I felt like I’d been plunged into ice water. My blood ran cold. Once again, I realized that confronting Cole meant utter, humiliating defeat. After a long moment, I pressed my lips together and asked, “That condo. Can I still buy it?” “That one was purchased by Mr. Jensen. He bought up that unit and several similar ones nearby. They’re all reserved.” The owner pulled out two marketing flyers and handed them to me. “Ms. Jensen, you might want to look at these developments. The prices are comparable, but the location is a little further out…” “I’ll take this one.” I tapped a random spot on one of the flyers. Then, I pulled out the ten thousand dollars I had just been paid and handed it to him. In my line of work, there was a superstition: dealing with so much spiritual cash required real currency to keep things grounded. That’s why I was always paid in bills. Perhaps he hadn’t seen this before. The owner looked at me strangely, pulled out a cash counter, and verified the money. Then, he pushed the contract across the desk. This time, I didn’t read it. I flipped directly to the last page and signed. The owner hesitated. “This one’s down payment is twenty thousand more. Are you sure you looked it over?” “Yes. Give me some time. The deposit is paid; I’m not running away.” The owner sighed. “I don’t understand you and Mr. Jensen. You’re family. Why go to all this trouble?” Middle-aged men always feel the need to offer advice. I didn’t want to hear it. I grabbed my bag, walked out, and called my boss at the mortuary. “I’m coming in today.” He sounded surprised. “I thought you needed a couple of days off?” “I don’t. I won’t be taking any time off for the next two months.” “Alright, come on in as usual.” I hung up and contacted Sarah. She wouldn’t answer my calls, so I sent her a barrage of texts, apologizing profusely. I must have sent a dozen “I’m sorry” messages. Finally, she replied with a single sentence: [Forget it. Let’s pretend we never met.] Any further messages I sent received the dreaded red exclamation point. I stared at the phone for a long time before heading to work that afternoon. The funeral home was quiet. As I walked in, I saw Willow and Mom. They were clutching an urn, sobbing hysterically. It must have been Apollo’s ashes. I calmly shifted my gaze and walked toward the work area. My boss had already told me I only had one body transfer scheduled. I located the deceased’s family and, with a coworker, prepared to lift the body. Just as we were about to lower him into the casket, Cole’s voice exploded behind me. “Skylar Jensen! What are you still doing here?” Before I could react, he grabbed my arm with immense force. My grip slipped. The body fell with a sickening thud. It hit the floor face-first. 4 The deceased’s head cracked open. He must have died recently, as the blood hadn’t clotted. A thick, scarlet pool began to spread slowly. The sight was gruesome and terrifying. The mortuary fell deathly silent. No one had anticipated this chaos. Then, the deceased’s family reacted. “You trash! What did you do?!” The lead man’s eyes went red with fury. He lunged and kicked me in the lower back. I stumbled back several steps, collapsing painfully onto the floor. Before I could get up, two women surrounded me, slapping me from both sides. “You bitch! You cracked my father’s skull! What kind of monster are you?” The blows landed hard. My forehead was slick with cold sweat. I quickly covered my head with my arms. “Stop it!” Cole shouted, pushing the two women aside and shielding me. “She didn’t do it on purpose! You can’t assault her!” The enraged family wasn’t listening. They instantly swarmed Cole. His bodyguards rushed in. The scene erupted into utter chaos. My boss quickly stepped in to apologize and offer compensation. But the family was relentless, and Cole’s attitude was still cold and rigid. The situation was escalating out of control. I gripped my aching lower back and forced myself up. Then, with a painful thump, I dropped to my knees before the body. “It was my fault. Please, stop fighting!” After saying this, I bowed, pressing my forehead to the floor nine times in a loud, painful ritual. Then, I took a Ritual Atonement Marker from the boss—a packet of ceremonial paper—and lit it on the spot. This was a grave spiritual gesture, a public penance meant to spiritually compensate the deceased and his family for the desecration. Seeing the fire and the absolute nature of my submission, the family’s rage subsided slightly. Mom quickly stumbled over, apologizing profusely and offering a generous financial settlement. Her attitude was solicitous, and her offer was tempting. The family finally relented. They screamed a few final insults at me and then, pulling the casket, they left. The second they were gone, Cole grabbed my arm, his voice raw with urgency. “I told you to quit this job! Look at you! Let me see, are you hurt?” I pushed his hand away, my face expressionless. Then, I picked up a nearby ceremonial staff. Before anyone could react, I lunged forward and brought the staff down hard onto Apollo’s urn! CRACK! A loud, sharp sound. The urn shattered. The ashes of that cruel dog scattered across the floor. I didn’t stop. My eyes blazing, I brought the staff down again and again. “Skylar—” Willow shrieked and rushed at me. My eyes narrowed. I swung the staff directly at her! “Willow!” Cole screamed, rushing to cover her. The staff cracked against his back with a sickening force. He gasped, a strangled sound of pain, his face instantly draining of color. Mom stared in shock, then yelled at the two bodyguards. “Are you blind?! Stop Skylar now!” Before I could swing a second time, the bodyguards had me pinned. They ripped the staff from my hands. I glared at Cole, my heart pounding with hatred. “You agreed to the cut-off, but you still provoke me everywhere I go!” “What do you want from me? What will it take for you to finally stop forcing me into the dirt?” Cole’s forehead was covered in cold sweat. Before he could speak, Mom slapped me across the face. “I knew it! You’ve never let go of that silly incident! You have such a fierce temper, Skylar! Such a small heart!” “How could I have given birth to a daughter like you!” Ignoring the stinging on my cheek, I let out a mocking, cold laugh. “I stopped being your daughter a long time ago.” “Shut up! Don’t provoke Mom further!” Cole roared. He then turned to my boss, who was still standing there, stunned. “Skylar is my sister. I forbid her from working here. As of right now, she’s terminated!” “By what right do you make that decision for me?” I wanted to leap at him, to slap him until his face was as bruised as my own. The boss looked from Cole to me, then sighed. “Resolve your family issues outside. Skylar caused a major incident; she would have been fired regardless.” My heart chilled, freezing completely. “Let go!” Knowing the fight was useless here, I ripped free of the bodyguards and ran out. I had to call the police.

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I was the youngest tenured professor at the City Medical School, but five years ago, my wife’s testimony sent me to prison, where I became a convicted rapist. After my release, I scavenged for scraps, fighting stray dogs in the junkyards. I was a mangled, bleeding mess, often sleeping in ditches beside the dead. I curled up in the sludge, agonizing over the throbbing bites on my limbs, lost to the current of the putrid water. I opened my eyes to see a sleek black sedan gliding toward me. My wife, Genevieve—Gen. Five years gone, and she emerged—serene, pristine, her body already showing the curve of a pregnancy. Beside her sat Marcus, the scholarship student I’d personally mentored. In the back, my daughter, Sadie, covered her nose, her eyes wide with undisguised disgust. I staggered up, sludge dripping from my limbs, then crawled toward Gen, a sickeningly eager smile plastered on my face. “My dearest Gen. I’ve learned my lesson…” She watched me with the satisfied air of someone admiring a successfully broken animal. “You wouldn’t have learned without consequences, Alistair. Now that you know how to behave, come home.” I slammed my head on the ground in gratitude. But as I reached for the car door, Sadie kicked my hand away with her patent leather shoe. My hand froze mid-air. “Leave it, Alistair,” Gen said coolly. “You can walk back.” Once inside the estate gates, I became their most obedient mongrel. By day, I protected their home and performed humiliating tricks that had them roaring with laughter. At night, I knelt by their bed, ensuring their comfort, and afterward, wiping the sweat from their bodies with warm cloths. It continued until the anniversary of my parents’ death. Gen casually informed me that Marcus had my parents’ resting place bulldozed to make way for a cheap amusement park. Then, he ordered me to take the fall for his criminal workplace harassment suit. I didn’t hesitate. I simply nodded. I saw a flicker—a true, deep shock—in Gen’s eyes. “Alistair,” she whispered. “Don’t you hate me?” Hate? It was the blood in my veins. But I knew the truth: I had to be their most obedient mongrel. Only then would I get close enough to sink my teeth into their throats. … I managed to conjure the eager, fawning smile. “They’re dead. What good is hate now?” “My master is calling. Time for my daily entertainment routine. Care to join, mistress?” Gen’s expression instantly froze, a trace of confusion in her eyes. I was only repeating her old words. Five years ago, when Marcus framed me for assaulting her younger sister, using planted fluids and hair as ‘evidence,’ Marcus had driven my parents to suicide. I lost my last vestige of sanity and went for Marcus with a knife, but the police were already waiting. In the visitation room, Gen’s voice had been light, dismissive. “They’re dead. Why cause a fuss?” That was the moment I realized my wife had utterly, completely betrayed me. The girl who once swore tearfully to love me forever had been dead long before I went to prison. Gen’s expression softened. “I spent the last few months wondering if this was all a cynical act. But your spirit truly has been broken.” Marcus walked in, looping an arm around her shoulder. “He’s learned to keep his head down, Gen. You always hated how arrogant and self-righteous Professor Alistair was. Besides, Sadie loves her new daddy, doesn’t she?” He emphasized the last two words, testing the air between us. At the sound of that, Sadie suddenly hurled the pair of craft scissors in her hand directly at me. “He’s not my daddy! A rapist doesn’t deserve to be!” The metal sliced the skin near my eye. My vision instantly blossomed with red, but I didn’t flinch. Gen’s voice was sharp. “Sadie!” My daughter bit her lip and turned away, but her eyes were still full of challenge. I picked up the scissors, dusted them off, and held them out. She slapped my hand away. “Filthy! I don’t want them!” Gen frowned, then looked at the line of blood tracing my left cheek. “Go clean up your cut, Alistair. I’ll speak to Sadie.” I offered a servile smile. “Mistress, you honor me, but a man like me is not worth the trouble of changing your daughter’s mind.” “You…” Gen trailed off, her brow furrowed. She couldn’t understand how I could so calmly accept the venom of the girl I once adored. Sadie glared at me, her lips silently forming the word: Animal. I pretended not to see, bowing to gather the props for the day’s entertainment. Marcus’s polished leather shoe came down on my hand, grinding the bones against the wood floor. “Perform well, Professor. You look far better kneeling than you ever did lecturing.” Pain shot up my arm, turning my face crimson. Sweat beaded on my forehead. “Yes, Master.” I’ll give them a show, all right. I just wonder if they’ll still be laughing when the final curtain drops. Marcus enjoyed the daily entertainment ritual. His low-life cronies, whom he now called friends, loved it too. “Marcus, you’re something else! Not only did you score a rich wife, but her famous ex-husband is your obedient dog!” “He was supposed to be the medical field’s rising star, and look at him now.” Marcus blew a smoke ring, his laughter mocking. Just then, Gen’s tired voice drifted out from the house. “That’s enough for today, Marcus. Let him rest.” Marcus’s face instantly hardened, his eyes blazing with fury at me. “Tired?” I immediately prostrated myself on the ground, forehead pressed to the dirt. “N-no, Master. Not tired.” I couldn’t be tired. Last time, Gen had carelessly mentioned the old injury on my right hand from prison. That night, Marcus had me tied in the garden and used a pair of pliers to slowly, deliberately break each of my fingers. Ten fingers. I passed out three times. Marcus’s cold voice ripped me from the memory. “Good. Not tired.” He slowly walked up, grabbed a handful of my hair, and yanked my head up. “I spent five years making sure you were ‘specially looked after’ in prison, Alistair. You were expensive labor, but I finally got my obedient dog.” My pupils constricted. Five years. As a convicted rapist, I was the bottom of the hierarchy. At first, it was just isolation and beatings. Then, I became the forced object of compliance. The countless tortures—the sheer degradation—made me repeatedly cut my wrists, just to feel the clear, cleansing pain of my own blood and know I was still alive. I cannot die. Not yet. Not before revenge. When I gave no response, Marcus abruptly lifted his foot and stomped hard on my head. My face sank into the dirt, my nostrils filled with mud and the metallic scent of blood. The men’s laughter and whistles erupted around me. Just then, Gen stepped out, saw me groveling in the dirt, and merely sighed. Marcus spun around, pulling her close. “Gen, you shouldn’t be walking around with the baby. I worry about you.” His voice was all honey and possessive pride. They left. Moments later, I felt a sudden, warm splash on my head. A vile, hot liquid streamed down my face and into my mouth. The stench of urine, metallic and sour. The chorus of laughter exploded again. I closed my eyes, remaining perfectly still. The next day, Gen hosted a lavish dinner party to celebrate Marcus’s promotion to Senior Partner at his law firm. I was assigned to drive them. Midway through the journey, Marcus instructed me to pull over in a remote area, then ordered me out to fetch Sadie. I caught his smirk in the rearview mirror. “Go get Sadie. Don’t be late.” I heard the tearing sound of Gen’s dress as I got out, but I didn’t look back. I hailed a cab for the school. Sadie’s smile vanished the moment she saw me walk through the school gate. “Mistress sent me to fetch you, Miss Sadie.” She frowned, her voice dripping with utter distaste. “Why you?” She threw her backpack, slamming it into my chest. Her classmates glanced over. “Hey, isn’t that her dad? The one who went to jail…” Sadie’s face turned scarlet. She glared at me, then turned and ran. “Go away! You’re disgusting!” As I watched her run, I remembered the years when she wouldn’t sleep unless I tucked her in, when she spent twenty-four hours a day glued to my side. Now, I was a dirty stray she wanted to shoo away. Seeing them play the role of the perfect family, hearing her call another man ‘Daddy,’ caused a familiar, dull ache in my anesthetized heart. She had been my world since the day she was born. When I finally arrived at the restaurant, Marcus was surrounded by well-wishers, raising their glasses. He caught sight of me and his eyes lit up. He waved me forward. “Just in time! Our good Professor Alistair is a man of many talents. Come, entertain the guests!” His voice was loud, ensuring the entire hall heard. The guests chuckled. I stood rooted, my blood turning to ice. Gen sat at the main table, lightly swirling her wine glass, refusing to meet my eyes. “What’s wrong? Reluctant?” Marcus raised an eyebrow. I immediately obliged, performing a ridiculous, clumsy routine that sent the crowd into fits of laughter. I saw several familiar faces, including some students I had funded over the years. After the performance, Gen suddenly asked the waiter to add a chair. “Alistair, come sit and eat with us.” I froze, and the juggling bottle slipped, shattering on the marble. Instinct took over. Before Marcus could even open his mouth, I was on my knees. My kneecaps slammed down onto the broken glass. “I apologize, Master.” My head was bowed, my voice trembling. The patrons watched in scorn as the former medical professor knelt like a dog, picking up shards of glass for his wife’s lover. Marcus laughed—a cruel, sharp sound that sliced the sudden silence. “See, Gen? You try to be kind to him, and he refuses to accept it. Some people are just born to grovel. They’re only comfortable on their knees.” Gen didn’t respond. She simply stared at me, her expression complicated. I gathered the last piece of glass, stood up with bloodied hands, and bowed deeply. “Master, Mistress. I will go treat the injury now.” Late that night, I was in the utility closet, cleaning the shards from my hands. I looked up at the mirror—my face, gaunt and pale, looked spectral. I turned around. Gen was standing behind me. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me from behind. “Marcus has been excessive lately, Alistair. Try not to hate him for it.” I lowered my eyes. “Mistress, you exaggerate. Master has been nothing but kind.” Gen was silent for a few seconds. “Alistair, I sent you away for five years to teach you obedience.” She sighed. “But this… this isn’t you anymore.” I almost laughed aloud. When I used to fight Marcus, I was met with Gen’s scolding. That Alistair, she’d said, was too abrasive, making her feel insecure. Now she had succeeded in beating me into an obedient dog, stripping away everything she once disliked. And now, she missed the old me. I looked at her reflection in the mirror and forced a hollow smile. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Gen’s pupils contracted slightly. Her hands searched my ribs, her voice hollow. “You’re nothing but bone… There’s no light left in your eyes.” The utility closet door flew open. Marcus stood there, his face thunderous. “What are you doing?” Gen immediately released me and spun toward him. “Marcus, I just came to tell Alistair that Sadie woke up and is asking for his rice porridge.” She tugged him away, perhaps her fleeting moment of guilt having saved me from punishment. As he left, Marcus looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and complex. I knew. Things were about to get much worse. The next morning, I carefully approached Marcus. “Master, what entertainment would you like today?” Marcus slowly ate his breakfast, barely glancing up. “No show today. You’re coming with me.” My heart plummeted. I instinctively looked at Gen, sitting beside him. She kept her head down, a silent nod of consent. What was I expecting? “Yes, Master.” I lowered my head, my voice flat. The car left the affluent neighborhood and drove onto the highway. The scenery outside became desolate. The familiar route, like a needle of ice, slowly pierced the depths of my memory. This was the road to my parents’ cemetery. My breathing hitched—a tiny, traitorous intake of air—but I forced it smooth. In the rearview mirror, Marcus watched me, his smile widening, the pleasure radiating off him like heat. “What’s wrong, Alistair? Remembering something?” His tone was light, like a predator toying with its prey. “No, Master,” I whispered. Marcus laughed. “Don’t worry. You will soon enough.” The car stopped at the gate of the abandoned, overgrown cemetery. I barely had a foot on the ground before a crushing blow landed on the back of my head. The world tilted and spun. Several thick arms pinned me to the earth. I struggled to lift my head and saw the faces of the men who had owned me in prison for five years. The terror was instant, absolute. “Professor Alistair. Long time no see.” One man grinned, then swung a pre-positioned baseball bat down on my knee. CRACK! A loud, awful sound of bone shattering. Blood instantly surged into my throat, spilling from my lips. Seeing the blood, the others’ eyes flashed with excitement. They closed in. I felt like every bone in my body was being pulverized. Marcus stood a short distance away, idly playing on his phone. “Easy, boys. Don’t kill him. He still has to take the fall for me tomorrow.” They roared with laughter, pausing the assault. Then, exchanging knowing glances, they hauled me up. “Professor, we haven’t had a dog like you for a long time. Miss your old friends?” My body shook uncontrollably. I tried to beg, but I had no breath left. For the next hour, my body swayed with the impact of their blows. I was an empty shell, completely still, like a corpse. Soon, they found a new form of torture. They found a shovel. A minute later, one of them held up the urns. “No… Please, stop—” I fought, screaming, but my voice was useless. They forced my jaw open and began pouring the white, gritty ash into my mouth, mocking me. “Dogs love bones, Professor! Eat up!” My eyes rolled back. I retched, struggling violently, the tears mixing with the blood on my face. My sight turned black. My mind shattered. I faintly heard an engine. Gen’s car. She had come. Marcus quickly rushed over, instantly switching to a panicked expression. He clutched his own bloody arm. “Gen! What are you doing here? It’s dangerous!” “It’s Alistair’s old prison enemies. They came for revenge! You have to go!” Gen’s gaze landed on me. Her pupils contracted violently, but only for a second. She turned away, helping Marcus toward the car. As she walked, she paused. “Alistair, you… hold on. I have to get Marcus to the hospital. I’ll come back for you. Later.” The car sped away. I fell unconscious. I don’t know how long I was out. I woke to the vibration of my phone. A text from Gen. “Stay put. Someone will be there to pick you up.” I ignored it. Instead, with a finger caked in mud and blood, I dialed a number I’d kept hidden for five years. “It’s time. I have the ledger.” I closed my eyes again. The next day, just hours before he was due to take the fall for Marcus, Alistair was nowhere to be found. Marcus burst into the utility closet. His smile instantly vanished. “Where is Alistair?!”

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She was Seraphina Albright, the woman who traded a tenure track at The Claremont Institute—the kind of position people commit slow academic suicide for—to marry me. I was Ashton Cole, the man she’d chosen. The same hands that had snagged academia’s highest honors had made meals for me for three years. Everyone said she was madly in love with me. Until her research assistant, Jude Carver, formatted my core data right in front of my face. “What have you done?” My voice was a shaky whisper. He froze, utterly helpless, and Seraphina immediately stepped in front of him. “Jude didn’t mean to, Ash.” I stared at her hands—the hands that once held my victory trophy—now resting protectively on his shoulder. It was a searing, physical betrayal. Three years ago, my mother, gripping my hand tight from her sickbed, had rasped, “Ash, if you ever run into a wall, call her.” I took a ragged breath, the memory a ghost in the room, and pressed ‘Send’ on a message I’d drafted days ago. “Jude Carver, you are going to the inquiry board.” I spoke without raising my voice, yet the coldness made him flinch. He ducked behind Seraphina, plucking nervously at her sleeve. Seraphina frowned, easing me away from him. “Ash, stop it. You’re scaring him.” She turned, taking a seat at the main console, and started typing. I watched her back, my fists clenched tight enough to hurt. A few seconds later, she stopped. “Well?” I pressed. She stood, avoiding my eyes. “The data can’t be recovered.” The atmosphere in the lab instantly curdled into something toxic and heavy. I lunged forward, my punch aimed for Jude. Seraphina, a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, caught my arm with impossible ease and flung me aside. I stumbled, crashing into a heavy lab bench. She looked at me then, her eyes as frigid and detached as if I were a stranger. I stayed frozen where I stood. It was the first time she had ever looked at me that way. The lab door swung open just as Dr. Warren Carmichael’s booming, cheerful voice cut through the tension. “Ash Cole! I pushed my board meeting just for this! You finished the beast your mother couldn’t tame in three years. Truly, the apple didn’t fall far!” I quickly rearranged my face, trying to salvage the last scraps of my dignity. “Dr. Carmichael, I’m sorry. We’ve had a major incident with Project Triton. The sea trial is off for today.” “What kind of incident? Do you need our resources?” Seeing the genuine concern on his face only amplified my shame. Before I could offer a professional explanation, Jude blurted out, “The core control module data is just… gone.” “What?!” Dr. Carmichael’s volume shot up. A specialist quickly checked the system and his voice was ice. “Professor Cole, there are zero trace logs of the neural core algorithm running in the system’s underlayer. Academic credibility isn’t built on hypothetical data.” I spun around, stunned, to look at Seraphina. She was the only one who had touched the console. She was the only one with the skill to cleanly erase every trace. I looked at the eyes I used to drown in, and my voice came out trembling, unrecognizable. “Seraphina, why?” Every single person’s gaze was fixed on the two of us. She sighed and walked toward me, reaching out to take my hand, but I jerked away. Her hand hung in the air for a moment before she dropped it naturally, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Ash, I know I’ve been distant lately. I understand you’re upset.” She turned to the Dean, her tone laced with professional regret. “Dr. Carmichael, Ash has been under an immense amount of pressure. I think he may be experiencing some cognitive dissonance. The data might have only existed in his proposals.” “Seraphina, you’re lying.” I shrieked the words. “Jude did the format, and you, afterwards, wiped every single operation log and trace.” Jude fearfully scrambled behind Seraphina. She instinctively shifted her body, creating a barrier. That tiny, subconscious gesture was like a dagger twisting in my heart. Her expression shifted to one of sheer annoyance before settling into familiar, patronizing resignation. “Ash, let’s go home and talk about this, okay? You need to rest.” Dr. Carmichael looked utterly defeated. “Professor Cole, I will report the events of today exactly as they occurred. You are suspended from all duties pending a full investigation.” He and the others filed out. The remaining lab members quietly collected their things, avoiding my gaze, and melted away. Finally, it was just the three of us. I watched her protective stance over Jude and was suddenly thrown back three years to an image: Seraphina, black dress, gold medal, proclaiming on the stage, “My future is with him.” Now, it was clear her future had a different co-star. Seraphina opened her mouth as if to say something. I looked into her eyes, but I cut her off first. “Seraphina, we need to get a divorce.” She stepped forward, gripping my wrist without asking. “Ash, you need to cool down. You are not thinking straight.” I tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. “Stop this childishness. You are and always will be my husband.” She dragged me out, giving me no choice. Back at the house, the dining table was laid with all my favorite dishes. She served me meal, pushing the plate toward me, her demeanor eerily normal. “Eat something. You’ve lost weight.” “Seraphina,” I looked her straight in the eye. “Project Triton was my mother’s dying wish. It was my dream.” Her forks paused. She picked up a piece of asparagus and placed it on my plate. “The data is lost. With your ability, rebuilding it is only a matter of time.” Then came the knife. “But Jude just graduated. If this is pinned on him as a major accident, his life is over.” I couldn’t help the hysterical laughter that tore from my chest, and the tears that immediately followed. “His life is important, and mine isn’t? If the academic fraud is confirmed, my career is finished.” “I could go to prison, Sera. Have you thought about that?” Her expression faltered for just a split second. She reached out and gently wiped the tears from my cheek. “It won’t come to that. I will handle it. You are just exhausted. You need rest.” Watching her in complete, cold control made me feel overwhelmingly, impossibly weary. “I’m tired. I’m going up to rest.” My voice was flat, empty. She didn’t stop me. She only stood there, watching my back as I walked up the stairs, her gaze dark and complex. I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard the low thrum of her car starting downstairs. A half-hour later, a video came in on my phone from Jude Carver’s number. It was Seraphina, arms around him, soothing him, her expression a mask of gentle empathy. The video finished, and he instantly recalled it. A new message popped up right away. [Professor Cole, my apologies. Sent that to the wrong person.] I didn’t reply. I didn’t even look at it again. An hour later, I heard the door open and footsteps downstairs. Seraphina was back, quicker than I’d expected. As soon as she reached the stairs, her phone rang. She turned her back to me, her voice hushed. “What’s going on? Don’t panic, I’m on my way.” She hung up and immediately spun to leave. She stopped at the door, glancing back at me. “Something urgent came up at the lab. I have to go out.” “Don’t wait up.” I said nothing, just sat silently on the edge of the bed, watching her go. She didn’t return that night. My phone screen occasionally lit up. Picture after picture, short video after short video. Seraphina putting food on Jude’s plate in a restaurant. Jude leaning against her shoulder in the car. Under the harsh midnight light of the lab, the two of them bent side-by-side over a document, the space between them intimate and charged… Each time the screen glowed, it felt like a tiny blade slicing at an already numb heart. I thought I was past tears, but they silently began to fall again. The next afternoon, Jude showed up on my doorstep. I leaned against the doorframe, looking at him with utter indifference. My lack of reaction seemed to sting him. He tilted his chin up, a sneer forming. “Professor Cole, why the self-deception?” He curled his lip. “Whose heart Seraphina holds, who she held and comforted all night long—you still don’t get it?” “Clinging to a dead marriage—if you’re not exhausted, I am for you.” I watched him quietly until he was finished. Then I spoke, slowly. “Done? Then get out.” I slammed the front door with all my strength. Jude stared at the closed door, his eyes flashing with malice. “You’ll regret this, Ash Cole.” I looked down at the unanswered message thread on my phone, my fingers ice cold. Had my mother misremembered? Or had the contact simply vanished? Just as I prepared to try the number again, my Twitter feed erupted. #WestwoodWunderkindExposed: Academic Fraudster #ProjectTritonHead: The Professor and the Paramour #DidHeSleepHisWayToTheTop? I clicked through. My photos, my professional history, even my family background—all laid bare, paired with deeply inflammatory captions. A few comments defending me were swiftly buried beneath a torrent of insults and filth. The few brave souls who spoke up were quickly driven off. Then the School Oversight Office called. “Professor Cole, report to the school immediately for questioning.” I hung up and drove to the university. The lab’s soundproofing wasn’t great. As I reached the door, Seraphina’s voice drifted out. “Jude, I can overlook your childish impulses, but turning this into an online circus is too much.” “I’ve made arrangements. I’m sending you to the East Coast in three days. I will handle the university side. Go and finish your degree without worry.” “I’m not leaving.” “Sera, I was wrong. Just forgive me this once, okay? Please…” “Can you really bear for our baby to be born without a father?” I couldn’t stand it anymore. I shoved the door open violently. A flash of rare panic crossed Seraphina’s face. She instantly pushed Jude away and walked toward me. “Ash, wait, it’s not what you think…” My gaze dropped to her abdomen. No wonder she’d been inventing excuses to avoid me lately. She was pregnant. My voice was dead calm. “Misunderstand? Are you denying you’re carrying his child?” She looked like she’d been choked, frozen where she stood. I didn’t spare her another glance. I walked straight to my office area, scooped up my laptop, and turned to leave. I spent a full twenty-four hours in the Oversight Office before they released me. When I walked out, the online furor had vanished. As I descended the steps, a man in a baseball cap rushed at me. “Academic fraudster, you deserve to die!” A flash of steel. A fruit knife plunged into my abdomen. I clutched the wound, staggering back, my head hitting the ground with a sickening thud. When I next woke up, I was in the hospital. Seraphina was sitting by my bed, her eyes shadowed with dark circles, looking utterly exhausted. Seeing me awake, her lips parted, but no sound came out. My voice was raspy. “Just say it.” She was silent for a long time before speaking the difficult words. “The online news was already suppressed.” “But the video of your attack at the university gates was recorded, and it hit the trending list again. The public pressure is immense… The inquiry board hearing is in two days.” I barely registered anything but the words inquiry board hearing. I closed my eyes, saying nothing. “But don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She urgently tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away. “I’m tired. I want to rest.” I cut her off, closing my eyes again. Her outstretched hand froze mid-air. After a long moment, she let it fall, adjusted my blanket, and then left the room. Confirming she was gone, I slowly opened my eyes and looked at the phone on my pillow. [Mr. Cole, my apologies. The data cannot be recovered. You may request an alternative condition.] The last shred of hope in my heart shattered. Two days later, Seraphina came to pick me up. She gently straightened my collar, her gaze soft. “Ash, it will be fine. I’ve handled everything. It’s just a formality.” I barely managed a quiet “Mhm” and didn’t look at her again. The steps leading up to the courthouse were endless. I stopped, turning my head to Seraphina at my side. “Seraphina, I’ll be fine, right?” She paused for a brief second, then gripped my hand. “Of course. Trust me.” I stood before the inquiry panel. I handled every question with composure. Until my research results were displayed on the screen, and the authorship read, chillingly, Jude Carver. The blood froze in my veins. The only person who knew the full scope of those results was Seraphina. I snapped my head toward the spectator entrance. Empty. Just before the judge’s gavel was about to drop, the door flew open. Seraphina rushed in, late. My eyes were locked onto her. Her phone vibrated. She looked down at the screen, and her face instantly changed. My heart seized up. Then, under my pleading, desperate gaze, she turned and walked away. The door clicked shut quietly. The last sound in my world vanished. It took me a moment to realize where I was. My voice was a desperate, dry sound. “I request an immediate recess.” Trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. One ring, two rings… After the ninety-ninth ring, I finally gave up. Just then, a text message popped up. [Jude’s been kidnapped. It’s an emergency. I have to save him. Hold on, Ash, I’ll be right back.] Kidnapped? I stared at the words, and then a low laugh started in my throat. The laughter quickly turned into a violent cramp in my stomach. I doubled over, pressing my hands to the wound that hadn’t fully healed. So this was her ‘arrangement.’ She had abandoned me—again—for him. I looked down at the “alternative condition” text on my screen, edited a reply, and sent it back. When I stood on the panel again, my eyes were vacant. I stopped arguing. I stopped looking at anyone. I was ultimately sentenced to one year in prison. The next day, Seraphina came to visit. The look in her eyes held no guilt, only profound disappointment. “Ash, I never thought you’d sink this low—so malicious that you’d disregard a human life.” I froze, completely confused by her words. “I promised to send him away, but you still found someone to kidnap him. You are truly disappointing.” I weakly tried to explain. “It wasn’t me…” She cut me off, her voice sharp and cold. “Ash, the evidence is irrefutable. When you do wrong, you pay the price.” A few days later, a new sentencing document arrived. My one-year term was extended to five years. Two weeks passed before Eliza Holt appeared at the visitation window. “Mr. Cole. I am the person you contacted.” She passed me a file. “Your abilities fit our Institute’s requirements.” “If you join, your current identity will be erased. The world will no longer know an Ashton Cole.” I took the file, and my answer was instantaneous, requiring almost no thought. “I accept.” A week later, the news of my death from illness in prison spread. Sitting on the plane, I watched the coastal lights of San Valencia shrink to glittering pinpricks. Goodbye, Seraphina. Goodbye, my past.

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Bella Maxwell, the undisputed queen of Blackwood Academy, cornered me by the lockers, demanding to know why I’d left the final question of the calculus exam blank. “Don’t try to pretend you know how,” she asserted, her voice layered with condescension. “Only a handful of people—and I mean only me—could crack that problem. Just admit it, Reed.” That single, arrogant sentence put five thousand dollars into my bank account. My deskmate, Tess Riley, immediately chimed in. “Yeah, stop lying, you Swamp Thing. Always putting on airs.” Another five thousand dollars. I had meticulously curated this role—the ugly, gap-toothed, low-achieving liar—and relied on their daily barrage of scorn and insults. It had allowed me to quietly amass $14.8 million. I continued to play the part. Until the day world-renowned artist and choreographer Corinne Sinclair arrived at school for an exclusive audition, insisting that all male participants be completely bare-faced. Jax Donovan, the resident football star and supposed school heartthrob, smirked with open malice. “Better skip this one, Asher. You don’t want to scare Corinne Sinclair away, do you?” Only I knew how catastrophically wrong they were about to be. 1 I was sixteen when I discovered my ability to monetize malice. I had missed the freshman orientation and retreat due to a sudden illness. By the time I returned to class, the rumor that I was “the ugly kid” had already spread through the entire grade. Jax Donovan and his entourage were the primary sources. “Asher Reed? Yeah, I went to middle school with him,” Jax told his buddies, loud enough for me to hear. “The kid practically lived under a baseball cap and a mask. Guess he knew he couldn’t show his face.” Someone beside him always agreed. “Right? Jax is the school’s golden boy. The fact that the Gargoyle was even in the same building was a privilege. Gross that he followed Jax here for high school, too.” The rumors evolved. It started with me crushing on the most popular girl. Then, somehow, it morphed into me having a secret, sickening crush on Jax himself. I did nothing, said nothing, yet two days into the school year, I had forty thousand dollars deposited into my account. I tracked the amount—it corresponded precisely to four distinct insults aimed at me. Because Jax had established the narrative first, no one ever considered that my appearance was a disguise. I was simply the “Gargoyle” who’d followed the “Golden Boy.” I had operated this peculiar, profitable system for nine hundred and sixty-four days. The balance in my bank account was a number most people wouldn’t see in a lifetime. When I looked at that number, the vile words seemed less important. They weren’t insults; they were a program executing a transaction. I reorganized my life around it. I woke up at four a.m., two hours before everyone else. I spent ninety minutes on my studies and the remaining thirty on meticulously applying the “ugly mask”—the careful arrangement of makeup, hair, and clothing that would reliably provoke the insults and trigger the deposits. For a kid who had to budget every meal, the money was useful. A few words wouldn’t hurt me; my psychological tolerance was high. Besides, in three months, I would graduate, and my life would diverge completely from theirs. 2 Today, Tess Riley brought in a new “Ugly Guy Leaderboard.” My stolen, unflattering photo sat at the top, marked with a huge, angry red ‘X.’ “Congratulations, Asher Reed,” she drawled, her voice a sickly sweet imitation of a TV host. “You’ve clinched number one again.” She turned to the students in the front row. “What can I say? The Swamp Thing is a natural-born winner.” Jax Donovan threw his head back and laughed. I glanced at the photo and tried to focus on my notes. The final college-prep mock exam results had just been posted. Bored students had started a “Guy Rating Scorecard,” and as it circulated, I was consistently awarded the lowest score: two points. In their cruel, coded slang, two points was the rating for “The Gargoyle.” Tess, my deskmate, snatched the form and tossed it onto my desk. “Can’t be helped. Your teeth jut out, your skin is like asphalt, and your personality is worse. I lost a bet, otherwise I wouldn’t sit next to you.” Last month, I’d been accused of cheating. My test paper and Jax’s had suspiciously identical answers, down to the punctuation. I sat in front of him, and my average scores were always better. But Jax had only to wrinkle his nose and squeeze out a few crocodile tears—he had eyes that weirdly resembled the famous TikToker “A.R. Sings”—and the girls immediately decided I must have copied him. The scandal only died when the Math department head found the definitive proof: a complex problem involving the Greek letter Beta (β) that only I had solved correctly. But after that, the negative chatter only intensified. I went from an overlooked nobody to their definite “Swamp Thing” or “The Rat.” The small harassments started: being locked in a bathroom stall and having a bucket of dirty mop water poured over me, or simply walking past the art wing and setting off a chorus of mocking catcalls and invented rumors about me crushing on one of the cheerleaders. Teenagers are brilliant storytellers, and their vocabulary of cruelty grew daily. Anyone else would have crumbled. I remained perfectly calm. 3 My score on the first mock exam put me second in the entire school. The only person ahead of me was Bella Maxwell, the Dean’s daughter, an accomplished violinist who already had an acceptance letter from Juilliard. But she insisted on taking the college exams, and until then, she’d been the undisputed number one. Since I no longer needed to work odd jobs, I had more time to study, and my scores had finally closed the gap. Sera and I began trading the top spot. I checked my score, confirmed I was well within range for my target school, and started to pack up. Rank didn’t matter to me. But after class, Sera came looking for me. “Asher Reed, the Queen wants a word,” Jax informed me, a venomous edge of jealousy in his tone. I met his gaze and walked out into the hall. The familiar ‘+5,000’ dinged in my head. Sera stood leaning against the wall. Even in the plain school uniform, she looked immaculate, her gold-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on her nose. Her brow immediately furrowed when she saw me. “Asher, why didn’t you attempt the final problem on the calculus section?” I recalled the question. I had solved that exact derivative three times the previous week. I had a rule: if I’ve solved a difficult problem twice, I won’t waste time writing it out again. I told her simply, “I was being efficient.” Her frown deepened, and she reached out, grabbing my wrist. “You can have bad character, Reed, but don’t lie about your intelligence,” she said, her eyes, magnified behind the lenses, were ice-cold. “I spent twenty minutes on that problem. In this entire school, I’m the only one with the capacity to solve it.” She delivered her verdict. “You just couldn’t do it. Don’t make excuses.” Tess followed us out, backing her up. “She’s right, Asher. You’re desperate to save face.” I didn’t know how to respond to such absolute, unshakeable arrogance. Just then, Jax burst out of the classroom, practically vibrating with excitement. “Guys, the National Dance Fellowship is holding an unprecedented audition at our school!” 4 “The notice says this is a fast-track invitation!” Jax waved a flier. “If you get selected, you’re guaranteed a fellowship and a chance to share the stage with Corinne Sinclair!” Corinne Sinclair was an icon. She achieved fame young, studied in Vienna at seven, and was internationally known by fourteen. She was stunningly beautiful and universally acknowledged as an artistic genius. Her immense fame, however, had led to a serious invasion of her privacy. She had retreated to the relative quiet of our state, rarely appearing in public. Jax clutched the flier, his voice ringing with fervor. “Corinne Sinclair… If I could just be on the same stage as her, even as an extra, I’d die happy!” A few boys reached for the flier, but Tess swatted their hands away. “Look at yourselves. This is clearly for Jax. Don’t waste your time. You want to dance with Corinne? Dream on.” Jax lifted his chin, already certain of his success. “I’ll be sure to hand out signed photos later.” Tess instantly fawned. “Oh, Jax, when you’re famous, promise you won’t forget me.” It was only then that Jax seemed to notice me. “Oh, Asher Reed. You’re still here.” He smiled—an awful, fake amiability. “Are you going to try out? The notice says all boys are required to attend. You can sign up with me.” Before I could answer, Tess cut in. “Him? The Fellowship is looking for dancers, not… cautionary tales. Don’t embarrass the class, Asher.” Jax chuckled, a sound like scraping metal. “Yeah, man, you need to know your limits. You definitely shouldn’t go. Especially if Corinne shows up… you might terrify her.” I ignored them, pulled a new set of practice tests from my backpack, and started working. Sera, who had watched the exchange with an unreadable expression, finally asked me, “Asher, are you going?” “No,” I said, without looking up. “Why?” “I have to study.” 5 The day of the Fellowship audition, every boy in the school went to the main yard. Except me. I sat alone in an empty classroom, working through my practice tests. My seat was by the window, giving me a clear view of the proceedings. Jax had preened for the occasion. He’d spent a fortune on his hair, getting a specialized stylist to craft it into an artful sculpture. All the boys had put on their best performance attire, hoping to seize the opportunity. I kept writing. After the Dean’s introductory remarks, Corinne Sinclair walked onto the stage. She wore a simple white gown, and her presence was as cool and distant as her public image suggested. The first step of the audition, she announced, was mandatory: every boy had to completely wash off all makeup, foundation, and hair products. It was, she explained, a non-negotiable requirement from the Fellowship Director. Jax’s face went pale. He shot a frantic glance at Corinne, but resignedly grabbed a cleansing wipe. “Wait,” Corinne suddenly said, her voice cutting across the silence. “Are all the male students present?” The Dean was flustered. “We… we believe so.” Tess piped up eagerly, “Yes, sir! They’re all here, Jax was one of the first!” Corinne frowned. “No. I sense one is missing.” The Vice Principal said, “The hall monitor just checked the classrooms. They were empty.” Bella Maxwell, who had been standing silently nearby, finally spoke. “There is one person missing,” she said, her voice flat. “Someone who did not want to come.” 6 I finished the final problem and closed the test booklet. “Ms. Sinclair, the student is right here.” The Vice Principal ushered a group of people into the room, knocking on the open door. “Asher Reed, still studying? Why miss an audition this important?” He moved to pat my shoulder. I subtly moved out of range. “No need, sir,” I said calmly. “I know I won’t be selected, so I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.” The Vice Principal’s hand stopped in mid-air, his expression slightly unnatural, much like the last time he’d cornered me privately and asked to “talk” about my “poor attitude.” “Nonsense, son. You can’t know if you don’t try.” A cool, detached voice came from behind him. I looked up and saw Corinne Sinclair. She was exactly as I remembered her: pale lips, long lashes, and an aura of remote perfection. My heart gave a quick, sharp beat. I allowed myself a small, knowing smile. “I won’t trouble you,” I paused, and used the name only she and I ever used. “Corinne.” “Hmph,” she actually responded. “Since you still acknowledge me as your sister, you will come with me now.” Her tone permitted no argument. The Dean and the other teachers exchanged shocked glances, but the Dean quickly recovered, his eyes now alight with a strange new enthusiasm. “Well, Asher, let’s go! You heard Ms. Sinclair!” I had no choice but to follow them to the yard. The boys waiting on the field had been muttering for a while. I caught Tess’s voice on the edge of the crowd. “This is pointless. Why drag Asher Reed out here? Doesn’t he look even worse without his heavy clothes?” Another girl laughed. “Yeah, the first round is looks. He’s already disqualified.” “I thought the Queen had a thing for him, but she just wanted to watch him squirm.” The whispers seemed to soothe Jax, whose color had started to return. The Dean led me back to the stage and addressed the crowd. “We had a small clerical error. We’ve found the missing student. The audition will now continue.” I was escorted to a corner where a basin of water waited. This was no gentle wipe; it was industrial-strength makeup remover. Tess, standing nearby, was triumphant. “That’s from my uncle’s lab! It dissolves anything! Get ready for the freak show, everyone!” Jax, who had finished his own removal, was still covering his face with his hands. Someone shouted, “Hurry up, Asher! Wash it off!” I took a deep breath and plunged my hands into the water.

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“Mom, why does Dad have two phones?” My son, Max, asked me in a small voice, clutching a piece of candy. “What two phones, sweetie?” “Just… the one in his briefcase. It’s not the one he usually uses. Last time he answered it, he called that person his wife.” Max blinked his large eyes at me. “But, Mom, you’re his wife.” My hand froze mid-air. The smile was still plastered on my face, but the blood had already turned to ice. “Honey, why don’t you go watch cartoons for a bit?” I stroked his hair, keeping my voice steady. Only one thought burned in my mind: I need to see for myself what’s inside that phone. 1. Marcus came home very late that night. The door clicked shut at eleven p.m. I lay in bed without moving, listening to his routine. First, the shower, then about twenty minutes in his home office, which he always claimed was to “decompress.” Finally, he came into the bedroom. He moved silently, careful not to wake me. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even and slow. He settled into his side of the bed. His phone—the black-cased one I recognized—was placed on the nightstand. But Max said there was another one. I waited. One minute, two minutes, five. His breathing deepened and evened out. I opened my eyes, rolled over slowly, and slipped out of bed. Before leaving the room, I glanced back at him. He was fast asleep. I walked to the living room. His leather briefcase was by the sofa. I opened it, sifting through the contents. Folders, a charging brick, a packet of tissues. And then— A second phone. Silver, sleek, completely unlike his primary device. My hands were shaking slightly. I pressed the power button. No password. I tapped the messaging app. The first thing I saw was the pinned chat at the top. The contact name was simply two words: My Wife. The profile picture was of a woman. Long hair, a side profile. I couldn’t make out her face. I clicked on the chat. The most recent message was from 5:43 p.m. that afternoon. From him: “My Wife, I have to work late tonight. Can’t make dinner. Miss you.” Her reply: “Okay, hurry home then. I made soup.” His response: “Good girl. Wait up for me.” I stared at those last three words for a long time. Good girl. Wait up for me. He had never once said those words to me. Not in our ten years together. I scrolled up. Yesterday. “My Wife, taking you to the movies this weekend.” “Yay! I want to see that new rom-com.” “Anything you want.” The day before. “My Wife, long day? Are you tired?” “Not too bad. Just missing you.” “Missing you too, honey. Video chat tonight?” “Definitely.” I kept scrolling, one message after another. Every single one began with “My Wife.” Every single one was laced with “Missing you,” “I love you,” “I can’t wait to see you.” Every single one was a sentence I hadn’t heard in a decade. I had been married to him for ten years. I had borne his child. I had given up my career. I spent my days revolving around the kitchen and the school pick-up line. He didn’t call me My Wife. In his contacts, I was listed by my full name. Audrey Sullivan. Two words. Cold and functional. And this other woman— He called her his Wife. I scrolled back to the earliest message. Two years ago. A full two years. I kept going. Transfer records. $800, $600, $1,200, $800. Memos: “Treat yourself to something nice,” “Wife is working so hard,” “For clothes.” I counted. This year alone, he had transferred over $30,000 to her. Thirty thousand. My monthly household allowance was $1,500. I still hesitated to buy a $40 t-shirt. Last month, I asked him for a new coat. My old parka was four years old. He said, “Can’t you still wear the old one? We need to be sensible with money.” Sensible. He told me to be sensible. He gave this woman thirty thousand dollars a year. I slipped the phone back into his briefcase. I walked to the balcony and stood there for a long time. It was cold outside, and the wind was sharp. I didn’t cry. I just stood, staring at the lights of the city. A million lights. Which one was mine? Was this house, this home I had spent ten years maintaining, even mine? No. It never was. I was just a housekeeper. A free, stay-at-home, child-rearing, unpaid nanny. At one a.m., I returned to the bedroom. I lay down. Closed my eyes. Marcus’s breathing was close, even, and steady. I stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds. The sun came up. I hadn’t slept. But I knew this much— I couldn’t say a word. Not yet. I needed more. I needed to know exactly how much this man had taken from me. 2. The next morning, Marcus was up early. I pretended to wake up, rubbing my eyes. “Up so early today?” “Yeah, something came up at the office.” He dressed quickly and walked into the living room. I heard the sound of him picking up his briefcase. “Want some breakfast?” I called out. “Can’t. Too rushed. I’ll grab something on the road.” The front door opened, then closed. I didn’t move from the bed. Max was still asleep. At seven a.m., the only sounds were the birds outside the window. I got up, showered, and made Max’s breakfast. Everything was routine. At eight, I drove Max to preschool. At nine, I was back home. I turned on the computer. I was going to find out who this woman was. I had set up Marcus’s email account, so I knew the password. I logged into his work email. I checked “Sent Mail.” I found it. A hotel invoice. The Hilton, King Suite, two nights. The date was last month. Last month, he told me he was on a three-day business trip. I kept searching. Then, flight information. Two tickets. Same flight, same day, same destination: Laguna Beach. The name on the second ticket: Jenny Lin. Jenny Lin. I ran the name through my mind. Never heard of her. I opened a new tab and searched the company’s internal employee directory. Found her. Jenny Lin, Marketing Department, hired two years ago. The photo showed a young woman. Late twenties, long hair, perfectly made-up, eyes crinkling in a bright smile. She was stunning. Younger than me. Prettier than me. I stared at the photo for a long time. This was his “Wife.” His colleague. His subordinate. His— I took a deep breath. I shut down the computer. I didn’t call him to confront him. I didn’t rush to his office to make a scene. I didn’t even cry. I just sat on the sofa, staring out the window. Ten years. I had married him ten years ago. I quit my job for him, gave up my career, transitioning from a professional earning $60,000 a year to a full-time homemaker. He had said, “You stay home with the kids, I’ll earn the money. Clear division of labor.” I believed him. He had said, “Once Max’s older, you can go back to work.” I believed him. He had said, “I’ll provide for you. Don’t worry.” I believed him. And the result? He was providing for another woman. Missing you, My Wife, Wait up for me. Not one of those words was ever meant for me. I leaned back on the sofa, tracing the last two years. When did he change? It must have been two years ago. The business trips increased. The late nights became routine. The time spent at home decreased. I thought he was busy with work. Once, I asked him, “Why are you working so much overtime lately?” He had been impatient. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.” I wouldn’t understand. He was right, I didn’t understand. All I understood was doing laundry, cooking, raising our child, and catering to his mother. I understood how to keep everything running perfectly so he had a hot dinner, clean clothes, someone to pick up our son, and someone to fulfill his filial duties. What I didn’t understand was— His second phone housed a second life. At three p.m., I left to pick up Max. On the way, I asked him, “Max, how many times has Daddy brought you to see that lady?” Max thought about it. “Twice, maybe… or three times? One time we went to the amusement park, and she was there too. She bought me an action figure.” My heart clenched. “What did the lady look like?” “She had long hair. She was pretty. She said I looked like Daddy.” She said I looked like Daddy. She had seen my son. She knew I existed. She knew he had a wife and a child, and she stayed with him anyway. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Max tugged at my sleeve. I looked down and smiled at him. “Nothing, sweetie. Mom was just thinking.” Back home, I put on a movie for Max. I went into the bedroom and closed the door. I needed to clear my thoughts. First, Marcus and Jenny had been together for at least two years. Second, he spent significantly more money on her than on me. Third, he had introduced my son to her. Fourth, it was likely an open secret at the company. I couldn’t make a scene. A scene wouldn’t help. I needed to be strategic. I needed to figure out my next move. That evening, Marcus returned home.

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The only condition I set for marrying Harrison Locke, the heir to the Locke Group empire, was that he buy my mother a seven-figure life insurance policy. Beyond that single term, he insisted on keeping our finances strictly split the bill —a bizarre, non-negotiable stipulation for a man with his staggering wealth. We were an agreement, not a couple. We clicked, precisely because we never crossed the line into emotional entanglement. That is, until my mother had a devastating car accident during a torrential storm, and I desperately needed the emergency funds. I worked up the nerve to go to Harry’s office to beg for a loan, but he slammed his hand down on the table, the sound echoing through his pristine executive suite. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly AA!” Defeated, I raced to the insurance company, only for the representative to inform me, without mercy: “The policy is indeed your mother’s, Mrs. Locke, but she is not the beneficiary.” A cold dread prickled my skin, and I frowned in confusion. I had been there. I’d watched my mother sign the papers myself! The staff member tapped a polished nail against the policy’s beneficiary line. The recipient of the multi-million-dollar payout was clearly listed as Genevieve White. 1 I didn’t even have time to process the shock before the five million dollars in the account was swiftly drained to zero. My final shard of hope was extinguished. I went back to Harry’s company. He was engrossed in a meeting, not even lifting his head. “I forgot to ask earlier,” he said, his voice flat. “What exactly did you need to borrow money for?” Twenty minutes earlier, the hospital had called. My mother was gone. If I had just gotten that insurance money. If his precious childhood sweetheart hadn’t swooped in to empty the account to fund her extravagant shopping spree. Maybe things would have been different. My entire body trembled, and every breath tore through my chest. “Harrison,” I choked out. “We’re getting a divorce.” The words finally got his attention. He looked up, a momentary flicker of surprise in his icy eyes. Meeting his confused gaze, I placed the insurance policy statement squarely on his mahogany desk. A shadow of guilt crossed his face, but he wouldn’t look directly at me. “They must have made a clerical error. Is this really worth threatening divorce over?” I let out a desperate, bitter laugh. He was lying. I’d heard the exchange myself at the insurance company just moments before. The manager had called him. “Mr. Locke, your wife showed up trying to claim the funds. Thankfully, I stalled her in time. Ms. White just completed the transfer.” Harry’s voice, cold and dismissive, had crackled through the phone. “Well done.” “I told you her family were grifters. First, they strong-armed my parents into pushing Scarlett onto me, and now her mother tries to pull an insurance scam. What’s the difference between her and some back-alley fraudster?” “I’m glad I had foresight. I promised Gigi—no matter who I married, my money would only ever go to her.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I was merely an obligation forced upon him, and my mother was a “scam artist.” This was why, for years, he had guarded his wealth from me like a thief. I would cook a meticulously planned, romantic candlelit dinner, only to have him insist on splitting the bill for the ingredients at the end of the meal. Meanwhile, Genevieve White—Gigi—could casually use his unlimited black card, and I never saw him question a single charge. Suddenly, a wailing sob broke the brittle silence. “Please, don’t fight over me! I shouldn’t have spent your money, Harry. Mrs. Locke, I’ll return everything right now.” Gigi began dramatically ripping off her designer bags and shedding layers of jewelry. A sharp edge of a diamond bracelet grazed my cheek, and a thin line of blood traced its path down my face. Harry didn’t even flinch. He glared down at me, anger radiating off him. “Gigi can spend my money however she likes! I earned it running my company; it has absolutely nothing to do with you!” he roared. “And for God’s sake, there are countless old women trying to pull these stunts. You should check the facts before you come here crying!” He flung the words at me, then spun on his heel, ushering a tearful Gigi into a nearby changing room. The physical sting of the cut on my face was a fraction of the agony in my chest. I withdrew my gaze, picking up my phone and dialing the single hidden contact: Connor. “Help me get out of this,” I whispered into the phone. “I’m ready to fulfill our five-year agreement.” 2 I spent three days weeping through my mother’s memorial service. Harrison spent those same three days commissioning an extravagant, top-tier fireworks display to cheer Gigi up. I posted my grief, a raw, endless stream of memories and pain, on my private social media. He never once looked at it. I used to be like any girl, begging him to just hit ‘like’ on a photo. The response was always a cold, sharp sarcasm. “My time is valuable, Scarlett. It supports an entire company and the Locke name. Can you split the bill for that minute?” Just like when I had swallowed my pride and begged for a loan for my mother’s medical care. I wanted to tell him the terrifying reality of the situation, but his face was an impenetrable mask of annoyance. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly splitting the bill!” When I tried to speak again, Gigi stepped in, playing the perfect diplomat. “Mrs. Locke, you don’t need an excuse to buy designer bags, but ladies of our stature need to develop good habits! Harry is just looking out for you.” Hearing that, Harry had immediately looked at me with a flash of undisguised disgust, seeing only a greedy social climber. “Stop talking. I have a meeting in five minutes.” That was the moment I ran, grabbing for the final straw—the insurance company. I discovered it was a mere shroud, concealing the ugliest, most rotten part of our marriage. An inexpressible, suffocating ache lodged in my throat. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to the house. Harry had a housekeeper bring me a glass of milk. It was his pathetic attempt at an olive branch. Harry sighed, an air of put-upon martyrdom around him. “Did you really have to disappear for three days over a few hundred thousand? When did you get so childish?” “I finally managed to calm Gigi down. Don’t start another scene.” Holding the warm glass, a wave of coldness washed over my soul. My father had been Harry’s father’s driver. He’d been mortally wounded during an unexpected work accident. On his deathbed, my father entrusted me to the Lockes. I agreed to the marriage, honoring his last wish and sacrificing the path I had already been on. We went from initial sharp-tongued rivalry to what everyone assumed was a slow, enviable development of love. No one knew the truth. Aside from that one insurance policy for my mother, I had never once been interested in Harry’s vast fortune. It wasn’t until Gigi permanently returned to our lives that I truly understood my negligible value to him. If even a single insurance policy—my sole request—was a lie, then what about the rest? What was real? I was too tired to fight. I placed the milk down, the glass clicking softly on the marble counter. “She’d be much happier if you divorced me.” The next second, Harry exploded, slamming his fist on the table, his face a mask of fury. “Scarlett Reed! Your father’s remains had nowhere to go, and I built him a private memorial garden! Your mother was in and out of the hospital, and who do you think was discreetly footing the bills? I haven’t even confronted you about her insurance fraud yet!” “Scarlett, are you brave enough to actually leave?” My heart gave a heavy, painful lurch, and I finally forced myself to tell him the truth. “She’s already…” Before I could finish, his phone shrilled. Gigi’s sickly sweet voice, full of artificial concern, spilled from the speaker. I couldn’t bear to hear it. I turned and retreated to the bedroom to pack my things. That’s when an anonymous number sent two texts: [Harry was desperate to keep me from leaving the country after our last fight. He grabbed the steering wheel from your father, which is why he crashed.] [Why else would anyone build a mausoleum for a low-life driver, or marry a low-born woman like you?] 3 My body froze, my mind a terrible, echoing void. My father’s death was not an accident. It was the collateral damage of their selfish, reckless game. The door swung open behind me. Harry stood in the doorway. I stared into his eyes, my voice a broken rasp. “Did my father’s death have something to do with you?” A tiny, foolish piece of me still hoped. Maybe the text was a cruel prank. Maybe he wasn’t capable of such callousness. But the words he spoke next shattered that last fragile hope. “It was just a fluke accident. I paid a massive settlement, and he’s at peace now.” Boom. The sound was internal, the total collapse of everything I had hoped for. His eyes held no panic, only a faint, condescending sense of beneficence. A simple settlement, casually trading away my father’s life… Harry spoke again, his voice layered with sharp warning. “Don’t you dare bother Gigi with this. Tomorrow is her birthday. Put on something festive.” The next day, running a high fever, I was hauled out like a puppet by Harry and brought to Gigi’s birthday gala. The hot-pink dress he’d chosen for me felt grotesque, a sartorial insult. Gigi, the picture of innocence, wore a breathtaking princess gown on stage while Harry serenaded her with a painfully sincere rendition of her favorite song. Envious murmurs floated around the room. “If Scarlett hadn’t elbowed her way in, those two would be the perfect power couple.” “It’s heartbreaking. Their childhood romance destroyed by a gold-digging interloper. Why is she wearing that grim expression today?” … My heart felt like it was being sliced apart as I listened, while Harry continued his passionate tribute on stage. Then, the massive screen behind him, which had been showing vintage photos, suddenly flickered to black. It came back online, displaying a sequence of Gigi’s private, intimate photos. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Before anyone could react, Gigi started shrieking and lunged at me. “Mrs. Locke, what did I ever do to you? You’ve destroyed my reputation in all of Manhattan!” I stumbled backward, a bewildered knot forming in my brow. “What are you talking about—” The words died in my throat. She snatched a decorative blade from a table and quickly scored a tiny, theatrical line on her wrist. The scratch was barely three centimeters, yet Harry’s face crumpled in panic. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of icy disappointment. “Scarlett! I told you to leave Gigi alone! Why are you always stirring up drama?” “Apologize to her. Now.” I stood stubbornly still. “I didn’t do anything. I won’t apologize.” Gigi began to sob louder, dropping dramatically to her knees. “Mrs. Locke, I know you hate me. I’ll never bother Harry again. I’ll leave you both in peace!” With a flourish, she scrambled up, dragging her skirt behind her, and ran onto the balcony, a terrifying ten-story drop to the street below. “Gigi, stop! Don’t do anything rash! This isn’t your fault!” Harry was in utter turmoil. He violently grabbed my arm and forced my knees to the floor. I looked up into his crimson, terrified eyes. He ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Apologize. Right now.” “What if I don’t?” Seeing my rigid defiance, a dangerous darkness swirled in his eyes. He slowly pulled out his phone. “I think you remember exactly how you paid for your father’s funeral expenses. Do I need to refresh your memory?” 4 In that instant, my blood ran backward. The night my father died, I had been unable to secure the medical funds, knocking on every door. A low-end fixer—a nightclub owner—found me. His proposition was to talk and drink with his clients. When I refused, they broke my wrist and photographed my degradation. Harry, seeing the chaos, had intervened. He confiscated the pictures and saved me from that hell. I had been naive enough to see him as my savior, my hero. I was wrong. He’d kept the images—every last one—stored on his phone, ready to be weaponized. I stared at the screen, every cell in my body trembling uncontrollably. Harry’s gaze was soft, but his words were utterly venomous. “Don’t make me do this. Just apologize. It’s Gigi’s birthday.” He began to mouth a silent countdown. An overwhelming wave of pure degradation crashed over me. I forced myself to stand and walk to Gigi. “I’m trash. I spread your private photos. I am sorry.” I bowed deeply, a gesture of absolute surrender. Seeing this, Gigi finally smiled in triumph and stepped safely back onto the patio. “But… everyone saw my body. An apology won’t fix how hurt I am…” Harry lovingly tapped her nose. “What will make it better, my little birthday girl?” Gigi didn’t answer. She grabbed Harry’s phone and tapped furiously on the screen for a moment. The next second, the most explicit photo of me was projected onto the colossal screen. I was stripped, immobilized, with someone forcing liquor down my throat. The room erupted in vicious, sneering laughter. “I never thought the supposedly ice-cold Mrs. Locke was this kind of trash! Stripping for anyone, huh?” “Look at that figure! She must be a D-cup. Never could tell under all those clothes.” “I guess she came here tonight to give us a show! Maybe she’ll strip again, ha ha ha!” … Staring at the nightmare on the screen, my tears finally broke. That night was the trauma that I could never, ever forget! “Gigi, delete the photo now!” Harry hesitated for a brief, agonizing moment, then moved to protect Gigi. “She’s just being playful, Scarlett. Don’t make a scene. We’ll handle this after the party.” I lunged, trying to snatch the phone, but Harry shoved me back with brutal force. I lost my footing and tumbled backward, crashing down the ten-step staircase from the stage. In that single, shattering moment, it felt like my internal organs had ruptured. All I could do was watch the humiliating image cycle across the screen. Harry’s absolute indifference shattered the final fragments of my heart. I don’t know when the music stopped. I weakly opened my eyes. Gigi was standing over me, looking down with a vicious, triumphant smirk. “What are you doing…” She tossed the heavy, decorative candelabra in her hand onto the highly flammable stage decorations, watching the flames lick up the fabric. I dragged my useless legs, trying to crawl away. But a colossal decorative pillar, its base already engulfed in flames, swayed, then crashed down onto my body. Harrison, who had casually turned to leave the stage, caught the shockwave of the scene. His heart seized in a sudden, violent terror. “Scarlett is still in there!”

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My diagnosis turned me into the family’s greatest burden after I had poor coagulation, their Glass Doll. The doctor had given me five years. Because of that sentence, my parents’ entire world revolved around me. They poured every cent, every moment of their lives, into keeping me alive. The one day we had a faint sound of laughter was my fifth birthday. Only my little sister, Willow, was too young to understand the relief. “Aubrey,” she asked, her voice small and bewildered, “is this the last birthday we’ll ever have with you?” That was the first time Dad ever hit her. Mom collapsed onto the floor, weeping and praying for some impossible extension of my time. But on the morning Willow was supposed to start kindergarten, I whispered that my chest hurt a little. Mom’s face shattered. She struck me, the sharp slap echoing in the silence. “Why are you so awful?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Do you have to make your sister miserable just to prove a point? Can’t we have five minutes that aren’t about you?” “Go on! Go die, Aubrey! Just stop torturing us already!” She grabbed the medicine bottles from the counter, sending them crashing onto the tiled floor, then hauled Willow away and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at the small cut on my forearm, watching the blood well up, feeling the cold seep into my body. 1 I’d instinctively raised my arm when the prescription bottles smashed, and a shard of glass had found me. I watched the slow, thick welling of red for a full two seconds before the doctor’s long-ago warning finally surfaced: “Honey, you cannot have any cuts. Even a scratch might not stop bleeding.” In a rush of panic, I fumbled for the first-aid kit. I slapped on a Band-Aid, but half a minute later, the white cotton was saturated. I turned to grab a gauze roll, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean hardwood floor. Mom always kept the house immaculate. I couldn’t stand to give her one more thing to be angry about. Frantically, I ripped at the sleeve of my pajama top, trying to wipe the floor clean. But the blood seemed to be actively spreading, painting a wider, messier smear with every swipe. Finally, I just grabbed a hand towel, wadding it around the wound. A chill began to set in, starting at my fingertips and burrowing deep into my bones. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub, letting the water get almost scalding hot. Only when I slid into the steaming bath did I feel a fraction of relief. The blood was still flowing, instantly clouding the water and staining it a deep, alarming rose. Suddenly, I desperately needed them. I fumbled with my watch and dialed Dad’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. Then, Mom’s. The background noise was deafening—music, kids laughing, a kind of manic energy that felt miles away from my quiet bathroom. “What is it, Aubrey? Make it fast. Willow’s about to go on.” “Mom, I don’t feel well. I’m bleeding a lot…” Her impatience sliced through the line. “Not well again? Seriously?” “Is it physically impossible for you to be okay for twenty minutes when we’re not right there? Aubrey, you’re eight years old. You’re a big girl. Can you please just act like one?” The sharp click of the dial tone was deafening in the empty bathroom. I looked at the water, which was slowly, inevitably turning crimson, and wanted to cry so badly it hurt. Mom was right. I was always a problem. My illness was a problem. My sadness was a problem. Now, my very blood was a problem. Her favorite cashmere-blend sweater, left draped over the side of the tub, still smelled faintly of lavender. I pulled it over my face. For a moment, it was like being little again, back when I had a high fever and she’d stay up all night, her face close to mine. The water cooled. The bleeding seemed to have slowed a bit. Maybe it was almost done. As my head started to feel fuzzy, a thought settled: Maybe if the blood stops, the trouble stops too. Maybe then, I’ll finally be fixed. My parents wouldn’t have to spend every second worrying about their sickly daughter. My sister wouldn’t have to always concede to her fragile older sibling. I wouldn’t have to always be careful, always pretending to be the grown-up girl, biting my tongue to stifle a gasp of pain in the middle of the night. Curled up in the tub, I felt safe—the way I imagined a baby must feel before it’s born. 2 When I opened my eyes again, all I saw was a very pale, very small girl floating in a tub of dark water. Was this it? Was I already gone? The front door opened. Willow’s high, excited laugh rang out. “Aubrey! I’m home!” I rushed out. Mom and Dad walked in, holding Willow’s hands, Dad carrying a box for a strawberry birthday cake. He paused, looking at the mess of the shattered pill bottles on the kitchen floor. “What is this?” Mom’s brow furrowed in exhaustion. “She threw a tantrum at lunchtime.” “She lied about being sick because I had to take Willow to her first day of school.” Dad’s face hardened. “She’s getting completely out of hand.” I tried to explain, waving my hands frantically in front of their faces. “No! It wasn’t on purpose! I wasn’t lying!” My hand passed right through Dad’s shoulder. They didn’t feel a thing. Willow ran to my bedroom door. She knocked gently. “Aubrey, come on out! It’s cake time!” Silence. Utter, complete silence from inside. Willow looked up at Mom. “Is she sleeping?” I floated close to my sister. “Thank you, Willow.” Mom’s voice was cold. “Sleeping? She’s just trying to ignore us. Leave her. We’ll eat first.” Dad set the cake on the kitchen island. Willow peered at it, her small voice soft. “But I want to wait for Aubrey.” Dad ripped open the box and exchanged a look with Mom. “If Aubrey were half as reasonable as you are, we’d both sleep a lot better.” The five candles were pushed into the soft frosting and lit. Mom hoisted Willow onto a stool, and under the spotlight of their gaze, she blew out the flickering flames. It was Willow’s fifth birthday. Mom smiled warmly. “Did you make a wish, sweetie?” Willow’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! I wished that Aubrey—” Dad quickly ruffled her hair. “Shh. Wishes don’t come true if you tell them, kiddo.” I watched them from the edge of the counter. In previous years, my birthdays had always been heavy with the smell of hospital sanitizer and guilt. The candles on my cake were always a countdown. But Willow’s birthday finally looked like a Normal Birthday. When it came time to cut the cake, Willow insisted on the biggest slice. “This is for Aubrey!” She carried the plate to my closed bedroom door and knocked again. “Aubrey, come share the strawberry cake with me!” Still nothing. The tiny smile on Willow’s face faded. She returned to the island and whispered, “Aubrey won’t talk to me.” Dad suddenly reached out, snatching the plate from Willow’s hand. He didn’t just move it; he slammed the perfect slice of strawberry cake and the plate into the garbage can. “Fine,” he growled, hitting the table with his open palm. “Then no one eats it! No one calls her again. If she wants to act like this, she can starve until she decides to be a decent kid.” Willow was terrified, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Mom pulled her close, glaring at Dad. “Don’t yell at her!” Then, she softened for Willow. “It’s okay, sweet girl. We’ll eat ours. When Aubrey figures out she’s being ridiculous, she’ll come out.” I knelt by the trash can, staring at the discarded slice. The strawberry on top was still glistening, but now it was mixed with damp paper towels. What a waste. It was my favorite. Willow ate her small slice in quiet bites, constantly glancing at the closed bedroom door. Mom and Dad ate in silence. The dining table was meant for four, but one seat was empty. I sat in that empty space and quietly wished Willow a happy birthday. 3 That night, Mom was bathing Willow. I hovered in front of the shower curtain, my ghost-heart clenching, terrified that she would pull it back and see the horror of the tub. Steam filled the room. Mom was making soap bubbles for Willow. Willow looked up, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. “Mommy, why hasn’t Aubrey come out yet?” Mom’s hand stilled on the back of Willow’s head. “She’s probably sleeping, honey.” Willow’s voice was small. “But I miss her. I haven’t seen her all day.” Mom turned off the water and wrapped Willow entirely in a massive bath towel, pulling her into a hug. “Willow, do you ever get mad at Daddy and me?” “Mad about what?” Mom squeezed her tighter. “Mad that we always focus on Aubrey, that we give her all the best things, that sometimes we forget to give you enough time.” Willow reached her wet little arms around Mom’s neck. “No. Because Aubrey is sick.” “My teacher said that sick people need the most looking after. Daddy, Mommy, and I have to take care of her.” Mom’s shoulders gave a small, almost imperceptible shake. She buried her face in Willow’s hair, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. “You are so grown up, sweet girl.” “Aubrey is very fragile.” I stood pressed against the cold tiles, listening as Mom continued. “She was born with a weak heart. The doctors told us she might never grow up.” Mom inhaled sharply, wiping her nose on the towel. “We’ve been so terrified of her hurting, of her being in pain, that we’ve almost smothered her with everything we have.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “But sometimes I get so tired, Willow.” “Sometimes, I just… I wish I could be a normal mother. A mom who didn’t have to be so scared. I wish I didn’t have to be so tired, sweetheart.” Willow, only half-understanding, patted Mom’s back with a small hand. I crouched in the corner, silent, clear tears of the dead falling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was the one who was selfish…” “If I had never existed, if you only had Willow, how much easier would it all have been?” But they couldn’t hear me. After tucking Willow into bed, Mom walked to the door of my room and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised a hand and knocked softly. “Aubrey? Are you asleep?” I drifted toward her, trying to reach out, but my ghostly fingers passed through empty air. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you today. That was my mistake.” “It was Willow’s first day of school, and I was so stressed. I didn’t mean to be cruel.” She paused, waiting for a reply that would never come. Mom sighed, defeated. “I left a slice of cake on the counter. It’s strawberry. The one you like. Please eat it.” She stood there for another few seconds before walking back to the master bedroom. The door closed. I went to the kitchen and saw the small slice of cake on a plate. It was just a tiny piece, and the strawberry on top was slightly tilted. I looked back at the small girl submerged in the tub. The water was now freezing cold. My face was white as paper. Mom never pulled back the curtain. She didn’t know the cake was already too late. She didn’t know that I could no longer hear her apology. 4 I followed Mom into the master bedroom. Dad looked up from his book. “Did Aubrey come out?” Mom sat on the bed, folding laundry. She shook her head. “No movement. She’s being stubborn. She’s a big girl now, she has pride.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’s hurting, too. She’s never been to a real school, never made real friends. Seeing Willow go off must be hard.” “Maybe we could hire a tutor? Get her some lessons at home?” Mom froze, her hands stilling over a shirt. “A tutor? Where will we get the money? We’re already behind on her medication bill from last month.” Dad sighed, turning onto his side. “I’ll start driving for Uber. I can do a few hours every night after the office. We can pull it together.” Mom turned to look at him. The bedside lamp highlighted the deep, dark circles under his eyes. “You’re exhausted enough from your day job. That’s dangerous.” He waved it off. “I’ll be fine. I’m strong.” “But my shoulder is a little tight lately. Could you put a patch on it for me?” Dad turned over. Mom lifted his pajama collar. The skin on his shoulder was angry, red, and swollen. I stood by the bed, staring at the raw irritation on his skin. Ghost-tears fell onto the duvet. I always complained about him coming home late, about him not having time to play with me. I never stopped to think about what he was doing for those missing hours. I threw myself into his empty embrace. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Please forgive my selfishness.” Mom applied the heating patch, and they lay down, turning off the light. I slipped in between them, just as I used to do when I was little. On my left, Mom’s warm, even breath. On my right, Dad’s slow, steady heartbeat. I reached out, my incorporeal arms loosely circling them both. In that quiet moment, I felt an impossible peace. The next morning, Mom called out for breakfast. Passing the island, she saw the strawberry cake—still sitting on the plate, completely untouched. The whipped cream had started to sag, the strawberry shriveled. The faint tenderness on Mom’s face vanished, replaced by a cold fury. She put the plate down and stormed toward my room. She banged twice on the door. “Aubrey, come out now.” No response. Her eyes began to well up. “I apologized yesterday! What do you want from me now?” “You won’t eat the cake? Are you going on a hunger strike to spite us? Who are you trying to punish? Do you want to kill me with stress?” Still no sound. Mom gripped the doorknob and threw the door open. The room was empty. Her face went bone-white. She spun around, terror seizing her. “Jack! She’s gone!” Dad scrambled out of bed. “What? No, Laura, don’t panic. She must be somewhere in the house.” That’s when Willow’s voice came from down the hall. “Mommy, Aubrey’s in the bathroom playing in the water!” I panicked. I screamed at Willow. “Willow! Go! Don’t let them see me!” But Willow couldn’t hear. She marched into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. Mom sighed, relieved, then the air completely emptied from her lungs. “Aubrey! You have crossed the line! I am truly angry now—” The next second, she saw me, submerged in the bloody water.

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After getting back together with my stepbrother, I stopped pushing to go public. Our nights were a catalogue of secrets and desperate, frantic pleasure; our days, a perfectly scripted show of sibling affection. He’d rub my hair, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. “See? If you’d been this compliant earlier, we never would’ve broken up.” “Our relationship will always be under wraps, but as long as you don’t make a scene, we’ll never have to end it.” I’d just nod, docile and agreeable. Later, my mother, Eliza, asked me to help Bradon pick out an engagement prospect. I pointed to the photograph of the one with the most conventionally innocent, ‘Golden Girl’ look. “That one,” I said. “Bradon will probably like a clean slate.” Bradon Reid walked in just as my mother, beaming, was telling him about the choices. He didn’t seem to register her words. His smile froze, piece by piece, as he looked at me. He met my placid, obedient gaze, his eyes narrowing in a silent, chilling threat. “Are you absolutely sure you want me to meet her?” I kept my smile soft and compliant. “Mom has excellent taste. She introduced me to some men too, you know.” “You should go, Bradon. Give her a chance.” He was right. Our relationship could never stand in the light. So, I decided to exchange him for someone who could. 1 That night, my mother was asleep just on the other side of the wall. Bradon’s arm wrapped around me from behind, cutting off my breath. His voice sounded scraped raw. “Anya Wells, what was that stunt this afternoon?” “When did Mom introduce you to anyone? How long have you been talking?” I didn’t answer right away. My mother wasn’t the type to act without permission. Just as she’d consulted me before handing out contact information, she must have asked Bradon before compiling a list of potential brides. He had given his consent, yet now he had the nerve to corner me and demand answers? He insisted on forcing a response, his movements rough and impatient. With Mom next door, I didn’t want him to completely lose control. I clung to his shoulder and murmured, “It was just to placate her.” His brow softened slightly, but the darkness in his eyes remained. He flipped us over, clutching my waist, dragging me into the predictable oblivion. Mindful of my mother, we finished quickly, without lingering. The moment we were done, his phone screen lit up. The name displayed was sickeningly familiar: Rebecca King. —His oldest friend. The reason for our last breakup. Once, seeing those two words would have sent me into a blind panic. I wouldn’t let him lend her a jacket. I’d forbid him from taking her video calls. I’d never permit them to meet privately. What did he say back then? “Anya, we are the secret. She’s innocent. Don’t assume everyone is as messed up as we are.” Now, he almost instinctively hung up the call. His voice held a trace of urgency. “Anya, I explained everything to her. She won’t come between us again.” I simply curved my lips into a gentle smile, showing an almost charitable understanding. “It’s fine, you guys talk. I’ll take a shower.” My wrist was suddenly seized. His voice was thick and grating. “I only love you. I only do this with you.” “I’m your boyfriend. You can scream at me, fight me, but why… why don’t you care anymore?” That’s the sick irony of men, isn’t it? They despise your drama until your sudden silence becomes their biggest fear. Exhausted, physically and mentally, I pulled my hand free. “Stop it, Knox Dalton.” The name slipped out before I could stop it. His eyes immediately flared crimson, his voice ringing with disbelief. “Knox Dalton? Who the hell is Knox Dalton?” 2 Bradon was losing control, desperately clinging to a name. “I misspoke.” I turned my face away. He didn’t believe me, reaching for my phone. I frowned and smacked his hand away. “If you have a cuckold fantasy, go see a therapist. I’m not here to manage your twisted needs.” Too weary to argue, I shoved him away and headed to the bathroom. When I emerged, I was dressed and ready to go out. He saw the effort I’d put into my appearance, his voice tight. “You’re going out?” I spritzed perfume on my wrists. “Meeting a friend for dinner.” “Guy or girl? Where? I’ll drive you.” His words were rushed and anxious. I found his smothering questions annoying. “No thanks. Someone’s picking me up.” He had his own obligations. After all, he’d agreed to my mother that he would have dinner with one of his new prospects tonight, just to provoke me. When my best friend, Sara Hayes, arrived, Bradon insisted on following me down. Only after confirming it was a girl did the tension in his jaw ease slightly. In the car, Sara glanced at my neck. “Did your brother still marking his territory?” She was my oldest friend and knew all my ugly secrets. I confirmed it with a sound, then checked the mirror, covering the slight redness with concealer. Bradon had been far too aggressive today. The marks on my neck were superficial, but below my collarbone, the damage was worse. Sara scoffed, then switched subjects. “I heard Rebecca King is going to be there. Want me to call a few friends and open a separate tab?” “No need.” I snapped my compact shut, my voice flat. “She just called Bradon, couldn’t reach him, and then called me… she’s probably losing it right now.” My phone was on silent, so I hadn’t picked up. But Rebecca would be sure I did it on purpose. Sara whistled in appreciation. “Well, I could still bring a couple of hot guys for moral support.” “Pass. I just ate a meal. Everything looks boring right now.” Besides, I had a main course waiting for me later. I needed to conserve my energy. 3 Traffic delayed us, and the private room was already buzzing when we arrived. The conversation had conveniently shifted to Bradon. Rebecca was smiling demurely, her cheeks flushed. The people around her were gushing. “When are we going to see the wedding invitations?” Her voice was soft. “That’s entirely up to Bradon.” A woman at the table chuckled nastily. “Hey, is Anya Wells still harassing her stepbrother? That whole thing was truly disgusting!” “You’re going to be a Reid wife soon. Watch out for her. What kind of woman goes after her own stepbrother?” Bang! Bang! Bang! Sara slammed the door open, practically tearing the knob off. She thrust her phone into the air. “Come on! Say that to the camera again!” A few people’s faces fell. Rebecca quickly smoothed things over. “They were just kidding, Anya. Don’t take it the wrong way.” “Of course not.” I pulled Sara to a seat. Food was served, and the atmosphere grew strained but polite. A few glasses of wine later, Rebecca finally broke. She leaned across the table, her tone strained with concern. “Anya, could you… could you contact Bradon for me?” The room went silent. “Every time he goes to see you, he always stops answering my calls.” She bit her lip, her eyes misting instantly. “I don’t know what to do…” In one fell swoop, she’d painted me as the other woman, the homewrecker. Sara practically leaped across the table. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you can’t reach him, how are you his girlfriend? Are you just a mistress he keeps on the side, pretending to be the main event?” I placed a hand on Sara’s arm. “She didn’t mean it like that. Don’t worry.” Rebecca’s smile was forced. “Contact him? Sure, I can do that,” I said, meeting her gaze. “But I don’t think my brother is free right now.” “I helped him pick out a girl for a setup, based on his preferences.” I put down my fork, my expression one of utter innocence. “They’re probably out on a date. Didn’t you know?” Rebecca’s smile cracked. 4 The latter half of the evening was completely frozen. These gatherings were tedious, nothing more than a thinly veiled competition of careers and partners. But I had another reason for being there. Rebecca was distracted for the rest of the meal. As everyone started getting ready to leave, someone asked how I was getting home. I smiled. “My boyfriend is picking me up.” Rebecca’s head snapped up. “You… you have a boyfriend? You said you would only ever—” She didn’t finish the sentence. But we both knew— That I would only ever love Bradon Reid. It was true once. Now, I simply played with a strand of my hair, looking bored. “Little girls talk about forever.” I stood up to touch up my makeup. Sara leaned against the sink. “She’s the ultimate gossip. Aren’t you afraid she’ll tell Bradon?” I blended my lipstick in the mirror. “That’s exactly what I want her to do.” Bradon and I weren’t newly reunited. We had been this way for two months. And even the freshest secret loses its luster eventually. When we broke up the first time, I walked out of that house for two years. Two years later, I returned, unannounced. My mother held me, weeping, asking how I could have been so cruel. Bradon stood right behind her, staring. His eyes burned into me, and I knew then that he still wanted me. He was good at it. And I, at the time, happened to need a man. So that night, I knocked on his door and kissed him. He didn’t pull away. Gone was the hysterical girl. I wrapped my hands around his neck, my gaze submissive. “Bradon, want to do it again?” Once led to twice. And eventually, it became a silent arrangement. A secret, no-strings situation that we never formally called a ‘reunion.’ Later, he started to demand more control, even questioning who I saw. I missed the way he used to ignore me. 5 When the evening wrapped, Knox Dalton came to collect me. He opened the car door for me, waiting until I was settled before walking back around to the driver’s side. He was wearing that cocky, irritating grin of his. I snorted. “Why are you so happy? Did you find a wife?” His smile vanished. “Is it wrong for your boyfriend to be happy to see you?” He had clearly bribed someone at the table for information. This man, outwardly charming and carefree, was apparently a master manipulator in private. I had chosen him for a setup precisely because I thought he was shallow. The engine was barely running when my phone vibrated. Bradon’s message: [Where are you? I’ll come get you.] I casually texted back: [Don’t bother. I’m crashing at a friend’s place tonight.] Almost simultaneously, Sara’s text popped up: [HOLY SHIT LOOK OUTSIDE. Bradon saw you get into Knox Dalton’s car!] I whipped my head around. Where I had been standing moments before, two figures stood. Rebecca was next to Bradon, seemingly talking to him. Bradon was obscured by the shadows, his gaze fixed, dead-on, toward my car. I texted Sara: [It’s fine.] My phone immediately lit up with Bradon’s incoming messages: [Anya Wells, why are you lying to me?] [We need to talk.] [Get out of the car! Did you hear me?] The final text was laced with threat: [Don’t make me call your mother.] Knox, who had obviously seen the exchange, let a dark look flash across his eyes. He curved his lips into a wicked smile. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to introduce your current boyfriend to your ex-brother?” He’d even figured out that dynamic. “No need. Just drive.” My face was impassive. I added, “If this happens again, don’t show up.” His smile tightened, his voice turning acidic. “Fine. Protecting your ex in front of your current guy.” The car merged into the main road. I ignored any further messages. When we arrived at the boutique hotel, the door hadn’t even closed before I was pressed against it. My phone was still buzzing. I reached for it, trying to manage Knox’s kiss while glancing at the texts with one hand. [Who is that man?] [Anya, we’re talking now.] [Open the door! I know you’re in there.] Almost on cue, there was a frantic, urgent knocking on the door. We were right by the entrance, and the noise was deafeningly clear. Knox’s movements stilled. He raised an eyebrow. “I thought one man was enough for you. Why’d you invite your brother?” The knocking carried a sense of rising panic. I cupped Knox’s face. “It’s nothing. Just ignore him.” I tilted my head back and expertly slipped my tongue past his lips. “He’s just a pest.” “Yeah,” he chuckled, his arm tightening as he effortlessly lifted me off the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist. “You need a man like me.” He carried me deeper into the room, his strength startlingly steady. “Coming to me with your stepbrother’s marks…” He lowered his head, placing a dark, possessive kiss on the fading red on my collarbone, his voice husky. “I don’t find it shameful. I find it f-cking addictive.” I laughed softly. “Stop flirting. Just hurry up.” The man outside was eventually led away. My phone kept buzzing. I finally just turned it off. I was done. If I had known he would become this obsessive, I wouldn’t have bothered to play this game with him in the first place. 6 Bradon used to be indifferent. When my mother, Eliza, married into the Reid family, she poured all her energy into pleasing her husband and his son. I was shy and quiet. Apart from my grades, I felt like a permanent outsider. Bradon, however, was always the center of attention. Even when he was aloof, he was never alone. I thought I was discreet when my eyes followed him. Later, I realized he hadn’t missed it; he simply hadn’t cared. That was when I met Rebecca. She was always at the Reid house. The first time I saw her, she burst into the living room shouting, “I’m home!” She looked at me on the sofa, confused. “Oh? Do we have a guest?” The words were a small, soft thorn. It didn’t pierce deeply, but it never came out. Every time I saw her after that, witnessing her effortless access to my nominal home, seeing the unspoken bond between her and Bradon— That small thorn suddenly grew sharp, poking the same spot, again and again. It wasn’t lethal, but it was impossible to ignore. I tried to pretend I didn’t care. Later, Bradon and I were in a secret relationship for four years. Yet, at every family dinner, Rebecca sat beside him. She would often smile at me and say, “If I didn’t cover for you two, Uncle Alexander would have caught you already!” Even at school, everyone assumed they were a couple. I was just the girl who got close to my “brother,” quickly labeled as a home-wrecker. Bradon said, “The truth will speak for itself.” Rebecca said, “They’re just joking.” I was the only one who felt the truth was suffocating. I grew tired of hiding. I wanted to hold his hand in the sunlight. All I got was rejection. In a state of extreme insecurity, I became irrational. Rebecca became a trigger for me. The soft thorn turned into a thicket of prickles all over my body. I constantly badgered Bradon: “Why can she be next to you, and I can’t?” He finally snapped, his voice ice-cold. “Can you just stop making a scene? If you want to go public so badly, go find someone you can be public with!” I loved him to the point of self-destruction, yet I was the one who broke up with him. He was indifferent, convinced I was just being dramatic. I left home without a word, for two whole years. I spent those two years volunteering at a remote foster home. That’s where I met Knox Dalton. He was laid-back, perpetually scruffy, yet strangely popular. Whenever we went out for supplies, young women would blush and ask for his number. He would sling his arm over my shoulder, grinning cheekily. “Sorry, I have a girlfriend.” “Oh? But you don’t look… close?” He’d shrug with mock helplessness. “I messed up. I’m trying to win her back.” I froze. We weren’t a couple, yet he was publicly claiming me. In that moment, I realized the last four years of my life had been a pointless farce. Later, I returned home, having cut most ties with my past. Then my mother brought me a stack of photos of potential suitors. My finger paused on one photograph. The man in the picture was smiling, utterly disarming. My mother leaned in. “That one… he looks a little too much like a player. Maybe we should try someone else?” But I said, “He’s the one.”

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