Author: Momo Chan

Liam had always had Skylar. She wasn’t just his lifelong best female friend; she was a permanent, slightly toxic shadow in our lives. From the first moment I met her, I knew the look in her eye: I was the outsider. The resentment was a cold current beneath her saccharine smile. When we planned a trip with his group, his “Crew,” Skylar was in charge of booking the flights. She somehow forgot to book mine. Just mine. She cried, of course, a delicate, teary apology about being “so scatterbrained.” Liam immediately stepped in, his arm around her, telling me, “Babe, she’s just clumsy. Let it go.” At our wedding, she orchestrated a cruel prank. She and the groomsmen—her acolytes—deliberately smeared cake and God knows what else all over my custom ivory dress during the receiving line. “It’s an old tradition!” she giggled, eyes bright. Liam told me to be the bigger person: “Come on, Anya, it’s just The Guys being The Guys. Don’t let it ruin the day.” After we finished decorating our new home—our marital sanctuary—she threw a “housewarming” party with The Crew that turned it into a disaster zone. Broken art, cigarette burns on the new Persian rug, deep-red wine stains on the white sectional. A violation. I finally snapped. I screamed, years of suppressed rage boiling over. Liam looked bored. He tried to physically soothe me. “She literally overturned a table at a friend’s wedding last month, remember? They get carried away. They’re my blood, Anya. Please, just forgive them.” I felt the familiar, weary weight of my swelling abdomen and bit down on the real fury. My baby. Not worth the stress. But the line had to be drawn. “Next time,” I whispered, the threat heavy and final, “I file for divorce.” After Liam delivered a stern warning to her, Skylar finally backed off. Things were quiet. Too quiet. Until our daughter, Poppy’s, first birthday party. Skylar was staring at Poppy with a calculating look, her brow furrowed in mock concern. “Wow, Liam, she’s getting big. But… she really doesn’t look like you at all, does she?” She tilted her head. “Are you sure she’s yours, bro?” The rest of The Crew quickly chimed in with nervous chuckles and agreement. My face went cold, and Liam was furious. He knew this was too far. He practically shoved them out the door. “That’s it,” he hissed at them. “The cheap shots at Anya I can tolerate. But my daughter? If you ever question my daughter again, you’re not my friends anymore.” That same evening, I stumbled upon a trending post on the Thread. [My daughter just turned one. All my buddies say she doesn’t look like me. I’m afraid my wife cheated. What do I do?] 1 [User 1]: Unless you want to spend the rest of your life raising another man’s kid, go get a DNA test. Stop being a coward. The Original Poster replied: [OP]: I’ve thought about it, but if my wife found out I distrusted her, she’d leave me. I don’t want a divorce. The comments were a mix of insults, calling him a spineless cuck, and others defending him. [User 2]: You call them ‘brothers,’ but do you really think they have your best interest at heart? Toxic friends secretly want to drag you down. [OP]: No way. We grew up together. Why are you all so malicious about my friends? My wife says the same things! Then came the helpful suggestion: [User 3]: Dude, sneak a hair or a toothbrush. Get a quick, private test. If it’s yours, no harm done. If it’s not, you’ve got your exit strategy. Poppy had just had her first birthday. Skylar, Liam’s female friend, had just blatantly suggested Poppy wasn’t his. And now, this post. All the details matched. I looked at Liam, sleeping next to me, already muttering in his sleep. A wave of ice-cold anger and sick betrayal washed over me. I unlocked his phone. I searched, frantically, but there was no trace of The Thread. The last chat records with The Crew were from yesterday, innocuous chatter about fantasy football. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t him. The thought calmed the raging fire in my chest to a mere simmer. I put the phone down, praying for the best. The next morning, Liam woke early, as he always did, to gently care for Poppy. He loved her fiercely; there was no doubt. I started to relax, telling myself the post was a horrible coincidence. But when I came out of the kitchen, holding her warm bowl of mashed fruit purees, I saw him. Liam, bent over the crib, gently, stealthily, pulling a strand of hair from Poppy’s head. “What are you doing!” I lunged forward, shoving him back and snatching my daughter into my arms. Liam looked genuinely startled. “Anya? What the hell?” My voice was shaking. “What were you doing with her hair?” He held up his hand, pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a tiny speck. “You mean this?” “I was grabbing a little fly. It was buzzing around her head.” He looked wounded. “Anya, why would you think I was pulling our baby’s hair? Why are you so aggressive?” The shame hit me instantly. I had wrongly accused him, physically attacked him. “I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I just… I was afraid you’d hurt her.” He dropped the subject, accepting my apology, but his eyes were still hurt. Later, after I’d managed to rock Poppy to sleep, I reopened The Thread. The post had been updated. [OP Update]: Almost got caught pulling a strand of hair this morning. I played it cool and convinced her it was a bug. I don’t think she suspects anything. Help me come up with a better plan. 2 My head exploded. A black curtain dropped over my vision, and I staggered against the wall. It was him. There were too many coincidences, too many agonizing parallels. Every instinct screamed at me to march into the living room, shove the phone in his face, demand the DNA test, and start the divorce. But then I saw a new comment on the thread. [User 4]: I see you’re in the Tri-State area, friend. Where exactly? I have a guy at a private lab who can rush the results. DM me. Don’t raise another man’s kid. The OP replied: [OP]: I’m in Philadelphia. DMing you now. My relief was so profound it was almost painful. I was in New York. The poster was in Philly. I had almost ruined everything, again, based on a poisonous suspicion. Had I confronted Liam, the distrust would have fractured us permanently. Liam had always stressed that trust was the foundation of our relationship. I remembered the college trip. He and The Crew—Skylar included—had secretly planned an island getaway. He’d only told me about it a week before departure, an afterthought. I already resented how much he shared with Skylar that he kept from me. I felt like the girlfriend was the mistress. I went to the airport with him, only to find Skylar hadn’t bought my ticket. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Anya!” she wailed. “I’m just so used to buying six tickets for The Crew, I completely forgot to include you!” I knew it was malicious, not clumsy. My face was cold stone. Liam’s friends started calling me melodramatic and self-centered. Liam tried to smooth things over. “Don’t be mad. She’s just an airhead. I’ll stay back with you.” The Crew immediately turned on him, calling him whipped and a betrayer. He looked trapped, miserable. I forced a calm smile. “Go. I’m fine.” He checked in on me until he boarded. The moment his plane lifted off, I blocked his number, all The Crew’s numbers, and sent him a single text: Have fun with Skylar. He took the red-eye home that night. He was frantic, begging for forgiveness. I refused to see him. Finally, desperate, he attempted suicide—jumping into a freezing-cold river. I only went to the hospital when his mother called me. He explained the island trip was meant to be a surprise for me. “Skylar told me girls love those spontaneous gifts,” he said. He promised to cut all ties with Skylar. “Whatever happens,” he’d cried, clutching me, “you have to trust me, Anya. The lack of trust is worse than dying.” And he had kept his word. For the most part. Until now. I felt a wash of fresh guilt. I had almost destroyed the faith he had worked so hard to rebuild. To make it up to him, I decided to send Poppy to the nanny and take Liam on a spontaneous date. I messaged him and went to the walk-in closet to pick out clothes for both of us. It was while I was rummaging through his socks drawer for a specific brand that my fingers hit something hard underneath. I pulled it out. It was a phone. A burner. One I had never seen before. 3 The screen lock was the same as his main phone. Click. My fingers instinctively went to The Thread. I found the app. I clicked on the familiar user ID. There was the post. My mind didn’t just buzz; it went silent. The tears started before the shock registered. I choked them back and clicked on the private messages. There it was. The chat with the “Tri-State” user. [OP]: Actually, man, I’m in New York. My ex-wife is in Philadelphia, so I assumed I was close. How fast can you get a rush job done? I’m thinking of bringing in a toothbrush this afternoon. The air rushed out of my lungs. New York. Our city. The Philadelphia comment was just a decoy. A smokescreen for an anonymous forum. I closed the app, the rage returning, but this time, it was icy. I started to dig, to peel back the layers of our life. The hidden phone held so much more. In his secondary messaging app, there was a group chat with The Crew, prominently titled: The Skylar Faithful. Skylar’s frantic messages: Liam, I swear I didn’t mean to say that in front of Anya! You have to tell her I didn’t mean it! She already hates me. Now she’ll think I’m trying to break you two up! The Crew chimed in, defending her. Liam was silent for hours. Then Skylar: But Liam, you know I’m only saying it because I love you, bro. She genuinely doesn’t look like you. I’m just looking out for you, man. I’d hate for you to be a cuck and raise a kid that’s not yours. Liam’s only reply: Shut up. But then, he’d posted to The Thread. Scrolling up, I saw photos of him at bars, women draped over him. All the times he said he was “working late” or “on a sales trip.” He was out playing around with Skylar and The Crew. I let out a single, hysterical laugh. It was a joke. Our marriage was a sick, pathetic joke. I checked his other social media app. Skylar was constantly sending him “suggestive” videos. Skylar: Look at this body, bro. Much hotter than the ice queen at home, right? Skylar: I’m giving you the good stuff, man. Why are you still mad at me? His replies were always just ‘Go to hell’ or ‘Knock it off,’ but every single one of those videos was marked ‘Seen.’ The digital evidence felt like a thousand tiny lashes across my face. I sank to the floor, my legs useless. My face was pale, my chest burning. He’d lied about everything. The avoidance. The trust. The distance from Skylar. It was all a performance for the stupid, trusting wife. He and Skylar had never been apart. They had watched me, the idiot, living in blissful ignorance. A wave of nausea hit me. I forced myself up. I heard the nanny’s voice outside. “Mrs. Hayes is in the bedroom.” Click. The door opened. Liam was smiling, walking toward me, his face bright. “Hey, honey! I took the day off. Nanny is with Poppy. Where are we going on our date?” His smile died as his eyes met mine. “Anya? What’s wrong?” He reached out to wipe a tear. I flinched away from his touch, looking at him with naked disgust. I picked up the hidden phone, opened The Thread, and held the screen up to his face. “So,” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Is the DNA test done?” 4 Liam’s face went instantly white. “Anya—what test? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Don’t you? You told your internet friend you’d grab Poppy’s toothbrush this afternoon, Liam. Did you forget?” “I was just… I was having a momentary freak-out! I saw your post, and I got paranoid, so I posted a burner! I never went through with it, I swear!” he babbled, desperate. I ignored his pathetic plea and held out my hand. “Let me see the results, then. Maybe I did cheat. Maybe the baby’s not yours. Wouldn’t that be a shame?” My cold composure terrified him. “Anya, please, you know I would never go through with it. I just needed to vent—” I tossed the phone onto the bed. “Fine. Then let’s go. Right now.” I grabbed Poppy from the crib. “We’re going to the lab. Together. We’ll do a full, legitimate DNA test. Wouldn’t want you to worry yourself sick on an internet forum, would we?” Liam was shaking, his face pasty white. I dragged him toward the garage. “Oh, and you should call your ‘Skylar Faithful’ Crew,” I added, looking back at him. “Let them all come. They’ve earned the right to see whether their friend’s daughter is your seed.” Liam was on the verge of tears. “Anya, please. We don’t have to go. I was wrong. I was stupid. I know I was wrong!” I shoved him into the passenger seat and snatched his main phone. I typed into The Skylar Faithful group chat: DNA Test at the lab in an hour. Come watch. Liam is finally getting peace of mind. Skylar was the first to reply: BRO! FINALLY! Don’t worry, man. The Crew has your back. No woman is worth this trouble! We’re heading there now! When The Crew showed up at the hospital, they froze the moment they saw me holding Poppy. Then Skylar stepped forward, hitting Liam on the shoulder with a triumphant smile. “Good for you, Liam! You finally grew a spine!” She turned to me. “Don’t be mad, Anya. What man wouldn’t want to know the truth? This is for his peace of mind. You understand, right?” “I understand perfectly,” I nodded, my face empty. The nurse led us back. Liam, Poppy, and I all gave blood samples. When the needle pricked my daughter’s tiny vein, she looked at the nurse, confused, then burst into inconsolable tears. The sheer terror in her wail shattered my composure. The cold facade I’d built crumpled. I pulled her into my chest, rocking her, my own tears finally falling. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I whispered. I’m sorry I chose this man to be your father. I’m sorry you have to go through this because of my failure. We waited for hours. Finally, the doctor came out with the report. Skylar snatched it before anyone else could react. She read it quickly, then threw her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with performative shock. “Liam!” she gasped. “It says… it says the baby isn’t yours! Anya cheated on you!” 5 “What the hell are you talking about!” Liam, who had been sitting hunched over in silent misery, jumped to his feet with a roar. He grabbed Skylar by the lapels of her denim jacket. “Say that again, and I swear to God I’ll choke you!” Skylar was genuinely terrified, tears streaming down her face. She held out the report. “Bro, it’s on the paper! Not me! It says the child is Anya’s, but not yours! Why are you screaming at me? She’s the one who cheated!” The rest of The Crew pulled Liam off her, grabbing the report and passing it around. Their faces darkened with a sudden, vindictive solidarity. “It’s true, Liam. She did it! The bitch cheated on you!” Liam wouldn’t believe it. “I already took a test this morning—a quick one with the toothbrush. Poppy is my daughter! You’re trying to set us up!” Ah. So he did lie this morning. A fresh wave of disgust washed over me. Liam grabbed the official report, his eyes scanning every word. When he hit the line stating exclusion of paternity, he swayed. He grabbed the doctor’s arm. “This is wrong! Your lab is wrong! I want a retest!” The doctor frowned, unimpressed. “Sir, this is a state-certified facility. We don’t make mistakes. What lab did you use this morning?” Liam stammered out the name of the lab he’d found on The Thread. The doctor scoffed. “Never heard of it. Probably a private storefront scam. You can do this test a hundred times, and the results will be the same.” The doctor’s certainty hit Liam like a sledgehammer. His eyes turned bloodshot. He seized my shoulders, his grip bruising. “Anya. Tell me. Why? I gave you everything! Didn’t I love you enough? I cut off my friends for you! I was faithful! I almost died for you!” Poppy, startled by the noise, started to cry, reaching for him. “Dada?” He recoiled from her hand as if she were poisonous. “Don’t touch me! You’re dirty!” SLAP! My hand cracked across his cheek. The sound echoed in the sterile hallway. Liam stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and a new, terrible hatred. “You hit me? After you cheated? You betrayed me! You raised another man’s kid in my home! You have no right, Anya!” He was spiraling. “Who is it? Tell me the name of the bastard you slept with!” I stepped away, taking Poppy further down the hall. “There’s nothing to explain.” I looked back at him, my voice flat. “Let’s file for divorce.”

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Claire and I weren’t just a couple; we were a shared history, two chapters bound in the same book. We grew up on the same quiet street, went through high school together, and then, without a single spoken negotiation, listed the same highly selective university on our applications. Everyone called us an inevitability. Four years of college were a continuous loop of shared existence. I hit the gym court, and she had the water bottle ready. I lived in the engineering lab, and she saved my favorite spot in the quiet stacks of the library. Even Mrs. Kim, the manager at the campus grill, would hold back the last plate of her famous chicken burger for “the little professors.” Our perfect symmetry held until the day the acceptance letters arrived for graduate school. I was in. She wasn’t. What made my heart plummet further was my advisor’s offer: a direct-track Ph.D., fully funded, based on my postgraduate research. I panicked internally. I was terrified of putting my life so far ahead of hers, of the distance it would create. But Claire, eyes shining with unshed tears, reached up and kissed my forehead. “You think a piece of paper defines us, Cam? Don’t be stupid. Your success is my bragging right. I’d wait forever for you.” The day my doctoral dissertation passed, I clutched a flight ticket I’d bought the night before, rushing straight back to her apartment. Tucked deep in my pocket was the engagement ring I’d saved for three grueling years. This was it. I was finally going to ask her. I stopped cold on the sidewalk in front of her building. The air hissed out of my lungs. A poster was stretched taut across the entry to the building, a gaudy, screaming in primary colors: CONGRATULATIONS TO Claire AND RHYS—WELCOME BABY BOY. …… Claire. The name I’d spoken for twenty-something years felt like rust and metal in my throat. I was nailed to the spot as the familiar front door swung open. She emerged. Still the same gentle face, the same soft curve of her smile, but in her arms, she was carefully cradling an infant. Beside her, a man I didn’t recognize wrapped an arm around her shoulder with proprietary affection. Her face was serene, radiating a completeness I’d never seen before. The neighbors’ voices buzzed like angry wasps around my ears: “Look at that family of three, perfect, aren’t they?” “Rhys is such a doting father. He cooked for her every single day she was pregnant.” “And so thoughtful to her mom! He and Diane are like mother and son.” Blood hammered in my temples. I wanted to rip that poster down, to grab her and demand the truth. She said she would wait forever… I took a blind step forward, but a cool hand clamped onto my arm. I spun around and faced Diane, Claire’s mother. In my memories, her face was always wreathed in the warmest, kindest smiles. I remembered her stroking my hair, sliding her father’s heirloom timepiece onto my wrist years ago, telling me, “This is for the man who marries my girl.” Now, her face was etched with a complex mix of guilt and exhaustion, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. “What are you doing back?” Tears instantly flooded my eyes. I gripped her arm, my voice catching and shredding. “Diane, why? She told me she wouldn’t marry anyone but me…” Her gaze flickered down to the empty space on my wrist where her father’s watch should have been. She sighed, her tone weary and brutally honest. “You left, Cameron. You went off to chase that Ph.D. for years. How much time does a girl have? Claire couldn’t wait. We couldn’t afford to wait.” She let out a heavy sigh, a flicker of shame in her eyes. “I was the one who pushed her to go on dates. She fought me at first, locked herself in her room, just staring at your old photos…” “But then she met Rhys… He’s solid. Gentle. He wanted a real life, a family, now. Not after five more years of research and papers.” She looked at my tear-streaked face with pity, but the dominant emotion was a rigid, final detachment. “You and Claire… your chapter is closed.” “She’s happy now. Rhys is a good son-in-law, and that baby is the air we breathe. You need to let go, son. Move on… And please, don’t try to see her again.” She withdrew her hand, turning to join the bright, noisy scene—her new son-in-law, her grandchild. The last bit of scaffolding that had held me upright shattered. I stood in the shadow, a disoriented ghost, watching Diane take the baby and laugh, watching her hug Rhys and whisper something. The sunlight was warm and golden on their perfect circle. The velvet box in my pocket—the one holding the ring I’d saved three years for—dug a searing crescent into my palm. The world began to spin, blurring at the edges. I felt the last anchor line snap, and heard the muffled thud as my body hit the pavement. Darkness rushed in. The last thing I saw was that glaring, triumphant poster. I woke up in a sterile, white hospital room. Claire was slumped in the chair next to the bed, deep, dark shadows beneath her eyes. Startled by my movement, she bolted upright, leaning close. Her finger brushed my cheek, her voice rough and cracked. “You’re awake? Where does it hurt? The police called. They said you collapsed outside the apartment…” She choked on the words, swallowing hard, her eyes flooding red. I stared at her genuine panic and pain, and a memory, sharp and specific, cut through the fog. The winter after my parents’ accident. I was seventeen, a ghost in the funeral home corner, staring at their fixed, black-and-white smiles. She was the one who pushed open that heavy oak door, knelt by me, and chafed the circulation back into my frozen hands. “Don’t be scared, Cam,” she’d promised, her voice clear and strong. “I’ll be your family now.” She had kept that promise. Matching university codes on application forms. Waking up at 4 AM during my finals week to make me coffee. Video-calling me at midnight during my most brutal dissertation months just to read highly technical reference papers aloud. “My little genius,” she’d told me, “you have to fly high.” But now… “Was the dissertation defense too much?” she whispered, wiping the moisture from my cheek with her thumb. “Or did all that pressure I put on you… did that finally break you?” She lowered her head, gently pressing her forehead to mine, just like she did whenever I was upset as a child. “Don’t be stupid,” her voice was muffled against me. “Even if you never graduated, I’d still take care of you. I meant it. No matter what, I’ve got you.” I knew she meant it now, too. Just as I knew the phone in her jeans pocket was vibrating. The caller ID, which I could just make out, was listed as “Rhys.” It was the third time the screen had lit up. She finally pulled away, glancing down at the phone, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. “I have to take this.” She stood and walked toward the door, her tone still gentle. “Hello? Did the baby wake up again? Okay, use the 40ml scoop… and check the water temperature first, you know how he gets…” The door clicked shut, but her voice drifted through the gap. “Formula can, third shelf… I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my temple. I heard the girl on the snowy sidewalk saying, “Don’t be scared.” I heard the twenty-three-year-old in the library kissing my forehead and promising, “I’ll wait forever.” I heard the woman next to my bed insisting, “No matter what, I’ve got you.” And then I heard the present—the familiar, loving cadence of her voice, directed at another man, nurturing their new life. The call ended. My heart was finally, completely dead. She pushed the door open, her face a mix of lingering worry and apology. But that worry was now divided, split between me and the husband and son on the other end of the line. “Something came up with work,” she said, her eyes shifting away from mine. “I have to go home for a bit.” I watched her, and then, very quietly, I laughed. “Go.” I turned my head toward the window. Her guilt deepened. “I… I’ll come right back after I handle it.” She turned and left the room quickly. A moment later, a nurse pushed the door open, smiling softly. “Was that your fiancée? She’s a trooper. Watched you all night, her eyes were so bloodshot.” She handed me a few sheets of paper and turned to leave. I gripped the thin paper, staring out at the hallway where Claire’s shadow had just disappeared. A faint sound echoed in my mind. The old, drafty apartment we’d rented while in school. She’d wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on the top of my head. “We’ll have two,” she’d said. “One smart like you, one handsome like me.” “Our parents would be so happy. You’ll have a house, a big, noisy, full life.” The sunset back then had filtered through the window, bathing the whole room in a warm gold. Now, there was only the pale, clinical glare of the hospital lamp. I didn’t have a family anymore. My parents were long gone, and Claire… she had become someone else’s family. My phone vibrated. A text from a number I didn’t know. It was a photo. Rhys was holding the baby, smiling genially at the camera. Diane stood beside them, looking every bit the proud grandmother. Claire was tucked into Rhys’s side. The background was clearly their living room. Rhys’s hand, resting casually on the baby carrier strap, was wearing an heirloom watch. I automatically lifted my hand to my wrist. Empty. It had been taken off me while I was unconscious. When? I gave a dry, self-mocking laugh. Maybe when she was stroking my face and calling me “stupid” for thinking I could lose her? The text continued below the image: “The watch looks good on me, don’t you think? Rhys. By the way. And the little guy? Claire says his eyes are exactly like mine.” “We didn’t meet on a blind date, Cameron. We met while you were busy writing the abstract for your final defense. The day after she promised you forever, to be precise.” “All those years in the ivory tower, Cam. All that brilliance. And you couldn’t see the one thing happening right under your nose. I helped her pick out the poster, just for you.” Each word was a poisoned dart, sinking into the last warm corner of my heart. Her late-night video calls, reading me references, overlapped with the quiet, domestic moments where she was falling for, and starting a life with, another man. A wave of gut-churning nausea swept over me. The last vestige of hope, of hesitation, was crushed by this malicious show of victory. I opened a travel app and booked a one-way flight for the next morning. There was nothing left here worth staying for. The next morning, I checked myself out of the hospital. The sky was gray, spitting a fine, cold rain. Since my parents’ deaths, I had technically lived with Claire until college, but I still had a few boxes of books and belongings in her old room. I needed to cut the tie clean. The key slid into the lock, turning with a stiff, heavy click. I pushed the door open. The familiar space was saturated with an alien scent. My old black leather loafers were gone from the entry, replaced by a pair of new, chunky, cable-knit slippers. The mismatched ceramic mugs Claire and I had made in a disastrous college art class were now a lone, chipped survivor on the shelf above the kettle. The living room sofa was covered with a beige, floral throw I didn’t recognize, and the coffee table held a mother-and-baby magazine and a half-empty bottle of bottle-washing soap. Each replaced object felt like a tiny, sharp splinter. “Rhys? You’re back early today…” Diane’s voice called out from the back of the apartment, carrying its usual, bright tone. Her footsteps approached, and her smile instantly froze the moment she saw me standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” She instinctively blocked the hallway. “Claire isn’t here. Please just go, don’t start trouble.” Start trouble. The phrase landed softly, but the impact was a dull, bruising ache in my chest. “I’ve come for the few things I left here,” my voice was unnervingly calm. “I’ll be gone once I’ve got them.” A look of distress flashed across Diane’s face, but before she could speak, the sound of a key turning and a man’s footsteps came from outside. Rhys pushed the door open, a baby bundled in his arms. The soft smile he wore for his son hardened into raw hostility when his eyes met mine. “What the hell are you doing here?” He clutched the baby tighter. “Didn’t my text spell it out clearly enough? Claire is my wife now, we have a child! How dare you show up at my home?” He took a step closer, and I was hit with the sweet, sickening scent of baby formula on his shirt. “Who let you in? Get out! Get out now!” He shoved his free hand into my shoulder. I stumbled back, my spine hitting the cold, sharp edge of the shoe rack. “Rhys, stop it…” Diane tried to intervene. “Mom!” Rhys’s voice was a harsh threat. “If you take his side, I’m walking out right now, and I’m taking my son with me!” Diane’s outstretched hand froze mid-air, then fell away. She turned her face, defeated. Just then, the door swung open again. Claire walked in, bringing the cold air of the street with her. She stopped dead, her eyes scanning the scene. Her face instantly drained of color. “Claire!” Rhys practically threw himself at her. “He just barged in, he scared the baby! He even shoved me and nearly made me drop him!” Claire’s eyes darted frantically between Rhys and me, but her attention immediately snapped to the infant’s face in Rhys’s arms. That tiny, wrinkled face completely commandeered her focus. “I didn’t push him.” My voice was low, firm, but she ignored me. At that exact moment, Rhys let out a sharp, theatrical yelp and deliberately swayed backward. The baby in his arms dipped dangerously low. Claire’s eyes widened in sheer terror. Instinct took over. She shoved me aside with all her strength. “The baby!” I was caught completely off guard. I lost my balance and crashed backward. The vase on the entryway table shattered. I felt the stinging of shards against my skin. A warm, slick sensation began to spread from my lower abdomen. It pooled quickly on the floor, a patch of shocking, vivid red. The sounds of the world rushed away. All that was left was the tearing pain in my gut and the sight of that rapidly expanding stain. I curled into a ball on the cold tile, unable to make a sound, only able to look up at the woman who was frozen, clutching her child. Her face was a mask of horrified disbelief, staring at the blood beneath me. I opened my mouth, tears blurring my vision as I forced the words out. “Claire…” “Did I become so disposable that you had to destroy me to protect him?”

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Nine months pregnant, and a sudden, wrenching craving hit me: the artisan doughnuts Alex and I used to share back when we were first dating. I convinced him to take me, but the moment he started the engine, the Smart-Drive navigation system whirred to life, instantly pulling up a familiar destination. The address was an unfamiliar apartment complex on the west side of the city. Alex quickly pressed the ‘X’ button when the prompt popped up. He casually changed the subject, and I, the accommodating wife, played along, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing. Later that night, long after he’d fallen asleep, I connected to the car’s mobile app. The cloud-uploaded trip log showed a recurring sixty-mile anomaly in the car’s daily behavior. Recently, under the “Owner” profile, it had been categorized as a “Daily Habit.” The video logs showed that every night after I’d gone to bed, Alex would quietly get up and slink off into the darkness toward the address I’d accidentally seen. Every time the car arrived, a slender, fragile figure was waiting by the entrance to the apartment block. She’d take his coat, brush a speck of dust from his sleeve, and adjust his scarf before he left. Most of the time, I could hear her voice, soft yet pointed: “Don’t come if you’re too busy, Alex. I’m not like your wife, who can’t be left alone for a second.” I didn’t sleep at all that night. Five years of marriage, four rounds of IVF just to get this one baby—I couldn’t bring myself to be ruthless. My friends had advised me to be practical: he still had some feelings, he still had responsibility. A marriage is a business, they said; just turn a blind eye and move on. But a week later, on the day my labor began, Alex’s phone rang in the delivery room. A panicked voice came through the speaker: “Savannah is standing on the ledge of her balcony! She says if you don’t get here, she’s jumping!” The reflex that made him snatch his hand away from mine was quicker than his thought process. “She’s my late mentor’s daughter,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. “I just have to talk her down.” My eyes were already red, but the scream I let out was raw, deafening. “If you walk out that door today, I will consider this child to have no father!” Alex’s steps faltered. He turned back, his face a mask of conflict and pity. But in the very next second, his stride was firm as he bolted out of the hospital room. 1 I knew exactly who the woman on the phone was. I’d seen Savannah Monroe countless times on the car’s dashcam footage. I was lying on the operating table. My gown was soaked through with sweat, sticking to my skin. My child wasn’t even born yet, and his father had already abandoned him. In a haze of pain, I heard the screaming match taking place just outside the door—my parents versus my in-laws. The fierce uterine contractions hit me like a tidal wave, but they were nothing compared to the wrenching pain in my heart. My mother was sobbing, her voice breaking with rage: “Who the hell is that woman? Has Alex lost his mind? Leaving his wife in labor?” Alex’s parents were frantically calling him, their voices tight with tears. “Rory, sweetheart, hold on! We’ve sent people to find that fool. If he doesn’t get back here today, we’ll disown him!” In my thrashing, my wedding ring slipped from my finger and skittered across the floor, kicked by a rushing nurse and swallowed by the shadows beneath the operating table. The contractions were rapid, and the monitors blared in alarm. “Fetal heart rate is dropping!” The doctor’s roar tore through the sterile air, and then everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, the smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. A nurse was adjusting my IV drip. Seeing me awake, she spoke softly: “It’s a miracle you survived the hemorrhage. The baby… you can try again later.” Boom. It felt like someone had driven a spike directly through my chest. My mother sat beside the bed, tears welling up as she gently wiped my face. “My love, you’ve suffered so much.” My father stood by the bed, his face pale with concern. My in-laws stood huddled in the corner, overwhelmed with guilt. I stared at the stark white ceiling, tears streaming silently into the hair at my temples. Five years of mornings and evenings flashed across my mind, a silent, repeating reel. Alex’s proposal at graduation when I was twenty-two. The nights he stayed up late to prepare tailored, nutritious meals when I was sick with morning sickness. The way he meticulously logged the fetal heart rate data at every appointment. Now, all those gentle, tender moments had become a cruel joke. Alex’s best friend, Marcus Riley, stood by the doorway, looking sheepish and nervous. “Rory, Savannah… she had a depressive episode. She said if Alex didn’t come, she’d jump. There was no other way. You have to…” He trailed off, finally realizing the sheer impropriety of what he was asking. “So, do you need me to be understanding?” I retorted, my voice flat, devoid of feeling. I wanted to ask how many times he had covered for Alex—how many “guys’ nights” were actually just a cover—but suddenly, I didn’t care to know the answer. From the recovery room to the private suite, I waited for my lawful husband. I waited from dusk till dawn, and then until the next night descended. Alex finally appeared at eight in the evening, after being gone for twenty agonizing hours. His suit was wrinkled, and his eyes darted away from mine. “Rory, I’m so sorry,” his voice was dry and rough. “Savannah’s situation was truly dangerous. My mentor entrusted her to me before he died. I had no choice but to…” I cut him off, my voice a croaking whisper. “Do you know our baby is gone?” He chose to abandon my scheduled C-section to go to her. “Alex, that was our child.” A heavy silence settled in the room. He reached for my hand; his palm was cold. “Rory, I haven’t asked you for anything in these five years. Just this once, I’m begging you—don’t make a scene.” He squeezed my hand. “Savannah just lost her father. If people start accusing her of being a homewrecker, her depression will get worse.” I gazed at the naked plea in his eyes, and my heart felt like it was being shredded into a thousand pieces. He shouldn’t be begging me. He should be kneeling outside the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, weeping. A person’s first reaction is the honest one. He hadn’t asked the doctor about the hemorrhage. He hadn’t asked how terrified I was during the surgery. His very first words were all about another woman. Tears rushed out, soaking the pillowcase. I gathered every ounce of strength I had, and a single word scraped its way from my throat. “Fine.” A visible wave of relief washed over him. He continued, already planning. “Savannah can’t be left alone right now, so I’m moving in with her for a bit. Once her emotions stabilize—maybe five months or so—I’ll move back. We can try for another baby then. Okay?” Alex spoke as if he were scheduling a board meeting. I stared at him, my eyes wide, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head. My baby, whom I’d waited five years for, was barely cold, and he was already outlining his future—a future that included another woman. In that instant, my world collapsed. 2 I instinctively touched my flat lower abdomen, the place that had so recently nourished a new life—the proof of our love, now a profound, cruel irony. I slowly withdrew my hand from his grasp, my voice frighteningly calm. “Alex.” I started reciting the memories. “The first time you tried to make soup, you filled the kitchen with smoke, just because I couldn’t keep anything down due to morning sickness.” “You secretly recorded the baby’s heartbeat and set it as your ringtone, showing it off to everyone.” “You paced outside the exam room, shouting, ‘Don’t be scared, Honey!’ until the nurse kicked you out three times.” “For five years, you spoiled me until I was helpless. You even knelt down to tie my shoelaces…” “I truly believed we would be happy forever.” I lifted my tear-streaked face to him, my voice breaking. “But now, Alex, I can’t see an ounce of care for me in your eyes.” The five years of memories crashed over me. Alex’s throat bobbed violently, and he finally managed a hoarse reply. “But Honey, Savannah really needs me right now.” That single phrase, needs me, completely pulverized the last vestige of my fantasy. I looked at him and felt I was staring at a stranger. My voice shook as I spat out the word through clenched teeth: “Get out!” His body tensed. He seemed to want to hug me, but he simply turned and disappeared down the hospital corridor without looking back. On the day of our child’s memorial, I knelt at the grave. Alex did not come. “Hello, my baby,” I whispered, my voice trembling. My mother put her arm around my shoulder, wiping away her own tears. “Rory, I’m here.” I leaned into her embrace, my throat tight. “It’s okay. At least the baby was here with me for a little while.” I looked at the freshly turned earth. “And, honestly, given the situation, perhaps it’s better he never had to come to this home.” The words had barely left my mouth when Alex finally arrived, late. He knelt beside me. “Baby, Daddy…” I cut him off, my voice cold. “I told you that day. If you walked out, this child would have no father.” “Rory, I know you’re hurting, but don’t say things like that…” He frowned at me, his expression making it abundantly clear that he thought I was being unreasonable, and that he was being the magnanimous one for tolerating my tantrum. “I’m also heartbroken that our child is gone. You…” My mother raised her hand and delivered a sharp slap across his face. “Heartbroken? Your heartbreak is abandoning your wife in labor to go tend to some tramp? You should be ashamed!” Alex’s face darkened instantly. Before he could speak, Savannah, eyes red-rimmed, rushed in from the path outside the cemetery. She looked at Alex, her voice thick with sobs. “A-Alex… are you done with your prayers?” “Are you… finally coming back home to me?” My father immediately stepped forward. “Alex! What day is this? How dare you bring this woman here?” Alex seemed to know his behavior was inexcusable, and he spoke with an air of guilt. “Dad, I couldn’t help it. Savannah’s mental state has been fragile lately. I can’t leave her alone.” “Fragile? And it falls to another woman’s husband to babysit her? Do you know it’s your child’s memorial today? Do you know how Rory has suffered?” Savannah instantly lowered her head, her voice barely a whisper. “Uncle, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Alex just said he was going out, and I got scared, so I followed him.” It was the perfect, pathetic display. Just as expected, Alex immediately stepped in front of her. “Dad, take your anger out on me. Don’t torment her.” My father was furious, turning to Alex’s parents. “This is the ‘good son’ you raised!” My mother helped me stand up, shaking with anger. “Alex, are you even a man?” Alex’s parents panicked. “Alex, this is completely inappropriate. Please find someone to send Savannah home.” But Alex acted as if he hadn’t heard them. Instead, he tightened his grip on Savannah’s hand. “Her mental state has just stabilized. She can’t take any more shock.” I looked at him, my voice dry. “So… in your eyes, she can’t be shocked, but I can? I’m supposed to shoulder the death of our child all by myself, is that right?” Before he could respond, Savannah spoke up weakly, her tone heavy with manufactured remorse. “It’s okay, Alex. Rory is right. I’m being thoughtless. You… you go back. Take care of your wife.” “I’ll… I’ll go home and pack up your things now.” She stumbled as she turned, her high heel catching on a gravestone, sending her sprawling to the ground. Alex’s grip on my hand tightened, then instantly went slack, the impulse to rush to her side almost winning. But he stayed put, watching Marcus rush to help her up. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and firm. “I’ll stay with you for a bit longer.” He then looked directly at Savannah. “But you need to remember this, Savannah. Rory is my lawfully wedded wife.” “The day she needs me back, I will leave you. Do not cry or cause trouble. I have already done more than enough for you these past years.” Savannah bit her lip, seemingly unable to hold back any longer, and she ran crying out of the cemetery. Alex remained expressionless and did not follow. But the hand that was holding mine was trembling slightly. Intentions are impossible to hide. I remembered years ago when I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. He drove through the night to get home. His eyes were red with worry and pity, yet he still lectured me for eating junk food. Back then, he had also spoken harsh words, but his fingers had gently caressed the back of my hand the entire time. 3 That evening, we sat at a large table in a private dining room. The two families’ elders were present, and the atmosphere was thick with tension. Marcus leaned toward Alex and whispered in his ear. “Savannah’s still crying in the parking lot. Security says she won’t get out of the car.” Alex was calmly passing me the meal. He didn’t look up. “Let her be.” The air in the room grew several degrees colder. The meal was entirely flavorless, no different from dining alone. Savannah was the daughter of Alex’s mentor, and they had grown up together. Though Marcus didn’t outright say it, the level of care he showed her was clearly greater than what he showed me, the official wife. The main courses arrived. The last dish, a whole roasted ribbs, was placed in front of me. Marcus suddenly spoke up. “Can we save some of that for Savvy? She loves ribbs. Rory, if you want more, we can just order another one.” Alex gave a cold laugh. He simply lifted the entire platter and placed it directly in front of me. His voice was hard. “What my wife likes is not meant to be shared with strangers.” Even so, after putting down his chopsticks, he kept glancing toward the private room door. A waiter began collecting the finished dishes and preparing to leave with a cart of food waste. After a long stretch of silence, Alex suddenly stood up. “I’ll take that.” The waiter hesitated, handing him the large trash bag with a confused look. Once Alex was gone, Marcus immediately moved to the seat furthest from me, pretending to check his email. Both sets of parents sat in awkward silence, mechanically chewing their food. I felt a suffocating tightness in my chest. I got up and walked out into the corridor, needing fresh air. Before I realized it, I had reached the underground parking garage. I faintly heard Savannah’s tearful sobs, intermingled with Alex’s low, soothing voice. I hid behind a concrete pillar. Outside, soft flakes of snow were beginning to fall. Alex and Savannah were sitting side-by-side on the hood of his sedan, sharing a takeout container of food. He lifted his hand and gently wiped a tear from her cheek. Savannah, her eyes red, lightly punched him on the arm, her face a mask of wounded entitlement. “You’re going back to her, so why are you still bothering to care about me?” Alex let her hit him, his gaze devoid of any impatience. His eyes were tender and completely accepting. It was a look that was fundamentally different from the carefully maintained, polite warmth he always showed me. He spoke, his voice filled with weariness. “Don’t be ridiculous. I promised my mentor I’d look out for you forever. You know I would never abandon you.” Savannah sniffled and moved closer to his side. Alex picked up a piece of rib with his chopsticks and brought it to her lips. “I had my private caterer make this specifically and send it over. It’s much better than the food at the restaurant.” She took a bite and her crying gradually subsided. Alex lowered his voice to explain to her. “Rory just lost the baby. Her emotions are unstable.” “It’s just one dinner with the families.” “If she’s satisfied, she won’t constantly nag me about coming home.” That was it. That was how he saw it.

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My wife, Sienna, is a concert pianist. I spent five years of my life trying to win her over, a devotion that bordered on the absurd. She finally agreed to be with me, but after we married, she insisted she couldn’t have children. She always claimed it was for her career—her art—the grueling practice schedule, the touring. I knew her ambition; I was also tired of waiting. So, I did the unforgivable: I subtly compromised the barrier between us. I poked a few tiny holes in the rubber. Sienna finally got pregnant. Twins, no less. Just as I was drowning in the sheer, dizzying joy of becoming a father, I scrolled through her colleague’s social media feed. It was a screenshot of a pregnancy test—Sienna’s actual results—and a caption. “Thank you, Sienna, for finally making my dream of fatherhood come true.” “So excited for my twin babies!” The words hit me like a lightning strike. I felt the floor drop out from under me. I was a punchline. I had been living a joke. I packed my bags that night, during her colleague’s birthday party. I took all my clothes, my books, my chargers—everything that was definitively mine. The only thing I left on the writing desk was the signed divorce agreement. 1 Sienna came home and found me sitting on the living room sofa, my phone still displaying that screenshot: the positive test, the congratulatory post by her mentor’s student, Caspian. She was six months pregnant, moving with a noticeable, heavy waddle, but her face held a deep, pleasurable contentment. As always, her eyes drifted to the entrance table, waiting for me to place the slippers and bring a warm glass of water. But this time, I didn’t move. She paused, then bent to change her shoes herself, the enormous swell of her belly making the action clumsy and difficult. Her fingers managed to brush the laces, but she couldn’t undo them. Watching her struggle, a raw ache twisted in my chest. Any other day, I would have been on my knees in an instant, helping her off with her shoes, running her bath, maybe even massaging her back. But today, my limbs felt bound by invisible chains, completely immobilized. She looked at me, a flicker of confusion and then a slight, wounded expression in her eyes. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Usually, that simple, soft tone, that look of innocent vulnerability, was all it took for me to melt and cater to her every need. After a few excruciating seconds of delay, the ingrained habit won. I stood, walked over, and slid the comfortable indoor slippers onto her feet. Maybe it was habit. Maybe, despite everything, it was still love. My utter silence finally broke through her pleasant fog. “Grant, seriously. What is it? You look completely miserable.” I didn’t answer. I just handed her the phone. The screen glowed with the undeniable evidence. Her gaze fixed on the image and the accompanying caption. The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure blankness, swiftly followed by a flash of panic. Then, the script was ready. She chose her words carefully, a deep breath steadying her before she spoke. “Caspian has always desperately wanted a child,” she began, her voice low and rehearsed. “You know Sylvie passed away before they could have a family. He says he’ll never remarry, and he feels it would be wrong, maybe even illegal, to just use a surrogate.” “I’m his student’s peer. We’ve known each other for years. We share a history.” “Besides, Professor Ellington has done so much for my career, asking nothing in return. When he finally asked this one thing of me… I couldn’t refuse him.” “It was just… a medical procedure. In vitro.” “As soon as the babies are born, they will go to Caspian to raise.” A desolate chill swept through me. I thought back to the nights when I had first found out about the pregnancy, ecstatic and unable to sleep. I had worried that she would be furious at my deceptive act, that she would refuse to keep the twins. But then I saw her joy, and I believed she had finally had a change of heart. I thought she wanted our family. Now, I knew. It was all a terrible, soul-crushing misunderstanding. When I was smugly congratulating myself for my clever little trick, she was probably just breathing a sigh of relief that the initial hurdle was cleared. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. I felt like the biggest fool alive. “So you decided to hide it?” My voice was dangerously flat. “You let me run around like an idiot, fussing over you every day, planning nurseries, thinking these were our children!” “Do you have any idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this? How much joy I felt?” “And now… now I find out that I’m just collateral damage. That I’ve been living a joke!” Tears streamed down her face. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling dramatically. I felt a confusing mix of white-hot anger and deep, agonizing pain. She had been my everything; my happiness was something I’d spent half a decade fighting for. Now, it was a shattered illusion. She lifted her head, all soft, fragile pleading. “Please, Grant, don’t be angry. This was only about repaying the kindness and mentorship of Professor Ellington.” “When I deliver this baby, I promise, we can have as many of your own children as you want. I’ll give you everything you need, okay?” 2 I wanted to scream, No! I wanted to walk out and slam the door, to wipe the entire nightmare away. But in the end, all those impulses condensed into one long, hollow sigh. I succumbed to the reality of the situation—and to the last dying embers of my love and reluctance to lose her. Then, her abdomen spasmed violently. Her face turned chalk white. Panic took over. I scooped her up immediately, rushed her to the car, and drove like a maniac to the nearest emergency room. Her hand gripped the passenger seat strap, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Call Caspian… quick, call him…” My heart seemed to clench, hard and painful, but I did as she asked. I pulled out my phone and dialed Caspian’s number. At the hospital, the doctor wheeled her into the examination room. Moments later, Caspian came sprinting down the hallway, his face a mask of frantic concern. He didn’t spare me a single glance. He headed straight for the door and slipped inside. I stood outside, glued to the spot. Through the partially open door, I saw a scene that twisted my insides. Sienna lay on the examination table, still pale, but the moment she saw Caspian, her eyes softened with a look of absolute, reliant devotion. She grabbed his hand, her voice thick with tears. “Caspian, I’m so scared… are the babies going to be okay?” He leaned over her, gently stroking her hair. His voice was a tender murmur, capable of dissolving any fear. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m here. You and the children will be fine. I promise.” I was the outsider, the invisible man. Watching their intimate exchange, the last fragile wisp of hope I’d been clinging to evaporated. She possessed a tenderness and dependence for him that she had never shown me. My heart felt like it was being fed into a grinder. I stood there, still clutching her patient file and lab reports, realizing I was utterly superfluous. I took a step toward the table, but Caspian shifted his body, a silent, definitive barrier between Sienna and me, as if I were the trespasser. His voice, though still gentle toward Sienna, carried an edge of cold, non-negotiable authority. “Sienna, you need to rest. Don’t get emotional.” He finally turned to me, his eyes cool and dismissive. “I’ve got it from here, Grant. You can go home now.” I opened my mouth, a pathetic attempt to argue, but Sienna spoke first. “Honey, why don’t you go? With Caspian here, I’ll be fine.” Her tone was a soft, urgent plea, making it clear that his presence was the one she actually required. Caspian remained where he was, a human wall standing firmly between the two of us. My heart felt suddenly hollowed out. I stood there, awkward and utterly useless, the patient file suddenly heavy in my hands. The only thing I could think to say was pathetically mundane. “Is there… anything you want to eat? I could go get something.” “I’ll buy you that seafood chowder you love. And fresh strawberries. How does that sound?” Caspian cut in immediately, a faint note of mockery in his tone. “She doesn’t like that anymore. Her tastes changed in the second trimester. Didn’t you know that?” I froze. I looked at Sienna, desperate for a rebuttal, a defense. She only lowered her head, nervously twisting the corner of the hospital sheet. Her voice was weak. “Hmm… yeah. I don’t really want that right now. It sounds kind of heavy.” My heart sank. I’d bought her that exact chowder just a few days ago, and she had eaten every spoonful, thanking me with a kiss. Now, she was telling me she was sick of it. 3 The misery was a suffocating weight, but I forced my voice to remain calm. “Then what do you want? I’ll go get it right now.” Caspian preempted me again, pulling a beautifully packaged box of pastries from his pocket. He offered them to Sienna. “I made a quick stop. These are your new favorite flavors, aren’t they? Try one.” Sienna took the box, a genuine, delighted smile lighting her face. Her voice was suddenly lighter. “Thank you, Caspian. You always know exactly what I want.” I stumbled out of the room, shell-shocked. Was this the “no influence” she had promised? Caspian stayed with her the entire time she was admitted. On the day she was discharged, I drove to the hospital early, a massive bouquet of her favorite white lilies in my hand. But when I pushed the door open, the scene inside struck me motionless. Sienna was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Caspian was kneeling, lacing up her shoes. Professor Ellington, her esteemed mentor—the elderly man who had always been polite to me—stood nearby, holding a small overnight bag, a subtle, satisfied look on his face. “Sienna, the car is waiting downstairs. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.” Sienna nodded, looking like a dutiful student. “Ready, Professor.” I stood in the doorway, the lilies suddenly feeling like a heavy, absurd prop. A profound, aching emptiness washed over me. “Sienna, I came to take you home.” She glanced up at me, her eyes completely devoid of warmth or recognition. “Grant, the Professor says I should stay at his home until I deliver. My due date is close, and it’s getting difficult to move around.” “It’s not that you couldn’t manage, but… the Professor’s house has a larger staff. They can look after me better.” Her tone was utterly matter-of-fact, as if this was a simple scheduling update that required no discussion. I was an afterthought, someone she was merely notifying, expecting my cheerful agreement. “Sienna…” I tried to speak, but the Professor was already picking up the bag, and Caspian was helping her stand. She finally met my eyes, and a flash of impatience crossed her face. “With the Professor and Caspian looking after me, what exactly do you have to worry about?” “Besides, they have a dedicated housekeeper. How can one man possibly provide the same level of care?” The Professor’s voice broke in again, edged with subtle urgency. “Let’s go. The driver is waiting.” Sienna nodded and moved with them toward the door. As she passed me, she didn’t even offer a glance, acting as if I were nothing more than a coat rack. I stood there, holding a bouquet of slowly wilting lilies, completely gutted. Back home, I sat in the echoing silence of our living room. I stared at the dead lilies in my hand. The image of the hospital room—Sienna’s coldness, Caspian’s smugness, the Professor’s condescending authority—kept replaying in my mind. It was in that moment that the decision became absolute. I needed a divorce. Just as I sank into the black hole of my confusion, my phone rang. The name on the screen made my eyes snap open. Sienna. Already? Did this mean she hated staying at the Professor’s house? Was she calling to come home? 4 The sudden rush of hope completely overwhelmed the misery. My voice was tight with an unwarranted surge of joy. “Sienna, are you—” She cut me off before I could finish. “You need to bring me a few changes of clothes. I can’t stand these borrowed robes.” “Also, Caspian’s birthday is coming up. The gift I bought for him? I need you to bring it over.” My throat suddenly went bone-dry. I knew exactly which box she meant. When I first saw it—beautifully wrapped, elegant—I assumed it was my own delayed birthday gift, since Caspian and I were born only a month apart. I let out a silent, ragged laugh. Tears pricked my eyes. I had been delusional. I forced a tight smile onto my face, saying only, “Alright.” When I arrived with her clothes, Professor Ellington’s home was a flurry of activity—they were setting up for Caspian’s party. Most of the guests were music colleagues, fellow students, and prominent figures in the local art scene. The party space was exquisite, romantically lit, with soft, classical music playing. Sienna was seated next to Caspian, a violin held in her hands. He was at a grand piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. Their music began, intertwining perfectly, an undeniable, breathtaking harmony. They were the very definition of a Golden Duo. Their eyes met constantly, exchanging a profound sense of recognition and history, as if the rest of the world had dissolved and only the two of them existed in a white-hot spotlight. The crowd erupted in applause. People whispered, their voices carrying easily in the silent afterglow. “They truly are a perfect pair! A match made in artistic heaven.” “I heard they grew up studying music together. They’ve always shared this soul-deep harmony.” I stood frozen in the corner. The more beautiful their music became, the more profoundly I felt my own displacement. The sheer, overwhelming feeling of being an intruder, of being utterly irrelevant, crashed over me like a tidal wave. I turned silently and left the party. I started packing my belongings into my suitcase, the movements mechanical and numb. Finally, I walked to the desk, pulled out the drawer, and retrieved the divorce agreement. The pen in my hand trembled slightly, but I pressed down and firmly signed my name. I placed the agreement on the desktop, next to a small, single key. It was the key to our home, and it was my final goodbye. I wheeled my suitcase out the front door and didn’t look back. But just as I reached the sidewalk, my phone started ringing again. 5 I stared at the name flashing on the screen, feeling it stab and twist in my heart. The tears I had held back finally broke free. It was Sienna. I didn’t want to answer; I was terrified I’d waver. The phone rang until it fell silent. Then, a text message alert. From Sienna. “Grant, why aren’t you answering your phone?” “You drop off my things and leave without a word? That is incredibly rude!” “I was just talking about you to the Professor, telling him you’re a sharp businessman, tactful and well-mannered. You just completely made me look bad!” The sheer self-absorption in her angry text was a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, killing the last flicker of hope. In love, the person who cares the most is always the one who loses everything. I bought a ticket and returned to New York City. My life was not what Sienna believed. My mother is the legendary concert pianist, Minerva Stone. My father is the celebrated composer, Rory Stone. My parents had wanted me to follow in their footsteps, but I had absolutely no musical talent and fiercely rejected the art world. I went to business school to escape their control, creating a rift that lasted years. That’s why I hadn’t returned home. When Sienna and I got married, I hired actors to play my parents. Sienna met them a few times, but finding no common ground with the stiff, fabricated relationship, she slowly drifted away from them. I focused entirely on our small, isolated life, only maintaining the bare minimum of contact with my real family. Sienna once told me she idolized Minerva Stone. At the time, I’d considered revealing the truth to her. But then my parents started calling, urging me to come back for a business engagement, and I decided against bringing Sienna into that world. Now, she had clearly found her true path, her shared legacy, with Caspian. It was time for me to go home. Standing before the familiar mahogany front door, I felt a mix of anxiety and excitement. Years had passed, but the house felt utterly unchanged. I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately. My mother, Minerva Stone, stood there in an elegant silk dress. Her eyes rested on my face for a few seconds, then instantly welled up. “Grant? You’re finally home…” My throat tightened. “Mom, I’m back.” My father, Rory Stone, came out of the living room, a musical score in his hand. His hair was streaked with gray, but his eyes were still sharp. He looked at me, his voice low but with a hint of undeniable emotion. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.” The familiar sound of piano music drifted from the living room, mixing with a faint scent of cedarwood and polish. My mother took my hand, her voice laced with gentle reproach. “All these years, not a single visit. Do you know how worried your father and I have been?” “If you hadn’t come back soon, we might have disowned you.” I lowered my head, guilt washing over me. I had been stubborn, foolishly convinced I needed to completely detach from their influence. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have come back sooner.” My father interrupted, his voice kind and accepting. “It’s over now. You’re here.” “We won’t dwell on the past.” My mother nodded, a bright smile returning to her face. “That’s right. And speaking of which, Vivian is here today. You two haven’t seen each other in ages, have you?” “Vivian?”

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My daughter, Jolie, was born with a startling, almost mythical genetic Polycoria —a rare condition that made her irises appear strangely duplicated. It had terrified Stella’s freshly returned ghost of first love, Liam. In a fit of panicked, cruel deference to him, Stella had hired an eye specialist to remove the eyes. I knelt in the driving rain for three days and three nights, begging her not to do this to our child. But Stella had simply looped her arm through Liam’s, looking down at me as if I were a stain. “I’m helping Jolie, Marcus,” she’d said. “It’s better to be blind than to be called a freak and a monster, isn’t it?” “Having her eyes removed won’t kill her. I can just get her a pair of high-end prosthetics afterward.” The moment Jolie’s surgery was over, Liam called the doctor away, complaining that his own eyes were dry and strained. When I burst into the operating room, my daughter had already stopped breathing, her tiny body ravaged by infection. After covering Jolie with a white sheet, I pulled out my phone and dialed my father-in-law, George Hawthorne. “Five years ago, you saved my life. When the Hawthorne Group faced ruin, I honored that debt by joining your family with a colossal half-a-billion-dollar investment. My daughter is now dead. You and I are officially even.” 1. Blood seeped continuously from Jolie’s hollowed-out eye sockets. I clutched her small, thin body and kowtowed to the doctor, pleading with him to save my daughter one more time. The doctor’s face was etched with unbearable pity. “Mr. Ashworth, the child is gone. Please, accept my condolences.” I had heard that sentence countless times. Now, my heart went cold, fading along with the last remnants of my daughter’s body heat. George Hawthorne arrived, late and breathless. He saw me, collapsed and cradling my daughter on the hospital floor, and his expression twisted in shock and rage. “Marcus, what in God’s name happened? Jolie, she—” The grief in my chest was so immense that no sound could escape. The doctor standing nearby felt compelled to speak up. “The child’s eyes were brutally removed. The fresh wounds were left unattended, leading to a massive infection. We did everything we could, but…” Those few words summed up the cause of her death. Yet, all I could see in my mind was the terrifying image of Jolie strapped to the operating table, screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!” I couldn’t believe Stella could be so utterly ruthless—that she wouldn’t even allow the doctor to tend to the child’s wounds. George swayed, clutching the wall to stay upright. His hands clenched into fists, and he slammed them against the sterile white paint. “I never thought the daughter I raised with such indulgence could have such a viperous heart!” The words had barely left his lips when Stella’s personal assistant walked in with a strawberry cake. He casually placed it on a chair in the corridor. “Ms. Hawthorne sent this as a reward for Jolie. She told me to tell Jolie that she is the bravest, most obedient child, her mother’s good girl.” George was trembling with fury. He snatched up the cake and hurled it directly into the assistant’s face. “That wretch ruined her own daughter! And now she sends a reward? Tell her to get over here right now!” The assistant was silent, terrified. George had no choice but to call Stella himself. When she picked up, her voice sounded slightly annoyed. “Dad, did Marcus run to you to complain?” “Liam said children with the anomaly bring a curse on the family. I’ve already arranged for a custom-made, high-end pair of prosthetic eyes. Once she has them, everything will be fine.” Hearing Stella’s casual dismissal, a fresh wave of blinding fury surged through me. “Jolie was the child you carried for nine months! Stella, how can you speak with such brutal indifference!?” She became instantly impatient. “Marcus, are you going to be tiresome? I know Jolie suffered, but I sent a cake over, didn’t I? Liam and I are busy with our own baby’s prenatal care every day. Can you stop bothering me with these petty issues?” My eyes fell on the ruined cake splattered on the floor. Stella always bought strawberry cake when she wanted to placate Jolie. But I had told her countless times: Jolie was severely allergic to strawberries. She never remembered. Jolie’s body was completely cold now. I carefully lifted her, rising to my feet. Blood dripped steadily from her eye sockets, like long, continuous streams of tears. Seeing this sight, George’s legs instantly gave way, and he fell to his knees with a loud thud. Panic and terror clouded his face. Thick, miserable tears poured down his cheeks. “Marcus, this disaster—it’s the fault of the animal I raised!” “I will teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. Please, for the sake of the years you spent with Stella, and for what you did for the Hawthorne Group, forgive us this one time…” I couldn’t hold back my own tears any longer. They fell, warm and stinging, onto Jolie’s pale, blood-flecked face. Five years ago, to repay George for saving my life, I brought that colossal investment to the company and even agreed to an arranged marriage, joining the family as the son-in-law to ensure a steady stream of business. After the wedding, Stella and I were polite strangers, sharing no real spark. I had foolishly believed that with a child, our family of three would finally find happiness. Instead, my child met this miserable, cruel death. And Stella, her own mother, was already eagerly anticipating the birth of the other man’s child. I held Jolie’s corpse tighter, looking down with cold indifference at George’s pleading face. “If it weren’t for Jolie, I would have walked away from the Hawthornes years ago. Now she is gone. The debt is paid. I have no further ties to your family.” 2. I left the hospital and personally buried Jolie. I cut a lock of her hair and wove it into the wristband she loved to wear. It was the only tangible memory I allowed myself to keep. George looked devastated. After a long silence, he begged me not to completely erase Jolie’s name from the Hawthorne family records. I agreed. After all, a part of her did share their blood. After settling Jolie’s affairs, I carried her small wooden memorial pendant back to the Hawthorne manor to pack my belongings. The moment I stepped through the door, I saw Stella and Liam lounging together on a sun-drenched chaise lounge. And what they were fiddling with in their hands were Jolie’s eyes, preserved and mounted. “I heard the anomaly wards off evil. Is that true?” Stella asked, her voice soft and lazy. Liam leaned down and kissed her, his tone tender. “Of course. I’ve been researching ancient texts to protect you and our baby. And I found this remedy. The anomaly is so rare, but of course, Jolie had a perfect set!” As he spoke, he jabbed a needle and thread through one of the orbs. He was stringing the two eye-orbs together with a few pearls, crafting a small, delicate bracelet. Watching them treat my daughter’s eyes like grotesque toys, I felt my heart violently tear apart inside my chest. My rasping, ragged breath finally drew their attention. I moved toward them like a wounded animal. Stella looked at me, a flash of pure annoyance in her eyes. “What are you doing back?” Her gaze dropped to the small pendant in my arms. “Why are you carrying a memorial pendant? That’s utterly bad luck! Get that thing out of my house!” “Marcus Ashworth, why do you constantly have to create drama? You know I’m carrying Liam’s child, so you’re deliberately trying to upset me, aren’t you? I’m warning you, it won’t work! Everything the Hawthorne Group owns belongs to Liam’s child!” “As for Jolie, if she’s willing to call Liam ‘Dad’ and properly respect us in the future, I might even set up a trust fund for her so she’ll be comfortable.” Hearing her speak of Jolie like this, the grief and rage inside me threatened to become uncontrollable. Since Jolie was born, Stella had never once looked her in the eye. Even at her young age, Jolie had sensed her mother’s disgust. Every night, she would hold my hand and whisper her cautious questions: “Daddy, is Jolie too demanding? Is that why Mommy doesn’t like me?” “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll do whatever Mommy says. Can you ask her to come see me, just for a minute?” Thinking of it now, Jolie’s innocent words felt like sharpened knives, stabbing my already tattered heart. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the searing pain. I just wanted to grab my things and leave, now. But Stella wasn’t finished with me. “Marcus, are you speechless?” “You walk around here like some successful scion, fooling my father completely. Now you can’t say a word? And where is Jolie? Bring her out! She’s probably not learning anything good from you, her father. Maybe we should just let Liam raise her from now on!” She invoked Jolie’s name one time too many. I lost all control of my temper. My hand lashed out, and I slapped her across the face. “You don’t deserve to say her name!” Stella clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. “Marcus Ashworth! You dare to hit me? I swear I will make sure you never see Jolie again!” I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling against the devastating sorrow. “Jolie is dead. You can’t threaten me. I will never see her again anyway!” Stella froze, slowly knitting her brows. “What did you say?” I repeated the words, flatly. Just as Stella opened her mouth to speak again, Liam finally stepped forward, his expression grave. “Marcus, we hired the very best surgeon for Jolie.” “I know you’re upset about the procedure, but you can’t use your own daughter’s life as a weapon to deceive Stella.” 3. “Marcus Ashworth, you don’t deserve to be a father!” The flicker of doubt on Stella’s face vanished, replaced by cold certainty. “You’re just afraid that the baby Liam and I are having will cut into Jolie’s inheritance, aren’t you? You always pretended to be the heir to some hidden dynasty, but you’re just a leech who used the Hawthorne family wealth! You’re just a son-in-law who refuses to leave!” “I’m telling you now, as long as I’m here, you will never get what you want!” She gently stroked her stomach, a soft, tender look entering her eyes. “Everything here belongs to Liam and me.” “If my father hadn’t forced me to marry you back then, Liam and I would have been together years ago. Now, we’re simply getting things back on track!” With that, she didn’t spare me another look. She took Liam’s hand and walked away. She seemed to have forgotten the truth: Liam was the one who abandoned her, moving abroad with another woman. Stella had been utterly devastated, falling into a severe depression, leading to repeated acts of self-harm. I had stayed by her side to protect her, even taking the blade for her when she spiraled. To this day, my body bears the scars from her moments of emotional breakdown. Later, she would cry as she traced those scars, swearing she would be with me forever. But Liam’s return shattered everything. Stella’s resentment for me surfaced. She started staying out all night. She even brought Liam into our house on countless nights. The memory made my stomach clench with a rising nausea. I rushed into the house and quickly stuffed my clothes into a suitcase. Just as I was about to walk out, Liam appeared, blocking my path. He glanced at my luggage with contempt. “Open it. The diamond necklace Stella and I bought for our baby is missing. I suspect you stole it.” I looked at him and let out a cold, bitter laugh. “If you want a confrontation, just say so. Don’t use such a pathetic excuse.” Liam merely raised an eyebrow. With a swift hand gesture, two bodyguards materialized behind him. The hulking men marched up to me, grabbing my arm and twisting it sharply backward. A sickening snap of splintering bone exploded in my ear. I cried out in raw pain. Liam pointed at my waist and commanded in a cold voice, “Open his suitcase for me!” I violently widened my eyes, struggling with all my might. Seeing my desperate fight, Liam scowled and personally joined the two bodyguards, pinning me down hard onto the floor. I watched, helpless, as my suitcase was violently ripped open. Jolie’s small, wooden memorial pendant hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack. Her name glared up at everyone present. Stella, rushing in after hearing the commotion, saw the pendant. Her expression instantly shifted. “Marcus Ashworth, you actually dared to write your daughter’s name on a memorial pendant!?” 4. Stella’s face was dark with anger. She marched forward and slapped me hard across the face with the back of her hand. “How dare you? You’re the child’s father! How can you do such a thing!?” “Liam is about to be a father, and he thinks every day about how to protect his child. And you? You’re cursing your own daughter to death!”

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It was 11:59 PM. I forced myself to push past the anger of being woken by my phone and shoved open the gilded door of the private room. “Excuse me, everyone, I apologize for the interruption, but I’m here to pick up my husband.” The next second, the room’s raucous New Year’s countdown came to a screeching halt. Dozens of eyes belonging to a room full of society’s elite were suddenly pinned on me. And the man sitting in the center seat, impeccably tailored, his expression cool and remote, was slowly tracing the rim of a cocktail glass. “…Audrey Rose?” Someone finally broke the heavy silence. “This is the Crestwood University Alumni New Year’s Eve gathering. This isn’t a refuge for Midtown State rejects.” A wave of laughter erupted. “Isn’t this the one from the ‘Primacy of Audrey’ scandal? The time Crestwood’s star student risked his academic career by rewriting the core thesis of his Political Science paper to be about her?” “I heard you had to desperately trick your way into your stepbrother’s bed and then force a wedding. Why else would he marry a scatterbrain like you? Now his wife is a Cambridge PhD. That’s what you call a perfect match. Why would you even dare show your face here?” The table full of gazes felt like tiny needles stabbing into my skin. They would never know. Rhys had once been the last-ranked student in his class. His desperate, brilliant climb to the top was all for me. But the past was the past, and it no longer mattered. I met all their stares, displaying none of the shame or panic they anticipated. I pulled my lips into a small, calm smile. “I’m not here to join your elite little countdown, ladies and gentlemen. I’m here to take my husband home.” Rhys finally looked up, his eyes deep and unsettling. “Audrey. We’ve been divorced for three years.” I gently curved my lips, putting on my standard, customer-service smile. “I know.” “And that’s why, Mr. Rhys, I wasn’t talking about you.” 1 “The nerve. Still trying to claim a piece of Rhys even after the divorce.” A few repressed snickers echoed in the room. Jax lit a cigarette and watched me with a bored, detached expression. “First time I’ve seen someone so eager to play the mistress.” Jax had been my and Rhys’s best friend in high school. And once, he had been the second-kindest person in the world to me. But when Rhys and I fell apart, Jax didn’t hesitate to side with him. Because the woman he loved was the very reason for the end of my marriage—the other woman. And he had spent years helping Rhys keep their relationship a secret from me. Only I had been the fool, kept completely in the dark from start to finish. “Jax, enough.” Rhys’s lips tightened as he gave a cold warning. Jax, annoyed, stubbed out his cigarette. “What’s the big deal? A couple of words won’t hurt. A dimwit like Audrey Rose can’t possibly compare to someone as brilliant as Sloane. You only kept her around because you felt sorry for her, and she just held you back for years.” Rhys met my gaze, his voice low and firm. “Audrey Rose isn’t dumb.” Audrey Rose isn’t dumb. Coming from the mouth of a genius like Rhys, the statement always felt faintly ridiculous. But the sixteen-year-old Audrey Rose had believed it. The year I finished middle school, my mother married Rhys’s father, forming a new family. Rhys and I were the same age and ended up at the same average high school. We were even in the same class. He was dead last in the rankings; I was comfortably average. Rhys hated me, so he never spoke to me. I often saw Rhys getting into fights and facing disciplinary action. Then my mother would have to go to the school, quietly enduring the scoldings and abuse. One night, I went out for water and saw my mother sitting on the sofa, weeping late at night. “Audrey, what can I do to make Rhys accept me?” I didn’t know. I only knew that after that night, The cold truce Rhys and I had was replaced by open warfare. I put mustard in his drink, poured dirty water into his backpack, and slipped laxatives into his lunch. Rhys finally snarled a threat: “What else you got? Listen, Audrey Rose, if you don’t manage to ruin my life, I’m going to ruin your mother’s.” We maintained that vicious standoff for over six months. I thought I would hate Rhys forever. But in the end, he became the only person left in the world who loved me. 2 My conflict with Rhys ended after an incident of domestic violence. Rhys’s father beat my mother so badly that she ended up in the emergency room. As she was being loaded into the ambulance, his father was still spitting venom. “I chased you for a year or two, and you’re useless! All beauty, zero substance.” My mother was nearly forty, and for the first half of her life, my own father had spoiled her rotten. She naturally hadn’t learned to do much for herself. Hearing that comment, the cold mask Rhys wore instantly shattered. He stared at me in shock, murmuring to himself. “My dad didn’t tell me your mom seduced him…” Rhys hated my mother. He’d always believed she actively broke up his parents’ marriage, which led to his mother leaving. It didn’t matter anymore, because after that day, I didn’t have a mother, either. I took her favorite White Gardenias to the hospital to visit her, only to learn she had run off. She hadn’t taken anything. And she hadn’t taken me. Audrey Rose was homeless. I didn’t know where to go. Wandering the streets late that night, Rhys was the one who found me. His eyes were red, and he looked furious. Afraid he was going to hit me, I curled into a ball. Amidst my terror, his warm embrace wrapped around me. For the first time, I heard him speak with such tenderness. “Audrey Rose, come home with me.” “From now on, I’ll be your whole world.” I took the hand he offered and held on tight. And so, from that day when I was sixteen, Audrey Rose’s world had consisted of only Rhys. 3 After my mother’s passing away, Rhys’s father’s temper became increasingly volatile. Rhys, worried I might get hurt, moved us out. Our lives continued, but they were different now. I was no longer mischievous or a troublemaker, and Rhys’s eyes held a gentle softness. Rhys started spending more and more time reading and studying. I couldn’t help but ask him about it. “You never liked reading or going to class before.” He looked at me with great seriousness, then finally pinched my cheek gently and said with a warm sigh, “Audrey Rose, I want you to have a better life.” I saw the flush on his ears and nodded firmly. Audrey Rose, you absolutely cannot hold Rhys back. So I studied even harder, but while Rhys flipped his rankings from last place to first, I remained stuck in the middle. Rhys tutored me until midnight every night. I just stared at the Calculus problems, shaking my head. He’d say, “Audrey Rose, you really are a bit dense.” “But I love that about you. You’re adorable when you’re confused.” Sleepiness washed over me, and the pen slipped from my hand. I mumbled, “Rhys, can you slow down a little? I’m going to be left behind.” Rhys promised me. I would never have to chase him. He would always wait for me. He broke that promise. Later, he came to despise that confused, clumsy side of me. It only irritated him. 4 “Not dumb? You practically tutored her full-time, and she still only managed to get into a second-rate state college.” Jax played with his lighter, picking up the thread of the conversation. I glanced around the room, not seeing my actual husband, Leo Maxwell. Leo had indeed attended Crestwood, the same as Rhys, but they were in different programs. It was unlikely they would be at the same alumni party. I figured Leo must have sent me the wrong address. I couldn’t be bothered to dwell on the past any longer. “My apologies for the intrusion.” I dropped the words and walked out. I texted Leo, but he didn’t reply. His phone went straight to voicemail. I decided to head home. Just as I reached the car door, a hand clamped down on my wrist. “Please, Audrey. Can you forgive me?” Rhys looked down, an expression I couldn’t decipher in his eyes. Audrey. That casual, familiar use of my name. It used to make me blush, a perfect way for a conservative guy like Rhys to flirt. But later, that very familiarity was what ruined me. “Rhys, are you addicted to performing?” I shook off his hand, my face blank. “I don’t need your forgiveness.” The tension was broken by a soft, contemptuous sneer. “Audrey Rose, I never expected to see you here.” Sloane approached in high heels, as arrogant and self-satisfied as always. In the past, I would have been intimidated by her presence. I would have felt admiration, even a reflexive self-loathing. But now, after that shameful history had tormented me countless times, all that remained was a profound calm. “Audrey Rose, why don’t you come home with Rhys and me? Your mother misses you so much.” I didn’t think I’d be able to say it so calmly, three years later. “I don’t have a mother.” My former love, my mother. They all chose her, Sloane. And I had long ago decided I didn’t want any of them. Sloane grabbed my wrist, subtly exposing the gold bracelet on her own. It was Rhys’s mother’s family heirloom. I had worn that bracelet for ten years. Rhys and my relationship had only lasted ten. 5 Jax was right; I was always dense. Even though Rhys worked himself to the bone tutoring me, I could only manage to scrape into Midtown State. Rhys, however, crushed the college entrance exams, was named the state’s top scorer, and went to Crestwood University. We were both in the city, not too far apart. Though we couldn’t be together all the time, our relationship was intensely close and affectionate. It was the simplest happiness, and a memory I would cherish for the rest of my life. Rhys was handsome and brilliant; many people chased him. But he always gave me complete security. I often went to his campus to visit him during college. He was too famous; the smallest rumor would draw attention. Gradually, people on the forums started saying I wasn’t good enough for him. That I was worthless aside from my face, a fool with no ability or background who didn’t deserve a prodigy. Rhys had already made our relationship public. He was furious when he heard these things. He said they didn’t know how wonderful I was. So, on a major final exam that semester, He took the foundational principle of Dialectical Materialism and replaced it everywhere with The Primacy of Audrey. He nearly failed the course and was publicly reprimanded by the department for having “love on the brain.” The incident rocked the entire campus. Rhys was afraid that anyone might not know I was his girlfriend, yet when we got married, he insisted: “Audrey Rose, let’s keep this a secret for now.” “Just wait a few years. I’ll make a name for myself, and then I’ll marry you in the grand style you deserve.” I agreed. In the fourth year of our marriage, Rhys’s career had soared. I never got the wedding I dreamed of. I got his betrayal. 6 On our fourth wedding anniversary, Rhys flew into a terrible rage. Because I had apparently lost the bracelet he gave me. Furious, he slammed the door and stormed out. It was the first time in his life he had ever spoken to me with such venom. It was pouring rain that day. I searched everywhere we’d ever been. I suddenly remembered the little house where Rhys and I had lived in high school. Rhys had bought that house later on. Because the walls inside were covered with thousands of photos of us from those three years. The moment I pushed open the door. I saw Rhys with another woman pressed underneath him. A moment of intense, breathless frenzy. My head spun, and I instantly lost my voice. I knew who she was: Sloane. Rhys had mentioned her, but rarely. He initially told me her father had forced her onto his team and he figured she’d be nothing but trouble. But later, he’d said Sloane was incredibly capable, brilliant, and sharp. It was around that time that Rhys started thinking I was dumb. Our common ground shrank. Rhys would often say: “Can you please stop asking? I tell you things, and you still don’t get it.” “Audrey Rose, you’re so slow.” Yet, I was genuinely happy he had found a compatible colleague. But now, Sloane was wearing that bracelet, her eyes filled with cold provocation. I had been tormented by guilt, searching like a dog for something I thought I’d lost. It turns out I hadn’t lost it. Rhys had personally handed it over to someone else. She slowly stood up, leaning against Rhys. “Why so surprised?” “We’ve done it in your bedroom, in the bathroom, in front of the window in your penthouse—everywhere in the city you thought was yours. Today, we just wanted to try the spot where you two first did it.” A ringing in my ears deafened me, and all the strength drained from my body. Operating on pure instinct, I grabbed the photo frame from the table and hurled it. Rhys shielded her with his body, his eyes bloodshot. “Audrey Rose, are you insane!” The man who had promised to be my whole world. He shoved me hard to the floor. My hand was covered in glass shards. The photo— It was the first picture Rhys and I ever took. He was beaming, his arm around me, showing me off. But now, it was shattered. And the look in his eyes was pure revulsion. Before I could even process that, another bombshell exploded near my ear. “Audrey Rose, can you stop the drama? You’re suffocating! No wonder your own mother walked out on you!” It turned out my mother had remarried. She had married Sloane’s father and had genuinely doted on Sloane for ten years. My decade of fantasy had become a nightmare. Later, Rhys demanded a divorce. I didn’t want to give them what they wanted, but I couldn’t fight them. Everyone I loved had defected to the other side. My partner, my friend. And, my mother. 7 Rhys locked me up in the city apartment. For nearly a week, he unleashed all his rage on me. “I won’t sign. You want to marry her? In your dreams.” At the time, the marriage certificate felt like my only leverage. I was stubborn, desperate, and felt like a madwoman. A week later, a blurred video was leaked. The audio, however, was painfully clear. “My darling, I love you most. Just try to love Audrey a little more than you do now.” This was from years ago, when he was always traveling. He’d said he needed a way to feel close to me when I wasn’t there. Rhys was terrifyingly conservative. So when he initially suggested making the video, I was both shy and surprised. Rhys and Sloane were masters of spin. That one sentence on the video completely turned public opinion against me. And the final nails in my coffin were driven by my own mother and my closest friend. My mother said I was a manipulative child who had trapped Rhys, forcing her to leave. Jax claimed Rhys had only ever seen me as a little sister, that I was the one who climbed into his bed, forcing him to take responsibility and marry me. The final, fatal blow came from Rhys himself. I lay numbly on the bed, watching my family and friend’s accusations, when Sloane came to see me. She told me she had confessed her love to Rhys in college. Rhys had rejected her. His reason? He didn’t feel worthy of her yet. If she was willing, she could wait a few years for him. Wait until he had the success to stand beside her, until he could approach her openly. That night, I finally gave in. I agreed to the divorce. As I signed the papers, I thought back. Sixteen-year-old Rhys, full of ambition, promising me a better life. But twenty-six-year-old Rhys’s future never included Audrey Rose. Wiping away my tears, I forced myself to ask him. “What was I to you? A consolation prize?” “Or just a temporary fix until you found the person you truly loved?” Rhys said, “I did love you, Audrey Rose. That was real.” I held back my tears. The love was real, but the change of heart was just as real. 8 During the mandatory cooling-off period, I barely left the house. The scandal with Rhys and me had become too public. Leaving the apartment meant I was mocked and insulted, or worse, subjected to various forms of harassment. The day we were officially divorced, I discovered I was pregnant. Rhys and I had tried to conceive for two years with no luck, but on the day we divorced— I went back to the old high school house. I hadn’t taken any assets from the divorce, only the title to that one small property. I threw out the bed they had used, and I lived curled up on the sofa every day. Listening to music, playing the guitar, reading. When I thought of Rhys, I would burn a photo. In the beginning, I burned hundreds a day. I forced myself to wait at least an hour between sessions. Later, the frequency of burning photos became less and less. I never paid much mind to the baby growing inside me. I suppose the child knew I didn’t want her. She was very gentle, very quiet. For six months, I had an easy pregnancy. But in the sixth month, I terminated the pregnancy. Because in the sixth month after the divorce, Rhys and Sloane got married. It was an enormous wedding. Even grander than the unfulfilled fantasy of the one Rhys had promised me. That day, I ran out of photos to burn. How could twenty-six-year-old Audrey Rose possibly be dumber than sixteen-year-old Audrey Rose? What sixteen-year-old Audrey Rose had held onto so tightly, Twenty-six-year-old Audrey Rose could finally let go of. Rhys would no longer be a part of Audrey Rose’s world. 9 “Audrey, you’ve changed so much, I barely recognize you. You weren’t this cold before.” Rhys frowned at me. I smirked. “Oh, really? And you used to say you only loved me.” Sloane shot me a fierce glare. “Audrey Rose, don’t be shameless. Are you trying to flirt with my husband right in front of me?” “I have zero interest in your husband.” I glanced at Rhys, my heart devoid of any reaction. I pushed past them. “Get out of my way. I’m going home.” The moment I opened the car door. A man’s coarse yell echoed through the parking garage. “Sis! Don’t you dare leave! Your husband is about to tear this whole place apart looking for you!” Finn, Rhys’s younger brother, gasped as he ran up to me, his face pale. “Holy hell, thank goodness you weren’t lost, Sis. My brother was about to kill me.” I was a bit slow to process. I looked up to see Rhys’s face frozen solid. He opened his mouth and squeezed out a few words: “You got married? When? To who?”

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I was five when I had the fever. A high, blinding one. The doctors said it was the delayed treatment that left me permanently a beat behind. A little slower, a little weaker, never quite catching up to the world around me. Next to me, my sister, Genevieve, two years younger, was a burst of effervescent sunlight—quick, graceful, and adored. Of course, she was the favorite. Even the boy who was supposed to marry me—my childhood crush and eventual fiancé—grew to dislike my clumsy presence and broke the engagement for her. The only constant, the only harbor, was Callum. “Don’t cry, you little fool,” he’d say, pulling me into the crook of his arm. “If they won’t have you, I will.” I clung to Callum. He was the one person who saw past the C-minus grades and the perpetually lost expression. Then, I saw him comforting Genevieve. “You love Rhys,” he was saying, his voice a low, rough velvet. “I’ll step aside, willingly.” Genevieve was weeping, her head buried in his chest. “Since I can’t be with you the way I want,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I’ll get engaged to your sister. I’ll become family in a different sense. I just need to be near you, Genevieve.” A shard of ice shot through me. “I’ve always loved you,” he finished, his voice breaking. Ah. It turned out that even Callum, my rock, was never truly mine. 1 I stepped back, my feet frozen to the spot. I had come to find Callum, hoping to ask if he had time to accompany me to a doctor’s appointment. I thought I might be pregnant. The doctor, a girl I vaguely remembered from high school, smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re definitely pregnant.” Then, her face softened with concern. “But you came alone?” I sat in the sterile hospital corridor, tracing the faint shadow of the ultrasound image on the sheet. I gently touched the paper with my thumb. “Will you be as unwelcome as I am?” I whispered to the shadow. “It’s alright. Mama will love you. Don’t be afraid to come into this world.” Callum was waiting when I got home, his expression tight with anxiety. “Where did you run off to? You didn’t answer your phone. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Seeing me safe, the tension eased from his shoulders. His voice softened as he took the medical sheet from my hand. “What’s this you’re holding?” I wanted to show him. I opened my mouth. “Callum—” Genevieve’s voice cut through the air. “I’m home!” Callum’s gaze lifted, pulled away by her voice as effortlessly as a tether cut free. He discreetly released my hand. “Your sister’s back. Let’s eat.” The table was set with all of Genevieve’s favorite dishes. I had no appetite. A wave of involuntary nausea seized me, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, suppressing a dry heave. Callum, mid-motion of preparing the meal for Genevieve, paused. He frowned at me, his eyes sharp with subtle rebuke. “Aubrey, don’t be dramatic.” “You need to get over this picky eating of yours.” Genevieve was pregnant. But her husband, Rhys, was on an overseas business trip when a local conflict erupted. He was still missing. Worried about her, my parents had moved her into my house. “Aubrey, all you do is your little drawing and painting anyway. It’s not a real job,” my mother had lectured me. “We’re all so busy. You need to take good care of your sister, watch over her, and make sure nothing happens to her.” “Right now, Genevieve comes first. Everything is about Genevieve.” I had heard versions of this speech my whole life. Unlike healthy, bright Genevieve, I was the slow one, the sickly one, the straight C-minus student who always made my parents sigh and worry. I couldn’t tell when other children were teasing me. Once, my mother had plucked a handful of weeds that had been thrown on my head and flung them onto the pavement, her face tight with fury. “Why are you so stupid? Can’t you fight back?” When I was sick and wanted to climb into my father’s embrace, he would push me away, his expression grim. “Aubrey, I have to take your sister to her conservatory competition. Stop making a scene.” Even Genevieve would ask me, when my hospitalization meant they had to cut short her family vacation: “Sister, why are you always such a pain?” My family poured all their energy and dreams into the healthy, talented, and beautiful Genevieve. In the beginning, when Rhys and I were still engaged, he used to visit me. He’d bring little toys or books. I loved Rhys. But as we got older, he stopped coming. He and Genevieve grew closer, their bond glittering and undeniable. If someone suggested including me in their plans, Rhys would wave a dismissive hand. “Don’t bother calling her. She’s boring.” “How can two sisters be so different, from the same parents? Genevieve is a swan, and she’s just… the forgettable understudy.” The first boy I ever loved fell for my sister. I took the small, carefully wrapped gift I’d prepared for Rhys and hid it, retreating from their orbit. I learned to disappear. Only Callum was different. He would find me when I was hiding and crying. He would sit by the lake and light a birthday candle for me when everyone else forgot. He never missed a year after that. When I was twenty, Rhys publicly and cruelly ended our engagement: “Lian Zhixia is too slow and boring! Who would marry her?” Callum had taken my hand, led me away, and said, “I will.” I looked into the mirror, at my own swollen, red eyes. If only Callum hadn’t been lying. 2. My birthday was just two days after the hospital visit. I saw the tickets tucked into Callum’s jacket pocket: two passes to the VIP viewing deck for the biggest Summer Firework Spectacular in the neighboring city. “Callum, I don’t want to go there for my birthday,” I said quietly. His eyes froze for a split second. He smoothly withdrew the tickets, deliberated, and then said, “Aubrey, these aren’t for you.” “Genevieve said she wanted a change of scenery to clear her head. I can’t let her go alone.” Suddenly, I was eighteen again, back in the darkness of a night when the whole family was celebrating Genevieve’s latest trophy, and no one remembered my birthday. Every bone in my body felt a faint ache. I managed to make my voice sound light. “What about me, then? It’s my birthday that night.” Callum pinched the bridge of his nose. “Genevieve is still very fragile right now. If we throw a big party for you, it might upset her.” He looked at me with an earnest plea. “Aubrey, birthdays can be celebrated later. Just this once. We grew up together; we should look out for each other.” “Besides, you don’t like big crowds anyway. I promise I’ll come home as early as I can. Be mature about this.” On my birthday, I saw the photos on Genevieve’s social media feed. The bright, dazzling fireworks framed her silhouette and Callum’s. She was making a wish for her baby’s health and for news of Rhys. Callum’s profile, steady and knight-like, suddenly brought back a flood of forgotten details from my nineteenth birthday. That year, the neighboring city held its first firework show, and we all went. Rhys and Genevieve vanished into the crowd almost immediately. The chaotic human tide nearly caused a stampede. I couldn’t breathe, my heart hammering in my ears. Just as I stumbled, Callum fought his way through the crush and shielded me. When he saw only me, he looked startled. He craned his neck, looking around desperately. “Where’s Genevieve?” When they finally rejoined us, Genevieve’s face was flushed, her hand tightly laced with Rhys’s. She smiled brightly. “Callum, were you looking for me? I just saw your text that you needed to talk.” Callum’s gaze dropped to their interlocked hands, then back to Genevieve’s radiant smile. Rhys scoffed, a flicker of hostility in his eyes. “What, you planning on declaring your feelings to Genevieve tonight too?” Callum’s arm suddenly wrapped around my shoulder, and he laughed, the sound hollow. “I was actually looking for you two to secretly brainstorm what we should do for Aubrey’s birthday.” Genevieve, in the first flush of love, saw my closeness with Callum through a lens of romance. “Wow, Callum, you’re so good to my sister.” She emphasized the word good. Amidst the explosions of light, Callum handed me a small box he’d been clutching. “Happy birthday, Aubrey.” I held the small box carefully, overwhelmed, my ears burning red. I was so dense. It took me all these years to realize the truth. I finally understood why, when he couldn’t find them in the crowd that night, Callum had frantically called Genevieve’s name. I understood the controlled grief and loss in his eyes when he looked at Genevieve and Rhys. And why the gift he gave me that night was a necklace shaped like a cello. I understood the way his eyes had darted away when I’d said excitedly, “Thank you for remembering my birthday.” Callum didn’t come home before the new day arrived. I blew out the candles on my small cake alone. I used to wish that my parents would care more, that Callum would love me forever, and that Rhys and Genevieve would stop hating me. A faint, muffled sob echoed in the dark apartment. Now, I just wanted to leave them all behind. The candles were out. My twenty-eight years of foolish life were over. 3. Rhys was found and brought home, but he had significant memory loss. I didn’t go to the hospital with them. I knew the truth of what happened at Rhys and Genevieve’s engagement party years ago. Someone had spiked Rhys’s drink, and I had been trapped with him in a secluded room. His heavy breathing was hot on my neck. I was screaming, terrified, when finally someone found us. I stumbled out, clutching my torn dress, reeling from the terror. But when I looked up, everyone was staring at me with a look of vile judgment. My father’s hand swung across my face. The slap made my ears ring, and he was breathing heavily, his chest heaving with rage. “Shameful!” he roared. “How dare you destroy your sister’s engagement party like this?” Rhys, the drug’s effect now fading, and Genevieve looked at me with pure disgust. “Sister, your engagement to Rhys was an outdated arrangement by our parents,” Genevieve said, her voice dripping with scorn. “He doesn’t love you. Why are you grasping for something that isn’t yours?” Rhys added, his voice ice cold, “Did you stoop this low because I broke off the engagement? I always thought you were just dull and boring. I underestimated your sheer malice.” “Get out. I never want to see you again.” No matter how I explained, they refused to believe me. I became a transparent ghost in my own home. Slowly, I stopped speaking altogether. The only person who claimed to believe me was Callum. Though even he said, “Aubrey, of course I believe you.” “But apologize to Genevieve. It’s her important day, and you ruined it.” Later, he proposed, saying that marrying him would silence the gossips. Now, Genevieve was sobbing in his arms, venting her frustration over Rhys’s memory loss. Callum’s hand stroked her shoulder, an endless stream of tenderness in his touch. Genevieve, needing a reaction from Rhys, asked Callum to pretend to be her boyfriend and provoke him. The next thing I heard was that Rhys and Callum had gotten into a fistfight. They stood confronting each other like two lions defending their territory. Rhys, predictably, was being cruel. “I suddenly remembered, isn’t your wife my ex-fiancée? You just go around picking up my sloppy seconds, don’t you?” Callum grabbed Rhys’s collar, squeezing so hard Rhys could only gasp for air. “What are you so proud of?” Callum spat out, his face a mask of fury. “If I hadn’t been watching Aubrey’s every move and sent someone to find her, your little plot to drug him would have worked. You would have been completely out of the picture!” The last wire holding my sanity snapped. The only fragile strand of trust I had clung to—that Callum had married me out of true compassion—was just his self-serving lie: “I watched her, so she couldn’t do anything worse.” “I sacrificed my own happiness, and I’ve been putting up with Aubrey for you for years! That’s enough!” They tossed me between them like unwanted trash. Callum took Genevieve away for a vacation. Three days after they left, a whole design team and a contractor arrived at the house. “Mr. Thorne instructed us to complete the remodel before his return.” I saw his long list of requirements: the room layout, the flowers in the courtyard, the furniture brands. Everything was to be changed to fit Genevieve’s preferences. I packed my own belongings and watched as they took down my illustrations, turned my art studio into a music room, and tore out all the flowers in the garden to replant them. I remembered the day we moved in, when Callum had affectionately ruffled my hair. “I used to live here alone, but now it’s ours. We can design it exactly the way you like.” Back then, no matter what I suggested, Callum would smile warmly and say, “Yes, whatever you like is fine.” He never interfered, never questioned. Now I knew. It wasn’t devotion; it was indifference. For the person he truly loved, he was diligent and devoted, fussing over the temperature of the room. 4. I received a text from Callum just before he and Genevieve were due to return. “Aubrey, I need to talk to you about something when I get back.” But that night, I didn’t even have time to grab a coat before I was dragged to the hospital. Genevieve and Callum had been in a car accident on their way home. They had hit a pedestrian. “You’re the same blood type as the injured person. You’ll stay here,” my mother ordered, her eyes wild. “If the blood bank runs low, they’ll use yours.” The cold night air hit my thin top, clinging to my back. It was a cold that pierced to the bone. I spoke with a terrifying new calmness. “I can’t donate.” Callum’s brow furrowed. “Aubrey, this person absolutely cannot die.” My mother’s fingernails dug into my arm. “What is the meaning of this? Are you trying to hurt your sister?” “How can I hurt her? You were so afraid of her being stressed that you already sent her home, didn’t you?” I looked at their accusing faces. “Why don’t you ever listen to me? Am I really that malicious?” My nose began to sting. “None of you even asked why I can’t donate.” No one answered. As I started to walk away, Callum seized my shoulders and pressed me back down onto the bench. My tears were clinging to my lashes. His grip was like iron; I couldn’t move an inch. The amount of blood they took wasn’t huge, but afterward, I was dizzy and nauseous. Callum started to move toward me to embrace me, but I bent over, dry heaving. I didn’t have the strength to push him away, so I simply stumbled to my feet. I walked slowly, carefully, suppressing the urge to vomit. My pale, almost ghostly reflection stared back at me in the glass door. I turned back to them. “I helped the person you love most. I don’t owe you anything now, do I?” The next day, the media ran the story about the traffic accident. They praised “renowned artist Genevieve Thorne” for taking full responsibility, noting that her family had also “volunteered to donate blood as a token of apology.” The injured party was stable. Callum, acting as spokesman, called for safety and established a corresponding charitable foundation. Public opinion soared. Everyone was calling Genevieve the “goddess of the music world,” praising her and her family’s kind hearts and social responsibility. I stared at the screen, a laugh bubbling up and turning into a ragged sob. They hadn’t needed my blood at all. They only needed me as a footnote—a detail to complete my sister’s beautiful narrative. Aubrey Lian, how pathetic are you? Callum was shocked when he got a call from an old high school acquaintance. He was silent for a moment before placing the name. “Callum, I tried calling Aubrey, but she didn’t pick up. How is she doing? Any severe reaction to the blood donation?” Callum was confused by the sudden concern. He replied politely, “Thank you for asking. She’s perfectly fine.” The voice on the other end let out a long sigh of relief. “That’s reckless. She came in alone for the prenatal check-up a while back.” “Then she came in alone for the termination. And right after that, she goes and donates blood? Luckily, everything turned out okay.” A roaring sound filled Callum’s ears. He hung up abruptly, forcing a careless chuckle. “Who was that scammer?” “They got the whole story wrong. They didn’t even know who was pregnant.” I need to tell Aubrey to block that number. He dialed the phone number that had flashed on his screen almost every day for months. “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later.” The line went dead again and again. Callum ignored Genevieve’s questioning stare and bolted out the door.

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Claire Bennett, my roommate, tried to mask the surprise, but a greedy glint flashed in her eyes when she learned my monthly allowance was $4,500. She dug into her pocket, pulling out a crumpled two-dollar bill. She pressed it into my hand. “Sutton, you have way more money than you need every month, and honestly, it’s not fair to the rest of us here at Ellison. It encourages unhealthy competition. So, we’re going to split our monthly allowances. Fifty-fifty.” “I’m not trying to be unfair, of course. My monthly budget is barely two hundred dollars, so I’m giving you back two.” I almost laughed. I thought she was performing some kind of avant-garde satire. But then I looked at her, her face drawn and pale from what I knew was genuine, self-inflicted hunger, and I felt the old, misplaced pity. I reflexively transferred fifty dollars to her account, enough for a decent week’s worth of food. Her face darkened immediately as she stared at the screen. She shrieked, “What the hell is this? Didn’t you pass basic math? Half of four thousand five hundred is twenty-two hundred and fifty! You still owe me two thousand two hundred! Give it to me!” The sheer audacity was so familiar it broke the dam of my rage. I remembered what came next—the knife. The blood. I wanted to transfer rooms and never look at her again, but before I could, the memory of that cruel, righteous fury on her face returned, and with it, the cold steel. She had felt so justified, believing I was hoarding wealth that was rightfully hers. “Bitch! You have so much money and you won’t give it to me? Are you saving it for your coffin? I said split it! Are you trying to starve me? Die, you whore!” It was a visceral memory. A cold, sharp blade sinking into my sternum. I jolted, my breath catching on a ghost of a scream. I was back. I was back to the day she first found out about the money. 1 “Fifty dollars? You think you can buy me off with a pity handout? Give me the rest of the money, or I’ll make you regret it!” The familiar venomous words were proof. I had been reborn. The phantom pain of the scissors slicing through my heart made me shiver, an uncontrollable, shaking coldness that started deep in my chest. Last time, Claire knew I was wealthy, and combined with her pitiful allowance, she decided to demand a 50/50 split. I’d refused her, offered her the small cash gift out of pity, and tried to frame it as an early birthday present so she wouldn’t lose face, telling her to ask her own parents for money. But she hadn’t lost face; she’d gone into a homicidal rage, grabbing the nearest sharp object. Claire pushed my shoulder roughly. “Are you deaf?!” she yelled. I pushed her hand away, a cold smile settling on my face. I snatched her phone and immediately initiated a refund on the fifty-dollar transfer. My voice was low, cutting through the silence. “Since you look down on it so much, give me back my money.” Claire gaped, then her face twisted with a hateful fury. “You absolute tramp! You’re so rich, and you’re trying to steal my fifty dollars? Are you so broke you need to beg? Give me back my money!” I leaned in, my voice laced with venom. “Give you back your money? That fifty was mine to begin with. And you really thought you could trade two dollars for twenty-two hundred and fifty? Go back to sleep, Claire. Everything is possible in your dreams.” Her face went slack, then darkened further. She glared at me, her eyes tiny with hate. “Why are you acting so superior? I’m telling you this for your own good! What does a woman like you need that much money for? Are you going to blow it on escorts? Don’t come crying to me when you end up with some bastard child because I didn’t warn you!” She took a step toward me, puffing out her chest. “Besides, if you just gave the money to me, I’d be saving it for you anyway! It’s not like I’d waste it!” I was stunned. I knew she was shameless, but her delusions had only grown since the last time. “Do you not have parents, Claire?” I shot back, the words hitting like stones. “Do you have to beg other people for money? Are you a common beggar?” That did it. Claire exploded, lunging forward and slapping me across the face. My cheek stung, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury burning away the ghost of a wound. “All my parents’ money is set aside for my brother!” she screamed, her voice cracking with self-pity and entitlement. “How could a degenerate with no brothers like you ever understand real family priority?” “I’m trying to help you! Your parents are destroying you by giving you so much money! They want you to fail so they can just have a boy later! And why should I have to go beg them for money when you have enough to feed an army? I told you I’m doing this for your own good! Why are you so selfish and evil?” Her eyes were manic. “I was willing to give you back half of my two hundred dollars! Why won’t you give me half of yours? You filthy, selfish tramp! Give me the money!” “A woman doesn’t need this kind of cash! You’re probably just giving it to some scumbag hookup! You’d rather give it to some lowlife than help me, and I’m not even asking for a handout!” Tramp. Whore. Scum. The familiar words. The memory of the knife. I couldn’t stand it. This time, I didn’t hold back. I aimed a vicious kick into her gut and we were locked in a wild, furious brawl. 2 My other two roommates, Maya Finn and Michele Miller, walked in right then. They stared for a shocked second, then rushed over, pulling us apart. “What is going on?” Maya pleaded, grabbing my arm. “Just talk it out! Stop fighting!” Claire hadn’t won. Her face was a mask of sheer hatred. She wrenched free, stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Sutton Hayes would rather waste her money supporting men and buying herself lavish junk than helping a student in need! She probably gives all her money to some deadbeat she’s knocked up with a bastard child!” “And she just stole fifty dollars from me!” With a dramatic wail, she collapsed to her knees, clutching her head and sobbing. “I only get two hundred dollars a month! How long do you think it took me to save up that fifty dollars? How can you bully a low-income student like this?” The noise brought a crowd of curious students. The immediate reaction of the onlookers was fury. They rushed to lift Claire up, glaring at me. “Rich girl thinks she can just bully the poor kid?” one girl spat. “Who gets money like that anyway? She probably got it from some shady source! She must be supporting a side hustle or something!” “We should report this! What kind of scum are we letting into this school?” “Don’t worry, we’ll get justice for you! Give her back the money, or we’ll report you to the faculty!” I was too furious to speak. Instead, I calmly explained the situation and showed them the initial transfer and immediate refund of the fifty dollars on my phone. The crowd went silent. The loudest accusers suddenly took a step back from Claire. “Wait, really? Is that what happened? She wanted an almost two-thousand-dollar split for two dollars? That’s not bullying, that’s just… robbery.” But Claire was utterly convinced of her righteousness. She stood up straight and declared, “What did I say that was wrong? What does one person need all that money for? And yes, she gave me the fifty, so it was mine! She’s the thief for taking it back! And she still owes me the two thousand two hundred dollars! She has to give it to me!” She then turned to Maya and Michele. “Besides, I was going to split mine with her! She’s the one who refused!” Everyone stared. Michele voiced the collective thought. “Are you kidding? You wanted to trade one hundred dollars for twenty-two hundred and fifty? Are you brain-damaged?” Claire bristled. “You’re all obsessed with money! Money, money, money! So what if it was one hundred dollars? It’s the principle of the split! Are you looking down on my two hundred dollars?” She rolled her eyes in genuine exasperation. “Honestly, I can’t explain this to you simpletons. Just remember to pay up.” Then she looked directly at Maya and Michele. “And that goes for you two as well.” Maya and Michele exchanged a look of pure dread. Claire immediately sent a group message with her Venmo account. “Your allowance is two thousand a month. So you two need to send me one thousand dollars each, right now.” “And I’ll send you both a hundred dollars back, so you don’t go spreading rumors about me. I’m not ripping you off, unlike you selfish jerks.” Maya and Michele looked at her like she was a creature from another planet. Michele finally spoke, a slow, incredulous realization in her voice. “Why would we give you our money? You want to trade a hundred for a thousand? Did you forget to take your medication?” Maya added, hitting the core problem. “And if it’s a ‘dorm split,’ why aren’t we all splitting everything evenly? If you’re getting a thousand dollars from each of us, your allowance is way higher than ours!” Her face flushed crimson. “Shut up! I’m a low-income student! You guys should be doing this as a charitable donation! Can’t you see I’m starving? Why are you so damn calculating? Where’s your compassion?” The crowd finally turned completely against her. “That is beyond shameless,” a voice shouted from the doorway. “If you’re starving, talk to your parents! Why does everyone else’s money concern you? Stop being so possessive over other people’s wallets!” “She seriously had the nerve to try and flip the narrative. I thought she was a victim, but she’s just delusional! Asking for charity after trying to rob them is insane. I’d be embarrassed to help a lunatic like that.” Claire’s face was beet red. She bit her lip until it was white, tears welling in her eyes. She stamped her foot and yelled, “You all look down on poor people! You’re evil!” She then bolted out the door, leaving everyone staring at the empty hallway. The incident was laughed about for the rest of the day, but I knew the laugh wouldn’t last. Claire Bennett had far more chaos left in her. 3 The next day, Maya, Michele, and I returned to our dorm after classes to find it completely ransacked, as if a hurricane had gone through it. All my designer clothing and expensive cosmetics were gone. Worse, the emergency bank card my father had given me—the one with $10,000 on it—was missing. Maya and Michele had their valuables stolen too, and to make it even more spiteful, their beds had been slashed and covered in filthy water. Our first thought was to call the police. But just then, Claire strutted in, adorned in brand-new, gaudy jewelry and clothing. She put on a show of mock surprise. “Oh my goodness! What happened to you guys? Did you get robbed? No way! Couldn’t be!” “I told you! I told you it was for your own good to give me the money! Now look what happened! You brought this on yourselves! You were too greedy, and now you have nothing! Even your beds are unusable now! Maybe next time you’ll learn to be a little friendlier!” Her taunts were too obvious. Maya couldn’t take it and yelled, “Did you do this, you thief?” Claire pouted. “You losers only know how to attack the disadvantaged, don’t you? I’ll sue you for slander!” “Then where did you get all this new stuff?” Maya demanded, gesturing to Claire’s expensive-looking handbag. I cut Maya off. I had a different idea. I raised an eyebrow at Claire and said, “We already called the police.” Claire hadn’t expected that. Her triumphant sneer froze and began to twist into panic. “You called the cops for what?! You heartless, motherless wretches! You should have called Manager Wallace first!” She realized she’d let something slip. She quickly tried to cover. “Calling the police is damaging the school’s reputation! You’ll all be expelled! Just wait!” Right in front of us, she called Manager Wallace, our faculty advisor, twisting the story into a malicious complaint. Even through the phone, we could hear the Manager’s enraged, bellowing voice. Claire hung up, looking smug, clearly believing we were finished. Manager Wallace burst into the room moments later, his face white with rage, mixed with a hint of panicked fear. He grabbed my arm and shook it, shouting into my face: “Why the hell did you call the police? When something happens on campus, you come to me! You completely bypassed the administration! Do you have any idea what this means?” “Cancel the police call immediately! Tell them it’s a mistake, a misunderstanding! Or you’ll be expelled, do you hear me?” His voice was so loud it drew more students to the doorway. He calmed himself slightly. “You three were bullying your classmate yesterday, and I was going to deal with that, and now you’ve caused this scandal? I’m calling all your parents in! Especially yours, Sutton!” He locked eyes with me, his voice a lethal whisper. “I want to see what kind of terrible parents raise such a rotten person!” Maya gasped, realizing the threat. “But Manager, our things were stolen, and our beds were destroyed! Can’t you see?” The Manager puffed out his chest, using his authority like a shield. “I see. So what? That doesn’t justify calling the police!” I let my gaze drift between Claire, with her cheap new pearls, and Manager Wallace, whose anger was too loud to be genuine. Then I smiled a cold, devastating smile. “Manager Wallace, I just didn’t slip you a big enough bribe, did I? Is that why you’re teaming up with Claire to screw me over?” His face went from pale to scarlet. He instinctively hauled back and slapped me again, a loud crack echoing in the room. “Shut up! What the hell are you talking about?” The students watching gasped. “The teacher hit her! No way! Is what she said true?” The Manager instantly regretted his action. He looked around wildly, his hand still stinging. I pressed my advantage. “Claire is the thief. She stole our things. And you, Manager, you’re an accessory. Enjoy prison, both of you.” Claire’s eyes were filled with pure malice, but she managed a triumphant smirk. “What evidence do you have? There are no cameras in the dorms! No witnesses! No physical proof! You can’t even produce the stolen items! You say I stole it? Prove it! If you can’t, I’m suing you for slander!” The watching students began to mutter amongst themselves. The general consensus was that even with yesterday’s drama, you couldn’t accuse someone without proof. Wallace, sensing the shift, let out a shaky breath. “You think I’m afraid of the police?” he sneered. I returned his cold look with a smirk of my own. You should be. Just then, the police arrived. And I, in front of the stunned onlookers, finally presented the evidence I’d prepared.

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For thirteen years, I’ve been the Head Chef at the most exclusive private high school in the city, feeding the kids of the ultra-rich. They call it the cafeteria, but my food is the real draw. I’ve spoiled every single one of those privileged palates. We weren’t wealthy, but my husband, Scott, was honest and hardworking, and our daughter, Tess, was bright and beautiful. I always felt like my life was perfectly—simply—happy. That was until my ten-year-old, Tess, got into a minor spat with a few mean girls at her elementary school and was shoved off a fourth-floor roof. My honest, gentle husband went to the school seeking justice and was thrown out of a black SUV at the school gates, his legs broken, like trash. That afternoon, I was sitting by my serving window, wiping away quiet tears, when a hand lightly touched my shoulder. “Aunt Brenda, what’s good for lunch today?” I hastily rubbed my face. I looked up to see a group of the usually loud and joking students standing there, their expressions unexpectedly serious. “Aunt Brenda, who hurt you? Why are you crying?” 1 The morning started with soft, fat snowflakes drifting past the window. I pulled out the fresh ingredients I’d prepped the night before, chopping them fine, mixing them into the seasoned meat, and kneading the mixture until it was firm. I added the flavorings and a drizzle of hot oil, and the aroma instantly blossomed. I glanced over at the giant stockpot — the cream stew had been cooking, turning a milky white, bubbling softly. I pulled out the cooked chicken breast and sliced it thin, then started making a huge stockpot of hummus. Only then did I begin making the sandwiches. The lunch bell was a chaotic explosion, and moments later, the students flooded in. Jax Peterson, the most notorious troublemaker, was the first one to the window. “Aunt Brenda! I’m starving. What’s the special?” I smiled back. “It’s the first real snow, honey. I made four kinds of sandwiches. If you don’t want sandwiches, there’s lamb broth, and if you want hummus, I have that beautiful cream stew!” Right behind him, Caleb Harrison, who’d grown up with Jax, strolled in slowly. “All this variety, Aunt Brenda? Aren’t you working yourself too hard?” He leaned closer. “By the way, my father said your raise for next year is basically confirmed. And the European study tour the school organizes over the summer? You can bring Tess. The school will cover all the expenses. Come hang out with us.” Caleb was the Chairman of the Board’s son. He looked distant, but when he spoke, the matter was settled. I beamed, my face splitting into a wide grin, and served him a huge bowl of the lcream stew, the meat piled high like a little mountain. Jax, standing next to him, immediately protested. “Aunt Brenda, you’re playing favorites! Why does his bowl have more meat than mine?” “You’ll both get plenty! There’s plenty in the pot. Come back for seconds if you need to!” I gestured to the bounty behind me. “It’s all yours!” Jax almost jumped for joy. “Woo! Aunt Brenda, I love you!” 2 I grew up poor, the eldest of three, cooking for the whole family on a stool by the stove by the time I was seven. When I finished middle school, my father, puffing on his cheap, hand-rolled cigarette, told me they couldn’t afford high school. The next day, I shredded my acceptance letter, packed a flimsy duffel bag, and caught the northbound train. I was fifteen. I started on an electronics assembly line, then lucked into a big restaurant as a line cook’s assistant. The head chef, seeing I was diligent and just a kid, took pity on me and taught me the real craft. I used my savings for night school and got my certification. When I was twenty-one, I landed the job here at this elite school. Thirteen years. It went by in a blur. After I finished the kitchen clean-up at three o’clock, I went to pick up Tess from her elementary school nearby. She’s ten years old, in fourth grade. When she saw me, she presented a certificate like a trophy. “Mom! I won first place in the city-wide writing contest! My teacher said I get to go to the national competition next month!” My hands shook. I pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh, Tess! My brilliant girl!” “Tell me what you want for dinner. Tonight, your dad is cooking!” Tess’s ponytail bounced as she skipped along, holding my hand. That’s when I felt the icy prickle on my back—like someone was watching us. I turned around. Two girls about Tess’s age were standing by the school entrance, glaring at us with a cold, malevolent gaze. “Who are they, sweetie?” I asked Tess. Tess followed my eyes, and her face immediately fell. “We used to be best friends.” “She wanted me to pass her a note during the last test, and I said no. Now she’s not speaking to me.” She looked up, worried. “Mom, did I do the wrong thing?” I shook my head, squatting down to smooth her wind-blown hair. “No, Tess. You did exactly the right thing. That kind of friend is no loss.” That evening, Scott came home at six. He was carrying a fancy box from an upscale bakery. It was to celebrate Tess’s award. “And, you know… to celebrate our twelfth anniversary.” I flushed a little. “We’re old news, Scott. You don’t need to do all that sentimental stuff…” His own face turned red. He scratched his head. “The lady at the bakery said anniversaries need ‘rituals.’ You relax, I’m cooking tonight.” Scott was a quiet man, not one for flowery words. He just worked hard. Soon, a table full of our favorite food appeared. We lit the candles. Tess closed her eyes, making a wish. “I hope our family of three stays together forever, and Mom and Dad are healthy, and we get richer!” 3 Since the school was far from home, I usually stayed in the staff dorms during the week and only came home on weekends. When I went back to school on Monday, Scott handed me a large bag of his new pastries. “A few of your students helped me out a while ago. There was some trouble at the shop, and they stepped in, then bought a ton of stuff. Give these to them as a thank you.” After the lunch rush, I gave the pastries to a few of the girls I knew best. Jax, with his hawk-like eyes, saw the treats and started to wail. “Aunt Brenda! Playing favorites again! Why do the girls get all the goodies and I don’t?” One of the girls rolled her eyes. “Got a problem with that?” “No, no problem,” Jax said, grinning as he sidled closer. “I just wanted to ask Aunt Brenda for the bakery’s number. I need to buy some for my little sister.” “Cut it out. If you want one, just ask. You always use your sister as an excuse.” Listening to the kids’ noisy banter made my heart warm. 4 When I first started here, I was a stranger to all the students. It wasn’t until my third year that a particular girl caught my attention. Every day, she would linger at the serving window, eventually taking only the cheapest vegetable dish. I knew the drill: this school wasn’t just for the trust fund babies; they had a few merit scholars from tough backgrounds. So, every time I served her, I’d secretly bury a few pieces of short rib or baked salmon under the mountain of pasta. It was my quiet ritual. A few days later, the girl brought the tray back and, without a word, pushed it toward me. “I don’t like salmon, and I didn’t order this. Why did you decide to do this?” Her face was cold. That’s when I saw the shiny, expensive bracelet on her wrist. I realized I’d misjudged, and my face went hot. “I’m so sorry… I’ll get you a fresh plate right away.” My intention was simple: I’d suffered because of a lack of education and money. I wanted these kids to eat well and feel strong. You need fuel to study. I gave her a new plate of food. She was about to leave when she saw me serve the next student—a skinny boy—and saw my hand instinctively give his plate an extra box of milk. She paused. A moment later, she walked back to me. “I apologize. My attitude was wrong just now.” I stared at her, confused. “I thought… I thought you recognized me as the Chairman’s daughter and were trying to suck up to me.” Her name was Skylar Harrison, Caleb’s older sister. She told me she usually ate at home and had only come to the cafeteria that day because she’d fought with her family. From then on, we became friends. Whenever I introduced a new dish, I’d always ask Skylar to try it. “Aunt Brenda, these chicken wings are amazing. What’s the secret?” “I tried marinating them in a little plain yogurt.” “That’s a French technique, Aunt Brenda. You know French cuisine?” Her eyes went wide. I laughed, a little embarrassed. “French or not, I just experiment. I love looking at cookbooks.” “Seriously,” she said. “Your talent is wasted in a cafeteria. If you opened a private supper club, you’d be famous.” I had considered it. But… “I don’t know,” I said, thinking it over. “Being here, with all these young people, it just feels… secure.” Watching these bright, lively kids, it felt like I’d finally finished the high school I never got to attend. Thirteen years. I’d just finished the lunch rush that day when Tess’s homeroom teacher called. “Mrs. Miller, you need to come to the school. Tess is in trouble.” My stomach dropped. “What happened?” “A fight with a classmate. It’s gotten complicated. We need to have a meeting with the parents.” Jax, who hadn’t left yet, asked, “Aunt Brenda, what’s wrong? You look sick.” I was already ripping off my apron and heading for the door. “Nothing. I just have to run down to the elementary school.” “If you need anything, Aunt Brenda, just say the word!” 5 I threw open the office door and immediately saw Tess. Her ponytail was pulled out, and there were two bleeding scratch marks on her cheek. Standing opposite her was Madison Sinclair, the girl who had been glaring at us from the school entrance last week. Madison’s mother, Veronica Sinclair, was next to her, dressed in an expensive designer coat. She was holding Madison’s arm and yelling at Tess. “Such a vicious little brat! Look what she did to my daughter!” Her sharp, manicured nail was dangerously close to Tess’s eye. Rage flashed through me. I bolted forward, shielding Tess with my body. “Get away from my child!” I knelt down, quickly checking Tess over, and only when I confirmed there were no other injuries did I let out a breath. Veronica Sinclair looked me up and down, sizing up my work clothes, which I hadn’t had time to change out of. She let out a sneering laugh. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that? Do you even know who I am?” I took a deep breath. “I don’t care who you are. Let’s talk facts, not bullying a child with your supposed power!” The homeroom teacher, Ms. Adams, finally intervened. “Alright, alright, let’s all calm down.” It turned out that Madison had been spreading a rumor that Tess’s award-winning essay was copied from her. Tess demanded an apology; Madison refused, and they got into a shoving match. Ms. Adams tried to smooth things over. “While Madison was certainly out of line, Tess did strike first. How about you both apologize, and we can move on?” I immediately bristled. “Ms. Adams, you can’t look at it that way. If no one had spread lies, would my daughter have hit anyone?” “I didn’t lie! She’s a copycat!” Madison shrieked. “I wrote that story in my journal ages ago! She stole it when she read my journal!” “You’re lying!” Tess shook with anger. “I told you the idea first! You wrote it down later!” Ms. Adams threw up her hands. “See? It’s a ‘he said, she said’ situation. Madison has her journal as evidence. Tess has nothing. Strictly speaking, your daughter is the one in the wrong.” Veronica Sinclair swelled with righteousness. “Exactly! What kind of values can a low-class family like this teach? This school shouldn’t even let poor students in. They ruin the environment!” I scoffed. “I wouldn’t be talking about good character. Judging by her mother, the rotten apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” “You!” Powder flaked off her enraged face. I didn’t back down. I looked her straight in the eye. “My daughter will not apologize. She was defending her honor.” “She is not a copycat.” Just then, the office door opened, and a breathless voice called out. “I agree! I believe Tess Miller would never plagiarize!” 6 It was Tess’s English teacher, Mr. Grant. “I just rushed back from the district conference,” Mr. Grant said, catching his breath. “Tess has always been in the top three for writing. Her work is inspired. A student like her would never stoop to copying someone else’s mundane journal entry.” “That’s what you think,” Veronica sneered, dripping with sarcasm. “Who knows what the family taught her? The apple never falls far from the tree, after all.” I shot back, “Are you introducing yourself?” Even with Mr. Grant’s support, school rules were clear: Tess had struck first and refused to apologize. She was suspended for three days. I didn’t argue. I just took Tess’s hand and walked out the school doors. I took her to the walk-in clinic to get her scratches cleaned, then to a fast-food restaurant and ordered a mountain of food. Tess chewed on a chicken nugget, her eyes welling up. “Mom, I really didn’t copy anything.” “I know you didn’t,” I said, stroking her hair. “You were good friends, you shared ideas. She took advantage of that.” “I trust you.” I gave her a firm look. “If someone throws mud at you, you throw it right back. You did the right thing.” “We’re not going to school for three days. I’m taking you on an adventure.” I called in sick to the school and spent the next three days with Tess. We browsed every bookstore in the city, buying all the books she wanted. We called Scott, and the three of us went to the amusement park and rode all the rides we usually felt too guilty to spend money on. On the day she went back to school, I dropped her off at the gate. “Tess, as long as you know you’re right, stick with it. I will always be your rock.” A week later, the national writing competition was held. Mr. Grant was escorting the team. Before they left, I video-chatted with Tess. “Don’t be nervous. Just do your best. I’ll make you a feast when you get back!” That afternoon, I was at the market picking out a fish when my phone rang. It was an unknown number. “Hello? Is this Brenda Miller? Your daughter is hurt.” “She turned in her test early, climbed to the fourth-floor terrace, and jumped off!” 7 I couldn’t hear anything else the person on the other end was saying. My mind was a chaotic hive of buzzing bees, and a sharp pain erupted behind my temples. I dropped the slippery fish in my hands and ran like a lunatic. The market floor was slick. I fell several times, scraping my knees, but I didn’t feel the blood seeping through my jeans. When I finally reached the hospital, the light above the operating room was a blinding, angry red. Scott was crouched in the corner. A six-foot-tall man, he was huddled in a small ball, hands clutching his head, making a wounded, animalistic sound. When he saw me, he looked up abruptly, his usually smiling eyes webbed with blood vessels. “Honey… our Tess…” His voice was a raw croak. Before he could finish the sentence, tears streamed down his face. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor. “What happened? She was fine this morning! Why would she jump?” Two police officers in uniform walked over. One of them handed me a printed sheet of paper, his voice flat and official. “This was found on the roof terrace. We’ve interviewed the students at the scene. It’s an apparent suicide.” “Suicide?” I snatched the paper. It held a single, cold, printed line: [I did not copy. But I am so tired. Since none of you believe me, I will die to prove it.] “Bullshit!” I crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground. “My daughter has the most beautiful handwriting! She hates typing on a computer! And she told me this morning she wanted my short ribs for dinner! She would never kill herself!” “Ma’am, please calm down…” “Calm down? Are you kidding me?” I screamed hysterically. “What about Madison Sinclair? Who else was on that roof besides my daughter?” The officers exchanged a look of weary helplessness. “The surveillance cameras were non-functional. At the time, your daughter was the only person on the terrace. As for Madison Sinclair, she was confirmed to be in the testing room and has an alibi.” The cameras were non-functional. Again. How could the world be so convenient for the guilty? The operating room door opened. The surgeon took off his mask and shook his head. “We saved her life, but she has severe brain trauma and a fractured spine. Whether she wakes up, we’ll have to wait and see.” In that moment, the sky collapsed. 8 Tess lay in the Intensive Care Unit for three days. I was a puppet with its strings cut, moving mechanically—paying bills, signing forms, staring blankly through the glass window. Scott disappeared. He said he was going for a cigarette and never returned. It wasn’t until noon on the third day that the school security captain called me. “Brenda, you need to get back here! Your husband… he’s been badly beaten! He’s at the school gate!” A deafening roar filled my head. I stumbled back to the school, arriving just as the lunch period ended. A crowd had gathered at the gate. I pushed my way through and saw Scott lying on the asphalt. His two legs were twisted at a gruesome, unnatural angle. His face was covered in blood. He was unconscious. Next to him was a large, black luxury sedan. The window rolled down halfway, revealing a meticulously made-up face. It was Veronica Sinclair, Madison’s mother—the woman from the school office. She held a long, thin cigarette, her eyes coldly contemptuous as they swept over Scott and then landed on me. “Well, look who it is. The cafeteria lady.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “Keep your husband on a shorter leash. He showed up at my husband’s office, threatening him with a wrench. The nerve.” “This was just a lesson—a broken leg. If it happens again…” She gave a cold laugh and rolled up the window. “Drive.” The wheels crushed the gravel, and the car sped away. The students around us were pointing and whispering, but I couldn’t hear a word. I collapsed over Scott, wanting to hold him, but terrified to touch his legs. “Scott! Scott, wake up!” The security captain sighed, helping me call 911. “Brenda, you can’t mess with these people. Her husband is Richard Sinclair, a big real estate developer. They’re connected to the city council, right to the top.” I looked at my husband, barely alive in my arms, and then thought of my daughter in the ICU. A feeling of hatred unlike anything I had ever known slithered into my heart like a viper. Can’t mess with them? The one with nothing has nothing to lose. They destroyed my home. I will make sure they suffer for it.

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New Year’s Eve. I’d just crossed two thousand miles, flying in from my remote deployment, only to hear a girl at the arrivals gate call out my fiancé’s name into her phone. “Jamie, I’m off the plane! Where are you?” The voice, syrupy-sweet with that particular tone of new-love entitlement, came from right behind me. I froze, turning instinctively. “I know, I know, your base keeps you busy… but I’m here now. You can’t leave me alone for the holiday, can you?” Her coaxing tone was unsettlingly familiar. Three years ago, I’d said the exact same words to James Davies. Back then, he’d just been transferred to the Naval Base in San Diego, and I was still at medical school in Seattle, making every visit a cross-country haul. I shook my head, silently chiding myself for the sudden paranoia. It’s a huge world. There are thousands of men named James. But then, her voice sharpened, the words ringing clear: “Commander Davies, if you don’t come get me, I swear I’m going to hang a banner right outside your unit gates!” James Davies. My fiancé. The same rank. The same command. … On impulse, a sudden, cold dread overriding my reason, I pulled out my phone and sent James a text. [James, can you get leave tonight? I’m in the city.] No reply. The girl linked arms with a friend and drifted toward the checkout aisle of a small airport convenience store. She flashed her phone. “See? Five minutes, and he’s already checking my location.” Joking, she reached for the condoms, grabbing a handful of Trojans. Her friend gave her a suggestive look. “Seriously, Sutton? Going that wild?” “Sutton, you and James are seriously obsessed with each other. Were those complaints just a humblebrag for my benefit?” Sutton giggled, a brazen, youthful sound. “I’m not leaving anything for the other little vultures, am I?” Other customers glanced over, some stifling smiles. Sutton didn’t care, swaying her hips as she and her friend walked out. I paid for my water and followed them. It was the dead of a cold December, and Sutton was wearing a backless dress under a thin coat, her bare legs jarring against the icy wind. She looked barely twenty, all sunshine and carefree abandon. The exact opposite of me, a Naval Medical Officer, usually dressed in serviceable fabrics and always, always bare-faced. When they reached the curb, Sutton’s friend hailed a ride. Sutton continued walking, humming a tune as she went. Every corner, our paths aligned. When I finally recognized the melody, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was the song James had sung at a base talent show years ago—the one he’d claimed he only ever sang for me. Sutton pulled out her phone and dialed. “Jamie, I’m almost there. Wait for me outside?” Whatever he said in response, she pouted playfully. “I’m layered up, I’m not cold at all. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even put your hands inside my coat, under my top, and on my…” I looked down at my phone. Still no reply. A cold draft slipped into my sleeves, and I shivered. My fingertip hovered over the screen, then I pressed the call button. A mechanical female voice coolly replied: “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood. When he was on assignment or in intensive training, his phone was held by the command. That had to be it. “James!” Sutton suddenly broke into a little run and flung herself into a man’s arms. I tilted my umbrella up, looking forward. One glance, and I was pinned to the sidewalk. The man, in civilian clothes, hugged Sutton tight, then playfully ruffled her hair. “You, you menace.” He had the face that was etched into my very bones. At seven, we grew up together on the base housing complex. He pressed a miniature military challenge coin into my hand. “Maeve, every medal and coin I ever earn will belong to you.” At fifteen, he awkwardly told me to throw away love letters from other boys. “They’re not as good as me.” At nineteen, the night before he deployed, he stood outside my window until dawn, insisting he had to see me. At twenty-three, he was selected for Special Warfare, disappearing for three months of radio silence on a critical mission. The first thing he did when he got back, twenty pounds lighter, was find me at the hospital. Last month, he handed me his savings account card, accumulated over five years of active duty pay. “Maeve, once this promotion goes through, we’ll submit the marriage packet.” Twenty-one years. Childhood sweethearts. We were two steadfast pillars, growing side-by-side. Our love was my Anchor—my source of stability and truth. But in this one second. Everything turned to ash. The rain pounded a frantic rhythm on my umbrella. It wasn’t until they turned, embraced, and walked toward the side entrance of the base housing that I managed to pull myself from my stunned paralysis. My phone buzzed. It was James. [In a training cycle. Just got my phone back. What’s up?] The sudden downpour had drenched my shoes. The damp cold crept up from my feet. My legs felt like they were encased in concrete, and I couldn’t move. I adjusted the green field jacket I was wearing—the one he’d given me, the exact shade of his fatigues. My hand shaking, I dialed his number again. It connected, then was immediately rejected. James sent a new text: [My CO is right here, can’t talk. Text it out.] I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. [Training cycle, or spending time with another woman?] As I was about to hit send, a screeching halt sounded behind me. “Watch out!” I couldn’t react in time. A rogue delivery bike clipped me, sending me sprawling. The world spun as I landed hard on the slick, wet pavement. The sharp, cold dampness soaked through my clothes. The pain, sluggish and delayed, crawled from my knee up to my heart. The young Marine who’d crashed scrambled to help me up. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Seeing his uniform, his face pale with panic, I waved him off. “I’m fine. Just go.” My phone screen was shattered, and my unsent accusation was lost to the void. I found a cheap motel nearby and took a scalding shower. I bought a new phone, slipped my SIM card in. James’s latest message popped up: [Night drills tonight, no video call. Talk tomorrow. Be good.] I blinked, my eyes dry and gritty, sitting numbly on the edge of the bed. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would James cheat? And the girl—did she know she was a homewrecker? I opened my social media. Though I didn’t know the spelling of her name, I found her quickly in James’s ‘Following’ list on Instagram. Her profile picture was taken inside James’s barracks room. The perfectly folded blanket in the background was the “hospital corner” fold I’d spent hours teaching him. He’d hugged me then, saying, “Maeve’s folding is the gold standard. I have to keep it like this forever.” Sutton was a travel influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The earliest post linked to James was from June. Sutton clinging to a man’s arm, the background the hiking trail near the base. Caption: [First date with my military man! So happy!] That trail. It was the place we walked every time I visited. The place he’d promised: “Maeve, this trail is for us. Every step here will be a memory of you.” In July, Sutton was at the beach with James. It was my birthday that day. James had told me he was out on maneuvers. His actual dynamic was with Sutton, experiencing her “first time scuba diving.” I felt a chill deep in my bones. James’s face wasn’t fully visible in any of her pictures, but I recognized the jagged scar on his forearm—the one he’d gotten shielding me from broken glass when we were teenagers. I opened a private chat and sent Sutton a message. [Hi. Do you know James has a fiancée? Did he lie to you and say he was single?] Less than half an hour later, Sutton posted a new story. The picture was of a cocktail dress, impossibly short. [My battle armor for tonight. Gave someone a sneak peek, and he loved it.] I clenched my jaw, shaking with cold. Just last month, when I came to visit the base, James had gently pushed away my hug. He frowned. “Maeve, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Sutton replied to my DM. [Maeve Sterling, the doctor. I know who you are.] [Love is a competition. Winner takes all.] [And right now, it looks like you lost.] I laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound. The night before James’s enlistment, he’d met me on the old training field behind the complex. In the moonlight, dressed in a brand-new uniform, he gave me a crisp salute. “Dr. Sterling, I promise you, no matter where I go, you are always my home base.” His eyes had been fierce and bright. “Maeve, I’m coming back, and we’re getting married.” For years, many doubted our long-distance military romance, yet we never broke. When he was on dangerous assignments, I couldn’t ask or guess, just clung to the nightly news updates. From Ensign to Lieutenant, then a Commander in Special Warfare. He’d said: “Once you finish your medical fellowship, you can apply to the Naval Hospital right here on my base.” Only a few months left. Happiness was just a few steps away. Yet today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Sutton sent another DM. It was a secretly recorded video clip. James, in civvies, looking slightly drunk, his eyes glazed over in the dim bar light. Sutton’s voice, flirtatious: “Jamie, what’s your fiancée like?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t drown out his reply. “Don’t even bring her up. Every day is the same routine.” “She’s boring.” He looked toward the camera, his gaze holding the familiar tenderness that was once only for me: “So, what are we doing that’s fresh tonight?” The camera shook, followed by the sound of an intimate kiss. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale, horrified face. I scrambled to the bathroom and dry-heaved a few times, then booked a one-way train ticket back home. While packing, a searing pain gripped my lower right abdomen. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the Naval Medical Center. It was peak flu season, and the ER was overflowing. I crouched outside the consultation room, too pained to stand upright. At three in the morning, I finally got my ultrasound report. The physician asked, “Acute appendicitis. Needs surgery. Where is your family?” James’s call came in right then. I rejected it. He called back persistently. In the quiet examination room, the distinct ringtone was impossible to ignore. I answered, and his voice was frantic, bordering on hysterical. “A friend sprained her ankle. How do I treat it right now? What’s the emergency protocol?” I heard Sutton’s muffled, low sob on his end. The last flicker of warmth inside me died. I said coldly, my voice flat: “Treat it however you want.” “Maeve Sterling! You’re a medical officer! Listen to yourself! How could you say that?!” James’s angry shout assaulted my ears. I curled into a ball, fighting the excruciating pain. I remembered him saying: “All my first aid knowledge came from you. I’ll only ever use it for you.” James continued, “She’s crying in pain. Just tell me what to do.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. I tilted my head back, forcing the hot liquid to retreat. The military surgeon across from me produced the consent form. “Ma’am, if no next-of-kin can make it, you can sign for yourself.” James was silent for a few seconds. “You… you’re at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated confidently, “On a night shift, right? Since you’re not sleeping, is it really that hard to answer me? What kind of petty game are you playing?!” The tears finally broke through, streaming down my face. I laughed softly. “You’re right.” “It’s a petty game.” “James. You and I are finished.” James hung up first. His final sound was a scoff. “Fine, don’t talk. It’s not like I need you.” The dead connection and the relentless rain outside blended into an overwhelming cold. I put the phone down and offered the surgeon a tired apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have let you hear that.” My voice was hoarse. “My family won’t make it. I’ll sign for myself.” When I woke up, I was lying alone in the recovery room. The incision throbbed faintly. My phone had several new messages—from my Commanding Officer and my parents. After updating my CO on the surgery, I requested two extra days of leave. Facing my parents, however, was harder. My mother’s voice was anxious. “Didn’t you say you’d be home today?” “What happened?” The true collapse of an adult often means maintaining a façade of normalcy even when your heart is dead. I took a deep breath and said lightly, “The Naval Center had an emergency medical seminar. I decided to stay an extra couple of days to attend.” After repeated reassurances, my mother reluctantly hung up. I was finally drifting off to sleep when a knock came, and the door was pushed open. James walked in. He placed a bouquet of flowers by the bedside and reached out to touch my face. “Maeve, last night you just…” His fingers smelled of rubbing alcohol mixed with a familiar, floral cologne. The same scent. I’d smelled it on Sutton yesterday. I turned my head, pulling away. He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know you were here. I couldn’t reach you, so I called your CO. That’s how I found out you were admitted.” He looked at the back of my head, his tone laced with exasperation. “Do you really have to be like this?” He pulled out a small, velvet box and pushed it into my hand. “Happy New Year. Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” My palm was icy cold. Just five minutes before I was wheeled into surgery, Sutton had posted a story. A pile of gifts surrounded her. She unboxed them one by one: a designer handbag, a new phone, a couple’s resort package… Only the miniature, customized military medal, sitting to the side, prompted her to pout. “Ugh, what’s this? I wanted the real thing.” The person filming laughed indulgently. “Fine, if you don’t want it, I’ll give it to a buddy on the base.” I extended my hand off the bed rail, letting the velvet box drop onto the tiled floor. My throat was dry. “James, we’re done.” “Done?” He shook his head in disbelief, a single, sharp laugh escaping him. “I already submitted the marriage packet. And you’re telling me we’re done?” “Maeve, you’re not a child. Don’t be so unreasonable.” As he spoke, the phone in his pocket vibrated constantly. He pulled it out and quickly texted a reply. The room was too quiet. I saw the look on his face—gentle, patient—and knew exactly who he was texting. I repeated: “We’re done. Withdraw the paperwork.” His face darkened completely. “Stop joking. This isn’t funny.” I braced myself and sat up, handing him the flowers from the nightstand. “Take these, too.” They must have been a last-minute buy from the hospital gift shop. Tucked inside were two tulips, which I’m severely allergic to. James stood motionless, a flash of impatience in his eyes. I looked at him, truly looked, for a long moment. How did the face I’d etched onto my heart suddenly look so alien? “Stop this nonsense,” he said, his voice flat. I let out a low sigh. “James, I saw Sutton.” “If I don’t end this, are you expecting me to allow her to be a side piece for the rest of her life?” He froze.

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