Author: Momo Chan

I was always a pushover growing up. I had a tendency to agree with everyone, reflexively. Someone could tell me the Earth was flat, and I’d nod and say, “You know, there’s a real possibility for that.” After a checkup years later, I learned I had what the doctor vaguely called a “Compulsive Agreement Disorder”—a psychological defense mechanism born out of constant bullying and never being heard. I learned to survive by simply affirming whatever the perceived aggressor said. When the prominent Whitlock family finally tracked me down and brought me home, the “fake daughter,” Savannah, immediately started the performance. She wiped away a perfectly placed tear and offered up my room. “I took your place, big sister. This room rightfully belongs to you. I’ll just move my things to the guest suite.” I nodded, agreeing instantly. “That’s certainly fair. Indeed, the guest room is for guests, and since you’re technically a visitor here now, that seems logical.” Savannah—Savvy—turned instantly pale, her composure visibly shaken. My newfound brother, Marcus, jabbed a furious finger at my chest. “I only recognize Savvy as my sister. You can forget about being family.” I didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely. I completely agree. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the simple life—I tell everyone I’m an only child anyway. Less drama.” Marcus turned beet red, his jaw slackening. He let out a strangled gasp and promptly collapsed. I just stood there, blinking slowly. I was just agreeing with what he said. How was that my fault? 1 Marcus was clutching his chest, completely knocked out. Savvy immediately started wailing, calling out his name. The loud, dramatic scene brought my biological parents, Caroline and Richard Whitlock, running. “What in the world is going on here? Why did Marcus faint?” they demanded. Savvy rubbed her eyes, shrinking her shoulders and choking out a sob. “It’s because… sister… she…” She trailed off, making it sound like I’d just physically assaulted my new brother. My parents’ disapproving gazes landed squarely on me. I nodded my head, following the pattern. “Indeed. Marcus said he only recognized Savvy as his sister. So, I responded that I tell everyone I’m an only child. Then he fainted.” It was true. At my foster home, I was an only child. Savvy continued to cry silently, shrinking into herself and clutching Marcus. After Mom gave her a small, reassuring pat, she looked up, shooting me a pathetic, fearful glance before tearfully addressing them. “She said… she was angry I took her family. She threatened me, and Marcus stepped in to defend me, and that’s how he fell.” Wait, she just straight-up fabricated a story? Mom looked at the two of them—the collapsed son and the terrified daughter—and turned her accusatory face back to me. “You’ve been back for one day, and you’re already bullying your brother and sister? What kind of daughter are you?” I nodded my head again, the reflex taking over. “That’s certainly possible. Since I just got here, I could very well have bullied Savvy and Marcus. But you have cameras, right? We can just check the footage.” I decided to go for the nuclear option. “And besides, I might not even be your daughter. DNA tests can have errors. To be safe, Savvy, Marcus, and I can all take another one. What if none of us are your biological children?” The last sentence was designed to short-circuit my mother and silence my father. It worked immediately. Mom gasped, looking frantic. The usually rigid and stern Dad snapped, “What are you talking about, running your mouth like that!” 2 Savvy, ever the schemer, latched onto the easier target. “The cameras in here… didn’t they break last month?” I was genuinely confused. “They did break. But I fixed them yesterday.” Growing up, my only defense against being beaten up was evidence. Because I compulsively agreed with everything, people often tried to take advantage or physically intimidate me. The one thing that stopped them was the proof on camera. So, when I got back to the Whitlocks’ mansion, the first thing I did was hire a crew to ensure every corner of the house was covered. When Mom and Dad realized my strange fixation was due to a childhood trauma from being constantly abused, they allowed me to install the system out of pity. Savvy, who was probably out shopping at the time, had no idea. I pulled up the feed on my phone and projected it onto the closest wall, turning the volume up. The scene played out: Savvy’s sickeningly sweet offer to give up the room, followed by Marcus’s aggressive taunts about me being some kind of “hillbilly” from the sticks. I zoomed in and emphasized Savvy’s smug, subtle expressions and Marcus’s look of utter contempt. Mom and Dad squirmed, their faces heating up. Mom cleared her throat. “Marcus and Savvy were wrong in how they spoke to you, Maddie. I’ll talk to them.” She paused. “But you, too, honey. If you knew they were lying, why didn’t you just explain things to us?” I looked at them, completely flat. I swiped the video progress bar back, and my earlier explanation—my calm, reflexive affirmation that led to the truth—rang out clearly. Mom’s cheeks flushed crimson. They both stood there, wordless. I knew exactly what this meant: they were going to sweep it under the rug. I dangled my phone with the lab appointment confirmation pulled up. “I’ve already scheduled the follow-up DNA tests. Should we still go?” Mom forced a weak smile. “That… won’t be necessary.” I tilted my head, looking genuinely puzzled. “Oh, but we should. What if Marcus was the one who was switched? We’re supposed to be fraternal twins, right? Two babies switched at once isn’t impossible.” I gestured between us. “Look, Mom, Savvy and I look incredibly similar, but Marcus and I don’t look alike at all. Isn’t that weird?” It was weird. A supposed twin brother and I shared zero resemblance, while the supposed “fake” sister could have been my doppelgänger. It raised too many questions. Mom seemed to instinctively agree with me, but Dad immediately cut me off, his voice laced with agitation. “Enough! Are you done with this drama? I told you, I’m making Marcus and Savvy apologize, all right?” He snapped. “They made a mistake, but you don’t need to be so aggressive! Look at you! What kind of attitude is that?” He turned to Savvy. “Savvy, apologize to your sister!” 3 Savvy had been yelled at by her father—the man who raised her—for the first time. Her eyes instantly welled up. She shot me a hateful, red-rimmed glare. “I’m sorry! There!” With that, she burst into tears and ran off. In her haste, she didn’t watch her step and accidentally stomped right on Marcus’s chest. I saw it clearly: Marcus’s face twisted in pain, a brief moment of pure agony, before it smoothed out again. He was faking the unconsciousness. Mom quickly ran after Savvy, calling out to her. Dad called the staff to carry Marcus back to his room and then walked off without so much as a glance in my direction. The DNA test was forgotten. I hummed a quiet tune to myself and walked toward Savvy’s room. The door was ajar, and I could hear Mom’s comforting voice. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. You’ll always be my daughter, no matter what.” Savvy’s voice was hoarse. “What about my sister, though?” Mom paused, then answered honestly. “Maddie is my daughter, too. You both have to learn to get along. Look, you wrongly accused her today, and she let it go. Your brother exaggerated things. I don’t think she has the bad temper he claims.” Clearly, that wasn’t what Savvy wanted to hear. She burst into louder sobs. 4 I tapped gently on the door. “Can I come in?” Savvy’s crying cut off abruptly, like a toy robot running out of batteries. She didn’t answer. I opened the door and walked in anyway. Savvy, whose eyes were now red and puffy, glared at me. “What do you want?” “To rest. You gave me your room, remember? This is my room now.” Savvy was furious. She hadn’t expected me to call her bluff and take her performative offer seriously. Mom quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh, Maddie, darling, Savvy was just speaking emotionally. She’s been in this room for so long, it wouldn’t be right to make her move now.” She looked at me hesitantly. “How about you check out one of the other rooms?” I surveyed Savvy’s space. The large vanity wasn’t for makeup; it was crowded with limited-edition collectible art toys and little cotton dolls littered across the bed—the kind of niche fan merchandise often called “merch” by collectors. It was clearly a personalized sanctuary. I gave Mom a slow nod and patted her on the shoulder. “That’s absolutely true. It’s not right to make my sister move after she’s made this room her own.” I paused. “In that case, I’ll take Marcus’s room.” Mom froze. She stammered. “Marcus’s room wouldn’t work either… he’s a boy… why don’t you just take the guest room?” I nodded again. “Indeed, Marcus’s room is unsuitable—all his messy boy things. But the bed in the guest room is too hard; I won’t sleep well.” I offered a suggestion. “How about this: I’ll just crash in here with Savvy for one night? We can get a new mattress for the guest room tomorrow, and then I’ll move out.” The idea of sharing a room with me horrified Savvy. “No!” she shrieked. But Mom thought it was a brilliant idea—a forced sisterly bonding session. She immediately approved. Savvy’s protests were useless. Furious, she grabbed a pillow and stomped off to the guest room. As they left, I discreetly took the strand of hair I’d pulled from Mom’s back during the hug and tucked it away. I surveyed Savvy’s room and, for good measure, installed a tiny, almost invisible security camera in a lamp. I rifled through her vanity and found her hairbrush, plucking a few strands of her hair. If what I suspected was true, the family drama was about to get a whole lot more entertaining. 5 The next morning, before the sun was even fully up, a furious banging rattled my door. Fighting a massive wave of sleep-deprived irritation, I yanked the door open, my face dark. “What is with all the goddamn knocking? Are you trying to wake the dead?” Marcus, who had arrived with Savvy, ready for a fight, recoiled in surprise. A moment later, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand to deliver a furious slap. “How dare you, you little tramp! You took Savvy’s room!” I grabbed his wrist mid-swing. Years of self-defense classes—Krav Maga and kickboxing—meant I wasn’t going to be taken down by a pampered rich kid. It would have been pathetic. I was already awake and annoyed. I used his forward momentum, twisted his arm, and slapped him across the face with my free hand. “Keep your hands off me, you noisy jerk. If you didn’t want me to take the room, you shouldn’t have said I wasn’t family. You let me in, so now shut up.” I hissed, my voice low and dangerous. “I’m in a foul mood. Annoy me again and I’ll beat you until your own mother doesn’t recognize you. Get lost!” Savvy gasped in alarm. “Madison! Are you insane? How dare you hit Marcus? He has a heart condition!” Marcus was the family’s golden boy. His delicate health meant Savvy, as the younger sister, had always been instructed to be gentle with him. I raised an eyebrow, looking at the clear handprint swelling on Marcus’s cheek. “Oh? Are you my actual brother?” His expression faltered instantly, a flash of panic crossing his eyes before he rallied into an aggressive sneer. “Of course I’m your brother! You can’t change that fact, no matter what you say!” I scoffed, my voice laced with mockery. “Really? You only recognize Savvy as your sister, remember? What kind of brother does that make you to me?” Marcus visibly relaxed. I was done arguing. I slammed the door in their faces, leaving only a final threat hanging in the air. “Make another noise, and I’ll cut out your tongues!” 6 When I finally woke up, the house was eerily silent. I was fully expecting the parents to come down on me for hitting Marcus, but no one did. The maid informed me that the family—all four of them—had gone out to shop for Marcus and Savvy’s joint birthday party in two days. They went off as a happy family of four, forgetting about me entirely. The maid looked at me with deep sympathy. Clearly, in her eyes, I was the pathetic, neglected one, abandoned while they rallied around the fake sister. But I didn’t care. It was perfect. I had things to do, and their absence was a gift. I took the strands of hair I had collected and drove to the private DNA testing center. I submitted the samples and waited in the lobby. My phone chimed with text notifications. It was Savvy. Savvy: Hmph. Mom and Dad love me the most. Look at the gift they got me. Savvy: Even without blood, I’m still the favorite kid. I genuinely worried about Savvy’s intelligence. Sending a threat from her personal number was wildly clumsy. She followed up with a picture of a designer bag—a high-end, limited-edition piece. Savvy: If you promise to stop trying to steal my parents, I’ll buy you this bag as a gift. I glanced at the bag. It was easily a seventy-five thousand dollar piece. Savvy’s monthly allowance, while generous, wouldn’t cover that without a few months of saving. I didn’t reply. I took a screenshot of the entire exchange and sent it directly to Mom and Dad. Dad didn’t say a word. He just deposited $100,000 into my account. Mom responded quickly. Mom (Caroline): Maddie, please don’t be upset. Savvy is just like that—she has a sharp tongue but a good heart. Mom (Caroline): Marcus told us you were asleep and needed rest after this morning, so we didn’t wake you up. I apologize. I bought you a gift, and I promise next time I will ask for your input. Mom also transferred $100,000. Two hundred thousand dollars for one screenshot. Worth it. I looked down at the freshly printed lab report in my hands. I realized I needed to give the family a much bigger surprise. 7 The moment I stepped back into the house, I was assaulted by Savvy’s ear-splitting wail. A handbag flew past my head. I ducked just in time. Savvy screamed at me, her voice hoarse. “Madison Whitlock! If you don’t like me, just say so!” “Why did you ruin my collectibles? That was a limited-edition error piece! And I was actually going to buy you that bag!” She was sobbing hysterically—a more genuine show of emotion than when Marcus had fainted. Marcus, meanwhile, was adding fuel to the fire. “Mom, Dad, I told you she was rotten. She’s learned bad habits. She’s just jealous that we didn’t take her shopping, so she took it out on Savvy’s favorite toys. She never should have come back!” Mom looked at me with disappointment etched on her face. “Maddie, I told you, if you wanted something, you could just ask me. Why would you ruin the one thing your sister loves the most?” Dad didn’t bother to scold me. He simply handed me a credit card. “Madison, you’ve caused nothing but chaos since you arrived. For the sake of family harmony, I need you to move out. Live in an apartment downtown.” They were already trying to kick me out? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marcus trying desperately to suppress a triumphant smirk. Smile, smile, smile, I thought. Let’s see if you can still manage that in a minute. 8 I took a deep breath, gathered all my air, and shouted. “Quiet! Hear me out!” Savvy’s wail cut off instantly, punctuated by a hiccup. The entire room went silent. I took a slow breath and continued. “That’s true, there’s a possibility I could have damaged Savvy’s things. However, I didn’t.” Marcus couldn’t contain himself. He sneered. “Oh yeah? And we’re supposed to believe you? Who else in this house has a motive to ruin Savvy’s things?” I smiled sweetly at him. “Well, my brother, for one.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, wait. My mistake. You’re not my brother, are you?” Marcus’s complexion turned white as paper. “What are you talking about?” I pulled out the documents—a stack of photocopied DNA reports—and passed them out to everyone. “Here you go, family. Hot off the press today. Take a look.” When Marcus saw the title of the document, his face drained of all color. He closed his eyes and started to crumple to the floor in another dramatic faint. I darted forward, catching him not to save him, but to grip the sensitive skin on his side and pinch hard. He gasped, his eyes flying open in genuine pain, and he was forced to stand up straight.

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The night of our wedding, my husband—all sinew and raw, hardworking muscle—left for the City to find work, and I didn’t hear a peep from him again. I was left in that tiny, forgotten town, running on fumes, rising before the sun and crashing after the owls. In one short year, the drudgery had hollowed me out, turning me from a woman of substance, a curvy girl with a lucky star, into a gaunt, exhausted shadow. Just when I felt I couldn’t lift another bucket, my birth parents tracked me down. They said I was the daughter who had been swapped at birth and they wanted to bring me to the City to live a life of comfort. But I hadn’t even finished the drive in their sleek black sedan when a crew of men stopped us and dragged me out. They threatened my parents: Pay the ransom, or they’d end me! I was shaking, absolutely terrified. But when the blindfold was ripped off, I looked up at the gang leader and froze. It was my runaway husband. 1 “Honey!” The name burst out of me, and every eye in the room snapped to focus on me and Rhys Owen. Rhys’s face instantly flushed crimson. I couldn’t make out his expression through the shadows, but I was too excited to care. I pumped up the volume and yelled it again. “Honey!” The rugged men stared at me, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, for a long moment, then erupted in laughter. “Boss, did we scare this one senseless?” “She just yells ‘Honey’ at anyone? Hey, sweetheart, how about me?” “You? Don’t you see the size of the Boss? Look at his build compared to yours!” “The Boss has all the luck—getting a rich heiress to throw herself at him even while he’s on the job!” Rhys glared fiercely at his crew. When he looked at me, his brow furrowed. “Stop yelling. Who are you calling your husband?” I was stunned. He didn’t recognize me! He’d abandoned me on our wedding night to seek fortune, promising to return and give me the good life, but he hadn’t even called once. If my birth parents hadn’t found me, I’d still be in that village, stuck playing Penelope. The thought of it all brought my fury to a boil. “You rotten, heartless man! You walked out and left me to fend for myself, and now the first thing you do is kidnap me? Do you have no soul?” “Do you know how I’ve been living? Starving, freezing—I nearly died of cold in that village last winter!” I wallowed in the drama of my past misery, screaming the accusations until tears streamed down my face. The men exchanged bewildered, uncertain looks. “No way. Is that really the Boss’s wife?” “Damn, Boss just hit the jackpot—a wife and a ransom!” “You can’t forget your crew when you hit it big, Boss!” A skinny guy, Mac, sidled up to Rhys with a leering grin. “Boss, we were supposed to kidnap her, but I think she’s here to kidnap you!” Rhys finally snapped out of his daze and shoved Mac away in disgust. “All of you—shut your mouths!” He then strode over, intentionally roughing up his voice, and grabbed my chin. “You open your eyes and look at me. Who is your husband? I’m known as ‘The Rattler’ on the street, and I stand by my name!” “And besides, I have a wife! She’s a curvy girl, a woman of substance! You may sound like her, but those stick arms and legs? Do you think I’m blind?” “Don’t try to play games with me, sweetheart, or I’ll cut out your tongue!” After his menacing threat, he turned away and mumbled under his breath. “Dressed so nice, trying to pretend to be my wife? What an actress! Good thing I don’t fall for that.” I was already livid that he wouldn’t admit to knowing me. Hearing that, I instinctively glanced down at myself. My hourglass figure was now a slender, toned shape; my full curves had melted into a streamlined silhouette. I’d lost over seventy pounds. No wonder he didn’t recognize me. For the first time in my life, I wanted to cry over being thin. “I really am your h—” Before I could finish, he sealed my mouth shut with duct tape. “I’m warning you, we’ve been living on a knife’s edge for years—we’re stone-cold killers. Your little beauty tricks won’t work on me!” “Cooperate and wait for the ransom, or I won’t go easy on you!” With that, he tapped the blade of a knife against my cheek. His action completely shocked me. I froze, unable to move a muscle. Once he was out of earshot, I sniffled. The more I thought about it, the more miserable I felt, so I just started yelling obscenities. “Rhys Owen, you low-down, no-good jerk!” But with the tape over my mouth, no one understood what I was saying. After a long while, I calmed down and looked around the room. The men were all bulky and rough, covered in fake tattoos and scars—they looked like the usual ne’er-do-wells you’d see hanging around town. Watching Rhys lecture his crew in the distance, I sank into thought. He was supposed to be in the City doing construction, so why was he here with them? And why was he kidnapping me? My heart ached as I watched the man I’d missed for years. Honey, you’re just getting yourself into trouble… 2 A phone ring broke my reverie. Rhys glanced at me and lowered his voice. “Ms. Harrington, the job is done.” Ms. Harrington? Skye Harrington? Wasn’t that the sister I’d been swapped with? Did she hire Rhys to kidnap me? I immediately perked up my ears. “Don’t worry, we didn’t hurt her, just gave her a good scare.” “We’ll make sure she backs off and doesn’t interfere with your life.” Those two simple sentences were all I needed to figure out their entire game. So, they just didn’t want me to come home, huh? I rolled my eyes. Since my life wasn’t actually in danger, I had nothing to fear or worry about. My priority now was to give my clueless, wife-blind husband a good lesson. Once he hung up, I kicked the skinny guy next to me, Mac, signaling him to rip the tape off my mouth. Mac, clearly eager for more entertainment, actually did it. He must have wanted to see what I’d do to Rhys next. The moment my mouth was free, I deliberately cleared my throat. “Honey~” The syrupy-sweet sound instantly made the surrounding men turn red trying to stifle their laughter. Rhys’s broad shoulders tensed. He turned back, his expression tight. “I told you not to call me that!” I pouted with a wicked glee. “Why are you so mean? I’m thirsty.” “Even a kidnapper can’t let the hostage die of thirst, can they?” I put on my best hurt expression. Rhys took a deep breath and tossed a bottle of water, which landed right beside me. Thinking about how he’d abandoned me for so long, I fluttered my eyelashes. “Oh dear, I’m all tied up, I can’t get it. Honey, come help me.” He walked over like a man resigned to his fate and held the water bottle to my lips. My eyes lit up. I gulped hard, staring at his wide shoulders and that impressive eight-pack. He sensed my stare, and his face instantly went wary as he tried to shield his chest. “Are you drinking or not?” I quickly pulled my gaze back. “Drinking, drinking, of course, I’m drinking.” I guzzled half the bottle and let out a satisfied burp. Seeing him about to stand up, I quickly adjusted my tone. “Sweetheart~” My overly dramatic voice nearly made his knees buckle. “For heaven’s sake, what do you want now!” “A person needs food to live, Honey. You’ve had me tied up for ages, aren’t you going to feed me?” He covered his ears with a look of pure disgust and retreated ten feet. “Just wait!” The crew of ‘thugs’ couldn’t hold back anymore and doubled over with laughter. “Boss, I don’t think the missus wants food, she wants you!” “Why don’t you just take one for the team, Boss, and take her in!” Rhys angrily slammed the remaining half-bottle of water onto the ground, scattering water everywhere. “All of you, shut up!” “I’m telling you one more time—I’m a married man! If anyone says something like that again, I’ll take it personally!” Seeing his genuine anger, the crew immediately straightened up. My lips curved up, and I nodded, pleased. My husband might be a little dense, but he certainly had high standards for fidelity. Rhys must have felt my gaze, because he spun around, his eyes narrowed menacingly. “Take her into the back room! I’m going out to get food!” The men immediately ushered me into the inner room. I wrinkled my nose. “You want me to sleep in this?” Mac raised an eyebrow, a suggestive smile on his face. “This is the Boss’s room! A private room! And only one bed!” “Oh.” I gave him a knowing look and smiled back. “Don’t worry, buddy. When this is all over, the missus won’t forget your help!” I sat down quietly. After what felt like ages, just as I was about to fall asleep, Rhys finally returned. “Here, eat this!” Looking at the bag of bagels and hard-boiled eggs, I felt a momentary softening of my heart. “Feed me.” His face darkened, and he was about to blow up, but I held up my hands, which were still tied together. “I’m tied up like this, and you expect me to peel an egg myself?” He was stumped. He reluctantly sat down beside me. After carefully peeling the shell off one egg, he held it to my mouth. I leaned back slightly. “I don’t eat the yolks.” He let out a defeated sigh, but his body moved automatically. The two halves of egg white were soon offered to my lips. “Happy now?” His sun-kissed skin looked even darker against the pure white egg white. He was a muscle man, but his fingers were surprisingly long and defined. I unconsciously swallowed. When I opened my mouth, I accidentally brushed his finger, and my heart started beating like a trapped bird. Rhys was busy chewing on the yolk and didn’t notice the change in me. “I’m a kidnapper, and you’re giving me your food preferences? You must have a death wish.” I gave him an innocent look and defended myself. “My husband taught me that. He gets whatever I don’t like.” Rhys paused mid-swallow. His wife didn’t like egg yolks, either! Could this woman really be his big, curvy wife? But the next second, he shook his head, pushing away the absurd thought. His wife was cute and plump; she couldn’t possibly be this bone-thin heiress. Absolutely not! 3 After it got dark, Rhys made the bed and turned to lay a blanket out on the floor. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll keep watch.” My heart warmed a little. I curled up on the bed and hummed softly. “You’re so good to me, Honey.” He shot me a glare but said nothing. I decided to push my luck. “Then help me untie the ropes, too. My wrists hurt~” His guard immediately went up, and his eyebrows tightened. “No way! What if I untie you and you run away in the middle of the night? Don’t even try to beg; my answer is final!” His stubbornness annoyed me. I scooted toward the edge of the bed to make room and shot him a seductive look. “Then you can just hold me in your arms all night, and I won’t be able to run, right?” He closed his eyes in exasperation, pretending to neither hear nor see me. I wasn’t going to let him off that easy! Since he wouldn’t speak, I extended my foot and brushed my toes against his thigh. Rhys shot up with a gasp, his head smacking the low ceiling beam with a dull thud. He let out a muffled groan of pain. I sat up in feigned concern, only to realize his ears were bright red. Grinning, I lay back down, striking a pose, and pouted my lips. “Sweetheart, if you don’t untie me, I don’t know what I might do next, you know~” He wrapped himself tightly in the blanket, his neck stiff with stubborn resistance. “I don’t believe you can cause that much trouble!” I scoffed. “I won’t cause that much trouble, but I can definitely make sure you don’t get a wink of sleep.” I was a little nervous, this being my first time acting so flirtatious, but he didn’t reply for the longest time. That made me even angrier. Hello! I’m a beautiful woman now! I spun my head away in frustration, only to see him gripping his fists tightly, muttering under his breath through gritted teeth. “Do not harm the asset, do not harm the asset…” I had to clench my stomach to keep from laughing. Rhys suddenly deflated. “Fine, untie them. Just please, stop torturing me.” He turned to me with a look of utter defeat. “Promise me, if I untie you, you’ll behave and stop driving me crazy!” I nodded obediently. “Whatever you say, Honey.” He shuddered with disgust and grudgingly started working on the ropes. He didn’t see the sly look in my eyes. The moment I was free, I pounced on him, wrapping myself around him like an octopus. “Ah, I’ve been tied up all day, time to stretch my body.” He froze, his eyes wide with panic. “You… you broke your promise!” I found it hilarious. My finger traced his V-line, gliding up to his abdominal muscles. I let out a satisfied sigh. “Honey, your body is absolutely dynamite!” He looked genuinely terrified, on the verge of tears. He carefully pushed my hand away and struggled. “Get off me! Or I’ll really lose my temper!” “I don’t care if you’re a hostage or not, I swear I’ll throw you out!” “What if my wife finds out about this? I’m an honest man!” I refused to let go, clinging to his broad back. I straightened up slightly. I bit his ear, grinding my teeth a little. “Rhys Owen, do you really not recognize me?” If he dared to say no, I was going to bite his ear right off! Rhys froze as if struck by lightning. He turned his head slowly to look at me, his eyes wide. “You’re…”

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I saw a wedding photo pop up on my old college roommate’s Instagram feed and tapped the heart icon without thinking. The next second, a frantic voice note came through. “Who is this? Why are you using this account? If you don’t answer, I’m calling the police!” I was confused, so I called her back on video. The call connected. As soon as she saw my face, she shrieked and immediately disconnected. When I tried again, a text message appeared on my screen. “Didn’t you… die last year?” 1 That question hit me like a splash of cold water. I called her yet again. It took my roommate, Gigi, a long time to pick up. She made me do a series of ridiculous facial contortions and dramatic eyebrow raises—all high-difficulty stunts—until my face muscles were practically spasming. Only then did she say, her voice shaking with disbelief, “Anya Reed, is that really you? You’re alive?” Gigi told me she had actually cried when she heard I was gone, posting a ton of dramatic, sentimental messages. I scrolled through my old texts with her. Sure enough, about a year ago, she had sent a few messages. But at that exact time, I had just given birth to my daughter, Lila, and was in no state to check social media. For the next year, I was a stay-at-home mom, completely consumed by Lila’s needs—feeding, changing, rocking her to sleep, making baby food. I barely had time to shower, let alone socialize. The messages just got buried. But to hear that people thought I had died? That was insane. This wasn’t some casual prank. I demanded an apology. Gigi insisted she was the victim, claiming she’d only heard the rumor from someone else. She found and sent me the screenshot she’d seen. The image was chilling. It didn’t just casually state my time and cause of death—it was a highly stylized, black-and-white headshot, complete with a professional-looking obituary detailing my supposed suicide via postpartum depression. It explained everything. No wonder no friends had reached out, no party invitations had arrived. They all thought I was dead. My blood boiled. I grabbed the screenshot and drafted a mass text to my friends, ready to announce my resurrection to the world. But as soon as I hit send, I froze. Except for Gigi, every single person was met with the same message: You are no longer friends with this user. I couldn’t chat with any of them. Several old college group chats I’d muted because they were annoying now showed the notification that I had been removed. I immediately messaged Gigi, demanding to know who was behind the lie. A moment later, a voice note came back: “Anya, I heard it from Sienna Voss. Do you remember her?” Sienna Voss? She was also a college classmate, same department, different major. I remembered her because she and my husband, Owen Miller, had been close in college—she was his “girl buddy,” his platonic wingman. After Owen and I started dating, she faded out. We lost touch after graduation and I hadn’t heard anything about her since. “Why would she say I died?” I pressed. Gigi sent a string of ellipses, then: “I don’t know the details. Around this time last year, Sienna posted that screenshot—the one you just saw—and said you had passed away from postpartum depression. Loads of people commented, offering her comfort, saying how loyal she was, and they even held an online memorial for you.” My hand tightened on my phone. It started to shake. “Send me that post. I need to see it.” Gigi replied, “She deleted it a long time ago. Said it was too painful to look at. Anya, you honestly didn’t know about any of this?” Know what? My entire life for the past year had been Lila. I was too exhausted from the endless cycle of feeding, changing, and soothing to even watch TV, much less check whose drama was trending on Instagram. Besides, I hadn’t even followed Sienna Voss. I had Gigi send me Sienna’s contact information and immediately sent a follow request. I waited half an hour. Nothing. I tried again. This time, I was instantly blocked. The fire inside me was turning into an inferno. I called Gigi. “She won’t add me. Send me Sienna’s phone number.” Gigi’s voice was hesitant. “Anya, I think something is seriously off here. You need to calm down.” “I’ve been dead for a year. Tell me how to calm down.” A moment of silence, and then the numbers arrived. I typed the number in. My finger hovered over the dial button. Then, I stopped. Something was fundamentally wrong. Why would Sienna Voss spread a rumor that I was dead? She and Owen had been close. Did Owen know about this? I stared at the numbers for a long time, but never pressed the button. Exiting the dialer, I scrolled to another name in my contacts: Attorney Dana Cruz. Dana was the legal counsel at my previous company. She was the only person I knew who could help and also understood the law. I took a deep breath and called her. “Dana, hi. It’s Anya Reed.” A warm laugh came through the line. “Anya! Long time no talk! What a surprise.” I forced my voice to remain steady, explained the situation simply, and asked her what I should do next. Dana paused for a few seconds, her tone turning serious. “First, you need to post a clear, unequivocal statement on all your socials. Announce you are very much alive. That’s step one: clearing the record.” “Second, you have to figure out who is spreading this and why.” Dana paused. “But Anya, I need to manage your expectations. The standard for defamation lawsuits is high, especially if there hasn’t been significant material damage. If we just prove she lied, the best-case scenario is a public apology and some compensation for emotional distress.” My heart sank. “So what? I just let her tell everyone I’m dead?” “Absolutely not. You gather evidence. Screenshots, chat logs, everything. Then, you confirm who the real puppet master is.” After hanging up, my palms were sweating. I’d been running on pure adrenaline, but talking to Dana cleared my head. The advice was sound. But Sienna was an old college friend, and she had been close to my husband. If this was a misunderstanding, I didn’t want to burn bridges unnecessarily. After wrestling with it for a while, I decided to call Owen first. As soon as he picked up, he asked, “What is it, Anya? Is Lila giving you trouble again?” I told him the whole story, expecting him to be as outraged as I was. Instead, Owen sounded completely dismissive. “You’re taking some stupid prank seriously? Look, I’m busy here, working late. I need to hang up.” I immediately pushed back. “It’s not a prank. The screenshot is dated last June—right after I had Lila. The person who posted it is Sienna Voss. You remember her?” Owen hesitated. “Sienna? It has to be a mistake, or maybe someone hacked her account. Don’t overthink this. It’s nothing to worry about.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I was rumored to have died, and you think it’s ‘nothing to worry about’?” He sounded irritated. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, why give these ridiculous rumors the time of day? People will figure out it’s false eventually.” “I’m going to clarify right now. I’m posting an update that I’m alive.” Owen told me not to bother. “That kind of thing is bad luck, Anya. Just wait until tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up.” He hung up before I could reply. Furious, I called him back, ready to argue, but he maintained his casual, bored tone, and then stopped answering my calls altogether. Fine. If he wouldn’t care, I wouldn’t care about keeping the peace. I quickly drafted a simple statement clarifying the rumor and hit post. Almost instantly, a notification flashed: [Your account has been logged in on another device. You have been forcibly disconnected.] I stared at the screen, stunned. My phone was in my hand. Who logged into my social media? My fingers trembled as I took a screenshot and sent it to my own text message thread. But that wasn’t the end of it. I noticed a hidden app disguised as a calculator. It’s a common privacy app. I tried the few passwords I knew, but none worked. The sound of the shower stopped. I quickly replaced his phone and sat back down next to Lila, my heart hammering against my ribs, my palms drenched with sweat. Owen walked out, towel-drying his hair, and glanced at me. “Your face is pale. Are you feeling sick?” “No. Just tired, maybe.” He grunted, picked up his phone, scrolled through it casually, and then went out onto the balcony for a cigarette. I watched his back, seeing a complete stranger for the first time. I didn’t sleep that night. Once Owen’s breathing grew deep and steady beside me, I picked up his phone again. I tried the hidden app password a few more times. On the very last try, a wild thought struck me: I typed in Sienna’s birthday. She’d bought a round of drinks for her birthday back in college; I vaguely remembered the date. The app opened. Inside was a private photo album. I clicked on it and instantly felt the icy shock of betrayal. The photos were all of them, together. Each one a punch to the gut. One photo was dated last year, around the time I gave birth to Lila. Sienna was sitting on a window seat, her stomach clearly rounded with pregnancy. Owen’s caption read: “Our little sweetheart, we’ve been waiting so long. Grow up healthy.” A year ago, I was at my most vulnerable, recovering from childbirth, needing him more than ever. He was busy transferring money to another woman, planning for another child’s future. I bit down hard on my lip to stop the cry that wanted to escape. Anya, you cannot panic. Dana’s words echoed in my ears: Gather the evidence. Shaking, I picked up Owen’s phone again and meticulously photographed every one of the transfer records, the intimate photos, and sent them all to a hidden, encrypted folder on my own device. It was then I stumbled upon a deeper secret. In Owen’s cloud backup, I found a detailed medical report. My eyes jumped immediately to the final conclusion: [Mass occupying lesion of the liver, size approximately 3.5 x 4.2 cm. Primary Hepatocellular Carcinoma possible. Further core needle biopsy recommended.] Owen had liver cancer. And judging by the dates, he had known about it for at least three months. For the past three months, he had gone to work, come home, and never said a single word. A cold dread shot up from my feet to the top of my head. He wasn’t just cheating. He was systematically transferring our marital assets to provide for his child with Sienna. And my staged “death” was simply to clear the way for their future.

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It took five years by the side of Rhys, the undisputed heiress of the Redwood Lakes fortune, before she finally agreed to give me a title. But on the day of the reception, she was nowhere to be found, leaving me alone to face the room full of mortified guests. The officiant did a painful jig around the subject, and a few of her closest socialite friends burst into laughter. “Welcome to the big leagues, brother-in-law,” one of them chirped. “Consider this your first lesson in being a trophy husband.” They miscalculated. I took the money Rhys had funneled to me over the years and quietly vanished from the City. The truth was, I knew from the start that I was nobody to Rhys. The first night she brought me home, five years ago, I feigned drunkenness. I listened from the hallway as she screamed into the phone. “Evelyn, you are ice! You think you can just walk away? What was I to you? Do you really think I can’t live without you?” “I begged you. I threatened to hurt myself. I drank myself into the ER with a bleeding ulcer, and you didn’t even look back? Fine. We’ll see who breaks first. I’ve already found someone a hundred times more biddable. I’d like to see how long you can last.” By the end, her voice was a choked sob. So, no. From the very beginning, there was no truth between us. 1 Three hours past the calculated auspicious time, Rhys still hadn’t appeared. Ignoring the sympathetic and, more often, mocking glances around me, I calmly removed the white boutonniere from the lapel of my tuxedo. Harper, Rhys’s older sister, leaned against the doorframe, a sneer playing on her lips. “Eager to run, are we? Rhys is only a little late. You have to have more patience than that if you want to be the future man of the house.” I didn’t look up, continuing to unfasten the accompanying accessories in the mirror’s reflection. Her cousin, Finn—who had always treated me like a particularly pungent piece of floor lint—sidled closer, his voice sickeningly gentle. “Don’t take it personally, Sloan. Rhys is usually so punctual. This… maybe Evelyn suddenly got sick, and she needed to care for him?” He drew out the name Evelyn slowly and deliberately, the pleasure in his handsome eyes poorly concealed. I looked at his expression in the mirror and smiled. “Take it personally?” I repeated, placing the final platinum cufflink gently into its box. “Why would I take it personally?” The air in the private dressing suite instantly thickened. I turned around, my gaze sweeping over their various shocked expressions. “You all thought I was waiting for her for three hours, didn’t you?” Harper’s face darkened. “Sloan, what is that supposed to mean?” I stood up and slowly began to unbutton the tuxedo jacket. “This suit is expensive,” I said, my voice flat, as if discussing the weather. “It’s a shame not to get a picture in it.” “Sloan, don’t be an ingrate!” someone snapped. “Rhys is giving you a life! You’re not going to pull a runaway groom stunt now! I promise you, you walk out that door, and you won’t have a corner to stand on in the City tomorrow!” The jacket fell away, revealing the simple shirt and jeans I’d changed into underneath. I reached into a pocket of the discarded garment, retrieved the old phone I’d used for years, and looked up at every pair of eyes fixed on me. I gave a faint, cold smile. “I never belonged here anyway.” “So, there’s nothing for me to lose.” I didn’t wait for their stammering responses. I walked out without looking back. Rhys was the sole heir to one of the City’s oldest fortunes, and the people around her were naturally the children of wealth. They always looked down on me. Compared to them, my background was a marble dropped among pearls. Nobody understood why Rhys had chosen me, and even on the day I was meant to become her husband, their contempt never lessened. The person who disappeared was her, yet the shame and scorn still fell on me. I should have fought them, given back every ounce of stored-up humiliation from the past five years. But I was out of time. I had a flight to catch tonight, and I needed to pack. I wasn’t surprised by Rhys’s decision to ditch the wedding. Not at all. The night before, unable to sleep, I’d found myself scrolling through Evelyn’s livestream. It was 3 a.m., and he was still desperately hawking cosmetics to his viewers. Since leaving Rhys, his life hadn’t been easy. The viewer count was surprisingly high, though most weren’t there for the products. They were drawn by the barrage of gifts and the mysterious top donor. [Log off and rest.] [You can’t stay up, your stomach is weak. If you collapse again, I won’t come.] [Unblock my number. Send me your banking info. I’ll transfer the money.] [I’m getting married tomorrow. Don’t contact me again, and stop looking so pathetic.] With every cold, stark message, a new wave of shimmering, expensive digital gifts lit up the screen. Rhys was generous to everyone, even the ex she had once claimed to despise. Evelyn’s voice, as he described a serum, was trembling slightly. He dabbed the corner of his eye and murmured, so soft I almost didn’t hear it: “Rhys, don’t cheapen what we had with cash.” [We had something?] [Evelyn, I nearly bled out for you. I broke away from my family. I’m marrying a man I don’t love just to force myself to erase your memory. You were the one who walked away. You destroyed us.] I stared at the phrase, “a man I don’t love,” and allowed myself a rare moment of blankness. The comments section was chaos—Don’t marry! Get back together! Evelyn bit his lip, his eyes red and fixed on the camera. “Rhys. If I said I’d come back, that I’d do anything to make it up to you…” “Could you… please not get married?” 2 I didn’t see Rhys’s response, but her absence spoke volumes. Rhys couldn’t let go of Evelyn; that was never a secret. Two years ago, when my chronic back pain flared up, Rhys insisted on skipping the top specialists in the City. Instead, she dragged me a thousand miles away to a remote clinic Upstate. Predictably, we ran into Evelyn there. He looked just like the tattered photo in Rhys’s wallet: young, beautiful, and devastatingly unaware. Rhys held my waist, her face impassive as she watched him. But only I knew what happened in the second Evelyn appeared. Rhys’s fingers dug into my side, the pressure so intense I winced slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here,” Evelyn stammered, stepping back. “I said I wouldn’t bother you again.” Rhys’s lips were a thin, tight line. I stood quietly, my eyes falling on the faint, intricate tattoo visible on Evelyn’s collarbone—a small dog. It was a perfect, heartbreaking match for the tiny cat tattoo on Rhys’s collarbone. “Move,” Rhys’s voice was as cold as marble. But as we waited for the elevator, her eyes kept flickering to the end of the hallway where he’d disappeared. “Hold onto this,” I said, looking at the black Amex card Evelyn was clutching. “Don’t lose it.” It was Rhys’s secondary card. She was a woman of clear boundaries—those who crossed her in business were never forgiven. Yet, that unlimited card was her final concession to him, a lifeline to keep him afloat, but out of sight. Despite her claiming he was the one person she never wanted to see again. On the drive back, a sudden rainstorm hit. Rhys was steering one-handed, clearly distracted. Her phone lit up—an unsaved number. She glanced at it, then slammed on the brakes. I lurched forward, my forehead cracking hard against the dashboard. Blood instantly rushed down my face. “Rhys…” The voice on the phone was a choked sob. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called… but my mother is critical. The hospital says it’s urgent. I don’t know who else to call…” “I’m terrified…” Rhys looked at me, her eyes wide with a frantic panic I’d never seen before. “Sloan, I have an emergency. You need to get yourself home.” I rarely saw Rhys like this. Even when her company was on the brink of collapse, she hadn’t been this visibly unmoored. Unmoored enough to drop me off on the side of a highway late at night. Unmoored enough to speed into the storm without a backward glance. Unmoored enough to forget I was wearing only a thin sweater in twenty-degree Fahrenheit weather. She just left. I stood in the howling wind, shivering. The exit ramp was deserted. I couldn’t get a ride, and I stood there for nearly four hours until Rhys finally returned, her hazard lights blinking in the rain. She looked utterly exhausted. “Evelyn fainted,” she said. I lowered my gaze. “When I got to the hospital, I found out his mother was just in for routine observation. He panicked and exaggerated the details. I turned to leave, and he had a breakdown and collapsed. He’s fine now.” She reached out and gripped my hand, which was ice-red from the cold. “I’m sorry, Sloan. I shouldn’t have left you. He’s been unstable lately, and I was afraid he’d do something drastic.” I didn’t know what to say. “Are you truly over him?” I heard my own voice ask. If she truly was so incapable of letting him go, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to stay in the way. Rhys drove for a long time before finally answering. “There’s nothing to ‘get over,’ Sloan. I’m not an idiot; I don’t obsess over one mistake.” “It’s just… I pity him. He’s all alone.” Oh. So she wasn’t over him. After that night, Rhys consciously hid all news of Evelyn from me. I knew, but I didn’t care. Because every time she was pulled back into Evelyn’s orbit, she’d toss me a new property deed or a ridiculously expensive watch as compensation. What did it matter? A man can’t sacrifice real money for mere dignity. 3 Because everyone knew how deep Rhys’s attachment to Evelyn ran, no one thought I would last. That’s why the wedding announcement shocked the whole City. A week before the wedding, Harper hosted a grand, cynical pre-wedding mixer. She rented out the most exclusive private club and invited the wildest bachelors in the City. And, of course, she invited Evelyn. I had no reaction, but Rhys frowned slightly and murmured to me, “These people get out of hand. If you’re uncomfortable, find an excuse to leave early.” Before she could lead me in, Harper blocked our path, smiling. “Sloan, you don’t usually come to our gatherings. I get it. This is how we unwind. A little different from your quiet life, huh?” She handed me a flute of champagne. I took a sip and adjusted my cufflink. “No worries. You all have fun. Just keep an eye on Rhys. Don’t let her drink too much.” Rhys paused, seemingly thrown by my calm. Harper didn’t notice her sister’s hesitation. She threw an arm around Rhys’s shoulder. “Rhys, he gave you permission. Come on! I specifically told Evelyn to show up. Last night of freedom, you know?” I was past being bothered by Harper’s childish provocations. I simply gave Rhys a small nod. But she suddenly grabbed my wrist, her brow furrowed. “What are you doing, Sloan? Pushing me out the door?” Pushing you away? When were you ever truly mine? I almost laughed. I looked up and challenged her. “What if I asked you not to go, not to see Evelyn? Could you promise me?” The club lights were dim, the music loud. I waited. Harper broke the silence first, raising her voice. “Rhys! They’re waiting!” Rhys’s eyes flickered. Her fingers twitched, and then she let go of my wrist. “I’ll be home, Sloan.” Before she could finish the sentence, Harper yanked her inside. I stood in the hallway’s shadow, watched the door swing shut, and turned to walk away. I didn’t look back. On my way out, a glass shattered in a nearby suite. Then, a man’s choked cry. It sounded familiar. As I neared, the door flew open, and a woman stumbled out, clutching a bleeding forehead, reeking of liquor. “Who the hell do you think you are? You hit me?” Evelyn was standing in the doorway, looking wronged and terrified. “I don’t know you! You kept coming onto me!” “You spoiled little poor boy, playing high and mighty!” the woman shrieked. “Pay me, or you’re not leaving tonight!” Evelyn’s eyes welled up. He was crying but fiercely trying to hold it in. His swollen eyes swept toward me. “Go ahead and watch! I don’t have any connections, but I’m not trash! You don’t get to look down on me!” He made it sound like I was the one humiliating him. The woman grabbed his arm. “Pay up.” “I don’t have cash!” “Then drink all this. I’ll let you go.” She noticed the corner of the black Amex card poking out of his wallet. “You have a card like that, and you’re poor?” “No!” Evelyn screamed, tears streaming now. “I can’t touch this!” “I’ll drink it!” He grabbed a liquor bottle from the coffee table and began chugging it. The alcohol made him cough violently, but he wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t watch anymore. “How much? I’ll cover it.” “I don’t need your fake pity!” Evelyn shrieked, losing control. He raised his hand and struck me. Hard. My ears rang. The side of my face instantly burned. In the dizzying moment, I saw the door burst open. Rhys rushed in, pushing past me without a second thought. She grabbed the trembling man and pulled him tight against her chest. “Evelyn, don’t be a coward. Hit him back!” she shouted. “Why aren’t you using the money I gave you!” I staggered, holding the wall. The pain in my cheek was nothing compared to the shock. “Sloan!” Rhys looked up at me, her eyes like chipped ice. “You said you were going home early! You came here to harass Evelyn?!” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I turned and walked away. She would never know the truth. I desperately wanted her to believe I was the villain. The more she hated me, the easier it would be to leave. Rhys finally came home around 3 a.m., smelling of smoke and expensive liquor. I was still up, researching immigration forms in the study. She snuck up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder. The warmth of her breath, mixed with alcohol, feathered my ear. “Why are you still up? Waiting for me?” “Yes. Is Evelyn okay?” “I’m so sorry, Sloan. I misunderstood. That woman was harassing him. I handled it and came straight back after dropping him off.” She rubbed her face against my neck, her voice laced with a childish attempt at placation. “I kept checking my phone. You didn’t text me once. Are you still mad?” I was too tired to humor her. But she was unusually clingy, forcing me to turn around so she could look into my eyes. “Were you jealous? I swear, I didn’t touch Evelyn. Harper will tell you. I didn’t even give my number to the other guys.” I held her gaze for a long time, then sighed, resigned. I wrapped an arm around her and led her toward the bedroom. 4 The first time I saw Rhys was outside the university gates, near a used bookstore. She had probably just come from the City club across the street, holding a black umbrella, her expression dark, like she’d just ended a devastating fight. Just as she was getting into her car, the store owner grabbed the tattered dictionary I was putting back on the shelf. “Hold it! You folded the page, you buy the book!” “I just opened it. That crease was already old,” I tried to explain, my voice thin in the wind. The owner was relentless. “I say you did it, you did it! Thirty dollars, or you don’t leave!” In the scuffle, my backpack strap tore, spilling my textbooks everywhere. A flimsy, water-stained student aid appeal form fluttered out, instantly soaking up the mud. As I knelt to retrieve it, a black umbrella settled steadily above my head. “How much?” Rhys’s voice was low but carried a cold, absolute authority. The owner stammered, looking her up and down, sizing up the expensive car behind her. “Thi-thirty…” Rhys didn’t speak. Her female assistant stepped forward and handed over a hundred-dollar bill. The owner grumbled and retreated. Rhys finally looked down at me. Her gaze passed over my wet hair and settled on the crumpled form. “Which university?” “…A&M.” She nodded, handed me the umbrella, then knelt down herself. She gathered my waterlogged books one by one. She took off her tailored cashmere coat and, without asking, draped it over my thin sweater. “Get in the car. I’ll take you back.” Her car was parked by the curb. The interior was spotless, the heat already blasting. “Need money badly?” she asked, looking straight ahead, her tone as neutral as discussing the weather. “Yes.” “Your name?” “…Sloan.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, contemplating. “Work for me. I’ll cover your tuition and living expenses. I’ll give you a five-thousand-dollar monthly allowance.” My rational mind screamed at me to refuse. It was absurd. There were no free lunches. But in my periphery, I saw the designer bags and the stacks of US currency carelessly tossed onto the back seat. I wavered. I needed the money. I needed to escape my immediate reality. I needed to grab this sudden, irrational opportunity. She stopped the car beneath a leafy canopy near the dorms. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. She waited silently. “Why?” I heard myself ask. She turned to face me. There was no warmth in her eyes. “You’re beautiful,” she said. She paused, then added: “And this amount of money means nothing to me.” She was right. My desperation, my struggles, were insignificant in her world. I lowered my gaze, clutching the soggy books to my chest. “Thank you. I’ll consider it.” At the time, I didn’t understand her motives. But after hearing her furious phone call, it all made sense. I was an impulse buy, a tool to prove to Evelyn that she’d moved on, a blunt weapon to incite jealousy. But perhaps it was the lure of the money, or a faint flicker of longing I couldn’t name, that made me choose silence in that moment. I knew exactly what I was doing, and exactly what I wanted. Anything but love, I was willing to take. … Perhaps it was my utter calm in the face of Rhys’s desertion that unnerved her friends. One of them quietly called her. “Rhys! Sloan is packing. It looks like he’s actually leaving the City!” I heard a man’s loud, joyful laugh on the other end, and then Rhys’s voice, a shade impatient from being interrupted. “Leaving? What is he pulling now?” “It’s your wedding day, Rhys. The guests are all here.” “And?” Rhys gave a light, dismissive laugh. “Tell him to stop being so melodramatic and wait until I’m finished.” “Rhys, this doesn’t seem like melodrama. He looks serious.” “Why wouldn’t he be serious?” Rhys’s voice was utterly careless. “He’s with me for the money, isn’t he? I’ve given him houses, stock options, jewels—what have I skimped on? To pull this stunt now… he’s taking himself a little too seriously.” She paused, perhaps taking a drink. “Tell him I’ll transfer another million to his account. Tell him to settle down. Men like him just need to be placated.” The hushed conversation ended abruptly outside the door. Even her most loyal friends looked uncomfortable. “He’s only with me for the money.” “Men like him just need to be placated.” I gave a deeply sarcastic curl of my lip as I looked at the lone wedding band on the vanity. I pulled open the door and, ignoring their various stares, calmly walked out.

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Before the wheat was even fully golden, I had the first of Grandma Eliza’s Visits. [Olivia, remember this. A devastating blight is coming this autumn. Planting the wheat will be for nothing. You must sell the green crop as feed now, take the money, and lease a fish farm. It’s the only way to save your income!] I managed to convince Mom and Dad to cut the wheat early, selling the green stalks to a local feed mill, and then flood the fields to start a fish farm. But then came the century-level drought. Every single fish fry baked in the sun. We were left with nothing but scorched earth and a mountain of debt. Desperate and at a total loss, Grandma Eliza’s Visit came again: [Go to the old oak tree behind your childhood home. Your grandfather buried gold bars there for an emergency. The money from them will more than cover the debt!] I rushed to tell Dad. He went and dug, just like she said, but instead of gold, he unearthed an entire footlocker full of cocaine bricks. Undercover agents, who’d been staking out the area, immediately arrested him as a dealer. Given the massive quantity, he was facing life without parole, perhaps even the death penalty. Mom couldn’t handle the shock. She collapsed, unconscious. And once more, Grandma Eliza’s guidance came through: [Dr. Stern at Metro General Hospital is the only one who can save her. If you don’t go now, your mother is in grave danger!] Driven by the frantic need to save Mom, I cornered Dr. Stern at the hospital, practically begging him to operate. He finally agreed. What I didn’t know was that my fiancé, Owen, had been in a severe car accident and needed Dr. Stern’s specialized care immediately. Because I pulled the surgeon away, Owen died waiting on the operating table. And Mom, due to the critical delay, didn’t make it either. She died during surgery. Before her light faded, she looked at me with tears streaming down her face and asked why I had destroyed our family. Owen’s parents were convinced I was responsible for their son’s death. They found me and stabbed me eighteen times in a frenzy of grief and vengeance. I was rushed to the ER, and in my fading consciousness, I saw Grandma Eliza again. But this time, she was grinning, a cruel, mocking smile, as she raised a knife and plunged it straight into my heart. In reality, my heart gave out, and I died on the ambulance gurney. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand why my beloved grandmother’s guidance had led to the utter annihilation of my entire family. Then I opened my eyes. I was back. It was the very morning Grandma Eliza first told me to sell the field. 1 [Olivia, remember this. A devastating blight is coming this autumn. Planting the wheat will be for nothing. You must sell the green crop as feed now, take the money, and lease a fish farm. It’s the only way to save your income…] I jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. That familiar, chilling voice in my head. It confirmed it. I wasn’t dead. I was back. I was reborn. But I didn’t breathe a word of it to Mom or Dad. I simply flipped over and pulled the covers tighter, trying to drown out the memory. In the previous life, Grandma Eliza had told me the same thing, urging me to tell Dad to cut the wheat and start a fish farm. Grandma had doted on me more than anyone. I had believed her implicitly and immediately told Dad about the impending plague. Since Dad hurt his hand years ago working construction, our few acres of wheat were our only lifeline. They fed us, and they paid for my college tuition. We couldn’t afford risks. I remembered struggling in the previous life, trying to figure out how to sell Dad on such a mystical claim. But he had chosen to trust me, without question. He cut the wheat, flooded the field, and when neighbors teased him, he stood tall, his chest swelling with pride. “My Olivia, she’s a college girl. She knows things I don’t. How could a father not believe in his daughter?” The reality had been a brutal kick in the gut. That autumn, there was no blight. Not a single locust. Instead, a drought the locals called “a once-in-a-century event” descended upon us. Dad frantically hauled water, trying to keep the ponds full, but the relentless heat was too much. The immature fish baked to death. Dad fell ill, our savings were wiped out, and Mom spent every night weeping silently. Yet, she always squeezed out a smile for me, insisting I wasn’t to blame. My self-recrimination was a living thing. And then, the Visions had returned. [Olivia, go to the old oak tree behind the house. Your Grandpa buried gold bars there for emergencies. Now is the time to dig them up!] Excited, I’d told my parents. Dad, ever trusting, grabbed a shovel and went straight out. He did find a heavy box. But when he opened it, there were no gold bars, only brick after brick of white powder. Before Dad could make sense of it, the police, who had been waiting, grabbed him, mistaking him for a drug runner. The charge was so severe, they didn’t even allow visits. The case detective hinted that due to the quantity of controlled substances, Dad was almost certainly facing the death penalty. Mom, shattered by the news, collapsed. The diagnosis: acute heart failure. I’d collapsed, sobbing, at her bedside, and the Visions came again: [Dr. Stern at Metro General Hospital, only he can save your mother. Hurry, or she won’t wake up!] I drove into the city and knelt before the brilliant surgeon, Dr. Stern, finally convincing him to come back and operate on Mom. But I was oblivious. I had pulled him away from the emergency surgery of my fiancé, Owen Mitchell, who had been in a massive pile-up and had shrapnel piercing his heart. Because of my intervention, Owen missed his window of survival and died. Before I could even process the horror of indirectly killing Owen, Dr. Stern came out to tell me Mom’s surgery had failed. I rushed into the room, barely catching her last breath. The woman who had always looked at me with unconditional love now stared, for the first time in my life, with crushing disappointment and confusion. She asked me why I had destroyed our family. In a daze, clutching Mom’s ashes, I left the funeral home, only to be ambushed by Owen’s parents. Convinced I was a murderess, they stabbed me eighteen times. As the paramedics rushed me to the hospital, I saw Grandma Eliza one final time. I wanted to scream, to demand why she had ruined my life, but before I could speak, she raised the knife and plunged it into my chest. My heart burst, and I died on the ambulance floor. Reliving that horror was enough. This time, I would not listen to my grandmother’s misleading Visions. I rationalized it. A localized drought wouldn’t completely ruin the wheat. If I just left things alone, Dad would, at the very least, still get the harvest money in the fall. But I still felt an uneasy dread. The next morning, I took the money I’d saved for a new laptop and bought industrial-grade pesticide. I spent the day dusting our fields, determined to burn out every last potential insect threat. Dad chuckled, saying I was more farmer than he was. I didn’t let up. I monitored the fields every single day. When harvest time arrived, the wheat stood tall, full, and magnificent. The grain broker who came to inspect it gave us the highest quote. “This is top-shelf quality. Absolutely prime. You have to sell this batch to me!” Dad’s sun-darkened face was split with a grin. “This is wonderful! We can finally buy your mother and daughter some proper clothes.” With the harvest scheduled for the next morning, the suffocating knot in my chest finally began to loosen. I was right. Grandma Eliza’s Vision was wrong. All I had to do was ignore it. That evening, Mom cooked a celebratory dinner, and we went to bed early, excited for the harvest. But just before dawn, I heard an agonizing, disbelieving cry. “How? Where did they come from? The locusts!” My internal alarm shrieked. A terrifying premonition shot through me. I didn’t bother with shoes, bolting outside. The sight made my stomach drop. It was a dark, roiling vortex—a plague of insects so thick it looked like a section of the sky had peeled off and dropped onto our land. The beautiful, perfect wheat, ready for harvest just hours ago, was being shredded to stalks. Dad frantically waved his arms, trying to drive them off, but it was useless. He slipped, falling hard, and could only watch, helpless, as the swarm devoured almost the entire field. The man who had always been my rock, who stood so tall in my memory, stayed collapsed on the ground. I rushed to him, barely hearing his broken whisper. “It’s over… it’s all over. The tuition, the medicine, the food… it’s all gone.” Dad’s words were a knife in my heart. Why? I hadn’t listened to Grandma Eliza. The first time, there was no blight. Why did one appear now? Before I could think, Dad had gotten up and walked out. When he returned, his shoulders were slumped, his posture defeated. I knew. He had gone to borrow money from our neighbors. For a man who had taught me to live with integrity and never owe anyone a thing, how utterly humiliating was that? My heart twisted with agony. That night, Grandma Eliza appeared in my dreams again. She seemed to know the new disaster. She sighed, heavy with pity. [Olivia, go to the old oak tree behind the house. Your Grandpa buried gold bars there for emergencies. Gold prices are high now. Sell it. It will save you!] But I knew better. Last time, following this direction led to Dad being framed for drug trafficking. This time, I absolutely would not allow that to happen. The moment I woke up, I called the police. “Officer, I think someone buried something suspicious, maybe evidence, beneath the old oak tree behind our house. It might be illegal.” The police were silent for a long moment, then informed me they would send a unit out to investigate. I knew I was messing up an existing stakeout, but better this than letting Dad go anywhere near that box. That afternoon, a police SUV pulled up. I braced myself, half-expecting a reward or a commendation, but I was wrong. Several officers got out, one of them carrying a heavy, metal footlocker—the very box that had destroyed my life once before. Why would the police bring the evidence here? But when the officer opened the lid, my breath hitched. This time, there wasn’t white powder inside. There were a dozen genuine gold bars. “Officer, why is there so much gold?” Dad asked, confused, stepping forward to get a closer look. As soon as he approached the box, the officers shoved him to the ground and slapped handcuffs on his wrists. The sudden violence sent me reeling. I rushed forward, only to be held back. “Why are you arresting my father!” I screamed. “Because we’ve identified these gold bars. They are part of the cache stolen during a major bank robbery fifteen years ago!” the officer stated, his voice ringing with authority. “We interviewed witnesses and identified the main culprit as your grandfather. Your father’s reaction just now confirms his involvement in fencing and hiding the evidence!” The officer looked at me, his gaze complex. “You may have just put a stain on your family name, Olivia, but you helped the state recover stolen property and bring a criminal to justice. That’s something to be proud of.” “No! That’s impossible! My father is not a criminal! Dad, tell them it’s a mistake…” But when I turned and saw Dad’s face—the shock of betrayal, the genuine guilt, the utter sorrow—I froze. “Is this… is this true?”

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The deadline for my master’s thesis was looming, and I was deep into the job search. I asked my girlfriend, Sienna, who was a tenured professor at The Met, to write me a letter of recommendation. She looked at me with a cold stare, her lips forming a thin, disapproving line. “You should rely on your own merits, Rowan. People who always look for shortcuts don’t go far. You need to be fair.” I flushed with shame. I spent the next weeks obsessively preparing for interviews, fueled by late nights and sheer anxiety. I tried to forget her words. But after my final interview, the floor dropped out from under me. I was walking past the official university bulletin board when I saw the list of new research fellows. My name wasn’t there, but another one was: Dean Ellis. And right next to it, under the “Spousal/Partner Consideration” clause, was the name of his “spouse”—Sienna Wells. They were married. Legally. Suddenly, I wasn’t the one preparing for a new life; I was the other man. When I finally confronted her, Sienna didn’t even flinch. “Dean is my late advisor’s son. Helping him isn’t a ‘shortcut.’ As for the marriage certificate… it was temporary. A professional arrangement. Once he’s secure in the position, I’ll file the papers and we’ll finally get married.” I laughed. It was a sharp, ugly sound that caught in my throat. I turned away, and in that instant, I made a new decision. I would contact Natalie Grant, my senior, and join her research team abroad. The woman with no boundaries and the wreckage of this relationship. I was done with both. 1 I pushed my way through the crowd gathered around the university’s official posting board, straining to see the list. Finally, I got close enough. I scanned the list of new research fellows at The Metropolitan University again and again. The thin sheet of paper didn’t hold my name. I sighed, deflated. The competition for The Met’s prestigious positions was always brutal. I was turning to leave when a woman beside me gasped, pointing toward a smaller section. “I’m so jealous of people whose spouses have Ph.D.s. Imagine getting a job at The Met just because of who you married.” My girlfriend has a Ph.D., I thought bitterly, and I still didn’t get in. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a name on the special talent acquisition list: Sienna Wells. It was listed clearly: New Research Fellow – Dean Ellis. Spouse – Sienna Wells. My entire body swayed as if I’d been punched in the gut. Dean Ellis? He was Sienna’s junior colleague, her mentee. If they were legally married, then what the hell did that make me? I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “Sienna, hey, I—” “I told you not to call me during the day, Rowan. I’m probably in a lecture.” The line went dead, clipped and precise. Staring at the silent phone, I still couldn’t accept it. I walked quickly to Sienna’s office building. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, I heard a man’s voice inside. “Sienna, thank you. I don’t think I would’ve gotten into The Met without you.” “Dean, don’t be ridiculous. It’s no trouble. If The Met hadn’t suddenly changed its policy—only hiring Ph.D.s or Ph.D. spouses—we wouldn’t have had to do this.” “But, Sienna, what about Rowan? Won’t he be upset? Maybe I should explain it to him.” “Don’t worry about him. He didn’t get the job on his own merit. We don’t need him getting jealous and making a scene.” “Okay. Well, let me take you out to dinner tonight.” “I’d like that.” I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a message to Sienna: [I didn’t get the fellowship. I’m feeling really awful. Could you have dinner with me tonight?] I heard the distinct ding of her phone inside the office, but no reply came. I could picture it perfectly: her picking up the phone, seeing my message, and putting it back down with a frown. The door opened. I scrambled to hide, only managing to catch the sight of Sienna and Dean walking away, laughing together, their backs to me. I returned to my shared apartment and sat on the sofa in the dark until deep into the night. Sienna finally came home hours later. “Sienna, I texted you. Didn’t you see it?” Her body stiffened, and a look of annoyance crossed her face. “What message? I’m busy all day, Rowan. I don’t have time to constantly check in with you.” “Did you know I was rejected for the research fellowship?” She shrugged dismissively. “With your qualifications, I’m not surprised. The competition was intense.” My chest felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. “My qualifications? I was top of the program! I won countless awards in my field!” I couldn’t hold back the anger any longer. “Dean Ellis has never won a thing, but he used your name to get the job. You wouldn’t even write me a recommendation letter, and you call that not taking a shortcut?” “You know?” Sienna showed no shame, only irritation that I had discovered her secret. “Rowan, it’s just one fellowship. Don’t be so aggressive. Dean was rejected for every other job he applied for. He’s my advisor’s son—my advisor is gone. I couldn’t just leave him high and dry.” “And my career doesn’t matter? He’s your husband. What does that make me? The mistress?” I choked out the last word. Sienna’s tone softened slightly, a practiced shift. “Rowan, it’s a temporary measure. A contingency. As soon as he’s stable, I’ll file the divorce papers. Then we’ll have the wedding we planned.” Hearing that, my resolve weakened, as it always did. “Fine. But no contact outside of what is strictly necessary for his job.” “Deal.” 2 After the rejection from The Met, I focused on finishing my final thesis while restarting the job hunt. The next day, after submitting my final work, I was reviewing job postings when my faculty advisor called. “Rowan, what happened? Your final thesis submission is identical to Dean Ellis’s, and he submitted his yesterday.” “That’s impossible, Professor. Please, wait while I check my files.” I opened my laptop and found that the creation history for my thesis had been completely manipulated, all the timestamps altered to show a submission date of yesterday. The sickening realization was immediate, but I fought against believing it. “Professor, please, you have to trust me. This work is entirely mine. Give me a few days; I will provide irrefutable proof to the department.” My fingers trembling, I called Sienna. No answer. Then I checked the anonymous campus Confessional App. A post accusing me of plagiarizing Dean Ellis’s final project had just gone up, racking up hundreds of comments within thirty minutes. [No way. Isn’t Rowan Finn top of the program?] [Who knows how he got those grades before?] [Dean seems to have the original creation files. That proves Rowan stole it.] I quickly hacked into the app’s backend, intending to delete the post, but an immediate counter-attack blocked me. Someone was actively protecting the thread. I gave up on deleting it and started a new post, detailing my academic history, listing my awards, outlining the core idea of my thesis, and promising to deliver proof of my independent creation within days. It took mere minutes for my post to be deleted. I contacted the administrator, who cryptically told me it wasn’t him, but that I shouldn’t bother trying again. Someone powerful was clearly working to shut down any defense. I understood immediately: someone was covering for Dean, someone with technical skills equal to or better than mine. In the entire graduating class and faculty, only a handful of people—Sienna being the most likely—fit that description. I ran to the main Computer Science lab, only to find Dean introducing his project to a group of classmates. “This is the latest artificial intelligence prototype…” Watching my two months of relentless work being displayed on the screen, I roared, “Dean Ellis, that is my final thesis!” Dean turned to me, his expression wounded. “Rowan, what are you talking about? You can’t just claim it’s yours because I showed you a few early designs.” “If you say it’s yours, show them the proof!” Dean calmly pulled up the creation log, which, predictably, showed a timeline beginning two months ago—the exact time I had started the work. My classmates began to intervene. “Rowan, we know you’re smart, but Dean has the evidence. Just apologize to him.” “Yeah, plagiarism is a huge deal. The department is already investigating. Apologize quickly before Dean decides to press charges.” Their gazes felt like daggers, but I refused to back down. “Dean Ellis, I will prove that this work is mine.” I had installed specific tracking and backup software on my machine, a redundancy even Sienna didn’t know about. I’d done it out of paranoia, never expecting it would be necessary. Now, it was my only hope. I knew the truth would come out soon, but until it did, I was stuck wearing the scarlet letter of a plagiarist. 3 Inside Sienna’s office. “Sienna, this is all my fault. Rowan looks furious.” Sienna frowned slightly. “He still has time before graduation. He can just make a new one. Don’t worry about him. My advisor asked me to look after you. I can’t let you fail to graduate.” “Sienna, I know. My father told me the core of the AI you developed years ago was named ‘The S-D Core’—after our names.” Dean paused, his voice turning soft. “I was young and stupid to refuse you then. Who knew Rowan would come into your life later? I had to bury those feelings. But if, Sienna, you were willing to…” Sienna cut him off. “The past is the past, Dean. Let’s not bring it up again. We’ll file the divorce papers once you’re settled in your job.” The S-D Core. That explained why she had always refused my requests to study her AI algorithm. It was the legacy of her past love. A “White Moonlight” object. And I had just been the placeholder, a stepping stone for her to pave the way back to him. The realization was bitterly comical. I texted Natalie Grant, my senior: [I’ve made my decision. I’m joining Professor Alistair’s research team.] [Excellent. I’ll fly back to pick you up in a week.] When Sienna returned to the apartment, I was packing my suitcase. She grabbed my arm. “What are you doing? It’s just a final thesis, Rowan. Are you running away over this?” I yanked my arm away. “Just a thesis? Do you know the heart and soul I poured into that? And Dean plagiarized it. I will make him pay for this.” “It was me. It had nothing to do with him. Don’t blame Dean.” I threw the clothes in my hand onto the floor. “I knew it was you!” I flashed back to that night. After tapping out the final line of code, I’d saved the file and was about to send it when Sienna walked in. “Finished your thesis?” “Just now. I was about to send it to the department.” “Wait a minute. Let me check it over for you.” Sienna was a year ahead of me and a verified genius in our field. She sat down. Less than two minutes later, she told me there was a minor bug she had already fixed. “Don’t worry about it. Let it stabilize overnight. Send it in tomorrow.” She then rushed out. Returning to the present, I demanded, “You did this for Dean. Did you even consider my position? How am I supposed to face the university and my colleagues now?” Sienna bit her lip. She did know. But in her mind, Dean needed that thesis more, so she hadn’t cared about the cost to me. “It’s done. Just drop it, Rowan. I’ll help you create a new thesis.” She reached for my laptop, but I slapped her hand away with force. “Don’t touch my computer! I’m afraid I’ll plagiarize someone else’s work if you do!” I fought back the tears and pushed her out the door. “Get out!” For the next three days, I holed up. I didn’t just create a new thesis; I perfected the original, developing a powerful, improved version of the AI project. I sent the file to Natalie, asking her to relay it to Professor Alistair. I successfully avoided Sienna for those three days, sidestepping her attempts at conversation. 4 That evening, the class president notified me about the graduation trip scheduled for the next day. Since I was leaving the country soon, I agreed to attend. When I boarded the bus, I saw Sienna seated next to Dean Ellis. The class president rushed over when he saw my glance. “Everyone, this is Dean’s wife, Sienna Wells, our department’s legendary senior alum!” I walked past them without a word and took a seat in the back. A shadow fell over me, and Sienna sat down beside me. “I didn’t think you’d come. Dean said some of his classmates were talking, so I decided to join for support.” I managed a dry smile. “Talking? Weren’t they talking about me?” Sienna’s face darkened. “I owe you an apology for that. But you have to believe me…” “I don’t.” I cut her off, putting on my headphones and closing my eyes, signaling the conversation was over. Dean came over and sat on the armrest next to Sienna. “Rowan, I know you’re angry, but it’s done. You just need to stop struggling.” “Stop struggling for what? For you stealing my work? Or for you stealing my girlfriend?” My words were loud enough to cause a stir in the seats behind us. Dean looked panicked. “What are you talking about? I was kind enough to have the president invite you, and you not only refuse to repent but you slander me!” “Slander? Ask her.” I looked pointedly at Sienna, hoping that even now, she’d offer a shred of honesty out of respect for our relationship. “Rowan, we had something, I know, but please don’t talk about Dean this way. He is, after all… my husband.” Sienna’s eyes pleaded with me. “See? I told you she wouldn’t lie about being married.” “Rowan Finn is totally shameless, isn’t he? A plagiarist and a homewrecker.” Their whispers made my heart pound with rage. “Sienna Wells, I hope you never stop regretting what you just said!” The bus soon arrived at our first stop. I bolted out and began walking into the distance. Sienna started to follow, but Dean pulled her back. “Sienna, my dad said you’ve been to this place before. Can you show me around?” Sienna hesitated, looked at my retreating back, and then stopped. I walked for a long time, lost in my own resentment. When it was time for the next part of the itinerary, I rushed back to the bus parking lot, only to find the spot empty. No car, no people. I called the class president. “Dean said the next site was much more interesting, and everyone agreed to leave early,” the president explained. “You should have notified me! You can’t just abandon me here!” “Rowan, honestly, you haven’t been easy to deal with. No one really wanted you along. Sienna said it wasn’t far from your apartment, and you could just call a cab.” The president hung up. Holding the dead phone, I buried my face in my hands, fighting back tears of humiliation. It doesn’t matter. Graduation was tomorrow. I would prove my innocence then. The Metropolitan University’s commencement ceremony was about to begin. I had already submitted my final evidence—the original data, the recovery logs, and the new thesis—to my advisor and the department. I took my seat. Dean Ellis, having been designated an Outstanding Graduate for his “thesis,” sat in the front row. Next to him was Sienna Wells, invited back as a celebrated alumna to address the graduates. Sienna was clearly agitated, constantly scanning the room. She finally spotted me and started to stand, but Dean pulled her back. I made sure to avoid her gaze entirely. The ceremony proceeded: President’s address, Dean’s speech, then the capping and diploma distribution. Two hours passed. The final graduate walked off the stage. I was still sitting in my seat. “Our capping and diploma distribution ceremony is officially concluded…” Suddenly, a familiar voice boomed over the microphone. “Wait a minute. It’s not over yet. There’s still one student who hasn’t been capped.”

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The killer who took my life was finally arrested seven years after I died. He’d clawed his way up from street-level thug to a crime boss, and he looked utterly unbothered during the televised trial as the judge read the verdict. As the court officer finished reciting the list of victims, his voice, already rough, sliced through the courtroom silence. “You missed one,” he drawled. “The very first one I ever killed, when I was just starting out. The one who died the worst.” “Amend the charges,” he proposed, meeting the stunned silence with chilling confidence. “And I’ll tell you who’s missing.” The room plunged into an eerie stillness, broken only by the judge’s stone-cold rejection. “Your crimes are monstrous. You don’t get to negotiate.” The crime boss merely shrugged, his eyes fixing on the female detective captain standing front and center. “Badge Number 071923, Rhys Alcott. Detective Jenkins, do you know that name? Don’t you want to know where he’s buried?” Avery Jenkins stood tall beneath the weight of every gaze in the room. Her voice was steady, each word a crisp assertion. “The person you’re referring to did exist.” “But Rhys Alcott is not dead. He’s not a detective now, either. He has been a fugitive, missing for seven years.” 1 To lend credibility to his outrageous claim, the crime boss confessed the entire process of the torture, live on the feed. How his crew had first knocked him unconscious. How they’d pulled out my fingernails and my teeth, trying to force me to reveal our police informants. And how they’d methodically shattered every bone in my body. “He screamed like hell, but he wouldn’t give up a damn thing. Not until a call came through.” “He heard the voice, and then, he just stopped screaming.” “We tried every trick in the book. Slow cuts with a razor, smashing his knees, pouring hot oil on his skin and then scrubbing it with a wire brush… He wouldn’t make a sound after that.” “That’s when we knew. It was useless. We weren’t getting anything out of him.” “Out of a perverse sense of mercy, I asked the big boss to finish it fast, and later, I handled the disposal myself.” As his flat, detached narration unfolded, the online comments slowed to a stop. A nation held its breath, choked by the horror. Only Avery Jenkins stood ramrod straight, her eyes blazing with fury. “Keep playing your role.” “You people? Show pity for a cop? Get out.” The crime boss asked for a cigarette. “Killing him and pitying him are two different things, Detective.” “At the time, I even hated myself for what I was doing. I genuinely respected the guy.” “But what can I say? I wasn’t the one calling the shots.” “I’ve killed so many people over the years—those who betrayed me, rivals in the game, people who owed me money… I’ve never regretted any of it. He’s the only one I feel bad about.” The public’s instinctive reverence for law enforcement spurred spontaneous efforts to find any clue. But Avery merely gave a cold, dismissive laugh. She stood abruptly, her voice ringing out like a final gavel. “I don’t believe a single word you’ve said.” The crime boss sighed, shaking his head. “The time, the process, the people involved—I’ve told you everything I can. There’s no point in lying to you now.” “Besides… I’m the only one who knows where he’s buried.” “It’s up to you. Decide if putting him to rest is worth a reduced sentence.” My superiors demanded a recess, ordering the prisoner be pulled back for renewed questioning. The public clamored for a full police investigation. Avery, however, stood firmly opposed. She stormed into the precinct chief’s office, slamming her hand on the desk. The chief, equally furious, issued a stern command: she was to personally head the team excavating the site the dealer had confessed to. The engine of the patrol car roared, a heavy, desperate sound. The accelerator was mashed to the floor. Watching the rage barely suppressed on her face, my spirit was consumed by a familiar, crushing sense of helplessness. She probably still believed I had willingly disgraced myself all those years ago. That I’d betrayed my ideals for dirty money, betrayed the legacy of my father’s badge. And, most painfully, betrayed her. And now, I was back to ruin the new life she’d just started with Damon. When she shifted gears, her wrist exposed the worn-out cinnabar bracelet on the gearshift—the one I’d given her years ago. But all her other dashboard decorations and trinkets had been replaced with miniature succulent charms. Even the car air freshener was a cloyingly sweet Coconut Lime Verbena scent. It was clear that Damon had thoroughly integrated himself into every corner of her new life. What she didn’t know was that I, the ‘old man,’ had been abandoned in the damp, cold earth. Suffering for seven years. 2 Seven years later, she seemed unchanged. Her features were sharp and cool, her body tall and lean, her expression detached and striking. Only, she spoke less, and her emotions were buried deeper. The silent flash of red and blue lights cut through the mountain road, pulling up to a patch of desolate, brittle winter scrub. In the dead of winter, the ground was frozen solid. A shovel struck the dirt, leaving nothing but a white scrape on the frozen surface. She took command of the scene. “Start softening the soil with the heaters. The wind’s picking up—widen the downwind isolation zone by five meters.” Damon emerged from the group of volunteers, offering her a thermos. “Drink some hot water, your voice is getting hoarse.” Avery took a sip, asking softly, “Why did you come here?” “It’s crowded and chaotic. You should head home soon.” Damon’s voice was laced with concern. “I watched the trial.” “Do you really think… it could be true?” Avery let out a low, scornful scoff, but offered no reply. Back then, both our fathers were detectives. They worked together, went on missions together, and ultimately died in the line of duty together. At their wake, we leaned against each other, our only support in the world. From that moment on, we were inseparable. We went to the police academy together, inheriting our fathers’ badge numbers. We were partners in purpose, and lovers utterly consumed by each other. Before we married, my mother, smiling through tears, hugged us both close. “I’m gaining a daughter,” Avery had said. She never broke that promise. If I wanted to chase an old case, she’d stay up for days organizing the files. When I was cornered by an armed suspect on patrol, she’d throw herself in front of me without a second thought. I couldn’t handle spicy food, and she—who loved chilies—didn’t touch a single pepper for the entire duration of our marriage. We both thought then that there was no bond stronger in the world than that of a partner and a soulmate. Who could have predicted that our relationship would shatter over a lost soul we pulled out of a drug den? I studied Damon’s handsome face. It was hard to believe that in just a few years. He’d transformed from a man reeking of addiction and fear into a polished, brooding man. Perhaps a man’s cultivated fragility is the ultimate undoing for a woman’s heart. After Damon was ‘rescued,’ he started calling Avery in the middle of the night. Crying that he couldn’t find a good job, crying about the stigma of his past drug use. Avery’s heart dissolved in those tears. Her pity and her need to save him bloomed like an unstoppable weed. She brought him into our home, giving him her entire paycheck—calling it ‘housekeeping fees.’ All the real expenses of our lives fell to me. We were barely getting by. Several times, I tried to fire Damon, but she insisted. “Rhys, Damon is so vulnerable. He’s been through so much. We have to help him.” Yet, over Avery’s shoulder, I distinctly saw the cold defiance in his eyes, aimed squarely at me. I lost it. I grabbed his hair and dragged him out the front door. He held his stinging scalp, his eyes utterly silent. And Avery, the woman who had sworn her life to mine, my partner, my soulmate. She didn’t hesitate. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. She then cupped Damon’s face, her thumb gently wiping away the tears at his eyes. “Don’t cry, I promised you. No one will hurt you again.” She lowered her head, her voice harsh and cold when she spoke to me. “When are you going to stop with this arrogant temper of yours?” “Damon is a victim, too. How can you wear that badge and treat him like this?” But in this relationship, the one that had been betrayed. Weren’t she and Damon conspiring to emotionally ‘assault’ me? A thousand desperate words clogged my throat in that single moment. In the end, I simply packed my bags in silence and moved into the police academy dorms. Apart from official work correspondence, I didn’t speak another word to her. I actually knew that she and Damon had never been physically intimate. I was just so angry. She was giving the gentleness and indulgence that used to be exclusively mine to another man. While leaving me to pay for the boring, expensive realities of our life together. We kept this awful stalemate going for months. Every day, I thought, maybe tomorrow, I’ll apologize, and we’ll go back to normal. But the next day, the words would die on my lips, choked by my pride and my sense of being wronged. Tragedy, as always, arrived faster than reconciliation. I never got to see her turn back. Instead, I stumbled upon a devastating truth. Damon had secret, undeniable ties to the ruthless criminal syndicate we had been chasing for years. 3 A sudden, jarring sound of suction dragged me out of the memory. The crowd erupted in a clamor. “We found something!” “Careful, lend a hand!” Avery recoiled, blurting out, “No, impossible!” “He wanted to make a statement, to see me look foolish and desperate. There can’t actually be bones…” Her voice was low, a whisper of self-deception. Damon’s voice was filled with false worry. “Avery, do you think… Rhys might have killed someone?” “He always had a quick temper. If pushed, he could do anything…” Avery instantly clamped her mouth shut, her jaw tight. She shoved her way into the crowd. “I’ll take a look.” My spirit hovered above the scattered, residual fragments of my bones. The cold wind pierced the fragments, and I gave a bitter, soundless chuckle. This was the true definition of ‘cold to the bone.’ She brushed the dirt off a broken piece of bone. Even through the thick gloves, I could feel the faint warmth of her fingertips. My soul trembled. Suddenly, I desperately didn’t want her to see me like this. If I could have any memory of myself left for her, I wished it would be of the strong, stubborn, vibrant man she had loved. But now, I could only look up in silent worship at the woman who was once my life. I greedily drank in that single, fleeting trace of warmth from her touch. The medical examiner collected the remains, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Avery stayed behind, alone. Until the first weak rays of dawn touched the horizon, she suddenly pulled out her phone and began frantically dialing a number. “Du—Du—” “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.” The wind in the desolate field was harsh, turning her nose red. A few muffled sobs were shredded by the cold. “Rhys, this isn’t real…” “It’s a prank, isn’t it?” A pair of arms wrapped around her neck, the man’s breath hot against her ear. Damon’s voice was shaky. “Avery.” “Are you still… holding onto him?” Avery’s body jerked violently. A heart-stopping silence. She let out a slow, tired breath. “It’s over.” “I only have you now.” Damon’s arms tightened. “Avery, I’m so afraid you’ll leave me—” “I gave you everything. Please, don’t let me down.” Seven years of being a ghost had tempered my temper. I could now appreciate his performance with perfect calm. This man was born with two faces. Towards Avery, he was forever the damaged, silent victim; towards me, his eyes were full of venom and provocation. Sometimes, I genuinely wondered what deep, ancient feud lay between us. Why did he hate me so much? It wasn’t until my last moments that I finally understood. There was a feud. His father had died years ago, shot by my father and Avery’s father during an armed standoff. Stripped of protection, he quickly became a tool for the local syndicate—a ‘sacrifice.’ “You know what I hate about you the most?” He crouched in front of me, his voice sinister. “We both lost our fathers. Why do you get to live so easily?” “Why does Avery still love you more?!” The realization hit me with the force of a hammer. Love and hatred—both equally destructive. Damon had originally intended to avenge his father by destroying both me and Avery. But he fell in love with Avery instead. And that only made him hate me more. 4 The morning sun stretched their shadows long, intertwined. Watching their overlaid figures, I felt a flicker of curiosity. If Avery knew Damon’s true identity, how would she react? Would she continue to pity and cherish him, or would she be repulsed? I couldn’t guess the answer. Fate is a playwright obsessed with cruelty. It arranged for the police officer who killed a criminal to die at the hands of that criminal’s son. And it arranged for the police officer’s daughter, unknowingly, to marry the man who orchestrated the murder of her soulmate. Sometimes, I wish Damon had been an adult when his father died. His file wouldn’t have been sealed. And we wouldn’t have mistaken the son who took over his father’s criminal enterprise for an innocent addict seeking salvation. Then, perhaps, I wouldn’t have died so horribly. Every single one of my bones bore scars, both deep and shallow. In that place, I had screamed, fought, begged, and questioned. But they only laughed, breaking my limbs and pulling out my teeth one by one. They kept demanding the location of the police mole and our informants. In the end, they injected me with three shots of adrenaline. So I could be wide awake to watch them slice open my abdomen and throw my organs into a dog bowl. But I had actually been given one chance to live. Before they completely hollowed out my body, Damon, flanked by several grim-faced men, came to me. “You’re good. You almost took down my entire operation.” “I was going to kill you, but Khai convinced me you could be useful.” “All you have to do is confess to corruption, take the fall, let the police close the case, and you can live out the rest of your life comfortably in prison.” I managed a grimace. “In your dreams.” His smile instantly turned ugly. “Refuse, and you disappear.” “A few years from now, Avery will forget all about you anyway.” I closed my eyes in silence. Damon suddenly spoke again. “It’s the anniversary of your father’s death today, isn’t it?” “Every year, Avery goes with you to the cemetery to pay respects.” I became instantly alert. “What are you planning?” “Nothing. I just happened to drop a little paper trail suggesting you were bribing dirty cops. The money flow coincidentally points straight to you.” Damon’s voice was a hiss, like a viper striking. “I know she won’t believe it. But she’ll use it as an excuse to reach out and try to reconcile.” “Men are petty, Rhys. What I can’t have, I’d rather destroy.” The words were barely out of his mouth when Avery’s call came through, insistent and frantic. Damon nodded. “Answer it. Tell her to bring the cops here.” I took the call. Avery asked where I was, wanting to confirm some things in person. She also wanted to apologize, and then take me to the cemetery. But her apology had come too late. Even if I survived, I would be a husk of a man for the rest of my life. So I said nothing. Khai grew impatient and raised a blowtorch to my thigh. The smell of searing flesh filled the air. I forced myself not to make a sound. Avery. She was my closest partner, and my dearest lover. She gave me the happiest time of my life. If I had one wish left at the end of my life, I would give everything to ensure her safety. However, Avery seemed to sense something. Her tone instantly became fraught with tension. “Rhys, are you in danger? Can you not talk? Hold on, I’m coming to find you right now!” I shook my head violently, pouring the last of my strength into a desperate shout into the receiver. “Don’t—” “Don’t come looking for me! We’re done, do you understand?” “Go live your life with your charity case! I’m… I’m sick of you!” I hung up, a bleak smile twisting my mouth. “Damon, you win.” Go back and comfort her. She’s yours now. After that day, they slept together. They fell into a natural rhythm and became a model couple, even having a child together. And I died on the coldest day of winter. Buried under the wilderness for seven years. Until today, when the medical examiner held the DNA results, his eyes filled with sorrow. “Detective Jenkins, the deceased is confirmed to be Rhys Alcott.” “Badge Number 071923… is sealed again.”

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Scrolling through the Westlake University student forum, I saw someone asking for help with a Startup Challenge assignment. Out of habit, and frankly, a bout of professional curiosity, I logged in with my old student account and offered some guidance, tweaking a few financial models and market strategies. The group was ecstatic. They hailed me as a “super-alum” and a “guru,” constantly chasing me for feedback and urging me to polish the smallest details. Two months later, with the project nearing perfection, the group chat went dead silent. Curious, I scrolled back through the messages and discovered they’d created a new, private chat— “She’s not even on the official roster. Let’s keep the competition win quiet and not loop her in on the presentation.” “Exactly. The final team list only has our names. She better not show up at the finals tomorrow trying to take credit.” “Fewer people means an extra fifty grand split between us!” I leaned back from my screen and smiled, a cold, almost cruel expression. So, this was never just an assignment. The irony? Tomorrow, I happened to be the one sitting in the center of the judging panel. 1 They created a private chat but forgot that one of the accounts belonged to the University’s shared system. As soon as I logged in, the new group messages started flashing: “Some guru. We were just stroking her ego. She doesn’t know anything.” “Right? She just moved a few numbers around. We’re the ones who pulled the all-nighters writing the pitch, doing the PPT, and running the errands. Why should she get a cut?” “Yeah. We stick to the story that this was just a term paper. Nobody speaks up in the old group. Just let it fizzle out.” A term paper? They lured me in with a lie and now they were going to double down on it. A sharp annoyance sparked in my chest. I opened the old group and posted a message from my personal account: “After spending all this time guiding you, I need to remind you: the core financial models and market projection data in that report are far too granular. The sourcing and depth mimic a real-world commercial pitch.” “They are suitable for a regular class assignment, but they are absolutely inappropriate for a serious business competition. The judges will immediately question your data provenance.” In the two months I’d spent with them, I had rarely spoken with such professional gravity. If they stopped now, if they pulled the plug and went back to collecting open-source data, I would pretend this never happened. I wouldn’t make things difficult for them tomorrow. But the new chat immediately exploded. Mia Jenkins, the youngest of the group, sent a terrified emoji. “Does she know we’re competing?!” Trent Harrison, the captain, scoffed: “Don’t panic. ‘Remind us’? She’s trying to play the high-and-mighty professor. Who is she showing off for?” “She’s just mad she’s getting cut out of the money. She’s trying to scare us.” Another male team member, Luke Keller, quickly chimed in: “Trent’s right. She just can’t stand to see us succeed using her stuff. She wants all the glory.” I rested my chin on my hand, a weary smile spreading across my face in my quiet office. So they knew. They knew this was my stuff. When I first joined, their proposal was a hot mess. I constantly walked them through theory and practice, but they still handed in error-ridden drafts. I had no choice but to take over and fix them myself. In the end, I had sacrificed my own sleep to write almost every word of the final submission. Their so-called all-nighters, their “PPTs,” and their “market research errands” were little more than Googling free templates, slapping them together, and forwarding them to me as genuine effort. Now, they had made it to the finals with my work, and they were trying to erase me completely. Ten minutes later, Trent replied in the old group: “Fine. Since you want to be direct, I won’t hold back. All your ‘guidance’ was just basic theory anyone can Google. We already knew it. What was the point of your help?” “Now you hear we made it to the finals, and you pop up with threats, trying to strong-arm your way into a prize money split.” Luke rolled his eyes—the emoji practically oozed condescension: “Couldn’t pull a team together yourself, so you crash-landed into our group to mooch off our hard work. Now you want a cut? Talk about audacity.” The insults grew more personal. I frowned, replying bluntly: “I joined because you asked for help with an assignment on the forum. It had nothing to do with the competition or the prize money.” As soon as I sent it, Luke sent a middle-finger emoji: “Still playing dumb? Why else would you volunteer to help us?” “Unless… you saw one of the cute guys in the team photo and got a little crush?” Skylar Dean, the other girl on the team, jumped in: “The Captain’s the best-looking guy on the team, right?” Trent’s response was a full-out smirk: “Oh, Professor? Was it me you were after?” “Well, let me burst your bubble. I’m picky. With you? Tsk. I’d have to be blind to hook up with you.” He then posted the only selfie I had on my social media profile into the group chat. We had only communicated in the forum group, but Trent had my personal cell number and knew my accounts. In the early stages, when they had zero seed money, I personally Venmo’d Trent $5,000 to get them started. Last month, when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, I saw him soliciting help in the group. I pulled strings to get her a specialist appointment and sponsored over $10,000 toward her medical bills. I remembered what it was like to be a struggling student. Trent had sent me tearful voice messages thanking me, saying the chemotherapy was working wonders thanks to the specialist. Now, he had forgotten every favor I’d ever done for him and was insulting my appearance and slinging vile, sexually suggestive words. In that moment, I truly regretted joining the group. Two months of hard work wasted on a bunch of ingrates. “I’ve said my piece. If you insist on going through with the competition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Right after I hit send, Trent removed me from the group. 2 I didn’t dwell on it. I went back to my own pressing work. When I finally took a break, I found a new, viral post on the university forum. It tagged my old student account. “WARNING: Scammer Alert—Do NOT Fall for This ‘Alum’!” “This student, posing as an alum mentor, manipulated her way into our Startup group. Her advice and models were stolen from other people’s successful projects.” “Out of respect, we didn’t call her out. We busted our butts and made it to the finals on our own merit. Now she’s demanding a $20,000 ‘consulting fee’ and 90% of the prize money. She threatened to make us regret it if we didn’t pay up!” My body went instantly numb. In forty short minutes, the thread had hundreds of replies. The student comments were a storm of outrage. “She gave you stolen work? That’s blatant plagiarism!” “The audacity. Trying to demand a $20K fee for stolen work. The Challenge rules clearly forbid using outside professional advisors, let alone paying them.” “She’s just a student! Not a real advisor. She must be loving this attention.” One comment asked for clarification: “Wait, I read ‘Anya Rossi’s’ comments on other threads. Her advice was actually sound.” Luke immediately jumped in: “We have proof! Check the screenshots! Also, just so everyone knows, Anya pursued our captain. He rejected her, and she’s been harassing him nonstop. It’s disgusting.” I felt faint. Our two months of innocuous professional dialogue had been maliciously screen-capped, cropped, and pasted together with vicious black captions. Dozens of images painted me as a serial plagiarist who aggressively demanded money and prize shares. Worse, they manufactured evidence that I had sent Trent vile, inappropriate messages, outright soliciting a sexual relationship with him. The final, sickening blow was the transferred funds. The receipt for the $5,000 I had sent Trent had been mirror-image Photoshopped. Now, it looked like he had transferred the money to me—a “go-away payment” because he couldn’t stand the harassment. I immediately tried to respond. My account had been restricted. All posting and commenting functions were blocked. I remembered Trent bragging that his roommate was a forum administrator. My personal cell buzzed. Trent sent a laughing-crying emoji. “See, Professor? This is all your fault.” “From the start, you kept saying ‘This is rough,’ and ‘That won’t fly.’ You forced us to refine the financials until Mia was crying from stress. Luke wanted a 50% market growth projection, and you forced that conservative 15% on us—he literally smashed his mouse in the dorm.” “You’re a student, too! We called you ‘Professor’ out of courtesy, but you actually started believing your own hype.” “Truth is, we were sick of your micromanaging. If you hadn’t interfered, our project would be even better!” Before I could process it, he deleted all the messages. The post was a preemptive strike, a shield against me reporting them. The retracted messages were to erase evidence. I had underestimated them. They had orchestrated this entire play, right down to my expulsion. “Trent, aren’t you worried about what happens at the finals tomorrow?” “Still trying to scare me?” His next message was instantly retracted, too, but then he sent: “But thanks for the reminder, Anya. You better not show up at the Westlake Hall tomorrow. If you do… we’ll release everything we have. You wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation and be ostracized, would you?” My reputation? I saved the screen-recorded video to my cloud, then re-read their viral post. The entire team—Trent, Luke, Mia, Skylar, and the two others—were all playing the victims, complaining that I was autocratic, demanding money from them, and screaming at them when they refused. They wanted to destroy my reputation? As a judge for tomorrow’s competition, why on earth would I not show up? 3 The moment I stepped into the Westlake Hall lobby, a hand shot out and shoved me against the wall, pulling me into a secluded corner. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you? I told you not to come.” It was Luke who had pushed me. Beside him, Trent—immaculate in a sharp suit, ready for his presentation—looked me over, his eyes lingering. He made a lecherous, clicking sound with his tongue. “Tsk. The photos don’t do you justice. You have a great figure.” “I’ll catch you later, Professor, but you need to get out of here right now.” “If you don’t, we’re adding a lot more dirt to that forum post.” I took them all in. The difference between these six aggressive, panicked faces and the sunny smiles in the team photos was jarring. It was a sharp reminder: never judge a person by a picture again. This mistake had brought me nothing but trouble. “Trent, we can discuss the forum post later.” “Now, step aside. The final round is about to start.” The six of them glared, none willing to move. Only Mia timidly whispered: “But the finals are invitation-only. Her name isn’t on our team roster. How did she get in?” They suddenly realized something was wrong, glancing back at the security guard checking invitations. The competition was about to begin, and I didn’t have time to argue. Just as I was about to state the truth, Trent’s expression warped into one of grotesque understanding. His smile grew even more sickening. “Oh, I get it. Did you sleep with a judge or one of the angel investors?” “Look at that hourglass figure. Exactly the type those old guys go for.” I narrowed my eyes. “Trent, watch your mouth! That’s slander. I can call the police!” They all burst into laughter. “Go ahead, call them! We have all the proof.” Luke smugly pulled out his phone, holding it high for me to see. The sight made my blood run cold. They had taken my selfie and used AI to generate dozens of obscene, large-scale deepfakes. Every image showed “me” completely naked, with my name written underneath. The man opposite “me” in the photos was blurred, a placeholder for anyone they wanted to suggest. “You’re insane! This is a serious felony!” “What felony? That’s your face, isn’t it? Anya Rossi is your name, isn’t it? How can the facts be a crime?” The situation was escalating terrifyingly fast. I grabbed my phone, intending to dial 911, but Luke snatched it away with lightning speed. “Give that back!” “Try and take it.” Luke swaggered, stuffing my phone deep into his pocket. My heart sank. A few male students walked past and greeted them: “Trent, I thought your team had six people. Who’s this… oh, the plagiarist alum! Did you guys cave? Are you giving her the fee and the prize money?” Trent adopted a solemn, pained expression: “No way. She got in here using… some underhanded methods.” Luke deliberately shook his phone, letting the screen flash the images. Students within ten feet gasped. “Holy cow! She’s got no bottom line! She actually used the casting couch to get to the finals!” Luke winked cheekily: “The top prize is $1.5 million. If you’re a hack who only knows how to plagiarize, but can sleep with an old guy and walk away rich, what good is a ‘bottom line’?” Skylar poked his arm: “Are you sure it was only one time?” The whole group, even Mia who was usually quiet, erupted into knowing laughter. A shiver of horror ran down my spine. There were two other women on this team, yet they were all—for the sake of a larger split of the prize money—insulting me with the most despicable means possible. The passersby were clamoring for the photos. “I’m sending this to the College group chat! It’s never been this exciting!” “Which college are you in, Professor? We’ll make sure not to post this to your department’s fishing-for-a-sugar-daddy chat.” I’m not a tall woman, and I was now completely encircled by a dozen people, with no escape. I paused. My fists clenched. Then, a cold, almost cruel smile touched my lips. “When did I ever say I was a student?”

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Twenty years of knowing Rhys. On the eve of our wedding, he sent me a message: “I’m doing this with someone else right now. You want to hear it?” The text was merely a warning. Before I could process the words, Rhys immediately started a video call. My reflex was to smash the screen to hang up. The tremor in my hand shocked even me. Call after call came in. The last one was a 60-second voice note. The instant I pressed play, the unbearable sounds shredded my eardrums. In total despair, I texted Rhys: “Why?” Rhys replied, his breathing still ragged: “We’ve done it so many times secretly, and you never noticed. It was getting boring.” The wedding dress I’d spent hours organizing, the one that lay on the bed, seemed to instantly deflate, transforming into a pile of cheap cloth. 1 Five minutes later, a loud knock rattled my hotel room door. Rhys stood outside, his collar undone, a glaring, crimson mark on his neck. He had been in the room right next to mine, with another woman. Yet I had been completely oblivious; he had to tell me himself. When he saw my red-rimmed eyes, he let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Anya, you’re so dense. How are you ever going to be my wife?” My voice shook as I asked him: “How long?” Rhys sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “I thought I was deliberately leaving so many clues for you.” “The day we went dress shopping? The minute you went into the changing room, I said work called me away. Really, the girl was throwing a fit and needed me to placate her.” “She’s not like you—she’s not a good girl. She always gives me a headache.” He said ‘headache,’ but the smirk never left his face. I had felt something was wrong. I have severe psychological trauma. For twenty years, Rhys was the only person I could tolerate being near. I hadn’t wanted a wedding at all, but Rhys insisted. He said he wanted to see me in a white dress, which is why we started planning a small, intimate ceremony just for us. He’d been so excited to go with me to pick out the gown. But on that day, he’d rushed off before he ever saw me put it on. “All those photos you sent me later? The ones of you trying on the dresses? I didn’t look at any of them. She picked this one out for you.” “So, what do you think? Happy with her choice?” A thick, invisible hand seemed to grip my throat, suffocating any sound. Rhys walked in without waiting for an invitation, his fingers brushing the train of the gown. “Well, looks like she wasn’t focused when she picked it. This dress is pretty mediocre.” The custom-made, illuminated monogram on the wall glowed crimson, threatening to bleed. The fluttering ribbons seemed to tighten around my neck. Ten minutes ago, I was lost in the fantasy of marrying Rhys tomorrow. This was the closest I had ever been to happiness. Rhys had built that sanctuary for me with his own hands, and now, he had personally torn it down. Tears burst forth like water from a broken dam, uncontrollable. My blood felt frozen; my whole body was numb. I whispered, lost: “Why tell me now?” Rhys made a tsk sound. “Because you’re too compliant. And too dense.” “If I wanted to hide it, I could have for the rest of our lives.” “But keeping up the act every day is exhausting.” He pressed his hand on top of my head, an action indistinguishable from petting a small dog. I woke up, jolting backward several steps until my spine hit the cold wall. Only that frigid surface offered a sliver of safety. Rhys seemed oblivious to my terror and fragility, advancing slowly. Cornered, I finally screamed at him: “Don’t come any closer!” In that moment, I was six years old again. Only this time, the person inflicting the harm was Rhys. He stopped, his feet rooted to the spot. “Fine. I won’t.” “You do need to calm down.” He paused, then added: “Don’t worry. I haven’t said I don’t want you. I just don’t want to pretend anymore.” “The wedding tomorrow is still on. Everything you’re entitled to, you’ll get.” Rhys said more things, but I couldn’t hear them over the deafening, suffocating buzz in my ears. He left me there. Someone next door was waiting for him. December was too cold. The air felt like it would kill me. I fumbled for the hotel lighter and, in a daze, set the wedding dress on fire. The blaze was hot, illuminating my pale face, yet it did nothing to dispel the deep cold around me. I was reminded of another huge fire Rhys had set when I was sixteen. When I was six, my parents threw me out into the snow. I hid inside the small-town diner his family ran. Rhys was the one who found me, huddled and shivering like a stray. After that day, whenever my parents kicked me out, I could always go there for a hot meal. When I was sixteen, Rhys’s stepfather cornered me in the back when no one else was home. Rhys was the one who knocked his stepfather out with a brick, then set the diner ablaze to cover our escape. He took me and ran. Rhys was eighteen then. We boarded an old Amtrak sleeper car, huddling together for warmth in the corner when there were no seats. He told me: “Don’t be scared. You have me. No one will ever hurt you again.” After that day, I developed a severe psychological barrier. Except for Rhys, I couldn’t bear anyone’s touch. I always believed Rhys was my savior, a gift from heaven. Now, I felt I should have just died in the snow when I was six. The smoke alarm triggered, and hotel guests fled in a panic. When the police led me away, Rhys was holding that girl in his arms, shielding her from the flashing cameras of the gossip reporters. 2 I spent the night in a cold holding cell. In the haze of a high fever, Rhys posted my bail. News about him meeting a mistress on the eve of his wedding was all over the internet, yet he was the one who looked annoyed and disappointed. “God, Anya, you need to learn from the society wives. Why are you such a liability?” He didn’t seem to notice I was sick, or perhaps he noticed and simply didn’t care. I saw no compassion in his eyes, only a profound annoyance. I curled up in the back seat of the car. The heater was blasting, but I was still cold. Five years ago, when he was just starting out, he’d taken me to a high-society event. Even dressed by professionals, my poor social presence was glaring among the wives draped in diamonds. People whispered and pointed. The countless stares made it hard to breathe; I felt like fleeing. Rhys had wrapped his arm around me then and said: “It’s because I haven’t had the time to properly cultivate my woman yet.” His light remark shut everyone up. He truly did ‘cultivate’ me. I became graceful and chic, and no one looked at me with pity anymore. Instead, they looked with envy. When I struggled with my outfits, he’d tell me: “You don’t have to compare yourself to them. No matter how well they dress, in my eyes, they’re not worth a fraction of you.” I trusted Rhys implicitly. I still couldn’t figure out when he had changed. The wedding was called off. Rhys brought me home. The girl who opened the door was wearing only a sheer silk slip. Her pale skin was dotted with red marks. Scattered clothes littered the floor inside. I didn’t need to ask what had happened last night. Seeing me, the girl’s smile faded. “Didn’t you say the wedding was canceled and you were going to spend the whole day with me?” She whined and draped herself over Rhys with practiced ease. He stroked her hair, exactly as he used to do to me. “Tomorrow, Bianca. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Aurora Borealis in Norway? I’ve already arranged everything.” Bianca seemed appeased. She started changing right in front of Rhys and me, without any shame. I stared at her, lost. She noticed my gaze. “Don’t look at me like that. I just came to help break in the bed for you two. Wishing you a swift and happy conception.” The wedding was canceled, making the words ‘happy conception’ absurd. Her tone dripped with mockery. I realized something staggering: the girl in the hotel parking lot yesterday, the one Rhys was holding, was not this girl. Bianca left. My strength failed me, and I collapsed to the floor. Everything blurred. I reached out a trembling hand to Rhys. He just stood there. “It’s not worth being this shaken, Anya.” “You need to learn to get used to it.” I passed out. I woke up in the bedroom. I had been changed into a new set of clothes. The house doctor had given me a shot to break the fever. I had been unconscious for an entire day. Rhys’s voice sounded, annoyed: “Why are you so stupid? If you’re sick, why not say something sooner?” “Fine. You rest up here. I’m leaving.” If I had known Rhys would leave the moment I opened my eyes, I would have stayed asleep. I called his name from behind, forcing myself up. “Are you going to see her?” Rhys didn’t turn around. “I promised her. I can’t go back on my word.” But Rhys had also promised me that he would make me happy forever. How could he go back on that? I didn’t have the courage to break up with Rhys. Twenty years. He was a part of my soul. I didn’t wait for him to return. Instead, his social media updated with a photo of him and Bianca in Norway. Under the brilliant Aurora, they looked to all the world like a couple passionately in love. I hired a private investigator and found the woman Rhys had been with in the hotel. Her name was Sloane, a minor social media personality. I put the photos in front of her. “You might not know this, but Rhys isn’t only with you.” Sloane barely glanced at the photos and laughed scornfully. “Mr. Rhys has truly kept you sheltered, Anya. You’re so naive.” The tiny shred of hope I had clung to was crushed by her words. It turned out everyone but me knew Rhys had countless lovers. I was afraid to sleep in the master bed, unsure how many women Rhys had brought home. I was simultaneously lucid and dazed all day. Desperate for sleep, I unknowingly consumed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. 3 That night, of all nights, Rhys came home. He saw the empty bottle by the bed and immediately rushed me to the hospital to get my stomach pumped. He had saved my life again, yet I felt worse than dead. Rhys’s face was dark with anger. “Is it worth trying to kill yourself over this?” “Look around, Anya. Is there a single man in our circle who only has one woman? How can everyone else cope, and you can’t?” The way he framed it, it made everything sound like my fault. I lay on the hospital bed, whispering weakly: “We’re not like them.” The year Rhys and I ran away, he had already been accepted to Manhattan University (MU). He didn’t enroll. Instead, he found a high school for me. He said: “I’m eighteen. I can go work.” He worked multiple jobs. But after my night classes, he would still come to my school to see me. One evening, I walked out of the school gates and found him leaning against a tree, fast asleep from exhaustion. He didn’t wake until I wrapped my arms around him. I told him I didn’t want to study anymore; I wanted to work with him, even for less pay. But he told me: “You study hard. Get into MU, and you study my share, too.” MU was a dream he’d mentioned more than once. For me, he could give up his dreams. So why was he giving up on me? Rhys’s voice was cold. “What’s the difference? We’re just a man and a woman.” “Anya, we don’t have that kind of love anymore. I keep you here because you’re family. You need to learn to be fine with that.” “You need to start acting like it.” I was out of immediate danger, and Rhys didn’t stay by my side. But he hired two people to monitor my movements constantly. Rhys continued to move between different women, only now, he didn’t bother hiding it from me. Gossip about him was delivered directly to my phone. I realized the news hadn’t been absent before; Rhys had simply paid to bury it all. Day by day, I wasted away. The house doctor contacted Rhys, but he didn’t come back. The doctor just put me on an IV drip for nutrition. Then, one day, the scheduled gossip reports suddenly stopped. Rhys brought a new, much younger girl home. The moment she saw me, she gave a saccharine call: “Hello, Sister.” I didn’t cry or scream. I simply had no energy left. Perhaps seeing my skeletal state, Rhys felt perfectly comfortable leaving the girl alone with me. Her name was Skylar. She was a student at MU, with a brilliant future ahead of her. I asked her, bewildered: “Don’t you know how many women Rhys has? You have a better future than this.” Skylar shook her head. “Sister, how can you be so naive?” “Don’t you understand? I can get more from a few nights with him than I could earn in a lifetime.” She said this without caring if Rhys overheard. In her words, even if Rhys grew tired of her one day, she was young and could use the resources he gave her to find someone else. I knew Rhys had coached her to say that to me. Skylar and I were different. She could leave Rhys with a shrug. Leaving Rhys would kill me. I expected Rhys to replace her soon enough. But before long, Rhys proposed a breakup. He spoke the words lightly, as if discussing the weather. “She’s different from the others. She thinks she’s a canary in a leased cage, always ready for me to open the door.” “Even though I’ve cut off the other women for her, she still believes that as long as you’re here, I’ll eventually get rid of her.” Rhys smiled as he spoke. I knew then that he had developed real feelings for Skylar. No wonder I hadn’t seen any gossip lately. Skylar, in his description, was so vibrant, while I felt like a dying old woman. All my turmoil and struggle were meaningless to Rhys. The hole in my chest tore wider. A cold wind whistled through me. A part of my soul was being peeled away. “Rhys, even you are giving up on me.” Rhys just said: “We’re still family.” He gave me a massive amount of money, more than I could spend in a lifetime. He also gave me several properties in the city. “Come back if you run out.” “If Skylar hadn’t loved this apartment so much, I actually would have left it for you.” I couldn’t hold back the nausea any longer. I bent over, dry-heaving, tears and saliva mixing. My jutting spine scraped painfully against my clothes. Rhys patted my back and offered a glass of warm water. “Let’s end this well, Anya. I want you to be okay.” I smacked his hand away. The place where he’d touched me was agony. Nauseating. So nauseating. I wanted to die right there and then. I didn’t wait for Rhys to hurry me. I left that apartment that was no longer mine immediately. Even if I died, I wouldn’t die pathetically in front of Rhys. As I walked out, Rhys called out, sounding genuinely concerned: “Do you want me to take you to a hospital first?” I waved him away painfully. From that moment on, my life had nothing to do with Rhys. 4 I moved to a different city. The day I settled in, I used a surgical blade to scrape his name off my forearm. Rhys. His arm had my name, too. When we got them, he said: “A marker. We belong only to each other.” The next time I saw Rhys’s name in the news, it was media celebrating him and Skylar as a perfect, made-for-each-other couple. Their names even sounded harmonious. I was plagued by nightmares every night. My abusive parents, the man who’d attacked me, and the faces of countless strange women circled me, emphasizing over and over: Rhys doesn’t want you anymore. I smashed and replaced the things in my apartment repeatedly. Time and again, I flirted with death. And time and again, I pulled myself back. I realized I was sick. I went to the hospital alone. After hearing my story, the doctor scheduled me for MECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy). After the treatment, I would lose all my previous memories, forgetting all the pain. I felt as though I’d grabbed a lifeline, practically begging the doctor to start immediately. The doctor advised me: “You might want to write down things you don’t want to forget.” I shook my head frantically. I didn’t want to remember anything. Rhys’s goal was achieved. After the breakup, Skylar stopped planning to leave him. Instead, she became increasingly clingy. The girl was full of creative, childish notions. At first, Rhys found it charming. Later, he started to feel overwhelmed. After a while, he realized, it was just fine. He started sleeping with other women again. One day, he met a woman who looked five parts like me. She wore a familiar, eager-to-please expression. Rhys’s rage was sudden and unexpected. “Don’t use that face to charm a man!” He stopped, stunned by his own outburst.

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The moment Dean Harrison, for the thousandth time, tacitly allowed someone to refer to my sister-in-law as “Mrs. Harrison” during a professional event, was the moment I stopped screaming inside. I didn’t lose it. I didn’t cause a scene. I even raised my glass, a graceful arc of silence and surrender, and echoed the compliments they were lavishing on the two of them. “They really are, aren’t they? A perfect match.” Dean’s head snapped up. The shock in his eyes was naked, a raw, uncontrolled thing. “What did you just call her?” I met his gaze, my smile shallow and deliberate. “Mrs. Harrison, of course.” 1 Dean’s astonishment lasted only a second. Just as quickly, the mask of indifference settled back over his features. “Eliza, do you have to be like this?” His brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “We’re flying to New York to meet a major client for New Year’s. Sloane is coming with me.” “You stay home, and don’t even think about interfering. We are simply…” He paused, waiting for the predictable explosion. The breakdown he was so used to. I simply nodded. “I know. You two are inseparable, all for the sake of the business.” He squinted, searching my unnervingly calm face for a crack, a sign of the hysteria he expected. “She’s also the face of the new brand launch,” he prodded. “You know how crucial this is…” I smiled again, a serene expression of total understanding. “I do know. Helping Sloane build her career is part of Graham’s last request, isn’t it?” “And as his brother, you absolutely should see it through.” He froze again. He leaned in, his mouth forming an incomplete thought. “Eliza, you…” I shook my head, my composure absolute. “Relax.” “I won’t interrupt your work anymore.” 2 Whatever Dean had been about to say was cut short by Sloane Merritt’s soft, sweetly demanding voice. “Dean, darling, come on! It’s time to cut the cake!” Sloane was on the podium, playing the part of the triumphant hostess. She waved him over with a bold, proprietary gesture. Under the spotlights, her skin was luminous, a pampered, perfectly cultivated rose. The massive screen behind her then flashed an intimate, laughing photo of the two of them. The room erupted in cheers. “They’re stunning!” “The boss’s wife is absolutely killing it!” This company gala felt less like an annual corporate celebration and more like a wedding reception. Few people, given the speed of the company’s growth, even knew I was the actual wife, the one whose initial investment had made all this possible. A few older employees shot me pitying glances. Dean didn’t move. He only raised a lazy eyebrow at me. He was waiting. Waiting for me to lose control, to shriek, to smash that ridiculously oversized cake into Sloane’s self-satisfied face, just like the old days. But I simply reached into my clutch and pulled out the small, gold-wrapped box I’d carried around for months. I extended it toward him. “A belated IPO gift. Congratulations, CEO Harrison.” He was visibly startled, then his usual, languid smirk returned. “The company went public ages ago, and you’re just now thinking about it?” He took the box, his fingers brushing my skin. “Took you long enough to finally act your age.” Tucked beneath the flashy gold wrapping was a simple, bound divorce agreement. Thinking back, we started with a gift, and now we would end with one. It felt poetically complete. “Eliza,” his voice suddenly softened, the warm light above us creating a gentle, false halo around him. “Come up here with me.” Was he asking for peace? No. It was a calculated handout. A public crumb to keep me tethered to him, right in front of all these witnesses. I shook my head. “No, thank you.” The last time I’d dared to stand beside him, an employee who didn’t recognize me had unceremoniously elbowed me aside. “That’s Sloane Merritt’s spot, the CFO’s! Who do you think you are, trying to take center stage?” Dean had acted as though he hadn’t heard a thing, coldly letting me suffer the humiliation before intimately pulling Sloane to his side. The memory was a sharp, bitter draft that I instantly shut down. His eyes instantly hardened. He closed the gap between us, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper meant only for me. “Trying to play the gracious wife? What’s the new scheme, Eliza?” His breath feathered my forehead. “Half a month ago, you were on your knees begging me not to leave. Who are you putting on this performance for?” I lifted my eyes and looked at him, clearly and calmly. “It’s not an act,” I said. My inner tsunami has finally gone quiet. All the pain, the hysteria, the desperate refusal to let go—it had all evaporated. I had no reason left to stay. 3 He tightened his jaw and turned away, stepping onto the stage where the spotlight instantly claimed him. That tall, familiar silhouette suddenly overlapped with a memory from years ago. I almost forgot that he was once the man who swore to bring the entire world to my feet. One evening, unannounced, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to see a delicate, slight figure who, with a small, manufactured gasp, seemed to stumble right into Dean’s arms just as he was leaving. He instinctively stabilized her. I still remember her tear-stained face and the ridiculous, unbelievable words she spoke. “Dean… Graham is gone…” “He never got to finish the things he promised…” “He said you would finish them for him. Is that true?” In her hand, she clutched Graham’s long, detailed “last requests.” Kissing by the Italian coast, a wedding on a cliffside… She was asking my husband to carry out the romantic courtship promised by his dead brother. And that absurd plea was met by Dean’s silence. A silence as cold as ice, creeping inch by inch into my chest. “You’re not… seriously going to date his fiancée for him, are you?” I asked, my voice thin and shaking. He instantly met my eyes, the coldness vanishing from his face as he pulled me into an embrace. “What are you talking about?” “If I’m busy chasing Graham’s girl, who’s going to take care of my wife?” My heart, which had been suspended in mid-air, settled instantly. But then… On our wedding anniversary, he flew to the Himalayas with Sloane for an “inspirational trek.” On New Year’s Eve, he went scuba diving with her off the coast of Bali. I realized, too late, that our plain silver wedding band had been quietly replaced on his finger by a custom-cut, million-dollar diamond—the exact same design Sloane wore. When I confronted him in a rage, his response was dismissive. “The dead come first.” “It’s just a list, Eliza. Graham owed her this, and I have to make it right.” He began to use work as a convenient excuse to keep her close. Vice President title, seven-figure salary, always together. It was then I understood. There was no last request. It was a man’s premeditated excuse for betrayal, and a woman’s calculated, entitled theft. And I had become the most pathetic joke in the entire game. 4 The arguments, the accusations, the screaming. I tore through the restraint and composure I’d built over twenty years. Late one night, I yelled into the phone, “The list says you have to get married! Are you going to marry her next?!” He wouldn’t answer. He just left me with longer silences and later nights. My final public breakdown happened at his Series C funding celebration. Champagne flutes reflected dazzling light. Sloane was on his arm, accepting compliments about the beautiful, successful couple they made. I stared at them and whispered. “Mistress.” My voice wasn’t loud, but the entire room instantly went dead quiet. Dean’s eyes swung toward me, the coldness in them freezing the blood in my veins. A week later, I received my dismissal letter from the university and a permanent ban notification from my professional platform account. Ten years of professional dedication and reputation, gone overnight. I stormed into his office like a maniac, slamming the papers onto his desk. “Clear this up! Dean, you need to tell them the truth—” He leaned back slowly in his chair, his eyes scanning my tear-streaked face. He looked at me the way one might appraise a failed, defective product. “Look at you,” he sneered. “You look like a lunatic.” “You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? The expert on the human mind?” He leaned forward, his voice a slow, cutting drawl. “With this behavior, how can you possibly counsel anyone else?” “I told you, Sloane is here for work. Nothing more.” He chuckled, picking up the termination letter and tossing it lightly at my feet. “You insisted on making a spectacle. Eliza, you brought this misery on yourself.” 5 Clinical therapist. Psychology scholar. The specialized knowledge I’d been so proud of, the success stories I’d written—they offered no protection, no extra calmness or courage in the face of my own betrayal. I gave a self-mocking laugh. Watching them on stage, side-by-side, I calmly turned and walked out of the hotel. My phone screen glowed. A new email notification: [Invitation for Visiting Scholar, University of Pennsylvania, Psychology Department.] Attached was a one-way ticket order to Philadelphia, departing the day after tomorrow. Today was my birthday. Twenty-eight years old. I deleted every notification reminder except for one note in my memo app. Happy Birthday, Eliza. My wish for the coming year is to never see Dean Harrison again. 6 That night, the internet exploded. The tag #HarrisonPowerCouple was trending, quickly followed by #SongGalaRomance. The photos showed him leaning down to listen to Sloane, a softness in his profile that I hadn’t seen in years. [OMG, look at the way CEO Harrison looks at Sloane—pure adoration!] [The “Don’t approach me” look and the “Puppy-dog eyes” expression on the same face! I’m dead.] [Who doesn’t know that Dean Harrison donated millions just to give Sloane Merritt a massive platform and status? Seriously spoiled wife!] [They are the definition of an epic love story!!!] Yes. For years, Dean had meticulously cultivated Sloane’s image as the “Boss Babe” entrepreneur. The character didn’t quite stick, but the manufactured romance between the two of them had the internet completely hooked. [Wait, are they married?] [I thought Dean Harrison was married? His wife doesn’t look like that?] I silently closed the trending app. I scrolled past it, my internal landscape utterly flat. A moment later, my best friend, Clara, called, her voice high and distorted. “Liz! Did you see the news? Dean Harrison actually—” “I saw it,” I cut her off, my voice even. “That’s it? That’s your reaction?!” She sounded closer to tears than I was. “Your husband is openly flaunting his affair! Are you just going to sit there?!” A key turned in the lock of the front door. Dean was home, carrying the cold, clean scent of the night air. A satisfied smirk touched his lips. He’d clearly heard our conversation. “You saw it?” He tugged at his tie, walking toward me, his eyes mocking. “Weren’t you playing the role of the incredibly detached wife? Are you going to cry now? Or maybe start throwing things?” He leaned in, his breath hot. “Eliza, you’re trying too hard. It’s a bad performance.” I looked straight into his eyes. “Do you need me to cry? I can put on a show right now if it would satisfy you.” My tone was almost polite. He visibly stiffened. “If you’re truly upset,” he straightened up, returning to his familiar tone of high-handed condescension. “I can have the story pulled off the feeds.” “No need,” I said, picking up my water glass. “I don’t mind.” His eyes darkened, finally pricked by my lack of reaction. He suddenly gripped my wrist, his strength jarring, his voice low and hoarse. “What about your consulting account? You got fired from the college; that was your last tether to your career, wasn’t it? Aren’t you afraid that this drama will wreck it completely?” The water in the glass sloshed. That account. It had been my life’s work. But the moment he chose to expose my private breakdown to the world, the moment he took the college job away, that platform was dead. His offer now was meaningless. I offered a kind, gentle suggestion. “I’m sure it was Graham’s wish that Sloane be welcomed into the Harrison family in a very public way, too, wasn’t it?” “You making her Mrs. Harrison for him would be the ultimate fulfillment of that legacy.” 7 “Eliza!” He barked my name, his jaw tight. “You think if you pretend not to care, I won’t know you’re just trying to make me jealous?” “Jealous?” I looked at the face that used to make my heart beat faster, and felt only utter clarity. “I’m not trying to make you jealous.” I heard myself speak, the sound light, almost cheerful. “I think I just don’t love you anymore.” He seemed nailed to the floor. His pupils slightly dilated. I didn’t love him. That’s why he could fly Sloane to private islands, scuba dive, bungee jump, and take photos at the Lover’s Bridge. I no longer had to scream. That’s why he could come home after half a month, with faint red marks on his neck, and I would simply hand him a glass of water and ask, “Which item on Graham’s list was that one?” Even when Clara angrily texted me that he’d bought Sloane a ridiculously expensive necklace at a charity auction, I could agree calmly. “Of course. It’s the least he can do for the woman his brother cared for so much.” He stared at me as if I were a stranger. His eyes held confusion, disbelief, and a flicker of panicked loss of control. “Eliza,” his throat bobbed, his voice dry. “Why are you… not mad anymore?” He didn’t know that I had already fought and won the last psychological battle against myself. Desensitization complete. I was ready to walk away. 8 My wishes rarely came true. Two days later, I ran into Dean and Sloane at the airport. “Eliza? You actually followed us?” Her eyes were smug, and she mouthed a silent message to Dean. Told you so. Dean’s expression was remote, but the moment he saw me, a knowing, triumphant smile touched his lips. “I thought you said you wouldn’t interrupt us?” I nodded. “That’s right. I won’t.” I tried to slip past them, giving them a wide berth. Dean’s hand shot out, stopping me. “Where are you going?” “Home,” I said vaguely. “Home? Since when do you take an international flight to go home? Couldn’t you come up with a better excuse?” Sloane snickered. “Just say it, Eliza. You’re here to stop Dean from leaving, aren’t you?” The ridicule that used to stab me felt completely dull now. I admitted it, my face blank. “Yes.” Dean grinned. “If you truly wanted to come with me to New York, you could have just said so. Why the clumsy attempt at chasing me?” “You’re right.” “Fine. I’ll buy you a ticket right now.” “Or you can go back to the house. I promise I’ll come home early to you.” I filtered out all the maddening words, responding only in single-syllable acknowledgments, eager to end the conversation. Dean’s face darkened. “Eliza, are you even listening to me?” “Mhm.” “Eliza?!” I seemed to startle awake. “You’re absolutely right.” “May I go now?” 9 “Dean, just let her go. She won’t get three steps before she comes running back to you.” Sloane’s voice drilled into my ear. I stopped. I realized I had one thing left to confirm. I turned around, and the relief in Dean’s expression was palpable. “There is one more thing I need to confirm with you.” He watched me, perfectly composed, waiting for me to falter. I asked, “Did you open the gift I gave you?” He laughed lightly, shaking his head with an air of mild exasperation. “Not yet. I’ve been too busy these past two days.” He paused, scanning my face for a flicker of anxiety or disappointment. “What, you flew all this way just to hurry me up on unwrapping a gift?” I thought for a moment. I went straight to the crux of the matter. “Dean Harrison. You once said that if we divorced, you would give up your entire fortune.” “Does that offer still stand?” 10 I remembered the time I saw the bill for the piece of jewelry he bought Sloane. The long string of zeros had rendered me speechless. He had slowly taken off his glasses, looked at me, and said, “Let’s just divorce, then.” “I’ll leave with nothing. You can take the hundreds of millions. You can buy anything you want for yourself, okay?” I had seen the madness in his eyes. I saw the disdain of a man who thought his extraordinary ability to make money meant he was superior. I also saw his absolute confidence that I would never leave him. Back then, I was consumed by a desperate stubbornness. “Is it about the money?” “How dare you try to buy me off with cash?” “No. You will never get a divorce from me!” How foolish I had been. Money was excellent. Especially since, legally, a significant portion of it was mine anyway, built from my original investment, no matter how much it had been diluted. 11 His eyes hardened again. “Eliza, you are never going to let this go, are you?” “You want a divorce? You really think you can handle that?” “She’s probably just mad about that tacky yellow tiger’s eye necklace, Dean,” Sloane scoffed. “It was something I was going to trash anyway, and I guess he just gave it to you instead.” “Next time, we’ll make sure the gift we pick out for you is expensive enough, alright?” I felt a small sting of disappointment. So, the full asset transfer wasn’t real. That was a shame. I looked down and quickly forwarded all the evidence to my lawyer. File for divorce. I’m done waiting. 12 I pulled my suitcase, slowly moving toward the security checkpoint. I heard Dean say something behind me, but the noise of the airport crowd swallowed his words. The loud, rhythmic chime of the New Year’s clock began to ring, and bright lights flashed in the distance. Philadelphia. The name rolled off my tongue, carrying a long-forgotten tremor of anticipation, a feeling that belonged only to me. The mecca of clinical psychology. I had planned this trip countless times, packing and unpacking my suitcase, booking and canceling my ticket. Each time, Dean had an excuse to postpone. Too busy. Next time. Or a sudden, urgent crisis involving Sloane would effortlessly wipe away all my plans. Now, the final obstacle—the one named Love—had been completely removed from my heart. The path ahead was clear. Just then, my long-dormant professional account suddenly received a comment. [Dr. Eliza, I’m in love with a toxic man but can’t leave him. I keep going back. I feel pathetic. What do I doooo?] I was surprised anyone was still posting on the account. I realized I’d spent the last few years stuck in that exact cycle. It was like looking at my former self. My finger paused, then I began to type: [Adopt a Player Mindset. If you can’t leave, stay. But stop tying your self-worth to his affection. Extract the emotional comfort you need, and nothing more. Your pain is real, and it doesn’t need his validation to prove it. Remember, you’re temporarily lost, not permanently cheap.] Send. It was the final answer I gave to the person I used to be.

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