Author: Momo Chan

I’m Sienna Reid, a D-list actress with crippling social anxiety. The constant pressure of the job is brutal, and my only lifeline is scrolling through videos of ridiculously muscular men. In real life, I’m the human embodiment of a mute button—quiet, apologetic, and meek. Online? I’m an absolute menace, firing off the kind of racy, unhinged comments that would get my agent fired. Every day, I unleash a torrent of thirst under various Gym Gods’ videos: “The top half is getting boring. When are we going to see the lower-body circuit?” “Just short-circuited my charging cable. That gaze is electric.” “It’s not th*rst, it’s an appreciation for nature’s finest bloom. Not looking would be a criminal waste of beauty.” I honestly thought everyone else was just messing around, too—a collective online roleplay. I never thought anyone would take me seriously. Then someone did. He was blocking my hotel room door, casually letting his shirt hang open just enough to show that bulging, sculpted chest. He cornered me, his eyes intense, and started chasing me down the hall. “Don’t run!” he demanded. “Didn’t you want to get a taste?” 1 The minute my scene wrapped for the day, I politely declined my co-star’s invitation for dinner. I ripped off my makeup, practically sprinted back to the hotel, double-locked the door, arranged my sad little takeout salad, and then—finally—opened my tablet for my daily feast of spiritual sustenance. I have to hand it to the algorithm. It really gets me. Today’s recommendations were exactly what I needed. I ate my greens with one hand and cackled with the other, occasionally having to wipe a nonexistent drip of drool from my mouth. I typed out a comment: “Are you new here? The Queen has never seen you before.” I added a giant, smug cartoon cat emoji. Swipe. Next one. Hmm. This one is also excellent. “I wouldn’t dare talk back to you, but I’d let you back me up on this, bro.” The videos got me so hyped up I stopped eating my healthy dinner. Honestly, I’ve never understood the psychology behind why these young guys post such revealing content. I might be a socially awkward hermit, but I want to keep up with the latest trends. So, I watched the videos repeatedly, even downloading a few to analyze the… artistry. Suddenly, an account I’d never seen before popped up. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, sculpted abs, and a perfect butt. The best part? His legs were longer than my whole career. I couldn’t resist clicking on his profile. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Holy hell. A true Gym God! He had one hundred and eighteen videos. That was enough to keep me busy for the entire night. I went through every single one, leaving detailed com—I mean, racy comments. “A stunning meal. kissy-face emoji.” “Your abs look… asymmetrical. DM me. I have notes.” “My friend says guys who only sway side-to-side in their videos are single. The ones who move back-and-forth have partners!” “So pale and soft. What’s your secret for that perfect skin?” When I got to the thirty-eighth video, the guy cracked. He sent me a direct message. Midnight Sculpt: If you like what you see, stop scrolling and start chatting. Don’t wait until I’m taken and you’re listening to Taylor Swift’s sad breakup playlist. He even included a fresh photo of his abs. He was so bold. How could I not love him more? It turned out this Gym God was just as absurd as I was. Since it was a long night and I had nothing else to do, I unleashed my full 18-gigabit-per-second internet speed chat skills. BerrySweetTreats: The little cat bows to the Cat King. Long live the Cat King, King of all the Cats! BerrySweetTreats: You shed a single tear, I’ll burn the city down. BerrySweetTreats: Why do I suddenly have two forks in my hand? Oh, my dinner just arrived. He didn’t back down: Midnight Sculpt: You talk a good game. Your mouth must be busy. Midnight Sculpt: Are you hungry, Queen? Tell me where you want to eat, and I’ll wash up first. I shot back: BerrySweetTreats: You bet I am. Can I come over for dinner tonight? And maybe nuzzle you for dessert? Wait. Did I really just say that? Whatever. It was the internet. Hit send. I was giggling hysterically behind my tablet. The experts were right—looking at muscle men prolongs life. Despite my dirty online talk, I was truly a cripplingly anxious homebody in real life. My greatest joy was staying home, surfing the net, and binge-watching TV. It was a cruel twist of fate that I ended up as a D-list actress. I had to go out and see people for the sake of the paycheck. Thank goodness I wasn’t famous enough to have fans waiting for me at the airport or stalking me on set. I’d die of embarrassment. I treated acting as a regular job—no grand ambition, but no slacking either. Luckily, my acting skills were decent, so I always landed small but respectable parts. The pay wasn’t huge, the time on set was short, and once my scenes were done, I could go home. I don’t have expensive tastes; the money was enough. All I really needed was a good Wi-Fi connection and a decent meal. Though, if a phone ever came out that allowed me to touch and experience the images on the screen, I’d work myself to death to afford it. Heh heh. After a few days, Midnight Sculpt and I were chatting up a storm. Apart from filming, my sole purpose was to harass him. BerrySweetTreats: Ugh, why do people have to work?! Everyone else looks refreshed, and I look like I’m about to have a psychotic break! (This was a death rattle I sent after a particularly intense scene with the leading man.) BerrySweetTreats: Do you like foreigners? Because I just made an absolute spectacle of myself. (I’d accidentally knocked the leading man over while filming. God, let the ground swallow me whole!) If he didn’t respond, I’d send him the abstract monologues. BerrySweetTreats: You haven’t answered my calls. Our child has a 104-degree fever. I carried him for 24 hours on foot to the county hospital, and you’re out here thirsting? What is the meaning of this marriage? BerrySweetTreats: Hey, handsome. Are you playing on social media alone? Aren’t you scared? Add me; I’ll protect you. BerrySweetTreats: I’m 63. I can still elbow my way onto the subway or fight a lady for the last carton of eggs at the grocery store, but when I see you, I get shy and can’t even look up… Since no one knew who I was online, I was completely uninhibited. Being an abstract, chaotic personality on the internet actually made filming less grueling. In between takes, I’d hide in a corner and secretly scroll on my tablet. The second I snapped the screen shut, I’d revert to my usual anxious, poker-faced self. No one knew I was a full-blown adult drama playing out in my mind. But the ancients were right: happiness is often followed by tragedy. After a late-night shoot, I dragged my exhausted body back to the hotel. I was hoping for some handsome-man therapy to help me sleep, but I saw a message from Midnight Sculpt sent five hours ago. Midnight Sculpt: LOL. Losing it at work is totally normal. Emotional stability costs extra. Midnight Sculpt: The captions are stolen, the moves are learned, the roses are pilfered, the courage is borrowed—but my love for you is inborn! Everything was normal until the next message, which made my heart leap out of my chest. Midnight Sculpt: Alright, no more jokes. Serious question: I checked the location settings, and we’re in the same city. I really want to meet the person behind this wild profile. Can we grab a drink? Me: ??? The Gym God wanted to meet me in person? Oh. My. God. Panic Mode. I thought he was just like me—quiet and anxious in real life, so he got wild online to relieve stress. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I used him as electronic comfort food, and now he wanted to make things real? My heart hammered against my ribs. I immediately logged out of the account. Lying in bed, tossing and turning, I decided even a burner account wasn’t safe enough. Sitting up, clutching my pillow, I went ahead and permanently deleted the account. Try finding me now, buddy! The next day, I wore huge sunglasses and kept looking left and right, convinced everyone I saw was Midnight Sculpt. At one point, a guy chased me halfway down the street. I nearly ran my legs off before realizing he’d mistaken me for some popular young starlet. Me: …[ugh]. I was not amused. When I finally reached the set, I breathed a sigh of relief. I took off my sunglasses, and a shadow suddenly fell over me. It was Jake, the supporting male actor, his face full of gossip. “Sienna Reid, why are you being so shady?” “Me? Shady?” A short distance away, the lead actor, Rhys Easton, glanced over. He was a huge star, an A-lister. I quickly smiled and nodded at him. Don’t mess with the big shots. Rhys nodded back, then turned his attention to the set. I slumped into my chair and fobbed off Jake with a vague excuse. I just didn’t want to socialize. I wanted to be a mushroom in the corner. Leave me alone! After several days of nervous anticipation, nothing happened. I started to relax—and then I got antsy. Beauty corrupts, truly! Without my daily dose of hunks, my healthy salad even tasted bland. After a few more excruciating days, I couldn’t stand it. I downloaded the app again. I had no choice; acting was too much pressure for an anxious person like me. Without this outlet, I was afraid I’d actually have a breakdown on set. The mere thought sent shivers down my spine. It was clear: another secret account was my best coping mechanism. I registered a new one, brimming with excitement. Hello, gorgeous people. Missed you terribly, missed you madly~~~ Just as I was about to unleash my pent-up energy, a shadow fell over my tablet screen, top to bottom. I looked up. It was Rhys Easton! I reflexively snapped the screen off and shot to my feet like a terrified schoolgirl. “Mr. Easton, hi.” Rhys looked at me, his gaze deep, almost probing. Under his scrutiny, my face flushed crimson, and I gripped my tablet until my knuckles turned white. He finally pulled his gaze away, simply stating: “Director Koster needs to see you.” Before the words fully registered, he was already six feet away. I scratched my head. It must have been my imagination. Why did I think the A-list actor just sighed? He’s a megastar. What could he possibly have to sigh about? I pushed the thought away and dragged my feet toward Director Koster with the air of a condemned woman. After the director, my agent called. Sweet Mother of Mercy! All I wanted was five minutes to quietly stare at abs. Why was it so hard?! I was finally done long after midnight. It didn’t matter. I was looking at abs tonight. I’d stay up late if I had to! Washing up and settling into bed, I finally clicked on the videos. After scrolling past a few particularly fine specimens, I let out a satisfied sigh. I wiped the imaginary drool from my chin and clicked on Midnight Sculpt’s profile. For some reason, out of all the Gym Gods on the internet, he was the one who most captivated me. His muscles, size, color, shape, even that mole on his side—it all made me dizzy with longing. His latest video was especially egregious: Broad shoulders, narrow waist, and bulging chest muscles glowing white in the dim light. To make things worse, he was wearing a chest chain. My fingers itched. I couldn’t help but leave a comment: BerrySweetTreats: Wait, my phone is a touchscreen. Why can’t I reach out and touch you? Zero stars! BerrySweetTreats: I need help, Counselor. I’m feeling poorly. I need to get a taste! Gimme, gimme! A second later, he sent a DM. Midnight Sculpt: BerrySweetTreats? !!! That was my old account handle! I was doomed! How did he recognize me instantly, even with a new account? I started to tremble, ready to run again, but his next message nailed me to the bed. Midnight Sculpt: If you delete this account, I will leak your identity. Midnight Sculpt: A-List Actress Harasses Innocent Civilian! Midnight Sculpt: SHOCKER: Cool-Headed Star Caught in Racy Online Scandal! I had to admit, he had a real knack for tabloid headlines. The titles were clickbait gold. If it weren’t me, I’d be the first one to click and read. The problem was, it was me! I wanted to cry. I didn’t dare delete the account. I took a deep, shaky breath. BerrySweetTreats: I don’t know what you’re talking about. He sent a smiling emoji. Midnight Sculpt: 🙂 Midnight Sculpt: Sienna Reid. Stop pretending. Aaaahhhh! Save me! This man knew who I was! He even knew my real name! Woe is me! Was my perfectly insulated reputation about to be destroyed? No! Do you know what people with my level of crippling social anxiety value most? Our carefully constructed, fragile dignity! I’ve been scrolling for so long, was I finally going to fail at the last hurdle?

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The wrap party was in full swing. Director Harris cornered me. “How about a turn as a romantic lead in the new series—opposite Gemma?” I glanced across the room at Gemma Lennox. The woman famous for her million-dollar smile had gone utterly blank. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I understood the signal instantly. I gave the director a level look. “No, sir. I’m done with the scene. I’m retiring, heading back home to finally get married. I don’t have the energy for another shoot.” Gemma’s expression, which had just started to ease, suddenly curdled. 1 “Oh, please, Rhys the Riff-Raff,” she scoffed, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Who the hell would marry you? You’re the industry’s doormat. Who’d want that?” The moment she said it, all eyes finally landed on me. For the first time, I was the undisputed focus of the entire cast and crew. The associate director rushed to smooth things over, urging Gemma to drink her wine, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Her expression was all mocking amusement as she stared me down. I didn’t take the bait. I kept my voice easy and addressed the director again. “The date’s the seventeenth of next month. If you happen to be free, Mr. Harris, you’re welcome to the wedding.” Seeing I wasn’t joking, the director laughed nervously. “Well, well, I’ll certainly send you a generous check, Rhys. Congratulations.” When he finished, everyone else looked at me, suspicion clearly outweighing any mockery. I was long accustomed to their disbelief, so I didn’t bother to offer an explanation. Until Drew Ashton piped up from beside Gemma. “No invitation, but already shaking the tin for cash, Rhys? Doesn’t sound like a wedding; sounds like a desperate shakedown. Don’t use such a low-rent scheme on your colleagues. How much is the poverty plea this time? A thousand bucks? Two?” Back when I was scraping for rent, before Gemma made it, I had taken any job I could find. I was doing ridiculous little promo hustles online just for the tiny payouts to pay the rent. One of the rare times I felt rich was when a successful actress, feeling generous, tipped me a grand. I told Gemma about it, completely thrilled, and she teased me for being so provincial. She promised that when she hit it big, she’d cut me a check for a hundred thousand dollars so I’d never worry again. Now she’s A-list, dating A-list. And she used that secret—that one thousand dollar number—to let Drew mock me in front of everyone. The disappointment was a cold, solid thing in my stomach. I was done being the “good guy” she liked, the one who protected her and Drew’s perfect façade. “I am short on cash, actually, but two thousand won’t cut it,” I said, looking right at Drew. “Settle the Gemma-Transfer-Fee for a million. Now.” I pulled up my payment QR code, placed my phone on the lazy Susan in the center of the table, and spun it toward Gemma and Drew. Someone who hadn’t been paying attention asked, mystified, “Why is Rhys asking Drew for a transfer fee?” 2 I had blown up the secret of my “underground” five years with Gemma. Her face immediately went dark. She lunged forward in shock, knocking over a crystal wine glass. Red wine instantly bloomed across the white tablecloth, staining the hem of her haute couture gown. The director panicked, waving the servers out and shutting the door. He watched us anxiously—me, Gemma, and Drew. Since Gemma hit it big, she and Drew had been inseparable, publicly and privately, putting on a sickeningly affectionate show for the world. Everyone assumed they were deeply in love, a years-long fairytale romance. No one had ever suspected that I, Rhys Everett—a washed-up character actor with a notoriously bad reputation—was the man who’d been with her through her long years of struggle. The awkward silence lasted ten minutes, until the associate director cleared his throat. That’s what finally made Gemma move. The woman known as the industry’s sweetheart looked at me now with pure, unadulterated revulsion. Her voice was sharp. “I’m worth eighty thousand an hour,” she spat, her tone acidic. “I never billed you for the years I spent slumming it down there. And now you want my man to pay a transfer fee? You are so greedy, Rhys.” Drew, who minutes ago was mocking me, now played the benevolent one. “Look, Rhys, she was under a ton of pressure. It’s normal for her to… experiment a little to blow off steam. She didn’t mean anything by it. Why take it seriously? Fine, fine. You want a million? I’ll wire it to you now.” He went to take out his phone, but Gemma blocked him. Her face frozen in an icy mask, she pulled out her own private phone and wired the million to my account. Her gesture was dramatic and sweeping, nothing like the college girl who couldn’t spare a dollar-fifty for a caramel apple we were walking past. Suddenly, a million didn’t feel like enough. I collected the money and looked at her. “The transfer fee is settled. But what about the five years I spent living in that cramped walk-up with you? I think you need to settle that account, too.” Gemma stared at me for three full seconds, then switched phones and coldly said she would transfer the money. Less than a minute later, the bank notification hit my account. Five million dollars. Seven digits and a five, a blinding number. But her words cut deeper: “Consider this five million your advance for the coffin. Now go die somewhere I don’t have to look at you.” Gemma cursed me. Drew laughed, but then put on a show of chastising her to sound like the better man. She ignored him and addressed everyone else. “The seventeenth of next month,” she announced, a cold smile settling on her face. “Drew and I are celebrating our anniversary. Everyone should come help us celebrate!” The crew members, afraid to cross her, nervously agreed. I just took a deep breath, finished with the performance, and stood up to leave. But just as my hand found the doorknob, Gemma grabbed my arm. Her eyes were malicious. “Since you’re retiring, you can post your official statement before you walk out that door.” 3 Gemma’s team drafted my retirement statement. It was humiliating, painting me as unstable and difficult. As soon as it went live, she hit the like button. When they moved to another venue, Sarah, Gemma’s assistant, secretly rushed out to see me off. “Rhys, I know this looks bad,” Sarah whispered, her eyes full of pity. “But she really loves you. She and Drew are just a fling. You shouldn’t have embarrassed her like that in public.” I didn’t explain. I just looked at the six million dollars in my account and told Sarah to help me terminate the lease on my apartment. Sarah paused, then sighed. “Maybe that’s for the best. You can move into her place tomorrow. Cook her favorite meals; that might be enough to win her back.” Sarah gave me a dozen bits of advice, none of which I registered. I took a cab back to the apartment. Gemma had chosen this place for me. It was sparse, twenty miles from her villa. Aside from my ID and university diploma, everything in it was promotional junk she’d gotten from sponsors. I hated it. I didn’t want to take a single thing with me. As I closed the door for the last time, my phone buzzed. It was Gemma’s social media update. The photo showed her and Drew, fingers laced, cheeks pressed together in a sickening display of affection. When fans asked if they were officially a couple, she answered them definitively: “Like, obvi! I’m Drew Ashton’s woman!” That one line, that was the one that made my eyes burn. I couldn’t stop the memory of our days in the walk-up. The year I started getting a little traction, the company suggested Gemma and I pretend to be a couple for a reality show to boost her profile. I brought it up with her. She’d wrapped her arms around my neck, whispering, “Rhys, you know I hate the high-profile stuff. Let’s just keep our little life a secret, work hard, and make it together, okay?” I believed her. I agreed to keep things quiet. But I realized now that she didn’t hate “high-profile.” She just hated “high-profile with me.” 4 After spending one night in a cheap motel, I booked a flight. My hometown, Blackwood Creek, is buried deep in the Cascade mountains. Even after the plane landed, it was a ten-hour drive, winding through switchbacks and deep valleys just to reach the boundary of our community. When I left at sixteen, those ten hours felt fleeting. Now, returning alone, it felt like I was driving through an entire lifetime. 5 There were no relatives left in Blackwood Creek for me. The old house my grandmother left me was practically a ruin; it took two full days of cleaning just to make it habitable. When word got around that I was back to get married, the villagers were mystified. The older men, the elders who knew me, cornered me when they’d had too much to drink, scolding me. They said I had flown out to be a phoenix, a success, so why was I back to suffer? I smiled, a little bitterly, and didn’t tell them the little phoenix they sent out had been deeply unhappy out there, and that I was back because I was running out of time. They lectured me for three days. When they realized I wasn’t going to return to the city, the village council finally gave up. “Well, alright. Willow’s a good woman. She’ll take care of you.” 6 The “Willow” they spoke of was the woman I’d chosen to marry. Her name is Willow Finch. She came to Blackwood Creek three years ago as a volunteer teacher and has practically run the one-room schoolhouse ever since. The villagers adored her and everyone wanted their sons to marry her. But she didn’t choose any of the local men. Instead, she was the one who messaged me first on a local classified ad I’d posted as a half-serious, half-joke marriage proposition. To be fair, I had asked Gemma about marriage first. She’d snapped, “My body is yours, Rhys, what more of a commitment do you need? Don’t be so damn greedy!” After that, I never mentioned marriage to her again. I quietly added Willow Finch on my private chat app. When she agreed to the terms—to take responsibility for my remains—we set the date. 7 On the seventh day after my return, Willow and I went into the county seat. We hired the best construction crew and signed the contracts to build a proper schoolhouse. I paid the thirty percent deposit using the money Gemma had sent. As we were leaving the contractor’s office, we passed a cafe. I saw a sign: Seven-Layer Carmel Latte, Buy One Get One Half Off. The memory hit me, freezing me in my tracks. Right after paying the rent for the walk-up, we were often left with only enough cash for one cheap coffee. Gemma, being “generous,” would tell me to go buy it, and we’d sit on the curb outside the studio, laughing and sharing the single cup. In the sunset, she’d ask if it was sweet, and I’d nod, asking her if she liked it. “Of course, I do!” she’d said. “When I make it big, I’m going to drink one every single day! You better remember to buy it for me!” I took her casual comment as a promise. Even after she became a star, I kept up the habit, ordering a specific, cheap coffee and having it delivered to her set. At first, she’d accept it and smile. I thought she hadn’t forgotten our past. Then, one day, I returned to her dressing room to retrieve my forgotten phone. I saw her at the trash can. She wasn’t just dumping my latte; she was complaining to Drew: “Even a gourmet coffee gets old if you drink it every day. Besides, Rhys brings me that cheap, eight-dollar-a-cup junk. Doesn’t he know we’re in different leagues now?” From that day on, I stopped buying her things beneath her “league,” and I quit drinking my favorite cheap coffee, too. I must have been lost in that thought, because I didn’t notice Willow had moved. “Rhys, look…” Willow carefully carried two cups. “Your favorite, the half-sweet Seven-Layer Carmel. Buy-one-get-one, so I got you one. Try it.” A woman I had known for only two months could casually state my preference. The woman I loved for five years didn’t even know it. I was so touched I didn’t refuse. Halfway through the drink, I suddenly remembered something. “Wait, Willow. You can’t have high-sugar drinks like this, can you?” Willow shrugged, a soft, easy smile on her face. “But I wanted to share it with you, Rhys. That way you wouldn’t be alone.” She must have caught the surprise on my face because she quickly explained. She even blushed, saying it was part of the “contract spirit”—she’d promised to be there for me. Looking at her nervousness, I was reminded of Gemma, who had promised me a home while we were in that cramped walk-up, swearing she’d never let me be alone again. I believed her every time. And what was the result? The moment she got famous, she forgot the promises, brazenly flirting with more famous men, leaving me alone in my eighty-square-foot apartment, watching the sun rise and set by myself. 8 After we finished half the coffee, Willow said she needed to go to the wholesale warehouse to buy powdered cocoa mix. I asked her why. She explained sheepishly that she had wanted to buy a latte for all the children at the school, but they couldn’t afford a full order. So, she was buying the mix to make a weaker version for everyone to share, so each student could have a little taste. “I want the kids in the mountains to have more experiences,” she said. “That way, when they leave, they won’t be easily moved by cheap gestures or easily hurt by people.” She wasn’t talking about me. But I thought about my own childhood. I never had a teacher who bought me a treat. So, when I left the mountains, I thought a cheap cup of coffee was the pinnacle of luxury. It was enough for me to be moved by Gemma, and enough to give her my entire heart. “Don’t buy the cocoa mix,” I said. “We’ll just buy out the cafe. We’ll treat everyone.” I took out the rest of Gemma’s money and paid the cafe to drive their truck up the mountain and serve fresh lattes to the entire village. 9 Willow told the village broadcaster about the treat, and she had her students gather wildflowers. While the children waited for their drinks, she taught them how to weave massive floral crowns and had them line up to place one on my head. “Rhys, look,” she said. “The little suns of the future, they all love you.” For Gemma’s sake, I had always played the bad guy in the industry. The result was that the crew hated me, and the internet loathed me. When I complained to Gemma about the hate, she would just shrug it off. “Someone has to be the bad guy, Rhys. Besides, why do you need anyone else to like you? Isn’t my love enough?” She said that, but she never understood that I desperately needed the world to like me, too. I needed a lot of warmth and sunlight. Willow must have seen the emotion in my eyes. She broke my silence by gently pushing me toward the children. “Come on, everyone! Put the crown on your new teacher’s husband!” The children laughed. I let go of my dark memories, half-crouching to let them adorn me. It was strange. The flowers were the same ones I’d seen my entire life, but I never noticed their fragrance. Today, my crown smelled better than any designer cologne. I looked at Willow. The sun framed her slightly pale face in a golden halo. I knew, with absolute certainty, that marrying her was the best decision I had ever made. 10 In the following days, Willow and I supervised the construction crew building the new schoolhouse and finalized our wedding arrangements. In the mountains, you don’t need the complexity of a city wedding, but a proper feast is non-negotiable. I planned to use the rest of Gemma’s money to cater the meal, but Willow stopped me. She took out three years of her savings and gave them to the village elder, instructing him to prepare long tables for a feast that would invite everyone in the community. The elder praised her commitment, and the neighborhood women constantly told me how perfect she was for me. But whenever anyone complimented her, she always corrected them. “Rhys is the truly good one,” she’d insist. “Better than I could ever be.” She was always praising me instinctively. Gemma never did that. The contrast made me realize how little I had valued myself before. The wedding was on the seventeenth. It was loud and joyful. The feast lasted from noon to evening. While Willow was busy hosting the elders, I sat beneath a large pine and pulled out my phone. I hadn’t logged into my social media since returning to Blackwood Creek. I thought no one would remember me. But my messages were over ninety-nine. Almost all were from Sarah, the assistant, still urging me to apologize to Gemma. I didn’t want to reply, and was about to turn the phone off when Gemma called. It was loud on her end, a cacophony of music and voices, but her voice cut through the noise. “Rhys, are you still not done with your stunt?”

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Forty-five years after I walked away, a missing person’s plea ripped the quiet fabric of my life. On the video screen, world-renowned scientist Dr. Graham Harrington lay on a hospital bed, his white hair disheveled, his frame gaunt and frail. Yet his voice was instantly, sickeningly familiar: “Ellie, I’m sorry… In this life, you were the only one I ever held in my heart.” “Where are you? Can we… meet again?” I quietly pressed the screen dark. My son, Owen, walked into the kitchen, scooping rice. “Mom, you know him?” “No,” I said, turning to lift the lid off the pot. A plume of white steam rose, momentarily blurring my vision. “The braised short ribs are almost ready. I’m taking them to your dad. The doctor says he can come home tomorrow.” What’s past is past. Some words arrive so late that they lose all their intended weight. Besides, I never needed his affection in the first place. 1 The antiseptic smell in the City General hallway was thick and cloying. I set down the thermos and went to find the water fountain, covering my nose. I didn’t slow down enough at the corner and collided solidly with someone coming the other way. “Excuse me,” I murmured, moving to walk around them. But the person grabbed my arm, his voice catching. “Ellie? Is that really you!” That one sound was all I needed to know who it was. I yanked my arm away, my expression deliberately neutral. Graham Harrington awkwardly withdrew his hand. His gaze dropped to the faded, pale blue loaner jacket the nurse had given me, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I never imagined… you were working here?” He instinctively reached for his pocket, then stopped. “My wallet is in the suite… Ellie, come up to the private ward with me. I need to talk to you.” I froze for a moment, then let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. I’d dressed too lightly this morning and was freezing. The aide from the next room had forced her spare scrub top on me, worried I’d catch a chill. It was clear Graham assumed I was destitute. I didn’t offer an explanation. I just turned to leave. But he followed, grabbing my arm again. “Ellie, it’s me, Graham! Don’t you remember me?” My spine stiffened. I pulled free once more. “I remember,” I said, my voice flat. “You are Vivian Wells’s husband. My sister’s husband.” Graham Harrington’s hand, left suspended in the air, slowly dropped. Forty-five years ago, my half-sister, Vivian Wells, filed a report accusing me of immoral behavior. My fiancé, Graham, stood me up on the night we were supposed to run away together. A month later, the embossed, gold-stamped wedding invitations for Graham Harrington and Vivian Wells were distributed across the entire Mid-State Engineering campus. How could I possibly forget any of that. Back in the room, Art was gone. I opened the thermos, and the rich, complex aroma of braised short ribs instantly filled the air. I was smiling, explaining the recipe to the older woman in the next bed. “Three tablespoons of brown sugar, a chunk of cinnamon stick, and a slow simmer in the Dutch oven for two full hours.” “Don’t rush the heat, and don’t rush the process. You have to sear the meat first to draw out the flavor, then simmer slowly…” I glanced up, and Graham had followed me all the way to the doorway. His nose twitched, and his eyes were rimmed with red. “Ellie, that’s the exact smell! The taste from all those years ago!” “If I hadn’t let go back then, I wouldn’t be so full of regret today…” I didn’t say anything. I simply closed the door and pressed the call button for the nurse. It wasn’t long before a stern nurse escorted him back to his private suite. Just then, Art returned, triumphantly waving his discharge summary. “Doctor says the lung nodule is stable, so I’m out early! I snuck the paperwork through myself!” He was always like that—protective, never letting me worry about a thing. The next few days, my phone screen was a constant stream of alerts for the trending hashtag: #NobelScientistGrahamHarringtonSeeksFirstLove. #TerminalLiverCancerFinalWish #LoveAcrossHalfACentury #LovedYouAllThisTime Even The City Ledger ran a full-page spread of the search plea. I tried hard to ignore it, but the push notifications were relentless. The comment sections were a sea of tears: “She needs to find him! That’s true love!” “To achieve so much and still remember his first love—how moving!” I couldn’t even avoid it during my neighborhood walks: “You don’t see men this devoted anymore!” “I wonder which lucky old woman he’s looking for…” But they didn’t understand. A love that’s expired is worse than a lifetime of silence. The worst came when Owen sent me a link with a headline that stung: #GrahamHarrington’sFirstLoveIsHer. The accompanying picture was a faded photo of us taken in front of the factory gates in 1982. In the photo, I wore my hair in two braids, my eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. Graham stood beside me, his hands behind his back, looking like he wanted to reach for mine but couldn’t. I stared at the yellowed photo, my fingers icy cold. In the end, there was no escaping it. 2 On the set of the national program The Echo, Graham Harrington, dressed in a replica of his old work shirt, did his best to sit up straight. “In 1980, I was accepted into Mid-State Engineering. A year later, my childhood friend followed me there.” He pointed to the photograph, recounting the story slowly: “Her name is Ellie Reynolds. She’s three years younger than I am.” “I was in Technical Design; she worked in the canteen. Her braised short ribs were incredible—even now, I can close my eyes and taste them.” “I was twenty-three then, and I didn’t understand real love. I hurt the person who loved me, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” “Now, I don’t have long left. My only wish in coming back to the States is to see her one last time, just to tell her I’m truly sorry.” … He produced several objects: a bookmark I’d given him, the bus ticket from the night we planned to run away, and his rejected money orders… He’d handled the yellowed paper so often the edges were frayed, as if they were the only proof of his remaining conscience. “I wrote her letters, but they were never answered. I sent her money, but it was returned.” He coughed violently. “Ellie, I want you to know, the night we agreed to run away, I actually went to the station…” I didn’t know any of this, but it no longer mattered. Graham was still talking on the television, but I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. I turned off the set and automatically wiped a layer of dust off the credenza. The fine dust motes swirled in the air, stirring up a flurry of old memories. I underestimated the power of the internet. The day after the program aired, my phone was besieged. I was bombarded with non-stop calls from unknown numbers. They demanded to know if I was Ellie Reynolds and why I refused to meet Dr. Harrington. To shield my husband and son, I initially denied it: “You have the wrong number. It’s a common name.” But the calls intensified, forcing me to shut off my phone entirely. Art’s phone was also filled with messages of public censure. My small restaurant, Ellie’s Corner, was staked out by influencers desperate to film the ‘first love’ in person. Comments flooded my business pages: “No matter what happened, Professor Harrington dedicated his life to this country. You owe him your forgiveness.” “He only has a year left. Why are you being so heartless?” “Did you turn your back on him first, and that’s why you found a new husband!” Young people pointed their anger at me, as if my refusal to meet Graham made me a wicked monster. Art squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. If it gets too bad, we can go stay at the lake house for a few days until the heat dies down.” Owen quietly began gathering evidence to sue the online trolls for doxing. He adjusted his hearing aid and said, “Mom, I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise!” Watching them rally to protect me, I made a firm decision. I looked at Owen. “Call the producers of The Echo,” I instructed. “Tell them I agree to meet Graham Harrington.” I would tell the full story, in front of the entire country. Not for the sake of forgiveness, but so that everyone would finally know the truth. Some harm cannot be wiped away by a simple ‘I’m sorry.’

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The phone call from Lily’s teacher came the moment I pulled out of the daycare parking lot. “Ms. Thorne, you need to get to the hospital. Lily… she injured a classmate.” By the time I rushed to Crestwood Metropolitan, my vision tunneled on a sight that froze the blood in my veins: my five-year-old, Lily, lying on a gurney with a knife—a simple, nasty kitchen paring knife—sticking out of her small abdomen, the floor slick with her blood. The other kid, a boy named Preston, had only a scrape on his finger, already clotting. I grabbed the nearest teacher, demanding an explanation. She stammered, avoiding my eyes. It wasn’t until I fought my way into the school surveillance room that I got the truth. He had called Lily a “street trash mongrel, raised by sluts.” When she fought back, he pulled out the knife and stabbed her. With the footage in hand, I faced his parents. The mother, Tiffany Wells, met my gaze with a sneer. “Trash raised by trash,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “If she dies, she dies. Her life isn’t worth a single hair on my Preston’s head.” “Every hospital in this city has Wells Group money in it. She dared touch my son, and now she doesn’t leave here alive.” She didn’t know who Lily was. Lily’s mom and dad were the dearest souls in our entire battalion. After they fell, she became the daughter of the whole unit—the treasured niece, the little sister, the light of the women’s barracks. Everyone fought for a holiday rotation with her. Even General Marcus, our retired Commander, spoiled her like his own grandchild. Now, someone had called her a mongrel? A tramp’s kid? I turned away from the entitled woman, pulled my phone from my pocket, and dialed the emergency internal line for the 1st Battalion. “Lily’s been stabbed. They called her a low-class tramp’s kid. Leave is canceled. I want every available sister at Crestwood Hospital now.” 1 The phone was violently snatched from my ear and slammed to the ground. Tiffany Wells, the alleged wife of a CEO, laughed—a harsh, entitled sound. She looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her designer shoe. “What, you hear ‘Wells’ and you call all your little… chicken sisters for backup? Ha! Birds of a feather, I suppose.” “Bottom-feeders who hook up with any man they can find, raise little runts who are just as out of control. Probably trying to hook her claws into my son, too.” The rage in my chest was a bomb about to detonate. I started to rise, but a faint, trembling whisper stopped me. “Momma… Momma’s not a… chicken…” Lily’s face was bloodless, her eyes squeezed shut, her whole body shaking. “My momma… she’s a hero.…” My heart clenched. I immediately knelt and grasped her tiny, ice-cold hand. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid. Lily’s mother is a hero who protected people. She’s—” “She’s lying!” Preston Wells, Tiffany’s son, shrieked, cutting me off. “Different women drop her off every day. How can one person have so many moms?” “She’s just a wild kid raised in a trash heap by someone nobody knows! Her mother is not a hero!” Preston’s face, puffy and pale with baby fat, was contorted with a viciousness that belied his age. “She lies all the time and she doesn’t listen to me! Low-class people deserve to be punished!” “My mom said our family runs this city. Even if she dies, someone will clean it up for me!” I stared at the five-year-old boy, stunned by the sheer malice in his words and his actions. I looked back at Tiffany. “Is this how you teach your child?” She wore it like a badge of honor, tilting her chin up. “Is it not the truth? Did I say anything wrong?” “A child shuffled between different women every day? What else would you call it but a hovel?” “I’m teaching my son the truth about the garbage at the bottom of the social ladder. What’s wrong with that?” She took a step, pointing a sharp, manicured finger almost into my face. “I’m telling you, in Evergreen City, the Wells family says what goes!” “My son punishing her was an honor! She dared to fight back and injure him, so she deserves whatever she gets!” “The lives of people like you—all of them combined—aren’t worth a single strand of my son’s hair!” I balled my fists, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug look off her face. Lily’s parents, both decorated service members, fell in the line of duty a year apart. Our two families, generations of military service, had only her left. We couldn’t send her to a state facility, so we raised her in the battalion. The reason different women dropped her off was simple: we all loved her, and every single one of us on leave fought over who got to have her that day. It was my turn today, and now this. If anything happened to Lily, I wouldn’t know how to face the sisters or the General. Reason, however, had to win over pure, visceral fury. I was a soldier. I had to remember who I was, who I represented. Knowing that anything I said to this woman would be useless, I took a deliberate step back and looked at her, my eyes cold. “The Wells family, you say?” Fine. I’d remember. Some scores take time to settle. For now, Lily was all that mattered. 2 The nurse had mentioned a massive pile-up on the highway, flooding the hospital with trauma victims. Personnel were stretched thin. I had given Lily the emergency trauma powder I carried—a military-grade clotting agent—which should stabilize her for a short time, but time was a weapon now. I was about to scoop her up and race to the next facility when a doctor in scrubs sprinted toward us. “Where is the injured child? Status?” I stepped aside instantly. The nurse quickly reported. “Five years old, abdominal stab wound. Depth unknown. Still conscious, but severe blood loss.” The doctor swiftly and carefully checked the wound, using a penlight to examine Lily’s pupils and complexion. “Thank God. Preliminarily, no major organ damage, but the blood loss is critical. We need immediate cleaning, suturing, and hemostasis.” He frowned. “All operating rooms are full with the I-5 crash victims. We can’t wait. We have to perform emergency closure here to stabilize her vitals.” He whirled toward the nurse. “Prep the sterile suture kit, anesthesia, and get the emergency blood unit ready!” The nurse started to run but was yanked back by Tiffany Wells. “Hold it!” Tiffany roughly shoved Preston in front of the doctor. “You treat my son first! His finger is broken and he’s bled so much!” The doctor glanced at Preston’s index finger—a small abrasion where the blood had already dried. His brow furrowed deeper, his expression turning stern. “Madam, please! You need to stop this nonsense!” “Your son has a minor surface injury. He doesn’t even need stitches. Have a nurse swab it with iodine. Step aside! Hospital resources are critically low. We prioritize major trauma. That’s the basic principle!” Tiffany was outraged that a doctor would dare contradict her. She raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across the doctor’s face. “Principle? I am the principle here!” Everyone was stunned by the sudden violence. She pointed a furious finger at the dazed doctor. “A staff physician, yelling at me? Do you know who we are?!” “I am the daughter-in-law of the Wells family! This is their grandson! Your own CEO bows to me! You talk to me like that?!” “My son’s finger touched that low-class brat’s blood. He might get some disease! I demand that you, now, immediately, perform a full-body scan on my son! Head to toe, don’t miss a single thing! Otherwise, I will have you fired from this hospital today, and you will never work in this city again!” The doctor, Dr. Alpert, clutched his cheek, his eyes wide with humiliation and disbelief. “You can’t…” The small crowd gathered began murmuring their outrage, but Tiffany ignored them. She pointed at her bodyguards. “Take him! Take him to my son for the full checkup! A doctor’s job is to save important people, not the rats from the gutter!” Two dark-suited men immediately grabbed Dr. Alpert, covering his mouth as he tried to protest, and forcefully dragged him away. Tiffany turned to me, a smirk of triumph and malice twisting her lips. Furious, I started to charge, but the nurse beside me desperately gripped my arm. She whispered urgently, “Mom, please, calm down! We can’t fight people this powerful. It’s Lily who will suffer! We have to save her!” My eyes were stinging with frustrated tears. “They just kidnapped the only doctor! Who is going to save my child? Do money and power make you untouchable?!” I took a huge, shuddering breath, forcing my heart rate down. The nurse was right. Lily’s life was paramount. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t for you.” “Where is the nearest hospital? We’re transferring her now!” I bent to pick Lily up, but the nurse stopped me again. “The highway crash has swamped every major hospital in the city. A transfer will mean waiting in line again, and she’s too fragile!” “She’s lost too much blood. She needs a transfusion immediately. Our blood bank is almost certainly depleted. You need to find a donor now. If we can get a bag of blood in her, we can stabilize her vitals.” 3 My heart plummeted, but I didn’t hesitate. I shoved my arm out. “Draw mine! We’re both B-positive!” The nurse shook her head. “Direct transfusion from a close relative is highly dangerous. It can cause Graft-versus-Host Disease.” “I’m not her biological mother!” I practically roared it, my voice raw with desperation and the beginning of a breakdown. “She’s a Gold Star Kid! Her parents died for this country! I’m begging you, you have to save her! Take my blood!” Shocked by the revelation of Lily’s status, the nurse immediately grabbed a sterile kit. In the small collection room, I watched my dark red blood snake down the tube into the bag. Time stretched out, each second a year, with Lily struggling on the edge of the abyss. My shattered phone was buzzing in my other hand, the internal group chat exploding with messages. “What happened? Why is she hurt? On my way!” “How is Lily? We’re bringing Major Thompson’s medic with us!” “Tell her the 2nd Guard Dads are coming too! Ten minutes out!” The knowledge that my sisters and brothers were coming with their own medical team was the only thing keeping me standing. I’d just finished the 400cc draw when the nurse pulled the needle and prepared to rush the life-saving blood to processing. Suddenly, a hand with bright red, aggressively long nails shot out and snatched the bag. “There! You said you had no blood! You lied!” “Give this to my son immediately! He’s shocked and his sugar is low! He needs nutrition!” Fighting the sudden vertigo from the blood loss, I stood up, my eyes locked on her. “Put the blood down.” Tiffany Wells was momentarily startled by the intensity of my gaze, but quickly recovered her arrogance. “You… you think you scare me? This blood belongs to the hospital now. I can do whatever I want with it!” The nurse, gathering her courage, stepped forward to appeal to her. “Mrs. Wells, please. That little girl is a Gold Star Kid. Her parents sacrificed everything for our country. She has no one else…” “Please, just think of it as a good deed. Give us the blood. Save her life.” Tiffany didn’t just ignore her; she shoved the nurse hard. “A martyr? Ha! More pity party lies, I bet.” “Who knows if it’s true? Even if it is, I don’t care! My son’s health is the only priority!” I didn’t waste another word. With a clean, lightning-fast movement, I executed a reverse wrist lock. Tiffany let out a yelp of pain, her fingers involuntarily splaying open. The bag of warm blood fell perfectly into my waiting hand. “You hit me?!” She screamed, scrambling back. “You heard that, you incompetents? Teach her a lesson!” The two remaining bodyguards closed in. They moved with heavy, trained steps. They wanted a fight? I felt the dam of my suppressed rage and helplessness finally give way. “Guard this.” I placed the blood bag carefully into the trembling nurse’s hands. In the same breath, I dropped my center of gravity, pivoting just as the first bodyguard threw a clumsy punch. My right leg became a piston—a sharp, brutal side-kick to his diaphragm. “Gah!” The man folded over, his size irrelevant to the sheer force, and he flew back, crashing into the wall. The second guard, seeing his partner drop, lunged, attempting to lock my neck from behind. I ducked low, avoiding his arm, then planted my left foot and drove my right heel up in a blindingly fast reverse spinning hook kick right under his chin. His eyes rolled back. He dropped like a stone, unconscious. The hallway was silent. The whole exchange took less than three seconds. I slowly turned, taking a step toward Tiffany Wells, who was now frozen, fear leaching the color from her face. She stammered, backing away. “Wha—what do you want? Don’t… don’t think a few moves scare me!” “I’m warning you! I am Grant Wells’s wife! You touch a single hair on my head, and the Wells family will destroy you! You won’t get away with this!” I stood over her, staring down into her terrified, contorted face, and clamped my fingers around her throat. 4 “Cough… L-let go!” I leaned in close, my eyes burning into hers. “You should thank your stars you’re in peacetime, protected by a flimsy piece of paper called the law.” “Otherwise…” I tightened my grip, just enough to make my point undeniable. “Based on what you just tried to do, I would beat you until you couldn’t speak or stand.” The raw, murderous intent in my eyes made her shudder, her fight draining away completely. Then, Preston’s voice cut through the silence, eerily calm. “Let go of my mom. Or you will regret it.” I spun around, and my blood ran cold. Preston, with the help of the two bodyguards who had recovered and returned, had forcibly dragged Lily from the gurney. She was being hauled by her arm across the rough floor like a rag doll, leaving a streak of angry red blood behind her. The simple gauze bandaging on her abdomen was soaked. Her small face was contorted in pain, a weak moan escaping her lips. “Momma… it hurts…” My heart was pierced a thousand times. Preston was five! How could he possibly be this cruel? Was he a monster? “You little bastard! Let go of her!” I screamed, a guttural cry of pure anguish. As I lunged, Tiffany, released from my grip, grabbed a handful of my hair from behind and yanked. In the split second I flinched, she scrambled back to her son. She looked at Lily, crumpled and bleeding on the floor, and her eyes flashed with a hideous mix of triumph and indulgence. “See that? This is what happens when you cross us! My son is destined for great things!” Preston swelled with pride at his mother’s praise, a terrifying, warped smile on his face. He even kicked Lily once more with his small foot. Tiffany pointed a demanding finger at me. “Now, you will get on your knees and apologize! If my son ‘accidentally’ causes any more damage to the little brat, it’s all on you!” The sight was unendurable. A depraved, entitled mother. A cruel, demonic child. They were using a critically wounded girl as leverage. I clenched my hands, my nails digging deep into my palms. Lily was in their grasp. I had no choice. Every fiber of my pride, every ounce of my military dignity, crumbled before the life of that child. I slowly dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have used force.” “Please, I beg you. Let go of the child. She will die if you don’t. Please.” Tiffany’s face lit up with a sickening rush of pleasure at my defeat. “Ha! Now you’re sorry? Too late!” She ordered a bodyguard to snatch the blood bag from the nurse’s hand, then took it herself and tossed it onto the ground… “So proud! You fought me for this trash?” She brought her stiletto heel down on the bag, crushing it. “No!” The nurse and I cried out simultaneously. Tiffany watched the dark red liquid splatter across the pristine floor, her grin widening into a mask of pure evil. “You want me to let go of this little mongrel? Fine.” “You will strip down right here, right now! Take off that ugly uniform! Let everyone see the cheap, trashy whore you really are beneath the clothes!” She saw me glance toward the entrance. “What? Waiting for your other little chicken sisters to rescue you? They show up, they strip, too!” “You don’t want to? Fine. I’ll just help the little mongrel loosen up her ground a little!” With a grotesque laugh, her hand slowly reached for the handle of the knife still buried in Lily’s abdomen. Without a doctor’s intervention, pulling that knife out would cause instant, massive hemorrhage. Lily would die in seconds. “Stop! Don’t you dare!” I shrieked, all composure gone. “I’ll strip! I’ll strip! Just don’t touch her!” Just as my fingers touched the first button of my shirt, Tiffany’s wrist was struck by a sharp projectile. The impact made her yelp and clutch her arm, stumbling backward. At the end of the hallway, a voice boomed—a thunderous, commanding shout. “I’d like to see who has the guts to touch them!”

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I was on the local news when I was born, simply for being too beautiful. By my first birthday, an embarrassing number of dynastic families were already swarming my parents, requesting a standing arrangement for a future marriage. When the tenth time a boy was hospitalized after fighting over me, my parents knew we had to move. They reluctantly packed up our lives and began using makeup to conceal my real face. I finally began to live what felt like a normal life. It was also the first time I truly felt the sharp, cold malice of the world without the armor of my looks. The day I was cornered, called a freak, and locked in a derelict storage room behind the gymnasium, I hit rock bottom. Then, Wyatt climbed in through the window. He took my hand and looked at me with an earnestness that was blinding. “Aria,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Beauty isn’t the only way to judge a person. You are you, and that’s what matters.” My heart hammered a desperate rhythm against my ribs. He was the first person to truly see me, and I was instantly gone. I worked harder than I ever had, making sure I got into the same university he chose. When my acceptance letter arrived, I clutched the paper, my hands shaking with nerves, ready to confess my feelings. But before I could speak, he beat me to it. “Aria, be my girlfriend.” The rush of pure, unexpected joy drowned me. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. For the next three years, Wyatt was everything. He was attentive, thoughtful, and protective. Everyone envied me for having such a handsome and sensitive boyfriend. Until the annual campus-wide holiday party. During a round of “Truth or Dare,” Wyatt drew the short straw and was dared to pick someone next to him for an impromptu ice-water challenge. The choice was between me and Savannah, the reigning campus queen. He chose me. The instant the ice water hit my head, my heart froze solid. 1 The bone-numbing chill ran from my scalp down to the soles of my feet. I gasped, shivering uncontrollably. The atmosphere in the private room had peaked with that single splash. Everyone erupted in cheers, their excitement oblivious to my discomfort. “That’s the move, Wyatt! Savannah is our campus face, our calling card. You can’t let the beauty suffer. Gotta sacrifice the girlfriend for the greater good!” “Seriously, who’d soak Savannah? If she caught a cold or got sick, we’d be stuck without our queen for days.” “Yeah, none of the other girls on campus even come close.” Savannah simply smirked, soaking up the attention with entitled grace. Someone held a microphone up to Wyatt like a reporter. “Mr. Wyatt, what was the psychological impulse behind that difficult choice?” The crowd leaned in, hungry for gossip. Wyatt irritably pushed the glass away. “Stop making a scene. I picked Aria only because Savannah mentioned she had a cold.” He walked over to me, pulling a clean hand towel from the server’s stand to gently wipe my face, then shrugged off his cashmere cardigan and draped it over my shoulders. My disguise, thanks to high-quality, theater-grade makeup, was still intact: my skin the color of wheat, the carefully drawn freckles that covered my cheeks, and my slightly puffy, unimpressive eyes. With my hair plastered wetly to my skull, I was, objectively, not attractive. Laughter rippled through the onlookers. A few girls who had always disliked me piped up. “Wyatt, seriously, why are you even dating Aria? You two are mismatched from head to toe.” Everyone believed I didn’t deserve Wyatt. I’d heard versions of this since we started dating. In the past, Wyatt would always scowl, tell them to take it back, and then reassure me that their opinions didn’t matter to him. But this time, he didn’t refute them. Savannah’s eyes were fixed on him, and I saw Wyatt’s peripheral glance straying right back to her. A sickening sourness rose in my throat. I instinctively grabbed Wyatt’s hand, but he flinched, pulling away instantly. I stared at him in shocked disbelief. Wyatt realized his mistake and quickly re-grasped my hand, but his gaze was shifting nervously. Just then, someone nearby announced, “Oh no, Savannah’s had too much champagne. Wyatt, you’re the only one with a car, can you drive her home?” “Sure.” He agreed without a moment’s hesitation. He turned to me. “Aria, Savannah lives on the opposite side of the city from you. I’ll call you a ride-share. You can head back, okay?” Before I could speak, others rushed to back him up. “What’s the big deal? She looks safe enough, nothing to worry about.” “Aria, you haven’t forgotten how to get home without your boyfriend, have you?” I opened my mouth, but the words stuck. My chest felt tight and heavy. Wyatt would never let me leave alone at night. He always insisted it was too dangerous for a young woman, and he’d wait outside, watching, until I was safely inside, even if it was just a few feet away. I squeezed his hand tightly. “Wyatt, I—” I was about to suggest I could ride along to drop Savannah off, but Savannah let out a painful groan. Wyatt instantly pulled his hand free and rushed to her side. He swept her up into his arms. I stood frozen in place, the party noise rushing into my ears. “Savannah looks flushed, she might have a fever!” “My bad, my bad, I shouldn’t have pushed her to drink with her cold.” Wyatt’s voice was urgent. “I’m taking her to the Urgent Care!” He dashed past me, cradling her, and his shoulder slammed hard into mine. I stumbled, falling to the ground, but he kept running, disappearing with the campus queen in his arms. 2 Between the dousing of ice water and the prolonged wait for a ride in the cold night air, I was predictably running a fever the next morning. I emailed my program advisor to request an extension and then called Wyatt. The phone rang for a long time before it was picked up. “W-Wyatt, I think I have a fever…” My voice was hoarse and weak. There was a silence, and then a woman’s voice—edged with a smug arrogance—came through the line. “Wyatt’s asleep. Do you want me to wake him?” My blood turned to ice. It took me a moment to find my voice. “Savannah? You’re at his place…” She chuckled. “To be precise, I am at his place. I was on an IV drip late last night, and my apartment is far. Wyatt brought me back here.” She paused, then her tone shifted to one of complete, assured victory. “Aria, you know, I could take Wyatt from you whenever I want. But taking your man would be far too easy.” Her words dripped with pride and confidence. You’re not even a worthy opponent, was the unspoken message. I balled my fists, forcing myself to stay calm. My voice was a cold whisper. “Wyatt isn’t some object. And he’s different from other guys.” Savannah laughed harder. “Defending him? Fine, I have something fun for you to hear.” She played a recording. Savannah’s slightly slurred, drunk voice was the first sound. “Wyatt, you never answered my question last night. Why are you really with Aria?” Then Wyatt’s voice: “She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s a good person. Why wouldn’t I be with her?” My tense muscles relaxed a fraction, and a faint, hopeful smile touched my lips. I knew it. Wyatt was different. But before I could feel any lasting relief, Savannah’s voice continued on the recording: “Is that so? Then why did you choose to take me home and not her? Why have you been sneaking glances at me all night?” “Wyatt, what if I told you that if you break up with her, I’ll be with you?” My heart seized up. Please, Wyatt, answer. Tell her you only love me. Reject her, now! A shaky, hesitant sound came from him. “Would you, really?” His voice was laced with an undeniable tension and a subtle, desperate hope. My entire world crashed down. The recording cut off. Savannah’s voice, sharp and triumphant, returned. “Get it now? Aria, being pretty is everything.” I hung up the phone. Hugging my knees to my chest, I finally admitted it: I was terrified. The fever-induced haze made thinking almost impossible, yet the image from high school flashed clearly in my mind: Wyatt climbing through that window, his warm hand enveloping mine. The white-shirted boy, full of righteous conviction. His palm was hot, sending a surge of strength into my own cold grip. “Aria, beauty isn’t the only way to judge a person. You are you.” That sentence had changed everything for me. I had hated myself then. My beauty had brought trouble to my family; my disguised mediocrity had made me a target for bullies. I had questioned my very existence. Wyatt’s words had forced me to re-examine myself, to focus on my character, my soul, rather than my surface. But I had forgotten that people change. Regardless of his feelings, I needed to hear the truth from him, face-to-face. I took some medication and slept for the rest of the day. The next morning, I saw a string of missed calls on my phone. Not one of them was from Wyatt. Before, if I went an hour without texting him, he’d race over, frantic that something had happened to me. I laughed a dry, self-mocking laugh. The answer was obvious. I composed myself and called the person who had called the most: my Program Advisor. She picked up immediately. “Aria, you finally answered. I heard you were sick, so you don’t need to worry about the Ivy League professor reception in three days. We’ve found a replacement.” 3 I froze, then quickly said, “Professor, I’m completely better, I can still go!” A little over a month ago, when the university learned that an Ivy League consortium would be visiting, they selected a small group of top students for the delegation. My fluency in French and German, and my polished etiquette, had earned me a spot. The credits from this event were crucial for my application to a prestigious graduate program overseas. For the past month, I had spent at least four hours every day preparing my presentations. My advisor had praised my dedication just last week. How could they replace me so easily? I rushed to the school to speak with her, insisting I was fully recovered and the assignment would not be affected. She sighed, giving me the honest truth. “Aria, I know how hard you worked. But Wyatt’s family just cut the school a check for a new Research Wing. Wyatt specifically requested Savannah take your place, and we simply couldn’t refuse…” “You what?” I heard my own voice, rough and abrasive. My advisor suddenly remembered who I was dating, and a look of regret crossed her face. “I won’t get involved in your personal matters. If you have questions, you should ask him yourself.” I found Wyatt in the library lounge, coaching Savannah on her conversation skills. Savannah was struggling; her English was poor, and her conversational skills were choppy. I had heard that Savannah desperately needed the academic credits, or she might have to postpone graduation. Wyatt had gone to incredible lengths for her. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps, pausing when our eyes met. “Aria, what are you doing here?” “Wyatt, did you steal my place on the reception team?” A flash of guilt crossed his face, quickly replaced by a sense of calm righteousness. “Aria, Savannah will be held back if she doesn’t get these credits. You’re already set for graduation, you don’t need this. It’s no loss to you to let her have the opportunity.” “But my graduate school application might fail! Do you have any idea how much effort I put into this?” “Then apply next year. I’ll stay with you, okay?” Perhaps because I had never spoken to him with such raw emotion, Wyatt seemed provoked. “Besides, the delegation team is full of handsome men and beautiful women. Wouldn’t you feel out of place standing there with them? I’m doing this to protect you, Aria, so you don’t get mocked again.” I couldn’t believe those words came from his mouth. He was the one who had held me, comforting me repeatedly, telling me to ignore the judgment of others. Now, he was the one stating his true feelings so plainly. The insults others had thrown at my appearance never hurt me. But one sentence from Wyatt broke me completely. The earnest, compassionate boy I had loved was truly gone. My eyes burned, and my body shook with indignation. Perhaps seeing me like this for the first time scared Wyatt a little. He instinctively lifted a hand to wipe away my tears. At that moment, Savannah let out a small sob. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have taken your place. I only asked if there was a chance after you mentioned you were sick.” “It’s just a year’s delay, I can try again next year. Wyatt, give her the position back.” As Savannah spoke, tears streamed down her face like precious pearls. She was, undeniably, beautiful even when crying. Compared to my own hysterical state, Wyatt’s focus instantly shifted. Looking at my red, swollen eyes and the dense layer of freckles on my cheeks, a flicker of disgust crossed his face. “Aria, when did you become so selfish and cold-blooded?” “Savannah’s family is struggling. An extra year of tuition and living expenses is a huge burden on them. Are you really only thinking of yourself?” “I got involved with you because I thought you were kind. But look at you now. There’s nothing left to love.” My fingers curled into tight knots. My voice was a desperate, exhausted whisper. “Then… we’re done. Break up.” 4 Savannah’s shriek rang out simultaneously with my words. Wyatt didn’t even look at me. He raced to Savannah’s side, swatting at a small insect that had landed on her dress. Savannah shrank into his embrace, flashing a quick, confident smirk in my direction. It was the look that confirmed what she had said on the phone: she could take Wyatt whenever she wanted. It no longer mattered whether Wyatt had heard my declaration. A man whose loyalty could be usurped by a pretty face was a man I no longer wanted. After calming Savannah, Wyatt turned around and noticed I was gone. He frowned, then a look of sudden panic flashed in his eyes. He thought he’d heard me say the word ‘breakup.’ He shook his head. No, he must have misheard. I had already resigned myself to losing the graduate school credit when my program advisor called me later that night. One of the selected students had been rushed to the ER with acute gastroenteritis. I was asked to step in at the last minute. I agreed. Early the next morning, I dressed meticulously and waited by the campus entrance. The other student ambassadors arrived, one by one. Savannah’s eyes widened when she saw me. I ignored her, quietly rehearsing the explanation I had painstakingly prepared. A crowd of students who had come to watch the VIPs gathered nearby. Someone yelled out. “Why is there a dirt smudge mixed in with the handsome ambassadors?” “Seriously, one bad apple spoils the whole bunch!” “Didn’t they pick the best students? That usually includes their appearance, right?” “Where does she get the nerve to stand there?” The loudest insults came from Savannah’s fan club, but as the discussion grew, others joined in, their eyes full of amused scorn. I kept my gaze forward, ignoring their judgment. I turned my head and met Wyatt’s eyes. He froze, then quickly looked away, as if afraid someone might discover our relationship. A sudden, wicked impulse sparked within me. I waved at him. “Wyatt! Don’t I look pretty?” Wyatt stared at me, dumbfounded. The surrounding students all looked at him. “Hey, man, you know her?” “Is that your girlfriend?” “No!” Wyatt denied it loudly. The small, deliberate smile I had forced onto my face faltered. My heart felt as if a massive, icy hand had squeezed it tight. The pain was suffocating. Suddenly, someone shoved me hard. My heel caught, and I tumbled to the ground. Something warm and wet splashed over me. Savannah cried out an apology, but it wasn’t for me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” she said to the boy next to her. I looked up. She was apologizing to a male student. “It was so sweet of you to make me that hot oatmeal, and I dropped it!” The boy’s face was beet red. “No, no problem! I can make you another batch!” “Savannah, you did that on purpose!” I scrambled to my feet and lunged forward, aiming a slap at her face. Wyatt rushed in and grabbed my arm, yanking me back. He looked furious. “What are you doing! She only accidentally spilled something on you, and you want to hit her?” “She’s the campus queen! She represents our school’s image!” “And what about me? Am I not a student here? Does her pretty face excuse everything?” “Wyatt, you’re the one who told me that looks don’t matter!” My eyes were swimming in disappointment. I wrenched my arm free and turned to walk away. Wyatt was left standing there, confused. Everyone assumed I had left, too ashamed to stay, soaked in sticky oatmeal, my clothes and makeup ruined. Some said I had finally realized how out of place I was. As the arrival of the guests grew imminent and I still hadn’t returned, the advisor grew frantic. “We’re one short! Is Aria coming back?” “Professor, she deliberately walked out, you should dock her credits!” “This is a key day for the school, she needs a disciplinary record!” “I say she should be expelled! She’s embarrassing the school!” At that moment, a motorcade of dark sedans pulled up, and everyone turned excitedly to the entrance. The advisor, panicking, was about to step in herself when a voice came from behind. “Professor, I’m ready now.” Hearing my voice, the advisor let out a huge sigh of relief and turned to me. “Aria, perfect timing, quick—” She stopped mid-sentence. Her breath caught in her throat. “You… who are you?” Along with the advisor’s stunned question, the crowd also turned. Every single person who saw my face froze, slack-jawed. Savannah’s face went instantly white. I smiled faintly. “Professor, it’s Aria.” A hand clamped down hard on my arm. Wyatt stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re Aria?!”

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I spent forty-one years in an “AA” marriage with my wife. I earned $4.12 million a year; she made three thousand a month. I never saw a problem with it. In fact, I was proud of my “fairness.” The day she turned sixty-four and retired, I finally announced, with a flourish of condescension, “The AA is over. You can be a full-time daughter-in-law now.” She smiled. The light in her eyes was utterly unfamiliar to me. “We AA-ed for a lifetime,” she said. “Let’s see it through to the end. Let’s have an AA divorce.” Before I could process the absurdity, a lawyer stepped out from behind her and handed me a thick, unsettling document. 1 The high-end Italian restaurant’s chandelier refracted tiny, expensive beams of light onto the soft, unassuming face of the woman across from me. Evelyn Reed, my wife, was sixty-four and officially retired. I swirled the four-figure Cabernet in my glass and, using the tone of a man bestowing a great gift, announced, “Evie, congratulations. As of tomorrow, the AA agreement in our household is officially over.” I watched for the expected flicker of bewilderment on her face, feeling the satisfying rush of self-granted magnanimity. Forty-one years. I, Arthur Kingston, a self-made CEO of a publicly traded company, had always upheld the most progressive—the most equitable—model of marriage. Our assets were separate; our expenses were meticulously split, down to the last roll of toilet paper. I made $4.12 million a year, lived in a penthouse high above the city, and was chauffeured everywhere. She made three thousand a month working a small-time library job until retirement, took the crowded morning and evening subway commute, and haggled over the price of produce. I never saw anything wrong with it. Marriage was a partnership, not a charity. I had given her the status of “Mrs. Kingston,” which was an honor she never could have attained on her own. “It’s… over?” she murmured, repeating the word. The light in her eyes was flickering, and I couldn’t quite read it. “Yes, over.” I set down my wine glass and leaned forward, adopting my familiar, non-negotiable business posture. “My mother, Betty, is getting older. Her health is declining, and she needs constant, specialized care. You’re retired, so your schedule is open. You will now dedicate yourself to the home and become a full-time daughter-in-law.” “I’ll take over all the household expenses, of course. You won’t have to worry about money anymore.” I watched her, waiting for her to burst into grateful tears, accepting my “retirement package” with a sense of immense relief that she no longer had to stress over a few dollars in the grocery aisle. But she didn’t. She smiled. The smile was calm, even carrying a thread of cool, almost pitying distance I had never seen before. “Arthur,” she said. “We AA-ed for a lifetime. Let’s see it through to the end.” Her voice was soft, yet it shattered the restaurant’s soothing background music like a cold hammer blow. “We’ll have an AA divorce.” My mind went instantly blank. Divorce? The word, coming from her, sounded like a cruel joke. How could a woman who had been dependent on me for forty-one years, who paid her share of the monthly HOA fee in installments, have the audacity to say that word? “Are you insane?” I hissed, my voice low, my anger beginning to boil. “Do you know what you’re saying? Without me, you wouldn’t be able to afford next month’s rent!” “That won’t be your concern.” As she spoke, a young man in a sharp suit appeared silently at our table. He looked grave and held a thick manila envelope. “Mr. Kingston,” he nodded curtly at me, then turned to Evelyn, his attitude instantly changing to one of respect. “Mrs. Reed, everything is prepared.” Evelyn made a simple gesture toward me with her hand, her eyes calm and unwavering. The young lawyer slid the envelope across the table. I stared intently at Evelyn, searching for any hint of retreat or jest. Nothing. Just a deep, incomprehensible stillness. Furious, I ripped open the envelope. What I pulled out wasn’t a standard divorce petition. The top page had a title in bold, black type. Compensatory Claim for Unremunerated Services and Emotional Distress During the Matrimonial Partnership. Absurd! I slammed the document onto the table with a crash, the expensive silverware clattering loudly, drawing the attention of nearby diners. “Evelyn Reed! This is extortion!” I ground the words out between my teeth. “Mr. Kingston, please maintain your composure,” the lawyer said, as cool and emotionless as a machine. “Every item on this list is supported by detailed records, market price substantiation, and relevant legal precedent. If you refuse to accept, we will meet in court.” Evelyn stood up and adjusted the collar of her old, slightly faded trench coat that she’d owned for years. For the first time in forty-one years, she didn’t look at me once. She simply turned and walked away, leaving me with a decisive, resolute back. I sat there, stunned, the world around me blurring. The expensive food on the table quickly grew cold, emitting a greasy, stale smell. And that list, the one I had thrown down, burned my eyes with every single word. 02 When I returned to the top-floor luxury condo I called “home,” I was met with dead, cold emptiness. The old slip-on shoes Evelyn always kept by the entryway were gone. The crocheted cushions she’d made for the sofa were missing. The small array of potted herbs and flowers she meticulously tended on the balcony—they, and their planters, had vanished without a trace. She had done this with surgical precision, clearing out every last thing that belonged to her. A strange, cold scent—or lack of scent—filled the air, making me shiver. I grabbed the preposterous “bill” with a trembling hand, determined to see what other ridiculous claims she had concocted. I had expected a property division list, but the contents utterly warped my reality. Item One: Compensation for Childbearing: $40,000. A small note followed: “Estimated based on late 1980s surrogacy market rates in major metropolitan areas. Adjusted for inflation and risk factors, this is the minimum quote.” I laughed bitterly. She was treating giving birth to our son as a business transaction? Item Two: Nursing/Lactation Labor Fee: Calculated at an 8-hour workday, for 365 days, referencing the market rate for a Senior Postpartum Nanny/Lactation Specialist: Total: $55,000. Item Three: Services for Minor Child (Owen, aged 1–18): After-school tutoring, transport to extracurriculars, parent-teacher conference attendance, daily meals, and general care. Total estimated hours: 15,768. Billed at a blended rate for a Senior Tutor and Child Development Specialist: Total: $450,000. Item Four: Services for In-Laws (George & Betty Kingston): Regular visits, holiday care, hospital transport/stays, end-of-life care, and emotional support. Total estimated hours: 5,840. Billed at the rate for a Certified Geriatric Care Aide/Palliative Specialist: Total: $325,000. … My hands shook harder as I scanned the list. Everything—from the first solid food she pureed for our son to every shirt she ironed for me; from every hour she spent at my parents’ bedside to every social engagement she maintained with our relatives—everything had been quantified by cold, hard numbers. The neat handwriting, the clear line items, the detailed notes—it sent a chill straight to my core. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment tantrum; this was a calculated, four-decade-long financial reckoning. The most offensive, the most unbearable item, was the last one. Item Ten: Marriage Maintenance and Emotional Value Provision Fee: Total: 41 years. “Given that the contracting party (Arthur Kingston) consistently provided negative emotional value during the partnership—including emotional neglect, verbal dismissal, and psychological pressure—the service environment for the claimant (Evelyn Reed) was classified as extremely hostile and high-risk. This item is therefore subject to a 200% risk premium on the standard market rate.” The total at the bottom was an astronomical figure that stole my breath. $5.8 Million. This number far exceeded half of my liquid assets. She was trying to bankrupt me! I snatched up my phone and dialed her number. The cold, automated voice informed me: “The number you have dialed is switched off.” Blackmail! This was nothing less than brazen extortion! I immediately called Larry, the head of my firm’s top-tier legal team. “Larry, I need you to handle a divorce case,” my voice was hoarse with rage. “A lunatic woman is trying to fleece me for a ridiculous amount of money.” “I want her to walk away with nothing! Not a single dime of my money!” Hanging up, I looked around the empty condo, my last bit of panic replaced by pure fury. Evelyn, you are so naive. You think a few sheets of paper can challenge the structure I built? I’ll show you that in this world, money and power are everything. 03 I threw a copy of the “astronomical bill” onto the conference table in front of my legal team, confidently waiting for them to assure me how easily we would win. Instead, Larry and his team looked more and more grim. “Mr. Kingston, the situation… may be more complex than you realize,” Larry adjusted his glasses, his tone uncharacteristically cautious. “Complex? What’s complex about a housewife’s baseless ravings?” I scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. Larry paused, then slid a folder toward me. “The opposition doesn’t just have this bill. They have the… evidence chain to support it.” I glanced down, and the blood rushed to my head. It was a Table of Contents for the evidence. Part One: Documentary Evidence. This included Evelyn’s handwritten journals, which she’d kept for forty years, starting the second year of our marriage. They contained daily itemizations of every household expense, every single AA-transfer record, and every small amount she had fronted me—logged down to the cent. They also included every tuition bill, report card, and award certificate for our son, Owen, from kindergarten through college. And, the medical records, hospital stays, and billing statements for my parents. Part Two: Witness Testimony from Neighbors and Family. A list stretching over a dozen pages, including neighbors from our first cramped apartment building, the current resident across the hall in the luxury condo, and our various distant relatives. They were all prepared to testify who had actually cared for the elderly, educated the child, and maintained the basic social and familial decorum for four decades. But the third part was what truly made my scalp crawl. Part Three: Audio-Visual Materials. The parenthetical note read: Recordings. Larry opened his laptop and played an audio file. It was my own voice, so clear and distinct there was no way to deny it. “Your mother’s illness is her issue. Why are we touching the joint contingency fund? My capital is for investment; every penny must generate compound returns.” “The cost for the kid’s SAT prep went over budget. That’s your mistake, not mine. You need to handle it yourself; don’t come to me.” “Make sure you transfer me the money for those fruit baskets you bought my father. We’re AA; keep things clean, Arthur. Especially between husband and wife.” I stared at Larry, horrified. “She… she started recording me when?” “The earliest recording we see is over twenty years ago,” Larry looked deeply uncomfortable. “Mr. Kingston, she was prepared. This evidence, especially the recordings, would be devastating to your social standing and company reputation if released in open court.” A dizzying wave of nausea hit me. I had to clutch the table to keep from collapsing. The audacity! This woman, who had played the role of the meek, compliant rabbit for forty-one years, was a latent wolf, hidden in plain sight, ready to strike a fatal blow! “Settle, Mr. Kingston,” Larry’s advice was a bucket of cold water. “We need to settle this out of court and minimize the damage. We cannot win this trial, and you will only lose more publicly.” “No!” I roared, my reason swallowed by monumental humiliation. “I will not surrender to this blackmail!” I will not lose! Arthur Kingston never loses! If she was going to be ruthless, I would be more so. I immediately called my private bank manager, speaking in a tone of absolute command: “Freeze all of Evelyn Reed’s bank accounts and cards immediately! Now!” I would financially suffocate her, force her to realize that without me, she couldn’t even buy a bottle of water. I would make her crawl back and beg! Five minutes later, the bank manager’s call back was a cold slap in the face. “Mr. Kingston, I apologize. Mrs. Reed’s checking and savings accounts are nearly empty, and they were progressively cleared out over the last three months.” “Furthermore… we have discovered that Mrs. Reed holds a significant sum in a Trust Fund. The trustee is not her, so we have no legal authority to freeze it.” A Trust Fund? My head swam. I remembered. A decade ago, when Evelyn’s father, an honest, simple schoolteacher, passed away, he left her a modest inheritance of about $35,000. I had “kindly” suggested she let me invest it for her, promising a guaranteed annual return of over 10%. She refused, saying she didn’t understand high finance and just wanted to put it in a long-term CD for Owen’s future wedding. I had laughed at her lack of ambition, her classic “poor person’s mindset” of hoarding dead money. It turned out she had been hedging against me since then! She had put that money into a trust that I couldn’t touch! An unprecedented, suffocating sense of loss of control wrapped around my heart like a vine. Things were spiraling entirely outside my orbit. The woman I had slighted for forty-one years had woven an invisible net, and I had just walked straight into the trap. 04 After the initial shock and rage, I forced myself to be logical. I still had one last card to play. Our son, Owen. He was my blood, raised on my philosophy of “elite education.” He was my most successful “investment product.” A top law school graduate, a rising star in his firm. His entire life had followed the trajectory I had mapped out. He would, unequivocally, stand by me. Blood is thicker than water—that was an undeniable truth. I called Owen, making sure my tone was calm and measured, carrying the proper blend of paternal affection and authority. “Owen, your mother… her emotions might be unstable right now. She’s making some outrageous demands. As her son, you need to talk sense into her. Tell her to stop this nonsense.” A long silence followed on the line. So long, I thought the call had dropped. Just as I was about to speak again, Owen’s voice returned, ice-cold and utterly alien. “Dad, I’ll see you in court.” “What did you say?” I thought I’d misheard him. “I am acting as my mother’s legal counsel.” Boom! I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, my blood instantly turning to ice. My son, my pride and joy, had become the weapon pointed directly at my throat? “You ungrateful bastard!” I couldn’t maintain the facade any longer, roaring into the phone. “I raised you! Is this how you repay me? By helping your mother plot against your own father?” “Dad,” Owen’s voice remained perfectly flat. “Did you really ‘raise’ me?” He hung up. I gripped the phone, the veins bulging on the back of my hand, nearly crushing the cold metal. Half an hour later, I received a text from Owen—a coffee shop address. He said that as adversaries, he felt it necessary to meet before the trial. When I rushed into the cafe, Owen was already seated. He wore a custom-tailored suit, his hair meticulously combed, his expression stern, like a warrior preparing for battle. He looked so much like me. Especially his eyes—calm, rational, even carrying a hint of cold, analytical critique. But right now, I desperately wished he didn’t resemble me at all. “Why?” I sat opposite him, my voice gravelly. “Why are you doing this for your mother? Don’t you know this will ruin me, and it will destroy our family?” “Family?” Owen offered a thin, cynical smile. “Dad, did we ever have a ‘family’? We were just three people sharing a roof, strictly bound by an AA financial agreement… roommates.” The words stabbed me deep in the chest. “I am your father!” “Are you?” He looked me directly in the eye, his gaze so sharp I couldn’t hide from it. “Then answer this: When I was eight, I had a fever, nearly 104 degrees. I needed an imported fever reducer—a shot that cost $120. Mom only made $300 a month and didn’t have the cash. She begged you to cover it for her first. What did you tell her?” My mind went instantly blank, the distant memory brutally dredged up. I remembered. Of course, I remembered. I had said: “That’s a failure of her budget planning, not mine. I won’t pay for her mistakes. She needs to figure it out herself.” I even added: “It’s a good lesson for him, too—what happens when you don’t follow the rules.” Owen watched me, his eyes slightly red-rimmed, yet his voice was chillingly steady. “I remember. Mom drove thirty minutes back to Grandma’s house that night to borrow the money. She didn’t get back until three in the morning. I saw her from the window. She was crouched by the flower bed downstairs, sobbing, shaking all over.” “She didn’t want to wake me, and she certainly didn’t want to wake you. She cried down there for half an hour, then wiped her eyes and came upstairs to give me the shot.” “Dad, from that day on, I understood.” “Your idea of ‘fairness’ is your inherent selfishness.” “Your ‘rules’ are just tools you use to control and exploit others.” “You only love yourself, your money, and your empty philosophy. You never loved me, and you never loved Mom.” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. That “small incident,” which I had long dismissed, had left such a deep, enduring scar on him. “I chose law school so I could be ready for this day.” “Helping Mom organize the bill, gather the evidence, setting up the irrevocable trust to separate her assets from yours… I orchestrated all of it.” “You love talking about rules, don’t you? Fine. Today, within the rules of the law, I’m going to help her settle the account for these forty-one years.” I looked at my familiar yet unrecognizable son. He was using the very “rationality” and “rules” I had taught him to deliver the most devastating blow. My proudest “creation” had become my “gravedigger.” The lights in the coffee shop spun and warped, and my vision tunneled. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer and collapsed onto the table. For the first time in my life, I felt utterly shattered and hopeless.

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For three days, I hadn’t submitted a single expense request through the corporate system to Grant. He must have assumed I was finally learning how to be a proper high-society wife, because he sent a text message, a condescending gesture of reward. “I’ve resumed your mother’s treatment. Learn your lesson now—stop lying and padding your requests for extra cash.” “I know it’s hard for people from your background, but my money isn’t that easy to steal.” What he didn’t know was that by the time I received that text, I had already finalized the divorce papers. The only thing I could take with me was the white T-shirt and worn jeans I’d been wearing the day I moved in. No one would believe that Eleanor Stone, the glamorous wife of Grant Harrington, didn’t own four respectable pieces of clothing after three years of marriage. Every private expenditure had to be filed through the corporate expense system. All my clothes and jewelry were kept under lock and key in a walk-in safe, and I had to apply to his secretary, Serena Wu, just to access them. It was because he despised my humble origins. He was convinced I would acquire the “bad habit” of reckless spending, common among the newly rich. Three days ago, my adoptive mother’s condition worsened critically. I filed an urgent request for twenty thousand dollars for surgery. Serena, however, deliberately stalled the expense approval, a delay that cost my mother her life. She died in that hospital bed. Grant never understood. The only reason I endured him for so long was for the exclusive medical resources his company controlled—the only resources that could have saved her. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left to stay for. 1 I told Grant I wanted a divorce, but he refused. His response was a cold, three-word text: “Stop the drama.” When he finally spoke to me, his eyes never left the glow of his laptop screen. It was as if the dry electronic data held more interest for him than the conversation with his wife. I lowered my gaze, my voice steady. “I’m serious, Grant. I want a divorce.” He stood up, inhaling deeply, his expression chillingly detached. “The pause in your mother’s treatment? I authorized it. It had nothing to do with Serena; she was just following orders.” “If you hadn’t barged into my office and made a scene, I wouldn’t have felt the need to teach you a lesson.” “I had the treatment reinstated yesterday. My time is precious. I don’t have time for your temper tantrums.” He turned and walked away before I could reply, convinced that it wouldn’t be long before I came crawling back, head bowed. He was sure I’d swallow my pride and start trying to please him again, just like before. Even when he’d told me to my face, “Don’t be so desperate for my attention, it’s frankly disgusting.” I would just smile and silently return to being the dutiful, long-suffering housekeeper. But whether the treatment was reinstated now or not no longer mattered. If Grant had just taken my call three days ago, I might still be here, flattering him, bending over backward for him. But he was always too impatient to talk to me. I begged him not to hang up that day, pleaded for him to hear me out. But my desperate cries were instantly drowned out by Serena’s smooth, poisonous voice. “Is Eleanor upset because I reminded her to follow proper protocol, Grant?” She sounded delicate, wounded. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t want her to keep those messy, unplanned habits from her old life. If I stick strictly to the rules, she’ll learn discipline.” Hearing that, Grant’s impatience with my call sharpened. Ignoring my pleas, he delivered a cold, final command: “Do exactly what Serena says.” It was always the same whenever I needed him. “I’m busy. Talk to the secretary.” “Listen to Serena.” “Do whatever Serena tells you to do.” I was his wife, yet I had no dignity. Forget having a normal life. Even for the necessary social functions of a Grant Harrington wife—the ones I was required to attend—I had to submit an application for approval from his secretary. Every time, Serena would smile brightly and casually reject the ridiculous request. “Ellie, the description isn’t detailed enough. Rewrite it, please.” “The gala ends at 10 PM. Why did you write 12 AM? That’s not acceptable.” “Ellie, why are you always like this? Didn’t I tell you to review your application before submitting? Check it again.” She always ensured the approval came at the very last second, then she would watch, smiling sweetly, as I frantically scrambled to reach the venue, often late, often looking like a mess for the sake of a necklace or a dress. When I inevitably arrived late, Grant would look at me with palpable displeasure. “Eleanor, don’t you have a sense of time management?” “You can’t even handle a small task like this. Do you see now why you could never measure up to Serena?” But I couldn’t handle that small task. I was constantly late. All because of Grant Harrington’s “excellent secretary” and “virtuous assistant.” He couldn’t see it, or he simply didn’t care. Just as he knew my mother’s illness couldn’t tolerate delay or a break in medication. Yet, he still snapped at me irritably over the phone. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you need money urgently, go to Serena. Do you think she wouldn’t give it to you?” Getting money from Serena was, as always, an ordeal. “What kind of emergency needs twenty thousand dollars upfront? Ellie, are you just inventing excuses to get cash?” “Twenty thousand isn’t a small amount. I need an itemized receipt before I can approve it, darling. Application denied for now.” I explained it was an estimated pre-payment, and the final receipt would only be issued upon discharge. Serena curved her lips into a smirk. She feigned realization. “Oh, is that how it works? I wouldn’t know; everyone in my family is perfectly healthy.” “But expense approvals are very strict. We can’t let violations slide. How about you get a formal policy document from the hospital and attach it? Then I’ll approve it. Denied for now.” Later, she tried another tactic. “Hospitals sometimes fake documents, don’t they? I’m not saying you would, Ellie, but the possibility exists.” “Why don’t you attach the industry regulations instead?” And just like that, the critical time for emergency treatment was pushed back and back by Serena. By the time I finally received the money, even the most exceptional medical team was powerless to reverse the outcome. A continuous knot of hatred and anguish tightened around my heart. A suffocating feeling, beyond description, filled my chest. This marriage was a cage that restrained me. I had to escape. The moment I clearly understood my next steps, I suddenly felt light. It was as if the invisible shackles I’d carried for years had abruptly vanished. So when I received Serena’s defiant social media post—a picture clearly meant to provoke me—I felt absolutely nothing. I was calm enough to screenshot it and even click the ‘like’ button. Whenever Serena was involved, Grant’s messages always came quickly. “Serena has done great work lately. I’m simply taking my employee out to dinner. Don’t start any ridiculous rumors, Eleanor, and don’t make people misunderstand the situation.” I don’t know what Serena had told him this time, but he followed up with a self-righteous demand. “You already liked the post. If you take it back, people will get the wrong idea about Serena.” “Leave a comment, praising her work. Consider it encouragement from both of us, as a couple.” I didn’t intend to respond. But I thought about it, and the bitterness in my stomach was too much to swallow. So I complied with Grant’s demand. I commented on Serena’s post: “Serena, your dedication is admirable. Your impartial application of the corporate expense policy to both your boss’s wife and your co-workers, and your use of a simple system to wield the maximum amount of petty tyranny, is exemplary. Keep up the good work and the excellent wickedness.” “Every penny you save for the corporation now is a potential increase in your future alimony, should you succeed. Thumbs up.” I tossed my phone aside after replying. I began to calmly pack my things. My phone kept buzzing the entire time, but I ignored it. Packing didn’t take long. After all, every single valuable item supposedly belonging to me was locked securely behind a password-protected closet door and a triple-locked safe. For years, I had been a temporary guest in this house. Even my presence left only the shallowest trace. Now that my eyes were open, I finally understood the truth. 2 Grant arrived home fast. I had to admit it again: when it came to Serena, he was always prompt, never dragging his feet. He didn’t seem to notice the small suitcase by my feet, his eyes blazing with fury. “Did you not hear me calling you?” I was indifferent. “I heard it. I chose not to answer.” Grant looked at me as if I’d spoken an utterly ridiculous line, genuinely unable to comprehend my refusal. “I told you! Serena’s work has been excellent lately. I simply took her out for dinner.” “Do you have any idea how many people in the company already misunderstand her? How is she supposed to maintain her reputation after you post something like that?” I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a cold laugh. “Well, it seems not everyone is blind, then. Turns out, some people know exactly what she’s been up to.” I looked at Grant. “Besides, I’m not her mother. Why should I worry about whether her life at the company is easy or not?” Grant’s face darkened instantly. “Eleanor, when did you become one of those vulgar people who listen to every baseless rumor?” “You know how difficult it is for a young woman to achieve a high-ranking position in the corporate world. Why are you spreading slander and insulting another excellent woman? If you hadn’t thrown that fit at the office last time, would Serena have had to endure this?” His eyes were full of exhaustion and accusation. “You want to be an unproductive socialite? I won’t fault you for that. I’m happy to keep you in luxury. But not all women are as short-sighted and useless as you are.” “If you continue to be malicious and slanderous toward Serena, don’t test me. Think about your mother.” I finally burst out laughing. My voice was raw with grief and pain. Right in front of Grant, I opened my suitcase. “Luxury? Take a look at the life of luxury I lead in your house.” “I’m leaving, and I can’t pack four decent items of clothing. I have to file an expense report just to get a haircut, asking your esteemed secretary for permission. The nanny’s monthly salary is higher than mine, the wife of Grant Harrington!” I grabbed Grant’s arm and forcefully dragged him to the walk-in closet, pointing at the combination lock on the door. “Do you even know how to open this lock? It requires a code and a fingerprint scan. Even your company’s confidential files aren’t secured this tightly!” “What kind of wife living in ‘luxury’ has to beg for her daily necessities like a mistress living off scraps from her husband’s secretary?” Incredulity was etched all over Grant’s face. He looked bewildered. “Is this why?” “Is this why you’re jealous of Serena? Why you ran to the office to ruin her reputation?” Hearing his question, my heart sank completely. Everything I’d just said was utterly wasted on him. If Grant had believed for one second that this was wrong, that it was insulting and degrading to me, he would have stopped it years ago. For all these years, he had indulged every ridiculous suggestion Serena made, putting my basic necessities under the corporate expense system. I lowered my eyes. “Fine. Think whatever you want.” “We’re getting a divorce.” Hearing my absolute certainty, Grant actually smiled. His expression was one of knowing condescension. “That’s enough, Eleanor. I don’t have time to coddle you.” “Your drama is just a cheap stunt to compete with my secretary. Don’t assume all women are petty and small-minded like you.” He slowly smoothed the wrinkles I’d created when I grabbed his shirt, sounding as if he were making a massive concession. “Tomorrow, I’ll arrange for the best medical team from overseas to treat your mother. I’ll also have Serena give you the codes for the closet and the safe, and change the fingerprint access to yours.” “From now on, the finance department will wire you ten thousand dollars a month. No more expense forms.” After all our years together, I knew Grant well. For him, this was the ultimate compromise. Logically, I should have accepted the truce. But I was truly sick of this three-person relationship. No—perhaps I had never been truly involved in the first place. Even now, he made all these promises, yet he didn’t say a single word about Serena’s actions. We both knew the ridiculous expense protocol was her sick joke. The man in front of me casually agreed to change the system. It meant he simply didn’t care. If I accepted his arrangement now and returned to being Mrs. Harrington, Serena would still be a permanent fixture in our lives. “I don’t want any of it. I just want a divorce.” Grant finally realized I wasn’t just throwing a tantrum. Not only was I rejecting his peace offering, but I was determined to leave. His impatience instantly curdled into rage. “Eleanor, don’t forget the prenuptial agreement! You won’t get a dime if you divorce me!” “And what about your family business, and your mother’s illness? Do you really think your stepfather—the one with the new family—will take care of her without me?” Of course, he wouldn’t. I was painfully aware that if that ungrateful man hadn’t abandoned my mother and forced me into a corner, I never would have agreed to this absurd marriage in the first place. Grant and I were parallel lines that were momentarily forced to intersect. Now, all I was doing was letting things return to their proper course. I zipped up my suitcase again, my voice neutral. “I don’t care.” Grant froze, confused as to why his historically foolproof methods no longer worked. But his ego wouldn’t allow him to beg. So he simply watched, silent, as I walked to the door. Right as I pulled the door open, Grant almost gave in to the sudden terror and called out my name. But then he remembered what Serena had told him. “The wife is just bored at home, Grant. She wants to play out a scene from a bad soap opera.” “I’ve seen plenty of women spoiled by the good life. Just ignore her, let her stew, and she’ll come running back soon enough, apologizing to you.” She will be back, Grant thought, fighting his rising anxiety. He reached into his pocket but pulled out only a piece of handmade pear candy. He often coughed after smoking, especially when the weather was dry, so I had found many small ways to help him feel better. She isn’t completely useless, Grant conceded to himself. When she comes back, I’ll make sure she apologizes properly, sincerely regrets this, and never threatens me with divorce again. He quickly convinced himself. 3 After leaving Grant, I hesitated for a long time before going to see my old professor. When Professor Adler, her hair now completely white, saw me dragging my thin suitcase, she didn’t say a word. She simply stepped aside, gesturing me into her home, just as she had for all my visits years ago. My eyes instantly welled up, and tears began to fall. She had been the fiercest opponent of my decision to quit school and marry. Even on my wedding day, she didn’t stop texting me. “Ellie, hardship is temporary. There is no obstacle you can’t overcome.” “You can find another way to solve your problem. Don’t be foolish and sacrifice your entire life.” “The trophy wife life looks good on paper, but your contributions are invisible. Your degree will be a temporary halo, but you will always be a beggar, dependent on others for money. And when you beg, you always have to bow.” Time had proven Professor Adler correct in every way. Initially, Grant was impressed by my degree. But then Serena entered his life. She claimed that since I had been a ‘street urchin’ before my adoption, a college degree couldn’t erase the bad habits I’d learned in my youth. She said I needed to learn the rules of their class and develop good spending habits. I was the one asking Grant for money. He could choose to give it to me, choose not to give it to me, or choose to give it to me in the most humiliating way possible. I cried until I had nothing left. Professor Adler finally spoke, her voice calm. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your skills.” “I have a job here, field research that requires hiking and deep data collection. Are you in?” I was momentarily stunned. I hadn’t expected my mentor not only to welcome me but to offer the very thing I needed most—work. She frowned slightly. “What? Have you gotten too used to the good life of a socialite? Can you no longer handle the grind of us working stiffs?” The tears were still on my face, but I managed a genuine smile. “I can handle it, Professor. For myself, I’ll endure any hardship.” Professor Adler smiled warmly, immediately shifting into action. “If you agree, contact the team quickly. This is work, not a TV drama. We don’t have time for self-pity.” Under her arrangement, I quickly joined the research team. At first, I struggled to adjust. But as the days passed, the knowledge and operating procedures etched into my soul surfaced. I became increasingly adept. The serious, unsmiling team leader gave me a thumbs-up. “I was worried you’d be too delicate. But you’re proof that great teachers produce great students.” I smiled back. “Everyone is just looking out for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have adjusted so fast…” Just as we were joking around, an inappropriate call rang out. “Eleanor?” I turned to see Serena, dressed in high fashion, clutching a brand-new designer handbag. She looked dismissively at the people around me. “I wondered why you suddenly started demanding a divorce from Grant. Turns out you’re just slipping back to your old habits, slumming it with these sorts of low-lifes again.” She wrinkled her nose as if speaking to us was a generous gift. My face went cold. We were measuring data like savages, and we probably looked a mess, but that wasn’t an excuse for her to insult us. “Serena Wu, are you a cockroach? Are you everywhere I go?” Serena’s face flushed. A deeply familiar man emerged from behind her. “What’s wrong?” Hearing his question, Serena’s eyes reddened, and she spoke in a soft, injured voice. “Nothing, darling. It’s just that Eleanor has been gone for so long, and I saw her here, mixed up with some rough-looking people, obviously stalking us. I just tried to talk some sense into her…” “But she completely misunderstood…” Grant finally noticed me standing opposite him. He frowned slightly. His eyes held an air of knowing dismissal. “Eleanor, are you harassing Serena again? If you’re here to apologize to me, you need to apologize to Serena first!” I rolled my eyes and, with a gesture, led my team away. A female colleague beside me whispered, “Ellie, who was that?” I sneered. “My blind, brainless ex-husband.” Grant’s face darkened, and he demanded, “Eleanor! You followed us all the way out here. How long are you going to keep this up?” “You’ve been gone for weeks, showing no concern for your mother. Where is your conscience? Are you really going to force me to cut off her medical funding?” I looked at him with profound weariness, my voice flat. “Just do it, then. It’s the thing you do best, isn’t it?” Stung by my look of utter contempt and coldness, Grant couldn’t tell whether he felt more anger or the dawning fear of loss. He immediately pulled out his phone, missing the flicker of panic on Serena’s face. “Grant, maybe we shouldn’t…” Grant pushed down Serena’s hand, which was clutching his arm, and spoke to her with sudden, chilling finality. “She needs a lesson. Otherwise, she’ll never learn how to be Mrs. Harrington!” The assistant on the other end of the line sounded hesitant after receiving the order.

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I was getting a manicure when Rhys’s ninety-ninth mistress cornered me. She slapped an ultrasound image down on the marble countertop. “You’re Rhys Blackwell’s wife, right? I’m pregnant. You need to file for divorce now.” I glanced at the grainy printout, then skillfully pulled out a stack of documents—evidence of her own extracurricular activities—and slid them across to her. Her attitude executed a perfect 180-degree turn. She tore up the ultrasound. “I’ll leave Rhys immediately!” I admired my fresh manicure. Blood-red, it had taken eight hours of meticulous work. A minute later, I told the manicurist, “Take it off.” I had a certain kind of “fierce battle” scheduled for the evening. This color wouldn’t give me the range of motion I needed. Since marrying Rhys, I have either been dealing with one mistress or on my way to dealing with the next. I’d long since become the city’s favorite joke. People in the social circles would greet me with a smug, knowing look, asking for the secret to spotting an affair. The truth? I didn’t care that Rhys found mistresses; I cared that those mistresses tried to lay claim to the Blackwell fortune. Besides, every time I caught one, Rhys would unconditionally grant me one demand. This time, I chose a child. 1 “What do you want this time?” I’d barely stepped through the front door when I heard Rhys’s lazy voice. I looked up. He was stretched out languidly on the sofa, long arms open, waiting for my response. I slipped into my house shoes, walked over, and said with careful sincerity, “A child.” “I want a child, yours and mine.” His narrow, foxy eyes studied me, a trace of genuine interest flickering across his face. He patted his thigh. I moved to sit, and his arm clamped around my waist, pulling me hard. I tumbled into his embrace. Gazing at his devastatingly handsome face, I leaned in and kissed him. When the intensity peaked, he exerted a savage force while his voice was ice-cold. “Don’t you dare try to use a baby to trap me like all the other women.” “Even if you bear my child, I could never love a woman who was shoved down my throat!” He drove into me, frantic and brutal. I winced, biting back the cry of pain that threatened to escape. I don’t know how long it was before a phone call tore him away. I lay in bed, taking long, ragged breaths, my hand resting on my flat stomach. What I wanted had never been that pathetic, conditional kind of love. Rhys Blackwell was notorious—the infamous, spoiled scion of the city’s elite. Wealthy families warned their daughters away from him. Even over thirty, Rhys remained a delinquent playboy. The Blackwell parents were distraught. With no other option, they looked to “socially downward” prospects. After layers of filtering, I—a poor, high-achieving university student with no family to speak of—entered their sights. They only needed a woman who was compliant, sensible, and capable of keeping Rhys in line. I acted the part perfectly: obedient, understanding, gentle in my care for Rhys. I was meticulous, seemingly humble, and just strategic enough to offer a few well-placed, high-EQ comments that satisfied the elder Blackwells. Even with Rhys’s vehement opposition, I was installed by his side. I became the notorious Mrs. Blackwell—the butt of everyone’s jokes. After that, Rhys only got worse, sometimes juggling three mistresses at once. He constantly fed the gossip columns. As his wife, I had to assume the responsibility of damage control. Once, his reckless partying caused a major issue for the Blackwell Group, and after a severe dressing-down from his parents, he backed off slightly. That incident was the start of my plan. I began my careful, step-by-step strategy. Initially, my demands were trinkets—jewelry, designer bags. Then, expensive cars and apartments, reinforcing the illusion that I was nothing more than a grasping, materialistic woman. When I’d ticked off enough conditions, I graduated. It was a seamless transition to a role within the Blackwell Group, using my own skill set, amplified by the prestige of being Mrs. Blackwell, to climb the corporate ladder. Ding-dong. Rhys’s hundredth mistress sent a provocative message. A classic catfight challenge, every sentence designed to provoke me, Mrs. Blackwell, into a dramatic breakdown. I typed a couple of nonchalant sentences in response, turned off my phone, and walked into the bathroom. I could play the jealous wife’s game easily, but I would never immerse myself in such a pointless contest. What I wanted was to stand at the peak of power. Once I carried the Blackwell heir, the elder Blackwells’ indulgence of Rhys would curdle into resentment. And they would begin to cultivate the child in my belly— The new successor. 2 My in-laws had been pressuring us for a grandchild for years. So when I asked for a baby, Rhys didn’t put up much of a fight. He was a man who loved to play. As long as I initiated it, he was happy to indulge in a session in bed. But every single time, the moment we were done, he would be called away by a woman on the phone. This time, the call came mid-session. The sound of his phone ringing shattered the atmosphere. He froze, then carefully, gingerly, picked up the phone. I don’t know what the mistress said. Rhys pulled away from me, dressed, and walked out. This had never happened before. In the past, even when his mistresses called, he would put them on speaker. He would be driving into me on one side, while enjoying my pained expression as he whispered crude jokes into the phone to the woman on the other end. The woman would pout and feign offense on the line. He would mock me, saying he could never love me, that I was just a domestic obligation. I had listened to variations of that speech for five years. Now, this hundredth mistress had managed to make Rhys halt what he was doing and rush to her side. She had some kind of power. Ding-dong. The mistress’s text popped up: [Rhys really loves me. He ran right to me after one phone call.] [If you have any sense, agree to the divorce immediately. Stop clinging to him.] I chuckled quietly: [How can you be so sure he loves you? The last time I checked, he was still forcing himself on me just moments ago.] Silence from the other end. She must have been fuming. Getting angry over that? The position of Mrs. Blackwell was not so easily earned. Of the ninety-nine mistresses before her, how many hadn’t I personally seen? Rhys used to make me run errands, sending me out late at night to buy contraceptives. If we got carried away and forgot protection, he’d instruct me to make sure his mistress took the morning-after pill. Rhys had a gift for turning the knife. I’d send one mistress away, and he’d find another one immediately. Then he’d toss me a consolation prize—a diamond, a trust fund deposit—just to keep me from reporting him to the in-laws. But his actions never truly cut me. And naturally, I never considered reporting him. The more chaos he created, the more beneficial it was for me. Seeing the faint second line appear on the pregnancy stick, I immediately went to the doctor. Upon confirmation of the pregnancy, I told my in-laws first. Overjoyed, they invited Rhys and me to the family estate for a congratulatory dinner. That night, a heavy snow began to fall. The winter wind was an icy knife. Halfway there, Rhys took a call from his mistress: “Ah! Rhys, help me…” The line cut out. He slammed on the brakes, turning to me with an urgent growl, telling me to get out. I glanced over at his sharply chiseled face. A look of genuine panic and deep concern was etched there. This was a look I’d never seen for any of the previous ninety-nine women. He was serious. He was emotionally invested in this Skylar. When I didn’t move, he raised his leg. His long, strong leg effortlessly kicked open the passenger door, and he shoved me out of the car. “You go alone!” He spat the words out in a rush of anxiety, then floored the accelerator, driving toward Skylar’s apartment. I’d done my research on Skylar. She came from a difficult background. She had a younger brother, and her parents strongly favored him. She worked in a bar from a young age and had met Rhys during a drunken one-night stand. In front of Rhys, she was harmless and innocent, a doll-faced girl whose eyes were always brimming with tears. She always managed to look so pitiful and vulnerable. Her eye sockets were perpetually rimmed with a faint red. But behind his back, she often cursed me out. 3 It wasn’t a long distance to the estate. I considered walking. After all, in our five years of marriage, this was the first time I’d been literally thrown out of a moving vehicle. I took two steps and stopped. I was pregnant. For the sake of the child in my belly, I couldn’t risk it. I called the in-laws, crafting a perfect excuse for Rhys. I said he had been called away on an urgent corporate matter and that I couldn’t get a taxi in the snow. Of course, the Blackwells didn’t believe me. They knew their son’s character too well. I arrived at the estate less than ten minutes later. After the family doctor examined me and confirmed the pregnancy, the genuine smiles on the in-laws’ faces multiplied. “Five years, and we finally have a grandchild, Sienna,” my mother-in-law, Eleanor, said. “As for Rhys, you know what he’s like. Don’t hold it against him.” “You are carrying the Blackwell heir now. Once the child is born, he’ll naturally focus his attention on the family.” Rhys’s attention would never return to me. But I didn’t care. I responded with quiet obedience. Their concern was gentle. They insisted I stay at the estate. A dedicated nutritionist was put in charge of my meals. A top-tier housekeeper handled my daily needs. Meanwhile, Rhys… Because I was pregnant, Skylar was upset. She threw a massive tantrum that lasted for days. In the past, Rhys would have dumped any mistress who caused such a fuss. This time, Rhys broke all precedent. He abandoned his work and took Skylar on a trip overseas, pulling out all the stops to appease her. The surveillance photos showed them strolling romantically on a remote island, dancing and kissing on a yacht. He was even confronted by Skylar’s parents. Rhys used his influence and money to legally separate Skylar from her family—he bought out the relationship for $200 million. It was straight out of one of those cheesy billionaire romance novels I used to see. The billionaire handles all the heroine’s problems, defies his wealthy parents, and they live happily ever after. Unfortunately, life is not fiction. Money can’t sever blood ties; it only nourishes the greedy appetite. I wasn’t idle during this time. I continued to help Rhys manage the corporate expenses he’d charged to the company books, and I steadily climbed the corporate ladder in my own right. My ambition was clear, written on my face. I repeatedly used my own savings to buy incriminating photos from paparazzi, hiding them away. My in-laws kept a close eye on me, too. They noticed my furtive behavior and rushed in, suspecting an affair, only to discover I was collecting the evidence of Rhys’s indiscretions. My mother-in-law looked at me with a sliver of genuine emotion in her eyes. “You’ve been covering up Rhys’s messes all these years. You’ve worked too hard, Sienna.” I offered a slight smile. “Mom, it’s a daughter-in-law’s duty.” She patted the cushion beside her, signaling me to sit. She gripped my hand. “You don’t need to worry about these things anymore. Your father-in-law and I can handle it.” “Just focus on your pregnancy, and forget the office. The most important thing is for our grandchild to be born healthy.” Leaving the company meant severing my access to internal information. Impossible. I pursed my lips. “Mom, I know my limits; I won’t jeopardize the baby’s health.” “I love my work… If I stop, I’m afraid I’ll just brood and overthink.” My mother-in-law stared at me for a moment, then silently transferred $1 billion into my account. They had always been generous. They regularly transferred money to my account, usually a million at a time. I rarely needed the funds and had accumulated tens of millions. $1 billion was unprecedented. It confirmed my gamble had paid off. I thanked her, smiling sweetly for her affection. After she left, I stared at the sum, then immediately donated the entire $1 billion to a national youth education fund. My hand rested gently on my growing belly. I wanted more than this ten-figure check. I wanted the entire Blackwell Group. Power was the sweetest kind of relief. 4 When Rhys returned and learned I was staying at the estate, he moved Skylar into our marital home immediately. The housekeeper there told me Skylar hated my scent. She threw out all the scented candles and diffusers. Any object associated with me was coldly discarded by Rhys. The entire house was then doused in the cloying, heavy scent of cheap orange perfume. The housekeeper once complained to me: “Ma’am, it’s a terribly low-quality perfume, but the master insists on her wearing it, even if it stings his nose.” My belly grew larger each day. I still moved through the corporate offices. The elder Blackwells’ increasing trust meant I gained importance within the company. Coupled with my own competence, I successfully shielded the company from several high-stakes financial and reputational battles. I began to touch the core layers of the business. Rhys, in contrast, grew increasingly indifferent to his work. His obsession with Skylar intensified, reaching a point where he disregarded the company’s interests. Every time Skylar’s family created a scene, he’d dip into the company coffers. His constant pampering only fed the Su family’s greed. His spoiled, immature, and irresponsible use of corporate funds became a testament to their love. He even forced Skylar’s relatives into roles within the company. All because Skylar had once said, “But he’s my brother.” Even when her brother committed a serious infraction and I had him cornered for termination, Rhys would only snap impatiently: “Can’t you stop targeting Skylar for once?” I was always compliant. I naturally listened to my husband and stopped “targeting” her. He retaliated by assigning Skylar—who knew nothing—to be my personal secretary. Skylar was utterly clueless. She couldn’t keep up with my pace and didn’t understand half of what I said. The moment I spoke, her eyes would turn red, and she’d run to Rhys to cry without saying a word. Rhys would then burst into my office and angrily lash out at me, a heavily pregnant woman. With Skylar’s “help,” the company successfully lost several major contracts. Rhys, however, blamed my incompetence, ordering me to hurry home and focus on my pregnancy. I quietly endured it. As I neared my due date, Skylar grew visibly anxious. She tried to find ways to cause a miscarriage several times. When I repeatedly evaded her schemes, she finally lost control and violently shoved me. The impact sent me into early labor. I gripped my abdomen, crying out in pain as bright, fresh blood flowed down my legs. I looked at Rhys, my husband in name only: “Rhys, the blood, our baby…” He shielded her behind him, his face a mask of cold indifference. “The child can be replaced. Who told you to bully Skylar? You deserve it!” “No one help her!” Skylar peeked out from behind Rhys, an expression of triumph directed right at me. She intended to let me bleed out and lose the baby. But I had already prepared. My in-laws took my pregnancy very seriously. The house was riddled with their loyal security staff. Seeing me fall, they frantically rushed to my side, desperately trying to get me to the hospital. Skylar tried to block the elevator, stopping them from helping. Without a second thought, the men shoved Skylar aside, smacking her face, and hurried to get me to the hospital. Their employers were the Blackwells—the baby’s grandparents. Not Skylar. They understood the hierarchy perfectly. When the Blackwells heard the news, they rushed over, demanding Rhys immediately cut off all ties with Skylar. Rhys, however, knelt openly before them. “Mom, Dad, I’m serious about Skylar!” “She’s the only one I want.” “Anyway, you have the child you wanted now. I’ll divorce Sienna once she gives birth, marry Skylar, and let Skylar raise the baby.” As the loud, sharp cry of a newborn split the hospital air, I knew it then. Rhys was finished.

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I was the Vaughn family’s best-kept secret, their illegitimate daughter tucked away in the sprawling estate in Greenwich. Everyone in the inner circle knew Mrs. Evelyn Vaughn, the woman with the saintly reputation, had kept me out of the goodness of her heart—a quiet act of charity and perhaps a means to earn extra grace for her cherished, chronically ill youngest daughter, Willa. What they didn’t know was the cost of that charity. From the time I was six until I turned twenty-six, I had donated blood to Willa hundreds of times. A year before that, she’d needed a healthy organ, and half of my left kidney was now inside her. When Willa turned twenty-seven, her heart began to fail. Pierce Vaughn, the eldest son and the family’s CEO, was the first to act, securing me back inside the Vaughn estate before I could take another breath. I stood in the library as Mrs. Vaughn, her fingers constantly moving over her Malas—the worn, fragrant prayer beads—spoke to me. Her voice was gentle, a warm, soft benediction that felt entirely like a lie. “My dear girl, it is I who have wronged you. When you are gone, you must come back and take my life. Seek no one else.” But on the day of the planned surgery, the old housekeeper, a woman who had worked for the Vaughns for decades before she’d been dismissed and confined after a nervous breakdown, appeared, raving through the hospital halls. She screamed, “Mrs. Vaughn! They switched the babies that year! Someone swapped your child!” That day, the proud, pious Evelyn Vaughn was forced to execute her own heart, to claim her own life. 1 After I was admitted to the hospital and locked down, the person who visited me most often was Pierce Vaughn, the brother who had personally dragged me back from the airport. He never seemed to have a purpose for being there. He would just sit in my room for hours, watching me knit a scarf. Finally, I couldn’t bear the presence of my personal human freezer anymore. I dropped the yarn and looked at him, a headache starting behind my eyes. “You’ve got more than enough security guards to make sure I don’t run, Pierce. You don’t need to personally babysit me.” The words seemed to hit him. He shifted his gaze, looking away with a sudden, palpable shame. It took a long moment before he looked back, his voice thick and almost helpless. “Is there… anything you want?” He paused, a tiny, ragged breath slipping out. “Or, a wish? Before… before everything.” A wish? My fingers tightened on the knitting needles. The day I was brought back and locked up, I had been scheduled to board a flight north—to Montana—to finally see the snow. In my twenty-seven years, because of Willa’s perpetually fragile health, I had never once been allowed to leave the City. At the beginning of the year, the doctors had said Willa’s health was improving. The Vaughns had, finally, loosened their leash. But Willa, high on her newfound freedom, had gone skydiving and scuba diving with her boyfriend. Her broken body had immediately gone into shock and she’d been rushed to the hospital. Now the doctors needed a new heart. So, the snow I’d imagined a thousand times over became a fantasy I would never touch. And now, the chief architect of my predicament was asking me for my dying wish. As if speaking it would magically make him capable of granting it. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. Seeing the desperate, unyielding look on Pierce’s face, I gave a flippant answer. “Honeysuckle Jam, then.” Pierce blinked, confused, then said quietly, “Honeysuckle Jam. Mom loves that, too.” “You two are the only ones who like sweets, though. Willa won’t touch it. Says it’s too cloying.” I curled my lips and didn’t reply. I, the bastard daughter, wouldn’t dare compare myself to the Vaughn family’s saintly matriarch. Pierce had nothing more to say. He sat a bit longer, then rose to leave. He stopped at the door, his silhouette framed in the light, and glanced back at me. “Sloan. Believe it or not, after all these years, we genuinely see you as family.” I snorted. Family. The word was a horror movie soundtrack. I hoped I would never be reborn, just to avoid running into a family like this again. 2 For as long as I could remember, I knew the shame of my existence in the Vaughn house. I always hunched my shoulders, trying to minimize my presence, to become a shadow in the elegant corners. But that didn’t stop me from envying Willa. She was sick from birth, practically living in the hospital. When she was in crisis, Mrs. Vaughn would sit by her bedside all night, chanting and turning her prayer beads. Mr. Vaughn would drop everything to fly home and just see her. Pierce and Reid would scramble to find the newest toys and gadgets just to coax a single smile. Her room was a riot of fresh flowers and plush animals. Her supply of love was infinite. And I, minutes after having my blood drawn, would hide in the room next door, listening to the silver chime of her laughter. The blood loss left me weak and nauseous. But I wasn’t allowed the privilege of expressing my suffering as she did. When she was happy, she laughed loudly. When she was upset, she pouted and cried. When she was in pain, she wept. Every tear she shed earned her double the affection. My tears, my pain, were an inconvenience. My happiness was always ill-timed. To the Vaughn family, her life was precious. Mine, it seemed, was only meant to exist for the sake of hers. It was Reid Vaughn, the second son, who reminded me of this constantly. He hated me the most in the entire family. Moving my room to the suffocating attic was his idea. From grade school to college, he tirelessly educated anyone who would listen about my status as the illegitimate daughter. Thanks to him, I had very few peaceful moments growing up. His favorite line, delivered with a cool, cruel smile, was always: “Your usefulness to Willa is the single greatest purpose and value you will ever have, Sloan. You should be grateful.” Later, perhaps because Willa’s condition stabilized, he unexpectedly softened toward me. One day, I was carrying a stack of heavy old books down from the attic and nearly tripped on the staircase. He was right below and, without thinking, reached out and steadied me. He even asked if I was okay. When I said I was fine, he hesitated, then asked if I wanted to move my things out of the attic. That night, I was too terrified to sleep, wondering what kind of terrible prank he was setting up for me. Thankfully, Willa had another health scare and was admitted to the hospital. Reid reverted to his old self, finally stopping those strange, unsettling looks. Yet, when I was dragged back to the City and sent to the hospital for my final rounds of testing, he stayed by my side the entire time. His head was bowed, he never looked at me, but his hand was shaking violently. Even now, while I was confined here waiting for the operation, he hadn’t once come in to warn me to be docile and cooperative. I shook my head, clearing him from my mind. Instead, I focused on the black cashmere scarf in my hands. I held it up, admiring the progress. Just a little more. I should be able to finish it on the day of the surgery. I only hoped that the person who received this gift would have the opportunity to make it through the winter I wouldn’t see. 3 Later that evening, Pierce had his assistant deliver a jar of Honeysuckle Jam. A big, beautiful glass canister. I had just managed to twist off the lid when my door was flung open violently. The next second, the jar was knocked out of my hand and shattered on the floor. Reid’s voice, thick with rage, exploded in the room. “What did you say to Willa?” “She won’t agree to the surgery now! She was fine when she left her room, but after she saw you, she had a meltdown! Did you say something to upset her?!” I stared at the thick, golden jam spreading across the clean white tile floor for a long, quiet moment. Then, I lifted my head, meeting his frantic, bloodshot eyes. My voice was eerily calm, even to my own ears. “Yes.” “I told her I didn’t want to die. Is there a problem with that?” It was the unvarnished truth of my heart, but to a Vaughn, it was treason. Reid froze completely. I smiled, my eyes locked on his, and spoke with deliberate, measured cruelty. “I told her I was only twenty-seven, that I was too young, and that I didn’t want to die.” “Are you satisfied now, Reid?” All the color drained from his face. He stared at me, speechless. After a moment, he wrenched his gaze away and stumbled backward, practically sprinting out of the room without even closing the door behind him. The silence returned, leaving only the cloying, almost bitter scent of the ruined honeysuckle. I had lied to him. Willa had indeed been wheeled into my room that day, with Pierce in attendance, his eyes giving me constant, silent warnings. Willa believed I was in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Her face was pale, but she spoke to Pierce with a playful, almost childlike complaint. “Big Brother, you didn’t even tell me Sloan was here for surgery! Good thing I’m smart and saw you sneaking up the private elevator.” Pierce gently stroked her hair, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. My fault. I apologize.” Willa then turned to me, smiling. “Sloan, an appendix is nothing. Don’t be scared.” Her smile faded then. She lowered her eyes. “It’s not like me. I have to have a heart transplant in a few days. They’ll take my heart out… that must be awful, right?” I stood there, lifting my hand to my chest, touching the spot where my strong, healthy heart was currently beating with furious energy. Yes. Having your heart taken out must be awful. I’m terrified, too. She had left that day smiling brightly. I had no idea why she was suddenly refusing the surgery now, making Reid run in here like a rabid dog. He was the most fiercely protective of Willa in the entire family. He would literally fight anyone who dared to make her cry. I had to admit it—Willa had won the birth lottery. If there was a next life, I prayed I wouldn’t draw a script this rotten again. I sighed and slowly walked to the mess on the floor. I crouched down, dipped a finger into the sticky jam, and put it in my mouth. Sweet. So incredibly sweet. I licked my lips, looking at the pool of amber preserve. My voice was a soft whisper of regret. “Too bad I won’t get to taste this again.” 4 Willa came to my room again the night before the surgery. A nurse’s aide pushed her wheelchair. Her lips were dark, and she had an oxygen tube clipped to her nose. It took her a while to catch her breath before she spoke. “Sloan, tomorrow is the surgery. I’m scared.” I didn’t reply, my knitting needles clicking steadily, working on the last few rows of the scarf. Time was running out. She didn’t seem to need an answer. Her eyes were fixed on me as she spoke in a soft voice. “Sloan, do you… do you hate me?” “We’re both Vaughn children, and we were often sick at the same time. But Mom, Dad, and my brothers were always with me.” “And you… here…” The steel needle in my hand paused, and I suddenly missed a loop. She bowed her head, and I couldn’t see her expression, only hear the rattling sound of her breathing. “No.” I corrected the missed stitch. “There’s nothing to hate you for.” You just got used to it. I was first taken to the hospital for blood draws when I was five. At that age, my concept of ‘home’ hadn’t been completely crushed yet. I naively believed that if I helped my sister, I would finally be accepted into the family. So, when I was discharged, the first thing I did was cautiously reach out and take Mrs. Vaughn’s cold hand. I whispered, “Mom.” I don’t remember her exact expression that day. I only remember her telling me to go back and learn some manners. That was when I understood. Willa and I existed in entirely different universes. Later, as the blood draws became more frequent, they didn’t hurt as much. And later still, when they took my kidney, they granted me a small measure of privilege. I was moved out of the attic into a slightly nicer room, and I was given special, gourmet recovery meals for a few days. Not a single person, from beginning to end, told me the surgical details, or asked if I was willing. I got used to being taken from. I got used to preparing, with every critical prognosis for Willa, for the possibility that another part of my body might be claimed. I was only deeply, completely sorry that I wouldn’t get to see the snow in Montana. 5 Twelve hours before the operation, my scarf was finally finished. The black cashmere yarn, which I had chosen specifically, should complement his complexion beautifully. I smiled faintly, folding the scarf neatly and placing it on the bedside table. My gaze fell on the jar of Honeysuckle Jam next to it. It wasn’t the fancy glass canister Pierce had sent, but a simple, store-bought jar. It looked like a high-quality product. I didn’t know who had put it there. I only knew it appeared on my nightstand the moment I woke up. That morning, Mrs. Vaughn came to see me. She sat on the edge of my bed, her fingers twisting the prayer beads, and took my hand. She looked utterly exhausted. Every time Willa was hospitalized, Mrs. Vaughn would keep an all-night vigil at her beloved daughter’s bedside, staying awake for days. This time was no exception. She stared at me blankly for a long time. Finally, her eyes landed on the jam. “You like Honeysuckle Jam, too?” I nodded. Her eyes instantly flooded with tears. Large, heavy drops rolled down her cheeks without warning. “It’s so strange. Pierce told me you liked it, but I didn’t believe him.” “Willa is actually allergic to honeysuckle…” The last sentence was a mere whisper. Her tears flowed faster, and her grip on my hand tightened unconsciously, her nails almost digging into my skin. After a long pause, she regained her composure, looking at me. “Sloan, I have failed you. I won’t deny the sins I’ve committed.” “But I am a mother. I would rather die myself than fail to save my child.” I gently pulled my hand from hers and offered a faint, tired smile. “I know. Willa is truly blessed to have you as a mother.” I meant it. Willa was blessed. She had a mother willing to give everything for her. She had a family who cherished her like a rare jewel. Evelyn was silent for a moment. “When you were brought to the Vaughn house all those years ago, I hated you.” “I thought, Why is my child fighting for her life while you are healthy and smiling without a care?” “But Sloan, the more you gave to Willa, the harder it became for me to face you.” “What did you ever do wrong?” “I have no choice, Sloan. I owe you a debt that I can never repay.” “If you wish to come back and claim my life, I will not complain.” I looked at the tears at the corners of her eyes, feeling a sense of unreality. For years, Mrs. Vaughn had spent her days copying scriptures in the Vaughn chapel, seemingly detached from the world. But when distant relatives and house staff bullied me, it was she who stepped forward time and again to chase them off. Once, I was terribly sick with a high, raging fever. Through the haze, a cool hand rested on my forehead. I forced open my heavy eyelids and saw Mrs. Vaughn sitting on the edge of my small, narrow attic bed. Later, she gathered me into her arms and carried me downstairs. It was the first time she had ever held me, and it would be the only time in my life. I felt a pang of profound sadness. I had never met my mother. So, until my dying breath, I would never know if her embrace would have been as gentle as this one. 6 Just as the gurney was waiting at the door of my room, and the nurse was doing the final checklist before the operating room, Reid burst in. His eyes were terrifyingly red. He stammered, telling me disorganized memories from my childhood. Finally, he couldn’t speak anymore, his voice ragged as he repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t respond, just watched him with quiet detachment. He stumbled back a step, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders beginning to heave. I didn’t know why he was having a nervous breakdown now, choosing to come bother me instead of being by his beloved sister’s side. But as I was about to die, I finally felt the freedom to speak the words I had always wanted to say. “Reid Vaughn!” He looked up at me. I smiled faintly. “Out of everyone in the Vaughn family, I hate you the most.” His face turned sickeningly white. I thought for a moment, then added, with a malicious satisfaction, “I will absolutely, unequivocally never forgive you.” Even as I was wheeled into the operating theater, I was savoring the memory of Reid’s ashen, frozen face. It was strangely satisfying. He looked like he had genuinely lost a beloved sister. And then, my world went dark.

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It was Serena Wells who came to me, begging me to take the fall for her childhood best friend after his drunk driving accident. “Dean’s father saved my life, Beck. Can’t you just endure this for me? When you get out, we’ll get married.” I nodded, tears blurring my vision. Two months, she’d promised. When I got inside, I learned the sentence was six years. I tried to recant my confession, but all I earned was a beating. “Someone outside is keeping a tight lid on you. Who do you think you are, a filthy criminal daring to dream about someone like Miss Wells!” My eyes were bloodshot from the blows. The last thing I saw before I passed out was the prison TV, where Serena was walking arm-in-arm with her childhood friend, announcing their engagement. My heart turned to ash. After six years of torture where every day felt like a lifetime, I was finally released. But as I quietly boarded a train with my worn suitcase, Serena’s assistant stood respectfully in front of me. “Mr. Miller, Ms. Wells wants to see you.” 1 I sat in the car, watching the city rush backward. Six years had changed Coronado Bay significantly. The car passed a towering skyscraper. A news story was playing on a massive billboard: “Coronado Bay Heiress Serena Wells Spends Nine Figures on a Watch for New Boyfriend; Couple Seen Entering Mansion.” Nine figures. I slowly counted the zeroes. I looked down at the simple woven bracelet she’d given me six years ago. It had cost maybe two dollars, and now the surface was dull and rough. I gently unclasped it and tossed it out the open window. In the blink of an eye, the car pulled up to a sprawling estate. Lost in thought, I took the phone the assistant handed me. Serena’s light, pleasant voice drifted through. “Beck, something came up. Wait for me at the house for a bit.” I listened silently, and only after three seconds of her pause did I manage a slow, muffled grunt of agreement. Serena went quiet for a moment, sounding slightly confused. I had grown silent over the past six years, no longer the person who used to chatter on endlessly to her. After the call ended, I sat in the villa, waiting. The cleaning staff behind me occasionally glanced my way, whispering. “Ms. Wells brought another one home. This one is too thin. Not very good-looking.” “I think he came straight from prison.” “Oh, God, how unlucky. Ms. Wells’s taste is getting so strange. At least before it was actors, models, or rich kids. This one is just…” They sighed, shaking their heads, feeling Serena was settling. I felt nothing, except for the urge to keep checking my wrist for a non-existent watch. Serena’s promised “a bit” had stretched into seven hours. I hadn’t eaten since leaving the facility. The air conditioning was set too cold, and I was simultaneously freezing and famished. I finally asked the butler for any news of Serena, but after asking twice, he glared at me with clear impatience. He treated me like just another one of Serena’s hangers-on. “Ms. Wells is entertaining Mr. Palmer. They’re watching fireworks from a yacht right now. She doesn’t have time for you.” Dean Palmer. His name flashed instantly through my mind. Six years ago, he’d drunk-driven and critically injured two pedestrians. I took his place. I went from being Beckett Miller, the beloved son of a respectable family, to a universally condemned inmate. He, meanwhile, had been elevated to Mr. Palmer, adored by Serena, living a life of utter privilege. But I didn’t care anymore. My family’s collapse, my parents’ suicide—nothing could stir a ripple inside me now. Except for the two things Serena had promised before I went in: marrying me, and buying back my family’s heirloom bracelet. Now, I no longer wanted the marriage. My only wish was to retrieve the heirloom. My thoughts snapped back. The wrenching pain in my stomach grew sharper. I clutched my abdomen and walked to the kitchen. As I reached to prepare something, a maid unceremoniously slapped my hand away. “Don’t touch anything. Ms. Wells and Mr. Palmer don’t like outsiders eating here.” “You’ll have to wait.” She finished with an eye-roll and walked away. After three more hours of waiting, Serena still hadn’t returned. I lay on the sofa. My vision turned black. I passed out completely. 2 When I woke up, I was in bed with an IV drip in my arm. Serena was facing away from me, angrily scolding the staff. “Are you all idiots? The man is starving and you couldn’t manage to make him some food?” “One more time, and you’re all gone!” Dean Palmer heard the commotion and walked in. “Serena, don’t be mad. Come out and have some tea.” He pulled her out of the room. The maids looked at each other, their faces pale. “That scared me. Ms. Wells hasn’t been that angry in a long time.” “It’s his fault! Putting on an act to make us look bad!” “Don’t get cocky. He’ll be kicked out in two months anyway.” The women hurried away. I pulled out the needle and slowly walked out. The first person to see me was one of Serena’s friends. She clearly didn’t know who I was, only saying with surprise: “Serena, is this the new housekeeper? Why is he coming out of your room?” Serena spun around, and when her eyes met mine, her pupils visibly flinched. Unseen for six years, she was still poised and elegant. I, however, looked like a traveler facing his final days, my expression weary and aged. Dean let out a small, smug chuckle and strode over, puffing out his chest. He addressed the woman in the silk dress like the master of the house: “Layla, this is… a distant cousin of Serena’s from out of state. Not a housekeeper.” I looked at Serena. She watched me silently, offering no denial. She must have decided that the current me was too much of an embarrassment to acknowledge openly. It made sense. I was now an ex-con. Our engagement had been six years ago—history. As the silence stretched, the chef announced that dinner was ready. We sat down. They chatted about recent events, which I didn’t understand at all. I just kept my head down, focusing on my food. But suddenly, Layla exclaimed: “Oh, right, Serena! That boyfriend of yours in prison must be out by now.” “You never seemed that into him anyway. Just give him some cash to go away. Make sure he doesn’t cling to you.” In an instant, the previously lively dinner table fell silent. Dean glanced at me, a flash of mockery in his eyes. Serena’s face remained composed, but she didn’t answer. Layla sensed the shift and started to apologize, but I interrupted her with a small, calm smile. “He won’t.” Layla turned to me, curious, and asked why. I slowly swallowed my rice, but before I could open my mouth, Serena cut in sharply. “Enough. Just eat.” She stared fixedly at me, her beautiful eyes churning with an unreadable depth. I remained still, lowering my gaze to my plate. After dinner, Layla noticed the grand piano in the living room on her way out. “That’s a gorgeous piano. Who is it for?” Dean swaggered over and began to play a clumsy, elementary piece. When he finished, he looked smugly at the appreciation in Layla’s eyes. “I just started lessons, but my teacher says I’m a natural. Better than some people who’ve been playing for ten years.” He glanced at me, clearly aiming the comment. I had studied piano, violin, and guitar since childhood, with the piano being my strongest. I even performed at a famous concert hall in my twenties. Dean had always been fiercely jealous, claiming he’d be even better if he’d had the money for lessons. Now that I’d been locked up for six years, he assumed my skills had withered. He grinned, facing me. “Beck, I hear you were quite the prodigy. Why don’t you show us what you’ve got?” 3 Serena’s brow furrowed, as if she wanted to stop me. But my fingers were already on the keys. The next second, a rich, rhythmic melody flowed out effortlessly. It was a level of mastery that made Dean’s beginner piece sound like mere noise. A look of surprise flashed in both Serena’s and Layla’s eyes. When I finished, they both applauded immediately. Dean’s face was green with rage, and he glared at me with hatred. Layla moved closer, her tone earnest. “Wow, you’re incredible. I have a concert-grade piano at my place. Want to come over and try it sometime?” I opened my mouth, but before I could reply, Serena’s voice came out, cold and sudden. “It’s getting late. You should go. Dean can take you.” Layla shot me a look of genuine disappointment. Dean looked annoyed but followed her out, glancing back at me repeatedly. The vast living room was left to just Serena and me. I pulled my shoulders tighter, shivering slightly. The air conditioning was high, but her face was colder than the air. Serena suddenly grabbed my wrist. Her tone was ugly, almost cruel. “Beckett Miller, you’re out for one day and you’re already trolling for dates? Were you dying in there?” I didn’t react. I just gave a weak, indifferent tug of my lips. I was barely a man anymore, having lost nearly thirty pounds. The confident spark of my youth was gone. Seeing my silence, she seemed startled. I used to love fighting with her. But now, looking at my face—a surface of dead water—a sharp, needle-like pang hit her heart. Her voice softened immediately. “I didn’t mean that.” “I will give you what you’re owed. Just not right now. Our marriage is still happening.” The word “marriage” made her pause. She lowered her voice slightly. “What did you mean at dinner when you said ‘he won’t’?” Serena fixed her eyes on my expression, clearly desperate to know what I’d meant. I countered with my own question: “Where is the bracelet? My family’s heirloom.” Serena froze, the light in her eyes flickering. My heart seized up. My voice cracked. “Tell me. Where is the bracelet?” She sighed in frustration. “Dean took it to wear. I forgot to get it back. I’ll call him now.” The ringing sound of her phone cut through the air. I closed my burning eyelids and waited. Suddenly, Serena looked at my wrist. “Where is the red string I gave you?” “It broke.” Serena flinched. Seeing my careless indifference, her heart tightened inexplicably. Thirty minutes later, Dean rushed back, sweat dotting his forehead. Serena’s eyes flashed with concern. She spoke with a hint of reproof. “Did you have to rush?” Dean bit his lip. He spoke in a low, meek voice: “I was worried Beck would be mad at you.” Serena stroked his head, a gesture that clearly meant thank you for your trouble. Dean stuck out his tongue playfully, then turned and walked toward me, smiling. “Beck, I was the one who pestered Serena for the cuff. You’re a bigger man, please don’t be mad at her.” Dean was a master of passive aggression, instantly placing me on the high ground of being an unforgiving villain, while he played the role of the pitiable, compassionate friend. But I was tired of his games. I simply held out my hand. “Give it to me.” Dean nodded and handed me a small, ornate box. My heart hammered. I quickly raised my hand to take it. But the moment my fingers touched the box, he let it go. It tumbled to the floor. I lunged to save it, but I was too late. The open box showed the cuff, now broken in two. 4 Dean looked genuinely horrified, but as he leaned in close to my ear, his voice slithered out like a viper. “If I can’t have it, you can’t either.” Seeing the triumph in his eyes, my head exploded. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. Dean crashed to the ground, his voice shaking with feigned terror. “I’m sorry, Beck. You can hit me all you want.” He reached out to gather the broken pieces of the bracelet. Seeing his act, I felt a surge of pure fury. I reached to push him away, but in the next second, Serena’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist. She shrieked. “Enough!” A vein pulsed on her forehead. She looked enraged. But when she met my desperate, tearful gaze, her voice finally softened. “Don’t cry. I’ll buy you another one. Dean didn’t mean to.” She placed a gentle hand on my head to comfort me, but every word she spoke was an excuse for Dean. I clung tightly to the shattered jade pieces, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. Blood streamed from my palm, dripping onto the floor, blooming into stinging red stains. Serena’s eyes narrowed. She quickly pulled my hand away. She stared at my bloody, lacerated palm. Just as she was about to explode at me, I saw black spots fill my vision. I crumpled to the floor. I woke up feeling utterly exhausted, my head splitting. My throat felt like I had swallowed razor blades, so I dragged my heavy body out to get some water. As I reached the corner, I saw two figures standing in the dim hallway. Dean’s voice was fretful, as if he hadn’t recovered from the conflict. “Will Beck be upset if I sleep here?” “I run this house.” Serena’s voice was quiet but held an iron-fisted authority. The feeling of being protected flooded Dean with satisfaction. He remembered the past again. He sighed. “Serena, thank you. If you hadn’t come up with that ‘debt-of-honor’ excuse back then, I would have been the one rotting in prison for six years.” Serena’s face stiffened. She let out a small sigh. “I owe him for this, but making it up to him with the rest of my life is enough.” Her tone was casual, with a hint of distant sadness. Dean’s vanity was instantly satisfied. He wrapped his arms around Serena, leaning down for a passionate kiss. Serena froze momentarily but didn’t pull away. Watching their entwined forms, I felt as if I’d fallen into a frozen lake. My legs were so weak I could barely stand. Serena had always claimed Dean’s father saved her life. She said a person must repay kindness, which was why I had willingly become the scapegoat. In the end, it was all a convenient lie. My heart rate spiked suddenly. Through my shaky vision, Dean panted: “What if he finds out?” Serena’s expression slightly hardened, then she slowly shook her head. “He won’t find out. And even if he does, what can he do? Look at him now. I’m the best option he has left.” “Besides, I won’t let him go.” Dean’s fists clenched. Not hearing the answer he wanted, a flash of resentment crossed his eyes. “Serena, I worry about you. He is totally unworthy of you now. People will mock you—” “Stop.” Before he could finish, Serena cut him off, her voice showing clear impatience. She distanced herself from him. “Go to bed. I’m going to check if Beck is awake.”

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