Author: Momo Chan

The annual St. Jude’s Medical Center Donor Appreciation Gala was supposed to be a night of champagne toasts and polite applause. Instead, it became the place where my world shattered. Dr. Thompson, the Chief of Staff, beamed from the podium. “Dr. Eleanor Stone is truly the epitome of altruism,” he announced, his voice ringing through the ballroom. “To personally coordinate with the Organ Distribution Center, ensuring her daughter’s perfectly matched donor heart went to a financially struggling young man… It’s a lesson in what it means to be a healer.” I was still innocent enough to try to defend her. “Dr. Thompson,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “My mother is meticulous about procedure. She would never pull strings for a patient to jump the list.” My disbelief seemed to shock him. “But didn’t she clear it with you? The recipient was a perfect match, same as yours, just behind you on the registry. Dr. Stone personally went to bat for him.” “She said her own daughter, you, could afford to wait. That the other boy’s family was about to lose their low-income housing, that his life was literally burning through their last few pennies.” I slowly turned to face my parents. My mother, Eleanor, gripped her champagne flute like a weapon. “Scarlett, that child’s family is absolutely destitute. They couldn’t wait any longer,” she pleaded. “It’s different for you. Your father and I are doctors. We wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” Anger, sharp and hot, instantly incinerated my logic. Tears spilled over. “I see! So being your daughter means I don’t even qualify for fair treatment on a waiting list!” I choked out. “Maybe I should have been an orphan then. Then I could have had my surgery, too, right? Maybe even gotten the heart you stole!” 1 I turned to leave, but Dad, Dr. David Stone, blocked my path. “Scarlett, what is this attitude? Do you know what your mother sacrificed, the time she poured into Finn? If he doesn’t get that heart, he won’t make it to his nineteenth birthday!” I stared at my father, dumbfounded. So this was it. My life was so cheap to them. They were only afraid a “penniless student” would die in their ward and tarnish the hospital’s reputation. Mom tried to grab me. “Leaving in the middle of this is inappropriate! We’ll discuss this at home.” Colleagues who’d heard the commotion crowded around, half-begging, half-forcing me back into my seat. The fear and resentment I’d repressed for two years finally erupted. Gasping, I pointed at Mom, my voice raw and broken. “He can’t wait? Do you think I can? Just because he’s poor, he’s pitiable, and he’s your public relations poster child, he gets to jump the line? He gets you to pull strings to snatch my heart?!” “What about me! I’m your daughter! I’m only twenty-four! I haven’t graduated, I haven’t seen the Rockies or the Atlantic! Tell me, what part of me is less deserving of life than him?” “Just because you gave birth to me, I deserve to stand behind everyone else? I deserve to die for your damned ‘Principle of Avoiding Suspicion’?” The collapsing shriek echoed in the silent hall. Mom trembled with rage, her hand raised as if to strike me, but she slammed it onto the table instead. “That’s enough! You are out of line! Apologize to Finn O’Malley immediately! Do you have any idea how much psychological stress these comments will put on his recovery?” Finn’s mother, Maureen, fell to her knees with a thud, bowing her head to the floor. “Oh, my sweet girl, I’m so sorry, forgive us… We’ve dragged Dr. Stone into this, we’ve stolen your chance… Please, hit me, scream at me, but don’t blame her. She’s a saint, an absolute saint!” The whole scene was an absurd nightmare. And I, apparently, was the petulant brat in the dream. I watched Mom rush over to help the dark, thin woman up. I saw the undisguised disappointment on her face. I laughed then, tears streaming down my face as I did. “Fine. Fine… He is your patient, your responsibility, your salvation.” “And me? What am I?” I looked at Dad. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he remained silent. “You won’t touch your savings for my treatment—under the beautiful principle that the hospital must not play favorites, must not accept gifts.” “The truth is, you never planned for me to live at all. You were just waiting to use my donor for someone else’s son!” When I was queuing for my own surgery, I hadn’t even dared to ask for a private room, terrified of the gossip. Yet for someone else, she could leverage years of professional connections to steal the lifeline that should have been mine! I pushed away the hands trying to hold me, ignored the familiar, sharp pang in my chest, and walked toward the elevator. “From today forward, whether I live or die has nothing to do with you. Just go back to protecting your Hippocratic Oath, and your patients who are more ‘worthy’ of being saved!” Behind me, I heard Mom’s furious shout, Dad’s anxious cry, and the strangled sobs of Finn’s mother. The elevator door slid shut, cutting off the noise. I took a cab back to the university. My phone vibrated ceaselessly the entire ride, a flood of missed calls and messages. The first was from Mom: Mom (Eleanor): Scarlett, you embarrassed me tonight. That boy is barely nineteen, and his family is on welfare. We had to do this. He had nothing. You’re our daughter, you need to be the bigger person. Scrolling down, there was Dad’s: Dad (David): Scarlett, Finn is different. He’s alone. He’s already attempted suicide twice since his diagnosis. Your mother couldn’t just stand by! Dad (David): You’ve created a scandal. The whole hospital knows now. How do you expect your mother to lead her department? Come home and apologize! I deleted the rest without reading them. When my roommates learned what happened, they were furious on my behalf. My nose started to sting. Strangers could feel sympathy for my plight. Why did my own parents insist on making me feel like a burden? I stayed at school for two days. The moment I turned my phone on, I accidentally answered a call from Uncle George, my mother’s brother. “Scarlett, how could you be so difficult? You’ve upset your parents terribly. Running away from home?” “I’m not trying to lecture you, but you’re breaking your mother’s heart. She’s a doctor, it’s her calling to save lives. How can you blame her for this?” He droned on about Mom’s sacrifices. “Your mother just saw a vulnerable child and wanted to save his life. As her daughter, you should be supporting her.” I waited until he paused, shaking my head to reassure my worried roommate. Uncle George’s voice grew quieter. “Uncle George, do you remember what the specialist said when I was diagnosed at twelve?” “I… I remember.” I cut him off. “The doctor said twenty-four was my absolute limit for the surgery.” “I’m halfway through twenty-four now.” He went silent. “I waited twelve years, Uncle. I finally got a 92% match, and my own mother, my biological mother, personally diverted it to someone else.” “For her, the Hippocratic Oath is a higher priority than her daughter’s survival.” “If I, her daughter, have to be careful to ‘avoid suspicion,’ why doesn’t the patient she saved need to? That’s what they call virtue, I suppose.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Mom has helped many needy patients, but Finn was her biggest personal investment. To him, she was the compassionate Dr. Stone, the “Most Beautiful Doctor” plastered all over the local news. But to me, she was a failure of a mother. A person’s heart is only so big. If it’s filled up with patients, how much room is left for family? Uncle George stammered in defense. “Your mother is just doing her duty. You should understand her the most…” A sharp pain clenched my heart. I pulled out my pill bottle and swallowed two tablets. “Uncle, do you know why my mother never let me visit her department?” “Why?” “She was terrified of the optics—of colleagues saying she was abusing her power, of patients thinking she was prioritizing her own child. So my medical records are at a different hospital. My primary doctor doesn’t even know I’m Dr. Stone’s daughter.” “Finn’s surgery, however? She performed it herself. She will personally follow up on every one of his post-op scans.” “Tell me, Uncle. Who looks more like her biological child?” The line went quiet, only his breathing audible. After a long moment, he spoke again. “Don’t talk like that, Scarlett. Your mother does care about you…” “Where is my place then? On which page of the transplant waiting list? What number room on her daily rounds?” “I am her daughter, yet I can’t even receive fair access to medical care. Why? If being someone else’s child is the only way to get a break, then I’d rather have no connection to this family at all!” The voice on the other end changed. It was Mom. She had been listening the whole time. “Scarlett, can you not see the bigger picture? Finn genuinely couldn’t wait any longer!” I countered, “And me? How long do I have? When will the next matching donor appear? A year? Two? Five?” “You…” “As a hospital administrator, you know better than anyone how scarce heart donors are. The average wait time is 3.8 years. I’ve already waited twelve.” Mom’s voice was still unnervingly calm. “Medical resources are finite. They must be allocated to the most critically urgent patient first.” I nodded. “I know. You’re the department head, Dad’s an administrator. Your professional ethics, your medical resources—you can give them to whomever you like.” “Then my life, my choices, are mine to make, too.” I hung up and powered down the phone. With my transplant opportunity stolen, I was forced back onto the waiting list. But my condition wasn’t waiting. The symptoms of heart failure were growing more severe. My doctor suggested an implanted cardiac assist device. The cost was astronomical. Even after insurance, I would have to pay a six-figure sum out of pocket. I’d intended to ask my parents for a loan, but they would rather pull strings to steal a heart for a patient than break their own rules to save their daughter. I had to figure it out myself. My academic advisor, worried I was an unstable presence, asked if I wanted to take another leave of absence. I moved out instead. Short on cash, I could only afford a room in a dilapidated, multi-tenant complex in a forgotten corner of the city. A young woman in the building took pity on me and offered to let me join her streaming business, selling goods online. I began working frantically, desperate to earn enough money to survive. A month later, my parents saw me online. They found me in the dingy complex, blocking my path. Mom’s eyes were red-rimmed. “How could you… how could you possibly live in this dump?” “Your health is fragile. Come back to the hospital with us immediately.” I looked at her with cold eyes. My phone buzzed—it was time to start my stream. I tried to walk past them. Dad grabbed my arm, his face tight with disgust. “We spent all those years raising you for this? To do this cheap, degrading work?” “You might not be ashamed, but if this gets back to my colleagues, we’ll be a laughingstock!” Of course. They never cared about me. Only their reputation. I yanked my arm away. “What’s shameful about earning money with my own two hands?” “There’s no such thing as ‘degrading’ work. Do you think being a doctor makes you superior?” I stepped closer to Dad. “Right. Of course. After all, the heart of a healer is so noble that you’re willing to abandon your own daughter. You must be high and mighty!” Mom’s eyes grew frantic. “Your father and I came here to take you back for treatment! Stop this stubbornness. I’ve found the next donor…” “What for? So I can be the one accused of being a black-market beneficiary?” I interrupted impatiently. “Don’t worry. I’ll avoid suspicion for you—until the day I die!” I turned away. A neighbor and her large dog brushed past me. Mom screamed about the dog’s germs. The dog, startled by the noise, lunged at me. “Watch out!” The piercing cry came as I fell down the short flight of steps. The dog bit me. My heart rate soared, and my vision swam. I fumbled in my bag for my pills and swallowed them. Mom frantically snatched the bottle. “You can’t take this cheap medicine! Do you know how much damage it does to your body?” Leaning against the wall, I drew a shaky breath. “It’s cheap. And it works fast.” I needed the pills to suppress the chest pain through countless late-night streams. Tears suddenly spilled from Mom’s eyes. “I’m calling an ambulance right now! I’ll take you to our hospital.” I took a deep breath. “No need! Just pay for my rabies shots. I have to stream now.” Dad erupted in fury. “At a time like this, you’re still thinking about work! Is that job more important than your life?” He pulled my sleeve, tearing my cheap shirt. I shouted back, louder than he had. “Yes! Because I don’t have the money for a cardiac assist device! Because my parents would rather use their connections to steal a donor heart for a stranger than pay for my medical bills!” “What else am I supposed to do but kill myself working to survive? This stream is the best job I can find in my condition! You look down on it, but at least it feeds me!” Dad froze. The neighbor, witnessing the whole spectacle, gave me an extra thirty dollars for ‘nutrition.’ Dad looked at her, his expression saying everything. My parents stood frozen, a complex mix of emotions crossing their faces. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flash of genuine guilt in their eyes. I struggled to my feet, limped inside, and locked the door, shutting them out. My stream didn’t end until the early morning. A colleague went out for food and came back to tell me my parents were still waiting by the door. “Scarlett, you can’t eat this junk food with your heart condition! You need nutrition!” “Come on, come home with Mom. I’ll make you chicken soup.” Mom stared intensely at the pre-packaged meal in my hand, her voice choked. Even Dad’s tone was softer. “Your mother and I were wrong about what happened before. We’ll find a way to get you the surgery sooner. Don’t be stubborn anymore.” I burst out laughing. “Did I have such a great life when I was home?” “You were always too busy with work. I don’t think I’ve had one proper, home-cooked meal in years. I’ve eaten frozen junk food for so long, and now you’re worried about my nutrition?” My parents flushed a deep red. This time, it was shame. They must have remembered how much they’d neglected me. Mom tried to speak several times, but no words came out. Impatient, I shooed them away. “If you genuinely care about me, then just disappear!” “Because right now, looking at you both makes me sick!” Under the dim streetlights, their shadows stretched long and weary. But I refused to look back. Not long after, I saw Mom on the local news. Finn O’Malley, the student, was sobbing as he thanked her, calling her his second mother. Tears in her eyes, Mom said, “It’s just my duty as a healer.” Her hospital’s prestige soared, and Mom was promoted yet again. She got what she wanted, I thought. And I, apparently, was no longer of any use. But then, I received a text from her. Mom (Eleanor): Scarlett, the hospital has scheduled your surgery. Please don’t be afraid. This time, I promise your mother will save you. All the documents were clearly marked. The Chief of Staff, Dr. Thompson, even called to say Mom had pulled every last string she had for me. I thought about it for a long time, then decided to go to the hospital. I didn’t need to play games with my own life. This was what I deserved. When I arrived at the inpatient ward, the people waiting for me weren’t the surgeons. It was the two people I least wanted to see: Finn and his mother. I immediately looked at Dad. He looked guilty, lowering his eyes, but he gripped my arm and forced me to sit down. “Finn has felt terrible about everything, he wants to apologize personally.” “Honestly, without this little trick, we didn’t know how else to get you back here.” The air thickened, turning to glass. I could barely believe it. My throat was dry. “So, the surgery is a lie? This was all just to get me to deal with your poor little patient?” Finn stood up to smooth things over. “Scarlett, Dr. Stone saved my life, but it hurt yours. It’s not her fault, it’s mine. I owe you an apology.” He knelt before me, instantly setting me on fire with misplaced morality. Mom looked at me with open disappointment. “Look how understanding Finn is. Unlike you, throwing a tantrum at every turn. Let this go. You need to help Finn, too. He came from nothing. He has a long anti-rejection therapy ahead of him. It’s not easy.” Dad quickly chimed in, talking about how poor and how hard-fought Finn’s survival was. I listened and started to laugh. I placed my own medical records and overdue bills in front of them. “I’m not doing so great either. The hospital says if I don’t get surgery soon, I’m genuinely going to die.” “Finn, since you feel so bad, why don’t you show it with a concrete action? Like giving the heart back?” Mom slammed her hand on the table, furious. “Running away from home is one thing, but now you’re forging medical records to trick us?” “How can you be so malicious? Finn hasn’t even fully recovered, and you want to snatch his heart away?” I laughed until I almost cried. She hadn’t followed my condition at all. Even her tears in the tenement complex were just crocodile tears. “I have no choice, do I? My parents have the money and connections to steal a donor heart for someone else, but they sacrifice their own daughter’s life to do it.” “And if I die, both of your careers are finished. Utterly ruined!” I looked at Mom with contempt. “I just don’t understand. You can pour your heart and soul into a stranger, but you can be this ruthless to your own child.” “I used to think you were a woman of principle. Seeing what you did for Finn, I realize you’re just a hypocrite.” “My mother is nothing but a self-serving fraud!” I had figured out why Mom was so obsessed with saving Finn. She was running for Vice Chief of Staff next year. She needed the political capital. Saving a poor student from a single-parent, welfare-dependent family? What incredible publicity. During this crucial period, she couldn’t dare prioritize my surgery. It would be called nepotism and ruin her candidacy. But that heart was mine by sequence! In this calculation, she gained a promotion, Finn gained a new life. Only I, like a fool, was sacrificed. Now I couldn’t even afford my medicine. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera. “Since you care so much about the needy student, how about you adopt him right now, on a live stream, in front of the whole internet? That will surely secure your promotion.” “As for me, I’ll publicly disown you. You won’t have to worry about the ‘burden of suspicion’ anymore!”

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The first day of college, the boy next door I’d crushed on for years talked me into his bed. The next morning, my naked photos were plastered all over the city. I was expelled from the university, my reputation completely destroyed. When my brother’s fist smashed into his face, he showed not a shred of guilt. Instead, he gripped Liam’s collar tightly, his eyes blazing red as he shrieked: “Liam, now you know what it felt like the day my sister jumped! Your sister will pay for your mistake!” He left, walking away from my brother—who was coughing up blood—and me, who had sobbed myself into a faint. To pay for Liam’s mounting medical bills, I became a risqué streamer. Three years later, I found him again in my own chat. 1 The viewer count was 2,337, and the public feed was scrolling fast. I pulled the hem of my skirt up to my mid-thigh and gyrated mechanically for the camera. “This streamer is the most dedicated, live for ten hours a day.” “She looks pretty young, is she a college student?” “College student? You must be new. This girl has been streaming for over three years.” I ignored the viewers who talked big but didn’t spend money, keeping my eyes glued to the gift notifications in the bottom right corner. “Ashes” sent a Porsche × 1. A new account, not a member of my regular fan club. The name made me pause for a second, but my focus quickly shifted to the value of the Porsche. Five hundred dollars. Not a huge amount, but not negligible either. To drop that much on a first visit meant he had money. I leaned closer to the lens, my voice softening. “Thank you for the Porsche, Ashes. What would you like to see me do?” 【Pull the strap down】 A clear, direct instruction. I smiled, hooked a finger around the thin shoulder strap, and let it slide. The fabric of my dress dipped, the curve of my chest begging to be revealed. “Is that better?” The chat exploded. “Ashes” sent a Jet, a thousand dollars. 【Lift your skirt】 Again, a blunt command. I laughed, hooking the edge of the hem with my fingers. The black lace of my underwear wrapped around my curves. The fullness of my hips sent the public feed into a frenzy of crude remarks. The viewer count surged to over three thousand. “Ashes” sent a Carnival, five thousand dollars. The most expensive gift on the platform. 【Underwear, bra—choose one to take off.】 I froze for two seconds. The feed went ballistic. “Why is the streamer stunned? Not going to deliver after taking the money?” “Is she chickening out?” “What are you saying? She’s done this plenty of times. She’s reliable.” Three gifts, a total of six thousand five hundred dollars. Even after the platform took its cut, I’d have over three thousand. That was enough for Liam’s medication for half a month. With the calculation done, I returned to my practiced smile, caressing the edge of my skirt in front of the camera. My hand reached for the lace of my panties— 【Wait.】 My hand stopped. Ashes sent another message. 【You really will do anything you’re told.】 【Avery Marsh, how low have you fallen?】 With that, “Ashes” logged off. It was him. Rhys. I smiled self-deprecatingly. Low? I didn’t know. Did he think I was low when he leaked those pictures of me three years ago? While I was lost in thought, ten Porsches suddenly flooded the screen. My top supporter, LoneWolf78, typed a message. “So your name is Avery Marsh. What a beautiful name.” “Still short on cash, Avery?” “I have a dinner party tonight. Come keep me company. The price is the usual.” 2 A private meeting, an offline job. For me, it was routine. After so many years as a risqué streamer, I’d done just about everything. A “dinner party,” to put it nicely, meant being a hostess. To put it less nicely, it meant being offered up to another man by my ‘supporter.’ I giggled sweetly and typed, Message me privately, Big Brother. I’m shy. Then, amidst the jeers and mocking of the crowd, I signed off. Arriving at the door of the private room LoneWolf78 had specified, I pulled my stockings down slightly. When I pushed the door open, I saw LoneWolf78, also known as Mr. Pierce—a client I’d entertained many times—obsequiously pouring wine for the man seated at the head of the table. My breath hitched. Rhys. The boy next door who used to playfully pinch my cheeks now wore an expensive bespoke suit. He didn’t even lift his gaze. “Mr. Pierce, where did you find this fresh merchandise?” Mr. Pierce fawned over me, pushing me toward Rhys. “This is a streamer from Prism Live. She gets thousands of viewers per stream! I spent a lot of money to book her. Mr. Rhys, is she to your liking?” Rhys looked up, his eyes immediately boring into my face. “Oh, a big-shot streamer.” His voice was laced with undisguised contempt. “I visited her stream. For three thousand, she’ll take off her panties.” “Quite high-class, isn’t she?” A burst of laughter erupted in the room. I looked down, gripping the hem of my skirt so hard my knuckles were white. When did he become like this? Where was the boy next door who used to sneak me candy? That night, he had held my hand and taken me out to look at the stars. He’d cover my head with his warm palm. He’d kiss my forehead. He would say: “Avery, I’m going to take care of you, always.” So why was it that the next day, every public bulletin board in the city was covered with my naked body? Mr. Pierce thought Rhys was displeased and yanked me back. “If this one isn’t to your taste, Mr. Rhys, I’ll arrange someone else immediately.” Rhys swirled his wine glass, his expression unreadable. “I have a fiancée.” Mr. Pierce thought he’d misread the situation and quickly started pushing me out. “It’s fine, let her stay.” “I hear she’s been with you many times. It might be entertaining to keep her around.” Rhys remained impassive. Mr. Pierce chuckled awkwardly, pulling me close to him. To ease the sudden tension, Mr. Pierce rubbed his hands together and asked, “Mr. Rhys’s fiancée… she must be very beautiful.” “Yes,” Rhys took a sip of wine. “Very beautiful. Elegant. And the most important thing is, she’s clean.” Rhys’s gaze flickered toward me. Everyone in the room understood immediately. The man they called the Devil of Manhattan Finance had history with the low-class streamer. Mr. Pierce was terrified, not daring to breathe. The others quickly shifted the conversation elsewhere. Rhys listened distractedly, his eyes occasionally sweeping over me. I pressed myself against Mr. Pierce, pouring and drinking glass after glass of wine with him. Finally, Rhys couldn’t stand it. He stood up and walked toward me. The crisp, cold scent of his cologne—a scent he never used to wear—pricked my nose. “Three years, Miss Marsh. Don’t you recognize me?” “Or have you been with too many men lately to keep track?” The bluntness of his words caused the men around us to gasp before quickly covering their mouths. He reached out, his long fingers pinching my chin, forcing me to look up. “Mr. Rhys, I—” I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. “Are you really that desperate for money?” He pulled a check from his pocket and lightly slipped it down into the cleavage of my dress. “Is Liam dead? Why isn’t he stopping you from selling yourself?” 3 The check, still warm from Rhys’s body, pressed against my skin. Before it could fall, I raised my hand and held it in place. “Thank you for the tip, Mr. Rhys.” I smiled, my eyes curving, and expertly pulled the check out. In front of everyone, I folded it neatly and tucked it back into my bra— The atmosphere turned unnerving. Mr. Pierce was dripping with cold sweat, and the others didn’t dare make a sound. The revulsion in Rhys’s eyes overflowed, his voice dripping with scorn. “It seems you’ve had plenty of practice.” He curled his lip in mockery and sat back down in the shadow. “Since Miss Marsh loves money so much, Mr. Pierce, why don’t we make this more interesting?” Mr. Pierce stammered nervously. “Mr. Rhys, you mean…” Rhys lit a cigarette, the flame flickering between his fingers. “Miss Marsh has her prices listed in her stream, doesn’t she?” He blew a cloud of smoke, looking at me through the white haze. “Tonight, in this room, the rules are the same.” “For every man here you entertain tonight, I will personally give you ten thousand dollars.” “How much you make is entirely up to Miss Marsh’s ability.” The momentary silence in the room was followed by a burst of wild, hungry excitement. The men’s eyes traveled over my body with greedy intent. Ten thousand. What an alluring number. Ten thousand dollars, and I could buy my mother—who’d had her leg broken by my father while protecting me—a motorized wheelchair. One hundred thousand dollars, and I could extend my brother’s life for another year. I looked around the room at the group of greasy middle-aged men, swallowed the last of my red wine, and spoke in a voice that was both sweet and cloying. “Ten thousand?” “You wouldn’t lie to me, Mr. Rhys. Is the money… paid in cash tonight?” Rhys’s hand, clutching the wine glass, tightened sharply, the veins on the back of his hand throbbing. He probably hadn’t imagined anyone could be this willing to degrade themselves. “Cash.” He gritted the word out. “Then I accept.” I stood up, and right in front of Rhys, I undid the button on the side of my dress. The light in the room was dim, but I could feel their clammy, foul-smelling hands landing on my shoulders—a mix of stale tobacco and alcohol. Another hand rested on my waist, slowly moving up to cup my chest. A third hand reached to pull off my high heels. … I closed my eyes, repeating the numbers in my mind. Ten thousand, twenty thousand. Rhys sat there, unmoving, the cigarette cold in his hand. He watched the indecent farce from the shadows, his eyes full of overflowing disgust that finally solidified into a torrent of rage. Half an hour later, the sordid party in the private room ended. The men left, satisfied and laughing. The floor was littered with scattered bottles and shredded paper. I lay collapsed on the carpet, my dress ripped almost entirely off, one high heel missing. A stocking had been peeled off and stuffed into a wine glass. My skirt was hiked up, revealing my lacy, suggestive underwear. Wretched and ruined, I was like a discarded bag of trash. But I was clutching a thick wad of cash in my hand. The room emptied quickly, leaving only Rhys. After a long silence, he finally walked toward me, looking down. “Avery Marsh, you truly are a spectacle.” As he spoke, he raised his foot and deliberately crushed it down on the hand I was using to try and pull my skirt down over my underwear. “Why are you acting embarrassed? Do you have any shame left at all?” “Three years ago, when I sent those pictures out, I felt a flicker of guilt.” He scoffed, the contempt clear in his voice. “Now, I see I wasted my regret.” “A whore rotten to the core like you doesn’t deserve pity.” He lifted his foot and tossed the last banknote onto my face. “Take your dirty money and get out.” The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the private room. I picked up the bills one by one, counting them carefully. One hundred thousand.

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It was New Year’s Day, and my parents were enjoying the holiday quietly. Our next-door neighbor, little Lily, came over to play. I went straight for the treat my mom, Julia, had bought—a beautiful, frosted raspberry mousse cake—and offered her a slice. I never imagined that one bite would send her into anaphylactic shock. By the time we rushed her to the hospital, it was too late. She was gone. Because I was under fourteen, the court ruled it an accident, and I wasn’t formally charged. But my parents, David and Julia, were left with a crushing, massive settlement to pay. My dad took on three jobs, hustling day and night to cover the debt. He was killed in a delivery truck crash late one cold night. My mom, unable to bear the shock and the grief, suffered a sudden heart attack and died almost immediately. In a single, agonizing instant, I became an orphan, a cursed child, a jinx. Everyone pointed fingers. Neighbors spit on the sidewalk when I passed. Eventually, I starved to death, alone in our tiny, empty apartment. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to New Year’s Day. The first thing I did was snatch the raspberry cake from the counter and destroy it, shoving the wreckage deep into the kitchen trash bin. I needed it gone. But Lily still died in my house. 1 “Maya, that cake looks so yummy!” Lily reached out, tiny fingers brushing the edge of the slice I was holding—the very slice I had just cut for her, a piece of the doomed dessert. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I watched her hand move toward her mouth in sickening slow motion, fear paralyzing me for a split second. Then, I reacted. I screamed, my hand lashing out, sending the plate—cake, fork, and all—flying across the kitchen and onto the floor. Lily stared at the mess, her innocent, round face crumpling in confusion and hurt. She looked like she was seconds away from a full-blown cry. “It—It’s bad!” I stammered, my voice strained and panicked. “That cake is spoiled. I have to throw it away right now.” I practically shoved her out of the kitchen, frantically sweeping up the ruined mousse and crumbs, stuffing everything into a trash bag. That cake. In my previous life, it had been the catalyst for absolute ruin. Lily’s allergy, the wrongful death, the crippling financial despair that killed my parents—all of it flowed from that one dessert. After the legal proceedings, when I was deemed only partially responsible for the accident, her parents—shattered by the loss of their only child—had focused all their venom and grief on us. They swore they would kill me to avenge Lily. My parents had been forced to sell our home, our stable, comfortable life, to pay them off and, essentially, to buy my safety. We moved to a cramped, single-room rental unit. I remembered the smell of exhaust and cheap cleaning supplies in that tiny space. I remembered my father’s haunted eyes as he left for his third shift, trying to provide the life I thought I deserved. And I remembered the silence after they were both gone, the pervasive sense that the entire world saw me as a murderer, a plague. I was isolated, tormented at school by classmates who called me a killer. I had simply given up, wasting away next to my parents’ ashes, dying of my own accord. But now, I was back. I had to stop it. I tightly sealed the trash bag and hurried downstairs, dumping it into the massive, industrial bin behind our condo building, slamming the lid down with a furious, final heave. The immense stone that had been crushing my chest for five years—the guilt and the fear—finally seemed to shift. It’s over, I thought, letting out a shaky breath. The cycle is broken. My family is safe this time. I ran back upstairs, practically flying into the apartment. But as I walked into the living room, my relief evaporated, replaced by a cold, stomach-lurching terror. Lily was on the floor. Her face was puffy and scarlet. Her small body was racked with violent, unnatural spasms, and she was clearly struggling for air, wheezing and choking. It was the exact, horrifying tableau I had witnessed five years ago, the exact symptoms of a severe allergic reaction after eating the raspberry cake. But… how? I had destroyed all the evidence. I hadn’t given her anything. Frozen in sheer disbelief for a heartbeat, I then snapped to consciousness, a shrill, desperate scream tearing from my throat. The next moments mirrored the past with nightmarish accuracy. Lily’s mom, Veronica, burst through the door. A hysterical call to 911. The sirens. The sterile, fluorescent lights of the hospital. The doctor’s grave, weary face as he delivered the same, crushing news: Lily was gone, a severe allergic reaction, too late. Veronica lunged at me, grabbing my neck with a frantic, desperate strength. “You! It’s you again! You killed my daughter! I want you to pay for this, you hear me? Pay!” Her hands tightened. I couldn’t breathe. For a frightening moment, I couldn’t tell if I had truly been reborn or if the guilt and terror had simply driven me insane, forcing me to relive the nightmare. Then my mother, Julia, and my father, David, rushed in, pulling Veronica away. They wrapped me in their protective embrace, offering endless, useless apologies. Seeing my parents—alive, whole, and still unburdened by the sorrow lines that would soon etch their faces—brought me back to reality. My voice, though weak, was firm. “Lily wasn’t killed by me.” 2 Veronica shrieked, pointing a furious finger at me over my mother’s shoulder. “You vicious brat! You think you can just lie your way out of this? She was fine this morning! She came to your house, and ten minutes later, she’s in an ambulance! Don’t tell me you didn’t do it!” Her face was twisted with pain and rage. “You’re a monster! You took my daughter’s life, and now you’re going to give yours up in return!” She was completely unhinged, looking ready to tear me limb from limb. My dad stood like a wall, shielding me completely. I quickly turned to my mother. “Mom, please, call the police. Now.” I knew Lily’s father, Mark, would be even less rational than Veronica when he arrived. In the past, my parents, believing I was responsible for an accidental death, had only offered silent apologies, enduring the onslaught of verbal abuse and physical threats. I couldn’t let that happen again. I wouldn’t let them be hurt this time. The police arrived swiftly. A couple of officers managed to contain the volatile scene. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic tremor in my hands. “Officers,” I began, my voice clear despite the inner turmoil. “My mom bought a raspberry cake yesterday. This morning, I thought it tasted a little stale, so I took it downstairs and threw it away. I didn’t give Lily anything to eat. I swear. I did not kill Lily.” Veronica’s volume increased, her voice cracking with fury. “She’s lying! She’s a liar! Lily died in her house! You’re all just covering for her! You evil, conniving little beast! You killed my child, and you need to pay!” My mother stepped forward, her face firming with protective resolve, finally finding her voice. “Veronica, what happened to Lily is a tragedy for all of us. But my daughter is not a liar. We believe the police will conduct a fair and thorough investigation to uncover the truth. You need to control yourself.” Veronica immediately turned her rage on my mother. “A fair investigation? You raise a murderer, what does that make you? You people won’t get away with this! You owe my daughter a life!” The situation was spiraling again. The officers quickly intervened, physically separating the two families. The investigation began immediately. One team went to our condo building to pull security footage to verify my story. The other contacted the medical examiner to perform an autopsy on Lily to determine the precise cause of the fatal allergic reaction. Because it was a death involving a minor, the police moved with terrifying speed. Within half a day, the evidence was collected. We sat across from Lily’s parents in the police precinct’s interview room, a tense, suffocating silence filling the air. Detective Miles, the lead officer, activated the screen behind him. It showed the hallway surveillance footage from our building. Lily arriving at 9:10 AM. Me rushing down the stairs with a heavy trash bag at 9:13 AM, my face grim. Me returning at 9:16 AM, looking visibly relieved, only to immediately rush inside, followed by my scream. No one else entered or left our apartment during that time. They also showed a picture of the trash bin, where the destroyed cake was recovered. It was too mangled to determine if a full portion was missing. Veronica, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying, pointed a trembling finger at the screen. “Look! She leaves looking distressed, but when she comes back, she’s relieved! She was covering her tracks! Raspberries aren’t common! I strongly suspect this wasn’t an accident. She deliberately murdered my daughter!” “I did not!” I immediately refuted. “Then why the dramatic change in your face?” Veronica demanded, her voice cutting through the room. “Why the panic before you went down, and the relief after?” I knew my expression was damning. But how could I possibly explain? I was panicking because I thought I had broken the cycle, and I was relieved because I thought I’d saved my parents. Telling them I was reborn would only get me a psychiatric evaluation. My eyes darted toward the medical examiner’s report in Detective Miles’s hand. That was the key. If the report showed no raspberry residue, I was in the clear. Lily’s reaction would be proven to have nothing to do with me or my cake. Detective Miles solemnly opened the file. “The victim’s stomach contents showed trace amounts of raspberry residue,” he read aloud. “This was the primary source that triggered the severe allergic reaction and death…” 3 The roaring in my ears drowned out everything else. Trace amounts of raspberry residue. I searched my memory again, scrutinizing every millisecond of the morning. I was one hundred percent certain Lily had not touched that cake. I had stopped her. I had thrown it away. So, where had the residue come from? The autopsy report had just sealed my fate. It was the definitive proof, the smoking gun. Lily’s parents immediately erupted, screaming, sobbing, demanding justice and retribution. My parents, accepting the inevitable, tried to apologize, pleading for their forgiveness. Dazed, numb, I allowed my parents to lead me home. It wasn’t until my mom, Julia, quietly mentioned selling the condo to cover the new settlement that I fully snapped back. “No! Mom, Dad, you can’t sell the house! Absolutely not!” If we sold the house, the dominoes would fall exactly as before: the tiny apartment, the crushing debt, Dad’s overwork, the accident, Mom’s heart attack. What was the point of being reborn if I just led them to the same tragic end? Mom knelt beside me, stroking my hair. “Sweetheart, when you make a mistake, you have to own it. It was an accident, a terrible one, but Lily died because of something that happened in our home. We have to make it right.” Dad added, “Losing a child is unimaginable. If we don’t compensate them fully, we can’t guarantee your safety. Money can be replaced, Maya. We just need you safe.” I knew they loved me. That love was the very thing I needed to protect. I was adamant. “No! I refuse! You have to believe me. I did not give Lily that cake. I did not kill her.” They exchanged a look of pity and concern, convinced I was trying to avoid responsibility. “Maya, we raised you better than this. It’s okay to admit a mistake. We will face this together,” Dad admonished, his voice strained with worry. “But I’m telling you the truth! Lily’s death has nothing to do with me! She didn’t eat—” My voice hitched as my eyes fell on a decorative doll figurine perched on the living room table. It was a novelty toy, a silly thing I’d bought years ago, intending to use its hidden eye-camera to film my hamster. I’d forgotten all about it. The camera. My mind raced. I knew exactly how Lily died. It wasn’t an accident. It was murder. My parents and I drove back to the precinct, the tiny doll clutched in my hand. When we walked out hours later, I was no longer a suspect. The police immediately launched a full-scale investigation, interviewing Lily’s parents, her teachers, neighbors, and even the cake shop owner. Everyone became a potential suspect. Lily’s parents, outraged by the police’s shift in focus, staged a massive protest right outside the station, accusing us of collusion and bribery. They went straight to the media, appearing on local news channels and posting emotional videos that instantly went viral. They knelt before the cameras, weeping openly and pleading for justice. “Please, help us! Our daughter, Lily, was murdered in our neighbor’s home! Their daughter, Maya, fed her raspberries, knowing she had a deadly allergy!” “The evidence is clear, but they’ve corrupted the police and somehow walked free! Now, absurdly, the police are questioning us, the victims! We adored our daughter! Who are the real monsters here? Is there any justice left in the world?” The online response was immediate and overwhelming. We were swamped by a tide of abuse. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here!” “The parents must be trash to raise a killer like that! Lightning should strike them down!” “The juvenile protection laws protect the guilty! They need to make an example of this demon!” The virtual outcry escalated into a real-world threat. My parents’ workplaces were targeted with malicious reports, forcing them to take immediate leave. Our phones were saturated with hate mail and death threats. Our front door was defaced with violent red spray paint. Every morning, we found grim offerings—funeral wreaths, fake condolence cards, and pictures of my parents and me with black ribbons pasted over them—left on our doorstep. Afraid of being physically attacked by an irrational mob, we huddled together inside the condo. But despite the chaos, I felt a peculiar sense of calm. I knew this living nightmare would soon end. We were in constant communication with Detective Miles, following the investigation. Three days later, the phone rang. Detective Miles’s voice was tight with emotion. “Maya. We found the killer.”

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The third week of the mandated cooling-off period ended, and I rescinded the divorce filing. Eliza and I were officially, sickeningly, back together. She hosted a celebration, inviting a close-knit group of her friends. Three glasses of wine in, someone suggested we play a round of “I’ve Never.” “I’ve never had a spouse cheat on me and then still taken them back for the sake of the marriage—drink up!” Every single eye in the room swiveled to me. Eliza’s smile froze. Her brow furrowed, ready to scold the person who’d spoken. I didn’t react the way I used to—a quick, furious glare or a silent, dramatic exit. Instead, I smiled, raised my glass, and drained it. “It’s all in the past,” I said, the words tasting like ash. Grant, Eliza’s childhood best friend and the elephant in the room, snickered, leaning forward. “My man, you’re seriously whipped. No wonder everyone calls you a walking punchline.” A beat of silence, then a burst of cruel laughter. “Gotta hand it to Eliza, she’s trained him well!” “Seriously, an icon for us ladies, ha ha ha!” Eliza’s friends were exactly as they always were: cold, cutting, and full of contempt for me. She reached out to grab my hand, a gesture of performative comfort, but I shifted just enough to avoid her touch. I shook my head, keeping the smile fixed. It was fine. It truly was fine. All of it was over. Her betrayal, our marriage, the man I used to be—it had all run its course. 1 The game continued. The next person raised a hand, their voice ringing out. “I’ve never done everything a couple does—the trips, the nights, the promises—with someone I wasn’t actually dating. Take a drink if you have!” The words had barely left his lips before all attention snapped back to me. Everyone knew the score. Eliza’s affair had been with Grant. And I, historically, was the kind of person who’d burn down a village just to scorch one enemy. When I first found out about the infidelity, I went nuclear. I almost ruined her law firm’s reputation. They were all waiting, leaning back with a smug, anticipatory thrill, hoping I’d erupt and create a scene for their entertainment. But I didn’t give them what they wanted. I rested my chin on my palm and looked sweetly at the two main characters. “Go on, drink up. Don’t be poor sports.” Grant picked up his glass with a challenging smirk, slid onto Eliza’s lap, and started to lean in for a joint shot. Eliza shoved him off, stood up so fast her chair scraped, and yanked my wrist. She didn’t stop until we were outside, ignoring the calls of her friends echoing behind us. Once we were on the sidewalk, she dropped my arm, her face a storm of annoyance. “What’s with the Mr. Forgiving act? Is this supposed to be charming?” I frowned, genuinely confused by her shift in anger. I pulled a cigarette from my coat and lit it, tilting my head toward her. “Your friends asked the questions to humiliate me. You’re mad at me? Besides, you did those things. Can’t handle the heat?” That last line—Can’t handle the heat?—seemed to trigger something deep. Her eyes went flat and dark. She had used those exact words on me the day I discovered her affair. She’d claimed it was a dare, a game she lost, and that the sex was not willing. I had sobbed and screamed at her that day. She’d just impatiently lit a cigarette. “God, are you really that dramatic? It was a lost game, a one-night thing. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” Back then, I couldn’t understand how Eliza could be so brazenly unremorseful. I demanded a divorce right then, refusing the easy out she offered. But the next day, I understood everything. The reason she could be so calm, so entitled, was simple: she knew I was already hers. I knocked on the doors of her high-rise law firm and knelt on the cold marble floor. “Please, Eliza. Help my dad. Only you can get the verdict overturned.” “I’m begging you.” Eliza’s self-satisfaction was almost blinding. She gently helped me stand up. “Dean, I told you. As long as you stay by my side, I can do anything for you.” She brushed dust off my knee. “I’ll handle the case. All you have to do is promise not to make a scene about Grant again.” My eyes burned, but I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of my own defeat and nodded. If she could save my father, I would do anything. My mind snapped back to the present. Eliza snatched the cigarette from my lips, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her heel. She stared at me, then rubbed her temples with an air of deep fatigue. “Fine. You better keep the act going.” She looked past my shoulder, then back at me, a strange expectation in her eyes. “Go home. I need to take Grant back to his place later.” She was waiting for it—the familiar flash of jealousy, the old demand that she choose me over Grant. But she seemed to forget that every time I had argued with her about Grant over the years, she’d been annoyed. “His parents entrusted him to me. Why are you so childish? Can you please stop being so dramatic?” So now, I just nodded. No fuss. I turned and walked toward the street to hail a cab. I could feel her stare burning a hole in my back. Just as I opened the taxi door, I paused and looked back. I caught the brief, hungry flash of hope in her eyes before I spoke. I curved my lips into a thoughtful, solicitous smile. “Get some rest. You have the court session tomorrow. Don’t forget what you promised me.” 2 Her eyes went instantly flat. The small curve of her mouth vanished, and she shot me a venomous glare before turning sharply and going back inside the bar. I didn’t stay. I got in the cab and went straight to the holding facility. The sight of my father behind the glass barrier was a physical punch. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. He was the same kind, gentle man I remembered. He looked at me, giving a strained, reassuring smile. “It’s alright, Dean. Eliza is one of the top lawyers for cases like this, isn’t she? She’ll help me, right?” He paused, a strange, hollow relief in his eyes. “I don’t regret it, Dean. I actually feel… free.” I looked at the bruises mottling his face, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I nodded repeatedly. “She will, Dad. Eliza will get the verdict overturned.” I choked out the words. “When you’re finally out, we’ll live a good life, okay? A peaceful life.” A peaceful life had been a luxurious, unattainable dream for my father. Since I was a child, my mother had cycled through affairs and subjected my father to relentless emotional and physical abuse. He had filed for divorce countless times, only to be dragged back by her manipulations and threats. The final straw had broken recently: he discovered that my mother had been actively encouraging Eliza to cheat on me, even setting her up with men. “Are you even a mother? You’re telling your daughter-in-law to cheat! Have you no shame?” he’d screamed. “Eliza is not like you! She and Dean are genuinely in love! Stop projecting your toxic garbage onto her!” “You just want her to cheat so you can say you didn’t do anything wrong, that all women are the same! Well, I’m telling you, it’s not happening!” He and my mother got into a violent fight. He slammed the door and left. My mother suffered a massive, fatal heart attack immediately after. The police ruled it intentional manslaughter. Throughout the entire city, only Eliza had the reputation and the skill to overturn the verdict. For that, I agreed to pretend the reconciliation was real. All I had to do now was wait for tomorrow. After my father’s hopeful, shrinking figure disappeared, I lay in the cab all night, unable to sleep. Grant posted a photo to his Instagram—a selfie of him and Eliza in the bar mirror. I thought about it, then tapped the heart icon. A simple like. There was no provocation in the action; I genuinely didn’t love Eliza anymore. But she apparently didn’t see it that way. The phone rang instantly, her voice edged with a strange, hopeful arrogance. “Jealous? Grant was just joking around with that post. If you don’t like it, I’ll tell him to take it down—” “No.” I cut her off gently, my voice calm and soft. “Not jealous, not mad. I know you two are childhood friends. You can be as close as you want.” I added, a polite finality in my tone, “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the courthouse tomorrow.” I’d blocked her entirely with three simple sentences. Her breathing deepened on the other end of the line. After a long silence, she let out a cold laugh. “Fine.” I raised an eyebrow. I knew she was mad, but I didn’t know why. I was being the perfect husband now. Mature, understanding. I didn’t want to analyze it. I waited until dawn, but Eliza never showed. The hearing was due to start any minute. I frantically called her, but her phone was off. Panicked, I rushed to her law firm, only to overhear words that froze me solid. “Eliza? She left for the courthouse early this morning! The downtown one!” “Her client? It was a Mr. Grant. She pushed aside all her other cases—all of them—just to help Mr. Grant. He claimed he found an object in his takeout and the restaurant refused to pay damages. She wanted to ‘get him justice.’” “Honestly, I think she’s obsessed with Mr. Grant. For someone at her level to take a case like this? It’s completely beneath her. It’ll damage her reputation!” I didn’t hear the rest. I charged out of the office. Just a wall separated the two courtrooms. In one, shouts of triumph: Grant had won. The merchant had been ordered to pay him a $50 compensation. In the other: My father’s lawyer had failed to appear. The initial verdict was upheld—life imprisonment. The despair on his face was agonizingly clear. Our eyes met, and he gave me a small, resigned smile, mouthing the words: “It’s alright, Dean. As long as you’re happy, your father is content.” The officers ushered my dad away, loading him onto the transport bus to the prison. I chased the bus for a few steps, then tripped and fell onto the asphalt. Blood blossomed from my scraped knees. The pain brought tears pouring down my face. “I’m sorry, Dad! Don’t leave me! Dad!” “Woah! Isn’t that the cuck? What are you doing here, buddy?” 3 I spun around. Grant stood there, radiating the smug joy of victory, chin raised, smirking at me. Eliza followed close behind him. She saw me, stopped short, and frowned. “What are you doing here?” I struggled to my feet, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “My father’s trial. Nine o’clock this morning.” My voice was a raw, painful scream in my throat. “Eliza, you promised me! Did you forget?!” She glanced down at her phone, her frown deepening. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Grant had an emergency case, and I had to help him.” She started toward me, reaching out. “Your dad? Did it wrap up?” “It’s fine, I’ll file an appeal later. I told you, I’ll definitely help you—” SMACK! I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. The sound cracked in the air, catching Eliza completely off guard. Her face went instantly white with fury. “What the hell was that, Dean!” I was swaying, barely able to keep myself upright. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms to anchor me to reality, and forced out a whisper. “A $50 consumer dispute… was more important than my father’s freedom? More important than the man who is now going to jail for the rest of his life?” “Stop being so utterly ridiculous!” Eliza snapped, cutting me off, impatience blazing in her eyes. “What is there to compare?” “Grant was pursuing legal recourse for a genuine grievance. Your father belongs in jail! I’m going out of my way to help you, which is more than you deserve!” The words exploded in my mind, a sonic boom of realization. The woman standing before me, speaking such ugly things, was a stranger. I remembered the day she found out about my dysfunctional, abusive family background. She had held up her finger and sworn a solemn oath to me: “You and your father are the victims, Dean. You have nothing to feel guilty about. I became a lawyer to fight for people exactly like you!” “More than that, you are the man I love. Your father is my father. I will fight tooth and nail for his justice!” But now, she was calling him a man who belongs in jail—all to protect Grant. Grant’s voice cut in, adding fuel to the fire. “Yeah, exactly! Your father should face the consequences! He killed someone!” He sneered. “Like father, like son. You’ll probably do something insane one day, too! You’re terrifying!” “Eliza, don’t help his dad! The mother wouldn’t have cheated or been abusive if the father and son weren’t already messed up, right? They’re the real problem—” CRASH! I launched a kick into Grant’s stomach, sending him sprawling. I went insane, swinging my fists wildly. A second later, a heavy kick slammed into my ribs. I crumpled, clutching my abdomen, and coughed up a spray of blood. Eliza, who had been helping Grant up, froze when she saw the blood pouring from my mouth. She instinctively reached for her phone to call an ambulance, but Grant seized her hand. “Eliza! Don’t fall for it!” He spat the words out. “He probably hid a blood pack in his mouth! He’s trying to guilt you, the same tricks his dad used!” “His dad sold the family home and borrowed money to fund your firm, didn’t he? It was all manipulative! That whole family is twisted!” I gritted my teeth, lifting my bloodshot eyes. I watched as Eliza slowly withdrew her hands. She looked down at me, her expression cold and remote. “Grant is right. You shouldn’t have hit him.” She didn’t offer a hand. “Go cool off, Dean. When you’re ready to apologize to Grant, I’ll reconsider your father’s appeal.” “Otherwise? Let him stay in jail for life.” The physical pain, coupled with the crushing emotional impact of her words, was too much. As they walked away, side-by-side, I blacked out. When I woke, a kind stranger had brought me to the hospital. Punctured lung. I was lucky to be alive. The phone vibrated. I answered, and in that instant, I wished I had died instead. 4 I dragged my fragile, aching body out of the cab. By the time I arrived, my father’s body had already been transferred to the crematorium. The lead officer regretfully explained the details to me. “He jumped from the transport vehicle on the way to the prison. A truck hit him instantly.” “He died on impact. Couldn’t be saved.” The officer paused, her face heavy with sorrow. “Your father spoke with us just before we left. He said he didn’t regret arguing with your mother that day, because at least it guaranteed your happiness.” “He also said… he hoped you and your wife would be happy together. That he was very content.” Legally, the police didn’t have to tell me any of this. But my father’s case had been highly publicized, and the public—including this officer—was largely on his side. She looked at me with deep pity and told me to accept my sorrow. I stood there, rigid, holding the box of ashes still warm from the furnace. My throat was squeezed shut, unable to produce a sound or swallow a single tear. The tears fell, hot and silent. I completed all the paperwork for his death, numbly carrying the heavy box out. I had barely reached the corner when I heard Grant’s voice, a screech of rage. “Dean! Did you do this?!” “How did you know I lied about the takeout contamination? How did you know I always returned clothes without taking the tags off? You exposed me, didn’t you?!” “Now all the merchants are coming after me for compensation! You think this will ruin me?!” “I’m telling you, it won’t work! Eliza will defend me! She’ll take the case for free, even if she has to pay me to do it!” “You want me to lose? Never!” He shoved me hard. The cardboard box flew from my grasp and hit the pavement. The ashes spilled, mixing instantly with a patch of rainwater. He lunged, planting his heel down, twisting and grinding my father’s remains into the dirt while cursing me to hell. Eliza stood nearby, watching his monstrous actions without interference. She was looking at me with a profound, bitter disappointment, her voice laced with disgust. “Dean, how did you become like this?” “You told me you understood my career, my ethics! Why are you using these low-class, trashy tactics to bully Grant?” “You used to be dramatic in the open! You never stooped to this underhanded garbage! It makes me sick!” I stared at the barely concealed triumph on Grant’s face and understood everything. He’d done it on purpose. But I didn’t expose him. I just reached into my jacket, pulled out the divorce papers I’d prepared weeks ago, and held them out. “Then sign it. We’re getting divorced.” “If we stay married, I’ll just keep using these ‘trashy’ methods to mess with Grant. You don’t want to see that, do you?” The quiet finality in my eyes seemed to stab her. She hesitated for a moment. Then, she composed herself, tore the papers to shreds, and laughed coldly. “You think it’s that easy to leave?” “Unless you publicly apologize to Grant and clear his name, I will never sign those papers! You have to pay for your actions!” “Of course, you can sue me, but you should know—” “I’m the lawyer, Dean.” The threat in her voice was stark, her gaze utterly certain of her advantage. My heart was numb, my body devoid of feeling. I looked down at the ashes that were now just a paste of mud and sorrow, and I smiled. “Alright.” “Let’s find out.” I carefully scooped up what little I could of the ashes, turned, and walked away. As I walked, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my childhood friend and former lawyer rival, Mia, who had just returned from overseas. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.”

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The breaking news segment on Global News was interviewing a female war correspondent. Clad in her tactical vest, she spoke softly about the man who was her anchor, the love who gave her courage—a physician with Doctors Without Borders. She described how he’d cross front lines for a fleeting moment together. Whenever her return was uncertain, he’d wait for her at the airport. The longest stretch? Three full months. I was mesmerized, swept away by the sheer cinematic romance of it all. Love in a war zone. Then I saw her again, late the night before my own wedding. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She whispered her farewell to the camera: “You called me the courage you risked everything for… but I lacked the nerve to make you stay.” A faint, sad smile. “Still, I have no regrets. We owned each other’s entire youth.” That was the moment her phone screen flashed on, an accidental slip of her thumb. And the image on her lock screen, the man kissing her—it was my fiancé. My groom-to-be. 1 Across the room, my blood didn’t just run cold; it froze solid. I turned my head, slow motion, toward the profile sleeping on the pillow next to mine. The identical brow, the same faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The exact same impossible profession. It had to be Ronan. Who else? But how? Ronan was the gold standard of modern manhood. Everyone said so. He was the man who, on a rainy day, would carry me a full city block just to keep the tiniest drop of mud off my shoes. When my cycle hit, he didn’t spout platitudes about ‘drinking more tea.’ He’d just quietly cup my lower abdomen with his warm hand and silently take over every chore in the apartment. For one desperate, ridiculous second, I wondered if he had a long-lost, never-mentioned identical twin. I spent the rest of the night on the phone, calling every relative, every friend, the wedding planner, citing an urgent work crisis to postpone the wedding. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, smash three years of our life together based only on one photograph and a couple of tearful lines of confession. Not yet. My best friend, Dee, heard the tremor in my voice. “Anya, did you and Ronan have a fight?” “No,” I hesitated, then decided to tell her everything. As a seasoned journalist herself, she was exactly the kind of person who could help me. After hearing the whole story, Dee was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, soft but firm, “Don’t worry. I will find out the truth.” We shared the bed that night, but we were a world apart. The moment Ronan woke up, he wrapped his arms around me, the softest edge of his voice laced with sleep. “My bride is going to be the most beautiful woman in the city today, I guarantee it.” I slipped out of his embrace subtly, my eyes drifting to the landscape oil painting he’d hung on the wall. I couldn’t help but ask, “When will you paint me, Ronan?” He rubbed his early morning stubble against my cheek. “Babe, I told you, I only do landscapes. I don’t do portraits.” A dull ache pressed in my chest. I remembered the interview. Sierra—that was the correspondent’s name—had shown the camera her lover’s collection. One hundred and ninety-nine paintings. Every single one of them was a portrait of her. The backdrops spanned from their hazy college days to the smoking craters of a combat zone. My voice came out brittle. “My unit just called in an emergency deployment. We have to postpone the wedding.” Ronan and I had met while I was deployed and he was a military medic. Now, the thought struck me: had he left the Army, become a Doctors Without Borders physician, and gone overseas just to be near Sierra? If that was true, why was he marrying me? Ronan’s throat worked a few times. “Honey, I know how important your job is, but couldn’t we just…” I cut him off. “I’ve already notified everyone. It’s moved to next week.” Hearing it was only a week’s delay, Ronan visibly relaxed. He turned and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, his usual considerate routine. Watching his familiar, attentive figure, I suddenly asked, the words barely a breath, “If I were killed in action, would you be sad?” The motion of his hands stilled immediately. He turned to me, his gaze solid and earnest. “If you were killed, I wouldn’t last long on my own. I’d follow you to the end.” Without the context of that interview, I would have thrown my arms around him and kissed him right then. But now, I simply watched him. “Do you know Sierra?” A look I had never seen before—pure, gut-shot panic—flickered across Ronan’s face. He seemed poised to deny it, but finally, he just nodded. Even with the icy dread already gripping me, the confirmation was like falling through a sheet of ice. After a long pause, I forced the words out. “So, what she said about you two being together… is it true?” “No!” Ronan gripped my hands, his own tense and shaking. “Where did you hear that? Sierra and I were just college classmates.” He rushed the words. “If there was anything ‘special,’ it’s that I helped her out. She came from a poor background, and I sponsored her tuition.” Could it truly be Sierra’s own delusion, fueled by gratitude and misplaced affection? But something felt fundamentally wrong. “Ronan, did you become a physician with Doctors Without Borders just to run into her in a combat zone?” He let out a sigh of weary patience, an injured look on his face. “Sweetheart, you’re overthinking this. Yes, Sierra is a correspondent. Yes, we worked in the same country. But the odds of meeting on a battlefield are less than one in a million. Why would I risk my life for a coincidence?” He playfully flicked my nose. “Are you just having pre-wedding jitters? Is that what this is?” I couldn’t find a single crack in his explanation. Maybe it was just my own crazy suspicion. Then, his cell phone rang. A long, unfamiliar international number. He listened for a moment, then rushed out of the apartment, forgetting even to say goodbye. The doubts I’d just managed to suppress surged back. I walked into Ronan’s study, a room I rarely entered. Now, I was possessed, frantically searching, though I didn’t know what I was looking for. The shelves were packed with medical texts, neat and clean. No sign of Sierra anywhere. I almost laughed at my own ridiculous paranoia. Then, I accidentally clipped the oil painting on his desk. My elbow clipped the corner, and the familiar oil painting on his desk crashed to the floor. The sound of the frame snapping was eclipsed by the sound of my own heart flatlining. Because the fall had exposed the canvas’s secret: hidden on the reverse side was a detailed portrait. A portrait of Sierra. I clamped a trembling hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. The man who swore he couldn’t paint people had lied. A cold, sick fury washed over me. Like a maniac, I rushed through the apartment, tearing apart every single canvas. The one over our bed, the one in the hall, the one in the living room—no exceptions. On the back of every single landscape was a hidden portrait of Sierra.

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The Elite Scion of the city’s most powerful family and I had signed our marriage certificate in the morning. By the afternoon, he was bringing me back to sign the divorce papers. I stood frozen, gripping the red and green folders—marriage and divorce—while his friends’ cruel laughter echoed around me. “Ryder King, you actually married and divorced the heiress just because Willow Lane asked you to?” “Haha, look at the big sister’s face! She’s pale. Is she going to cry?” Ryder, however, slipped his arm around Willow, the girl he’d been raised with, and spoke in a gentle, almost caressing tone: “We have both certificates now. Will you finally smile for me?” Willow let out a soft gasp of laughter, and a rare smile blossomed on her delicate, cool face. I tried to storm forward and demand an explanation, but my three older brothers held me back, their grips like steel manacles. Asher, the CEO and my oldest brother, frowned down at me: “Willow only smiles when Ryder teases her. Just show some restraint, Sierra.” Jax, the Movie Star and my second brother, actually shoved me back, making me stumble onto the pavement: “She’s had a tragic life. You have everything, you don’t lack a single man.” Owen, the Biology Professor and my third brother, his face grim: “Ryder should have married her years ago. Stop trying to come between them.” They physically forced me into the back seat of the car, forbidding me from interfering with the happiness of the woman they considered their Golden Girl. The system, which had been silent for an eternity, finally pinged in my mind: [Host, detection complete! The Capture Mission is a success! Return to the real world immediately?] I sat in the back, staring out the window with a look of feigned melancholy, and nearly burst out laughing. The tragic play I’d been acting for this mission was over. Their tangled web of love and resentment? I was done with it forever. 1 [Detection complete: Capture Value with the Mills brothers and Male Lead has reached 95%! Marriage to Male Lead Ryder King complete! Congratulations, Host, on completing the mission!] [Upon the physical death of the Host body, you will return to the real world and receive the one-hundred-million-dollar reward! Your bone cancer will be cured!] I swallowed the ecstatic scream that built in my chest. Finally. I was going home. Asher and Owen stayed behind with Willow. Jax was tasked with driving me back to the family estate. I glanced over at Jax. He’d had a thunderous expression since we got in the car, clearly resentful of the assignment. It wasn’t until Willow texted him that a slight, unwilling smile finally touched his lips. Catching my eye, he immediately turned off his phone, scowling: “What? Still clinging to hope? Still thinking about going back to ruin things for Ryder and Willow?” “Willow is young, and she’s suffered so much. Why can’t you just let her have this?” I dug my nails into my palms and managed a self-deprecating smile. I was actually a year younger than Willow. Perhaps seeing my expression, Jax sighed suddenly: “Apologize to Willow for all of this, and don’t be so dramatic.” He reached out a hand, intending to pat my head, but I subtly pulled away. “Why do I have to apologize? What exactly did I do wrong?” His hand froze, and he snapped back, impatient: “Sierra Mills! Don’t be so ungrateful!” I closed my eyes. Even though it was for a mission, I’d developed some genuine affection for them over the years. There were times when their coldness had truly wounded me. But now, it was all over. “After Willow’s competition is finished, you’ll come with us and apologize to her.” I didn’t reply, focusing instead on confirming something with the system internally: [As soon as this body dies, I can leave, right?] [Affirmative.] I slowly exhaled and observed my surroundings through the window. Certain that I wouldn’t harm any innocent bystanders, I flicked the door lock and abruptly yanked the car door open. Jax, who had been rambling on, screamed: “Sierra, what are you doing!” I ignored him, throwing myself out without hesitation. The frigid wind tore across my face, and a massive sense of freefall overwhelmed me. I clenched my eyes shut, completely unafraid. But the next second, a strong arm clamped brutally around my waist. I was shielded in someone’s embrace as we tumbled violently toward the roadside scrub. As the world spun, I heard a muffled grunt. We rolled a few times, a desperate, clumsy mess, and finally stopped. The person holding me was bleeding profusely, scratched up by the branches, but I was completely untouched. I looked up, meeting Jax’s horrified face, and spoke calmly: “Let go.” Jax stared at my indifferent expression and roared: “All I did was criticize you a little! You jump out of a moving car over something so small? We’ve spoiled you rotten!” “Is this another one of your stunts for attention? Cut the manipulation!” I tuned out his ranting and peeled his hands off me. Standing up, I looked around and spotted a black SUV speeding toward us. “I’ll hit it myself. Remember to pay for the damages to the car.” I tossed the words over my shoulder and lunged into the path of the oncoming vehicle. “Sierra!” Jax shrieked in utter despair, scrambling to his feet, but it was too late. I was full of hope, anticipating death. Even though I’d eventually die in the real world, too, I didn’t want to spend another second in this one. The screech of tires was deafening. The black SUV managed to slam to a halt just inches away. I staggered back a few steps and fell right into Jax’s arms as he dove toward me. “You’re insane! Sierra Mills, are you actually insane?” His eyes were bloodshot. His fingers frantically traced my face, my shoulders: “Did you hit anything? Are you hurt? Tell me!” Disappointed that I hadn’t died, I lowered my gaze. I saw the pooling blood soaking Jax’s pants. His injury was clearly severe, still dripping blood onto the asphalt. If this had happened before, I would have been sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I could take his place. Now, I merely looked away with indifference. “What? I need your permission even to die?” 2 Jax froze, looking utterly incredulous. I scoffed, walked around him, and approached the driver of the black SUV, who was still muttering angrily: “I’ll transfer the compensation money to you later.” Jax stood rigid, his fists clenched, the corners of his eyes turning red. I was surprised, then realized: “Oh, I meant I’ll use my own money, not the family’s…” “Sierra!” He cut me off, unable to contain his frustration. But then, I saw a flicker of genuine hurt—even whininess—in his expression. “You are the only daughter of the Mills family! Even if I gave you the entire family fortune, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second!” I found this ridiculous. I looked him dead in the eye: “Is that so?” His body jolted, as if the reality of his own words had just struck him. The nominal “Mills family daughter” right now was Willow Lane. And I, the true Mills heiress, was nothing more than a disgraced, delusional attention seeker! I laughed, a harsh, unrestrained sound, even as tears unexpectedly spilled down my cheeks. I used to be inseparable from Jax; he’d even take me to movie sets. But now, he would only look at me with a cold face and order me to always yield to Willow Lane. Jax dragged me back into the car, his head bowed. “When Willow gets her Physics Prize, we’ll announce that you’re the true Mills heiress… “Everything before was just a misunderstanding…” I couldn’t be bothered to respond, turning my face toward the window. The scenery rushed by, a fleeting blur. Before I crossed over, I was an orphan. A routine check-up had revealed bone cancer. I had been lying in the hospital, blacking out from the agonizing pain. When I woke up, the system had sent me into this world, into the body of a six-year-old child. A voice had spoken in my mind: [Achieve an 80% Capture Value with the Mills brothers and Male Lead Ryder King, and marry Ryder King, to receive the one-hundred-million-dollar reward and return to the real world.] After that, there was a burst of static, and I thought the entire thing might have been a hallucination. Still, a chance at a healthy body and a second life wasn’t bad. The car drove steadily. Jax was still gripping my wrist fiercely. His fingertip gently stroked the back of my hand—the way he used to soothe me when I couldn’t sleep. As an orphan, I had desperately craved this favoritism. I’d even considered abandoning the mission and staying. But once Willow, the orphan I brought home, appeared, all that gentleness became her exclusive property. I went from pouting and sulking to desperate hysterics. The only reply I ever received was: “Stop being so dramatic. Look at how pathetic you are.” The car stopped at the Mills estate gate. I snatched my hand away from Jax and got out. Jax called after me, disbelieving: “Sierra, I’m hurt. It was for you…” I interrupted him, my expression blank: “If you’re hurt, go see a doctor. What good does telling me do?” I pushed open the front door. The first thing I saw was Willow, seated on the sofa, the center of everyone’s doting attention. Asher’s face was stern. He gave Ryder a hard punch on the shoulder: “Willow hasn’t been able to eat or sleep properly for three days because of you! How could you be so careless with her?” Willow quickly tried to intervene: “Asher, Owen, I’m really fine. It was all a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted out now.” I stood in the doorway, admiring their sibling devotion. [Host, dopamine levels are dropping…] The system’s inorganic voice sounded unusually subdued: [So, Host, are you feeling very sad right now?] 3 The system’s question nearly broke me. I hastily wiped the dampness from the corner of my eye. Jax walked up beside me. Before he could speak, Willow cried out and rushed toward him: “Jax, why are you so badly hurt? You…” Her sentence was cut short by my hand slapping across her face. Willow clutched her red, swollen cheek, staring at me in disbelief. Almost instantly, a powerful, open-handed blow sent me sprawling onto the floor. Asher pointed at me, his face alight with fury: “Sierra Mills! We have truly spoiled you beyond measure! Apologize to Willow!” I scrambled up from the floor, spitting out a thin trail of blood: “Apologize? What did I do wrong? I’ve become a discarded second-hand wife, and I’m not allowed to hit the homewrecker?” Asher grew even angrier, his voice spiking: “What nonsense are you spewing? Willow and Ryder were always meant to be together! You were the one who forced your way in!” “How can I have a sister as shameless as you?!” I laughed out loud: “Shameless? Ryder King was my fiancé! And now I’m the one who forced my way in!” Ryder stared at me, his voice glacial: “Our engagement was called off ages ago! The King family would never want a woman with your reputation!” Owen grabbed me and hauled me up off the ground: “Sierra Mills! Apologize!” I said nothing, my eyes scanning the faces of the men before me. Asher’s gaze was cold, Owen’s filled with disgust, and Ryder looked like he wished I would just drop dead. Jax frowned, his lips moving, but he ultimately remained silent. It was exactly like a year ago, when Willow, frequently seen with Jax, was mistaken for a stalker fan by the media. Unable to bear it, Jax revealed on social media that Willow was the Mills family daughter. And I, the true heiress, was forced to take the fall and shoulder all the online abuse for Willow. “You have bodyguards wherever you go. Willow is all alone!” I had been shocked, resistant, and had cried and screamed. The way they looked at me then was exactly how they looked at me now. All I felt was an overwhelming fatigue. I didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore. I yanked my arm out of Owen’s grasp, walked into the living room, and picked up a fruit knife from a nearby table. Jax, horrified, tried to rush over, but Willow clung to his arm: “Sierra, what are you doing?!” I looked at Willow, a wide, distorted smile stretching across my face: “I’m apologizing!” I didn’t look at Asher, Owen, or Ryder, who were all standing as if preparing for battle. I raised the knife and decisively plunged it into my chest. A chorus of screams erupted. I laughed, and I cried: “I’m paying her back with my life. Is that enough?” “Are you satisfied now?” Warm, viscous blood surged out. The dizziness from blood loss made me sway. Through my blurring vision, and amidst a chaotic roar of voices, I saw pure terror on the men’s faces. Jax threw himself at me, clutching my body, and screamed like a maniac: “Call an ambulance!” I woke up to the heavy, sterile scent of disinfectant. The blinding white room made me slightly giddy. Had I succeeded? Had I returned? I turned my head and met Asher’s bloodshot eyes. Annoyed, I closed my eyes. Asher’s hoarse voice sounded shrill and irritating for the first time: “Sierra Mills! Who taught you to try and kill yourself just for attention!” I felt even more irritated. Something hard was digging into the back of my head. I reached up and pulled it free: a small, slightly worn Silver Saint’s Medallion. I remembered it instantly. When I was twelve, I had a high fever for a week, and the hospital issued three critical condition warnings. Owen had climbed a thousand steps, kneeling for every one, to retrieve this exact medallion for me. Later, when Willow was injured, Owen gave it to her. Now, it was back in my hands. I only found it bothersome. I lifted my hand and tossed it away. Owen had just walked into the hospital room. He watched, stunned, as the medallion clattered onto the floor. He looked up, glaring at my face: “Sierra Mills, you just threw away that medallion?” 4 I frowned, my voice flat: “It’s a dirty object. What, am I not allowed to get rid of something I don’t want?” Owen’s chest heaved violently. His eyes were filled with rage and a strange, sharp pain. He abruptly lifted his foot and stamped down on the medallion, grinding it under his heel, before sneering in mockery: “Sierra Mills, you truly are spoiled and heartless! You’re an ungrateful viper!” “No wonder Ryder chose Willow over you. You…” “Owen!” Asher cut him off, his tone heavy. Owen’s eyes were red. He stared intensely at me, searching for any hint of sadness or regret on my face. But all he found was my face, calm as still water. Owen shook with rage, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat: “Sierra Mills! That medallion belongs to Ryder. It was only loaned to you! Who are you to throw it away!” A strange calm settled over me. I replied simply: “I’ll pay him back.” My placidity enraged Owen completely. He pointed at me and yelled: “Stop pretending! If that’s your attitude, then go get a new medallion right now! One thousand steps—if you miss even one, it doesn’t count!” Asher tried to object, but Owen silenced him with a look. Clearly, Asher also saw this as a perfect opportunity to force me into line. My knife wound wasn’t life-threatening; they were certain this was just another performance for attention. When I arrived at the mountain temple outside the city, it suddenly began to rain. The thousand stone steps were slick with rain and freezing cold. I knelt directly onto them. My wound soaked in the rainwater, and a bone-deep, excruciating pain spread through my body. But I felt nothing, telling myself over and over: This is the last time. This is me paying Owen back. I don’t know how long I knelt, but I finally received the new medallion. I was soaked to the bone, my head swimming and burning with fever. I pushed open the Mills front door and walked directly into a bustling celebration. Willow was the center of attention, holding a Physics Prize trophy, her face radiant. My entrance instantly shattered the warm atmosphere. Asher was the first to frown and scold me: “Sierra Mills! Look at the state of you! You look nothing like a Mills heiress!” Everyone’s eyes darted toward me—some with disdain, others with impatience. Not one person showed concern. I ignored them, walked straight to Willow, and placed the medallion in her hand. Willow flinched back, feigning modesty, though a flash of triumph crossed her eyes: “Sister Sierra, please don’t do this. I don’t blame you…” I couldn’t stand her manipulative act. I turned to leave. I heard the angry voices of Asher and Owen behind me. I pretended not to hear a thing and walked straight into my room, locking the door behind me. I pulled out the razor blade I had prepared in my drawer and slashed my wrist without hesitation. The moment the blood gushed out, I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt before. Jax’s voice was outside the door, knocking: “Sierra, open up. I need to talk to you.” I was fading, too weak even to speak. Owen’s impatient voice followed: “Ignore her! She’s just throwing another tantrum for sympathy. We’ve enabled her for too long!” Jax finally gave up. I heard their footsteps retreating. I finally closed my eyes, content, and my soul lifted lightly from my body. Just as my spirit hovered in the air, the door was violently kicked open. Asher stormed in, his face livid, followed by Jax and Owen. “Sierra Mills, you’re not going to…” His voice died instantly. The crimson scene on the floor filled the room.

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Our wedding night was barely over. Rhys held me, still warm from our bodies, and then he said it: “I have a mistress, and it’s her birthday tonight. I need to go be with her.” My mind went numb, my ears ringing with a sharp, high-pitched static. “If you love someone else, why did you marry me?” He got up and began to dress. The hickey I’d left on his neck was still raw. “Ava, I love you the most, but she’s new.” “We’ve been together too long, sweetheart. I needed the edge, the thrill.” My throat tightened, my voice trembling. “So, on our wedding night, you’re leaving me to go celebrate with another woman?” “The act of the wedding night is officially over,” he corrected me. He bent down and gently pinched my cheek. “She’s young, she’s dramatic, and she needs constant attention. You’re Mrs. Lockwood now. You need to be the bigger person.” “And if I can’t be the bigger person?” He looked like he’d been waiting for that question. He smiled faintly. “Then we divorce. But you walk away with nothing but the clothes on your back. Think about that, hmm?” I collapsed onto the messy sheets, the evidence of our recent passion still heavy around me. The silk wedding banner hanging on the wall was a violent, angry red—like a slap across my face. 1 Perhaps the despair on my face was too profound, because Rhys sighed and gently stroked my hair. “Remember the day you tried on your dress? I was in the fitting room right next to yours. That’s when I took her virginity.” “She was so scared to make a sound, she just choked on it—a tiny, pathetic sound like a kitten. That kind of heat, that forbidden rush—you couldn’t give me that. Do you understand?” The blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice, yet the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. That day, I had been overflowing with joy, floating in the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen. I came out, looking everywhere for him, but he was gone. When I called him, his voice was tight. He said he had an urgent deal he couldn’t put off. I thought he was stressed, and I stupidly comforted him, telling him not to work too hard. Rhys caught one of my tears on his thumb, his voice sickeningly soft. “I didn’t want to miss a second of you in that dress, but that little firecracker was too clingy. We didn’t get out of bed for a full day.” I stared blankly at the ceiling, unblinking for so long my eyes dried out. Rhys clicked his tongue, took my hand, and kissed my palm. “I’m sorry, Ava. I know you’re hurt. If we have to divorce, I’ll give you a mansion downtown as compensation.” “But if you stay, if you tolerate this for me, everything I have is yours. My life, my wealth, and yes, even my heart.” Today was supposed to be the single happiest day of my life. I had married the man I’d loved for eight years—a century-defining wedding, a million-dollar ring. It was a fairy tale five minutes ago. Now, I was a crying mess, asking him like an idiot: “Why did you tell me? Why tonight?” Rhys gently wiped my tears, his eyes filled with something close to pity. “My sweet girl, because I feel awful for you. I know I’m rotten, but since we’re married, I owe you the truth.” He paused, then suddenly chuckled. “Of course, there’s another reason. I was so looking forward to this moment. Seeing you broken, just like this. It makes me feel… protective. It makes me want to make it up to you even more.” “So, don’t divorce me, okay? I’ll still love you just like before, hmm?” I slapped him. Hard. Then I grabbed anything I could reach and threw it at him, screaming until my lungs burned. “Get out! Get the hell out!” Rhys tilted his head, wiped the corner of his mouth, and stood up, still smiling a little. He smoothed his collar and walked toward the door. “Ava, just cool down.” “I’m going to go celebrate with the girl now.” The door shut softly. I saw my reflection in the diamond on my hand—a raging lunatic. I curled up in the corner of the bed, tearing at my own hair, banging my head against the wall until the pain blurred and consciousness finally retreated into darkness. The instant my eyes closed, I was eight years younger. In a cramped room, Rhys stood between me and my abusive father, shielding me completely. His back was a bloody mess, and I screamed for them to stop. The police siren finally blared. Rhys was missing a tooth, but he still smiled at me. “Don’t be scared, Ava. No one will ever hurt you again.” We lived under a bridge, scavenged for food, and his thin back was my only bed. Later, he worked construction and sales until he could finally afford a tiny one-bedroom walk-up. He held me tight and whispered, “Ava, we have a home.” Those memories were so beautiful, they kept me sinking into the dream for too long. I woke up to my best friend’s text messages blowing up my phone. “Ava! This has to be fake news! Rhys loves you too much, it’s a total lie!” I numbly clicked the link she sent. One glance was all it took. My entire body went rigid. Rhys and his mistress had been caught having sex in an upscale rooftop restaurant. Hundreds of people saw. It was a global trending topic. My hand shaking, I called him to demand an explanation. His voice was hoarse. “That? Yeah, we got a little carried away. Didn’t want you to see it. The trending topic is a pain to get removed, too. If it bothers you that much, maybe you can help figure out a solution?” Like a zombie, I used the last of my strength to drive to the address he’d sent me. A flicker of memory: early in his career, he was courted by the heiresses of both a real estate magnate and a foreign trade giant. Everyone in the city was betting on which family he would marry into. But Rhys shocked them all. He paid hundreds of media outlets to run one single quote: “I have a girlfriend. I love her, and only death will part us.” From that day on, the world knew Rhys loved me. Which is why his betrayal today felt so much more spectacular to the entire world. I found Rhys’s second home. Outside the door, I ran into his assistant. The man’s gaze was so full of pity, my breath hitched. I pushed the door open. Clothing was strewn everywhere. Rhys was sprawled on the sofa, clutching a woman. He heard me and patted the woman’s back. “Get dressed. My wife is here. Show some respect.” The woman slowly pulled on her dress, pouting for him to zip the back. She turned to me and stuck out her tongue. “Oopsie, so sorry, Sis. I really didn’t think Rhys would actually ditch you to be with me for my birthday. I got so excited, we just went a little crazy.” She blinked, then gasped as if remembering something. “Oh, right, we didn’t use protection. But I’ll take the pill, okay? Don’t be mad.” I clamped a hand over my mouth. My stomach churned, and I bent over, dry-heaving violently. Rhys’s face darkened. He immediately jumped up to support me. “Ava? What’s wrong? Are you sick? I’m taking you to the hospital!” I shoved away his arms, trying to embrace me. Tears and the acidic taste of vomit mixed in a miserable, humiliating rush. Rhys’s face hardened. He snarled at the mistress. “Get out!” She stomped her foot and whined. Rhys frowned, but still leaned in to kiss her softly. “Stop, baby. I’ll have the assistant get your pill. And I’m yours again tonight, okay?” She finally looked satisfied, tossing her lace underwear onto his shoulder before glaring at me and leaving. Rhys carelessly flicked the scrap of fabric onto the sofa. He turned back, his tone shifting to concern, gently rubbing my back. “Ava, feeling better?” “I know this is hard to accept right now. I get it. So, if you want a divorce, I won’t blame you.” I wiped the mess from my mouth and looked up, staring at him with eyes that were swollen and raw. “Rhys, I’m not divorcing you.” I couldn’t explain what I was thinking. Disgust, yes. Fury, absolutely. But mostly, it was refusal. I didn’t want to cut my losses. I was like a gambler who’d lost everything, frantically clutching at the one remaining chip: the belief that he still loved me. I cried, I screamed, I even held a knife to my own neck to threaten him. Rhys finally caved, promising to cut ties with the other woman completely. See? He still cared. If he loved me, maybe we could still go back. But the retribution was swift. One month later, on my own birthday, intimate office photos of him and my best friend, Tatum, went viral. The double betrayal was a dull knife to the throat. I physically retched and coughed up blood. I spent all my energy writing scathing online posts and paying off media to ruin him. But Rhys crushed my entire struggle with one casual move. He produced a fabricated psychological evaluation and announced to the world that I was mentally unstable. At the same time, he sent Tatum to a top overseas university with a huge donation, telling reporters: “Tatum is an exceptional woman, and I look forward to her returning home a master of her field.” I was a public joke, a cautionary tale. When the spotlights went out, Rhys took my hand, his voice laced with patronizing fondness, as if soothing a difficult child. “Ava, you threatened your life last time. I was not happy. Sleeping with your best friend was just a small lesson for you.” He sighed. “I understood, and I tolerated your moods, but I waited an entire month to get something new. You can’t stop a man’s nature.” “I thought you two were close. I’m a little disappointed you made such a scene. Don’t push me like this again. You’ll regret it.” The next day, he found a college student. To show how much he adored her—and to warn me—he sold our original one-bedroom walk-up. That apartment held all our youthful memories. The tiny place where we once shared one cup of instant noodles, dreaming of a perfect future. He promised he would never fail me. I fell to my knees, begging him. I told him he could take everything, just leave that one apartment. I failed. The money went to the student’s expenses. She lasted two months, then he traded her for a restaurant hostess. My mind started to unravel. I shuffled between psychological clinics and alternative medicine practitioners, often leaving acupuncture treatments looking like a human pin cushion. One day, I came home early and found Rhys coupling with yet another woman in our matrimonial bed. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, but it was the first time I’d seen it with my own eyes. I lost it. I attacked them both, striking him, then hitting the woman until she had to go to the emergency room. To appease his new conquest, Rhys had me committed to a psychiatric hospital. Three days of electric shock therapy. The day I came home, the bedroom door was locked. I could hear his strained breathing from inside. “Ava, wait out there for a second. We’ll be done in a minute.” I waited from afternoon until deep into the night. When Rhys finally emerged, I had already slit my wrists with a kitchen knife. I woke up in a hospital bed. He was by my side, eyes dark with exhaustion. He clutched my hand, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Ava. I went too far this time.” “But how can you use your life to make a point? If you truly can’t handle this, you can file for divorce. I promise to give you a generous settlement.” In our eight years, we hadn’t been strangers to hardship. But he had suffered more than I had. I was fed; he starved. He collapsed at construction sites, by the side of the road, right in front of me. That year, terrified that I would starve him to death, I tried to break up with him. I staged a hunger strike. That was the first time he ever cried, begging me not to leave. “Ava, don’t go. If you leave, I really won’t make it.” Now, lying in this bed, I gently touched his face and asked seriously: “Rhys, do you still love me?” He squeezed my hand fiercely and kissed my palm again and again. “My sweet girl, how could I not love you?” During my hospital stay, he was like the Rhys of old—the man who loved me most. We held hands, embraced, and made love, giving ourselves fully to each other. But it was fleeting. He soon had someone new. A fragile, youthful girl in a summer dress, who stood behind him and shyly called me “Sister.” I had a flash of déjà vu when I looked at her. But Rhys wouldn’t let me get a closer look. He completely shielded the girl, and the look in his eyes—for the first time—was protective and wary. “Madi is innocent, a simple soul. I had to chase her down. Any complaint you have, you direct it to me. She doesn’t understand anything. I have to protect her.” In that moment, I knew. If I still held three percent of his heart, Madison owned the other ninety-seven. He protected her completely; the media never got a photo of Madison. He, who had always hated spicy food, accompanied her to eat an entire pot of blazing hot chili oil, clutching his stomach all the way to the emergency room. He told her he couldn’t give her a title, so he transferred ten percent of his company stock to her. On their hundred-day anniversary, he bought out the city’s fireworks show and set them off all night long. I stood by the window, watching the dazzling display, my heart tearing apart. I remembered years ago, when we were huddled under the bridge. We found discarded fireworks in a dumpster. He always gave them to me first. I never lit them right away; I saved them for my birthday or a special occasion. A small spark flared in the darkness, a poor, lonely flower bursting open. Rhys would hold me tight from behind, his voice choked with tears. “I’m sorry, Ava. This is the best I can do for you now.” “I swear, one day, I will show you the grandest, most beautiful fireworks the world has ever seen.” Later, we had money. Our wedding was extravagant. But I never saw a single firework. I thought he’d forgotten. He hadn’t forgotten. He just took the light and gave it to another woman’s night sky. The final blow was the wedding he orchestrated for Madison. Every detail was planned by him. He invited all his closest friends and announced that Madison was his true love, the one he’d waited for all his life. In that moment, seeing Madison in her white dress, the image of her merged with a shadow in my memory. I went insane. I ran into the wedding, holding a knife, and screamed at him. “Rhys! Why don’t you love me anymore?! Isn’t she just the ghost of the girl you shattered?!” His first reaction was to shove Madison behind him. Then, he grabbed my arm and threw me down the grand staircase. I collapsed on the ground, blood immediately soaking through my clothes. I woke up in the hospital again. Rhys was standing nearby, his white shirt stained with dried, dark blood. His face was a mask of pain. The doctor told me I’d lost the baby. I couldn’t remember which one it was anymore. The third? The fourth? I only remembered the beginning: too poor for decent birth control. Then, two ambitious young people sacrificing their bodies for their business. The first child was lost to malnutrition. The second, an accident after exhaustion. The doctor had gently told me then that it would be difficult to conceive again. Rhys had hugged me, his eyes red. “It doesn’t matter, Ava. We’ll be child-free. I only need you.” Now, this accidental child was gone, lost in this brutal way. Rhys collapsed beside my bed, his shoulders shaking. He cried, swearing: “Ava, I’m so sorry. I’ll protect you. I won’t let you suffer another moment.” But my soul had already drifted away with that unformed life. He didn’t leave to be with Madison, but she showed up at the hospital herself. She carried a fruit basket. When she heard I’d lost the baby, her tears streamed down her face. “Sister, I didn’t want to tell you now. I was scared you’d be sad.” “But… I’m pregnant.” The wire that had been stretched to the absolute limit finally snapped. I grabbed the water cup on the bedside table and hurled it at her, screaming with all the air in my lungs: “Get out!” Rhys instantly shielded her. The cup shattered against his back. He spun around and roared at the nurses rushing in. “Give her a tranquilizer!” “You couldn’t keep your own child! Don’t you dare take it out on Madi!” “I told you, take your anger out on me!” The cold drug was pushed into my vein. The world began to spin and blur. But I felt it clearly: the last shred of dignity that had kept me going until now had completely dissolved. I stared at the ceiling blankly, silent tears streaming down my face. Rhys let go of Madison. He looked at me with an expression of deep anguish, reaching out to embrace me like he always had. The moment his hand touched my shoulder, I said: “I agree.” He froze, confused. “I said, I agree to the divorce.”

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I was notorious among the Manhattan elite for being a certified nightmare. When it came to my fiancé, Declan Thatcher, I was accustomed to screaming demands and snapping orders. If I was even slightly put out, I could turn the Thatcher penthouse into a five-alarm disaster zone. Until last night. I had a dream. In the dream, I was the villainess in a novel, and because I was so high-maintenance, I finally exhausted Declan’s patience. He tossed me out. The ending was grim: my family, the Ashworths, lost everything, and I was left homeless, fighting stray dogs for a moldy piece of sourdough on the street. The fear woke me up in a cold sweat. My silk pajamas were soaking wet. Clutching my wildly beating heart and staring at the sprawling, several-thousand-square-foot master suite, I made a solemn vow. I had to change. For the sake of my couture wardrobe, my platinum Amex, and, most importantly, for avoiding sour bread. I would become the ideal partner: thoughtful, gentle, and utterly compliant. Even if it was all an act, I’d commit to the role for life. 1 Today was the perfect testing ground. Declan was flying to Europe to finalize a major corporate merger. This was usually peak hour for my dramatics. I cornered him in the walk-in closet as he was fastening his cufflinks. He was wearing a dark gray bespoke suit, his posture impeccable, his expression cool and distant. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in, just offered a noncommittal grunt. Normally, I would have ripped his tie off and—as I’d once threatened—strangled him with it. But today, I practiced restraint. I took a deep breath and shoved my phone under his nose. The screen displayed a stunning pink diamond necklace, something only seen at a private, high-end auction. “Declan Thatcher, you are to buy this for me during your trip. No excuses.” My tone was still demanding, but my heart was hammering. This was the test. The book said a man who was still willing to spend lavishly had not yet abandoned you. Declan paused his movement. He finally looked up, his eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. “Understood.” That was it? That flimsy? I pouted in dissatisfaction, the urge to lash out a physical ache. I stepped onto my toes, leaned in close to his ear, and let out a petulant huff. “Declan, do you even love me anymore?” The cufflink snapped shut. The next second, he leaned down, his warm lips falling precisely onto the corner of my mouth for a quick peck. “Yes.” “I’ll buy it.” “Be good while I’m gone.” His voice was even, but I was entirely mollified. I released my grip on his tie, bestowed upon him a charitable kiss on the cheek, and released him to his private jet. During Declan’s week-long absence, I stayed true to my Queen of Drama professional code. I sent him dozens of voice notes daily, all about mundane nonsense. “I’m craving the limited-edition black truffle macaroons from La Belle Pâtisserie in the Village. Bring me a dozen when you land.” “My new dress looks awful, and it’s your fault for not being here to give me fashion advice.” “What time is your flight getting in, exactly?” One night, at three in the morning, I couldn’t sleep and suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see the European night sky. I video-called him immediately. It was evening for him, and he answered on the first ring. The background was an ornate conference room filled with a group of sharply dressed foreign executives. Declan raised a hand, signaled a ‘pause’ to the room, and walked with his phone over to a massive floor-to-ceiling window. “What do you want to see?” The European cityscape was muted and brilliant in the lens. The executives in the meeting room exchanged priceless, bewildered glances. I felt zero guilt, only critique. “It’s nothing special. Not nearly as good as the view from our penthouse.” Declan let out a low chuckle. “Agreed. I’ll show you the one at home.” When I hung up, my best friend Sutton’s text immediately popped up. “Stella, you are reaching peak diva status. Declan is an Ice King, the epitome of the untouchable enigma. You’re going to push him away eventually.” I looked at my dazzling reflection in the mirror, tossing my hair with supreme confidence. “Men line up for me from Manhattan to Monaco. Declan Thatcher is lucky I chose him.” Sutton sent a string of ellipses. I ignored her, but a faint flicker of unease crossed my mind. Declan’s love had always felt so restrained, so controlled. He was utterly compliant, but I always felt like something was missing. Lately, a new social climber named Wren had popped up. She constantly tried to mimic my style, bought my exact designer bags, and was constantly maneuvering to get near Declan. I didn’t pay her any mind. I’d seen a thousand of her before. Until someone sent me a photo. At a corporate gala, Wren, wearing a little white dress, had ‘accidentally’ spilled red wine on Declan’s bespoke suit. She was holding a handkerchief, practically plastered to his chest, looking utterly fragile. And Declan didn’t push her away. A hot, sharp fire shot straight to my brain. I immediately drove to Declan’s corporate tower, my heels clicking like machine-gun fire on the marble floor. Bang! I slammed my phone down on his massive executive desk. “Declan Thatcher, I demand an explanation.” He was signing a document and looked up, glancing at the photo. He didn’t even flinch. He picked up his desk phone and immediately dialed his Chief of Staff. “Pull all quarterly collaborations with the Ashworth Group. Effective immediately.” “Also, send a memo: I never want to see that woman at a corporate event again.” The action was swift, cold, and brutal. He hung up and looked at me, his gaze entirely calm. “Are you satisfied?” His ruthlessly efficient response was exactly what I needed. The fury instantly vanished, replaced by smug satisfaction. I blew him a kiss, happily spun around, and grabbed his corporate Black Card to go shopping. I thought the incident was over. But that night, I had another intensely vivid nightmare. In the dream, I was the same high-maintenance wife in a novel called The CEO’s Substitute Sweetheart, and my continuous, unreasonable demands had finally depleted all of Declan’s love and patience. Wren became his “North Star,” the ideal woman, while I faced family ruin and homelessness. During a torrential downpour, soaked and pathetic, I knelt on the pavement, begging him. Dream-Declan stood over me, shielded by a black umbrella, his eyes arctic and unforgiving. He said one thing: “Stella, I’m done with you.” That line pierced my heart, and I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my pajamas plastered to my skin. The fear of being abandoned was so real it made me physically tremble. Clutching my racing heart, I came to a decision. I absolutely could not let the dream come true. I had to secure my fortune and, more importantly, secure my Declan. I had to change! Stella Ashworth, the certified nightmare, was dead. Long live Stella 2.0: The Stepford Wife. I was going to be a gentle, thoughtful, and kind sweetheart! To implement my new, perfect-partner persona, I began a difficult withdrawal. For three agonizing days, I refrained from sending Declan a single harassing text. My fingers were crawling with the itch, and several times, I opened the chat box, typed out a furious string of “Declan, are you dead? Why aren’t you answering?”—only to delete it, tearfully, character by character. Finally, I replaced it with something new. “Work hard, darling. Don’t forget to take care of yourself. xoxo” I added a sickeningly cute emoji. I gave myself goosebumps just looking at it. On Declan’s end, the chat bubble showed, ‘Declan Thatcher is typing…’ I stared anxiously at the screen. Ten minutes later, he finally replied. A period. “.” My inner response: “…” Hold it together, Stella! This is normal for a high-powered CEO! You cannot lose your cool! I threw the phone to the side and burrowed under the duvet, rolling and thrashing until the urge to smash the device subsided. Finally, the day Declan was due to return arrived. I specifically dug out a soft, white cotton dress from the back of my closet. I even, for the first time in our relationship, decided not to send his driver to the airport, choosing instead to wait patiently at home. At 8 PM, I heard the faint click of the lock. Declan walked in, winded and slightly disheveled, bringing a trace of the chill air with him. I immediately rushed over, beaming what I thought was a sweet, welcoming smile. “Welcome home, darling.” I crouched down, pulled out his house slippers, and carefully positioned them by his feet. Up until now, he had always been the one to fetch my slippers. Declan’s body stiffened visibly. He stared at me with the strangest expression. I stood up, eyes filled with expectation, and glanced meaningfully at the suitcase his assistant was wheeling in, mentally flashing the image of my pink diamond necklace. Declan froze. He avoided my gaze and offered an awkward explanation. “There was a hiccup at the auction. A Middle Eastern oil magnate suddenly jumped in and drove the price up too high. It was snatched.” “I’ve already instructed my team to contact the buyer. We’ll try to acquire it at a premium…” My heart sank instantly. In the past, the nearest decorative throw pillow would already be airborne and aimed at his face. But the terrifying dream flashed in my mind, that chilling phrase: “I’m done with you.” I inhaled deeply. Then again. I forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “N-no big deal.” “It’s just a necklace, truly. If you couldn’t get it, forget it.” “I… I have plenty anyway. I didn’t really want that one anymore.” The air instantly went dead silent. I could hear every intake of breath. Declan was stunned, staring straight at me. Then, his already pale complexion turned instantly chalk-white. The next second, he violently grabbed my wrist, his grip terrifyingly strong, as if he meant to crush the bones. “Why don’t you want it anymore?” His voice was tight, carrying a tremor I had never heard before. “You always said you had to have it.” “Stella, are you looking for an excuse to leave me?” His eyes were filled with panic and a touch of deep paranoia, fixed on me. “Are you trying to draw a line between us?” “Or have you already found someone else?”

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Five years. Five years since Rhys Harrington and I lost our son, Leo, in a car accident. He was across the country, escorting his mistress for the birth of their child, and didn’t even attend Leo’s funeral. Now, after years of silence and survival, I found him again. In the cemetery. I was holding a mini-cake, ready to spend a quiet afternoon talking to my son. Instead, I saw Rhys setting a limited-edition sports car—the one Leo always wanted—at the headstone. Beside him, a small boy burrowed into his side. “Daddy, do you think big brother will like the gift I picked out?” 1 The autumn air carried a sharp, desolate chill through the cemetery. Rhys bent down, patiently zipping the boy’s jacket all the way up. That was the careful, solicitous kind of fatherly love my Leo never knew. The boy noticed the mini-cake I held, which had a tiny race car drawn on the frosting. He peered up at me, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Auntie, it’s my brother’s birthday today. Are you here to celebrate him, too?” I turned my head, pretending not to hear. I used a moist wipe to clean the dust from the photo on the headstone, then placed a small candle on the cake. My Leo. His life frozen at five years old. The boy looked at the cake, then up at Rhys, and finally back to me. Silently, he picked up the sports car he’d brought and placed it next to the tombstone. A haze of disorientation washed over me. The boy—tall for his age, with deep, perceptive eyes—shared a strong resemblance to Leo. They both carried the dominant Harrington genes. If I didn’t know exactly who his mother was, I might have been tempted to pull him into my arms, a desperate, flawed solace for the wave of grief that constantly crashed back over me. The cold wind sliced in from all directions. I tried several times to light the candle, but my hand was shaking too badly. Rhys reached out naturally, taking the lighter from my grasp. For a fleeting second, our skin touched. The proximity of his scent, his body heat, the things I once clung to, now made my stomach churn with pure revulsion. I snatched the lighter back, my movement violent enough to make him stumble a few steps. The boy cried out defensively, shielding his father. “You shouldn’t push people! You need to apologize to my Daddy.” 2 “Finn Harrington, that is enough.” Rhys’s voice was low and heavy, utterly lacking the gentle patience he’d shown moments before. The boy’s face crumpled with offense, a look that painfully mirrored his mother’s pride and stubbornness. It was impossible not to recall Seraphina Maxwell, flaunting her pregnancy in front of me years ago. “Genevieve Hartley,” she’d sneered, “if fate hadn’t gotten in the way, Rhys would have met me first. He would never have needed to marry a spoiled, clueless debutante like you.” Rhys crouched down, touching the boy’s pouting cheek. “Don’t you love your big brother most? This is his mother. If you’re too loud, it will make your brother sad.” I gritted my teeth. How dare Rhys? How dare he let Seraphina’s son call my Leo “brother,” and use a name—Finn—that felt so deliberately resonant, designed to replace the Huai character that was part of my son’s Chinese name? I had no intention of lingering. I was back in New York to finalize the process of having Leo’s remains moved. I needed to speak to the cemetery director. Rhys followed, still holding Finn. When he heard my request, his voice was thick and hoarse. “Genevieve, you haven’t visited Leo in five years. And the moment you return, you want to take him away?” “He is my son. I won’t allow it.” I let my eyes trail over Rhys with a cold, dismissive look. He was still the impeccably tailored man I remembered, tall and commanding in his expensive suit. The tie he wore—that signature burgundy red, almost certainly chosen by Seraphina—spoke of power, warmth, and quiet strength. Five years after losing Leo, Rhys Harrington was still thriving, still on top. I, on the other hand, had a few strands of gray at my temples. Leo would have worried about me. But he was gone. I tilted my head back, a bitter, icy smile touching my lips. “I’m not asking for your permission. You didn’t even attend his funeral. You forfeited the right to discuss this with me.” 3 Rhys seemed to be fighting back a response, but his phone lit up. Finn, who was pale and slender, spoke in a thin, childish voice. “It’s Mommy calling! Is the new baby in her tummy being naughty again?” Rhys turned his back to take the call. Finn, undeterred by my obvious detachment, leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m going to be a big brother soon, just like my other big brother! Daddy is really excited about the baby, and I’m going to share all my toys.” The papers I was skimming paused in my hands. Rhys and Seraphina—a picture of a successful marriage, professionally and personally. Two children in five years. Their son looked perfectly cared for and shielded. My face felt tight and cold, but Finn wasn’t afraid. My Leo was different. Before he was three, his father was too busy building his empire to spend time with him. After he turned three, Rhys fell in love with Seraphina. He grew to resent me, and by extension, the child I’d given him. Rhys stopped coming home for Leo’s birthdays and holidays. That last, rainy night, Leo insisted on waiting for his father. He said Daddy had promised to bring him a sports car from out of town. In that one blink of an eye, my Leo ran into the street and was hit by a car. 4 Rhys hung up. I was about to sign the transfer papers with the cemetery director. He grabbed my wrist, his composure barely holding. “I told you, you are not taking Leo away.” I stood perfectly still, my expression blank. “Then you can tell my son that yourself, in the grave.” Rhys’s grip tightened, digging into my flesh. It hurt. There was a time when this man would have been near tears if I scraped my knee. When I was giving birth to Leo, he was beside himself with fear and guilt, promising through sobs that he would never put me through that again, that he couldn’t bear to lose me. He broke that promise, of course. Not a thousand days into our marriage, he was already rolling around in his penthouse office with Seraphina. I fought. I screamed. I made a spectacle. All that got me was Seraphina’s ever-increasing encroachment on my life. With Rhys’s tacit permission, she eventually pushed me out of the company altogether. 5 The contract was ripped into pieces, scattering across the wet grass. Rhys’s jaw was a tight knot. He signaled to Walter, his long-time driver, to take Finn to the car. Walter caught sight of my face, and a flicker of panic crossed his features. “M-Miss Genevieve!” Walter had worked for the Hartley family when Rhys was a struggling young man. He’d seen me argue with my stepbrother, Connor, to invest in Rhys. And he’d also helped Seraphina cover up the lipstick she dropped in Rhys’s car. It was the rich man’s world: the patrons change, but the driver stays the same. Rhys’s eyes were black, bottomless pools. The aura of a man in charge surged around him. He turned to the cemetery director, his voice menacing. “If my son’s rest is disturbed, I will ensure you understand the true meaning of consequences.” The director gave me a helpless look and quickly retreated. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I raised my hand to slap him. But I didn’t land it. My hand was captured in his vise-like grip. Rhys spoke with a low, desperate ferocity. “Gen. You want to sever every connection we have, even Leo.” “You hate me, don’t you?” He closed the distance, pinning me against the cold, gray stone wall, fine dust particles settling on my coat. I took a deep breath. “Why waste the energy to hate you? Does someone keep a score of every dog that has ever bitten their family, just so they can remember to look after it forever?” Given Rhys’s current wealth and standing, the Hartley family at its peak couldn’t compete. I’d made too many futile attempts to fight him. I’d lost too much. He had no qualms attacking my family for Seraphina. I learned to accept the harsh, unpredictable reality of life. I just wanted to take my Leo home. 6 A layer of autumn rain, a layer of cold. It was clear I wouldn’t finish the paperwork today. I started to leave. Rhys glanced at my light trench coat, and the ingrained habit surfaced: he took off his six-figure Kiton coat, ready to place it over my shoulders. “Where are you going? I’ll take you.” I slapped the coat to the ground. The top-tier Neapolitan brand, famous for its flawless tailoring, instantly soaked up the wet mud. I used to love dressing Rhys. Dressing the man I loved in the way I loved. Rhys let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “When I first met you, you were still the fierce, defiant socialite.” “I wanted so badly for you to hold on to that high-and-mighty position forever.” “But you destroyed me, didn’t you?” “I…” His usually calm voice held a subtle, nearly imperceptible hint of panic. Dark clouds approached, and the sky grew heavy. My ride-share car arrived. Ignoring Rhys’s outstretched arm, I got into the back seat. Less than two minutes later, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and whistled. “Ayo. Is that guy trying to pull a move from an action movie? He looks like he’s trying to box us in.” I looked back. Rhys’s large, black SUV was aggressively tailing us. It quickly pulled up right next to my side window. Rhys rolled down his window, his lips moving as if shouting something. Finn was strapped into his booster seat, a look of small, frightened confusion on his face. I stared straight ahead. The driver, however, was clearly invested. “That’s your husband and kid, right? Is he trying to mess with you even at a time like this? The spirits won’t rest easy if he keeps pushing you around!” “Don’t worry, Sis. I used to race cars. I’ll make sure we lose this tail.” He gripped the wheel, floored the gas, and sped past the SUV. Almost simultaneously, I received two text messages. Give me another chance. Let’s talk this through properly. Gen, Dr. Andy is a leading neurosurgeon. He’s arriving in the city this weekend. Perhaps there’s hope for Connor. 7 The first message was, without a doubt, from Rhys. I had blocked his number, changed mine, and disappeared five years ago. He was resourceful enough to find it in mere hours. The second was from my brother’s friend, Dr. Daniel “Dan” Cross. He’s a physician, a neuro specialist who studied abroad. Connor sustained severe brain trauma in the accident, resulting in significant memory loss. I’d spent the last few years in Europe with him, focusing on rehabilitation, with frustratingly little success. Dan’s text was likely meant to reassure me, to give me something to hold onto. I reached the hospital, paid the driver a generous tip, and he drove off happily, wishing me a good life. A life like that—simple, predictable, with minor worries—always seemed so appealing. I was born a Hartley, and I had seen the heights of power. I once had a pair of red party heels that cost more than some people’s annual salary. But the bloom on the rose is fleeting. After my father died, Connor inherited the family business. He faced down a pack of greedy relatives with ruthless efficiency. But he couldn’t refuse my tearful pleas to invest in Rhys. Rhys Harrington was at his lowest point, facing complete financial ruin. I found him in a dive bar, being force-fed liquor by his old rivals. I couldn’t stand to see my moon dragged through the mud. I pestered Connor until he agreed to pay off Rhys’s staggering debt. He resisted, so I used the one thing I knew he couldn’t deny—the fact that my father had found him in an orphanage and brought him home. Finally, he conceded. “Gen, the Hartley name and everything that comes with it is yours. You make the call.” The tragedy of my life began when I poured everything I had into that love. Rhys accepted my help, and promised on my parents’ graves that he would never betray me. Yet, history proved that once a man becomes a power unto himself, he subtly rewrites his origin story, re-casting the help that sustained him as a flaw that needed to be overcome. 8 In the VIP room, I was helping Connor practice making tea, breaking down the steps into simple actions. His mental capacity was regressed to that of a five or six-year-old. He’d suffered from selective mutism and was prone to emotional outbursts. Dr. Cross entered, looking frustrated. “Dr. Andy was just taken by Mrs. Harrington. She claims her mother has a severe migraine and needs the most authoritative specialist immediately.” Seraphina had a pattern of this. Years ago, on a snow-laced night, Leo was running a high fever. I called Rhys, but Seraphina answered, informing me that my husband was in her shower. I screamed at her, calling her a gold-digging predator. Seraphina simply arranged for Rhys to turn off his phone and stay out all night. I drove slowly through the snow, Leo sleeping fitfully in the back seat. I nearly spun out multiple times, but he still murmured a warning. “Mommy, the road is slick. Please be careful. It would make me sad if you got hurt.” Now, empowered by her title as Mrs. Harrington, Seraphina would only escalate her cruelty. My anger flared, and I marched to the room next door. 9 Seraphina was draped in a mink coat and heavy jewelry, projecting an image of effortless wealth. A faint, arrogant smile played on her lips, the same haughty demeanor of the brilliant young woman I’d met years ago. She was exceedingly thin, however, which made her very pregnant belly seem grotesquely out of proportion. I had heard Seraphina’s name long before I saw her. Rhys mentioned her several times after the Harrington company stabilized and he decided on a pivot. He’d found a brilliant programmer—an overseas graduate whose vision aligned perfectly with his. A primal sense of alarm made me jealous. Rhys rubbed my hugely pregnant stomach, gently flicking my nose. “Talent isn’t gendered. If you’re worried, I’ll report my whereabouts from the office every day.” The next day, he installed real-time monitoring in his conference room, allowing me to check in at any time. Later, when a piece of core technology was leaked, costing the company millions, Seraphina implied the monitoring system had been compromised, suggesting that my hands had reached too far. Rhys publicly dressed her down, asserting I was the owner’s wife and would never betray the company. I didn’t care to get involved. Once Leo was born, all my focus went to him, and I lost the will for such trivial fights. Seraphina took advantage of the gap, using the excuse of “expanding their empire” to travel constantly with Rhys. Their shared mission, their close proximity, and their similar ambition—the perfect conditions for the heat to ignite quickly. Postpartum hormones made me demanding and irritable. I constantly asked Rhys to check in. He stopped wanting to come home, barely finding time for our adorable, soft Leo. I suggested divorce several times. Rhys vehemently refused, insisting he couldn’t live without me, and I didn’t want Leo to grow up in a broken home. I agreed to hold off, on the condition that he limit his contact with Seraphina. In the end, I lost everything. 10 I walked up to Dr. Andy, who was patiently explaining something to Seraphina’s mother in English. The older woman was clearly fine. Seraphina was simply trying to spite me. Five years ago, she did the exact same thing, spiriting away Leo’s pediatrician overseas to protect her own delivery. I explained the situation to Dr. Andy. He smiled warmly, thanking me for funding his student’s lab a year ago. As he prepared to leave with me, Seraphina gave her mother a sharp look. The older woman, Mrs. Maxwell, blocked the doorway like a street fighter. “He was brought here by my son-in-law! You cheap little hussy, you have no right to take him!” I didn’t spare her a glance. I forcibly pulled my arm free from her chicken-claw grip. Seeing her mother pushed aside, Seraphina seemed to find her justification. She raised her hand to strike me. But the years of physical therapy I’d done with Connor had given me significant strength. I caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and pinned both her arms against the wall. The esteemed Mrs. Harrington’s face was pressed against the cold wall in a ridiculous, absurd “wall kiss.” “Genevieve Hartley, how dare you touch me? Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” I leaned in close to her ear and spoke clearly, every word a deliberate weapon. “I haven’t even come for you yet, and you seek me out. Aren’t you afraid that the details of the car accident you arranged five years ago will be revealed? That you and your mother will go to jail?” Seraphina’s face instantly drained of color. 11 After Leo’s funeral, I was a shell of a person. I planned to drive to the cemetery myself, but Connor, seeing my fragile state, insisted on taking the offerings and Leo’s new toy car instead. On the way, he was hit by a truck. The initial investigation concluded the driver was drunk and he was jailed. The back-to-back tragedies destroyed me. I filed for divorce immediately. At the time, Finn Harrington had just been born. Rhys, unwilling to let his beloved mistress’s child be labeled illegitimate, immediately agreed to the terms. I took Connor abroad for treatment, desperate to catch the six-month golden window for recovery. When I finally recovered enough to look into the truck driver’s background, I found an unusual wire transfer to his account. All the evidence, however, had been expertly erased. The cover-up was meticulous. I only found the trail leading to Mrs. Maxwell—Seraphina’s mother—a year ago. Mrs. Maxwell, seeing that Leo’s death hadn’t made Rhys divorce me, had contacted a distant relative in a remote town, who then hired the truck driver. It was a convoluted plot designed to remove me so her daughter could take my place. Rhys might not have known about the plot initially, but he protected his wife and covered up the scandal, burying the truth deep in the ground. … A moment later, Seraphina’s composure returned. “You don’t have proof, or you would have used it already.” “Poor Connor Hartley. He loved you all those years, only to end up with no dignity left.” She let out a cruel, pitying laugh. “I hear he can’t even use the restroom without wetting himself. Everything has to be taught from scratch. It’s pathetic.” It brought me back to years ago, when she would whisper in my ear. “Poor Miss Hartley, you can’t even hold onto your husband’s heart.” She’d follow up by texting me photos of herself in lingerie, lying next to Rhys. I raised my arm, ready to finally land a blow on her despicable face. But I failed again. Rhys arrived. He seized my wrist with punishing force, his eyes threaded with blood. Finn’s small voice piped up. “Mommy, is this the bad lady who was bullying you?”

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The night before I was set to sign the marriage license, the sales associate at Veridia told me my fiancée had purchased a limited-edition ‘Midnight Reindeer’ holiday lingerie set. I froze for a few seconds, then my heart hammered against my ribs. I thought, foolishly, that she was finally touched by my ten-year pursuit—that this was a special wedding surprise just for me. But on the day of the wedding, I waited until the last guest had left and she still hadn’t appeared. The only thing I saw was a celebratory post on her intern’s social media: “My CEO Queen said she refuses to let an old, linked-up dude take her first kill, lol, so I got to put my stamp on it first.” “Who cares if someone used their family name to force a ten-year engagement? One tear from me, and she ditched the entire wedding.” “And she promised me that for every time she has to sleep with the old man in the future, she’ll compensate me twice with me~” The accompanying photo showed him, Spencer Reed, with a light, mocking finger hooked through the lacy strap of the lingerie set she had bought with my money. The hickey-covered skin visible on Genevieve’s chest in his arms felt like a physical chill spreading through me. Everyone was betting on what I’d do: Would I retaliate against the intern, or would I swallow the humiliation for the sake of Genevieve Sinclair? No one expected that I, Ashton Pierce, who had chased her for a decade and never considered giving up, would go straight to the official media to announce: Engagement voided. Genevieve’s call immediately came through, her tone icy: “Ashton, why are you starting a fight with a kid like Spencer? He doesn’t have any experience with… you know, relationship stuff. I was just worried he’d be at a disadvantage later, so I put it on as a demonstration. It wasn’t like we actually did anything! The social media post was just a penalty for losing a round of Truth or Dare!” “Besides, that outfit didn’t show a single scandalous thing. Do you really need to make such a big spectacle? No wonder Spencer calls you an archaic Puritan!” “Delete that post immediately before my parents see it! Do you have any idea how much capital is involved in our families’ joint ventures? We’re talking hundreds of millions; you can’t just joke about that!” “After you apologize to Spencer and get his forgiveness, we can reschedule the wedding and go to the courthouse.” I held the phone, my voice flat. “It makes no difference.” “You’re not the only alliance available to Pierce Holdings.” 1 Genevieve clearly paused, the sheer annoyance in her voice practically spilling out of the receiver. “Ashton Pierce, are you seriously making a federal case out of this?” “Spencer and I drank too much at the bachelorette party last night and slept in; it’s not like I deliberately stood you up. We can just have the wedding another day, can’t we?” “The alliance was settled by our parents years ago. Trying to leverage a non-existent slight like this, just to play the victim… how childish are you?” Listening to her, I felt a burning rush of blood to my head, and I nearly shouted into the phone: “A ‘non-existent slight?’ You call ditching the wedding a ‘non-existent slight?’ Our parents, the entire upper echelon of Westfield’s business partners, and all our friends were waiting there, dressed up, for hours! You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’ Or how about the fact that you, a woman set to be married tomorrow, took pictures like that with Spencer Reed and posted them online? You call that a ‘non-existent slight?’” I inhaled deeply, forcing down the lump in my throat, the words catching as I demanded: “Genevieve, what exactly counts as a big deal to you?” Maybe Spencer Reed’s slightest frown was the biggest deal in the world to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have abandoned a few hundred people at the wedding venue just because of one of his crocodile tears. I didn’t give her a chance to argue, immediately hanging up. My mother stood beside me, her eyes red, waiting for an answer. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, my voice was as calm as frozen water: “Mom, please contact the other potential alliances.” “But you waited for Gen for ten years, maybe if you just wait for the next…” “I’m done waiting,” I cut her off, wiping away the last hint of dampness from my eye. “She is not worth it.” I sat down, alone, on the day of my thirtieth Christmas Eve, and for the first time, I took a serious look back at my life. The most golden decade of my life, from twenty to thirty, was spent waiting for Genevieve to turn around. For her sake, I managed Pierce Holdings while constantly bailing out the Sinclair Group’s crises. I once drank so much blocking drinks for her that I landed in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer; I stayed up all night rewriting proposals, treating liver supplements like meals; and when her father fell critically ill, I stepped in to manage their operations. I even personally led the team that took the Sinclair Group’s overseas division public over three grueling years. I worked so hard that some people suspected I was trying to stage a corporate takeover. Only I knew the truth: I just wanted her to finally see me. That I was worthy of her, and strong enough to support her entire world. A month ago, after the overseas division’s successful IPO, she finally accepted my proposal, scheduling the high-profile Christmas wedding everyone in the city was talking about. I was ecstatic. I thought she had finally recognized my efforts. I oversaw every detail of the wedding myself and even rented all the city’s outdoor billboards to broadcast the ceremony live. I wanted the entire city to witness that I had finally won. But in the end, the guests left, and my parents were humiliated. Calls to Genevieve’s parents went unanswered until the phones were practically melting. I got nothing but a social media post from Spencer Reed, who displayed their intimate photos and scornfully mocked my ten years of waiting. The moment I saw that photo, I expected to collapse, to go mad, or, as in the past, to make excuses for her, to live in denial. But there was nothing. Only an empty, desolate void in my heart. The truth was, not all waiting yields a result. Some people will simply never turn back. My phone vibrated again. I assumed it was Genevieve, still relentless, and was about to turn it off. But the text I saw made my eyes snap wide open. 2 Genevieve didn’t stoop to a petty, private spat like blocking me. She sent a formal letter directly to Pierce Holdings, unilaterally announcing the termination of all joint ventures. This was immediately followed by an Equity Redemption Notice. The basis was an agreement I had signed years ago to give her peace of mind: I agreed that the Sinclair Group could, at any time, buy back the shares I held as collateral—shares I had acquired when the company faced a cash-flow crisis—at 30% below market price. I had liquidated all my personal assets to keep the Sinclair Group afloat during her father’s illness; the value of those shares had now multiplied several times over. I never intended to profit from them. That agreement was meant as a promise to her: Look, I will never use your vulnerability against you. Now, it had become the knife she used to stab me. “Ashton Pierce, you asked what a big deal was? Now you know,” the text read. “This is the price of your impulse. Enjoy it.” I stood blankly, my eyes blurring with tears. Suddenly, I was transported back to that late night many years ago. Her father had collapsed, and she, new to the corporate world, was terrified and called me, crying, completely out of her depth. I postponed three vital meetings during my business trip and took a redeye flight to pick her up. She was curled up in the passenger seat, eyes swollen, quietly asking: “Ashton, will you always be this good to me?” I said, “Yes.” She buried her face in her knees, her voice muffled: “Then you can’t ever leave me.” But the one who always left first had been her. That promise… I refused to keep it any longer. 3 I left the empty ballroom, needing to rush back to the office to deal with the inevitable fallout from her legal actions. I looked up and froze. The city’s massive outdoor screens, the ones that were supposed to be broadcasting our wedding, were now showing Spencer Reed’s face, a look of profound “regret” plastered on it. Genevieve had handed the live broadcast rights of our wedding over to him. I dug my fingertips into my palm, the cold metal edges of my car key pressing painfully into my skin. I could almost hear the sound of my blood running cold. On screen, Spencer’s face was appropriately contrite. He managed a smile that suggested he was bearing the weight of the world’s misunderstanding. “Mr. Pierce, I couldn’t get a hold of you, and I was genuinely worried that the misunderstanding was deepening… I had no choice but to use this public platform to explain.” “Last night’s bachelorette party was certainly my oversight. I shouldn’t have pressured Gen to drink so much, but it was just harmless fun between young people, nothing scandalous. I had no ill intention, I truly didn’t think you would be so upset that you would cancel the engagement… isn’t that a bit rash?” “You’ve pursued Gen for so many years, but hasn’t she also remained unmarried for ten years? She finally decided to trust you, and you make such a massive scene.” He sighed, his gaze sincere and worried: “In a relationship, there’s more than just right and wrong; there should be understanding and compassion, don’t you think? I know I’m saying too much, but I’m just concerned for Gen. She carries the weight of a massive company on her shoulders, and now even her marriage can’t give her peace…” Just then, Genevieve’s figure strode into the frame, pulling Spencer behind her. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were sharp and cold, as if they could pierce the screen and pin me in place. “Why are you apologizing to him?” Her voice was clear, laced with unconcealed disdain. “Ashton Pierce is just a prude; he really thought he could control me, didn’t he?” “Let me make this perfectly clear. The fact that you caused a spectacle over a single piece of sexy lingerie only proves how twisted your mind is! I don’t need you begging me to marry you!” “Listen up: I’m sending my assistant to buy two thousand of Veridia’s holiday limited-edition sets right now and pile them up outside the Sinclair Group headquarters! They’ll be free to take until the last one is gone! The moment the final piece is taken, Spencer and I are getting married! And every person who takes a piece of lingerie is invited to my wedding!” The live feed abruptly cut out. Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzed, pushing the breaking news story that the live broadcast had ignited. “Spencer is so classy, doing a city-wide broadcast to explain, but Ashton Pierce shutting off his phone is just dramatic…” “Ashton is definitely being a sore loser. It was just a game between young people, why is he so triggered by a single piece of lingerie?” “Gen is such a boss! She looks incredible in Veridia! The old man really doesn’t deserve her! So, where exactly are they handing out the free lingerie at Sinclair HQ? Asking for a friend!” “He put up with ten years of everything, but one piece of lingerie breaks him? Why wait so long? Is he planning something sneaky?” “LOL, who else would marry a relic like Ashton Pierce if it weren’t for the Sinclair alliance? Get a grip, old timer!” … I sat in my car, my expression numb. I remembered when Spencer Reed first interned at the Sinclair Group; Genevieve had been dismissive of him, finding his smile too ingratiating. I, recalling that they were from the same business school, covered for Spencer several times and even genuinely taught him a few things, hoping he would become an asset to Genevieve. When did things change? Perhaps it was when he “casually” mentioned the fragility of growing up in a single-parent home. Or the lonely, deep-fried wisdom he “just happened” to post on social media after a late night at work. Or maybe when Genevieve was drowning in a project, and he “just happened” to show up with her favorite coffee at the perfect temperature, accompanied by a few words of carefully targeted “admiration.” Later, when I felt uncomfortable with his little schemes and gently suggested Genevieve keep her distance, she shot back: “Spencer is just young and eager to prove himself. Can’t you stop being so petty?” “Besides, what kind of relationship do we even have that gives you the right to be jealous? Stop being so nitpicky, you’re a grown man.” Yes, nitpicky. As if their total disregard for my feelings could be excused by their “openness,” and any discomfort I felt could be simply dismissed as “petty.” Just like today, they had conspired to destroy my ten years of hope, our families’ reputation, and a city-wide celebrated wedding. And my response—canceling the engagement—was small-minded, a display of archaic puritanism. The familiar ache started in my chest, but it was light, almost a phantom pain. I took a deep breath, merging the car into the flow of traffic. Worrying about whether a woman who never loved me felt any remorse was futile. Getting to the office to manage the fallout from this absurd spectacle was clearly more important. 4 The lights in the Pierce Holdings penthouse office were blazing. The team was supposed to be finalizing plans for a lucrative post-alliance partnership. Instead, they were tackling the public relations disaster caused by Spencer Reed’s “City-Wide Apology.” My secretary, Martha, looked at me with open sympathy. “Ms. Sinclair might just be acting out of anger, Mr. Pierce. Perhaps if you speak to her first…” “No need.” My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “I appreciate your concern, Martha, but the partnership is beyond saving.” “Her secretary informed me that she is already processing the paperwork to transfer the Sinclair shares she bought back from me… directly to Spencer Reed.” Martha’s face fell, and she clearly wanted to say more. I shifted the conversation back to the crisis at hand. I looked up later, and the night outside was thick and black. My phone rang in the silence, the flashing number so familiar it was a searing pain. I watched it ring for a long time, picking up at the very last second. The voice that came through was not the cold mockery I expected. It was Genevieve, slurring, with a thick, drunken sob. “Ashton Pierce, you’ve got… you’ve got nerve. I waited for your call all night…” She cried intermittently, her voice laced with a drunken vulnerability I had never heard before. My heart softened automatically, but then she continued: “You… you need to come and get me… we’re going home… to that penthouse you bought for us… Spencer said… he loves the rooftop infinity pool and the view… Will you just sign the deed over to him? As… as your apology gift… and then we can call it even…” Every word was a bullet, precisely hitting the last nerve in my body. That penthouse was a custom design I had sketched out myself, taking a full year to build. It was exactly what she had once said she wanted: a home with a view of the entire city’s lights and the stars above. And now, she was casually demanding I sign it over to Spencer Reed as my “apology?” My fingers were ice-cold as I gripped the phone; I could taste rust in my throat. “Genevieve, that apartment was prepared for my future wife. It has absolutely nothing to do with you or Spencer Reed. You have no right to ask, and certainly no right to demand its disposal.” Without waiting for another word from her, I hung up and immediately blocked the number. A text from my mother arrived promptly: “Ashton, Alexandra Albright, the daughter of the Albright Industries family in North City, just returned from overseas. She mentioned wanting to meet you, said you two knew each other from before? What do you think… about that?” I didn’t hesitate: “Yes, Mom. Please arrange it.” “Wonderful, I’ll have Lexi text you directly.” Alexandra Albright. We had met at a project competition during graduate school. Her presentation was flawlessly logical, and her business acumen was astonishing. The Albright family had subtly expressed an interest in an alliance afterward. But at the time, Genevieve was all I could see. I was entirely focused on helping her stabilize the Sinclair Group. Though Albright Industries offered much more assistance, I had politely declined the offer then. Now, a decade of deep affection felt like a long, painful dream. It was time for me to start living for myself again. 5 Meanwhile, Genevieve and Spencer Reed’s relationship began to dominate media coverage. She went with him to ride the city’s highest rollercoaster, something she had refused to do with me countless times, citing a fear of heights. She wore revealing dresses and shorts, styles completely opposite to her usual elegant attire, and partied with Spencer in nightclub dance halls. She even hosted a lavish ceremony for the transfer of the Sinclair Group’s overseas shares, introducing Spencer to the entire upper circle. The things she had once told me were “too immature” or “unbefitting of her status.” Now, she did them for another person, clearly finding pleasure in every moment. I knew these updates were deliberately pushed into my feed. Including the massive Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group building, which was tracking the lingerie giveaway. A giant LED screen displayed the remaining quantity: 1998. 1523. 876. 332. I knew Genevieve wanted me to watch, to force me to regret, to make me grovel. But this time, I only felt a calm, mocking amusement. I occasionally scrolled through the comments on the news articles, a sea of schadenfreude: “Countdown to 100 sets! Is Ashton Pierce crawling to Gen to beg for forgiveness yet, LMAO?” “Waiting for Gen and Spencer’s wedding of the century! Live slap in the face for the old man!” “Ashton must be crying under his duvet right now, right? Ten years as a loyal lapdog and now he has nothing, serve him right!” I pressed the screen of my phone, which had lit up again with an alert showing a new intimate photo of them, and turned it off. I picked up my teacup and nodded to Lexi Albright across the table. “Please thank your mother for me. The tea is excellent.” Her smile was serene, yet there was a sparkling light in her eyes as she looked at me. “You’re welcome. If you like it, come by my place next time. I have something even better.” Her direct gaze made my cheeks heat up. My ears were still hot when she drove me back to my villa. However, the moment of relief was abruptly extinguished when I unlocked my front door. A bucket of ice water was dumped over my head. “Are you awake now, Ashton Pierce?” Genevieve’s voice was frigid. “I left you alone for all this time to reflect, and you got a little too big for your britches, didn’t you, coming back so late!” I wiped the foul-smelling water from my face. “Who let you in?” My attitude seemed to infuriate her; she slammed the bucket onto the hardwood floor with a deafening clatter. “Didn’t you say this house was bought for your wife? That would be me! I’ll come in whenever I want!” She lifted her chin. “The password is still the date of our first meeting. Ashton Pierce, is that all you’ve got?” I clenched my fist, annoyed at myself for forgetting to change the code. She pulled a tablet from her designer bag and violently threw it at me. The screen lit up, showing a live stream. The background was the lingerie Christmas tree outside the Sinclair Group, the camera focused on the remaining few items. “Do I need to remind you? They’ve taken 1,990 of those sets downstairs already!” “Only ten sets are left.” Her voice was sharp with excitement. “Ashton, don’t you get it? You’re the one looking at things through a filthy lens! It’s the 21st century; absolutely no one thinks this kind of clothing is scandalous anymore!” I looked down at the face I had loved for ten years, now twisted by rage and triumph, a stranger to me. “I’ll give you one last chance. Give up the deed to this house today, and get down on your knees and apologize to Spencer! I want you to stream the apology so the whole city can watch!” Every word was a poisoned needle. “Otherwise, when the last piece of lingerie is gone, I will marry him!” The live stream on the tablet continued. The excited voice of the host blared through the speaker: “Down to the last five sets! Folks! We are moments away from history!” The comments section was a frenzy: “Where’s Ashton Pierce?! Why hasn’t he shown up?!” “He’s probably on his way to beg! His wife is about to be gone!” “Waiting to see Mr. Pierce on his knees!” “CEO Gen is amazing! This is how you handle an old prude!” Genevieve shoved the tablet closer to my face, her finger practically touching the screen: “Do you see? Everyone is waiting for you to admit your mistake! If you go apologize to Spencer now, and give me ten percent of Pierce Holdings’ shares, we can still have our wedding…” I looked calmly at her face, which was contorted into a smug mask of victory. Then, softly, almost absurdly, I chuckled. That small sound completely enraged her. On the tablet, the host was excitedly counting down. “Three sets remaining!” “Two sets!” “Only one left!!!” With every number, Genevieve’s smile widened. When the last set remained, no one stepped forward. At that moment, I pushed her hand away with a neutral expression and slowly walked toward the door. Genevieve’s triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter, finally admitting defeat?” “Spencer is at the bar we were at that night. You better hurry! If that last set is taken by someone else, not even kneeling will change my mind!” She watched smugly as I sped out of the parking garage like a shot arrow. She was just about to text Spencer that he should have the journalists on standby to capture my groveling from every angle. But the next second, the host’s excited and then terrified shout came through her phone’s speaker. “The Christmas tree is empty!!” “The two-thousandth piece of lingerie has been claimed!” “Let’s congratulate the lucky… Ashton Pierce! Wait, it’s you!”

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