Author: Momo Chan

I was on a work trip, but my neighbors were blowing up the group chat, tagging me in ALL CAPS, cursing me out for knocking on their window in the middle of the night, and threatening to come upstairs and kill me. I stared at my phone screen, utterly confused. I was a thousand miles away in Nashville, munching on some Nashville hot chicken. There wasn’t even a roach in my apartment, let alone a person. Who the hell was knocking? Operating under the principle that there are no such things as ghosts, I told my neighbor to go take a look. The resulting video they sent showed a massive, homemade effigy hanging from my balcony, swinging back and forth with the draft from the HVAC unit, repeatedly striking the glass. The effigy was human-sized. It was headless and handless. 1 It was 2:30 a.m., and the condo group chat was detonating. A resident named “Inkwell” was furious: [Is the moron upstairs high? KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! It’s been an hour! What time do you think it is?!] RyanCole302: [Maybe it’s just the wind? Who’s a big enough idiot to knock on a window at 2 AM for fun?] Inkwell: [Bullshit! It’s not the wind! It’s got a rhythm, man, someone is deliberately knocking! Still going! I swear I’m coming up there to kick your ass!] A girl named “SweetSpot” chimed in: [An hour of knocking? That’s kind of creepy. Does that unit have someone with a mental health issue or something?] Seeing them argue, I felt compelled to step in as a good neighbor: [Hey, man, chill out. What building are you in? Don’t get worked up, just ask security to go check, right?] The next message was Inkwell changing his screen name to “FinnMiller402.” I froze. 402? That was the unit directly below mine. He was yelling at my apartment? But I was in Nashville on a consulting gig. Nobody was home. The place was locked up tighter than a drum. I cautiously typed: [You’re 402? Are you sure you’ve got the right unit?] FinnMiller402 (Inkwell): [QuestionMark.jpg. You think I don’t know where I live, genius? You must be an idiot.] My gut clenched. A burglar? But what kind of burglar breaks in, steals nothing, and spends an hour playing bongos on the window? It made no sense. Two minutes later, Finn sent another message: [I called security and the building manager. They’re on their way up. The son of a bitch upstairs is going to apologize on his knees tonight!] As a lifelong, meek consultant (the perpetual ‘B’ party), my first instinct was to de-escalate: [I am truly sorry. I’m the owner of 502. But I swear I’m not home right now, and there is absolutely no one else there!] FinnMiller402: [???] BrawnyBrock: [Holy crap, a horror story?] SweetSpot: [Maybe your parents or a relative took your key and didn’t tell you?] HarveyReno: [Even a relative wouldn’t be banging on a window in the middle of the night, would they?] Pierce602: [It’s a break-in, then.] BrawnyBrock: [What kind of thief is that cocky? Trying to get caught?] The bizarre turn of events drew out every night owl in the chat. Just as the speculation hit a fever pitch, Pierce602 posted a video: [@SeraKnight, is this your place?] BrawnyBrock: [Oh, Momma! What the hell is that thing?!] SweetSpot: [That looks familiar…] I clicked the video with a trembling hand. One look, and the blood drained from my face, a chill shooting straight up to my scalp. My living room curtain was partially open. Right in the center of the balcony, a huge, white object was hanging. It looked like a human-sized rag doll. The central air was blowing directly on it, and the thing was swinging back and forth with the draft, striking the floor-to-ceiling panoramic window with a rhythmic “Thud, thud, thud.” That was the sound Finn downstairs had been hearing. Pierce602: [Is that supposed to be one of those old-school weather dolls?] HarveyReno: [Who makes a doll that big? It looks like a person. @SeraKnight, did you hang that?] I quickly denied it: [Absolutely not! Why would I hang that creepy thing?!] BrawnyBrock: [Wait… could that actually be a person?] SweetSpot: [How long have you been gone?] Me: [Two days. I was scheduled to be back next week.] Just as we started arguing about what the thing was, Finn messaged again: [Security is here. I’m going in with them to check it out first.] 2 BrawnyBrock: [My dude is a madman!] The group chat went dead silent. Everyone was holding their breath, waiting for Finn’s update. After about ten minutes, Finn sent a chain of voice messages. His voice was shaking, bordering on a sob. “Oh my GOD! Ahhhhh!” “No head! God, it has no head!” “Call the cops! Call the cops right now! It’s a person! It’s missing its head!” He was clearly terrified, incoherent save for the frantic calls to 911. HarveyReno: [So… a corpse?] BrawnyBrock: [I’ve already called the police! @SeraKnight, forget your job, get your butt back here! Something huge has happened!] Brock, despite his mouth, was quick on the draw. He sent several messages urging me to return. Me: [Dude, I can’t. The earliest red-eye flight I can catch won’t land until tomorrow morning.] BrawnyBrock: [Someone’s dead, and you’re flying? Can’t you take an Uber? You sound guilty! Maybe you’re the killer!] I snapped back: [I’m in Nashville! It would take two days of non-stop driving to get back! You’re awfully quick to throw accusations—are you looking for a scapegoat?] RyanCole302: [Alright, stop fighting, guys.] SweetSpot: [@RyanCole302, you’ve been quiet the whole time we were panicking. Where were you?] RyanCole302: [Seriously? I was asleep, woman! Look at the time! I’d have been out cold if the chat hadn’t kept vibrating. Now you’re going to suspect me?] SweetSpot: [Sorry, sorry. Been watching too many true-crime documentaries. A little jumpy…] Pierce602: [Shut up. Sirens. The police are here.] The group chat fell into a grave silence once more. About twenty minutes later, Pierce602 posted four words, like a boulder dropped into a deep well: [Someone is dead.] 3 I booked the next available red-eye flight. The sky was just beginning to lighten when I landed. The police were waiting for me at the gate. “Ms. Knight? You’ll come with us.” The interrogation room was lit by a sickly fluorescent glare. Detective Price, a sharp-featured officer, sat across from me. “The victim’s time of death was between midnight and 1:30 a.m.” Detective Price stared into my eyes. “Where were you during that time?” “I was on a work trip in Nashville,” I replied honestly. “Alibi? How do we know you didn’t secretly fly back, kill someone, and fly out again?” “What?” I was stunned. “Don’t the building and the airport have security cameras?” “Unfortunately, your building’s security system went half-offline three days ago,” Detective Price tapped the table. “And we note that you, Ms. Knight, are a security systems consultant. An expert in the field.” “As for the airport footage, that takes time to review.” “Now, answer my question.” It seemed I was the number one suspect. Which, given the body was found in my apartment, was fair. “The trip was my boss’s assignment. I was in Nashville to supervise a client camera installation.” “Yesterday, after I finished work, I went back to the hotel. I didn’t go anywhere else.” “No colleagues to vouch for you?” I shook my head. “It was a solo trip.” “However, around one in the morning, I was starving, so I ordered some takeout.” “It was delivered around 1:15.” “It was one of those hotel delivery robots that brings the food up. The robot should have a log, right? And the hotel lobby security would definitely show I never left.” “That’s convenient,” Detective Price leaned back in his chair. “Hungry in the middle of the night?” I sighed with frustration. “Of course I get hungry when I can’t sleep. Officer, a woman eating a midnight snack isn’t a crime, is it?” As the initial shock wore off, I slowly calmed down. I hadn’t killed anyone. I didn’t need to tremble like a criminal. “So, have you offended anyone recently?” Detective Price changed tack. “Or who do you think would want to hurt you the most?” “I don’t know,” I shook my head. “But I swear I’m not the killer, or I hope to be hit by a bus on my way out of here.” Detective Price watched me for a long moment, seemingly confirming I wasn’t lying before putting down his pen. “Save the dramatics. They don’t help. Don’t leave the city for the next few days. We may call you back in.” “‘Us’?” “Every resident in the building who doesn’t have a rock-solid alibi.” Detective Price rubbed his temples. “Even though the interior security system was compromised, the exterior ones are still working.” “Since 10 p.m last night, no one entered or left the complex except for one delivery driver.” “Then why are you grilling me—” Detective Price gave me a flat look. “The police don’t rule out any possibility.” I nodded quickly. “Our complex is a little out of the way. It’s usually only delivery people and mail carriers who frequent the place…” Wait, the delivery driver? A flash of memory crossed my mind. “Detective Price, I just remembered something. I don’t know if you’d call him an enemy, but he was definitely a delivery guy.” 4 It was a small incident, originally. If Detective Price hadn’t simultaneously brought up “enemy” and “delivery driver,” I would never have connected the dots. “About two weeks ago, I had a fight with a delivery guy, and I ended up calling the police.” It was 10:30 p.m. that night. I had ordered a spicy Thai curry. “You order takeout often that late?” “Yeah, I’m a consultant. Long hours.” I continued recalling the night. “The food arrived pretty fast, around 11:00 p.m.” “Knock, knock, knock.” “Just leave it by the door, thanks!” I was deep in a heated battle on my game console and just shouted out a response. The game was a nail-biter, so I kept playing for another half hour. When I finally remembered the food and went to the door, my instinct as a woman living alone told me to check the peephole first. The motion-sensor light in the hallway had gone out. It was pitch black. But in the darkness, a single red spark was flickering, glaringly bright. Someone was squatting by my door, smoking! My building has an apartment directly across the hall, but it was empty. No neighbor from upstairs or downstairs would purposely come all the way to my door to have a cigarette. I instantly remembered all the online news stories about delivery drivers staking out single women’s apartments. My heart hammered against my ribs. To confirm, I dug out the order on my phone and dialed the driver’s number. Immediately, a phone rang outside my door, and the motion-sensor light flared on. Squatting there, in the yellow vest, was the delivery driver. A few seconds later, the call connected. “Hello, can I help you?” I backed up a few steps, trying to keep my voice steady. “Sorry, I was busy. I see the app says it was delivered?” The driver turned and stared directly at my door, his eyes unblinking. “Oh, yes, about half an hour ago. It’s cold out, your food must be getting cold. You should grab it now.” “Got it. I’m in the bathroom, I’ll get it in a minute.” 5 Thinking back, my excuse was weak. I kept my eye glued to the peephole. His eyes never left my front door. He had to know I was lying, that I’d spotted him. But he still didn’t leave. I retreated to the bedroom, hands shaking, and called 911. The police arrived quickly, within five minutes. Only after I heard the commotion outside did I dare open the door. “Officers, it’s him! He’s been squatting by my door for over thirty minutes!” As the police pinned him down, the delivery driver stared intensely at me. It was a look of venomous resentment—the hatred of a plan exposed—and it made my blood run cold. But in an instant, he morphed back into a simple, harmless-looking man. “It’s a misunderstanding, Officer, truly,” he pleaded, his face crumpled. “It’s too cold out. I just wanted to get out of the wind and wait for my next order here.” He even played the victim, claiming he had a paralyzed mother to support at home. “I have to work constantly, I can’t quit.” My gut told me his version of “work constantly” was less about delivering food and more about attempted home invasion. But I had no proof. In the end, the police could only give him a warning. He hadn’t actually touched me or picked the lock. That was the end of it. Later, I posted about it online. The comments section was full of people warning me to be careful, saying people like that hold a grudge. [OP, watch your back. Always double-lock your door!] [The police won’t do anything about this potential danger? Do they have to wait for someone to get hurt?] [No new orders, but he’s squatting by your door smoking? Something’s definitely wrong with this guy!] Of course, there were also sanctimonious S.O.B.s defending him. [Maybe he was just tired and taking a break?] [They’re just low-income workers, trying to make a living. Don’t assume the worst.] [Maybe he was afraid the food would get stolen and you’d ask for a refund, so he was waiting for you to bring it inside?] Regardless of the truth, I was terrified for a week. Thankfully, nothing happened. I convinced myself it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, or perhaps I had just overreacted. Slowly, the incident faded from my memory.

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It was the third month I’d been living with Leo when his parents decided to visit. He brought it up to me, asking if we could tell them that the condo was his. Considering his pride as a man, I agreed. That very evening, Leo’s parents moved into the master bedroom, bringing his grandmother and grandfather with them. Leo promised me that as soon as they left, he would make it up to me in every way. But I had no idea his parents had no intention of leaving. 1 Leo showed up to pick me up from work that night—a rarity. When I got into the car, I was greeted with a latte, a small designer cupcake, and a Swarovski necklace. Seeing him so ridiculously attentive, I gave him a dry look and asked what he wanted. Leo stammered out the truth. “My parents are planning to visit for a couple of days, starting tomorrow.” Leo was from a small town. He’d come to Austin for college and stayed after graduation. He once told me he was the only person in his whole extended family to graduate from a major university. He was essentially the family’s hope. Five years out of school, he’d managed to find a foothold in the city, so it wasn’t surprising that his parents wanted to visit and see the big time. I took a bite of the cupcake and nodded. “Sure, that’s nice.” “You should take them to see the Capitol building or maybe down to South Congress. We can check out some Airbnbs in the meantime, things book up fast.” Leo wrung his fingers, looking at me with his lips pressed tight. That look always gave me a bad feeling. Sure enough, the next second he looked miserable. “Sweetheart, um, could they stay at our place?” “I told my parents I bought a place in the city.” “You know how it is. I’ve been out of school for five years, and every time they call, they ask if I’ve bought a house yet. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I told them I did.” “So this trip, they’re mainly coming to see the condo I supposedly bought.” I stared at Leo, shocked. The man who was so straightforward and honest with me was apparently a total phony with his own family. He’d actually lied about owning a home in Austin. Leo clasped his hands together and pleaded, “Sienna, just for the few days they’re here, can we tell them the condo is mine?” “I promise, they’ll see the place and then they’ll be gone. They definitely won’t bother us.” I dropped my head, slowly finishing the cupcake spoon by spoon. Only then did I sigh. Leo was hung up on his image, especially since he was the sole college graduate in the family. If his parents found out that five years after graduation, he was barely scraping a six-figure salary and was living in his girlfriend’s condo—a condo *her* parents had bought, no less—how could he ever face them again? Considering Leo’s dignity as a man, I nodded and agreed. “You have to promise me they’ll only stay a few days.” “And they are absolutely not to go through any of my things!” Seeing my agreement, Leo instantly snapped a salute. “Don’t worry! I will protect all your stuff with my life, I swear they won’t touch a thing.” “As soon as they leave, I’ll take a week off, and we’ll go on that cruise to the Greek Isles we talked about!” 2 Leo’s parents arrived on Saturday. Leo and I went together to pick them up from the airport. I thought it was just his parents. I didn’t expect his Nana and Grandpa to be there too. The two elderly people trailed behind his mom and dad. His grandpa sounded like he had a cold, coughing as he walked. He suddenly coughed up a thick wad of phlegm and spat it right onto the pavement. I nearly gagged up my lunch. Leo hurried forward to take the suitcases from his parents. I politely followed alongside him and offered a friendly greeting to his mother and father. They weren’t overly warm to me, giving only a quick, dismissive nod. Our five-seater SUV, with me in it, obviously couldn’t fit five people and luggage. Leo pulled me aside and asked me to take a taxi home. “Sienna, I’m so sorry. I truly didn’t know Nana and Grandpa were coming. They didn’t tell me.” “Could you please just tough it out and grab a ride home? I’ll reimburse you for the fare.” On the other side of the car, Leo’s mom kept calling his name. Looking at his conflicted expression, I reluctantly nodded, even though I didn’t want to. It was their family. Me being there would have been awkward. Seeing that I agreed, Leo threw an arm around me and kissed me. “I knew you were the best. Wait for me. When my parents leave, I’ll definitely take you on that trip!” Leo left. His parents walked on his left, his grandparents on his right. Watching him chat and laugh with them, I realized something: the Leo who complained to me about his company and vented about his boss was, in his parents’ eyes, a successful man of accomplishment. Taxis were hard to come by at the airport. By the time I managed to get a ride home, Leo’s parents had already hauled their luggage into the master bedroom. His grandparents were setting up shop in the second bedroom. Leo was in the master talking with his parents. When I walked in, the living room was empty. Only the occasional burst of laughter drifted out from the master suite. Not wanting to interrupt their family time, I sat on the couch to wait for Leo. An hour later, Leo and his parents finally emerged. As soon as he saw me, Leo froze for a split second. His mother, though, scowled immediately. “You’re still here? Aren’t you going home?” Hearing her question, Leo rushed to smooth things over. “Mom, Sienna lives here with me now.” His mother gave a sharp, high-pitched *oh*, then her eyes raked up and down my body disapprovingly. “Moving in together before the parents have even met. Before you’re even engaged.” “Girls these days really have no respect for themselves.” “Mom!” Leo shouted, turning to face her. “Sienna, she doesn’t mean it like that.” His mother scoffed, then plopped herself down next to me on the sofa. “You’re living in my son’s condo. Are you paying rent?” I was stunned and furious. I was about to explode, but Leo squeezed my hand, cutting me off. Seeing my silence, Leo’s mother assumed I was guilty and pressed on. “Let me tell you, that’s how women should do it! Get out of college and find a boyfriend who owns a home. Saves on rent!” “But speaking of that—even though our Leo is a successful guy, his money doesn’t grow on trees.” “If you want to keep living here, you’ll have to pay rent!” “After all, whether you two are going to get married is still up for debate!” 3 “Mom! What are you talking about?” “Sienna and I have been together for three years. She’s not with me because I own a condo!” His mother wasn’t buying it. “That just means she has good taste, finding a capable man like my son.” “One who can afford to buy, so she doesn’t have to rent!” Seeing that his mother was about to keep going, Leo jumped up, grabbed my arm, and pulled me toward the study. “Mom, Dad, you’ve all had a long day traveling. Get some rest tonight.” As soon as the study door closed, I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Leo, what was your mom talking about?!” “Saying we might not get married? Does she look down on me?” “Or does she think I’m ‘punching above my weight’ because I’m with a guy who *owns a condo*?” I deliberately emphasized the words *owns a condo*, and Leo’s face instantly flushed red. He held me, trying to soothe me. “Sienna, please don’t be angry. My mom, she’s just like that!” “In her eyes, everything I do is perfect! Even if I pass gas, she’d probably compliment the smell.” “She didn’t mean any harm.” “If you really can’t stand it, once we’re married, we just won’t live with them, okay?” “Sienna, you’re the best. Just play along for a few days, and when they leave, I promise I’ll take you somewhere amazing.” Leo was flattering me and painting me a picture of the future. Though I was hurt, I felt a pang of sympathy for him, struggling to afford a place in Austin after five years, having to use *my* condo to put on a show for his parents. Rural people simply didn’t understand the pressure young professionals faced. They only knew that their college-educated son was working in the big city, earning a high salary, and was therefore successful. They couldn’t grasp why, with such a good salary, he still couldn’t buy a home in a major city. I pointed at the narrow daybed in the study and asked Leo, “How are we supposed to sleep on this?” Leo grinned playfully. “Cuddling up is cozy and warm.” Seeing the deepening scowl on my face, he quickly changed his tune, offering to sleep on the floor. So the first night, Leo slept on the floor, and I took the daybed. The next morning, before dawn, Leo’s mom shoved the door open and walked right in. Seeing her precious son sleeping on the floor, she was furious. She slapped my face. “Not only is this little tramp not paying rent, but she’s making my precious boy sleep on the floor!” “He’s your man! You make him sleep on the floor! Are you insane?!” Her hand was heavy. The slap woke me instantly. As I opened my eyes, her other hand was coming down again, but I threw my arm up and grabbed her wrist. She hadn’t expected me to fight back and was so enraged she started yelling abuse. “You brat! You dare hit back!” “Son! Son, wake up! Your girlfriend is hitting your mother!” Leo woke up groggy and confused, then saw his mother standing over the bed and instantly sobered. “Mom! What are you doing!” “What am I doing? I’m telling your girlfriend to get up and make us breakfast!” “You two live together—isn’t she supposed to take care of you?” 4 I didn’t end up making breakfast. Because his mother kicked me out of the house. She crammed my clothes haphazardly into a suitcase and shoved me and the roller bag out the front door. “You don’t pay rent and you make my son sleep on the floor!” “We don’t want a daughter-in-law like you in the Miller family!” The moment the door slammed shut, I was stunned. Before I could process it, Leo’s call came in. He must have been in the bathroom, his voice a low whisper. He kept apologizing profusely. “Baby, I’m so sorry, truly sorry!” “I had no idea my mom would just walk in like that!” “She just feels bad for me, that’s all. She didn’t mean to kick you out, she just felt bad that I was going to sleep on the floor again!” “Be a good girl, can you just stay in a hotel today? I’ll cover the cost!” “Hotel beds are big and soft! They’re definitely more comfortable than that cramped study!” He quickly Venmo’d me three thousand dollars and told me to stay in a hotel for a few days. I could come back after his parents left. I decided not to argue, mostly because of the money, but also because I *did* want to stay in a hotel. That narrow daybed was an impulse purchase I’d made and never used. Last night was the first time I’d slept on it. It was small and hard, not comfortable at all. I immediately found a nice hotel, checked in, and sprawled out on a king-sized bed, scrolling through my phone. Leo took his parents and grandparents out. His Instagram stories updated periodically. *This is what all the hard work is for.* The post was a photo of the five of them together. Leo spent the entire day with his family. In his downtime, he still found a moment to send me a couple of concerned texts. *Babe, did you find a good hotel?* *I know this is rough. I promise the second my parents leave, I’m coming to get you.* I told Leo to make sure he sorted out his parents and grandparents quickly, because this was a show I was only going to put on once. Leo swore he would. The next day, I checked out of the hotel and went straight to the office. I’d assumed one day of sightseeing would be enough; surely they would be heading back today. But around lunchtime, Leo called. He said his grandpa wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay longer to see a specialist. I had a bad feeling and asked him how many more days they planned to stay. Leo stammered, saying he couldn’t say for sure, but that it would definitely be as soon as possible. I had no choice but to extend my hotel stay. By the fifth day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I demanded to know when his parents were leaving. Leo finally told me that his grandfather’s test results had come back, and the prognosis wasn’t good. He might need chemotherapy and subsequent surgery. “My parents want to stay here until after the surgery.” “Sienna, we’re going to get married anyway.” “Can’t you just think of this as a trial run for being family?”

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I shattered my spine jumping in front of the truck to save my son. Just like that, a Principal Dancer was reduced to a prisoner in a chair. I tore up all my leotards and costumes, hurling every medal against the wall until the plaster cracked. My son, Sam, clung to the wheel of my chair, sobbing. “It’s my fault, Mom.” “Please, Mom, yell at me, hit me, but stop doing this to yourself, okay?” I tried to slit my wrists with a pair of manicure scissors once. My husband, Rhys, pinned me down, his face pale and desperate. “If you leave, what about Sam and me?” After that, Sam brought me water, fed me, and told me about his school day, sitting right next to my chair the moment he got home. Rhys massaged my stiff legs every night and brewed traditional herbal soups until late. I learned to hoist myself up using my arms, leaning on the table, and slowly, the wheelchair became my legs. I thought this was my second chance at life. Until that day. The day I heard them talking, father and son. “I’m turning into a full-time nursemaid, serving her every day! The kids at school laugh that I have a paralyzed hag for a mother.” Rhys sighed, his voice heavy with agreement. “She’s dragging us down every single day. Honestly, it might have been better if she had just died back then.” “If she had died, you wouldn’t be weighed down by guilt and shame, and I wouldn’t have to waste my life away in this endless, miserable routine.” I wiped my dry eyes and wheeled myself onto the balcony. 1 In the few seconds of my fall from the twenty-second floor, I was back on stage. Spinning. Leaping. The perfect landing. The wind roared past my ears, sounding exactly like the audience’s thunderous applause. My soul slowly drifted upward, then floated back to the balcony. The wheelchair that had been my constant companion for eight years stood empty. The house was quiet, too quiet. Both bedroom doors were closed, just like every day for the past eight years. Sam said he needed his own space. Rhys said I shouldn’t make every corner of the house feel so oppressive. So, behind those closed doors were worlds that belonged exclusively to them. I understood. I never intruded. But now, I was dead. I just wanted to see Sam one last time. Just a glimpse. With no physical barrier, I glided right through the door. Sam was looking at his phone, a slight smile on his lips, a look of unburdened ease I hadn’t seen in ages. He was video chatting with a friend. He looked happy. “Is your mom really a Principal Dancer? That’s so cool!” Sam’s smile froze. “The pretty lady who picks you up sometimes? She has such great style.” Sam’s eyes darkened, and he nodded. Since the accident, I hadn’t been able to take him to or from school. It had always been Rhys’s executive assistant, Kinsley Tate. A sharp pang of hurt hit me, but I immediately dismissed it. If Kinsley Tate could step in and be a competent wife and mother in my place, perhaps it would be better for everyone. Sam ended the call and opened his notebook. “I really wish Ms. Tate was my mom.” Tears blurred the ink on the page. I reached out to stroke his hair, but my palm passed right through him. Oh, you poor, foolish child. Your wish is about to come true. Now, you won’t have to feel ashamed of having a crippled mother. You won’t have to live with guilt and self-blame forever. From now on, you can proudly tell the world that your mother is wonderful and beautiful. The bond between a mother and son must be real; he seemed to sense something, whispering softly. “Mom, I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. It’s okay, sweetheart. This isn’t your fault. This was my choice. From the moment I ran onto the street to save you, I never once regretted it. Floating out of Sam’s room, I saw the light on in the master bedroom. Rhys was working, a stack of files on his desk. Since my paralysis, he’d been working mostly from home. People at the company whispered that I was his burden, the anchor dragging him down. But he never gave up on me during my darkest days; he endured for eight years. He was tired. It was time to give him his freedom back. I gently traced the lines around his eyes, wanting to smooth away his frown. His phone buzzed. It was Kinsley. “Rhys, Sera Miller is your obligation, not your love.” “But can you be true to yourself tonight?” He paused. “It’s my birthday.” He stared at the screen for a long time, then finally typed a single word: “Okay.” He stood up, quickly tidied his jacket. As he reached the door, he glanced toward the balcony. “Sera, I have an emergency at the office. I’ll be back late.” I wasn’t overly sad. Over the past eight years, I had grown accustomed to Kinsley’s presence in his life. In my secret heart, I had already designated her as my husband’s future wife and my son’s future mother. 2 I followed Rhys to “The Starlight Room.” It was the first upscale restaurant Rhys had ever taken me to. Back then, we were broke, scrambling to build our careers. He spent half a month’s salary on that one dinner. He’d said, “Sera, one day I’ll bring you here every night.” He kept his word. Once things improved, we did come here often. Now that I was gone, he was starting a new life. No one should live in the past. The time he spent with me was hard enough. I hoped his future would be a little sweeter. He waited a long time, but Kinsley never showed. A while later, his phone vibrated again. After he answered, Rhys looked frantic. He said a few rushed words and sped off toward the hospital. Kinsley was injured. A fractured left leg. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it wasn’t like me. “Rhys.” “I shouldn’t have come near you. I shouldn’t have been foolish enough to hope. Let’s not see each other again.” Kinsley was a mess of tears. Rhys gently soothed her. “What happened?” Kinsley choked out the words. “It was… it was your wife.” “She must have seen the messages I sent you. She found me and said this was just a warning. If there was a next time…” “…she said she’d kill me!” “Rhys, what am I going to do? Please, can you protect me? All I wanted was to be near you.” I froze. I had never met Kinsley Tate, let alone threatened her. Why was she lying? I stared at Rhys, still clinging to a sliver of hope. I thought, based on how well he knew me, he wouldn’t possibly believe this lie. But he disappointed me. A vicious, hateful glare—a look I’d never seen directed at me—flashed in his eyes. After calming her down, he left the room and called my phone over and over. Of course, the calls never went through. He opened our messaging app and sent a voice note. “Sera Miller! Haven’t you caused enough chaos?! I’ve tolerated you for eight years—eight years of nursing you while you were paralyzed! Isn’t that enough?! How dare you be so wicked as to attack Kinsley!” “How can you be so venomous? I must have been blind to marry you! You’re nothing but dead weight, a burden on everyone!” Every word was a stake through the heart. If I were still alive, I couldn’t imagine the pain of hearing that. But thankfully, I was dead. The dead don’t feel heartache. It was better this way. If he hated me, he could move on from the past faster. Rhys returned to Kinsley’s bedside and held her tight. He didn’t come home that night. The morning light streamed through the balcony glass, illuminating the empty wheelchair. Sam saw the wheelchair and let out a sigh of irritation. “Mom, why are you up so early?” No one answered. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Sulking again. So annoying.” On the dining table were warm milk and a fried egg. He’d learned to make breakfast two years ago. I had felt so proud and sad at the same time. It’s a shame Mom will never taste her son’s breakfast again. I followed Sam downstairs. A crowd had gathered near the complex entrance, completely blocking the way. Through the gaps, I faintly saw a pool of fresh, bright red blood. I immediately positioned myself in front of Sam. I was terrified he would see my corpse and be traumatized. Thankfully, he only glanced once, then quickly averted his gaze. I sighed with relief and shielded him until we reached the gate. A gust of wind swept past my ear, and he muttered under his breath: “I wish it had been her who died.” My non-existent heart lurched, then settled into calm acceptance. Son, your wish has already come true. I only hope you won’t be too sad later. 3 An unseen force pulled me toward Rhys. He and Kinsley were having a moment when his phone rang at the worst possible time. “Mr. Montgomery, a female resident jumped from her apartment last night. The description matches your registered family information. Could you please confirm…?” Rhys’s mind went blank. He remembered the unanswered calls yesterday and the string of vicious words he’d left on my voicemail. A wave of terror washed over him. He immediately called Sam. “Sam, is your mother home today?” “Yeah, she is. She’s throwing a fit about something, as usual!” Rhys’s body instantly relaxed. He let out a long breath, a self-mocking smile twisting his lips. Of course. Sera Miller was too strong, too dramatic, and too much of a fixture to ever actually kill herself. He returned to normal. “Sam, I have something to tell you. I’m going to divorce your mother.” “Really?!” “Dad, you finally came to your senses! I support this one hundred percent! Marry Kinsley right away. Mom has dragged us down long enough. I don’t want her holding you back anymore.” Rhys was silent for a moment. “After the divorce, I was planning to send your mother to a nice private estate in France, and you would stay here with me.” The wild joy on the other end of the line stopped dead. After a moment of silence, Sam spoke again. “Dad, you don’t have to carry any moral burden. As a husband, you’ve done more than enough. But Mom is paralyzed because she saved me. I can’t abandon her. If she goes to France, I have to go with her.” I hadn’t expected Sam to say that. I thought he… hated me, truly hated me. Rhys was stunned. “Sam, you don’t need to put so much pressure on yourself. You…” “Aah—!” A piercing scream erupted from the hospital room. Rhys immediately hung up and rushed back in. A water glass lay shattered on the floor, water and glass shards scattered everywhere. Kinsley looked terrified. “I… I just lost my grip. I dropped it accidentally.” Rhys carefully lifted her and placed her gently on the bed. “Are you alright? Did you cut yourself?” Kinsley shook her head, then tentatively asked: “Were you serious about the divorce on the phone? If it’s because of me, you don’t have to. I don’t want to cause you trouble.” “It has nothing to do with you.” Rhys cut her off. “There’s been nothing between us for a long time. It’s just that Sam is protective of his mother and insists on going to France with her.” Kinsley’s eyes darted away, then back. “Sam is just like you, kind-hearted and responsible. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him. He can’t sacrifice his own life for the past.” Rhys smiled warmly and pulled her into a hug. I floated in the air, feeling no jealousy, only pure concern. With Kinsley’s selfish and calculating nature, would she really be good to Sam in the future? 4 Rhys drafted the divorce settlement. He was relatively generous, offering me more than half of their substantial assets. Yet, he looked profoundly unhappy. Was he sad? “Sera Miller, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t endure it anymore.” One tear, then another, slid down his face. My heart ached with his. After the accident, I was bedridden, and he was the one who woke up at 5 a.m. every day to brew my medicine. He was the one who massaged my stiff legs every night, his touch progressing from clumsy to expert. For me, he canceled all out-of-town projects, moved his office home, handling work while listening to me smash things in frustration. He was good enough over these eight years. Anyone else might not have lasted this long. “I just want a normal life. Is that so wrong?” His voice was hoarse. He was only in his late thirties, in the prime of his life. He shouldn’t have to struggle with me in this mess. I was the one dragging him down. I had to leave. I floated back to the twenty-second-floor apartment. The balcony was chillingly empty. The wheelchair was still parked where I left it. “Ding! Ding! Ding!” The 5 p.m. alarm went off. Sam should be getting out of school. I was getting another chance—a chance to pick him up one last time. I floated at the school gate, waiting and waiting. Finally, a familiar figure walked toward me. I waved my hand. He smiled and waved back at me. I rushed forward in a frenzy of joy, wanting to hug my son. But he walked right through me and rushed straight into Kinsley Tate’s arms. Kinsley skillfully took his backpack and affectionately smoothed his hair. They looked like a real mother and son. “Ms. Tate, what happened to your face?” Kinsley quickly covered her cheek with her hair, her eyes immediately welling up. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. It’s grown-up stuff. Don’t worry about it.” She paused. “Sam, you don’t need to worry. After I marry your father, I’ll only love you. Because I can’t have children now, you’ll be my child forever!” Sam froze, his small body rigid. After a long silence, he looked up, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Dad told me everything. This time, Mom did it again, didn’t she?” Kinsley was silent, which was as good as an admission. I lunged forward like a madwoman, howling: “No! Sam, it wasn’t me! Your mother never hurt her!” But Sam lowered his head, utterly convinced that I was a cruel and wicked mother. The dark clouds pressed down, and the air was suffocatingly heavy. We walked in silence until we reached the complex gate, and Kinsley left. Bang! The front door was violently kicked open. Sam angrily threw his backpack onto the floor. He screamed toward the balcony: “How could you do something so malicious?! Ms. Tate can never have children now! Are you happy?” “Do you think that because I owe you, you can do whatever you want?!” “Having you as a mother makes me sick!” I wanted to explain, but I didn’t know how. He was crying, tears streaming down his face. He was trembling with pain and shock. “Does it make you happy that I have to live my whole life in guilt?! You should have just let me die!” “Why didn’t you let me die? I wish I had died instead!” I tried to wipe his tears away with my hand, to tell him it wasn’t true, that Kinsley was lying. Your mother never blamed you! But my fingers passed right through his body. I forgot. I was already dead. I embraced Sam. “Yell at me. Get it all out.” “It’s okay. Mom will never trouble you again. Never make you feel guilty again.” “See? Mom is already gone. Please, don’t be sad anymore, alright?” But Sam couldn’t hear a word I said. The door was abruptly pushed open. Rhys stood framed against the light. He placed the divorce papers on the table, speaking toward the balcony. “Sera Miller, let’s get divorced!” “I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’ve decided to set us both free. I’m tired, and Sam is tired too.” “I’ll take care of everything for you. France is your best home now, and I’ll hire the best people to care for you.” The balcony was silent. Not a sound. Rhys, I’m already dead. I don’t need the money. You don’t need to divorce me. I am no longer your burden. Rhys frowned slightly. “Stop acting like a child. Sam and I have made our decision. I hope you can respect our choice.” “Let this be a chance for both of us to have a new life!” A moment of silence hung in the room. Everyone waited for my reply. But I remained silent. Father and son exchanged a look. “Mom, I’ve thought this through very clearly. I want to stay with Dad and Ms. Tate. Please, let me go.” “I’m begging you. I really want a normal mother like Ms. Tate. I don’t want to live the rest of my life in guilt.”

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The gossip columnists know the score. Grayson Ashford would sooner crash on a bottle service girl’s futon than touch his own wife. Me. Sloane Reed. The only thing keeping the tabloids in business is the countdown to the day Mrs. Ashford finally stops being the city’s highest-paid virgin. Gray was ruthless when the cameras flashed. His eyes, cold and direct, drilled into mine. “Go have your own fun,” he’d said, his hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets. “If you can’t stand it, the door swings both ways.” He turned and strolled away. That night, when his latest conquest—a socialite-turned-wannabe-model—hit the front page, I didn’t cry. Instead, I called my contact at The Gazette and scheduled a headline. Then, I shredded my lace slip, tangled the Italian-thread sheets, and took a grainy, first-person-view shot of myself in the aftermath. The ultimate setup. I sent it to Gray anonymously. Text: Hey, man. Your wife smells incredible. Let me know when the papers are signed. 1 Watching the headline I bought shoot straight to number one, I smiled, satisfied, and prepared for sleep. Less than an hour later, the heavy, urgent sound of Gray’s footsteps echoed through the penthouse. “Sloane Reed! Is this how you retaliate? Who the hell was he!” A stack of photos hit my face. One was my staged, ambiguous bedroom shot. The other, the real kicker, was a smaller photo: Gray pressing Piper against a window, mid-passion. It was the headline I had arranged: ASHFORDS STRIKE NEW DEAL: OPEN MARRIAGE, NO INTERFERENCE. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the silk robe tighter around me. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” I looked him straight in the eye. “You could have picked anyone. But you didn’t. You crossed a line when you decided to humiliate me with my father’s bastard daughter!” Gray’s sharp breath hitched, but he didn’t address the Piper of it all. His jaw tightened. “Who. Was. He?” “You don’t need to know. That’s what makes it fair.” There was a time I would have hired a private investigator to dig up every piece of information on his latest mistress. I was young then, naive, with a heart that couldn’t stand a speck of dust. But I learned quickly. Every time I thought I had a rival, he had already moved on to the next. I stopped asking. Gray let out a sudden, chilling laugh. “You have some nerve, I’ll give you that.” His eyes, black and savage, landed on a faint bruise at my collarbone—a fading mark from my imaginary lover. A flicker of something crossed his face. He pinned me to the mattress. I struggled, screamed. A sharp object—a slim pocket knife—plunged into my skin just above the bone. I gasped as the warmth of blood bloomed over the mark, erasing the bruise. He erased it. “You’re insane! Let go of me!” Gray’s eyes were bloodshot, the veins in his forehead throbbing. “First and last time,” he hissed. “I’ll kill the post. You will get back to normal before I completely lose it.” His version of normal: his conquests were front-page news, and I remained outwardly unbothered. They sent me used contraception and soiled clothes, and I would graciously accept the packages. He stared down at me, his gaze cold and desolate, until my tears were streaming down my face. He finally released me and moved to the dresser drawer for the first-aid kit. I shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” Gray stood up, his face hardening into an expression of cold contempt. “You played this entire theatrical game just to provoke me. Why the sudden innocence act?” He gestured to my bleeding arm, accidentally nicked by the knife. The silk sheet absorbed the fresh stain. I was slick with sweat from the shock. My arm bled, but my heart felt like it had ruptured a thousand times over. His eyes were unblinking, devoid of feeling. “My mother was right. Women who claw their way up from the gutter always resort to trashy tricks just to get attention,” he sneered. “Why bother staging this play? If you have the guts, really file for divorce! Your sister is ten thousand times better than you!” He stormed out. Moments later, a divorce agreement with his signature flashed across my phone screen. The property settlement was skewed 70-30 in my favor. He was so certain I would never leave that he made it easy for me to stay. But I signed it. Then I picked up my phone, dialed a number, and confirmed my exit strategy. You think this man isn’t real, Gray? Watch me. The second I ended the call, the tears I had been hoarding finally fell.

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An hour before the D&C procedure, a post popped up on my phone. [What’s your definition of a ‘living the dream’ life?] One comment was pinned to the top, flooded with likes. [I have the perfect answer for this. I’m the spoiled, beloved fake daughter.] [I not only enjoyed eighteen years of luxury that belonged to that idiot, but the man she married now? He was my sloppy seconds, my devoted lapdog.] [The moment she came home, I developed ‘depression.’ To keep me calm, my parents have yet to legally acknowledge her. To the outside world, she’s still just their adopted girl.] [She worked herself to the bone to climb to a CEO position. But because I said ‘I want that, too,’ her husband—who just happens to be her biggest client—started making her life hell. My parents, of course, just handed the job to me.] [The kicker? The night before their wedding, I told him I was feeling ‘lonely,’ and we celebrated in her new marital bed.] The text was dripping with self-satisfied glee. While other commenters tore into her, she only grew more brazen, posting a photo: several blurred tickets for a trip. [Just because I mentioned I didn’t want her to have a baby, her husband is forcing her to have an abortion.] [The funniest part? She’s sitting in the waiting room alone right now. Her parents, and her husband, are all with me, taking a relaxing trip to Miami.] [I was born under a lucky star. What does she have that could possibly compare?] I stared at the image on my screen. It matched the recent vacation photos Savannah Wilde had posted on social media. The hospital hallway was vast and empty. I was completely alone. The idiot she was talking about. It was me. 1 Faced with a deluge of angry internet comments, Savannah Wilde wasn’t shamed; she was emboldened. [Yell all you want. The angrier you are, the more it proves how much they love me. I am the Stones’ darling. I am the one his heart belongs to.] Below, she attached another photo. A slender hand, a diamond band on the ring finger. I knew that design intimately. It was identical to the ring Owen Miller wore daily. Her next reply jumped up, the tone thick with boastful contempt: [See? I casually mentioned, ‘It’s disgusting to touch me while wearing someone else’s wedding ring,’ so he tossed out their cheap little matching set.] [This one? We went and picked it out together. Engraved couple’s rings.] [In this world, the unloved one is the outsider. I’m the real wife.] My gaze locked onto that ring. A chill began to spread from my core. A three-year-old memory stabbed me. That day, I’d noticed Owen’s wedding band was missing. He’d frantically checked all his pockets, then pulled me into a hug, full of remorse: “Honey, I must have lost it on a business trip. I’m such an idiot.” He’d cooed softly, “Punish me, however you like.” I believed him. I gave him my complete trust. A week later, a strange, new ring appeared on his finger. I pursed my lips and asked, “Where did this one come from?” He’d held up his hand for me to see, his expression a mixture of feigned frustration and ingratiation. “I accidentally put it on when sampling a new design at the office. Now I can’t get it off. If you hate it, Eliza, I’ll take a wrench to it, I swear. Just say the word.” My heart had softened. I held his hand. “Don’t be silly… Just wear it for now. If it’s uncomfortable, we’ll figure out how to take it off. It’s actually quite handsome.” Their couple’s ring. The wedding band he’d discarded, and the nascent life inside me, were nothing more than ugly, laughable roadblocks on the path of their true love. The comment section was boiling, angry replies streaming in. Savannah’s original post remained the top hot comment. Countless kind strangers were desperately trying to sound the alarm. [Spread the word! Let the real daughter see this! Get out now!] [Hugs to the true daughter. Be strong. He’s not worth it!] Tears streamed down my face. Finally, I signed the consent form for the termination. Owen Miller didn’t deserve for me to bear his child. Stepping out of the operating room, the hollow, dull ache in my body forced me to clutch the railing just to move. My phone vibrated. It was Owen. I answered. His voice came through the receiver immediately. “Honey, did you… did you go through with the procedure?” “We have Finn. That’s enough. You absolutely have to get rid of this one, don’t let Finn get upset.” 2 “Honey? Can you hear me?” Owen’s voice was relayed through the earpiece, carrying a trace of deliberately suppressed urgency. After a brief silence, he raised his tone. “Hello?” “I can hear you.” The moment I spoke, a sharp pang shot through my lower abdomen—the specific, heavy ache of being emptied out. I had to bend over, pressing my arm tightly against my stomach. But compared to the physical pain, the place in my heart that was being repeatedly shredded was far more suffocating. “So… is it done?” he asked, his impatience no longer hidden. I gritted my teeth, fiercely suppressing the heat and sting welling up in my eyes, forcing two words out from between my teeth: “It’s done.” On the other end of the line, I could distinctly hear his sigh of relief, even a faint, easy laugh. “Good girl, honey.” His voice returned to its usual softness, laced with the gentle, practiced tone he always used to coax me. “I’ll bring you a gift when I’m back from my business trip.” I managed a tight, cynical smile, but offered no reply. My silence made him mistake my anger for missing him. He went on, “Oh, honey, I know you had it tough. I’ll go the extra mile to make it up to you when I get home. How does that sound?” But his patience lasted less than two seconds. Before I could respond, his tone quickened. “Gotta run, I have to hop on a call. My wife is the most understanding woman in the world. Gotta hang up now.” Beep— The dial tone was abrupt, uncompromising. After that call, Owen Miller vanished completely. Three whole days, zero contact. In the past, I would have immediately concocted excuses for him: He’s too busy, I shouldn’t bother him. Then I would have left a few nervous, sweet messages in his chat every day—Remember to eat, get some rest—and felt moved by his supposed dedication to our little family. Now, I realized how utterly ridiculous that was. Busy? He wasn’t busy. He had merely removed an “inconvenience,” and he was now, undoubtedly, sharing the “good news” with the woman who held the center of his heart. Three days later, I was in the living room, building blocks with our son, Finn. He strode in, suitcase in tow, first giving a quick, affectionate hug to Finn and handing him a toy the boy had been begging for. “Be a good boy, Finn. Go play in your room. Daddy needs to talk to Mommy.” He turned to me, his eyes carrying that familiar, suggestive spark. Before, that hint of intimacy would have made my cheeks flush. Now, all I felt was a wave of nausea. Finn, holding his new toy, obediently went upstairs. Owen immediately wrapped his arms around me from behind, rubbing his chin on the back of my neck, his voice full of flattery. “Still mad at me, honey? I messed up, I know. I was a jerk for not being there when you needed me most. I promise, never again.” I pulled free from his embrace and turned to face him. “Owen Miller, how many times have you promised that this month?” His face stiffened. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “The eighth. Our anniversary. You promised to spend the night with me, then one call pulled you away. You didn’t show up for two days.” “Mid-month. I wasn’t feeling well. You promised to take me to the doctor, but you ditched me halfway there.” “And then, this procedure…” Tallying them up, I was stunned to realize how transparent his lies and excuses were. He hadn’t been a good liar; I had simply blinded myself. A flash of annoyance crossed his eyes, quickly suppressed, replaced by a helpless smile. “Honey, let’s not drag up old fights. I work for us, for our family, don’t I?” Seeing I wasn’t moved, he pulled a small box from his pocket. He opened it—it was a necklace. “Look, a peace offering. I got it just for you. Let me put it on…” I stepped aside, avoiding his touch. His hand froze mid-air. I looked up, my voice steady. “I just had a miscarriage, I need rest. You should sleep in the guest room tonight.” Leaving him staring in shock, I turned and walked upstairs. The moment I entered the bedroom, my phone buzzed. I opened it. It was a photo Savannah Wilde had posted on the forum. When I saw the contents, a trembling rage overtook me. 3 Savannah’s latest update was a photo of a pet. A dog, wearing a necklace. Below it, her smug explanation: [That idiot is actually throwing a tantrum. I was generous and gave her husband my little Prince’s old collar. Let him use it to calm her down. Ha, I wonder if she’ll cry with gratitude when she sees her ‘gift’?] I stared, transfixed. The necklace on the dog’s neck was the exact one Owen had tried to give me moments ago. Eight years of marriage, and in his eyes, I was worth less than a dog. A huge wave of disappointment gave way to a towering, blinding anger. A rage so complete that, paradoxically, it made me feel cold and calm. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly forced the anger down. “Honey, stop being mad. I genuinely messed up.” Owen pushed the door open, a playful look on his face. He held out a slightly faded pink card, as if performing a magic trick. “Here. A one-time ‘No-Fuss, No-Fight’ card. Please accept it, my queen.” I took it, confused. The card’s edges were slightly yellowed, and the date was ten years ago. I hadn’t even met him then. The small, trailing red heart at the bottom was exactly the way Savannah always signed her notes. The last warmth in my heart died. I heard my own voice, dry and thin. “Get out. I don’t want to look at you right now.” He frowned, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face. “Eliza Harrison, that’s enough. Dragging this out only makes me tired.” He slammed the door shut and left. I stood there, clutching the flimsy card, my fingers ice-cold. My phone rang abruptly. I answered, and my mother’s voice immediately hammered me with blame. “Eliza Harrison! Can you please start acting like an adult? Owen already made a sacrifice to marry you. Why are you making such a scene? He’s so busy with work. Can’t you be more understanding?” “Mom,” I cut her off, my voice so steady it surprised me. “I just had a miscarriage.” The other end was silent for two seconds. Her tone softened slightly. “A miscarriage… it’s not the end of the world. Owen only did it for your own good, for Finn’s sake.” “I called you a dozen times,” I said. “Owen was busy on a business trip. Where were you?” Without waiting for an answer, I hung up. Immediately, texts from several mutual friends started trickling in—all the usual advice: Couples shouldn’t let the sun set on a fight, Owen is so sweet to you, we’re all jealous, he posted an apology for you on social media, go check it out. I opened Owen Miller’s social media. The latest post, ten minutes ago: [Kicked out of the bedroom after a long night of work. Guess the gift will keep me company tonight.] The photo was of that hideous necklace. It already had several likes and comments, teasing him as a “Wife Guy.” He replied uniformly: [I have to spoil my queen. Going to the auction tomorrow. I’ll go to any lengths to get her that rare Buccellati Filigree Cuff. Otherwise, I might be sleeping alone for good…] The comments section was full of good-natured laughter and encouragement. I scrolled up, expressionless. Every single one of his posts seemed carefully designed to cultivate the image of a devoted husband. But how could a man who couldn’t remember his wife’s taste be devoted? I detested ornate, attention-grabbing pieces. That loud, statement cuff? That was Savannah Wilde’s favorite style. I calmly screenshotted his post, putting it side-by-side with Savannah’s photo of the dog collar. Just then, Savannah’s forum post updated again: [Looks like the idiot is really mad. Tsk. I’m having Mom arrange a family dinner. Time to put her in her place. She really doesn’t know how good she has it.] A curious commenter asked: [If you hate her so much, why not just make her leave? With your family’s status, you could easily kick her out. Why drag this on?] Savannah instantly replied: [She will leave eventually, but not yet. She’s still useful. I haven’t dropped my ‘big move’ yet. Why let her off easy? Just thinking about the look on her face when she finds out the truth. Ha! I’m too excited to sleep.] “Big move”? I stared at the words, a sudden coldness creeping up my spine. My phone vibrated again. A text from my mother: “Family dinner tonight. You must be here.” I gazed at the screen for a moment, then calmly replied: “Okay.” I was actually quite curious about Savannah Wilde’s ‘big move.’ 4 After picking up Finn, I drove straight to the Wilde estate. Just outside the door, I saw a small figure huddled in the corner of the steps—Savannah’s son, Leo. He was wearing clothes that were clearly too small and faded, sitting alone and staring into space. Calculating the time… But a mother like Savannah was clearly unfit. Regardless, I shouldn’t involve children in adult drama. I pushed down the slight discomfort in my heart, took Finn’s hand, and walked over, leaning down and softening my voice as much as possible. “Why are you sitting out here? It’s cold. Auntie brought some snacks. Would you like one?” Leo lifted his face. His pale eyes, remarkably similar to Owen’s, held a sadness far beyond his years. He rubbed his hands together and whispered, “Mommy said I’m not allowed inside… Mommy gets mad.” Just as I offered him a pastry, Savannah rushed out like a whirlwind and slapped it from my hand! The pastry rolled onto the mud. “Who said you could take that? Huh? You little brat, are you asking for a beating?!” Her sharp voice cut through the air. Leo immediately covered his head, his body curling into a defensive ball, a gesture that spoke of routine. “Mommy, I’m scared…” Finn clutched my trouser leg, his voice trembling. At the sound of Finn’s voice, Savannah’s expression instantly flipped. She plastered on a gentle smile and scooped Finn up in a hug. “Don’t be scared, Finn. Auntie wasn’t yelling at you. Auntie bought you the newest remote-control car. Let’s go play.” She turned and carried Finn inside. As she passed me, she threw me a look of contemptuous triumph. A fleeting idea zipped through my mind, but before I could grasp it, Owen’s voice sounded behind me. “Honey! I knew you’d wait for me.” His tone was light as always, as if nothing unpleasant had happened between us. He hurried over and held out a velvet box. “Look, the Verdura Filigree Cuff. I won the auction for you! Do you like it?” I forced a small smile. “No need. I never liked that style.” I didn’t look at his frozen face. I gently took Leo’s cold little hand. “Let’s go inside with Auntie.” The moment we stepped into the living room, Savannah called out to Owen, who was following close behind. “Owen! Finn is just too much fun!” “Come help me! I can’t handle him!” Savannah giggled, hiding behind Owen, who had walked over. Finn, holding a water gun, was gleefully spraying them. Owen, smiling indulgently, shielded her. Water splashed his expensive shirt, but he laughed joyfully. The three of them were a picture of a close-knit, intimate family. I sat on the sofa, watching Leo beside me. He was staring down, his fingers anxiously picking at his pants seam. He was secretly glancing at the noisy trio, his eyes filled with undisguised envy and longing. That fleeting thought from earlier suddenly crystallized, sharp and piercing, slamming into my head. Panic seized my breath. I quietly pulled out my phone, switched to the burner account I’d prepared, and opened Savannah’s private message window: [Girl, saw your post. I feel your pain. But I was ‘smarter’ than you. I swapped the kids.] [She can be the real heir all she wants, but in the end, the assets, the husband, they all go to my son, right?] [Just a heads-up: you have to throw the lapdog a bone occasionally. My ‘Owen’ is starting to get restless. And the kid… you have to make sure he knows who to love.] Send. A few meters away, while playing with Finn, Savannah’s phone screen lit up. She looked down. The smug smile on her lips tightened slightly. Soon, my burner account received a reply. Reading the message on my screen, a sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest. Rage nearly overwhelmed me. 5 [OMG! Sister, you are my soulmate!] [She IS raising my son! I got someone to swap ours too!] [She can be the true heir all she wants, but the money, the shares—it’s all going to my son. Her son will have nothing, unloved and penniless!] Seeing her reply, I felt a dizzying surge. Although I had suspected it, the confirmation nearly shattered my composure. Savannah, drenched, leaned against Owen. Her thin top clung to her, revealing her curves. Finn, my son, was tucked to her right, still clutching the water gun. She looked up at me, a victorious smile she couldn’t suppress spread across her lips. “Sister, you’re just too high and mighty,” she said, deliberately elongating her words. “Look how much fun we’re having. Owen is still the best at protecting me, just like he always was.” She stroked Finn’s head. “Finn is so attached to me, too…” “Do you love Auntie, Finn?” she asked my son, watching me with triumph. Finn, excited, chirped happily, “I love Auntie!” I remained expressionless, turning to look at Owen beside them. “The child doesn’t know any better. But you don’t either?” “You are her brother-in-law,” I reminded him, enunciating every word. Owen’s face flashed with embarrassment, and he let out a dry laugh. “Honey, I just wanted to play with Finn. I wasn’t thinking anything of it…” My calm gaze swept over the three of them, finally resting on Savannah’s face, which screamed, What are you going to do about it? I ignored her taunt and beckoned to Finn, who was standing right next to her. “Finn, come to Mommy. You’re soaked, you’ll catch a cold.” I spoke to him gently. He immediately let go of Savannah’s hand and ran toward me. I stroked his hair, smiling as I asked, “Who does little Finn love most?” The next second, his clear, childlike voice rang through the living room. “Mommy! Finn loves Mommy the most!” I let out a soft laugh, my eyes flicking to the darkening face of Savannah. The smile on Savannah’s face instantly froze. Her fingers, still gripping Owen’s arm, tightened. I met her eyes, a hook in my own smile. “A child’s deepest love is always for their mother. Everyone else… is just a momentary distraction.” Savannah’s face contorted, her eyes turning bloodshot. “Eliza!” Owen snarled, his face sinking into a scowl. “Time to eat,” my father’s low voice cut in, having stayed silent until now. Everyone took their seats. Savannah “naturally” sat beside Owen. I sat across from them, with Leo on my left and Finn on my right. Savannah clearly didn’t intend to let the last scene drop. Her eyes gleamed as she sighed softly. “Honestly, Sister, your temper is getting worse. You should worry less about yourself and more about Mom and Dad, they’re not getting any younger.” She glanced at me, then continued. “Owen works so hard outside the home. Can’t you be more considerate? Throwing temper tantrums like a schoolgirl won’t get you anywhere.” My mother immediately frowned and scolded me. “Eliza, Savannah has a point. Owen is busy and stressed. You, as his wife, need to be gentle and understanding. Stop being so spoiled.” My father didn’t speak but shot me a look of disapproval. I quietly put down my chopsticks and began to speak, slowly. “That day, when I had the procedure, there was no one outside the operating room. Were you all really busy? Or…” I deliberately drew out the sound, just as Savannah had done earlier. I smiled, finally looking at Owen. His knuckles, gripping his chopsticks, were white. “And you, Owen? Were you really going to a ‘meeting’?” The air froze instantly. Owen’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He opened his mouth but produced no sound. My parents looked awkward, their voices gone. Savannah shot me a look of pure hatred, but, uncharacteristically, didn’t immediately retort. The only sounds in the dining room were faint breathing and the occasional clink of cutlery. As the meal neared its end, a quiet Savannah spoke again. This time, the smile at her mouth was unrestrained. She looked at my father. “Dad, I remember the merger agreement between the Harrison and Miller families stated that once we had a son, both families would contribute forty percent of their corporate shares as a gift to the child, correct?” Her gentle gaze swept over Finn, who was sitting next to me. “Finn is getting so big now. Isn’t it time to transfer the shares into his name?” My mother immediately nodded. “It should be taken care of immediately.” My father looked thoughtful. He looked at Owen, then at Finn, nestled against me, his eyes weighing the matter. I slowly scooped a spoon of soup, acting as if the matter didn’t concern me. Yet I took in every expression: the flash of excitement in Owen’s eyes, the expectant, hidden smugness on Savannah’s face, and the hesitation of my parents. “Sister, you don’t look happy? You’re Finn’s mother, after all.” Savannah noticed my silence, her smile deepening. I looked up, meeting her gaze, my voice calm and even. “Why the rush?” “The agreement, written in black and white, specifies the ‘lawful, marital son of the Harrison and Miller families.’” “You’re an imposter. Why are you in such a hurry?” I deliberately slowed my pace, clearly articulating the final words. The smile on Savannah’s face completely shattered.

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Three years into the marriage, Aria Beaumont had fallen for another vulnerable art-school type. On our anniversary, Aria pulled a divorce agreement from her purse. “Let’s get a divorce.” “Kai Miller can’t be saddled with the reputation of a homewrecker.” I tipped back the glass of Cabernet, swallowing the heat behind my eyes. “Fine.” 1 The terms of the divorce settlement were far from restrictive; in fact, they were exceedingly generous. If I were to view our three-year marriage as an investment, there was no asset on earth with a greater return. I scanned the pages line by line. Beyond the substantial cash, trust funds, jewelry, and real estate, the most crucial part was the intellectual property: she was gifting me all the patents under the Beaumont family name that my animation studio could possibly use, and those she couldn’t gift, she signed over generous long-term licensing agreements for their use. A woman who divorces her husband only to continue lifting him up and providing him a foundation is rare, a unicorn. I took my time, and Aria didn’t rush me. In the reflection of the glass-walled restaurant, I could see her constantly checking her phone, replying to messages. But even the thickest contract has an end. I signed my name, deliberate stroke after deliberate stroke. This was likely the last time the names Leo Sullivan and Aria Beaumont would appear together on the same document. Aria finally pocketed her phone. She accepted the contract, and a look of profound relief settled on her face, softening her mouth. “We did know each other well. If anything ever comes up and you need assistance, you can reach out to Mr. Preston, my assistant.” I managed a slight, slightly cynical jest. “I’ll be sure to hold tight to the Beaumont family’s coattails.” Aria raised an elegant eyebrow, stood up with a decisive movement, and walked away, leaving me with her disappearing silhouette. I sighed. She hadn’t touched her food. Taking the signed divorce papers and leaving so quickly, she must have been in a hurry to let someone know the path was cleared. She didn’t look like the cunning, formidable CEO the business pages talked about; she looked like a woman madly, recklessly in love. She had been the same three years ago when we first married. She hadn’t wanted to be separated from me for a moment, in public or in private. During those first months, we were practically inseparable. Her devotion was so obvious that even the older members of the Beaumont clan didn’t dare give me any trouble. An orphan who relied on student subsidies throughout college, yet I married into a top-tier family and somehow managed to avoid even a sliver of condescension. In the marriage with Aria, she’d walked ninety-nine steps, and then she’d held my hand and pulled me through the last one. From my paralyzing fear of intimacy to my acceptance of her proposal, she had cleared every obstacle and silenced every critic. Aria’s love was always a generous, obvious offering. I just never expected such an intense, profound feeling to have an expiry date as short as three years. Yesterday, her warmth was scorching me, and today, she could turn and shine just as fiercely on someone else. I called the waiter to order a fresh table setting. We were at the exact same exclusive restaurant where she had proposed. Every bite I would now take would be a bite of memory. Let it be this way. Three years of friendship, three years of marriage, and now this sudden, clean break. Yet, I couldn’t find the capacity to truly hate her. We’ll part ways. We’ll both find happiness. Aria, I wish you well. I will always wish you well. 2 I had barely stepped outside the restaurant when my phone buzzed with a notification. I pulled it out. It was a new post from Kai Miller’s profile. [The real talent is in the trenches. The most incredible street food is at the Night Market. Tonight, I brought a very special guest. Welcome to my world, Her Royal Highness!] [Can you believe some people have never been to a street fair? Glad to initiate her into the life of the common folk tonight.] The accompanying nine-grid photo collage was artfully composed. In every picture, Aria wore a look of indulgent resignation, letting Kai guide her hand as she sampled different skewers and snacks. This was the first time she had been explicitly pictured on his profile. Before, it was only a fleeting shadow or a close-up of a wrist. This was Aria Beaumont’s efficiency. Moments after signing the divorce agreement, here she was, in all her dazzling glory, all over another man’s social media. I almost wanted to laugh. Maybe in Aria’s mind, Kai wasn’t a home-wrecker. Maybe he was the innocent party, a young man who accidentally fell for a woman who happened to be married. But to pursue a married woman without any attempt to cover it up—that was its own contradiction. The first time I heard Kai’s name was in a casual chat with one of my old professors. “We have a new transfer student this year, Kai Miller. Reminds me a lot of you, Leo. That same hunger, that competitive spirit.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. The second time, however, it came from Aria herself. “I was at a board meeting at the Museum today, and I ran into a student working a volunteer gig. Turns out he’s your schoolmate, a few years behind you. What a coincidence.” She’d wrapped her arms around me and swayed. “Honey, he reminded me of the first time I saw you. Middle of a summer heatwave, you were wearing this heavy, ridiculous costume, handing out flyers at the amusement park. You have no idea how much my heart ached for you then.” I smiled and didn’t say anything. I knew. Of course, I knew. A few months into my freshman year, my luck had turned freakishly good. I kept running into “benefactors.” An older student council member got me a highly paid tutoring job. My department head constantly pulled me into paid research projects. The school suddenly created a generous meal subsidy program specifically for low-income students… I wasn’t an idiot. The moment Aria showed up at my dorm with a top-of-the-line Wacom tablet and a new iPad Pro, I knew she had been pulling the strings. In my first year of college, plenty of wealthy girls had tried to throw money at me. The poorer I was, the more desperately I held onto my small amount of dignity and self-respect. Aria’s help and her pursuit were like a slow, steady tide, incredibly respectful. She never put any psychological pressure on me. And, to be honest, I needed a girlfriend to fend off the more obnoxious, entitled rich guys who viewed me as a challenge. So, I didn’t outright reject her. I was mostly conflicted about what to do with the expensive gifts. I had no idea about the etiquette of dating, let alone accepting gifts from a wealthy woman who was actively pursuing me. No one had ever taught me these social rules. My father was an alcoholic. He died in a car crash when I was in middle school, drunk behind the wheel. He drank because he missed my pretty mother, who had run off with a rich man. He used to hit me, especially my face. He’d shout that I was destined to be just like her, a bitch’s destiny, serving the rich… His death gave me a $20,000 settlement. Other than that, it only gave me peace. Aria had seen my confusion. She said, “I don’t just use pretty words to court someone. My friends would laugh me out of the city if I did.” “Leo Sullivan, I like you. If you’re willing to give me a chance to pursue you, please accept these gifts, alright?” How could anyone not fall for Aria, when she was like that? 3 Because Kai Miller reminded her of me, because he was my schoolmate, Aria had immediately arranged for Mr. Preston to set him up with a good-paying flexible job. When she told me about it, she was curled up in my arms, expressing regret that we hadn’t met earlier. “I wish I had been your next-door neighbor,” she mused. “That way, I could have brought you home to my family right after your father died.” She’d giggled, lost in her fantasy. “How could that not be a childhood sweetheart story, right?” I thought that would be the last I heard of the name Kai Miller. But over the next six months, Aria mentioned him constantly, casually. “I can’t believe there are still people as genuine as Kai Miller in 2025. He came to the office today with a huge sack of potatoes, said they were from his family farm, a gift to thank me for the job.” “Kai is just tragic. Can you believe he has three older sisters and a younger one? And despite that struggling family, he still got into Georgetown.” “His parents are trying to force him to go home and marry some local landowner’s daughter. They’re monsters, how could parents be so shortsighted?” “Kai brought me another one of those homemade chicken pies today… I have to admit, the chicken was actually pretty good.” “Kai’s little sister is doing well in school, too. Even if the parents are clueless, at least his sisters love and support him.” Kai Miller, Kai Miller, Kai Miller… For half a year, I watched, clear-eyed, as her heart slowly drifted toward him. I couldn’t stop it. Because Kai was everything I once was, but amplified: more pitiful, more fiercely resilient, more genuine, more broken. He was the perfect new project. As someone who climbed out of the mud, I didn’t have the right, nor the perspective, to look down on someone still struggling through it. So, I began running a mental simulation: What if Aria asks me for a divorce? I spent countless sleepless nights creating fictional scenarios, and I settled on my final strategy. I would not be hysterical. I would not beg for affection. At my core, I was still that poor kid, and I would fiercely protect my dignity. Aria, if that simulation ever comes true, let us separate with grace. We walk our own paths now. From now on, our roads do not cross. 4 The news of our amicable divorce set the entire social circuit on fire. Back when we married, all the local heirs and heiresses couldn’t get enough of us. We were the ultimate ship: the gender-flipped fanfiction of the Brooding Artist and the Heiress Dynamo. My contact list still had a few die-hard Aria-and-Leo shippers, including the biggest one, my old college roommate and best man, Dustin Shaw. Dustin was sending me a frantic series of texts. [Wait? You guys actually did it?] [Did Aria get a terminal illness? Is the Beaumont empire going bankrupt?] [I was going to be the godfather to your children, man!] [Is the rumor true that Aria traded up for the newer, angstier college boy model?] I replied to that last one: [Yeah. It’s true.] The screen showed “Dustin is typing…” for a full ten minutes before he finally sent: [I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN LOVE.] I managed a slight pull at the corner of my mouth. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe there never was any love. Maybe it was only Aria’s Savior Complex. Dustin was still spiraling. He had witnessed every step of my journey with Aria. [My OTP is officially sunk!] [Holy cow! She’s moving fast! She cheated?] Dustin then sent me a screenshot and a link. It was a still image of Kai and Aria running through the rain, their intense eye contact radiating a palpable, cinematic romance. It was gorgeous, moving, and instantly ready for a movie poster. It had been posted by a popular street-style blogger. [The world is a giant rom-com, and this NPC got to witness the leads’ rainy rendezvous.] The comment section was filled with enthusiasm. [I ship it! Take my money!] [Is this a new movie? Where did Hollywood find these two? They’re gorgeous!] [Some people are falling in love in the rain, some are just sitting on the toilet trying to stand up.] … I refreshed the feed, and the video was already gone. The Beaumont machine was fast. Aria was the sole heir, and her information couldn’t be public fodder. This meant the entire family knew the divorce was final. And given Aria’s personality, she would never have been this openly affectionate with another man while married. Right as I thought that, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Vivienne Choi, Aria’s mother. The phone instantly felt hot in my hand. She was a global figure, the sole daughter of the Choi family, the overseas shipping magnates. Aria’s father was practically the one who married up. I felt a primordial fear rooted in my own low birth. I slid to answer. “Mrs. Choi…” The voice on the other end was clipped and furious. “Leo Sullivan, did you get plastic surgery recently?”

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I took a personal day for Christmas, boarding a three-hour train to give my boyfriend a surprise. The second I stepped out of the rideshare, a heavy rain broke. I dashed into a corner store to buy an umbrella. While I was looking at the selection, a girl nearby was chatting with her friend about her own boyfriend. “He is such a stage-five clinger, seriously. If I don’t text him back for an hour, I get ninety-nine new messages.” “And today, of all days, he whined and practically demanded I come down to the studio to keep him company.” “I’m only going because the Christmas gift he promised is supposedly epic.” Her friend chuckled. “You landed a high-caliber guy like Graham, you should count your blessings.” I froze. My boyfriend was also named Graham. And, his recording studio was just around the corner. 1 As if possessed, I pulled out my phone and sent him a message. Graham, it’s Christmas night. Are you really going to work late? No reply. The girl beside me looped her arm through her friend’s and headed to the checkout. She waved her phone. “Look. It’s been five minutes, and he’s already asking if I’ve arrived.” Laughing with her friend, she reached toward the shelf near the counter—the one stocked with contraceptives. Her friend gave her a suggestive elbow nudge. “Two boxes? Vivian, you and Graham must be really going at it. And here I thought you were complaining about him being clingy, when really you were just bragging.” The girl, Vivian, swatted her friend playfully. “Hey, if I don’t wear him out, who knows what other little vixen will?” Other customers in the store glanced over, a few of them stifling smiles. Vivian didn’t seem to care, tossing her long, dark waves as she walked out with her friend. I paid for my umbrella and followed them out. At this point, I was still clinging to the cold comfort of coincidence: Graham is a common name. It was a December winter, but this girl, Vivian, was wearing a crop top under her jacket and had bare legs. She looked barely twenty, radiating an effortless, reckless kind of sunshine. A stark contrast to me, the woman with every single button of her shirt done up to the throat. On the sidewalk, Vivian’s friend hailed a cab and waved goodbye. Vivian started humming, continuing down the street. At every intersection, our paths remained the same. When I finally registered the tune she was humming, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was Graham’s new track, a song he’d personally arranged and recorded, which had only been released to the public today. Even I had only heard a few snatches of the chorus during a video call. Vivian lifted her phone and dialed. “Hey, Graham, I’m almost there. Come meet me at the door?” Whatever he said on the other end, she responded with a playful, mock-offended huff. “I’m wearing tons of layers! I’m not cold at all, you big baby. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even slip your hand under my coat, past my shirt, and down to my…” I scanned my own phone screen. Still nothing. A cold draft snaked its way up my sleeve, and I shivered, clutching my jacket tighter. My finger hovered over the call button. I pressed it. A mechanical, cold female voice replied, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood immediately: Do Not Disturb mode. He’d told me he was too busy with work this year, and that once he was in the studio, he couldn’t pick up. Not being able to reach him wasn’t new. “Graham!” Vivian suddenly ran forward a few steps and threw herself into a man’s arms. I raised my umbrella slightly and looked ahead. In that single, sharp moment, I was pinned to the spot. The man, holding his own umbrella, held Vivian tight, then sighed, rubbing her hair with a helpless, yet utterly familiar tenderness. “You, I swear.” He had the face I had etched into my bones. At five, we walked hand-in-hand from kindergarten back to the same apartment complex. He gave me the chocolate he’d kept hidden all day. “Delaney, from now on, all my candy is yours.” At fifteen, when first love bloomed, he awkwardly told me to throw away the notes the boys put in my locker. “Those guys have agendas. I’m the only one who’s good to you.” At nineteen, when we started dating long distance, he took an overnight Amtrak just to see me, the gift bags leaving red welts on his hands. At twenty-three, he came alone to the city to start his company. He cooked for me in his cramped, humid sublet, coughing from the smoke, but still telling me to stand back. “Honey, I’m putting you in a hotel tonight. This place is too damp. You won’t sleep well.” Last month, he handed me a crisp, new set of documents. “Wife, as soon as the house is renovated, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it official.” Twenty-eight years. Childhood sweethearts. We had grown into a co-dependent, interlocked tree. But in this second. Everything turned to ash. 2 The rain hammered the umbrella, drip-drop, drip-drop. Only after they turned, locked in an embrace, and walked away, did the numbness begin to recede. My phone screen flickered. It was Graham. Busy. Can’t take the call. The sudden downpour had soaked my shoes. The wet, icy sensation spread from my feet, and I felt as though my legs had been encased in concrete, stiff and immovable. I pulled my jacket tighter. With trembling hands, I dialed again. Still busy. Graham sent a new text. I said I was busy. Stop blowing up my phone. I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. Busy working, or busy cheating? Just as I was about to hit send, a shout came from behind. “Look out!” I couldn’t react in time. A delivery cyclist, skidding on the wet pavement, struck me. The world spun. I slammed onto the slick ground, landing heavily on my side. The cold, sharp dampness seeped through my clothes instantly. The pain, a slow-motion throb, climbed from my knee to my heart. I slowly got back up, wiping the rain and a strange wetness from my face. The delivery driver, looking equally rough, rushed over. “Are you okay?” Seeing his own bedraggled state, I shook my head. “I’m fine.” My phone screen had shattered, leaving my unsent question with no follow-up. I found a nearby hotel and took a scalding hot shower. Downstairs, I bought a cheap new phone and swapped my SIM card. Graham had sent one new message. Something came up, so no video chat tonight. Talk tomorrow, be good. I blinked my dry eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed in a daze. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would Graham cheat? And the girl—did she know she was the other woman? A thought struck me. I opened Instagram. Despite not knowing her full name, I quickly found her in the comments section of Graham’s latest post. Her profile picture was taken in Graham’s room. The curtains behind her were the ones I’d spent three hours at the fabric store agonizing over. Graham often pulled all-nighters working, and worried he’d have trouble sleeping during the day due to light sensitivity, I had specifically asked the tailor to double-line them. Vivian was a fashion influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The first post involving Graham appeared in June. Vivian was clutching a man’s arm in front of a comedy club. The caption: First date with a certain someone. So happy! That was the same comedy club I had taken Graham to—I thought he needed a break from work stress and a good stand-up show. He had promised me, “Delaney, I’ll only go to these things with you. That way, all the really happy memories will belong only to us.” In July, Vivian and Graham were on a beach vacation. It was my birthday that month, a day Graham had told me he was out of town on a work trip. But in her post, she was talking about challenging herself to “first-time surfing” with him. A deep chill settled over me. Graham’s face wasn’t clearly visible in any of the photos, but I couldn’t lie to myself or ignore the familiar, recurring details. I opened a private message to Vivian. Hi. Do you know Graham has a serious girlfriend? Did he lie to you and say he was single? Less than half an hour later, Vivian posted a new story. The dress in the photo looked like a crisp white coat, but its length barely covered her bottom. Tonight’s battle uniform. Gave a sneak peek to a certain someone, and he is obsessed. I clenched my jaw, shaking from the cold that was now deep inside me. Just last month, I’d come home from work and excitedly jumped into Graham’s arms. He had gently pushed me away. He frowned. “Honey, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Vivian’s reply finally landed in my DMs. Dr. Delaney. I know who you are. It’s an open market, all’s fair in love and war. Winner takes all. And right now, it looks like you lost. 3 I forced a wry, mocking smile onto my face. The night after high school graduation, Graham had called me to the park near our homes. In the moonlight, his ears red, he produced a handwritten promise. “Graham promises that Delaney will always be number one to him.” His eyes had been bright, almost frighteningly so. “Delaney, please, be with me.” Years of long-distance through college. Everyone doubted us, but we never drifted apart. When he chose to start his own business, he couldn’t tell his parents how hard it was. I used my fellowship money and student stipends to help cover his living expenses. From the cramped, leaky sublet to the upscale loft, and finally, the paid-off house meant to be our marital home. He said, “As soon as you finish your residency, you can move here to be with me.” Only a few months left. Happiness was on the very doorstep. But today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Vivian sent another DM. It was a video, secretly recorded. Graham’s eyes looked hazy, like he’d been drinking. Vivian giggled. “Graham, what is your girlfriend like, anyway?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t completely drown out his reply. “Don’t even mention her. She’s the same every single day.” “Honestly, she’s pretty boring.” He looked directly at the camera with the familiar, gentle gaze I knew so well. “What new trouble should we get into tonight?” The camera shook, and the sound of an intimate kiss followed. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale face. The images in my head made me nauseous. Rushing to the bathroom, I dry-heaved a few times, then booked a train ticket back home. While packing, a sharp pain in my lower right abdomen came in waves, leaving my forehead slick with sweat. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the ER. It was flu season, and the waiting room was so crowded people were sitting on the floor. I crouched outside the clinic, unable to stand up straight from the pain. At three in the morning, I finally got the ultrasound report. The doctor told me, “The symptoms and scan confirm acute appendicitis. We should perform surgery as soon as possible.” “Is your family not here?” Just then, Graham’s number flashed on my phone. I disconnected the call. He called back again, relentlessly. In the quiet consulting room, the ringing was impossible to ignore. I answered. His voice was frantic, almost panicked. “A friend of mine cut her foot pretty badly on a broken vase. What should I do?” In the background, I could hear Vivian’s low, whining sobs. If I hadn’t seen them, I would have been naive enough to assume it was a studio employee. The last of my warmth drained away. I spoke in an icy tone. “Deal with it however you see fit.” “Delaney!” “You’re a doctor! Listen to yourself. What kind of heartless thing is that to say?!” Graham’s enraged shout echoed through the phone. I curled into a ball, struggling to suppress the spasm of pain. I thought of the glass vase we had picked out together at the home goods store. We had planned to take it to the new house. Now, it must be completely shattered. Graham continued. “I didn’t want to bother anyone in the middle of the night, so I called you. She’s crying from the pain. Just tell me what to do!” My eyes felt hot and scratchy, but I tilted my head back, forcing the stinging liquid back down my throat and nose. The doctor opposite me produced the surgical consent form. “If no family is coming, you can sign yourself.” Graham was silent for a few seconds. “Wait… are you at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated with certainty, “You’re on a night shift, aren’t you?” “If you’re not sleeping, then is it really that difficult to answer a simple question? What are you trying to prove with this childish tantrum?!” A tear finally broke free and fell. I let out a small, hollow laugh. “You’re right.” “I am throwing a childish tantrum.” “Graham, we’re finished. It’s over.”

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The women in the assisted living facility were gathered in the common room, sharing stories of the loves that had defined their lives. The kind of stories you only tell when you know the ending. When it was my turn, I spoke without inflection. “When I was twenty-five, my husband gave me his heart.” The room went instantly silent. No one needed the details. The quiet that followed was profound, the kind that settles after a shared tragedy. Even after forty years, the thought of him still brought that familiar, sharp ache to my chest. I pushed myself up, ready to retreat to my room, when a new resident—a woman who had only arrived a few weeks ago—spoke up. “Funny thing is, the year I’ll never forget is the first year I was with my husband. I told him I wanted a real life, a real title.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her lukewarm tea. “He heard me, and the next day, his wife conveniently suffered a ‘sudden cardiac episode.’ He faked giving her his heart and staged his own death. His wife mourned him for forty years, believing he was her sacrifice. Meanwhile, we lived out our lives, gray and surrounded by children and grandchildren.” Her eyes were fixed on me as she spoke, and the malice in them was a dark, bottomless well. In that moment, I recognized her. Sienna Lowe. Rhys’s secretary from four decades ago. 1 The shock was a physical blow. I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Rhys. He was dressed in a cheap Santa suit, holding out a small, festive gift. “Eliza, Merry Christmas! Go on, open it. Tell me you love it.” The scene was terrifyingly familiar. In my past life, the object inside that cheerfully wrapped box had induced a cardiac episode. When I woke up in the hospital, I received the news of his death. His sacrifice. Now, I looked at his face, vibrant and near—the face I had mourned for forty years. But beneath the relief of seeing him alive, Sienna’s words echoed: Induced cardiac episode… staged his own death… My hand hovered mid-air. Finally, under the expectant gaze of the man I loved, my fingers landed on the ribbon. I slowly unveiled the box. The contents—an object identical to the one in my memory—sat silently on the velvet lining. In the same instant, the familiar, crippling pain seized my heart. My vision tunneled, and Rhys’s panicked face began to swim before me… I woke up to the smell of disinfectant and the sound of quiet sobbing. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Fenton, held my hand, her voice thick with tears. “Eliza, you have to hold on… Rhys… he left his heart for you. He wants you to live a full life…” Everything was exactly as it had been in the last life. Except this time, I didn’t cry. My face was unnervingly blank. The circle of friends and family around my bed watched my dry-eyed silence. Their sympathy curdled into confusion, then into a silent, communal accusation. How could you not weep? How could you be so calm? He gave his life for you! Ignoring their protests, I ripped off the monitors and rushed home. I tore through the house in a frantic search. Drawers, closets, old journals, junk boxes… Finally, hidden deep in the files on his old desktop computer, I found a purchase history. Following the record was an unfamiliar delivery address. I drove there immediately. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood, the house warm and comfortable. I didn’t see anyone, but a neighbor emerged to take out the trash, giving me a friendly, assessing look. “You looking for the couple in 302? They’re the sweetest thing.” The neighbor chatted easily, tossing her bag into the bin. “I remember once, it was pouring rain, and he worried his wife would slip. He actually took two hours off work just to lay non-slip mats from the garage door to the front path.” “And he never comes home from the grocery store without a little bunch of daisies—her favorites…” I listened in silence, every word falling like a drop of ice. Non-slip mats in the rain. Her favorite flowers. Rhys had done those things for me, too. After my diagnosis, during that rainy season, he had silently lined our walkway. He had always remembered to bring home a bouquet of my favorite white lilies. The details I had cherished as symbols of a unique, irreplaceable love were nothing more than a well-used script. They were not for me, but for the role of Wife with a Weak Heart. I sat back in my car and closed the door. The world was suddenly and terribly quiet. The steering wheel was cold in my hands. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to believe? On what foundation had forty years of mourning and heart-wrenching loss been built? How much was sincere love, and how much was a performance? My phone screen flickered to life. A notification. It was a new post from a profile I’d added years ago, someone I didn’t know but hadn’t bothered to delete. The picture was a casual street view, tagged in a distant coastal town. The caption was simple: New place is set up. She loves the ocean. A profound chill ran through me. That coastal town was the exact place Rhys and Sienna had moved to. In the previous life, this profile had also been on my friends list. He rarely posted, but when he did, it was always a glimpse into a peaceful, ordinary married life: grocery runs, watching old movies on a rainy day, tending to the flower pots on the balcony… The words were full of the quiet smoke and warmth of a simple, treasured life. I had no idea who he was, but I’d always thought, If my Rhys were still here, he would be like this. I’d never deleted the stranger’s account. Sometimes, I’d even give a silent ‘Like,’ hoping to borrow a sliver of that illusory warmth to soothe my own endless desolation. I hadn’t known. That was him. Rhys Fenton. He was living the life I had desperately wanted—and loving another woman with the authenticity I craved. 2 The next thing I knew, I was on a flight to that distant coastal town. Forty years of agony demanded an answer. Following the information I’d gathered, I found the coffee shop owned by one of Sienna’s friends. Hearing I was an old acquaintance, the friend greeted me warmly. Before I even had to ask, she began talking about how Rhys and Sienna met. “Rhys and Sienna were college sweethearts, practically! Well, he was two years ahead, but they met at orientation and they’ve been in touch ever since.” “It wasn’t until last year they decided to finally make it official. Sienna loves the coast, so Rhys bought this beautiful oceanfront house. Said he wanted to spend the rest of his life here with her.” “And they’d barely moved in when Sienna got pregnant. Rhys was ecstatic! He said this was true peace, and they had to hurry up and make it all legitimate for her and the baby.” I learned they had known each other for so long. They had planned to grow old here all along. Sienna was already pregnant. The friend kept talking about the details of their courtship, but my mind had slipped back to my past life. Rhys and I had almost had a child, too. But because of my heart condition, the doctor strongly advised against it. Rhys had been silent for a long time. Then he’d held me and said, “We won’t keep it. I only need you to be safe.” I was deeply moved, and profoundly guilty. So guilty I’d considered gambling with my life to carry the baby to term. But then, I overheard a phone call between him and his mother. “Yes, I messed with the timing, so what? She’s pregnant now. I just have to coax her, and she’ll be too soft-hearted to end it! What’s wrong with wanting a child?” In that moment, the world fell silent. I only heard the heavy, sickening thump of my own heart. The tender husband before my eyes warped into a stranger I didn’t know at all. I smashed everything within reach and screamed at him. I called him selfish, a liar, a man who didn’t care about me—only saw me as a means to an end. After his initial panic, his face twisted into the rage of a cheat exposed. He spat the words out. “A woman on borrowed time like you… if you can’t even give me an heir, what was the point of this marriage?” All my fury froze. I looked at him as if he were a monster. Then a sudden, violent spasm gripped my abdomen. A warm gush of liquid soaked my skirt and the chaotic, broken floor. I lost the baby. In the hospital room, his parents arrived. In front of them, Rhys dropped to his knees, slapping his own face, again and again. He sobbed that he had been momentarily insane, that he desperately wanted our child, that he was terrified of losing me, and it had made him lose his mind. He was wrong, he knew it, and he begged me to forgive him, promising he would only focus on my health from now on. He hit himself hard, and his cheek quickly swelled. His parents tried to restrain him, their eyes red, worried about upsetting me further. I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to witness the nauseating, absurd performance. My body was in pain, but my mind was numb and frozen. But the human heart is a wretched thing. Even though I knew it was poison wrapped in frosting, even after experiencing the deepest betrayal, seeing him kneeling there, face bruised and tear-streaked… That pathetic, treacherous emotion began to stir. A man wanting a child with the person he loves… is that really so wrong? In that moment, I found an excuse for him. I softened. I forgave him. After that, he never mentioned children again. He became meticulous, attentive, and outwardly full of remorse. I had believed it was guilt. I had believed it was repentance. Now, sitting in this coffee-scented shop, listening to his mistress’s friend casually mention, “Sienna’s pregnant,” I finally put the pieces together. He hadn’t given up the idea of a family. He had just traded me in for a newer, more functional model to build his perfectly complete home. “Are you… are you here to see them?” The friend finally paused, looking curiously at my silent, pale face. I parted my lips. The saltiness of the sea air seemed to clog my throat. Was I here to see them? Under what identity? Before I could invent a plausible lie, the friend offered her own conclusion. “Oh, I know! You must be coming for their wedding tomorrow night at The Grand Meridian! What a joyous occasion. You can join the fun!” The Grand Meridian. The very hotel Rhys and I had chosen for our wedding. 3 I was back at The Grand Meridian. The champagne-rose archway, the long, sweeping red carpet. Every single detail—the curve of the petals, the fold of the satin ribbon—was exactly as Rhys and I had meticulously planned on the blueprints years ago. In my previous life, I never set foot here again, terrified of invoking the ghost of what should have been. Now, this metaphorical graveyard of my suffering was hosting their happiness. I melted into the crowd of guests and saw many familiar faces. Rhys’s relatives, old colleagues, and even… His parents. The two seniors were dressed in crisp, celebratory clothes, surrounded by old friends, their faces beaming with unconcealed joy. I managed to smile looking at them, though it probably looked more like a grimace. In my last life, after Rhys “died,” his mother had clung to my hand, sobbing until she was exhausted. “Eliza, Rhys is gone, but you are our daughter now. His final wish was for you to live well. We… we will take care of you for him.” I took her words as truth, and as a debt. When they were sick, I was the one who stayed up to nurse them, signing papers and running errands. I fixed the leaky pipes, replaced the lightbulbs, and managed their seasonal wardrobe changes. I never missed a holiday gift, and my weekend visits were sacrosanct. I signed the high-risk consent forms for Mr. Fenton’s heart surgery. When Mrs. Fenton became frail, I paid for her in-home care and visited weekly. I saw them through to their final days, arranging everything properly as their ‘daughter.’ I believed this was penance, a memorial to my lost love. Now, I heard Mrs. Fenton boast to a relative: “Sienna is a dream. She’s taken such good care of Rhys these past few years, and she’s so attentive to us.” “We waited so long for them to finally settle down.” Mr. Fenton nodded, his voice full of relief. “It’s true. If not for her, Rhys would never have recovered. We’ve been anticipating this day for too long.” It turned out that all those years I spent living as their dedicated ‘widow,’ caring for them until the end… They knew the whole time. They knew their son was living an actual married life in another city with another woman. All my heartfelt devotion was probably seen as the pathetic, self-absorbed theatrics of a fool. A sharp, searing bitterness rushed up my throat. I lowered my head. A hot tear splashed onto the carpet, spreading into a dark, small stain. Then, a distant aunt leaned in, her voice low and tentative. “Speaking of which… what ever happened to Rhys’s first wife, Eliza Snow?” The cheerful chatter instantly died. Mrs. Fenton’s smile faded. She quickly pulled her lips into a thin line. “Oh, darling, today is a happy day. Let’s not spoil it by bringing up irrelevant people and things. That’s all in the past. We need to look forward.” Irrelevant people. Yesterday, she sent me a message telling me to move on. Today, I was “irrelevant.” The ceremony was about to begin. Guests took their seats. I stood at the back, watching the scene that mirrored my long-ago dreams. The music I chose, the flowers I selected, every step of the processional I had designed. On the stage, Rhys stood tall and straight in a crisp tuxedo. This was the first time since my rebirth that I truly looked at him. He looked young, vivid, and real—exactly as he was in my memory. That familiar, stubborn ache in my chest returned, dull but pervasive. The barrier between us was not just these few days since my rebirth; it was the four decades of solitude I had endured. The wedding march began. Sienna, in a white gown, started her walk toward Rhys. I watched. The answer I had relentlessly pursued, the very question of his love… it suddenly felt meaningless. He felt meaningless. Sienna, her smile radiant and certain, stopped before him. The officiant began the familiar inquiry: “Rhys Fenton, do you take Sienna Lowe to be your wife, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, holding only to her, until death do you part?” All eyes were on him. I turned away. I was done watching a perfect picture that was never meant for me. I took my first step toward the exit. But from the stage, Rhys’s voice cut through the air, clear and devastatingly loud. “I do not.”

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My mother and I shared a pure, unadulterated hate. She was one of the nation’s top cardiac surgeons, yet she’d ignored my debilitating heart condition for eighteen years. My father, to care for his sickly, fragile daughter, had sacrificed his career, his potential. He’d groveled for access to the specialized medication I needed—pills that cost thousands of dollars apiece. He’d always told me my mother saw nothing but her scalpel; we didn’t exist to her. I loathed her. It wasn’t until a sudden accident that my mother saw my latest medical chart. She pointed at the data, her eyes terrifyingly calm. “I transfer three million a year to your father for medical expenses. This is how he’s been treating you?” 1 “Ave, easy sips. Your mood seems stable today, and your heart rate is steady.” My father, Dean, gently held a glass of warm water to my lips. With his other hand, he held a small, unmarked white pill bottle, shaking two tablets into his palm. These pills were pure white, no label, no markings. I had been taking them since I was small. Dad always said they were cutting-edge medication Mom had pulled strings to get from Europe—thousands of dollars a pill—the only thing keeping my pulse stable. I obediently opened my mouth, swallowing the tablets with the water. “Dad, is Aunt Carol coming over today?” “She is, sweetie. She made that special organic bone broth you like so much. To keep your strength up.” As he spoke, he expertly pulled out the digital blood pressure monitor, checking my heart rate and blood pressure, carefully logging the numbers in a ledger. The sheer volume of those books—dozens, tightly filled—represented my entire life. My “Continuation Archive.” The doorbell rang. Aunt Carol swept in carrying a massive insulated container. She was loud and dramatic from the moment she crossed the threshold. “Oh, my God, Avery, you still look like a ghost! Dean, are you looking after her at all?” She pushed Dad aside and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “Has that woman, Eleanor, been calling to upset you again? I told you, she’s a curse! All she knows how to do is rake in dirty money. What else is she good for?” Dad sighed, the familiar look of exhaustion and defeat clouding his face. “Carol, please. She’s still Avery’s mother.” “Mother? She wouldn’t know how!” Aunt Carol’s voice pitched eight octaves higher. “She barely comes home, and when she calls, what does she ask? Only if Avery is dead yet! That’s all she cares about!” “Poor Avery, stuck with a mother like that! And poor you, Dean, throwing away a brilliant career just to be here for her!” Every one of Aunt Carol’s words landed like a needle in my heart. I lowered my gaze to my own pale, fragile fingers. She was right. Dad should have been a high-powered, brilliant engineer. He was a promising graduate from a top university. But I was his liability, his drug-dependent patient, the reason he couldn’t work. And my mother, Dr. Eleanor Roth? She simply used money to buy her absence. Cold numbers were the extent of her maternal love. 2 Getting into college was the result of a long, brutal fight waged by my father. The whole family had opposed it, terrified I would literally die on campus. But Dad insisted: “I can’t let this child live a life full of regret.” In the end, he won, personally driving me through the university gates. On the very first day, the counselor received a massive stack of my medical records and specifically instructed the whole class to be cautious and accommodating with me. I was exempt from physical education, couldn’t join any clubs that required activity, and certainly couldn’t live in the collective dorms. Dad rented an apartment right off-campus. He drove me everywhere, made all my meals, and supervised every single pill I took. I was separated from the vibrant, bustling campus by an invisible, impenetrable wall. My peers would meet up for late-night pizza runs and parties; I was stuck in the apartment, sipping the bland, oil-free broth Dad insisted on. They were sweating on the sports field; I watched from the window, knowing that even a brisk walk downstairs was an absolute luxury. My phone vibrated. “Eleanor Roth” flashed on the screen. I handed the phone to my father. I never answered her calls. He stepped onto the balcony, lowering his voice, but I could still catch fragments of the conversation. “…situation is the same…” “…The new medication? Yes, still taking it. It’s helping…” “…The funds? I understand. Just transfer them on time.” He hung up a few minutes later, his face grim. “Your mother yelled at me again,” he said, his eyes red-rimmed. “She said I wasn’t taking proper care of you. She said I was intentionally dragging this out just to extort more money from her.” “Avery, I am so sorry. I’ve failed you. It’s my fault you have to endure your mother’s abuse.” A sharp, familiar pain seized my chest. “No, Dad, don’t say that! It’s my fault!” If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be humiliated like this. That woman. How dare she? How dare she use her money to trample on my father’s dignity? In my sophomore year, the university invited an accomplished alum to give a lecture. It was Eleanor Roth. The day the poster went up, the entire campus went wild. “Oh my God, it’s Eleanor Roth! The legendary ‘First Blade of Cardiac Surgery’!” “I heard her surgical appointments are booked out for the next three years!” “She’s my idol! I have to go!” I stared at the poster—a woman in a crisp white coat, her expression cool and aloof—and my stomach lurched. I wanted to run and hide. But the counselor personally called my dad. Attendance was mandatory for all students. Dad had no choice but to drop me off at the auditorium entrance. “Don’t worry, Ave. Dad will be right outside waiting. Text me immediately if you feel unwell.” He looked terrified. I nodded and found the most isolated seat in the back corner of the packed hall. Eleanor, wearing a perfectly tailored business suit, stood on stage, calmly sharing the latest medical breakthroughs. Every case she discussed was harrowing, every life she saved a miracle. The audience erupted in applause. I felt like I was suffocating. Halfway through the lecture, an accident occurred. A stagehand collapsed without warning, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Chaos erupted. Screams and shouts mixed into a loud panic. Eleanor reacted in a split second. She jumped off the stage and rushed over. “Step back! I’m a doctor!” Her voice carried an undeniable, commanding authority. The crowd parted instantly. She knelt, assessed the condition, unbuttoned the man’s shirt collar, and started CPR. One pump, two, three. Her movements were precise, calm, and incredibly efficient. The metallic smell of blood, the antiseptic scent of the auditorium, the sudden rush of noise—the gasps of students, the teachers directing traffic—all drilled into my ears like an oppressive roar. My heart began to beat wildly, beyond my control. My breath hitched, and the edges of my vision started to go dark. “Avery, you must never be stressed. Your heart can’t take it…” Dad’s warning echoed in my ears. I clutched my chest, gasping for air, but the room felt suddenly void of oxygen. In the second before I lost consciousness, I saw Eleanor look up, her gaze sweeping right toward my corner of the auditorium. When I woke up, I was in a private hospital room. The familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. Eleanor was sitting by my bedside, holding a medical file. Her eyes were downcast, her expression unreadable. She was still in the same suit, but her jacket was off, revealing a white blouse. Her sleeves were rolled up, and a faint, dried bloodstain marred her forearm.

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The text message popped up the moment I walked in the door after work: “Babe, I sent you that little triple-chocolate cake you love. It just arrived! Open up!” In the first life, I opened the door, didn’t see a thing, and was stabbed to death instantly. In the second life, I didn’t open the door and hid in the closet, but the killer broke the lock, and I died in the closet. In the third life, I scrambled into the basement ventilation shaft. The killer couldn’t find me and left. But the moment I crawled out of the vent, the killer was there, grinning maniacally and raising his dagger. Until my death, I never understood how the killer always managed to find me so precisely. I blinked open my eyes again, and the familiar knocking sounded from outside my door. My first instinct was to slam the deadbolt shut, and I was just about to look for a hiding spot when a layer of pop-up text floated above my head. This hadn’t happened in the first three lives. 【The side character is finally going to die. The Heiress is about to have a double harvest in love and career. This is great!】 【So excited! According to the setup, the side character is just an NPC designed to push The Heiress’s storyline forward. Why can’t she just wait to die gracefully?】 A side character? An NPC? Were they talking about me? I froze for a second. They want me to just wait for death? But why? I was a person made of flesh and blood. I wanted to live! 1 The shock lasted only a few seconds. Snapping out of it, I sprinted into the bathroom, turned the shower on full blast, then grabbed an old, prepaid phone. I threw it onto the sink after hitting play on a few songs I had cached previously. Then, I quickly dove behind the abandoned clawfoot tub in the corner of the storage room. The whole process took less than a minute. Outside the door, the killer, disguised as a delivery driver, began twisting the doorknob. His voice was sickly sweet, carrying a note of deranged intimacy: “Little mouse, are you tucked away? I’m coming in now.” As he finished speaking, the lock clicked open. My nerves instantly tightened. The next second, the door swung inward. A set of light, measured footsteps slowly moved across the living room. In the bathroom, the water was still running, roaring down the drain. The footsteps paused for a moment in the living room and then headed straight for the bathroom. “Hmm, looks like she’s taking a shower.” There was a strange hint of excitement mixed in his tone. The pop-up text above me was still scrolling nonstop: 【OMG, what is the side character doing? Can she stop making futile efforts?】 【So stupid. This killer is the serial murderer from the news. Thirty people in six months, never failed. The side character is so overconfident!】 【But that tub in the storage room is genuinely well-hidden. As long as she doesn’t get reckless and try to run out the front door, she might actually survive this episode. After all, the big iron security door leading outside is already locked!】 I watched the text scroll, my breath catching in my throat. A cold sweat broke out on my back. That had been my original plan. The storage room was right next to the front door. I would lure the killer into the bathroom and then make a break for it. But now, I pressed my hands over my mouth, my body rigid and curled up under the tub, terrified of making the slightest sound. The bathroom door was open. The loud rush of water was unnervingly clear in the quiet apartment. A second later, the water shut off. The man’s voice, trembling with perverse excitement, rang out in the room: “Such an interesting little mouse. I’ve changed my mind. When I find you, I’m going to slice you into little pieces. It might be very tasty boiled in a hot pot.” The bedroom door was pushed open. He was muttering to himself: “Not under the bed, not in the closet, not behind the curtains… Where could she be?” The ghostly voice echoed through the apartment, and the slightly erratic footsteps slowly drew closer to the storage room. I tightly clutched my chest, terrified that my frantic heartbeat would give me away. The footsteps drew nearer to the tub. My heart shot into my throat. A rustling sound came from outside the tub, then the footsteps headed toward the door. “Looks like she’s not here either. Where in the world is she hiding?” The pop-up text paused for a moment, then rapidly scrolled again. 【Holy hell, is she actually going to escape this time? Then what about The Heiress? Boohoo, will the side character go back and steal the heir position from The Heiress? Is The Heiress’s sweet romance going to be ruined?】 【Ugh, refund, refund. I paid to see The Heiress’s sweet romance, not this side character’s awakening. What kind of plot is this?】 In the middle of the frantic scrolling, my phone suddenly vibrated slightly. It was a text from Sierra: “Babe, did you eat the cake yet? I bought it with my Christmas bonus. Got paid and rushed right out to get it. Aren’t you happy?” The vibration of the phone was faint, but the killer, who had just stepped out of the storage room, suddenly turned his head to look at the corner where the tub sat. A strange, eerie smile stretched across his mouth: “Sweetheart, I’m going to find you now!” 2 【The side character is finally getting her just desserts! The money wasn’t wasted!】 【But I have to say, did the side character’s best friend seriously not get bought off—pfft, I mean, seduced by The Heiress’s charm? She always messes up the side character at the crucial moment.】 【Upstairs, are you empathizing with the side character? She’s just an NPC. She’s destined to die tonight. What does her best friend have to do with it? Besides, aren’t all the NPCs here to serve the main character?】 The pop-up text was scrolling fast, but I couldn’t focus on it. The footsteps drew closer, and the killer crouched down, grabbing the edge of the old tub. I was paralyzed with fear, my body trembling slightly, uncontrollably. The next second, the tub was violently flipped over. The bizarre smile on the killer’s face instantly froze. He stared intently at the lonely phone beneath the tub, his eyes deepening with interest. “No one has managed to play games with me this long. Little mouse, I’m getting more and more interested in you. I hope I don’t catch you too quickly.” 【Oh my god, when did the side character get out from under the tub? Where did she hide this time? I was watching the whole time! How did I not notice she wasn’t under the tub?】 【+1. But, suddenly, I kind of like the side character. Can’t a smart, decisive character like her live for a few more episodes?】 【Actually, I saw it. The side character never actually hid under the tub. She just tipped the tub and tossed the phone underneath, hiding herself in the narrow crevice, like a little step, right behind it. That’s a blind spot, so the killer missed it.】 【Seriously? Did the side character know her best friend was in on it from the start?】 That last pop-up guessed the truth. Yes, I knew Sierra was deliberately setting me up from the beginning. In the first life, it was her message that made me drop my guard and open the door. I thought it was my best friend’s love arriving. I didn’t know it was a serial killer coming to take my life. In the second life, I was hiding in the closet. The moment the killer got close, a message from Sierra popped up. In the third life, I barely managed to dodge the killer and crawl into the ventilation shaft. I thought I was saved, but I ran right into the killer waiting for me at the exit. But how did he know, with such precision, that I had climbed into the vent? There was only one possibility: my phone had tracking software installed. And it was just a few days ago that Sierra had ‘accidentally’ cracked my screen. She apologized profusely and took it to the original service center for repair. I only got the phone back today. Looking back, how could there be so many ‘coincidences’ in the world? It had been a calculated ambush targeting me from the start.

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