Author: Momo Chan

When my husband’s company went under, I stayed. When the bank took the house, I didn’t blink. But when I caught him playing the field behind my back, that was it. I hit my breaking point and demanded a divorce. The words had barely left my mouth when something impossible happened. A string of glowing, neon-blue text floated through the air right in front of my eyes, like a ticker tape only I could see: [Wow, the new Female Main Character is ruthless. Reincarnated just to steal the guy from his throwaway ex-wife. Classic villain-era FMC!] [The ex-wife is such an idiot, though. The FMC literally Photoshopped one picture, and the wife immediately screams for a divorce. No wonder she’s just cannon fodder.] [The FMC is gonna help the guy rebuild his empire and become a billionaire’s wife. Meanwhile, the ex gets lured in by a romance scammer, trafficked overseas, and dies pregnant. Tragic, but she’s so dumb.] Jeremy stared at me, his face registering a flash of shock before settling into a terrifying, hollow calm. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll go to the courthouse first thing tomorrow.” 1 I snapped back to reality, my chest heaving. Pointing a trembling finger at his chest, I spat, “I said I want a divorce, and I mean it! You never loved me, did you? You absolute bastard!” Jeremy flinched. For a second, a shadow crossed his face, but then his mouth curled into a self-deprecating, bitter line. “It’s entirely normal that you want out,” he said, his voice flat. “I understand. I accept it. You don’t have to make up excuses to justify leaving.” Panic flared in my chest, but I kept my chin high. “What do you mean, make up excuses? If you hadn’t cheated on me, do you think I’d be standing here screaming about a divorce?!” I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “You agreed so fast. Don’t tell me you don’t have a guilty conscience!” Maybe my sheer audacity stunned him, because it took him a long moment to reply. “You’re accusing me of cheating. Where exactly is your proof?” “You think I don’t have it?” I challenged, fueled by righteous indignation. I did have proof. Even if that floating text called it “Photoshopped by the FMC.” I shoved my hand into my pocket and yanked out my phone. But when I opened my messages, my blood ran cold. The anonymous text—the one with the photo of Jeremy kissing some stunning brunette on a city street—was gone. Vanished. My thumbs flew across the screen, scrolling frantically, my breath catching in my throat. “Why isn’t it here? Where did it go?” [Where did it go? Because the FMC hacked your phone and wiped it, you moron!] [Look, the guy only married her out of a sense of duty to her dead mother anyway. He never had real feelings for her. She’s been high-maintenance forever, and now she’s ditching him at his lowest point. He’s completely disillusioned.] [This spoiled trophy wife does nothing but cry and spend money. She never deserved him. Can’t wait for her to get written out of the story so the FMC and the male lead can become a corporate power couple. Period.] Watching me fumble with my phone, Jeremy’s patience finally evaporated. He let out a low, mocking exhale—a sound that cut deeper than a knife—and turned his back on me, walking into the bathroom. He didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to. The silence was deafening. My throat tightened. A sharp ache pierced the bridge of my nose, and the tears I’d been trying to hold back finally spilled over. 2 I retreated to our cramped bedroom, burying my face in the pillows to muffle my sobs. I didn’t know what was wrong with me lately. My emotions were entirely out of my control; the slightest breeze of conflict had me ready to break down. It had always just been me and my mom. Seven years ago, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Despite every aggressive treatment money could buy, she faded fast. In her final days, terrified of leaving her naive, sheltered daughter alone in the world, she entrusted me to Jeremy. Jeremy had been a foster kid my mother mentored and put through college. Brilliant, driven, and relentlessly hard-working, he had started his own tech firm right after graduation and was already making a name for himself. I had always known him, had always harbored a quiet, blooming crush on him. So, when he held my mother’s frail hand and swore he would protect me for the rest of his life, I didn’t object. After she passed, we simply… fell together. Jeremy was endlessly patient with me. He was gentle, indulgent, and absorbed every one of my flaws and tantrums without complaint. For years, I truly believed it was because he loved me. But those floating words… they said he didn’t. They said it was just a debt. A transaction to repay my mother’s kindness. The thought felt like physical pressure on my chest. There were a million ways to repay a mentor. He could have paid her back in stock, in charity, in taking care of her affairs. Why marry me if he didn’t even like me? It was sick. But as I lay there, my tears drying into a stubborn resolve, a new thought took root. I might not be a genius, but if I knew Jeremy was destined to become a titan of industry again, I wasn’t going to just hand him over to some manipulative “Female Main Character.” Fine, we could divorce. But not until he was back on his feet and could give me a settlement large enough to secure my future. Until then, this “FMC” could wait in line. I owed her nothing. Fifteen minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open. Jeremy stood at the foot of the bed. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, before he spoke. His voice was devastatingly calm. “I have nothing left to my name right now. If we divorce, I can’t give you the alimony you deserve. But if I ever make it back… I’ll make it right.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “You don’t need to worry about the creditors. The debt is entirely mine. It won’t touch you.” I sat up, glaring at him through swollen eyes. “I’m not divorcing you! Don’t even think about it!” Jeremy opened his mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain right out of him. “Whatever you want, Gemma. When you’re ready to sign, let me know. I’ll make it easy for you.” He turned and walked out. He didn’t say it, but I felt the weight of his disappointment. Just like the phantom text said, my asking for a divorce had broken something fundamental between us. But without the photo, what was I supposed to do? I’d just have to cling to him. Dig my heels in. Being shameless was the one thing I was actually good at. [The guy is totally heartbroken. He’ll push for the divorce soon.] [I don’t know. He’s got a toxic level of loyalty. Even if he doesn’t love her, he won’t force her out if she refuses to leave. Based on her reaction, this might drag out.] [Relax. She’s a pampered princess who can’t handle poverty. The second a better option flashes some cash, she’ll jump ship. It won’t take long.] I rolled my eyes at the empty air. Pampered? Yes. A gold-digger? Absolutely not. If I only cared about money, I would have bolted the day the bank locked the doors to his office. If I hadn’t been blinded by the sheer betrayal of that Photoshopped kiss, I never would have thrown the word “divorce” at him. Stupid, judgmental ghost text. 3 I lay in bed for another hour, sinking deep into my own misery. Eventually, Jeremy appeared in the doorway, an apron tied around his waist. “Dinner’s ready.” His tone was detached. Cold. It made my skin crawl. Back in the day, if he had dared to speak to me with that kind of ice, I would have thrown a fit. But now, terrified of pushing him entirely into the arms of the “FMC,” I dragged myself out of bed without a word. I had never cooked a day in my life. After the bankruptcy, when we had to let the housekeeper go, I tried. But my culinary skills began and ended with microwave ramen and frozen pizza; everything else I touched turned to charcoal. Jeremy, raised by his grandfather after losing his parents young, was entirely self-sufficient. He was actually a phenomenal cook. When he was home, the kitchen was his domain. He had made seared salmon, garlic asparagus, and a delicate squash soup—all my favorites. Looking at the steam rising from the plates, the back of my throat burned. Tears, unbidden and humiliating, slipped down my cheeks. I turned my head away fast, wiping my face with the back of my hand, and stared rigidly at my plate. Maybe it was the heavy atmosphere, but the food tasted like ash. After a few bites, my stomach rolled. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to put my fork down. “I’m full,” I whispered. Jeremy frowned, setting his own fork down. He looked at me, his eyes guarded. “I’m flying to Chicago for a few days. Take the weekend to really think about what you want to do about us.” My hands curled into fists under the table. “Where in Chicago? For how long?” “Just downtown. I’ll be back Sunday night at the latest.” I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. “I already told you, I am not getting a divorce!” Jeremy looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before he looked away. “Suit yourself.” Suit myself? I let out a sound of pure frustration, stomped my foot like a petulant child, and stormed back to the bedroom. Half an hour later, I heard him zipping up his duffel bag. I curled into a tight ball, facing the wall, silently weeping into the quilt. It took him less than ten minutes to pack. He didn’t come in to say goodbye. I heard the scrape of his bag, the heavy thud of the front door closing. Once he was gone, the silence of the apartment crashed down on me. The silent weeping turned into a sob, and the sob tore into a full-blown, ugly wail. [Cry, cry, cry! That’s all she does. Crying away whatever good luck she has left!] [This side-character is so useless. All tears, no brains.] [What did you expect from the ‘beautiful but useless’ trope?] [Honestly, if she wasn’t so pathetic, it wouldn’t be this easy for the FMC to steal her husband. The more useless she is, the better.] [True that, lol!] 4 Reading the words hovering in the air only made me cry harder. I was drowning in my own pity party when the mattress suddenly dipped behind me. I gasped, spinning around in terror. Jeremy was sitting on the edge of the bed. I had no idea when he’d come back. He was looking down at me, his expression a complicated mess of exhaustion and sorrow. I choked on a sob, glaring at him defensively. “What… what do you want?!” He stared at me for a long time. Then, without a word, he reached out, pulled me against his chest, and buried his face in my hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. I froze against him. I knew what that apology meant. He was apologizing for failing. For losing the company, for the cramped apartment, for not giving me the charmed life he had sworn to my mother he’d provide. But business was just business. Fortunes rise and fall. When he first went bankrupt, I was terrified, yes. But I adapted. I always believed he would find his way back to the top. I never, not even for a fraction of a second, considered leaving him because the money ran out. I wasn’t crying because I missed the penthouse. I was crying because he didn’t trust me. He didn’t believe that someone had sent me that photo, and worse, he didn’t believe I could stand by him when things got dark. “You are wrong,” I said, my voice thick and muffled against his shirt. “I did get a picture of you kissing someone. Why won’t you just believe me? Why is it so hard to believe someone hacked my phone and deleted it?” Jeremy’s hand stroked a slow, rhythmic circle on my back. “Okay,” he said softly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” I let out a wet huff. I knew he was just placating me, but there was a time to fight and a time to fold. I let myself sink into his warmth. He held me a little tighter. “If everything goes according to plan,” he murmured, his voice rumbling against my ear, “I can clear the debt in three years. We might not have the private jets again, but we’ll be comfortable. We’ll be okay.” I didn’t offer some fake, noble speech about loving the struggle. I just pressed my face deeper into the crook of his neck and breathed in the scent of his cedarwood cologne. “Okay.” He didn’t say anything else. He just leaned down and pressed a long, soft kiss to my forehead. In that quiet, suspended moment, I could have sworn he loved me. We stayed like that for a long time, just breathing together, until he finally pulled back. He kissed my forehead one last time. “I have to catch my flight. Wait for me. When I get back, I’m taking you out for a real dinner.” I nodded, feeling absurdly small. “Okay.” I walked him to the door, suddenly reluctant to let him leave. “Be careful in Chicago.” “I will.” He smiled, a genuine, blinding smile that made my chest stutter. He reached out and ruffled my hair. “Be good. Wait for me.” My heart did a violent flip. Flustered, I muttered a quick goodbye and shut the door. [Wait, I’m kind of shipping them now. The arranged marriage to lovers arc is hitting.] [Ew, why? She brings nothing to the table but her face. The FMC is a powerhouse. Power couples are way better.] [Yeah, FMC all the way.] I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. Right. The FMC was a powerhouse. And her definition of female empowerment apparently included breaking up a marriage. Cool. 5 Making peace with Jeremy shifted the atmosphere in the apartment. Even while he was in Chicago, the tension evaporated. He texted me constantly, checking in, asking if I had eaten, reminding me to lock the door. He was back to being the attentive, endlessly gentle man I knew. Even knowing he might not truly love me, I found it impossible to be mad at him. As for the future, my plan remained intact. I’d stick it out until he struck gold again, take my lucrative alimony, and vanish. Sunday arrived. I slept in until ten, the autumn sunlight streaming through the blinds. Stretching out of bed, I went to the kitchen and boiled a pot of the dumplings Jeremy had made from scratch and frozen before his trip. Pork and scallion. My absolute favorite. I set the steaming bowl on the counter and grabbed a fork. But the moment the smell of the pork hit my senses, my stomach rebelled violently. I clamped a hand over my mouth, bolted to the bathroom, and dry-heaved over the toilet until my ribs ached. I slumped against the cool tile, wiping my mouth, my mind racing. I had never been pregnant, but I wasn’t an idiot. …dies pregnant. The floating text’s gruesome prophecy echoed in my head. To be absolutely sure, I threw on a coat, walked to the pharmacy down the block, and bought two different brands of pregnancy tests. Twenty minutes later, they sat on the edge of the sink. Two lines on both. Pregnant. A year ago, Jeremy and I had actively tried for a baby. But when the company collapsed, we shelved the idea indefinitely. If I refused to divorce Jeremy, I knew the “FMC” would keep gunning for him. I had been terrified I wouldn’t be smart enough to hold on to a future billionaire. But this? This was the ultimate trump card. I rested a trembling hand on my flat stomach. “Hey there, kid,” I whispered, a nervous laugh escaping me. “Our whole future is riding on you.” Jeremy was intensely loyal. A man driven by duty. With a child in the picture, he would never abandon me. I reached for my phone to call him, then remembered he was probably mid-air. It could wait. I wanted to see his face anyway. I would surprise him tonight. I waited. The hours crawled by. By seven p.m., he should have been walking through the door. Anxiety gnawing at me, I texted him. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Caught up with some unexpected business. Going to be late. I didn’t overthink it. I turned on Netflix and curled up on the couch to wait, eventually drifting into a restless sleep. I didn’t know what time it was when the sound of the deadbolt clicking woke me. I jolted upright. Jeremy was standing in the entryway, setting his keys in the bowl. Adrenaline and joy spiked in my veins. I threw the blanket off and practically ran toward him. “Jeremy, I have to tell you—” He didn’t move to catch me. He stood entirely still, his face carved from stone. The air around him was freezing. “Gemma,” he said, his voice stripped of all emotion. “We need to get a divorce.” I slammed on the brakes, my bare feet skidding on the hardwood. I stared at him, sure the sleep hadn’t entirely left my brain. “What?” He met my eyes, his gaze steady and dead. “A divorce. I’ll have a settlement agreement drawn up for you tonight.” My jaw locked. My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Give me one good reason.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “We aren’t a good fit anymore. Let’s just end it cleanly.” Fire exploded in my chest. “You’re the one who promised my mother you’d marry me! You didn’t think we were a bad fit then, did you?!” Jeremy lowered his eyes, staring at a spot on the floor between us. “I’m sorry.” I took a ragged breath, fighting the sudden, violent sting of tears. My voice shook so badly it barely sounded like me. “Jeremy. Look at me. I’m going to ask you one more time. Why are you doing this?” He turned his head away, unable to meet my gaze. “I met someone who’s a better fit for me.” A hysterical, broken laugh ripped out of my throat. Someone who’s a better fit. The Female Main Character. I knew it was coming. I knew she existed. But God, I didn’t think she would move this fast. I had planned to stubbornly occupy the role of his wife until he could afford to buy me out. In my most secret, shameful heart, I had hoped I could beat her plot armor. That I could stay his wife forever. It was a delusion. If he had already fallen for her, if he was standing in our home asking to end our marriage, then fighting for him was pointless. Begging would only make him resent me. Clinging to him would turn me into the villain in his eyes. Fine. If he wanted out, I’d take the settlement and walk. But I was keeping my baby. If this “FMC” could play the homewrecker and steal my husband, I could certainly keep my own child a secret.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “457771”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On Valentine’s Day, my ex-boyfriend, Kevin, cornered me in the most crowded dining hall on campus. He was holding a microphone from the student radio station, declaring to the entire room: “Zoe, if you just agree to give us another chance, I’ll withdraw my application for the Dean’s Fellowship.” The entire cafeteria erupted into cheers and whistles. Beside him stood Delilah, his childhood best friend, her eyes red as she pleaded with me: “Zoe, Kevin is doing all of this for you. Please, stop being so dramatic.” From the crowd, whispers drifted over. Some called me cold-hearted. Some said I didn’t know how good I had it. Others muttered that a girl like me deserved to be dumped anyway. I simply smiled. I reached for the glass of iced lemonade on my tray and threw it directly into Kevin’s face. “Using public resources to stage a tragedy, Kevin?” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “You’re pathetic.” He thought I was just lashed out because he had backed me into a corner. But he had no idea. From the moment he and Delilah began plotting to steal my fellowship spot, I had already started digging his grave. And the first shovel of dirt would fall next week, during our senior capstone presentations. 1 Today was Valentine’s Day. The first floor of the campus student center was packed to the gills. I had just picked up my lunch tray and walked toward the seating area when a sudden roar of excitement erupted behind me. “She’s here, she’s here!” “Zoe’s here!” “Make way, let the leading lady through!” I froze. Before I could even register what was happening, the crowd parted automatically, forming a long path. At the end of that path stood Kevin. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, dark trousers, and his hair was meticulously styled. In his hand, he held a wireless microphone. At his feet lay a massive ring of red roses, inside of which sat a heart made of glowing tea lights. Next to it was a chalkboard sign that read: Zoe, let’s start over. Looking at those words, my stomach churned. Start over? Only two months ago, I had walked into the local indie theater and found him in the back row, holding Delilah in his arms. Delilah had been wearing the forest-green wool scarf I had spent three weeks knitting for him. She had leaned against his shoulder, her voice soft and sweet: “Kevin, won’t Zoe be upset if she finds out?” And what did Kevin say? He had stroked her hair and murmured, “Don’t worry about her. She’ll never leave me.” I hadn’t made a scene that day. I simply took a photo of them, walked out, and texted him that we were over. At first, Kevin acted like he didn’t care. “You’ll regret this, Zoe,” he’d warned me. “You’re never going to find another guy who treats you the way I do.” I hadn’t regretted it for a single second. But it seemed he was starting to. Our department had only one spot for the fully-funded Dean’s Fellowship this year—a direct track to the university’s prestigious graduate program. When our cumulative GPA rankings came out, Kevin and I were tied for first place. The final decision would come down to the senior capstone project presentations next week. Delilah was ranked third. If either Kevin or I dropped out of the running, the runner-up spot would automatically go to her. This grand gesture wasn’t an act of devotion. It was a setup. Kevin raised the microphone, his eyes glistening with rehearsed emotion. “Zoe, these past two months apart have been a nightmare. I haven’t slept. I know I made mistakes, but I truly can’t imagine my life without you.” The crowd went wild. “Oh my god, he’s so romantic!” “What is she waiting for? Say yes!” Kevin took a step forward, pulling a folded piece of paper from a leather portfolio. I recognized the official department letterhead. It was a Voluntary Withdrawal Form for the fellowship. He held it up for everyone to see. “If you take me back, I’ll sign this right now. I don’t care about the fellowship. I only care about you.” The cafeteria erupted. People were clapping, cheering, and recording videos to post on their socials. “Giving up a full-ride fellowship for love? Kevin is a literal prince!” “If Zoe rejects him now, she’s just being heartless.” I stood in the center of the room, pinned to the floor by hundreds of staring eyes, like a criminal on trial. Kevin looked at me, a subtle gleam of triumph in his eyes. He was certain I would be swept up by the romance, or at least too afraid of the public pressure to humiliate him. He knew the old me too well. During our two years together, I had always protected his ego. When he was late, I told him it was fine. When he forgot our anniversary, I blamed it on his heavy workload. When he spent hours alone with Delilah, I told myself I trusted him. But a person can only be a fool for so long. Once was enough. Just then, Delilah stepped out from behind him. She was wearing a delicate white sundress, her eyes rimmed with red, looking like the victim of some grand tragedy. She walked over to me, her voice trembling. “Zoe, please don’t hold a grudge against Kevin. He’s been in so much pain lately. If you’re refusing to forgive him because of me, I’ll apologize. I’ll do whatever it takes.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll keep my distance from him from now on. Just please, stop torturing him like this.” It was a masterful performance. The moment she spoke, the whispers around us shifted, growing sharper, uglier. “Zoe is being so cold.” “Even the friend apologized, and she’s still standing there with that look on her face.” “Is she just stringing him along because she likes the power trip?” Kevin didn’t stop Delilah. He just watched me, the faint twitch of a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. In that moment, his entire plan became crystal clear. He wasn’t here to beg for my forgiveness; he was here to force me to submit. If I accepted, he won. He could occupy the moral high ground, regain control over our relationship, and eventually manipulate me into stepping down from the fellowship anyway. If I rejected him, he still won. He would use the court of public opinion to paint me as a ruthless, ungrateful villain, making it impossible for me to survive the department’s review process. No matter what, he wanted to ensure I lost. I looked at him, and suddenly, I laughed. Kevin’s eyes lit up, thinking I was softening. He opened his arms, his voice dropping into a deeper, tender register. “Zoe. Come back to me. I’m so sorry.” I set my lunch tray down on a nearby table, picked up the tall plastic cup of iced lemonade, and before he could react, I threw the contents straight into his face. The sticky, ice-cold liquid drenched his hair and ran down his neck. A slice of lemon clung to his collar. The entire cafeteria went dead silent. The mask of devotion on Kevin’s face shattered instantly. He wiped the liquid from his eyes, his chest heaving as he roared, “Zoe! Are you insane?” I took the microphone from his hand. My voice wasn’t loud, but in the quiet of the hall, it carried perfectly. “First of all, we broke up two months ago. I am not interested in getting back together. Ever. “Second, the Dean’s Fellowship is an academic honor. It is not a prop for you to use in your pathetic romantic dramas. Staging this little show isn’t noble, Kevin. It’s desperate.” A collective gasp rippled through the room. Delilah’s face drained of color. “Zoe, how can you say that? Kevin did this because he loves you—” I turned my gaze to her. “Because he loves me? If he withdraws, you’re third in line for the spot. If I walk away because of the drama, it goes straight to you. Tell me, Delilah, why are you crying? You should be throwing a party.” Delilah froze, her mouth slightly open. Kevin went rigid. Finally, some of the onlookers started putting the pieces together. “Wait, Delilah is third in the department?” “So if Kevin drops out and Zoe gets distracted, Delilah gets the funding?” “Holy shit. Is this a setup?” Delilah’s tears fell faster. “No! That’s not true! I never wanted to take anyone’s spot! Zoe, why do you always assume the worst of me?” Before she could finish her sentence, a stern, authoritative voice boomed from the back of the crowd. “What is going on here?” The students parted to reveal Professor Harris, our department head. His face was dark. He was notorious for his strict academic standards and his absolute disdain for students who treated their studies like a game. He had clearly heard enough. Kevin panicked. “Professor Harris, I was just—” “Just what?” Professor Harris cut him off, his voice like ice. “Using a graduate fellowship as a bargaining chip for your love life? Kevin, what do you think this university’s academic standards are? A playground?” Kevin’s face was white. I didn’t give him a chance to recover. I stepped forward and bowed slightly to the professor. “Professor Harris, since things have escalated to this point, I have a proposal. To ensure complete fairness, I suggest we make the capstone defense next week entirely transparent. Let the entire faculty panel grade us live, and let the highest score take the fellowship. No one has to withdraw, and no one gets to play the martyr.” Professor Harris was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fine. Next Friday, a public defense. Everyone speaks with their work.” I looked back at Kevin. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched. Delilah’s fingers were white from clutching the fabric of her skirt. Their first move had failed. But at ten o’clock that night, my roommate, Grace, kicked our dorm door open and shoved her phone in my face. “Zoe, look at the campus forum. Kevin is dragging you through the mud.” 2 By midnight, the campus forum had completely caught fire. An anonymous post had been pinned to the top of the homepage. The title read: Exposing the cold-blooded genius who threw ice water on the campus golden boy on Valentine’s Day. The post was written with dramatic flair, painting Kevin as a tragic romantic who had offered to sacrifice his entire future for me, only to be publicly humiliated. It claimed I had used him for support throughout our relationship, only to discard him the moment I didn’t need him anymore. It even suggested that my call for a public defense was because I had already bribed the faculty. It was so absurd I wanted to laugh. But the comments underneath were filled with genuine, vitriolic anger. “Zoe looks so innocent, but she’s actually a sociopath.” “Who cares if she’s smart? Her character is trash.” “People like her shouldn’t get fellowships. They ruin academic departments.” “She was the one who suggested the public defense. I bet she already has the professors in her pocket.” Our class group chat wasn’t quiet either. Kevin’s roommate was the first to speak up. “@Zoe, you went way too far today. Kevin was willing to give up his career for you, and you poured ice water on his head? You’re cold.” Delilah’s roommate immediately chimed in: “Some people think they can treat others like garbage just because they have a high GPA. Delilah has been crying all night, and she did absolutely nothing wrong. Zoe, you owe her an apology.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Before I could type a single word, Grace snatched the phone from my hand. “Don’t waste your breath, Zoe,” she said, her eyes flashing. “Let me handle this.” Within seconds, she fired off a dozen messages in the group chat. “Kevin is a romantic? Is that what we’re calling a guy who cheats on his girlfriend with his ‘childhood best friend’?” “Is it romantic that while Zoe was running a hundred-and-four-degree fever, Kevin claimed he was stuck in the lab, only to go see a movie with Delilah?” “Is it romantic that he took the green scarf Zoe spent weeks knitting for him and gave it to Delilah?” The chat went silent for a few seconds. Then, Grace dropped the bomb: a photo of Kevin and Delilah sitting in the back row of the movie theater, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as she fed him popcorn. The chat exploded. Kevin’s roommate tried to salvage the situation: “So what? Friends can’t go to the movies together?” Grace fired back: “To a theater’s love seats? Feeding each other popcorn? Wearing his girlfriend’s hand-knit scarf? Is everyone in your dorm room lacking a mirror, or just lacking a brain?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. Grace never needed a script to dismantle someone. Kevin finally appeared in the chat. “Grace, don’t make this uglier than it needs to be. Whatever issues Zoe and I have, we’ll resolve them privately.” Grace replied: “Oh, now you want privacy? You didn’t care about privacy when you set your online mob on her. Now that you’re caught, you want to act dignified? Kevin, you’re a joke.” Nobody else in the chat said a word. But the storm on the campus forum didn’t stop. The next morning, a new anonymous thread appeared. The headline was even more malicious: Why is Zoe so desperate for a public defense? What’s the real nature of her relationship with a certain professor? There were no facts, only insinuations. It implied that my academic record was manufactured, and that Professor Harris and I had a personal connection that would guarantee my win. Grace looked ready to throw her laptop through the window. “Are these people out of their minds?” I stared at the screen, tracing the usernames of the most active commenters. They all had similar registration dates and posted with identical phrasing—defending Kevin, attacking me, pretending to be objective bystanders while steering the narrative. It was a coordinated effort. “What are you looking at?” Grace asked, leaning over. I took screenshots of everything and saved them to an encrypted folder. “I’m looking at them digging their own graves.” Grace blinked. “You already have a plan, don’t you?” I opened the project directory on my computer, revealing the final architecture of our machine learning model. “I’m not planning. I’m just waiting for them to take the bait.” 3 For the next four days, Grace and I practically lived in the computer science lab. Our capstone project was an AI-driven predictive analytics model for regional healthcare logistics. It was a highly complex codebase, but if we could get the optimization algorithm to run smoothly, the results would be undeniable. Every night at 2:00 AM, the lab was pitch black except for the glow of our monitors. Grace sat slumped over a bag of potato chips, staring at the endless lines of Python code. “I feel like these brackets are staring back at me and calling me stupid,” she groaned. I kept typing. “What exactly are they saying?” “They’re asking why I haven’t crawled into bed yet.” I smiled. “Two more days, Grace. Just hang in there.” She put her head on the desk. “When you get this fellowship, you’re buying me dinner. Five times.” “Deal.” Despite our joking, we both knew what was at stake. This wasn’t just about beating Kevin anymore. It was about our work. It was about the endless nights we’d spent debugging, the spreadsheets of data we’d meticulously cleaned, and the simple fact that we refused to let someone ride our coattails or destroy our future. Kevin had been quiet. He didn’t try to corner me in the halls, and he stayed out of the group chats. But whenever we crossed paths in the department building, his gaze was dark and venomous. On Wednesday afternoon, I went to the printing room to grab some physical reference sheets. As I pushed the door open slightly, I heard voices from inside. It was Delilah, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Kevin, I’m scared. If Zoe wins the presentation, I’ll lose my chance at the graduate program entirely.” There was a long silence. Then Kevin spoke. “She won’t win.” “But her model is so much faster than ours,” Delilah whispered. “How are we supposed to beat her?” Kevin’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “We don’t have to beat her. We just have to make sure she has nothing to present.” My hand froze on the doorknob. Behind me, Grace’s eyes went wide. I made a sharp gesture for her to stay quiet. Inside, Delilah sounded startled. “What do you mean?” Kevin let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Zoe’s a creature of habit. She’s used the same password combination for everything since freshman year—her birthday followed by her initials. I checked. She never changed her access credentials for the department’s shared project server.” Delilah’s voice was barely a whisper. “Isn’t that… too risky?” “If she walks onto that stage on Friday with empty hands, the fellowship is mine,” Kevin said. “Once I have the funding secured, I’ll work out a way to transfer the research assistantship to you. Delilah, don’t you want this?” A pause. Then, Delilah murmured, “You’re the only one who truly cares about me, Kevin.” I almost laughed out loud. They truly were made for each other—one malicious, the other entirely spineless. Grace looked ready to charge through the door, but I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the hallway. “Did you hear that?” she hissed once we were out of earshot. “He’s going to delete our repository!” I nodded. “I heard.” “So what do we do? Change the passwords right now?” I looked back at the heavy wooden door of the printing room. “No. Let him do it.” Grace stared at me like I had lost my mind. “Are you crazy?” “If he doesn’t do it,” I said softly, “how can we ensure he gets caught?” Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification from my cloud dashboard popped up: Multi-factor authentication bypass detected. Server monitoring active. I looked at the screen and smiled. “He’s taking the bait. Now, we let him play his hand.”

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For three years, I’ve been styling wigs and doing makeup for my friends on the cheap. Everyone was always thrilled. Until this fresh-out-of-college girl showed up: “Are you guys insane? Two hundred bucks for a full styling? You can get that on Depop for a hundred and fifty, easy. Have you seriously let yourselves get ripped off like this for three years?” She added a hand-over-mouth laughing emoji. “Just give me a hundred and fifty each, and I’ll handle your cosplay styling from now on~ I just graduated, so I’m not in it for the money. I just want to make friends.” I stared at my screen and let out a long, quiet breath. She had no idea. I’d been ready to stop bleeding money for these girls for a very long time. 1. It was the final week of prep before LuminaCon, and the group chat was blowing up. The messages were from Hailey, the group admin’s shiny new friend. She’d been dragged into the chat last month, and her feed was nothing but polished con selfies and heavily edited close-ups. Right then, I was at my workbench, struggling with a gravity-defying wig for Fiona. It was a complex design, and I had already poured three days of meticulous work into it. “Hey Queena~” Hailey’s text popped up. “I was just looking over the budget for the Aether Crest lineup. Over two hundred for hair and makeup? Is my math off, or is there… something else going on here?” She added a smug little emoji. I assumed she thought I wasn’t charging enough. I started typing to explain that since we were all close friends, I didn’t mind cutting my rates to the bone. But then she followed up: “You can get this for a hundred and fifty on Depop, max. Even professional studios only charge a hundred and eighty for bulk orders. Queena, aren’t you a little embarrassed charging us that kind of markup?” “We’re supposed to be friends. Charging us tourist prices… feels a little off, doesn’t it?” She capped it off with a whimpering cat emoji. My fingers froze over the keyboard. Christine, our group admin, was the first to chime in. “Omg, Hailey, you’re so good at saving money! I never even noticed, haha. Guess we’ve been overpaying this whole time.” Then Christine’s inner circle started piling on. “Yeah, when I did the group cosplay with the other crew, we only paid like a hundred and seventy.” “Queena’s work is great, so it makes sense she charges more… but honestly, if we can save money, that’d be amazing.” Two people tried to defend me, but Hailey quickly drowned them out. “Oh, I’m not saying she’s bad at it!” she replied with an innocent wink. “But we’re doing this for fun, right? It’s not a commercial gig. Do we really need high-end studio standards? Think of the cash we’d save for new outfits!” “Tell you what, let me handle it this time. I’ll only charge a hundred and fifty per person. I don’t need to make a profit; I just want to help my girls out.” The chat went quiet for a moment. Then Christine, of course, broke the silence. “Yes, please! Hailey, you are a lifesaver! Queena, looks like we won’t be needing you for this run.” The rest of the dominoes fell instantly. “Me too! Count me in!” “Hailey, you’re literally an angel!” “Yeah, I’ll switch to Hailey too. It’s so much cheaper.” “Queena, we’ll catch you next time, okay? Promise!” I stared at the screen, watching the neat line of betrayals stack up. It felt like a slow, deliberate twist of a knife. “Sure,” I replied. Just two letters. Honestly, it was fine. I was exhausted from subsidizing their hobbies anyway. Three years ago, when I first got into cosplay, I taught myself makeup and wig-styling just to save some cash. They saw how good I got and begged me to style them. Back then, they were using thirty-dollar synthetic wigs off Amazon that reflected light so badly the photographers wanted to cry, and their makeup was patchy at best. I was the one who spent nights detangling, ventilating, cutting, and styling. For three years, I lost count of the all-nighters I pulled. My fingers were scarred from hot glue, my cervical spine was shot, and my prescription had jumped by two diopters. Two hundred dollars barely covered the baseline cost of high-grade materials. Not only was I donating my labor, but I was also paying out of pocket to upgrade their supplies. If they went to a real professional who did custom wigs, makeup, and prop coordination like I did, they’d be looking at a starting rate of a thousand dollars, booked months in advance, excluding materials. But I wasn’t going to argue in the group chat. Even if I told them I was losing money, they’d just say, “Well, you chose to do that. No one forced you.” Explaining myself in that chat would feel like laying my dignity on a table just to watch them pick it apart. I stayed quiet. Then Christine slipped into my DMs. “Hey Queena, Hailey’s just blunt, don’t take it personally. But we’re not made of money, you know? Maybe you could recalculate your costs? If you can beat her price, we’d love to stick with you.” “After all, we trust your work~” I almost laughed. Pressuring me to lower my prices while trying to make it sound like a favor. Why should I care who they went with? I had plenty of paying clients. “No, thanks,” I wrote back, keeping it simple. She immediately went back to the group chat and tagged me: “Hey everyone, Queena’s going to hand over the materials to Hailey, so Hailey will be taking over the styling for this con!~” “Also, Queena, we’re actually at capacity for the Sovereign Five group now, so maybe sit this one out? It’s just easier to coordinate with Hailey in the lineup.” The Sovereign Five was a fixed group of five characters. I was supposed to play one of them. But I didn’t fight for my spot. I just typed: “Got it.” 2. The group chat erupted in celebration. “Christine, you’re the best!” “A hundred and fifty for everything? Hailey, I’m literally obsessed with you! You’re an angel!” “Hailey is a goddess!” … My phone buzzed with a private message from Prima. “Queena, are you okay?” I didn’t reply. I locked my phone and set it face down. On my workbench, Fiona’s gravity-defying white wig sat half-finished. Good. I didn’t have to finish it now. I stared at the headpiece for a long time. Then I picked up my needle-nose pliers and slowly, methodically, tore it apart. I salvaged the materials. I had other projects to focus on. That night, I wrapped up work three hours earlier than usual. I was just about to crawl into bed when my screen lit up again. It was Hailey. “Hey Queena, I hope you’re not mad at me for taking over the gig? It’s nothing personal, honestly. I just don’t think friends should take advantage of friends.” “By the way, could you send over the contact info for your material supplier? Just wanted to compare prices~” I was speechless. She calls me a scammer, and then has the nerve to ask for my sources. I started typing a furious response, but my thumb hovered over the send button. Then I deleted it. Not worth the energy. I sent her the links to a few of my regular wholesale suppliers. A few minutes later, she came back crawling into my inbox: “??? These are insanely expensive!” “Are you trying to sabotage me?” “If I buy from these places, the raw materials alone will cost five hundred per person. You didn’t pay anywhere near that when you did it!” Exactly. Because for three years, I had been quietly subsidizing them. I should probably thank her. She’d just saved me from throwing any more of my own money down that drain. I opened my professional app, and saw a message from Maeve. Maeve was one of the premier wig fiber suppliers in the country. Her high-end custom hairpieces were so sought after that people booked her a month in advance just to get on her waiting list. I called her directly. “A girl reached out to me today,” Maeve said, her voice crackling over the line. “From the way she talked, I’m guessing she’s from your old circle?” I rolled onto my side. “Yeah. I’m done doing their styling. She’s their new girl.” The line went quiet for a beat. “I figured. I didn’t give her a discount. Did you want me to?” “No.” Maeve was a veteran in the scene; she didn’t need me to spell it out. “When outsiders want my materials, I mark them up three times over and still turn them down,” Maeve scoffed. “Those kids have been spoon-fed luxury by you for years, and now they’re turning up their noses?” “Maeve,” I interrupted gently. “It’s fine. I have more commissions than I can handle anyway.” My skills had only sharpened over the last three years. “Fair enough. I can’t wait to see what their cosplays look like this time without you.” After we hung up, the bedroom was incredibly quiet. I opened my personal social media account and scrolled back to my very first posts from three years ago. Every single shoot was a carefully preserved memory. The first group photo: seven of us. Christine was right in the center. I had stayed up for two straight nights styling her wig, and I’d crafted her hairpins piece by piece from shrink-plastic. The comments were flooded with people calling her the perfect fantasy heroine. The second photo: Phoebe as the celestial general. I had carved her armor plate by plate from EVA foam, spray-painting it until four in the morning. The third, the fourth… I went through them all, then closed the app. I opened a different platform. On TikTok, I had a creator account I’d never shared with any of them. The username at the top of the profile read: Sweetbriar & Snow. Three hundred thousand followers. Everyone in the local scene knew Sweetbriar & Snow was a master wigmaker and stylist, but no one in my immediate circle knew it was me. I switched to my main account and messaged another local cosplay group: “Hey, about the styling we discussed—I have an opening now. Are you still looking for someone?” Within seconds, three exclamation points popped up. “Omg, the master replied! Yes, yes, yes! We’d be honored!!!” A small smile touched my lips. I couldn’t wait to see what happened when our two groups crossed paths at the con. 3. Hailey began posting feverishly in the group chat, practically humming with chaotic energy. “Look at this wig, guys! Only forty bucks! I spent hours comparing shops to find this deal. Such a steal!” “And the outfits are pre-made, so I don’t have to waste time sewing. I’m not like some people who insist on doing everything by hand. It’s such a waste of time and money.” At first, the girls cheered her on, but as the updates kept rolling in, the enthusiasm began to curdle. Eventually, someone started a separate group chat—excluding Hailey and Christine—and added me. “I’ve bought from that shop before,” one of the girls wrote. “The color is always completely off. Are we sure Hailey knows what she’s doing?” “Oh god, I just looked up the wig shop. The reviews are terrible. Someone said the fibers started shedding the second they put it on…” I watched the chat silently, offering nothing. Every time Hailey boasted about a new purchase in the main chat, the secret chat tore it to shreds. Finally, Prima tagged me. “Queena, what do you think? Are these materials actually legit?” I took a slow sip of my coffee. “No idea. Never used them.” It wasn’t a lie. I had never touched that cheap trash. Prima DM’d me privately. “Queena, maybe you should talk to Christine again? You get what you pay for, and honestly, your prices were incredibly fair.” “No,” I replied instantly. “I’m not interested in chasing after people who threw me out.” It was harsh, but it was the truth. We’d been friends for years, and they knew what professional stylists charged. The fact that Christine had sided with Hailey so quickly proved she didn’t value me. Prima sent back an ellipsis. By that evening, Hailey proudly announced that all the materials had arrived. The total came to just under a hundred dollars. “I’ll take the extra fifty as a small labor fee, even though I’m practically doing this for free,” she sent, followed by a grinning emoji. “After all, I put a lot of heart into this!” Then, she slipped into my DMs. “Hey Queena, now that I’m doing the math, I see how much of a markup you were charging~ Keeping half the budget as profit? No wonder you could afford such nice things.” I ignored her. She pushed harder. “Don’t say we’re leaving you out! What are you going as this time? Want me to do your hair and makeup? I’ll give you the friend discount—only a hundred and fifty!~” Still, I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened a blank document and began drafting a comprehensive guide on wig fibers and prop materials, analyzing products at every price point from high-end to budget-bin. I spent forty minutes writing, filling it with raw, undeniable facts. I’d post it after the convention. I shut my laptop and lay down in bed. My phone chimed. “Hey! The con is in four days. Do you have time tomorrow to check out our outfits and props?” It was the cosplayer I’d messaged, who went by Hazel. There were seven of them in total, planning to debut characters from the new Aetheria expansion. They had a massive following—even their smallest account had over a hundred thousand followers. “Tomorrow afternoon works for me,” I replied. “Oh my god, thank you so much!” Hazel shot back. “I can’t believe you were free! Their loss is definitely our gain, haha.” I stared at her message for a long beat. “I had a booking,” I wrote. “They bailed on me.” “What the hell? Do they have any idea what they just gave up?!” I smiled faintly. I didn’t know what they had given up. But I knew what I had given up: three years of a one-sided friendship. 4. Three days before LuminaCon, Hailey’s orders started arriving. She hosted an unboxing livestream in the group chat, uploading a dozen videos back-to-back. The first video showed the wigs. They were cheap, forty-dollar Amazon specials. The synthetic fibers glinted under the fluorescent light with a harsh, plastic sheen, and the ends were already tangling into a frizzy mess. “Aren’t they gorgeous?~” Hailey gushed in the voiceover. “This shine is going to look so good on camera!” The chat fell dead silent. Finally, Prima spoke up. “…Is it just me, or is that fiber going to reflect the camera flash like crazy?” Hailey fired back instantly. “That’s what Photoshop is for! No one posts raw photos anyway!” I didn’t say anything, but I knew better. No amount of editing could fix that. The cheap plastic shine would bleed through any filter, making a quick touch-up impossible. The editor would have to manually brush out the glare frame by frame. For seven people, it would be an absolute nightmare. But it wasn’t my problem anymore. Hailey’s second video showed the makeup. A pile of cheap palettes from brands I’d never even heard of. She swatched a concealer on the back of her hand to show it off, but the formula was so dry it cracked as it spread, catching the light in ugly creases. “Full makeup kits! The color selection is way bigger than what Queena used to bring. And it’s incredibly cheap!” Sure, the palettes had plenty of colors, but the quality compared to my professional-grade kits was laughable. I used to custom-blend foundation shades for each of them to match their skin tones and types. I kept my mouth shut. In the secret chat, the girls were spiraling. “Oh my god, look at the ends of those wigs. It looks like spider legs.” “Who is actually going to let her put that cheap makeup on their face? My skin is going to break out.” Prima ventured into the main chat, keeping her tone cautious. “My skin is really sensitive and prone to breakouts. Are we sure about these brands?” “Aren’t you a little high-maintenance?” Hailey replied with a rolling-eye emoji. “It’s just makeup. The ingredients are all the same; you’re just paying for the brand name. Someone’s been spoiling you guys too much.” A passive-aggressive dig aimed right at me. I remembered the first time I did Prima’s makeup. Her skin was incredibly sensitive, covered in acne scars, and easily irritated. I spent weeks testing seven different professional foundations on her skin before finding one that didn’t trigger a reaction. I had bought those products specifically for her. And how had Prima repaid me? Sure, she’d checked in on me privately. She’d made the secret group chat to make me feel included. But when it mattered, none of them had stood up to Christine for me. So, I washed my hands of it. The night before the con, Hailey posted the schedule: Everyone meet at 7:00 AM sharp. I’ll do everyone’s hair and makeup. I’m handing out the wigs tonight, so adjust them yourselves. Seven people. The con started at nine. She was starting at seven. Subtracting travel time, that gave her less than twenty minutes per person. I didn’t have time to worry about their train wreck. I was out the door by 3:00 AM to style Hazel’s group, spending at least forty minutes on each person. By the time I finished Hazel’s entire crew, my feet were throbbing. I finally sat down and unlocked my phone. Christine had posted a heavily filtered photo in the chat. “Looks gorgeous! Hailey, you have such a great eye, and this was so cheap!” Hailey tagged me in the main chat. “How’s it look, Queena? Not bad, right?” At the exact same moment, the secret chat exploded with notifications. My screen lit up with panicked texts. “Queena, help!”

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The moment HR sent out the email about our upcoming department retreat, Hailey practically flew into my office. She leaned over my desk, her face glowing with a self-satisfied warmth, and told me we didn’t need to worry about the lodging budget anymore. “Rachel, seriously, don’t worry about booking hotel rooms,” she said, her voice bright and eager. “Let’s just use my house. It’s a private estate up in the hills. There’s more than enough room for the entire department to stay over.” I figured saving the company some money was a win-win, so I agreed without a second thought. But the moment she got back to her desk, she started spamming our team group chat with videos of the property. I tapped on one of the clips absentmindedly. As the camera panned across the spacious living room, my breath caught. Hanging prominently on the wall was a massive, custom-commissioned abstract expressionist canvas. It was the wedding gift Elliot had given me. I had fallen in love with it instantly, which was why it had hung in the living room of our suburban estate since the day we got married. Eventually, I grew tired of the grueling daily commute and moved into a penthouse closer to the city center. We hadn’t been back to the estate in months. In the group chat, notifications were rolling in at lightning speed. Everyone was fawning over Hailey, calling her a wealthy heiress. Hailey replied with breezy modesty, mentioning how massive the backyard was and telling everyone to bring barbecue gear and beer. Saturday at two o’clock, she wrote. See you there! That night, I sat alone in my dark study and pulled up Elliot’s bank statements. It took me less than an hour to piece together the truth. They had been sleeping together for months. I quietly downloaded the files, saved the evidence, and said absolutely nothing. On Saturday afternoon, the team arrived at the estate in high spirits, laughing and chatting as they walked up the driveway. But when Hailey stepped up to the front door to type in the passcode, her smile completely vanished. 1 The day after the retreat was announced, Hailey became the undisputed star of our department. During lunch, she strolled over to my desk carrying an iced latte. She sat across from me, her posture radiating a subtle, practiced boastfulness. “Rachel, I just checked the forecast,” she said, holding up her phone to show me photos of the estate’s backyard. “Saturday is going to be beautiful. Perfect weather for a barbecue on the lawn.” She swiped through the images, showcasing the lush greenery. “Look at the grass. My boyfriend just hired a landscaping crew to trim it last week, and he had the frame of the customized swing reinforced. I even bought some outdoor string lights to hang up. It’s going to look so dreamy at night.” I stared at the screen, my expression blank. Elliot had built that swing with his own hands during our first year of marriage. “That swing is beautiful,” I murmured, keeping my tone carefully conversational. Hailey blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before quickly recovering her dazzling smile. “Oh, that? It came with the house when we bought it. The realtor said the previous owner left it behind. I thought it was cute, so I kept it.” She raised her voice slightly, ensuring her words carried across the quiet office. “Honestly, Rachel, the whole interior design is a bit much. It’s totally the previous owner’s taste, and I’m already planning a complete remodel. Like, look at that abstract painting in the living room. It’s so cold and clinical. Who even hangs art like that in their home anymore?” She sighed dramatically. “My boyfriend bought me some limited-edition designer sculptures from Europe. I’m planning on putting those in the living room instead…” My fingers tightened around my coffee mug. A hundred-thousand-dollar piece of fine art, and she thought it was clinical. I stayed silent. Hailey’s eyes darted over my face, searching for a reaction, before she asked, “Rachel, don’t you think my boyfriend treats me incredibly well?” I lowered my gaze, letting a faint, polite smile touch my lips. “He certainly does. You should hold onto him tightly.” Hailey’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. But she was a professional at keeping up appearances. When she looked up again, her expression was sweeter than ever. “Oh, I will. He loves me so much, he’d never let me go.” I didn’t offer a reply. She turned away, gliding over to a group of colleagues to show off more photos. Daisy, one of our junior analysts, let out a soft gasp. “Wait, this place has three floors? Hailey, how much did this cost?” Hailey pouted playfully. “Honestly, I have no idea. My boyfriend bought it for me.” Daisy’s eyes widened. “He bought it for you? Is your name on the deed?” Hailey hesitated for a heartbeat, her tone dripping with casual indifference. “Of course it is.” For the rest of the day, the office was buzzing with gossip about Hailey’s mysterious, ultra-wealthy boyfriend. Before leaving for the day, I opened my phone. Elliot’s contact thread had been buried beneath a mountain of unread work messages. His last three texts to me read: Working late tonight. Don’t wait up. Leaving for a business trip. Back Wednesday. I’ll be at the office through the weekend to hit this project deadline. As it turned out, he wasn’t drowning in work. He was simply drowning in her, too exhausted to split his life between us anymore. The screen dimmed to black. I wanted to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat. Just last week, Elliot had made time to accompany me to my family’s estate to visit my parents and grandmother. He had played the part of the devoted, perfect son-in-law to a t. I had never realized what a master of time management my husband was. Career, marriage, and an affair—all balanced with clinical precision. When I got home, the penthouse was empty. I walked through the quiet rooms, finally noticing the subtle details I had overlooked before. Elliot’s closet was noticeably emptier. Several of his favorite suits were gone, along with the luxury watches he wore most frequently. I closed the closet door, walked over to the bed, and pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Deep beneath a stack of financial documents lay our marriage certificate, bound in its smooth red cover. I opened it. In the photo, we were both wearing simple white shirts, our heads tilted toward each other. I was leaning against his shoulder, laughing without a care in the world. I stared at our younger, happier faces until my phone buzzed, shattering the silence. It was a text from Elliot. Stuck at a client dinner tonight. Get some rest, babe. Don’t wait up. I stared at the words for a long time, then locked my phone without replying. When we first built this company, we had kept our relationship strictly private to avoid conflicts of interest and streamline our investments. Only a few founding board members knew we were married. Once the company stabilized, we both threw ourselves into our respective divisions. Neither of us felt the need to make loud, public declarations of ownership like insecure teenagers. I never could have imagined that my discretion would give him the courage to keep a mistress right under my nose. Another notification vibrated against my palm, breaking my train of thought. It was a message from Daisy. Hey Rachel, are you coming to the retreat on Saturday? Hailey keeps bragging about how gorgeous her estate is. The whole department is going! A cold, sharp smile spread across my face. I typed out a quick response. Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. After sending the text, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name of the estate’s property manager. 2 The estate was part of an exclusive gated community where every homeowner was assigned a dedicated manager. I messaged him directly, asking who had been staying at the property recently. Good evening, Mrs. George, the manager replied almost instantly. Your husband informed us four months ago that he was lending the estate to a relative for a short period and told us to suspend our regular interior cleaning services. Would you like us to schedule a lawn maintenance session before the weekend? Four months. They had been together before Hailey even passed her initial interview at my company. I paused, then typed back: No need, thank you. I do have one question: if I wanted to change the entry passcodes for the estate, can that only be done by the primary owner? Yes, Mrs. George. The smart-lock system is tied to the deed. Passcode overrides require the registered owner’s physical ID verification. No one else has authorization to change it. I had all the information I needed. I set my phone down. The next afternoon, a small crowd had gathered around Hailey’s desk during the post-lunch lull. Daisy was leaning in, her eyes fixed on Hailey’s hand. “Oh my gosh, Hailey, is that the ring your boyfriend got you? That gemstone is huge! What is it?” Hailey raised her hand, tilting her fingers so the stone caught the harsh fluorescent office lights. “He bought it at an estate auction in Europe,” she said, her voice dripping with casual luxury. “He mentioned something about it belonging to a royal family once.” “A royal family?” “Yeah, some minor European royalty. I don’t really know much about that stuff.” Daisy’s jaw dropped. “How much did it cost?” Hailey looked down at the ring, pretending to search her memory for a trivial detail. “A few hundred thousand, I think. I didn’t really ask. Honestly, I told him it was unnecessary, but he insisted. He said only the best suited me. Since it was a gift from the heart, I couldn’t really say no.” The surrounding colleagues looked stunned. Someone asked what her boyfriend looked like, but Hailey lowered her voice, wrapping her reply in a layer of mystery. “He’s incredibly successful. If I showed you a picture, you’d definitely recognize his name.” The group pressed her for details. “Oh come on, tell us! Which local titan is he?” But Hailey remained tight-lipped, enjoying the suspense. That was when Martha, one of our senior accountants, looked up from her spreadsheet. “Well, Hailey, if he’s such a big deal, why does he have to stay in the shadows?” The office went dead silent. The underlying implication of Martha’s words hung heavily in the air, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Hailey remained calm. She adjusted the ring on her finger, met Martha’s gaze, and spoke in a sweet, chilly tone. “What a strange thing to say, Martha. He bought me a ring. A wedding can’t be far off. You’ll definitely be on the guest list.” Martha offered a polite, empty smile and went back to her work. A junior intern quietly backed away from the desk, but Hailey grabbed her arm. “You have to come too, sweetie. I’ll make sure you get a prime table.” The intern nodded awkwardly and scurried back to her station. Not long after, Hailey started making calls at her desk. She didn’t bother lowering her voice. “Are you coming over tonight? I bought some new lingerie…” She paused, giggling softly into the receiver. “Guess what color… No, you have to guess.” Her voice was high-pitched and dripping with honey. I walked past her desk just as she hung up. She looked up at me, her smile bright and dripping with mock concern. “Rachel, you look a little exhausted today. Didn’t sleep well?” She paused, her eyes searching mine. “Your husband isn’t keeping you company lately?” I walked past her without breaking stride. “He’s been busy with a major project. Traveling a lot.” She let out a long, knowing sigh. “Ah, I see…” A few minutes later, Daisy sent me a private message. Rachel, is it just me, or does Hailey have a really weird attitude toward you? I stared at the screen and smiled. It seemed the little fox was getting tired of hiding her tail. 3 When the clock struck five on Friday, Hailey stood up and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s head to the gourmet market to get everything for tomorrow’s barbecue! Grab whatever you want—steaks, wine, imported beer. It’s all on my boyfriend’s tab.” A few of the younger employees cheered and grabbed their coats. The rest of her usual circle quickly followed. I remained at my desk, reviewing a quarterly report. As Hailey walked past my office door, she slowed down. “Aren’t you coming, Rachel?” “You guys go ahead. I have plans.” She smiled, turning to catch up with the group. As they walked down the hallway, their voices drifted back to me. “Hailey, what’s the limit on your boyfriend’s card anyway?” “I don’t know. I’ve never managed to max it out.” The elevator doors chimed, and their laughter faded. I set my pen down and leaned back in my chair, looking out over the empty office. Martha walked past my door with her mug, glancing toward the exit. “Going grocery shopping like she’s planning a royal banquet,” she muttered. I laughed. It was a fitting description. Hailey had chosen an ultra-exclusive, membership-only gourmet market. She pushed the oversized cart, leading her entourage through the aisles. One of the girls held her arm. “Hailey, you’re officially my favorite person. I am never letting you go.” Hailey giggled, stopping in front of the imported dry-aged beef section. She tossed a hundred-dollar ribeye steak into the cart without looking at the price. Daisy tried to gently intervene. “Hailey, that’s probably enough. We don’t want to waste food.” Hailey turned, her expression perfectly earnest. “It’s fine if there are leftovers, Daisy, but running out is embarrassing. My boyfriend specifically told me to make sure everyone is fully taken care of.” She added several more prime cuts, filling half the cart with meat. Next came the imported microbrews, fancy sodas, artisanal snacks, and premium disposable tableware. Soon, they had filled three entire shopping carts. At the checkout, it took two cashiers ten minutes to scan everything. The grand total came to $5,400. Hailey pulled a sleek, heavy card from her designer handbag, holding it between two manicured fingers, and handed it to the cashier. The colleagues erupted into cheers. “You are the absolute best, Hailey!” “Seriously, where do you find a boyfriend like that?” The intern was recording the whole thing on her phone. “Hailey, I’m posting this on my story right now!” Hailey smiled warmly. “Oh, please. This is nothing. As long as everyone has a great time tomorrow, that’s all that matters.” At that exact moment, I was standing in the adjacent aisle of the same high-end market, helping my pregnant best friend, Diana, pick out organic baby supplies. The commotion at the registers caught Diana’s attention. She turned, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto the checkout counter. She froze, her fingers digging into my forearm. “Rachel.” She was staring intently at the card in Hailey’s hand. “Is that… is that Elliot’s Amex Centurion card?” I stared at the black card. It was identical to the one in my own wallet. Before I could say a word, Diana turned to me, her face flushed with fury. “What the hell is going on? Elliot is keeping an intern? Is he out of his mind? Did he completely forget how hard he had to fight just to get you to look at him?” Seeing how upset she was, I quickly rubbed her arm to calm her down. “Don’t let your blood pressure spike, Diana. I’ve known for a while.” Diana gasped, staring at me in disbelief. “You knew?!” Over at the registers, Hailey was directing the male colleagues to load the heavy grocery bags into their cars. I watched her figure disappear through the sliding glass doors before turning back to Diana. My voice was entirely steady. “Let her spend. Every dollar she charges to that card is marital property. She’ll have to return every single cent of it. I don’t care about the money, Diana. I care about the paper trail.” Diana stared at me for a long time. She had always been hot-tempered, and pregnancy had only amplified her emotions. Her eyes welled with tears of frustration. “Have you already decided what you’re going to do?” I nodded slowly. She didn’t push for details, but she spent the entire drive home cursing Elliot’s name. There was one thing I hadn’t told her. Elliot’s affair with Hailey had started long before she ever set foot in our office. Bringing her into my department was his way of testing my boundaries, seeing how much he could get away with. Unsurprisingly, Elliot didn’t come home that night either. But my heart had already turned cold. I felt absolutely nothing. 4 Saturday afternoon, the sun was bright and unforgiving. A caravan of cars carrying over twenty employees from our department pulled up to the security gates of the exclusive residential community. Hailey was leading the pack. She marched up to the pedestrian gate, but before she could step through, a security guard stepped out and stopped her. “Afternoon, ma’am. Are you a resident?” Hailey straightened her spine, chin tilting upward. “Yes. I live at number eighty-eight.” The guard nodded politely, pointing to a sleek digital console beside the gate. “We require facial recognition for guest access. Please look into the camera to verify your registration.” She stepped up to the device, aligning her face with the scanner. The system let out a series of sharp, red-light warning beeps. A message flashed on the screen: Access Denied. Unregistered User. The air grew instantly still. Behind her, someone whispered, “What’s going on? Isn’t this her place?” “Yeah, didn’t she say her name was on the deed?” Hailey’s composure cracked for a split second before she forced a bright smile, turning to the guard. “Oh, my husband bought this house for me. He’s been incredibly busy lately and hasn’t had a chance to register my profile with the HOA yet. The system probably hasn’t updated.” The guard looked at her, then glanced at the large crowd of office workers standing behind her. His tone remained firm. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we cannot grant access to guests without direct authorization from the registered homeowner. Perhaps you could call your husband to clear this up?” The group began whispering among themselves. Hailey bit her lip, pulling out her phone to make a call. The first call went unanswered. On her third attempt, the call finally connected. “The security gate won’t let us in,” she said, her voice tight and hurried. “The facial recognition didn’t work… You need to authorize this right now. My entire department is standing out here waiting…” She listened to the response, muttered a quick confirmation, and hung up. She stood in place for a moment, her knuckles white around her phone. Two minutes later, the security guard stepped out, saluting her politely. “Thank you for your patience, ma’am. You’re cleared to enter.” Hailey let out a visible breath of relief, turning back to the crowd with her signature sweet smile. “High-end neighborhoods are always so strict with security. Let’s go.” The tension evaporated, and the chatter started up again. “This place is absolutely gorgeous. Hailey, your boyfriend must be incredibly wealthy.” Daisy chimed in, “Seriously! That guard had me worried for a second. I thought we wouldn’t make it in.” Another colleague added, “With this level of security, you must feel so safe living here.” The compliments washed over Hailey, restoring her confidence. She walked in the center of the crowd, basking in their admiration. Daisy jogged up to her side. “Hailey, when you guys get married, are you going to have the wedding here?” Hailey offered her a sweet, patronizing look. “Oh, this place is too small for a wedding. We’ll probably do a destination wedding on a private island. I’ll make sure to cover everyone’s flights and lodging.” The younger staff squealed with excitement, and the mood was even rowdier than when we had first set out. Number eighty-eight sat at the very end of the cul-de-sac, a massive, modern estate surrounded by manicured hedges. Becca, the intern, peered through the iron gates, gasping. “Hailey, your home is stunning!” Hailey smiled, walking up to the front door’s digital keypad. She typed in the passcode. The screen flashed red. Incorrect Passcode. She blinked, cleared the screen, and tried again. Still incorrect. “I must have made a typo,” Hailey said, her voice dropping an octave. She stared intently at the screen and carefully pressed the buttons a third time, much slower than before. The lock didn’t budge. Daisy leaned in, whispering, “Did he change the passcode?” Hailey bit her lower lip, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. “No… he wouldn’t do that without telling me…” She dialed Elliot’s number again. This time, he picked up immediately. “Babe, why isn’t the passcode working? I’ve tried three times and the door is locked…” She listened to his reply. Slowly, the color drained from Hailey’s face. Her hand began to tremble, and her voice cracked with unshed tears. “How could you not know? What do you mean? This is my home, why can’t I get inside?” The whispers among the colleagues were growing louder and more frantic. I quietly walked through the crowd, stepping past the murmuring onlookers until I reached the front of the line. “That’s because,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise, “this house doesn’t belong to you.”

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At two in the morning, I was sitting in the back of a squad car, finishing my statement. The female officer handed me a tissue. “It’s late. Do you want to call your husband to come get you?” I pressed the tissue against the drying blood on my neck. “He won’t pick up. He’s a heavy sleeper.” Just seconds ago, a notification had popped up on my phone. It was an Instagram Story from my husband. The photo was a shot of a dimly lit porch light at Alyssa’s apartment complex. The caption read: Late-night escort duty, number sixty-one. Goodnight. Meanwhile, I had just narrowly escaped a mugging in a blind alleyway with no security cameras. The knife scrape on my neck was still weeping blood. Before I left work, I had texted him. I told him the streetlights were out on my block and that someone had been following me. We had been married for four years. He had driven over to pick up Alyssa—who was “afraid of the dark”—sixty-one times. He hadn’t come to pick me up once. For over four hundred days, I had worked late. I had walked down countless unlit streets with my keys threaded through my fingers and a canister of pepper spray heavy in my pocket, entirely alone. After finishing the paperwork, I stood on the steps of the police precinct. The avenue was completely hollowed out. In the biting, bone-deep wind, it was just me. I let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. I should have realized long ago that you can never wake a man who is only pretending to be asleep. My work visa for the London transfer had already been approved. The divorce papers were already drawn up. Tonight was the absolute last time I would ever ask him to save me. … 1 At 3:12 AM, I turned my key in the lock. The living room lights were blazing. By the entryway, Gary’s leather loafers were kicked off haphazardly, the leather still carrying the damp sheen of night dew. The air was thick with a cloying, sickly-sweet perfume. Alyssa’s signature scent. He was sitting on the sofa, clipping his nails. He didn’t even look up when the door clicked shut. “Working late again?” I stood frozen in the entryway. He had completely ignored the SOS texts I sent him. My scarf hid the wound on my neck. The bleeding had stopped, but the superficial slice across my skin throbbed with a hot, rhythmic sting. The harsh, clinical smell of antiseptic from the precinct still clung to the inside of my nose. “Yeah. Working late.” He stood up, tossing his balled-up socks onto the sofa cushions, and stretched out a yawn as he headed for the master bedroom. “I’m crashing. Early meeting tomorrow.” “Are you driving Alyssa tomorrow, too?” I heard my own voice ask. His footsteps faltered. He glanced back over his shoulder. “She lives alone, Emma. She gets spooked. It’s on my way, anyway. Don’t make a thing out of it.” On his way. His corporate park was in the North Suburbs. Alyssa’s apartment was deep in the South Side. It was practically a different time zone, let alone on the way. “What happened to your neck?” His eyes had finally snagged on the edge of the bandage peeking out from beneath my wool scarf. “Paper cut,” I said. “Huh. Be careful.” He stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. A second later, I heard the heavy, metallic click of the deadbolt sliding into place. Four years of marriage, and we hadn’t shared a bed in months. His excuse was that my snoring kept him awake. But I remembered our first two years. Back then, he snored so loud the windows rattled, and no amount of shoving would wake him. I used to tease him about it, and he would just pull me closer and say, I can’t sleep unless I hear you breathing. Guess my wife will just have to suffer. When did it change? Probably around the time someone else moved into his headspace. I walked into the guest room and closed the door quietly behind me. My suitcase was already tucked into the darkest corner of the closet. Inside were my passport, my resignation letter, and the freshly printed divorce agreement. I had only made one stipulation: A fifty-fifty split of marital assets. No further disputes. I didn’t even mention the diamond pendant he bought for Alyssa last month, or the four thousand dollars he had quietly transferred out of our joint savings account. I was tired. A soul-deep, bone-crushing kind of tired. I sat on the edge of the guest bed. This room was supposed to be the nursery. First, he said we needed to buy a house before having kids. Once we bought the house, he said we needed to wait until he made director. Then, he said we should wait until Alyssa found her footing and “settled down” after her messy breakup. But Alyssa’s footing, it seemed, was perpetually slipping. My phone buzzed against my thigh. It was a text from Becca, a girl on my team: Hey, did you make it home okay? That creep following you was terrifying. Should I call the cops tomorrow and get the building’s security footage? I typed back: I’m home. I’m okay. Don’t worry about the cops. Well, at least tell your husband about it so he can drive you to and from work for a while. I stared at that glowing bubble for a long, quiet minute. Then I typed: No need. Before locking the screen, I opened Instagram one last time. Under his Late-night escort duty, number sixty-one post, our mutual friends had already left a dozen comments. Husband of the year. Emma is so lucky. Is that Emma you’re walking to the door? Gary had replied to that last one: Just an old friend. Don’t start rumors. Just an old friend. He probably didn’t even realize that the angle he used to photograph Alyssa’s porch light was the exact same angle he used to take the very first photo he ever took of me. We had just started dating. He walked me back to my college dorm, stopped me under the amber glow of the streetlamp, whispered, Don’t move, and snapped the picture. He used that photo as his lock screen for two years. Now, his lock screen was a picture of a succulent Alyssa had bought for his desk. I set the phone down and pulled back the curtains. The city at 4:00 AM was as silent and still as a sprawling graveyard. The cut on my neck flared with pain again. I had told myself earlier that if he just showed up tonight, I would pretend none of this was happening. I stood up, dragged the suitcase out from the closet, and began folding my last few sweaters. Out in the hallway, I heard the toilet flush, the creak of floorboards, and then, silence returned. He would never know that tonight, I almost didn’t make it back to this house. And I didn’t plan on ever telling him. On the divorce papers, I left the “Reason for Dissolution” line completely blank. 2 Early the next morning, a sharp rap on the guest room door woke me. “Emma, I gotta head out early today. Get up and make breakfast, will you?” I opened my eyes. The edge of the bandage had rubbed off against the pillowcase during the night. The slice on my neck was exposed, a dark, bruised red line catching the pale morning light. I reached for my phone. It was 5:30 AM. He never woke up before seven. I didn’t move. He banged on the door twice more, his voice laced with irritation. “Did you hear me? I’m on a schedule here.” I threw on a cardigan and walked out of the room. While I was flipping the last egg in the pan, he yelled from the hallway, “Is it done yet?” By the time I brought the plates out to the island, he was already pulling Tupperware from the cabinets. There wasn’t much food—just some breakfast sausage, eggs, and a sliced cantaloupe. Without hesitating, he scraped all of it into three containers and shoved them into his insulated lunch bag. “You aren’t leaving any for me?” He zipped the bag shut and finally looked up at me. “Don’t you eat bran flakes every morning?” We had bought those flakes a month ago. He refused to eat them, Alyssa refused to eat them when she came over, so they just sat in the back of the pantry. “I don’t want cereal today.” “Then boil some pasta or something. Takes five minutes.” He picked up the bag and dug his car keys out of his pocket with his free hand. As he bent down to tie his shoes, he suddenly paused, sniffing the air. “Do you smell that? Smells medicinal. Like a hospital.” I had reapplied the Betadine to my neck last night. The nurse told me to use it morning and night, and the chemical scent was strong. I offered no explanation. “No.” “Huh.” He stood up. “Alright, I’m taking off. Gotta pick up Alyssa.” “Didn’t you say you had an early meeting?” “That’s why I’m leaving now, beat the rush hour traffic. I’ll drop her off and still make it.” “What about me?” He already had the front door pulled open. He cast a look back at me. “You? You love walking to work. You said it was your cardio.” I had said that. Last winter, I mentioned we should look into getting a second car. He said it was a waste of money. I said, Fine, I’ll walk, I guess I need the exercise anyway. He had smiled and said, Yeah, you could use a little more movement. Since that day, I walked forty minutes to my office in the freezing wind, while he drove forty minutes in the opposite direction to drop Alyssa at her building. “My neck is bothering me. I wanted to ride with you today.” “Then call an Uber! Why are you bothering me with this? I’m not your chauffeur.” The door clicked shut. The distant chime of the elevator arriving, and then, nothing. My neck throbbed. I turned on the hot water in the kitchen sink. The steam rose, blurring my reflection in the window until my face was just an indistinguishable shape in the glass. My phone pinged. A text from Gary. Alyssa’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night. Make those red wine roasted short ribs. She specifically asked for them. I didn’t reply. I dug a fresh bandage out of my purse and pressed it over my skin. Before leaving the apartment, I stopped by the master bedroom. On his nightstand sat a framed photo of him and Alyssa from their college years. She was in a white sundress, his arm draped casually over her bare shoulders, both of them laughing at something out of frame. My phone buzzed again. An email notification: UK Visa – Status: Approved. I booked the earliest flight out. Three days from now. 3 Saturday evening, 5:00 PM. The short ribs were simmering on the stove, the kitchen smelling of rosemary and red wine. “Watch the threshold.” Gary’s voice drifted in from the hallway, carrying a buoyant, boyish lightness I hadn’t heard directed at me in years. “Your doorway is so annoying, I trip over it every time.” Alyssa’s voice was breathy, laced with a practiced, helpless pout. I walked out of the kitchen. Alyssa was bending over to take off her boots. Gary was crouched by the shoe rack, pulling a pair of fluffy pink slippers with bunny ears from the bottom shelf. “Got these for you. You said the soles on the old ones were too thin.” “Gary, you are literally the sweetest.” I looked at the pink slippers, then down at Gary’s feet. He was wearing dark grey slippers with bear ears. The exact same plush material. Matching couple’s slippers. I looked down at my own feet. I was wearing a generic blue pair I had bought on clearance at Target last year. Alyssa looked up and beamed. “Emma! It’s been so long.” “Hi.” “Gary said your short ribs are to die for, so I totally invited myself over.” “It’s the only thing she actually cooks well,” Gary said, taking Alyssa’s coat and hanging it in the closet. “Take a seat, dinner’s almost ready.” The only thing she actually cooks well. I turned around and walked back into the kitchen. Behind me, their laughter echoed against the walls, rolling in waves. Standing in front of the stove, a memory suddenly bubbled up—years ago, Gary and I used to be like that. We could talk about absolutely nothing and make a dinner last two hours. When did the shift happen? Two years ago, during a bitter winter, Alyssa got divorced and moved back to our city. Gary had gotten off the phone with her, his eyes rimmed red. Alyssa’s husband left her. She’s all alone here. It breaks my heart. From that moment on, they had endless things to talk about. And Gary and I ran out of words. “Need a hand, Emma?” Alyssa appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “No, I’m good.” “Let me at least carry the plates.” She reached for the stack of dishes on the counter. Her sleeve slipped down, revealing a delicate gold chain sparkling on her wrist. The four-thousand-dollar transfer. It wasn’t a necklace; it was a bracelet. And foolishly, I had thought it was an early anniversary present for me. “Hey, get out of there, the grease will ruin your clothes,” Gary said, stepping in and gently pulling Alyssa out by the elbow. Funny. He knew women didn’t like smelling like kitchen grease. I forced down the lump in my throat and plated the food. “Oh my god, this smells incredible! Emma, you’re amazing. I burn water when I try to cook.” “She likes doing this stuff,” Gary said, rotating the serving dish so the best cuts of meat were facing Alyssa. “Try it.” Alyssa took a bite and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “So good! Gary, you are so spoiled.” “If you like it, you can come over every night. I’ll have Emma make it for you,” Gary said, his tone entirely casual. Every night. I’ll have Emma make it. No discussion. No asking. He just took my time, my labor, and handed it over to her like a party favor. I held my fork, staring at my plate. I didn’t say a word. “Well, I won’t say no to that,” Alyssa said, tilting her head at me. “You won’t get sick of me, right Emma?” “Emma has the patience of a saint. She’s fine with whatever,” Gary answered for me. I put my fork down and took a slow sip of water. Across the table, they kept talking. About his work, a new sushi place downtown, inside jokes about people from their undergrad years. Laughter washed over the table. I sat across from them, feeling distinctly like a private chef they had hired for the evening. “Oh, right, Emma,” Alyssa said, putting down her napkin, her expression shifting into something resembling concern. “I heard you’ve been working super late lately? It’s really not safe for a woman to walk alone at night. You should have Gary pick you up.” Gary’s chopstick paused mid-air. “She walks for cardio.” “Still, late at night is sketchy,” Alyssa frowned slightly. “Gary, why don’t you swing by Emma’s office first, and then take me home?” “No need,” I said. “See? She says she doesn’t need it,” Gary immediately chimed in, the relief evident in his voice. Alyssa smiled a small, soft smile and let the subject drop. I looked at them. So, she knew the streets weren’t safe at night. She knew exactly what the dynamic was. She knew everything, but she changed nothing. She wanted the moral high ground of offering, while still keeping the prize. After dinner, they retreated to the living room. I stood at the sink, the clatter of dishes masking the sound of her intermittent giggles. “Gary, do you remember junior year when you wiped out on your bike with me on the back?” “How could I forget? You still have that scar on your knee, right?” The faucet rushed loudly. I scrubbed the Dutch oven with a coarse sponge. The sauce had burned into the bottom of the pan, dark and stubborn, refusing to come clean. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was the final HR confirmation from the London office. I looked up. Through the glass panels of the kitchen doors, I saw Gary and Alyssa sitting on the sofa. Their heads were practically touching. Alyssa laughed, and Gary’s face lit up as he laughed with her. I looked down at the screen and typed two words: Offer accepted. 4 Monday morning, I stayed in bed. Gary knocked on the door. “Emma, you still in bed?” I kept my eyes closed. “Mmhmm.” “You feeling sick?” “Yeah.” “Drink some water. I gotta go. Alyssa and I will grab bagels on the way.” I heard his footsteps retreat toward the front door, then pause, and walk back. “By the way, I know today is your birthday. Alyssa said there’s a great new bistro that just opened. We’ll swing by your office and pick you up for dinner tonight.” I stayed silent. Even my birthday dinner was chosen by Alyssa. And she was going to be there. The silence stretched for two seconds outside my door. He was waiting for a Thank you, or an Okay. I gave him nothing. He put his shoes on, grabbed his keys. The door opened and shut in one smooth motion. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The sun was streaming in, bright and golden. It was too beautiful a day for a funeral, which is exactly what this felt like. I got up, taking my time. I fried an egg. After breakfast, I opened the photo album on my phone. Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-one photos. A digital museum of our five years together. I deleted them, one by one. My thumb flying across the screen, a repetitive, merciless motion. It took nearly twenty minutes to erase him completely. Then, I started stripping the apartment. My toothbrush. My towels. My hairbrush. My pajamas. The oversized, fuzzy cardigan he always said looked ugly but I secretly loved. All of it went into heavy-duty trash bags. By 3:00 PM, there was absolutely no physical evidence that I had ever lived in this house. On the glass coffee table, I placed the signed divorce agreement. I pulled the handle up on my suitcase. I didn’t look back. In the back of the Uber, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Gary. A picture of a stuffed plushie—a cartoonish, bug-eyed dog with a big head. The text read: Is this cute? Alyssa picked it out. She says you girls love this kind of stuff. I didn’t reply. In our five years together, he had never once bought me a stuffed animal. Last year, on my birthday, I had lingered a few seconds too long looking at a plush rabbit in a store window. He had pulled my arm and said, Aren’t you a little too old for toys? At 3:40 PM, I arrived at O’Hare. Checked my bag, cleared security. Every step felt mechanical, a protocol executing flawlessly. I didn’t feel like a woman fleeing her life; I felt like a ghost crossing over. At 4:30 PM, I was sitting at the departure gate. My phone lit up again. Alyssa and I are heading out. We’re on our way to your office now. They were calling boarding for my zone. I held the power button and turned the phone off. Outside the massive glass windows, the runway stretched out toward the setting sun, painting the silver wings of the airplanes in a wash of warm gold. It was my birthday. He had brought Alyssa along, used a restaurant she picked, and bought a plushie she chose, delivering one final, thoughtless paper cut on my last day in his life. But it didn’t matter anymore. Happy birthday to me. For every year after this, I would never have to hear someone tell me to “drink some water” when I was bleeding, and I would never have to accept another woman’s leftovers masked as a gift. The plane began to taxi. I leaned my head against the seat, closed my eyes, and felt the corner of my mouth curve upward. Goodbye, Gary.

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My husband, Glenn, always called himself a “low-maintenance, online-only bot.” He claimed a Taurus like him just couldn’t handle the exhausting emotional demands of a water sign like me. To deal with my supposed neediness, he set up an auto-responder on his phone, specifically for my texts. On the day of my mother’s funeral, I messaged him. Glenn, my mom’s service is about to start. How far away are you? A second later, the reply flashed on my screen. Sure. I stared at the screen, a cold weight settling in my chest as I realized I had fallen for his automated machine once again. Yesterday, when I asked if he could make it to the funeral, he replied: Sure. Last month, when a strange man followed me for three blocks after twilight and I begged Glenn to pick me up, he replied: Sure. Last year, a high-profile client who despised me accused me of stealing her designer bracelet. Desperate for help, I called Glenn ninety-nine times and sent ninety-nine messages, begging him to bring the store receipt to prove my innocence. Every single text received the exact same response: Sure. He never showed up. The terror and public humiliation of that night pushed my body past its limit, and I miscarried our baby. He always promised he would change, that he would turn off the automated replies, but he never did. Now, a notification from his childhood sweetheart, Cecilia, popped up on my screen: Hey Fiona, look at this! Glenn’s been sending me the cutest stickers to cheer me up. Did he steal these from your phone? She attached a screenshot of their chat. The contrast was staggering. Two conversations, occurring at the exact same moment, handled with two entirely different souls. I ignored Cecilia’s message. Instead, I opened my chat with Glenn and typed one last message. Let’s get a divorce. I’m moving to Norway. His auto-responder didn’t hesitate: Sure. 1 Staring at that single word, I swallowed the lump in my throat and set up an auto-reply of my own. My phone buzzed relentlessly in my coat pocket, but I didn’t reach for it. I forced myself through the agonizing blur of my mother’s service, only pulling my phone out once the burial was complete and the mourners had dispersed. Okay. Sure. Okay. Sure. The screen was a checkerboard of cold, mechanical acknowledgments. I let out a dry, bitter laugh at my own pettiness. I had actually harbored a tiny, foolish hope that he might open our chat for once and read what I wrote. “Glenn, do you think Buster is happy in doggy heaven?” “Of course he is, Cecilia. Don’t cry. He’s running free now.” The familiar voices drifted through the damp afternoon air. I looked up. A short distance away, Glenn was tenderly wiping tears from Cecilia’s cheeks, his eyes filled with a soft, protective warmth I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. My lungs seized, the breath trapped in my throat. Glenn turned, his eyes catching mine. He froze in surprise, jogging over to me while leaving Cecilia by a fresh mound of earth. “Fiona? What are you doing here? I thought you were at the hospital taking care of your mother.” “Because—” Before I could finish, Cecilia let out a sharp cry of pain. She had tripped on the uneven grass. “Cecilia!” Without a backward glance, Glenn spun around and rushed to her side, his voice thick with panic. “Where does it hurt? Are you okay?” “I’m fine, really… just twisted my ankle. Go back and check on Fiona.” “She’s fine,” Glenn dismissed, his hands gently examining her ankle. “But you’ve always been fragile. Let’s get Buster buried, and then I’m taking you straight to the clinic.” He helped her up, guiding her steps as they walked right past me. He didn’t look at me. Just like my messages, I had been filtered out of his reality. By some twisted irony, the pet cemetery was situated right next to the public plots. Glenn cast a brief, unseeing glance toward the fresh grave where my mother lay, then turned his back. He and Cecilia carefully lowered a small wooden urn into the ground, and he spent the next ten minutes meticulously wiping down the tiny granite marker. A spark of fury flared in my chest, but it died just as quickly, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, freezing silence. Mom, I thought, looking at the heap of floral wreaths beside me. We both got him completely wrong. Years ago, when Glenn was a starving student who couldn’t afford a warm meal, my mother had practically adopted him, paying his tuition and treating him like a son. He had promised to repay her kindness with his life, and to love me forever. Now, he couldn’t even see us. I turned and walked quietly out of the cemetery. Glenn finally caught up to me near the gates. “It’s about to pour,” he said, checking the gray sky. “Why are you loitering around a cemetery by yourself? Go home. I have to take Cecilia to the urgent care.” He helped Cecilia into the passenger seat of his sedan, climbed in, and drove away. The exhaust fumes hit my face, making my eyes water. For a second, the old urge flared up—the desperate need to text him and scream. Why didn’t you ask why I was at the cemetery? Didn’t you see the black mourning pin on my lapel? If it’s about to rain, why didn’t you offer me a ride? Are you that afraid I’ll ruin your intimate car ride with her? Then I remembered the word Sure sitting on my screen. The answer was already there. There was no point in asking questions when you already knew the truth. My phone rang. It was an international number. “Ms. Ross? This is the consulate. Please come in this afternoon to finalize your visa paperwork.” “I’ll be right there,” I said. 2 The sky opened up just as I stepped out of the consulate. I waited under the awning for ten minutes, but every rideshare app showed no drivers available in the storm. Out of muscle memory, I unlocked my phone to text Glenn. That was when I noticed his new profile picture. It was a matching illustration—half of a couple’s set. Cecilia’s profile now held the other half. When we first got married, I had begged him to use matching pictures. “Taurus men are practical, Fiona,” he had scoffed. “We don’t waste time on childish, performative nonsense.” I closed the app, called Zoe, and confirmed our plans. My flight to Norway was booked for the day after tomorrow. Two hours later, a taxi finally dropped me off at the house. The moment I unlocked the front door, the rich, savory aroma of pork rib soup hit me. Glenn was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of my favorite comfort food. “I told you to come straight home,” he said, walking over with a dry towel and gently draping it over my wet hair. “Look at you, you’re shivering. What took you so long?” “I had to go to the consulate,” I muttered. “What were you doing at the consulate? Actually, hold that thought… I need to wake Cecilia up.” He tossed the towel onto the arm of the couch, pulled out his phone, and dialed her number. He was her personal afternoon alarm clock. In the past, whenever I felt neglected, I would spend hours scrolling through relationship forums, trying to rationalize his behavior. Taurus men are online bots, the articles claimed. They show affection through physical, real-life stability, not text messages. But watching him with Cecilia, the theory fell apart. He was endlessly attentive in person, and online, his messages to her were a constant stream of warmth and humor. Glenn emerged from the bedroom and ladled a steaming bowl of soup, placing it in front of me with a soft smile. “Drink this. It’ll get the chill out of your bones.” I sat in silence, waiting for him to ask about the consulate so I could lay everything out. But the question never came. Instead, he cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable as he brought up the profile pictures. “Fiona.” “About the matching icons with Cecilia… don’t be upset. We actually thought about you when we picked them.” “Look,” he said, turning his screen toward me. “You can use this one. It’s a little cartoon girl. That way, we all match.” “So I play the child while the two of you play the parents?” My voice was flat. “We become a happy little family of three?” It was so absurd it was almost funny. I knew without asking that this was Cecilia’s idea. She had a habit of doing things like this. On my last birthday, she had insisted on a circus theme and made me wear a clown hat. Whenever we walked down the street together, she would grab Glenn’s arm, then look back at me with a sweet, apologetic smile, asking if I minded. “Don’t be so sensitive,” Glenn said, sighing. “Cecilia just thought it was a fun game. We’ll change them back in a few days. Besides, if you refuse to join in, she’s going to feel self-conscious.” It was always about Cecilia’s feelings. What about mine? Did I even have them anymore? When I didn’t argue, Glenn took my silence as acceptance. He sank into the couch and opened a mobile game, hopping onto a voice call with Cecilia. “Glenn? Did Fiona change her picture yet?” Cecilia’s voice drifted clearly through his speakers. “No. She’s being petty about it.” “Oh… maybe we should just change ours back. I don’t want you guys fighting because of me.” “Don’t worry about her. Let’s just play.” Hearing them talk about me like a mild inconvenience in my own living room should have made me scream. Instead, I just looked down at my soup. The pork tasted metallic, almost rancid. The next morning, I began packing my suitcases right in front of him. Glenn didn’t ask a single question. Instead, he grabbed my arm and insisted we go to a local escape room event. “All our friends are going to be there,” he urged. “It’ll cheer you up.” I didn’t have the energy to fight him, so I let him lead me out the door. 3 The moment we arrived at the venue, Cecilia bounced over and slipped her arm through Glenn’s. A few of our mutual friends laughed, throwing teasing glances our way. “Glenn, honestly, if we didn’t know better, we’d think you and Cecilia were the ones married.” “Yeah, man, thinking of trading up?” Cecilia’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but she didn’t detach herself from his arm. “Cut it out,” Glenn snapped, though there was no real anger in his voice. “Cecilia is like a sister to me. Besides, my wife doesn’t have an issue with it, so why do you?” He turned to me, offering a tense, reassuring smile. “Right, honey? You don’t mind at all.” I forced a polite nod. “I don’t mind.” I used to care. I used to scream and cry, begging him to draw a line between himself and Cecilia. But he never listened. Our worst fight had happened a year ago, on the night of the bracelet incident. I had called him ninety-nine times from the police station, terrified and humiliated as store security threatened to strip-search me. He didn’t answer a single call because he had put my notifications on mute. He claimed I was “too high-maintenance and sensitive.” While I was undergoing the most degrading night of my life, he was at Cecilia’s apartment, fixing a clogged drain. The stress and terror of that night caused me to faint. By the time they wheeled me into the emergency room, the heartbeat was gone. Our five-month-old baby was dead. When Glenn finally strolled into the hospital room hours later, his face was a mask of mild regret. “I’m sorry, Fiona. Cecilia texted me that her pipes were bursting, so I had my phone face-down… I’m devastated about the baby too, but we’re still young. We can always try for another one.” I had thrown my pillows at his face, screaming until my throat bled. I fell into a feverish state and fought with him for seven straight days. In the end, his elderly parents came to my hospital bed, weeping and begging me to forgive him. Glenn wept too, writing out a long, handwritten promise never to ignore my calls again. My heart, weak and desperate for love, had softened. I wanted to believe there was still a shred of hope for us. But love doesn’t survive infinite cuts. It bleeds out slowly until there is nothing left. The day my mother died, the last drop drained away. The game we were playing tonight was a murder mystery LARP with a heavy romantic drama theme. I expected Cecilia to claim the role of Glenn’s primary love interest, but to my surprise, she handed the “current wife” character sheet to me. Our friends praised her for being mature and respectful. But as the game progressed and the clues were revealed, Cecilia walked over to my station and slammed a piece of prop evidence onto my table. “You’re the home-wrecker!” she declared, her voice dripping with venom that felt entirely real. “You took advantage of my time abroad to seduce my childhood sweetheart!” I realized then what this was. She was using a silly parlor game to publicly brand me a thief. I let out a soft laugh, reached into my folder, and pulled out the counter-evidence. “You abandoned him for a wealthier life overseas,” I read from the script, looking directly into her eyes. “He was a broken shell of a man until he met me. Now that you’ve crawled back, what exactly is your goal?” Glenn sat in the center of the room, his face pale and incredibly tense as he watched our exchange. “Hey, guys, it’s just a game,” one of our friends muttered, sensing the sudden shift in temperature. “Let’s not get too carried away.” Soon, the story reached its climax. The game master turned to Glenn. “The childhood sweetheart is the regret you’ve carried for years. The current wife is the harbor that saved you from the storm. Player One, who do you choose to spend the rest of your life with?” 4 Cecilia gazed at Glenn, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she delivered her final lines. “I was young and foolish, and I let you go. But we’re here now. We can finally fix what we broke.” She extended her hand to him. I remained seated, my hands folded in my lap. I didn’t read my prompt. I didn’t beg, and I didn’t offer a dramatic plea. I simply watched. Glenn looked at Cecilia’s hand, then at me. For a man who usually never hesitated to touch her, his hand remained frozen at his side. “There are some roads you can’t walk down twice,” he said quietly, choosing the second option—the wife. Cecilia’s smile faltered, her hand dropping slowly to her side. I felt no satisfaction, no rush of victory. It didn’t matter who he chose in a game. Tomorrow, I was leaving. After the event, Cecilia insisted on coming back to our place for dinner, and Glenn agreed. While Cecilia was washing her hands in the restroom, Glenn cornered me in the hallway. “She’s just here for a quick meal, Fiona. Don’t make a scene. Just play nice for an hour, and once she leaves, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take a month off work, and we can go visit your mom’s place. I’ll buy you whatever you want.” I looked at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of pity. “There’s no need. I’m not angry.” Glenn blinked, searching my face. “You’re… really not mad?” “I’m not,” I said sincerely. Why waste anger on a man who was already a stranger? “Oh, thank god,” he breathed, a visible wave of relief washing over him as he hurried into the kitchen to start cooking. Cecilia walked into the living room, glancing toward the kitchen before turning her sharp eyes on me. “Fiona, do you honestly believe Glenn loves you?” She didn’t bother hiding her contempt anymore. “It doesn’t matter,” I replied, sitting down on the couch. “Of course it does,” she sneered, pulling out her phone and opening her messaging app. “Glenn isn’t some cold, unresponsive robot. He’s only like that with people he doesn’t care about. See for yourself.” She handed me the phone. Scroll after scroll of their chat history. Glenn sending silly face emojis, responding within seconds, reminding her to take an umbrella because of a 10% chance of rain, sharing photos of his lunch, and writing paragraphs of affectionate text. It was a systematic execution of every excuse he had ever given me. Each message was a tiny dagger peeling back the scar tissue on my heart, but instead of making me weep, it only cemented my resolve. “Fiona,” Cecilia whispered, leaning close. “What’s the point of holding onto a man who only gives you his leftovers?” “You’re entirely right,” I said, looking up at her. I reached into my bag, pulled out a document, and laid it on the table. “Since you love secondhand goods so much, you can have him.” It was a divorce agreement, already signed by me. Cecilia’s eyes flared with greed. She didn’t even read the terms; she snatched the papers up and ran straight into the kitchen. “Glenn! I have a contract proposal from the office that needs your signature right now!” she called out. I sat in the quiet living room, waiting. Less than a minute later, Cecilia walked out of the kitchen, a victorious smirk plastered across her face. Glenn’s bold signature was scribbled at the bottom of the page. Glenn followed her out a moment later, carrying platters of food—every single dish was Cecilia’s favorite. I ate a few silent bites of rice, excused myself by saying I was exhausted, and went to our bedroom. I packed the remainder of my things, lay down, and slept more deeply than I had in years. At five in the morning, I walked out of the bedroom with my suitcase. On the living room sofa, Glenn and Cecilia were curled up together, fast asleep under a single throw blanket. I didn’t wake them. I quietly slipped out of the house, locked the door behind me, and headed to the airport to catch my flight to Norway. At nine o’clock that morning, Glenn stirred. “Morning, Glenn. Have some milk,” Cecilia said, handing him a glass. “Milk needs to be warmed up with a spoonful of oats first. Fiona always does it that way,” Glenn mumbled, taking a sip. He looked around the quiet house. “Where is she? Is she still asleep?” “Oh, her?” Cecilia smiled, sliding the document across the coffee table. “She’s gone. And this house is finally ours.”

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I was in a car crash on our third wedding anniversary. I sat in the crowded ER, blood dripping from a gash on my forehead, watching my husband—the man who was supposed to be three states away on a business trip—gently holding his childhood friend by the waist, guiding her toward the radiology wing. When our eyes met, my gaze didn’t waver. I looked straight at him, my voice completely flat. “What a coincidence.” Dustin froze. A flicker of sheer panic crossed his face, but in the end, he didn’t follow me. He didn’t even try to reach out as I limped past them. I went to the pharmacy counter alone to collect my pain meds. Through the thin curtain of the waiting area, I heard Rebecca whisper to him, “You should go check on your wife.” Dustin’s voice was laced with an easy, dismissive confidence. “No need. Let’s get your scans done first. Paige isn’t going anywhere. She’ll be there.” I let out a cold, quiet breath. He was certainly a busy man. But did he really think I would just wait around forever? … It wasn’t until I was finally settled into a hospital bed that the adrenaline faded, and the ache in my bones truly set in. The nurse hooked up my IV drip and gave me a sympathetic look. “Bed 32, we couldn’t get ahold of your emergency contact. There’s no one here to keep an eye on your line, so if you need absolutely anything, just press the call button.” “Thank you,” I murmured, nodding weakly. As the nurse turned to leave, Dustin finally walked through the door. “Paige, what the hell happened?” he demanded, standing over my bed. His first instinct wasn’t to ask how badly I was hurt, or where it pained me. His face was twisted into a scowl of pure irritation. “You were in a major accident. Why didn’t you call me?” I looked up at him, studying his face. I knew every line of it. We had been together for seven years, from our freshman year of college to our wedding day, yet looking at him now, he felt like a stranger. “You told me you were traveling for work,” I said, my voice measured and slow. I watched his eyes, looking for even a microscopic shred of guilt. If he had shown a single ounce of genuine remorse, I might have found it in myself to give him one last chance. But there was nothing. Dustin merely blinked, then tossed his leather briefcase onto the bedside table and slid into the vinyl armchair. “I was on my way to the airport,” he said, defensive anger creeping into his tone. He spoke as if escorting Rebecca to the hospital was a noble, mandatory duty. “Becca called me in a panic. She was feeling incredibly weak. If I didn’t step up to help her, who else would?” “Right,” I replied quietly. “Then you should go back to her. She has no one else but you.” Dustin’s shoulders tensed. He had clearly walked in here bracing himself for a screaming match, preparing his arguments to shoot down my jealousy. My quiet compliance caught him completely off guard. He stared at me, momentarily speechless. Then, he stood up quickly, grabbing his bag. “Look, you’re obviously going to be monitored here for a while. I’m going to drive Becca home, and then I’ll come back to stay with you.” “Don’t bother,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Stay with Rebecca. She looks fragile.” “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done,” he insisted, already turning toward the door. I didn’t argue. I didn’t say anything at all. Once the room fell silent again, the throbbing pain in my head returned, but compared to the heavy, suffocating weight in my chest, the physical pain felt almost dull. Dustin didn’t return that night. He didn’t return the next day, either. It was entirely expected. I had stopped building castles out of his promises, so his absence didn’t even sting. The nurses brought me my meals. I realized that as long as I kept myself fed and rested, I didn’t have to think. The reckoning between Dustin and me could wait until I was discharged. During those empty days in the hospital bed, Dustin didn’t call. He didn’t text. But I didn’t need him to; Rebecca’s Instagram feed kept me perfectly informed. She posted every day. One photo showed Dustin from behind, wearing a checkered apron, standing over her stove cooking. Her caption was brief: Still the only one who knows exactly how to spoil me. Another post showed Dustin leaning over a kitchen island, carefully arranging a vase of fresh eucalyptus and peach roses. Rebecca’s caption read: Fresh blooms every single morning. He’s too good to me. A bitter ache bloomed in my throat. I had never once seen Dustin wear an apron. Before we got married, we had made an agreement: the kitchen was my sanctuary, a place where I loved to create, and he was to stay out of it. Dustin had happily agreed. For three years of marriage, I prepared three meals a day and served them to him. Sometimes, when he was too engrossed in his design work, I would bring plates directly to his desk. Back then, he would wrap his arms around my waist, press warm kisses to my neck, and murmur, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Paige. You’re my whole world.” He used to brag about my cooking to all of his friends. I had thought it was sweet. We were partners; taking care of him felt like a natural extension of my love. A week after the crash, I signed my own discharge papers. Dustin was still nowhere to be found. When I unlocked the front door of our townhouse, the air inside was cold and stale. Everything was exactly as I had left it on the morning of our anniversary—clean, organized, and entirely devoid of life. On the entryway bench, Dustin’s favorite leather house slippers were sitting under a thin layer of dust. He hadn’t slept here all week. On the dining table, the bouquet of white lilies I had bought to celebrate our third anniversary had withered into dry, brown skeletons, dropping brittle petals onto the wood. I picked up the vase and dumped the dead flowers and the stagnant, cloudy water straight into the trash. My hands were steady. I felt no rage, no hot tears, not even a spark of anger. Just a profound, hollow realization that I had spent years pouring myself into a vessel that was full of holes. In the kitchen, a pot of beef bourguignon sat on the back burner. I had slow-cooked it the day before the accident, intending for us to share it when he got home from his “trip.” I lifted the lid; a sour, rancid smell wafted up. I tipped the spoiled stew down the garbage disposal, scrubbed the heavy iron pot until it gleamed, and placed it back in the dark cupboard. For three years, this kitchen had been my domain. I knew the weight of every knife, the hot spots on the range, the exact temperature of the oven. Dustin didn’t even know where the gas shut-off valve was. I used to think I was shielding him, keeping him pampered and rested. Now, looking at the spotless countertops, it just felt pathetic. He wouldn’t lift a finger to boil water for me, yet he was perfectly willing to play house in Rebecca’s kitchen, wearing an apron, chopping vegetables, letting her broadcast his devotion to the world. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a follow-up text from my physical therapist. Instead, it was a screenshot sent by a mutual college friend. It was a post Rebecca had uploaded thirty minutes prior. In the photo, Dustin was slumped on a velvet sofa, his head resting lightly against Rebecca’s shoulder. They were holding a single fork, sharing a slice of strawberry shortcake. The caption read: With him, every day is an anniversary. The geotag placed them at a bakery just three blocks from our townhouse. I stared at the screen for three long seconds, my face entirely blank, before locking the phone. I didn’t even care to read the comments. In the past, a photo like that would have made my ribs tighten. I would have spent hours agonizing over why he was doing this to me, desperately spinning excuses for him. He’s just soft-hearted. They have history. He’s just trying to be a good friend to a grieving girl. But hearing him say “She isn’t going anywhere” in that hospital corridor had shattered the illusion. Dustin didn’t respect me because he believed I was permanent. I was the reliable fixture of his life, the dog that would always be waiting at the door no matter how late he came home. But he seemed to have forgotten that in college, he was the one who had chased me. When we met freshman year, I was entirely focused on my pre-med track, keeping my head down. After crossing paths a few times, Dustin began pursuing me with a relentless, earnest intensity. They say persistence wears down resistance, and it did. I fell for him, completely and deeply, giving him every ounce of my trust. But once he had me, the warmth began to cool, slow and steady, like a burner turned down to low. Over seven years, he had come to view my devotion as a baseline utility. He assumed that because we had survived college, career changes, and a move across the country, I was bound to him by default. I had known about Rebecca for a long time. We met during our senior year of college when Dustin introduced her as an old childhood friend who had just moved back to the city. I remember looking at her and feeling a strange, prickling sense of familiarity. It took me weeks to realize what it was: Rebecca and I shared the exact same delicate jawline, the same dark, wavy hair, the same quiet way of speaking. I had asked him about it once. “Do you think we look alike?” His response had been quick, almost sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous, Paige. There’s no comparison.” I had flattered myself into thinking he meant I was the one who mattered. Later, Dustin told me that Rebecca’s family had moved away under a cloud of financial ruin, and that her parents had recently died in a tragic car accident back East. She was entirely alone in the world. “Becca has had a brutal life, Paige,” he had told me, wrapping his arms around me. “If I spend a little extra time helping her get back on her feet, you won’t be upset, right?” How could I say no? To refuse would make me look cruel, small-minded, and insecure. So Rebecca became a silent shadow in our lives. She showed up at our dinners, our weekend outings, and eventually, our marriage. There were times Dustin cancelled our plans because Rebecca had a panic attack or needed help moving furniture. I swallowed my frustration, telling myself that being a supportive wife meant being understanding. But the boundaries had eroded until they were non-existent. I had been playing dumb, hoping my warmth would eventually draw him back. But being invisible to the person who is supposed to cherish you is a slow, agonizing death. And I was done dying. I walked into the bedroom and pulled my small leather suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. I didn’t have much to pack—just my clothes, a few cherished books, and my camera gear. Within ten minutes, my half of the closet was completely bare. Dustin’s expensive wool coats, custom suits, and designer shirts occupied the remaining ninety percent of the space, many of them bought with my salary or chosen by my eye. I dragged my suitcase into the living room, sat on the sofa in the dark, and waited. I wasn’t sure if he would show up tonight, and I didn’t intend to scream or demand explanations. I just wanted to close the book. As I sat there, memories of our early years drifted through my mind—the late-night study sessions, the cheap takeout on our first apartment floor, the way he used to look at me as if I were the only light in a dark room. But those memories felt like old film reels belonging to someone else. At eleven o’clock, the front door unlocked. Dustin walked in, flipping on the overhead lights. Seeing me sitting there in the dark, his face didn’t soften with relief. Instead, his brow furrowed with annoyance. “You’re home,” he said, taking off his coat. “You should have texted me. I was planning to pick you up from the hospital tomorrow morning.” His voice was light, entirely conversational. He made no mention of his week-long disappearance, offered no apology for leaving me stranded in a hospital ward, and showed zero shame. He was wearing a cashmere sweater I had bought him for his birthday. His hair was perfectly styled, and his face was relaxed, showing none of the exhaustion you would expect from someone caring for a sick friend. He looked like he had just come back from a lovely date. “No need,” I said, my voice incredibly calm. “I managed fine on my own.” Dustin’s eyes finally traveled down to the floor, landing on the suitcase parked next to my boots. His face hardened. “What is this? Why are you packed?” “I’m leaving,” I said. The two words felt surprisingly light in my mouth. Dustin let out a dry, incredulous laugh. He stepped closer, his eyes cold. “What are you talking about, Paige? Don’t start this.” “I want a divorce, Dustin.” He froze, his expression shifting from irritation to a dangerous, quiet anger. He walked over and knelt down in front of me, reaching out to cup my cheek. I pulled back, avoiding his touch. An impatient sigh escaped his lips. “Paige, seriously, stop the theatrics. Do you have any idea how exhausting this week has been for me? Taking care of Becca has taken everything out of me, and I really don’t have the bandwidth for a temper tantrum right now.” “Once we’re divorced, you can take care of her full-time,” I replied, my voice steady, cutting through his excuses. Dustin’s face darkened. “I’m trying to be patient here. I’m offering you an olive branch, Paige. Don’t push this too far. You know you don’t actually want to do this.” “I’m not throwing a tantrum, Dustin.” I looked directly into his eyes, letting him see the absolute, dead silence in mine. “I’m not going to argue about the past anymore. Let’s just look at this week. I was in a head-on collision. I was covered in blood, sitting in an ER, and I watched my husband hold another woman.” “I spent a week in a hospital bed. You didn’t call. You didn’t text. But you had plenty of time to cook for her, buy her flowers, and take her out for cake. You told her I wouldn’t run away.” I stood up, pulling my coat over my shoulders. “But you were wrong. I’m running.” As the reality of my words began to sink in, I watched the arrogance drain from Dustin’s face. It was replaced first by shock, then by a flicker of genuine panic. But even then, he couldn’t admit what he had done. “You’re seriously going to throw away seven years over this?” he hissed, standing up to face me. “Becca was in crisis. I was just being a decent human being. We are married, Paige. You’re supposed to have my back, not walk out the second things get complicated.” “Complicated?” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “My car was totaled, Dustin. I have stitches in my forehead and bruised ribs. That is a crisis. Rebecca wanting a personal chef and a flower arranger is not. You have spent years treating my love as a resource you can drain without ever replenishing it. So let me ask you: what exactly are you contributing to this marriage?” He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was so accustomed to my silence, to my ready forgiveness, that he had never had to defend his actions before. He truly believed that if he waited a couple of days, I would swallow my pride, cook him dinner, and let things go back to normal. “I’m not going to argue with you while you’re this emotional,” he said, turning his back to me and walking toward the bedroom. “Go stay at a hotel for the night. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” I reached out and caught his wrist. My grip wasn’t tight, but it was unyielding. “I am calm,” I said softly. “And I am entirely sober. I’ll have my lawyer draft the papers and send them to your office. I won’t be coming back to this house.” Dustin whipped his head around, his eyes wide, looking at me as if he were seeing me for the very first time.

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The ninety-ninth time my father tried to run away from my mother, he didn’t pack a bag. He simply stepped off the seventeenth-floor balcony of our apartment building. And yet, our neighbors spent the evening wiping tears from their eyes, offering their deepest condolences to my mother. “She’s always been so poised, so steady,” they whispered in the hallways. “It’s a tragedy she was saddled with a husband so brooding, so utterly unstable.” No one remembered the boy my father had been before he married her—the loud, laughing teenager who carried the sun in his eyes. It was her cold, systematic indifference that had carved him out, day by day, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It wasn’t until I was packing up his things that I found the truth buried in a dusty shoe box in the back of her closet: a faded photograph of her high school sweetheart, surrounded by a thick stack of hand-written love letters. And worse—recent call logs. They were still in touch. When she realized I’d found them, panic broke through her cool facade. She threw the letters into the fireplace, and before I could even process the smoke, she grabbed my wrist with terrifying strength. She snatched a pair of sewing shears from the table and drove them straight into her own chest. I stood there, covered in her blood, holding the scissors she had forced into my hand. Overnight, I became the monster of the town—the son who had murdered his own mother. But when I opened my eyes again, the smell of copper and smoke had vanished. The air was loud, vibrating with chatter and the rich, roasted scent of coffee. I was sitting in a crowded local diner. I looked down at my hands—they were smooth, uncalloused. I caught my reflection in the dark windowpane. I wasn’t myself. I had traveled twenty-five years into the past, inhabiting the body of Drew—the very man my mother had spent her life obsessing over. Beside me, a hand tugged impatiently at my sleeve. “Come on, man,” my father said, his voice bright and dripping with youthful irritation. “Evelyn is driving me insane. She’s dead set on setting me up with this ‘sensible, grounded’ girl.” I stared at him. His face was vibrant, untouched by the decades of silent misery that would eventually ruin him. He was alive. He was whole. Tears blurred my vision, hot and uncontrollable, spilling over my cheeks. “You… you used to laugh like this,” I whispered, my voice cracking. … Wright blinked, his annoyance melting into instant worry. “Whoa, Drew. Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did some girl break your heart? Tell me who she is, and I’ll go break her windshield.” He raised a fist, a fierce, protective grin breaking through his concern. Looking into his clear, shadowless eyes, my throat tightened. The image of his broken body on the pavement twenty-five years later overlapped with the warm, living boy sitting right in front of me. I grabbed his wrist, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his pulse. “You’re the one who’s about to be fooled by a monster, Wright.” “Shut up,” he said, flushing slightly as he pulled his hand back. “I haven’t even been on a date yet. Besides, my standards are sky-high. I’m not that easy to fool.” We walked down the parkway toward the café. Wright kicked a loose pebble along the sidewalk, his playful demeanor softening into something quieter. “Honestly, I’m terrified,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on his sneakers. “I’m scared of finding someone who seems perfect, only for the mask to slip after the wedding. The guys at the auto shop say women change the second you put a ring on their finger. I want something real, Drew. Something passionate and warm. I don’t want to spend my life trapped in a quiet, freezing house.” I slung an arm over his shoulder, drawing strength from his warmth. “No one is perfect, Wright. Sometimes, the ones who seem the most composed on the outside are hiding the ugliest secrets. Let’s go make sure she’s actually worth your time.” In my heart, a cold resolve took root. This time, I would do whatever it took to pull him back from the edge of the cliff. I would not let Penny destroy his life. “Come on,” I said, quickening our pace. “Let’s go meet this ‘sensible’ girl.” Wright took a deep breath, his chest rising. “As long as you’re with me, I can handle it.” When we pushed open the heavy glass door of the café, the bell chimed above us, and the scent of cinnamon and espresso washed over us. In the far corner, sitting by the window, was a young woman. Hearing the bell, Penny looked up. The moment her eyes landed on my face, the glass she was holding rattled against the tabletop. Her carefully constructed poise shattered in an instant, her eyes flaring with a raw, desperate hope. “Drew?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What… what are you doing here?” I stared at her young face. In my past life, she was the woman who sat in silence on our velvet sofa, watching my father unravel into madness without offering a single word of comfort. Her indifference had been a slow-acting poison. But looking at her now, her eyes held a burning intensity she had never once directed at my father. She wasn’t incapable of love; she had simply hoarded all of her passion for Drew—the boy who got away. Wright looked between us, his eyebrows knitting together. “Drew? Do you two know each other?” I searched my mind. In this timeline, the original Drew barely knew her—perhaps a passing glance in a school hallway years ago. I met her intense gaze and let my face remain entirely blank. “No. I don’t know her.” The light in Penny’s eyes extinguished instantly, her shoulders slumping. She caught herself quickly, taking a shallow breath and forcing a polite, fragile smile to cover her slip. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Wright, completely oblivious to the undercurrents, seemed charmed by the coincidence. The fact that his match had recognized his best friend made him let his guard down. He slid into the booth and immediately pulled the pastry basket closer, pushing a plate of scones toward her. “These are actually really good,” Wright said, trying to break the ice. “Sugar always makes things better, right?” I watched his sweet, unguarded face and felt a pang of protectiveness. Pulling a napkin from the holder, I gently reached over and wiped a speck of powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. I leaned close to his ear, my voice barely a whisper. “Slow down, Wright. We have all afternoon. Don’t lay your cards on the table too fast. You can’t see who someone really is in the span of a single cup of coffee.” My quiet warning seemed to ground him. He swallowed his bite and nodded, though his eyes still danced with excitement. “I know, I know. But she seems nice. Not fake at all.” I kept quiet. The universe had handed me the ultimate weapon by placing me in the body of her obsession. I just had to wait for the right moment to strike. Wright cleared his throat, leaning back. “So, I hear you’re pretty busy with work. Your family putting the pressure on you to settle down?” Penny set her cup down, her long eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “It’s just me and my dad,” she said softly. “He’s… he’s my entire world.” She paused, her lips trembling with practiced sorrow. “But he’s very sick. The doctors say he doesn’t have much time left.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “To be honest, I didn’t expect much from today. I know our families are in different leagues. If I’m being completely honest, the money for this coffee… my dad took it out of his emergency medical fund just so I could look presentable for you.” Wright’s eyes softened, turning a sympathetic pink at the rims. This was her trap, and it was engineered perfectly for him. A fragile, grieving girl who needed a savior was the exact opposite of his domineering mother, Evelyn. He put his fork down. “I lost my father when I was very young. I know how hard it is. But your dad is a fighter. He’ll make it.” Penny turned her gaze back to me, her voice softening into a gentle, probing tone. “And what about you, Drew? Your parents must be so proud of you.” I met her eyes, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan.” Wright immediately reached out, squeezing my hand supportively as he filled in the blanks. “Drew grew up in the county home. He had a really rough start, but we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not letting him go anywhere.” Hearing this, the way Penny looked at me shifted entirely. There was a sudden, intense flash of maternal protectiveness in her eyes, a desire to pull me under her wing. “I had no idea you’d gone through so much, Drew. If you ever need anything… anything at all, please let me know.” A wave of disgust washed over me. She was actively flirting with her blind date’s best friend, right in front of him. In my past life, when my father had been burning with a high fever, begging her for a glass of water, she had locked herself in her study, complaining that his sickness was distracting her from her work. Yet here she was, playing the patron saint of broken boys. And yet, Wright was completely taken in by her performance, nodding along with a look of pure admiration. Before the conversation could go any further, the diner door burst open. A middle-aged man, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, scanned the room until he spotted us. He sprinted toward the booth, his face pale with panic. “Penny! Quick!” he gasped. “Your dad collapsed. The paramedics just rushed him to the county hospital!” Penny’s face drained of color. She stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. She ran to the register, her voice tight. “Bill, please.” She began digging through her pockets, her movements growing frantic as she realized she didn’t have enough. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. The cashier tapped his fingers impatiently. “Ma’am, you’re five dollars short.” Penny froze, her face burning with humiliation as she tried to avoid looking back at our table. Wright didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his leather wallet and slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “Keep the change,” he told the cashier, then turned to Penny with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the hospital. We’ll drive you.” Penny kept her head down, her voice barely audible. “Thank you.” I watched Wright take her arm and lead her out of the diner. My hands curled into tight fists in my pockets, and I followed them into the cold afternoon air. When we arrived at the hospital, the red “In Use” light above the emergency room door was glowing. Penny collapsed against the sterile white wall, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as tears slipped through her fingers, splashing onto the linoleum floor. A chill went down my spine. When my father had jumped from that seventeenth-floor balcony, his body shattered on the pavement below, she hadn’t shed a single tear. She had stood behind the police tape, calmly asking the investigator if his life insurance would cover the cost of the cleanup. Now, she was weeping like a broken child. It was a masterpiece of a performance. Wright was utterly devastated by her grief. He stepped closer, gently patting her back. “He’s going to make it, Penny. He’s a strong man.” Penny looked up, her eyes red and swimming with tears. “Thank you, Wright. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.” Wright shook his head quickly. “Don’t say that. You’re a good daughter.” I could feel the trap closing around him. He was falling for her, hook, line, and sinker. My fingernails dug into my palms. Just then, a sharp ringing broke the silence. Wright reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulky mobile phone—a rare, expensive luxury in this era. Penny’s eyes locked onto the device, a fleeting glint of naked envy crossing her face. Then, she looked at my empty hands, her expression softening into a look of quiet solidarity. She assumed I was as penniless as she was. “Hey, Mom,” Wright said into the receiver. It was Evelyn. Her voice carried clearly through the cheap plastic. “How’s the date going?” Wright lowered his voice, turning away slightly. “Her dad just got rushed to the hospital. We’re in the waiting room.” Evelyn gasped. “Oh my goodness. I’m coming right over.” Hearing her panic made my stomach churn. They hadn’t even finished a first date, and my grandmother was already acting like they were family. The emergency room light clicked off. A doctor emerged, pulling down his mask with a heavy sigh. “The damage is severe. His organs are failing, and we can only keep him comfortable. You should go in and say your goodbyes.” We followed Penny into the dim hospital room. The man in the bed was skin and bones, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rattling gasps under an oxygen mask. He slowly opened his clouded eyes. “Penny…” his voice was a dry rattle. “Which one… is the boy?” Penny stiffened. Her eyes instinctively darted to me first. Wright, completely blind to her reaction, stepped forward and gently took the old man’s frail hand. “Sir, I’m Wright. Evelyn’s son.” I stood in the back of the room, my jaw clenched. Don’t do this, Wright. Don’t let them pull you in. Frank’s dull eyes flickered with a brief spark of interest as he studied Wright’s handsome, healthy face. “You’re a beautiful boy,” the old man whispered. “My Penny… she’s a lucky girl. I’m afraid she’s too good for this world, and far too gentle for me.” Wright flushed, looking down. “Don’t say that, sir. Penny is wonderful.” Frank recognized the boy’s innocence immediately. He squeezed Wright’s hand, pivoting into a calculated emotional plea. “Wright, my time is running out. But looking at you… I can tell you care about her. Am I right?” Wright bit his lip, casting a shy glance at Penny, and nodded. Frank let out a ragged sigh and began spinning a story from the past. He revealed that Evelyn had been his first love—a grand romance cut short by family disapproval and stubborn pride. A single tear slipped down the old man’s hollow cheek. “The regrets of the old shouldn’t belong to the young. If you two could find happiness together, I could close my eyes and finally rest in peace.” Wright’s eyes welled with tears. “I understand, sir.” This narrative of fated love was the ultimate trap for a boy as romantic and soft-hearted as Wright. I could see the decision sealing itself in his mind. By midnight, the room had fallen into a heavy silence. Wright had fallen asleep with his head resting on the edge of the mattress, and Frank had drifted into a deep, medicated slumber. Penny stood up from her chair and walked over to me. “Drew,” she whispered, her eyes shining with an intense, quiet heat. “Can we talk outside? Just for a minute?” A cold smile touched my lips. The moment had finally come. “Sure,” I said quietly. As she turned to walk out, I reached down and lightly tapped the side of Wright’s ribs—a specific, rhythmic double-tap. It was a secret signal we’d used since we were kids, a silent code that meant wake up and pay attention. He stirred slightly, his eyes opening just enough to show he was awake, his breathing remaining slow and even so Penny wouldn’t notice. Out in the hallway, a cold draft stirred the hem of Penny’s white blouse. She leaned against the windowsill, trying to maintain her poised, tragic mask, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her desperation. I leaned against the opposite wall, watching her silently. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a sudden, suffocating longing. “You know… I’ve known who you were since high school. You used to sit by the window in the library. You were always so quiet, so out of reach.” “And?” I asked, my voice flat. She took a step closer. “All these years have passed, and you haven’t changed at all. You’re still so clean, so untouched by the world.” Her praise made my skin crawl. I knew what this was. When faced with a wealthy, vibrant boy like Wright, her deep-seated insecurity made her feel small. But with me—the boy she believed was as poor and broken as she was—she felt a sick sense of ownership. “Drew, you have no idea how shocked I was to see you today,” she said, a bitter, honest laugh escaping her lips as her mask finally slipped. “I’ll admit it. I’ve been living a lie. My dad is dying, and I’m drowning. I need money. I need someone who can carry the weight of this family so I don’t sink.” I raised an eyebrow. “So you targeted Wright?” “Wright is perfect. He’s rich, he’s naive, and he’s stupidly sweet,” she said, her voice dripping with cold calculation. “I know he’s already half in love with me. If I say yes, he’ll marry me by the end of the week.” I forced my voice to remain steady. “Then why are you telling me this?” She took another step, closing the distance between us until I could smell the stale coffee on her breath. Her eyes were wide, manic with obsession. “Because my heart has only ever belonged to you, Drew. We are the exact same kind of person. We don’t have the luxury of wealth, which means we actually understand what it takes to survive. We belong together.” She grabbed at my sleeve, her chest heaving. “Drew, just say the word. If you want me, I will dump Wright tonight. I don’t want to hurt him, but if you tell me to stay, I’ll tell him it’s over. I’ll explain everything.” She paused, her voice dropping into a dark, threatening register. “But if you don’t… I have to marry him. For the money. For my dad.” I stared at her—this woman who could speak of survival and love while planning to hollow out two different men for her own gain. She had wrapped her greed in the language of tragic necessity. In my past life, she had taken everything my father owned. She had controlled every cent, making him beg for pennies while she slowly drained the joy from his soul until he had no choice but to leap into the dark. “You really are something else,” I whispered, a cold smirk playing on my lips. She thought she was making a grand, romantic confession. She had no idea I had built this trap specifically for her. My eyes drifted to the hospital door, which was cracked open just an inch. In the shadow of the doorway, a familiar figure stood perfectly still, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth to muffle his sobs. Wright was standing there, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces as he heard the girl of his dreams describe him as a brainless safety net. Seeing my silence, Penny reached desperately for my hand. “Just say yes, Drew. I’ll cut that idiot loose tomorrow morning!” Before she could touch me, the hospital door slammed open against the wall with a resounding thud. Wright stepped out into the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, his face tear-stained and twisted in fury. “Why don’t you say that to my face, Penny?”

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For three hundred and sixty-two days, I have texted my boyfriend the exact same photo as a daily check-in. He still hasn’t noticed. Other messages quickly buried the photo I just sent, rolling up and off the screen. My roommate leaned over my shoulder, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Is Gilbert literally blind? You’ve sent him the exact same picture of your lunch for almost a year, and he hasn’t noticed once?” A year ago, he asked me what I was having for lunch. I snapped a quick, nondescript photo of a turkey panini and a side salad and sent it over. He told me to keep doing it—to send him a daily update of my meals so he’d know I was eating well. But I’ve sent that exact same photo three hundred and sixty-two times since. He hasn’t tapped to enlarge it once. I typed another message below the photo: Out at that bistro with Erica today. His reply came instantly. Erica hates onions. Why didn’t you ask them to take them off her plate? Of course. The moment Erica’s name entered the conversation, his attention to detail became razor-sharp. We’ve been together for a year, yet he knows my best friend’s quirks and preferences infinitely better than my own. Every time we planned a weekend trip or a night out, he only agreed to come if Erica was joining us. Even at our university’s career fair, he went out of his way to hand-deliver Erica’s resume to an alumnus he was close with at a top firm. “Erica’s resume isn’t as strong as yours,” he’d told me casually when I asked why he hadn’t done the same for me. “You’ve got the GPA to get hired anywhere on your own.” So Erica got the offer. She walked right into the same corporate office as Gilbert, working just down the hall from him. I was rejected, landing a role at a firm on the opposite side of the city. Seeing Gilbert became a logistical chore, a trek across heavy traffic. Meanwhile, he and Erica commuted together every single day, sharing morning coffees and evening rides. I’m organizing a dinner with our college friends this weekend, I texted him. Can you make it? Can’t do it, he shot back. It’s Erica’s birthday this weekend. Why would you even schedule it for then? He had completely forgotten. That Saturday was our one-year anniversary. It was also the day my wager with Erica would expire—the day I was supposed to leave him. 1 Gilbert’s messages popped up in rapid succession. And you call yourself her best friend. How do you not even remember her birthday? Reschedule the dinner with your friends. We’re celebrating Erica this weekend. I couldn’t reschedule the dinner. It wasn’t just a casual get-together; it was my farewell party. I had quietly accepted a three-year transfer to our London office. When I returned, it would be with a guaranteed promotion to regional director. A year ago, on Erica’s birthday, her wish over the blown-out candles had been to end up with Gilbert. I remember the flickering warm light on her face, and how her eyes had swollen red with tears when she confronted me afterward, asking why I had confessed my feelings to him first. I hadn’t known. I had absolutely no idea we were in love with the same man. I had felt so horribly guilty, so deeply apologetic. Erica had pointed at my glowing phone screen. “If you text him the exact same photo every day for a year and he never notices, it means he doesn’t really look at you. If he doesn’t notice, you let him go, and let me have my chance. Deal?” It sounded absurd at the time. I wanted to laugh. Who could possibly go a whole year without noticing their partner was sending the exact same picture? So, I had smiled and nodded, confident in my relationship. But I had been incredibly, foolishly naive. Gilbert had made sure I lost the bet in the most devastating way possible. I went to put my phone down to continue packing my suitcases, but the screen lit up again. It was a message from Erica: Three days left on our bet! She didn’t need to remind me. I had long realized this was a game I had already lost. That was why I hadn’t invited her to the farewell dinner. Our friendship, once so open and effortless, had deteriorated into something sharp, fragile, and distant. I didn’t know how to look her in the eye and say goodbye. When I didn’t reply to his texts, Gilbert’s incoming call screen flashed. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you replying?” His tone was sharp, a demand rather than a genuine inquiry. He wasn’t worried about my well-being; he was simply irritated by the delay. He expected immediate compliance. He didn’t even wait for me to answer. “You can hang out with your college friends anytime. We all live in the same city; you can see them whenever. Erica’s birthday only happens once a year.” I stared at my flight itinerary on my desk. Even though we lived in the same city, the last time we had seen each other in person was three months ago. He always blamed it on work—late nights, deadlines, climbing the corporate ladder. “I’m doing this for us,” he’d say. “If I don’t grind now, how am I going to afford a ring and a house for us?” An empty, glittering promise used as a shield to avoid a forty-minute drive to see me. Yet, he always found the time to travel to Chicago for a three-day marketing seminar because Erica needed a senior mentor to accompany her. I knew the answer, but a pathetic, stubborn part of me still needed to ask. “Gilbert… do you know what day it is in three days?” 2 “Erica’s birthday. What else would it be?” He sounded entirely dismissive, moving briskly to his next point. “Just make sure you buy her a nice gift. I already booked the restaurant and ordered the cake.” He let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, you’re her best friend and you’re this hands-off. Good thing I’m here to handle the details.” I swallowed the sudden lump of bitterness in my throat. On my birthday last month, he had told me he had to work late. I had driven down to his office downtown, booked a table at a bistro nearby, and waited in my car until he finally logged off. He had forgotten to order a cake, grabbing a dry, single-slice cupcake from a grocery store counter on his way out. I had been visibly upset that night, and we hadn’t spoken for three days afterward. He had complained to his friends that I was high-maintenance and didn’t understand the pressure he was under. Yet, for Erica, he remembered everything. He planned everything. “I’ll have a gift for her,” I said quietly. Hearing this, Gilbert finally seemed satisfied. Without another word of inquiry about my day or my health, he hung up. I stared at my call history. His name appeared so infrequently it looked like the contact log of a distant acquaintance. Our last call before today had been a month ago, when Erica fainted at work due to severe menstrual cramps. Gilbert had panicked, rushing her to the ER in a frantic state. He had called me from the waiting room, his voice shaking, asking what medication she usually took for pain. I had never heard him sound so terrified, so desperately anxious. A few months prior, I had fallen off a step-stool while cleaning my apartment windows, fracturing my ankle and spending a week in the hospital. Gilbert hadn’t shown up until the second evening. “How do you manage to break a bone just cleaning a window?” he had muttered, setting down a cheap bouquet of supermarket flowers. “You’re so clumsy.” He stayed for exactly thirty minutes before his phone buzzed with a work question from Erica. He left in a hurry to help her iron out a proposal. He never visited me again during my recovery. I reached for the beautifully wrapped gift box sitting beside my suitcase. I did have a gift for Erica. We had been best friends for over a decade, growing up on the same tree-lined street, sharing lockers, sharing secrets. I used to think what we had was unbreakable. I used to start planning her birthday gifts six months in advance, sourcing rare books or handmade jewelry. I thought we’d be doing this when we were grey and old. I didn’t realize this would be the final one. My transfer paperwork was complete. The HR department had already signed off, granting me a week of paid leave to pack before my flight. I was at a local boutique picking out small parting gifts for our college friends when my phone rang. It was Derek, our former class president, who was coordinating the dinner. “Hey, Melissa. Gilbert called me earlier and said we need to cancel the dinner this Saturday? Does this mean you’re staying? Are you guys finally getting engaged or something?” Derek’s tone was teasing, though I could hear a faint trace of disappointment. Back in college, I had graduated top of our major. Everyone assumed I’d easily land a spot at the prestigious consultancy firm alongside Gilbert. But during the final round, something shifted behind closed doors. Gilbert’s uncle was a senior partner there, and somehow, Erica ended up with the position instead of me. Everyone in our department had been shocked, but we were quickly learning that the corporate world cared very little about grade point averages compared to personal connections. I had swallowed my pride, taken a role at a smaller competitor, and worked my way up through sheer grit. But I never expected Gilbert to take it upon himself to call Derek and cancel my own send-off party. 3 I swallowed the tightness in my throat, forcing my voice to remain steady. “No, nothing like that. Gilbert just won’t be able to make it himself. The dinner is still on. My flights are already booked, Derek.” Derek sounded confused, but he had the grace not to pry. “Alright, then. We’ll see you Saturday at seven.” After hanging up, I took my items to the counter. As the cashier was ringing them up, a familiar laugh echoed from the high-end boutique across the atrium. “Will that be all for today, ma’am?” the cashier asked, her polite voice snapping me out of my trance. I looked across the mall. Gilbert was standing outside a luxury shoe store, carrying three large shopping bags. Erica was beside him, holding a designer coat against herself, looking up at him with a bright, radiant smile. How rare. In our year of dating, I could count the times he had accompanied me to a mall on one hand. Even then, he’d set a strict timer. Twenty minutes, max. “If you know what you need, just buy it and let’s go,” he would grumble, checking his watch. “What’s the point of wandering around aimlessly?” But now, watching him lean against a railing, patiently waiting as Erica tried on different outfits, it was clear his patience wasn’t short. It was just reserved entirely for her. I paid for my items and turned toward the escalators, hoping to slip away unnoticed. “Melissa!” Erica’s voice carried over the ambient mall music, sharp and clear. Several shoppers turned their heads, and I had no choice but to stop and turn around. Gilbert approached, his eyes dropping to the boutique bags in my hands. “Is that Erica’s gift?” I shook my head slightly. “No. These are just some things for the weekend.” His brow furrowed immediately, a familiar look of disapproval settling over his face. “I thought I told you to get her gift ready. You’re always focusing on your own things.” The casual sting of his rebuke made my chest tighten. He spoke with the easy authority of someone who had entirely forgotten whose boyfriend he actually was. Erica nudged his arm, looking at him with gentle reproach. “Stop it, Gilbert. Melissa probably bought my gift weeks ago. Right, Ly?” She gave me a playful, knowing wink, playing the role of the peacemaker perfectly. Gilbert let out a soft sigh, his expression softening as he looked down at her. “You always defend her, Erica. But look at her—she didn’t even remember your birthday until I brought it up.” “How could I forget a day this important?” I said, my voice flat, devoid of any anger. The day I confessed my feelings to him. Our one-year anniversary. The day I officially conceded the wager. But in Gilbert’s mind, the only significance of this date belonged to Erica. Gilbert scoffed. “Sure. If I hadn’t reminded you, you’d be off having dinner with Derek and the others.” Erica’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “A reunion dinner? You didn’t tell me about that.” She looked at me, her expression instantly shifting to one of hurt. “Melissa, are you mad at me? I feel like you’ve been so distant lately. You never have time to hang out anymore. Gilbert’s the only one who ever keeps me company these days.” “I’ve been very busy,” I replied quietly. And soon, I won’t have any time for you at all, I added in my head. Besides, she didn’t need my company anymore. She had already replaced me with my own boyfriend. Seeing the disappointment on Erica’s face, Gilbert quickly stepped in to comfort her. “Well, her office is all the way uptown now. It’s naturally harder for her to make the drive than it is for me.” Erica’s smile returned, bright and easy. “Yeah, that’s true.” I watched them stand there, their shoulders brushing. Even though I had spent months preparing myself for this, the sight still carved a cold, hollow space in my chest. It felt like standing in an open field in dead winter, watching the wind carry away the last remnants of my twenties—my best friend and my first real love—leaving me entirely bare. My phone vibrated in my hand with a notification—my boarding pass confirmation for London. Gilbert caught a glimpse of the screen. “An airline confirmation? You going on a business trip?” I didn’t answer, letting the silence serve as a quiet affirmation. He didn’t press further anyway; it was just a passing thought. He had always been this way—asking questions about my life out of habit, never actually waiting for the answers. By the time we walked out of the mall, a torrential downpour had started. I was waiting under the awning for an Uber when Gilbert’s dark sedan pulled up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down. “Get in,” Gilbert called out. “We can drop you off on our way.” Erica was sitting in the passenger seat, looking out at me with a warm smile. On our way. The words felt like a small, sharp twist of a knife. But what made me freeze entirely was the small, playful decal on the passenger-side dashboard: Reserved for the Girlfriend. I stood there, paralyzed, as rain began to splatter against my shoes. Behind Gilbert’s car, a taxi honked impatiently. Gilbert glared at me through the windshield. “Come on, Melissa, you’re blocking traffic. Get in.” “No, thanks,” I said. I turned, stepping out from under the dry awning, and ran straight into the pouring rain toward a yellow cab that had just pulled up down the block. 4 The rain caught up to me. By the next morning, I was running a high fever, my joints aching under the blankets. My mother called me on FaceTime to check in on my packing progress. “Oh, sweetie, you look terrible,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Where’s Gilbert? Shouldn’t he be there taking care of you?” She paused, her expression turning tentative. “Is he… is he upset about the London transfer? Does he think three years is too long to wait?” When Gilbert and I first started dating, I had called her immediately, bubbling over with excitement. I had spent three years of college harboring a quiet, desperate crush on him, and when he finally asked me out, it felt like a miracle. Back then, I was naive enough to believe in happily-ever-afters. I shook my head on the pillow. “We actually broke up, Mom.” My mother sighed, a soft, sympathetic sound. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. But you’re so young. There are plenty of good men in England. You’ll find someone who deserves you.” I offered a weak smile. Maybe she was right. But this relationship had cost me both my love and my longest friendship in one swift blow. Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, I wished I could go back to the afternoon I confessed to him on the university quad. If I could, I would have kept my mouth shut. But regrets are just ghosts. Later that afternoon, an email arrived from the London office with transition documents. I tried to read through the first few pages, but the letters swam together, my head throbbing. A knock sounded at my apartment door. Assuming it was the pharmacy delivery I’d ordered, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and dragged myself out of bed. I opened the door to find Gilbert standing on the welcome mat. He didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping past me into the entryway with a flat pastry box and a bouquet of flowers. “I knew you were acting weird lately,” he said, setting the items on my kitchen island. “If Erica hadn’t reminded me, I honestly would have missed it.” He turned to face me, a defensive edge to his voice. “If you wanted to do something for our anniversary, you should have just said so instead of playing these passive-aggressive games.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Erica actually canceled her birthday dinner plans for Saturday so I could spend the weekend with you. I figured, since it’s only a one-day difference, I’d come over tonight and get this done early.” I stayed by the door, holding the blanket tight. “Why didn’t you just celebrate her birthday early instead?” His hands paused over the bakery box. He looked at me, his voice tightening. “People don’t celebrate birthdays early, Melissa. Besides, an anniversary is just a date on a calendar. What difference does it make which day we celebrate, as long as I’m here?” It made all the difference in the world. He spent every single day with Erica. Yet our one milestone required my best friend’s permission, and his presence felt like a chore he was checking off his list. I pulled the front door wide open. “I don’t want to celebrate. You should go.” Gilbert stepped closer, reaching out to wrap his arm around my shoulders. I stepped back, evading his touch. His expression softened slightly, adopting a patronizing tone. “Come on, Lyd. Stop being dramatic. If I actually leave, you’re just going to lock yourself in here and cry.” I looked down at the hardwood floor. Erica was the one who cried when things went wrong. I had never once let myself cry in front of him. Perhaps that was why he assumed I was indestructible—that I didn’t need comforting, that I could handle everything on my own. The truth was, whenever I actually wanted to cry, he was never there to see it. He certainly wouldn’t have rushed over to stop it. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Gilbert… do you ever regret saying yes when I asked you out?” If he had said no back then, Erica would have confessed her feelings next. If he were Erica’s boyfriend, would he treat her the way he treated me? He frowned, seemingly taken aback by the question. He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I remember how nervous you looked when you handed me that cup of coffee at the library. I thought you were sweet.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Stop overthinking things.” He opened the bakery box, pulling out a small cake and sliding a single candle into the frosting. “You made a big deal about me forgetting the cake on your birthday, so see? I got you a cake and flowers this time.” I looked at the counter. The cake was strawberry chiffon—Erica’s favorite. The bouquet was pink roses—also Erica’s favorite. There was no warmth in my chest, only a dull, nauseating ache. My head throbbed violently. Gilbert lit the candle, then immediately pulled out his phone. He snapped a quick photo of the cake and the flowers, his thumbs flying across the screen. I caught a glimpse of his chat with Erica. Mission accomplished, he had texted her, followed by a playful puppy emoji. It was all just a task to him. A favor he was performing to appease Erica’s conscience. “If Erica asked you to break up with me,” I asked quietly, “would you do that too?” 5 Gilbert stared at me, his eyes wide with incredulity. “How can you be so cynical about her? Erica spends half her time reminding me to call you and buy you things. She’s the one who remembered our anniversary and made me get the cake. She’s constantly looking out for you, and you treat her like she’s some kind of enemy.” I gave him a tired, empty smile. “Maybe I’m just petty like that.” Another knock sounded at the door. This time, it was the courier with my fever medicine. I signed for the delivery and took the brown paper bag. Seeing the logo of the local pharmacy, Gilbert finally seemed to notice my pale face and glassy eyes. “Are you sick?” he asked, stepping forward and reaching out to touch my forehead. I slammed the door shut, locking it in his face. Outside, the delivery courier was walking down the hall, muttering under his stomach, “Bro doesn’t even know his own girl has a fever. Unreal.” Gilbert’s pride was wounded. He knocked on the heavy wood several times, his voice muffled but sharp. “Melissa! Open the door. Take your medicine. And don’t forget—tomorrow at seven, we’re celebrating Erica’s birthday at the Aventine. Don’t be late.” Eventually, the sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor. I walked back to the kitchen, scooped up the strawberry cake and the pink roses, and tossed them directly into the trash can. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Gilbert. Room 203 at the Aventine Grill. Seven sharp. Don’t forget. I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my lips. It felt like a joke designed by fate itself. My farewell dinner with our college friends was booked at the exact same venue—in Room 204. I arrived at the restaurant early, carrying a small tote of wrapped gifts for the group. Our friends knew about my impending departure, and when they saw me walk in without Gilbert, they exchanged quiet glances but had the decency not to ask. My phone kept vibrating in my pocket with incoming texts from him. I ignored every single one. As the dinner drew to a close, Derek pointed to a beautifully wrapped, heavy box sitting on the edge of the table. “Hey, Melissa, didn’t you hand out all the parting gifts? Who’s that last one for?” I flagged down our server. “Could you do me a favor? Please deliver this to the table in Room 203. Just tell them it’s a birthday gift from Melissa, and that I couldn’t stay.” The server nodded and took the box. Derek nudged my shoulder gently. “You and Gilbert having a rough patch?” “We broke up,” I said simply. Through the thin walls, the faint, joyous chords of “Happy Birthday” drifted over from the adjacent room, followed by Erica’s delighted laughter. My presence had never been necessary at that table anyway. When our party finally broke up and we walked out into the corridor, a few of our friends stopped outside Room 203, looking through the glass door. “Wait, isn’t that Gilbert and Erica?” someone whispered. They turned back to look at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and awkwardness. “Melissa… I thought you and Erica were practically sisters. Why is she in there with him instead of out here with us?” The question hung in the air, answerless, though the reality of it was obvious to everyone in the hall. “It’s fine,” I said quietly, adjusting my purse strap. “That’s all in the past now.” My feelings for Gilbert, my decade of friendship with Erica—they were all just relics of a life I was leaving behind. I left the restaurant, took a cab back to my apartment, picked up my suitcases, and headed straight to the airport. After clearing security, I sat at the gate and opened my text thread with Gilbert. We’re done, I typed. Goodbye. I popped the SIM card out of my phone, held it in my palm alongside the thin silver necklace he had bought me for our six-month anniversary—the only piece of jewelry he’d ever given me—and dropped them both into the recycling bin near the boarding gate.

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Just before his college acceptance dinner was about to start, my son turned to me, his tone incredibly casual. “You know, Dad and Aunt Gillian never actually broke up. They’ve been sleeping together for years. I’m the one who covered for them.” He offered a small, smug smile. “Even Gillian said she owes half the credit for her third pregnancy to me.” I froze, the blood rushing out of my face. My voice shook so violently I could barely form the words. “Why… why would you do that?” Wyatt rolled his eyes, his expression shifting to one of sheer impatience. “Why else? What man doesn’t like a little excitement? Oh, and by the way, I didn’t enroll at Columbia. I withdrew my application and registered at the local community college. I’m staying here to be with Cassidy.” I looked up at him, tears already spilling over my eyelashes, hot and stinging. Cassidy. She was the daughter of Gillian, my husband’s mistress, from her previous marriage. “Don’t think you can control my life just because you gave birth to me,” Wyatt sneered, leaning in close. “I’ve already slept with Cassidy. She’s the only one I want, and I’m keeping her. I invited Gillian tonight, too. She’s basically my second mother and my future mother-in-law, so you better play nice. Don’t go ruining her evening.” The coldness in his eyes was absolute, his words cutting through me like a serrated knife. My entire body went numb, but beneath the shock, a strange, quiet clarity began to take hold. They seemed to have forgotten something crucial. I was never a victim who quietly accepted her fate. I was a woman who had spent twenty years clawing her way to the top of the business world. … Memories washed over me in bitter waves, and a humorless laugh escaped my lips. Twelve years ago, when Charles first packed his bags to live with Gillian, I was left entirely alone. Wyatt fell critically ill, and I spent three agonizing months nursing him at his bedside until I collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Back then, a nine-year-old Wyatt had ripped the IV needle from his own hand, throwing himself over my sleeping form, his little face flushed red with tears. “Doctor! Please save my mommy!” he had screamed. “I don’t want the medicine anymore! I just want Mommy to be okay!” Now, that same boy stood before me, his voice dripping with disgust. “Look, I’m only telling you this so you don’t make a scene. Get along with Gillian, and don’t embarrass me in front of my friends.” A sharp, physical pain bloomed in my chest. It turned out that when you are betrayed by both your husband and your son, you aren’t even allowed the dignity of anger. Right then, the banquet doors swung open. Gillian stepped inside, flanked by a young boy who bore a striking resemblance to my husband, Charles. Charles and my mother-in-law, Martha, walked on either side of Gillian, hands hovering near her elbows as if she were made of spun glass. Wyatt, usually so aloof and distant, practically sprinted across the room. He beamed as he took Gillian’s designer handbag, bowing slightly to guide her toward the seat at the head of the main table. I stood frozen in the center of the room, the air caught in my throat. Around us, the whispers from the invited guests began to swell. “Who’s the actual mother here? The mistress looks more like the lady of the house.” “What good is being the legal wife? Her husband has a whole other family, and even her own son is taking the mistress’s side. What a pathetic excuse for a woman.” The snide remarks and pitying glances pelted me like gravel, but I didn’t say a word. My gaze was locked onto the heavy gold bangle gleaming on Gillian’s wrist. Back in March, I had noticed a charge on Wyatt’s card for a substantial gold bracelet from Tiffany’s. I had spent months quietly anticipating it, thinking my son was finally growing up and wanted to surprise me. But on Mother’s Day, neither my husband nor my son came home. There were no texts, no calls. I had sat alone in our dining room, eating a home-cooked meal that had gone cold hours before. I had assumed they were just busy. I never imagined my son was using my money to buy jewelry for another woman. Sensing the shifting mood of the room, Gillian’s face paled. Her voice trembled, thick with tears. “No… Charles, I shouldn’t sit here. This seat belongs to Diana.” She made a show of clutching her lower abdomen, stumbling back a step. Cassidy and her younger brother immediately took their cues. They looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, shrinking back as if I were a monster. “Diana, please!” Cassidy sobbed, throwing her arms around her mother. “Don’t hurt my mom! If you’re angry, take it out on me! I beg of you!” Wyatt instantly stepped in front of them, turning to glare at me with pure fury. “Today is my celebration!” he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “I decide who sits where. You don’t have a say in this!” Charles picked up his youngest boy, his face hardening into a mask of righteous indignation. “Diana, after all these years, you are still as relentlessly cruel as ever!” he barked. “Gillian is pregnant. Would it kill you to show a little decency?” Martha chimed in, her voice shrill and final. “I’m putting my foot down! If you dare touch a hair on Gillian or my grandson’s head, I will make your life a living hell!” I stood there, a bitter smile gracing my lips. This was how it always was. I hadn’t said a word, hadn’t moved a muscle, yet they had already cast me as the villain. Seeing the grim look on my face, Charles stepped forward. He grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise, and hissed into my ear. “Diana, if you want to keep whatever dignity you have left, I suggest you get out. Nobody wants you here.” I wiped a solitary tear from my cheek, ripped my wrist out of his grip, and spoke with a terrifying, flat calm. “Mr. Higgins, call security.” I had personally paid twelve thousand dollars to rent this country club hall for the evening. If anyone was leaving, it was going to be them. Charles’s face turned livid. “If you want to do this the hard way, Diana, don’t blame me for what happens next.” He turned to the door. “Get them in here!” A dozen heavily built security guards—men hired by Charles’s firm—flooded the room. Before I could react, they grabbed my arms, pinning me in place. Wyatt walked over to the venue manager, pulling out a credit card. “Ten thousand dollars. You know what to do.” The manager’s professional demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by a sycophantic grin as he bowed to my son. Wyatt knew my bank PIN. It was his birthday. I had never changed it. As they dragged me toward the exit, the whispers of the crowd followed me out. Some looked shocked, some pitied me, but mostly, there was only cold amusement. I stumbled onto the wet pavement outside, a hollow laugh bubbling up in my throat. Twelve years ago, when Charles first walked out, he didn’t come home for two years. He took our entire fifty-thousand-dollar savings and transferred it to Gillian, leaving me with nothing. I had built my logistics company from scratch while raising Wyatt, surviving on cheap instant noodles because I couldn’t afford anything else. Later, Martha had forced Charles to apologize, claiming he had just made a foolish mistake. Charles had fallen to his knees, weeping, swearing the money was just to repay Gillian’s father, who had once saved his life. He swore they were innocent. I believed him. For the sake of our son, I stayed. Then, three years ago, I caught them in bed together. I fell apart, but Charles knelt again, swearing on his life that he would cut all ties. To protect Wyatt during his final years of high school, I endured the humiliation, burying myself in work and preparatory school meetings. I had no idea that they were still sleeping together right under my nose—or that Wyatt had been so thoroughly brainwashed by Cassidy that he would throw away a near-perfect SAT score just to attend a local trade school with her. Rain began to mix with the tears on my face. Why? Why did my endless forgiveness only earn me endless humiliation and betrayal? My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a screenshot from my closest friend, Leonard. Diana, look at what this disgusting woman just posted on social media. The nerve of her! I opened the link. Gillian had posted two photos. One was a close-up of her clutching a limited-edition Hermès bag; the other was a staged family portrait—six people spanning three generations, smiling warmly at the camera. The caption read: We were supposed to be celebrating the kids’ graduation, but my husband and mother-in-law insisted on rewarding me instead. They said I’m the true foundation of the family’s success. Followed by a blushing, laughing emoji. The true foundation of their success. What a joke. Over the years, who had paid for my father-in-law’s private nursing care? Who had given Martha her monthly allowance? Every single cent had come from my accounts. Charles’s business partners were already flooding the comment section with praise. Gillian is the definition of a supportive wife! A good woman brings prosperity to the whole household! I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. A strange, glacial calm settled over me. I forwarded the screenshots directly to my divorce attorney. I was done. I was letting go of this rotten family. But when I got back to our estate, the house was unrecognizable. My personal belongings had been tossed into heavy black trash bags and left by the curb. The rare, hand-painted screens my late mother had left me were shredded on the floor, and a team of contractors was already busy converting my private study into a nursery. The absolute fury I had been suppressing finally erupted. “What do you think you’re doing?” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Stop this! Get out of my house!” Gillian cast a quick glance at her youngest son, and the boy immediately threw himself onto the floor, wailing. “Don’t hit me! Mommy, she’s going to hurt me!” Charles rushed into the hallway, his face twisting into a mask of pure rage. “Gillian is only staying here for a few weeks to rest!” he bellowed. “How can you be so heartless as to attack a child?” “Diana,” he continued, his tone shifting to a patronizing drawl. “I told you. If you play nice, you can remain Mrs. Jeffrey. You can still be Wyatt’s mother, and you can go on living here. But if you keep acting like a lunatic, don’t expect me to be gentle.” A hysterical laugh escaped my throat. “You’re letting me live here?” “Charles, have you lost your mind? The townhouse we bought when we got married was transferred to Gillian years ago. This estate was bought entirely with my own money. It has absolutely nothing to do with you!” Wyatt stepped out from the remodeled study, his voice cold and devoid of any familial warmth. “Mom, you seem to have forgotten. The deed to this house is in my name.” He crossed his arms, staring down at me. “I didn’t get around to telling you, but two weeks ago, I legally signed this house over to Cassidy as a pre-marital gift.” I stared at him, the shock leaving me completely speechless. Wyatt pulled Cassidy close, tucking her under his arm. “And your voting shares in the logistics firm? I sold them to Dad’s holding company for a nominal fee of one dollar. Dad and Gillian are the majority shareholders now.” My vision blurred. I began to shake. “That’s impossible… You can’t sell my shares without my signature!” Wyatt pulled a folded document from his jacket and tossed it carelessly at my feet. There, at the bottom of the stock transfer agreement, was my signature, bold and clear. My mind raced back to the week before his final exams. He had brought a stack of “school permission forms” to my office, asking me to sign them because he was too stressed to handle the paperwork. I had signed them without a second thought, trusting him completely. It had all been a trap. The very child I had carried in my womb had become the weapon they used to destroy me. “Wyatt…” my voice was barely a whisper. “You used my trust… you used my love for you to ruin me?” A brief flicker of guilt crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it with irritation. “Gillian has spent years being treated like an outsider because of you. This is just her compensation. Besides, Cassidy and I are going to be family. What difference does it make whose name is on the deed?” Charles softened his tone slightly, offering a sickening sliver of charity. “Diana, like I said, if you can learn to coexist with Gillian, you can keep the title of my wife.” My heart felt as though it were being crushed by iron bands. I slowly shook my head. They had stripped me of my home, my company, and my dignity, and now they expected me to thank them for their mercy. I turned to leave, but Gillian suddenly lunged forward. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly tight, her voice rising to a theatrical shriek. “Diana, please don’t go! Please let me stay!” she wailed. “I swear I’m not trying to take your place! I’ll do whatever you want, just let me stay with Charles!” Before I could push her away, she threw herself backward, landing hard on the hardwood floor. She clutched her stomach, screaming in agony. “Ah! My baby! The baby!” Cassidy dropped to her knees beside her, sobbing hysterically. “Mom! Oh my god, Mom! What did she do to you?” Before I could even process what was happening, a heavy blow struck the side of my face. The force of Charles’s slap sent me sprawling against the wall. “I knew you were bitter, Diana, but to attack a pregnant woman? You’re a monster!” Wyatt pointed a shaking finger at me, his eyes burning with hatred. “I am utterly ashamed to have a mother like you.” They scooped Gillian up, rushing her toward the SUV parked in the driveway. Before they left, Charles grabbed my phone, threw it onto the pavement, crushing it beneath his heel, and dragged me by the collar toward the back seat. “No! Let me go! I didn’t touch her!” I screamed, struggling against his grip. But Charles was beyond listening. His chest heaved with rage as he slammed me into the vehicle, pinning my wrists. “If anything happens to Gillian or my child, I will make sure you pay with your life!” During the agonizing drive to the private clinic, the security guards held me down on the floor of the SUV. Charles’s youngest son sat above me, kicking my hands and pulling my hair. “Bad lady! I’m going to kill you for hurting my mommy!” Every joint in my body screamed in pain. When we arrived, Gillian was wheeled into the emergency wing. She looked up at Charles, her face pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s not Diana’s fault… it’s mine. I’m so sorry, Charles… I couldn’t save our baby…” “Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” Charles murmured, his eyes full of tenderness before they turned to ice as he looked at me. “Make her get on her knees. She’s going to beg for forgiveness.” At his command, the guards forced me down, slamming my forehead repeatedly against the linoleum floor. Blood pooled in my eyes, and the world faded to black. When I finally regained consciousness, the hallway outside the operating room was empty of doctors, but the door to the side recovery room was slightly ajar. Cassidy dragged me inside through a service entrance. On the bed, Gillian was sitting up. There was no sweat on her brow, no paleness in her cheeks. She was sipping a green juice, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. I stared at her, the truth washing over me like cold water. “You were never pregnant.” Gillian smirked, taking a slow sip. “Of course not.” “You can’t beat me, Diana,” she whispered, her voice sharp and venomous. “I’m not just taking your husband and your house. I’m going to make sure your own son hates you for the rest of his life. I’m going to ruin you so completely you’ll never be able to look at the light of day again.” With a sudden, sharp intake of breath, she grabbed a scalpel from the tray beside her, smeared her own blood on it, and forced my fingers around the handle. Before I could drop it, she screamed at the top of her lungs. The door burst open. Charles and Wyatt rushed in, only to see me standing over a terrified Gillian, holding a bloody scalpel. Cassidy threw herself over her mother, shielding her with her body. “She already killed the baby! Now she wants to kill my mom! Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Charles’s face turned purple with rage. “You wanted to cut her open, Diana?” he roared, his voice trembling. “Let’s see how you like it. Doctors! Get in here! Perform a full exploratory laparotomy on her. No sedatives. Make sure she feels every single second of it.” Wyatt stood beside Cassidy, comforting her as she sobbed. “Do it,” he cold-heartedly commanded the clinic staff. “No painkillers. Let her feel the pain she caused Gillian.” They walked out, carrying the mother and daughter, leaving me pinned to the cold operating table. For the next several hours, I was subjected to a horrific, forced medical procedure under the guise of an “emergency evaluation.” The physical trauma was excruciating, and the agony of my previous surgical scars being torn open made me black out repeatedly. By the time they threw me out of the clinic, it was dawn. My assistant finally managed to reach me on a burner phone I kept in my office. His voice was shaking so violently I could barely understand him. “Mrs. Jeffrey… it’s over. The board of directors held an emergency meeting. Gillian has been named the new CEO.” “And the media… there are articles everywhere calling you a violent psychopath who tried to murder a pregnant woman. Your son went on a live stream and publicly disowned you. The public is praising him for his ‘moral clarity’…” As the horror of the news washed over me, I clenched my teeth through the blinding physical pain, whispering into the receiver. “Contact Leonard. Tell him… he can release the files.” My assistant gasped. “What files, ma’am? I don’t understand.” I gripped the edge of the brick wall behind me, using the last ounce of my strength to stay upright. “The files that will ruin Charles Jeffrey forever.”

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