Author: Momo Chan

I fell for my best friend’s rival. The day I finally confessed, my best friend’s eyes went red, her face shifting through a kaleidoscope of shock and betrayal. In the end, she forced out a tight, biting, “Congratulations.” But afterward, she turned all her focus on Reid. She sparred with him academically, then ruthlessly sabotaged him in the corporate world. I thought she resented him for stealing the top spot in my life, the one she’d always coveted. It wasn’t until our fifth year of marriage that she and Reid slept together. I screamed. I cried. I begged. But they only escalated their cruelty. Eventually, I was exhausted. I chose to walk away and grant them their twisted peace. Years later, I returned home for a Stanton University alumni event. A strange little boy tumbled into my arms, his face a startling, miniature replica of Reid’s. Our former class president laughed upon seeing us. “Is this yours and Reid’s kid? I always knew you two had a spark, even back then.” He chuckled conspiratorially. “I used to joke that even though you were always bottom of the class, you had a best friend who was number two, and a boyfriend who was number one!” I was about to correct him when my old best friend, Blair, rushed over, grabbing the boy and clutching him tight. “Finn! Why did you run off? You scared Mommy half to death!” Reid was right behind her. He froze the moment his eyes landed on my face. “Sierra, you’re alive?” 1 Blair’s head snapped up, her expression a mask of pure, visceral shock. To them, I had been lost at sea five years ago. Drowned. I offered them a slow, distant smile. “My luck held out. I just swallowed a lot of saltwater.” Blair, ever the quick study, regained her composure instantly. She shook the little boy in her arms gently. “Finn, this is Aunt Sierra. You should call her Godmother.” We’d once promised that if we married, we’d catch each other’s bouquets, and if we had children, we’d be the godmothers. The boy, Finn, shyly whispered, “Godmother.” I didn’t acknowledge it. Turning to the class president, I simply said I had an appointment and prepared to leave. The president, sensing the toxic atmosphere hanging over the three of us, was eager to see me go. Reid, however, was determined to follow. “Sierra, where are you headed? I can drive you.” Blair’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly, but she said, “Yes, it’s not safe for you alone. You don’t even drive.” I inwardly scoffed. After all these years, she still saw me as the helpless, flighty girl. But a free ride was a free ride. On the way, Reid kept peppering me with questions about my life. I kept my answers clipped and minimal. I told him I was rescued and survived. I told him I’d been living overseas, selling my art. I was back now because a long-time buyer wanted to meet in person. Reid’s voice suddenly climbed an octave. “Man or woman? Are you sure they’re trustworthy? You need to keep your guard up.” I didn’t spare his feelings. “Friends I’ve known for years aren’t trustworthy. A husband I shared a bed with isn’t trustworthy. How, then, can I judge a stranger?” Reid fell silent. Blair’s face turned an ugly shade of gray. When we arrived at my place, I got out, collected my bags, and then turned back toward the car, stopping beside the little boy, Finn. He had Reid’s eyes and Blair’s mouth. The moment I reached a hand toward him, Blair reacted, pulling Finn tight into her chest, her eyes wide with terror. “What are you doing? You want my child to pay for your revenge? He’s innocent!” Reid warned my name, his voice low and dangerous. I simply reached out and plucked a small, hard fruit stone from Finn’s lips. “I was afraid he’d end up like my child—choked and suffocated, with adults right there, too blind to save him.” Their faces went white. The silence was absolute. Back inside my home, I checked my messages. Mr. Albright had confirmed our meeting. He genuinely admired my work; over the years, he’d observed every new piece I created, even if he didn’t buy it. I was back for him, yes. But I was also here to finish a much older, darker piece of business. I met Mr. Albright in a quiet, upscale coffee shop. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a kind, reserved face. “Ms. Wyatt,” he said warmly. “I see so many stories in your paintings. They make me deeply curious about you.” He paused, looking around the nearly empty shop. “Would I be privileged enough to hear some of them?” I nodded. 2 In high school, I was still Sierra Wyatt, the spoiled heiress who had no worries. While my classmates were pulling all-nighters and drowning in stress, I was only interested in painting and partying. Reid, however, was the polar opposite. He was the undisputed number one student—brilliant, disciplined, and politically adept. At first, I found him utterly pretentious. Then Blair arrived. She came from a poor background and was fiercely academic, working a job every evening to help her family. I was impressed. I convinced my father to establish a scholarship specifically for students like her. I wanted to keep it anonymous. But the teacher, in front of the entire class, made a point of announcing my donation and forced Blair to bow and thank me. Looking back, I believe that public moment of forced gratitude was when Blair started to resent me. But I was oblivious. I poured my heart out to her, treating her like the sister I never had. Blair’s biggest aspiration was to beat Reid and claim the number one spot. But Reid was an insurmountable fortress. She was always second. After yet another loss, Blair broke down crying. To cheer her up, I tried everything I could think of. “It’s okay,” I’d announced dramatically. “I’ll just start dating Reid! I’ll distract him, ruin his grades, and you can finally win!” Reid, passing by, scoffed. “Sierra, you’re too clueless. You don’t even know how to flirt. Need me to show you how?” And that’s how we ended up together. My senior year was the year my life shattered. My father’s business went bankrupt, and he killed himself. In my deepest despair, Reid and Blair were my anchors. Reid swore he would take over my father’s role, promising to be the one person in the world who would always love me. Blair let me stay in her tiny apartment and worked tirelessly to tutor me. I pulled myself together. I started studying like my life depended on it, and by the time the SATs arrived, I was confident I could get into a decent college. Then the accident happened. Despite checking and double-checking everything, I couldn’t find my No. 2 pencil for the Scantron sheet. Leaving the testing center, I slapped myself, convinced I was the most utterly worthless person alive. Again, Reid and Blair were there. They encouraged me until I moved past the trauma. They both went on to Stanton University, the country’s best. I decided higher education wasn’t for me, so I took a job bussing tables near campus. Reid would come straight from class to help, and soon, customers assumed he was the employee. He constantly talked about our future. We’d marry right after graduation. He’d earn enough money to buy me the best art supplies and keep me a carefree, sheltered art patron. But I felt a creeping sense of insecurity. I begged Blair to keep an eye on Reid for me. Blair looked at me with an unreadable, deep expression, a forced, unnatural smile pulling at her lips. I remember feeling smug, thinking I was successfully “showing off” my perfect relationship. I urged her to start dating, too. “No need,” she’d said. “I already have someone I like.” It took years to finally understand that smile, and to know exactly who that person was. It was already too late. 3 Reid and I married right after he graduated. But reality was far harsher than his dreams. He worked himself to the bone to earn money, coming home exhausted every night, collapsing into sleep the moment his head hit the pillow. To ease his burden, I learned to cook, clean, and manage the house. I had never realized how much labor was involved in keeping a home. The endless cycle of meals, laundry, and cleaning. They were all small things, but stacked together, they were enough to drown me. By the time the financial pressure finally eased, our daughter, Skye, was born. I named her Skye, wanting her to be calm and serene. But she was a whirlwind of energy, always crying and restless. Every night, I had to walk the length of the living room, holding her, for hours until she finally drifted off. By the time I slipped into bed, Reid’s hand would be reaching for me. “Honey, it’s been too long since we…” Despite my physical and emotional exhaustion, I dutifully submitted. But the moment of climax was always ruined by Skye’s first whimper. I’d instantly push Reid away, scrambling naked off the bed to comfort her. I never saw the look of pure annoyance on his face as he lay behind me. Life had successfully chipped away at the clueless princess, turning me into a killjoy of a housewife. For my birthday that year, Reid brought home the most expensive set of oil paints. I glanced around the house. “We’re out of diapers,” I said flatly. “You should have bought diapers.” Meanwhile, Blair was carving a bloody path through the corporate world. She and Reid joined the same firm, and she clung to her old rivalry, fighting him at every turn. And she was still losing. Once, she prepared a flawless presentation, grinding on the pitch for weeks, but the CEO still chose Reid’s plan. Blair called me, sobbing hysterically. “Why can’t I ever beat him, Sierra? Why? After all these years, can’t I just win once?!” I shot Reid a dirty look, preparing to go comfort her. But Skye wrapped herself around my legs, refusing to let me go. I resignedly sent Reid instead. “She’s a woman drinking alone at a bar; it’s not safe. You caused this mess; you clean it up.” Reid’s hands paused on the remote. He looked at me, a searching quality in his eyes. “Are you sure you want me to go?” “Of course.” Reid looked like he was making the most momentous decision of his life. “Fine,” he said. He turned back and looked at me several times before walking out the door. I didn’t sense the earthquake coming. I was just there, cooing at my daughter, telling her silly stories. The true catastrophe began that night. Reid never came home. When he finally returned the next morning, I was already cooking. He mumbled some excuses about Blair being a drunken mess and how he’d been so exhausted getting her back to her place that he just passed out on the floor. His tone was calm and believable. Blair was my best friend. I accepted the lie easily. In the days that followed, Reid’s “overtime” and “business trips” became more frequent. At first, I assumed the company was just busy. Then, I started to notice things. A foreign hair on his jacket. A strange, sharp perfume that wasn’t mine. Finally, when I found a discarded, opened condom wrapper in his pants pocket, I knew. He was cheating. Shattered and enraged, I drove to Reid’s office and staged a scene. I cried, I screamed, I lay on the floor, demanding he name the woman. Reid’s face was pure disgust. “Sierra, I provide for you! I put a roof over your head! I let you be a homemaker so you didn’t have to worry about a thing, and this is how you repay me? By making baseless accusations?” He pulled out his phone, flipped on the camera, and pointed it at my face. “Look at yourself! What do you look like right now? A hysterical shrew!” 4 On his phone screen, I saw a stranger: my hair was a wild mess, my skin sallow. My outdated dress was stained with unwashed grease spots. Behind me, the female employees were immaculate, their makeup perfect, their business suits crisp. They radiated the aura of competent professionals. Their stares were a mix of pity and contempt. Blair emerged from the crowd. “Sierra, don’t make a scene. This is pathetic.” Reid yelled, “Let her! She just wants me to get fired so the whole family starves! Go on, do it! Start a live stream! Let everyone see!” It was then I realized I had no ammunition left. I’d been out of the workforce since high school. With just a high school diploma, I had zero leverage. If I divorced him, he’d easily win custody of our daughter. A cold clarity washed over me. I crawled up from the floor. “I’m done. I’m going home.” After that day, I became subservient, terrified of provoking Reid. He grew bolder—lipstick smudges on his shirt were common. Yet, I clung to him, desperately afraid he would abandon me. My only defense was Skye. I tried to use her to appeal to his vanishing affections. Reid did love his daughter, though. When he wasn’t busy, he would even take her to the office. One afternoon, he took her again. I finished my chores and started scrolling through my phone. Purely by chance, I stumbled across a viral thread. The title read: The Rivalry: Years of Hate, Decades of Lust. I clicked it open. The first line hit me like a physical blow: “No one understood that the eternal runner-up didn’t want the top spot—she just wanted the number one student’s attention.” My heart plummeted. My mind flashed. I raced to the rest of the post. “After losing to him at work again, I went to a bar to drink. He came to comfort me. He asked what I needed. I told him to kiss me. And he did.” “From high school until now, he rejected my advances ten thousand times. But on the ten thousand and first, he accepted. I took him home, and we spent the night making up for all that lost time.” “The top spot I could never reach finally became my conquest.” I felt the blood drain from my body. Blair loved Reid. Reid’s mistress was Blair. I lost all control. I tore to Reid’s office and barged into his suite. Groans and muffled sounds were immediately audible from the inner office. I kicked the door open. Blair was sitting on Reid’s lap, their clothes in disarray. Blinded by fury, I grabbed every object in sight and hurled it at them. A ceramic figurine struck Blair on the forehead. She started bleeding. Tears streamed down my face. If Reid’s betrayal was a freezing wind, Blair’s was a total annihilation of hope. “We were best friends! How could you do this to me?” Blair wiped the blood from her temple, her gaze icy. “I never considered you a friend.” Her voice was flat. “You were a spoiled, useless girl. All you were good at was condescension and charity.” “I hated you from the first day we met.” I tried desperately to deny it. “If you hated me, why did you take me in after my dad died? Why did you tutor me?” Blair laughed—a harsh, empty sound. “Because I like to fatten the rabbit before the slaughter. Why do you think you checked for that No. 2 pencil so many times and still didn’t find it? I took it outside the testing center!” “What?” The ground fell out from under me. Blair giggled, lightly shaking Reid. “We have a witness, don’t we, R.J.? You saw me take the pencil, didn’t you?” Reid’s face stiffened. He looked away. “Don’t be shy! You didn’t tell Sierra back then, which is how I knew—you’ve always loved me.” Suddenly, my circulation seemed to reverse. My limbs went limp. I nearly collapsed. “I’m going to—I’m going to report you…” Reid’s face darkened. “Sierra! Enough! Think about our daughter!” Then his expression shifted. He started looking around frantically. Our daughter? Skye? She was supposed to be here. We checked the security footage. We found Skye’s body hidden under the coffee table. While Reid and Blair were engaging in their sordid affair, they’d left Skye alone with a bowl of dried fruit. Skye choked on a hard fruit stone. She pounded on the door, trying to call for help, but her desperate pleas were drowned out by their ecstatic sounds. She tried to reach the water glass on the table, but she was too small. She died silently, just a few feet away from her father. When I finished telling the story, there was a stunned silence in the coffee shop, followed by muffled sobs. Mr. Albright sighed heavily. “I had no idea you’d endured so much, Ms. Wyatt.” He looked at me, heartbroken. “Five years have passed. Do you still hate your ex-husband?” I took a slow sip of my coffee, a subtle smile touching my lips. “Is that all Reid Jefferson—or rather, your employer—wanted to know?” Mr. Albright froze, his professional composure shattering. “What employer? I don’t know what you mean.” I walked past him and approached a patron who had been sitting quietly at a corner table the entire time. I reached down and pulled off the man’s surgical mask.

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I’d just been chewed out by my stone-cold boss and was practically dissolved in tears, so I quickly tapped open the chat for my online boyfriend. “Waaah, honey, that devil boss just trashed my proposal again.” The reply was almost instantaneous. “That miserable jerk! How dare he talk to my baby like that?” “Don’t worry, babe. Get some sleep tonight. I’ll fix this for you.” The next morning, I handed my boss the proposal my online boyfriend had stayed up all night rewriting. My boss stared at the document for a long time, his expression growing strangely complex. Even the sound of his voice carried a tremor I almost missed. “This proposal… you did this?” 1 As a recent college graduate—a grunt worker barely out of the intern pool—I’d practically bored a hole to the earth’s core trying to draft a half-decent proposal. The day before, in the meeting, my boss held up my work with disgust. “Do we really need this garbage cluttering the folder? Whose is this?” Graham Shaw was an Ivy League legacy, a trust-fund prodigy who’d returned from London with an MBA and a face that looked straight out of a GQ spread. He was brilliant, ruthless, and universally loathed. My friends told me I was lucky, getting paid to look at a face that belonged on a billboard. Only I knew how soul-crushing his perfectionism was. Hesitantly, I raised my hand. The next second, his sharp, glacial gaze was on me. “How were you hired with work like this? It seems the HR department has become quite the joke.” The whole room was watching. My cheeks burned hot, and all I wanted was for the floor to swallow me whole. Unsurprisingly, I was kept back. I stood. He sat. His brow was deeply furrowed as he tossed my proposal onto the floor. “Last chance. Produce trash like this again, and you can walk yourself down to HR.” I swallowed hard and bent to pick up the papers, not daring to meet his eyes. My own eyes were stinging and swollen, but I didn’t care. I kept my head down and stumbled out of his office. 2 I finally found an empty hallway corner where I could sob uncontrollably, then reflexively opened the messaging app to vent to my online boyfriend. “He made me cry again today.” The reason I was here, working, instead of finishing my Master’s, was because my mom had gotten terribly sick right after I secured my acceptance. Every penny we had went to her care. The money still wasn’t enough. On a friend’s suggestion, I started a niche account, doing faceless livestreams of me making custom macrame wall hangings. To my shock, people actually tipped. Then, my online boyfriend showed up, immediately became my Tier-S Patron, and dumped what added up to over eight hundred thousand dollars into my account. For a college graduate from a normal background, it was an astronomical, life-changing sum. I added him as a friend to thank him. “Midnight_Investor” was nothing like my boss. He was kind. He comforted me every time I was down. Soon, we were inseparable. He replied right away. “Hugs, baby. Your boss is clearly a toxic narcissist.” “He has no right to yell at our baby. I believe everything you do is the best.” “After all, you’re so talented with your hands. You make those gorgeous macrame pieces.” The more he comforted me, the more the raw emotion welled up. “But I really worked so hard on that proposal. I didn’t even sleep last night, and he still screamed at me.” He immediately sent a flurry of the kissing emojis I always used. “It’s okay, baby. You just graduated. It’s good to let the sadness out. Big things take time.” “Don’t be sad. I’ll fix the proposal for you tonight. You get some rest.” Looking at the gentle, thoughtful man on the screen, half my heart melted. I scrubbed at my raw, red eyes. “What good is crying?” The cold, icy voice made my whole body jump. I looked up to see my boss, Graham, meticulously wiping his hands, looking vaguely annoyed. “If you can’t seize the opportunity, if you rely on ‘taking your time’ for everything, you’ll end up like your proposal: thrown in the trash.” He tossed the hand-wiping napkin into a waste bin to emphasize his point. His cold eyes leveled on my still-red ones. “So, instead of crying here, get back to work.” 3 After Graham finally left, I was barely able to keep myself from collapsing in tears again. How could someone with a pulse say something so glacial? But this company was excellent. I’d fought tooth and nail to get this job. With Mom’s illness, I absolutely could not lose it. I dragged my exhausted body to my cubicle. Tessa, my least favorite colleague, was there, already launching into her passive-aggressive commentary. “I knew she couldn’t have been hired for her competence. Must’ve gotten in on looks, not brains. Figured.” I was too drained to even snap back. I sank heavily into my desk chair. Even though Midnight_Investor promised to fix it, I felt I needed to revise the document again. I had to lighten his load. He was an adult; he surely had his own life and responsibilities. I worked until closing, kept thinking about it on my commute, and finished the final revisions at home that night. Only then did I send my redrafted version to my online love. He seemed to be online 24/7. He received the file immediately. Half an hour later, he sent an encouraging message. “Is this your first draft, baby? It’s a bit rough around the edges, but for a first attempt, it’s really good.” I wanted to cry until I was dry. “That’s my Nth revision. Am I really that bad?” He was silent for a full minute, then sent a massive barrage of hug emojis. “No, not bad! You’ve made huge progress. All that matters is your effort, baby.” “Don’t pay any attention to whatever your boss says. He clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just a miserable jerk who takes his own frustrations out on you.” Watching him curse out my boss with a cascade of angry emojis calmed my nerves again. “Thank you, my sweet boyfriend! I’m going to get some real sleep tonight.” It was the best night’s sleep I’d had since starting the job. 4 My online love was incredibly reliable. When I woke up, there was a new document on my phone. Sent at 2:00 AM. The attached note: “Go get ’em, Wifey.” It was incredibly touching. My boss made me pull an all-nighter; I made my boyfriend pull one. I sent him a couple more kissing emojis, picked out an outfit, and headed to work. The moment I walked in, I heard Tessa’s loud, sneering voice. “Well, look who decided to show up, Gen Miller. Look at that face, that glow! Doesn’t look like she pulled an all-nighter, does it? Must’ve been sleeping with someone last night.” Tessa rolled her eyes, a look of malicious pleasure on her face. “Though, Mr. Shaw looks like he didn’t sleep well at all. He’s exhausted. Must have been up all night stewing over some people’s proposals.” I ignored her and headed to the printer to get the new file. But my silence only egged her on. “Off to generate more trash, Gen?” I gathered the printed sheets, ignored her completely, and walked toward Graham’s office. “Still too good for us? Watch out, you’re going to get yelled at and cry again!” 5 Graham genuinely looked like he hadn’t slept. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to be dragging toward his jawline. He rubbed his temples, his expression flat when he saw me. Graham Shaw was known for being utterly devoid of warmth; office lore claimed he was married only to his job and was possibly an emotionless robot. I carefully placed the proposal on his desk. He took it without expression and started reading. He looked up several times, his gaze fixed on me between reading the pages of the document. Finally, he read the last page. “Is this yours?” His voice, unbelievably, had a slight tremble.

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Savannah, who was eight years my senior, didn’t come home that night. That was already unusual. Then my friend’s message popped up—a photo of a mature man and my wife. The hand draped across her waist was a white-hot brand on my retina. I sat with my guitar cradled in my lap all night. It wasn’t until dawn that Savannah finally stumbled through the door, smelling of stale liquor, yet carrying herself with unnerving composure. “Business dinner, I forgot to tell you. Why are you still up?” I pulled up the photo and laid the phone on the coffee table between us. “Would it be impolite to call him ‘sir’?” 1 That hand in the photo. It was like a searing iron, pressed hard onto my vision. It wasn’t a casual touch; it was a possessive, almost territorial clasp. Clasped around my wife’s waist. The sender was my buddy, and the message was just a dry, bare statement: “Bro, Savannah was at The Bluebird last night.” I knew the bar. I’d played a residency there a few years back. My gut—that raw, male instinct—screamed that this wasn’t just a “business dinner.” “I had a last-minute dinner with a major client. Couldn’t bow out, drank too much, so I just got a hotel room near the office and crashed. I forgot to text you.” She was unsteady on her feet. She walked straight to the kitchen island, grabbed a glass, and downed a full one of cold water. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally turned to face me. She tilted her head slightly, as if looking at a child who was making a fuss over nothing. “The sun’s up, Rhys. Why are you sulking here? Go get some sleep.” Forgot to text me? My gaze moved to her face, a mask of calm that bordered on cold indifference. The acoustic guitar in my lap felt like a slab of frozen concrete. I flipped the phone screen, presenting the photo on the coffee table. “Oh, a business dinner.” My voice was a rough, dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “Then this gentleman in the photo… this ‘sir’,” The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth, sharp with mockery, “If I called him ‘sir,’ would it be… disrespectful?” She glanced at the image and immediately launched into a counter-attack, her voice ringing with indignation. “Did you hire someone to track me?” I shook my head, finding her chosen point of focus darkly amusing. Her first instinct wasn’t to explain, but to deflect and accuse. “My friend happened to be at The Bluebird last night, that’s all.” “And this is what you call a business dinner? Did you get a room with him?” Savannah bristled, her voice climbing to a sharp, aggressive pitch. “‘Happened to be there’? The photo is perfectly clear! How convenient!” “Dr. Hawthorne is our most crucial client. I was drunk last night, he just helped steady me. What is wrong with that?” “Do you even understand what client relations are? Do you understand what it takes to maintain them?” Her words shot out like a machine gun, attempting to build a defensive wall with cold, hard concepts: “work,” “projects,” “importance”—all just to hide the naked intimacy of that hand in the picture. “Maintain client relations?” I echoed her phrase, my eyes boring into her face, searching desperately for a ghost of the woman I used to know beneath the perfectly applied makeup. I found nothing. “Do you need to maintain relations until his arm is wrapped around your waist like you’re a piece of luggage? Maintain it until you stay out all night and can’t even be bothered to send your husband a single, tired text?” “You!” Savannah’s face went white, choked by my bluntness. Her chest heaved violently. She drew a deep breath, forcing down the rage, and looked at me with a mixture of exhaustion, annoyance, and utter disappointment. She looked at me as though I were a burden—an eternal child who only knew how to whine. “Rhys, enough!” Her voice suddenly dropped, carrying the icy chill of absolute refusal to engage. “Look at you! Huddled over that damn guitar, sitting here like a ghost all night just to catch me in some imagined ‘lie’? Aside from baseless suspicion and childish accusations, what exactly can you do?” She raised a hand and rubbed her temples hard, an action heavy with fatigue. A deathly silence fell over the living room. All I could hear was her sharp, ragged breathing, and the slow, heavy, almost-stopping beat of my own heart against my ribs. So this is it. I stared at her. The metallic, coppery taste of rust finally broke through in my throat. I bent over sharply, coughing—a wrenching, tearing sound, as if I were trying to cough up my own insides. She watched me double over, but there wasn’t a flicker of emotion on her face—just an indifferent coldness, perhaps even a hint of revulsion. She smoothed down her messy curls and turned toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. I need to rest. You… think about what you’ve done.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, a faint sound that sealed off two separate worlds. I was left alone in the living room. In the year we had been married, we’d had countless arguments, large and small. Every one of them ended with her walking away and me sinking into silence. I remembered what my friend had told me when we first started dating. The age gap is too big. It won’t last. But I couldn’t resist the way she looked at me. Her eyes were bright, like she was looking at some rare, precious treasure. I went against everyone’s advice to be with her. When we first got together, we had endless things to talk about. I promised her I’d only sing for her, and I promptly quit my successful band. I retreated into the background. The living room was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the tireless sweep of the second hand on the wall clock. The door Savannah had closed was a boundary, a chasm that separated us completely. “Think about what you’ve done.” The phrase looped in my mind like a curse. Was I… truly wrong? The thought, cold as a viper, slipped into my chaotic mind. Maybe… maybe it was just a business dinner? Maybe Dr. Hawthorne had just politely helped her up? Maybe I was too sensitive, too immature, jumping straight to the worst possible conclusion? A rush of intense guilt, mixed with a desperate urge to save the relationship, instantly drowned out my anger and heartbreak. I couldn’t let go this easily. At the very least, I couldn’t let my “immaturity” and “suspicion” destroy this. I needed to do something. To prove I still cared about her, that I cared about our home. My eyes fell instinctively on the guitar in my lap. Years ago, this guitar, my voice, my songs—they were what made her walk toward me, against all odds. I sat with the guitar, nervous and awkward as a kid at his first open mic, staring intently at the bedroom door. I was waiting for her to come out. I was going to sing her “Night Flight,” just like I did when we were first falling in love. Time crawled by. The light in the living room shifted from the pale gold of dawn to the harsh white of midday, then slowly, began to tint with the orange glow of dusk. There was no movement from the bedroom. She needs rest. She’s so tired… I told myself this, fighting down the rising tide of anxiety and unease. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I finally heard a stir. The door opened. Savannah stepped out. She had changed into a new outfit—a sharp, tailored business suit of high quality. Her face was perfectly made up, her hair impeccably styled. There was no sign of a hangover or our morning argument. She looked refreshed, even radiant. “You… woke up?” I managed to croak out, my voice raw from a sleepless night and full of cautious hope. “Are you hungry? I can… I can make you something?” I moved to set the guitar down and stand up. “Don’t bother.” She cut me off coolly, her voice devoid of warmth. Her gaze swept over the coffee table, lingering on my guitar, and her frown deepened. “Put that thing away. It’s in the way.” I watched her back, the words, “Let me sing you a song,” stuck in my throat, impossible to voice. She turned around, her arms crossed, and assessed me with a chilling, critical stare: “Rhys, this morning I told you to ‘think about what you’ve done.’ Have you figured it out?” I struggled to form the words, grasping at a straw of reconciliation. “I… I have. Maybe… maybe I was too impulsive. I shouldn’t have questioned you like that…” She immediately interrupted, her voice sharp with impatience. “It’s not about the questions! That’s not the point! The point is you’re completely stagnant! Rhys, I don’t need a man who only knows how to clutch a guitar, wallow in past fantasies, and be pathologically suspicious!” I looked down at the old companion she’d dismissed as “that damn guitar.” It had been my life, the symbol of everything I’d given up for her, and now, in her eyes, it was the main evidence against me. “I…” Put it away? Go find a nine-to-five job, something “legitimate” and non-musical? Would I even be Rhys anymore? My hesitation, my internal struggle, was, to her, nothing more than cowardice and an utter lack of salvation. “Hmph.” She let out a short, cold scoff, full of complete despair and… a perverse sense of relief. “So your big ‘think’ resulted in you clinging to your rock and roll dreams. Fine.” She didn’t look at me again. She turned and walked into the bedroom, starting to pack. Her movements were sharp, decisive, and entirely without remorse, as if she were simply boxing up a piece of luggage she no longer needed. “Where… where are you going?” My voice was edged with panic. “Business trip.” She didn’t turn around, her voice cold as ice. “Project requires me to be out of town for a few days. We both need to cool off.” “A business trip? With who?” The name was almost out before I could stop it. Her packing abruptly ceased. “Rhys! Stop it! Stop with your disgusting paranoia! My work and my whereabouts are none of your concern! You have no right, and frankly, no capacity, to interfere!” She zipped the suitcase shut with a harsh, grating sound, announcing an end. She dragged the suitcase toward the front door. “Savannah!” I jumped up, trying to block her, desperate to say something—even a pitiful plea. But she only paused, turning her head just enough to shoot me a cold, sidelong glance. Her eyes held no love, no hatred—just sheer fatigue and the chilling certainty of someone who has seen through a long-held deception. “Rhys,” her voice was frighteningly calm, yet every word was a stab to the heart, “What do we have left, besides that marriage license? Your guitar? Your ‘dreams’? Or that heart of yours that refuses to grow up?” She paused, her gaze sweeping over my frozen figure and the solitary guitar beside me, her lips curling into a deeply cynical smirk. “Don’t bother me again until you learn how to act like a man. And don’t send me any more of those idiotic messages.” With that, she wrenched open the front door, dragged the suitcase out, and walked away without looking back. Ding-dong. A notification chime interrupted my paralysis. Her phone, sitting forgotten on the entryway cabinet, lit up. She must have been in too much of a rush. I picked it up and input the passcode. It was still our anniversary. The pinned chat was with a contact simply labeled: “♥” It wasn’t me. A few more messages popped up: [Morning, Wild one. How’s the ‘red wine’ after effects from last night?] [You left your scarf in my car. I’ll bring it to you next time. Make sure you get some rest.] Attached to the text was a photo. The background was a hotel room, the messy sheets revealing exactly what had happened. A purple silk scarf lay on the rumpled bedding. It was Savannah’s. “Wild one…” The two words were like barbed hooks digging into my eyes. All my agony, my questions, her self-righteous “business dinner” monologue—all of it was shredded to pieces by this text and this photo. Leaving only the ugly, naked truth. So this was what she meant by “so tired.” This was where she needed to “get some rest.” And this was how the mature, responsible Dr. Hawthorne addressed her in private. I clenched her phone so tightly my knuckles turned white and bruised, convinced I was going to shatter the device. I bent over, dry coughing again, violently. Just then, the door was yanked open. Savannah had come back for the phone she’d forgotten. She frowned, her eyes instantly locking onto the phone tightly gripped in my hand. Her pupils constricted. “Rhys! What are you doing with my phone?!” Her voice was instantly sharp, laced with the panic of invasion, the last vestiges of sleep gone. She rushed forward and snatched the phone away from me. “You read my phone?! You actually spied on my phone?!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to tear the air. “Do you have no respect?! No boundaries?! You are… you are impossible!” She gasped, her chest rising and falling furiously. “Yes! I am with Victor! So what?!” She completely tore off her last layer of composure, shouting with desperate abandon. “He’s more mature than you! More stable! He understands what responsibility is! Being with him, I realize how stupid I was! Waiting around for you, you piece of dead weight that will never climb off the floor!” “Look at you!” She lifted her hand, her forefinger stabbing violently against my chest, her touch ice cold. “What else do you do besides sit here like a whiny victim clutching that dusty guitar, or act like a thief spying on my privacy?! What have you ever given me? Security? A future? Or just your ridiculous, worthless rock and roll dreams?!” I couldn’t muster the strength for a single word of rebuttal. My throat was choked with cold despair and utter emotional death. My silence seemed to only further enrage her. SLAM! The front door was slammed shut again with all her force. The thought of the flirtatious messages, the explicit photo—it sent a wave of nausea through me. I bolted to the bathroom, leaning over the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, dry heaving violently. Nothing came up but the burning bile and stomach acid, bringing wave after wave of tearing spasms to my throat. This was Rhys? The rock singer who used to burn up the stage and roar with life? I splashed cold water on my face. The icy sting brought a momentary, painful clarity. Every inch of this “home” was poisoned by betrayal. To stay one second longer was torture. I had to leave. Now. I didn’t have a destination, I just needed to escape this suffocating space. I walked to the corner and picked up the heavy gig bag. I pulled open the door Savannah had just slammed. I walked the silent, predawn streets, aimless, like a wandering ghost. Before I knew it, my feet stopped beneath a familiar, flickering neon sign: The Bluebird. This was it. The place the photo came from, the origin of the nightmare. Another message popped up from my friend: [Bro, still in the VIP booth at The Bluebird. Your wife… she’s here too.] A booth number followed. My heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand and squeezed until it stopped beating. The booth number was burned into my vision. As if possessed, I pushed open The Bluebird’s heavy, soundproof door. The deafening music and psychedelic lights instantly swallowed me whole. The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and raw desire. I was an intruder, awkwardly carrying my gig bag, moving through the gyrating crowd toward that booth number. Fear, rage, despair, and a sliver of absurd hope. Hope that all of this was some terrible mistake. I finally stopped in front of the door. The heavy panel couldn’t completely block the noise inside. I could vaguely hear a woman’s soft laughter, a man’s low murmur, and… Savannah’s distinctive, slightly lazy, husky voice. She was speaking in a tone I had never heard before, almost a playful coo. I raised my hand, my fingers cold and trembling. Should I push it open, or turn and run? In that instant, the booth door was suddenly pulled open from the inside. A server stepped out, holding an empty tray. In the moment the door was ajar, the scene inside slammed into my eyes, fully exposed. Under the crystal chandelier, on the wide, curved sofa. Savannah wore a sequined, spaghetti-strap dress I’d never seen before, her makeup more provocative than when she’d left the house. She was practically draped across a man in a dark dress shirt—Dr. Gerard Hawthorne, the man from the photo. One of his hands was brazenly, tightly wrapped around Savannah’s slender waist. The other held a glass of liquor as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. This made Savannah laugh, a throaty chuckle that caused her to lean even more relaxed into him. Her eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color. It was the look of a woman completely immersed in raw intimacy and lust. Time froze. Savannah’s laughter died in her throat. She must have sensed the anomaly at the door, and she turned her head languidly. As her eyes pierced the hazy light and fixed on me—the ghost-white figure with a guitar bag at the doorway—her smile instantly fractured. The haziness in her eyes was replaced in a millisecond by shock, panic, and the sheer embarrassment of being caught red-handed. She flinched, almost convulsively trying to pull away from the man’s embrace. “Rhys…?” Her voice was a shaky, incredulous whisper. Dr. Hawthorne also looked up, saw me, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. There was no panic in his eyes, only the annoyance of being interrupted and a cold, condescending appraisal. His hand, far from letting go, tightened demonstratively around Savannah’s waist, a clear act of provocation. This final gesture ignited every volcano that had been dormant inside me. I stood in the doorway. I didn’t roar or rage as she might have expected, nor did I beg weakly. The extremity of the pain and rage brought a bizarre, chilling calm. My gaze bypassed the other man and fixed solely on Savannah’s panic-stricken face. My voice was eerily flat, yet it cut through the din of the music in the booth with crystalline clarity: “Savannah.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was an ice pick in the heart of the illicit air. Her body gave a sharp shudder. Her lips parted, as if to offer some frantic defense. I didn’t give her the chance. “I want a divorce.”

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I was the daughter the whole internet nicknamed “The Scourge,” the one who stole my mother’s life savings—the money meant for her cardiac surgery—and blew it all on high-end escorts at a downtown club, claiming it was for my own selfish vanity. That very night, I was brought down in a VICE raid. My father, Police Director Frank Wallace, nearly had a heart attack from the sheer humiliation. He cut all ties with me in front of his entire squad. “Sloane Wallace! You are no daughter of mine. Never show your face to your mother or me again!” I vanished as he wished, a ghost in the wind. Seven years later, a little girl appeared at the precinct. She was wearing rags and clutching a backpack stained dark red. She spoke timidly. “I’m looking for Mr. Wallace. Sloane asked me to bring him a gift.” Dad’s eyes immediately went bloodshot. “She’s out of money, so she comes crawling back? Is that leech, Sloane, trying to bleed her mother and me dry from the grave?” The little girl shook her head in fear. “Sloane doesn’t want money. She’s with lots of other sisters, living in the black house. She wants you to come get her.” 1 Seven years. Dad looked so much older, but the fury in his face when he heard my name was exactly as it had been that final night. I drifted close to him. No one could see me, but I dropped to my knees anyway and lowered my head seven times, a deep, silent apology. “Dad, I’m so sorry. Your daughter won’t be able to take care of you and Mom anymore.” The agony of my physical death still clung to my soul. I felt like I was enduring the slow burn of a terrible fire at every moment. But even that great pain couldn’t compare to the ache in my heart over the gray strands threading through his hair. Phoebe flinched at Dad’s sharp voice. She was the toughest of the children, though. She sniffled but didn’t cry. Instead, she stretched out her small arms, holding the stained backpack up, trying to reach it to him. “Mr. Wallace, this is the gift Sloane left for you.” But Dad angrily slapped the bag away. “Where is Sloane? She severed all ties seven years ago and walked out without a single look back. What good are these gifts now? Does she actually expect me to forgive her?” Bringing up the old scandal caused a wave of whispers among the uniformed officers. Detective Miller, Dad’s closest friend, couldn’t hold back his frustration. “She really is a debt-collector, isn’t she? Couldn’t rest even after leaving. Nearly killed Ellie seven years ago, and now she’s back to finish the job on you?” That seven-year-old headline seemed to be burned into everyone’s memory. Without exception, they all saw me as the monstrous daughter. “Ellie needed her cardiac bypass. Not only did she ignore her own mother’s illness, she stole the money and hired escorts.” “I was actually the one who caught Sloane in the raid. Three guys. I still can’t bring myself to talk about the scene.” “Thank God the Director managed to recover the stolen funds, or Ellie… God.” The sighs grew heavier. Phoebe, anxious and frightened, retrieved the backpack and clutched it fiercely. She seemed to understand that they were badmouthing me, her eyes wide and tear-filled as she defended me in a choked whisper. “Sloane is good. Don’t call her bad names.” “What’s the connection with Sloane? Why is this kid so protective of her?” Everyone’s attention slowly shifted to Phoebe. She looked two or three years younger than her actual age due to chronic malnutrition. Dad’s expression flickered between anger and confusion. “Are you Sloane’s daughter? That leech’s child?” Phoebe’s environment had been so brutal that I’d only taught her how to talk after I arrived. She didn’t know what a “mom” or a “daughter” was. She only clung to the task I had given her, struggling to explain. “Sloane took the best care of me. Mr. Wallace, please, open the backpack. Sloane and so many other sisters are in the little black room. They want to get out, but they can’t.” Detective Miller scoffed. “She walked out so easily back then. Now she can’t afford to raise her kid, so she sends her back to cheat money out of you. Sloane is truly a leech.” Dad grabbed Phoebe’s arm and then froze. Beneath the thin skin, he could see layers of scars, old and new, sickeningly overlapping. “Sloane… that animal. She can’t even raise her own daughter properly? Did all those lessons about protecting the people go straight to the dogs?” Then, he seemed to remember something else, and his voice became desolate. “Maybe I never taught her anything at all.” I felt the deep disappointment radiating from him. Perhaps the wounds to my body had been so profound that they had shredded my soul, too. I shook my head gently, a lonely voice in the silence. “You taught me very well, Dad.” The word “animal” must have hit a nerve. Phoebe suddenly dropped, covering her head and screaming in a loud wail. “I’m sorry… please don’t hit me… I won’t run away again.” I knew this was the deep-seated PTSD of the black house, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the floor, crying helplessly. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were red-rimmed, but they didn’t curse me anymore. My nose stung with unshed tears. They had never changed. Always so soft-hearted and good. That’s why I had sent the only one who could escape, Phoebe, to find them. Dad’s hands clenched white-knuckled. He stiffly patted Phoebe’s head, his voice hoarse. “Tell me where Sloane is. I’ll go ask her myself if she’s fit to raise you. If she can’t, I’ll take you to a foster home. I won’t let you be abused again.” Without the expected fists or whips, only a warm hand rested on her. Phoebe slowly relaxed, clinging to the backpack. She furrowed her brow in painful memory. “Sloane is in the black house.” Seeing that Phoebe couldn’t offer any more information, Dad silently pulled out his phone and brought up a contact. He used to have me saved as “My Princess.” Later, when I was demanding, greedy for money, he changed it to “Sloane Wallace.” After we cut ties, I became a cold, anonymous number. His finger hovered over the screen for a long time before he finally pressed the dial button. I knew this was a call that would never be answered. I’d broken the SIM card and thrown it in a dumpster the day I left seven years ago. “Hello?” But the call connected. 2 Dad’s mouth twitched. It was as if a thousand needles were lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard before speaking with effort. “Do you still want your daughter? If not, I’m sending her to the State Home.” “What the hell is this? I’m sending my daughter to school! Who are you?” The voice on the other end was angry and completely unfamiliar. “Are these scam calls getting this sloppy? If you curse my daughter again, I’m calling the police and having you arrested.” The line disconnected. I felt a sudden jolt of realization. Seven years was so long. Even my phone number had been recycled and reassigned. Dad slowly lowered the phone, his lips a thin, tight line. His finger aimlessly traced the screen. “So cold-blooded. She won’t even claim her own child.” Miller sighed and patted Dad’s shoulder. Dad exhaled, then his brow suddenly furrowed. “I want a full trace on Sloane Wallace. Where has she been all these years? Child abuse, abandonment. If this is all true, I won’t let her get away with it.” “What about her?” Miller pointed to Phoebe, who had calmed down and was looking at them expectantly. Dad looked at her for a long time. “I’ll take her to a State Home.” When Dad held out his hand, Phoebe obediently took it and walked behind him. She was so good, so obedient. Her journey had been long and difficult, all because I told her: “Phoebe, don’t cry.” Seven days and six nights. Even when she fell down a rocky slope, her knees bloody and scraped, she didn’t shed a single tear. When she was chased by stray dogs fighting over scraps in the early hours, or kicked into a dark alley by a disgusted passerby, she only wiped her eyes, bit her lip, and continued on her journey. I told her: “Phoebe, you must listen to Mr. Wallace.” Despite being bruised and scarred by men, she didn’t resist or struggle when Dad held out his hand, following him docilely toward an unknown future. I floated silently behind Phoebe, but I wasn’t as strong as she was. Tears streamed from my eyes. A single tear fell onto her cheek. Phoebe seemed to feel something. She looked up slightly. “Mr. Wallace, I think it’s raining.” Dad didn’t say anything. He just spread his hand to cover her head. The two of them drove in silence to the State Home entrance. The Director there looked at the scarred Phoebe with deep sympathy. She murmured constantly. “Such a poor child. Is this another one you rescued?” Dad simply nodded, gently pushing Phoebe toward the Director. “Just for a few days of temporary placement. Once we find her mother… I’ll come back for her.” The Director agreed. Phoebe stood still, clutching the backpack, her eyes wide with terror. She nervously darted her gaze around, as if searching for someone. I watched Dad’s resolute back, shouting in despair. “Dad, don’t leave Phoebe! She walked so far to find you! They’re the last hope! If she’s found, she’ll die! We’ll all die!” But no one could hear my voice. I could do nothing but circle helplessly. A deep feeling of powerlessness enveloped me, making my soul feel heavy. Phoebe suddenly let out a short, sharp scream. She fiercely shielded the backpack and crouched in the corner, muttering repeatedly. “Don’t catch me, don’t catch me, oh God, I won’t go back.” I knew this was Phoebe’s core trauma response, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the ground, crying frantically. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were getting red, but they didn’t utter any more harsh words. I felt a familiar lump in my throat. They had never changed. Always so compassionate and kind. That’s why I had desperately sent the only escapee to them. Dad’s hands were shaking as he knelt down. He stopped Phoebe’s movements and pulled her into his arms, his voice ragged. “Sloane taught you to threaten me like this?” 3 Phoebe’s face was deathly pale with terror, and her tears flowed uncontrollably, like a broken faucet. “Mr. Wallace, please don’t leave me.” Something must have clicked in her mind. Her trembling hands started to unbutton her t-shirt. “Phoebe can take her clothes off and earn money. Just please don’t leave me.” Dad’s body seized up. His face turned ashen as he quickly stopped her. “She actually made you… made you go out and do that for money… How could she turn out this way? She swore she would become a hero, just like me.” But Dad’s weakness lasted only a moment, so fast that the tear in his eye seemed like a trick of the light. He called Miller. “Issue an immediate warrant for Sloane Wallace. Move fast. I’m going to personally bring her in.” He did, however, bring Phoebe home. I looked at the familiar front door and the familiar, yet strangely distant, sight of my mother, Eleanor. My soul trembled with pain. Mom had aged so much. She used to meticulously fix her hair, never letting a strand be out of place. Now, she looked frail, like an old woman. Yet, despite her pale face, she gently wiped a tear from Phoebe’s cheek the moment she saw it. “What’s your name, sweetie? Why are you so hurt? Did someone bad hurt you?” Phoebe numbly rubbed her face against Mom’s hand and whispered. “I know you… You’re Sloane’s Mom.” On many unbearable nights, I would hold the equally distraught Phoebe and softly hum a song to soothe her. Phoebe would quiet down, dependent, and ask me. “Sloane, what is that? It’s so pretty.” I told her it was a lullaby, the song my mother loved to sing to me. Mom was the person who loved me most in the world, the one who would feel guilt if I was hurt and who would try her hardest to give me everything I ever wanted. Phoebe didn’t know what a mother or daughter was. After all, in that black house, we were all just called “livestock.” “When you meet my mom, you’ll understand.” The instant Phoebe pressed against Mom, she suddenly relaxed like a lost cub finding its den. She threw herself into Mom’s embrace, sobbing. “Sloane, I know what a mother is now.” Mom went completely rigid. She looked at Dad in disbelief. Dad lowered his head, his voice strained. “Sloane sent her to me. She’s her daughter.” My usually forgiving mother suddenly shoved Phoebe away. A hint of disgust and an unspeakable pain twisted her eyebrows. “She… How dare she? Is she back to see if I’m dead yet?” Mom’s voice trembled as she spoke wildly to the confused Phoebe. “Do I owe her something? She stole my life-saving money for men!” “For seven years, she never called, not even when your father was stabbed and bleeding out in the street, waiting to die! She abandoned her own child! Sloane Wallace, it took me seven years to see her wicked nature. I should never have given birth to her!” I knelt before Mom, repeatedly whispering, I’m sorry. Phoebe stood there, clutching the backpack and apologizing, too. Our voices overlapped, as if I was voicing through Phoebe the repentance I never got to speak seven years ago. Dad worriedly rubbed Mom’s chest to help her breathe. Yet, despite their hatred and resentment, they didn’t abandon Phoebe on the doorstep. Mom instead took Phoebe to the bathroom to clean her wounds. The moment she removed Phoebe’s shirt, the coldness in Mom’s eyes dissolved into shock and heart-wrenching pity. Her trembling hand touched Phoebe. The small child had almost no unscarred skin; she was covered in lacerations. “Did Sloane do this?” Her voice was laced with towering rage. Phoebe slowly shook her head. “Sloane protected me.” Mom clearly didn’t believe her, but no matter how angry she was, her hands became even gentler. Then she reached for Phoebe’s dirty backpack, and Phoebe suddenly shrieked. “Don’t touch it! Only Mr. Wallace can touch this backpack!” Phoebe struggled violently, splashing Mom with warm water. Mom quickly soothed her, gently coaxing her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. I won’t touch the backpack. You want to give it to Mr. Wallace, right? He’s right outside the door. You can give it to him yourself.” Dad, who had been listening anxiously outside, watched as Phoebe pleaded and handed him the backpack. He finally took it. “Mr. Wallace, if you open this, my sisters can all come out of the black house.” Because it was wet, the first thing that happened when Dad touched the bag was a pool of blood seeping onto his palm. He frowned uneasily, exchanging a worried glance with Mom. The apprehension in their eyes deepened. Dad’s hand trembled as he pulled open the zipper. A piece of decaying human skin fell out. It had a reddish, butterfly-shaped birthmark. I had that exact mark on my chest. Mom gasped, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow. The phone rang at that moment. Dad mechanically answered the call. It was Miller’s grim voice. “We’ve got a lock on Sloane’s last location. It’s the warehouse where the main suspect from the massive missing persons case seven years ago last vanished.”

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Three years into the substitute marriage—the one I took for her—my husband was arrested for murder. With nowhere else to go, I found myself back at that house. The fake daughter, Stella Reed, was there, wrapped tight in Mother’s embrace, whispering for attention. The atmosphere was thick with awkward silence. Nobody quite knew what to do with me, the thorny piece of returned property. It was my brother, Marcus, who finally broke the tension. He simply pointed toward a small room. Seeing my lack of protest, he narrowed his eyes, a flicker of genuine surprise there. “Marriage certainly calmed your fire, Liz.” “I thought you’d tear the place apart, like you used to.” I managed a slight tug at the corner of my mouth, a polite, practiced smile. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight. It was just that the will to fight them had died. I had surrendered. 1 No one, I suppose, expected the runaway daughter to be returned, used and discarded. The lively air in the main hall instantly chilled. Mother, Veronica, instinctively tightened her arm around Stella, her eyes on me defensive and cold. Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, impatience etched on his face. “You’ve been gone for three years. That guest room was converted into Stella’s music studio ages ago.” He gestured vaguely. “If you insist on staying, there’s that small room available.” He was pointing to the utility space, the cramped spot they used for the retrievers when I first arrived. It was the first power play Marcus had made, seven years ago, the day I was found to be the true Reed heir. I touched the scar beneath my sleeve—an old, jagged souvenir. It hadn’t hurt for years, yet my body still trembled. After learning the truth—that I was the stolen Reed daughter—I’d spent hours online searching for the family. Wealthy, harmonious, and everything my troubled childhood had lacked. My real brother, the society columns promised, was elegant and fiercely protective. He was not the lowlife I’d known who peeked in while I showered and openly discussed marrying me off to an old, lame widower for a dowry. But on the first day, the only welcome was three enormous, pedigree Dobermans that lunged, their jaws wide, tearing at my clothes and flesh. Just as I thought I might die, Marcus, the brother I’d only seen on television, appeared. His voice was utterly devoid of warmth. “In this house, I will only have one sister. Stella.” When I remained silent, he sighed, his impatience returning. “If you don’t want to stay there…” “I’ll take it. Any room.” I rushed the words out, terrified he’d retract the offer and leave me on the curb. The still-healing wounds from the past few days ached faintly as I spoke. Before he could say anything more, I limped toward the small, dark room. His voice followed me. “Look, it’s temporary. We need time to clear out the spare guest suite. Don’t be melodramatic.” I paused, turning back, forcing out a small, placating smile. “No sacrifice needed.” My voice was a mere whisper of gratitude, a truth. But Marcus’s face instantly darkened. “Liz Sutton, are you questioning my arrangement?” “Or are you still bitter about the marriage three years ago? Stella was still in school. We couldn’t very well force her to drop out, could we?” At the mention of the past, my eyes glazed over. Stella had caused a scene at a high-end club, offending someone with serious influence. To settle the issue, the Reeds had proposed a marriage alliance. They just failed to specify which daughter. On my wedding night, I was drugged and delivered to Rhys Albright’s bed. The next morning, the headlines screamed: ‘Adopted Reed Daughter Steals Sister’s Fiancé! The Ungrateful Imposter!’ Dragging my battered body, I’d confronted Marcus, asking why he forced me to take her place, why he had ruined my name. He had no guilt in his eyes. “You lived the life of a Reed for years. It was time to give back.” “Besides, the Albrights are old money and powerful. You married up.” I turned to Mother for help. She mumbled a few platitudes and told me to be a good wife. I thought that even if they didn’t love me, they held some form of affection for me. But how could four years of blood ties compete with eighteen years of shared life with Stella? No sacrifice needed. That was my truth. The utility room, despite its size, was the best, safest space I’d been in for years. The Albright family, forced to take me, the imposter, vented all their fury on me. Rhys, spoiled and entitled, took particular pleasure in my misery. In the beginning, he’d just lock me in the basement, cutting off water and food. Later, the vicious games started on the bed. I remember screaming that I was pregnant, begging him to stop. He only laughed, his hands tightening around my throat. Just hours before his arrest, Rhys had me bound to the bed. When the police finally stormed in, they found me covered in bruises, welts, and lash marks. I retrieved the first-aid box and began treating my wounds with practiced ease. The door burst open. Stella walked in, holding a glass of milk. “How do you have the nerve to come back?” she spat. “Did you hear I’m marrying Owen Kincaid and decide to crash the wedding?” The unexpected mention of Owen’s name sent a fresh, sharp ache through my otherwise numb heart. Owen Kincaid. The boy who was my only sunlight in the old shantytown. We’d sworn we’d attend Crestwood’s best university together. When the Reeds first found me, he was the only person I could confide in. He would defend me, righteously condemning the Reeds’ blindness, even once risking their wrath to warn Stella off. But as he grew closer to Stella, Owen changed. He stopped taking my side. He urged me to ‘be the bigger person,’ to stop ‘competing’ with Stella, the poor adopted girl. He said the Reeds would eventually reward their blood daughter, and that Stella, as an orphan, was at a disadvantage. The irony was crushing: I was the one they publicly labeled the ungrateful foster child, and it was Stella they protected. Even the one person who stood by me had defected. I didn’t understand Owen’s shift, and I was too weary to probe it. The fear of losing my only anchor made me hysterical, leading to screaming arguments. Each fight brought a colder, more distant response from him. When the abuse and torment began, Owen ignored my desperate calls for help. My silence seemed to irritate Stella. She walked toward me and threw the glass of milk. The warm liquid coated my hair and dripped down my face. “I’m warning you, Liz Sutton. I chased you out of the Reed home three years ago.” “I can do it again, now.” Compared to the dark, sustained torment in the Albright house, Stella’s petty act felt insignificant, a mere splash. No humiliation registered. I looked up at her, my eyes flat. “I’m not here to take anything from you.” Before I could finish, Stella didn’t miss a beat, dramatically collapsing to the floor. “Sister!” she cried, tears instantly welling up. “I only came to bring you warm milk because you looked starved!” The rest of the family—who had been in the living room—rushed in. Owen immediately knelt, gently lifting Stella from the floor. Marcus frowned at the white mess on the carpet. “Liz Sutton, I just complimented you on your improved disposition. Are you dropping the act already?” Accusations like this were a staple of my four years in the Reed house. Stella once shattered Mother’s favorite vase. She’d confessed to me, yet she cried and swore I was the culprit. Whenever I argued my innocence, the only reply was the sting of a cane across my palms. Knowing the outcome, I always stubbornly fought back. This time, I was empty. I dropped to my knees, right there on the ruined carpet, facing Stella. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” Before Stella could speak again, I raised a hand and slapped my own face. Hard. I didn’t stop until my mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Stella finally seemed to ‘recover’ from her shock. “Sister, why are you hurting yourself?” she wailed. “Are you trying to make them believe I attacked you? Are you trying to force me out of the house?” She stood up, sobbing loudly. “Fine! I’ll leave the Reeds. I won’t stand in your way anymore!” Marcus instantly chased after her. Owen, however, remained. He pulled a crisp, folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. “Wipe yourself.” “Since you’re back, stop trying to make Stella leave. She’s marrying me in a few days. She won’t be here much longer anyway.” That faint, familiar cedar scent he always wore was now completely drowned out by the sickly-sweet smell of peach—Stella’s signature perfume. The sudden mix made me nauseous. I reached out to take the handkerchief. Instead, Owen bent down, bypassing my hand, and gently wiped the blood from my lip. I flinched, instinctively curling my body inward, protecting my head. My hair, already sticky with milk, smeared with dirt from the floor, made me look even more pathetic. Owen stared at me, his eyes complicated. “Liz, do you really hate me that much?” “Look, you can’t force feelings. If you need anything, just ask.” I forced out the most genuine, placating smile I could manage. “Could you… give me some money?” Disappointment washed over Owen’s face, harsh and immediate. “After all this time, that’s all you want?” The old me had wanted so much: pure motherly love, a doting brother, and a singular, selfless love from him. The current me only wanted enough money to escape. Owen took out his phone, his voice cold. “Unblock me. I’ll transfer the funds.” I hesitated, embarrassment rising. “Could you just give me cash?” His expression immediately turned to ice. “Are you truly that determined to cut me out of your life?” He didn’t hand the money to me. He pulled a handful of thick, crisp bills from his wallet and threw them in my face. By the time I had gathered the cash from the floor, Owen was gone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to add him back. It was that three years in the Albright house had severed every possible connection I had to the outside world. If Rhys’s crime hadn’t been so public, so massive, I wouldn’t have even had a chance to flee. After a quick wash, I took the money, intending to buy painkillers. I didn’t expect Rhys Albright, who should have been in a jail cell, to be waiting in the Reed living room.

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It was right after my family went bankrupt. I saw the group chat on my husband’s phone: [She runs a credit check on my location every day, demands I be home by nine—must be home—no alcohol or smoke smell on me, sets a million ridiculous rules. She treats me like a dog on a leash!] [Now that her family’s lost everything, if she tries to control me or boss me around one more time, I’m filing for divorce!] When I didn’t dare to act out, when I stopped controlling him, and stopped giving him orders, my husband actually pinned me down on the bed, looking utterly wronged. “Why aren’t you checking up on me?” “Why aren’t you giving me orders?” “Did you get a different dog?” 1 Damon Hawthorne walked in the door at nine-oh-one. He was about to step inside when I blocked his way, my arms crossed. “Do you know what time it is?” Damon frowned, a familiar flicker of impatience in his eyes, and glanced down at his watch. “Traffic was backed up, Sloane. I’m one minute late. Isn’t that a bit much?” I scoffed. “You dare to be one minute late today, tomorrow you’ll be ten minutes late, and after that, you’ll start sleeping out all night, won’t you?!” He looked speechless, holding back a retort. After a few tense seconds, he sighed and apologized. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Can I please come in now?” My temper flared up fast, but it always settled just as quickly. “Fine. I’ll let it slide this time. But if you’re late again, you can forget about setting foot in this house!” Just then, my dad called. “Sloane, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?” I rolled my eyes. “Dad, are you serious with the dramatics? Fine. I’ll take the good news.” My father paused, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “Let’s stick to the bad news first. We’re ruined. The company is gone.” I froze, the air knocked out of me. “The good news is we managed to stash a little cash. Your mother, your brother, and I are using it to move overseas. You stay put and build a good life with Damon. He won’t let you down.” “We’ll call you once we’re settled abroad.” And with that, he hung up, leaving me in a state of absolute chaos. Damon emerged from the bathroom, carrying my electric foot spa filled with hot, scented water. He set it down in front of me, knelt, and skillfully removed my socks, easing my feet into the warmth. The soothing heat brought me slowly back to earth. Damon looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I looked back at him, the words tasting like ash. “My family is bankrupt.” Damon seemed unfazed, almost calm. “Your dad’s company has been on the ropes for a while. I put some money in to help him, but the hole was too deep. There was no way to save it.” I couldn’t process it. I stood up, pulled my feet out of the water, and walked straight to the bedroom. 2 I couldn’t sleep. I woke up around 3 AM. Damon was next to me, already asleep, his silk eye mask pulled down over his face. But the screen of his phone on the nightstand flashed. I was wide awake now. I quietly picked up the device. I had forced him to set the password to my birthday, a tiny, petty requirement to make sure he never forgot it. I typed in the numbers and opened the messaging app. The notification was from his group chat with his friends. [Our D-Man finally grew a spine!] I frowned and scrolled up, my heart starting to pound. [I’m so furious!] [I was one minute late coming home today, and she locked me out until I apologized!] [Now that her family’s lost everything, if she tries to control me or boss me around one more time, I’m filing for divorce!] His friends chimed in: [Use this opportunity to fix the Princess’s temper, D-Man. Get your old self back. Prove you’re not whipped.] [Our Hawthorne is a big shot outside, a CEO, and then at home, he’s treated like a servant! She’s running his face in the dirt!] [Once D-Man tames his wife, we can finally get back to those all-nighters, drinking until sunrise.] [Agreed.] [Agreed, plus one.] [….] My hand trembled, but I kept scrolling, tracing back months of conversations. [She’s completely out of line! She actually makes me wash her feet! Treats me like I’m a personal valet!] [When she’s on her period, I’m her punching bag! I just shifted on the sofa next to her and she threw a pillow at me, shouting I was distracting her. I move far away and don’t dare to breathe, and she calls me heartless for not caring. I swear, breathing is a mistake now!] [She doesn’t treat me like a person…] I closed his phone, placing it back on the nightstand, unable to catch my breath. So much resentment. Damon hated me this much. He must despise me and desperately want a divorce. I have nothing now. My parents and brother are gone, and their phones are already unreachable. If he leaves me, what will I do? 3 Damon and I were brought together by a corporate merger—an arranged marriage, pure and simple. Damon had a college sweetheart, a fragile little thing. Their relationship was cut short almost immediately by his mother, who paid the girl a million dollars to disappear overseas. After that, he didn’t date seriously until he took over the company and was pressured into marrying me. He seemed deeply reluctant. I assumed he couldn’t get over the one that got away. I didn’t care. Out of all the suitable heirs in The City, Damon was the best option. He was gorgeous, built like a Greek statue, capable in business, and he was clean—no tacky side-pieces, no scandals. We met once before the wedding, then rushed into the marriage and moved in together. He worked constantly and came home late. Very late. It cut into my beauty sleep. And most of the time, he reeked of alcohol. I hate the smell of alcohol. I never tolerate discomfort. So, I laid down the law: He had to be home by 9 PM. And he couldn’t smell like booze or cigarettes. At first, Damon ignored it. He kept coming home late, smelling like a distillery. Furious, I changed the locks on the front door. He knocked for what felt like an hour before I finally opened it, cold as ice. “Try being late again, or let me smell booze on you, and you won’t get back in.” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. After that, though, he was home every night before nine, clean as a whistle. I began to use him more and more. If I wanted seafood, I only ate the shrimp and crab he’d painstakingly peeled for me. I demanded the foot spa ritual, and he had to bring it to me. The water temperature had to be exactly right; too hot or too cold, and he had to dump it and start over until I approved. When I was in a bad mood during my period, he was the only acceptable target for my fury. My mother had treated my father the exact same way, so I never saw anything wrong with it. But things were different now. Drastically different. I had to change immediately. I couldn’t give Damon any more reasons to despise me. 4 I planned to get up early and make Damon breakfast. But I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. Instead, I woke him up with my groaning. Out of habit, I stretched my foot out. He automatically reached for my sock to put it on. Halfway through, I snapped to attention. Wrong! I couldn’t order him around anymore! I sat bolt upright. I snatched the sock from his hand, forcing a sickly sweet, high-pitched voice. “Honey, I can do it myself.” I’d never called Damon “Honey.” The word left my mouth and made me wince. I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. A flash of pure bewilderment crossed Damon’s eyes. He stared for a few seconds, then simply got out of bed and left the room. When I finished my bathroom routine and walked into the kitchen, a perfect, gourmet breakfast was waiting on the island. He set a glass of freshly squeezed juice in front of me, then dressed quickly, preparing to leave for the office. Before walking out, he walked toward me, a sour look on his face, intending to kiss me. It was another one of my rules: He had to kiss me before leaving. He always obeyed, but he always looked like he’d just been asked to kiss a toad. Now, I couldn’t force him. I pushed him gently away. “You don’t have to force yourself to kiss me, Honey. Go on, you’re going to be late for work.” He stared at me, his expression clearly saying, Let me guess. What’s the catch this time? I urged him to leave again, and only then did he turn. But just as he reached the front door, he spun around and strode back to me. He reached out, cupped my jaw, and kissed me fiercely, aggressively, until I was breathless. He pulled back, wiping his mouth, a look of utter annoyance on his face. “Can you stop playing these little games?” “Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” ??? I was completely lost. Playing coy? What game was I playing? 5 That evening, Damon called me. “I’m meeting some friends tonight. I’ll be back before nine, though.” I rushed to reassure him. “No, no, you don’t have to! You play for as long as you want. It’s totally fine if you don’t come home!” There was a long silence on the other end, and then he hung up. I was being so understanding. Surely, he didn’t hate me now. I didn’t ask the housekeeper to prepare dinner. Instead, I ordered a huge takeout feast—fried chicken and soda. I usually allowed myself one cheat meal a month to keep my figure. I was settled on the sofa, watching a trashy reality show. I heard footsteps outside the door. I thought it was the delivery guy, so I ran to open the door, barefoot. Damon looked at my bare feet, frowned, picked me up, and placed me back on the sofa. He gave me a look of disdain. “Do you really have to be this excited to see me?” I… I glanced at the time. It was only 8 PM. I was confused. “Why are you home so early?” “I thought you were meeting your friends?” He snorted. “Don’t pretend I couldn’t hear the passive-aggression in your voice on the phone.” “What you meant was, ‘I don’t want you to go.’” I was not being passive-aggressive! He didn’t wait for my explanation. He took off his suit jacket, walked to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and started cooking. As I sat on the sofa, Damon’s phone flashed again. The kitchen was out of sight of the living room. I quietly picked up the phone. The message was, predictably, from his friend group. Damon: [She’s pissed. We’ll have to cancel tonight.] His friends: [She’s still acting like that, even after her family went bankrupt?!] [D-Man, what happened? Can you please show some backbone?] Damon: [This is the last time I indulge her, for old times’ sake. Next time she pulls this, I’m getting a divorce!] His friends: [……] [You better mean it.] I nearly blacked out. Wait, what? I was the one who was pissed? 6 Damon’s birthday party was held at his sprawling estate outside the city. Almost every important figure in The City was there. Halfway through the party, a security guard came in and approached me. “Mrs. Hawthorne, there’s a young woman outside who claims to know Mr. Hawthorne, but she doesn’t have an invitation. Should we let her in?” I thought for a moment, then followed the guard out. I recognized the girl immediately: Lily Stone, Damon’s college sweetheart. Lily saw me and looked up, all wide-eyed fragility. “I just wanted to see him for a minute.” In the past, I would have dismissed her without a second thought. I had my family’s empire backing me, giving me the confidence to stand my ground. But now, that was gone. Damon didn’t love me, and he could divorce me at any moment. I didn’t dare let her in. What if Damon still carried a torch for her? What if they rekindled their old flame? The guard looked at me for instruction. I shook my head, then turned and walked back into the party. After a few glasses of champagne, my head felt foggy, so I went upstairs to the private lounge for a rest. When I came back down, I saw Lily had somehow gotten inside. She was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, chatting with Damon. 7 They stood by the window, him handsome, her delicate—a perfect, picture-book couple. Lily must have said something funny because a soft, almost tender smile touched Damon’s lips. It was a look I had never seen him direct at me. An invisible hand gripped my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I took a deep, steadying breath. Calm down, Sloane. You’re not the spoiled Miss Harrington who can throw tantrums anymore. You have to be sweet, generous, and play the part of the perfect wife. I picked up a glass of red wine and walked toward them, my heels clicking deliberately on the marble floor. “Honey,” I said, my voice sweet to the point of nausea, as I naturally looped my arm through Damon’s. “Is this a friend of yours? Why haven’t you introduced me?” Damon’s body went rigid. The smile vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of shock—like he’d just seen a ghost. He probably didn’t expect this reaction. Lily Stone’s face also shifted, but she quickly reverted to her damsel-in-distress persona. “Mrs. Hawthorne, please don’t misunderstand. I… I just haven’t seen Damon in a long time. I wanted to catch up.” “Catch up?” I smiled brighter. “Perfect! I’ll have someone find you a place to sit so we can chat. But, Honey, you’re the star of the show tonight. You can’t spend the whole night with just one guest; you’ll neglect everyone else.” As I spoke, I used undeniable force to pull Damon away from her. The message of proprietorship couldn’t have been clearer. Damon looked down at me, his eyes as complex as an algebraic equation. There was surprise, curiosity, and a strange hint of… excitement? It must be the alcohol. A delusion. I steered him toward a cluster of business partners and then headed to the buffet area. I had just picked up a plate when I saw Lily walking toward me, a look of contrite apology on her face. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I’m so sorry about earlier. I didn’t know you didn’t like that… I just missed him.” I picked up a petite tiramisu, speaking airily. “It’s fine. Friends catching up is perfectly normal.” “Good,” she sighed with relief. “Actually, Damon and I, in college…” Ah, the classic opening. I saw it coming a mile away. I cut her off. “Miss Stone, this petit four is amazing. You should try it.” She blinked, clearly thrown off by my refusal to engage. “Mrs. Haw—I mean, Sloane, I…” “Oh, dear!” My hand suddenly “slipped.” The entire glass of red wine flew out of my grasp and landed squarely on her pristine, white cocktail dress. The crimson liquid bloomed rapidly on the white fabric, looking like a grotesque, beautiful wound. “I am so sorry, Miss Stone,” I gasped, wide-eyed and innocent. “I must have had one too many. My hand just gave out.” Lily’s face turned green, but with so many prominent guests around, she had to grit her teeth and say, “It’s… it’s fine.” “How can it be fine? Such a gorgeous dress, and I ruined it.” I pulled out a napkin, attempting to “help,” only succeeding in smearing the wine deeper into the fabric. Damon heard the commotion and strode over. He saw Lily’s ruined dress and his brow furrowed fiercely. Lily’s eyes welled up instantly. She looked at him, the silent message clear: See? She’s bullying me. My heart tightened. Was he going to defend her? If he dared to humiliate me in front of all these people, I would… I would cry until he regretted it! Instead, Damon simply grabbed my wrist, pulled me aside, and lowered his voice. It was a strange mix of anger and amusement. “Did you do that on purpose?” “Honey, what are you talking about?” I immediately switched to my most fragile, wounded voice, leaning against him. “My head is spinning. I think I really did drink too much…” He looked down at me, his expression a complicated mix of exasperation and a flicker of… endearment? I was definitely too drunk. He sighed, completely ignoring the petrified Lily Stone, and half-carried, half-guided me upstairs. “Are you done with your little scene? I’m taking you to rest.” As we passed his cluster of friends, I clearly heard their sharp intakes of breath. [Holy crap, D-Man just got tamed by his wife? The ex is right there!] [This isn’t fixing her temper; this is throwing his own face on the floor for her to stomp on!] He took me into the lounge and dropped me onto the plush king-sized bed. “Sloane Harrington, what is your endgame here?” He stood over me, his expression thunderous. I decided to double down on my “sweet and weary wife” act. “My endgame? Nothing. I’m tired. I want to sleep.” I rolled over, presenting my back to him, letting my hair convey my innocence. The room was silent for a long time. I could feel his eyes on my back, tracing me like a searchlight. The old me would have leaped up, yelling at him for taking the other woman’s side. But my silence was a new, unexpected weapon. Slam! The door was forcefully shut. He was gone. Good. He was angry. But somehow, not that angry. I slowly climbed off the bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. Silence. I pulled out my phone. I hesitated, then unlocked the one in my hand. I had “accidentally” slipped Damon’s phone from his suit pocket when he was carrying me upstairs. I truly was a genius. The group chat was, predictably, on fire. Brother A: [D-Man, what the hell? The ex shows up, and your wife doesn’t make a scene? She just… let it go?] Brother B: [Let it go? Did you not see the red wine “mishap,” bro? That was surgical. High-level play!] Damon: [She’s changed.] Three words. I could practically see him scowling as he typed them. Brother C: [Changed for the better? Maybe she realized she needs to dial it back.] Damon: [Better my ass! She threw wine on Lily, but she won’t admit it, and she won’t fight me. She never used to do that.] Damon: [When she used to get mad, at least I knew she cared. Now, she’s quiet and compliant, and I have no idea what’s going on.] Damon: [She doesn’t love me, does she? She only married me for the merger, and now that my family is bankrupt, she’s planning to leave me. She’s being nice now so we can have a clean break!] I squinted at the screen. “???” My brain froze for three seconds. What kind of absurd, twisted logic was this man operating on? I was scrambling to save our marriage, and he thought I was preparing for divorce? What in the actual hell was going on?!

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Patrick pointed to the divorce papers resting on the coffee table. “Child support,” he said, tapping the screen with a dismissive fingernail. “I put down five hundred.” I stared at the line of text, the number blurring. “Five hundred? Pat, are you serious?” “It’s enough,” he clipped, sliding his gaze away. “The kid isn’t solely my responsibility, Eliza.” I laughed. A sharp, raw sound that caught in my throat and brought unexpected tears to my eyes. Seven years of marriage. A six-year-old son, Leo. And he declared five hundred dollars was “enough.” “Sign it if you agree, or don’t. It’s up to you.” He stood, snatching his phone off the arm of the sofa. The phone immediately buzzed. A text message notification popped up on the screen. The contact name read: Babe. 1 I didn’t sign the agreement. I told him I needed time to “consider.” Patrick huffed, utterly impatient. “What is there to consider?” “You pull in twelve thousand a month, Pat. Giving your son five hundred dollars for support—does that sound reasonable to you?” “I have to live, too,” he retorted. “Leo has to live, too.” “He’s with you. You take care of his living expenses.” I drew a long, shaky breath, fighting the urge to shatter the cheap glass table between us. “Legally, child support is calculated at twenty to thirty percent of the non-custodial parent’s income. That means you should be paying between twenty-four hundred and thirty-six hundred dollars.” “That’s the law’s suggestion, Eliza. It’s not my obligation.” “The law defines your obligation.” He fell silent, his jaw tight. After a moment, his voice dropped to a low, cold register. “Eliza, don’t push me.” “I’m not pushing you. I’m just demanding what my son is entitled to.” “You want to drag this to court?” “If you refuse to be reasonable, then court is where we’re going.” He glared at me, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them. “Fine. You’ll regret this.” He slammed the front door on his way out. I sank back onto the sofa, staring at the printout. Child support: $500 per month. Leo is six, in the first grade. Tuition for his magnet school is a couple hundred a month, the after-school program is another five hundred, and his weekend tutoring is at least seven hundred. Plus clothes, doctor visits, and just, life. I spend at least two thousand a month on him. He was offering five hundred. I make about forty-five hundred a month. After rent of fifteen hundred, my own basic bills, and Leo’s two thousand… there’s practically nothing left. Patrick makes twelve thousand. After deductions… Wait. Where was his money going? I grabbed my laptop and logged into our joint savings account. Patrick’s direct deposit account. Balance: $1,800. I felt a chill wash over me. He brings home twelve thousand a month. How could he only have eighteen hundred left? I clicked on the transaction history. The most recent transfer: November 28th, $4,000 to “Savannah T.” Memo: Living Expenses. I scrolled up. October 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” September 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” August 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” The 28th of every month. $4,000 on the dot. It had been going on for a full twelve months. My hand clenched around the phone. He gives Savannah four thousand dollars a month for “living expenses.” He would only give his own son five hundred. My phone chimed. It was Patrick. Patrick: If you don’t agree to $500, then it’s $300. I won’t give you another penny. Figure it out. I opened the Venmo app on my phone. 2 The Venmo history was far more detailed than the bank account. I saw the rest of the picture. In addition to the monthly $4,000 wire transfer: November 15th: Tiffany & Co. bracelet, $1,200. November 20th: The Gilded Spoon Bistro, Couple’s Tasting Menu, $180. November 22nd: The Fairmont Hotel, one night stay, $450. October 10th: Prestige Motors, Down payment on a vehicle, $15,000. I clicked on the $15,000 payment detail. It was the down payment for a BMW 330i—a sleek, nearly new model. The total cost was $45,000, with a loan for the remaining $30,000. Owner of the car: Savannah T. I sat there, perfectly still. My body felt heavy, hollowed out. Leo ran out of his room, his hair mussed. “Mom, I’m hungry.” I pulled him onto my lap, hugging him tight. “What do you want?” “Can we get a pizza?” “Absolutely.” I opened the delivery app and ordered a basic medium pepperoni pizza. $28. Then I looked at Patrick’s Venmo history again. November 25th: High-end Steakhouse, Surf-and-Turf Dinner for Two, $350. That very day, I had cooked Leo a cheap box of mac and cheese. It was the end of the month, my paycheck hadn’t cleared, and I only had fifty dollars left in my checking account. I called Patrick. It rang for a long time before he answered. “What do you want?” “Leo’s tutoring fee is due next week. Seven hundred dollars.” “I’m broke.” “What about your paycheck?” “Spent it.” “On what?” He paused for a few seconds. “My money is mine to spend however I choose, Eliza. You don’t get to audit me.” “You still have to cover the kid’s expenses, Pat.” “Didn’t I give you a deposit for living expenses?” “You give me two thousand a month! What am I supposed to do with that?” “Figure it out yourself.” He hung up. I stared at the phone, a strange, hysterical urge to laugh welling up. I wanted to laugh until I wept. Seven years of marriage. Year one: I was pregnant, violently ill. He said he was too busy with work to care for me. Year two: C-section delivery. He stayed at the hospital for two hours, said there was an emergency meeting, and left. Year three: I quit my job to stay home with the baby. He said since I wasn’t working, I was responsible for everything at home. Year four: I wanted to go back to work. He said Leo was too little to be left with strangers. Year five: I found a part-time job, making $3,000 a month. He said it was pitifully small, I should just stay home. Year six: I insisted on working, pushing my salary up to $4,500. He said I still made less than him, so he was the one supporting the family. Year seven: He wanted a divorce. He had been cheating. And he offered $500 for his son. I sent him a text: I’d like to meet Savannah. Can we arrange that? He replied instantly: What are you trying to pull, Eliza? Nothing. Just want to talk. A conversation. Don’t you dare cause trouble. I won’t. He texted me an address. The Riverwalk Residences, Tower 3, Unit 1502. I looked up the complex. Upscale condos. Average price per square foot was astronomical. A hundred-square-meter unit would cost over half a million dollars. Three years ago, Patrick had said we should buy a house. I offered the $20,000 my parents had gifted me for a down payment. He said the money wasn’t enough; we had to wait. We never bought a house. Now I knew why. The money wasn’t the problem. The buyer was the problem. And this was just the beginning. 3 I didn’t go find Savannah. I went to see a lawyer. Ms. Ellis, a sharp, composed woman, reviewed the materials I’d compiled. “The evidence is very strong, Eliza.” “His transfer records to the third party, the car purchase records, the hotel stays—all valid evidence.” “Under marital law, you can demand the return of any community property funds he gifted to a third party during the marriage.” “Twelve months, four thousand a month. That’s forty-eight thousand dollars.” “The fifteen-thousand-dollar down payment on the car also counts as marital property. You can demand that back, too.” “That’s sixty-three thousand dollars total.” “In addition, since he is the party at fault for the dissolution of the marriage, you can demand a larger share of the remaining assets, as well as compensation for emotional distress.” I asked, “And the child support?” “His income is twelve thousand a month. The statutory baseline is twenty to thirty percent, twenty-four hundred to thirty-six hundred. Given Leo’s needs, I recommend we demand thirty-five hundred.” “If he disagrees, we file suit, and the court will set the amount.” I nodded. Ms. Ellis adjusted her glasses. “There’s one other issue.” “What is it?” “Do you have any community assets? A house, a car, joint savings?” “No house. The car he drives was purchased before we were married, and it’s titled only in his name.” “Savings?” “I have about eight thousand in my personal account, from my salary over the last few years. His account…” I showed her the bank statement on my phone. Patrick’s balance: $1,800. Ms. Ellis frowned. “He’s been working for years, making twelve thousand a month. There’s no way he only has eighteen hundred dollars left.” “Where’s the money?” “I have no idea.” “We need to investigate,” she said. “If he’s been liquidating or transferring community property to hide it, the court can penalize him severely.” I left the law firm and drove straight to Patrick’s office building. One of his colleagues, Mike, looked surprised to see me. “Liz? Hey, what are you doing here?” “Looking for Patrick.” “He’s on leave. Said he was taking an impromptu trip.” “A trip where?” “Didn’t say.” I opened my phone and pulled up Patrick’s social media. He had posted a photo yesterday. It was a sunset on a beach, with the back of a woman’s head in the foreground. The caption: Much-needed R&R. I zoomed in on the picture. I could clearly see the bracelet on the woman’s wrist: a David Yurman Cable Bracelet. Retail: $2,500. I had seen that bracelet before. Last month, Patrick had asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I’d suggested a simple, affordable bracelet—maybe a hundred dollars. He’d scoffed. “A hundred dollars? That’s too cheap, Eliza. I’ll get you something nice.” Then he never mentioned it again. Now I knew. He bought it. For Savannah. $2,500. I went home, booted up my old desktop, and logged into Patrick’s email. The password was our wedding anniversary. He hadn’t bothered to change it. There was an unread email from his bank. Dear Patrick J. [Zhou], a transfer of $100,000 from your account ending in 8888 was initiated on October 15th, 2024. Your current balance is $500. I froze. One hundred thousand dollars. Where did he move it? I scrolled further and found the electronic statement. October 15th. Transfer of $100,000. Recipient: Diane J. Diane J. was Patrick’s mother. He had moved the money to his mom. I sat there, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. He had been planning this for months. Liquidate assets, transfer the cash, file for divorce, hide the money, and try to get away with paying me and Leo five hundred dollars a month. My phone rang. It was Patrick. “Eliza, what were you doing at Ms. Ellis’s office?” “You’re spying on me?” “A college buddy works in that building. He saw you.” “I was consulting an attorney about the divorce.” “Consulting what? Just sign the damn papers!” “I won’t sign them.” “Then what do you want?” “I’ll see you in court.” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Go ahead. Sue me. I don’t have any money.” “You have one hundred thousand dollars.” Silence on the other end. After a long time, he spoke. “You went through my email?” “It’s community property, Pat. I have a right to know where our money went.” “That money is my mother’s! It’s not marital property!” “Is that so? We’ll let a judge decide.” I hung up. Leo ran over. “Mom, where’s Dad?” “Dad’s on a work trip, sweetie.” “When is he coming back?” “I don’t know.” Leo looked up at me, his small face serious. “Mom, are you and Dad getting a divorce?” I knelt and pulled him into a desperate hug. “I’m sorry, baby.” “I don’t want you to,” he whimpered. I started to cry, too. But I knew I couldn’t back down. I called Ms. Ellis. 4 Ms. Ellis helped me compile all the evidence. The transaction records, the texts, the hotel bills, the car receipt, the property transfer. It was 127 pages of undeniable fact. She said, “It’s more than enough. We can file.” “How long will this take?” I asked. “If he’s uncooperative, maybe three to six months.” “What about Leo’s support in the meantime?” “We’ll file a motion for temporary orders. The court can mandate he pay interim child support.” “How much?” “Based on the statutory guidelines, likely five to seven thousand dollars a month.” I nodded. Patrick hadn’t contacted me in days. His social media, however, continued to update. Beach, restaurant, hotel, theme park. In the photos, Savannah was beaming. I screenshotted them all. Then I drove to the Riverwalk Residences. Unit 1502. The door was closed. I rang the bell. No answer. I asked the security guard: “Who lives in 1502?” “A couple. The man is in his thirties, the woman is in her twenties.” “When did they move in?” “Two years ago.” Two years ago. Leo was four. Patrick had been “working late” and “traveling for business.” He’d told me I had it easy, staying home with the baby, compared to his corporate grind. Now I knew the truth. He wasn’t grinding. He was here. With Savannah. I waited outside the complex until 8:00 p.m. Patrick’s car—the one he bought before we were married—pulled into the parking garage. Savannah was in the passenger seat. They got out, holding hands, and walked toward the tower lobby. I followed them. I slipped into the elevator just before the doors closed. Patrick’s face went white when he saw me. “Eliza…” “Patrick,” I said, my voice steady. “We need to talk.” Savannah looked from me to him. “Who is this?” “I’m his wife,” I stated clearly. “More accurately, his not-yet-divorced wife.” The elevator opened on the 15th floor. I followed them into 1502. The condo was beautifully decorated. Minimalist, high-end furniture, a massive flat-screen TV in the living room. Everything we were supposed to have. I looked around. “You bought this place, Pat?” Patrick remained silent. “Purchased two years ago. Total price, four hundred thousand. Down payment of one hundred twenty thousand. Loan for two hundred eighty thousand.” “The down payment money? That was our community property.” “The mortgage payments for the last two years—eighteen thousand a year, thirty-six thousand dollars total—also community property.” “One hundred fifty-six thousand dollars, total. I want it back.” Patrick’s face was dark with fury. “Are you crazy? I bought this house! Why would I give you any of it?” “Marital law, Pat. Any property acquired during the marriage with community funds is community property. You gifting this to a third party is the malicious transfer of assets, and I have the right to demand its return.” Savannah shrieked. “That’s a lie! Patrick gave this apartment to me!” I turned to her. “Did you know he had a wife and a six-year-old son?” She looked down, silent. I continued, my voice low and cutting. “Did you know he only offered his son five hundred dollars a month for support?” “But he gave you four thousand a month.” “He bought you a forty-five-thousand-dollar BMW.” “He bought you this half-million-dollar condo.” “Don’t you feel any shame?” Savannah was trembling. Patrick suddenly roared, “Eliza! Enough! You came here to threaten us, didn’t you?” “I’m telling you, it won’t work!” “I bought the place, it’s in my name, and you can’t touch it!” “The money? I don’t have it! Sue me! I won’t give you a single cent!” I looked at him, and a genuine smile touched my lips. “Patrick, you know what my biggest regret is?” “That I was blind enough to marry a man like you.” “Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure you pay for everything.” I turned and walked out. Just before the door clicked shut, I heard Savannah’s muffled sobs and Patrick’s rushed comfort: “Don’t cry, Babe. She’s just trying to scare you.” Three days later, I gave him his surprise. 5 I filed the divorce petition with the court. My demands: Dissolution of marriage. Custody of Leo, with Patrick to pay $3,500 monthly child support. Return of marital assets gifted to a third party, totaling $221,000 (includes apartment down payment, two years of mortgage payments, monthly transfers, and the car down payment). Return of the fraudulently transferred $100,000. $50,000 in damages for emotional distress. The court accepted the case. A week later, Patrick received the summons. He called me, screaming obscenities. “Eliza! You’re completely out of line!” “The apartment, the cash, fifty thousand in damages? Are you trying to steal from me?” I smiled into the phone. “Yes, Pat. I am.” “Don’t push your luck!” “Patrick, I’m asking you: what did I give up for this family over the last seven years?” “When I was pregnant, I went to every doctor’s appointment alone. I was sick, I had to be put on an IV, and I cried in the clinic hallway alone.” “When Leo was born via C-section, you left the hospital after two hours, saying work was more important.” “When I was recovering, your mother stayed for three days and left, saying the city wasn’t comfortable for her.” “And you? You came home after ten p.m. every night, saying you had clients.” “I took care of the kid, the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning—all by myself.” “When Leo spiked a fever at midnight, I held him in line at the emergency room for three hours.” “Where were you? You were with Savannah, watching a movie.” “For seven years, my paycheck—forty-five hundred a month—went entirely toward our family.” “Your paycheck—twelve thousand a month—went entirely toward your mistress.” “Now you want a divorce, and you offer your son five hundred dollars in support.” “Tell me, Patrick. Who is out of line here?” Silence again. After a very long pause, he said, “I admit, I haven’t been a good husband.” “But $221,000—I don’t have that kind of money.” “The apartment is Savannah’s home. I can’t leave her homeless.” “The $100,000 is with my mother; I can’t get it back.” “The best I can do is thirty thousand dollars and three thousand a month for Leo. That’s my absolute final offer.” I laughed again. “Patrick, you know what is the most disgusting thing about you?” “That even now, in this moment, you are prioritizing Savannah.” “You say you can’t leave her homeless.” “Did you once consider leaving your son with enough money to live on?” “When you were sending her four thousand a month, did you know I had fifty dollars left in my bank account?” “When you bought her the twenty-five-hundred-dollar bracelet, did you know I couldn’t afford a hundred-dollar pair of sneakers for myself?” “When you were on vacation with her, did you know I was home alone with a sick child?” “You say you can’t get the hundred thousand back from your mother? That money was mine! Why does your mother get to keep it?” “You say three thousand is your bottom line for child support? The law’s bottom line is twenty-four hundred to thirty-six hundred! What do you think your ‘bottom line’ is worth?” “Patrick, I’ll see you in court.” I hung up. Leo looked at me from the doorway. “Mom, is Dad leaving us?” I knelt and held him tight. “No, sweetheart.” “Daddy still loves you.” It was the biggest lie I’d ever told. But I refused to let my son carry the burden of feeling unloved by his father. No six-year-old deserves that. I started organizing the final documents for the hearing. My phone rang. Ms. Ellis. “Eliza, the opposing counsel contacted me. They want to settle out of court.” “What are the terms?” “They won’t agree to the apartment or the one hundred thousand, but they’re offering thirty thousand cash as compensation, and three thousand a month for child support.” “No.” “He says if you refuse, he’ll drag this out. He claims he has no liquid assets, so even if the court rules against him, there’s nothing to seize.” “Then we drag it out,” I said firmly. “I have time.” Ms. Ellis was silent for a moment. “Eliza, I want you to consider this seriously.” “Litigation is a marathon. It could take six months, maybe a year.” “During that time, you’ll be a single mom, working full-time, under immense stress.” “And even if we win, enforcement is the problem. He’s already moved the assets. The court orders him to pay, he claims he’s broke, and we’re stuck.” “Thirty thousand isn’t a lot, but it’s guaranteed cash. Three thousand is low, but it’s better than five hundred.” “Think about it.” “Ms. Ellis, I don’t want the thirty thousand.” “I want what he legally owes us.” “I need him to understand that there is a severe price for what he did.” “I will not settle.” “Understood. I respect your decision.” I put the phone down and opened my laptop, pulling up more evidence. Patrick’s social media from the last two years: Photos with Savannah—restaurants, movies, theme parks, vacations. Every single photo was screenshotted and dated. Then, I logged into his payment app history. Beyond the monthly $4,000: Weekly dinner dates: averaging $100. Monthly hotel stays: averaging $450. Yearly vacations: averaging $4,000. A conservative estimate: he spent at least $100,000 on Savannah in two years. For me and Leo? Two thousand a month for all of our expenses. I organized the data into a spreadsheet and emailed it to Ms. Ellis. Her reply: Evidence solid. We will win. I put the phone down. Looking out the window, I suddenly remembered our wedding day, seven years ago. He had promised: “Eliza, I will take care of you forever.” I had believed him. Now, I knew better. The day before the hearing, Patrick called me again. “Eliza, let’s meet. Let’s talk this through reasonably.” “There’s nothing left to talk about.” “You have to give me a way out, Eliza!” “Did you ever give me or Leo a way out?” “I know I messed up, but why do you have to ruin me completely?” “I’m not ruining you. You did this to yourself.” “Then what do you want? I can’t give you two hundred twenty-one thousand dollars! I have mortgages, I have to support the….” “Support the what?” I interrupted. “Support Leo? What have you supported?” “I…” “You offered him five hundred dollars a month. That doesn’t even cover a pair of quality sneakers and a winter coat.” “Do you spend time with him? When was the last time you saw him? Six months ago?” “Do you care about him? Did you know he was in the hospital with a fever last week?” “I…” He had no words. I finished for him. “Patrick, I’ll see you in court.” “Wait,” he pleaded. “Let me send you something.” A text notification popped up.

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My reunion with Lincoln Shaw after twelve years came in the most professional of settings: across a mahogany desk, with me acting as the divorce attorney he was trying to hire. “Sloane, I know you despise her, which is exactly why you should help me without hesitation. Once she’s out of the picture, we can finally be together, the way we were meant to be.” I offered a dry, almost imperceptible laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw, but I don’t take cases I’m emotionally conflicted on. And I definitely don’t take your case.” He choked on the refusal. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, a sudden softness crept into his voice, the kind of manipulative nostalgia that used to reel me in. “Sloane, you’ve changed. You used to be the one who couldn’t stand the thought of me being unhappy or hurt.” “Twelve years of erosion can break any kind of love, Lincoln. We’re well past the age for empty romantic gestures.” “You’re truly heartless, aren’t you, Sloane?” Heartless? There was nothing left between us to protect, let alone save. 1 I certainly hadn’t expected to see him again like this. The man across from me, though now in his early forties, still maintained that air of polished, refined charm. But I knew, intimately, what kind of cold, self-serving core lay beneath that perfectly tailored exterior. He showed no surprise at seeing me, which told me everything: he came here looking for me. He wore that expertly crafted mask—half-warm, half-shrewd—as he talked conditions, just as he had when we divorced. His words were soft, yet sharp, like a snake’s tongue—a venomous caress. Every syllable was a carefully hidden strike. “Sloane, I’m getting a divorce, and I want… I want you to handle the case.” He spoke slowly, meticulously tracking my reaction. He was clearly disappointed. He pressed on, a nervous edge to his voice. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m leaving Talia?” “Mr. Shaw, if you’re here to hire counsel, please state your legal requirements. I am not interested in your romantic backstory. My time is extremely valuable, and I have a heavy caseload to manage.” My cool dismissal seemed to actually satisfy him. A flicker of excitement crossed his face. “I knew you still cared.” I rolled my eyes, a gesture he chose to ignore. He was always skilled at ignoring things, particularly people—just as he’d ignored me during the end of our marriage. He continued his self-pitying confession. “It wasn’t until you left that I realized her sweet, charming act was just a façade. Everything she did was to get me to discard you so she could waltz in and claim everything.” “Sloane, you have to help me. You know I was manipulated, misled into divorcing you.” His attempt at a soulful, sincere look made an irrational surge of anger flare up inside me. “Mr. Shaw, please confine your comments to the details relevant to the dissolution of your marriage. I only require your precise demands.” “I want Talia to leave with nothing.” He spat out the terms, then fixed his gaze on me. “You can make it happen. They say you’re the best divorce attorney at this firm.” “You’re mistaken, Mr. Shaw. There are cases I cannot win. Don’t you recall? When I divorced you, I was left with practically nothing, too.” My smile was pure, bitter irony. His face momentarily seized up, a shadow of that old memory passing over him. Lincoln Shaw. After years of playing the benevolent husband, he probably genuinely believed he was a good man. 2 Lincoln was a natural-born entrepreneur, a genius, really. His talent began to show when he was barely out of his teens. I met him at a college track meet. Back then, he was a little solitary, yes, but he hadn’t yet become this crass, calculating man. The story is a cliché: I’d stained my white track shorts, and he was the one who leaned in and mumbled, “Hey, um… your shorts are stained.” He blushed crimson before I did. Mortified and scrambling for a way to hide the disaster, I was saved when he awkwardly pressed a grey hoodie into my hands. “Take this. No one will notice on your walk back.” That hoodie rescued me from an embarrassing moment, but it also plunged me into a whole new storm. Lincoln was the undisputed star of the Business School—the campus golden boy. He was devastatingly handsome, but so consumed by his investment studies that he was utterly uninterested in dating. He was a long-standing campus legend of singlehood. Until he handed me that hoodie. Suddenly, the campus forum exploded. Who is that girl? Looks like she’s in the Law department. So, our God-tier Lincoln likes the delicate, petite type. She’s pretty plain, honestly. Guess the Big Shot’s taste is… different. The private messages started flooding in—some trying to forge a connection, most of them nasty, passive-aggressive jabs. The comments dug into me. I was notorious for being a bookworm, completely inept at relationships. For years, dating hadn’t even registered on my radar. My unhappy childhood had solidified a single, consuming goal: I had to become a lawyer. I refused to end up like my mother, beaten senseless by my father year after year, eventually just existing—crawling—to survive. I’d pleaded with her to divorce him, but she was too terrified. “Sloane, your dad promised he’d kill us both if I ever tried to leave.” She shook when she spoke, fear having calcified her spirit. Once, I called the police on my own, which almost cost my mother her life. After that, he cut me off from school funding. I started collecting scrap paper, taking any summer job I could find, penny-pinching my way through tuition, all to break free from the suffocating mud of that life. I believed I was utterly rational. Love had no place in my life. I didn’t trust it. Then, Lincoln showed up. Under the thread that cruelly exposed my family’s financial struggles, he posted one single reply: A person’s background isn’t a choice, and yet you use it as gossip fodder. You are the ones who should be ashamed. His comment ignited a firestorm. A new topic erupted: The Great Lincoln had engaged in a campus forum debate. His influence was immense. The people who’d been criticizing and mocking me actually started sending apologies. I didn’t reply to any of them. My time was too scarce. I was in a race against the clock to excel in my studies. A few days later, a text popped up: Can we talk? This is Lincoln Shaw. Lincoln again. A headache started throbbing. Since I’d gotten tangled up with him, my world felt unnecessarily complicated. Finally, I accepted the connection. Some things, I decided, had to be cleared up. When we met, he held a bouquet of red roses, offering a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know if you liked flowers. I hope it wasn’t presumptuous. But this is my way of showing I’m sincere.” The crimson roses were vibrant, and they sent a strange little ripple through my carefully guarded heart. That day, we didn’t discuss much beyond his apology for the unsolicited trouble I’d faced because of him. Yet, I distinctly felt my pulse accelerating. I started anticipating his messages, even posting meaningless updates on my social media—a totally new behavior for me. My roommate, June, noticed and watched me with a raised eyebrow. “Well, look at you. Looks like someone’s heart is blossoming.” 3 Lincoln commented on every post. He seemed incredibly knowledgeable. Eventually, I even risked posting a difficult legal question on my feed, and he’d respond with one or two profoundly insightful suggestions. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit, a true soulmate. I couldn’t ignore his presence anymore. But June brought me back to reality with a cold dose of water. “Sloane, sometimes soulmate connection can’t conquer family ties. Do you even know what Lincoln’s family does?” What does Lincoln’s family do? I froze. I didn’t know. I only knew he was affluent. His posts featured photos of global travel; his clothes were high-end. I’d always assumed he was rewarding himself with the profits of his first entrepreneurial successes. But June shook her head. “Naive Sloane. A genius can’t win without massive capital backing, too.” I felt a suffocating tightness in my chest. I managed a strained, weak smile. “June, I’m not pursuing anything with him.” I meant it. I couldn’t dare to. With my broken family, even if Lincoln truly loved me, what good would it do? Besides, he hadn’t actually said he loved me. Reality told me he was probably just trying to make amends for the mess his attention had caused me. That stunning bouquet of roses eventually dried out. I preserved them, still deep red, but lifeless. I realized it was a beautiful illusion, a mirage in a glass. I pressed the dry flowers into a bookmark and listed it on a second-hand marketplace. A day later, a buyer contacted me. He offered double the price but insisted on an in-person exchange. The money tempted me, but I was hesitant about meeting a stranger. Safety was a concern. Finally, I suggested a compromise: we could meet at the busy coffee shop across from the university. No risk there. The buyer agreed instantly. I was stunned when I arrived and saw Lincoln waiting. He saw the bookmark in my hand, sent the payment via Venmo without a word, and then looked at me, his eyes gentle. “I never realized how clever you are with your hands. Now, this bouquet has a new meaning.” The roses he’d given me had circled back to him. Even later, after we married, that bookmark hung framed on our wall. But just like that object, even the most cherished thing becomes stale and unexciting after you look at it for too long. After that meeting, Lincoln started asking me out to coffee and dinner constantly. I exhausted every possible excuse to avoid him, but he was relentlessly persistent. When we finally met again, he cut straight to the chase. “Sloane Reynolds, are you trying to avoid me?” I couldn’t speak, guilt making me flustered. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to be direct. “What exactly do you want, Lincoln?” He looked momentarily lost for words. Then, he answered with some difficulty. “I thought you knew. I’m trying to court you.” I froze. He’d just said it, plainly and simply. A rush of pure, unadulterated joy slammed into me. My heart hammered against my ribs. Years later, I would still think about that afternoon, and feel a pang of that first exquisite thrill. But the irreparable fissure of what we became would always follow. Seeing my silence, he pressed, “Is there something I’m doing wrong that stops you from accepting my feelings?” “Sloane, you can reject me, but I’ll keep trying until I win you over.” “I truly only want to be with you, until the end. We’ll be together, forever and ever.” 4 Lincoln lied. His family vehemently disapproved of our relationship and promptly cut him off. He was literally kicked out of their penthouse. His mother looked at me with open contempt and scoffed, “A girl like her is just a fleeting crush. This love will lead nowhere.” Lincoln refused to believe her. He used the connections and small amount of seed money he had to invest aggressively, and, astonishingly, he carved out a successful path for himself. Then, he set his sights on the international market. During this time, we were inseparable. I was moved. He’d practically rebuilt his life for me. “I want you to know that I can support you just fine, even without them,” he promised. To give me peace of mind, he found a lawyer for my mother and forced my father into a divorce. My mother moved near my university and lived with us. Lincoln even helped her set up a small boutique shop. It felt like our lives had finally turned a corner. My mother adored Lincoln. “Your taste in men is so much better than mine, honey.” My heart swelled with a secret sweetness. A voice in my head argued against the whole world: If there is only one genuinely good man in this universe, it’s Lincoln Shaw. But Lincoln was struggling. He was sleeping only two hours a night, his work schedule a crushing cycle. He was visibly wasting away. During those rare moments, he’d hold me tight and repeat his vow, “Sloane, as long as you’re by my side, I can handle anything.” Yet, this man, who supposedly loved me so fiercely, cheated on me just three years into our marriage. It was with an intern from his company—a nervous, timid girl who seemed like the last person Lincoln would ever notice. The bitter irony? I was the one who kept her on staff. She’d applied for an executive assistant position, but her English skills were poor, and she booked a crucial meeting at the wrong time. Lincoln flew into a rage. “Who hired this deadweight? This blunder is costing us thousands! Who’s going to pay?” He spotted me, then slumped into my arms, the picture of aggrieved exhaustion. He held me, complaining, “I’m furious. How can a person be so utterly incompetent?” I saw Talia Vance cowering in a corner, trembling, and I saw a flash of my former self. I couldn’t help but defend her. “Maybe she just wasn’t ready for that position. Let her move to a different role to train, and she can come back later.” Lincoln was furious and gave me the cold shoulder for an entire day. “You think everyone is as driven as you are? That girl has no ambition. She doesn’t belong in my company.” “But I started out just as anxious and timid as she is! Lincoln, you’re the golden boy. You don’t understand how long it takes for the rest of us to recover from one small mistake.” That single sentence stuck in his mind. It also became the knife he eventually used to stab me. He started giving Talia a second chance. He would occasionally mention her to me: “The girl has potential. She just needs confidence. She could be a star someday.” His focus on her began to intensify. He even coached her through a project during our movie date. When the movie ended, he offered an apologetic smile. “Her project is actually really promising, just a little rough around the edges. Sorry, Sloane. I lost track of time when I got into work.” I told him it was fine, that I should be understanding. They were working hard. Until our anniversary. I went to the office to surprise Lincoln, who claimed he was working late. The staff who saw me had a strange, knowing look in their eyes. A woman’s intuition is rarely wrong. I walked quickly to Lincoln’s corner office. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard Talia’s sugary, breathless voice: “Oh, Lincoln, stop it. You’re being naughty. I can’t—”

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I was born a human polygraph machine. No one, not even the most seasoned manipulator, could stand before me and successfully lie. I was eight years old when the head of the group home—a man named Mr. Thompson—stood on stage, weeping into the microphone. “Funding is tight, children,” he choked out, his voice thick with fake despair. “We all need to tighten our belts. We can only afford meat once every three months from now on.” I immediately pointed a finger at his blotchy face. “That’s a load of crap!” I yelled. “You just bought your mistress a brand-new, six-figure SUV last month using the foundation’s charity funds! Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” The man’s face went from ashen to a deep, toxic purple. He was arrested for embezzlement a week later. When I was twelve, a seemingly perfect, well-dressed couple came to adopt. All the other girls were frantically pasting on their sweetest smiles, trying to look perfectly obedient. I just stared at the man. Then, I grabbed the closest thing—a broom—and slammed it down on his polished wingtip shoes. “The woman next to you isn’t your wife! She’s a paid actress!” “You’re not married, but you’re here to adopt a little girl? What kind of sick predator are you? Get out, you pervert!” The man scurried out of there, practically wetting himself. He was later apprehended and booked for a series of sickening crimes. After that, no one dared to pull any fast ones in front of me. Eventually, my birth parents, the Caldwells, came to take me back to their sprawling estate. The girl who had stolen my identity for the last two decades, Lila Reed, rushed up to me, tears welling in her impossibly wide, beautiful eyes. “Rhia, you’re finally home! This is wonderful!” she cried, clutching my hand. “We’re a family now. We have to promise to get along. No drama, okay?” I only needed one look at her face before I spoke, my voice cold and flat. “Your pupils just blew wide, your heart rate spiked—I’d guess a frantic 150—and that tiny, involuntary tremor in your right pinky? That’s pure adrenaline signaling deceit.” “Every single part of that was a lie.” “You’re happy to see me?” “Stop the theatrics, Lila. You’re trying to con a con artist.” 1 Lila’s porcelain face flushed white, then crimson, then a dangerous, angry red. “Rhia… how could you say that?” she stammered, her expression dissolving into fragile misery. “I truly am happy to have you back.” My mother immediately stepped in, wrapping an arm protectively around Lila’s shoulders, shooting me a look of deep disapproval. “Rhiannon, your language is awful! Lila is making an effort here, and you’re just being difficult and overly sensitive!” My father’s face was set in a deep scowl. “It was a nurse’s mistake twenty years ago, Rhia. Lila had nothing to do with it.” “She has been a kind, obedient, and devoted daughter to us all these years. She is a Caldwell in every way that matters.” “You were born to us; she was raised by us. We won’t choose sides. Now that you’re home, we won’t just send her away. We expect you to be the bigger person. Show some grace.” I scoffed, my eyes raking over the two strangers who were biologically my parents. “Of course Lila isn’t happy I’m back! That’s just human nature! No one likes to have their life interrupted, their title revoked.” “Unsolicited kindness is usually a cover for malice. Don’t try to play this fake, sweet-family drama in front of me. It’s making me sick.” My parents’ faces tightened with visible displeasure, their eyes betraying a carefully concealed layer of disgust. They clearly saw their biological daughter as coarse, wild, and utterly lacking in the polish of the upper class—like some street urchin they’d scraped off the curb. The House Manager, a slick man named Franklin, approached me, his demeanor overly deferential. “Miss Rhiannon, your room is ready. Everything is brand new. I assure you, you will be very comfortable.” I didn’t move. I simply watched him for two slow seconds before walking past him and into the opulent bedroom. When I re-emerged, I was holding a discreetly placed listening device and a tiny pinhole camera. “Is this what you meant by ‘comfortable,’ Franklin? Talk. Who told you to bug my room?” Franklin dropped instantly to his knees, his eyes wide with terror, then shot a desperate look toward Lila. “Miss Lila, you have to say something! You told me to—” “You’re lying!” Lila shrieked, cutting him off instantly. “Mom! Dad! He’s trying to blame me!” “How could I possibly do something like this the moment my sister gets home?” My mother was already moving to comfort Lila. My father frowned deeply, addressing me. “Rhiannon, maybe Franklin was concerned for your safety and wanted to keep an eye out for you?” “He’s served this family for twenty years. He’s earned our loyalty. This is a small thing. Don’t make a scene.” “A small thing?” I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Invading my privacy is a ‘small thing’? We can either fire him, or we can call the police. You choose.” My parents, unwilling to risk a media scandal, had Franklin pack his bags and disappear by the morning. After that, everyone in the Caldwell house treated me with hushed caution. No one dared to be two-faced again. But my parents’ expressions were even more distant, more annoyed. “You’re internally cursing me right now, aren’t you? You think I’m an absolute nightmare, a disruptive force?” I simply smiled, completely uncaring. “Good. That’s who I am. Get used to it.” 2 That evening, Preston Mills, the man I was promised to since birth, arrived at the house. The Caldwell and Mills families were old money, long-time associates. But while the Caldwells had flourished, the Mills fortune had shrunk. Fortunately, my parents weren’t completely mercenary; they hadn’t broken the engagement, and Dad had even given Preston a seat as an independent director at the Caldwell Group. Preston was handsome and polished, his face fixed in a flawlessly charming, gentle smile. “Rhia, welcome home. When should we set the date?” he said, stepping forward. “I promise you, I will make you the happiest woman in the world.” I crossed my arms and slowly appraised him. “Your cadence is steady, like an AI narrator—completely devoid of real emotion. You subtly adjusted your cufflink before shaking hands, a classic sign of over-compensating for internal anxiety.” “Preston, the deception level of those few sentences is hovering at about 99%. I think the only thing that wasn’t a lie was the period at the end.” I wasn’t in the mood to spar. “There’s no need to force this. A strong marriage needs more than a family contract. You can’t squeeze juice from a rock.” I glanced at Lila, who was conspicuously listening in, her ears practically perked up. “You and Lila are clearly more familiar with each other. I won’t steal your thunder. I’m giving the engagement to her.” A sudden, brilliant flicker of naked desire and hope flashed in Lila’s eyes as she turned expectantly toward Preston. Preston’s face tightened for a fraction of a second, but then he quickly shifted his gaze back to me, his tone suddenly resolute, utterly sincere. “Rhia, you misunderstand! I meant every word I just said! They came straight from the heart.” “Lila is like a sister to me, nothing more. I have never felt anything romantic for her. It’s you I’m falling for. We were betrothed at birth—this is fate!” He grew more animated, even reaching out to grab my hand. “To be honest, before you even came home, I used to dream about a girl. Her face, her profile… it was exactly like yours! This is destiny, Rhia…” I dodged his clammy reach and picked up the hot cup of Earl Grey tea on the side table. Without a second thought, I tossed the contents right in his face. “Shut up! Those cheesy lines are so old I nearly choked on my own spit!” “Stop using your canned, manipulative lines on me. I don’t buy the fantasy.” Preston, spluttering and soaked, immediately backed away, his suave performance shattered. Lila glared at me, her eyes burning with a hateful, poisonous jealousy. Yet, despite my blatant rejection and hostility, Preston still insisted on marrying me. This man was persistent, and behind that persistence, there was clearly something rotten. Luckily, I had a contingency plan. Why didn’t I call the police on Franklin the House Manager? Not out of mercy, but because I needed him. Though he was gone, I knew he had allies in the staff. I’d given him a hefty payment to have his contacts discreetly plant a micro-camera and a listening device in Lila’s room. This was an eye for an eye. Sure enough, that night, a shifty-eyed Preston snuck into Lila’s bedroom. The couple immediately fell into a furious tangle, the massive bed shaking violently. Afterward, the dogs started plotting. “Preston, baby, you don’t love me anymore, do you? Why are you still trying to marry that freak?” Preston chuckled, a cold, snake-like sound. “Of course I love you.” “But Rhiannon is the official heir to the Caldwell fortune. I have to marry her first, get the family’s assets firmly in my grasp!” “Once I have the papers signed, I’ll dump her instantly! Then, the entire Caldwell empire, and you, will be mine!” “Lila, you won’t feel guilty, will you? Once it’s done, not only will Rhiannon be out, but I’ll make sure your adoptive parents are dealt with too!” “Total cleanup. No loose ends.” Lila nestled against his chest, her voice laced with greed and venom. “Of course not! I hate those old fools!” “This was all supposed to be mine! Who is Rhiannon to come back and steal it? They never should have found her! I hate every single person in this family!” I listened to their vicious planning, a cold smile forming on my lips. Trying to run a con on a human lie detector? Game on.

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I was pulling an all-nighter on the Q3 performance review deck when Seraphina called to break up with me for the Nth time. “Rhys Sullivan, you have twenty minutes to get to The Astor Lounge and beg my forgiveness, or we’re finished.” I shattered. “The review is crucial for my promotion, Sera. Can you please pick another day to throw a fit?” Her voice was light, dismissive. “A fit? I see. So your job is more important than I am. Then let’s break up.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and I’m a very petty person. Undoing your promotion would only take one phone call.” I slammed the phone down, but a row of pop-up comments appeared in my periphery. 【The female lead won’t actually follow through on the threat, will she? She wants to surprise him; she secretly greenlit his promotion weeks ago.】 【Just show her you’re willing to sacrifice the job for her, and she’ll hand him the CEO position. She’d never ruin his career.】 【That’s how we avoidant types are. We say no, but we desperately want it. He just needs to hold on and never let go.】 【She’s waiting by the door, ready to take a taxi to the club and console him. Toxic-sweet angst is the best ship.】 Doubt crept in. I almost grabbed my jacket to rush out, but a text popped up. “Heard Mr. Sullivan’s promotion is off the table. Interested in a change of scenery?” 1 I stared at the odd message, replaying the text thread in my head. The name was only a pair of stylized wings. I was certain it wasn’t a prank, but I had no idea who it was. Sera trying to test me with a burner phone? I quickly dismissed the thought. Sera was too arrogant for such a petty move. Ten years. Ten years of dating, and it had always been me who caved, me who apologized, me who came running. We’d acted out this exact taxi-to-the-rescue scene countless times. My unwavering devotion had given her absolute impunity. So, who was it? The pop-ups had the answer. 【The female lead’s arch-rival is trying to poach her man! The rival overheard the breakup call in the bar’s restroom and immediately contacted the male lead. Fast move.】 【The male lead is Sera’s lover, but also Kingston Global’s rising star. Vivian Sharpe, the rival CEO, needs to poach him.】 【Seriously, the floor above, are you going to pretend that CEO Vivian, who daydreams about the male lead, isn’t doing this for private reasons?】 I narrowed my eyes. Vivian Sharpe. I had led the team that beat Sharpe Dynamics in the last bid. At the celebratory cocktail party afterward, someone had tried to broker a friendly exchange, suggesting we connect for future ‘collaboration.’ She hadn’t even looked at me. I stood there, smiling until my face hurt, before she finally, coldly, offered her phone for a scan. I’d assumed she deleted my contact the second she got home. Turns out she hadn’t. Still, I only believed half of what the pop-ups said. Sera never hid our relationship, but she always treated me like a lower-tier employee in public. To outsiders, I was just her cheap corporate conquest, a pet project she’d plucked from the field. Vivian Sharpe’s favorite barb, aimed at Sera, was always, “Only Kingston would hire a low-level pawn just for free sex. Such a shrewd businesswoman.” Vivian looked down on me. Her olive branch was nothing more than a move to spite Sera. I skipped past her name and saw a voice message from Sera’s assistant, Molly. “Rhys, you need to get here now. Ms. Kingston is drunk and refusing to leave.” She also sent a video of Sera being dramatic. I hesitated. I was about to change out of my sweatpants when I froze. Leo Albright’s unmistakable, childish laugh was clearly audible at the thirty-second mark. 【The female lead is pulling this stunt again. She deliberately called the male second lead to make the male lead jealous.】 【The male lead always falls for it! Every time she scares him, he doubles down.】 【Go now, male lead! I’ll bet my premium subscription that if you apologize and console her, she’ll be waiting on her knees for your little riding crop later tonight.】 【I totally get Sera. Watching my boyfriend suffer because I threatened to break up makes me feel so loved and wanted.】 I was stunned. The pop-ups weren’t a hallucination. They were right. The ‘male lead’ was me; the ‘female lead’ was Sera. She was exactly as they described—always provoking a fight, always expecting me to rush back. If I didn’t, she’d enlist everyone around her to force me. But even if I did go, she wouldn’t immediately relent. The last time, I took a red-eye train all night to her side. When I walked in, exhausted and dust-covered, she didn’t even look at me, instead clinging tightly to Leo Albright. “Who told you to call him? Didn’t he have the spine to stick to the breakup?” Yet, the next second, her body would betray her, pulling me in and walking me out. That night, she clung to me for hours. The next day, she bought me a watch and booked a trip, compensating me tenfold. I once asked her if she was ever worried I would leave after all the emotional abuse. She buried her head against my chest, a small child seeking comfort. “My husband would never leave me over something so small. Rhys, if you take one step toward me, I will always take the remaining ninety-nine.” But what she didn’t know was that after being repeatedly abused, I didn’t want to take even one step anymore. I was too tired for this exhausting kind of love. When I didn’t reply, Molly kept calling. I was still waffling, considering whether to give in one last time, when a text from Leo came through. “Sera said you don’t need to come. She’s taking me to watch the sunrise!” He followed it up with a video clip. “Sera, if Rhys doesn’t show up, does that mean you’re really breaking up?” Sera chugged her drink. “We broke up. Don’t mention him.” She turned to Leo. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to watch the sunrise with you? Let’s go.” Her eyes flicked toward the camera for a split second. She knew Leo was filming. I took a deep breath, tossed the phone onto my couch, and turned back to optimize my review deck. Instead of believing the pop-ups that Sera had already approved my promotion, I chose to trust my own competence. I wasn’t Sera or Leo, born with a silver spoon in my mouth. For someone like me, who grew up poor, I had to seize every opportunity myself. 2 Sera never came home that night. I didn’t sleep a wink either. The next day, when I walked into the office with a knot in my stomach, she was already there, impeccably dressed and composed. The oppressive weight of the CEO radiated from her. She was a different person from the drunken, petty woman from the night before. I nervously finished my presentation for the executive review panel. When I finished, she clapped along with everyone else. Her gaze was cool, even friendly. I wondered, did my refusal to chase her actually calm her down? The meeting ended, and I noticed small gifts on everyone’s desks. The CFO next to me gasped, eyes shining. “Wow, having a CEO girlfriend is great! Presents for everyone when her man gets promoted!” The admin sister cleared her throat. “That’s the new Executive Assistant’s welcome gift to the staff.” The CFO was shocked. “A limited-edition perfume for a welcome gift for everyone? What new form of rich-kid humiliation is this?” The admin gave me an uneasy look and pulled the CFO aside. “The new assistant is the only son of the Albright Group’s owner. And Ms. Kingston paid for the gifts. She said she was ‘supporting her childhood friend.’” So, Leo Albright. It all clicked into place. Leo had been trying to use a job at Kingston Global as an excuse to get closer to Sera. The Albright family had repeatedly proposed a merger-by-marriage, a power couple linking the two families. Sera had refused because of me. But after one night, she’d given in. She’d hired him for the Executive Office—a place so sacred, even I, her long-term boyfriend, had never been allowed a permanent seat. I fought to block out any thoughts of what might have happened between them the night before. I opened my laptop, ready to work. A colleague told me Sera was looking for me. I had something to discuss with her as well, so I headed straight for the Executive Suite. I walked in and saw Leo sitting on the edge of Sera’s massive desk, his back to me. His body was pressed close to hers. A searing pain shot through my palms. I never thought I would see Sera in such an intimate position with someone else. I cleared my throat. Leo jumped up, startled. He turned, and the smile vanished from his face. He pouted. “You’ve worked here for years. Don’t you know how to knock?” I paused, momentarily stunned. Knocking had never crossed my mind when entering Sera’s office. “My apologies,” I said flatly. “Next time you two are doing something inappropriate, you should remember to close the door.” Sera had been waiting for me to explode, but my words made her face twitch. Still, she remained outwardly composed. “Did you call for me, Ms. Kingston?” “The board has decided to put your promotion on hold,” she replied calmly. Leo shot me a look of triumph. I stared at the tips of my shoes. I’d known it, of course. She hadn’t been bluffing. She had personally stalled my promotion just because I hadn’t groveled. My chest felt like it was crushed by a thousand-pound weight. My eyes stung, but thankfully, the earlier pop-up warnings had prepared me. I managed to remain calm. “Understood.” The silence was deafening. “If you want to fight for it—” I cut her off. “I don’t. If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to work.” I turned sharply, but she called after me. “One more thing. The West Coast project is being reassigned to Leo. You won’t be in charge of it anymore. Please hand over the brief to him today.” I spun back around. “What did you say?” I had poured six months of my life into the West Coast project. I hadn’t taken a day off in months. The pressure had been so immense that I needed medication every night just to get a few hours of sleep. This project was my hope, my lifeblood. I needed it to prove my worth, to show everyone I wasn’t just Sera’s kept man. Sera knew how obsessed I was with it. She had even secretly leveraged her resources to support me. And now, when the project was on the cusp of success, she was giving it to Leo? “Leo just joined the company. He needs a high-profile project to gain a foothold,” she explained. “The West Coast project has a great reputation and is about to deliver results. It’s the perfect training ground for him.” I fought back tears, my voice breaking. “You know this project is everything to me. Why would you do this?” She smiled, a cold, vengeful smile. “I told you, I’m petty and I hold a grudge.” “Besides, I’m the owner. I don’t need your approval to assign work. If you’re unhappy, you’re free to quit anytime.” Leo covered his mouth, stifling a laugh. I glared at both of them. One smug and gleeful, the other poised and unbothered. They both believed I was too pathetic to walk away. “Fine. I quit.” Sera’s smile vanished. She looked at me in disbelief. “Rhys Sullivan,” she snapped, raising her voice. “Don’t think your status as my boyfriend gives you the right to throw a tantrum. Don’t think I won’t let you walk out that door!” I met her cold eyes. “Ms. Kingston, are you forgetting? We broke up.” She was momentarily speechless. Leo, seeing the tension, smirked but feigned concern. “Sera, maybe let’s just forget it. Don’t fight because of me,” he whined, then smiled a little too widely at me. “I’m clumsy. What if I mess up Mr. Sullivan’s hard work?” Sera caressed his head, her voice soft with indulgence. “It doesn’t matter if you mess up. It’s just a small project. Nothing to worry about.” My blood rushed to my head. It took every ounce of strength to keep from lunging at them. My fists were clenched so tightly my palms were bleeding. “A company that uses projects to reward a lover isn’t worth staying at. I’ll consider these last few years of hard work a donation to the dogs.” “Who are you calling a dog?” Leo yelled, furious. I laughed, a harsh, cold sound. “You know who you are.” “Rhys Sullivan!” Sera’s face was ashen. I turned and walked out, not looking back. 3 I stumbled back to my cubicle, feeling like a ghost. I didn’t let the tears fall until I was alone. They came in a torrent. The pop-ups reappeared. 【The male lead is so clueless. Sera was deliberately putting on a show for him. The moment he leaves, she’ll kick Leo out.】 【Sera just wanted to see him jealous and begging, but the male lead is too stubborn. He’d rather quit than swallow his pride.】 【If you date the boss, you have to be subservient. He wants to keep his dignity and the money? That’s wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.】 【The male lead is being ridiculous. Without this job, how will he afford his sick mother’s exorbitant medical bills? Can pride buy medicine?】 They were right. My mother’s life depended on a ridiculously expensive imported drug. Sera’s salary had always kept us afloat. If I couldn’t keep her on the treatment, the only family I had left would be gone. As I worried about the money, Sera sent a text—the first time she had ever reached out first after a fight. “Come apologize to Leo, and I’ll consider giving you back the project.” “I’ll give you Kingston Global’s new project next half, too.” “And your key card. Come get it back.” It was the first time Sera had ever truly backed down. Even the pop-ups were advocating for her. 【The Queen of Conceit is finally humbling herself! God only knows how much the ‘playing hard to get’ girl is struggling right now.】 【As an avoidant, I’m touched. How much love does it take for a stubborn person like her to lower her head? Male lead, treasure this!】 【Other than being a drama queen, Sera is rich, beautiful, and deeply in love. Male lead, tread carefully, or you’ll lose her.】 They had a point. Aside from her theatrics, Sera was a good partner. If I could just tolerate the manipulation, she was everything a man could want. But I refused without hesitation. “I’m submitting my resignation to the HR Director today.” She took a long time to reply. “Are you serious?” “Fine. Don’t ever ask me for help again.” “You’ll regret this. Your beautiful relationship and career, all thrown away because of your stubbornness.” I rested my head on the desk and cried silently. I mourned the decade we’d spent together, and the loss of my career. But I couldn’t accept the way Sera treated me. She had a black hole where her heart should be, and she filled it by tormenting me. I saw no end to the darkness, no way to fix myself inside her warped world. I sent the resignation email, then found Vivian Sharpe’s contact. “Vivian, is your offer still valid?” She replied instantly: “Valid. But not for Sera Kingston’s boyfriend.” Me: “Separated. Resigned.”

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