Author: Momo Chan

After my daughter left for college, I repurposed the two commercial units I owned in the complex into a community kitchen and after-school hub. I hired a designer for a full renovation and bought all new fixtures and furniture, dividing the space into distinct areas for seniors and for children. The pricing was the same for everyone—a flat rate of five dollars per person, help yourself, eat what you need. My intention was twofold: to give the kids of busy parents a safe place to land and to offer lonely, elderly residents a reliable, inexpensive meal and company. Everything was brand new. I hired two professional chefs for the kitchen, and every day at noon, we offered twenty different dishes, three kinds of soup, and five main courses. I truly felt like I was doing something good. Once we opened, business boomed. People loved the chefs’ cooking and were happy with the clean, bright environment. Neighbors would enthusiastically call me ‘Mama Sarah,’ and people from across the country would send gifts after reading about us online. Several students who had gotten better jobs would even make special trips back to visit me. Seeing their smiling faces warmed my heart, making every sacrifice feel worthwhile. Until Owen Maxwell and his family showed up. He walked in with his wife, one of them holding a child’s hand, the other pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. He looked around at the bustling, harmonious scene, his gaze lingering on the community-sent banner that read Trusted Local Service, focusing for a long minute on the words. After a moment, he smiled. 1 The day Owen brought his son, his daughter, and his wife’s physically disabled mother in for registration, I was there personally. He was refined, wearing smart glasses, and his wife, Naomi, also seemed poised and spoke comfortably. I liked them immediately and decided to give them the tour myself. “The latest pickup for the after-school program is midnight,” I explained. “Of course, if there’s a special circumstance, we can arrange for an overnight stay. All our linens are changed daily, professionally cleaned and sanitized. Wi-Fi and utilities are complimentary.” “As for the kitchen, the menus are set by a certified nutritionist. You can choose a custom plate or stick to the daily special. The soup and staple courses are always free refills.” Since it was lunchtime, I took them over to the kitchen for a tasting. The special was three sides and a soup for five dollars. Our most expensive à la carte dish, the BBQ Ribs, was ten dollars—a generous portion. I introduced each item to them. Naomi nodded approvingly, but Owen remained quiet until we passed the restroom. He stopped and pointed to the toilet. “Sarah,” he said, using my first name, “that commode looks like a generic brand. Honestly, they’re often a safety hazard.” I paused. “Really? The contractor recommended it. I’ll call someone to have it replaced right away.” “It’s just that with so many seniors and kids, safety has to be the priority.” His tone lacked emotion, yet it felt strangely authoritative, like a command. I felt a prickle of annoyance but kept my face smooth, smiling and nodding. “You’re absolutely right. My oversight.” He signed up his two children and the elder for the full-service package. Since his wife had a demanding job, he usually handled the drop-offs and pickups. He’d occasionally grab lunch at the kitchen, too. Sometimes on the weekend, he’d even ‘help out,’ chatting with the chefs and scheduling a quick game with other parents in the parking lot. He’d bring in fruit to share with the seniors and kids. Before long, the neighbors were familiar with him, calling him ‘Owen’ or ‘Max.’ “Owen is a Regional Manager for a luxury hotel chain, he’s so knowledgeable.” “I know! He even gave me tips for my job interview.” “Just what you’d expect from a leader. Humble, kind, and genuinely engaging.” So many people praised Owen in their casual conversations that my initial discomfort faded. Maybe that strictness was just the nature of his five-star hospitality background. With a holiday coming up, I planned to pay my staff early and consult with the chefs about a festive menu. In a corner of the hub, Owen was talking to a group of neighbors. It looked lively. Curiosity drew me over. Each person held a document, and Owen was giving a presentation. “Look, we have plenty of grocery stores nearby, and the prices are reasonable. But when it comes to food, confidence is key. Especially in a collective gathering place, we have to prioritize food safety…” His logic was sharp, his pace unhurried. “Local produce isn’t actually expensive. But here at Sarah’s, the serving staff aren’t wearing hairnets. And some of the meat used is frozen, which simply doesn’t meet health standards for a premium service.” One neighbor spoke softly, “But Sarah’s prices are so low, and the food is delicious.” Owen adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. “Affordable, yes, but unsanitary and unhealthy? That’s the real problem. You’re entrusting your children and your parents to this service. If they get sick, that ‘affordability’ will cost you dearly. Since we pay for a service, we have the right to expect normal, healthy food. This isn’t charity from the owner, it’s our right as consumers.” 2 “I noticed the staff didn’t wipe down my table the other day,” another neighbor chimed in. “I told Sarah, and it took the attendant a long time to get over here.” I remembered that incident. It was Children’s Day, and we were swamped with several local preschools. We were short-handed, and the place was packed. I apologized later and gave him a store souvenir. I stopped in my tracks, watching them quietly. It was truly a moment of cold realization, a harsh reality check. I didn’t interrupt them. Instead, I walked to my private office inside the after-school section and pulled out the enrollment agreements. Right there was the section on the meal plan. To prevent future disputes, I had explicitly included a Food Sourcing Disclosure Statement. It clearly stated: “All produce is fresh. Meats may occasionally include quality frozen cuts to maintain low costs. The customer acknowledges and agrees to this sourcing.” Everyone had signed it. … The next day, the neighborhood online group chat was in an uproar like never before. Owen had posted his luxury hotel’s internal food safety guidelines, along with a formal “Proposal for Service & Safety Overhaul of the Community Kitchen & After-School Hub.” The three-thousand-word document covered everything from food handling and restaurant layout to ingredient sourcing and contract terms. He backed every point with screenshots of “expert consultation” and legal precedents. His summary listed four demands. First, he demanded that I stop using any frozen meat and only source fresh, daily-butchered cuts. Second, he demanded I publish a detailed cost breakdown for all ingredients. Third, he demanded I register with the local Food Safety and Regulation Department and obtain all necessary licenses. Fourth, he demanded I conduct professional staff training, hire more employees, and amend the contract to guarantee that I would not suddenly raise prices. The chat filled with agreement. “Total support! I’ve been saying this. My kid is growing, and those chicken tenders must be riddled with bacteria!” “Exactly, we don’t want a scene, we just want our parents and children to eat safely.” “To be honest, I’ve felt like the kitchen food wasn’t healthy for a while now.” “I agree, getting sick would be a nightmare.” I recognized the ID of the person who said the food was “unhealthy.” It was Paige, the neighbor who lived right above me. She had bought a whole tray of our pulled-pork sliders just last night, saying they were a weekend treat for her family. I tossed my phone aside and rubbed my throbbing temples. After the lunchtime rush, I called Owen to meet me. He looked exactly as he did that first day—polished, wearing a suit and shirt, polite and distant. “Sarah, you wanted to see me?” I slid the printed copies of his chat documents across the desk. “Owen, why did you put all this out there without speaking to me first?” He smiled slightly. “Sarah, this isn’t just my idea. I simply voiced what the community was thinking. The group chat is the most efficient and fair way for everyone to express their opinions. It’s transparent, unlike a private conversation.” “Fair and transparent?” I flipped open the document. “You’re demanding fresh, daily-butchered meat and more staff. Where does the cost come from? Did you consider that?” “I apologize.” 3 His expression didn’t change, and his tone remained flat. “That is a cost you, as the business owner, must solve. You can explore other methods of revenue generation or provide premium services.” He made it sound so simple. “I set these prices low because I wanted to ease the financial burden on the community. After calculating my costs, I’m practically breaking even. This is a benefit I’m extending to the residents. Do you know the logistical nightmare involved in obtaining all those licenses and official paperwork you’re demanding?” “I’d have to pay massive fees, and my costs would skyrocket. Did you consider that?” “Sarah!” Owen cut me off. “This is not a benefit.” “When you decided to open this business, you should have figured all of this out. Regardless of how high your costs are, you cannot disregard the residents’ rights.” I was furious. “So, you want to enjoy ridiculously cheap meals, but use the language of consumer rights to make me bear all the cost overruns and legal risk?” “Food safety is non-negotiable.” That hateful smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were ice cold. “You can dress it up with pretty words, but why didn’t you consider these issues when you opened the Hub? Adults must pay the cost of their actions. You’re older than me, you should know that much.” I struggled to remain calm and pulled the signed enrollment agreements from my drawer. “I have contracts. They explicitly address the sourcing of the food. Everyone read and signed this section willingly. They agreed to it.” Owen chuckled, flipping to the page I mentioned. He pointed to the clause, reminding me slowly: “Sarah, did you consult a lawyer? Legally, that kind of clause won’t hold up. Even if they signed it willingly, if this goes to court, your supposed evidence won’t stand.” There was a knock on the door. It was Leo, the neighbor who often bought our leftover meals. Seeing Owen, he looked visibly uncomfortable. “Sarah, I… just wanted to ask if there are any leftover pulled-pork sliders from lunch today?” Before I could answer, Owen jumped in. “Leo, I’m discussing the issues with the kitchen with Sarah right now. Don’t worry, once this is settled, you’ll have much higher quality meat to eat.” Leo’s face lit up with surprise. “Owen, you’re the best! I hope you succeed.” He hurried out, gently closing the door, even giving Owen a discreet thumbs-up—forgetting completely that he came in to buy food. That image hit me like a physical blow. … Their gambit failed. I posted a long message in the group chat, firmly rejecting their so-called “Proposal.” I told them explicitly that I opened the Hub and set the prices out of consideration for the community—a service barely breaking even. I framed it as the convenience and benefit I provided. If they were unhappy, they were free to use the expensive, fully regulated after-school centers nearby, or eat at outside restaurants, or simply stop coming here. In short, I would not concede an inch. The next day, the kitchen and after-school hub were still packed. Only a handful of families stayed away. But plastered to the door of my office was a formal notice. It was a joint statement from the residents, co-signed with a property management company, demanding that I comply with their Proposal, or they would pursue their legal rights. The name signed at the bottom was Owen Maxwell. I ripped the document off the door right in front of the diners and tossed it in the trash. After that, the atmosphere in the Hub died. People stopped talking when I approached, and they deliberately avoided eye contact. 4 Even the college students who came for cheap meals would sneak in and out. My employees, knowing the truth, started posting in the residents’ group chat, condemning the agitators. “What is wrong with you people? Sarah works herself to death, and you know how low her prices are—she barely makes a profit!” “Have you all forgotten how good she’s been to you?” Someone immediately shot back: “Of course, you’ll defend her—you work for her! What does she stand to gain if not profit? She’s not running a charity.” Finally, Owen stepped in to play the ‘mediator.’ He calmly told everyone to stop arguing, then specifically tagged me, demanding a statement. I stayed in the group but refused to respond. I watched them openly strategize about how to force my compliance, how to gather evidence, and how to contact a lawyer. “I’ll take the photos. I go to pick up my son every day, it’s no trouble.” “I’ll reach out to my cousin, he’s a corporate lawyer.” Everyone was eager to participate. Owen was directing the operation, coordinating the strategy. “Also, everyone needs to write a statement emphasizing that you were misled into signing the agreement by the owner.” “I’ve contacted a friend who’s a journalist. They’re very interested in the food safety angle. We can take this to the media if necessary.” Owen made sure to remind everyone: “We must be careful. We are simply defending our rights, not looking for trouble. Be discreet when gathering evidence, avoid being noticed, and record all communications.” Paige, who lived above me, was the most enthusiastic. “Owen, don’t worry, I saved a photo of the hair I found in my food last month. We can use that to prove it’s unsanitary.” I remembered that hair. It was her girlfriend’s, and she had joked at the time that she was glad we all had short hair, or we’d be blamed. She had even laughingly threatened to “extort” me. I drank myself to sleep. When I woke up, their deadline had passed. I hadn’t done a thing. Then, they sued me. On the day of the hearing, Owen and a dozen or so residents were there as the plaintiffs. I sat alone at the defense table. The court clerk read the names of the plaintiffs. My gaze swept over the familiar faces—Paige, Leo—and finally settled on Owen. After receiving the summons, the first person I called was an old friend who was a lawyer. He listened to my story, then paced his office, shaking his head in frustration. “I told you years ago not to do these things, Sarah. You can’t build a business on pure goodwill. No good deed goes unpunished.” I banged my hand on the desk. “Tell me the facts.” He fell silent for a moment. “It’s tricky.” He explained that Owen, as an experienced hotel manager, had precisely zeroed in on the service industry’s legal vulnerabilities. The claims he made were, on a legal level, difficult to refute. The clauses I’d written into the contract were, as Owen had suggested, non-compliant and legally invalid. His only advice was private mediation. I would have to concede to their demands, offer them some form of compensation, and they would withdraw the suit. Otherwise, I would face a hefty fine. I hung up the phone, expressionless. Concede? Why should I? I simply messaged the group chat: “See you in court.” The ongoing chatter abruptly stopped for a few seconds. Then, they exploded, tagging me with every kind of insult. Owen, however, sent a single, smug emoji. … The sky on the day of the trial was a heavy, suffocating grey. Owen had invited several reporters and online commentators to observe the proceedings. The gallery was almost completely full. The evidence they compiled was weaponized by Owen’s highly inflammatory testimony and immediately blasted across social media. He and the residents successfully packaged themselves as innocent victims who had mistakenly trusted a negligent, greedy owner. Their carefully curated evidence became daggers aimed straight at me. A barrage of photos detailed how my Hub was unregulated, unsanitary, and unhealthy. Owen read from the residents’ signed affidavits, describing how I had used their urgent need for childcare and low-cost meals to hoodwink them into signing illegal contracts. They accused me of leveraging ‘affordability’ to offer them dangerous food and a substandard environment. Finally, after the lawyers finished, it was the turn of the plaintiff and defendant to speak. Owen, always articulate, was no exception this time. “Your Honor, we didn’t want to go this far. We all live in the same community, we see each other every day, and we all want to build a better home and maintain our health,” he declared. “Not be lured into a financial and health trap.” “The defendant, Sarah Denton, operates under the guise of ‘Mama Sarah,’ basking in online praise, yet in reality, she’s jeopardizing people’s well-being. She weaponized our trust to lead us into a dangerous situation.” “We are not seeking financial damages. We demand an apology, and we demand food safety.” He spoke with forceful conviction, the performance close to tears. The gallery buzzed with sympathy, and the reporters scribbled furiously. My lawyer tried to present the signed contracts again. Owen’s lawyer immediately countered, citing the contract invalidity clause, effectively shutting him down. Just as my lawyer friend had warned, I had no chance of winning this case. From the beginning, I was utterly defeated.

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They say no good deed goes unpunished. I learned that the hard way when a simple act of kindness drove me off the ledge of a high-rise. In my past life, a female colleague told me her father was in critical condition and desperate for surgery funds. Without a second thought, I wired her fifteen thousand dollars and approved a two-month leave of absence. When the day came for repayment, she flipped the script. She blasted me all over social media, claiming I’d sexually harassed her, and demanded seventy-five thousand dollars in damages. I was crucified by the internet. I lost my job. Even my fiancée, the woman I was days away from marrying, looked at me with total disgust. Depression swallowed me whole. I jumped. And then, I woke up. I was back. Back to the exact moment she came to beg for money. She was crying now, a performance that could move mountains and shake the heavens. But I just sat there, cold and detached, downloading a dozen predatory loan apps onto her phone. She likes borrowing money? Fine. Let her borrow until she drowns in it. I have no money for her. And I certainly have no life to spare. 1 I opened my eyes again to the sight of a girl looking at me through a shimmering veil of tears. I glanced up. It was Sienna. The woman who had destroyed my life with nothing but empty words and a innocent face. My arm felt stiff as I checked my watch. June 4th. The exact moment. “Grant? Mr. Miller?” When I didn’t answer immediately, Sienna tested the waters, her voice trembling. I snapped back to reality, locking eyes with her. “Yeah. I’m listening.” “Grant, it’s my dad. He’s in critical condition. The doctors say he needs a liver transplant to survive. If he doesn’t get it…” The tears broke free, rolling down her cheeks like cracks in a porcelain mask. In the last life, this exact display of vulnerability had broken me. Out of sheer humanitarian instinct, I’d lent her the money. When the rest of the office found out, they chipped in, too. I gave her two months off so she could be a dutiful daughter. I never expected her to bite the hand that fed her. When I asked for the money back, she decided the debt was too heavy. So she tried to cancel it by cancelling me. She went online, spinning a tale of workplace harassment, demanding a massive settlement for “emotional distress.” She spoke with such conviction, armed with cropped screenshots and fabricated truths. And then came the line that sealed my coffin: “No girl would ruin her own reputation just to frame a man.” That sentence turned a localized dispute into a nationwide witch hunt. Strangers sent funeral wreaths to my home. They dumped trash at the office entrance. They found my number and called me at 3:00 AM, breathing threats into the receiver. I tried to clarify things, but the truth is boring. Nobody wanted the truth. Even Meredith, my fiancée, accused me of being “improper.” People only believe what they want to believe. The company fired me. My mind shattered. And I ended it all on the pavement below. Thinking about it made the air in the room feel thick, suffocating. I would never let history repeat itself. “Wow. That sounds terrible,” I said, my voice deliberately flat. “So, how many days off do you need?” She blinked, stunned. The coldness of my response wasn’t part of her script. When she didn’t answer, I pressed on. “You are here to ask for time off, right?” Sienna bit her lip, dialing up the fragility in her eyes. “Grant… actually, I wanted to ask if I could borrow some money. The surgery is expensive. We need about fifty thousand.” She dropped her head quickly, perfecting the posture of shame and desperation. Right. I pulled out my phone, opened the app store, and swiveled the screen toward her. Her eyes lit up with anticipation. “Look,” I said, pointing at the screen. “You can use PaydayAdvance. You can get a lump sum pretty fast. Interest isn’t too bad.” “Or there’s QuickCash, and LendTree…” I reached over, took her phone from her hands, and started rapidly downloading every high-interest, predatory loan app I could find. Before I could finish installing the fifth one, she snatched her phone back and fled the office. 2 The next day, Sienna was back in the office. I frowned. Wasn’t she supposed to be at her dying father’s bedside? Why was she still here? I had questions, but I kept them to myself. “Grant, I decided not to take leave yet,” she said, hovering by my desk. “Brody heard about my situation. He was kind enough to help.” Brody. I knew him. The guy was obsessed with Sienna. The entire department knew he was trapped in her orbit. In the last timeline, he was the one fanning the flames of the cyberbullying campaign against me. There was a moment—Sienna had thrown herself into my lap, and when I tried to push her off, she grabbed my wrists. Brody snapped a photo at that exact second. That photo was the “smoking gun.” Evidence, they said. “Good for you,” I said simply, turning to leave. Sienna stepped in front of me, blocking my path. I let my annoyance show. “What now?” “The transplant costs fifty thousand. Brody lent me ten, but I’m still short forty thousand. I’m just a junior associate, Grant. I don’t have that kind of savings.” I looked at her, my expression unreadable. “So you want me to lend it to you? Sienna, I’m getting married next month. Between the down payment on the new condo and the vendor deposits, I’m tapped out.” “Maybe you should go back to those apps.” The condo had been paid for months ago. I just needed an excuse. A wall she couldn’t climb. Her face fell. She looked like she was about to shatter. “You’re… getting married?” She widened her eyes, feigning shock. I nodded. “Yes. Houses in this city aren’t cheap. And weddings are worse. Money is tight.” In my past life, because I’d lent her the money, I couldn’t cover the final costs for the wedding venue. Meredith dumped me on the spot. I tried to explain that I had the money, that I’d just helped a colleague, but Meredith didn’t buy it. In fact, she joined Sienna on a livestream to trash me. This time, Sienna gets nothing. And Meredith? She isn’t getting a ring either. Sienna looked down, disappointed, but then pivoted. “But Grant… I heard your family is wealthy. Could you ask them for fifteen thousand? I promise I’ll work hard. I’ll pay you back. I’ll do anything.” The audacity was breathtaking. My parents’ money was their blood and sweat, not a charity fund for grifters. “I told you,” I said, my voice like ice. “I’m buying a house. My hands are tied.” Seeing that I was an immovable object, she finally retreated. I watched her walk away, a knot of tension tightening in my gut. I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 3 Sure enough, after I refused the money, she vanished for two days. Nobody in the office could reach her. A warning bell went off in my head. What was she planning? I scanned every social media platform—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn. Nothing. No accusations, no hashtags. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But I couldn’t relax. I pulled her personnel file from the secure drive, found her parents’ address in a suburb about two hours away, and grabbed my car keys. I needed to know the truth. When I arrived at the address, I didn’t see a dilapidated shack. I saw a construction fence and a massive sign: FUTURE SITE OF OAK CREEK RETAIL CENTER. A neighbor was watching me from her porch, noticing my confusion. “Looking for the Jiangs?” she called out. “They moved. Developer bought that whole row of houses. Heard they got a payout of nearly half a million. They’re in a condo uptown now.” I froze. So, the destitute family narrative was a lie. “Ma’am, do you happen to know where they moved?” The neighbor was chatty. She spilled everything. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a colleague. “Grant, you need to get back here. Sienna’s mom is in Director Graves’ office.” I didn’t waste a second. I thanked the woman and floored it back to the city. I parked and ran up the stairs. Just as I reached the hallway, I saw Sienna and a middle-aged woman walking out of the Director’s office. I ducked into an alcove near the breakroom. “See?” the mother hissed. “If I didn’t come here and make a scene, they wouldn’t take it seriously. You said this Grant guy was rich and soft. You said he’d pay up if he thought your dad was dying.” She scoffed. “He’s just pretending to be a nice guy. We are getting that fifteen grand out of him one way or another.” “Just… don’t mention the buyout money, Mom.” “I know, I know.” Ha. So it was premeditated. They had marked me as their prey from day one. 4 The moment they left, I was summoned to Director Graves’ office. “Grant, what is going on? Why is a mother crying in my office about you? You’re up for promotion, for God’s sake. We can’t have this kind of noise.” Graves had mentored me. He was tough, but he looked out for his own. “Director, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” “Look, I know they’re looking for a handout. I told them the company has an emergency loan program. But the optics… you need to manage this.” I nodded, thanked him, and left. I walked straight to Conference Room 3. I booked it in the system: Employee 1-on-1: Wellness Check. The office security cameras were undergoing upgrades this week—a blind spot Sienna had exploited in the last timeline. But she didn’t know that Conference Room 3 had a new presentation screen with a built-in webcam and recording function. I activated it. Then I called her. “Meet me in Conference Room 3.” When she walked in, looking like a tragic heroine, I had to physically suppress the rage boiling in my blood. “You know the company offers emergency loans, right?” I said, keeping my voice steady. “If you don’t know the paperwork, I can get HR to help you.” Sienna hesitated, twisting her hands. “But… a loan means I have to pay it back with interest immediately.” And there it was. She never intended to pay back a dime. In the last life, she didn’t just default; she tried to extort me for more. My voice hardened. “What exactly do you want, Sienna? Are you looking for a solution, or are you looking for a free ride?” Panic flickered in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, forcing out a few fresh tears. “No, Grant! It’s just… the bank won’t approve me. The debt is too scary.” I watched the performance. I wondered if she used eye drops before walking in. I glanced through the glass wall. A shadow moved in the hallway. Brody. The stage was set. Just like last time. But this time, I wrote the ending. “Manager… can’t you just help me personally? I’ll work so hard. I’ll remember your kindness forever.” I said nothing. I just stared at her with dead eyes. Thinking my silence was hesitation, she pushed harder. “If I don’t get the money, my dad dies. That’s a human life, Grant.” “There are ten different ways to get money,” I said. “You just want the one that doesn’t require repayment. Why me, Sienna? Why are you fixated on me?” Realizing the guilt trip wasn’t working, her expression shifted. The sorrow evaporated, replaced by manic frustration. She reached into her purse and pulled out a box cutter. She pressed the blade against her own throat, her eyes wild. “Don’t push me! Don’t force me to do this! Just give me a way out!” She was starting the scene. I played along. I threw my hands up, feigning panic, and stepped back. “Whoa! Put it down! I’m just saying no to a loan, there’s no need to hurt yourself!” “I don’t have the money, Sienna! Why don’t you take the company loan?” Seeing my ‘fear,’ she smiled. It was a terrifying switch. She lowered the blade and softened her gaze into something seductive. “Grant… actually, the solution is simple. If you lend me the money… I can do whatever you want.” She began to shrug off her blazer, revealing the thin strap of her camisole underneath. “Wait—don’t take that off.” She didn’t listen. She lunged at me, grabbing my wrist and trying to force my hand onto her chest. Her eyes kept darting to the door. She was waiting for her cue. “One last chance,” she whispered. “Will you lend me the money?” “No.” She gave me a chilling, knowing smile. Then she pulled away, disheveled, and ran out the door. 5 The next morning, the company intranet exploded. An anonymous post on the internal forum rocketed to the top of the trending list. “Marketing Manager Grant Miller uses power to prey on female subordinates. Attempted assault in Conference Room 3. Victim forced to threaten suicide to escape.” Below the text were photos and a short video clip. The photo showed Sienna, clothes disarrayed, struggling in my arms, my hand seemingly on her chest. The video showed her with the box cutter to her throat, crying, begging me not to “force” her. It was a masterclass in editing. A total inversion of reality. It had Brody’s fingerprints all over it. My fiancée, Meredith, heard about it within the hour. Her friend in Accounting sent her the link. She didn’t ask for my side. She just called me, screaming. “I can’t believe you! You’re an animal! I suspected you were useless, but I didn’t think you were a predator!” “I was going to dump you anyway, but since we’ve been together for years… if you sign the new condo over to me as an apology, maybe I won’t tell everyone what a scumbag you are.” I laughed bitterly. There it was. My parents had bought that condo cash. If I put her name on it, it became marital property—or in this case, a settlement. I used to love her. I would have given her the world. But the last life had cured me of that blindness. “We’re done, Meredith,” I said. “We’re breaking up.” I hung up and walked into the office. It was like walking into a riot. “Grant, is it true?” one colleague whispered, horrified. “You always seemed so professional.” “Power corrupts,” another sneered. “Scumbag.” A few people tried to defend me. “Wait for HR. Grant’s not like that.” “Yeah, innocent until proven guilty, right?” But reason is quiet. Outrage is loud. And then Sienna appeared. She looked fragile, broken. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “He tried to… he tried to ruin me,” she sobbed to a group of sympathetic women. “I wanted to die. No girl would use her own dignity to lie about this.” “It took so much courage just to speak up.” The room turned on me instantly. The few defenders went silent. Some of the younger guys looked ready to jump me. “Thank you,” Sienna wept, looking at the mob. “Your support is the only thing keeping me alive.” Security had to step in to clear a path to my desk. Graves called me in immediately. “Grant! I told you to handle it! Is this how you handle it? If this goes external, your career is over. Forget the promotion—you’ll be lucky to avoid jail.” “Director, I’m being framed. I didn’t touch her.” “I know you, Grant. I believe you. But the shareholders don’t know you. The internet doesn’t know you.” “You need evidence. Hard evidence. Or you’re done.” He was giving me a chance. That was all I needed.

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Christmas Eve. Downstairs in the office, nearly half the team had fresh bouquets delivered from their boyfriends. Tessa, my team lead and closest work friend, nudged me with her elbow. “Harper’s man is an actual Art Curator and Rhodes Scholar, not some corporate schmuck like the rest of ours. He knows romance better than anyone, I guarantee it.” I had certainly set the bar high. Two years ago, Rhys Ashworth sent nine hundred ninety-nine velvet crimson roses—enough to fill the entire reception area. Last year, it was a gallery-quality neon art installation spelling out “I Love You,” supposedly embedded with countless pink diamond dust. When it came to public displays of affection, Rhys never let me lose. But this year, my phone was silent. A tomb. I started to panic, convinced something terrible had happened. I cashed in my unused vacation days, booked the first available flight, and crossed half the globe in a single, desperate journey. I was shivering, clutching my worn coat, when I saw him. He was standing beneath a sprawling, snow-dusted Christmas tree right outside his London apartment, kissing another woman. 1 Seeing the familiar angles of his face—the way his brow furrowed in concentration even when he was relaxed—I froze solid. Rhys gently lifted the girl, helping her tie a handwritten wish ribbon onto a branch. “Babe, tomorrow is Christmas.” he whispered, his voice the same soft rumble I’d fallen asleep to on countless video calls. “Santa always makes sure your wishes come true.” The girl’s wide, doe eyes sparkled as she looped her arms around his neck, leaning in to pout. “Will he really make all my wishes come true?” Rhys winked, his hand falling in a casual, possessive slap on her behind. “Of course.” The intimate familiarity of that small, dismissive gesture was a knife twist deep in my gut. I ducked behind the nearest corner, shrinking into the shadowed doorway of a closed bakery. I was a thief, spying on the happiness of my own fiancé and his girlfriend. Tears, hot and unexpected, flooded my eyes. Eight years of a long-distance relationship. This was the first time I had ever checked up on him. The girl giggled, a soft, cloying sound, and playfully tapped her fist on Rhys’s chest. “Now put me down, you big tease.” He steadied her waist with one hand and pressed the back of her head with the other, pulling her close for a deeper, more demanding kiss. I lost it. Fumbling with my phone, I unlocked it. I took a few shallow, shaky breaths to try and level the earthquake in my chest. If he just admits it. If he tells me she’s just a fling, a momentary slip… I can self-destruct later. I can pretend I never saw this. “Rhys, who are you with?” I texted, my thumb hovering over the send button. A familiar jingle rang out from his pocket, just yards away. The girl immediately drew back and complained, her bottom lip stuck out. “Your phone has been going off all night. Which little siren is trying to lure you away now?” She turned her face away dramatically. Rhys instantly held up three fingers in a mock-oath. “Gen, I swear, you’re the only one. Where would I even find anyone else?” He pulled her back into his arms, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I cut off my engagement for you, babe. Been right here with you in London for six years now.” Six years. Eight years we’d been together. And he’d been with her for six of them. A choked laugh escaped me, a ragged, ugly sound. I sank to the snow-dusted ground, my limbs suddenly too heavy to hold me. Tessa’s text popped up on my screen, a cruel reminder of the life I’d left. Tessa: Did you make it to London safe? Tessa: Don’t play too hard with the fiancé, remember work when you get back! 😉 The tears came faster, heavy and burning. My colleagues had helped me pick out a new dress for our “reunion date” and chipped in for a beautiful set of matching leather bracelets. We all thought Rhys would be ecstatic to see me. The voices faded as they moved away. I risked peering around the corner and watched the girl—Gen—take Rhys’s arm. She leaped onto his back with a lightness that felt like a mockery. “Quick, practice carrying me over the threshold for our wedding!” she chirped, delighted, like a little sparrow. Wedding? He was planning to marry her? What, then, did our tumultuous eight years—our promise of marriage—even mean? I booked a cheap, awful hotel room that had a direct sightline to Rhys’s apartment. A quick, painful dive into the art world gossip confirmed the details. The girl’s name was Genevieve, or Gen. She was Rhys’s student. In the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy, they maintained a cool, professional distance. But here, outside, they were co-habitating. They were passionately in love. While the Academy wouldn’t necessarily block a relationship between a Professor and a student, a high-profile curator like Rhys—engaged to one woman while living with and impregnating another—would be finished. I stood at the window for hours in an act of self-flagellation. I watched Rhys gently peel off her clothes. I watched him trace the line of her jaw and kiss her eyelids. The two shadows, obscenely intertwined on the wall, shifted and moved until the yellow light of their window was the only thing burning on the dark street. It burned a hole straight through my chest. Around 4 AM, Rhys finally replied to my text. Rhys: I was at the studio all night, trying to hit a deadline for the gallery. So sorry, Babe, totally forgot to send a proper Christmas blessing to my future wife. He sent a quick $500 Venmo transfer, labeled “For your trouble.” I stared at the cold, clinical number. The pain in my chest was sharp and dense. For every previous holiday, no matter where he was in the world, Rhys had always flown back to me. I used to tease him that he couldn’t live without me. He would nuzzle my neck and whine. “It’s true. The husband can’t live without his wife. Just wait until I finish my post-doc, then we’ll get married. Never separate again.” Five years ago, he earned his PhD. I asked when he was coming home. He told me sheepishly that a friend had convinced him to open a gallery in Paris and he couldn’t leave yet. Three years ago, when the gallery moved to London, I asked again. He mumbled about an adjunct professorship at the Academy. The wedding date kept moving. I grew sensitive, anxious. Was he seeing someone else? To calm my fears, he would video call every Sunday night. But now, scrolling through our messages, his last text was from two weeks ago. After that, it was a long, pathetic solo performance from me. I didn’t touch the Venmo money. My finger tapped the screen lightly. Harper: I’m coming to see you tomorrow for Christmas. The dreaded Rhys is typing… appeared on the screen. It stayed there. For three agonizing hours. He finally sent a cutesy dog meme. Rhys: Oh, I hate the thought of you flying all that way! Let’s just do a long video call. I need my wife rested! Rhys could have chosen to be honest. But he was still hiding. Perhaps I was no longer important enough to warrant the truth. I didn’t give him any more time to prepare. As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, I knocked on his door. When Rhys opened it, his eyes weren’t fully awake. He assumed I was a delivery driver and motioned toward the living room. “Just leave the package on the coffee table.” I followed his gaze. A pink silk teddy—rumpled and tossed carelessly—was draped over the sofa. Acid surged up my throat. My eyes stung violently. “Rhys…” My voice. The man’s spine went instantly rigid. His eyes cleared, snapping into focus. “Harper?” he gasped, astonishment warring with panic. I only nodded, a tiny, numb gesture. The bedroom door clicked open. Gen, wearing only a thin, white bra and panties, walked out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “It’s too loud out here,” she murmured. Rhys’s face drained of color. He scrambled to peel off the sweater he was wearing and quickly wrapped it around her, his eyes darting back to me. His explanation was desperate and hollow. “Harper, this is Gen. She’s my student. She had a terrible fight with her boyfriend and I was worried about her safety, so I let her crash here.” Gen looked instantly pale and pathetic. She bit her lip and eyed me timidly. “Hello, Mrs. Ashworth.” I managed a clipped nod. The forced smile I attempted evaporated immediately. Rhys cooked. He cleared the table, making a feast of French toast and eggs. Eight years. He had finally learned to cook and clean for a woman. Only it wasn’t me. Gen announced she had to leave for class. Rhys immediately reached for his car keys to drive her. I swallowed the rising tide of anger and hurt and looped my arm through his with a cheerful smile. “Take me with you. I’d love to see the campus.” Rhys pulled over one stoplight before the school entrance. Gen quickly avoided his hand as he went to undo her seatbelt, turning to me with forced sweetness. “Thank you, Professor and Mrs. Ashworth, for the lift. I’ll get out here.” She gave Rhys a meaningful, miserable look and then hurried away. Rhys’s eyes were glued to her retreating figure. As if remembering something crucial, he threw his own door open and sprinted after her. My nails bit deeply into my palms. I could taste the metallic tang of blood from where I’d chewed the inside of my mouth. Rhys pulled a hot compress and a small packet of ginger tea from his coat, pressing them into Gen’s hand. His tender, low instructions drifted back on the cold wind. “Remember, the first day is always the worst. Be sure to take care of yourself, okay?” Tears spilled instantly and without warning. I scrubbed them away frantically. Rhys watched her walk through the gates. Only when she was gone did he turn back and seem to remember I was still in the car. He explained in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Gen is an orphan. I’m just a mentor, Harper. It’s a student-professor connection. Please don’t overthink it.” I nodded. Just a mentor. As soon as we walked onto the main quad, we ran into a group of his students. Their eyes bounced between Rhys and me, the tension evident. One of them finally spoke up with a grin. “Is this Professor Ashworth’s American girlfriend?” Before Rhys could answer, I reached into my designer handbag, pulled out a handful of the high-end chocolate truffles I’d bought, and distributed them. “Not his girlfriend, actually,” I corrected, my smile bright and cutting. “His Fiancée.” They looked up, surprised, then started congratulating us, offering their clumsy, enthusiastic well-wishes. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He squeezed my wrist, his voice tight. “Harper, let’s go. I want to show you the chapel.” I waved goodbye to the students with exaggerated warmth, assuring them that our wedding was soon and that they would absolutely be invited. Just around the corner, I saw Gen’s pale, wobbling figure. She dabbed at her eyes and hurried away, a picture of wounded innocence. Rhys turned on me, his voice sharp and cold. “What the hell was that, Harper? What are you trying to pull?” I straightened my back and met the contained fury in his eyes. “Pull? Did we not finally save the money for the wedding? Didn’t you promise we would marry as soon as we had the fifty thousand dollars?” I raised my voice, the final sentence a scream ripped from my chest. “Or is it that you don’t want to marry me anymore? Have you fallen in love with someone else?” My aggression shocked him. His face hardened, and he bit out a single, ugly word. “Shrew.” He took off after Gen. I couldn’t hold the facade any longer. I leaned against the cold stone wall, the fight draining from me, and let the tears flow. My phone started a frantic, non-stop vibration. It was my mother. I hit the answer button. My mother’s sobbing flooded the speaker. “Harper, your father had a sudden brain aneurysm. He needs emergency surgery, now.” “I didn’t want to bother you, but the doctors say he’s critical. I’m afraid I won’t raise the money in time…” The pain in my heart was instantly eclipsed by terror. I quickly opened my savings app to transfer the money. But after entering my password, the screen flashed: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. There should have been exactly $50,000—my entire wedding fund. I tried again, disbelief numbing my fingers. Still insufficient. Trembling, I pulled up the transaction history. Three minutes ago, Rhys had transferred the entire fifty thousand dollar balance out.

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The day I got my license suspended for a DUI, I didn’t panic. My best friend did. In the life before this one—that other timeline where I was too naive to see the knife coming—she had borrowed my car for our annual family memorial trip back home. On a dark, winding road, she hit and killed an octogenarian. She pushed it all onto me, telling the highway patrol I was the one driving. Even my boyfriend stood by her, a willing accomplice providing the perjured testimony that pinned the murder on me. I was torn to shreds—literally. The dead man’s family cornered me, and I died after being stabbed eight times, my soul unable to rest. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the day my childhood friend asked to borrow the car. 1 “Willow, I need your car for the weekend trip back home. Can I just grab your keys?” Sutton Miller, my best friend since kindergarten, saw my frozen silence and must have mistaken it for consent. She reached for my purse, ready to fish out the key fob for the brand-new SUV my dad had just given me last month. The next second, I snapped back into the present. Seeing her hand reaching for my bag, I instinctively snatched it back and clutched it to my chest. “Willow, what the hell? I’m not stealing your stuff. I just need the car keys.” I looked at her, my eyes narrow with a lifetime of paranoia. “No. I’m driving home myself for the memorial this year.” Sutton clearly wasn’t used to hearing the word “no” from me. She frowned, her voice tightening with impatience. “Just take one of the other cars your family owns. You guys have, what, three?” “This is my new car. The one Dad just got me last month. Go ask someone else, Sutton. You can’t borrow mine.” My voice was firm, but before the last word left my mouth, a strong hand ripped my bag away, found the key fob, and tossed it to Sutton. “Willow, why are you being so cheap? It’s just a loan. It’s not like she won’t give it back. Can’t you just take a bus back home for once?” I stared coldly at Dean Thompson, the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend, yet who always, always, backed Sutton up. I had been so blind in the last life, utterly clueless about the affair between these two rats. Sutton and I were best friends, practically sisters. We grew up a few hours apart in the same rural community before my parents moved to the city. Last time, when she asked to borrow the car for the memorial, I hadn’t hesitated. It was brand new, yes, but I handed her the key without a second thought. Then came the tragedy. She hit an eighty-year-old man on a dark country road. There were no cameras in the village, it was late at night, and I hadn’t gotten around to installing a dashcam in the new SUV yet. So she pinned it on me. She somehow got ahold of my driver’s license and planted it at the scene of the accident. The police tracked me down via the license. I was already shaken, ready to explain that the car had been loaned out, when Dean, my boyfriend, stepped up and told the cops I was the one driving. The license was mine. The vehicle was registered to me. The person closest to me testified against me. Any attempt to defend myself was useless. The victim’s family found me and demanded a massive settlement. I refused, protesting my innocence. Seeing my refusal, the furious family swarmed me, pushing me into the highway where I was hit and run over by a semi-truck. There was nothing left. 2 The memory of the asphalt and the crushing weight of the truck—the feeling of that betrayal—was enough to burn through my anger and ignite a cold resolve. I stepped forward, shoved Dean aside, and snatched my bag back. Before he could speak, I snapped, “Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? Whose side are you on? You’re my boyfriend, not hers! Why do you always take her side?” My gaze flickered between them. “Unless… there’s something going on between you two?” I didn’t finish the sentence, but the panic in their eyes was immediate. They had me pegged as their cash cow, the easily manipulated source of money and favors. They weren’t ready to drop the mask just yet. “Willow, how can you even think that? Our twenty years of friendship… is all that worth nothing just because I wanted to borrow your car?” Sutton immediately played the victim, the tears springing up with practiced ease. I shrugged, uncaring. “Say whatever you want. I’m not lending you the car.” “But you can ask him. He has a car. Why are you only focused on borrowing mine?” I pointed to Dean. Dean immediately balked. “No. I need my car to go back to my parents’ place. My dad has bad knees; we need the car.” I let out a cold laugh. “Looks like he won’t lend it either. Guess you’ll have to take the train, Sutton.” I grabbed the keys, spun around, and walked away. After breathing in a few gulps of fresh air, I finally calmed down and drove home, my brow furrowed the whole way. Something still felt wrong. Suddenly, an idea struck me, and I pulled over to the side of the road, opening my State Department of Motor Vehicles app. What I saw made my blood run cold. Unbeknownst to me, when Sutton had borrowed my car before I got the new one, she had racked up driving infractions and used my license to take the points—eleven points in total. My current license was essentially a ticking time bomb. One minor violation, and it would be immediately suspended. I glanced in my side mirror and saw a State Trooper walking toward my car—I’d been stopped for too long on the shoulder. An idea, daring and dangerous, clicked into place. Last time, Sutton had somehow gotten my license and planted it, which led the police directly to me. This time, I absolutely would not allow that to happen. She wants my license to frame me? Fine. I’ll hand it over to the police myself. Now. Let her try to frame a woman who is legally not allowed to drive. I grabbed the household disinfectant spray I kept in the cup holder—the one with a high alcohol content—sprayed it around the car, and then, without hesitation, sprayed a quick mist into my mouth. The Trooper tapped on my window. When I rolled it down, he immediately smelled the sharp, artificial alcohol scent. His expression hardened. He pulled out a breathalyzer. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to blow into this.” I complied, blowing lightly. Seeing the number flash on the screen, the officer immediately stated, “Ma’am, you are over the limit. You’re being charged with a DUI. Please present your driver’s license and registration.” I nodded obediently, handing over the card. I even asked, with genuine, relieved enthusiasm, “A DUI means a six-month license suspension, correct?” The officer looked at my overly cheerful expression, confused, assuming I was in shock. “Now you’re scared, huh? How many times do we have to say it? Don’t drink and drive. You just don’t listen.” “Your license will be suspended for six months, and you’ll be fined one thousand dollars.” I happily paid the fine, surrendered my license, and called a ride-share service to take me home. Lying in my own bed, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. No one could frame me now. My license was already with the state. I told my parents that the new SUV had a major issue and was in the shop, so I couldn’t drive back home for the memorial. Since my family had other vehicles, my dad immediately offered to drive us himself. 3 We set off the day before the memorial, long before dawn. It was about a three-hour drive, so I slept most of the way. I woke up as we pulled up to the old family property. The house was generally empty, only visited during the holidays and for the annual memorial. The three of us spent the entire afternoon cleaning it up. The next morning, my parents and I got up early, gathered our offerings, and prepared to head up the hill. We hadn’t walked far when we noticed a commotion up ahead. I lowered my head and tried to keep walking with my parents, but then someone in the crowd called out my name. “Well, look who it is. If it isn’t Xie’s daughter. Don’t you say hello anymore?” I looked up. It was one of the locals from the community. I only came back a few times a year, and my relationship with these people was purely a nodding acquaintance. I didn’t even know half their names; there was no real need to stop. But since I’d been called out, ignoring them would be rude. I managed a tight smile and was about to move on when someone pulled my arm. “Willow, look at Sutton, though. She brought us all these wonderful gifts. She’s got a car and a nice place in the city, and she’s got such an outstanding boyfriend. You should be more like her.” I walked over and saw Sutton and Dean at the center of the crowd, soaking up the attention. Were they not even trying to hide it anymore? Being addressed as a couple, right out in the open? Sutton saw me and seemed to realize the locals had jumped the gun. She quickly tried to clarify. “Actually, me and Dean are just friends. Please don’t misunderstand.” But the locals didn’t listen, instead chiding her for being shy and trying to keep a big secret like a new relationship. I let out a cold laugh. “Dean, when exactly did you become Sutton’s boyfriend? I must have missed that memo.” Panic flashed in Dean’s eyes. He rushed over and grabbed my sleeve. “Willow, honey, I came all this way specifically to see you. I wouldn’t have even found your family’s place if Sutton hadn’t driven me.” He turned to my parents with a fawning, eager expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Reid, I’m Willow’s boyfriend. I apologize, I haven’t had a chance to buy you proper gifts yet. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you here.” The crowd burst into surprised murmurs. So, they had been the ones who misunderstood! The villager who had been the loudest looked embarrassed and shot a passive-aggressive remark at Sutton. “Oh, so he’s not yours after all? You should have said something sooner. You got us all confused.” Sutton looked mortified. She hadn’t expected the coincidence of me showing up right next to her property and being pulled into the crowd. I yanked my hand out of Dean’s grasp and pressed the attack on Sutton. “Sutton, since when did you buy a place and a car in the city? Why didn’t you tell me?” “You must have spent a fortune on all these gifts.” Sutton was silent for a few seconds before defending herself with self-righteous indignation. “We’re neighbors. We’ve known each other for years. Of course, I should buy them gifts. Willow, you shouldn’t forget where you come from.” The locals, who had just received her gifts, immediately rallied to her defense and started pointing fingers at me. “She’s a city girl now, looking down on the rest of us here in the country.” “I don’t know what her parents taught her. She’s a disgrace to the community.” “Your dad’s old man gave him a basket of eggs when he went off to college! Now he makes money and he forgets everyone!” My family hadn’t done anything, yet in the locals’ mouths, we were the villains. With so many people openly accusing us, my dad was about to step in and defend me when a group of people suddenly burst into Sutton’s yard. “Is Willow Reid here?” The leader’s voice was loud and commanding. Everyone in the yard instantly turned and fell silent. 4 I quickly stepped forward. “Officer, I’m Willow Reid. How can I help you?” The officer studied me, seeming to confirm my identity. “You are a person of interest in a fatal hit-and-run case. We need you to come with us.” My eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s impossible, Officer. I haven’t driven my car in days.” My dad, too, was instantly alarmed. “Absolutely not, Officer! My daughter would never do such a thing!” The officer didn’t argue. He held up a transparent evidence bag containing a blood-smeared driver’s license. “This is your driver’s license. It was recovered at the scene. Whether you were driving or not, we require your cooperation in this investigation.” I looked at the license in the bag, the horrifying realization of their new plan clicking into place. Before I could speak, Sutton stepped forward, her voice dripping with fake sorrow. “Willow, how could you leave the scene? That was someone’s life!” “You always drove too fast. I’ve told you countless times, Willow, why don’t you ever listen?” She sounded so heartbroken, so convincing, that if I wasn’t the victim of her frame-up, I might have been moved. “Wait a minute, Officer, this isn’t right,” my mom suddenly realized. “You said she was involved in a car accident, but my daughter didn’t drive her car home this weekend.” “We did not find the vehicle at the scene, only some fragments of a bumper,” the officer confirmed. At that moment, Dean stepped forward, a smug look of heroic revelation on his face. “I know where the car is!” We all looked at him. A sickening sense of dread welled up inside me. Dean, looking utterly confident, said, “Come with me, officers. I’ll show you where she hid the vehicle.” The group left Sutton’s yard and started walking toward our family property. Dean led the police into our house. Our seldom-used backyard, which was usually cluttered with old junk, now contained an extra vehicle—my SUV. But I had parked that car in my garage at my apartment complex in the city! How did it get here? “Officers, this is the vehicle,” Dean declared, pointing. “Willow was the one driving. She hit the victim, fled the scene, and parked the car here.” “She told me everything. If you had arrived any later, she was planning on driving it further up the mountain to hide it.” Dean’s expression was earnest, but as his eyes met mine, a flicker of triumph crossed them. Everyone, except my parents, who had been with me all day, now looked convinced that I was the killer. “Willow, you should just turn yourself in,” Sutton urged, stepping forward. “It’s the only way to get a lighter sentence.” My parents were completely lost, their minds reeling from the shock. I watched the officers take a step toward me. I had to act, or I would go down for murder again. “Officers, that driver’s license is not mine,” I stated loudly. “I have proof!” Dean and Sutton assumed I was just terrified. Dean pointed to the evidence bag. “Look closer. Your name is right there on it! How can it not be yours?” The officer, however, ignored them and listened to me. He took the license out of the bag and inspected it closely. Then, in front of everyone, he said: “This license is a forgery. It’s fake.

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“Your insurance card. Let me use it for the paperwork.” Derek was lying in the hospital bed, his face a sickly yellow. I looked at him. “The total treatment is going to be around $120,000,” he said. “My coverage won’t touch that.” “What about your savings?” He was silent. I smiled. A slow, cold thing. Married for five years, living AA for five years. He made $6,000 a month; I made $4,500. Mortgage split fifty-fifty. Living expenses split fifty-fifty. I thought it was called fairness. Until today, when I learned the truth— He had saved $220,000. I had saved $8,000. 1 Three days ago, Derek was diagnosed with lung cancer. Mid-stage. The doctor said we needed surgery immediately, followed by aggressive chemotherapy. “What are the likely costs?” I asked. “Surgery and chemo, conservatively, between $100,000 and $120,000.” My mind went instantly blank. A loud, high-pitched ringing. Derek squeezed my hand. “It’s okay, Ava. We’ll face this together.” I nodded. When we got home, I started to crunch the numbers. My savings: $8,300. Credit card limit: $3,000. Total: a little over $11,000. A drop in the bucket. I called my mother, Eleanor. “Mom, Derek’s sick. We might need to borrow some money.” She didn’t hesitate. “Your father and I have $12,000 in the emergency fund. I’ll transfer it tomorrow.” My throat tightened. That evening, Derek’s mother, Lydia, called. “Ava,” his mother’s voice was anxious, “How are you going to treat Derek’s illness?” “Surgery first, then chemo.” “Do you have enough for the expenses?” “I’m working on it.” Lydia paused for a moment. “Your father-in-law and I have $25,000 set aside. It’s all yours.” A wave of warmth washed over me. “Thank you, Lydia.” After hanging up, I added it all up. My parents’ $12,000, his parents’ $25,000, my $11,000. $48,000. Still short by at least $50,000. I looked at Derek. “How much do you have saved?” He hesitated. “I… I’ll have to check my accounts.” “Roughly?” “Maybe… thirty, forty thousand?” Forty thousand, plus the $48,000 we had. That was $88,000. Still short by a third. I sighed. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and see about a personal loan.” Derek didn’t say a word. The next day, I took time off work and rushed between three different banks. The most I could get for a personal loan was $30,000, and the interest rate was brutal. I bit down on my lip and signed the documents. Back at the hospital, Derek was on the phone. “…I know, but now’s not the time… Just leave it there. Don’t touch it…” He quickly ended the call when he saw me walk in. “Who was that?” “A colleague,” he said. “Asking about the diagnosis.” I didn’t think much of it. That evening, I told him about the loan. “$30,000. Thirty-six months to pay it back. It’s going to be $1,000 a month.” Derek frowned. “The interest is that high?” “We don’t have a choice. This is life or death.” He nodded. “Thank you, Ava. I know this is hard.” I took his hand. “We’re husband and wife.” He looked at me, his eyes reddening. In that moment, I felt that our five years of AA, of splitting every bill, had been worth it. At least in a crisis, we were in this fight together. But I didn’t know the real ledger—the one I hadn’t seen yet. 2 The surgery was scheduled for three days later. We needed a $30,000 deposit before they would start the procedure. I transferred the entire $30,000 from the new loan. Once the payment went through, I felt a slight easing of the pressure. Around noon, I went home to grab a change of clothes. Derek’s phone was sitting on the nightstand. The screen lit up. A text notification from an account simply labeled “M.” The message read: “$220,000. Confirmed receipt.” I froze. $220,000? What was $220,000? I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was locked. I tried his birthday. Wrong. I tried our wedding anniversary. Wrong. I tried his mother’s birthday. It opened. I tapped the message thread with “M.” The more I read, the more my hands shook. “Derek, your brokerage account is killing it. Almost double in five years.” “Not bad. Started with $120k. Now it’s $220k.” “Does Ava know?” “No. We’re AA, separate accounts, separate lives. I keep my earnings to myself.” “Smart man. That’s real economic independence.” “Haha. The key is I know how to invest. With her salary, she can’t save much anyway.” I scrolled up. Older messages. “Every month I get my $6,000 paycheck. I send $700 to my mom, put $3,000 into my investment account, and keep $2,300 for myself. It’s perfect.” “What about the mortgage?” “AA, right? She pays half, I pay half. $1,200 each.” “And living expenses?” “Also AA. $600 each.” “So how much does your wife save a month?” “She makes $4,500. $1,200 for the mortgage, $600 for living, $400 for her parents. She spends maybe $800 to $1,000 on herself. She probably saves $1,300 to $1,500.” “So you save $3,700 a month, and she saves $1,500?” “Roughly. But she doesn’t invest, so her money just sits in the bank, earning nothing.” “You’re a piece of work, man.” I put the phone down. My hands were trembling. Five years. He saved $3,700 a month. I saved $1,500 a month. He saved $220,000. I saved $8,000. All because he was a “savvy investor.” And where did my money actually go? I pulled out my own phone and opened my banking app, checking the spending log. Mortgage: $1,200. Check. Living expenses: I realized I paid far more than my $600 share. Groceries, utilities, cleaning supplies, paper towels—I bought all of it. The holiday gifts for his parents, the nice shirts and shoes I bought him. The “joint account” $600 only covered basic produce. Everything else was my personal expense. At least $800 more a month out of my pocket. Plus the $400 for my parents, the travel expenses, and gifts for family gatherings. If I was lucky, I was saving $600 to $800 a month. Five years. I saved $8,000. He saved $220,000. That was his definition of “fairness.” That was AA. I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed out loud. I laughed until the tears started to fall.

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It was Christmas Eve, and I had just finished hand-rolling three hundred pieces of porcini mushroom and ricotta agnolotti. Garrett, my husband, took every single tray and gave them to Lila. Lila was my closest friend—and Garrett’s sister-in-law. 1 We had moved together, trading the genteel charm of Savannah, Georgia, for the high-tech bustle of Seattle, Washington. I married the older brother, Garrett Reed. She married the younger, Owen Reed. Those agnolotti were my favorite, a labor of love Garrett had spent months learning to make when he was courting me, traveling to different Italian chefs across the South to master the delicate dough. He’d called it our exclusive flavor. At seven that evening, the snow was falling outside in heavy, silent drifts. I had just pinched the final piece of pasta closed when Owen called. His voice was strained with a mix of confusion and irritation. “Harper, where is she? Didn’t Lila say she was having dinner at your place tonight? Mom and the whole family are waiting for us back at the estate.” My stomach dropped. I looked back at the empty, meticulously clean kitchen. “Garrett didn’t bring her back? They left here around three this afternoon.” The line went silent for a long moment, then Owen’s voice came back, sharp with suppressed fury. “Garrett took Lila? Where did he take her?” My hands went instantly cold, the dusting of flour on my fingertips feeling like ice crystals. Garrett returned hours later, bringing a blast of the cold night air and a distinct scent of women’s perfume. Lila’s favorite, that cloyingly sweet, hard-to-find artisan scent. “Where are the agnolotti?” I asked him. He shrugged off his expensive, custom-tailored coat, revealing a pristine cashmere sweater. He answered with unnerving ease. “I gave them to Lila. She and Owen are having issues, and she’s barely eating. I wanted her to have a taste of home to cheer her up.” He walked toward me, attempting his usual comforting embrace, but I stepped sideways, dodging him. “Garrett, I spent the entire afternoon making those.” My voice was trembling. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you tell me?” The gentle expression on his face dissolved, replaced by a flash of impatience. “It’s really not a big deal, Harper. Why are you still so small-minded about things?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Lila is the family’s cherished darling. She’s your friend, she’s my sister-in-law. Can’t you just cut her some slack? She moved here from a smaller town, she doesn’t have a support system—if we don’t look out for her, who will?” My eyes instantly stung with tears. And what about me? I moved here from a small town, too. I’m directionally challenged and chronically anxious. In this city, without him, I can barely find my way home. But in his mind, Lila’s sensitivity was a delicate trait; mine was just being small-minded. “She has Owen, she has your parents, she has you—the protective older brother. Who do I have?” I stared him down. “Garrett, I only have you.” My words seemed to sting him. He frustratedly pulled at his tie, took a thick wad of bills from his wallet, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “It was just a meal. I’ll replace it!” “I’ll take you to the most exclusive restaurant in Seattle. Order whatever you want! Stop being so petty over something this trivial. It makes you look like a child.” The cash scattered across the granite, a silent, mocking testament to my wasted hours and high expectations. A wave of nausea hit me, violent and sudden. I rushed to the bathroom, throwing up until I was dry heaving. Garrett followed, but offered no comfort. He just stood in the doorway, watching me with a cold stare. “Harper, have you made your point? You’re going to ruin Lila’s marriage with your pointless jealousy.” “If you keep this up, we have nothing left to talk about.” The door slammed shut behind him, the force of it rattling the wall. I slid down the cold tile, resting against the porcelain. Every bit of strength had been drained from me. Just then, Lila posted on Instagram. A single photo, centered in a nine-square grid. The background was the buttery leather of Garrett’s flashy Porsche 911 Carrera. She was in the passenger seat, smiling a picture of contentment, clutching a sleek insulated food container—the one holding my agnolotti. The caption: Thank you, big brother. You always know exactly what I need. Beneath it, Garrett’s mother, our mother-in-law, was the first to comment: As long as Lila is happy! If Owen gives you any trouble, you tell me. Your Big Brother and I will handle him! The rest of the Reed relatives chimed in: “Our Lila is so resilient. Not like some people who can’t think about anyone but themselves.” “Right? A man’s fortune is made by the wife he chooses. Garrett is truly blessed.” I stared at the blindingly cruel comments, my chest tightening as if an invisible fist were squeezing the air from my lungs. It was clear. In their eyes, I was the one who didn’t belong here. 2 The next morning, Garrett acted as if nothing had happened, bringing breakfast home. “Harp, I was out of line yesterday. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” He softened his voice and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Look, I got you that artisan French pastry you love. It’s still warm.” I didn’t turn around. My voice was as cold as the snow outside. “Garrett, I think we need some time apart.” His arms instantly went rigid. “Harper, what are you talking about? Over a box of pasta?” “Can you please act like an adult? Lila and I truly have a sibling bond. She and Owen are struggling, and it’s my responsibility as the older brother to look out for her.” “I’m just concerned about her. I haven’t done anything to betray you. Do you really need to escalate this to separating?” I finally turned to face him, asking deliberately, “Have you ever considered that your ‘concern’ has crossed into a demolition zone for our boundaries?” “Have you considered how Owen feels? How I feel?” “Does your life, our life, and our marriage, always come second to Lila?” My questions left him speechless, his face cycling from pale white to an angry red. Finally, he exhaled, looking utterly defeated. He sighed wearily. “Fine. I promise. I will keep my distance. No more private meet-ups outside of family functions. Just work and group texts. Are you satisfied now?” He believed this was just another routine fight, a truce he could buy with a simple apology and a promise. But he didn’t realize that some things, once broken, can never be fully restored. For a while, Garrett kept his word. His interactions with Lila were limited to polite nods at family dinners, and his texts to her were only sparse messages in the family group chat. He started coming home on time. He bought me thoughtful little gifts. He patiently helped me, the lifelong directionally-challenged wife, explore the corners of this unfamiliar city. The atmosphere in our home softened, returning to its comfortable, sweet rhythm. I even started to wonder if I had been too sensitive. Until I found the old iPad, almost forgotten, shoved into a drawer in his study. It was logged into a second, separate social media account I’d never seen, with only his close family members and in-laws as followers. Its feed was an entire world I hadn’t known existed—a private world belonging to him and Lila. He’d taken her to her child’s PTA meeting. The photo showed the three of them—Garrett, Lila, and the kid—smiling brightly, looking like a perfect little family. The caption: Our little champ. He had spent the night by her hospital bed when she was sick, taking a photo of her sleeping profile. The caption: Your big brother is here. Don’t worry. He had even taken her to see her favorite musician on our wedding anniversary, simply because she’d fought with Owen and couldn’t get a ticket. His post showed the stage lights, captioned: Your wish is my command. Every single post was filled with “heartfelt” comments and praise from the Reed family relatives. “Our Garrett is so responsible. So much better than that brat Owen.” “Lila truly has good fortune, having such a great older brother.” “This is what real family looks like. So much love.” I felt like a ridiculous intruder, a thief in the night, spying on my husband’s and my best friend’s blissful life—a life from which I was clearly, painstakingly excluded. With trembling fingers, I scrolled back to the Christmas Eve chat log. Lila messaged him: Big brother, is Harper going to be mad? These agnolotti looked like she made them just for you. Maybe I should send them back. Garrett’s reply: Don’t worry about it. She’s not that small-minded. Enjoy them. I’ll sort it out if she complains. Lila: Brother, you’re so good to me. If only I had married you… Garrett: Stop that foolish talk. But remember this: no matter what happens, your brother is always your rock. My blood felt like it froze solid in that moment. All our arguments, all our periods of cold silence, were just me being a “small-minded” nuisance in his eyes. And all his concessions, all his promises to me, were just empty gestures meant to placate me so he could more comfortably remain Lila’s “rock.” My entire life felt like one huge, embarrassing joke.

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The first time I came home after we remarried and received another one of Xander’s “sister-friend’s” jokes… I didn’t lose my mind. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. Instead, I followed her instructions. I placed a packet of condoms on the nightstand beside my and Alexander’s bed. I arranged a heart on the silk sheets with rose petals. And then, with the thoughtfulness of a concierge, I vacated the apartment for the two of them. When I walked through the door the next morning, I brushed past his sobbing “sister-friend” in the hallway. And then I was hit by the full, icy force of Alexander’s stare. 1 Alexander sat rigid on the living room sofa, a storm gathering in his dark eyes. When he finally spoke to me, his voice was soft, laced with an exhaustion he couldn’t quite hide. “Maya and I genuinely don’t have that kind of relationship.” “I’ve told you countless times, our dynamic is like siblings. She just has a bizarre sense of humor and loves pushing boundaries.” When had the normally reticent Alexander, a man whose words were usually rationed like gold, become this verbose? I was busy wiping off my makeup, offering a casual, noncommittal reply. “Oh. I know.” “Snap!” The packet of condoms was thrown with force onto the coffee table, scattering a few wilted petals. “Then what is this?” His voice was low, strained. “Are you doing this just to deliberately punish me?” He buried his face in his hands, visibly struggling to maintain control. I managed a small, weary smile. You punish someone because you either love them or you hate them. I was already past both. I just didn’t want any trouble. I pulled out my phone and showed him the message Maya had sent me yesterday. “Mama’s back. Better clear out the place so I can make magic with my big boy. Don’t forget the condoms and rose petals, babe, I have standards.” Alexander’s expression froze. He stammered, annoyance overriding his previous control. “And—and if she acts out, you just… follow suit? Are you humoring her?” I almost laughed out loud. Last year, when I went to pick up a drunken Alexander from a night out with Maya, I was chastised because I hadn’t brought one of the cheap toys she’d requested as a gag gift. What had he said then? “Maya just likes to joke. Why can’t you just play along with her?” Now that I was actually playing along, he was upset. But, whatever. I’d promised myself: After the divorce, don’t invite unhappiness back into my life. I yawned, feigning boredom, and managed to paste a fake smile onto my face. “Okay, honey, I got it. I promise I’ll remember. You should get some rest now.” Alexander didn’t move. His gaze was searching, as if trying to drill through the blank façade I’d put up. Finally, he stood, an edge of frantic anxiety in his movements as he tried to pull me into a hug. He buried his head in my neck and murmured. “Avery, please, stop joking like this, okay? I hate it. I don’t want anyone but you.” Sensing the shift to desire, I deliberately misinterpreted his words and pushed him away, firmly. “You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t? You’re so young! Go to bed and rest up, then.” Alexander’s hands, which had been fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, froze. A storm was brewing. The sound of his ringtone cut the tension. Seeing the caller ID, Alexander instantly snapped back to attention. He almost instinctively shielded the screen and walked toward the balcony. His tone was instantly soft, indulgent, and completely devoted. “I’m sorry, alright, my queen? I’m coming now to beg your forgiveness.” Before stepping out, Alexander suddenly turned back. “Take your pills.” Under his intense, unyielding gaze, I obediently shoved the handful of pills into my mouth. Sweet slumber. One deep, dreamless night. 2 I woke up at ten p.m. Alexander had climbed into bed next to me at some point, his voice thick with disappointment. “I texted you. Why didn’t you respond?” “I was sleeping too deeply. Didn’t see it. What’s up?” I casually scooted toward the edge of the bed, only to have Alexander’s arm wrap around my waist. “Nothing. Just wanted to ask: How should we celebrate our anniversary?” I answered without thinking. “Let’s go to that trendy new seafood spot. I heard their Lobster Thermidor is incredible.” A flicker of genuine pain crossed Alexander’s face. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Avery. Did you forget?” Right. He had a sensitive system. Besides shellfish, he couldn’t eat nuts or most gluten products. Because of this, for every anniversary before the last few years, I’d always prepared a massive, elaborate meal myself. But ever since his “sister-friend” came back four years ago, those meals had ended up feeding the trash bin. I stretched lazily, as if nothing was wrong, slipping free of his grip. “Then you’ll have to suck it up and watch me eat.” Alexander’s smile was bitter. His hand reached for me again, but this time only gently stroked my hair. He said, “Fine.” He was being so agreeable. It wasn’t like him at all. On our actual anniversary, the traffic was terrible. As Alexander kept rushing me via text, I scrolled through social media. Maya had posted a photo: She was helping Alexander decorate a private room. The caption: “Playing good little helper for my big boy, helping him trick his wife. Ugh, some women are so high maintenance.” The picture itself showed her sitting intimately on Alexander’s lap. Suddenly, I felt like this whole charade was pointless. I pulled over. The sunset was perfect outside the window. Across the square, a handsome, blonde-haired young man was feeding the pigeons. He noticed me looking, and held up the feed, waving enthusiastically. I was twenty minutes away from meeting Alexander, who was still texting to ask if he needed to send a car. I replied No need, turned off my phone, and walked toward the boy. I got home well past midnight. Alexander was sitting on the sofa, radiating fury. “Where were you?” I answered honestly. “Feeding pigeons.” Alexander shot to his feet. “Feeding pigeons? I booked out an entire restaurant. I waited from five o’clock until closing. And you were feeding pigeons?” “And that’s not all…” He furiously threw a stack of photos at my feet. “Does feeding pigeons require this level of intimacy?” The photos showed me laughing and wrestling playfully with the blonde young man. I just shrugged helplessly. “We were just messing around. If you insist on reading too much into it, there’s nothing I can do.” The entire scene had a bizarre, familiar quality. Two years ago, when I confronted him with photos my friend had sent me—pictures of him and Maya kissing—he had replied with the same exasperated dismissal. “It was just a dare. A stupid game. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” It was a shock to me then that the normally reserved and dignified Alexander would play such childish, idiotic games. But that was all history now. I waved my hand, indicating I wasn’t going to bother explaining anything further. Alexander clenched his fist and slammed the gift box on the table to the floor. A cup tumbled out. It was a limited-edition handcrafted piece I’d spent months trying to track down. While Alexander stormed out to the balcony to smoke and cool off, I quickly picked up the cup to inspect it. Tsk. What a shame. A chip was gone from the rim. I was a little annoyed. So, I decided to go out and make myself happy. 3 At the high-end lounge, I sipped my drink. I began dramatically recounting the whole story of me and Alexander to the eighteen male models I’d hired for the night. Originally, I truly believed Maya was just Alexander’s “bro.” So, when she’d made sexually suggestive jokes to Alexander right in front of me, I’d just laughed along. When she’d gotten inappropriately handsy with him, I believed Alexander when he said she was just being uninhibited because she’d lived abroad for so long. But her jokes became increasingly excessive, flagrantly provocative. It escalated until Alexander’s birthday. She left her worn, intimate underwear as a “gift” and put it on my side of the bed. That was when Alexander and I had our first explosive fight. In my mind, that action severely crossed the line of friendship. It was a direct, aggressive insult. But Alexander only rubbed his temples with irritation, playing it down. “She’s always been like this, Avery. Free-spirited. What do you expect me to do?” I recognized the absolute tolerance in his tone. Tears welled in my eyes as I pleaded. “At least… you could choose not to associate with her.” Alexander, who was usually gentle and affectionate with me, immediately changed. “Avery, you’ve gone too far. You have no right to interfere with my social life!” In that moment, I understood that this so-called “sister-friend” held more weight than me, his wife of five years. He suffered severe motion sickness, yet he accompanied her to amusement parks for rides that left him violently ill. He was meticulous about his work, yet he ditched a crucial, high-stakes meeting just because she’d asked him to watch a meteor shower that might happen. I cycled through constant questioning, screaming, and even begging. All I got in return was Alexander’s growing perfunctory attitude and his increasing tendency to walk out on me. Our arguments became more frequent. I lost control of my emotions more and more often. In our most intense fight, I even grabbed a knife. My love was desperate. Even my threats were directed at myself. As I started to slip, Alexander firmly grabbed the blade with his bare hand. He let his flesh be torn and bloody rather than allow the blade to touch me. My heart softened. I repeatedly told myself, Maybe I’m the one being too paranoid. Xander loves me. I must be misunderstanding him and Maya. Another year, another Alexander birthday. The party was set for the rooftop of a downtown restaurant. Before leaving, I carefully placed a positive pregnancy test into a gift box—my ultimate surprise. I hoped this baby could repair the rift between us. Surprisingly, Maya didn’t cause any trouble before the party started. Everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Until I stepped into the elevator that led to the rooftop. The elevator reached the top floor, but the doors never opened. The emergency button, coincidentally, was broken. I have severe claustrophobia. The elevator cab was small, stiflingly hot, and pitch black. Within minutes, I was struggling to breathe, near total suffocation, my body slick with cold sweat. I frantically tried to call Alexander. All I heard was a busy signal. Maybe it’s too loud and he can’t hear it, I tried to reassure myself. I tried to control my breathing, my mind racing to find a way to save myself. But the next second, the elevator suddenly plunged. I screamed, shrinking into a corner in pure despair. I thought I was going to die. And in my heart, I was still regretting that I wouldn’t get to see Alexander one last time. The elevator stopped smoothly only when it reached the sub-level garage. The doors opened. I raised my head, dazed, but instantly understood everything when I saw Maya’s openly triumphant face. Alexander was standing right next to her. Seeing me drenched in sweat, his expression flickered. “That joke went too far, Maya.” Maya punched him lightly, dismissively, on the arm. “Daddy was just getting revenge for your birthday, remember? Don’t you get it?” She pointed to Alexander’s right hand, which was wrapped in a thick bandage. “Look at what this bitch did to your hand! If you don’t teach her a lesson now, she’ll think she can walk all over you.” Shaken to the core, I stumbled out of the elevator. On a monitor to the side, a recording played back every moment of my humiliating panic attack in the elevator. Alexander had known. He had allowed it. Alexander walked toward me, reaching out to steady my trembling body. I pushed him away with all my strength. Maya grumbled, annoyed. “Stop being such a drama queen. It’s pathetic.” I slapped her across the face. She screamed, turning on Alexander with a look of pure rage. “Are you going to control your crazy wife or not?” Alexander pulled me tightly into his embrace. “Enough, Avery. Let it go. Don’t think about it. Maya didn’t mean anything by it.” He didn’t even suggest that Maya apologize. The miscarriage report came out the next day. The divorce papers landed on Alexander’s desk the day after. This time, no matter what he said, I only had one cold reply: “Sign them.” Three months later, tired of the endless argument, Alexander slapped the signed divorce papers onto my desk. I got what I wanted. I took another sip of my drink, pausing the story. It was strange. Those memories, which had once been so agonizing, now felt distant, like watching a stranger’s story through glass. The young male models, however, were teary-eyed, wiping their faces and loudly indignant. “That guy is the absolute worst! You’re amazing, Miss, and he didn’t deserve you.” I nodded in agreement. “He really was the worst. Now, come on, let me feel those abs.” “BANG!” The door was kicked open. Alexander walked in, his face absolutely livid.

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The system girl appeared in my boyfriend’s life. She meticulously orchestrated a damsel-in-distress scenario. On the route she knew my boyfriend, Cameron, frequently took, she arranged for two creeps with bad dye jobs to drag her into an alley. “Help! Please, somebody help me!” She screamed and struggled, desperately calling out in Cameron’s direction. The guys walking with Cameron Walker immediately rushed in, one by one. But Cameron, my boyfriend, held my hand and stayed put. He didn’t move an inch. 1 “Aren’t you going to help?” I looked at Cameron, feeling a mix of nervousness and confusion. After all, in the dream I’d had last night, he was the first one to charge in. But right now, he was staring into the dim alleyway and simply shook his head. His expression was so calm it bordered on cold: “I don’t think so.” The scene from my dream had turned into reality, yet Cameron’s reaction was completely different. My mind was a mess. I was about to say more when I saw the two creeps throw the girl aside and curse as they ran deeper into the alley. Cameron’s friends and the girl emerged. Under the faint yellow glow of the streetlights, I finally got a clear look at her face. I froze. Stunned. She looked exactly like the system girl from my dream! Tears streamed down her delicate face. When she looked at Cameron, the drops fell even faster. “Cam, thank you for sending your friends to save me.” Cameron tightened his grip on my hand, scanning her with a blank expression. “I didn’t. You’re thanking the wrong person.” The smile on her face instantly froze. She seemed completely blindsided by his bluntness. She saw my hand laced with Cameron’s and slightly frowned. Then, she bypassed me and thanked the others. They all waved it off carelessly. “No sweat, we were just passing by!” “Yeah, those trash bags, I’d take them down any time.” “Hey, are you the new art student? I think I saw you when I went to meet Amelia.” The one who spoke was Cameron’s friend, Liam Perry. Amelia was his girlfriend. The girl raised a hand to wipe her tears, her eyes red, and offered Liam a small smile. “Yes, I am. Thank you, I’m Savannah Monroe.” My heart plummeted again. Even the name was the same as the girl in my dream. Could this really just be a coincidence? Was the dream really just a dream? Scenes from the previous night kept flashing through my mind, and I couldn’t stop staring at Savannah. The wind swept her hair around her face. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear and spoke again. “It was so lucky you guys were there. “Could we exchange numbers? I’d like to treat you all to dinner sometime.” Exactly. Every step of the development was the same as the dream. But there was a difference, too. In the dream, Savannah only added Cameron’s contact info. Right now, I watched her unlock her phone and open the QR code. As she held it out, she hesitated for a brief second in front of Cameron. Then, she quickly moved it, holding the phone out to Liam. Liam eagerly scanned the code, hit ‘Add,’ and wiggled his phone at her. “Make sure you accept, Sav.” Savannah nodded and then offered her phone to the other guys, one by one. Only after everyone else was done did she look up at Cameron. She tried to appear composed. “Cam, you should add me too.” My heart leaped into my throat. In the dream, after they exchanged numbers, Savannah began her determined pursuit of Cameron. He went from polite refusal to genuine annoyance, and finally, to cold dismissal. Until our wedding day, when Savannah showed up to stop the ceremony. She said she would die without him. In the end, Cameron let her pull him away, running out of the venue right in front of all our guests. 2 The wind picked up, scraping harder against the street. I held my breath, waiting for Cameron’s reply. A moment passed. Cameron raised the hand that was tightly laced with mine, his voice glacial. “How do you have the audacity to ask for my number right in front of my girlfriend?” Savannah’s smile evaporated. She clearly hadn’t anticipated such a direct, humiliating rejection. She bit her lower lip in embarrassment, the hand holding the phone trembling, but she didn’t lower it. “Cam, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just…” Before Savannah could finish, Cameron’s gaze had already coldly passed over her. He turned to face me, his expression softening instantly. “Are you cold, Syd?” As he spoke, he reached out a hand and gently adjusted the scarf around my neck. I shook my head, gazing up at the man standing so close to me. Even though he was right there, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I was seeing him from a lifetime away. After fixing my scarf, Cameron tenderly ruffled my hair. “We’ve wasted too much time. You must be hungry, let’s go eat.” His cool, large hand took mine and pulled me forward. My feet followed him automatically. In a daze, I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and reality anymore. We’d only walked two steps when the person beside me stopped again. He didn’t turn around, only tilted his head to call back to Liam and the others. “Are you guys coming or not?” The group finally snapped out of it, bustling to catch up. Only Savannah was left standing there. We had gone quite a distance, but I still felt a gaze boring into the back of my head. I turned around and met Savannah’s eyes directly. It was a look full of resentment, unwillingness, and suppressed fury. The next second, the look vanished. Savannah gave me a sweet, brittle smile. Looking at her beautiful, perfectly innocent face, I had to wonder if I had imagined the look moments before. Once we reached the restaurant, everyone gradually forgot the little scene, chatting and laughing. But Liam kept his head down, scrolling through his phone. He seemed to be looking at someone’s social media feed, occasionally zooming in on a picture, a soft smile playing on his lips. If I had to guess, it was Savannah’s feed. I thought of his girlfriend, Amelia. If she saw her boyfriend intensely scrutinizing another girl’s profile, looking so clearly smitten, her sensitive and reserved nature would probably be devastated. For some reason, I felt an intense empathy for her, as if her pain was my own. I was debating how to subtly bring it up when Cameron’s voice cut through the air first. “Liam, what are you looking at?” Liam quickly hit the lock button and looked up, smiling sheepishly. “Nothing, just casually scrolling.” Cameron’s eyes darkened, his face growing serious. “Don’t forget you have a girlfriend.” Liam paused, then gave an awkward chuckle. “I—I know, man. I just added her, so I was flipping through her feed to get an idea of who she is. No big deal.” I couldn’t help myself, the words tumbling out. “If you know you have a girlfriend, why did you add a random stranger?” In my peripheral vision, the hand Cameron was using to ladle soup suddenly gave a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. 3 My question made Liam squirm. He shuffled his feet and stammered out a reply. “Syd… Look, the girl asked me herself. It would have been rude to refuse.” Listening to his weak excuse, I felt a surge of sympathy for Amelia. I frowned and began to speak. “Liam, no girl is going to be okay with her boyfriend…” Before I could finish, Liam interrupted me, embarrassed and annoyed. “Okay, okay, I get it. Just… don’t get involved, alright, Syd?” “Liam!” Cameron’s face hardened, his cold stare pinning his friend down. “What kind of attitude is that?” Sensing the displeasure in Cameron’s voice, Liam panicked. “Cam, I…” Cameron reached for my hand under the table, holding it tight. His thumb gently rubbed my palm in a soothing gesture. He looked directly at Liam, his gaze deep and sharp. “Sydney’s right. “You are not single. Maintaining clear boundaries with other women is basic respect for your girlfriend.” Liam’s face flushed red, then pale. He opened his mouth, stopped, and finally spoke, offering me an apology. “Syd, I’m sorry.” He then picked up his phone and, in front of Cameron, announced his actions. “I get it, Cam. Deleting her right now.” The others, sensing the tension, quickly tried to smooth things over. “Let’s just eat, guys. The food is getting cold.” Dinner ended quickly. Soon after, Cameron drove me home. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. The neon lights streaking past the long street felt like the quick, blurred slideshow of last night’s dream. Each scene was illusory, yet profoundly real. The physical and emotional exhaustion from the dream felt as if I had truly lived it. Without realizing it, the car pulled up in front of my house. Cameron got out, circled the car to open my door, and placed his hand above the frame to shield my head—the same thoughtful, gentle gesture as always. I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out. I said goodbye and took a step toward the door. Cameron reached out and caught my wrist. “Syd, wait a second.” “Hmm?” I stopped, following the pull of his hand. I turned back and was caught by his intense, deep-set eyes. After a moment, Cameron lifted his hand and cradled my cheek. His voice was cool, yet laced with gentle concern. “You’ve been acting strange all day. Is something bothering you?” I froze. He had noticed. Of course. Our families were old friends, and we’d been inseparable since childhood, over two decades. I could read the slightest difference in his expression. Naturally, he could tell something was off with my words and actions. I thought for a moment. Then, I looked up, meeting Cameron’s gaze directly. “Cameron, I had a dream last night.” 4 I recounted the dream’s events slowly, reliving them. The tears that felt so real, the profound, gut-wrenching pain—telling the story now felt like wading through a river of heartache. I stared blankly at Cameron, still bewildered. “Why did the system girl have the exact same look, the same name, as the one in my dream? “But why is your reaction completely different?” Before I could fully register Cameron’s expression, he pulled me into a fierce embrace. “Syd.” I felt something cool and wet land on the top of my head. Is it raining? I tried to pull away from Cameron’s chest, but he only held me tighter. After a long while, I heard his voice, muffled and tight, full of suppressed emotion. “Syd. “It was a dream, just a dream. “Dreams are often the opposite of reality. That’s why my reaction is different.” The winter night was sharp and cold. Nestled in Cameron’s warm embrace, I asked in a choked voice: “Really? “But I just feel like the dream was so real. It felt like I lived through it.” Cameron’s whole body tensed for a split second. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt the arms encircling me tighten further, as if he were trying to press me into his very being. “It is. Trust me. “In this lifetime, I will only ever love Sydney Pierce. I won’t be swayed by anyone.” Hearing the strong, steady beat of his heart against my ear, I still felt strangely uneasy. Promises made in youth are beautiful but uncertain. Like the moon reflected on the water. The gentle touch of fate’s hand can ripple the surface and shatter the silver into countless broken pieces. I went inside. After greeting my parents, I walked upstairs to my room. Pushing the door open, I automatically went to the window. Through the sheer white curtains, I looked down. Cameron’s car was still parked outside. He leaned against the car door. The black tailored wool coat made him look tall and elegant. The streetlight cast small, scattered bits of light on him. The night wind was biting. He stood there in the wind, hands buried in his coat pockets. Head bowed, lost in thought. My hand unconsciously clenched the curtains. I wondered when his promise would change. I slept restlessly that night. The next morning. My driver dropped me off at the university. As I stepped out of the car, I saw Savannah and Cameron standing together. 5 Savannah’s face was bright with a cheerful smile. She extended a delicate paper bag towards Cameron. “Cam. “I woke up early just to make you this sandwich.” As if to prove her point, she gestured to a nearby Liam. “Liam and the others have one too. You should try it.” Liam was nodding eagerly, chewing on a bite and showering her with compliments. “She’s not just pretty, Cam. She can cook too. “You have to try it, it’s really good!” Cameron’s hands remained buried in his coat pockets. He didn’t even glance down at the paper bag. He looked at Savannah with impatience, his voice cold and faintly annoyed. “No, thank you.” Savannah’s smile faltered. She pushed the bag forward, trying to force it. “Cam, it’s just a nice gesture…” “Move.” Cameron’s face darkened, his patience clearly gone. Savannah’s face went white, and her eyes welled up instantly. “Cam…” She seemed poised to say more, but Cameron walked around her, striding directly toward me. He had seen me the moment I stepped out of the car. Savannah hadn’t. She quickly rushed forward, extending her arms to bravely, yet cautiously, block his path. Students walking by slowed down, whispering amongst themselves. Savannah took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on Cameron. “Why won’t you take my sandwich, Cam? “Do you have a problem with me, or do you just… hate me?” Cameron’s eyes were devoid of warmth. He didn’t want to waste another word. “Yes.” The unambiguous, blunt answer made Savannah’s face burn crimson. The knuckles of the hand gripping the sandwich bag were white. The onlookers whispered and exchanged knowing looks, enjoying the drama. Tears gradually filled Savannah’s eyes. She bit her lip, stubbornly staring at Cameron and pressing the question. “Why? “What did I do to offend you, Cam? “I just wanted to thank you, so I made some sandwiches for breakfast. “It’s not just for you. I made some for Liam and the others too.” Cameron looked down at Savannah, his gaze sharp and indifferent. “Thank me for what?” Savannah froze, her brave facade faltering slightly. “Thank you for… for saving me.” Cameron’s voice was detached. “I told you yesterday, you’re thanking the wrong person.” Savannah’s extended arms trembled, but she still tried to explain. “You were there yesterday, so I included you. It didn’t take much extra time.” “Did it?” Cameron looked at her, his eyes piercing. “My girlfriend was there too. Why didn’t you make one for her?” Savannah instantly went rigid, her face turning ashen. She opened her mouth, trying to find an explanation. “I…” Cameron didn’t spare her another glance. He bypassed her completely and walked toward me. 6 The north wind howled. Withered leaves rustled down from the trees. Cameron walked against the wind and quickly reached me. Naturally, he pulled open his coat and wrapped me inside. “Waiting so long, are you cold?” His warm body heat wrapped around me, a comforting, continuous embrace. I should have felt happy and cherished. But for some reason, a tiny thread of bitterness unwound in my heart. “Cameron…” I murmured his name, my throat tightening. Hearing the tremor in my voice, Cameron quickly lowered his head to look at me. “What is it, Syd?” My tears broke loose, falling one after another. “You accepted it, in the dream, you accepted her breakfast…” Cameron’s body jerked. His voice was laced with panic. “Syd…” In his tone, there was a rare mix of nervousness and fear. He gently patted my back, trying to calm me down urgently and tenderly. “Syd, that was just a dream, only a dream. “Look, in reality, I didn’t take it at all, did I?” My vision was blurred by tears. I closed my eyes, wanting to nod, but unable to. I just felt like everything was unreal. Neither fully a dream nor fully awake. After a long time, I composed myself, and Cameron and I started walking toward the campus buildings. Savannah was still there, hunched on the ground, hugging herself. Her whimpering sobs were carried away by the wind. Liam was crouched beside her, comforting her with worried, pained urgency. In the back of my mind, I felt that something had changed. The days flowed by slowly. Savannah rarely appeared in front of us anymore. Occasionally, we’d run into her on campus. She would look at Cameron, and her eyes would fill with tears. Cameron would always look straight ahead, pulling me along and walking right past her. Until Cameron’s birthday, when a group of us were celebrating at a private club. Halfway through the party, Savannah showed up. When she walked in, Cameron was putting a peeled shrimp on my plate. Savannah’s gaze caught the gesture, and a look of sadness flashed across her face. Soon, she forced a smile and offered Cameron a beautifully wrapped gift box. “Happy Birthday, Cam.” It was obvious she had put effort into her appearance today. Her makeup was light, her face slightly pale without blush, lending her a fragile, heart-tugging appearance. She was wearing a white tailored wool coat, a style very similar to Cameron’s usual black one. It looked almost like a couple’s outfit. Cameron didn’t take Savannah’s gift box. He slowly raised his eyes to her. “How did you get in here?” The private club was members-only. Savannah couldn’t have gotten in on her own. “I used Liam’s membership card,” Savannah managed a smile, staring intently at Cameron. “I just… wanted to wish you a happy birthday in person.” 7 A tense silence fell over the private room. No one knew how to react. Savannah stood there, looking mournful and forlorn. Anyone would feel a pang of sympathy for her. Especially Liam. His girlfriend, Amelia, was sitting beside him, yet his eyes hadn’t left Savannah since she walked in. “Cam, I let her in. “She’s genuinely nice, man. It’s your birthday, just let her stay and celebrate with us.” I instinctively glanced at Amelia. She was biting her lip, staring blankly at Liam. For some reason, I felt a rising sense of dread. The scenes from my dream began flashing again. In the dream, Savannah also came to Cameron’s birthday. He had rejected her pursuit before, but he didn’t reject her presence. He had simply told her to sit wherever she liked, a complex emotion clouding his brow. But now. Cameron’s eyes held a blatant, undisguised look of annoyance and disgust toward Savannah. “I don’t need your blessing or your gift.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “I love my girlfriend deeply, and I will only ever love her. “So I hope you stop bothering me, and stop doing things that are frankly shameful.” Savannah’s face instantly flushed a deep red. The overhead crystal chandelier caught the glint of tears in her eyes. She quickly wiped a corner of her eye, choking up as she asked Cameron: “Not even as just a regular friend?” “I’m sorry,” Cameron’s voice was ice-cold. “I don’t need a friend like you.” Savannah couldn’t hold back her tears anymore. She covered her mouth with a hand and ran out of the room, sobbing. “Savannah!” Liam cried out, jumping up, desperate to chase after her. But Cameron grabbed his arm. “Liam, don’t get involved where you don’t belong.” To my surprise, Liam roughly shook off Cameron’s hand, looking upset. “I don’t know why you’re so cold-blooded! “I just don’t get it, she’s a perfectly decent girl, she hasn’t done anything out of line, but you’ve hated her since the day you met her!” Liam grew more agitated. “Humiliating her in front of everyone—does that satisfy your ego, Cameron?” Cameron’s eyes narrowed, clearly angered. But he still tried to be patient. “Liam. “I’m telling you this as a friend: don’t be led astray by a moment of fancy. “She is not as innocent and pure as she seems. “Besides—” He gestured to Amelia. “Your girlfriend is right here. Are you going to break her heart for a girl you barely know?” Liam finally looked at Amelia. Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, he impatiently ran a hand through his hair. “Mia, don’t think too much of it. I just can’t stand Cameron targeting a younger girl.” He looked toward the door, anxious to get to Savannah immediately. “Wait here, I’ll just go check on her and be right back!” With that, he ran out of the room. Amelia watched his urgent, retreating back, and tears began to fall. My heart ached for her, too. Maybe it was a kinship between women. Maybe it was because in my dream, I, too, had watched Cameron’s back disappear. I reached out and took Amelia’s hand, wanting to offer some comfort. Just then, a commotion erupted in the hallway outside. “Someone’s going to jump! Hurry, hurry!” Everyone in the room was startled. They immediately stood up and rushed out. A horrifying thought flashed through my mind. Could it be… Savannah? Amelia was also panicked. She gripped my hand. “Syd, we should go look.” 8 When we reached the club’s rooftop, we saw Savannah sitting on the waist-high ledge. Her frame was thin, and her hair was wind-whipped and messy. Her legs dangled in the air, looking as if she might fall at any moment. Liam stood pale-faced a short distance away from her. He held out a hand toward Savannah, his voice trembling with fear and anxiety. “Sav, don’t scare me. Please, just come over here, okay?” Savannah turned her head to look at him. Then, she saw Cameron in the crowd, and tears instantly streamed down her face. She gave a desolate smile. “Cam, do you worry about me too?” Cameron frowned, gripping my hand tightly, and remained silent. The onlookers watched the spectacle, whispering and pointing. Savannah ignored them, her eyes locked onto Cameron. Her face showed despair and utter recklessness. “Cam. “I love you. I love you so much, and it’s not just because of the task. “I approached you, got to know you, learned to make sandwiches to please you, manufactured chances to ‘run into’ you, and knitted a scarf to give you.” “But no matter what I did, you never once looked at me properly. My favorability rating is stuck at zero.” Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. She looked like a broken doll. Liam clenched his fists, shouting in a pained, desperate voice. “Sav, get down first, then we can talk!” But Savannah didn’t seem to hear him. Her gaze remained fixed on Cameron. “Cam, why can’t you just look at me? Why can’t you like me, even just a little? “What do I lack that Sydney doesn’t have? Is it just because she met you first? “I’m the one who loves you the most. I came to this world for you. I’m the one who loves you the most in this entire world.” Savannah’s smile was heartbreakingly tragic. “Cam. “Did I ever tell you that the System assigned you as my target? “If I fail my task, I will die.” Tears still flowing, she repeated the line. “I will truly die without you.” I instantly froze. A thunderous boom went off in my head, like a sudden lightning strike. I remembered. I remembered everything. It wasn’t a dream after all. It wasn’t a dream. It was my previous life.

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A Christmas yacht party. Dean’s “Girl-Bro” had just lost a round of high-stakes truth-or-dare and was down to a string bikini. This was Skylar Wells, the girl who usually slammed tequila shots and swore like a sailor, now dramatically clutching her chest, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. Dean wrapped Skylar in his own bespoke cashmere overcoat, then laughed, a casual, dismissive sound as he pushed me toward the circle of trust fund brats. “What’s the fun in watching the guys strip when you can watch the little ingénue type do it?” Huddled in Dean’s embrace, Skylar smirked, her voice syrupy sweet as she addressed the onlookers. “Guys, this is Will, the girl who works the front desk at my dad’s office. You know how those people are—flash enough cash, and they’ll play any game you want.” Dean leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, the intimacy sickeningly fake. “Skylar’s the CEO’s daughter, Will. Can’t risk her image. Think of this as… doing the company a favor. I’ll make sure you get a generous bonus.” He had no idea. I was the real heiress. The ‘receptionist’ gig was just a clause in my grandfather’s insane, iron-clad inheritance wager. As the most notorious ‘Black Sheep’ in The Circle—the one everyone secretly called the Vicious Princess—no one, and I mean no one, had dared to play games with me in years. 1 Jax Ryker, the ringleader, exhaled a plume of smoke directly into my face and slammed a heavy-duty revolver onto the mahogany table. “Front Desk Girl,” he sneered, his eyes hard. “Can you actually afford to play? Lose, and it’s not just about taking off clothes.” I raised an eyebrow. The last time I’d heard that tone from him was two years ago. Jax and his crew had cornered me on a winding Malibu canyon road, insisting on a street race. The memory of having ten of them dangling over a sheer drop—terrified, humiliated, and unable to climb the hill for a year—warmed me. At least he had some guts this time. But the lack of perception was insulting. I’d grown my hair out, traded smoky eyes for a minimal look, but still. None of them recognized Willow Lockwood. Seeing my silence, Skylar started whining, practically jumping up and down in Dean’s arms. “Dean! You gonna let her ruin your old man? She won’t play, which means I have to strip again!” Dean stepped in front of me, his voice low, measured, and utterly certain. “Will. You walk out now, and we’re done. We break up.” For a year, the mere threat of a breakup had been his ace card; I’d always folded instantly. He was convinced I was desperately in love, yet he didn’t know breaking up was one of the few things that could void my inheritance wager. I pushed back my sleeve and glanced at my watch. Three hours left. “Fine. What’s the game?” Jax crushed the cigarette butt against the table, his gaze dropping suggestively to my chest. “Debt first. Peel something off.” I looked at Dean. He averted his eyes, pulling Skylar tighter, unwilling to intervene. My grandfather had always said I had the ruthlessness but lacked the judgment to pick allies. I guess he wasn’t wrong. I tossed the cashmere wrap onto the deck, revealing the silky chemise beneath. Jax licked his lips. “Russian Roulette. Six chambers, one bullet. We take turns, pulling the trigger. Skip your turn, and you strip.” He then demonstrated, raising the gun to his own temple and pulling the trigger, which was met with a roar of cheers. He was waiting for me to cry, to beg, to be humiliated. Too bad. Jax was still playing in the dirt when I was pointing a gun at a cartel leader’s head. I snatched the gun, spun the cylinder, then slammed it shut. Without hesitation, I pointed it at my temple and pulled the trigger. Dean instinctively shielded Skylar with his coat, as if afraid my blood might stain her. Jax was genuinely stunned. “You’re the second woman who’s ever dared to play that.” A flicker of an old shadow crossed his eyes, then vanished. We went back and forth, turn after turn, until only one chamber was left, and it was my turn to pull the trigger. “Front Desk Girl, game over,” Jax growled, a hideous grin stretching across his face. From the moment I first held that gun, I knew Jax’s trick. A specialized revolver—the round was resting firmly in the sixth chamber. But, he was about to be disappointed. I hooked a smile and, amidst the drunken chants of, “Strip! Strip! Strip!” I pulled the trigger. Everyone gasped, eyes clenched shut. Even Jax looked panicked; he just wanted a show, not a homicide. The air remained still. I stood there, untouched, a cold, mocking smile playing on my lips. “Well, well. Jax Ryker, the big shot, using blanks to scare a girl? You’re a coward.” I’d palmed the real bullet and flicked it discreetly into the dark water. Jax’s face flushed scarlet as the eyes of his friends turned on him. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “Strip, Jax. I won’t hold it against you.” Knowing no one would believe his denial, and unwilling to look like a chicken in front of his crew, Jax ripped off his shirt. “Again!” he snarled. A large, iron cage was brought up, covered by a black tarp. When they pulled it off, my composure finally slipped. Jax was pushing his luck—he’d stolen Kaa, my pet Burmese Python. His easy access to the Lockwood estate confirmed my suspicion: he was working with Eliza, my stepmother. “Front Desk Girl, one python each. First one bitten loses.” Skylar, who’d just been muttering about my “beginner’s luck,” brightened up and grabbed the only vial of anti-venom. Jax was clearly comfortable with his snake; it settled placidly on his shoulders. He scoffed, certain of my refusal. The python in the cage hissed and showed its fangs toward me. “Oopsie!” Skylar chirped, the vial slipping from her hand and shattering on the deck. She watched me, a triumphant, venomous glint in her eyes. “I suggest you strip, Willow. Getting to please Jax is the best option you’ve got now.” Dean stepped in front of her. “Will, Skylar didn’t mean to. Just give in, alright? You don’t have to do this.” I gave a cold, sharp laugh and opened the cage myself. Kaa lunged straight for my neck. Everyone gasped, expecting the strike, but instead, the massive snake settled around my shoulders, circling me like a beloved scarf, and went still. Everyone, including Jax, was speechless. I whistled—a high, clear note. The python wrapped around Jax, which had been docile, suddenly writhed, coiling tighter and tighter, crushing the air from his lungs. Jax shrieked in genuine terror. The snake opened its mouth, ready to strike. “I forfeit!” Jax tore off his swim trunks, leaving him completely naked, his face a sickening green. “Are you really just the damn receptionist?” I noted the time—two hours left. I offered him a wide, innocent smile. “Of course. I grew up on the property’s edge—lots of snakes in the foothills.” My cover story was simple and believable enough to calm the crowd’s suspicions. “Jax,” I said sweetly. “Any more death-defying games you want to try?” Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “Violence is boring. Let’s relax. Something else.” He gave a signal to one of his lackeys, who brought forward a small, dark green vial. “It’s a Pentothal derivative,” Jax explained. “Used for international interrogations. The third game is simple: drink it, answer truthfully. Refuse to answer, and you strip.” I took the vial and drank the whole thing. Skylar stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Jax is losing his edge. I’ve got this, godmother.” She glanced at the onlookers. “I’ll get her stripped for you.” Jax lit a cigarette and let her take over. “First question. Did you have an ulterior motive for being with Dean Abbott?” The serum was potent; the truth slipped out before I could even process it. “Yes.” Dean’s face crumpled. “I knew it! You’re just after my money, aren’t you? You never loved me.” Not your money, you idiot. The wager. Skylar pressed on. “What motive?” I can’t say that yet. Without hesitation, I stripped off my chemise, revealing the bikini top. Jax’s eyes widened, and he signaled for Skylar to continue. “Have you ever compromised yourself with older men for money?” “Yes.” “How many ‘older men’ have paid you?” “Eighteen.” A collective gasp went around the deck. “I can’t believe this girl is so trashy for money!” Dean was white with fury, his fists clenched. “You have the nerve to admit that!” What’s the big deal? They were family elders, sending money to the heir. But on this yacht, in this context, let them think what they want. Skylar changed course. “Have you ever harmed a child?” “Yes.” Five years old. Forced my stepmother to terminate the pregnancy she was using to usurp me. Skylar had clearly been coached by Eliza. My grandfather’s wager was known only by the inner circle: Be stable. Keep the boyfriend. Become Chairman. “Have you ever physically harmed an elderly person?” “Yes.” Ten years old. The old man my stepmother abandoned me with in the hills. He wanted to assault me. I broke his skull. Dean was livid. “I can’t believe I mistook you for a decent person! You didn’t even spare a child or an old man.” I didn’t spare my own friends either. Twelve years old: My best friend took a hundred grand from Eliza to push me off a mountain during a trip. I strangled her. Fifteen years old: My childhood friend tried to inject me with drugs for Eliza’s five percent company shares. I shipped him to the Golden Triangle. Skylar dabbed at non-existent tears, leaning into Dean. “Dean, she’s so cold, so unaffected by her own monstrosity. She doesn’t deserve you.” Jax, spurred on by the crowd, grabbed my bikini strap and crushed his cigarette butt, hard, right onto my shoulder. “Stop pretending to be the little damsel, Will. I wouldn’t even play poker with someone as dirty as you.” I smiled, brushing the ash away. Patience. I’ll get that serum into every one of them. We’ll see who’s ‘dirty’ then. The insults rained down, yet I kept answering Skylar’s questions. “Have you ever been unfaithful to Dean?” I nodded. “Yes.” Skylar delivered the final, calculated blow. “Do you have a child that does not belong to Dean Abbott?” I was genuinely shocked Skylar knew this. She’d been laying a trap. “Yes.” The word was barely out when Dean lunged, slapping me across the face with brutal force. “Bitch! We’re done! We are breaking up right now!” My watch flashed: One hour until the year is up. I spat out a mouthful of blood and forced the rage down. My voice was calm, almost conversational. “I do have a son. He’s not yours, Dean, but here’s the kicker: he’s five years older than me. I’ve never been unfaithful to you.” The deck was suddenly quiet. They knew the serum guaranteed truth. Dean and Skylar were utterly confused. Dean’s rage instantly dissolved into relief. I looked at him, forcing a few well-placed tears to my eyes. “Our anniversary is in one hour. Please, don’t end things now. I promised I’d tell you who he is at the one-year mark.”

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On Christmas Eve, I received a very peculiar commission request. The client was in a rush. She said money was no object and ordered five matching couple avatars in one go. I agreed immediately. I figured if I pulled an all-nighter, I could finish them by tomorrow morning. Then, I could surprise my boyfriend of five years, Liam, with a spontaneous trip to Aspen to see the snow. But when I opened the reference photos, my blood ran cold. The man in the pictures was Liam. The woman? I recognized her, too. It was Amber, the admin of Liam’s biggest fan page, back from when he first started gaining traction as a pro tennis player. I stared at the photos, zooming in and out, praying my eyes were playing tricks on me. The next second, my phone lit up. A text from Liam. “Chloe, the sponsors are insisting on a dinner to discuss the new contract. It’s looking unlikely I’ll make it home tonight.” “But you just focus on getting ready for our New Year’s wedding. Wait for me. Love you.” I stared at the screen. The wedding? Yeah, that was definitely going to be missing a key element now. I called my brother in Germany. “Ryan,” I said, my voice trembling but cold. “I need to prepare a big gift for Liam for New Year’s Day.” 01 I hung up the phone. I clicked on the client’s—Amber’s—social media feed. She hadn’t blocked me. Her latest post was from thirty minutes ago. [Christmas Eve wish: To be with my Hubby forever!! ❤️❄️] The photo showed her and a man passionately kissing in the snow. The location tag: Aspen, Colorado. I would recognize that man even if he turned to ash. There was a jagged scar on the webbing of his left hand, between the thumb and index finger. It looked like a蜈蚣 (centipede). He’d gotten it during a training session when a racket snapped. Someone else in the world might have a hand scar, but not that exact shape. And then I saw the comment underneath. Liam_Tennis: [Growing old together with wifey.] I switched back to my texts with Liam. Ten minutes ago, he told me he was at a business dinner. My hand, usually so steady when holding a stylus, was shaking uncontrollably. It felt like a knife was twisting in my chest. A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I ran to the bathroom and hugged the toilet, retching until my eyes watered. So, the “sponsors” were just a cover. He was in Aspen. With her. I video-called him. He declined instantly. A second later, a text popped up. Liam: [Chloe, is everything okay?] Liam: [Can’t video chat right now, babe. The sponsors are making toasts, it’s rude to be on my phone.] Liam: [I’m sorry, sweetie. I know I’ve been busy. I’ll make it up to you when I get home, okay?] His words seemed so sincere. A week ago, I would have been moved to tears by his dedication. Now, I knew the truth. He was cheating. One week before our wedding. I didn’t know if Amber hired me on purpose or by accident. My own profile picture was literally a drawing of me and Liam. I switched back to the chat with Amber. I put on a mask. Me: [Wow, you and your boyfriend look so perfect together! I’ll definitely make these look amazing for you.] Amber took the bait. She started gushing about how they met. But I caught the slip-up: she mentioned they had been together for two years. Then she cut the convo short. “Hubby cooked dinner for me. Gotta go eat!” She sent a photo. A man wearing an apron, peeling shrimp at a dining table. It was Liam. 02 Two years? I did the math. Two years ago, Liam had just started making a name for himself on the circuit. He was handsome, played an aggressive game, and gained a lot of female fans. For a while, he kept talking about this one “superfan.” I asked who she was, and he brushed it off. “Just a devoted fan, Chloe. She runs the fan club.” Eventually, I got annoyed, and he stopped mentioning her. I thought he was respecting my boundaries. Turns out, they were just taking it underground. I stopped replying to her. I sat down at my tablet. My time is expensive. Rush orders are expensive. Whether Liam was cheating or Amber was taunting me, money was money. Who holds a grudge against cash? I painted through the night. By dawn, I sent the files. Amber paid immediately. I looked at the bank notification, counted the zeros, and finally went to sleep. When Liam came home, I was still in bed. He brought the cold winter air in with him. I woke up because his hands were wandering under the sheets. I grabbed his wrist. “Cold.” He paused, clearly surprised I was awake. He touched his nose sheepishly and smiled. “Hey, sleeping beauty.” “I rushed back to spend Christmas morning with you. I even got you a gift!” “Are you happy, babe?” His tone was expectant, cheerful. But all I could see was him kissing Amber in the snow. I forced a smile and hugged him. “Since you’re back, go shower first,” I said. “Wash off the travel fatigue. Just like we promised.” “Okay!” He agreed. It was a rule we made years ago: wash away the bad vibes from the outside world before getting into bed. Really, I just wanted him to wash off the smell. That cloying lily perfume he reeked of was giving me a migraine. While he showered, I checked my phone. Liam had changed his WhatsApp profile picture. I checked Amber’s. They were matching. It was one of the pairs I drew last night. I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. We’ve been together five years, and he doesn’t even recognize my art style? Using a portrait I drew of him and his mistress as his profile picture? Is he stupid, or just cruel? Liam walked out, drying his hair. He saw me staring at his phone. Panic flashed in his eyes, but the lie came smooth as butter. “Babe, don’t overthink it! I just found this online. The guy looks just like me, right?” “You never want to use matching avatars with me, so I had to find my own.” “If you don’t like it, I’ll change it.” Even when caught, he tried to make it my fault. My heart still ached, but my resolve was hardening. 03 I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “Where did you find it? It’s crazy, it looks exactly like you!” “I don’t think I could even draw you that accurately.” Liam was about to reply when his phone rang. He answered, glanced at me, and immediately put on a worried face. “Slow down. What happened to the team?” “Do I really have to be there?” “Did the coach approve this?” Three minutes later, he hung up. He looked at me with pained eyes. “Chloe, I’m so sorry. I have to bail on you again…” I looked at him calmly. “What happened?” “Training camp. There’s a match in Seattle today, and a teammate injured his wrist. Coach needs me to fill in.” “It’s Christmas… I’ll make it up to you in a few days, I promise.” He was already changing his clothes. “I left your gift in the living room. Open it carefully, I spent ages picking it out!” He checked his phone, sent a text, kissed my forehead, and left. Smooth. Practiced. Usually, he would beg for my permission. Today, he didn’t even wait for a response. He didn’t know that the walls in the hallway aren’t soundproof. I heard him on the phone as he walked to the elevator. It wasn’t the coach. It was a woman. “I miss you, Liam. I hurt my wrist playing tennis… it hurts so bad.” It was Amber. I watched him perform his little play and felt nothing but disgust. Five years of love, destroyed by the excitement of a fling. My stomach cramped again. Wait. The nausea. I ordered a pregnancy test via instant delivery. Ten minutes later, I was staring at two red lines. Just then, Amber messaged me. 04 Amber: [Chloe, oh Chloe. You really are naive, aren’t you?] Amber: [Did you seriously not recognize the man in the drawings?] Amber: [Liam has been home for less than two hours. I just used a little trick, and he’s already running back to me.] Amber: [Men are simple. If you service them well in bed, their hearts stay with you. Did you ever wonder who he’s thinking about when he sleeps with you?] I felt the blood freeze in my veins. She knew. She hired me on purpose. She sent a video. Five seconds long. Filmed from a second-story window. Liam, holding a takeout bag, running desperately from his car toward the building. Amber: [I’m pregnant. Almost four months.] She was laying her cards on the table. She wanted me to quit so she could take the spot of Mrs. Bai. I didn’t reply. I muted her notifications. I touched my flat stomach. I booked the earliest appointment for an abortion. This child was innocent, but I had no choice. I would not tie myself to this man forever. I opened social media to take down the pinned photo of me and Liam. Then I saw Amber’s new post. [Loving the Christmas gift from Hubby! My favorite!!] It was a photo of a luxury jewelry set. Next to it was an ultrasound. I zoomed in. Four months. Then I saw her comment below it. Amber: [It’s a pity the silk scarf that came with the set got lost. Hubby said he lost it! So annoying!!] Amber: [But he said it was just a free gift with purchase anyway. He promised to buy me a designer one next time! Hehe, love him.] The scarf was lost? I remembered Liam telling me to “open the gift carefully.” I walked to the living room. My hands trembled as I lifted the lid of the box he left. Inside lay a silk scarf. I laughed out loud. A harsh, broken sound. So this was what five years of love amounted to? I was the trash can for his mistress’s free gift with purchase.

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