Author: Momo Chan

During the cold war with my Sugar Daddy, I accidentally slapped his childhood sweetheart. Overnight, the internet cancelled me. The hate was overwhelming. Meanwhile, my Sugar Daddy was silent. Dead silent. Like, actually deceased. In a fit of rage, I fired up a livestream and roasted him onto the Trending page. “Julian Black? Yeah, we dated. He’s mid.” “And for the record, I dumped him.” “Oh, the reason? Nothing major. Just that he’s old, bad in bed, and has the stamina of a sloth. I’m thinking of dating a college jock next. Someone with working knees.” The internet said I was crazy. No one dares to drag Julian Black. Shortly after I killed the stream, my front door was literally removed from its hinges. Julian Black stood there, eyes dark and dangerous, loosening his tie as he cornered me against the wall. “Go on,” he growled, “tell me about this college jock you’re planning to date.” Chapter 1 I’m known in Hollywood as the innocent “Sweetheart.” Pure looks, sweet voice, heart of gold. I spent three years crafting this persona. It collapsed in a single night. Chapter 2 Recently, I’ve been filming a high-budget fantasy series. It’s the dead of winter, and I’m stuck wearing flimsy chiffon robes, flying around on wires, and filming underwater scenes. Work sucked enough as it was. Then she showed up. I was in the makeup chair when I saw the director bowing and scraping to a girl with immaculate makeup. He gave her the VIP tour and even let her sit in his chair behind the monitors. Crew whispered she was a rep from the investment firm. Her name was Chloe Summers. I didn’t care. until I started getting NG’d (No Good) constantly. If I messed up, I’d redo it a hundred times, no complaints. But this wasn’t that. Someone just wanted to watch me freeze to death on a wire. I did that outdoor scene twenty-three times. Finally, they swapped in a stunt double. One take. Done. The director looked embarrassed and told me to rest. My assistant wrapped me in a down jacket as we walked to the trailer. Passing the monitors, Chloe leaned back, looking me up and down with a sneer. “Hollywood really has zero standards these days. They let any trash become an actress.” I was shivering too hard to fight back. Plus, I didn’t know who she was. You don’t slap the money. Back in the trailer, I asked my assistant to dig up dirt on Chloe. Before I got answers, I had an underwater scene. Same playbook. No matter how I acted, it was an NG. Even when the director’s eyes lit up with approval, Chloe would claim the “emotion wasn’t right” and demand a reshoot. This scene was a close-up. No stunt doubles. By the end, I was hypothermic and dizzy. I’m a pushover, sure, but everyone has a breaking point. I refused to go back in the water and walked straight up to Chloe. The director wisely cleared the set. I started polite. “Miss Summers, did I offend you somehow?” Chloe kept that arrogant look. “You? You’re not important enough to offend me.” I smiled coldly. “Then why the hazing? I don’t mind suffering for art, but wasting the crew’s time and burning through the budget? That’s your money going down the drain.” Chloe scanned me again, her eyes full of disgust. “There’s a wall between real talent and ‘resource’ girls like you, Stella.” She paused, smirking. “To get to where you are… I wonder how many beds you had to hop through?” That was it. I hate slut-shaming. I don’t care who she is. One more minute of this and I’d be in the ER anyway. I slapped her. Hard. Her face snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming on her pale skin. She stared at me in disbelief. “Stella Hart! You dare hit me?!” “Yeah, I dare. Since your mother didn’t teach you manners, I’ll do it for her.” I pulled my jacket tighter. “I don’t know you. But if you insult me again or treat this crew’s work like a game, I’ll hit you again.” It’s 40 degrees out. You think you can freeze me and abuse me without consequences? I turned to leave. Chloe lunged to grab me. I shook her off. We were standing by the edge of the set pool. There was loose gravel. Chloe slipped and—splash—fell gracefully into the freezing water. Me: … The set went into chaos. Filming was canceled. As the ambulance took Chloe away, my assistant came back with the intel. I finally understood the malice. Chloe Summers is Julian Black’s childhood friend. She just got back from Europe. And Julian Black? He’s my Sugar Daddy. Chapter 3 I’ve been with Julian for three years. Never heard of a “childhood friend” or a “first love.” This blindsided me. I called his phone. Straight to voicemail. Called his assistant. No answer. Checked WeChat. Our last text was two days ago. Then I remembered. Before I left for the shoot, we had a fight. I had just finished a press tour and had two rare days off. Julian asked me to clear my schedule for next April to go to Northern Europe. But I had already locked in an arthouse film for April. Huge director, Oscar bait. I refused to drop it. His face had gone dark. “Stella, does everything come before me?” “I have to book an appointment four months in advance just to see you now?” “Am I just an accessory to your career?” He sounded bitter. I was exhausted. I cleared two days just to see him, and he was being passive-aggressive. I snapped. “Julian, you said you wouldn’t interfere with my work.” “I told you, I will never give up my career for a man.” We ended on bad terms. He took a call and left in a hurry. Then I went to film. Looking back, I regretted it. I should have explained better. Usually, he’s the one who compromises. This total radio silence? That was new. I felt a pit in my stomach. I called again. Off. I texted him: Ignoring me? You think you’re cool? I accidentally slapped your little childhood friend today. Thoughts? Still nothing. Fine. I’m annoyed now. I went to sleep. Chapter 4 My agent’s scream woke me up. “Stella Hart! When did you declare war on the Summers family?!” “They are blacklisting you! Do you understand?!” “How are you sleeping right now?!” I groggily checked my phone. The internet was a dumpster fire. Fake diva. Green tea bitch. Bully. Escort. Every dirty label imaginable was trending next to my name. I explained the situation to my agent. She sighed. “The fake rumors, we can sue. But the endorsements and scripts… I’ve gotten ten cancellation calls this morning. Summers Corp is crushing us.” “We can’t fight them, Stella. Can you… call Mr. Black?” I scratched my messy hair. “Can’t. We’re in a cold war. He’s ghosting me. Consider us broken up.” “Plus, I slapped his childhood bestie. He’s probably on her side.” Agent: … She hung up to do damage control. I lay in bed, exhausted. This was my second time being cancelled. The first was when I was a rookie. I had no background, just luck and a pretty face. Then a nepo baby named Justin Banks tried to “buy” me. I refused. He tried to blacklist me. I was young and reckless. I figured if I couldn’t act, I’d quit. But before I quit, I waited outside his VIP club, threw a hoodie over his head, and beat the crap out of him in the parking lot. As I was dusting off my hands, I saw Julian. He was leaning against a Maybach, white shirt unbuttoned, unlit cigarette in his fingers. In the dark, he smirked. “Nice right hook.” I knew who he was. Untouchable. But I had a crazy idea. If I needed a backer in this town, I should pick the biggest one. “Mr. Black, I’m in the market for a Sugar Daddy. Interested?” He paused. “Sugar Daddy?” He tapped the car window. “Any other titles available?” I shook my head. I just needed someone to get me gigs. He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Deal.” That’s how we started. With him, Justin Banks ran away with his tail between his legs. For three years, Julian never interfered with my work. He was open about us, even if I tried to hide it. Once, I refused his resources to avoid gossip. He told me: “Stella, don’t play the martyr. Refusing my help to suffer on your own isn’t noble, it’s stupid.” “Besides, am I embarrassing you? Am I not presentable?” Julian was very presentable. But now he was ignoring me. So he was useless. Chapter 5 Maybe I was sick from the pool incident, but I slept all day. When I woke up, it was dark. Called Julian. Voicemail. Checked texts. Nothing. Opened Twitter. The company issued a statement, but then Justin Banks—that trash—went live. He insinuated I tried to seduce him back in the day and failed. He claimed I found a new backer, but now the backer was getting married, so I was kicked to the curb. Celebrities started liking his post. The hate comments surged. I knew she looked too innocent to be real. Hollywood mattress. Get out of the industry, Stella. She was a mistress trying to wreck a marriage? Gross. Justin Banks raised my blood pressure. Opportunistic weasel. He saw Julian was quiet and came back for a bite. Fine. He kicked the wrong iron plate. You want a livestream? I can do that too. I have receipts on all of them. Before I started, I texted Julian one last time. Julian Black, keep playing dead if you want. Just remember, I dumped YOU. Then I blocked and deleted him. And hit “Go Live.”

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Chapter 1 At the company’s anniversary gala, the newly appointed CEO made her debut. She was stunning. I mean, drop-dead gorgeous. So, naturally, being the idiot I am, I tried to sneak a pic of my hot new boss to send to my boys. Caption: Check out the new boss. Total smoke show. But I got caught in 4K. She snatched my phone, her face like ice. “Focus on the company’s Q3 goals, not your hormones. Get your head out of the gutter.” My face burned so hot I thought I’d set off the sprinklers. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. To salvage whatever was left of my career, I rushed to the CEO’s office right after the party, hoping to explain myself. I knocked, entered, and then froze. There, sitting on her pristine mahogany desk, was a clay figurine. Not just any figurine. It was the goofy, hand-painted one I spent three days making for my online girlfriend’s birthday last week. It even had my initials, S.C., carved into the base. My scalp tingled. The room started spinning. The terrifying new CEO… is my girlfriend of three years. … The realization hit me like a freight train. I stood there, gaping at the woman I’d never met in person but had texted “goodnight” to for over a thousand days. “That figurine…” I stammered. “My boyfriend made it.” Natalie Quinn reached out and gently touched the clay head. Her eyes, usually razor-sharp, softened for a split second. Then, the mask slammed back down. She glared at me. “That’s none of your business. Don’t ask questions above your pay grade.” “Why are you here?” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to look anywhere but at the figurine. “Ms. Quinn, about the photo… I wasn’t being a creep. It’s just… you look exactly like my girlfriend. I couldn’t help it.” Okay, it sounded like a pickup line from hell. But ironically, it was the only honest thing I’d said all day. Natalie scoffed. “Do you think I was born yesterday? That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.” “With those leering eyes of yours, I doubt any girl with 20/20 vision would date you.” My face fell. Great. My online girlfriend thinks I’m a creep. I mentally kicked my friend who begged for the photo. I also mentally roasted Natalie. Online, she’s all “UWU” and sweet emojis. In person? She’s a dragon lady. And wait—didn’t she say she was a struggling intern? Since when do interns run Fortune 500 companies? Chapter 2 I walked out of her office and immediately pulled out my phone. I sent a “spanking” sticker to her on our chat app. She replied instantly. Hubby! What’s wrong? Who upset you? 🥺 Through the crack in her office door, I saw Natalie grinning at her phone, feet kicking happily under the desk. The difference between her “CEO Face” and her “Girlfriend Face” was giving me whiplash. I typed back, grinding my teeth: Just got roasted by my female boss. She said no girl would ever want a loser like me. Her phone blew up. WHAT?! How dare she talk to my man like that! 😡 My hubby is literally the best guy on the planet! Your boss needs Lasik! Babe, when we meet up in a few days, I swear I won’t let anyone bully you. Yeah, right. The only person bullying me is you. I’ve been slaving away here for two years, and suddenly my e-girl is signing my paychecks and insulting my face. I was annoyed. Petty, even. I decided to delay our meetup. Let her sweat a bit. Me: I’m slammed with work. Can’t do this month. Her: What?! Her: NOOOO! Babe, I’ve been waiting forever! 😭😭😭 She spammed me with crying cat memes. I ignored them. I was too busy processing the fact that my life had turned into a bad soap opera. Chapter 3 My little ghosting act had consequences. Dire ones. Natalie became a tyrant. The whole office was trembling. Marketing got chewed out. Finance got roasted. And then, the eye of Sauron turned to my department. Because of a typo—a single typo—in a proposal, she dragged my whole team into her office and shredded us verbally. My coworkers looked like they were about to cry. She sat there, looking like the Ice Queen, nothing like the sweet girl who sends me voice notes about her day. Little liar, I muttered under my breath. “Sam, you got something to say?” Damn, she has hearing like a bat. She stared me down. The pressure was suffocating. “No, Ms. Quinn,” I lied through my teeth. “I was just saying how inspiring your leadership is. I’ll cherish this feedback forever.” She raised a brow. “Good.” “You’ve got a glib tongue. Let’s see if your work matches it.” ” since you’re so inspired, redo the entire proposal yourself. I want it on my desk by 5 PM tomorrow.” My jaw dropped. My coworkers looked at me with pure pity. That was a three-person job, and she gave me 24 hours. She was hazing me. Definitely hazing me. I went back to my desk, fuming, and my phone buzzed. Natalie: Hubby, stop ignoring me… I miss you. 🥺 Natalie: I won’t push for the meetup. Just talk to me? Chapter 4 To save my team from further wrath, I decided to take one for the team. Me: Fine. I’ll think about it. The moment I replied, my phone vibrated like a seizure. Natalie: YAY! You’re the best! ❤️ Natalie: Babe, tomorrow is your birthday! Even if we don’t meet, I HAVE to send you your gift. Natalie: You promised you wouldn’t say no this time! Then came a sticker of a bear aggressively kissing a rabbit. For three years, I never gave her my address. I didn’t want her spending money on me, especially since she claimed to be a broke college grad. I didn’t want our relationship to be transactional. But now? She’s a loaded CEO. My moral high ground just evaporated. Plus, if I don’t give her an address, she might fire me out of spite. I sent her the address of the Amazon Hub Locker near my apartment. No way was I giving her my actual unit number. That night, I received a same-day courier package. Inside a sleek, expensive box was a jar filled with hundreds of paper stars, a handwritten letter, and a watch box. The letter smelled like her perfume—the same scent that lingered in her office. Her handwriting was elegant but forceful. Happy Birthday, Hubby! I folded 999 stars because I want us to last forever. I opened the watch box. It was a mechanical watch. Looked fancy. Low-key. Chapter 5 We met five years ago online. She had just gone through a brutal breakup and vented on a forum. I was bored and replied. We talked for a year before making it “official.” I had rules: No video calls, no face reveals, no meetups. I wanted an emotional connection first. Three years. I texted her: Got the gift. Love it. Thanks. Her: Glad you like it! I folded every single star myself! ✨ Her: Oh! Did you find the keychain? I made it! Put it on your bag so I’m always with you! I dug through the packing peanuts and found a clay keychain. It was a little caricature of me. I clipped it to my work bag. Why not? Her: Hubby… are you still mad? Her: You haven’t called me ‘Babe’ or ‘Wifey’ in days… I cringed. Back when I thought she was a broke intern, “Wifey” was easy. Now that I know she signs million-dollar contracts, calling her “Wifey” felt… illegal. I took a deep breath, mentally separated the CEO from the girl, and typed: Baby wifey. Crisis averted. Chapter 6 The next morning, Natalie bought Starbucks for the entire building. The mood lifted instantly. Except for me. I was running on caffeine and hate, grinding out that proposal. I finished it three hours overtime and passed out the second I got home. I woke up to banging on my door. It was the building manager, surrounded by a mountain of boxes. “Sam? These are all for you. The locker was full. They’ve been arriving all night.” I looked at the labels. Same-day delivery. All from her. I opened them. 1982 Lafite Rothschild. Limited Edition Maotai. A box of ginseng worth more than my car. She was love-bombing me with high-end luxury goods because I didn’t reply to her texts for 12 hours. I checked my phone. 100+ unread messages. I quickly explained I was pulling an all-nighter because someone gave me a crazy deadline. It took an hour of texting to calm her down. She promised no more panic-buying. That evening, my supervisor dragged me to a client dinner. This project was vital for Q4, so Natalie was coming too. The client, Mr. Wang, was a notorious drinker. Old school. He didn’t sign contracts until he was wasted. He zeroed in on Natalie immediately. “Ms. Quinn! In this industry, if you don’t drink, you don’t respect me. How are we supposed to do business?” He pushed a glass of baijiu toward her. Natalie looked pale. She hesitated, reaching for the glass. I remembered her text from this morning: Cramps are killing me. Dying. 🩸 Before my brain could stop me, I stood up and snatched the glass from her hand. “She can’t drink today.”

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The school’s Golden Boy dropped a hundred-dollar bill, and I immediately stepped on it. Then, I casually sat down, pretending to tie my shoe. He noticed something was off and sat down right next to me, staring. We sat there from broad daylight until the sun went down. Neither of us folded. By the next day, the rumor mill was spinning: We were dating. Before I could even deny it, the Prom Queen and the School Bad Boy lost their minds. They cornered me separately. Chloe, the Prom Queen: “Let’s cut the crap. I like Asher. How much to make you break up with him? Is a hundred grand enough?” Jax, the Bad Boy: “What’s so good about that broke genius anyway? Date me instead. I’ll sign over my family’s beach house to you.” Chapter 1 “Wake up, Riley! Stop drooling!” I was still in my dream, locked in a battle of wills over that Benjamin, when someone shook me awake. In the dream, Asher had finally left, and I was reaching for the cash. Then—reality hit. Just my luck. I shifted positions, trying to faceplant back into the desk to resume the dream. “I’m dead tired. Didn’t sleep a wink last night. Let me nap until the teacher gets here.” A different voice cut through the fog. “You’re still sleeping? Your romance with Asher is trending on every group chat. Aren’t you afraid the principal is gonna drag you in?” I shot up like a zombie. “What?” “I’m in a romance with who?” A group of classmates had formed a circle around my desk, looking at me with hungry, gossip-filled eyes. I grabbed one girl’s arm and shook her. “Speak! What are you talking about?” She pulled her arm away, looking disgusted. “Stop acting. Just spill the tea. When did you and Asher start hooking up?” I raised three fingers. “I swear to god, I didn’t hook up with anyone.” “Then when did you start dating?” “We aren’t!” Heaven knows I’m innocent. Yesterday, I was walking into the library and saw a crisp $100 bill on the floor. My eyes lit up. My dopamine spiked. But the library entrance was crowded. I couldn’t just bend over like a goblin. So, I smoothly stepped on it, then sat down on a nearby bench to scout the perimeter. I am a genius. But just as I was mentally spending the money, this tall, gorgeous guy stopped walking. He patted his pockets, then looked at the floor. Specifically, at my sneaker. He looked at me with this complex expression. I guilty-shuffled my foot, trying to cover the bill completely. That was my mistake. He saw the twitch. Instead of calling me out, he just sat down next to me. That gorgeous guy was Asher Vance. The school heartthrob. The valedictorian. At first, nobody realized it was a siege. We just looked like two people sitting. Until we sat there for ten hours. Ten. Hours. I was starving. Is he a robot? Does he run on solar power? Chapter 2 “Bwahahaha!” “Oh my god, that is totally something you would do!” My classmates were practically on the floor laughing after I explained. “Stop laughing at me!” I whined, putting on my best puppy-dog face. One of them rolled her eyes. “Girl, stop being dramatic. So, who got the hundred bucks?” I straightened up. “I know you’re curious, but focus! Help me out here. What do I do? Asher has like, a fan club. If they think we’re dating, I’m gonna get roasted alive.” “I’m too pretty to be bullied! What if they put gum in my hair?” “Relax,” someone said. “With that mouth of yours, you could talk your way out of a murder charge. Who’d dare bully you?” True. But before I could clear my name, the hierarchy intervened. Chloe Sterling, the Queen Bee, found me first. “You’re Riley?” Her tone was icy. She’s rich, beautiful, and usually followed by a swarm of simps. She was tapping on her phone, not even looking at me. Oh god, I thought. Is she calling a hitman? I nodded, trying to look harmless. “Yeah, that’s me.” She kept scrolling. “Heard you and Asher are a thing. Let’s be real. I like Asher. Whether he likes me back is his problem, but you? You can’t date him.” “No, wait, I—” “Zip it. Did I say you could speak?” Wow. Rude. Who made you the boss of me? Just because you’re the “School Beauty” doesn’t mean you can interrupt people. Chapter 3 Before I could voice my internal protest, Chloe spoke again. “Class is starting soon. My time is money. How much to break up with him? Fifty grand?” Me: ??? “W-what? How much?” Chloe frowned, annoyed. “Is a hundred grand enough? I hate it when people haggle.” “Take the money. Break up today.” Ding. My phone buzzed. A transfer notification. One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. My brain short-circuited. I stood there for a solid three seconds. Luckily, my survival instincts kicked in before she got mad. “So… just to clarify… if I don’t date Asher, this money is mine? No take-backs?” “Duh,” Chloe pocketed her phone. “Can you do it or not?” I nodded so hard I almost gave myself whiplash. “Yes! Absolutely! Consider it done! He is dead to me!” I was ready to offer her my kidney as a thank-you gift. “Sis, do you want anything else? I can bark? I can do a backflip? Just name it!” Chloe looked at me like I was a cockroach. “I seriously don’t know what Asher sees in you.” Sis, you are my new religion. “I promise, he will never like me. Ever.” “Hey, want me to do a TikTok dance for you? Free of charge. Just to show my appreciation.” I started doing a very awkward version of the Renegade. She cringed. “Please stop. That was painful to watch.” I stopped. “Or I can rap? I know all the words to—” “Just stop,” she covered her ears. “You’re weird.” She turned and walked away. Honestly? She’s an icon. Beautiful. Rich. Decisive. I yelled after her, “Bye bestie! Call me if you need someone to carry your books!” A random student walked by and sneered, “Simp.” I puffed out my chest. “Yeah? And? I’m simping for a millionaire. Jealous?” Chapter 4 I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just stared at my bank account app, counting the zeros. Am I rich? Is this real life? Thank you, Asher. Thank you, Benjamin Franklin. The next day. I walked into school with massive dark circles under my eyes. Before I could reach my classroom, Jax—the notorious bad boy—blocked the doorway. He pinned me against the lockers, his voice low and angry. “Riley.” I jumped out of my skin. “Jesus! You scared me! Jax, do you have a death wish?” Jax was in my homeroom—Class 8, the “hopeless case” class. Asher and Chloe were in Class 1, the honors class. Jax and I rarely spoke. I sat in the front; he slept in the back. But I’m a social butterfly, so we were cool. Usually. Jax looked serious. Hurt, even. He refused to move. “You’re dating Asher? Why?” Oh lord, not this again. Does Jax like Chloe? Is that why he’s mad? Thinking of Chloe and my new fortune, I grinned. “Because of money.” Jax: ??? “Asher? That broke genius? He has money?” “He can’t have more money than me!” Uh oh. “Well, his money isn’t really my business, but—” Jax cut me off, raising his voice. “Who says it’s not your business? If you date me, I’ll give you the villa my dad owns near the beach. Title deed and everything.” The hallway went silent. Then it exploded. “Whoa!” “Jax likes Riley?” “The Bad Boy vs. The Golden Boy! Who is Riley gonna pick?” I was stunned. Jax likes me? Since when? He stared at me, ignoring the crowd. “Riley, say something. Yes or no?” Just then, Asher came sprinting down the hall. He looked furious. He was winding up a punch, aiming right for us. Like he had a blood feud to settle. Jax reacted instantly, stepping in front of me to block the hit. “Asher! What the hell are you doing?!” Chapter 5 The punch missed us completely. Instead, it connected squarely with the jaw of a guy with glasses standing next to me. Pow. Four-Eyes stumbled back, looking dazed. “Why did you hit me?!” Asher didn’t stop. He grabbed the guy by the collar. “Who gave you the right to spread rumors? Which eye saw Riley pregnant with my baby?” “Which eye saw me forcing her to get an abortion?” “I don’t even know her! We aren’t dating! How could we have a kid?” “I’m a guy, I can take the heat, but she’s a girl! You’re ruining her reputation!” Four-Eyes stammered, “I—I saw you guys at the hospital last week!” My brain finally caught up. Asher wasn’t here to beat me up. But wait. “What?!” “I’m pregnant? An abortion?!” “Who said I was getting an abortion?!” I went feral. This rumor was lethal! What if Chloe heard this and misunderstood? My money! A classmate showed me her phone. There it was in the grade-wide group chat. Four-Eyes had posted: Riley is preggo with Asher’s kid. He forced her to terminate. That’s why they were sitting outside the library all night, fighting about it. Attached was a photo of us looking grim during the $100 standoff. It looked… surprisingly convincing. Hell no. I spent last night counting money, not managing a PR crisis! “Get him!” I screamed. Asher and I formed an immediate alliance. We both started swinging at Four-Eyes. Jax, realizing what was happening, joined in. It turned into a 3-on-1 beatdown. Okay, “beatdown” is strong. I was mostly flailing my arms. Then Chloe showed up. She heard the context from the crowd. “Gross!” she yelled. She dropped her bag and joined the fight. 4-on-1. Poor Four-Eyes didn’t stand a chance. Chapter 6 “Unbelievable!” “Absolutely unbelievable!” “The Valedictorian! The Salutatorian! Leading a gang assault?” “Are you two trying to ruin your futures?” The Class 1 homeroom teacher was slamming his hand on the desk. Asher (Rank 1) and Chloe (Rank 2) stood with their heads down. Jax and I… well, we were the “bad influences.” My homeroom teacher sighed. “Jax, you skip class every day, your grades are tanking, and now you’re fighting? And Riley… I’m disappointed. You know your situation. Do you have a death wish?” I stuffed a tissue up my nose to stop the bleeding. Jax protested. “Teacher, you’re biased! Riley skips class too, why aren’t you yelling at her?” “Shut up or I’ll call your father!” “Four-Eyes started a rumor that destroyed a girl’s reputation! He deserved it!” Jax argued. “And we barely touched him. Riley’s the one bleeding!” “That’s for the doctor to decide!” Soon, the parents arrived. Asher’s dad (looked scary), Chloe’s mom (looked elegant), Jax’s dad (looked rich), and… my grandma. Plus Four-Eyes’ parents, who were wailing. “My poor baby! Look at his face! We’re suing!” The teachers tried to mediate. “We will investigate and punish accordingly. You four, get out. Stand in the hall.” We were exiled. “Chloe… uh, Ms. Sterling, sorry for dragging you into this,” I whispered. But Chloe looked weirdly excited. “So… wait. You guys weren’t dating? You sat there for ten hours over… a hundred bucks?” Asher corrected her: “It wasn’t just a hundred bucks. It was a matter of principle.” Chloe burst out laughing. “That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” Jax joined in. “You guys are idiots!” They were losing it. Asher and I exchanged a look of pure embarrassment. “So,” Chloe wiped a tear. “Who got the money?” Chapter 7 Asher and I looked at our shoes. It’s a tragedy, really. It wasn’t a hundred-dollar bill. It was an anti-fraud flyer folded to look like a hundred-dollar bill. And Asher hadn’t lost any money; he just thought he did. The whole thing was for nothing. “Anti-fraud flyer!” Jax howled. “I can’t breathe!” I, however, wanted to cry. The bill was fake. Which meant… I looked at Chloe. “Chloe… I need to return the money. I shouldn’t have taken it. I was going to tell you yesterday, but I’ve never seen that many zeros in my life and I panicked. I’ll transfer it back right now.” I didn’t have my phone on me (confiscated), but I was sincere. Chloe waved her hand dismissively. “Keep it.” “It’s not your fault I jumped the gun.” “I don’t do refunds. It’s embarrassing. How would I show my face in school if I took money back?” My jaw hit the floor. “It’s… a hundred thousand dollars. And you… don’t want it?” Chloe shrugged. “It’s good karma. Consider it a donation.” I tackled her in a hug. “Chloe! You are my sister! My queen! My goddess!” “If you ever need a kidney, take mine! If you need someone to hide a body, I’ll bring the shovel!” Asher looked disgusted. Chloe paused. “Actually, I do need a favor.” I snapped to attention. “Name it.” “Never mind. Tell you later.” Jax poked my arm. “Riley, if you’re this happy over a hundred grand, just date me. I’ll give you the villa for real.” “No!” I refused. The money was a transaction. The villa was a relationship. I have standards. Also, I’m rich now. I don’t need a man. Jax pouted. “Why not? Am I ugly?” I scratched my head. How do I explain that I don’t have the energy to deal with rich boy drama? “Let’s focus on not getting expelled,” Asher interrupted. Chapter 8 Four-Eyes was fine. Just bruises. Since he started the malicious rumor, and since Jax and Chloe’s parents have “forget about it” money, the settlement was quick. However, we were all supposed to split the damages. My grandma looked terrified. She stood there, trembling, her old coat worn thin. She didn’t have money for settlements. I rushed over to her. “Grandma, don’t worry. We don’t have to pay. He slandered me. The school knows we’re the victims.” Grandma looked hopeful. “Really?” “Really.” I lied. I used Chloe’s money to pay my share secretly. With the rest of the cash, I paid off all our debts. I put a chunk into a savings account for Grandma. I bought her a premium pension plan that would pay her monthly. After setting everything up, I sat on my bed, gasping for air. My nose started bleeding again. It took half a roll of toilet paper to stop it. Man, being eighteen is exhausting. I’m more fragile than a glass vase. But that night, I slept better than I had in years.

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I opened my eyes and found myself lying in a massive dirt pit. Several villagers stood above me, shovels in hand, tossing dirt onto my face. Wait. Did I just get isekai’d? And my spawn point is a shallow grave? Once my brain rebooted, I scrambled up like a zombie on caffeine. “Hold up! Put the shovels down! I’m not dead yet!” The villagers shook their heads, looking genuinely disappointed. “Are you kidding me? I dug this hole for hours. What a waste of cardio.” “Even lightning couldn’t kill her? She’s literally unkillable. Like a cockroach.” “Those poor kids, Jayden and Lily. Back to the torture chamber with that evil witch.” The town mayor, a guy with a face like a dried apple, wasn’t giving up. “Just bury her anyway. What’s the point of keeping trash around?” A girl who looked about ten years old was on her knees, slamming her forehead into the dirt. “Please don’t bury my mom! She’s the only family Jayden and I have left!” Her voice was raw from crying. Her forehead was swollen and bleeding. The villagers finally hesitated. They muttered among themselves and eventually convinced the mayor to drop it. Of course, since they wanted me six feet under five minutes ago, nobody offered a hand to help me out. I clawed my way out of the pit, ears ringing, and collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. Be careful what you wish for, they say. Back in my world, I went to a famous fertility temple to pray for a baby. On the way home? Wham. Truck-kun sent me packing. Now, I’m stuck in a web novel as the villainous stepmother. Chapter 1 Well, I got my wish. I have kids. Two of them. In the original novel, the son, Jayden, is fourteen now. Ten years later? He becomes a rebel leader who burns half the kingdom to the ground. The daughter, Lily, is ten. Ten years later? She’s the “Femme Fatale” who corrupts the court and brings the empire to its knees. Together, this brother-sister duo turns the nation of Kyria into a slaughterhouse. And the catalyst for their villain arc? Me. Or rather, this body’s original owner, the Evil Stepmom™. The original “me” was so toxic that apparently, Mother Nature decided to strike her down with actual lightning. Now, every time I moved, my body screamed in agony. Chapter 2 “Mom? Are you… okay?” Lily looked terrified, trembling like a leaf. Pale skin, big innocent eyes. She was exactly the daughter I’d always dreamed of. I fought through the pain and gently patted her head. “Lily, honey, don’t be scared. I’m okay…” She flinched instinctively, ready to be hit. When the blow didn’t come, she just stood there, stiff as a board, confused. The mayor sneered. “Next time you get beaten, don’t come crying to us, Lily. You asked for this.” “I can’t leave her,” Lily whimpered. “She’s our mom.” My heart. This kid is an angel. A boy in ragged clothes sprinted over. When he saw me alive on the ground, the panic in his eyes instantly froze into cold detachment. “They said lightning killed you.” It was Jayden. Despite the dirt and rags, he was stunning. Even better looking than the book described. A born martial artist. But his clothes were shredded. His face was bruised, and his lip was split. I reached out to check his injuries. He flinched violently and took a step back. Just like his sister. Polite words, terrified body language. Winning these kids over was going to be a marathon, not a sprint. Jayden pulled a small pouch from his pocket and held out a few silver coins. “Mom. This is what I earned today.” Before I could speak, the crowd erupted again. “Lola, you sent Jayden to the fight pits again? He’s fourteen!” “You lazy witch! Making your son fight to the death and your daughter beg on the streets while you do nothing?” “Stepmothers really don’t have hearts. Poor kids.” Chapter 3 Jayden ignored them. He grabbed Lily’s hand with one hand and mine with the other. “We’re going home.” My kid is protecting me. Deal with it. I shot the villagers a smug look. The mayor was fuming. “Jayden! That woman is going to be the death of you!” Our “home” was a shack. The yard was covered in dead leaves. Lily immediately grabbed a broom and started sweeping. Jayden headed for the kitchen. I grabbed his arm. “Your cuts are infected. We need to put Neosporin on that.” He pulled away coldly. “I won’t die.” I turned around and—blink—there was a tube of antibiotic ointment on the table. Wait. That table was empty a second ago. Could it be…? I tested it in my head. I wish I had some Ibuprofen for the pain. Blink. A bottle of Advil appeared next to the ointment. Jackpot. I have an inventory system! Anything I need from the modern world—meds, supplies—is just a thought away. I grabbed Jayden’s arm again. Harder this time. “You are getting treated. Sit.” “Ah…” He winced. I rolled up his tattered sleeve. My breath hitched. His arm was a roadmap of bruises, cuts, and old scars. “Who did this to you? Which animal?” Jayden looked me dead in the eye. “You did.” Chapter 4 That original Lola was a monster. Jayden fought in illegal underground matches to earn money, and instead of hugging him, she beat him? I’ve been a doctor for fifteen years. I’ve seen bad stuff. But this broke me. My eyes burned. My throat tightened. Jayden’s shoulder had a deep, festering wound that looked weeks old. He’s fourteen. I couldn’t stop the tears. The original Lola would guilt-trip him into fighting so she could fuel her gambling addiction. Jayden probably thought I was putting on an act. He gritted his teeth. “…I can fight one more match tonight.” “No!” I snapped. “No more fighting. Ever.” My hands shook as I applied the ointment. “From now on, I make the money. You don’t risk your life for silver coins. And if I ever ask you for gambling money again, you have permission to tie me up.” The boy’s eyes flickered with hope for a microsecond before going dull again. My heart ached. I made him swallow the ibuprofen and watched him like a hawk until he did. Chapter 5 “Mom, Jayden… dinner’s ready.” Lily had cooked. Three white steamed buns. Two bowls of watery rice porridge that looked more like dishwater. The kids stood back, waiting for me to eat first. I grabbed a bun and took a bite. Lily watched me, swallowing hard, then looked down at her water-soup. She’d probably lived on that slop for years. No wonder they were skin and bones. In this house, white buns were for the Stepmom. I broke the rules. I handed each of them a bun. “Eat.” They froze. They were terrified. They wanted a mom so badly, even a monster was better than nothing. Well, lucky for them, I wanted kids. That night, Lily whispered to me before bed. “Mom… hide the money. Thieves have been hitting the village.” She was terrified I’d lose Jayden’s blood money. We were too poor for pens, so I used a piece of charcoal to write a note. Go out the door, turn right. East side. Third house. Lots of cash there. I slapped the note on the table and went to sleep. The next morning, I woke up to find a new note on the table. Next to it were two massive silver ingots. Thanks for the tip. Standard finder’s fee: 20%. The “third house” was the mayor’s house. He tried to bury me alive; I sent a burglar his way. Karma. And this thief had professional standards. Lily squealed. “We can eat real food!” Jayden, the stoic warrior, actually cracked a small smile. “Everyone get dressed,” I announced. “Mom’s going to town to buy meat.” When I came back hauling bags of pork, Lily had already boiled water. “Mom… did you lose it all gambling again?” Her face fell when she saw me empty-handed of cash. “No more gambling. Spending money on pork belly is way more fun.”

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In my last life, I sacrificed everything to take care of my paralyzed brother. I died an old maid, never marrying. In this life, we were reborn together. The very first thing he did? He got rid of me to make room for the “destined” fake heiress. He took me, a newborn baby, and dumped me on the cold streets. “Don’t blame me for being heartless,” he whispered to my tiny face. “You’re the reason Chloe died.” 01 I was born during a torrential downpour in Seattle. Chase Sterling, the eldest son of the prestigious Sterling family, skipped school for three days to come back home. Nobody knew the truth. That straight-backed, solemn elementary schooler harbored the memories of two lifetimes. He had just been reborn, carrying a belly full of regret from his previous life. He didn’t even glance at me, his biological sister. Instead, he bribed a nurse to swap the babies, ensuring the girl who was mistakenly taken in our past life was now legitimately presented to our parents. He carried me out of the hospital. Stuffed me into a flimsy cardboard box. And took a bus all the way to the outskirts of the city. Meanwhile, the baby crying louder than me in the nursery—the one now draped in the Sterling family name—would grow up to be the apple of everyone’s eye: Chloe Sterling. Chase’s biggest regret from his past life was wasting decades missing out on the girl who became a brilliant flight surgeon. Me? I was the biological sister who wasn’t brought home until I was eighteen. I spent my life unmarried, teaching myself rehabilitation medicine just for him. I dragged him out of his wheelchair and gave him a life. But all he cared about was the fake sister I had displaced. The Sterlings were a military legacy family. In his last life, they were heroes. In this life, Chase was determined to rewrite the script. At any cost. I lay in the swaddle, quietly opening my eyes. Surprise, brother. I was reborn too. 02 In our past life, Chloe and I were switched at birth. She became the Sterling princess. I was sent to a blue-collar family. When I was three, a car crash left me an orphan. I was tossed into the foster care system. I spent over a decade living in fear. Chloe, however, was pampered. She was the jewel of the Sterling family, the only sister in Chase’s eyes. She learned piano, ballet, and studied abroad. She had everyone’s love. I was finally brought back to the Sterling estate at eighteen. I remember walking through those iron gates wearing cheap canvas shoes and a thrift-store dress, dragging a broken suitcase. I saw Chase standing in the yard. Tall, dressed in his uniform, backlit by the sun. He frowned at me. “You’re Penny? You look so… low class.” Chase became a top-tier Air Force pilot. Chloe became an elite flight surgeon. In photos, they stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling brilliantly. Until that year I went to visit the base. A training accident. The plane went down. Chase and Chloe were pinned under the wing, waiting for rescue. The medic looked at me frantically. “I’m sorry, we only have the resources to extract one right now.” I hesitated for one second. “Save my brother.” Everyone blamed me for Chloe’s death. But I didn’t regret it. I spent ten years nursing him. I gave up my youth to be his caretaker. When Chase was on his deathbed, his pale hand covered mine. His voice was weak, but the words were like daggers. “Penny… I wish you had saved Chloe.” I froze. It felt like a sledgehammer to the chest. Even at the very end. He never had a single word of gratitude for me. 03 He carried the box a long way. From the hospital, through the old town, to the sketchy East End. Finally, he crouched down at the mouth of an alley overgrown with weeds. He looked at me in the box, his face pale, lips tight. “Penny,” he whispered, his hands trembling. “Don’t blame your big brother.” “Chloe died so tragically. In the last life, she died because of you… I don’t hate you, but she… she deserves to live without a care in the world.” He pushed me into the shadows of the alley. With his small hand, he tucked the blanket around me. “Someone will find you here. Just live a normal life this time.” He stood up, eyes red, but stubbornly turned his head away. “Penny, I’m begging you. Don’t show up in our lives again.” He walked away. He never looked back. My mind was clear, fully awake in this infant body. But I couldn’t speak. I lay in the shadows. Watching his back disappear, I felt nothing but ice in my veins. 04 The rain started pouring. I opened my eyes again. The sky was the color of a dirty rag. The wind whipped the leaves around the alley entrance. He was long gone. I was a newborn. My body was weak. I couldn’t even cry. My throat only produced a weak, muffled whimper. The rain soaked through the cardboard. I started to burn up with fever. My vision went white. In the distance, I heard the snarls of stray dogs. It sounded like death approaching. I couldn’t move. I could only look up at this strange, dark sky. I thought about my past life. I spent a lifetime learning medicine. Rehab. Forty years of caretaking. All for one sentence: “I wish you saved her.” In this life. His first act upon rebirth was to throw me out like garbage. I closed my eyes. The smell of mud and rain filled my nose. My consciousness started to fade. Until a gentle female voice cut through the noise: “Did you hear that? Is that a kitten?” A deep male voice followed. Teasing, warm. “Let’s take it home then. You love cats.” 05 In the darkness, a light appeared. It was the glow of streetlamps through the rain, the headlights of a car. It was the first thread of hope I could grasp. I saw an umbrella open. Under it was a beautiful, elegant face. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks by the rain. When she saw me, her eyes went wide with panic. “Arthur! Start the car! It’s a baby!” Her voice trembled. She was terrified. The next second, she lifted me gently from the soggy box. She stripped off her coat and wrapped me in it. She pulled me tight into her embrace. She smelled amazing. Like magnolias and clean laundry. It made me want to cry. I leaned into her warmth. Babbling weakly, panting with fever. My mind drifted. She held me tighter, cursing softly. “Who does this? What kind of monster leaves a baby in a storm?” “She’s burning up. Her lips are blue.” The man’s voice came from beside her, rough with worry. “I’m bringing the car around. We need to move.” She cooed at me. “Don’t be scared, baby. Auntie is taking you to the doctor.”

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My mother traded her life for my golden ticket into high society. Before she took her last breath, she forced my biological father—a man worth billions—to acknowledge my existence. The second I stepped into the Sterling estate, my half-sister swirled her red wine, her gaze grazing over me like I was a speck of dust. “I don’t care where you came from. Just keep your head down.” My half-brother crushed his cigar into an ashtray, his voice low and dangerous. “Once you walk through that door, you play by the Sterling rules. Watch yourself.” I understood. They hated me. So, I tried my best to be invisible. Until the day the school’s queen bee poured a bottle of ink into my water bottle and tried to force it down my throat. My sister stepped in and slapped her across the face. My brother cornered the bully and ordered her to drink every drop of that ink. That’s when I learned the truth. The Sterling rule isn’t about silence. It’s about protecting your own. Chapter 1 The day after my mom jumped from our apartment building, a middle-aged man in a luxury sedan found me. He said I was a daughter of the Sterling family, and he was there to take me “home.” I studied his face, looking for any resemblance. “Are you my father?” The man let out a scoff. It was faint, barely audible, but I caught it. “No, Miss Riley. My name is Davis. You can call me Driver Davis.” “I’m just Mr. Sterling’s driver and assistant. If you need the boss, I can pass a message.” He sounded respectful, but his eyes told a different story. He looked at me like I was roadkill he had to scrape off his bumper. I didn’t care. I was just sad I never got to see the man my mother loved enough to die for. The night before she jumped, she held me and cried for hours. She swore she wasn’t a mistress. She was his first love. We were the ones who got left behind. He chose his empire over us, marrying a woman from a powerful dynasty instead. “Riley,” she had asked me, “She’s been dead for three years. Why won’t he marry me now?” I didn’t have an answer. She touched my face, looking through me at someone else. “Be good, Riley. Be obedient. Work hard. Make him proud. Make him see you.” Those were her last words to me. Did she love me? Maybe. Maybe not enough. Doesn’t matter now. From here on out, I have to figure out how to be happy on my own. “I’m fine,” I told Davis. “Let’s go.” I took one last look at the run-down shack I’d lived in for sixteen years, then climbed into the Maybach without turning back. We lived in the middle of nowhere. Davis spent the drive muttering to himself, complaining about the distance, basically calling me a burden. “Don’t know what the Boss is thinking… could’ve just paid her off… why bring her home?” I ignored him. I glued my face to the window, watching the desolate countryside morph into the glittering skyline of the city. It was beautiful. The car pulled up to a massive estate. Davis dumped my luggage on the driveway. “Alright, you’re on your own from here. I’ve got places to be.” He sped off before I could blink. I dragged my suitcase toward the open front doors. Someone was waiting. Chapter 2 The moment I stepped onto the marble floor, I saw them. A young man and woman descending the spiral staircase like royalty. They were perfect. Works of art. I recognized them from the tabloids. Aria Sterling, the art prodigy whose paintings hung in Parisian galleries at age eleven. Asher Sterling, the genius who spoke seven languages and collected academic trophies like Pokémon cards. Compared to them, I was a dirt-poor country bumpkin. “Hi, Sister. Hi, Brother. I’m Riley Stone.” I greeted them, trying to be polite. They paused, scanning me from head to toe. Aria swirled her wine glass. “I don’t care where you came from. Just keep your head down.” Asher put out his cigar. “Once you walk through that door, you play by our rules. Watch yourself.” I lowered my head, acting submissive. “Okay. I understand.” I knew they wouldn’t like me. So, I spent a week learning their schedules to avoid them. Aria drank wine every night and hated mornings. Asher had to bang on her door five times just to get her up for school. The maids couldn’t do it. Even our father couldn’t—she hung up on him when he tried to set her up on dates. I was terrified of annoying her. Especially after yesterday. Davis gave me a dress identical to one Aria had. I didn’t know. When she saw me, she frowned, went back to her room, changed, and then threw the dress in Davis’s face. “Make me see that rag again, I dare you.” Asher was slightly more stable. Slightly. Today, Davis said he couldn’t drive me to school because he had to pick up Dad from the airport. He asked Asher to drop me off. Asher slammed his fork down at breakfast and stormed out. I froze, a noodle halfway to my mouth in the kitchen. Silence. Then, Aria’s voice floated down the hall. “You have three minutes to get in the car. Or he leaves you.” I wasn’t full, but I couldn’t be late on my first day. I ran out, wiping my mouth. But when I got to the sleek sports car, I panicked. If I opened the back door, Aria would have to scoot over. If I sat shotgun, Asher would probably eject me. I thought about it logically. “Brother,” I said seriously. “Can you pop the trunk? I’ll sit in there.” Chapter 3 “Pfft.” Aria laughed. It was a clean, melodic sound. My heart skipped a beat. I peeked at her, but she was already looking at her phone, face blank. I scratched my head. “So… where should I sit?” Asher smashed the car horn. “Just get in the damn car! Sit wherever!” “Oh…” Suddenly, the back door opened. Aria scooted over. I took the hint and scrambled in. “Thanks, Sister.” She ignored me. I started fighting with the seatbelt. First time in a car this fancy. How does this buckle work? Before I could figure it out, Asher floored it. The G-force slammed my head against the seat. Thud. Aria sighed. She reached over, grabbed the buckle, and clicked it into place for me. “You are so high maintenance.” “Sorry,” I whispered. Asher looked in the rearview mirror. “Is she strapped in? Don’t let her dent my leather.” “Yeah,” Aria said, putting her headphones back on. I barely breathed the whole ride. When we got near the school—St. Jude’s Prep—I asked Asher to drop me off a block away. I didn’t want to ruin their reputation. They didn’t argue. Asher dropped me off and sped away like he was escaping a crime scene. Finally. I could breathe. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the boiled egg I swiped from the kitchen. Peeled it. Chomp. Runny yolk. Delicious. Chapter 4 The floor of this school was literally made of imported Italian marble. I spun around like a tourist, taking it all in. When I got to class, the teacher asked for an intro. “My name is Riley Stone.” “Stone? Are you related to Aria and Asher Sterling?” a kid asked. I looked at them. Aria was checking her makeup in a compact. Asher was staring out the window. Neither acknowledged me. “No,” I said. “Just a coincidence.” The teacher pointed to a desk. Right next to Asher. Great. I walked over, bracing for him to explode. I sat down and pulled out my books. Then, disaster struck. This wasn’t just a rich kid school; it was a genius rich kid school. The teacher started lecturing in French. Back in my village, I was the English champ. Here? I was illiterate. The whole class spoke fluent French. I was lost. I realized then that without the Sterling name, I wouldn’t even be fit to sweep the floors here. Suddenly, something landed on my desk. A pair of high-tech glasses. “Spare trash. You can have it,” Asher muttered without looking at me. I put them on. Subtitles. Real-time translation appeared on the lenses. I scribbled a note: Thanks, Brother. I slid it to him. Asher glanced at it, then nudged it back with his elbow like it was contaminated. Chapter 5 Recess. Everyone left. I stayed behind to study French on my phone. A girl walked up and tapped my desk. “Hi, I’m Jessica Vance. Let’s be friends.” She was the “Campus Queen.” Personally, I thought Aria was prettier. From that day on, Jessica tried to hang out with me. But I suspect Asher didn’t want me making friends. Every time Jessica came over, Asher would slam a French textbook in front of me. “Finish these two pages. Then you can leave.” I couldn’t say no. He had agreed to tutor me. Actually, I had asked Aria for a tutor. She had just yelled, “Asher! Get in here!” Asher appeared. “What?” “Teach her French.” I hugged Aria’s arm. “Sister, you’re the best! A sister is a treasure!” Aria’s ears turned pink. She pushed me away. “Hurry up! Teach her!” Asher looked like he wanted to die. “Brother,” I pleaded. “Do your daily good deed? Please?” He gritted his teeth and agreed. I wasn’t a natural. I frustrated him daily. He’d roll the book into a tube, ready to smack me, then sigh and correct my pronunciation word by word. “Brother, you’re the best teacher ever!” I beamed. Asher kept his poker face. “I’ve never begged for anything in my life. The only thing I beg of you is this: Don’t tell anyone I taught you this terrible French. It’s embarrassing.”

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Chapter 1: The Golden Boy and the Grinder The air in the locker room didn’t smell like sweat. Sweat is honest. Sweat is the byproduct of hard work, of a gym in Philly or a dojo in Jersey. No, this place smelled like copper and stale adrenaline. It smelled like fear that had fermented in the concrete walls for a decade. I sat on the edge of a wooden bench that was splintering with age, staring at my hands. They didn’t look like my hands anymore. They were swaddled in layers of white gauze, wrapped so tight my fingertips were turning a dusky purple. I flexed them, testing the tension. The tape was rough, like shark skin. I brought my knuckles to my mouth and spat on them, rubbing the saliva into the fabric. It was an old trick, a dirty trick. It made the wraps harden as they dried, turning my fists into limestone clubs. “You nervous, Viper?” The voice came from the doorway. It was Sergei, my handler. A man built like a vending machine with a neck that disappeared into his shoulders. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my father made in a lifetime, but it couldn’t hide the fact that he was a thug. “I don’t get nervous, Sergei,” I lied, my voice sounding like gravel grinding in a mixer. “I get impatient.” “Good.” He lit a cigarette, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign that was peeling off the wall. “Because the odds are shifting. The crowd loves this Carlos kid. They call him Apollo. They say he’s beautiful.” I snorted. “Beautiful don’t stop a shin bone from snapping.” “Just win, Viper. The Big Boss has a lot of money riding on the underdog tonight. And you are the underdog.” He left, leaving a trail of expensive tobacco smoke and existential dread. I stood up and walked to the mirror. The glass was cracked, a spiderweb fracture right over where my face should be. Maybe that was fitting. I looked at the reflection. A lean, scarred body. Asian heritage mixed with something else, something harder. My eyes were dark, hollowed out by years of sleeping in barracks and training in freezing Siberian warehouses. I wasn’t beautiful like Carlos. I was a tool. A hammer. I walked out into the corridor. The noise of the crowd hit me like a physical wave. This wasn’t a sanctioned bout in Vegas. This was the “Summit,” an illegal, high-stakes tournament held in a converted slaughterhouse somewhere on the Mexican border. The audience wasn’t fight fans; they were cartel bosses, arms dealers, human traffickers, and the kind of billionaires who got bored with hunting lions and wanted to see men hunt each other. I stepped into the arena. The lights were blinding, hot white halogens that made the blood on the canvas look black. And there he was. Carlos. Sergei wasn’t lying. The guy looked like a Greek statue brought to life. He was tall, maybe six-two, with skin the color of polished bronze and muscles that looked like they were sculpted by Michelangelo. He had blonde highlights in his hair and a smile that said he’d never been hit hard in his life. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing with a fluidity that was terrifying. He was faster than me. Stronger than me. Europeans usually had the size advantage over us Asians, but Carlos was a genetic freak. Just like Khan, I thought, a bitter memory rising in my throat. Khan was a friend, a fellow fighter who had faced Carlos in the qualifiers. Khan was dead now, or wished he was. I stepped through the ropes. The referee, a impartial mercenary who looked like he’d stab his own mother for a twenty, waved us to the center. “No rules,” he mumbled, repeating the mantra of the Summit. “Fight until one can’t stand. Or won’t.” The bell rang. Carlos didn’t waste time. He came at me like a thunderstorm. He threw a jab that snapped the air like a whip. I slipped it, but the wind of it stung my cheek. He followed with a cross, a hook, an uppercut. His hands were a blur. I covered up, shelling into a defensive posture, feeling the impacts rattle my skeleton. He hit hard. My forearms screamed in protest as I absorbed the blows. I was backed into the corner, the ropes digging into my spine. “Is that all you got, Chinaman?” Carlos sneered. He actually spoke to me. In English. I peeked through my guard. He was grinning. He was enjoying this. He thought this was a sport. Big mistake. I remembered Khan. I remembered watching the tapes. Carlos was a headhunter. He loved the knockout. He loved the glory. But when Khan had fought him, Khan had stumbled him with leg kicks. Carlos had weak foundations. He was a statue made of marble, standing on clay feet. I waited for his next combination. He threw a looping overhand right, looking to take my head off. I ducked under it, pivoting my hips. I didn’t aim for his head. I didn’t aim for his body. I aimed for the meat of his left thigh, just above the knee. WHACK. My shin connected with his muscle. It sounded like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef. Carlos flinched. The smile flickered for a millisecond. He reset and came at me again. Jab, cross. I ate the jab. I tasted blood in my mouth. It tasted metallic and familiar. I didn’t care. I stepped in, twisting my body, and unleashed another low kick to the exact same spot. WHACK. This time, his leg buckled slightly. The nerve cluster in the thigh is a funny thing. You can be the strongest man in the world, but if someone shuts down the peroneal nerve, your leg becomes a dead weight. “Stop running!” Carlos shouted, frustration creeping into his voice. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t running. I was chopping down the tree. For the next three minutes, I became a machine. I ignored his punches. My left eye was swelling shut, turning the world into a blurry haze on one side. My nose was bleeding freely, dripping onto my chest. But every time he stepped forward, I kicked him. Inside leg kick. Outside leg kick. Calf kick. Thigh kick. His left leg was turning a horrific shade of purple and black. He started to limp. The fluid bounce was gone. He was flat-footed now, a stationary target. The crowd sensed the shift. The roar changed from excitement to bloodlust. They didn’t care who won; they just wanted to see something break. Carlos was desperate now. He knew his mobility was gone. He loaded up for a hail mary, a massive haymaker intended to end my life. I saw the telegraph. He dropped his shoulder. I didn’t retreat. I stepped in. I used a front teep—a push kick—straight to his face. My heel connected with his nose. Cartilage crunched. He stumbled back, eyes watering, hand flying to his face. “Chinese?” he sputtered, blood leaking through his fingers. “That’s right,” I whispered. He roared and lunged, abandoning all technique. This was it. I waited until his weight was fully committed on that damaged left leg. I spun. I put every ounce of hatred, every ounce of fear, every ounce of the freezing Siberian winters into my right leg. I aimed lower this time. Not the muscle. The joint. The kick connected with the side of his knee. CRACK. It wasn’t a thud. It was the sound of a dry branch snapping in a quiet forest. It was a sound that made your stomach turn. Carlos’s leg bent inward at an angle that anatomy does not allow. He didn’t scream immediately. There was a second of silence where his brain tried to process the information. He looked down at his leg, which was folded sideways like a broken doll. Then, the scream came. It was a high-pitched, animalistic shriek that tore through the noise of the arena. He collapsed to the canvas, clutching the ruin of his knee, rolling in the blood and sweat. The referee didn’t even count. He just waved his arms. I stood over him, my chest heaving. I looked at this Apollo, this golden god, now writhing in the dirt, snot and blood mixing on his beautiful face. I felt… nothing. No joy. No triumph. Just a cold, hollow relief that it wasn’t me screaming. I looked up at the VIP box. Sergei was there, lighting another cigarette, nodding. The Russian mobsters were clinking glasses of vodka. They had made a fortune. I spat a glob of blood onto the canvas and walked away. Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Bunkhouse That night, the adrenaline crash hit me like a freight train. The “accommodations” for the fighters were a joke. We were housed in a concrete block that used to be a holding cell for cattle. Rows of metal bunk beds, a single toilet that always backed up, and the constant hum of industrial fans trying to circulate the humid, stagnant air. I lay on my bunk, staring at the underside of the mattress above me. My shin was throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache. My eye was completely swollen shut now; I looked like I had gone a rounds with a baseball bat. “You got lucky, Viper.” The voice came from the bunk across the aisle. It was “Reaper.” He was a towering heavyweight from Ukraine, a man whose face was a map of scars. He had fought earlier in the day. He had won, but his eyebrow was split open so wide you could see the white of the skull. “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I muttered, touching the bruise on my ribs. “He had a glass leg.” “He had arrogance,” Reaper corrected, sitting up and cleaning his wound with a bottle of cheap vodka. “He thought he was invincible. Just like Khan did.” I flinched at the name. “Don’t talk about Khan.” “Why? Because he’s dead?” Reaper took a swig of the vodka and winced. “We’re all dead, Viper. We just haven’t laid down yet. Look around you.” I looked. The room was half empty now. When the tournament started three days ago, there were thirty-two of us. Now, there were eight. The empty bunks were like missing teeth in a smile. Where was “The Sickle”? The skinny Brazilian kid who fought like a demon? Gone. Strangled to death this afternoon. Where was “Ironhead”? The massive Korean judoka? Gone. Neck broken in the preliminaries. “Tomorrow is the semi-finals,” Reaper said, his voice low. “Do you know who you have?” “I don’t care,” I said, turning on my side, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. “You should. It’s ‘The Priest’.” I froze. The Priest. I had watched his fight. He was from somewhere in Southeast Asia—Thailand or Cambodia maybe. He was small, wiry, with skin like tanned leather. He didn’t look like a fighter; he looked like a malnourished farmer. But in the ring… he was a nightmare. He didn’t punch. He didn’t kick much. He moved like water. He would slide around his opponents, slippery and elusive, until he got a hold of them. And once he grabbed you, it was over. He was a master of strangulation. He didn’t just submit people; he put them to sleep and held the choke until the light went out of their eyes. I had watched him kill “The Sickle” today. The Sickle had tapped out. He had slapped the mat frantically. But The Priest hadn’t let go. He just stared into the distance, a blank expression on his face, squeezing and squeezing until The Sickle stopped moving. “He’s fast,” Reaper warned. “And he likes the ground. If you go to the ground with him, Viper, you don’t come back up.” “I know,” I whispered. “Get some sleep,” Reaper grunted, lying back down. “If you can.” I closed my good eye. Sleep? How could I sleep? Every time I drifted off, I saw the faces. Not the faces of the men I fought, but the faces of the men I used to know. Da Hu. Ah Qiang. Nai Kun. The Indian brothers. They were all fighters I had trained with in the early days, back when we thought this was a sport. Back when we dreamed of gold belts and cheering crowds. Now, they were all gone. Some dead in the ring, some dead in alleyways, some just broken and discarded by the Syndicate. I was the only one left. The last gladiator. I touched the bandage on my hand. Why was I doing this? Why didn’t I just run? Because there was nowhere to run. The Russians had my passport. They had my family’s address back in China. They owned me, body and soul. “Just one more day,” I told the darkness. “Just survive one more day.” Chapter 3: The Embrace of the Priest The semi-final match was scheduled for noon. The sun was high and brutal, heating the metal roof of the arena until it felt like an oven inside. I stood in my corner, bouncing on my toes, trying to shake the stiffness out of my legs. My shin was bruised black and blue from kicking Carlos, but the adrenaline masked the pain. Across the ring stood The Priest. He was terrifyingly calm. He wasn’t bouncing. He wasn’t psyching himself up. He just stood there, arms hanging loosely by his sides, staring at my throat. His eyes were black pits, devoid of any humanity. He looked like a reptile waiting for a mouse to make a mistake. The bell rang. I didn’t rush in this time. I circled, keeping my distance. I threw a few probing jabs, trying to gauge his reaction. He didn’t flinch. He just tracked me, his head moving slightly, like a cobra following the movement of a flute. Suddenly, he lunged. It was fast. Inhumanly fast. He covered the distance in a blink. He didn’t throw a punch; he threw a low sweeping kick, but it was a feint. As I lifted my leg to check it, he changed levels and shot in for a takedown. He hit my waist with the force of a cannonball. I sprawled, trying to get my hips back, trying to stuff the takedown. But he was slippery. He used my own momentum against me, twisting his hips and dragging me to the canvas. Panic. Cold, sharp panic spiked in my chest. I was on the ground. This was his world. I tried to scramble to my feet, to wall-walk up the cage, but he was on me like a wet blanket. He moved with a fluid, suffocating pressure. He passed my guard effortlessly, sliding from side control to mount. He was heavy. For a small man, he felt like he weighed a ton. His center of gravity was perfect. He didn’t strike. He didn’t try to punch my face. He began to work his hands up, snake-like, seeking my neck. I grabbed his wrists, fighting him, but his grip was like iron pincers. He isolated my left arm, trapping it with his knee. Then, he wrapped his arm around my head. He was setting up a choke. A D’Arce choke? A Guillotine? No, he was transitioning to the back. In a scramble of limbs, he took my back. His legs wrapped around my waist, his hooks sinking in. I was in hell. I could hear his breathing right next to my ear. It was slow, steady. In. Out. In. Out. He wasn’t even tired. His right arm snaked under my chin. I tucked my chin, burying it in my chest, trying to block the forearm. But he was relentless. He used his other hand to pry my head up, just an inch. That inch was all he needed. His forearm slid under my jaw, pressing against the carotid arteries. He locked his hands together. He squeezed. The world instantly started to go grey. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull buzz. The lights seemed to dim. It wasn’t painful. It was just… inevitable. It felt like sinking into deep water. I remembered The Sickle. I remembered how he tapped, and how The Priest didn’t let go. If I tap, I die. If I don’t tap, I die. The blood flow to my brain was being cut off. My vision tunneled. I saw spots of light dancing in front of me.

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Chapter 1: The Echo of “Doe” I knew my place in the universe. It was defined not by who I was, but by who I wasn’t. I wasn’t the sun. I wasn’t the gravity that pulled planets into orbit. I was, at best, a small, rocky moon, tidally locked to a gas giant, destined to show only one face to the world while the other froze in perpetual darkness. I was the “Placeholder.” The “Backup Plan.” From the very first day I agreed to pretend to be Chase’s girlfriend, I harbored a cruel, crystalline self-awareness. So, when the news broke—when the whisper network of our social circle confirmed that she was coming back, that the Prodigal Princess, his “White Moonlight,” had touched down at JFK—I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I sat in my beige-walled apartment, staring at a cold cup of Earl Grey, and calculated the trajectory of my own obsolescence. I picked up my phone. The screen felt heavy, like a slab of granite. I typed the text to Chase. “We need to talk. It’s time to call it off.” I expected resistance. Maybe a polite protest. Maybe a “Let’s talk about this.” Instead, the response was silence. A long, stretching silence that spanned hours. And then, surprisingly, a flash of anger. Not relief. Anger. Chase didn’t want to let me go. But not because he loved me. God, no. He was angry because the prop he had been using for three years was walking off the stage before the curtain call. Let’s rewind. To understand why I let myself become a prop, you have to understand the name. My name is Chloe. But growing up in the sprawling, manicured suburbs of Connecticut, I had a nickname: “Doe.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was derived from my last name, Doe, yes, but mostly it was because of my eyes. They were too big for my face, always wide, always startled, always looking like a deer caught in the high beams of an oncoming semi-truck. I was slow. My reaction time was a beat behind the rest of the world. When the punchline landed, I was the one blinking in confusion while the laughter washed over me. I was the kid who got picked last for kickball. I was the kid who, during games of Tag in the cul-de-sac, was always “It.” I remember one humid July evening when I was seven. The air smelled of cut grass and asphalt. The neighborhood kids were playing “Duck, Duck, Goose.” They knew I was slow. They knew I couldn’t catch anyone. So they targeted me. “Goose!” I scrambled up, my Keds slipping on the grass, lunging for the boy who tagged me. He was effortlessly faster. He sat down in my spot, laughing. “Goose!” another girl screamed five minutes later. I ran again. I failed again. I was trapped in a loop of humiliation, running circles around a ring of laughing faces, my chest burning, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, too “Doe-like” to shout about the unfairness of it all. That was when Chase stepped in. Chase was the boy next door. Literally. Our fathers were business partners in a boutique architectural firm, and our houses were mirror images of each other, separated only by a hedge of hydrangeas. He was three years older. At ten, he was already tall, with limbs that seemed to stretch overnight. He had sandy blond hair that fell into eyes the color of Long Island Sound on a cloudy day—grey, blue, intense. He broke the circle. He didn’t just tag someone; he stopped the game. “Cut it out,” he barked. His voice hadn’t dropped yet, but it carried the imperious weight of a future CEO. He put his hands on his hips, glaring at the other kids. “You’re targeting her. It’s cheap. Stop it.” The other kids froze. Chase was the unspoken king of the cul-de-sac. If Chase said the game was over, it was over. He walked over to me. I was panting, clutching the hem of my stained t-shirt, waiting for him to mock me too. Instead, he handed me a juice box he’d pulled from his cooler. “Stop running, Doe,” he said, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to chase them. Stay here. I got you.” I got you. Three words. That was the foundation. That was the cement poured into the bedrock of my soul. For the next six years, Chase was my shield. He walked me to the bus stop. He did my math homework because my brain short-circuited when looking at fractions. When the adults joked about us—”Look at the little lovebirds,” “Arranged marriage in the making!”—I would turn the color of a ripe tomato. Chase? He never blushed. He would just grin, wrap a proprietary arm around my neck, and announce to the room, “Chloe is under my protection. Mess with her, you answer to me.” The room would erupt in laughter. My heart would erupt in a quiet, desperate hope. I cataloged these moments like a curator in a museum of unrequited love. I wrote them down in a diary with a lock I kept the key to on a chain around my neck. I was precocious in my sadness. I was mature in my longing. But Chase? Chase was just a boy playing the hero. His emotional awakening didn’t happen with me. It happened sophomore year of high school. And the catalyst wasn’t me. It was Vanessa. My stepsister. Chapter 2: The Girl in the Floral Dress My father remarried when I was twelve. My mother had passed away when I was a toddler—a faded Polaroid in my memory. Dad’s taste in women was consistent: delicate, artistic, fragile. Until Vanessa’s mother, Linda. Linda was vibrant, loud, and calculating. And she brought Vanessa. I will never forget the day Vanessa moved in. I was sitting on the stairs, clutching a copy of The Great Gatsby, struggling to understand the symbolism of the green light. The front door opened, and summer breezed in. Vanessa was fourteen, the same age as Chase. She didn’t look fourteen. She looked like something carved out of marble and rose petals. She was wearing a floral sundress that cinched at the waist, and she stood with a posture that suggested she owned the air she breathed. Chase had come over to help me with my algebra. He walked into the foyer just as Vanessa was directing the movers. He stopped. I watched it happen from the landing. I saw the precise moment Chase’s universe shifted its axis. He dropped his backpack. It hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. “Hi,” Vanessa said, turning to him. She didn’t smile—not fully. She just offered a cool, appraising look. “I’m Vanessa. You must be the neighbor.” Chase, the boy who could talk his way out of detention, the boy who charmed mothers and intimidated bullies, stammered. “I… uh. Yeah. Chase. I’m Chase.” “Nice to meet you, Chase,” she said, dismissing him with a turn of her head. “Can you help me with this box? It’s heavy.” “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, absolutely.” He walked right past me. He didn’t even look up the stairs. That was the first time I tasted the acid of jealousy. It wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, like swallowing a stone. Vanessa wasn’t mean. That would have been easier. If she were a wicked stepsister, I could have hated her. But she was… tolerant. She treated me with the gentle, slightly condescending patience one might offer a slow-witted golden retriever. “Oh, Chloe, let me fix your hair,” she would say. “You can’t go out looking like a haystack.” “Chloe, stop slouching.” Linda, her mother, tried too hard. She wanted to solidify her place in my father’s house, so she constantly pushed the “sisters” narrative. “Look at you two!” Linda would coo, clasping her hands. “You look so much alike! especially the nose. You could be twins!” Vanessa would pull me aside later, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ignore my mom. She’s desperate. We look nothing alike.” I would nod, obediently. But I would go to the mirror later and trace the curve of my nose, then look at hers. We did look alike. Just a little. But where I was a sketch, Vanessa was the oil painting. Where I was the draft, she was the final publication. Chase, however, refused to see the resemblance. “You look nothing like her,” he told me once, while we were sitting on my porch swing. He was tossing a baseball into a glove, his eyes tracking Vanessa through the window as she practiced the cello. “Really?” I asked, a flicker of hope igniting. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “You’re… you know, ‘Doe.’ You’re goofy. Vanessa is… intense. She has these eyes. They’re sharp.” He said it like an insult to me, but a compliment to her. “Don’t let anyone compare you,” he added, throwing the ball hard into the leather. “You’re fine the way you are.” It sounded like consolation. You’re the consolation prize, Chloe. And that’s okay. I stopped talking to him for three days after that. He didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to figure out how to get Vanessa to ride in his new Jeep Wrangler. He and Vanessa became an entity. A binary star system. They were both popular, both beautiful, both sharp-tongued. The school gossip pages loved them. I felt like I was watching a movie I wasn’t allowed to be in. The distance between the middle school building and the high school wing felt like an ocean. But I forgot one crucial thing: Even before Vanessa, even when I had Chase all to myself, he had never looked at me that way. Chapter 3: The Birthday Paradox The inevitable happened on my birthday. It was a family dinner. My father had booked a private room at Le Bernadin. I was turning fifteen. Chase sat next to Vanessa. The air between them crackled with static electricity. They spoke in shorthand, laughing at inside jokes, ignoring the lobster bisque. I opened my presents alone. A new laptop from Dad. A cashmere scarf from Linda. “Where did Chase and Vanessa go?” Dad asked, looking around as the waiters brought the cake. They were gone. They came back twenty minutes later. Vanessa’s lipstick was smudged. Chase’s tie was loosened. They looked flushed, guilty, and exhilaratingly alive. “Sorry,” Chase said, grinning—a real, wolfish grin I had never seen before. “We got lost looking for the restroom.” A lie. A terrible, beautiful lie. That night, Vanessa came into my room. She crawled into my bed, smelling of Chase’s cologne—sandalwood and expensive tobacco. “Chloe,” she whispered in the dark. “We’re dating.” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Chase?” I feigned ignorance. “But he’s… he’s a player. You said you hated him.” “I know,” she sighed, sounding delighted. “He’s arrogant. He’s annoying. But… he’s mine.” He’s mine. The possession in her voice chilled me. “I know you guys are close,” she continued, her voice softening. “You’re like his little mascot. Don’t worry. I won’t make him stop hanging out with you.” Mascot. I lay there, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I had stuck to my ceiling when I was ten. I realized then that hope is the cruelest thing in the world. It doesn’t die when you feed it poison; it dies when you starve it. And I was starving. Chapter 4: The Calculus of Julian High school. The great equalizer. Or the great divider. Freshman year hit me like a freight train. My GPA tanked. I couldn’t focus. Every time I saw Chase and Vanessa in the hallway—his varsity jacket draped over her shoulders, her hand in his back pocket—I felt a physical blow to the stomach. My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Gable, was a woman who believed in “social engineering.” She rearranged the seating chart based on test scores. “To facilitate peer tutoring,” she claimed. I had failed the last math test. Spectacularly. “Chloe Doe,” Mrs. Gable announced. “You’re in the back row. Next to Julian.” Julian. I knew of him. Everyone knew of him. He was the “Sleepy Genius.” Julian didn’t walk; he sauntered. He had messy dark hair that looked like he had just rolled out of bed, and he wore hoodies that were perpetually two sizes too big. He sat in the back of every class, legs stretched out, usually asleep. And yet, he pulled a perfect 4.0 GPA. He was the kind of guy who solved complex calculus problems in his head while chewing gum, but forgot to bring a pencil to class. I dragged my bag to the back row. Julian was already there, head on the desk, arms folded as a pillow. “Hi,” I whispered, sitting down. One eye opened. It was dark, almost black, with eyelashes that were unfairly long for a boy. “You’re the girl who stares out the window,” he mumbled. His voice was gravelly with sleep. “I’m Chloe,” I corrected. “I know,” he sat up, stretching his arms over his head. His hoodie lifted slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. “You’re Chase’s shadow.” I stiffened. “I’m not his shadow.” “Sure,” Julian yawned. “And I’m not tired.” We didn’t speak for a week. I struggled with my trigonometry. He slept. Then came the incident with the graph paper. I was erasing a hole through my paper, frustration tears pricking my eyes. The sine wave just wouldn’t curve right. A hand reached over. Long fingers, calloused from… something. Guitar? Gaming? He took my pencil. “Stop murdering the paper,” he said. With three swift strokes, he corrected my equation and drew the perfect curve. “You’re overthinking the variable,” he said, tossing the pencil back. “It’s simpler than you think. X is just X. Stop trying to make it Y.” I looked at him. He was looking at me with an intensity that unsettled me. He wasn’t sleepy now. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and oddly amused. “Thanks,” I muttered. “Don’t mention it, Doe,” he smirked. “My name is Chloe.” “I heard Chase call you Doe,” he shrugged. “Fits. You look like you’re about to bolt.” “I hate that nickname.” “Then stop acting like prey,” he said softly. That was the beginning. Julian was… loud. Not in volume, but in presence. Once he decided he was awake, he wouldn’t shut up. He poked me. He drew caricatures of Mrs. Gable on the corner of my notebook. He asked me a million questions. “Why do you eat apples with a spoon? That’s weird.” “What kind of music is this? It sounds like sad whales.” “Do you ever get mad? Like, scream-at-the-sky mad?” “I don’t scream,” I told him one day during study hall. “Everyone screams,” he countered, leaning his chair back on two legs, balancing precariously. “You just do it on the inside. It’s gonna give you an ulcer.” I found myself smiling. “You’re annoying, Julian.” “And you,” he grinned, “are finally smiling. Point for Julian.” Chapter 5: The Horror Movie and the Interruption Winter break arrived. Chase and Vanessa were fighting. I knew because Vanessa complained to me every night, and Chase complained to me every morning. I was the Switzerland of their relationship—neutral ground where they dumped their emotional garbage. But I was starting to detach. Thanks to Julian. Julian had texted me. “Hey, Doe. I bet you’ve never seen a horror movie.” “I hate scary movies.” “Liar. I saw you reading Stephen King in the library. Come to the cinema. My treat. If you get scared, you can hold my hand. I charge $5 per minute though.” I went. We watched some slasher film about a haunted campground. I spent half the movie peering through my fingers. Julian spent half the movie laughing and eating popcorn. Afterwards, we stood outside in the freezing cold. Snow was starting to fall. “You survived,” he teased, wrapping his scarf around his own neck. “Barely,” I shivered. “Hey,” he stepped closer. The neon sign of the theater reflected in his dark eyes. “You look nice when you’re terrified. Very… alert.” “Is that a compliment?” “In my book, yeah.” He reached out and tugged a strand of my hair. “You should come out more. With me.” “Why?” “Because,” he said, his voice dropping. “I think you’re interesting, Chloe. More interesting than the people you hang out with.” My heart did a strange little flip. Not the heavy thud it did for Chase. This was lighter. Fluttery. “Okay,” I said. “Okay?” He looked surprised. “Okay.” Just then, a car honked aggressively behind us. I turned. A black Jeep Wrangler. Chase. He rolled down the window. He looked furious. “Chloe!” he shouted. “Get in the car.” I blinked. “Chase? What are you doing here?” “My mom called. Dad’s looking for you. Get in.” “I’m with a friend,” I gestured to Julian. Chase looked at Julian. The look was withering. “Who’s this? The sleeper cell?” Julian didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, putting himself slightly in front of me. “Name’s Julian. And you’re interrupting.” “I’m taking her home,” Chase snapped. “Chloe. Now.” The tone. It was the tone he used when he defended me from bullies. But now, it felt like he was the bully. “I…” I looked at Julian. He gave me a small nod, a look that said Your call. Old habits die hard. The reflex to obey Chase was ingrained in my DNA. “I should go,” I told Julian. “My dad…” Julian’s face fell. Just a fraction. “Right. Go be a good girl.” He turned and walked away into the snow, hands deep in his pockets. I got into Chase’s car. “Who was that guy?” Chase demanded as he peeled out of the parking lot. “Just a classmate. Julian.” “Stay away from him,” Chase gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “He looks like trouble. You’re too naive for guys like that.” “I’m not naive, Chase!” “Yes, you are,” he shot back. “You’re Doe. You need looking after.” I looked out the window, watching the snowflakes melt against the glass. “Where is Vanessa?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “We broke up.” My breath hitched. “But,” he continued, glancing at me, “We’ll get back together. We always do. Right?” He needed reassurance. He needed his mascot to tell him he was the king. “Right,” I whispered. “You always do.” But as the car drove on, all I could think about was Julian walking alone in the snow, and the way he had looked at me—like I was a person, not a shadow. Chapter 6: The Barbecue A week later, Chase tried to make amends. He organized a barbecue at his parents’ lake house. He invited everyone. Including Vanessa (they were “talking” again). And, surprisingly, he told me to invite “that Julian kid.” “Why?” I asked. “To prove I’m not a controlling jerk,” Chase said. “And so you have someone to talk to while I fix things with Ness.” So, we were at the lake house. The air smelled of charcoal and pine. I was sitting on the deck, watching Julian skewer marshmallows. He was surprisingly good at social events. He had the guys laughing at his impressions of the teachers. Chase was by the grill, watching us. Vanessa walked over to me. She handed me a plate of fruit. “No melon,” she said. “I picked it out. I know you’re allergic.” “Thanks,” I said. “Wait, I’m not allergic to melon. I’m allergic to eggplant.” Vanessa paused. She looked at the grill where Chase was putting vegetables on skewers. “Oh,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Right. I hate melon. You hate eggplant.” She walked over to Chase. “Babe,” she purred, loud enough for me to hear. “You put eggplant on these. Chloe will die if she eats that.” Chase froze. He looked at the skewer in his hand. Then he looked at me. “S**t,” he muttered. “I forgot. I thought… I thought it was Ness who was allergic.” He had confused us. He had confused the girl he “loved” with the girl he grew up with. Julian dropped his marshmallow stick. “You don’t know she’s allergic to eggplant?” Julian asked, his voice cutting through the chatter. “You’ve lived next door to her for ten years.” Chase bristled. “It was a mistake.” “A mistake is a typo,” Julian said, standing up. He wasn’t slouching now. He looked dangerous. “That? That’s just not caring.” “Julian, stop,” I whispered, grabbing his arm. “No,” Julian looked at Chase. “You treat her like furniture, man. You think she’s just always gonna be there in the corner.” “She’s my best friend,” Chase stepped away from the grill. “Back off.” “Then treat her like one,” Julian spat. He turned to me. “I’m leaving. This vibe sucks. You coming?” I looked at Chase. He looked angry, embarrassed. I looked at Vanessa. She looked amused. I looked at Julian. He looked… disappointed. “I…” I faltered. “My dad is coming to pick me up later.” Julian nodded. Once. A sharp, final motion. “Okay, Doe. Have it your way.” He walked off the deck, through the sliding glass doors, and out the front. That night, Chase came to my room. He brought me a bag of gummy bears and some stomach medicine. “In case you accidentally ate the eggplant,” he mumbled, handing me the bag. “Thanks,” I said. He stood there, awkward. “That Julian guy… he likes you,” Chase said. “He’s just a friend.” “He doesn’t look at you like a friend,” Chase said. His voice was tight. “He looks at you like… like he wants to own you.” “That’s rich coming from you,” I snapped. It was the first time I had ever snapped at him. Chase looked shocked. “I’m going to sleep,” I said, closing the door in his face. I leaned against the door, my heart pounding. I looked at the bag of medicine. Pepto-Bismol. I wasn’t allergic to eggplant. I just didn’t like the texture. Chase didn’t know me at all. Chapter 7: The Peach Soju Epiphany College was supposed to be a reinvention. I stayed in-state, attending a liberal arts college in Connecticut, majoring in Marketing—safe, practical, decidedly un-heroic. Julian, consistent with his genius-slacker brand, got into a top-tier pre-law program in Boston. We were separated by a two-hour Amtrak ride, but in those first two years, the distance felt negligible. We were tethered by an invisible cord of constant digital noise and weekend visits. I remember the summer after sophomore year. We were at a dive bar in Boston, the kind with sticky floors and neon signs buzzing like trapped insects. Julian had dragged me there to celebrate my passing a brutal statistics final. “You need to loosen up, Doe,” he’d said, sliding a drink toward me. “Try this. Peach Soju. It tastes like juice, hits like a truck.” I took a sip. It was sweet, cloying, and synthetic. “It tastes like liquid candy,” I laughed. The lighting in the booth was dim, casting Julian’s sharp cheekbones in shadow. He was looking at me with that gaze again—the one that made me feel like I was the only person in the room, the only data point that mattered. He leaned in, his arm draping casually over the back of the vinyl seat behind me. “You’ve got something…” he murmured, reaching out. I thought he was going to wipe my mouth. Instead, his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The noise of the bar—the clinking glass, the indie rock bassline—faded into a dull roar. “Julian?” I breathed. “I’ve wanted to do this since high school,” he whispered. He kissed me. It tasted like peaches and cheap alcohol. It wasn’t the tentative, terrifying kiss of a first crush. It was confident, claiming. It was the antithesis of how Chase treated me. Chase treated me like a porcelain doll to be placed on a shelf; Julian treated me like a variable he wanted to solve. That night, walking back to his dorm, the air thick with humidity, he asked me the question that had been hovering between us for months. “So,” he kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. “Are we doing this? Or are you still waiting for the Prince of Suburbia to notice his Cinderella?” I stopped walking. Under the streetlamp, my shadow stretched long and thin. “I don’t know,” I admitted, the old ghost of Chase flickering in my mind. “I feel like… I feel like I’m always the supporting character, Julian. Even in my own head.” Julian grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “In my movie,” he said, his voice fierce, “you’re the lead. You’re the whole damn plot. Don’t you get that?” We started dating. And for two years, I let myself believe the script had changed.

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Prologue: The Whisper The truth didn’t start with the blood on my hydrangeas. It didn’t start with the sirens that shattered the pristine silence of Blackwood Estate, nor did it start with the terrifying footage of a man being taken apart like a Lego set. It started with a question, asked in the quiet, dusty aftermath of a funeral, over a plate of cold tuna casserole. Arthur Sterling was dead. The community was in mourning. The flags at the local high school were flying at half-mast. I looked at my son, Leo, who was pushing peas around his plate with a fork. He was twelve, that awkward age where limbs are too long and silence is a weapon. He had been one of Sterling’s favorite students. “Leo,” I asked, my voice sounding too loud in the empty kitchen. “Mr. Sterling… before he died, was there ever anything… off? Anything weird?” Leo didn’t look up. He stabbed a pea. “He used to give us private tutoring,” Leo said, his voice flat, devoid of the grief everyone else seemed to be performing. “He’d sit really close. Behind me.” I froze, the dishrag in my hand dripping soapy water onto the floor. “Close how?” Leo finally looked at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. “He’d whisper,” Leo said. “Hot air. He’d press his mouth right against my ear. His lips would touch the skin.” “What?” I gasped, dropping the rag. The sound of wet fabric hitting the tile was a slap. “Did he do anything else? Leo, tell me.” Leo went back to his peas. “No. That’s all.” But as I stood there, a cold sensation trickled down my spine, icy and slow, like melting snow under a shirt collar. It wasn’t just the creepiness of the image. It was the intuition—that sharp, primal alarm bell that rings in the deep recesses of a mother’s brain. I realized then that the police were wrong. The neighbors were wrong. The newspapers, with their headlines about a “Senseless Tragedy,” were wrong. Arthur Sterling wasn’t a martyr. And the monster they were hunting? He wasn’t real. Chapter 1: The Red Morning Let’s go back to the morning the world ended. It was a Tuesday in late October. In the Pacific Northwest, October is less about crisp leaves and pumpkin spice, and more about a pervasive, bone-chilling dampness. The fog rolls off the Puget Sound and settles into the valleys, turning upscale gated communities like Blackwood Estate into scenes from a noir film. I woke up at 6:00 AM. Routine is my religion. I put on my silk robe, slid my feet into my slippers, and walked to the front door to retrieve the milk delivery. We still get milk in glass bottles here—retro, expensive, and performative. Just like everything else in Blackwood. I opened the heavy oak door. The air smelled of wet pine needles and ozone. I stepped onto the porch, hugging my robe tighter against the chill. I looked down at the welcome mat for the milk crate. It wasn’t there. I looked up, scanning the yard. And then I saw it. At first, my brain refused to process the visual data. It tried to categorize the object as something logical. A Halloween decoration? A dropped pumpkin? A mannequin head from one of the pretentious art installations the neighbors loved? It was resting in the middle of my prize-winning hydrangea bush. The flowers, usually a vibrant, genetically modified blue, were splashed with a dark, viscous crimson. It was a head. Arthur Sterling’s head. His eyes were wide open. Milky, glazed, staring fixedly at my front door as if he were waiting to be invited in for coffee. His mouth was frozen in a rictus of shock, lips pulled back to reveal expensive dental veneers. The skin at the neck was… ragged. I didn’t scream immediately. There was a moment of absolute, vacuum-sealed silence where the only sound was the thudding of my own heart in my ears. Then, the milk bottle in my hand slipped. SMASH. The sound of shattering glass broke the spell. I screamed. It wasn’t a movie scream. It was a guttural, animalistic shriek that tore at my vocal cords. It echoed off the manicured hedges, bounced off the three-car garages, and pierced the foggy morning silence of the entire estate. For months afterward, the neighbors—those gossiping harpies—would refer to me as “The Banshee of Blackwood.” They could afford to joke. They weren’t the ones who had to hose the blood of a “Teacher of the Year” off their driveway. Chapter 2: The Last Supper The Blackwood Estate security system is state-of-the-art. 4K cameras, motion sensors, night vision. We pay thousands a year in HOA fees for the illusion of safety. Paradoxically, that expensive surveillance provided the police with a front-row seat to a horror show. Detective Miller, a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and cigarette smoke, sat in my living room later that day. He played the footage on his tablet, his face impassive. “Mr. Sterling attended a gala last night,” Miller said. “The Class of 2008 Reunion. It was held at the Club House, just inside the north gate.” I knew the event. Arthur Sterling was the guest of honor. He wasn’t just a math teacher; he was an institution. He was the “Olympiad King.” Parents fought tooth and nail to get their sons into his advanced calculus classes. He had a wall of awards in his office and a reputation that was bulletproof. According to the witness statements Miller recited, Sterling had been in high spirits that night. He was holding court, surrounded by adoring former students who were now tech CEOs, doctors, and lawyers. He was drinking aged scotch, his face flushed with the intoxication of power and adoration. “He was laughing,” Miller said, scrolling through his notes. “Witnesses say he was particularly chatty with the Cole brothers. Do you know them?” “The Coles?” I nodded. “They live two houses down. Sebastian and Julian.” “Right. Sterling was making jokes. He told Sebastian, ‘Look at you boys now. You’ve made it. You can even afford such a handsome nurse for your brother.’” The “handsome nurse.” Elias. Everyone knew Elias. Detective Miller tapped the screen. “Sterling declined a ride home. He said he wanted to walk off the scotch. He said, ‘I’m not that old yet.’ He walked into the fog at 11:15 PM.” That was the last time Arthur Sterling was seen alive by a human being. Five minutes later, the cameras caught him again. Or what was left of him. Chapter 3: The Anatomy of a Shadow The footage from Camera 04, which overlooks the weeping willow path near the community pond, was grainy but terrifyingly clear. 11:20 PM. Sterling is walking unsteadily. He stops to light a cigar. The flame illuminates his face for a split second. Then, a shape detaches itself from the darkness behind him. It’s a man. Tall. Lean. Wearing a dark hoodie, but the face is visible under the streetlamp. It was Elias. The Cole brothers’ caregiver. The movement was fluid, practiced. Elias didn’t rush. He stepped into the light, raised a heavy object—later identified as a machete—and brought the blunt edge down on the back of Sterling’s neck. Sterling dropped like a puppet with cut strings. No scream. Just a heavy, wet thud. Elias stood over the body for a second, motionless. He looked calm. Almost bored. Then, he grabbed Sterling by the collar of his expensive trench coat and dragged him into the blind spot of the camera, behind a dense thicket of rhododendrons. For ten minutes, the screen showed nothing but the swaying branches and the empty path. Ten minutes. I tried to imagine what was happening in that darkness. Ten minutes is a long time. It’s enough time to boil an egg. Enough time to listen to three pop songs. Enough time to take a human being apart. 11:30 PM. Elias reappeared. He was carrying something heavy. He made two trips. Trip one: The torso. Trip two: The limbs and the head. He walked with a steady, rhythmic gait, moving toward my property. He arranged the pieces on my lawn with the care of a gardener planting bulbs. Then, he turned around. He looked directly into Camera 05, which is mounted on my garage. He wasn’t wearing a mask. His face was illuminated by the motion-sensor floodlight. He was breathtakingly handsome. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to glitter even in the monochrome footage. He wiped a speck of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. And then he walked away, disappearing into the night. Chapter 4: The Perfect Suspect The police thought they had it easy. They had the face. They had the weapon (found in the bushes). They had the motive—or at least, a suspect who had been publicly mocked by the victim hours earlier. “We’re looking for Elias,” Detective Miller announced at the press conference the next morning. “He is considered armed and dangerous.” But I knew something was wrong. Because I knew Elias. Or I thought I did. Elias wasn’t just a caregiver. He was a local legend among the bored housewives of Blackwood Estate. He worked for the Cole brothers. Sebastian Cole was a high-profile stylist, the kind who flew to LA and New York for Fashion Week. His younger brother, Julian, was a tragic figure. A former prodigy, a PhD candidate from an Ivy League school, who had tried to kill himself six months ago. Julian had jumped from the second-story balcony of his brother’s penthouse in the city. He survived, but his legs were shattered. He was confined to a wheelchair, a brooding, silent figure with hair that hung over his eyes. After the suicide attempt, Sebastian moved Julian here, to the suburbs, for “peace and quiet.” They bought the old Henderson place—the one with the pool where a child had drowned in the 90s. We called it the Cursed House. But they needed help. Sebastian traveled too much. They needed a live-in nurse. They went through a few bad ones. One stole silver. Another was caught smoking meth in the gazebo. And then came Elias. Elias was an angel. He arrived a month ago. He was quiet, efficient, and devastatingly attractive. He pushed Julian’s wheelchair around the lake every afternoon. We would watch from our kitchen windows, sipping Chardonnay, admiring the way Elias’s t-shirt clung to his shoulders. “He’s too good to be true,” my neighbor, Karen, had said once during a book club meeting. “Who looks like that and wipes chins for a living?” “Maybe he’s creating good karma,” I had replied. Since Elias arrived, Julian had improved. We saw him sitting up straighter. The dark circles under his eyes faded. Elias massaged his legs on the park benches, seemingly tireless. So, when the police said Elias was the killer, we were shocked, but we believed it. The footage didn’t lie. But then the investigation hit a wall. A wall made of nothing. Chapter 5: The Man Who Wasn’t There Three days after the murder, Detective Miller came back to my house. He looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like stale coffee and frustration. “Mrs. Vance,” he said, declining my offer of tea. “You live next door to the Coles. Did you ever talk to Elias?” “A few times,” I said. “Just hellos. He was polite. Soft-spoken.” “Did he ever mention where he was from? Family? Last name?” “No. Just Elias.” Miller rubbed his face with his hands. “Here’s the problem. We can’t find him.” “He ran away,” I said. “He took a cab to the north highway.” “We found the cabbie,” Miller said. “Driver named Old Man Henderson. He dropped Elias off at the edge of the badlands, near the state forest. We have dogs out there now. But that’s not what I mean.” Miller leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I mean we can’t find him. In the system.” “What do you mean?” “The Cole brothers gave us everything. The agency paperwork. The ID copy. The references. It’s all fake, Mrs. Vance. All of it.” “Fake?” “The agency doesn’t exist. The references are dead numbers. The Social Security number on his W-4 belongs to a woman who died in 1985.” Miller pulled out a photo of Elias—a screen grab from the surveillance video. “We ran facial recognition. FBI database, DMV, passport records, Interpol. Nothing. Zero matches.” He tapped the photo. “This man doesn’t have a birth certificate. He doesn’t have a credit score. He doesn’t have a high school yearbook photo. It’s like he popped into existence a month ago, killed Arthur Sterling, and then vanished into thin air.” “That’s impossible,” I said. “He lived next door. I saw him. He bought groceries at Whole Foods.” “Paid in cash,” Miller said grimly. “Always cash. No digital footprint.” I looked at the photo of Elias. That perfect, symmetrical face. The way the light hit his cheekbones. “So who is he?” I asked. “That’s the million-dollar question,” Miller said, standing up. “He’s a ghost. And ghosts are hard to handcuff.” Chapter 6: The Stylist and the Invalid The police turned the heat up on the Cole brothers. If Elias didn’t exist, surely his employers knew something. I watched from my window as the squad cars swarmed their driveway. Sebastian Cole, the stylist, looked impeccable even under interrogation. He stood on his porch, wearing a cashmere sweater, smoking a thin cigarette. He looked baffled, worried, but cooperative. “I found him through a friend of a friend,” I heard him tell the reporters who were camped out on the lawn. “I was desperate. My brother needed help. Elias seemed perfect. I didn’t run a background check. I’m an artist, not a private investigator. I just wanted my brother to be safe.” And Julian? Julian sat in his wheelchair in the window, looking out at the chaos. He looked smaller than I remembered. Fragile. His long hair curtained his face. The narrative was shifting. The media was painting the Coles as victims—two tragic brothers conned by a sociopathic drifter who infiltrated their home and then committed a brutal murder. “Poor Julian,” Karen said over the phone. “First the suicide attempt, now this. He was finally getting better, and his nurse turns out to be a butcher.” “It’s terrifying,” I agreed. “To think we let him walk around our kids.” But my son’s words kept echoing in my head. Hot air. He’d press his mouth right against my ear. And then, I started thinking about feet. Specifically, ankles. Detective Miller had asked me if I noticed anything odd about Elias. I had said no. I had said he was a good nurse because he massaged Julian’s legs constantly. “Why do you say that?” Miller had asked. “Because people in wheelchairs often have edema,” I explained. “Swelling in the ankles. Poor circulation. My father was in a chair for ten years. His ankles were always swollen. But Julian… his ankles were thin. Bony. Perfect.” “So Elias was doing a good job,” Miller had concluded. “Yes,” I had said. “He must have been massaging him hours a day.” But now, staring at the empty driveway next door, a different thought crystallized. Swelling doesn’t just go away with massage. Gravity is gravity. Unless… Unless the person in the wheelchair isn’t paralyzed. Unless the person in the wheelchair has been walking around when no one is looking. I grabbed my binoculars—the ones I told my husband were for birdwatching—and focused them on the Cole brothers’ living room. It was dark. But the TV was on, casting a flickering blue light. I saw Julian. He was in his wheelchair. But then, he reached for something on the high shelf. A book. He didn’t wheel over to the grabber tool. He didn’t call for Sebastian. He stood up. He stood up smoothly, effortlessly, on two strong legs. He grabbed the book, stretched his back like a cat, and then sat back down. My breath caught in my throat. Julian wasn’t crippled. And if Julian wasn’t crippled… then who was Elias? I thought about Sebastian’s job. He wasn’t just a stylist. He was a makeup artist. A special effects wizard. I remembered reading an interview with him in Vogue where he talked about “transforming the face.” The face is a canvas, he had said. I can make you look like a queen, or a corpse, or a completely different person. I looked at the photo of Elias on the news report. The sharp cheekbones. The slightly shadowed eyes. The perfection of it. It looked… contoured. I realized then that we weren’t looking for a man named Elias. We were looking for a masterpiece. A painting that walked. And the artist was right next door.

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Chapter 1: The Girl Who Didn’t Cry Pain is the world’s most primal language. It’s the universal alarm system, the scream that says, “Stop, you are dying.” I was born deaf to that scream. My name is Nora Vance. In the sprawling, manicured estate of the Vance political dynasty in Upstate New York, I was known simply as “The Spare.” Or, if the servants thought I couldn’t hear them, “The Ghost.” My twin sister, Nova, was the masterpiece. She was the vibrant oil painting—full of color, passion, and fire. I was the rough sketch, discarded in the trash bin. Nova was the daughter who would inherit my father’s Senate seat. I was the daughter who had to be watched constantly, not because I was precious, but because I would chew through my own lip until it bled and not even notice. I remember sitting in the rose garden when I was six. I was fascinated by the thorns. They looked like little shark teeth. I grabbed a stem and squeezed. I watched, with a detached, scientific curiosity, as the blood welled up between my fingers, thick and crimson. It didn’t hurt. It felt like… warm water. Nothing more. My mother found me. She didn’t hug me. She screamed. Not in fear for me, but in horror of me. “She’s doing it again!” she shrieked to the nanny. “Fix her! Bandage her! God, she’s like a monster.” Monster. That was the label that stuck. While Nova was learning piano and ballet, I was undergoing tests in sterile white rooms. The doctors called it CIPA—Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. “She can’t feel pain, heat, or cold,” the neurologist told my father, Senator Vance. “She lacks the nerves to protect herself. She is a danger to herself.” My father looked at me with the same expression he wore when he looked at a polling chart that was trending downward. Disappointment. Liability. “Keep her alive,” he ordered. “But keep her out of sight. We have an image to maintain.” So, I grew up in the shadows. I learned to fake it. I learned that when you fall down, you are supposed to cry. I learned that when you touch a hot stove, you are supposed to jerk your hand back, even if your brain registers zero sensation. I became an actress in my own life, performing humanity for an audience that wished I didn’t exist. Until the day the Thorne Family came calling. Chapter 2: The Deal with the Devil The summons came on a Tuesday. I was in the library, reading a book on anatomy—trying to understand intellectually what I couldn’t feel physically—when my father walked in. He didn’t knock. He never knocked for me. “Nora,” he said. He was wearing his campaign smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Put the book down. We need to talk.” I placed a bookmark on page 42. “Yes, sir.” “You know the Thorne family,” he started, pacing the room. “They control the shipping lanes. The unions. The… darker side of the city’s infrastructure.” “The Mafia,” I corrected calmly. “We call them ‘strategic partners,’” he snapped. “The Thornes and the Vances have been at each other’s throats for a decade. A truce has been negotiated. A merger.” He stopped pacing and looked at me. “A marriage.” I blinked. “Nova is dating the Governor’s son. You wouldn’t break that engagement.” “Not Nova,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You.” I stared at him. “Me?” “Declan Thorne,” he said. The name landed in the room like a grenade. Declan Thorne. The youngest son of the Thorne patriarch. The “Mad Dog.” Rumor had it he was cursed. Unstable. Violent. “He’s a widower,” I said. “Three times over.” “Unfortunate accidents,” my father waved his hand dismissively. “Heart failure. Car crash. Suicide. The police never found evidence of foul play.” “The tabloids call him ‘The Bluebeard of Brooklyn,’” I pointed out. “They say he kills them when he gets bored.” “He is powerful,” my father stepped closer, looming over me. “And he requested a Vance daughter. He didn’t specify which one.” I understood then. The realization washed over me, cold and logical. Nova was the asset. I was the expendable currency. If Declan Thorne killed his fourth wife, the Vances would lose nothing but a liability. In fact, my death would probably garner my father sympathy votes in the next election. “He is dangerous,” my father said, looking at my hands—scarred from years of accidental burns and cuts. “But you… you’re tough, Nora. You don’t break like normal girls. You don’t feel things.” He touched my cheek. His hand was cold, but I assumed it was supposed to feel warm. “Do this for the family. Do this, and you’ll finally have a purpose.” A purpose. To be a sacrificial lamb. “Okay,” I said. My voice didn’t tremble. Why would it? I couldn’t feel the sting of betrayal any more than I could feel a knife cut. “Okay,” I repeated. “I’ll marry the monster.” Chapter 3: The Fortress of Solitude The wedding was a private affair. No press. No white dress. Just a signature on a prenup that was thicker than a bible, and a black car ride to Declan Thorne’s estate. He didn’t live in a house. He lived in a fortress. A brutalist concrete mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by electric fences and guards with assault rifles. I was ushered into the master bedroom by a silent maid. “Wait here,” she said. “Mr. Thorne will be up shortly.” I sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were black silk. Everything in the room was sharp edges and chrome. It felt like an operating theater. The door opened. Declan Thorne walked in. He was not what I expected. The tabloids usually showed blurry photos of a man in a suit, looking angry. In person, he was… overwhelming. He was tall, over six-three, with broad shoulders that strained against his white dress shirt. His hair was dark, cropped short. But it was his eyes that caught me. They weren’t dead, like I expected from a serial killer. They were frantic. Alert. Paranoiac. He scanned the room as he entered, checking corners, checking the window locks. He looked at me. His gaze was physical, a heavy weight pressing down. “So,” he said. His voice was deep, gravelly—the sound of tires on a dirt road. “You’re the sacrifice.” “I’m Nora,” I said, standing up. “Nora. Nova. Whatever,” he scoffed. He locked the door behind him. “Did your father give you the speech? Duty? Honor? Family?” “He told me to survive.” “Optimistic of him,” Declan laughed, a dry, humorless bark. He walked toward me. I didn’t flinch. I stood perfectly still, my hands clasped in front of me. He stopped inches from my face. He smelled of whiskey and gun oil. “Strip,” he ordered. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You heard me. Take it off. The dress. The shoes. Everything.” I hesitated. Was this it? The abuse? “Why?” I asked. “Because,” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing my arm. His grip was bruisingly tight. “The last wife tried to bring a wire into the bedroom. The one before that had a ceramic knife taped to her inner thigh. I’m not getting killed in my sleep by a politician’s daughter.” He wasn’t a predator. He was prey. He was terrified. “I’m not an assassin,” I said. “That’s exactly what an assassin would say.” He spun me around. He patted me down. Rough, efficient hands. He checked the hem of my dress. He checked my hair. Then, he reached into the pocket of my blazer. He pulled out a small, silver object. “Aha,” he said triumphantly. “What is this? Poison? A dart gun?” I looked at it. “It’s an EpiPen. I’m allergic to peanuts.” He stared at it. He uncapped it, sniffed it, and then tossed it onto the bed. He reached into the other pocket. He pulled out a Swiss Army Knife. “And this?” he raised an eyebrow. “For peeling apples, I assume?” “Self-defense,” I said honestly. “The city is dangerous.” “You bring a two-inch blade to kill me?” He laughed again, tossing the knife across the room. It clattered against the wall. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Who sent you? Your father? The Russians? The Board?” “No one,” I said. My head rattled, but I kept my eyes focused on his tie. “I’m just the spare daughter, Declan. I’m here because Nova was too valuable to waste on you.” He froze. He looked at my face, searching for fear. He didn’t find any. “You’re not scared,” he whispered, suspicious. “Why aren’t you scared? I’m hurting you.” He squeezed harder. His nails dug into my skin. I knew, logically, that it should hurt. I knew my skin was bruising. “You’re wrinkling my dress,” I said flatly. He let go of me as if I had burned him. He stepped back, looking at me with total confusion. “You’re a freak,” he muttered. “A robot.” He walked to the closet and pulled out a pillow and a blanket. He threw them onto the floor. “Sleep there,” he commanded. “If you move toward the bed, I shoot you. If you get up to use the bathroom, you announce it. Clear?” I looked at the floor. It was polished concrete. Hard. Cold. “Clear,” I said. I lay down on the floor, pulling the thin blanket over me. I closed my eyes. The floor was uncomfortable, I assumed. But to me, it was just a surface. I fell asleep to the sound of Declan Thorne checking the safety on his handgun, over and over again. Click. Click. Click. Chapter 4: The Tea Ceremony The next morning, I woke up because a boot nudged my ribs. “Get up,” Declan said. “We have to go to the Ancestral House. The Chairman wants to see the new merchandise.” The Chairman was Declan’s grandfather. The Emperor of the underworld. We drove in silence. Declan drove like a maniac, weaving through traffic, constantly checking his mirrors. The Ancestral House was an old Victorian mansion in the middle of the city, an island of gothic architecture amidst skyscrapers. Inside, the air was thick with incense and tension. We were led to a tea room. An old man sat on a tatami mat. He looked frail, like a dried leaf, but his eyes were black holes. The Chairman. “Grandfather,” Declan bowed stiffly. “Declan,” the old man wheezed. “And the Vance girl.” I bowed. “Sir.” “Sit,” the Chairman ordered. We sat. A servant poured tea. The steam rising from the cups was thick. “Your father,” the Chairman said to me, “is a snake. But snakes have their uses.” He picked up his cup. “Drink. It is a tradition. A toast to the union.” I picked up the cup. It was porcelain, thin and delicate. It was also boiling hot. The servant had poured it straight from the kettle. I could see the heat radiating from the ceramic. Normal people would wait. They would blow on it. But the Chairman was watching me. Testing me. If I hesitated, I showed weakness. If I showed weakness, I shamed Declan. If I shamed Declan, the alliance might crumble. I didn’t hesitate. I lifted the cup. My fingers didn’t send warning signals. I brought it to my lips. I drank. The liquid was scalding. It must have been near boiling point. I felt the texture of the liquid sliding down my throat, but not the burn. I didn’t wince. I didn’t tear up. I set the cup down. “Excellent tea,” I said politely. The room went silent. The Chairman stared at me. He looked at my lips, which were turning a bright, angry red. He looked at my hands, which were blistering where I held the cup. “You…” the Chairman narrowed his eyes. “You have iron skin, girl?” Declan was staring at me too. His jaw was unclenched for the first time. He looked… horrified. “She’s burned,” Declan said abruptly. He grabbed my hand. “Look at her skin. It’s peeling.” “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just tea.” “It’s boiling water!” Declan snapped. He turned to his grandfather. “Is this a test? Or did you just try to melt her throat?” “She drank it,” the Chairman chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “She drank it without blinking. The Vances breed them tough. Good. Maybe this one will survive you, Declan.” Declan stood up, pulling me with him. “We’re leaving,” he growled. He dragged me out of the room, ignoring the Chairman’s laughter. Chapter 5: Ointment and Lies Back in the car, Declan didn’t start the engine immediately. He turned on the dome light and grabbed my face. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. “Why?” “Open it!” I opened my mouth. He peered inside. “Christ,” he hissed. “Your tongue is blistered. Your palate is… s**t, Nora. Does it hurt?” “No,” I said. He froze. He looked into my eyes, searching for the lie. “What do you mean, no? You have third-degree burns inside your mouth.” “I have a high pain tolerance,” I lied. It was the standard Vance Family Lie. “Tolerance isn’t immunity,” he argued. He looked down at my hand. The blisters were rising, white and fluid-filled. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a first-aid kit. He took out a tube of burn gel. “Give me your hand.” He applied the gel. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who threw knives at walls. His fingers were calloused, warm against my skin. “Why did you drink it?” he asked quietly, not looking at me. “He was testing us,” I said. “If I flinched, he would think I was weak. If I was weak, he would think you married a liability.” Declan stopped moving. He held my hand, staring at the blisters. “You burned yourself… for my reputation?” “I am your wife,” I recited the lines my father taught me. “Your reputation is my safety.” Declan let out a long, shaky breath. He looked at me, and for the first time, the paranoia in his eyes cracked. Behind it, I saw something else. Confusion. And maybe, just a flicker of respect. “You’re not a spy,” he murmured. “Spies don’t damage the merchandise.” “I told you,” I said. “I’m just the spare.” He finished bandaging my hand. He started the car. “We’re going home,” he said. “And you’re not sleeping on the floor tonight.” “The bed?” “The couch,” he corrected. “I still don’t trust you. But… I don’t think you’re going to kill me.” “Why not?” “Because,” he glanced at my bandaged hand as he merged onto the highway. “You’re too busy killing yourself.” Chapter 6: The Leftovers Life in the fortress settled into a strange rhythm. Declan was gone during the day, “managing the family business,” which I assumed involved shouting at union leaders and intimidating rivals. I stayed in the house. I explored. The house was cold. The kitchen was stocked with gourmet food, but the staff was terrified of Declan. They cooked elaborate meals that he never ate. One evening, Declan came home late. He found me in the kitchen. I was sitting at the island, eating cold lasagna straight from the Tupperware container. He stopped in the doorway, loosening his tie. He looked exhausted. There was a smear of blood on his shirt cuff—not his, I assumed. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Eating dinner,” I said, swallowing a bite. “That’s yesterday’s lasagna,” he said. “It’s cold.” “I know.” “Why aren’t you eating the fresh meal the chef prepared? There’s a steak in the warmer.” I shrugged. “I’m used to leftovers.” “Used to them?” He walked over, frowning. “You’re a Vance. You grew up in a mansion.” “I grew up in the West Wing,” I corrected. “My meals were sent up after Nova and my parents finished. Sometimes the trays sat in the hall for an hour. Cold food is… consistent. It doesn’t surprise you.” Declan stared at me. He looked at the cold, congealed cheese on my fork. He suddenly snatched the fork from my hand. “Hey,” I said. He took the Tupperware container and threw it into the trash. Clang. “We don’t eat garbage in this house,” he growled. He walked to the oven and pulled out the steak. He plated it. He poured a glass of red wine. He set it in front of me. “Eat,” he ordered. “Hot food.” “I can’t tell the difference in temperature,” I said, without thinking. He paused. “What?” I froze. I had slipped. “I mean… I don’t mind the temperature,” I corrected quickly. Declan leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. He was studying me again, with that intense, laser-like focus. “You didn’t flinch when I grabbed your arm on the wedding night,” he listed. “You drank boiling tea. You eat cold food. You walk around this house like a ghost.” He stepped closer. “And I saw you yesterday. In the garden.” My heart—which functioned perfectly well even if my nerves didn’t—skipped a beat. “I was pruning the roses,” I said. “I saw you catch a thorn,” he said. “It went deep. Into your thumb. You pulled it out and kept working. You didn’t even suck the wound.” He grabbed my hand again, ripping the bandage off my thumb. The cut was there, angry and red. “Why didn’t you react, Nora?” “I have a high tolerance,” I repeated the lie. “Bull****,” he whispered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. A silver Zippo. He flicked it on. The flame danced, blue and yellow. “Put your hand over the flame,” he said. “Declan, don’t be crazy.” “Do it. If you have a high tolerance, you’ll still feel the heat. You’ll pull away before it burns. It’s instinct.” He moved the flame closer to my hand. I watched the fire. It was beautiful. Hypnotic. I felt the pressure of the heat wave, the displacement of air. But I felt no pain. My brain knew I should pull away. Act. Perform. But I was tired. I was so tired of pretending. And Declan… he was the first person who actually looked at me closely enough to notice the glitches in my performance. The flame touched my skin. I smelled the singed hair. The skin began to blister instantly. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. I watched it like I was watching a science experiment. Declan snapped the lighter shut. He shoved my hand away. He looked pale. He looked terrified. “You don’t feel it,” he whispered. The horror in his voice was genuine. “You don’t feel anything.” “CIPA,” I said quietly. “Congenital Insensitivity to Pain.” Silence stretched between us, heavy and thick. “You’re a monster,” he breathed. But the word lacked the venom my mother used. It sounded more like… recognition. “I know,” I said. “That’s why they gave me to you. The monster bride for the monster groom.” Declan looked at my burned hand. Then he looked at my face. “Does it apply to everything?” he asked. “Heartbreak? Fear? loneliness?” “Just physical pain,” I said. “The rest… the rest I feel just fine.” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Well,” he said, turning to the drawer to get the burn ointment again. “That makes two of us. I feel too much of everything else, and you feel nothing of the one thing that keeps people alive.” He sat down next to me and started applying the salve. “You’re going to die if I don’t watch you,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Probably,” I agreed. “Not on my watch,” he grumbled. “Three dead wives is a pattern. Four is a statistic. I hate statistics.” He finished bandaging me. He didn’t let go of my hand. “Eat your steak,” he said. “Before it gets cold. I know you don’t care, but I do.” I picked up the knife and fork. I took a bite. It was warm. Or at least, I imagined it was. And for the first time in my life, the warmth didn’t just stop at my skin. It seeped in, just a little bit deeper.

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