Author: Momo Chan

Chapter 1: The Origin of “Daze” I have always been a beat behind the rest of the world. My name is Daisy, but no one calls me that. To the kids at Blackwood Elementary, to the teachers who sighed when I stared blankly at the chalkboard, and eventually, to him, I was simply “Daze.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was a label. It meant I was slow. It meant that when a joke was told, I was the one blinking in confusion while the laughter washed over me like a tide I couldn’t swim in. It meant that in the grand, chaotic symphony of life, I was the pause. The rest note. I remember the exact moment the name stuck. It was a humid July afternoon in the suburbs of Connecticut. The air smelled of cut grass and asphalt melting in the heat. We were playing “Duck, Duck, Goose” in the cul-de-sac. I was “It.” I was always “It.” I wasn’t fast enough to catch anyone. I would tap a head, scream “Goose!”, and scramble around the circle, my Keds slipping on the grass, only to find the spot already taken. I would stand there, panting, my chest burning, while the other kids giggled behind their hands. “Daisy’s in a daze again!” someone shouted. “Look at her, she’s buffering!” I didn’t cry. Crying required a quick emotional reaction, and I was still processing the shame. I just stood there, a small, knobby-kneed girl in a stained t-shirt, waiting for the earth to swallow me whole. That was when Carter stood up. Carter Brooks. The boy next door. He was three years older, already tall, with hair the color of wheat and eyes that could cut glass. He was the king of the cul-de-sac. He didn’t run. He walked into the center of the circle, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down to sit beside him. “She’s not ‘It’ anymore,” Carter announced, his voice carrying the natural authority of a future CEO. “I’m ‘It’.” The laughter stopped. If Carter said the game changed, the game changed. He looked at me. He didn’t smile. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slightly melted Jolly Rancher, and pressed it into my hand. “Stop running, Daze,” he said. “You’re never going to catch them. Just stay here. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you. Three words. They became the foundation of my entire existence. They were the walls, the roof, and the floor of the cage I would live in for the next fifteen years. I thought he was my savior. I didn’t realize then that a savior needs a victim to save. By accepting his protection, I had unknowingly signed a contract: I would be the helpless one, and he would be the hero. And heroes don’t fall in love with the damsel. They just rescue her on their way to the princess. Chapter 2: The Shadow and the Sun High school was a hierarchy, and Carter sat at the apex. He was the quarterback, the student body president, the guy every girl wrote about in her diary. And I was his shadow. We were “Carter and Daze.” Not a couple. Never a couple. But a unit. I carried his extra textbooks. He drove me to school in his Jeep Wrangler. We did homework together at his kitchen table—or rather, he did his calculus while I struggled through basic algebra, and he would eventually sigh, take my pencil, and do it for me. “You’re hopeless,” he’d say, tapping the eraser against my forehead. But his tone was affectionate. Possessive. “What would you do without me, Daze?” “Die, probably,” I’d answer, eating his fries. He loved that answer. He fed on my incompetence. It made him feel big. But there was a third person in our orbit. Chloe. Chloe was my cousin. She lived two streets over. If I was the rough draft, Chloe was the final, glossy print. She was sharp, witty, and beautiful in a way that made people nervous. Carter hated her. Or so he said. “She’s too loud,” he’d complain to me as we watched Chloe hold court in the cafeteria. “She’s arrogant. She thinks she’s smarter than everyone.” “She is smarter than everyone,” I pointed out. “She’s annoying,” Carter grumbled, tearing into his sandwich. “Not like you. You’re… quiet. Easy.” Easy. He meant uncomplicated. He meant I didn’t challenge him. But I saw the way he looked at Chloe when they argued in AP History. I saw the sparks that flew when she made fun of his football stats. It wasn’t hatred. It was friction. And friction creates heat. One rainy Tuesday in November of our senior year, everything changed. Carter picked me up for school. His eyes were red-rimmed. He smelled of stale tobacco, which was weird because Carter didn’t smoke. “What’s wrong?” I asked, buckling my seatbelt. “Nothing,” he snapped. Then, softer: “Just… family stuff.” He didn’t talk the whole ride. When we got to school, he didn’t walk me to my locker. He disappeared. I found out later, through the grapevine (I was always the last to know), that Chloe had gotten into Yale. Early admission. She was leaving. And Carter? Carter had been rejected by his dream school, Stanford. That afternoon, I found him in the bleachers, sitting alone in the rain. I sat down next to him. I didn’t say anything. I just opened my umbrella and held it over him. He looked at me. He looked broken. “She’s leaving,” he whispered. “Who?” I asked, though I knew. “Chloe,” he choked out. “She’s going to Yale. She told me… she told me I was ‘small town.’ She said she’s going to eat the world, and I’m just going to stay here and peak in high school.” He put his head on my shoulder. He cried. “She’s a bitch,” he sobbed. “I hate her.” “I know,” I smoothed his wet hair. “I know.” He turned his face into my neck. “You won’t leave, right, Daze? You’re not going anywhere.” “I’m going to community college,” I said. “I’m staying right here.” “Good,” he gripped my hand. “Good. Stay with me. Be my… be my anchor.” He kissed me then. It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It wasn’t the kiss you see in movies where the music swells. It was a kiss of desperation. He was drowning, and I was the nearest piece of driftwood. I kissed him back. I poured fifteen years of silent adoration into that kiss. I thought, Finally. He sees me. I was wrong. He didn’t see me. He just saw that I was there. Chapter 3: The Comfortable Cage We dated for four years. Or, to be more accurate, we “existed” together. Carter stayed in town. He went to the state university, got a business degree, and started working at his father’s real estate firm. I finished my associate’s degree and got a job at the local library. We were the “It Couple” of our small town. Everyone expected us to get married. “Carter and Daze,” his mother would beam at Thanksgiving dinners. “Like salt and pepper. You just can’t have one without the other.” But salt doesn’t love pepper. They just sit on the same table. Our relationship was… comfortable. He picked me up for dinner on Fridays. We watched movies on Saturdays. On Sundays, he watched football with his friends, and I made nachos. He never asked me what I wanted to watch. He never asked me about the books I read. “You’re so low-maintenance,” he’d tell his friends, squeezing my knee. “Daze is great. No drama. No fights.” Why would we fight? I never disagreed with him. I was playing a role. I was the perfect, supportive girlfriend who was just grateful to be allowed in the room. But there were cracks. Like the time I cut my hair short—a pixie cut I had wanted for years. Carter stared at me when I walked in. He frowned. “Why did you do that?” “I thought it looked… chic,” I said, touching the ends nervously. “It looks… severe,” he said. “Long hair suits you better. It makes you look softer. Grow it back.” I grew it back. Or the time I mentioned I wanted to take a solo trip to Italy. “Italy?” he laughed. “Daze, you get lost in the mall. How are you going to survive Rome? You’ll get pickpocketed in five minutes. Let’s just go to the Cape again this summer. It’s safe.” We went to the Cape. I was safe. I was loved (I thought). I was Daze. And then, She came back. Chapter 4: The Return of the Queen It was a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday. I was at the library, shelving the new fiction arrivals, when my phone buzzed. A text from Carter. “Family dinner tonight. Mom wants you there. 7 PM.” Normal. Routine. I arrived at the Brooks’ house at 7:00 sharp. I walked into the dining room, holding a pecan pie I had baked. And I dropped it. Sitting at the table, laughing at something Carter’s dad said, was Chloe. She looked… expensive. That was the only word for it. She was wearing a cream cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my car. Her hair was a sleek, dark curtain. She radiated success, confidence, and the kind of sharp intelligence that made the air crackle. Carter was sitting next to her. He wasn’t looking at his phone. He wasn’t looking bored. He was leaning in. His face was animated. His eyes were bright—brighter than I had seen them in four years. “Daze!” Carter’s mom chirped. “Look who’s back! Chloe is back from New York! She’s taking over the marketing division at the firm!” Chloe turned to me. Her eyes swept over my cardigan, my sensible shoes, my messy bun. “Hi, Daisy,” she smiled. It wasn’t mean, but it was… pitying? “Still here, I see.” “Hi, Chloe,” I managed to say, bending down to clean up the pie. “Leave it,” Carter said, waving a hand without looking at me. ” The maid will get it. Come sit down. Chloe was just telling us about this merger she handled in Tokyo.” I sat down. For the next two hours, I was invisible. Carter and Chloe spoke a language I didn’t understand—business, strategy, ambition. They bickered. They challenged each other. “You’re wrong about the zoning laws, Carter,” Chloe said, pointing a manicured finger at him. “You’re thinking too small. You’re thinking like a townie.” “I am not a townie,” Carter shot back, grinning. “I’m the King of this town. And you’re just a tourist.” “Watch me take your crown,” she teased. The tension between them was electric. It was the same friction from high school, but now, it was grown up. It was dangerous. I sat there, pushing peas around my plate. Suddenly, Carter turned to me. “Daze, get me a refill on the iced tea, would you?” He didn’t say please. He didn’t even look at me. He held out his glass while maintaining eye contact with Chloe. I looked at the glass. I looked at Chloe, who was watching me with a strange expression. I took the glass. I walked to the kitchen. I put the glass in the sink. And I walked out the back door. Chapter 5: The Breakup Text I drove home in silence. I sat on my beige sofa in my beige apartment, and I stared at the wall. I realized something terrifying. I wasn’t Carter’s girlfriend. I was his placeholder. I was the soft place he landed when he fell. I was the warm body that kept his bed from being lonely while he waited for someone who challenged him. Someone like Chloe. He didn’t love me. He loved that I was there. He loved that I was “Daze”—slow, safe, manageable. I picked up my phone. I didn’t call. I didn’t want to hear his voice. I didn’t want him to talk me out of it. I typed: “We need to break up. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t come over.” I hit send. I expected him to be relieved. Or maybe confused. I didn’t expect him to be furious. Five minutes later, my phone rang. I declined it. It rang again. And again. Then the texts started coming. “What the hell?” “Are you drunk?” “Is this about Chloe? Don’t be jealous, Daze. It’s pathetic.” “Pick up the phone. You don’t get to dump me via text. I made you.” I made you. That was it. The truth. He thought he created me. He thought I was his invention. I turned off my phone. Half an hour later, pounding on my door. “Daisy! Open the damn door!” It was Carter. He sounded angry. Not heartbroken. Angry. Like someone had stolen his favorite hoodie. “Go away, Carter,” I shouted through the door. “You’re being irrational!” he yelled. “Open up. Let me explain. You’re just… you’re confused. You’re always confused.” “I’m not confused!” I screamed back. It was the first time I had raised my voice in twenty years. “I’m clear! For the first time in my life, I am crystal clear!” “About what?” “About the fact that you don’t love me! You just love that I’m not her!” Silence on the other side of the door. “That’s crazy,” he muttered eventually. “You’re my Daze. We’re… we’re a team.” “No,” I said, leaning my forehead against the wood. “You’re the quarterback. I’m just the water girl. Go home, Carter. Go chase the cheerleader.” I heard him kick the door. “Fine!” he shouted. “Be like that. You’ll call me tomorrow. You always do. You can’t function without me.” I heard his footsteps recede. I slid down the door to the floor. He was right. I didn’t know how to function without him. I didn’t know who I was without him. But I was going to find out. Chapter 6: The Stranger in the Bookstore Two weeks later. I was still a mess. I cried in the shower. I cried in the cereal aisle. But I hadn’t called him. I decided I needed to get out. I went to the one place Carter never went: the independent bookstore downtown. It smelled of old paper and coffee. I was reaching for a copy of The Bell Jar on a high shelf. I couldn’t reach it. Usually, this was the part where I would look around helplessly, waiting for Carter to grab it and pat my head. But Carter wasn’t there. I looked around for a step stool. None. “Allow me,” a voice said. A hand reached over my shoulder. Long fingers, ink-stained. He pulled the book down. I turned around. He wasn’t Carter. He wasn’t golden. He was… monochromatic. Dark hair, messy. Wearing a grey sweater that had a hole in the sleeve. He wore glasses that were slightly crooked. He looked at me. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and kind. “Sylvia Plath,” he said, handing me the book. “Light reading for a Tuesday?” “I’m going through a phase,” I muttered, clutching the book. “Thanks.” “I’m Julian,” he said. “I’ve seen you here before. You usually come in with that loud guy who buys the business magazines.” “I… yeah. That was my ex.” “Ex?” Julian raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations.” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “He took up a lot of space,” Julian said, shrugging. “He stood in front of the shelves like he owned them. Hard to see the books when he was around. Hard to see you.” My breath hitched. “You saw me?” “Hard to miss,” Julian smiled. It was a crooked, hesitant smile. “You’re the girl who organizes the poetry section when the staff isn’t looking. You put the Neruda next to the Oliver. Chronological order by emotional impact. Very clever.” I stared at him. I did do that. I did it nervously, compulsively. I didn’t think anyone noticed. “You noticed,” I whispered. “I notice quiet things,” Julian said. “Loud things are boring. Quiet things are where the story is.” He held out a hand. “I’m going to get coffee. The kind that tastes like mud, not the fancy stuff. Want to come? We can discuss why Plath is better than Hemingway.” I looked at his hand. It wasn’t a hand offering protection. It was a hand offering an invitation. I thought about Carter, who told me I would get pickpocketed in Rome. I thought about Chloe, who called me a placeholder. I looked at Julian. “I hate Hemingway,” I said. Julian grinned. “Perfect. Let’s go.” As we walked out of the bookstore, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was. Carter. Probably checking if I had “come to my senses.” I didn’t check it. For the first time in twenty years, I wasn’t in a daze. I was wide awake.

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It was the third year since I’d been blacklisted when I ran into my ex-fiancé, Marcus. I was working as a stunt double on a dusty soundstage outside Atlanta. He arrived in a whirlwind of attention, the CEO of his own media empire, here to visit his supposed girlfriend. A prince among the masses, surrounded by sycophants. Me? I was just the girl in the rough muslin costume, covered in grime. The scene called for his girlfriend, Avery, to slap me. In pursuit of “authenticity,” she’d taken the director’s encouragement and slapped me more than twenty times. My face was numb. The director finally yelled “Cut.” Marcus walked over. He stood over me, looking down at my swollen, stinging face. “Apologize to Avery. Kneel down and beg her forgiveness right now, and the part of the Ingénue in this movie is yours,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, venomous smile. “Otherwise, jump off that two-story balcony. Give the crew a show.” I didn’t hesitate. I turned and jumped, straight off the balcony and into the frigid, murky depths of the fake pond below. 1 As gasps echoed around the set, I heard Marcus’s furious bellow. “Sierra! You’d rather kill yourself than yield, wouldn’t you? You’re a goddamn piece of work!” I spat out a mouthful of the pond water, which tasted like chemicals, and hauled myself onto the bank. My body was shaking, but I held out a trembling hand to the unit manager. “Hazard pay. You owe me the hundred dollars for the high fall. Cash now.” All the love, all the hatred, all the history—it was all just dust now. But that hundred dollars? It was exactly enough to buy myself the cheapest possible urn at the city crematorium. The unit manager was frozen. He looked instinctively up at Marcus on the platform. Marcus didn’t say a word, his face dark enough to curdle milk. The manager, scared, backed away. I panicked. The tumor inside my head was throbbing, a frantic, rhythmic dance. I forgot all about dignity. I dragged my heavy, soaked clothes, limping after him. “Give me the money.” “The agreement was a hundred for the jump.” “Give it to me.” I must have looked like a deranged woman, clutching his sleeve, refusing to let go. The crew started pointing and whispering, their eyes full of scorn and pity. “The former A-list star, reduced to this?” “Risking her life for a hundred bucks. She’s completely obsessed with money.” “Serves her right, after that hit-and-run. Karma.” I’d heard it all a thousand times. It didn’t even sting anymore. I’d bark like a dog for this money if it meant getting it. “Sierra.” Marcus was suddenly there. His polished leather shoes stopped right in front of me. “Marcus, pay the man.” He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his furious gaze. “Are you that broke, Sierra? Making yourself look like a drowned animal for a hundred dollars?” “What is it? Did the pretty boy dump you? Do you need the cash to support your little fling?” The ‘pretty boy’ was the phantom lover, the imaginary ‘adulterer’ he’d used as an excuse to torment me for three years. I wouldn’t explain. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. “Just give me the money. I have to go,” I repeated, a mechanical loop. His anger flared hotter. That’s when Avery strolled over. She linked her arm through his, then pulled a thick wad of bills from her limited-edition designer handbag—about two thousand dollars in crisp hundreds. “Oh, Sierra. You’re just pathetic.” She wore pity like a designer scarf. “Take this and go buy some cold medicine. Stop embarrassing yourself here.” With a flourish, she tossed the money in the air. The pink bills fluttered down like vulgar confetti, scattering into the mud and puddles. The crowd roared with laughter. Marcus watched, clearly waiting for me to lunge and scramble like a dog. I did lunge. But I ignored the clean, pink hundred-dollar bills. I scrabbled through the mud, digging for the few crumpled tens and the loose change that the unit manager had dropped in his haste. It added up to exactly one hundred dollars. I clenched the money in my fist like I was clutching my last breath. I didn’t spare the two thousand a glance. I stood, swaying violently. A sudden warmth flooded my nasal cavity. Nosebleed. I used the back of my hand, still slick with pond water, to wipe the blood away quickly. I couldn’t let him see. Marcus exploded at my deliberate snub. “Don’t play the martyr, Sierra! You won’t touch the two thousand, but you’ll risk your life for this pittance? Do you think this act is going to make me feel sorry for you? Dream on!” He kicked the scattered bills on the ground and pointed toward the gate. “Get out! Don’t let me see your face again!” I felt a wave of dizzying relief. “Thank you, Marcus.” I clutched the hundred dollars, bowed a shallow, mocking bow, and walked away, dragging my soaked, aching body out of the studio lot. Behind me, Avery’s voice, sweet and cloying: “Darling, don’t let her upset you. She’s not worth it…” Then Marcus’s soft reassurance: “It’s fine. Let’s go get some expensive French food.” I heard them. And felt nothing. My mind was on one thing: I finally had enough for my urn. Outside the lot, the sky was darkening fast. I was shaking uncontrollably, the fever making my vision swim. But I couldn’t stop. To save the cab fare, I rode my ancient, battered bicycle the twelve miles out to the suburban funeral home. The wind was a razor against my face, and the wet clothes had frozen stiff against my skin. My phone buzzed. It was the manager at the crematory. “Ms. Sierra, someone else is trying to buy that unit.” “The director says if you’re not here in thirty minutes, the box goes to the other party. It’s the last cheap one we have. You know the drill.” The line went dead. Panic seized me. That was my final resting place. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying and not even having a place to sleep. I pedaled like a madwoman. My lungs burned; every ragged breath tasted of blood. Suddenly, a black Maybach surged forward, cutting me off hard. “Screech—” A violent screech of tires ripped through the night. I went down, bicycle and body, slamming onto the asphalt. My knees hit the pavement and went instantly numb. The hundred dollars spilled out of my pocket, scattering. I didn’t care about the pain—I scrambled to gather the bills. A polished leather shoe landed squarely on a crumpled twenty. I looked up. Marcus’s face was dark, a storm of suppressed fury. “Where are you rushing off to?” he demanded, towering over me. “To see him? The ‘adulterer?’ You’re throwing your life away for him?” I was kneeling, my hand reaching for the bill under his foot. “Marcus, please. Move your foot.” “I need to go. I’m begging you. If I’m late, it’ll be too late.” My voice was a choked sob. If I didn’t get there, I would truly have no home, not even in death. Seeing my desperation only fueled his rage. He yanked me up by the wrist, the grip iron-hard. “A quick errand? A quick hookup, is that what you mean? You’re repulsive, Sierra.” “I won’t let you go!” I fought him wildly, my nails tearing streaks of blood across his hand. “I won’t! Marcus, let go! I need to go to the funeral home! I have to buy the urn!” I screamed the truth, raw and hysterical. He just laughed—a cold, brutal sound. “Buy an urn? You couldn’t come up with a better lie than that? Joking about your own death? You’ll say anything to see that man.” He didn’t believe a word. How could he? In his eyes, I was a conniving liar, a manipulative woman who would use any trick for money. I was shoved into the car. The door clicked shut, the lock engaging. It sealed me off from the cold wind, but more importantly, it sealed off my last shred of hope. I stared out the window, watching the scattering coins and bills vanish into the distance. Tears finally streamed down my face. Finished. It was all finished. The clock on my phone was ticking down: five minutes left. We were miles away, driving into the heart of the city. I collapsed against the leather seat, all the strength drained from me. Marcus watched my despair in the rearview mirror, his lip curled. “So, you’re miserable without him? Sierra, you will never get away from me. Not in this life.” The Maybach pulled up to the familiar gates of the mansion—our former marital home. He dragged me out and into the house. The heating inside was stifling, yet I felt colder than I had outside. Avery was sitting on the Italian leather sofa, applying a hydrating mask. She glanced at me, a flicker of surprise, then pure smugness. “Darling, why bring her back? She’s filthy. She’ll ruin the cashmere rug.” Marcus ignored her, hauling me straight toward the storage room under the main staircase. “Go inside. Think about what you’ve done.” “When you decide to tell the truth, I’ll let you out.” He shoved me in and slammed the heavy door shut. Clack. The sound of the deadbolt. Darkness swallowed me instantly. I threw myself against the door, beating the wood with my fists. “Marcus! Let me out!” “Please, Marcus, I’m begging you!” I cried until my throat was raw. “Is that man really so important to you? Important enough to beg like a stray dog?” Marcus’s voice was muffled through the wood. “Stay in there, Sierra. Get that man out of your head.” The sound of his footsteps receded. I heard Avery’s cooing and his soft, affectionate reply: “There, there. My Avery is always so sweet.” I slid down the cold wall, my knees pulled to my chest. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I fumbled for it, the light burning my eyes. The message from the crematory manager: Ms. Sierra, the unit has been sold. Deposit is non-refundable.

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Less than a month after moving into the Reid estate following our engagement, my fiancé, Spencer Reid, had already shredded three of my silk nightgowns. He was devoted to his career, waiting until nearly thirty to finally commit to me, and once the seal was broken, the flood was torrential. After losing consciousness for what felt like the tenth time, I was once again kissed awake deep in the middle of the night. I pleaded with him to stop, my voice hoarse and laced with a sob. His fingertips traced the curve of my earlobe, his voice a low, gravelly sound: “Say it, Ellie. Call me yours, and I’ll let you go.” I buried my face into the pillow and whispered the word: “Yours.” A month later, I was pregnant. I was planning how to surprise him when my phone buzzed with a trending headline: R.E. CEO and Star Designer Caught in Late-Night Embrace. In the photo, he and his ex-girlfriend were locked in an intimate hug. I sat in the empty great room until dawn. Then, I requested to dissolve the engagement with the Reids. 1 “The disgrace! Spencer Reid caught in a tryst with his ex-girlfriend while neglecting his fiancée—what good is the Reid family name now!” Grandmother Reid slowly read the headline aloud. As her voice dropped, the heavy riding crop in her hand slammed down hard across Spencer’s back. Her voice thundered with rage. “Incompetent fool!” Spencer knelt perfectly straight, his expression unmoving. “I will clean up the mess.” “PR is pulling every single headline.” After he spoke, Grandmother Reid’s face turned an even deeper shade of iron-gray. “I’m not talking about the headlines!” She raised her voice. “Eleanor is pregnant! How could you have the heart to leave her alone at home?” Only then did Spencer notice me, slumped in a distant corner, his eyes flashing with a complicated mix of emotions. I was too drained to even lift my eyelids, staring mechanically at my phone screen. My fingers were stiff as I scrolled, every word of the gossip feeling like a slow, excruciating cut. I clung to a veneer of composure, maintaining a fragile peace, until a new notification popped up. Golden Couple: He Conquers the Boardroom, She Guards His Heart. My heart spasmed. I clicked the link, unable to stop myself. The photo of the two of them, a stolen shot from a passerby in the restaurant, filled the screen. Genny Bell, in a white cocktail dress, was adjusting the slightly crooked tie of a disheveled Spencer. The look they exchanged—a silent, thousand-word conversation—was painfully clear. The comment section was a frenzy of celebration: OMG, Spencer still loves Genny! Soulmates 4EVA! Right? They’re the only perfect match. The fiancée is the real side chick, isn’t she? Suddenly, I felt ridiculous. That photo was six years old. Six years ago, all I wanted was to marry Spencer. I had believed that time would nurture love, but six years later, Spencer still only loved his ex-girlfriend, Genny Bell. A suffocating pain seized my chest, and I fled to the bedroom, barely breathing. I had just finished showering when Spencer pushed the door open. I silently stood by the mirror, blow-drying my hair, refusing to speak. Finally, a large hand reached out and gently took the dryer from me. Spencer skillfully worked the heat through my damp strands, a familiar gesture. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice wooden. “Are you still upset?” I didn’t answer. He continued, regardless. “I’ve had the PR team scrub the headlines. I guarantee there won’t be any more gossip.” “The position of Mrs. Spencer Reid will always be yours.” I snatched the dryer back from his hand and looked him directly in the eye. “What about Genny Bell? What are you going to do about her? Do you intend to keep this messy dynamic with her even after we’re married?” Spencer’s expression soured with impatience. “Don’t be so dramatic, alright?” The word ‘dramatic’ struck me as faintly absurd. To ask him to cleanly break ties with his former lover—that was ‘dramatic’ to him? I stayed silent. He pushed on. “The situation is handled. This is the best possible outcome for a PR nightmare. Why are you dragging your feet and making it worse?” “Besides, Genny is innocent in all this. Why do you have to be so relentless?” My eyes welled up, and my chest felt like it was being squeezed by an iron vise. I couldn’t articulate a single word. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed a fragile half-smile. I didn’t argue. “Yes… you are always right.” I didn’t sleep a wink. As soon as the sky grew light, I drove straight back to the Jensen family home. The moment I saw my mother, I couldn’t hold back anymore. I rushed into her arms, choking back sobs. “Mom, I want to call off the engagement.” My mother sighed softly and held me close. “Whatever you decide, your mother stands with you, Ellie.” The tense wires in my brain finally slackened. My family’s support eased the ache in my heart, just a little. I immediately drafted a notice of termination for the engagement and sent it to the Reids. When I got back, I ran into Spencer, who had come looking for me. He ceremoniously handed a gift-wrapped box to my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Jensen, I’m here to take Eleanor home.” Thinking I might as well go back and pack my things, I spoke before my mother could. “Fine. Let’s go.” I remained silent for the entire car ride, desperate to just get to the Reid estate quickly. Halfway there, however, Spencer suddenly announced, “A business partner is back from overseas. I thought I’d take you to meet him.” I paused. Six years engaged, and he had never introduced me to his social circle. He’d never even mentioned my existence in front of them. When we reached the destination, I saw a group of people gathered in a private booth, and seated center stage was Genny Bell. I turned to him and demanded, “You didn’t say she would be here.” A flicker of awkwardness crossed his face. “Genny and the rest of them are old friends. It just worked out that way.” I scoffed silently. I was the outsider. The accessory. But since I’d already decided to end the engagement, I no longer cared to argue. I simply stated, “There’s too much cigar smoke in that room. I’m pregnant, so I shouldn’t stay long. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” I walked out of the booth before Spencer could respond. Near the elevator, I heard a conversation from around the corner: “I heard the CEO rented out the whole floor. He and his friend must be really tight.” “What friend? Reid booked the whole place because his ex-girlfriend won the Golden Spire design award today! This is her victory party. The ‘friend’ is just a side note.” Spencer really was something else. He made up an elaborate excuse just to trick me into coming. Inviting his fiancée to his ex-girlfriend’s celebration party—he truly was a special kind of monster. And those so-called ‘friends’ were nothing but dogs lining up to kiss Genny Bell’s ring. I let out a self-deprecating laugh and turned to call a ride-share. As I reached the elevator bank, Genny Bell approached, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face. She looked me up and down, a challenging gleam in her eye. “I just casually mentioned that I’d love to see you, and I can’t believe Spencer actually dragged you here.” “I told him not to make a huge fuss, but he insisted. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Jensen?” I glanced at her, my voice flat. “Is that right? Well, I’m not the type to cling to someone else’s fiancé like a cheap coat check ticket.” “I happen to have self-respect. I don’t do shameless things.” Genny Bell’s face fell instantly. She looked down at my slightly rounded abdomen and sneered. “Stop playing the saint! Tell me, if you lost this baby, would Spencer finally have a reason to divorce you?” No sooner had the cruel words left her mouth than she lunged forward, feigning a trip, and shoved me. I instantly grabbed her sleeve, and we both tumbled down the last few steps of the marble staircase. A violent, sickening clench seized my lower abdomen, a pain so sharp it stole my breath. Genny Bell immediately began to wail, sounding terribly wronged. “I was trying to help you down the stairs, why did you push me!” Before she finished, Spencer came barreling out. The excruciating pain in my belly was already soaking me in cold sweat, leaving me speechless. Spencer rushed past me, eyes wide with panic, and anxiously helped Genny up. Genny’s tone became even more pained. “Spencer, I just saw Eleanor was struggling with her pregnancy, so I tried to help her, but she just shoved me down the stairs!” Spencer immediately spun on me, his voice sharp with fury. “Genny is kind and honest! She isn’t someone for you to bully!” “When did you become so malicious? If anything happened to Genny, I swear I will never forgive you!” Watching him so fiercely protective of her, my heart plummeted into a pit of despair. I used the wall to slowly pull myself up, a gasping sound escaping my lips from the intense pain. I managed to speak in broken fragments. “Yes! I’m malicious, and she’s the innocent one! Then don’t marry me! Go marry her, you pathetic coward!” With that, I savagely tore the engagement ring off my finger and flung it onto the floor between them. The ring struck the marble with a single, sharp chime, and Spencer froze. He made a motion to come to me, but the woman in his arms let out a soft, whimpering cry. “Ah! My forehead hurts so bad, did I hit it?” In an instant, I vanished from his sight. He gently scooped Genny up and rushed her out to the car. I stood there, clutching my lower abdomen. A sudden gush of warmth spread between my legs. Within moments, the fabric of my dress was stained crimson. As my consciousness faded, the last thing I saw was Spencer Reid’s back, disappearing with Genny Bell in his arms. When I woke up again, I was staring at the stark white ceiling of a hospital room. My mother was sitting by my bedside. Seeing me, her eyes filled with unbearable pain. She choked out the words: “The baby… we lost the baby.” My breath hitched. After a long silence, I ran a trembling hand over my now flat abdomen. I whispered to myself, “Maybe it’s better this way. One less person to be unwanted by its own father.” Just then, I overheard the low murmur of nurses outside the door. “I saw how Spencer Reid looked at that designer, Genny Bell. They’re definitely still a thing.” “I know, right? I heard they had this incredible, dramatic romance before he got engaged. He’s been carrying a torch all these years. I mean, that’s real love, isn’t it?” I listened to their chatter, numb. My heart had long since been shredded into a thousand pieces. I stayed in the hospital for twenty days, and Spencer Reid never showed his face once. Back at the estate, I went to the safe and pulled out an old notebook. Every line documented my foolish love for Spencer, along with countless stolen pictures I’d taken of him. I had always cherished these things, guarding them with a possessive devotion. I flipped to the very last page, where I’d written a personal vow to myself: [To love someone means giving your whole heart, but if they wound you a hundred times, you must never look back!] Tears streamed down my face. Over the six years of our engagement, Spencer had given me too many heartbreaks. The first was the night of our engagement party, when he ditched me to be with Genny. The second was my birthday, which he spent on a ‘business trip’ with Genny. … The ninety-ninth was choosing Genny over me, which cost me our child, and he never even looked my way! I wiped the tears from my eyes, and beneath the vow to ‘never look back,’ I scrawled a determined, shaky ‘YES.’ Then, I tossed the notebook into the trash can. I pleaded with my mother: “Mom, I want to leave the country and start over.” She didn’t ask why. She simply began making the arrangements. The next morning, I returned to the Reid estate to pack and immediately bumped into Spencer. Our eyes met. Spencer’s voice was instantly cold. “You finally decided to show your face? Go apologize to Genny immediately!” I jerked my hand out of his grasp. “I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?” “Ellie, you…” Before he could finish, his phone rang. The name ‘Genny’ flashed on the screen. Spencer forgot all about me, answered the call, and strode away. I stood at the doorway, watching his figure disappear. I only felt a profound pity for the woman I used to be. … Spencer didn’t return until the evening. He had sent me several messages throughout the day, demanding I apologize to Genny. I hadn’t replied to a single one. He pushed the door open, his face stormy, ready to confront me. He froze. In the living room sat three people: Grandmother Reid and my parents. His expression shifted instantly, his whole body rigid. My mother was the first to speak, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Spencer, we have discussed it and agreed to terminate your engagement to Eleanor.” “You and Eleanor no longer have any relationship.” Spencer swayed violently, as if hit by a physical force. He managed a strained, terrifyingly artificial smile. “Mrs. Jensen, are you joking? Terminate the engagement? Just because Eleanor is having a little tantrum?” He instinctively looked at me, his eyes filled with his usual arrogance and a barely concealed hint of panic. “Ellie, stop playing games. I know I shouldn’t have taken Genny to the clinic first, but I explained—she could have been scarred. You were pregnant; you only fell…” “Only fell?” My father lunged to his feet, slamming his teacup onto the floor near Spencer’s feet. The hot tea splashed Spencer’s trousers, and the sound of porcelain shattering in the dead silence was deafening. “You selfish bastard!” My normally composed father was shaking with rage, pointing a finger directly at Spencer. “Eleanor was pushed down the stairs, she hemorrhaged, she nearly died, and where were you? You were coddling the woman who caused it over a mere scratch!”

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After the international operation I commanded went sideways—a complete wipeout—the commander’s wife was the one who personally saw me delivered to the court-martial. Stripped of my rank and uniform, I quietly finalized my discharge papers and petitioned for a post in a remote border town. That’s how I became a no-name mortician. I saw Sienna Knight again ten years later, in a documentary interview. The host shoved a microphone in my face: “Mr. Owen, Commander Knight hasn’t remarried in a decade. Everyone’s waiting for that storybook ending—the reconciliation!” As he spoke, Sienna herself walked in. She wore her dress blues, impeccably tailored, commanding the room the moment she crossed the threshold. Ten years hadn’t faded Sienna’s fierce composure. If anything, the youthful sharpness was replaced by a more formidable, measured authority. She watched me for a long time, and I could feel the silent weight of unsaid words passing between us. Finally, she offered a gentle greeting: “Owen. It’s been a long time.” “Yeah. A long time.” I gave a flat reply, my face betraying none of the internal tremors that a reunion like this should have caused. I remembered how the investigation lasted six months, concluding I had sold out my entire elite unit for five million dollars. My name was mud. My parents immediately disowned me. The families of my fallen teammates stood in court, their hatred a palpable, living thing, wishing I would just drop dead. But no one knew the truth: that the person who orchestrated the whole thing—the betrayal, the framing, the sacrificing of everything I knew—was the same “devoted” Commander Sienna Knight. All to cover for her lover-boy, Vaughn, who was the actual leak, then sealed the whole mess by eliminating the teammate who knew the truth, making me the scapegoat. 1 The mortuary’s frosted glass doors were tightly shut. Outside, the reporters were a frenzy of noise, and I could hear them clamoring on Sienna’s behalf. Sienna, however, looked completely unfazed. Hearing the rising volume, George, the old director, nervously stumbled out of the back. He gave Sienna a clumsy, half-salute. “Commander Knight… With all due respect, ma’am, this is a house of the departed. We can’t handle this kind of commotion.” “If you need Owen, I can get him, but could you maybe ask these journalists to wait outside?” He yelled toward the embalming room. “Owen, forget the cleanup. Someone’s here for you.” “No, George. Don’t force him.” Even after all this time, hearing her voice was enough to shatter my fragile sense of peace. I knew I couldn’t hide. She wouldn’t leave until she got what she came for. I let out a long, silent sigh and walked out. The reporters surged forward, the questions a brutal, rapid-fire assault. “How does it feel to fall from a decorated Special Forces Captain to a mortician?” “Commander Knight has remained unmarried, supposedly waiting for your reconciliation—do you still hold a grudge for her testifying against you?” “We heard your former trainee, Vaughn, has openly pined for Commander Knight for eight years. What is your take on that?” My gaze skipped past them, locking briefly with Sienna, who stood watching the scene with cool detachment. My body felt instantly rigid. The questions were like shards of glass, but my mouth was too dry to form a single defense. When they didn’t get the answer they wanted, the reporters grew more aggressive, nearly shoving me to the cold concrete floor. That’s when Sienna pushed through the crowd and stepped in front of me. “Gentlemen,” she said, her voice low but carrying the non-negotiable weight of her rank. “This is between Owen and me. It is also a funeral home. Respect the departed and their work. Disperse.” The journalists grumbled and backed off. In the wind-whipped snow, only a few of us remained. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders and was about to retreat to the quiet sanctuary of the embalming room. “Owen…” Sienna began. I forced the stiffness out of my shoulders, meeting her eyes. “Is there something else, Commander Knight?” Hearing my formal address, she flinched slightly. Slowly, she asked, “After all these years… are you… doing well?” The question, coming from her, was an absurdity so profound it was almost comical. She closed the gap between us, reaching out, presumably to brush snow from my shoulder. I recoiled. The instinctive physical flinch threw me off balance, and I didn’t see the small wicker basket of candles and incense by my feet. CRASH— The basket tumbled to the ground, scattering wax and sticks of incense. I landed hard, palms scraping the cold cement. A splash of melted wax left a stinging red patch on my skin. She rushed forward, her expression filled with concern. “Are you okay? Here, let me—” I scrambled back, planting my hands on the cold concrete to steady myself, not wanting to be anywhere near her touch. My fingertips were dusted with ash. “I’m fine…” I quickly managed, ignoring the look of shock on George’s face. “Commander Knight, if there’s nothing else, I have a cleanup to get back to.” Sienna’s eyes were wounded. She reached out again. “Owen, do we really have to be like this? You don’t know what I’ve been through these years…” Her words were cut short by a high, childish voice. “Mommy! Daddy and I missed you so much!” An eight-year-old boy rushed forward and threw himself into Sienna’s arms. Vaughn walked up, escorting my parents, Patricia and Robert. He squeezed Sienna’s hand and spoke with a mock-chiding tone. “Sienna, why didn’t you tell me you were coming to see Master? Mom and Dad were so worried when they heard you came to this… dreary place alone.” Then he smiled at me, a sharp, condescending glint in his eyes that spoke of his complete, sickening victory. He glanced pointedly at my work uniform. “Hope you don’t mind, Master. The kid misses his mom. And the little one she’s carrying… well, he’s probably been missing his dad, too.” My eyes involuntarily dropped to Sienna’s flat stomach. The reporters’ gossip about Sienna waiting for me, Vaughn’s open pining, and now this—the facts were a brutal, overwhelming mockery. I recalled how Vaughn had been injured on duty and sent to a recovery retreat for a year before my court-martial. Conveniently, Sienna had been stationed abroad that same year. They must have started their sick little game back then, leaving me clueless, a blind man walking toward the gallows. Before I could speak, my mother, Patricia, launched into a furious tirade. “Owen, you have the audacity to be alive! You’ve ruined the Knight name. You’ve soiled the family’s honor!” “Three years ago, your father had a major heart attack. If Vaughn hadn’t been visiting and called the paramedics, he’d be in the ground right now! How dare you stand here, a disgrace, looking him in the eye!” I looked at their graying hair and tired faces. Years of failing to be the son they needed twisted a painful knot in my chest. But seeing them defend Vaughn and Sienna like this was a cold, sharp stab. If they knew that the people they were praising—Vaughn and Sienna—were the ones who had destroyed an entire elite unit and then framed their son, what would they feel? My father’s gaze was ice-cold, filled with disgust. “Sienna, a traitorous disgrace like him isn’t worth your worry. He soiled the family’s honor. If it had been me, I would have put a bullet in my own head years ago!” My mother chimed in, stepping deliberately further away from me, her voice filled only with disappointment and contempt. “We consider Vaughn our son. You’re still our daughter-in-law, Sienna. We don’t have a son anymore.” George watched my parents’ bitter attack, then glanced at my calloused hands. He sighed, the gesture heavy with complex emotions, and silently knelt to help me pick up the scattered candles. I had nothing left to say. The slight trembling in my hands was not fear, but the deep-seated chill of total despair. Sienna watched my reaction, then offered a low, forced explanation. “They’ve been through a lot, Owen. They’ve been ostracized for years. Don’t blame them.” She soothed my parents with soft words. As they turned to leave, she turned back to me. “What happened back then, I owe you. My number hasn’t changed. Call me if you need anything.” I gave a mechanical nod, saying nothing. The last thing I wanted was to contact her. I just wanted them all to disappear. After they left, George put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, son. You’ve got to keep living.” He didn’t ask any questions, but I knew something fundamental had broken. Sure enough, the next morning, George called me into his office. “Owen, it’s not that I want to run you off,” he said, rubbing his hands together, his eyes red-rimmed and full of genuine distress. “After yesterday’s circus, too many families have called. They say they don’t want the traitor’s hands touching their loved ones. They say the departed won’t find rest.” I looked down at the complaint forms—Refusal of Owen Knight’s Services—the words were ice in my gut. My only sanctuary, the quiet, solitary work I’d used to hide from the world, was gone. “I understand, George.” The calmness in my own voice surprised me. “I’ll pack up and leave today. I won’t cause you any more trouble.” George tried to protest, but I shook my head. I couldn’t let my reputation destroy the business he had spent his life building. As I packed, a profound emptiness settled over me. This room had been my only refuge since leaving the brig, and now it was lost. Three days later, I was still searching for work. In this small, border town, everyone knew who the “traitor” was. No one would hire me. That’s when Sienna called. “Owen, I’ve secured you a position as a Tactical Instructor at the Special Operations Academy. My transport will be there for you in three days.” “Commander Knight!” I cut her off, my voice sharp. “I can’t afford your ‘kindness.’ Just leave me alone.” “Leave you alone?” Sienna’s voice was flat but carried an unyielding authority. “I’m trying to help you, Owen. I was trying to save you from yourself.” “I remember the pride of the Special Forces Captain you were. If not for…” She paused, clearly avoiding the full truth, then continued, “I know you hate me, but you can’t just throw your life away. If you don’t want to be an instructor, you can be a Tactical Consultant for Vaughn. He just got promoted to Captain of his own unit. You were his mentor; it’s the perfect fit.” I clenched my jaw, fighting the nausea her suggestion brought on. “I appreciate the offer, but I just want a quiet life.” She didn’t argue. She simply informed me. “I know you’re still bitter about the past. But now is not the time for you to be so stubborn. You will understand my decision later.” I almost laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “Your decision? Is that to keep me close, so I can continue to be a pawn in your cover-up? To continue to be Vaughn’s stepping stone?” “Owen!” Her voice cracked like a whip, the full military authority back in her tone. “I warn you—watch your words.” “You will take this consultancy. You have no choice.” “Unless… you want your parents to be run out of the Military Retirement Community. You know how quickly those things can be arranged.” My body went cold. She always knew my weakness.

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I’d been Rhys Kingston’s “best friend” for two decades. Twenty years. Not even the night we tumbled into bed—drunk, messy, losing our virginity to each other—could change that. All I got in return was his cool, measured voice: “That was just a mistake, Rory. We’re still best friends for life, right?” I used to believe Rhys was just emotionally detached, incapable of real intimacy. That was, until the day the housekeeper, Lana, climbed into my father’s bed, and I cracked my equestrian crop across her back until she bled. Rhys, who should have been standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, had eyes only for Seraphina “Sephy” Bell, the housekeeper’s daughter, who stood weeping behind her mother. He was genuinely in love with her. He brought her brazenly into our exclusive social circle. He even announced his intention to marry her at the Kingston family dinner. Only I, his so-called childhood friend, was left to become the city’s laughingstock. My mother, crushed by the gossip and sinking deeper into depression, jumped from the top floor of our house. That twenty-year delusion of mine shattered into dust. I decided to simply vanish from his world and start over. But Rhys Kingston, We were just friends. So why did you panic when I hired a boat full of models? 1 When Rhys kicked open the cabin door, I was grinding against a male model, clad in a skimpy scarlet two-piece. My skin, slick with sweat and shimmering under the low, suggestive lights, was a reckless, burning fire—scorching the eyes of every observer. “Oh my God… what is this?” Devon Reed, usually all easy smiles, stopped dead in his tracks, his cheeks flushed, barely able to look directly at me. Rhys stood right beside him. He was still wearing his usual detached, above-it-all expression, though his gaze darkened considerably as it swept over me. “Aurora Wells! Are you done with this charade?” He strode forward, slamming off the deafening music, and tossed a heavy blanket over me. I ignored him, instead pulling the model closer and whispering against his ear. “Ignore him… let’s keep going.” The model smirked, pulling me into a tight embrace in open defiance, his shaggy head burying itself provocatively in my neck. But before his breath could even graze my skin, Rhys grabbed my arm, wrenching me away with such force I nearly stumbled. “Rory Wells!” His fury finally broke through. “Parties, hookups, models—do you even remember what day this is?!” “Of course I remember!” I froze for a split second, then spun around and slapped him across the face. The sound was sharp and clear, but the tears finally came, blurring my vision. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Rhys Kingston! And you definitely don’t get to mention my mother!” My mother had treated Rhys like her own son, pouring money and influence into him, securing his place as the Kingston heir. And yet, Rhys had fallen for the housekeeper’s daughter. He’d fallen for Seraphina Bell! Today was my mother’s funeral. The one person in the world who had no right to lecture me was him. Devon hesitated, stepping forward. “Actually, Rhys handled the entire funeral…” “Aurora Wells,” Rhys said, cutting him off with a cold voice. That face I had been obsessed with for twenty years was still utterly remote, his dark eyes fixed on me, but the words he spoke felt like a slow, agonizing flaying. “Did you forget? You’re the one who ran to the Kingston estate, caused a scene, exposed everyone’s secrets, and drove your mother to take her life.” I froze mid-breath. My swollen eyes locked onto his face, while inside, something cracked, splintered, and stabbed painfully through my organs. It hurt so much I couldn’t draw air. He was right. I hadn’t been able to stand the thought of him marrying Sephy. I had foolishly, shortsightedly, failed to see that the Kingston power now dwarfed my family’s, and that Rhys was no longer the bullied bastard child who needed my protection. I was the idiot who stormed the Kingston house, waving that embarrassing photo of us in bed, shrieking that Sephy’s mother was a shameless homewrecker. And when Rhys had rebuked me, I’d lost all control and publicly thrown his own mother’s background—she was once a struggling single mother who clawed her way up—back in his face. That was when the future Mr. Kingston had unleashed his true wrath. He not only silenced the rumors and had me physically removed from the estate. He retaliated. He took that photo of us, cropped his face out, leaving only the image of me, flushed and lost in the moment, for the entire city to consume. He let the entire city dissect and pass judgment on my passionate expression in bed. My twenty years of devotion to Rhys became a sick joke. Look at her. The Wells heiress is a desperate slut. Her mother couldn’t compete with Sephy’s mother, and she couldn’t compete with Sephy for Rhys, either. That’s what everyone said. And that was why my proud, vibrant mother, in a moment of utter despair, threw herself off the penthouse balcony, crashing into a scarlet stain on the pavement. Right before she died, she had a moment of lucidity, a clarity brought on by the trauma. She clutched my hand, her eyes sharp, clear, and utterly heartbroken. “Rory, you chasing after Rhys looks exactly like I chased after your father. Chasing… until you can’t see yourself anymore. It’ll kill you.” “Go find a few men. You’ll know that in the end, love is just… a cheap trick.” So, I had skipped her funeral. Instead, I’d chartered a yacht and hired a crew of models. And finally, it was my turn to use his words against him. “So what?” My smile was bright, but my nails were digging crescent moons into my palms. “We’re just childhood friends. You don’t get to dictate my life.” Rhys stared at me, his dark, heavy eyes emanating a strange, oppressive atmosphere. After a long pause, he simply said, in a dull voice: “Sephy is waiting for you.” In an instant, my heart stopped, then erupted in a wave of pain. I thought I had moved on. But twenty years of entanglement, all it took was one name to leave me a wreck. “You’re a real piece of work, Rhys Kingston.” I murmured the words under my breath. Typical of the “best friend” I grew up with—he knew exactly where to twist the knife for the maximum effect. He ordered his men to drag me into a waiting car. As I was leaving, I noticed the model’s light-colored eyes. Devon leaned in, whispering, “I know you’re hurting, Rory. But it’s your mom’s funeral. You can’t not go.” He glanced at Rhys, who was leaning back with his eyes closed, clearly resting, and hesitated. “Don’t be angry. Rhys oversaw the whole service. He really does care…” He trailed off, unable to finish. He was right to stop. Was Rhys doing it for me? Or was it to show respect for my mother’s protection all those years ago? Neither reason seemed to stick. The moment my mother jumped, whatever was between us curdled into an impossible, messy debt. I slumped into the seat, watching the tiny porcelain pendant hanging from the rearview mirror sway with the speed of the car. Devon, Rhys, and I had been inseparable since kindergarten. Yet, Rhys only ever had one picture in the car—a tiny old selfie of just him and me. And the passenger seat was always reserved for me. I used to believe that small “exception” was my special privilege, and I threw myself blindly at him because of it. Now, my photo was gone, replaced by the pendant Sephy had made by hand. The passenger seat was cluttered with a fluffy, incongruous pink dog blanket. Everywhere I looked, there were traces of Sephy. Oversaw the funeral? I managed a strained smile, tasting the metallic tang of blood at the back of my throat. He probably just wanted to impress Walter Wells so he could marry Sephy sooner. The car stopped at the Wells estate, and I shoved the door open and got out. My mother’s funeral had just concluded, but the Wells living room had already been completely redecorated. Even the old family portrait—my mother, father, and me—had been replaced with a wedding photo of Walter and the housekeeper. My mother’s body wasn’t even cold, and he was already rushing to bring his new wife home. “You wicked girl! Where the hell have you been all day?!” “How dare you skip your own mother’s funeral! Do you even care about this family?!” Walter Wells stood up, slamming his fist on the table, his face, ravaged by alcohol and indulgence, turning an ugly shade of red. Beside him, Lana Bell, dressed like the wealthy matriarch she’d always wanted to be, cooed softly in a proprietorial manner, though a flicker of disdain crossed her eyes. “Darling, Rory is just too distraught. That’s all.” “She’s still young. Don’t be so angry, Walter.” “Yes, Mr. Wells, Rory must be so sad,” Sephy chirped, standing nearby in a crisp white dress, looking as innocently fragile as a gardenia. Walter sat back down next to Lana and scoffed. “If she were half as level-headed as Sephy, her mother wouldn’t have died from despair!” I snapped my head up. Looking at this trio’s pathetic performance, I suddenly burst out laughing. “Stop the act. If you two hadn’t been shameless enough to sleep together, would my mother have been driven to jump?” “Aurora Wells!” Walter bellowed a warning. Lana’s face went white. “I am so sorry for your mother, but Walter and I are genuinely in—” Before she could finish, I lunged forward, grabbed a handful of her hair, and, over her shriek, slammed her down in front of my mother’s memorial photo. “You begged my mother to take you and your daughter in when you had nothing, and you repaid her by climbing into my father’s bed.” “If you really feel sorry, you should join her in the grave!” Walter roared for me to let go. Sephy rushed forward, crying and trying to pull me away. “Stop, Rory! You can’t blame my mother! You’re the one who drove your own mother to suicide, don’t pin the blame on her—” Before she finished that line, I snatched the nearby equestrian crop and viciously brought it down across her lying, two-faced mouth. “You hit me! Rhys won’t let you get away with this!” Sephy clutched her mouth and screamed, a malicious, poisonous gleam in her eyes. I gave her a wild, triumphant smile. “Not pretending anymore, are we?” “I like you better this way.” “You are going to kill me with this madness!” Walter clutched his chest in fury, servants and staff rushing to his side. “Your madness changes nothing! Your mother is gone, and it’s your fault! No one in this house wants you here!” Sephy shrieked through her red-rimmed eyes. I raised the whip again, but a hand suddenly grabbed my forearm, the grip so tight I felt my bones might crack. “Aurora Wells! Who gave you permission to lay a hand on her?!” Rhys, who had somehow appeared behind me, had two burning flames in his dark eyes. I refused to yield, though the hand gripping the crop trembled for a moment. “Didn’t you hear what she said? She deserves it!” “I heard,” Rhys said, his voice flat as he dropped my arm. “So what.” My heart stopped beating for an instant, and then the raw, sharp pain began to blossom. I stared at Rhys, disbelief suffocating me. He knew! He had always known Sephy was playing a role, he knew she was intent on driving me out of the Wells family, and he knew how impossible my life was here. But he still chose to stand with her. “Rhys!” Sephy sobbed, throwing herself into his arms. “She hit my mom, and she hit me with that horse whip!” Rhys held her close, his eyes fixed on me, his voice colder than ice. “Is that so? Then I’ll give her a hundred lashes myself to apologize to you. How about that?” “Rhys Kingston, you wouldn’t dare!” I glared at him, my eyes burning. Rhys met my gaze unflinchingly. His dark eyes held mine for a moment, then he raised his hand and ordered his bodyguards to restrain me on the floor. In front of Walter and the Bells, he ruthlessly beat me until my skin was raw and bloody. As the pain grew so intense I began to cough up blood, I heard a terrible, deafening crash inside my chest. Twenty years of affection, the very last flicker of hope… It was all ground into ash in that single moment. I don’t know how many lashes I took before I finally lost consciousness and collapsed. In a haze, I was lifted into a familiar embrace, the faint, clean scent of cedarwood and iris—Rhys’s signature scent—filling my nose. “Rory! Get a doctor now!” I heard his voice, ragged and panicked—a rare sound—but he was shouting for me only after he had commanded his men to beat me until I was bleeding. I used my last surge of energy to struggle out of his arms, preferring to fall painfully onto the tiled floor rather than remain in his embrace. “Rhys Kingston, you’re fucking disgusting.” Rhys didn’t respond to that. He had me rushed to the hospital that night and arranged for my treatment. But the next morning, the small company I had secretly started was reported to the authorities, and all the evidence was dumped right on Walter’s desk. The partners I had worked so hard to secure overnight immediately backed out. Even the photos of me and the models at the funeral party were deliberately circulated. One by one, these events cornered me. Walter publicly announced his intention to disown me. I was forced to swallow my pride and call in favors, desperate to find someone to intercede. The former darling of the city, Aurora Wells, was hobbling on unhealed whip marks, meekly asking for help from the socialites who used to follow her around. “Rory, it’s not that we don’t want to help.” Tristan Davies, the one at the head of the table, looked distressed, but his eyes were shamelessly licking over my pale face and the visible bruises on my neck. “But you crossed Rhys. That’s a cost none of us can afford.” He slid a glass of amber-colored liquor towards me, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, predatory hunger. “But if you’re willing to have a few drinks with us and hang out tonight… we could potentially reconsider.” I knew exactly what “a few drinks and hanging out” meant. It was the ugly, transactional game of power and sex, a common practice in our circle. I used to watch it with cold contempt. Now, I was the fish on the cutting board. No escape. “Tristan, I didn’t call you all here for that!” Devon, his face ashen, tried to intervene, but his lower-tier family status meant he was quickly—and physically—silenced. “She can’t expect us to risk everything without showing any sincerity,” someone sneered, his gaze on me vile and sickening. “Besides, who doesn’t know Rory plays fast and loose? A whole yacht of models—what’s a few more of us?” They advanced on me, liquor glasses in hand, a pack of wolves circling, savoring the reversal of power. The shame turned my face white, and the salty, metallic taste in my throat threatened to spill over. “Quite the party, isn’t it?” Rhys’s voice suddenly cut through the air. “Why didn’t you invite me?” The room went instantly silent. Everyone watched Rhys standing in the doorway, Sephy on his arm in a custom-made evening gown. It looked like a casual, accidental encounter. Tristan froze, then quickly recovered, ushering Rhys to the head seat with an awkward smile. “We knew you were busy, Rhys. Just a casual get-together.” Rhys’s eyes scanned my pale face, then the liquor glasses in every man’s hand. He settled calmly into the seat and issued his instruction to me. “Since you love to drink so much, maybe you should use this opportunity to properly apologize to Sephy.” “If she hadn’t interceded on your behalf, the punishment would have been far worse.” I bit my lip, glaring at him, and everything clicked into place. My small attempt at independence, my plan to get revenge on Walter—Rhys had seen it all. With a slight nod, he had crushed all my hope, pushing me into this humiliating, unspeakable position. All to exact revenge for Seraphina. My heart felt fit to burst with rage. But I bowed my head, forcing myself to swallow the burning liquor in one gulp. “Sephy, I was wrong. I apologize.” Only then did Rhys nod in satisfaction, turning to leave with Sephy on his arm. A moment later, a strange, burning heat coursed through my body, and I realized the drink had been spiked. I tried to leave, but Tristan blocked the door, slapping me hard across the face. “Running, are we?” Tristan had already had Devon quietly dispatched. His voice was a triumphant, savage roar. “Let’s see who saves you this time!” Save me? Through my blurring vision, I managed a bitter, hopeless smile. Who had ever saved me? Ever since I became the city’s joke, every step I took had already landed me in this unending hell. I bit down on my lip until it bled, grabbed the liquor bottle, and smashed it against the head of the man tearing at my clothes. I ran, dragging my leaden, injured leg. “Bitch! Get her!” Someone threw a bottle at me; someone else brutally kicked my lower leg. The stabbing pain, coupled with the feverish heat that threatened to overwhelm me, nearly drove me mad. Clutching the last shred of my sanity, I dragged my broken body into an empty supply closet and crammed myself into a utility cabinet. By pure instinct, I clawed out my phone and dialed my emergency contact. He picked up almost instantly, his voice quiet and calm. “Hello?” Fear and the drug made me choke out the words, sobbing. “Rhys, help me!” “I’m sorry, I was wrong, please, you have to save me—” Then Sephy’s voice cut in on the line. “Rhys, darling, I suddenly have a craving for that special gourmet shortbread. Can you go get it for me right now?” I screamed into the phone. “No, Rhys, please listen to me, my leg is broken, they’re trying to—” “Yes, of course.” “Beep—beep—beep…” Rhys had answered Sephy. I buried my head into my knees, letting the sound of despair roar out of me. Just as my consciousness began to fade, I heard footsteps outside the closet, like the approaching drumbeat of the devil.

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I was scrolling through a gossip thread after work when I saw it: [Do Childhood Sweethearts Really Stand a Chance Against a Sudden, Dazzling Arrival?] One highly-rated comment stood out: [Of course not. I stole my husband right out from under his so-called ‘childhood sweetheart.’] [Five years ago, my husband was a charming, polite college student, and his girlfriend was totally unsuited for him.] [So I played the cool girl. I worked my way into his life as his ‘guy friend,’ and then, under the guise of being his best buddy, I started chipping away at their relationship.] [It didn’t take long for them to start fighting. He invited me out for a drink to vent, and I showed up in a killer little black dress and the highest heels I owned. His eyes were glued to me.] [The night we got together, his little girlfriend was probably waiting for him to come home to take her to her prenatal appointment.] The accompanying picture showed a father holding an infant, meticulously giving a bottle. Though his face was obscured, I recognized the man immediately. The jagged, distinct scar tracing his forearm gave him away. It was Dean, my childhood sweetheart, Xu Xiangyi. I was stunned to see a post about him, completely unmoored in time and context, after so many years. I skimmed the comments—a nasty mix of praise and condemnation—then quit the thread and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat. I started the car, but before I could pull away, Harper leaned over from the passenger side. “Sierra, babe, someone named Dean called you.” “I answered it for you.” 1 “Wait—” Just as I grabbed the phone back, a familiar voice drifted from the speaker. “Happy Anniversary, honey.” My first instinct was to slam the End Call button, but Harper snatched the phone away again. She wore a “spill the tea, you dog” expression, mouthing silently: “Fess up. Since when?” I pressed the brake, pulling over. I was about to explain that the man on the other end already had a wife when a different, female voice cut in. “Oh my God, it’s the necklace I’ve been wanting! Thank you, honey!” “Also, babe, the results from the check-up came back today. The doctor says the baby is perfectly healthy.” Dean murmured, “That’s great. And the toddler? What’s my big boy doing? Why are you playing with Daddy’s phone—” The closeness of his voice stopped dead. For a moment, the only sound on either side of the line was the faint static of the connection. Finally, a faint whisper emerged. “Sierra?” That one word was a cold shock. I snatched the phone back, didn’t give him a chance to speak again, and instantly hit Hang Up. After all, I had once told him I’d rather die than ever speak to him again. The car eased back into traffic, but the atmosphere inside remained thick with unspoken tension. Harper broke the silence first, clearing her throat with a forced laugh. “Oops, must have been a pocket dial.” Then, attempting to lighten the mood, she rambled, “Speaking of, I saw some trashy viral post today. This woman was saying she stole her husband from his little childhood sweetheart.” “People will post any absurd, dramatic fantasy for clicks these days…” “That post wasn’t fiction. That was life.” I gripped the steering wheel, managing a calm, chilling smile as I glanced at Harper’s astonished face. “Because I was the stupid little childhood sweetheart whose boyfriend was stolen.” 2 Dean’s parents and mine were inseparable, practically family. Dean and I, we’d shared a crib. We were the literal definition of childhood sweethearts. Growing up, Dean was quiet, reserved, and almost painfully awkward. Mr. and Mrs. Reed often sighed, calling him their little ‘stone statue.’ In school, his honest, submissive nature made him an easy target for bullies. Luckily, I was the resident wild child—a terror in pigtails. If Dean got cornered, I’d rally my sisterhood and we’d go to war. The kids we beat up would stick out their chins and shout: “Look at him! A boy who needs a girl to protect him! Shame!” I’d immediately grab a rock and hurl it at them. “Say that again, and I’ll pull down your shorts and parade you through the quad!” I was always furious on his behalf, but Dean would just tug on my sleeve and press a piece of candy into my palm. I’d chew the candy, exasperated. “Dean, don’t be such a doormat. Your parents are worried sick. Can you try to be a man?” He’d just offer a gentle smile and ask if I had enough candy. I’d grab his ear and twist it in pure frustration. It’s fair to say that I protected Dean through our entire childhood and adolescence. He was always that sweet, mild-mannered boy. No matter how many times I drilled him on standing up for himself, he’d only smile and say: “I’ll just focus on being your strongest backup, Sierra.” Eventually, I gave up trying to change him. I even stepped in to defend him when Mr. and Mrs. Reed would scold him. It was half-serious, half-teasing, when Dean’s parents would say: “Oh, Dean. What on earth will you do without Sierra?” Dean would look at me with earnest, serious eyes. “Do we have to be apart? I want to be with Sierra forever.” I’d just laugh, flexing my small arm. “Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Reed! I’ll take care of Dean! As long as I have a meal, he’ll have the best seat at the table!” It was just child talk, but Dean never forgot those words. The day he finally confessed, he clung to me, his voice thick with emotion. “Sierra, you promised you’d take care of me. Don’t ever leave me, okay?” “Be with me, please?” I thought then that Dean was the most hopelessly stubborn boy I knew. He was fiercely devoted, stuck to his convictions, and once he made a decision, he followed it to the end. That’s how he was when he confessed to me. And that’s how he was the day I caught him, fiercely defending Tatum. “You’re kidding me?!” Harper shrieked. She pointed at the phone. “So, the Tatum you mentioned… she’s the… the one who posted the thread?” “Yes,” I said simply. “The woman who posted the thread.” Harper buried her face in her hands, tugging at her hair. “Why? You had two decades of history! Does a childhood bond really lose to a sudden, dazzling arrival?” I didn’t have an answer for that then, and I don’t really have one now. Looking back, the root cause of our implosion wasn’t even about love. It was about trust. How darkly ironic. Two people who had lived in each other’s shadows since birth, closer than siblings, ended up tearing each other apart over a fundamental lack of faith. Dean and Tatum’s meeting was completely ordinary. They were in the same university class, grouped together for a project. I first met her when Dean came to deliver me my first pumpkin spice latte of the season. I was ecstatic when I walked downstairs, but the first thing I saw was Tatum’s arm slung casually over Dean’s shoulder, their heads close together. When she saw me, Tatum whistled and called out in a loud, carefree voice: “Hey, sis-in-law!” My gut clenched. I saw a flash of sharp, competitive light in her eyes—the exact kind I’d seen a thousand times in the girls who’d tried to compete with me for Dean’s attention growing up. I realized instantly that she saw me as a rival. I warned Dean about her—repeatedly. I told him Tatum wasn’t as innocent as she seemed. I even said she was clearly flirting with him. But Dean would simply maintain his gentle smile and reassure me: “Sierra, you’re overthinking this. Tatum has high standards. She would never be interested in me.” His complete dismissal of my warning. The slight, almost imperceptible leap in his voice when he mentioned her name. And the hint of genuine disappointment in that phrase, “She would never be interested in me.” Every detail made my skin crawl. Our fights began, escalating quickly. But this time, Dean—the one who always came back tearfully begging for reconciliation—chose silence. He chose the cold war. 3 For three days, I felt like I was sitting on shattered glass. At dinner, distracted and sick to my stomach, I dropped and broke my spoon. When I leaned down to pick up the pieces, the world went black, and I collapsed. When I woke up, the doctor told me I was pregnant. In a daze, completely overwhelmed, I immediately called Dean. Half an hour later, he burst through the hospital room door, breathless. Mrs. Reed followed him, happily taking my mother’s hand and telling her not to worry, that I was now part of their family. From that day on, Dean was a shadow. He was meticulous in caring for me, catering to my every mood swing during those difficult first weeks. But slowly, his course load became “too demanding.” The group projects piled up. He started coming home later and later. Until the day of my first solo prenatal check-up, when Dean never showed up at all. I used every trick I knew to get Tatum’s address. The door wasn’t locked. As I pushed it open, the sound hit me first: the low, unmistakable sound of entangled breaths coming from the back room. The tension that had been building inside me for weeks, combined with the crushing sickness of early pregnancy, finally snapped. I grabbed the fruit knife from the kitchen table and ran into the bedroom like a lunatic. I was screaming, swinging the knife wildly, unleashing all the resentment and pain that had been building inside me. There was a muffled cry of pain. Dean had thrown himself in front of Tatum, and my desperate swipe had sliced a long, ugly wound across his forearm. Blood welled up instantly and streamed down his arm. But Dean didn’t look at his wound; his eyes were fixed on me. He finally roared at me. “Sierra! Have you lost your mind?!” In twenty-three years, that was the first time Dean had ever stood his ground with such force. The first time he had ever displayed such overwhelming certainty and protectiveness. And it was all for the woman he loved. It was a version of him I had never seen before. Every movement, every fierce look in his eyes—it was all for Tatum. We were done. Completely and irrevocably. He moved back to the university dorms. I turned around and terminated the pregnancy. When Mrs. Reed found out, she ordered Dean to come home and beg for my forgiveness. Dean’s eyes were fixed on my stomach, and he didn’t say a word. But I wasn’t the kind of girl to just walk away in silent defeat. I spread the pictures of Dean’s affair all over the university. I compiled a damning presentation and uploaded it online. I stood outside the student dorms with a megaphone and broadcast their secret relationship to everyone. I wasn’t a fragile, heartbroken little girl who would simply vanish after being wronged. I intended to make Dean understand the cost of crossing me. If I wasn’t going to be okay, neither were they. But within days, my own private photos—intimate shots Dean and I had taken—were leaked. They spread with a force that completely overshadowed the news of Dean’s infidelity. The scandal raged for two weeks, until the university board cited me for “disrupting the campus environment” and suspended me. Dean, the star student, faced no disciplinary action whatsoever. My mother, heartbroken, officially withdrew me from school. She said we would move to a new city and start over. On the day we moved, Mr. and Mrs. Reed came to the house, burdened with shame and apologies. Dean stood outside the door, where my father had forbidden him to cross the threshold. Just before getting into the car, I walked over to him. I had to know. I desperately needed to know why. Why had we ended up like this? Why the betrayal? Why the cruelty? Dean was silent for a long time, and then he said words I would never, ever forget. 4 He said: “Sierra, you are consumed by jealousy. You are selfish and self-centered. You only ever think about yourself. To you, I was just an appendage.” “You used me to advertise your success, to prove how charming you were.” “Tatum is different. She supports me, she understands me, and she knows what I truly want.” I stared at him, and my first instinct was to burst into a sharp, hysterical laugh. So, for twenty-three years, that was what he really thought of me. In that instant, a strange calmness washed over me. The pain, the crushing resentment, the humiliation—it all seemed to vanish. I nodded, smiling coldly. “Fine. If that’s the case, let’s agree to never cross paths again. It saves us the trouble of being disgusted by each other.” Dean frowned, hesitation crossing his face. “We’re only breaking up. But we still have all those years of history. If you ever need my help…” I cut him off, a wave of pure revulsion washing over me. “Don’t worry.” “I’d rather die than ever speak to you again.” With that, I turned my back, got into the car, and drove away from the place where I had suffered so deeply. … When I finished the story, the car was silent for a long time. Harper maintained her expression of sheer shock for three full minutes before saying numbly: “I thought guys this messed up only existed in bad fiction… I can’t believe he’s real.” After another long pause, she asked, her voice laced with confusion, “So, why do you still have his number? A guy like that—keeping his contact is like keeping a copy of your own criminal record!” I gave a casual shrug. “That was his secondary account. I forgot to delete it when I nuked everything else.” The car pulled up smoothly to my condo building. Harper clung to my arm as we walked. “We are ordering the best food tonight. That story made me physically ill. I need my Sierra-made butter tarts to recover…” We both stopped dead, mid-sentence. A solitary figure was standing right outside my door. He must have been there for a while; a thick dusting of snow covered the shoulders of his coat. He turned at the sound of our voices. It was Dean.

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It had been less than a month since I walked down the aisle, and my millionaire husband was already standing on the edge of a cliff, completely bankrupt. Everyone laughed, calling me a failed opportunist. I didn’t listen to them. I simply handed him every last penny of my savings and told him: “I believe in you, Link.” We spent the next three years living in abject poverty. We were so broke that when my mother was critically ill, my husband, Lincoln’s, shaky business finances couldn’t scrape together the $30,000 for her necessary surgery. I watched my mother close her eyes for the last time. I hated myself countless times for failing to borrow the money, but I never once thought to hate him. Not until I saw a team-building video posted by one of his employees. The diamond tennis bracelet I had hesitated for so long to buy for myself—Lincoln’s beautiful secretary, Seraphina, seemed to own dozens of them. The bag resting by her hand required a pre-spend of over $300,000 just to qualify for the waitlist. 1 “Mr. Stone, wasn’t that $30,000 originally allocated to Mrs. Stone? Why did it suddenly get paid out as a bonus to Seraphina?” I heard the accountant’s voice drifting from the office. I held my breath, my eyes stinging, straining to catch every sound from inside. Lincoln Stone’s laugh was casual, almost bored: “I told her I wanted to buy it for her, and she refused. “She said I’d already spent over two million on her and was turning her into my ‘trophy wife.’ “She was exactly thirty grand short for that Birkin bag, and she insisted on earning it herself. “If I route it to her as a bonus, it’s not a gift from me. That way, she’ll be happier.” I nearly collapsed. My mother’s life savings—the money that could have paid for the surgery—was instantly rerouted to Seraphina, just to cover the cost of a bag and placate her ridiculous vanity? And what about my mother? Wasn’t Lincoln still struggling just to keep the company afloat? Where, exactly, did that “two million” even come from? “But Mr. Stone, the company has been out of the woods for a while now. We could spare an extra thirty grand for your wife, too. Why did you have to transfer her thirty grand to Seraphina?” Lincoln sighed: “Sera wanted to take a trip a while back, but Vivian snatched the last first-class ticket on the cross-country train. “Sera missed the chance to see the sunrise at the Grand Canyon and was upset for ages. “This, now, is my way of compensating her for what Vivian ‘owes’ her.” A bitter, hysterical laugh caught in my throat. The day I booked that last ticket? That was the very day my mother’s critical condition notice was delivered. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t wanted to interfere with his work. But a ticket purchase, a matter of speed and luck, was suddenly my fault? I owed Seraphina, simply because she was a step too slow? “Oh? Sis, what are you doing here?” Seraphina’s heels clicked directly behind me. The voices inside the office abruptly ceased. 2 “Vivian?” Lincoln opened the door and instantly gripped my arm. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of your mom? Why are you here?” I fixed my eyes on his. “She’s gone.” His breath hitched. “Why?” “We were $30,000 short for the surgery. We couldn’t raise it.” The accountant sharply inhaled, looking reflexively toward Lincoln. I saw a flicker of genuine shock—and something like terror—in Lincoln’s eyes. “How could this happen…?” Watching his belated, self-centered regret, my first impulse was to slap him. I wanted to scream, to demand why he gave that money to Seraphina over my dying mother—all for a ridiculous purse and a childish principle. But I realized I didn’t have the leverage. All my money had been poured into Mom’s previous treatments. I couldn’t even afford the funeral. My substantial savings had been handed over to him, to the very last cent, when he was bankrupt years ago. Now, I had to rely on this man to cover the cost of my mother’s burial! Seeing my jaw clenched and tears finally escaping, Lincoln quickly wiped my cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything. Even if my finances are tight right now, I’ll spare no expense.” Even now, he was still pretending to be poor… “That’s right, Sis. Even though Mr. Stone is going through a rough patch, he’ll definitely do everything he can.” A hand reached out to grasp mine. My gaze dropped to the thick gold band on Seraphina’s ring finger. She hastily pulled her hand back, her smile tight and anxious. And I understood. That ring, too, had been purchased by Lincoln. Perhaps out of guilt, Lincoln insisted on a lavish funeral. He even took the entire week off work. He was constantly by my side. On the day of the burial, I thought I had my emotions under control, but the moment I saw my mother’s portrait, my tears broke like a dam. He stood next to me, frequently glancing down at his phone. Only when a relative approached him would he belatedly tuck the phone away and compose a temporary expression of sadness. “Vivian, something urgent came up at the office. I have to rush over immediately.” He squeezed my hand hard as he said it. “I’ll come back to pick you up when I’m done.” Then he turned and hurried away from the service. The last time he’d rushed like that, he was on his way to see me. I didn’t try to stop him. I pulled out my phone and clicked on the profile labeled @WinterSolstice. Sure enough, a new photo had just been posted. It was a shot of a floor-to-ceiling window in a luxury high-rise overlooking the city lights, with empty wine bottles scattered across the marble floor. @WinterSolstice: If I just pretended to be sad and helpless, would you look at me more? The post tagged a user: @Linc_NYC. Linc. Lincoln. Winter Solstice. Seraphina. I couldn’t recall the trembling state I was in when I first found this account and pressed ‘Follow.’ It was only so I could track the miserable progress of their affair. Later that evening, after the service had ended, the account updated again. It was a selfie of a woman being held tightly around the waist by a man. The woman’s cropped top perfectly outlined her figure. The delicate chain around her collarbone was long enough to wrap around her waist. Her face was hidden. But the hand resting on her hip was wearing the wedding band I knew too well. The caption: @WinterSolstice: I knew you would never leave me alone. @Linc_NYC had liked the post. His comment: The people who love you won’t let you suffer. A quiet, low laugh escaped me. I stood alone in the empty funeral hall. A cold wind blew through. It felt as though the entire world contained only me. And behind me, my mother’s portrait. Lincoln never came back to pick me up. It wasn’t until night had fallen and the funeral home was deserted that he finally called. “Vivian, the company issue got complicated, and then I had to go straight to a press conference. “I got delayed, sweetheart. I’m sorry. “I’ll be done in maybe two hours. Then I’ll come get you, I promise.” I smiled, sitting in the back of a taxi. “Don’t bother. I have a gift for you.” “What?” On the phone, the live broadcast of his press conference was playing. The massive screen behind Lincoln suddenly switched. The sounds that followed were sickening and unmistakable. The massive bed in the river-view luxury high-rise. Two familiar figures entangled in a desperate, brutal embrace. 3 A week earlier, the moment I found the @WinterSolstice account, I began preparing for this day. After my mother’s burial, I finally had the time and mental clarity to deal with them. I am not the kind of woman who swallows betrayal. I wanted revenge—a ruin so public, so devastating, that these two would be disgraced beyond recovery! There was no better opportunity than a live press conference. By the time I arrived, the lobby was already a scene of absolute chaos. Reporters had abandoned questions about corporate finance and shifted entirely to Lincoln’s affair with Seraphina. The moment they saw me, the crowd parted, creating an aisle straight to the stage. “Vivian Stone?” Lincoln looked at me, utterly disbelieving. Seraphina cowered behind him, her face etched with panic. “Sis…” Smack! I landed a savage slap across her face. Lincoln frowned. “Vivian Stone!” Smack! The second slap landed hard on his own cheek. He looked at me, completely bewildered. “Where did you send that $30,000?” Lincoln’s breathing hitched. “You… you know?” Smack! The third slap. “Do you have any idea that we were only $30,000 short! With that money, my mother would still be alive!” At the mention of the woman who had cared for him in his orphaned childhood, Lincoln looked down, silent. The reporters, smelling blood, surged forward. “Ms. Stone, what $30,000 are you referring to? Can you elaborate?” “You want to know?” I made a gesture. The large screen behind the stage quickly changed. “Then take a good, long look.” I had compiled everything over the past week into a professional, devastating slide deck. “This thirty thousand dollars was originally allocated by my husband for my mother’s surgery, but his secretary…” “That’s enough!” My mouth was instantly covered by his hand. Lincoln viciously kicked the large screen, shattering half the panel. “Lincoln Stone! Let go of me!” He had my wrist in an iron grip, pulling me without a word toward the private elevator. Inside the CEO’s office, he slammed the door shut and flung me onto the leather sofa. “You recorded those videos?” I gave a cold laugh. “Yes. What about it? “Did you honestly think I didn’t hear that conversation with your accountant? “I went straight home and started digging up Seraphina’s address. “Mr. Stone, you have a deep reserve of wealth to buy a secretary a luxury high-rise, but you still keep your wife living in a cramped rental apartment!” “Stop it!” Lincoln’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. “You don’t understand! She was the one who was there during my hardest days. “She stayed up late with me, monitored the financial reports, and met with clients! “Now that I’m successful, isn’t it right for me to reward her?” I thought I misheard him. “She was there for you? What about me?” Lincoln paused. “Lincoln Stone, was she the one who gave you the seed money after your bankruptcy? “Was she the one who refused to give up your location to the debt collectors, even when they came looking for you? “Was she the one who had a knife held to her side by those collectors? Did she give you every cent of her savings? Who was the person who was squeezing into that tiny rental with you, eating instant ramen, her or me!” Lincoln opened his mouth. He ultimately avoided my gaze. I forced a painful smile. “Don’t want to answer? “Fine, I’ll help you. She did not! From start to finish, the only person who walked through the worst of it with you was me!” “Enough!” He roared, startling me with its sudden fury. He glared down at me. “You’re only saying all this to remind me how much you sacrificed, aren’t you? “I was worried you’d try to cash in, that you’d find out I’d rebuilt my fortune and start demanding a massive payoff! “That would destroy our relationship, which is why I kept everything from you. “But Seraphina is different! Even after I’ve spent two million on her, she still wants to earn that thirty thousand herself! “Do you understand now? That is the difference between you two, and that is why I favor her and have to keep my guard up around you.” I laughed, the sound sharp and unexpected. “So, you thought I married you as a greedy investment?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Weren’t you?” I turned away, using a bitter smile to hide the burning tears. “Fine. Let’s say I was only after your money. “Then, Lincoln, do you honestly believe a normal woman would sleep with the husband of the person who saved her life?” Lincoln’s breath caught. He must have remembered. Without me, Seraphina would have died in that alley, likely at the hands of those thugs. 4 Seraphina was beautiful. The kind of delicate, helpless beauty that made men feel protective and immediately drawn in. From childhood, she had been constantly harassed. Until the day I walked into that dark alley alone, armed with nothing but a steel pipe. I came out with a fractured lower leg and blood on my mouth. Seraphina, though hysterical and crying, was otherwise unharmed. From then on, she was my loyal “little sister.” I believed in seeing things through, so I introduced her to Lincoln’s company. Lincoln hated incompetence. He complained more than once about how I had saddled him with a “dead weight.” It took constant cajoling and flirting on my part to stop him from firing Seraphina. Without that job, Seraphina would have been sold off to the middle of nowhere by her drunken, abusive father. Then, Lincoln went bankrupt. We were consumed by the daily anxiety of rent and groceries. We no longer had the energy to fight over a “dead weight” employee. But I never imagined that during our hardest, most emotionally exhausting days, Seraphina was never truly struggling. The savings I gave Lincoln to keep the company from sinking? A large portion of it was also used to ensure “Secretary Sera” remained insulated from the company’s bankruptcy. “Name your price. What will it take for you to leave her alone?” Lincoln’s voice was completely devoid of emotion. I stared at him, a cold laugh escaping. “I don’t want your money. “I want her reputation ruined and her life destroyed!” He frowned. “Impossible.” “Lincoln Stone, are you really protecting her this fiercely?” A complex look crossed his eyes. “But you’re too late.” A sudden burst of shouting and crying erupted outside the office door. Lincoln’s head snapped up. “Sera!” He yanked the door open. Seraphina was being dragged across the floor by her hair, her mother—a woman I knew well—slamming her hand against Seraphina’s face over and over. “You little tramp! You can pull this disgusting stunt, but your mother won’t lose face for you!” “Auntie!” Panic flashed in Lincoln’s eyes. Seraphina’s mother, Mrs. Peterson, roared back: “Don’t you come near me! This is my daughter, and my discipline. It has nothing to do with you!” “Mom, I…” “Shut up! Have you forgotten who saved you, and who broke her leg because of you! You could have chosen any man, but you had to choose to be a mistress, didn’t you!” She finished with two more hard slaps, instantly swelling Seraphina’s lip. Camera flashes exploded in a rapid sequence. Reporters recorded the entire scene. Mrs. Peterson and I had kept in contact after I saved Seraphina. I always stopped by to see her on holidays. “Slut! How did I give birth to such a tramp! You love being the other woman so much? Wait until I’m dead, then you can do whatever you want!” She turned, making a move toward the large window, as if to jump. Seraphina was frantic, but couldn’t catch her mother in time. “Auntie!” Lincoln roared, “Sera is not a mistress!” Mrs. Peterson stopped, turning back. A bright red marriage certificate was snatched up from the desk. Lincoln opened it. His and Seraphina’s wedding photo, sealed with a crisp, clear stamp. “Seraphina and I are legally married. “Vivian Stone is the real mistress.”

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Four years out of prison, I got a call to the principal’s office about my daughter getting into a fight. That’s where I ran into my ex-husband. When I rushed in, he was leaning over the kindergarten principal’s desk, an aura of entitlement radiating off him like heat from a bonfire. “I invested in this school to ensure my daughter is protected, not to let others bully her.” He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “I heard Sloane’s parent did time. Why would you admit a child like that? Aren’t you afraid I’ll shut this place down?” I knew he was fighting for Sierra’s daughter. What he didn’t know was that the little girl currently sobbing herself sick was his own. Watching Sloane, her small eyes red and swollen, her body wracked with little tremors, I couldn’t stand to listen to another word. I walked straight into the office. Our eyes met, and a flash of pure disorientation crossed Preston North’s face. “Gigi? You were released early? Did you… come back for me?” I shook my head, then nodded. “I’m the child’s mother, Mr. North. You can take whatever frustration you have out on me.” The air thickened instantly. He looked utterly flummoxed, his voice catching in his throat. “You… you married and had a child? Is this some kind of revenge?” I froze. There had been no love for him left for a decade, and surprisingly, no hate either. How could it be revenge? 1 My three-year-old saw me and ran, burying her face into my waist. “Mommy, that girl called me a mongrel, so I pushed her.” My right hand wasn’t strong enough. It was a struggle to lift her, but I finally managed to cradle the still-sobbing Sloane. I murmured a few reassurances, then looked back at the man still frozen in shock. “Mr. North, if you are concerned that my past will negatively impact your—your associate’s daughter, I will promptly withdraw Sloane from the school.” My heart ached for the injustice my daughter faced, but I had no desire to fight Preston on a battlefield where the outcome was foregone. Sierra and her daughter were his unshakeable priority; no matter the truth, in his eyes, we would always be in the wrong. Logic was useless here. Preston’s gaze remained glued to us. He opened his mouth several times, trying to speak. It was only when his eyes met my utterly detached expression that his composure returned. He finally spoke, his voice surprisingly quiet. “It’s… just a small squabble between kids. It’s not serious enough for a withdrawal.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, your daughter admitted Skylar started it.” His immediate concession surprised me. It was like he wasn’t the same man who’d been threatening the principal two minutes ago. “Since Mr. North isn’t pursuing this, I’ll take my daughter and leave.” I gave the principal a brief nod and led Sloane out. The knot of tension in my chest loosened a fraction. Thank God Sloane takes after my mother’s side of the family. He suspected nothing. I called a ride-share. Before the car arrived, Preston hurried after us and grabbed my arm. “Gigi, when were you released? Why didn’t you come to me? Did you really marry someone else?” Before I could answer his barrage of questions, his eyes flickered to Sloane’s small, fearful face, and he asked the question that made my blood run cold. “Is this child mine?” My whole body went rigid. I yanked my arm away, my expression ice-cold and distant. “Your imagination is impressive, Mr. North. The year you personally sent me to prison, you never once touched me. How could I possibly be carrying your child?” He seemed to recall that unbearable year, his lips trembling almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry. What happened back then, I…” He was interrupted by a familiar, overly sweet voice. “Oh, Gigi. You’re really out?” Sierra approached. She saw Sloane and her face immediately shifted, a practiced look of shock and pity sliding into place. “Gigi, if you need money, you know you can always come to Preston or me. We would help.” She raised her eyebrows slightly, managing to look both concerned and superior. “How could you do this to yourself? Taking money to be a stepmother for some other man’s child?” My fingers twitched. Her air of looking down on me, of inventing a convenient excuse for Preston, was nothing like the single mother who had once knelt and begged me for a scrap of kindness and work. She had recognized me the moment Sloane was admitted. Of course she had. Why else would her five-year-old daughter wander into Sloane’s class just to bully her? Hearing Sierra’s loaded statement, a sliver of guilt flashed in Preston’s eyes. “Gigi, you don’t have to self-destruct. Even if you made mistakes back then, I’ll help you through any difficulty.” He took a step toward me. “Just divorce him. I can take care of you. Actually, Sierra and I are…” The memory of weeping, begging him to believe me, only for him to coldly hand me over to the authorities, was a shard of glass in my memory. I cut him off. “Mr. North, we are long past having anything to do with one another. Save the pretty words for your associate.” I didn’t look at his suddenly pale face again. I took Sloane’s hand and stepped into the approaching car. From the moment he started systematically destroying my life, I stopped believing him. Back home, Sloane was still anxious. She held my hand tightly and whispered, “Mommy, that man was scary. Is he going to come and catch me?” I tensed, then bent down to comfort her. “Sloane, don’t be scared. He’s not a bad man.” The first version of Preston North hadn’t been a bad man. He was, in fact, a deeply righteous lawyer. It was only after he met Sierra that he reserved his most brutal side for me. Preston and I came from similar backgrounds; our mothers both died young. The difference was that my father genuinely loved my mother, while his mother was beaten to death by his father. Preston was home the day his mother was killed. He watched her die in his arms. The fifteen-year-old boy had desperately begged his father to call for an ambulance, but his drunken father only beat Preston until his face was a bloody mess. By the time my father and I rushed over, Preston was barely conscious. After he was saved, Preston became obsessed with sending his father to the electric chair, infuriating the rest of the North family, who disowned him. His mother was dead, and the killer walked free, protected by the sanctity of marriage. It became Preston’s obsession, the driving force behind his choice to become a lawyer. My heart ached for the boy with nowhere to go, so I brought him home. My dad didn’t object and had the butler prepare the sunniest room for him. I put down my sketchbook and spent every day talking to him until the light returned to his eyes. I remember when he was eighteen, he ran home with his law school acceptance letter and swept me into a hug. “Gigi, I got in! Will you be my girlfriend?” I was happier than he was, tears of laughter streaming down my face. “Yes.” That day, he was so happy he forgot all his worries. He promised my father, right in front of him: “Sir, I’ll take care of Gigi from now on. You can finally relax and go fishing.” My father beamed. Not only did he trust me to Preston, but he even let Preston start managing the family business. Even in his younger years, consumed by his heavy, unresolved past, Preston reserved all his tenderness for me. Even after he became a top-tier divorce lawyer, he would personally make me herbal tea when I had cramps. He even put all his assets in my name. It was a love so intense, but when he took it back, he was just as ruthless. Preston’s real breakthrough came when he successfully sent his abusive father to prison. After that, countless women struggling in bad marriages flocked to his firm. Sierra was one of them. When she knelt before us, still breastfeeding, covered in bruises and holding her month-old baby, both Preston and I were stunned. Before I could speak, Preston helped Sierra and the baby up, his face set in a furious mask. He promised, “I’ll take your case pro bono. I guarantee that scum will be punished.” Preston’s fees were easily in the millions. I was surprised but kept quiet. I knew he was driven by a deep need to prevent Sierra from becoming his mother, and her baby from becoming him—a child who lost his mother too soon. But I never imagined that their path to salvation would be the one that violently kicked me into hell. After Preston won her case, Sierra didn’t leave. Instead, she knocked on our door again. “Gigi, I don’t have a job and I have a child to raise. Could you teach me how to be a designer?” I hesitated, but Preston made the decision for me instantly. “Sierra has a foundation in art. She’ll learn quickly. Just let her stay. You love kids, Gigi. Skylar can keep you company.” Sierra added, her face streaming with tears. “Gigi, I truly want a skill. Please help me.” Something felt off, but as she wept and pleaded so humbly, my heart softened. I not only taught her to sketch design concepts but also brought out my treasured raw gemstones to teach her how to identify them. Seeing her diligence, I asked her to design a piece on her own. Then, she got careless. In a flash, my workspace was engulfed in flames. I was shouting for help while desperately trying to extinguish the fire. “Gigi! Gigi!” Preston rushed in. But when he saw Sierra standing near the back, crying for help, he violently knocked over the heavy supply cabinet next to me, sending it crashing down. I had no time to move. The cabinet slammed onto my right wrist and hand. The blinding, agonizing pain made the world go black. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Preston rush past me, holding Sierra and running out. He didn’t spare me a single glance. I woke up in the hospital to the devastating news that due to the delay in treatment, my right hand would never regain its full function. It was the end of my career as a designer. I broke. I grabbed a glass and hurled it at Preston. “Why did you knock over the cabinet? I’m your wife! Why didn’t you save me first?” His expression was full of shame, but he remained still, letting me vent. Finally, Sierra knelt on the floor and cried, “Gigi, please blame me. I’m pregnant with Preston’s child. He couldn’t bear to see me hurt, that’s why he saved me first.” The atmosphere hung in a thick, impossible silence. I stared, thinking I had misheard. I looked at Preston. Finally, his voice came out hoarse. “Sierra is pregnant.” That’s when I finally understood. While fighting for Sierra, he had fallen for a woman who mirrored his mother’s suffering. When both of us were in danger, he was willing to let me be ruined to be her protector. My damaged hand and his betrayal made me paranoid and sensitive. Preston and I started fighting over the smallest things. Every argument ended the same way, with him looking disgusted and saying: “You’re a complete lunatic. Can’t you be gentle, just like Sierra?” Then he would slam the door and disappear for the night. The only time he returned drunk, he forced himself on me despite my resistance. But when he woke up, he acted as if the night never happened, his attitude returning to cold indifference. He pushed me to the brink of insanity. I was diagnosed with severe depression. Even that wasn’t enough for Sierra. She waited for the day my father returned from his trip and rushed over. In front of my father, she tearfully begged me to release Preston. “Gigi, you have everything. Please stop forcing Preston. He wants to start a new family with me. He wants to be a father. Please, let us be happy.” Her vicious scene sent my father—who had been excitedly waiting to play chess with Preston—into an immediate, paralyzing brain hemorrhage. The memory of my father made the tears flow uncontrollably. Sloane’s worried voice reached my ears. “Mommy, why are you crying?” I stroked her head. “Mommy just misses your grandfather.” Just as I spoke, my phone rang. No name, but I recognized Preston’s number instantly. I hung up without hesitation. A moment later, a text came through. [Your father’s personal effects are still with me. Should I bring them over?] My hands shook. It took me a long time to reply: [I will come and pick them up myself.] My chest felt heavy. After cooking for Sloane and tucking her in, I finally fell asleep. But the scarred memories flooded in like a tidal wave. After my father was rushed to the hospital, he survived, but with severe post-stroke paralysis. He couldn’t move and could barely speak. With red, swollen eyes, I sat by his bedside. He gripped my hand tightly. “Di… vorce. Le… ave him.” I understood. Not every man is faithful to his wife. He couldn’t bear to watch me destroy myself for Preston. After a night of sleepless agonizing, I took the divorce papers to Preston. He sat at his desk, signing a contract, not even looking up. His tone was dismissive and clinical. “I will not divorce you.” He sealed the contract with a stamp. “I’m a divorce lawyer. If I can’t manage my own marriage, how can clients trust me?” He didn’t love me, but he wouldn’t let me go. I snapped. I went into a blinding rage. I smashed everything in his office. It was a wreck, and he just watched me, cold and aloof. When I finally collapsed on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, his expression only softened into pure contempt. “Look at you. You have no dignity left as the wife of Preston North.” My heart ached with fury. He had driven me insane, and then he blamed me for losing my composure. He let me stew until I quieted, then drove me home. He placed me gently on the bed, a fleeting, complicated emotion in his eyes, before his voice hardened again. “Your emotions are unstable. I’ll handle everything regarding your father. You will stay home. Don’t go anywhere.” For the next week, I was a zombie at home. Sierra, however, couldn’t wait. She showed up, heavily pregnant, to gloat. “I have to hand it to you, Gigi.” She tilted her head smugly. “Preston stopped your father’s medication. Your dad stopped breathing, and you’re still here sunbathing?” “What did you say?” I stared at her, horrified. Afraid I wouldn’t believe her, she pulled out a video on her phone. My father lay on the hospital bed, his eyes closed, utterly lifeless. Panic flared. I lunged at Sierra. “What did I ever do to you? Why are you trying to kill my father?” But before I could even touch her, she deliberately slammed her hip into the corner of the heavy wooden table. Blood immediately started to run down her legs. The next second, Preston burst in. Seeing Sierra on the floor, her face contorted in pain, he hauled off and slapped me. “You’ve completely lost your mind! If this child doesn’t make it, I will never forgive you!” The sharp sting of the slap brought me back to reality, yet I was already too far gone. “Preston North, I didn’t touch her, but you and she killed my father! I’d rather die today than let you two get away with this!” I grabbed a fruit knife to stab him, but he threw me down hard. “The nurse just reported your father’s vitals! He was fine! How could he be dead?” I looked back at Sierra and saw a flash of cold malice in her eyes. I’d been set up. But it was too late. Sierra lost the baby. That very night, Preston had me arrested. “I didn’t touch her! You can check the monitor on the balcony!” I clutched his sleeve, pleading. He didn’t listen. Instead, he used all his connections to rapidly secure a conviction against me. When I insisted on an appeal, he casually presented a plea agreement. “Gigi, the entire Harrington Group is under my control. If you don’t plead guilty, your father’s medical bills won’t be covered.” The pain was suffocating. I never imagined that the man who had tears in his eyes putting a ring on my finger, saying he finally married the girl he loved, would use such a vicious means to send me to prison. In despair, I signed the plea. When he slid the divorce papers over, I numbly signed those too. “You caused Sierra to lose her child. I have to compensate her.” A month after my incarceration, Preston finally came to see me. He brought only more devastating news. “Your father, hearing that you were in jail, passed away right there. If you hadn’t been so recklessly hysterical, he wouldn’t have died.” He paused, looking down at me. “Behave yourself. When you get out, I’ll be here to pick you up.” There was no hysteria this time. My world had collapsed into ruins. There was nothing left to hold onto. The shock left my mind fractured and foggy. When I was lucid, I wanted to end it all. I wanted to smash my head against the wall. But the guard saved me. When I awoke, she told me I was three months pregnant. A frantic knocking on the door startled Sloane and me awake. My daughter hid under the covers, trembling. I calmed her down, then got out of bed to open the door. It was Preston North. The moment he saw me, he cut straight to the chase. “Did you really get married?” “Of course.” “Then what is this?” I looked at the documents he held out. As I saw the content, my body went instantly rigid.

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My freshly laundered delicates. Blown off the line by a freak gust of wind. They landed, of course, right in the apartment patio below. The man who lived there was Rhys. A master mechanic whose reputation for talent was only surpassed by his notorious temper. Every woman in our building lusted after him, and every single one had been turned away by his ice-cold stare. I had no choice. I had to swallow my pride and knock on his door. The door opened. Rhys stood there, shirtless and steaming, still damp from a shower. He looked down at me, his voice a block of ice. “Problem?” My face instantly burned. “Rhys… could you let me in to—to retrieve something?” He followed the direction of my trembling finger. His gaze settled on the tiny scrap of black lace draped over his railing. 1 My name is Eliza. I run a bespoke designer boutique, The Atelier, in the heart of the Historic Riverwalk District. My life used to be like the slow, quiet trickle of the river itself—calm, contained. Until Rhys moved in. He opened his custom auto shop, Rhys’s Customs, directly across the street from me. In the summer heat, he was always in the same uniform: a black work tank top, combat boots, and olive-green cargo pants. His forearms were ropes of muscle, hard and ridged like granite. That face was brutally handsome—all sharp contours and untamed, feral masculinity. But the words that came out of his mouth could curdle milk. Zara, the owner of the trendy nail salon next door, is a sucker for a handsome face. The day Rhys moved in, she practically skipped over with a platter of organic fruit. She was back in less than three minutes, her eyes red-rimmed. I asked her what happened. Zara slammed the platter onto my counter, her chest heaving with outrage. “I asked him if he wanted to split some artisanal fruit, and he said my offering was ‘hog feed!’” “I asked if he had a girlfriend, and he told me to ‘mind my own damn business.’” “Eliza, seriously, is that man mentally ill? He’s got the face of a god, and the mouth of a sewer rat!” I glanced through my window to the street. Rhys was easily hoisting a massive V8 engine block with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Sweat traced a path down his temple, over the sharp line of his throat, and disappeared into the soaked fabric of his tank top. Pure, unadulterated testosterone. Definitely a sight to behold. I pulled my gaze back and focused on stitching the silk knotted buttons of my latest design. “Best to leave that kind alone.” I truly had no intention of crossing his path. We were oil and water. He revved his engines; I listened to classic jazz. That was the arrangement until the day a rich kid in a Maserati came to the shop. He was a referral from an old client, supposedly looking to commission a gown for his fiancée. Instead, his hands started wandering, using the measuring session as an excuse to brush my waist. My hand, holding the soft tailor’s tape, froze. I looked up at him with cold steel in my eyes. “Sir, keep your hands to yourself.” The rich kid smiled, a sleazy, entitled smirk. “What are you doing, playing the virgin? You open a boutique like this in a historic district, it’s just for show, right? You’re part of the package.” He lunged to grab my wrist. “BANG!” A noise like a shotgun blast. The steel security door across the street was kicked open. Rhys strode across the cobblestone street, a heavy steel pipe dangling from one hand. His face was thunderous, absolutely devoid of mercy. The rich kid recoiled in shock. “Who the hell are you?” Rhys didn’t waste words. He didn’t even look at the guy. He slammed the pipe—a piece of heavy scaffolding—onto the slate steps outside my door. Sparks flew, hissing on the damp stone. “Get out.” One syllable. That was all. The rich kid took one look at Rhys’s bulging, scarred muscles, then at the pipe now slightly bent from the impact. He cursed under his breath and scrambled back to his car. I stood there, shaken but safe, looking at Rhys. “Thank you.” Rhys turned, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Too loud.” He tossed those two clipped words over his shoulder, retrieved the steel pipe, and walked back to his garage. I stood rooted to the spot, watching his retreating silhouette. I decided right then that this man was not only verbally toxic but emotionally ice-cold. That evening, I locked up and headed home. As I stepped into the elevator, a familiar shadow followed me in. Rhys. The cramped cage instantly became suffocating. He carried the heavy, unmistakable scent of motor oil and a faint undercurrent of tobacco. I subtly retreated into the corner, trying to slow my breathing. He pressed a button. The floor right below mine. Of course. The hostile new neighbor was the hostile new neighbor. 2 The elevator climbed slowly. The air felt thin. Rhys’s presence was a physical weight. I stared at my shoes, trying to shrink into myself. This was an old building; the elevator was small and rickety. It felt packed with four people, but with just the two of us, the tension was unbearable. “Ding.” The third floor. An elderly couple was waiting outside, ready to step in. The moment the old woman saw Rhys’s severe, grim face, she froze, clutching her husband’s arm. “Oh… we’ll take the next one, dear.” The doors hissed shut. I fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of my cheek. Rhys must have sensed it. He turned his head and gave me a quick, sharp look. I immediately straightened my expression, pretending to examine the emergency instructions. “Something funny?” he asked suddenly. His voice was low, gravelly, and rough around the edges. I jumped, looking up. My gaze met his dark, flat eyes—two pools of dead water, totally unreadable. “No.” I instinctively denied it. “…The old woman was afraid of you.” I couldn’t help but add the truth. Rhys let out a humorless, short puff of air. “A lot of people are.” He turned away from me. The elevator reached the fifth floor. His floor. The doors opened, and he stepped out. Just as the doors began to close, he turned back suddenly. “Stop attracting stray dogs, Eliza.” “I won’t always have time to sweep up your pests.” He didn’t wait for a response, just slammed his apartment door shut. I stood alone in the cage, staring at the closed metal door for a long moment. Was that a warning, or was it… concern? I got home, took a shower, and tried to put the whole weird exchange out of my mind. Life went back to normal. Rhys and I returned to being barely on nodding terms. More accurately: I nodded; he ignored me. But my focus on him definitely sharpened. When I left in the morning, I subconsciously checked his window. When I locked up at night, I noticed if the lights were still on at his shop. Even while doing the books at my counter, my eyes would drift across the street. I watched him work on engines, watched him argue with difficult clients, watched him standing bare-chested, drinking water straight from a bottle. I absorbed the rumors, too. The women in the building muttered that Rhys was an ex-con. Some said he was a disgraced former soldier who’d cracked under pressure. Others whispered about organized crime. The stories were fantastical. I wasn’t interested in gossip. I believed only what I saw. He was intimidating, cold, and cruel-mouthed. But he had chased off a potential attacker for me. And when he worked on an engine, the sheer intensity and focus in his eyes… It’s not something a truly bad man could fake. This appreciation lasted right up until that embarrassing night. A sudden, fierce windstorm swept through the district. I was on my patio, pulling in my laundry, when the gust hit. My hand felt suddenly light. My favorite piece—that tiny sliver of black lace—flew out of my grip like a kite with a broken string. I watched, horrified, as it cleared the railing. And landed, floating like a dark flower, right on the patio below. On Rhys’s patio. My head went instantly numb. I was screwed. 3 I peered over the railing. The black lace trembled in the wind, threatening to drop onto the ground floor patio, which would be even worse. I checked the kitchen clock. 10:30 PM. Rhys was likely just getting back from the shop. Do I go, or do I not? If I didn’t, tomorrow morning, the entire building would see a woman’s underwear hanging out on Rhys’s railing. My reputation would be destroyed. If I did, I would have to face the Ice King at his most unguarded. I bit my lip. My pride demanded a rescue mission. I threw on a light cardigan, slipped into my flip-flops, and crept downstairs like a thief. Standing outside Rhys’s door, I took a deep, steadying breath and knocked. “Knock, knock, knock.” Silence. I knocked again, harder. “KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!” Still nothing. Was he asleep? Just as I was about to give up, the lock rattled. Click. The door opened a crack. A wave of wet heat and steam washed over me. Rhys stood behind the doorframe. He’d clearly been in the shower. His hair was slick and dripping. His upper body was bare, water tracking paths down his wide shoulders, over the hard planes of his chest, and into the low-slung, threadbare grey sweats that barely held on to his hips. The waistband rested precariously low, exposing the faint, sexy shadow of his V-lines. I took one look and instantly snapped my gaze away, a shock of adrenaline running through me. It was criminal. A walking fire hazard. “Late-night visitors? You trying to wake the dead?” He was clearly annoyed, his brow furrowed, his tone hostile. I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Rhys, I apologize for the interruption.” “I… I have something that fell onto your patio.” Rhys leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking utterly impatient. “What something?” “A piece of clothing.” “What kind of clothing?” He wasn’t going to let this go. My face felt like it was melting. My voice was a tiny squeak. “Under… underwear.” Rhys froze. A flicker of something—amusement? surprise?—cracked his cold expression. He quickly scanned my figure, his eyes lingering on the jacket I was clutching around myself, and then he stepped aside, letting the door swing wider. “Come in.” I ducked inside, feeling like a trapped field mouse. His apartment was identical to mine, but shockingly barren. Just a sofa, a coffee table, and no television. A pile of tires and toolboxes sat in the corner. It screamed single male, zero frills. I scurried toward the patio. The culprit was still there, swaying gently. But it was draped over the high corner, just out of my reach. I sighed in frustration and gestured toward it. “Rhys, could you please grab that?” He walked over, took one look, and let out a soft sound of disgust. “Wait.” He didn’t hesitate. He mounted the patio railing, scaling the corner like a black panther. He reached out a long, heavy arm. His calloused, heavy hand closed around the tiny, fragile scrap of lace. The black fabric looked impossibly small and vulnerable against his brute strength. He dropped back down and held it out to me. “Here.” I snatched it back and shoved the crumpled mess into my pocket. My fingertips inevitably brushed the center of his palm. It was searing hot. And rough. I yanked my hand back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it.” He grabbed the towel from the back of the sofa and roughly rubbed his hair, sending droplets flying. I couldn’t look at him, turning to flee the apartment. “Hold up.” His voice stopped me at the door. I stiffened, turning back to him awkwardly. “Something else?” Rhys hung the towel around his neck, the pose pure, raw masculinity. He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. The pressure of his body overwhelmed me. He stopped directly in front of me, looking down. The space between us evaporated. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Eliza.” It was the first time he’d ever used my name. It sounded low, guttural, and possessive. “Next time you hang your clothes, use a damn clip.” I flushed furiously and bolted out of his apartment. 4 The next time I ran into Rhys, he was back to his usual poker face. It was as if our late-night, half-naked encounter had been a hallucination. I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. But I started having trouble sleeping. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was his rain-slicked chest and those bottomless black eyes. I was becoming obsessed. To distract myself, I accepted a massive commission: twenty custom gowns for a period drama’s principal cast. The deadline was tight, the standards were insane. I practically moved into my shop, barely going home. Late one night, I finally finished the last sample. I checked my phone: 2:00 AM. The entire Riverwalk District was asleep. Only the streetlights cast long, sickly yellow shadows. I dragged my exhausted body out of the shop, locked up, and headed toward the building. The deep autumn air cut right through my thin trench coat. I wrapped my arms around myself and hurried. Inside the building, I pressed the elevator button. When the doors opened, a familiar shadow once again stepped into the cage. Rhys. He leaned heavily against the elevator wall. He wore his usual black tank top, but had a leather jacket pulled over it. His face was etched with fatigue; there were faint smudges of dark shadow under his eyes. In the small space, beneath the motor oil and tobacco, there was now a faint, coppery scent of blood. My heart lurched. I immediately checked his hands. His right hand hung at his side. The knuckles were scraped raw, peeling back the skin, and a dark stain of dried blood covered the black leather of his jacket. “You’re hurt,” I blurted out. Rhys glanced at his hand, utterly indifferent. “Just a scrape.” “That’s more than a scrape.” The wound looked deep, the flesh torn. It was clearly from blunt-force trauma. “Mind your business.” His voice was cold and dismissive. Any sympathy I’d felt instantly evaporated. Fine. I wouldn’t bother him again. I stayed silent, watching the numbers climb. At the third floor, the elevator lurched violently. The lights flickered, buzzing with a sharp electric crackle. Then, everything stopped dead. My stomach dropped. I lunged for the emergency bell. Nothing. Worse, my phone had zero service. In the sudden darkness, I could only hear my own frantic, shallow breathing. “Don’t move.” Rhys’s voice cut through the dark, steady and powerful. A moment later, a beam of light cut the blackness. He’d turned on his phone flashlight. The light hit his face, making his features harsh and his eyes chillingly calm. “It’s an old problem with this piece of junk,” he muttered. He walked over to the panel, pressed a few buttons, and kicked the door. No luck. “Might as well sit. The building maintenance crew won’t check until morning.” He slid down the wall and sat, stretching his long legs out. I watched him, uncertain. “Sit down.” He patted the floor beside him. I hesitated, then sat on the opposite side, maintaining a careful distance. Minutes crawled by. The air became thick and heavy. The coppery scent of blood grew stronger. I couldn’t stand it. I dug through my sewing kit bag and pulled out a travel-sized bottle of alcohol spray and a couple of large, waterproof bandages. They were necessary for my line of work. “Give me your hand.” I looked at him. Rhys looked up, a wry, challenging smile touching his lips. “What, you trying to take advantage of the situation?” I laughed, a sharp, angry sound. “Fine. Let it get infected, then. See if I care.” I started to put the supplies away. A large hand shot out suddenly and locked around my wrist. The grip was fierce, his palm hot. He pulled me slightly closer and held the injured hand out to me. “Do your worst.” I glared at him, then lowered my head and began to clean the wound. He didn’t flinch when I sprayed the alcohol. When the bandages were secure, I started to pull away. But he didn’t release my wrist. Instead, his thumb began to gently stroke the soft skin of my inner wrist. Right where my pulse hammered—a frantic, uneven drumbeat. “Eliza.” He looked at me in the dim light, his voice raspy and hoarse. “Are you falling for me?” My mind went completely blank. I opened my mouth, ready to issue a denial. “If you didn’t like me, why do you constantly stare at me?” He closed the distance between us, his intense male scent engulfing me. “If you didn’t like me, why didn’t you run away from me?” “If you didn’t like me…” He lowered his head, his nose almost touching mine, our breaths mingling. “Why is your heart running like a runaway train?”

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Five years after the divorce, my ex-husband submitted a wedding planning request to my company. I meant to refuse, but my assistant, Paige, insisted the request was direct: he had specified my name and was offering triple the standard fee. For the money, I agreed. I was giving the bride a final dress fitting—all business, nothing personal—when she snickered. “I heard the reason the Kellers kicked you out was because you couldn’t conceive?” “Heh. A woman who can’t give the family an heir… what’s the difference between her and someone who cheats?” “Not like me. I’m about to give the Kellers their golden grandson. They’re so thrilled, they spent millions just for this wedding.” She peered down her nose at me. “Don’t think I don’t know. You’re only here today because you regret divorcing my husband.” “Just a warning: if you dare try to hook up with him, I will make your life a living hell!” I smiled. My twin daughter and son, Leo and Luna, had just turned two. As for Dean Keller, how could a sterile man possibly father a child? Besides, my event planning company is now valued at over a billion dollars. I didn’t have the time to regret walking away from a piece of trash. 1 I let the smile fall from my face, kneeling to gently smooth out the train of her gown. “Then congratulations are in order.” Tessa Marlow froze, then kicked the toolkit next to my hand, sending brushes and cosmetics skittering across the floor. She loomed over me, her voice dripping with disdain. “Humble yourself for a few broken dollars. Pathetic.” “A barren woman is useless and disgusting. No wonder he divorced you.” “I think this job is fake. You just can’t bear to let go of my husband!” I chuckled softly, calmly picking up a fallen foundation compact. “Mrs. Keller.” “You, more than anyone, should know the real reason why Mr. Keller and I divorced, shouldn’t you?” At the sound of my words, Tessa’s face flickered. Back then, she was a financially-supported student the Kellers had taken in, living temporarily at our estate after graduation. She seemed sweet and demure, and I genuinely grew fond of her. I bought her whatever she fancied, and she was always the first person I thought of when bringing back gifts from business trips. Everyone said we were like sisters. I never imagined that day I came home early from a trip, excited to give her a little something, I would find her and Dean—naked and intertwined—in the bathtub. They were so consumed by the moment, they didn’t even notice me standing frozen in the bathroom doorway. Rage hit me like a physical blow. I started sobbing, throwing every cosmetic, every bottle, every object in the bathroom at them. Dean scrambled to cover himself, immediately shielding Tessa in his arms. He rounded on me, his face red with fury. “Sierra Rhys! Haven’t you caused enough drama?” I had been married to him for five years; I loved him deeply. I gave him two options: kick Tessa out, or divorce me. But that night, Tessa slit her own wrist. She collapsed at my feet, weeping hysterically. “Mrs. Keller! I was wrong! I never should have touched Mr. Keller!” “Please! I’m begging you! Don’t post those photos online!” “If you agree, I’ll even kill myself!” I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but Dean had already grabbed my phone. He opened my photo album, and there, inexplicably, were dozens of nude photos of Tessa. Dean’s eyes went bloodshot. For the first time, he hit me. “Sierra! I am so disappointed in you!” His strength was terrifying. He beat me so severely I landed in the hospital with a broken hand, cracked ribs, and a punctured eardrum. I remember it clearly: when the doctor called him to sign off on my emergency surgery, he snapped, “Tessa can’t even sleep because of her! She’s ruined everything!” “That woman? Just let her die!” It took three surgeries before I finally pulled through. When I woke up, I understood everything. I filed for divorce. The rumor about me being barren? Just the dirt the Kellers threw on me to cover up Dean’s cheating and the violence. Five years had passed. I was done hating. Now, I was perfectly happy with my husband, Rhys, and my two beautiful twins. Thinking of all this, I offered only a cool, detached smile. “Do you truly believe I’d regret leaving a man who cheats and assaults his wife, Mrs. Keller?” “I will finish this order and leave. Rest assured.” Tessa seemed to recover. She jutted her neck out and yelled, “Just keep being smug! You’ll regret it when you see my husband!” My assistant, Paige, walked in holding a steaming cup of coffee. She heard the tail end of the exchange and whispered in my ear, “Ms. Rhys, what happened?” I simply smiled, indicating it was nothing. I re-organized my toolkit, stood up, and brushed imaginary dust off my skirt. “Mrs. Keller, the dress is perfect. Shall we move on to makeup?” Tessa snorted, plopping down in front of the vanity. She smoothed her hair, her tone careless. “Honestly, having a hand-me-down like you do my makeup feels like bad luck.” “But my husband has a kind heart. He said he felt sorry for you—a bitter ex being kept by some old man—so he threw you some money.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. The bridesmaids and several female relatives instantly clustered around, their eyes wide with curiosity and judgment. The foundation brush paused in my hand. “Kept?” 2 “Mrs. Keller, slander like that can land you in serious trouble.” I put the brush down. “Can you prove what you’re saying?” She shot up from the chair. “Am I lying?!” Tessa pointed to herself, her voice rising. “I’m a Senior Director at this very hotel!” “I’ve seen you here a dozen times! You walk in and out of here every day, with a different old man every time! I have witnesses!” “I’m not slandering you! If you don’t believe me, let’s check the security footage!” I understood instantly. She seemed to be entirely unaware that my husband, Rhys Easton, is one of the wealthiest men in the state. And this entire hotel is his property. The “old men” she was referring to were my company’s shareholders, meeting in the conference room. Were we suddenly doing something wrong by holding board meetings in our own property? The surrounding guests started whispering, their eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “So that’s the ex-wife. Doesn’t look like much, no wonder he left her!” “She left Dean, and now she’s a makeup artist?” “Makeup artist is probably just a side gig! Didn’t Tessa just say she’s being bankrolled by an old man?” “Tessa’s a Director here, why would she lie?” “Haha, look at the pink diamond Tessa is wearing. That woman couldn’t earn that in a lifetime!” “Tessa, you better keep your distance! Who knows what kind of filth she’s picked up, selling herself like that.” Paige finally reacted, her voice trembling with indignation. “You! Do you even know who Ms. Rhys is?” “She personally came to handle the makeup and styling for this wedding, and you’re slandering her!” “Ms. Rhys?” Marilyn Keller, Dean’s mother, strode out of the back room, laughing a sharp, grating sound. “Sierra Rhys, I can’t believe after five years divorced from my son, you still can’t stop lying!” “Tessa is carrying the Keller heir! How dare you shout at her!” Marilyn had always hated me. She spent my entire marriage to Dean trying to break us up. Now, her face was a mask of pure disgust. She shoved me aside. “We were kind enough to let you earn a measly tip, and now you’re trying to inflate your own importance?” “A discarded woman! Who do you think you are?” “The way you treated Tessa just now… you could have upset my precious grandson!” “I am ordering you now: Kneel down and apologize to Tessa! Or do you think I won’t call your company and have you fired instantly?” Tessa slandered me first, and now she wants me to kneel? However, the job was halfway done. Getting paid was the priority. I took out my phone, my voice flat. “If you aren’t happy with my service, I can arrange for someone else to take over.” “But you’ll have to run that past Mr. Keller first, as he personally requested me.” Paige immediately backed me up. “That’s right! Our contract specifically names Ms. Rhys as the lead consultant for this wedding!” “Unless Mr. Keller approves, you can’t back out and then try to stiff us on the fee!” Tessa slapped Paige across the face. She pointed a furious finger at my assistant. “Stiff you?!” “What kind of family are the Kellers? We would try to weasel out of a few hundred, a few thousand dollars? What a joke!” A few hundred, a few thousand? I pulled Paige behind me, my anger finally peaking. “I think you misunderstand, Mrs. Keller.” “It’s not a few hundred. It’s three million dollars.” “Furthermore, I will be reserving the right to press charges for the assault on my assistant.” “Three million?!” Tessa shrieked. “A wedding planner of your caliber is trying to extort three million from the Keller family!” “Did leaving Dean make you this poor and desperate?!” At that moment, Dean rushed into the room, looking frantic.

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