Author: Momo Chan

Today was Noah Bellwether’s college graduation, and it was also the seven-year anniversary of the day Daphne and I started dating. We had made plans months ago to go snorkeling in the Maldives. I’d booked the flights, reserved the overwater bungalow, and meticulously planned every excursion. But she stood me up. 1 Because Noah had called her last night, extending a heartfelt invitation to his ceremony. At the end of the call, his voice had dropped into a pitiful, wounded whine. “But, Sis… I’ll be so bummed if you don’t come. It just won’t feel right without you…” That was all it took for my girlfriend, Daphne Wells, to lose her mind, her heart swelling with protectiveness. She’d instantly promised him she’d be there. “Liam, I can’t make the Maldives anymore.” I pulled her into a hug, trying to salvage the moment. “Couldn’t you skip it? I thought…” She cut me off before I could finish, pressing a swift, silencing kiss to my mouth. Then she wrapped her arms around mine, her voice dripping with affection. “We’ll have plenty of anniversaries in the future, darling, but Noah’s graduation is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.” “Liam, wait for me. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” I was too dizzy and lost in the fog of the kiss to think clearly. My ability to reason evaporated, and I didn’t push back. She was gone by early morning, taking a redeye flight upstate. “Hey, who’s this dude on Daphne’s feed? They look awfully cozy.” At the bar, my best friend, Mark, nudged my elbow and shoved his phone into my hand. “Happy graduation, little brother. May your life journey from here on be nothing but smooth sailing.” Daphne had just posted it. The accompanying picture was a beaming selfie of her and Noah. She was wearing his cap and gown, her eyes crinkled with pure joy, leaning impossibly close to him. “Are you blind? It says ‘little brother.’” A sour, rotten feeling twisted in my gut. I tossed the phone back to Mark. He just raised his shot glass, his voice laced with mocking sincerity. “Come on, guys. A toast to Daphne’s little brother!” I kicked his barstool over and slammed back the whiskey in my glass. The liquor burned a fiery path down my throat, but the sudden rush of alcohol couldn’t stop the sight of their blinding smiles from filling my mind. I lowered my gaze and gave a bitter laugh. If she hadn’t stood me up, I’d be underwater right now, somewhere off the coast of the Maldives, proposing to her. I’d spent months preparing for it, secretly rehearsing the words countless times. But she’d packed up and left to attend her “little brother’s” ceremony—she’d even taken off the matching anniversary ring I’d given her. 2 Noah Bellwether was the college student Daphne had sponsored. Four years ago, right when my first startup finally hit its stride, she’d gotten this spontaneous, high-minded idea to help fund a struggling student. “Liam, we came from nothing. Now that we’re finally comfortable, it’s our duty to give back.” Even though we were still pinching pennies, I couldn’t dampen her enthusiasm. After a few inquiries, we chose Noah: a clever, hardworking kid from a poor background. Four years. That was his entire college life, and the vast majority of our relationship. In the beginning, he’d regularly update both of us on his grades and his progress. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but slowly, that changed. He started directing all his updates—his grades, his life details—only to Daphne. I’m a man. I knew what his lingering eyes and overly solicitous texts meant. But my simple, idealistic Daphne didn’t. We’d had one fight about it. Just one. I’d let my frustration get the better of me, admitting that I was uncomfortable with my girlfriend having such an intense connection with another man. “Liam, how could you think that about Noah? He’s just a kid, he’s our little brother.” She’d slapped a hand over her chest, emphatically defining the boundaries of their relationship. Her expression was one of such profound conviction that it felt like my mere suspicion was a stain on their pure sibling bond. After that, I never questioned her about him again. On one hand, the company was growing exponentially, and I was drowning in work, scrambling to meet targets. I figured having someone to keep her company wasn’t the worst thing in the world. On the other, I had absolute confidence in our relationship. More accurately, I had confidence in myself. Daphne was so fiery, so driven, so vibrant. Why would she ever fall for a poor, timid, and emotionally needy college kid like Noah Bellwether? The alcohol in my stomach was churning. I staggered into the restroom, threw up, and then stared at my reflection in the mirror. Crow’s feet around my eyes… A creeping hairline… The eight-pack abs that were slowly dissolving into soft tissue… And Noah? He was no longer the awkward kid we first met. He was a blossoming young man, in the prime of his life. He was the person I used to be. And the person I was now? Just the “old guy with some cash” that Daphne occasionally mentioned. 3 I was still reeling from the hangover when Daphne burst into my office, Noah in tow. I’d slept on the couch here out of convenience after drinking with Mark. Seeing them standing together in front of my desk made my head spin, but when I saw the resumé in Noah’s hand, I understood instantly. He was here to find his “smooth sailing.” “Liam, take a look at Noah’s resumé. See what position you think he’d be a good fit for.” Daphne placed the single-page document directly on my desk. I scanned the few lines of text and frowned, sinking into contemplation. “This…” Noah had majored in Automotive Technology—a field that had absolutely zero overlap with our Financial Technology firm. Daphne, my girlfriend, also happened to be our Head of HR. She knew this. She also knew that I was strictly professional, refusing to hire unqualified cousins or family friends, no matter how much they begged. She was here because she wanted my approval of Noah. She wanted him to have a job, and she wanted it to be a respectable one. “Our Noah has great grades, lots of internship experience, and he’s a fast learner. He’d be perfect for…” Hearing her call him “Our Noah,” combined with the fresh memory of her sycophantic anniversary post, sent my jealousy boiling over. I pointed to the college transcript, with its multiple failing grades, and the “practical experience” section that listed only hotel dishwashing and bussing tables. I looked her dead in the eye. “Daphne, are failing classes what you call ‘great grades’? And is washing dishes what you call ‘extensive experience’?” “You…” She was clearly stunned by my bluntness. Her face turned bright red, and she seemed incapable of speech. Noah, standing beside her, tugged timidly at her sleeve. “Sis, it’s okay.” “If Liam doesn’t think I’m a good fit, that’s fine. I really am not that impressive. I’ll just go look for another job.” My head was pounding. I didn’t want to fight. “Look, how about this, Noah. You can start in Customer Service. Once you prove yourself, I can move you into…” Daphne immediately objected, hands on her hips, her face a thundercloud. “Liam Archer, what is that supposed to mean? Customer Service? He’d have to work twelve-hour shifts and overnight! Are you kidding me?” “I’m not…” I didn’t understand. Why could everyone else start at the bottom, but not Noah Bellwether? Noah stepped up again, gently pulling at my sleeve, his lips quivering. “Please don’t fight because of me, Liam. It’s not worth it. I’m happy to do Customer Service. Liam must be doing this for my benefit.” “Even though my health is always a bit fragile and I might struggle with the overnight shifts, I’ll find a way to overcome it.” He looked absolutely devastated, as if he felt responsible for our argument. Daphne’s tone immediately softened toward him. “Don’t worry, Noah. I’ll find you a better position, I promise.” She shot me a disgusted glare, grabbed his arm, and stormed out without a backward glance. The whole encounter had made my headache worse. I watched Daphne’s receding figure. Suddenly, my girlfriend of seven years felt like a stranger. 4 I’ve known Daphne Wells for twenty years. We’ve shared the better half of our lives together. We first met at the orphanage. I was seven; she was six. My mother died young, and my father ran off with a rich woman. My frail grandfather raised me until he passed away, leaving me an orphan. Daphne’s story was even sadder; she was abandoned on the doorstep just days after she was born. Our bond was forged in the fire of a bullying incident. Back then, I was a lot like Noah Bellwether four years ago. I was an orphan, painfully insecure, and smaller than the other boys due to malnutrition. The older boys loved to pick on me. One time, they had me pinned down on the rooftop, beating me. Blood was streaming from my nose, and my head was ringing. I remembered thinking, I hope they just kill me. Just as I was losing consciousness, Daphne arrived like an angel descending. “The teachers and the police are coming! You garbage better run now!” She screamed at them, then activated the school’s fire alarm, sending the bullies scrambling in fear. Later, on the rooftop, she cleaned the grime and blood from my face and asked why I didn’t fight back. “The less you fight, the more they’ll hurt you,” she said. She said a lot of things that day. But the light radiating off her was so intense that I only saw her lips moving. I didn’t hear a single word. Years later, we were accepted into the same university. When she found out, she clapped a hand over her mouth in delighted surprise. “Liam Archer, what a coincidence! We got into the same school!” I stared blankly at her smiling, crinkled eyes, unable to respond. Daphne, it wasn’t a coincidence. I stole a peek at your application. When summer break ended, we took a twelve-hour, worn-out Greyhound bus north to start our new lives. I studied Computer Science; she studied Finance. In our junior year, I won a scholarship for my thesis and got a few thousand dollars in prize money. I drank too much that night—the first time I’d ever been drunk—and made an absolute fool of myself in front of her. “Daphne, I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” The secret I’d kept for a decade finally spilled out. She lost her usual sharpness, looking at me with a bewildered expression. “Huh? Liam, you… you like me?” She looked so adorable in her confusion that I suddenly wanted to kiss her. Liquid courage took over, and I did it. Thankfully, she didn’t get mad. She didn’t push me away. We’ve been together for so long. We were so good together. When did the shift start? She changed the background of our couple photo she used to announce our relationship. She stopped making my profile her pinned post. We stopped having heart-to-heart talks before bed, and she started forgetting our anniversaries. The relationship-tracking app she begged me to develop hadn’t seen a new update in months. Somewhere along the way, she started drifting. But I wouldn’t let her go. 5 After that fight, Daphne was distant and cold. She didn’t want me to touch her, and barely spoke to me. She refused to sleep in our bed, instead hugging a duvet and retreating to the guest room. It was the middle of winter, and while I was showering, she even turned off the hot water. Later that night, I grabbed my own pillow and crept into the guest room, squeezing myself onto the small twin bed beside her. I sniffled, trying to sound pathetic. “Daphne, I’m sick. Don’t you have any pity for me?” She turned her back to me, ignoring me. Moments later, she spun around and kicked me right off the bed. “Good! Be sick! I hope you get sick, you heartless man!” I hadn’t been prepared. My head cracked hard against the corner of the nightstand, leaving a small gash. Daphne gasped, her eyes immediately filling with remorse. “Oh, Liam, you’re bleeding!” She scrambled up, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for a bandage, which she carefully and intently pressed onto the wound. Seeing her fussing over me, my heart warmed. See? She still cares. I took advantage of her distraction, grabbing her small hand and kissing it. “Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” “Liam, you’re so good to everyone else. Why can’t you be that way with…” She let out a heavy sigh. I didn’t wait for her to say that name, the one that always grated on my nerves. I flipped her over and pinned her beneath me. “Daphne, I’m freezing. Hold me.” If I kissed her until she was senseless and lost, maybe she wouldn’t bring him up again. But when she finally came to, her face flushed, she immediately whispered, “Liam, Noah really is a good person. Please, just see this through and give him a chance.” The hand that had been tracing the curve of her cheek froze. I can’t describe the disgust and frustration of hearing another man’s name come out of her mouth at that moment. It felt like I was being strangled by a tight vine. I mumbled a meaningless excuse and fled to the balcony to smoke a cigarette. When I returned to the room, the source of my agitation was sleeping soundly. I pinched her soft cheek. She winced and frowned in her sleep, but I still felt unsatisfied. I reached out and pulled her close, wrapping her in my arms. I didn’t sleep all night. But the next morning, when I saw the simple bowl of oatmeal she’d cooked for me and the small note she’d left behind, all the dark clouds in my heart vanished. I gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Daphne always knew exactly how to reel me back in. So the man who won the personal battle compromised in the professional one: I transferred Noah Bellwether out of Customer Service and into the Executive Office. I had a selfish motive, though. I figured having that slick, pathetic kid under my direct supervision was better than having him hovering around Daphne. What I didn’t realize was that I, the successful CEO, a 985 graduate with a growing business empire, was about to be played for a fool by a poor, small-town college dropout.

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My parents were textbook examples of playing favorites. On my birthday, our house was empty. Just me and the silence. Meanwhile, Scarlett—my sister—posted a nine-grid photo of her opulent cake on Instagram, my parents beaming around her like she was the sun. I called the house, the sound of laughter echoing on the other end, but I still gathered the nerve to ask, my voice small and cautious: “Why… why didn’t I even get a ‘Happy Birthday’?” A beat of silence, then Victoria’s laugh, light and easy, floated through the line. “Well, Scarlett is beautiful, isn’t she? She’s a statement when we take her out. You? Small eyes, no real features. Honestly, we only kept you out of pity. We should have dropped you off at the fire station years ago.” Then Scarlett, her voice a soft, poisonous whisper, took the phone. “Seriously, Lena, you know you’re adopted, right? Did you actually believe you were ours?” 1 I stood frozen for a very long time. After that, I went quiet. Not literally mute, but the words just… stopped coming. But the desperate need for my biological parents’ love never died. So, I secretly posted a search for my birth family online. Scarlett saw it. She screenshotted the post and immediately shared it to the school’s anonymous bulletin board with the caption: “Fake princess looking for her real parents. Which family misplaced this ugly kid?” I cried for hours. Late that night, I walked past my parents’ slightly ajar bedroom door. I heard Scarlett’s laughter, sharp and bright. “It’s hilarious. She actually bought it! We should hire someone to pretend to be her real parents. I can’t wait to see her beg us to keep her—” I heard the clink of glass. My father, Richard, had taken a sip of something. “Have fun with it, Scar.” My mother, Victoria, chimed in. “Just don’t go too far, dear.” The fingers I had clamped around the doorknob slowly went slack. Scarlett moved fast. The very next day during a break, she called me out in front of the entire class, a mocking smile fixed on her face. “Your birth mother is here.” The woman was huddled against the wall, her fingers anxiously twisting the hem of a washed-out shirt. She stammered a greeting. “M-Miss, hello…” “Don’t call her ‘Miss,’ you should call her ‘sweet daughter,’” Scarlett teased, carefully watching my reaction. I didn’t say anything, but the other students swarmed us, whooping and shouting, camera lenses flashing. “Oh my God, Lena, isn’t that Maria, your family’s housekeeper?” “The ‘real vs. fake daughter’ drama is happening in real life!” “Quick, get a video!” Dozens of scornful eyes landed on me, as if I were truly the wicked usurper from a novel, some interloper who had stolen their parents’ love and behaved abominably. I didn’t offer an explanation. I just looked at Maria. “Do we need to do a DNA test?” Maria panicked, her lips trembling. She could only look to Scarlett. “Why bother with a DNA test?” Scarlett grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward the window glass. “Look at yourselves! Those small eyes, the flat nose—you’re practically stamped from the same mold…” Ever since I’d been brought back from the countryside, Scarlett had relentlessly picked apart my flaws. She called me ugly, clumsy, and said I couldn’t possibly be their biological child. I was small then; all I could do was cry. But I had secretly compared myself to them. When I was six, Scarlett smeared my face with lipstick, took a photo, and called me a monster. My father was in hysterics on the sofa. I cried and begged my mother to side with me, but she simply said, “Your sister is so beautiful, she’s allowed to be spoiled.” I couldn’t think of a single thing to say back. I just stared in the mirror, trying desperately to open my eyes wider. I remember thinking: if my eyes were as big as Scarlett’s, maybe I would finally be pretty enough, finally be loved by my parents. When I was ten, my sister ripped up my perfect test paper. I tried to piece it back together, weeping, and my mother walked past, saying, “Your sister is beautiful, just let her win this one.” For my twelfth birthday, I pretended to run away, imagining my parents would panic and come looking for me when they realized I hadn’t come home. But no one came, all the way until late evening. Cold and starving, I slunk back home. When I arrived, they were recording Scarlett’s ballet practice. “Did you run wild for long? Glad you finally remembered to come back,” my father said, not even looking up. I instinctively defended myself. “I wasn’t running wild…” Scarlett cut me off with a sweet smile. “Oh, come on, sis. I personally saw you and some friends heading into the arcade.” I knew she was lying, but I had no proof. I just stood there, trembling, denying it. “Enough. Is your sister going to lie about you?” my father asked impatiently. My stomach rumbled, loud enough for them to hear. Maria wrung her hands. “I’m so sorry, Miss Lena, but the leftover dinner was fed to the dog…” I was desperately hungry. I asked quietly, “Could I just have a bowl of instant noodles?” “Absolutely not,” my father said, his voice cold and hard. “Scarlett is delicate, so she gets a late-night snack. Why do you think you deserve the same?” “But I’m starving…” I tried to plead. My mother cut me off. “Whose fault is it you ran off and lost track of time? Now go to your room.” In the middle of the night, Scarlett slipped into my room and deliberately chewed a handful of potato chips, the crunch-crunch-crunch loud and maddening. My stomach betrayed me again, rumbling. “Want some?” She dangled a chip in front of me. I swallowed hard and nodded. “Then bark. Bark like a dog. If you sound convincing, I’ll give you one.” The pain in my stomach was agonizing. I closed my eyes and let out a humiliated whimper: “Woof.” “Louder. I didn’t hear you.” “WOOF!” She smiled brilliantly and held a chip out toward me. Just as I reached for it, she let it drop to the floor. Her designer slipper landed perfectly, squarely on the chip. “Oops, my bad. But hey, it fell on the ground. You can still eat it.” She paused, tilting her head. “After all, little puppies love things that fall on the floor, don’t they?” I felt heat rush through my entire body. Finding a surge of courage from some unknown place, I lunged and snatched the bag of chips from her hand. I devoured the chips like a starving animal, stuffing them into my mouth. She just watched me, smiling sweetly, letting me have them. Then the screaming started immediately. “Mom! Dad! Lena stole my food! Waaahhh!” She was the picture of innocent distress. The result was familiar: my mother called me a thief, and my father’s open hand slammed across my face, making my ears ring. Even then, I forced myself to chew and swallow every chip in my mouth. I couldn’t bear the feeling of being punished and left to starve through another sleepless night. The outcome was, as always, being locked in the dark utility closet and having my breakfast withheld. The next day during gym class, the sun was a blinding white glare. I collapsed. The back of my head hit the concrete with a dull, sickening thud. The pain was immediate, my head was instantly cracked and bleeding. Meanwhile, Maria was still stammering through her pre-prepared lines. “W-when you were born, the original plan was to swap you with Miss Scarlett, but we got caught, but the Master and Madam were kind, so they kept you on as the second daughter…” Maria trailed off mid-sentence, forgetting the rest of the script, her face turning crimson. I looked at her and quietly said, “Mom.” I took Maria’s arm and walked home with her, initiating the departure. My mother frowned slightly when she saw us, but quickly put on a bright smile. “Well, look at that, Lena found her biological mother!” I nodded calmly. My father played along. “In that case, you should pack up and move back in with your real parents, shouldn’t you?” Before I could speak, Scarlett rushed to pack my things. She shoved my suitcase down the stairs and said, “Don’t thank me.” “That’s all my stuff?” “Uh-huh. All your clothes and everything else were bought with our money. You thought you could take them?” I opened the suitcase. Seeing my main belongings were there, I closed it. “I have one more request.” Scarlett immediately shouted, “What is it? If you want money, we won’t give you any.” “I want my legal identity separated from yours.” My mother blinked, looked at my father, and, seeing his nod, went to get the family records. And just like that, my name was legally severed from theirs. Looking at my lonely page in the official document, my first reaction was relief.

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I’d just settled into the Officer’s Quarters with my husband, Commander Marcus Cole, and our three-month-old daughter. Three months old. And his eight-year-old adopted daughter, Piper, used a gun she’d somehow hidden in Marcus’s study to shoot her. Right in front of me. The gun was pointed at my baby. My daughter only managed two choked whimpers before her breath simply vanished. I went crazy, screaming for a medic, for justice—anything. But it was too late. Because Piper was just a child, my mother-in-law and Marcus only gave her thirty minutes of standing at attention. Her biological mother, Sienna Reed, arrived and theatrically fell apart, claiming I was trying to destroy their lives. But all I wanted was my baby back! I cried until my chest felt shredded, demanding accountability. Marcus and his mother just looked at me with cold disapproval. “Piper is just a child, Gen! Are you going to ask for an eight-year-old to pay with her life just because your daughter is gone?” I had nowhere to turn. My heart tore itself apart, and I died in that bitter winter. Then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the morning of the day she died. 1 I didn’t hesitate. I immediately ordered my personal detail to secretly take my daughter to my parents’ safe house. But even this time, Piper managed to shoot another infant. I’d barely stepped back into the Base Housing when a deafening gunshot ripped the air from the street below. BAM! A small bundle wrapped in an O.D. green tactical blanket lay in a growing pool of crimson blood. A cold dread washed over me. I lifted my gaze to the second-floor study window. Piper peeked out, gave me a look of pure, chilling provocation, and then pulled back. My mother-in-law and Marcus rushed down. The moment my mother-in-law saw the scene on the ground, she let out a piercing scream and nearly collapsed. Marcus staggered forward, bending down for a look, his voice shaking. “Genevieve, the baby… it’s not breathing.” I didn’t dare look closer. I bolted for the second floor. Piper’s door was shut, locked from the inside. I slammed my foot against the solid wood. “Piper! Open this door! Who did you shoot?” The room went quiet for a moment, then I heard Piper and the nanny giggling. “Miss, what if they call the cops? The mistress will be after me…” “Who cares? It’s not like we meant to. Besides, I’m only eight. What are the police going to do to me?” The brazenness of their conversation was like an ice pick to my ear. I was shaking uncontrollably. I kicked the heavy door again with all my strength. “Get out here! You just committed murder!” Marcus, a step behind me, grabbed my arm, his eyes red-rimmed. “Gen, you need to calm down! Don’t terrify the child!” I glared at him, pure hatred in my eyes—it was the exact same script as the first time. Our daughter was dead—he thought—and his only concern was protecting his little terrorist. My mother-in-law wiped her tears and tried to sound reasonable. “Sweetheart, I agree Piper went too far this time, but Gen, don’t be so unforgiving.” “The baby was only three months old. Gone is gone. You’re young, Gen. You can always have another one.” I froze, then the realization hit me—they thought the dead baby was mine. But my daughter was already safe, spirited away by my security detail. Then who was that small, bullet-ridden body on the cold asphalt downstairs? Marcus came closer, trying to hug me, promising, “Gen, I swear I’ll get justice for the baby, but Piper is still small and doesn’t understand…” Before he could finish, I shoved him away, hard. “Doesn’t understand? Then why doesn’t she try shooting herself to see what she understands then!” With that, I grabbed a sturdy wooden stool from the hallway and smashed it repeatedly against the bedroom door. The wood groaned and splintered. The entire floor seemed to shake. “Piper Cole! Get out now, or I’ll tear this door off its hinges!” How dare she murder someone and hide comfortably inside? Even if the body downstairs wasn’t my flesh and blood, I would get justice for that innocent infant! A scream came from inside. “Stop smashing! If you break the door down, I’ll shoot myself!” Gasping for breath, I turned and stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a heavy butcher knife, and slammed it against the door. The blade bit deep into the wood, stuck fast. “Shoot! If you don’t, when I get in there, I’ll make sure you pay for a life!” Piper finally gave in and unlocked the door. Her small face was a mask of annoyance and impatience. “Who did you shoot?” She jutted out her chin, swaying carelessly. “Your daughter, obviously. Who else?” I slapped her. The sharp crack echoed. Half her face instantly flushed red. Tears welled in her eyes. She clutched her cheek, disbelief etched on her face. “You hit me? My real mom never hit me! You evil woman—” I slapped her with my other hand. “It’s precisely because your real mother indulged you that you grew up to be this monster!” Then I grabbed her by the collar and hissed, “I’m asking you again! Who did you shoot?” Only then did fear creep into her eyes. She covered her face and mumbled, “It was… your daughter. But I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to see what happens if you shoot a baby…” “How was I supposed to know she’d die?” I looked into the room. The window was wide open, letting in a chilling gust of air. The nanny was huddled in a corner, shivering and silent. They were both well over eight years old. How could they not know the danger of a loaded gun? Marcus stepped closer, trying to intervene. “Piper knows she made a mistake, Gen. You’ve let out your anger. Let’s… let’s bury the baby now.” The sheer absurdity of his statement stunned me—a life was gone, and the only requirement was a half-hearted apology? My mother-in-law rushed forward, tightly hugging Piper, gently caressing her swollen cheek. “You hit her so hard. You’ve ruined her face…” She only had a swollen face. The baby downstairs lost her entire life! I pushed my mother-in-law away and grabbed Piper by her braid, dragging her toward the open window. “You said you didn’t know what happens when you shoot? Why don’t you experience it firsthand, then?” Piper was hysterical, snot and tears running down her face. She struggled wildly. “No! Shooting kills people! If you kill me, you’ll have to pay too!” So she did know about paying with her life. Yet she did it anyway. In two lifetimes, I could never fathom how a child’s heart could be this wicked. A sharp pain shot through my arm. Marcus had violently pulled me away. The force of the movement sent my forehead smashing against the window frame. Warm blood immediately streamed down my brow bone. Marcus shielded Piper behind him, his face a mask of revulsion. “Is this ever going to end? The baby is dead! Why are you fighting with a child? This is your fault for not securing the weapon properly in the first place!” Marcus and his mother stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Piper, looking at me as if I were a threat. I saw it clearly in the first life, and now again: they were the true family. My three-month-old daughter and I were nothing. I clutched my forehead, my hands trembling as I reached into my pocket for my phone to call the MPs. Marcus snatched it away and threw it to the floor. “This is a family matter! Why are you calling the MPs?” “Piper is under ten. Even if you drag her to the police station, what are they going to do?” I leaned against the wall, rising slowly. I looked at him, despair absolute. “Is it because you don’t care, even though it’s your biological daughter who died?” Seeing the blood covering my face, a flicker of something—maybe guilt—crossed Marcus’s eyes. “Gen, we… we can have more children.” “But Piper, I only have this one adopted daughter.” What a noble Special Forces Commander! What a dedicated family man! I was once charmed by his supposed loyalty to his family. I never thought that “loyalty” would become the blade that gutted me. He had never considered my daughter and me to be his true family. All he cared about was the bloodline he acknowledged, and apparently, an adopted daughter was far more important than his own flesh and blood. I turned to go downstairs, but Sienna, who had rushed back, slammed into my shoulder. She lunged past me to hug Piper, her eyes blazing. “How dare you hit my daughter? I wouldn’t lay a finger on her, and you, you wicked woman—what gives you the right?” I was shaking with rage. “Why don’t you ask your daughter what she did first?” “Your daughter died, and you blame my Piper? Clearly, your daughter was weak and meant to die!” My hate for Sienna was immense, but right now, my heart ached for the child who had just been shot. Who was she? Why was she here on the compound? “Sienna, you’re a mother. If that was Piper lying dead, could you still say that?” Sienna’s pupils constricted. She pointed at me and shrieked a curse. “You poisonous shrew! Your own daughter dies, and you curse mine? I hope your daughter is dead! She deserved it!” I picked up the cracked phone and headed straight for the stairs. My mother-in-law yelled urgently, “Stop her! She’s calling the MPs! She’s going to the police!” Sienna was unconcerned. “So what if she calls them? Piper is only eight. Are they going to lock her up in juvie?” “You idiot! If she takes this public, what about the Commander’s reputation? We’ll have to pay a massive settlement!” Sienna’s face paled as the financial implications hit her. She turned on Marcus, her expression twisted with malice. “Marcus, look at the wife you married! Her daughter’s dead, and all she cares about is scheming against us!” Marcus’s face was iron-gray as he chased after me, but I had already hit the emergency distress button. Marcus tore the call box off the wall. Seeing that I had already alerted the security detail, he was so enraged he slapped me. “I said this was a family matter! Did you have to broadcast it to the entire post?” “Sienna and Piper have already had a hard life. Are you trying to destroy them? I never knew you were this cruel!” I pressed a hand to my chest and smiled a bitter, desolate smile. Yes, I was cruel. I wished this entire house of monsters would burn to the ground alongside my daughter! I said nothing more, only stumbled down the stairs. I needed to know who that child was. I had a terrible hunch, but I didn’t dare confirm it. Seeing my silence, Marcus panicked and followed me. Just as I was about to step out of the Officer’s Quarters gate, he grabbed my shoulder, his grip bone-tight. “Gen, don’t make this worse. Please. I checked the baby. She’s… she’s gone.” “Let’s bury her properly, and we can move past this. Okay?” I pulled away, my face expressionless. Then my eyes widened in a sudden, horrific realization— The granite ground where the infant had been lying was now empty. I whirled around, grabbing Marcus’s collar. “The baby? Where did you take the baby?” The rhythmic sound of boots approached. A squad of MPs quick-marched into the courtyard, snapping to attention. “Report, Madam. What is the emergency?” Marcus slapped a hand over my mouth, forcing a smile. “Nothing, fellas. My wife was just distressed and pressed the wrong button. You can go back now.” My mother-in-law and Sienna hurried down the stairs. My mother-in-law pointed at me. “She’s lost her mind! Fighting with her husband and calling the MPs! The disgrace!” The patrol leader looked confused but saw it was a domestic issue within the Officer’s Quarters and wisely didn’t press. He saluted and led his men away. Only when the sound of their boots had faded did Marcus remove his hand. “Gen, you think I don’t hurt when a child dies?” “You want to broadcast this to the entire post? How is Piper supposed to live her life? Where does that leave my reputation as a Commander?” I wiped the cold tears from my face. “Does any of that compare to a human life?” I frantically searched the area for any sign of the child. I scanned every corner of the housing area. The small body was gone. My gaze landed on the equipment warehouse in the backyard. Piles of military-green weapons crates sat in the corner. Seeing me walk toward the warehouse, Sienna rushed over and gripped my arm. “The warehouse is restricted access, Madam. You shouldn’t go in there.” I coldly shook her off and charged inside. The sharp smell of metal and military-grade oil assaulted my nose. In the deepest corner, a partially opened weapons crate showed a faint edge of the O.D. green blanket. I trembled so hard I felt my teeth rattle. A gut-wrenching scream tore its way out of my chest. “Are you… are you even human?!” Sienna actually looked proud, clearly pleased with her quick thinking. “If I hadn’t reacted fast, you’d have pinned this on us. It’s just a body, and we can’t afford the settlement for a Commander’s daughter.” Piper hid behind Sienna and stuck her tongue out at me. “Evil woman! Your own daughter died, and you just want to shake us down for money? Shameless!” “Your baby was only three months old, and you think you can bankrupt us? Then you should have had a dozen more and become a millionaire!” My mother-in-law and Marcus came in, urging me to let it go. Marcus put a supportive arm around me, whispering, “Tomorrow, I’ll get a bank transfer—five thousand dollars for you. Calm down. It’s just a baby. We can have another one.” I was so choked with fury and grief I could barely stand. I had only one thought: I must know who this child was. “Bring… bring the baby out. We’ll… we’ll bury her properly.” Marcus frowned, glancing into the dark corner of the warehouse, clearly disgusted and unwilling to touch the crate. I laughed a hollow, bitter laugh. “This is your flesh and blood, Marcus. And you’re too squeamish?” Marcus took a deep breath, as if accepting his fate, and instructed the duty officer to move the crate. But Sienna blocked the way, her eyes fixed on me with suspicion. “Commander, she’s setting a trap! The moment we bring the baby out, she’ll call the MPs again!” “Then she’ll charge Piper, and how much money will we have to pay? Piper’s life will be ruined!” Piper clutched Marcus’s sleeve, tears streaming down her face. “Daddy, I don’t want to pay! If we pay, how will Mom and I live?” Marcus put down the tools and sighed at me. “The child is gone, Gen. Let’s not disturb her any further.” I closed my eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I turned and stumbled toward the exit. Sienna was desperate. She grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard. “Where are you going? Don’t even think about calling the police!” “You’re staying right here until spring. We’ll tell everyone your daughter went missing—that it was an accident!” By spring, the body would be too decomposed to clearly identify a gunshot wound. My mother-in-law retrieved a pair of handcuffs from a cabinet. She and Sienna quickly cuffed my hands to the stair railing. “Gen, sweetheart, you behave, and you’re still my good daughter-in-law.” I struggled, but the handcuffs only dug deeper into my wrists. I looked at Marcus, my final plea. “Do you… do you really think I’m doing this for money?” Marcus averted his eyes. “Gen, just stay put. Don’t damage the post’s reputation any further!” Piper seized the opportunity, rushing forward and delivering a hard slap to my face. She made a mocking face. “You were so tough! Go ahead, hit me! Nah, nah, nah!” I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I was trembling like a leaf, but my hands were cuffed. I couldn’t even defend myself. “You are a born monster! A terrible seed!” Piper was ecstatic with her power. She kicked me hard in the stomach. My postpartum incision screamed in pain. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from crying out. I held onto a sliver of hope that Marcus, remembering our marriage, would let me go. But he was busy comforting Sienna, and casually dismissed my pain. “It’s a child, Gen. How hard could she kick? You terrified her earlier; let her blow off some steam.” Piper kicked me again, screaming triumphantly, “Your daughter deserved to die! She should have died!” “Who said my granddaughter died?!” A furious roar, like thunder, exploded behind us. My father, General Robert Harrison, stood in the doorway of the Officer’s Quarters, holding my very much alive daughter, flanked by his own security detail.

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The first time I asked for a week off, I prepped the trash can with seven fresh liners before I left. Seven bags. I figured it would last exactly until the day I returned. When I got back, though, my own suitcase was sitting outside the front door. Blair Harrington was standing on the steps, arms crossed. “We can’t afford a housekeeper who calculates every move, Jenna.” 1 After I confirmed the week of leave with Mrs. Harrington—Blair—I started my usual final sweep. The hardwood floors were buffed until they reflected the overhead lighting. Every piece of decorative furniture was perfectly aligned. Leo’s textbooks, stationery, and next season’s clothes were all organized neatly at the foot of his bed. Finally, I made my way to the kitchen and started on the trash can. I knew Blair’s particular neuroses. She was obsessively clean—no overnight trash allowed. But she absolutely hated dealing with the liners, convinced they were unsanitary. I pulled out a fresh liner, carefully opened it, and secured it over the rim. Then another. Then another. I stopped at seven. One bag per day, exactly enough until my return. This way, for the next seven days, all she’d have to do was pull out the full bag. A clean, new one would always be waiting underneath. I finished the task and spoke quietly at the entryway. “Blair, everything is squared away. I’ll be back next week.” That week back home felt impossibly long. I’d wake up before dawn, worrying that Leo hadn’t had breakfast yet. Hearing the faucet run, I’d remember the patio plants needed watering. When I finally closed my eyes at night, I could feel the invisible dust I hadn’t reached yet. I was restless, aching to get back to my routine. I bought the earliest train ticket available. The scenery outside the window was stunning—like a postcard of the Shenandoah Valley—but I barely registered it. Instead, I mentally inventoried Leo’s uniforms, thinking they needed pressing. I reminded myself to rotate the ficus in Blair’s study to catch the morning sun. As the train pulled into the station, I pulled out my phone and texted Blair. “Blair, I’m almost there. How’s Leo’s appetite been? Should I make that heritage chicken soup tonight?” I carried the treasures I’d brought back: a genuine free-range chicken from my family’s farm—the kind that always made Leo recover faster after a bug. My dad’s specialty coffee beans that Mr. Harrington always raved about. And my mother’s homemade apple butter, which Blair loved. She didn’t text back on the ride home. I figured she was busy, or maybe helping Leo with homework. It wasn’t until the taxi pulled up that I saw her, standing near the front steps, throwing things toward the driveway. 2 I rushed out, dropping my bags and the box of preserves. “Blair, I’m back. Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of the trash.” I started to walk past her, but then I stopped, realizing what she was holding. It was my worn, canvas duffel bag. I looked at the pile on the curb. Everything was mine. My duvet, the travel mug I drank from, my toiletries. All cleared out of the small room I’d occupied for a decade. My heart started to pound. I looked up, a surge of anger tightening my chest. “Are these my things? Why are they out here?” It was then I took in her face. Normally poised and soft, it was now a mask of frigid indifference. “What happened? Is the house being renovated?” I asked, utterly confused. Before I could finish, she let out a frustrated sigh and hurled my duffel bag onto the pile, like tossing out garbage. She folded her arms again, her voice low and sterile. “Jenna, you’ve been with us since you graduated college, haven’t you? This is your tenth year.” I nodded slowly, dumbfounded. “That’s right, Blair. I came straight here.” A cold smile touched her lips. “And for ten years, you’ve been excellent. Never missed a day. You were truly meticulous with Leo.” The momentary relief that washed over me was instantly obliterated by her next sentence, which landed like a physical blow. “But Jenna, we don’t need a calculated housekeeper in this house.” I was completely blindsided. “Calculated? Blair, what are you talking about?” I fought to keep my voice steady, desperate to defend myself. “I’ve never stolen anything, I’ve never padded an expense report. What exactly have I calculated?” I met her cool, assessing gaze, my chest heaving. The sheer unfairness of it all was overwhelming. “Blair, I’m going to be frank. I have no idea what I did.” Blair inhaled sharply. “Before you left, did you or did you not line the kitchen bin with seven or eight new trash bags? I went to pull the top one yesterday, and hallelujah, I found a whole chain underneath!” I nodded, the realization sinking in. “Yes. I know you hate touching the dirty liners, so I set it up for one a day, right until I got back. Is that… a problem?” Her voice ratcheted up, edged with indignation. “I know you thought it was helpful, one a day. But is that how you live? It’s wasteful!” Richard Harrington walked up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s true, Jenna. We teach Leo about being resourceful, making things last. You came here and lined the bin with a week’s worth of bags. That’s not being thoughtful, that’s being extravagant. You’re setting a bad example for our child.” Blair picked up the thread, her voice turning completely detached. “So, we’ve decided. A housekeeper and an employer are fundamentally not family. We don’t share the same values. Your method is certainly caring, but we’re tired. We’ll pay you through the end of the month, plus an extra two weeks’ severance. You need to find a new placement. See who else can handle your kind of… care.” 3 I stood frozen. Was that it? Providing a small, thoughtful convenience was a firing offense? Looking at the profound disapproval on Blair’s face, a wave of helplessness crashed over me. Maybe our principles truly were incompatible. I took a deep breath, trying one last time to salvage it. “Blair, please. How about this? Everything I do, I’ll clear with you first. You approve it, and then I do it.” “Are you trying to cling to this job?” Blair’s brows knitted tighter. “I said our values are misaligned. Do you understand what that means?” She turned toward the door. Watching her back, the memory of the last decade flooded me, and a bitter ache rose in my throat. I took a desperate half-step toward her, my voice trembling. “But Blair, I’ve been here since I graduated. Ten years. Does that count for nothing?” The floodgates opened. The raw injustice spilled out. “My degree was in PR, but you begged me to stay after that one cleaning gig. You said you loved how meticulous I was, and I gave up a corporate offer for you! And now, because of a few trash bags—bags I set out to help you—you throw me out?” Blair whirled around, her eyes blazing. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to threaten me? Yes, I hired you, but your legs work fine. No one chained you to this job!” Her words extinguished the last ember of my fighting spirit. I had the offer—a decent starting salary in a downtown firm. But Blair’s relentless pleas—‘Just help me out,’ ‘I don’t trust anyone else,’ ‘We need you, Jenna’—had won out. Seeing the devastation on my face, Blair’s tone softened slightly, but the message remained the same. “We can’t keep you here just for ‘sentiment.’ It wouldn’t be fair to us, and it wouldn’t be fair to you. We’re not a good fit anymore.” I stood there, surrounded by my belongings, my feet planted on the same manicured lawn I’d walked across for ten years. From inside the closed door, I heard Blair’s muffled voice to Richard: “It’s too calculated. She had to organize those few trash bags for you down to the minute. You can’t trust someone like that in your home.” I looked down at the box of home-grown chicken, coffee beans, and jams at my feet. I could almost hear my parents’ voices from yesterday. “Jenna, you work hard for them. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are good people, you make sure to show your gratitude!” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. Sentiment. Gratitude. It was only me who valued it. To them, it meant nothing. I stared at the closed mahogany door, gritted my teeth, and crouched down to gather the things they had discarded. I rolled up the duvet, shoved the toiletries into a plastic bag, and packed everything back into the duffel. Then the thought hit me. Ten years of my life, packed and organized, required only one suitcase, a backpack, and a bedroll. It was terrifyingly light. Just like me. I tossed the non-essentials into the curb-side pile of garbage. Then I picked up the duffel, shouldered the bedroll, and walked away without a backward glance. The neighborhood was the same, perfectly manicured, but standing on the sidewalk, I had no idea where to go. For ten years, my world had been the organic market, the Harrington house, Leo’s school, and the local upscale grocery. Outside of that, there was a gaping void. The college degree, the PR knowledge, it had all been replaced by recipes and cleaning schedules. I was only in my early thirties—young for this line of work. But who would hire a former housekeeper who was ten years out of date for a corporate job? My resume was a wasteland. To the next family, I would just be another under-qualified hire. Panic, cold and suffocating, washed over me. The last of my resolve finally crumbled. Why? What had I done wrong? For ten years, I treated that house like a second home. I did what I was hired for, and often, much more. And all I got was an explanation of “misaligned values,” before being tossed out like trash. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and unexpected. I stumbled forward, towing the duffel bag, my vision blurred. I walked until I bumped into someone. 4 I raised my wet, blurry face. Standing in front of me was Michelle Lindstrom, who lived a few blocks over. I’d seen her several times, usually with her shy, quiet daughter, Willa, in the neighborhood park. I’d overheard the gossip: Divorced, tough bringing up a kid alone. The nastier whispers implied she was the “other woman.” I never paid much attention, and I certainly didn’t think she would remember me. I quickly looked down, wiping my face with my sleeve, trying to slip past. “Excuse me.” But she didn’t move. “You’re Jenna, right?” I looked up, surprised. Her eyes were calm, not prying. She was simply looking at me. She held out a tissue. She bit her lip, looking slightly embarrassed. “I saw it,” she said quietly. “I saw them put your things out on the curb. And I saw you talking to them.” She studied my emotional state carefully. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just passing by.” I didn’t know her well, and I didn’t want to talk. But under her steady gaze, my carefully constructed composure instantly dissolved. I opened my mouth, intending to speak.

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Ten years after the shelter I was responsible for collapsed, the Brigadier General’s wife personally sent me to a court martial. I served my decade, then retired from the service, changed my name, and went to ground on the edge of nowhere, a poor line cook and server in a dusty diner. I saw Sloane Hastings again in a documentary interview ten years later. The reporter shoved a microphone in my face, barely giving me time to register the lights. “Mr. Reese, General Hastings searched for you for a decade. Everyone is waiting for the two of you to mend things!” Just as the woman finished, Sloane walked in. Her uniform was impeccably tailored, crisp, and starched. She commanded attention the second she entered the room. A decade had passed, but she was still sharp, still stunning, though the brash confidence of her youth had been tempered by a quiet, formidable authority. She was a Brigadier General now—a star on her shoulder. She looked at me for a long time, and I could sense a thousand unspoken things hanging between us. But in the end, it was just a gentle greeting. “Rhys. It’s been a long time.” “Yeah. A long time,” I answered flatly, my face betraying none of the seismic shifts happening inside me. I thought of the massive casualty count from the shelter collapse, the disaster that had destroyed my life. I thought of how Sloane was the first to hand the investigative team proof of my alleged bribery. The moment the lie was exposed, my life was incinerated. My parents disowned me on the spot, and the victims’ families wanted nothing less than my death sentence in court. But no one knew that the one who enabled her little darling, Garrett Wells, to alter the blueprints, cut corners, and then fabricated the evidence to send me to prison, was the very same “devoted” Brigadier General standing here. 1 “Ash, why didn’t you tell me you were released?” “How have you been all these years?” I didn’t answer. I just tugged the sleeve of my oversized cotton jacket further down, trying to cover the dense cluster of needle marks on my forearm. Sloane was about to say more when the cook’s rough shout cut across the room: “Rhys! You daydreaming? Dishes up!” I grunted an acknowledgment, ducked past Sloane’s intense gaze, and turned away. In my peripheral vision, she started to lift her hand, but ultimately didn’t call out to stop me. The order was hers. Spicy Kung Pao Chicken, a plate of chili-seared beef, and a small flask of that rocket fuel whiskey unique to the border town. I frowned. She always hated spicy food. But I, always, had to have the heat. Too bad the stomach cancer meant I hadn’t dared to touch spice in months. I set the plates in front of her. My voice was monotone. “Your meal is complete.” I turned to leave, but her grip locked around my wrist. “Ash, these are all your favorites. Sit down… stay with me for a minute. Please?” I froze. I remembered the night before she submitted the “evidence.” She’d coaxed me to eat and sleep just like this. I woke up to a ten-year nightmare. “Just a few words,” she pleaded. I took a deep breath and sat down opposite her. She poured a shot of the whiskey and slid it to me. “The day you were released, I planned to be there. But everyone told me you were dead.” I let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t die, General. Sorry to make you worry.” Sloane snapped her head up. Her eyes were dark, fathomless. “Ash, what happened back then… I owe you an apology.” “Your father’s sixtieth birthday is in three days. He… he still thinks about you. Come back with me. I promise I’ll make things right.” Make things right. Ten years ago, to cover up her affair with Garrett Wells and to help him avoid prosecution, she hadn’t hesitated to fabricate evidence of bribery and send me to the military prison. And my parents, without a second thought, immediately disowned me. Her words triggered a flash of agonizing memory, and the familiar, gnawing cramp seized my stomach. I couldn’t help but stand up. “An apology? An apology for what?” “For your dirty business with Garrett? Or for how you fabricated evidence, and personally sent me to a cage for ten years?” My voice had risen. Too loud. Instantly, the curious, probing stares of the surrounding patrons shifted to us. I didn’t look at her again. I turned, lifting the thick, greasy cotton curtain of the kitchen door, leaving her completely behind. I thought I would never have to see Sloane Hastings again. After all, how much genuine remorse could a person feel after sending their spouse straight to hell? But early the next morning, as I started my shift, she was waiting at the front door. She rushed forward when she saw me, blocking my way. “Ash, you were the youngest engineering expert in the entire corps. Your talent shouldn’t be buried here.” I gave a cold laugh. “But wasn’t my life destroyed by you ten years ago? Doesn’t it disgust you to say that now?” Sloane’s throat bobbed. A fleeting, painful stiffness crossed her face. She started to explain, but I pushed past her and walked inside. She didn’t leave. She ordered a small plate of food and a pot of tea, and sat there, occupying a booth for the entire day. I ignored her, busy with my usual routine. Just before the end of my shift, my stomach suddenly seized up. I sucked in a sharp breath. My body staggered backward uncontrollably, my elbow catching a glass of a customer’s red wine. It splashed all over the woman. She leaped up, furious. Before I could even apologize, her palm smacked hard across my face. “Do you know what brand this jacket is, you idiot? You couldn’t pay for it if you bussed tables here for a goddamn year!” She wasn’t finished. She followed the slap with a kick straight to my stomach. I curled up on the floor, the blinding pain making my vision blacken. Then, she grabbed the bottle of wine from the table and poured it over my head. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. A searing cough, and I vomited a mouthful of blood. The scarlet liquid mingled with the red wine, staining my shirt and the floor beneath me. The woman still wasn’t satisfied. She raised her foot to kick again, but a powerful force shoved her back. Sloane stood over me, her uniform crisp, her eyes blazing red with a chilling intensity. “Try to touch him one more time.” The woman was clearly intimidated by the General’s fury. She muttered a few curses and quickly slunk out of the diner. Sloane spun around and crouched down, her voice trembling. “Ash, the blood…” I wiped my face. My fingertips were red and sticky. “Just wine,” I lied. I pushed away her attempt to help me up and staggered toward the back exit. I quit the job. The work was only to cover chemotherapy and medication. Since I wasn’t going to survive much longer, there was no point in continuing. Besides, my biggest wish now was to be as far away from Sloane and the Sinclairs as possible. Clutching my meager wages, I went to the military hospital to pick up my test results and get some painkillers. I had just gotten the report when I rounded a corner in the hallway and ran straight into a familiar figure. My adopted brother, Garrett Wells. And right next to him were Sloane Hastings and my parents. Garrett saw me first. The bag of prescriptions he was holding clattered onto the floor. He stared, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. “…Rhys? You’re not dead?” I looked at the bag on the floor. The words ‘Pathology Lab’ and ‘Garrett Wells’ were stark and sharp. I looked at his meticulously styled hair, his expensive clothes, and Sloane’s intimate proximity. What more did I need to understand? Even after ten years, seeing it with my own eyes, my heart still felt like it had been violently pierced by an ice pick. I managed a slight smile. “Tough to kill. Sorry I didn’t quite get there.” A flash of something dark and insidious crossed Garrett’s face before he turned on the waterworks, looking near tears. “Brother, I know you hate that I married Sloane.” “But you were divorced, and you made a mistake… she couldn’t wait for you forever, could she?” Sloane’s brow was deeply furrowed. She spoke with a strained calmness. “Dad and Mom are here. Ash, just swallow your pride. It’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow. They’ll forgive you.” I laughed bitterly. “You know the truth of a decade ago, all of you. Why should I apologize?” That’s when my parents finally noticed me. My father, Mr. Sinclair, looked much older, though his spine was still ramrod straight. My mother’s eyes, however, held only suspicion and scrutiny. “Why are you so thin?” Mother frowned, her voice sharp. “Did you get involved with something you shouldn’t have?” “You came out of prison and didn’t return to the base. That only means you’re guilty!” I paused, and then laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ten years. They didn’t ask how I was doing, or how my health was. Their first words were to accuse me of drug use. Father’s brow tightened at Mother’s words. “Your mother’s right! You’re alarmingly thin!” He lunged and grabbed my arm. “Come on! To the lab! You’re taking a drug test right now!” His voice was loud, instantly drawing a crowd. In the struggle, he shoved me. I stumbled and fell to the ground, my forehead slamming against the corner of a chair. Blood immediately welled up. The searing stomach pain returned. Cold sweat instantly soaked my clothes. Sloane stepped forward, her voice complicated, a mix of concern and judgment. “Ash, I didn’t notice yesterday, but you really… Listen to your parents. Go get the urine test.” “The least we can do is take you to rehab. It’s not too late to turn your life around.” Garrett, ever the concerned brother, weakly added, “Brother, I know you’re bitter, but don’t make things worse!” The same condescending tone. As if I were truly the criminal. I swatted away my father’s hand, unsteady as I stood. “Fine. I’ll go.” I limped into the urinalysis room. The result, of course, was clean. My parents looked embarrassed but offered no apology. They merely glanced at me and said stiffly, “Forget it. Your father’s sixtieth birthday dinner is tomorrow. Make sure you attend.” I stepped back, putting distance between us, and raised my hand in a crisp, perfect military salute. “Report, Commander. When you disowned me and published it in the papers ten years ago, I ceased to be a Sinclair.” “I won’t be attending your sixtieth. Happy Birthday, sir.” I turned and walked away from the hospital, ignoring their curses and attempts to call me back. On the morning of Father’s sixtieth, I threw up blood again. The pain was constant now. The spasms of agony made it almost impossible to stand. I knew my condition was worsening rapidly. Every day was torture. Perhaps I wouldn’t last another month. Sloane knocked on my door as I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. “General Hastings,” I leaned on the door frame, my voice hoarse. “You’re married. As a wife, coming to see your ex-husband so often is inappropriate.” Her eyes darkened. “Rhys, I know you hate me. We can talk about us later.” “But today is your father’s birthday. You have to be there. Let’s talk this out, as a family.” I didn’t want to go, but I was so weak that she half-forced me into her car. Once inside, Sloane frowned, continuously looking me over. “Ash, why are you so thin?” I rubbed the needle marks on my arm and gave a hollow laugh. “Stage IV stomach cancer. Would you believe me?” Sloane froze, then smiled weakly. “Don’t joke. You’re just exhausted.” “Yeah,” I turned my head to look out the window. “Just joking.” The birthday banquet was held at the Command’s reception hall. We arrived as the party was already underway. I retreated to a corner, a transparent ghost. My parents, too, maintained their distance, never introducing me to anyone. Garrett, however, acted as the proud Sinclair son, arm-in-arm with Sloane, greeting guests. I was redundant, from start to finish. As the banquet neared its end, a swarm of reporters suddenly rushed in, surrounding Garrett. “Mr. Wells! Is it true that General Hastings was once your brother-in-law?” “When did you and the General start dating? Was there any intimacy while Rhys Sinclair’s marriage was still active?” “Was Mr. Sinclair’s imprisonment related to an emotional dispute?” The flashbulbs were blinding. Garrett’s face was chalk-white. He suddenly sank to his knees in front of me, crying hysterically. “Brother! I beg you to forgive me! Sloane and I only got together after your divorce!” “Please don’t slander me in front of the press!” Mother immediately charged forward, slapping me hard across the face. “You demon! Do you hate your brother that much?!” Sloane helped Garrett up, her eyes on me filled with pure disgust. “Rhys, you refused my help time and again, only to attack Garrett like this? You absolutely sicken me!” I was stunned. I rushed to explain. “This wasn’t me. I swear I didn’t know anything about this.” Father was trembling with rage. “Bastard! Still lying!” “The last urine test came up clean, and I thought you’d changed, but you’re worse than ever—trying to destroy your brother!” He roared. “Aide! Bring the rod!” The heavy, dark ceremonial cane was brought forward. Father raised his hand and brought it down hard. CRACK! My jacket ripped. Skin tore open. Blood instantly seeped through the fabric. My throat clenched. I coughed up blood, but I grabbed the window ledge, refusing to fall. A flicker of distress crossed Sloane’s eyes. She tried to calm the situation. “Ash, just apologize. Swallow your pride. Garrett is your brother, he’ll forgive you.” “Apologize?” I lifted my head, my mouth tasting of copper. My gaze swept over every single one of them. “I didn’t do it. Why should I apologize?” Under the stunned gaze of everyone present, and the frantic clicking of cameras, I violently tore open my broken jacket, standing before them in nothing but a tattered undershirt. A dead silence descended upon the hall. My emaciated, skeletal torso was a canvas of fresh and old scars: whip marks, cigarette burns, dark bruises crisscrossing everywhere. On my arms, in addition to the chemotherapy ports, were the deep, dark indentations of being long-term bound. I pointed to the deepest scar on my chest and looked at Sloane. “This. This is from when I refused to take the fall for Garrett. You had people torture me until I broke and confessed to falsifying the data.” I turned to my ashen-faced parents. “You asked why I’m so thin?” I laughed, the sound hollow and full of release. “Ten years of wrongful imprisonment, and long-term abuse. I have stomach cancer. Stage four. I don’t have many days left.” “How could a diner waiter possibly hire military journalists?” The heavy cane clattered onto the floor. I took a step back, my spine pressed against the cold glass of the window. “Listen to me,” my voice echoed clearly in the auditorium. “It wasn’t cancer that killed Rhys Sinclair.” “It was my own parents, and my own wife.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and leaped from the window…

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It was one in the morning when the neighbor from upstairs hammered on my door, claiming a burst pipe was flooding their apartment and he wanted to check if we were affected. I reached for the knob, but before my fingers closed around it, the text exploded across my vision. [DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR! THAT’S NOT YOUR NEIGHBOR!] [Didn’t the old guy upstairs go to Malaysia last week to find his second spring? NO ONE is up there!] I snatched my hand back from the cool brass of the doorknob. Just then, the emergency alert pinged from the building’s official text message service. [ALERT: Unit 1307 has experienced a major plumbing failure. Property management will inspect the entire line. Unit 1207: Please open your door so we can check your ceiling for seepage.] My unit. The Scrolling Feed rolled across my sight again. [Who does plumbing checks at 1 AM?! They’re working together!] [Be a good girl, Liz, hide and wait! Your True Love Hero will descend from the heavens to save you!!] I gave a curt nod, as if acknowledging the voices. Then I turned, grabbed my emergency climbing rope, and, to the digital screams of the Feed, I shot out the balcony window. I was reborn. Last lifetime, I’d listened to these idiotic voices and lived a miserable life. This time, I’d rather fall to my death than become a baby factory. 1 I hung suspended nearly a hundred feet in the air, my fingers locked white on the window ledge. The heavy, frantic thudding against the front door was a drumbeat against my ribs, shocking me into a cold sweat. [Why isn’t Liz waiting in the room for the Male Lead? Why is she being so reckless?] [If Liz dies, who will the Male Lead have his sweet romance with? Go back inside! He will protect you!] I gritted my teeth, rage boiling in my chest at the sheer, blinding stupidity of the comments. Last life, I had hidden, waiting for a savior. The result? Mitch—the man outside my door now—had smashed his way in, slashed my face, broken my legs, and brutalized me. Only when I was half-dead did the so-called savior, Owen Parker, finally arrive. He heroically subdued Mitch for the police, rushed me to the hospital, and was the image of the attentive, caring man. He married me in my dazed, traumatized state. Everyone called me lucky. So lucky to have a good man like Owen marry me, even after what had happened. I married him and birthed three children in quick succession, living what appeared to be a perfectly happy, complete life. But the sweet romance was a lie. Owen had strong-armed me into marriage, seized my massive inheritance from my deceased parents, and imprisoned me in that house, using me as a human incubator. The truth slipped out one night when he was blackout drunk: he had hired Mitch. He knew I was alone with a fortune. The assault, the rescue—it was all a grotesque plot to acquire my wealth. Discovering the truth, I set the house on fire, taking him with me. But God, or fate, gave me a second chance. A rebirth. In this life, Owen Parker would never succeed. The cold air whipped past, extinguishing the fury and restoring a sharp, cold logic. I analyzed the building’s exterior—narrow window ledges, barely palm-width. My only path was to traverse them, reach the stairwell window, and crawl inside. I focused, mapping the route in my mind like a complex climbing pitch. The massive CRASH of the door giving way sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through me, signaling that time was up. Go, Eliza, go. I bit down hard on my inner cheek and began to edge sideways. My fingers ached, but the two-meter span felt like a mile. Just as Owen opened the window to peer out, I flipped over the ledge and tumbled into the pitch-black stairwell. I collapsed onto the cold concrete landing, gasping, weak-limbed, but an electrifying joy shot through me. The Feed, however, was in chaos. [Liz is so brave! She actually ran away! What about the Male Lead?] [Don’t worry. Our Liz is a damsel in distress. That was just a fluke escape. The Male Lead will still have his hero moment!] I scoffed at the idiotic comments. They called me “Liz,” but their loyalty was entirely to the “Male Lead,” not caring if I lived or died. The pure, unadulterated cult of the savior. Taking a deep breath, I kept low and moved quickly down the stairs while Mitch was still searching my apartment. I reached the ground floor and my heart sank. The exterior security door was bolted shut. That monster had locked the entire building, trapping me inside. The irritating Feed scrolled across my eyes again: [Liz, stop running! Find a place to hide and wait for the Male Lead to rescue you.] [Why is a girl so strong-willed? Isn’t it better to be a small, cherished wife in a man’s arms? All you need to do is have babies to be happy.] [The Male Lead is going to be a future investment magnate, he won’t mistreat you!] I felt a surge of bile. With my parents’ money and connections, any idiot could become an investment magnate! That wicked, criminal sociopath, a “Male Lead”? The Feed’s moral compass was utterly broken. The windows on the lower five floors were barred with heavy security grates—no jumping out there. Mitch would be coming back down. I had to run. Where? I forced my gaze away from the Feed and focused on escape. Think, Eliza, think. An idea sparked: the old climbing adage, “The darkest place is under the lamp.” Mitch would search for me away from my apartment. He wouldn’t expect me to double back. I started moving immediately, carefully ascending the stairs. I was breathless in the darkness, every step cautious, terrified of running right into Mitch. Reaching the fifteenth floor, I heard frantic footsteps above—he was descending. I pressed myself against the doorframe, praying Mitch wouldn’t pause on the landing. Clang! The motion-sensor light clicked on. Heavy footsteps approached from above. A thick shadow stopped on the landing, then started toward the door leading to the residential hallway. I watched the shadow stretch toward me and felt a cold despair. My body trembled. Was this it? Was I caught already? 2 The flimsy door was flung open, but Mitch only gave a cursory glance at the empty landing before turning to continue his search down the stairs. Hanging in a wide-legged straddle above the door frame, my lips were bloodless, my limbs shaking. He didn’t look up. I let out a silent, shaky sigh of relief and slowly dropped to the ground. Thank God for my climbing obsession; my upper body strength had saved me. I waited until the landing light went out, then crept upward toward my floor. I reached my front door—or what was left of it—and slipped inside, running straight for the master bedroom. I locked the door and scrambled into the walk-in closet, curling up amongst the coats. Only in that tight, dark space did a sliver of safety return. I pulled out my phone to dial 911, only to find I had no signal. Damn it. My heart sank. I immediately regretted moving into this brand-new development where few units were occupied. No neighbors to call on. As I frantically tried to think of a next step, the sickening comments reappeared: [Oh good, Liz is using her phone! She doesn’t know the Male Lead installed a tracker/trigger app! One call to the police and it alerts him!] [She can’t escape now! Get ready for the hero’s rescue and the start of a beautiful, redemptive, forced romance!] A cold jolt ran through me, and I nearly dropped the phone. But I forced myself to hold on. I needed the Feed for intel. They could not know I could see them. I climbed out, feigning panic, and quickly changed into my most athletic gear. I deliberately left the phone nestled under a pile of scarves in the closet. Heavy footsteps sounded outside the bedroom door. I scanned the room and snatched up a heavy brass lamp from the bedside table, taking position behind the door. The footsteps stopped. Mitch’s harsh, raspy voice sliced through the silence. “Don’t hide, Eliza Reed. I know you’re in there.” “Come out now, and it’ll be less painful…” I stood rigid, lamp in hand, waiting to launch my attack. BAM! BAM! BAM! Mitch began slamming against the door. His voice grew furious, laced with a familiar, toxic resentment. “Women are supposed to get married, have kids, and serve their men!” “You non-marrying, non-birthing gold-diggers are a plague on society! I’m doing a public service, I’m going to teach you how to be a good, proper wife and mother…” I listened to his vile sermon, the ice in my eyes hardening. The thin door quickly splintered. It was about to give. I carefully released the deadbolt. When Mitch slammed against the door one last time, I pulled it open and flung myself to the ground. I timed it perfectly. As he stumbled forward, I swung the lamp with all my remaining strength at the back of his head. A flicker of triumph died immediately. The staggering Mitch somehow twisted, raising the claw hammer he held to block the blow. His yellowed teeth split into a sickening smile. “Eliza Reed, you should just lie down and wait for me.” He lunged. My jumping heart stalled for a second, then kicked back into overdrive. I lifted my foot and drove it hard between his legs, then spun around and ran. “Aargh! You little bitch! I’ll kill you!” Mitch shrieked, doubled over, staring at me with pure venom. He swung the hammer wildly, catching me as I scrambled away. I tripped and landed hard on my left shoulder. Excruciating pain shot down my arm. Fractured. My face was contorted with agony, but I didn’t waste a second. I crawled up and bolted for the door. The Feed was screaming: [Liz, stop struggling! You can’t fight a man! Just surrender to the Male Lead’s embrace!] [He’s waiting on the thirteenth floor! Just knock, and he’ll open! Don’t waste time!] 3 The sight of the Feed, directing me straight to Owen, stiffened my resolve: I would die before I went to the thirteenth floor. Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I stumbled toward the elevator, stabbing at the down button. “You bitch! Where are you going to run?” Mitch’s bellow echoed behind me. I nervously swallowed as I watched the elevator indicator slowly descend. Too slow. I spun around and staggered toward the fire exit stairwell. I slammed the heavy steel door shut, twisted the deadbolt, and ran down. I ran and ran, my mind racing. The entire unit was locked down. My only chance was to reach the second unit—Unit B—and try to escape that side of the building. To do that, I had to lose Mitch. A plan flashed into my newly clear mind. I spotted a stack of flattened moving boxes and cardboard debris piled near the utility closet. I have to take the risk. I sucked in a breath and charged back to the elevator, hammering the ‘Open’ button, my eyes fixed on the descending floor number. Mitch was close. The elevator doors opened. I ripped off my jacket and tossed it inside, then slammed the button for the lobby. I pulled my hand back just as the doors closed. I quickly pulled off my hair tie, dropped it conspicuously near the elevator, and dove into the pile of cardboard boxes, folding myself into a tight ball. Seconds later, rapid footsteps arrived, getting closer. Through a small gap in the boxes, I saw the thick shadow stop right in front of my hiding place. My heart hammered against my ribs. I froze, praying, Don’t look down, don’t look down. Mitch paused, then moved toward the elevator doors, which had just opened on the ground floor. He let out a scoff of contempt, then turned and ran back toward the stairwell, pounding down the flights. When the sound of his footsteps completely faded, I sagged against the floor. Time was critical. Dragging my aching body, I reached the corridor connecting the two building units. The door was locked. I used my good arm to smash the glass windowpane next to the door, carefully climbed through the jagged opening, and found myself in Unit B. I sprinted down to the ground floor. My stomach twisted with fresh despair. That door, too, was secured with a thick, heavy steel chain. I bit my lip. No escape at the ground floor. I ran back up to the sixth floor, intending to use the narrow ledge and my climbing skills to jump to the ground-level landscaping. As I reached the sixth floor, a door opened. A man in flashy loungewear and heavy eyeliner, clutching a bag of recycling, was heading toward the stairs. I saw a lifeline and grabbed his arm, the words spilling out, laced with a desperate sob. “Someone is trying to kill me! Please, you have to let me hide in your apartment!” The young man was startled, but he quickly ushered me inside, throwing his recycling down. He spoke in a bright, concerned voice. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll call the police right now.” He pulled out his phone, frowning. “Damn. No signal?” Exhausted, I collapsed onto his sofa. “The man… he’s using a signal jammer to block calls.” The young man muttered, “That’s messed up. Hey, don’t worry, my door is solid steel. They aren’t getting in here. You just stay here until daylight, and I’ll take you to the station myself.” I forced a grateful smile. “Thank you. Where’s the bathroom?” He pointed. As I entered the restroom, washed my hands with cold water, the Feed returned. [The Male Lead is so smart! He anticipated Liz’s movements and was waiting in this unit!] [Liz finally walked into the trap, teehee! The Male Lead prepared a special dark room for her! The exciting, sweet, forced romance is about to begin!] I stared at the comments, an icy dread creeping up my spine. My teeth ground together. 4 I started to re-examine the man. His face was obscured by thick makeup. He’d casually mentioned he was a streamer, but there was no camera, ring light, or even a decent PC setup in the living room. I was too trusting. “Sis, you alright in there?” His voice, muffled through the door, carried a faint edge of doubt. I watched the shadow on the bathroom door. He was holding something long—a rope. In a panic, I cranked the shower handle, letting the water blast out. I shouted back, “Hey, sorry! I think I need a quick shower. I’ll be a minute!” The voice outside chuckled. “Take your time, sis.” The shadow disappeared. I wiped a stray tear from my eye and frantically searched for a new escape. My eyes fell on the window’s blackout curtains. The rushing water masked the sound of my efforts. I yanked the curtains down and tore them into long strips, tying them together. I tested the knots, then climbed out the window. The makeshift rope was not long enough. It stopped just above the third floor. Dangling in the dark, I looked down at the lawn, took a deep breath, and let go. I landed hard on the soft grass, rolling several times and slamming into a decorative garden bench before I stopped. My entire body screamed with pain. I managed a quiet sob, pulled myself up, and began to limp away. [Why is Liz so stubborn? Isn’t it better to just enjoy being the Male Lead’s pet?] [It’s fine. When she gets to the gate, she’ll find out the guard is paid off. She can’t escape the complex.] The Feed had given me my next direction. I immediately changed course and headed for the underground parking garage. I stared at the empty, echoing space with despair. Those monsters would find me here. Five hours until dawn. Where could I possibly hide? Heavy footsteps echoed in the garage. I saw only a few cars scattered across the vast space. Desperate, I dove under the nearest large SUV. I saw four legs approaching. Mitch’s foul cursing reached my ears: “That little bitch can really run. I’m going to have so much fun with her when I catch her.” “Hold on, Mitch. No fun until the wedding. What you’re doing is a felony right now. Once she’s my wife, you can do whatever you want.” Owen’s cultured voice was soft, but the icy malice in it made me tremble violently. “The little fool hurt her shoulder and leg. She can’t be far. Let’s search the cars.” I was flat on the concrete, watching their shoes as they started their meticulous search, even peering under the vehicles. As they began to approach the SUV I was under, the blackness of utter despair welled up in my heart. Was I really going to be caught?

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Once again, my dissertation defense was vetoed by my professor fiancé, and the muffled snickers from my classmates confirmed what they all thought: I was useless. I had spent seven years orbiting Rhys Garrison, devoting my life to his world. I had worked myself to the bone, earning a spot in his coveted PhD program. But all my diligence and academic rigor meant nothing compared to a few words of shallow flattery from my stepsister, Sienna, who walked away with the single, coveted post-doc fellowship. I was shaking with indignation, tears streaming down my face. I wanted to storm into his office and demand an explanation, a shred of decency. Instead, I overheard him chatting with a colleague in the hallway. “So you gave the Clarendon fellowship to Sienna Hale. Aren’t you worried your little girlfriend will make a scene?” “A scene? She’s been glued to my side for seven years. She has a touch of arrogance, and it needs to be curbed. She needs to be disciplined before she can be a proper mistress of the Garrison house.” “Besides,” he added, his voice dripping with casual dismissal, “it’s just a fellowship. She’s the older sister; why would she compete with Sienna?” “She’ll get over it in a few days. She always manages to soothe her own hurt.” He knew how much that fellowship meant to me. It wasn’t just a career path; it was my one chance at independence. And yet, he had carelessly obliterated my hope as easily as erasing a mistake on a whiteboard. My aspirations, it seemed, were always secondary to Sienna’s desires. If she wanted something, I was expected to surrender it. Rhys Garrison assumed I would follow the script I always had: cry, rage, and eventually return, licking my wounds. But this time, I ripped my student ID—my last remaining tether to him and Clarendon—from my neck and hurled it at the wall. The plastic badge hit with a hollow, ugly sound. “Fine…” “If Professor Garrison holds me in such low regard, then I, Eliza Hale, will no longer be an offense to your sight!” Rhys didn’t know that my father had already prepared a different path for me. If I couldn’t secure the fellowship, I would be used to serve my stepsister’s interests: a strategic marriage to the powerful Vaughn family, a “healing match” to their comatose heir… 1 I dragged my numb body out of the Humanities building. My family’s black sedan was parked outside. Sienna was leaning against the passenger door, a subtle smirk playing on her lips as she took in my wrecked appearance. “My, my, sister. Seven years trailing after the Professor, and you don’t even get a consolation prize.” “It seems I hold a special place in his heart, after all. A few soft words, and he couldn’t bear to have me as a competitor.” I tried to pull my lips into a smile, but no sound came out. My father, Arthur, waited in the car, his expression dark with irritation. He glanced at my stepmother and sneered. “Rhys Garrison’s devotion to Eliza amounts to nothing. A pity the Hale family wasted so much money on her education.” The remaining students and faculty who hadn’t scattered began to stare, whispering. I felt like a damaged artifact on public display, judged and dissected. My father, embarrassed, quickly rolled up his window. Rhys walked out of the building just then, catching the tail end of their remarks. He didn’t look at me, only offered a slight, curt nod in my father’s direction, and walked away as if nothing was happening. Sienna’s laugh was high-pitched and sharp, driving a shard of ice into my heart. It was in that moment I finally understood. Rhys wasn’t blind; he simply didn’t care. 2 “It’s settled then. Since Eliza has no future at Clarendon, she will prepare to marry into the Vaughn family.” My father’s voice was unnervingly placid as we sat in the living room. The rule had been established months ago, a cold business transaction: whichever daughter failed to secure the Clarendon fellowship would fulfill the betrothal contract with the Vaughns. The guests had left, leaving just our fractured family. My Grams rushed to me, sobbing. “I won’t allow my granddaughter to be sent to that house! Everyone knows the Vaughn boy, Silas, has been a vegetable for two years! Eliza will be ruining her life, burying herself alive!” My father’s face turned crimson. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Whose fault is that? She has no backbone! She can write a flawless research proposal, but when it counts, she can’t even outmaneuver Sienna!” Grams cried harder. “That Sienna girl is conniving! Who knows what tricks she used? No, I’ll go see Professor Garrison myself. I’ll make him re-examine the papers!” I pulled Grams closer, managing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Grams, don’t go. Rhys said I was too proud and undisciplined. He vetoed my thesis over a single methodological flaw.” My voice finally broke, a choked sob escaping me. “He did it on purpose. He wanted me to lose to Sienna…” Rhys came from a good family, he was impossibly clean-cut, and his intellect was legendary. At twenty-six, he was the youngest Associate Professor at Clarendon. The first time he taught a public lecture, the hall was packed—half the audience just there to admire him. Who wouldn’t be drawn to that kind of brilliance? I was no exception. I wanted to be worthy of him. I wanted to stand beside him. That desire had made me shed my old, spirited self, burying my head in books, pursuing academic perfection. I nearly killed myself studying for the PhD entrance exam. I thought we had a future. Grams continued to weep, and I stroked her back, trying to comfort her while my own world dissolved. I walked heavily back to my room. Sitting at my desk, I began taking every note I had organized for Rhys, every transcribed article, every meticulously cross-referenced text, and dumping them into a heavy storage box. Then, I carried the box downstairs and set it ablaze in the courtyard incinerator. The firelight reflected on my face, and the flames consumed the last seven years of my foolish devotion. 3 After that night, I was a different person. My world became silent. I rarely spoke, never left the house, and moved with a lifeless apathy. When my father hired an etiquette coach to teach me the rigid protocols of high society, I surprised them all by mastering the lessons with quiet focus. My father was immensely pleased. He privately instructed me that once I was in the Vaughn household, I needed to charm them, put in a good word for the Hale family’s failing business, and, most importantly, lay the groundwork for Sienna’s future. It was laughable. A man willing to sacrifice his own daughter for a scrap of wealth, all while prioritizing the child of his second marriage. They misunderstood me. If I entered the Vaughn house, I would certainly not lift a finger to save this decaying family. But I offered no rebuttal, only a cold, placid nod. That afternoon, my father called me to his study. Passing the entrance hall, I ran straight into Rhys. He was leaving after dropping off some materials. It was the first time I’d seen him in over a month. I paused, offering him a standard curtsy. The movement was textbook, my expression utterly blank—precisely as my coach had taught me. Rhys froze, then his expression softened slightly. “Eliza…” My throat tightened. In seven years, he had rarely called me by my first name alone, insisting on using my full name to uphold “proper academic decorum.” Now, it came so naturally. “Professor Garrison,” I corrected, my voice flat. “By all protocols, you should address me as Ms. Hale.” He smiled, as if I had uttered something charmingly playful. “Such discipline. Very good. But you don’t have to be so formal with me. Once I wrap up this administrative work, I’ll have my parents call on your father to formally propose.” I stared at him, the absurdity of his assumption washing over me. “Propose? You sabotaged my defense, ensured I lost my career, and now you claim you want to marry me?” He took a step closer. I involuntarily recoiled. He chuckled again, a sound as chilling as winter wind. I heard him say, “If you don’t let me smooth out that rebellious streak of yours, how will you ever be fit to be the mistress of the Garrison house?” 4 Grams had watched my silent decline over the last weeks. Seeing me wither, she pleaded with my father to let me leave the house, using the excuse of needing to shop for a wedding trousseau. She insisted my cousin, Liam, accompany me. Liam was three years older than me and worked in finance. He knew my entire story and was heartbroken for me. He had tried to intervene with my father, but Arthur was already too deep into the deal—my birth date had been sent to the Vaughns; the marriage was fixed. Liam did his best to cheer me up. “Eliza, let’s go to the bookshop. We can buy some new professional journals. You love reading those, right?” He watched my face anxiously. “Even if… even if it’s inconvenient later, you can read them for your own sanity.” I finally managed a genuine, albeit faint, smile, and he visibly relaxed. “Don’t worry,” he promised. “I’ll work hard. I’ll be the one to back you up someday.” I was momentarily stunned. Liam and I used to be close. But one time, Rhys saw us shopping together. His face had darkened. Later, he called me into his office and lectured me fiercely. “There are boundaries between men and women, Eliza. You are about to graduate; you must maintain professionalism. You will not only compromise your own future but also invite unnecessary gossip.” His words were cruel, but I was so accustomed to obeying him. Terrified I might actually jeopardize Liam’s career, I began to distance myself. Now, I realized how ridiculous it was. Liam and I were innocent; there was nothing to gossip about. Rhys’s judgment was not the final word. Feeling a strange sense of release, I smiled and picked up a few academic books. Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet. “Sister?” I looked up. Sienna was standing with Rhys. She held a few books, her soft skirt and his sharp blazer making them look perfectly matched. Rhys’s eyes landed on Liam and me. He gripped the books in his hand, his knuckles white. Sienna looked from me to Liam, her eyes darting between us. She smiled, sickeningly innocent. “What a coincidence! You and Liam are out shopping, too. Did I interrupt something?” I couldn’t think of a response. Just then, Rhys handed his books to Sienna. “You said you needed the latest literature review. This one is excellent.” Sienna’s cheeks flushed. She took the book, letting her fingers brush his cuff. “I was also hoping to look over a few of your recent papers, Professor. Could you lend them to me for my studies?” Rhys gave a brief “Hmm,” then turned and walked away with Sienna in tow. They got into a sleek car and vanished around the corner. I shook my head, laughing hollowly. I was laughing at myself. I had idolized him for seven years, and he had never given me a moment of dedicated, one-on-one mentorship. Sienna, with a few flirtatious words, had broken his rule. It was fine. My heart was finally dead. I arrived home in the late afternoon. Grams said Sienna had brought Rhys back for dinner. My father insisted on drinking with him. Grams was furious. “I always thought he was cold-hearted, but now I see he’s blind and stupid, completely taken in by that… sort of girl.” I comforted Grams, though I felt a flicker of confusion. He’s playing nice with my father? On my way to my room, I passed the garden. Rhys was standing by a stone fountain, watching me, looking as if he had been waiting. “Eliza. Don’t you have anything you want to say to me?” Say what? I stayed silent. In the past, I would have circled him, babbling about the smallest event of my day. Now, I was exhausted. I had nothing left to share with him. What was the point? Should I tell him that my father was financially ruined and only valued his younger, preferred daughter? Should I explain that because of Rhys’s casual favoritism, I had lost my only path to a career and was now being sold off to marry a man in a permanent coma? Seeing my silence, his voice hardened. “You were seen being overly familiar with another man today. And reading those trashy books? Is that how a PhD candidate should behave?” His scolding tone was utterly absurd. Liam and I were strictly proper, while he had been touching and guiding Sienna in public. How had I never seen his colossal arrogance before? Too tired to argue, I merely offered a dismissive half-smile. “Professor Garrison is quite right to scold me. I am tired and must retire. Please enjoy your evening.” He nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, and looked about to continue lecturing. Just then, the housekeeper called him for dinner. I gave a perfunctory nod, walked around him, and didn’t look back. 5 Rhys was utterly distracted during dinner. Eliza’s new, quiet demeanor unsettled him. He had wanted to break her rebellious spirit, but the complete absence of her usual fierce energy made him feel strangely hollow. My father, eager to climb the academic social ladder attached to the Garrison name, drank heavily. Rhys was usually aloof, but tonight he was surprisingly genial. By the time Arthur was flushed and stumbling, he could barely follow Rhys’s slurred conversation. He only heard fragments like “formal proposal,” “asking for her hand,” and, since Rhys had personally escorted Sienna home, Arthur immediately assumed Rhys was there to marry Sienna. Without a moment’s thought, he joyously agreed to the marriage. When Rhys returned home, he couldn’t sleep. He had spoken to Arthur, but an unsettling feeling persisted. He was marrying Eliza, who had finally become the compliant woman he desired, yet he felt no joy. He missed her defiance. He shook off the feeling, deciding a swift proposal would solve his anxiety. The next morning, my father triumphantly announced that Rhys Garrison would marry Sienna. My stepmother and Sienna were ecstatic, and Sienna’s eyes welled up with performative joy. “I love Professor Garrison, too!” she chirped. I tightened my hands into fists, listening in silence as my father lectured me. “Whatever ideas you had about the Professor, forget them. He’s marrying your sister, and you are marrying the Vaughn heir. You must stay away from him.” “If I catch you entertaining any dangerous notions or interfering with your sister’s wedding, you will regret it…” Ignoring Sienna’s smug, challenging glare, I curled my lip indifferently. “Father is absolutely correct. I will stay far away from Professor Garrison.” No sooner had I finished speaking than the housekeeper announced that Rhys’s mother and Rhys himself had arrived for the formal proposal. Sienna leaped up excitedly, helping my father to the drawing room to greet them. I followed behind, keeping my head down, trying to disappear. Once both families were seated and the formal betrothal cards were exchanged, Rhys smiled and walked toward me. “Eliza,” he said, his voice soft. “How about we set the wedding for the fall? It won’t be too hot for a wedding dress then.” The room fell instantly silent. My father’s teacup slipped from his hand and shattered on the polished floor.

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To spite the fake heiress, my fiancé and my brother decided to abandon me on a private island on my wedding day. They had a standing bet, wagering on how long it would take me to realize I was being played. My brother, Blake, slammed his expensive Rolex onto the poker table. “I bet a month.” He chuckled, the sound grating. “See, my sister—Willow—she was kidnapped as a child. A bad fever when she was little, and it left her… well, simple. A bit slow on the uptake.” “If Preston hadn’t, by sheer luck, found her and brought her home, she’d have died out there years ago.” My fiancé, Preston, coolly slipped off the vintage watch he’d worn since his twentieth birthday, an old family heirloom. He gave a cold, sharp smile. “I bet three days.” “She’ll be crying on the phone to me, begging me to come and get her.” The room erupted in loud, mocking laughter. Outside the room, my palms were clenched so tight my knuckles were bloodless, stark white against my skin. That night, I dialed the number etched deep in my heart, my voice trembling with wounded confusion. “Rhys, I want to go home. Please, take me home…” 1 “That’s savage, Blake! Aren’t you worried that when Madison realizes, she won’t forgive her dear brother?” The voice came from the billiards room, thick with drunken amusement. Blake laughed, a hollow sound. “I’ve already made arrangements. It’s just a lesson, a little scare, that’s all.” “We’re not leaving her there for good, are we?” “She’s a fool who can barely remember her own name. A few sweet words, and she’ll be fine.” Another man pressed the point. “Preston, you’re ruthless, too!” “The poor simple girl is happily waiting to marry you, and you’re sending her off for an island survival trial.” “Aren’t you afraid she’ll actually run away?” “Run?” His careless, dismissive laugh cut into my ear like a shard of glass. “Where is a fool going to run to?” “Once she figures out what she did wrong, we’ll bring her back, naturally.” The sinister words were swallowed by a chorus of derisive snickers. I clutched my chest, the dull, aching throb inside making me feel faint. I stared at my pale, drawn reflection in the window glass, trying desperately to figure out: What exactly did I do wrong? Was it the time I had a 104-degree fever and didn’t get Madison a cupcake? Or was it when it was raining, and I didn’t kneel down to wipe the mud off Madison’s shoes? But… I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. Last time, when I donated a full pint of blood for Madison—Blake had promised me he’d never hurt my feelings again. And Preston had said he would be my family from then on. The Matron at the old home used to say that family doesn’t hurt family. It hurt to realize that, apparently, family does hurt family. The realization brought a fresh wave of injustice. My chest felt tight, as if filled with pins and needles. The tears welled up and clung to my lashes. A gentle blink sent them splashing onto the polished floorboards. The pain—a crushing, physical ache—stayed with me right up until dinner. At the large dining table, I instinctively retreated to my usual place in the corner, nervously watching Blake and Preston. They sat on either side of Madison, one laughing and chatting with her, the other carefully plating her food. A bright red chili pepper suddenly landed in my bowl. I turned my head and met a pair of maliciously playful eyes. “Blake said your favorite food is chili peppers. Is that true?” I hesitated, then picked up the pepper and put it in my mouth. The choking heat exploded, instantly searing my nose and throat. I couldn’t stop the violent coughing fit that followed. My face flushed a painful crimson. Blake strode over. When he heard what happened, he smacked the top of my head. “You’re about to be a married woman! Why are you still such a stupid pig?” “Someone gives you something, and you just eat it? You’ll be poisoned one day, and you won’t even know it!” I coughed, the effort tearing at my lungs. The sting in my heart deepened, layered now with raw confusion. Last month, they’d told me to jump into the koi pond to catch a fish. I’d told them I might drown. Blake had just thrown me in. He waited until I was almost sinking before having someone pull me out. Afterward, he’d cursed me for embarrassing him, and kept his face frozen in a cold mask for a whole week. Now, I had done exactly as I was told, eaten what I was given. Why was he still unhappy? I didn’t understand. I suppressed the coughs, but the noise in my ears felt deafening. Madison clattered her chopsticks down, her tone petulant. “Stop coughing! Your germs are everywhere. How is anyone supposed to eat?” Madison’s sharp voice had become a waking nightmare for me. I involuntarily hunched my shoulders and drew my neck into my body. The next second, Blake grabbed me by the arm and hauled me out of the dining room. As we left, I saw Preston still seated, casually talking to someone else. He didn’t spare me a single glance. Blake dumped me in the back garden. “Stand right here. You’re not coming back in until everyone has finished eating!” He walked away without looking back, leaving me alone in the mosquito-infested yard. I waited for what felt like forever. Blake never came back to get me. The sky began to weep small drops of rain. They fell onto the welts left by the mosquito bites, offering a moment of cool, brief relief. The rain lasted for thirty minutes. I stood there, drenched, for all thirty. Just as I felt I might pass out from the chill, a shadow appeared above me—the dark silhouette of an umbrella. I looked up. Preston’s face, framed by the misting rain, seemed terrifying and utterly unfamiliar. I flinched back, confused. The man’s voice was low and eerie. “Look at me. Who am I?” My brain was slow; I sometimes struggled to tell people apart. Preston always enjoyed playing this game—forcing me to fail. Forcing me to engrave his face permanently onto my memory. For the first time, I didn’t answer. Preston’s cold, biting voice dropped heavily onto my head. “Fine. That’s just great.” “It’s been five years, and you still can’t remember my face.” “Willow, what makes you any different from a stray you pick up off the street? An ingrate.” I shrank back, then, surprisingly, looked up and stared at him without fear. I stood up, pushed past him, and ran back into the house, racing to my room. I didn’t clean up. I just curled up inside the bed, soaked, pulling the covers tight around me. The laughter and noise from downstairs continued until past midnight. I woke up burning hot, the fever spiking. I grabbed my phone and dialed the number etched in my memory. As soon as the call connected, I couldn’t stop the sobs building in my throat. “Rhys… they… they’re all bullying me…” “I want to go home! Please, hurry, take me home!!” Rhys was my best friend from The Sunrise Home. Before he was adopted, he made me promise to memorize his number. If I ever needed him, I had to call. Silence stretched on the other end. Then, a man’s voice, thick with suppressed emotion, came through. “W-Willow? Is that really you?” “It’s me, Rhys. I want to go home…” “Okay. I’ll come get you. Just please, stop crying, alright?” I nodded, the tears pouring out even faster. Rhys, just like when we were children, began to hum a soft, familiar lullaby on the other end of the line, soothing me to sleep. I closed my eyes, the sound of my own shaky breathing gradually softening. I fell asleep, dreaming. I dreamed that in three days, I successfully left the Sayer house. I was back at the Home. Back with the Matron. I was holding Rhys’s hand again, telling him how much I missed him. Later that night, my fever was still raging. Through my delirium, I heard Blake complaining. “The bet’s on the line. Why did she have to spike a fever right now? What if she gets even stupider?” Madison whined. “Just give her a few more shots to bring the fever down.” “I don’t care. In three days, you have to dump her on that island. I need my satisfaction!” A sharp sting in my arm—an injection—traveled straight to my heart. Blake sighed, a sound of resigned compromise. “Fine, fine, your highness. Anything you want.” I kept my eyes closed. My chest felt so heavy, so tight, I could barely breathe. We were both his sisters. Why did Blake treat me like this? Was I not obedient enough? But the Matron had always said I was the most obedient child at the Home. When I finally woke up, Blake and Madison were gone. Mrs. Bell, the family caretaker, sat by my bed, holding a bowl of warm broth. I recalled Blake’s sickeningly indulgent tone with Madison and pursed my lips. “Mrs. Bell, am I really stupid?” Mrs. Bell’s palm was wide and comforting as she stroked my hair. Her voice was gentle. “No, Miss Willow. You’re not stupid. You are the kindest, most obedient girl I have ever known.” I nodded hard, tears splashing into the bowl of broth. I suddenly missed the Matron terribly. I missed everything about The Sunrise Home. I wished Rhys would come right now and take me away, never to return. After finishing the broth, I lay back down to sleep. When I woke again, the person by my bed was Preston. I shot up, scrambling back into the corner of the bed. Ever since I overheard his words in the billiards room, I felt a tremor of fear whenever I saw him. Seeing my reaction, his face darkened slightly. “You don’t want me here that much?” I pressed my lips together tightly. Normally, I was always thrilled when Preston came to see me. He was the one who brought me back to the Sayer house. He was the one who initially stepped in when Madison bullied me. But somewhere along the way, he had changed. He had become utterly unrecognizable… His expression turned colder. He gestured for me to approach. “Come here.” I didn’t move. He repeated the command. “Don’t make me say it twice!” Slowly, reluctantly, I slid closer. As soon as I was within reach, he grabbed the back of my head and crushed his mouth to mine. It was a harsh, punitive bite rather than a kiss. I shoved him away, my eyes wide with terror. Preston simply smirked. “Why the sudden shyness? It’s not like we haven’t kissed before.” His tone was perfectly normal, yet a chill ran down my spine. Preston used to hold me gently. He had always said we could only kiss if he loved me, and I loved him. But he had just called me a fool and said he didn’t like me. Why would he kiss me now? I retreated to the corner again, frantically wiping the blood from my lips, glaring at him. “You’re mean!” His expression instantly snapped to icy rage. He lunged forward to grab me. I tried to dodge, but he caught my wrist and yanked me back against his chest. Just as I prepared to bite his arm with all my might, the guest room door opened. Madison stood in the doorway, her eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. Instantly, Preston violently shoved me away. I hit the corner of the wall, the impact shaking me, a cold dread flooding my heart. Madison turned and ran. Preston sprinted after her. He was moving so fast that he knocked a small clay figure off the dresser. It was a figure Preston had personally molded five years ago to help me remember his face. I lunged forward, but I was too late. The sound of the clay figure shattering echoed loudly in my ears. It felt exactly like the time five years ago when Preston had scolded me. “Little fool, this figure looks just like me. If you break it, I’ll never talk to you again.” I picked up the mud doll, now broken cleanly in half. Tears streamed down my face. For the first time, I felt truly stupid. Truly, unbearably stupid. I couldn’t even hold onto this fragile, fleeting trace of love. I clutched the broken clay in my hands and ran out barefoot, desperate to find someone who could fix it. I held onto a sliver of hope—if the figure could be mended, maybe the Preston from five years ago could come back. That hope shattered the moment I saw Preston holding Madison close, wrapping his arms around her. In that instant, I finally understood. The Preston from five years ago wasn’t coming back. He was truly gone. And there was one less person in the world who loved me. A voice, sneering, reached my ears. “What else do you do all day besides cry?” I turned and looked at Blake. His face was malicious as he glanced down at the two embracing figures. “Quite the match, aren’t they?” “I honestly don’t understand. What does a fool like you have over Madi?” “Maybe simpletons really do get all the luck?” I didn’t speak. A bone-deep coldness spread from my feet through my whole body. Blake frowned, clearly dissatisfied with my silence. “What’s the matter, did the fever make you mute?” His gaze flicked down to the clay figure in my arms, and his eyes lit up with mean interest. “Is that supposed to be Preston? It’s so ugly. You actually thought of giving that to him?” He swung his hand and smacked the figure out of my grasp. This time, it shattered completely. It was beyond repair. I crouched down, looked at the fragmented face, and then looked up at Blake. “Blake, am I really that detestable?” It was the first time I hadn’t called him ‘Brother.’ He’d said himself that he was ashamed to have a sister like me. Now, however, Blake frowned tightly. “What did you call me? Did the fever fry your brain again?” He vented his frustration by slamming his foot down hard on my hand. The small clay shards dug into my palm, and blood immediately welled up. I bit my lip, pushed him away with all my strength, and ran toward the stairs. I ran fast, feeling like I was flying. As I passed Madison and Preston, I didn’t spare them a glance. Preston released Madison and yelled after me. “Willow! Where are you going? Stop!” I didn’t stop. The drops of blood from my palm splattered a steady, light pattern onto the floor. Outside, the morning light was dazzling. In a daze, I thought I saw the Matron. She held her arms open, her expression gentle and sacred. “Willow, let’s go home.” “Matron!” I lunged toward the vision, only to slam hard onto the ground. The pain brought me back to reality. There was nothing there. No one loved me. Preston carried me back to the bedroom and threw me onto the bed. “I want to go home! I want to go home!” I screamed, trying to reach for my phone to call Rhys and tell him to come now. Preston snatched the phone away, his voice laced with impatience. “Stop this noise. This is your home.” No. My home was The Sunrise Home. This place was not my home! Blake stood nearby, sneering. “She was already simple. Now she’s just completely lost it.” Madison hid behind him, acting terrified. “Brother, does she have a psychiatric condition?” Blake stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. Brother will protect you.” I glared at all of them, my gaze finally settling on Madison. Her expression was mocking as she mouthed the word: “Idiot.” The last of my control snapped. I lunged forward like a wild animal, trying to scratch and bite Madison. Before I could reach her, Preston shoved me with such force that I hit the corner of the nightstand, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. Madison was so startled she fainted. Blake picked her up, tossing a final, vicious threat my way. “I’ll deal with you later!” Preston looked at me with pure, chilling disdain. “Willow, you disappoint me greatly.” “Being simple is not an excuse to randomly attack people.” I hugged myself tightly, wrapping my arms around my chest, as if that could shield me from any more hurt. Mrs. Bell rushed in after hearing the commotion to clean up the mess. She gently peeled my arms away from myself and tended to my scraped knees. “Miss Willow, tell me if it hurts.” I pointed to my heart. “Here. It hurts so much, so much…” Mrs. Bell’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she sighed. I grabbed her arm, pleading. “Mrs. Bell, I want to go home. I want to go back to the Home…” Mrs. Bell sighed again, heavier this time. “Miss Willow, have you forgotten again?” “The Home was torn down three years ago. And the Matron who took care of you… she passed away from stomach cancer five years ago…” Yes. The Matron was dead. The memory started to surface from the murky depths of my mind. I remembered the Matron saying she would become a star in the sky to keep watch over me. I remembered Preston swearing to her, before he took me to the Sayer house. “From now on, Willow is my life.” I remembered the Matron lying in the coffin, impossible to wake up, no matter how hard I cried. I had no Matron anymore. I had no home. Blake came back the next day. He was still fuming. He threw open a suitcase and began frantically stuffing my usual items inside—my favorite cup, my pajamas, a change of clothes, and my favorite snacks… “Don’t think for a minute that you attacking Madi is over.” “Get out of here before she wakes up. You’re going to Preston’s house!” “You’re not allowed back until she forgives you, understood?” As he spoke, his eyes fell on the family photograph on my nightstand. It was taken right after I came home. Madison stood in the center, glowering. Blake was beside her, bent over, trying to cheer her up. I, the main subject, was huddled in the corner, managing a tentative, nervous smile. He hesitated, then stuffed the photo into the suitcase. His phone rang. He walked out onto the balcony to take the call. I took the photograph out and dropped it into the trash can. I wasn’t coming back anyway. There was no point in taking it with me. From a distance, I heard Blake’s cold laugh. “I’ve already given the word. This time, she needs to be locked up for at least a month. She’ll come home once she’s learned her lesson.” “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.” He didn’t need to go through all this trouble. He wouldn’t be seeing me again, ever. He hung up, returned to the room, grabbed the suitcase, and pulled me downstairs. I thought for a moment, then struggled free of Blake’s grip and ran back into the bedroom. I took out a knife-carved portrait and held it out to him. He didn’t take it, glancing at it and dismissing it instantly. “What is this? It’s ugly.” I paused. “It’s a birthday present.” A month ago, I’d asked Blake what he wanted for his birthday. He’d asked for a knife-carved portrait of himself. Everyone knew he was purposefully making an impossible demand. But my slow brain didn’t realize. I took a small knife and worked quietly for a month, leaving countless tiny cuts on my hands. I hadn’t planned on giving it to him. But this was the last time I would ever give him a birthday gift. My reminder finally jogged his memory. He reverted to his usual disparaging tone. “You actually carved it? How could you be so foolish?” As soon as he spoke, I mimicked his own casual cruelty and threw the carving into the trash can. The next second, he pulled the carving out of the bin, roaring in anger. “What are you doing now? Are you going crazy?” “I didn’t say I didn’t want it!” I stared at Blake, utterly bewildered. He cleared his throat, placed the carving on the desk, and dragged me toward the door. “Let’s go. Stop cluttering up the house!” He didn’t stop lecturing, even at the doorway. “Be obedient when you get there, you hear me? Don’t humiliate me again!” “If anyone bothers you, call me. Did you hear that?” I just thought he sounded extraordinarily loud and irritating today, making my eardrums ache. The car that came to pick me up arrived astonishingly fast. So fast that Blake looked surprised. “Didn’t they say they were still half an hour away?” He didn’t dwell on it. He simply opened the car door, shoved me and the suitcase inside. I met Rhys’s gaze in the rearview mirror. We hadn’t seen each other in years. He only showed a pair of beautiful eyes above his mask. But I recognized him instantly. Rhys. He had come to take me home.

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“If you just gave him the cold shoulder for once—let him feel a little fear of loss—you’d see if he ever dared to pull this kind of thing again.” So, this time, I didn’t back down. A week later, he initiated the ceasefire. A bouquet of flowers, dinner out, and a murmured apology. I thought this was proof of his change. Instead, I accidentally saw the text message from her. She said: Go apologize to Sierra. Just mind me. 1 Jax was on the phone when I stepped out of the bathroom. “Yeah, don’t worry, I know,” he said. The call ended. The smile hadn’t quite faded from his face yet, and his mood was clearly brighter, lighter than when he first arrived at my apartment. The motion of toweling my hair froze. My stomach dropped. It’s impossible not to notice when you’ve known someone too well. Suspicion only needs a single sentence to bloom. It was a perfectly innocuous sentence. But his tone was too docile. It was like watching a vicious little street dog suddenly have its fur smoothed down by a loving hand. It wasn’t him. I couldn’t help but ask, “Who was that?” “What?” “Who were you talking to?” The lightness in Jax’s expression immediately curdled. “No one.” He tried to pivot. “You must be starving! Go blow-dry your hair, and I’ll get started on dinner.” With that, he turned and walked into the kitchen. His phone sat on the coffee table. A monumental temptation. I gave in. I picked it up. The first thing I checked was the call log. The most recent name: Dahlia. I froze. Dahlia? Why would it be Dahlia? “What are you doing?” Jax’s voice sliced through the silence. I looked up. Our eyes met, and his face was stormy, his gaze arctic. He advanced toward me, step by step. “What are you trying to find out?” “Sierra, I’m asking you, what is it you want to check?” He held out his own phone, brandishing it like a weapon. “Checking who I was talking to? Fine. It was Dahlia. And? Sierra, do I need to report every single conversation I have? Do I need to catalog every call I make, every text I send, and get your explicit permission?” He straightened up, throwing the phone onto the sofa. His voice was cold. “Go ahead. Check! I dare you!” Jax was furious. There was a thin, sharp edge of disappointment laced through the anger. His violent reaction stunned me into silence. My thoughts were a muddy mess until the silence stretched between us, and the tension slowly solidified. Why did I check his phone? Because of his rare, misplaced gentleness. Because of that unnatural softness. It wasn’t Jax’s nature. He was always a total jerk, swaggering like he owned the place, even when he spoke to me. He wouldn’t use soft words. He wouldn’t speak kindly. My friends never understood it. “How do you put up with him?” I used to just smile. “Because I understand him.” I knew the exact inflection that meant he realized he was wrong. I recognized the subtle shift in his eyes that signaled he was ready to surrender. I didn’t need him to actually say the words; I just knew. So, when he adopted that soft, docile tone for someone else—how could I not feel that cold prickle of doubt? Meeting Jax’s frigid glare, I picked up his phone again. I ignored his sharp, dismissive scoff and tapped on their recent conversation. The most recent exchange was from early that morning. You still haven’t made up with Sierra? Nope. What is your problem? I told you to apologize ages ago. Stay out of it. Jax, go apologize. Now. You don’t get it! Dahlia, she’s not like you. Of course she’s not like me. That’s why you love her and not me, right? Jax hadn’t replied to that last text. After three minutes of silence, Dahlia had sent two more. Go apologize to Sierra. Jax, mind me! 2 My friends always told me, “You’re too good to Jax. You can’t be like that with men. They’ll take advantage and stop cherishing you.” I didn’t take them seriously at first. I always believed that when two people are together, you shouldn’t keep score of who gives more or who gives less. As long as the relationship was stable, as long as the conflict was resolved, who cared who backed down first? Until a month ago. I went to a spa with my co-workers that day. I’d texted Jax before I left. He hadn’t replied. A half-hour later, he burst into our private room. His face was pure frost. He gestured at the three masseuses. “Everyone out! Now!” Then he turned to me. “You’re not leaving?” It was mortifying, embarrassing. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. My co-workers were confused. “Is that your fiancé? He’s just going to disrespect you like that?” Yes, I was confused, too. “I never disrespect you in front of your friends. Why would you humiliate me like this?” He sneered. “You think you deserve respect? Getting a male masseur, Sierra? You’re getting pretty adventurous, aren’t you!” “I already explained to you. They were out of female masseuses.” “And it just so happened that they ran out right before your appointment?” “Yes, it just so happened they ran out right before my appointment!” “And you expect me to believe that?” A friend later tried to mollify me. “He just cares about you. Men, you know—it’s the possessiveness!” But I knew that wasn’t it. Over the last six months, Jax’s gaze had become increasingly critical. A simple phrase, a harmless action—any of it could set him off. He started flying into rages more and more frequently. And I was the one who had to repeatedly swallow my pride and make amends. I was exhausted. I was done. So this time, after our latest fight, I moved out of the new place and went back to my own apartment. What had this latest fight been about? A stakeout. The wife of Jax’s oldest friend had called me. She was worried—her husband was spending every night at a specific bar, and she asked me to go with her to confront him. Her distress was real, and I was genuinely worried for her, so I went. Her husband was there. My fiancé was there, too. The man who had just told me a half-hour ago that he was stuck at work, burning the midnight oil on a project, was sitting in a booth, accepting a shot of liquor from a woman. I didn’t yell. I didn’t even get to yell. He blew up first. He launched into a tirade. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Sierra, can’t you go a single day without some kind of drama? It’s bad enough you wreck your own life, but now you’re bringing other people into it? Do you know how much you look like a complete psycho when you get these insane ideas in your head?” Under the dim bar lights, I just stared at him for a long time. I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked away. Even in that moment, I was still careful—trying not to make a scene in public, trying not to humiliate him in front of his friends. But I was through with his baseless rages. I’d been out of our new apartment for a week. We’d been in a cold war for a week. He hadn’t sent a single text or made a single call. Until today. He just showed up. He was holding a bouquet of flowers, and he said, “Stop being mad. It was my fault.” He’d bought a cart full of my favorite groceries and said he was cooking tonight. Jax is a good cook. But outside of holidays and friends’ parties, he never cooks. Watching his back as he stood at my counter, deveining shrimp, the frantic anxiety of the past week finally began to subside. It was always this simple. If he just backed down once, everything else could be forgiven. We’d been together for almost ten years. What argument was really bigger than that? But now, I had to confront the truth: you’re not here because you wanted to be. You’re here because someone else told you to be. Mind me? When has Jax ever listened to anyone? 3 “Remember that accident downtown last winter? The red truck that was blocking the entire pedestrian crossing? You physically pushed it with your car. The alarm blared, the crowd watched, and I was screaming. I was begging, ‘Jax, can you just listen to me for once?’ What did you say to me?” “What are you getting at?” “You said, ‘Not a chance.’” Jax’s face was grim. He had always been this way—volatile, explosive, igniting at the slightest spark. That day, I was furious. I tried to stop him at every turn. “Don’t do this. I’ll call for a tow truck. Let someone else move it.” He wouldn’t listen. He just pushed forward, inch by inch. “Jax, stop it!” He floored the accelerator. More onlookers were gathering. People were calling the police. I grabbed his arm, my eyes welling up. “Will you just listen to me for once? Please?” His expression was blank. “No way.” That is the kind of man he is. And yet Dahlia sent a single text: “Jax, mind me.” And he dropped everything and came to apologize. 4 I couldn’t help but ask, “If Dahlia hadn’t told you to be obedient, would you have even shown up here tonight?” Jax inhaled sharply, clenching his fists. “Sierra, stop looking for a problem where there isn’t one!” “So, Dahlia tells you to mind her, and you do, is that it?” “Sierra, enough!” “Is that it?!” “Yes! So what?!” Jax swept a water glass off the table with a crash. He glared at me, his eyes burning as if he wanted to tear me apart. “Do you have to assume the worst? You think I’m sleeping with Dahlia? You think I’d cheat on you, and then she’d order me to come apologize to you? If you can’t think straight, then keep your mouth shut! You’re getting paranoid, Sierra. I don’t think you even want this marriage anymore!” “Then don’t marry me!” “What did you say?” I slowly stood up, my hands trembling from the rush of emotion. “I said, let’s not get married. Let’s break up.” Jax lunged forward, forcing me to stumble backward. He ground the words out. “Say that again.” “I said—” “Shut up!” Jax was breathing hard, and he kicked the low footstool across the room. I flinched, biting down hard to suppress the scream that was desperate to break free. “Sierra,” Jax hissed, “don’t you dare regret this.” He stormed out, the front door slamming so hard the walls vibrated. The apartment was a disaster. I sank onto the floor and finally let out the tight, choked sobs I’d been holding in. 5 I was the one who pursued Jax. In high school, he was the coolest guy in the whole grade. When I confessed to him, he snatched the ID tag off my uniform. “Sierra? Sorry, but I don’t date slackers.” That single sentence from him. For an entire year, I worked myself to the bone and managed to get into a school that had been completely out of my league. I tracked him down again. “Can you date me now?” He looked at me with a half-smile, casually spinning a pen between his fingers. “Date you? Fine. Let’s date.” Dating Jax was exhausting. His terrible temper could resurrect the dead. Initially, I thought he didn’t like me that much—that I was just the girl who’d chased him, and he happened to be bored enough to say yes. I let that slip during a fight once. Jax’s eyes went red. “There were hundreds of kids in that grade. Why the hell do you think I even knew you were a slacker? Are you an idiot, Sierra? You think I’d date every random person who asked me out?” Jax buried his affection deep. You had to chip away at it, slowly, to find it. I used to enjoy that process, the thrill of the discovery. But slowly, it wore me down. I was spent. I decided, That’s enough. It was three days after I broke up with Jax. My friend Bella called and invited me out for her birthday dinner. “Is Jax going? If he’s there, I’m not coming. We broke up.” “What? Are you guys fighting again?” “No fighting. This time it’s for real.” “Fine, fine! He’s busy tonight, so don’t be dramatic. You have to come, or I’ll be mad.” Bella had been completely certain Jax wouldn’t be there. But when I arrived, not only was Jax in the private room, but Dahlia was, too. Dahlia was sitting in the corner of the booth. Jax was leaning over, handing her a yogurt smoothie. Dahlia looked up and gave him a soft, gentle smile. Jax saw me, but he only glanced over before turning his attention back. I wanted to leave immediately, but Bella grabbed my arm. “Don’t start anything. I’m the birthday girl. Can’t you at least respect me?” The room was full of our lifelong friends. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the atmosphere, so I stayed. I sat near the door and became the karaoke star of the night. I accepted every drink my friends offered. I saw their hesitant glances, but I didn’t say anything extra. Toward the end of the night, things got inexplicably rowdy, and someone started calling for a couples’ toast—the classic, ridiculous intertwined-arms drink. The two other couples in the room did it, laughing. That left Jax and me. People were pushing him, others were pulling me, saying we had to do it. Bella tried to mediate. “Come on, Sierra, meet him halfway. The path is clear for you guys to make up. Just pick up your glass first, and he’ll come right over.” I paused. I suddenly understood. My friends clearly thought our breakup was just another dramatic fit. They always said, “We’re so over you two. You fight like you’re going to kill each other, and the next day, you’re back to being inseparable.” Like the boy who cried wolf, the more I cried breakup, the less anyone believed me. I looked across the room at Jax. He was staring down, his face expressionless. Someone grabbed his arm to pull him up, and he sharply pulled away. He gave a soft tsk, full of irritation. He turned his head—the side facing Dahlia. I watched Dahlia tilt her chin up. I could read her lips. She mouthed: “Go.” Two seconds of absolute stillness, and then Jax picked up the glass on the table and stood up sharply. He walked toward me, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated dread. It was as if this were the final drink before his execution. I laughed. Suddenly, I felt completely drained. Empty. I walked past Jax’s outstretched hand, raised my glass, and threw my head back, draining the liquor in one go. “You guys have fun. I’m out.” Jax’s face instantly hardened. He glared at me, a truly savage look. I turned and pushed the door open. The moment the door shut behind me, I heard the shattering sound of a glass breaking against the floor. 6 Knowing Jax, he wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I decided to go to the new apartment. The one he’d bought for us, for the wedding. Nine years, from eighteen to twenty-seven. We were finally going to get married. And then we stalled at the finish line. I’d left in a hurry, so I didn’t take much. Clothes, some of my sketches—all still there. It took me an hour to pack two huge suitcases. I called a ride-share and started toward the door. Just as I got to the frame, the front door swung inward. The first thing I heard was Dahlia’s voice. “Slow down. I told you not to drink so fast. You need to pace yourself.” Then I saw Jax. His arm was draped heavily over Dahlia’s shoulder, and she had an arm tightly looped around his waist. They were practically molded together. If this was an accident, they were certainly making it look like an affair. “Sierra!” When she saw me, Dahlia’s steps stopped dead. Her eyes instinctively darted away. “I—Jax drank too much. I was just helping him get home. Now that I’ve delivered him safely to you, I can go.” “No, no, please stay. You clearly have this under control. I need to leave.” “But—” “What are you holding?” Jax suddenly broke in. “My suitcases. My things. I’m taking some of it now, and I’ll come get the rest later.” “Sierra, don’t do this. Jax knows he messed up!” Dahlia tried to step forward, but Jax grabbed her wrist. “Let her go.” Dahlia tugged on his hand, her face a mask of panic. “Jax, stop fighting! Apologize to Sierra!” “I said, let her go!” “Jax!” I watched their struggle with a detached calm. It was all utterly meaningless now. I reached the door and stopped. “You said I wasn’t like Dahlia. Jax, I’m genuinely curious. What exactly was the difference?”

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Three days into my business trip in Dubai, the four-hundred-thousand-dollar smart mattress we’d just bought sent a chilling notification: it had registered 99 intense vibrations. I stared at the screen, my brows knitted into a tight knot. My husband, Dominic, was lecturing halfway across the world in Australia. The house was supposed to be empty. As doubt began to coil in my stomach, the app flashed again. The mattress had registered 199 forceful impacts and had automatically initiated the “Intimate Contact” Mode for protection. I was reaching for the phone to call Dom when his new post popped up on my social feed. [Another day in Australia missing my wife. Busy and fulfilling.] I looked at the photo, tagged with a Sydney location, and absently double-tapped it. Then I booked the first flight back to the States. 1 My first instinct was that we’d been robbed and, insult added to injury, the thief had decided to rest on my bed. The thought made my skin crawl with disgust. But when I meticulously cross-referenced the ‘Intimate Contact’ timestamps with the interior security footage, I found nothing. Not a single trace of an intruder. The antiques, the artwork, the limited-edition handbags—everything was accounted for. The house was immaculate, with no signs of disruption. Dom’s favorite bespoke suits and his Rimowa luggage were gone; he was definitely not home. Could the smart mattress just be malfunctioning? Still uneasy, I decided to check the building’s main entrance surveillance with the property manager. As I walked out, I bumped into Maria, the cleaning woman who looked after our floor. “Ms. Ashford, you’re back from your trip? Let me come in and clean up a little for you.” she said politely. “That would be a help, Maria. Thank you.” Maria was a single mother, working hard to put her daughter through college. I knew her situation and often helped them out. Out of gratitude, she insisted on cleaning our house once a week, refusing any payment. I watched her start mopping the marble in the living room and casually asked, “Maria, have you seen any strangers coming in or out of our unit the last few days?” “No, I haven’t, honey. Not since the Professor left for his lecture… Did something happen?” Seeing her sudden anxious expression, I managed a soft laugh. “No, nothing at all. Just curious.” Before she left, I pressed the expensive hand cream I’d brought back from Dubai into her hand. The weather was turning cold, and with all the manual labor she did, I knew she’d use it. If no one had come in, was it truly just a faulty mattress? But this four-hundred-thousand-dollar system had only been installed three months ago. If there were a hardware issue, the manufacturer would have been alerted immediately and contacted me for an on-site repair… I started cleaning the mattress with a heavy-duty sanitizer, my mind still reeling over the bizarre incident, when I heard the chime of the smart lock unlocking. A shiver of genuine fear ran down my spine. Before I could hide, a shadow lunged forward, pressing me onto the bed. “Surprise!” It was Dominic. Shaken, I pushed him back slightly. “I thought your teaching commitment in Australia was for a full week. Why are you back early?” “Because I missed you, of course.” He pressed a light kiss to my forehead. “No, seriously, my college needed me back right away to lead a major grant proposal. Had to ditch the outback early.” The look in his eyes was so profoundly sincere that the creeping suspicion of infidelity began to waver. Dominic was the youngest, most celebrated professor at his university—a classic heartthrob. I’d heard the whispers and the rumors, but every time I looked into his deep, earnest eyes, the doubt evaporated. “But you came back early too, darling.” He gently stroked my cheek. “I got a notification in Dubai that the mattress was… vibrating wildly.” “No one was home, so I was worried. I flew back to check.” Dominic pulled me into his chest. “Oh, that was just a minor tech glitch. An engineer was remotely calibrating the system from the backend.” His voice was low and reassuring. “I didn’t want to bother you while you were working.” He even pulled up a technician’s log on his phone. I let out a long breath, a genuine smile finally easing my face. But later, after dinner, when I turned on the living room TV, intending to stream a sophisticated drama, the playback history showed 20 episodes of Two and a Half Men. 2 The silence stretched for a long, heavy moment. Finally, I managed to ask Dominic, “Did you watch TV?” “No, honey. You must have hit the remote by accident.” That light, dismissive response pulled the knot in my heart dangerously tight. Twenty episodes of a syndicated sitcom meant that the stranger had been in my house for at least ten hours. Why was Dominic lying to me? And how could anyone stay for ten hours without showing up in any of the security footage? Was I going crazy? Was it a ghost? I couldn’t stand the uncertainty for another minute. I rushed to the property office and demanded the head of security pull up the external hallway footage. Sitting in front of the monitors, I watched frame by painful frame. Still nothing. No one entered our unit. Was this some horror movie scenario where the person had always been hiding inside? I went back another month in the recordings, watching until my eyes were burning red, but there was no anomaly. I stumbled back to the house, exhausted and defeated. Dom was standing there, holding a massive bouquet of long-stemmed roses. “Happy Anniversary, my beautiful love. The only woman I will ever adore.” I froze. In all the chaos, I had completely forgotten our anniversary. He then mysteriously pulled a key fob out of the flowers and pressed it into my palm. “It’s a brand-new Lamborghini Huracán—custom Vivid Violet paint. I reserved it three months ago.” His eyes were glistening. “No matter what storms come, I will always be right here, next to you.” His words, so tender and devoted, made my eyes sting. Leaning against his warm chest, I was overwhelmed by self-reproach. My husband clearly loved me, treasured me, and here I was, doubting him and chasing shadows. I was the one who owed him an apology. The Two and a Half Men binge was likely just a bizarre error, maybe the remote was jammed in the sofa cushions and the TV kept playing in the background while I was asleep. “Go on, love. I’ve hidden a little surprise inside. Take it for a test drive.” A faint, cloying scent—not Dom’s usual cologne—filled the car. Then, the car’s navigation system came to life, and Dom’s magnetic, warm voice filled the cabin. “Hello, Baby Doll, remember to buckle up. No matter the road ahead, your husband will always be with you.” His tone was so intimate and thoughtful that my eyes welled up again. “Navigate to The Plaza.” I hadn’t bought Dominic a gift for our anniversary, so I immediately decided to buy him an expensive watch. “Affirmative, Baby Doll. I’ll be your co-pilot all the way.” “Heads up, coming up on The Maxwell Manor Steakhouse, the site of our very first date.” Dominic’s voice continued, but I froze, gripping the steering wheel. I hate steak. And our first date was definitely not at The Maxwell Manor Steakhouse. It was a tiny, obscure jazz club downtown. Also, Dominic had never called me “Baby Doll.” Never. Was the system glitching again? “When was the last time this vehicle was driven?” I asked the navigation system. “Baby Doll, the last trip was two days ago. Destination: The Galleria.” I immediately started tearing the car apart. Sure enough. Deep in the seam of the back seat, I found a pair of worn, torn stockings. They were stained. In the small, hidden compartment of the console were a handful of ultra-thin condoms and, underneath them, a bottle of lubricant and a small, electronic toy. 3 Dominic was cheating. And this car, this gift, was a hand-me-down, a soiled trophy he was trying to pass off as a grand gesture. I was shaking uncontrollably. Ten years. A decade of my prime, given entirely to him. I had placed him above everything, loved him with every fiber of my being, and he had taken that love and ground it into the dirt with his betrayal. The vows he made at our wedding—a lifetime of monogamy—now felt sickeningly, obscenely ironic. I broke down and sobbed, a visceral, gut-wrenching grief that rattled the car. Once I regained some composure, I called a friend, an attorney who knew people, and arranged for the stockings and the toy to be sent immediately for forensic testing. I refused to believe I would find zero evidence. Unless Dom’s mistress truly was a ghost. Back home, I walked in silently. Dom rushed forward, embracing me with a forced passion. “Love, your eyes are red. Who upset you?” I pushed him away, giving him a flat, “I’m exhausted.” He reached for my hand again. “It’s been so long since we were intimate, darling.” Ever since Dom claimed to develop a severe stress disorder, we hadn’t slept together. I used to adore his gentle, insistent touch, but now the sight of him only filled me with revulsion. To avoid raising suspicion, I forced a small, tired smile. “It was a sixteen-hour flight. I just need to sleep separately tonight. Next time.” Dominic pouted for a second, then his face quickly transformed into a look of undeniable relief. He just wished me a quick “Good night.” The next day, I drove the Lamborghini back to my company headquarters. After handing the routine morning meeting over to my VP, I logged into the home media player’s backend. The playback length for Two and a Half Men had increased. He was already back at it. He couldn’t wait. I floored the accelerator the entire way back to the complex. Riding the elevator up, I fought to keep my rage bottled. Today, I was going to catch them in the act. I twisted the smart lock. Dominic was in the living room, trying on a new bespoke suit. He looked genuinely startled to see me. “Honey, why are you home?” I didn’t answer. I ripped the house apart, turning over cushions and emptying the waste bins. I even dumped out the kitchen trash. Nothing. “Did you lose something? Let me help you look,” he asked, confusion etched across his face. He looked so convincingly bewildered that I almost doubted myself again. I suppressed my rising anger, managing a forced smile. “No. I just… Did anyone stop by today?” The confusion deepened in his eyes. “It’s been just me all day… Love, are you still worried about the cheating thing?” “No. But why aren’t you at the university today?” “I have a department-wide academic conference scheduled for this afternoon.” My gaze landed on a bottle of Penhaligon’s cologne sitting on the vanity mirror. Dominic beamed. “I was planning to surprise my favorite wife with a candlelit dinner tonight. You once said you loved the leather notes in this one. I wanted to give you a preview, but I guess the surprise is ruined now.” I nodded slowly, then apologized. “I have an emergency board meeting tonight. I can’t join you.” He seemed to have forgotten the fact that I was severely allergic to synthetic leather-note fragrances. This cologne wasn’t for me. I didn’t expose his lie. As I left, I rested my hand on the top of the TV. The faint warmth confirmed it: someone had definitely been here. I had barely pulled the car out of the underground garage when I spotted Maria again, squatting by the curb, eating a breakfast burrito. “Good morning, Ms. Ashford! I was just about to bring one of my homemade ones up for you and the Professor.” I smiled, waving it off. “Maria, I wanted to ask you again. Did anyone come to my door this morning?” She frowned, thinking hard. “I didn’t see anything. Is everything okay?” Maria looked around nervously, then leaned in close, whispering, “Professor Dom, you look so tired, honey. Maybe you should find a spiritual advisor to bless the place.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. Since the first hint of Dom’s betrayal, I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep. I still didn’t know if the trespasser was human or a ghost. Suddenly, Dom’s voice came from the car speakers. “It’s raining today, Baby Doll. Be safe. Meeting you at the best time of my life was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.” I felt a surge of nausea. I asked Maria an idle question. “How old is your daughter now, Maria?” “Eighteen years and five months, bless her heart.” Eighteen. The “best time of my life,” Dominic had said. 4 But a college-age student coming to my mansion to binge-watch Two and a Half Men was highly unusual. I had met Maria’s daughter, Lexi. She was a dark-skinned, plain girl—a little rough-looking, even older than her mother in appearance. Given Dom’s usual impeccable taste, the possibility was zero. Back at the office, my mind was racing. How did Dominic always know my movements? My eyes fell to the Lamborghini key fob. If I didn’t drive the Lamborghini, it would signal immediate distrust. But if I did drive it, he could track my location in real-time via the car’s GPS. Oh, my sweet, clever husband. Just after noon, the media player history flashed again: another record for Two and a Half Men. Simultaneously, the home smart speaker connected to a new device and started playing a vintage, cheesy love song. I snatched the keys to my other car—the Porsche—and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Let’s see them hide this time. Just as I suspected: Dominic wasn’t out for a conference. I was about to explode, but he quickly turned his head and shushed me with a frantic finger to his lips. On his laptop screen, several foreign students were connected for a remote lecture. “Love, why didn’t you call ahead?” “The meeting was canceled. I’m teaching my Australian students now.” He pulled me aside, kissed me quickly, and then hurried back to his study. “I’ll make you a fabulous dinner tonight.” I frantically searched the house again. Behind the curtains, under the bed—I couldn’t even find a stray hair. Fuming, I returned to the office. This time, I’d driven my own car. How had they still known my itinerary? But I was no longer willing to believe Dom’s innocence. The house was simply too clean, as if someone had deliberately scoured it. I didn’t believe he could contain himself. The afternoon was quiet until 5:00 PM, when Dom texted: “Coming home? Candlelit dinner is ready.” “I have a massive trade event for the next two days. Won’t be home.” He immediately sent a crying emoji. But I knew Dominic was ecstatic. This time, I was setting the trap. The next night, Dom texted again: “Are you coming home tonight? I miss you so much.” I smiled, typing back: “Flying to Hong Kong at 11:00 PM. Gone for a week. Take care.” Dom: “Okay. You be careful too.” The more concern he showed, the more anxious he was to get back to his routine. The Two and a Half Men binge was nearing its conclusion, and I didn’t believe his lover would abandon it now. Tonight was the perfect time to catch them in the act. An hour later, the smart speaker connected to the strange mobile device and began playing a classic, heartfelt duet. I scoffed. A “Baby Doll” with an appreciation for vintage love songs. I stood up, and the app instantly refreshed: the FINAL EPISODE of Two and a Half Men was playing. I grabbed the company photographer, Tina, and had my Head of PR queue up a social media broadcast. I didn’t care about my dignity anymore. I intended to go live, expose these two on the spot, and let the entire internet tear them apart. But when I kicked open the bedroom door and Tina raised the camera and the bright, powerful light, I stopped dead in my tracks. At the exact same moment, the forensic results on the stockings and the toy arrived on my phone. My face went chalk white.

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