Author: Momo Chan

The CEO of the company was my husband. Garrett Rhys. But he had never publicly acknowledged me. “It’s a strategic alliance, a dynastic merger,” he’d always say. “We need to maintain the Golden Bachelor image for the sake of the stock and the brand.” It wasn’t until his college sweetheart, Sierra Thorne, returned from abroad, and he abandoned me, burning up with a fever, to personally host her welcome-home dinner, that the blinding truth finally hit me. I was nothing more than a shadow—a stand-in for the idealized ghost of his first love. With my heart finally broken beyond repair, I drafted a divorce agreement. I was ready to step aside. But on the day I presented the papers, Garrett gripped the agreement with a death-lock, refusing to let go. “Harper, what was the last five years, then? What did it all mean?” I met his gaze, my own eyes utterly vacant. “I’m calling it a massive loss. A failed investment.” 1 My marriage to Garrett Rhys had lasted exactly five years. It was a cold, calculated transaction—a strategic alliance between two powerful families, each of us gaining what we needed. He was my older brother’s closest friend, and I had harbored a silent crush on him for years. So when my family proposed the alliance, and he was the intended groom, I said yes without a second thought. I learned later that he had agreed because his first love, Sierra, had just married someone else and moved overseas. Heartbroken and indifferent, he felt it no longer mattered whom he married. I was simply a suitable, well-connected Sterling—perfectly matched in family background and resources. In those first months of marriage, I held onto a naive, foolish fantasy: that companionship would bloom into love, and that I could melt even the coldest stone. Five years later, the truth was undeniable. Some people’s hearts are the Arctic permafrost—no amount of lifelong devotion can warm them. Over those years, we drifted from polite strangers to co-habitating ghosts. He still kept Sierra’s photograph hidden in his private study. We were husband and wife, yet we were less intimate than neighbors. Aside from the mandatory appearances at family and corporate functions, we slept in separate wings of the penthouse. Our lives were parallel lines that never touched. Five years. No shared vacations, no anniversary celebrations, not even a casual weekend trip to the grocery store together. But I remained the dutiful wife, the perfect Mrs. Rhys. He managed the massive corporation; I ran the family’s charitable foundation, ensuring his domestic life was flawlessly handled. Sometimes, I would wonder if he would spare me even a glance if I didn’t have the Sterling name and the successful foundation work to back me up. Even our rare moments of physical intimacy felt like a chore for him—silent and deeply detached. The real devastation came when I stumbled upon an old box of his college keepsakes and found Sierra’s high school picture. Her eyes, her expression, her overall look—there was an undeniable, six-out-of-ten resemblance to me. In that single, agonizing moment, a cold terror washed over me. I was not his wife. I was merely a placeholder. The irony grew even sharper when I discovered he and Sierra had been discreetly back in contact for several months. I took the evidence to him. “Garrett, Sierra’s back in The City. You’ve been meeting her in private. What exactly is going on?” A flash of panic crossed his face, instantly replaced by a sudden, imperious anger. “Harper, are you seriously spying on me? Sierra is a critical contact for a major partnership. We’re talking business.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. Business? Did “talking business” require meeting her in a private, high-end club until past midnight, avoiding all of his usual security protocols? No wonder he’d been coming home later and later over the last six months, and had practically stopped all physical contact with me. He was keeping himself pure for his rediscovered first love. I had foolishly blamed myself, believing I wasn’t beautiful enough, gentle enough, or attentive enough. Now I understood. He hadn’t been looking at Harper Sterling at all. He was looking at the woman he wished I was. The long-term stress and constant emotional repression took their toll. My body began to break down. My doctor insisted I check into the hospital for a comprehensive, stress-related procedure. When Garrett heard, he only offered a cool, clipped directive: “Tell Finance what you need. They’ll handle the expenses.” No inquiry about my health. No comfort. The only thing he did was instruct his executive assistant to book the best surgeon and private suite. I went to the hospital alone. After the procedure, as the anesthesia wore off, the pain and the weakness made me crave human comfort more than anything. The nurse asked me to call a family member. In this beautiful but emotionally sterile city, my own family was states away. I’d established my life here for him. I dialed his number. “Garrett, my surgery is done. I’m at Saint Jude’s…” Before I could finish, he cut me off. “I’m stuck in an incredibly important international call right now, I can’t break away…” Through the phone, I could faintly hear the strains of a sweet violin, followed by a woman’s light, recognizable laughter. The line went dead quickly. I stared at the call record—less than ten seconds. I tried to stretch my lips into a smile, tasting only the salt of a single, stray tear. Just days earlier, his secretary had innocently mentioned that Garrett had reserved an entire rooftop restaurant to celebrate Sierra’s birthday. Ten seconds for his wife’s medical emergency was an interruption; a whole evening for his ex was a given. But I was his legal wife. Did he truly hold me in such low regard? Less valuable than the person he had already abandoned once? I thought I would weep, that I would break down completely. But strangely, the barren land in my chest remained perfectly calm. There were no ripples left. The deepest grief had passed; only the empty silence remained. Against the doctor’s strict advice, I demanded to be discharged. The doctor tried to stop me, warning that leaving so soon was dangerous. Desperate to escape, I yanked my arm free. A searing pain shot through the fresh stitches—I felt sure they had torn. “I don’t care if I collapse! It won’t be your responsibility! I don’t have a family left anyway.” I spoke of having no family because tonight, I was going to cut all ties with Garrett Rhys. Seeing the blood starting to seep through my hospital gown, the doctor was horrified. He insisted on re-dressing the wound and then, resigned, personally drove me back to the penthouse. I stopped at a 24-hour print shop downtown to print the final divorce agreement. Back home, I sat in the vast, silent living room, waiting for Garrett’s return. 2 He came back at 1:00 AM. He carried the light scent of expensive scotch and the faintest trace of a delicate, feminine perfume. A soft, lingering smile—a look of pure, easy pleasure—still played on his lips. I realized I hadn’t seen that kind of relaxed happiness on his face in the entire five years we’d been married. Reunions with old loves must be wonderful. He looked surprised to see me sitting on the sofa, then, naturally, he gave an order. “You’re still up? Perfect. Go make me some sobering-up tea, will you?” I didn’t move. He frowned slightly. “Harper?” I finally raised my eyes and fixed my gaze on him. “Garrett. I want a divorce.” I slid the printed agreement across the coffee table toward him. He froze instantly, staring at me in disbelief, as if I had spoken an alien language. “What did you just say?” His voice dropped, laced with the accustomed tone of command and corporate intimidation. But I was no longer afraid. “Sierra is back, isn’t she? I’m clearing the path for her.” Garrett’s face went white. The alcohol-induced warmth in his eyes vanished. “You… how do you know about that?” I curled my lips into a cold, mocking smile. “If you wanted to keep it secret, you shouldn’t have used your assistant’s phone to book her a restaurant reservation. And you definitely shouldn’t have let her wear a diamond brooch identical to your custom cufflink set at an industry gala, allowing her picture to be posted all over social media.” Garrett was speechless. He clearly hadn’t anticipated the extent of my knowledge. Five years of marriage had completely depleted every last, small measure of hope I’d held for him. Since my reserves were exhausted, it was time to leave. “Sign it. Once you do, you can openly pursue your perfect ghost without having to pretend I’m anything more than a copy. We both get to be free.” In five years, the times he had genuinely smiled at me were countlessly few, and mostly for show. I had believed he was simply a cold man, born aloof. Now I knew better. His warmth, his passion, his smiles—they were just things he refused to grant me. If I could rewind time, I would never have agreed to that alliance. You shouldn’t meet someone too magnificent when you’re young; otherwise, your entire life becomes a sustained regret. I had already paid five years of my life for a youthful crush and a family obligation. The dream was over. Garrett snatched the divorce agreement, tearing it violently into small, jagged pieces. “Don’t you dare, Harper! Your family pushed for this alliance! You said you wanted to marry me! Now you just decide to walk away? Five years as man and wife, and you can just drop it all like this?” I watched him, my heart a piece of still, cold glass. “Drop it? Then ask yourself this, Garrett: In the last five years, did you ever, even for a single moment, see me as your wife, and not just a shadow?” 3 The air instantly thickened and froze. My question silenced him completely. Watching his struggle for an answer, I mocked myself internally. How many five-year periods does one life hold? My youth, my devotion, my sincere hopes—all wasted. Garrett loosened his silk tie, visibly frustrated at his lack of an answer. He softened his tone. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. Divorce isn’t simple. It affects both corporations. Just calm down, we’ll discuss this another day.” A flicker of genuine panic in his eyes sealed my total disappointment. I knew his real concern. Divorce would shatter the cooperation between the Sterling and Rhys groups, and it would destroy the devoted husband image he’d painstakingly cultivated, tanking the stock price. My heart was dead, but I wasn’t spiteful. “When we married, I brought the Sterling assets and resources. When I leave, I will take nothing. I’ll walk away clean. You keep it all. Use it to marry the woman you actually want.” I was raised in a business family; I understood transactions. Though I married him with a secret, personal hope, I also brought my full power to assist his career. Now, I saw it was only ever a deal—and I was the fool who lost her heart in the process. “Harper, I forbid it! I am not signing these papers!” It was the first time Garrett had ever lost his composure in front of me. Was that a hint of… fear? I looked at him one last time, my expression calm and empty. “Whether you agree or not, this marriage is over. I’ve submitted my resignation to the Foundation board. After the three-month transition period, I will return to finalize the papers. In the meantime, you need to quickly adjust to life without a Mrs. Rhys.” Garrett panicked, perhaps afraid of losing control entirely. He rushed out the words: “You’re the Foundation Director! Without my consent, your resignation is invalid!” I almost laughed. While the Foundation was tied to the corporation, my professional reputation and my family’s backing gave me significant autonomy. “That’s not up to you. If you try to obstruct me, I’ll call a press conference tomorrow and announce the complete breakdown of our marriage.” With that, I tried to stand up. But my body, weak from surgery and long hours of sitting, swayed. My vision swam. I nearly collapsed. Garrett instinctively reached out and caught me. “What is wrong with you? Your face is pale.” I yanked my arm away with all my strength. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Rhys. I’m not going to die.” Hearing the frigid formality of “Mr. Rhys,” his body went rigid. For five years, I had always called him “Garrett,” even though he rarely responded in kind. “Mr. Rhys” was the demarcation line. It meant he was a stranger. Only then did he truly look at my ashen complexion, and the realization hit him. “Today… was the day of your surgery?” 4 Without asking, he pulled up the hem of my thin house robe. He saw the tight bandages around my abdomen and the dark, wet spots of seeping blood. Garrett’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you still at the hospital? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your husband!” I met his glare with a cold, simple question. “Why aren’t I at the hospital? Have you forgotten, Mr. Rhys? I called you. You said you had a ‘very important international meeting.’” “As for husband…” I paused, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “That’s about to change.” Garrett urgently pleaded, “Harper, let me explain…” “Stop!” I cut him off. “This surgery—it’s the price I paid for years of emotional repression and stress, all because of you and this marriage.” “Now, I’m only excising the disease for myself.” “Garrett, I don’t love you anymore. I’m too exhausted to try. We are finished.” “If I could rewrite history, I wish… I had never met you.” As the words left my lips, I clearly saw a flicker of pure panic in Garrett’s eyes. Ignoring him, I dragged my weak body toward the front door. My hand touched the handle just as the doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive. I opened it instinctively. Standing there was a woman who did bear a noticeable resemblance to me, her smile bright and charming. Upon closer inspection, her features were similar, but hers were softer, more deliberately alluring. She paused when she saw me, then offered a practiced, flawless smile. “You must be Harper. You really are like the rumors say—you do look a little… like me.” Her tone was gentle, yet threaded with a tiny, undeniable note of triumph. I offered no reply. I had been a stand-in for five years. Now, seeing the original, I couldn’t even summon the energy to feel angry. She held out a folder. I didn’t take it. “Garrett forgot some important documents at my place earlier. I tried his phone, but he didn’t answer, so I dropped it by on my way home.” She spoke, her eyes subtly glancing past me into the living room, where Garrett stood, his face a mask of discomfort. I scoffed inwardly. No wonder Garrett hadn’t stayed in his comfort zone all night—he’d conveniently “forgotten” the “files.” I said nothing, merely stepping aside to let her enter. My heart was ash; their drama was no longer my concern. I walked straight toward the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, I heard Garrett rush forward. “Harper—!” The rest of his voice was cut off. It didn’t matter. I called my assistant, Owen Vance, and asked him to arrange a place for me immediately. Owen sounded surprised on the phone, but he asked no questions, simply giving a crisp, efficient “Understood.” Soon after, he pulled up in a discreet SUV. Seeing my extreme weakness, he immediately jumped out to help me. “Harper? You look terrible. What happened?” I shook my head. “Just a small procedure. I’m fine.” He pulled up the edge of my jacket without asking, saw the bandage, and the telltale bloodstains. His face darkened instantly. “This is a small procedure?! You shouldn’t be traveling! We’re going to my apartment first. I’ll call my family doctor.” I wanted to refuse, but I truly had nowhere else to go, and my body was failing. I nodded weakly. Without another word, Owen folded down the back seat, covered it with a soft blanket, and helped me lie down. He drove smoothly, constantly checking on me in the rearview mirror. When we stopped at a red light, he passed me a thermos of warm water. “Harper, drink this.” It was the first time I had ever clearly felt genuine, unfiltered care from another person. So this is what it feels like to be truly cherished. It felt good.

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Five years after I walked out on Damon Kincaid, I saw him again at an auction. The difference was, I was the merchandise, caged for public scorn. He was the high-roller, seated in the VIP section, ready to spend a fortune. We played the part of strangers. It wasn’t until some rich bastard bid fifty thousand dollars to buy me that Damon shattered the iron cage, grabbed my chin, and snarled: “You’d rather be a cheap piece of trash than come back and beg me?” “Anya Rossi, you truly are despicable.” I tore his hand from my jaw and offered a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “My buyer is getting impatient. I don’t have time for a reunion.” Once, I knelt and begged, and what I got in return was carrying my parents’ decaying bodies up a desolate hill. Now, all I wanted was to cut all ties, earn enough to pay for my daughter’s cremation, and vanish forever. 1 The noisy room went instantly silent. The guests, who represented half the financial elite of Veridian City, didn’t dare breathe, staring at Damon. The mogul who’d bought me, hearing Damon’s words, broke out in a cold sweat. He finally recognized me: The woman who was Damon Kincaid’s childhood sweetheart, the one he’d once cherished, only to have him break her leg and leave her for dead on the street five years ago. Ignoring the hundreds of eyes on me, I ripped his hand away, clutching the pathetic scraps of fabric covering my body. I gave him that careless, ugly smile again. “Mister Kincaid, my buyer is in a hurry. If you want to reminisce, you’ll have to bid and win me next time. Then we can talk all night.” Damon’s hand, clenched at his side, turned white. His eyes drilled into me. “You’re that desperate? Five years, and you couldn’t spare one single plea?” A soft, delicate hand wrapped around his fist. My heart stuttered. I looked up and saw the one face I’d hoped never to see again. She used to be the nanny’s daughter at the Kincaid family parties, clumsy and dismissed when pouring wine for the guests. Now, she stood confidently beside Damon at a private auction, holding up a hundred-thousand-dollar bid paddle without a flicker of hesitation. Sadie Bell’s eyes were red-rimmed, looking at me with the theatrical sadness of a weeping willow. “Ms. Rossi, why are you always so stubborn? Five years ago, Damon asked you to apologize to me, and you refused, claiming you did nothing wrong. When your family went bankrupt, Damon told you to beg him, and you wouldn’t. Do you really feel you have your dignity now, selling your body for a living?” I couldn’t stop the caustic laugh that escaped me. “Five years and you still haven’t climbed into the spot of Mrs. Kincaid, Sadie. Is that the best you can do?” Smack! A stinging slap landed hard across my face. Used to the pain, I barely flinched, touched my right cheek, and turned to link my arm with the mogul. “Let’s go. Life is short, and we shouldn’t waste time on people who aren’t worth it.” But the mogul shoved me, right into Damon’s path. “Mr. Kincaid, if I’d known she was your woman, I would never have dared compete with you. Consider her my gift to you for the night.” I grabbed his sleeve, my smile brittle and terrified. “You bought me!” Damon let out a sudden, cold laugh, his gaze sweeping over me with sheer contempt. “Anya Rossi, without my permission, you can’t even sell your own flesh. But if you’d just kneel down and beg me right now, I’ll double his five thousand for you.” I dropped my eyes in humiliation. Damon was right. Without his consent, I was paralyzed in Veridian City. After the Rossi family collapsed, my parents died by suicide together. I couldn’t even afford their cremation. The only valuable thing I owned was the engagement ring Damon gave me. I went to a pawn shop, hoping to get ten thousand dollars for a million-dollar ring, but no one dared to take it. “Ms. Rossi, it’s not that we don’t want to help, but Mr. Kincaid gave the word. Anyone who gets involved with you will be ruined in Veridian City.” In the end, I had to carry my parents’ bodies, which were already starting to decompose, for what felt like miles to an abandoned stretch of mountain. I dug the graves with my bare hands. But had I truly never begged him? The day my family lost everything, I knelt at the gates of the Kincaid estate, my head bleeding, begging him to save my father’s company. He appeared, his arm wrapped around Sadie Bell, who wore his silk dressing gown, her neck marked with his kisses. “You kneel and apologize to Sadie. Beg her for forgiveness a thousand times, and I’ll save the Rossi family.” Sadie hid shyly behind him, biting her lip as she looked at me. “Damon, it’s enough if Ms. Rossi just apologizes. I forgive her for pushing me down the stairs. There’s no need for such cruel humiliation.” “Sweet girl,” Damon murmured, his eyes full of tenderness for her. “I know you’re too soft. I’ll settle this score for you. Since she humiliated you then, she deserves what’s coming to her now.” But I hadn’t pushed Sadie down the stairs. She was an angel in front of Damon, and a viper when we were alone. “The childhood sweetheart never beats the new conquest. Damon’s sick of a boring woman like you. You only know how to make one sound in bed. When I’m Mrs. Kincaid, I’m going to make you pay.” Back then, I dismissed Sadie as delusional, certain Damon only loved me. He would abandon a hundred-million-dollar deal overseas and fly seventeen hours, just to be there to blow out my birthday candles every year. In our chat logs, he was telling me he missed me just a minute before. But the moment the gate opened, Sadie shrieked. “Ms. Rossi, don’t hurt me!” She grabbed me, and we tumbled down the grand staircase together. My head hit the marble floor, and white flashes swam in front of my eyes. Before I could process what happened, Sadie was kneeling in front of me, frantically bowing her head. “Ms. Rossi, I truly love Damon. Just keep me like a pet. You can beat me, you can abuse me, anything, just don’t make me leave him.” I struggled to sit up and tried to speak. “I didn’t…” The words never came out. Damon’s foot lashed out, sending me sprawling. He rushed to Sadie, holding her with a heartbreaking intimacy, anxious to get her to a hospital. The one glance he threw my way was pure hatred. “She’s innocent! If you have a problem, come after me!” The beautiful cake he’d brought for me lay on the ground, smashed into a pile of trash. That night, the Kincaid family announced the breaking of our engagement and triggered the collapse of the Rossi empire. My life went from heaven to hell in seventy-two hours. My deep-seated pride fought against bowing my head. But the ravaged faces of my parents lashed at my conscience. My spine finally bent. I gritted my teeth. “Fine. I’ll kneel.” But just as my knees began to touch the ground, my phone rang. It was my mother. Hearing her ragged breathing, my heart sank. “Anya, your father and I would rather die than see you kneel and beg anyone.” My parents protected my dignity with their lives. I fought back the tears stinging my eyes and spoke to Damon, cold and final. “You want me to beg? In your dreams.” 2 A sharp pang of guilt struck me. I bit down hard on my tongue. I had failed my daughter; I hadn’t made enough for her funeral today. I would be condemning her to another day in the morgue, cold and alone. The thought of my daughter, who was so afraid of the cold in life, twisted my insides until I couldn’t breathe. It’s my fault, Sweetheart. I spun around to leave, but someone blocked my path. Teary-eyed, Sadie grabbed my arm. “Ms. Rossi, you’re still angry that Damon chose me, aren’t you? It was my fault that I was hurt so badly when I rolled down the stairs that by the time I woke up, your family was already bankrupt.” “For the past five years, I’ve been consumed by guilt. If you can just forgive me, I’m willing to leave Damon.” Her hypocritical tears made me sick. I impatiently shook her hand off. The scene from five years ago replayed instantly: Sadie collapsed to the ground with a small, theatrical cry, scraping her elbow just enough to draw attention. Damon’s face changed instantly. He lifted her, his eyes full of protective tenderness. The look made the hair on my arms stand up. I finally understood everything. He hadn’t been blind then, nor was he now. But because the person who supposedly caused Sadie harm was me, Damon didn’t need to know right from wrong. I was guilty, and I had to pay the price. “Anya Rossi, it seems the lesson from five years ago wasn’t enough for you. Sadie is not for you to touch.” A wave of terror washed over me. I turned to run, but Damon’s bodyguards grabbed me and slammed me onto the ground. “Since you want to be a whore, I’ll grant your wish. I’ll let everyone see just how pathetic and loose you are!” He spoke in a cold, loud voice to the gawking guests around us. “The man who makes her scream for mercy will get the land on the west side of the city!” The room erupted in guttural shouts. The mogul, who had been trembling with fear a moment ago, now had a dangerous light in his eyes. “Is that true, Mr. Kincaid?” Damon pulled a signed document from his suit pocket and tossed it to him. “Right here, in the main hall. I want everyone to watch her beg.” The mogul snatched the paper, then lunged at me, tearing at the few scraps of my clothing. I thrashed desperately, trying to crawl out from under him, but he cursed, hitting me left and right, grabbing my hair and smashing my head against the floor. “You filthy slut! You were desperate to be under me a minute ago, and now you’re playing the virtuous martyr!” Blood streamed from my forehead, blurring my vision. Through the crimson haze, I saw the faces of those around me—all laughing, holding up their phones, gleefully recording my humiliation. “Nice body. She was the Rossi princess, after all.” “I should have bid! Even without the land, a taste of the Rossi princess wouldn’t hurt!” The mogul pinned my head to the floor, twisting my limbs into a humiliating position. Then he leaned close, his breath hot and greasy in my ear. “Just cooperate, and I’ll give you twenty thousand when I’m done.” The moment my legs were forced apart, I closed my eyes in absolute despair and vomited up a mouthful of blood. The image of my daughter’s little, frost-covered face in the morgue flashed behind my eyelids. It’s okay… I thought, a terrible kind of peace settling in. This way, I can afford to buy her a plot that faces the sun. In the last sliver of fading consciousness, I thought I heard a distant roar: “Stop! That’s enough!” I smiled bitterly, a final, cynical thought: How pathetic, Anya. You actually thought someone would save you. 3 In the darkness, I saw two small figures standing before me. It was my daughter. She smiled and called to me: “Mommy, I’m not cold anymore. I’m going to find Grandpa and Grandma. You need to take care of yourself.” “Hope!” I screamed her name, a wrenching, tearing sound, reaching out only to grasp dissolving foam. I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The clock on the wall read nine minutes past nine. I looked at the calendar, and a bomb seemed to go off in my mind. Five days had passed since the auction. I tore the IV needle from my hand with trembling fingers and stumbled out of bed. My legs buckled, and I nearly collapsed. A strong pair of arms caught me, forcing me back onto the mattress. “Anya Rossi, you truly are something. Chronic blood loss, severe malnutrition. You’ve been living like a beggar. Why—why wouldn’t you just come back… and beg me?” Damon slammed a stack of medical reports onto my chest. “Do you really have to be this stubborn?” I looked at him blankly, a hollow spot opening in my heart. Something vital had slipped away from me. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollable. I finally found my voice, a harsh whisper. “I did beg you…” I had sacrificed my dignity, defied my parents’ dying wish, and begged him to spare a life for my sick daughter. I was curled up in a damp storage unit, ten hours into labor, but my babies wouldn’t come. Blood soaked the cheap mattress beneath me. With the last of my strength, I called Damon. The moment the call connected, I felt like a drowning person clutching the final piece of wreckage. “Damon, I’ll apologize to Sadie. I’ll kneel and beg both of you. Just save our child…” But all that answered me were the intertwined moans of him and another woman. “Damon, I want to have your baby.” Damon’s voice, tender and doting, replied: “Only you, Sadie, are worthy of bearing my child. I’ll give our baby the best of everything.” The call disconnected, severing my last thread of hope. My screams were so desperate that a kind neighbor girl finally paid for an ambulance, and I was rushed to the emergency room. I gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. But my son, starved of oxygen, never even cried once. He was gone. My daughter, Hope, suffered from a congenital heart defect and had lived in the hospital since birth. Damon’s blockade in Veridian City meant I could only find the filthiest, most grueling work—washing dishes for ten hours a day in a greasy restaurant until my hands were raw and blistered. When the money still wasn’t enough, I sold my blood. I went to every blood bank in the city. I ate only one dry piece of bread a day; every other cent became medicine to keep Hope alive. The doctor had told me: if I could raise the money, Hope could have her heart transplant in five days. Desperate, with nowhere left to turn, I went to the auction block to sell the last thing I had left: myself. “I begged you to spare my parents. I begged you to save our baby. I begged you to give our daughter a chance to live. But what did you do? You drove me into a corner again and again.” “Damon Kincaid, you didn’t want me to beg you. You wanted me dead!” I shrieked, hysteria mounting, but the terrible dread in my heart grew heavier. I bowed my head, pleading in a new way. “I’m begging you now. Please, let me go. I need to find Hope. She needs me.” “If I don’t pay the fees soon, they’ll cut the power to her… to her resting place…” His expression was grim, his voice hoarse as he asked: “Who is Hope?” A familiar ringtone cut through the air. I searched frantically for my phone and realized it was still clenched in Damon’s trembling hand. I snatched it back and answered the call, my hands shaking. “Ms. Rossi, we regret to inform you that we have been unable to reach you. The power to the cryogenic unit has been reassigned to another family. The remains are now… badly decomposed. Please bring the death certificate to schedule cremation.” My breath hitched, stopping dead in my lungs. Just a little more time… I could have maintained Hope’s final dignity. Why? Why was I always just one tiny step too late? The call ended. My daughter’s photo filled the screen. She was already critically ill then, a slight smile on her pale face. She had said: “Mommy, I’m going to find my brother. Don’t be sad. I love you.” Tears tracked down my cheeks, one by one. I collapsed to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Damon continued to press me, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear, his eyelashes damp. “Hope is our child, isn’t she? I checked the hospital records. You had two children. What was the other one’s name?” He looked ecstatic, almost desperate. “This is wonderful! I’m a father! I… I’ll give them everything.”

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It was the last day of my thirty-fifth year when I discovered my professor husband was cheating. He came home late, as usual, after his weekly lab meeting, but in the dead of night, he was writhing in agony, clutching his stomach. His tailored dress shirt smelled unmistakably of heavily spiced Creole food. Alistair Stone, my husband, had a notoriously delicate digestive system. He hadn’t touched anything that rich or spicy in the two decades I’d known him. I called his research assistant. That’s when I found out a new female student, Sera, had joined the group that day. Alistair had gone with the group—and indulged her—by eating at a trendy, notorious seafood spot known for its fiery Jambalaya. “It’s nothing, really,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “but Professor Stone has a sensitive stomach. Could you make sure he doesn’t eat anything like that again?” A hesitant um came from the other end. “Mrs. Stone, to be honest, Sera doesn’t even qualify for the research group.” 1 Sera. The name wasn’t unfamiliar. A strange, sickening thought exploded in my mind. Alistair was lying in bed, still resting, his brows tightly furrowed in pain. We had been married for so long, we were too familiar with each other. Too complacent. I easily unlocked his phone. The lab group chat was benign. Everything looked normal. Except for the direct messages. Alistair: You can’t fall asleep in the next meeting. Sera: Well, it was boring! I promise I’ll watch you next time, Professor. Watching you keeps me awake. Alistair: Good. Sera: “Professor Stone” sounds so old. Can I call you “Ali” or maybe “Little Professor”? Alistair: Hmm. Whatever you like. Sera: Mwah! (heart-eye emoji) I pulled up her profile picture and matched it with the photo on his desk. It was her. Sera, the girl I knew. A cold, heavy knot formed in my chest, lodged between my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Alistair woke up as the last of the evening light faded. I handed him a glass of water, placing it alongside the open screen of his phone, displaying their chat. Even as he was recovering, Sera had sent him a barrage of trivial questions. “Little Professor, are we going for Creole again tomorrow?” “Ali, I can’t write this paper. Can I hire you to ghostwrite it for me? I’ll give you second author credit!” She was only a senior in college, not even enrolled in a graduate program. By any rational measure, she shouldn’t have been in his master’s-level research group. “Make her leave,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “She knows nothing. She’ll drag down your team’s progress.” I took a deep, controlled breath. “I can pretend this never happened.” Twenty years of history. I was doing my best to let him save face. Alistair’s gaze finally settled on the faintly glowing screen. He squinted at me. “Eliza.” He didn’t use my nickname, Liz. It was formal, cold. “If I hadn’t married you, you’d still just be a girl selling bouquets on a street corner.” 2 I had always been the ideal academic wife. Compliant. I followed Alistair’s instructions precisely. The next day, I pinned up my hair and set up my flower stall right outside the gates of Westhaven University. On the elegant wrapping paper of every bouquet, I thoughtfully taped copies of Sera and Alistair’s most incriminating text messages. I was a familiar face at Westhaven. Over the years, I’d been in and out of Alistair’s department, and the students and faculty all knew me. As soon as I appeared, one of Alistair’s former graduate students walked over, his expression concerned. “Mrs. Stone, what are you doing out here? Is everything okay? Did something happen between you and the Professor?” I handed him a perfectly wrapped bouquet. “Oh, nothing much,” I replied, my smile serene and brittle. “Your professor just needs to support a second household now.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a theatrical whisper designed to carry. “And frankly, I worry about him. Young girls are demanding. I hope he doesn’t burn out.” I weaponized every ounce of bitterness, using veiled, sharp language to hint at the disgusting truth of Alistair and Sera. Within twenty-four hours, the whispers about Professor Stone and his pet student had exploded into full-blown campus gossip. The second time I wheeled my floral cart onto campus property, a group of intimidating, rough-looking men rushed over and stomped every single flower into the pavement. “Listen, lady,” the biggest one said, his voice gravelly, “someone told me to tell you this: Know when to quit.” Of course, I didn’t listen. That same day, I moved my hysterical tears from the campus security office all the way up to the Dean’s suite, and finally, I called the State Ethics Commission hotline. Alistair was immediately called in for a meeting with the Provost. That evening, Alistair didn’t linger at the university. He came home early. “Eliza, that’s enough.” I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Enough? We’re just getting started, Alistair. You were capable of that disgusting act, and now you’re suddenly worried about the noise?” He sighed heavily, tossing his briefcase onto the sofa. His whole demeanor was a wall of cold frustration directed at me. “Eliza, if you hadn’t pulled these stunts, everything could have been negotiated.” He looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “If our marriage ends, it will be the result of your own doing.” He was blaming me? He blamed me for the volatile, explosive response that ruined the surface harmony of our ruined twenty-year relationship? He, the unfaithful one, was standing on some fabricated moral high ground, accusing me of being a hysterical maniac whose erratic behavior drove him away? “Alistair, did I force you to cheat?!” He sneered. “Eliza, have you forgotten who brought Sera into this house?” My heart slammed against my ribs. A terrifying, gut-wrenching nausea swallowed me whole. Sera was the girl I had sponsored, the girl I had fostered. The girl I had brought home and protected like a daughter for nearly a decade. “Alistair, you are truly repulsive.” For the first time, we saw utter strangeness in each other’s eyes. That night, Alistair packed a bag and moved out. Sera was with him. 3 I smiled up at Alistair on the stage. I had warned him. I wasn’t going to make this easy. Security personnel were scrambling to control the crowd. The Westhaven graduation ceremony, coinciding with the university’s centennial, was already a massive event. Reporters, photographers, and hundreds of students holding up their phones were all focused on Alistair and me. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the faculty lounge. “Eliza.” The moment of panic had vanished from his face, and he was back to being Professor Stone: calm, controlled, and infuriated. “You know what day this is. What in God’s name are you playing at?” Of course, I knew. It was the day of the ceremony, and the centennial. Many high-profile alumni were attending, including one key person who held the deciding vote on Alistair’s bid for Vice Provost. That man was Dr. Emeritus Maxwell “Max” Reid, a titan in both academia and politics. My connection with Dr. Reid’s family went back to a single bouquet of roses I sold years ago. It was Valentine’s Day. Dr. Reid, absorbed in his research, had completely forgotten about his wife. The old woman, in a huff, stormed out. They ended up arguing over a single rose right in front of my stall. I intervened, handing the very last rose to Dr. Reid’s wife, adding a compassionate, necessary lie. “Your husband asked me to save this specific one for you.” Dr. Reid smoothed things over with his wife, and our relationship was forged. Mrs. Reid loved flowers, so every week, Dr. Reid came to my stall to buy her a fresh bouquet. Then, one ordinary evening, a drunk man randomly ran up and started vandalizing my stall. The person who grabbed the drunk man’s fist as it swung toward me was Alistair. He had absolutely no fighting talent. After a few clumsy moves, his face was cut, but he managed, through sheer nerve, to chase the man away. He stayed to help me clean up the wreckage. That’s when he ran into the reliably punctual Dr. Reid, who had arrived to buy his wife’s flowers. Alistair, covered in dirt and blood, ended up talking to Dr. Reid about research, theory, and his academic philosophy. It wasn’t until they were chatting like long-lost friends that Dr. Reid realized Alistair was a master’s student at Westhaven. Dr. Reid immediately broke his long-standing rule about not taking on advisees and brought Alistair under his wing. From then on, the weekly task of buying flowers for Mrs. Reid fell to Alistair. Once a week turned into two or three times. Eventually, it was daily. He bought roses. He also bought purple irises. Those were my favorite flowers. The day he graduated and Dr. Reid secured him a faculty position, he stood before me, holding a massive bouquet. “What, are you here to challenge me for my corner?” I joked, looking at the vibrant irises in his arms. Alistair Stone knelt down and proposed. Everything felt inevitable. After we married, I worked from home, writing novels. That’s when Alistair found out I had a graduate degree in literature. Selling flowers was just a side hustle. After all, the publishing industry was brutally competitive. Now, the flowers were the same, but the person was not. It was a hollow, desolate feeling. But thank God. In this lifetime, he was the only miserable thing that had happened to me. The only piece of trash. It wasn’t too late to start over. 4 “Eliza, I’m giving you a chance. Go outside and clear my name.” Alistair’s anger was palpable. I found the request hilarious. In this cheating marriage, I should have been the one engulfed in righteous fury. Instead, because I hadn’t collapsed in tears and self-pity, because I was fighting back to feel better, the guilty parties—Alistair and Sera—had managed to cast themselves as the victims. “What exactly do you want me to say?” I asked. “That I was betrayed by the girl I sponsored and raised? That my husband slept with his nominal foster daughter and student?” I met his gaze. Time had been incredibly kind to Alistair; two decades hadn’t left a single mark on his distinguished face. “Eliza, know when to quit,” he repeated, his brow furrowed. That sentence again. What did I have to quit? I’d seen my husband’s hostility. I’d seen the girl I raised as my own daughter crawl into his bed. I’d seen the ugly display of betrayal they offered me. “Alistair, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” I laughed until the tears started. That knot in my chest refused to go down. I grabbed Alistair’s academic gown, ripping the seam. Beneath it, I saw a familiar dress shirt. The one Sera had said she bought for her boyfriend. They’d been involved for much longer than I realized. “Alistair, I will not let you off easy! And Sera—I’m not the kind of person who keeps quiet when wronged.” I screamed the words, frantic and desperate. “I will ruin your career! And Sera? I pulled her up from hell, so I’m going to drag her right back down. I will make sure her parents and everyone she’s ever known finds out that the ungrateful, backstabbing leech slept with her foster father!” A flicker of something—fear, or surprise—crossed Alistair’s eyes. He clamped down hard on my wrist. “What have you done?” His grip tightened, his knuckles white. I thought my hand would break. I smiled, a manic, wild thing. “What can I do?” “I just want her dead!” Before he could react, a much louder, more violent commotion erupted from the auditorium. Alistair ran out, frantic. On the stage, a middle-aged woman was screaming obscenities—”whore,” “slut,” “home-wrecker.” Below her, Sera was curled up, taking blow after blow, one slap after another. 5 Sera’s mother, Brenda, was a formidable fighter. The security guards stood frozen for a moment. Sera’s face was already red with welts. Her graduation gown was ripped, revealing the dress underneath—the exact same outfit she had texted to Alistair just days before. “What are you doing? Pull her off!” Alistair shouted. The guards finally moved in, and Brenda let go easily, offering little resistance. As her eyes met mine, I gave a small, satisfied nod. It was enough. The beating wasn’t severe. Even a police examination would barely register a minor injury. But in this setting, on this day, Sera’s reputation as the mistress would stick to her forever. Her supposedly bright future was over. The tight knot in my heart eased, if only slightly. Alistair clutched Sera close, shielding her. He looked at me, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them. “Eliza, you’ve gone too far.” I gave a cold laugh. “I’ve gone too far? If she’s going to be a mistress, she needs to be able to take a beating.” He turned to leave. “Alistair,” I called out, “if you take her out like this, you’ll never clear your name.” He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Eliza, isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” he said, his voice laced with venom. “You wanted proof that I cheated? Proof that Sera and I are… real?” “Well, as you wish.” After Alistair left, the students began to filter out. The looks I received were a mix of pity, confusion, and blame. This whole spectacle—it felt like I had gained nothing, only momentarily vented my rage on Sera. And in the process, I’d confirmed Alistair’s devotion to her and finalized the failure of my own marriage. In the struggle, Brenda hadn’t escaped unscathed, with a few cuts on her face. She hunched over, a fawning smile pasted on her face. “Mrs. Stone, I did what you asked. About my son’s college fund…” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I keep my promises.” Brenda’s youngest son had just started high school. Sera wasn’t Brenda’s biological daughter. She was the result of Sera’s father’s affair with a woman in the village. Because of this, Brenda had never accepted her, making Sera’s childhood a living nightmare. I met Sera when she was ten. The family was sending her to work in a factory to support them. When I visited the school as a donor, she knelt directly in front of me. Her eyes were resolute. She wanted nothing more than to read, to study, to make something of herself. I saw a ghost of myself in her. If someone had just extended a hand to me back then, perhaps my path wouldn’t have been so relentlessly difficult. Because I empathized with my younger self, I chose to shelter Sera, to give her a bright future. I sponsored her. When I learned the full extent of her abuse—especially the part about her sleeping in the pigpen—I gave Brenda a substantial sum and brought Sera home to raise her myself. For over a decade, we were not mother and daughter, but we were closer than most. I could have perhaps accepted Alistair cheating with anyone else. I could not accept the girl I considered my daughter climbing into my husband’s bed. Especially not the night I confronted her about their texts. She wore a flimsy lace slip and flaunted her triumph, right in front of me. “Eliza, you may have raised me, but all the money I eat and wear comes from Little Professor!” Her gaze was disdainful as she looked me up and down. “Honestly, I pity Little Professor. You look like this, and you’re such a bad cook.” I slapped her across the face. She ran crying to Alistair. Afterward, looking at my slightly red palm, the pain was mixed with an insidious, rising thrill. I realized: I only feel good when they hurt. I dragged her out of the abyss, hoisted her up from the pit. It was only fair that I send her back myself. 6 Alistair stayed by Sera’s side in the hospital for three days straight. A few days later, I received a choked-up phone call from Brenda’s son. “Aunt Eliza, I have nowhere else to go. Please, you have to save my mother!” From his fragmented story, I pieced together the truth. Alistair had used his influence. Sera had filed a police report, and her injuries were classified as Second-Degree Assault. Enough to detain and fine Brenda heavily. Alistair’s lawyer had dropped a line before leaving: If Brenda named others involved, the charges might be reduced. Brenda’s son wept. “Aunt Eliza, Mom told me to tell you that she won’t say anything.” I reassured the boy and guaranteed his mother would be fine. Alistair was only using Brenda to send a message. His true target was me. Predictably, his call came almost immediately. “I’ve talked to the university. You will attend a press conference this afternoon and clarify everything.” He added, chillingly, “If you need a psychiatric diagnosis, I can arrange the paperwork.” Westhaven was clearly preparing to protect Alistair at all costs. I laughed quietly. “And what happens if I refuse to cooperate?” His voice was tight with suppressed fury. “Eliza, don’t force my hand.” “I don’t want things to devolve into a scorched-earth scenario between us.” Peaceful? I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ultimately, I agreed to the press conference. On the drive over, I scrolled through the headlines. Westhaven Wife’s Meltdown: Jealousy or Mental Illness? Professor’s Wife to Kneel and Apologize to Foster Daughter/Student to Save Marriage? Abused or Adored? Leaks Detail Professor’s Wife’s Alleged Physical Abuse of Foster Child. When I arrived at the venue, it was packed with reporters. As soon as they saw me, they swarmed. The flashbulbs were so bright I could barely keep my eyes open. “Mrs. Stone, did you physically abuse your foster daughter?” “Mrs. Stone, do you have a severe mental health condition? Is that why you targeted all women near Professor Stone?” “Mrs. Stone, Professor Stone says you’re here to apologize on your knees to the student. Is that true?” I smiled sweetly. “Kneeling and apologizing? Well, then you better get ready to film. I wouldn’t want you to miss the moment.” I bypassed the crowd and headed to the backstage lounge. Alistair was gently feeding Sera water. Sera, pale and fragile, instinctively hid in Alistair’s arms when she saw me. “Mrs. Stone,” she whispered, timidly. “The Little Professor was just giving me water because I’m thirsty. We’re doing nothing wrong. Please don’t worry.” She added a few theatrical coughs. I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You’re already hugging. I suggest you go mouth-to-mouth. It’s cleaner and more hygienic, after all.” Sera’s eyes turned red. She pleaded, “Mrs. Stone, I respect that you funded my education, but my dignity won’t allow you to slander me.” “The Little Professor and I have always been pure and respectful. Nothing like the nasty things you imagine.” “Eliza, remember why you’re here,” Alistair warned. He put down the cup. The three of us took our places in front of the assembled reporters. Sera took the microphone first. She played the role of the innocent, wronged victim perfectly. “Mrs. Stone, I remember your kindness over the years, but you have defamed and slandered me and the Professor. If you do not offer me a traditional apology—a formal bow and a peace offering—today, I will reserve the right to pursue further legal action.” A cup of hot tea sat steaming in front of me. Smash! The scalding tea and my palm landed on Sera’s face at the same time. She screamed, clutching her cheek. Her carefully constructed image of the pure, delicate flower instantly shattered.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387548”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It had been seven years since I cut ties with my mother, and we ran into each other in a high-end department store. I was the mistress—the “other woman”—getting slapped and nearly stripped in public. She was the wealthy socialite I desperately grabbed, clinging to her like a lifeline. “Call the police for me. I don’t know her husband…” I fought to keep the last scrap of fabric covering me, pleading with her for help. The response was a stinging slap that landed harder than any the original wife had delivered, followed by her icy accusation: “Sienna Reed. Seven years ago, you seduced your best friend’s boyfriend, and now you’re throwing yourself at a married man for money? Are you really this irredeemable?” She turned and marched into a nearby boutique, emerging with ten designer bags, which she tossed onto me. “Apologize to this woman, the wife. Swear you’ll never sleep with another married man! Then I’ll let you be a Sinclair again!” I looked up, meeting her gaze, filled with undisguised disgust and disappointment. I swallowed the metallic tang of bile rising in my throat and articulated every word carefully: “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Not seven years ago, and certainly not today. As for the Sinclair name, I hadn’t wanted it for a long time… 1 My defiance earned me another blow. It was heavier, more vicious than the slaps from the woman claiming to be the wife. My ears rang, and my mouth filled with the taste of rust and blood. Yet, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp with frost: “You don’t apologize because you think being a homewrecker is honorable? How could I have given birth to a daughter as utterly shameless as you?” “I should have stayed home today. Running into you is truly bad luck.” My former best friend, Willow Stone, who had been watching the spectacle, stepped forward just in time, gently holding my mother, Eleanor Sinclair, and patting her chest to calm her. “Tori, maybe Sienna was in a desperate situation that led her to this… unsavory business. Don’t let it upset you, it’s not worth jeopardizing your health!” Then, she turned to the furious wife. “Ma’am, please rest assured, with my godmother and me here, she will never bother your husband again. Pick any bag in this store, and I’ll buy it for you as an apology on her behalf…” I cut her off, my voice raw. “I am not the mistress, and I don’t need your fake apology, Willow!” Willow’s eyes instantly welled up, and she looked seconds from tears. “Sienna, you can’t possibly still believe that the person who wasn’t truly loved is the one who loses the moral high ground, can you?” “If I had known you were so obsessed, maybe I should have reluctantly stepped aside back then and let you have Dean…” Bringing up the old affair was like lighting a fuse. My mother’s voice became shrill. “Are all the men in the world dead? Do you have to go after a married one?” The two of them, in just a few sentences, ripped my sordid past open for everyone to see. “Wait, so she’s a repeat offender? She stole her best friend’s man seven years ago? That is sick!” “Even her own mother can’t stand her. How does she have the gall to live like this?” “Someone should post this repeat offender online! Who knows how many families she’s already ruined!” A crime can always be pinned on a person if a reason is needed. With my own mother confirming my guilt, the label of “mistress” was cemented. The onlookers pulled out their phones, snapping photos of my exposed body and my bruised face. Some who had already filmed the beating prepared to upload the content. Willow suddenly knelt, a soundless cry tearing from her, begging the crowd to stop filming. “Please, everyone, give my friend another chance! My godmother and I will take her home and educate her. We guarantee she won’t do this again!” “The internet is brutal now. If she’s exposed like this, she’ll never be able to hold her head up again…” The enraged wife instantly flared up. “If she knew what ‘holding her head up’ meant, she wouldn’t have tried to sleep with my husband!” “Are you two in this together? Dressed so provocatively—maybe you’re all in the same line of work to afford shopping here!” My mother and Willow were collateral damage. The look they gave me suggested they wanted to tear me to shreds. At her limit, my mother turned and handed the wife a business card and a platinum credit card. “Please delete any photos and videos that show me or Willow. The one you caught in the act… we’ll see how she behaves later.” The wife, initially disdainful, saw the words ‘Eleanor Sinclair, CEO, Sinclair Group’ on the card, and her entire expression changed. “The formidable Eleanor Sinclair! The Iron Lady! This… this must be a misunderstanding, I…” The wife couldn’t afford to offend the Sinclair Group, and she certainly couldn’t figure out why Eleanor’s own daughter was involved in this mess. Confused, she moved to help me up. But my mother stopped her. 2 The wife froze, bewildered. “Ms. Sinclair, didn’t you put on this whole show just now so I would forgive her? I believe that with your strict supervision, she definitely won’t offend again…” My mother sneered, cementing my guilt without a moment of inquiry, just as she had seven years ago. “The first time she tried to steal a man, I kicked her out. I thought years of hardship would teach her a lesson and show her the error of her ways. Unfortunately…” The crowd and the wife understood instantly. Eager to flatter my mother, the wife handed back the credit card and offered her phone for inspection. “Ms. Sinclair, please take a look.” My mother clicked on the video of me being beaten before she arrived. I caught a fleeting glimpse of something in her eyes—a flicker of pain. I shook my head, quickly dismissing the delusion. Sure enough, the next second, she looked down on me and commanded again: “This is the last time I will clean up your mess. Apologize to this wife, swear you’ll never do this again, and these photos and videos won’t see the light of day.” My mother’s power could certainly stop any organized release of the content. But there were countless onlookers. How could she seal every single person’s lips? The moment she publicly condemned me, I was branded—a mistress everyone spat upon. Even knowing she wouldn’t believe me, I stood firm, speaking every word slowly: “I am not the mistress, and I won’t apologize to anyone!” The next second, she handed the phone back to the wife. “Since she is so stubborn, don’t hold back. She’s yours to deal with.” The wife looked uncertainly at my mother. “You want me to post the videos?” “Post them! She must pay the price for her behavior!” The wife obeyed. In minutes, people online had already dug up my information. My mother shoved the screen full of hateful messages in my face. “Sienna Reed, do you know what you did wrong?” “I didn’t do anything wrong!” Seeing my refusal to admit guilt, my mother trembled with fury, clutching her chest, her face pale. Willow, ever prepared, smoothly took a pill bottle from her bag and gave my mother the medication. She then motioned to the bodyguards nearby. “Take Tori home first. I’ll stay behind and handle Sienna.” My mother left without looking back. Willow then created a group chat on the spot, sending a large cash payment to every onlooker as an apology. “I apologize for the scene today, everyone! Please, be merciful with your words. Give my best friend a chance to turn her life around!” Having taken the money, the crowd praised Willow for her kindness and beauty, though they reminded her to be cautious, especially with “people like me.” After the crowd dispersed, I wrapped myself tightly in the coat my mother had left behind and stumbled toward the exit. Willow grabbed my arm. “Sienna, come home with me. You don’t know how worried Tori has been about you all these years…” I wrenched myself free, sneering. “Willow Stone, the audience is gone. You can stop acting.” 3 Ten years ago, after Willow’s mother and my father both passed away from illness, Willow and I became inseparable best friends through our shared grief. My mother, out of sympathy, doted on Willow like her own daughter. As our two families grew closer, my mother unexpectedly fell for Willow’s father, Richard. But Richard was still grieving his late wife and kept my mother at arm’s length. Frustrated by unrequited love, my mother poured more attention into Willow, almost granting her every wish. I, however, disagreed with her pursuit, telling her she couldn’t force affection, and a rift grew between us. Even with Willow’s mediation, my mother and I never regained our former closeness. It was during that period that I met my first love, Dean Campbell. Unwilling to let my mother know I was dating, I kept the relationship a secret, telling only Willow. I treated her like a sister, sharing my romantic joy and every little gift Dean gave me. I never imagined that while she offered me congratulations, she was secretly seducing Dean. On Dean’s birthday, I secretly prepared a surprise for him. When I pushed open his apartment door, I saw two bodies tangled together on the sofa. Willow grabbed a shirt in a panic to cover herself. And Dean, the man who swore he loved me, averted his gaze. “Sienna, let me explain…” I didn’t cry or scream. I just quietly asked Willow: “You already have all of my mother’s love, and you have my friendship. Why did you need to steal my boyfriend, too?” She wept, kneeling to beg for my forgiveness, but then she leaned closer and whispered: “Who told your mother to obsess over my dad?” In that moment, I swore I would get my mother back from her. I ran home, desperate to tell my mother that Willow was a horrible person—the kind of homewrecker she despised. But I never expected Willow and Dean to beat me to it. Willow was already clutching my mother, tears streaming down her face. “Tori, I know Sienna has always hated that you care for me so much, but how could she… how could she try to steal my boyfriend?” I argued my case, but my mother didn’t believe me. She was infatuated with Richard. Willow was the most important link to maintaining a relationship with him. My words were lighter than Willow’s tears. Without hearing me out, she forced me to apologize to Willow. “Sienna Reed, apologize to Willow! Promise you won’t harass Dean again!” Watching her protect Willow, seeing Willow’s triumphant, challenging look from behind my mother—my youthful pride overcame my pain and grief. “I didn’t do anything wrong! She stole my boyfriend!” “Irremediable! Get out! Don’t come back until you realize your mistake!” 4 I slammed the door, left, and by working multiple jobs and relying on student loans, I not only completed my degree but graduated with honors. By then, my mother, who had moved closer to marrying Richard, was in a good mood and personally invited me home. She even threw a celebration dinner for me. Dean was there, too—as Willow’s fiancé. After all those years, he was still greedy for me. He followed me into the backyard when I went out for some fresh air. He grabbed me from behind. “Sienna, I can’t forget you. Willow can’t compare to you… Let’s get back together…” Disgusted, I struggled violently and slapped him hard. The commotion brought everyone running. Dean instantly changed his tune, pointing to the red mark on his face, feigning deep sorrow. “Eleanor, Sienna tried to seduce me again, and when I refused, she hit me…” I was shaking with rage, pointing at Dean. “That’s a lie! You tried to force yourself on me!” I then turned to Willow. “Control your trash!” Willow, who knew exactly what kind of man Dean was, still chose to slander me. My mother looked utterly devastated and slapped me for the first time. “Sienna Reed, do you have to try and take everything Willow likes?” “Get out! I never want to see you again! I don’t have a daughter like you!” That moment, my heart turned to ash. I didn’t argue another word. I just turned and left. After cutting ties, I lived a quiet, ordinary life on my own. But fate was not done with me. A routine physical revealed hereditary liver cancer. It was the same disease that had taken my father. To raise the massive surgical fees, I worked several jobs after my shift. My presence at the luxury store that day was for a courier job—delivering a reserved bag to a client’s significant other. I never expected to be caught up in such a horrifying ordeal. The ring of my phone broke my memory. I answered, hearing the impatient voice of a man. “Why aren’t you here yet?” “I’m on my way.” I hung up and looked up to meet Willow’s excited, malevolent eyes. “I knew it. After years of luxury, you couldn’t possibly survive on your own! So you did become a cheap mistress, didn’t you?” 5 Ignoring Willow’s taunt, I quickly bought a new set of decent clothes, changed, and rushed to the delivery address. The cramping in my stomach was relentless, coming in sharp, agonizing waves. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. But I couldn’t stop. This courier fee was for next week’s medication. The moment the client opened the door, my body went rigid. It was Dean Campbell. “Sienna. Long time no see.” I recoiled violently, turning to run. But he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the apartment. “Why run? Didn’t you come here to deliver the bag?” I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t recognized Dean’s voice on the phone. Otherwise, I would have died before accepting this delivery. The door slammed shut, and Dean’s hungry eyes raked over my body. He reached out to touch my face. “Sienna, you’re so thin…” I slapped his hand away, furious. “Dean! You are marrying Willow Stone! What did you trick me into here for?” Dean forced a helpless look, stepping forward to hug me. “Sienna, if you hadn’t blown things up back then, you would be the one I was marrying! I’ll take care of you now, give you a grand a month, you don’t have to work so hard…” “I just wanted to help you! This bag is for you. Do you like it?” Like it? Absolutely not! If I hadn’t gone to pick up that damn bag, why would I have been wrongfully beaten and called a mistress? The anger surged, and I mustered all my strength, delivering a vicious slap to his face. “I would rather die poor, or die sick, than touch a single penny of your filthy money!” Dean clutched his face, his eyes instantly turning dark and menacing. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Sienna!” He lunged, pinning me tightly against the sofa. I struggled desperately, my hand finding a heavy, hard object in the confusion. I slammed it against his head! Dean cried out in pain, his grip loosening. I seized the chance, scrambling up, stumbling, and flinging the door open to escape. As soon as the door opened, a sharp slap sent a wave of blood into my mouth. “Sienna Reed! Do you love stealing other people’s husbands this much?” Willow’s voice was wild, full of insane fury. Time, horrifyingly, was seven years ago again. I was disheveled, my hair a mess, blood dripping from my lip. Inside, Dean was clutching his bleeding forehead, his silk robe hanging open. To anyone looking, it was the perfect picture of an illicit entanglement. My mother’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She didn’t have a word left for me. She simply tilted her head slightly and spoke two words to the bodyguard behind her: “Tie her up.”

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My wife, a renowned medical expert, was celebrating her childhood sweetheart’s birthday—a lavish cruise along the New England coast—the night our son was food poisoned. In a past life, I had forced her to come home to save him. Her ‘sweetheart,’ Lincoln Reed, went out on his yacht alone, got drunk, and drowned. She didn’t blame me immediately. We remained a loving couple, at least on the surface. She just put a slow-acting poison in my dinner and watched me die, my internal organs failing. Her eyes were raw, scarlet with pure hatred. “Do you know how much Lincoln suffered down there, Rhys?” she had hissed. “Now, you try the taste of death.” I woke up again on that very night, the night Owen was poisoned. This time, I didn’t make her come home. When she finally saw his little body, she went mad. 1 “Mr. Sullivan, it’s terrible! Little Owen ate something bad. He’s throwing up violently, he has awful diarrhea, and now he’s unconscious!” Owen’s nanny, Martha, burst into my study, distraught and weeping. I clenched my fists. I was back. Owen was alive, the night hadn’t fully descended, and there was still time. Owen wasn’t my biological son; he was the posthumous child of my wife, Delaney Shaw’s, older brother. Her sister-in-law died from postpartum hemorrhage after giving birth. I felt compassion for a boy born without parents and agreed with Delaney to adopt him. We both treated him like our own son. Hearing he was poisoned, I shot up. “Call Dr. Lewis immediately for a detox protocol. Prep the car. I’ll go get Delaney myself.” Delaney was the head of the Emergency Department at Seattle General, a specialist in toxicology and detox. She had warned me repeatedly that her work phone was off during her shift, and I was absolutely forbidden from calling or disturbing her work. I knew tonight was Lincoln’s birthday party—an elaborate cruise on the Sound she’d promised to attend. If I dragged her away, I’d ruin her ‘fun.’ But if I didn’t tell her, she would hold it against me forever. My car stopped abruptly outside the hospital entrance just as Delaney walked out, ending her shift. She frowned, seeing me rush out of the car, my face etched with urgency. “I told you I wasn’t coming home tonight, Rhys. It’s Lincoln’s birthday, and I promised to go out on the yacht. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Her voice was tight with annoyance. Parked beside the curb was a sleek, black Range Rover. I didn’t need to ask; it was Lincoln Reed’s car, waiting for her. Lincoln was Delaney’s childhood sweetheart. Years ago, his family had scorned Delaney—a mere junior doctor with no visible prospects—and forced him to marry the daughter of a tech billionaire. Tragically, his wife died in an accident a year later, and Lincoln, the ‘Golden Boy,’ returned to Seattle. Delaney immediately began making frequent trips to his sprawling estate. “Lincoln is back, and he has severe depression,” she’d tell me. “I’m a doctor; I’m just going to check on him, prescribe some medication. He’ll be fine soon.” “Why are you always so paranoid? I was just helping Lincoln as his doctor. I stayed one night at his house. Why do you make such a big deal out of everything?” she’d snapped at me. “If I wanted to be with Lincoln, I would have married him. Why would I have married you?” In her eyes, I was the villain, the obstacle to her and Lincoln. In the last life, I had countless fights with Delaney over him. This time, I didn’t care about our marriage. I stood squarely in front of her, meeting her eyes. “Delaney, it’s Owen. He was poisoned. He ate those artisanal treats Lincoln sent over yesterday. He’s been vomiting and seizing. Our doctor fears it’s a severe toxin and needs you to come look at him. He’s so small, he can’t handle this.” Delaney looked at me with pure disbelief. “Rhys Sullivan, are you insane? You’re making up a story about our son being poisoned just to stop me from going out with Lincoln? Because I have a specialty in toxicology, you think this is a clever lie?” “How could you be so cruel? How dare you pretend to be his father.”

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Five years. Five years of secret dating Rhys Kingston. On the day of my twenty-fourth birthday, he married the ghost of his past. My silent question—the one that screamed in my eyes—meant nothing to him. “Delaney has late-stage cancer,” Rhys said, his voice flat with forced martyrdom. “She has less than a month left. This is her last wish. I can’t let her die with a regret like that hanging over her.” Delaney Cole leaned against his shoulder, her eyes flicking toward me with unmistakable smugness. “I’m not really one for tragedy,” Delaney purred. “A marriage should be a celebration! Let’s turn this birthday party into a wedding reception—right now.” With one casual demand from Delaney, the private dinner I thought was for my twenty-fourth birthday became the spontaneous party for her and Rhys’s sudden wedding. My older brother, Adam, and our friends rotated around the table, offering toasts and well wishes. When it came to my turn, I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. Under the harsh, warning pressure of Rhys’s eyes, I picked up my glass, my expression perfectly neutral. “To the newlyweds,” I said, my voice steady. “May you be happily stuck with each other for life.” 1 The air in the private dining room solidified into a thick, uncomfortable silence. Every head snapped toward me. Rhys’s knuckles were white where he gripped his glass. He tapped the empty space beside him. “Stop the drama, Stone. Avery, come sit over here.” That seat—the one immediately to his right—had always been mine. Now, it had an unwelcome, temporary occupant: Delaney Cole. I ignored his command and took the seat next to my brother, Adam. Rhys’s eyes turned dangerously dark. Adam laughed, trying to smooth over the tension. “Rhys, we all know you treat Avery like a little sister, but you’re a married man now. You can’t be so casual. Delaney will get the wrong idea.” Delaney wrapped her arm around his, pulling their bodies closer until they were nearly touching. Rhys let out a short, hollow laugh. “Relax. I just want Delaney to leave this life without regrets. This marriage is on a one-month timer, then it auto-voids.” He gave me a pointed look. “Besides, if I were ever truly going to marry her, I wouldn’t have waited until she was dying.” Adam and the others scoffed. “Come on, man,” a friend said. “When Delaney first moved overseas, you were depressed for six months. You were the most eligible, sought-after bachelor in the whole scene, and all you did was hang out with us, swearing off serious relationships.” “You kept saying you weren’t interested, and yet the minute Delaney snaps her fingers, you’re running to the courthouse? Nobody believes you weren’t waiting for her.” “Yeah, Rhys, you were wasted one night and admitted you were waiting for her to come back. I’m not making it up; everyone here heard it.” A chorus of drunken affirmations followed. I just stared at my drink, taking long, slow sips, a searing, spasmodic pain contracting in my chest. I’d been with Rhys since I was eighteen. At twenty-two, I wanted us to go public. He told me he was an investor in my brother’s company, and going public would invite malicious rumors about our relationship. He claimed I was too young to handle the scrutiny. At twenty-three, he promised me. Wait until you turn twenty-four, and if we’re still together, we’ll tell everyone. Today was my twenty-fourth birthday. And he married Delaney Cole. Delaney gave me a sickeningly sweet smile. “Avery, even if our marriage is for show, we’re legally wed. You’ve been getting nice birthday gifts from Rhys for years, haven’t you? Shouldn’t you offer a tribute to his happy occasion? I really love the necklace you’re wearing. Can I have it?” My fingers involuntarily curled, and a knot tightened in my throat. This wasn’t just a necklace. It was the gift Rhys had given me on my eighteenth birthday—the same year he first told me he loved me. Five years. I had never once taken it off. Adam saw my silence and tried to intervene. “Avery, you know Rhys has always carried a torch for Delaney. They missed so many years. Just be the bigger person and let them have this.” I looked at Rhys. He hadn’t said a word. Then, Delaney slid off her seat and settled herself onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck in a childish, seductive display. “Rhys, I really, really love it. Buy me an identical one, okay? Then I can die in peace.” Rhys chuckled softly, pulling her close to his side. “Stop talking about dying. That necklace is just a cheap trinket, anyway.” He turned to me, the light in his eyes cold and transactional. “Avery, since your sister-in-law likes it, just give it to her.” I didn’t know how to speak. For five years, I had sacrificed everything for this man. My reputation. My dignity. My own desires. I’d done everything he wanted. When he asked me to trade my comfortable white tees for sleek, revealing slip dresses, I did it. When he said he wanted the thrill of secrecy, I kept our relationship underground. But in this singular moment, I realized the heart I had offered him for five years was, to him, worth less than a piece of cheap costume jewelry. While Delaney was still basking in his attention, and as the table roared with approval, she captured his lips in a long, sensual kiss. Still silent, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of my tears or my rage, I unclasped the chain and placed it gently on the table. “Mr. Kingston is right,” I said, my voice empty. “It’s just a cheap trinket. Enjoy it.” 2 Rhys’s gaze locked onto me, a furious, frustrated fire smoldering in his pupils. He squeezed Delaney’s arm until she cried out in pain before he reluctantly loosened his grip. He sneered. “Since Avery is being so generous, Delaney, take it.” Delaney picked it up, examined it for a few seconds, and then wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It’s actually not that pretty. Far less impressive than the things you usually buy me, Rhys.” She tossed it dismissively to the catering assistant clearing the table. “Here. You can have it. You might get a few bucks for it.” Watching the necklace, the symbol of five years of my life, fall amidst the food scraps and dirty napkins, the blood in my veins seemed to condense into ice. Rhys noted my stark white face, his voice sharp and demanding. “What are you waiting for? We’re celebrating my wedding tonight. Everyone drink up. No one leaves early.” My face was the color of chalk. “No, thank you. You all enjoy yourselves. I have other plans.” The moment the words left my mouth, Rhys’s expression turned venomous. I ignored it, turned my back, and walked out of the private room. By the time I reached the secure parking level of his penthouse, my phone was still notification-free. Rhys hadn’t sent a single text, a single apology, a single explanation. But he had updated his social media. I tapped the app. The video showed him and Delaney feeding each other a single cookie, culminating in a passionate, dare-you kiss. As their lips intertwined, everyone in the comments gushed over the beautiful, tragic love story of Rhys and Delaney—five years apart, finally reunited—and no one in that cheering crowd knew about the woman who had been hidden for those same five years: Avery Stone. In the video, Delaney was blushing, all captivating femininity, as she pressed a provocative kiss to his throat. Rhys didn’t pull away. The look in his eyes—that dangerous, barely contained frenzy—was the look I knew from our most intimate moments. Now it belonged to Delaney. Rhys Kingston, if this is your choice, then I’ll grant you your wish. I gave a dry, self-mocking laugh. Then, I tapped the ‘Like’ button on his post. After that, I silently packed and cleared every last trace of my existence from the penthouse apartment he had given me. I had begged him countless times to go public. I had cajoled, threatened, and even, in the hazy aftermath of passion, whispered the question: When will we tell everyone? Rhys always had an excuse, a postponement. Until Delaney. For her, he introduced her to his entire inner circle, instructed everyone to call her his wife, announced their marriage, and took her to the courthouse. In this moment, I saw with brutal clarity: He wasn’t afraid of going public. He just wasn’t in love with me. Once everything was done, I drove back to my own apartment. The door had barely closed when my parents, currently overseas, video-called. “Sweetheart,” my mother chirped, “do you remember Kellan Croft? You two grew up together, and he’s back in the States. You should find some time to meet up.” During my years with Rhys, my parents had tried to set me up with countless good men, just waiting for me to say yes. Every time, I refused. I was twenty-four now. Starting a new life, a new romance, wasn’t too late. Seeing the cautious hope in my parents’ eyes, I didn’t hesitate this time. “Okay,” I said. “I will.” Immediately after, I submitted my resignation to Rhys’s company’s HR. My loyalty to Rhys had been absolute. I started as an intern the day I graduated, and to help him win a crucial bid, I’d stayed up for days, analyzing data, sourcing materials, and perfecting the pitch. I lost ten pounds during that stretch. Rhys had been so tender, so worried, sending his personal chef to the office with gourmet meals. Back then, even in secrecy, his devotion to me was undeniable. Now, that special attention belonged to Delaney. Moments after the resignation email went out, Rhys called. The moment I answered, the line went dead silent. In the past, no matter who initiated the call, I was always the one to break the silence and find a topic. This time, I couldn’t muster the energy. Just as I was about to hang up, assuming he wouldn’t speak, his voice—cold and laced with annoyance—came through. “Avery Stone, what is the meaning of the social media like and this resignation letter?” “Delaney has one month to live. Can’t you wait even that long?” he challenged, his voice rising. “Are you truly not afraid I’ll break up with you for good?” I used to be terrified. So, I played the good girl, the compliant one. I wouldn’t play anymore. “Rhys,” I said, my voice flat. “Then let’s break up.” 3 The day after the breakup, I received an email confirming my resignation was accepted. The HR tone was curt. I was instructed to collect my belongings immediately and warned never to set foot in the building again. Rhys was clearly furious. Walking past the cubicles, I heard the snide whispers. “The only reason Mr. Kingston gave her the time of day was because she was the partner’s sister. She actually thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Kingston. Now she’s just running off with her tail between her legs.” “So what if he spoiled her? She embarrassed the real Mrs. Kingston the other night. She deserved to be fired.” Deaf to the mockery, I focused on completing my final handoff. The moment the paperwork was stamped, I would be free of Rhys forever. “Hold it right there.” Rhys’s cold voice cut through the air behind me. Delaney was leaning against him, looking frail but shooting me a triumphant glance. “The confidential information for this morning’s bid was leaked. I heard that Ms. Stone, the secretary, handled those files.” I turned to Rhys, utterly stunned. “You suspect me?” “We’ll know for sure once we check the computer,” he said, his eyes devoid of emotion. At his nod, a pair of IT staff immediately moved to my desk, sitting in my chair. It felt like a slap across the face. I had poured my life into those bid documents, and now Rhys was accusing me of sabotage. “Don’t touch my computer!” They weren’t just looking for files; they intended to restore everything I had ever deleted. If they did that, the hundreds of private photos of Rhys and me—and the undeniable proof of our five-year relationship—would be revealed to the entire company. Security guards were blocking the way. I was helpless. “Rhys, tell them to stop. I didn’t leak anything.” He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, his face a mask of iron. “Did you leak the files?” The crowd murmured, the insults sharp. “Of course, it was Avery Stone. Why else is she reacting like this?” “She didn’t get the boss, so she got her revenge by sending the bid to a competitor? That’s sick.” Rhys cut them off, his voice ice. “Everyone shut up. Are the files restored?” “Restored!” I whipped my head around. “Don’t open it, Rhys.” He squeezed my wrist harder. “Open it!” As the intimate photos flashed across the screen for everyone to see, it felt like my last shred of privacy had been ripped away. The shame was so overwhelming I nearly broke down in tears right there. Rhys’s face was unreadable for a moment. Then, he smiled. He casually surveyed the digital evidence. “Avery Stone, are you a delusion case? Where did you find these pictures, and how badly did you Photoshop my face onto some stranger’s body?” The collective laughter of the crowd crashed over me. In that moment, the humiliation was a tide, threatening to drown me. He had married Delaney in secret, and I accepted it. He turned my birthday into their reception, and I tolerated it. But he would never acknowledge our life, even now, when it would save me. Delaney mocked me. “Avery, do you love Rhys? If you admit it, I might actually let you have him.” Rhys frowned slightly at her, then dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. “Don’t get involved in Avery’s nonsense, Delaney. Everyone here knows I treat her like a little sister. If you like those pictures, I’ll hire a professional to edit a few good ones of us.” He was retaliating for the breakup. He was deliberately denying me, humiliating me. But the words were still countless tiny knives slicing into my heart. I dug my nails into my palms until I drew blood, forcing myself not to cry. Delaney smiled, satisfied. “Rhys, you’re so cruel to break a girl’s heart like that! At least spare her some dignity. What if she runs away, like I did years ago? You might not get her back this time.” Rhys was absolutely certain I wouldn’t leave. “Where would she go?” he scoffed. “She’s either hanging around her brother or tagging along behind me. She’s throwing a tantrum. In three days, she’ll be begging me to reinstate her.” In the past, our fights never lasted more than thirty-six hours, and I was always the first to back down and come home. But the Avery Stone he was talking about was gone. How long would it take for him to realize it? 4 I was numb to the surrounding laughter and insults. After the IT staff left, I looked Rhys in the eye. “Mr. Kingston, the investigation proves the leak had nothing to do with me. Don’t you think you owe me an apology?” The crowd erupted in angry whispers. “Is she insane? Demanding an apology from Mr. Kingston? Who does she think she is?” “He’s letting her walk free! She should be grateful. No one can prove she didn’t do it.” Rhys frowned in annoyance. “I was following protocol by checking your computer before your departure. You want an apology for that?” He threw his hands up. “Avery Stone, are you crazy, or am I?” My voice remained eerily calm. “Three hundred photos on that computer. You know exactly where they came from.” “Five years, Rhys. All I’m asking for is one apology. Is that really too much?” His expression instantly became conflicted. Delaney walked toward me, her face full of forced kindness. “Today was a misunderstanding, Avery. Rhys and I didn’t handle things well. I’m sorry if I offended you.” As she spoke, she suddenly dissolved into a fit of harsh, racking coughs. Rhys’s tension instantly flared. He rushed forward to support her, then whirled on me, his face contorted in anger. “What did you say to her? What did you do?” He looked at me as if I were a dangerous criminal. “Avery Stone, take your anger out on me. She’s a patient. Why are you deliberately trying to upset her?” Delaney shook her head weakly. “I’m fine, Rhys. She’s just young. I’ll talk to her.” She gently pulled away from Rhys and walked toward me. I caught the fleeting, triumphant smirk in her eyes. Before I could even process what I was seeing, she deliberately let her legs buckle and collapsed onto the marble floor. The room went silent. Everyone saw her fall, unassisted. Except Rhys. He charged at me like a madman, shoving me away with brutal force. I stumbled, hitting the edge of a nearby desk with a sickening thud. A searing spike of pain shot through my lower abdomen, and my vision whitened. Rhys didn’t spare me a single glance. He was kneeling over Delaney, his voice full of protective fury, directed straight at me. “Avery Stone, you better pray Delaney is okay. Otherwise, I will make your life a living hell.” The man I had loved for five years was threatening to destroy me for the woman who had just faked her own fall. The last vestige of hope in my heart evaporated. Suddenly, a woman screamed. I looked down. My hand was covered in a slick, dark crimson. It was coming from me. Before everything faded to black, I saw Adam, his face pale with terror and rage, rushing toward me. He lifted me gently, his hands trembling. “Don’t be afraid, sis. I’m here.” As Rhys carried Delaney into the emergency room, he received a call from my brother. For the first time ever, Adam was screaming at him. “Rhys, I’ll deal with how you treated Avery later!” “Get over here right now. She just miscarried. The baby is gone.”

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Staring at the official declaration of my mother’s death, my first thought was that the hospital had called the wrong number. I had settled all the bills before leaving. Every single one. Today was supposed to be the day for the cremation, the burial. Why would I still owe them money? The voice on the other end of the line sighed, a thin, impatient sound. “Family member needs to come pay the balance. How else are we supposed to cover the treatment? $18,736.” “Are you sure this is for Evelyn Flynn?” They confirmed it with aggressive certainty. “Yes, ma’am. Hurry up.” I froze. Ma’am? My jaw set, I immediately drove back to the hospital. When the clerk handed me the bill, I glanced at the date. It was for new medication and treatment, all opened today. Three days ago, my mother had died in this hospital after a failed resuscitation effort. Who were these imported drugs and procedures being administered to now? 1 A cold sense of alarm washed over me. Using “insurance reimbursement” as a pretense, I had the clerk print every single chart, every test result, every single line item. I checked the records. My mother, in for half a month with what was initially diagnosed as pre-infarction symptoms, had racked up an unimaginable $450,000 in charges. They had performed ten-plus cardiac catheterizations. The list showed over thirty cardiac stents installed. Thirty? And five separate CT scans in a single twenty-four-hour period. My face went rigid. I walked straight to my mother’s primary attending physician, Dr. Wallace. “Doctor, my mother died here three days ago. How can you justify a new bill, dated today?” Dr. Wallace blinked, but quickly composed himself. “It does happen. Occasionally, we find a balance that was under-charged upon discharge. We simply ask the family to remit.” “This hospital has never had a problem with overcharging, rest assured.” I pointed to the dates on the new bill. “These are clearly newly prescribed medications. My mother is gone. Who were they given to?” He pointed at the framed commendations on his wall, a flicker of genuine anger—or perhaps just panic—crossing his features. “I understand your grief, but you are insulting me! I’ve been practicing for thirty years, and I’ve never been accused of something so foul.” “Please leave!” I tried to argue, but he grabbed my arm and shoved me out of the consultation room. “If you have questions, take them to the Director’s office! I’ll cooperate with any investigation. This is preposterous!” I fought to keep my voice even, trying to appeal to his professional responsibility. “But there is clearly a problem with the patient’s record. Shouldn’t you, as the doctor in charge, be accountable?” Before I could finish, a few nurses began pushing me further away. “There’s no problem here! Don’t try to start a scene! Our security is not to be messed with!” one warned. “Are you trying to hurt other patients? Just because your own mother passed away, you want to stop other people from getting treatment?” At this, the other patients waiting in the hall grew agitated and started to shove me themselves. My composure was shattered. “You won’t give me an explanation? Fine. I’m calling the police.” The second the words left my mouth, a familiar, smooth voice cut through the noise behind me. “Calling the police? Asher Flynn, what is all this noise about? This is a hospital.” I turned. Jude Becker, my brother’s keeper, a doctor at this very hospital, was pushing his way through the crowd, frowning. I took a deep, centering breath and thrust the new bill at him. “Jude, your hospital’s billing is ridiculous. I want an explanation.” But instead of taking the bill, he raised his voice, loud enough for the waiting crowd to hear. “That’s impossible.” “Asher, your mother was known to be… tight with money when she was alive. I see the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. You’re just like her.” My brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” He adjusted the lapels of his pristine white coat, adopting the air of professional authority. “I mean that money should be earned honestly. Asher, I’m telling you this as a friend: your family is already wealthy. It doesn’t look good to try and stiff the medical bills.” What? I was dumbstruck. My rage boiled, threatening to blow the top off my skull. “Jude Becker, you are a professional. You need to take responsibility for your words. The bill is right here, plain as day. Are you accusing me of trying to game the system?” 2 The phrase “game the system” brought every head in the waiting area snapping toward me. I fixed Jude with a cold glare. We had known each other for over twenty years. My mother had practically considered him a godson. It was on his insistent recommendation that we chose this hospital for her stay. Yet, three days ago, when she died, Jude hadn’t even shown his face. And now, he was saying this. It was a profound, sickening moment of disillusionment. Jude gave me a look of deep, patronizing concern, expertly diverting the attention and pinning the blame on me. “Asher, I know you’ve always been impulsive. When your mother was alive, she indulged you endlessly. But she’s gone now. You have to grow up. You can’t keep acting out!” “I understand your grief, but you can’t take your loss and pain out on a professional medical staff! Your mother’s physician is one of our most highly respected, a man with thirty years of spotless reputation.” The moment he finished, the eyes of the crowd shifted, confirming I was the villain. “Unbelievable. His own friend, a doctor, is saying this? The patient’s family must be a nightmare.” “The poor woman is gone. Go home and grieve! You’re clogging up the line. We fought for these appointments. Just because his mom died, he wants to deny us our right to treatment?” “This is why doctor-patient relations are so strained. It’s because of people like him!” I’d never realized how deeply Jude’s calculations ran. He had expertly manipulated the narrative, painting me as an unhinged aggressor. I slapped the stack of printed medical records into his chest. “You say I’m acting out? Fine.” “Then do me a favor. As a medical professional and my dearest friend, read these charts, in front of everyone, and explain them.” The slight rigidity in Jude’s expression was all I needed to confirm my suspicion. A real doctor, and a true friend, hearing of alleged fraud, would immediately seize the records to investigate. Why was his first reaction deflection? His demeanor softened, suddenly all concern, and he tried to steer me toward his private office, clearly attempting to manage the situation away from prying eyes. But I planted my feet and pushed him away. “Whatever you have to say, we should say it now. I want to know what condition my mother had that required five CT scans in one day. Why was she given eight bags of antibiotics in a single afternoon? And IV fluids totaling over two hundred pounds?” “My mother was in the hospital for half a month with pre-infarction symptoms, and I paid over $450,000!” “And the most outrageous part? She’s been dead for three days, and your hospital is still generating new fees!” “If this hospital can’t provide an immediate explanation, I’m escalating this to the state health authority.” With that, I pulled out my phone and dialed the Bureau of Health and Safety. Around me, the hostile patients gasped, their voices hushed. “Two hundred pounds in one day? That’s more than a person weighs. They would have pumped her full of water. That’s insane.” “Wait, the woman is dead. How can there be a new bill?” “My God. This isn’t just over-billing. It sounds like they might have killed her.” 3 The moment the call connected, Jude’s face went white. He lunged, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. I held him in a tight glare. “Jude, you’re not the attending physician. Why are you reacting like this?” “Or is this connected to you?” I distinctly saw the vein in Jude’s forehead twitch. His eyes darted away. I tried to wrestle my phone back, but in the struggle, he slammed it onto the tile floor. “That’s enough!” he yelled. The screen splintered into a thousand shards. I raised an eyebrow, facing him. “Are you getting nervous?” His eyes were wide, furious. “I am not nervous! I’m sick of your disgusting, underhanded tactics!” He then pulled out his own phone and shoved a screenshot of a text thread directly into my face. “Asher Flynn, I tried to warn you. Since you’re so determined to destroy yourself, I have no choice. As a doctor, I must maintain my professional integrity.” Looking at the alleged chat log, my heart hammered against my ribs. The text thread on his screen read: Me: Hey Jude, I spent so much money, and Mom still died. What a waste. Any way to get some of it back? Jude: What are you thinking? Jude: The hospital won’t refund without a major incident. Your family is rich; why do you care so much? Besides, the doctors did everything they could. Me: Hmph. That old bastard, Dr. Wallace, deliberately prescribed the most expensive drugs. Whatever. Get me the refund, and I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive whiskey. My temples throbbed violently. My fingers started to tremble. “I never said that! Who is that? Just because it has my profile picture doesn’t mean it’s me!” I tried to explain, but this time, no one was listening. Someone in the crowd shoved me hard. “I almost believed you! You set this whole thing up just to blackmail the hospital for money!” “You have no shame! Your mother’s death was a tragedy, but what does that have to do with the doctor? You’re so disrespectful.” “Honestly, maybe her dying was just karma for having a son like this!” I was outnumbered. I couldn’t fight fifty voices at once. But through the angry throng, I watched Jude smirk, give me a small, silent wave, and mouth the word, “Bye.” Then, he casually shredded the medical print-outs and tossed the confetti into the air before walking back into his office, hands in his pockets. A wave of vertigo washed over me. Heart racing, hands shaking, cold sweat prickling my skin. The floor beneath me suddenly felt like cotton. Pushed and jostled, I was forced out of the clinic wing. I stumbled, unable to regain my footing, and finally collapsed onto my knees a few feet from the main entrance. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night while caring for my mother for the last two weeks; my body was already at its breaking point. People walked by continuously. I instinctively reached out a hand, trying to find someone to help, but through the swirling fog of my fading consciousness, I heard a shout nearby. “Don’t help him! He’s trying to scam the hospital!” “Be careful! He’s a grifter! You’ll lose everything if you touch him!” My vision swam, the light scattering into fragments. I couldn’t fight the pull of the ground. As my eyes slid shut, the last thing I saw was the relentless stream of people walking right past me.

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“Mortgage Payment Due: $4,000. Payee Account: Sarah Jennings.” I stared at the text message that had just flashed across my husband’s phone screen. Sarah Jennings. His ex-wife’s name. “Four thousand?” I held the phone up, forcing him to look at the screen. “Who are you paying this to?” David Miller’s face went immediately pale. “Lily, wait, I can explain…” “Explain what?” I cut him off. “We’ve been married for five years. You told me your salary was $7,000 a month, and you gave me $2,000 for household expenses.” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “So, where did the other $5,000 go? No, wait. It’s $4,000 for her. What is your actual salary, David?” He said nothing. I looked at him, my heart already freezing in my chest. Five years into our marriage, I discovered my husband was paying his ex-wife’s mortgage. 1 I looked at that text message for a full three minutes. Mortgage Payment Due: $4,000. Payee Account: Sarah Jennings. Principal Remaining: $432,000. Term Remaining: 15 years. Sarah Jennings. David Miller’s ex-wife. The woman he divorced six years ago. “Lily, please listen to me…” David reached out, trying to retrieve his phone. I took a step back. “Tell me what?” “There’s a reason for this… this whole arrangement.” “What reason?” He fell silent again. I looked at the man standing in front of me. Five years married. A three-year-old son. I genuinely believed we had built a life, a home. “David Miller.” I used his full name. “Tell me, what is your salary?” “Seven… seven thousand.” “Liar.” I opened his banking app. He had a recurring automatic transfer set up on his checking account. The 15th of every month: a transfer of $4,000, recipient: Sarah Jennings. Setup date: March 2019. March 2019. We got married in February 2019. Meaning, starting the second month of our marriage, he had been paying his ex-wife’s mortgage. “Five years.” My voice was unnervingly calm. “Five years.” David kept his head down. “How much?” He wouldn’t answer. I did the math myself. $4,000 multiplied by 12 is $48,000. $48,000 multiplied by 5 is $240,000. Two hundred forty thousand dollars. “Two hundred forty thousand dollars,” I articulated the number. “You’ve paid $240,000 toward her mortgage.” David finally looked up. “Lily, I owe her.” I was stunned. “What did you say?” “When we divorced, I was the one in the wrong,” he mumbled. “We bought the house together, but it was only in her name. I walked away with nothing, but I promised to help her with the mortgage.” “You promised to help her?” “Yes.” “Then why did you marry me?” He was silent. “David, why did you marry me?” My voice rose. “If you owed her, if you were going to pay her mortgage, why did you marry me? Why did you let me pinch every penny to make ends meet?” “Lily…” “Two thousand dollars a month!” I cut him off. “You gave me a $2,000 allowance, forcing me to budget down to the last dime! I had to buy the cheapest groceries and wait for sales to buy our son new clothes!” I laughed again, this time with pure bitterness. “I thought you just had a low salary. I thought we were struggling together. I never once complained.” “I know…” “You know what?” I looked straight at him. “Do you know how I’ve lived for the last five years? When my mother was hospitalized, I asked you for five thousand dollars, and you said we were broke. I had to borrow it myself.” “I really was tied up with finances at the time.” “Tied up?” I laughed out loud. “You were sending your ex-wife four thousand dollars every month, and you told me you were tied up?” David stopped talking. The living room was completely silent. I stood there, looking at the man I had lived with for half a decade. His face was utterly foreign to me. “What is your real salary?” I asked again. He pressed his lips together. “Tell me!” “…Twelve thousand.” Twelve thousand dollars. Not seven thousand. Twelve thousand. He earned $12,000 a month, gave his ex-wife $4,000, and gave me $2,000. Where did the remaining $6,000 go? I opened his other banking account. Another card. Balance: $23,916. Last year’s transaction history: Video game in-app purchases, liquor store tabs, golf club fees, networking dinners… I turned the phone off. “David Miller.” “Yeah.” “I need to be alone right now.” I turned and walked into the bedroom. Just as the door closed, I heard him say from the hallway: “Lily, we need to talk this through…” I didn’t answer. Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Five years of marriage. Every penny I had saved. He had taken, to pay the mortgage for another woman. The tears finally came. But I didn’t make a sound. I was only thinking one thing: What do I do now? 2 The next day, David took the day off work. He woke up early and made breakfast. “Lily, please eat something.” He stood at the bedroom door, holding a bowl of oatmeal. “Let’s talk.” I didn’t move. “Lily…” “David.” I sat up. “Why did you and Sarah divorce?” He paused. “…Irreconcilable differences.” “Be specific.” He put the bowl down and sat on the edge of the bed. “We had just bought the house, and the pressure was high. She got pregnant, and I wasn’t supportive enough. Later… after the baby was born, I was so busy with work that I was constantly away. She was raising the child alone and felt neglected.” “So you cheated?” “No!” He denied it fiercely. “I didn’t cheat. We just… we fought a lot. She was the one who filed for divorce.” “She filed?” “Yes.” He lowered his head. “When we divorced, she didn’t ask for anything but the house. I felt I had failed her, so I promised to keep paying the loan.” “Did your parents know about this arrangement?” He nodded. I smiled. “So, the whole family knew, and you only kept it a secret from me?” “Lily, I was afraid you would overthink things…” “Overthink?” I looked at him. “David, do you really think I’m overthinking this?” He didn’t speak. I got up to wash my face. I saw him follow me in the mirror, standing in the bathroom doorway. “Lily, I know I was wrong about this. But my feelings for you are real. I married you because I love you.” “You love me?” I turned around. “You love me, so you lied to me for five years?” “I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t disclose it.” “Didn’t disclose it?” I laughed. “You told me your salary was $7,000, when it was $12,000. You said we had no money, but you were sending your ex-wife $4,000 every month. That’s not lying?” “I…” “David, one more question.” “Go ahead.” “How old is the child you had with Sarah?” His face shifted. “…Eight years old.” “Eight years old.” I nodded. “You divorced six years ago. The child was two then. Now he’s eight.” “Yeah.” “How many times have you seen your son in those eight years?” He was silent for a long time. “…Not many.” “How many is ‘not many’?” “…Two or three times a year.” “Two or three times a year.” I repeated. “David, you pay your ex-wife’s mortgage because of ‘debt.’ How much do you owe your son? How many times have you even seen him?” He still didn’t speak. “Or is it that…” I looked at him pointedly. “This isn’t about debt at all. It’s about something else?” “What else?” “You know perfectly well.” I turned and walked out of the bathroom. He pursued me. “Lily, you’re imagining things. Sarah and I haven’t been in touch.” “Haven’t been in touch?” I stopped. “Then what’s the encrypted photo album on your phone for?” His face went white. “You… you looked?” “I didn’t look,” I said. “But I’m about to.” He stood there, frozen. I held out my hand. “Let me see.” “Lily…” “David, if you don’t let me see it, I will assume you are still involved with her.” He hesitated for a few seconds. Then he took out his phone and opened the password-protected folder. There were over a hundred photos inside. All of a little boy. From the age of two or three up to seven or eight. “Is this… your son?” “Yes,” his voice was very low. “She… she sends them to me periodically.” I scrolled through them. Underneath some photos were screenshots of text exchanges. “David, Little Sam is walking now.” “David, Sam started kindergarten.” “David, Sam is asking when you’ll come to see him.” The most recent one was two months ago: “David, Sam has a fever, I can’t handle this alone.” Below it was David’s reply: “I’m traveling this week. I’ll come see him when I get back.” I put the phone down. “David Miller.” “Yes.” “You told me you two weren’t in touch.” He kept his head down. “You call this ‘not in touch’?” “It’s just… it’s just about the boy.” “Just about the boy?” I smiled. “David, do you remember when our son had a fever last week? I called you, and you said you were in a meeting and hung up.” His expression darkened. “You send tender messages to your ex-wife’s child, but what about ours?” “I didn’t…” “You did.” I cut him off. “David, you absolutely did. You favor them.” I grabbed my purse. “Where are you going?” “To work.” “Lily…” “David, I need to cool off. We will talk about this again tonight.” I walked out the door. When I reached the corner of our street, I called my best friend, Jess. “Jess, do you know anyone who can help me run a title search on a property?” “What’s going on?” “I need to find out whose name is actually on that house of David’s ex-wife.” The line was silent for a few seconds. “Lily, are you… did you find something out?” “Yeah.” “Damn it,” Jess swore. “I’ll look into it. Give me a minute.” I hung up the phone and stood on the sidewalk. The spring air felt cool. I was contemplating one thing: If that house really was in the ex-wife’s name alone. Then the $240,000 over five years… I had been paying her mortgage for her? 3 That afternoon, Jess sent me a text. “Found it. The house is in The Heights, 2,000 square feet, registered owner: Sarah Jennings.” Sarah Jennings. The ex-wife’s name. “What about the mortgage details?” “Monthly payment is $4,200. Six years paid. Loan applicant is Sarah Jennings, but there’s a co-signer on the payments.” “Who?” “David Miller.” I stared at the screen. Co-signer. This meant he wasn’t just “helping”; he was legally designated as a joint payor. “Anything else?” “Yeah. The house was bought in 2017, down payment was $150,000. Guess where the down payment came from?” “Where?” “A wire transfer of $75,000, sender: David Miller. The memo says ‘Down Payment Contribution.’” I froze. “Seventy-five thousand?” “Yup. March 2017. David wired $75,000 to Sarah Jennings, labeled ‘Down Payment.’” 2017. They hadn’t divorced yet. I hadn’t even met David yet. “Lily, are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “Maybe… you should come over?” “No. I need to be alone for a bit.” I hung up and sat down on a bench outside my office building. My mind was a mess. $75,000 down payment from him. $4,200 monthly payments from him. Six years paid off. Meaning, David and his ex-wife bought the house while they were married, he put up the down payment, and he was the one making the mortgage payments. But the house was registered only in her name. And when they divorced, the ex-wife “didn’t ask for anything but the house.” Ha. Didn’t ask for anything. Except the house he paid for, and which he was still paying off. I laughed out loud. A passerby glanced at me. I didn’t know what I was laughing at. Maybe I was laughing at my own stupidity. Five years married, and I thought I had a decent, honest husband. Low salary, but hard-working and reliable. $2,000 a month for expenses—not much, but enough to get by. I never imagined… He was financially supporting another woman. No, not another woman. His ex-wife. What did this even qualify as? Emotional infidelity? Financial infidelity? Or had he simply never truly left his first marriage? My phone rang. It was David. “Lily, where are you? Mom wants to come over for dinner tonight, can you…” “David,” I cut him off. “Yeah?” “Your mother knows you’re paying Sarah’s mortgage, doesn’t she?” He was silent for a few seconds. “…She knows.” “And what did she say?” “She… she feels that since I owe Sarah, I have to repay that debt.” “Owe her?” I laughed bitterly. “David, you put up the $75,000 down payment on that house. Did you know that?” He didn’t speak. “You knew, didn’t you?” “…Yes.” “And you still call it ‘owing her’? You put the down payment, you pay the mortgage, the house is in her name, she got the house in the divorce, and you keep paying the mortgage—that’s you owing her?” “Lily, you don’t understand…” “Don’t understand what?” “I… I was the one who first suggested divorce.” I was stunned. “You filed for divorce? You told me she filed!” He paused for a very long time. “…I lied to you.” “What did you lie about?” “I was the one who filed. Because… because I had met you.” My head spun. “David Miller, say that again?” “I met you first, and then… then I filed for divorce.” “Are you saying… you cheated?” “It wasn’t cheating! We were just… just talking, we hadn’t done anything physical!” “David.” “Yeah?” “You told me you divorced Sarah because of ‘irreconcilable differences.’ You told me she filed for divorce. You told me you didn’t cheat.” I paused. “What else have you lied to me about?” “Lily, I never meant to deceive you…” “Never meant to deceive me?” I scoffed. “David, you lied to me about your salary. How can you have the nerve to say you ‘never meant to deceive me’?” “I was afraid you’d overthink things…” “Overthink?” I stood up. “David, you paid your ex-wife a total of $240,000. You gave me a $2,000 allowance a month. You made me budget every penny, and when my mother was hospitalized, you said we were broke—what do you think I’m overthinking?” He kept his head down, speechless. “Your mother doesn’t need to come over tonight,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone.” I hung up the phone. Sitting on the bench, watching the traffic pass. Only one thought occupied my mind: David Miller, who the hell did I marry?

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Three years after the divorce, the next time I heard news of my former CEO husband, it was live-streamed. His engagement party was splashed across the Jumbotron in the airport as soon as I landed. On the massive screen, the girl tucked under my ex-husband’s arm was gushing about their great love story. “Three years ago, I ran a little boutique florist shop in the Village, and he came into my shop to buy flowers for his wife.” “I was instantly smitten. When I found out he was the CEO of the Harrington Group, I started showing up at his office with ‘client’ bouquets every single day. I made sure his wife knew exactly what was going on, of course.” “After that, they fought constantly, and I just kept swooping in to ‘comfort’ him.” “It all came to a head when he got drunk after a huge fight with her. We were both overwhelmed by emotion, and it just happened naturally.” “I heard his wife had a miscarriage that night during their argument, and she ran home and cried herself silly.” “But look at me now—I knew I made the right choice. He’s the head of Alistair City’s leading conglomerate. I’m about to be the CEO’s wife. If I hadn’t swooped in when I did, I wouldn’t have this life.” “His ex? She was miserable. She didn’t even recover from the miscarriage before he made her walk away with nothing. Who knows if she’s even alive now.” I looked up at the familiar, smug face on the airport screen. I smiled. Well, that’s rather awkward for her. Not only was I perfectly alive, but I had also become the Asia-Pacific representative for Archon Capital, one of the world’s top investment firms. I was back in Alistair City, and it was time for the head of their leading conglomerate to change. 1 The VIP lounge was almost unnervingly quiet, which only made the engagement party blaring on the enormous screen seem even louder. My assistant, Leo, walked over silently, placing a cup of unsweetened black coffee and a sleek tablet next to me. The coffee was scalding, bitter, and bracing—exactly what I needed. I lifted the cup, taking a slow sip, my gaze fixed on the tablet. The screen was lit with the words “The Harrington Group,” below which were real-time stock prices and a core data analysis report. The red, plummeting arrow was stark and unmistakable. My index finger tapped lightly on the cold screen, once, then again. The smell of antiseptic from the hospital three years ago. The crisp, cold reality of the divorce papers that left me with nothing. The countless nights I’d spent curled up with stomach pain in my cramped foreign apartment, staring blankly at the nameless city lights. I set the coffee cup down with a light click against the table. Serena Maxwell on the Jumbotron was still talking, but I no longer heard her. I lifted my eyes to Leo, who remained silently beside me. The last trace of warmth in my expression vanished. “Notify Archon Capital’s European headquarters. Initiate Phase One of the acquisition plan for the Harrington Group.” Leo didn’t hesitate, immediately beginning to type on a separate device. I turned back to the screen and the happy couple, a cold, predatory smile playing on my lips. “I want to see their panic before the market opens tomorrow.” Alistair City’s business world was turned upside down overnight. “Archon Capital Enters the Market with Multi-Billion Dollar War Chest, Suspected Hostile Takeover of Harrington Group!” “Harrington Stock Plummets to Trading Floor, Market Value Evaporates by Billions!” In Alexander Harrington’s office, the air was so thick with tension you could wring it out. Alex, a man who prided himself on his unflappable composure, now had his tie yanked crooked and his eyes, visible behind his gold-rimmed glasses, were webbed with red. Several high-level executives stood opposite him, too afraid to even lift their heads. “Find out! Find out now! What the hell is Archon Capital? Who is their goddamn representative?” Alex slammed his fist onto the desk, the veins on his hand bulging. An hour later, an emergency board meeting was called. The room was packed with the Harrington Group’s old guard, their faces all darker than thunderclouds. Alex sat in the primary position, trying to stabilize the situation, but his own mind was chaos. It was then that the heavy double doors of the boardroom were pushed open. Leo walked in first, expressionless, ushering the person behind him. Then, I walked in. I was wearing a sharply tailored, slate-gray power suit, my heels clicking a crisp, rhythmic beat on the polished marble floor. The entire boardroom fell into a suffocated silence. Every single eye in the room was fixed on me—shock, disbelief, and a panicked search for context. Alex’s gaze, though, was different. It was utterly riveted to my face, like a nail driven into the wall. His lips parted, his throat bobbing once. The sight of him, speechless and stunned, was more satisfying than any positive financial headline. I ignored him, walking directly to the opposite end of the long conference table, the seat reserved for the acquiring party. I sat down with a composed elegance. The moment I was seated, Leo opened the tablet and slid it in front of me. “Eliza… Sloane?” An older board member finally found his voice, laced with uncertainty. I looked up, sweeping my gaze across the familiar, yet suddenly irrelevant, faces. Finally, I let my eyes settle coolly on Alexander Harrington. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said with a faint, utterly cold smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eliza Sloane, the Asia-Pacific Representative for Archon Capital, leading this acquisition.” Alex’s face instantly drained of all color. “The Harrington Group’s financial reports for the past three years look impressive, but in reality, over thirty percent of your profit comes from high-risk leveraged investments. The moment your capital chain faces stress, the entire structure collapses.” “Seven of your subsidiaries have bloated, inefficient management. Last year alone, administrative expenditures consumed five hundred million dollars that should have been dedicated to technology and R&D.” “Your newest real estate venture was a major strategic error, located on the fringe of future municipal planning. That investment won’t see a return for at least three years.” In a few succinct sentences, I sliced through the Harrington Group’s glossy facade, exposing the rot underneath. Each word made the board members’ expressions darken further. Alex’s hands were clenched into tight fists under the table. When the meeting concluded, the look in the eyes of the men in the room had shifted from pure shock to pure, unadulterated dread. People began to leave, but Alex remained seated. He waited until the last person was gone, then stood and walked slowly toward me. He stopped in front of me, his tall frame casting a long shadow. “Eliza,” his voice was raspy, edged with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “You…” What did he want to say? Ask why I came back? Or why I was doing this? I didn’t give him the chance. I stood up, deliberately closing the tablet and handing it to Leo. Then, I met his gaze, looking him directly in the eye. “Mr. Harrington, this is still business hours.” I paused, watching his face instantly freeze, and the curve of my smile deepened slightly. “Keep your private emotions contained.” 2 After that day, I didn’t pay much attention to Alexander’s reactions. The person I was truly waiting for was Serena Maxwell. I knew she would come for me. People like her, who survive by playing the victim, are terrified of losing their audience and their stage. Now that I was back and had stolen her spotlight, it would only be a matter of time before she struck. Sure enough, on the third day, a heavy, engraved invitation to a charity gala was delivered to Leo. “The annual Alistair City Charity Gala. The Harrington Group is the lead sponsor,” Leo stated plainly, placing the card on my desk. “Serena Maxwell is this year’s Charity Ambassador.” I picked up the beautifully designed card, running my finger over the embossed lettering. “A lovely ambush,” I chuckled, tossing the invitation back down. “Tell them I will be there on time.” Leo nodded, asking no further questions. He knew I wasn’t going to attend a party; I was going to crash a coronation. The moment I stepped into the ballroom that evening, I felt the immediate stickiness of countless gazes—curious, searching, and more than a few frankly malicious. I didn’t care. I picked up a flute of champagne and found a quiet corner that wasn’t overly conspicuous. It didn’t take long for the show to begin. Serena was wearing a pristine white, strapless column gown, her hair in a loose, delicate updo that exposed her slender neck. She truly looked like a fragile porcelain doll who knew nothing of the world’s harshness. She carried her own glass, weaving through the crowd with a clear destination: me. She stopped directly in front of me. Alex stood a few steps behind her, his brow furrowed, looking like a cowed husband who wanted to intervene but didn’t know how. “Eliza… sister?” Serena whispered tentatively. “It really is you. You’re back.” I stayed silent, watching her begin the performance. Her eyes instantly misted over. The tears arrived right on cue. “Sister, I’m so sorry… What happened three years ago, it was all my fault. I loved Alex too much, and I… I didn’t mean for it to happen. I’ve lived with the guilt all these years, I just…” As she spoke, she glanced out of the corner of her eye, making sure her performance of fragile remorse was being witnessed by enough people. It was award-worthy acting, I’ll give her that. The room was already filling with murmurs. Several sympathetic looks were directed at her, while the glances aimed at me were laden with judgment and blame. I was being framed as the unforgiving villain, the one bullying the poor, repentant girl. Alex finally closed the gap, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Serena, a clear act of protection. He looked at me, his eyes complicated. “Eliza, let the past go.” “The past?” I finally laughed, gently swirling the champagne in my glass. “Easy words for you, Alex. Some things can’t be let go.” Serena seemed frightened by my response, shrinking further into Alex’s side, and her tears intensified. “Sister, please, can you forgive me? I just want to be happy with Alex now…” Watching her deliver this masterclass in deceit, I found any impulse to anger completely missing. I set my glass down and took my phone from my clutch. Under the confused scrutiny of everyone nearby, I pressed the play button. A crisp, smug female voice, amplified by the phone’s speaker, carried clearly through our corner of the ballroom. “…You should have seen what a fool Eliza was. She believed everything I said! Like I accidentally fell down the stairs…” “Alex? Men are all the same. If I cry, he thinks the whole world is out to get me. He’d argue with Eliza, and then he’d come straight to me for comfort…” “The miscarriage? Good riddance! Saved me the trouble of figuring out how to get rid of it myself. With that kid gone, she was nothing. That CEO wife title was always going to be mine!” The voice, the tone—arrogant and malicious—was a stark contrast to the tear-stained Serena standing before me. The recording continued, but the silence around us was deafening. Serena’s pale face still had tear tracks, but her expression had completely frozen. The feigned innocence in her large, watery eyes finally melted away, replaced by nothing but raw terror and utter collapse. 3 That charity gala recording caused the Harrington Group’s stock price to quietly plummet by another hundred million in market capitalization. Every morning, Leo provided me with his update on the Harrington Group’s latest movements. “Harrington dropped three points today. A few smaller shareholders are folding and requesting private meetings with you.” I nodded. “Schedule them. It’s time to close the net.” I heard that Alex’s side was absolute chaos. He had canceled all upcoming public engagements with Serena and had even frozen the funds for several of her vanity projects within the company. It seemed that trust, once fractured, could never be fully repaired. Alex was quietly beginning to investigate what happened three years ago. Leo’s intelligence network was highly efficient, reporting that Alex had pulled all the security footage from the hospital during my stay and sent people to interview some of the nurses in private. I listened to these reports with cold detachment, almost finding it funny. How foolish must a man be to only remember to seek proof after the truth has been shoved in his face via a recording device? Where was his skepticism before? Trying to play Sherlock Holmes now was far too late. I wasn’t interested in Alex’s small acts of penance. His investigation wouldn’t change the outcome. I wanted the Harrington Group. His personal remorse was worthless. The acquisition was proceeding smoothly. One shareholder after another was defecting, and the Harrington Group’s internal defenses were being dismantled piece by piece. The external and internal pressure was suffocating Alex. I heard he was suffering from recurring stomach issues again, often spending entire nights locked in his office. Late that night, I had just finished a video conference with European headquarters and was preparing to finally rest. Leo knocked and came in, his expression unusually grim. “Ms. Sloane, there’s been an issue.” I gestured for him to sit. “We received two pieces of intelligence.” “The first is from our insider at the Harrington family estate,” Leo said. “Tonight, Alex locked himself in his study and was looking through a lot of your old things. He found a letter—a letter you wrote back then but never got the chance to send.” My heart skipped a beat, completely unprepared for the emotional jolt. Leo continued: “Inside the letter… was your sonogram. He knows now that you were pregnant with twins.” My fingers instinctively clenched, my nails digging into my palms. “After he saw the letter, he locked himself in the study. He hasn’t come out all night.” Seeing my prolonged silence, Leo slid a tablet across the desk. The screen was on. “Ms. Sloane, this is the second piece of intelligence. Our private investigator has secured the definitive proof.” I looked down, my gaze falling on the screen. It was an investigation report, attached to clear bank transfer records. The recipient was a middle-aged woman named Lana Reeves. Occupation: Hospital janitor. The report also included a video—Lana Reeves’s confession. She admitted that three years ago, Serena Maxwell paid her twenty thousand dollars to apply a special oily liquid to the staircase landing I used every day for my prenatal appointments. Colorless and odorless, you wouldn’t notice it, but the floor would become dangerously slick. My breath stopped entirely. I stared intently at the screen, seeing the conclusion printed on the final page in large, bold font: Upon investigation, Eliza Sloane’s miscarriage was not an accident. It was a premeditated act of murder.

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I’ve always rejected the idea of inner turmoil. When a college roommate accused me of theft, I called the police immediately and told them to search my side of the room. When a professor, threatened by my confidence, slut-shamed me in her office, I brought the entire class in and forced her to point out the specific man I was supposedly trying to ‘charm.’ My reputation quickly preceded me. No one dared to cross me—until that dinner party. I’d just returned from the restroom when I heard my boyfriend’s ‘girl friend’—a blonde named Vanessa Hill—delivering her assessment right outside the door. “Look at her. Total vanity project. I bet she says she’s naturally beautiful, but she’s clearly all filler and filters.” “Head-to-toe designer clothes, driving a G-Wagon… what kind of job pays that well for a girl her age?” “Rhys, darling, you need to be careful. She’s definitely trying to climb the ladder from gold-digger to wife!” I pushed the door open, my voice cutting through the noise. “Your mouth smells like a sewage backup, Vanessa. Did you eat trash today?” 1 Silence instantly swallowed the private dining room. Every glance, whether direct or peripheral, was sizing me up. My boyfriend, Rhys Caldwell, said nothing. His gaze, however, was dark and unreadable. Vanessa’s smirk froze for a beat before she covered her mouth with a delicate, practiced laugh. “I was only kidding, Skylar! Why are you so defensive, darling?” “Did I strike a nerve? Are you worried Rhys will dump you and your whole little operation will collapse?” I immediately pulled out my phone, started playing the recording of her words on a loop, and, right in front of her, contacted my lawyer. I watched Vanessa’s pale, shifting expression, and let out a cold laugh. “You’re an adult, Vanessa. You need to pay for your words.” “If you can’t provide immediate evidence to support your claim that I’m a gold digger, expect a defamation lawsuit. I will sue you for slander.” The rest of the friends at the table looked stunned, clearly not expecting me to go for the jugular so fast. Vanessa chewed on her lip, her face white. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He was clearly displeased. “Skylar, this is too much! It was just a little drama, why are you making a scene?” A little drama? Being publicly slandered as a prostitute is “a little drama”? He didn’t react when I was being insulted, but the moment I defend my own name, he tells me to let it go. Did he think I was some kind of pushover? I opened the dialing app and hovered my finger over the 911 button. “Apologize to me in the next three seconds, Vanessa, or I’m calling the police right now.” Since I was meeting all of them for the first time, it was clear the others were closer to Vanessa. One of the men scoffed. “Whoa, what a temper. Maybe she’s really just acting tough because she knows Vanessa is right?” Rhys’s face hardened. He grabbed my wrist, his voice turning cold. “If you’re not what she says, then prove it to me.” My breath hitched. I couldn’t believe the words that had just left his mouth. “What are you talking about?” No wonder he had stayed silent earlier. He was actually listening to her poisonous gossip. Seeing the frost in my expression, Rhys doubled down. “Just show me all the chat logs on your phone. If I see nothing suspicious, I’ll believe you.” I nearly laughed out loud. Why should I have to prove my innocence against a baseless rumor? I yanked my arm free, crossed my arms over my chest, and leaned back in my chair, fixing my gaze on Vanessa. “I see that’s the new LV bag. The cheapest version is easily ten grand. So, did you earn that, or did you scam it? Got a receipt, Vanessa?” The others looked closer, realizing I was right, and their inquisitive stares turned to Vanessa. She faltered, hesitating for a moment before pursing her lips. “Rhys bought it for me.” A slow, deliberate smile stretched across my face. “My boyfriend bought you something that expensive? I have every reason to suspect you two are hooking up.” Slam! Rhys slapped his chopsticks down. He glared at me. “Skylar Reed, you are completely irrational!” “Vanessa and I are clean! It was just a friendly gift. Are you seriously this jealous?” I grabbed my phone, opened my photos, and pulled up a screenshot I’d taken earlier. The picture showed Vanessa in a black lace negligee, her cleavage prominent. It was a photo she’d sent to Rhys with the question: Do you like this dress? I stood up and walked directly over to the guy who had defended Vanessa, shoving the phone right in his face. “Tell me, buddy. What kind of intentions does a person have when they send this kind of photo to someone else’s boyfriend late at night?” He shrunk back, refusing to meet my eyes. The others suddenly became fascinated by their own plates, desperate not to get involved. I turned back to Rhys, a terrifying grin on my face. “Tell me, what do you think?” Rhys’s face immediately darkened. He shot Vanessa a look of cold fury. Sensing the tide turning, Vanessa scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, Skylar, I shouldn’t have said those things.” “And I didn’t mean to send that photo to Rhys! I meant to send it to my friend, but I accidentally sent it to him. I can’t believe you went through Rhys’s chats and screen-grabbed it!” No, I just happened to see it pop up and took a screenshot for proof. But Rhys only heard the second half. He turned his accusatory gaze on me. “You checked up on me?” Tears welled in Vanessa’s eyes. “Rhys, Skylar, please don’t fight because of me. I apologize to Skylar. I promise I’ll stay far away from you from now on, Rhys.” Rhys pulled her close, his voice chillingly cold. “You’re not the one who should be apologizing. Turns out Vanessa was right, Skylar. You’re nothing but a conniving, gold-digging sociopath.” “You hooked enough money off other old men and thought you’d try to anchor yourself to a real trust-fund baby, didn’t you? Stop hiding your tacky ambition.” “We’re done. And trust me, you cross me, you won’t get away with it. I’ll be waiting for the day you come crawling back.” He pocketed his phone and stormed out. Vanessa turned to me, a smug, triumphant smile on her face. The others looked on with a mixture of amusement and contempt, filing out one after another. I looked at the empty room and laughed. Rhys was right. The only difference was that he was the one who wouldn’t be getting away with anything. 2 Rhys and his entourage kicked me out of their group chat. But they didn’t block me. Instead, they constantly updated their social media feeds: snowboarding trips, golf tournaments, fast cars, yacht parties, all flaunting mansions and luxury cars. It was a pathetic show meant entirely for my benefit. What they didn’t realize was that in an effort to show off, they’d rented a massive estate to host an auction house party where the ‘goods’ being auctioned were female influencers. I clapped my hands softly. How incredibly interesting. An open invitation for disaster—it would be a crime not to take advantage of it. I paid a substantial amount to bribe one of the estate’s catering staff, instructing him to install pinhole cameras in every corner to ensure a 360-degree surveillance setup. He looked terrified when he heard the request. “Ms. Reed, this is highly illegal, isn’t it? If they find it, I could go to jail.” I smiled. “What they’re planning to do is far worse. No one will be concerned with a few cameras when the dust settles. Don’t worry.” I pulled out a bank card and handed it to him. “This is your fee. I assure you, you will be very satisfied.” That night, he messaged me confirming everything was set up. Perhaps as a final attempt to make me regret leaving, Rhys even sent me an invite. Why not accept? I certainly wasn’t going to miss the show. The night of the party, Vanessa approached me, acting the part of the hostess, her expression haughty. “You’ll probably never earn enough money in your life to afford the down payment on a place like this, you know.” “Don’t think just because you have a pretty face, some trust-fund idiot will stick around. Plastic surgeons are a dime a dozen now. If you want to latch onto someone, you’ll have to beg Rhys first.” I watched her swagger away and fought the urge to roll my eyes. Rhys then walked up, looking down at me. “I thought you wouldn’t show. Vanessa was right, wasn’t she? You’re a gold digger who can’t stay away from the money.” His entire crew gathered around, throwing out their usual cheap insults. “Well, look who it is! If it isn’t Skylar Reed. What’s up, ditching the high-and-mighty act and crawling back so fast?” “She looks high-class, but I bet she’s filthy underneath. Rhys, when you’re done, pass her around to the rest of the guys!” The group roared with vulgar laughter, their eyes predatory. I tilted my head, forcing a saccharine-sweet smile. “Wow, your imaginations are so vivid. Don’t worry. I’m just here for the show.” “Just wait. You’ll be crying later, I promise.” Vanessa spat the words, turning to leave with the men. I found a quiet corner and opened my phone. The livestream was running. Vanessa’s face, beaming with excitement, was front and center. She held a microphone and addressed the room. “Welcome, gentlemen, to tonight’s Auction House Party! And now, please welcome our first item up for bid!” A line of scantily clad female influencers—sweet-faced, curvy, soft-spoken—paraded onto the stage. As soon as the influencers appeared, the stream started gaining viewers. “No way? Is this what I think it is? Can they even broadcast this?” “Dude, don’t doubt it. I recognize one of them. That’s Rhys Caldwell from the city’s A-list circles. Total trust-fund brat.” “I follow a few of those girls! They’re being treated like this by a bunch of rich jerks? Unbelievable.” Due to the audacious content and rapid sharing among viewers, the livestream quickly went viral, hitting over fifty thousand concurrent viewers. Rhys and his friends had no idea. 3 “Lot number one, starting bid one hundred thousand, with minimum raises of ten thousand.” Vanessa stood in the auctioneer’s spot, basking in her temporary authority, her eyes full of contempt for the women on stage. Her expression stiffened for a moment, however, when Rhys placed the first successful bid. The acquisition of Lot 1 immediately injected a hint of jealousy into Vanessa’s gaze. As I watched the stream comments fly by, my phone buzzed with a text from Rhys. Could you make this much money sleeping with other men? Probably take you ten or more times. If you come over now and get on your knees, crawl to me, and beg for forgiveness, I might consider giving you one more chance. I let out a harsh laugh. Rhys must have a few screws loose. Did he really think I needed him? What, did he think wealthy families don’t have daughters? For the record, my family’s actual net worth would make his father’s fortune look like pocket change. The next second, the livestream was suddenly shut down. Across town, Victor Caldwell, Rhys’s father, received a frantic call. His face went white. He immediately called Rhys, but between the loud music and the fact that Rhys was currently making out with his new Lot 1, he didn’t hear his phone. Moments later, Victor and a swarm of bodyguards kicked in the villa’s front door, storming in with absolute fury. Victor hauled Rhys off the sofa and, without a word, delivered a massive, ringing slap across his face. Everyone froze, stunned. Vanessa, seeing her man assaulted, shrieked and ran over. “You old man, who the hell do you think you are? You lay a hand on Rhys again, you’re dead!” She didn’t notice the complicated, almost pitying glances the other young men were shooting her. SMACK! Rhys slapped her back, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s my father, you idiot!” At that, Vanessa’s legs gave way. She almost collapsed, stumbling to offer a terrified apology. “Mr. Caldwell, I’m so sorry! I was just worried about Rhys! I spoke out of turn! Please don’t be angry!” Victor Caldwell shot Vanessa a look of deep distaste. “This is who you keep around?” Seeing Rhys about to get dragged further, Vanessa played her final card: she violently slapped herself multiple times, tears streaming down her face. “Uncle! I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault! Please don’t punish Rhys! I promise I’ll never speak out of turn again!” Victor’s face softened slightly. He looked around the chaotic room and demanded of his son, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Having been slapped in public, Rhys was embarrassed and pissed. “Just having a little fun, Dad.” Hearing the casual arrogance, Victor’s hand shot up again. He held back, his face a mask of disappointment. “Look at what you’ve done!” He shoved his phone, playing the recorded livestream, in front of Rhys. Rhys’s expression changed instantly. “Where did this come from?” Seeing his genuinely confused reaction, Victor guessed someone had set him up. “Think, Rhys. Who have you crossed lately? Whoever did this is not an amateur.” He thought and thought. The most impossible answer was often the correct one. Rhys’s eyes snapped up, landing on me. However, I had quietly slipped out of the villa moments before Victor’s dramatic entrance. I was now in my car, watching Rhys’s panic unfold through the cameras. I always live by one rule: anyone who messes with me gets repaid a hundredfold. 4 Rhys texted me a slew of desperate messages. Was it your sugar daddy who did that for you? I can’t believe you found a new man so fast. With that kind of pull, he must be a sixty-year-old leech! Letting some old man worm all over you… you’ll do anything for money. That’s truly disgusting! I ignored the insults and blocked him completely. I knew that given Rhys’s standing in the Caldwell family, a little video scandal wasn’t enough to truly shake him. Sure enough, the next day, the entire fiasco was swept under the rug and explained away as a “behind-the-scenes gag for a short film.” I made my next move. I contacted Victor Caldwell’s illegitimate son, Rhys’s younger, half-brother: Ezra Caldwell. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. More importantly, if Rhys was taken down, Ezra would be next in line. Ezra didn’t hesitate; he agreed to my invitation instantly. The next day, a major charity gala was held at the Grand Unity Hotel. Virtually every elite family in the city was present. Vanessa and Rhys were walking through the doors just as I stepped out of Ezra Caldwell’s car. They froze. “Skylar Reed. I wondered who you were latching onto next. Turns out it’s my worthless little brother.” “Tsk tsk. I hope you know he’s a bastard child. Everything he has is just the crumbs that fall from my table. Pitiful.” Vanessa clung to Rhys’s arm, her voice dripping with venom. “A gold digger and an illegitimate son. What a perfect match!” They turned and walked away. Ezra quietly comforted me. “Don’t let them get to you.” I smiled. I didn’t care. They were just two clowns. I took Ezra’s arm, and we walked into the ballroom. A little while later, Rhys and his friends cornered Ezra and me in a remote part of the venue. Rhys had a wicked, satisfied grin. “Tell me, guys. How viral would it go if my little brother and a trashy gold digger got frisky right here on the ballroom floor? That would be explosive, wouldn’t it? Haha!” The crew laughed, their expressions lecherous. Rhys waved his hand. His men immediately moved in and pinned Ezra and me. Vanessa grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and poured a glass of drugged wine down my throat. Ezra received the same treatment. As soon as we’d swallowed, Rhys and Vanessa clinked glasses and drank theirs, triumphantly. On Rhys’s signal, a powerful spotlight suddenly illuminated our corner of the room. In the dim banquet hall, a man and a woman were now locked together, writhing and tearing at each other’s clothes under the intense light.

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