Author: Momo Chan

“Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” The text sat quietly in the family group thread. Sender: My husband, Mark. I stared at the screen. My mother-in-law sent a question mark. My father-in-law sent a question mark. I sent nothing. Three seconds later, Mark frantically hit unsend. “Wrong chat, wrong chat! That was for the work team.” I smiled. Work team? His work team was named “Babe”? His co-worker lived at “the usual spot”? I clicked on his profile picture and saw the last message he had sent me— “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” Is that right? I have no idea? 1 A deadly silence fell over the family group thread. I put my phone down and went back to feeding my son. Leo was two, right at the age of restless, messy chaos. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” “Daddy’s busy.” My voice was flat. Too flat. A terrifying calm. Three years. I had been married to Mark for three years. In those three years, I quit my job as a Project Lead, a job that paid well over six figures, to stay home with our child. In those three years, I cooked, cleaned, and cared for his parents. In those three years, I thought we were happy. Until now. The phone buzzed again. It was Mark calling. “Hello.” “Jenna, that text just now, it was a genuine mistake.” His voice was laced with panic. “There’s a woman on the team, we’re doing a big project together, and she jokingly calls me ‘Babe’—” “Oh.” “Don’t read anything into it, okay? She’s strictly a colleague.” “Mmm.” “Why aren’t you saying anything?” “What do you want me to say?” The other end was silent for two seconds. “Are you angry?” “No.” “Good. I figured. I have to work late tonight, might be a late return.” “Overtime?” “Yeah, we’re rushing the project deadline.” “Working late at ‘the usual spot’?” The breathing on the other end hitched. “You—” “Make sure you eat dinner.” I hung up. Leo looked up at me. “Mommy, Daddy not coming back?” “Daddy’s busy.” I stroked his hair. The phone rang again. This time, it was my mother-in-law. “Jenna, about Mark’s text just now—” “Mom, I know. Wrong chat.” “Yes, yes, exactly! Wrong chat.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Don’t overthink it, dear. Men socialize for work; sometimes these things happen.” My grip tightened on the spoon. These things happen? “Mom, I’m not overthinking it.” “Good. That’s good.” She chuckled. “You’re just a little too sensitive, dear. Mark loves you so much; how could he possibly—” “Mom, Leo’s eating. I have to go.” “All right, all right. You go.” I ended the call. Looking at the phone screen, the retracted message in the family chat was gone. But I had taken a screenshot. My fingers moved instinctively, capturing the evidence. I opened my photo album. “Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” I saved the image to a hidden folder. Then, I opened Mark’s text messages. He had logged into his account on the family iPad. He set it up himself, claiming it was so I could help him check messages. I had never looked. Because I trusted him. But now— I clicked on his message list. The first thread, labeled “Project Team – Skylar.” I tapped it open. The last message was twenty minutes ago. “Husband, you texted the wrong group. You scared me to death.” Husband? I scrolled up. “Miss you.” “Miss you too.” “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” “What if she finds out?” “She won’t. She’s at home with the kid all day. Clueless.” Clueless. I stared at the word. My fingers began to tremble. I scrolled further. “Babe, did you like that purse last time?” “Loved it! You’re the best, Husband!” “Good. Next time I’ll take you to Kauai.” Kauai? Mark’s “corporate retreat” last month was to Kauai. He claimed it was a company-wide team-building exercise. I kept scrolling. “Transferred you $7,500 today. Go buy something nice.” $7,500? My monthly allowance for the whole family was $2,000. $2,000 to cover food, clothes, and utilities for a family of four. I kept scrolling. “Skylar, have you picked out the car yet?” “Yes! I want the white Lexus, the $55,000 model!” “Done. I’ll go with you to pick it up this weekend.” $55,000? In three years of marriage, I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing over $200. I kept scrolling. The timeline stretched back. One year ago. Two years ago. Two and a half years ago. The earliest message was two years and eight months ago. Leo was four months old then. I was still physically recovering from the delivery. I thought he was working late to save more money for formula and college tuition. I thought— My eyes stung. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Not yet. I kept scrolling. I found a bank transfer record. Last August. Memo: Condo Down Payment. Amount: $120,000. $120,000? Mark’s salary was $120,000 a year. In three years of marriage, our total savings were $180,000. Where did this $120,000 come from? I scrolled back further. I found another transfer record. December, the year before last. Memo: Renovation Funds. Amount: $80,000. $80,000? That’s $200,000 total. And our savings—the $180,000—was accumulated by both of us. Before I quit to stay home, I was making nearly $180,000 a year. I had saved almost $80,000 in two years. Combined with his salary, we saved $180,000 in three years. $80,000 of that was mine. He took my savings to buy a house for his mistress? I took a deep breath. I screenshotted all the text conversations. I screenshotted all the transfer records. Then, I exited the iPad. As if nothing had happened. 2 Mark returned at eleven that night. I had already put Leo to bed. “Why are you still up?” He looked slightly surprised. “Waiting for you.” “Waiting for me?” He chuckled. “Why the sudden attention?” “I have a question for you.” “What is it?” “How many people are on your project team?” His smile faltered slightly. “Five.” “Who are they?” “Me, Dave, Tom, Andrew, and Skylar.” “Who is Skylar?” His eyes flickered. “She’s a new hire. Just out of college.” “How old?” “Twenty-three, I think. I don’t keep track.” “Is she pretty?” His expression changed. “What is this, Jenna?” “Just asking.” “Jenna, are you still dwelling on that text from today?” “No.” “Really?” “Really.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “I knew you weren’t the petty type.” I smiled. “No, I’m not petty.” He walked over and put his arm around my waist. “Wife, I know you’re tired. Taking care of the kid isn’t easy.” “Mmm.” “Once this project is over, I’ll take you somewhere nice.” “Where?” “Wherever you want.” “How about Kauai?” His body went rigid. “Kauai?” “Didn’t you go there for your team-building trip last month? You said it was beautiful.” “Um… yeah, it was nice.” “Let’s go to Kauai then.” “Okay. Okay, sure. Whatever you want.” His voice was dry. I didn’t speak again. He didn’t, either. That night, he slept restlessly. I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, I dropped Leo off at his preschool program. Then, I went to the bank. I checked our joint savings account. Balance: $180,000. The number was exactly as I remembered. But I knew it should have been $380,000. Next, I went to a local realtor’s office. “Hi, I’d like to find out about a recently sold property in a specific building.” “Which building?” I gave the address mentioned in Mark’s texts. The realtor checked the database. “Yes, there was a sale last year. A two-bedroom condo, total price $450,000.” “Who was the buyer?” “I… I’m not really authorized to disclose that.” “I’m his wife.” The realtor paused. “You mean…” “I am Mark’s wife.” The realtor’s expression became delicate, knowing. “This… there is indeed a deed for that unit registered to Mr. Mark Peterson and another woman.” “What is the other woman’s name?” “Skylar Walsh.” Skylar Walsh. Skylar. I smiled. “Thank you.” The realtor looked at me, hesitating, wanting to say more. “Ma’am, are you…” “I’m fine.” I turned and walked out. The sun was bright. I stood on the street, breathing deeply. Three years. The happiness I thought was real was fake. The love I thought we had was fake. The marriage I believed in was fake. But it didn’t matter. I still had time. I returned home. My mother-in-law was sitting in the living room watching TV. “You’re back?” “Mmm.” “Where’s Leo?” “At preschool.” “Jenna,” she put down the remote. “About yesterday, you really shouldn’t take it to heart.” “What happened yesterday?” “You know… the text message.” “Oh. I didn’t take it to heart.” “Good.” She smiled. “Mark, he’s always been charming; flirting with a female co-worker is nothing unusual.” “Mmm.” “You shouldn’t stay home so much. Go out, get some air. Don’t spend all your time keeping tabs on Mark’s phone.” I looked at her. “Mom, I wasn’t keeping tabs on his phone.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” she waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just, women should relax. Don’t be so sensitive.” I said nothing. She continued, “Mark works so hard to earn money. You need to be more understanding.” “Mmm.” “His money is for this family. You shouldn’t try to control his wallet so tightly.” I paused. “Mom, when have I ever controlled his money?” “I’m not saying you control it, just…” She thought for a moment. “Men need to spend money sometimes when they’re entertaining clients.” “Entertaining?” “Yes, taking clients out, buying gifts, that sort of thing.” “What kind of gifts?” “I don’t know. Just… don’t worry so much about men’s business.” I smiled. “Okay, I won’t worry.” She nodded, satisfied. “That’s the right attitude.” I didn’t say another word. I went back to the bedroom and closed the door. I opened my phone. I began searching Mark’s bank statements. The password for his main checking account was my birthday. He told me that when we first got married. He said it meant his money was my money. Now I knew that was just an empty promise. The transaction history was long. A fixed transfer of $7,500 every month. Recipient: Skylar Walsh. Sometimes, additional transfers. $1,000, $3,000, $10,000, $15,000. All to Skylar Walsh. I calculated the total. Over the past two years and eight months, he had transferred Skylar at least $350,000. $350,000. And me? Three years of childcare, $2,000 a month for all expenses. A total of $72,000 for the family. $350,000 versus $72,000. That was my value in his eyes. 3 In the afternoon, I went to pick up Leo. At the entrance to the preschool, I ran into someone familiar. “Jenna?” It was Lina, a college friend. “Long time no see!” She rushed over and hugged me, surprised. “What are you doing here?” “Picking up my son.” “You have a kid? That’s great! My daughter is in this class too!” We chatted for a few minutes. She looked me over. “You’re so thin! Are you okay?” “Just the exhaustion of having a toddler.” “I hear you,” she sighed. “Oh, hey, your husband’s name is Mark Peterson, right?” I paused. “How do you know?” “My husband works with him!” She laughed. “I met him once at the company holiday party.” “Oh.” “He’s pretty handsome,” she winked. “You have good taste.” I offered a small smile and said nothing. “Wait,” she suddenly lowered her voice. “I’m going to tell you something, but keep it between us.” “What is it?” “There’s a girl at your husband’s office, Skylar Walsh,” she said, conspiratorially. “I heard she and Mark are… close.” My heart skipped a beat. “Who told you that?” “The whole office is talking about it,” she said. “My husband told me they eat lunch together every day and leave work together.” “Is that so?” “My husband says everyone knows, but no one dares to say anything,” she frowned. “Mark is the Project Manager, and apparently, this Skylar isn’t someone you want to mess with.” “She’s not to be messed with?” “I heard her dad is high up in City Planning,” Lina whispered. “Serious connections.” I stayed silent. “Just be careful,” Lina patted my arm. “But maybe it’s just rumors. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be that stupid.” “Mmm. Thanks, Lina.” I picked up Leo and drove home. On the way, Leo was singing in the back seat. Listening to his sweet, small voice, I felt profoundly calm. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because the pain had passed. When we got home, Mark was actually there. “Why are you home so early?” “Nothing pressing today. Thought I’d come back and spend time with you two.” He smiled and scooped up Leo. “Son, did you miss Daddy?” “Yes!” “Daddy missed you too!” He held Leo, his expression tender. He looked like a good father. A good husband. Watching him, I suddenly felt completely detached. This man. I had been married to him for three years, and I thought I knew him. I was wrong. “Jenna,” he put Leo down and looked at me. “I’ve been thinking these past few days. You seem… unhappy.” “No, I’m not.” “Really?” “Really.” “Good.” He walked over and held my hands. “I know you’re tired. Being home with the baby is hard.” “Mmm.” “I’ve decided. Next month, I’m raising your allowance.” I looked at him. “How much?” “Up to three thousand. How does that sound?” Three thousand. He gave Skylar $7,500 every month. He was giving me $3,000. I smiled. “Sounds great.” “That’s my girl,” he patted my shoulder, satisfied. “We’re a family. We can talk about anything.” “Mmm.” “Oh,” he remembered something. “Mom said you went to the bank today?” I paused briefly. “Yes, I withdrew some cash.” “Withdrew cash?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How much?” “Two thousand.” “Why so much?” “Leo’s preschool tuition is due.” “Oh,” he relaxed. “You should have just told me. I can transfer that easily.”

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It happened the week before my high school graduation. My brother, Leo, was driving me to pick up Mom and Dad from work when we crashed. The only thing worse than the screeching metal was the silence afterward. I sustained a spinal cord injury. I never walked again. The bright, clear future I’d built vanished into the smog of reality, and I fell into the black hole of clinical depression. Every day was an agony. Mom, Evelyn, who never got past community college, didn’t understand the diagnosis. When I hurt myself, she’d just hold me, again and again. “It’s okay, Willow. Mom will always be right here.” Dad, Robert, took on two extra jobs. I barely saw him. “Don’t worry,” he’d promise, his voice rough. “We’re fine on cash. We’ll beat this thing.” Leo stayed by my side constantly. “This is my fault,” he’d whisper, his eyes haunted. “I’ll protect you, always.” Three years. They gave me three years of their lives, anchoring themselves to my pain. I truly believed I was lucky. I thought, one day, I’d stand in the sunshine and tell them, laughing, “I’m better now.” But then came that day. All I did was whisper, “I’m so tired.” Mom just… shattered. “Then die already! I am done with this life!” she screamed. “Our whole lives revolve around you! How are we supposed to fix you? I’m going to end up depressed, too, living like this!” She slammed the door. Leo scrambled after her. The silence they left was deafening. I looked at the kitchen knife I kept by the bed. Death was better. No more trouble for anyone. No more agonizing pain for me. 1 The cold tip dragged across my skin. Blood bloomed instantly. A sharp, searing red. Usually, they’d be here. Mom would hug me, patting my back like when I was small. She always said, Sleep it off, Willow. Everything’s better when you’re sleeping. But she didn’t know that sleep was just another form of torture. I rarely rested well; I was always dreaming. I’d dream I could stand up and walk across the college quad. Or I’d dream my condition mysteriously worsened, and I couldn’t even move my head. I never told her. She couldn’t fix it, and it would only increase her sighing. I was already enough of a headache. Better to spare her the worry. Leo would gently bandage me, careful not to cause any more pain. He even gave up his dream major for me. He was at the top of his class, but he switched to Psychology—just to try and fix me. It was all his guilt. He’d only had his license a few weeks that day. I told him to slow down, and he just grinned, dismissive. “Relax, sis. Your brother’s a pro. Nothing’s going to happen.” The next second: the shriek of the brakes. I haven’t seen that genuine, carefree grin since. I told him a hundred times. “Leo, it was an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t blame you.” But he’d look at the clean white gauze on my wrist and cry harder than I did. White wasn’t as blinding as red, at least. Thinking that, I slowly closed my eyes. The wet warmth under my wrist spread beneath me. Then it grew cold, making me shiver. Thank goodness I pulled the blanket over me first. It would have been colder otherwise. More importantly, the blanket would hide the mess. Mom was terrified of blood. Every time I hurt myself, she fought to keep her legs from collapsing just so she could hold me. It’s okay. We all told lies, all kept secrets. Mom’s ‘forever’ was just three years. Dad’s ‘money’ was his body failing from exhaustion. Leo’s ‘protection’ had started to thin out last year when he finally got a girlfriend. I forgave them. I hope they can forgive me for the lie I told them last month: “I’m totally cured.” Technically, it wasn’t a total lie. I really did feel better. I just don’t know why, today, that sudden, drowning weight just swallowed me again. Sadness. Exhaustion. I just mentioned it casually. I didn’t want anything else. Just Mom’s hug. Just a moment in her arms, breathing in the scent of her sweater. She always did that without me asking. But today, she screamed and shattered. I understood. She was just worn down, reactive. She wasn’t mad at me. I couldn’t be mad at her. I understood. What did she say? She was going to end up depressed, too. No. I couldn’t let Mom get this disease. It’s more than just a ‘bad mood.’ It’s this—this struggle to breathe. I told myself it was just extreme anxiety triggering a somatic response. Just slow down my breathing. Just calm down. Next second: darkness.

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Seven decades old, and my grandmother was divorcing my grandfather. The reason? He’d killed and eaten the dog she’d raised for five years. The whole family urged her to forget it. It was just an animal, for heaven’s sake. But my grandmother, Doris, wouldn’t budge. My grandfather, Arthur, furious, slammed his hand on the table. “Fine! Divorce me then! Who’s scared?” Yet, later, he’d be leaning on his cane, a whimpering puppy cradled in his arms, practically begging Doris for forgiveness. 1 The day my Uncle Owen brought his new girlfriend home, Grandpa Arthur killed Rusty, the mutt Grandma Doris had raised for five years. The family kept it a secret from her, tossing the chopped-up bones into the stockpot and turning it into a rich, savory stew. Doris worked tirelessly in the kitchen for three hours. When she finally came out, the pot on the dining table was nearly scraped clean. Grandpa Arthur dipped his ladle, filling a bowl with the rich, bone broth. He handed it to her with a smile. “It’s cold out. Drink this to warm up.” Grandma Doris glanced at the nearly empty pot, then slowly stood and walked toward the doghouse. “Rusty always loves bone broth,” she muttered. “This soup should go to Rusty.” But when she reached the little wooden house, the dog that usually bounded out, tail wagging, wasn’t there. “Rusty? Rusty!” Doris called out a few times, but no silhouette appeared. She mumbled to herself, “Maybe he went out to play?” She poured the broth into Rusty’s bowl. As she walked back toward the house, her eyes fell on a patch of yellow fur clinging to a dark stain on the ground. She knew that shade of yellow. She knew it intimately. In a single, horrifying instant, she recognized it as Rusty’s coat. Her hands trembling, she shuffled closer, step by agonizing step. When she finally saw the blood-soaked fur scattered on the earth, a soundless scream caught in her throat. She staggered backward, almost losing her footing. Inside the dining room, the family chatted, oblivious to Doris’s silent breakdown just outside the door. She collected herself, her pace becoming a frantic, unsteady shamble as she entered the kitchen. She grabbed a butcher knife, its blade wickedly sharp, and charged into the living room. Everyone froze. They stared at Doris, bewildered, unable to comprehend the sight of their tiny, elderly matriarch wielding a deadly weapon. Owen’s girlfriend, Madison, sitting next to him and casually eating a grape, was terrified to see her future mother-in-law standing over her with a knife. “Mom! What are you doing?!” Owen shouted first. Doris’s eyes were bloodshot, scanning the room. Her voice, when it came, was a raw, strained rasp. “Where is Rusty?!” Arthur picked a piece of bone from his tooth, utterly unconcerned. “That mutt by the door? Oh, we just finished eating him!” He gestured toward the empty stew pot on the table. In front of every seat was a small mountain of bones. Rusty’s bones. The bones of the dog she had painstakingly loved and cared for for five years. Doris lost it. She brought the knife down, sinking the tip deep into the sturdy oak table. Then, with a scream, she grabbed the edge and flipped the whole thing over. 2 Plates, bowls, and silverware crashed to the hardwood floor, a thunderous sound that echoed through the sudden silence. Owen and Arthur, sitting closest to the blast zone, scrambled to their feet. When the dust settled, Arthur pointed a shaking finger right at Doris’s face. “Doris, what the hell is wrong with you?! Are you completely insane?!” Owen pulled Madison defensively behind him, his eyes filled with sheer resentment. This was the first time he’d brought his girlfriend home, and his own mother had just flipped the dinner table after they’d eaten. How was he supposed to explain this? How could he possibly earn Madison’s forgiveness? “Yes, I am insane!” Doris shrieked. “Arthur, you ate my dog without my permission!” “You monster!” Doris was a woman who’d read books, a woman who’d grown up in a respectable family before the war. Even in her most blinding fury, she could only call him a monster—a word that felt ridiculously ineffective against his monumental cruelty. Arthur clutched his chest, breathing in gasps. “It was just a damn animal! A stray mutt!” “You flipped the table for an animal!” “You are completely unreasonable!” He was right, in their eyes. Rusty was just an animal. Doris had found Rusty when he was barely the size of her palm, his right leg crushed by a car. Everyone told her the puppy wouldn’t make it, but Doris had nursed him back to life, spoonful by spoonful of rice water. He grew up with a permanent limp, but it didn’t slow him down. Every time Doris walked to the fields, Rusty was always ahead of her, clearing the path. With Rusty by her side, even simple weeding felt like a joyful endeavor. The winters in the Midwest countryside were brutal. Fearing the cold, Doris had worked hard, sawing planks to build Rusty a sturdy doghouse. She lined the bottom with old clothes, making it warm and cozy even when it snowed. She never chained him up. Doris always said, humans need freedom, and so do dogs. Rusty became the freest dog in Cedar Creek. He’d spend his days hunting squirrels in the spring, splashing in the creek in the summer, chasing stray cats in the fall, and trotting through the snow in the winter. Five years of that glorious, happy life. Five years of freedom. Exhausted, Doris finally sank onto a nearby stool. Her eyes were empty, staring at the shattered ceramic on the floor. She spoke, her voice low and broken. “Arthur. I want a divorce.” 3 The news that Doris, at seventy, wanted a divorce spread like wildfire, reaching my parents back in Chicago almost instantly. My dad had left for college and never looked back, settling in the city. When I was born, they’d promptly dropped me off with my grandmother. The country schools weren’t great, and I wasn’t a scholar, so I took a vocational course and started working right out of high school. My parents bought train tickets and rushed home that very night. They walked into a disaster. The mess was still there; if Doris didn’t clean it up, no one else would. Arthur was parked on the sofa, watching the news. Doris was locked in her room, quietly weeping. My father went to comfort Grandpa Arthur. My mother went into the room to comfort Grandma Doris. “She’s lost her mind,” Arthur scoffed. “Seventy years old, and she wants to divorce me over a damn animal! Where’s she going to go? What’s she going to do? She has no house, no money. Is she planning to be a beggar?” Doris sat on the edge of the bed, tearfully holding a photo of Rusty. I had taken the picture when I was home for Christmas. Doris was sitting on the porch swing, Rusty cradled in her arms, both of them beaming. She’d loved the photo and asked me to print copies. I printed ten. She kept the best one on her nightstand, looking at it whenever she was idle. “He was so handsome,” she’d whisper. “Rusty was the prettiest dog in the whole county.” My mother gently patted her back. “Mom, Rusty was just a dog. He’s gone. If you want one so badly, I’ll buy you a new one.” She thought of the beautiful, intelligent city dogs. A Border Collie that could herd sheep, maybe a fancy Pomeranian. Buy a new one, and Doris would stop this foolishness. Doris shook her head. “They won’t be Rusty.” Dogs are like people. You spend enough time with them, you form a bond. “I considered Rusty family,” Doris said, her voice strained. “He killed Rusty. That’s like killing my family.” “Sue Ellen,” she looked up at my mother. “I have to get this divorce.” “I can’t live with a murderer.” My mother desperately wanted to laugh. A dog? A murderer? Was she serious? But she managed to keep the scorn from her face. 4 They couldn’t persuade her. There was no reasoning with her. Arthur pointed a finger at her closed door. “She dares to divorce me? If she’s so set on it, we’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow!” Doris’s response was always the same: “I can’t live with a murderer. This marriage is over.” My parents had no choice. They cleaned up the house, stayed one night, and left. They figured two seventy-year-olds with one foot in the grave couldn’t really cause any lasting trouble. I remembered the last time Doris tried to file for divorce, five years ago. She was sick, lying in bed, unable to move. Arthur came home after a poker game to a cold, dark house and no dinner. He kicked open the bedroom door in a rage. “If you’re going to die, then die! If you’re not dead, get up and cook me a meal!” “Are you trying to starve me?” Doris had a fever of 104 degrees, her head spinning, her body aching. She couldn’t even crawl out of bed, let alone cook. Arthur was convinced she was faking it. He went to the bathroom, brought back a basin of cold water, and dumped it right over her head. Her nightgown was soaked, the comforter ruined. Doris had no choice but to bite back a cry and struggle out of bed to change her clothes and the linens. Arthur watched her, arms crossed. “See? You can get up.” “Stop putting on a show!” Doris staggered to the kitchen to start dinner, but halfway through, she collapsed. If Arthur hadn’t smelled the burning oil, he might not have found her until morning. She was taken to the hospital. The doctor tore into Arthur for a full half-hour. How could you make her cook when she was this sick? Are your legs broken? When Doris woke up, Arthur blamed her for everything. “What kind of wife gets sick and forces me to take care of her?” “You even had to faint? Why didn’t you just die then? Why make me play nurse?” “I’m not a servant!” Arthur stomped off, leaving Doris alone. If I hadn’t happened to come home for a visit, she wouldn’t have had anyone by her side. The first thing Doris did after she was discharged was demand a divorce. People say young couples become old companions. But for Doris and Arthur, even with their hair white, they had never been partners. Fifty years of marriage, and all she had was a lifetime of swallowing her pride and taking the abuse. This time, she was finished. Who had convinced her to stay five years ago? Oh, right. It was Rusty. She’d found him and brought him home. Now Rusty was gone. Doris was determined to leave. 5 Doris had my old smartphone—the one I’d given her so she could take pictures of Rusty. She’d never even turned it on. This time, she took it and walked three miles to the phone store to ask a clerk how to use it. The young woman patiently showed her the features and even charged the battery for her. That night, the phone rang in my apartment. I was raised by Doris; we were close. After I started working, I’d try to visit when I could, always bringing Rusty his favorite treats and cans of food. I was just walking home under the city lights when her call came. “Grandma?” I was surprised. She never called me. When she heard my voice, she choked up. “Liz,” she whispered. “Can you come home to see Grandma?” “Grandma misses you.” My parents hadn’t told me about the divorce, so I was completely in the dark. I figured she was just lonely, so I took a couple of days off work and drove home the next morning. Doris was sitting on the porch swing when she saw me pull up with my suitcase. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. She stood up, frail and shaky, to meet me. “Liz, you’re home.” I walked toward her, and a heavy sense of absence settled over me. Instinctively, I asked, “Where’s Rusty?” The tears in her eyes finally spilled over. Doris pulled me close and, bit by bit, poured out the whole horrific story. “They ate Rusty.” “Your grandfather and Owen… they cooked and ate him.” “My Rusty. My dog, who stayed with me for five years.” Her voice was thick with sobs, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath. She didn’t want to cry in front of her granddaughter, but she couldn’t stop. “Liz, I’m divorcing your grandfather.” She looked at me expectantly, hoping for a different response. Not the scolding I’d heard my parents give, and not the condemnation of Arthur and Owen. But I was silent. Grandpa Arthur was right. She had no money, no home to call her own. Where would she go after the divorce? Seeing my silence, Doris forced a small, broken smile. She lightly wiped her eyes. “Liz, I was just saying that. Don’t worry about it.” “What do you want for lunch?” Watching her retreat behind that mask of indifference, my heart ached so badly I felt like I could weep water. 6 I stayed up all night, researching divorce proceedings online. I was only seventeen, not even a legal adult, and the word divorce felt a million miles away. But the internet is full of good people. Before morning, I’d found two lawyers who offered pro-bono help for elders. The next day, I approached Doris. “I support your divorce, Grandma.” Her eyes immediately filled with fresh tears. “My sweet Liz. I knew you were different.” I used an online template to draft the divorce papers, printed them, and handed them to Arthur. He was sitting on the porch, smoking. When he saw the legal documents in Doris’s hand, he sneered. “Seriously? You’re really going through with this?” “Doris, two days of throwing a fit is enough! This isn’t over yet?” “Divorce me? Do you have money? Do you have a house?” “You’re going to beg on the street after I kick you out!” Arthur turned his glare on me. “And you! You’re just as bad, stirring the pot with your grandmother!” Arthur never liked me because I was a girl. He always pressured my parents to have another child, a boy. My parents made good money, but they were cheap. They figured girls don’t need a house or a car, and they bring in a dowry when they marry. So they ignored Arthur. Doris gripped the divorce papers tightly. “I told you, I want a divorce!” “If you won’t sign, I’ll file suit!” I had just taught her that word: sue. Arthur snatched the papers, scanning the dense text. He didn’t bother reading. He took the pen from Doris’s hand and scribbled his signature on the last page. Then he threw the document back in her face. “Fine! We’ll divorce tomorrow! Who backs out is a coward!” Doris flinched as the paper struck her cheek, but she immediately bent down and retrieved it, her face radiating joy. “Liz, your grandfather signed it.” “I’m going to divorce him tomorrow.” Doris was genuinely happy. Even the wrinkles around her eyes seemed to turn upward in a smile. 7 The next day, Arthur and Doris actually drove to the County Courthouse. The clerk at the Family Court frowned at the sight of the two white-haired seventy-year-olds coming in to file for separation. “You… want to divorce?” Doris’s voice was firm. “Yes, we do.” The clerk reviewed the paperwork and scheduled an appointment. “You have a thirty-day cooling-off period. Come back after that to finalize.” The news of Arthur and Doris going to the courthouse reached my parents in Chicago again. This time, even Uncle Owen rushed back. They all gathered, circling Doris, launching an attack as if she had committed a heinous crime. “Mom, you’re seventy years old. Why are you acting like a teenager?” My father started the lecture. “Divorcing? Aren’t you embarrassed?” Owen chimed in, “The last time, you flipped the table in front of Maddie. Do you know how hard I had to work to calm her down?” “She even suggested you had mental issues! Do you know that?” “It was just a dog! He was eaten, so what?” “We raise chickens and ducks to eat! Are dogs somehow better than them?” My mother’s tone was slightly softer. “Mom, stop this nonsense. You and Dad have been married for fifty years. Friction is normal.” “If you want a dog, I’ll buy you a dog.” My mother pulled out her phone to show Doris pictures of fancy city breeds. A Bichon Frise, a Maltese, a Miniature Poodle. They were washed, clipped, and groomed to look like expensive, fluffy dolls. Doris just pursed her lips, saying nothing. “Alright, I’ve decided,” my father declared, sealing the deal. “We’ll buy Mom a dog in a couple of days, and that’s the end of it!” “And Dad, you’re at fault too. Why did you have to eat Mom’s dog? Do we not have enough money to buy our own meat?” It was the first time Arthur had ever been scolded by his children. He just rolled his eyes and stayed silent.

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The fifty-second time Owen stood me up for our appointment at the courthouse to get our marriage license, I stopped running through my memory, searching for what I might have done wrong. I stopped writing those long, rambling texts begging him to promise he’d show up next time. Instead, I opened the work group chat. Underneath the photo his childhood friend, Scarlett, had just posted—a professional shot of the two of them in bridal wear— I calmly typed a single reply: “Congrats. A long life of happiness.” The air in the chat room, where my colleagues were undoubtedly taking bets on whether I’d start a fight, went silent. The very next second, the photo vanished. Owen’s name flashed on my screen, his voice glacial when I answered. “Scarlett just accidentally sent that to the wrong group. Did you have to be so passive-aggressive? How is she supposed to hold her head up at the hospital after you pull a stunt like this?” “Besides, it was just a birthday photoshoot. What’s the big deal if I helped Scarlett fulfill a silly little bride fantasy of hers? It’s just one picture. People with a dirty mind see filth everywhere.” “Retract that message and apologize to Scarlett. I’ll make time to go to the courthouse with you after I’ve finished celebrating her birthday.” Faced with his fifty-second flimsy promise, I agreed without a second thought. By the time he came back, my resignation would be processed. Then, I would end things with him. And after that, we would never meet again. 1 I hung up, and my fiancé, Owen, called me over a dozen times in a row, but I ignored every one. Next, a text from Owen flashed up. [Tess, did you just hang up on me? What, I can’t call you out when you’re in the wrong?] [Answer the phone now, or suffer the consequences!] I couldn’t blame Owen for losing his temper. Before this, I’d always been the one to compromise, always the one who spoke softly and kindly. It was always his right to hang up on me. This was the first time I’d ever ended a call on him. When I didn’t respond to his texts, he went silent. But moments later, my phone pinged with notifications: alerts that our shared status had been unbound on every couple’s app and shared account we used. I didn’t need to guess—it was Owen’s petty work. I’d lost count of how many times he’d done this. Every time he got angry, he’d sever our digital ties as a way to throw his weight around. I would always choke down my pride, apologize, and beg him to re-bind them. But now, I was truly exhausted. I couldn’t be bothered to soothe him anymore. I was about to close the chat when Scarlett posted on her social media, including a screenshot of the group chat and tagging me directly. [Oops! Accidentally shared my birthday shoot to the wrong group earlier. I only meant it as a joke for Owen, but I guess Tess took it too seriously. I won’t dare to joke around like that again.] The instant the post went live, Owen—who never touched social media—slammed a huge ‘Like’ on it. Then he commented: [Scarlett, it was just a birthday photoshoot. Some people just have a sordid mind. A dirty heart sees filth everywhere.] The “some people” he meant was me. Soon, colleagues started swiping through the comments, quickly rallying to Scarlett’s defense. [Don’t blame yourself, Scarlett, it’s not your fault. Tess is just too petty and can’t take a joke.] [Seriously, it was just a lighthearted joke. Why is she making such a huge deal out of it?] I just found it bitterly amusing. Owen instantly jumped to Scarlett’s defense, protecting her image in the comments section. Yet, he always greeted me, his fiancée of ten years, with the maximum amount of malice and suspicion. When he’d stood me up for the appointment to ride a ferris wheel with Scarlett, I’d only complained a little, and he’d accused me of being paranoid and unreasonable. Now, I was quiet, I wasn’t throwing a fit, and I offered a simple, composed “long life of happiness,” and he still called me passive-aggressive. It was clear: When the love is gone, everything you do is wrong. I gave a bitter smile, locked my screen, and decided I didn’t care to read any more. Snapping out of my thoughts, I registered the civil servant’s gentle voice. “Ma’am, your number has expired. Would you like to take a new ticket and rebook?” I shook my head, my voice quiet. “No, thank you.” I tore the ticket into tiny pieces and dropped it into the trash can next to me. The expired number, I didn’t want it. The expired wedding date, and the expired man, I didn’t want either. Before this, I had given Owen fifty-two chances to marry me. But every time the date drew near, he would call, claim an emergency surgery at the hospital, and brazenly stand me up. If I showed the slightest displeasure, he’d use human life to guilt-trip me. “Tess, how can you be so cold-blooded? Is a marriage certificate more important than a living person’s life?” He always positioned himself on the moral high ground to condemn me. He was confident he had fooled me, unaware that I knew everything. Every time he abandoned me for Scarlett, she would send me private messages of provocation. Photos of them watching the Northern Lights in the Arctic, making a heart shape under the Eiffel Tower… I stayed, holding onto the years we had shared, giving Owen chance after chance. But he just trampled my sincerity into the dirt. Now, even the last sliver of affection was gone. I thought, our relationship has finally reached its end. 2 Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I left the courthouse and drove to the hospital, ready to find Human Resources and finalize my departure. I had written my resignation application two weeks ago, and Owen had signed it himself two days prior. He signed it without even looking, his swiftness surprising me. He had always guarded his privacy from me—never giving me his phone password, always unlocking his phone away from my sight. Yet, he trusted Scarlett enough to share confidential hospital information with her. I thought Owen had finally lowered his guard with me. That thought evaporated the moment I saw the impeccably dressed Scarlett standing near the entrance. I instantly understood. He’d signed so quickly because he was rushing off to meet her. If I wasn’t mistaken, the necklace around Scarlett’s neck was a million-dollar diamond pendant—The Ocean’s Heart—or a close replica. Owen was wildly generous to Scarlett—a million-dollar necklace, bought on a whim. To me, he was stingy to the point of cruelty. Forget a necklace, I hadn’t had a new outfit in years. I was still wearing the same faded shirt and worn-out jeans. When I once mentioned wanting a new dress, Owen refused, sternly lecturing me about being vain, wasting money, and not appreciating how hard he worked. He told me to focus my energy on my career instead. In the end, it just meant I wasn’t worthy of him spending money on. … At the hospital, I processed my resignation with HR. With Owen’s signature on the document, the HR manager didn’t make a fuss and quickly submitted the application online. “I’ve submitted the request for you. It should take about two days to finalize. Just use this time to finish handing over your current work.” I nodded. As I left the HR office, my colleagues’ eyes followed me, full of mocking glances. “Did you hear Tess is quitting? Tsk, tsk. So what if she was with the Director for ten years? She still can’t compare to Scarlett. I bet Scarlett and the Director are getting serious soon!” “Scarlett is sweet, smart, and charming. What does Tess, that faded, yesterday’s news, have going for her?” Many of them were trainees I had personally mentored. When I’d covered for them in the past, they’d called me “Madam Director” and promised to look out for me someday. Now, seeing the political winds change, they were all tripping over themselves to kiss Owen and Scarlett’s asses. I gave a cold laugh and shot back: “Actually, I’m jumping ship. I’ve been headhunted by another hospital offering a high-six-figure salary and benefits triple what I’m getting here.” Without waiting for their faces to turn green with envy, I grabbed my packed personal belongings and walked out without a second glance. I’d just stepped outside the hospital doors when Owen called. “Tess, it’s Scarlett’s birthday today. You need to take over her patients and her research project while she’s on leave.” Before I could refuse, he instantly sent me the medical research project—a document that currently only had a title. This wasn’t the first time Owen had forced me to take over Scarlett’s work. It was always the same: I did the work, Scarlett got the credit and the fame, and if anything went wrong, I was the one who took the blame. At first, I resisted, and Owen would accuse me of being selfish and cold-hearted, threatening to take the work on himself. Since running the hospital was already exhausting for him, I always relented, choosing to compromise. But they never showed gratitude. They just took advantage, becoming more demanding and entitled. Since I was quitting anyway, I didn’t feel the need to tolerate it anymore. “I refuse. Because I’m already…” I was about to tell him about my resignation when I heard Scarlett’s soft, fragile voice in the background. “Owen, if Tess doesn’t want to, forget it. I can handle the work myself…” Owen’s voice immediately softened for her. “Scarlett, it’s your birthday. You should be celebrating happily, not stressing about work.” His voice immediately hardened again when he spoke to me. “Tess, do you realize that because of the scene you made in the group chat earlier, Scarlett feels guilty and is upset? I’m giving you a chance to atone. Don’t be so ungrateful!” I laughed in disbelief. Scarlett was celebrating her birthday, and Owen was granting her leave and obsessing over her feelings. Yet, when I had a fever, Owen refused my request for leave, insisting I come in to work. He said if I couldn’t do surgery, I could do paperwork—that moving around would help me recover faster. The result was that I got much sicker and was bedridden for two weeks. Hearing my cold laugh, Owen instantly snapped. “Tess, you’re the one who messed up, and you have the audacity to laugh? If you keep this up, I swear I’ll break up with y—” I knew Owen was about to use his go-to threat. In the past, he always leveraged a breakup to manipulate me whenever we had a disagreement. He knew I cared about him, knew I couldn’t bear to leave him. But this time, I cut him off before he could finish. “Good. I was about to say the same thing. We’re over.”

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Jade and I were once gentry daughters, raised in a world of rigid social codes, but a twist of fate had tossed us through time, landing us here as two ordinary college students. Jade, always the wild one, had declared her freedom the moment we arrived. Released from the “female commandments,” she’d loudly proclaimed her goal: to date a hundred men before ever settling down. Yet, as graduation approached and I found myself engaged to the kindest man in this century, Reid, the great love hunt of Jade’s never materialized. I thought she might stay single forever. Then, she stumbled into my arms, the smell of champagne and cheap perfume heavy around her. Her hands clutched a slim document—a marriage certificate. “Sylvie,” she slurred, her eyes shining with a manic, triumphant joy. “He rejected me three years ago. Turned me down flat. But I never quit. Look. I finally got him.” I smiled, genuinely happy for her. After all, today was my own wedding day, and Reid had always been my gentle, steady anchor. Jade’s sudden, drunken announcement felt like a perfect double celebration. I carefully guided her to the couch, but as I stood, my elbow snagged the document in her hand, sending it fluttering to the floor. I picked it up and opened it. The sight of the photo hit me with the force of a physical blow. The man smiling out from the page, his expression sunshine-bright and utterly devoted, was Reid. My Reid. The man who had choked up placing my ring on my finger just hours ago. 1 My mind went blank. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked them open, trying to flush the image away. It had to be the post-wedding adrenaline; I was seeing Reid’s face everywhere. He was supposed to be finalizing the paperwork for the gallery expansion, our gallery. He told me we’d file our own certificate after the show. How could he have possibly had the time—or the heart—to do this? But Jade’s voice, thick with liquor yet laced with an undeniable, sickening sweetness, floated clearly into the silence. “Reid was the first thing I saw when we landed in this century. I loved him instantly. But he only had eyes for my best friend, so I had to work slowly, subtly, to win him over.” “The road was tough, but the ending is perfect.” I gripped the paper hard. The sharp edges dug into my palm, painfully real. I had known Reid for five years. They had been in love for three of them, operating in a world I couldn’t see. I mechanically turned toward the couch. Jade was still there, smiling a senseless, drunken smile. “Since Reid married me, and kept Sylvie outside our life, it means he truly loves me.” The tears came then, hot and unbidden. I closed my eyes and whispered, using the formal tone I sometimes slipped into. “Are you not afraid Sylvie will find out about this betrayal?” Jade laughed, shaking her head. “Sylvie and I grew up together. If she finds out, we’ll just bring her to live with us.” “It would be… it would be like having a sister-wife. We are like sisters, she won’t mind.” Something sparked in her memory then, and she lunged up, snatching the marriage certificate from my hand. She kissed the photo and lovingly stuffed the precious thing into her coat pocket, still giggling. On the day of my wedding, my husband had already married my best friend. And now, they planned to use an ancient, twisted rule to condescend to me with the position of a mistress. The shock was absolute. My hands and feet felt numb, heavy with ice. I was about to demand an answer, a reason, when the front door swung open. Reid’s warm, loving gaze settled on my face. He didn’t see Jade on the sofa. He walked right to me, pulling me into his arms in a playful embrace. “I finally got rid of those useless groomsmen,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Now, the night is all ours.” Excitedly, he scooped me up into his arms, but his eyes caught Jade’s form in his peripheral vision. He stopped dead, and the excitement drained from his face. In the next instant, he dropped me. I fell, unprepared, with a sickening thud. The back of my head slammed against the corner of the coffee table, and a blinding jolt of pain made my vision go black. Reid finally turned, saw my contorted face, and rushed to pull me up, panic in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Sylvie, I didn’t mean it! I was just startled by your friend!” he stammered. “She knows tonight is important for us. Why is she sleeping here like a giant spotlight? I’ll send her away right now.” He released me, his face a mask of annoyance as he roughly pulled Jade to her feet. “Jade, go home. You have your apartment. Stop being in the way.” I stood paralyzed, watching him drag her. The movement looked crude and disgusted, but I saw it—the careful, almost proprietary hand gripping her lower back, steadying her. That small, tender gesture sliced my heart open. Reid didn’t notice my silence. He was still complaining. “Sylvie rented you a place just around the corner. How can you still freeload off us like this?” The jostling finally made Jade open her eyes. She smiled dazedly at Reid, about to speak, but he clapped a hand over her mouth. Reid avoided my gaze, clearly flustered. “Your friend is loud when she drinks. I’ll take her home now. Wait for me here, okay?” Before I could process a word, he was guiding a muffled, groaning Jade toward the door. He didn’t notice the blood trickling down the side of my head, staining my wedding dress. Dizzy and nauseous, I fought to steady myself. I had to follow. I hailed a cab and had it stop a block away from Jade’s apartment building. They were arguing on the sidewalk, oblivious to me. “Reid, you’re mine tonight. I need you to stay with me.” Jade was clinging to his neck, whining like a child. Reid looked at her, his expression torn. I almost thought he would remember that it was our wedding night, that he would refuse her. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Reid. Sylvie, I safely dropped off Jade. A big client urgently needs to see some pieces tonight. I won’t be back, darling. Get some rest. My blood ran cold. I immediately called him, but the line rang and rang, unanswered. I wanted to throw my phone, to storm up to them and scream, Why would you betray me? But I froze, watching Reid cup Jade’s face in his hands, then kiss her fiercely, hungrily. My stomach turned. It was too much. I stumbled behind the thick trunk of an old maple tree and finally gave in, retching violently onto the grass. The man I had given my life to. The woman I had considered my only sister in this terrifying new world. They had coordinated a crushing blow on the happiest day of my life. Hollowed out, I leaned against the trunk. The breeze carried their voices back to me. “Reid, thank you for marrying me. Even if we can’t be public, just knowing I’m your wife makes me so happy.” “I know this is awful to Sylvie, but I truly love you.” Jade sounded sober now, her voice thick with tears. Reid gently wiped her face. “Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “We are the legal couple. Sylvie is busy with work, and sometimes she stays at the gallery to paint. We’ll be discreet, just like before. She won’t notice anything.” Jade began to sob more pitifully, throwing herself into his arms. “You’ve done so much for me. As soon as my grandmother recovers, we can finally get a divorce.” “Then I’ll give you back to her, whole and untouched.” Their words were like razor wire, tearing through my ear canals. I could barely stand. So, they had gotten together while I was pouring my time into earning our tuition and saving up startup funds. A stabbing pain spread across my chest. I couldn’t understand it. I had given them my absolute best. They used to bicker constantly, each claiming the other spent too much time with me, sometimes even fighting until they were red-faced. How could they now be rolling around together behind my back? My vision blurred. I reached up and tightly gripped the small jade pendant around my neck—the one that could only take one person home. If they were truly in love, I would give them what they wanted. I was done with both of these hypocrites. A blinding flash of light. CRUNCH! I was thrown backward. When I woke again, I was in a hospital bed. “Sylvie, I told you to stay home and rest! Why did you run out?” Reid was holding my hand, his grip tight, his skin scalding against mine. It was the warmth I had craved and depended on in this world, and now it was utterly repulsive. I pulled my hand away and looked past him to the window. Jade was sitting there, deliberately trying to appear aloof. As soon as I woke, she rushed forward, mimicking concern. “I was worried about Jade,” I stated, flatly. “I wanted to check on her.” The air in the room instantly became thick and silent. A flicker of panic crossed both their eyes, but they avoided looking at each other. “Unfortunately, I was hit by a car before I made it to her place.” I kept my voice calm. They both let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief. Their chilling synchronicity made my heart ache. “You don’t trust me?” Reid said, attempting a tone of fond exasperation. “Even if I can’t stand Jade, she’s your best friend. I would never fail to drop her off safely.” He reached out to playfully ruffle my hair, but I jerked away. His hand froze in the air. He stared at me, visibly confused. He clearly expected me to lean into his touch, to be dependent and clingy after the accident, as I always had been. Jade, seizing the moment, pouted. “Who needs you to drop me off anyway? If you hadn’t been so busy rushing to your gallery, Sylvie wouldn’t have been hit.” They began to argue, immediately blaming each other for my accident. If I hadn’t seen them entangled in a frantic embrace just hours before, I would have intervened, soothing them both as usual. Now, I watched their performance with cold indifference. My lack of reaction startled them. They exchanged a subtle, concerned look. Reid broke the tense silence first. “I’m going to get you some food.” He didn’t look at me, and his shoulders were hunched, the nervousness in his posture obvious. When the room cleared, only Jade and I remained. She broke the silence hesitantly. “Sylvie, last night, I was really drunk. I didn’t say anything stupid, did I?” Reid’s betrayal hurt, but Jade’s backstabbing was a deeper, more agonizing wound. We had shared everything since childhood, only to have her lie to me for a man. I knew she had always yearned to go back, to return to being the revered “County Princess.” When I discovered the one-person-only jade pendant, I had planned to hand it over to her, to let her finally go home. Instead, she had repaid my loyalty with a nightmare. I held her gaze until her composure broke. “You didn’t say a thing,” I finally said, pulling my eyes away. “I’m tired. You should go now.” I wanted her out, but she didn’t budge. “You look thirsty, Sylvie. Let me get you some water.” She didn’t wait for my refusal. She poured a glass and offered it to me. My nerves were raw. I reached out to gently push her hand away, just as Reid’s voice announced his return. “Sylvie! I brought your favorite, sweet and sour pork!” Jade’s hand twitched. The cup slipped, and boiling hot water drenched the back of my hand. “Ah!” The searing pain ripped a cry from my throat. Reid immediately dropped the takeout and ran to me. He grabbed my burned hand, his face etched with concern, but then he saw Jade clenching her reddened fingers. He immediately turned to her. “Sylvie, I’ll call the doctor for you!” he rushed out, but then grabbed Jade by the collar. “It’s all your fault! You hurt Sylvie! Get out of here right now!” he yelled, furiously dragging her out of the room. I looked down at the transparent blisters bubbling up on my skin. My heart ached, a deep, pulling pain. The man who once had eyes only for me now didn’t even see my injury. After the nurse treated my hand, I walked out of the room. I saw Reid carefully applying cream to Jade’s hand, holding it delicately as if it were spun glass. That was the moment I finally let go. I was dead to them.

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I drew my last breath exactly forty-eight hours after the earthquake hit, crushed beneath the ruins. My three-year-old son, Ben, was tucked into a narrow pocket of air, surviving by licking the blood that seeped from my mangled arm. Through the walkie-talkie, my ex-husband, Connor Vance, was shouting, his voice ragged with impatience: “The entire city is mobilized for disaster relief, and you choose this exact moment to play a disappearing act? Do you have any sense of the bigger picture, Avery?” Ben heard his father’s voice. He lifted the device to his lips, his small cry thick with the soot and trauma of the past two days. “Daddy, Mommy’s sleeping. She said she’s taking me home soon.” “I drank all the strawberry juice, just like she said, but why is she still sleeping?” A sudden, terrifying dead silence fell over the other end of the line. It was followed by the sound of Connor’s voice, now a desperate, broken roar, ordering the excavator to speed up. I looked at my son, who was about to be rescued, and a feeling of bitter relief washed over me. Congratulations, Connor. Your troublesome wife has finally vanished, just as you wished. 1 The roar of the excavator grew louder. I drifted in the air above, looking down at the wreckage that had been me. My body was pinned beneath a massive concrete slab. My upper half was twisted and unrecognizable, but one arm was still stretched out, rigid in a final, protective arc. The back of my hand was a bloody mess, slashed open by a piece of rebar. It was the last shield I had managed to give my son, Ben. Connor came stumbling toward the ruins. “Hurry! There’s a child underneath!” He was screaming, his voice completely raw. A rescue worker carefully lifted Ben out of the impossibly narrow gap. The boy was covered in dust, his face filthy, only the area around his mouth a shocking, dried crimson. Connor rushed forward and snatched the boy into his arms. He ran his hands frantically over Ben’s small body, checking for broken bones. When he confirmed the boy only had superficial cuts, his rigidly tight shoulders finally slumped. The relief on his face instantly morphed into an explosion of pure fury. “Avery Cole! Where in the hell did you run off to?” “He’s been trapped in the debris for two days, terrified, and where the hell are you?” The surrounding rescue team members paused their work, looking over with strange, uneasy expressions. I floated right in front of him, reaching out to cover his mouth. Stop shouting, I wanted to tell him. I am three feet directly beneath your boots. But my hand passed right through his face. He couldn’t feel me. Ben flinched at the sound of his father’s rage, his small hand gripping Connor’s jacket collar for dear life. “Daddy… don’t yell at Mommy.” Connor scoffed, a cold, harsh sound, and slammed the walkie-talkie in Ben’s hand onto the ground. The plastic casing cracked and splintered, just like my heart. We had bought that set during our early dating days, while watching a cheesy disaster movie on the sofa. He had promised me that even if the world lost all signal, even if the planet ended, we would use them to connect. That’s why I always kept mine in my bag. Now, he had personally smashed our last physical link. “I shouldn’t yell at her? She abandoned you here and ran off! You think she doesn’t deserve it?” “Or maybe she never even came to pick you up? Every time we argue, she pulls this disappearing act!” “Daddy, Mommy didn’t run.” Ben’s face crumpled. Tears washed streaks through the dirt, leaving muddy rivulets down his cheeks. “Mommy was really sleeping. She gave me lots and lots of strawberry juice and told me to be good and drink it all.” Connor froze. He looked down at the ring of dried, dark red around Ben’s mouth. His brow furrowed in a tight knot. He pulled out a wet wipe and roughly scrubbed at the corner of Ben’s mouth. “What kind of nonsense is this? She feeds you garbage food like this? All that dye, it’s disgusting.” An aftershock hit without warning. The ground began to shake violently, and the small pocket of wreckage the team had managed to open collapsed again. Connor’s first instinct was to shield Ben, stumbling backward to the safety line, clutching his son close. I watched the debris fall, completely sealing the small entrance to the survival pocket. The last sliver of light illuminating my remains vanished. Good, I thought. At least the child won’t see. Connor handed Ben to the medic who rushed over, his voice filled with barely suppressed disgust. He turned to the second-in-command next to him. “There are no more signs of life here. You’ll come with me to the East Sector. As for Avery Cole…” He paused, his tone dismissive. “Forget her. She’s too clever for this. She’s probably already holed up in some secure bunker.” “Daddy…” Ben, nestled in the medic’s arms, suddenly stretched out his hand, desperately grabbing the edge of Connor’s jacket. “Daddy, Mommy didn’t run.” The child’s cry held a note of frantic urgency as he struggled to find the words. “Mommy was really sleeping. She wouldn’t let me wake her up. And she was sweating so much…” Connor frowned, pulling out a tissue to forcefully scrub at the ‘stain’ on Ben’s lips. “Stop it, Ben.” He paid no attention to the words of a three-year-old. He turned and strode away toward the next set of ruins, throwing himself back into the rescue work. I floated in the air, watching his decisive, uncaring back. I wanted to weep, but I had no tears left to cry. The medical tent was dimly lit, the sharp smell of disinfectant mixing with the metallic tang of dirt. A nurse was gently wiping Ben’s face with a warm towel. When the cloth touched his lips, she stopped. “Doctor! Come quickly!” the nurse’s voice was laced with alarm. “What is all this red around the boy’s mouth? Is he bleeding internally?” I floated beside Ben, heartbroken, looking at his cracked lips and the circle of dark red that was now an accusation. Connor was tending to a gash on his own forearm nearby. He scowled and walked over. He grabbed a fresh wet wipe and scraped at Ben’s mouth again. “He ate some junk food,” he stated flatly. The dried blood smeared under the friction of the wipe, smudging the edges of Ben’s dusty little face. Ben cried out, twisting his head away, pushing Connor’s hand with his small wrist. “Don’t wipe it! It’s Mommy’s strawberry juice!” I looked at Ben’s tear-filled eyes, remembering the scene clearly. How, in the midst of the agonizing pain and the encroaching lack of air, I had managed a smile for him. “Be a good boy, this is Mommy’s magic strawberry juice. Only Ben gets to drink this in the whole wide world, okay?” My poor, innocent boy. He had actually believed me. Connor’s movements stalled for half a second. Then, his anger burned hotter. “How old are you? And she’s still stuffing you with garbage like this? She didn’t even bother to come find you when the earthquake hit. How irresponsible can she be?” The phone in Connor’s pocket vibrated suddenly. He glanced at the caller ID, walked to the tent entrance, and answered, lowering his voice. I drifted silently closer. A woman’s voice came through, familiar and intimate. “Connor, any word from Avery? I checked with Central Hospital, and they said Dr. Cole never showed up for work.” It was Skylar, his second-in-command. “Don’t worry about her,” Connor’s voice was completely devoid of warmth. “She’s not dead. She’s probably hiding in some safe bunker, too scared to move. A doctor, no less.” I forced a bitter laugh. Of course. In his mind, I was nothing more than a coward, a run-away wife who abandoned her son and shirked her professional duty. “Daddy…” Ben called out weakly, then suddenly arched his back and vomited. A pool of dark red fluid spilled onto the tent floor. The heavy, metallic smell of blood instantly filled the small space. Connor sprinted back, scooped up his limp son, and roared, “Doctor!” I hovered above Ben, gripped by an absolute terror, yet utterly powerless. The doctor rushed over. After a quick examination, his face grew grim. “Severe dehydration, acute stress disorder.” The doctor looked at the vomit on the ground, then met Connor’s eyes. “His stomach is completely empty of food. It’s all… blood.” Connor froze. He looked down at Ben’s pale face, instinctively prying open his son’s mouth. “Did he bite his tongue?” The doctor slowly shook his head, offering no further explanation. An experienced old physician, he likely understood the truth, and he looked at Connor with a deeply complex expression. He was about to speak. Just then, a sweat-soaked rescue worker burst into the tent. “Captain! The wreckage at the kindergarten… it’s all cleared.” The worker paused, gasping for breath, before reporting, “We didn’t find… any bodies.” The arm Connor was using to hold Ben tightened instantly. A flash of relief crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper contempt. He pulled at the corner of his mouth, letting out a cold snort. “I knew she was lucky.” I floated above the tent, watching his expression of simultaneous relief and utter scorn. Yes, you couldn’t find me. Because the moment the classroom building collapsed, the ground beneath me had split open. I was buried far deeper than anyone realized. The air in the medical tent grew heavier. Ben’s face was flushed crimson, his tiny body curled up. Even in his uneasy sleep, his brow was deeply furrowed. The damp cloth on his forehead had been replaced three times, but the high fever showed no sign of breaking. I anxiously hovered over him, wishing I could reach out to check his forehead, as I had done countless nights before. I remembered how delicate Ben was as an infant, prone to fevers with every change of season. I would stay awake all night, sponging him down with warm water. When the fever finally broke, I would make him his favorite pumpkin soup. Now, I could only watch his discomfort, his parched lips, and the cold needle entering his arm. I wanted to hug him, to press my cool palm to his forehead, to tell him his mother hadn’t left. But I was nothing more than air—untouchable, untamable. Connor sat beside him, the crease between his brows never relaxing. He reached out to remove the abrasive backpack tucked under Ben’s arm, hoping to let him sleep more comfortably. The moment he touched the bag, Ben snapped his eyes open. He gripped the backpack with all his strength, pulling it close to his chest. “Don’t touch it!” the child’s voice was hoarse and tearful. “It’s for Mommy!” Connor’s hand froze mid-air. “I have to keep it safe for Mommy!” Ben’s tears fell in heavy drops, soaking into the canvas of the bag. “It’s the gift Daddy bought for Mommy… if she keeps it safe, then you won’t fight anymore…” I hung from the tent ceiling, a sharp, acidic pain seizing my chest. My foolish, three-year-old son, so sensitive, already trying to mend the massive rift between his parents. Connor’s expression instantly turned savage as he listened to Ben’s fragmented words. “What kind of nonsense are you talking about?” he snarled. “Did Avery tell you we fight? Is this what she teaches you?” I surged toward him, screaming into his ear. “I didn’t! I never said a word to him!” He couldn’t hear me. He snatched the bag from Ben’s grasp, violently yanked open the stuck zipper, and dumped the contents onto the cot. A few crushed crackers, an empty water bottle, and a slightly tattered teddy bear. I remembered that bear. It was our third wedding anniversary. That morning, I had seen the screen of Connor’s phone, which he hadn’t fully locked. A photo of him and Skylar. They were close, both smiling brightly. Below the photo was a caption I hadn’t wanted to read in full, something about a “teammate’s catch” and how much she “loved it.” Just a few days before, I had found a small jewelry box tucked into the back of his closet. Inside was a gold pendant I’d spent ages looking at in a store window but never dared to buy. I had assumed it was my surprise. But that evening, his gift had been this cheap teddy bear. All the suppressed resentment and suspicion had boiled over. I looked at him in silence, and he simply assumed I was having one of my small tantrums. “Don’t you like it?” he had asked. I didn’t answer. I walked to the door and tossed the bear into the hallway trash can. We had an explosive fight. But for Ben’s sake, I never said the real reason. I thought if I just endured it, he would have a whole family, a whole childhood. The child knew everything, it turned out. And he was loving us in his own clumsy, heartbreaking way. Connor picked up the bear, his eyes a mix of annoyance and confusion. He probably hadn’t expected me to retrieve the damned thing, let alone for Ben to treat it like a treasure. “Crying over this piece of junk?” He squeezed the bear in frustration. Suddenly, his fingers stilled. Through the fabric, he felt a hard lump. He frowned, turned the bear over, and pulled open the hidden zipper at the back. A sparkling gold necklace slipped out of the stuffing and fell into his scarred palm. The pendant hanging from the chain was a simple, polished A—for Avery. It caught a faint light in the tent’s gloom. I stared, dumbfounded. The necklace… it was inside the bear I’d thrown away? A suspicion I failed to voice. A surprise he never got to explain. We had missed the last possible chance for reconciliation, separated by nothing more than a discarded teddy bear that I had quietly brought back. And now, separated by life and death. Everything was a cruel, irreversible joke. I looked closely at the necklace. When we were dating, we often stopped by that jewelry store. I had pointed to a simple, classic gold pendant. “Look, Connor, isn’t this perfect? I don’t need wealth or extravagance. I only ask that our family be safe, peaceful, and content.” Peace and contentment. That was my simplest, most fundamental wish for our life together. Connor had kissed my forehead then. “Okay, whatever you want.” He had remembered. He had bought my wish. But because of one suspicious photo, because of a terrible misunderstanding, the gift meant to symbolize peace and contentment had become the deepest barrier between us. And I hadn’t known. I thought I had just recovered a cheap toy, but I had actually recovered the assurance I had desperately craved. Connor pinched the chain, his thumb rubbing the engraved A. Then, he let out a cold, cynical laugh. “Avery… do you hate me that much?” he muttered to himself. “You’re such a little gold-digger, yet you hated me enough to throw away even this?” My soul writhed in agony in the air. No, Connor. No, that’s not it. Connor shoved the necklace into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his movements jerky and agitated. He unlocked the screen and typed a message with furious force. He sent it. “Avery, stop making a scene. I know you’re mad, but what time is it? The entire city is working disaster relief. Get through these next few days. Don’t abandon your duty because you’re mad at me!” I laughed, a dry, hysterical sound. “Connor Vance, you bastard! I would never abandon my duty because of a petty fight!” “Stop lying about me!” I screamed, but no sound escaped. My hand passed straight through his body. I stood stunned for a moment, covering my face. My soul curled up in despair. We truly would never have the chance to explain things to each other. Just then, the tent flap was violently thrown open. A figure stumbled inside. “Ben! My sweet boy!” It was my mother, Martha. She rushed to the cot. When she saw the feverish, unconscious Ben, tears instantly welled up. She reached out a trembling hand to touch his forehead, then pulled back, afraid to wake him. She looked around the small tent, her bloodshot eyes frantic. “Where’s Avery? Where is my Avery?!” Connor saw her and assumed she was here to scold me for my absence, too. “Mom, calm down. She’s not here. She’s just throwing a fit and hiding somewhere. She hasn’t even come to check on Ben. After this is over, I’m going to—” My mother cut him off with a strangled cry. Martha grabbed Connor’s arm, her red-rimmed eyes wide and accusatory. Her voice was shaking. “What foolishness are you talking about!” “She asked for the day off two days ago—the day of the earthquake—specifically to pick up Ben from daycare!” Connor’s mind went blank. He stared at my mother, his lips moving soundlessly. “Time off? The hospital said she never reported. I thought…” “You thought what?!” My mother’s voice rose sharply. “She said it was your anniversary! She said you were too busy with work, so she was going to pick up Ben and bring you a surprise at the headquarters!” Connor’s body stiffened violently. His gaze fixed on Ben’s little canvas backpack. I floated over and looked at the bag. Inside, besides the teddy bear Connor had roughly pulled out, there was a neat, square, dark blue velvet box, resting quietly in the corner. It was the watch I had searched several stores for, the one I had picked out just for him. My mother slid down to the floor along the edge of the cot, covering her face and letting out muffled sobs. “Her phone won’t connect… no one’s home… I thought they were with you… Where could she be! Where is my Avery!” Connor pulled his phone from his pocket, his hand shaking. His finger slid across the screen, opening our last text message conversation. The most recent entry was from the night before the earthquake. It was a long paragraph of his accusations—calling me cold, uncaring, and impossible to understand. My reply was one sentence. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

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She always told me that family, friendship, and love—they will all betray you. Only money never will. So the moment I returned to the Prescott family estate, I made a decision. I would become the master of the Prescott house. 1 I never knew my father. It was just my mother and me, living in a small, forgotten hollow deep in the country. The town was poor. Everyone, from the toddlers to the great-grandmothers, had to work. The phrase they loved to repeat was, “Poor children learn to run the house early.” But my mother was different. She never taught me how to work the land or keep a home. From the time I could understand, she drilled into me that the world was cruel and offered no fairness. When Mrs. Gable taught her daughter to be kind and gentle, my mother demanded I shed any excess goodness. Claw your way up by any means necessary the moment you see an opening. When Mr. Jones taught his son that kinship and family were everything, she taught me that family, friendship, and love would all betray me. Only money never would. She taught me to observe, to be sweet-tongued on the surface, and ruthless underneath. She showed me, through her own actions, that cold, hard cash was the only loyal thing on this earth. When I was fifteen, my biological father showed up. He wore a tailored suit and his hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His polished leather shoes, reflecting the sunlight, looked absurdly out of place on our cracked concrete porch. Mrs. Gable teased me, “Well, girl, looks like you’re finally going to have a good life.” I sat on the steps, staring absently at the gleaming hood ornament on his car—a silent signal of a world I didn’t know. I knew better. Good fortune doesn’t just crash down on you for free. That day, I was driven in the expensive sedan straight to a hospital. The driver oversaw a full physical exam and several vials of blood drawn. When we were done, I was dropped back in the hollow. My mother said nothing, just told me to wait. Ten days later, the man returned. His brow was relaxed; he seemed to be in a much better mood than the last time. He wanted me to stay outside, but my mother insisted I remain in the room and listen to their conversation. “The matching results are in. It’s a half-match.” My mother seemed unsurprised, her expression tranquil. But I saw the truth. Her facade of calm was paper-thin. Her hand, clutching mine, was trembling. At fifteen, I didn’t know what a “half-match” meant. That day, the two people with the closest blood tie to me negotiated for three hours in my presence. In the end, I went home with my biological father. My mother walked away with Five Million Dollars. My bone marrow. That’s what she sold for the price of a house. 2 Alistair Prescott didn’t like my mother, and he certainly didn’t like me. On the drive away from the hollow, I listened to him vent to the driver. My mother, it turned out, was a “mistake” from his youth. He said that if he hadn’t thought she was young, pretty, and easily controlled, he never would have slept with her. He never expected her to be so calculating, running off once she realized she was pregnant. From his tirade, I gathered he had a devoted wife, Sylvie. A daughter, Sierra, who had been raised like a princess. And a son, Remy, who had leukemia. If his son didn’t desperately need a bone marrow transplant, he would never have dragged me into the Prescott family’s life. Alistair dozed off mid-sentence. The space in the luxury car was vast, yet I felt cramped and suffocated. After what felt like forever, the car stopped outside a stunning, columned mansion. Smack. I was still climbing out when the slap landed. I hadn’t even had a chance to register the house. The sudden blow, combined with the stiffness from the long drive, sent me sprawling onto the driveway. My cheek was a sheet of stinging heat. “Sierra! What in God’s name are you doing?” Facing her father’s reprimand, the girl—my half-sister—pouted. “Daddy, don’t you love me anymore?” Alistair sighed, already melting. “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart. I was just worried you’d hurt your hand.” Sierra instantly brightened. She hooked her arm through his, staring down at me with an air of pure, arrogant disdain. “Hitting her dirties my hands. Dad, she’s ruined my mood on her very first day. Can we at least make her kneel in the solarium and pray for Remy? Please?” Alistair glanced down at me, then affectionately ruffled Sierra’s perfect blonde waves. “You’re impossible, kid. Fine. You win.” As they turned away, Sierra’s shimmery, designer dress caught the light, a spectacular, dazzling thing made of a fabric I’d never seen before. I knelt for five hours that day. It wasn’t until late that night that I met Sylvie, Alistair’s wife. She was immaculately maintained, but her face was etched with a permanent, profound worry. She barely spared me a look before ordering a housekeeper to take me away. I was settled in the staff quarters, sharing a room with Mrs. Lewis, the senior housekeeper. Mrs. Lewis brought me a plate of food. The rice was dry, and on the side were two cold, greasy pieces of pot roast. The first bite was heavy and oily, coating my mouth with fat. I smiled brightly. “Thank you, ma’am. This is very good.” She just looked at me and said nothing. I knew everyone here disliked me, the bastard daughter dragged in from the backwoods. But if I was going to survive here, I had to change their minds. A few days later, I was taken to see my half-brother, Remy. His face was ghostly pale, as if he might crumble at any moment. When he saw me, there was no hostility, only a quiet emptiness. But when he heard I was his donor, his eyelashes flickered. 3 The doctors opted for a bone marrow biopsy and stem cell harvest. The operating room was freezing. Even through the anesthesia, I felt the pain. An insidious, deep ache. That was the first time I cried since I came back to the Prescotts. I missed my mother. I wanted to ask her why it hurt so much. Remy’s recovery went smoothly enough. Alistair’s attitude toward me softened slightly. He even enrolled me in the same elite private school as Sierra. But even though I had saved her brother’s life, she still hated me. The news of my illegitimate status spread through the school instantly. Sierra led the charge to isolate me. My freshman year was a cycle of finding spiders in my desk, razor blades in my water bottle, and the constant threat of a burnt scalp from a hurled curling iron or a stapler puncture. I was hit, cursed, threatened, and shunned. Whether I was drenched in cold water or locked in the storage closet for the night, I always faced them with a smile. I never told on them. I certainly never cried. I started eating all the heaviest, unhealthiest food I could find. I gained weight, my face broke out with teenage acne, and I wore the baggiest, most shapeless clothes. I was utterly, deliberately forgettable. My mother had taught me: When you are dull and without light, fewer people will bother to look your way. After a while, my complete lack of resistance bored Sierra. She stopped constantly monitoring me. I finally got the breathing room I needed to study. I kept my grades consistently low, always positioning myself at the bottom of the class roster to act as a buffer for Sierra’s terrible scores. In the second half of sophomore year, Remy’s rejection symptoms became severe. I went in for another bone marrow harvest. It was more painful than the last time. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let a single sound escape. Crying is a currency, and I had already spent mine long ago. After that procedure, I was moved into a small, independent room. It had the worst light in the entire villa, but for the first time, I had a space that was just mine. Mrs. Lewis secretly made me a dish of liver—good for the blood. She watched me eat, then turned her back to discreetly wipe away tears. Having shared a room with me for over a year, she knew exactly how often I came back with new bruises. Her initial disgust for the “bastard child” had transformed into pity. She once asked me, Don’t you resent them? I offered her a silent, weary smile. After you’ve walked too many helpless miles alone, resentment simply turns into calculation. 4 Senior year arrived. Sierra’s grades were a lost cause, so Alistair had already arranged for her to study abroad. Naturally, I, with my equally poor grades, had no such luxury. I had to remain in Avery Metropolitan, ready for the next bone marrow call. Sierra had already flown to Switzerland when I took my college entrance exams. Over the summer, her social media feed was full of the Swiss Alps, the Greek Islands, and spectacular skydiving videos. Life is an open frontier, her captions declared. A few weeks later, my scores came in. I had completely over-performed, scoring high enough to get into one of the top public universities in Avery Metropolitan. It was the first time Alistair had ever truly seen me as a daughter. Before that, he didn’t even know what schools I’d applied to. He actually called me to the main dining table for dinner. At the table, he said he would grant me one wish. Even Sylvie looked at me with an uncharacteristic flicker of warmth. Seeing their expectant faces, I let the tears fall, one by one. I told them I had only one wish: I hoped Remy would get well soon. My sincerity wasn’t questioned. They both knew I visited Remy twice a week. The stack of handwritten prayers I copied for Remy in the solarium was thicker than anything Sierra, his biological sister, had ever done. Alistair’s eyes misted over. He patted my shoulder. “It will happen, Rowan. I promise.” Sylvie’s expression was complex. After a long moment, she reached over and put a piece of tender sea bass on my plate. I had earned my seat at the table. I spent most of the summer vacation at the hospital, caring for Remy. Remy was a quiet boy, and perhaps because I was his literal lifeline, he didn’t resist my presence. To an outsider, we looked like a genuinely devoted brother and sister. Sylvie was almost always there, too. She had grown used to my presence, occasionally even offering a word of genuine concern. On the day my freshman year began, Alistair sent a driver and Mrs. Lewis to accompany me to campus. Everyone in the household had noticed the shift in my status. Everyone, that is, except Sierra, who was still abroad. 5 College life was better than I could have imagined. I joined the university’s competitive math society and met Rhys Easton, a student two years ahead of me. He was honest and gentle, completely unlike a rat like me who had spent her life crawling in the gutter. He was a sun, and I couldn’t help but orbit him. I liked him. By a stroke of beautiful luck, he liked me, too. On a perfect, sun-drenched afternoon, he held a bouquet of flowers and asked me to be his girlfriend. The friends he’d enlisted cheered and wished us well. Rhys placed a light, tender kiss on the back of my hand. He tilted his head back, his smile open and radiant. Watching the small tear-mole beneath his eye, my heart melted into something soft and unrecognizable. I was, however briefly, living a beautiful life. During my first college break, Sierra didn’t return. She went to Iceland and chased the Northern Lights. Sylvie didn’t say much, but I saw the disappointment in her eyes. I had long realized that Sylvie favored Remy. She was traditionally biased toward her son, and his leukemia had only intensified that focus. She was visibly upset that Sierra hadn’t returned to check on Remy. Sylvie was aging. Stress had started to thread grey through her hair. The constant surgeries and stress over the years had made her anxious and quick-tempered. The day before New Year’s Eve, Remy’s condition suddenly deteriorated, and he was rushed into the ICU. Alistair was out of town and couldn’t make it back. The staff were all busy at the estate preparing for the holiday. It was just Sylvie and me at the hospital. Outside the operating room, Sylvie gripped my hand tightly, staring at the closed doors. In that moment of extreme vulnerability, I, the bastard daughter, was her only comfort. Thankfully, it was a false alarm. Remy was stabilized. The overwhelming relief of not losing him caused Sylvie to forget herself. She threw her arms around me and sobbed uncontrollably. She cried, and I cried with her. I whispered, “Please, take my bone marrow again. I’ll do anything to make Remy better.” She patted my head, a shaky, tearful gesture. “Sweet child, it’s not that simple anymore.” After that scare, Sylvie became terrified of losing Remy. She moved all her personal belongings to the hospital, including the small chapel paraphernalia she used for prayer. She swore off meat to pray for Remy, and I quietly began eating only vegetables with her. She gradually grew more fragile, and her arguments with Alistair grew explosive. Alistair’s company was demanding, and I knew he maintained several mistresses. His sick son and his increasingly hysterical wife were wearing him down. Alistair’s absence during Remy’s rush to the ICU became the final flashpoint, and their marriage crisis exploded. 6 The villa’s foyer was littered with broken glass and porcelain. Sylvie had stormed out, slamming the door. Alistair slumped onto the sofa, resting his head in his hands. The overflowing ashtray spoke volumes about his frustration. I brought him a cup of calming herbal tea, cautiously offering comfort. “Please don’t be angry, Dad. Sylvie is just so worried about Remy.” Alistair lifted his eyes, accepted the mug, and sighed deeply. He looked me over, his gaze assessing, before changing the subject. “How are things at school?” I pressed my lips together and smiled. “Thank you for asking, Dad. The students are friendly, and my professors are wonderful.” He nodded, his eyes drifting to my worn, faded jeans. “I’ll have my assistant wire you some money. You’re an adult now. Buy some nice clothes.” He stood up, ready to leave. I walked him to the car. Before the door closed, he said, “I’m busy. When you have time, go check on your brother for me.” Until the semester started, Alistair only visited the hospital once. Sylvie handed me one of her credit cards, putting me in charge of the household expenses and staff payroll. Neither she nor Alistair returned to the villa frequently. Everything in the house was now my responsibility. My bedroom was moved from the small, badly lit staff room to a large, sunny suite on the second floor. If Sierra were here, she would have slapped me and accused me of stealing her life. The following summer, Sierra returned for one week. I conveniently managed to miss her, taking a trip to the coast with Rhys. Rhys was a man of integrity. He never pressured me to do anything I wasn’t ready for. Our relationship was still confined to hand-holding and embracing. But the shared trip brought our hearts closer. After the vacation, Rhys began an internship at his family’s company. While he hadn’t made a big show of it, he hadn’t hidden his identity, either. He was the only son of Silas Easton, the famously ruthless real estate developer in Avery City. Our time together became shorter. But no matter how busy he was, Rhys still came to see me every single day. When midterms arrived, I applied to participate in a math competition in New York to bolster my application for a post-grad scholarship. It was my first time traveling abroad. Rhys arranged to attend as an administrative assistant, just to be with me. The competition went well. I didn’t win the top prize, but I ranked well. Afterward, Rhys suggested we celebrate. He mentioned that his sister went to college nearby and could recommend a good restaurant. Walking down a New York street, he held my hand. “Funny enough,” he said, turning his black eyes, bright as sunlight, to mine, “my sister shares your last name.” Rhys was beautiful. Even lost in a throng of people, he shone. A moment later, I spotted Sierra. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. In that year, I had lost fifteen pounds, traded my heavy bangs and black-rimmed glasses for a sleek, long haircut, and my acne had vanished. Sierra didn’t recognize me. That didn’t stop her immediate, knee-jerk hostility. “Sierra, this is Rowan, my girlfriend.” “Ugh, did you get a girlfriend and forget about your sister, Rhys? You haven’t checked on me in ages.” Sierra cut him off, clearly annoyed. Rhys shot her a look of resignation, then turned back to me, but his expression froze. My face was paper-white. Cold sweat coated my palms. My body was shaking uncontrollably. “Rowan? What is it?” Sierra’s impatient gaze finally landed on me. She frowned. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was shaking, staring at her. “Si…erra…” Her eyes widened in disbelief. She lunged, grabbing my arm. “Rowan Prescott! You! How DARE you!” “Stop it! Let her go. Show some respect,” Rhys demanded. Sierra looked infuriated. She grabbed a fistful of my hair. “Respect this tramp? This bastard spawn of my father’s mistake? You don’t know, do you? She’s Alistair Prescott’s filthy illegitimate daughter!”

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My mother suffered from severe Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. The day I was born, I weighed an exact three-tenths of a pound more than my twin sister, Lydia. So she put me on a scale. She gave me only minimal water each day, starving me until my weight matched Lydia’s—down to the decimal point. I screamed, my infant cries echoing with hunger, but Mom just refrigerated the formula and breast milk Lydia didn’t finish. She would feed Lydia eight times a day. Eventually, my sister and I both ended up in the hospital. I was there for severe malnutrition. Lydia, surprisingly, was there for being fed spoiled, refrigerated milk. But even that wasn’t enough. As we grew older, our weights naturally diverged again. She fed Lydia until she was dangerously overweight, yet she couldn’t stand my natural lean frame. She eventually forced me to eat rich, fatty meat—the one thing she knew I was severely allergic to. That’s how I died—suffocated. The next time I opened my eyes, I was back inside my mother’s womb… 1 I was dead. The plate of fatty meat she forced down my throat had triggered a massive allergic reaction, swelling my esophagus until I couldn’t pull in a single breath. Yet, after death, I was enveloped in the warm, cushioning comfort of amniotic fluid once more. That sensation—that safe, warm, all-encompassing space—was the only true motherly love I had ever known. Then, a sharp voice cut through the muffled quiet. “Doctor, is there any way my two children can be born at the exact same time?” “Ms. Harrington, that is physically impossible. The cervix is only so large, you cannot possibly deliver two babies simultaneously.” The familiar words sliced through the fog. A jolt, like a tiny spark of lightning, shot through my nascent brain. Sure enough, the next line came, exactly as I remembered it. “I don’t care. You will make sure my children come out together.” “Or I’ll have your license revoked for gross negligence and emotional distress. I’ll make sure you never practice medicine in this state again.” …It was Mom’s voice. As her dialogue overlapped perfectly with my memory, the horrifying truth settled in: I had been reborn. I was back inside her womb, and she was on the delivery table. In the last life, she had hired an astrologer to calculate a Golden Hour for a “lucky” baby. But with two of us inside, it was impossible to hit the same moment. I—in my mother’s cold, cruel words—was too ambitious, too eager to be first. The moment I showed my face, I was branded the unlucky one. Lydia was luckier, born a few minutes later, perfectly within the calculated window. So when the doctor informed Mom I was three-tenths of a pound heavier, she didn’t even look at me. With a wrinkled brow, she issued my “Weight Loss Order.” I didn’t get a single taste of breast milk, forced onto a drastic regimen immediately. It left me malnourished from the start, permanently affecting my ability to absorb nutrients, keeping me fragile and lean. Meanwhile, Mom had an oversupply of milk. She would scoop Lydia’s leftovers into a bowl and refrigerate it. Lydia was fed eight times a day. It landed us both in the pediatric ward: me for failing to thrive, and my sister for chronic food poisoning from the spoiled milk. 2 This time, the attending physician was furious at my mother’s brazen threat, but seeing her on the verge of delivery, he had no choice but to push through his anger and continue. But this time, I fought back. I dug in, refusing to be the first one out. “Difficult delivery!” “We’ve got a complication!” “Family, our recommendation is an emergency C-section. Please sign the consent forms immediately.” “No! C-sections produce slow, damaged children! You will not cut her, she has to deliver naturally!” That sharp, strident voice belonged to my maternal grandmother, Eleanor. If my mother was the executioner, Eleanor was the one who handed her the knife. Together, they ran roughshod over my father, Marcus, who was too intimidated to speak up. So, Mom insisted on a natural birth, risking massive hemorrhaging to deliver both of us. Naturally, she was too exhausted to continue threatening the doctor with a fabricated harassment suit. This time, neither of us was the “lucky baby.” We started life on the exact same footing. Except I was still three-tenths of a pound heavier than Lydia. “Marcus, go buy ten more scales! I don’t believe it. They are twins—how can their weight be different?” Mom raked her fingers through her hair, looking frantic after weighing us eight times. Grandma Eleanor, a tyrant to everyone else, was a willing servant to Mom. She immediately rushed out to follow the order. But to Mom’s dismay, our weights were different on every single scale. She collapsed, pointing at me with a look of pure aversion. “Take her away! She’s always trying to get ahead! She must have stolen Lydia’s nutrition in the womb.” “Starve her for a few days. That’ll teach her to be humble.” In my last life, my lifelong digestive problems started right here. Reborn, I would not allow that tragedy to repeat. Crying in front of Mom was useless—it only made her dislike me more. So I waited until four in the afternoon, when my dad, Marcus, got home, and I started screaming. I let out the most desperate, pathetic cries I could muster. It terrified my father. He rushed inside without even changing his shoes, searching frantically for me. My throat was raw when he finally found me. He found me in the drum of the washing machine. 3 Yes. I had been put in the washing machine drum. Mom had told Grandma Eleanor to starve me. But every time Eleanor turned her back, I would manage to crawl off in search of food. Exasperated, Eleanor just tossed me into the washer. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tori, what in God’s name? Why would you put a baby in here?” Dad was so shocked he didn’t even yell at Eleanor first. He turned to Mom. “Mom, why did you put her in the drum?” “Didn’t you say she needed to slim down? Shaking her around in here—that’s a workout, isn’t it?” Eleanor said, utterly self-righteous. My usually reserved father finally snapped. He faced Eleanor. “Mom, a washing machine tumbles clothes! What if she had been seriously hurt?” “Hurt? I’ve been on this earth decades longer than you! I know what I’m doing!” Eleanor’s face flushed red at his audacity. “Don’t you dare talk back to me!” But Dad was genuinely furious this time. He held his ground despite her yelling. It wasn’t until Mom intervened that the shouting stopped. “Marcus, my mother is your elder. Don’t disrespect her.” “The baby is fine, isn’t she? Why are you being so dramatic?” Dad had been poor when they first met. Mom had stayed by his side, helping him build his business. He owed her, and he always deferred to her. Mom’s words stopped his outburst cold. He merely left the room, muttering, “It’ll be too late when something does happen,” and carried me to his home office. I tried to convey my hunger, gnawing on his hand for what felt like an hour. He finally understood, and with a fresh determination, he took me back to Mom for feeding. But she looked at him with icy indifference and shut us both out. “She’s already three-tenths of a pound heavier than Lydia. Why would I feed her?” 4 I’ll never forget the raw shock and anger on my father’s face that day. He banged on the door and pleaded with her, but Mom remained unmoved. Furious, he took me straight to his office, bought a case of high-quality formula, and began raising me himself. In my past life, I hadn’t been put in the washer. Dad had just said a quick goodbye and left on a business trip, which I always took as his silent approval of Mom’s cruelty. But now, it was clear: he loved me. He consulted online forums, called pediatric nurses, and dedicated himself to parenting. I was thriving. I was healthy, plump, and free of pain. The change was evident the next time Mom decided, on a whim, to check on me. It was this progress that made her completely lose control. “Marcus Harrington, I told you she wasn’t supposed to eat! Why is she this fat?” Mom’s nails dug into my soft baby skin. I screamed. Dad immediately snatched me out of her grasp. My weight was Dad’s proudest accomplishment. He showed me off to everyone, bragging that he was raising me himself. When Mom called me fat, he immediately got defensive. “Babies are supposed to be a little plump! She’s adorable!” he said, beaming. Mom, however, was on the brink of hysteria. She demanded he bring me home immediately. I was put on those ten scales again. This time, I was a full pound heavier than Lydia. We looked less like twins and more like sisters separated by a year. Mom’s face visibly darkened, but Dad, emboldened by my health, continued to chatter happily. “Look how great Mia is doing. Lydia looks so frail, Tori. Why don’t you let me take her, too? You can take a break.” His intentions were kind, but in Mom’s mind, he had not only ruined her plan but was now gloating about it. 5 “Marcus, look at them! They don’t look like twins anymore! Mia looks like you’ve turned her into a little pig!” “They are twins, Tori. And now they look completely different.” Mom started to weep, the tears of pure frustration. Dad knew all about her OCD, but he tried to reason with her. “It’s normal for twins to look different, Tori. The world doesn’t make two perfectly identical people. Especially with fraternal twins…” He tried to be rational, but she wasn’t listening. She slapped him across the face. “Marcus, I don’t care about other people! My children must be the same!” “Look at what you dress her in, her hair, her weight, everything!” To her, all the fault lay with me and Dad. If I could speak, I would have asked her, Why can’t it be you who is raising her wrong? Why must I be forced to live according to Lydia’s image? I was the older one, the sister who arrived first. Yet I still couldn’t understand why, even in this second life, she still preferred Lydia, always making her the baseline for perfection. The undeserved slap sent Dad over the edge. His pent-up frustration and rage exploded. “Tori Harrington, do you honestly think you’re the only person in the world who’s right?” he roared. “It’s wrong if I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle. It’s wrong if I step into the house with my left foot first. It’s wrong if I pair a black suit with a gray tie! It’s wrong if I don’t eat my dinner in the exact sequence you’ve laid out!” “And now, a healthy child is wrong!” “Tori, you are the sick one! I am done with this!” Dad stood tall and defiant, speaking the words I’d held in my heart for years. Mom was stunned into silence, reeling either from his words or his sudden, terrifying rebellion. A heavy silence descended. Then, the floodgates opened. She didn’t speak, but her tears streamed down her face like a broken dam. In the end, Dad compromised. 6 But he only apologized for shouting. He stood firm on the parenting issue. My health, the solid reality of my thriving body, was his best defense. The somber tension was broken by Lydia’s sudden, wrenching convulsions. They immediately rushed both of us to the hospital. Last time, we were admitted together—I for malnutrition, Lydia for the spoiled milk. This time was no different. The results came back, and the doctor’s frustration was palpable. “The children are too small to know better, but you, as the adults? How can you give a baby spoiled milk?” Mom’s first reaction was denial. “Impossible. You have the wrong diagnosis.” Ignoring the doctor’s warning, she fled, dragging Lydia all over the city to consult every available clinic and hospital. The result was always the same. The frantic clinic-hopping, combined with her underlying illness, only made Lydia worse. She ended up in the ICU. Mom finally broke, crouching in the hospital hallway, screaming and deflecting blame. “This is your fault for never coming home! You don’t care if your wife and kids live or die! Well, now Lydia is sick! Are you happy now?” Dad, already anxious about Lydia’s condition, was aghast. “Tori, I know you’re worried, but she is my daughter, too. I’m just as concerned as you are.” “How can you say that to me?” The crowd of onlookers grew. Mom was imperious, while Dad stood there holding me, the healthy baby. The public sympathy immediately tilted in Dad’s favor. Feeling humiliated and losing face in front of strangers, Mom’s rage escalated. 7 She stormed over, her sharp fingernails digging into my cheek. “You pretend Lydia is your child?” “From the moment they were born, your attention has been all on her! You dumped Lydia on me and walked away!” “How dare you act like you care about her now!” Seeing me hurt, and driven to the edge by her sheer villainy, Dad decided he was finished protecting her reputation. “Enough!” he roared. “You say I favor Mia? Why don’t you tell everyone why I, a man running a company, have to bring a baby to work every day?” “It was you! It was you who starved her for being three-tenths of a pound heavier! You stood by while your mother put her in a washing machine drum to ‘slim her down’!” “You let your excess milk spoil instead of giving Mia one drop!” “Lydia is in the hospital right now because you fed her that contaminated milk!” Dad spoke with furious conviction, clutching me tightly. The crowd instantly believed him, murmuring in shock. Even the doctors were appalled, their attitude toward Mom doing a complete one-eighty. Exposed in front of everyone, Mom was blinded by fury. The word “Divorce” flew out of her mouth. Dad, desperate to quell the public scene, simply agreed to placate her. But Mom lunged, trying to rip me from his arms. “I birthed them both! You won’t take either of them!” Dad refused to let go. In the struggle, Mom raked her nails across his face, drawing blood that dripped onto me. The feigned agreement became a sudden, cold reality. It was Dad who wanted the divorce now.

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It was the night Devon’s on-screen romance with his co-star, Anya Wells, went viral—again. I ripped open a bag of sea salt and vinegar chips with enthusiasm, clicked on the fan-made compilation video, and started weeping openly over their “sweet, destined love.” Devon sighed beside me. “It’s all just promotion, Jo. It’s not real. Don’t get upset.” I lifted my tear-drenched eyes. “I’m not upset. I genuinely think you guys have amazing chemistry.” The video’s soundtrack swelled as every on-screen kiss flashed by, each one looking utterly consuming and impossible to stop. They looked like two people who were truly meant to be, which only fueled the fandom’s favorite comment: The timing is everything. If only his girlfriend had never been in the picture. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Devon,” I said. “Let’s break up.” I watched his eyes widen in stunned disbelief. It hit me then—this was the seventh year of my relationship with Devon Shaw. He was finally a household name, the big star, and I was just the “plain, undeserving civilian girlfriend” the public—and his fans—loved to hate. When a female colleague was attacked by rumors, Devon would shield her, offering careful, public comfort and concern. But when I was the one being shredded by the online mob for dating him—labeled the “extra baggage” and the “stale older woman”—he just told me calmly: “Look, the audience is obsessed with me and Anya. They’re still invested in the characters. Try not to overreact.” But now that I was finally taking his advice and stepping away, why did he suddenly look so panicked? 1 Devon looked like he hadn’t processed my words. After a long silence, he said flatly, “I need to hear the real reason, Josie.” I shrugged. “That is the reason.” He stared into my eyes, thinking he saw right through me. “It’s about the shoot, isn’t it, Jo? You’re getting paranoid and insecure again?” He emphasized the word again. It was true. My lack of security had always made me fret and spiral. Especially over the last two years, right as Devon’s career took off. He’d join a set and suddenly, texts wouldn’t be returned and calls wouldn’t be answered. Where he was shooting, who he was working with—he never told me anything. Most of the time, I learned about his life by refreshing Twitter and watching paparazzi leaks from the set. In those short videos, holding, hugging, and passionate kissing were just part of the job. I would often watch them, my mind uncontrollably conjuring up intimate scenarios of him with other women, and then I wouldn’t sleep. Maybe I was just too small-minded. A few times, when I couldn’t stand it, I called him, only to be met with Devon’s cold, immediate hang-up. When we finally saw each other, his first response was always to criticize me: “I’ve told you so many times. I have to commit to the role. I have to be completely immersed in the script, and I can’t be distracted by outside people or things. As a professional actor’s girlfriend, you have to understand me, you have to support me. You can’t just cause trouble. Get it?” 2 I had tried my best not to cause trouble. There was only one time I’d truly slipped. We hadn’t seen each other in over three months, and I missed Devon desperately. I checked his schedule in advance, making sure he had the day off to come visit the set. I waited in line for three hours to buy his favorite artisanal pastries. But then a sudden, torrential downpour hit New York. The production crew quickly moved a major rain-soaked scene to that day. Because of my unscheduled arrival, Devon couldn’t get into the headspace for his kiss scene, and the director called for multiple retakes. Devon was usually polite and charming to everyone, never losing his temper on set. He apologized profusely to the crew for the delays. But he saved all his rage for me. He even threw the box of pastries I’d bought. “Jocelyn, who told you to come here? Take your damn junk and get out!” Tears blurred my vision. “Devon Shaw, you’re an asshole! You only ever yell at me! I saw you were busy, and I immediately went to the break room to wait. How was I causing trouble? I’m done with this! We’re breaking up!” Hearing the word “break up,” Devon froze for two seconds. He clenched his fists, forcing down his anger. He shoved me into a chair and kissed me—a desperate, rough, hungry kiss that was half kiss and half savage bite. “We can fight, but don’t ever threaten to leave me again.” Today, Devon was trying the same move. I took a step back. He missed. Devon rubbed his temples, patiently explaining, “Anya is a newcomer. She’s young, it takes her a minute to snap out of character, okay? Is that wrong? She’s a colleague, and she was crying, so I offered comfort. Is that wrong? Can you please stop being so suspicious? You make me feel like a total jerk. I’m under so much pressure…” He rambled on and on. I didn’t hear a word. My mind was stuck on the live stream from earlier today. Devon and Anya had stared into each other’s eyes, and both had burst into tears. I didn’t understand. In the show, the couple got their happy ending. The show was a massive hit, earning critical acclaim. So why were they both crying? Devon had instinctively raised his hand to wipe Anya’s tears, paused mid-air, and then awkwardly switched to patting her on the head. That one tiny detail was enough for the CP fandom to churn out countless videos. The caption: Your tears are still wet on your face, but I no longer have the right to wipe them away. Before, I would have been consumed by jealousy and demanded that Devon grovel. But not now. It turns out that when a relationship truly reaches its end, it really is like stagnant water. There are no more waves to be made. “You’re right, Devon. You didn’t do anything wrong. But I still want to break up today.” 3 My stubbornness finally depleted Devon’s patience. He was rushing to catch a flight and didn’t have time for this drama, so he threw out his usual parting shot: “Just go cool off for a while.” It was his most common solution to our problems. He’d just wash his hands of it. The next time we met, we’d kiss and make up, and we’d both pretend the argument never happened. To him, silence meant resolution. But with me, every incident was carefully cataloged. A few days later, I signed a lease transfer agreement for my flower shop. “Ms. Reid, your business is always doing so well. Why are you giving it up?” the new owner asked. I looked at my shop, feeling a deep, wrenching sadness. I had poured years of my life into this place. “Because I’m leaving New York soon.” Devon and I were both from Santa Monica. Years ago, he moved to New York to chase his dreams, and I quit my job and followed him. In the beginning, we were dirt poor, living in a ten-foot windowless box where the monthly rent was six hundred dollars and the windows barely peeked above ground level. Passersby were always peeking in. New York was so luxurious. And we were like rats living in the sewer. The winters here were bone-chilling. I bought a secondhand space heater, and one night it malfunctioned and started a fire. When Devon heard the news, he borrowed a friend’s car and drove seven hours overnight to get back. He’s a man who puts almost all of his emotion into his acting. He’s usually distant and cool in everyday life. But that night, he held me and cried so hard he was practically hyperventilating. “Josie, this is my fault. I’m making you suffer. I promise I’ll make it big. I’ll make so much money, and I’ll love you and cherish you forever!” Seven years later. Devon’s career had soared, and our problems had multiplied. It was unavoidable. I’m a person who is cripplingly anxious about intimacy and security. And Devon is an actor. His job required filming intensely intimate scenes, shoving his entire soul into another identity, and imagining himself falling in love with another person as his character. Once, he had a fiercely passionate kiss scene with an actress. It was a crucial, famous scene that marked the climax of the characters’ emotional entanglement. They kissed until they were both crying, spontaneously embracing and kissing for a long time, not even hearing the director yell “Cut!” They ended up falling onto the bed, bodies pressing close, tearing at each other’s clothes. The things that happened after were not in the script. It was a subconscious reaction born of genuine, raw emotion. The director applauded wildly. “That’s fantastic! We’re keeping that—they really committed to the feeling!” As fate would have it, that day was Devon’s birthday, and I had come to surprise him with a gift. Honestly, seeing that scene was agonizing. But what could I do? It was his job. Even getting mad or being jealous made me look like a hysterical idiot. That lack of security made me anxious, sensitive, and obsessively controlling. I checked his phone while he was showering. He caught me. He was furious. “Jocelyn, what is wrong with you? Don’t you have anything better to do? Don’t you have a life?” A brutal trio of questions. He was the one who had convinced me to quit my job and move to New York, claiming he loved how attached I was and that he’d support me forever. After that fight, I took all my savings and opened this flower shop. I came every single day, rain or shine. I made myself busy. That way, I wouldn’t have time to obsess over who Devon was kissing today, how intense the sex scenes were, whether he was getting a physical reaction, or if he’d fall out of character and genuinely fall for someone else. 4 Rush hour was over. The subway car on the way home was empty. Two girls sat next to me, staring at a phone with goofy, lovesick smiles. “Wanna bet? Devon and Anya have definitely caught real feelings off-camera. Those subconscious touches don’t lie.” “Doesn’t Devon have a girlfriend?” “Come on. Think about it: on one side, a girlfriend he’s been with for seven years, who’s stale and old news. On the other, a gorgeous, vibrant new actress. If you were Devon, who would you choose?” I subtly pulled out my compact mirror and checked my face. I was once the homecoming queen, damn it. I couldn’t be that stale, could I? Actually, Devon only went public with our relationship because I forced him to. Initially, he said he didn’t want his personal life discussed in the media. So no one in the industry knew he had a girlfriend. Women pursued him, people tried to set him up, and there were even offers for favors. I finally lost it. “Is it that you don’t think it’s necessary, or is it that you’re ashamed of me and don’t want to give up your single status?” Devon called me irrational. But he still posted a statement on Instagram announcing my existence: Happy 7th Anniversary to my girl @JosieReid Late that night, both #DevonShawAnnouncesRelationship and #DevonAnya were trending simultaneously. Because their CP fandom had immediately published a viral post— You are my frenzy, existing outside the order of the mundane world. The post summarized every ambiguous moment between them since they started working together. In the thread, they were positioned as star-crossed lovers, and I was the villain, the bully standing in the way of their destined union. The fans claimed Devon was only with me out of a sense of obligation, not wanting to break up with a “boring, mediocre girlfriend.” Anya logged onto Instagram late that night. She liked the post, then quickly unliked it, and then posted an explanation claiming her “thumb slipped.” A textbook move. Then she specifically tagged me: @JosieReid Hey, sis! Don’t worry about it. Let’s grab brunch soon! As if we were close friends. I’d never even met her. Devon told me not to overthink it. “Anya’s just a sweet, simple kid. She was probably just trying to smooth things over so you wouldn’t feel awkward.” I asked subconsciously, “She’s simple. And what about me?” “You?” Devon curled his lip into a slight smile. “Come on, Jo. Why are you comparing yourself to a young girl?” His tone was gentle, almost affectionate. Anya was only two years younger than me. 5 The girl next to me unplugged her headphones. I heard a familiar voice. Then I realized: today was the press conference for Devon’s new movie in Los Angeles. It was streaming live. I clicked into the live feed. Recently, Anya had been facing major public backlash. Rumors were swirling about her past—high school bullying, trading favors for roles, and flirting with her male co-stars. At the conference, Anya addressed the rumors for the first time. Within moments, she was sobbing, unable to speak. Devon was there the entire time, shielding her. For every invasive question from the media, for every malicious comment in the live chat, Devon was right there to fire back. He spoke with serious gravity: “Online bullying is a terrible thing. It causes irreparable harm to people…” I started to laugh. I laughed until the tears started welling up and my nose began to sting. I buried my face in my hands. The tears streamed down through my fingers. “Are you okay?” the girl next to me offered a tissue. “Thank you…” Crying on the subway was embarrassing. I got off early. It was all Devon’s fault. Ever since he went public, his and Anya’s fans had relentlessly attacked my comment section. Stop hoarding him, give the King to someone who is actually worthy. The unloved one is the third wheel. You’re really just extra, sis. If you, the little bitch, hadn’t been in the way, our OTP would be together! Break up now, or we’ll keep bullying you until you do. More extreme fans had doxed me, sent me gruesome messages, and even staked out my apartment building. I used to read about people who committed suicide because of online bullying. I felt sad, but I also didn’t quite understand it. Couldn’t they just unplug, ignore the anonymous hate, and focus on their own lives? When it happened to me, I finally understood the terror. It was truly horrifying. Devon was on location at the time. Calls went unanswered, and messages vanished into the void. By the time he wrapped and came home, I had been struggling with insomnia for two weeks. I had even visited a doctor to get medication for my nerve issues. Devon just held me and offered a shallow comfort: “It’s okay, Jo. Don’t worry. They’re just still invested in the show.” That night, he left for his next scheduled trip. I always thought his behavior was just his personality. He was a little insensitive to other people’s feelings, not great at comforting, but it wasn’t a huge deal. It wasn’t like he stopped loving me. But watching the screen right now, seeing Devon vehemently defending Anya, saying online hate kills people… Watching him sitting in the corner, constantly handing Anya tissues and speaking softly to comfort her, making her laugh through her tears… I felt like the biggest joke in the world. 6 I booked a flight back to Santa Monica. The day before I was scheduled to leave, I followed my doctor’s advice and went for one last follow-up appointment. Psychiatry was on the top floor. A long hallway was roped off, surrounded by a crowd of people. I walked over to look. They were shooting a movie. I wasn’t interested and turned to leave, just as my eyes met Devon’s across the crowd. I also saw Anya standing right beside him. I remembered—Devon had mentioned a while ago that his next role was a doctor. He hadn’t mentioned it was a reunion with Anya. But it didn’t matter. I no longer cared. The moment our eyes locked, Devon frowned and subconsciously took two steps toward me. I walked away without looking back. Anya glanced over, catching the sight of my long-haired back. She asked Devon, “Who was that? Your girlfriend?” “Yeah.” “Checking up on you?” Devon gave a slightly embarrassed smile. “I guess so.” Anya pouted, muttering, “Dating a civilian is such a hassle. She’s checking up on you even at the hospital. This is the first time anyone has ever treated me like a mistress. What’s her deal?” “That’s not what she’s doing.” Devon kept looking in the direction I’d walked. “She’s just a little jealous, a little insecure. She’s not targeting anyone.” During the break. Devon opened his text messages and saw that his last exchange with me was over two weeks ago— When do you wrap? I need to talk to you. He’d read it but hadn’t replied. He must have forgotten. It was normal for him not to contact me when he was filming. But it was very abnormal for me not to contact him. I used to send him constant, useless updates. Like I found a great steak place, or that New York was windy, or I saw a cute dog. He never seemed to mind. This sudden shift in my attitude must mean she was still mad from our last fight. Why was she so angry this time? Remembering the look in my eyes, Devon worried I’d misunderstand, so he decided to explain himself. … I sat waiting for my number to be called. My phone started ringing incessantly. So annoying. I realized I’d forgotten something important. I hung up, went into my contacts, and blocked the number. Then I opened my messages, found Devon Shaw, and hit Delete Contact. Much better.

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A text came through at 4:00 AM. A wedding invite, out of the blue, from a classmate I hadn’t spoken to in years. I work for the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the leave approval process is a bureaucratic nightmare. I politely declined the invitation. The very next second, he sent a follow-up, his tone demanding. “You don’t have to come, but you can gift us a house, and I’ll forgive you for skipping!” I was stunned, thinking he was joking. “I’ll wire you eight thousand dollars later. Happy wedding.” His voice instantly went cold. “Are you trying to insult me? A handout?” “My fiancée is Park Avenue Royalty. Our guests are the city’s elite. I invited you—a house is the least you can do! Don’t push your luck!” As he spoke, he smugly sent an electronic invitation. I clicked it open and was instantly staggered. The photo showed my wife, Sienna Reed—the woman who claimed to have severe germophobia and acted like a frigid saint—locked in a passionate, completely unrestrained kiss with Blake Shaw. I gave a cold, short laugh. “I’ll be there on time, and I’ll send you a house.” A custom-made replica mansion. That still counts as a house, doesn’t it? 1 Blake Shaw couldn’t sense the malice in my tone. He screamed excitedly. “That’s my best brother! I knew you wouldn’t let me down! I don’t need much, just a townhome in Tribeca! If you can’t afford it, sell a kidney, man! I won’t judge!” Sell a kidney? The audacity! I kept my voice calm. “I heard Sienna Reed is already married. You haven’t been conned, have you?” From the phone, I heard the unmistakable, muffled, wet sounds of their activity. “Honey, someone says you’re already married!” Blake yelled away from the receiver. “It was just a fake marriage. The ceremony was fake, the certificate was fake, and the husband… he was fake, too.” Sienna’s voice shifted instantly, dismissive, yet still husky with a deep, sated exhaustion. It clearly drove Blake wild. He ended the call abruptly, yet he was too eager to notice the line was still connected. The intimate sounds of their continued passion filled my empty, sterile bedroom, grating against my sanity. “We’ve been at it all night, why are you starting again… Blake, I love you.” The woman’s cooing voice made me physically nauseous. I hung up, rage building, and pulled the marriage certificate from my drawer. The official stamp was indeed flawed. A fake. Sleep was impossible. Did Sienna forget? The moment she married me, Leo North, she became the actual “Manhattan Royalty.” Defrauding a federal intelligence officer? That was a fast-track ticket to a maximum-security prison. I called my aide, Sergeant Miller. “Arrange an immediate deep audit of Reed Corp’s accounts. Contact my lawyer and the Police Chief. I’m filing charges. Also, call the city’s most reputable funeral director and order a large, custom-made replica mansion.” I drove home that same night to pick up my daughter, only to find that Sienna had sent her to a children’s home. Without a word, I drove straight there and brought her out. In the passenger seat, my timid little Lulu was curled up, her hair tangled, her cheek bruised and swollen. I reached out to touch her head, but she flinched and ducked away in pure panic. “Don’t hit Lulu, I’ll be good. I won’t eat or drink or use the bathroom again.” A dull ache filled my chest. I pulled her gently into my arms, stroking her tiny, frail shoulders, comforting her again and again. From Lulu’s halting, broken sentences, I finally understood the truth: for all these years, she had been living in that facility. Sienna only retrieved her for a few days when she knew I was coming home, staging a performance of a loving family. And Blake Shaw wasn’t just aware; he was one of her frequent abusers. He had beaten her until she lost control, then, disgusted that she’d soiled herself, he’d locked her in a closet without food or water. I gritted my teeth until I thought they would shatter. My work kept me away for long periods, and on my occasional calls, Lulu had always seemed perfectly normal. My blind trust and deep devotion to Sienna had been repaid with this catastrophic, brutal betrayal. If that was how she wanted to play, I would prepare a very special wedding gift. When I finally arrived back at my house, the sun was fully up. The wall of the master bedroom still held the large, smiling photo of Sienna and me on our wedding day. The image was insulting, pathetic. I had bought the house after we were married. It should have been shared property, but with the knowledge that the certificate was fake, I quietly and quickly processed the sale, clearing every single one of Sienna’s possessions and transferring the title for a fraction of its value. Just then, Sienna’s text arrived. “Honey, the IRS is suddenly auditing the company! Reed Corp is in trouble!” “I can’t handle this. Take some emergency leave and get back here immediately!” The demanding, entitled tone was exactly as it had always been. I ignored the text. I put my foot down on the accelerator and drove Lulu straight to the wedding venue. When we arrived, only Blake was greeting guests; Sienna was nowhere in sight. The welcome poster was a blown-up, explicit photo of Sienna being grabbed by Blake. My chest seized up. Sienna, who was so unrestrained and open with Blake, had always presented herself as a pure, devout Madonna to me. Six years ago, wearing plainclothes, I took several knife wounds rescuing her from a dark alley where she was being violently assaulted. Later, when we met, she told me about her severe “spiritual contamination complex”—she couldn’t stand to be touched by anyone. She insisted our daughter was a result of a one-time accident when we were drunk. Now, I realized her contamination complex was intermittent: she was only repulsed by me, and she extended that disgust to my daughter. My jaw was aching from clenching my teeth. I told Lulu to wait in the car, and I walked slowly, deliberately, into the venue. Inside, the dozen-strong groom’s party included many men who were once my close friends. Blake spotted me and immediately smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, look who it is! My best pal, Leo North! Guys, he promised me a Tribeca townhouse. Where’s the deed, Leo?” I answered mildly. “A townhouse isn’t something you pick up at the corner store, Blake. It takes a little time.” Gary Wexler, a former friend, flashed his gold Rolex and sneered. “Stop acting like a big shot, North. Everyone knows you went straight into some forgotten satellite office after college. How many years have you been filing papers? You can’t afford a decent apartment, let alone Tribeca. Don’t puff out your chest here.” The others chuckled and joined the mockery. “Leo, our guy Blake is marrying Sienna Reed—Manhattan Royalty. A nobody like you shouldn’t even show his face. Can you even afford the cash gift? Want us to pool some money for you, for old times’ sake?” It was clear they were jockeying to impress Blake, eager to join the sycophantic crowd. Blake played the consoling friend, draping an arm over my shoulder. “Leo, you were smart, good-looking, always a step ahead of me in school. But what did it get you? Should’ve found a rich wife. Listen, after the wedding, I’ll introduce you to Sienna’s great-aunt. She’s almost seventy, two hundred pounds, but she’s got a ten thousand dollar IRA and a good pension. You’ll fit right in! She’ll save you a few years of struggle!” I sneered internally. His “rich wife” was about to be penniless and disgraced. Just then, a brass band started playing a loud, mournful tune. Behind them, a procession of men carried the massive, paper-mâché replica of a mansion. Blake’s face turned the color of iron. “What in the hell is this supposed to be?” The lead musician was very polite. “The mock-up house is delivered, sir. The funeral band is a complimentary gift. You’re welcome!” Blake was furious and lunged, but I smoothly blocked him. “My wedding gift is here, Blake. Please sign for it.” “Leo North, you’re dead!” Blake swung a punch, which I easily caught. No civilian has ever won a fight against me. The others instantly rushed in to defend Blake, kicking and stomping the replica house until it was nothing but crushed paper and wood. “Low-class trash! How envious can you be? Gifting something like this at a wedding? You deserve to be hit by a car on the way out!” Gary Wexler grabbed an iron stand and swung it hard at my head. I sidestepped, and he stumbled, eating concrete. Blake pointed at me, roaring. “The Reed family runs this city! You destroy a Reed wedding, and I promise you will not walk out of here alive!” I mocked him silently. We’ll see who leaves in a body bag. “What are you waiting for? Take this scumbag down!” As soon as Blake spoke, his hired security guards rushed me. Two or three were nothing to me. In moments, I had them all sprawled on the ground. Blake panicked and screamed at Gary and the others. “Help me! Unless you want to lose your contracts with Reed Corp!” The security guards and the dozen groomsmen finally overwhelmed me, forcing me down onto the floor. Blake’s eyes were filled with venom. He grabbed a nearby dining chair, raised it high over his head, and smashed it down on my back. I gasped, the pain sharp and blinding. My back was on fire. He walked closer, his polished leather shoe driving into my kidney, again and again. “That’s what you get for being arrogant! I’m going to end you!” Blake paused to admire my anguish, then pulled out his phone and made a dramatically wronged call. “Honey, someone crashed our wedding and brought a funeral gift. He’s the guy who always envied me in school… what was his name…” Sienna didn’t let him finish, erupting in a fury. “Dare to touch my man in this city? They have a death wish!” “Baby, whatever you want—kill him, beat him senseless—it’s up to you. I’m just finishing up with the company stuff, I’ll be there soon to back you up!” The surrounding groomsmen were full of envy. “Blake, you’re the man! She’s crazy about you!” “A simple rich girl? Please. Back in the day, I was the one running the neighborhood. Anyone I wanted, I dragged them into an alley. Being chosen by me? That was her blessing.” Blake was drunk on his own ego. He grabbed a cake knife from a nearby table and plunged it deep into my side. “Hear that, Leo? My wife just gave me permission to kill you. Hahaha.” Lulu, who had witnessed the entire, brutal escalation, was crying hysterically in the car. Ignoring her terror, she burst out and rushed the crowd, throwing herself over my body. “Please! Don’t kill my daddy! Please!” Lulu’s desperate plea made Blake pause for a split second. “That little bitch? Why hasn’t the children’s home managed to get rid of her yet?” That one phrase—that little bitch—ignited a firestorm in my blood. I shoved everyone off me like a madman and delivered a single, brutal punch to Blake’s face, knocking out three teeth immediately. “You pig! You animal! To hurt a child that small!” Blake wiped the blood from his mouth, a chilling, triumphant smile crossing his face. “Leo North, did you enjoy the sex show last night?” “Your wife is young, hungry, and wild. So stimulating.” My heart jerked. “You… you knew about the fake marriage?!” “Why else would I work so hard? I fulfilled her all night long. Thank you for the six years of dry spell. I was happy to take your place, soldier.” I was shaking with blind, total fury. I slammed Blake hard into the concrete. “We were friends for a decade! You stab me in the back like this?” “Ten years ago, my family was broke, I depended on your charity, and Gary and the others treated me like dirt! Now I’m rich and powerful, and I want you to beg me, look up to me! I want your kid to be bullied like a dog under my foot!” As he spoke, Blake unlocked his phone and shoved a video in my face: Lulu being tormented. In that moment, I would have dragged Blake to hell with me, even if it meant my death. But before my next punch could land, a sharp slap cracked across my face. Sienna. The moment her eyes focused on my face, her expression froze solid. “What… why are you here?” She was so shocked she nearly lost her balance. I reached out instinctively to steady her, and she reacted by slapping me hard with the back of her hand. Her face was contorted by raw, pure loathing. “Leo North, how many times do I have to tell you—don’t touch me! You’re filthy!” As she said it, she turned and pressed herself tightly against Blake. My heart felt like it had been pierced by a needle. I lived a life of rigorous discipline and integrity, yet she called me filthy. She embraced the felon. Her words sparked a new wave of derision from the onlookers. “I knew why Leo was so bitter! His unattainable crush is getting married!” Lulu’s small body began to tremble when she saw Sienna. Her already bowed head sank lower. “Lulu wants to leave. Lulu is scared…” I gripped her tiny hand tightly. No. They will watch their evil brought down. Sienna looked at Lulu as if she were a piece of garbage, frowning at Blake. “Why is this girl here? The sight of her makes me sick.” Blake slid his hand under Sienna’s dress, gripping her breast hard, his smile predatory. “Then I’ll make them both disappear, my love. They won’t bother you again.” He waved his hand at the security detail. “Pin him down!” Protecting Lulu, I couldn’t fight at full capacity. After a few skirmishes, I was pinned down hard. I struggled, raising my head to glare at Sienna. “You dare do this to me?” Sienna’s eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed a wine bottle from the table and smashed it violently over my skull. Hot, thick blood immediately streamed down my face. The pain was excruciating. She took a few steps forward and jammed her stiletto heel down onto my hand, grinding it viciously. “Hitting you? What of it? Your General Harrison is a thousand miles away!” I couldn’t help but scoff internally. I had secretly helped the Reed family, pushing all the credit to my supposed “Uncle,” General Harrison. I never thought my humility would make Sienna dismiss me so completely. Lulu was sobbing uncontrollably. “Mommy, don’t hit Daddy! Please don’t hit Daddy!” Sienna acted as if she couldn’t hear, pressing her heel down harder. Blake taunted her. “Honey, he’s your husband, after all. Take it easy.” Sienna frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Our marriage certificate is fake. He’s not my husband.” Lulu wrapped her small arms around Sienna’s leg, pleading. Sienna simply kicked her away. Blake, grinning cruelly, grabbed Lulu’s small, tear-stained face. “Your dad knocked out three of my teeth. You can pay me back with six of yours.” I screamed a protest, but Sienna kicked me hard in the head, blinding me with fresh blood. Blake gestured for a wrench. He forced Lulu’s mouth open with the tool, gripping her teeth, preparing to yank them out. “STOP!” I roared with the last of my breath. “I am the Commanding Officer of the Defense Intelligence Agency! Let her go!” Blake roared with insane laughter. “You’re the Commander? And I’m the President!” He shook his head at his cronies. “Make this fake commander beg! Slam his head against the floor one thousand times!” My head was hammered repeatedly against the hard tile floor. Lulu was crying, fighting with all her might, but Blake pulled her hair and slapped her several times. Dizzy, my mouth full of the taste of blood, I looked up at the stone-faced woman who was my wife. “Sienna, Lulu is your daughter! How can you be so heartless?” “Shut up!” Sienna screamed, cutting me off. “If I hadn’t gotten drunk and made a mistake, giving birth to this little mistake, I would have been with Blake years ago, repaying my debt for him saving my life!” My heart stopped. The long-healed scar on my side—from the knife I’d taken for her—suddenly burned with sharp agony. “Repaying what debt? It was me…” Blake interrupted me, pulling Lulu’s hair back to keep her small face exposed. “Enough talk about the past. This little bastard needs to pay for my teeth.” The blood-stained pliers were about to come down when a single gunshot echoed through the venue.

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