Author: Momo Chan

My CEO wife returned from a year abroad… pregnant. “Ted, I’m sorry,” Seraphina said, hand on her belly. “At a party, Jake and I drank too much and slept together. I never thought…” Jake—the male assistant she hired before leaving. I was stunned but offered one last chance for our marriage: “Terminate the pregnancy and fire Jake. Then I’ll forget this.” “No,” she refused flatly. “It’s triplets—an abortion risks my life. Would you want that?” “As for Jake,” she added firmly, “he’s the biological father, and his skills are weak. I must keep him employed.” Just then, Jake rushed in and knelt before me. “Mr. Stone, I’ll never overstep again! Have mercy—let me and the children live!” Seraphina helped him up, scowling at me. “He’s kneeling. What more do you want?” Seeing the pity—and more—in her eyes, I knew we were done. After leaving, I called a long-unused number. “I’m done playing house husband. I’m being myself again.” A smoky laugh answered. “Finally. Welcome back, little brother. The Capital’s top playboy returns.” 1 The next day, I asked Seraphina for a divorce. She completely ignored me, checking herself into a private hospital to focus on her pregnancy. A few months later, the babies were born. I ran into her parents coming out of her hospital room. They were glowing, basking in the joy of becoming grandparents for the first time. “Ted? You’re just in time,” Seraphina’s father said. “We’ve already picked out names for the three boys. We’re calling them Jay, Ian, and Liam. What do you think?” When I didn’t answer, her mother rolled her eyes. “What, you have a problem with them taking our family name?” “Ever since you married Seraphina, she’s been the one bringing home the bacon while you stay home. You might not officially be a kept man, but you live like one. It’s only natural the children take her name.” I almost laughed. I didn’t care if the kids took her name, or Jake’s name. It made no difference to me. “It’s already been decided. Your opinion is irrelevant,” her father added. “I heard you were making a scene about a divorce a while back. You really have no idea what your place is, do you?” “You should be thanking your lucky stars that Seraphina, out of the goodness of her heart, didn’t use this as an excuse to kick you to the curb. Who do you think you are, bringing up divorce? Now get in there and apologize to her.” A muscle in my jaw twitched. It was true what they said: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I ignored them and pushed open the door. The sight that greeted me was Seraphina and Jake, their heads bent close together, cooing over the three newborns in their bassinets. They were laughing softly, saying how the babies had Seraphina’s eyes but Jake’s fair, smooth skin. The picture of domestic bliss was so perfect it made my head spin. There was a time when Seraphina and I had shared moments just like this. But now, the leading man had been replaced. When he saw me, Jake shot to his feet and gave me a slight, deferential bow. “Mr. Stone.” The second Seraphina stepped into the adjoining bathroom, however, his face transformed. He looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “So, Ted,” he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “How does it feel? Playing daddy to another man’s kids? Wearing that big green hat for the world to see?” He leaned closer. “Is it everything you dreamed of?” I stared at him, my face a blank mask. “If Seraphina saw the pathetic, sniveling worm you really are, you think she wouldn’t puke on the spot? Slap you a few times and tell you to pack your bags and get the hell out?” My lack of reaction seemed to infuriate him. He snatched a cup of steaming water from the bedside table. “Let’s just see who she’s going to slap, and who she’s going to tell to get the hell out!” Before I could react, he flung the boiling water directly at one of the infants. I was stunned. Even the most vicious animal protects its young. This… this pretty boy was pure poison. 2 “Waaah!” The baby’s heart-wrenching scream brought Seraphina rushing out of the bathroom, still pulling up her pants. “What happened to my baby?” Thud. Jake dropped to his knees again, tears and snot streaming down his face. “Mr. Stone, I know you’re hurting, but you can take it out on me! The baby is innocent!” he wailed. “He was just born! His skin is so delicate, how could it possibly withstand boiling water?” “What?!” Seraphina’s face contorted with rage. She stormed over and slapped me, hard, across the face. “Ted, you’ve gone too far!” she screamed. “Even if you can’t stand the sight of them, you don’t have to be so monstrous!” “Whatever happened between us, the children are innocent!” I spat out a mouthful of blood. “And you’re so sure it was me who threw the water?” “Of course it was!” she shot back. “Jake is their father! If it wasn’t you, was it him?” “Hah…” I let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Jake. You say his name with such affection. In that case, I should just step aside and let you two be a happy family.” “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I don’t have time for your sarcasm,” she snapped. “You better pray that baby is okay, or I will never be finished with you!” She scooped up the screaming infant and rushed out, murmuring soothing words. I clutched the briefcase in my hand. It was clear the divorce papers inside weren’t getting signed today. I dragged my exhausted body and shattered heart home. I’d just sat down when voices boomed from upstairs. “Is that Ted? Finally! Bring my foot bath up, will you?” “And my midnight snack needs to be made! The usual, the lotus seed soup. No sugar.” I sat there, frozen, as memories from the past few years flooded back. For me, it had been love at first sight with Seraphina. I was so smitten I left my home, gave up everything, for her. I was so smitten I changed my very nature for her, transforming from a wild playboy into a devoted partner, saying goodbye to a life of decadent parties and endless indulgence. I became a house husband, dedicating my days to serving her and her parents. And what did I get in return? A crown of thorns and three children that weren’t mine. The irony was crushing. Ring… My phone’s ringing pulled me back to the present. It was Seraphina. But when I answered, it wasn’t her voice I heard. It was Jake’s. “Alright, Ms. Vance, just lie back and I’ll massage your lower back. It’s crucial to take care of your back during the postpartum period, you know. It affects whether you’ll get your figure back.” “And you absolutely can’t get angry. It’s bad for your health.” “Here, let me just give your chest a little rub to help you relax…” “Ms. Vance, is the pressure okay?” A soft moan. “Mmm… yes. That’s perfect. It feels so good.” “Could you massage my feet later? They’re still swollen from the pregnancy.” “Of course, Ms. Vance.” “You know, you can call me Ms. Vance in public, but when we’re alone… it feels so formal. Just call me… Seraphina.” 3 Beep. Beep. Beep. The line went dead. I slowly lifted my head and stared at the large wedding portrait hanging on the opposite wall. In the photo, we were both beaming, the picture of a happy, loving couple. That picture was now a lie. “Ted, what are you doing just sitting there? I’m still waiting for my foot bath!” Seraphina’s mother yelled as she came downstairs. “And your father’s snack! He’s starving! Honestly, you’re becoming more useless by the day!” I turned and gave her a dead-eyed stare. “Do you not have hands and feet?” “You want a foot bath? Go boil the water yourself. You want a snack? Go make it yourself.” She was stunned. “What did you just say?” “Are you deaf, or just stupid? From this day forward, I am no longer your family’s servant. Understood?” I stood up and strode to the wall. Before her shocked eyes, I ripped my half of the wedding portrait straight down the middle. “Ah! Ted, are you insane?” I ignored her shriek and tossed the divorce papers I’d prepared onto the table. She snatched them up, her face turning shades of red and purple as she read. “Hmph. So you’re really determined to divorce Seraphina and take half her assets, is that it? I’m telling you right now, you won’t get a dime! Even if she had children with another man, you can forget about—” “Relax,” I said, cutting her off with a cold laugh. “The agreement is very clear. I don’t want a single thing that has her name on it. Frankly, her money… it’s not enough to interest me.” She stared at me, dumbfounded. It was only after I had walked out the door that she seemed to recover, spitting on the floor behind me. “Pathetic loser! All talk and no substance. Serves you right that Seraphina cheated on you!” That night, I booked the presidential suite at the city’s most luxurious five-star hotel. I pulled up a number in my contacts that I hadn’t looked at in years and, after a long hesitation, made the call. A lazy, sultry voice answered. “Well, well… if it isn’t our dedicated family man, Ted. Finally decided to grace me with a call?” I gave a bitter laugh. “Come on, sis. My life is already a dumpster fire. Don’t tease me.” Her tone shifted instantly. “I told you that woman was bad news from the start,” she snapped. “But you wouldn’t listen. You had to go and fall head over heels for her. How does it feel, finally hitting that brick wall?” “So… you know?” “Of course I know!” she raged. “You may have been estranged from the family all these years, but you’re still my brother. You’re still Mom and Dad’s son, the sole heir to the Stone Corporation. Did you really think we wouldn’t keep an eye on you?” I shook my head, another bitter laugh escaping me. “It seems the devoted husband thing really isn’t for me. I think I’ll just go back to being a playboy.” I paused, then my voice turned to ice. “And one more thing. The resources and support I’ve been secretly providing to Seraphina’s company all these years… cut it all off. Effective immediately.” “Good,” she said. “Even if you hadn’t said it, I was going to do it anyway. No one gets away with hurting my baby brother like this. And just cutting off her resources… that’s not nearly enough.” I knew my sister. I knew her methods. A pang of pity for what Seraphina was about to face rose in my chest, but I crushed it down. “Fine,” I said. “Do whatever you want.” 4 The next morning, Seraphina called. “Ted, have you had your little tantrum yet? I already explained that what happened with Jake was an accident. And I’ve decided you can be the father to the children. I’m not even going to press charges about you scalding the baby yesterday. What more could you possibly want?” “What do I want?” I was bone-tired, too exhausted to argue anymore. “I want a divorce. Sign the papers. We’re going to the courthouse today.” “Impossible!” she said, her refusal absolute. Then, her voice softened slightly. “We had so many beautiful memories together, have you forgotten all of them? The one I love has always been you. I’m comfortable with you. Can’t you just…” “Stop.” I couldn’t listen to another word. It was making my skin crawl. “Seraphina, I don’t know if you’re comfortable with me, but I do know that you and Jake were very, very comfortable with each other last night.” “You…” She was speechless. After a long silence, she seemed to give up on trying to manipulate me. Her voice turned cold. “Are you absolutely sure you want a divorce?” “Positive. Certain. And absolute.” “Fine,” she said, her tone now like ice. “I’ll agree. But on one condition. You have to accompany me to a banquet tonight. This event is crucial for my company. It could determine whether we go public. I can’t have any rumors of marital trouble circulating before the IPO. You might just be a house husband, but you should understand the stakes.” I was stunned. I had actually thought she was trying to save our marriage because she still had some feelings for me. I was even considering asking my sister to go easy on her. But it was all a lie. To her, our marriage was just a prop, a piece of corporate window dressing. “Ha…” I let out a hollow laugh. “Seraphina, you are a world-class hypocrite.” With her mask torn off, she dropped all pretense. “Cooperate with me,” she said coldly. “After the company goes public, we’ll get the divorce, and I’ll give you ten million dollars. That’s enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your…” Click. I hung up. Listening to her for another second felt like poison in my ear. I sent her a text. “I’ll go to the banquet with you tonight. We get divorced at the courthouse tomorrow morning. That is my final offer. If you push it, I can’t guarantee what I’ll do.” Her reply came almost instantly. “Deal.” … That evening, I stood by her side as she made a grand entrance at the banquet, dressed to the nines. All eyes were on her, followed by a chorus of praise. “Ms. Vance, you just gave birth and you’re already back to work! You truly are an iron lady.” “And look at your figure! You look absolutely stunning. Your glow is undeniable.” “Such a loving husband, a company about to go public… you’ve truly got it all. Family, love, and a career. We’re all so envious!” Their words were like a thousand tiny knives, twisting in the still-raw wounds of my heart. But Seraphina drank it all in, a sweet smile plastered on her face as she mingled. A short while later, the guest of honor arrived: the young master of the Capital’s Titan Group, and, incidentally, the biggest investor in Seraphina’s company. As the flamboyant young man strode into the spotlight, a small smile touched my lips. Just then, the main doors of the ballroom were thrown open. Jake burst in, his face a mask of grief and fury. He looked like a wild animal, and in an instant, all attention was on him. “Ted Stone!” he roared. “You are a heartless monster!” “I told you, what happened between me and Ms. Vance was an accident! I can understand if you can’t accept it, if you want a divorce. But the children… the children are innocent!” “They’re not even a month old!” He pointed a trembling finger at me, his voice breaking. “How could you poison them? How could you be so cruel?”

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My husband was shacked up with a college student again, and I was tearing our house apart. I was done. I was filing for divorce. That’s when his mother stepped in, her voice a blade. “He slept with another woman, Anna. He didn’t leave you. Your position is secure.” “What man doesn’t have a little fun on the side? What’s the big deal?” “Besides,” she added, her tone dripping with a twisted sort of pride, “for a man his age to be cheating on you… it shows he still has respect for you, that he’s being discreet about it!” My sister-in-law, Jessica, chimed in that it was my fault, that I’d lost my feminine charm. My husband, Michael, had been a philanderer his entire life, and I had endured it all. I’d swallowed my pride, my anger, my self-respect, for a lifetime. In the end, he died peacefully in his sleep at a ripe old age. And me? After a life of thankless labor, I was thrown out of the house by my own children, left to die of illness in a dingy little rental. But God, or whatever force is out there, gave me a second chance. I’m back, right before the day I was supposed to file for divorce. 1 My mother-in-law, Eleanor, dead for twenty years in another life, was alive and spitting in my face. “Anna Reed! You dare wreck my house? Who do you think you are?” “He just talked to a student, and you’re acting like a rabid dog. You have no class, no upbringing at all.” “You can’t even keep your own husband in line, and you have the nerve to blame him. You deserve this.” “Go on, file for divorce if you have the guts! My son is a university professor. You’re just a housewife. Let’s see what man would ever want you, a piece of used goods like you.” “Don’t worry, Mom,” my sister-in-law, Jess, said, her face alight with schadenfreude. “She’d never have the courage to actually leave.” A moment ago, she was the one who’d urged Eleanor to slap me. The sting was still fresh on my cheek. “And you dared to break things,” Eleanor seethed. “I should have hit you harder.” My father-in-law, Frank, sat slumped in his wheelchair, his mouth twisted from the stroke. “Hit her,” he mumbled. “Hit her.” I knew he was telling Michael to do it. My face was already swelling as I turned to look at Michael. He was sitting on the sofa, calmly watching television, as if this were all just background noise. “Your mother wants me to divorce you,” I said, my voice flat. “Do you agree?” He didn’t even look up from the screen. “I don’t care. If you want a divorce, get one.” “Fine,” I said. “I agree. We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow.” Michael finally smirked. “A divorce is fine. But don’t even think about taking the kids. And there’s no marital savings. You won’t get a single penny.” There it was. The same old threat. I, Anna Reed, used to be a firecracker. The first time he cheated, I immediately demanded a divorce. But Michael knew me, or thought he did. He always used the children as a shield, a weapon to pin me down. The children. Eleanor started to say something, but Jess quickly pulled her back. They knew my weakness. The moment the kids were mentioned, I would endure anything. But not anymore. I don’t care about the children now. I think whatever power brought me back was truly kind. To die and be given another chance to live. This time, I will not sacrifice myself for anyone. Just like before, I said nothing. I just stood up and walked back to my room. “See, Mom? I told you. She’d never dare.” I ignored Jess’s triumphant voice. A cold smile touched my lips as I started moving my things. It wasn’t really “my room.” It was a small, partitioned-off space next to my father-in-law’s bedroom. Ever since Frank’s stroke, he needed someone with him at all times. The original plan was for me to care for him during the day and for Eleanor to take the night shift, so I could get some rest. But Eleanor claimed she had a delicate nervous condition, that she was a light sleeper and the slightest noise would keep her awake all night. She insisted I move into the little nook to be near him around the clock. The irony was bitter enough to make me laugh. Michael slept soundly every night in the large master bedroom, alone. Well, I’ve decided. Whoever wants to take care of Frank can take care of him. Eleanor was always telling the neighbors how ungrateful and disrespectful I was, wasn’t she? Fine. I’ll be the ungrateful one. Let Michael be the devoted son for a change. I efficiently stripped my bedding and carried my things into the master bedroom. Michael followed me in, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “What are you doing, moving in here? What if Dad needs to use the bathroom at night? What if he needs water or needs to be turned over?” 2 I started pulling his clothes from the closet and tossing them onto a chair. “We’re getting a divorce. Your dad is no longer my dad. He’s your problem now.” “What is wrong with you? Are you done throwing this tantrum?” I laughed. A real laugh this time. “A tantrum? What if I am?” He always called it a tantrum. In my past life, I believed him. Arguing with him was a tantrum. Smashing things in a hysterical fit was a tantrum. Refusing to eat was a tantrum. But I see it clearly now. Hurting myself wasn’t a tantrum. Hurting them—that was a real tantrum. Look at this. All I did was move out of that glorified closet, and suddenly Michael couldn’t wait to follow me into a room and speak to me. On a normal day, he wouldn’t say more than three sentences to me. So, this is how you make them uncomfortable. This is how you make them feel something. Michael’s face was a stony mask as he walked out of the room. I couldn’t be bothered to listen to what the family was muttering about outside. I changed the sheets on the bed and then went to take a shower. Usually, this was the time I’d be rushing to pick up the kids from school. After that, it was a race to cook dinner. Once the family had eaten, I’d clean up, and then it was time to help the kids with their homework. After homework, I’d give them their baths. Finally, I’d have to bathe my father-in-law and give him his medication. Only after Frank was asleep did I have a moment to myself. I was a beast of burden in this house. After my shower, I sat down and started calculating my savings. I have an associate’s degree from a community college, but I only worked for a few years before getting married. After we were married, Michael’s salary went directly to his mother. I had to submit a weekly expense report just for groceries. If I needed money for anything else, I had to formally request it from Eleanor. Michael would never give me money directly. But I wasn’t completely without an income. My English is excellent. I’ve been doing some freelance translation work on the side, earning a few hundred dollars here and there. Right now, I have a little over ten thousand dollars saved up. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep me afloat after the divorce until I find a job. And I don’t have to worry about the house. This house was left to me by my parents. It’s large and it’s a pre-marital asset. Michael can’t touch it. The moment we got married, Michael moved his parents in. His sister Jess lived with us too, before she got married. It’s dawning on me now that Michael likely married me for this house. His whole family had a plan, a scheme to bleed a family with no sons dry. This time, I will not compromise. I will kick every single one of them out. Just then, a loud banging started on the bedroom door. “Anna, what are you doing hiding in there? The kids are about to get out of school, aren’t you going to pick them up? And this mess on the floor isn’t going to clean itself up, you lazy thing.” I opened the door. “They don’t like it when I pick them up. Let Michael go.” Eleanor shrieked. “How could Michael possibly do something like that?” “Why not? They’re his children too.” “Fine! You won’t go? Then nobody will!” It was one of her favorite tactics. In the past, seeing that no one else would do it, I’d get angry, but my concern for the children would always win out. I’d always be the one to quietly go and do what needed to be done. This time, I refused to play her game. A few moments later, I heard the front door slam shut. 3 That would be Eleanor, heading out. She never came home before dinner. I opened the bedroom door. The living room was a minefield of broken glass and debris. The only person left was Frank, sitting silently in his wheelchair. I pretended I didn’t see any of it. I went into the study, opened my laptop, and started looking for a job. My English skills are not just a boast. I majored in international business. I’ve always loved the language and never let it get rusty. I polished my resume and sent it out to over a hundred companies. After I was done, I went straight back to the bedroom, climbed into bed, and fell asleep. I was just so tired. I didn’t want to think about anything or deal with anyone. “Where’s dinner? Why hasn’t anyone cooked?” “Are you dead? You sit at home all day and don’t cook, don’t clean up the floor?” “Michael, look at the kind of woman you married! A lazy, worthless pig. Just lying in bed instead of making dinner. Is she looking for a beating? Is this a rebellion?” Eleanor’s screeching voice pulled me from my sleep. I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. “Get up.” Michael was in the room. I don’t know when he came in. A surge of hot anger shot through me. I sat bolt upright. “Are you insane? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” Michael was furious. “Sleep, sleep, sleep, that’s all you do! It’s barely evening and you’re sleeping. Why didn’t you make dinner?” “I’m not eating.” “I’m not asking if you’re eating. Mom told you to cook. Why didn’t you?” I stared at him, bewildered. “Are you deaf or just stupid? I said I’m not eating. Whoever is hungry can cook for themselves.” “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? What did my mother ever do to you? Anna, don’t push it!” “I am pushing it. What are you going to do about it? Divorce me? Go on, get out! Go find your precious Grace! Let her come and wait on your entire family, hand and foot.” Michael took several deep breaths. “Fine. You don’t cook, the kids don’t eat. They can starve for all I care.” I rolled my eyes. The same old trick. Not an ounce of creativity. Just as we were arguing, the kids came home. Liam and Sophie are twins, nine years old this year. The moment Liam walked in, he saw us. “Mom, why are you fighting with Dad again? Can’t you just be quiet for once?” Sophie nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Mom, your voice is so loud. And you didn’t even pick us up from school today.” Michael’s face was grim. “Look at what your mother has become. I want you both to promise me you will never, ever be like her. She’s like a shrew, with no manners at all.” The air was knocked out of my lungs. I thought I might actually die from pure rage. I looked at the two children I had given birth to, my gaze cold. Genetics are a powerful thing. Liam and Sophie had perfectly inherited the selfish streak that ran deep in the Pierce family. All they ever saw was me, screaming and making a scene. And every single time, they took Michael’s side. In my last life, when I was on my deathbed, their first thought was how to get rid of me, not how to get me to a doctor. I finally understood. Husband? Children? They were illusions. And I would rather have none of them. A smile that didn’t reach my eyes spread across my face. “Alright, alright. I won’t fight with your dad anymore. Now, please, take him out of my room. I have a terrible headache today. I need you both to not bother me.” The two little ones exchanged a confused look. They couldn’t understand why I had given in so easily. Michael glared at me. “The kids are home, what are you doing still in bed? I told you to go make dinner.” I completely ignored him. He raised his voice. “Anna, did you hear me?” When I didn’t respond, he bellowed, “Are you deaf? I told you to go and cook! How long are you going to keep this up? I already told you I was just having a normal conversation with a student. Why are you being so controlling? What will people think of me?” I sat up and beckoned the children closer. When Liam and Sophie were standing by the bed, I said, “I’m not the one fighting now. Your father is the one who is yelling. Can you please ask him to be quiet? He’s a professor, for goodness’ sake. He has zero class. Don’t you two ever grow up to be like him, acting like a complete psycho.” The kids looked up at Michael. “Daddy, please stop shouting.” Just then, Eleanor burst into the room and pushed them aside. “What do you two know? Your father is just disciplining his wife.” The push sent Sophie stumbling to the floor, and she immediately burst into loud sobs. Eleanor shot me a look from her beady, triangular eyes. “What are you crying for? Useless girl, all you know how to do is cry. Did someone in this family die? Why are you wailing like that?” In the past, I would have rushed over, scooped Sophie into my arms, and launched into a screaming match with Eleanor. Not anymore. I’m not that stupid. I remembered how easily Eleanor had turned the kids against me with just a few words, making them forget everything I had ever done for them. They told me to be more understanding. Fine. Let’s see how they fare without my protection. Let’s see if they still remember how wonderful their grandmother is. Michael frowned at his mother. “That’s enough, Mom. Let’s just go make dinner.” Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Me? You want me to cook? Then what is she going to do?” Michael was exasperated. “She’s not feeling well today. Just this once, can you please do it?” I watched Eleanor, a cold smile playing on my lips. See? If your heart is hard enough, you can get anything you want. After Eleanor left, Michael led the children out of the room. I called after him. “Don’t forget the courthouse tomorrow.” He whipped his head around. “Fine. We’ll go. Just don’t you come crying to me when you regret it.” That night, I didn’t lift a finger. Eleanor clanged and banged her way through making one meal, cursing under her breath the entire time. She yelled at me, she yelled at the kids. I didn’t help with homework either. Michael had no choice but to sit down with them himself. I could hear his frustrated roars even through the closed door. It was almost funny. When I used to help them, everyone said I had a bad temper and was a terrible teacher. Now that Michael was the one yelling, Eleanor didn’t dare say a word. After a long struggle, the kids were finally bathed and in bed. Then came the familiar sound: Frank, banging his bamboo cane on the floor. It was a system Eleanor had devised for him. Whenever he needed something, he’d bang the cane, and I would come running. Tonight, of course, I wasn’t going. “Anna, hurry up! Your father had an accident. Get in here and clean him up!” “Do you hear me? Are you dead in there?” Eleanor pounded on my door, the sound echoing through the house. I opened it and stared at her coldly. “Michael and I are getting a divorce. I have no obligation to take care of him anymore. Michael is the devoted son. Go get him.” “You black-hearted witch! It was the worst day of Michael’s life when he married you.” I shot back calmly, “Regretting it? Good. Let’s speed up this divorce. I’m sure there’s a long line of women waiting to marry your precious son.” It felt so good. Unwilling to make Michael do the dirty work, Eleanor had to deal with Frank herself, muttering and cursing the whole time as she cleaned up his mess. The process took ages and multiple trips. The next morning, I got up and dressed. I could hear Eleanor complaining in the kitchen. “Son, are you really going to divorce her? My old bones were aching all night, I’m exhausted. Who’s going to do all the housework from now on?” “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m just using the divorce to scare her. Even after we sign, there’s that mandatory waiting period, right? She’ll come crawling back before it’s over. You’ll just have to bear with it for a little while. We need to teach her a lesson, show her that this family runs just fine without her.” 4 “Once she stops this nonsense, everything will go back to her doing all the work.” Eleanor let out a relieved laugh. “You’re the one with the education. I agree, you can’t let her get away with this. Give her an inch and she takes a mile, daring to talk back to me.” Michael sounded smug. “I know. The thing she fears most is my anger. The second I get mad, she folds like a cheap suit. This time, we’re going to really put her in her place.” “Whatever you say, son.” I sneered. It was just like the last time. They had agreed to a divorce then, too. But on the way to the courthouse, the fear of losing my children had overwhelmed me. I turned back before we even got there. From that day forward, I was always beneath Michael. Every time he cheated after that, he’d dare me to divorce him, knowing I no longer had the courage. Michael came out and saw me sitting on the sofa. His face was a mask of disgust. “Weren’t you the one who wanted a divorce? Let’s go.” The kids weren’t ready for school yet. They heard him and their eyes went wide. “Mommy, are you getting a divorce?” I nodded. “Your father says he’s taking you with him, so you’ll live with him from now on. And you should start packing your things. After the divorce, you and your dad will have to move out. He has plenty of money, he’ll buy you a big new house.” Liam’s face lit up. “Then can I have Grace be my new mom? She’s so gentle. She helps me with my homework and she always smiles at me. She’s not mean like you.” Sophie immediately piped up, “I want Grace too! She’s so pretty, and you’re not. Daddy, does this mean I’ll have a pretty mom pick me up from school now?” I smiled brightly. “Then you should help me convince your dad to marry Grace. You’ll all have a very happy life together soon.” Eleanor stormed out of the kitchen. “What? Move out? This is my son’s house! I’m not going anywhere!” Michael’s face was turning a sickly shade of gray. “Anna, are you really going to push me like this?” “Michael, how is this pushing you? We’re divorced. You and Grace can’t get married and live in a house my parents left me, can you? She wouldn’t be happy here, surrounded by traces of my life. You’re a professor. You wouldn’t want to be known as the man who tried to swindle his ex-wife out of her pre-marital property, would you? Think of your reputation.” His face was a thundercloud as we drove to the courthouse. I, on the other hand, was beaming, a bright spot in the grim, silent waiting room. The clerk handed me the paperwork. “Please review this agreement. The children go to the father. The wife waives all rights to marital assets. There are no joint savings. Is this correct?” “Yes,” I said. “No problem.” Michael gave a strained nod. Someone nearby muttered, “What kind of man leaves his wife with nothing? Scum.” Michael shot them a venomous glare. I walked out of the courthouse. In thirty days, I would be completely free of that entire family. “You need to pack your things and move out as soon as possible,” I told him. “I’ll make sure the child support payments are on time.” Michael didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked away. When I got home, Eleanor was grimly spoon-feeding Frank. She saw me and slammed the bowl down. “Look who’s back. Do you know what time it is? Getting lazier by the day. Didn’t even bother to make a single meal.”

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Five years after my family erased my name from their legacy, I ran into my uncle at a private club downtown. He was Marcus Blackwood, the guest of honor, a veritable godfather in this city’s underworld, here to celebrate his fiancée’s new venture in the Caribbean. And I was just one of the girls paid to pour the drinks. We didn’t make eye contact the entire night. Not once. Not until a drunk client, a fleshy man with a diamond pinky ring, slapped a hunting knife flat on the table and pointed it at me. “Hey, you,” he slurred, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Crawl around the floor for us. Bark a little. How about a grand for your trouble?” I didn’t hesitate. My knees hit the cold marble floor. As whistles and jeers echoed in the smoky VIP lounge, I closed my eyes and barked. When I finished the circle, I used a nearby wall to pull myself to my feet. That’s when I heard my uncle’s voice, a low sneer that cut through the noise. “You’d rather be a dog in here than go back and apologize to Isabelle?” he said. “Lila Rhodes, you’ve got some goddamn nerve.” I managed a hollow smile and held out my palm. “One thousand dollars,” I said. “Cash or Venmo?” The years of bitterness, the ancient history between us, had long since faded into ash. But that thousand dollars—it was the exact amount I needed for the final payment on my urn. 1 The room fell silent for a beat. Every eye was on me, a dozen different kinds of judgment in their gaze. Then, someone snickered. On the leather couch across the room, my uncle’s knuckles whitened around his whiskey glass. His face was a mask of dark fury. He was ashamed. Embarrassed. In his world, a thousand dollars was pocket change, not even enough to tip one of his enforcers. And here I was, his niece, debasing myself for it. His fiancée, Isabelle Croft, toyed with a diamond earring, her voice dripping with amusement. “Marcus searched for you for five whole years, and this is where you end up? Learning to bark for strangers? You may not want the Blackwood name, darling, but he still does.” I lifted my gaze to meet hers. “There’s no shame in earning a living. At least I’m not on my back to do it.” A corner of her red-painted mouth twitched. “Are you that desperate for money? Tell you what. Do two more laps. If I’m entertained, I’ll add another two thousand.” The room erupted. The bet was on. “If Miss Croft is putting up two grand, so am I!” someone shouted. “I’ll throw in another thousand!” I didn’t hesitate. I was about to drop to my knees again when the door to the lounge was thrown open. The club manager scurried in, bowing and scraping. He grabbed my arm, shoving me against the wall before turning to Marcus with an apologetic smile. “Mr. Blackwood, sir. My apologies. This girl is new, she doesn’t know the rules. If she’s disturbed you…” “Are you going to crawl for her?” Marcus’s voice was ice. He crushed his cigar into an ashtray, his eyes as dark and cold as a winter lake. A bead of sweat trickled down the manager’s temple. He was terrified of me getting killed on his property, but he was more terrified of the man on the sofa. “It’s… it’s a demeaning game, sir. A grown man would have trouble with it, let alone a young woman…” “Then get the hell out!” Marcus roared, kicking the heavy coffee table over with a violent crash. He pulled a thick stack of cash from his jacket—ten grand, at least—and hurled it at the manager. “Lila crawls tonight! You try to stop it again, and I’ll burn this shithole to the ground.” The manager scrambled to scoop up the bills, his face splitting into a grotesque, greedy grin. He forgot I existed, muttered a thank you, and vanished. All eyes returned to me. Marcus’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want the money anymore?” My face was a blank mask. I sank to the floor and began to crawl toward the laughing crowd. The chill of the marble seeped through my thin dress, into my knees. The two shots of whiskey I’d choked down earlier churned in my stomach like acid. I saw Marcus’s knuckles turn bone-white. As I forced a third, trembling bark from my raw throat, he was suddenly there, his hand clamping around my wrist like a steel trap. “Lila, are you trying to fucking kill yourself?!” “I need the money,” I rasped, wrenching my arm free and continuing to crawl. But before I could make another sound, a boot slammed into my side, sending me skidding across the floor. Crack. My forehead connected with the sharp corner of a side table. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and a spray of blood and cold sweat hit the polished floor. Marcus hauled me up by the collar of my dress, his face inches from mine, his voice a furious roar. “You’d throw away your dignity for money? Is that all you care about?” He shoved me away from him. “You’ll never see a single cent from me!” Humiliation burned through me, a white-hot fire. The neon lights of the bar blurred into a broken kaleidoscope. And a voice, buried for five years, roared in my memory: “For money, you’d even sell the emerald signet ring your mother left you! Have I ever denied you anything? Why not just sell yourself while you’re at it! Get out! From now on, I don’t have a niece!” Five years ago, Isabelle had set me up. She’d stolen my mother’s heirloom ring from my uncle’s study and pawned it, making it look like I was the thief. Marcus had forced me to kneel in the pouring rain for three days and three nights, demanding to know where the ring was. But how could I know? I told him it was Isabelle. It was her plan to drive us apart, because she was jealous of the affection he’d always shown me. He didn’t believe me. Theft. Betrayal of family. Stubbornness. Three sins that shattered whatever warmth he’d once held for me. Egged on by Isabelle, he cleared out my bank accounts and threw me out onto the street. The first six months were bearable. I found a commission-based sales job, enough to get by. Then came the only call I received from Marcus in all those five years. His first words were: “Aren’t you ready to come home and admit you were wrong? Just tell me where the ring is, and I’ll forgive you.” I was still fueled by pride then, by a stubborn, self-destructive anger. “I told you, I didn’t sell it! Why don’t you ask your precious Isabelle! She’s the one who did it!” He hung up. The next day, I was fired. Blacklisted across the entire city. Marcus had put the word out to every corner of his empire, legal and illegal: anyone who hired me was an enemy of the Blackwood family. For years, I couldn’t find a legitimate job. I drifted into the city’s nightlife, a ghost in smoky bars and high-end clubs. It felt like he wanted me to see what I’d lost. He paraded Isabelle everywhere—to his backroom poker games, his casinos, his arms deals. He publicly declared that she would inherit everything that should have been mine. He showered her with gifts, dropping millions on a whim. The society pages were filled with pictures of them, smiling and powerful. And I was in the gutter, drinking myself to death just to survive, until my body finally gave out. Stomach cancer. The doctor’s appointments and prescriptions drained what little I had saved. Loan sharks came next, the interest compounding until the debt was an impossible mountain. Experimental drugs were a fantasy; chemotherapy, a distant dream. I’d tried calling him for help once. I’d barely gotten the words out before he cut me off. “Money, money, money! Is that the only thing you can see?” he’d spat. “You come back here, get on your knees, and admit what you did. Otherwise, you can die in the street before you get a penny from me.” That call extinguished the last flicker of hope I had left. I was just so tired. If he wanted me to die, then fine. I would die. At least then, the pain would stop. A month ago, I put a deposit down on an urn. I scraped together every dollar I could, but I was still a thousand short. The owner of the funeral home called almost daily. I thought tonight, finally, I could pay it off. But my uncle, who could toss ten thousand dollars to a club manager without a second thought, wouldn’t spare a single dollar for me. He left with his entourage, leaving me in the wreckage. I spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, vomiting until my entire body ached. Only one thought remained. All that, for nothing. My shift supervisor leaned against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette. “How the hell did you piss off Marcus Blackwood? He looked like he was ready to kill someone. What’s the history between you two?” A fresh wave of pain seized my stomach. I gripped the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing. “No history,” I said. “Just a blood feud, I guess.” The next morning, my phone woke me. It was the man from the funeral home. “Miss Rhodes, when are you going to settle your balance? It’s a thousand dollars. Are you really going to drag this out for over a month?” His voice was rough with impatience. “If you don’t pay within three days, I’m selling it to someone else. And you’re not getting your deposit back.” “Please, just give me a little more time,” I begged, my voice hoarse. “I get paid in two weeks, I can—” “Can’t wait!” he snapped. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Haggling over an urn. If you don’t have the money, you shouldn’t have picked out such an expensive one.” I wanted to argue, but the line was already dead. My head throbbing, I called my manager to ask for an advance on my salary. His response was even more brutal. “Just so you know, you don’t need to come in today. Or ever again.” “And don’t expect a final paycheck. Mr. Blackwood gave the order. We can’t afford to cross him.” My voice trembled. “That’s illegal. You can’t just withhold my wages. I’ll go to the labor board.” The manager laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Go ahead! Sue us! Mr. Blackwood said he’d cover any and all consequences. His legal team is the best in the country. If you want to walk into that buzzsaw, be my guest.” The line went dead again. A knot of pressure built in my chest until I doubled over, a violent cough racking my body. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the white tile floor. I stared at the bright, shocking red for a long moment before the tears finally came. I collapsed, the sobs tearing through me. After a long while, I mechanically cleaned up the mess. I took out my painkillers and swallowed them dry. Then, completely spent, I slid to the floor, my back against the bed, and thought about the last five years. Every single door that had opened for me, Marcus had slammed it shut. Every path I’d tried to walk, he had personally destroyed. Now, even the dregs of the city wouldn’t have me. Paying for painkillers was a struggle; paying for an urn was impossible. Eating was becoming a problem. I just wanted a beautiful house to rest in when I died. What was so wrong with that? I cried until the afternoon sun faded to gray, until I had no tears left, only a hollowed-out exhaustion. Staring at my trembling hands, I made a decision. I would go back to the Blackwood estate and demand an answer. I had to know. Why? Why had he done this to me? When I arrived, Marcus and Isabelle were having dinner. He glanced up, his expression unreadable. “So, you decided to come back.” “Why did you have me fired?” I asked, my voice flat, ignoring his question completely. “Five years. Haven’t you humiliated me enough?” He set down his fork, one eyebrow raised in detached amusement. “A little hardship teaches you how warm the Blackwood roof is, Lila. Do you have any idea the kinds of things people say about you out there? If it wasn’t for me keeping a lid on it…” Isabelle swirled the red wine in her glass. “She doesn’t appreciate it, Marcus. Can’t you see? She’s blaming you.” “Shut up!” I lunged across the space between us, my hand raised to strike her. But an iron grip caught my wrist. Marcus’s eyes were dangerously dark. “Feeling brave, are we? It seems you still haven’t learned your place.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to make you disappear?” My heart seized, as if his hand were squeezing it directly. Make me disappear? Isn’t that what he’d been doing for five years? Systematically destroying my jobs, my hopes, my will to live? I was worse off than a rat in the sewer, broken and sick, unable to even afford a final resting place. I was done. I was so done with his threats. “I did nothing wrong!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “Fine, Marcus! If you won’t let me live, then I’ll die! Is that what you want? You can’t rule me from hell, can you?” A vein pulsed in his temple. He shoved me violently, and I stumbled back, the corner of the heavy dining table digging into my lower back. The pain was explosive, and a cold sweat broke out over my entire body. Marcus turned away, refusing to look at my pale, sweat-sheened face. “Even in death, you will always be in my debt,” he said, his voice cold and final. “Until that ring is found, you don’t even have the right to die.” With that, he walked out of the room. I was in too much pain to get up. Isabelle’s stiletto heel pressed down on my fingers. “You poor thing,” she cooed. “You look so pathetic. How about this? Kneel and bow your head to me three times, and I’ll tell you where the ring is.” I stared at her, a burning hatred in my eyes. I wanted to rip her apart. But I knew I didn’t even have the strength to slap her. Five years of humiliation, and now, even in my final days, I couldn’t have a shred of dignity. Marcus’s words echoed in my head. Until that ring is found, you don’t even have the right to die. Fine. If finding that ring would grant me peace, then I would find it. I wiped the tears from my face, a wave of despair washing over me. I got to my knees and bowed my head to the floor, three times, the impacts jarring my already aching body. “Please,” I whispered. “Tell me where it is.” In the past, whenever she’d schemed against me, I’d fought back with everything I had. This time, I didn’t even have the energy to argue. My submission seemed to bore her. She tossed a slip of paper onto the floor. “Here’s the address. But whether you can get it back, Lila, that’s on you.” Numbly, I picked it up. I found a city bike and rode to the address on the outskirts of town. It was a dusty, forgotten pawn shop. When I explained why I was there, the owner said nothing. He just looked at the note and retrieved the ring from a back room. Clearly, Isabelle had already called. I felt nothing. No anger, no relief. I just wanted to give the ring to Marcus so we could be done with each other. But as he was handing it to me, his hand suddenly went slack. The emerald signet ring, my mother’s ring, fell to the concrete floor and shattered. I froze, the blood draining from my face. “Hey, kid, what’s the big idea?” the owner exclaimed. “You gotta be more careful! This ain’t my fault.” “Lila!” Marcus’s furious roar exploded from behind me. I whipped around and saw Isabelle’s triumphant smile as she clung to his arm. “I told you she’d do it, Marcus!” she cried. “She hates you so much she’d even destroy her own mother’s memory! And to think you were actually going to forgive her!” Marcus didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes were fixed on the glittering green shards on the floor. He walked forward slowly, stiffly, and knelt. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, piece by piece, he began to gather the broken emerald and gold, his large hand clenching around the sharp fragments. “It wasn’t me! He dropped it! And I never sold it in the first place…” The words tumbled out of me, a frantic, desperate plea. Seeing him look so utterly defeated filled me with a panic I had never known. He rose to his feet, his face a storm of rage and pain, and slapped me so hard I was thrown to the ground. Slap! I landed in a heap, my cheek burning, my stomach twisting in agony. The tears that came were involuntary, a pure physical reaction to the pain. His chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot. “Five years! I gave you every chance! I told you, just come back and admit you were wrong, and I would forgive everything!” he bellowed. “But what did you do? What did you do!” “Lila, you’re not worthy of the name Rhodes! And you’re not worthy of calling me your uncle!” He was utterly disappointed in me, his voice raw with a pain so deep it was shocking. He had completely lost control. My heart plummeted. I could taste blood in my throat. I swallowed it down and whispered, my voice choked, “What if… what if I was really dying?” “Who are you trying to fool?” He glared at me with pure disgust, his fist so tight that blood began to seep between his fingers from the broken ring. “You could drop dead right here, and I wouldn’t even blink.” “Okay,” I said. I clenched my own fists and shakily pushed myself to my feet. And in that moment, something inside me settled. A strange clarity. I was going to die anyway. The debts, the resentments, the betrayals… none of it mattered anymore. If he truly believed I was the monster he’d created, then so be it. After I was gone, I would be nothing but a handful of dust. None of this would have any meaning. A bitter smile touched my lips. I turned and walked out of the shop. “Where do you think you’re going?” he roared behind me. “Are you determined to drive me to my grave?” I didn’t look back. My voice drifted back to him, carried on the dusty air. “You don’t have to die,” I said. “My death will be enough.” … For the next two days, Marcus didn’t contact me. He took the shattered ring to the best jewelers in the city, but they all told him the same thing: it could be pieced back together, but the cracks would always show. It would never be whole again. Looking at the flawed, ugly thing, he was consumed by a quiet, simmering rage. On the first day, he held a press conference and publicly disowned me. He stood before the cameras, his face cold and impassive. “Whether Lila Rhodes lives or dies is no longer the concern of the Blackwood family. I will not intervene if she sells her body or begs on the street. Anyone who mentions her name in my presence will be considered my enemy.” The city was stunned. On the second day, he took Isabelle to a formal family council. He named her his official heir. One of his older cousins pulled him aside. “Marcus, is this necessary? Lila is still your blood, your niece. Are you really going to push her to the absolute edge?” Marcus’s lips thinned. “The edge? What’s going to happen? She’s survived for five years, hasn’t she?” he said with a sneer. “She doesn’t have the guts to die. She’d be too ashamed to face her mother in the afterlife.” He was wrong again. Because by then, I was already a ghost, floating beside him. I had been dead for two days, my body at the bottom of the river near my apartment. The pain had just been too much. Death, for me, was a release. What I didn’t expect was that on the third day, Marcus received a phone call from the funeral home. The man on the other end was shouting. “Mr. Blackwood! You’re Lila Rhodes’s uncle, right? She listed you as her emergency contact, so don’t even try to deny it! She ordered an urn, and there’s still a thousand-dollar balance on it! Do you want it or not?”

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For five years, I fought Natalie, Liam’s untouchable Gold Standard—his high school sweetheart, his lost flame—just to move up from the gilded cage. Mrs. Harrington’s decree was simple: the first mistress to successfully bear a child would become the next Mrs. Harrington. That night, Liam was drugged. He stumbled into my room, desperate and incoherent. My body, famously “fertile,” delivered the result. Post-wedding, he was the model husband—attentive, showering me with affection, even personally tending to my entire pregnancy. Everyone called me lucky. But on the day my water broke, he bound me, surgically cut open my belly in the dark basement, and watched me bleed out. “If you hadn’t foolishly tried to treat me, I wouldn’t have been separated from the one I was meant to be with,” he spat. “The heir is born. She and I will raise him. You’ve served your purpose. Now, die.” My second life. I shoved a very pregnant Natalie into the room instead of going myself. “Go on, your fortune awaits!” I walked away, finally free. A year later, on a tourist trip up north, I found Natalie begging on the street. Her face was mutilated, her limbs broken, shivering violently. She grabbed my hand, sobbing, her voice a raw rasp: “Piss poor luck, that bastard used me as a goddamn broodmare! Said his heart’s delight was infertile, stole the kid right after he was born, and dumped me without a cent!” Then she died, right there on the frozen sidewalk. I woke up a third time, back on the night Liam was drugged. I looked at the sixteen other women in the mansion, the sixteen other golden cages. Natalie and I exchanged a glance, sinking into a heavy silence. The question was a bullet in the air, cold and hard: Who, exactly, was the infertile one? 1 Inside, Liam was groaning like a desperate animal, his sounds thick and primal. No matter how much he pleaded for one of us to open the door, Natalie and I clung to the doorknob, two statues of modern-day restraint. Then, the cavalry: Mrs. Harrington, a formidable presence, and the remaining sixteen mistresses. “What is all this commotion?” She shoved the door open. Liam was red-faced, tearing at his shirt. Mrs. Harrington gave us both a sharp rap on the head. “You two fight every day to get in, and now that the door is open, you’re playing the deference card?” “You’re both supposedly ‘super-fertile.’ Anyone of you can conceive tonight. Decide who goes in!” The old woman was beyond desperate for a great-grandchild, and with Liam constantly traveling, we were—in her mind—the two best candidates. Natalie and I stared each other down. If I go, I die. If she goes, she dies. The solution? Send the true love. But who, among eighteen women, was it? I spoke softly, carefully. “Mrs. Harrington, it’s not fair to the others. And we should respect Liam’s choice.” I turned to him, my voice dripping with false concern. “Liam, darling, who do you choose? It’s okay if you don’t conceive immediately. We can’t let you upset the one you truly love.” I knew that when I’d tried to help him in the first life, everyone else was sleeping. I just needed to see if he would sacrifice his “true love” now that she was standing right here. Liam looked at me, struggling through the haze. “Then… Sienna, you come.” His voice was a reluctant groan. I could hear the sheer unwillingness. Mrs. Harrington nodded. “Sienna, go. It’s what you’ve always wanted.” She wasn’t wrong. Marriage to Liam had been my ultimate dream. He was my rescuer. The golden boy who saved me from the alley thugs in college. He was tireless in his care, his affection, his gifts. As an orphan from the group home, a crumb of love was enough to make me fall. I became his seventeenth mistress, dismissing all the warnings that he was a confirmed bachelor. In the first life, he sent everyone else away, and personally nursed me through pregnancy. I was delirious with happiness. Then came the basement, the ropes, the cold steel of the scalpel. He murdered me without anesthetic, watching me thrash. “I never loved you. I married you for a promise to my grandmother. The heir is here, and now you die. I will raise him with the one true love of my heart.” My last question was if it was Natalie. He just smiled: “You’ll see.” I bled out before I could turn my head and never saw the face. The horror was visceral. My palms were slick with sudden, fresh fear. I shook my head. “I can’t.” Mrs. Harrington was bewildered. “Why? Didn’t you always want to be Mrs. Harrington?” I chose my words carefully, my tone utterly sincere. “It was a mistake. I confused gratitude for love.” I took a deep breath, dropping the bomb. “The truth is, Mrs. Harrington, I took a lover last month. I’m already carrying his child.” Liam’s face went crimson, veins bulging in his forehead. “Sienna, you are unbelievable!” His furious gaze shifted to Natalie. Before he could speak, she stumbled back three steps, throwing her hands up. “Don’t look at me, I’m out!” Liam scoffed, “What, you’re sleeping around too?” Natalie’s eyes lit up with invention. She pointed at me, nodding vigorously. “Yeah! We hooked up with the same guy! I’m pregnant too!” Mrs. Harrington nearly passed out from shock and fury. A good womb was useless if it carried bastards. She banished us both, telling the two “hussies” to be packed and gone by morning. She looked worriedly at Liam. “What about the others?” Liam’s rejection was instant and sharp. “No!” Natalie and I exchanged a baffled look. Ah, I see. He thinks it would be disrespectful to his true love if he slept with someone else after this mess. How deeply romantic. Liam spent the night in a tub of ice water. Natalie and I slept soundly, dreaming of freedom. The next morning, bags packed, we met Liam at the door. He threw two blood test reports at our feet. “You both lied. You are not pregnant. You conspired to trick me!” So that’s why we slept so well. The bastard. Natalie, the straightforward one, bristled. “So what? We just don’t want to carry your kid!” The Harrington name, a powerful one on the East Coast, was being openly mocked by a mere mistress. Mrs. Harrington was visibly offended. “Liam, let it go. You have sixteen other girls. You’ve been too busy to focus on a family. But if you try, someone will conceive.” Liam laughed, a cold, harsh sound. “No woman has ever refused me and gotten away with it. My reputation would be ruined!” He glared at us both. “I will only choose from the two of you!” The doctor had warned him that the ice bath had taxed him severely. He needed a week to recover, or he risked permanent damage. Liam looked at me, a cold fury in his eyes. “One week. Don’t try to run. I will find you.” The other mistresses were furious, making it impossible to single out the true love. Perhaps it was the lack of a shared target, but Natalie quickly barged into my room. “What do we do? That bastard’s pride is at stake. He wants us to be reproductive machines for his true love! I refuse to die!” I showed her my phone. “There’s a loophole. We’re ‘super-fertile’ because of our exceptional uterine quality. Liam wouldn’t know the specifics.” I explained the absurd idea. “If we find his infertile true love, I can offer her a transplant. He should be happy then, right?” Natalie’s eyes widened. “My god, that’s genius! Give her mine too! Let them breed like rabbits in a hutch, just leave us alone!” We agreed on the plan. I would arrange a group physical for the other mistresses. The results were staggering. All sixteen of them were medically infertile. “Holy hell. That’s too damn convenient. We only have two uteruses. That’s not enough to go around!” Natalie shrieked. “We can’t just pick one!” She was right. If the woman wasn’t the true love, she would meet the same fate as me in the first life. I wasn’t that heartless. Natalie, a bundle of raw nerves, volunteered to interrogate the mistresses. I knew I had to handle Liam. The next day, I headed to the small, unpretentious family restaurant near my old campus. Liam was waiting, the table laden. He pointed to a dish. “Spicy Lamb Offal. I knew you’d come. Hungry? Five years ago, you ate half the plate, so I order it every anniversary.” Today was our five-year anniversary—the night he rescued me. I suddenly laughed. “Liam, we’ve eaten everything on this menu over five years. I’ve never touched the offal. I hate organ meat.” I leaned forward, keeping my gaze steady. “The person you’re remembering, Liam, is she really me?” He put down his chopsticks. He sighed. “Since you asked directly, I will tell you.” He raised his hand, pointing to the door. My heart pounded. This is it. The doorway was empty. He was pointing at the crowded photo wall, at a candid snapshot of us. He smiled, a practiced, melancholic look. “Sienna, this place holds our most precious memories. Would I bring anyone else here? I’m over thirty, my memory is a little foggy. I just forgot you hated offal. The other women were games. I want forever with only you. Trust me.” The waitress, a friend of ours, chimed in: “Mr. Harrington looks at you with so much love, Miss. Of all the couples, you look the most like a real man and wife.” I felt dizzy, the words sinking into the old wounds of my past. He was my protector, driving hours to bring me a heating pad for cramps. He defended me from the bullies. He was the only person who had ever made me feel like I was worth something. I wanted to believe him. I pointed to the photo. “What about Natalie? Your first love. If she was the one whose room you stumbled into, would you be saying this to her? Our doors are identical, and you’re rarely home. It would be an easy mistake. That’s why you asked us to choose.” His hand tightened on my shoulder. He chuckled dismissively. “Natalie? A high school fling. She was just fighting with you out of stubborn pride. I only said that to protect you from her competitiveness. I’m protecting you, Sienna.” He kissed my cheek. “And you made me soak in an ice bath because you were jealous and lied about sleeping around. You broke my heart.” He wasn’t wrong about Natalie. She was a tomboy, more aggressive than half his male friends, and had only become a mistress out of pure spite. As we walked to the car, Liam suddenly buried his face in my neck, his voice low and ragged. “If you’re so worried, five days from now, we’ll get married. We’ll skip the engagement. I need you so badly right now, and if the doctor hadn’t warned me, I’d take you here…” I pushed him away, feigning a blush. “Stop it! Someone might see!” “The wedding, yes. But no license yet. I need to get pregnant first, or Mrs. Harrington will be furious. We’ll have a wedding ceremony to make Natalie finally give up. I need to save face. I want the most lavish wedding. The city’s elite. Live broadcast.” Relief washed over him. “Deal, my love.” I watched his car disappear. My smile vanished. I went back inside. I paid the owner a handsome sum. “I want the photo you just showed me. And I want the other one.” The wedding announcement spread through the city that afternoon. I returned to an eerily quiet mansion. Natalie was pacing, staring at the empty hall. “They’re all gone. Why aren’t you?” “Sienna, you’re a big idiot!” Natalie rushed me, but instead of hitting me, she hugged me, sobbing. “You’ve been through so much, and you’re still a fool for love! Let’s just run!” I patted her back. “We’re not even married yet. I only agreed to the ceremony.” I felt her body tense up as she remembered the basement. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I won’t let you die.” Natalie confessed she learned nothing. “They’re gone, who knows where. How do we find the true love?” I wiped her tears. “No need to look, Nat. I know who it is. And no, they won’t agree to the uterus transplant.” “Why not? Get married and have your own kid? They’re insane!” I laid out the two photos side-by-side. Natalie looked, then looked again. Her expression went from confusion to utter horror. “Holy smokes… I see it.” “You see it.” The first photo showed Liam’s devoted gaze, but in the second, from a different angle, it was clear he was looking past me, at the person standing by the wall. I’d checked the surveillance: when Liam had his “reaction” in the car, that person had been standing not far away. The whole puzzle clicked. No wonder he insisted on me or Natalie. A knock on the door. A man in a tailored suit, golden-rimmed glasses, exuding a slight air of competence. Natalie squeezed my arm. “Hot! Who is that? He looks like you.” The man smiled. “Sienna, I’m Lucas, your brother.” He wanted to take me home. I told him the plan. He sighed, but didn’t argue. Natalie was confused. “Your brother is so rich. Why not just leave?” I was already picking out a dress. “Because Liam needs to pay the price for the first two lives.” Natalie brightened. “You’re damn right! I’m staying to watch that bastard crash and burn!”

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My ground-floor unit came with a spacious patio, and for three years, I’d poured my life into cultivating one thing: the roses. Every May, they were a cascading tapestry of color and scent, and the entire subdivision was drenched in their perfume. The HOA notice came in: “A joint complaint signed by 260 homeowners demands the immediate removal of your rose wall, citing inadequate light.” I laughed. A cold, flat sound. They lived on the seventh and eighth floors. Did they think the roses could climb to the sky? But I followed the instructions anyway. The following summer, the mosquito population in the subdivision exploded. It was biblical. The HOA group chat was a disaster zone: “Why are there so many mosquitoes this year? We can’t even open our windows at night!” The property manager slid into my DMs: “Ms. Willow, is there any way you could possibly plant the roses back? We understand that particular variety may have acted as a repellent…” I smiled and closed the heavy, custom-fitted screen door. 1 The cold light of the phone screen illuminated my utterly calm face. In the homeowner’s group chat, the property manager’s post—the one specifically tagging me—was pinned there like a cold, official decree. “@Willow Hayes, regarding the climbing rose wall in your patio at 101, we have received a joint complaint signed by 260 homeowners demanding its immediate removal.” Official. Courteous. But radiating an unassailable, collective pressure. 260 households. Our entire subdivision held just over three hundred. The number felt like a granite boulder slamming into my chest, provoking not a splash of distress but a sharp, mocking laugh. I had cultivated this rose wall for three years. From bare, muddy soil to the current, vibrant waterfall of blooms, the effort and devotion I’d poured into it felt no less than raising a child. Every May, the thousands of flowers—a living cascade of blush pink and crimson—were a flowing tapestry that drenched half the neighborhood in its perfume. Now, it was a liability. A menace. A bright red profile picture flashed in the chat. It was Brenda, our community social committee leader, a middle-aged woman running on pure, overweening social committee energy. “@Property Manager! Yes! It must be cut down! We homeowners are suffering!” Her comment was the match. The group chat instantly became a powder keg. “This rose wall has three major offenses!” Brenda’s voice felt like it was shrieking through the glass, carrying an undeniable, aggressive authority. “First, it blocks the light for our high-rise units! That huge wall is blotting out the sun!” My neighbor from the seventh floor chimed in immediately: “Exactly! My unit loses sunlight in the late afternoon now!” I almost laughed out loud. My patio faced the north side of the building. The roses barely reached the second-story window ledges. They were blocking the sunlight for the seventh floor? Did they think the sun rose from the asphalt? “Second, it attracts vermin and insects! It’s terrifying! What if rats or snakes get into our units? This is a severe safety hazard!” Brenda continued her performance. “Right! Right! Last week I swear I saw a dark shape dart across the lawn!” “It’s horrifying! Imagine if a child got bitten!” I narrowed my eyes, my finger hovering over the screen. In three years, I hadn’t seen a large moth, let alone a snake, in my garden. The unique fragrance of the roses was a natural insect repellent. “Third, and most important! Allergies! My grandson is only five, and every time we walk past that wall, he starts sneezing and breaks out in hives! If he develops asthma, who will be held responsible?” This line—the appeal to the health of the children—was a perfect, calculated strike against the soft underbelly of every parent and grandparent in the community. “Oh my god, that serious?” “To have a personal hobby that endangers the whole community’s children is just selfish!” “Cut it down! Immediately!” Dozens of profiles flashed, everyone claiming deep suffering, as if my rose wall was the root of all evil. The same neighbors who had stopped by my fence, complimented the blooms, and inhaled the sweet fragrance with blissful expressions, had now transformed into vicious executioners, waving their keyboards to crucify me. This was my community. A mob easily whipped into a frenzy. I took a deep breath, my fingers tapping out a reply, my tone as detached as an outside observer. “Do you have evidence that my roses block the light for the seventh and eighth floors? Please provide simultaneous light contrast photographs. Has a snake or vermin entered anyone’s home? Please provide a picture or video. As for pollen allergies, please submit a specialist’s report confirming the allergen is the rose variety in question.” My reply was a bucket of ice water on boiling oil. After a brief, stunned silence, the eruption was even more violent. Brenda was momentarily speechless, then launched into a full-scale emotional attack. “How dare you speak to us like that, young lady? Are the collective feelings of this many neighbors not enough evidence? You are selfish! You prioritize your little hobby over the collective good of the entire community! Do you have any respect for your neighbors?” “Seriously, young people today are so insolent!” “One person against the whole community—and she thinks she’s right?” “Let her know: if she doesn’t cut it, we’ll do it ourselves!” The vitriol was a flood, rushing in with staggering force. They had abandoned all pretense of logic, venting pure, unadulterated malice. I looked at the ugly words, and my heart chilled, inch by inch. Three years of neighborly good grace, of polite smiles and greetings, had been exposed as a complete joke. My phone vibrated. It was a private message from Eleanor, the retired schoolteacher who lived in the unit next door. “Willow, don’t let them get to you. These people are just bored and being used by Brenda. Don’t take it to heart.” Eleanor was the only person who had offered me warmth in this cold, concrete jungle. I sent back a “Thumbs Up” emoji, a calming signal. Then, without another word, I began taking screenshots. Every single inflammatory comment, every ID, every profile picture. I saved them meticulously into a new folder labeled “Evidence.” The property manager messaged me privately again. His tone was far more cordial than in the group chat, but the implied threat was sharper. “Ms. Hayes, look… everyone is quite worked up. We’re trying to maintain community harmony. If you don’t handle this, they are threatening to take more aggressive action. It could get ugly.” “Aggressive action” meant trespassing, vandalism, a mob mentality. They were using the logic of the bully to threaten me. Fine. Perfectly fine. I stared at the text for a long time, then typed a calm reply. “Understood. I will handle it.” I put my phone down and walked to the window, looking out at the mass of roses silently releasing their fragrance into the night. The evening breeze rustled the leaves, the flower shadows swaying as if in a final farewell. I smiled, a smile devoid of all warmth. They wanted a world without roses? Fine. I would give it to them. 02 The next morning, the sun was bright and clear. I called the landscaping company I had contacted the day before. Thirty minutes later, two men in work gear, carrying a full set of tools, arrived at my door. “Ms. Hayes, you need a trim and shaping? Your roses are stunning, a beautiful variety. A little trim will make them even better,” the lead worker said, his eyes full of admiration. I handed them chilled bottled water, my voice flat, without a hint of emotion. “Not a trim.” I paused, meeting their eyes. “A complete purge. Root and stem.” The smiles froze on their faces. They exchanged baffled glances, clearly not believing me. “Ms. Hayes, are you serious? This is a magnificent wall. How many years have you cultivated this? It would be a huge waste to cut it all down!” “No waste,” I said quietly. “Just do as I ask. Dig up all the roots. Make sure nothing can sprout again.” Seeing my resolute stance, the workers, though clearly mournful, had no choice but to start. The high-pitched whine of the electric saw quickly shattered the morning peace of the subdivision. Just as I expected, before long, Brenda, leading a group of her associates, gathered outside my patio fence like vultures scenting blood. Arms crossed, they stood there, ostensibly “supervising,” but their faces were alight with undisguised smugness. “Well, well. Finally decided to cut it down?” Brenda’s voice was pitched high, loud enough to ensure every passerby heard her. “I knew it! Personal little feelings mean nothing when it comes to the collective good!” “Exactly. It’s so much brighter here now! We’ll have all this space to hang our laundry!” “Forget laundry! I think this spot is wide open for a nice Zumba session tonight! Smooth concrete!” They chattered and cackled, shamelessly planning the use of the public space right outside my fence, acting as if it were already their property. I ignored their clamor. I stood to one side, watching the workers with a blank expression. The thick vines were sawed off one by one. The wall of green that had embraced the fence came crashing down, a heap of broken branches and dying petals. This was the landscape I had nurtured, pruned, and trained with my own hands for three years. Now, it was being systematically dismembered and destroyed right in front of me. My chest felt like it was being methodically sawed open by a dull blade, the pain so profound it had already gone numb. I turned my back, not allowing anyone to see my expression. “Deeper on the roots, please,” I commanded calmly. “Every main root and lateral root must be removed.” Brenda and her posse’s cheerful shouts formed the hideous soundtrack to this execution. Two hours later, the vibrant rose wall was gone, replaced by a patch of ugly, overturned soil. It looked like a site of utter desecration, an open wound. Brenda started clapping, and the group joined in with triumphant cheers, as if they had won a great and noble battle. “See? This is what harmony looks like! Everyone contributes!” Brenda preened, looking at me like a victorious general. I pulled out my phone and, in front of everyone, paid the landscaping crew their fee. The workers shook their heads, mumbling “a tragedy” as they left. I did not close the gate immediately. I leaned against the doorframe and dialed another number. “Hello, is this Apex Windows? I need to book an installation for your highest-grade mosquito screens. Yes, for the entire house, kitchen and bathrooms included. The steel mesh security type. The best you have. How soon can you install them? The sooner the better.” My voice was low, but in the silence that followed the crowd’s chatter, it carried clearly to every ear. Brenda paused, then burst into exaggerated laughter, as if I’d told a hysterical joke. “Oh my goodness, she cut the flowers because they attracted mosquitoes, and now she’s spending money on screens? Does she have cash to burn? What an absolute fool!” The women around her chuckled and scoffed in agreement. I hung up the phone, slowly lifted my gaze, and looked over their heads into the distance. Then, my eyes drifted back, settling finally on Brenda’s gloating face. I offered her a slow, deeply meaningful smile. There was no anger in it, no resentment. Only a hint of chilling pity that they were utterly incapable of understanding. I said nothing, simply turned, and closed the patio door, sealing myself inside, shutting out their smugness and their scorn. That night, under the cover of darkness, I opened a new package. Inside were several bags of black, grainy seeds. I walked out onto the patch of desolate, upturned earth. Facing the cool night breeze, I scattered the unknown seeds evenly over the soil. When I was finished, I brushed the dirt from my hands. The game, I thought, had only just begun.

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Eight months pregnant, I found the will tucked away in my husband’s study safe. It was all there: every share of stock, every piece of real estate, plus ten private jets and five private islands. They were all bequeathed, free and clear upon his death, to Holly Summers, the impoverished student he’d been quietly sponsoring. Rhys and I had a prenuptial agreement, of course. When we married, there was no dowry, no exchange of gifts, not even a simple ceremony. “You’re an intellectual, Liz,” Rhys had said, his expression placid. “The transactional nonsense of a dowry is beneath us.” Seven years of marriage, and my name was still a ghost on the deed of the house. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” Rhys Covington’s voice was arctic, his brow furrowed with genuine, blazing anger. I didn’t cry or scream. I simply told him the truth, my voice flat. “The password was Holly Summers’s birthday.” He snatched the documents from my hand and, without a word, changed the combination. “It’s just a password. Can you stop being dramatic?” I told him I wanted a divorce, calmly, the words barely a whisper. He dismissed it instantly. He locked the safe, told me to leave the study, and warned me never to touch his things again. I nodded. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I reached for my phone and booked an appointment for a termination. His things? I wouldn’t touch them. The baby in my belly? I wouldn’t keep it. 1 “Mrs. Covington, are you absolutely sure about this surgery? You’re too far along. It could cause significant damage to your body.” The doctor’s gentle, cautionary voice sliced through me, causing a momentary, searing pain. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, choking back the rising tide of emotion. “I’m sure,” I confirmed. “Book the procedure for one week from now.” The confirmation text flashed on my screen. I pressed a hand to my throbbing lower abdomen and drove to my lawyer’s firm. David Sinclair, my attorney, slid a warm glass of water across the desk. “Eliza, you don’t have to walk away with nothing,” he advised softly. “Under matrimonial law, you’re entitled to at least half of the assets accumulated during the marriage.” The steam from the water misted my eyes, making the room blur. Rhys had placed all his pre-marital assets into a trust, and after we married, every dollar of his post-nuptial income was held by proxies. The money never technically passed through his hands. He’d told me this on our wedding day. He would never, ever, let a marriage certificate be the mechanism by which he split his hard-earned empire in two. At the time, I convinced myself he was merely reacting to his father’s pressure to marry. I even felt sorry for the years of struggle he’d endured. I’d been the ‘understanding’ wife, agreeing to everything, even signing a document willingly waiving any future claim. It took seeing the will to understand the truth. He hadn’t been reluctant to give away his wealth. He’d simply been strategizing how to legally deliver it to her. He wasn’t unwilling to marry; he just hadn’t been waiting for me. I took a slow sip of water. My voice was a raw, strained whisper. “It won’t be necessary, David. I don’t want the assets. I just want out.” As he drafted the papers, my entire body began to shake uncontrollably. It wasn’t heartbreak—it was fury. Seven years of marriage, and he had so masterfully deceived me, turning me into a willing fool. He was willing to give Holly Summers his entire fortune. Yet, the most valuable gift I’d ever received from him was a cheap, second-hand wristwatch, bought for less than fifty dollars. Even when I fell during the pregnancy and nearly lost the baby—bleeding and terrified—he had been with Holly, celebrating her birthday at Disneyland. The most twisted irony of all? He’d made me design their wedding gown. Two months prior, Rhys had brought home the measurements. I was still severely weak from the ordeal of saving the baby, but he forced me to work. “A friend is getting married,” he’d said dismissively. “Design the bridal wear to the highest standard.” The groom’s measurements were identical to his. And embroidered into the lace hem of the bride’s dress were the initials, ‘H.S.’ David held out the divorce agreement, making one last attempt. “Eliza, the money you earned yourself, at least don’t surrender that…” I managed a bitter smile. Rhys had never given me a cent. Every household expense, every bill, had been paid for with my own freelance design fees. Perhaps that was my utility to him: cheap, effective, and compliant. He could keep his money and yet command my unquestioning devotion to his home and life. Signing the papers later that evening, my lower abdomen seized with a painful, violent cramp. The baby, fully formed now, was thrashing—a wild protest or a desperate plea for comfort, I couldn’t tell. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrolled. I’m sorry, my baby. Mama couldn’t protect you. 2 The next day, with David’s help, I rented a small apartment. I didn’t care about the layout, the price, or the neighborhood—only that I could move in immediately. Returning to the cold, opulent house felt like stepping back into a tomb. The eight-month weight of the baby made every step a labor, but I pushed through the pain and cooked a full dinner. As I carefully arranged the plates, the realization hit me: every single dish was Rhys’s favorite. Seven years of prioritizing his preferences had turned my habits into instinct; I’d forgotten my own. I just wanted a clean break, a peaceful ending to this disastrous marriage. I kept the food warm, reheating it eight times, until Rhys finally stumbled through the front door at three in the morning. The cloying scent of gardenia—Holly’s favorite perfume—assaulted me. A fresh hickey, the pink blooming over older, faded bruises, was stark against his neck. He was drunk, but when his eyes landed on the beautifully plated, still-steaming dinner, he frowned in distaste. “What is this?” he sneered. “Did you think I would suddenly feel sorry for you?” He brushed past me, heading for the stairs, not even granting me a glance. Only as he walked by did I notice it: the wedding band I had personally designed was gone. Not even a pale mark remained on his finger. “Rhys,” I said. My voice was husky, but my tone was eerily calm. “The divorce papers are in your study. Sign them if you don’t have any issues.” He paused halfway up the stairs. He turned back, his gaze heavy with cold sarcasm. “Eliza Quinn,” he said. “You want to divorce me over a will? I’m not dead yet.” He let out a short, dismissive laugh, ignoring my advanced state of pregnancy, and lit a cigarette. “Don’t forget how you got here. Holly has a chronic condition. The will was a gesture, a way to assure her of her safety. It’s symbolic.” He remembered Holly’s chronic condition. He couldn’t see my swollen feet or the enormous, unwieldy belly that kept me from seeing them. The disparity was a chasm. Love and indifference, clearly defined. But he had forgotten something else. Ten years ago, his rivalrous step-brother had him kidnapped. I defied my own family and used every resource I had to track him down. In the decisive moment, I took a knife intended for him. In the hospital, he held me and wept, making a solemn vow. “I will take over Covington Industries, Eliza. And I will give you the life you deserve.” “If I ever betray you, let God strike me down.” He had secured the empire. But the good life? That went to someone else. I was left with a cut-rate wedding, a rented dress, and an icy prenuptial agreement. I laughed, though my eyes stung with unshed tears. “So, you remember. You still owe me a life, then?” Rhys’s face turned frighteningly cold. After a long silence, he scoffed, the sound barely audible. “You’re still holding onto that? You really think I owe you?” “How much? A million? Will a million dollars be enough to wipe the slate clean?” I didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. My life, my sacrifice, was worth a mere million dollars. Any remaining flicker of hope shriveled up and died. I fought to control the tremor in my voice. “It won’t be necessary, Rhys. I just want a peaceful separation.” I turned to leave. Behind me, his enraged roar erupted. “Fine! Have your dignity, Eliza! But don’t come crying back to me when you realize what you’ve lost!” Crying? I had already cried every tear I had for him over the last seven years. 3 Before I could fall asleep, I heard the sound of Rhys’s car tires peeling out of the driveway. He was gone. The torn-up divorce agreement lay in the wastebasket in the study. Why won’t he let go? I wondered. If he doesn’t love me, why cling to the marriage? My phone buzzed. A text from Holly Summers. A photo of Rhys holding her. Scrolling up, I found a history of her similar texts: snapshots of her and Rhys, intimate moments—him blowing out her hair, him cooking for her, him patiently applying an infantile decal to the passenger side of his luxury car. She had been treating me like a diary, unloading all the ‘little joys’ she shared with my husband. A new text popped up. A picture of Rhys asleep, his arm draped around her. He was wearing the silk pajamas I had bought him. That last sentence sent a wave of nausea through me. My stomach convulsed. It wasn’t morning sickness; it was pure, cold disgust. I rushed to the toilet, dry-heaving until tears spilled from my eyes. I stared at the mirror, at the soft indentations—the subtle dimples—that appeared when I smiled. So that was it. He chose me simply because he needed a temporary placeholder, a stand-in to protect the still-underage Holly. I had been the perfect substitute. My vision blurred. I wiped my face and typed a reply. Before I could even put the phone down, Rhys was calling. I remembered the last time he’d called, furious, when I had simply liked one of Holly’s ambiguously intimate social media posts. Back then, I had defensively explained myself. Now, I blocked his number instantly. Every line of communication was severed. Calm returned, and I called a moving company. My belongings were few: clothes and manuscripts. Nothing that had to do with him, not even the wedding ring, came with me. I took one last look at the opulent villa. When I first moved in, I believed it would be the container for my happiness. I saw now that it was merely the gilded cage I’d been trapped in. I was free. I finished packing and cleaning, and the sun was setting when I arrived at the small rental apartment. The tiny space already felt warmer and more welcoming than the house ever had. Just as I was about to rest, the phone rang. It was Rhys’s assistant. I answered, and Rhys’s icy voice cut through the line. “Eliza Quinn, what is your game? I’ve told you repeatedly, Holly’s health is fragile.” “This stunt of yours is going to send her into shock!” “Come home now, and I’ll overlook this. You will carry my child to term.” My grip tightened on the phone. After running away, his only concern was Holly’s emotional stability. My safety, my physical health, my state of mind—those were irrelevant. “Eliza, are you listening? Answer me.” “Get home immediately—” I hung up, blocked the number, and powered down the phone. I would grant his wish: I wouldn’t stress Holly. And I would no longer bother them. 4 I went in for the required pre-operative check-up. The doctor showed me the ultrasound. The baby’s tiny hands and feet were perfectly formed. “He’s perfectly healthy,” she said. “Do you truly want to give up? You’re so far along. The induction process will be physically traumatic for you, and the baby will experience distress.” I reached out, running a finger over the small, fragile outline on the B-scan. My heart felt squeezed by an invisible hand. This was my blood. A vivid, living human being. I closed my eyes, the pain exploding in the darkness. “I apologize. I need more time to think.” The doctor nodded, giving me a few more instructions. When I left the examination room, I was trembling with cold. I looked up, and my eyes locked with Rhys Covington’s chilling glare. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit, the portrait of cold, calculated confidence. He strode toward me and gripped my wrist, his fingers bruising my skin. “The dramatics are over, Eliza.” When I didn’t respond, he irritably rubbed his temple. His voice was laced with impatience. “The will was never stamped or notarized. It’s useless. Holly has a congenital heart defect. I simply wanted to give her a meaningful gift to wish her good health.” It was a flimsy, pathetic defense. I found myself laughing—a hollow, hysterical sound that brought tears to my eyes. I pulled my hand free. The seven years of accumulated betrayal and rage burst forth. “A gift for good health? Why didn’t you give her a prayer bead? What about me, Rhys? What did I get?” He flinched. The words tumbled out of me, raw and uncontrolled. “When we first married, I was hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer. You wouldn’t take my calls; you said you were pulling an all-nighter at the office. But Holly sent me pictures—you were with her, watching a fashion show in Paris.” “On our anniversary, you told me you were traveling for work. I saw on her social media that you were standing in line for three hours to buy her a trendy bubble tea.” “Every single prenatal appointment, you claimed you were too busy. Yet you had time to take her to art exhibits, shopping trips, and birthday dinners.” “You even went to Disneyland to watch fireworks with her when I nearly miscarried and bled out. Was I just some cheap fool, Rhys? Was I that pathetic?” Each accusation had once been a shard of glass, ripping me apart. Yet now, in the speaking of them, I realized the wound was finally scabbing over, hiding the poison within. Rhys’s face drained of color. His eyes finally showed a flicker of panic. “You… you knew all this?” The sheer arrogance of his surprise was hilarious. He truly believed he was a master manipulator. I managed a pained smile, even as tears rained down my cheeks. “I just chose not to say anything, Rhys. I’m not an idiot.” “I kept pretending. I kept believing that the man who loved me, the one who made that vow, would eventually come home.” I dug my nails into my palms until I tasted blood. I forced my smile wider, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand. “That lie died with the will. I can’t deceive myself anymore.” A flash of genuine remorse crossed his features—the regret I had spent seven years dreaming of seeing. But it was too late. I spoke slowly, deliberately. “I am keeping this child.” “But he will have nothing to do with you or the Covington name.” I turned and walked away. He reached out to stop me but hesitated, unable to make physical contact. A week later, David Sinclair told me Rhys was refusing to sign the papers. “Eliza, if you insist on a divorce, we have to go the litigation route.” “Mr. Covington stated that if you fight him, he will use every resource at his disposal to gain full custody.” David looked utterly defeated. I gently rubbed my belly and fell silent. I knew Rhys was capable of winning. And I—aside from the child and the empty title of Mrs. Covington—had nothing. David added, “If the opposing party decides to stall, a custody fight could drag on for years.” I took a deep breath. “I will not let my baby be born into a situation like that.” “I will find a way to make him agree to the divorce.”

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