Author: Momo Chan

It was the fifth birthday I’d spent with Rhys Carson, and just like the previous years, I was staring at a lavish, untouched dinner, the exquisite dishes growing cold on the table. Rhys had promised, as he always did, to celebrate with me, and as always, he broke his word. This year, the excuse was his childhood friend—his eternally perfect, untouchable muse—Blair. She needed a conceptual photoshoot, she said, and had invited Rhys and his three closest buddies to participate. Just like that, I was abandoned again, left alone while he eagerly rushed into her orbit. It was almost eleven p.m. when Blair posted a photo on her private Instagram, visible only to me. In the picture, four men in nothing but black boxer briefs and delicate Windsor bow ties knelt in worship around a woman draped in a single layer of sheer fabric. The caption read: “The little taste of cake some people beg for? I own the whole damn bakery.” I took a screenshot. I saved it. Then, I sent it to the girlfriends of Rhys’s three best friends. Since you all look down on me so much, I hope you never have to kneel down and beg for anything. 1 I calmly observed the photo on my screen, sensing something inside me quietly shatter. In the picture, warm, yellow light poured down, making the four men—each wearing only black briefs and a sharply tied knot—look like arrogant gods. They were arranged in a semi-circle, kneeling, their eyes fixed on the woman in the center with expressions of total subjugation and loyalty, as if she were a high-born queen. The woman was covered by little more than black gossamer. The fabric was practically transparent, hinting at the provocative curves beneath and oozing an untamed, raw desire. She wore an air of icy superiority, radiating a force field that made her impossible to look away from. The caption above the photo was a pure, unadulterated taunt. “The little taste of cake some people beg for? I own the whole damn bakery.” Looking at the dinner now fully cold on the table, and then at the sight of Rhys and his three buddies reduced to domesticated, almost cheap-looking pawns, I suddenly wasn’t angry anymore. There was no point getting angry over something so clearly worthless. I first hit the ‘Like’ button on Blair’s post, and then dropped a comment: “A bitch and a dog—may your love last forever.” After commenting, I saved the screenshot and sent it separately to the girlfriends of Connor, Brendan, and Declan. The moment I finished sending the last message, the post magically vanished from my feed. About ten minutes later, a flood of notifications erupted on my phone. I tapped the screen. The messages were from Rhys’s three loyal musketeers. Connor: “Sutton, what the hell is wrong with you? I was just doing Blair a favor by posing for a shoot! What business is it of yours? Why did you open your nasty mouth and tell my girlfriend? She’s flipping out! Are you satisfied, you petty, miserable cow?” Brendan: “Sutton, you crazy psycho! Did I do something to you? Why would you send that to my girl? If you’re bored, go jump off a bridge, don’t spread your madness here!” Declan: “You trash! Your hands are getting too long! Did I murder your ancestors in a past life? I hope your whole damn family gets run over by a truck!” Staring at the stream of vile abuse, I opened a dialogue box to fire back, but Rhys’s call beat me to it. I hit ‘Answer,’ and his furious voice blasted through the speaker. “Sutton, what the hell are you doing, going crazy in the middle of the night?” “Because of your damn snitching, Connor, Brendan, and Declan’s girls are all threatening to break up with them! Do you have any idea what a mess you’ve made? Are you psychologically warped, incapable of letting anyone else be happy?” “Now Blair is crying, blaming herself. And it’s all your fault!” “I don’t care what you’re doing right now, you need to get over here immediately, explain everything, and apologize to Blair. Otherwise, don’t expect me to be gentle with you again.” “Blair is crying?” I asked, my voice flat. “Duh! If you hadn’t made Blair cry, why would I be so mad at you? I’ve spoiled you, Sutton! You are becoming completely irrational.” “Well, when she’s crying right now, is she still wearing that sheer, barely-there fishing net that can’t even cover her two headlights? And are you boys still wearing your coordinated, cheap black briefs while comforting her?” Rhys’s voice became abruptly strained. “Sutton, stop being dramatic. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, really?” I sent him the screenshot directly. “Rhys, Blair is dressed like a cheap exhibitionist. When you and your buddies were taking those pictures, did any of you get a physiological reaction?” He hung up. 2 He probably never expected Blair to secretly post that photo just to spite me, and Blair certainly never expected me to screenshot it and send it to the other three girlfriends. Seeing he’d hung up, I messaged him: “Why did you hang up? Why aren’t you interrogating me anymore?” The ‘typing…’ indicator flashed, but no message arrived. Fine. I took the screenshot and the vile chat logs from Connor, Brendan, and Declan, and posted them all on my own social media. The caption: “Even if no one else is here, I wish myself a happy birthday.” It was past midnight now—my birthday was officially over—but the photo instantly lit up my feed. My friends immediately started liking and commenting. “Whoa! Rhys ditched you on your birthday for that? Sutton, you’ve got a walking red flag!” “Don’t be upset, Sutton. If he won’t celebrate, we will.” “Rhys looks like such a golden boy usually. How trashy is he playing? Is this like four twos and a wild card?” “OMG! She has the guts to wear that? And post it? Is she trying to solicit customers?” Ten minutes after my post, Connor’s girlfriend (Tess) entered the arena. She also posted the screenshot, immediately announcing her breakup. “Connor can wear one pair of boxers for her photoshoot today, and tomorrow he’ll be naked and rolling around with her. Trash belongs with trash. You lapdog, go back to licking your diseased, rotten mistress.” My already crowded comments section became even more chaotic due to Tess’s public declaration. Within five minutes, her post had well over a hundred likes. Yet, through all the chaos, Rhys still hadn’t replied to me. But I wasn’t the kind of silent heroine in a novel who never speaks her mind. So, in the dead of the night, I sent the screenshot to Rhys’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Carson. That finally forced Rhys to stick his entitled head out of his turtle shell. The next morning, I got a call from Mrs. Carson. “Sutton, darling, could you come over?” “Rhys’s father and I saw the photo. I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding. Please, come over, and let’s talk this through.” “You two have been together for years, and you’re about to be married! Why make things so difficult and messy?” “Mrs. Carson, you saw the photo. I don’t believe there’s any misunderstanding.” “You’ve seen how dedicated I’ve been to Rhys all these years. I haven’t done anything to let him down. I love him, but that doesn’t mean he gets to use my feelings to hurt me without consequence.” Since she was an elder, I didn’t want to be completely disrespectful. “I’ll get ready. I’ll be over shortly.” I hung up, did a quick, simple makeup application, and drove out. When I reached the Carson family estate, Rhys’s parents were already waiting by the front door. Rhys was standing behind them, head bowed, looking like a wilted flower. I got out of the car and had just closed the door when a black sports car suddenly swerved from the side road, heading straight for me. “Sutton, look out!” Seeing the car about to hit me, Rhys charged forward and, with a desperate dive, pushed me out of the way. CRASH! I tumbled onto the ground, looking up just in time to see Rhys’s body fly into the air. 3 The sports car fled. Rhys was rushed to the emergency room. In that split second, he had managed to shove me to safety, but the black car had slammed into his legs. Both were fractured, but he was out of immediate danger. I stood over him, watching him lie on the hospital bed, his legs encased in plaster casts, and felt utterly calm. Before yesterday, if I had seen him this hurt—especially if he was hurt because of me—I would have been devastated by remorse and guilt. The old me would have collapsed onto his chest, sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I could trade places with him. But now, I was only grateful that he had pushed me away, leaving me with nothing more than a few minor bruises. Rhys was still weak from the surgery, his face frighteningly pale. His eyes found mine, and a faint, weak light appeared in them. “Sutton… you’re okay. That’s all that matters.” I didn’t take the bait. “Rhys, do you know what day yesterday was?” A hint of impatience entered his voice. “Sutton, I’m injured. I got injured for you. Can’t you see that?” “I’m lying here like this—if it hadn’t been for me, it would be you! How can you be so cold-blooded? You’re still obsessing over your damn birthday at a time like this? You are unbelievably selfish!” Mrs. Carson looked at me with an expression of gentle rebuke. “Yes, Sutton. Our Rhys was hurt because of you. He’s your lifesaver, and your fiancé! How can you speak to him like that?” “You still think of me as your future daughter-in-law? I thought you’d already decided on a replacement.” I looked back at the man on the bed. “Answer my question. What day was yesterday?” Rhys sighed, like a deflated balloon. “It was your birthday, alright?” “Sutton, I just missed your birthday. Is that really worth tearing us apart over? I promise you, I will celebrate with you next year. Does that satisfy you?” I let out a soft, almost cruel laugh. “Then tell me, what were you doing the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that?” “I…” Seeing him speechless, I helped him recall. “Last year, Blair claimed she needed someone to watch the sunset with her, so you hiked with her all day, leaving me alone at a couples’ restaurant until they closed.” “The year before that, you swore you’d be with me, but I had already decorated the yacht, and you bailed at the last minute to help Blair move apartments—and you took my car, leaving me stranded at the pier.” “The year before that, when Blair returned to the country, you and your buddies rented out the five-star hotel I own and partied for an entire week. You not only forgot my birthday completely, but you never paid the bill. I had to cover the six-figure loss myself.” “And this year? I won’t even mention the others. You dressed up like a runaway slave in cheap underwear to do a photoshoot with her. Even a streetwalker wears more decent clothes. If I had done a photo like that with another man, how would you feel?” Rhys’s eyes flashed with anger. “Sutton, stop using such ugly language!” “Blair was doing that photoshoot to document her most beautiful self! It was an artistic endeavor, a pursuit of sexiness and charm! She wore that to explore her body and break through conventional ideas. You don’t understand, so don’t talk nonsense.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes at me. “I was sacrificing for art. You think it’s scandalous because you have no artistic appreciation and you have a filthy mind. You can’t handle other people’s excellence.” “Yes, you’re right,” I nodded slowly. “My boyfriend doesn’t celebrate my birthday, and I should be generous enough to forgive him and support his pursuit of art without complaint. Is that what you mean?” “Of course! Your birthday can be missed this year and celebrated next year, but Blair is losing her youth, which, once gone, is gone forever. She just wanted to document her peak. What is wrong with me helping my friend achieve her dream?” “Right,” I agreed, nodding again. “You are absolutely correct.” I leaned in, meeting his eyes. “Since you are so committed to the pursuit of art, I won’t hold you back any longer. We’re done. We’re breaking up.” 4 Hearing the word “breakup,” Rhys finally panicked. “Break up? Over such a trivial issue, you want to break up?” “Sutton, are you insane? Blair is alone. I helped her as a friend. What did I do wrong? Can you stop being so unreasonable? I’m lying here like this! I was injured for you! How much longer are you going to drag this fight out?” “I’m not fighting. You only remember that Blair is alone, but my parents aren’t here either.” “Before they left the country, they held your hand and asked you to look after me. What exactly did you promise them? Are you keeping that promise now?” Rhys defiantly turned his head away. “The point is, you’re still in the wrong here!” “Fine. Since you are so convinced that I am the one at fault, I have nothing left to say.” I stood up. “Take care of your injury. I’ll make sure your medical bills are covered.” As I turned to leave, Mr. Carson, who had been silent, shot up and delivered a hard, stinging slap across Rhys’s face. SMACK! Rhys stared up in shock. “Dad, why did you hit me?” Mrs. Carson immediately pushed her husband away, shielding Rhys. “Are you sick? Why would you hit our son?” “I hit him because he deserved it!” Mr. Carson roared. “He’s supposed to be getting married! And he’s still running around with other women! Shouldn’t he be hit?” “If he hadn’t run off to that woman, would he have been hit like this? He brought this entirely on himself! He deserves it!” Mr. Carson turned to me, his face full of apology. “Sutton, please don’t be angry. I promise I will punish this idiot thoroughly for you. I guarantee this will never happen again.” “No need for a punishment.” I held up a hand to stop him. “I can forgive him, but I have a condition.” Rhys’s eyes lit up. “What condition? Just say it! I’ll do whatever you want!” “Call the police.” I looked directly into his eyes. “Call the police, press charges against the driver for attempted murder, and pursue it to the fullest extent of the law.” “No way!” If his legs hadn’t been broken, he would have leaped off the bed. “Connor wasn’t trying to hit me! It was a mistake! He’s my brother! If I sue him, we won’t be friends anymore!” “Absolutely not! I won’t do it!” “Suit yourself.” I couldn’t be bothered with any more futile arguments and turned to leave. I paused at the door of the hospital room. “Starting today, your so-called brothers should stop expecting any kind of benefit from the Fairchild Corporation.” “Rhys, since you believe the ‘brother’ who tried to kill your fiancée is more important, I guess I’ll handle things on my own.”

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“You’re done here.” Reid Harrington, the new Director, was leaning back in his executive chair, not even bothering to lift his gaze from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood in the doorway of his corner office, a freshly printed project report still clutched in my hand. “What does that mean?” “The company is restructuring, Owen.” He finally looked up, a flick of bored disdain in his eyes. “Your position has been eliminated.” Three years. I’d poured three years of my life into this company. Three core systems. Four hundred and seventy thousand lines of code. Every single character was mine. “That attitude, Miller, it’s going to follow you wherever you go,” he added, a patronizing after-thought. I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked back to my cube, staring at the screen. The four hundred and seventy thousand lines of code lay dormant in the server. My index finger rested on the Delete key. 1 I didn’t press it. Not because I was afraid. Because it wasn’t time yet. Reid’s voice echoed in my head: “That attitude, Miller, it’s going to follow you wherever you go.” What attitude? I worked past ten every night, was on call every weekend, and hadn’t taken a single sick day in thirty-six months. What kind of attitude was that? “Owen, HR wants to see you.” Tim, a younger developer, peeked his head around the partition. His eyes darted away, unable to meet mine. The news had travelled fast. I stood up and glanced at the few items on my desk. A framed photo of my wife, Sierra. Her smile was sweet, and her baby bump was just starting to show. Five months along. The mortgage is twelve hundred a month. I took a deep, shuddering breath and walked toward the Human Resources office. “Come in, Owen. Have a seat.” Diana Cruz, the HR Manager, was in her mid-forties and had been at the company for eight years. She’d seen every firing, every layoff. She slid a document across the table. The cover read: “Severance Agreement.” “Take a look.” I opened the document. Severance Pay: $56,000. I paused. “Shouldn’t this be N+1? I’ve worked for three years. That should be three months’ salary.” “The company has determined your tenure is two years,” Diana said, adjusting her glasses. “Your first year was classified as a probationary period.” “Probationary? I signed a full-time employment contract.” “It’s written in the fine print as a one-year ‘trial period.’” I remembered the conversation clearly. Wally Stone, the CEO, had clapped me on the shoulder: “Owen, the contract is just a formality. You work hard, and I’ll take care of you.” “So we can only count two years,” Diana said, offering me a pen. “Sign it. Let’s keep this professional and clean.” I stared at the number. $56,000. Three years. How much profit had I generated for them? That custom inventory platform alone saved the company two million in labor costs in the first month. The customer data platform boosted our sales conversion rate by 35%. The financial settlement system shrunk the payment cycle from 45 days to just seven. Conservatively, twenty million dollars in value over three years. They were offering me $56,000. “What about the annual bonus?” Diana’s pen hesitated. “The annual bonus?” “It’s almost the end of the year. My bonus for this year.” “Owen, you’re a terminated employee. The bonus…” “The contract states the bonus is based on performance. You know what my performance was this year.” The smile on Diana’s face stiffened. “That depends on the company’s overall profitability…” “I got eighty thousand last year,” I cut her off. “This year I took on more projects, and the profits were higher.” “The circumstances this year are different.” “How are they different?” Diana didn’t answer. I got it. Since Reid Harrington arrived, he’d attached his name to all my projects. To Wally Stone, he was the hero who “led the team to a major revenue breakthrough.” And I was the “employee with the attitude problem.” “We will issue a proportionate bonus,” Diana said. “Likely… around twenty thousand.” Eighty thousand slashed to twenty thousand. “Diana.” I placed the pen down. “I need more time to think.” “Owen…” “I know the company wants me to sign today,” I stood up. “But I have a right to consider this.” Diana’s face darkened. “The company’s clear instruction is that this must be finalized before the end of the day…” “The workday still has four hours left.” I walked out of the HR office. Behind me, Diana’s voice chased me down the hall: “Owen, you need to think this through! Making a scene won’t help anyone!” I didn’t turn back. Back at my desk, I opened my computer and looked at the code. Three years. I could remember when and why I wrote every single line. In the winter of 2021, my first month on the job, I worked twenty straight days to push out the first version of the inventory system. Wally Stone patted my shoulder and said, “Owen, do good work, and the company will reward you.” In 2022, during the Christmas holidays, everyone else went home. I guarded the server room alone, fixing a system glitch. Sierra brought me Christmas dinner in a container. Wally sent me a $50 gift card and said, “Tough break.” The entire year of 2023, I didn’t take a single full weekend off. Every module of the customer data platform was built during an all-nighter. I lost fifteen pounds that year. Sierra almost left me. Now they were telling me: “You’re done here.” My phone buzzed. A message from Sierra: “Hey hubby, I made your favorite pot roast tonight. Come home early.” I stared at the screen and suddenly laughed. Come home early? Today might be my last time in this office. “Owen.” Reid Harrington had appeared behind me. “Have you signed?” I didn’t turn around. “Still considering.” “What’s there to consider?” His tone was laced with impatience. “The terms the company offered you are more than generous.” “Generous how?” “You worked for three years. The company invested in you for three years. We’re offering fifty-six thousand and a bonus. What more do you want?” I finally spun my chair around and looked at him. Reid was 35, three years older than me, and had parachuted in as the Tech Director three months ago. He was supposedly a fraternity brother of Wally Stone’s brother-in-law—some convoluted connection that bypassed any merit. He didn’t understand the tech. His favorite thing to do was call a meeting. At least three “Technical Review Meetings” a week, where we’d report our work, and he’d nod sagely and say, “Hmm, I think we can optimize that solution.” Optimize what? He couldn’t read a single line of my code. “Reid,” I said. “Do you know what the code I wrote is worth?” He paused, then smirked. “Your code? That’s company property, Miller. It has nothing to do with you.” I smiled back. “You’re right about that.” I turned back to the screen. Reid stood there, apparently waiting for me to say something else. I kept silent. Ten seconds later, he walked away. The office was quiet, punctuated only by the click of keys. I opened the company’s code repository and stared at the folders. Inventory System. Customer Platform. Financial Settlement. And the in-development Supply Chain system, already 70% complete. All mine. Every line of code, my heart and soul. But Reid was right. It was “company property.” I closed the page, picked up my phone, and texted Sierra: “Going to be late tonight. Something came up.” She replied instantly: “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” I typed a few words, then deleted them. “Nothing. Just a bit busy.” I put the phone down, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. Three years. What did I actually get out of it? 2 At two o’clock, Diana was back. “Owen, have you decided?” She held the severance agreement, her expression more severe than it had been this morning. “Diana, I have a question for you.” “Go ahead.” “When I started, Wally promised me a 0.5% equity stake in the company. Does that still stand?” Diana’s face flickered. “Equity?” “Yes. A verbal promise at the time.” “Verbal promise…” She gave a dry, nervous laugh. “Owen, you know that a verbal agreement has no legal standing.” “And what about the agreement on paper?” I countered. “I signed a full-time contract, not a probationary one.” “Well…” “Diana, I can file a labor claim.” The air went silent for three seconds. Diana’s composure finally broke. “Owen, what exactly are you implying?” “I’m implying that the company’s offer is unfair, and I need to renegotiate.” “The company has been more than generous!” “Fifty-six thousand, a year of service slashed, and my eighty-thousand-dollar bonus cut to twenty thousand.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Is that generous?” “You!” “Diana.” I cut her off. “I know you’re just an employee, not the decision-maker. Please relay my demands to Reid and Wally Stone.” “What are your demands?” “First, N+1 severance pay—three months’ salary, $84,000. Second, the annual bonus paid at last year’s standard, $80,000. Third, I’ll drop the equity claim.” Diana’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind?” “Am I out of my mind?” I laughed. “Diana, do you know what I did here for three years?” I opened my laptop and pulled up the project documentation. “The Inventory Management System, launched January 2022, saved two million in labor. The Customer Data Platform, launched March 2023, boosted conversion by 35%, generating fifteen million in direct revenue. The Financial Settlement System, launched August 2023, shortened the payment cycle by 38 days, improving cash flow by thirty million.” I turned and looked at her. “In three years, I’ve generated at least twenty million dollars in value for this company. Do you think my request is unreasonable?” Diana’s face was flushed red. She was speechless. “I’ll wait for their response.” She turned and left. I knew this negotiation wouldn’t be simple. But I needed the time. My phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” “Mr. Miller, this is from the executive search firm. We spoke last month. Do you have a moment to talk?” I paused, then remembered. A headhunter had contacted me a month ago, mentioning a CTO role. I’d brushed it off then, happy at my current job. “I do.” “Our client is moving very quickly on the role we discussed. They wanted to know if you’ve given it any further thought.” “What was the compensation again?” “Forty-two hundred a month, three to six months’ annual bonus, plus stock options.” I was silent for a few seconds. Forty-two hundred. A 50% raise on my current salary. “Mr. Miller?” “I’ll consider it. I’ll call you back this evening.” “Wonderful. I’ll look forward to your call.” I hung up, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. Maybe this was my out. But before that, I had one more thing to do. At three o’clock, a message popped up in the corner of my screen. It was the company’s tech team chat. Reid Harrington: “@All. Technical Review Meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. We’ll be discussing the Supply Chain system progress. Owen’s section will now be handled by Kevin. Kevin, please prepare to present.” I stared at the message and smiled. Kevin. The new guy, only six months on the job, who mostly shadowed me. He was going to take over my project? He barely understood the database architecture. Below the message, a few people replied with “Got it” emojis. No one tagged me. No one asked what happened. In the office, my colleagues were hunched over their screens. No one looked my way. I understood. The news had been disseminated. I was the “terminated” guy, the one with the “attitude problem,” the one who was “making a scene.” No one wanted to be associated with me. “Owen.” Tim approached my desk, his voice a low whisper. “What is it?” He glanced left and right to ensure no one was listening, then spoke. “I need to tell you something. Please don’t tell anyone I said this.” “Go on.” “Reid… he’s been targeting you for the last three months.” “What do you mean?” “When he first came in, he told Wally Stone you were ‘insubordinate’ and ‘resistant to management.’ Then, in every meeting, he would ask you deliberately difficult questions, and then tell Wally you had ‘technical shortcomings.’” I was stunned. “And,” Tim continued, “he revised your project reports. He deleted your name and replaced it with his own.” “When did this happen?” “Last month. Wally asked him to present the year-end performance, and Reid took your documents and claimed he was the ‘architect’ of the success.” I took a deep breath. Three months. He had been planning this since the day he arrived. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Tim’s eyes shifted. “I… I only found out today. Reid’s assistant told me. She can’t stand him either.” I said nothing. “Owen, just be careful,” Tim whispered. “Reid’s not a nice guy.” I nodded. “I know.” Tim left. I sat at my desk, my mind a storm of thoughts. Three months ago, when Reid parachuted in, I was the one who went up to him and offered my help with any technical issues. He had smiled and said, “Owen, I look forward to working with you.” What was that smile hiding? The code repository page was still open on my screen. I looked at the folders and suddenly remembered something. When I signed the contract, there was a very ambiguous clause regarding code ownership. The gist was: Code developed by the employee during employment is the property of the company. However, if the code involves the employee’s personal intellectual property, a separate agreement is required. What qualified as “personal intellectual property”? The core algorithms I used in those systems? Many of those were concepts I had researched and developed before I even joined the company. I just integrated them into the corporate projects. Strictly speaking, those algorithms weren’t “developed during employment.” I opened the contract and re-read the clause carefully. Sure enough, the wording was vague. If it came down to a legal fight, the company might not win.

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I’d been on a brutal cut for almost a month, so my planned cheat meal was more than a reward—it was a necessity. When the delivery vanished into thin air, I was furious. I paced the floors, downstairs and back up, calling the delivery guy repeatedly. After a frantic half-hour of searching and confirming, the intern finally tagged me in the large office group chat: Willow Maybrook: Ugh, I’m so sorry, sis. I grabbed the wrong order. Willow Maybrook: And I accidentally ate two bites, poor-kitten-face.jpg. Willow Maybrook: My bad, I’m just too careless! Thanks so much for treating me, Viv! Willow Maybrook: Hehehe, love you~ 1 Before I could even reply, the intern, Willow, sent another image to the group. She’d angled her phone to get a shot of herself next to my meal. My $120 custom Wagyu protein bowl was gone—dismantled and scraped clean, leaving only two garnish pieces of lettuce at the bottom. She was puffing out her cheeks in the photo, holding her index fingers together in a pose of exaggerated contrition. Willow Maybrook: Oopsie, my mistake! I was totally dizzy from working on the report all morning. Willow Maybrook: I smelled the deliciousness and completely zoned out. Only realized it wasn’t mine after I was totally stuffed. Willow Maybrook: Seriously, though, Viv Chase has the best taste. That was amazing! Willow Maybrook: Thanks again, Viv~~ Willow Maybrook: When I get promoted, I’ll buy you a fancy latte. I promise to work super hard! Reading those last few lines, my brain went completely blank. Wait. Is she serious? My customized Wagyu bowl cost more than a hundred dollars. She was offering me a latte? And only if she got promoted? Starvation had already fueled my anger; now, I was steaming. I tagged her back immediately. Vivian Chase: You’re welcome, I guess. Since I never planned on treating you. I pasted the delivery link into the group: Vivian Chase: It’s the first set. Go downstairs and buy it right now, or order a rush delivery. I want that meal on my desk in the next thirty minutes. I dropped my phone and headed to the breakroom to find a snack to tide me over. God knows how hard this diet cut had been—I’d wrung enough sweat out of my gym towel to fill a bucket, all for this one glorious cheat meal. I grabbed a protein bar, ordered a veggie juice, and headed back to the office, timing my return perfectly. Instead of the savory scent of Wagyu, I was greeted by the judgmental stares of my colleagues. “Vivian, don’t you think that’s a bit much? Why the massive power trip?” “Seriously, the poor girl is practically in tears.” “We’ve been trying to calm her down for ages, she just won’t stop. Now, how are you going to fix this?” 2 Power trip, tears, fix this. The words were English, but the combination made zero sense to me. When I reached Willow’s desk, she was, predictably, crying into her arms. It wasn’t just crying; it was rhythmic, punctuated by perfectly timed little sobs. When someone patted her shoulder, she angled her head slightly, revealing her bloodshot eyes. “Please don’t comfort me, guys, Viv Chase still hasn’t forgiven me…” I reached out and gently—yet firmly—hooked a finger under her chin to lift her face. “Are you okay???” “Viv… sis…” “Are you okay? I don’t have any food. Why are you the one crying??!” Willow froze. The picture of delicate, pitiful distress cracked instantly. She managed a strained pull at the corner of her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Viv. I truly mixed it up. I had no idea it was yours.” “If I’d known, I swear I would never have touched it. It was a complete accident.” I could hear the passive-aggressive undertone, but I was too hungry to dissect it. “So, where is my meal? What’s the ETA?” I made a move to take her phone to check the delivery progress, but the colleagues chimed in immediately. “Come on, Viv, it’s just one meal.” “Willow is this upset, and you don’t even care—you’re still only thinking about food.” Just one meal? They clearly didn’t know how utterly demanding the client for our new project was. To land that contract, I’d spent weeks physically testing their fitness equipment, writing reports, filming promotional content, and subsisting on rabbit food. The moment we signed the papers today, I’d been counting on this meal for survival. If the fire had been in my stomach moments ago, it was now burning at the top of my head. I forced a smile at the colleague. “Sure, it’s just one meal. Barely a hundred bucks. Why don’t you be a sweetheart and run downstairs, buy it for her, and bring it up?” The person who’d just scolded me for being petty instantly clammed up. “It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s hundred bucks, isn’t it? Why are you suddenly silent?” “Enough.” Willow, who moments ago had been a tear-streaked damsel, stood up, shielding her colleagues. “Viv, it’s my fault. Don’t take it out on them. I really didn’t know it was so expensive. I never order anything over twenty dollars.” “So, you’re saying you mistakenly looked past the packaging, mistakenly opened the container, mistakenly ate every bite until it was empty, and then only mistakenly realized you’d taken the wrong order when you saw the receipt?” The Wagyu bowl I ordered was expensive not just for the ingredients but for the distinctive, eco-friendly packaging. It was miles away from the cheap twenty-dollar containers she claimed to use. She’d have to be blind to confuse them. Willow was speechless. Then, a thought struck me. I turned to the colleagues. “Hang on. Are you telling me one of you stole Willow’s meal? Is that why you’re so desperate to defend her?” Accused of theft, the group bristled. “Vivian, what are you talking about? That’s crazy!” I pointed out the obvious flaw in Willow’s story: “You said you took the wrong order. Where is yours, then?” The others finally caught on. Right. If Willow took the wrong meal, her own must be sitting on her desk. Willow stammered, “I… I forgot to pick it up.” Based on her terrified expression, I knew she was inventing the whole thing. “Alright. Fine. Go get it now.” I raised an eyebrow. “Bring your food back and we’ll swap. You can eat my twenty-dollar special, and we can call this even.” 3 Willow reluctantly got up. To prove their own innocence, the other colleagues followed her to search for the food. The company had a dedicated pickup station just outside the door for convenience. It was well past the lunch rush, and the station was completely bare. Willow peered underneath the counter, behind the cabinets—anything to avoid admitting the truth. Naturally, she found nothing. “How can it be gone?” I called out, stripping away her pretense. “You never ordered anything, did you?” Her face flickered, but she doubled down. “Of course I did!” The others immediately backed her up. “Vivian, you don’t need to be so cynical.” “Yeah, just solve the problem. Why are you harassing her?” I sighed. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch. Aren’t you the ones harassing me?” “We’re trying to help! Maybe Willow’s meal was taken by someone else!” I pulled out my phone and opened the company group chat. “The chat shows only you mistakenly took a meal. If everyone ordered something, there should still be one left here.” “Or, are you suggesting someone else in this company stole Willow’s twenty-dollar lunch?” “If that’s the case, then this is easy. We can’t have a Takeout Thief in the office. I’ll have HR pull the surveillance footage right now. That should clear Willow’s name once and for all.” The colleagues thought this was a great idea. They urged Willow: “Willow, check your order. We can look for the person based on the packaging!” Willow froze, unable to pull out her phone. I poured fuel on the fire: “What’s wrong? You don’t even know what you ordered?” “Stop with the passive aggression!” the colleagues shouted. They were so eager for proof to shut me up that they kept pushing Willow to open her delivery app. Cornered, she finally pulled out her phone. As I leaned in, ready to expose the lie, her hand suddenly trembled. The phone clipped the protruding edge of the counter. Clatter. It rolled to the floor, the screen instantly spider-webbing into a thousand tiny cracks. 4 “My phone!” Willow frantically scrambled to pick it up. Seeing the shattered screen, she burst into louder, more theatrical sobs. “My mom bought this for me years ago! It’s ruined! What am I going to do?” No one had even touched her. I knew a performance when I saw one. This wasn’t clumsiness; it was calculated panic. The moment the colleagues saw the tears, they forgot all about the missing meal. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. We can get it fixed quickly. It’s probably fine.” “As long as the motherboard isn’t damaged, all your stuff will still be there.” “Vivian, this is your fault! If you hadn’t dragged her here to look for the meal, her phone wouldn’t have been dropped!” I laughed coldly. “If you’d chipped in to buy her a replacement meal, she wouldn’t have had to come down here.” Besides, looking at the beat-up thing, that screen repair probably costs less than the meal she stole. “How can you be like this? No wonder everyone says you…” My colleague paused, then settled on the insult: “You’re un-cooperative and lack ‘office foresight’!” If not being their errand girl, coffee runner, or personal assistant was a lack of foresight, then I was certainly guilty. I was here to work, not to cater to their needs. “Since you’re all so full of foresight, why don’t you crowdsource the repair cost for her phone?” I was done watching their cheap drama and turned to walk away. After this, I figured she wouldn’t dare try for a free lunch again. I was focused on getting back to work and walked quickly. I didn’t need to look back to feel the hatred of Willow’s glare boring a hole through my spine.

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My sophomore year of college, my grandfather called out of the blue. He wasn’t asking how I was—he was commanding me home to discuss his will. Honestly, the thought that I was even in the running for a piece of Arthur Kincaid’s estate had never once crossed my mind. My mother, Laurel, died when I was little, and my contact with her family was virtually non-existent; we exchanged a two-minute, obligatory phone call on Christmas Day, then hung up like strangers. I took an academic leave, enduring a grueling seven-hour train ride to Hickory Creek. A sea of relatives I didn’t recognize were already packed into the old Kincaid compound. When I walked in, Art looked mildly surprised. “You actually came?” “You told me to,” I said. “You said I had to be here today.” He pulled the woman next to him, who was wearing a crisp, expensive-looking linen dress, closer. “This is Avery Wells. Laurel’s girl.” He then addressed me. “This is your grandmother.” 1 I’d heard years ago that my grandfather had remarried, taking on a woman named Lilly Shaw. My father had considered bringing me down to meet her at the time, but when he called, Art said the wedding was done and dusted, no need to make the trip. My father had hung up and scoffed, “Didn’t even invite us. I guess we’re not family.” After that, my dad rarely mentioned Art. He made me the one to call on holidays. When I told him Art had summoned me home for the will, he only said, “Be careful on the road.” Lilly Shaw sized me up, her gaze lingering a little too long. “Came by train, I see? Did you remember to book your return ticket?” I was genuinely taken aback. What kind of relative, meeting a family member for the first time, asks about the way out? “Not yet,” I said. “Tickets are easy. Plenty of trains heading back to the city.” Lilly pointed to the corner. “Well, you can rest over there, then.” The Kincaid compound was huge—a sprawling, multi-structure home built on ancestral land, with front and back yards and a central Great Hall. I sat on a rough wooden bench in the front yard corner, watching the constant stream of people flowing past, none of whom felt remotely connected to me. As twilight settled, the front yard emptied, and a chill set in. The heavy oak door to the Great Hall was closed. After a long wait, I finally heard the noise of a celebration—shouting, laughter, and the clatter of silverware. I walked up and peered through the crack in the door. They were feasting. A huge table packed with people. Art and Lilly sat at the head, facing the door, their faces flushed with the pleasure of good food and company. It was a proper country feast, the wine flowing freely. I had been traveling all day and hadn’t eaten a thing, yet no one had bothered to call me inside for dinner. I pushed the heavy oak door open. “If there’s nothing else, Grandpa, I’ll head back to school.” Art’s wine glass froze mid-air. He looked genuinely embarrassed. Lilly Shaw, however, was the quickest to react, sliding over with a saccharine smile. “Oh, you silly goose, why didn’t you just come in? You can’t wait for an invitation! Arthur’s been so scatterbrained lately, he’s forgotten he needs my permission just to sit down. Have a seat, darling, and eat up.” She pulled out a chair for me. I picked up my chopsticks, ready to dig in, when Art slammed his palm on the table. “Stop! Did you even greet everyone? You just sit there like a bump on a log?” Except for Art, I didn’t know a single person at that table. “You never bother with us, and when we call you all the way back here, you act like a mute,” he shouted, pointing his chopsticks at me, as if my presence were some grievous offense. “No manners. Just like your mother.” I dropped my chopsticks. Hard. I stared straight at him. “Like whose mother?” The feasting stopped. The room went dead silent. No one gets to talk about my mother. That was my rock-bottom boundary. And of all people, Art Kincaid knew exactly why my mother died. I was hungry, but I wouldn’t eat this food. I grabbed my backpack and walked toward the door. “You stand right there!” Art roared. “You think you can just show up and walk out? You’re here to disrespect your elders? Apologize to your grandmother!” I turned back, speaking each word with cold precision. “I am not here by choice. You called me. If my presence is such an issue, why did you even bother? You said you had an estate to settle, Arthur. But you look healthy as a horse. Why did you really call me?” Unable to argue with me, he turned to the room. “Look at this! See what kind of daughter she raised!” “I’m going back to school. Consider this visit erased. You can divide the estate however you please.” I turned and walked out, fuming. I was exhausted, agitated, and I still had no idea what the purpose of my long, insulting journey had been. At the main gate, Lilly called out. “Avery, wait a minute.” She rushed up and grabbed my arm. “It’s dark. Where are you going to go? Come on, eat something, stay the night, and leave tomorrow. Your grandfather really did call you here for a reason. Don’t antagonize him. Come with me, let me introduce you properly.” Lilly was surprisingly strong; she pulled me back to the Great Hall. I had no choice but to follow. “These are the Kincaids,” she gestured, “your grandfather’s sons, their sons, and his brothers’ children. You’ll call them Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin.” She moved her hand. “And over here, the Shaws. My side. We’re all family now. You can just call them all Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin.” Before she finished, one of the Shaw men laughed. “So you’re Laurel Kincaid’s girl? Your mother was famous, you know. Gossip about her spread from Hickory Creek all the way to Shaw Settlement.” The man next to him snickered. “I heard your father cried himself to sleep every night.” Lilly shot them a hard look, then pushed me onto a chair and sat next to Art. “Before everyone gets too drunk, Arthur, tell them why they’re here.” Art nodded, placing his wine glass down. “Everyone quiet down. I’ve called you all here today to settle my affairs and Lilly’s, mainly to divide up the estate. We’ll have peace of mind, and you’ll stop worrying about it.” The table instantly became quiet and deferential, like students waiting for a lecture. “Lilly and I have sorted through everything: the land, the liquid assets, the business, the vehicles, and some smaller personal items. The business is primarily Lilly’s. I never understood it, and I wouldn’t dare touch her assets, but Lilly said that since we’re married, we’re family, and there’s no my or yours. It’s all Kincaid-Shaw, one big, happy family.” Everyone applauded enthusiastically. I felt like the alien in the room. “Lilly and I have decided on the following…” Art began to announce the division. “This house will go to the oldest boy, Art Jr., in exchange for him taking care of us until we pass. The new home down by the creek goes to the second boy, Ben. The condo we bought in the county seat goes to the third, Chad. “Lilly’s business, Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, has always been run by her oldest boy, Robert. Lilly has already given him twenty percent of the shares and will transfer another thirty-one percent, giving him fifty-one percent control. The remaining forty-nine percent will be family shares, held by her two other children, and nine percent managed by Art Jr. “Lilly’s ancestral home, where her youngest boy is currently living, will be his to either live in or sell. “Lilly’s daughter, who is married and lives out of state, received a house and a car as a dowry when she married, so she will not receive any more property. “Our liquid assets and all other property will be used for our retirement. Any remaining balance will be split equally among the six children. Does anyone object?” The entire table shouted, “No objections, thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom!” Art chuckled happily. “Good. Now eat.” So, that was it. I was never a factor. The entire point was for Art to put on a show of his immense wealth and the generosity of his new wife, while explicitly leaving out his own flesh-and-blood granddaughter. I felt nothing but a wave of relief. I had never wanted his money, and having to deal with it would have been a hassle. I grabbed my chopsticks and attacked the nearest platter of fried chicken and ribs. I had been humiliated for the better part of a day, and I wasn’t going to leave without at least recouping a decent meal. I caught several people watching me out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for my reaction. After tearing through a mountain of food, someone finally broke. “Avery,” Lilly asked with faux sweetness. “You don’t feel… slighted? You don’t mind that you received nothing?” Art banged the table again. “Stop eating! Your grandmother asked you a question!” I swallowed the piece of chicken I was chewing. “No, I don’t mind. It’s your money; divide it up however you want. I have no opinion.” “Don’t act so high and mighty,” I heard Lilly’s daughter whisper from across the table, rolling her eyes. Art was clearly unhappy with my lack of outrage. He needed me to play the part of the resentful, abandoned granddaughter. “You say you don’t mind, but you came running the minute I mentioned the will! You can’t even be bothered to call on Christmas, but you show up like a lapdog when money’s involved. You’re being dishonest!” I didn’t look up from my plate. “You said you were dividing the will. I thought you were dying.” Robert Shaw, Lilly’s oldest son, slammed his chopsticks down. He pointed at me. “Watch your mouth, you crass little animal! Who’s dying?” I didn’t know this man, so I didn’t waste any energy getting mad. I just looked at Art, then back at Robert. “He’s your step-father, not mine. If I’m an ‘animal,’ what does that make your mother’s husband?” “You little…” “Enough!” Lilly cut him off, her veneer of graceful, virtuous wife starting to crack. “Avery, it’s not that Arthur and I don’t want to give you anything. But you are a Wells, not a Kincaid, and not a Shaw. You’re an outsider. It wouldn’t look right, dividing Kincaid and Shaw assets with an outside name. People would talk.” “I already told you, you can divide your assets however you want. I truly don’t care,” I repeated. “But I’m confused. If this has nothing to do with me, why call me here in the first place?” “We invited you for two reasons. One, your grandfather and I missed you. Two, we wanted you to witness it. You’re a college student, studying in the city; you’re going to be successful. We want you to see that everything is settled.” I finally understood. Lilly Shaw was worried that a successful college-educated granddaughter might one day return to claim what was hers. This whole dinner was a calculated theater performance designed to have me witness my exclusion and hopefully, watch me throw a pathetic, futile fit. They were sorely disappointed. Based on the terms I heard, the total assets were worth a couple of million. No wonder everyone’s spine was so straight. “I’m full. Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, enjoy your meal.” I put down the bowl, grabbed my backpack, and walked out. “Where are you going? It’s dark! We need you for something tomorrow…” Lilly called out, but this time she didn’t follow. I gave a dismissive wave as a goodbye. It was dark. Dark in the country isn’t the same as dark in the city. In the city, there are always lights. In the country, when the sun goes down, it’s truly black. Working from a memory many years old, I stumbled around the village a few times until I found a wooden gate that looked familiar. “Open up! J-Rod! Open the door!” A figure stumbled out, fumbling with the latch, and stared at me in the dim yard light. “You’re… who is that?” I kicked the gate. “Don’t you recognize your Aunt Avery?” He pulled the porch light closer to my face. “Avery Wells? How did you find me?” “I remember you used to have a pickup, right? I need a ride to the county seat.” “Right now?” “Is there a problem? I’ll pay for gas.” Jesse “J-Rod” Rhodes looked back toward his house, then turned back to me. “The pickup’s long gone. I’ve got a beat-up old Chevy now. What’s the rush?” “Just tell me if you’ll take me. If not, I’ll find someone else.” As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm. “Yes! I’ll take you! Wait, let me get my keys.” I hopped in the passenger seat, and J-Rod pulled the car onto the road leading out of the village. “How long has it been?” I asked. “Thirteen years. Man.” “Thirteen years. We were just kids then.” Thirteen years ago, the summer I was seven, my mother brought me here to live for a short time. Because I was the “city kid,” the other village children wouldn’t play with me. Only J-Rod followed me around every day. That summer, he took me climbing trees and wading in the creek—the perfect, authentic country childhood. Afterward, I sent him gifts every year, and he always referred to me as “Aunt Avery” in his letters. “Thirteen years, and you still found my place. You’re amazing.” “What about you? Got a girlfriend?” “Yeah, my folks set it up. We’ve been talking for six months. Planning to get married next year.” “Congrats. You’re efficient.” J-Rod got a little shy. “Don’t laugh. We don’t do all the city romance stuff out here. You meet, you see if you can get along, and that’s that. She’s from another village. We don’t see each other much; she calls, we talk for a minute, and then she has to get back to work.” The ride took almost an hour, and we talked the whole time, from childhood memories to adult life. J-Rod let slip a lot of local gossip, including the fact that Art’s sprawling house had encroached on several of his neighbors’ properties. I found a motel in the county seat, slept, and took the morning train back to school. That pointless, exhausting estate meeting wasted two days of my life. I recounted the entire saga to my father. He listened and then, without hesitation, said, “They just wanted you to waive your right to the money so you wouldn’t stick around and hassle them later.” It was absurd. Two days after I got back to school, Art called again. “You left without saying goodbye! That was so disrespectful. You didn’t sign the papers. You need to come back immediately and sign.” “Sign what?” I asked. “The Estate Distribution Agreement.” “I wasn’t included in the estate. Why would I sign?” “You weren’t included because you’re a Wells, not a Kincaid or a Shaw. That’s not our fault. But you are my granddaughter, and you still have to sign. Waiving your claim is part of the distribution, and it’s your responsibility.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “Grandpa, if you’re worried, hire a lawyer in the county seat to draft a certified will. Or get a notary. It’s your money; give it to whomever you want. It has nothing to do with me. I will not come back, now or in the future, for your money or Lilly’s. I have too many classes. I can’t sign.” “Why are you being so difficult? It’s just a signature! If you don’t come back and sign this, don’t ever come back to Hickory Creek!” “I’m late for class. Gotta go.” I hung up, irritated. The more I thought about it, the more bizarre it seemed. Even if Art was senile, he had three able-bodied sons, and the village had a mayor. Why were they so fixated on my signature waiving my claim? Unless there was something that already belonged to me, something Art had been holding onto, and he didn’t want to include it in the will because it wasn’t his to give away. It hit me like a train. I stood up and shouted, “Exactly!” The whole class stared at me. My academic advisor, standing at the front, looked confused. “Avery Wells, do you have an objection to the material?” Mortified, I stammered, “No, Professor. I just… I think you’re absolutely right.” “Oh, good. Since you’re so enthusiastic, I’ll have you write the piece for the university literary magazine.” I slumped back down, my mind racing. That document Art wanted me to sign—it had to contain the clue. But I had already rejected him. I couldn’t just turn around and agree to sign. The bell rang. The class president, an earnest guy named Sam, walked up. “Avery, what are you going to write for the lit mag?” I blurted out, “A will.” Sam’s face went pale. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t think about doing anything stupid, okay? If you’re under pressure, I’m here. That lit mag thing is just a formality, you just need to meet the word count.” “The will is the trick,” I muttered. “They’re going to contact me again. I know it.” The words were barely out of my mouth when my phone rang. Unknown number. “Hello, is this Avery? It’s your Granny Lilly.” I was almost delighted. They did call. “Avery, darling, Granny Lilly wants to apologize. We didn’t take care of you when you came home. It was all my fault. I knew you were a smart college girl, and I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I let Art handle you, and he, well, he gets a little drunk and forgets things. Please don’t be angry.” Slight praise followed by an apology. She definitely wanted something. “It’s fine, Granny Lilly,” I replied. “It was a busy house. I’m rarely there, so it’s normal for the relatives not to know me. I’m back in class now. Is there something you needed?” “Such a smart, polite girl. Just like a college student should be.” Lilly chuckled. “Well, your grandfather and I actually put together a big cash bonus for you—one for getting into college, and one to help you out while you’re there. I was waiting for you, but you left so fast! I was going to take you out for a nice dinner at the country bistro. When are you coming back?” “Granny Lilly, I have too many classes. If I take time off, I lose credits. Maybe when the semester ends.” “Okay… your education is what’s important. That’s what matters.” She paused. “Well, then I’ll just mail you the agreement, and you can sign it and mail it back. Honestly, your signature doesn’t change anything. I don’t know what’s gotten into Art lately, he’s just obsessed with signatures and fingerprints. He even makes me sign a contract for his groceries. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just transfer the cash bonus directly to you; it’s easier than mailing cash.” Back to the agreement. It was clearly vital to them. “Sure, Granny Lilly. Mail it over. I’ll sign it as soon as it arrives. I’ll text you my address.” Lilly hung up happy. A few days later, a thick manila envelope arrived from Hickory Creek. Inside were two identical, densely-typed agreements. [I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of the Kincaid ancestral land in Hickory Creek, I voluntarily waive all claim to the land used for the ancestral home, I voluntarily waive all claim to all of Arthur Kincaid’s personal property, I voluntarily waive all claim to the condo in the county seat…] [I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of Lillian Shaw’s ancestral land in Shaw Settlement, I voluntarily waive all claim to the land used for the ancestral home, I voluntarily waive all claim to all of Arthur Kincaid’s personal property, I voluntarily waive all claim to…] Paragraph after paragraph, thousands of words. It even included waiving my right to vote or run for the village council. Was all this necessary? I was holding the document when Sam, the class president, rushed up. “Avery, are you feeling better now?” He’d been keeping a close eye on me, worried I was going to have a breakdown. “I’m telling you, the lit mag thing is just bureaucratic nonsense. Just fill the word count with garbage—long, pointless filler—praise the school at the beginning and end, and you’re done. If you’re really angry…” Sam leaned closer and lowered his voice, “…hide one line insulting the administration in the middle of all the filler. They’ll never find it.” Hide one line in the middle of all the filler… My eyes widened. I slammed my fist into his shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you for the idea.” Sam grimaced, rubbing his arm. “Just glad you’re feeling better.” Filler exists to hide the truth. That was it. I tore through the convoluted text. […I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of Lillian Shaw’s Audi A6 sedan…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to the shares and the right to inheritance for Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, LLC…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to the Shaw Settlement Village Council voting rights…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to…] My eyes fixed on the word shares. Every other asset was phrased as “waive all claim to the inheritance.” Only the factory included the term “waive all claim to the shares and the right to inheritance.” “Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, LLC… Sam, do you know how to look up a company’s information?” He pulled out his phone. “It’s easy. I have a subscription to the corporate database. The Student Council makes me hunt for sponsors all the time. What are you looking for?” Sam typed Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies into the app. The screen refreshed. The name jumped out at me. My mother, Laurel Kincaid, was listed as a shareholder.

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The day my wife’s “Golden Boy” finally returned, I knew enough to pack my suitcase and prepare for a discreet exit. But Savannah, Savy, pressed her hand flat onto the lid of my luggage. “Where are you going so late?” “He’s back. It’s time I stepped aside.” Before she could respond, my in-laws were already making their presence known. “Nonsense!” Mr. Winston Weston, my father-in-law, grabbed the handle of my Tumi and dragged it back toward the main hall. Mrs. Caroline Weston, my mother-in-law, clutched my arm with both hands. “Our family recognizes only one son-in-law, Dean. That’s you.” Savy laughed, a soft, familiar sound, and wrapped her arms around my waist, hugging me tight. “Silly. I forgot Garrett years ago. I only love you now.” I, however, found myself staring blankly, mentally drafting a list of all the ways I knew Garrett Maxwell would inevitably try to frame me: Taunt me about being a stand-in. Splash wine on himself at a dinner party and accuse me. Feigning a fall down the main staircase to blame me. … The Westons gasped, the sound sharp and collective. Caroline immediately pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the list, sending it to her Chief of Staff. “Effective tomorrow, the entire house is to be fitted with discrete surveillance devices and GoPros,” she instructed, her voice crisp. Savy looked at the last point on the list, a wry smile touching her lips. “If you hadn’t used a little dramatic flair to get my attention back then… I might not have gotten over Garrett so quickly. Relax, Dean. He’s a good person. He would never hurt you.” This misplaced faith was my life, exactly. And then I met Garrett Maxwell. “You must be Dean Sullivan, the younger husband?” Garrett offered, his smile easy and radiating the kind of natural charm only inherited wealth can buy. “You know, you actually look quite a bit like me. Savy, you’ve done well for yourself.” 1 The moment Garrett’s words hung in the air, Winston, Caroline, and Savy all froze. I sighed internally, giving Savy a look that said, See? Told you so. Prediction number one. Yet, the moment stretched, and Garrett’s expression softened. He walked closer, placing a warm, seemingly genuine hand on my shoulder. “My apologies, Dean. I meant that Savy is lucky to have married such a handsome husband. You two are a very good match.” His tone was sincere, his eyes warm and guileless. It was enough to make me momentarily dizzy. The Golden Boy was not following the script. Savy leaned into me, her breath warm against my ear. “See? I told you you were overthinking it. Garrett is a genuinely good man. He won’t make things difficult.” The relief on my in-laws’ faces was palpable. Caroline patted my hand. “Dean, dear, you’re just too sensitive. Let it go. We only see you as our son-in-law.” Halfway through the reception, I excused myself to the powder room, needing a moment to collect my frazzled nerves. In the hallway, I ran straight into Savy’s former mentee, Miles Jennings. Miles had always treated me with thinly veiled hostility, and his eyes now held blatant scorn. “Well, well. If it isn’t the understudy husband.” He leaned against the wall, sizing me up with a sneer. “The leading man is back in town. How do you still have the nerve to show your face? If it were me, I’d have taken the hint and been halfway out of the state already.” I glanced at him, my gaze deliberately cold. “You’re awfully concerned with my departure, Miles. Is it possible you’re just jealous I’m the one who married Savy?” Miles’s face immediately flushed a furious red. He clenched his jaw. “You! Fine, Dean Sullivan. Just you wait.” Later, I decided to grab a glass of wine and step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. As I approached the buffet table, Garrett was a few feet away, his back to me, engaged in polite conversation with a group of older guests. I tried to slip past, but suddenly, a sharp, hard shove landed between my shoulder blades. “Ah!” I gasped, my body lurching forward. The red wine in my hand flew up in an arc, landing precisely on Garrett’s expensive, bespoke white suit. A crimson stain instantly bloomed across his chest. The room went silent. Garrett stared down at the ruined fabric, his face draining of color. Guests immediately turned, the low hum of conversation dissolving into shocked whispers. “Dean!” Miles’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusatory. He rushed forward, his face a flawless mask of shock and outrage. “You—you can’t be so jealous of Garrett that you’d deliberately throw wine on him in public! That’s unforgivable!” I staggered, catching my balance. I instantly recognized this clumsy setup. Miles had been the one to push me. I took a deep breath, turning to Savy and her parents, who were now hurrying over, their expressions a mix of confusion and dismay. “It wasn’t deliberate,” I stated calmly, my eyes locked on Miles. “Someone shoved me from behind.” “Who shoved you? Everyone saw you walking straight toward Garrett with the glass in your hand!” Miles was relentless, his voice escalating with fake indignation. “Savy, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, you have to stand up for Garrett! This is completely unacceptable!” Savy looked at me, her expression complicated, a flicker of something that felt like judgment crossing her eyes. She then looked at the thoroughly humiliated Garrett, her brows knit tight with concern. A hollow, sinking feeling settled in my gut. Of course. When the Golden Boy is victimized, rational thought goes out the window. I offered Savy a wry, bitter smile, leaning close to whisper. “See? Item number two on the list. Late, but right on time. Now, can you release my suitcase? Just let me leave.” The surrounding guests buzzed with open gossip: “The son-in-law is using such petty tactics? He’s so insecure.” “Must be jealousy. The man is clearly green with envy. The stories about Savy and Garrett are legendary.” “Shh, I heard Dean is just a stand-in…” “Silence!” Winston’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. “Dean is not the type to do this! Until we have a clear explanation, no one is to jump to conclusions!” Caroline immediately gripped my hand, her voice ringing with determination. “Exactly! This entire area is covered by our security cameras. We will review the footage right now! We’ll find out who’s behind this!” Just as the house manager prepared to follow the order, Garrett, who had been silently dabbing the stain on his suit, finally looked up. He first shot a quick, indecipherable glance at Miles, then turned to me, his voice perfectly even and calm. “Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Savy, please, don’t bother with the cameras.” He paused, ensuring he had everyone’s attention. “Just now… I think someone accidentally bumped into Dean, and that’s why he lost his grip on the glass. It was an accident, truly. He didn’t mean it. Everyone, please, don’t misunderstand him.” Miles’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Garrett! But…” Garrett cut him off gently but firmly. “Miles, I appreciate your concern, but it was just a fluke.” He then gave me a slightly strained, pale smile. “Dean, it’s fine. It’s only a suit. Don’t think another moment about it.” The truth had been glossed over, my immediate guilt erased, yet this act of kindness made me distrust the Golden Boy even more. Savy visibly relaxed, pulling me close to her side. “See? I told you Garrett was kind. He would never hold it against you.” Caroline patted my back in a gesture of maternal reassurance. I watched Garrett being led away by a server to deal with the stain, then glanced at Miles’s livid, miserable face. I felt no relief. Garrett… why didn’t he take the easy path and frame me? Why did he protect me instead? 2 After Garrett Maxwell’s seemingly noble honesty and subsequent “rescue,” he secured the good graces of everyone in the Weston family, including my in-laws. Caroline patted my arm. “Dean, darling, Garrett is such a respectable young man. You had it all wrong about him. You really must learn to be more generous.” Winston, reading the Wall Street Journal in the living room, added without looking up, “He and Savy are old friends. He has nothing but good intentions. Stop being so paranoid.” Savy was the most relieved. As she tucked me in that night, she sighed, “Now you can finally relax, right? I knew Garrett wasn’t a bad guy.” But I couldn’t relax. Staring at the ceiling after everyone was asleep, I pulled out my notebook. I placed a small checkmark next to item number five: Everyone starts protecting Garrett; I am painted as “irrational.” In the days that followed, Garrett became a fixture at the Weston estate. He arrived promptly at nine, either with a rare-batch single-malt scotch for Winston or the Dutch orchids Caroline adored. He and Savy would fall into easy conversation about their college days, laughing uproariously, only to stop the moment I approached. Garrett would turn and smile at me. “Dean, Savy was so clumsy back then. She once forgot the microphone for a big event, and I had to dash across campus to borrow one.” At dinner, he’d serve me my favorite pan-seared halibut, murmuring, “Savy mentioned you have a sensitive stomach. Eat a little more.” His familiarity felt so natural, so intrinsic, it was as if he were the master of the house, and I was the guest. My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles were white. When Savy went to the home office, I followed her, my voice trembling. “Did you keep me here just so you could watch Garrett play the role of your husband?” Savy, who was flipping through a binder, froze. She turned, her eyes holding a flash of impatience. “Dean, are you having a breakdown? Do you have some kind of persecution complex? He moved on years ago. Why are you constantly dredging this up? It’s exhausting.” She slammed the door shut behind her as she left. The first major confrontation happened during the Sunday family meeting. Winston tapped the mahogany desk, announcing that Weston Corp.’s new overseas project required an experienced leader. Garrett walked in carrying a tray of iced tea, and as he set it down, he casually dropped a remark. “It’s funny, I actually liaised with the Asian director of that specific financial group when I was in London. He mentioned he was looking for a trusted team to partner with.” Winston’s eyes lit up. He turned to me. “Dean, why don’t we have Garrett join the company and help out? His experience is directly relevant.” “Absolutely not!” I shot up from my chair. “We can’t let an outsider handle a major corporate project. He’s…” The words caught in my throat, strangled by Savy’s sudden, furious gaze. Garrett’s eyes immediately welled up. He began anxiously twisting the corner of the apron he was still wearing. “Mr. Weston, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just saw how tired Savy has been lately, and I wanted to help out. After all, years ago…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his shoulders gave a delicate, dramatic shake, as if he were fighting back immense, undeserved sorrow. Savy’s face hardened. “Dean! Garrett is a professional, and he’s trying to help our family. Why are you suddenly so petty and jealous?” Caroline rushed to pull me back into my seat. “Dean, Garrett means well. Stop thinking the worst of him.” Looking at the room full of eyes siding with Garrett, I dug my fingernails deep into my palms. That night, I added two more points to my list: He will use “helping” to infiltrate the company and He is an expert at feigning injury/victimhood to sway opinion. But it didn’t matter. I had already decided I was leaving. Whatever game Garrett was playing, I would no longer be a pawn. 3 The next day, a sharp scream woke the entire house. Caroline stumbled into the living room, hysterical, claiming the antique Art Deco sapphire and diamond necklace—a family heirloom passed down for three generations—was missing from her jewelry box. We tore the house apart, from the wine cellar to the garage, even searching the housekeeper’s quarters. Finally, Savy’s assistant found the necklace, tucked away in a hidden compartment of my personal cufflink box. Wrapped around the delicate chain was a single strand of my short, dark hair. Caught red-handed. What a cheap, clumsy frame-up. I couldn’t believe I was facing this on the very day I planned to walk away. Savy held the necklace, her knuckles white, looking at me like I was a stranger. “Dean, if you wanted jewelry, I would buy you anything. Why would you steal Mom’s heirloom? It’s the most precious thing she owns!” “It wasn’t me!” I said, my voice ice cold. “Someone planted it. Garrett was in my room yesterday afternoon!” She recoiled, taking a hard step back. “Garrett was downstairs with Mom all afternoon, arranging flowers. He was never alone! Dean, will you please stop falsely accusing him?” I watched her silence, watched the deep disappointment in my in-laws’ eyes. My heart felt skewered by an ice pick. At that moment, Garrett walked over, gently taking Caroline’s arm. He hesitated, clearly struggling with himself, before speaking softly. “Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Savy… I think I saw Dean lingering by your jewelry room the day before yesterday… Maybe it was just a moment of poor judgment. Please don’t be too hard on him.” Winston slammed his fist onto the coffee table, making the teacups rattle. “Dean! We’ve given you everything! We don’t lack for money! How could you do something so shameful?” I let out a cold laugh. “Mom, Dad, you installed surveillance cameras everywhere, didn’t you? Let’s check the footage.” I stared hard at Garrett, expecting a flicker of panic. He was completely calm, a picture of wounded innocence. “Why bother checking anything? The only person with dark intentions in this house is you, constantly acting paranoid, believing everyone is out to get you,” Savy snapped, exasperated. “You stole the necklace because Mom complimented Garrett. Dean, you have disappointed me profoundly.” A trumped-up charge. There is no defense. My explanations were useless. I decided to give them what they wanted. “Fine. Yes, I took it.” I walked back to my room and pulled my luggage out. I couldn’t bear another second in this house. The suitcase had barely reached the front door when Savy and Garrett followed me out. “Not this again, Dean,” Savy ordered, gripping the handle of my luggage. “You’re going to explain yourself before you leave.” I yanked my case free, ready to shout, when a car, screeching horribly, ran a red light and careened off the road toward us. The sound of the brake was deafening. In the ensuing chaos, Garrett lunged, tackling Savy to the ground, rolling them both safely into the bushes. I was thrown by the impact and momentum, landing hard on the pavement. My knee slammed down, and blood immediately stained my jeans. Savy scrambled up, instantly checking Garrett. Seeing the blood seeping through his shirt, her eyes flashed with pure hatred as she turned to me. “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t been making a scene trying to run away, this wouldn’t have happened! If Garrett is seriously hurt, I will never forgive you!” Ambulance sirens screamed nearby. As Garrett was being loaded onto a stretcher, he spoke weakly. “My blood type is rare… I don’t know if the hospital has a match…” Savy immediately grabbed my wrist, her fingers biting into my skin. “You’re coming to the hospital. You’re going to give him blood!” “I won’t!” I struggled violently. “His emergency has nothing to do with me!” Savy clamped down on my shoulder, dragging me toward the ambulance. The rough asphalt scraped my pants leg, and the wound on my knee screamed in protest. Caroline ran up, clutching my arm, her voice chillingly cold. “We have treated you well, Dean. Give Garrett the blood, and I will give you the sapphire necklace. We can pretend this entire incident never happened.” Killer manipulation. This is it. Watching them use the one thing I despised—an attempt to buy my obedience—to save Garrett, I felt a devastating mix of derision and hopelessness. Winston arrived, cane in hand, his usual gentle demeanor gone. He slammed his cane on the ground. “You defiant fool! At a time like this, you’re still being selfish! Garrett saved Savy’s life! You will donate blood! If you refuse, I will publicly disown you and have you leave this house with nothing!” Seeing my continued resistance, Savy finally nodded to two nearby security men. “Let go of me! Savy, let me go!” I yelled, my voice raw, tears mixing with the dust on my face. “Did you forget the last item on my list?! The most innocent-looking people hide the darkest intentions!” Savy flinched, looking down for a fleeting moment of pity, then waved her hand, ordering the men to forcibly push me into the ambulance. At the hospital, a nurse approached with a needle. Staring at the cold, silver tip, a profound chill washed over me. In a haze, I saw Garrett being wheeled into the bed next to mine. I heard him whisper. “Do you know why I went abroad?” “To find someone.” He paused, a strange, chilling smile touching his lips. “Remember when I said you looked like me the first time we met?” My heart plummeted. Just then, Savy’s Chief of Staff rushed in, his voice panicked. “Boss! The overseas project… it’s gone!”

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Six years after the Forrester family had coerced me into divorcing my husband to make room for their preferred, real daughter, I saw them. Liam Prescott, my ex-husband, and my brother, Grant Forrester, walking straight toward me across the wide lawn of the city park. Liam held our seven-year-old daughter, Phoebe, while he looked at the quick, stylized sketch I was working on. He shed the sharp edges he’d once possessed, sat on the small stool in front of my easel, and scanned the twenty dollars I charged for a sitting. “Since you’re back in the States, why didn’t you reach out?” He looked genuinely exhausted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His eyes, framed by his thin glasses, landed on me with a desolate, unmistakable sense of regret. “I never meant to drive you away, Anya.” I held my palette, my voice flat. “Sir, what style of caricature are you looking for?” 1 I treated them like strangers. But my brother, Grant, was as aggressively volatile as ever. He kicked my easel over, his eyes burning with familiar contempt. “Stop pretending you don’t know us. Sera has already forgiven you for… that mess with her scholarship and your miscarriage.” He spat the word out like poison. “Now, she’s being dragged into a scandal about an affair, and it could wreck her Gold Prize nomination. Come back with us, clear her name, and we’ll allow you back in the house.” “You haven’t seen your daughter in six years. Don’t tell me you don’t miss her.” “After all, you knelt outside our estate for ninety-nine days just to fight for custody, didn’t you?” He stood over me, triumphant. But my daughter had already forgotten how to call me Mommy. Her eyes fell on the loosely wrapped bandage around my wrist, and her face twisted in childish disgust. “Daddy, Uncle Grant, her hands are gross.” “Sera Auntie’s hands are way prettier.” I remembered the sound of the bone cracking—the intentional, brutal shattering of my hand. I tightened my jaw and wrapped the bandage back into a tight cuff. “I won’t go back, and I won’t clear anything up for you.” “I gave up on my daughter a long time ago.” The days I’d spent swallowing blood and tears with every bite of food—they were long buried. Liam’s gaze lingered on the scars hidden beneath the bandage. He took a step forward, as if to touch me. “All right, Anya. Stop throwing this tantrum.” “Don’t say things like you don’t want your daughter. She’s the baby you carried for ten months.” A bitter, familiar taste filled my mouth. What did ten months matter? It never stacked up against Sera’s sweet, calculated whispers. Grant’s brows knitted together. He kicked the small tin I used as a tip jar, his voice laced with impatience. “Why waste time talking to her? Just take her. If we weren’t worried about the press dragging Sera through the mud, who would willingly come to this dump?” “It’s filthy.” The deep-seated arrogance of the wealthy Forrester heir was still palpable. I bent down to pick up the tip jar, which had rolled into a patch of muddy earth. My voice remained flat. “I’m not coming with you.” That was all it took for Grant to ignite like a firecracker, the explosion a painful echo in my chest. “Anya Wells, don’t push your luck! Do you have some back-alley dog-boyfriend here you can’t leave? You can barely make a few bucks a day. I don’t believe you can live like this—you’re probably running some kind of dirty hustle to get by.” At the accusation, Liam’s initially soft expression turned dark. He seemed to agree with my brother. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and began to drag me toward the park exit. A sharp, spreading pain flared across my skin. The tip jar tumbled to the ground again, scattering ten and fifty dollar bills. “Liam, let go of me! I am not going back!” He ignored me completely. Grant strode ahead, deliberately stepping on the paper money, grinding the bills into the dirt. A flash of orange fur burst from the flower bushes. Hiss! The stray cat I fed, Rusty, clawed at Liam’s arm. Seizing the chance, I yanked my arm free. But as I turned, Grant’s foot slammed into my knee. I collapsed with a loud thud, hitting the dirt road. On one side, I was down. On the other, the little cat was sent flying several feet. I struggled to get up, large tears splashing onto the ground. “Rusty!” I managed a single step before both Liam and Grant cornered me and dragged me toward the SUV. My struggles were pointless. The stray cat lay in a pool of blood. The money I’d saved to buy my grave plot was smeared in the mud. It felt exactly like six years ago. I was shoved into the back seat of the familiar SUV. My daughter, Phoebe, strapped into her safety seat, immediately began to wail when she saw me. “Daddy, I don’t want to sit next to this ugly monster! She smells!” Liam glanced into the rearview mirror, putting on a show of scolding her. “Phoebe, that’s not polite. That’s your mother.” Phoebe wrinkled her nose and huffed. She spoke just loud enough for all of us to hear: “She is not my mom. Only Sera Auntie deserves to be my mom.” Grant scoffed with derision. Liam tightened his grip on the steering wheel and attempted to explain. “Phoebe just isn’t used to you, Anya. She’ll warm up.” I turned my head to look out the window, my tone detached. “It’s fine. I was never her mother. Wasn’t that exactly what you told me?” Six years ago, also in this car, when Phoebe was barely a toddler, Liam had said it directly to my face. “Anya Wells, do you honestly think you’re fit to be a mother in your current state?” “Phoebe is a child, she doesn’t understand. If she wants to call Sera ‘Mom,’ let her. Do you have to make a scene in front of her?” Liam’s furious expression flashed in my mind. We drove the rest of the way in silence. The house I had once meticulously decorated was unrecognizable. The delicate Honeysuckle bushes I had planted in the garden were gone, replaced by rows of aggressive red roses. The swing beneath the old oak tree was removed, and the tree itself had been cut down. Everything was changed, a scene of desolation. I looked around with cold indifference and lowered my eyes. I followed them inside. Liam opened a small door in a forgotten corner. The room was thick with dust, and cobwebs lined the ceiling. He covered his mouth and coughed, waving away the dust motes floating in the air. “Your old room is Sera’s music studio now. Just manage here for a while.” “In a few weeks, once all this is sorted…” I cut him off. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything else.” My only true destination was to be a handful of ashes. The condition of the room made no difference to me. Grant hated my aloof composure, as if it implied they had all wronged me. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Liam, let her stay here. It’s been years, and her dramatic act still hasn’t worn off.” Liam sighed heavily but didn’t contradict him. “Stay if you want to.” I simply hummed in acknowledgement and closed the door. I couldn’t decipher the look in Liam’s eyes. He was the one who drove me out of the country, wasn’t he? Why the show of guilt now? I stopped trying to understand. Slumping onto the narrow twin bed, a sudden, brutal wave of pain crashed over me. My face went white, and cold sweat soaked the pillow. Knock. Knock. The sound jarred me awake. I forced myself to open the door. Grant stood there, holding a thin, cheap throw blanket. “Who are you trying to play the victim for with that ghastly look?” he blurted out when he saw my pale face. He tossed the blanket at my feet. “Here. Don’t get sick and then blame it on Sera.” “I’m warning you, don’t try anything funny, and don’t go near Sera. You know exactly why we brought you back.” The familiar words of threat washed over me. I had heard this warning countless times. From initial defiance, I had become numb. I knew how to respond now. “Got it.” I slammed the door shut. I lay back down, the blanket remaining on the floor. A person who was about to die had no reason to fear a cold. In the morning, a pounding on the door woke me. “Miss Wells, are you awake? Do you still think you’re the princess of the house?” The stiff wooden bed and unfamiliar room meant I hadn’t slept well. “I’m awake.” I opened the door to see the familiar, frigid face of Mrs. Olsen, the nanny. Her expression was one of ingrained disgust. “Then get to the dining room. Don’t hold up everyone just for you.” Six years hadn’t softened her. Mrs. Olsen had always cared for Sera like a daughter, viewing me as an intruder. When I was first found, she’d once thrown dishwater on me, convinced I should have stayed lost and never come back to take Sera’s place. I didn’t have the energy to argue. The pain from my cancer was relentless. Every breath felt like shattered glass. In the dining room, Sera was seated between Liam and Phoebe. She was blushing prettily as Liam fed her a piece of his sandwich. “Liam, darling.” She saw me and her eyes darted away in a brief moment of panic. “Sister, you’re back. Are you mad at me? I was forced to marry Liam, I really thought…” Screech! The sound of my chair scraping against the floor was painfully loud. “Not at all. You said you two were ‘soulmates,’ didn’t you? Why would I be mad?” Sera’s eyes immediately welled up. Liam slammed his cutlery onto the table, his face clouding over. “Anya Wells, if you don’t want to eat, then don’t.” I allowed myself a cold, mocking smile. I sat down, ignoring them all. I took a bite of a sandwich, and the sweet, cloying taste of the mayonnaise and tomato sauce made my stomach churn violently. I pushed the chair away abruptly and rushed to the restroom, where I dry-heaved over the toilet. “Sister, do you think… she could be pregnant?” Sera’s suggestive voice drifted in from behind me. I splashed icy water on my face, letting the shock ripple through me. She was still a master of twisting the narrative. She ruined my hand because she was jealous of my talent. Now she wanted to ruin my reputation by suggesting I was pregnant out of wedlock. Her methods were transparent, but people believed her. Sure enough, upon hearing Sera’s words, Liam frowned, a hint of repulsion in his eyes. “Anya Wells, a woman should maintain some decorum.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Decorum? Did that word even apply to me? Where was their sense of decorum when they threw me to the wolves that night? “It has nothing to do with you.” Liam scoffed angrily, throwing out a single word before leaving. “Fine.” I returned to the table and sat back down. “Sister, now that you’re back, why don’t you perform with me at my concert in a few days?” Sera looked at me expectantly. “We used to be called the Duet Stars.” I froze, my gaze falling on the hands perpetually wrapped in bandages. These hands would never hold a violin again. Before I could hide the fleeting look of despair, Phoebe’s clear voice rang out. “Sera Auntie, this ugly monster doesn’t deserve to play with you. I saw her hand last time—it’s super gross.” The innocent voice felt like a needle in my heart. “Yes, I can’t play anymore.” My voice trembled slightly. No one knew the breakdown I had suffered when I realized my hand was permanently ruined. I had wanted to die right then. But I remembered the words of Mama Elena, the director of my old orphanage. “Everyone dies, sooner or later. But if you can come home for a peaceful rest, then you’ll be reborn into a happy family.” I believed her. I wanted a family that truly loved me. I washed endless stacks of dishes until I earned enough for a ticket home. Back in the States, I worked as a street artist. I had my eye on a beautiful spot beneath an old Magnolia tree for my grave. I was just five hundred dollars short. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sister. I… I completely forgot.” Sera’s apologetic voice registered in my ear. “It’s fine, Sera. You don’t need to apologize. Her inability to play is her own doing.” Liam’s cold words followed. My heart was so scarred that any harsh word, no matter how cruel, was absorbed without reaction. “Stay here and keep to yourself for the next few days. I’ll come for you when we need you.” Liam gave me a final threat. “And behave. You don’t want to see St. Jude’s torn down, do you?” The name of my old orphanage made my chest clench. Liam still knew exactly where to twist the knife. “Understood.”

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The day I found out I was pregnant, the woman Ronan Blackwood still worshiped—his Myth—came back to New York. I didn’t need a formal dismissal. I made an appointment at the clinic myself, scheduling the earliest slot for a termination. I was about to swallow the first pill when a tiny, panicked voice echoed in my head. [Mom, new plan! Don’t do it!] I froze, the pill suspended between my thumb and forefinger. [My dad is the pathetic Runner-Up! The heroine never ends up with him, plus he has low motility—I’m his one and only shot at a legacy! You have to keep me. Push me out, and I’ll put you on the yacht to the billionaire’s life!] I stood there for a long moment, the sheer audacity of the internal dialogue battling the reality of my predicament. Then, I turned and tossed the tablets straight into the waste bin. 1 I’ve read a truckload of spicy romance novels, so my ability to suspend disbelief is incredibly high. I didn’t question The Nugget’s pronouncements; I believed him. I ducked into my car, the excitement bubbling up. “Okay, Nugget,” I whispered, “So, should I tell… your dad I’m pregnant now?” [No! He doesn’t know he’s the Runner-Up. Right now, he’s focused on chasing The Myth. If he knows I exist, he’ll do anything to prevent my birth!] I chewed on that. “Then what about your grandmother?” Ronan Blackwood was clearly blinded by love, but Mrs. Eleanor Blackwood, the family matriarch, wouldn’t be so foolish. She would surely cherish an heir, no matter the vessel. [Not yet, Mom! Don’t tell Grandma either!] [Grandma hates gold diggers and social climbers. If she sees you as nothing more than a desperate mistress, she might hate-the-whole-situation and not even care about an unborn baby!] “So, what’s my play?” [You need to get out of Manhattan ASAP. Raise me somewhere safe, and then—when I’m big—we let them know I exist. Dad is destined to be a lifelong bachelor if The Myth won’t have him. Grandma will have no choice but to accept her only grandchild!] “But… wouldn’t that make you a bastard?” [Mom, you’re overthinking it. My dad’s such a hopeless romantic—he’ll never marry anyone but Gen Laurent. I’ll just be a non-marital child. You give him the only heir he can ever have. The Blackwood dynasty will owe you for eighteen generations!] I got it. The whole situation was suddenly, gloriously, transactional. “Understood. I’m going back to the penthouse to give your dad my two weeks’ notice.” 2 According to The Nugget, we were trapped in a plot from a best-selling novel. The heroine was Genevieve Laurent—old money, effortless charm. The hero was Leo Maxwell—Manhattan’s golden boy. Ronan Blackwood was the tragic, groveling Runner-Up. Gen had adored Ronan since childhood, following him around like a shadow. Ronan, in his youthful arrogance, couldn’t see her love, treating her only like a little sister before rejecting her clumsy declaration. Heartbroken, Gen had fled the country, only to return seven years later. In the span of their separation, Ronan had realized the terrifying truth: he loved her, desperately. So began his relentless pursuit. But Gen’s heart was too bruised, and Leo Maxwell’s puppy-dog charm and unrelenting attention proved irresistible. She chose the hero. Ronan, heartbroken but devoted, became her silent, lifelong guardian. It was the ultimate Runner-Up tragedy. If he wasn’t the father of my child, I’d probably be hitting the ‘Like’ button on his misery. I returned to the penthouse, and Ronan was already home. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a plume of smoke curling around him as he contemplated the Manhattan skyline. He looked heavy—a man burdened. My usual reflex was to go hug him, but the Runner-Up label stopped me cold. I suppressed the impulse and addressed him formally. “Mr. Blackwood.” Ronan snapped out of his reverie. He walked over, stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal tray, and turned to me. His voice was as flat and cold as his gaze. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.” My heart stuttered. Here we go. The dismissal. The severance package talk. [Mom, don’t panic. Totally expected.] I took a deep breath and gave him the practiced, empty smile. “What is it?” Ronan sat down, looking up at me. “How long have we been doing this?” My stomach plummeted. He was easing into the goodbye. Though I’d always known my status—his companion, his keeper—after five years beside a man this extraordinary, it was impossible not to develop a flicker of genuine attachment. I managed a strained laugh. “Almost five years. Another month and we would have hit the anniversary.” Ronan nodded thoughtfully. “It’s been that long, then.” Too long, I thought bitterly. By the standards of men in his circle, he was practically a saint. Five years with one mistress? Most men traded us out every time the seasons changed. I should feel grateful. After a moment of charged silence, he leaned forward, his voice meaningful. “I’ve been thinking. We can’t maintain this kind of relationship forever. So, I was planning to…” The sharp trill of his phone interrupted him. Ronan looked down at the screen, and his expression softened instantly. The caller ID read: Gen Laurent. He stood and walked onto the terrace to take the call. My throat tightened. A wave of familiar, miserable sadness crashed over me. But then I thought of The Nugget and his billion-dollar legacy. My mood instantly stabilized. 3 Ronan kept his voice low, but his profile—which I’d always found devastatingly attractive—was etched with an unfamiliar, profound tenderness. Three minutes later, he came back inside. “Something’s come up. I have an emergency. We’ll pick this up when I get back.” I nodded, my face a mask of composure. “Of course.” He grabbed his bespoke coat and was gone, the elevator doors sliding shut on his hasty exit. I had braced myself for this ending, yet the speed of his departure, his urgency to rush to The Myth’s side, still hurt. The Nugget’s voice cut through my emo moment: [Mom, stop brooding. You need to get out of here before Dad realizes you’re pregnant!] [He may not be a criminal, but if he decides he doesn’t want me, he’s rich enough to have you forcibly terminated. Get out!] A jolt of pure fear shot through me. The Nugget was right. Ronan didn’t know he was a secondary character. He was too consumed by Gen Laurent. If I jeopardized that chase, I was finished. I immediately started packing my essentials, throwing expensive jewelry and documents into a duffel bag, and driving out that very night. I was heading south. Before I hit the turnpike, I sent Ronan a pre-written “breakup” text. “Mr. Blackwood, I’ve left for Charlotte. Thank you for your support over the last five years. I wish you all the best.” He didn’t reply. He probably saw no reason to. I felt a small, familiar twinge of disappointment. Not because he hadn’t begged me to stay, but because he hadn’t even had the courtesy to send a severance deposit. Though he gives me more than enough, who ever complains about extra cash? 4 I got involved with Ronan for two very simple reasons: I was terrified of being poor, and he was breathtakingly handsome. I was—in a word—greedy and shallow. I was also pragmatic. I’d always been preparing for this exit, so I hadn’t wasted his money. Three years ago, I’d bought a beautifully furnished condo in downtown Charlotte, NC. Two years ago, I had it completely set up. After calling a cleaning crew, I moved in. To sever all ties, I bought a new phone and a new number. I knew Ronan Blackwood could track me down easily if he wanted to. But he was busy fighting the hero for the heroine. He probably wouldn’t spare a second thought for his former mistress. Even though The Nugget assured me he would be healthy, I kept up with all my prenatal appointments. The day I went in for the anatomy scan, I was preparing to hand my forms to the receptionist when I saw Ronan Blackwood stride purposefully toward the Ultrasound Center. I froze, instantly spinning around, my back pressed against the wall. [Mom, what’s wrong?] The Nugget always picked up on my emotional spikes. I whispered, “I just saw your dad.” [Don’t panic! You have a mask on, and you’re wearing that awful North Carolina tourist jacket. He won’t recognize you. Just walk away, normally.] He was right. I was wearing an oversize jacket and a baseball cap, none of which Ronan had ever seen me wear. I collected myself and started to move slowly toward the escalator. I was almost there when a massive hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back with startling force. I stumbled, bracing myself against the cool marble of the wall, my body rigid with sudden terror. Ronan’s tall frame leaned in, enveloping me in his shadow. The sheer proximity was suffocating. “What’s the rush?” “Did you really think a cheap mask would stop me from recognizing you?” His tone was mocking, and my stomach dropped. I wanted to cry. [Mom, stay calm! Do not break character!] I forced a sickly laugh. “I wasn’t rushing. I finished my check-up and was heading home.” Ronan looked me up and down, his eyes finally landing on the requisition slip clutched in my hand. His voice was impossible to read. “Sick?” I quickly hid the paper behind my back. “Minor issues. Just a little hormonal imbalance.” “Is that right? Let me see.” He reached for the paper. Before I could figure out my next move, his assistant rushed up, face grim. “Mr. Blackwood, it’s Genevieve. Acute appendicitis. The doctor says they need to operate immediately.” Ronan’s focus fractured. He bit out, “Add my contact back,” to me, then turned and followed his assistant away, disappearing into the crowd. As soon as he was gone, I fled the hospital like a bat out of hell. On the drive home, I asked The Nugget, “What did he mean, ‘Add his contact back’? Is he coming for me?” [I don’t know, Mom. But it sounds likely.] “So, do I add him or not?” [You have to! If you don’t, he’ll start a proper investigation. Then my existence will be exposed immediately!] “Ugh. Fine.” 5 I had deleted Ronan’s number, but after five years, it was ingrained in my memory. Once home, I added his number on a secure messaging app. About an hour later, he accepted the request. Ronan Blackwood: Send me your address. I stared at the screen. “Nugget, what does this mean? He’s definitely coming here, right?” [Seems so.] “What if he discovers the pregnancy? What if he already knows? Is it too late to run again?” [Mom, don’t panic. Running won’t help. He’ll find you eventually.] “So, I’m just waiting for the guillotine?” The despair was overwhelming. “Nugget, don’t worry. I won’t let you leave this world alone.” [Mom! I told you, the waiting list for a good re-birth is a hundred years, and even then, I might not make it! We need to fight this!] “You’re right. We’ll fight.” [And look, my dad hasn’t acted on anything yet. He probably hasn’t figured out I exist. Maybe he’s just coming for a quick hookup.] “He’s shadowing his first love, the Myth. What could I possibly offer him now?” [I don’t know either! Just deal with it. When he shows up, we play it by ear.] “Fine.” Reluctantly, I typed out the address. [Mom! Quick! Hide anything suspicious. Pregnancy tests, vitamins, the giant maternity pillow!] “Right!” I scrambled, shoving anything that could give away my secret into a storage closet. Just as I sank onto the sofa to catch my breath, the doorbell rang. I jumped up, forcing a bright, awkward smile as I opened the door. “Mr. Blackwood. Long time, no see.” Ronan’s expression was unreadable, impassive. He gave a curt nod. “I have business in Charlotte for a few days. I hate the hotels here. I’m borrowing a room.” I hesitated. It was true; Ronan despised anything less than a Presidential Suite, and he was notoriously picky. But I absolutely couldn’t have him under my roof. Ronan’s eyes narrowed, his gaze intense. “Is that a problem?” [Don’t refuse! The more you push back, the more he’ll suspect something. Just say yes!] I burst into a strained laugh. “A problem? Not at all! Please, Mr. Blackwood, come in!” I stepped aside. Then I remembered: I had no men’s slippers. “I didn’t expect the honor of your visit, Mr. Blackwood. I’m missing a few necessities. Please, have a seat, and I’ll run out and grab some toiletries and slippers. I’ll be quick.” He didn’t object. “Go.” 6 When I returned with a bag of travel-size essentials, Ronan wasn’t in the living room. A wave of relief washed over me. Did he leave? Then, he emerged from the direction of my storage closet. My heart stopped dead. I was mentally calculating whether I should just drop to my knees and beg for mercy when Ronan calmly assessed the room. “The place is clean.” I managed a tight smile. “When you’re unemployed, you clean every day.” He said nothing else, simply extending his hand toward me. “Give me the bag.” “Oh, right.” I handed him the plastic bag with the slippers and toothbrush. He put on the slippers and walked into the guest bathroom, all with the unhurried ease of a man who owned the place. Seeing his intention to stay, I went to make the bed in the guest room. Truthfully, I was disgusted. He was actively chasing the heroine, yet he thought it was acceptable to crash at his former mistress’s place? That lack of boundaries was probably why he’d been relegated to the Runner-Up role. Serves him right. Ronan’s showers were always efficient. I had just smoothed the duvet when he emerged, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sleeping in the guest room?” My brain, already slow due to the pregnancy, lagged even further. I nodded instinctively. “Yes, of course!” Where else would you sleep? Ronan’s gaze darkened. His expression hadn’t changed much, but I felt the shift in the air—he was annoyed. I realized why: he still assumed he could sleep with me. The entitlement of it made me even more certain Gen was smart to pick Leo. While I scrambled for a diplomatic way to refuse him, he asked, his voice low and pointed, “Are you hiding something from me?” I unconsciously clutched my belly, then quickly released it, forcing an awkward giggle. “No, why would I?” Ronan’s face turned stormy. His sharp, intense eyes locked onto mine as he began to close the distance between us. “You know you’re a terrible liar, don’t you?” I backed away until the bed frame stopped me. He braced his hands on the wall, caging me between his arms. The powerful oppression made it hard to breathe. “Did you find a new patron already?” I looked up, stunned by the sheer gall of the accusation. 7 A man who has possessed a woman inevitably develops a ridiculous, irrational sense of ownership over her, even after the relationship has ended. Ronan was clearly being ruled by that toxic possessiveness. I was genuinely offended. I may be a materialist, but I wasn’t that easy. No unattractive men. No old men. Definitely no diseased men. The truth was, while everyone else saw me as his “kept woman,” deep down, I’d always viewed him as a spectacularly good-looking gigolo I was paying for with my time. After sleeping with a specimen like Ronan Blackwood, the average man simply couldn’t compete. I shot him a withering look. “Do you honestly think I’m that reckless?” The coldness in Ronan’s posture immediately evaporated. He pulled me into his arms, squeezing me tightly. His breathing grew heavy. “Anya, baby, I want to—” I clamped my hand over his mouth before he could finish that thought. “No!” The Nugget was asleep, but what if he woke up? If he heard his dad say anything raunchy, I’d never live it down. Ronan pulled my hand away, his cold gaze returning. “You are hiding something.” I was already low on wit, and the pregnancy hormones had made me slower. I couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. Panic made me flounder. “I’m not!” I blurted out the first idiotic thing that came to mind. “It’s… Aunt Flo is visiting!” Ronan sneered. “Is that so? Let me check.” His hand moved to the waistband of my sweatpants. I saw red. My fight-or-flight response kicked in, pure, primal terror. I reacted without thinking, swinging my arm and connecting a sharp slap across his face. The second I did it, I regretted it instantly. “I—I’m sorry.” Ronan stared at me, his face an ominous storm cloud. My fear intensified. I was about to try a pathetic attempt at flirting my way out of it when he simply turned, went into the bathroom, retrieved his clothes, and walked out of the condo, slamming the front door behind him. The heavy thud of the solid security door closing was the sound of my near-exhausted body slumping onto the sofa in relief. The crisis was averted, but a familiar emptiness settled in my chest. 8 Ronan was truly furious, and he didn’t try to contact me again. I was relieved, but the peace didn’t last long. Three days later, I received an anonymous text. Anonymous: I’ll give you five million dollars to get rid of the child. I fought down a wave of nausea and replied, pretending ignorance. Anya: What child? Anonymous: Your cheap tricks might fool Ronan, but they don’t fool me. Mrs. Blackwood despises gold-digging opportunists like you. I suggest you handle the situation immediately, or she will make you regret it. The message sent a shiver of dread down my spine. The Nugget woke up, his little voice filled with concern. [Mom, what’s going on?] Distraught, I read him the anonymous threat. The Nugget was indignant. [Mom, don’t listen to that liar! Grandma loves me! She would never hurt me!] My sluggish, pregnancy-addled brain finally connected the dots. “Nugget,” I said slowly, “Didn’t you tell me your grandmother wouldn’t allow you to exist right now?” The question silenced him. He fell into a long, terrifying silence that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I had trusted him completely, and he had been lying. Anger, disappointment, and a profound sense of cold betrayal washed over me. “Why did you lie to me?”

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In that group home, only two kids never got placed: Sasha and me. She was too volatile. I was too timid. When a bully tried to take my lunch, it was Sasha who called me a spineless wimp while she fought to get the food back onto my tray. When I was cornered and harassed in the bathroom, it was Sasha who broke the kid’s nose with a single punch, officially branding her with a ‘violent tendency’ and ensuring no family would ever take her. She’d stake her claim with the air of a true boss: “Dean, she’s my territory, got it?” Under her fierce, protective wing, I finally made it to school. That’s where I met Dean. He didn’t mock my shaky English or the way I struggled to fit in. He shielded me from the stares and stayed after school every day to help me catch up. He wrote me over two hundred love letters and confessed his feelings beneath a burst of fireworks, which made me cry until my face was blotchy. I always thought I must have saved the world in a past life to be blessed with both of them. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. I got the cancer diagnosis. And then, I stumbled upon Dean pinning Sasha against the back of his car, kissing her until her lips were swollen. Sasha, trembling and teary, whispered, demanding, “How are we supposed to face Liv after this?” “Of course, I don’t want to hurt Liv,” he answered, his voice rough with need. “But I just can’t stop loving you, and you feel it, too, don’t you? What am I supposed to do?” I managed a strained, tight smile and shoved the diagnostic report deep into my coat pocket. What are you supposed to do? That’s an easy one. That night, I booked my appointment for euthanasia. 1 The sleet was cutting, stinging my face. This was the first snow of the season, and it was brutal. I stood behind the corner wall, watching them embrace. The hand Dean used to cup the back of Sasha’s neck still wore the couple’s watch we’d picked out together. And Sasha? She was bundled in the scarf I had personally knitted for her. She treated that scarf like sacred armor. Not long ago, Dean had accidentally snagged it on a doorframe, and she’d screamed at him like a harpy. “I swear, I can’t deal with him! Liv, don’t you dare stop me—I’m going to make him understand who the queen of the house is today!” I was the one who had to mediate and soothe both of them until the peace was restored. They were the two people I loved most in the world. How could they have turned into this? My hands and feet were frozen stiff, but I waited half an hour. Only after they had both straightened their clothes and wiped their faces did I step out from the most visible spot, forcing a look of mild surprise. “Hey, you guys are early?” “And the birthday girl is late! You’re buying the first round,” Sasha said, pulling the scarf away and looping it around my own neck. Her eyes were full of staged concern. “You’re an ice cube. Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” I realized my eyelashes were crusted with ice chips. In the past, when it snowed, Dean would immediately wrap me inside his massive coat, terrified I’d catch a chill. Now, he hesitated for two full seconds before stepping forward to lightly brush the flakes off my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Liv. I should have been more thoughtful.” When his hand landed on me, Sasha’s face tightened almost imperceptibly, and she lowered her gaze. Dean instantly pulled back two steps, putting half a yard of space between us. I shook my head, pretending not to notice a thing, and flashed them a wide, goofy grin. “Oh, please, I’m not that delicate. Come on, let’s get upstairs. You two have to make this the best birthday ever.” After all, this was my last one. Sasha puffed out her chest and declared, “You know it! Just wait till you see my present!” Dean scoffed. “Don’t get cocky. Mine might be the one she actually loves.” They started their usual banter, a back-and-forth that immediately lightened the air. When Dean and I first started dating, Sasha was openly hostile toward him. Now, it sounded like playful flirting. I stretched my lips into a fake smile and took the lead. “You two better hurry up, I’m starving!” I wanted to pretend I didn’t see, to keep my back turned so I wouldn’t cry. But the streetlights had a cruel way of elongating shadows. In my periphery, I watched Dean’s hand subtly reach for Sasha’s shadow. Sasha’s step faltered. Her fingers trembled, curling slightly, but she didn’t pull away. The two shadows finally overlapped. A perfect pair. 2 “Get inside, it’s freezing out here.” I quickly pulled the door open, eager to break the tension. “Hold on, hold on, I’m coming!” Sasha laughed, quickening her pace in her heels, but she was clearly distracted. She stumbled as she crossed the threshold. The birthday cake she was holding crashed to the floor. I rushed forward to steady her. “Watch out!” Dean beat me to it, catching her around the waist and pulling her upright. He immediately crouched down, checking her ankle with frantic urgency. “Are you okay? Can you walk?” My hand was left hanging in the air. Sasha’s smile had frozen on her face. The silence that descended was thick and unnerving. Dean flinched, instinctively opening his mouth, but no explanation came out. When his eyes met mine, he shifted his body, standing like a shield in front of Sasha. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Liv, please don’t be mad. Sasha is just clumsy, she didn’t drop the cake on purpose. I’ll order a new one right now.” I stared at him, watching him protect Sasha. It was the same way Sasha had always stood in front of me, protecting me, since we were children. Somewhere along the line, I had become that small-minded person in his eyes—the one who would throw a fit over a ruined cake. Cream was splattered everywhere. The customized figurines of two girls holding hands had cracked and lay in ruined pieces. I didn’t want to spend the end of my life in conflict with the people I loved most. It was just a shame my last birthday wouldn’t be a graceful one. Two anxious gazes were fixed on me. I awkwardly tucked my suspended hand back into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled hospital note, and turned away, forcing a lighthearted laugh. “I’m not a three-year-old, guys. Why would I be mad about that? We can celebrate any day we want.” “Dean, why don’t you clean up the mess? I’ll go find the first-aid kit—we should have some cream for bruises and sprains.” My nonchalant attitude seemed to only deepen his guilt. Dean lowered his head in apology. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll re-order the cake.” I waved a dismissive hand. It’s fine. I just want both of you to be happy. I helped Sasha to the sofa and gently applied the ointment. There were tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She reached for my hand, then pulled hers back. “Liv, don’t be so naive. You can’t keep telling people not to worry. This is how you get taken advantage of.” I shook my head stubbornly. “I’m not being taken advantage of. I’m lucky.” “Sasha, if it’s for you, I’m willing to accept anything.” Sasha bowed her head and didn’t speak again. By the time the cream had dried, Dean had finished cleaning and was calling us over to the new cake. It was rushed, but still beautiful. Yet, it felt like something essential was missing. Dean lit the candles. In the flickering light, my eyes landed on a framed photo on the corner table. It was Dean and me in our school uniforms, holding hands tightly. Sasha, in a red spaghetti-strap dress, was clutching my other arm, glaring at him with mock hostility. That day, they genuinely couldn’t stand each other. “Hey! My scaredy-cat finally likes someone, and if you dare hurt her, you’re dead!” “No way! Look at you, dressed like a trashy club girl—you’re definitely not a decent friend.” Sasha’s eyes had darkened for a second. I had immediately scolded Dean. When the group home closed down at age fifteen, Sasha dropped out of high school to work and keep me in school. She took a job as a streaming model, dressing provocatively. Every time I tried to argue or offer to split the burden, she’d send me back to class with a furious yell. “How old am I and how old are you? I blew my shot, but you’re still young. Go get yourself a real future.” “Do you want people pointing at you and calling you a tramp? Get your ass back to class! You don’t need to worry about the money!” She was only three years older than me. The memories flashed like a film reel. I closed my eyes and made my sincere wish. I hoped my best friend and the man I loved most would be eternally happy. Even after I was gone. Once I blew out the candles, Sasha eagerly cut the cake and then playfully smeared a dollop of frosting on my nose. “Congrats, Liv, another year wiser.” I forced my mouth to curve, but then I saw Dean’s intense gaze—it was glued to Sasha. Tender and lingering. The familiar bitterness surged up again. Sasha was oblivious, cheerily pulling out a small gift box. “Check it out, do you love it?” Dean snapped back to reality, jostling her aside. He held his own gift tight in his palm and leaned in mysteriously. “Guess what I got you?” “Oh, you brat, don’t try to steal my thunder! Don’t you dare compete with me!” Sasha pouted, cheeks puffed out. “You two old enemies, stop fighting and give me a break,” I said, rubbing my temples. Since neither of them would concede, I had to open both gifts at once. The moment I did, all three of us froze. 3 They had chosen rings from the same designer collection. The styles were incredibly similar: Dean’s choice had a mountain range engraved into the band, while Sasha’s featured a swirling ocean wave. Unintentionally, perfectly, they formed a matched set. A complementary “Sea and Mountain Vow.” Sasha looked completely thrown. I laughed boisterously, snatching both rings and quickly sliding one onto my left hand and one onto my right. “No wonder we get along so well! Look how in sync you are! I was stressing about which style to buy, and now I don’t have to choose, hee-hee.” “Only a child makes choices. I’m an adult, and I’m taking both! One on each hand, perfect.” I pulled out my phone and took a dozen flashing pictures. My cheerful performance didn’t alleviate the awkwardness in the air; in fact, Dean’s tightly pressed lips seemed to make it worse. Only Sasha offered a strained smile. “He definitely copied my idea. But since Liv loves them, I’ll let it go.” Dean’s face relaxed slightly, a silent confirmation that he would accept that lie. My mind was a chaotic mess, so I quickly poured us drinks, trying to drown my thoughts in alcohol. The irony was that Sasha, usually the one who could drink anyone under the table, was the first to dissolve into a sloppy mess. She was mumbling into her wine glass. “Liv… don’t leave us…” I wanted to say something comforting, but my throat felt rusted shut. I couldn’t utter a single word. Dean stood up, grabbed her jacket with practiced ease, and draped her over his shoulder. “Liv, I’m taking this lush home first. Don’t wait up for me; just go to bed if you’re tired.” I nodded quietly. I watched from the balcony as they walked away, leaning on each other. I knew, logically, that Dean wouldn’t take advantage of a drunken Sasha. I was certain they hadn’t physically crossed the line. But how do you stop a heart from drifting? I took a deep, shuddering breath and scooped a bite of cake. The cream was sickly sweet and tasted bitter. I dropped the fork and retreated to the bedroom, planning to start packing up my belongings. I accidentally knocked over a box and found the love letters Dean had written me when he was eighteen. Two hundred-plus letters, packed tightly with memories. Liv, I noticed you a long time ago, but you always looked down, and I was so curious about what you were thinking when you were quiet. You are timid, yet you had the courage to feed the stray cat behind the school that even the security guard was afraid of. You are incredible. Silly girl, I didn’t save you—you gave me the chance to express my love. What I say at eighteen will be true at eighty. Liv, we will grow old together. Every word was earnest, heartfelt, and deep. Reading them again, my nose began to sting, and my lips curled into a gentle, mournful smile. But then, I flipped the page and my breath caught. The back of the letters had new handwriting. It’s strange. I always thought of Sasha as a trouble-maker, and I only tolerated her for Liv’s sake. But I’m starting to realize she’s… different. I saw Sasha finishing her stream today. It’s freezing, and her face was bright red. I felt a pang of concern. I have to control myself… I accidentally brushed her hand while we were walking. She pulled away like she’d been shocked, but her earlobes turned bright red when she snapped at me. Could she feel it, too…? Liv finally acted playfully jealous with me today, but Sasha looked distinctly disappointed. I don’t want to run from my feelings anymore. I need to be honest with her. The writing was sporadic, turning my two hundred love letters into a two-sided confession. The new script was just as sincere and passionate as the old. I estimated it began about a year ago. The back pages were now nearly as long as the front. His heart had started to drift a long time ago. The most recent date was just yesterday: I’m so sorry, Liv. But it’s time to end it. I’ve already failed you; I can’t fail Sasha, too. A wave of tears finally broke, rushing down my face. I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest was tight, a sharp, needling pain, and I coughed heavily, a splatter of warm, thick blood hitting my palm. I scrambled for a tissue. That’s when Dean came back. He pulled the door open instinctively and peered in. “Liv, are you awake?” 4 The door gap widened. I stumbled toward it, slamming my back against the wood to keep it shut. “I have a bit of a headache. I’m already trying to rest.” My shirt was stained with blood. The letters were scattered on the floor, a brutal mockery of my composure and self-deception. Dean paused, then tapped twice, asking if I needed medicine. I brushed him off with a quick, shallow response. I couldn’t face him. I was terrified he would rip the raw truth open. I didn’t know if the man outside the door was more worried about me being sick, or if he was hoping to cut ties quickly so he could openly pursue the girl he truly loved. I didn’t know what face I would wear when the inevitable moment came. After a long time, the house finally fell quiet. Dean must have gone to bed. I restored the room to its original state, packed a small bag, and drove myself to the city hospital. The doctor frowned, trying to persuade me. “Are you sure you don’t want chemotherapy? It’s late-stage lung cancer, but aggressive treatment can still give you more time.” “You are still… very young.” I smiled and shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m only staying a few days before I leave.” My original plan was to leave all my savings: enough for Sasha to upgrade her streaming studio, and seed money for Dean’s start-up. But I was too afraid of pain, so I selfishly took a portion for myself and booked the foreign clinic for my procedure. Seven more days, and I would be free. When it came down to it, I was still the same coward. No progress at all. The next day, Dean called. I gave him a flimsy excuse and hung up. For seven days straight, he called countless times. Each time, I found a different reason to reject him. Eventually, I couldn’t bear to hear his voice at all. I remembered the fierce, eighteen-year-old love I saw under the fireworks. I couldn’t bear his change of heart. I wanted to beg him not to be so cruel—just a few more days, and I would be gone. I wouldn’t bother them anymore. It felt like if I didn’t acknowledge the truth, I could still die feeling loved. But on the night before my procedure, as I was sorting my documents, Dean called again, his voice cracking with urgency. “Liv! Sasha’s stream just went dark, and her phone is off! Something’s wrong, I’m driving over there right now, but the conference center is too far! You need to go—drive over and check on her!” My eyes widened. I didn’t stop to question why he was monitoring her stream. I just shouted, “Don’t panic! I’m on my way!” I ripped out the IV, threw on a thin undershirt, and was out the door, speeding toward Sasha’s apartment. I lost count of the red lights I blew through. I didn’t hear the angry honks of the other drivers. I could only pray Sasha was safe, my foot pressed hard against the accelerator. I only slowed down when a cop flagged me down at an intersection. “Ma’am, the road ahead is closed due to a cave-in. You’ll have to take a detour.” Cold sweat beaded on my forehead, but I knew arguing would only delay the police, so I took the longer route. By the time I arrived. Sasha’s clothes were ripped, and a stunned-looking punk was unconscious nearby. Dean was already there. He was bruised and bloody, clearly having fought the attacker off, and he was holding the trembling Sasha, soothing her over and over. My knees gave out. I stumbled, kneeling on the cold ground, reaching out to her. “I’m late, I’m so sorry…” “Get away! Why are you putting on this show?” Dean’s eyes were bloodshot. He aggressively slapped my hand away, standing over Sasha defensively. “You were so close! Why didn’t you get here in time to save her? If you had been faster, Sasha wouldn’t have—” “You’ve always happily taken everything she’s given you. Why couldn’t you sacrifice just once for her? Why are you always so damn selfish!” “Stop it!” Sasha silenced him, forcing a shaky smile for me. “The animal didn’t get to me. I’m fine.” My throat constricted, and my nose felt tight and itchy with despair. But Dean couldn’t stop his frantic outpouring. “Sasha! I was terrified for you. Don’t push me away!” Sasha’s body shook at his words. She lowered her head. She didn’t refuse the coat Dean wrapped around her. Dean took a deep breath. “How could you be fine? This is going to haunt you forever. Liv, what the hell have you been doing these past few days?” The only answer was the silence of the heavy snow. I stared at the fresh needle marks on the back of my hand, shivering in my thin shirt. Guilt and deep hurt churned inside me. I couldn’t say anything but I’m sorry. “Liv, without Sasha, you wouldn’t be alive today. She was in danger, and you were nowhere to be found. You’re a stranger to me now, and I’m deeply disappointed.” Dean pulled her close, his face cold as he looked back at me, his eyes sharp, as if I were the enemy. “Let’s take some space. We need to separate for a while. You need to reflect on what’s happened.” I gasped, ready to explain everything, but a fierce cough brought up a mouthful of blood that splattered on the snow, turning it a vivid, painful red. As I tried to conceal it, Dean had already lifted Sasha into the passenger seat and floored the accelerator. He never looked back. I dropped my gaze to the blood on the ground. I truly was a failure. I ruined everything I touched. Wiping the bitter taste from my mouth, I moved my stiff legs and continued, zombie-like, to the airport, just making my flight. The landscape outside the cabin window began to blur. Two familiar faces came into focus in my mind. Sasha was smiling brightly, flashing a peace sign. Dean was playfully flicking my nose, complaining he might get jealous. I remembered my fifteenth birthday wish. I hope my best friend is always by my side, and the person I love is right across from me, forever and ever. What a pity. It never came true. I sent a final text message. I wish you both a happy ending.

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I used a brand-new iPhone to reel in the legendary heir of the NYC elite. The day I bought the latest iPhone, a man so gorgeous it felt excessive walked straight up to me in the Apple Store and asked if he could borrow my phone to shoot a video. He took my phone, looked into the camera, and said with an embarrassingly self-conscious smirk, “OMG, thank you, babe, for the brand-new iPhone 15 Pro Max!” His voice was so over-the-top affected—so much vocal fry—I felt like I could excavate a castle with the cringe on the soles of my feet. The entire store went silent for a beat. Then, he cleared his throat and continued his performance for the front-facing camera. “It’s three PM, time for my totally low-key, humble brag.” “The new natural titanium finish? It’s whatever. A phone that costs a couple thousand? Totally average for me.” “That’s it for today. In a few days, I’ll show you the new car my darling bought me.” “Try not to be too jealous. Some of you trying to bag a sugar mama need to check your reflection before you try to play this game.” 1 The moment he finished, the silence in the store lasted exactly half a second. Then, the place erupted in laughter and chatter. “Seriously? That’s the bar for flexing now? Borrowing someone else’s phone?” “‘A couple thousand.’ That’s like, a week’s worth of his groceries, not a car.” “A sugar mama? Does he even know that girl he just borrowed the phone from?” My best friend, Willow, covered her face, mortified. “Sasha, I told you! He was clearly a weirdo. I said not to lend it to him, but you just had to be stubborn.” The ridiculously handsome guy finished the video, handed my phone back, and looked slightly sheepish. “Thank you. You really saved me.” The mocking laughter around us was sharp. I watched him try to maintain a façade of cool confidence, and I felt a strange mix of pity and amusement. On an impulse, the words just tumbled out. “How about I buy you a phone? That way, you won’t have to beg for a loan everywhere you go.” I added, “It looks like you really need it.” He froze, then a wide, bright smile spread across his face. “I don’t need one now. But can I get your number? Or, better yet, let’s exchange Instagram handles. I’ll treat you to dinner next time to thank you for lending it to me.” I was about to nod, but Willow tugged on my arm again, lowering her voice. “Don’t! Guys like that—thick-skinned, too good-looking—they’re the worst kind of players. Be careful he doesn’t latch onto you!” I just smiled and accepted his follow request. Willow didn’t know. That man was Rhys Beckett—the one and only heir to the Beckett Group, the legendary “Prince” of the NYC elite, the one who was never seen. And I had been watching him for a long time. In a private lounge at an exclusive Soho club, Rhys Beckett tossed his phone onto the table with a groan of disgust. “Whose idea was that dare? Making me go to the Apple Store to flex? And that script—I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life!” His pack of privileged friends doubled over with laughter. “Hey, you lost the bet, man! Preston had to hug an elevator pole in the mall and scream ‘Mommy’ for five minutes. You’re even.” “Come on, let us see the video!” They immediately swarmed around him. “Hahaha, Rhys, your face! It’s the perfect blend of arrogance and deep-seated shame! I want to punch you and hug you at the same time!” “Wait… who’s the girl who lent you the phone? She’s genuinely gorgeous. Great style.” Rhys’s ears quietly flushed red. He unconsciously rubbed his thumb over the rim of his glass. “Just some kind stranger passing by. There were so many people there, and she was the only one who actually helped.” “Ohhh—” The group immediately scented gossip. “Our man Rhys is… finally coming out of hibernation?” Rhys shot them a glare, pulling up the empty chat screen with me. He grumbled good-naturedly, “Get lost, all of you. Stop talking nonsense.” A week ago, I was Sasha Miller, the most prized protégé of Marcus Shaw, the East Coast’s foremost architectural and design master, and the internal successor to his prestigious studio. Now, I was a disgraced traitor, publicly cast out by my mentor, with my name blacklisted across the entire industry. All because he found his “true muse”—Delaney. Today was the final deadline for me to move out of the studio apartment. I silently packed my sketchbooks and tools, dragging my suitcase toward the door. Delaney blocked my way, arms crossed, a picture of haughty entitlement. “Stop right there. You are not taking anything that belongs to Master Shaw.” As she spoke, she brutally yanked open my suitcase, scattering years of accumulated design sketches, my framed award certificates, even the professional books I had bought myself, and my savings statements—everything I had. All that was left inside were a few changes of clothes. “The money in those accounts, I saved myself, penny by penny. Why can’t I take my own savings?” I demanded. “You only rose to prominence on the strength of Master Shaw’s name. You have no real talent on your own. You have no right to take anything associated with this place.” I looked toward the far sofa. My former mentor, Marcus Shaw, was sitting there, watching the scene with cold indifference, completely silent. Grant, the senior apprentice who had always looked out for me, was now solicitously handing Delaney a bottle of water, acting as if I were invisible. The humiliation was a suffocating tide. I knelt down, quietly repacking the clothes, tossing the savings statements aside, and then stood up, giving them one last look. Let them have the statements for now. It’s not like they could actually withdraw the funds. I moved into Willow’s guest room. Willow helped me make the bed, trying to reassure me. “It’s fine, Sash. Staying here is great. That crappy studio? Good riddance!” I knew this was only temporary. Willow always called me naïve, but she didn’t understand. Someone who has been violently dragged from the clouds into the mud can’t afford to be naïve anymore. I had a low, burning knot of fury in my stomach. I would make Marcus Shaw and Delaney pay. Running into Rhys Beckett at the Apple Store might be my only way forward. He had just returned from abroad and hadn’t been completely tainted by the muck of this circle yet. I had my looks and my years of social networking experience. That was all the capital I had left. Two days later, Rhys finally texted me. [I still owe you that dinner. Are you free tonight?] Watching the notification pop up, the corner of my mouth slowly curled into a wider smile. [The new Italian place on Madison Avenue. Seven PM. Don’t be late.] When I walked into the restaurant, I immediately sensed the strange atmosphere. Some people were pretending to study their menus, but their eyes kept flicking over to me. Others held up their phones, pretending to take selfies, but their cameras were clearly aimed in my direction. Rhys was already waiting at a window table. He saw me enter and gave an awkward little cough. His friends immediately snapped back to attention, pretending nothing had happened. And Rhys’s ears, once again, were crimson. I instantly realized that these were probably his gawking, gossipy friends. I calmly sat down across from him. Tonight, I had deliberately worn a simple black cocktail dress I designed myself. The cut was minimalist, but the details—a subtle drape here, a sharp angle there—showcased my skill, perfectly outlining my figure without being ostentatious. “I never got your name,” I started, breaking the silence. Rhys seemed a little nervous, clearing his throat. “It’s R. J. Beckett. R for Rhys, J for… well, just J.” I extended my hand, smiling warmly. “I’m Sasha Miller.” His fingertips were warm. The moment they touched mine, he pulled back as if he’d been shocked by an electric current. Rhys tried to maintain his ‘cool playboy’ posture, but his earlobes, red enough to bleed, completely betrayed him. Muffled snickers occasionally drifted from the surrounding tables. I watched his face deepen in color, the blush spreading down his neck. It looked like I had chosen the right person for dinner. He was far more innocent than I had anticipated. After dinner, we said goodbye. I stood outside the restaurant, waiting for a ride, and faintly heard Rhys’s low, furious roar from inside: “Who told you guys to follow me? Huh? All of you acting like spotlights, get out!” I waited a long time for a ride on the curb. Before, I always had a private car arranged by the studio. The jarring drop in my lifestyle was never more obvious than right now. I wondered if Delaney was enjoying the perks that should have been mine. Suddenly, the sky opened up, and the rain came down in sheets. I was quickly soaked to the bone. When I got back to Willow’s place, she rushed over with a dry towel. “What happened to you? It’s pouring, why didn’t you find shelter?” “Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face. My nose stung, and I nearly burst into tears, but I held it in. I’d lived a privileged life for two decades, and in the end, the only things that truly belonged to me were my best friend, a bank account with a dwindling balance, and the resolve of a twenty-something on the brink. After that night, Rhys started texting me constantly. He shared all the mundane details of his life. [I got dragged to some boring gala. I’d rather be at a gallery with you. Can I see you again soon?] In the photo he sent, I saw Delaney. She was wearing a gown based on one of my archived sketches, beaming as Marcus Shaw introduced her to various industry bigwigs. She looked triumphant. The gala was excessively lavish. Rhys hadn’t intentionally focused the camera, just zoomed out a little. [My feet are killing me standing around here.] I understood his subtext and replied gently: [I thought you were really tall at the Apple Store. Over six-one, right?] [Six-three. I’m an actual six-three.] I could almost picture him, bored, legs casually crossed in a corner, pulling a smug smile when he saw my reply. Some people could have everything without lifting a finger. Like Delaney. She had little innate talent, excelling only at plagiarism and mimicry, yet her quick wit and flattery had won Marcus Shaw’s total devotion. I was different. Marcus Shaw had been notoriously strict with me. He used to say I was the most gifted designer he had ever seen. I pushed myself harder for that praise, striving for reputation, money, and every accolade that could benefit the studio. Just as he was about to formally announce me as his successor, Delaney arrived. She replaced me effortlessly. I only recently discovered that Marcus Shaw had known for a while that Delaney was stealing and mimicking my work, but he had chosen to ignore it. No wonder he hadn’t seemed that excited when I won the international grand prize. My once-devoted mentor and my supportive senior apprentice were now orbiting Delaney. I was the one who had been discarded. Except for Willow, who was still in my corner. So, what was mine, I had to reclaim myself. Rhys’s message popped up again. [I’m so glad you’re keeping me company. This kind of event genuinely drives me insane.] I pretended to be curious. [What gala is it? Sounds important. Can’t you just skip it?] [The Shaw Studio celebration. Celebrating their new designer, Delaney, for winning some big award. My grandfather and Marcus Shaw have history, so I have to be here.] Delaney won an award? A celebration gala? My hand shook, and my phone clattered to the floor. A decade of my life, countless all-nighters spent sketching and perfecting, had ultimately become a ladder for her ascent. Rhys: [What was that? Sounds like a big thump.] Me: [Just dropped my phone. Clumsy. Say, why do you guys have to attend? Seems like only the very top people would get an invite to something like that.] Rhys replied quickly, with a hint of playful bragging. [Heh, actually, I snuck out without telling my grandfather. Is there anything you want to eat? I could bring you something.] Me: [Wow, you’re an escape artist! Could you bring me a piece of Tiramisu? I’m suddenly craving it.] [No problem.] We agreed on a meeting spot. I looked at my phone’s cracked screen and felt a fresh stab of financial pain. I wouldn’t be able to upgrade to the latest model on a whim anymore. This life had to end, and fast. I decided I would make Rhys completely fall for me at this meeting. I stopped by a convenience store to pick up a few things for our impromptu “date.” But I never made it. Parked outside the convenience store was a Ferrari I knew all too well. My former senior apprentice, Grant, got out, opened the passenger door, and helped a princess-like Delaney out of the seat. “Grant, this place is so rundown. I don’t want to stay here for another second.” Delaney wrinkled her nose in distaste. Grant gently brushed the hair from her forehead, his voice dripping with affection. “We just need to warn Willow to stay out of your business with Sasha. Just a little longer, Delaney.” Willow was my best friend. My eyes instantly welled up. Warn her? Because she had taken me in? Grant, my former friend, how could you be so utterly ruthless? All for Delaney. The fate of a genius whose value had been squeezed dry was truly pathetic. I waited in the corner for a long time until the glaring red Ferrari finally sped away. Willow’s family was well-off, but her father’s company was dependent on the larger conglomerate associated with Marcus Shaw’s studio. When I got back, Willow’s father was sitting on the sofa, his face cold. Her mother looked at me with open distaste. Willow was stuck between us, her face a mask of distress. “Sasha, I…” I forced out a smile that was more like a grimace and picked up my suitcase. Before leaving, I bowed deeply to them. “Uncle, Auntie, I am so sorry for the trouble I caused. Thank you for taking me in. I won’t bother you anymore.” Now, I truly had nothing left. I crouched on the sidewalk, my suitcase at my feet. Tears splashed onto the clean pavement, making small, spreading circles. I picked up my phone. The screen showed 99+ unread messages. I braced myself, expecting insults from Grant or mockery from Delaney. To my surprise, they were all from Rhys Beckett. I had completely forgotten about him. [Sasha, I’m here. Got here thirty minutes early so you wouldn’t have to wait.] [OMG, I just saw a stray cat trying to get into a trash can. It’s seriously agile. Sending you a pic.] Two hours later. [Are you here yet?] [Girls take a little longer to get ready. I get it.] [I dressed up a bit, too. I look pretty handsome. Heh.] [Bought your Tiramisu. Waiting for you to come and eat it.] Another hour later. [Where are you?] [Did you… decide you didn’t want to talk to me?] [The Tiramisu is going to melt. I’m going to eat it for you.] [Sasha, next time, can I pick the restaurant?] There were also several missed calls. [Where are you? Did something happen? I’m still here waiting. Text me back when you see this. Just a ‘1’ will do.] I quickly wiped the rain and tears from my face. [Sorry, Rhys. An emergency came up at home. Can’t make it.] [Eat the cake for me.] [I’m sorry for making you wait so long.] I dragged my suitcase down the deserted street, walking aimlessly. If I opened my mouth right now and asked to crash at his place for the night, he probably wouldn’t refuse. But I couldn’t. A person who throws themselves at you always seems cheap. Being abandoned by my mentor and ruthlessly cut off by my senior had been humiliating enough. Willow’s call came through. I composed myself, trying to make my voice sound normal. “Hello? I’m fine. I just checked into a hotel. King bed, super comfy. We’ll figure out tomorrow later. There’s always a way out.” There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Sasha, stop pretending. I’m across the street from you.” “My parents are awful, but I’m not. Let me help you.” I turned around. Willow stood opposite me, holding an umbrella. She hurried over and thrust a key into my hand. “My dad’s compensation for being a spineless jerk. Sasha, stand up.” At twenty-four, I should have been full of life, but I felt like a piece of garbage tossed out by the world. And Willow stood before me, a knight charging through the thorns. “Thank you,” my voice caught in my throat. She snatched my suitcase. “Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t do ‘thank you.’” On the way to the apartment, I glanced out the car window and saw someone sitting on a roadside bench. A half-melted pastry box was resting on his long legs. He was looking down, motionless, staring at his phone screen. It was Rhys. Willow’s father’s backup apartment hadn’t been lived in for a long time and was covered in dust. I wanted to call a cleaning service, but after checking my meager bank balance, I silently gave up the idea. Rhys hadn’t texted again, but my phone hadn’t stopped vibrating from all the notifications. Once we finished cleaning, Willow had to leave. “I have to go. Can’t stay out all night. Call me immediately if you need anything.” “I will.” I sat on the bed, hugging a pillow.

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I’d finally trained my arrogant society husband into a docile partner. Then a car crash stole six years of his memory. He woke up as the rebellious heir who was still obsessed with his childhood crush and utterly hated me. Watching him thrash and snarl, demanding I leave the hospital room, a profound weariness washed over me. I was too exhausted to start the training all over again. I simply nodded. “Fine. As you wish.” 1 By the time I rushed into the hospital, Brooks had already finished surgery and was awake. The moment he saw me, he sent the glass he was holding crashing to the floor, his handsome face flushing a furious red. “Who the hell called her? Didn’t I almost die, and you want to finish the job by bringing this plague into my room?” I stopped dead in my tracks, the polite smile I’d worn for the nurses dissolving slowly. Something was terribly wrong. Brooks would never speak to me like that. For the last year, I’d completely tamed him; he hadn’t raised his voice at me once. Yet, this state felt hauntingly familiar. It was like… Aside from the furious Brooks in the bed, his childhood crush, Amelia, and his assistant, Mark, were also in the room. Amelia’s expression was strangely guarded as she asked Brooks a question that made my mind seize up. “Brooks, you don’t remember Riley?” Brooks scoffed. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t forget that woman even if she turned to ash!” He turned to look at me, his striking eyes, usually alight with affection, now filled with nothing but ice. “She is the one person I have always despised.” Mark’s face went white. He looked desperate enough to physically clamp his CEO’s mouth shut. He quickly rushed to explain to me first. “Please, Ms. Riley, don’t be angry! Mr. Brooks suffered a head injury and lost the last six years of his memory. He doesn’t mean any of it!” Then, tearfully, he pleaded with Brooks. “Sir, you absolutely cannot say that! Ms. Riley is your wife! Before the crash, you couldn’t bear to even speak loudly to her! Don’t be impulsive!” “Bullshit!” Brooks bit out, completely unconvinced. “If I was going to marry anyone, it would be Amelia. Who the hell is Riley? Why would I ever be with such bad luck?” Amelia hid a flicker of victory in her eyes, moving quickly to loop her arm through Brooks’s, stroking his hair to calm him, shooting a smug, challenging glance my way. I watched the entire scene without expression, the warmth in my chest dropping degree by degree until it reached freezing point. After a long silence, I spoke just one sentence. “Brooks, if you shut up right now and come home with me, I will pretend none of this happened.” Brooks laughed. Then, he swept the bouquet of fresh-cut roses I’d brought him onto the floor. The vibrant red petals and broken stems scattered everywhere. He stared into my eyes, speaking each word with cold precision. “I won’t tell you to get out twice.” The hospital room went silent. The last flicker of hope in my heart was extinguished, replaced by a cold reality. A car crash had turned Brooks back into the rebellious heir who was obsessed with his first love and despised me above all others. I had spent six years teaching him manners, teaching him the right way to love, teaching him how to manage a marriage. Now, all of it was back to square one. I knew I could train the mad dog again. But looking into his eyes, flat and cold with absolute aversion, I suddenly felt an overwhelming weariness. One session of obedience school was enough for any lifetime. I nodded. “Fine. As you wish.” Then I turned and walked toward the door. Brooks hadn’t expected to get rid of me so easily. In his memory, I was the loud, obnoxious rival who never backed down from a fight. My sudden, quiet acceptance of defeat left him strangely off-balance, like a punch thrown that lands in cotton. He chased my retreating back with a taunt, trying to salvage his pride. “Hmph. What a performance. Good riddance. Did you think I’d chase you and apologize? Funny.” Mark, the assistant, who knew his boss would regret these words until the day he died, nearly fainted, muttering, We’re ruined, we’re ruined. After the hospital room door clicked shut, Brooks frowned and rubbed his chest. He didn’t know if it was the accident, but his heart felt terribly uneasy. “Brooks! What’s wrong?” Amelia, who’d been beaming once I left, was startled to see two lines of tears streaming down Brooks’s face. “Why are you crying? Are you in pain?” Brooks froze, wiped his face, and felt the wetness on his hand. Strange… He wasn’t sad at all. But why wouldn’t the tears stop? The weather outside was overcast and gray. It mirrored my mood perfectly. Brooks and I had been classmates through high school and college. We fought for first place, for class president, for contest spots. We were legendary rivals—every day, we’d spend as much time scheming against each other as we did studying. I once had him sit on gum; he once got soaked by a bucket of water over his door. He terrified me with his pet hamster, and I sicced a huge, gentle mutt on him that chased him eight times around the track. The pure hatred finally morphed into pure love during a sudden power outage in the library while we were working on our college dissertations. Brooks was the only son of the extremely wealthy Sterling family. He was smart and privileged. I was a scholarship kid from a small town, a small-time grinder. I spent six years pouring all my energy into transforming him from an arrogant wild dog into a docile sheep. Any investment requires input. I didn’t regret the time I spent on Brooks. I just never expected a simple car accident—one that wasn’t even life-threatening—could erase all my effort overnight. Perhaps this was the universe handing me a chance to cut off the love, harden my heart, and focus entirely on my own career. My phone rang. It was Graham, Brooks’s best friend. “Riley, I heard about Brooks. Are… are you okay?” Graham, Brooks, and I went to the same school. During the early days of our campus romance, the three of us hung out constantly. He knew exactly how much Brooks had changed. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Focus on your art exhibition.” Graham had chosen not to inherit his family business, instead becoming a celebrated painter. He was currently preparing for a major show. The line was quiet for a moment. Then, he asked a strange question. “Are you two… going to get a divorce?” I blinked, staring at the overcast sky for a long time before I answered. “It’s the one thing he’s ever truly wanted from me.” After hanging up, I returned to the house Brooks and I had shared. Unwashed dishes were on the table, and half-finished puzzle pieces lay on the floor. Every corner of the house held the trace of our life together. After just one trip outside, everything had changed. What was most heartbreaking was that Brooks was still Brooks. He remembered everyone else, everything else. He had just forgotten the single fact that he loved me. When Graham asked if we would divorce, I already knew the answer. Six years ago, Brooks hated me so much he could barely look at me without feeling sick. He couldn’t stand breathing the same air. How could that version of him tolerate living with me now? The heater was set high, but my hands and feet were ice-cold. The door suddenly opened behind me. I turned to see Brooks, his head wrapped in bandages, Mark right behind him. Amelia was also there, clinging to Brooks’s arm like a proud little fiancée. On the wall not far from them hung Brooks’s and my wedding photo. Pre-amnesia Brooks would never have allowed this. He knew how jealous and possessive I was; to avoid being thrown out, he wouldn’t even let a female mosquito near him. But the current Brooks was clearly enjoying Amelia’s closeness. Of course—six years ago, he was madly in love with Amelia, willing to be led on like a puppy. He was infamous on campus for being her pathetic admirer. Back then, Amelia took his love for granted. It was only after he married me that she had a change of heart, texting him on our wedding night to say she would wait for him forever. It seemed she had gotten her wish. Brooks scowled the moment he saw me. He snorted, sweeping his gaze around the living room, his expression turning sour. “Seriously? This little box is where we live? It’s barely bigger than my parents’ linen closet. Did the Sterling fortune collapse or something? Why am I living in this dump?” Mark quickly explained. “Ms. Riley preferred a cozy, unpretentious house. You chose it together, Sir! You were ecstatic the day you moved in, saying you loved it.” Brooks choked on his words. He glared at Mark, threatening him darkly. “Next time, stick to explaining the situation. No unnecessary commentary.” Amelia giggled. “It’s understandable that people from less refined backgrounds have limited taste. Brooks only tolerated it out of the kindness of his heart. She’s too coarse and low-class to think about anyone else. Brooks, you must have suffered for six years. How can anyone breathe in a place this small? You can barely stretch your legs!” She shook his arm. “Brooks, go pack your things. We’re moving you out today. I’ve had my maid prepare the largest guest suite at my villa. You can stay with me.” Brooks was about to agree, but Mark frantically shook his head like a bobblehead, desperately signaling caution. “Mr. Brooks, absolutely not! You are a married man! You can’t impose on Ms. Amelia! It’s completely inappropriate, Sir. If you find this house too small, why not stay at your family’s estate for a few days?” “That works, too—” I cut Brooks off. “Mark, you don’t need to say another word. I don’t care. He can live wherever he wants. This house is in my name, and I have the right to remove people I despise.” I then pointed Brooks toward the front door, my gaze fixed on his widened eyes. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get out. This is my house, and you are not welcome here.” Brooks genuinely wanted to leave. Just looking at me irritated him. But hearing that? That made him want to stay. Leaving now would be admitting defeat. He wasn’t going to let me win. She doesn’t want to see me? Fine, I’ll stay and make her miserable! “Ha! We aren’t divorced yet. What right do you have to kick me out? So what if the house bought during the marriage is in your name? It’s communal property!” He shook off Amelia’s arm. “Amelia, be a good girl and go home. I’ll deal with this mess and come find you later.” Amelia bit her lip, trying to argue, but Mark was relentless, repeating, “Ms. Amelia, let me drive you home,” which finally drove her mad. She left, looking back at the house every three steps. After the sequence of opening and closing doors, only Brooks and I remained in the living room. He looked at the dinner table piled with leftovers, grimaced in disgust, and then slumped onto the sofa like a feudal lord. “I’m hungry. Clean this up first, and then go cook for me.” I rolled my eyes. Pretending I hadn’t heard him, I sat down on the rug and resumed working on the jigsaw puzzle. This was the last memory I shared with the real Brooks. Finishing it would be the final punctuation mark on this story of unrequited love. The man on the sofa erupted. “Hey! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” I didn’t even look up. “If you’re hungry, clean it up and cook it yourself. Stop bossing me around.” “Aren’t you my wife? Why won’t you cook for me? You must do it every day, but suddenly you can’t today? Are you doing this on purpose? Is your hand broken?” My puzzle-assembling paused. I looked up to meet his gaze. A messy palette of negative emotions—disgust, impatience, pure frustration. How familiar. This was exactly the attitude of the six-years-ago Brooks Sterling—spoiled, clueless, and convinced everyone was put on Earth to serve him. I guess after the bitter, you don’t always get the sweet. Sometimes you get something rancid and sour. If this were the past, I would have lectured him, set a new rule, or slapped him across the face. But now, it all felt pointless. “Fine. I’ll cook.” I put the puzzle down and walked into the kitchen. In my peripheral vision, Brooks looked smug and triumphant, thinking he’d won another round and pushed me back down where he thought I belonged. He couldn’t see the placid indifference on my face. He couldn’t feel the death of my love. Brooks didn’t need to try so hard to drive me away. Once the puzzle was finished, I would have left on my own. It had been a while since I’d cooked, and my skills were rusty. When I brought the plates to Brooks, he complained about every single one. “Too much oil on that. That’s cut too small. All the scallions are burnt. Don’t you know you’re supposed to sauté the meat before you season?” He stopped short, looking confused. He didn’t understand how he knew any of that. I knew, of course. For the last few years, he was the one who did the cooking. He went from nearly blowing up the kitchen to cooking like a professional chef, all within six years. He’d study new recipes with excitement, swearing that he’d cook every delicious meal in the world for me, even if he burned himself or cut his fingers. I didn’t say any of this. Brooks wouldn’t believe it anyway. It would be harder than dying to convince him that he ever loved me. “I know!” Brooks suddenly threw his chopsticks down. “Amelia loves gourmet food. I must have learned how to cook so I could make things for her! That makes sense. My skills must be amazing now!” He looked down at the unappetizing dishes I’d made, his forehead wrinkling in disgust. “How did you even make this garbage? It’s repulsive. Honestly, trash belongs in the trash.” With that, Brooks grabbed the wastebasket and scraped all three dishes—the food I’d spent an hour making—into the garbage. He hadn’t even taken a single bite. “Riley, you are truly wicked. You deliberately hid the fact that I’m a great cook now, then made this pig slop just to disgust me, didn’t you? You just wait. You mess with me, and you’ll find out the consequences!” He gave me a menacing look and went into the kitchen to cook for himself. I looked at the food in the trash. I remembered how the pre-amnesia Brooks had pleaded with me for months to cook him just one meal. The thing he once begged for was now tossed out like slop. I suddenly found the scene ridiculous. Brooks, if you ever get your memory back. Will you feel even a sliver of regret for throwing away the last meal I ever cooked for you? For an entire week, Brooks tried every trick to make me lose my temper. Amelia dropped by every few days, and together they treated our house like a revenge mission, turning it into a complete wreck. They shredded the leather sofa, poured paint into the fish tank, drew graffiti all over the walls, and used our wedding photo as a giant doodle pad. In Brooks’s mind, he truly was retaliating against an enemy. He even took the ceramic gift I’d made for him and personally smashed it, letting Amelia pour red paint over the fragments. Graham happened to drop by that day to check on Brooks and was horrified. Standing in the ruined house, he was silent for a long time before sending me a text. [Riley, you should come stay with me for a bit. Brooks… he’s not just lost his memory, he’s lost his mind.] Even an outsider like Graham knew how much Brooks treasured that gift, keeping it spotlessly clean and refusing to let anyone touch it. I thanked him but declined. I genuinely didn’t care anymore. Once I left, nothing in this house would matter to me. The only thing I protected was the half-finished puzzle on the floor. Whenever Brooks and Amelia were going insane around the house, I would quietly sit there and work on the puzzle. Only one corner remained blank. Brooks found my behavior hilarious. He and Amelia mocked me, saying I was crazy to use this childish thing to pine over the pathetic man who married me. Brooks, they laughed, hated puzzles, and had only pretended to work on it with me because I forced him. He would only ever change himself for the person he truly loved. And Brooks Sterling could never love Riley. What Brooks didn’t notice was that every time he made that cruel joke, Amelia would nervously avert her gaze, falling silent as a mute. I thought Brooks’s vengeance would stop there. I underestimated the depth of his six-years-ago hatred. I finally understood what he meant when he said, You just wait. The next day, I arrived at the office to news that our most important long-term partner was terminating the contract. For two years, our relationship had been stable and problem-free. I went pale and immediately ordered an investigation. It was only when I saw Brooks’s signature on the termination contract that a loud ringing started in my ears, and my entire body went cold. This company was one that Brooks and I had built from the ground up. It was meant to prove to the Sterling family that we could succeed without their support. Now, because of Brooks’s childish act of revenge—forcing the termination with our biggest partner, which incurred massive breach of contract fees—the company would be blacklisted within the industry and suffer unprecedented damage. Years of effort, blood, sweat, and tears—all poured down the drain. All because of Brooks Sterling’s signature. The heir had the powerful Sterling family backing him. The small-town grinder had no one. I don’t remember how I got home. I only remember seeing Amelia sitting on the slashed sofa, her foot resting on my wedding photo, her hand sporting the diamond wedding ring I’d bought, waving it at me triumphantly. My blood rushed to my head, and I charged forward, slapping her across the face. “CRACK!” The loud sound echoed throughout the living room. Brooks saw Amelia’s instantly swollen face and exploded in rage. “Riley! You’re out of your mind! You dare hit Amelia? You’re asking for it!” He lunged forward, kicking the jigsaw puzzle I was protecting. The force of his action even stunned Amelia. As if in slow motion, the puzzle exploded in the air. The pieces scattered across the floor like confetti, settling in the ruined house as if mourning its death. At the exact same moment, Brooks’s heart felt as though it had been crushed. The agony stole his breath, leaving him nauseous. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He bent over, gasping for air. The doctor had explicitly said the post-accident syndrome would not cause cardiac pain. So what was happening to him? He should have felt overjoyed at avenging himself against his enemy. Why did his heart feel like it was breaking? As he bent over, Brooks suddenly saw the jade bangle on my wrist. He remembered it. It was his grandmother’s, and he was supposed to give it to the woman he loved. And then. I spoke. “Brooks, let’s get a divorce.”

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