Author: Momo Chan

I drove all the way to the airport cargo terminal to pick up a crate of fresh peaches, shipped overnight from back home in the South. They were ripe, heavy, and smelled of the sweet, humid summers I’d left behind. My heart was light as I dialed Elliot’s number. Once. Twice. Nineteen times. No answer. My best friend, Daphne, picked up my FaceTime call on her second ring. She was flush-faced and breathless, clearly in the middle of a jog. “Still no answer?” Daphne panted, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Megan, for God’s sake, have some self-respect.” “He’s probably just in a meeting,” I defended weakly. “If a man isn’t there when you call nineteen times, he’s not worth the battery life. What if you were in a ditch somewhere? He wouldn’t even know.” I forced a laugh, trying to play it off with my usual easygoing optimism. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s just busy. Make sure you come over early tonight, okay? I’m making a feast.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the camera. “You are utterly hopeless, Megan. A textbook romantic fool.” I ended the call and slipped my hand into my coat pocket, tracing the crisp edges of the positive pregnancy test. I wanted to surprise them both tonight—my husband and my best friend. But twenty minutes later, standing outside the door of the private VIP room at Elliot’s gym, my world fell apart. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the narrow crack, a conversation drifted out, stripping the strength right out of my bones. “After today, we have to end this,” Daphne’s voice was a low, breathless murmur. “If Megan finds out, it will destroy her.” Elliot’s response was immediate, sharp, and dripping with an intensity he hadn’t shown me in years. “End it? You want to kill me, Daphne? Then we just don’t let her find out. We take it to our graves.” Seven years of freezing in this brutal northern city, trying so hard to adapt, to make this place a home. “Give up, Megan,” a cold, quiet voice inside me whispered. “Just give up.” … I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway. Ten minutes later, Elliot and Daphne walked out, one after the other. The moment Elliot saw me standing there, a flash of pure panic crossed his eyes before he quickly masked it, hurrying his pace. “Megan? What are you doing here?” He pulled out his phone, staring at the nineteen missed calls. “I’m so sorry, babe. I was in a meeting and had it on silent. Is everything okay?” The worry in his eyes looked so genuine, so real. But the faint scent of Daphne’s signature perfume clinging to his collar made me want to throw up. I flinched, stepping back to avoid his hand as he reached out to touch my forehead. “Megan, don’t let him off too easy,” Daphne chimed in, glaring playfully at Elliot before grabbing my hands. “Look at you, your hands are freezing.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing still slightly uneven. “Don’t be mad, sweetie. Once we get back, I’ll make sure he pays for keeping you waiting.” In her mouth, the word “pays” sounded heavy with a sickening intimacy. “Daphne,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I thought you were jogging outside.” Daphne’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second. She forced a bright, easy smile. “Oh, it was way too noisy on the street. I ran into Elliot in the lobby, and he offered to show me some form adjustments in the private room.” She looped her arm through mine, leaning in. “What, are you auditing my gym sessions now? Afraid I’m going to steal your husband?” It was phrased as a joke, but her eyes held a sharp, calculating scrutiny. I looked down at her hand resting on my arm. Around her wrist was the delicate, hand-woven red friendship bracelet I had crafted for her birthday. Gently, but firmly, I pulled my arm away. “I was worried you’d be hungry. I got the peaches. They’re already in the car. I’m going to make dinner for us.” Elliot let out a subtle sigh of relief and stepped forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re the best, honey. Come on, let’s go home.” When we reached the SUV, I automatically reached for the front passenger door. But Elliot’s hand shot out, gently but firmly blocking the handle. “Megan, why don’t you take the back seat?” I froze, staring at him. He avoided my gaze, looking over at Daphne instead. “Daphne just had a crazy workout. She’s soaked in sweat, and the AC vents in the back blow directly on you. She’ll catch a cold.” Daphne waved her hands in mock protest, her tone sweet and dripping with false consideration. “Oh, no, really, I’m fine! Megan gets carsick so easily. She should definitely sit up front.” She made a show of refusing, yet her feet were already moving toward the open passenger door. Elliot glanced at my pale face. “Are you feeling sick again? Did you eat something bad? Just bear with it for a few minutes, honey. We’ll be home soon.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he opened the passenger door wider for Daphne. Daphne slid into the leather seat with an apologetic pout. “Well, I guess we’re putting our sweet Megan out a little bit.” I climbed into the back alone, pulling myself into the darkest corner of the seat. Up front, Elliot was adjusting the seat angle and the AC vents for her. His movements were so practiced, so completely natural. “Is this angle okay? Not too cold?” he asked, his voice softening to a register he rarely used with me anymore. Daphne gave a soft hum of approval. Leaning my head against the cold window, I watched their quiet, synchronized interactions. My mind drifted back to when I first moved up North. The brutal winter air, the dry heat indoors, and the foreign food had triggered a massive allergic reaction. I had been miserable, covered in hives, throwing up for weeks. Elliot had held me through the long, freezing nights, kissing the tears from my swollen eyes, whispering vows into my hair. “I swear to God, Megan, I will never let you suffer. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you’re protected.” “If I ever betray you, may I rot.” Seven years. The vows were still fresh in my memory, but the man holding them had already rotted from the inside out. I gently rested my hand against my flat stomach, letting my tears fall silently in the dark. Daphne leaned back, closing her eyes to rest. Every few seconds, Elliot’s eyes would drift from the road to steal a glance at her, his face filled with an aching tenderness he couldn’t hide. It was only when we pulled into our driveway that he finally remembered I was in the car. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and asked casually, “So, what are we having for dinner?” I stared back at his reflection, holding his gaze. “Let’s have the peaches,” I said, my voice thick and slow. “One last time.” Elliot was busy draping his jacket over Daphne’s shoulders to keep her warm. He just nodded absently at my response, completely missing the raspy weight of my voice, or the finality in my words. Inside the house, Elliot stood by the kitchen island, slicing a peach for me. As the sticky sweet juice ran down his fingers, his brow furrowed, his movements tightening with a subtle irritation. “Megan, let’s stop buying these Southern peaches,” he said, tossing the knife into the sink. He pushed the plate of sliced peaches toward me and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. “We’ve been importing them for seven years. To be honest, I’m getting tired of them.” The knife in my hand slipped. The blade sliced clean into my index finger, and a bright bead of blood welled up instantly. “How are you still this careless?” Elliot sighed, grabbing my hand and pulling it under the cold running tap. I stared down at the crown of his head. My chest felt as if it were packed with frozen cotton wool. Every breath I took scratched the inside of my lungs. When I first arrived in this city, I couldn’t stomach the heavy, starchy foods. I lost fifteen pounds in the first two months. Elliot had been so worried that he spent his entire weekend driving around specialty organic markets, spending half his paycheck to order a crate of Southern peaches just to see me eat. When he peeled the first one and fed it to me, his smile had been so pure, so full of devotion. “As long as you love them, Megan, I’ll peel them for you for the rest of our lives.” The rest of our lives had only lasted seven years. I pulled my hand back gently, wrapping a paper towel around the cut. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.” Daphne leaned against the kitchen doorframe, chewing on a slice of peach. “Don’t mind him, Megan,” she murmured around the fruit, her voice dripping with casual familiarity. “As long as you like them. He’s just always hated sticky things.” Elliot didn’t deny it. Instead, he flicked a few drops of water from his hands onto her face, offering a mock scowl. “Keep your mouth shut.” Then, he naturally took the knife from my hand. “Let me finish up. Go sit down.” I forced a polite smile. “No, I’ve got it.” I turned back to the stove, sliding the chopped vegetables into the hot pan. The loud, crackling sizzle of the oil drowned out my quiet sigh. “You’re right,” I murmured. “I won’t buy them anymore.” Elliot seemed surprised by how easily I’d yielded. He cast a sideways glance at me, opening his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately picked up the bowl of peaches and walked into the dining room. From the dining room, Daphne’s voice drifted back, playful and teasing. “Come on, Elliot, peel another one! Nobody peels them as well as you do.” “Watch it, you’ll get a stomachache,” Elliot replied, his voice soft with indulgence. I brought out the last dish. Elliot was carefully pulling the bones out of a piece of fish, placing the clean meat onto Daphne’s plate. “Megan, Daphne’s stomach has been acting up lately,” he said without looking up. “Try not to make things so oily next time.” He added a piece of steamed fish to her bowl, then tossed a lonely stalk of broccoli onto my plate. “Thanks for cooking tonight.” Daphne took a bite of the fish. She chewed twice, and then her face went completely white. Suddenly, she clutched her throat, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. “Water… I need water…” Elliot scrambled to pour a glass, but when Daphne tried to drink, she choked and threw it back up. Bright red, angry hives began blooming across her neck and chest at a terrifying speed. “Elliot… I can’t… I can’t breathe…” Elliot’s face drained of color. He gathered her into his arms as she began to slump over, his voice cracking with pure terror. “Daphne! What is happening? Daphne!” She pointed a trembling finger at the plate of fish. “The glaze… there’s… peanut oil…” Elliot spun around, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he roared at me, “Megan! You know she has a severe peanut allergy! What the hell did you put in this?!” I froze, my hands shaking. “I didn’t… I only used the regular sesame glaze. I didn’t put any peanut oil in it!” “Stop lying!” Elliot shrieked. He lunged forward and shoved me out of his way. The force of his push caught me entirely off guard. I stumbled backward, my lower back crashing violently against the sharp edge of the wooden dining table. A sharp, white-hot pain flared through my abdomen. I doubled over, clutching my stomach, barely able to breathe. But Elliot didn’t even look back. He swept Daphne up into his arms and kicked the front door open, sprinting out into the night. I crumpled onto the hardwood floor, the cramping in my womb growing sharper, deeper, and heavier. Something warm and wet began to trickle slowly down the inside of my thigh. Staring at the empty, open doorway, I gathered every ounce of strength left in my body and screamed into the void: “Elliot, I’m pregnant!” But my voice only dissolved into the cold, empty air of the apartment. With shaking fingers, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 myself. At the hospital, the doctor stood over my bed, his expression grim as he reviewed my charts. “You have signs of a threatened miscarriage,” he said softly. “We need to keep you for observation. Strict bed rest. No moving, do you understand?” I lay there, staring at the sterile ceiling, listening to the muffled chatter of two nurses changing the IV bags nearby. “ER was a madhouse tonight. They brought in a girl with anaphylactic shock. Almost didn’t make it.” “Yeah, her boyfriend was practically on his knees begging the doctors to save her. Talk about true love.” A cold chill ran down my spine. “Excuse me,” I croaked, my voice dry. “The patient in the ER… what was her name?” “I think it was Daphne,” one of the nurses offered gently. Despite everything, a lingering sense of worry made me crawl out of bed. I dragged my IV pole down to the second-floor observation ward. “Daphne,” I whispered, seeing her lying pale and fragile under the white blankets. The swelling in her face had subsided. I reached out to touch her hand. But Elliot’s hand shot out, shoving me away. “She just fell asleep. Don’t wake her.” He carefully tucked the blanket around her chin, then grabbed my wrist, pulling me roughly out of the room. “How is she?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Is she going to be okay?” “Megan!” Elliot snapped, releasing my wrist with a look of absolute disgust. “She is your best friend. How could you do this to her?” “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” My voice cracked, my fingers icy cold. “I didn’t touch anything with peanuts. I know how dangerous it is for her. Why would I ever want to hurt her?” Elliot let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You were the only one in that kitchen, Megan. Who else could have done it?” I held my aching abdomen, taking a step back. “Is that really who you think I am?” He turned his face away, refusing to meet my eyes. “Just go home. I’ll stay here with Daphne. We’ll talk when she wakes up.” I couldn’t bring myself to go back to my empty room. I waited in the far corner of the hallway, desperate to make sure Daphne was safe, desperate to make him believe me. Hours later, the ward doors opened. Elliot was gently supporting Daphne as they walked out. I took a step forward, but the words that came out of Daphne’s mouth froze me in my tracks. “Elliot, it’s been three years. I can’t keep doing this. I want to tell Megan.” “Tell her? Tell her what?” Daphne’s voice rose, trembling with a fragile hysteria. “Tell her that three years ago, when she was crying in a hospital bed waiting for her appendix surgery, we were hooked up in a hotel downtown?” “Tell her that I’ve been sleeping with her husband behind her back?” “We made a mistake, Elliot! We betrayed her!” “Don’t you dare say that!” Elliot’s voice was fiercely protective. I bit my lip so hard I tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood. “Three years ago.” I remembered that night. I had been rolling in agony on a hospital cot, calling Elliot over and over. He told me he was stuck at a last-minute corporate retreat. I had called Daphne, and she had cried on the phone, claiming she was stuck on a business trip out of state. I had actually spent my energy comforting “her”, telling her it was fine, that I would be okay. How could I have been so incredibly blind? “You almost died tonight, Daphne!” Elliot urged, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be with you openly!” Daphne let out a broken sob, her voice softening. “I don’t blame her, Elliot… but think about how much this will destroy her. She moved all the way up North for you… seven years of her life…” She wept into his chest. Elliot cupped her face, tenderly wiping away her tears before pulling her into a desperate, passionate kiss. “I won’t let her hurt you again, Daphne. I promise. I’ll handle everything, okay?” Watching them hold each other in the dim light of the hospital corridor, something inside me clicked shut. I turned around, walked back to the doctor’s office, and scheduled the earliest appointment for a termination procedure. It was late afternoon by the time I returned to the apartment. Elliot was waiting in the living room. The moment I walked through the door, he rushed toward me, trying to grab my hands. “Megan, where the hell have you been? You look terrible. Do you have any idea how worried Daphne and I were?” I slipped my hands behind my back, avoiding his touch. “I stayed at a friend’s place.” Elliot’s hands hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly dropping to his sides. “Well… as long as you’re okay.” “Megan!” Daphne leaned against the doorframe of the guest room, her face still slightly washed out. “I’m so sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to keep Elliot away from you.” Seeing her, Elliot immediately rushed to her side, offering his arm. “You’re still weak. Why are you out of bed? Megan’s back now, you can rest easy.” Daphne looked at me, a tight smile on her face. “Megan, let’s just put last night behind us. Tomorrow is Elliot’s birthday. What secret gift did you plan for him?” She was desperate to steer the conversation away from the kitchen. “It’s a surprise,” I said quietly. I walked over to the coffee table, picked up my phone, and opened a forum link I had saved. “Daphne, I saw a thread online earlier. I thought it was pretty interesting and wanted to get your take on it.” I turned the screen toward her. The headline was bold: “I just found out my partner of seven years has been sleeping with my best friend for three. What should I do?” Daphne’s face drained of what little color she had left. She shot a panicked look at Elliot. Elliot froze, staring at the screen, his breathing suddenly heavy and ragged. “Why… why are you reading garbage like that?” Daphne forced a laugh, her voice trembling violently. “Just curious,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “If you were the girlfriend, what would you do?” Daphne bit her lip, her eyes darting around the room. “I… I’d dump him, obviously. Start over.” “Exactly,” I nodded. Elliot’s jaw clenched, his posture incredibly stiff. “Daphne and I need to go make reservations for tomorrow night before they fill up.” He grabbed his coat, pulled Daphne with him, and slammed the front door behind them. The moment the lock clicked, a massive wave of relief washed over me. I walked into the bedroom and packed my bags. I didn’t take a single thing Elliot had bought me over the last seven years. I only packed the worn-out clothes and personal keepsakes I had brought from the South. I slipped my engagement ring off my finger and placed it in the center of the kitchen island. Next to it, I laid my house key. I rolled my suitcase out of the building and hailed a cab straight to the airport. As the plane roared down the runway and lifted into the night sky, I looked out at the city lights shrinking below me, and finally let go. That night, Elliot and Daphne didn’t come back to the apartment. The following evening, Elliot’s birthday dinner was held at an upscale downtown restaurant. Friends were laughing, clinking glasses, and Daphne was tucked close to his side, radiant. “Where’s Megan?” one of their mutual friends asked. “Didn’t she say she had a surprise for you?” Elliot frowned, pulling out his phone. The last message from me was still from three days ago. Just then, a waiter approached their table carrying an elegant, beautifully wrapped box. “Pardon me, is one of you Mr. Elliot? A local courier just dropped this off from a Ms. Megan.” Elliot’s face relaxed into a smug smile. “I knew it. She might be stubborn, but she’d never miss my birthday.” He proudly opened the box in front of everyone. But the moment he saw what was inside, the blood completely drained from his face. “No… this can’t be…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “531002”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the eve of our wedding, my fiancé, Tyler, snuck off to the county clerk’s office and got a marriage license with my best friend, Cassie. She posted it on her private Instagram—a caption dripping with bittersweet regret. She had forgotten to exclude me from her Close Friends list. “Husband and wife, if only for a day. From now on, we walk our separate paths.” The second my finger tapped the heart icon, the post vanished. A heartbeat later, Tyler’s name flashed on my screen. He sounded breathless, stumbling over his words. “It was just a stupid game of Truth or Dare, Rebecca. Cassie lost, okay? She used my name and Photoshopped a marriage certificate. I already chewed her out for it. Please don’t overthink this.” “Our wedding is tomorrow, and you’re carrying our baby. You need to rest.” Before I could say a word, the line went dead. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and immediately called my OB-GYN’s clinic to schedule an abortion. There was no way I was walking down that aisle. But the moment I walked into the clinic, Tyler rushed in. He claimed he was from the past—the eighteen-year-old version of himself. His teenage eyes were soft, brimming with a desperate affection, asking over and over if we were married yet in this timeline. Before I could even process what was happening, translucent lines of text—like a live chat overlay—began to float right in front of my eyes. [God, the heroine is so pathetic. Surely she doesn’t believe his BS? He’s only pretending to be eighteen because the clinic staff tipped him off that she was here for an abortion.] [Honestly, she should just marry him. A few days after the wedding, that toxic best friend dies in a car crash while they’re hooking up. After that, he becomes completely devoted to her.] I stared at Tyler, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Tomorrow is our wedding,” I said quietly. “I just came to pick up some prenatal vitamins and cold medicine.” … Tyler let out a massive sigh of relief. “That’s… that’s amazing,” he murmured, playing the part of a wide-eyed boy. “I can’t believe I get to see my future wedding.” I kept my face perfectly still, though my chest felt hollow. The real eighteen-year-old Tyler would have lost his mind if he thought I was sick. He would have badgered me with a thousand questions, wishing he could catch the cold for me. The man standing in front of me couldn’t even bother to put effort into his performance anymore. Tyler looked down, avoiding my eyes. “Rebecca, I only have a short time here in the future. I want to look around the city on my own for a bit. Can I come back to you tomorrow?” I squeezed my hands into fists. “Sure.” The floating chat feed flared up again. [She actually believed him? He’s using the “looking around” excuse to go hook up with Cassie again!] [He is trash. No wonder the groveling arc later is so brutal. My poor girl is being so blind right now.] [Right? Has she seriously not noticed Cassie’s entire social media is basically a shrine to him?] I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Cassie’s feed. She was a chronic poster, always chasing likes. In the past, I’d merely double-tapped out of habit, never looking closely. Now, the truth stared back at me in high definition. Her most recent post was a grid of nine photos. My eyes locked onto one of them—a shadow cast on the pavement. I knew the silhouette of Tyler’s shoulders anywhere. And there, glinting on the wrist, was the Omega watch I had bought him for our anniversary. I scrolled up. Nearly every post had a piece of Tyler hidden in plain sight. A hand on a coffee cup, a pair of legs stretching out on a patio chair, a set of keys. But never his face. If it hadn’t been for that accidental Close Friends post, I might have gone to my grave blind. I locked my phone and sat on a park bench for a long time, watching the autumn leaves drift across the concrete. The silence was deafening. While I sat there, my phone buzzed. Cassie had posted again. She was holding a massive bouquet of red roses, her arm looped through Tyler’s. His face was cropped out, but his physical presence was unmistakable. Her caption: [You are the love of my youth.] A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and heavy, blurring the screen. The chat overlay scrolled by: [Finally, she’s seeing it! He’s literally all over her right now. It’s disgusting. Why isn’t she catching them in the act?] [They’re literally hooking up in a car parked on the street nearby. If she just walks over, she’ll catch them red-handed.] I looked across the street. A familiar pink sedan was parked by the curb. Cassie’s car. The vehicle was rocking with rhythmic, unmistakable motion. I grabbed my purse, stood up, and walked over. As my shadow fell across the tinted windows, the motion abruptly stopped. Total silence. I knocked on the glass. No response. Instead of making a scene, I stood there, pulled out my phone, and called the local parking enforcement line to report an illegally parked vehicle blocking a fire hydrant. Panicked, the doors flew open. Cassie and Tyler scrambled out, their clothes desperately disheveled. Tyler’s button-down shirt was misaligned, his collar turned inside out. It was pathetic. He tried to look bewildered and innocent. “Rebecca! What’s wrong? Why didn’t you recognize Cassie’s car?” My eyes drifted to the faint red smudge on his neck. I hung up the phone. “What are you two doing here?” Cassie’s jaw was tight, but she shot a glance at Tyler, her eyes filled with a smug, defiant confidence. Tyler stammered, “I… I just ran into her. I asked her to show me around the neighborhood. You know, since I’m eighteen again, everything looks so different. I wanted to find you a perfect wedding gift.” I forced a polite smile. “Oh, I see. Then let me join you. A lot has changed in ten years. Let’s go together.” The chat feed went wild: [Is she seriously buying this? Look at their clothes! Cassie’s dress literally has stains on it!] [Keep watching, I can’t take this frustration.] Cassie’s face contorted. “Oh, sweetie, you’re the bride. You shouldn’t be running around exhausting yourself.” “I’m fine,” I replied. Reluctantly, they let me in. Cassie drove, Tyler sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in the back. Neither of them seemed to realize how absurd this was. From the back seat, I saw the lipstick mark on the back of Tyler’s neck. My throat tightened. “Cassie,” I said quietly. “Are you going to explain why you Photoshopped a marriage license with my fiancé?” She laughed, a high, forced sound. “It was just a joke, Becca. Don’t be so sensitive. You’re my best friend—what’s wrong with borrowing your husband for a laugh?” The chat overlay chimed in: [What is going on? She knows the truth, so why is she just asking questions? Don’t tell me she’s going to forgive them.] [Ugh, she’s so codependent. In the original timeline, she forgave him because Cassie died in the crash. She’s going to do it again, isn’t she?] I dug my nails into my palms until the pain cleared my head. “Pull over.” Tyler flinched, looking back at me with sudden panic. “What’s wrong?” “I said, pull over.” Cassie hit the brakes, pulling the car onto the shoulder of the busy road. My voice remained dead calm. “Tyler. Slap Cassie. Ten times. Hard.” Tyler gasped, turning around to glare at me. “Rebecca! Have you lost your mind? She’s your best friend!” My gaze was icy. “Tyler, when you were eighteen, you did whatever I told you. Back in high school, when those kids bullied me, you didn’t hesitate to throw a punch. Why is this any different? I don’t like other people touching my things. Even her.” Cassie started to cry. “Becca, please. It was just a stupid post.” “Do it, Tyler,” I commanded. They wanted to play games? Fine. Let’s play. The chat overlay lit up: [Oh my god, yes! She’s making them turn on each other!] [This is brilliant! Let them tear each other apart!] [He’s trapped. He claimed to be his younger, devoted self—he has to prove it now.] Tyler was sweating, his face tense with anxiety. He raised his hand, looking at Cassie with genuine pain in his eyes. Cassie stared back at him, her eyes wide with betrayal. She couldn’t believe he would actually do it. “Becca, we’ve been friends for ten years. You can’t do this to me,” she sobbed. Ten years of friendship, and she was sleeping with my fiancé. Tyler gritted his teeth and let his hand fall against Cassie’s cheek. It was a weak, soft slap. “Harder,” I whispered. “I’m not satisfied.” Tyler closed his eyes and delivered a stinging slap that left a red mark on her face. Cassie burst into tears, clutching her cheek. Seeing the agonizing sympathy in Tyler’s eyes made my stomach turn. He loved her. He loved her so much he didn’t even realize he was blowing his own cover. What did our ten years together mean to him? The sound of slaps echoed in the tight space of the car alongside Cassie’s quiet whimpering. No one spoke. Finally, Cassie couldn’t take it anymore. She threw open the driver’s side door and ran out into the street. Tyler instinctively reached out after her. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Does it hurt you to see her cry?” He snapped his hand back, his voice too high. “Of course not! I was just… I was thinking about you. You two have been friends forever. It’s a shame to ruin that over a misunderstanding.” “Is it? I thought you always hated her.” When Tyler was pursuing me in college, he complained constantly about Cassie taking up too much of my time. He’d written in his journal back then that he wished she would just disappear. I had scolded him for it. Tyler frozen. “I… I do hate her. I’m just worried you won’t have any friends left.” “I don’t need friends like her.” Tyler had no comeback. “Rebecca, what happened to you? You used to be so kind, so forgiving.” “People change,” I said simply. He looked deeply unsettled by that. On the drive back, Tyler’s phone buzzed incessantly. We both knew it was Cassie. He wanted to check it, but he couldn’t—not while playing the innocent eighteen-year-old. Once we reached our apartment, Tyler tried to sound domestic. “Get some rest, okay? My parents are so excited about the baby. We can’t let them down. I have to return Cassie’s car keys to her, so I’ll be back in a bit.” I leaned against the window frame. “Tyler, how did you know I was pregnant?” He blinked, his eyes darting away. “Oh… Cassie told me.” “Right. Go on, then. Just make sure you’re back tonight.” Relieved, he hurried out. I watched his car disappear down the street. Tyler had severe oligospermia—a low sperm count. The fertility specialists had told us even IVF might not work. We had accepted that we might never have a child. But then, against all odds, I had gotten pregnant naturally. His family had been ecstatic, rushing us to the altar. That baby was the only reason Tyler cared enough to lie to me now. I placed a hand over my stomach. “I’m sorry, little one,” I thought. “Find a happier home in your next life.” An hour later, Cassie posted another update. It was a direct provocation. [A woman with real power never fears losing her man.] The photo showed Tyler from behind, standing in her kitchen, making coffee. She was bold now; anyone who knew him would recognize his posture. I smiled and tapped the heart icon. The chat overlay floated up: [Look at this audacity! He’s back in her bed, promising her this is the “last time.”] [Oh my god, I can’t. Why is the heroine just sitting there? Do something!] [Is she really going to marry him? She didn’t even get the abortion.] Unbothered, I opened an app on my phone. It connected to a hidden security camera in Cassie’s living room. I had installed it for her years ago after her apartment was broken into. Now, it was going to serve a different purpose. I adjusted the camera angle remotely toward her velvet sofa. There they were, completely oblivious, tangled together. Cassie wrapped her arms around his neck. “You behaved well today. I suppose I can forgive you.” Tyler kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I can’t give you a ring. I can’t leave Rebecca.” “It’s fine. Once you’re married, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened.” Tyler’s eyes softened with guilt as he pulled her back down. I pressed the record button. The chat feed erupted: [I knew she had a plan! This video is going to destroy them!] [Oh, the wedding tomorrow is going to be spectacular!] [Let’s see him try to play the innocent eighteen-year-old after this.] I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, Tyler showed up at the venue just in time, holding a bouquet of white peonies. He didn’t offer any explanation for where he’d spent the night, assuming I’d forgotten his promise to return. I stood on the stage, looking down at Cassie sitting in the third row. The smile on my face widened. “The eighteen-year-old Tyler never broke a promise,” I whispered as he stood beside me. Tyler’s chest tightened. “Rebecca, what do you mean?” I reached up, gently adjusting his crooked tie. “When do you think you’ll go back to your own time?” He stammered, “Soon, I guess.” “Tyler, the boy I loved at eighteen wanted to be near me every second. He would never have left me alone on the eve of our wedding, and he certainly wouldn’t have spent the night at Cassie’s.” “You’ve got it wrong,” he whispered frantically. “I wasn’t with her.” “Stop acting. You’re terrible at it.” His eyes widened. A split second later, a collective gasp echoed through the chapel. The giant projection screen, which was supposed to show our romantic photo slideshow, began playing the high-definition footage of Tyler and Cassie on her living room sofa. I had spent the entire night editing it. From the crowd, Cassie let out a bloodcurdling shriek. “That’s not me! It’s a deepfake!” Tyler screamed at the tech booth, “Turn it off! Shut it down!” But the guests were already staring, whispering, recording with their phones. Under the intense stress and the judging eyes of everyone we knew, Cassie’s body stiffened. She fell to the floor, having a severe stress-induced seizure. Tyler froze, looking at her, then back at me. Panic overtook him. He rushed off the stage, lifting her into his arms. I picked up the microphone, my voice echoing through the speakers. “Tyler! If you walk out that door with her, this pregnancy is over.” Tyler paused, caught in a terrible, agonizing hesitation. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. And then he ran. The chat text scrolled by: [Let him go. He’ll find out the truth soon enough.]

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We were huddled around a low marble table, a half-empty bottle of gin between us, trying to play matchmaker for my best friend and her crush. A few drinks in, the toy lie-detector was placed in front of my boyfriend, Garrett. Smiling, I leaned in and asked a question I thought was harmless: “If we ever have a baby, what would you want to name her?” Without a second of hesitation, Garrett blurted out, “Ellie.” My name is Brielle. To me, “Ellie” sounded like the sweetest, most tender diminutive he could have chosen for me—a soft play on the syllables of my own name. The green light flashed. It was the truth. A warm flush rushed to my cheeks. Our friends erupted into cheers, clinking their glasses and teasing us about domestic bliss. Even my best friend, Ella, draped her arm around my shoulders, her eyes shining with what looked like pure envy. “I was so against you two dating at first,” she whispered, her breath warm against my neck. “But look at you now. You’re so happy it almost makes me regret it.” At the time, I thought she was just being sentimental, watching her best friend settle into a stable, loving relationship. I didn’t think twice about the slight edge in her voice. Until Memorial Day weekend, the very day we were supposed to meet Garrett’s parents to discuss our wedding plans. I was in my apartment when my phone rang—a call from an unknown, heavily static-laced number. The voice on the other end was a little girl, sobbing, claiming to be my daughter from five years in the future. Heart hammering, caught between amusement and a strange, cold dread, I played along and asked her that same question. “Sweetie, is your name Ellie? Are Mommy and Daddy happy?” But the little girl didn’t giggle. Instead, her voice cracked, dissolving into a ragged, desperate sob. “No! We’re not happy at all!” “Mommy cries every single day. Daddy is always running off to take care of Aunt Ella’s daughter. I hate them so much!” … Hearing those words felt like a physical blow to my chest. Aunt Ella. Out of everyone in my life, there was only one person that could refer to. But the implication was too absurd, too devastating to contemplate. I dug my fingernails into my palms, my teeth chattering as I forced the next words out of my throat. “Sweetie… is the Aunt Ella you’re talking about… is she Ella Dawson?” It was the most horrifying question I could ask, yet I had to hear it. The little girl’s crying only intensified. “Yes, her! Daddy’s computer is full of files with Aunt Ella’s name on them. Mommy, please, can we just leave him? Please?” A sharp, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My brain went entirely numb. Before I could press her for more, loud, violent shouting erupted in the background of the call. “Garrett, if you walk out that door to see Ella again today, I swear I will kill myself right in front of you!” The male voice that replied was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the warmth I had grown to love. It was a stranger’s voice. “Then go ahead and do it!” Garrett’s voice spat. “You’re so fucking hysterical all the time—no wonder your mother walked out on you. If I had known you’d turn into this nightmare, I never would have broken up with Ella in the first place!” The little girl’s quiet whimpering broke into a terrified wail. Then came the thunderous slam of a front door, followed by the agonizing shatter of glass, and my own voice—screaming from five years in the future. “Why? Why can’t I ever have your heart?” “Garrett! I hate you!” My breath caught. I couldn’t move. I expected the line to go dead, but the feed kept running. Then came a desperate, frantic plea from the child. “Mommy! Don’t take those pills! Please, Mommy, it’s my fault! Don’t die, please!” “If I knew, I’d rather never have been born!” The sound of a mother and daughter weeping, clinging to each other in absolute despair, echoed clearly through the speaker. A suffocating wave of pain washed over me. It wasn’t just Garrett’s betrayal; it was Ella’s, too. The line finally went dead. I slowly lowered my phone, staring blankly at the wall as hot, silent tears began to track down my face. Every word from that call felt like a scalpel carving into my chest. My throat felt tight, like someone was choking me. And then, my screen lit up with a text from Garrett. Babe, I got the Memorial Day gift baskets for your parents. They’re already in the trunk. I’m going to be a little late, though. I need to drop off Ella’s basket first. It’s on the way, so I figured I’d just pick her up and bring her to the restaurant with us. I stared at the message. I had been playing a supporting role in my own love story, sharing a crowded stage without even realizing it. If that was the case, I was choosing to step off the stage entirely. I didn’t reply to his text. Instead, I drafted an email to my landlord, requesting to terminate my lease early. I pulled my suitcase out from the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece. Every framed photo, every card, every little trinket Garrett had ever bought me went straight into a heavy-duty trash bag, which I hauled down to the dumpster. When I walked back inside, the late May air felt biting and cruel. Or maybe it was just my heart freezing over. For the two years Garrett and I had been together, we were inseparable, completely wrapped up in each other. Everyone in our social circle talked about us as “endgame.” Everyone except Ella, who constantly whispered doubts in my ear, criticizing his flaws. I had always assumed they just didn’t get along. Yet, whenever Garrett and I planned a date night, Ella somehow always ended up tagging along. Garrett had complained about it at first, but gradually, he grew used to her presence. To the point where now, buying a holiday gift basket for my family automatically meant buying one for Ella, too. I used to think it was sweet. I felt relieved that my boyfriend and my best friend were finally putting aside their differences. But now, the harsh words from that future call echoed in my mind. My mother had run off with a wealthy man when I was only two years old. When I met Ella in high school, she took on a protective, almost maternal role in my life. I trusted her implicitly. I opened my message history with Garrett and began scrolling backward. The evidence was hiding in plain sight. June 1st: [Got you a necklace, and a bracelet for Ella. Happy June!] Now that I thought about it, Ella’s gift was a beautiful, sparkling Swarovski crystal bracelet. The necklace I was wearing felt cheap in comparison—almost like a free gift-with-purchase that came with her bracelet. February 14th: [Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Booked the flights and hotel for the three of us. Make sure you set an alarm so we don’t miss our flight.] A Valentine’s Day trip. Ella hadn’t even asked to come, yet Garrett had automatically booked her a ticket without a second thought. I kept scrolling. Her name was woven into every plan, every conversation, every weekend. He was used to it, and I had been brainwashed into accepting it. I had been completely blind. A tear splashed onto the screen, blurring the text. I blinked it away and looked up, my gaze landing on the framed photo on my nightstand. It was from our Valentine’s trip to Savannah. In the photo, I was standing in the middle, smiling brightly at the camera. Ella and Garrett stood on either side of me. But looking closely now, a detail I had never noticed before jumped out at me. The puzzle pieces finally clicked together. They were both slightly angled toward the center. But if I blocked my own figure out with my thumb, it was obvious. They weren’t looking at the camera. Their eyes were locked on each other. I opened the shared digital album on my phone. The reality was almost comical. Out of the three hundred and one photos, nearly all of them featured the three of us. And at the very bottom of the album was a solo shot of Ella. In every group photo, I was the buffer in the middle. If you cropped me out of any of them, they looked like a couple in deep, silent conversation. A violent wave of nausea hit me. I stumbled out of bed, rushing to the bathroom, and collapsed over the toilet, dry-heaving. It was sick. It was so incredibly sick. In the middle of my panic, my phone began to buzz. Garrett’s caller ID flashed on the screen. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, and answered. But it wasn’t Garrett on the line. It was Ella. “Brielle! We’re almost at your building. Get ready to come down! You have five minutes. Put on something gorgeous! Today is your big day.” Before I could say a word, she hung up. Right. If she hadn’t reminded me, I would have forgotten. Today was the formal dinner where my dad was supposed to meet Garrett’s parents. And even on a day as intimate and critical as this, Ella had positioned herself to attend as part of my “family.” I dragged myself up and stared at my reflection. My face was pale, but my features were still striking. I looked hollow. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that the broken, screaming woman on the phone from five years in the future was actually me. I quickly splashed cold water on my face and put on minimal makeup. I unclasped the cheap necklace Garrett had given me and tossed it onto the vanity. Hearing a car horn honk outside, I grabbed my purse and went downstairs. The moment I got into the back seat, Ella turned around and began to lecture me. “Brielle, what is this? I told you to dress up! Why are you wearing something so plain?” As she spoke, she reached naturally into the glove compartment, pulling out a tube of lipstick and offering it to me. Garrett glanced over from the driver’s seat with a chuckle. “Ella, stop trying to corrupt my girlfriend. That shade is way too loud. It doesn’t suit Brielle.” My hand froze halfway to the tube. I kept my voice light, casual. “How do you know what shade she wears, Garrett?” Garrett didn’t even blink. His tone was perfectly easy. “I bought that lipstick, remember? I got you both one. You were the one who complained your shade didn’t suit you. Ella’s always been into those classic reds and plums.” My hands began to tremble again. This was a man who couldn’t even remember that I preferred tea over coffee, yet he had memorized Ella’s favorite lipstick shades. But I didn’t say anything. I simply withdrew my hand. “Never mind. It really doesn’t suit me. I’ll stick to my own.” I stared at the back of their heads. Only now did I notice that they were wearing matching vintage leather jackets—the exact same brand, the exact same shade of chestnut brown. They looked like a couple in a catalog. They had bought them while shopping together, and I had foolishly cheered them on, thinking nothing of it. Ella had even posted a picture of them on her Instagram. The more I recalled the past, the deeper my nails bit into my palms. It was only the sharp pinch of physical pain that brought me back to reality. The car pulled up to the restaurant—a cozy Italian bistro we frequented. Staring at the sign, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Ella’s Instagram archive. She had posted a photo of this exact place a few months ago. The caption read: Obsessed with the truffle gnocchi here! If I could eat this every day, I’d die happy. While I was looking at my phone, Garrett had already hopped out and opened the passenger door for Ella. As she stepped out, he reached out with natural familiarity and touched her forehead. “How was the ride? You didn’t get carsick, did you?” Ella playfully swatted his hand away. She rolled her eyes, but her expression was soft, teasing. Ordinarily, I would have made a joke about them bickering like siblings, laughing along to keep the peace. But now, I saw Garrett’s reaction. He didn’t look annoyed at all. He just looked at her with pure, indulgent affection. They started walking toward the entrance before realizing I hadn’t even opened my door. Garrett looked back, frowning. “Brielle, you coming?” He was standing only a few feet away. But in our two years together, I had never felt so utterly distant from him. He didn’t make any move to walk back and open the door for me. I opened it myself and stepped out. I walked a step ahead of them. They fell into step behind me, whispering and laughing about some inside joke. The entire walk inside was filled with their playful banter. I didn’t say a single word. When we sat down at the table, Garrett naturally took the middle seat in the booth. He had always claimed he sat in the middle so he could easily pass dishes to both of us. Now I realized it was just a pathetic excuse to slide closer to Ella. Our parents hadn’t arrived yet. Garrett handed me the digital tablet menu. “Go ahead and order whatever you and your dad want. You two are always so picky.” I looked at the pre-selected items in the cart. Almost every single dish was something Ella loved. I didn’t argue. I just added a couple of side dishes. After all, I wasn’t the real lead in this play anymore. Garrett didn’t even look at what I added. He just tapped “confirm” and waved the waiter over. A few minutes later, Garrett’s parents arrived. We all stood up to greet them. But before I could even introduce myself, Garrett’s mother walked straight past me, wrapping her arms around Ella. “Ella! I knew it was you. Didn’t you tell me you and Garrett broke up? I knew you two couldn’t stay apart for long. Oh, sweetie, I’m so thrilled to see you!” An uncomfortable, suffocating silence fell over the table. Garrett and Ella’s faces went pale with embarrassment. I stood there, watching them quietly. His mother was still holding Ella’s hand, beaming. Even though I had always known they dated briefly in college, seeing his mother treat Ella as the default daughter-in-law was a different kind of pain. But as I stood there witnessing it, I realized I felt completely, utterly numb. Garrett didn’t try to clarify things for his mother. He just gently guided her to sit down across from us. Noticing the look on my face, he leaned in and whispered in my ear. “We’ll talk about this later. It’s not what you think.” I looked at him and smiled softly. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I trust you.” Garrett stared at me, trying to read my expression. Relieved by my easy response, he let out a breath and sat back. The food arrived, filling the table. But my dad still hadn’t shown up. We sat in awkward silence for twenty minutes. Garrett’s parents were beginning to look annoyed. Only their fondness for Ella kept them from complaining out loud. Garrett leaned over, his voice tight. “Brielle, does your dad not like me? Is that why he’s blowing us off? If he has an issue, give me his number. I’ll call him myself. I worked so hard to set this up. Can you just get him here?” Even Ella chimed in, using that same patronizing, sisterly tone she always used with me. “Brielle, did your dad forget? Or did you forget to tell him? I told you to double-check with him. You’re always so disorganized.” I looked at the two of them, and a slow, empty smile spread across my face. “No. They’ll be here any minute. Just wait.” Right on cue, the heavy wooden door of the private dining room swung open. But the people who walked in made everyone at the table freeze in sheer shock. It was Ella’s parents. “Ella,” her mother said, looking around the room in confusion. “Why didn’t you tell us you were finalizing your wedding plans today? We had to hear it from Brielle!”

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I lied about my age and spent three months in a purely digital, voice-only relationship with a man six years older than me. Over the phone, his voice was a masterclass in gentle restraint. But when the hours bled into the middle of the night, it would drop into a gravelly, resonant register, trembling just a fraction when he called me “baby”. But I lost my nerve. The day I decided to break it off, I blocked and deleted him across every platform. I didn’t even leave him a single word of explanation. Months later, the ancient radiator in my apartment practically exploded, turning my bedroom into a swamp. My roommate, Piper, took one look at the mess and told me to pack a bag—we were crashing at her older brother’s condo for a few days. The moment the front door swung open, I found myself staring into a pair of impossibly cold, dark eyes. He was leaning against the entryway wall, wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Long, architectural fingers loosely held an unlit cigarette. His face was striking. Pale skin, a sharp, aristocratic brow, and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass. He was too devastatingly handsome to feel real. And entirely, brutally cold. He dragged his gaze over me, didn’t say a single word, and turned to walk up the stairs. Piper leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Don’t mind him. My brother’s just like that.” “Ever since his ex dumped him out of nowhere, he looks at everyone like they’re a tax audit.” “Plus, he absolutely loathes women who throw themselves at him. Just keep your distance and you’ll be fine.” 1 I nodded. “What does it have to do with me anyway?” I thought. That was, until dinner. Piper took a call from their mother, and casually yelled over her shoulder— “Hey, Declan! Mom wants us home for dinner tomorrow.” The fork slipped through my fingers. It hit the edge of my ceramic plate with a sharp, echoing “clink”. Declan. I had heard that name a thousand times. In voice notes sent at two in the morning. In those low, breathy murmurs that used to make my face burn and my lungs forget how to work. It was the first thing he said every time he initiated a call: “It’s Declan. Tell me you missed me today.” I froze, completely paralyzed. Across the dining table, the man lifted his eyes at the sound of my dropped fork. Those dark eyes swept over me, utterly devoid of warmth. Like he was looking at a ghost. Or worse—a stranger. Beside me, Piper was still rambling. “Oh, by the way, Quinn, my brother’s full name is Declan Prescott. It’s just the two of us kids in the family, so just make sure you don’t mess up the names when you meet my parents.” My lips parted, but my throat refused to form a single, coherent syllable. Declan Prescott. My internet ex-boyfriend. The man I had mercilessly ghosted and blocked eight months ago. And he was currently sitting exactly six feet across from me, chewing his dinner with the blank expression of a sociopath. I was dead. Absolutely, unequivocally dead. 2 I couldn’t have written a worse script for my life if I tried. Accidentally dating my roommate’s older brother online was one level of hell. Having to move into his apartment eight months after I broke his heart was the basement of that hell. That night, I lay awake in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning until the sheets were a tangled mess. All I could see was Declan’s face. —And the memory of his voice. Truthfully, in those three months of talking, we hadn’t even exchanged photos. He had said there was no rush, that he would wait until I was ready to meet in person. But his voice had been an unfair advantage. Deep, crisp, with that slight, raspy edge at the end of his sentences. When he talked about his day, he sounded like a late-night radio host. When he whispered those… “other” things… I pulled the duvet over my head, groaning into the dark. “Stop thinking about it.” Back then, the username I used was “Clementine,” and I had deliberately pitched my voice a little lower, a little smoother. I told him I was twenty-two, freshly graduated, and working my first corporate job. In reality, I was nineteen. A college sophomore. I had built a house of cards, and when the wind finally picked up, I terrified myself so badly that I just ran. I tried to soothe my racing heart: “There’s no way he knows.” He only knew my fake, lowered voice. He didn’t know my face, my real name, or even what city I actually lived in. As long as I acted normal, I would survive this. Early the next morning, the jarring sound of the doorbell woke me. In the room next door, Piper was still snoring softly. Resigned, I dragged myself out of bed and padded downstairs to open the door. A delivery driver in a uniform stood on the porch, holding two massive brown paper bags from a high-end bakery. “Order for Mr. Prescott.” I took the bags, muttered a quick thank you, and shut the door. As I turned around, the sound of footsteps on the hardwood stairs made my breath hitch. Declan was walking down, wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was slightly rumpled, and there was a heavy, sleep-tousled lethargy in his eyes. It made him look far less like the unapproachable ice king from last night and entirely too much like… “Stop. Don’t look at him.” “Your delivery.” I set the bags on the kitchen island and immediately pivoted to escape back upstairs. “Hold on.” His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. My spine locked. “The mugs are in the top cabinet. You’re too short. I’ll get them.” Declan walked right past me, the faint scent of cedarwood and clean laundry trailing behind him. He effortlessly swung open the high cabinet door, pulled down two ceramic mugs, and held one out to me. “Th… thanks.” He didn’t look at me again. He just sat down on a barstool and began unrolling the tops of the bakery bags. I stood there clutching the empty mug to my chest for an embarrassingly long time before I remembered I was supposed to be getting water. My heart was hammering against my ribs. It was the most mundane sentence in the world. But the moment the timbre of his voice hit the air, I couldn’t stop it from overlapping with those late-night whispers etched into my memory. —”Clementine, tell me you missed me today.” —”Be a good girl. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in your dreams.” I practically choked on a huge gulp of freezing water. This wouldn’t work. If this kept up, I was going to give myself away. 3 Piper finally dragged herself downstairs. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, but her eyes lit up the second she saw the spread on the island. “Declan, what’s with the charity? You never order breakfast.” Declan was scrolling through his phone, not even bothering to look up. “Fridge was empty. Didn’t feel like cooking.” Piper rolled her eyes, pulled up a stool next to me, and started devouring a croissant. Halfway through, she paused and leaned into my space. “Quinn, why is your face so red?” “The heat’s up too high.” I ducked my head and aggressively stirred my oatmeal. Piper shrugged it off, her ADHD brain seamlessly pivoting to a new topic. “Oh, right. Mom said I have to bring you home for dinner this weekend. She’s been dying to meet you.” “She wants to personally thank you for tutoring me through finals every semester.” My spoon hit the bottom of the bowl. Back to the Prescott family home. Didn’t that mean even more forced proximity with Declan? “She really doesn’t have to do that…” “Don’t be silly, my mom is an incredible cook,” Piper said, hooking her arm through mine. “It’s a date.” Across the island, Declan set his phone face down on the marble. He looked at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “What school do you go to?” The sudden question nearly made me inhale my oatmeal. “Uh, same as Piper. UChicago. English Lit.” “What year?” “Sophomore.” He gave a slow nod and didn’t press further. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the way he was looking at me had shifted. There was a sudden weight to his gaze. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking. After breakfast, Piper dragged me out to the city for some shopping. The moment we stepped out of the condo, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for hours. I was finally safe from the suffocating orbit of Declan Prescott. But halfway through the boutiques on Michigan Avenue, Piper casually dropped a bomb. “Did you know my brother actually had an online relationship once?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the handles of a clothing rack. “Oh… really?” “Yeah, it was absolutely wild,” Piper said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve seen him. In real life, he’s basically a walking freezer.” “But when he was talking to this girl? He was obsessed. Clingy, even. He’d be on the phone with her until three or four in the morning.” “And then, one day, the bitch just vanished. Didn’t even leave a goodbye text.” Piper stopped walking and looked at me. “Take a guess how my brother reacted.” I didn’t want to guess. I couldn’t. “He looked for her. For two straight months. Scoured every single app, every forum, every platform.” “He found absolutely nothing.” “Ever since then, his temper has been garbage, and he barely has the patience to speak to anyone.” I fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. He had looked for me. For two whole months. While I had scorched the earth, deleted every account, and hidden myself away like a pathetic coward. “Why are you being so quiet?” Piper nudged my shoulder. “Nothing… just thinking your brother went through a lot.” “Yeah, it was brutal.” Piper sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could track that girl down and scream at her.” “If you’re going to dump someone, at least have the decency to give them a reason, you know?” I forced the corners of my mouth up, but it wasn’t a smile. 4 Saturday. The Prescott Estate. Mrs. Prescott—Elaine—was a force of nature. The moment I walked through the door, she grabbed both my hands and refused to let go. “So you’re the lovely Quinn who’s been saving Piper’s GPA? Look at you, you’re absolutely darling.” “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Prescott.” “Sit, sit! Make yourself at home, please.” Elaine practically pushed me onto the plush velvet sofa, hovering over me with tea and a barrage of warm questions. The living room was massive, decorated in moody, understated earth tones. I hadn’t been sitting for more than ten minutes when the sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the foyer. Declan walked in. He was wearing a navy blue knit sweater and dark trousers. He looked immaculate, sharp, like he had just stepped out of a luxury editorial spread. “Declan, you’re back! Come here,” his mother waved him over. He swapped his shoes for house slippers and walked into the living room. When he saw me on the sofa, his steps faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, acting as if nothing was amiss, he sat down in the armchair directly across from me. “Mom.” “Yes, hi,” Elaine beamed, then turned to me. “Quinn, this is my son, Declan. I assume you two have crossed paths at the apartment?” “Yes.” I gave a tight nod. I was doing everything in my power to look normal. “Declan, Quinn has been a godsend to your sister. Be nice to her.” Declan looked at me. “Right.” One word. That was it. Elaine shook her head in fond exasperation and lowered her voice toward me. “My boy is brilliant at everything except talking. Don’t take it personally.” “Oh, I won’t.” Lunch was an extravagant affair. Elaine was an incredible cook. I focused entirely on my plate, using my food as an excuse to completely avoid eye contact with Declan. But halfway through the meal, Elaine casually steered the conversation into a minefield. “Declan, did you end up meeting with the St. James girl like I asked?” Declan didn’t even pause in slicing his steak. “I did.” “And?” “Felt nothing.” Elaine put her fork down. “Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you need to feel “something”?” “Mom. Let’s just eat.” “I am worrying about your future. You’re twenty-five. Your cousins are already buying houses and having babies, and you…” “Mom.” Declan’s voice dropped an octave, a quiet warning. “I’m waiting for someone.” The entire dining room went dead silent. Piper sat there with mashed potatoes in her mouth, her eyes practically bulging out of her skull. “Wait, you finally thawed out? Who is she?” Declan didn’t answer. He simply picked up his water glass and took a slow sip. His expression was as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. “What do you mean you’re waiting for someone? Then bring her home so I can meet her!” Elaine demanded, not ready to yield. “It’s not the right time.” Five words, and he effectively shut his mother down completely. Under the table, Piper kicked my shin and shot me a look that clearly said: “See? Told you he was impossible.” I managed a strained smile, but inside, my stomach was in freefall. Waiting for someone. He said he was waiting for someone. He couldn’t possibly mean… he was still hung up on the girl who vanished into thin air? 5 After lunch. Elaine insisted on dragging Piper into the kitchen to help with the dishes, claiming it was “mother-daughter bonding time.” That left me and Declan alone in the living room. Separated by a single, glass coffee table. The silence was so heavy my palms began to sweat. I pulled out my phone and aggressively pretended to read my emails. I couldn’t comprehend a single word on the screen. In my peripheral vision, Declan was looking at his phone too. His thumb was sliding lazily across the screen. The suffocating quiet lasted for about three minutes. “Quinn.” He spoke suddenly. I snapped my head up. Declan wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were still fixed on his screen. “How old are you?” “Nineteen.” He paused. “Nineteen,” he repeated softly, as if verifying a piece of data. Then he set his phone down on the glass table and finally turned to look at me. I couldn’t read the emotion in those dark eyes. It wasn’t his usual coldness. Nor was it an interrogation. It felt more like… he was taking me apart to see how my pieces fit. “Why?” I asked, bracing myself. “Nothing.” He looked away. “You have a very distinct voice.” A loud ringing started in my ears. “What?” “It’s recognizable,” he said. He stood up, grabbing his empty water glass, and started walking toward the kitchen. As he passed the sofa, his footsteps slowed to a halt right beside me. I looked up at him. He looked down at me. He was close enough that I could smell the sharp, clean notes of cedarwood and bergamot on his skin. A few seconds ticked by. He didn’t say another word. He just kept walking. I sat frozen on the sofa, trying to remember how to breathe. My phone lit up. A text from Piper. “Did my brother terrorize you? I swear he was staring at the back of your head the entire time I was in the kitchen.” “No,” I typed back. “He’s probably just intimidated by how pretty you are lol. He says he’s waiting for someone, but his eyes were definitely wandering.” I flipped my phone face down on my lap. I was doomed. He said my voice was distinct. Did he… figure it out? “Impossible,” I told myself. When we talked, I had specifically pitched my voice lower and breathier. I didn’t sound like that when I talked normally. It was impossible. I tried to convince myself. “Probably.” 6 After that day, I made it my mission to eliminate any chance of being alone with Declan. Unfortunately, Piper possessed zero situational awareness. She constantly thrust me into his orbit. “Declan, Quinn doesn’t know how to format this citation, can you show her?” “Declan, Quinn needs to go to the library, drop her off on your way?” “Declan, it’s Quinn’s birthday today—” “Piper!” I slapped a hand over her mouth. “My birthday is in December!” Piper just giggled and pried my hand away. “Close enough.” Declan stepped out of his home office, giving us a flat look. “Loud,” he muttered. Then he shut the door in our faces. Piper stuck her tongue out at the closed wood. “Ignore him. He’s stressed about a merger.” I let out a shaky breath of relief. But later that night, when I snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water, I ran straight into him. He was leaning against the marble counter, a lowball glass in his hand. The ambient light from the range hood cast deep shadows across his face, sharpening his cheekbones. He saw me, but he didn’t move. Bracing myself, I walked over to the fridge to use the water dispenser. There was less than a foot of space between us. “Are you afraid of me?” The water was running into my glass. I almost didn’t hear him. “What?” “Ever since the day you moved in, if I’m in a room, you walk the other way.” He turned his head to look at me. The dim light caught the edge of his eyelashes, casting a shadow over his cheek. “I’m asking you why you’re afraid of me.” My heart was beating so fast it physically hurt. I gripped my glass tight, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I’m not afraid of you.” “We just don’t know each other very well. I didn’t want to intrude on your space.” He stared at me for a few agonizing seconds. Then he let out a soft “Hmph.” But he didn’t break eye contact. “Well, starting now, you can stop hiding.” “I don’t bite.” With that, he picked up his glass and walked out of the kitchen. Leaving me standing there alone in the dark, the water dispenser overflowing over my hand before I finally remembered to pull my glass away. 7 Piper spent the entire following morning complaining to me. “Quinn, do you think I should set my brother up on a blind date?” “Didn’t he say he was waiting for someone?” “Yeah, but he’s not actually “doing” anything about it!” Piper groaned, resting her head on the kitchen island. “What if the girl he’s waiting for already forgot he exists?” That sentence felt like a knife to the stomach. “Maybe… maybe she had a good reason,” I offered weakly. “What kind of reason makes you drop off the face of the earth? Without even a text?” Piper scoffed. “She’s just toxic.” I didn’t have a defense. “But my brother is the weird one here. She’s been gone for nearly a year, and he’s still waiting.” “Did you know he kept all their chat logs?” My lungs seized. “What?” “I saw it once by accident. His notes app is full of voice memos that he used software to transcribe into text.” Piper leaned in, dropping her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “The craziest part is he made a dedicated, locked folder for them. What was it called…” She scrunched her nose, thinking. “It was just one word. “Clementine”.” The water in my glass sloshed over the rim, spilling across the counter. “Oh crap, are you okay?” Piper scrambled for some paper towels. “I’m fine. Slipped.” Clementine. He kept a folder named “Clementine”. That was the name I gave him. I closed my eyes. Something heavy and suffocating lodged itself in my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was crushing guilt or something else entirely. That afternoon. I sat alone on the balcony, staring blankly at the Chicago skyline. I pulled up the App Store and found the old voice app I had deleted. I stared at it for a long time, then hit download. When I tried to log in, a cold system prompt popped up: “This account has been permanently deleted and cannot be recovered.” Exactly as I expected. I had scrubbed every trace of myself from existence. And he had meticulously saved every word I ever said to him. At dinner, Declan came home. He seemed to be in a foul mood. He was radiating a distinct “do not approach” aura that even Piper had the sense to respect. She kept her mouth shut the entire meal. I didn’t even dare to look in his direction. But halfway through dinner— “Ahem.” Declan set his fork down. He spoke to Piper, but his eyes were fixed entirely on me. “I’m flying out to New York tomorrow for a week. You two take care of yourselves.” “Got it,” Piper mumbled. I let out an internal sigh of relief. A week away meant I had a seven-day grace period. Seven days of not feeling like I was walking on a tightrope. But as he pushed his chair back to leave the table, I could have sworn— As he walked past the back of my chair, his footsteps slowed for a fraction of a second. And then I heard it. A single word, spoken so quietly it was almost a breath. “Clem.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I whipped my head around. But there was no one behind me. Declan was already walking up the stairs. I must have imagined it. I had to have imagined it. 8 The week Declan was in New York. I lived like a sloth, completely free of psychological torment, eating and sleeping in his apartment without a care in the world. Piper was thrilled, too, dragging me into endless movie marathons and gaming sessions. But a tiny corner of my mind kept drifting back to that word he whispered before he left. “Clem.” Was it an auditory hallucination? Or did he really say it? If he said it— Did that mean he knew? But if he knew, why didn’t he just confront me? Given his personality, he wasn’t the type to swallow his anger and play games. On the fourth day. I was curled up on the sofa reading a textbook when my phone screen lit up. A text from an unsaved number. “Don’t forget to water the plants on the balcony.” I hesitated, then typed: “Who is this?” He replied instantly. “Declan. Got your number from Piper.” I stared at the screen for a full ten seconds. Why would he ask Piper for my number? And why was he texting me directly about the plants instead of his sister? I tentatively typed back: “Okay. I’ll do it now.” I threw the phone to the other end of the couch, assuming that was the end of it. Ten minutes later, the screen lit up again. “Did you eat?” Three words. The most agonizingly normal three words in the English language. But I couldn’t stop my mind from pulling me back to the past. When we were talking online, his first message to me every single day was always those three words: “Did you eat?” A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. I typed back: “Yes.” Five minutes passed. “Good girl.” I slammed my phone face down on the cushions. My cheeks were burning so hot I felt like I was running a fever. “Good girl.” He used to call me that. Every time I obediently reported what I was doing or what I had for lunch, he would reply with “good girl”. And then follow it up with: “I missed you.” “Stop thinking about it.” I shoved my phone deep beneath the sofa cushions. After that day, Declan texted me exactly once a day. They were always brief. “It’s cold there today. Wear a coat.” “There are snacks in the pantry. Don’t starve.” “Go to sleep early.” None of them were longer than ten words. It felt like a very restrained, perfectly calibrated level of concern. If I didn’t know who he was… If I didn’t know that he and “that man” were the same person… I would just assume he was being a polite older brother checking in on his sister’s friend. But I knew. Which meant every single text made me feel like I was sitting on a bed of nails. The seventh day. The night before he was scheduled to fly back. His last text came through at 1:00 AM. “Flying back tomorrow.” I replied: “Okay.” A long time passed. About twenty minutes later. Another text. “There’s something I need to ask you in person.” My heart contracted painfully. I typed: “About what?” I sent it, and then I lay awake for the rest of the night. He never replied. 9 The morning Declan returned, I dawdled in my bedroom for hours. I was too terrified to go downstairs. Until Piper came upstairs and started banging on my door. “Quinn! My brother brought back a ton of food from New York, get down here and eat!” I took a deep, shuddering breath. Fine. It was just a conversation. It wasn’t like he could murder me in his living room. When I walked downstairs, the coffee table was covered in boxes. Declan was sitting on the sofa, pulling a small package out of a boutique shopping bag. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes locked onto me with pinpoint accuracy. The moment our eyes met, the corner of his mouth twitched just a fraction. “I’m back.” He said it to me. Not to Piper. “Yeah… welcome back,” I croaked, my voice painfully dry. I sat down next to Piper, intentionally leaving as much distance between him and me as possible. Piper was happily digging through the souvenirs. “Oh my god, these are so good! Quinn, you have to try this—” “That box is for her.” Declan interrupted smoothly. He pulled a small, elegant white box from the bottom of the bag and slid it across the glass coffee table toward me. I froze. Piper looked even more shocked than I did. “Declan? Since when do you buy gifts for my friends?” Declan didn’t even blink. “Saw it on the way to the airport. Grabbed it.” I stared down at the little white box. It had the gold-foil logo of an artisanal bakery in SoHo. “Clementine Tartlets.” My heart completely skipped a beat. Clementine tartlets. It was a completely random detail I had mentioned to him once—that my absolute favorite dessert in the world was my grandmother’s clementine tartlets. I only mentioned it once. Late one night, during a three-hour phone call. Just once. I slowly lifted my head and looked at Declan. He was looking back at me. His eyes were perfectly calm, but there was the faintest shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

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On the day I organized our graduation road trip to the lake, I saw the one girl my boyfriend supposedly despised sitting in our rental van. “Despised” wasn’t even a strong enough word. Weston had warned me to stay away from Chelsea more times than I could count. “She’s trouble, Lauren,” he’d told me, his eyes icy and resolute whenever her name came up. “Being around girls like her will only rub off on you in the worst way.” Yet there she was, wearing a denim micro-skirt and four-inch heels, sitting right next to Weston. In the passenger seat. My seat. Weston didn’t even look up. I assumed he was just too polite to ask her to move. But as I walked over, preparing to speak up, Weston suddenly said, “It’s hard for her to stand in those shoes. Go sit in the back, okay?” I froze. Before I could process it, one of our friends gently took my arm and pulled me toward the back of the shuttle. As I moved down the aisle, I saw Weston take off our matching couple’s jacket and drape it over Chelsea’s bare legs. “Keep it on,” he murmured, his voice a mix of exasperation and tenderness. “The AC is blasting. Don’t come crying to me when your legs are aching later.” My chest tightened. Suddenly, the entire trip felt hollow. … I turned to Phoebe, who was sitting next to me. “Phoebe, I thought this was just our inner circle. Why is Chelsea here?” Phoebe hesitated, looking at me with a flash of pity. “Weston invited her.” A dull ache settled behind my ribs. Looking forward, I saw Chelsea resting her head on Weston’s shoulder. Her bright red lipstick was smudged right onto his collar. My boyfriend—the boy who couldn’t stand a speck of dust, who washed his hands five times if he touched a public railing—didn’t flinch. He only reached up, gently adjusting the jacket so it wouldn’t slip off her shoulders. He looked just like Chelsea’s ex-boyfriend used to. Back then, Weston had watched them with nothing but pure disdain. “I don’t get girls like her,” he’d sneered. “Dressing like that… she’s obviously looking for attention.” He’d spoken with such disgust, yet his eyes had been glued to her. He’d gripped my hand so tightly it bruised, and when I cried out in pain, he’d blinked, looking like he’d just woken from a trance. I had been so naive. I thought he genuinely disliked her. Now I understood. That wasn’t disgust. It was jealousy. When the shuttle pulled into a rest stop, I got off. I’d only taken a few steps across the asphalt when a voice called out behind me. “Lauren.” I paused, a foolish spark of hope rising in my chest. I thought he’d noticed I was leaving. “Give me your motion sickness pills.” “What?” The small smile on my lips froze. “Chelsea is feeling sick. Give me your pills.” His voice was sharp, laced with an underlying impatience. He didn’t notice the heavy backpack on my shoulders. He didn’t ask how I was doing. He had only stopped me for another girl. My throat felt dry, like ashes. “I only brought one dose.” “Well, you look fine right now, don’t you?” I wasn’t fine. When my motion sickness hit, it was brutal—blinding headaches, nausea, sometimes even blacking out. The only reason I felt okay now was because I’d taken the first half of my medication before we left. I needed the rest for the long drive ahead. But before I could even explain, Weston reached into the outer pocket of my backpack and pulled the blister pack out himself. He let out a sigh of relief. Without another word to me, he turned around, tossed his ruined, vomit-stained couple’s jacket into a nearby trash can, and headed back to the bus. I walked slowly over to the trash can. There it lay, crumpled among the garbage. I stared at it for a long time, and then, slowly, a quiet laugh escaped my throat. When I turned away this time, the weight in my chest was gone. It felt incredibly light. On the train ride back to Chicago, I called my academic advisor. “Dr. Adler, I made a mistake rejecting the graduate fellowship at Columbia. Is it too late to get my spot back?” Dr. Adler sounded deeply relieved. “It’s not too late, Lauren. The final paperwork isn’t due for another two days. I’m so glad you changed your mind. One day you’ll realize that nothing is more important than your own future.” His words echoed in my ears long after we hung up. Three hours later, I was back in my apartment. I opened Instagram. Weston, who hadn’t posted a photo in years, had just uploaded a picture. It was a shot of him gently holding Chelsea’s hand, his expression a mix of helplessness and adoration. The caption read: “Who managed to get carsick, lose her wallet, and get stung by a bee all in one afternoon? This idiot.” Below it, one of his close friends had commented: “Look at you, sweating over her. She doesn’t even care, and you’re checking her hand every three minutes like she’s been bit by a cobra.” I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then calmly double-tapped to like the post. At that moment, I knew Dr. Adler was right. I packed my bags, took a hot shower, and made myself a quiet dinner. As I sat down to eat, my phone rang. It was Weston. His voice was filled with disbelief. “Lauren, you left?” I looked at the clock on the wall. It had been eight hours since I got off the bus. He was only just realizing I was gone. “Yeah.” “What happened? Are you sick?” He seemed to suddenly remember taking my medicine, his tone shifting into a hurried anxiety. A bitter ache swelled in my throat, but my voice remained steady. “Weston.” “Yeah?” “I thought you hated Chelsea.” The line went dead silent. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh. “People change, Lauren.” He hesitated, his voice softening into something resembling tenderness. “And honestly… I realized she’s actually really sweet. She’s lively, fun, spontaneous. You guys just don’t really know her.” He rambled on, lost in his own thoughts, before catching himself with a nervous cough. “Anyway, you guys should really get to know each other. I think you’d be great friends.” I didn’t say anything. Assuming I was just tired, he murmured a few empty reassurances and hung up. The harsh glare of the kitchen light made my head throb. I scraped my untouched dinner into the trash, went into my bedroom, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, a FaceTime call woke me. It was Phoebe. She held a finger to her lips, whispering, “Quiet,” before flipping the camera. She was standing at the end of a hallway. The camera zoomed in on two figures near the exit: Weston and our mutual friend, Jared. “Weston, what the hell is wrong with you?” Jared was saying, his voice low but furious. “What’s going on with you and Chelsea? Didn’t you see Lauren leave?” Weston was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded heavy. “Jared, I regret it.” “Regret what?” “I always thought I wanted a good, stable girl like Lauren. But being with Chelsea… it made me realize what real passion feels like.” “Lauren is an incredible girl,” Jared snapped. “You’re treating her like garbage.” “I know she’s great,” Weston said, his voice dropping into a flat, exhausted tone. “But she’s like tap water, Jared. Bland. Safe. I know she’d make a perfect wife, a perfect mother. But she’s not a lover. I want to live a little before I settle down. Just for a few days, even if it ruins me.” “And what if Lauren finds out? She’ll leave you.” Weston let out a soft, confident chuckle. “She won’t. We’ve been together six years. I know her.” The video cut off. That night, I came down with a raging fever. In my delirium, my mind drifted back to the past. I remembered the dark days after my mother died, when my father remarried. After I graduated high school, my father tried to stop me from going to college, trying to arrange marriages for me with older men for a quick payout. It was Weston who had climbed through my window in the dead of night, taking my hand and running away with me to a city where we had nothing. We worked shifts, split cheap meals, and put ourselves through school. I remembered a night at my part-time job when a customer had groped me. Weston hadn’t hesitated—he’d beaten the man half to death. The manager, furious, had threatened to withhold our pay. Weston had grabbed the manager by his collar, his voice shaking with rage. “I don’t care if you offered me a million dollars. I’d do it again.” When I woke up, my pillow was soaked with tears. The fever didn’t break, even after taking medicine, so I dragged myself to the clinic for an IV drip. I spent three days getting fluids. By the time I came home, Weston was back. The moment I unlocked the front door, a wall of thumping bass and laughter hit me. Standing in the center of our living room was Chelsea. She was wearing a tiny camisole and denim shorts, her wild, curly hair tumbling over her shoulders like dark seaweed. She looked vibrant, radiant, and entirely alive. I, on the other hand, hadn’t washed my hair in three days. My face was pale and hollow from the fever, and my clothes hung loosely over my frame to accommodate the IV tape on my arm. The contrast was humiliating. Chelsea let out a soft chuckle. She didn’t say anything, but the mocking amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. I stared at the crowd of people packed into our small apartment. My head felt like it was splitting in two. “Lauren, Chelsea and her friends stopped by,” Weston said, stepping forward to explain as he handed out drinks. I looked at the crowd. Most of them were wearing heavy eyeliner, piercings, and clothes that smelled faintly of weed and cheap liquor. Someone was even dancing on our fabric sofa with their shoes on. The quiet, peaceful home I had spent years decorating was being torn apart piece by piece. “Are you okay? You look pale,” Weston murmured, noticing my silence. I stared at him, my mouth dry. I wanted to tell him we were over. I wanted to tell him I knew everything. I wanted to ask him if any of our history had ever been real. But with a dozen eyes watching us, I kept my mouth shut. “Oh, by the way, I got you something,” Weston said, handing me a small, velvet box. It was small enough to fit in my palm, but my heart stopped. In the quiet hours of the night, Weston used to whisper to me, “Lauren, the second we graduate, I’m proposing. I want to marry you and keep you safe from the world.” My fingers trembled as I clicked the latch open. Inside was a cheap silver brooch. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the living room, hitting me like a physical slap across the face. “Do you like it?” Chelsea had slipped over to my side, a sweet, feline smile on her face. “I helped him pick it out. As a thank-you, he got me this.” She raised her left hand, letting the light catch a brilliant, flawless diamond ring. It was easily worth five thousand dollars. And I knew exactly where that money came from. Our joint savings account. From the age of eighteen to twenty-three, we had saved every penny together. I had worked through fevers, skipped meals, and taken the bus to save a few dollars. And all of it had been traded for a cheap silver brooch and a diamond ring for another woman. It was almost comical. “Weston,” I said, my voice cutting through the noise, cold as ice. “Did you ask me before you spent our money on another woman?” The living room fell dead silent. Weston’s face flushed. He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it bruised, and dragged me into the bedroom, slamming the door behind us. “When did you get so materialistic?” he hissed. “It’s just a ring!” A tear slipped down my cheek, but not because of his words. It was because of the sheer panic in his eyes. He wasn’t angry at me; he was terrified of Chelsea being embarrassed. “What kind of man buys a diamond ring for another woman?” Weston looked away, his jaw tight. “It was a thank-you gift. How many times do I have to tell you?” “Is that all it is, Weston? What about everything you said before? You told me to stay away from her. You said she was cheap, loose, shameless—” “Shut up!” he barked, his eyes flashing with disgust. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s a good girl, Lauren. When did you get so bitter?” She’s a good girl. Even though she has a reputation, she’s a good girl. Even though she drops out of classes and insults people, she’s a good girl. Even though she bounces from guy to guy, she’s a good girl. The bedroom door creaked open, and Chelsea stepped in, looking fragile. “What’s going on? Are you guys fighting because of me?” “It’s not your fault,” Weston said quickly, his voice softening instantly as he tried to usher her back out. But Chelsea looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Lauren, Weston and I are just friends. You shouldn’t attack my character just because of how I dress.” Slowly, dramatically, she slid the ring off her finger, set it on the nightstand, and ran out of the apartment crying. Outside, a chorus of voices gasped, asking her what was wrong. Weston grabbed the ring and slammed it onto the dresser. “Are you happy now?” He threw open the door and ran out after her, leaving the front door wide open. The apartment was dead quiet, filled only with the lingering smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I didn’t clean up. I didn’t play the dutiful, long-suffering partner. I simply walked over to the dresser, swallowed my fever medication with a sip of water, and began packing. Two hours later, Chelsea updated her Instagram. “Out with the old, in with the new.” In the photo, she was wearing a brand-new, even larger diamond ring. I checked our joint account on my phone. The balance was exactly zero. He had drained every last cent. But as I looked at the screen, I didn’t cry. Instead, a wave of profound relief washed over me. We were finally even. I owed him nothing. That evening, Weston didn’t come home. I was still weak from the fever, so Phoebe came over with groceries to cook for me. She stood at the stove, quietly washing vegetables, before turning to me. “Weston is going to regret this, Lauren. Within three months, he’s going to be the biggest joke in Chicago.” I paused, looking up from the counter. Phoebe wasn’t the type to say things like that. She dried her hands on a towel, a cold, sharp smile playing on her lips. “I was getting my nails done yesterday, and guess who was sitting right next to me? I recorded this.” She tapped her phone, and Chelsea’s voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Are you actually going to stay with Weston, Chelsea?” a friend asked. Chelsea let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Of course not. It’s just hilarious watching him follow me around like a lost puppy. All I had to do was wiggle my finger and he came running.” She paused, chuckling. “You should have seen him. He actually screamed at his girlfriend for me. When he bought the ring, his eyes got all watery with guilt. He kept promising he’d buy me a bigger one soon because I ‘deserved’ it.” The recording ended. Phoebe locked her phone and looked at me, her eyes fierce. “Lauren, you are the one who deserves better. Let him play his little game. It won’t be long before he ruins himself.” I stared at the phone. “I know. Thank you, Phoebe.” Three days later, I was fully recovered. Weston still hadn’t come home. He sent occasional, curt text messages—pretending to still be angry to justify staying out with Chelsea, drowning himself in her world of high-end bars and endless parties. He thought I would do what I had always done: apologize, beg for forgiveness, and ask him to come home. But he was wrong. I packed my remaining bags, booked a one-way ticket, and boarded the train to New York. At that exact moment, Weston was being jolted awake by a frantic pounding on his door.

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My son had his eye on a car. We had negotiated everything down to the final penny, and the only thing left to do was pay. I had taken a day off from work specifically to accompany him to the dealership. But just as I was reaching into my purse to pull out my credit card, a voice note from his girlfriend, Amber, chimed on his phone. “Tell your mom to take an Uber back after she pays,” her voice drawled through the speaker. “This car is for the two of us. If she has any self-respect, she won’t even try to sit in it.” The words hung in the sterile, air-conditioned air of the showroom. I had worked myself to the bone to put my son through college, supporting him well into his twenties. Now, I was about to buy him a car in full, and there wasn’t even room for me in the passenger seat. Ignoring the quiet devastation in my eyes, my son, Zachary, merely sighed, looking at me as if I were the one being unreasonable. “Mom, I’m an adult now,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You need to learn about boundaries. This car is going to be the dedicated ride for Amber’s and my little family. Just take an Uber home after the payment clears, okay?” I looked at him—really looked at him—for what felt like the first time in years. Then, I slowly zipped my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and turned toward the exit. As I walked, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick voice note to my account manager at the bank. “Lydia here. That fifty thousand dollars we talked about? Put it back into a high-yield CD. Do not authorize the transfer.” … Ignoring Zachary’s dumbfounded expression, I walked briskly toward the glass doors of the dealership. It took him a long moment to process what was happening before he finally scrambled after me, catching up to me near the entrance. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight and his face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “Mom! What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “Why are you throwing a tantrum in public? We negotiated the price, the paperwork is ready. You’re doing this on purpose just to humiliate me!” I cold-shouldered him, prying his fingers off my sleeve. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to buy it anymore. It’s my money. If I don’t want to spend it, that’s my choice.” Zachary stepped in front of me, blocking my path, his chest heaving. “If you don’t buy this car, how am I supposed to explain this to Amber?” “That’s your problem,” I said quietly, stepping around him and walking toward the bus stop. The sales representative had followed us out, clutching his portable card reader like a lifeline. He was desperate to close the commission, and it showed in the tight, eager stretch of his smile. “Ma’am, your son’s fiancé isn’t entirely wrong,” the salesman chimed in, trying to sound reasonable. “In a healthy marriage, the spouse comes first. Your son is starting his own life now; he needs to cut the apron strings. If you keep inserting yourself into their lives, how is their relationship ever going to survive?” I looked at the salesman, then at the card reader, and let out a cold, humorless laugh. He clearly didn’t understand a very basic concept: the person holding the money makes the rules. Zachary, emboldened by the salesman’s words, glared at me with pure resentment. “No wonder you’ve been alone all these years,” he spat, the words cutting through the afternoon air. “Who could put up with your toxic, dramatic behavior? See? It’s not just Amber. Even a complete stranger can see how out of line you are.” Alone. The word echoed in my mind, leaving a bitter taste. For over two decades, I had been a single mother, raising him entirely on my own. I had delivered food in the freezing rain, worked double shifts at retail jobs, and run flea market stalls on weekends. I had taken on every dirty, grueling job imaginable to give him a life. We had finally bought a modest house, and for a few years, life felt stable. Then Amber entered the picture. On the very first day she visited our home, she made sure to pull me aside. “Just so we’re clear, Lydia,” she had said, looking around the living room, “this is going to be our marital home. It would be best if you started looking for an apartment of your own.” She went even further, laying down rules for when I could speak to my own son. “You are only allowed to call Zachary between 11 AM and 5 PM,” she instructed. “His evening hours belong entirely to me.” When I had looked at Zachary for support back then, he had only smiled subserviently at her. “Amber is right, Mom. We need to set healthy boundaries if we want this family to succeed.” And now, they wanted to drain my hard-earned retirement savings to buy a luxury car just to show off, all while declaring I wasn’t even allowed to sit in it. The realization settled deep into my bones, cold and heavy. Ignoring Zachary’s furious shouting behind me, I stepped onto the arriving bus without looking back. I had barely unlocked my front door and kicked off my shoes when my phone began to ring. It was my older sister, Martha. “Lydia, did you and Zachary get into a fight?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. Before I could answer, she sent over a screenshot of Zachary’s latest social media post. It was a picture of him and Amber, captioned: [Finally realized who my real family is. Blood doesn’t mean loyalty.] In the comments, Amber had added a jab of her own: [Some people try to use financial blackmail to control their kids, only to push them further away. Newsflash: we are independent women. Your little power trips don’t work on us.] My hands shook slightly as I opened my contacts and tried to message Zachary directly. The screen flashed with a red exclamation mark. He had blocked me. I let out a sharp, empty laugh. “Martha,” I said into the phone, “if he thinks I’m such a terrible mother, he doesn’t get to spend another dime of my hard-earned money. If they want to call it financial blackmail, fine. He is officially cut off.” I hung up, went into the laundry room, and quietly changed the cat litter, finding comfort in the simple, mindless routine of maintaining my home. But the peace didn’t last. The phone on the sofa began to ring incessantly. I let it ring out twice, but on the third attempt, I finally picked it up. Zachary’s voice came rushing through the receiver, loud and demanding. “Mom, Amber and I are at Best Buy. She found this gorgeous eighty-five-inch smart TV—it’s about three thousand dollars. It’s perfect for the living room. Get over here and pay for it, hurry.” “To pay?” I scoffed. “Zachary, let me make this incredibly clear. I don’t have any money for you, and even if I did, you wouldn’t get a single cent.” Amber’s shrill voice immediately shrieked in the background. “Who does she think she’s threatening? Zachary, are you seriously going to let your mother treat me like this?!” “Mom, stop throwing a tantrum!” Zachary pleaded, his tone sharp. “Just come over, buy the TV, and use this as an opportunity to patch things up with Amber.” “I am fifty-four years old,” I replied, my voice steady. “I don’t need to pay three thousand dollars just to be treated like an inconvenience.” Sensing I was about to hang up, Zachary quickly changed his tactic. “Amber wanted to buy you an outfit to make peace,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “She’s trying to bridge the gap. Don’t be so stubborn and ruin this.” The statement caught me off guard. I hesitated. He was still my son, and perhaps, in her own twisted way, Amber was trying to extend an olive branch because she knew she had gone too far. I decided to give them one last chance. I put on my coat and walked over to the mall. When I arrived at the department store, Amber was holding a fifteen-dollar designer iced coffee. She didn’t even look at me, let alone greet me. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked into a fast-fashion boutique, her chin held high. I swallowed my pride and followed them inside. Amber strolled lazily through the aisles, occasionally glancing at me with a critical eye. Finally, she turned to a sales associate. “Where is your clearance rack? The heavily discounted stuff?” Before I could speak, Amber turned to me with a sugary, patronizing smile. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Lydia. I just think at your age—and given your financial situation—you don’t need anything fancy. I’d hate for people to look at you and think you’re trying too hard to look young.” She gestured vaguely at my coat, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. Zachary stepped forward, entirely blind to the insult, and smiled. “See, Mom? Amber is actually looking out for you. She wants you to be comfortable.” Amber rolled her eyes, ignoring him, and pulled a plain, scratchy white t-shirt from the clearance bin. “We’ll take this one. Wrap it up.” Zachary eagerly ran to the register to pay. I glanced at the receipt—it was nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. The shirt was a size extra-small; there was no physical way I could ever wear it. Before I could point this out, Zachary grabbed my arm and pulled me into the jewelry store next door. “Amber just bought you a shirt,” he said, his eyes scanning the sparkling display cases. “You should buy her a piece of jewelry to show your appreciation.” The sheer audacity of the demand made my head spin. I took the small paper bag containing the tiny white t-shirt and threw it against Zachary’s chest. “Here is twenty dollars for the shirt,” I said, pulling a bill from my wallet. “You two can buy whatever jewelry you want with your own money.” Amber’s face instantly darkened. “What is your mother’s problem?” Zachary immediately began playing the doting servant, waving a sales associate over and demanding to see the most expensive items in the case. The clerk brought out a massive, intricate white-gold bridal tiara encrusted with diamonds. I turned on my heel and began to walk away. “Lydia!” Amber shrieked behind me. “You see this, Zachary? I told you your mother is a toxic, passive-aggressive snake. She is doing this on purpose to humiliate me! If she’s going to act like this, our marriage is over! She is actively trying to ruin us!” Zachary chased after me, his face twisted in fury. “Mom! I need to buy Amber her wedding jewelry anyway. Why do you always have to be a stumbling block in our lives?” A stumbling block. When they wanted money, I was a mother. When I refused to let them walk all over me, I was a obstacle to their happiness. I turned around to face them, keeping my voice as calm and level as possible. “Amber, I have never tried to come between you and Zachary. The health of your relationship depends entirely on how the two of you treat each other. But I am Zachary’s mother, and that is a fact that will never change. If we want to move past this, let’s go upstairs, sit down, and have a quiet lunch together. We can talk like adults.” Amber let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, please! You think I don’t see right through you? You know damn well I hate eating with people I don’t like, so you’re trying to corner me. You’re just trying to manipulate your way out of buying the jewelry.” She stepped closer, her voice rising so that other shoppers began to turn and stare. “I am not a child, Lydia. Your little mind games don’t work on me!” “I am simply offering to buy you lunch so we can communicate,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. But she wasn’t listening. She wanted a spectacle. “I cannot deal with this manipulative, toxic mother-in-law routine anymore!” she cried out, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. It was a masterful performance. Zachary rushed to her side, gently wiping her tears, but she dramatically pushed him away. “If you didn’t force me to stay quiet, I would have said something sooner! The very first night I stayed at your house, your mother made us sleep in that tiny twin bed in your room. I told you that house is going to be ours—she should have given us the master bedroom! She’s lived for fifty years, there’s no way she didn’t understand what she was doing!” The crowd of onlookers grew, murmuring amongst themselves. “And that’s not all,” Amber sobbed, pointing a finger at me. “Why were you lingering outside our bedroom door in the middle of the night? What were you trying to listen to?!” A collective gasp went through the crowd. I stood frozen, entirely paralyzed by the sheer malice of her words. She was framing me as some kind of perverted, jealous intruder. The truth was simple: I was an aging woman who suffered from insomnia. I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the restroom, which was down the hall past their room. I had paused for a brief second because my joints ached, and now she was twisting it into something disgusting. The whispers from the crowd grew louder, sharper. “Boy moms are always so toxic and enmeshed,” one woman whispered. “She probably treats her son like a surrogate husband. It’s sick.” “Run, girl. That kind of family dynamic is suffocating.” Amber saw the crowd’s reaction and decided to drive the knife in deeper. “You’ve been single and lonely for over twenty years, Lydia. I get it, you probably forgot what it’s like to have a partner. But projecting that onto your own son is disgusting! If you’re really that desperate, go find some lonely retired senior to hook up with instead of clinging to Zachary!” My hands began to shake violently. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every ounce of my dignity was being trampled on by a girl who had done nothing but take from me. “Is this how your parents raised you?” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “Apologize to me. Right now.” Instead of apologizing, Amber took a step forward, a cruel smirk dancing in her eyes. “Why? Are you going to demand to sleep between us on our wedding night? Do we need to ask your permission before we have sex?!” The crowd chuckled. Before I could think, my hand flew out. The sound of the slap echoed sharply through the crowded corridor. “Since your parents failed to teach you respect,” I breathed, “I will.” For a second, the entire mall seemed to go silent. Then, Amber let out a piercing shriek and lunged at me. I braced myself to step back, but before I could move, a heavy force struck the side of my leg. Zachary had kicked me, hard, right below the knee. The impact sent me crashing to the polished tile floor. I landed on my hands and knees right at Amber’s feet. I looked up at my son, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. I couldn’t believe what he had just done. “Apologize to Amber!” Zachary roared, his face contorted in a mix of embarrassment and fury. “You always have to ruin everything! Are you only happy when you’re making my life a living hell?” If I weren’t his mother, I think he would have struck my face himself. Amber held her cheek, sobbing hysterically as she pounded her fists against Zachary’s chest. “I don’t care! My own parents have never laid a hand on me! If you don’t handle this right now, we are done!” Zachary cursed under his breath, picked up the nineteen-dollar white t-shirt from the floor, and threw it violently at my face. “You never change, do you?” he spat, pointing a finger at me. “I can’t believe you’re my mother. You’re so incredibly selfish. You divorced Dad because you only cared about yourself, and now you’re trying to ruin the only good thing in my life! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who doesn’t care that I come from a broken home? Amber is sweet, she just speaks her mind. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?!” He took a deep breath, his eyes cold as ice. “I see it clearly now. I’ll never have a peaceful life as long as you’re in it. From this moment on, you are not my mother. I’m going to live with my dad.” I sat on the cold floor, and a strange, hollow laugh escaped my chest. I bit my lip to keep from sobbing, slowly pushing myself up off the ground. I walked up to him, looking at the boy I had poured my entire life into. Slap. “That,” I said, “is for your utter lack of respect.” Slap. “And that is for bleeding me dry for twenty-four years, only to treat me worse than a stray dog.” I raised my hand for a third slap, but Zachary caught my wrist, his grip bruising. He shoved me away with all his strength. I fell backward, my foot catching awkwardly on the edge of a display stand. A sharp, sickening crack echoed from my ankle, followed by a wave of blinding pain. I looked up at my son from the floor, but his face remained entirely indifferent. He didn’t care. If he wanted to go to his father, let him. His father was a deadbeat who would likely demand Zachary support him in his old age anyway. And Amber, as far as I could tell, was nothing but a parasite. My son had graduated college six years ago and hadn’t held a stable job for more than three months. Three selfish, foolish people deserved each other. I had wasted my life raising him, but it was time to cut my losses. With trembling fingers, I wiped the tears from my face, pulled out my phone, and called my lawyer. “This is Lydia,” I said, my voice dead and steady. “I want to legally sever all financial and familial ties with Zachary. Now.”

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The shipping depot received a package addressed to me. When I opened it, there was $470,000 in cash inside. That night, my phone buzzed with a text: “Do not open the package, or face the consequences!” I went straight to the bank, deposited the entire $470,000 into a three-year certificate of deposit, and then went right back to the shop to keep scanning packages. The next morning, a lawyer, a cop, and my landlord crowded into my tiny storefront, filling the room to capacity. Without even looking up, I said, “I have six customer pickups queued up. You’ll have to wait.” It wasn’t until the plainclothes detective slapped a shipping slip onto my counter that I finally looked up, my chest tightening. … Four hundred and seventy thousand dollars. I squatted on the floor of the depot’s back room, staring down at the cardboard box, and counted the money three times. Hundred-dollar bills, stacked in neat, brick-like bundles. Each bundle was wrapped in official bank bands, stamped and dated. They weren’t counterfeit. After running this shipping store for six years, your hands develop their own memory. The weight of the paper, the distinct, crisp scent of the ink—it was all real. Exactly four hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Not a single bill more, not a single bill less. I didn’t stand up, and I didn’t call out to anyone. First, I flipped the box over to inspect the bottom. It was just a standard, heavy-duty cardboard shipping box, completely devoid of any unique markings. The clear packing tape had been wrapped around it three times—the exact brand and style we kept on our own counter. Then I looked at the shipping label. Recipient: Shane Kelly. Address: The Parcel Hub, 127 Union Street, Westside. The phone number was mine, down to the very last digit. The sender field read: “Jared Pierce”. The return address was some place upstate I’d never heard of, and the phone number was ten digits long, but missing one digit in the middle. I pulled out my phone and dialed it anyway. “The number you have dialed is not in service.” I stared at the name on the label for a long ten seconds. Jared Pierce? I didn’t know any Jared Pierce. I ransacked my brain, running through every client, acquaintance, and old contact I’d ever had. No one by that name had ever crossed my path. Aside from the cash, the box was empty. No letter, no note, no explanation. Just forty-seven bundles of hundred-dollar bills, stacked like bricks in a dark cellar. I taped the box back up, slid it onto the lowest shelf in the back, and stacked half a dozen heavy Amazon returns on top of it. Then I went back to the front desk and kept scanning packages. My hands didn’t shake. It wasn’t that I was brave. It was just that I’d been poor for so long that when a massive sum of money suddenly dropped into my lap, my gut reaction wasn’t excitement. It was bone-deep dread. But dread or not, the package had been delivered to me. The shipping label stated it in black and white: “Shane Kelly”. Legally, that parcel was my responsibility. Whether it contained gold bullion or concrete bricks, that was the sender’s business. At two in the afternoon, during the post-lunch lull when the shop was empty, I took my old truck and drove over to the local bank. The young teller’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when I unzipped my duffel bag and let the cash spill onto the counter. “Sir, what is…?” “I want to open a certificate of deposit. A three-year term.” “Please hold on, for an amount this large, we require…” “Whatever forms you need, I’ll fill them out. Whatever ID you need, I have it. Just run the process.” I deposited every single dollar into the three-year CD. When it was done, I folded the receipt, slid it deep into the zippered inner pocket of my jacket, and drove back to the shop. At eight-thirty that night, as I was closing out the day’s inventory, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. A text: “The package was sent to you by mistake. The contents do not belong to you. Return it intact within three days, or face the consequences.” I looked at it, didn’t reply, and went back to my spreadsheets. Two minutes later, a second text arrived: “Don’t be stupid.” Five minutes after that, the phone rang. I picked it up. The voice on the other end was slow, deliberate, with a faint, unhurried accent: “Mr. Kelly. I assume you received the package?” “Who is this?” “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that the contents of that box were not meant for you. I need you to return them, exactly as they were.” “The shipping label has my name on it.” “A mistake was made.” “Then take it up with the courier service. It’s out of my hands.” Silence stretched over the line for a couple of seconds. “Mr. Kelly, I strongly advise you not to make this difficult. That money isn’t yours to keep, and you won’t be able to spend it.” “I already deposited it in a three-year CD,” I said. “If you think the money is yours, call the police and file a claim. I’ll cooperate fully with the investigation.” Another silence. This one was longer, heavier. Finally, the man let out a soft, dry chuckle. “Alright. Have it your way.” He hung up. I set the phone down and realized my palm was slick with sweat. But I didn’t regret it. With the money sitting in a bank account, it could be frozen or seized, but that would require a court order. If we went through legal channels, no one could make this money disappear in the dark. But if I had simply handed the cash back over to some stranger, the trail of where it came from and where it was going would be wiped clean forever. I shut off the shop lights and pulled down the metal security gate. On my drive back to my apartment, as I pulled up to the intersection, I instinctively checked my rearview mirror. Under the dim orange glow of the streetlamp, a black sedan was idling. The headlights were switched off, but I could see the tiny, glowing orange ember of a cigarette inside the cabin. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching. I kept my eyes on the road and accelerated. The next morning, I had barely pulled up the security gate and hadn’t even booted up my computer when three people blocked the entrance. Leading the group was a tall, lean man in his early forties, wearing a tailored grey suit and carrying a leather briefcase. He had “corporate attorney” written all over him. Behind him was a young patrol officer in a crisp uniform, maybe twenty-five, standing with a rigid, by-the-book posture. Bringing up the rear was Walt Morris, my landlord. He was in his late sixties, usually a warm, easygoing guy who’d drop by with leftovers during the holidays. Today, his face was drawn tight, a heavy ring of keys jangling in his hand as his eyes darted nervously around my shop. I glanced at the three of them, said nothing, and walked past them to turn on the computer. I plugged in the scanning gun and started sorting the packages that had arrived in the morning drop-off. The lawyer stepped inside, stopping right in front of my counter. He gave a polite, practiced cough. “Are you Shane Kelly?” “Yes.” “My name is Mr. Croft. I represent a client who…” “Hold on,” I interrupted. I picked up a package, scanned it with a loud “beep”, and tossed it onto the shelf behind me. “I have six customer pickups queued up. You’ll have to wait.” Mr. Croft’s jaw tightened. The young officer stepped forward. “Mr. Kelly, we’re here to ask you some questions regarding a high-value package you received yesterday…” “Officer,” I said, finally looking him in the eye. “This is a place of business. I have customers coming in. You can either wait until I’m finished, or you can take a seat on the bench outside.” The officer hesitated, glancing at the lawyer and then back at Walt. He didn’t press further. It took me twenty minutes to handle the pending pickups. Two regular customers came in during that time. I smiled, handed over their packages, scanned their confirmation codes, and wished them a good day, behaving exactly as I did every other morning. The three men stood off to the side, watching me work. None of them left. When the last customer walked out, I set the scanner on the counter and took a sip of water from my travel mug. “Alright. Let’s hear it.” Mr. Croft placed his briefcase on the counter, popped the latches, and laid out a document. “Mr. Kelly, a package containing $470,000 in cash was delivered to your address yesterday. This money belongs to my client. It was delivered here due to a clerical error by the courier service. We expect your full cooperation in returning the funds. My client is prepared to offer you a reasonable finder’s fee for your trouble.” “How much?” The lawyer blinked, clearly caught off guard by my bluntness. “Two thousand dollars.” I said nothing. “Three thousand.” I took another sip of water. “Five thousand. That is our final offer,” Mr. Croft said, his tone sharpening. “Mr. Kelly, I must remind you that keeping this money constitutes unjust enrichment under the law. If you refuse to return it, we will initiate immediate legal proceedings.” “Unjust enrichment?” I set my mug down. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Croft?” “Absolutely.” “Then let me ask you: what is the fundamental requirement for unjust enrichment?” The lawyer frowned. “Obtaining a financial benefit without a legal basis…” “Exactly. Without a legal basis,” I said, tapping the computer monitor. “But the shipping label on that package had my name, my address, and my phone number. Tell me, how is opening and signing for a package delivered directly to me a violation of the law?” Mr. Croft’s brow furrowed deep. The young cop chimed in. “Shane, even if your name was on the label, you know that money isn’t yours. Money doesn’t just fall from the sky.” “You’re right, Officer. It doesn’t,” I said, turning to him. “Which is why I’m incredibly curious. Who ships nearly half a million dollars in cash via standard ground delivery? Have you run a check on the sender yet?” The officer opened his mouth but found no words. “Let me help refresh your memory,” I said, pulling a photocopy of the shipping label from my desk drawer and sliding it across the counter. “The sender is listed as Jared Pierce, at an address that doesn’t exist. The phone number is missing a digit and goes straight to an inactive line. Does that sound like a normal delivery mistake to you?” The lawyer’s expression shifted. I continued, “Mr. Croft, you said you represent a client. Who is your client? Is it this Jared Pierce?” The lawyer looked down at his files, his lips thinning. “My client’s identity is protected by attorney-client privilege…” “So the package was sent by a Jared Pierce, but your client is someone else,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “One person ships a package, and a completely different person comes to claim the cash. What do you call that in your line of work?” The room went dead silent. Walt couldn’t handle the tension. He stepped forward, his voice strained. “Shane, stop playing word games! They brought a lawyer and the police. Just give the money back before this blows up and ruins my property’s reputation!” I looked at him. “Walt, are you here to collect rent, or are you working as Mr. Croft’s assistant today?” Walt froze. “You got a phone call last night, didn’t you?” I stared into his eyes. “Did they tell you to come down here and lean on me? Offered you a little kickback if I cooperated?” Walt’s face flushed a deep, bright red. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He turned his head away, unable to meet my gaze. The young officer’s expression changed. He looked at the lawyer, then back at Walt, his brow furrowing deeper. I stood up and pushed the photocopy of the shipping label closer to the officer. “Officer, let me ask you one more thing.” “Go ahead.” “Nearly half a million dollars in cash, sent through standard shipping. Uninsured, unregistered, with a fake sender name, fake address, and fake phone number. Do you think that money is clean?” The officer stared down at the label, silent for several seconds. “If the money were legitimate, would anyone ship it this way?” I asked. “If it were an honest mistake, they would have filed a claim with the courier and let the corporate security team handle it. But they didn’t. Their first instinct was to send me threatening texts, and their second was to show up with a lawyer the next morning. Officer, you’ve worked cases. Why would someone be this desperate to retrieve half a million dollars in absolute secrecy?” The young cop looked up, his gaze toward the lawyer turning distinctly cold. “Mr. Croft,” his voice had lost its earlier formality, replaced by a quiet authority. “I’m going to need you to provide your client’s full corporate and personal identification.” The lawyer went rigid. “That… as I said, involves client confidentiality…” “Cooperate with the investigation,” the officer said, his tone flat and unyielding. “If your client has nothing to hide, providing identification shouldn’t be an issue. But if you refuse…” He let the threat hang in the air. Mr. Croft’s fingers gripped the edge of his briefcase tightly. Finally, he reached inside, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and laid it on the counter. I leaned over to look. It was a corporate registration document for a company based in the state capital. I’d never heard of them. But the name of the registered agent made me freeze. It wasn’t Jared Pierce. It was a name I shouldn’t have known, but had seen just three days ago right here in this store. “Shane, are you saying this man was in your shop three days ago?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “I’ve run this place for six years. I process hundreds of packages a day. I don’t always remember faces, but I never forget names.” I pointed to the computer screen. “Our pickup logs are backed up on the cloud. You can check them right now.” The officer walked behind the counter to look at the screen. A record popped up: Three days ago, at 4:17 PM. A signature for a small parcel shipped from the state capital. “That’s him,” I said. “Richard Cross.” “What was in the package he picked up?” “I don’t know. We don’t open customer mail.” The officer frowned, taking a photo of the screen with his phone. He leaned against the counter, tapping his arm, lost in thought. “Tell me,” he said suddenly, looking at me. “You run a small shipping storefront. You don’t make a fortune. Why not just return the money? What are you trying to accomplish here?” “Nothing.” “Really?” “Officer, let me ask you,” I said, pulling up a chair to face him. “Did your department assign you to come here today, or did the lawyer find you directly?” He hesitated, keeping silent. “If the department sent you, you’d have an active case number and an official notice, not just a lawyer escorting you,” I said. “So Mr. Croft went directly to your precinct, claimed someone was withholding his client’s property, and asked for an officer to accompany him. Am I right?” The young cop’s jaw tightened. “You’re law enforcement. You know how this looks better than I do,” I said, pointing to the photocopy of the label. “Fake sender details, half a million in un-declared cash shipped through standard ground parcel, addressed directly to me. And the very next day, a lawyer shows up with a cop to demand it back, but the client isn’t even the person who sent it.” I paused, letting the words sink in. “Officer, does this look like a civil dispute to you? Or does it look like a criminal operation?” He stared at me for a long moment, offering no answer. “Shane, let me be clear with you,” he said, lowering his voice. “If there really is something criminal going on here, that money will be seized and frozen. You won’t see a single dime of it.” “I know.” “You knew that, and you still locked it up in a three-year CD?” “That’s exactly why I did it,” I said. “The money is in the banking system now. There’s a paper trail. If they freeze it or audit it, everything is trackable. But if I had handed $470,000 in cash back to that lawyer, where would it go? Who would ever be able to trace it?” He fell silent. “I don’t care about the money,” I said. “But I know this cash is dirty, and I’m not going to let it vanish into the shadows.” The young officer took a deep breath, folded the corporate document, and slid it into his pocket. “Alright. I’m going to take this back to the precinct and file a report. Don’t leave the county for the next few days, and keep your phone on.” “I’m not going anywhere. I have a business to run.” At six in the evening, as dusk was settling over the street, I was preparing to shut down my computer when the front door chime rang. The young officer from this morning walked in. He was in plainclothes now, wearing a dark jacket, and carrying a black manila envelope. His expression was even heavier than it had been earlier. He walked up to the counter, didn’t sit down, and just stood there looking at me for a moment before pulling a document from the envelope and placing it firmly on the counter. It was a shipping label. It wasn’t the label from the box with the $470,000. It was a different one. Ship date: Two months ago. I didn’t recognize the recipient’s name. But when my eyes drifted to the sender’s field… my heart stopped. Sender: Shane Kelly. Address: The Parcel Hub, 127 Union Street. The phone number was mine, down to the last digit. But I had never shipped this package.

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After a devastating breakup years ago, my sister Delia decided that every man on earth was fundamentally broken. The day I introduced her to Ted, she didn’t even try to hide her cynicism. Looking right past his polite smile, she said, “He’s no different from the rest of them. Eventually, Meg, he’ll break you.” I frantically tugged at the hem of her sweater under the table, my face burning with embarrassment. But Ted didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry. He just looked Delia dead in the eye and said, sober and steady, “If I ever do anything to hurt Megan, I hope I lose everything I have.” Delia just let out a cold, sharp laugh. “We’ll see.” After that, the frost between them never thawed, leaving me trapped in the middle, trying desperately to play the peacemaker. Fast forward to three years later. I was sent away on a six-month corporate assignment to Chicago. The night before I was scheduled to fly home, I was lying in my hotel bed, mindlessly scrolling through an anonymous online confession forum. One title caught my eye, stopping my thumb mid-swipe: “I fell in love with my younger sister’s boyfriend. What do I do?” The comment section was already a bloodbath of judgment and rage. Then, I scrolled down to a reply from a burner account that made my chest tighten: “Please stop attacking her. It’s not her fault—I’m the one who pursued her.” “She acts so tough on the outside, but she’s incredibly fragile underneath. The harder she tries to hide it, the more it breaks my heart.” My breath caught in my throat. On pure instinct, I tapped on the user’s profile. There was only one post: a short video of a cat. I froze, a sudden, icy dread washing over me. My hands began to shake violently. The cat in the video was Milo. The cat Ted had given me. 1 I zoomed in on the video, replay after replay, searching for any detail to prove myself wrong. But there was no mistaking it. The unique white patch shaped like a lightning bolt on its chest. The slight nick on its left ear. It was Milo. Ted had brought him to my apartment in the middle of a blinding blizzard on my twenty-first birthday, knocking on my door right at midnight. He’d named him Milo—short for “milagro”, he said, because he wanted every day of my life to feel like a miracle. A wave of profound absurdity washed over me, crushing the air out of my lungs. I backed out of the profile and scrolled back to the very beginning of the original forum thread. It had been posted just an hour ago. “The first time we met, I hated him. I had been betrayed before, and I didn’t trust a single man alive. But he was so good to my little sister. She has chronic gastritis, so he kept a detailed list in his phone notes of everything she could and couldn’t eat. Whenever she worked late, he’d wait outside her office to drive her home, no matter the hour. He memorized every single one of her quirks. His profile pictures, his social media headers, his wallpapers—they were all photos of her…” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. Ted had been my sanctuary. He kept track of my cycles, always keeping Advil and heating pads in his glove compartment. Once, when I was crying from cramps in the middle of the night while visiting a friend out of state, he bought a ticket on the first flight out just to bring me my specific prescription. If I offhandedly mentioned a craving or a book I wanted to read, it would appear on my desk the next morning. He was a devout skeptic, yet he had walked into a cathedral with me once, lighting a candle and kneeling in silent prayer just because he knew it would comfort me. I had spent five years believing I was the luckiest woman in the world. My fingers trembled as I scrolled further down the screen. “Then my sister went out of town for her work assignment. She told me to call him if I ever needed anything, saying he was the most reliable person she knew. I told her I’d rather die first. But one night, a massive thunderstorm hit. The power lines went down, and a bulb exploded in my hallway. I’ve always been terrified of the dark, and maintenance wouldn’t pick up the phone. Desperate and shivering, I dug out the number my sister had left on the fridge and called him. Thirty minutes later, he was standing at my door, soaking wet from the rain. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “So, Delia, you actually do have things you’re afraid of.” In that exact moment, something shifted inside me. Something I couldn’t put into words.” I remembered that night. Ted called me every single evening, and he had mentioned it so casually during our FaceTime call. “Your sister acts like she’s made of steel, but she’s terrified of a little darkness,” he had said. He talked about Delia for a long time that night, laughing softly—a tender, familiar chuckle. I hadn’t thought twice about it. In fact, I’d scolded him, telling him he had to protect her because she was all the family I had left. “After that, whenever something broke in the apartment, my first instinct was to call him. We started seeing each other more. Gradually, the resentment faded. He began waiting for me outside my office, too, taking me to get groceries, sitting beside me in dark movie theaters. He even learned how to make my favorite dishes, starting a new list in his phone notes with all my likes and dislikes. I eventually told him, “Can you stop texting me with my sister’s face staring back at me?” and the very next day, he changed his profile picture. He picked a sunset photo that matched the aesthetic of mine. My feelings for him grew into a tangled, suffocating mess.” His old profile picture had been a candid photo of me laughing on our very first anniversary. I remembered teasing him back then, asking, “Aren’t you embarrassed to have my face plastered all over your work accounts?” He had pinched my cheek, radiating pride. “My girlfriend is gorgeous. Why wouldn’t I want the world to see her?” He kept that photo for five years, ignoring every comment from colleagues or clients. When he finally changed it a few weeks ago, I had asked him why. “Just keeping things professional for a new client,” he had replied. And I, like a fool, had believed him. It wasn’t a client. It was a single sentence from Delia. A hot tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the glowing screen. “Tonight, we went to the movies again. During the credits, he turned to look at me in the dim light and whispered, “Delia, do you have feelings for me?” My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. Then he said, “I wish I had met you first.” I lost control. I leaned in and kissed him. And he didn’t pull away. I feel disgusted with myself. I can’t believe I did this to my own sister. But I can’t stop loving him. She flies back tomorrow, and I don’t know how I’m going to look her in the eye.” 2 A violent wave of nausea hit me, rising from the pit of my stomach. I threw myself over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving onto the carpet, but nothing came up. Just bile and a suffocating, hollow ache. When our parents died in that highway pileup, I was eight and Delia was thirteen. It was Delia who attended my parent-teacher conferences, Delia who learned how to French-braid my hair, Delia who sat on the bathroom floor with me when I got my first period, gently explaining what to do. While other kids called out for their mothers when they fell, I only ever called for Delia. When I introduced her to Ted, I had been practically shaking with the need for her approval, because to me, she wasn’t just my sister. She was my mother, my protector, my entire world. And now, the two people I loved most in this life had built a quiet, secret world of their own behind my back. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and physically torn my heart in half. I curled into a tight ball on the hotel bed, unable to do anything but sob into the pillows. The online thread was gaining traction rapidly, the comment section descending into a frenzy of outrage. “This is repulsive. You seduced your own sister’s boyfriend and now you’re playing the victim? You’re sick.” “I feel so bad for the sister. Betrayed by her own blood and the man she loved. I can’t even imagine the pain.” “If you can’t control yourself, maybe you shouldn’t exist. And the guy is absolute trash.” Underneath almost every vicious comment, Ted’s burner account had replied. “She is in agony. She hates herself more than any of you ever could. You have no right to judge her.” “Call me trash if you want. I am. But even as trash, I will protect her.” “If I had met her first, she’s the one I would have chosen.” The original poster had updated the thread just a minute ago: “You’re all right. I’m disgusting. I’m vile. I’m going to cut him off. I can’t lose my sister.” The phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Just hours ago, I had been counting down the minutes until my flight, giddy with anticipation. Now, the thought of seeing them made me feel entirely paralyzed. Outside, the Chicago skyline blazed with indifferent lights. I didn’t sleep a single wink. After hours of silent torment, I finally dragged my suitcase to the airport. Right on cue, a text from Delia popped up: “Meg, I’m waiting for you at the arrivals gate.” A minute before boarding, Ted’s message arrived: “Safe flight, Meg. Can’t wait to see you.” It was his first text since our brief, strained call the previous afternoon. Normally, he would have called me thirty minutes before my alarm to make sure I was awake. He would have nagged me about my ID, my charger, and whether I’d eaten breakfast, flooding my phone with updates all the way to the gate. Now, just a single, hollow sentence. I didn’t reply. I switched off my phone and closed my eyes as the engines roared to life. When the plane touched down, I walked through the arrivals gate and saw them. They were standing about six feet apart, looking like polite strangers. Delia’s makeup was heavier than usual, concealing any trace of tears. That was her signature move—never letting anyone see her bleed, not even me. Ted didn’t rush forward to engulf me in a hug like he usually did. Instead, he forced a tight, practiced smile and pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “Welcome home, Megan.” But as he held them out, the air between us turned to ice. Both Delia and I froze. He was holding white roses. My sister’s favorite. 3 I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep my face completely blank. Delia only liked white roses—a detail I had shared with him years ago. I only liked baby’s breath, and in our five years together, he had never gotten it wrong. Not once. It took him a second to realize what he was holding. Panic flickered in his eyes, and he frantically tried to laugh it off. “Ah, I was in such a rush this morning. I didn’t even look at what the florist grabbed. I’ll get you a proper bouquet later, Meg, I promise.” His eyes instinctively flicked toward Delia. She didn’t look back. She stepped forward, ignoring him completely, and took the handle of my suitcase. “Come on,” she said, her voice tight but forcedly warm. “Let’s get you some real food.” Normally, the three of us would have gone straight to our favorite diner to celebrate my return. But those anonymous confessions kept screaming in my head. I forced the muscles in my face into the shape of a smile. “Actually, you guys go ahead. I have to head straight to the office.” Ted took a step toward me. “I can drive you.” “No!” The word shot out of my mouth before I could stop it. The sheer sharpness of my voice hung in the air. Both Ted and Delia frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing their faces. I quickly reached down and took the suitcase back from Delia’s hand, forcing my voice to drop to a calmer register. “I mean… my manager is expecting a debrief immediately. I’ll be late getting home.” Their brows smoothed over. Delia offered a soft smile. “Okay. I’ll make your favorite dinner tonight.” Ted smiled too, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Call me when you’re done, Meg. I’ll come pick you up.” I nodded blindly. I turned and practically ran out of the terminal, hailing a cab. As the taxi sped away, the familiar streets of the city I had lived in for twenty-five years blurred past the window. Every corner, every storefront held a ghost of the two of them. There was the ramen place on 4th Street, where Delia would always scold me for ordering spicy broth with my sensitive stomach, forcing me to eat plain rice instead. There was the boba shop on Lincoln Avenue, where Ted had once queued in the freezing rain for three hours just to get me a limited-edition cup. And the AMC theater downtown. The three of us used to love booking the late-night screenings, walking back to our apartments under the streetlights, whispering so we wouldn’t wake the neighborhood. We would dissect the films on those walks. Delia would inevitably take issue with Ted’s opinions, teasingly tearing his theories to shreds until he raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing, “Okay, okay, you win!” Then he’d lean down and whisper in my ear, “Your sister is terrifying.” We had been so happy. By the time I pulled myself out of the memories, tears were streaming down my face. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Hey, kid. Whatever it is, you’ll get through it. You’ve got to keep moving forward.” I offered a sheepish smile and wiped my cheeks. “Thanks.” When we arrived at my office building, I paid the fare and got out. I stood on the pavement, looking up at the glass facade, and took a deep, steadying breath. My six-month trip had been a temporary assignment. Before I left, my division head had pulled me aside to offer me a spot on a highly confidential overseas expansion project. I had turned it down. I had turned it down because Ted had told me he wanted to get married. He’d promised that the day I got back, we would start house-hunting. Well. There would be no house-hunting now. But that overseas position? I wanted it. I walked into the office. My manager, Mr. Davies, was just coming out of a conference room with a stack of folders. He blinked in surprise. “Megan? I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.” “I caught an earlier flight,” I said, forcing a professional smile. “Mr. Davies, about the overseas placement we discussed… is the spot still open? I want to apply.” His eyes lit up. “Are you serious? I spent weeks trying to convince you before you left. What changed your mind?” Had I changed my mind? The truth was, part of me still couldn’t process the betrayal. But some things don’t require understanding. They just require acceptance. “I’m ready,” I said, nodding. Mr. Davies’ expression grew serious. “Megan, you know the terms of this project. It’s a highly secure, intensive three-year contract. You won’t be permitted to travel back home, and contact with family must be kept to an absolute minimum due to the NDA. Can you handle that?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I can leave tomorrow morning.” 4 I didn’t leave the office until ten that night. When I walked out, I saw Ted leaning against his car, smoking. A scattering of crushed filters lay at his feet. The glowing orange tip of the cigarette illuminated his sharp jaw and the deep crease between his brows. In our five years together, I had only seen him smoke twice. The first time was the summer we graduated, when his parents pressured him to move back to the West Coast to join the family business, while I refused to leave Delia behind. He had stood on my balcony back then, smoking one cigarette after another, before finally choosing me. What choice was he facing tonight? I couldn’t bring myself to wonder. The moment he saw me, he stubbed out his cigarette and hurried over, taking the suitcase from my hand. “First day back and they keep you until ten? That’s ridiculous, Meg.” “There was just a lot to hand over,” I mumbled. He opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the leather seat. Instantly, a faint, familiar scent hit my nose. A delicate blend of jasmine and cedarwood. It was Delia’s signature perfume. My gaze drifted down to the center console, landing on the gap between the seat and the handbrake. A small, cherry-flavored lip balm was nestled in the crevice. I had bought it for Delia right before I left. Ted climbed into the driver’s seat. He saw the lip balm in my hand and froze for a fraction of a second. The silence in the car became deafening. Then, he forced a casual chuckle. “Oh, your sister must have dropped that today. I gave her a lift earlier. We can give it back to her when we get home.” I stared at the plastic tube. “Has she been in the passenger seat a lot while I was gone?” His hand paused on the seatbelt buckle. He turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim streetlights. Then, he reached over and ruffled my hair, letting out a soft laugh. “What, are you getting jealous of your own sister now? Silly girl.” I didn’t laugh. His smile faded, replaced by a defensive sincerity. “Meg, you’re the one who always begged me to get along with her. I was just helping her out with some errands. That’s all.” He paused, studying my face. “But if it bothers you, I won’t drive her anymore.” I didn’t want to hear another word. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass of the window. “I’m just tired, Ted.” He stared at me for a long moment before starting the engine. “Did you… see anything on your phone last night? Before you went to sleep?” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Like what?” He quieted, turning his gaze back to the road. “Nothing. You just seem off today. Your eyes are bloodshot.” I shut my eyes again. “I was just too excited to come home. Didn’t sleep much.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Still a kid at heart.” He reached over to adjust the climate control. I watched his fingers dial the temperature up two degrees higher than he ever kept it. Delia always insisted on keeping the car warm. She had poor circulation and hated the chill. 5 When we got back to the apartment, Delia was already waiting at the door. “You must be starving. Go wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” I walked in, trying to move with the ease of the girl who had left six months ago. The dining table was crowded with dishes—all my favorites. I sat in my usual spot. Delia sat on my left, Ted on my right. Simultaneously, they both placed food into my bowl. “Your favorite garlic-herb pork chops, Meg,” Delia said. “And the spicy garlic chicken,” Ted added. For a split second, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, begging me to believe that everything was fine. But reality was a cold weight in my chest. A thousand questions jammed in my throat. I wanted to scream that I had seen the forum. I wanted to ask them “how”. “Why”. But the words choked me. I couldn’t ask. Every bite tasted like ash. Finally, Delia picked up her wine glass and looked at me. “Megan, I want to make a toast. Three, actually.” She knocked back the first gulp. “First, welcome home.” “Second, to your promotion and your bright future.” She paused, her eyes flickering briefly toward Ted before settling on me. “And third… you and Ted have been together for five years. I know I was hard on him in the beginning, but I see how much he loves you now. I think it’s time you two set a date. Let’s get you married.” Ted froze, his glass hovering halfway to his mouth. After a strained silence, he set it down and tried to smile. “Where is this coming from?” “It’s not sudden,” Delia said, putting her glass down with a sharp click. “You’ve been together for five years. Meg is twenty-five. It’s time. Tomorrow, go look at rings. Book the venue.” Ted averted his eyes, placing another piece of chicken into my bowl. “My firm is in the middle of a massive audit right now. Let’s wait until things settle down.” “No. Tomorrow,” Delia insisted, her voice tight, almost desperate. Ted looked up, his expression a mask of tightly controlled pain. Delia stared back at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I set my chopsticks down and stood up, the silence stretching too thin to bear. “Let’s talk about this later. I’m taking on a new project at work, so I’ll be incredibly busy too. I’m full. Excuse me.” I retreated to my bedroom, closing the door and sinking onto the edge of my bed. Outside, muffled, angry whispers drifted through the walls, followed shortly by the heavy thud of the front door closing. Then, absolute silence. My phone screen lit up in the dark. A message from Ted: “Meg, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive at dinner. Work really is crazy right now. Once this project wraps up, we’ll look at rings and start planning the wedding, I promise. Okay?” I stared at the text for a long time before typing a single word: “Okay.” I lay awake until 2:00 AM. In the quiet of the night, I heard the faint click of the front door opening and closing. I got out of bed, threw on a jacket, and quietly slipped outside. I followed the path down to the small park behind our building. In the shadow of the maple trees, their voices carried clearly through the cold night air. “There is no ‘us,’ Ted! You are going to propose to Megan tomorrow!” Delia’s voice was raw, trembling. “How can I marry her when my head is entirely filled with you?” Ted stepped closer, grabbing her arms. “I’ll tell her. I’ll take all the blame. If she hates me, if she never speaks to me again, I’ll bear it. But I can’t keep lying to her.” I clenched my fists in my pockets, my feet freezing to the pavement. I took a step forward, but before I could emerge from the shadows, Delia’s voice broke completely. “I fell for you because you were the first person in my entire life who actually looked after “me”,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. “When Mom and Dad died, Megan was only eight. I had to be the adult. I spent my whole life taking care of everyone else, carrying every burden alone, swallowing my own tears because I had to be the strong older sister! But I cannot do this to her. I swore to protect her. I cannot be the one who destroys her.” My breath hitched, my feet glued to the ground. The memories came rushing back with agonizing clarity. The year our parents died, our relatives had circled like vultures, trying to claim the insurance money under the guise of taking us in. It was thirteen-year-old Delia who had stood on our porch with a kitchen knife, tears streaming down her face, screaming at them to get off our property. When I cried myself to sleep at night, she would hold me, mimicking our mother’s soothing voice: “Don’t cry, Meg. Delia’s here. I’m never leaving you.” She learned to cook, to wash clothes, to survive. She would walk me to school every morning before running to her own classes. If anyone teased me, she was always there to defend me. She was just a child herself, but she had carved out a safe haven for me with her bare hands. The biting wind stung my cheeks, and I realized I was crying. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t step out and confront them. I couldn’t bear to see the shame in my sister’s eyes. I turned around and walked back to the apartment in silence. I packed my bags, took one last look at the only home I had ever known, and slipped out into the dawn. By sunrise, I was boarding a plane to London.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530995”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Our destination wedding in Maui was supposed to be a small, intimate affair. Months ago, Wayne and I had agreed that both of our families would fly out together. But on the morning of our departure, I sat at O’Hare International Airport, watching the clock tick away. When Wayne finally arrived, he wasn’t alone. Along with him was his lifelong friend, Phoebe, her parents, and a trailing entourage of nearly ten of her extended relatives. Each one of them held a first-class boarding pass. My parents were nowhere to be seen. I stood up, my chest tightening. “Wayne, where are my parents?” He was busy wheeling Phoebe’s mother’s designer suitcase, his head barely turning to meet my eyes. “There weren’t enough tickets left.” “I got them Amtrak coach tickets instead.” A thirty-plus-hour train ride. Followed by a Greyhound bus, and then a ferry. My father had just undergone major spinal surgery less than two months ago. My mother suffered from such severe motion sickness that even a twenty-minute car ride left her pale and vomiting. My voice trembled. “Then how does Phoebe’s entire extended family have first-class plane tickets?” Wayne frowned, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Phoebe’s parents are getting older, Iris. They can’t handle a stressful journey. Besides, her aunt and cousins were a last-minute addition. I couldn’t just tell them they couldn’t come after they went through the trouble of packing.” My phone buzzed in my hand. It was my mother. Her voice was soft, laced with a familiar, painful caution, as if she were terrified of becoming a burden to me. “Sweetheart, your father and I have never been on a plane anyway. We were worried we’d just embarrass you. The train is lovely. We’ll be there before you know it.” A lump formed in my throat. Before I could speak, I heard my father coughing in the background. It was a dry, raspy sound, and he quickly muffled it, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Don’t tell her, Helen. It’s her wedding day. Don’t make her worry.” Standing in the bustling terminal, looking at Wayne surrounded by Phoebe’s laughing, vibrant family, a cold realization washed over me. This wedding didn’t need to happen. 1 Phoebe stepped forward, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne. If it makes you feel better, I can ask Aunt Carol to give up her ticket.” She paused, her voice dropping to a delicate whisper. “It’s just… Aunt Carol has never seen the ocean before. She’s been looking forward to this trip for months.” Wayne immediately reached out, patting the back of Phoebe’s hand reassuringly. “This has nothing to do with you, Phoebe. I made the travel arrangements.” He turned back to me, his tone clipped and impatient. “Phoebe’s family is already here at the airport, Iris. We can’t just turn them away.” Behind him, one of Phoebe’s cousins muttered with a small chuckle, “Honestly, small-town folks probably prefer the train anyway. Flying has so many rules and security checks. They’d probably just end up anxious.” Wayne clearly heard it. Yet, he only sighed. “They don’t mean any harm. It’s our wedding day, Iris. Don’t be so sensitive.” I stared at him, feeling a sudden, sharp distance between us. “My father just had spinal surgery, Wayne. My mother can barely ride in a car. And you expect them to travel across the country on a train to attend my wedding?” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t dramatize this. Your parents are simple, old-fashioned people. They won’t mind the train. I already sent them the route. Once they get off, the bus and ferry transfers are very straightforward.” He spoke with such effortless ease. But all I could picture was my father’s stiff, unbending spine, and my mother’s face turning white at the mere smell of a bus cabin. My phone vibrated again. It was my mother. The background noise on her end was deafening—the mechanical clatter of tracks, the blare of a train station intercom. Her voice was still small, still soothing. “Iris, we’re on board. The seats are fine, really. Don’t worry about us.” My throat locked up. “Mom, get off the train. Right now. I’ll buy you plane tickets myself.” “No, no, don’t waste your money,” she said quickly, panic in her voice. “Your fiancé went to so much trouble to organize all of this. He did a wonderful job. I’ve never flown before, Iris. I was honestly terrified of ruining your special day.” Through the receiver, my father’s muffled cough cut through the static again. “Don’t tell her,” he urged my mother. “It’s her big day. Let her be happy.” My eyes stung fiercely. “Dad, does your back hurt?” He forced a laugh. “Not at all, sweetheart. I feel great. Don’t you worry about a thing.” In the next second, a harsh voice boomed near the phone. “Hey, old man! Move it! You’re blocking the aisle!” I heard my mother quickly apologizing, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. His back is bad, he’s just a little slow. We’re moving.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I could see them so clearly. My father, holding onto the headrests for support, unable to straighten his back. My mother, desperately shielding their cheap suitcases while bowing and apologizing to strangers. They had never flown in their lives. Before this trip, they had been as excited as children. Two weeks ago, I had gone back to our hometown to pick up some documents. I walked in to find my father standing in front of our cracked hallway mirror, trying on a navy suit. He had saved up for a month to buy it off the rack from a local department store, determined not to look out of place at his daughter’s destination wedding. The sleeves were slightly too long. The shoulders slouched. But he had turned to me, beaming. “Iris, do you think I look presentable? I won’t embarrass you in front of Wayne’s family, will I?” Meanwhile, my mother was busy packing Ziploc bags of homemade pecan brittle, home-cured venison jerky, and little bags of roasted peanuts. “It’s our first time meeting so many of his relatives,” she had said, her fingers carefully tying the ribbons. “We can’t show up empty-handed. Your fiancé is so good to you; we have to show proper manners.” At the time, I had laughed, telling them they were overthinking it. I told them, “Wayne has taken care of everything. Just follow us.” My mother’s eyes had lit up. The very next day, she told everyone she ran into: “My daughter is getting married in Maui. My son-in-law is flying us out.” But now. They weren’t on a plane. They didn’t even have a ticket with their names on it. On the phone, my mother was still trying to placate me. “Iris, don’t be angry with Wayne. He’s a busy man, and managing a wedding is stressful. We’re perfectly happy on the train. We’re saving you some money this way.” I closed my eyes, a tear escaping down my cheek. “Mom, get off the train,” I said, my voice dead and quiet. “I’m not getting married.” 2 My mother gasped, terrified. “Iris, don’t say such foolish things. Your father and I are perfectly fine on the train. Don’t ruin your own happiness over this.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I hung up, turned around, and began walking toward the exit of the terminal. Wayne grabbed my arm, his grip tight. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To get my parents.” His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “We’re boarding in twenty minutes. If you leave now, what happens to the wedding?” I looked at him, seeing the stranger behind the familiar face. “My parents aren’t going to be there, Wayne. What wedding is there to have?” Nearby, Phoebe’s mother cleared her throat with a delicate cough. Wayne’s grip on my arm instantly vanished. He turned around, sliding his designer jacket off his shoulders and draping it gently over Mrs. Ward’s shoulders. “Mrs. Ward, is the airport AC too cold for you?” His movements were practiced, tender, and deeply attentive. I stood there, watching him. I didn’t even feel like arguing anymore. He knew exactly how to care for older people. He knew what it meant to protect them from discomfort. It was just that his tenderness was a luxury my parents were never entitled to. Wayne turned back to me, his tone returning to that familiar, cold impatience. “Iris, stop making a scene. I already told you, your parents are being taken care of.” I pulled my arm back, out of his reach. A thirty-hour journey in coach. A grueling transfer route of buses and ferries. And my parents, swallowing their own pain and dignity just to save face for him. That was his version of taking care of them. Just as I reached the automatic doors of the airport, my phone rang again. It was my mother. This time, her voice was entirely stripped of its forced cheer. She sounded panicked, on the verge of tears. “Iris… we can’t take the train.” My heart dropped. “What do you mean you can’t take the train?” The background noise was chaotic, punctured by the loud, impatient voice of an Amtrak conductor. My mother lowered her voice, whispering as if she were committing a crime. “They said the tickets are wrong. They’re dated for yesterday. They won’t let us board. We’ve… we’ve been asked to leave the station.” My head went entirely numb. Wayne said he had arranged everything. His grand arrangement was buying my parents expired coach tickets. I clutched the phone. “Mom, where are you right now?” “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne,” she begged, her first instinct still to protect the man who had abandoned her. “He had so many people to coordinate. It was just a simple mistake. It’s completely normal.” My father’s raspy, suppressed cough echoed through the line. “We’ll just wait in the terminal for a bit. It’s fine. Don’t let this ruin your flight.” They had been kicked off a train. They were standing in a noisy, unfamiliar station, surrounded by luggage, and they were still trying to find excuses for Wayne. My eyes burned with hot, angry tears. I spun around and marched back to Wayne. “Did you buy my parents tickets for yesterday?” Wayne blinked, his expression shifting slightly. “What?” I shoved the phone toward his face. “They were kicked off the train. Is this what you call ‘taking care of things’?” Wayne finally frowned. For the first time, a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face, as if he realized this was turning into an actual inconvenience. “My assistant must have made a mistake when booking,” he murmured, pulling out his own phone. “Don’t panic. I’ll have my assistant go pick them up from the station. We won’t fly today. We’ll rebook for tomorrow and all go together.” He spoke quickly, his tone softening in an attempt to pacify me. To him, this was just a minor administrative error. But I looked at him and felt my heart turn to ash. If I hadn’t fought him on this, if my mother hadn’t called, my parents would have spent the night stranded at a cold, foreign train station, holding their bags, waiting for a train that would never carry them. 3 Phoebe walked over, her eyes red and downcast. “This is all my fault,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “If my family hadn’t joined at the last minute, your parents would have had their flights. But my parents have never traveled this far, and I was so worried about them being alone.” Wayne immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “How is any of this your fault, Phoebe? Stop taking the blame for things out of your control.” I watched him defend her, and a laugh bubbled up in my throat—hollow and bitter. My parents were stranded at a station because of his negligence, and his first reaction was annoyance. Phoebe shed a single tear, and he looked as though his entire world was crumbling. An hour later, Wayne’s assistant brought my parents to the airport. The moment my mother saw me, she tried to hide a torn plastic bag behind her back. Inside was the homemade pecan brittle she had spent days making. The bag had snagged during the rush at the station, and the brittle was crushed, sticky fragments clinging to the plastic. My father was holding his lower back, his face dangerously pale. Yet, when he saw Wayne, his first words were, “Son, I’m so sorry for the trouble. We should have checked the date on the tickets ourselves.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Dad…” Wayne glanced at his watch. “Well, at least we didn’t lose too much time.” My mother timidly offered the torn bag, trying to smile. “Wayne, I made some pecan brittle. And there’s some cured venison in here too, for your parents. We wanted to bring something from home.” Wayne looked down at the bag, his eyebrows knitting together in immediate distaste. “Helen, the resort in Maui has fully catered meals. Things with such… strong odors really shouldn’t be brought onto the island. The wedding has a very specific, minimalist aesthetic. These don’t really fit.” My mother’s hand froze in midair. The hopeful smile on her face slowly withered away, though she tried desperately to keep her eyes bright. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that.” She quickly pulled her hand back, tucking the bag behind her coat. “I won’t bring them then. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” My chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath. Across from us, Phoebe’s aunt let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Well, small-town folks get nervous when they travel. Bringing homemade snacks to a luxury beach wedding… it really is a bit much.” My mother heard her. She clutched the plastic bag tighter, her head dropping. “I’m sorry. We just don’t know any better.” Wayne didn’t even acknowledge the cruelty of the remark. He simply looked out toward the terminal exit. “Phoebe’s family has a lot of luggage. Iris, why don’t your parents ride in the shuttle van behind us?” I looked out the window. The shuttle van behind us was a cargo vehicle, packed to the ceiling with camera gear, luggage, and folding chairs. It was meant for the hired staff. My voice was ice. “My father’s spine is injured, and you want him to squeeze into a cargo van with the luggage?” Wayne’s patience snapped. “Iris, do you have to make everything so difficult? It’s just a short ride to the hotel. We’re flying out tomorrow anyway. Do you really have to pick a fight over this right now?” I stared at him. In that moment, I understood everything. Wayne hadn’t “forgotten” to show my parents respect. He simply didn’t believe they were worthy of it. My mother gently grabbed my hand. “Iris, please. It’s fine. We can sit anywhere. The wedding is what’s important.” Even now, they were terrified of ruining my wedding. I looked at my father’s pale, exhausted face, and then at my mother’s trembling hands holding the ruined bag of pecan brittle. The last dying ember of my love for Wayne flickered out. 4 I didn’t argue. Instead, I took my parents’ bags and led them to a quiet airport hotel nearby. The entire walk there, my father kept apologizing. “Iris, I’m really fine. Did I make things difficult between you and Wayne?” My mother kept looking at her plastic bag. “Maybe we should just leave these things here. I don’t want Wayne’s family laughing at you because of us.” Looking at their anxious, fragile faces, my heart broke. They had done absolutely nothing wrong, yet they walked like criminals awaiting sentencing. Once we got them settled in a room, I told them to rest. I sat in the hallway, pulled out my phone, and canceled our flights to Maui. Then, I booked three one-way tickets to Boston. Finally, I called our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding.” The coordinator’s voice rose in shock. “Iris? The wedding is tomorrow. Are you sure?” I looked through the cracked door at my parents, who had already fallen into an exhausted, deep sleep on the hotel bed. “I am absolutely sure.” At ten that night, Wayne walked into the room. His face was set in a tight, annoyed grimace. The tension from the airport had clearly ruined his afternoon with Phoebe’s family. He stood by the door, glaring at me. “Iris, we all fly out tomorrow morning. I don’t want to see this attitude again.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “Phoebe cried for hours today. She feels entirely responsible for your parents missing the flight. When you see her tomorrow, you need to apologize to her.” I stared at him, genuinely stunned. Then, a dry laugh escaped my lips. “I need to apologize to “her”?” Wayne crossed his arms. “Her family was perfectly ready to board today. Because of your sudden tantrum, everyone had to rebook their flights. You put a dozen people through that inconvenience. Don’t you think you owe her an apology?” To him, my parents being humiliated and stranded didn’t count as a grievance. But Phoebe’s family having to wait a few hours was a tragedy that required my repentance. I looked at him, and the desire to explain myself completely evaporated. “Sure.” Wayne let out a breath, assuming he had won, and walked into the bathroom to shower. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the three boarding passes to Boston on my phone. My mind was entirely, beautifully quiet. In the middle of the night, a soft rustling woke me. I heard Wayne’s hushed voice coming from the small living room. “Phoebe? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I couldn’t hear the other side of the call, but his voice instantly softened into a tender, protective hush. “Don’t be scared. I’m coming over right now.” As the hotel door clicked shut, my mind drifted back to a night three years ago. I had been burning with a 104-degree fever, shivering violently. When I called him, he had told me he had an important presentation the next morning and told me to just take some Tylenol. Back then, I had made excuses for him. I told myself he was just driven, that his career was important. But he didn’t lack the capacity to rush to someone in the middle of the night. He just didn’t want to do it for me. The next morning, Wayne returned to the room. He hadn’t noticed the faint, pale pink smudge of lipstick on his collar. Phoebe stood just behind him, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet regret. “Iris, I am so, so sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.” I smiled faintly, offering no words. When we arrived at the airport, Phoebe’s family was already gathered around the first-class check-in counter. Wayne smoothly handed over their documents, handling the process with practiced ease. Phoebe’s parents, her aunt, her cousin—everyone was checked into first class. But when the gate agent scanned my parents’ documents, she paused. “Tom and Helen are ticketed for Coach.” My mother blinked, quickly waving her hands. “Oh, Coach is wonderful. Coach is perfect. We don’t mind at all.” Wayne stepped closer, whispering to me as if trying to head off another argument. “Rebooking on such short notice was difficult. There were only so many first-class seats left. It’s only a four-hour flight, Iris. They’ll be fine.” Four hours. Now he cared about the flight duration. Yet yesterday, he had been perfectly content to let them sit on a train for over thirty hours. Phoebe chimed in, her voice sweet and helpful. “Maybe I can trade seats with your mom?” Wayne immediately cut her off. “No. You didn’t sleep at all last night, Phoebe. Don’t push yourself.” I looked at the profound tenderness in his eyes when he looked at Phoebe, and then at my father, who was leaning heavily against a pillar to ease the pressure on his spine. The final thread holding me to him snapped. The boarding announcement chimed through the terminal. The priority boarding lane opened. Wayne walked forward, guiding Phoebe’s mother by the elbow while wheeling her carry-on. Just before he entered the tunnel, he turned back to me. “Iris, take your parents and queue up in the general line. I’ll see you when we land.” With that, he disappeared into the priority lane with Phoebe and her family. My mother gently nudged me. “Iris, sweetheart, we should get in line. We don’t want to miss the gate.” I took her hand and pulled her gently out of the queue. “Mom. Dad.” I looked at them, my voice steady and clear. “We aren’t going to Maui. I’m taking you somewhere else.” My mother’s eyes widened. “But… the wedding…” Over the loudspeaker, the final boarding call for Wayne’s flight echoed. I took one last look at the priority lane. Wayne likely assumed we would meet him on the white sands of Maui. He didn’t know that we would never see each other again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530994”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The third time I caught Chelsea in bed with Tyler, my voice simply stopped working. Out of some twisted sense of guilt, Chelsea spent the next month training me to communicate with a binary code. 1 meant yes. 2 meant no. It didn’t matter what she asked me, as long as it had to do with Tyler, I only ever gave her one answer. I tapped 1. When she said Tyler’s health was failing and asked to borrow the vintage gold St. Christopher medallion my mother had left me to ward off bad energy, I tapped 1 without a second thought. When she asked to postpone our wedding anniversary trip so she could throw Tyler a birthday party first, I tapped 1. And when she insisted on moving a convalescing Tyler into our house, I still tapped 1. I even packed my things and quietly moved into the guest room, leaving them the master suite. It went on like this until the afternoon I finally took our wedding portrait down from the living room wall. Chelsea’s eyes flared a sudden, violent red. She grabbed my wrist with a desperate, crushing grip. “Sean, you promised me. You said you’d never take this down unless we were getting a divorce. Are you trying to leave me?” Sensing that the number “1” was already on the tip of my tongue, she broke down. She shook me, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. “Damn it, Sean! Don’t you dare say 1! There’s nothing wrong with your vocal cords. You can talk! Say something!” Then, as if terrified she had pushed me too far, her voice instantly dropped to a soft, pleading whimper. “Sean… please. Just say 2. Okay? Just once.” I pulled my hand from her grasp, looking at her with a quiet, hollow confusion. Had she honestly forgotten? During the first year of our marriage—back when she still loved me with a fierce, possessive loyalty—she had insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement. She wanted to bind herself to me. She wrote in a clause that if she ever strayed, she would be allowed exactly two chances. If she crossed the line a third time, the divorce would automatically trigger, and the dissolution of our marriage would take effect immediately. That third strike had happened a month ago. The agreement was already in motion. … The heavy mahogany frame of our wedding portrait hit the floor with a deafening crash. Glass shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds, scattering across the floorboards between Chelsea’s designer heels and my bare feet. I calmly picked up the broom. I swept the broken glass, the splintered wood, and the glossy, smiling photograph into a black trash bag. I didn’t linger. I didn’t look twice. I just threw them into the bin. Seeing my indifference, Chelsea’s grief instantly hardened back into rage. She knew better than anyone how much I used to treasure that picture. I used to dust it every Sunday. Now, I treated it like common household waste. To hurt me, she grabbed Tyler’s hand, pulling him close to her side. “Fine! Since you don’t care about it anymore, Tyler and I will go get our own portraits taken. I’ll hang ours right where that one used to be!” I nodded placidly. I pulled out my phone and tapped: “1.” Tyler couldn’t quite mask the smug triumph in his eyes, though he quickly put on a show of anxious humility. “Chelsea, are you sure about this? I already feel terrible enough staying here, forcing Sean to sleep in the guest room. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Before his words even finished echoing in the foyer, I had already opened my phone, pulled up the website for the high-end photography studio we used for our wedding, and booked their premium portrait package. I forwarded the confirmation text straight to Chelsea’s phone. Chelsea’s gaze darkened, a complex storm of anger and confusion swirling in her eyes. Without another word, she dragged Tyler out the door. I didn’t care. I walked back into the guest room. A notification popped up on my screen: my flight to Boston was officially booked. I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece, until a sharp chime broke the silence of the room. It was an Instagram notification. Tyler had posted a new photo grid, and he had deliberately tagged me. It was a layout of nine engagement-style photos. The aesthetic, the lighting, the poses—they were a carbon copy of the photos Chelsea and I had posted the day we got married. Except for one detail. Right in the center of the grid was a live photo. It captured them in a passionate, lingering embrace, their lips parted in a deep kiss that seemed to go on forever. I stared at the screen, my face entirely blank. Then, I tapped the heart icon to like the post, and left a simple, two-word comment: “Congratulations.” In the dead of night, Chelsea kicked my bedroom door open. She reeked of expensive gin and desperate anger as she stumbled toward my bed. “Sean, what do you want from me? What is it going to take for you to forgive me?” “Why aren’t you angry? I took Tyler to get those photos, and I waited for you all day. Why didn’t you come and stop me?” “You used to be so jealous. You used to care!” I looked at her, my eyes cool and distant. My mind wandered back to the ghost of who I used to be. She was right. I used to be an incredibly jealous man. The first time I caught them, I had marched straight into her corporate office and slapped Tyler across the face in front of her entire board of directors. Chelsea’s retaliation had been swift and brutal. She used her massive influence to frame me for academic plagiarism. Within a week, I was stripped of my tenure and fired from my position as a professor of constitutional law. The second time, I found them tangled in our marriage bed. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply took a photo and sent it to the firm’s primary investors. To teach me a lesson, Chelsea cut off the funding for my mother’s specialized cancer immunotherapy drugs. The only way she would reinstate the treatments—the only way to save my mother’s life—was for me to agree to a deeply humiliating livestreamed bachelor-party gig for her high-profile elite clients. After that scandal, my career in law was completely dead. Even the smallest boutique firms threw my resume in the trash. I had no income, but my mother’s medical bills were an endless, hungry beast. When Tyler casually complained one evening that the food at his office cafeteria was inedible, Chelsea had a brilliant solution. I went from lecturing in university halls to acting as Tyler’s private chef. My hands, which had spent a lifetime holding fountain pens and law journals, became covered in grease burns and blisters. Every single day, I submerged my hands in boiling dishwater until the skin wrinkled, cracked, and bled. They would scab over, only to be torn open again the next morning. All of it, just to secure my mother’s weekly medication from Chelsea. A vicious, endless cycle. Eventually, the calluses grew so thick that it took a deep, painful tear to make them bleed again. Just like my heart. Chelsea reached up, cupping my face with her trembling, alcohol-soaked hands. “Sean, I made him delete the post. I swear.” “He only got hurt because he protected me during that warehouse accident. Once his recovery is finished, I’ll send him away.” “Please, Sean. Stop punishing me.” My fingers stilled. I opened my phone. Tyler’s post was indeed gone. Even the matching profile pictures they had set earlier had been changed; Tyler’s icon was now a blank gray screen. Meanwhile, Chelsea’s profile picture had been changed to a candid photo of me. Her banner was a photo of us on our first trip to Maine. Her status read: “My one and only, Sean.” Her bio had been updated to: “Forever with Sean.” It was the exact public declaration of love I had begged her for throughout our entire relationship, a standard she had always claimed was “too juvenile” for a woman in her position. Yet, Tyler had received it within ten days of knowing her. Now that I finally had what I once craved, it felt like swallowing a swarm of flies hovering over a dumpster. Vile. Nauseating. Suddenly, Chelsea lost her balance and collapsed onto the floor by my feet, passing out cold. As she fell, her phone slipped from her pocket. The screen lit up with a notification from an unsaved number. “Tori, are we really using burner accounts to text now?” “This is so hot.” “I just learned a few new tricks. You’ll have to be careful next time, though—don’t leave a mark. Otherwise, I’ll have to keep staying in Sean’s bed so you can tend to my ‘wounds’ yourself.” “Besides, if Sean ever decides to beat me to death, who’s going to keep you satisfied?” My right hand began to shake. I pressed my trembling palm flat against my chest, slowly closing my eyes as I forced my breathing to steady. Thank god I was no longer the naive eighteen-year-old boy who had fallen for her. I would no longer let these pathetic, malicious games break me. That boy had wanted Chelsea to love him loudly and fiercely. But the twenty-eight-year-old man sitting here only wanted one thing: to get as far away from Chelsea as humanly possible. Permanently. Chelsea groaned, suddenly retching onto the hardwood floor. The physical discomfort seemed to shock her back into consciousness. She instinctively reached her hand upward, expecting a warm bowl of honey-ginger water to be placed in her palm, followed by my gentle, exasperated lecturing. On countless nights like this, I had stayed up to care for her, rubbing her back and softly scolding her for drinking so much. But this time, her hand met empty air. The heavy, comforting silence of the room was broken only by a single, typed response on my phone screen: “2.” The air in the room turned ice-cold. Making hangover water didn’t require vocal cords. But I didn’t move an inch. Looking at my completely vacant expression, Chelsea’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. She kicked the nightstand in frustration. “Sean, I already apologized for what happened to your mother! That last time with Tyler was a mistake, an accident!” “Tyler’s mother went to prison taking the fall for my company’s financial audit. She left him in my care. What was I supposed to do, throw him on the street?” “I slept with another man. That is all. Why is it so impossible for you to just get over it?” In the dim light of the bedroom, I nodded in quiet agreement. I tapped the screen, letting the digital voice assistant speak for me. “1.” Chelsea lunged forward, grabbing my upper arms with terrifying strength. “Sean, talk to me! Scream at me! Hit me!” She grabbed my hand and forced my palm against her cheek. “Hit me, damn it!” I pulled my hand back, shook my head, and tapped: “2.” Her arms fell to her sides, completely drained of energy. Then, as if nothing had happened, she climbed onto the bed and pressed her body against my back, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist. “Sean, let’s just sleep. I’m staying right here tonight. I’m not going anywhere.” I didn’t push her away. Experience had taught me that struggling was useless. Besides, she wouldn’t stay long. Sure enough, less than thirty minutes later, the butler knocked softly on the door. “Ma’am, Mr. Tyler is complaining of severe chest pains.” Chelsea bolted upright. She threw the covers off, rushing out of the room without a single backward glance. The hallway outside erupted into a chaotic flurry of footsteps and panicked voices. I walked into the bathroom, turned the shower to hot, and thoroughly scrubbed every inch of skin she had touched. I had just lain back down when Chelsea burst into the room again, her eyes frantic. “Sean, Tyler is throwing up blood. We need to go to the hospital, and I need you to—” Before she could finish, I tapped: “1.” She froze, suddenly catching the scent of my body wash. “You showered again?” Her voice trembled with a sudden, sharp hurt. “Do you really find my touch that disgusting?” This time, I didn’t even bother to look at her. The vulnerability in Chelsea’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, malicious sneer. She grabbed my chin, forcing my face up to meet hers. “Since you want to act so incredibly generous, I’ll let you play the saint to your heart’s content.” She dragged me out of the house and threw me into the back of her SUV. “Tyler needs emergency surgery. You’re going to take care of him.” She glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “After all, you have plenty of experience surviving a knife wound, don’t you?” My hands began to shake again. My fingers instinctively drifted to my abdomen, tracing the thick, jagged scar beneath my shirt. It was the scar I got when I jumped in front of a blade meant for Chelsea. It was our first year of marriage. Her business was skyrocketing, and she had made some dangerous enemies. A rival company had hired someone to end her life. I had taken the hit instead. In the ICU, Chelsea had wept like a broken child, holding my hand and swearing to God that she would spend the rest of her life making me happy. Now, she laughed and told me I was the perfect candidate because I had “experience” with surgical blades. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my old academic mentor, Dr. Catherine Reynolds. “Sean, your research fellowship at Harvard has been fully approved. Don’t worry about the logistics. I’m sending your senior colleague, Helena, to come collect you.” In that single moment, the frantic, terrified beating of my heart finally settled into a calm, steady rhythm. I felt anchored. I sat quietly as Chelsea blew through three red lights to reach the hospital. I didn’t resist when she dragged me into the donor clinic, screaming at the on-duty nurse, “He’s O-negative! He’s a match! Draw his blood now!” I remained entirely silent. But just as the nurse pressed the cold alcohol wipe against my skin, Chelsea suddenly grabbed the nurse’s arm, halting her. She knelt down in front of my chair, forcing me to look at her. “Sean, talk to me. Just say the word ‘no,’ and I’ll call this off. We won’t draw a single drop.” She knew how terrified I was of needles. She knew the mere sight of blood made me faint. Yet, she had brought me here anyway. I stared at the familiar lines of her face, trying to find the girl who had once saved me from a gang of debt collectors, running through the rain to pull me into an emergency room. The girl who had covered my eyes during my vaccinations, whispering in my ear, “Don’t look, sweetheart. It’ll be over in a second.” The girl who had emptied her entire childhood savings account to pay off my father’s gambling debts so I could finish my degree. I looked at her, and in my mind, I whispered: “Consider this the final payment for everything you did for me.” “From this moment on, we owe each other nothing.” I looked into her eyes, smiled gently, and tapped: “1.” Chelsea’s eyes fluttered shut, her chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. She stood up abruptly, her face twisting into a mask of pure fury. “Fine,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “You want to play the martyr? Let’s see how much you can take!” She turned to the doctor, her voice booming through the clinic. “Draw ten vials. Don’t stop until you have all ten.” The doctor looked at her in disbelief. “Ma’am, drawing that much from a patient with his vitals is dangerous—” “I said draw it!” Chelsea hissed. “My husband is a very generous man. I wouldn’t want to insult his charity.” The doctor hesitated, but I patted his hand gently, nodding to let him know it was okay to proceed. It was pointless to argue. This hospital was heavily funded by Chelsea’s conglomerate. If medical ethics had any power here, my mother would never have had her treatment withheld so easily. I closed my eyes, feeling my life force slowly drain out through the plastic tube. My lips grew cold and numb. The room began to spin. And then, from the recovery room right next door, separated only by a thin medical curtain, a series of soft, suggestive sounds drifted through the air. Tyler, who was supposed to be in critical condition, spoke in a loud, performative gasp. “Oh, Chelsea… slow down. Sean is literally in the next chair…” Her response was a low, breathless moan. “Let him watch.” With a sharp snap, the curtain was ripped aside. The two of them were tangled on the hospital bed, their clothes half-torn, flushed and breathing heavily. Chelsea glared at the terrified nurses and doctors still in the room. “Get the hell out. All of you.” Within seconds, the clinic was cleared, leaving only the three of us. Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh as her hands slowly traced down Tyler’s bare chest. “Look at me, Sean,” she demanded, her eyes locked onto mine. “Look at what you’re missing. You think your disgust matters to me? There are plenty of men begging to take your place.” “Don’t ever flatter yourself into thinking I need you.” She leaned down, pressing her mouth hard against Tyler’s. And to ensure I didn’t close my eyes, she had hung my mother’s gold St. Christopher medallion from the curtain rod directly above them. If I looked away, she would know instantly. When they were finished, Chelsea kicked the soiled top sheet off the bed, throwing it at my feet. “Wash it.” Tyler looked at me with a lazy, satisfied grin. “Oh, Chelsea, that’s so mean. There’s… well, there’s a lot of my mess on that sheet.” “How can we ask Sean to clean up after us?” He slowly slid out of the bed, walking over to where I sat, weak and dizzy from the blood loss. He reached up, plucked the St. Christopher medallion from the rod, and began tossing it lightly in his palm. “You know, Chelsea said this little charm was supposed to bring good luck and health. But my chest still hurts.” “I was going to give it back to you, Sean, but honestly… it’s probably covered in bad luck now.” “Let me help you get rid of it.” “No—” My voice didn’t work, but my mind screamed as Tyler casually tossed the solid gold medallion out the open third-story window. I rushed to the glass, watching the small gold glint plunge into the darkness below. A split second later, the heavy tire of a speeding city bus rolled over it, crushing it into the asphalt. My vision went completely red. A primal, uncontrollable rage surged through my veins. I lunged at Tyler, my hands clawing at his throat, a guttural, choked sound tearing from my chest. But Tyler easily slipped behind Chelsea, trembling and clutching his chest. “Chelsea, see? I told you!” Tyler whimpered, a triumphant smirk flashing on his face where she couldn’t see. “I knew if we pushed him hard enough, he’d start talking again!” Chelsea’s eyes narrowed, processing Tyler’s words. But when she saw me trying to claw my way toward him, her protective instincts kicked in. She shoved me back with brutal force. Severely depleted from the blood draw, my legs gave out. I crashed onto the cold tile floor, my body trembling so violently I couldn’t pull myself up. Chelsea took a step toward me, a flash of regret crossing her face, but Tyler suddenly let out a sharp cry, collapsing to his knees. “My chest… it hurts so bad!” “Chelsea, I was only trying to help him speak. I didn’t think he’d actually try to kill me… He knows my heart is weak. He wanted me dead.” “If I die, it’s fine… but my mother is still in prison. I won’t even get to say goodbye to her…” I stared at his pathetic, amateurish acting, desperately trying to formulate words to defend myself, but all that came out of my throat were broken, pathetic grunts. Chelsea’s expression hardened into pure disgust as she looked down at me. “Sean, you really are a monster, aren’t you? All this silence was just an act.” “You did all of this just to find a way to murder Tyler!” She called for the emergency team to wheel Tyler to the ICU. Before she left, she looked back at me, her voice cold as ice. “If anything happens to him, Sean, I will make sure you pay for it with your life.” I lay there, paralyzed on the floor. Not even thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was the director of Oakridge Cemetery. “Mr. Hastings, we have an emergency. The plot where your mother was recently laid to rest has been flagged for immediate relocation due to an eminent domain order.” “You need to come down here immediately to oversee the excavation, or we cannot guarantee the integrity of the remains.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Without a single second of hesitation, I dragged myself out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and rushed to Oakridge. But by the time I arrived, the grave had already been dug halfway up. I threw myself in front of the workers’ shovels, my body acting as a shield. Tyler stood a few yards away, shivering inside Chelsea’s oversized trench coat. “Chelsea, the spiritual advisor was right. The energy from this grave is killing me. The moment we got here, my heart started acting up again.” I fell to my knees in front of Chelsea, shaking my head violently. My throat burned as I fought with every ounce of my remaining strength to force the words out. “Please… don’t…” Chelsea remained silent for a long moment, but ultimately, she waved her hand, signaling her private security guards to drag me away. “Sean, Tyler’s mother sacrificed everything for my family. I can’t risk his life over a piece of land.” “Don’t worry. I’ll buy your mother a much better plot in a premium cemetery.” I was pinned to the ground by two heavy guards, forced to watch as they hauled my mother’s casket out of the fresh earth. While the workers were busy, Tyler slipped away from Chelsea’s side, kneeling down next to me on the damp grass. He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “You still don’t get it, do you, Sean? Your mother didn’t die from cancer.” “She died because she woke up and saw Chelsea and me having sex right there on her hospital bed. The shock gave her a massive stroke.” “Oh, and that night? Chelsea ignored your calls because she was busy helping me rewrite my corporate portfolio. Your mother died completely alone.” “Thank you for all your hard work, big brother.” “Ah!” A wild, animalistic strength surged through me. I broke free from the guards’ grip and lunged at Tyler, burying my fingers into his hair, tearing at his face. In the scuffle, a heavy boot slammed into my abdomen. The pain was blinding. I fell back, gasping for air. When I opened my eyes, Chelsea was standing over me, holding the small marble urn containing my mother’s ashes. I clutched my throat, forcing the words out through the blood in my mouth. “Give… me… my… mother.” Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Look at that. You can speak just fine when you actually want to.” “If it takes a little trauma to make you talk, then let’s play.” With a casual, elegant flick of her wrist, she tossed the marble urn over the edge of the cliff. The urn shattered against the jagged rocks below. A cloud of fine, grey ash caught the wind, scattering into the empty air, disappearing over the valley. “Mom!” I screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that tore my throat open. I tried to throw myself over the edge after her, but the guards pinned me back down, grinding my face into the dirt. Chelsea turned her back to me, pushing Tyler’s wheelchair toward her car. “Keep him here,” she directed the guards. “Don’t let him leave until he can speak to me in full, coherent sentences.” She didn’t notice the low, rhythmic thumping echoing from the clouds. A sleek, private helicopter was descending rapidly toward the clearing. When the cabin door opened and I saw the woman stepping out onto the grass, tears finally broke through my defenses, blurring my vision. Chelsea returned home in a daze. Tyler called her name several times, but she didn’t seem to hear him. “Chelsea, we had to do that,” Tyler said softly, wrapping his arms around her neck. “It was the only way to shock Sean out of his selective mutism. He’ll understand eventually. He won’t hold a grudge.” Chelsea looked up, a deep, gnawing anxiety clawing at her chest. Just as she reached for her phone to tell the guards to release him and bring him home, the butler burst into the room, panting heavily. “Ma’am… someone just delivered these to the front gate.” He held out two small, navy blue booklets. They were official divorce certificates.

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