Author: Momo Chan

Seven months into the sickness that was slowly hollowing me out, I asked Vivian Shaw for a divorce. She didn’t even grant me a flicker of her emerald eyes, keeping them glued to the documents she was reviewing. “A reason?” I slid an Asset Transfer Agreement across the mahogany desk toward her. The edges of the paper were worn, and the date was three months before our wedding. Multi-billion dollar controlling shares in the Shaw Group, three European villas, a private island in the Caribbean. All gratuitously signed over to my stepbrother, Rhys Alden. The only thing I’d received, all those years ago, was a cold, brutal prenuptial agreement. I signed it, stepping into the Shaw estate with nothing, not even a penny from Vivian’s considerable dowry. For a decade, the limit on my corporate allowance card was five hundred dollars a month. Now, even a hospital stay required stringent financial planning. Finally, she put the file down and looked at me. A flash of something that might have been concern—a brief flicker of warmth—crossed her face, only to be immediately sealed over by her customary frost. “This expired, voided agreement? Ethan Bellweather, since when have you become so dramatic about paperwork?” I looked at the woman I had loved for fifteen years. In her eyes, I didn’t even have the right to be hurt. I didn’t cry. I didn’t raise my voice. I was unnervingly calm. “Vivian,” I said. “I’ll have the divorce papers drafted and sent over in a few days.” Then I turned and walked out, pulling my cell phone out to call the medical center. “Hello, I’d like to schedule my surgery for one week from today.” 1 The appointment confirmation pinged in immediately. Looking at the scheduled time on the screen, a spasm of pain shot through my abdomen, involuntary and sharp. I braced myself against the bedroom wall and slowly sank to the floor, fighting back tears as I messaged my attorney. He called me back instantly. “Mr. Bellweather, are you truly determined to waive all marital assets and walk away with absolutely nothing?” “You are entitled to at least fifty percent of…” Marital assets? I couldn’t stop the bitter, hollow laugh that escaped me. There were no marital assets. Vivian’s equity growth over the years was held in blind trusts, and every asset in her name had been legally notarized pre-marriage. My name was nowhere on the beneficiary list for the family trust. She’d mentioned it casually the day we got engaged: she would never marry a man who was dependent on her fortune. She wouldn’t hand over what she had fought so hard to inherit just because of a marriage certificate. At the time, I assumed it was her anger at her father for forcing her into the marriage with me. I also understood the immense battle she’d fought to secure the Shaw Group against her swarm of illegitimate siblings. So, I had dutifully signed every page of the thick stack of financial waivers. I thought that one day she would lower her guard and truly see me. But it wasn’t until I saw that Asset Transfer Agreement that I realized how foolish I’d been. Every single item on that transfer agreement perfectly matched the list of assets she had made me sign away at the notary’s office. She wasn’t unwilling to share her wealth; she just never intended for me to be the husband she shared it with. “Ms. Reed,” I interrupted my attorney. “Please prepare the divorce agreement. I only ask for a clean break. No assets.” My hand was still shaking when I hung up. It wasn’t hesitation. It was fury. Ten years of marriage felt like a long, elaborate fraud, and I had been the willing fool. The password to the hidden safe in Vivian’s study was Rhys Alden’s birthday. She was willing to give Rhys everything she owned, yet my monthly allowance never exceeded five hundred. Even when I was too sick to eat, throwing up until I was dizzy and weak, she was across the city at Rhys’s private art exhibit. The most pathetic part? I had designed their love nest with my own hands. Three months ago, Vivian had slapped a set of blueprints on my bedside table, forcing my feverish, weakened body out of bed to work. “A friend is gifting his partner a villa. Design it to the highest standard, and fast,” she’d commanded. Now it was clear that “friend” was herself. And the signature at the bottom of the resident form, a bold, sweeping “RA,” was clearly Rhys Alden’s initials. The divorce agreement arrived via courier just before sunset. My attorney made one last plea: “Mr. Bellweather, at least keep the income you earned during the marriage…” I shook my head. Vivian never contributed a dime to the household; my entire income over the years had been sunk into the maintenance and upkeep of her property. Now, I realized that in her eyes, my contribution—my life—was truly worthless. A fresh wave of pain surged through me as I signed the papers. I couldn’t hold back anymore. The tears finally fell. 2 That same afternoon, Ms. Reed helped me secure a small apartment. I didn’t care about the neighborhood or the floor plan; I just needed to move out immediately. It was eight o’clock when I returned to the Shaw mansion for the last time. The fatigue from my illness made it nearly impossible to stand straight, but I cooked one final dinner. A four-course meal, all her favorites. For ten years, I knew her tastes better than I knew my own. Regardless of the ending, fifteen years of my life had been tied to hers. I wanted a clean, peaceful finish. But it was past one in the morning when Vivian finally returned. She carried the cloying scent of Santal—Rhys Alden’s signature cologne—and the unmistakable shadow of a hickey, brazenly marking the base of her throat. I watched her movements, and my gaze caught on her left hand. Her ring finger was bare. She had taken our wedding band off. I didn’t know when. Her eyes landed on the untouched, cold meal on the dining table, and her brow furrowed—a habit born of impatience. There was no warmth in her expression, only clear, visible annoyance. “Another pity party? You think this will make me roll over?” She shrugged off her trench coat, tossing it carelessly onto the designer sofa, and moved to walk past me. “Vivian,” I called out. My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “The divorce agreement is on the table. Sign it.” She stopped dead, turning back with a look of derision that nearly spilled over. “Because of an expired piece of paper? Ethan, since when have you been so irrational?” “Your father coerced me into marrying you using a life debt. I had no choice but to agree.” “Rhys has a bad heart. I simply wanted to give him a blessing, a formality!” A blessing? A formality? How absurd. Two weightless words that negated all my suffering and all my devotion. I suddenly understood that the barrier between us for the last decade was not circumstance or family obligation. It was simply that she had never loved me. Fifteen years ago, on a rainy night, she was being hunted by her vicious half-siblings. I hid her in a storage room for three days. I was the one who snuck her food and medicine, nearly getting beaten to death by her pursuers myself. She had gripped my hand and promised: “Ethan, when I take control of the Shaw Group, I will marry you in a ceremony that will make headlines.” And she did. She took the reins of the Shaw Group with ruthless, thunderous efficiency. But she married me with the coldest, most calculated prenuptial agreement ever penned, calling that the “ceremony that made headlines.” “Vivian,” I slowly stood up, fighting the sharp ache in my side. “So you do remember that you owe me a life.” She froze for a moment, then let out a chilling laugh. “Oh, so we’re tallying up the scores now? Fine. Name your price. How much?” Name my price. A bitter smile touched my lips, and the last, warm corner of my heart finally went entirely cold. “It won’t be necessary, Vivian. I am done with this relationship.” “I want the signed divorce agreement on the living room table by nine a.m. tomorrow.” I used every ounce of strength to keep my voice steady. Then, without waiting to see her reaction, I turned and headed upstairs. Behind me, the silence was shattered by the violent sound of shattering porcelain and her low, furious roar: “Ethan Bellweather! You had better not regret this!” Regret? My only regret was opening that storage room door fifteen years ago on a rainy night. 3 When I went downstairs the next morning, the living room was empty. The divorce papers had been ripped into confetti and were scattered across the expensive, hand-woven rug. My heart seized at the sight of the shredded paper, but the panic quickly subsided into a dull, familiar numbness. That was Vivian’s answer. She was too arrogant to negotiate and too controlling to let go. My phone screen lit up with a new message. It was from Rhys Alden. He had suddenly re-added me on social media a month ago. His first message: “Ethan, long time no see. I’m back. Vivian picked me up at the airport. She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?” Since then, my phone had become the live-stream of his perfect happiness. A blurry picture of Vivian’s back at the art gallery. A candid shot of her putting food on his plate. A deliberately visible half-arm in the passenger seat of her car. And yesterday, he’d sent a voice note. In the background, I could clearly hear Vivian impatiently hanging up on someone. “Ethan Bellweather? Ignore him. He’s always making a scene. Just focus on your painting.” The last message was ten minutes old. A photo. Vivian was asleep in his bed, her profile peaceful against his familiar dark sheets. The caption: “Ethan, I hear you were going through Vivian’s study and upset her? Don’t worry, that agreement was just something she gave me years ago when I was sick, to cheer me up. It’s totally void. Don’t take it the wrong way.” “Oh, and you really remind me of the old me, especially your eyes. Vivian said that’s the first thing she noticed about you.” “By the way, how is your body? Vivian says you’re getting more and more disgusting these days.” A wave of icy nausea slammed into my throat. I bolted into the bathroom and dry-heaved violently. The illness had never made me feel as physically sick as I did in that moment. I gripped the sink, staring at my pale, red-rimmed face in the mirror. My eyes… they were the reason? Because they resembled his? Fifteen years of first love, ten years of marriage, all originated in one woman’s unfulfilled obsession with another man. And I was merely the clumsy, second-best replacement. The tears I had suppressed finally burst forth. They ran down my cheeks, hot and heavy. With a trembling hand, I typed a reply to Rhys. “You always liked picking up my leftovers. Keep her. Both of you.” The message sent. Almost immediately, Vivian’s phone call came through. I didn’t answer. I ended the call, then blocked her number. The world instantly went quiet. I pressed my hand to my tightening abdomen, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to regain composure. This was not the time for grief. I called the moving company I’d booked and started to pack my possessions with a cold, almost surgical efficiency. My clothes, my design sketches, the cheap kitchenware and small appliances I’d bought myself… Everything that bore my personal mark was boxed. The expensive watches, the bespoke suits, the luxury bags—all of it had been bought by Vivian to maintain my “role” as her husband. I left every piece. Including the wedding band I’d taken off, which lay glinting silently on the vanity. The movers arrived swiftly, loading a dozen cardboard boxes onto the truck. Before leaving, I took one last look at the villa where I had lived for a decade. It was beautiful, cold, a perfectly constructed gilded cage. And I was finally serving out my sentence. 4 My rented apartment was tiny, but the sunlight poured in. I spent the entire day arranging my things, exhausting my body, but feeling an odd, weightless peace in my mind. That evening, I received a text from an unfamiliar number. It was Vivian. “Ethan, come home immediately. We can pretend none of this happened.” “Rhys is fragile. Stop trying to upset him.” “Also, I know you’re unwell. Get the treatment you need. Stop this foolish tantrum.” I looked at the message and almost laughed until I cried. Even now, she was concerned with Rhys’s feelings and assumed I was throwing a childish fit. My own pain, my sickness, my life, was irrelevant. I didn’t reply. I deleted the text and blocked that number, too. 5 The day before the surgery, I went in for a final consultation. The doctor reviewed my charts. “Your results are very encouraging. If we proceed with the treatment, your chances of a full recovery are significant.” “And if I refuse the surgery?” The older physician pushed his glasses up, his gaze troubled. “Mr. Bellweather, the hope for recovery is truly great. Are you certain?” I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood before finally replying. “I need more time to think.” As I walked out of the office, my steps felt unsteady. And then, at the end of the long hospital corridor, I saw the person I least wanted to see. Vivian. She was impeccably dressed, radiating the cold, assured power of the Shaw Group CEO. “You’re coming back with me.” She grabbed my wrist, her grip so hard it felt like she was trying to crush bone. “The tantrum ends now.” “A tantrum?” I looked up at her. “Vivian, you truly believe this is a tantrum?” “That agreement is old and void,” she repeated, her voice laced with impatience. “Rhys has a heart condition. I simply wanted to give him a blessing…” “So I get to be the sacrificial lamb for your fantasy love story?” I violently yanked my arm away. “Vivian, do you remember the year of our wedding, when I had a 104-degree fever? You said you were too busy to come home, but later I saw photos of you and Rhys skiing in Aspen on his social media.” “Our third wedding anniversary. You claimed you had a mandatory board meeting, but I saw your car in Rhys’s studio parking lot on his selfie.” “Anytime I needed you, you were busy. But you always had time to attend his art shows and celebrate every one of his birthdays.” I recounted the betrayals, one by one, my voice eerily calm, as if speaking of a stranger’s life. Vivian’s face finally changed. “You… you knew all of this?” “I never spoke of it because every time, I told myself to give you one more chance, to believe in you one last time.” I laughed, but the tears finally came. “It wasn’t until I saw that asset transfer agreement that I realized how pathetic I was.” She was silent. For the first time, I saw something akin to guilt in her eyes. But it was too late. Everything was too late. “I will get treatment,” I said softly. “But it has nothing to do with you.” “From this day forward, whether I live or die is entirely irrelevant to you, Vivian Shaw.” I turned and walked away. She didn’t follow. For the next few days, I shut myself off, focusing only on resting in the apartment. My lawyer called to say Vivian was refusing to sign the divorce papers. “Mr. Bellweather, if you insist, we have to file a suit. But given your current health status, the court will lean heavily toward mediation.” “Furthermore, Ms. Shaw stated that if you insist on a legal battle, she has the means to drag this out for years.” The lawyer sounded troubled. I held the phone, silent for a long moment. I knew Vivian was capable of it. She had the money and the influence; I had nothing left. “Ms. Reed, how long would a contested divorce take?” “If the opposing party is determined and utilizes all her resources, it could be stretched out for several years.” Years? I didn’t have that long. I had to force Vivian to agree to the divorce. 6 Just as I was thinking, the doorbell rang. Rhys Alden stood there in a soft, white cashmere sweater, looking fragile and innocent, holding a fancy insulated container. I opened the door, but made no move to let him in. “What do you want?” “Ethan, I knew you’d be here.” He offered a weak smile and started to step inside. “Vivian is worried sick about you. She sent me to check in. I brought you some chicken broth. You’re sick, you need to nourish yourself.” I blocked the doorframe, unmoving. “Thank you. I don’t need it. You can leave.” His smile faltered, replaced by a wounded expression. “Ethan, are you still mad at me? Vivian and I aren’t doing anything inappropriate. She just takes care of me…” “Whatever you two are doing is irrelevant to me,” I cut him off coldly. “I’m divorcing her soon. You can finally let her take care of you openly.” A flash of triumph flickered in Rhys’s eyes, quickly masked by feigned concern. “Ethan, don’t rush into a divorce! You have no money now. And Vivian says she wants you to be healthy…” Before he could finish, I looked up and stared at him, my eyes burning. “She wants me to be healthy? So what? So I can keep playing my part in your sick game?” Rhys was startled by my gaze and instinctively stepped back. “Ethan, why would you think that? I only felt sorry for you, substituting for me all these years…” He trailed off, but the unspoken words were the most vicious blade, instantly slicing through my last defense. So that was it. That was why she refused to divorce me. Because I was a mere stand-in, and she couldn’t openly be with the real man. She needed me, the man with the eyes “like his,” to complete their fantasy! A tremendous wave of absurdity and revulsion overwhelmed me. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I snatched the insulated container from his hand and hurled it at him with full force! Warm chicken broth splattered all over his white sweater. He shrieked and leaped back. “Get out!” I pointed to the stairs, trembling all over. “Tell Vivian I will divorce her even if it kills me!” Rhys looked down at his ruined clothes, and the mask of wounded innocence finally cracked, revealing a sliver of malice. “Ethan, don’t be ungrateful! If Vivian wants you alive, you will live! Do you really think you can resist her?” “Let’s see!” I stared him down. “Let’s see if I can!” Perhaps my expression was truly terrifying, because Rhys ultimately slunk away, defeated. I closed the door and slid down the wall, sinking to the floor, my body cold and shaking uncontrollably. Fear and despair washed over me. I knew the extent of Vivian’s power. If she truly intended to force me into treatment, I had virtually no defense. No. I could not let her win. My body, my life, had to be mine. Not Vivian’s. And certainly not Rhys Alden’s! A desperate, insane thought took root in that moment. If I simply ceased to exist, would they finally let me go? 7 My heart was in agonizing turmoil when my phone suddenly buzzed. It was an anonymous email. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t explain, I clicked it open. The email contained no text, only a few scanned documents. The first was a screenshot of an old email exchange between Vivian and Rhys, dated years before my marriage to her. The second was a copy of Rhys Alden’s medical report, diagnosing him with congenital azoospermia—infertility. The third document was a bomb. It was a recording of a conversation between Vivian and her private counsel. I pressed play, and Vivian’s cold voice filled the tiny apartment, terrifyingly clear: “That gift agreement must be watertight, no legal loopholes, but it’s the security I promised him. It has to be effective.” “As for Ethan… we don’t need to worry about him anymore. He’s been my husband for ten years; I’ve paid off that debt of gratitude long ago. His only remaining value is to give me an heir.” “Once the child is secured, if he cooperates, we’ll give him a generous settlement to keep him quiet. If he doesn’t… you know what to do.” “Rhys loves children. If my child has eyes like him, that would be the best possible outcome.” The recording cut off abruptly. I sat on the floor, the blood draining from my body. I was so cold my teeth were chattering. So… this was the truth! Every suspicion was confirmed. My help, my life debt, was merely an “obligation” she needed to “pay off.” A surge of volcanic anger and nausea hit me. I rushed back to the bathroom, vomiting until my stomach was empty. This wasn’t sickness-induced retching. This was a purely physiological reaction of disgust. Disgust for the fifteen years of love I had wasted, for the decade of marriage I had mistakenly cherished! When it was over, only acid remained. I gripped the wall, looked at the ashen-faced man in the mirror, and a cold smile touched my lips. I pulled out my phone and unblocked Vivian’s number. It rang once, and she answered. I held the receiver, letting out a soft, unnervingly clear laugh. “Vivian, you want me to give you a child, is that right?” There was a moment of silence on the line, followed by her voice, tight with barely contained fury. “Ethan Bellweather, what are you doing?” “What am I doing?” My laugh turned colder. “What can I do…” “I just wanted to tell you…” I paused, speaking each word slowly, deliberately, driving them like stakes into her heart. “That child, you will never, ever get it.” Then, without giving her time to react, I hung up and turned off my phone.

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I am the Phoenix, the first and the last of my kind, woven from starlight and primordial fire. A thousand years of my life force, a millennium of my own heart’s blood, had gone into the single, perfect egg nestled in my sanctuary. Then, during a routine suppression of the Maelstrom Abyss, the intrusive text began to flash across my vision. [No cap, she’s the MC. The Phoenix God is away, so she’s stealing the house.] [Girl boss is shoving the egg straight into her ancient pocket-dimension.] [It’s the Primordial Void Space—no way the Phoenix God can track that.] [So what if the MC force-contracts it before it hatches? She’s the Chosen One, the literal main character.] [The little Phoenix tried to break the contract after hatching, but thankfully the MC isn’t a saint. She just processed it into a puppet.] [LOL. And the Phoenix God thinks it’s her daughter’s choice and bows down to the MC.] [I live for this kind of Dark Empress MC. So good.] 1 My golden eyes narrowed into slits. The True Fire circulating my body flared, threatening to spiral into an uncontrollable conflagration. What arcane sorcery was this? What strange, insidious curse of the demonic races could conjure such mind-scrambling words out of thin air? For a thousand years, I had protected the human cultivators, sacrificing my own life-force countless times to reinforce their grand Abyssal Seal. If even a shred of gratitude remained in their hearts, they would never dare touch my child while I was fighting their endless war against the darkness. But the seed of doubt had been planted. I closed my eyes, focusing my millennia-old consciousness, attempting to locate the faint, familiar thrum of my daughter’s soul-bond. The connection, which had always been as clear as a blazing sunbeam, was gone. Severed. Cleanly. A cold, gut-wrenching dread seized my heart. The suppressed demonic energy in the chasm below immediately surged, exploiting my momentary lapse. “Phoenix Goddess!” the nearby human cultivators cried out, scrambling backward. “Are you alright? The Maelstrom is breaching the seal!” I ruthlessly crushed the rising panic, my True Fire blazing from my fingertips, forcing the swirling darkness back into the depths of the chasm. That egg, forged from my very essence, was due to hatch in three days. The moment before I left, Master Gideon, the head of the Aetherium Citadel, had knelt with dozens of his most revered disciples outside my lair, pleading that if the demonic energy leaked, the entire Ascended Realm would be devoured. I left my unborn child to save their world. And now, someone had raided my nest. More blinding text flashed across the void. [Girl boss is back at the Citadel.] [Here we go, the scene where the MC shuts down the false saintess sister.] [She risked her life to get that Phoenix egg. Why should she give it back?] [Seriously. Willow hasn’t done squat. She just opens her mouth and tells the MC to return it.] [Ugh, I get so mad just thinking about this part of the plot!] [The false saintess is useless, plus she warns everyone that if the Phoenix God finds out, it’ll bring ruin to the Citadel.] [But our Girl Boss knows how to stay undetected. That’s why she risked it.] [And this Willow snitch even tries to turn the Phoenix God against the MC out of sheer jealousy!] [If the MC hadn’t preemptively turned the little Phoenix into a puppet, it would’ve run back to its mother.] [Cultivation is all about being ruthless and taking what you can!] [Strongest rules, duh.] My fists clenched, my golden claws retracting and extending in a paroxysm of need. I needed to be with my daughter. Now. But if I abandoned the Maelstrom Abyss, the demonic power would break containment immediately. The choice was unthinkable. I had to be strategic. I plucked a single, brilliant golden feather from my tail and infused it with a fraction of my soul, shaping it into an avatar. “Go to the Aetherium Citadel. Retrieve my daughter.” The Avatar nodded its feathered head, beat its wings, and soared toward the Citadel, a streak of desperate gold against the darkening sky. The intrusive text went wild. [Wait, why is the Phoenix God sending an avatar to the Citadel?] [She must’ve realized the egg is gone.] [Heehee. She’s too late. The MC has already secured the contract.] The Avatar was blindingly fast, reaching the sky above the Citadel in less than half a pillar’s worth of incense. The humans’ self-proclaimed First Grand Sect was certainly impressive. Ancient runes flowed around the gates, rumored to withstand the full assault of the Ascended Realm’s most powerful Elder. The Avatar’s spiritual power was limited. Breaking the barrier would take time, so I directed it to use its Divine Sense to scout. On the Spire of Lumina, the peak with the strongest concentration of spiritual energy, a cluster of young cultivators were gathered. My gaze snapped to the small, shrinking figure nestled in the arms of a female cultivator in white. I only needed a glance, and my eyes instantly burned with incandescent rage. Golden-crimson fuzz was matted and sparse, clinging to its tiny body. Its wings were not yet fully formed. It was my daughter. Phoebe. She should have remained safely dormant for three more days. Instead, she was so weak she could barely open her eyes. At that moment, the “Main Character,” Sera, lashed out, a vicious slap cracking across the white-robed cultivator’s face. The intrusive text exploded with the word “SATISFYING” on repeat. Sera’s voice was as cold and sharp as obsidian. “Willow, I have been patient. Too patient. “This Phoenix is my property. I secured it. “What I choose to do with my familiar is none of your business. “Out of respect for our shared lineage, give the Phoenix back to me, and I will let this go.” Willow covered her cheek, her eyes red, but she clutched the tiny Phoenix tighter. “Senior Sister, the legend says the Phoenix God has only ever conceived this one egg. You can’t just steal their child.” Sera gave a dismissive, arrogant laugh. “Steal? I obtained this during my own perilous journey. It has nothing to do with theft.” Perilous journey? I had laid layer upon layer of divine wards around my nest. Even a high-stage Ascended Elder would struggle to get through. Her “chance encounter” was clearly a calculated, monstrous act of violation! 2 Willow held Phoebe close, her voice choked with tears. “Senior Sister, the little Phoenix says she doesn’t want you. Just let her go.” Sera didn’t need to respond; the intrusive text did it for her. [The False Saintess has some nerve! She couldn’t get the egg herself, so now she dares to criticize the MC!] [I can’t stand Willow’s fake piety. Give the Phoenix back to the Girl Boss!] [The MC faced death for that egg. Willow just stands here moralizing. Disgusting!] The male cultivator standing behind Sera stepped forward, frowning at Willow. This was Master Gideon. “Willow, stop this melodrama. Give the Phoenix back to Sera. “The creature has been contracted. To attempt to break a blood-oath is an offense, and it must be punished.” Willow’s tears fell faster, making her look truly heartbroken. “But Master, didn’t you see? “Senior Sister just used the Soul-Rending Brand! That’s a forbidden art that can destroy the consciousness of even a mid-stage cultivator. “The little Phoenix just hatched. She’s just a baby. How can she possibly endure that?” Sera crossed her arms, watching Willow with a cold, mocking smirk. “And what of it? It’s my contracted familiar. I can punish it however I see fit. “Even if I chose to incinerate it, it wouldn’t be up to you to object.” The Soul-Rending Brand! My true body at the Maelstrom Abyss shuddered violently. My golden True Fire erupted without warning, causing the demonic energy below to shriek in agony. This thunder not only lacerates the flesh, it tears the soul. One wrong application, and the victim is reduced to nothingness, their spirit scattered to the winds. My daughter was a hatchling. Her soul was inherently unstable. How could she possibly survive the destructive force of the Soul-Rending Brand? But the intrusive text was cheering. [That’s right! Disobedient creatures need the Soul-Rending Brand!] [This Phoenix is so stupid. The Girl Boss is the Chosen One. She’s going to Ascend! Following her is the greatest fortune, and yet it resists!] [Seriously. Familiars need to act like familiars. Disobey the master, suffer the punishment!] Willow furrowed her brow, trying to argue again. “Senior Sister, you are forcibly separating a mother and child. This is against the Cosmic Order. If the Phoenix God discovers—” Sera cut her off, her tone dripping with mockery. “And what if she does? “The Phoenix God was careless. She left a nearly-hatched egg undefended to wander off and play hero. “She only has herself to blame for losing it. “Besides, the little Phoenix will receive the best possible care with me. “What future does it have following its mother? To spend eternity guarding the Maelstrom Abyss?” The intrusive text immediately supported her. [MC is right! The Phoenix God is irresponsible. Losing the egg is on her!] [Girl Boss is a formation genius. Later on, everyone will depend on her to suppress the demons. Who even cares about the Phoenix God?] [The little Phoenix has a future only with the MC.] I took a deep, shuddering breath, my heart ripped in two. If I abandoned the Maelstrom Abyss now, the demonic energy would be completely unleashed, bringing ruin to all life. But my daughter was being subjected to inhuman torture! Sera took a step closer, her eyes turning cold. “Willow, my patience is exhausted. If you don’t return the Phoenix to me, you will face consequences.” Willow frantically looked at Master Gideon, pleading. “Master, please talk sense into Senior Sister! “For thousands of years, the Phoenix God has helped suppress the darkness. “If she finds out her child was stolen, it won’t just be the Citadel that faces danger. “The entire Ascended Realm could be destroyed!” Master Gideon’s face finally shifted, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Willow does have a point…” 3 Sera looked at them with pure scorn. “Little Sister, you truly are a master manipulator. A few crocodile tears, and you have men siding with you. “What? Run out of logical arguments, so you resort to fear-mongering?” Willow’s face flushed crimson, a mix of anger and distress. “I’m not! I’m telling the truth!” Sera sneered. “The truth? “The Maelstrom is held by the human Grand Formation, not the Phoenix God. Her role is marginal. “Besides, I am the formation genius. They will be begging me to suppress the darkness later.” The intrusive text reinforced her words. [Exactly! The False Saintess is so manipulative, only begging for sympathy!] [Who needs the Phoenix God to suppress the Maelstrom? The human formation is enough!] [Our Girl Boss is so powerful. She’ll surpass the Phoenix God eventually!] A few different comments flickered through the chaotic text. [Hold on, didn’t the Phoenix God still play a role?] [The MC’s grand formation uses the Phoenix God’s life-blood essence.] [Yeah, she uses the little Phoenix to make the mother obey, drawing her blood every time she needs to set up a seal.] [The Phoenix God is so pitiful. She thinks she’s protecting her daughter, not realizing her daughter’s soul has been extinguished by then…] [Shut up, you bleeding-heart saint! Get out of here!] [The title is literally Dark Empress MC. Why are you looking for morality?] [Our Girl Boss’s skill at manipulating people is genius!] [This is the true law of survival in the Ascended Realm!] Willow tried to speak again, but Sera ignored her completely. Sera looked down at my daughter and commanded with cold authority: “Come here.” Phoebe, weak as she was, managed a tiny, defiant voice. “No!” Sera’s expression darkened. “It seems you wish to experience the Soul-Rending Brand again.” I saw my daughter tightly shut her eyes. “Kill me if you dare. My mother will avenge me!” The intrusive text exploded. [This Phoenix is ungrateful and arrogant!] [Such insolence! The Girl Boss is offering her a path to Ascend, and she’s hoping her mother will kill her master!] [Wait until the Girl Boss uses the Brand to teach her a lesson. She needs to know who the master is!] A vicious spark ignited in Sera’s eyes. “You choose disrespect!” As she spoke, black-violet lightning began to condense on her fingertip. Just as the lightning was about to strike, my Avatar succeeded in breaking the Citadel’s outer defense. A heaven-shattering cry of a Phoenix suddenly echoed across the mountains. A curtain of blazing crimson-gold True Fire enveloped Willow and the little Phoenix, deflecting the Soul-Rending Brand. Phoebe heard the cry, her eyes snapping open. She screamed with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief: “Mama!” 4 My heart bled as I gently took my daughter from Willow’s protective arms. Phoebe’s tiny body was covered in marks of abuse. Half of her golden-red fuzz had been brutally pulled out, revealing seeping, raw skin beneath. Her back and wings were covered in charred scabs—the unforgiving scars of the Soul-Rending Brand. What pained me most was the instability of her soul. Forcefully hatched, it was fragmented and liable to collapse at any moment. I could barely breathe from the agony. In a thousand years, I had never felt such rage. Not even against the most ferocious demonic horde did I feel this pure, visceral urge to grind someone to dust. The intrusive text was flashing hysterically before my eyes. [How did the Phoenix God get here? She was supposed to be at the Maelstrom!] [According to the plot, she shouldn’t appear now! Did the story break?] [The Phoenix God is so selfish! What if she abandoned the Grand Formation and the darkness breaks loose?] [We’re screwed. The MC is in danger. The Phoenix God’s power is equivalent to a Peak Ascended Elder!] Master Gideon subconsciously recoiled when he saw me. Sera, however, was still desperately trying to project calm, feigning ignorance. “Who are you? How dare you trespass on the Aetherium Citadel and try to steal my familiar?” I poured a small measure of spiritual energy into my daughter. When I looked up again, my eyes were molten with killing intent. “You steal my child, and then pretend not to know me? “Sera, you have a staggering nerve.” Master Gideon’s face turned even paler. “Are you… the Phoenix Goddess?” Sera’s eyes, however, were narrowed and viciously focused on me. “Impossible! With the demonic energy rising, the Phoenix God would be busy at the Maelstrom Abyss. How could she be here? “You must be a fake! Willow sent you to frighten me!” She spun on Willow, her voice full of false indignation. “Willow, to try a cheap trick like impersonating a deity just to seize my familiar? I am utterly disappointed in you!” The intrusive text immediately supported her. [MC is so smart. She saw right through the False Saintess’s dirty trick!] [This Willow is so annoying. She found an imposter to take the Phoenix!] [Don’t be scared, Girl Boss. Expose their true colors and show them your power!] I let the True Fire around me leap higher. The temperature of the air instantly became suffocating. “My patience is limited. Sever the contract now, and I will spare your life. “Continue this delusion, and I will drown the Aetherium Citadel in blood.” Sera stood her ground, her neck stiff with defiance. “This is my contracted familiar. No one has the right to take it! Even if you are the true Phoenix God, you cannot be so unreasonable!” I scoffed, intending to use the raw power of my True Fire to subdue her. Unexpectedly, a dark, heavy light shone from her body. The intrusive text roared with laughter. [Didn’t see that coming! The Girl Boss touched the Primordial Titan’s Tomb and ground its bones into defensive armor!] [With the Titan Shell, the Phoenix God can’t hurt her!] [The Phoenix God is going to lose. The MC is the Chosen One. She cannot lose!] When I read the content of the intrusive text, my anger reached a boiling point. The Primordial Titan was a celestial beast born alongside me, our bond deeper than blood. It sacrificed its life and body to seal another great demonic chasm. Its remains were revered by the human cultivators as a sacred relic. Sera, far from showing reverence, had desecrated the Titan’s divine body, using its bones for a frivolous defense—an act worse than any demon’s. Sera saw that her shield held and a smug, victorious smile spread across her face. “You brought this upon yourself!” she declared, condensing a sword-like spiritual energy and lunging at me. My Avatar, being only a feather, was struggling. It began to fade, becoming translucent. “Mama!” Phoebe sensed the danger and cried out anxiously. Sera’s smile widened, her triumph complete. As my Avatar dissolved completely, the intrusive text erupted in a celebration. [Girl Boss wins!] [HAHAHA. The Phoenix God is nothing special after all!] [Next up is the puppet refinement. Can’t wait to see the MC’s skills!] My daughter saw the Avatar vanish and screamed, thrashing in a desperate attempt to lunge at Sera. “I’ll kill you! I’ll avenge my mother!” Sera grabbed her wing, her red robes snapping in the hot wind. “You? You think you can stand against me?” I watched it all unfold from the Maelstrom Abyss. The last sliver of my mercy for Sera vanished. I had intended to spare her life. But now, she didn’t deserve it. Ignoring the panicked shouts of the cultivators behind me, I beat my massive wings and soared toward the Aetherium Citadel. Did they say the strongest rules? Then I would show them what true strength looked like.

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I had to work until eleven, and I hadn’t managed to get the Kobe Ribeye Liam wanted. As a peace offering, I splurged on an expensive Black Cod, the kind he’d mentioned wanting last week. But he didn’t want it anymore. He smashed the container against the tile floor, the spray of water soaking my slacks. The comments section was buzzing. [It’s the FMC’s fault. How much does that overtime pay anyway? Keeping the ML happy is the real job.] [Black Cod is delicious and expensive, but the ML specifically asked for the beef. Anyone would be mad at that kind of obvious substitution.] Really? Maybe they had a point, but I had just spent over twelve hours on the clock, and I was utterly exhausted. Too tired to handle the mess on the floor, or the furious man standing over it. 1 It was almost eleven PM, and only our office lights remained on in the entire corporate tower. I rubbed my pounding temples and saved the sixth draft of the proposal before powering down. The five-hour project review that afternoon had ended with the client tossing out everything we had. The whole team scrambled, managing to nail down the final outline just before the late-night commuter train stopped running. But we weren’t done. We had a week until the project deadline, and there was still a mountain of work to climb. Despite the screaming protest from my body, I shoved my laptop into my tote bag. The moment I pushed open my apartment door, a blast of cold air, thick with stale cigarette smoke, hit me. Liam was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The acrid smoke made me cough. A low, almost inaudible scoff reached my ears: “Don’t start…” The sound vanished a second later, so fast it felt like a hallucination. On the first day we moved in together, we set a firm rule: no smoking inside the apartment. Liam was fine with it initially. Then, he started arguing that the living room wasn’t a room—only the bedrooms counted. Now, ash trays were scattered in every corner of our small space. Perhaps it was the chill of early winter, but my coughing escalated, a tight, painful spasm that felt like a tiny claw scratching at my lungs. I dropped my bag and headed straight for the water glasses. They were all empty. That’s when Liam finally spoke, his voice ice-cold. “You decided to come back, then? Take a look at how many times I called you.” I had already seen. The second the meeting ended, I checked my phone: five missed calls and one text message. [Get the Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher on your way home. They close at seven.] I’d called him back, but he never picked up. I knew he was angry. Ever since I joined the project team, my life had accelerated. When I got busy, every minute, even for eating or drinking, was calculated. Liam was a freelance artist, usually sleeping until the late afternoon. He couldn’t accept my reasons. We’d fought countless times over missed calls and slow text replies. “We had a project review today. Everyone had to silence their phones.” I put my bag down, my voice heavy with exhaustion. “I saw the text at seven-thirty.” Liam sneered. “And? Where’s the beef?” “The Prime Butcher was closed.” I pulled a clear container from my canvas bag. “But I bought you Black Cod. It’s very fresh. Twenty minutes steaming, and it’s ready.” He shot up, snatched the container, and stared at the pale red fish, his eyes dangerously cold. “Ava. I was specific. The Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher.” He ground out every word: “Are you suddenly deaf, or do you just not care what I actually want?” The words ended in a low, seething growl. A few familiar sentences scrolled across my vision. [The ML is just worried the FMC is working too hard. He’s taking it out on her.] [FMC, just apologize. Say some sweet words and it will all blow over.] [Honestly, the ML just feels neglected. That’s why he’s so furious.] A massive sense of absurdity washed over me. If he was just worried about me being tired, Liam had all afternoon—why couldn’t he have gone to pick up the beef? Why was I expected to work a twelve-hour day, buy the groceries, and then cook the meal? I was too drained to argue. I tried to reason with him calmly. “Liam, I didn’t get out until eight. That place was honestly closed. This fish—you said last week you were craving it. I drove forty minutes out of the way to the seafood market for this.” “Out of your way?” He scoffed. “Ava, you are always like this. Always falling short, always just almost enough. Just like you think you’re so dedicated to this stupid job, but you can’t balance our life with your so-called career!” His voice rose sharply. “Your company is making bank—have they cut you a single check for all this? You’re always pulling all-nighters, but why are you never the one getting promoted?” I froze. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re naive!” He practically yelled. “What’s the point of all this effort? You don’t have the connections, you don’t have a family name, and you’re not exactly a stunner—you are never going to move up! Just like this fish…” He violently threw the container onto the floor. “It will never replace the Kobe I wanted!” Under the harsh overhead light, Liam was breathing heavily, his eyes bulging with rage. I could barely see his face through the scrolling comments. [The ML went too far. He’ll regret this in a minute.] [He’s just worried about the FMC constantly working. He doesn’t know how to express it.] [FMC, don’t be sad. The ML actually wanted you to have the beef, not him.] I looked at the water spreading on the floor, the Black Cod’s scales flashing faintly under the light. That fish cost nearly fifty dollars. It was expensive for me. I’d deleted the new clothes I’d been eyeing for weeks from my online cart just to afford it. Now, it seemed I had lost both the pretty clothes and the fresh fish. I spoke softly. “Liam, I am genuinely exhausted.” He paused, clearly thrown by my subdued reaction. The usual Ava would already be explaining, apologizing, and placating him. She would probably promise to take a day off tomorrow just to buy him that specific beef. But he quickly recovered his rhythm, his voice louder than before, a raw, furious accusation. “You’re tired? I’m the one who’s tired!” “Waiting up for you every night, only to find out I can’t even have the one thing I asked for!” The comments kept refreshing. [The ML is using reverse psychology! He means he misses spending time with you.] [FMC, go hug him! He’s been waiting all night just to have dinner with you.] I stared at the words, and a small, brittle laugh escaped me. “What are you laughing at?” Liam frowned. I shook my head, knelt down, and carefully picked up the Black Cod. Its eyes were still clear, maintaining that fresh, glossy look. “What are you doing?” he demanded. I didn’t answer. I simply walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the entire fish inside. “Ava!” He shouted, his voice laced with disbelief. I turned back to him. “Since you don’t want it, I’m throwing it away.” The comments went silent for a beat, then erupted into a frenzy. [What is the FMC doing? She’s escalating the situation!] [The ML is stunned! She has never acted like this.] [It’s over, it’s really over this time!] Liam’s mouth was open, momentarily speechless. He looked at my calm face, his expression shifting from blind fury to confusion, even a hint of panic. “I’m going out.” I picked up the bag I’d just dropped. “Ava!” He called my name, his voice uncertain. “Where are you going?” I stopped at the doorway but didn’t turn around. “Maybe I’ll go find a place that’s still open right now, where I can buy The Prime Butcher’s Kobe Ribeye.” I spoke quietly. “Or maybe just a place where I can eat a meal in peace.” I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it. The actions were fluid, without hesitation. The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off. I stood in the dark and heard his frustrated sigh from inside the apartment. Then, the comments finally began to change. [This feels different.] [Is the FMC actually… leaving?] 2 I took a cab back to the office. Lying in the breakroom, I couldn’t fall asleep. My mind kept replaying our recent arguments. This was the third time Liam had exploded this month. The first time, it was because I was thirty seconds too slow handing him a yogurt. He threw it on the floor. “Clumsy idiot! Can’t even do one simple thing right!” The second time was even more ridiculous. I took a work call while ironing his shirt, and he snatched it away. “Is your job more important or is my shirt more important? You clearly don’t care about me! You’re completely selfish!” He acted like a constant observer in my life, using a magnifying glass to find my flaws, using any failure to immediately bend to his will as proof that I was worthless. [FMC, don’t be sad. The ML just has a short fuse, but he thinks the world of you.] [His words are harsh, but his heart is in the right place. Women really don’t need to work so hard.] [The ML is regretting everything right now, but he’s too proud to apologize. FMC, give him an opening!] The comments swirled around me like annoying flies. I suddenly realized they would always take Liam’s side, finding any excuse to absolve him. The next morning, my colleague handed me a coffee. She looked at the dark circles under my eyes and the messy bedding in the breakroom, and her concern was clear. “Ava, you look terrible. Another fight with your boyfriend?” I managed a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” “How many times this month?” My colleague, Maya, sighed. “Last week you were crying in the bathroom. The day before that, you had to call him during a meeting to send him a mini-manifesto of apology. Ava, this isn’t a normal relationship.” I opened my mouth, wanting to defend myself, but I couldn’t find a single reasonable argument. “Why don’t you crash at my place for a few days?” “He won’t allow it.” I rejected the idea instantly. Every time I suggested living apart, Liam would fly into a rage: “You want to break up, don’t you? I knew you didn’t love me anymore!” Then, he’d use even crueler words to validate my cold-heartedness and callousness. The final project meeting that afternoon confirmed the plan. I downed two cups of coffee and psyched myself up for another late night. Just then, my phone screen lit up. [I’m coming to pick you up after work.] Instead of the usual lift, my heart instinctively tightened. [I’m working late tonight. It’s a major push. Don’t come. I ordered that beef you like from Seamless. Just grab it.] I replied cautiously, but Liam seemed to ignore me. [Six thirty. Be downstairs on time.] The usual tone of command. [I really can’t leave. The Director is right next to me.] I could already feel the coming storm. [Ava, what is this supposed to mean?] [I actually offered to come get you. This is how you respond?] [If you don’t want to be with me, then don’t. No need for the theatrics.] Predictably, the comments were fueling the fire. [The ML is trying to be considerate!] [The ML is all talk, but the FMC must be thrilled inside!] [The ML was up all night fuming, and today he’s preparing for… hee hee, the FMC is going to have a rough night.] The Director had glanced at me several times. If I didn’t stop texting Liam, she was the one who was going to make my night rough. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and shoved it into my desk drawer, forcing myself to concentrate. Ten minutes later, the internal office line rang suddenly. “I need to speak to Ava!” “Are you coming down or not? I’ve been waiting five minutes!” “I’m giving you three more minutes. If you don’t come down, I’m coming up to your office to find you!” Liam’s voice was so loud the handset vibrated in my hand. I lowered my voice to explain. “I’m racing a deadline. The Director is right…” “Is your Director more important than your boyfriend?” He cut me off sharply. “Or is your overtime more important than me? I came all this way to pick you up. Is this the right attitude? Ava, why are you always so selfish!” The whole office was looking at me. My face was burning. “Can you please be reasonable? This is my job…” “Job? Do you even call that pittance you make a job?” He scoffed. “A clueless brown-noser like you, are you actually thinking about a promotion? They must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel over there.” I was stunned into silence. “Thirty years old and still so clueless, still such an idealist. What do you even have? Money? Family status? Are you seriously acting like the heroine of some rags-to-riches story?” “Who else but me would put up with a personality like yours? Do you think the sky is going to fall if you’re not there to hold it up?” “You don’t even have basic social skills. If I came to pick up a dog, it would at least wag its tail. Ava, what is it that you actually bring to the table?” The comments offered their feeble defense. [The ML waited too long. Be understanding.] [He only says that because he cares. When she goes downstairs, he’ll run up and give her a big hug!] [FMC, go home with the ML. You look run-down. You need some tender loving care. Hahaha.] The comments were turning vulgar. I looked away, refusing to acknowledge Liam’s vicious remarks. Finally, he seemed to run out of steam, taking a ragged breath before asking: “Last chance. Are you coming down?” I looked at the crucial section I had just finished. I spoke softly. “No. Go home, Liam.” The line went dead silent for a moment, then I heard his voice, tight with pure venom. “Fine! Ava! You can marry your job! We’re done!” The crashing sound of a trash can being kicked silenced the entire office. I walked back to my cube, ignoring the astonished looks from my coworkers. I finished working around nine. Stepping out of the building, the night air was biting. My phone showed over a dozen missed calls. The latest text read: *[You seriously didn’t come down? I misjudged you completely! You wait!] * I turned the screen off and zipped my jacket all the way up. As I passed the corner, a street vendor selling hot pretzels was closing up shop. “Late night, miss?” The vendor, a kind old man, looked up and greeted me warmly. I managed a slight nod and kept walking. “Wait.” He called out, pulling the last pretzel from his warmer and carefully wrapping it in a paper bag. “Closing up. This one’s on me. You look completely worn out, dear. Have something warm.” In that moment, my eyes burned. Tears threatened to fall. A complete stranger could see my exhaustion and offer unsolicited warmth. And the man I lived with, the man who supposedly loved me? The old man pushed his cart away. “Go get some rest now, miss.” The pretzel in my hand radiated a warm, comforting heat, its smell simple and welcoming. The world settled back into a deep quiet. Liam didn’t send any more messages. The surface of the sea was calm, but I knew the deep currents were treacherous. Yet, I had no energy, no desire, to wrestle with his emotions anymore. I think, I really need to rest. 3 When I reached my apartment door, the electronic deadbolt screamed a harsh “BEEP-BEEP.” I paused, then entered the code again. It flashed red. “Password incorrect. Please try again.” The cold electronic voice was jarringly clear in the late-night hallway. I pulled out my phone and tried calling Liam three times. All went straight to voicemail. The fourth call didn’t even go through. The system showed my contact status as “abnormal.” He blocked me! I had no choice but to use the phone location tracker he’d insisted on opening “for my protection” to find the bar he frequented. It was almost laughable. By the time I arrived, it was eleven again. I pushed open the heavy, soundproof door, and the pounding music rushed over me. I saw Liam immediately. The long-haired woman draped over his arm was familiar: Chloe, a former college acquaintance who openly pursued him. Chloe had never hidden her hostility toward me. The first time we met, she trailed Liam, looking me up and down without politeness. Liam laughed then. “This is Chloe, an old friend. She’s crashing here for a few days.” Chloe batted her eyes, then walked over, grabbed my hand, and feigned enthusiasm. “You must be his mom, right? He said he was introducing me to his family, and you look so young, Auntie!” I had dressed up and done my makeup because I knew his friends were coming. I could find no excuse for her rudeness other than deliberate cruelty. Liam roared with laughter. “My mom? No, this is Ava, my girlfriend.” Chloe put on a show of surprise, covering her mouth with her hand, her face a mask of feigned regret. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ava! It’s just that you dress so… so maturely. I honestly thought you were his elder! Heh.” I was shaking with anger, but Liam was doubled over, justifying her behavior. “Oh, you’re too cute, Chloe! Haha! You’re still young, making a mistake is normal. It’s Ava’s fault, really. I told her her features are too average, and she insists on copying those influencers. What’s that phrase… a cheap knock-off!” At twenty-five, it was the first time I’d been called “Auntie” in public. And my boyfriend couldn’t see my humiliation or rage; he only laughed at the offender’s “innocent charm.” “The lady of the house is here!” Someone shouted, and the noisy booth suddenly went quiet. Liam slowly turned his head, his arm still resting on Chloe’s shoulder. He was clearly drunk, but his eyes held a clear, sober challenge. “Well, well, if it isn’t Ava the workaholic. What, you finally have time to grace us with your presence?” Chloe made a show of trying to stand, but he pulled her back, pinning her to his lap. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We didn’t do anything wrong.” His friends’ expressions varied. Some hooted and whistled, some looked down at their drinks, and a few girls openly watched my reaction. After everything, I have to say, I was past the point of being angry at this kind of pathetic drama. Last month, I got soaked in a downpour. I called Liam to pick me up. He agreed, but never showed up, finally turning his phone off. I got home, completely drenched. The “unreachable” Liam was in the living room blow-drying Chloe’s hair. She was wearing my sweatshirt. Seeing my miserable entrance, he seemed to realize what he’d promised, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes. But he immediately became defensive. “Chloe couldn’t get an Uber. She’s a young girl, and she doesn’t have any friends here. I couldn’t just leave her. As for you, why couldn’t you ride with a coworker? Why are you always so dramatic?” Chloe stood up nervously, her voice a delicate purr. “Liam, is Ava going to be mad?” Liam shrugged dismissively. “She’s not that petty.” The comments went silent for a moment, then rushed back in to defend him. [The ML is right. The FMC can’t rely on the ML for everything.] [The ML is just trying to teach her how to solve problems independently. It’s understandable.] Later that night, when I tried to express my frustration in the bedroom, Liam blamed me. “Can you stop being so sensitive? Sure, Chloe has a crush on me, but I don’t like her. If anything was going to happen between us, it would have already.” “Liam,” I said, my voice flat. “Did you change the door code?” He let out an exaggerated laugh. “Of course, I did. It’s my apartment, babe. Get it straight—why should you get to walk in whenever you feel like it?” He then leaned in and whispered something to Chloe, who giggled and playfully pushed his shoulder. [FMC, get mad! The ML is waiting for you to throw a drink in the Other Woman’s face!] [The ML is trying to provoke you. Tell him you care! Give him the validation he wants!] [The little tea girl is a total snake, but what guy can resist… HAHAHAHA.] The comments were flashing like a strobe light, dictating the appropriate emotional response. I was supposed to flip the table right now. But watching Liam’s deliberately performed intimacy, I suddenly found it all tedious. The three years of our relationship felt profoundly pointless. “Fine. I understand.” I nodded and turned to leave. One of Liam’s friends followed me. “He’s had too much to drink, Ava. Don’t take it personally…” I stopped, and I heard Liam shout from behind me. “Let her go! Don’t pretend you’re above it! You’re probably tearing up inside!” “Chloe, you ever heard that saying? Swallow your tears, don’t swallow blood—internal injuries are hard to fix! Hahaha!” He sounded smug, as if he had finally won this round of the emotional game. His friend looked at me awkwardly. “He really crossed the line tonight…” “It’s okay,” I interrupted him, my voice surprisingly calm. “I’m going.” Work really did have the ability to strip away a person’s passions and emotions. All I wanted was a long, quiet sleep. If I couldn’t go back to that apartment, I simply wouldn’t go back. I checked into a hotel, took a long, satisfying hot shower, and ordered the expensive meal I had always denied myself: a perfectly seared steak and a glass of good Bordeaux. A half-glass of wine cut through the mental fog, clarifying everything. I realized: when you’re constantly losing, the only way to win is to walk away from the table. This time, I was not going back.

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It started the way everything does these days: a trend I convinced myself was an act of genuine desire. I’d followed the whispers and bought a service merman online. The seller promised impeccable service, a deeply affectionate nature, and the romantic detail that, during special moments, mermen could cry tiny, precious pearls. Yet, the one I bought—Lysander—had been here for two weeks, and far from shedding pearls, he hid in the kelp bed during every single feeding, as if the sight of me was an assault. I messaged the seller, and customer service pinged back almost immediately: “Sweetheart, we are so sorry for the mix-up. How about we process an exchange right away?” I couldn’t help but ask, “What happens to the mermen you take back?” “Oh, honey, don’t you worry. Defective models are never resold. They are typically transferred to a specialized high-end culinary market,” the reply stated, its tone chillingly casual. It was still a life. I decided to give him a little more time. If things didn’t change, then I’d process the return. But that very evening, I saw the creature who wouldn’t even look at me, practically thrashing his tail off for someone else. It wasn’t that he wasn’t affectionate. He just wasn’t affectionate with me. If that was the case, an exchange it was. It was just a fish dying, after all. 1 As soon as I finished checking the seller’s messages, I crept back toward the luxurious custom-built tank that housed Lysander. He spotted me from a distance and immediately spun around, burying himself in the flowing, blue-green kelp. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, that perfect, sculpted form. The aqua algae trailed down his back and across his lower abdomen as the water shifted. No matter how much of a problem he was, he was undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful. He was exactly my type—which was why I had picked him out of the hundreds of profiles. His eye-rims were red, and the tips of his ears had a flush of color. As I moved closer, he bit down hard on his own arm before swimming further away, deeper into the dark. “The manual clearly states this is the onset of the mating cycle—he’s a fully mature merman. Why is he still avoiding contact?” I followed the instructions, raising my hand to gently stroke his cheek. He slapped my hand away without hesitation and took off, circling the furthest reaches of the tank. “I don’t like to be touched by humans.” The slap stung. I looked down at my hand; a thin scratch was already bleeding. He cautiously poked his head out of the kelp, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. I tossed the prepared meal onto the floor nearby and left the basement without another word, my face set in a rigid mask. “Your fish still won’t let you touch him?” My phone chimed. It was Sloane Hastings, my best friend, sending a text. I replied curtly, “Tell me about it. It’s been almost a month, and we’ve barely exchanged ten words.” Sloane: “OMG! Did you get a fake or a factory reject? How much was he?” … “Three million. From the store you recommended.” Sloane: “No way! That’s impossible. Mine was perfect! That place is legacy stock, top-tier reputation. Message them again. Seriously, swap him out.” “Fine. Got it.” I pulled up the store page and sent a concise summary of my ordeal. “The merman I bought from you is over two weeks in, and still refuses contact. Is this normal?” The customer service rep immediately fired back: “Dear, did you follow the unboxing instructions precisely? Deviations from the protocol can sometimes cause initial reluctance.” I was furious. “What kind of ridiculous answer is that? You think I’d spend three million dollars and not follow a basic user manual?” I was practically worshiping this creature. Sloane’s merman, Kai, wasn’t like this. Kai loved coming ashore, would clean himself up, use the specialized dryer on his tail until it became legs, and then warm her sheets. Sloane’s glowing reports were the only reason I’d spent that much on a fish in the first place. The customer service rep, professional and unnervingly polite, didn’t react to my anger. Instead, they offered the solution: “Dear, I am so sorry for this experience. How about we process an immediate exchange? We can ship the new model via Express Courier; it should arrive in three days.” The question I’d asked before slipped out again, driven by a strange, morbid curiosity: “How exactly do you process the returns? Do you ever resell them?” “Sweetheart, rest assured, we are a reputable, high-trust business. Mermen are never resold. The returned models are typically processed for harmless disposal. You can relax about that.” “Harmless disposal means…?” The reply was clinical: “Low-cost transfer to a premium sashimi market for high-grade carpaccio.” Sashimi… I looked back at Lysander in the tank. A pang of something close to pity hit me. He was just socially inept, not a capital criminal. He didn’t deserve to be chopped up for appetizers. It was a life, after all. I’ll give him a little more time. Maybe he would change. If not, then I’d swap him. I closed the app and looked over at Lysander a few more times. Still gorgeous. But I hadn’t bought him just for the aesthetic. Turning on my heel, I walked back to my room and lit a cigarette, the smoke doing little to calm the slow burn of my irritation. A text from home had been sitting on my lock screen for two hours, unanswered. “Rei, your sister is staying with you for a few days. Try to get along. Don’t throw another temper tantrum.” Temper tantrum? I wouldn’t give Tatum the chance to malign me. Tatum and I have always been oil and water. I had no idea what kind of manufactured drama possessed her to decide she wanted to stay at my house. Tatum is my parents’ adopted daughter. I was kidnapped at the age of three and sold off to a remote mountain village, where I lived for eleven brutal years. When I was fourteen, working the fields, my parents suddenly appeared. They said they were my biological mother and father. I returned to the house that had forgotten me with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. The first person I saw was a radiant, polished Tatum. She looked like a designer-clad princess, surrounded by brand names, which only emphasized how much I, the dirty, bewildered prodigal, looked like an interloper. I quickly learned that the year after they lost me, they adopted a girl the exact same age. I genuinely thought we might find common ground until the moment my parents left the room. Tatum leaned in and whispered in my ear: “I’ve been here longer than you. I am their daughter.” “Mom and Dad love me. Don’t think for a second that you can just waltz back in and change that! I won’t let you steal what’s mine!” She’d lived in my house long enough to truly believe it was her own. A few years ago, I might have craved my parents’ love. Now, I simply celebrate my escape from that backwater village and spend their money—lots of it. Tatum will never know that the night before my parents rescued me, I was agonizing over how to escape a dreadful, prearranged marriage. Perhaps sensing my desperation, my parents said nothing, simply handing me an unrestricted black card. As a newly rich pauper, I was still cautious. I bought a few decent outfits and opened a discreet personal account, transferring significant amounts into it every month. On my eighteenth birthday, realizing how uncomfortable I felt in the main house, my parents gifted me this standalone mansion—their compensation for the eleven lost years. Tatum didn’t get one. She was green with envy, but she was calculating enough never to show it to our parents. Her hypocrisy disgusted me. Unlike her, I was honest about my motives: I loved money, pure and simple. I think money is a good thing. And that’s why, despite his standoffishness, the expensive Lysander was what I spent the most on. His diet was exclusively the most expensive imported, air-freighted fare. His water was changed daily and regularly supplemented with a nutrient solution that cost three thousand dollars a vial. Even his tail scales were meticulously groomed by a specialized team. That’s why Sloane’s first comment upon seeing him was: “Rei, that three million? Money well spent. Keep him, and you’ll find out just how much fun he is.” I had bought Lysander entirely to keep up with Sloane. I had reached an age where I was starting to feel the primal urge, the hormonal push toward a deep, intimate connection. Compared to building a relationship with someone whose disposition I didn’t know, a purchased transaction seemed infinitely safer. Safe. Attentive. Eternally Obedient. That was the merman store’s slogan. It was currently proving to be a spectacular lie. Despite my objections, Tatum arrived, her luggage requiring two SUVs to haul. She was unusually quiet upon entering, not engaging in her typical verbal sparring. Instead, she darted her eyes around, taking in the house. What was she looking for? A hidden camera? I couldn’t be bothered with her games. In my own house? Cameras? Not a chance I wouldn’t have them. I had to assume Tatum was plotting something. I didn’t just install them; I made them invisible: in the flowerpots, the outlets, the stuffed animals. And so, it was no surprise when I watched Tatum creep around my house for ten minutes at midnight before finally heading down to the basement. “How could she do this? Keeping you in such a small tank? Don’t mermen have rights? You have thoughts, you feel pain. She’s so inhuman. If I were your owner, I would at least let you swim freely in a private lake.” The voice on the feed was pure, sickening syrup. And Lysander, who had only ever given me an ice-cold shoulder, looked genuinely touched. Half his body was leaning out of the water toward her. Tatum, however, probably didn’t know that lake water would make Lysander’s scales flake. A three-million-dollar merman is high-maintenance. Lysander also had no idea there was a camera in the basement. I had installed it originally for the medical staff who came to check his vitals. I had never paid attention to the feed until Tatum walked down there. And that’s how I discovered that Lysander possessed a tender side—and a talent for water ballet. With his long, chestnut hair flowing in the water, he thrashed his tail wildly for Tatum, his deep-set eyes wide and moist, fixed on her with intense devotion. Tatum’s face was flushed. Lysander obediently nudged his face toward her hand. He ate my food, lived in my house, gave me a condescending look of disdain, and then turned into a warm, devoted puppy for Tatum? I suddenly remembered: Lysander had been delivered directly to the house. I rarely shopped online, so the address was set to my home—the one Tatum still had access to. Tatum must have unpacked him. No wonder. I had coddled him, pampered him, and granted his every whim for over two weeks, yet I wasn’t even allowed to graze his earlobe. His attitude toward me had been consistently frigid. I actually started to think I was the problem—that I was so unlikable even a fish hated me. Looking at the intimate dance between the two of them on the monitor, I immediately messaged the merman shop. “The previous merman isn’t working out. I need an exchange.”

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Ethan was dying. The only person who could save him, the only perfect match for a liver transplant, was his mother, Sienna Reed. I had begged her for twenty days. Finally, she agreed to return and donate. I sat outside the operating room all day, but she never showed. That same day, Sienna’s childhood friend, Garrett Shaw, posted photos on his social media of their South American Adventure. “Day 20 of our adventure. Dr. Reed sacrificed her fellowship to help my son realize his dream of traveling the world. ” That’s how I discovered that on the very first day I’d pleaded with Sienna to save our son, she was already gone—off traveling with Garrett and his kid. That night, Sienna called me. “Liam, Noah got a perfect score on his finals. His wish was for his mom and dad to travel the world with him.” “You know he doesn’t have a mother…” “I couldn’t let him down. We’ll be back in three days.” “I’ll donate my liver to Ethan shortly after.” Three days later, when Sienna finally arrived at the hospital, all she saw was Ethan’s death certificate. 1 I stood in the hospital morgue, looking down at Ethan’s still, small face. The pain was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs. My son had always been such an easy, sweet kid; I barely had to worry about him. Yet, when it mattered most, I couldn’t even guarantee his life. His acute liver failure had blindsided us. The only person who was a match was my wife, Sienna Reed. The day after the compatibility results came back, she left. She’d been accepted into an elite fellowship program overseas. On her first day away, I started begging her to come back and save him. She said the fellowship was a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity, and she couldn’t sacrifice it. I pleaded for eighteen more days. She refused, cold and distant. On the nineteenth day, the doctor warned me Ethan’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. He needed the transplant immediately. I called her again. She said leaving mid-program would ruin her entire professional career. She told me to transfer Ethan to a better hospital and keep looking for other donors. But the specialty children’s hospital was full; they rejected us. We had no choice but to return to the city hospital. Ethan was pale, his skin translucent from the sickness. His eyes, wide and hopeful, fixed on me. “Daddy, why hasn’t Mommy come to see me?” “Did I do something naughty? Did I make her mad?” I couldn’t find the words. All I could think was that maybe I hadn’t made the severity of the situation clear enough to Sienna. Maybe she genuinely thought we had time. I called her one last time, pulling his primary physician onto the call. Together, we begged her to return. With the witness of a colleague, Sienna finally conceded. She agreed to take two days of leave and fly back for the surgery. But the day of the transplant, I waited outside the operating room from sun-up to sundown. I didn’t get Sienna. I got the crushing news that we were too late. I pulled out my phone, intending to ask her why. That’s when I saw the photo Garrett had sent me. Sienna, radiant, holding his son, Noah, nestled close to Garrett. My hand trembled as I opened Garrett’s public feed. The words were a knife in the heart. “Day 20 of our adventure. Dr. Reed sacrificed her fellowship to help my son realize his dream of traveling the world. ” If Garrett hadn’t posted that, I never would have known the wife my dying son and I had been waiting for was off making another man’s child’s fantasies come true. I grasped Ethan’s small, already cold hand. The world went black with the crushing pressure in my chest. The phone vibrated. It was Sienna. “Liam, Noah got a perfect score on his finals. His wish was for his mom and dad to travel the world with him.” “You know he doesn’t have a mother…” “I couldn’t let him down. We’ll be back in three days.” “I’ll donate my liver to Ethan shortly after.” My mind was a desolate wasteland. Twenty-four hours ago, that promise would have made me leap for joy. Now, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow nausea. My son’s life was less important to her than the fleeting wish of an outsider. Sienna must have sensed my silence. “Liam? Why aren’t you saying anything?” she asked, a thread of panic in her voice. I pulled myself together. “Sienna,” I asked, the words hollow. “Do you know how sick our son is?” She froze. She finally seemed to realize Ethan’s condition was beyond delays. “Liam, relax. I’m booking a flight right now.” Then, Noah’s innocent voice came across the line. “Mommy, the last stop is romantic Paris! Will you come with me?” Sienna hesitated. A second, two. Then she spoke to me. “Liam, my contact at the specialty hospital said Ethan isn’t a total emergency. Three more days won’t hurt. You can be the bigger person and wait for me to get back.” I should have known. Ever since Garrett got divorced and moved back, Sienna’s entire attention had been fixed on him and Noah. She canceled Ethan’s birthday party because Noah had a cold. She always had an excuse: Noah doesn’t have a mother. We need to be the bigger people, Liam. She gave Ethan’s favorite birthday present to Noah. Be big-hearted, Liam. She skipped our family holidays to take Noah to the amusement park. We need to be generous, Liam. She knew we would forgive her. She knew we would always be here, waiting. That’s why she felt entitled to ignore us, to hurt us, with impunity. But this time, I couldn’t be generous. Because my son didn’t have a future. And because my marriage to Sienna was finally, irrevocably over. I hung up and gently smoothed the hair from Ethan’s forehead. Before the scheduled surgery, he had looked at me, full of hope. “Daddy, when I wake up, will Mommy be here?” I had given him a firm answer. “Yes, buddy. You’ll wake up, and everything will be fine.” I let him down. His mother didn’t return, not even for a final look. Perhaps it was a psychic sense, but Sienna started flooding my phone with frantic messages asking about Ethan. I just watched the screen, not replying, not blocking her. The next morning, I arrived at the hospital early to handle Ethan’s final arrangements. I didn’t expect to see Sienna, but there she was. Garrett was rushing into the emergency entrance, clutching Noah. Sienna was running beside him, shouting at a nurse, “A quick line! He needs attention now!” People scrambled out of their way. I didn’t react fast enough, and she slammed right into me. She skidded to a stop. “Liam, Noah suddenly passed out. I need to get him checked out right now.” I simply nodded, taking two steps back to clear the path. Sienna stared at me, bewildered. She couldn’t understand my sudden, silent compliance. Usually, when she prioritized Noah, I would protest or complain. Now, I was just quietly stepping aside. “Liam, don’t be angry. I’m going to donate my liver to Ethan right after this.” She let go of Garrett and reached for my arm. Garrett caught up to her, his hand wrapping around hers. “Sienna, please don’t go.” He looked at me, his eyes full of feigned pain. “Liam, I know you resent Noah for taking Sienna’s attention, but he’s just a kid. Please, cut him some slack.” In the face of Garrett’s tearful plea, Sienna didn’t hesitate. She chose Garrett and walked away without a backward glance. A young nurse nearby patted Garrett’s arm. “Don’t worry, ‘Mr. Shaw.’ Dr. Reed is known for being totally obsessed with her guy. If you ask her, she’ll do anything.” “Not like some of those shameless side pieces who don’t know their place.” The onlookers, like sharks smelling blood, started to whisper. “Wait, he’s the side piece? An adult man being the mistress? And he’s not even discreet about it in front of the actual husband? The nerve.” “Yeah, earlier, when his son was admitted, he introduced himself as Dr. Reed’s husband and tried to get us to call in a retired specialist for the boy.” “What a joke. Serves the little bastard right if he died.” When Sienna and I first married, she insisted on keeping work and home life separate. She never brought me or Ethan to hospital events. She didn’t want colleagues to know about us. When Garrett returned, that changed. She said he was lonely and unfamiliar with the area. She brought him to every hospital function, proudly introducing him to everyone. When colleagues called him “Mr. Shaw,” she would just smile and let them assume. The entire hospital staff was convinced Garrett and Noah were her actual family. Ethan and I were the dirty little secret, the shameless gold-digger and his illegitimate son. Sienna reappeared and blocked my path in the hallway. She leaned in, about to kiss me. I stepped sideways, avoiding contact. “Sienna, this is your workplace.” Her hand froze mid-air. She pouted, a familiar, manipulative gesture. “Liam, stop being mad, okay? I’ll go donate my liver to Ethan right now.” I looked down, masking my emptiness. “It’s not necessary.” Because Ethan was gone. And a mother who broke her final promise didn’t deserve to see him. If Ethan knew his mother, the one he prayed for, had been globetrotting with another family, how broken would he be? Sienna sensed my genuine grief. She pulled out two small boxes from her designer bag. “These are gifts for you and Ethan.” The one for Ethan contained a limited-edition action figure. I stared at it, losing myself for a moment. Last year, on Ethan’s birthday, Sienna was away. Ethan had picked out that exact action figure on a video call. When she finally returned, Noah was already clutching it. Ethan cried for it, and Sienna had coldly chastised him for being selfish and fighting with his little brother over a toy. Now she’d bought the one he’d always wanted. But it was too late. Ethan was gone. Seeing my lack of response, Sienna grew agitated. She grabbed my hand, about to speak, when Garrett rushed back. “Sienna, the doctor says Noah has leukemia. He needs a kidney transplant now.” Sienna’s eyes immediately filled with a frantic panic. “Don’t worry,” she said, her voice shaking as she turned to Garrett. “I’ll get tested right away. I won’t let anything happen to him.” She dropped my hand and started to follow Garrett. “Sienna,” I called out, my voice flat. “Aren’t you going to see Ethan?” She stopped. “I…” Garrett quickly interjected, “Liam, please don’t try to make this a competition. Noah needs Sienna to save his life right now.” Sienna sighed, relief washing over her face. “Liam, don’t be upset. I’m a doctor. Saving lives is my duty.” “Wait for me. I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, she let Garrett pull her away. I watched them go. “Don’t bother, Sienna,” I whispered. Later, I overheard nurses gossiping. Sienna was a kidney match. She had already signed the donation papers and would need a week of recovery before the surgery. Though I already knew the outcome, the news was a sharp, painful stab. I had been running around all day. I found an empty office to rest. As I walked in, I saw Sienna and Garrett locked in a passionate embrace, kissing fiercely. Seeing me, Sienna immediately broke away. “Liam, Noah is sick. I was just comforting Garrett.” I couldn’t stop the bitter sarcasm. “Comforting? Does comfort require you to make out?” Sienna scrambled for an explanation, but Garrett pulled her closer, tears welling up in his eyes. “Liam, don’t blame Sienna. I was the one who kissed her first.” I offered a ruthless smirk. “You must be starving. You’ll eat anything.” I turned and walked out. Sienna followed me. “Liam, let me explain. I only think of Garrett as a brother.” From behind us, Garrett’s voice was shaky. “Sienna, the doctor says Noah’s situation is critical. We need to start the transplant immediately.” Sienna wrestled with the decision for a moment before turning back to me. “I need to donate my kidney to Noah first.” She left, again, without looking back. It was a cruel irony. When her own son needed a liver, she stayed away. When her childhood friend’s son needed a kidney, she committed immediately. Love and indifference were never so clear. If only I had seen it sooner, if only I hadn’t pinned all my hope on her, Ethan might still be alive. In that moment, I gave up completely. I drove home and started packing. All my and Ethan’s belongings. Since I was choosing to end it, I would cut all ties completely. I packed everything, printed the divorce papers, and watched as the first, faint light of dawn broke over the horizon. A new day. I stepped into that morning sun and walked out of the house I had shared with Sienna for ten years. As I hailed a cab, I turned on my phone. Sienna’s frantic messages poured in. “I’m donating my kidney to Noah tomorrow at 9 AM. Come early to take care of me.” “Noah can’t drink or eat after the surgery. Bring some cotton swabs to wet his mouth.” “Don’t worry. Once I recover, I’ll donate my liver to Ethan.” “When Ethan is better, let’s travel the world together. We can see the Northern Lights in Switzerland, ski the Alps, and see all the beautiful sights…” I turned off the notifications, a self-mocking laugh escaping me. Sienna, there is no “us” anymore. At 8 AM, I was taking Ethan’s remains to the funeral home. I turned a corner and ran right into Sienna. “Liam? What is this?” I looked at her, my expression blank. “Sienna, Ethan passed away. His cremation is at noon. Would you like to join me for his final journey?” Sienna stumbled back two steps. “No. That’s impossible. It can’t be.” Garrett steadied her. “Liam, why do you keep lying about Ethan? He’s fine.” Garrett’s deliberate provocation was the last straw. I slapped him, hard, across the face. Garrett licked the blood from his lip and smirked, his eyes challenging me. “Caught in your lie, Liam? Are you so broken you resort to violence?” “Enough!” Sienna screamed, and the chaotic environment fell silent. She took a step toward me, her eyes vicious. “Liam Caldwell, you’re trying to deceive me just because I wouldn’t donate my liver on your timeline? You’re going to this extreme?” She lunged forward and slammed her hand down, flipping the gurney carrying Ethan’s body. With a horrifying CLANG, Ethan’s small, fragile body dropped onto the cold floor between us.

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I thought my dad was working too hard. That was the only reason. I turned off his alarm. Because of that small, misguided act of kindness, Dad missed a crucial early meeting. Rushing to the office, he was involved in a car accident and died instantly. My mother never forgave me. At the funeral, she clawed and hammered at my chest, sobbing that she wished it had been me instead of him. One New Year’s Eve, she locked me outside in the bitter snow, wearing only a thin nightgown. I had a raging fever of 104 degrees, and she stood on the other side of the frosted glass, asking coldly if Dad had been this cold before he died. The day my acceptance letter to Blackwood University arrived—the most prestigious school in the country—my older sister, Harper, murmured, “If Dad were still here, maybe I wouldn’t have choked on my first try at the entrance exams…” Mom didn’t hesitate. She snatched the heavy envelope and tore my future into confetti. In the middle of the night, I would often wake to the sound of her voice in the hall, begging a silent God to take me, the criminal, and give her Marcus back. Then, six years later, Dad returned. He had completed his secret mission. And when he learned that I was dead, they all went insane with regret. 1 It was the sixth year since Dad’s supposed death when the phone rang. His voice was exactly as I remembered it. “Sadie?” My mind went completely blank. For a horrifying second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Tears burst from my eyes, and my throat felt clogged with cotton. I couldn’t form a single word. Hearing my ragged sobs, his voice softened, laced with a familiar, deep guilt. “I know I worried you, baby. I was under deep cover, a federal op. I had to fake my death. It was high-risk, a total black-out. I wasn’t trying to cut you out.” “The mission is over now. I’m coming home tomorrow. Sadie, did you miss your dad? How’s your mother? And Harper? Are they home?” “Never mind, I’ll be there soon enough. Tell them I love them. I have to go, Sadie. See you tomorrow.” I stood there, dazed, the dead phone still pressed to my ear. A tear splashed onto the half-taped Blackwood acceptance letter I’d been trying to piece back together. I wiped it away fiercely. I needed to call Mom. To call Harper. Tell them Dad was alive! He hadn’t died in a senseless crash; he had been a hero, fighting the good fight. I hadn’t killed my father. I wasn’t the curse. But as I finally tried to dial them, I realized. They had both blocked me on every platform. Every single one. It doesn’t matter. I know where Mom works. I ran out the door and soon found her on the corner of the busy avenue, her figure instantly recognizable. She was in her State Trooper uniform, standing ramrod straight beside her cruiser, talking to another officer. After Dad died, Mom had joined the Highway Patrol. It felt like a perverse, belated attempt to atone for, or perhaps, repair, the crash that took him. I stared, greedily taking in the slight smile that touched her lips during the conversation. I started to run towards her. “Mom!” For the first time in six years, I could call her name without bracing myself for the cold blade of her disgust. But before the sound could fully escape, a hand clamped brutally over my mouth, dragging me backwards. I was shoved violently into the back of a black sedan. The door slammed shut, rattling my teeth. The air in the cabin reeked of stale blood and desperation. The man who’d grabbed me only had one ear. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, his eyes dark, surging with pure, venomous hatred. “Do you know why I took you?” He slapped me hard across the face, then grabbed my head again, slamming it against the window in a fit of savage release. “It’s because of your goddamn father! That son of a bitch killed all my brothers! He’s a lowlife piece of trash! I want him to suffer! I want his whole family to suffer and die!” Tears streamed down my face from the pain, but I bit back, yelling: “No! You’re wrong! My father is a decorated federal agent!” The man let go of me, grabbing the steering wheel, his mouth twisting into a terrifying grin. “Agent! Hah! It’s because your ‘agent’ finally called you today that I was able to track you down, you little pest!” He slammed his foot on the gas, aiming the car straight for Mom’s position, his eyes bloodshot and feral. “To hell with your hero! To hell with your hero’s family! You’re all going down to pay for my crew!” My vision tunneled. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would shatter my ribs. Mom. My mom. I hadn’t told her Dad was coming back. Everything seemed to slow down. I twisted my body, sinking my teeth into the man’s remaining ear, and with my hands locked on the steering wheel, I wrenched it with every last ounce of strength I had. The black sedan veered violently off the intended path and slammed into a utility pole. The world went dark instantly. When I opened my eyes, I saw the smoking wreckage of the car and the blood on my own face inside the mangled vehicle. I looked down at my own body. It was transparent. Ah. I had died. It was such a pity. We were only one day away from being a real family again. Mom wouldn’t make me kneel at Dad’s grave anymore, begging for his forgiveness. Harper wouldn’t look through me, pretending I wasn’t her sister, treating me as a punching bag whenever her classmates made fun of her for having no father. I missed the warmth of her hand when she used to hold mine back when we were kids, and Mom and Dad were busy. I accepted my death quickly, though I didn’t understand why my soul had drifted out. “What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of lunatic trying to cause mass casualties on a Tuesday?” “Thank God the street wasn’t packed, or this would have taken out a dozen people.” “I was almost hit! I’m never walking this way again!” The chattering crowd was quickly moved back, and Mom, along with a few other officers, approached the wreck. I drifted to Mom’s side, desperately hoping she would recognize one of the dead victims inside as her daughter. But she just glanced inside, wrinkled her nose, and moved her eyes away. It’s okay, I told myself. She just hates looking at accident scenes. A small, silver charm, the Seraph Charm, fell from my transparent neck and rolled to her feet. She bent down and picked it up. My eyes brightened. Now, Mom. She’ll know it’s me now, right? We had designed the charm on my eleventh birthday. My zodiac sign was the Sheep, but because of Dad’s secret work, the charm also housed a tiny GPS tracker, and my name was engraved on the back. When Mom put it on me, she had smiled. “This is your lucky charm, Sadie. Your guardian angel. With this, wherever you are, Daddy and I can always find you.” I watched her, holding my breath. But she simply handed the charm to a detective who had just arrived. “This probably belongs to one of the victims in the car,” she said flatly. “Make sure you log it in the evidence report.” Mom! You don’t even recognize my lucky charm? How are you ever going to find me now? Silent, I followed her as she efficiently managed the scene. A familiar officer, a former colleague of Dad’s who often ate dinner at our house, walked up to her. He offered a faint, strained smile. “Congratulations.” Mom frowned, confused and annoyed. “For what?” He paused. I heard him mutter under his breath, “You haven’t heard? Marcus is back. I just heard him on the phone with dispatch; he was calling home. Maybe the details haven’t been released yet…” The noise of the street was too loud; Mom hadn’t heard his whisper. She took a step closer. “Heard what?” He cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Oh, nothing. I just heard about Sadie getting into Blackwood. That’s huge news! Congratulations.” Hearing my name, Mom’s face instantly darkened. “Did that little curse tell you that?” The colleague quickly objected, shaking his head. “No, no.” He looked disapprovingly at Mom. “Laura, you’re still blaming Sadie? That was never her fault, not really…” Bound by protocol, he couldn’t say more. But that single, small defense of me triggered an intense, emotional meltdown in Mom. “Not her fault? Then whose fault was it? Who asked her to be a self-righteous little savior? Because of her, I didn’t even get to see Marcus one last time!” Her voice was a ragged scrape. The accident scene seemed to drag her back to that devastating day six years ago. “Do you know? Six years! I still dream of Marcus, a bloody, broken mess on the road, blaming me for not coming home faster, demanding to know why Sadie turned off his alarm!” Her voice was raw, squeezed from her throat. Her eyes were tragically bloodshot. “Why, why did she have to be my daughter! Why is the person who took him away the one who looks back at me every day!” If I hadn’t been her daughter, she could have torn apart the drunk driver who killed Dad in court, demanding he pay with his life. Instead, I had been her daily torment, a constant reminder of her pain. I reached out, wanting to wipe away the tear that escaped her eye, but my transparent hand passed right through her cheek. I wiped again, stubbornly. Mom. I wish I had died that morning too. But I’m glad I didn’t. Otherwise, who would have protected you today? I couldn’t let that happen. Dad’s colleague sighed, his expression complex. He patted her shoulder and pivoted the conversation. “This wreck is strange. We need to ID both bodies and figure out the cause. We’ll need to shut down this whole block.” Mom nodded, grabbing caution tape with the other officers. My soul followed her, pulled uncontrollably. I looked back one last time at my own corpse, feeling an inarticulate sadness and injustice. If only Mom could have recognized me. Then she wouldn’t have said those terrible things. The crash meant Mom was finished early, and she came straight home. The half-taped Blackwood acceptance letter still sat on the dining table. Mom walked past, picked it up, and tossed it into the trash can. A moment later, the phone rang. It was my high school teacher, Ms. Rodriguez. Her voice was tight with worry. “Hello, Sadie’s Mom? Can you reach Sadie? I’ve called her so many times today, but she won’t answer. Is she okay?” Mom answered dismissively. “Who knows.” There was a moment of charged silence on the other end. The teacher sounded like she was barely holding back rage. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time: What kind of mother are you? Do you have any idea that Sadie paid for every semester with scholarships and part-time jobs? She was starving at school!” Ms. Rodriguez always looked out for me. She was close to Mom’s age and had a daughter my age. Once, I passed out from hypoglycemia in class, and she rushed me to the clinic. She called Mom repeatedly, but Mom never offered a single word of concern. After that, Ms. Rodriguez often brought me extra lunch, claiming her daughter had too much. The teacher’s voice caught. “She was too scared to even get sick. She studied until she broke. I remember every time she came in first place, she’d ask me so hopefully, ‘If I get a perfect score, Mom and Harper will be happy, won’t they?’…” But the next day, I would show up with the test taped back together, giving a shaky smile. “Mom and Harper were just having a bad day yesterday. I’ll try to score even higher next time.” Mom interrupted the teacher impatiently. “What does that have to do with me?” Her coldness pierced me like an ice pick. “She deserves it, you understand? She killed her father. She doesn’t deserve a good life. If her dad knew we were letting her thrive, how could he forgive us?” It took the teacher a long time to speak. She sounded utterly exhausted. “She is a good kid. She got into Blackwood. Please, be kinder to her.” Mom merely said, “She won’t go. She’s going to spend her life atoning for her father.” The teacher gasped in shock, but Mom hung up the phone. As soon as she did, Harper, back from whatever she’d been doing, walked in the front door. Mom’s impatience vanished, replaced by instant, overwhelming tenderness. “You’re back? What do you want for dinner? I’ll make it right now.” Watching the brilliant, loving smile Mom gave Harper, a creeping, unbearable ache started to eat at my heart. In Mom’s eyes, Harper was the last pure connection to Dad, the blood that flowed between them. She was showered with praise, tucked in gently when she had nightmares. I was also their daughter, but I had forfeited all right to her kindness. Harper sat on the sofa. “I don’t have much of an appetite. Just make whatever.” I sat next to Harper. Like I used to when we were small, I reached out and took her hand. This time, Harper didn’t yank it away. She didn’t slap me or snarl at me to get lost. I smiled, feeling a brief satisfaction. As I smiled, tears started to fall, silent and unseen. It was just then that I realized I couldn’t feel any warmth anymore. Harper was a year older than me. She had failed to get into her college of choice on her first try and had ended up repeating her senior year with me in the same high school. One day after school, I cut through an alley and saw her surrounded by a few lowlife townies who always lurked outside the school gates. They were pushing and shoving her. Harper said something, and a skinny guy with bleach-blond hair backhanded her across the face. His enraged scream echoed down the alley. “You little tramp! You listen to me. If you don’t come party with us right now, I’ll upload all those private pictures of yours for the whole world to see!” I ran up and stepped in front of Harper, shoving the blond guy away with all my might. “Get away from her!” The thugs weren’t intimidated. They checked me out, and the blond guy reached out, trying to grope me. “Well, well, look what we have here. A little sister wants to join the fun?” I slapped his hand away and then slapped his face, just as he had done to Harper. That was like throwing ice water onto a burning flame. Their rage exploded. “Damn it! You asked for this!” I crouched down, curling into a ball as countless fists rained down on me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Harper hiding in the dark corner, phone in hand, trembling, crying. It’s okay. Hit me. Just hit me. Harper was my family. I had to protect her. Dad was gone. If anything happened to Harper, Mom would be destroyed. I repeated it like a mantra, over and over, trying to block out the pain of the blows landing on my ribs and head. “Shit! Someone’s coming! The tramp called someone!” After what felt like forever, the punches stopped. The gang scattered. Mom appeared instantly, running, her eyes scanning the alley with desperate, panicked worry. She rushed past my bruised, curled body on the ground, flying straight to the corner where Harper was huddled. She held her, rocking her and whispering soothing words. I was so jealous. Mom’s embrace must be so warm. I stood up, stumbling toward her. I just wanted Mom to hug me, too. My body ached, but I knew if she just held me once, the pain would stop. I reached out and gently gripped the hem of her jacket. I looked up and met Harper’s eyes. They were wide and pleading. She pointed at me. “Mom… It was her idea. She brought me here…” Everything turned upside down. Mom whirled around, her eyes blazing with collapsing fury. A torrent of cruel, vile words poured from her mouth, crashing down on me. My ears were ringing, but I only remember the last sentence. “You curse! Killing your father wasn’t enough? You won’t be happy until you destroy us all!” She took Harper and walked away. I followed their retreating backs, but the thugs had returned and grabbed my wrist. Their touch felt sickening. Mom. Mom. I screamed her name as loud as I could. She never slowed down. She never looked back. It was nightfall when I finally limped home. The door was locked. I sat down outside, my back pressed against the cold wall. Sometime in the middle of the night, Harper opened the door. Her face was shrouded in shadow; I couldn’t see her expression. “Don’t tell Mom what happened today. Those private photos were taken by my ex, and I can handle it myself.” She threw a bottle of iodine at me. “Sadie, don’t think for a second that what you did today makes us even.” “You took Dad away. You let people laugh at me. You owe me.” She didn’t let me in. I sat in the darkness of the hallway, applying the antiseptic myself. Later, I must have fallen asleep because I was dreaming. I dreamt of that morning six years ago. Dad handed me his phone and told me to turn off his alarm. I asked him innocently, “Why? You said the meeting tomorrow was really important and you couldn’t be late.” Dad stroked my hair. “The plan changed. I have to do this.” “You have to turn the alarm off. I need to be late tomorrow. This is your mission.” “If anyone asks, you can’t tell them I asked you to. You have to say you did it because you thought your dad worked too hard. Do you understand?” I asked, “Can’t I tell anyone? Not Mom or Harper?” “No one. It’s important, Sadie. Otherwise, Mom, Harper, and I will all be in danger.” “You can do it, right? Our Sadie is the little hero who protects her family.” I nodded solemnly. “I promise, Dad.” I did well, Dad. Mom and Harper were eating dinner in silence. Neither of them mentioned me. Dad’s usual chair had his bowl on it, filled with rice. Mom and Harper followed their ritual, placing his favorite dishes into it, year after year. It was as if he might pull out the chair and sit down any second. No one spoke willingly. Since Dad left, it was like the life had been sucked out of the house. I felt a pang of anger and hurt. Why? I was gone all day. Why didn’t you even ask? They hadn’t even set out silverware for me. The tears fell, unstoppable. If you knew I was never coming back, would you finally put out my plate? Would you finally put my favorite food in my bowl? Mom’s phone rang. Due to her job, it was never on silent. She looked at the screen, hesitated, then answered. I drifted close, hearing the detached voice of a medical worker. “Hello? Is this Sadie’s mother? I’m calling from St. Jude’s Hospital. Your daughter’s remains have been placed in the morgue.”

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When I took Leo for his annual physical, the nurse mentioned he was charting a little short and suggested we look into his growth development. I immediately booked an appointment at a pediatric growth clinic. When the results came back, the doctor looked at me, perplexed. “Are you absolutely sure Leo is six years old?” I blinked. “Yes. His birthday was just a few weeks ago.” The doctor pointed to the X-rays. “His bone age indicates he’s closer to five.” “I think I’d remember my own son’s birthday,” I snapped, grabbing Leo’s hand and walking out. I drove straight to the private hospital owned by my best friend, Marcus Bell. He pulled in the most respected pediatric specialist, who didn’t just re-shoot the bone age scan, but also ran a full workup, including a telomere length test. The specialist’s face was grave. “Both the bone age and telomere results are consistent with a five-year-old. If you are certain about his birth date… Mr. Sullivan, I recommend a paternity test.” The world went quiet. A dull roar filled my ears. Thirty minutes later, the nurse handed me the report. The words were black and white, utterly unambiguous: “Paternity Excluded.” I gripped the paper, my hands shaking uncontrollably. “Then where is my son? Where is my child?” 1 Marcus glanced at Leo, who was oblivious, playing with a toy car. “Dean,” he lowered his voice. “The kid… he really doesn’t look like you. But he’s the spitting image of Tia.” It hit me. Six years ago, I was pulled onto a top-secret mission. To insulate Tia and the baby from any risk, I’d lied, telling her I was launching a startup in Africa. I went dark for an entire year. When I returned with a commendation ribbon, a year later, Leo was tiny and thin, looking nothing like the robust infant I’d left behind. Tia had tearfully claimed she’d suffered terrible insomnia after I left, her milk dried up early, and that’s why the baby was so frail. My guilt had been immense. From that day on, I never questioned her, always trying to compensate for my absence. Just then, my phone rang. Tia’s furious voice hit me like a physical blow. “A simple physical exam and it took you this long? You can’t even manage that! God, you’re useless!” I mumbled some vague excuse and got off the line. My gut was screaming that this was the tip of an ugly iceberg, but I knew better than to tip my hand now. I hung up and drove Leo back to the car. He immediately started kicking the back of my seat. “Stop it,” I warned him over my shoulder. He suddenly raised his little fist and, before I could react, slammed it into my eye. My vision flashed white. I swerved, nearly hitting a parked tree. “My mom says you’re just a mooch who lives off her money. You don’t get to tell me what to do!” He wasn’t mine. That vicious, entitled streak was a clear sign. He was an ungrateful little viper. I’d poured my heart and soul into raising him for years, and it was worth less than feeding a stray dog. “Act up one more time,” I growled, “and I swear I’m pulling over and leaving you on the curb!” When we got to Tia’s office building, she was waiting outside, hands on her hips, instantly furious. “Three hours for a check-up? Three hours! Are you going to pay for Leo missing his classes?” The kid, seizing the moment, kicked me hard, spat a glob of saliva onto my shirt, and instantly hid behind Tia. I had to swallow the urge to grab him and shake him. Finding my real son was the priority now. I locked eyes with Tia. “We’ve been married for eight years. If you’ve done anything to betray me, I’m giving you a chance to be honest right now.” A flash of panic crossed her face, but she instantly regained her composure. “Are you losing it? You’re a grown man who can’t hold a decent job or handle one kid, and now you’re trying to gaslight me? Get a grip!” “Apologize to me right now! Or you can forget about your allowance this month!” People passing by stopped and stared, whispering and pointing. “Look, it’s the guy who lives off his wife…” I was about to say something, anything, when Marcus’s call came in. “Dean, I have a lead on the whole Leo situation. Get back here now.” I turned to leave, but Tia grabbed my arm. “You will apologize to me!” I shoved her hand away. She stared at my retreating back, utterly stunned. “How dare you…” I burst into Marcus’s office. He looked worried. “Dean, try to stay calm.” He slid a manila envelope across his desk and opened it. I thought I was prepared for anything, but what I saw obliterated me. Shortly after I’d deployed, Tia had reconnected with her high school sweetheart, Rex Kincaid. She’d gotten pregnant with his child. To ensure her bastard son got citizenship and access to the city’s resources, she had substituted him for my Owen. My real son, Owen, had been dumped on her aunt in a rural, run-down county, with only two hundred dollars a month for his upkeep. I shattered the glass on the desk. “That snake! That viper!” I spun toward the door, ready to drive to her hometown. Marcus grabbed me. “Wait. Owen isn’t there anymore. Every summer, her aunt would essentially rent him out to an old man in the village to take him out begging. They’re transients… they could be anywhere.” Begging. The word was a punch to the gut. I felt the office spin. I forced myself steady. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I hadn’t touched in six years. “This is Dean Sullivan. Please… I need your help finding my son.” A deep, resonant voice answered immediately. “You are a national asset, Dr. Sullivan. Rest assured, we never abandon our own.” I hung up, my heart tearing apart. My Owen should have been enrolling in the city’s best prep school, not kneeling on a street corner, kowtowing for change. Thirty minutes later, the contact texted me an address. It was in a dilapidated, almost slum-like part of the city. I grabbed my keys and sprinted out. The address led me to a grimy, boarded-up rental room. Before I even reached the door, I heard a child’s panicked wailing. Then came an old man’s furious yell: “That’s all you brought back all day? I’ll beat you to death, you worthless brat!” I kicked the door in, lunged forward, and pulled the boy into my arms. I looked down at his face—a mirror image of my own. I didn’t need the DNA test. This was my Owen. The initial shock of relief gave way to horror. I saw a small space heater with a piece of metal—a branding iron—glowing on top. The boy’s thin legs bore two identical, circular scars. The wounds were festering, weeping pus, and the stench was sickening. “Are you even human?” I roared, kicking the old man square in the stomach. I carried Owen and burst into the ER. “Doctor, fast! My son needs help!” The doctor later told me that a few more hours, and they would have had to amputate. I sat by his bed, watching his pale, frail face, my heart aching with a physical pain. His lashes fluttered. When he saw me, he flinched and tried to shrink back into the covers, his wide eyes filled with pure terror. I gently held his cold little hand, my voice thick with emotion. “I am so sorry, Owen. Daddy was late. You shouldn’t have suffered.” “You’re… my dad?” he whispered, testing the words. I nodded hard. “Yes. And I’m going to take care of you, always.” CRASH! A heavy thermos slammed into the bedrail right beside Owen’s head. If it had hit him, the damage would have been catastrophic. A child’s laugh echoed from the doorway. “Fun! That was so much fun! I got a bulls-eye!” I looked at the thermos on the floor—it had a cute dinosaur print. I’d special-ordered it from Japan last year. For Leo. Tia stormed in, pointing a finger at my face. “Dean Sullivan, are you insane? How dare you have the police arrest my uncle! Go down to the precinct and get him released right now!” Only then did I realize: the old man who had brutalized my son was her uncle. That whole family, a nest of vipers. I gave a slow, cold smile. I stepped aside, revealing Owen, who was still flinching behind me. Tia’s jaw dropped. “L-Leo? What are you doing here?” Rex’s son, Leo, pointed at Owen. “Hey, isn’t that the nasty beggar from my great-aunt’s place?” The disgust in his eyes was palpable. Tia instantly shoved Leo behind her, her eyes scanning me with deep suspicion. Her gaze darted everywhere but mine. “What… what exactly do you know?” she asked, her voice a low trial balloon. “I know the ‘Leo’ you’ve been raising is Rex Kincaid’s bastard.” I smiled, but my eyes felt like chips of ice. She decided to abandon the pretense. Her voice shot up, hysterical. “And what right do you have to feel wronged? Everything you eat, everything you wear, is paid for by me!” She lunged half a step forward, flecks of spittle hitting my face. “You said you were starting a company in Africa. What happened? You came crawling back with nothing! If Rex hadn’t shown me how to run a business, I’d be sucking wind following you!” “And that justifies your cheating? That justifies dumping my son in the middle of nowhere so your bastard could steal his name and his life?” “Yes!” She jutted her chin out, screaming. “Rex knows how to give me the life I deserve! He’s a real man! And I’m happy to have his kid!” She pointed at me, spitting on the floor near my feet. “You are a spineless, worthless coward! And that’s why your son deserved to be a nobody in some trailer park!” She grabbed the glass sitting on the bedside table and threw it at me. I threw up my arm to deflect it, and a shard scraped a bloody line across my wrist. On the bed, Owen flinched violently. His voice was a thin sob. “I’ll be good. I’ll call you Aunt Tia now, I promise I won’t call you Mom. Please, don’t hit my daddy…” A crowd of onlookers had gathered. Murmurs began to rise. “How could a mother be so cruel to such a sweet child?” I stroked Owen’s hair, then pulled a folded document from my jacket pocket and slapped it onto the bedside table. “Divorce. And your bastard is giving my son his name back.” Cutting all ties with Tia was the immediate priority. I had to ensure this snake could never touch Owen again. Tia snatched the document, tore it into confetti, and threw the pieces in my face. “You want a divorce? It’ll be on my terms!” Barely five minutes later, the door flew open. Rex Kincaid stood there, flanked by over a dozen sharply dressed lawyers, a looming, black cloud of suits. Leo, the fake son, immediately darted forward and latched onto Rex’s leg. “Daddy! Dean Sullivan called me a bastard! Beat him up for me!” Rex’s eyes slid over to me, dripping with contempt. “Don’t worry, son. Daddy’s going to make him kneel and apologize.” One of his lawyers stepped forward and flicked a document into my chest. “Mr. Sullivan, take a look.” It was a post-nuptial agreement. When I’d returned from my mission, Tia had played the victim, claiming she felt insecure after my year-long absence. Drowning in guilt, I signed it without a second thought. The agreement stipulated that all assets acquired during our marriage belonged solely to her, and in the event of a divorce, I would walk away with nothing. Rex’s smile stretched ear to ear. “Kneel and beg my son for forgiveness, and I might let you keep that dump of a house. Otherwise, you and your little tramp can sleep under a bridge tonight.” Tia wrapped her arm around Rex, her face smug. “Even if you steal back your son’s name, so what? No house means no residency, and no elite schools!” “Keep the ‘dump.’ You earned it.” I picked up the pre-torn agreement, pulled out a pen, and signed my name on a clean corner. Tia bent down to Owen’s level. “Your daddy is broke. Empty pockets. He’s going to take you begging, honey. You two can hold hands and beg on the street corner. Ha ha ha!” Owen choked, grabbing my shirt. “Daddy, I don’t need to eat meat. I’m good at working hard. Please, don’t make me beg…” My throat tightened until I couldn’t speak. I pulled him into my chest. “I promise, Owen. You will never suffer like that again. I’m going to make you the happiest kid in the world.” “What a performance!” Rex scoffed, pulling out his phone and shoving a video in my face. “Take a look—you’ve officially been evicted.” The screen showed my living room. My personal assistant was tossing my belongings into massive trash bags. Then the camera panned to my study. My computer—the monitor smashed, the CPU tower shoved into a recycling bin. The hard drive held my most recent, classified research—work that, if successfully implemented, could completely eradicate the Ebola virus. I immediately dialed my secure contact number, summarizing the situation in three clipped sentences. A calm, grave voice responded: “Order received. Immediate action.” Less than three minutes later, the video on Rex’s phone suddenly shifted tone. A swarm of people in specialized tactical gear poured into my house. A man in sunglasses said something to the assistant, who instantly went slack-kneed and collapsed to the floor, terrified. Next, several agents carefully knelt by the recycling bin, retrieving the damaged PC parts. They handled the hard drive as if it were a priceless relic, placing it gently into a secure box. Rex’s face darkened instantly. “Dean Sullivan! You call in a few thugs and think you can scare me? You forget who’s backing me?” Tia puffed out her chest. “Rex and I land all those major contracts because he has a big-shot backer! The man’s name would make you faint! Apologize now, and we might still forgive you!” I gave them a look of pure contempt. “You mean the CEO of Aethel Biotech, right? The one who funneled ninety percent of their contracts your way these past few years? How else do you think a mediocre pair like you could run a company?” Rex and Tia stared, their shock undisguised. They hadn’t expected me to know the puppet master. Tia quickly recovered, raising her chin defiantly. “So you know! Good! Now kowtow to my son, or I’ll make sure you can’t get a job in this entire city!” The agent on the recovery team called back. “Dr. Sullivan, the drive is secure. Data intact.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thank you. Please have the contents of my study delivered to my office…” I didn’t finish the sentence. Tia suddenly lunged and smacked the phone out of my hand. She stood, hands on her hips, screeching. “You want your things? Forget it! You’re not taking a single thing—not even a pin!” My patience snapped. I pulled the hospital phone off the wall and called security. “Inpatient Room 502. Send guards immediately. Clear out all non-essential personnel.” Rex glared at me, slamming his hand on the bedside table. “Hey! I’d like to see who in this city has the guts to challenge me!” He spun to his entourage of lawyers and muscle. “Take him out! Cripple Dean Sullivan! Double pay for everyone this month!” The thugs instantly surrounded us, fists aimed directly at my face. I tightened my grip on Owen, and slammed my elbow into the jaw of the guy who charged first. At the same moment, the hospital security guards burst in, joining the chaos. The room erupted into a brawl. IV poles crashed, and the bedside table overturned. My arms locked around Owen, shielding him. I spotted a gap toward the door, but Rex suddenly grabbed a shard of broken glass and lunged at my son’s body. “Die, you piece of trash!” I kicked him hard in the gut. He screamed, stumbling backward into the wall. Just then, another wave of men surged into the room—a team of black-suited security professionals. Rex’s eyes lit up when he saw the lead man. He rushed forward, a sickeningly ingratiating smile plastered on his face. “Mr. Rhodes! You’re here for me, right? Did the CEO of Aethel finally agree to that dinner? I’ve been waiting for days…” Mr. Rhodes walked right past him. He stopped directly in front of me, his voice deferential. “Dr. Sullivan. My apologies for the delay. I hope you and the young master haven’t suffered too much.”

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The day I was released from prison and immediately went viral on every social media platform, Anya Prescott, my wife—no, my ex-wife—waited outside the federal penitentiary until deep into the night. Ten years ago, a student Anya had secretly sponsored used my architectural model to win a national competition. That’s when I learned they had a three-year-old child. Dean Miller had named my creation after the boy. I lost myself, struck out, and was locked away for a decade. Stepping out, I was no longer the brilliant, ambitious scientist I had been. I was a shell. I spotted a piece of discarded metal near a trash receptacle, picked it up, wiped it clean, and slipped it into my pocket. A nervous habit. A familiar, trembling voice came from behind me. “Gabe. I’ve been looking for you for days. Why didn’t you wait?” She grabbed my pale wrist, her touch jarring. “I never married anyone else, Gabriel. You have to believe me.” I gave a faint, detached smile and pulled my hand away. “Ms. Prescott, I’m flattered you’d joke. But your child must be starting middle school now, shouldn’t he?” Her pupils contracted, and her lips began to tremble. She was the key witness who had put me behind bars a decade ago. 1 Anya and I were photographed almost instantly. The headline GABE ASHTON STALKS ANYA PRESCOTT ON RELEASE immediately went to the top of the trending topics. The photo showed Anya’s back, making it look as though I had cornered her. The online community, who had been following the story of my release, erupted in outrage. He has no shame! First thing he does out of prison is harass Ms. Prescott! Terrifying. How is a psycho like this allowed back on the street? @DeanMiller protect yourself and your kid! I heard he only attacked him because she rejected his marriage proposal! Scientists going crazy are the worst. Absolute sociopath! Everyone began tagging Dean Miller. He responded quickly, posting a selfie from a lab with the caption: Everyone, rest assured. I am safe. I will protect the people who matter most to me. That little exchange earned him another wave of public sympathy. I logged off the feed. The next second, my phone rang. The number was unlisted, but I knew the sequence—it was once etched into my memory. I rejected the call without a second thought. Once, twice… I dragged the number directly into the blocked list. A text message immediately popped up from a new number. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would be like this. I’ll handle the media. I blocked that number too. I had just put the phone down when it rang again. I didn’t check the caller ID. I answered, ready to unleash a torrent of suppressed anger, but a familiar, gentle voice came through. “Gabe, dear, the best way to prove yourself is to live your life well. I don’t want those awful online words to touch you.” My old middle school teacher, Ms. Reed. She continued, “Our district is hosting a robotics and intelligent modeling competition, and we’re short on an experienced mentor. Do you have the courage to come?” My eyes instantly welled up. She was my junior high teacher, the woman who first lit the spark for me in physics. Tears caught in my throat, I nodded. “Ms. Reed, I will be there. Thank you.” The voice on the other end caught. “Oh, good boy. I knew you’d find a way to stand back up.” After hanging up, my heart pounded for a long time. It was true—my life had nothing to do with Anya Prescott anymore. I followed the time and address Ms. Reed gave me and arrived at the high school lab precisely on time. I paused at the doorway when I realized two students were arguing heatedly. I decided to listen first. “My thermal-dynamic coupling model is absolutely right! My dad told me so! My dad is Dean Miller—his theory won a national prize! Who the hell are you?” Finn Miller’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at a skinny, nervous-looking boy. “I’m not saying the theory is wrong, but the value you used is too high. It will burn out the circuit…” 2 “Bullshit!” Finn suddenly grabbed a handful of project materials off the table, ready to throw them at the other student. I quickly stepped forward to intervene, accidentally knocking Finn off balance. He froze for a moment, then shouted, “Who are you? Why did you hit me? I’m calling the police!” I looked coldly at the boy—he had Anya’s sharp features, but the arrogance of Dean Miller was unmistakably etched in his bones. “You’re Finn Miller? Your father is Dean Miller, so everything he says is automatically right?” I felt the blood rising in my neck. “Did your father ever tell you that he stole someone else’s work?” I couldn’t help myself. Confronting that stain on my life, that name, broke the dam. The words were out before I could stop them, and immediately, I regretted it. But it was too late. The incident escalated, and before the evening was over, the police were involved. That night, I was trending again. Everyone claimed I was obsessed with Anya, and since I couldn’t have her, I was seeking revenge by attacking her son. My temporary rental apartment was quickly tracked down. The door was covered in vile graffiti and hateful curses. Someone had even left a suspicious package on the mat—a cardboard box doused in red paint with razor blades taped inside. The landlord demanded I vacate immediately. As I was carrying my clothes—which had been thrown onto the floor—down the stairs, I ran straight into Anya. “I’m so sorry…” She nervously rubbed the edge of her coat pocket, looking down, but stealing glances at my face to gauge my reaction. The movement instantly flashed me back to Anya in middle school. I closed my eyes, trying to clear those toxic images. “Ms. Prescott, I never want to see you again. I just want a quiet life. Don’t show up around me.” Her eyes reddened, and her expression was guarded and pained. “Gabe, I just wanted to apologize. It’s fine if you don’t forgive me. We’re still old friends, and I can actually help—” “The best way you can help me is to stay far away.” I met her gaze squarely. “Anya Prescott, if I had known that meeting you would bring this much disaster, I never would have…” She interrupted me frantically. “Gabe! Stop! Please, I’ll leave.” I had forgotten. The past we shared, the one we could never return to, contained not only my scars but hers as well. Even after all these years, we both still knew exactly how to twist the knife in the other person’s deepest wound. When I first met Anya, she was the school’s favorite target for bullies. One afternoon, a few older high school kids had her cornered in an alley, pelting her with empty water bottles. “Your grandma is a junk collector, right? We’re helping you! How are you going to thank us?” “Little trash brought up by old trash. You stink!” A rush of misguided empathy made me step in front of her. “Her grandmother works hard to put her through school. There’s no shame in that.” “If your parents knew you were harassing people, that’s what would be shameful!” After that, I started splitting the breakfast my mother prepared for me with her. I helped her with her homework and supervised her study. We even worked side jobs together. She became my shadow, my loyal knight, always looking after me. During our senior year of college, she used her part-time earnings to buy a cheap, simple wedding dress. She put it on and stood before me. “Gabriel Ashton, I only want to marry you in this life. I will only marry you. Will you… will you be with me?” I smiled, lifting the veil she wore. “Yes, Anya Prescott. I’ll marry you.” The night of our wedding, she wasn’t a good drinker, but she didn’t miss a single toast. She drank until her feet were unsteady and her mind was cloudy. Yet, she still stood before my parents and family, swearing her fidelity to the heavens. 3 “I, Anya Prescott, swear I will only ever marry Gabriel Ashton and only love Gabriel Ashton. If I break this oath, let the heavens strike me down, let me not find….” I stopped her foolish oath with a kiss. With the cheers and blessings of our families, I truly felt like the happiest man alive. She was an exemplary wife for the next few years. Even when her company grew busy, she always made time to surprise me. She took my parents on trips and helped my relatives’ children find jobs. She did everything she could to be good to me. And that’s exactly how she fooled everyone. Dean Miller was a student I had started sponsoring after college, a kid I personally introduced to Anya. In the first few years, when Anya’s company was just starting up, she worked nonstop. She would come home late at night, smelling heavily of smoke and alcohol. “Gabe, the men under me keep undermining me because I’m a woman…” As I massaged her temples, I thought of Dean Miller. He was smart, hardworking, and had a fierce, defiant persistence in his eyes. “Have Dean go help you. He’s bold and meticulous. He can be trusted.” That’s how Dean entered the company. Because I vouched for him, he gradually took over some confidential but tedious tasks. Anya had less to worry about and finally found some relief. She even started spending time with me in the lab. She would watch me tinker with different robotic models, then hold me from behind, her voice full of emotion. “When I was little, I always wished a Knight in Shining Armor would come save me and defeat all the bullies.” “I stopped wishing for that a long time ago.” I turned my head to ask why. “Because my Knight, my protector, came into my life when I was in eighth grade.” From that day on, in addition to my main research, I wanted to give her a surprise. I began to integrate the concept of protection into a model I was designing. It was meant to be my gift to her. Later, her career stabilized. Dean Miller became a regular fixture at our house. He often delivered documents or asked me for technical advice. I never held back any knowledge. Our relationship grew closer. He knew I loved tea and searched high and low for rare blends. He never missed a birthday. “Gabe, I wouldn’t be here without you. Ms. Prescott trusts me, and I can’t let either of you down.” My own research reached its most critical stage. I was the one spending all my time in the lab. Dean often took Anya’s place, bringing me dinner. I thought he was simply expressing gratitude. Until the day of the globally recognized model design competition. I saw my design—the one I’d poured my soul into—named after the boy, Finn. I saw Dean Miller’s signature as the sole author on the project summary. I wanted to ask Anya if she knew. Instead, I saw a small boy running back and forth outside her executive office. The woman I had spent fourteen years building a life with. She had a three-year-old child with another man. I stormed into her office. “Anya Prescott, is that child outside yours?” She merely looked up, detached. “Gabe, watch your tone and the setting.” “My tone? I am your legal husband! When did you get pregnant? How could I have—” My voice died in my throat, cut short by her cold expression. I suddenly remembered a time when I had traveled abroad for a seven-month seminar. The week before I was due back, she claimed she needed to expand the market, staying away from home for four months straight. I closed my eyes, unwilling to ask any more. 4 She leaned back in her leather executive chair. “Since you know, I won’t hide it. I’ve had the child. I can’t put him back. Your mother always complained I couldn’t bear children. The truth is, you’re the one who couldn’t.” I stared at the blatant cruelty on her face, seeing a woman I’d never known. She paused, then slid a stack of prepared documents across the desk. When I saw the word Divorce on the papers, I ripped them to shreds. I looked at the woman I had poured everything into supporting, utterly disbelieving. I refused to sign and, in a rage, went back to my parents’ house. My mother, furious, marched to Anya’s office and slapped her publicly. “You’re despicable! Without my son, you’d still be scavenging for food! You ungrateful snake!” Anya’s eyes were filled with scorn. “Fine. Let’s see who really needs who.” That very day, Anya withdrew her investment from my father’s manufacturing company. The news spread like wildfire. The next day, competitors deliberately undercut my father’s bids, causing the company’s cash flow to collapse. Partners abandoned him. She even forced my relatives’ children out of the company and blacklisted them across the industry. These were the same people who had gathered every penny they had to help Anya launch her company when she was short on startup capital. But in an instant, she had turned, ready to cut off everyone’s livelihood. My father suffered a stress-induced heart attack and was hospitalized. Anya eventually swallowed up the company for a fraction of its value. My mother, unable to bear the shock, fell gravely ill. Anya appeared again, tossing a new agreement in front of me. “Sign it. You walk away with nothing, but I’ll stop harassing your parents.” Looking at my father in the ICU, my hand trembled as I signed the papers. When I walked out of that house with my last few belongings, Dean Miller was waiting at the door. “Gabe, this is the right choice, isn’t it? If you’d just given up your spot sooner, would your parents have had to suffer like this?” He laughed triumphantly. All the anger and humiliation I’d stored up burst forth. I grabbed a utility knife from a nearby moving box and pointed it at him. “Get out of my house! Get out!” Instead of backing away, he lunged forward, grabbing my hand and plunging the blade deep into his own abdomen. Anya arrived just in time to rush him to the hospital. Under Anya’s manipulation, all the evidence pointed against me. No lawyer dared to take my case. She personally took the stand as a witness. “I saw Gabriel Ashton attack Dean with a knife out of jealousy. He is volatile and has repeatedly threatened Dean.” My hospitalized parents fought through their illnesses to run around, trying to save me. But Anya was resolute. She wanted me destroyed. On the day of the final verdict, my father coughed up a mouthful of blood on the courthouse steps. He didn’t make it. Not long after, my mother also passed away. I was convicted of aggravated assault and given the maximum sentence: ten years. Now, I watch her call a press conference, releasing surveillance footage from the high school lab. She went to extreme lengths to clear my name. “Gabriel Ashton did not target the child. I will pursue legal action against all false statements online. Regardless of the full truth of the past, I owe him. I will not allow anyone to defame him.” I don’t know how much time passed. A single tear hit the black screen of my phone. The screen reflected my face, etched with a bitter, hollow mockery. 5 Dean Miller tracked me down as I was eating a cheap, ten-dollar bowl of plain noodles at a greasy spoon in a rundown part of the city. He pulled up in a sports car, wearing a costly suit—a jarring contrast to the neighborhood. “Gabe, why are you eating in a place like this?” He placed his designer briefcase on the table, glanced with disdain at the mismatched, stained chair, and didn’t sit down. “Here’s a hundred thousand dollars. Leave the city. Don’t ever show your face to Anya again.” I kept my head down and continued eating my noodles, ignoring him. He wasn’t upset; instead, he leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. “Ten years in prison didn’t teach you a lesson?” “Look at yourself—you’re a mess. How do you think you deserve her now?” I put down my chopsticks and looked up at him—at his designer labels, his desperate attempt to project success. His six-figure watch and thousand-dollar jacket couldn’t hide the scent of insecurity clinging to him. He hadn’t been doing well. “Dean, why the rush? What are you so afraid of?” His face twitched. “Afraid of you? Gabriel Ashton, look at yourself! Do you think I’m afraid of or jealous of an over-the-hill man who spent ten years in jail and has nothing to show for it?” “Then what’s the money for? In your mind, the successful Anya Prescott is only worth a hundred thousand dollars?” Dean seemed to realize his mistake. He clutched the briefcase, forcing a smile that was too wide, and raised his voice slightly. “You’re joking. I know you’re struggling right now, and I just wanted to help! But since you brought it up, if a hundred thousand isn’t enough, how much will it take for you to finally leave us alone?” His performance was nauseating. I stood up to walk away, but he grabbed a handful of my jacket near my waist. “Gabriel Ashton, Anya and I have a teenage son! Are you still going to cling to her? Are you really going to be the pathetic third party who won’t let go?” I pulled hard on my jacket. He held on stubbornly. In the struggle, my jacket was ripped down, exposing a section of my forearm—a winding, twisted burn scar. He stared blankly at it. I quickly snatched the jacket back, which knocked his briefcase onto the table. His phone slid out. That’s when I saw it. He had clipped a camera to the bag’s interior, running a live stream. OMG! He has so many injuries on his body! Must be prison beatings. Good! Serves him right! That looks terrible, but it doesn’t look like a beating. Could he be self-harming? That explains the obsession! Poor Dean Miller! Look how desperate he is! The comments section was instantly flooded with malicious speculation. I shut off the live stream, unwilling to let so many people pry into my life. The moment the stream cut out, Dean’s mask dropped. It was replaced by raw, frantic hatred. “Gabriel Ashton! How dare you come back? You’re a killer! You tried to kill me ten years ago, and you almost killed my son now!” “And now you’re stalking my wife, harassing her, and trying to ruin my family! If your parents knew how low you’ve become, they’d be turning in their graves!” His chest heaved, and spittle landed on my face. “Why are you staring at me? Am I wrong?” I swung a punch hard, the impact jarring my arm. Dean completely lost it, lunging at me to fight. Suddenly, a figure appeared, pulling me aside and stepping between Dean and me.

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I put down six hundred thousand dollars to start a business with the brother who was drowning in debt. When the place finally took off, he didn’t hesitate to kick me to the curb. “My wife and I did all the heavy lifting in that kitchen. You were barely around.” “You invested six hundred thousand, and I’m paying you six hundred thousand back.” “We’re square.” 1 Rick Flynn placed six hundred thousand dollars in cash on the table in front of me. I stared at the thick stacks, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. I genuinely didn’t understand what he was trying to say. Rick slid the money toward me with a casual push. “That’s your original investment, Dean. Your principal. I’m handing it back.” I managed a tight smile. “What is this supposed to mean?” “Why the sudden urge to return my capital?” Rick’s face was dead serious. “The Millhouse Bistro is fine with just me and my wife running it now.” “I’m returning the six hundred thousand you put in.” “You won’t need to come in anymore.” The words hit me like a physical blow, and I froze. Rick and his wife were trying to push me out? To cut me off entirely? “I… won’t need to come in anymore.” “You’re telling me I’m being kicked out?” I pointed a finger at my own chest, asking the question again, needing to hear the absurdity confirmed. Rick didn’t flinch. He spoke without a trace of hesitation. “For the past year, my wife and I have been busting our asses keeping that Bistro running.” “You haven’t managed a thing.” “What claim do you even have on the place?” I had poured six hundred thousand dollars and over a year of my life into launching this “Millhouse Bistro.” We built it from zero to generating over thirty thousand dollars in monthly revenue. And just as we were about to hit the real money, Rick was telling me I had no claim, no stake, nothing. I honestly never thought Rick would do something like this. Rick and I were high school friends. After graduation, I went North for college. Rick chose to dive straight into the working world. We always kept in touch, meeting up for drinks and catching up every winter and summer break. He got married during my sophomore year. He took his wife’s family’s savings, their nest egg, and invested in a franchise that turned out to be a scam. He didn’t just lose the money; he racked up over two hundred thousand dollars in debt. To pay it off, Rick had to work a day job and run a late-night street taco stand after hours. His wife was out of work. They had two infants at home, burning through formula and diapers. His wife was threatening divorce daily. Over drinks, Rick confessed, tears streaming down his face, about the crushing pressure. He said every morning he woke up, all he saw was money—or the lack of it—suffocating him. He’d even considered driving his truck off the Starlight Bridge and ending it all. He was a friend of two decades. I couldn’t stand by and watch him do something reckless. I decided to pull him out of the hole. But I never, not in my wildest dreams, imagined that after I pulled him from the fire, he’d turn around and stab me in the back. “Rick, are you drunk? Or did you hit your head?” “Are you even listening to yourself?” “Who the hell invested in this Bistro in the first place?” I jabbed a finger toward him, my voice rising. Rick gave me a cold, dismissive glance. “You invested six hundred thousand. I’m giving you six hundred thousand back.” “I’m not stealing anything from you.” “I think you’re the one who needs his head checked.” 2 I actually laughed, the sound dry and humorless. The entire concept, the business model, and the initial capital for The Millhouse Bistro came from me. A year ago, when I was trying to figure out how to rescue Rick, I asked him what he knew how to do. He said all he knew was food service, and not much else. I didn’t hesitate. I called a college roommate whose family ran a successful restaurant chain with four locations in their city. I negotiated hard and eventually paid a hundred thousand dollars just for the rights to use their signature recipes. I took Rick up there, and we spent over a week learning everything—from the kitchen’s flow to the overall operational model. My roommate held nothing back. When we came back, we budgeted the cost for a similar farm-to-table concept: it came out to roughly six hundred thousand. Rick was broke. He offered to work for me, but I refused. The whole point of this venture was to get him back on his feet. Just being my employee wouldn’t solve his long-term crisis. “I’ll put up the money. You put in the labor.” “We split the profits fifty-fifty. If we lose money, it’s all on me.” Because I still had my family’s businesses to manage, I couldn’t dedicate my full attention to The Millhouse Bistro. The place needed a full-time, dedicated captain. So, Rick and I had a verbal agreement: I cover the capital, he covers the operations, and we split the returns evenly. 3 And now, barely a year into the operation, Rick and his wife were desperate to cut me out. “Rick!” “Who was it that dragged you out of foreclosure and debt?” “Do you have any conscience left at all?” I couldn’t help but yell at him. Rick looked up at me, a sneer twisting his lips. “We’re talking business here, Dean. Leave the emotional crap out of it.” “You keep going on about saving me. If you’re so charitable, why are you fighting me over this now?” “You put in six hundred thousand. I’m returning six hundred thousand.” “What’s the problem?” Rick was completely nonchalant, acting as if I was the one being unreasonable. He clearly thought I was fighting over a few petty dollars. The money wasn’t the issue. I had my own capital. The problem was the sudden, brutal, and unjust dismissal. Since Rick wanted to “talk business,” I decided to lay out the terms, down to the last penny. “I put six hundred thousand into this for a year, and you’re giving me six hundred thousand back a year later?” “Do you think we’re playing house here?” I lowered my voice, making it dangerously calm. My six hundred thousand would have at least earned some interest in a bank for a year. And right now, the Bistro was killing it—packed every night. The daily cash flow was consistently around ten thousand dollars. After factoring in all overheads, the net profit for the year should have been well over $1.4 million. Rick, meanwhile, was pretending the profit didn’t exist, simply returning the principal and having the nerve to claim I wasn’t losing anything. “Rick and I handle every single detail in that Bistro, big or small.” “You haven’t lifted a finger. You just wrote a check for six hundred thousand.” “We’re giving you back the six hundred thousand. What’s wrong with that?” Monica, Rick’s wife, chimed in, echoing his exact defense. Seeing the look of ungrateful arrogance on Monica’s face, a cold rage burned inside me. Just a year ago, both of them treated me like a godsend. Now that they were making money, they were baring their teeth. I managed to control my fury and spoke through clenched teeth. “If I hadn’t lifted a finger, how do you think this whole damn operation got off the ground?” Monica curled her lip and let out a cold laugh. “You mean all those times you brought your friends to eat and drink on the house, running up hundreds in tabs? Did you ever pay?” “You eat for free, fine. But anyone who dropped your name got a minimum twenty percent discount. Sometimes you comped the entire meal.” “That’s your ‘effort’! Anyone can freeload.” Rick and Monica, tag-teaming the attack, painted me as a greedy parasite who only showed up to eat free meals. 4 “Why do you think I was hosting those dinners?” “It was to bring in customers, to build a clientele!” “Tell me which of those people hasn’t become a regular, a big spender at The Millhouse Bistro?” When the Bistro first opened, business was dead. Rick was in debt, and everyone in his network avoided him like the plague. It was impossible for him to drum up business using his own contacts. I had to leverage my own network, hosting regular events to draw people in. In the restaurant business, you live and die by repeat customers and good will. Maintaining that requires favors and good-faith hospitality. But in Rick and Monica’s eyes, this was nothing but me taking advantage. “Stop trying to flatter yourself.” “They became customers because the Bistro’s food is good. The menu is great.” “If the taste was bad, who would keep coming back?” I nearly choked on my laughter. “The menu is great? The taste is good?” “Who do you think found the recipes and the people to teach you?” “If I hadn’t bent over backwards sourcing ingredients and recipes, where would your signature dishes be?” Every single profitable dish on that menu had been acquired and curated by me. The two signature dishes from my college roommate alone cost me a hundred thousand. To cater to the local American market, I spent another fifty thousand buying the rights to several regional specialty dishes. Sourcing these recipes was a nightmare. Unlike my college roommate, who lived states away, these local chefs were direct competitors. By learning their techniques, I was taking food off their tables. I had to spend heavily, trading in money and favors, practically begging to learn those techniques. That’s where their “great menu” came from. “Psh!” Monica exploded when I brought it up. She pointed a finger directly at my face and shrieked. “And you have the nerve to bring up sourcing the ingredients?” “How many kickbacks did you take in the process, huh?” “The chicken market rate is under five dollars a pound. The chicken you sourced cost us twenty-six dollars a pound!” “Five times the price!” “And the fish, the mushrooms, the produce—every single item was several times more expensive than the market rate!” At that point, I couldn’t be bothered to say another word. Genuine, pasture-raised, organic, heritage poultry—the kind we used—was in such high demand that people waited months for it. Rick and I had gone through hell to secure those contracts. They knew this. Now they were just picking fights. This was undeniable proof that Rick and Monica were absolutely determined to cut me out. Anything I said would be useless. “Fine. I’m out.”

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The year I was dubbed “the kid no one wanted,” I was returned to The St. Jude’s Home for Children three times in a row. My file said I was “unsuitable for adoption.” Because I’m not just oppositional; I’m aggressively mouthy. It wasn’t until the tenth couple walked in, dragging a little boy with them, that things got interesting. Suddenly, the world went fuzzy, and the familiar, invisible subtitles began to scroll across my vision: [ALERT: Villain Protagonist is spoiled rotten from years of fawning. He is a little tyrant, and any dissent will immediately lead to your family’s financial ruin.] [The parents are out of options. They want to adopt a compliant, quiet girl to subtly fix their son.] A compliant child? Yeah, that ship sailed a long time ago. I was mid-yawn, bored out of my mind, when a loud, entitled voice cut through the silence. “Mom, look,” the boy declared, pointing a pudgy finger. “The girl yawning over there is kind of fat.” My brow instinctively furrowed. My automatic response—my inherent genetic flaw—kicked in instantly. “Fat? You need to wipe the sleep-gunk out of your eyes, genius.” 1 The Villain Protagonist froze, staring at me. Ten seconds of pure, dead silence stretched out. Then, he let out a dramatic, soul-shattering wail. His face turned scarlet, but even through the tears, he managed to issue a command: “Mom! She dared to talk back! I want her family ruined!” I had to admit, he was gorgeous. Even blotchy and scarlet-faced from crying, his features were perfect. The other kids in the room, however, were too terrified to appreciate his aesthetics. They stood frozen, heads bowed, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. More subtitles began to cascade: [Wow, she looks cute, but her attack power is through the roof!] [She has no idea how terrifying he’ll be later. He’s just entitled now, but later, he’s unhinged.] [Because he can’t have the Heroine, he’ll lock her up and break the Hero’s legs, literally chaining him like a dog.] [Good thing this girl doesn’t fit their adoption criteria, or she’d be toast.] I felt a surge of calm relief. Toast? Not me. I was as far from compliant as you could get. As long as they didn’t adopt me, the Villain Protagonist could be someone else’s problem. The elegant woman, his mother, offered Ms. Evans, the director of the Home, a weary smile. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law coddled him, I’m helpless.” Ms. Evans, God bless her, was equally apologetic. “Honestly, Mrs. Harrington, Frankie is… well, Frankie. I’m helpless too.” Only I remained standing alone. I straightened my back and shook my head at the boy. “You can’t ruin my family, kid,” I said, my voice serious. “I don’t have one.” The crying stopped abruptly. He stared at me, hiccuping once. His little face flushed again, and he yelled, “That’s impossible! Don’t you have a mom and dad?” I tilted my head, genuinely baffled. “What’s wrong with your neck? Did you forget where we are, genius?” He looked around, realizing he was, in fact, in an orphanage. He huffed and puffed, completely speechless. His greatest weapon—threats—had proven totally useless against me. He was starting to panic. He spun around, grabbed his mother’s leg, and began pummeling her thigh with his tiny fists. Snot and tears mingled on his face. “Mom! Make her go away! I don’t like her! I don’t want to look at her!” His mother, Eleanor Harrington, let out a sigh of pure exhaustion. Ms. Evans immediately pulled me back. “Mrs. Harrington, I am so sorry. I’ll take Frankie back to her room immediately.” Eleanor started to object, but Ms. Evans gave me a stern look. “Frankie, you need to apologize to the young man. Then we’ll go.” Ms. Evans had always been kind to me, never blaming me for the three times I was returned. I didn’t want to get her into trouble. So, reluctantly, I walked back toward the little boy. He was clinging to his mother’s leg, eyes wide and wary. I stood straight, smoothed the fabric of my faded dress, and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Rhys.” He lifted his chin, sniffing disdainfully, his arrogant expression returning. But my argumentative genes, deep in my bones, wouldn’t allow it. I tried to suppress it, I really did. I couldn’t. So I added, perfectly composed: “I’d like to know exactly which part of that upset you… so I can be sure to repeat it.” Rhys’s eyes widened, looking at me with total disbelief. The look on his face shifted immediately to pure, wounded betrayal. The next second, his eyebrows crumpled, his nose turned red, and he buried his head in his mother’s thigh, wailing louder than before. “Mom, she’s bullying me! Your little boy is being bullied!” I sighed, completely fed up. “I’m not bullying you. I’m just not being particularly nice.” He wailed even louder. The sound was so irritating, I clapped my hands over my ears and turned away. Ms. Evans grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “Can’t you just keep quiet for two seconds? Go to your room!” I shrugged and started to walk off. Suddenly, the father, who had been silent this whole time, stepped into my path. “Your name is Frankie, right? Hold on a moment.” He exchanged a look with Eleanor, then smiled at Ms. Evans. “Ms. Evans, we’ve decided. We’ll take her.” Rhys stopped crying mid-sob. He lifted his head, eyes wide with shock as he stared at his parents. Even Ms. Evans tried to dissuade them. “Are you sure you want to reconsider? Rhys doesn’t seem to care for Frankie…” Charles Harrington cut her off. “Given the circumstances, we think we need to try a wild card.” He crouched down in front of me and spoke quietly, conspiratorially. “Frankie, would you like to come live with us?” I absolutely did not want to live with a future psycho villain, and I was about to refuse. But then, the subtitles flashed again: [Wait, the Villain’s family was supposed to adopt the sweet Heroine?] [This girl, though cute, is not the Heroine! Rhys will get rid of her quickly!] [The Heroine is over there, scared speechless, among that group of children.] I glanced at the huddle of timid kids. Several girls younger than me were standing there, too frightened to make a sound. I didn’t know which one the subtitles meant, or I would have shoved her forward. The subtitles continued to scroll: [Although the Villain’s family has nothing but money, living near him means you get the cash, but you won’t live to spend it!] [Exactly! The Harrington’s family gives the adopted child a Billion-Dollar Trust Fund when they turn eighteen! But the kid has to survive until then!] Wait. That detail was important. Why hadn’t they mentioned it earlier? I immediately grabbed Charles Harrington’s hand with my soft, small one and nodded emphatically. “Yes, Dad. I’d love to.” Rhys shrieked, pointing at me. “Shut up! He’s my dad, not yours!” I didn’t care. Whoever coughed up the billion dollars was my dad. The sharp retort was already on my tongue, but I swallowed it, hard. Charles noticed my visible struggle and frowned slightly. “Frankie, we’re adopting you because we want you to be yourself, without worrying.” He gave me a gentle, encouraging look. Suddenly, I understood. Charles wanted me to fight fire with fire—to act as a counter-agent against Rhys. That was easy. Whoever paid the billion got to set the rules. I turned back to Rhys and stated, completely deadpan, “Not true, big brother. Your dad adopted me, so he is now, definitively, my dad.” Rhys’s face turned red again. He plopped onto the floor and began rolling, kicking, and screaming. “I don’t care what you say! I don’t want you in my house!” I stared at him with complete incomprehension. “Brother,” I asked, “are you sure you’re not the long-lost, less-evolved cousin of Socrates?” Rhys immediately went silent. He looked up at me with an expression of such crystal-clear confusion that I knew I had completely eclipsed him in terms of cultural literacy. I shook my head, genuinely disappointed. “It’s like God was handing out IQ points, and you brought an umbrella.” Rhys finally understood. His face went crimson. His lip wobbled, and he burst into another torrent of tears. “You… what do you mean by that?!” he choked out. I tugged on Charles’s sleeve. “Dad, maybe have him read a few books? We can’t have a functionally illiterate person in the family.” This, he also understood. His small face was the color of a tomato, and he wailed louder still. Charles Harrington sighed, the sound heavy with parental frustration. The subtitles zipped past: [Rhys is finally getting his comeuppance! It’s delicious!] [Wait until she licks her own lips and realizes she just poisoned herself.] [But if the Villain’s family didn’t adopt the Heroine, how will he fall in love with her later?] [This is better! No Villain interference! Daisy Bloom and the Hero can sail straight into their sweet ending!] Daisy Bloom? An image of a big-eyed, quiet girl from the huddle flashed through my mind. So she was the Heroine. But I was already sitting in the car, speeding away from the Home. My new parents ignored Rhys’s nonstop crying and took me that same day. Eleanor and I rode in a separate car to avoid immediate conflict. On the drive home, I learned the boy’s full name: Rhys Harrington. He was six, just a few months older than me, but his capacity for chaos was epic. He was the emperor of the house. Any servant or manager who dared to cross him or cause him the slightest displeasure would be fired and banished that very night. The entire staff lived in fear of offending him. The car pulled into a sprawling estate—lush greenery, water features—in an exclusive suburb. It looked exactly like a princess’s palace from a storybook. I pressed my face against the window, fascinated by the scenery. The car stopped in front of a golden-hued mansion. I followed Eleanor into the house, my jaw slack as I took in the palatial living room. Rhys had arrived before me. He saw me, gave a high-pitched snort of contempt, and turned his back. He then loudly demanded that the housekeeper prepare his horse. I stood there, eyes wide, waiting for an actual horse to appear. Instead, Adam, the tall, perfectly pressed household manager, scurried out, dropped to his hands and knees with a thump, and announced, “Master Rhys, your pony is ready.” Eleanor’s face hardened. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Rhys Harrington! You are too old for this! Stop making Adam play the pony!” Rhys immediately started his usual fit. “I don’t care! I want to play! I want to ride the pony up the main staircase!” Eleanor’s lips twitched, but she managed to maintain her composure. I could sense her rage boiling just beneath the surface. Adam, still on all fours, chuckled nervously. “It’s quite alright, ma’am. Master Rhys is just playing. I don’t mind a bit.” Eleanor sighed. “Adam, you’re spoiling him. You’re doing him a disservice.” Before Adam could reply, Rhys had climbed onto his back. “Run! Faster! Giddy-up!” Adam, forcing a bright smile, began crawling across the grand living room floor. As he passed me, Rhys looked down his nose and sneered. “Look at you, a charity case. I bet you’ve never ridden a pony. It’s so much fun!” My lips curled. My brain, the ultimate machine gun of insults, fired back automatically. “Doesn’t look that fun,” I declared. “The last time I saw a grown man on all fours like that was on that Game of Thrones prequel, and most of the people being ridden ended up dead.” Rhys immediately scrambled off Adam’s back. His face was a burning crimson, and he pointed a trembling finger at me.

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