Author: Momo Chan

Shortly after we got engaged, we took our coworkers out for dinner to celebrate. Over drinks, someone suggested we play the “Newlywed Game” to test how well we knew each other. “Question one,” a coworker grinned, holding up their phone. “What’s the bride’s favorite flower?” Colin glanced across the table at Mia, his mentee, and hesitated for three long seconds. “Roses… right?” I love sunflowers. But the crystal vase on his kitchen island was always filled with long-stemmed red roses. I had always assumed it was just his preference in interior design. “Next! What is the bride’s biggest fear?” “Uh… thunderstorms?” I am terrified of the dark. Mia is the one who cowers at the sound of thunder. The table chuckled, oblivious to the tension, and moved to the third question. “What’s the bride’s go-to takeout order?” Colin blurted out instantly, “Pad See Ew. Mild.” I only eat Drunken Noodles, Thai-hot. Mia was the one who ordered the mild, sweet noodles every time our team worked late. Out of five questions, he got four wrong. The only thing he got right was my shoe size—a standard size six. Only because Mia wore the exact same size. Across the table, Mia looked down, stirring the straw in her cocktail with an impossibly innocent smile. “Don’t be mad, Joanna,” she said softly, batting her eyelashes. “Colin is just messing around with you.” A memory flashed in my mind. Last week, Colin had gifted Mia a birthday present. It was a delicate diamond pendant I had been eyeing for months. When I asked him about it, he’d shrugged and said it was just a random impulse buy for a subordinate. … “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?” Colin’s hands gripped the leather steering wheel, his tone dripping with irritation. I turned my head, watching the city lights blur past the passenger window. I didn’t say a word. “Everyone was just having fun. Did you have to sit there with a stone-cold face the entire night?” He tugged at his collar, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “Mia even stepped in to smooth things over for you, and you didn’t even have the decency to say thank you. What is everyone going to think of you?” I stared at his reflection in the dark glass. “What exactly should I be thanking her for?” my voice was quiet. “Thanking her for knowing my fiancé better than I do? Or thanking her for answering what my favorite food is?” Colin slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV jerked to a halt at a red light. He turned to me, his eyes filled with a heavy, patronizing exhaustion. “Joanna, here we go again.” He let out a harsh breath. “Mia is an intern. I trained her. We eat team lunches together all the time. Is it really a crime that I remembered her dietary restrictions? Can you please stop being so ridiculously sensitive?” I pulled my gaze away and looked down, tracing the lines on my palms. “Right. Not a crime.” My voice was flat, devoid of any inflection. Colin seemed satisfied with my submission. He eased his foot off the brake as the light turned green. “Exactly. We’re about to get married. You need to start acting like a mature adult.” He reached for his phone mounted on the dashboard, opened his messages, and held down the audio record button for his group chat. “Hey Kevin, sorry about the vibe tonight,” Colin said, his tone instantly shifting to a breezy, apologetic bro-cadence. “Joanna is just too practical. She doesn’t really get romance, doesn’t even like roses, so don’t sweat it. Drinks are on me next time.” I watched him drop the phone back into the cradle, his movements so casual it was as if he hadn’t just humiliated me to his friends. “Practical. Doesn’t get romance.” So, in his eyes, my love for sunflowers was a lack of romance. And the red roses permanently displayed in our home were the pinnacle of high-class affection. A hollow ache hollowed out my stomach. “I’m a little hungry,” I said. “I want to order something.” Colin kept his eyes on the road. “Your battery is dead, right? Just use my phone. Passcode hasn’t changed. It’s still your birthday.” I reached for his phone and punched in my birthday. The screen unlocked. I opened his DoorDash app, intending to look through his past orders to reorder from that Thai place I liked. But the moment the history loaded, my finger froze hovering over the screen. The order log was completely saturated with recent deliveries. Three times a week. Every single delivery address was to Mia’s studio apartment downtown. Every single order was a meal for two—always from the mild, sweet side of the menu. And in the special instructions box for every single order, he had typed the exact same sentence: “Please make sure there is absolutely no spice. Her stomach is very sensitive.” A slow, numbing frost crept from my fingertips, settling heavy in my chest. He couldn’t remember my favorite flower, but he could micromanage a takeout order down to the exact spice level for another woman. “Figure out what you want?” Colin’s voice broke the silence. “Get whatever. I’ll expense it.” I slowly closed the app and placed the phone back on the mount. “Never mind.” “Suddenly lost my appetite.” Colin glanced at me, completely unbothered. “Probably for the best. Eating heavy takeout this late is bad for your skin, anyway. You have to fit into that wedding dress next month.” There was a sickeningly sweet, almost patronizing generosity in his voice when he mentioned the dress. I pulled my own phone out of my purse. I opened my messages and scrolled down to the bridal party group chat. Just yesterday, my bridesmaids had been buzzing with excitement about the bachelorette trip. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I typed a few quick words. “I’m so sorry, guys. We don’t need to do the dress fittings.” I hit send. Then, I clicked on Becca’s contact—my wedding planner. “Becca, could you please pull up the mailing list for the eighty invitations we sent out? I need to prep a cancellation notice.” Just as the message went through, my screen went black. The battery had finally died. At the exact moment the screen faded to black, the SUV descended into the underground parking garage of our condo. Colin parked, killed the engine, and unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned to me, reaching out to affectionately ruffle my hair. “Saw you texting furiously over there. Sorting out the wedding favor details with the planner?” He smiled, the picture of a supportive partner. “I appreciate you handling all this. I’m terrible with the little details. Whatever you decide is perfect with me.” I looked at his practiced, seamless affection. I gave a small, barely perceptible nod. “Yeah.” “You don’t need to worry about it anymore.” The next morning, I woke up before the sun. Colin was still asleep. I sat alone on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket. On the kitchen island, the red roses stood tall in their crystal vase. He had just swapped them out for a fresh batch two days ago. After plugging my phone into the charger, I opened Instagram. The first thing on my feed was a post Mia had uploaded ten minutes ago. It was a close-up photo of a diamond pendant, catching the morning light and fracturing it into tiny rainbows against her collarbone. It was the exact necklace I had spent hours admiring at the boutique, the one I ultimately couldn’t justify buying because of the price tag. Swiping to the second slide, there was a handwritten card. I recognized Colin’s sharp, angular handwriting immediately. “Happy Birthday to my little ray of sunshine. May you never have to be afraid of the thunder.” The caption read: “There is no better feeling than being someone’s priority. Thank you to a certain someone for spoiling me~” There were zero mutual likes on the post. It was obvious she had manipulated the privacy settings so only I could see it. I stared at the screen. The girl who was afraid of thunder got the hand-delivered mild dinners, and she got the diamond necklace I had dreamed of. A notification dinged. A direct message from Mia. “Joanna! Did you see my post? I honestly didn’t want to accept it, it’s just way too expensive.” “But Colin insisted. He said if he bought it for you, you’d just complain about him wasting money, so he gave it to me instead.” “Please don’t be mad at him for spending so much! He was just trying to spare you the financial anxiety!” Reading the text bubbles, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Colin always had a beautifully packaged excuse. He could take the one thing I desired, hand it to someone else, and somehow twist it into an act of profound consideration for “me”. I typed a reply. “I’m not mad at him. Glad you like it.” I hit send, stood up, and went to change my shoes. Colin had an early board meeting today, and he was dropping me off at my office on the way. I walked down to the subterranean garage and slipped into the passenger seat. Minutes later, Colin appeared. He was wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, looking every bit the successful executive. “Waiting long?” he asked, clicking his seatbelt in. “No. Just got down here.” I reached toward the glove compartment to grab a tissue to wipe a smudge off my hands. As I popped it open, a crushed plastic box tumbled out and hit the floor mat by my feet. Inside were three bruised, dried-up sunflowers. Tucked next to them was a generic, mass-printed card from a cheap corner bodega. “Handpicked for you. Hope you like sunflowers.” I bent down and picked up the box. The yellow petals were crumbling into dust. It had clearly been shoved in this compartment for weeks. Colin glanced over, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. But he quickly recovered, flashing an easy smile. “Oh, right. That.” “I drove past a bodega a few days ago, saw they were on clearance, and grabbed them. Meant to bring them up, but it slipped my mind.” “Since you don’t really care for all the flashy, expensive romantic stuff, I figured it was perfect for you.” I looked down at the pathetic, crumbling stems. Mia got a carefully curated, five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace. I got the discount bodega flowers he couldn’t even be bothered to take out of the car. I slowly opened the plastic lid. “What’s wrong?” Colin asked, spinning the steering wheel as we navigated out of the garage. “They still look kind of nice, right?” I didn’t answer. Right in front of him, I grabbed the dried flowers and the generic card, crushing them all in my fist. As we pulled out onto the street, I rolled down the window and tossed the entire crumpled mess into a public trash can on the curb. Colin slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into park by the sidewalk. He whipped his head to face me, his brow heavily furrowed. “Joanna, what the hell are you doing? Are you having another episode?” I pulled a tissue from my purse and methodically wiped the dried yellow dust from my fingers. “The flowers were dead. They were covered in dust.” “I was just throwing away the trash.” Colin took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to control his temper. “Are you seriously still pouting about the dinner last night?” “Or is this about Mia’s necklace?” He had finally decided to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “That necklace was a completely random purchase! It was Mia’s birthday. She reports directly to me—I couldn’t exactly show up empty-handed, could I?” “You literally refuse to even buy yourself a five-dollar latte most days! If I bought you a necklace that expensive, you’d just lecture me about budgeting for the mortgage!” “I am constantly bending over backwards to accommodate your practicalities, and this is the thanks I get? Why do you have to be so damn sensitive?” I looked at his flushed, indignant face. Whenever he got angry, the corners of his eyes would turn slightly red. In the past, that redness used to terrify me. The moment he frowned, I would immediately backtrack, apologize, and reflect on what I had done wrong. But today, I felt absolutely nothing. I had no desire to coddle him anymore. “You bend over backwards to accommodate me.” I repeated his words, my voice eerily calm. “Okay. Understood.” My total lack of resistance left Colin entirely unbalanced. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page,” he muttered, defensive. “Stop being so paranoid. The wedding is in a month. Just drop the drama.” That evening, I walked into our master bedroom and pulled my large hardshell suitcase from the very back of the walk-in closet. Opening it on the floor, I began methodically folding my clothes. We had picked out this condo together. Half the wardrobe belonged to me. But I only packed the essentials—my absolute favorite pieces. The rest, I didn’t even touch. Colin stepped out of the en-suite bathroom, a towel draped around his neck, vigorously drying his hair. As he walked past the bedroom door, he stopped. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. “Why the sudden packing spree?” His tone was back to his usual smooth, affectionate cadence, as if our morning argument had never happened. He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms securely around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I knew you’d come to your senses. Once you cool off, you’re always the reasonable one.” “It’s going to be humid in the Caribbean. Pack a few extra sundresses.” I smoothed out the collar of a white linen shirt, folding it perfectly in half. “Okay.” A blinding flash of white light illuminated the bedroom, instantly followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder right above our building. Every light in the condo died. A total blackout. The bedroom was swallowed in a suffocating, pitch-black darkness. I have suffered from severe nyctalopia—night blindness—since I was a child. Combined with a deep, instinctual phobia of the dark, my body immediately went rigid. My breathing grew shallow and frantic. My heart began to batter against my ribs like a trapped bird. Blindly, desperately, I reached out to grab Colin’s arm. But the moment my fingers brushed his sleeve, he was already pulling away. In the crushing dark, I heard the rustle of him patting his pockets. A harsh, blue glow illuminated the space between us as his phone screen flared to life, highlighting the sheer panic etched into his profile. He stared at a notification, and the color drained from his face. “The storm is hitting Mia’s neighborhood, too.” His words tumbled out fast, laced with a frantic, uncontainable anxiety. “She lives alone. She’s absolutely terrified of thunder. I have to go check on her.” I stood frozen in the middle of the dark room, my hand still suspended in the air, grasping at nothing. “I’m afraid of the dark.” My voice was a pathetic, trembling whisper. But Colin had already pivoted toward the hallway, his heavy footsteps rushing toward the front door as he snatched his keys from the console. “Just find a candle! Or use your phone flashlight!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Mia’s situation is different! She’ll have a panic attack!” “I’ll be back soon!” The heavy oak front door slammed shut. The rapid echo of his footsteps down the corridor faded away, until there was nothing left but the oppressive silence of the apartment. I stood in the pitch-black bedroom, slowly lowering my empty hand to my side. The LED beam from a phone flashlight could never warm the glacial chill settling into my bones. I sat on the edge of the bed, shrouded in the dark, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. It wasn’t until dawn, when the first pale rays of sunlight pierced through the storm clouds and the power grid flickered back to life, that I finally stood up. At 10:00 AM, the lock clicked. Colin walked in, carrying an insulated, designer takeout bag, flashing a sheepish, apologetic grin. “Jo, I’m so sorry about last night.” He set the bag on the kitchen island and popped the lid off the container inside. “I drove all the way to the south side to get your favorite breakfast from that artisan deli. Stood in line for an hour. Eat it while it’s hot.” A rich, heavy aroma of seafood wafted through the kitchen. It was crab bisque. I stared at the steaming bowl. I didn’t move a muscle. Colin and I had been together for three years. He knew. He knew I was severely allergic to shellfish. One bite, and my throat would swell up, my skin breaking out in agonizing hives. But Mia? Mia constantly raved about the crab bisque from the south side deli. Colin held out a silver spoon. “Why aren’t you eating? I told you, I waited an hour for this.” I took the spoon from his hand. I picked up the heavy ceramic bowl. And, maintaining unbroken eye contact with him, I walked over to the kitchen sink. I tipped my wrist. The entire bowl of premium crab bisque slid down the drain in a wet, heavy sludge. Colin followed me into the kitchen, his face instantly darkening with rage. “Joanna, you are crossing a line!” “I stayed up all night, I drove across the city to buy you breakfast to make it up to you, and even if you aren’t hungry, do you really have to throw it away right to my face?!” I turned on the faucet, letting the hot water wash the remnants of the soup down the garbage disposal. “I am allergic to shellfish.” Over the sound of the running water, my own voice sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away. Colin froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I shut off the tap, dried my hands on a towel, and walked past him without a second glance. Back in the living room, I grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the dust and debris from last night’s storm that we hadn’t had a chance to clean. As I swept under the edge of the sofa, a crumpled piece of thermal paper slid out. It was the boutique receipt for the diamond pendant. I bent down and picked it up. “$7,000.00.” I looked down at my left hand. On my ring finger sat my engagement ring—a modest, discounted style Colin had asked a buddy to buy duty-free during a trip abroad. It cost exactly $1,000. I remembered what he had told me when he slipped it on my finger: “Jo, we need to save for a house and a family. A ring is just a symbol. We have to be practical.” I stared at the seven-thousand-dollar receipt in my hand. Then, I tossed it into the dustpan with the rest of the dirt. That afternoon, Colin went back to the office. I sat in the study, booting up his old MacBook. My own laptop was in the shop, and I needed to handle the logistics of canceling the wedding vendors. When the screen lit up, his iMessage app automatically launched. A notification bubbled up in the corner. It was his college fraternity group chat. I normally wouldn’t snoop, but the preview text flashing across the screen caught my eye, sharp as a physical blow. Kevin: “Bro, you actually going through with the wedding next month? Does this mean you’re finally settling down?” Another guy replied with a smirking emoji. “No more pining after little Mia? Word on the street is you rushed out in a thunderstorm like a knight in shining armor last night.” Colin’s typing bubble appeared, followed by his text: “I’m marrying Jo. She’s domestic. A guy needs a stable woman to manage the house.” Kevin: “So what’s the deal with Mia? That necklace you bought her wasn’t exactly cheap.” The chat went dead for a few seconds. Then, Colin sent a long block of text. “I’ve been with Jo for so long, kissing her feels like clocking in for a shift. It’s purely administrative. Completely flavorless.” “But Mia? When I see Mia wearing that necklace, smiling up at me? My heart actually races.” “Getting married won’t change anything. Jo is reasonable. She won’t make a fuss.” I stared at the black text on the bright white screen. My heart didn’t race. I didn’t even feel the sting of betrayal. Instead, a profound, heavy exhaustion seeped out from my very marrow. I closed the messaging app. I opened my email, found the digital RSVP links Becca had set up, and hit “Deactivate”. As dusk fell, Colin returned home. He walked in carrying a beautifully wrapped shoebox, his face beaming with eager anticipation. “Jo! Your custom wedding shoes finally arrived. Come try them on, let’s see if they fit.” He set the box down on the plush living room rug and lifted the lid. Inside sat a pair of breathtaking stilettos, encrusted with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals. “I had my guy in Milan rush-order these for you. I know you’re going to love them.” I sat on the sofa, watching him pull the shoes from the tissue paper. Mia and I wore the exact same shoe size. Size six. It was the only question he had managed to answer correctly at that dinner. I slipped off my slippers and slid my bare feet into the heels. The fit was flawless. I stood up and took two steps across the rug. “Well? Gorgeous, right?” Colin asked, looking deeply proud of himself. I looked down. My gaze landed on the arch of the sole. Embedded into the leather of the arch, spelled out in miniature rhinestones, were two letters. “C & M.” Colin & Mia. I stared at those two letters for a long time. Colin followed my line of sight. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed across his face. But he buried it instantly. “Oh, those letters? It’s just… a signature rhinestone pattern the brand uses. I didn’t even notice.” “If it bothers you, I can take it to a cobbler to have it scraped off.” He stepped forward, reaching down to help me take them off, when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The lock screen lit up with a message from Mia. “Colin, I just walked past the florist. I saw the mock-up for your wedding arch.” “Sunflowers everywhere. They’re so bright, it hurts to look at.” “I can’t go to your wedding. It’s going to break my heart.” Colin read the text, freezing mid-motion. He slowly stood back up, picked up his phone, and without a second of hesitation, dialed the florist. “Hey, Becca. We need to revise the floral arrangement for the ceremony.” “Cancel the sunflower arch. It’s too flashy. I don’t like it.” “Right. Not a single sunflower.” He hung up, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “Jo, I just think we should keep the aesthetic more understated. Sunflowers are just… tacky.” A second later, his phone vibrated again. It was a flight confirmation email from Delta. Our romantic honeymoon to the Caribbean—the one I had spent months planning—had been entirely canceled. In its place were two first-class tickets to Aspen. I despise the cold. I have never skied a day in my life. But on Mia’s Pinterest board, her number-one bucket list dream was to see the snow in the Rockies. I looked at Colin. He didn’t even bother swiping away the airline notification. Because he was the one who had booked it. His phone buzzed again, and a soft, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mia, obviously. “I need to step out for a bit,” he announced, already heading toward the door. I slowly bent down and slipped the C & M stilettos off my feet, stepping barefoot onto the wool rug. “Suit yourself,” I said softly. Colin seemed relieved. He walked back over and tried to pull me into a hug. I shifted my weight, turning my shoulder just enough to dodge his embrace. He stood awkwardly for a second, then just patted my head. “Be a good girl. I’ll be back later to keep you company.” With that, Colin hurried out the door. I reached down and twisted the discount diamond ring off my left ring finger. Then, I picked up the ring and the custom stilettos. I walked over to the kitchen island and dropped them directly into the crystal vase, right into the murky water beneath the long-stemmed red roses. The water rippled as the diamond sank to the bottom. I walked into the bedroom and grabbed the handle of my packed suitcase. By the time I opened the front door, the sky outside was pitch black. I pulled out my phone and sent one last text to Becca. “All eighty invitations canceled.” “The wedding is off.”

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It was our wedding anniversary, and Jude finally had the time to take me to Kyoto to have the ceremony we had missed. But right before we boarded, he swiped his digital pass off his screen and spun around, already walking back toward the exit. “Miranda has a toothache,” he said, his voice tight with an urgency that belonged in an emergency room, not an airport terminal. “We’ll have to go next time.” My phone screen was still glowing with the PDF of our itinerary. I had spent six months planning every single detail of this trip. Phoebe’s texts were buzzing, lighting up my screen with rapid-fire excitement. “You’ve been dreaming about the Kyoto cherry blossoms since high school—literally over a decade. I guess Jude actually has a heart after all. Your dream is finally coming true!” “When you put on that wedding dress I designed for you, and the petals start falling, I am going to take the most gorgeous photos of you two!” But Jude had already stood me up for six years, always for the sake of the girl he insisted was just a sister. This year made seven. “She’s almost thirty,” I whispered, staring blankly at the boarding gate. “Can’t she go to the dentist by herself?” Jude frowned, looking at me as if I’d just said something incredibly cruel. “Willa, I’ve taken her to every doctor’s appointment since we were kids. If I’m not there, she panics.” I managed a small, hollow smile. “Then go.” I watched his back disappear into the airport crowd, then turned around and boarded the plane alone. The cherry blossoms in Kyoto would still fall, with or without him. … As the soft, pale petals drifted down into my open palm, Jude’s Instagram post popped up on my feed. “Shoutout to Miranda for being so brave today.” The photo showed Miranda in a dentist’s chair, her eyes watery, while Jude tightly held both of her hands. On his ring finger, the wedding band I designed glinted in the sterile fluorescent light. I stared at the photo for what felt like hours before finally hitting the ‘like’ button. Phoebe stood across from me, her eyes red and teary behind her camera lens as she snapped photos of me in my white gown. “A wedding for one? This is pathetic. What is so special about Miranda? She’s a grown woman who acts like a helpless toddler!” But Jude didn’t see her that way. The first year of our marriage, Miranda couldn’t figure out her GPS and got lost downtown. I suggested she call a cop, but Jude spent the entire night driving around looking for her, missing our flight. The second year, her water heater burst, flooding her apartment. I told him to call maintenance, but Jude claimed she was terrified of deep water, leaving his packed suitcases behind at the check-in counter. Year three, year four… all the way until now. Every single time, Jude broke his promises over Miranda’s trivial emergencies. Whenever I cried or begged him to stay, he would look at me with that patronizing, exhausted expression, like I was the unreasonable child. “Miranda’s always been fragile, Willa. She’s not strong and independent like you. That’s why I have to look out for her.” “Why can’t you just do things on your own? Why do you always have to be so needy?” Standing alone in a quiet, solemn chapel under the priest’s bewildered gaze, I recited my vows to empty air. I think, in that moment, I finally learned what Jude meant by “independent.” It wasn’t until the day before my flight back that Jude finally texted me. “You’re not home?” If he had bothered to look back for even a second at the airport, he would have known I boarded that flight to Kyoto. I forced a bitter smile, trying to swallow the dull ache in my chest. “Yeah, I’m out.” “Alright. Do you have the recipe for that creamy potato soup you used to make me? Miranda’s hungry.” My fingers hovered over the screen. I remembered the year Jude had an excruciating toothache. We were so broke we couldn’t even afford painkillers. I remembered walking down the street, touching my hair—which I’d spent four years growing out—and walking into a local salon to sell it. After his extraction, I fed him simple potato soup every single day. “I asked the doctor,” I had lied to him back then, “potato soup is the best for recovery.” I lied because potatoes were the cheapest thing at the grocery store; a five-pound bag could stretch for a week. He had touched my newly cropped, boyish hair, tears streaming down his face as he told me it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Now, I slowly typed out my reply. “Boil the potatoes. Mash them with water.” “That’s it? No cream or broth?” “No. Just that.” “Okay, cool.” I stared out the window at the falling cherry blossoms. “Aren’t you going to ask where I went?” “Oh. Where are you?” “I’m in—” “Actually, gotta go. Need to start cooking for Miranda.” I froze, then slowly deleted the letters I’d typed. In our three years of dating and seven years of marriage, Jude had never cooked a single meal for me. Outside, the wind died down, and the petals stopped falling. But even in their stillness, they were beautiful. I tapped the contact number Phoebe had sent me earlier. “Hello, who is this?” “Hi, is this Mr. Cleveland? I’d like to consult about a divorce.” When I got back from the airport, my key code wouldn’t unlock the front door. The passcode had always been my birthday, but after three failed attempts, the keypad locked me out. I sat huddled in the hallway corner, waiting for hours until Jude finally showed up, with Miranda hovering right behind him. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Jude asked, his tone entirely casual. He stepped up to the keypad and punched in a new sequence—Miranda’s birthday. “I was taking Miranda shopping. I didn’t see my phone. What did you text?” I dragged my suitcase inside, bone-tired. Jude immediately knelt down, naturally helping Miranda slide off her designer boots. “You changed the passcode?” “Miranda couldn’t remember the old one, so I updated it. Forgot to tell you.” I nodded slowly, not saying another word. Walking further into the house, I realized everything had changed. The couch was different, the indoor plants were gone, and when the TV turned on, it defaulted to a reality show I never watched. In our master bedroom, the sheets on the bed were rumpled, clearly slept in, and the closet was packed to the brim with Miranda’s clothes. I tore through the hangers, a hot, roaring anger building in my chest. “Jude! Jude!” I yelled until my throat burned, but no one answered. Out in the living room, Miranda was sprawled across the sofa. She casually pressed a little silver call bell on the coffee table, and Jude instantly dashed out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong, Miranda? You okay?” Only when she lazily muttered that she was fine did the tension leave his shoulders. I clenched my fists, my voice trembling as I confronted him. “Jude, where is the red wool scarf my mother made for you?” He blinked, shrug-shouldered and entirely unbothered. “Oh, Miranda said it smelled musty. I threw it out.” Tears spilled over my eyelashes instantly. “That was the last thing my mother ever made!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “How could you throw it away?” Miranda jumped off the sofa and shoved me back. “It’s just an old piece of yarn! Why are you screaming at Jude like that?” But as she pushed me, she winced and clutched her jaw, whining in pain. Jude’s face twisted in panic, and he immediately hovered over her, checking her mouth. I stood there, watching them, feeling like the bitter, hysterical villain in some cheap melodrama. I wiped my face, spun on my heel, and ran out into the pouring rain. For two hours, I dug through the dumpster behind our building and the nearby trash bins. Nothing. The rain soaked me to the bone, my fingernails were torn and bleeding, and the water dripping down my cheeks tasted like salt and dirt. When my mother was in the final stages of pancreatic cancer, Jude had casually mentioned how cold the winters got here. Despite her failing strength, she bought the finest wool she could find and spent her remaining days knitting. On her deathbed, she used her last ounce of strength to wrap that red scarf around his neck. “There, Jude. Now you won’t be cold. I know you’re a good boy… please, take care of my Willa.” Jude had fallen to his knees by her bedside, sobbing, swearing he would love and protect me for the rest of his life. And now, the physical proof of that promise was rotting in a landfill. I collapsed onto the wet pavement beside the trash bins, letting out a raw, broken sob. Suddenly, a sharp, white-hot pain bloomed in my abdomen. I looked down, and a dark, terrifying stain was spreading down my jeans. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jude’s number. Once. Twice. Seven times. He never picked up. Finally, a text lit up the screen: “Stop calling, you’re going to wake Miranda up. Where did you even go? Get back here, it’s pouring.” My hands shook so hard I couldn’t even reply. The world spun, turned completely black, and I collapsed. I lost the baby. Eight weeks along. A silent arrival, a silent departure. The ER doctor told me softly that if I had been brought in just an hour earlier, they might have saved the pregnancy. I stared at the sterile white hospital ceiling, tears pooling in my ears. The old, jagged scar in my chest tore open all over again. A week before our wedding, seven years ago, I was seven months pregnant. Miranda had insisted on making me prenatal herbal soup but forgot to turn off the gas stove. That night, the apartment filled with carbon monoxide. I lost our baby girl in the ICU, and our wedding was canceled. Jude had knelt by my hospital bed, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and swollen. “Willa, I’m so sorry. Miranda is just stupid—she was trying to do something nice and made a horrible mistake. I’m so sorry.” With bloodshot eyes, he held my limp hand and swore, “We’ll have another baby. I promise, I will protect you and our family next time.” I believed him. But this second baby—the one I had prayed for every single night—was gone, too. My phone buzzed. A PDF from Mr. Cleveland: a draft of the divorce petition. “If there is infidelity, we should gather as much evidence as possible. It will help our case immensely.” I stared at the word “infidelity” until it blurred. Finally, I typed: “Okay.” I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and stumbled out of the ward, clutching my hospital gown. But as I rounded the corner near the clinic’s exit, I froze. There was Jude, his arm wrapped protectively around Miranda’s shoulders as they waited in line at the hospital’s dental wing. My lower abdomen throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. I pulled out my phone and took a photo just as Miranda leaned up to press her lips against Jude’s cheek. Suddenly, Jude’s eyes drifted, catching mine. He froze, panic instantly flickering across his features. “Willa? What are you doing here?” He scrambled to distance himself from Miranda. “Willa, look, she was just saying thank you. It’s like a French cheek-kiss thing, you know? She lived abroad for a bit. She’s always been affectionate like that.” Such a pathetic, clumsy excuse. I looked at him, and for the first time, I didn’t feel angry. I just felt a deep, pitying amusement. “Right. Okay.” My absolute calm caught him off guard. In the past, if Miranda so much as brushed against him, I would have thrown a massive, jealous fit, screaming to assert my boundaries. His friends used to call me a “psycho” and a “controlling bitch” behind my back. But today, I just wanted to leave with some dignity. Jude’s face darkened, walking a thin line between irritation and confusion. “Willa, don’t start with the silent treatment. Because of your little tantrum earlier, Miranda tried to defend me and ended up tearing her dental stitches. Since you’re here, you need to apologize to her.” He grabbed my wrist, dragging me toward her. His grip was brutal, sending a jolt of pain through my arm that brought hot tears to my eyes. “Jude, let go of me! I’m not apologizing to her!” He stared at the tears slipping down my face, momentarily faltering, but his voice hardened again. “You got her so worked up she’s in pain, and you’re too proud to say sorry? Are you really that fragile?” Before I could pull away, a nurse came rushing down the hallway, shouting, “Willa! What are you doing? You just had a miscarriage, you can’t just rip out your IV and walk around!” Jude froze. Every ounce of color drained from his face. “You… miscarried?” His eyes slowly dropped to my abdomen. “When were you pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, rising in a desperate, frantic octave as his eyes brimmed with tears. I just looked at him, completely hollow, completely cold. The nurse stepped firmly between us, glaring at him. “Sir, she is extremely weak right now. Do not raise your voice at her!” She gently guided me back toward the recovery ward. Behind me, I heard Jude’s frantic footsteps trying to follow. “Willa, wait! You can’t be alone right now!” Just then, the clinic’s intercom chimed, calling out Miranda’s name for her follow-up. I didn’t look back. And he didn’t follow. “Was that your husband?” the nurse asked gently as she hooked up a fresh IV bag. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Not for much longer.” After the IV finished, I took an Uber home. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Jude. “Miranda can’t even speak right now. I couldn’t just leave her there.” “Willa, please just listen to the doctor. Wait for me.” I didn’t reply to a single one. I pulled my old suitcase out from the closet and started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. Most of my things had already been boxed up and shoved into the guest room anyway. The apartment we had shared for seven years had been completely overwritten by another woman’s presence in a matter of days. Once the suitcase was zipped, the physical exhaustion of the miscarriage hit me like a wave, and I collapsed onto the guest bed, drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the dead of night, I felt cold, trembling hands wrap around my waist. I opened my eyes to see Jude sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot, looking utterly drained. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving the hospital,” he whispered. “I looked everywhere for you after I got Miranda settled. Willa… what happened? How did we lose the baby?” But all I could smell on him was Miranda’s sweet, cloying perfume. It made my stomach churn with violent nausea. I closed my eyes, coldly brushing his hands off my hips, and turned my back to him. Silence stretched between us before Jude let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Willa, seriously? I am exhausted, I ran all the way back here to check on you, and you’re still giving me the cold shoulder? You know how desperately I wanted a family!” I bolted upright in bed, tears hot and angry on my cheeks. “You wanted a family?” I choked out, my voice raw. “If you hadn’t forced me to accept Miranda’s ‘kindness’ seven years ago, our daughter would be starting school right now! You literally risked my life and our baby’s life just to spare her feelings!” Jude’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “That was years ago!” he yelled back. “Are you really bringing that up now just to hurt me? Neither Miranda nor I did that on purpose! Besides, that pregnancy was terrible timing anyway. You were barely out of college, begging me to marry you with a pregnant belly. Do you have any idea what people were saying behind your back? They said you trapped me!” His words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, the air leaving my lungs. I remembered the day we found out. I remembered how Jude’s eyes had lit up, how he had gently wiped away my tears and promised to give me the most beautiful life. I had nodded, trusting him completely. “You’re right,” I whispered, the fight completely draining out of me. “I was pathetic.” Jude turned his head away, unable to look at me, and stormed out, slamming the bedroom door so hard the walls rattled. I sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, staring at the floorboards until the sun came up. The next morning, I made breakfast. When Jude walked into the kitchen, rubbing his temples, he bypassed the eggs I’d cooked and grabbed a carton of oat milk from the fridge—the one Miranda had bought, still adorned with a little pink sticky note with a hand-drawn heart. He sat across from me, looking uncomfortable. “Look, about yesterday… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean them.” He took a sip of the milk. “Losing the baby… that’s on me, too. Willa, we can try again. We can have another one.” I took a bite of my toast and offered him a soft smile, cutting him off. “Jude, just eat with me.” This would be our last meal. He nodded, then glanced at the suitcase by the entryway. “Are you going somewhere? Your body is still recovering…” Suddenly, his phone screen lit up. The caller ID read: “Silly Miranda”. I looked down, slowly stirring my oatmeal. Jude grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, already moving toward the door. “I need to check on Miranda.” He couldn’t even finish a single meal with me. “Can’t it wait?” I asked quietly. He frowned, defensive. “Of course not. She’s in pain. She needs me right now.” I kept quiet. The apartment fell silent again, leaving me entirely alone. I finished my oatmeal, one slow bite at a time. Downstairs, Phoebe’s car was waiting for me. I walked into the living room, placed the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, and slipped off my wedding ring, placing it on top of a hand-written note: “Jude, let’s get a divorce.”

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I peeled her shrimp for three years. Then, in front of a whole table of people, she said, “He’s not my boyfriend. He just does it because he wants to.” I didn’t say a word. I just slid the plate of shrimp back to the center of the table and wiped my hands. My phone lit up. It was a text from my mother: “The new place is finally finished. When are you bringing her over to see it?” I turned the phone face down. After that night, she never again saw the car that used to wait for her after work every single day. 1 The steam from the seafood boil blurred the faces across from me. It was the third time Sophie had nudged the conversation back to me. “William, you drive Chelsea home from work every single day. What’s the real story with you two?” I was midway through peeling a shrimp, the shell cracking against my thumb. Two seats down, Chelsea was staring at her phone, her thumb scrolling through texts, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice wasn’t loud, but all six people at the table heard it clearly. Sophie’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut as she glanced my way. Across the table, the clinking of glasses paused. Suddenly, the heavy bubbling of the shared pot in the center of the table seemed incredibly loud—”simmer, simmer”. I kept my head down, pulling the tender meat clean from the tail and placing it gently on the edge of her plate. That was the third one. Right then, her phone rang. She answered it and immediately headed for the door, her voice trailing off as she stepped outside: “Chase? Yeah, is your stomach acting up again? The medicine is…” The door swung shut. Sophie leaned in, lowering her voice. “William, what are you even doing?” I didn’t answer. I picked up my chopsticks, took the shrimp back off the edge of her plate, and dropped it into the serving dish in the center. The discarded shells on my plate still carried the warmth of my hands. I took a long drag of my beer. It was freezing cold, burning all the way down to my chest. My phone vibrated. It was a text from my mom, attached with a photo. A bright living room, a lush pothos plant sitting by a floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight spilling across the light oak floors. Underneath, she’d typed: “Sweetie, the renovations are done. Do you like the curtain color? Didn’t you say she loves pale purple? When are you going to bring her by to see it?” The curtains were a soft lavender. Last month, I had taken three days off work and made six separate trips to the design district just to find that exact shade. I flipped the phone face down on the wooden table. When Chelsea pushed the door open and sat back down, she was still smiling. “Chase has a stomach ache. I need to drop some meds off for him in a bit,” she said to Sophie, before turning her gaze to me. “William, can you drive me to the pharmacy in a minute?” In the past, my answer would have been an instant “sure”. In the past, I would have pre-cooled the car to sixty-eight degrees, made sure there was a cold bottle of her favorite sugar-free sparkling water in the cup holder, and pulled up right to the curb. But tonight, I just looked at her. Her eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile, but it was the exact same smile I’d seen three minutes ago—the one meant for the name “Chase” lighting up her screen. “I’ve been drinking. Can’t drive.” I set my fork down against my plate. “You should call an Uber.” She paused. It was barely a flicker of hesitation. Then she shrugged and nodded. “Alright.” She bent her head back over her phone. When dinner wrapped up, I trailed behind the group. The phone in my pocket buzzed again. My mom: “Don’t forget the built-in shelves in the spare bedroom. You said she loves mystery novels, so I had the carpenter add two extra rows.” The September wind slipped down my collar, sending a chill down my spine. I stood beneath the streetlamp outside the restaurant, the drift of exhaust from a nearby street food cart stinging my eyes until they watered. I dialed her number. “Hey, Mom.” “Oh, sweetie! Did you see the photos?” “Yeah, I saw them.” “Is it nice? What do you think of—” “Let’s just leave the apartment empty for now.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. My mother didn’t push. She simply let out a quiet sigh and said, “Okay. Whatever you think is best.” I hung up and walked to the curb, watching the yellow cabs and ride-shares roll past one after another. No more sparkling water waiting in the passenger seat. I hailed a cab. I climbed in and gave the driver my own address. Not hers. For the first time. In three years, the very first time. 2 The next morning, my alarm woke me at six-thirty, right on schedule. My head felt heavy. I reached out to grab my phone off the nightstand—my routine had always been to text her first thing: “You awake?” My thumb hovered over the screen. Our chat history was frozen three days back: “I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow.” “K~” I set the phone back down. While brushing my teeth, white foam dripped down my chin. The face looking back at me from the mirror felt slightly unfamiliar, shadowed by dark circles under my eyes. I hadn’t slept well. Not out of heartbreak, exactly. But because of the sudden, staggering realization that every single habit I’d built over the last three years had revolved entirely around her. Waking up at six-thirty was solely to ensure I’d be parked downstairs by seven-twenty. The Greek yogurt that always stocked my fridge was there only because she liked to grab one on the rare occasions she stopped by. The soft throw blanket in my backseat was for when she complained about the autumn drafts. I opened the fridge. Three cups of Greek yogurt. Expiring tomorrow. I pulled one out and peeled back the foil. I took a bite. Too tart. I actually hated Greek yogurt. On my commute, my hands didn’t automatically turn the steering wheel at the usual intersection. I drove straight, crossed two traffic lights, and pulled directly into my office parking garage. It saved me forty minutes. The detour I used to take every day—the extra nine miles just to pass her apartment building, waiting for her to step out of the lobby, open the passenger door, slide in, and say, “Let’s go.” Three years. Every single workday. At least seven hundred times. I did the math. Seven hundred trips, nine extra miles each time. That was over six thousand miles. Enough to drive coast to coast across the country and back. At my desk, I booted up my computer. A calendar notification popped up in the bottom right corner: “Chelsea’s Company Anniversary—order flowers ahead.” I right-clicked. “Delete.” Claire walked past carrying two travel mugs and paused. “William, you’re early today.” “Yeah.” She set one of the mugs on my desk. “Black coffee. No sugar. I remember you saying you like it bitter.” “Thanks.” She took a couple of steps, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, the director looked over your quarterly proposal. Said it looked great. You’re presenting at the meeting next week.” I took a sip of the coffee. The bitterness coated my tongue, sharp and grounding. All day, my phone sat as quiet as a brick. At three-thirty in the afternoon, a text finally popped up. Chelsea: “Are you not coming today? Stuck in traffic?” I stared at it. I typed three words: “Busy with work.” After hitting send, I scrolled up. The entire thread was just me. “I’m here.” “I’m downstairs.” “Waiting outside.” “It’s raining, I brought an umbrella.” “Picked up your package for you.” Her replies were always monosyllabic. “K.” “Cool.” “Sure.” “K.” Three years of this. I scrolled up through five screens of chat history. There wasn’t a single “Thank you.” Not a single “I appreciate it.” I locked the phone, the screen turning black and reflecting my face back at me. Neutral. No anger. No lingering resentment. Just empty. At seven that evening, the phone buzzed again. Chelsea: “What about tomorrow?” I didn’t reply. I tossed the phone onto the sofa, turned on the TV, and picked a random channel. A commercial for laundry detergent came on, a woman smiling warmly at the camera. I turned the volume up two notches. Just enough to drown out any further vibrations. The next day, I didn’t go. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. A week went by. The Greek yogurts in the fridge expired. All three went down the kitchen sink. I folded the blanket from the backseat and shoved it into the bottom of a storage bin in the trunk. I reset my alarm to seven-fifteen. An extra forty-five minutes of sleep every single day. It felt surprisingly good. 3 On the eighth day, she called. It was ten-thirty at night. I had just stepped out of the shower, water dripping from my hair. Her name flashed on the screen three times before I slid to answer. “Hey.” “William, what have you been up to? You aren’t picking up my calls or answering my texts.” Her tone wasn’t frantic or worried. It sounded more like someone asking a plumber why he was late for a scheduled appointment. I rubbed the towel against the back of my neck, cold droplets sliding down under my collar. “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “A project at work.” The line went quiet for a beat. “Oh… well, can you pick me up tomorrow? Chase is taking me to a play this weekend, and I wanted to leave a change of shoes in your car.” My grip tightened on the towel until my knuckles went white. Her logic was always so flawless—I was the utility; Chase was the destination. In her mind, there was absolutely no contradiction there. “I have a meeting tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll have to take a cab.” “Oh.” She didn’t push. “Okay then. Good luck with work.” She hung up. Swift and clean. Like every phone call we’d had over the last three years—she never lingered a second longer than necessary. I sat on the sofa, the dampness from my hair slowly soaking through the back of my t-shirt. The phone rang again. For a split second, I thought she was calling back. But the caller ID wasn’t hers. It was my mom. “Sweetie, you’re still up?” “Yeah, just finished showering.” “So… Mom wanted to tell you something. Please don’t be upset.” “What is it?” “That apartment… those mystery novels on the shelves in the spare bedroom. I boxed them up and took them out today.” “Okay.” “I put them in your old room back home. Don’t think of me as an intrusive mother… I just felt like having all those brand-new books sitting there collecting dust was such a waste.” Her voice was tentative, cautious. She was walking on eggshells around me. “That’s fine, Mom.” “Really? You’re not upset?” “Not at all.” I looked down, watching the water droplets on the hardwood floor slowly spread. “Actually, if you know anyone who likes those kinds of books, just give them away.” My mom let out a soft breath, her relief palpable. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll do that.” The weekend came. A new post popped up on my feed. It was Chelsea—a neatly arranged photo grid: theater tickets, artful latte foam, and a man’s hand resting casually on a steering wheel, a sleek watch peeking from his cuff. The caption was just one word: “Weekend.” That wasn’t my hand. I have a faded scar on the side of my right middle finger—a souvenir from a rough basketball game back in high school that never quite went away. The hand in the photo was smooth, clean, with perfectly manicured nails. In the comments, someone screamed: “Omg who is he?!” Chelsea replied with a single blushing emoji. I scrolled right past it. Like scrolling past an ad. On Monday, Claire tapped the partition of my cubicle. “William, team dinner after work. You in?” “Sure.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wow, that was fast. Usually, you tell me you have plans.” Usually, I had to leave by five o’clock to fight traffic and be downstairs by six to pick up Chelsea. “I used to have things to take care of,” I said. “Not anymore.” Claire didn’t pry. She just smiled and walked back to her desk. We grabbed some drinks at dinner that night. Claire sat next to me, her voice soft under the ambient noise of the restaurant. “You look much better lately.” “Do I?” “Yeah. You used to always look like you were racing against a clock. You seem… lighter now.” I clinked my glass against hers. “Cheers to that.” On my way home, my phone buzzed in the console. Chelsea: “William, my laptop screen just went completely blue. Can you come over and take a look?” It was 11:40 PM. In the past, I would have replied “Give me twenty minutes”, thrown on a jacket, driven the nine miles, and worked on it until the early hours of the morning. Tonight, I typed four words: “Try restarting it.” I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I didn’t wait for a reply. I got home, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. My alarm was still set for seven-fifteen. The last image in my mind before I closed my eyes wasn’t her face. It was the photo my mother had sent.

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I clutched the envelope containing my positive pregnancy test, practically floating as I walked into my mother’s house. I wanted to surprise her. We were sitting down for dinner when she looked up, her expression suddenly turning nostalgic. “Do you remember when you were little and you’d come to my office?” she asked, setting her fork down. “One of my coworkers, Mrs. Gallagher—her son used to run over just to play with you. Jack.” I smiled, a warm flush rising to my cheeks. “Of course I do.” Mom smiled too, but there was a quiet, heavy look in her eyes. “And do you remember Darcy? Mrs. Michell’s girl from next door. She was such a tomboy, always wiping mud on your face just to get a reaction out of you, and Jack would always chase her down to get back at her for you.” My ears burned at the mention of his name. My fingers slipped into my bag, ready to pull out the lab results and slide them across the table. Then, Mom spoke, her voice dropping to a soft, cautious whisper. “Jack is marrying her this Wednesday.” My hand froze inside my bag. Before the words could fully process in my brain, the front door clicked open behind me. Mrs. Michell walked right in, Darcy and Jack trailing closely behind her. It was Mrs. Michell’s first time marrying off a daughter, and she had come to consult my mother about the final wedding details. Beneath the table, I slipped my phone out. My last text exchange with Jack was from yesterday. His message read: “Wait for me. I’m going to marry you, I promise.” When I looked up, Jack and Darcy were standing side by side, her hand tucked comfortably into the crook of his elbow. The sight of them blurred into a smear of agonizing color. “Jack, you lied to me.” … “What’s wrong, Iris? Are you not feeling well?” Mrs. Michell glanced at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Is it because our Darcy is getting married and you’re sad to see her go? It makes sense. You two have always been best friends.” The corners of my mouth twitched into a hollow mimicry of a smile. I kept my head down, watching a single, heavy tear escape my eye and splatter onto the pregnancy report tucked under my thigh. “Yeah,” I whispered. I forced myself to look up, holding Jack’s gaze. “I’m really going to miss her.” I saw his hand clench into a tight fist at his side. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with a dark, indecipherable complexity. Darcy tightened her grip on his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Iris. The three of us grew up together. Even after Jack and I are married, we’re never going to leave you behind.” My fingers crumpled the paper in my lap, a sharp, physical ache slicing through my chest. I couldn’t sit there for another second. I stood up abruptly and bolted upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The tears came in violent, suffocating waves, but I stuffed a fist into my mouth to choke back the sobs. How could I even begin to explain this? How could I tell my mother that Jack had been my secret lover for five years? That I was carrying his baby? That he had promised, just yesterday, to spend the rest of his life with me? I slid down the back of the door, pulling my knees to my chest, weeping in the dark. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A message from Jack. “I can explain everything. Please don’t make a scene here. It’s not good for Darcy.” The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. The tears on my lips tasted bitter and cold. I stood up, walked over to the trash can, and threw the pregnancy report inside. The baby was only eight weeks old. I had spent the morning dreaming of the moment I would tell Jack he was going to be a father. Now, there was no point. I opened my desk drawer. Resting inside was a relocation contract for a multinational firm’s overseas office. The signature line at the bottom was still blank, waiting for my name. I had received it a week ago, but I had put it aside because Jack had promised he was ready to marry me. Now, all I wanted was to run. To be as far away from them as humanly possible. Without another second of hesitation, I unscrewed my pen and signed my name. Just as I set the pen down, the door clicked open behind me. “Iris.” It was Darcy. She walked over and took my hands in hers. “I know you and Jack have been together.” My head snapped up. I stared at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You… you knew?” Growing up, Darcy had always been the mischievous one. She loved to tease me, often driving me to tears, but she was also fiercely protective. She was my only real friend. In middle school, when a boy stuck chewing gum in my hair, Darcy had lunged at him, punching him until his nose bled. Her mother had beaten her ragged for it when they got home, but Darcy had just leaned against the wall, flashing me a crooked, gap-toothed grin. The next day, Jack had waited until that same boy fell asleep in class and smeared a handful of gum all over his head. On our walks home from school, Darcy and Jack would bicker and tease each other, refusing to back down until they dragged me into it, demanding I choose which of them I loved more. Those golden sunsets had witnessed the slow, beautiful unfolding of our lives. But I never could have imagined a day where they would stand before me as husband and wife—let alone a day where Darcy would look me in the eye and tell me she had known about my secret relationship all along. My fingers went icy. I shook so hard I could barely form words. “Then… then why? How could you…” Darcy’s lips curved into a sweet, flawless smile. “Iris, think about it. Since we were kids, I’ve always let you have everything. I’ve always protected you.” She squeezed my hands. “Just this once, let me have Jack. Okay?” “What—” Before I could even process her words, she threw herself backward, her shoulder slamming into my trash can and knocking it over. I instinctively lunged forward to catch her, but the door burst open. Jack rushed in and shoved me hard. I flew backward, my head cracking against the sharp corner of the bookshelf. A blinding white pain flared behind my eyes, and I gasped, clutching the back of my skull. Jack was already on his knees, holding Darcy, his face pale with panic. “Darcy, are you okay?” Then he looked up at me, his eyes stripped of all tenderness, leaving only cold, furious accusation. “Why the hell did you push her?!” I pulled my hand back from my head. My fingers were slick with bright, warm blood. Jack froze. A flicker of deep guilt washed over his features. “I… Iris, I’m sorry. I just panicked. Are you okay?” Darcy let Jack help her to her feet, shaking her head weakly. “It’s fine, Jack. I just lost my footing. It wasn’t Iris’s fault.” Downstairs, Mrs. Michell called up, asking them to come down and decide on the catering menu. I didn’t say a word. I pulled myself up using the edge of the desk, keeping my back to them. Darcy led Jack out of the room. Just before he crossed the threshold, he paused, throwing a complicated, lingering look back at me. That night, a text message lighted up my screen. “Iris, I’m so sorry about earlier. Does your head hurt?” I didn’t reply. The next morning, I went to the clinic. I never expected to run into him there. He intercepted me in the lobby, his face etched with genuine concern. “What are you doing at the hospital? Are you sick?” I ignored him, trying to step around him toward the elevators. Jack blocked my path, his expression desperate. “Iris, please. Just let me explain. I—” “Jack?” Darcy’s voice cut through the sterile air of the lobby. “What are you two doing?” She marched over, her eyes already brimming with tears. “Iris, I know you’ve always loved Jack. But our wedding is in three days. Do you really have to do this now? Do you really have to chase him here?” She looked at me, her voice trembling with theatrical betrayal. “We are supposed to be best friends. How can you be so cruel to me?” The people waiting in the lobby began to turn, whispers rising like a slow tide. “What’s going on? Is she trying to steal her best friend’s fiancé?” “Right before the wedding? How shameless.” “People have no morals these days.” The murmurs were low, but each one felt like a physical blow against my chest. “That’s not what this is!” I gasped, my eyes darting to Jack, pleading with him to say something. Anything. Just one word of truth. But Jack took a step back, positioning himself firmly at Darcy’s side, directly opposite me. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Five years ago, on the night he confessed his love to me under the city lights, he had sworn he would never let me suffer. He had promised to protect me from the world. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing the tears back. I turned to leave, but Darcy lunged forward and snatched the medical folder from my hands. “You’re pregnant!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the lobby, ensuring everyone heard. “Whose baby is it? Is it… is it Jack’s?” Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. Jack’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with utter shock. But a second later, Darcy let out a choked sob, collapsing against his chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her, shielding her like a precious treasure. “That’s impossible,” Jack said, his voice flat, looking at me with cold detestation. “I’ve never even touched her. I have no idea whose baby that is.” I stood frozen, a chill spreading through my veins until I couldn’t feel my fingers. My mind flashed back to two months ago. The way he had held me in the dark, tracing my jawline with his thumb. “Iris, I want to build a home with you. I want a family.” Now, he was holding another woman, telling the world he had never touched me. A sudden, volatile wave of fury erupted from the hollow ache in my chest. Why should I protect him? Why should my five years of devotion be dragged through the mud while they played the victims? I let out a cold, sharp laugh, looking them both dead in the eye. “Yes,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the silent lobby. “The baby is Jack’s.” “We’ve been together for five years. Three days ago, he promised he was going to marry me. Darcy, if anyone is the homewrecker here, it’s you.” The whispers in the lobby died instantly. Darcy stared at me, her mouth hanging open, utterly blindsided by my willingness to tear down the facade in public. Jack looked paralyzed. He had kept our relationship hidden for years, always pleading that the timing wasn’t right, that we had to wait. And because I loved him, because he was so sweet to me and always made me feel like his priority in private, I had agreed. I had waited five years. I had thought this pregnancy would finally bring us into the light. Instead, it brought me his wedding announcement to someone else. It was a sickening joke. I looked at Darcy one last time. “But don’t worry. You can keep him. I don’t want Jack, and I don’t want this baby.” Without waiting for a response, I pushed through the crowd and walked out. I thought I heard Jack call my name from somewhere behind me, but I didn’t care anymore. The operating room was freezing. The anesthetic needle stung like ice, and the overhead surgical lamps were so bright they made my head spin. I closed my eyes, letting a final tear slip into my hair, whispering a quiet, private goodbye to the tiny life that would never be. An hour and a half later, I walked out of the clinic, keeping one hand pressed against the wall to steady myself. The dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen was excruciating, but I forced myself to keep moving. My phone buzzed. A text from Jack. “Iris, don’t you dare get rid of the baby. Just wait until after the wedding. I will explain everything to you!” I didn’t reply. I turned the phone off. By the time I reached our neighborhood, dusk had fallen, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple. As I approached our building, the neighbors—people who had known me since I was a child—stared at me with cold, disgusted eyes. Mrs. Michell was standing by the mailboxes. As I walked past, she spat on the ground. “Shameless,” she muttered. I stopped, my hand clamping tightly around her wrist. “What is your problem, Mrs. Michell?” She shoved my hand off with sneering disdain. “Why don’t you go inside and look at your mother? You’re practically killing her.” My heart dropped. I didn’t waste another second arguing. I bolted up the stairs and threw open our front door. My mother was lying on her bed, her face paper-white, gasping for air. I fell to my knees beside her, grabbing her hand. “Mom! What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Did you take your medicine?” I reached frantically toward her nightstand to find her inhaler and pills, but she clutched my sleeve, her grip weak but desperate. Her eyes were red, filled with a devastating mix of pain and love. “They’re saying… they’re saying you’re pregnant with Jack’s baby. Iris, is it true?” I froze, the silence stretching between us like a physical weight. I lowered my head, and the tears fell silently onto her bedsheets. Suddenly, Mom let out a violent, hacking cough. A thick splatter of dark red blood spilled from her lips. “Mom!” I panicked, trying to catch the blood with my bare hands, watching in horror as it stained the floorboards. She squeezed my hand with a sudden, terrifying burst of strength. “Iris… tell me. Did Jack… did he lie to you?” I nodded, choking on my own tears. Mom’s expression hardened, a fierce, protective fire flaring in her pale eyes. “I’m going to kill that bastard.” Summoning some impossible reservoir of maternal rage, she pushed me aside and stumbled out of the room. I tried to follow, but my foot slipped on the slick floor. By the time I scrambled up and ran outside, Mom was already crossing the street. Across the road, Jack and Darcy were walking hand-in-hand, laughing as they shared an iced coffee. Mom was yelling, blind to everything but them. She didn’t see the heavy delivery truck barreling down the avenue. “Mom!!!” In that split second, the world lost all sound. The only thing I could see was my mother’s body hitting the pavement, the violent spray of red against the asphalt. I fell to my knees beside her, cradling her head in my lap, my chest tearing open with a pain so vast and sharp I couldn’t breathe. “Mom… please… wake up… please…” The tears blinded me, but through the haze, I saw Darcy grab Jack’s arm on the other side of the street. He made a move to run toward us, but Darcy shook her head, holding him back. And he stayed. He just stood there on the pavement, his hands clenched into tight fists, staring at us as my mother died in my arms. At the funeral, Jack and Darcy showed up. The moment I saw them, a wild, primal rage took over. I lunged forward, shoving them toward the exit. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” Darcy looked at me with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Iris, please. We just wanted to pay our respects.” “Shut up!” I grabbed the collar of her coat and delivered a stinging slap across her face. “Don’t play innocent with me, Darcy! I know who spread those rumors! Why did you do it? My mother loved you! She treated you like her own daughter for years!” I raised my hand to strike her again, but Jack lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. With a harsh shove, he threw me backward. I collided with the memorial table, and my mother’s framed portrait slid off, crashing onto the floor. The glass shattered into a million pieces. “Enough!” Jack yelled, stepping in front of Darcy to shield her. “Darcy has been worried sick about you, and you’re acting like a lunatic!” “Do you even know what you’ve—” “Jack!” Darcy interrupted quickly, pulling at his arm. “Don’t. Her mom just passed away. She’s grieving. I understand why she’s angry.” She looked past Jack’s shoulder, meeting my gaze with a chillingly sweet expression. “We’ll leave. We can come back another day.” Darcy wrapped her arm tightly around Jack’s. “Iris, you’re my best friend. Our wedding is tomorrow. Please… you have to be there.” They walked out. I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my mother’s ruined portrait to my chest, screaming until my throat was raw. In less than forty-eight hours, I had lost my baby, my mother, and the man I thought I would spend forever with. I stared at the empty doorway where they had just walked out, a cold, dark resolve settling over my grief. “You want me at your wedding?” “Fine. I’ll be there. And I’m bringing a gift.” The next day, I wore a sleek, elegant dress and high heels. I pushed open the heavy double doors of the chapel. Jack and Darcy were standing at the altar, preparing to exchange rings. As soon as I entered, the entire room fell dead silent. Mrs. Michell immediately marched down the aisle to intercept me. “What are you doing here? Today is my daughter’s wedding! Don’t you dare ruin this. Get out!” She reached out to grab my shoulder, but I stepped aside, letting her stumble past. Jack’s mother, Mrs. Gallagher, stood up next. She didn’t look as angry as Mrs. Michell, but she walked over and took my hand with a look of patronizing pity. “Iris, sweetheart. I know you and Jack grew up together, and it’s natural to have feelings. But he’s marrying Darcy today. If you have any respect for our families, please don’t do this.” Every eye in the room was pinned on me, heavy with judgment. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, pulling my hand away and flashing the gold-embossed invitation. “They invited me. Is there something wrong with a best friend showing up?” Darcy, holding up the hem of her white gown, hurried down the altar steps toward us. “It’s fine, Mrs. Gallagher. I invited Iris. We’re best friends, after all.” Mrs. Michell glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Her house is still practically warm with death. It’s bad luck to have her here.” I looked at her, my face completely expressionless. “Mrs. Michell, when you needed a down payment for your house last year, my mother handed you fifteen thousand dollars from her savings without a second thought. And now you’re talking about bad luck?” I held out my hand. “Pay it back, then. Fifteen thousand, six hundred. Since we were neighbors, I won’t even charge you interest.” Mrs. Michell’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. Jack stepped down from the altar, his brow furrowed in irritation. “Iris, do you really have to make a scene like this?” Mrs. Michell sneered, her voice rising so the entire room could hear. “Everyone knows why she’s here! My poor daughter was blind to think this girl was her friend. She’s been trying to seduce Jack for years, and now she’s trying to ruin her wedding!” Gasps rippled through the pews. “I heard she tried to claim she was pregnant with his baby.” “To do that to her own best friend? How awful.” “Her mother literally died of shame because of her. Unbelievable.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms, the physical pain grounding me. I looked at Jack, then at Darcy. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice smooth and steady. “I’m only here to give you your wedding gift.” Darcy’s shoulders relaxed slightly, a look of smug relief washing over her face. Only Jack remained guarded, his eyes scanning me suspiciously. I walked right past them, stepping up to the altar, and took the microphone from the stunned officiant’s hand. Turning to face the crowd, I spoke clearly into the mic, my voice echoing off the stained glass windows. “Everyone, I am here today to offer my deepest blessings to the bride and groom. To celebrate their love, please turn your attention to the projector screen.”

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When the wedding limousine pulled up to the venue, Jack didn’t get out right away. He rolled down the window halfway, looking at me through the falling white rose petals. His gaze was entirely too calm. “Mallory is back.” The bridesmaids’ laughter died instantly. I stood frozen on the steps, clutching the bouquet he had personally arranged for me. He flicked the ash from his cigarette. “She called me in the middle of the night. Said she couldn’t survive over there anymore.” “When I arrived at her place, she was on the floor. Half a bottle of sleeping pills next to her, three deep cuts on her wrists, blood everywhere.” A sudden, violent chill swept through me, starting from my toes and seizing my chest. Mallory was his first love. Five years ago, she had supposedly gone abroad for terminal cancer treatment, vanishing without a trace. Only thirty minutes ago, he had sent me a voice note: “Fiona, my hands are shaking. I’m so nervous. I can’t believe I finally get to marry you today.” Jack flicked his cigarette again, ignoring the gray ash smudging his custom tuxedo. “She was clutching the matching rings we bought back in college.” “Fiona, if I go through with this wedding today, she won’t survive.” He pulled out the diamond ring—the one I had waited seven years for—extended his hand out of the window, and simply let go. The ring dropped into a muddy puddle at the bottom of the steps, splashing dirty water over the pavement. “Consider it my debt to you.” “Fiona, I’m sorry. We have to call off the wedding.” “She needs me.” … After the limousine drove away, I knelt down, my heavy silk train soaking up the muddy water, clinging to my knees. I reached blindly into the puddle for the ring. Hearing a car door click open behind me, I assumed one of my bridesmaids had come down to help. I didn’t look up. But then a shadow fell over me. Jack was standing there, holding a black umbrella, shielding the woman beside him from the wind. He hadn’t actually left. The door to the luxury van at the back of the caravan was still wide open, showing a glimpse of blankets, an IV drip, and a first-aid kit. Mallory had been in the procession the entire time. He had brought her to my wedding. He frowned, looking down at me on my hands and knees in the mud. “Fiona, don’t. It’s dirty.” I looked up. He tilted the umbrella back slightly to cover Mallory, who stood there wrapped in his suit jacket, thick white gauze wrapped around her wrist. She spoke in a weak, fragile voice. “Jack… maybe you should go inside with Fiona. It’s your wedding day, after all.” Jack looked down, his voice softening into a gentle murmur. “Don’t think about that. I told you, I’m never leaving you alone again.” My fingers finally closed around the ring that was supposed to go on my left ring finger. I held it tightly and let out a quiet, hollow laugh. We had been together for seven years. Back when he had nothing, he saved up for three months just to buy me a cheap silver band. His ears had turned bright red when he slipped it onto my finger. “Fiona, one day, I’ll buy you a better one,” he had promised. He did buy a better one. But he let someone else wear it first, and then he threw it into the mud. My mother, her face completely pale, came rushing out of the hotel lobby. “Jack! What on earth are you doing? All our friends and family are waiting inside! How can you just call it off like this?” Jack lowered the umbrella, his voice incredibly steady. “Mrs. Sommers, I am deeply sorry. I will cover all the wedding expenses in full. Fiona can keep the house in Bellevue and the financial settlement.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you think this is about? Fiona waited seven years for you!” Suddenly, Mallory whimpered, swaying on her feet as she clutched her bandaged wrist, which was beginning to show a faint spot of red. Jack immediately caught her, his voice instantly turning sharp and defensive. “Mrs. Sommers, Mallory literally just returned from the brink of death last night. She cannot handle any stress right now.” My mother gasped, silenced by his sheer coldness. I squeezed the ring in my hand until the metal bit into my palm. “Jack, she can’t handle stress? But I can? Standing here like this?” He was silent for a moment before looking at me. “Fiona, you’ve always been the sensible one.” “Sensible.” I had heard that word from him from the age of twenty to twenty-seven. When his startup was struggling, I ate instant noodles with him. When he lost his funding, I gave him my wedding dress savings to keep his business afloat. I spent our anniversaries alone so he could work. It turned out that being “sensible” was just his license to hurt me without feeling guilty. Mallory tugged weakly at his sleeve. “Jack, don’t fight with Fiona because of me. I can leave. I’ll be fine on my own.” She made a motion to slip off his jacket, exposing the faint red marks on her wrist, but Jack quickly held her hands down. “Where would you go? You just got discharged. You don’t even have a place to stay.” Mallory looked down, whispering, “But Fiona is your fiancée.” Jack glanced at me. “She’ll understand.” A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. The hotel manager jogged out, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Grayson, the guests are waiting inside. Should we begin dismissing them?” Jack nodded. “Put everything on my card.” He paused, then added, “Keep Fiona’s dressing room open for her so she can change out of her dress.” Even in the middle of ruining my life, he still remembered to be polite enough to let me take off my ruined gown. I stood my ground, wiped the mud off the ring, and held it out to him. “You say the wedding is off. What about us? Our relationship?” He stared at the ring but didn’t reach for it. Beside him, Mallory murmured, “Fiona, Jack is just overwhelmed right now. Please don’t force him.” Jack didn’t correct her. He wrapped his arm around Mallory’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Let’s go. Your nerves are shot today.” Those words weren’t meant for me. Muddy water slowly dripped from between my fingers. I pulled my hand back and walked into the hotel. Behind me, I could hear Mallory’s quiet sobs and Jack’s gentle murmurs: “Don’t worry. I’m here.” My train dragged along the carpeted stairs, leaving a long gray streak. The wedding dress I had tried on a dozen times was completely ruined. I sat in front of the vanity mirror, my hands shaking so hard I couldn’t unpin my veil. I pulled at it, but the lace only tangled further in my hair. My bridesmaid, Bridget, pushed the door open, tears streaming down her face as she looked at me. “Fiona, I’m going to go out there and rip him apart.” I caught her wrist. “Don’t.” Bridget was furious. “He left with her! Your mother is sitting out there, nearly faint with rage, and you’re still trying to save his dignity?” I sat pale and silent. Heavy footsteps echoed outside. For a fleeting second, I thought it might be Jack. Instead, the door swung open to reveal Mallory. Her eyes were red, but she had already changed into a cozy knit dress with fresh bandages wrapped around her wrist, carrying a designer shopping bag. “Fiona, Jack wanted me to bring this to you.” She placed the bag at my feet and pulled out a credit card. “Jack said you can pick up the keys to the lake house from the property manager whenever you want. And this card has five million dollars on it. The PIN is your birthday.” “Fiona, please take the money. Jack said you went through a lot of hardships with him in the early days. He wants you to have this so he can have some peace of mind. I’m so sorry.” Bridget lunged forward, pushing her back. “Are you insane? You steal her fiancé and then come in here acting like a martyr?” Mallory stumbled back, her shoulder hitting the doorframe, her face draining of color. Right at that moment, Jack appeared in the doorway. His gaze immediately locked onto Mallory before shifting to Bridget. “Have you lost your mind?” Bridget let out a harsh laugh. “You’re asking us? Who ruined the wedding today?” “This is between Fiona and me,” Jack said coldly. Mallory tugged at his sleeve. “Jack, don’t blame them. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to deliver these things to Fiona myself.” He looked down at her wrist, noticing a tiny speck of red bleeding through the clean gauze. “Your wound is opening up again.” Mallory shook her head. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” The sheer theatricality of it was almost comical. Jack stepped toward me, keeping his voice low. “Fiona, take the card. Your mother’s health isn’t great, and she needs the financial security. Don’t let pride make you do something stupid.” “Jack, is that what you think I’m doing? Holding out for more money?” He frowned. “Stop making a scene.” “Then what should I say? Should I congratulate you on your beautiful reunion?” He had no answer for that. Mallory spoke up, her voice trembling. “Fiona, I know you feel wronged. But I didn’t leave him because I wanted to. I was alone in a foreign hospital for five years with no family. Jack was the only thought that kept me alive.” She raised her arm, showing the bandage. “You had him for seven years. I only wanted to see him one last time.” I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Jack reached out, gently holding her wrist to support it, a gesture so practiced and familiar it made my chest ache. I remembered the night before the wedding, when he had wiped away my tears in that exact same way. I had asked him if he was nervous, and he had kissed my forehead, whispering that his only fear was me changing my mind. Now I realized he wasn’t afraid of me backing out—he was terrified Mallory wouldn’t let him back in. Bridget was practically shaking with rage, but I placed a hand on her arm to quiet her. “Mallory, you think I ‘had’ him for seven years?” I stood up, dragging my heavy gown across the floor until I was standing right in front of her. “Do you have any idea what those seven years looked like? When he had a high fever, I was the one who stayed awake all night. When his company was drowning in debt, I was the one working overtime to pay it off. The first time he landed a major client, he drank until his stomach bled, and I carried him on my back to the emergency room at three in the morning.” Mallory’s face went white. Jack immediately stepped between us. “That’s enough, Fiona. I remember everything you did. That’s why I’m making sure you’re taken care of.” “Taken care of.” That was what my seven years were worth to him. “Mallory was on the brink of death last night,” he insisted. “She has absolutely nothing left. Don’t push her.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my skin. “And what about me?” Jack fell silent for a few seconds. “You’re stronger than she is.” On the vanity, a corner of our customized wedding monogram sign peeled off, blocking my reflection in the mirror. I ripped the cardstock sign down, crumpled it into a tight ball, and shoved it into his hand. “Take it,” I whispered. “Since she has nothing, you might as well give her this too.” My mother collapsed as the remaining guests were being ushered out of the venue. Relatives crowded around us, whispering and casting sidelong glances at my muddy wedding dress. My aunt lowered her voice, but her words still carried clearly: “The wedding is called off, and his family didn’t even show up. How is Fiona ever going to show her face again?” Another relative sighed. “Jackary is a multi-millionaire now. Men always have a soft spot for their first love. Fiona is just too stubborn. If she just humbled herself a little, she’d still be the one wearing the ring. Now she’s left with nothing.” I held my unconscious mother close, my fingers freezing. The ambulance arrived soon after. My mother spent the night under observation in the ICU before her blood pressure finally stabilized. The next day, she was transferred to a regular ward. The doctor pulled me aside. “Your mother’s heart is very weak. She cannot handle any sudden shocks or stress.” I held her frail hand, nodding repeatedly. A little while later, Jack showed up, but I blocked him at the door. He placed a thermos of soup on the floor, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t handle things well yesterday.” I stared at him, cold and silent. He sighed. “But Mallory’s situation is unique. She almost died last night. She really can’t take any more pressure.” From the bed inside, my mother heard his voice. She struggled to sit up, her chest heaving. “She can’t take pressure? What about my daughter?” I rushed back to hold her gently by the shoulders, then turned to glare at the man in the doorway. “Get out.” Jack stood there for a long moment before finally turning to leave. But Mallory just had to choose that exact afternoon to show up. It was on the third afternoon. I had stepped out to the nurse’s station to pick up some test results—a quick ten-minute errand. When I returned, the door to the room was cracked open. Mallory’s soft voice drifted out. “Mrs. Sommers, please don’t be angry with Jack. It’s my fault. I never should have come back to disrupt their lives.” My mother didn’t answer. Mallory sniffled, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I spent five years abroad, thinking about him every single day. But I knew he had Fiona. I didn’t dare come back. It was only when I couldn’t hold on anymore that I finally reached out.” She paused, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Actually, that night, I only wanted to catch one last glimpse of him from afar and then disappear. But when he arrived, I saw his keychain. It was a photo of Fiona. I knew then that his heart belonged to her. Mrs. Sommers, do you know how that felt?” She let out a fragile, bitter laugh. “I felt like those five years of suffering were for nothing. The only hope keeping me alive had already become someone else’s. That’s why I did something so foolish.” I threw the door open. Mallory looked up instantly, tears pooling in her eyes. “Fiona, I was just trying to apologize to your mother…” My mother’s face had turned an alarming shade of gray. I pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out. Now.” Mallory stood up but didn’t leave immediately. She looked down at the bed, her voice a soft, venomous whisper. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sommers. Jack is just too soft-hearted. Please don’t blame Fiona for not being able to keep him. Any man would feel his heart break if his dying first love begged him in tears, wouldn’t he?” She raised her bandaged wrist, turning it toward the bed. “Look, Mrs. Sommers. I literally put my life on the line. Fiona only waited seven years. I loved him with my life.” My mother’s breathing turned ragged, and the heart monitor beside her began to beep frantically. I rushed to her side, gripping her hand as I used my free arm to violently shove Mallory away. “Get the hell out!” Mallory stumbled back, colliding hard with the doorframe, instantly clutching her wrist with a cry of pain. The door swung open from the outside. Jack walked in, catching Mallory just as she began to collapse backward. He saw the monitor flashing red and me pushing Mallory against the frame, and his face instantly darkened. “Fiona Sommers!” The alarm kept blaring. My mother gasped for air, her fingers clawing at the bedsheets. I shook off Jack’s hand as he tried to grab my arm, and slammed my hand onto the emergency call button. Jack held Mallory close, glaring at me. “Fiona, Mallory came here out of the goodness of her heart to apologize. Was that really necessary?” I didn’t even have the energy to argue with him. Fortunately, the nurses rushed in, and they managed to stabilize my mother’s condition. But from that day on, she was a shadow of her former self. She refused to eat, refused to speak, and would only grip my hand tightly, repeating the same words over and over: “Fiona, sweetie… don’t marry him.” I looked into her tired eyes and held her hand to my cheek. “I won’t, Mom. I promise. I won’t marry him.”

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Intimate photos of me and Chris, the industry’s reigning golden boy, were plastered across every tabloid and social media platform. Beneath the trending tags, his fans had already doxed my apartment. Some called me a desperate, aging leech clinging to his coat-tails; others threatened to camp outside my office to “clean up Chris’s trash.” I called him. His voice was a soothing, gentle balm, just as it had always been. “Don’t be afraid, baby. I’m holding a press conference in an hour. I’m going to make us public.” “You’ve been by my side for ten years, building me from a nameless extra to who I am today. It’s about time I gave you the recognition you deserve.” At the press conference venue, I stood in the wings, my heart in my throat, waiting for him to reach out and take my hand. Instead, Chris walked onto the stage with Selena, the sparkling new IT-girl. “Selena and I have been together for three years.” “As for the photos online, they were leaked by my former manager, Naomi. She has been obsessively stalking and harassing me.” The flashbulbs instantly pivoted toward me. Someone lunged forward, ripping at my hair; a chair was flung in my direction, splintering near my feet. When security finally dragged me out of the screaming mob, Chris didn’t even glance my way. Half an hour later, he found me in the shadows of the subterranean garage. He reached out, smoothing down the torn collar of my blouse. His touch was still agonizingly gentle. “I’m so sorry, baby.” “A scandal like this would destroy me, so I needed someone to take the fall. It had to be you.” I looked into his beautiful, hollow eyes. “You leaked those photos yourself, didn’t you?” Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second, then let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Otherwise, how would I convince the world that you’re the one obsessed with me?” I looked down, my fingers quietly tapping the screen of the phone hidden in my pocket. The voice recorder was running. He thought I was waiting for him to beg me to stay. He had no idea that from this moment on, the only thing I was waiting for was his complete and utter ruin. 1 When Chris found me, I was tucked into the darkest corner of the underground garage. He pulled down his mask, his first words completely devoid of any concern for my bruised temple. “I’ll handle the press, but you need to play along.” “Resign from the agency and walk away from the industry. I’ll wire you two million dollars as compensation.” I leaned against the cold metal of my car, staring at him. “And us?” Chris frowned, genuinely surprised I’d even ask. “Nothing changes between us.” “Selena is just for the public. I’ll still see you once a month. You pick the hotel.” He said it so casually, as if handing me a generous promotion. Ten years ago, he was a nobody in LA, living off cheap ramen and fifty-dollar extra gigs. When it rained and he had no place to sleep, I took him into my cramped studio apartment. I paid for his acting classes. I held him when directors spat in his face, and I ran lines with him until our throats were raw. I quit my residency at the hospital to become his full-time manager. Now, his grand finale for us was one day a month in a nameless hotel. “You want me to be your mistress?” “Naomi, don’t make it sound so ugly.” Chris checked his Rolex. “Selena just signed a Tier-A contract. She has major backing from the network and big capital. Binding my name to hers for six months gets us more resources than we could claw our way to in a decade.” “It’s business. It benefits both of us.” “You’re the only one I love, Naomi. A title is just for show.” I wanted to laugh, but my throat was too tight. “You promised you’d marry me.” “Ten years. Does that promise still count?” His silence was my answer. I let out a soft breath. “Fine. Two million to buy out ten years of my life.” “Wire it tomorrow, and we’re done.” He visibly relaxed. “Naomi, I knew you’d understand.” He said my name with that old, familiar warmth. I didn’t bother correcting him. His phone buzzes. “Selena” lit up the screen. When he answered, his entire demeanor softened instantly. Selena’s voice floated through the speaker. “I want a home that’s truly ours.” “You’ll have it,” he murmured. “And what about the rest of your life?” He smiled. “It’s yours too.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Is she handled?” “Yes. Go back to the penthouse and wait for me.” He hung up and looked back at me. “The two million will have to be paid in installments.” “I need to buy Selena a penthouse first. I can wire you two hundred thousand tomorrow. Your brother is still in treatment, right? That should cover your emergencies.” I stared at him. “Give me the full amount first.” His face darkened slightly. “I said I’d pay you.” “If you’re that desperate, you can always go to Beckett. He’s thrown enough offers your way. You know exactly what he wants.” “Make use of your options while you still have them.” He knew exactly where to twist the knife. When we were young, his father ran off with a mistress, and his mother abandoned him. He used to hold me tight, whispering that he despised home-wreckers more than anything. Now, he was begging me to become one. I opened the car door. “Fine.” Chris blinks, caught off guard. “What?” I just smiled and got into the car. 2 Chris had no idea that my brother didn’t need that money anymore. Months ago, Declan was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, he knew the prognosis better than anyone. At the time, Chris claimed he had no cash on hand and begged me to secure a high-paying reality TV contract for him. “The cash flow is fast. Once the network pays out, we’ll get Declan the best care.” I believed him. To land that deal, I drank myself into stomach bleeding with the network executives. The night the contract was signed, my father called. His voice sounded like he had aged a decade overnight. “Naomi… Declan is gone.” Declan didn’t want to be a burden. He pulled his own ventilator. Before he died, he left me a final voicemail. “I won’t make it to your wedding with Chris.” “But when you have a moment, bring him to my grave. Pour a drink for me, so I know my little sister is being taken care of.” I ran to the funeral so fast I broke the heel of my shoe. Someone snapped a photo of my tear-streaked face, and it went viral. Chris complained that my disheveled appearance ruined his brand image, and he didn’t speak to me for three days. Only later did I find out that the reality show wasn’t for Declan’s treatment. It was the launchpad for Selena’s career. He made me destroy my body to secure resources, not for my dying brother, but to elevate his new lover. Back in the garage, Chris was still pressuring me to sign the NDA and exit agreement. “Those photos,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You leaked them to the tabloids, didn’t you?” He froze. “Who told you?” “The camera angle. It could only have come from the old security camera in our living room.” “You’re the only one who has the login.” He dropped the act. “So what if I did?” “How else was I supposed to explain why you’re always around?” “How else do I make the public believe you’re a stalker and Selena is my true love?” My fingers gripped the steering wheel, but I was entirely calm. “You were terrified that if you broke up with me publicly, you’d be branded an ungrateful bastard.” “So you painted me as the villain first, to pave a golden path for Selena.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Even if you figured it out, what can you do?” “You have no proof.” “The agency’s social media accounts, the contracts, the PR narrative—they’re all mine. If I deny it, you’re just a crazy ex-manager.” “Take the money and run, Naomi.” “Push me, and I’ll make sure you can’t even find a job in this city, let alone get a dime of that two million.” He didn’t know my phone was recording every word. He didn’t know that after ten years of managing him, I was the one who cleaned up every single piece of his dirt. “Selena is innocent, so I have to be sacrificed?” I asked. Chris didn’t hesitate. “You’ve had ten years of my life. It’s only fair you step aside for my future.” I pressed save. File length: Forty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. This time, he handed me the knife himself. 3 I didn’t release the recording immediately. Chris was right about one thing: a simple recording of a bad breakup wasn’t enough to destroy him. I wanted him ruined. That night, the agency released an official statement under Chris’s name, claiming I used my position as his manager to control his life, even using surreptitiously filmed videos to blackmail him into a relationship. Selena immediately reposted it: “I have never come between anyone. I’ve let go of the pain of the past, and I only hope Ms. Naomi can move on.” Several tabloid blogs concurrently posted “sources” claiming I bullied rival actors, stole resources, and slept around with younger talent. The “evidence” consisted of photos of college students helping me into a car after an exhausting press event. Two hours later, the video of me running hysterically to my brother’s funeral was leaked. The caption read: “How many years did this emotionally unstable manager hold Chris hostage?” I watched the video on a loop, then closed my laptop. Keira arrived with antiseptic. She gently cleaned the gash on my forehead from the thrown chair. “What’s the plan?” “We wait.” “Still?” “He only wants me out of the industry right now.” I turned my screen toward her. On it was a backed-up ledger of Chris’s agency over the last five years—tax evasion, paid internet mobs, predatory pricing, and the original metadata of the leaked photos sent to the tabloids. “I kept these to protect him. Now, they’re going to save me.” Keira asked, “Why not post it now?” “He just announced his relationship. The spotlight isn’t bright enough.” “I want him at the absolute peak before I pull the rug.” My phone rang. It was Beckett. He had just got back from Europe, and he was the primary sponsor for this year’s Screen Guild Gala. Three years ago, he asked me to leave Chris and join his firm as the Director of Talent. I refused. He told me the offer would stand until the day I regretted it. “I hear you’ve been thrown out on the street,” his voice was as dry as ever. “Are you calling to gloat, Beckett?” “No.” He paused. “I’m calling to ask if you need a lawyer, a media blitz, and a stage big enough to burn it all down.” I looked at the files on my laptop. “Save the stage for me.” 4 The next day, Chris showed up at my door with Selena and his mother. Three paparazzi were already positioned in the hallway. Selena was wearing a simple, soft-colored dress, her eyes red. The moment the door opened, she slapped me across the face. “Why won’t you just let Chris go?” Then, right where the cameras could see her, she dropped to her knees. “We’ve been together for three years. Please, give him back to me.” Chris’s mother lunges forward, grabbing my hair. This was the woman who abandoned him when he was ten. She only returned once he started making millions. Back then, Chris’s only comment about her was, “She’s not my mother.” Now, to paint me as the monster, she was the mother he must protect. I wrenched myself free. Chris “coincidentally” appeared around the corner just as his mother and Selena were on the floor, and I was standing over them. “Naomi! What are you doing?” He rushed forward, shielding them. “I respect what you did for my career, but that doesn’t give you the right to abuse my family.” I looked toward the end of the hall where the paparazzi were hiding. “Are you done acting?” Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?” “I upgraded the security cameras outside my door last week. The audio is incredibly clear.” “Selena’s slap, your mother pulling my hair, and your pre-arranged paparazzi—it’s all recorded.” Selena’s face went pale. But Chris quickly recovered. “Footage can be edited. The public believes what they see.” “Do they?” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Let’s let the police look at the raw footage first.” They were taken to the station to file reports. That night, another round of articles dropped: “Naomi Forces Chris’s Pregnant Fiancée and Elderly Mother to Kneel; Police Intervene.” Chris thinks he still controls the board. On the same day, the Screen Guild Gala announced its nominations. Chris was nominated for Best Lead Actor for the very show I nearly killed myself to get him. In his red carpet interview, he said: “On the night of the awards, Selena and I will be sharing some very special news.” Beckett called. “He’s planning to propose on stage. Are you still going?” I opened the evidence folder and hit send to Beckett and my legal team. At the bottom of the email, I wrote: “Special segment for the awards ceremony. Run time: Seven minutes, forty-three seconds.” “Of course I’m going.” “He wants the crown and the girl. I’m going to make sure he gets exactly what he deserves.”

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When I was ten, my family brought my older sister home. Mother said, “She has always been delicate, so we had to raise her at a mountain retreat for her health.” “Your temperament is too domineering. We are changing your name, just to yield to her a little.” And so, I became Gill. When it came time for our debutante season and betrothals, my sister set her eyes on Lady Beatrice’s son, Henry. My brother said, “She has always been the good one, never asking for anything.” “Lord Henry favors you, so restrain yourself. Let her have this one.” On the day of the introduction, everything went wrong. Both my sister and I fell into the lake during the boating party. When I woke up, the doctor said I had lost my memory. “Gill,” Lady Beatrice said, holding my hand by the bedside. “I’m your mother.” I stayed silent for a moment, then whispered, “Mother.” 01 I wasn’t always called Gill. When I was eight, my parents brought Charlotte back to our estate. It was Easter. The Governor had gifted our family an exquisite silver rabbit statue, crafted by a master jeweler. My father, flushed with wine, decided to host our annual parlor game—a classic poetry recitation contest. “With ‘Light’ as our theme, whoever can recite the next stanza without faltering wins the silver rabbit.” I had a photographic memory, sharp and relentless. After five rounds, my brother Elliot was out. At the end, only Charlotte and I remained. She spoke in a tiny, trembling voice, flushing with embarrassment, unable to recall the next verse. Young and arrogant, I laughed. “Then the silver rabbit is mine!” Charlotte didn’t say a word. Her eyes just filled with tears, and a heavy drop spilled down her cheek. The laughter in the room died. My mother reacted first, pulling her into her arms. “Oh, my sweet girl.” Charlotte buried her face in Mother’s neck, sobbing. “She just couldn’t remember a verse,” I said, genuinely confused. “Why is she crying?” No one answered me. They all crowded around her. Elliot offered his handkerchief. “It’s just a decorative piece,” Father sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why don’t you let your sister have it?” “Why?!” I yelled. “I won it fair and square.” Ever since Charlotte arrived, her allowance was larger, and she got the best room in the east wing. “I won’t give it up,” I cried, years of quiet resentment bubbling over. “It’s mine.” “Quiet!” Mother snapped. “Always so aggressive, always needing to win. You have no compassion.” Her eyes were freezing cold. “Victoria, you disappoint me.” That was the last time she ever called me Victoria. 02 “Smack.” The wooden ruler struck my palm. It burned like fire. Mother sat in her high-backed chair. “Do you admit your mistake?” “I did nothing wrong,” I said stubbornly. “I won it honestly.” “Smack.” Another strike cut through the air, the pain so sharp I gasped. “What did I do wrong?” I asked through tears. “Why do I have to yield to her?” “Because she is your sister!” Mother said. “She was born sickly. We had to send her to a private sanctuary in the hills just so she would survive.” “She was away from us for years, suffering. What is so hard about giving her this one small thing?” I looked down, sniffing, fighting back the tears. “First you tried to outdo Elliot in everything, and now you must compete with Charlotte.” Mother sighed. “Why must you be so stubborn?” My vision blurred. A suffocating tightness gripped my throat. But then, Mother set the ruler down. She reached out, took my hands, and pulled me into her lap. Her familiar, lavender scent enveloped me. She looked down, gently stroking my red, swollen palm. She rarely held me like this. This simple embrace washed away all my anger. “The vicar was right. The day Charlotte returned, he said your spirits would clash.” “Charlotte is fragile. Your presence is too demanding, too loud. I’ve been thinking about changing your name.” I looked up, tears finally spilling over. “True grace lies in restraint, in leaving room for others. From now on, your name is Gill.” Mother stroked my hair. “You must learn that in this life, you cannot demand absolute fulfillment.” 03 In the end, neither Charlotte nor I got the silver rabbit. It was placed on the mantelpiece in the grand hallway, right outside Charlotte’s bedroom. Every afternoon, when I finished my tutors’ lessons and walked down the corridor, I would see that silver rabbit, and I would hear the laughter coming from her room. Elliot’s boisterous laugh: “Charlotte, you lost again! No cheating!” Mother’s soft chuckle: “This sweet girl is so clever, always keeping us on our toes.” Sometimes even Father’s rare, quiet laugh. Before her marriage, Mother had been a senator’s beloved daughter, showered with affection. Now, her love was the center of our household. Wherever she turned, that was where the warmth went. At first, I tried to join them. The first time, I noticed Charlotte’s room had twice as many maids as mine. Walking back in the shadows, I told myself: “She is weak. She needs the care.” The second time, I noticed the peaches brought to her room were sweeter than mine. Under the moonlight, I thought: “Maybe I just picked a bad one.” The third time, I saw Charlotte wearing a beautiful pearl hairpin I had never seen before. Had Father bought it? Or Elliot? I stopped in my tracks. A design that exquisite, crafted with such delicate care—only Mother could have chosen it. I looked down at the paper lantern in my hand, its base crumpled from where I had gripped it too hard. It felt like my heart. Why didn’t Mother give one to me? I asked myself, over and over. Why never me? 04 The last time I went to Charlotte’s room was on her fourteenth birthday. Years of careful nurturing and expensive doctors had restored her health. Yet, when I walked in wearing my riding habit, she was draped in a thick wool shawl, despite the warm early summer air. “Riding again?” Charlotte’s voice carried a sharp edge. “Elliot told me you even managed to hunt a deer.” Society was modernizing; girls riding and hunting was no longer scandalous. Happy about my ride, I smiled, ignoring her tone. “Just luck.” My seat was right next to hers. As I sat down, Charlotte suddenly pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and turned away, retching. Mother gasped. I stood up quickly. “Do my clothes smell of sweat?” “You know your sister is delicate,” Mother frowned. “Why would you come here dressed like that?” Charlotte didn’t speak. When she looked up, her eyes were red, tears brimming. “I… I’ve ruined the mood,” Charlotte sobbed, pushing her maid away as she fled the room. Everyone froze. Elliot was the first to react. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” A cold rain fell that night. The lamps in Charlotte’s room stayed lit, servants hurrying back and forth. At midnight, Mother came to my room, smelling of herbal tonic. “You are not to go riding anymore,” Mother said immediately. “And do not wear those riding clothes in front of your sister.” “Why?” I asked, incredulous. “Did she fall ill just because I rode a horse?!” “Yes,” Mother said, her face expressionless. “Because you went riding.” “You know Charlotte can barely leave her room, let alone ride. Today, seeing you so free and happy made her spiral. She coughed up blood. Can you not just restrain yourself for once?” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Thunder rumbled outside. Suddenly, I laughed out loud. “Because she is sick, I cannot even ride a horse?” I stared into Mother’s eyes. “If she dies tomorrow, do I have to die right along with her?!” “Smack.” Mother’s hand struck my face. 05 My head snapped to the side. My hairpin flew off, and loose hair fell over my face. The ringing in my ears was followed by a sharp, throbbing pain. “Silence!” Mother’s hand and body were shaking. “How can you say something so malicious?” “Am I the malicious one?” I cried, my tears thick with hatred. “You tell me to yield, and I must yield. You tell me to endure, and I must endure.” “Is Charlotte the only daughter who matters? Am I nothing to you?” Mother said nothing. The shadows of the candlelight hid her expression.

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In our marriage, Callum and I spent thirty years slowly tearing each other apart. Even when the earth shattered and we were trapped beneath the rubble, waiting for the dark to take us, his final words to me were laced with a bitter, lifelong poison: “If there’s a next life, get your degree and get out. Don’t waste your youth latching onto my family again.” So, when I woke up and found myself back in our senior year of high school right before graduation, Callum didn’t waste a single second. He practically ran to Rosalie—the delicate class beauty—and poured his heart out to her. He even threatened to end his own life to force his father, Richard, to agree to kick me out of the house the moment we finished our exams. I didn’t cry. I simply smiled, accepted the arrangement on Richard’s behalf, and packed my bags to move into the school dorms. Before I left, I looked Callum in the eye and offered him a polite, hollow thank you: “Thank you for the shelter these past few years. From now on, our paths diverge. May we both find peace.” He stood there, stunned, watching me slip past the front gates of the Osborn estate. After that, I got into my dream university in Boston and accepted the pursuit of a senior classmate. Callum got engaged to his first love. He stayed in Charleston; I left for the North. But on the day I was set to leave forever, he rushed to the airport, fell to his knees, and begged me through tears to stay. 01 “Irene, sweetie,” Richard stood in the doorway of my bedroom, his shoulders hunched, looking older than his years. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “The firm has been so demanding lately, and keeping track of both you and Callum… it’s a lot. I have an old friend, a good man with a comfortable estate. Would you… would you be willing to stay with him for a while?” A flimsy, transparent excuse. We both knew it. Richard and my father had served in the military together. My mother passed away when I was small, and when my father fell in the line of duty, Richard took me in out of pure pity. In the ten years I had lived under his roof, we had never shared a moment this agonizingly awkward. I forced a gentle, reassuring smile, behaving with the quiet obedience I had practiced for a decade. “Of course, Richard. You’ve taken such wonderful care of me for so long. I’m practically an adult now, and I don’t want to impose on anyone else. I’ll pack my things and move into the dorms tomorrow.” Richard’s eyes softened with guilt. He sighed heavily, reaching out to pat my head. “It’s that damn boy of mine. I have a perfectly lovely girl right here, and he has to go ruin everything for…” I knew. Lately, Callum’s antics had been the talk of Charleston’s high society. The golden heir of the Osborn family had suddenly lost his mind over a quiet, sickly girl from a working-class neighborhood. He showered her with expensive gifts, jewelry, even his own savings. Richard had been furious. He’d broken three leather belts over Callum’s back and even locked him in his room for a week, but Callum had knelt on the hardwood floor, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to break. He was utterly subservient to Rosalie. Because of her fragile health, Callum had even abandoned his lifelong dream of architecture, deciding instead to study medicine—a field he had despised his entire life. “Irene, I know I’m failing you,” Richard murmured, his voice cracking. “But he’s my only son. He’s never begged me for anything in his life.” I watched him quietly, gently patting his back to offer comfort. “It’s alright, Richard. Truly. I understand. You’ve done more than enough for me.” Callum didn’t love me. I had learned that lesson across thirty agonizing years in our past life. There was no need for him to apologize now. 02 In our previous life, Callum and I were married for thirty years. We had no children, and to the outside world, we never seemed to fight. Everyone praised our marriage, calling us the picture of domestic bliss. But only I knew the truth. Thirty years of sharing a bed, and I had never once occupied a corner of his heart. We never fought simply because he didn’t care enough to argue. Until the great Charleston earthquake. We were pinned beneath the collapsed concrete of our home, the air thick with dust, all hope of rescue fading into the dark. It was then that Callum stripped away his polite, gentlemanly mask. “It’s because of you,” he hissed, his voice raw with a hatred I had never heard before. “If it weren’t for you, I would have never lost Rosalie.” Rosalie, his untouchable phantom. She was the love of his life, a girl who had died of a congenital heart condition in the sweet, blooming spring of her youth. In those final moments under the rubble, Callum spat out the most vicious curses, blaming me for her death. He said that if God had any mercy, in the next life, he would run far away from me, find Rosalie before her heart gave out, and make up for every regret. Staring at his dust-caked face, I realized he was right. So, when the universe spun backward and gave me a second chance, I chose to let go. The next morning, I packed my life into a single suitcase and hailed a cab, leaving behind the house I had called home for ten years. A clean break. “What do you mean you and Callum are over? And his dad kicked you out?!” Mag Harrington, my best friend, practically leaped out of her chair in the empty classroom. “That miserable bastard! He had you, and he still spent all his time playing the loyal dog to Rosalie? And now his dad throws you out? Oh, hell no. I’m going to castrate him.” Mag grabbed a broom from the back of the classroom, her eyes blazing with protective fury. I had to physically hold her back, coaxing her down with soft words. “It wasn’t Richard’s fault,” I explained gently. “I chose to leave.” Mag poked my forehead, her expression a mix of frustration and heartbreak. “Ten years, Irene. Ten whole years. You let them sell you out and you’re still counting their cash for them? You’re going to drive me to an early grave!” I lowered my head, listening to her scold me. It had been so long since I’d heard her voice like this. Mag was the heiress to the Harrington fortune. In our past life, after graduation, our paths split. She took over her family’s empire, while I buried myself in domestic life. She became a titan of industry; I became a ghost in the Osborn mansion. I couldn’t help her, and she couldn’t save me. Slowly, we drifted apart. Such a beautiful friendship, ruined by the slow erosion of time and a man who wasn’t worth it. “Mag,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around her sleeve. “If it’s meant to be mine, I won’t have to fight for it. If it isn’t, fighting is useless.” Mag let out a sharp scoff. “Maybe. But I still want to break his nose.” “Don’t be angry,” I murmured, leaning my head on her shoulder. “It’s not like Callum was my only option.” Instantly, Mag stiffened. “Don’t tell me you mean that rebel kid? Absolutely not! I refuse!” She glared at me suspiciously. “Irene, Holden Beck is trouble. Pure, unfiltered trouble. When he isn’t street racing, he’s picking fights or skipping class. Don’t you dare ruin your life for him!” “My Irene is the best girl in the world,” Mag said, her expression softening into fierce loyalty. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll support you. Let the men rot.” I felt tears prick my eyes, deeply moved by her devotion. But, Mag… the boy you call a rebel… Was the only one who died trying to save me. In those terrifying seconds when the world tore itself apart, when Callum let go of my hand and ran for his own life, I saw Holden. Amidst the choking dust and falling concrete, he was running against the screaming crowd, stumbling, throwing his body forward just to reach me. The raw, desperate terror in his eyes was louder than the crumbling earth. 03 I was determined to find Holden, just as Callum was determined to chase Rosalie. The school gossip mill, which had already labeled Callum insane, quickly added me to the roster. The wealthy kids of Charleston called us the “lunatic pair” behind our backs. They grouped my name with Callum’s again, and the association made me sick. Callum must have heard the rumors. One afternoon, after a heavy summer rain, he cornered me in the school library, dragging me out into the damp courtyard before I could even protest. He didn’t even wait for me to speak before he unleashed his fury. “Irene, have you lost your mind?!” He knew I had returned to this life, too, but he couldn’t comprehend my choices. “Rosalie and I are meant to be. We’re childhood sweethearts. But Holden Beck? He’s nothing but trash! How could you look at him?!” Raindrops clung to the fresh green leaves, and the courtyard was wrapped in a heavy, wet mist, like a watercolor painting left out to dry. I looked up at Callum. I had to admit, he was handsome—sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of classic, effortless beauty that had made me love him so blindly in my youth. But looking at the water dripping from his lashes now, all I could see was the dusty, gray silhouette from my nightmares. The deafening roar of the earthquake, his vicious curses, and the sheer disgust in his eyes when he flung my hand away to run… those memories were sharper than the disaster itself. The damp wind brushed my cheek, and I realized I was clenching my fists so hard my nails were cutting into my palms. In truth, Callum had been a decent husband by societal standards. The Osborns were prominent, and he ran the family business flawlessly. He was always polite, always respectful. That was why everyone thought we were happy. But he had never loved me. Not for a single second. I knew what his eyes looked like when he actually loved someone. Thirty years of marriage, thirty years of a beautifully rehearsed lie, only for the truth to shatter him in the end. The ugliness of his true heart was burned into my soul. “Irene!” His sharp, impatient voice broke my thoughts. He hated when I drifted away. “Why shouldn’t I?” I asked, my voice flat. “What?” “If you can choose Rosalie, why can’t I choose Holden? Is there a rule that only you get to pursue your happily ever after?” “Irene, Rosalie and Holden are completely different.” “How? At least Holden tried to save me. While you left me to die.” I laid the truth bare between us, a cold, mocking smile on my lips. Callum stiffened, the color draining from his face. For a long time, he couldn’t speak. He lowered his head, his posture suddenly defensive, almost fragile. “We were married for thirty years, Irene. I’m trying to look out for you, truly.” “Anyone else would be fine. Just not Holden. He’s not a good man.” He sounded so earnest, so desperate to keep me from ruin. “Callum, we’ve both been given a second chance. Stop acting,” I said, my voice dead of emotion. “There was never any love between us, and you know it. Drop the hypocrisy.” “Irene!” he snapped, frustrated by my coldness. It was a mirror of our past life, only the roles were reversed. Back then, I was the hysterical wife driven mad by his indifference, and he was the cool, detached husband watching my descent. The trauma of thirty years had carved itself deep into both of us, but in different ways. “Can we please just talk?” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. I saw a figure running toward us in the distance and let out a quiet sigh. “I have all the time in the world, Callum. But I don’t think your girl does.” “Mr. Osborn!” Callum’s driver ran up, panting heavily. “Miss Rosalie is having chest pains. She’s calling for you. You need to come quickly.” See? Even now, he didn’t have a spare moment for me. Hearing the news, Callum’s face instantly twisted with panic. He looked back at me, silently begging me to understand. And I did. After thirty years, how could I not? If a person’s heart doesn’t belong to you, no amount of begging will ever change that. In our past life, I had been the one begging. This time, I turned my back and walked away first. 04 The weeks leading up to graduation flew by. Pyramids of textbooks slowly shrank under the morning light and evening shadows, and the red marks on my practice exams became a map of my future. And just like that, the grand curtain fell on our high school years. “Which college are you applying to? Maybe we can end up at the same school,” Mag said, setting down her iced coffee, her eyes bright with hope. I felt a sudden pang of guilt. “I’m going to Boston.” “Boston?!” Mag’s voice pitched into a screech, exactly as I had expected. Her eyes widened. “Why Boston? Is Charleston not big enough for you? Sure, Callum is here, but so am I! You don’t know a soul in Boston!” As she started her usual lecture, I quickly stuffed a pastry into her mouth to silence her. “Holden is in Boston,” I whispered. “Wait, what?” Mag swallowed hard, practically leaping out of her seat. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen that rebel around lately. He went back to Boston?” I nodded. “I’m going to find him.” “Irene, you absolute romantic idiot!” Mag groaned, taking a long sip of her coffee to calm her nerves before launching into a detailed lecture on the dangers of moving across the country for a boy. “But Mag, I don’t have any family left in Charleston anyway,” I said softly, smiling. It was the simple truth. Mag couldn’t stay by my side forever; she had her own empire to build. I had learned that in our previous life. Mag went quiet. I thought I had convinced her. But on the morning of my flight, as I dragged my suitcase through the airport terminal, a familiar figure appeared. It was Mag, holding a ticket of her own. “If I can’t keep you here, then I’m coming with you,” she said, tossing her hair back with her signature bravado. “What’s so great about Boston anyway? I might as well conquer their market too.” The tears I had been holding back finally spilled over. “I’m not worth all this, Mag.” “You are,” she said softly, wiping a tear from my cheek. “You’re worth everything, Irene.” I threw my arms around her, holding onto her like a lifeline. Waiting at the gate, we sipped our iced coffees, and Mag didn’t waste a single opportunity to curse Callum. “You’re leaving the state, and he didn’t even have the decency to come say goodbye. What an absolute prick.” “Didn’t he get engaged to Rosalie the second finals ended?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood. “He’s probably playing the doting fiancé right now.” “Ugh, pathetic!” Mag spat. I took a sip of my coffee, listening to the hum of the terminal and my best friend’s familiar rants, and closed my eyes in pure contentment. Compared to the wreckage of my past life, this felt like a real beginning. I looked down at my boarding pass. It was almost time to board. 05 In truth, my chest was tight with nerves. It had been three months since my rebirth, and I hadn’t actually seen Holden yet. My only memory of him from our adult years was from a high-profile science and tech gala in our past life. I remembered the crystal chandeliers of the ballroom casting a sharp, brilliant light over the elite crowd. I had been holding a champagne glass, watching him glide through the room. Holden had been tall, striking, with a quiet authority behind his wire-rimmed glasses—a brilliant young mind in the tech sector, highly sought after. And I had been nothing but Callum’s trophy wife, a hollow shell, drifting past like a ghost in the shadows. But I had recognized him instantly. I remembered how, years ago in a narrow Charleston alleyway, he had looked up at me with a crooked smile, his eyes reflecting the brilliant summer sun. On graduation day, he had pressed a love letter into my hand, his face flushed red. And I had held it like a dry, dirty leaf, too proud, too blind to see the gold in front of me. Now, we truly belonged to different worlds. The last time I saw him was under the crushing weight of the earth, his body shielding mine as the ceiling fell, tying our fates together in death. The terminal was loud, and a sudden wave of doubt hit me. Would he love me in this life the way he had before? What was he like right now? Was he still the rebellious street kid, or had he already begun to carry the weight of his brilliant future? Why had a top student from a prestigious Boston university been wasting his days in the alleys of Charleston? Was it really because of me? My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached out and squeezed Mag’s hand. Was this second chance really mine to take? The intercom announced our boarding group. I pushed the doubts down and stood up, pulling Mag toward the gate. Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise of the terminal. Mag spun around first, immediately stepping in front of me like a shield. That was when I saw him. Callum. He looked a mess. His expensive designer suit was wrinkled from running, and his hair was wildly disheveled. “Irene! Irene, please don’t go! I was wrong… please don’t leave me!” Before the entire gate, he dropped to his knees, begging like a desperate man. Mag let out a disgust-filled sneer and kicked his hands away, but Callum didn’t care. He crawled forward, grabbing the hem of my pants, his dark eyes—usually so cold and arrogant—swimming with shattered tears. “Irene, please… I made a mistake. Just stay. Please.” To be honest, even when Rosalie died in our past life, he hadn’t cried this desperately. Mag looked like she was about to smash her carry-on over his head, but I caught her arm. Callum’s eyes lit up with a fragile hope. He scrambled closer, looking up at me with raw desperation. “Irene, stay with me. I’ll marry you. I’ll give you everything.” I stared down at him, and a cold, sudden laugh escaped my lips. He looked exactly like he did when he proposed to me in our past life. Kneeling on the floor, promising me a lifetime of happiness. 06 What was our marriage really like, anyway? Was it a cold arrangement under the same roof, separated by an invisible wall, or a carefully choreographed dance of polite strangers? We had grown up together, and after college, marriage had seemed like the natural next step. On our wedding day, Rosalie had attended to offer her blessings. But just as we were exchanging rings, her heart failed. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. After that, Callum’s warmth toward me froze completely. I knew he blamed me. But what had I done wrong? Rosalie had always been quiet, but she had a singular passion for red roses. Every summer, she would travel to the fields just to watch the endless scarlet blooms burn under the sun. In an old, faded photograph Callum kept, she was surrounded by a sea of red, her smile brighter than the flowers themselves. She was beautiful, tragically so. Later, Callum spent a fortune building a massive glass conservatory at our estate, moving an entire rose garden indoors. Every summer, the brilliant red would climb the glass walls, a burning reminder that stung my eyes. He would stand among the shadows of the roses, searching for a smile that would never bloom for him again. Our relationship only began to shift after Richard passed away. No matter how cold Callum was, Richard had loved me like a daughter. On the day of his funeral, I collapsed into Callum’s arms, weeping. Later, someone told me that Callum had carried me all the way back to the car, refusing to let go. Like the most devoted husband in the world. With his father gone, Callum threw himself into the business. He had no time to tend to the glass greenhouse, and slowly, the red roses withered. I had foolishly believed that time would heal us, that he would eventually learn to love me. I lived in that delusion until the night he came home drunk, stumbled into the decaying greenhouse, and wept over the dead roses until dawn. I watched him the entire night. It was then I realized that Callum’s heart was a locked room, and I would never have the key. Not then, not now, not ever. Even dead for twenty years, Rosalie was a queen on a throne I could never touch. And now, the real Rosalie was alive. They were engaged. They were a hair’s breadth away from the life he had always dreamed of. I couldn’t understand why he was here, begging at my feet. His dying words from our past life still echoed in my ears. “Callum…” I bent down, meeting his frantic gaze. “You were the one who told me that because of me, you lost the only woman you ever loved. So tell me, what are you doing here?” Callum shook his head, tears smearing his face. His endless apologies only filled me with exhaustion. “Was one lifetime of mutual misery not enough for you?” He clutched at my jeans, but I pried his fingers loose, one by one. “We’re going to miss our flight, Mag. Let’s go.” I turned my back on him, just as he had turned his back on me so many years ago. Some bonds are meant to be broken. “Callum, if you truly want to make amends, leave me alone. We were never meant to walk the same path.”

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I’ve always been able to see the numbers hanging above people’s heads—their moral debt laid bare in glowing digits of gold and crimson. When you’re the most hated girl on the internet, though, your own numbers don’t matter much. My agency had practically blackmailed me into joining “Wilderness Trials”, a live-streamed celebrity survival show. My only job was to be the pathetic, incompetent foil to the network’s golden girl, Tiffany. During team selections on the rain-slicked soundstage, Tiffany made a big show of recoiling when Beck Cameron walked past. Beck had been Hollywood royalty once—an Oscar-winning darling whose career had imploded overnight after a brutal assault scandal. Now, he was a pariah. Tiffany wrinkled her nose, physically shoving him away, and pivoted to throw herself into the arms of Taylor, the latest pop-star-turned-influencer. “I am not partnering with a violent predator,” Tiffany sighed into her lapel mic, loud enough for the millions of live viewers to hear. “We’re heading into a dense, unmonitored forest. What if he loses his temper and kills me?” “Honestly,” Taylor chimed in, throwing a smirk toward the cameras. “A washed-up piece of trash like him belongs with a social reject. Hey, Cassie—looks like you found your match.” I didn’t hear him. My eyes were locked on the space above Beck’s head. Most people’s Karma hovered in modest, faint yellow numbers. But Beck’s? His was blinding. A brilliant, incandescent halo of pure gold, radiating like a miniature sun. And right beside it, floating in shimmering, elegant text, was a system prompt: [Billionaire heir to the Cameron Media Empire. Undercover to root out a massive corporate embezzlement scheme. Acquiring this entire streaming platform tomorrow.] [Whoever partners with me today: I will not only pave her way to a clean sweep of the Academy Awards, but I will also make her the co-owner of the entire empire.] I didn’t even blink. I lunged forward, throwing my arms around Beck’s leg, clinging to him like a lifeline. “Pick me!” I cried, looking up at him with utter devotion. “I’m low-maintenance, I don’t complain, and I can take a hit!” Bad press is still press. And besides, who in their right mind turns down a chance to marry the man who owns the printing press? … I held onto Beck’s leg with a grip of iron. The studio went dead silent for two agonizing beats before erupting into a wave of cruel, mocking laughter. Tiffany pressed the back of her manicured hand to her lips, her voice dripping with sugary malice. “Oh, Cassie. Thank you for doing the heavy lifting. I suppose every dump needs a garbage collector.” Taylor smirked, pulling Tiffany against his side. He jerked his chin toward us, his eyes scanning my desperate posture with lazy disgust. “A toxic washed-up actor and the internet’s favorite punching bag. Match made in heaven. I hope you two stay locked together forever.” On the massive studio monitors, the live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur of vitriol. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to see the screen to know what they were saying. Beck looked down at me. His eyes were incredibly cold—like dark glass reflecting winter—as he scanned me from head to toe, dissecting my sudden desperation. I didn’t let go. I just grinned up at him, baring my teeth in a sharp, determined smile. He didn’t speak. But he didn’t push me away, either. When the production staff rolled out the equipment carts, Tiffany trotted over in her pristine designer hiking boots. She pointed immediately to the largest, most polished silver case. “Director,” she cooed, looking back at the crew. “I’m taking the multi-room dome tent. Oh, and the Swiss fire-striker kit!” Gary, the associate director, practically bowed as he pushed the gear toward her. When he passed by me, he casually dropped a dusty, gray canvas sack on the concrete floor. Inside, something clanked heavily. I unzipped it to find a rusted, cheap folding knife. Taylor let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Seriously? You’re going into an old-growth forest with a piece of scrap metal? The bears are going to eat you alive.” The live feed was flooded with comments like ‘Desperate clinger gets what she deserves’ and ‘Wild boar bait.’ I ignored them, testing the weight of the heavy, neglected blade in my palm. When the transport helicopters dropped us onto the high mountain plateau, the wind whipped up a freezing gale, turning everyone’s hair into a wild mess. Tiffany, clutching her high-end gear, immediately headed down the gentle eastern slope with Taylor. Beck and I were relegated to the western sector—a sheer, untamed drop of briars, dense brush, and loose shale. Ten minutes after landing, I was crouching beside a flat river stone, scraping the rusted edge of the folding knife against the wet rock, grinding away the oxidation. Flakes of rust fell away, revealing a surprisingly decent steel edge underneath. Beck stood a few paces away, hands tucked into his pockets. He didn’t offer to help, but his intense gaze never left my hands. Once the blade was sharp enough, I stood up and sliced through a thick, hanging vine overhead. A milky white sap dripped from the cut. Within an hour, using five strong vines, seven thick branches, and a mountain of broad palm fronds, I constructed a sturdy, off-the-ground A-frame shelter large enough for two. The palm leaves provided waterproofing, the raised platform kept out the damp ground, and the entrance faced away from the wind. It was textbook wilderness survival. When Beck watched me use a hand-drill technique to coax a spark from dry wood, his posture shifted. He leaned in, just an inch. The moment a tiny orange flame caught the tinder, I heard him let out a soft, almost imperceptible breath. “Where did you learn that?” he asked. I didn’t look up, threading wild mushrooms onto a shaved stick and positioning them over the crackling embers. “College elective. Wilderness Survival 101. Got an A-plus.” It was the truth, and the only skill keeping me alive in this trainwreck of a show. The live chat began to shift slightly. A few comments popped up saying, ‘Wait, she actually knows what she’s doing,’ though the majority still accused me of desperate clout-chasing and trying to force a romance angle. As the mushrooms began to release a rich, earthy aroma, I handed the skewer to Beck. He took it, but he didn’t eat. He just stared at me, searching my face. I lowered my voice, leaning in close enough that only he could hear, my words fast and deliberate. “Eat up, Beck. You’ll need your strength to catch the ghosts.” His hand froze mid-air. The icy armor in his eyes cracked for a split second, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. “What do you know?” I didn’t answer directly. Instead, I smiled and nodded toward his pocket, where the brass rim of an old-fashioned compass peeked out. “Survival gear doesn’t usually include a vintage military compass, does it?” Beck slowly nudged the compass deeper into his pocket. He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Finally, he took a bite of the mushroom, chewing thoughtfully. His voice was low when he spoke. “Not bad.” I took that as his confirmation. Before sunset, the temperature plummeted. I estimated it would hit below freezing tonight. The fire inside our shelter burned brightly, radiating perfect warmth. I had even woven a soft mattress out of extra palm leaves. Beck sat by the flames, absentmindedly turning the brass compass in his hand. I noticed the needle was twitching erratically. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, clumsy, and accompanied by Tiffany’s shrill whining. “Are you completely useless, Taylor? How hard is it to set up a tent? My hands are turning blue!” The two of them, followed by their cameraman, stumbled into our camp’s firelight. Tiffany was shivering, her face pale. The high-end multi-room tent was dragged behind Taylor, half-unpacked, its carbon-fiber poles clattering uselessly on the ground. The moment Tiffany saw our roaring fire and beautifully constructed shelter, her eyes lit up. She marched right over, the red light of the camera following her every move. “Cassie, the rules say we have to cooperate in emergencies. You can’t just leave us out here to freeze.” Without waiting for an invite, she sat down on my carefully woven palm mattress and patted the space next to her, gesturing for Taylor to join. “This place is decent. We can all squeeze in for the night.” Taylor barged in, his heavy boots kicking straight through the ring of wood ash I had painstakingly laid around the perimeter. He scattered half of it. My expression went cold. I had spent forty minutes gathering that ash from the fire pit. It was our primary barrier against nocturnal insects and snakes. “That ring you just ruined,” I said, “keeps the vipers away.” Taylor waved his hand dismissively, leaning back closer to the warmth. “Oh, relax. It’s winter. There are no snakes out here.” Tiffany crossed her legs, flashing a sweet, photogenic smile at the lens. “Look, everyone! We’re all getting along so well. Survival of the fittest can still be cozy.” I stared at the Sin score floating above Tiffany’s head. It had ticked up another 0.3 in the last hour. I didn’t say a word. I simply reached out and tugged Beck’s sleeve. He rose immediately, stepping out of the shelter with me. Taylor called out behind us. “Smart move. Glad you know your place.” I led Beck toward an upwind spot about two hundred yards away, keeping my eyes glued to the forest floor. When we reached a massive, ancient oak tree, I stopped. I pulled a pouch of wild sulfur-musk powder I’d gathered earlier from my pocket and sprinkled it around the trunk. Then, I scaled the trunk, finding a pair of thick, intersecting branches. Beck leaned against the trunk, looking up at me. “You’re not going to warn them about the ash?” I looked down from the branches and shook my head. “It would be pointless. Tiffany wouldn’t believe me anyway. She’d just accuse me of trying to scare her for camera time.” Beck didn’t argue. He swung himself up onto the branch beside me with an athletic grace that caught me off guard. He leaned back against a neighboring branch, less than two feet away. “How long are we waiting for the show to start?” I pressed a finger to my lips, whispering, “Just watch.” At exactly 11:47 PM, a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the silence of the woods. It was Tiffany. Shrill, panicked, and loud enough to wake the dead. It was instantly followed by Taylor’s frantic shouting and the dull crash of camp gear being kicked over. Peering through the leaves, I watched two silhouettes scramble frantically out of the shelter under the pale moonlight. Tiffany tripped, faceplanting into a muddy bog, her screams echoing through the valley. Taylor was running in circles, flailing his arms and screaming, “Snakes! Oh my god, snakes!” Without the protective ash barrier, the drop in temperature had driven several ground vipers straight toward the warmth of the fire. They had swarmed the shelter. The cameraman’s feed was shaking violently, the red recording light bobbing erratically. Up in the tree, I reached into my jacket and pulled out the lightweight, thermal lining of Tiffany’s Swiss tent, which I had quietly slipped from her gear pile during the chaos earlier. It was ultra-light, windproof, and ten times warmer than palm leaves. I shook the fabric at Beck with a grin. “Looks like we got the luxury suite after all.” In the shadows, Beck stared at me. A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but I caught it. By morning, Tiffany and Taylor looked like swollen disasters. Taylor’s right hand was purple and swollen from a pair of bites, and Tiffany had a nasty puncture wound on her calf. The show’s medical team talked them through basic field treatment over the radio, but they didn’t send a rescue team. This was a raw, unscripted survival show; nobody was getting evacuated unless they formally tapped out. By late afternoon, a torrential downpour began, locking us in a relentless storm that lasted for two days and nights. The satellite feeds flickered, and the production radios degraded into static-heavy chatter. On the third morning, a crackling broadcast from camp announced an early emergency supply drop at random coordinates due to the severe weather. I spent twenty minutes on a high ridge, studying the wind patterns and topography. In a heavy storm, helicopter drops always drift. The wind shear through the canyon would push the crates northwest. After calculating the drift angle, I grabbed Beck’s wrist and ran toward the northwest river bend. Sure enough, the metallic green crate was sitting right there. Inside were two boxes of broad-spectrum antibiotics, a sealed waterproof radio, three packs of emergency rations, and a thermal blanket. I stuffed the medical supplies and the radio into my dry bag, then tossed half the rations to Beck. “Let’s move. Back to camp.” We hadn’t gone five hundred yards before we ran right into Tiffany and Taylor. Taylor looked terrible, shivering from a raging fever, sweat pouring down his pale face as Tiffany dragged him along. The moment Tiffany saw my waterproof bag, her eyes flashed with desperate fury. She let go of Taylor, lunging toward the camera crew, tears instantly welling in her eyes. “Cassie! Those supplies are meant for everyone! How can you be so selfish? Taylor is burning up, and you’re just going to let him die!” The lens swung to focus on me. I knew the live chat was probably erupting with outrage. I couldn’t see the screen, but the cameraman’s cold expression told me everything I needed to know. I was the villain again. Tiffany sobbed dramatically, her voice rising to a crescendo. “You did this on purpose! You calculated the drop zone just to steal our medicine! You want Taylor to die out here!” Over the radio, Gary’s voice barked with forced authority. “Cassie, hand over the supplies immediately, or we will have the authorities waiting for you at extraction.” Beck’s jaw tightened. He took a step forward, but I reached out and gently caught his wrist. “Don’t,” I whispered. Leaving him there, I walked over to a nearby pine tree and untied a small GoPro I had strapped high on the trunk the day before.

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After failing the portfolio review for my dream art college, I had to drag myself back to the prep studio for another season of intensive training. But the moment I walked into the painting room, I froze. Someone was driving a knife straight into Mr. Evans’s chest. I clamped my hand over my mouth, bolted out of the building, and called 91 Yet, when I returned with the police officers, Mr. Evans was sitting calmly by the window, sipping hot tea. He set his cup down, looking at us with utter confusion. “Is something wrong, officers? Why are you here?” The lead officer turned on me, his face grim as he gave me a harsh lecture. “Prank calling emergency services is a federal offense, young lady. Don’t ever pull a stunt like this again!” An icy chill ran down my spine. If Mr. Evans was alive… then who was the person I saw get stabbed to death? 1 Mr. Evans shielded me, bowing slightly to apologize to the officers. “I’m so sorry, officers. She probably just saw things. She didn’t mean to cause trouble. Chloe, thank you for worrying about me. But as you can see, I’m the only one here, and I’m perfectly fine.” I stared at Mr. Evans. He looked and sounded exactly like his usual self. The other students, who had started trickling in, began whispering. They all assumed I had lost my mind after failing my college admissions. “Chloe, I know getting rejected by the art academy was tough, but you can’t just make up crazy stories like this.” “Seriously. Mr. Evans has been so good to you. How could you wish death on him? Talk about ungrateful.” Mia, who had also failed her portfolio review, nodded sympathetically. “Chloe, what’s going on with you? Mr. Evans is standing right there.” The officer sighed, giving me a look of pure pity. “Look, kids these days are under too much pressure. I’ll let it slide this time. But make sure you verify the situation before you call us next time, okay?” How was this possible? When I walked in earlier, I distinctly saw someone plunging a knife into Mr. Evans. He had collapsed on the floor, pooling in a massive, sickening puddle of crimson blood. Could the victim have been someone else? Was the killer actually Mr. Evans? Had he murdered someone and cleaned up the scene? Seeing me stand there frozen, the officers nodded to Mr. Evans and turned to leave. I rushed forward, grabbing the officer’s sleeve. My hands were shaking violently. “Just because Mr. Evans is fine doesn’t mean no one died! What if it was someone else? Officer, please, can you just look around before you go? A person might be dead!” The officer looked at me thoughtfully, then exchanged a helpless glance with Mr. Evans. Ultimately, he decided to do a quick sweep of the main studio. “Kid, we checked everywhere. There’s nothing. Based on what you described, if there was a stabbing, there should be blood everywhere. But the hardwood floors are spotless. Even if a crime did happen, how could a killer clean up a massive pool of blood in less than ten minutes?” The other students chimed in. “Class is about to start. Who would commit a murder right now? They’d have to be stupid. The timing and place are way too risky.” “Chloe, are you sure you’re not having stress-induced hallucinations?” “Yeah, if you’re sick, go home and rest. Don’t ruin our studio time.” I stared at the highly polished floor, falling into a deep silence. The officer was right. There should have been blood. How did the killer do it? “Officer, please, could you check the other rooms? And around the building? I swear to you, someone was hurt. Even if they aren’t dead, with that much blood, they must be gravely injured. I’m telling the truth, please believe me!” Seeing the sheer desperation in my eyes, the officer hesitated before agreeing to search the rest of the facility. The other students lost interest, ignoring me as they sat down at their easels and began sketching. The whole thing felt incredibly surreal. Taking advantage of Mr. Evans stepping out to the restroom, I dropped to my knees, pretending to look for something. Finally, in the far corner, I found it—a faint, wiped-clean smudge of blood. There were also a few tiny, almost invisible red splatters on the wall. Staring at those faint red spots, my hands and feet went completely numb. Someone had been attacked here. But the sheer volume of blood I saw earlier couldn’t possibly be represented by just this tiny smudge. What was going on? No matter what, when we arrived, only Mr. Evans was in the room. He had to be involved. 2 “Chloe, what are you doing down there?” Mr. Evans’s voice suddenly boomed from right above me, making me jump. I frantically waved my paintbrush, trying to sound casual. “Oh, I just dropped my brush.” “Get up. The floor is dirty.” He didn’t seem to suspicious, walking back to his usual spot by the window. Even his smile was the exact same warm, encouraging smile he always gave us. Suddenly, an terrifying thought popped into my head. What if… this man wasn’t Mr. Evans, but the killer disguised as him? And the real Mr. Evans was already dead. I stood up, brushing off my jeans, and pulled a sketchbook from my bag. “Mr. Evans, I’m really struggling with this shading. Can you show me how to fix it?” “Sure, let me see.” He reached out and took my sketchbook. “Chloe, I mainly teach gouache and color theory, remember? I’m not the best with charcoal sketching. You should ask Mr. Carter about this later.” I took the sketchbook back, nodding slowly. “Right. Sorry, Mr. Evans. I grabbed the wrong book.” Except, I hadn’t. Mr. Evans was a gouache teacher, but he was incredibly skilled in sketching too. Last semester, I had asked him for help with my charcoal drawings multiple times, and he had always patiently guided me. But now, this man was rejecting me under the excuse of “not being professional enough.” I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Maybe he just didn’t feel like doing charcoal work today? I reached into my bag and pulled out my color-wheel notebook, opening it and handing it to him. He pointed to a heavily blended shadow on a gouache piece, picking up a brush to adjust it. “The saturation here is too high. Blend in a bit of grey tone, and keep your strokes lighter. See? That creates the depth.” I stared at the perfectly corrected shadow, cold sweat breaking out across my back. He wasn’t Mr. Evans. Going back to my seat, I pulled out my phone and quickly sent a Snapchat message to Mia. Mia, that guy isn’t Mr. Evans. He painted directly onto my paper, and his brush grip is totally different from how Mr. Evans holds it… Mia glanced at me, then stealthily turned her head to observe the man by the window. She snapped back a reply a moment later. Oh my god, you’re right. The grip is off. So what you told the cops… it was real? Yes, I know what I saw. But I don’t know how the scene was cleaned up so fast. But Mr. Evans is right there, and the cops didn’t find anyone else. I typed and erased my reply several times before finally sending: Do you trust me? I think Mr. Evans was murdered, and this guy is the killer. Before she could reply, the police officer came bursting back into the room. He tapped on the door, nodded to the fake Mr. Evans, and then looked at me with a grim expression. “The security cameras for the studio are down, so we couldn’t get any footage. But we found something else. Miss, step outside for a moment.” The fake Mr. Evans blinked. “Officer? Did something happen?” The officer rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “We found a body near the back exit of the studio. We need everyone to cooperate with the investigation.” The room went dead silent for a second before exploding into chaos. “No way! Someone is actually dead? I thought Chloe was just losing it. Oh my god…” “She was probably just guessing! First she said Mr. Evans was stabbed, now she says it’s someone else. It’s just a crazy coincidence.” “This is terrifying… Was the murder actually committed inside the studio?” Mia froze, staring at me in shock. My face was pale as I stood up, slowly following the officer out of the classroom. Whose body could it be? 3 The fake Mr. Evans, looking concerned, followed us out. Our small group walked in tense silence toward the back exit. Sure enough, a body was lying in the corner. The police had already taped off the area. The first thing I noticed was a foot wearing a black leather shoe. I looked down. It was the exact same brand and style of shoe that the fake Mr. Evans was currently wearing. Which meant the shoes on the corpse didn’t belong to the real Mr. Evans. I took a deep breath, forcing my eyes to travel upward. The victim’s clothes were utterly soaked in blood, a silver kitchen knife still protruding from his chest. I recognized that knife. It was the exact one I had seen this morning. And those clothes… Mr. Evans had a very similar outfit. I stole a glance at the fake Mr. Evans standing next to me, then looked back at the corpse. Could my memory be playing tricks on me? The corpse had a very rugged, coarse face, but a very thin, frail frame. I was absolutely certain. This was not the man I saw being stabbed this morning. A face that distinct was impossible to misidentify. Something was deeply wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The officer pointed a chin toward the body. “Is this the man you saw this morning?” I shook my head firmly. “No, I’ve never seen him before. His build is completely different from the person I saw.” The fake Mr. Evans turned pale, looking horrified by the sight of the body. “Officer… how could a body end up here?” The officer scratched his head. “We found him during our sweep. This area has low foot traffic and no cameras. The young lady said there was an assault inside the studio this morning, but she claims she doesn’t recognize this victim. And since there’s no blood inside the studio, this is likely a separate incident. In fact, this alley seems to be the primary crime scene.” I looked where he was pointing. The brick walls and the grass were covered in splatters of blood. It looked exactly like the pool of blood I had seen on the studio floor this morning. The fake Mr. Evans took a step back, looking down at me. “Chloe, it seems this case has nothing to do with our studio. Are you sure you didn’t just have a nightmare? I got here at 7:00 AM, and I didn’t see anyone, let alone get attacked.” I kept my head down, saying nothing. For a second, I actually began to wonder if I was losing my mind. The moment I sat back down at my easel, a boy next to me started mocking me. “I heard the cops. The body outside looks nothing like what you described. You really are losing it, Chloe. If you fail your portfolio review again this year, are you going to go on a killing spree next?” “Stay away from her. I heard mentally unstable people don’t even go to jail. Let’s keep our distance.” “Mr. Evans, you should call her mom to pick her up. No one can focus on painting with a psycho in the room!” Mia couldn’t take it anymore and snapped back at them. “You guys aren’t focusing because you’re lazy, don’t blame Chloe!” I gently tugged at Mia’s sleeve. “Don’t waste your breath.” She glared at the boys one last time before sitting down beside me. My mind was spinning. A corpse vanishing from the studio, and another appearing at the back gate. Two gruesome crimes happening in the exact same place on the exact same day? There was no way it was a coincidence. I holding my brush, but I couldn’t paint a single stroke. Finally, the afternoon session arrived, but Mr. Carter, our sketching teacher, never showed up. The fake Mr. Evans checked his watch repeatedly and tried calling him several times, but there was no answer. By the time the studio closed for the day, Mr. Carter was still missing. A horrible dread began to pool in my stomach. Could the dead body in the alley be Mr. Carter? 4 “Class dismissed, everyone. Go straight home and stay safe,” the fake Mr. Evans said, quickly packing his things and leaving. Mia was also packing her bag. I tapped her shoulder and leaned in close to her ear. “Now that he’s gone, want to do a little searching?” I pointed out the window. The fake Mr. Evans was walking incredibly fast, already crossing the street. “I don’t think he’s coming back tonight.” Mia hesitated, but eventually nodded. I pulled her toward the deeper parts of the studio. There were a few smaller classrooms in the back that were rarely used, mostly serving as storage for canvases, plaster casts, and extra paint. We checked them one by one, but found nothing. Disappointed, we were about to leave when Mia said she needed to use the restroom. The moment we walked in, a metallic, iron-like smell hit our noses. But since it was a communal women’s restroom, we didn’t think much of it. There were four stalls. The first three were messy and unlocked. But the door to the fourth stall was locked tight from the inside. “Someone must be in there. Whatever, I’ll just wait till I get home,” Mia said. As we walked out, Sophie, the receptionist, was sweeping the lobby. After walking a few steps outside the building, I stopped. “Let’s go find Mr. Carter. I can’t shake this bad feeling.” “But we don’t even know where he lives.” “Sophie should have his address on file. Let’s go back and ask.” As we retraced our steps, Mia asked quietly, “Do you think the dead body is Mr. Carter?” “I don’t know. But you know Mr. Carter is never late, let alone skips a whole day of class. Today he just completely ghosted us, and no one could reach him. Plus, there were those bloodstains I found. It’s too much of a coincidence.” When we got back, Sophie was sweeping our classroom. She gasped when she saw us. “Oh! What are you guys doing back?” “Sophie, we wanted to ask for Mr. Carter’s address. He missed his class today, and Mr. Evans said he couldn’t reach him either. We’re worried and wanted to check on him.” Sophie pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Oh, Mr. Carter? Yeah, he didn’t show up this afternoon, and I couldn’t reach him either. But about ten minutes ago, he posted in our WhatsApp group chat saying he overslept.” She turned her screen toward us. Sure enough, there was a message from Mr. Carter in the studio’s group chat. So sorry, everyone. I caught a nasty cold and took some heavy meds. Totally slept through my alarms. He had also sent a $50 Starbucks e-gift card to the chat. Right below his message, the fake Mr. Evans had replied: Man, I thought something terrible happened. I was actually on my way to your apartment. Glad you’re okay. I’m heading back home now. Mia and I finally let out a massive sigh of relief. “Thank God. He’s okay.” Even so, I decided to text Mr. Carter directly. Mr. Carter, are you coming to the studio tomorrow? He replied almost instantly. Yes. If you have any questions about your sketches, bring them to me tomorrow. The heavy weight on my chest lifted. But the original questions rushed back to haunt me. Who was the person killed this morning? Where did the body go? And was Mr. Evans really the killer? My brain was a tangled mess. We said goodbye to Sophie and turned to leave. Suddenly, we heard Sophie mutter behind us, “Wait, why is this rug over here?” I spun around. The rug that was always placed right at the entrance of the classroom had been moved to the far window. Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in my head. “I know what happened!”

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