Author: Momo Chan

1 The moment we were reborn on the set of that godforsaken reality show, I scheduled a hysterectomy. My fiancé, the heir to the Croft empire, booked a vasectomy. In our past life, it all started at our engagement party. Melody, the underprivileged student we were sponsoring, burst in and pointed a trembling finger at me. “How can you marry him when you’re carrying my brother’s baby?” Then she turned, weeping, to my fiancé, Julian. “And I’m carrying your child! How could you just abandon me?” We thought it was a sick joke. We’d never done what she claimed. We’d met her family when the show had us stay at their rural home, and moved by their poverty, we offered our support. But then, in front of a ravenous press corps, she produced two positive pregnancy tests. Hers, and mine. She tried to force me to marry her brother. She demanded Julian marry her. When the story broke, my acting career imploded overnight. Julian’s family business was dragged through the mud, the stock price plummeting, pushing them to the brink of bankruptcy. To clear our names, we had no choice but to see the pregnancies through. We waited for the births, for the DNA tests that would finally prove our innocence. We never imagined the results would only seal our public execution. Unwilling to drag our families down with us, we walked into a blizzard on a remote mountain and let the cold take us. And then, I opened my eyes. We were back. Back on the very first day we stayed in Melody Song’s home. … I gasped, my lungs burning as if I’d been starved of air. A cold sweat soaked through my clothes, the phantom chill of the blizzard still clinging to my bones. I looked down at my hands—pale and slender, not the swollen, frostbitten claws I remembered. A knock came at the door. “Sera? I need to talk to you…” That voice. Cool, familiar, beloved. Tears streamed down my face. I threw the door open and launched myself into his arms like a moth drawn to a flame. Julian Croft. The crown prince of New York’s high society. We’d grown up together, and the moment he heard I was joining a dating reality show, he’d signed up too. He held me back with the same desperate force, like a man reclaiming a lost treasure. When we finally calmed down, we sat on the edge of the flimsy bed. The room smelled of damp earth and mildew, the walls stained with black mold. Neither of us spoke. Julian pulled out his phone, and I saw the date. September 20th. Day one of filming. The day we were assigned to stay with the Song family, the day our naive compassion set our doom in motion. I saw the complex emotions warring in his eyes. He remembered, too. We were both reborn, back at the start of the nightmare. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice thick with a fear that mirrored my own. “We’re both back.” Neither could I. In our last life, our story on the show had been a fairytale. We became the nation’s sweethearts, and the proposal was the perfect, logical next step. That day, the one we’d anticipated our whole lives, became the first day of our damnation. Julian was on one knee, the ring box open, my hand trembling as I reached for it. That’s when Melody burst in. She claimed we had toyed with her and her brother’s affections during our stay. She screamed that the baby in my belly wasn’t Julian’s—and that the one in hers was the true Croft heir. We thought she was insane. We’d never even been alone with either of them. Then she produced the pregnancy reports. The media, always hungry for a scandal, devoured the story. Copies of the reports were everywhere. Our careers, our lives, were put on hold. But Julian and I, we never doubted each other. To prove our innocence, we agreed to wait for the births, for the DNA tests. The moment the babies were born, we thought we were saved. Instead, we were dragged into an even deeper abyss. When the results came back, we stared at the two reports in disbelief. My child was a genetic match for her intellectually disabled brother, Peter. And her child was a 99.9% match for Julian. The hospital was a circus of flashing cameras. Live streams of our public humiliation hit millions of viewers in minutes. The world’s judgment was swift and merciless. Sluts and scumbags. No wonder they found each other. The rich are all the same. They see a poor family and just use them for sport. Disgusting. Who would ever support them again? God knows what diseases they’re carrying. Our families were dragged into it, accused of using their philanthropic work as a front for depraved activities. The shock sent Julian’s grandfather to the ICU. We couldn’t let them suffer anymore. We posted one final, cryptic message online, and walked into the snow. Now, sitting in that wretched room, we tried to piece it together, to understand how it had all gone so wrong. One thing was certain: once this show wrapped, our families would push for that engagement party again. The thought of that day, once a dream, now a terror, made Julian’s hand tighten on mine. “This time,” we said in unison, our voices a low, fierce promise, “we find the truth. And we never repeat the past.” The next morning, the rooster’s crow woke us. As Julian and I stepped out of the room, we found Melody standing right outside the door, her eyes blazing. “Why are you two coming out of the same room?” she demanded. Julian’s gaze was hard as flint. He draped an arm over my shoulder, pulling me close. “We grew up together. We’re in love. Get over it.” Melody’s expression flickered. She seemed to realize she’d come on too strong. Her voice softened. “I was just worried. You’re on camera. I didn’t want it to affect your image.” She bustled off to make breakfast as the film crew began to arrive. A few minutes later, she returned with just two boiled eggs, her head bowed in practiced humility. The camera zoomed in on her, and she shuffled her feet, drawing attention to her worn-out shoes. Her brother, Peter, wandered out, his pants stained with something unidentifiable. Last time, we had immediately offered to sponsor them, to find the best doctors for Peter. This time, we just wanted the truth. We wanted to get as far away from these two as possible. Melody offered us the eggs. Her stomach rumbled audibly, and Peter drooled, his eyes fixed on the food. I smiled sweetly and pushed the eggs back towards her. “We’re not hungry. You two eat.” We said nothing about sponsorship. Melody froze, insisting we take them. A crew member chimed in. “Just take it. It’s a kind gesture. It’s the last two eggs they have.” Julian was a Croft. He’d only reined in his imperious nature for my sake. That comment was the last straw. He snatched the eggs and thrust them at the crew member. “Here. You eat it. Don’t let her kindness go to waste.” The man, remembering exactly who Julian was, paled and accepted the eggs. I turned and met Melody’s eyes. They were filled with a burning hatred. Even Peter’s vacant stare held a flash of malice. Something was deeply wrong here. Peter had a government-issued disability certificate; that couldn’t be faked. And yet, in our past life, after my child was born, he had miraculously recovered his health. He and Melody had come to us, demanding I take my child and marry him. We still had several days of filming left. Julian and I knew we couldn’t eat or drink anything the Songs offered us. Seeing our refusal, Melody’s eyes welled up with tears. She cast a wounded look at the director. He whispered something to her, and she immediately calmed down, turning to me with a faint, chilling smile. A sense of dread washed over me. Sure enough, the next day, without any warning, the show was switched to a live broadcast. As the cast sat together, Melody appeared, representing the village. She carried a platter of local fruit, her eyes wide and pleading. “I hope you won’t look down on our humble offering.” The other cast members, unconcerned, each took a piece of fruit. Remembering our last life, Julian and I didn’t move. Suddenly, Melody dropped to her knees. She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears, a portrait of defiant sorrow. I followed her gaze and saw eight cameras pointed directly at us. I understood. I almost had to laugh at the sheer audacity of it. The network knew their audience. They loved watching entitled celebrities and rich kids bully a simple, poor girl from the countryside. They’d seen our hostility towards the Songs and cooked up this little piece of theater on the fly. Just as they’d hoped, the live chat exploded. So much for the ‘philanthropist’ actress. Her true colors are showing. They’re two of a kind. She’s just as fake as he is. That poor girl’s hands are shaking and they won’t even take the fruit. Melody’s voice broke into a sob. “I know our village is poor… and you probably look down on us… but this is the best we have to offer, Miss Pitt…” I saw the fury building in Julian’s eyes and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Melody’s acting was superb. It was a shame she wasn’t in Hollywood. But she forgot one thing. I was an actress, too. An award-winning one. I bit my lip and sighed, bowing my head. When I looked up again, my own eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “Julian, it’s okay,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. “So what if I have a skin allergy right now? I can eat it. If something happens, I’m sure the network will get me to a hospital.” Julian, my partner in all things since childhood, caught on instantly. His tone shifted to one of grudging concern. “You’re right. It’s a kind gesture. Worst case, I’ll just stay with you at the hospital. We can watch the rest of the show from there.” We were the show’s main draw. The director knew he couldn’t afford to lose us. He cleared his throat, ordered the live broadcast cut, and waved for the crew to help Melody up and escort her away. But she suddenly wrenched free. She ran to Julian, her face a mask of innocent concern, but her words were a cold blade of terror. “Brother, why are you so angry? It’s okay. You’ll belong to Melody soon anyway.” She then turned to me, her smile serene. “And you, Miss Pitt, will be part of our family, too.” With that, she calmly allowed the crew to lead her away. In our past life, her words would have been nonsense. This time, Julian and I felt a chilling dread seep into our very bones. The show ended, and as expected, our on-screen romance captivated the nation. A month later, despite my caution, a paparazzo caught me looking nauseous. The tabloids ran with it. Our parents saw the news and called immediately, urging us to get married as soon as possible. They even bought a ridiculously large diamond at auction and had it couriered to Julian. The news spread like wildfire: The Croft heir and the A-list actress, a shotgun wedding. The proposal was imminent, and the world expected a spectacle. I leaned against Julian’s shoulder, the memory of our icy deaths making my voice catch. “Julian, maybe we shouldn’t do the proposal. Maybe we should just… elope.” He took my cold hands in his. “I can’t let you marry me without a proper proposal. We’ve been so careful this time. I still want to give you the wedding of your dreams.” Our parents were insistent. There was no getting out of it. A dark premonition settled in my gut, but with Julian by my side, I felt a flicker of security. On the day of the engagement party, I was in a couture gown, Julian’s hand holding mine as we entered the grand ballroom. And just like before, Melody was there, with Peter in tow. She was clutching a stack of papers, dressed in thin, ragged clothes, her stomach slightly rounded. “You’re getting married? What about us? Did you think you could just play with our hearts and walk away without any consequences?” The room erupted. Reporters swarmed, their cameras flashing. With tears and snot running down her face, Melody spun her tragic tale of coming all the way from her poor village only to find the father of her child marrying another woman—a woman who was carrying her own brother’s baby. Gasps filled the hall. Melody began handing out copies of the pregnancy reports. She pointed at me. “To create some saintly image for yourself, you seduced my disabled brother! You got pregnant with his child! And after the show, you just tossed him aside! But he’s in love with you now! He can’t live without you!” Then, turning to Julian, she wept. “And you! You told me you were tired of this woman, that you only loved me! You gave me this baby! Why are you still with this slut? Why?” Just like last time, the crowd was swayed by her performance. They turned on us. “Tsk, tsk. They took advantage of those poor villagers, and now it’s come back to bite them.” “A pair of disgusting cheats. They make me sick.” Julian and I met each other’s gaze and shared a cold, humorless smile. She was here. Right on cue. As Melody reached for me, trying to drag me away with her brother, I pulled free. I slapped a piece of paper against her face. My words were clear, ringing through the silent hall. “Then explain this. How does a woman with no uterus get pregnant with your brother’s child?” Julian, with a look of utter disgust, threw his own report at her feet. The one confirming his vasectomy.

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On my wedding day, I knew the sweet soup my half-sister brought me was drugged. I smiled and drank it all. I watched as she eagerly changed into my wedding gown and stepped into the limousine of Steve Clarke, the kingpin of the island’s criminal underworld. In my last life, I woke up and hysterically tore her deception to shreds, ruining her reputation and getting her exiled from the city. I then married Steve, using my father’s position as a high-ranking military commander to help him legitimize his empire and rise to the apex of power. It all came crashing down when I was on the delivery table, my life hanging by a thread. Steve dismissed the doctors. He stood there, holding my sister and their one-month-old son, his eyes cold. “Seraphina,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, “if it wasn’t for your family’s power, I would have gotten rid of you long ago for the humiliation you put Sylvia through. Now that your father’s own position is precarious, it’s time for you to step aside.” My sister, Sylvia, ground the tip of her stiletto into my fingers, a vicious smile on her face. “Dear sister, everything you fought to protect? My son and I will enjoy it thoroughly. The title and prestige of being Mrs. Clarke are finally returning to their rightful owner.” I died in a storm of agonizing pain and heart-wrenching betrayal. When I opened my eyes, I was reborn. It was my wedding day. … Outside the window, the faint, elegant notes of the wedding march drifted in. I sat up and waited for a quarter of an hour before pressing my temples and walking out of the room. My mother was just turning to go back inside, the corners of her eyes still glistening with unshed tears. When she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, she gasped. My father heard her and turned. “Seraphina? Didn’t you just get in the car?” He pointed toward the main gate, his face a mask of confusion. “Then who was that in the wedding dress who just left?” I clutched my chest, my expression one of feigned horror. “It can’t be… Last night, Sylvia said she couldn’t bear for me to leave and made me a bowl of sweet soup. After I drank it, I felt so drowsy… I’ve been asleep this whole time…” The festive atmosphere in the room instantly turned to ice. Guests exchanged uneasy glances. My mother’s chest heaved, and she nearly stumbled. “Bring Linda to me now!” she commanded, her voice sharp as glass. Linda, Sylvia’s mother, was dragged from the crowd by security. She was clutching a suitcase, clearly having planned to flee. “No wonder you were crying harder than I was,” my mother seethed. “I thought you were genuinely sad to see Seraphina go. Instead, you were sending your own daughter off in the Clarke limousine!” Linda’s eyes darted around, but she tried to remain calm. “Madam, what are you talking about? The young miss overslept and missed her own car. You can’t blame Sylvia for that.” Before she could finish, the butler rushed over and whispered, “Sir, Madam, the Thorne family’s car is here to pick up the second young miss.” My mother’s face was a frozen mask of fury. “Which car did Sylvia get into? Find her and bring her back!” A cold sneer touched my lips. It had been almost half an hour. Sylvia was probably already in Steve Clarke’s penthouse. And Steve, I knew, would have been just as impatient. I glanced at the triumphant smirk Linda couldn’t quite hide and understood everything. This mother-daughter duo had played their hand perfectly. Years ago, Linda had been sent by my father’s rivals to drug him and conceive Sylvia. To protect his reputation, he had no choice but to let them into our home. Now, Sylvia had repeated the trick, drugging me to steal my place. By the time I woke up, the deed would be done. I had two choices: swallow this monumental humiliation, or marry the man intended for her, Captain Marcus Thorne. The Thorne family wasn’t the most powerful on the island, but Marcus, despite his youth, was one of my father’s most capable and decorated officers, his future limitless. My father admired his steady, resolute character and had arranged the match for Sylvia. But Sylvia had swapped her discarded engagement for my glamorous one. If I accepted, the news would spread like wildfire: the eldest daughter of the Shen family, jilted by the Clarkes, had been forced into a lesser marriage. I would become the laughingstock of the island’s elite. In my previous life, this was how Sylvia, with Steve’s backing, had stolen my marriage. Back then, with my parents’ support, I stormed the Clarke wedding. Steve, wary of my father’s military power, denied any knowledge of the switch and allowed my father’s men to drag Sylvia away. I married him, and he treated me with adoration. I naively believed he had been truly deceived that day, never knowing he and Sylvia were already lovers, just waiting for the right moment to use my family’s influence before casting us into the abyss. The butler reported breathlessly, “The second young miss is not in her room. The wedding dress from the Thorne family is on the bed, but all her personal belongings and documents are gone!” He handed my father a sealed envelope. “This was found in a hidden compartment in her vanity.” My father’s face was grim as he tore it open. Inside were several passionate letters in Steve’s handwriting and a few pieces of expensive jewelry. The veins on his temples bulged. He slammed the envelope into Linda’s face. “This is your precious daughter! Seducing her own sister’s fiancé! You have brought nothing but shame to this family!” I had found those carefully hidden keepsakes the moment I woke up, ensuring they would be made public. I needed everyone to see that this was a long-planned conspiracy. As expected, a wave of murmuring and disdain swept through the crowd. “She’s the daughter of a mistress. The Shens were charitable enough to take her in, and she repays them by drugging her sister to steal a marriage? The audacity!” “And that Clarke boy is no better. Engaged to one sister while carrying on with the other. It shows his character!” Linda, calculating that the situation was now irreversible, straightened her back. “Sir, Sylvia is still a daughter of this family! Why not just let them be? It makes things easier for the Clarke family as well…” My mother, trembling with rage, slapped her across the face. “Let them be? Your daughter used disgusting methods to steal my child’s future, and you dare ask for our blessing?” “Guards! Detain this woman! She’ll be handed over to the police!” Linda collapsed to the floor, shrieking, “You can’t touch me! I’m Steve Clarke’s mother-in-law! When he finds out, he won’t let you get away with this!” “I only have one daughter,” my father said, his voice like ice. “Taking you in was an act of mercy. Since you dared to plot against my most precious child, you have no one to blame but yourselves.” He waved his hand, and two guards mercilessly dragged Linda away. The butler approached, his expression troubled. “Sir, the Thorne family is still waiting at the gate. They’re asking when they can begin the procession.” My father’s face was ashen. “Gather my men! We’re going to the Clarkes! I’ll drag that wretched girl back here myself and force her to marry into the Thorne family!” “Father, there’s no need.” I stepped forward and calmly took his arm. “If Steve’s heart is with Sylvia, then I, Seraphina Shen, have no interest in fighting for a disloyal, dishonorable man.” My gaze was steady. “Marcus Thorne is a man you personally promoted. He is capable, loyal, and trustworthy. If we call off the wedding today, what would that do to his and his family’s honor? I am willing to marry him.” My mother grabbed my hand in shock. “Seraphina, don’t say things you’ll regret. This is…” “Mother, I’m not being emotional.” I squeezed her hand. “Marcus is a rising star who has earned his position through merit alone. I trust your judgment, Father, and I trust in his future.” The surrounding guests looked at me with open admiration. “Miss Shen’s grace and perspective are truly remarkable!” “Compared to her, that illegitimate sister is nothing but dirt.” My mother pulled me into a hug, her voice choked with emotion. “But this is so unfair to you, my darling…” My father took a deep breath. “That Clarke boy has humiliated my daughter. He will never get another ounce of support from me again! And as for his shady businesses on the island, he can forget about them running smoothly anymore!” His tone was resolute. “But right now, I’m going to the Clarkes to demand an explanation. Otherwise, that bastard will think the Shen family can be pushed around!” When we arrived at the lavish Clarke estate atop the island’s highest peak, the wedding reception was in full swing. Our sudden intrusion caused a stir among the guests. “Isn’t that Seraphina Shen? She’s the bride, isn’t she? What is she doing here?” “Then who was that woman who exchanged vows with Steve Clarke and was taken upstairs?” A family elder who had accompanied us snorted. “That was just the mistress’s daughter. She used a vulgar trick to steal her sister’s wedding!” The chatter swelled into a roar.

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Everyone in this city knows that Sebastian Thorne, the heir to the Thorne gambling empire, despises me to his very core. He makes a sport of humiliating me at every party we’re forced to attend. “My family built its empire on these tables,” he’d sneer to the crowd. “And Eleanor Larkin? She’s a pretty face who can’t even tell a spade from a club.” “Marrying her? I’d get more of a reaction out of a goddamn inflatable doll!” But thanks to an ironclad marriage contract between our families, and the unfortunate fact that his precious little imposter is barren, he found a different way to use me. He dragged me to the poker table. “If you lose,” he declared, his voice cold as ice, “I’m taking your womb. You will carry my heir.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “And it will be a C-section. No anesthesia.” I had taken enough of his torment. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “Fine,” I said, my voice dangerously sweet. “And if I win, I’m taking your goddamn manhood.” The crowd roared with laughter. They thought I was a fool, completely out of my league. After all, everyone in Vegas knew the name Sebastian Thorne. They called him the Phantom. I just lowered my eyes, silent. The Phantom, indeed. Because five years ago, on a rain-lashed night in this very city, I was the one who took that Phantom’s hands in mine and taught him how to cheat just to stay alive. 1 The roar of laughter in the grand ballroom was a familiar soundtrack to my humiliation. I took my seat at the poker table, my expression a carefully constructed mask of calm. My composure seemed to pique Sebastian Thorne’s interest. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, well. I’ll give you this, you’ve got guts.” His voice dripped with condescension. “Then again, guts are all you have left when you’re this stupid. Miss Larkin, I hear you can’t even tell a spade from a club. Shall I walk you through the rules of Five-Card Stud?” My eyes scanned the green felt, and a jolt of nostalgia, sharp and fierce, shot through me. I shook my head, raising a hand to cut him off. “Thank you, Mr. Thorne, but I know the basics. Five cards, one face down, four face up. Best hand wins. I can manage.” “Good. Since Miss Larkin is so confident, let’s begin!” Sebastian’s smirk widened. He gestured for the dealer to approach. “Wait!” A sweet, cloying voice cut through the crowd. “Big brother Seb, poker is so much more fun with more players.” Lila, the family’s darling “adopted” daughter, emerged from the sea of onlookers. Dressed in something scandalously flimsy, she sashayed over and draped herself across Sebastian’s lap. Coiling her arms around his neck, she shot me a venomous, triumphant look. “You don’t mind, do you, sister?” In front of me, his actual fiancée, this display was a slap in the face. Sebastian, far from being annoyed, simply stroked her cheek. “Lila, darling, don’t be a brat,” he chided playfully. “Your sister is a novice. Are you trying to bully her on her first time at the table?” Lila pouted, about to launch into a practiced whimper. I narrowed my eyes. From the side, I had to admit, the little imposter really did look a bit like me. Before she could speak, I cut in, my voice cool and even. “It’s fine. Whatever makes my little sister happy. It’s just one more player.” I turned to the dealer. “You may deal the cards.” Sebastian flinched, my unnatural calm clearly unsettling him. Still, he couldn’t imagine I was anything but a fool bluffing. He suppressed his flicker of doubt and patted Lila’s hip. “Alright, stop messing around. If you’re going to play, go sit properly.” Lila pouted but slid off his lap, taking the seat beside him. A waiter moved silently to our table, stacking thirty million dollars’ worth of chips in front of each of us. Lila’s eyes went wide, gleaming with greed. The dealer unwrapped a fresh deck of cards. He fanned them, separated the twenty-eight needed for the game, and began to shuffle with a mesmerizing, fluid motion. The soft shuffling sound stopped. The game had begun. The dealer’s fingers danced, sliding the first face-down card to each of us. Then came the first face-up card: Sebastian received a Six of Hearts, Lila a Jack of Diamonds, and I, an Ace of Spades. The dealer glanced at the table. “By the rules of Stud, the Ace of Spades is the highest card showing. Miss Larkin, you may bet or fold.” “Of course,” I said, my fingers tracing the edge of an ivory chip. I didn’t push it forward. Instead, I let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Mr. Thorne, you went to all this trouble to get me to play one hand. It seems a shame to just play for money. It’s so… boring.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Why don’t we raise the stakes?” 2 Sebastian stared at me, then let out a short, sharp laugh. He looked at me like I was an idiot who’d gotten one lucky card and thought she owned the world. “By all means. Since Miss Larkin is so eager, tell us. What do you have in mind?” I met his mocking gaze, my finger tapping the Ace of Spades in front of me. “The New Port development project. Thorne Industries holds a five percent stake, and Larkin Holdings has three percent.” “I’ll wager my family’s three percent against your five.” I smiled sweetly. “What do you say, Sebastian?” The ballroom erupted. “Is Eleanor Larkin insane? That’s the New Port! The Thornes, the Larkins, and half a dozen other families have bled themselves dry fighting over that project for years. And she’s just throwing it on a poker table?” “No wonder Sebastian can’t stand her! How could the Larkin family produce such a moron?” “Tsk, tsk. Her grandfather nearly died to build that company, and she’s gambling it away like it’s pocket change. If I were him, I’d crawl out of my grave to strangle the little beast!” … Sebastian clapped his hands, the sharp sounds cutting through the noise. “Excellent! Truly excellent! With Miss Larkin showing such… ‘courage,’ how could I possibly refuse?” “I’m in!” I nodded, satisfied, then slowly turned my gaze to Lila. “Sister dear, Sebastian has matched the bet.” My voice was silk and poison. “Now… what about you?” Lila bit her lip. She was a fraud, with no claim to the Larkin fortune. Her father was a weak man who had married into my mother’s money. What could she possibly wager? The thirty million in chips before her was more cash than she’d ever seen in her life. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. She looked desperately at Sebastian. He, of course, couldn’t bear to see his little pet suffer. “Lila, say whatever you want,” he declared. “Whatever stake you name, I’ll—” “I wouldn’t finish that sentence, Mr. Thorne!” My voice rose, sharp as cracking ice, cutting him off. “This is a wager between the two of us women. I suggest you stay out of it.” I looked down, slowly twisting the ornate ring on my middle finger—the symbol of my engagement to the Thorne heir. “Don’t you worry, little sister,” I continued, my voice softening deceptively. “I know you don’t have the resources to match such a bet.” I paused, then slid the ring off my finger. It landed in the center of the table with a sharp click. “How about this? I’ll add my position as the future Mrs. Thorne to the pot.” “And I’ll bet it against you publicly admitting the truth. That you’re not some ‘adopted daughter’ my father took in. You’re the illegitimate child he had with the maid while my mother was pregnant with me.” The room gasped. Lila’s face went sheet-white. She slammed her hands on the table and shot to her feet, screaming, “You’re lying!” “I am my father’s adopted daughter! You’re just jealous that he loves me more, so you’re making up these disgusting lies!” She turned to Sebastian, tears already welling in her eyes. “Seb, don’t believe her! She’s just trying to slander me!” Everyone present knew Sebastian’s deepest wound: his loathing for illegitimate children. Years ago, a bastard half-brother had appeared out of nowhere, forcing him into a five-year exile to prove his worth. He’d nearly died overseas, saved only by a mysterious mentor who taught him everything before he could return and reclaim his birthright. Sebastian’s face was unreadable. He simply barked at the hysterical Lila, “Sit down.” Then, his eyes, cold and sharp with warning, fixed on me. “I will get to the bottom of this.” I met his gaze without flinching, as if his threat was nothing more than a summer breeze. I tilted my head. “It’s just a bet, sister. No need to get so worked up. If you’re scared, you can always fold. Why lose your composure so spectacularly?” My casual tone enraged her. “Bet? Of course I’ll bet!” she shrieked. “I’m in!” 3 With all three of us in, the dealer dealt the third card. The cards were turned. Lila got a Jack of Spades, giving her a pair of Jacks face-up—the strongest hand on the table. Sebastian received an Eight of Hearts, which, combined with his Ten of Hearts, gave him a strong potential for a flush. I, however, received a worthless Three of Diamonds. Paired with my Ace of Spades, my hand was a mess. Despite the high Ace, my hand’s potential looked pitiful compared to theirs. The tables had turned in an instant. The dealer gestured to Lila. “The pair of Jacks is the high hand. Miss Hayes, the bet is to you.” The color rushed back into Lila’s face. She glanced at the pathetic Three on my side of the table and nearly laughed out loud. “An idiot is an idiot,” she sneered. “You get one Ace and think you’ve already won? No wonder Father can’t stand you.” She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with malice. “Eleanor, since you love raising the stakes, let’s play for something more… direct.” “I’ll bet all the clothes on my body against all the clothes on yours. Whoever loses strips naked. Right here. And then crawls around the entire ballroom. Let’s let everyone see what the great Eleanor Larkin looks like with nothing left to hide!” “Do you dare?” Under the intense gaze of the entire room, I lowered my head, remaining silent. My shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, as if I were too humiliated to speak, too terrified to move. My face was pale. Sebastian had been watching my impending breakdown with cold detachment. But as the light from the chandelier above caught my downcast eyes, a flicker of something—familiarity?—stirred in his mind. He spoke, his voice a low warning. “Eleanor, if you fold now, I will honor your grandfather’s memory and forget about the three percent stake in the New Port.” “However, this engagement is over. And you will kneel before me and Lila, right here, and beg for our forgiveness. Then, and only then, will this be settled.” He leaned back in his chair, his tone magnanimous, as if offering a scrap to a beggar. “Think carefully before you answer, Eleanor.” The ballroom fell silent. Everyone expected me to take the lifeline he’d thrown. But they were wrong. My shoulders weren’t trembling from fear or shame. They were trembling with excitement. It had been years since I’d encountered a fool as perfect as Lila, one who would so willingly hand me the knife to slit her own throat. I slowly lifted my head. I had already run through every possible outcome of this hand in my mind, confirming the one inevitable result. Everything was perfectly in place. “I’m in.” The words hung in the air, solid and unyielding. Not just the crowd, but even Sebastian and Lila stared at me in stunned disbelief. Sebastian was the first to recover, his shock morphing into pure scorn. “You’re asking for it.” I ignored him, my eyes locked on his darkening expression. “The bet is made, Sebastian,” I said, my voice dangerously playful. “And since you want me to kneel and beg, let’s add that to the pot. If I win, you will stop this pathetic charade of looking for your long-lost ‘mentor’ and parading around trash like Lila as her stand-in. It’s insulting.” “You’re not honoring a memory. You’re desecrating it.” The moment I questioned his devotion to his “mentor,” Sebastian’s composure shattered. His eyes blazed with fury. “Shut your mouth! What do you know?” he snarled, his chest heaving. “You have no idea what she means to me. You have no right to speak her name!” He was beyond reason now, his face a mask of rage. He glared at me, his voice a low, menacing hiss. “Fine. Just fine. You want to play rough, Eleanor? Then don’t blame me for what comes next.” He whipped his head toward the dealer, his words bitten out through clenched teeth. “I’m in!” “Deal the fourth card!” 4 The dealer, startled by his outburst, dealt the fourth card with trembling hands. The cards were revealed. Sebastian got an Ace of Hearts. Not a flush, but with his Ten and Eight of Hearts, it created a formidable four-card flush draw. Combined with his hidden card, his hand was incredibly strong. I received an Ace of Diamonds. Suddenly, my face-up cards were a pair of Aces. “No… impossible! How could it be a Four of Spades!” Before the dealer could even announce the new high hand, Lila shrieked. Her body went limp, and she slid from her chair, collapsing onto the carpet in a heap, all pretense of elegance gone. In her fall, her hand accidentally flipped over her face-down card. A Queen of Hearts. Her four revealed cards were a pair of Jacks, a Queen, and a Four. Her hand was dead. No matter what the final card was, she could never beat my pair of Aces. Lila… was guaranteed to lose. The silence in the ballroom shattered, replaced by a storm of gasps and whispers. Lila was frantic. Scrambling on her hands and knees, she crawled to Sebastian, clutching at his legs, her face a mess of tears and snot. “Seb, you have to save me! Please!” she wailed. “I can’t crawl around naked… I’ll be ruined! I’ll have to kill myself!” Sebastian’s face was thunderous, but as he looked down at Lila’s face—a face that bore a four- or five-tenths resemblance to his mentor’s—his resolve softened. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his fury. “Get up. Stop crying. The game isn’t over yet.” He promised, “I’ll handle this.” He turned to me. “Eleanor, I’m warning you. Stop this now. Fold your hand. You can take the thirty million in chips, and I’ll even give Larkin Holdings another one percent of the New Port shares. Your bet with Lila will be wiped clean. If this goes to the last card, neither of us will walk away clean.” He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “You’ve heard the stories about me. They call me the Phantom. You cannot win.” I shook my head, a slow, deep laugh bubbling up from my chest. My gaze swept over the pathetic, sniveling creature on the floor. “Tsk, tsk. Sebastian, you really do have a soft spot for my dear little sister, don’t you?” “In that case, I’ll just have to—” My laughter stopped abruptly. I slammed my hands forward, shoving my entire mountain of chips into the pot. “All in.” The clatter of the chips echoed through the silent hall. “I’m raising you, Sebastian. All in!” My eyes burned into his. “Since you’re so determined to protect her, then you can take her place. All of her bets are now on you. You lose, you pay her debts. If you win, everything is wiped clean. But if I win…” I let the words hang in the air, each one a drop of ice. “Don’t forget what we agreed on at the beginning.” “I want your goddamn manhood.” Sebastian stared at my audacity, his rage twisting into a bitter, incredulous smile. “Ha! Hahaha! Well, Eleanor. I truly underestimated you. You’ve got venom.” “You’re willing to bet your womb. Why shouldn’t I bet my balls? Let me tell you something. Unless my mentor herself walked through that door right now, there is no one in this room who can beat me!” He turned away from me, his voice a roar. “Dealer! Lila folds. Deal the final card!” The last card flew across the table. Sebastian received a King of Hearts. I got a Three of Spades. He rose to his feet, his eyes sweeping over my cards with cruel triumph before he slowly, dramatically, turned over his final, face-down card. A Seven of Hearts. His full hand was revealed: 8, 10, A, K, 7 of Hearts. A flush. He looked at me, his eyes cold and empty of any pity. “A pair of Threes and an Ace. Your down card must be garbage. Two pair? You think that can beat my flush?” “Don’t blame me, Eleanor.” “You did this to yourself.” Lila, her terror replaced by vicious, ecstatic glee, scrambled to her feet. “That’s right, you bitch! Let’s see you act so high and mighty now!” she shrieked. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure every media outlet in the country gets a copy of the video of you crawling on the floor like the naked animal you are!” The ballroom exploded with noise—jeers, laughter, the thrill of bloodsport. Everyone knew it was over. I was finished. But my expression remained placid, almost bored. I didn’t even spare Lila a glance. My eyes cut through the chaos and landed squarely on Sebastian’s smug, victorious face. I slowly rose from my chair, and my voice, though quiet, carried across the entire room. “Sebastian, is this what I taught you in that back alley in Vegas all those years ago?”

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I dropped twenty-five hundred dollars on a dress for a review, and I couldn’t even get it on. I checked the sizing chart on the product page again and again. I hadn’t made a mistake. Defeated, I initiated a return. I never expected the seller’s response to send a hot rush of blood to my head. [To process your return, you must upload a video detailing twenty flaws in your own body. Then, strip completely naked and get on your knees and bow to the camera in apology.] [Each bow must be audible. As you bow, you must repeat, “I’m sorry, Mr. Designer. The problem is my body.”] I was furious. This was a flagrant violation of my dignity. I told them I was filing a formal complaint. The customer service rep couldn’t have cared less. “Go ahead. I’ve seen plenty of women with crappy bodies like yours. It’s just a few bucks in fines. We can afford it.” Unfortunately for him, he’d picked the wrong target. As a fashion influencer with over ten million followers, I was after a lot more than just a few bucks. 1 The zipper was stuck fast, halfway up my back. No amount of straining would budge it. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the fabric around my waist and hips was so tight I could barely breathe. Finally, I gave up. With my last ounce of strength, I wrestled the dress off my body. It took a few moments to catch my breath before I picked up my phone, opened the shopping app, and navigated to the customer service page to request a return and refund. Before I could even carefully fold the dress, my request was rejected. [Your return/refund request has been denied by the seller.] I paused, realizing I probably should have messaged them first. That was likely the reason for the instant denial. I quickly opened the chat window. [Hi, the dress I ordered doesn’t fit. I’d like to process a return.] The message was marked as read almost immediately. But the same customer service that had denied my request in seconds now met me with a wall of silence. I tried initiating the return again. Again, it was instantly rejected. [Your return/refund request has been denied by the seller.] Frustrated, I sent another message. After another long wait, a reply finally came through. [We do not offer a seven-day no-questions-asked return policy.] The bluntness of the message stunned me. I was used to customer service reps starting every message with a nauseatingly sweet “Hi, sweetie!” This was a first. But that wasn’t the important part. I quickly pulled up the product page again. Sure enough, tucked away in the fine print, there was no mention of the standard seven-day return policy. Fine. My mistake for not noticing. But refusing a return on a product that was clearly defective was another matter entirely. As an influencer who had reviewed thousands of garments, I knew I couldn’t back down now. This was a twenty-five-hundred-dollar dress. I wasn’t about to let it become a very expensive decoration. Nobody’s money grows on trees. I opened my browser, screenshotted the relevant consumer protection laws regarding online sales, and sent them over. [Hi there. By law, most goods sold online are subject to a seven-day return policy, and women’s apparel is included within that category.] [Even if it’s not a quality issue, I have a valid reason for the return. I didn’t order the wrong size, nor did I misjudge my own measurements.] [The fact that it doesn’t fit is a problem with the dress itself. Do you require any proof from my end?] I kept my tone professional and polite, simply stating the facts without aggression. This time, the reply was swift. [Send pictures.] [Make them clear.] The clipped, impersonal tone was grating, but a request for proof was standard procedure. It was a breakthrough. A return was possible. 2 I sighed, looking at the dress lying in a heap beside me. Reluctantly, I picked it up. The last thing I wanted was to squeeze myself back into that torture device, but if it meant getting my money back, I had to do it. Besides, it would make for great video content later. The unforgiving fabric and impossibly tight waistline made the process an ordeal. Finally, I had it on again, the zipper still hopelessly stuck. I grabbed my phone and started taking pictures. The zipper that wouldn’t budge. The red marks the seams left on my arms. The way the waistline cut into my skin, creating rolls that weren’t normally there. I documented everything and sent the photos over. [As you can see, the zipper is completely stuck. The waist is far too tight, and there’s no room in the sleeves.] [I checked the size chart carefully before ordering. I’m a standard small, but according to your chart, I needed a large. I ordered the large, and it still doesn’t fit.] I typed out the message, breathless from the effort, hoping to convey my frustration. A few minutes after the pictures and message were marked as read, the reply came. [I can’t tell anything from these pictures.] I stared at my phone, bewildered. [How is that not clear enough? What more do you need to see?] The rep was unperturbed. [Send a video. A video of you putting it on and taking it off. I need to see how the entire dress performs on your body.] I rubbed my face in exasperation. He was deliberately making this difficult. Just getting the dress on and off was a workout. To film it without flashing the camera, I’d have to wear a tank top underneath, which would make it even tighter. But had I come this far just to let twenty-five hundred dollars go down the drain? I took the dress off again, put on a tank top, set up my phone, and hit record. I narrated the whole process, pointing out every spot where the dress caught or constricted. Once it was on, I showed the camera all the areas that were clearly too small, explaining each issue. To top it off, as I struggled to take it off, I ended up in a ridiculous, contorted pose that perfectly demonstrated just how ill-fitting the garment was. I sent the video and collapsed onto the floor, exhausted and overheated. I never wanted to go through that again. Photos taken. Video recorded. Surely, that was enough to get my refund. A few minutes later, his reply made my blood boil. [This isn’t a problem with the dress.] [It’s a problem with your body. It doesn’t fit because your figure is bad, and you’re blaming the dress. I’m not giving you a refund.] The words on the screen felt like a slap. I nearly threw my phone. Did he think I sent him a video so he could critique my body? Whether my body was “good” or not was irrelevant. This was a size large dress that a person who wears a size small couldn’t even get into. How was that my fault? I was seeing red, my chest tight with fury. Just then, a message from my friend Mimi popped up. I tapped on it, ready to vent. But the link she sent left me numb with shock. It was a link to a forum post titled: “She Blames My Dress for Her Lousy Body. My $2500 Dresses Aren’t Made for Trash Like This.” The cover image was one of the unedited photos I had just sent to customer service. Forgetting to even reply to Mimi, I clicked the link, my whole body trembling. “Can you believe someone had the audacity to return a $2500 dress? Do you know how much of my soul I pour into my work?!” “Her body is so pathetic she can’t even fit into a size large. Instead of reflecting on how disgusting her figure is, she blames the dress?” “I made her send a video, and she actually did it. Flat-chested, no ass, waist like a tree trunk.” “And she’s wearing a t-shirt underneath. What’s she trying to hide? Women like her shouldn’t even be allowed to wear dresses. Looking at her is an assault on the eyes!” The comment section was a cesspool of agreement. “She’s obviously just a cheapskate who wanted to wear a nice dress for some Instagram photos and then return it.” “OP, post the video! I want to see just how bad her body is!” I was about to explode. My fingers flew across the keyboard. “It’s a consumer’s right to return a faulty product! How dare you violate her privacy by posting her photos online? And what business is it of yours what her body looks like?” The original poster replied almost instantly, his tone dripping with venom. “Looks like I hit a nerve. You must have a hideous body too, right? Why don’t you post a picture? We can all see who’s worse.” A few people sided with me. “Dude, who are you to judge her body? Your design is clearly flawed, and you won’t even let her return it. From what I can see, your size large is smaller than a child’s medium. How can you sit here and talk trash?” The poster was relentless. “Another fatty triggered, huh? If you can’t fit into my clothes, it means you need to lose weight. Go get some lipo or something. Otherwise, your boyfriend won’t even be able to look at you!” One of his cronies chimed in: “Yeah! Keep messing with her! Make her send more vids! The kind we like!” The poster immediately replied: “Good idea. How about a naked one?” A moment later, a new message from customer service appeared on my phone. [If you want your refund, upload a video detailing twenty flaws of your own body. Be comprehensive. For example: breasts too small, thighs too fat, etc.] [Then, strip completely naked and get on your knees and bow in apology.] [Each bow must be audible. As you bow, you must say you’re sorry to the designer, that the problem is your body. If I see you are sincere, I will process your refund.] 3 I understood every word on the screen, but the combination of them made my blood feel like it was boiling over. He had already violated my privacy and posted my photos online for public ridicule. Now he wanted to subject me to this humiliating ritual. This was no longer about a simple return. This was a deliberate, malicious attack designed to break my spirit. I was shaking with rage. I had complied with all of his ridiculous demands, hoping to resolve this peacefully and exercise my basic rights as a consumer. But that was not a sign of weakness. He wanted me to insult myself, to prostrate myself naked and beg for forgiveness? Only a complete psychopath would demand something so twisted. There was a time when I, too, had tortured my body, chasing the impossible standards of a “size zero,” “thigh gap,” and “90-degree shoulders” that were trending online. It wasn’t until I broke free from that mindset that I realized the concept of a “good” or “bad” body is an arbitrary standard set by others. Health is all that matters. And now, this stranger, this customer service rep, felt he had the right to pass judgment on my body, to force me into his perverse mold of self-loathing. He had another thing coming. The last thread of my composure snapped. All the frustration and anger I had suppressed came roaring to the surface. I wanted to tear him apart. But as a seasoned reviewer who had dealt with hundreds of brands, I knew that lashing out would get me nowhere. A simple complaint or an angry tirade wouldn’t be enough to truly punish him. I needed irrefutable proof. I needed to make him say it himself. I took a few deep breaths, forcing the inferno in my chest down to a simmer. I typed calmly. [I’m sorry, the platform seems to have flagged some keywords. I can’t see your message clearly. Could you send it as a voice memo so I know what I need to do?] A gruff, male voice came through the speaker. “I want you to list your own flaws, so you have a clearer understanding of your disgusting body. Then, you’re going to get naked and bow down to me, to apologize for having such a trashy figure.” I recorded the entire voice memo, then took screenshots of our entire chat history, making sure the timeline of his harassment was crystal clear. I switched back to my chat with Mimi, who had been sending a stream of concerned messages. [Do you know a good lawyer?] She replied instantly, surprised. [You’re going to sue him?] I looked at the forum post, where the number of views and comments was still climbing. I clenched my jaw. [Damn right I am. A slap on the wrist won’t teach him anything. It’s time to go for the jugular.] But this evidence alone wasn’t enough. Not for what I had in mind. I didn’t reply further. Instead, I went to the shopping app’s main help center and found the “File a Complaint” button. I uploaded all the evidence. The platform’s response was slow. Finally, after an agonizing wait, a notification popped up. [We sincerely apologize for your negative experience. The platform will mediate this issue, and we will update you here with the resolution.] The next second, my phone rang. I answered. A familiar, gruff voice yelled through the speaker. “You dared to file a complaint?!” Here we go. This is what I was waiting for. I turned on my phone’s screen recorder, took a deep breath, and replied calmly. “Is this the customer service representative? You told me to strip naked and bow to you. Who else was I supposed to complain about?” A sneer came from the other end of the line. “Ha! You think a complaint is going to do anything? Big deal, they’ll fine me a few bucks. You think I can’t afford it? I’ve seen plenty of women with disgusting bodies like yours. And let me tell you something, I’m not some customer service drone. I’m the designer of this brand. If you don’t do what I say, you have no idea what I’m going to do to you.” 4 So that was it. He wasn’t some low-level employee. He was the designer. That explained his arrogance. He felt untouchable. “So you’re the designer? A man designing women’s clothing?” He spat a curse. “You women can’t do anything right. It takes a man to design clothes that actually look good. And let me tell you, it’s too late now. Even if you got naked and bowed, I wouldn’t take the dress back!” I let out a cold, internal laugh, but my voice was filled with feigned humiliation. “Then what do I have to do to get my money back?” His voice was thick with triumph. “Your body is trash, but your face isn’t half bad. So, on top of the bowing, you’re going to strip and do a little slutty dance for me.” “You’re one of those girls who buys expensive clothes just for a photo op, right? Your wallet is probably as empty as your head. If you don’t get this twenty-five hundred back, you’ll be eating dirt for a month.” “But if you dance well, if you make me happy… maybe I’ll even throw you a few bucks. Hahaha!” I waited for his obnoxious laughter to die down before asking coldly, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll post this online?” He laughed even harder. “A woman with a body like yours? You’d dare show your face online after this? Just do as I say and stop embarrassing yourself.” Perfect. I had all the explosive, damning statements I needed. I hung up, not giving him another second to spew his poison. Then, I immediately called my friend. “Mimi, have you found a lawyer? And have you reached out to the other influencers?” Mimi’s reply was swift and decisive. “All contacted. Everyone is fired up. They’re ready to clean house in the fashion industry.” “Good,” I said, organizing the files on my computer. “This time, we’re not letting them get away with it. This time, everyone is going to see just how toxic the women’s fashion world has become.”

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My mother always said my whole life was built on sheer luck. When I got first place on an exam, she’d say, “You’re a good guesser.” When I won a gold medal, it was, “The judges must have been blind.” When I was accepted into Kingston University, she told everyone we knew, “The girl has no real talent. She’s just lucky!” So, on my first day of school, she handed me a book of scratch-off tickets. “Since you’re so lucky,” she said with a thin smile, “you can rely on luck for your living expenses.” “You get one book per semester. Whatever you scratch is what you get. That’s fate.” “And just to make sure you don’t come crying to me when you’re broke, I’m blocking you. I’ll add you back next semester.” And with that, ignoring my desperate pleas on the other end of the line, she blocked all of my numbers. Left with no other choice, I started scratching two tickets a day. On a good day, I’d win twenty, maybe fifty dollars. Most days, I won nothing. I survived by secretly fishing my roommate’s expired cookies out of the trash can. During the last week of the semester, I was severely anemic. As I used the last of my strength to scratch the final ticket, I had to laugh. My mother was right. I really was lucky. … My vision swam with black spots; everything had a double image. The book of five-dollar scratch-offs my mother had given me was like a countdown to my own demise, and only one ticket remained. The thirty dollars I’d won before had been stretched to its absolute limit, even living on nothing but steamed buns and pickled vegetables. Two weeks was all it could last. My stomach felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, cramping with a dull, persistent ache. I called my mother, clinging to one last sliver of hope, but reality slapped me with a bucket of ice water. Still blocked. She hadn’t unblocked me. Desperate, I borrowed a phone from a student I didn’t know and dialed her number again. “Mom…” Before I could say another word, her sharp, cruel voice cut through the line. “If I remember correctly, you still have one ticket left, don’t you? Don’t come crying to me about being broke. I’m not falling for it! If you’re so capable, then use that same ‘luck’ you used to get into college and win scholarships!” The line went dead. I tried calling back, but the phone was turned off. The last scratch-off ticket felt heavy in my hand. I was terrified to scratch it, terrified that it would be another loser. When I started the semester, I was a healthy weight. Now, I was severely malnourished. At five-foot-five, I weighed only eighty pounds. The veins showed blue through my translucent skin. I got back to my dorm room. It was empty. My steps were unsteady as I shuffled toward the trash can. It had become a habit, checking to see if my roommates had thrown out any leftovers or expired food. It was how I had survived most of the semester. Just as I started digging through the trash, the door swung open. “Ugh, Zoe, are you digging through the trash again? That’s disgusting.” My roommate Dana’s voice made my face burn with shame. I snatched my hand back as if the bin were red-hot. Her eyes fell on the scratch-off tickets on my desk, and understanding dawned, followed by undisguised contempt. “I seriously don’t get you. How can you have such a bad gambling addiction? You’d rather dig through trash for food than stop buying those things!” “Even if you love scratching tickets, couldn’t you at least get a part-time job to feed yourself?” “Whatever. I guess it’s just my bad luck to be stuck in a room with someone like you.” With that, Dana glanced at the last bite of cake in her hand, tossed it into the trash, and walked out. I was dizzy with hunger, my head buzzing. I didn’t have the energy to wonder if her act was one of pity or humiliation. I pounced on the trash can like a starving animal and retrieved the piece of cake. I devoured it, shoving it into my mouth. Hot tears streamed down my face, mixing with the cake crumbs, creating a taste that was both salty and bitter. I couldn’t blame her for thinking that. She didn’t know that before school even started, my mother had printed flyers with my face on them and distributed them to every shop around campus with a single instruction: Do not hire this girl for part-time work. She had cut off all my escape routes. “Isn’t she lucky? Then let her rely on luck to eat,” my mother had said. I wondered if her face held the same mocking expression as Dana’s. I had tried to explain countless times that it wasn’t luck. Every award, every accomplishment, was the result of my own hard work. But she never believed me. To her, everything I achieved was just “luck.” Two simple words that erased all of my effort. The last bite of cake settled in my stomach, and the dizziness subsided slightly. My eyes returned to the final scratch-off ticket on my desk. I made my decision. With trembling hands, I began to scratch. As the silver coating peeled away, my heart sank with it. Until the very last line. The prize amount: $20. My heart died completely. That meant I had to survive on twenty dollars until my mother gave me a new book of tickets next semester. Clutching the ticket, I left the dorm to cash it at the lottery stand outside the campus gates. I had just stepped out of the building when I heard the stern voice of my academic advisor behind me. “Zoe Miller!” I turned. When he saw the scratch-off ticket in my hand, the disappointment on his face deepened. “Someone told me about this, but I didn’t want to believe it. You got into this university with one of the top ten entrance scores in the state. How could you become obsessed with games of chance?” “Look at your grades now. You’re failing almost every class! You are a profound disappointment!” “Consider this conversation a warning. If you continue down this path, I will have no choice but to follow university regulations and recommend your expulsion.” I stood there under the blazing sun, listening to his lecture. The energy from that single bite of cake was already gone. I started to sway. “Zoe?!” His expression shifted from anger to alarm. “Are you alright?” He glanced at my skeletal hands and sighed. “Let me take you to the cafeteria to get something to eat. And please, stop spending your food money on lottery tickets. You can’t live your life waiting for a miracle.” I didn’t refuse his offer. At this point, anyone who gave me a meal was my savior. Dignity? Pride? They were worthless when you were starving. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal from the cafeteria all semester. I’d only ever bought plain steamed buns and drank the free hot water. I had no energy to pay attention in class; the words on the blackboard swam before my eyes like tadpoles. My grades had plummeted, and my pride was in pieces. After devouring the meal, I felt much better. I could walk without stumbling, and my mind felt clearer. I thanked my advisor and turned to leave, but he stopped me, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going?” I held up the crumpled ticket. “To cash this in. Otherwise… I won’t have anything to eat.” “Zoe!” he exclaimed, his anger returning. “Have you already forgotten everything I just said?” “Or are you deliberately defying me? Do you want to be expelled? I shouldn’t have bought you that meal. Maybe if you truly starved, you’d understand the gravity of the situation!” “Give me that ticket. It’s time to cut your losses!” He held out his hand, his expression demanding and unyielding. I quickly hid the ticket behind my back. “Sir, I really can’t give this to you. You don’t understand.” He slammed his hand on the table. “You’re a lost cause! I’m telling you right now, if you don’t hand it over, I will go back to my office and issue a formal demerit and disciplinary action against you!” I lowered my head, my nails digging into my palms. After a moment of internal struggle, I bowed to him. “I’m sorry, sir. I really can’t.” Ignoring his shouts behind me, I turned and ran towards the lottery stand as fast as my weak legs could carry me. The woman at the counter took my ticket and rolled her eyes. “Seriously, what an addict,” she muttered. “Wasting her parents’ hard-earned money like this.” A bitter taste filled my mouth. If I told her this ticket was my living expense, the only thing keeping me alive, she’d probably think I was even crazier. “QR code,” she said impatiently, holding up her phone. I took out my own phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, and was about to open my payment app when a thought struck me. Suddenly, I didn’t want to cash it in anymore. “I’ve changed my mind,” I heard myself say. “I’d like to exchange it for a new one.” The woman gave me a massive, undisguised eye-roll, then tore off another five-dollar ticket and threw it on the counter. “Hopeless. How did Kingston University ever accept a student like this?” I had heard words like that so many times—from my roommate, from strangers, from her—that they no longer stung. I took the new ticket, thanked her, and turned to leave without scratching it. I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when my phone rang. The screen displayed a single word: “Mom.” I froze. That name felt like a relic from another lifetime. “Hello?” I answered just before the call ended. Her sharp, acidic voice immediately filled my ear. “Hmph. I thought you had too much pride to answer my calls.” “You should be done with the book of tickets I gave you. How much did you win on the last one?” “Twenty dollars,” I said truthfully. The sarcasm in her voice deepened. “Tsk. I guess you really are lucky. You’re not dead yet.” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, do you have any idea how I’ve been surviving this semester? On handouts from my roommate and scraps I find in the trash! If my advisor hadn’t bought me a meal today, I would have collapsed and ended up in the hospital!” I thought hearing about my suffering might change her mind. Instead, she laughed. “So? Are you trying to brag about how lucky you are to have a nice roommate and a kind advisor?” “Zoe, I’m trying to teach you a lesson! You can’t rely on handouts!” “If you can get into Kingston on luck, then you can certainly eat a full meal on luck. It shouldn’t be that hard, should it?” Tears burst from my eyes. I screamed into the phone, my voice raw with pain. “I got into Kingston, I won those competitions, because I worked for it! I never once said I got in because I was lucky!” My outburst only made her more impatient. “Stop pretending. Hard work? I gave birth to you; I know exactly what you’re made of. When I was pregnant with you, I deliberately fell down a few times and couldn’t even get rid of you. If that’s not luck, what is?” Her words froze the blood in my veins. It was the first time she had ever said it so plainly, so cruelly. I had heard the whispers from relatives. When she was pregnant, a village doctor told her she was having a girl, and she didn’t want me. Abortion techniques weren’t as advanced back then. She didn’t have the courage to go through with it, so she gave birth to me. But the delivery was difficult, and she had to have a hysterectomy. She could never have another child. Because of that, my father divorced her. All the pieces clicked into place. Rage and grief exploded inside me. “If I had known I’d be living off scratch-off tickets, do you think I would have chosen to be born?” “Now you’re complaining?” she sneered. “Fine. From now on, I’ll buy you the two-dollar tickets instead.” “Since you’re so lucky, it’ll save me some money!” With a sharp click, she hung up. She had probably blocked me again. I walked back to my dorm in a daze and stared at the new ticket for a long time. Finally, I gathered my courage and began to scratch. The first line: nothing. The second line: nothing. The third… nothing. With only the last line left, I closed my eyes and scraped randomly at the ticket. After a long moment, I opened them, my hands trembling. I had won. The prize box read… $500,000! A storm of emotions swirled in my chest, but overwhelming it all was a wave of pure, unadulterated joy. The grand prize had to be claimed at the central lottery office. Wasting no time, I shot out of my room and started running. Thankfully, it wasn’t far from the university. I didn’t have money for a bus, but I made it there in half an hour on foot. Even as the money was transferred into my account, it felt like a dream. I stared at the string of numbers on my banking app, tears streaming down my face. I went to the most expensive restaurant in the city and ate until I was full. The other patrons stared at me, at my skeletal frame and ravenous eating, like I was a ghost back from the dead. My mother was right. I really was lucky. After wandering the city all day, I returned to my dorm to the sound of my phone ringing. It was her. “Zoe, darling, did you win the lottery?” The affectionate nickname sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d called me that. Even when I got into Kingston, her reaction had been lukewarm at best. “Win what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her tone immediately soured. “Zoe Miller, don’t you play games with me! I saw it on the news! A grand prize scratch-off was claimed in the city today. I recognized your back in the photo! I’d recognize you even if you were a pile of ash.” I cursed myself. In my excitement, I had only thought about claiming the prize and getting a hot meal. I had forgotten to disguise myself. “You’re mistaken. It wasn’t me.” I hung up before she could reply. She called again and again, but I didn’t answer. Finally, I blocked her number. I thought that would be the end of it. The next morning, I was shaken awake by Dana. “Zoe, get up! Something terrible has happened!” Her next words jolted me fully awake. “Your mother is on the roof of the science building. She says if you don’t come to see her, she’s going to jump!” All sleepiness vanished. I leaped out of bed and ran outside, still in my pajamas, my hair a mess. “I am here to expose my daughter, Kingston University student Zoe Miller!” my mother’s voice shrieked from above. “She has always been a gambler, relying on luck, with no respect for her own mother!” “And now that she’s won the lottery, she wants to cut me off! Does a student like this deserve to be at Kingston?” Even though it was early, the campus was already dotted with students on their morning jogs. Everyone stopped to watch the spectacle. Some people cursed my name, some looked on with envy, but most just watched with the detached curiosity of a crowd at a circus. I looked up at the crazed figure of my mother on the rooftop. I opened my mouth to shout for her to come down, but the words died in my throat. She said I was a gambler. Fine. This time, I’d bet on her. I’d bet she didn’t have the guts to jump. I turned and walked away from the crowd, back to my dorm. I sat down at my desk and wrote an application for an overseas research program. I won the bet.

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A small boy knocked on my front door. “Dad, I’m your son. I traveled back seven years to warn you…” My first thought was to call 911—or maybe the closest psychiatric ward. The boy’s eyes welled up, and the tears fell. He tugged at the lapel of the bespoke tuxedo I hadn’t managed to change out of yet, the one still smelling of champagne and gardenia. “Dad, you absolutely cannot marry Mom.” His voice was a desperate, urgent whisper. “Getting close to her is getting close to disaster. In two weeks, you’ll be in a car crash. You’ll lose your ability to have children.” My hand froze midway to the phone. “She’ll marry you, but she’ll be cold. Distant. It’ll drive you into a severe depression, and eventually, you’ll take a bottle of sleeping pills and kill yourself.” He choked on the words. “The man she really loves is her executive assistant, Dominic Keller.” The name landed like a punch. “The reason she left the engagement party early today? Because Dominic’s dog got sick.” Owen’s small face was earnest. “If you don’t believe me, she’s at his place right now. Come with me. You’ll see the truth.” 1 Owen picked up a loose stone and hurled it hard against Dominic Keller’s door. I was hiding behind the thick shadow of an old oak tree, my spine pressed against the rough bark. My fingernails dug into the wood, splinters embedding themselves in my skin. I felt nothing. The moment the door opened, the blood in my veins solidified into ice. Seraphina Monroe. She was there, just as he said. She wore a silk robe, and her hair was still damp from a shower. Hours ago, she had received a phone call, said one word—crisis—and abandoned me mid-reception. She left me alone to field the pitying stares and the snide gossip of hundreds of guests. Two hours later, she texted to say she was handling an urgent, company-wide emergency. The “urgent emergency” was apparently standing in her assistant’s apartment, in a bathrobe, to nurse his sick dog. My heart seized up, a painful, spasming clench. Sera looked out, saw nothing, but noticed the stone on the ground. She frowned, annoyed. “Sera? Who is it?” Dominic’s voice called from inside, warm and intimate. “No one. Probably just some kid pulling a prank.” Dominic walked out, cradling a tiny, fluffy Maltese named Truffle. He was wearing low-slung drawstring sweatpants that exposed the waistband of his… designer briefs. I crumpled against the tree trunk. The sudden, intense cold of betrayal washed over me. I recognized those briefs. I had seen an identical pair in my own laundry machine at home. Sera had told me they were a gift for me. Now, the sickening reality hit: they were Dominic’s. She and he had been together, and he had forgotten them, leaving her to pawn them off on me. The visceral wave of nausea was so strong it stole my breath. I bent over, dry-heaving, nothing coming up but bile and pain. Tears and snot streamed down my face. A cold wind cut through me, making my jaw tremble uncontrollably. Dominic shivered, drawing his shoulders inward. Seraphina immediately wrapped her arms around him, her voice melting into a tenderness she had never offered me. “The wind’s picking up. Let’s go inside.” “Mmm.” Dominic’s sound was a low, needy purr. “Truffle’s appetite is gone, but he only wants the food you make.” Sera’s mouth curved into a soft, easy smile. “Okay.” My mind shattered. She can cook. Last month, when I was suffering through a brutal case of the flu, I had begged her, pleaded with her to just make me a simple bowl of homemade chicken soup. Her face had darkened. “I’m the CEO of the Monroe Group, Eli. I don’t belong in a kitchen. For a man? It would be a professional embarrassment.” Now I understood. Her food, her care—it was good enough for a dog. It was good enough for her lover. But it was never good enough for me. The door slammed shut. Bang. The world was silent. I was a huddled, broken mess in the black shadow of the tree. Owen wrapped his small arms tightly around my waist. “Don’t cry, Dad. She’s not worth it.” Seraphina didn’t come home that night. I didn’t sleep. Owen lay beside me in the bed, his small hand gripping mine like an anchor, even as he drifted off. I looked at his face, a heartbreaking fusion of Sera’s sharp cheekbones and my own softer features. The complexity of my emotions—grief, shock, fury, and a terrifying, sudden love for this stranger—was overwhelming. I sent Sera a simple breakup text. She didn’t reply. She didn’t appear. She vanished for a week. I finally drove to the Monroe Group offices to confront her. The receptionist informed me she was out of town. “On a business trip. With Mr. Keller. They travel together often,” she stressed, deliberately. Sera was a known workaholic, and these sudden disappearances were common. “Every time she vanishes, she’s with him, isn’t she?” I asked Owen, my voice ragged. His bright eyes dimmed, and he nodded. “I saw a photo album in Mom’s study,” he whispered. “It was full of pictures of her and Dominic traveling the world together…” A bitter laugh escaped me. I fought back the stinging burn behind my eyes. Sera had always hated it when I showed up at the office or disturbed her when she was “busy.” Over the years, we’d established a silent, cold agreement: when she disappeared, I would send no texts, make no calls, and send no one to check on her. But while I was worrying if she was eating or sleeping properly—she was off chasing the Northern Lights with Dominic, staring up at the vast, white sky, pretending to be on a journey toward forever. I had given her my trust. She had used that trust to forge the weapons she repeatedly plunged into my heart. I stumbled out of the office, my steps weak and unsteady. Behind me, I heard the disdainful whispers of a few employees. “Seriously? Thinks she’s the one, coming here to check up on the boss.” “Ms. Monroe and Mr. Keller are the real couple. He’s the home-wrecker, using his parents’ death to force her hand.” “He blackmailed her into marriage? Pathetic.” I froze. Everything felt ridiculously absurd. How could her employees—my employees, since the company was technically mine—believe I was the homewrecker? Unless Sera and Dominic had acted like a couple, flaunting their closeness, her silence about the “forced marriage” story had tacitly endorsed it. I packed every single one of Seraphina’s belongings and had them delivered directly to Dominic Keller’s apartment. That night, she finally returned. With Dominic. And his dog. “I’ve already fired those gossiping employees, Eli. Dominic and I were on an emergency trip. We worked for days straight, barely stopping.” She took my hand. “It’s my bad habit. I’ll change. I promise to text you, no matter how busy I am. Okay?” Her face was etched with fatigue, her eyes bloodshot. She looked genuinely exhausted, making me feel like the irrational one. I snatched my hand away, my voice flat and cold. “Don’t bother explaining. We’re over.” Sera sighed, an expression of weary annoyance. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. I know you’re just mad about the engagement party. I’ll overlook the ‘breakup’ text. I guarantee nothing like that will happen on the wedding day.” Watching her solemn promise, I felt a detached wave of disgust. Dominic chimed in, stepping closer. “Eli, Sera brought me here specifically to explain. It really was all work. She slept less than an hour a night just so she could rush back to you. Look, she’s lost weight.” As he spoke, a flash of silver around his neck caught my eye. I lunged forward, grabbed his collar, and yanked the chain out. It was a vintage silver locket. Seraphina’s mother’s last possession, meant for her future son-in-law. On the day of the engagement, I had asked her to let me wear it. She had kissed my forehead. “I want to put it on you myself, on our wedding day.” Now, it rested on Dominic Keller’s throat. Dominic went red, flustered and panicked. He dropped to his knees. “I lost my mind, Eli! I saw it on the table and just… picked it up.” A flimsy, transparent lie. Sera never took that locket off—not even to shower. Sera knew I wouldn’t believe it. The pretense dropped. The look she gave me was dangerously cold. “Eli. Why did you have to tear the curtain down?” she asked, her voice low. “Pretending not to know was easier for everyone. For you. For me. Wasn’t it?” “You don’t have to play these games of push and pull. I will marry you, regardless.” She pulled Dominic up. In front of me, she wiped the tears from his eyes, her gaze filled with heart-wrenching pity. The years of repressed pain and humiliation surged, overwhelming all reason. I stepped forward and slapped her, hard. Then I spun and hit Dominic with the back of my hand. Truffle yelped and leaped from Dominic’s arms, latching its teeth onto my calf. I sucked in a sharp breath, but the pain only fueled my rage. I kicked the dog away. Truffle let out a strangled, agonizing cry. “Truffle!” Dominic shrieked, his voice utterly broken. The next second, a hard, brutal impact struck my gut. Seraphina’s eyes were blazing with a hatred so intense I thought she might tear me apart. “Elias Maxwell, how could you be so cruel? It’s just a pet!” I stared back at her, biting down on my lip as cold sweat poured from my face. My stomach was on fire. Seraphina frowned. “Stop being dramatic. It was just a kick.” It was just a kick. But she was a national champion black belt. “Dad!” Owen burst from the bedroom, his eyes wide with fear. Seraphina’s focus snapped to him. She grabbed Owen’s collar, violently yanking him closer. “Who is this? Why is he calling you Dad?” I lunged at her, ignoring the throbbing agony in my abdomen, and sank my teeth into her arm. She cried out and released Owen. I pulled him into my arms. The sight seemed to pierce her. Her eyes turned scarlet, her teeth grinding. “Eli, you betrayed me?” Before she could press for answers, Dominic let out a piercing scream. “Sera! Truffle isn’t moving!” She spun instantly toward Dominic and the dog. Before she left, she shot me a look of pure menace. “If anything happens to Truffle, I swear, I will destroy you.” Watching her walk away—to a dog—I felt the last of my strength drain away. I collapsed onto the floor. Owen was sobbing hysterically. “Dad, don’t sleep! Don’t leave Owen again!” I tried to reach up and wipe his tears, but my arm wouldn’t move. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Owen pick up my phone, expertly dial 911, and rattle off the address. I woke up in a sterile hospital bed. After the doctor examined me, he handed me a document. It was a prenatal scan. Seraphina’s. She was pregnant. She’d been at the clinic two weeks ago and forgotten to take the results. The person who accompanied her was Dominic Keller. I, the biological father, was finding out about my child’s existence this way. I looked at the tiny shadow on the scan, an image that in a few months would become the adorable boy standing before me. Owen, however, was terrified. “Dad, you absolutely cannot marry Mom for my sake. I would rather disappear from this world than see you suffer again.” He buried his face in my chest, crying. “Please, Dad. Don’t keep me.” I held him, my own chest tight with grief and confusion. In the few days we’d been together, he had become a piece of me. I couldn’t let go. Suddenly, Seraphina’s private security detail burst into the room. They forcefully dragged Owen and me to a high-end pet clinic. Truffle lay stiffly on a metallic table. A bodyguard kicked the back of my knee, forcing me to fall to the cold floor. The sight of me sent Dominic into a frenzy. He lunged, clawing and slapping my face. “You killed Truffle!” “He was sick already, I could have had a few more days! You hastened his death! I’m going to kill you!” He yanked my hair, slapped me, and gouged my face with his nails. Seraphina watched, a flicker of pain in her eyes—for Dominic—but she did nothing to intervene. “Let Dom vent,” she said, cold and hard. “It’s your own doing.” Owen, furious, kicked his small legs. “Bad man! Don’t hurt my Dad!” “Dad?” Dominic grabbed Owen’s face, turning it from side to side. He let out a chilling, maniacal laugh. “Sera, look! He’s a spitting image of Elias. He must be that bastard child from eight years ago!” Seraphina and I both went pale. Eight years ago, on Sera’s birthday, was the darkest day of my life. I had nearly been assaulted. When I dragged my broken body home, the mansion was engulfed in flames. My parents, thinking I was trapped inside, rushed into the inferno. They saved Seraphina, but died themselves. Sera later nearly beat my attacker to death. I told her the lunatic hadn’t succeeded. She had said she believed me. But her reaction now proved she never had. My vision was red. I glared at Sera, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “He is not!” He looks exactly like you, too, Seraphina! Don’t you see it? Sera tightened her fists, taking a deep, ragged breath. “It doesn’t matter either way…” Then, she violently grabbed Owen by the collar, marched to a window, slid it open, and dangled him outside. I screamed, horrified. “Seraphina, what are you doing?” Her face was expressionless, vacant. “Truffle needs a proper burial. Your parents’ plot has the best Feng Shui. I’m going to put Truffle there.” “I’ll find a new, adequate plot for your parents. This is what you owe Truffle.” My breath hitched. I trembled with rage. “Seraphina, are you even human? My parents died because of you—!” “I know!” Sera snapped, cutting me off, her eyes hardening. “Stop reminding me. I agreed to marry you, and I haven’t celebrated a birthday in eight years. That’s enough penance!” She looked down at the boy in her grasp. “Now you choose. Him, or your parents’ peace.” She started counting down. “Three… Two…” “The child! I choose the child!” I shrieked, my heart tearing. Mom, Dad, your son is sorry! Sera pursed her lips, clearly dissatisfied with my choice. She threw Owen onto the floor like garbage. Then, she gently scooped the deceased Maltese into her arms. She cast one last cold glance at Owen and me before walking away, never looking back. Dominic stood over me, his lips curled into a smug, victorious smile. “That lunatic woman eight years ago? I set that up.” “You bastard!” I roared, struggling against the guards. Dominic leaned down, his sharp nail digging into my cheek. “And another secret… I was in the mansion the day of the fire.” My eyes were scarlet. “You caused it?” “Not me!” Dominic cackled, maniacally. “It was close. Your mother was unlucky, a cabinet fell on her. Your father could have escaped, but he insisted on going back for her.” He leaned in closer. “And Sera? She only wanted to save me. She told me, ‘Hurry, let them go, don’t worry about them…’” “The screams of your parents… So sad…” Each word was a razor-sharp blade, systematically dismantling me. I screamed, a guttural, agonizing sound of pure grief. A wrenching pain tore through my chest, and I violently spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. I woke up in the hospital again. Owen was there, his eyes swollen and red. He threw himself into my arms. “Dad, let’s not have Mom. Don’t have Mom!” I held him tight. “Okay. We won’t.” A few days later, Seraphina called. Her tone was a cold, non-negotiable notification. “Truffle is being buried tomorrow. Come and take your parents’ ashes.” My voice was ice. “Fine.” There was a silence on the line. After a long moment, her voice softened, laced with a plea. “After Truffle’s service is over, we’ll go pick out our wedding attire, okay?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound, and hung up. The next day, at the cemetery gates, my legs felt like lead. Owen held my hand. “Dad, tomorrow is the day of the car crash. Let’s leave here. Please?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes. We’ll take Grandma and Grandpa with us and leave.” But just then, a car swerved out of nowhere, not slowing, and charged straight for us. “No! The crash isn’t supposed to be today!” Owen screamed, his eyes wide with horror. He shoved me hard. “Dad!”

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I was caught in a tight embrace with my cousin, who looked like a total heartthrob in his new haircut, and my husband’s colleague saw it. He didn’t just see it; he secretly took a photo and texted it straight to my husband. I knew absolutely none of this. A few days later, my cousin messaged me. Rory: Sis! Liam offered me a million dollars to leave you! Rory: Should I take it or tell him to add a zero? 1 “Where are you going?” Liam walked out of his study, impeccably dressed as always, just as I was slipping on my sneakers. “None of your business, Mr. Stone.” My tone was deliberately clipped. Liam and I were in the middle of a cold war. He just stood there, watching me head out the door without another word. See? The stubborn man had zero intention of ending this ridiculous standoff. Before we were married, I was completely obsessed with Liam’s “aloof intellectual” vibe—the kind of high-powered corporate lawyer who was always the calmest person in the room. It took me three months of practically haunting his law firm to get him to date me, and we were married a year later. But over time, the flaw in the “aloof intellectual” model became obvious. Liam is a lawyer, and he maintains absolute, clinical composure at all times—even when we’re arguing. The fight started late last night. I was padding barefoot into the pantry to grab a jumbo bowl of spicy Deep-Dish Pizza (with extra sausage and jalapeños, naturally), and I turned around to find Liam standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, holding my plush slippers. “The floor is cold, put these on. It’s too late for anything heavy or spicy. If you’re truly hungry, I can warm up some milk.” Who can refuse a loaded deep-dish pizza at midnight? I tried to charm my way out of it. “Babe, I just really have a craving for this one thing.” Liam was unmoved. He bent down to slip my slippers onto my feet while smoothly confiscating the pizza box from my hands. “No, Audrey. You’ll be up all night with heartburn and indigestion.” “I don’t mind staying up a little late! Please, just let me have this one small indulgence.” I’m an artist, used to a more free-spirited life, and while I knew Liam meant well, that occasional indulgence was a genuine comfort. “Absolutely not.” The perpetual refusal. My temper flared. “Liam Stone!” “Yes?” “I’m mad at you!” “I hear that.” “You’re sleeping in the study tonight!” “Fine. But the pizza is still off-limits.” “…” This is how every fight with Liam went. He never yelled, never argued, but he was relentlessly insistent on his principles. Once I cooled down, I’d usually say a few sweet words, and he’d act like nothing happened, and we’d be fine. If I hadn’t needed to leave today, we would have probably made up by lunch. But I really had plans. I’d promised my Uncle I would take my cousin for university orientation. 2 “Audrey! Over here!” I barely recognized Rory when I picked him up. The person standing in front of me had a sharp, short haircut, was dressed totally androgynously, and was nearly six feet tall. If the features hadn’t looked vaguely familiar, I never would have believed this was my soft, bubbly little cousin. “It’s been so long, Sis!” Rory gave me a strong hug, and that familiar, easy warmth finally clicked. “I haven’t seen you in three or four years! I barely recognized you. When did you get so tall?” Rory’s whole look had changed, and even his voice sounded deeper, more neutral. He chuckled. “I started taking on commissioned artwork for graphic novels over the breaks to earn money, so I started dressing the part. I’m already five-foot-ten, and these boots add another couple of inches.” “You into graphic novels? I can hook you up with some free art commissions, you know.” I shook my head. “That’s not my thing, but I’m glad you love it. Let’s get you checked in.” “Perfect. And, Sis, can you help me find a place near campus? It’s hard to do client work from the dorms on weekends. Don’t worry, I cleared it with Dad, he already agreed.” “Deal. Once we’re done with orientation, we’ll go look at apartments.” The school paperwork was easy, but finding an apartment was a headache. We were still looking when the sun went down. I took Rory out to eat. “Don’t stress about the apartment. I’ll take you out again tomorrow.” Rory agreed. “Sounds good. It’s been ages, right? I was in boarding school for most of high school, and I even missed your wedding. I still haven’t met Liam! Dad says he’s gorgeous.” The thought of Liam’s face—that chiseled, slightly severe look—made me involuntarily smile. “He is handsome. I’ll introduce you two soon.” Just as I was about to drop Rory back at his dorm, Liam called. “Still busy? When are you coming home for dinner?” Crap. I had forgotten to tell him I wouldn’t be home for dinner. “I already ate. You go ahead. I have a few things left to do, but I’ll be back soon.” Liam was silent for a moment before he simply said, “Okay.” After helping Rory get his bed set up in his tiny dorm room, I left the university around nine o’clock. My phone showed two missed calls from Liam. I was about to call him back when a text from him popped up. Liam: Be home. Those two short words felt strangely aggressive. Ominous, even. I’m probably overthinking it. Audrey: On my way. 3 It was ten o’clock when I walked in the door. Liam was still up, sitting on the sofa reading a leather-bound book. “I’m home.” I gave him a quick greeting and headed straight for the bedroom to take off my makeup. I should know better than to wear a full face while doing manual labor—between hunting for apartments and making a bed, my foundation was practically gone. I felt completely drained, so after a shower, I went straight for my enormous bed. Just as I was about to drift off, a soft knock came at the door. “Am I still sleeping in the study tonight?” My groggy brain took a moment to recall that we were technically still fighting. Honestly, I wasn’t mad anymore—just a little prideful. Forget it, I’ll deal with it tomorrow. “Sleep wherever you want.” I rolled over and pulled the duvet over my head. Just as I was about to enter a deep state of unconsciousness, the master bedroom door opened and then quietly closed. Liam was going to shower. If he’s sleeping here, that means we’re good. Relieved, I let myself fall into a profound sleep. I wasn’t asleep for long before I was awakened by a kiss. Liam’s mouth tasted like the fresh scent of his body wash. I reached up and tangled my fingers in his hair, finding it damp and slightly cool. Why hadn’t he blow-dried his hair? Liam tried to deepen the intimacy, but a sudden flash of exhaustion made me stop him, pressing my hand against his chest. “I’m so tired. Not tonight. I have plans early tomorrow.” Liam had a very specific rhythm in bed, and I usually couldn’t keep up. The next day, I’d feel completely wiped. I didn’t want to meet my cousin looking like I’d been “drained of life force.” Liam was usually very respectful on this front. As long as things hadn’t fully started, he’d stop the moment I asked. But tonight, he didn’t respond. He didn’t move. It wasn’t until I was just about to fall back asleep that he finally whispered, “Fine,” and sat up, turning away from me. That night, I slept soundly. Beside me, Liam lay awake, staring at his phone screen, his eyes dark and indecipherable. The photo on the screen showed me, Audrey Hale, locked in a familiar, intimate embrace with a short-haired young man. It was the photo his colleague, Dean Miller, had sent him. Dean Miller: Boss! Emergency! I just got back from my business trip, and I literally stepped out of the station to see your wife hugging some kid! Dean Miller: [Image.jpg] 4 When I woke up the next morning, Liam was already fully dressed. “You have work today?” Liam nodded. “Dean’s back from his trip. I need to go into the firm and review his case files.” “Breakfast is on the counter. I’ll try to be back before lunch.” I knew Dean Miller; he was Liam’s colleague and specialized in, ironically, high-profile, messy divorce settlements. I had planned to ask Liam to join me to meet Rory, but since he had real work, we’d postpone. “Don’t worry about lunch. I’m heading out too. Just focus on your work, don’t worry about me.” I figured we wouldn’t finish apartment hunting by noon, so there was no point in him rushing home to make me lunch. I thought I was being considerate. Liam’s face darkened slightly. “Audrey, is there… anything you want to tell me?” Yes, there was. I needed to find a time for them to meet my cousin. Liam was standing in the foyer in his perfectly tailored suit. A few beads of sweat were visible on his forehead, which was strange. He looked anxious. “Yes, there’s something, but it’s not urgent. You go deal with your work, and we can talk tonight.” Liam left. I ate breakfast and headed out. Rory and I spent most of the day looking at places and finally found a good one-bedroom apartment. The building had decent security, the price was reasonable, and it was close to campus. I called my Uncle to let him know Rory was settled. My Uncle thanked me profusely. “Thank you, Audrey. Knowing Snow is in the same city as you, I feel completely at ease.” “Oh, one more thing, dear. Your older cousin is getting divorced. The woman already sent him a divorce protocol. Could you ask your lawyer husband to take a look and see if there are any issues?” My older cousin had only been married a year. I was surprised they were already splitting up. They were family, so helping was a no-brainer. I took a quick look at the documents. The names of the parties were omitted, but it stated that the wife was willing to waive all claims to assets and accept a clean break because she was the one who was unfaithful. I initially thought about sending it straight to Liam, but I remembered he’d mentioned Dean Miller was back. Liam mostly handled criminal cases; Dean was the divorce expert. It made more sense to ask Dean for help. Audrey: Dean, can you do me a huge favor? Can you look over this divorce protocol from the husband’s perspective and see if there are any red flags? Dean replied almost instantly. Dean Miller: Audrey, can I show this to the Boss? Audrey: Why not? I was going to show it to him tonight anyway. He just prefers to read hard copies. I was planning to print it out to give to Liam. After I sent that last message, Dean stopped replying. I assumed he was busy reviewing the protocol. I hummed a tune and drove home. Meanwhile, in the law firm, Dean Miller respectfully placed his phone in front of Liam, barely daring to breathe. As Liam’s face grew darker and darker, Dean nervously tried to lighten the mood. “Boss, at least she’s being decent about it. Walking away with nothing is better than those cheaters who try to get half the man’s assets, right?” Liam handed the phone back to Dean, his voice returning to its usual, cool control. “If she’s walking away with nothing, it only means I offer her nothing she truly wants.” 5 Liam came home shortly after I did. “You’re home so early! I have something I need to talk to you about. Wait, let me just grab—” I was about to retrieve the printed divorce protocol when Liam grabbed my hand. “Audrey, let’s go shopping.” “Huh?” I was confused, but he was already pulling me toward the foyer to change shoes. “I finally have a free afternoon. Come with me. We can talk about whatever you have later, okay?” Normally, I was the one dragging Liam out to shop. This was the first time he had ever spontaneously invited me. “Okay, fine. We can eat out tonight.” He said we were going shopping, but Liam just kept buying me things. We started with clothes. I was having fun trying things on. “This set looks good, but that one was pretty too, Liam.” Liam: “Buy both.” After clothes, he dragged me to a high-end watch boutique. I was trying on a timepiece half-heartedly. “It’s nice, sure, but I don’t really wear watches.” I glanced at the price tag—five digits. I immediately tried to take it off, but Liam was already at the register. “It looks great on you. We’ll take this one.” I couldn’t even protest before his card was swiped. The next stop was a jewelry store. Given the current price of gold, I was reluctant to even look. Liam, however, was completely unruffled, calmly asking me to try on one bracelet and necklace after another. Then, as I watched in shock, he picked out two substantial pieces. “These two. Wrap them up.” “Wait, Liam! We can’t just buy these on a whim!” I tried to stop him. Liam: “I can afford it. Charge it.” When we got married, Liam transferred a significant portion of his savings into a shared account. After that, we mostly kept our finances separate. He topped up the joint account regularly, but I had no idea how much he actually made. Clearly, it was a lot. Liam finished the purchase and took my hand. “That car you drive is what you bought right out of college. Do you want to upgrade?” I was completely dumbfounded. “Did you win the lottery?” Liam smiled slightly. “I just closed a big case. Besides, this is simply the financial reality of a successful man. Choosing a partner isn’t just about looks, Audrey. You have to consider the total portfolio.” 6 If I was understanding him correctly, Liam was flexing his wealth on me. Why? He had always been the low-key, understated type. At my insistence, Liam postponed the plan to buy me a new car. That evening, I was lying in bed scrolling through photos of college guys for inspiration. My studio partner wanted me to paint a portrait of a handsome young man with an energetic, fresh vibe, so I was desperately seeking inspiration. When Liam came out of the bathroom after his shower, I couldn’t help but share. “Babe, there’s just a natural, vibrant energy that comes with being young, you know? Just looking at them makes me feel hopeful.” The words had barely left my mouth when Liam was on me, kissing me hard. “Mmm… wait… I have to…” Liam didn’t listen. His kiss was desperate, consuming. Tonight, he was especially rough, and I couldn’t get a coherent sentence out. When it was over, I was on the verge of collapsing into sleep, but Liam was still nibbling my ear. “Audrey,” his voice was husky. “My age is not an issue.” … I woke up the next morning sore and aching. Liam had already gone to work. I dragged myself to my studio, but after working for a while, I still lacked inspiration. I decided I needed to go somewhere lively to clear my head. A place full of youthful energy. A theme park, maybe. Liam: What are you doing? I hadn’t even left the house when he texted me. Audrey: Nothing much. Thinking about going out. Liam: Do you want me to join you? Audrey: Aren’t you busy? I can find someone else. Rory was probably free. Liam immediately replied: Liam: I’m coming home now to pick you up. On the way to the theme park, I made small talk with Liam. “I don’t think we’ve been to a theme park since we started dating. You don’t like this kind of place, do you? I always figured you preferred quiet bookstores and relaxed settings.” We stopped at a red light, and Liam turned to look at me. “No, I don’t dislike them. I’ll go anywhere you want to go.” “Audrey, maybe I’ve been too rigid or controlling in the past. I’ll change. Let’s make this right, okay?” Liam sounded so earnest and sincere. I was touched. If the seatbelt hadn’t been restraining me, I would have leaped across the console to kiss him. “Of course! Baby, I love you so much!” A visible, genuine smile finally spread across Liam’s face. 7 Liam went on every single high-octane ride with me, giving me a thrill I hadn’t felt in years. “Babe, that was amazing!” Liam bought me a soft-serve cone. “You clearly love these kinds of outings. Was our life together before too boring for you?” Liam lived a very disciplined life. Our dates were usually dinner, a movie, and maybe a quiet bookstore or boutique. “Not at all. I was perfectly happy with the dates you liked, too.” “Then let’s try more of the things you like going forward, okay?” “Definitely!” That ice cream was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. Liam was true to his word. Whenever he had a spare moment, he took me out: skiing, skydiving, bungee jumping. All the extreme sports I’d only ever dreamed of trying. Thanks to the abundance of new stimuli, my painting was progressing smoothly. I was practically glued to Liam when I wasn’t working. He even stopped caring when I ate the loaded deep-dish pizza at midnight. He would simply watch me eat, then drag me back to the bedroom for a “workout,” claiming it was to work off the late-night indulgence. After a few times, I stopped eating the pizza, too. My life was so full and consuming that I hadn’t been able to visit Rory in a long time. He’d reached out a few times, but I always had to cancel, and eventually, the messages stopped. Unbeknownst to me, Liam and Dean Miller’s text thread was still active. Dean Miller: Boss, I think the Marriage Rescue Plan is working. Audrey hasn’t brought up the divorce protocol again. Liam: Yes. It’s been relatively smooth. That college kid has contacted her a few times, but she’s turned him down. Dean Miller: Oh, that reminds me! I saw that kid the other day. He was dressed to the nines, walking around the mall with another girl. Looks like he moved on. Liam: Whatever. As long as he stops harassing Audrey. Dean Miller: …Boss, I really admire your attitude. Not getting angry about any of this shows incredible character. Liam: Audrey is naive, easily influenced. It’s those outside elements corrupting her judgment. Dean Miller: …You’re the Boss. Whatever you say. 8 My life had been so perfect lately that I felt like I was forgetting something important. It wasn’t until my Uncle called me and gently brought up my cousin’s divorce that I remembered: I had completely forgotten about the divorce protocol. The file was in my handbag, which I’d hung up near the foyer. I’d told myself that if I saw it the next day, I’d remember. But… where was the file? Did it grow wings and fly away? Whatever. I’ll ask Liam about it later. First, let me check with Dean. Audrey: Dean, any word on that divorce protocol I sent you? Have you found any issues? Dean didn’t reply immediately. I figured he must be in a meeting. In reality, Dean sprinted straight into Liam’s office the moment he got the message. “Oh my God, Boss! What do we do? Audrey just asked me about the divorce protocol again! I thought you two had made up!” Liam’s eyebrow twitched. “Tell her you haven’t finished reviewing it yet. Stall her. I’m going home now.” “Got it.” … Dean Miller: Audrey, that divorce protocol is extremely complicated. I need a couple more days to look it over carefully. Don’t worry, I’m on it. Why? Dean was the best divorce lawyer in the city. Why did one simple protocol take half a month to review? I replied “Okay,” but I decided I should just ask Liam for help. My Uncle was waiting for an answer. But where in the world was that file? When Liam got home, I was squatting by the foyer closet, convinced the file had slipped behind a cabinet. “Oh! You’re home so early today?” Liam was sweating, clearly having rushed home. He didn’t answer my question. “What are you looking for?”

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The zipper snagged as Mom, Vivian, forced the last sweater into her travel bag. She tugged at it twice, hard, and when it wouldn’t budge, she simply let go of the pull-tab and sank onto the floor. I watched her from the crack in my bedroom door, afraid to make a sound. Dad, Ethan, was in the living room, his voice low and tight on the phone. “Where is she going to go? No money, barely any friends. Just let her be, she’ll come back when she’s cooled off.” He’s wrong. I whispered the protest in my mind. Mom wasn’t coming back. Her eyes had told me so. Vivian finally stood up, not looking again at the bulging, half-zipped bag. She walked to my doorway and crouched down, bringing her gaze level with mine. “Aubrey,” she called me, her voice a little rough, but gentle. “Mommy has to go on a trip.” 1 I stared at the tiny mole on the bridge of her nose. “How long?” She paused, then reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingertips were cool. “It might… be a long time. You have to be a good girl, Aubrey. Listen to Dad, and eat all your dinner, okay?” I nodded. I knew what a “long trip” meant. My friend Mandy’s mom upstairs went on a “long trip” and never returned. Mandy said her mom didn’t want her anymore. Would Mom not want me, either? The thought was a cold, slick snake that suddenly slithered into my heart and coiled there. She leaned closer and kissed my forehead. It was so light, like a feather landing. Then she stood up, grabbed the travel bag, and walked toward the front door without a backward glance. The zipper was still broken, gaping like a black, silent mockery. Dad hung up the phone and stood in the center of the living room, watching her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to stop her. His face was drawn and pale in the hallway light, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. The door clicked shut with a soft finality. The house fell into an enormous silence. It was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming, and the frantic thump-thump-thump of my own heart, beating like a small drum. Dad stood there for a moment, then walked to the sofa and dropped onto it heavily, burying his face in his hands. My eyes fell on the coffee table. A single butterscotch candy lay there, wrapped in a pretty gold and orange foil. Mom had given it to me that morning. She’d said: When life gets bitter, you eat a piece of candy. I walked over, carefully peeled back the wrapper, and put the orange-yellow square in my mouth. It was sweet, cloyingly sweet. But the sweetness, once it reached my throat, morphed into a strange, inexplicable ache that made me want to cry. I smoothed out the wrinkled foil, holding it up to the lamp. The wrapper refracted the light into vibrant, tiny, fragile stars. Mom was gone. She left with a broken zipper and what I knew was a broken heart. My world, from that moment on, was fundamentally different. 2 Sierra arrived on the third day after Mom left. She carried a large bag of fresh groceries and put them in the refrigerator like she knew exactly where everything belonged. She moved like she already owned the place. “Goodness, look at this mess,” she muttered, frowning. Her eyes swept over Dad’s shirt tossed on the sofa and my uncollected blocks on the rug. “A grown man trying to raise a kid alone—it just doesn’t work.” Dad scratched his head awkwardly. “We’re making do.” Sierra didn’t respond. She tied on an apron and began straightening up. She was quick and efficient, and soon the living room looked immaculate. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans began. I sat at the dining table, watching her back. Sierra was nothing like Mom. Vivian always cooked slowly, sometimes staring out the window and letting something scorch on the stove. Sierra wouldn’t; her every movement was precise and productive. When dinner was served—three dishes and a soup—it was colorful, fragrant, and perfectly presented. “Aubrey, eat up,” Sierra said, putting a generous slice of pot roast onto my plate with a bright smile. “You’re too skinny. Aunt Sierra will come make you good food all the time now, okay?” I didn’t answer, just kept my head down, picking at my rice. The pot roast was tender, practically melting in my mouth. It tasted objectively better than Mom’s cooking. But I still felt that something was missing. Dad was eating with gusto, praising her enthusiastically. “Sierra, your cooking is incredible. Vivian… sigh… she could never get it to taste like this.” Sierra gave him a playful, scolding look. “Vivian had bigger things on her mind. She had a whole world waiting for her, Ethan.” Dad just snorted and didn’t say anything else. My heart sank. A bigger world? Was it bigger than me and Dad? After dinner, Sierra went to do the dishes. Dad sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. I heard her light humming mixed in with the sound of the running water. She sounded… happy. When she finished, Sierra took off her apron and walked over to sit next to Dad. She sat so close, almost touching him. “Ethan, look at your beard. How many days since you shaved? You’re a mess.” She reached out, as if to lightly touch his chin. Dad instinctively leaned back a little. Sierra’s hand froze mid-air. Her smile flickered for a second, then she casually pulled her hand back. “By the way, my brother has a project—it sounds promising. You should take a look. Might be a good opportunity.” Dad’s interest perked up. “Oh? What kind of project?” They leaned in close, talking in hushed tones. Dad’s expression was focused. He only used to look that focused when he was looking at Mom. A heavy feeling settled in my chest, like a ball of wet cotton. I stood up, wanting to retreat to my room. As I walked past them, Sierra suddenly stopped me. “Aubrey, is your homework done? If not, go do it. Adults have business to discuss, and kids shouldn’t eavesdrop.” Her tone was natural, radiating a self-assured familiarity, as if she were already a permanent fixture with the right to organize my life. Dad looked up. “Listen to Sierra, go do your homework.” I looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and held a strange expression I couldn’t decipher, something like relief. He didn’t look at me for long, quickly lowering his head to resume talking with Sierra. I silently turned and walked back to my room. I closed the door, shutting out the low murmuring from the living room. My homework lay open on the desk, but I couldn’t focus on a single word. I picked up the wrinkled candy wrapper from the afternoon and carefully smoothed it out, folding it into a tiny, eight-pointed star. The foil star glimmered faintly under the desk lamp. Mom, where are you right now? What is your world like? 3 Sierra started coming over more and more often. She even began doing Dad’s laundry. I saw her once, taking his pajamas off the clothesline, folding them neatly, and putting them into his dresser. When she saw me, she smiled. “Aubrey, home from school? Your dad is so careless about the house. He can’t manage without someone looking after him.” I didn’t say anything. I remembered Mom saying underwear should be hand-washed, never thrown into the washing machine with outerwear. Mom always hand-washed everything. Dad didn’t seem to notice or care. He actually seemed to be enjoying the attention. His shirts were crisp, his socks weren’t scattered everywhere, and there was a bit more laughter on his face. The kind of relaxed smile I hadn’t seen since Mom left. The house no longer smelled of burnt vegetables. The floors were always spotless, and the fridge was stocked with food. Everything, on the surface, was getting better. But I felt that our home was becoming more and more alien. The air was now thick with Sierra’s light jasmine perfume, masking the faint, warm, familiar scent Mom had left behind. Sierra took over my life, too. She checked my assignments, circling mistakes with a red pen. “Aubrey, this word is wrong.” “This problem needs a different approach. Let Aunt Sierra show you.” She bought me new clothes—pink, with lace—not the comfortable blue and athletic styles I preferred. “A girl should dress pretty, right?” She set time limits for my TV watching and rationed my snacks. “This is for your own good, Aubrey. You need to be sensible.” Dad always backed her up: “Listen to Sierra.” He grew increasingly reliant on her. He discussed work worries and daily annoyances with her. They spent more and more time together. Sometimes Sierra stayed late, in the study with Dad, “talking business.” The study door would be closed, and I could hear their low voices, occasionally punctuated by Sierra’s clear, bright laugh. I sat in the living room, hugging my knees, staring at that closed door. The cold snake in my heart began to wriggle again. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing the study, I heard Sierra’s voice, laced with a hint of petulance. “Her leaving, it really did clear the path for us, didn’t it, Ethan? Don’t you think this was fate?” Dad’s reply was mumbled. “Don’t say things like that… the kid is still here…” “Aubrey will have to accept it eventually. Are you still holding out hope that Vivian will come back?” Silence followed. My heart lodged itself in my throat. Then I heard Dad say, very softly, “She won’t.” The word was quiet, yet it landed on my chest like a boulder. She won’t come back. Mom won’t come back. And Dad… Dad didn’t want her back, either. I tiptoed back to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. In the dark, I found the candy wrapper star under my pillow and clenched it tightly in my fist, the sharp edges digging painfully into my palm. 4 That weekend, Sierra suggested a picnic. “Let’s take Aubrey out. It’s not good for her to be cooped up in the house all the time.” Dad agreed. We drove to a park on the city outskirts. The weather was beautiful, sunny and bright, and the lawns were dotted with families picnicking. Sierra spread out a nice checkered blanket and arranged homemade sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. She even brought a small kite. “Aubrey, look what Aunt Sierra brought! Want to fly a kite?” She held the kite up, her smile dazzling, and beckoned to me. I stood still. Dad nudged me. “Go on, Aubrey. Sierra’s talking to you.” I walked over slowly. Sierra put the string spool in my hand, showing me how to let out the line and how to run. Her palm was soft and smelled of hand lotion. The kite wobbled, then soared up into the sky. It was a colorful butterfly. “It’s flying! You’re so good, Aubrey!” Sierra clapped and cheered like a kid herself. Dad sat on the blanket, watching us, a relaxed smile on his face. The scene looked exactly like a happy, harmonious family. But the kite string was taut, tethering the butterfly that flew higher and higher, like it was ready to snap and disappear into the blue at any moment. Just like Mom. Tired from running, I went back to the blanket. Sierra handed me a bottle of juice, then picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and handed it naturally to Dad. “Have some water.” Her movement was fluid and intimate. Dad took a drink. I watched them, and suddenly I spoke. “Dad, Mom always used to open your water bottles for you too.” Dad froze, the bottle mid-air. Sierra’s smile faded slightly. The atmosphere grew instantly awkward. “Did she?” Dad lowered the bottle, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t remember.” He did remember. Mom had small hands and sometimes struggled with the cap. She would pout and hand the bottle to him to help. Dad would laugh, call her his “little idiot,” and open it easily. Sometimes, he’d pretend he couldn’t open it either, just to watch her fret, then burst out laughing. Those moments were perfectly clear in my head. How could he forget? Sierra picked up a sandwich and offered it to me. “Aubrey, try Aunt Sierra’s tuna salad sandwich. Your dad says it’s delicious.” I looked at the sandwich but didn’t take it. “Mom said I can’t have tuna. I’m allergic,” I said softly. It was true. When I was little, I’d eaten tuna once and broken out in hives that were so itchy and painful I had to get shots for days. After that, Mom banned all tuna products from the house. Dad’s face shifted. He had clearly forgotten that too. Sierra’s hand stayed suspended in the air. Her smile finally vanished completely. She pulled her hand back, putting the sandwich on the plate. Her voice was flat. “Oh, really? Well, have something else then.” The rest of the picnic was subdued. The kite eventually got stuck high up in a tree, beyond reach. Sierra said it was fine, we’d just buy a new one next time. But I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. On the drive home, I sat in the back, watching the scenery rush by the window. Dad drove in focused silence. Sierra was in the passenger seat, looking down at her phone. They didn’t exchange a single word. I secretly pulled the candy wrapper star from my pocket. Sunlight streamed through the car window, illuminating the star with a faint, determined glow. Mom, I didn’t eat the tuna. I remember your words. I remember you, too. I never forgot. 5 My first birthday since Mom left arrived. Dad asked me how I wanted to celebrate. I said I wanted cake. I didn’t really crave cake. I just remembered that every year, Mom would buy me a beautiful buttercream cake with small candles. She would hold me as we blew out the candles, then tell me to make a wish. She said that a birthday wish doesn’t come true if you say it out loud, so you have to keep it in your heart. My wish had always been the same: I wish Mom, Dad, and I could be together forever. But that wish never came true. Dad bought a huge cake, piled high with fruit and chocolate. It was bigger and flashier than any Mom had ever bought. Sierra came over, too. She gave me a brand-new dress as a birthday gift. “Thank you, Sierra,” I said, taking the dress and offering a polite thank you. Dad seemed pleased by my “sensibility.” He lit the candles and turned off the lights. “Aubrey, make a wish!” he prompted. Sierra smiled, watching me. The candlelight flickered, reflecting in their faces. I closed my eyes. Mom, where are you? Do you remember it’s my birthday? I whispered the question silently in my heart, then blew out the candles. The lights came back on. Dad began to cut the cake. He cut me a huge slice with my favorite strawberries on top. I took my fork, dug out a small piece, and put it in my mouth. The frosting was too sweet, the strawberries too tart. The mixed flavors were strange. “Is it good?” Dad asked, looking expectant. I nodded. “It’s good.” Dad smiled, clearly relieved. He cut a slice for Sierra, too. She ate daintily, complimenting the flavor. The phone rang just then. Dad walked over to answer it. I saw his expression change the moment he looked at the caller ID. He walked onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. My heart started to race. I had a strange premonition. Sierra also noticed his unusual behavior. She put down her fork, watching the balcony with a slight crease in her brow. The sound from the balcony was muffled, but I caught a few words. “…No need… she’s fine… just take care of yourself…” Who was it? Was it Mom? The fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate. Sierra turned to look at me, her expression complicated. A moment later, Dad came back in. His expression was back to normal, even carrying a hint of relief. “Telemarketer,” he said casually, sitting down and picking up his fork. He was lying. I knew it. That look, that tone—it was absolutely not the way someone reacts to a cold call. It was Mom. It had to be Mom. She remembered my birthday. She called. But Dad didn’t want me to know. He rejected Mom. He said, “No need.” No need for what? No need to see me? No need to send wishes? Or… no need to contact me ever again? The cake in my mouth suddenly turned unbearably bitter, impossible to swallow. My stomach twisted violently. I put down my fork. “Dad, I’m full.” “Already? You barely ate anything,” Dad said, surprised. “Yeah, I’m just not hungry.” I slid off the chair. “I think I’ll go rest in my room.” I walked into my room, closed the door, and slid down the wood, collapsing onto the floor. Tears sprang up without warning, falling in fat drops. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from sobbing out loud. In my pocket, I squeezed the candy wrapper star until it was nearly embedded in my skin. Mom. Mom. I called her name over and over in my head. 6 I noticed Dad started going into the office for “overtime” on weekends. He’d be wearing a crisp, pressed shirt, his hair neatly combed, smelling faintly of cologne. Before leaving, he’d instruct me, “Aubrey, Dad has to go into the office. You be a good girl at home alone. Do your homework, no more than an hour of screen time. Sierra will come over and make you lunch.” I’d nod obediently. But I knew he wasn’t going to work. One time, I secretly followed him. He didn’t go to the office tower. Instead, he went to a coffee shop downtown. Sierra was waiting for him there. They greeted each other with a natural, brief hug, then walked inside, holding hands. Another time, they went to the movies. Like a couple on a date, Sierra carried a huge bucket of popcorn, and Dad held two sodas. Sierra was beaming, and Dad looked at her with a soft tenderness I hadn’t seen in a long time. I didn’t follow them anymore. The snake in my heart was no longer wriggling; it just lay there, cold and rigid. I went back home and sat in the empty living room. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor. The air was silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock’s second hand. I took out a photo of Mom and gently traced her face with my finger. In the picture, she was smiling so beautifully, her eyes crinkling like crescent moons. But where was she now? Was she doing okay? Did she… miss me? When Dad came home that evening, he brought me a new pencil case. “Like it? I passed a store and thought you’d love it.” It was a beautiful pencil case, double-layered, with a combination lock and a popular cartoon print. If it had been before, I would have jumped up and down with joy. Now, I just took it and mumbled, “Thank you, Dad.” Dad patted my head. “Good girl, Aubrey.” A faint scent of cologne still lingered on his hand. That smell, mixed with the light jasmine from Sierra, created a strange, suffocating odor. I began to dream of Mom frequently. In the dreams, she was always crying. She was walking alone on unfamiliar streets, her back thin and lonely. I wanted to run and hug her, but my feet were pinned to the ground. I wanted to scream her name, but no sound would come out of my throat. I could only watch her walk farther and farther away until she disappeared into the mist. I would wake up, my face drenched in tears. My pillow was wet, and so was my heart. I grew quieter and quieter. At school, I stopped playing with the other kids, sitting at my desk and staring into space during recess. My teacher noticed and spoke to me several times, asking if something was wrong at home. I shook my head, saying nothing. Family business. How could I tell a stranger? Dad and Sierra were immersed in their “new” life and didn’t seem to notice my change. Or perhaps they did notice, but didn’t care. Dad thought I was just being “sensible,” not clingy like before. Sierra figured that kids just need time to adjust. Until that day, when I overheard their argument. I was already asleep that night when I was awakened by raised voices in the living room. It was Sierra’s voice, sharper than usual. “When is she leaving? It’s been long enough! Are we going to keep doing this forever?” Dad’s voice was soothing. “Lower your voice! Aubrey’s sleeping! Where is she going to go? She’s my daughter!” “Daughter? Does she even see me as a person? Haven’t I been good enough to her? Look at her face—she glowers all the time, like I owe her a million dollars! Ethan, I’ve given up so much for you! I didn’t get involved with you to be a free babysitter who has to put up with your daughter’s attitude!” “Sierra, don’t be like this… Aubrey’s just a kid, she needs time…” “Time, time! How much time are you going to give her? A year? Two years? Ten years? I can’t wait that long! Ethan, I’m laying it out now: it’s either her or me! One of us goes!” “You… you’re putting me on the spot!” “No, you are! Tell me, who are you choosing?” The argument ended abruptly. I lay in bed, chilled to the bone. My limbs felt soaked in ice water, unable to move. It’s either her or me. Sierra was forcing Dad to choose. Choose me, or choose her. Who would Dad choose? I couldn’t bring myself to think about it. Fear instantly overwhelmed me like a tidal wave. I curled into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. But the phrase repeated itself like a curse in my mind. It’s either her or me. 7 My midterms were a disaster. My grades plummeted. The teacher called Dad in for a conference. On the way home, Dad’s face was a stone mask. The moment we stepped inside, he threw my backpack onto the sofa and barked at me, “Aubrey Miller! What is wrong with you? Why are your grades so bad? What are you doing in class?” I kept my head down, staring at the tips of my shoes, saying nothing. “Answer me!” Dad’s voice rose by an octave. “Are you just playing games all day? Watching TV? On your phone? How many times have I told you to study? Are you even listening to a word I say?” I remained silent. My throat felt stuffed with cotton. “You…” Dad raised his hand, fueled by anger. I instinctively closed my eyes and flinched. The expected slap didn’t come. I opened my eyes and saw Dad’s hand frozen mid-air, his face a mixture of rage and profound disappointment. He eventually dropped his hand and sank onto the sofa in defeat. “Aubrey,” his voice was exhausted. “I’m busy with work, and I’m tired. Can you please… please just stop worrying me?” I looked at him. He looked genuinely drained, with heavy dark circles under his eyes and, I thought, a few more gray hairs at his temples. He was no longer the all-powerful Dad of my memory, the one who used to hoist me high onto his shoulders. But Dad, did you know that I was tired too? My heart was so tired. Sierra walked out of the kitchen then. She had been listening. “Ethan, don’t get upset. Kids mess up sometimes, it’s normal.” She came over, sat next to Dad, and gently rubbed his back, as if calming an agitated beast. Then she looked at me, her tone gentle but her eyes holding a critical gaze. “Aubrey, tell your father—is something bothering you? Is there something on your mind? You can talk to Sierra, I can help.” I looked at her, at the hand resting on Dad’s back, and at her confident “lady of the house” posture. The emotions that had been bottled up for too long, like a lit fuse, finally reached the end. I lifted my head, looked straight at Dad, and asked, one word at a time: “Dad, did you abandon Mom?” “Are you abandoning me too?” Dad froze. The smile instantly evaporated from Sierra’s face. The living room was plunged into absolute silence. Time seemed to stop. I could hear my own shallow, quick breaths and see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Dad’s lips moved, as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide with shock. Sierra jumped up, her voice shrill. “Aubrey! What are you saying! Who put those words in your mouth?! It must be Vivian! She’s gone, but her ghost is still here! She’s coaching the child to hate us!” I did not let her distract me. My eyes stayed locked on Dad. “Dad,” my voice was trembling, but I tried to keep it steady. “The one who called that day—it was Mom, wasn’t it? Why wouldn’t you let me take the call? Did you tell Mom not to contact me again?” Dad’s face went instantly pale. “How did… how did you know?” “I heard you.” I said. “I also know you and Sierra weren’t working overtime. You were on dates. Going to the movies, getting coffee.” I turned my gaze to Sierra, watching her face drain of color. “Sierra, that cardigan you’re wearing is my mom’s. Those slippers on your feet are my mom’s. Your perfume is covering up my mom’s scent. You cook better food than my mom did. You take better care of Dad than my mom did.” I spoke in a rush, pouring out everything I had seen, heard, and felt over the past months. It was a dam breaking. “But this is my and Mom and Dad’s home. It’s not your home.”

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The company had a bizarre rule. The last person to leave at night had to shout: “I’m turning off the lights!” Then, they had to wait for ten minutes before they could actually flip the switch and go. If they didn’t, they would simply vanish. My sister, Skylar, had scoffed at the rule. Until one day, she worked until two in the morning, the only one left in the office. Anxious to get home, she flipped the switch and left immediately, skipping the ten-minute wait. She has been gone ever since. 1 My first day at DeepCode, Debbie from HR was leading me to the fingerprint scanner, her voice dropping to a serious, almost conspiratorial tone. “Listen up, Sloane. Your department burns the midnight oil a lot. You absolutely have to remember this: if you’re the last one out, you must shout, ‘I’m turning off the lights!’ Wait ten minutes, and only then turn them off and leave. Got it? Don’t, under any circumstances, just flip the switch and walk out. Never.” I placed my thumb on the screen, letting a slight, neutral smile touch my lips. “Why, Debbie? What is it, some kind of ghost or something?” Debbie froze. She stiffened as if a sudden shock had jolted her. She glanced around us with a complex expression, then leaned in, lowering her voice further. “Don’t ask. Just do it. Unless you want to disappear without a trace, follow the rules. I’m telling you this for your own good.” Most people would hear talk like that—supernatural nonsense—and just chuckle, dismissing it as office eccentricity. But I knew she was telling the truth. My sister, Skylar, had vanished two weeks ago. She’d mentioned the company’s strange rule in a text message, noting her firm position as a realist, a staunch materialist who didn’t believe in any of it. The night it happened, she texted me again. She was working late, the last one in the building. It was dark, she was exhausted, and she was desperate to go home. She didn’t want to wait the extra ten minutes. She flipped the switch. After that, the thread went silent. 2 My parents were practically incoherent with grief and fear over Sky. They called the police the next day. The surveillance footage was pulled immediately. The only problem? The feed from the moment Sky turned off the lights simply disappeared. No tampering, no corruption record—just a clean, unexplained gap. In the ten days since, the police had found zero trace of her life. No activity on her bank accounts, credit cards, or ID. Sky was gone, wiped clean, as if she had been erased from existence. My parents, broken and out of options, finally called me back to the States. I’m the older sister, the one they’d always viewed as the strange anomaly growing up, the one who was emotionally flat. This was the true measure of their desperation: accepting help from the child they never quite understood. I accepted. If the police couldn’t find a trace, the most logical step was to breach the system from the inside. I submitted my resume, aced the interviews, and smoothly entered the company, DeepCode. Since Debbie was clearly unwilling to talk, I decided to try others. Owen, a programmer in the Tech department, worked late every single day. For at least twenty nights a month, he was the one who turned off the lights last. He had to know something. As the new hire, I bought a round of coffees and pastries, casually settling down next to him. He was stiff and quiet, but polite. I slid a latte onto his desk, made a little small talk, then brought up the rule. “Hey, Owen. Debbie told me about the company’s ‘taboo.’ Is it real? I heard you’re the one who always closes up. Do you actually do the whole shout-and-wait thing? Every time?” Owen’s face instantly changed. His eyes fixed straight ahead, as if staring at something utterly terrifying. He mumbled, “I didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything…” Suddenly, he started to tremble violently, clutching his left chest with his right hand, his knuckles white. His face turned ashen, a clammy sweat immediately beaded on his forehead. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. His body began to slide down the back of his chair, his eyes losing focus. Crap. He’s having a heart attack. I grabbed his shoulder and asked loudly, “Where’s your medicine? Your pills?” He was still desperately gripping his chest, but managed to shake his head. “It warned me. I can’t talk about it… absolutely can’t talk about it…” Before I could react further, Owen slipped into unconsciousness. The company called an ambulance and had him rushed to the hospital. That afternoon, Debbie brought the news: Owen was in bad shape and wouldn’t be returning to the office anytime soon. 3 Owen’s reaction was deeply unsettling. He definitely knew something. That weekend, I took some fruit to the hospital to visit him, but a nurse stopped me at the door. The patient needed complete rest and couldn’t be stimulated. I sat on a bench in the hallway, unsure of what to do next. “Sloane? Is that really you?” I looked up. It was Reid, a friend from my childhood. It turned out Reid was Owen’s attending physician. He told me Owen suffered from a congenital heart defect, a history of arterial switch surgery, and had an implanted cardioverter-defibrillator (ICD) installed. That’s why, despite the sudden arrhythmia, his heart had quickly returned to normal function. “Physically, all his vitals are fine,” Reid explained. “The strange thing is, he just won’t wake up.” I considered this. “Could it be a problem with his brain? Isn’t that what a persistent vegetative state is?” Reid shook his head. “It’s not quite like that. The head of Neurology ran high-resolution MRIs and EEGs. All brain functions are normal. But his neural activity is abnormally hyper-active. Further neuro-functional imaging shows a strong, functional neural inhibition in the key networks responsible for consciousness—especially between the Default Mode Network and the prefrontal cortex.” I stared at him, my expression blank. “English, please.” Reid paused, then gave an embarrassed laugh. “It means he can wake up. But his own brain is actively suppressing his wakefulness. Or, to put it another way, he is resisting consciousness.” I looked intently at Reid. What was Owen so afraid of that he refused to wake up? Before he collapsed, he’d whispered: “It warned me. I can’t talk about it…” What exactly was this “It”? Owen was terrified, terrified enough to trigger a near-fatal cardiac event. That meant he must have witnessed the consequences of breaking the rule. And if he witnessed the consequences, he must have made the same mistake as my sister. But why did my sister vanish completely, while Owen was still able to go back to work? What was the difference between them? 4 “Hey! Sloane? Hello?” Reid waved a hand in front of my face, noticing I was lost in thought. I focused on him. “Seriously, I can’t believe you’re back in the country, and that you ended up at DeepCode.” I tilted my head. “Why? You know the company?” Reid subtly raised an eyebrow. “Sort of. I know they have a really weird workplace taboo.” I nodded. “Yeah. My sister disappeared because of it. I’m investigating.” Reid’s eyes widened in shock. “What? Sky is missing?” I didn’t reply. He stared at me silently for a moment, then suddenly reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Sloane, something about this feels really off. I have a terrible gut feeling. You should stop looking into it.” I shook my head. “You know me. I’ve never been normal. I’m emotionally flat by nature; I didn’t fit in as a kid, and my parents barely tolerated me. Sky was the only one who was ever decent to me. I can’t just let her go.” I looked at Reid. “What is it? You’re a doctor. You’re not afraid of some cheesy urban legend, are you?” He froze for a moment. “What did you just say?” “I said you’re a doctor, why are you afraid of an urban legend? What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” Reid’s brows knitted into a tight knot. He stood there, seemingly lost in his own head, until I finally tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to reality. “Sloane, I just remembered something. I have to go verify it. Wait for me. I promise I’ll bring Sky back.” My heart sank. “What did you find? I’m coming with you.” He gave me a strange look. “No. I have to go alone. Trust me.” Before I could protest, he stood up and walked away, pulling his hospital badge off his neck as he went. It was odd that Reid knew so much about my company. But seeing his determination, I didn’t stop him. What I didn’t expect was that the next day, when I called him, there was no answer. I rushed to Reid’s home. His mother looked confused. “He hasn’t been home. He must be pulling a shift at the hospital. He does that often.” I raced to the hospital, but still couldn’t find him. Reid was missing, too.

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Veronica Albright was trying to game the system, and for three years, she’d been running her campaign on me, believing I was the designated male lead. She sent me wire transfers, cash, and even bought me a condo. I took it all with a poker face. Inside my head, I heard her frustration: [Seriously? Still stuck at zero? Maybe I’m not giving him enough.] I pretended I didn’t know a thing. So, the money kept coming. Until one day, she finally figured out she had the wrong man. 1 My childhood was the kind of poor that made me pray every night: “If only money would rain from the sky.” Then I met Veronica. And it actually did. 2 I started at Albright Global on the same day as another guy. His name was Jasper Evans. Mine was Rhys Easton. The names were close enough to be confusing on a filing cabinet. Jasper had bright eyes and a clean-cut, decent look. But he was energetic and aggressive, always volunteering for the toughest assignments. He was the perfect, hard-working, go-getter protagonist from a commercial fiction novel. 3 The last day of that month, the company CEO, Veronica Albright, suddenly called the new interns to her office. Jasper and I stood opposite each other, staring at the intimidating presence behind the obsidian desk. Veronica leaned back in her black leather chair, her gaze sharp, radiating an intense, suffocating pressure. Was this the face I saw plastered on Forbes and Fortune? Noble, ice-cold, and terrifyingly brilliant. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes flickered between us before finally resting on me. Just as I was preparing for the worst—a spectacular firing—I heard her inner monologue: [Shoot. I forgot the protagonist’s name. Something J.E.?] [Well, the one on the right is definitely hotter. That has to be the main character. And he’s described as being ridiculously poor, which checks all the boxes. Yes. It’s him.] I was the one on the right. On the last day of July, I was diagnosed as the male lead in a CEO romance story, purely because of my alarming lack of funds. 4 For a moment, I convinced myself I was hallucinating. But Veronica’s bizarre internal commentary kept getting louder and clearer. I clenched my jaw, reciting the periodic table in my mind, trying to anchor myself in reality. Fake. All fake. This is what happens when I skip lunch. Veronica’s intense aura softened, and she adopted a casual, effortless pose. “Only one of you is going to be kept on.” “Rhys Easton, the one on the right. You’re staying. The other can go process his termination papers.” I gaped at her. Her inner voice was edged with triumph: [That should definitely give him a great first impression of my power.] No, wait. If you kept both of us, I’d be impressed too! This just makes the company look cheap. I glanced over at Jasper. His eyes were wide with disbelief, glistening with frustrated tears. I hesitated, then decided to test the waters. “Jasper’s work is… as strong as mine, maybe stronger.” If the mind-reading was real, Jasper and I could both stay. If it was fake, I might as well quit anyway; my brain was clearly broken. Veronica’s delicate brows pinched together. My heart hitched. The next second, her expression relaxed. “Fine. You can both stay.” Holy hell. I think I just got the real-deal mind-reading power. 5 As we left Veronica’s office, Jasper bit out, his voice shaking, “Don’t you dare be smug, Rhys. I’ll make you pay for this favor someday.” Then he stormed off. That. That bizarre, dramatic exit. Case closed. Jasper was the real protagonist. And I was just a particularly impoverished, slightly-too-handsome side character. Damn it. 6 I had planned to wait until my contract was finalized before telling Veronica the truth. The severance package would be much more substantial then. The very next morning, Veronica called me back to her office to announce a raise. I opened my mouth to politely decline. She lowered her gaze, her eyes glinting. “Double your salary.” “Yes, thank you, Veronica,” I said immediately. I couldn’t even imagine the size of the severance check I was building toward. 7 To prove he was superior, Jasper threw himself into work, practically living at the office. I sighed at him. “Jasper, you’ve become everything I ever hated.” He took a savage bite of his bagel, his expression feral. “Just wait! I’ll make everyone see who the real talent is!” Wow. Such noble protagonist talk. He would never know the only reason he lost to me was that my childhood home was basically a dirt floor. Next time, buddy. I promise I’ll let you win. 8 Three days later, Veronica called me in again. Her dark eyes were heavy, fixed on me without speaking. Not this again… Her inner voice provided the commentary: [Why hasn’t the progress bar moved? I’ve seen him twice now. Falling in love with me should be as simple as breathing, shouldn’t it?] Ha. Unhinged. After a long pause, Veronica said smoothly, “Rhys, your aptitude is strong. My current Executive Assistant is stepping down; you will take over his duties.” Her inner thoughts, however, were entirely different: [The first two meetings were too brief; my impression wasn’t deep enough. Being my secretary—seeing me every day—how can he not fall madly in love?] Sister, dial it back. You sound unhinged. But I replied, “Absolutely, Ms. Albright. Thank you for the opportunity.” Hesitation is disrespecting the sanctity of an inflated severance package. The guy currently occupying the desk next to hers looked like his world had just ended. Poor guy. He looked like he hadn’t heard he was ‘stepping down.’ Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll get your corner office back when I cash out. 9 When Jasper learned I was the CEO’s new right-hand man, his world also collapsed. He pointed a trembling finger at me, then let out a primal scream and ran, sobbing. Did I just give the protagonist a mental breakdown? But it was fine. Once the truth came out, Jasper would be able to step on my neck and give me a good, satisfying telling-off. So dramatic. I can’t wait. 10 After becoming Veronica’s secretary, I was actually busy! So busy I barely had time to look up, let alone look at her. Ma’am, what kind of ridiculously convoluted, backwards strategy are you even running? I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Ms. Albright, how long until my probationary period is officially over?” Veronica looked up from a contract. “A month.” I groaned inwardly. That long? I have to be a corporate mule for a whole month more! But Veronica’s mind saw it differently: [He’s so eager to officially be my secretary!] I saw a subtle smile play on her lips, and my brain shriveled into a walnut. The next second, her expression turned dark: [Why is the progress bar still stuck at zero?!] She squinted at me. Heh. Beats me. 11 Two weeks later, staring at the immovable progress bar, Veronica fell into a deep contemplation. Then she asked, “What do you… like?” My mouth opened before my brain engaged. “Money.” The air in the office went solid. I’ve exposed myself as the greedy opportunist I was! The non-protagonist! Veronica’s inner voice was filled with a strange awe: [What a unique male lead! Not like the others who pretend to hate money!] Wait, that works? 12 Veronica wired me a substantial amount of money. I held up a trembling hand, trying to protest (but not really). Her brow furrowed: [As expected, the male lead can’t accept this kind of handout. He only values money he earns himself.] I quickly switched to a beatific smile. “Please make sure to officially mark it as a ‘Voluntary Gift’ in the ledger.” Veronica: “?” 13 Considering this money was acquired at Jasper’s expense, I decided to be generous and begrudgingly share a third of it with him. Jasper threw the check back in my face, his eyes flashing with righteous, furious tears. “Don’t you dare insult me with your dirty money!” “Keep your filthy money away from me!” Wow. That’s a classic line! That’s the perfect reaction of the real hero! A quick mental calculation: Veronica will give this money to the male lead, but the male lead will never take it. A moral obligation, really. To relieve the rich of their excess capital. My righteous mission had never felt stronger. Heh heh. Fleece the capitalist. It’s the least I can do. 14 After the transfer, Veronica’s scrutiny intensified: [Progress is still stalled. Was it too little?] [Or is the love of money just a front? Does he secretly despise the cash?] Ha. Keep guessing. You won’t get a word out of me. 15 The day my contract was finalized, I let out a deep breath. I was ready to knock on her door, tender my resignation, and spill the beans. I knocked. Veronica opened the door and handed me a gift box containing a lavish, elegant silver designer suit. “Put this on. You’re accompanying me to the Sterling Foundation Gala tonight.” No, I’m quitting! I’m leaving! I refuse to be complicit! I was about to deliver my grand, principled rejection when I caught the glint of the luxury Patek Philippe watch nestled in the satin lining. “Understood, Ms. Albright. I’ll change immediately.” Veronica: “…” [It was definitely too little last time.] 16 It was my first time attending such a high-society event. I immediately secured three glasses of wine and four desserts. I also managed to discreetly tuck five designer swag bags into the nine-dollar tote bag I’d bought on Etsy. I planned to post them all on eBay as soon as I got home. Heh heh. Financial victory. A few people around me offered polite, snide snickers. I ignored them. I’d probably never see them again, so why bother caring? Veronica finished a conversation and turned, her expression clouding over at the sight of me. Her eyebrows were higher than the surrounding mountains. I braced myself for the dressing-down—the lecture about disgracing her. Instead, she simply turned and acquired three desserts and a glass of wine for herself. She handed them to me, a hint of wry resignation in her voice. “You really like these, don’t you?” “Have a few more.” The snickers around us immediately ceased. The crisscrossing lights cast soft, fragmented beams on Veronica’s profile. For a moment, her fierce, cool features softened, becoming warm and gentle. I froze for a second, then quickly looked away. “I did. But I’m kind of sick of them now.” “You eat them.” 17 On the drive back, I tried again. “I really shouldn’t continue in this position.” Veronica, whose eyes were slightly flushed from the single glass of wine, glanced over. “Reason.” I opened my mouth, ready to tell her: I’m not the hero, I’m not the person you’re supposed to be targeting, and you need to fire me. No sound came out. Oh, no. I tried to type it on my phone and text it to her. The message never went through, and she didn’t seem to get anything. Damn the universe. I’m literally muzzled. Veronica tugged at the silk scarf around her neck. “Is the salary too low?” “I’ll double it again.” My phone chimed with a notification: Transfer received: One Million Dollars. “That’s this quarter’s bonus.” I stared at the balance on my screen. Protagonist? How could I possibly not be the protagonist? Today, if the literal King of the Universe said I wasn’t the male lead, I would tell him he was mistaken. I had transcended greed and achieved financial enlightenment. It’s not a matter of having no conscience. It’s that the money is just… too much. 18 I genuinely thought that as long as the progress bar stayed frozen, Veronica would eventually realize she was targeting the wrong person. But she was slow. So slow. Three years! Three whole years! She kept sending me money, buying me property, and promoting me. At this rate, I’d be sitting in her CEO chair before she realized her mistake. Yet, Veronica’s inner voice remained consistent: [Was it too little? Does he dislike this Patek? Is the penthouse in the wrong neighborhood?] It was impossible to imagine what kind of bottomless, materialistic monster she thought I was. It wasn’t until the annual company gala when Jasper, who was acting as the MC, stepped onto the stage. I heard the whispers around me: “Jasper really looks like the hero of a novel.” “He always spouts those classic lines, you know? And that earnest, driven energy.” “He even has the ‘perpetually struggling’ vibe.” “Too bad the CEO ignores him and spoils Rhys Easton instead. He has the hero’s setup but not the hero’s destiny.” Sitting next to me, Veronica suddenly went rigid. She looked at the stage, at Jasper’s determined, glittering eyes, then at me, slouching lazily beside her. Without a word, she crushed the delicate wine glass in her hand. Her voice was cold, lethal, and spaced out: “R-h-y-s. E-a-s-t-o-n.”

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